Chapter Text
Harry Potter has died over and over again: in a cradle, in a graveyard, in a courtyard. If Harry Potter has ever lived, if he was the accumulation of years filled with burdens and grief, he has long since warped into someone else.
There is always a score to settle between the two of them. Voldemort has chased Harry Potter for centuries—across cities, countries, and continents. Harry has chased him right back. Animosity circles their encounters like a wild, hungry predator. Harry knows each step to their dance. He has mastered death, he knows how to extinguish life with the tip of his wand. Whenever Voldemort’s latest husk is slain by his hand, Harry knows the man will return to him soon enough.
Harry may look twenty-five, but his bones feel like they’re eighty, and his heart—
His heart carries the weight of a thousand years, if not more.
Harry—just Harry, no surname to speak of—does not die. Instead, Harry collects Voldemort’s deaths the same way Tom Riddle once collected Horcruxes.
The first death took place at Hogwarts. Which is fitting in all ways, that he and Voldemort began at the only place either of them has called home. Over the years, Harry has shed names and identities like old cloaks, but Hogwarts is a constant. Even when the ancient castle is at last reduced to rubble and dust, its grounds remain hallowed and its magic lives on in the hearts of its students. Its memory lingers in Harry’s soul.
Voldemort does not die at Hogwarts, but Harry kills him there all the same. It is not Harry’s first murder and it will not be his last. The true tragedy of this event stems from its circumstances, from what the death of Voldemort truly represents: a golden pedestal of hope to be knocked off of.
For many years after that first death, all is well. People celebrate. They grow complacent.
Then he returns.
Voldemort tears through Britain like a madman, like a hurricane. He is an unstoppable force, a warning to the wise, an evil that is never defeated. Magical Britain has been made weak by peace, so it is less prepared than before, but Harry is not. He is ready.
Harry has spent his years waking violently in the middle of the night, wand leaping into his hand, only to see there are already blast marks that will permanently mark the walls. The shades of the past are now his old friends. The night brings him paranoia and comfort in equal measure. Harry was born into war; it lives in the marrow of his bones and the blood in his veins. Harry mourns a nation that will never know peace, but he also accepts the inevitability of its suffering.
Wand raised, Harry follows Voldemort’s path of destruction, not as a grieving widow, but as a soldier prepared to die.
Harry does not die.
Instead, he lives. He lives and lives and lives. He lives when others do not, as he always has. He lives on while Voldemort shatters Britain like glass, the splinters of its ruins digging into Harry’s skin like sharp knives.
Harry lives long enough to kill Voldemort again, and longer still to build back a pale imitation of what has been lost. Harry arranges rows of bodies on the battlefield like he is designing a graveyard. He pays his respects to the dead. He asks them for forgiveness.
When Harry tells a decimated population that the war is not over, that Voldemort will return, no one contradicts him. Harry gazes upon them, these people who are his people. His family and friends who remain loyal to the last. They are haggard and haunted by what they have seen and done.
It hurts to live, he thinks tiredly. He wishes he didn’t have to.
But Voldemort is his responsibility. Who else could wage eternal war against such a man? Harry has weathered it all, the horror and the pain that comes from being Voldemort’s adversary. Voldemort’s essence was once cradled next to his very soul. Harry cannot die, and so the war must go on.
Nowadays, Harry lives in a cottage in the forest, and he waits. It is a patient sort of waiting, an indeterminate period of time spent being productive and passing the days with grace. There is a girl living in the nearby village who reminds him of Ginny. She calls him a witch doctor and leaves baked goods on his doorstep.
Despite all his years of experience, it takes some weeks for him to work up the courage to tell her he isn’t interested.
“You’re too young to be so old,” she says in response, and then she gives him a hug.
Harry has become close friends with the phrase ‘at arm’s length’ over the decades. He has not been hugged in a while. Tears well in the corners of his eyes, tears he reserves for the coldest, darkest nights—nights when he feels safe enough to unlock the burning ache buried deep in his chest.
Harry hugs her back. He feels older than he is, but that doesn't mean he has to feel empty.
“I’ll bring hot-cross buns tomorrow,” she says when she pulls away. “We can have tea.”
Harry surprises himself by agreeing.
Rosalind becomes his friend. They have tea together sometimes. Harry spends the rest of his time living his quiet, solitary life. He waters the plants in his front yard and brews home remedies for the local village people. Eventually, Voldemort will come for him. Until then, he will live in peace.
After Voldemort’s second death, Harry builds a fortress. He will not touch Hogwarts no matter what anyone says because Hogwarts is a school, and a school is no place for a war. Enough childhoods have been sacrificed in the name of their nation; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if they slaughtered any more.
“Voldemort will return,” he repeats to the masses, “and we will be ready.”
Stone by stone, Harry builds. He imbues the walls with ancient magic and then he tunnels deep into the ground, running so far from the surface that even the discomfort of enclosure starts to feel like home. The dirt and gravel surrounding him is warm and earthy, a heavy blanket to hibernate underneath.
People ask if he’s looking for something; he has been digging for so long. Harry has no answer to give them. If he had been looking for something, he has forgotten what it was. There are Horcruxes to seek, perhaps. There are rogue Death Eaters to vanquish. Harry has been at war with Voldemort for decades, but he has only recently been at war with himself.
“What are we doing?” asks Luna one evening, apropos of nothing. Her eyes are misty, but her words are distinctly lucid.
For many years now, the people of magical Britain have looked to him for leadership, but they have also expressed doubt in his ability to lead a nation torn apart by war. Harry’s had to shut down his fair share of naysayers, but Luna’s opinion holds more weight than all of those naysayers combined. When she asks, he listens.
“I don’t know,” he tells her. She nods like his answer is not only accepted, but expected.
“We were born from the earth,” Luna says softly. She takes his hand in hers and laces their fingers together. “From the damp soil beneath our feet that we so often take for granted. When our time ends, we will return to the earth, not as her refugees but as her children. For now, we seek shelter in her embrace and wait for our freedom to return to us.”
“How much longer?” His voice is plaintive and weary and so very small. Harry feels like a child again, pleading for a happy ending, a fairytale ending.
Luna’s eyes are wide and sad. Her hand squeezes his tightly, palm against palm, bone against bone. “I don’t know, Harry. I wish I could tell you.”
The only world Harry has known is one that is relentless and unyielding. This world has raised him in the absence of mercy and resolution. The wounds in his heart will ache until the day he dies. The guilt he carries trickles through his veins like slow-acting poison, corroding all that makes him who he is.
Harry is without his parents, without Sirius, without Dumbledore. He is without Ron and Hermione. They were parts of him as much as Voldemort was, and now that they are gone, their absence leaving holes that will never mend. The war, this endless fucking war, has taken everything from him. Voldemort has taken everything from him.
Harry has taken in return. He’s taken what remains of magical Britain and seen fit to rule over it. This is not enough; it never will be. Even if Voldemort dies a thousand deaths, it will not be enough. Harry may bear a scar on his forehead, but the worst wound will always live on in his soul.
Most mornings, Harry wakes to the distant chirp of songbirds and a bold floral scent that wafts through the open window into his bedroom. Right now, Harry has a nice collection of violets and mayflowers that are in the midst of their mid-spring bloom. He rises, stretching his arms out, and goes about his day.
First order of business is to prepare a cup of tea to carry him through the morning. Next is checking on the potions brewing in the basement he’d built into the ground below his cottage. After ensuring everything there is moving along, Harry opens up one of his many bottomless chests and retrieves food for the various friendly animals that have grown accustomed to his presence in the forest.
Cracking open the front door reveals dark hair and red eyes standing on his welcome mat. Harry’s visitor looks younger than ever—late twenties, if Harry’s being generous. The man’s appearance isn’t perfect, but Harry thinks it’s highly possible that it ever will be. The unblemished elegance and charm of a younger Tom Riddle have been forever lost to time. Only the Dark Lord, reborn more times than any Phoenix has ever accomplished, remains in Riddle’s place.
“Took you long enough,” Harry says amicably, stepping back so he can shove the door wide and let Voldemort in.
The third time Harry kills Voldemort, he is tired. War may be endless, but his strength of will is not. Harry leaves his people with Luna and Blaise Zabini, and then he leaves it all behind.
There is much to learn about the world that exists beyond the tiny bubble of magical Britain. Harry travels far and wide. He lives out of a single trunk that, when shrunken down, fits in the pocket of his robes. He fills his mind with knowledge in the hopes that it will help him forget. He meets new people, dozens and dozens of them, until the act of it becomes routine. Until he aches a little less when he notes their similarities to the people he once knew.
Voldemort catches up to him and captures him in Crete. They spend barely three days in each other’s company before Harry escapes, burning through half a temple and two of Voldemort’s fingers as he goes.
When they next meet, Voldemort still holds his yew wand in his dominant hand. Harry eyes the scars, thick purple and silver lines that will never fade so long as this new body lives, then declares, “If you think we’re even, you’d best think again,” and directs a blast of green light in the man’s direction without a moment’s hesitation.
They duel. Voldemort is unusually quiet. Harry recalls Voldemort’s previous monologues and wonders if he finally poses enough of a threat to shut the man up.
Spells fly back and forth. The way Voldemort duels is effortless. Harry will never match the fluidity, the majesty of the man’s wand movements. However, what Harry lacks in finesse, he makes up for with power. He smashes through shields and deflects even the cruelest of curses with ease.
They keep each other on their toes, he and Voldemort. They are balanced. Harry never feels more alive than when they duel each other. He hates this as much as he hates war; it is another horror that fate has forced him to abide by. Voldemort brings death and destruction. Harry has no right to feel exhilaration while in his presence.
This particular duel ends in a stalemate, with the two of them fleeing the area as the local magical law enforcement arrives at the scene. Some Muggles will have to be Obliviated. Some damage will have to be repaired.
Later, once he is thousands of kilometers away and staying the night in a shady motel room, Harry will anonymously send along a bag of Galleons to speed up the process.
Months after that incident, Voldemort finds him again. Harry fires first this time, then fires again, then fires again. He destroys several hundred square kilometers before he realizes Voldemort has yet to unleash a single offensive spell in return. The unease Harry feels in response to this sudden comprehension is potent, vicious.
Voldemort is his adversary. Harry’s entire life has revolved around this fact. He refuses to lose it now, not when he has already lost so much. He will not allow another piece of himself to be carved away to make room for something else.
