Revelation: kairos collapse

by Nykrat

Summary:

Harry Potter joins Voldemort.
Packed with subtle setups. Some chapters focus heavily on character and behavioral study (Harry not turns 'dark' for no reason). No hatred or torture between Voldemort and Harry.
(updates every week)

Notes:

Hi there
This is going to be a pretty big story.
I should mention that I’m a deeply passionate neurobiologist—I'm sure that’ll come through in my writing. For example, I love to play with emotions—at first you might be bored, then amused, then things get very heated! For instance, before the "convergence" of Harry and V , I portray these characters very differently. With Harry, you'll see astronomical metaphors (you'll understand why later), while Voldemort is a logical, cold creature, so I use extremely clinical language—the most logical kind.
But later, when they are together, I’ll play with the narrative once more...when they confused, u will be too. hmm. Anyway, I suppose there are many such "devices" I insert intentionally, so you can later reap greater enjoyment!

I disagree with the mainstream portrayal of Voldemort's character like "psychopath" so I will use information from books sometimes, when describing his actions, but won't mark it as a footnote—sorry... Also, I will talk to you about my theories regarding living Horcruxes

some jokes, lore reveals, romantic developments, a bit of travel... and in particularly intense cases, content warnings will be provided at the start of each chapter........
Also there will be some differences from canon, especially in how the Battle of Hogwarts played out — I’ll mention those as the story unfolds.

Please do not repost, translate, or adapt.

TY

VOID

Chapter 1

 

 

"‘You have permitted your friends to die for you, instead of facing me yourself. I shall await you in the Forbidden Forest… one hour …"

Harry’s heart pounded so loudly that it seemed to drown out even the echo of Dumbledore’s words: “The boy must die.” The realization of what he had just seen in the Pensieve choked him, but now, everything fell into place. His pulse throbbed in his temples like a hundred ritual drums, the pressure clouding his vision with bright flashes, while a sensation grew in his chest as though something within him was tearing apart—something he could not name. His heart, it seemed, was determined to make its final stand, fully aware that it would soon have to stop. Its beats were numbered. His glasses slipped slightly, but he didn’t bother to adjust them. His gaze was fixed on the void, his breathing erratic, as fear, panic, and despair gripped his body.

The Great Hall bore no trace of the house tables; it was filled with people. Survivors stood in clusters, clinging to one another in desperate embraces. On a raised platform, Madam Pomfrey and a group of helpers tended to the wounded. Among them was Firenze. Scattered around were numerous bodies, respectfully covered.

Hermione caught sight of Harry standing in the shadows, leaning against the cold stone wall, as he descended the staircase from Dumbledore’s office. Where a tapestry bearing the Gryffindor crest had once hung, the lion was now charred and torn to shreds, its majestic mane—a symbol of courage—blazing with flames even now.

At the sound of their steps, Harry raised his head. He didn’t speak, simply let his gaze settle on them as they drew near.They had failed to reach the Chamber of Secrets; Ron had tried, and for an instant it seemed the ancient pillar might stir. But when he forced out a clumsy hiss of Parseltongue—“open”—the stone refused to yield.

Harry’s throat tightened as he searched for words. He opened his mouth—

“You don’t have to go…” Hermione cut in, her voice so quiet it wavered at the edges. Fingers twisted restlessly around each other, as if they alone could keep her from collapse. “We’ll find another way…You don’t have to go,” she repeated softly, her eyes glistening with exhaustion… or perhaps unshed tears.

Ron, standing a little apart, his tattered robes now nearly grey with sand and grime, clenched his fists so tightly that the scrape of his nails against his skin was almost audible.

“She’s right, Harry,” Ron added at last, unclenching his hands. “It’s a trap.”

Harry gave a single nod, though something inside his expression betrayed him: a shadow of acceptance, already too deep to overturn. His eyelids lowered, lips pressed tight. He knew. He had always known. And in those eyes—green as the curse that had once left a scar on his forehead—Hermione saw no simple bravery, no familiar fire of defiance. What she faced now was an abyss, an intensity beyond words, as if all feeling had collapsed in on itself until only void remained. Not absence, but unbearable weight. Hermione, of course, couldn’t fully grasp it; she only looked at him, silently pleading with reality itself, while also realizing there was no other way out… and Harry had made his choice.

“I have to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s my choice.”

He stepped toward them and, in a sudden rush, pulled them into an embrace—first Hermione, then Ron. His hands were cold, and in that brief hug, there was such a bitter weight of farewell that Hermione could not have put it into words… Her heart skipped a beat, straining against the flood of emotions she held back. This goodbye felt not just like a departure, but as though he were preparing to vanish forever. Hermione felt something in her chest tighten further, and in that moment, she realized: Harry had no intention of returning. She pressed her hands to her mouth, stifling the sounds of her sobs, as Harry stepped back from Ron after their embrace.

He didn’t look back as he left. His thin, battered figure slipped beneath the Invisibility Cloak, and the doors of the Great Hall closed behind him with a dull thud.

Harry gone.

Time dragged on. Five minutes. Then ten. Still, nothing. Voldemort remained silent,and though grief seemed to recede to the background, Hermione still saw Harry’s image before her eyes: that resolute look, in which she glimpsed something she feared to acknowledge aloud to Ron. She shook her head fiercely, banishing the horrifying thoughts that followed such a realization. Harry cannot die!

A deafening silence hung over the Great Hall, broken only by the distant clink of shattered glass, the faint hum beyond the protective charms, or the pounding of her own heart. Hermione stood rooted to the spot, scarcely aware that she clutched a crumpled piece of fabric in her hand—someone’s robe...she shook her hands, casting aside the blood-soaked cloth, a remnant of one of the students she had tended to while Harry was in the headmaster’s office. Her chest ached with a searing emptiness, as though sticky tendrils of dread were wrapping around her core, feeding on the cries and moans of those around her. Despite the passage of time, Hogwarts had been teeming with students before this night, yet Hermione could barely count fifty survivors now… A hundred Dementors circled the castle, awaiting their master’s command, sensing the despair of those gathered below, promising them a grand feast.

Ron sank heavily onto a bench, rubbing his face with his palms as though trying to scrub something away. His complexion was pallid, making his freckles stand out starkly, and his eyes were fixed on the doors through which Harry had vanished, as if he still clung to the hope that his friend might return, even for a moment.

“He… he couldn’t just…” Ron looked at Hermione, his gaze brimming with pain, terror, and desperation, as though some invisible entity perched on his shoulders, clawing at his mind with relentless talons. Hermione exhaled, but her voice betrayed her, trembling as Ron pressed on: “He’s not going to die, is he?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that choked her. Her mind scrambled for a response, grasping at logic, at spells, at anything that could refute the void swelling in her chest. Harry knew what he was doing. He always did. But that didn’t make his choice any less unbearable! a thought flashed through her mind. They had faced the impossible together—battled beasts, Death Eaters, even fate itself! And yet, he had gone alone. But together, they would have found a way, wouldn’t they? They always had!

“Hermione,” Ron’s voice sharpened, almost pleading now. He looked like a man cowering in a trench, desperate for any shred of reassurance. “Say something!”

She drew a deep, shaky breath and shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts that burned within her. Harry cannot die, she told herself, but the words, even spoken silently in her own mind, rang hollow, like a spell cast without conviction. Behind her, someone was sobbing softly—Lavender Brown, it seemed, clinging to Parvati Patil. Lavender was injured, judging by the way she clutched the dark, blood-soaked sleeve of her robe. Somewhere, armor clattered as an enchanted suit of knightly armor stepped forward, as if responding to an unseen alarm. Hogwarts was alive, but its heart beat unevenly, like that of a dying creature. The bodies of fallen children lay all around.

Ron, as if despairing of ever receiving a reply, already understood everything deep down; he just longed to hear some words of comfort. Unfortunately, Hermione had none to offer.

Hermione let out a loud sob, a pair of tears betraying her as they escaped her eyes, trailing wet paths down her cheeks. She whispered, “Find a way to come back, Harry…”

In an instant, a single, treacherous thought pierced Hermione’s mind:

But… if he doesn’t return… and Voldemort doesn’t keep his word…

Her gaze caught on the faint outline of the Forbidden Forest, shrouded in a veil of mist, visible through the shattered wall of the castle. It was as though nature itself held its breath, poised for the inevitable. In the distance, a glimmer of light flickered—likely from the Death Eaters’ temporary camp. It wasn’t far for Harry to go. Perhaps he was already there…

“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through, startling Hermione as it sounded just behind her. “We cannot afford the luxury of inaction.”

Hermione spun around. McGonagall stood there, her posture ramrod straight, her eyes narrowed with a mix of anger and something akin to grief. Her robes were stained with dust, strands of hair had escaped her bun, and a crack marred one lens of her spectacles, yet there was not a trace of doubt or visible anxiety in her demeanor. Her gaze, as always, was professionally sharp.

“Harry’s gone,” Hermione whispered, almost mechanically.

“Yes,” the professor nodded. “But we are still here.”

She stepped closer, her eyes flicking in the same direction Hermione had been staring. The headmistress’s gaze lingered there for only a moment—long enough for her.

“We are evacuating all survivors,” she said evenly, turning toward the hall where dozens of surviving students from various years raised their heads to better see the woman. “Miss Granger, there is no time.” She fixed Hermione with a stern look once more.

Hermione’s brows knitted together, her expression a storm of protest and surprise. Anticipating her question, the professor exhaled—a heavy, burdened sound this time.

“Mr. Potter has bought us time. We cannot risk the lives of those who remain, whatever may happen out there. We cannot rely on Tom keeping his promise.” McGonagall lifted her chin proudly at that last statement, as though addressing him so directly made her somehow greater.

Ron, overhearing, snapped his head up. His eyes blazed, ignited by that same stubborn, uncontrollable anger that had once driven him to turn away from Harry in their fourth year.

“Why does everyone think Harry’s already dead?” he nearly shouted, standing. “He escaped the Avada Kedavra! He killed a basilisk!” He turned to Ginny, who stood against the opposite wall, seeking her support. “He’s saved us all, every single time! He didn’t go out there to die—he went to win!”

Ginny, her eyes red from tears, nodded, though her hands trembled as she hugged herself. She didn’t speak, but her silence was more eloquent than words. Hermione, however, nodded—and a bright smile broke across her face. She hadn’t even noticed the happy, nervous laugh that escaped her. Memories flooded her mind: the three of them at the Burrow, laughing as they chased garden gnomes; scrubbing the Black family house at Grimmauld Place; hiding in the school library… These memories were like a Patronus charm, banishing the darkness. Harry couldn’t be dead. Not because he was the Chosen One, but because he was their Harry. Her best friend.

“Ron,” she said, her voice suddenly steady, “we need to—” She didn’t finish. The castle shuddered with a deafening crash.

“Everyone! Gather in the center, now!” Professor McGonagall shouted, raising her wand and striding swiftly along the wall, casting spells to check the survivors lying there one last time. They would not leave the helpless behind.

As the roar and war cry of Death Eaters climbed, heralding their swift approach, Hermione darted in the direction from which the remaining students were meant to arrive. Fred, George, and their mother, Molly, must be among them…

A shockwave rattled through the castle, sending Hermione sprawling against the granite floor.

“Oi! We’re down here!” yelled Fred and George from the far corner, even as Madam Pomfrey hurried toward them. George limped, a breath away from collapse, his face swathed in bruises and a rivulet of dark blood streaming from his mouth. Hermione seized him under the arm and shouted,

“Move it! This way, quickly!”

Chunks of ceiling fell in a cascade of rubble; one stone nearly struck them, and the trio gasped as the near miss spurred them onward. Luna Lovegood, accompanied by a few other students, rushed past, congregating beside McGonagall, who announced that Neville would return shortly—Hogwarts’s director’s office held the portkey artifact they needed. McGonagall would be unable to apparate them all. Panic gripped Hermione; she braced herself on her knees, trying to steady her breath as her hair fell forward, brushing the dust-encrusted floor.

 What happened to Harry?

-

Voldemort stood on the slope, just above the edge of the Forbidden Forest, a short distance from the camp where the howls and jubilant clamor of impending victory echoed. His tall, slender frame, draped in silken black robes that billowed in the wind like the veil of Death herself, made him resemble her in truth. His pale, almost luminescent skin was unmarred, not a single scratch upon his form. This moment would be perfect… The grass was already trampled, not only by the footsteps of his followers but also by the thousands of skittering legs of Acromantulas and the heavy tread of several giants. The air was thick, like pure, suffocating phosgene, carrying the scent of scorched hay and grass, yet Tom inhaled it with an almost visceral delight. At last. So much waiting, so many thwarted plans.

Oh, he had waited.

A tremor of anticipation, the fulfillment of his sacred purpose, overwhelmed him, euphoria coursing through his nerves. The expectation stretched each moment into eternity, making his very core quiver with shivers.

His eyes flicked to the Death Eaters standing closest, just behind him: to Dolohov, who, as ever, wore an expression of dull reverence, like a witness to a holy rite. Fool. Bellatrix, by contrast, was motionless, a statue dedicated to madness; when she breathed, it was like the hiss of a serpent—air escaping her lungs in sharp, rasping, unhealthy bursts, yet always with that unyielding smirk on her ravaged, acne-scarred face. Voldemort surveyed them appraisingly. No, they wouldn’t dare, he assured himself. For a fleeting moment, he considered the possibility that someone else might take Potter’s life. The urge to cast Crucio on Bellatrix right then and there nearly consumed him, but a rustle in the forest’s undergrowth snapped his thoughts back into focus. The wind. Still no one.

He would come. Of that, there was no doubt. Tom didn’t even question his own certainty—so absurd was the very notion of doubt. Harry Potter could not fail to appear. It would be a rejection of the very paradigm, the essence of reality itself, for Harry Potter was a hero! The Chosen One! The one selected by prophecy!

Voldemort stepped forward, his robes dragging across the scorched earth like a shadow. He awaited the glint of green eyes, the red flash of an Expelliarmus —the one spell, it seemed, that boy had mastered in all his years at Hogwarts. But the forest was empty. No sound, no movement. Only a silence more oppressive than any challenge.

«Why do you delay, Potter? Cowardice? Or do you wait for me to burn your castle to ashes on my own?»

The wizard’s shoulders twitched with irritation, his upper lip curling in a tic of disgust. Time was running out…

…Harry Potter had not appeared.

