Chapter Text
A body, thought Voldemort, is convenient indeed.
It is something that he would have never thought that he would say or appreciate. However…
Twelve years as a wraith floating around the deepest, darkest recesses of the oldest forests in the world and then more years of being a homunculus certainly did him no good-- his mind palace the least of all.
And what a shame that is, too, considering that he holds himself in the upper echelons of the Masters of the mind arts.
His Hogwarts in his mind is in shambles. Voldemort scowls.
As he stalks through the halls, dust vanishes from the corners and the tapestries of major battles in his life right themselves, the dusty, tarnished, and dented suits of armor in the corners squaring their shoulders as the damage to their bodies are repaired. The portraits that adorn the walls are not the originals that hang in the real Hogwarts. Instead, they show various real and fake memories of his interspersed with traps for the hapless Legilimens.
Not, of course, that he would willingly allow anyone this far into his mind, but it always is better to be prepared.
Voldemort steps around a deep crack in the stone and sighs, the edges of his scowl still hard around the corners of his lips. Of course, with the lack of scholarship on the subject of horcruxes, he probably should have anticipated unforeseen drawbacks from splitting his soul so many times, but the mental instability should have been obvious.
Seven was a good goal to strive for, of that he has no doubt. Arithmantically, seven is the most powerful magical number, yes, but also one of the most stable. Seven is creation in the way that magic is creation, representing dominion over the space around oneself. But he fell short of that goal… just as he fell short of his ultimate goal.
His scowl deepens as he strides into the dungeons, flicking his fingers at the wall to light the sconces.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
The instability of splitting his soul into six caused his form to rupture, perhaps, but it was something that the witch did to rebound his killing curse.
But, speaking of horcruxes…
Voldemort strides deeper into the dungeons, the portal to the Slytherin dorms softly clicking shut behind him. There is a little-known entrance to the Chamber of Secrets from the depths of the Slytherin common room, even less known than the Chamber’s existence at all. He edges around the statue in the middle of the small, circular library and hisses out a command: open .
The wall draws back to admit him and he sets off on his way, magelight flickering to life in the sconces that line the walls as he does.
He can vaguely remember, just days before that Samhain, how he started to make connections to his soul pieces from the depths of his mind palace. A pragmatic decision, as he hid them far and wide in an attempt to keep them safe.
Ever since the ritual completed by Pettigrew-- and his scowl morphs into a sneer at the reminder of the incompetent snivelling worm -- his mind has been extraordinarily clearer. The seeming tradeoff, unfortunately, had been a physical degradation and perversion.
He’d come back scaly and noseless, for Merlin’s sake. A properly executed Trifold Ritual of Resurrection should have restored him to his prime, not… this thing. His mental form even holds echoes of his physical-- his skin is paler and his nose slighter, his entire body more skeletal than ever. At least he still retains his hair in the confines of his own mind.
Ridiculous.
His strides take him to the base of the statue of his ancestor, where a quickly hissed order opens up a cleverly concealed door. It had taken him almost a year to figure out it had existed in the actual Chamber, which made it perfect for keeping his own most important secrets concealed.
He takes in the quietly strong splendour of the room. Short, delicately carved ionic-style pedestals stand proud in a half-circle, each bearing an effigy of one of his soul containers.
And his mood immediately plummets at the sight of a blackened and pockmarked pedestal to his far left.
“ LUCIUSSS…! ” He hisses, hands trembling in rage as he carefully picks up his diary, the centre bored through, the edges almost looking burnt. “That damned--!”
Voldemort has to forcibly clamp down on his anger to remain in his meditative state and thus his mind palace.
This… this may be the cause of his mental clarity. Destroying a horcrux does not destroy the soul shard within; rather, it forcibly ejects it from the container that can no longer hold it. If the destruction was deliberate, there are ways to trap a fleeing soul shard and destroy it. Horcruxes are difficult to destroy, yes, but souls themselves are even more so. Only a deliberate destruction could eradicate the soul contained within as well as the container itself.
However… his mind is far more intact than before his obliteration, lending credence to the theory.
He takes another good, hard look at the mortal wound marring the surface of his diary. Somehow, his diary found its way back into Hogwarts-- that much is certain, especially considering how in Harry Potter’s second year the Chamber of Secrets was opened. One of the few things that can destroy a horcrux is the king of all poisons from the king of all snakes. It is quite obvious to him what exactly has befallen this horcrux of his.
Carefully, he unwraps one long finger at a time from where they are clenched in a death grip around the ruined black leather before settling the book back down on the pedestal.
Voldemort can always make new horcruxes. He cannot make a new Lucius Malfoy.
Unfortunately.
He moves on to the second-- the Gaunt ring. It still looks to be in perfect condition and he cups his hands around it, sharpening his awareness of the piece of soul inside of it. Still in his grandfather’s tiny, disgusting shack, too. Good, good. He emphatically needs his remaining horcruxes to stay hidden.
After the ring is the locket. It’s condition is also pristine, but another flare of pure rage threatens to rip him from his mind palace when he realises that he cannot find the damned thing.
“ Traitor! ” He hisses. Only one other living thing knew where the cave was-- Regulus Black’s house elf.
But again, he reigns in his rage to move onto his next horcrux. He can track down the traitor and the traitor’s elf later-- for now, he must concentrate on reaffirming the bonds between himself and his soul shards. He goes through the cup and the diadem-- the former safely ensconced within Bellatrix Lestrange’s Gringotts vault, and the latter’s unreachability bringing him a sense of relief instead of rage, considering he knows exactly where it’s stashed-- before he reaches his Nagini.