So Harry runs farther than he ever has, with Voldemort right on his heels. They next cross paths in Tibet, surrounded by mountains and snow. Harry’s hands are frozen solid, stung pink by the cold winter wind, but this does not prevent him from raising his wand to complete his task, the task assigned to him at birth: to duel this man until the bitter, non-existent end.
Harry blasts Voldemort clean off the mountain cliff before they manage to exchange a word, then leaves. He does not wait to see if there is a body. He does not need confirmation of death.
Harry does not die, and Voldemort does not either.
Voldemort enters Harry’s tiny cottage, distaste wrinkling his features. There are pots of plant life scattered all around. The entire place is drenched in nature, in the greens and browns and blues of the world around them.
Harry had once despaired over the flammable existence of Hagrid’s wooden hut, but now he understands its appeal. There is beauty to be drawn out of wood grain that cannot be found in any human-made material. In a world worked over by metal and wires, Harry feels most comfortable surrounded by signs of life.
“Tea?” Harry asks mildly, using a tone more polite than Voldemort really deserves.
“If you must.”
Harry boils a new kettleful of water. The shrill whistle fills his ears while he preps a teapot with various dried leaves and flowers; a mixture meant to help de-stress and de-clutter the mind.
“Lavender,” notes Voldemort, seating himself at Harry’s wooden dinner table.
“Lavender and peppermint,” Harry agrees, setting the pot to steep.
Voldemort clasps his hands together and rests them on the table. Once again, Harry is struck by how young he looks. For once, Harry physically appears to be the older of the two of them. How long has it been since they’d last seen each other? Harry can’t quite recall. More than a few decades, at least. Long enough for Harry to grow comfortable here.
“So what brings you to my door?” Harry asks as he settles in the chair opposite Voldemort.
Voldemort regards him with solemnity, red eyes burning brightly enough to scald. “How long has it been since you returned to Britain?” he throws back.
“Not that long,” Harry says, feeling more defensive than he’d like to be.
“Magical Britain?” Voldemort elaborates, brow arched.
Perturbed, Harry reaches for the teapot and pours out two steaming mugs of tea. “Milk or sugar?”
“Neither.”
Harry shoves a mug in Voldemort’s direction. He stirs in one spoonful of sugar and one spoonful of milk into his own mug to steady himself. “I have no idea how long it’s been,” he says truthfully. “Why do you ask?”
“Magic is dying,” Voldemort says, devoid of inflection, only offering three simple words full of defeat.
Harry has never heard Voldemort sound defeated. “Pardon?”
“Magic is dying,” Voldemort repeats, angry now, the angriest Harry has heard him in years, “and there is nothing we can do to stop it.”
For whatever reason, Voldemort’s latest death sends Harry reeling. In his mind’s eye, he replays Voldemort tumbling off the side of the mountain, snow trailing behind his body as he falls, vanishing into the distance.
It shakes him. It worries him. So Harry goes back to the earth, back to dirt and stone, hoping to re-anchor himself. Harry goes home.
Luna is not there to greet him, but Blaise is, silver-haired and holding a large wooden staff that reminds Harry inexplicably of Professor Dumbledore.
“Well met, Harry,” says Blaise. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
Harry thinks he’s changed more than anyone realizes, even himself. “Glad to be back,” he says, uncertain if he means it.
Blaise must pick up on his hesitancy, for he says, “Why don’t I show you what you’ve missed?” and proceeds to guide Harry around the fortress like the old friends they are.
The turns and paths are mostly familiar. Harry carved this place out of the earth, he could never forget that. But there are new routes, of course. Paths traced by a younger, stronger generation.
Harry smiles at the people he doesn’t know and stifles his guilt when he sees the people he does. Eyes widen in his direction, fingers point at his lighting scar. Harry remembers what it means to be famous, but mostly he remembers how much he dislikes it.
“Everything seems to be going well,” Harry admits once the tour is over.
Blaise offers a half-smile. “Thought we’d fall apart without you, hmm?”
“I had faith.”
“Faith is good to have,” Blaise agrees. “How is your faith, by the way?”
Harry thinks of Voldemort, of never dying, of fighting all his life for a cause which no longer seems applicable. “It’s having a hard time.”
Blaise’s teasing expression softens. He lays a careful hand on Harry’s shoulder and pauses when Harry goes still. “He hasn’t returned since you left, if that’s what you wanted to ask.”
It wasn’t. It isn’t. Harry feels sick to his stomach with unexplained anxiety. Has Voldemort only been after him this entire time? Has he made a mistake in returning here?
Blaise grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a rough shake that rattles the doubts in his head. “You’ve built something wonderful here. Don’t allow him to ruin that for you.”
Harry doesn’t want to let Voldemort ruin anything else. “I’ll try.”
At Blaise’s request, Harry stays the night. He spends hours tossing and turning, haunted by vermilion eyes and a high, cold voice. In his dreams and nightmares, Voldemort shadows him unsolicited, like a ghost. Voldemort is a deadly behemoth lurking in every dark corner of the room.
Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded.
Their fates are entwined, their souls eternally marked. Harry will never be rid of Voldemort, not now, not in another hundred years. When all other constants in the world fade away, Voldemort will remain as the single, unstable pillar of Harry’s sanity.
By morning light, the guest room is empty, and Harry—just Harry—has faded away with the darkness.
Let Harry Potter die, let his legacy run like ink through the pages of history until it dries for evermore. The world is better off without Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort both, so Harry will kill the one of them that he can and hope it will be enough.
“Magic can’t die.” This is the first thing Harry says, and while it is not the most intelligent statement, he feels that his genuine confusion is warranted in the face of such an absurd announcement.
Voldemort sets his mug of tea down with no small amount of force. Harry is surprised the ceramic doesn’t crack.
“I have spent the past several decades researching this,” Voldemort says, unfazed. “Magic will die.”
Harry feels a headache coming on. Only Voldemort would show up unannounced and kick up such a fuss in five minutes flat. “Well, fine. Say it is. What does that have to do with me? If there is to be no more magic in the world, then maybe that’s what we deserve.”
Voldemort scoffs. He retrieves his mug from the table and blows over the surface of his tea. “I walked through your village on my way here. Rosalind speaks highly of you.”
Harry stiffens. “Don’t you dare touch that village,” he warns. They both know what will happen if Voldemort does. They will duel, and—Merlin save them all—Harry will ensure Voldemort loses.
Voldemort sips at his tea, eyeing Harry over the edge of the mug. It is a mocking look that grates on Harry’s nerves in a way few others have ever managed.
“I would not,” says Voldemort. “I’ve come here for your aid, after all.”
That shocks him. “You want my help?”
“There is no one on this planet who knows more magic than I do, except for you.”
Harry supposes that’s true, to a degree. “I’m no scholar. If you’ve been working on this as long as you have, what makes you think I’ll be able to help?”
Voldemort’s lips twist. “Let us call it intuition and leave it at that.”
Intuition, Harry thinks, bemused. “Alright,” he says, then tests the rest of his words in his mind, one by one, before he says them aloud. “Tell me what you’ve learned so far.”
What Voldemort calls intuition, Harry will later realize is not intuition at all. It is not intuition that drives Voldemort to his doorstep, it is loneliness.
Following Harry’s final departure from magical Britain, the years blur into each other. His memories of the past bleed out into the crisp Alaskan air, into the waters of the Red Sea.
Harry doesn’t die, but Harry Potter slowly and surely does. The surname given to him by his parents is a relic of the Boy-Who-Lived, a memento tied to loved ones he has lost. Harry sheds the name like he does with the rest of his past. He runs and runs, his feet pattering across the earth from which he was born, the earth to which he will never return.
His ghosts cannot find him if he does not exist, so Harry loses himself in the world, soaks himself in culture and religion. He changes his hair and the colour of his eyes. He stuffs his wand into his mokeskin pouch and leaves it there, untouched, for weeks on end. When he thinks he’s caught a flash of red eyes in the middle of a crowd, he looks the other way.
The world is vast. Let Voldemort find him if he dares. Harry no longer wishes to partake in war.
Despite Voldemort’s generous words, Harry does not feel like he is the world’s second-highest ranking expert on magic. Voldemort may be an expert, but Harry is, as he’d declared himself to be, no scholar. The problem itself is simple—magic is dying—but its solution is nowhere near as easy for him to understand.
Magical potency is not only dwindling; with each passing year, less magical creatures are born and more magical families produce Squibs. Soon, all magic will cease to exist.
Harry mulls this over, then says, “It’s like the slow heat death of the universe.”
“That would imply inevitability,” Voldemort snaps, “which does not apply here. Do at least make an effort to follow along—”
The years have mellowed Harry’s temper, somewhat. With his mug of lavender and peppermint tea in hand, he can read Voldemort’s reaction for what it truly is: denial.
Voldemort’s anger is a fickle thing. It comes and goes like the weather—it is loud and violent, then calm and peaceful. However, it is not the explosive storm that Harry fears. Voldemort’s greatest triumphs have always emerged from the quiet, quiet rage that burns underneath the surface. When Voldemort is sane and rational, he builds his anger up like a monument, using the emotion to fuel his ambitions. Once its usefulness has passed, it is discarded, the fire of rage shed like a second skin.
Harry feels they are similar in that way. Anger fuels them. The challenge of magic—magic dying, magic departing—kindles anger in Voldemort. Despite their different ideologies, magic is what unites him and Voldemort together. It makes them special. Harry understands why Voldemort is unwilling to let magic go.
Magic is tied to Harry’s core and it is the bane of his existence. Magic made him the Boy-Who-Lived. Magic killed his parents. Magic gave him friends and family, but magic also took them away.
Harry thinks of everyone he has ever loved, all of them magical. Before magic, he had nothing. Without magic, who is he? Harry has asked himself this question before and has always had difficulty deciding on an answer.
Magic may have given birth to Harry Potter, but since leaving Britain, Harry has discarded that identity and remade himself. He has shed his anger and regret. He has never known true peace, but he has learned how to build his own fragile version of it.
Voldemort’s presence changes everything, as it tends to do. Voldemort does not belong in Harry’s little cottage surrounded by plants. Harry associates this man with decay, with loss and anguish.
Still, he finds himself loaning Voldemort a tent, an extra pillow, and some blankets for the night. Harry also provides directions for staying away from the parts of the forest where the animals frequent.