 

-

…Hermione jolted suddenly, as though a faint electric shock, like the bite of a tiny moray eel, had coursed down her spine. In the next instant, amidst the ceaseless cries of spells echoing around her, she heard nothing but a ringing emptiness in her ears—a high-pitched whine—as her gaze caught movement ahead. A dark silhouette approached with menacing speed, surrounded by hovering Dementors. In flight, Voldemort resembled a swirling mass of black smoke.

“Miss Granger!”

Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out, loud enhanced by Sonorus's charms.The headmistress was pale as parchment, but her eyes blazed as she strode toward the large group of people huddled in the center, her gaze fixed on the rapidly advancing figure. A green spell whizzed past, and McGonagall raised a shield with a flick of her wand.

“Everyone! To me, now! Immediately!”

Hermione obeyed, scarcely aware of how her legs propelled her forward. McGonagall stood tall in the center, scanning the surrounding space, searching for someone with urgent eyes. They had mere seconds… A scream echoed from the corridor to their right as Neville conjured a shield to block a red curse that hurtled through the open door of the hall. The Death Eaters were close now.

“Neville!” In that same moment, the boy rushed into their tight circle—Molly Weasley, Firenze, Pomfrey, Parvati, students from the second and third years… a multitude of survivors, people clinging to one another in panic, terrified of being left alone, abandoned. Neville, breathless, clutched a wand in one hand and a wooden box in the other, thrusting the artifact toward McGonagall. She immediately began chanting a spell, and runes appeared on the box, glowing and expanding like the sacred sun disks of ancient gods—shields of light that might have once save a knight—growing larger and encircling the survivors as the doors of a side hall were blasted off their hinges.

In that instant, the group of weary, barely alive people vanished, drawn into the box by its magic. The artifact then burned away, leaving nothing behind—not even ash.

Chapter 2

Voldemort moved slowly, almost ceremoniously, like a man woven into his own legend, now at last made real. Beneath his bare feet, the limestone of Hogwarts’ ruins crunched with each step—stones that once upheld the walls of a castle he had called home, now like the bones of an ancient titan, crushed not by time but by will. The air was thick with the scent of ash, yet it was neither suffocating nor unpleasant—oh, what a marvelous aroma! Voldemort inhaled deeply, savoring it like the perfume of memories. It must be the distinct smell of burnt paper—the incinerated library. Collapsed towers. The shattered facade of the Great Hall. Each crack was like a gash in his own flesh: painfully familiar and sickeningly sweet. There was no point in concealing what he felt—pride, mingling with the obsessive, viscous fullness of his triumph. He had destroyed Hogwarts—not reduced to rubble, of course; the castle could still be restored… but hadn’t it once been his home? He had killed that home. Killed what should have been his but never was. Well, it wasn’t revenge, but the delightful coincidence brought a smirk to his lips. He had erased a flaw from the formula of the world.

He saw bodies. Many. But not those he would have recognized from newspapers or past encounters with Potter. He was certain that in their final moments, like rats, they had slipped through space, clinging to the remnants of their pitiful magic. The headmistress could Apparate out of Hogwarts—that was no secret—but not a single survivor remained here! Voldemort had no inkling how they had managed to transport everyone, for even he could not Apparate into the castle.

And now, with the surrender of the last resistors, Hogwarts was his. That should have brought satisfaction, shouldn’t it? Yet one thing gnawed at him.

His gaze darted restlessly, seeking what was absent. He searched for meaning in places where it could not physically exist. He saw Harry Potter before him even when the boy was not there. The image was etched into him, deeper than any curse, deeper than his own name. And Tom, for the record, was a masterful Occlumens, exceptional in his craft, yet even he could not erase this.

Harry was not merely an enemy—to Voldemort, this person was something else entirely. An obsession? Of course. But not a simple, shallow mania—oh, it was the existential axis of his very being! Just when Voldemort stood on the cusp of his dominion, that wretched prophecy had emerged! Some pitiful child, destined to threaten his annihilation! Tom had acted rationally, or so he believed at the time, striking preemptively to destroy the second figure of the prophecy… For all these years, his aim had been fixed on him. The one who had ruined everything. His mistake. As long as Harry existed, Tom was not whole. He did not desire Potter’s death as a child, as a person—truth be told, he scarcely knew him. He craved absolution. He yearned for Harry to come to him of his own accord, to become part of his, Tom’s, triumph—no prophecy could hold sway over the Dark Lord! But the boy had simply vanished. Refused to play by his design. Fled with the others. Once again.

His fingers gripped the Elder Wand so tightly that the wood threatened to creak, and he felt the magic within him pulse, restless, like the blood of a cornered beast, poised to burst forth under the surge of adrenaline coursing through his body. This obsession with Harry was not the emotion of an ordinary man; it was a true pathology, rooted in the very core of his psyche. Clinically, it could be described as a hyperfocus bordering on paranoid delusion: Harry had become not just an enemy but a fixation , the axis around which his entire reality revolved. Without Harry, there was no victory. Without Harry, there was no meaning. This was not hatred but something deeper, more intimate—an existential need to complete himself through the annihilation of another. It was as though Harry were a Horcrux he hadn’t created, yet one that tethered him to this world more powerfully than any dark ritual.

But Harry was gone. He had vanished again. This was not a triumph. It was, damn it, an insult !

“You fled,” Voldemort said aloud, and the ruins echoed his words, like loyal disciples.

The wand clenched in his hand pulsed again, scorching his palm as if protesting its master’s intentions. For a moment, a scene flashed before his eyes: a slight figure in glasses, a fleeting glance—and then disappearance, like mist. And in that image, there was no defeat… That wretched image… the boy was mocking him! This was, unmistakably, Potter’s plan! To wait for the perfect moment and slip away!

Voldemort halted before the spot where Ravenclaw Tower had once stood. A heap of rubble, black, charred remnants—were they once a person? More tattered scraps of fabric, soaked in foul dampness…

“Potter,” he whispered, almost soundlessly, and the word was neither curse nor threat but an acknowledgment. Almost a plea.

Harry was not merely an adversary—a specter in his skull, a parasite in his heart, so profoundly affecting that wretched organ that it dared, at times, to skip a beat under the weight of an unnamed, intangible thought when Voldemort dwelled on the boy… so magnificent was his mania.

Bellatrix, silent as a wraith, with almost reverent grace, sank to one knee behind the wizard.

"We will find them, my Lord," she hissed, pupils narrowed, voice trembling with a dark, almost feral excitement. "Their magic was weak, many were near death, they couldn't have gone far..."

"Excellent," Tom snapped, not looking at her. He stared towards the forest—towards the place where the darkness became translucent, as if it could be pushed aside with a hand, like a shroud. Dementors flitted chaotically through the castle, drifting past ruined walls, over the wreckage of the Great Hall. "Kill all who try to resist. But, my dear," his voice softened, taking on an almost intimate tone, and he looked at Bellatrix with an unsettling tenderness. She raised her head, her breath catching in her throat, and gazed into his eyes. "Do not forget your manners. Some…" he paused, as if choosing a word not from a lexicon, but from his own shadows, "will remain. We have guests, after all, who require… entertainment. And in the end, they prefer their prey alive."

Bellatrix's face split into a smile, a horrifying grimace. She nearly laughed—from that twisted, excited, almost erotic anticipation of violence that he had long cultivated and encouraged within her. Her time in Azkaban had only amplified her pathological tendencies, twisting her into something even more grotesque.

"Yes, my Lord, of course, my Lord!" And with another, almost theatrical bow, she spun on her heel, heading towards the main entrance, her restraint now completely abandoned. Her laughter, barely controlled, was manic, punctuated by streaks of red and green curses erupting from her wand.

When her figure vanished beyond the remnants of the colonnade, and not even the sparks from her wand were visible beneath the cacophony of her insane laughter and clipped Unforgivable Curses, Tom finally blinked. His gaze was almost empty, devoid of any human warmth.

He tried to latch onto a thought, onto a simple analytical task – the evaluation of the enemy's actions. Potter. That wretched boy was, once again, failing to follow his script. And again, precisely at the moment when everything should have ended. Strategically – permissible. Statistically – impossible.

Tom struggled to comprehend how it had come to this—why Potter hadn’t appeared. Had he misjudged, believing Harry valued the lives of his friends? All this time, they had a means to Apparate, yet they hadn’t used it? They had lost dozens of pure-blood wizards in this battle! Did Harry think Tom was bluffing? Had he turned coward and fled alone? He dismissed each possibility. Not because they were wrong, but because they didn’t fit the central equation—his will was law. If the outcome defied his will, then it wasn’t the law that was broken, but reality itself; something was amiss with this reality. Harry was a hero, always had been. He must have some plan, one Voldemort hadn’t uncovered, for surely old Minerva wouldn’t have sacrificed so many lives if they’d had a way to escape earlier… something had happened…

His eyes snagged on the traces of Bellatrix's blood, splattered on the stones. Her obsession… crooked, like a diseased nerve. But there was an element of distorted reflection within it. The way she acted in the name of her master, the way she looked at him, she acted as if...

Voldemort gave a sharp, dismissive snort, a sound filled with barely concealed revulsion. His brain recoiled reflexively from the nascent thought, like a snake striking at a perceived threat.

No. It wasn't the same.

“Her mania is a primitive object transference, characteristic of a borderline personality with an identity deficit,” Tom reasoned, and he gave a contemptuous snort. True. She was a pathetic creature, her emotions dictated by hormones and her wretched, human body. His own fixation, however, was unique! It was not a weakness, but a necessity! All of Harry's life, his entire fate, had been orchestrated by him, Voldemort. But the boy – a metaphorical defect in the system, an imperfection in the structure that prevented it from achieving its ultimate harmony. He could not be ignored. He must be… eliminated… Or integrated.

The thought abruptly terminated at that point. Cut short, without natural resolution. His consciousness felt like film, jammed in a projector. He sensed it, as an epileptic feels the first, infinitesimal sparks in the darkness behind his eyes, the prelude to an impending seizure.

Oh, he would find him.

Chapter 3

Malfoy Manor was oppressively silent. The quiet that hung over the estate was not the soothing kind; it was sinister, a breathless pause before the crack of lightning rends the sky. Tall windows, framed by heavy velvet drapes, admitted a grey light that settled on the marble floors like ash. Crystal chandeliers, once ablaze with radiance, now dangled motionless, cloaked in a fine layer of dust, as if time itself had turned its back on this place. The air carried the scent of aged wood, wax, and something else—faint, metallic, akin to the tang of blood. Given the tortures and slashing curses that had rent the flesh of countless witches and wizards within these walls, the odor might well have been likened to the grim foyer of a morgue. Corpses, cloth, blood, damp stone, and a subtle woody note—here, from potions.

Lord Voldemort stood by a window in the great hall, his gaunt, motionless figure blending into the shadows that thickened in the corners.

A month had passed since the night Hogwarts fell. A month steeped in a triumph that should have been absolute but instead felt hollow.The Ministry bowed to his will; only a handful of rebels remained, and Tom saw no threat in them. They had gone to ground, silent, not even stirring to remind him of their existence.

Yet Voldemort’s victory could not be called complete. The man rubbed his temples, his face twisting in disgust. His long, pale fingers gripped the windowsill, and the marble beneath them cracked, as though yielding to an unseen force. He did not notice. Nor did he heed the need to pursue paths beyond the hunt for Potter. His mind was consumed, dissecting endlessly the events of that night. He did so often, for in the past month, little else had transpired. Harry had faced a choice then: step forward, fight, die. But he had done nothing. He had walked away. Left his friends behind—or fled with them? Voldemort was certain it was no mere retreat, no surrender, but something else—a rejection of the very reality in which Tom stood at its center. It was a challenge. A mockery.

His mind, scarred and paranoid, returned again and again to the image he had conjured: a slight figure in glasses, green eyes gazing not with hatred but with a condescending smirk, mocking something small and absurd. That look haunted Tom, a specter no spell could banish.

“My Lord,” a voice, low and cautious, shattered the silence.

Tom did not turn around. He knew who it was. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway, his robes, impeccable as always, rippling in subtle waves as he approached, his face pale, with plum-colored shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of an unhealthy strain. Those eyes, usually cold and calculating, now avoided direct contact, darting feverishly to the sides as though chasing some fleeting, elusive thing. Lucius was a shadow of his former self—a marionette whose strings grew thinner by the day. Tom could sense his fear of death, his uncertainty, his pitiful desire to please, to atone for his betrayal. Voldemort regarded him with indulgence. Lucius’s fate was already sealed. He had earned death, but for now, he remained useful. And fear, after all, was the finest leash.

“News?” Tom’s voice was soft, but it carried a menace, like the hiss of a viper poised to strike.

Lucius swallowed, his thumb instinctively brushing the serpent-headed handle of his cane, where his wand was concealed.

“We… we are still searching, my Lord,” he said, his voice trembling despite every effort to sound assured. “The Death Eaters have scoured Ottery St. Catchpole, Hogsmeade, even Muggle towns with any connection to Potter. No trace… of Potter. But we found strange magical signatures in one area of London, near the entrance to the Ministry… perhaps…”

“Perhaps?” Tom turned, and his gaze silenced Lucius instantly. “You bring me possibilities, Lucius? I did not ask for suppositions. I asked for facts.”

Lucius bowed his head, his shoulders slumping like those of a man who knew any word—absolutely any—could be his last.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” he muttered in a panic, striving to temper the fear of instant death. “We… we are doing everything possible. We have a lead on Granger and Weasley; as far as we know, Potter is always with them, and…” Lucius faltered, glancing at Tom, who was visibly losing patience with the prolonged monologue. The elder Malfoy cleared his throat. “We will find him, my Lord.”

Tom narrowed his eyes, his mind latching onto the mention of Potter’s friends. He sensed they were undeniably linked to Harry, as though they were part of the same plan they were clearly following. But what plan? What were they doing? With Albus dead, the Order lacked a leader, and Tom had assumed their coordination was nonexistent. If that wasn’t the case, why had they done nothing in the past month to thwart Voldemort’s schemes? No one had stood up for the Muggles, and the skirmishes between Death Eaters and the resistance were barely worth noting.

“You disappoint me, Lucius,” Tom said, his voice almost tender, which made it all the more terrifying. “But I will forgive you. This time. Keep searching. And remember: I am not looking for a body. He must be alive.”

Lucius nodded, his face contorted with a mix of relief and dread. He retreated, as if afraid to turn his back, and vanished into the corridor. Tom turned back to the window, his fingers still gripping the sill. His mind, a machine tuned to this singular purpose, churned through the fragments of information, yet always circled back to one thing: Harry. Where was he? Why him? What had he done?

