Chapter Text
“Tom Marvolo Riddle, or rather, the Dark Lord Voldemort, as he was formerly known - was terrified of me,” The deep, booming voice of Death sneered from where he gracefully sat upon his throne of skulls and bones. “In fact, his fear of me had been so deeply rooted that it had driven him into knowingly splitting his soul six times to achieve his ambition of becoming immortal. Sadly for Mr Riddle, his dreams of immortality were rather short lived. Remind me again, Tom, how old were you when you died?”
Voldemort thrashed against the chains, that were wrapped around his body, in distress. His outraged screams were muffled by the gag that had been unceremoniously shoved into his mouth by one of Death’s little minions. Death chuckled and the terrible, rasping sound of it was enough to make the hairs on the back of Voldemort’s neck prickle.
“Only seventy one,” Death tsked, "It's a shame, really. Majority of wizards live well beyond the age of a hundred without having to split their souls.”
Voldemort felt his face burn red with humiliation as he could hear some chuckles and mumbling among the people that spectated from the jury box, no doubt mocking him. From his pathetic position of kneeling on the courtroom floor, he could recognise a few familiar faces from the crowd. Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, Sirius Black and, of course, Harry Potter’s bloody parents. Voldemort pointedly decided not to look at any of them.
The past hour (had it been an hour? He had sort of lost track of time) had felt utterly bizarre and surreal. He was originally duelling his fated enemy, Harry Potter, determined to end the boy once and for all. And then, the next minute, he had been hit by the killing curse that had been cast from his own wand! If Death wasn’t his biggest nightmare, then he would have laughed at the irony of it all. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself in a white void, in his sixteen year old human body and came to the harrowing conclusion that he had died. Harry Potter had killed him. And just when he was about to have one of the biggest and probably most unpleasant mental breakdowns of his whole life - Death had appeared, tied him up and whisked him away to a place that resembled a courtroom. Sort of like the Wizengamot.
And Death being the sadistic, pain in the arse that he was - decided it would be funny to invite all of these dead wizards (majority of which had been killed by Voldemort himself) to watch the whole, mortifying ordeal.
“Now, Tom,” Death began, thoroughly enjoying how Voldemort grimaced at the usage of his real name, “Whatever shall I do with you, hm?” Voldemort did not answer. Well, it’s not like he could have answered anyways with the metal gag in his mouth. However, he froze at the tone of Death’s voice and silently prayed to himself that Hell did not exist.
Death slowly rose from his throne, his black, billowing cloak hovering just above the ground as he flexed his spindly, skeletal hands. Voldemort didn’t know whether he was delusional or if the temperature in the room had actually dropped by twenty degrees.
“What shall I do to the man who dared to try and defy me?” Death spoke again, fury lacing his words and all previous hints of amusement vanished, “Well?! ANSWER ME!” With a snap of his fingers, the gag had disappeared yet Voldemort found himself unable to form any words. Instead he felt himself mere inches away from begging for forgiveness. Perhaps that’s what he should do and it might satisfy Death who, in return, could grant him some mercy.
“Please,” he began, his voice, which was no longer high or hissing, sounded unfamiliar to his own ears, “Please forgive me.”
Death’s laugh, grating and cold, echoed through the room and much to Voldemort’s chagrin, the spectators joined in, some chuckling whilst others laughed uproariously.
“Oh, Tom,” Death sighed, “Still attempting to manipulate even in the afterlife. And it is a bit late to ask for forgiveness, don’t you think?”
Voldemort gritted his teeth as he looked down at the floor, his face flushed red in indignation.
“Ah, I have the perfect idea,” Death said, and if he had a face - he would definitely have been grinning. “Why don’t we let the jury decide your fate? I mean, surely, at least someone here must take pity on you, no? I’ll tell you what, if at least one person from the audience believes that you should be granted mercy - then I shall not punish you and you will be a free soul like everyone else.”
Voldemort’s head whipped up at the suggestion before he nodded eagerly. This was perfect. He just needed one person to take his side. At least one. And he would be free. Surely someone here didn’t completely hate him?
“Alright, all those in favour of I, Death, forgiving Tom Marvolo Riddle for his numerous crimes against humanity, including the repeated usage of all three unforgivable curses upon victims including men, women and even children as well as the creation of horcruxes in an attempt to cheat me - raise your hands.”
Voldemort looked around the room, anxiously, upon noticing that not even one of the spectators had raised their hands and instead were either glaring or sneering at him.
Shit.
“Dumbledore,” Voldemort began, in a desperate last attempt to save his soul, “Please. Have mercy on me.”
He hated this.
He hated having to beg for the help of this ridiculous, old coot that he had always fervently despised. Alas, what choice did he have? Majority of the spectators in the crowd had been killed by him or his followers. They would take great pleasure in knowing he would be tortured for the rest of eternity.
Dumbledore gave him a sad smile that made Voldemort want to scream before saying, “I’m sorry, Tom. I cannot help you.”
He could hear Death chuckle from where he sat on his throne and he could feel his time begin to run out. His eyes darted to the man sitting besides Dumbledore.
“Severus, I’m terribly sor-”
“Not going to happen,” Severus drawled, before pausing and adding with a smirk, “my Lord.”
This caused a few snickers across the courtroom. Voldemort tried to reason with each person across the jury who either shook their head or straight up decided against looking at him. Some, like Sirius, ridiculed him for even attempting to ask.
“You’re pathetic,” Black scoffed, “if you think that any of us will pity you.”
“As entertaining as this is,” Death chuckled, causing everyone to quieten down, “I’m afraid that we must come to a conclusion now.”
Dejectedly, Voldemort lowered his gaze to the floor, trying to blink away the strange, prickling sensation he felt in his eyes which could definitely not be tears because Lord Voldemort never cried.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” Death spoke, his voice reverberating across the room, “I hereby sentence you to an eternity in Limbo as a punishment for your crimes.”
Voldemort’s eyes widened and he opened his mouth to plead.
But it was too late.
Because within a second, the room around him had warped and flickered away before he found himself in an empty, dark abyss where mist floated in the air. Voldemort flinched when he heard a feminine voice whisper:
Welcome to Limbo, Tom Riddle.
He spun around, looking for the speaker but was surrounded by nothing but emptiness.
“Who’s there? Show yourself!” He called out, hating the way his own pathetic teenage voice wobbled. The voice just laughed in return. It was an awful, cruel sound.
Foolish boy! You can’t see me.
Voldemort felt his breathing quicken. He had to get out of here. He was going to lose his mind.
So he ran and ran across the endless void, unable to escape the taunting voice that followed him.
All alone.
Helpless.
Weak.
For eternity.
For the first time in what had felt like centuries, Voldemort dropped down to his knees, tears freely rolling down his face as he let out an agonizing wail.
“What was the purpose of that, Death?” An entity, known as Fate, asked, as her white and gold hemmed cloak fluttered in the non-existent breeze.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” Death responded, not really sounding all that sorry, “I was angry with him. I wanted to humiliate him.”
“I know,” Fate said, turning to face Death as she approached him, “but I’ll remind you once again that he will not be spending eternity in Limbo.”
“As you wish, Mistress.”
“When do you plan on informing Harry Potter?”
“I’m sure my Master will find out soon,” Death replied, “The pull of a soulmate bond is a strong thing which cannot easily be ignored. He will come to me and ask me to help him, I’m sure of it.”
“Hm,” Fate agreed, “You are right. It is his fate after all…”
“Besides, my Master deserves a break and I’m sure that temporary isolation will do the Dark Lord some good,” Death sneered.
“Or maybe this is just because of your hatred towards him, isn’t it?” Fate sighed.
“Why wouldn’t I hate him? He tried to cheat Death! ME! He’s lucky I didn’t decide to torture him in Hellfire for the rest of eternity!”
“Only because I forbade you to do so.”
“You like him too much,” Death huffed, crossing his skeletal arms against his chest.
“No. I just see potential.” Fate replied, looking down at the various humans on the Earth through her glass globe before zooming in on a certain Harry Potter, “But you are right. Harry deserves some time to recover from all the madness that has happened. He shall figure out the soulmate bond in due time.”
“And then?” Death asked, “What do you plan to do for the two of them?”
Fate turned to face him, her aura unreadable.
“Time will tell, Death, time will tell…”
Notes:
sort of an angsty chapter for voldie 😬 but dont worry i'll make things better for him (after he suffers a bit lol)
Chapter 2: harry's existential crisis
Chapter Text
After winning the Battle of Hogwarts and defeating Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter thought that he would have been happy. Heck, he should have felt bloody fantastic!
No more fighting insane Dark Lords, no more duelling Death Eaters and no more fulfilling prophecies, camping out in tents, facing dementors or just dealing with the whole ‘I’m the Chosen One’ nonsense in general. The weight of protecting the wizarding world no longer rested upon Harry’s shoulders and he was satisfied in knowing that he didn’t have to be the saviour anymore. Nope, at the age of thirty five, he was now just an ordinary Auror, living a comfortable life in his small, humble bungalow (all by himself…)
Well, he wasn’t always a loner. In fact, shortly after the battle, Harry had began dating Ginny Weasley, the girl who he had naively thought that he was in love with and he thought that she had loved him back just as much. But within two years of their on and off relationship, Harry had experienced the displeasure of walking in on her sleeping with another man (fuck you, Seamus ). Obviously, he was pissed but strangely enough he didn’t feel as angry or heartbroken as he had thought he would be which didn’t make it that difficult for him to very maturely give Ginny the middle finger and walk away, thus ending that unfortunate little chapter in his life.
The next three years of his life is what Hermione liked to call his ‘experimentation phase’. It was basically just Harry hitting on random people at nightclubs which then led to a series of one night stands. Initially, it was just women until one night he had been allowed to join in on a particularly raunchy threesome which resulted in him realising that he was bisexual. Unfortunately, the rest of the wizarding world had also become aware of Harry’s sexual awakening after an article published by Rita Skeeter, titled ‘The Boy-Who-Lived-For-Lust: Harry’s Hidden Hobbies Revealed!’ became a bestseller.
Growing tired of the rumours spreading around that he was some sort of unemployed junkie sex addict (which, in all honesty, wasn’t entirely wrong), Harry decided to put an end to his dalliances, get sober and start his three years training to become an Auror. He wasn’t crazy about becoming an Auror but he did it anyways, partially because he was bored as fuck and didn’t know how else to kill his time but mostly because he needed an excuse to cover up his severe lack of an actual love life (meaningless flings, apparently, didn’t count). Hermione and Ron (who had already married at the time) always pestered Harry to go out and ‘meet the right one for him’ and settle down with a family, which did sound plausible, however, for reasons unknown even to himself, he couldn’t find the motivation. Surely Ginny’s betrayal couldn’t have affected him that badly?
At the age of twenty seven, Harry was proud to say that he had officially become the youngest Auror in wizarding history. After his friends threw him a massive ‘Congratulations, you’re finally employed, you deadbeat!’ party, Harry settled into his work life with ease and continued to do his job for the next eight years with a high level of commitment. It had all just become a routine for him: wake up, go to work, come back from work, order pizza, cry over a romcom (he was always a sucker for those) and go to sleep. The same old routine. Forever unchanging...
It was another dull Sunday morning. Harry hated Sundays as it meant he had no work therefore no means to distract himself from his never ending boredom. Well, maybe there was one way he could…
“Death! I summon you,” Harry groaned, thinking that one of these days, he was just going to ask Death to free him from his misery already before he loses his mind from being so bored as fuck all the time.
In a blink, Death appeared, with his eerie black cloak, skeletal arms and that bloody scythe that Harry kept telling him to get rid of because, honestly, there was no point in being so dramatic.
“You called, Master?” Death’s spoke in that deep, raspy voice of his before pausing. “What are you doing on the floor, Master?”
Harry tilted his head back and squinted his eyes to look up at him from where he was sprawled across the floor.
“Nothing much. Just bored out of my mind,” he sighed.
“Ah, I see,” Death hummed, “Perhaps you should find yourself some company.”
“I have company,” Harry frowned, “I have you, don’t I?”
“Of course, Master, my apologies, I just meant more human company.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered, thoughtfully.
Human company. That was a laugh! Of course, Harry had human company. He had his friends, Ron and Hermione, for example. Even though they had barely met up in the past five years since they were so busy with their kids now. But he was still in touch with Neville and Luna. Although, it had become increasingly difficult since Neville had moved to the States and Luna and her husband frequently went on trips related to their Magizoologist professions.
Huh, maybe Death was right? He didn’t have much ‘human company’, after all.
“Have you considered getting friends, Master?”