“They might scare you,” Harry says, deadpan, when he is prompted for an explanation.
Voldemort stares at him for far too long before Harry adds sheepishly, “A joke.”
“This lackadaisical lifestyle of yours has done your sense of humour no favours,” Voldemort declares before he departs for the evening. “I will begin research in the morning.”
“Git,” Harry says to the closed door. He hopes that Voldemort hears him.
The next day, Harry takes his morning tea alone. He waits around, wishing he didn’t feel stupid for doing so. At noon, Voldemort stops by and squints at Harry’s simple tomato and cheese sandwich. Harry deliberately does not offer him any food, prompting Voldemort to leave as soon as he’d come.
Harry catches himself watching his windows throughout the rest of the day. It is strange knowing that Voldemort is staying nearby. What happened to working together, anyway? Frustrated with himself for falling for Voldemort’s promise, Harry shoves away the notion of their supposed camaraderie; he should have known better than to think Voldemort had really wanted or needed his help.
The century passes while Harry wanders the streets of Spain. Cheers echo around him. They are from New Year’s celebrations that will ring late into the evening. There are bars he could visit, or convenience stores he could loiter at, but Harry finds that the beaten ground beneath his feet steadies him the most, so he walks aimlessly instead.
Harry has witnessed genocide. He has lived through the rise and fall of nations, has mourned the deaths of so many good people. There are ruins, centuries old, that live in his chest, their shattered monuments collecting dust in the gaps between his ribs. After everything that has happened to him, he thinks he deserves to be able to run away from his problems. It is unfortunate that his problems tend to find him anyway.
Voldemort has grown beyond being his enemy. Voldemort is an immortal nuisance in Harry’s life. He is a pest, a ceaseless headache. Where Harry goes, Voldemort follows. Neither can live while the other survives—Harry will never know true rest while Voldemort walks the earth.
“Here to kill me?” Harry asks when he hears the sound of footsteps, when he senses the presence behind him, when a prickle of magic dances up his spine like spitting firecrackers.
“No.”
Harry ponders this. He deliberates over the simplicity of it, considers the meaning behind it, then dismisses it. If Voldemort is not here for him, then there is only one answer to give: “Then go.”
Voldemort stands tall mere steps away. He throws a fine shadow against the wall, his silhouette composed of sweeping robes and a proud posture. “So you can kill me, Harry Potter?”
“So I can live my life, cursed as it is.” His voice is dry. Tired.
Voldemort looks down upon him, as he always has, only now there is curiosity in his crimson gaze. “The world is yours. Is it not every young man’s wish to travel? To immerse himself in the knowledge and culture left to us by our ancestors? You achieve grander acts of magic than most wizards dream of seeing in a lifetime. Enjoy it.”
Enjoy it, he says. As if the winding path of Harry’s life has not been devastated at every turn, the people he loves reduced to ashes by Lord Voldemort’s hand.
It takes several breaths before Harry can speak with the certainty that he will not eviscerate Voldemort where he stands. “That might be your dream, but it was never mine.” He is not ‘every young man’ and he never will get to be.
“Then seek new dreams.” Voldemort has not stepped closer during this entire conversation. Only now does Harry notice this, only now does he realize how strange it is. The hairs on the back of his neck remain at rest, even though adrenalin prompted by fear does flow through his veins.
“Why do you care what I do?”
Voldemort scoffs at him. “Why do people do anything? Because they believe they must, whether by choice or coercion, whether as the result of circumstance or opportunity.”
“Not an answer,” Harry points out, frustration seeping into his voice. He has no wand in hand, but magic pulses brightly in his palms, itching to be set free.
“We have forever ahead of us. This cannot continue.” Voldemort gestures between them, a motion that sends Harry’s irritation plummeting into the wastelands of disgust. “Do you think you will succeed someday in vanquishing me? Or I, you? It will not happen. The fates themselves have decreed it.”
Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives. They cannot kill each other. They cannot die.
Harry barks a sharp laugh. “You think years will teach me to forgive you for what you’ve done to me? To my family and friends? Fuck you, Voldemort.” His hand rises of its own volition to point far, far away. “Last chance. Leave.”
Voldemort eyes him for the length of several heartbeats. “Until next time,” he concedes, stepping back.
Harry does not feel relief. “If I see you again, I’m blasting you straight to hell.”
“I suppose from you, I should expect nothing less.” Those are Voldemort’s final words before he retreats, fading into the darkness.
Harry’s breath unlatches in his throat, but it takes several more minutes for his racing heart and trembling hands to revert to normal. He is afraid. He is afraid of seeing Voldemort again, not because he fears death or pain, but because he can feel his anger slipping away like the cool evening tide.
If he has no anger left for Voldemort, what does that say about him? What does it say to all those who had fought for him, died for him? Harry lives on. He lives in spite of the horrible, horrible odds. He exists as Voldemort’s enemy. This is the only part of his identity—of Harry Potter—that remains.
Without that, he is no one. Without Voldemort, he is an anchorless, ambitionless immortal with a graveyard of skeletons living in his chest. Harry does not want to see Voldemort again. Harry wants to forget.
Rosalind finds it funny that Harry has a visitor. She promises to be back with extra biscuits tomorrow despite Harry’s pleas for otherwise. When Harry fails to explain why he does not want her to meet Voldemort, that’s when the unpleasantness starts.
“Is he not a friend of yours?”
“No.”
“Is he an ex-lover?”
Harry must look nauseated at that, because she laughs at him and says, “Forget that I asked.”
The following day, Rosalind returns with a basket of fresh goods and a friendly smile. Voldemort eats one of her biscuits and makes vague small talk about his past while Harry sits by as a silent moderator.
If Voldemort finds the presence of a Muggle in his general vicinity to be unpalatable, he keeps it to himself. Harry will not tolerate bigotry here. Voldemort and magic itself can fuck off forever, in that case. Harry has tolerated enough of them both over the years. He has suffered so much that he ought to be declared a saint. He will be as selfish as he wants to. He will not hesitate when it comes to the people he wishes to protect.
That said, everything goes well until Rosalind asks Voldemort how the two of them know each other.
He and Harry have known each other for a long time. (Not a lie.) He and Harry attended the same school. (Not quite a lie.) He and Harry have mutual acquaintances. (Pushing it.)
But it’s not as if Harry can explain it any better. This is the man who killed his parents. This is the man who has killed him—not once, but twice.
Harry dies for the second time after being taken completely by surprise.
After dying, he wakes in Nurmengard. However, he is not in a prison cell, but a bedroom.
Voldemort is seated at his bedside. Harry’s mind feels unsettled, it is awhirl with emotion. In the span of a second, he races through earth-splintering fury and bone-deep confusion before he ends with fear.
“What have you done?” Harry asks, horrified. He has not been truly horrified in years. His old fears are small, there is little that can upset him anymore. Now he feels fear as poignantly as he did at the age of seven, beaten for the first time and left in a cupboard to starve.
“Proving my theory.”
Slowly, the impact of this statement sinks in. Harry has died, but he is not dead. Voldemort has killed him, but he is still alive. Harry has known for some time now that he cannot die, but hearing it from Voldemort finalizes it.
Snatches of memory drift through Harry’s mind. He can recall the otherworldly experience of wandering the earth as a spirit, detached and distant, a tortured soul without a body.
“You killed me to prove a point?” Harry asks dubiously. This repeats in his head over and over—Voldemort killed me to prove a point—until hysteria wins out, laughter bursting from Harry like an ocean wave smashing through a wooden dam. Harry laughs himself sick, wipes tears from his eyes while Voldemort regards him like he is a mad, alien creature.
“And to think,” Harry breathes, sitting up and wiping his damp hands on the bed sheets, “you used to try and do this every year. Congratulations. You’ve finally succeeded.” He laughs some more, then gathers his wits about him. It won’t do to antagonize Voldemort too much.
After another shaky intake of breath, Harry glances around the bedroom, at the velvet curtains and glossy wooden vanity. His reflection looks the same as ever. Odd. “Where are we? Another manor that belongs to one of your loyal followers?”
“You will know this place as Nurmengard.”
“Hm.” Harry swings his feet off the bed and onto the floor, wincing at the stretch in his leg muscles, and takes in the opulence of the room. “That’s fun. Nicer than I expected, for a prison.”
Voldemort follows the path of Harry’s movements with his eyes. “I may have remodelled.”
Harry blinks several times and looks at Voldemort with genuine concern. “Was that a joke?”
Voldemort’s expression remains unchanged. “Lie down. If you die again, I will not be so kind as to revive you.”
Harry resists a new urge to laugh. If he does, there is the very decent chance that Voldemort might sedate him. “Wouldn’t you like me out of your hair for however many decades it takes me to figure out how to revive myself?”
“You said so yourself, you have no plans to seek me out.” Voldemort’s tone is magnanimous, resolute. He stands and gestures modestly with his hands as he speaks. “You wish to live your life? I have given you proof of that opportunity. Neither of us can die; we have no reason to harm each other. I have left Britain alone, and I will continue to do so.”
“You kidnap me and kill me so you can convince me to leave you alone?” Harry snorts. “That’s a new one.”
“You’re free to leave.”
“Right.” Harry looks to the door. He should leave. He has no reason to stay, and even less of a reason to want to. “Don’t suppose you’ll be changing your mind in a few decades once you get bored?”
“You do not interest me. What remains of the prophecy is finished. We owe each other nothing.” Judging by Voldemort’s tone, he hates the prophecy as much as Harry does. “Certainly you have murdered me enough times to satisfy your desire for revenge?”
Satisfied? Harry will never be satisfied. He may settle for this tentative truce, but that does not mean he finds any pleasure in it. How can he be satisfied when Voldemort has yet to pay for any of his crimes? Voldemort does not understand what it means to lose everything. Voldemort has never had anything truly valuable to lose. Voldemort does not understand love, or friendship, or family. He does not understand Harry.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Harry says, “so long as you don’t provoke me or do anything that requires my intervention. No taking over Britain or anywhere else. No genocide, no murder. Does that satisfy you?”
Voldemort’s gaze is shrewd, calculating. “I have had time to think about what I want out of this life. I will accept your offer, Harry Potter, and we shall not see each other again unless it be under neutral circumstances,” Voldemort says as he extends his hand into the space between them.