His psyche, torn asunder in the pursuit of immortality, was like a mosaic missing its crucial piece. Harry was that piece. Not because he was the Chosen One—prophecies were for the weak, for those clinging to fate! No, Harry mattered because he was his ! His mistake, a part of his story. Over the month of searching, Tom had come to realize he didn’t want Harry’s death. He wanted his existence—but on his own terms. He wanted Harry to come to him, to acknowledge him, to become part of his triumph… part of his victory (of course, Harry would have to die for this to happen, but that was beside the point!). Yet Harry had refused. And that refusal was like a knife plunged into the very heart of his psyche.

Tom stepped toward the table where a map lay, its surface marred with magical markings. The Death Eaters had noted the places they had searched for Harry: Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow, even Muggle London. But each mark lacked the crucial sign. No trace, no hint. His finger traced over the parchment, pausing at one point—Little Hangleton. The Gaunt shack. The vile, rotting hovel of his mutant ancestors… The place where he had hidden the ring, where he had stored a fragment of his soul, where he had first felt that he controlled his destiny, that no one could rewrite it but him. Where his mother had lived…

For reasons he could not fathom, that place now drew him like a magnet, and he couldn’t explain why. Something within him—instinct, intuition, magic—whispered that the answer lay there. That he needed to be there.

He closed his eyes, and the image of Harry flashed before him again. Not the Harry he had seen at Hogwarts, not the one he conjured in rage, but another—a boy he had never met but knew. A boy with green eyes that gazed this time not with a smirk but with understanding, with a warmth that was almost familial. This image was poison, an Acromantula’s venom slowly seeping into his being. He saw Potter in every emotional state, everywhere…

“My Lord,” a hoarse female voice broke through his thoughts.

Bellatrix Lestrange stood before him, her black hair disheveled, her eyes ablaze with a manic fire. She was a tempest confined in human form, and her devotion to Tom was both a gift and a curse. She saw him as a god; he saw her as a tool—useful, yet limited. Lucius, by comparison, should be grateful, for against her fervor, Tom truly valued restraint.

“We found a trace in Tinworth. Our sensors detected a powerful surge of magic there, but our people are not there now,” she said, her voice quivering with excitement. “My Lord, allow me…”

“No,” Tom cut her off without turning. “It’s nothing.”

Bellatrix fell silent, her smile faltering, though she did not retreat. Her fingers gripped her wand, and Tom sensed her desire—not to find Harry, but to prove her worth. It irritated him in a peculiar way.

“Leave, Bella. I have no need for your… initiatives. Do as you were commanded.”

Bellatrix bowed, her movements sharp and almost convulsive, before retreating down the corridor with a slow, hesitant tread, as though debating whether to turn back and press her case. Tom was left alone, and silence enveloped his body once more… though, regrettably, not his brain.

He didn’t even think of the Horcruxes, as though his stress-ravaged, wretched mind reflexively shunned a topic that could worsen his state. The very notion that his hiding places had been discovered, their contents destroyed—that thought was unbearable, for it implied weakness and folly. Tom was not weak. He was absolute. But an absolute could not be incomplete, and without “victory” over Harry, he felt precisely that.

He stepped toward the fireplace, where embers glowed faintly, and his gaze fell upon the mirror hanging above it. For a moment, he stared at his inhuman features reflected back, his fingers tightening around his wand as he felt the magic within him pulse, ready for the spell that would follow in the next instant. Little Hangleton. The Gaunt shack. That place was no coincidence. Something was calling him. He needed to investigate…

He closed his eyes, and the world around him contracted, as though reality itself were torn by magic. Apparition was instantaneous, like an exhale. When he opened his eyes, he stood before the dilapidated Gaunt house. Walls cloaked in dull vegetation, a collapsed roof, windows like the empty sockets of a mutated corpse, kin to his ancestors—everything was as he remembered. Yet something had changed. The air was heavy, steeped in magic that did not belong to him. Something in his chest tightened.

On the porch, amid the debris and shadows, sat Harry Potter.

In the moment when Voldemort’s eyes, red as the smoldering coals in the hearth he had stood before moments ago, caught the figure on the porch of his cursed kin’s hovel, the world around him contracted to a single point. Harry Potter sat there, amid the debris and memories of his ancestors, surrounded by rubble and decay. His silhouette was slight, almost spectral, like a mirage. Could this truly be him? What were the odds of encountering the Chosen One, Potter, in the shack of Slytherin’s descendants? Moonlight, piercing through tattered clouds, fell upon his face, his shoulders, and Tom suddenly realized he longed to see those eyes—green as his curse, the mistake that had woven the boy into his story. His heart—if he still possessed such a thing—quivered, not with joy but with something deeper, more excruciating, as though something within him were detonating. Harry was here, alive, real, yet his presence felt wrong, like a note played out of chord. Tom sensed his mind trembling, taut as a plucked string, in anticipation of playing it right at last. He had waited for this moment for months, years, decades! Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had fled, was sitting here… and oh, he wasn’t looking at Tom. He gazed into the void, as though Tom didn’t exist.

What nonsense!

“Harry Potter,” he said, his voice, as ever, akin to a serpent’s hiss—low and dangerous—but carrying a new note, an almost reverent exhale on the final syllables. “You’re here…”

Harry slowly turned his head, and those cursed green eyes met Tom’s. There was no surprise in them, no fear. Tom swallowed, slipping into a catatonic stupor. Here it was. His enemy. His purpose. Harry’s face was nearly devoid of emotion, save for a shadow of a smile, faint, almost imperceptible, as though he knew something Tom did not. He opened his mouth, and his voice, quiet and hoarse, sliced through the silence:

“Oh!”

And in that instant, utterly soundlessly, he vanished. Apparated. The emptiness left on the porch struck like a blow to the chest. Tom froze, his wand still raised, but the magic within it stilled, as though the world itself refused to obey. He hadn’t come of his own accord. He hadn’t fought. That wretched boy had disappeared again. A minute passed. At last, Voldemort felt his mind stir once more.

Fury, hot and blinding, erupted within him like an Inferi loosed from the underworld. His mind became a maelstrom, each thought a shard of glass slicing through his core. He wanted to scream, but his voice remained caged in his throat, a monster too dangerous to unleash. Harry Potter had outwitted him again! This was no defeat—it was betrayal! Potter hadn’t even tried to fight him!

“ Reducto! ” he roared, and the spell struck the porch, tearing it to pieces. Stones scattered like broken bones, moss flared as the next curse—a searing, incinerating hex—ignited it like dry grass, and the Gaunt house’s fragile walls groaned, splintering like aged timber under an axe. The Dark wizard did not stop. Spell after spell, he razed everything—the porch, the walls, the roof, the very earth that dared bear Harry Potter’s trace.

What Tom felt now was a tempest of dark emotions, born from his inability to accept that Harry had slipped away again, had refused once more to be part of his world.

That day, the decrepit Gaunt ancestral home vanished. No walls, no roof, not even the ground where it had stood remained. Only ash, black and searing, and a silence louder than any scream. Voldemort stood amidst this chaos, his robes dusted with grime, his eyes blazing, even veiled by the shadow of his furrowed brows. Now he felt nothing but an emptiness that swelled within him with every passing second. Harry Potter was out there, somewhere beyond his reach… not mere thoughts, but a true poison, so potent that the most masterful wizard didn’t even recall the ancestral ring, imbued with a fragment of his own soul, once hidden by his own hand in that very estate.

Notes:

...Yeah, I always found it hilarious how Voldemort was so obsessed with Harry he forgot to even check on his Horcruxes, haha. I just decided to take that to a clinical extreme.

Chapter 4

Voldemort closed his eyes, savoring a fleeting moment of nothingness as his mind, scorched by surges of cortisol, reached a point of overload, and the world finally contracted. Apparition was instantaneous, accompanied, as always, by its distinctive crack. When he opened his eyes, he stood once more in the grand hall of Malfoy Manor. The light remained grey, the chandeliers hung motionless, but now the silence felt heavier, as though it had absorbed his rage. His footsteps echoed across the marble floor, each sound striking like a troll’s club against his bones. He moved toward the room where the Death Eaters kept their maps and plans—his mind, still ablaze, clung to a single thought: Harry. He marked the Gaunt estate in gold on the map.

“My Lord,” one of his Death Eaters broke through his musings and subsequent actions.

Voldemort turned, his eyes narrowing upon the man. Dolohov stood in the doorway, as though he had been awaiting his master’s arrival for some time, his face, as ever, dull and utterly lacking in refinement… his robes stained with blood. Tom offered no reply, but his gaze spoke volumes. Dolohov, accustomed to his lord’s moods, did not falter; he stepped closer and knelt, though his voice grew slightly softer—a sign he had dealt with his master’s temper before when it was sour. Yet the information he held could not wait.

“We’ve captured one of them,” he said, a hint of triumph in his tone. “Weasley. Caught in the Ministry, in the Department of Mysteries. He tried to sneak in, thinking no one would notice. Fool.”

Tom froze. Weasley. The name sliced through his ears, not because it carried weight on its own. He had scarcely heard anything of the Weasleys before Harry Potter that wasn’t laced with contempt—half their line had mingled with Muggles! They were shadows, mere pawns of Harry Potter, his lackeys, his weakness. But now Voldemort saw beyond that: his mind, still searing with fury, began weaving connections, like a spider spinning its web. Weasley in the Department of Mysteries? Potter at the Gaunt shack? This was no coincidence!

“Where is he?”

Dolohov gestured toward the staircase leading to the dungeons.

“Below, my Lord. We’re holding him in a cell, just brought in. He… isn’t very talkative, but we can fix that.”

Tom did not respond. His mind was already elsewhere—in the dungeons, where he would wrench from this Weasley everything he knew. He didn’t care which one it was—some redheaded, destitute blood-traitor; they were all the same to him. Only one thing mattered: Harry. This Weasley was a key, or at the very least, a keyhole through which Tom could peer into the void where his quarry hid.

He moved toward the staircase, his steps swift yet measured. The fury still smoldering within him began to ebb, giving way to a cold, paranoid resolve. He would uncover what they had planned, what scheme they were weaving.

The dungeons of Malfoy Manor were a labyrinth carved into the earth’s depths, where every stone exuded chill and despair. Walls, slick with green mold, glistened in the dim flicker of torches that trembled as though afraid to burn too brightly. The air was heavy, steeped in the scent of damp, rust, and something else—faint, like the metallic tang of fear. The stone staircase, oddly creaking beneath his tread, sent each sound reverberating like a death rattle, marking the area as something almost forsaken.

Weasley in the Ministry—it was no act of defiance; it was undoubtedly part of a plan. Tom was as certain of this as he was of the sun rising at dawn. Harry hadn’t come that night at Hogwarts, hadn’t fought, hadn’t fallen. His allies—Granger, Weasley, that old harpy McGonagall—had vanished, melted away, and gone into hiding. And now this Weasley, caught in the Department of Mysteries—they were making their move. But what were they doing? It was no coincidence. It was his design, his game, his cursed plan, laid out from the very start!

The staircase ended, and Tom stood before an iron door, heavy and cold as a coffin. Beyond it, in a cell, awaited Weasley. Dolohov, stationed by the entrance, bowed, though his gaze was wary.

“He’s inside, my Lord,” Dolohov said, his voice rough but tinged with a trace of triumph.

Tom offered no reply. His serpentine red eyes slid over Dolohov, who stepped back as though stung by the chill and contempt emanating from his master. Voldemort pushed the door, and it swung open with a protracted groan, as if the dungeon itself were moaning under his will.

The cell was small, barely illuminated by a single torch whose flame flickered in a faint, inexplicable breeze. In the center, on the cold stone floor, sat a man. His red hair, tangled and dusted with grime, was like a family banner he bore despite everything. His face, pale and gaunt, still retained sharp cheekbones that lent him an air both stern and refined, like a young aristocrat fallen into ruin. His grey-blue eyes, hidden behind the cracked lenses of his glasses, burned with defiance, though a shadow of fear lingered within, which he tried to conceal as he looked at the figure entering. This was not the Weasley Tom had seen beside Harry—this one was older.

Tom stepped closer, his shadow falling over the captive like a cloak. The prisoner lifted his head higher, and their gazes locked. That moment was enough to glimpse the deepest recesses of the young man’s mind, his very character. Tom smirked at what he saw.

The captive’s eyes held no challenge, but there was steel—not the wise, indulgent kind of McGonagall, but another, more personal, more self-serving. This was a man who could place his ambitions above all else. Tom respected that, though he would never admit it, not in this context.

“You,” Tom’s voice was soft, but it carried a menace, like the hush before a tempest. “You thought you could sneak about? In the Department of Mysteries? What were you seeking there, Weasley?”

The prisoner did not reply. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as though weighing every word, every movement. He was not one to break under a mere stare; clearly, he had prepared for this moment. Tom felt a flicker of irritation mingled with curiosity. This Weasley was unlike his brothers—not loud like the one he’d glimpsed in the Ministry, not reckless like the twins Lucius had reported on. He was like a chess piece that knew its place on the board yet played by its own rules.

“Silent, are you?” Tom said, his voice turning almost gentle, which made it all the more terrifying. “You’ve always been like that, haven’t you?” Voldemort raised his wand and circled the young man with a languid tread. “Prefect of Hogwarts. Top student. Crouch’s lackey. Did you think your discipline, your pathetic ambitions, would make you more than just a Weasley?”

Percy Weasley flinched, as though Tom’s words had struck something deep within. His jaw tightened, his eyes flashing, but he remained silent. Voldemort’s lips curled into a slow, languorous smile. “Your mind, dear boy, cannot keep quiet,” he hissed, his eyes—red as the Cruciatus Curse—flaring brighter.

He tucked his wand into his sleeve and seized Percy’s chin with long, spider-like fingers, forcing his head upward. Their gazes met, and Tom uttered no spell. His Legilimency was like a shadow slipping through cracks, invisible and relentless. He entered Percy’s mind as a scalpel slides into flesh—effortlessly, without resistance—and a flood of controlled images surged forth.

At first, he saw the Burrow—an old house brimming with noise and chaos. A red-haired woman, Molly, was shouting something, surrounded by a gaggle of equally repulsive redheaded children. Nearby stood her husband, balding Arthur, his face etched with wrinkles, his lips pressed tight. “Percy… Leave,” he said— further —Ron, fists clenched, arguing with the mind’s owner, his voice quivering with rage, poised to shout in fury, his fist already raised— further —Hermione stood before him, her face pale, but her gaze stern and resolute, her brows furrowed; with her wand, she traced magical diagrams in the air, her lips whispering spells, pointing at the mind’s owner— FURTHER —McGonagall, gesturing and addressing a group gathered in some cramped room— FURTHER —McGonagall issuing orders, planning something…

Tom saw it all, but his mind, like a magnet, was drawn to one thing—Harry. Where was he?! He had to be here, among them, within these memories. He was their center, their axis, their cursed savior! Tom parted the synapses of these recollections as Noah parted the sea. But Harry was nowhere to be found. Tom delved deeper, his Legilimency slicing further, like the tool of a skilled yet deranged surgeon searching for a tumor. The priority now—Potter. He was, without question, their symbol, their leader. He had to be here.