It’s merely a carving of her eyes and fanged maw on the stone, but it brings him relief all the same. The pull into her mind is there, but he refrains from seeing through her eyes and merely reaffirms her position next to him in the real world.
His gaze skips across the last pedestal he made, intending for it to hold a representation of his last soul container, but freezes when he realises that it’s not as empty as he thought it would be.
No. He steps forward, fingers skimming the surface of the stone. No, it is… definitively, definitely not empty.
There, carved into the surface of the stone, is a rune. Sowilo, the sun. A representation of victory, wholeness, and guidance.
Or, as those unknowing of the study of ancient runes would describe it, a lightning bolt.
The same symbol that is carved into the forehead of his enemy-- Harry Potter.
The shock is enough to startle him out of his mediation and out of his mind palace.
Awareness returns to him, the smooth sheets below his hands and the coolness of Nagini’s scales and her weight as she slithers over his lap registering in turns.
‘ Massster? ’ Nagini hisses. ‘ What isss it? ’
His mind whirls with the knowledge-- the possibilities.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…
“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord…” he repeats aloud.
A laugh bubbles up from his chest. He knows not the rest of the prophecy, but he would wager a significant amount of gold that the rest of it is in some way self-fulfilling. He went to the Potter cottage with the intent to take out a threat before it could bloom, and in doing so, opened up a way for his own end.
Of course Potter would have the power to vanquish him-- he is one of his precious horcruxes, holding a piece of his soul, made knowingly or not.
Voldemort throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.
Elsewhere, Harry Potter shoots upright in bed.
He claps a hand over his scar and groans quietly. It’s prickling like a right bastard and tinges of almost hysterical glee wash over him.
A quick glance at the clock reinforces what he already knows-- old Voldy’s off his rocker. Who in the hell is bloody hysterically gleeful at three in the morning?!
Not, of course, he thinks, picking up last night’s letter between his thumb and forefinger, that Dumbledore is any better .
Two nutters with their fingers too far up Harry’s arse puppeteering him for him to do anything remotely resembling what he wanted to do.
Well. At least Voldemort’s always been clear about his intentions. Murder is usually a rather straightforward affair.
While he never wanted to go back to being Freak in the boot cupboard, he rather thought that being Harry Potter the Boy Saviour was nearly as difficult.
I’ve just got to reach seventeen, Harry thinks to himself. Seventeen and I can bugger right off.
He’d miss Nev and Luna the most, he thinks, and Sirius and Remus, but not nearly enough to stop him from cutting and running when he came of age.
It’s thoughts like these that get him through the days and nights at 4 Privet Drive, Little fucking Whinging, Muggle Hell, with the Dursleys. He’s old enough now that he doesn’t burn himself or the food when he cooks, and the gardening is decent at keeping him in shape-- well, it would be if he had enough food, but his smuggled rations from the Hogwarts kitchens were barely enough to keep him in the ‘barely fed’ and out of the ‘literally starving’ range and just barely enough to stop him from putting on his invisibility cloak and trying his luck at more intensive shoplifting from the corner shop.
Harry can just imagine the lapel-grabbing that would happen in the Lions’ common room if he’d ever admitted to stealing. Maybe McGonagall would faint.
It’s a funny enough image to steal a snort out of him as he grabs his summer homework.
As he cracks open his Transfiguration textbook and grabs his quill, a frown slips onto his face. It’s pretty mindless work, repeating a general overview of Transfiguration theory that they learned last year and how it relates to the spells they learned, leaving space for his brain to go on a fun little jaunt down angst lane.
Now that he’s had time to acclimate to the wizarding world and correct his overabundance of knowing exactly bugger all, his grades have moved up. Not significantly, though, since the pervasive fear of ‘freakishness’ still followed him.
He scowls at the thought, just barely stopping himself from pressing too hard down on the quill as he writes.
His dearest Aunt Petunia never liked the gormless little Freak outperforming her perfect ickle Duddikins, after all.
“Merlin, I’ve got to stop doing that,” he murmurs.
Just two days until he’s fifteen, then two years until he’s seventeen and can bugger off. He doesn’t need to dwell on shite like this.
So he dutifully puts his quill to the parchment and writes out his homework instead of writing out a letter like he really wants to.
He’d been forbidden from writing Ron and Hermione, but Dumbledore had never said anything about his other friends, a loophole he’d happily exploited for infrequent but long letters from his friends until yesterday, when Hedwig returned not with a reply from Neville or Luna but rather from Dumbledore himself going on and on about how disappointed I am in you, young man , and don’t you care for your friends’ safety ? The last part made no bloody sense to him since Longbottom Manor was warded to the gills and the Lovegood Rook was just plain nasty for any unwelcome guests, but he supposes any emotional manipulation is good emotional manipulation in Dumbledore’s book.
The small guilt compulsion in the ink-- a deep, royal blue and not the crimson red with a trust compulsion like normal-- was probably supposed to help with that.
But thanks to his invisibility cloak and several short holiday trips that the Dursleys went on, he was more than well-versed in just how close he could get to triggering the Trace.
Wandless magic was not something that did, nor was parselmagic. That’d saved his hide a few times-- literally.
The latter was a lucky find one day last year when he went down to the Chamber to get away from all the arseholes who decided that yes, he absolutely put his name in the bleeding Goblet of Fire to take part in a fame-bestowing deadly tournament-- not that he had a dearth of either before. Behind a small door in the base of the statue was a rather large library that was packed to the gills with all sorts of books, but parselmagic was his greatest find.