“Hey, I have friends!” Harry snapped, defensively. How dare Death imply that he was some sort of loner!
Are you not? A snarky voice in his head, which sounded an awful lot like Draco Malfoy, taunted. Harry promptly told it to go fuck itself.
“Of course, my mistake,” Death replied and Harry raised a brow at the suspected sarcasm in his tone.
It was quiet for a while after that as Harry mused and Death watched on in silence before hesitantly asking:
“How about a…partner?”
Harry froze, caught off guard by the question that he loved to avoid whenever it was brought up.
A partner.
Someone to love and be loved by. Someone to spend all his time with. Someone who would cure all his boredom. Someone with whom he could raise kids with and grow old together.
Wasn’t that what he had wanted?
“I’ve thought about it,” Harry swallowed, his voice suddenly feeling abnormally heavy in his throat, “but I don’t feel…” He trailed off, uncertain of how to phrase it. Somehow, Death seemed to know exactly what he meant as he mused aloud:
“You don’t feel a connection with anyone.”
Harry nodded, slowly and stiffly.
“Yeah, exactly.”
It was silent again and despite Harry always feeling uncomfortable to discuss his peculiar feelings about love, something inside him nudged him on.
“I feel as if there is someone,” Harry began, eyes glued onto the ceiling above him, “or something that has gone missing from my life but I don’t know what it is.” He paused, giving a self-deprecating chuckle, “It sounds stupid, I know, but it wasn’t like this before. I mean, obviously my childhood was all fucked up and everything but I felt…happy.”
Harry took a shaky exhale and was surprised to feel that his eyes were wet. He hurriedly blinked it away.
“Forgive me, Master,” Death, who had been quietly listening, finally spoke up in a strange tone that Harry couldn’t quite decipher, “but I have to be somewhere.”
In a flash, he was gone but Harry didn’t pay much heed to his strange behaviour.
He was too preoccupied with the strong whirlwind of feelings inside of him that he had always tried to suppress and ignore but could never get rid of.
“He’s figuring it out,” Death said as he appeared behind Fate, “He knows something is amiss.”
“So it’s time,” Fate hummed, pensively.
“Well, yes, about that,” Death began, drumming his skeletal fingers against the snath of his scythe (a nervous tic of his, Fate noted), “I was thinking it would be better to perhaps wait a while longer.”
“If this is about your petty grudge with Riddle, I am not interested,” Fate sighed, “Besides, haven’t you had enough fun tormenting him? He has been in Limbo for the past eighteen years.”
“Hardly any time!” Death protested but relented when Fate turned to look at him, unimpressed. “Fine, if we must,” he grumbled.
“Good,” Fate nodded, “now, let me tell you what you must do.”
Chapter 3: the awkward reunion no one asked for
Notes:
And here it is: the moment we've all been waiting for!!! (well mostly me but whatevs)
Chapter Text
Harry’s eyes fluttered open, blinking groggily, as he took in his surroundings. It took him a few minutes to fully gain awareness before he scrambled up onto his feet.
What. The. Fuck.
He was standing near an all too familiar bench in the middle of a white void and behind him was what resembled… Kings Cross Station? Harry blanched.
This was where he had met Dumbledore, all those years ago, when Voldemort had killed him in the Forbidden Forest. Harry swallowed hard as the painful wave of nostalgia hit him.
What was going on?
Was he… dead?
No, that was ridiculous, he can’t be dead. He was immortal, for Merlin’s sake! Harry reached up a hand to stroke his chin but froze when he felt a severe lack of facial hair. Where had his ageing glamour gone?
There was only one way to figure out what had happened.
“Death!” Harry shouted, cringing as his voice echoed back. No one came.
Okay, okay, don’t panic, Harry mentally reassured himself, maybe he’s just busy doing all that… afterlife stuff! He’ll be here soon…
So Harry waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited…
“DEATH GET YOUR BLOODY ARSE HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND!”
Instead of Death, someone had fallen from the top of the void and landed face first onto the floor with a grunt. Harry startled and instinctively reached into his pocket to grab his wand. The stranger groaned, attempting to lift himself up but then ungracefully collapsed back down again, his black curls flopped forwards and shadowed his face.
Cautiously, Harry advanced towards him, his wand grasped tightly in his hand, pointing towards the stranger. He stopped a few feet away from him.
“Who are you?” He asked, frowning when the stranger chuckled weakly and muttered something under his breath.
When it became apparent that he wasn’t planning on moving any time soon, Harry tried again, “I asked you a question.”
“Of course you did,” the stranger grumbled, more to himself than Harry before hauling himself up onto his feet, straightening out his black robe. Harry squinted in an attempt to see his face from where he stood, only his side profile in view.
Why does he look familiar? Harry mused, noting the sharp outline of his nose and his strong jaw.
“Using Harry fucking Potter’s voice to come and torment me,” the stranger continued his grumbling as he raked a hand through his unkempt dark waves of hair before letting out an exasperated sigh. “How bloody-“ he paused, choking on his words, when he turned in Harry’s direction and did a double take, his brown eyes blown as wide as saucers.
It would have looked absolutely comical but, to be fair, Harry was not in a much better state.
He knew that face and even after all these years it was one that he could not forget.
“Tom Riddle.”
If Voldemort hadn’t been dragged out of Limbo with no explanation and dropped from a height of twenty feet (and, more importantly, if he had a wand), he would have Crucio’d Harry Potter, right there, on the spot, for addressing him by that stupid, muggle name.
But he couldn’t suppress the shock he felt after seeing the boy’s face after all these years. Completely unchanged.
Voldemort was not unfamiliar with Death’s torture tactics. During his time in Limbo, he had used the voice and conjured illusions of many of Voldemort’s victims to taunt him and drive him insane. But, thankfully, not once had he used Harry Potter.
However, no matter how infuriating and terrifying the illusions were - Voldemort could always tell that they were fake. There were subtle differences that were little yet made all the difference. But Harry? There was nothing inaccurate about Harry’s depiction which made Voldemort want to shudder. Everything was perfect about him. Not a detail amiss. Especially the blazing determination that rested behind his vivid, green eyes.
Could it be?, Voldemort mused, Is it really… him?
Taking advantage of Harry’s baffled condition, Voldemort edged forwards, swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat, before reaching out and gently curling his fingers around the boy's wrist.
His eyes widened.
Illusions could not be touched…
In a blink, Voldemort found himself on the floor with Harry Potter towering over him, wand pointed at his forehead. The boy seemed to have snapped out of his bewilderment and glared down at him, his eyes blazing with fury.
It felt so much like that damned battle that Voldemort wanted to throw up.
Instead, he chuckled mirthlessly.
“Harry Potter, it seems as if Death has finally gotten a hold of you. Who has sent you here, hm? I must admit that I am jealous.”
“Shut up,” Harry snapped, shoving his wand forward so that it was poking Voldemort’s forehead, much to his annoyance. “I’m not dead.”
Voldemort raised a brow. It seemed as if the boy was in denial.
Almost like how I was, he thought before brushing away the preposterous notion.
Harry Potter was nothing like him! He was just a stupid, ignorant boy with no power except dumb luck! And Voldemort? Voldemort was the most formidable and darkest wizard to have ever existed!
Then how did he kill you? A voice in his head taunted and he couldn’t help but visibly grimace at the memory.
“I can’t believe this,” Harry muttered to himself, before letting out a hysterical laugh, “This is some kind of joke, isn’t it?”
For you and me both, Voldemort wanted to add but decided to stay silent.
“DEATH!” Harry suddenly shouted, his voice echoing back, “DEATH IF YOU DON’T GET THE FUCK OVER HERE RIGHT THIS SECOND, I SWEAR TO MERLIN I WILL-”
“Have you lost your mind, boy?!” Voldemort hissed, eyes widened in shock at Potter’s audacity. Had the boy finally gone mental?
“Nope, no, no,” Harry chuckled, dryly, his voice climbing in pitch, “You do not get to call me boy when you look like that!”
Voldemort gritted his teeth. How dare Potter ridicule him? It wasn’t like he had chosen to be stuck in his stupid, teenage form. Just before he could open his mouth to ask Harry why he was still a teenager (because despite having lost track of time, he was certain that it had definitely been years since he had died), a familiar voice behind him spoke.
“Apologies for my late arrival, Master.”
Although Voldemort did not actually jump, he knew that it was an embarrassingly close thing.
Master?
“Yeah, well, do you mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” Harry snapped and Voldemort’s eyes widened as the realisation seeped in.
Harry Potter was… the Master of Death.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
“Yes, I believe I need to explain something to you,” Death paused before begrudgingly adding, “to the both of you.”
Voldemort glanced over at Harry and noticed the evident confusion on his face. The boy noticed Voldemort’s gaze on him and he quickly cleared his throat, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.
“Well? Go on.”
“How do I put this delicately?” Death mused, fiddling with his scythe, “Actually, I think it shall be best if I ask a question first. Have you two ever heard about… soulmates?”
Voldemort involuntarily scoffed but looked away when Death tilted his hood towards him in warning.
Soulmates, Voldemort mused, Now wasn’t that the most ridiculous thing ever? Warily, he gazed over at Harry who looked even more confused than before.
“...Yes, I have. But what’s that got to do with anything?”
Death paused, turning his head from Harry to Voldemort and back to Harry again as if he was trying to indicate something without saying anything aloud.
Voldemort resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He was not in the mood for charades. Especially not with that bastard Death of all beings.
Death sighed, it was a tired and pained sound before he tried again.
“Harry, do you have any idea who your soulmate might be?”
He looked in Voldemort’s direction again which caused the ex-Dark Lord to narrow his eyes in suspicion.
Harry blinked once. Then he blinked again, slower, somehow looking even more youthful then he already did before his face cracked into a wide, almost dopey grin.
“I have a soulmate?” He gasped, before letting out a giddy laugh, “Oh Merlin, there is hope for me after all! Quick, tell me who it is!”
Over the countless millenniums that he had existed, Death could admit, without any hesitation, that he had never encountered such oblivious fools before. How could they not have figured it out by now? After all, Death wasn’t exactly being subtle when dropping hints. It would be a lot easier to just directly tell his Master that Riddle was his soulmate but, in all honesty, it was practically painful for him to even form the words.
Ha, Tom Riddle did not deserve his Master! It was ridiculous that two humans, so evidently and completely different in every way, could ever be soulmates. Alas, it was up to Fate to decide and not even Death could do anything about it.
“Come now, Master, surely you must have figured it out yourself?”
Harry scrunched up his nose in thought and Death had to suppress a sigh. He glanced over at Riddle who had been quietly observing the interaction, however, being his sharp witted self, looked increasingly sceptical at the direction in which the conversation was going.
Ah, good. That will speed things up, Death mused.
“I still don’t quite understand why I am here for this,” Riddle spoke and Death couldn’t help but feel glee when the former Dark Lord flinched after he gave him an unnerving chuckle in response. It was always fun to agitate him.
“Yeah, actually, why is he here?” Harry frowned and Death began to seriously consider whether it was possible for him to swap his Master with someone more perceptive.
“Master, please don’t make me say it,” he sighed, “Can you not see that he is your…” He trailed off, waiting expectantly for Harry to finally understand.
It was silent for a while as Harry stared at Death with a blank expression. Death waited in anticipation for his Master’s reaction. Of course, it was a lot to take in so he didn’t expect Harry to be exactly happy about any of this, he knew that he certainly wasn’t either, but it would be so much easier if the two of them just accepted the bond as it is. Although, that probably wasn’t going to happen anytime soon…
“Sooo don’t hate me,” Harry began, with a sheepish smile, “but I’m still not really getting where you’re at…”
Upon hearing those words, Death, who once prided himself in being a patient and a composed being (most of the time), felt something inside of him snap.
“Oh for the love of- HE’S YOUR SOULMATE!”
There was a pause.
“That’s disgusting,” Tom, who had previously just been watching from the sidelines, flatly remarked.
Harry, brows furrowed and looking a bit green, hastily nodded, “At least we agree on something.”
Chapter 4: in which fate ships it and harry would rather die
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Oh for the love of- HE’S YOUR SOULMATE!”
There was a pause.
“That’s disgusting,” Tom, who had previously just been watching from the sidelines, flatly remarked.
Harry, brows furrowed and looking a bit green, hastily nodded, “At least we agree on something.”
Harry had heard all sorts of crazy, whacked up shit in his life but this was definitely on a whole new level. Soulmates? With fucking Voldemort?? Harry didn't know whether to laugh or cry or just throw up on the damn spot! Death had to be messing with him. Although he wasn't aware of the spirit having a crappy sense of humour - it was definitely the most plausible explanation.