Harry holds himself steady even though his instinct is to spit in the face of his parents’ murderer and turn away. Voldemort proliferates his nightmares. Voldemort’s mere existence is an antithesis to Harry’s. While Voldemort walks the earth, Harry will be forever reminded of death and all those that death has claimed.
“To not seeing each other again,” Harry says softly. He shakes Voldemort’s hand and hopes it will be the only time he ever has to do so.
Harry is out in the forest when he hears the frantic crash of footsteps through the undergrowth. His hand twitches for his wand; a soldier’s instinct he thought was long forgotten. After all, he has little need for his stick of holly and phoenix feather these days, and on top of that, he is perfectly capable of wandless magic in a pinch, rendering his wand nearly obsolete.
But Voldemort has always been the exception in Harry’s life, and centuries later, this has not changed in the slightest.
Rosalind stumbles to a breathless, red-faced halt in front of him. She is panting from exertion, sweating all over, and her face—
Her face is flushed from her mad dash through the forest, but it is the haunted look in her eyes that freezes Harry in place.
“Harry,” she gasps, bent over as she struggles to catch her breath, “Harry, he—”
How quickly anger returns to him, an old friend wrapping him up in its fevered embrace. Harry has not missed the rawness of anger, that bitter fury which floods him with hate and vitriol. Harry has little doubt as to who the ‘he’ is that Rosalind refers to. Her distress can only mean one thing.
Harry had been moronic to let Voldemort into his life. It had been ridiculous of him to believe even for a moment that Voldemort could hold himself to any moral standard. The man is a monster, selfish and evil. He does not change, his nature does not expand or grow. Voldemort sold his soul for immortality and has not once regretted doing so.
“Where is he?” Harry says, cutting Rosalind off. Rage trembles his words. Magic burns painfully at his fingertips. Harry tries to relax; he does not want to scare her. “Where is he,” he repeats through gritted teeth.
Harry will make good on his promise. He will slaughter Voldemort. He will lay the man’s body in pieces across the hills and fields, he will turn the surrounding rivers red with blood. Harry has never been able to stomach torture, but he thinks he can make an exception for this, for the poor people of the village that Voldemort has surely massacred.
“He—” Rosalind presses the back of her hand against her lips as if the words are breaking apart in her mouth. “Harry, your friend—he’s dead.”
The flame of Harry’s anger dies a quick death. Shock takes its place. Voldemort is dead, but he is also not dead. He cannot die. Harry knows this, but Rosalind does not.
“Where?” he asks her. He is calmer than he should be. If anything, it is morbid curiosity that now holds him in its grasp. “How?”
Wordlessly, Rosalind leads him out of the forest and through the village, down the path that leads to the base of the closest mountain.
“He was working out here. I don’t know what on,” she says when they arrive. “There was an explosion and no one has seen him since. We looked, but—” She pauses and bites down on her lip. The pain seems to encourage her to speak. “They found some of what looks like his remains.”
“Some?” Harry feels like a parrot, reduced to asking one-word questions.
“They—they—think he may have accidentally blown himself up.”
Silence. Harry struggles not to laugh. He thinks it must be the first time he’s ever wanted to genuinely laugh at Voldemort’s death. This entire situation is utterly absurd from start to finish. Harry is torn between concern—what the hell had that idiot been doing—and guilt for assuming Voldemort had been up to no good.
Voldemort sparks madness in him. The split in Harry’s sanity widens like a quaking hairline fracture whenever Voldemort is near. This is the only reasonable explanation for what happens when they cross paths. Harry has no business feeling guilt over Voldemort’s stupid accidental death, yet here he is, feeling guilty about judging Voldemort incorrectly.
Woe is Voldemort for being judged as a homicidal maniac. Why should that matter? It is the truth. Voldemort has murdered hundreds of people and Harry has never forgiven him for it.
Rosalind is watching him with wide eyes, but Harry cannot muster the energy for a convincing response. Instead, he hopes to convince her of one truth, a truth that he has known for many, many years now.
“Don’t worry about him,” he tells her. “He’ll come back eventually. He always does.”
After Nurmengard, Voldemort keeps his word. He does not devastate Europe. He does not harm any societies or governments that Harry is aware of.
Harry returns to his aimless wanderings, to the splendour of the world that Voldemort had once pushed him to explore. It is not fulfilling, this ambitionless journey, but it is better than the alternative of empty oblivion.
Technology plunges forward, dragging them towards a bright future full of stars. Humanity is brimming with explorers who long for the vastness of space at their fingertips. Harry watches them fly away, knowing that the only freedom from gravity he will ever know is the rush of air beneath his broomstick. The advancement of society does not interest him; it represents the progression he will never have, the future that moves on despite his own immutable nature.
Harry wanders away from the largest cities and towns. He travels to third-world countries where his aid makes a difference. He clears a way through the bustling noise of the universe and finds the hidden pockets of the globe where life is simple. Now more than ever, all Harry wants is to have a simple life.
There are things Harry has yet to try, people he has yet to meet. Voldemort may be a constant, but he is not everything.
It is unfortunate that the fates do not see fit to communicate this fact to Voldemort.
In Cairo, Harry wakes to dawn peeking through sheer navy curtains. The body next to his is warm. He hears his lover breathing softly out into the darkness of the room. Fondness tugs at Harry’s heart. It has been a wonderful evening, and he will feel a mild sadness when he leaves it all behind.
Summoning his robe from across the room, Harry leaves his sleeping companion behind in favour of a brief walk in the cool night air. He’ll return before the sun is too high in the sky. He will prepare breakfast for himself and his lover. They will share a few tender moments before Harry kisses them goodbye.
Harry steps onto the street and makes it a pace away from the door before he realizes. Before he knows.
“Bored?” Harry calls out, his voice dangerously soft.
“Aren’t you?”
“Can’t say that I am.” Harry wonders if Voldemort is using a cloak or a spell to make himself invisible. Either way, the magic is not powerful enough to hide Voldemort from Harry’s sight.
When Voldemort does materialize in the street, he looks the same as ever: alabaster skin, red irises, and sharp features. Voldemort has perfected the act of rebirth, has molded it into an art form. Harry no longer finds himself surprised to see the man’s appearance has changed slightly to fit with the times. Voldemort has always been a narcissistic bastard.
“So,” Harry says into the pause that follows, “you’re bored?”
Voldemort flicks a dismissive gaze to the window on the top floor, the window that is blocked off by sheer navy curtains. Harry feels the weight of Voldemort’s judgement in the silence.
“If you’re here to analyze my life choices,” Harry says, his tone oozing passive aggression into the empty air between them, “then you must be bored.”
Voldemort sneers. “And you must tire of these relationships. These people who come and go from your life; what purpose is there for them? Can you honestly tell me you find such interaction fulfilling?”
Harry resists the urge to snort. “What else is meant to be fulfilling? World domination?”
“It is a purpose. Do you have a purpose, Harry Potter?”
Harry has not heard the name ‘Potter’ in years. It dawns on him that Voldemort is likely the only living being on the planet who knows him by that name. The Potter line will never die, but it will never continue, either.
In light of this information, Harry lifts his gaze to the night sky, to the stretch of cloud cover and the sprinkle of twinkling stars. The sky, at least, never changes. “Living is a purpose. I watch the sun set behind the horizon. I walk the silent streets and listen as the world settles into itself. Maybe it isn’t a purpose that meets your standard, but it feels purposeful to me.”
“You feel purpose in doing nothing.”
“I feel at peace with my place in the world,” Harry retorts. “Can you say the same?”
“Peace is boring,” Voldemort says, but he sounds thoughtful. “Conflict does not always necessitate war.”
Harry allows himself a noise of derision. “It sure as hell is a pretty decent catalyst for one.”
Voldemort’s face remains impassive at Harry’s comment, but Harry thinks the man might be annoyed with him. That’s too damn bad. Voldemort came here of his own volition. He can’t complain if Harry is short-tempered with him.
“Did you come here to wax your philosophies at me?” Harry asks. “Or was there some other reason you saw fit to burden me with your magnificent presence?”
“While you idle away, the world is changing. With passing each generation, the magical population of Britain decreases in number.” The statement is factual, cold.
Harry isn’t impressed. “Purebloods finally figure out that inbreeding won’t get them anywhere?”
Voldemort scowls. “Less Muggleborns are entering Hogwarts, not because they are restricted from attending, but because there are less of them.”
That gives Harry pause. Voldemort has no reason to lie to him about this, does he? Harry has not been to Britain in decades. They have not fought in decades. The fortress Harry built over a hundred years ago stands strong, even now. He knows he would have felt it if the magic had failed.
“Are you still living there, then? In Britain?” Harry’s not sure what prompts him to ask this, but it’s far too late to take the question back now.
“I maintain a private estate that I visit from time to time.”
“Posh git.” Harry starts walking again. Voldemort follows at a distance. “So the population is shrinking? You thought I’d like to hear about it? Do something about it?”
Voldemort scoffs at him. “Your sense of nationalism is heartwarming. You used to fight for these people. Die for them. Do they matter so little to you now?”
Harry thinks of the moon, of the stars and the planets high above. He thinks of space and time and what it means to be so infinitesimally small that everyone else in the universe has forgotten his name. “Maybe we don’t need magic to survive anymore. Maybe the world is simply evolving to need less of us in it.”
Notes:
comments are greatly appreciated. <3
Chapter 2: What's Past is Past
Summary:
Harry has wondered why Voldemort cares so much about magic, why the idea of its loss in the world scares him so. Magic is part of them, but it is not everything. But what does Voldemort have, other than magic? Properties and power. Wealth and wickedness. Is there any true fulfillment to be found there? Harry doesn’t think so. People need other people. People need each other.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Not two weeks later, Harry senses a disturbance in the air. He opens his front door and follows his instincts down the winding path that leads to the village. There are roads and rail tracks not too far away, but what Harry loves most about this area is its remoteness, its detachment from what most would call ‘civilized’ society.
Halfway to the village, Harry spots a man standing in the middle of the path, his back slightly hunched, his shoulders draped in a heavy black cloak. He straightens as Harry comes into view.
Voldemort is young again. Not quite as young as before, but perhaps that’s due to the haggard, waxen look that clings to his face like a grotesque mask. It’s a wonder that the man is upright at all. He must have rushed through the rebirth ceremony to return here so quickly.
“Voldemort?” Harry asks, though he knows the answer.
Red eyes glare balefully at him in response. “Potter.”