That and all the Dark Arts books, but parselmagic was better. Namely, one will get him executed or tossed into Azkaban and the other will just bring him dirty looks.
Harry’d been training his wandless magic ever since then, knowing it would help in the future-- not knowing just how soon, though, until he’d snuck into Knockturn under the cloak to buy more illegal books that clued him into the fact that performing wandless magic didn’t set off the Trace. The Trace spell was linked to his wand. It made sense, in hindsight, considering that wandless magic wasn't taught until seventh year, the last before turning seventeen and graduating.
He’d found a parselmagic spell in a dusty book he’d scavenged from the Chamber library that would untraceably render him immune to minor to medium compulsions and other mind magics like Oblivates just like a heir- or lordship ring would… which was yet another thing that Dumbledore had to answer for, in his opinion, since he knows that Potter is a titled name even if it’s not part of the Sacred 28, and yet, no ring! No information on his estate! Nothing!
But he forcibly shoves that out of his mind and tries to bury it in the back garden of his mind palace because it’s making him angry, and he has summer homework to complete before the sun comes up and his Aunt comes to wake him up to complete his daily rota.
Voldemort places his hands around the carving of sowilo and closes his eyes, reaching out to his soul shard and horcrux.
The tug to fall into Potter’s eyes is just like the tug to fall into Nagini’s, so the sensation is familiar as he slots behind someone else’s awareness.
Just in time for a fist to come flying at his horcrux’s face.
For a second, he’s almost-- almost -- smug. Of course Dumbledore is making the brat train. The Light should be afraid of him. But then, a flash of rage lances through him-- they’re hurting his horcrux! How dare they!
And then… confusion.
What…?
The hardwood is cool against the smarting cheek and Potter brings his hands up to shield his head as a burst of pain flashes against his ribs.
“Freak!”
The word is mildly distorted through the connection, but the meaning is hardly lost. His swell of anger matches Harry’s perfectly at the word and the tone in which it is spoken.
Confusion makes way for incisive clarity because this is no training-- this is a beating.
Potter’s mind is surprisingly well protected, too, so none of his internal monologue leaks out. Just his emotions and physical sensations reach Voldemort.
“You hurt Dudley!”
Indignation and pure rage pours through the bond as another kick is delivered to unprotected ribs. Voldemort can almost feel the creak of the bones.
“It wasn’t me!” Harry yells out, finally, his rage peaking to a point where he can't control his tongue any longer.
Yes, get up. Show those filthy muggles!
“Lies!” The walrus man bellows back and Voldemort can feel the feelings of rage- fear -disgust rush through his horcrux that the sound of the clinking belt buckle elicits before there’s only pain as the man brings the belt down against his horcrux’s back again and again and again --
And then he’s ripped from his horcrux’s head as Harry occludes so hard nothing can get in and nothing can get out before his own rage ejects him from his mind palace.
“ Thossse filthy mugglesss! ” Voldemort hisses with rage. A small vase on his sideboard explodes as his magic lashes out, in tune with his emotions. “ How dare they hurt what isss mine?! ”
Then, with an ease that bespeaks of years of practice, his fiery rage takes an abrupt about-face into a cold, controlled one.
Whoever put him there with those filthy beasts will be begging for death by the time that I am done with them.
“ Nagini, come ,” he orders, striding out of his room.
He has several meetings to attend today-- one with Severus, hopefully to reverse the worm’s blunders with the potion and one with Lucius to hear his report on the current affairs of the Ministry.
His furious stride doesn’t falter when a soft pop announces a house elf.
“Master, Lord Malfoy is here. Joopy has directed him to the small office.”
“Thank you, Joopy.” House elves, as he had come to know, were not to be underestimated. “Stay on hand. I require nothing for the moment.”
With a small eep, the house elf pops away.
It only takes a few more minutes to arrive at the small office. The ‘small office,’ as the house elves called it, was rather large. The entirety of the ancestral Slytherin manor that he currently uses as his base of operations is quite large.
“Lucius.”
Immediately, the man drops to one knee, blond hair cascading down around his face as he bows his head.
“My Lord. I apologise for my insolence, but I have received information that I thought might be of interest to you, straight from the desk of Minister Fudge.”
Voldemort settles behind the desk and holds back a smirk. The man can sweat there on the ground. Useless, impotent fool he is, bringing one of his horcruxes to destruction.
“Speak.”
“Harry Potter has received a summons for underage magic in front of a muggle, my Lord. It automagically registered him as guilty of the crime, and, as it is his second violation on record, sentenced him to have his wand snapped and have him expelled from Hogwarts.”
‘You hurt Dudley!’ Kicks. ‘It wasn’t me!’
He very carefully clamps down on his emotions and magic before it can reveal anything to the man in front of him.
“What spell was it, do you know?”
He can see Lucius blink at the seeming non sequitur. “The Patronus Charm, my Lord.”
“So someone at the Ministry sent Dementors after-- Harry Potter.” He catches himself handily before he calls Potter ‘my horcrux,’ the pause so small that it is unnoticeable. It would not do to have Lucius Malfoy of all people possess that knowledge. His father had been a friend of his; it is quite unfortunate that his son turned out this way.
Another blink.
“Did you, perhaps, think that I sent Dementors after the boy?” He allows some of his still very present anger from before to slip into his amused tone, lending the words an edge as sharp as any knife’s.