Because there was no way in hell that he could ever actually be Voldemort's... soulmate ?
Nope, that was not possible.
Is it not? A doubtful voice in his head spoke.
It took a while for Harry to tune back into the outside world and process that Death had been rambling on the whole time about 'the soulmate bond' and how 'absolutely none of this was his fault' before Harry decided to interject.
"Listen, Death," Harry rubbed at his temples to drive away the foreboding migraine, "I don't know what's going on with you or why you're suddenly deciding to joke around with me but, seriously, knock it off. It's not funny."
Death sighed, and it wasn't that sort of sigh that one would give after being called out on a bad prank. Instead, he sounded almost pitiful and Harry couldn't help but feel a sense of creeping dread.
"Sadly, Master, this is no joke."
He couldn't actually have been-
Harry eyes widened in horror. He turned sharply to Voldemort and surprisingly found nothing. No signs of distress. Just blank indifference on his stupid Tom Riddle, teenage face.
Harry had expected him to be seething with barely controlled rage or disgust or horror or literally any other emotion apart from apathy. What the bloody hell was the bastard thinking? Harry had enough experience with Ex-Lord Douchebag to know that the psychopath was like an active volcano ready to erupt at any minor inconvenience. And this was definitely no 'minor' inconvenience.
Regardless of whatever the retired Lord-racist-as-fuck-dickhead was plotting, Harry knew that he needed to put a prompt end to this madness.
"Alright, alright, fine," Harry groaned, throwing his hands up in defeat, "Let's say I believe you. Now, tell me how I'm supposed to break this bond."
"...You cannot."
"I'm sorry, what?" Harry deadpanned.
"The bond cannot be broken, Master, it can only be embraced."
Harry's left eye twitched.
"You're lying."
Death gave a hollow chuckle, "I wish I could agree with you."
Harry felt his patience snap at Death's terse replies and decided that it was time for another approach.
He inhaled sharply threw his nose, lifting his chin at that specific, haughty angle that he had learnt from all those years with Draco Malfoy as a classmate before speaking through gritted teeth: "Death, I am your Master and I command that you find a way to break this bond!"
There was a pause and Harry could have sworn on his life that he had just heard Voldemort snort quietly in amusement. Slowly, Harry turned his neck towards the megalomaniac wanker and glared at the seemingly innocent look he received in return.
If looks could kill, then Mr. He-Who-Was-Not-Hugged-Enough-As-A-Child would have died for a third time.
"I cannot change the bonds between soulmates, Master. Fate is the creator of these bonds and she has made them indestructible."
"So you're saying...that he," Harry paused, pointing a shaking finger at Voldemort, "my prophesied enemy, the killer of my parents...is my soulmate and that there is nothing I can do about it."
Death sighed, shoulders hunched forward dejectedly, "You are correct."
From the corner of his eye, Voldemort observed how Potter was having some sort of a mental breakdown or panic attack or whatever it was referred to these days. The boy had let out a noise which was a strange mix between a hysterical laugh and a broken sob, upon hearing Death’s reply. He then proceeded to drop his head and cover his concerningly flushed face with his hands and began to mutter unintelligibly to himself. Was the brat even speaking English? Honestly, how much longer would he continue this insufferable charade?
It was obvious that this was all another one of Death’s cruel tricks. He was probably resentful after discovering how Limbo had not been enough to break Lord Voldemort. So, of course, he was trying something else.
He must have been under the impression that bringing Harry Potter, the boy who had somehow managed to kill him, would enrage Voldemort. And to add insult to injury, the hooded brute thought that it would be funny to weave up this pathetic story of soulmates and bonds… Disgusting! Voldemort scrunched up his nose, resisting the childish urge to gag.
Soulmates were not real! There was no such thing! And even if by some miracle that they did exist - then Potter couldn’t possibly be his soulmate. He despised the obnoxious, little pest! Doesn’t the whole concept of soulmates revolve around love? And despite not knowing much about the topic, Voldemort was certain that lovers aren’t supposed to be craving to kill (or at least Crucio) each other.
As much as Voldemort would love to express his disdain on being held captive to listen to such nonsense, he could not afford to anger Death and be sent back to that dreadful Limbo that he had been trapped in for Merlin knows how long. For now, he would just have to wait and see where this whole bizarre performance would lead to.
"Master, please," Death finally spoke, "I must explain to you the task that Fate has set for you both."
Harry slowly lifted his head up, his hands sliding down his now slightly less red face as he fixed Death with a truly venomous glare.
"I want to speak to Fate."
"I'm afraid that is not possible, Master," Death replied, smoothly, further enraging the boy.
"Why. Not." He ground out through clenched teeth.
"Fate does not speak with humans."
"But I'm barely human!" Harry retorted, "I'm fucking immortal, for Merlin's sake!"
Voldemort's eyes snapped up at that second and before he could stop himself, he blurted out in shock.
"What? "
Potter, startled and turned to look at him, as if he had almost forgotten that he was in the presence of another. His visage of bewilderment quickly smoothed out into a nasty smirk.
"Yeah, you heard me," he spoke, green eyes shining with glee, "I'm immortal, Voldemort."
"You can't be," Voldemort frowned, his initial shock morphing into skepticism.
"Haven't you wondered why I haven't changed in the slightest since we last met?" Harry asked, raising a brow.
It was true. The boy, who should probably look more like a man now, still appeared as if he had freshly graduated Hogwarts. It was almost as if time had not passed since Voldemort's death.
"Forgive me for not jumping to conclusions," Voldemort sneered, "Besides, I know that you had never sought immortality, Potter, which is why it comes to me as a shock that you have chosen a path so similar to what mine had been."
Harry's face twisted into a scowl as he spat out, "I am nothing like you!" The words had been declared with so much hatred and vitrol that the boy's face had flushed into an even brighter shade of red than it had been before, his fists curling tightly at his sides. Voldemort grinned. Riling the boy up was just as fun as he remembered.
He watched as Potter closed his eyes, taking a deep inhale and exhale before opening them again, releasing the tension in his face as his lips quirked up into a bitter smile.
"You are right that I didn't seek immortality. It just came to me by luck. So how does that feel, Voldemort?" The boy taunted, his expression unnervingly neutral and devoid of all expression, "You had spent your whole life fearing Death so much that you tore up your own soul. And where did that get you?"
Voldemort did not respond, tearing his eyes away from the boy. He was certain that if he was alive then he would be feeling his own blood practically boiling under his skin.
That wretched fool. He will pay. He will pay for what he has done to Lord Voldemort.
"You died, " Harry chuckled, coldly, "After all of that effort and desperation, you lost your immorality. And me? I didn't even want it in the first place yet I have been gifted it. Ironic, huh?"
Voldemort resisted the urge to scream in outrage, to lunge forward and strangle Potter to death. Magic or no magic - he would find a way to kill the sanctimonious, meddling whelp. He dug his fingernails into his palm, so hard that if it had been possible then blood would have emerged from the broken skin.
He will pay. He will pay. I'll make him pay. The bloodthirsty, vengeful voice in his head chanted the mantra.
"Master," Death finally interrupted the tense stand off, and for once, Voldemort was actually grateful for his intervention. Because, truthfully, he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold himself back from pouncing onto Potter like a feral animal and ripping him into shreds. "May I explain the task to you?"
Harry, after taking out his anger on Voldemort, seemed much calmer than before as he gave Death a small nod.
“Fate had predicted that the two of you would not be very… accepting of the bond.”
”No shit, Sherlock,” Harry muttered under his breath and Voldemort raised a brow at the unusual reference, which was no doubt a Muggle one.
How could this pitiful plebeian ever be considered the ‘Saviour of the Wizarding World’, Voldemort thought, refraining from visibly sneering.
“Therefore,” Death continued, ignoring Potter’s quip, “she has decided that the best way for the two of you to willingly embrace the bond is by spending time together-”
”Now, wait just a second-”
”In Hogwarts,” Death finished, calmly cutting off his Master’s interruption.
Voldemort frowned, matching Potter’s perplexed expression.
“I don’t get it,” Harry asked, “Why Hogwarts?”
”I cannot explain in much detail but that is the destination that has been chosen for this task. You will attend Hogwarts together as students.”
Voldemort’s frown only deepened upon hearing the vague answer.
Students? At Hogwarts? Oh, Merlin, no. Absolutely not!
“So you want me to go back to Hogwarts…with Voldemort?” Harry questioned, scrunching up his nose, “Did I hear that right?”
“Yes, exactly.”
There was a long pause in which Potter and Death seemed to be having some sort of silent, staring duel before the rambunctious Gryffindor blurted out:
“Has Fate lost her mind?!”
“Well, Fate does not actually possess-”
”We’re gonna resurrect this genocidal maniac back into the world so that he can build up his stupid cult of blood supremacists again and start another fucking war?!”
Voldemort inadvertently felt his lips tug into a smile upon fantasising his glorious return into the Wizarding World, which, unsurprisingly, sent Potter into yet another spluttering, red-faced mess.
“Look, look at him!” The boy cried out, gesticulating wildly in Voldemort’s direction, “Did you see that?! He just smiled.”
Death sighed. “It is Fate’s decree, Master. We must accept.”
“Well, fuck Fate! I have sacrificed way too much in my life just to defeat Voldemort and I will not allow him to just pop back into the world so that he can pick up where he left off!”
“But he will not pick up where he left off. In fact, most of his Death Eaters or allies won’t be in existence in this time period. No one will have ever heard of the name Lord Voldemort.”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Death’s implications whilst Potter just gawked like the ill-bred idiot that he was.
“Time period? Hold up, what do you mean?”
”Ah, did I forget to mention? The two of you will be sent back in time,” Death replied, airily, as if he was discussing the weather with a colleague, “I believe Fate said somewhere in the 1940s. Anyways, I should really hurry this along.” With that he began to raise his skeletal arms, black sparks emitting from his fingertips.
“Wait, no, absolutely not!” Harry exclaimed, “I refuse! Death, stop whatever you’re doing!”
Death did not stop. The sparks began to crawl down across the floor like black tendrils, reaching out towards them.
“That will not be possible,” Death muttered and Voldemort could not suppress his shudder as a tendril wrapped around his leg and crawled up his body. Potter seemed to be a similar situation.
“Death, I am your Master-”
“And Fate is the Mistress of us all,” Death countered, solemnly.
Whatever came out of the boy’s mouth next, Voldemort could not hear it. The tendrils, that had now fully encased his body, had slithered up his neck and began to wrap around his head. A faint buzzing noise echoed in his ears, gradually increasing in volume as it slid over his mouth, his forehead and, finally, his eyes.
And that’s when everything turned black.
Notes:
okay bye.
Chapter 5: wrong place, wrong time
Chapter Text
Harry's eyes cracked open. He blinked blearily, his head span, his muscles ached. Everything was so bright. Why was everything so bright? The brightness dulled and he could see a familiar staircase on his right, which was slowly shifting in a different direction. He never did understand the point of moving stairs. It was sort of annoying, to be honest, since you couldn’t control when and where the stairs would move.
His memories felt all fuzzy and jumbled. He recognised the stairs and the building that he was currently inside but he just couldn’t think of a name to match it with. A ginger-haired man in hideously bright, purple robes hurried towards him, anxiously, as Harry had to crane his sore neck up to meet his gaze. Why the hell was he upside down?
The man had called over a boy and was ordering him to do something. He couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying as his voice was all muffled, however, he could make out a few of the words.
“Hospital…Pomfrey…quickly.”
Hospital? Was he injured?
A sudden wave of vertigo washed over him and Harry felt himself slipping out of consciousness as more and more people gathered around him, some concerned whilst others were snickering. Rude. He wanted to tell them all to fuck off but the words came out as a choked garble, which made a few of the younger boys giggle even more.
Who were they? Students? None of them looked familiar to Harry. However, there was something about the ginger man that made him feel a bit uneasy. Images of a big and decorated office, lemon drops and twinkling blue eyes flooded his mind. A few more memories began to return but they didn’t get very far, as the world around Harry started to spin.
Something’s not right, he thought to himself before finally closing his eyes.
The next time he woke, he was lying on a hospital bed and a stern woman with tied up blonde hair was watching him, speculatively.
“Ah good, you’re up,” she said, her voice clipped and professional. Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain he felt at the back of his head.
“How’s the pain?” The woman asked, her sharp eyes narrowing at him.
“It’s alright,” Harry replied, his voice sounding hoarse and scratchy, “Head hurts a bit.”
“Yes, I should assume so. You did have quite a nasty fall there.”
