Chapter Text
He comes to in a pile of rubble, dust slowly settling around him in vaporous drifts. The light of spellfire comes through in diffuse bursts, and it’s really not helping with the splitting headache that’s throbbing at the base of his skull. He has no idea what’s going on, but it’s not safe to sit around and wait, it’s never safe, so he forces himself to sit up and almost vomits but manages to stay mostly upright. If he’s listing to the side a bit, no one can see him.
When the world stops spinning and he can open his eyes again, he looks out into the street, where some kind of battle is taking place. Several figures are firing spells – dire ones, if the sickly yellows and violent purples are what he thinks they are – at a single person, who’s managing to hold them all off with ease while fighting back with vicious creativity. It takes him back to the duel between Dumbledore and Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic, but that thought makes his head throb debilitatingly, and he’s forced to use all of his focus just to remain conscious.
When he next looks up, the lone fighter has taken out most of the opposing group, whose dwindling numbers decide to apparate away. The man walks over to examine one of the fallen bodies and Harry can now see him more clearly, and. Of course. He should have known.
Voldemort.
The man may look more like Tom Riddle than the serpentine monster that has haunted Harry’s dreams for years, but there’s no mistaking him.
Harry’s up and unsteadily on his feet in moments, swaying dangerously but keeping his wand pointing unerringly at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort turns, wand pointing back at Harry until he registers who he’s looking at. Then he moves forward to–
“Harry,” Voldemort says, sounding relieved and confused and what?
–hold Harry up.
What?
“Get the hell away from me,” he rasps hoarsely. The dust must be playing havoc with his vocal cords – he barely sounds like himself. He shoves the other man away, bringing his wand back up between the two of them.
“Darling, please, you’re hurt,” Voldemort soothes (soothes? That can’t be right), features pinched and looking distraught. “Let me–”
Voldemort’s voice dies off abruptly as he looks into Harry’s eyes, whatever he sees (or doesn’t see) there enough to knock some sense into him. And for a brief moment, he looks–
–shattered–
–upset, before his face closes off, he stands as straight and tall as if his spine were replaced with steel, and he backs away from Harry, turning to face the aurors and medi-mages arriving at the scene.
“Harry!” Hermione’s familiar voice cries as she rushes towards them. With a curt gesture, Voldemort catches her attention before she reaches them. “Minister–”
Minister?
“Ms. Granger, if you would see to it that,” he hesitates briefly, “Mr. Potter receives medical attention, I shall speak with the aurors.”
“Medical atte– of course, sir,” she nods before bustling over to Harry.
And it’s Hermione’s voice, but that’s not Hermione’s face. Not how he remembers it. Slightly different face shape, different hairstyle, sharper eyes.
His wand is still out and though it feels wrong to defensively point it at one of his best friends, something is very wrong. He’d prefer the security his wand provides until he can regain his footing.
Hermione stares at him, bewildered, when she finds herself at the business end of his wand and glare.
“What’s the most reckless thing I’ve ever done?” he demands harshly.
With barely a breath, she replies, “How can you expect me to choose just one when you’re constantly throwing yourself – and us – into the most absurd, foolhardy–”
“Never mind, that’s you.” Harry lowers his wand. “Hermione, what the bloody hell is going on?”
She puffs her cheeks up and blows out a deep breath forcefully. “That is always a loaded question with you, and I have no idea where to start without more information. You’re getting medical attention first.”
-ꦼ———▸
“He’s my what?”
“Mr. Potter, I won’t ask you to stay still again,” the medi-mage chastises, glaring tiredly at him.
He fumes silently, allowing them to do their diagnostic scans and whatever else they deem necessary.
Through questions asked by Hermione and the medi-mage, they determine that he’s lost eight or nine years’ worth of memories. Sixth year is when things get spotty – he remembers some things with perfect clarity, including Dumbledore’s fall, but large segments are obscured with murky shadows. Everything after that is limited to flashes that he can’t place without their surrounding context.
He has no memories of his life with Voldemort – well, at least, not the part where he had any experiences that would make him want to marry the bastard.
“From what I can tell, the memory loss isn’t from a spell, which is good and bad. Good in that the memories haven’t been removed and there’s the possibility they’ll return over time; bad because that means we have no idea what caused it, given the lack of massive head trauma or any other easily explainable cause,” the medi-mage explains, frowning slightly. “We’re going to keep you overnight at least, in case some other issues pop up, but you’re remarkably healthy for someone who had a building essentially dropped on them.”
Hermione thanks the medi-mage and sees them out as Harry stares at the ground, clutching at the hospital cot beneath him for some much-needed stability.
When the door shuts and Hermione walks back over to him, he can no longer contain himself.
“Please tell me this is an elaborate practical joke and I’m not actually married to Voldemort.”
“Technically, you aren’t,” she says. But before he can consider what that means, she adds, “You’re married to Tom V. Riddle, current Minister for Magic, formerly known to a select few people as Voldemort.”
He can’t help it – he wheezes like he’s dying.
“Thank you for that helpful clarification, Hermione.”
“You’re welcome.”
He’s momentarily taken aback by the snarky retort – it seems Hermione has loosened up a little over the past few years. That he can’t remember. Shite.
“How the hell did that even happen?”
“I can give you the lines we fed the media, but you and Tom–”
He mouths ‘Tom’ with a grimace.
“–have never really told anyone why or how you got together. I’ve accepted this because I’m certain, from the few details you have told me, that I might have a heart attack if I knew the full story.” She gives him an unimpressed look.
“So he could’ve love-potioned me! Or, or messed with my mind somehow.”
“Harry James Potter, if you think, for a second, I didn’t drag you through every diagnostic test imaginable when you decided to romance the bloody Dark Lord, you’re a fool,” she snaps.
Which. Fair. He probably would’ve thought of that if he wasn’t fighting off a wave of panic.
“And do you really think you would have listened to me if I told you not to date Voldemort once you’d made up your stubborn, bloody mind to do so?”
Also fair.
“If you want to know why you married him, you’ll have to ask Tom yourself.”
And that causes him to clam up completely. He doesn’t want to know that badly.
(Well, not yet. Damn his curiosity.)
“Right, well. That’s not happening.” He drags a hand through his hair – a little longer than he’d kept it as a teenager, which feels strange. “So, what can you tell me?”
“Nothing right now – you are meant to be resting,” Hermione says firmly.
“‘Mione,” he groans.
“Not a chance. We’ll talk more once you’re released from St. Mungo’s. You can come stay with Ron and me.”
“Because I live with Voldemort,” Harry guesses.
“Yes.”
“And I have no desire to be there right now.”
“I figured as much,” she says dryly. “Hence why I offered our guest room.”
“Have I told you lately that I love you? Because I do,” he says sincerely.
Hermione flushes just a little bit, but grins at him. “Of course you do – I’m amazing.”
He laughs for the first time since he woke up in this strange future.