“N-no, my Lord. It just never occurred to me. My apologies. I did not mean to--”
Voldemort cuts him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and Lucius falls silent like a well trained dog. “I assume the old man did something to get his precious Saviour out of trouble?” After feeling Potter’s anger at his treatment and his skill with Occlumency, he certainly suspects there is more than meets the eye to the boy, but he allows the disdain he feels for his old Transfiguration professor to bleed through into his tone to create the appropriate image of distance from him.
“Yes, my Lord. He immediately pulled strings to reverse the snap ruling, instead getting the boy a trial.”
While Lucius was not the same level Occlumens as, say, Severus, he still maintains decent shields as expected of a Lord of an Ancient and Most Noble House. For the disdain he felt for Potter to bleed through to his face as he said the word ‘boy’ it would have to be powerful indeed.
That would have to be nipped in the bud.
But for now, he simply dismisses the man without listening to his report. Perhaps he will use Severus’ mark to call a meeting of his Inner Circle after his delivery.
He plans.
His current number one priority must be to open some form of dialogue with his horcrux. While there is always the option of simply kidnapping the boy and secreting him away from the world somewhere only he can get to, he would rather have Potter willingly come to his side. After all, only a fool would ignore the boy’s power, even at the age of fourteen-- no, fifteen. If Dumbledore is to be believed, there are powerful blood wards on the house, limiting his options for negotiations.
(Voldemort takes a few moments to simply revel in the irony-- the Lightest of Light couples, one a mudblood even, turning towards Dark magic of the likes of blood magic. Simply hilarious!)
If this was the usual case, he would simply say that intent is key and that no intent to harm the one protected by the wards would equal safe passage through the wards to his horcrux. However, he saw that beating-- clearly, intent is not taken into consideration by these wards.
But-- no. When did he ever make it a point to listen to Dumbledore or believe the man’s words in any way? Besides, blood wards are meant to be regularly fed. It’s more than likely that Dumbledore let the wards weaken out of his aversion to anything remotely Dark. He would have to make a preliminary outing to scout the state of the wards.
Unless…
“ Nagini! ”
‘ Yesss, Massster? ’
His familiar climbs up his leg to settle her top half around his shoulders, tilting her head inquisitively in a decidedly human way that she undoubtedly picked up from him.
“ When I look through your eyesss, are you aware of my presssence? ”
‘ Only when I sssleep, Massster. ’ Her tongue darts out to scent the air and she slithers down his body. ‘ I will go hunt now, Massster. ’
He watches her go fondly, plans already forming in his mind.
Tonight, then, he shall talk to his horcrux.
“My Lord.” Severus Snape is no idiot. Somehow, the Dark Lord still holds trust in him. By assigning him the task to brew a potion to reverse the adverse effects of the improperly brewed Ritual potion, he effectively places his life in Severus’ hands.
He will not allow that trust to go to waste.
And then he sinks his thoughts deep behind his occlumency shields like normal, focusing on the present moment.
He rises when his Lord beckons him over, long skeletal fingers held out to grasp the vial that he offers.
“I would recommend a trusted Healer be on hand when you take the potion, my Lord. There is little precedence for matters like these,” he says, dipping into a shallow bow as he steps back. “I have no doubt that the potion will restore you, but I am not quite sure how… violently, for lack of a better word.”
The Dark Lord is silent for a beat, merely staring into the umber depths of the vial, before he speaks, eyes flicking up to Severus’.
“You have your medi-wizard certification, do you not? You shall attend me with Healer Bourke tonight. Bring any potions you deem necessary.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
Because Severus is not an idiot, he can understand the double meaning.
“Now, your arm, Severus.”
Voldemort apparates them to what his Nagini affectionately calls the throne room but what is really the smaller ballroom. It's all dark stone with silver trappings and deep emerald hangings, emblazoned with the Slytherin family crest. It's completely clear of all furniture save one opulent, wingback chair in the same style as the room: dark, with silver accents, upholstered in a rich, emerald velvet green. He makes short order of calling his Inner Circle to him, Severus slipping a small handkerchief out of his pocket and transfiguring it into his mask as he slips into his customary place.
Voldemort settles in his throne, lazily leaning his jaw on one fist as one by one, all accompanied with cracks of apparition, his Inner Circle appears.
Each give him their reports. Plans for an Azkaban breakout are progressing nicely, the Ministry is in shambles denying his return, and his emissaries to different clans and classes of Dark creatures report successes.
“Lucius. Share your report on Potter.”
Lucius dutifully repeats his information to the rest of them, and Voldemort can almost taste the glee that rises from his followers.
“Those of you on the Wizengamot… do not vote to expel him if it seems that is what the outcome will be.”
The mood immediately plummets, turning to confusion, but none voice their concerns. There's no outright anger or dissention, either.
Good. It seems as if his… lessons, shall he say, in the graveyard, have been remembered.
“Think, for a moment,” he says, voice cracking out deceptively softly, “That he gets expelled from Hogwarts. Where would he go? It only gives them more time to plan against us.”
That and he’s sure Dumbledore will send him straight back to the abusive home he’s currently in. And he shall not permit that, all else be damned.
Three times. Three times Dumbledore has made the same mistake, and this time it will be his last.
From there, he only has a few more orders to disseminate before he dismisses his Inner Circle.
It’s early enough that he arranges summons for the Healer before sinking back into his mind palace and making his way to his Horcrux Room.