Fall? When did he fall? Before he could ask, the door swung open and two men walked in. The older one looked frail and had white, wispy hair. The one trailing behind him was the same ginger man that he had seen before. And suddenly Harry remembered.
Dumbledore.
The name brought back with it many, many memories and everything began to slot back in place. It was as if a bookshelf inside his mind was being reorganised in chronological order. When the more recent recollection of events returned to him, Harry felt his eyes widen.
Shit.
He was in Hogwarts. He was in the 1940s.
Voldemort was here too.
Harry almost fell out of the bed before Pomfrey grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back against the headboard.
“Careful now, boy,” she chided, “Wouldn’t want you to have another fall.”
“Ah, it’s good to see you up again Mr…” Dumbledore trailed off, before giving Harry a polite smile, “My apologies, you might have to remind me of your name again.”
“Hartvik Evans, sir,” he replied instinctively, saying his first name in a startlingly thick Swedish accent that he didn’t even know he could do.
What the fuck?
Hartvik? Where did he get that from?
All of a sudden, information about Hartvik Evans, his new persona, popped up into Harry’s mind. He was born in England on the 31st July, 1927, to his pure-blood Swedish mother, Brita Friberg, and his muggle-born English father, Orson Evans. His parents had both worked for the Ministry and had been killed by Grindelwald’s followers in 1933, when Hartvik was just six years old. He then moved to Sweden to live with his maternal grandparents before returning back to England, a week ago, so that he could enrol at Hogwarts as a fifth-year transfer student.
“Hartvik,” Dumbledore repeated and despite Harry not actually being Swedish, he couldn’t help but cringe at the poor pronunciation of his new name.
“I usually go by Harry, sir,” he corrected.
“You’re the new transfer student, aren’t you, Harry?” The other man, who began to look increasingly familiar, asked and Harry gave a hesitant nod. “Excellent. My name is Armando Dippet and I am the headmaster here at Hogwarts.”
Dippet! Of course! Harry’s mind wandered back to the portraits of the previous Hogwarts headmasters in Dumbledore’s office, Dippet being among them.
“We are all very pleased to have you here,” Dippet continued, jovially, before adding with a small chuckle, “Although, I’m sorry that your first day didn’t go quite as planned.” Harry flushed slightly, remembering how he was awkwardly sprawled out at the bottom of the stairs, being laughed at by some Second Years.
Fuck you, Death.
“Never the matter, I assure you that Hogwarts will feel like a home to you and if you ever need any help, don’t hesitate to reach out to Professor Dumbledore or I.”
Harry glanced over at Dumbledore who watched him with those twinkling, blue eyes of his. It was surreal seeing him look so much younger, with his tied-up auburn hair and barely wrinkled skin. Harry felt a pang of grief when he remembered what it felt like, watching the green light of the killing curse hit the man, the twinkle in his eyes fading as he succumbed to death.
Looking away from Dumbledore, Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat before forcing a smile at Dippet.
"Thank you, sir.”
“No problem, Mr Evans. Rest for now and tomorrow we shall get you sorted into your house.”
Harry nodded and watched the two men leave before releasing the breath he didn’t even know he had been holding.
What the fuck was going on?
Harry spent the rest of the day rewinding his conversation with Death in Limbo and came to the conclusion that this whole thing was some sort of sick cosmic joke and that Fate had a fucked up sense of humour.
Oh and there was the small, teensy tiny problem of a resurrected Dark Lord on the loose.
Brilliant.
Sighing, Harry leaned back against the headboard, picking up a glass that had been left on the side-table. He gazed at the reflection of himself in the water and grimaced. He looked exactly as he had when he was fifteen - short and skinny. All those years he had spent, after the battle, building up a more attractive and muscular physique seemed to have gone to waste.
Oh well, it could have been a lot worse. At least I’m not blond!
Harry shuddered, imagining a blonde version of himself to match the Swedish-English ethnicity of Hartvik Evans. It reminded him of Malfoy.
He wanted to laugh at the similarities between Hartvik and his own tragic backstory. Both of them were half-bloods and both were orphans because their parents had been killed by a Dark Lord. Not to mention, the fact that “Evans” had been Harry’s mother’s maiden name and ‘coincidentally’ it was Hartvik’s father’s last name.
Nicely played, Fate, Harry thought, ruefully, But just you wait - your sick game will be over soon, once I find a way to travel back home.
Without warning, the glass in his hand exploded from an accidental burst of magic, a few shards slicing his palm whilst most of the shattered fragments fell onto his lap, water drenching the bed sheets around him. Harry startled, mouth involuntarily gaping open.
“What the fu -”
“Are you alright?” A soft voice beside him interrupted . Harry jerked backwards, almost falling off the bed but, thankfully, he caught himself right on time. A few beds across, there was another boy, watching him intently with a frown.
“When did you get here?!” Harry blurted out before his lethargic brain had gotten the chance to process what he had just said.
Oh Merlin, I said that out loud, didn’t I?
Luckily, the boy didn’t seem offended and instead his lips curled up into an amused smile as he chuckled.
“I’ve been here all day actually, even before you came in, but thanks for noticing.”
Fuck. Harry seriously hoped he wasn’t blushing right now but he very much doubted that. Besides, how was he supposed to explain that: yes, he had been awake in the hospital bed for the past four hours, and, no, he had not once realised that he wasn’t alone in the room.
But could he really be blamed? He wasn’t usually this unaware of his surroundings. Maybe it was the whole time-travel, soulmates-with-his-mortal-enemy charade that was making him absolutely lose it.
“Er sorry about that,” Harry finally said, scratching the back of his head, with a sheepish grin, “It’s been one hell of a day.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” the boy responded, pulling a book up into his lap and attempting to keep a neutral expression, however, the twitching corners of his mouth gave him away.
Damn it, he knows about the stairs, doesn’t he?
Harry wanted to say something, anything really, to save whatever small shred of dignity he had left but ultimately decided against it.
There’s no hope , he thought, glumly, I’ll just have to be known as the new guy who fell down the stairs on his first day.
Harry glanced over at the boy, realising that they hadn’t actually introduced themselves yet. Upon observation, he realised that the boy’s features looked awfully familiar and although Harry had obviously never met him before - he definitely reminded him of a certain someone .
No, it can’t be…could it?
“Excuse me, but what did you say your name was again?”
Harry watched as the boy looked up from his book, hints of embarrassment washing over his nonchalant face.
“Ah, sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,” he muttered, with an apologetic smile, “I’m Orion. Orion Black.”
There was a long and painfully awkward silence, in which Harry stared at Orion and Orion stared back at him, albeit for different reasons.
Harry was busy, trying not to completely ‘lose his shit’ , so to speak, as his brain short-circuited and a hysterical voice inside of his head screeched: HOLY SHIT, I’M TALKING TO SIRIUS’ DAD! On the other hand, Orion, bless his oblivious soul, was patiently waiting for Harry to pull himself together and converse like a normal human being. When it became clear that Harry wasn’t planning on doing that anytime soon, he cleared his throat and decided to take the lead.
“Are you alright? You’re looking quite pale. If you want, I can call Madam Pomfrey over.”
After those words were spoken, Harry finally snapped out of his embarrassingly long stupor and hastily shook his head.
“No! You don’t need to that,” he replied, with an almost crazed laugh (because what the actual fuck had become of his life?), “I’m good! It’s all good, heh!”
Orion watched him, with a blank expression that didn’t give much away except for the judgmental and curious glint in his eyes. And that’s when Harry realised that Orion was not that alike to Sirius. Sure, they both had the same dark hair, grey eyes and were tall, however, Orion was more ordinary looking whilst Sirius had this mysterious, handsome charm to him.
Appearances aside, the biggest difference between the two had to be their behaviours. Sirius was like an open-book. He wore all of his emotions on his face and had a fiery, reckless sort of personality. Although not being very acquainted with Orion yet, Harry could tell that he was more guarded with his emotions and, at times, was teetering on the edge of being ‘shy’.
He shouldn’t really be giving it too much thought, to be honest. Especially considering that he had no intention of staying in this timeline and was hoping to return back home as soon as possible. But there was something about Orion that gave Harry comfort. Despite the boy not seeming to be much like Sirius, he was probably the closest reminder of Harry’s brave godfather, whose death he had never really gotten over.
So, it was at that moment, Harry decided that for whatever little time he would spend in the 1940s - he was going to befriend Orion Black.
“I’m Hartvik Evans, by the way,” he said, noticing that Orion had long returned to reading his book again, “But you can call me Harry.”
Orion peered up at him, a quick flash of excitement shone in his eyes before he quickly schooled his features.
“You’re the new transfer student from Switzerland, aren’t you?”
“Sweden, actually, but yes.”
“My apologies,” Black smiled, with those perfect pureblood manners of his (another thing that contrasted highly with Sirius), “Since you’re here, you mustn’t have been given a proper tour of the school yet, have you?
Harry shook his head which only served in making the other boy’s ill-concealed excitement grow.
“Great!” He exclaimed before flushing at his own abruptness and correcting himself, “I-I mean we’re both in the same year and you must have so many questions about Hogwarts, right?”
“Er…sure. I have tons,” Harry lied, mostly to observe the other boy’s reaction. As expected, he looked absolutely overjoyed and promptly offered to answer any of Harry’s questions and tell him everything about the school.
They spent the rest of the day talking about Hogwarts in which Orion explained who the best teachers were (apparently, Orion wasn’t a huge fan of Slughorn), what subjects were available, which students were the nicest and so on, so forth. During their conversation, Harry had learnt more things about Orion. Firstly, he was a huge nerd and could happily talk about anything academic all day long, if given the chance. Almost like Hermione. Secondly, he absolutely loved Hogwarts, expressing his appreciation over every little thing, such as the owlery or the high quality of the beds in the dorms. Thirdly, his initial shyness and hesitancy seemed to wear off as their conversations progressed, showing that he was the type that needed a bit of warming up to, in order for him to lower his guards. And, lastly, a thing that Harry was most grateful for was that he was not another snobby, pureblood supremacist (cough, cough Malfoy ) and he did not seem to care much about blood status, even after finding out that Harry was a half-blood himself.
Eventually, Madam Pomfrey had to come over and tell them both to be quiet since their talking was disrupting the other patients who were trying to sleep. After she blew the candles out and Harry had said goodnight to Orion, he lay in his bed, his eyes starting to droop shut from exhaustion.
He let out a deep sigh, pulling a blanket over himself and almost immediately going to sleep.
And so he did…
For a few seconds, at most.
Before his eyes snapped open and he realised that he hadn’t actually considered two very major problems:
Where was Voldemort?
And, more importantly, what was he up to?
The next morning, Harry was discharged from the Hospital Wing with a bandaged head and had been told to avoid any physical activities for the next couple of weeks and to be particularly careful around stairs (and this time, Orion hadn’t even tried to hold back his laughter. Fucker.)
After thanking Madam Pomfrey, he had began his search for Voldemort. And, although, there was probably a million other things that he would rather do instead of having to see that bastard again - his conscience just wouldn’t let him. Because, despite looking like his teenage self, Voldemort was a hundred times more of a threat than Tom Riddle could have ever been. Not only did he have years of experience with dark magic and whatever creepy shit he got up to in general - it was also highly likely that he would be even more vengeful and furious than before. After the war, Harry had asked Death, out of curiosity, about what happened to Voldemort. All Death had told him was that the former Dark Lord was having 'lots of fun'. Knowing Death’s hatred of Voldemort, not to mention the sadistic streak he had, it wasn’t hard to guess what he meant by ‘fun’.
Harry just seriously hoped that Voldemort hadn’t gone on a killing spree yet. It could be devastating for the future and he didn’t want to return back to his timeline and suddenly find that his best friends didn’t exist or something crazy like that. Harry shuddered at the thought.
He had to find Voldemort. And he had to do it fast.
But where the hell was he? Harry was looking around for him everywhere and also keeping an eye out for any clues. So far there was no destruction or dead bodies in sight which was slightly reassuring.
“Harry, there you are!” A hand reached out and grabbed his shoulder from behind. Instinctively, Harry span around, pulling out his wand and thrusting it into the offender’s neck.
The ‘offender’ was Orion.
Whoops.
“Er sorry about that,” Harry cleared his throat, taking a step back from his very wide-eyed friend, “I thought you were…you know what, never mind. What’s up?”
Orion blinked at him with an expression similar to that of the one he had worn when he first met Harry. The sort you would wear when talking to a raving lunatic. Lovely.
“I was going to take you to the Great Hall, remember?”
”Great Hall?” Harry frowned, “Why would we go there?”