Voldemort’s pride must be wounded after his debacle in the mountains, yet here he is. Harry takes in the sight of Voldemort’s proud stature, the distasteful curl of his thin lips, the faint sheen of sweat that traces his hairline.
Harry has wondered why Voldemort cares so much about magic, why the idea of its loss in the world scares him so. Magic is part of them, but it is not everything. But what does Voldemort have, other than magic? Properties and power. Wealth and wickedness. Is there any true fulfillment to be found there? Harry doesn’t think so. People need other people. People need each other.
“I don’t go by that name anymore,” Harry says quietly. He holds out his hand, flips his palm to the sky and stretches his fingers out. “Why don’t we head back to mine. I’ll make you some tea.”
Voldemort hesitates long enough to instill doubt, but just when Harry thinks he ought to give up and drop his hand, Voldemort takes it.
The two of them walk down the path and back to the house. Harry takes out his kettle and boils enough water to make tea for two. Herbal tea, a special brew with healing properties. Voldemort needs it, that much is plain to see. What is equally obvious to Harry and perhaps somewhat less apparent to Voldemort himself is that such a state of unwellness generally requires rest.
“You’re staying in the house,” Harry says once their tea is finished and Voldemort is looking in the direction of the door.
Ever the bastard, Voldemort ignores him and stands, which means that Harry has to take the extra step of walking into the man’s field of vision and blocking his path.
“This is my house. You will be staying in it because you are recovering, and while you are staying in it you will listen to what I tell you to do.” Harry folds his arms across his chest to indicate the severity of his unspoken threat.
Voldemort’s magic flares. Harry can feel the way it expands around them, creeping into all the cracks and flooding his senses with static. It is an oppressive sensation that coats the walls of the room like tar, but Harry refuses to let it affect him.
Harry takes one, two steps forward, intent on pushing back. Intent on enforcing a measure of care onto a man to whom he does not owe any care at all.
The magic deflates, so suddenly that Harry is alarmed by how rapidly the pressure in the room dissipates. The world around them tilts off its axis for a brief moment before Harry recovers enough to set a hand on Voldemort’s shoulder.
“We don’t have to do nothing,” Harry allows.
Voldemort watches him with wariness. “Then what?”
Harry nearly smiles. It is a close call. “I’ll show you the forest. Where the animals frequent. The fresh air will do you some good.”
Voldemort opens his mouth to argue, then appears to think better of it. His face remains emotionless. It is a mask to hide pain, but it is also a shield. it is meant to keep others out.
“If you use more magic today, you will pass out and die,” Harry says, matter of fact. “If you die again, I will not be so kind as to revive you.”
Voldemort’s lips twitch. “Very well,” he says with the airs of someone who is beleaguered and put upon. “Lead the way.”
They walk out together. They spend some time out in the forest, then walk home and have supper. Voldemort complains about everything the entire time, but it seems half-hearted. He has a reputation to uphold, even if it is a losing battle. That’s alright. Voldemort is far from perfect, but so is Harry.
Later that night, Harry does allow himself a smile. It may come as a surprise to them both, but—
He wants Voldemort to stay.
The next time Voldemort comes to visit, there is no lover waiting in the upstairs bedroom. There are lights flashing outside, colourful bursts of blues and yellows as vehicles fly past Harry’s sitting room window, tossing shadows against the wall. The traffic isn't unbearably noisy—few cars are, nowadays—but it is... it is noisy in other ways. The hustle of city life is not for him; he plans to move elsewhere very soon.
After breaking into Harry’s house, the first comment Voldemort makes is: “You have a job.”
“Must everything you say about me sound so judgmental?” Harry retorts, not bothering to turn around. Voldemort's stalker tendencies will not get a rise out of him. “Yes, I have a job. I happen to like having a job. Having a purpose. Weren’t you berating me for doing nothing the last time we met?”
Voldemort is silent long enough that Harry sighs and turns around.
Only then does Voldemort cock his head to the side, his eyes alert and attentive. “Your talents are wasted here.” He looks at Harry with curiosity. Like a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle had once looked at twelve-year-old Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets. But Harry, unlike his twelve-year-old self, is no longer afraid of what Voldemort can do to him.
“If this is a recruitment pitch,” Harry says, moving to the kitchen so he can make himself a cup of tea, “it’s failing by the second.”
“What would I be recruiting you for?” Voldemort says. He sounds amused, which is not what Harry wants. Voldemort is a pest; Harry wants to annoy him in kind.
“World domination,” Harry answers without hesitation. He summons his mug from its place on the rack and fills it with water before setting it back down on the counter. With a wave of his hand, the water boils instantly. Now he only needs to steep a tea bag. It's been harder to source regular tea bags over the years; Harry has invested in a number of businesses out of a personal desire to see the industry live on.
“Was that not on my list of banned activities?”
Harry cups his warm mug with both hands and steps over to his sitting room. “If you were to recruit me, that would release you from the ban.” He sits on his couch and gestures for Voldemort to join him. The bastard isn't getting any tea, but Harry isn't about to participate in a conversation where they are on anything other than level ground.
Voldemort lifts a lofty brow at him. “Would it?”
“No,” Harry says calmly. “But I’m sure you’d like to think so.”
Voldemort sits down on the couch. He crosses one leg over the other, points his silver-accented dress shoe off to the side in such a way that the low light of Harry’s sitting room makes its design appear to be made from strips of moonlight. “Where do you see the world, ten years from now? In fifty? In a hundred?”
It is a serious question. Harry decides he’ll give it some thought. He hums and sips at his tea, he ponders the scope of the universe and the ambition of humanity.
Since his truce with Voldemort, Harry has moved on with his life. He has accepted that no war lasts forever and that no world is perfect. His resentments and regrets remain in the past as surely as the name 'Potter' does.
“I don’t know,” Harry decides. “I don’t know where it will go, but I hope it’s somewhere good.”
“They buried your remains,” Harry says over supper later that day. “A proper funeral and everything.”
Voldemort has a bowl of soup in front of him that he’s been periodically picking through. Bits of carrot and potato float amongst the leafy greens that Harry had picked from the forest or purchased from the village. “Did you attend?”
“I did.” Harry taps the backside of his spoon against the rim of his bowl. “They asked me if you had family or friends to bury you. I told them you didn’t. It was… interesting. Seeing the village gather for a stranger’s funeral in an outpouring of empathy. ”
“I suppose it must have been.”
Their spoons cling and scrape against ceramic while Harry wracks his brain for topics. Conversation between them is different now. He can’t tell if it’s because of his new mindset or because of Voldemort’s thinly-veiled exhaustion. There are things Harry wants to say, but he has no idea how to word them.
Harry is nearly done eating when Voldemort says, “We shall resume work in the morning.”
The word ‘we’ is very telling. Harry glances up to see that Voldemort’s bowl is now empty. “You say that like I have any idea what you’re talking about,” says Harry. He isn’t about to let Voldemort off easy. “As far as I’m concerned, all you’ve done since arriving here is blow yourself up, and that was work you certainly did all on your own.”
Voldemort sets his spoon down, bracing the concave side on the ceramic rim of his bowl. Harry waits expectantly for a response, for Voldemort’s irascible denial, for a period of silence interrupted by the sound of the chair scraping backwards on the floor as Voldemort walks away from him.
“Your help would be appreciated,” Voldemort says instead, like the modicum of decency is being forcefully wrung out of him.
Harry feels a strange relief upon hearing those words. “Right,” he says. He stands and gathers the dishes with a snap of his fingers. As the bowls and spoons float off to the sink, he turns to meet Voldemort’s gaze with his own. “Then I guess we will resume work in the morning.”
The world goes to good places as well as bad ones. Harry lives on the sidelines while humanity plunges through war and politics. He bears witness to the rise and fall of world leaders, to the patterns of cruelty that a selfish society seems eager to bury itself in.
Buildings blow apart until all that remains are their metal skeletons. Lush landscapes are razed to the ground, revealing jagged outcrops smeared in blood. Metal melts and rusts, wires bend and break. Even technology cannot save anyone from war. War brings ruin, a cycle of conflict that traps innocents underfoot. War strips humanity of its excess.
The world struggles through sweat and tears, through death and madness. The world burns, but it also rises from the ashes, a phoenix reborn. The world gazes upon barren land and declares the beginnings of a nation. Even in the darkest of times, humanity perseveres. War ruins, but it also reveals warm hearts and steady hands. Hands that build and hearts that feel.
Humanity is made of survivors and Harry is proud to be one of them.
Harry has searched long and hard for the obscure, for the unknowable, for the fragile peace of mind that evades him. He had lied when he told Voldemort he was content with his place in the universe.
Harry survives, but he does not live, and perhaps that is the root of his issues after all.
Time marches on, unending and merciless. Harry is dragged along like an unruly child. The moments of his life blend together like blood droplets dotted into the ocean. He sees less of Voldemort, and in many ways, he is relieved. Voldemort's presence turns him into someone he no longer wants to be. Someone angry, someone bitter. Someone broken.
However, it feels inevitable that they will meet again, if only because fate has tied them together.
When Harry dies for the third time, he wakes as a spirit in the middle of a wasteland, in the ruins of a nuclear war. It is not the first war he has witnessed—it certainly won't be the last—but it is his first death as an innocent bystander, free from the shackles of prophecy.
At first, he wanders. He picks his way through the crumbled, blown-out buildings. He watches without eyes, he bears witness without hands to pray for forgiveness. His bare feet—the ghostly remains of them, at any rate—creep over the dirt and rocks like winter's first frost, sluggish and inexorable.
There is no one around. There is no one for him to help, no one to help him. Harry remembers the brief period of time in which his body had departed from its earthly existence for the first time. It is as painful now as it had been then. He thinks he can hear the dead calling to him, their lively whispers in his ear like morning birdsong. It hurts to hear, not because the calls are harmful, but because he knows he cannot join them.
Harry is alone. In this moment, he is well and truly alone. This realization unnerves him more than it should, more than he expects it to after decades of telling himself he has moved on from his emotional agonies. Being alone, being trapped, being lost—he should be beyond those troubles. Why does the world feel so small?
Even the quietest suburbs are too bright, too loud. Nothing feels right. Nowhere feels like home. Harry misses Hogwarts. He misses the Burrow. He misses all that he has lost, all that exists only in his memory.