He pressed on, dismissing everything else, even what might, in theory, have been a key to answering his other questions, but now only one thing mattered. The rest was irrelevant. The rest he seemed to refuse to see, desperately striving to uncover what he sought. A person familiar with the art of cooking might compare it to someone so consumed by a recipe that they cast aside ingredients that could have enhanced the dish’s flavor… Voldemort discarded it all.

He glimpsed fragments of memories, swiftly parting the neural threads of recollection: a room teeming with people; a ruined Hogwarts, its walls still smoldering; the Department of Mysteries—there it was! Time-Turners? That particular vision flickered strangely, the outlines of objects trembling as if unsteady, but the Dark Lord scarcely noticed the imperfections. Voldemort overheard the task in the young man’s thoughts—he was seeking Time-Turners? This wasn’t merely a desperate act spurred by some random event; it was a plan! And behind that plan stood Harry. Tom was as certain of this as he was of the magic coursing through his veins. That was his conviction.

And then, without warning, he stumbled into fog. Not a memory, not an image, but a void—grey, cloying, like smoke that could neither be seized nor traversed. This was no natural barrier. It was a spell, cunningly crafted to shroud something… or someone. Potter.

Tom felt his consciousness recoil, as though he had grazed something taboo. This was it. This was his trace! Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had vanished, was here, within this mind, and yet eluding him once more! That wretched cur!

Voldemort tore himself from the haze of recollection, his features twisted with loathing. He fixed his gaze upon Weasley, still slumped on the floor, his complexion ashen, eyes squeezed shut, and breathing uneven. The young man was struggling to recover from the brutal violation of his psyche; it felt as though all his memories had been churned into a stew moments before. Yet Weasley stubbornly furrowed his brow, opened defiant eyes, and steadied his breath.

“You thought you could conceal him?” Tom’s voice dripped with disgust and bile. “You? You, who groveled at Crouch’s boots to inch yourself just above your brothers? And all of you… all of you truly believe you can keep cowering and persist in existing?”

Weasley flinched, his jaw clenching, his gaze flaring with defiance, but he remained silent. His silence was like a gauntlet cast down, and Tom sensed a surge of cold, blinding fury rising within him. He raised his wand, and his voice roared through the silence:

“Crucio!”

Percy screamed, his body arching, fingers clawing as though his bones were splintering under an unseen force. His visage contorted in agony, eyes wide open, strained to the point where it seemed a fraction more pressure might wrench them from their sockets. Tom’s wrath did not abate. He lifted his wand once more.

“Crucio!”

Percy didn’t scream a second time; he emitted something akin to a groan, as though his body were being torn asunder—an echo of a primal execution by rending. His form convulsed toward the ceiling, trembling, blood trickling from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue. Tom loomed over him, his breathing labored, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger while muttering something incoherent in his wrath. Voldemort had seen the fog in Weasley’s memory—they had hidden those recollections! Potter was behind it! Why wouldn’t he simply come to Lord Voldemort himself?!

Chapter 5

Hermione sat at a long, darkened oak table cluttered with parchments, maps, and scraps of old letters, in the spacious room of the guest house on the Delacour estate—Fleur’s family home, where she lived with her husband, Bill Weasley. The modest dwelling, nestled in the hills of Cornwall, was layered with additional enchantments, so potent that even the sea breeze drifting from the coast seemed unable to find its way here... Tall windows, framed by delicate curtains, admitted soft light that spilled across the mosaic floor, but the walls, adorned with ancestral tapestries—clearly imported—embroidered with lilies, bore traces of a grandeur once belonging to one of the owners, now muted by dust and neglect. The air carried the scent of lavender, sea salt, the breeze, and a faint trace of alchemical spices and herbs. The house exuded an airy magic, akin to the Delacour lineage itself, lending it an aura of elusive allure.

The house was relatively small, built by Bill and Fleur for Molly, Arthur, and the rest of the family. Fleur had insisted on having their own space, with ample room to ensure comfort should everyone decide to gather at once. She wasn’t particularly fond of crowded rooms, but she deeply cherished her husband’s family. But house was now covered with additional combined spatial charms, which McGonagall and the others had merged together to turn the place into a fully functional mobile safehouse.

Hermione leaned over a map, her fingers trembling as they traced the rough parchment. This was no ordinary map—not one that showed streets, houses, or rivers. It was a schematic web of England, enchanted in a peculiar way. She and McGonagall had crafted it over sleepless nights, using artifacts smuggled from the Ministry to track Unforgivable Curses. It had taken Kingsley and Percy considerable time to procure them discreetly. Glowing spots flickered on the parchment, each marking a flare of magic—not just any magic, but dark and dangerous, leaving a stain in the air. Red dots pulsed where dark magic concentrated, their intensity signaling not the number of people but the potency of the spells cast there. Hermione knew: where dark magic burned brightest, there were Death Eaters.

Her gaze fixed on a single point—Godric’s Hollow. A red stain flared there with such intensity that it seemed the parchment might catch fire. Hermione froze, her breath catching. She had seen such flashes before, but this one… several sharp spikes, like needles, pierced the map, each one resembling the trace of an Avada Kedavra, leaving the most vivid and unmistakable marks. At least three Killing Curses in one location…

It was abhorrent. In that very place where Dumbledore had lived, where Harry’s parents had resided… it was no surprise that Death Eaters were there now. Hermione shook her head, marked the corresponding spot on a second map where static notes—locations, dates, and times—were recorded, and resumed studying the parchment.

The room felt cramped with the presence of others, though not all spoke at that moment. By the fireplace, on a faded rug, sat Fred and George, their red heads bent over a hissing device that sparked as if alive. Luna Lovegood stood by the window, her pale hair gleaming in the sunlight, her fingers fidgeting with a long scarf embroidered with stars, clearly belonging to someone else. Her father, Xenophilius, was in Azkaban for his articles in The Quibbler , and McGonagall had insisted Luna stay with them—not out of pity, but practicality. Leaving her alone would have been reckless. Neville Longbottom sat in a corner, his round face graver than ever, his hands nervously clutching an old herbology book he read to distract himself. His grandmother, Augusta, hadn’t been heard from since Hogwarts fell, and Neville had insisted on staying to help. He wasn’t one to back down. Ron and Hermione had told everyone about the Horcruxes, about the snake being the last, and Neville was the loudest, most insistent that they destroy it as soon as possible.

On a rack by the door hung a motley array of robes, scarves, and even a tattered sweater with an embroidered “F,” hinting at more people than the room currently held. Molly and Arthur were out patrolling the grounds. Ginny was likely upstairs, rummaging through Fleur’s old trunks for something useful. Many others had stayed with their families, deep in the Muggle world, far from the war—people like Seamus and Dean.

“Hermione, you’re staring at that map again like it’s going to speak to you,” Ron’s voice, hoarse with exhaustion, broke the silence. He sat across from her at the table, his red hair sticking out in all directions, his robe patched with magic but still looking worn and frayed. “We’ve been sitting here for a week, and nothing. Maybe it’s time to move?”

Hermione lifted her gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. She wanted to snap back, but she restrained herself. Ron was right—they had lingered in one place far too long… with each passing day, the odds of being found grew higher. But moving without a plan was suicide, and a plan… a plan required time. Information. Information that, according to their latest intelligence, Fudge had possessed years ago but had been too cowardly to act upon. Percy had been their hope, but he had vanished, and now they could only speculate about his fate.

“We can’t just ‘move,’ Ron,” she said at last. “And for one thing, without the sword or poison, we can’t destroy the Horcrux. We agreed to rule out Fiendfyre. Our task remains the same…” She trailed off, her fingers tightening around the edge of the parchment. “We can’t afford to make a mistake.”

Ron snorted, though his expression softened. He leaned back in his chair, which creaked plaintively, and ran a hand through his hair.

“I know, I know. But sitting here, in this dump—” Bill shouted something like “Oi!” from the second floor—“with a pile of old robes, your maps, and doing sod all…” Ron waved a hand toward the corner stacked with clothes, as if the spot epitomized “neglect” for him. “It’s not right. We’ve got to do something. You’ve read the papers, haven’t you? How many more people have to suffer? Susan and her mum, from the sound of it, are headed to Azkaban for nothing!”

Hermione didn’t respond. Her gaze drifted across the room.

“We are doing something, Ron,” she said at last, her voice quieter but steadier this time. “Right now, we’re searching. Waiting. And planning… and we will find…” She faltered, leaving the object unnamed, as though offering Ron the chance to fill in the blank with whatever suited him. “We’ll find what we need.”

Ron looked at her, his brows furrowing.

“You mean those scrolls? Or…” He trailed off, but his eyes conveyed everything. He wanted to ask about Harry but held back. A month had passed since that night when Harry vanished, leaving them in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. A month during which they had learned to avoid speaking of him, for every theory and conjecture ended in silence. No one knew or understood anything. Yet his absence was like a miasma, trailing them wherever they went.

Fred lifted his head from their contraption, his grin as ever cheeky and slightly lopsided.

“If you two are going to bicker, at least keep it down,” he said, tapping his wand against the hissing mechanism while sprawled on the floor by the fireplace. “George and I are nearly done with this thing.” The twins, hunched over their device—a cube encasing a small sphere fueled by an odd tangle of copper and magical threads—both flung their eyes wide in unison, gazing in reverence at their creation as it stopped rattling and hissing strangely.

“This,” Fred began, tapping the device with his wand, “is no mere trap.”

“It’s a masterpiece,” George chimed in, his grin a perfect reflection of Fred’s. “The Protection Orb spell is fiendishly complex on its own, and we’ve tinkered with it… so now, if Nagini, or any other scaly beast, comes within four feet…”

“…the vessel will be drawn to her, and she’ll be trapped in a magical bubble,” Fred finished, his eyes sparkling with exhilaration. “Not just paralyzed, but clamped tight, like in a vise. The creature won’t stir, won’t bite, won’t slither away!”

“It’ll be like a lamp with a genie, only without the genie,” George added with a snort. “Or, well, with a very angry genie,” Fred concluded.

Hermione turned to them, her eyebrows arching.

“And how reliable is it? We don’t know if she can be killed by ordinary means, but can it hold her?” Hermione’s interest was piqued, though her voice brimmed with skepticism. Her mind was already mapping out scenarios for when and how this could be deployed. “We can’t afford mistakes. Nagini isn’t just any snake.”

“Oh, we know,” Fred said, his grin stretching broader. “That’s why we added a few tricks.”

“…the bubble will contract once it traps her,” George finished, his fingers deftly twisting a copper wire he’d snatched from the table. He squinted, fixing his gaze on Ron. “Well, if it doesn’t kill her, she definitely won’t escape. Oh, and there’s a couple of curses woven in too! Of course, it’s not guaranteed that…”

“…it won’t explode spectacularly if they all trigger at once,” Fred concluded with a gleeful chuckle, glancing expectantly at Ron.

Ron snorted, but a glint of something like delight flashed in his eyes.

“Can you two ever make something that doesn’t explode?” he asked, his tone more teasing than exasperated. He was smiling. Like an energy vampire feeding off the emotions around him, Ron seemed to draw vitality from the positive charge in the room. They did this often, didn’t they?

“Where’s the fun if nothing explodes?” Fred shot back, winking. “But, seriously, this will work. We tested it before calibrating it for reptiles… Well, mostly.”

“On rats,” George clarified, his grin stretching wider, hinting at some double meaning, as though the creature bore a species-wide curse in truth. “Though, well, one rat’s now… rather dead.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. The twins were exasperating, yet their energy shone like a brilliant light. She glanced at the still-sparking device and thought it might just be a superb solution. If they could capture the snake, if they could hold her long enough, or discover another way to destroy her…

“Fine,” she said, her voice growing firmer. “Finish it. But if this thing explodes, I’ll personally cast Silencio on both of you until the war’s over.”

Fred and George exchanged a glance, their grins identical.

“Deal,” they chorused, their wands sparking anew over the device.

Hermione caught the sound of Luna softly clearing her throat, still standing by the window.

“Luna,” Hermione called gently. “What’s wrong?”

Luna turned slowly, her eyes like twin silver lakes, serene and vacant. She fidgeted with a long scarf in her hands, a faint smile touching her lips before she spoke.

“The shadows are moving,” she said, her voice soft but carrying an odd certainty. “Something… ancient. As if the void remembers what we’ve forgotten… or never saw, but should have.”

It was Ron’s turn to roll his eyes, but Hermione frowned. Luna was always peculiar—had Nargles truly scrambled her mind? Should they check her with diagnostic charms?

“Great,” Hermione said, her voice sharpening. “Still, we know the Death Eaters’ base is likely still at Malfoy Manor, but the snake… we need to know how…”

“To destroy her,” McGonagall finished, striding into the room, the door creaking shut behind her. She carried an unfamiliar bundle, her robes dusted with grime, and her face, usually stern as granite, now bore a pallid, weary cast. She removed her pointed hat, hanging it on a hook by the entrance, and moved deeper into the house with heavy steps. The light from a magical lamp glinted in her deeply exhausted and unhealthy eyes as she surveyed the room’s occupants with an appraising gaze, as though weighing something internally before reaching a decision.

She paused at the table where Hermione was still studying the map, while Ron nervously fidgeted with the hem of his robes. Fred and George, engrossed in their hissing contraption by the fireplace, spared her only a glance, but their grins vanished when they caught her expression.

“Professor,” Hermione leapt up, her chair scraping wood against wood with a distinctive sound. Her voice was thick with tension. “Has something happened?”

McGonagall set the bundle on the table, remaining silent. She looked at Hermione, then at Ron, her lips pressing into a thin line before she spoke.

“An unauthorized individual was caught in the Ministry…” she said, her voice dry, its tone softening as she continued. “I don’t know who it is, but… this person was found in the Department of Mysteries.”

Ron froze, his face draining of color. His fingers curled into fists, and he looked at Hermione, his eyes brimming with horror and something else—guilt, smoldering within him since Percy had left.

“It… it could be him,” Ron muttered, his voice hoarse, almost broken. “Percy. He… he went there. It has to be him.”