“To have breakfast and get you sorted into your house,” Orion said, slowly, raising a disbelieving eyebrow, “I told you all of this just a while ago before you wandered off somewhere.”
“Oh,” Harry muttered, half-distracted as his eyes darted around to scan through the group of Slytherins walking in their direction. No sign of Riddle. “Must have slipped my mind.”
Orion opened his mouth like he wanted to ask something before closing it and shaking his head.
“Alright, come on. We’re already late,” he said. Harry held back a sigh before joining the other boy in making their way towards the Hall.
As they walked, Orion explained to Harry about the Sorting Hat and all the different houses. He insisted that getting sorted was a very crucial thing and the house he ends up in could significantly impact his social standing in school.
“I’m not too bothered,” Harry spoke up after a while, struggling to contain his smugness, “I already know where I’m going to end up.”
”Really?”
“Yep,” he responded, popping the ‘p’ with enthusiasm, “I’ll be in Gryffindor, obviously.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Orion questioned and Harry fantasised how funny it would be to try and explain to him that he had already been sorted into a house, fifty years from now. If Orion didn’t already think he was crazy, then he definitely would after that.
“Just a feeling,” he gave a lazy shrug before the two of them pushed open the doors to the Hall and trailed inside.
It was just as he remembered it. Big and bustling with floating candles, an enchanted ceiling and fully packed with noisy students on each of the four large tables. Harry swallowed down a lump.
He had no idea how much he had missed this.
As soon as he stepped into the Hall, Dippet, who was standing at the front, behind his golden lectern, noticed him immediately before he cast a Sonorus on himself and ordered everyone to be silent. Thousands of curious eyes locked onto Harry as he slowly walked towards the Headmaster. Orion whispered him a 'good luck' before he sat down at the Slytherin table.
Poor bloke, Harry thought, eyeing the sneering pure-bloods sitting next to him.
He could hear students whispering among themselves as he passed by them and the amount of attention he was receiving was doing wonders for his social anxiety. If only he hadn't fallen down the stairs yesterday and that way he could have been sorted with the First years.
"Everyone, we have a new transfer-student joining us this year," Dippet announced when Harry reached the front, "His name is Hartvik Evans and he will be starting his fifth-year. I trust that you shall all make him feel welcome here at Hogwarts."
"Sit here, dear boy, and we'll get you sorted into your house," Dumbledore smiled, as he motioned Harry to sit down on the stool next to him before placing the raggedy Sorting Hat onto his head.
Ah, well this is most unusual, The Sorting Hat spoke into his mind, it is good to see you again, Harry Potter.
Wait, hold up, you know who I am?
The Hat chuckled. Of course I do, Master of Death. I believe I will meet you fifty years from now.
Harry frowned. That made no sense. How could the Hat know what would happen in the future? Or, perhaps, it was just reading his mind and taking the information from there?
It could be either, the Hat voiced, sounding far too smug.
Okay, fine, whatever. Just hurry up and put me in Gryffindor. I have things to do. Harry demanded, impatiently, eyes still searching through the hundreds of students for his target.
Gryffindor? Very sure of yourself, aren’t you?
Well, yeah, where else would I be? Harry asked, furrowing his brows. He was definitely a Gryffindor, through and through. Heck, he had even been presented Godric Gryffindor’s Sword twice! There couldn’t possibly be anyone more ‘Gryffindor’ than him!
When I first met you, do you remember what I said?
Harry’s eyes widened.
Oh fuck no.
You would be great in Slytherin. You have plenty of potential. Besides, you've already been in Gryffindor. Why not try something different for a change?
No, not Slytherin, please. Harry begged.
I'm afraid that's not going to work this time, Harry. The Hat chuckled before announcing loudly:
"Better be...SLYTHERIN!"
There was some half-hearted applause from the students on Slytherin table, most of them seem unbothered or unimpressed by him, which was strange to witness. When he had been a student at Hogwarts before, people were much more interested in him and he remembered clearly how many of them, even Malfoy, had tried to befriend him. But now that he wasn't 'the famous Harry Potter' or 'the Boy Who Lived' - it was as if he didn't matter anymore. After all, Hartvik Evans wasn't anyone special.
Dragging his feet over to the 'den of snakes', Harry was greeted by a grinning Orion who gestured for him to sit in the seat to his right.
"What happened to being in Gryffindor?" He teased.
"Shove off," Harry grumbled, burying his head into his hands as Dippet continued with the announcements. He half listened to the conversations of the Slytherins besides him but quickly tuned out once he got bored of hearing about their snobby, rich lives. Fucking hat. Harry didn't think he was above sneaking into the Headmaster's office and setting the bloody thing on fire. And, ironically, the worst part of the whole day was that there was still no sign of Riddle which was the only reason he was still sticking around at Hogwarts. Harry could vaguely recognise some faces of the students around him, mostly because he remembered seeing them in the Pensieve memories with Dumbledore. They were part of Voldemort's little school gang. Yet the 'leader' himself was not present.
Strange.
Harry finished his breakfast quickly and excused himself from the Hall, with a feeling of growing nausea. He still had no idea how he was to get back to his time period or if he could even get back.
No, don't be stupid, he mentally scolded himself, of course you'll find your way back. You have to.
But since it was Fate and Death who had sent him here in the first place, would they really have made it that easy for him to return? Would a simple time turner really be enough? Heck, if it wasn't, then he would just have to build his very own time machine because he'd be damned if he spent another minute here with an alive Voldemort! Harry resisted the urge to groan out loud as he thought about the newly resurrected Dark Lord. Why couldn't that bastard have just stayed dead? Because, even if Harry did travel back to the future, things could have changed drastically now that Voldemort was alive and probably rewriting all of history.
The best solution would be to kill him first and then return home, Harry mused.
But where the hell was he? Harry had searched the library, nearly every classroom, the Slytherin common room, the dorms, the Quidditch pitch, the owlery, the bathrooms, the Astronomy Wing and even the Room of Requirement.
And still no success.
Could it be that Voldemort had already escaped Hogwarts whilst Harry was stuck in the Hospital Wing? If that were the case, then he could be anywhere, doing Merlin knows what! Maybe he was building up an army of new Death Eaters? Or maybe he had partnered up with Grindelwald and his followers? Or maybe-
THUD!
"Ow! Watch where you're-" Harry choked on his words before he could finish, eyes locking with the boy he had just walked head-first into.
It was Tom fucking Riddle.
Chapter 6: baby death eaters and voldemort’s god complex
Chapter Text
Voldemort always knew he was special, in every stage of his life.
As a child at the orphanage, he openly rebelled against Mrs Cole's or the other matron's incessant demands of doing meaningless ‘chores’ and socialising with the other orphans. And why shouldn’t he have? They were all inferior to him. He didn’t have to be told that he was a wizard to know he was their better.
A lord among ordinary peasants.
When he had studied at Hogwarts, he may have changed his approach but not his mindset. The professors thought of him as the ‘charming, perfect Tom Riddle’. A bright, young boy who always did as he was told. The fools. Falling victim to his effortless manipulations. His classmates may have all been wizards as well, but it was without a doubt that he outshone them all.
A king among a society of lords.
Once he had graduated, he slowly yet successfully began to build up his power. He secured his Horcruxes, mastered feats of impossible magic, formed his ranks and created his empire. Eventually, Tom Riddle had died and Lord Voldemort had been born.
An emperor among envious kings.
Word spread, his name on the headlines, fear embodied in the hearts of all - regardless of whether they were his followers or foes. They didn’t dare speak his name. For he was too powerful. Too transcendent compared to them. He was Fate's favourite. Unstoppable. Invincible. Immortal.
A God among worshipping emperors.
And then came the boy. An infant. A mere baby. A mockery and ridicule of Lord Voldemort’s powers. When Severus had given him news of the prophecy - he was nothing short of outraged at its ridiculous implications.
How ever could a talentless, ignorant nobody be marked his equal?
At first, he could not believe it. He assumed that it was a fake. A ploy designed to undermine his rule. To humiliate him.
But there had always been a slither of doubt that perhaps it was the truth. Perhaps, he needed to take heed of the prophecy and the warnings presented to him.
And so he did.
On the night of October 31st, 1981 - Voldemort cast the killing curse on Harry Potter.
On that same night - he died.
Voldemort had many years to reflect, whilst being held captive in Limbo. During those rare and blessed times that he was not being terrorised by Death or his cruel illusions, he was often paid a visit by someone - or, rather, something.
He remembered it clearly - a stag, made purely out of a bright, blinding light. Whenever it came, all the other horrors that Death sent to torment Voldemort on a daily basis would disappear temporarily. Besides that, the stag didn’t do much. It didn’t speak either. Instead, it just simply stood next to him, acting as a beacon of light in the dark, misty void and offering him reprieve from the continuous and eternal psychological torture that he had been doomed to face.
Voldemort often used these breaks to close his eyes and recount every small detail of his life, even the ones that he would have preferred to forget such as his miserable childhood, and made a mental list of what things he would have done differently and how.
Looking back, he had realised that leaving that old Potions master Slughorn alive had been a mistake. Perhaps, if he had killed the man and erased all evidence of his interest in Horcruxes then maybe Dumbledore and Potter would not have discovered his secret. On the other hand, even if they still did find out about the Horcruxes then it would have been best for him to have found better locations for hiding them.
Another thing he would have changed would be the level of trust he kept in some Death Eaters. Cowards and traitors such as Malfoy (and his whole family) and Severus should never have been given so much trust. Voldemort had to admit that it was a bit of an oversight on his part.
And lastly, or perhaps most importantly, he would have changed how he dealt with Harry Potter.
There had been many chances to finish off the boy. For example, he could have been killed easily, on the night of Voldemort’s resurrection ritual, when he had been tied up to Riddle Sr’s gravestone, utterly helpless and vulnerable.
Another good opportunity would have been in the Forest, when he had cast the killing curse on Potter, who had yet again miraculously survived. Perhaps if he had checked the boy for signs of life himself instead of trusting Narcissa, then he could have dealt with the problem accordingly.
Alas, all that time, effort and energy spent in becoming someone extraordinary had ended as a waste. It seemed that Lord Voldemort, a God among worshipping emperors, was not in fact Fate's favourite. At least, that's what he had thought when he spent those countless years in Limbo, with nothing to do but think and pity himself and his failures and rage over that blasted prophecy and The-Boy-Who-Just-Wouldn't-Die...
However, as Voldemort lay sprawled on his back in the Forbidden Forest, heart beating steadily beneath his ribs and newly regained magic thrumming through his veins, he decided that maybe - just maybe - Fate didn't completely hate him, after all.
He stood up slowly and carefully, like a newborn foal learning how to walk for the first time, stunned of all the things that he could actually, physically feel. The wind brushing against his hair, the shining sunlight which made him squint his eyes, the smell of damp earth and vegetation - it felt sublime. Before he could get too indulged in the delightful sensations, the sound of someone clearing their throat from behind had him snapped out of his reverie and spinning around in an instant.
There stood an intimidatingly tall man, even taller than what Voldemort had been in his serpentine form, looking down at him, lips curled up in a faint smirk. He had slick-backed, black hair tied up in a small bun and a clean shaven face. His age could not be determined - he looked as though he could be anywhere between as young as twenty or in his late fifties. He was dressed head to toe in a black Muggle suit and matching shoes, yet everything about him practically screamed magic and power and danger…
"Hello, Tom," he greeted, voice monotonous and deep.
“Who are you?” Voldemort snapped, desperately wishing he had a wand in hand. He had been stuck in Limbo for so long, therefore he very much doubted that relying purely on his wandless magic would suffice.
The man chuckled, a cold, emotionless sound, as he stepped forward, the sunlight illuminating his timeless features. However, it seemed as though the light could not penetrate through his eyes - even under the sun, they remained an unnatural jet black, the colour of the irises completely matching the pupils.
“I thought that we were acquainted enough for you to recognise me, Tom.”
“You’re Death,” Voldemort concluded, after a moment of thought, eyes raking up and down the seven foot figure in front of him.
The man Death simply smiled in return, black eyes boring into him as if he could see right through his flesh and into his soul.
He probably can, Voldemort mused.
There was a silence, in which Voldemort had to physically restrain himself from cowering under Death’s intense and calculating gaze. Thankfully, the moment was interrupted by a small squeaking sound as a crow fell down from a tree, landing on the ground between them with a soft thud.
It was dead.
In a manner of pure instinct, Death’s tongue shot out of his mouth, stretching itself until it was almost ten feet long, so that it could touch the bird’s chest. Voldemort watched with morbid curiosity as a blue-white glowing orb was dragged out of the fragile body and attached itself onto the tip of the inhuman appendage. The tongue then pulled away after a few seconds, swiftly disappearing back into the deity’s mouth as he swallowed the small orb, similar to how a frog would catch a fly.