No, not only his memory. He shares his past with Voldemort, and he would do well not to forget that. The past that they share is fraught with complexity: the history of the magical world, full of heroism and pointless bloodshed; the legacy of Hogwarts, an eternal refuge for all the children of war; the names and faces of the dead, who Harry longs to meet again someday.
It is with this in mind that Harry travels to the Austrian Alps. The air is clear and the snow-covered mountains remind him of Voldemort’s previous freefall in Tibet. Nurmengard castle is cloaked in layers and layers of magic. This will be the first time Harry visits here on his own.
Several dozen enchantments push against Harry as he approaches, but as a ghost, he knows no physical limitations. He passes easily through each level of protection until he floats within viewing distance of the castle. As he draws near, the magic in the air shifts, parting like the Red Sea as it makes way for a greater, more powerful force.
Voldemort regards him with a calm, vermilion gaze. Harry feels small under the scrutiny. How many times has Voldemort been in this very position, bodiless and vulnerable?
“Well, do hurry up,” Voldemort says in greeting. “It is rude to linger.”
Inside the castle, everything is wonderfully ancient. Lanterns and candles line the grand hallways, and there is not a single electrical plug in sight. Harry drinks in the sight with detachment; it is difficult to feel anything other than despair in this form. The banners and carpet runners are a vibrant Slytherin green. The accents are silver and tasteful.
Perhaps Nurmengard is Voldemort’s tribute to their world of magic. Perhaps Nurmengard is Voldemort’s homage to Hogwarts. As they walk through the halls in silence, Harry’s feet make no sound upon the floor. He can’t help but wonder: when this castle eventually crumbles to dust, will his life have mattered at all?
After several days of fruitless experiments, Harry can tell that Voldemort is frustrated. This isn't because Harry knows the man's tells particularly well—or if he does, it must be on a subconscious level that has yet to register with him properly—it's just that Voldemort’s response to unfavourable situations tends to result in one of two emotions: anger or apathy.
The lengths Voldemort will go to ignore his problems are truly impressive, Harry will admit. Voldemort puts Harry's own bottling tendencies to shame. So Harry leads without words; he leads them down one of his preferred trails for a late afternoon walk. Voldemort follows, occasionally pausing to examine the trees or the shrubs or whatever it is that catches his interest.
“Anything interesting?” Harry asks curiously.
Voldemort straightens, an affronted air settling over him. “You invited me to enjoy the scenery.”
The corner of Harry’s mouth quirks upward. “That I did.”
Harry notes that Voldemort has faint splotches of colour high on his cheeks. The winds here can be vicious should the mood strike them. Voldemort would not be the first visitor who was unprepared for the weather.
Still, despite the winds, Harry feels mildly possessed by an urge to climb the nearest mountain. He wants to chase the sunlight that will eventually vanish behind the horizon. He wants the sun to warm his skin for as long as possible. It is one of the little pleasures of life that he will never take for granted, not after years of living in the cupboard under the stairs and further years spent living underground.
Deciding to cave to his sudden whim, Harry alters their path so they can begin an assent.
Voldemort makes no comment on the direction or length of their journey. Again, Harry thinks he knows why. It’s been nearly a week since the explosion, but it is better to seem omnipotent than to admit weakness. Better to act fine than to let anyone think there is anything wrong.
Dirt and gravel crunch under Harry’s boots as he walks. He kicks at the ground here and there, scattering twigs and pebbles across the path. If Voldemort wonders where they're going, he's doing a fantastic job of keeping his curiosity to himself. No matter. The higher they go, the clearer their destination will become.
Sadly, they do not reach the summit before the sun starts to vanish behind the horizon, but they do reach a nice plateau that is high up enough for them to enjoy the view. Harry inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the clean mountain air, then summons a boulder, which he transfigures into a plain wooden bench. Voldemort sits next to him, leaving a respectable gap between them.
Up on the mountain, the winds are on the pleasant side of bearable. Harry lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, allows the gorgeous gold of sunset to press delicately against the darkness. In his mind’s eye, he pictures the villas that make up the village far below. The structures crafted with the use of manual labour instead of artificial. It is one of many such small encampments dotted across the globe, like sprouts of greenery peeking up through cracks in solid pavement.
Harry opens his eyes and watches as sunset burns dying colours into the sky. He stares at the sliver of sun until his vision strains at the edges. He is thinking about what he wants to say.
“If magic dies,” Harry asks, “what will you do?”
Voldemort’s reply is instant. “Magic will not—”
“Humour me. If magic dies, is that really so bad?”
Silence settles over them again. Harry finds he doesn’t mind it. There is no rush to speak; they have all the time in the world. After several minutes, though, Harry does glance in Voldemort’s direction, just to check in. Voldemort is not watching the sunset. Rather, Voldemort is watching him.
In the dying light of day, Voldemort’s pale skin glows faintly. The man’s profile had always been striking as a youth, moreso as an adult, as a serpent-man, but sunset drapes everything in further layers of beauty.
Darkness conceals the best and the worst of everything. Daylight exposes it. Sunset greets both extremes with a loving, golden embrace.
“You alright?” Harry asks mildly. He hadn’t meant to cause an upset.
“If magic dies,” Voldemort says, so softly that Harry can barely hear him, “will we?”
Harry does not have a response to this statement. Perhaps he ought to be surprised, or outraged, or scared, but after centuries of living, who is he to demand the right to outlive magic?
If magic is dying in the universe, then he, too, must die. If all things have their end—the brightly burning stars, the luminous moon, the glorious universe—then magic must end, and if magic must end, then it is only right that Harry ends, too.
“If magic dies,” Harry begins, the syllables melting on his tongue, “if we die…” His voice withers to dryness, fading like the sunlight he can no longer see.
The slow death of magic reveals ignorance after ignorance. It reveals their embarrassing incomprehension of the world they cling to like lost children. Harry has lived so long that the concept of death is foreign to him. For him and Voldemort, death is transitory, temporary. For them, death is a mere inconvenience.
So Harry leaves his sentence unfinished; he has no answer. Voldemort does not pry for more words. Once the sun is wholly gone, once all that remains above them is the night sky full of twinkling stars, they stand and Apparate back to the house.
In short order, Voldemort brings Harry’s spirit back to life. Harry pays attention to the process this time, more out of curiosity than any real desire to retain the knowledge.
When Harry finally returns to consciousness, it’s as if he’s been asleep for a hundred years. As he sits up, his muscles tug and pull, his bones cracking like the spines of paperbacks when he rolls his shoulders. The burn of returning sensation in his limbs is familiar and not altogether unpleasant.
“Welcome back to the world of the living.” Voldemort’s drawl is also familiar. Harry forces his eyes open and struggles to focus on the man’s face. “Drink this,” Voldemort continues, placing a potion into Harry’s hand. His other hand is braced against the small of Harry’s back, a warm anchor in the wild ocean of Harry’s new perception of the world.
Harry swallows the liquid without tasting much of it and feels better immediately. Now that his head is clear, he takes a moment to orient himself in his surroundings. His body is clothed in a grey cotton tunic. With great slowness, he raises a hand to his head to tangle in his hair. The texture is off. Is that because he’s unused to this body, or is it the result of something else?
“How long?” Voldemort asks, once some minutes have passed and Harry is lucid enough to regard the room with wary eyes.
His tongue is heavy in his mouth; it takes a few tries to unstick it. “I’m not sure,” Harry admits. “A few weeks? The explosion took out most of western North America.” The coast is in ruins, and if this war continues, the rest of the continent will soon follow.
The side of Voldemort’s mouth curls upward; it has all the implications of an ‘I told you so’ without it being spoken aloud. His hand withdraws, leaving the impression of warmth in its place. “You are now free to leave. I trust you will not require my aid again in the future.”
Harry thinks he hears something else in Voldemort’s tone, but he can’t pick it out just yet. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”
Voldemort hesitates long enough that Harry notices despite his disorientation. “Then I shall leave you to dress yourself first.”
Voldemort leaves. It takes Harry an embarrassingly long time to get out of the bed. There is a wand on the bedside table—with a pang, he realizes that his phoenix and holly wand is likely gone for good. No Elder Wand can repair what has been reduced to ashes.
Unwilling to mourn his loss just yet, Harry reaches for his new wand to distract himself. He tests the grip, twisting his wrist this way and that while he examines it. The wood is still holly, but the core must be different. For a second, he is curious—he wants to know what the wand is, why and how Voldemort had chosen it for him. But then he remembers why it doesn’t matter.
There are clothes laid out on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Harry dresses with slowness, then stumbles over to the vanity. At first glance, he looks the same. Harry blinks at his reflection, then tears his gaze away. If he looks too long, he will begin to pick out the little details, the imperfections of a body that is not his body, only an expert facsimile of it. Magic can only do so much.
Voldemort is waiting just outside the door. Harry lifts his left hand in an awkward wave. Without a word, Voldemort sets off down the hall. Are they going somewhere? Having breakfast? Harry doesn’t even know what time it is. He should have thought to check before leaving the room.
“Been here a while,” Harry comments as they make their way through the castle. “Have you remodelled since your last remodel? I can’t tell.” Voldemort lets out a mild huff of air that might be a snort. Harry will take what he can get. “Nevermind. Everything here is very dark and brooding, which is spot on for you.”
They reach a sitting room. Harry walks in with hardly a glance at Voldemort’s undoubtedly expensive decor and settles into a chair without asking or waiting for an invitation. Voldemort seats himself in the chair opposite and looks at Harry expectantly.
Harry breathes out and steadies his hands on the armrests of his chair. The soft fabric will not make what he has to say any easier. He has thought about this for some time, and now he will say the words aloud for the first time.
“I want you to kill me. Permanently.”
It comes out more desperate than he’d like for it to, but he can’t afford to think on that because Voldemort’s response is instant and forceful:
“No.”
Harry’s heart pounds in his ears. He is prepared to argue, to bargain, but Voldemort waves a dismissive hand, stalling any response.
“You wish to elaborate. You wish to convince me. Let me save you the effort. You will not change my mind. I refuse.”
Anger bubbles up in Harry’s chest. It is a new emotion in this new body. He has to remind himself where he is and who he is with. He has to remember that Voldemort, like most people, will not respond well to anger. If anything, Voldemort wants him to get angry.
“Why?” Harry asks, willing his voice not to shake.
“You may believe death is a kindness,” Voldemort says, “but it is not. It certainly is not to my own benefit.”