When Harry finally drops off to sleep, he can immediately tell it’s one of his rage dreams.
It’s not that surprising, considering the last few days he just had.
A Dementor attack, a beating from his illustrious uncle, having his chain jerked around by the Ministry and Dumbledore both, being relocated to Grimmauld Place only to be yanked around by the Weasley matriarch and then finally badgered by Ron and almost ignored by Hermione for some reason. The cherry on top of the shite sundae is his trial for something that should never have happened in the first place-- tomorrow.
So when he’s yanked into a dream where he’s bigger and stronger and healthy and powerful with everyone who has ever wronged him in front of him… well. Lucid dreaming has never been so sweet a reward for the pain of learning Occlumency.
--
The scent of copper and rot and burnt flesh is quite strong and for a brief moment Voldemort feels panic like he’s never felt before for the safety of his horcrux before he registers his surroundings.
It’s nebulous and malformed edges lay his fears to rest-- he is, in actuality, in a dream.
A quite good one for his young horcrux if the delighted laughter is anything to go by.
He watches as Harry laughs and laughs and laughs, flicking his wand in the sharp slash of a diffindo , causing a fat man’s walrussy moustache to fall off… along with the rest of his upper lip. Beside the man lies a very realistic corpse of a tall, skinny redhead that is more skeleton than woman, burns marring her arms from her fingers to her shoulders, hair messily shorn.
More and more slashes with wordless diffindos make themselves known on the man’s body, the muggle bellowing in pain each time, before--
“ Crucio !”
And, oh, Voldemort knew it was just a dream, but the fact that the Light’s golden boy would willingly use an Unforgivable?
Harry lets it up after a few minutes, a truly delicious smirk on his face as he stares down at the man. And then a slash opens across the man’s fat neck in a wordless and wandless diffindo .
Harry flicks his wand and the body levitates to sprawl over the woman as the man continues to gurgle and thrash, cutting the spell to let him bounce and flop.
Finally, Potter turns to him.
He’s taller and at a healthy weight in his dream, a far cry from the scrawny, knobby boy he is in life.
“Well… I wonder if this is my subconscious telling me I’m going too far?” Potter snorts, green eyes flashing with amusement as they trace over Voldemort’s face. “Maybe, considering who else it gifted me with at the start of this.”
Voldemort just stays quiet, simply arching a brow.
“Well, whatever,” he shrugs, turning back to the carnage.
It’s quite interesting that he would simply ignore me if he truly believes me to be a part of his dream… he would have power over me if that were the case.
Perhaps he has more of a chance than he thought, if his dream-self is not among those whom Harry is torturing-- even more of a chance, he supposes, than the fact that Harry Potter is doing any torturing in the first place.
Several more dream representations meet their ends in ever more increasingly clever and ruthless ways. Some are obviously wixen, most known to him as various Order members save for a few he does not quite recognize, but the vast majority are muggles. There are various Dark, Dark curses that Potter uses that Voldemort does not know and if that’s not just one more cherry on the top he doesn’t know what is.
The last dream representation is someone who Voldemort probably should have seen coming.
Potter transfigures bits and pieces of Pettigrew into rat features-- his nose turning into a whiskered snout, his ears lengthening and browning with pointed tips, fingers turning into stubby claws, and a thin, pink tail sprouting from his behind.
And then a large Grim materialises beside him as Pettigrew shrinks to the size of a true rat. It only takes a split second for dream-Pettigrew to notice, start to scream, and run away on his fat, stubby legs.
The Grim waits a few seconds before bounding after him, catching him easily, and snaps him up with a crunch that’s very satisfying for his Harry if his manic grin is anything to go by.
“I suppose this is when I should turn my wand on you,” Potter drawls, turning to him. “But there’s no way you’re just a figment of my imagination like the rest of them.”
The rest of the dreamscape wavers and the bodies vanish, as well as the scent of blood.
“So, did you enjoy the show? Allowing me to get it out of my system before you kill me, I expect.”
--
Well, Harry thinks, staring into the red eyes of the silent, suddenly nose-possessing Dark Lord, At least I got to work out some of my frustrations first. Not a bad way to die, considering.
And then: Bloody buggering fuck, he’s hot.
Because a nose isn’t all that Voldy has now: hair, and actual skin that doesn’t look like a snake’s. He’s not skeleton thin or pale as a grub, either.
“I did quite enjoy the show,” Voldemort drawls, a small little smirk on his lips that does nothing to convince his lizard brain that developing a mild crush on the megalomaniac would-be infanticial Dark Lord is a thoroughly bad idea. “And what a show it was from the Light’s darling Golden Boy Saviour.”
Aaaand that’s enough to knock him out of his hormones. “And here I thought you would know a thing or two about other people inflating an image,” Harry sneers. “I never asked for that. Never once have I wanted anything to do with this shite.”
And it’s true, even though he hasn’t explicitly said this particular string of words aloud to anyone before. He’d been grabbed by the ear and thrown head-first into a world that he didn’t understand and saddled with a quest that he didn’t want.
“I didn't even know I was a bloody wizard until I was eleven, for Merlin’s sake,” he continues, scowling. “Much less that I - which is bollocks, by the way- managed to kill a Dark Lord when I was barely one.” Harry gives Voldemort an appraising look. “Which is further bollocks because you're very obviously not dead.”
“Quite.” Voldemort’s smirk grows into a smile. It's definitely not a nice one, but it softens his face all the same. Commiserating , almost. “Besides, the Light would absolutely vilify you if you used most of those spells in public. Nothing says the Light’s lapdog more than a good crucio .”