Hermione averted her gaze, unable to meet Ron’s eyes, but she forced herself to nod. Something in her expression hinted at a secret… perhaps Percy was already dead, regardless. The reality stood unyielding and singular. The young witch’s mind drifted back to that day when he had stepped forward: he had stood tall before them, his voice resonating with the same unshakeable resolve as his stance, upholding his decision despite Molly’s fierce objections.

“I know the Ministry better than anyone,” he had declared then, his eyes alight with an odd blend of ambition and remorse. “I worked there. I know every corridor, every ward. If those studies and data are there, I’ll uncover the information about it.”

Molly had opposed him, her face flushed crimson with a mix of tears and fury, but Percy’s conviction had prevailed.

He had always possessed a gift for persuasion, even when his family had turned their backs on him, branding him a traitor for his allegiance to Fudge’s regime. Yet in that fleeting moment, within the confines of their hideout, he was not the Percy who had once prized career above kinship. He was a Weasley—yearning to redeem himself, to reclaim what he had forsaken when he had abandoned them for his own aspirations… and, in all honesty, he had come to see what a blatantly incompetent fool Fudge had been. Percy harbored regrets about those years, if only they had allowed him to voice them… He longed to prove he still belonged to their family. He had offered himself up willingly, and in the end, they had consented, for they had no other option. Arthur knew the Ministry well, but he was worn thin from a recent skirmish with Death Eaters mere days before. Kingsley was preoccupied, tracing the movements of werewolves who had grown alarmingly active over the past weeks, striking at Muggle districts with murders that were… strange, prompting his suspicion that Voldemort was weaving some dark scheme. Hermione and Ron had only ever breached the Ministry as trespassers, scarcely committing its layout to memory. Percy had been their strongest contender.

They had supplied him with Polyjuice Potion, altering his form into that of a dark-haired Death Eater, whose locks Kingsley had gathered during one of his numerous ventures into the Ministry. His task was to slip into the Department of Mysteries, ideally to locate vital notes concerning a most curious artifact—one that had, by all accounts, been used once before, and which, rumor held, the Ministry had concealed there following the events of the late seventeenth century.

But something had gone awry. Hermione clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms.

“We don’t know it’s him,” she stated, her voice steady at first, though it faltered as she pressed on. “It could be anyone. The Death Eaters might have seized some random employee, but Ron, we must face facts.”

McGonagall fixed her with a piercing look, her eyes narrowing as though she grasped what Hermione was attempting.

“Perhaps it isn’t him,” she offered, though her tone betrayed her lack of faith in the words.

Ron brought his fist down hard upon the table, his features twisting with rage.

“It’s my fault,” he burst out, his voice quavering. “I should’ve gone with him. I should’ve…”

“Enough, Ron,” Hermione interrupted sharply, her eyes blazing. “It’s not your fault. Percy knew the risks he was taking. He chose this. He needed to prove he stood with us. He’s a grown man, and this was his call! It was something he had to do!”

Ron stared at her, stunned, his eyes red with burst vessels, but he nodded, swallowing hard and pressing his lips together. Silence fell over the room, heavy as the damp air of a dungeon. Fred and George stopped tinkering with their device, their faces uncharacteristically somber. Luna, still by the window, turned, her fingers pausing on the starry scarf.

“He was like a Nundu…solitary, but strong. He wanted to come back, but didn’t know how.”

Hermione felt her throat tighten. He had volunteered not merely for the sake of information, but for them. And now, he might be in the clutches of Death Eaters. If that were true, he would likely soon be dead… Hermione gazed at Ron with a pang of sorrow, a faint shadow of guilt flickering across her features.

McGonagall drew a sharp breath through her nose, straightening, her voice snapping everyone back to the present.

“We cannot waste time on speculation,” she declared, her tone devoid of compassion despite the gravity of her earlier revelation. “Miss Granger—” She unfurled the bundle, and an ancient parchment spilled open onto the table, its surface crawling with runes that bared their sinister contents to the world. “This is all I could procure. It may aid you.”

Hermione leaned closer, scrutinizing the unfurled parchment etched with runes that seemed to writhe in the dim glow of the magical lamp. Its edges were frayed, the once-black ink faded to a ghostly grey, yet the magic imbued within it was palpable—and chilling. The Delacour estate, with its lavender scent and Veela aura, suddenly felt constricting, as though the very air had thickened under the weight of this scroll. Everyone in the room—Ron, Fred, George, Luna, Neville—froze, their eyes drawn to McGonagall, whose face was stern, though her gaze betrayed a taut strain. Hermione gasped softly, her eyes catching familiar terms and descriptions on the parchment with a jolt of recognition.

“This,” McGonagall began, her voice low, as if wary that the words might awaken something primordial, “is a scroll concerning soul magic. I borrowed it from… an old acquaintance, now widowed, and I entrust it solely to you, Miss Granger.”

Hermione felt her heart skip a beat. She glanced at the scroll, then at McGonagall, whose sharp eyes, narrowed behind her spectacles, were fixed on her with unwavering conviction. This was no mere command—for Hermione, it felt like an acknowledgment. McGonagall saw her as a leader, one capable of bearing the selfless burden of knowledge that others might buckle under. Hermione swallowed, her fingers trembling, but she nodded, accepting the responsibility she hadn’t sought but knew she could not refuse.

“I’ll study it, Professor,” she said, her voice steady despite the tempest within. “As thoroughly as you would.”

McGonagall’s lips curved into a fleeting smile, as though she had anticipated such a response, before her expression tightened once more with a slight nod. She turned to the others, her gaze growing even sterner, as if appraising each person in the room.

“This knowledge,” she continued, her voice slicing through the air, sharp and commanding, the words seeming to vie with the wind seeping through the spaces between them, “is not for frivolous minds. Soul magic… it destroys not only those who wield it but those who merely brush against it. We hope this scroll will help us understand, to discern precisely how many times Tom Riddle’s soul was sundered, to uncover the details… but I demand utmost caution from all of you. No one, save Miss Granger, is to touch this parchment. Is that clear?”

Ron nodded, his face pale, his hands nervously twisting the hem of his robe. Fred and George exchanged a glance, their usual grins gone, replaced by rare solemnity. Luna, standing by the window, tilted her head slightly, her eyes fixed on the scroll as if seeing something others missed. Neville, clutching his herbology book, lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening, but he said nothing. No one objected. No one showed interest in that magic, and Hermione, watching them, felt an odd relief. The Professor needn’t have doubted, she thought. No student from her House would touch such vile magic. In Gryffindor, there was an instinctive rejection of such arts at the deepest level. It wasn’t just House pride—it was faith in those beside her. Luna wasn’t a lion, but there was no doubt she’d shun the parchment. Yet, deep in Hermione’s mind, a fleeting shadow of intuitive doubt flickered, too brief for her to grasp.

“Good luck, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, narrowing her eyes once more, casting Hermione a peculiar look that was almost teacherly, almost mentor-like. She nodded to the other students and, with a sharp turn on her heels—so abrupt that even the dense fabric of her robes flared briefly in the air—she spun around and departed, leaving the scroll on the table. The thud of the closing door and the crack of Apparition that followed somehow plunged Hermione into a fleeting moment of stupor.

 

-

Later, when night had draped itself over the Delacour estate and the others had dispersed to their tasks—Ron and Neville inspecting the protective charms, Fred and George brewing reserves of Polyjuice Potion, and Luna monitoring the map in Hermione’s stead—Granger herself sat in a small room upstairs, one set aside for her by Fleur. Here, the scent of lavender was most potent, and moonlight filtered through a tall stained-glass window, casting kaleidoscopic glints across the floor.

The table was strewn with books Hermione had pulled from the estate’s library, volumes she had read long ago to fill the empty hours when she could think of nothing else to occupy her time. Her focus, however, was riveted on the scroll, loosely unfurled before her. The light from a magical candle flickered, casting shadows that danced across the walls and the parchment. She unrolled the scroll with care, her slender fingers moving with the same courteous precision she applied to everything, whether handling books or magical artifacts. Hermione was meticulous in all things. Just minutes before, she had cast protective charms around the room with equal fastidiousness. Just in case. The text was inscribed in an ancient tongue, but she recognized it—a blend of Latin and runes used in rituals forbidden since time immemorial. But the hand that wrote it was unsteady—no initials, no names, save for a residual letter “R”, where the author’s signature should have been.

Hermione brushed the scroll lightly with her fingertips, sensing the magic within it pulse like the heartbeat of something ancient and unnatural… cold. The runes, faded by time yet still legible to her keen eyes, wove a tale that sent shivers across her skin. Horcruxes. A word she had heard from Dumbledore but never fully grasped. For Hermione, understanding came through study, through reading. And now, at last, she had her chance. The scroll elucidated their essence: “a fragment of soul, torn from the body through murder—an act so unnatural it rent the very fabric of existence.” It detailed the abhorrent ritual, the runes occasionally shifting under her gaze to form corresponding images… a depiction of the rite itself. Creating a Horcrux demanded a ritual steeped in "pain" of a victim, and the caster paid a price “beyond measure.” A soul, splintered into fragments, became “fragile” yet invulnerable so long as the Horcrux endured. The sentence ended abruptly, without a period, but Hermione had noted earlier that the entire text was "off," so she didn't dwell on it. A ritual of reversal was also described, but it demanded the will of the spell’s creator. She already knew all this. Why had she expected to find anything new?

Hermione furrowed her brow, her fingers hovering over a passage detailing the consequences. The one who crafted a Horcrux lost not only a fragment of their soul but a piece of their very being. Their mind could unravel, their emotions turn discordant.

Could this not also stem from ordinary murder? Hermione reasoned, picturing a mere mortal committing such madness, amplified by this grotesque ritual… the outcome would surely be… She scowled at her own thoughts. If Nagini was a Horcrux, her destruction would weaken Voldemort. But how could they extinguish the soul within her? The scroll made it clear: an object bound by such magic could not be shattered or marred by conventional means; it would strive to protect itself.

Even if they “killed” the snake by ordinary methods—since she remained, after all, a reptile—it was unclear what would become of Voldemort’s soul housed within her… Regrettably, the scroll held no mention of Horcruxes in living vessels… the very notion sounded absurd. Does this snake even die by normal means?

Hermione’s thoughts drifted once more to the sword, forged of goblin-wrought silver and imbued with basilisk venom—oh, what a perfect chance it would have been… but it had last been in Griphook’s possession. She and Ron had debated several times about attempting to track down the blade, yet they hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin. Her eyes skimmed the lines again, lingering on the methods of destruction.

The scroll also bore detailed descriptions of several additional rituals,reflections within were dry, impartial—dedicated etched along the parchment’s edges, where words and phrases formed a continuous frame encircling the text. Among them was a single potion recipe… Hermione was certain she would return to these insights later, but as her eyes skimmed the information, she realized it outlined something akin to diagnostic and demonstrative charms. The latter, according to the description, could “reveal the essence,” yet there was no mention of Horcruxes in these inscriptions… Magic tied to souls was so limited. Truly, what could be done with it? Tear it apart? Erase it? Gaze upon it? Hermione absently twirled a lock of hair around her finger, chewing on it thoughtfully, unaware that her finger had drifted to her lips.

If Voldemort had sundered his soul six times, could one infer that each subsequent fragment was weaker than the last? Did that mean the snake, in theory, harbored a mere sliver of his soul, and that the trap the twins were crafting might actually succeed? Well, they could test it as early as tomorrow—they knew where the Death Eaters lurked, where Voldemort himself resided. There was no need for them to hide or hold their tongues.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window where the moon hung in the sky like a silver coin. And then, for the first time that evening, she allowed herself to think of Harry. Not whether he was alive—she had moved beyond that phase, the desperate terror that had consumed her in the days following his disappearance. Nearly a month had changed her, forcing her to accept that hope was not the same as certainty. She didn’t know where he was, but she knew he wasn’t dead. Voldemort was hunting him too. But what was Harry doing? Where was he? Why had he left them in the Great Hall? She recalled his eyes, the fathomless weariness and emptiness within them, a void she couldn’t comprehend. He wasn’t one to give up. Yet he had gone. And that was worse than death.

“What are you up to, Harry?” she whispered, her voice barely audible, dissolving into the silence of the room. She didn’t expect an answer, but the question lingered, unshakeable.

Hermione turned back to the scroll, her fingers brushing the runes once more. She would study it, as McGonagall had asked. She would learn everything possible. Not for herself, but for all of them. And perhaps, for Harry, wherever he might be.

Chapter 6

Twilight had yet to descend, but Malfoy Manor remained steeped in the same sinister silence that had cloaked it these past few years. One might suppose some malevolent force exerted its influence, as though the very estate of the Malfoy lineage recoiled against it. Voldemort stood at a long table strewn with maps and lists, his gaunt figure blending into the gloom and shadows that deepened in the corners. From one such corner came a groan and a gurgle, laced with the telltale rasp of blood in the lungs.Voldemort thoughts were scarcely brighter than his robes. The tall, grotesque figure with crimson eyes appeared almost ethereally fantastical.

A day had passed since he stood before the ruined Gaunt shack, where, amid debris and filth on the porch, Harry had been. Those green eyes still seared Tom’s memory, a curse he could not lift. An eternal reminder of his failure. And what had he done? Merely an “Oh!”—all Tom had heard, and it gnawed at him. What was Harry doing in Little Hangleton? Why was he there, in the place where Tom’s own story had begun? It was no coincidence. Nothing tied to Harry Potter was ever coincidental. And that filthy Weasley, now sprawled senseless after a mere pair of Crucios… Voldemort would dose him with Veritaserum once the rat came to.

His fingers, long and pallid, glided over a list of names on the table. The Ministry, now a puppet, carried out his will without question. He had a certain plan, but for now, his mind was consumed by Harry. No matter how he tried to turn his focus to the Muggle world, he circled back to the hunt for Harry. Though, the werewolves executed his orders with fervent zeal…

Azkaban swelled with those who dared to whisper against him, while others—those whose names were circled in red—he permitted to be slain… Yes, those names. Voldemort summoned their images in his mind, channeling his fury: McGonagall, Granger, POTTER, Weasley, Shacklebolt, POTTER… Their names blazed in his thoughts, but one was so relentless in its insistence, almost intrusive despite its irrelevance in this moment. Hardly any hapless Death Eater who dared strike at Harry Potter before the Dark Lord himself would live to tell of it… Yet that name, it surfaced everywhere, in every thought, no matter what he tried to focus on. Harry was first. Always first. That goal, that obsession, permitted no distraction. The boy had outwitted him time and again! The great Dark Lord, felled by an infant! The boy—his MISTAKE—must be erased. Voldemort pressed a finger to his temple.