This isn’t about you, Harry nearly says. But it’s to be expected, isn’t it, that Voldemort makes everything about himself? “Your benefit?”
“What reason could I possibly have to want your death?”
Harry needs to argue that. He has to. The mere notion of it is impossible. Voldemort has wanted him dead for centuries. Voldemort’s antagonism is the very basis of their relationship with each other.
His death has nothing to do with Voldemort. This isn’t about Voldemort. It shouldn’t be, but—but it is. It is in so many ways. If Harry dies, Voldemort will be alone in a way that no human being has ever been before. He will be the last immortal being on Earth. He will be the ribbon that laces throughout history, the memoirs of a modern universe. He will be alone.
“We’re not friends,” Harry says instead, but he can feel himself deflate, the desire to argue fleeing in face of his insight. “Why do you care if I die or not?”
“You and I… we witness the incredible evolution of humankind.” Voldemort sounds strangely impassioned. Harry can’t help but wonder if this is how the man had won over his Death Eaters, with grand speeches based on self-importance and a new world order. “Our grasp of human nature and the human experience is unique, unparalleled. The secrets of the universe lay within our grasp, should we choose to seek them.”
Voldemort rises and starts to pace, a fervent scholar delivering a lecture. Oddly enough, Harry finds the sight endearing. In a world where so much has been lost to time and technology, here is a man who remembers not only the days before space travel, but also the days before mobile phones and flat-screen televisions.
“Why life? Why here?” Voldemort asks, turning to face Harry. “Do we exist in a universe where there are no other forms of intelligent life? Humans have travelled far and wide within our galaxy and returned with nothing.” His vermilion eyes are bright like rubies. “So much remains unknown to us. Unknown, but surely within reach given enough time. Time we have to spare.”
“I’m tired,” Harry says. There is more to say, more to elaborate on, but the words are failing him. He is tired. Isn’t that enough?
Voldemort stares, baffled. “Tired,” he repeats, like the word is foreign. “Are these not worthy causes of exploration? Do you not understand the delicate position the fates have placed us in?”
“I’m tired of fate, too,” Harry says bluntly. He pauses to breathe out, to ground himself with the lungs that are not his and the alien heart that aches in his chest. It hurts to live. Centuries later, that much hasn’t changed. Voldemort may want to live forever, but Harry does not and never has. “I never asked to be special.”
“You do not have a choice. You may believe you are at peace with your life, but this is not peace. This is desperation.”
“You’re wrong.”
Voldemort’s expression is stony. “You are not tired of living. You are tired of surviving. There is a difference.” Voldemort walks to the door and waits there, arms folded across his chest. “If that is all?”
Harry’s hands itch for the wand in his robe pocket. He is one wordless spell away from starting a fight.
Voldemort smiles flatly. “You will never find purpose in the mundane. You will never gain satisfaction from any humdrum job or meaningless sexual flirtations. You and I are alike, born out of magic, born into war. Death cannot hold us.” The smile fades, replaced by a softer, pitying look. “You may run all you like, Harry, but that will never change.”
At first, working with Voldemort means that Harry sits around and watches. This makes sense: the two of them hardly know how to co-exist, let alone work together. Harry doesn’t mind watching because it allows him to take his time and think. He can decide when and where he will be the most helpful.
The first thing he learns is that Voldemort works without spellbooks. He works from the encyclopedic knowledge that lives in the depths of his mind; he scrawls pages and pages of notes that Harry is determined to read through.
More recently, Voldemort asks him to help out, gives him tasks to do. Harry weaves experimental spells in the air. He traces a thousand different runes in the dirt and mixes terrifyingly complex potions that give off ominous, noxious fumes. Harry does what he can because that is all he’s ever tried to do—give back to the world around him.
Voldemort respects him for this, which also makes a startling amount of sense. Voldemort values hard work and rewards effort. The Death Eaters would not have stayed with him for so long otherwise. So Harry toils away and maintains a professional demeanour. If they are to save magic, then it will be because they work in harmony.
Despite his strong work ethic, Harry doesn’t have high hopes of finding a solution. Based on what Voldemort has told him, the conservation of magic is impossible. Magic will slip between their fingers like the delicate sands of time.
Someday there will be no more magic. No more wizards, no more witches, no more wixen. No magical creatures, no vampires or werewolves or dragons.
Magic is not forever. No one lives forever, perhaps not even him and Voldemort.
“This is not an issue that will be solved in the span of months,” Voldemort snaps when Harry expresses doubt about their project. “This is an undertaking that will span years, if not decades. Are you not prepared for this?” Voldemort narrows his eyes. “If so, you ought to speak up now.”
Harry wants to roll his eyes just so he can match the level of drama Voldemort is not-so-subtly placing on the metaphorical table. “I’m not afraid of hard work, you berk. If you think we can put up with each other for that long, I’m fine with doing however much it takes to get this done.”
Voldemort’s face does a thing—namely, it scrunches into an expression that typically precedes a lecture on the nobility of their goal and how there is no task in the history of magic that has ever been this important.
Harry has heard the monologue several dozen times before. It isn’t that Voldemort fails to convince him of their work’s importance; rather, Harry suspects that Voldemort’s grandstanding is meant to convince them both that everything will be okay.
Voldemort is stubborn, set in his ways after years of history and trauma have beaten into him that magic is necessary for survival. Voldemort will not accept the inevitable until his last, rotten breath, and Harry can’t blame him for it.
“Draw your wand,” Voldemort instructs once his latest lecture on the importance of magic is finished.
“I do just fine without,” Harry says calmly, but he does as he’s told, retrieving his holly wand from its holster. Its reappearance tugs a question free from the recesses of his mind. “What’s in here, by the way? You never said.”
“The hair of a Thestral.”
“And who made it?”
“I did.”
This response is laced with impatience, so Harry shuts his mouth and allows Voldemort to redirect their focus elsewhere. Harry’s curiosity will have to be satisfied at a later point in the day. For now, they will return to work.
Harry leaves Nurmengard with mixed feelings. He shoves them down and down until they are locked away. If Voldemort will not help him, then… then maybe he'll try to find a way to cope with immortality.
The decades do not feel as long as they used to—years fly by, undistinguished from each other. Harry attempts to treasure every moment when he can, attempts to assign meaning to them.
Barren lands heal. Nature grows over what had once been lost. New buildings rise, but they no longer reach for the skies the way they used to. There is hope, perhaps, that the world is changing and healing for the better.
Harry is changing. He does not die, but he does try to live. He places both feet firmly upon the ground and imagines himself setting down roots in the dirt. Someday, he will return to the earth, to the land that has borne his weight for centuries. Someday, he will be worthy of the death that evades him.
The earth below him is constant, devoted and unwavering, but Harry has not been kind to it. He has buried friend and foe alike. He has buried the remnants of his childhood. More recently, he has considered burying the hatchet—not now, maybe not even for some time, but Harry has always been forgiving in nature. More forgiving than he ought to be, and this holds true no matter how many years have passed.
How much longer? Harry doesn’t ask. There is no one for him to ask anymore, and that is his fault, his own fault for holding the world at arm’s length. For believing himself to be too alien, too damaged to form new relationships with people.
For a long time, Voldemort is nowhere to be found; Harry finds himself glancing over his shoulder for different reasons than before. The gift of life is complicated, not in the least because Harry has no idea what he should do with it.
To Harry, immortality is penance. It is an endless void that he has never managed to fill. What does he know of what it means to live? He had been raised for war; he had been raised to die. Since the second wizarding war ended, he has staggered his way through the pretenses of a normal life. He seeks fulfillment in acts of service, in paying his dues with blood and sweat and tears, paying a thousand times over for a burden of guilt that never leaves.
Voldemort has never experienced regret or remorse, has never known the agony of losing a loved one. Voldemort has never lost anything other than his own mutilated soul pieces, yet Harry envies him. To Voldemort, immortality is a standing invitation to dig up the sandbox of the universe, to uncover the arcane secrets of time and fate. To Voldemort, life is an endless chain of goals and ambitions, all devoid of human connection.
Yet the wounds of the world heal with time. Do souls heal too?
Maybe he and Voldemort have more to learn from each other when it comes to their place in the universe: how to feel at home in an ever-changing world; how to find meaning in anything when the years blend together, fresh ink spilled over dry parchment; how to feel okay again after centuries of history have run their course.
Maybe it is the true course of life, all life, even an eternal one, that everything is unknowable.
Regardless, Harry has never been one to ask for help. He doesn’t give up and maybe that’s because he never learned how to. His heart carries the weight of a thousand years, so if his mind must live a thousand more, then he will find a way to bear it, even if that means doing it alone.
Their afternoon of experiments passes in short order. Harry is hyper aware of the wand in his hand, the wand made by Voldemort. He’d sworn to himself more than once that he would toss it and find a replacement. Maybe he is sentimental in his old age.
“When did you learn wandmaking?” Harry finally asks over dinner, which is chicken pot pie.
Voldemort takes his time in answering. “Some time ago.”
“Was it complicated?”
“No.”
Harry tries again, determined to get a proper response: “Thank you for the wand.”
“You’re welcome.”
Better. Harry smiles and turns back to his food—
Voldemort continues, “You could stand to take better care of it.”
After a brief pause to check if he’d heard correctly, Harry looks up. Voldemort seems innocently occupied with a piece of chicken clinging to the crust of his pie. “What?”
“Your wand. You hardly use it.” Voldemort’s tone is dismissive. Is the man offended? Harry wants to roll his eyes if so.
“I don’t use magic much at all, in case you haven’t noticed.” Harry only carries his wand because Voldemort is here. Magic is not his friend, is not his enemy. It is simply there. It is everywhere and nowhere.
Harry is prepared to leave magic behind, but it’s clear that Voldemort is not and may never be. Magic is too vital to Voldemort’s sense of self. Harry feels bad about that. If only there was some way to make this easier for the both of them, he would do it in a heartbeat.
“You brew potions in your basement,” Voldemort says pointedly.
Harry shakes his head. “The people here prefer natural remedies. I like to help them out. Modern medicine could replace any of the potions I make and you know that.”
Voldemort sets his fork down upon the table. The action is gentle, but the aura radiating from Voldemort is not. He is angry, but this is not the first time Harry has lived in a household where magic was a sensitive topic. Dinner wraps up in silence. Harry hopes the quiet gives Voldemort space to calm down.