--
“Light’s lapdog.” Potter barks out a laugh, throwing his head back as his shoulders jump up, his mouth curving into a sharp smile. “And when has anyone ever asked me my opinion of anything? Asked me what I believe or what I want to do?”
He mutters something, that sharp smile flattening a little into a sneer. “ Light’s lapdog. Circe’s saggy tits. ”
Voldemort just huffs a little laugh. “Intriguing. Well, then, Harry Potter- what do you believe? What is your stance in this war?”
“Well…”
--
It's strange that Voldemort hadn’t immediately moved into exterminate territory, but telling him the truth wouldn't hurt.
Harry jerks a shoulder in a quick shrug. “I’m definitely not on the Light’s side, but not necessarily on the Dark’s either. I'm definitely not pure Light, but I wouldn't call myself pure Dark. More Dark-leaning Grey than anything, at the moment. As for beliefs… muggleborns should be included and protected since they bring in new blood. And muggleborns bring muggles, yeah, but muggles should primarily be left the hell alone, not waged war on, because they're dangerous.”
At this, Voldemort's brow jumps up. “Dangerous?” He scoffs. “Hardly.”
Harry’s own brow raises. “Really? Didn’t you grow up sometime around the second world war?”
Voldemort scowls at him, so he takes that as a yes.
“And you don't remember, oh, atom bombs ?”
“They would hardly use them against each other. Mutually assured destruction.” He sounds dismissive, confident.
“Sure. I'll give you that. But do you know what they have now?”
--
Potter swings his arms open and his dreamscape ripples around him and flashes with images of violence and war. “They have better guns. Better bombs, without the threat of mutually assured destruction, but that’s still on the table. Mass surveillance-- they have cameras on every corner recording every second and can talk to someone across the world instantly. Mass compendiums of knowledge that anyone can access in a few seconds from anywhere. Muggles have been to the moon for Merlin’s sake!”
His arms lower and the images slow before flickering out. His arms draw in and he looks almost… vulnerable. His form flickers, the image of the taller, healthy version of him lanced through with him as he is in real life before stabilising.
“And when they figure it out? Especially if it goes down how Dumbledore wants it to? Muggles don't do well with things they don't understand.”
‘You hurt Dudley!’ ‘It wasn't me!’ Kicks. The belt.
His own childhood- the exorcisms, the canings, withheld meals- yes. Yes, he can understand that.
“Your words have merit.”
--
...what?
“Well, damn,” Harry laughs breathlessly. “Maybe you are part of my dream after all. Disagreeing with his Darkness and not only not getting cruicoed but actually being taken into consideration.”
“That doesn’t happen much with Dumbledore, does it?” Commiserating, indeed- not only that, but it sounds soft, sympathetic. A tad fawning, too, of all things.
Oh. Oh, wow.
“Ah, I see,” Harry says. He stares right into those blood red eyes. “This is a recruitment pitch, isn't it?”
Voldemort looks back down at him, and Harry can see genuine amusement in his eyes. It's like whiplash, honestly. He's used to nothing but cruelty and sadistic glee.
“If you see it that way,” he purrs, “Then that is what it shall be. Has Dumbledore ever told you why I was there that Samhain night?”
The why of the matter. Of fucking course not. It's something he’s wondered himself, honestly. Harry shakes his head no.
“I see. He's always been a meddling old goat,” Voldemort says, tone conspiratorial but not in the way that parents are with children but rather in the way it is when you're angling to spoil a particularly juicy plot twist to a friend. “There was a prophecy. My spy-” Snape? Probably- “did not hear all of it, but it was enough to force my hand to try and murder an infant, something that I make no pastime of.”
Yeah, I sure hope you don't make a habit of being infanticidal. Merlin’s saggy balls.
--
“ The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… ” He recites from memory, gauging Potter’s reaction.
He’s uncharacteristically stone-faced.
And then, a second later, he chides himself. Anything you know of the boy is a carefully crafted character indeed. It would not do to underestimate him- for the third time.
Potter laughs lightly. “I can understand now, at least…” He pauses, smile becoming stiffer. “Getting some secret weapon out of the way before it starts to mature is a strategically sound choice in a war.”
--
Deflection. He hadn't meant to say that.
He can understand now- his parents should have just ran. It might be unfair to say it, but they obviously were more dedicated to the war than they were to him.
And now they were putting it all on his shoulders? Him, some dumbarse fifteen year old? Just because of some stupid prophecy?
Earlier, even. From the first year.
No, earlier.
Has everything they've done been to win the damn war? Dropped him on the front stoop with a note in November. Left him to the fists and cruelty of the Dursley's. Made sure that he didn't know anything.
“So… let me guess,” he continues casually as if he hadn't just paused for about five seconds. “You want the so-called ‘power to vanquish’ you on your side?”
“Putting it simply? Yes.”
“Detail for me, then, what that would look like.”
--
Voldemort certainly had not planned out that far. Establish communications indeed, he scoffs mentally, keeping his expression even and open.
“How about this? A place at my side. You would not simply just be another of my Death Eaters, above even my Inner Circle.” He folds his hands behind his back. Yes, this would be acceptable. Harry Potter is his Horcrux, as precious as his Nagini, and a powerful wizard in his own right. “Your opinions would be not only heard but deeply considered. Strategy would be at least run by you. If you have your own goals and wishes, I would help make them reality. You’ve already proved yourself to be invaluable in that regard, earlier.”