Tom turned from the table, his gaze falling once more on the map, where markers flickered, tracking the movements of his Death Eaters. His eyes darted to the Ministry, marked with crosses… the prisoner in its dungeons. Voldemort had invaded his mind, sifted through his memories: the Burrow, Granger, McGonagall, the forest where they had hidden before, the house they seemed to occupy now… and that peculiar fog obscuring something—or someone! The thought always lingered there for Voldemort. But one memory gnawed at him relentlessly: the Department of Mysteries. Percy had skulked there, and from his recollections, he sought Time-Turners. Tom’s brow furrowed, his mind weaving a chain of deductions.

Time-Turners had been destroyed years ago—even he knew that. Percy, with his evident knowledge of the Ministry, could not be so foolish as to search for what no longer existed. What, then, was he after? Something tied to the prophecy? Or something else, linked to Potter? Tom felt his obsession flare anew, like a fire fanned by the wind. They were all in league, he was certain of it. His paranoid conviction, like venom, poisoned every thought. They could not be acting independently.

Voldemort sensed, though he could scarcely acknowledge, how his obsession with Harry grew heavier, like a chain dragging him into an abyss. Even the most seasoned surgeon might neglect their own body, fully aware of the consequences of their ailment yet taking no action. They simply don’t think in such terms. He was blind to the fact that Percy hadn’t been with Harry, that his foray into the Department of Mysteries was his own initiative. To Tom, everything was interconnected. Everything led back to Potter.

His musings were interrupted by the sound of footsteps. The hall’s door creaked open, and a Death Eater stepped inside—Yaxley, a tall man with coarse blond hair and a rugged face, his robes immaculately sterile, untouched by breath or dust. He bowed, his movements sharp yet calculated. It was time for him to report the day’s progress.

“My Lord,” Yaxley began, his voice low, though it quivered with a restless urgency, as if some piece of news strained to burst forth. “We are following your commands. The list… it’s, er, being carried out. The werewolves struck in Tottenham, as you ordered. They attacked Muggles late in the evening, near the public place you specified. Marks were left as instructed. No magic was used… None survived. I ensured Muggle photographers were present—reports will appear soon.” Yaxley’s fingers twitched nervously. “Azkaban is receiving new prisoners—those on the blacklists. Only the Bones family remains, but, as you know, we’re still working on them… And those you permitted to be eliminated on sight…” He faltered, his eyes flicking briefly to Tom. “We’re searching for them, my Lord.”

Excellent. The attacks only seemed chaotic at a glance: every torn corpse, every pool of blood, every scream of terror in the night was a note in a symphony composed by his own hand. He had instructed Fenrir not merely to kill but to craft scenes that would grip Muggle hearts with primal dread: mangled bodies, symbols scratched into walls hinting at magic yet too vague to serve as evidence. Let ordinary Muggles tremble in horror. Yaxley always ensured Muggle journalists “happened” upon the carnage. Their cameras flashed, spreading panic across the pages of The Sun and The Daily Mail . Voldemort could already envision the headlines: “Savage Murders in Tottenham: Unexplained Terror Grips London.” Perfect. Let Muggles believe these were the deeds of their own outcasts—drunken thugs or cultists dabbling in sorcery. Dolores had already made contact with Muggle officials: “It’s merely wizards, overly enamored with your world. They’re harmless, they wish to live among you, but… alcohol, you understand…” Every word was a drop of venom, eroding the fragile trust between their worlds. Wolves only broke their chains on another’s command. And soon, everyone would wonder why the air reeked of baited traps.

Yet this brought no satisfaction, as Tom had hoped.

Voldemort was on the verge of boredom, ready to dismiss the Death Eater, when Yaxley pressed on.

“Er… there’s something else, my Lord,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, laced with an odd fragility, as though the words clawed at his throat. Tom regarded him with intrigue, his crimson eyes narrowing, latching onto every detail Yaxley was about to reveal.

“In Godric’s Hollow… we found a house. We’ve been there often, as you ordered. There was… something strange, and it wasn’t our doing. Several people, all dead. Avada Kedavra, no question. But it was…” He hesitated, groping for the right word. His voice sank to a near whisper, as if fearing his vague account might summon the scene to life. “…odd, my Lord.”

Tom stilled, his eyes narrowing further. Godric’s Hollow? The place where it all began…

“Continue,” Tom cut in sharply, his tone laced with menace yet tinged with unmistakable curiosity, as the muscles of his face eased slightly.

“They were lying in the drawing room, on the floor, staring upward at the ceiling, where…” Yaxley swallowed, his features softening as though the memory still gripped him. “A starry sky. Not an illusion, not a simple charm. It was Transfiguration, my Lord, so potent, so intricate, that the ceiling had become the heavens. Hundreds of stars, and I… I felt peace. Like someone had cast a Calming Charm, the kind they use at St. Mungo’s, sustained by multiple wizards to soothe patients’ minds. But this… this wasn’t ours, my Lord. No Death Eater would waste time on such nonsense. Nor could they manage it. I chose to report this because… it was immensely powerful magic, my Lord, and…” As Yaxley pressed on, his voice held steady despite the weight of what followed. For some reason, the description of the starry sky had clearly unnerved the Death Eater far more. “…the bodies. They were altered. Not mutilated, not like the werewolves’ work—everything was intact. More than that, their skin seemed smooth, too smooth, like porcelain. Their faces… they were smiling, my Lord.” Yaxley cleared his throat, cutting off his rambling. He was oddly tense. That place had been repulsive.

The air in the hall grew heavier, as though Malfoy Manor itself absorbed Yaxley’s words. Lucius, standing off to the side, gave a slight shudder but dared not interject. Tom remained still, his eyes alight with intrigue. He propped his head thoughtfully on an open palm. By the sound of it, this was no mere slaughter for slaughter’s sake. It was… fascinating. Tom had slipped into Yaxley’s mind as the man met his gaze while recounting the scene, sifting through the memory… His minion had fled that place swiftly, it seemed.

“And another thing,” Yaxley spoke again, his voice now barely audible. “Forgive me, my Lord. I don’t know what it was, but the magic in that house… it was vile. It worked on me, as if it wanted me to believe those people had been saved, that it had managed to save them… it was icy. I felt it. But I didn’t want to understand, honestly, to hell with it. Truth be told, I left as soon as I could.”

“You left the house untouched?” Tom asked, his voice low. He twirled his wand in his hand, weighing his decision.

Yaxley nodded, his face ashen, like cinders.

“Yes, my Lord. We didn’t disturb a thing.”

Tom turned away, his gaze falling on the map where Godric’s Hollow pulsed with a crimson glow.

In the next instant, Tom Disapparated with a barely audible crack, his form materializing on the outskirts of a scarcely inhabited district where the shadows of trees stretched toward the earth like long, grasping fingers. The air was biting, though no snow fell.

The street leading to the house from Yaxley’s memory and description was narrow and nearly deserted, tucked behind the main residential area where uniform houses stood alongside a quaint church.

Here, crooked fences, overgrown with moss, bordered the lane, while aged cottages with peeling paint and sagging shutters loomed in silence, like witnesses to forgotten tragedies. Yet newer cottages dotted the area too, their windows aglow with artificial light. In the distance, the graveyard where the Potters lay buried was faintly visible.

The air hung heavy, reeking of dampness and rotting leaves—in this region, snow often fell, rarely melting fully on its fleeting days—but it carried another weight, one that was magical, alive, and intimately familiar. Godric’s Hollow had always been a place where the past clung to the present, where Muggles coexisted with wizards, and Tom, whose own renewed story had begun here, felt it more keenly than anyone.

His gaze swept the street, catching details of the house in question. It was exactly as he had seen in Yaxley’s memory: old and decrepit, with peeling white paint, a sagging roof of faded red tiles, and an overgrown garden where nettles and thistles strangled the remnants of once-vivid red asters. Did anyone even dwell in such a place? He didn’t take a step until he raised his wand—the Elder Wand, now wholly his after he had slain Snape. His movements were precise: a flick of the wand as he murmured “Homenum Revelio” to ensure no living souls lingered nearby. Nothing. Then “Specialis Revelio” to uncover hidden charms or traps. The house’s magic stirred, but not with hostility. He frowned, his fingers tightening slightly around the wand. Something was off. The wand obeyed, but its response felt… muted, as though it resisted, not fully yielding to his will. And now, its reaction seemed stranger still; it almost tugged in his hand, lurching toward the house. He dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. Snape was dead. The wand was his. If it behaved oddly, it was due to his own weariness or the magic permeating this place. That was the absolute truth, no room for doubt.

Tom glided toward the house, his long black robes trailing over the damp grass. The door stood ajar, as though someone had left without bothering to close it. 

He stepped inside, his footfalls silent, as if a shadow had crossed the threshold. The drawing room opened before him, and Tom froze, his breath catching for a fleeting moment as the pervasive magic seized him. The ceiling was no ceiling but a starry sky—not an illusion, but a Transfiguration of such finesse that even he, a master wizard, felt a pang of envy. Hundreds of stars, twinkling as if alive, pulsed in a rhythm that felt eerily familiar, like the beating of a heart. Their light, almost lunar, poured down, tangible, brushing his skin like the tender caress of a mother he had never known. Tom sensed his mind waver, as though someone had cast a Calming Charm. Yaxley had described it perfectly, likening it to the enchantments of St. Mungo’s… It was like Hogwarts. That moment when he, an eleven-year-old Tom Riddle, had first stepped into the castle, fleeing the orphanage where his soul had suffocated in pain each day. He had gazed at the stars of the Great Hall then, breathless, with an inexpressible, sacred awe, feeling at last free, that this world brimming with magic was his. At last, he was home. A sensation he had never known. His heart, long frozen, tightened for an instant… Voldemort loathed himself for it.

He banished the memories, shattering the tendrils of magic around him with a surge of his own power, his gaze turning colder, blazing with disgust. He was not that boy. He was Voldemort, and this house, this magic, was someone’s bizarre ritual…

Voldemort stepped into the center of the room where the bodies lay. There were several, arranged in a circle that, to Tom, vaguely resembled the silhouette of a flower, though he didn’t linger on the thought. Their hands were folded over their chests, eyes open, faces frozen in smiles—soft, serene, as if they had found peace. Their skin was smooth as marble, untouched by time.Tom knelt, his wand gliding over one of the bodies, whispering “Prior Incantato.” A thin green beam flared, confirming Avada Kedavra. A pinpoint curse, executed with intent, with a will that brooked no error—it would not work otherwise. He frowned. Who was this wizard? It was clear now that it wasn’t Potter. Dumbledore’s boy, with his pitiful morality, wouldn’t wield Unforgivables… the Killing Curse, at least. He wasn’t capable of such a thing. Or was he? His rational mind tried to insist on something, but Voldemort brushed it aside. Not Potter’s plan, nor his hand. He needed to learn more about this family—likely relatives of Death Eaters, and some wizard, driven mad by grief, had wrought this scene.

Voldemort’s gaze dropped to the floor, where droplets of blood glistened at the circle’s center. They didn’t dry but slithered like mercury, forming patterns that echoed the stars overhead. Tom leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. It was a constellation—delicate threads weaving into a familiar design. Gemini. Two stars, blazing brighter than the rest, mirroring one another. His mind stilled, yet the meaning eluded him. He perceived only magic, steeped in some evident purpose, and it stoked his fury. He didn’t understand! Was this a message meant for someone else? Or for him? He couldn’t tell, and that infuriated him above all else.

Tom rose, his wand trembling in his grip once more, as if resisting. He ignored it, his eyes returning to the starry sky one final time, appraising the artistry of the work. Whoever this wizard was, they were clearly skilled in Transfiguration… though Tom would scarcely spare them a thought unless they crossed Lord Voldemort’s path. In any case, he didn’t linger in this place.

There was no trace of Harry Potter’s presence here.

Chapter 7

Harry descended the spiral staircase from Dumbledore’s office toward the Great Hall. The words of the headmaster, of Snape… the images of the former Potions professor and the dawning realization of his own essence churned within him. In the Great Hall, people thronged, comforting one another, offering water, kneeling beside the fallen. Harry leaned against the wall. Above him, a Gryffindor tapestry smoldered, its edges curling in the dying flames.

"‘You have permitted your friends to die for you, instead of facing me yourself. I shall await you in the Forbidden Forest… one hour …"

Harry’s heart pounded so fiercely it seemed to drown out the echo of Snape’s words from the memories. His pulse throbbed in his temples, his vision blurred with white, a piercing, unbearable ringing shrilled in his ears! His blood surged so violently it felt as though, any moment, his body might expel it through every possible orifice. His legs trembled beneath him, the borrowed wand in his hand threatened to snap under the force of his grip. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving in a desperate rhythm.

The weight of what he had just witnessed choked him, yet now, everything fell into place: his life had been granted only as long as it took to destroy the Horcruxes. Dumbledore had tasked him with their destruction, guided his path, and Harry had dutifully severed the threads binding not only Voldemort to life but himself as well. Oh, what a precise, elegant plan, Headmaster—to spare unnecessary lives by entrusting the perilous mission to a boy already doomed to the slaughter, whose death would not be a loss but another blow against Voldemort!

His glasses slipped slightly down his nose, but he didn’t adjust them. His breathing faltered, fear and despair tightening their grip on his mind.

Is dying painful? Harry wondered suddenly. A faint, cool breeze brushed his ear, grazing his neck almost tenderly. How many times had he teetered on the brink of death, slipping from its grasp—yet never once had he dwelt on death itself. His will to live had always burned far brighter than any fear of the end. Something had always anchored him. But before, it had never crossed his mind to dodge, to flee. To feel… something.

Harry didn’t need to raise his head to know his friends had approached. Hermione’s brown eyes glistened with tears she held back with every shred of resolve… Oh, Ron, his tattered robes clinging to him, his red hair matted with sweat and dust, clenched his fists so tightly that his nails bit into his palms. Their silence weighed heavier than Dumbledore’s words, laden with a hope Harry could never return, no matter the circumstances.

“You don’t have to go,” Hermione whispered, her voice carrying a plea she wouldn’t permit herself to voice more plainly. She repeated, softer, almost beseeching:

“You don’t have to go.”

Ron stepped closer, his face ablaze with a mix of fury and despair.

“She’s right, Harry,” he said, unclenching his hands to reveal crimson marks etched into his skin. “It’s a trap.”