Unfortunately for them both, Voldemort’s dour mood lasts until the next morning. Harry prods the man into having breakfast, then delicately suggests that they take extra food with them so they don’t have to return to the house for lunch. That concession appeases Voldemort enough for him to consent delaying their departure.
It’s not quite like walking on eggshells, but it’s close. Still, Harry doesn’t mind it, although that may be because he’s not afraid of any outburst or insult thrown his way. The worst that Voldemort could do to him lies in the past. All that can be ruined now is the goodwill they’ve managed to build between them.
The day goes on, gently easing Voldemort’s ire into tranquility. Harry cracks a few jokes and is rewarded with some banter in return. When Voldemort smiles, Harry pretends not to see.
The original problem of Voldemort’s fear isn’t fixed, but there is time for that. When they finish with their experiments here, Voldemort wants them to travel. The man has an organized list of tasks and goals. He claims he’d sought Harry out only after exhausting all of the tasks that could be performed alone. Harry doesn’t buy it, but he’s willing to let the illusion stand.
Voldemort talks aloud, proposes his theories and experiments to an attentive audience of one. Harry pokes and prods at the ideas, searching for holes, searching for a spark that will ignite a fire. They reach an equilibrium while working together. They learn from each other: Harry learns more about magic than he thought was ever possible to learn; Voldemort learns some humility and what it means to regard someone else as an equal.
They are equals now. There is no mistaking that. Harry Potter, young child of prophecy, had been bolstered by greater men, by the power of love, by luck and happenstance. The man he is now, just Harry, is the second oldest being on the face of the planet. His wisdom is measured in centuries, in deeply personal losses. There are lessons he carries with every step he takes.
So Harry knows that he and Voldemort will not stay here in the forest forever. There are ingredients and books that Voldemort wants them to collect. There are magical landmarks with specific properties that require extensive testing. Their ventures will span the globe, will span years and years, and Harry finds himself looking forward to it.
If their goal requires a truly excessive amount of research—well, Harry had been best friends with Hermione for years. His memories of her may be distant now, but they are no less dear to him. Even now, he hears her voice, and Ron’s, as echoes in his mind, reminding him to slow down, to take care of himself.
But Harry has never been good at doing nothing, and centuries later he is no better at it. So long as there are people to help, he will help them. So long as the world needs him, he thinks he can convince himself that he belongs in it. So long as Voldemort walks the earth—
Harry will walk with him, and perhaps someday they will find peace in this world together.
NINETEEN YEARS LATER.
When Harry closes his eyes, he sees colour. In the absence of sunlight, his mind creates its own visuals, a wash of rainbow streaks in the dark. It reminds him of magic. He may never know or understand all the finer points of magic, but he knows how it feels. The way it settles like a second skin, tingling and electric. The way it flares, on red alert after all this time, whenever Voldemort takes him by surprise.
Harry sits in a wide open field with his arms wrapped around his knees. The stars twinkle high above and the winds brush like icy fingers through his messy hair. He and Voldemort are no closer to uncovering a solution for the decay of magic, but more recently, there is less urgency to it. In the meantime, Harry has come to realize things about magic that had never occurred to him before.
Magic is not a monolith. Magic is not someone to be saved. Magic has empowered him, but the reason he is here today is not because of magic—not because of dark magic or light magic or soul magic. He is here because of so much more than that. Love, firstly. Friendship and courage. Loyalty and wit and cunning. The hearts and minds of the many before him who have given him the strength to go on.
Some minutes later, the currents in the air change. Voldemort hovers a good distance away, just outside the temporary house they’ve set up for themselves here. He pauses for a moment, then strides with purpose to where Harry is seated in the field. Voldemort doesn’t do anything in half measures; when he approaches, it is with confidence.
A hand settles on Harry’s shoulder, the palm and fingers warm and heavy as they press down. Harry tips his head back until his head bumps against Voldemort’s forearm.
“Come to join me?”
“The sky is remarkably clear tonight,” Voldemort replies neutrally.
Harry opens his eyes. “It is quite the sight,” he agrees. Voldemort stares down at him, red irises nearly pitch black in the darkness. “Come on, then.” Harry gives the ground a pat. “The grass won’t hurt you, old man.”
Voldemort drops down next to Harry with the grace of a man in his mid-twenties rather than one who is mid-quincentennial. There is a beat of silence followed by some minor shuffling before Voldemort declares with disdain, “The ground is wet,” like Harry’s to blame for it.
“You have a wand,” Harry says, amused. “Use it.”
Magic washes over the ground beneath them like a gentle tide. Harry feels it rustle around his feet—millions of tiny particles vanishing the moisture that clings to the grass below him.
Harry smiles and lets his eyes fall shut once more. “Next time I’ll bring us a picnic blanket.”
“The longer I know you, the less amusing I find your sense of humour to be.”
“Thanks, I like spending time with you too.”
Voldemort sighs. Harry’s smile grows ever wider. They sit for some time like that—listening to the universe and letting the moonlight soak into their skin. The air grows colder by the minute, raising goosebumps on Harry’s arms, until that, too, is banished by the touch of Voldemort’s magic.
“You know what I think?” Harry asks. The cloak draped around his shoulders has gotten warm all on its own, which is not a coincidence.
“Enlighten me.”
“Magic won’t die,” says Harry.
“Is that so?”
Harry knows without needing to look that Voldemort’s expression is that of reluctant interest. Pleased, Harry flops backwards onto the grass behind him and blinks up at the starry night sky. “Magic is everywhere and nowhere. In our souls, in the way we love, in the way we live.”
Everything is cyclical. The seasons change over, the tides go in and out. History repeats itself time and time again. Humanity is flawed, is spotted with good and bad. The universe will end someday, and then it will begin anew.
Harry nods to himself. “Magic may leave for some time, but it will always come back to us. I believe that.”
“A plausible theory,” Voldemort allows after a pause. “What evidence do you have to support it?”
“Just a feeling.” Harry yawns and stretches his arms out over his head, careful to avoid bumping his companion by mistake.
“A feeling.”
“Yeah.” Harry knows he’s being a little shit, but he can’t help it. Voldemort makes it too easy. “Sometimes they’re synonymous with this other thing called ‘emotions’? You may or may not be familiar with those.”
Voldemort doesn’t give into the barb. “I shall devise some experiments to test your theory. We will require more research on the origins of magic—”
Harry resists an urge to interrupt the monologue. Voldemort has cycles and patterns of his own; Harry’s gotten used to them. While Voldemort talks and talks, Harry relaxes into his comfortably-warm cloak and shifts his focus from the inky night sky to Voldemort.
Voldemort’s voice is a lovely baritone that drifts through Harry’s brain like a midnight lullaby. Harry is absolutely not going to retain any of this lecture come morning and Voldemort will be annoyed at him for it. Right now, however, what Harry wants most is to lay here and enjoy the serenity of the moment.
When Voldemort finishes speaking, Harry stifles another yawn. It is long past bedtime. Harry sits up, cracking his spine as he goes. “Problems for tomorrow,” Harry says cheerfully.
Voldemort narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest as if Harry is a disobedient child, never mind that they’re both practically ancient. “You weren’t listening.”
Harry huffs, mildly exasperated. He had only wanted to watch the stars and reassure Voldemort that everything would be fine. “Sorry. It’s late. I promise I’ll listen to you when you tell me all that again in the morning.”
If his scowl is anything to go by, Voldemort is neither convinced nor mollified by Harry’s apology.
Voldemort has never apologized for the past. Their shared past. Harry has never asked him to. In many ways, Harry doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want to talk about the past he spent far too long trying to kill.
Harry shifts his weight so he can lift his hand and place it atop Voldemort’s. The skin beneath Harry’s palm is cool and dry. Voldemort freezes in place, scrutinizing Harry’s face for answers. Oddly enough, Harry thinks he might be fond of the scrutiny.
“We can work on saving magic,” Harry tells him, “but that doesn’t have to be all that we do.”
“Then what do you suggest we do? Find tedious, ordinary jobs? Find another little village to brew potions for?”
“We live,” Harry says plainly. He can’t explain it any better than that. “We just live.”
“Live?” Voldemort asks. His tone is dismissive, but Harry knows better than to take it at face value.
It is easier, now, to look at Voldemort and forget who he is and what he has done. Harry has met thousands of people during his time on earth, all of them similar but different. Rosalind is not the first girl to remind him of Ginny Weasley, she definitely won't be the last. Harry has met thousands of people, but none of them come close to being Voldemort.
In the grand blueprint of the universe, in these intricate designs traced by fate or god or magic itself, there has only ever been one Harry and one Voldemort.
Someday in the far, far future, history may repeat itself. Someday a prophecy may declare two new souls as equals, each destined to never live while the other merely survives. It’s funny, though. Harry has a hard time imagining anyone will ever be as connected as he and Voldemort are.
“I don’t think either of us has really figured that out yet. How to live.” Harry looks up at the moon, lets the light wash over his face. He knocks his shoulder into Voldemort’s and smiles. “But I think we stand a good chance if we do it together.”
Voldemort looks at Harry with mystification, as if they haven’t spent the past two decades working together and living out of their trunks. Seconds stretch between them like glimmering gossamer threads while Harry wonders how long it would take to count up all the stars in the sky.
“Harry,” says Voldemort. He sounds oddly self-effacing. “Harry, I—”
“Hey now,” Harry says. Gently, with kindness. He gives Voldemort’s hand a squeeze. “There’s time for that tomorrow, I said.” Harry stands, pulling Voldemort up as he goes. At full height, Voldemort is several inches taller than him, a towering shadow backlit by moonlight. “Now it’s time for bed.”
Harry takes Voldemort by the arm and tugs him close. Their quiet, asynchronized breaths pass into the cool night air. They have time. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. An indefinite number of starry nights and golden sunsets. Their own little eternity.
With this in mind, Harry rests his head against the man’s shoulder and walks them slowly back to the house.
END.
Notes:
thank you so much for reading! i had a wonderful time immersing myself in this universe.
the ending was a bit of a pain to write, mostly because i was determined to capture the melancholy, healing vibe that i had envisioned from the very beginning. i hope that i've managed to convey that sentiment through my writing to you, the reader.
while i won't promise anything, i do feel that there is a good possibility i will return to this universe with a further one-shot or sequel. we shall see.
in the meantime, i would genuinely appreciate any lovely comments you'd like to leave <3
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