Which is partially true. Of course, he saw how technology increased by leaps and bounds during the Second World War, and had intensely learned about how during the First World War, the Great War as it was known then, muggles had evolved from horses and trenches to tanks and chemical warfare in mere years.
Potter just narrows his eyes at him. “What's the catch?”
“Nothing much,” he drawls. “Fidelity. Loyalty. The enthusiastic completion of our goals. Lending your strength to the cause. Occasionally doing things that you may have no moral quarrel with but personally find distasteful.”
Ruling at my side.
--
It looks like there's something else on the tip of Voldemort’s tongue but he just raises an eyebrow at Harry, like he's asking well?
Seventeen and scorn both sides, or… go now. And being by Voldemort’s side, at least almost an equal, sounded a much better deal than whatever pawn he was currently for Dumbledore.
But…
“One question, first.”
He regally inclines his head. “Ask.”
“If I managed to bring some of my friends to… our side,” he drawls, peering up through his lashes to meet Voldemort's red eyes because even though he’s taller than he usually is, Voldemort is still massively tall, “What would happen to them?”
This, he takes a few seconds to contemplate. “Well,” he finally says with an infuriating little smirk, “ If you manage to do so, then they can become your own Inner Circle of sorts. As I previously stated, you would be above my own Inner Circle, by my side. That begets… certain benefits, liberties.”
Well, shite. There's really only one thing he can say to that.
“I accept, then.”
And then Voldemort smiles. As in a full, real smile. And that brings his hindbrain back into play, gods damn it.
Bloody hormones.
--
“We will swear appropriate oaths and such at a later date. Reciprocal, of course,” he adds, forestalling the questions he can see in Potter’s green eyes.
He tilts his head. How to play this?
“You have a trial tomorrow morning,” he says as a statement rather than a question. Potter’s brow shoots up all the same.
“Yes…?”
“Do not worry about the outcome,” he says simply. Candour seems to be the way to go-- Dumbledore kept the prophecy from him, so who knows how much more information has been withheld? “I have ordered mine to vote in your favour if it seems like the Light side is deserting you.”
“Thanks,” Potter says, then scoffs. “It’s all a crock of horseshite anyway. The muggle that I performed magic in front of? My cousin, whom I live with, the son of my mother’s sister, who knows all about magic. So underage magic, yes, breaking the Statue of Secrecy, no.”
Voldemort hums. “This seems too heavily weighed on the Ministry’s side to be anything less than purposefully crafted. Also, I can assure you that I was not the one to send the Dementors, rather narrowing the pool of culprits. I will try to find who exactly in the Ministry sent the dementors after you to make this happen. Consider it the first of many… benefits.”
Potter nods his head, once, in thanks. Then, he smiles, wide and mischievous.
“Well, Tom, you’ve finally got me. But I think this is a better arrangement for both of us, in regards to our own health and wellbeing.”
--
When he calls him Tom, Voldemort grimaces slightly. No anger, just a grimace.
Huh.
He’d been trying to push, just a little, to see where the limits lie.
“If you must,” he grounds out, face looking effortlessly blank in contrast to his slightly strained tone.
HUH.
But Harry’s smile just widens. “On pain of Nagini, got it.”
Vol-- uh. Tom looks like he’s seconds from rolling his eyes. It’s… kind of endearing, really.
Absolutely not. His conscience sounds a bit like Neville, which should be expected at this point. Perfect little Gryffindor, he. He murdered your parents whilst trying to kill you. And he’s almost seventy, isn’t he?
And then his next thought is: He doesn’t look like it.
But he wants to get the hell away from that thought, so he just casually blurts out the next thing that he’s thinking of.
“Prophecies are stored in the Department of Mysteries, right? Do you have any people in there?”
--
“I do. Why?”
Potter grins, a curling, mischievous thing with just a hint of teeth, his green eyes sparkling. “Well… all prophecies are recorded and stored down there, and anyone with a prophecy can enter, right? So if I, say, make a small disturbance after my farce of a trial and then kip down there, I could grab it for us. It would just be a lot easier if your people were at the entrances. Less questions.”
Now that is a truly devious idea. No doubt the Order would be on guard at a later date. Tomorrow would indeed be the best time to do it.
“That would be just what we need.” Us. We. Even without formal Oaths or Vows. “I will make sure one of mine is at the entrance to the DOM tomorrow. Since your trial starts at nine--”
Potter inhales sharply, cutting him off. Interestingly enough, Voldemort finds that he does not mind. His information is undoubtedly going to be of value, after all, he thinks.
“...that… is not good,” Harry mutters, slipping into a frown. “Arthur Weasly told me that the hearing would be at ten, which both Dumbledore and the formal hearing letter corroborated.” He scowls. “Should narrow your search for the person who sent the Dementors, though. Cross people who have clearance to do so with people who have clearance to change the hearing time and stop us from knowing.”
There were precious few people who could do that. “Yes, that would narrow it down quite a bit. It’s either the Minister himself, or his direct staff.”
“Great,” Potter murmurs, pushing up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “You know, they’re giving me such shite over you . Mind you, I never gave a direct statement that you returned. Dumbledore’s putting words in my mouth again, as per usual. And I haven’t had the time to track down the bug for a quick chat either, what with being condemned to muggle hell and having my mail checked.”
Having… his mail checked. Yes, that does put a damper on things.