Voldemort felt nauseous.
“Why are you here?” He hesitantly asked after a while, trying to distract himself from fixating too much on Death’s soul-eating abilities.
Death licked the corner of his lips with a tongue that (thankfully) was back to the normal, human length as he raised a thick brow.
”You didn’t really think,” he began slowly, “that I would trust you that easily, did you?”
When Voldemort did not reply, he continued.
“Do you have any idea how infuriating you have been?” Death spoke, glaring with those obsidian eyes, “It was already enough of a hassle having to piece back your broken soul when you died and now having to resurrect you...” He paused, letting out a long suffering sigh, rubbing a weary hand on his temple - a gesture that looked so ironically human. "If you know what's good for you, Riddle, you won't make the same mistakes this time around."
Voldemort gave a small nod in response, unsure of how else one was supposed to react when being threatened by a ruthless entity that had been tyrannising you for the past several years.
Death looked at him for a few more seconds, with his dark, bottomless eyes before straightening up his suit jacket and rolling back his shoulders with a self-satisfied smirk.
"I suppose that's all for now," he muttered, already turning on his heel to leave.
"I presume we'll be meeting again soon, then?" Voldemort called after him, against his better judgement, with confidence that he did not particularly feel.
Death paused momentarily, turning his head to the side so that the small curl of his lip was visible.
"Perhaps."
Voldemort rigidly stood in place, watching the omnipotent deity’s retreating back until he had disappeared fully before glancing over at the corpse of the crow and grimacing. Its small beak remained parted and the lifeless beady eyes were open and unseeing.
It really was a sickening sight.
He did, in fact, see Death again that day. A lot sooner than he had expected (and hoped for).
The entity disguised as a tall, imposing man sat at the Head’s table, eyes surveying through the Great Hall and often landing on Voldemort with a smirk. He was sitting between Binns and Slughorn, and the latter of the two was undoubtedly attempting to engage in meaningless small talk with him and had a dejected frown when his ministrations weren’t returned.
Pathetic, Voldemort thought, scathingly.
What was even more pathetic was being forced to be surrounded by these petulant, snivelling teenagers who had nothing better to discuss other than the latest Quidditch game or how many galleons their precious fathers had so generously donated to charity this month.
Voldemort had forgotten how much he hated all of them.
However, he supposed not all of his housemates were completely dreadful. His inner circle of companions were somewhat more tolerable.
They were the original Death Eaters.
Better known as: The Knights of Walpurgis.
Although, they probably weren’t aware of that title yet as he hadn’t given them the name until after the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.
"Hey, Tom?"
Ah, yet another inconvenience. He hadn't introduced his new moniker of Voldemort until the start of his sixth year and therefore would have to tolerate being addressed by that despicable muggle name. He definitely would have to deal with that soon.
"What is it, Lestrange?" Voldemort sighed, eyeing the dark haired boy sitting across from him. He could not, for the life of him, remember all of his companions' useless names. He had, upon arrival to Hogwarts, called Lestrange Rodolphus and called Dolohov Antonin. They had looked at him like he had gone mad.
"Dumbledore's looking at you again."
Voldemort turned to the Head's table, where unsurprisingly the not-so-old-anymore coot was looking at him, skeptically. He made sure to send a nasty glare back to the gaudily-dressed infuriating nuisance, who in return tensed and deepened his frown. Dumbledore had been the one who had seen him come from the direction of the Forbidden Forest this morning and therefore was keeping an even closer watch than he normally would have. Voldemort smiled slightly, fantasising how, this time, he would personally kill the old fool himself. It certainly wouldn’t be a quick death. No, it would be long and painful and pleasantly agonising. Perhaps he shall Crucio him into insanity until he is nothing but a shell of his former self. Or maybe, he will Imperio him into gouging his own eyes out and chopping off each of his limbs.
If you know what's good for you, Riddle, you won't make the same mistakes this time around.
Oh, right.
Death.
Voldemort gritted his teeth in annoyance, resisting the urge to glance over at the table again and look into those unnerving, black eyes.
As much as he wanted to reclaim his title of Lord Voldemort as soon as possible and take revenge on all of his enemies - he knew that it would be difficult with Death keeping an eye on him.
He needed to be clever about this.
Because he could not go back to that dreadful Limbo again.
“Students, please settle down!” A voice belonging to that doddery old Dippet announced from the front of the Hall as Voldemort silently seethed in indignation of having to be addressed as a student again.
He was the most feared Dark Lord of the century, for Salazar’s sake, not a bloody teenager!
“Tom!” Mulciber whispered excitedly, nudging him in the ribs with his brutish strength.
”What?” Voldemort snapped, barely holding back from sending out an Avada Kedavra for the boy’s insolence.
“Lucretia Black is making eyes at you again!”
Oh Merlin.
This was going to be a painfully long day.
Voldemort sat freely on the chaise in the common room, eyes closed and ears blocking out the inane drivel of his ridiculous companions around him as they yammered on about exams and balls and girls and Merlin knows what nonsense.
He needed some time to collect his thoughts together.
Dippet's announcements had revealed that Death was going to be masquerading as the new Divinations Professor at Hogwarts. No doubt, this was done so that he could keep Voldemort under surveillance around the school. It was a good thing he had never bothered taking Divination as a subject, though. Nevertheless, Death remained a threat to his existence and he needed to be cautious to not upset the being lest he end up in Limbo again.
He shuddered at the thought.
Next thing that needed to be determined was how long he planned to stay at Hogwarts. He had already gone through an entire day of useless lessons that he had absolutely no interest in. Additionally, he was now the Fifth year Prefect, a title that had once meant so much to him in his youth and was now serving to be an inconvenience since he was receiving lots of unnecessary attention from the professors. The main question that remained was should he persevere, complete his full education and leave in due time so that there is less suspicion? It certainly would look highly abnormal for him to pack up and leave now since he was, unfortunately, an orphaned child again. The wiser option would be for him to wait until he had reached the legal age of adulthood before making any bold decisions, as he did still have the Trace on his person.
Lastly, another problem was his wand. He had no idea where it was. Summoning it did not work either and he had looked through his belongings in the dormitory too. It was nowhere to be seen.
That certainly would not do.
Before he could ask demand one of the Knights to lend him their wand for the time being, the doors of the common room swung open and in stepped a woman that Voldemort could not forget, no matter how much he desired to.
Walburga Black.
"Cousin," Lucretia greeted her, standing up from her chair with a worried frown, "How's Orion doing? I heard he was poorly so he went to the Hospital Wing.”
"He's fine," Walburga replied, waving a dismissive hand before her lips curled up into their signature sneer, "We have a much bigger problem than that."
”Oh? And what is that?” A girl beside Lucretia inquired. Voldemort could not remember her name or the pureblood family she was from.
“A new transfer student joining the Fifth years,” Walburga scrunched up her long, powdered nose before uttering the name with as much disgust as one could physically muster, “Hartvik Evans.”
“Sounds like a Mudblood,” another boy scoffed.
“Exactly. We should hope that he doesn’t get sorted into our house,” Walburga sniffed before giving Voldemort a sidelong glance, “The last thing we need is another Mudblood.”
Oh, how he wished that he had gotten the chance to kill the pretentious, miserable wench himself. It would be a fitting death for the way the woman had taunted and looked down upon him for most of his school years. Sadly, dragon pox had gotten to her first before he could. However, he would make sure to amend that, this time around.
Voldemort turned back to face where his Knights sat, bar from Mulciber and Dolohov who had retired early for the night, after growing tired of listening to Walburga’s obnoxious voice.
”Abraxas and I saw the transfer student before assembly,” Nott said, before adding with a smirk, “He fell down a whole flight of stairs and Dumbledore had to take him to the Hospital Wing!”
The others laughed at this and even Voldemort allowed himself a small smile at the amusing news. Hearing other people’s misfortunes was rather therapeutic, after all.
“I’d bet each of you ten galleons that he’ll be a Hufflepuff,” Avery grinned, before Lestrange argued that the boy would definitely be a Ravenclaw since they always had their noses stuck in their books and therefore were the clumsiest of all houses.
“I think you’re both wrong,” Abraxas Malfoy interjected, tucking a long strand of platinum blond hair behind his ear. Voldemort almost grimaced at the sight of him. He reminded him of Lucius. “He’ll be in Gryffindor. I can tell by his appalling taste in accessories.”
“Oh, right, I almost forgot!” Nott laughed, clapping his hands in delight before leaning towards the other Knights, “His glasses are hideous - they’re practically circles.”
Voldemort felt himself tense up at this, a sense of dread and shock beginning to fill him.
“And his hair was absolutely dreadful!” Malfoy continued, oblivious to his inner turmoil, “I’ve seen house-elves mid-flogging look better put together!”
Round glasses. Messy hair.
Oh no.
“What colour was his hair?” He finally asked, after finding his voice. The Knights all turned to him with varying levels of incredulous expressions on their faces.
“Black, I think,” Nott responded, raising an eyebrow questioningly.
Voldemort swallowed, the saliva suddenly feeling very thick and heavy in his throat.
”And his eyes?”
Nott shrugged at this, turning to Malfoy for help. Malfoy furrowed his brows, looking deep in thought before answering.
“I think they may have been green.”
Voldemort jolted up at that, almost knocking over the small table in front of him and causing his Knights to all stand too as they asked him if he was alright. He ignored all of them as thoughts and worries raced through his mind.
How could he have forgotten about Harry Potter in his excitement of finally being alive again?
Here he was, making plans for his future, whilst the boy, who had been the biggest obstacle to his total success and his vanquisher, was in this very castle with him.
Not to mention, that he had also somehow managed to secure the title of Master of Death, as well.
Voldemort took a few breaths to calm himself to sit down again and think rationally about this difficult situation.
He never thought of Potter as very powerful. Very lucky? Yes - annoyingly so. But powerful? Not as much as himself, that was definite.
However, the title of Master of Death said otherwise. He didn’t know much about it nor what it entailed, as he had always assumed that it was a silly myth. However, anyone with half a brain could deduce that this must be a position of very high power.
“I need a wand,” Voldemort muttered under his breath, deciding that this must be his first course of business.
“Where’s your one?” Lestrange questioned at the same time that Avery asked, “Are you alright, Tom?”
He stood up abruptly and gave his Knights a curt “good night” on his way to the exit.
Tomorrow morning, he would pay Ollivander a visit.
Notes:
hope you all liked that!
Also I made a tumblr bc i felt like it. Not sure how much I’m gonna use it but feel free to check it out if u want <3
Tumblr
Chapter 7: pink love hearts and cherry scented wands
Notes:
AAAAHH TY ALL FOR 300 KUDOS 🥳🥳
Here’s an absolutely ridiculous chapter bc I love bullying voldemort <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
At five in the morning, when the sun had not yet risen and the students of Hogwarts were sleeping soundly in their dormitories, Voldemort broke into unlocked the door to Ollivander's and quietly slipped inside, holding an oil lamp. It was a pity he had to resort to such Muggle means of breaking and entering such as picking locks and using lamps.
No matter - he shall get a new wand soon.
He walked slowly, with gentle steps, towards the shelves where the hundreds of wands were stacked upon. Evidently, it was going to take some time to find the right one. He did not mind, of course, as long as he was finished before the school day began or Ollivander came. He climbed up the stepladder, eyes raking through the boxes in front of him. He picked one at random. As soon as his fingers made contact with the unfamiliar wand, an angry red spark shot out and hit the window. A loud cracking sound followed. Voldemort gingerly put the wand back, already moving onto the next one.
He repeated the process with around fifteen more wands in total, each one more unfit for him than the last. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Looking out of the very cracked window, which looked one more spell away from being completely shattered, Voldemort could see the sun emerging from the distant horizon, bringing with it an array of crimson and gold colours.
He cursed under his breath.
Time was running out and he still hadn’t found the right wand.
Before he could open up another box, the front door creaked open and he almost lost his balance, marginally saving himself from plummeting off the stepladder and onto the ground. Thank Salazar for that.
”Mr Riddle?” Ollivander exclaimed, aghast, “What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”
Voldemort resisted the urge to snap back at the man and instead, he gave his best attempt at an apologetic smile (one that he had not used since his days at Hogwarts) as he climbed down from the ladder.
“My apologies, I was just looking for a wand.”
“Yes, I-I can see that,” the man stammered back, seemingly puzzled by the candid explanation, “But you can’t just break into my shop! It’s against the law!”