Harry nodded silently, but his mind waged war against itself, voices tangling like threads in an ancient tapestry. Go! You must! You always must. It’s your destiny. Save them. Save everyone. Suddenly, on the fringes of his consciousness, drowning out even the frantic pulse in his ears, another voice emerged—quieter, yet vast enough to push all else aside. A thought he had never before allowed, a notion so immense it defined something boundless: Enough!

Images flooded his mind: Sirius, his face alight with joy as he laughed, promising Harry they would live together; Dumbledore, Cedric… The ringing in his ears swelled again, and if Harry had control over his body, he might have instinctively cleared his ear, but he couldn’t move. The sound was no mere ringing—it heralded a rupture, the final threads tethering his mind against the unbearable, unending horror around him. Pressure bore down on his brain. His breaths echoed in his skull. Silence. Harry saw countless bodies around him, some mere children… Oh, Professor Lupin… Tonks… His entire life, wasn’t it? A chain of losses, each stripping away a piece of him. But there were still Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and the others! He wanted to save them, to be the person they saw in him, but a fissure was widening within, and through it seeped the truth: no, he didn’t want this. He didn’t want to die! No. He had to die. He had to end.

“I have to go,” he said softly, his voice muted to a whisper. Harry swallowed, his thoughts halting as he wrestled with himself. “It’s my choice.”

Harry stepped toward his friends, his movements slow, almost mechanical, refusing to let doubt or second thoughts take hold. He embraced Hermione, her warm breath grazing his shoulder, a sensation so familial… Then he hugged Ron, whose arms were rigid, as if trying to anchor Harry by sheer force. He considered Ron almost a brother, truly. But in that moment, Harry felt no pang of loss. Something far more terrifying filled him, something primal… Did Harry fear death? He feared its injustice. He hadn’t dwelled on it often, but oh, how he had tried! Every year, someone suffered or perished. He had saved no one. But he would do so now. He would offer himself as a sacrifice, and the war would end. He would do this.

He turned and strode toward Hogwarts’ gates, pulling the Invisibility Cloak over himself as he moved, his footsteps echoing in the ruined corridor. The stones beneath his feet were coated in dust and debris, the air thick with the stench of ash and blood. He didn’t look back. His mind stirred anew as he advanced toward his purpose. Go to him. You must. Die. You are a Horcrux. You must die. Harry quickened his pace, his breathing growing ragged and unsteady. You don’t have to. He was running now, crossing the bridge toward the Death Eaters’ encampment, when memories of Dumbledore’s words pierced him: “It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are.” But whose choice was this? His? Was it truly his choice in this moment?

Ron and Hermione seemed impossibly distant now, as though they dwelt in some far-off foreign land. It felt to Harry as if he had parted from them ages ago, and as he crossed Hogwarts’ protective charms, the cold night air struck his face like a slap. He paused, steadying his breath, his gaze drifting to the dark sky where the stars appeared so remote, so indifferent. He would die. To die meant granting Voldemort what he craved: victory and an end. Harry gripped his wand, his fingers trembling. He didn’t want to die—not out of fear, no, Harry wasn’t afraid of death. Fear was an old companion, one he’d learned to live with, hadn’t he? He didn’t want to die because it meant surrender. Harry would not surrender to Voldemort! When his mind, his very soul, seized upon that fragile thread—a flicker of hope, a justification for his existence—his desperate consciousness clung to it. The decision was made.

His legs carried him to the right, not toward the Forbidden Forest where Voldemort awaited, but toward Hogsmeade. At first, he walked, then broke into a run once more, his breaths sharp, as if he could outrun himself. He didn’t think of what he left behind—his friends, Hogwarts, which, because of him, would soon bear the full brunt of Voldemort’s wrath and his Death Eaters’ might. Harry’s mind was a void, but within that emptiness, something new was taking shape—not a plan, but the stubborn will of a creature determined to endure.

He halted at the edge of Hogsmeade, his chest heaving, his heart pounding as if it sought to break free. Without thinking, he raised his wand and Disapparated. He reappeared on a narrow Muggle street in London, the very one he had once walked with Arthur Weasley to the Ministry when he faced trial for unauthorized spellcasting. The street was quiet, lit by dim streetlamps, lined with rows of identical brick houses, only a few of whose windows still glowed with light.

He didn’t know why he had come here. Perhaps because this place was tied to a moment when he first felt the world arrayed against him. Or perhaps because it was so ordinary, so far removed from the war.

Harry moved forward, tugging off the Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into an inner pocket, paying little heed to how out of place he appeared: his black robes were caked with dust, torn in places, his face smudged with grime, and every exposed patch of skin bore a lattice of scrapes and thin wounds. He pulled up his hood.

As if guided through a haze by some navigational charm, Harry stopped before a small Muggle hostel on the corner of a nearby street, its faded sign creaking above a weathered door. His pockets were empty—not a single Galleon, nor even a Muggle coin, naturally. He had his map, tucked safely in an inner pocket, and the Invisibility Cloak, tightly rolled in another. And the Snitch, a gift from Dumbledore, which he now wore around his neck. These were all his possessions. Even the wand in his hand wasn’t his own.

Harry glanced around, his eyes settling on a pile of twigs and rubbish near the entrance, where a large cast-iron streetlamp cast a dim glow onto the wet pavement. Across the street, a broken neon sign flickered above a twenty-four-hour shop. Gripping his wand, he whispered a Transfiguration spell, not truly expecting success, but he couldn’t suppress a startled breath when the debris—a scrap of paper—began to twist, morphing into a crumpled Muggle banknote worth ten pounds, exactly as he’d pictured in his mind. He knew what they looked like; years with the Dursleys had taught him to navigate pounds and pence better than Sickles. A strange, misplaced irony pricked at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched in a bitter smirk. Who’d have thought living with those Muggles would give me an edge? he mused, stooping to collect the money. In that moment, as his world crumbled, such a thought could only be described as his beleaguered mind’s attempt to shield its own fragile sanity before the weight of reality crushed it.

The woman at the reception desk, her eyes weary, a tangle of unkempt curly hair framing her face, a cigarette dangling from her hand, barely glanced at him as she muttered something about a room. It cost eight pounds a night. Harry told her he’d left ten and would pay more tomorrow if needed. She wordlessly slid a key across the counter, and Harry ascended a narrow, creaking staircase. He entered a cramped room with shabby furniture—a bed with a sagging mattress, a table marred by coffee stains, and a window through which the neon glow of the shop’s sign pulsed. Closing the door, he collapsed onto the bed, still cloaked in his robes, and stared at the cracked ceiling, where a spider’s web in the corner trembled in the draft…

His mind was finally regaining a semblance of rationality, if one could call it that. His pain circuitry, evidently, had simply buckled under the onslaught of thoughts pressing down on him after the Pensieve. Of course, he thought of Snape’s memories, of Hogwarts… but when his mind turned to Hogwarts, he refused to recall the battle. No, he summoned moments that now felt so distant: his first flight on a broom, the wind whipping his face, making him feel alive; Ron’s laughter at another of Fred and George’s pranks; Hermione bent over a book, her voice always knowing what to say, even when he didn’t want to hear it. Those memories were like a light growing ever dimmer… and they cut the deepest, for they were followed by a single, searing truth: Harry had left them.

Yet, lying here in this room, reeking of damp and cheap cleaning fluid, he felt no overwhelming guilt. In truth, Harry didn’t doubt his friends would survive. Instead of guilt, there was a profound weariness, so deep it seemed woven into his very being. Weariness and pain.

Harry slipped off his glasses and placed them on the bedside table, where dried crusts of old food and coffee stains marred the surface. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sat up on the bed, letting his head fall into his hands. Voldemort’s voice echoed vividly in his ears now: “You fought bravely.” “Your friends will die.” Did he want to check the Marauder’s Map now? No, definitely not. Harry shook his head side to side and sank back onto the mattress.

He knew he should have gone to Voldemort, faced him head-on, as he always had. Every loss, every year at Hogwarts, every time he thought: If I do more, if I’m better, it won’t happen again. But it did. Again and again, those around him suffered, and some died… Ginny… those horrific tunnels—Harry had been so terrified in them, and at one point, he swears he remembers crying out for help… No one came. Arthur… God, Harry could practically see the snake tearing him apart; he’d been inside its mind! Cedric… Oh, Cedric, you shouldn’t have been there—it was Harry, the Chosen One, who should have died that night! Sirius. Dumbledore… dozens of Hogwarts students… God, he’d seen second-years among the slain!

His fingers curled into a fist, and he thought of who he was: The Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. Hero. But those words were like labels slapped on by someone else. He hadn’t chosen them. Truth be told, he rather hated them—he hadn’t chosen this blasted scar, this worthless prophecy, or this pointless war. The torrent of thoughts led him to a conclusion that now took root in him, becoming the axis of his future resolve: He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew he wouldn’t go back. Perhaps he’d change his mind later, or perhaps never. And in that thought was something terrifying yet liberating, like the first gasp of air after a long plunge underwater.

He closed his eyes, the ceiling vanished, and stars flickered before him—those he’d gazed at as a child, lying on the Dursleys’ lawn in the evenings after grueling days tending their garden, dreaming of something greater. He hadn’t known then that this “greater” would become his curse.

Chapter 8

Day One

Harry spent the night after his escape lying awake, staring at the cracked ceiling for most of the time, only occasionally rising to pace the room nervously, as if locked in a struggle with himself.

By morning, his cloak hung over the back of a chair, tattered and dust-laden. He dismissed the thought of using cleaning charms—magic felt excessive, as though wielding his wand might summon the very reality he’d fled. He’d use it only in dire necessity… hygiene scarcely ranked among his top ten priorities. Instead, driven by some primal human need, he descended to the hostel’s lobby, where the same woman at the counter, cigarette in hand, mumbled about the cost of breakfast. Harry declined but took a cup of black tea, paid for with the deposit he’d left upon arrival. The tea was bitter—or perhaps it only seemed so—cold and uninviting.

He sat hunched in a corner of the small lobby, clutching the mug with both hands. His gaze drifted across the room, studying the passing Muggles: an old man with a newspaper, a pair of tourists with backpacks lingering at the counter, a teenager in headphones flipping through a magazine. A faint smile flickered on Harry’s lips. His leg twitched, tapping silently against the floor. These people lived beyond the war. They had no inkling of Voldemort, of the horrors that had unfolded mere hours ago… so many children dead, yet the world kept turning. Their ignorance was a wall. Harry, in truth, wasn’t sure whether he wanted to tear it down or hide behind it, enveloped in their obliviousness. His eyes stung mercilessly, but his body refused to rest.

Seeking distraction, Harry decided to explore the London streets where he found himself. Donning the Invisibility Cloak, he set out. Familiar details stirred memories of the place he’d left, where he’d once walked with Arthur: the peeling sign of a familiar pub, shops he’d noticed back then, clinging to them like lifelines for a possible escape if he were expelled from Hogwarts for saving himself from Dementors… and there, at last, it stood. The telephone box that led to the Ministry.

He halted before it, his fingers tightening around the wand in his pocket. Of course, he had no intention of entering. He feared someone might emerge from it at any moment. His heart quickened, and he squinted, eyeing a small cart of Muggle newspapers nearby, its vendor engrossed in reading a copy.

Harry deftly swiped a newspaper, slipping it beneath his cloak, hoping for even a fleeting hint of the wizarding world, but the headlines spoke only of a “referendum to establish a London mayor” and, dominating every front page, news of some “Spice Girls.” He’d look it over later at the hostel.

At times, his thoughts swirled around Ron and Hermione—hardly would he forget them so soon. Yet he didn’t push these musings away; instead, he answered them: They’ll manage.

By evening, he returned to the hostel, locked himself in his room, and sat on the edge of the bed, the old springs creaking under his weight.

Harry unfolded the newspaper, his eyes scanning the bold headlines.

The front page blared with news:

“London Says YES to a New Mayor!” Historic Referendum Promises a New Era of Governance. The vote for the Greater London Authority passed triumphantly—72% of Londoners backed the creation of a mayor’s office. Who will be the first?

The next column, no less prominent, featured a photo of a girl with vibrant red hair, taking up nearly a third of the page:

“Spice Girls Splitting Up? Ginger Quits!” Geri Halliwell to Leave the Group Soon! What’s Next for Her? Exclusive Details on Page 5!

But what made Harry freeze was further in, on the third page, tucked away in a small column lost among advertisements and gossip. It was astonishing how such critical news, steeped in blood and horror, could be relegated to the margins for the sake of pop stars and political debates.

The column, headlined “Bloodbath in Lewisham: Who Will Answer for These Murders?”, was printed in small font, as if the editor hadn’t known how to approach the story—or whether to publish it at all. Harry’s eyes raced over the text, his stomach twisting.The attack, described as “savage and inexplicable”, made no direct accusations, yet Harry felt it in his bones: this was their work. Death Eaters. The article occupied the lower half of the third page, squeezed between an advert for beer and a piece about a new Muggle band’s album:

Last night, The Dog and Duck pub in Lewisham turned into a nightmare straight out of a horror film. At 2:30 a.m., police uncovered a gruesome scene: three mutilated bodies, torn apart with such brutality that even seasoned officers couldn’t conceal their horror. The victims—two men and a woman, whose identities remain unconfirmed—fell prey to an attack police are calling “unprecedented in its ferocity.”

Witnesses reported “animalistic screams” piercing the night and strange symbols scratched into the pub’s walls—circles and arrows resembling occult sigils. “This isn’t some ordinary gang,” locals whisper. “It’s something else. We heard those beastly howls… it’s terrifying to live here.” Rumors of a “cult” or “drunken psychopaths” are spreading through the city, fueling dread.

“I saw one… Jesus forgive me, it moved like a beast! But it was human, hairy, massive!” recounted one witness, who wished to remain anonymous. Scotland Yard declined to comment on the rumors, though a source within law enforcement hinted the attack might be linked to “a group of eccentric individuals obsessed with the occult.”

This marks the third such incident in a month. Earlier blood-soaked scenes stunned Camden (April 3) and Islington (April 21), where victims were found in similar states. Residents demand answers, while police urge calm. “We will increase patrols in these areas,” stated Inspector Woodward. “Londoners can rest assured we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

But the rumors persist. Some blame gangs, others point to mysterious “cultists,” while a few earnestly speak of “monsters” lurking in London’s sewers. What’s happening on our streets? The Sun will continue to follow this story.

Harry had no doubt this was the work of Death Eaters. The Order of the Phoenix had been tirelessly seeking ways to end Voldemort, but the Dark Lord hadn’t wasted time, unleashing a war… one that, to stop, might require shattering the Statute of Secrecy.