Potter is blinking more now, languidly. Belatedly, Voldemort realises that he’s asleep, technically, and being here is using up his horcrux’s energy. If he does not get a good night’s rest, then he will not be able to beat his accusers nor, quote, kip down to the Department of Mysteries and fetch the prophecy.
“I will arrange for an elf to convey our correspondence, then. I will leave you for now.”
Harry just hums, eyes drooping, sleepiness and… happiness and contentment, of all things, leaking over the bond. His occlumency shields, while advanced for a boy of fifteen, are simply not powerful enough to stay up overnight, then.
“Sleep,” he orders, before withdrawing out of Potter’s mind and back into his own.
The pedestal representing his Harry is more than just a sowilo carving now-- it has his eyes, just like his Nagini’s, with the sowilo over top., positioned in the same way as in life.
He takes a moment to study them-- they’re green, almost the exact shade as the Killing Curse, but they have tiny, almost unnoticeable flecks of brown and gold throughout the entire iris. They’re quite fetching, really.
From there, he withdraws completely, coming back to the world.
“ Nagini ,” he hisses. “ We have won. ”
His Nagini just cocks her head at him-- a human gesture that she has, no doubt, copied from him-- and hisses, ‘ Your healer and your potionsss massster isss outssside, Massster. ’
Voldemort’s eyes flick over to the clock-- he did not run overlong, thankfully.
“ I will probably be in pain, ” he replies. “ Do not bite them. It needsss to happen. ”
She laughs, the crooning ki-ki-ki sound familiar and soothing. He summons the vial with a flick of his fingers as he rises, straightening his robes with another flick as he exits his bedroom to his lounge where Healer Bourke and Severus sit.
Both sink to a knee as he enters.
“My Lord,” they chorus in greeting.
“Rise, both of you,” he says, settling himself into an armchair, long fingers playing with the vial of potion as he does.
Severus steps forward, setting a case of potions on the table at his elbow. “I brought a variety of potions, my Lord-- blood replenishers, Skele-Gro, nerve regrowth, muscle growth stimulants, pain and headache relievers, et cetera-- for any myriad situations that may arise.”
He nods. All probably his own brew as well. As expected of Severus.
“If you would permit me to cast an ongoing diagnostics charm, my Lord, we can begin,” Healer Bourke says.
She does so at his nod. With a quick few flicks of her wand, rings spring up around his body before coalescing at a single point up and to his left, smoothing out into a tablet shape.
And then he uncorks the potion with a small pop and downs it.
He only barely has the time to throw up his strongest occlumency shields to prevent emotional leaks to his Harry before the pain hits.
Later, he would quite charitably define it as his bones being on fire and stabbed with wicked serrated, poisoned knives in every millimetre of skin he possesses.
In the current moment, he cannot think much at all.
He comes back to his senses some time later, reflexively checking his mental shields-- they hold steady, thankfully.
“Master Snape-- one nerve regrowth, one muscle growth stimulant, and one pain potion, if you please,” Healer Bourke directs, bustling around. “Water, my Lord, with a throat soother. Sip it slowly.”
A goblet is pressed into his insensate fingers and he brings it to his lips, the chilled liquid a blessing to his ragged throat.
Ah. So he was screaming?
Healer Bourke conjures a mirror as he down potion after potion, the pain relief soothing the last edges of agony as he takes in his form.
Voldemort looks like himself again-- whole. He possesses a nose again, and hair. His skin is pale and not sheet-white. He’s skinny, but not skeletal. There’s even colour to his cheeks.
All that remains are his eyes, the same blood-red instead of the chocolate brown they were before.
Honestly, he prefers it.
“Good work, Severus.” His voice is the same, if not dulled and ragged a tad because of exhaustion and pain. “Your diagnosis, Healer Bourke?”
She nods sharply. “I would recommend rest and light but nutritious meals for a few days, taking a stomach soother as needed. Regular exercise will help after that. I would also recommend restricting any alcohol intake to a single glass a night-- if any-- for a few weeks, after the initial period of light meals is over. Magically,” she continues, “I would recommend only light casting and meditation, similarly after the initial period is over. Your core is currently strained, but not dangerously so.
“Quite honestly, the damage you have sustained from the potion is in line with Cruciatus Curse damage.”
It felt like it as well.
“I am not surprised,” he answers, still sipping the water. “The Ritual rebuilt my form from a homunculus. The potion correcting the damage would have had to change my most basic being. Hence, the… violence,” he says, the smallest of smiles curling the corner of his lips as he quotes Severus.
It is a wonder there was not more damage, considering that Harry Potter was not truly his enemy, even at that time. As per his own words of course: ‘Dumbledore’s putting words in my mouth again.’ Perhaps his horcrux’s status as a container of his soul mitigated the worst of it, despite the misplaced ritual intention.
I wonder what Severus would say about my new partnership. Nothing good, I assume. Although…
How much of his loathing is manufactured? There lies an inherent danger when being a double spy to gain any positive inclination to the one that both sides hold import in, positive or negative. Considering that Voldemort has other sources of information within Hogwarts-- mostly the children of other Death Eaters-- he would have to continue the charade there.
And while others might take his hatred at face value, given the certain past that Severus Snape had with James Charlus Potter, Voldemort definitively knows the depths of this man’s devotion to his mother, Lily Evans. After all, few were so bold as to beg for a life marked to be extinguished by his own hand.
He dismisses the both of them before summoning parchment and a quill. Tomorrow, ‘his people on the inside’ must be stationed at the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, and unfortunately, they are all unmarked.