Oh, for Salazar’s sake - the incompetent buffoon was just wasting time! Voldemort felt a strong desire to kill him, or at least Imperio him to stop asking so many useless questions! He distantly wondered if he was still adept in casting wandless Unforgivables.
”Yes, I am terribly sorry,” he began, begrudgingly deciding that it would be best to handle this in a Tom Riddle fashion, “I lost my own wand, you see, and I didn’t want to get in trouble with the professors.” He paused, taking a moment to look down at his feet and fidget, feigning embarrassment. “I understand that it was a foolish thing to do but I thought if I could find myself a new wand before lessons began then I’d be able to avoid any unpleasantries”
Voldemort wasn’t sure how convincing his act was. After all, it had been decades since he last had to behave in this manner. However, looking up at Ollivander’s slightly softened features - he knew he had, once again, done a spectacular performance.
The older wizard sighed, running a hand through his brown hair. It was rather unnerving to see the senile, old man looking this young.
“I’ll let you off with a warning this time, Mr Riddle,” he spoke, sternly, before raising a wagging, patronising and, in Voldemort’s opinion, insulting finger, “But don’t let me catch you doing anything like this again. I won’t be so nice next time.”
He wanted to say: How dare you threaten me, you ignorant fool!
Instead, he was forced to reply: “Of course. Thank you, sir.”
The address of respect tasted bitter on his tongue.
“I suppose since you’re already here, I’ll help you find a wand.”
I don’t need your help, you insipid imbecile.
“Thank you, sir. I’d really appreciate that.”
Ollivander made his way to the stepladder, carefully looking through the different wands as he hummed, thoughtfully.
“Have you tried a Summoning charm on that wand of yours?”
Do you take me as a fool?
”I have. It didn’t work.”
Ollivander hummed again - a sound that Voldemort was finding increasingly irritating.
“Alright then,” the man said, jovially, as he slid down the ladder and turned to Voldemort, holding five boxes. “Let’s try these.”
The first wand took out a light bulb.
The second wand narrowly missed Ollivander’s eye, much to Voldemort’s disappointment.
The third wand simply refused to work.
The fourth wand was… different.
The moment Voldemort’s fingers brushed against the smooth, polished wood, a curious, tingling warmth spread up his arm. Against his better judgment, he gave it an experimental swish.
Pink. Heart-shaped. Sparks.
They drifted lazily through the air, shimmering faintly before dissolving into the ether.
Voldemort stared at them, unblinking, before shaking his head in disbelief.
That couldn’t be right.
He cast another spell to test it again, and was instantly enveloped by the sickly-sweet scent of…cherries?
His first instinct was to hurl the thing across the room but miraculously he held himself back.
Ollivander, however, looked positively delighted. “Ah! There we have it!” he beamed, “Cherry wood, unicorn hair core, ten inches and pleasantly springy.”
Pleasantly springy. Voldemort briefly considered whether he could curse Ollivander’s mouth shut with nothing but the sheer force of his unadulterated hatred.
“Cherry wood,” the man went on, entirely oblivious of the murderous thoughts of his customer, “is rare, powerful, and - oh, here’s the interesting bit - it’s traditionally associated with bringing great fortune in matters of the heart.”
Voldemort’s hands tightened imperceptibly around the wand.
“With a unicorn hair core, it will be steadfastly loyal to you,” Ollivander continued. “Such wands are especially responsive to enchantments of affection, attraction, and-”
“Stop talking,” Voldemort said, very evenly.
But Ollivander had either gone selectively deaf or had just simply ignored him and was already examining the handle. “And look at this!” he pointed, “The grain has taken on the most lovely pink hue. Completely natural! It’s as if it were meant for you, Mr Riddle.”
Meant for me.
He felt the words settle like a curse. Voldemort wondered, in an almost academic way, if killing a man in cold blood at five thirty in the morning would create too much noise.
Regardless of that, it would be very much worth it.
“Yes,” Ollivander concluded with a satisfied nod, “I daresay this wand has chosen you for a very special bond indeed.”
Voldemort’s left eye twitched.
He so desperately wished that he could snap this pathetic excuse of a wand in half and continue his search, but there was no denying that the monstrosity had chosen him.
“How much?”
The price was named. He paid without blinking, took the wand in its box (which, thankfully, was not pink as well) and turned on his heel.
“Best of luck, Mr Riddle!” Ollivander called after him.
Voldemort slammed the door, particularly hard, as he exited.
“Shouldn’t you be in your dormitory like the other students, Tom?” The familiar, deep voice taunted from behind.
Voldemort stopped in his tracks, the hairs on his neck prickling as he turned to face where Death, or Professor Mortimus as he currently went by, had now materialised.
“I needed a wand. I don’t know where mine has gone.”
Death hummed, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“How unfortunate. Perhaps I can help.”
He raised up a hand and a wand suddenly appeared, out of thin air.
Voldemort felt his breath hitch.
It was not just a wand.
It was his wand.
He watched, enraptured, as Death gave it a small twirl in between his fingers before holding it next to his ear.
”Yew wood, phoenix feather core, thirteen and a half inches and rigid,” he spoke, in a Ollivander fashion, surprisingly being capable of having a sense of humour, “Am I correct?”
Voldemort nodded and was about to ask for it back, however, he froze upon noticing a new detail.
“What happened to it?” He said, looking horrified at the dark cracks that ran through the white wood. The tip of the wand was also charred black.
“Hm? Oh, you mean this! Well, unfortunately, this is what happens when someone splits their soul into pieces.”
“I don’t understand.”
Death, the complete and utter bastard, smiled at this.
“Fine, let me explain it in simple terms. There are actually two ways in which broken souls can be reabsorbed. Do you know the first one?”
Voldemort held back a grimace before reluctantly grounding out, “Remorse.”
”Correct. Five points to Slytherin,” Death smirked. “Now the second one, which isn’t something that mortals are aware of, is that I can actually piece souls back together too. But, unfortunately, I cannot use my own abilities to do this.”
Voldemort frowned, at this statement, musing over the information he had been given.
If he doesn’t use his own powers then what else does he use?
His eyes drifted to his cracked wand, still held in Death’s hand.
“You used the magic from my wand.”
“Exactly.”
“But…how?”
“I needed to use a wand that had been responsible for a large number of deaths and has been used for dark magic. Conveniently, your wand was the perfect choice,” Death explained. “Of course, since I had to siphon all of its magical energy, it has now been rendered useless.”
Useless.
”No, there must be a way to fix it,” he urged, desperately, “I need it back.”
“There is a way, actually,” Death began, casually, and Voldemort felt his face brighten up, “but I don’t feel very motivated to try. It takes a lot of energy, you see. And I can’t guarantee that it would work as effectively as it used to. Sadly, I’m not very skilled when it comes to these matters. This would be more of Magic’s area of expertise.”
Voldemort paused, eyes widening.
“Magic? Is there a deity for Magic?”
”Of course, why wouldn’t there be?”
“Couldn’t you ask them for help?”
Death laughed as if he had heard something absurd. “And bother her with something as trivial as this? No, I don’t think I will.”
Voldemort gritted his teeth.
“Besides,” Death continued, “I don’t see what the problem is with your new wand.”
Cherry scented. Pink sparkles. Love hearts.
But judging by the amused look on Death’s face, he was probably already aware of all these atrocities.
“I need to get back to Hogwarts now. It is getting late.”
Death smiled, black eyes assessing him.
“Indeed,” was all he said before vanishing into thin air.
At six thirty in the morning, the dormitory was a low murmur of conversation between half-asleep boys, making their beds and donning their robes, when Voldemort stepped through the arched entryway. Early sunlight filtered in through the enchanted windows, illuminating the dark green and silver accents of the room. The Knights, who had been idly standing by, all turned their heads to him upon his arrival.
Abraxas glanced up from knotting his tie.
"Tom, where were you?”
“Nowhere that concerns you,” Voldemort replied smoothly, peeling off his cloak and folding it with precision. The tone alone was enough to halt any further questioning from the rest of the group.
However, Ignatius Travers - the good-for-nothing busybody - did not pick up on such nuances. “You're not supposed to be wandering around the school before the wake-up bell sounds,” he pointed out from where he sat cross-legged on his bed.
"Oh?" Voldemort raised a brow, abstaining from sending out a Crucio to the meddling brat, "Perhaps, you're not aware of this, Travers, but as a Prefect, I have certain early morning duties to uphold. I would appreciate if you respected that."
He smirked at the flushed look on Ignatius' face as the Knights and some other students laughed at the boy's expense.
"Come on, Tommy," Nott chuckled, bumping their shoulders together, "Let's go down for breakfast now."
Voldemort ignored the statement entirely, fore mostly because of that horrendous nickname, before ordering his Knights: “If anyone asks where I am, you will say I’m unwell. Under the weather. Too ill to drag myself from bed.” His gaze swept across the group, making it very clear this was not a request. “Do you understand?”
Malfoy and Avery nodded, obediently.
Nott gave a casual shrug.
Lestrange, the shrewdest of all his Knights, cast him a suspicious look yet said nothing.
No one saw fit to challenge him. Ever.
Satisfied, Voldemort left without another word, footsteps carrying him not towards the Great Hall but to the deeper, quieter corridors of the castle.
The Restricted Section was blissfully empty. Madam Pince had yet to begin her morning patrol, and the wards over the shelves yielded easily beneath a discreet yet powerful unlocking charm. Voldemort inhaled the musty scent of dust and parchment, and began scanning spines with the precision of a predator hunting its prey.
Once he came across the two promising titles, he pulled them out from the shelves.
The first one was Bound and Broken: A History of Wands.
He flicked through the pages, looking for any relevant and necessary information. It stated claims of the Elder Wand being able to cure any physical damage such as snapped wood or a cracked shaft. However, Voldemort doubted that this would work in his case. By what Death had told him, his wand hadn't just physically cracked - its magic had been depleted. The core energy had been siphoned out.
Rendered useless - as Death had described.
It was not much more than a piece of wood, unfortunately. It was unlikely, nor was there any claims in the book, of the Elder Wand being able to generate core magic.
As the book progressed, it strayed into realms of blood sacrifices and dark rituals, ways to bypass wand allegiance and many more questionable topics. It had a lot of useful information, Voldemort noted, but not something that would help in his current problem.
He closed the book, moving onto the next one.
On the Invocation of Primordial Forces.
He settled into a corner alcove, the dim light of his Lumos pooling over the pages. The text confirmed what he already suspected. A wand drained of all its magic could only be patched together physically - ridding it of its cracks but it would never regain its powers unless reforged by an entity older than humanity itself.
Magic personified.
Which brought him to his current…problem.
His replacement wand - cherry wood, unicorn hair, absurd in every visible detail - was fundamentally unsuited to his preferences. Unicorn hair was very faithful yet notoriously poor for the Dark Arts and prone to disobedience if forced into them. A wand that might, under pressure, refuse him.
The thought nauseated him. He already had experience with something similar - the Elder Wand’s rejection - and still remembered the sheer humiliation of it turning against him at the moment of victory. Never again.
He needed his old yew and phoenix feather wand - attuned to his magic and perfectly obedient as well as having a tendency to choose individuals with great power, regardless of whether they were Dark or Light.
The book did not hold any precise and clear information on how to summon Magic but it did make a strong link between centaurs and tracking magical entities. In a way, it did make sense. Centaurs were renowned for their Divination skills too, being able to interpret the movement of celestial bodies to foresee the future - a talent in cosmic arts.
Closing the book with deliberate care, Voldemort slid it back into place and slipped out from the Restricted Section, a concealment charm cast over his person. The corridors were slowly filling with sound and a clatter of shoes, indicating that students were beginning to leave the Great Hall. He walked unhurriedly, mulling over the newly learnt information held in his mind.
In his head, the plan was already clear - go to the Forbidden Forest, convince the centaurs to assist him and, finally, summon the entity that can fix his wand. After all, Magic was power, and power had always bent for him.
He turned a corner - and collided, sharply, with another body, the pain jolting him out of his musings.
Voldemort's breath caught in his throat as green eyes met his, startlingly vivid.
Harry Potter.
Notes:
lol sorry for dropping all that wand lore, voldemort's just a big evil nerd.
Also, I've added a picture of the new super cute preppy cherry wood wand below for reference :P
Chapter 8: a 'civilised' conversation and the joys of divination
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
In his years of being a child soldier against a maniacal Dark Lord and later going on to become a relatively successful Auror - Harry knew that sometimes you had to act first and think later. Because thinking too much took up time and during a battle - time was something that nobody had.
So when Harry bumped into Voldemort - he was well prepared.
"You!" he snapped, one hand pulling out his wand at lightning speed and pointing it at his enemy's throat whilst the other grabbed the front of his pristine robes to keep him still. Harry smirked, triumphantly, at Voldemort's stunned expression and his own quick reflexes.
That's right, bastard, I have you right where I want you.
His happiness was short-lived, though, when Voldemort raised a brow (an annoyingly perfect one, too) and levelled him with an unimpressed glare.
"Step back, Evans," he drawled, "It is rather impolite to touch someone without their permission."
Harry blinked.
What?
"What?" he intoned.
Unfortunately, his confusion provided enough of an opportunity for Voldemort to wrench out of his hold and step back, eyes glinting dangerously. Harry instantly broke out of his stupor and tightened his grip on his wand, ready for the imminent attack, only for the former Dark Lord to...walk past him?
"Oi-hey! " Harry spluttered, turning on his heel and quickly catching up with Voldemort, "Where do you think you're going?"
The bastard didn't even so much as cast him a glance before calmly replying:
"To my lessons, of course."
Harry gaped. Of course? Was this seriously the same man who had ripped his soul into pieces, made a whole cult and started not one, but two fucking wars? And now he was striding off to class like a bloody teenage boy late for Potions?
He laughed, borderline hysterical, which earned him a few odd looks by some students passing by.
Voldemort remained eerily unfazed, the only telltale sign of his discomfort was the way his steps had marginally quickened - actively trying to get away.
"Okay, just stop," Harry grabbed onto his shoulder, pulling him back. He received a startled glare in return as Voldemort jerked away from his touch - finally, a crack in his impassive act. "What the hell are you up to?"
"I believe I already told you that I am going to my lessons."
"Uh huh. And I'm the King of England," Harry rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Riddle. I want the truth.”
Voldemort’s jaw clenched at the name, eyes flashing with barely-contained fury and for a moment it looked as though he would strike.
Instead, he let out a tired sigh, as he grabbed onto his wrist and dragged him towards the nearest alcove before casting a wandless Muffliato. Harry pulled out of his grasp with a glare but stayed put, too curious to hear what would be said next.
He gritted his teeth when Voldemort leaned in, lips close enough that Harry felt his warm breath ghost against his ear. His voice dropped to a hiss.
"I advise that you stay far, far away from me, Harry Potter, lest one of us gets hurt." A small pause, and then, a quieter yet lethal: "And this time...it won't be me."
If he was still mentally a teenager - naive and an amateur - these words would have frightened him.
But, too bad for Voldemort, Harry was no longer afraid of him.
”Trust me, I have zero interest in being anywhere near you,” he began, placing a hand on Riddle’s chest and pushing him back, “and Fate might be stupid enough to let you wander around here and do as you please - but, guess what? I’m not.”
“Oh?” Voldemort sneered, “I didn’t think you would be so distrustful,” He placed a hand over his heart and made a pitiful expression like the melodramatic bitch that he was. “In fact, I had thought you would be willing to give out second chances. How disappointing.”
Harry chuckled, wryly.
“Sorry to disappoint, mate, but I don’t usually give out second chances to irredeemable, insane murderers.”
“You and I both know that I’m not insane, Harry.” Voldemort grinned. It was shark-like and unhinged, lessening the appeal of his attractive features. “If I was, then you wouldn’t be alive long enough for us to be having such a civilised conversation.”
It was Harry’s turn to smile.
“No, I think I’d be alive either way, actually. Master of Death, remember?”
Harry felt a sick satisfaction in the way that Voldemort’s grin faltered, a flicker of rage passing through his expression. It was all momentarily, though, as Voldemort schooled his features back into a sneer again.
“With regards to giving out second chances, I believe you’re mistaken,” he said, smoothly switching back the topic as if it never changed in the first place. “I recall you saying that I should try remorse…that I still had a chance.”
Harry felt his stomach twist.
It was true. He had said that. He had genuinely thought that it was worth a shot, didn’t he?
Could that still be true? A hesitant voice in his mind asked.
No. Of course not. That’s mental. The other voices echoed.
“I was just giving you some advice, that’s all,” Harry snapped, feeling strangely defensive, “It doesn’t matter though, does it? You were never going to change. Heck, you still haven’t!”
Has he not?
Harry took in this saner, less volatile version of Voldemort standing in front of him.
Had he changed? Or was it just the fact that his soul had been patched back together and he no longer looked like a monster.
But it wasn’t Voldemort’s looks that had made him monstrous, Harry reminded himself, He had been a monster all along, before he had become insane and after.
"I don't change, Potter," Voldemort hummed, snapping Harry out of his musings, "I improve." He smiled thinly, almost amused before tutting: "Oh, my apologies - I almost forgot that it’s Evans now, isn’t it? Such a shame that Death gave you such a Muggle name.”
“Yeah,” Harry mock-sighed, lowering his wand by half an inch, “sucks, doesn’t it? Oh well, on the bright side - it could have been a lot worse."
“Really?”
“Of course!” Harry exclaimed brightly with a wide grin. “There are so many more common, boring, insignificant names out there that would’ve been so much more worse than Evans!” He paused and gave a theatrical shudder, lowering his voice as though confiding a terrible secret, “I mean…imagine if he named me… Tom.”
He really should have seen it coming.
One moment he was smirking and the next he was pinned to the cold stone wall with surprising strength as the breath was knocked out of his lungs. Voldemort snarled, his forearm pressed against Harry's collarbone and his wand digging sharply into his throat.
And-
Hang on a bloody second.
Was that…a pink wand?
Harry blinked. He blinked again. His lips twitched. "Er, is that-"
"Shut up, you insolent boy," Voldemort hissed, dark eyes burning with rage. The tip of the wand dug deeper into Harry's skin and a subtle yet sweet scent wafted to his nose.
Was that...cherries?
Harry couldn't stifle his laugh at that.
"Merlin, that's...er...a lovely wand you've got there," he said, between broken-up giggles, his amusement only increasing after seeing the look of pure shock and indignation on the other man's face. "Very...charming."
"Do not underestimate it, Potter," Voldemort ground out, "The wielder is the one you should fear."
Harry snorted, shaking his head, "Sure, sure. And hey, do you mind backing up a bit? There are people watching, you know." He gestured vaguely toward the corridor, though students nearby were already avoiding eye contact, pretending they hadn’t witnessed the tense exchange.
Voldemort’s jaw clenched, so tight that it looked as if a miracle had stopped him from breaking his teeth. For a second, the tip of the pink wand pressed a fraction deeper against Harry’s throat, a reminder that this wasn't over. Then he stepped back, straightening, expression neutral as though nothing had happened, the wand now tucked neatly against his robes.
"Fate has a funny way of bringing us together, doesn't it?" Voldemort mused, lips curled up in a small smirk. "Perhaps this is my second chance to finish you off."
Harry glared at him, fingers tightening against the handle of his wand.
"Look, I want nothing to do with you or any of this," he sighed, raking a hand through his hair - careful not to move the bandage, "I just want to find a way to go back home but the only thing holding me back is your existence. And now I only have two options. Either I leave you here, go back and continue my life as if nothing ever happened or," Harry paused, exhaling sharply, "I kill you."
The truth was that he didn't want to kill. He had never cast a single Avada Kedavra in his life, even after becoming an Auror. It seemed wrong. It felt wrong.
But it's for the greater good, a voice sounding like Dumbledore spoke in his head.
Voldemort assessed him with a calculating gaze and Harry had to double check that his Occlumency shields were up. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally broke the tense silence with a laugh.
It wasn’t the high, cold laugh Harry remembered; it was slower, deeper, but still inhumanly menacing.
“You would kill me, Harry? You would cast a Unforgiveable? Wouldn’t that make us the same - both murderers.”
Harry shook his head.
“No, it’s different. You’re evil. You deserve this.”
Voldemort smiled and for a moment Harry thought he had seen red eyes in place of those mahogany ones and snake slits instead of that perfect, straight nose.
He swallowed hard.
“Oh Harry, when will you learn?” Voldemort said softly, his voice a whisper that made Harry’s skin crawl, “There is no good or evil. There is only power and those too weak to seek it.”
With that, he left, striding past Harry contently and leaving him with the weight of those familiar words and the unpleasant memories of a certain red stone, a stuttering professor and a whole lot of near-death experiences that came with them.
Fuck, Harry thought, this is going to be harder than I think.
Divination. His next lesson was bloody Divination. Great.
Harry sighed, practically dragging his feet up the stairs and to the classroom, mentally reassuring himself that perhaps it wasn't all that bad? After all, everyone knew that Divination was just an excuse to take a nap for an hour or so.
Opening the door slightly just so that he could take a quick peek, Harry was grateful that there was no sign of Tom Riddle in this class. Small mercies, he supposed. He opened the door fully, feeling a bit more motivated as he slipped inside the room of noisy students.
The chatter died the second he stepped in.
All eyes were on him - curiosity and wonder written upon their childish, teenage faces. Harry gave them an awkward smile, not knowing what else to do, as he made his way to the spare seat at the back, which was thankfully next to Orion and not some other stranger.
Orion gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, moving his books to one side of the desk so that Harry had a place to put his own. After a few seconds, the talking continued, more hushed than before and a lot of the students kept looking back to cast him small glances.
"Are you alright?" Orion whispered to him after a while, a concerned frown on his face.
"Yeah," Harry shrugged. "Why do you ask?"
Orion studied him for a second longer, dark eyes thoughtful before he spoke:
"No reason. It's just that..." he paused, before hesitantly continuing, "some people said that they saw you and Riddle-"
Harry cut him off with a forced laugh, waving a hand dismissively.
"Oh, that. Don't worry about it - it was nothing important."
Orion’s brows rose, but to his credit, he let it drop.
"We have a new teacher in Divinations this year," he said, "We both are the only ones who haven't seen him yet since we were at the Hospital Wing but I've heard he is rather daunting."
“I guess we’ll find out,” Harry muttered, resisting the urge to point out that he had been taught DADA in his fourth year by Mad-Eye Moody, who actually turned out to be a Death Eater in disguise (as if the real Mad-Eye wasn’t terrifying enough), and was part of an elaborate plan to kill him. It really couldn’t get much ‘daunting’ than that.
“Hey, hang on,” Harry turned to Orion - a thought popping up into his head, “Why were you in the Hospital Wing, anyways?”
Orion froze, caught off guard as he alternated between opening his mouth and closing it, before looking back at the desk in front of him and clearing his throat.
“…I was under the weather.”
Harry snorted.
“You’re a terrible liar, you know that right?”
Orion gave him a glare, crossing his arms.
“And you? ‘Nothing important’ happened between you and Riddle, did it? You just happened to shove your wand into his neck and he just happened to pin you against the wall, right?”
Harry held his hands up in mock surrender, grinning widely.
“Alright. Touché.”
“You’re completely mad, Evans,” Orion sighed, although there was no real bite behind his words.
Harry opened his mouth to retort but never got the chance.
Because at that exact moment - the classroom door swung open, silencing all the students as a very tall man glided in, eyes surveying the room.
Harry felt a sudden drop in temperature that was an all too familiar sign for him.
The air shifted in an instant.
Death was here.
The recognition hit Harry like a punch to the gut and his fists subconsciously clenched under the table.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, throwing in an extra curse for good measure.
“What?” Orion whispered beside him.
“Nothing,” Harry snapped, too quickly for it to really seem like ‘nothing’.
Death’s unnaturally black eyes locked with Harry, lingering for a moment as a silent conversation passed between them.
My apologies, Master, I had no choice. He wordlessly conveyed.
Harry glared back, hoping that it would be enough to pass on his long awaited message of: Fuck you, bastard. And also: Send me back right now.
Death broke away from their little staring contest first as he turned to address the rest of the class.
“Welcome,” he spoke, voice deep and so unlike the raspy one that Harry was used to hearing, “my name is Professor Mortimus and I shall be your Divinations professor this year.”
Harry sighed, slumping back on his chair as Death prattled on about ‘opening your inner mind’ and a bunch of other bullshit that he seemed to have stolen from Trelawney’s boring lectures.
From the corner of his eye, he could still see a small group of Slytherins glaring at him - a few of them from Voldemort’s inner circle.
He glanced over at them, smirking as their glares hardened before giving them a small, mocking wave.
Turning back to his desk, Harry let them stew in their own outrage. Besides, if they thought he’d be intimidated by a couple of pureblooded bigots then they clearly had a lot to learn.
Notes:
sorry this took so long. I had to scrap my original draft completely and restart it but this was the best I could do lol
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