Would his death have ended it? Would he have saved the Muggle world too?

Harry pulled out his wand, twirling it in his hands as if seeking an answer, yearning to feel its power. As if he could ever rival Voldemort! Clearly, Dumbledore hadn’t even worried about Harry’s death—after all, if it happened, well, splendid, one less Horcrux! And if Harry survived, it would only mold him into the tool Albus needed… Reflexively, Harry reached for the Snitch hanging around his neck, clutching its warm surface.

The wand in his other hand quivered faintly at its base. Harry missed his own wand terribly, but this one was quite good too… For a few minutes, he simply stared, watching the lamplight gleam off the wood’s polished surface, his thoughts drifting to Dumbledore and those words of his: “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.” But what if that blasted light doesn’t shine? Clearly, Dumbledore should have left the Deluminator to Harry, not Ron. He smirked bitterly, as if he could mock himself. A voice echoed in his head, his treacherous mind giving it Bellatrix’s mocking lilt: “Ha-Ha ha! The great wizard Harry Potter! The Chosen One, Potter, cowering in some Muggle hovel!”

Yet, on the other hand, Dumbledore had been right to bequeath that gift to Ron, while Harry received only another cryptic nudge toward his heroic destiny—a reminder that he hadn’t given up, not even at eleven. Of course, unlike Ron, Harry was meant to die in the end! And that old, cunning man… had known it all along. That realization should have sparked anger, grief—something, anything… But instead, he brushed it aside, paying it scant heed. Truth be told, to hell with his useful gift. Harry’s fingers traced the Snitch hanging around his neck, suspended on a chain Transfigured by Hermione. He exhaled, feeling his body’s demands take over. Sleep… He wanted to sleep.

Day Two

Harry Transfigured another scrap of rubbish into money to cover the room for a few more days, chuckling wryly at himself when the hostel’s administrator gave him a condescending, knowing smile.

For several hours each day, Harry paced his room, piecing together the fragments of his thoughts, forging connections and answering his own questions: Yes, they’re alive. No, I mustn’t. No, I’m not afraid.

He resolved to venture outside without the Invisibility Cloak, pilfering a cheap Muggle jacket from a second-hand shop to blend in better than his robes allowed, and wandered the city, hood pulled low. He longed to vanish into the crowd, to merge with his surroundings, to be an ordinary person. Yet his nerves were frayed every moment, braced for someone to seize his arm or lunge from behind. Nothing of the sort happened. Still, the experience left him far from refreshed—he felt no sense of rest.

That night, he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind turning to Sirius. He recalled Sirius’s tales of his youth, of fleeing the Black family home to be true to himself… Like his parents, so young when war broke out. Voldemort was a true monster, and Harry’s mother, only twenty, with her whole life ahead, had given it up for her son. But her own life had been full of promise! His lips quivered. It was all because of him. The prophecy revolved around him. They shouldn’t have… died . And Sirius… if not for Harry, he might still be alive—it was Harry, after all, who’d let Voldemort sway him!

Abruptly, Harry froze—not in body, but in spirit, as if time itself had paused. Was Voldemort influencing him now ? Come to think of it… he felt no trace of his wrath. Frankly, when he probed cautiously, focusing on that connection, he sensed… nothing at all. Voldemort’s mind was sealed, as it should be. But what had shifted? He’d felt his rage, his venom, not long ago…

Something had changed.

Day Three

Harry began to notice his mind playing tricks on him. Was it the result of his fitful, fragmented sleep? Two hours should have been enough… Of course not. He glimpsed shadows in the corners of the room that seemed too alive, heard whispers that might have been mere creaks of the floorboards. Clearly, these weren’t hallucinations—he wasn’t that broken—but his nerves were taut, strung like gut on a finely crafted violin. Every moment, he braced for something to happen, a consequence of his betrayal. Something would strike, or something would overtake him. Some force would punish him.

Out of idleness, and to escape the gnawing thoughts, Harry began to write—not letters, but disjointed notes scribbled on scraps of paper he found in the desk. He wrote of Hogwarts, of his lessons there, of Ron and Hermione—not what they might be doing now, but memories, as if they were unfolding in the present: “Oi, Harry! Told you I’d win!” “Hey, you! You were supposed to be the sacrifice, sorry!”—over a chess match where he’d triumphed, though his chess piece berated him for a reckless move that left it battered; Hermione, correcting his spell pronunciation: “No, Harry, not like that!”

Harry decided to try writing as he imagined people kept diaries, to occupy himself with something. He had no books, and the stolen newspaper he’d read multiple times already. The column about the murders was the only he reread more than twice… Harry considered venturing out to buy books, but after his last foray into the streets, he felt different. He felt unsafe. After each note, he crumpled the paper until a small pile of discarded scraps formed. He burned them all in the sink with “Incendio,” watching as the ashes settled. For some reason, the sight of the flames, transforming one form into something entirely new yet always the same—ash—stirred a shiver in him.

Chapter 9

Day Four

Harry sensed his isolation growing perilous, for all that remained was his own mind and the memories buried within it. He couldn’t stay confined to this room forever, with nothing to occupy him, yet there was nowhere to return to. His hand had grown weary of writing. Venturing outside wasn’t part of his plan; the streets offered no sense of safety. He began listening to Muggle news on an old radio in the hostel’s lobby, venturing there at least to sip tea, hoping to catch some whisper of the wizarding world. Nothing. No mention of the massacre at the pub. Only reports of strikes, the upcoming mayoral election, and anomalous weather, which he suspected might be an echo of magical battles… or perhaps it was merely the weather, and he was reading too much into it, bending reality to fit his fears. His thoughts drifted to Voldemort, picturing him scouring the world for his trail even now. That notion should have terrified him, but instead, it felt… odd. Harry realized that while wandering the streets or lingering alone in his room, it wasn’t Voldemort he feared. He was gripped by a vague, unmoored dread, tethered to nothing specific.

In the end, he ventured out that night, cloaked in the Invisibility Cloak, his wand at the ready, moving through the streets with a wary vigilance that kept him alert. His path led him to a small park, where the crisp air and the scent of grass stirred something encouraging within him. There, he settled onto a bench, gazing up at the stars, their light dimmed by the sprawl of the surrounding city. His mind drifted to the constellation Gemini, one he’d studied in an Astronomy text long ago, and unbidden came the thought that it mirrored him and Voldemort—two reflections, bound yet divided, tethered to a shared fate… The notion was new, strange, unfinished… yet it snagged his curiosity, pulling at the edges of his mind. Him, like Voldemort? What madness was that?

Day Five

Harry began to notice his thoughts growing more strained, yet increasingly erratic. They didn’t settle, darting from radiant, cherished memories of Hogwarts to the gnawing dread of decay. At times, he saw Dumbledore before him, as vivid as life… but no, it was Snape’s memory: “The boy must die.” Occasionally, his mind lingered on Horcruxes, the central focus of his last year, on the fact that Nagini still lived, that his friends were likely hunting her. They didn’t know Harry himself was a Horcrux… He never once wondered if they’d want to kill him if they did. The answer was clear. No, in those moments, he thought—furtively, with a pang of guilt—that he ought to act, but whenever he tried to focus, his mind slipped elsewhere.

When Harry dozed in fleeting snatches, he saw dreams—not nightmares, but peculiar, vivid images: sometimes a star-strewn sky, as though he lay somewhere gazing upward; sometimes he seemed to rest on his side, blood pooling across the floor around him; sometimes the smiles of strangers, laden with such bitterness that, upon waking, he felt a kinship with each one. At times, he wept. Yet every time he stirred, he felt unrested, unable to fathom what was happening.

At some point, he tried writing another note, this time about himself. All he managed was a single line: “I am Harry Potter.” He didn’t burn it. Instead, he tucked it beneath the mattress. Perhaps he’d finish it someday.

Day Six

Rain hadn’t ceased since morning. Harry sat in a corner of the common room, slouched in an old armchair with frayed upholstery, clutching a mug of cold tea—his usual breakfast. His gaze drifted across the cracked linoleum, lingering on the Muggles who came and went, dragging suitcases and the scent of damp clothing, a sign that London’s streets were once again drenched. At times, he caught himself wondering how many days had passed. Three? Seven? The radio was his lifeline, yet it offered no news that piqued his interest. Time in this place flowed differently, as if someone had cast a spell to slow everything but his thoughts… oh, those remained unchanged.

His wand rested in the pocket of his Muggle jacket, concealed from prying eyes. He hadn’t drawn it since Transfiguring a few banknotes to cover another night in this hovel. Could I just become a counterfeiter? he mused, the corners of his mouth twitching in a bitter smirk. Transfigure money, buy a house in some remote corner, live quietly. Far easier than saving the world. He could almost picture it: a small, overgrown house—because he’d be too lazy to tend the garden—with a vast backyard where he’d set up a Quidditch pitch. Quidditch… he loved flying, didn’t he? Harry exhaled. It was odd, but before, the mere thought of taking to the air would spark a visceral urge, a fire in his core—yes, of course! He loved flying. But now… the notion barely lingered. It vanished as swiftly as it came, dissolving into the void that had become his constant companion.

The woman at the desk cast glances his way, growing ever more wary. Perhaps it was his silence, the way he sat for hours in the lobby, speaking to no one, staring into nothingness… Is she slipping something into my tea? he wondered, sniffing the cup suspiciously at one point. Or maybe it was his age—too young for a lone traveler who paid in cash, asked no questions, and kept no company. Or perhaps it was his eyes, hidden behind glasses, which seemed hollow, as if someone had drained the life from them, leaving only the organ of sight.

Harry sensed his time here was drawing to a close. He didn’t know where he’d go, but staying was no longer an option. Though, oddly, he felt a pang of reluctance—he was grateful, for the radio’s murmur, the Muggles, their lives, were nearly the only threads tethering him to reality. These people, unaware of who he was, offered his sole hint of social connection, yet even that was beginning to draw notice. The wrong kind of notice… they were starting to wonder. Harry couldn’t afford to be seen. Not now, when he was nothing. Not the Chosen One, not a martyr, not even Harry Potter—he wanted to be nothing, a void existing between matter.

Back in his room, Harry tossed his jacket onto a chair and sprawled across the narrow bed. The springs creaked under his weight, and he stared at the ceiling, where cracks wove into patterns under the pressure of his imagination, some now resembling animals.

His finger traced the Snitch still hanging around his neck, warm and smooth, a reminder of something meant to happen. He associated it with Dumbledore, with his mission. Thoughts swirled, venomous as Lethifolds, and he grasped for anything to keep that creature from devouring him. Sirius. His parents. Their faces flickered in his memory, bringing no warmth, only the echo of guilt he could no longer disentangle from himself. He was guilt. He was loss. He was everything he’d failed to save.

Then, like a flare of Lumos in the dark, a name surfaced in his mind. Ginny.

Harry froze, his fingers gripping the Snitch so tightly the metal bit into his skin. Ginny. Her stunning hair, scented with flowers, her freckles, her skin… How long had it been since he’d thought of her? He couldn’t recall if he’d seen her face when he left Hogwarts. Couldn’t remember if he’d held her hand, said anything to her, promised to return. When had they last spoken? She belonged to the world he’d abandoned, to the Harry who was meant to die. But now her name struck like a Cruciatus , as if he’d forgotten something that had once been part of him.

He tried to summon her image, but instead, fragments of different faces coalesced into a silhouette: a figure in a Hogwarts corridor, her voice… but what did it sound like? She was calling “Harry” … The feelings that once bound him to her—the heat, the weight in his chest, the thrill… they were gone. No matter how he strained to recall her lips, they wouldn’t come. It was as if someone had cast Obliviate on his heart, erasing not the memories but the ability to feel them. He loved her, he knew she was important to him… but that knowledge was now cold. It was nothing.

Harry rolled onto his side, and the Snitch clinked softly against its chain. He didn’t know where Ginny was now. Was she alive? The thought should have stung, but it glanced off him, like a stranger’s spell deflected by a shield. Harry was a skilled duelist. He felt no fear for her, no yearning. Only an emptiness that, faced with Ginny’s image—now just a hazy, auburn something —whispered: “Sorry.”

Outside, rain pattered against the window, and within its rhythm, Harry heard something else—a whisper, not from memory, but from within. It was his own voice, cold… glacial, not the hiss of a snake but the murmur of a creature from the depths of a crushing abyss: “They need help.”

He didn’t know where he’d go tomorrow.

Silence.

He shut his eyes, determined to sleep, to force his mind to grant him the rest he so desperately needed…

…But sleep, of course, wouldn’t come.

Harry sat up on the bed, his fingers instinctively clutching the Snitch dangling from the chain around his neck, where he’d once worn Slytherin’s locket. Was the association deliberate? Who could say. The Snitch felt warm, and his thoughts drifted to Hogwarts, to the moment he’d caught it. He turned to retrieve the map from his cloak’s pocket, his hands trembling as he whispered, wand in hand: “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.” Ink bled across the parchment, in Hogwarts’ familiar corridors, he saw something that stole his breath: names he recognized as Death Eaters. Dolohov, Yaxley, Travers—moving through the halls. Not a single student or teacher’s name. No Ron, no Hermione, no Neville. Even Filch and Mrs. Norris were gone. Only Peeves… and the ghosts remained. His throat tightened, but he wouldn’t let himself dwell on what it meant. They could be anywhere—they had to have escaped. They must have.

He set the map aside, feeling magic pulse faintly in his fingertips, and turned his gaze to the wand in his hands. He didn’t understand why, but spells that once demanded effort now yielded to him effortlessly. Over the past few days, he’d Transfigured heaps of scavenged rubbish into Muggle banknotes. Transfiguration had always been a struggle, requiring precise movements and focus; even when he tried his hardest and managed something passable, Hermione had never once praised his results. But now, a single flick of the wand and a clear thought sufficed. The notes were flawless, without a single blemish.

Harry rose and crossed the room in two swift strides, checking that he hadn’t forgotten to lock the door before steeling himself for an experiment. He stepped into the bathroom, raised his wand, and whispered “Faciem,” a spell to alter facial features. Truth be told, he wasn’t even certain he’d recalled it correctly, but he’d read about this charm, noted for requiring an extraordinarily precise mental image of the desired appearance—down to anatomical minutiae. A misstep could cost a wizard their nose, leading to suffocation, or, if eyelids were overlooked, leave them lidless. Harry had never attempted such magic; spells demanding meticulous execution had always been beyond him. Yet now, the magic surged forth instantly: his reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink transformed—cheekbones sharpened, hair lightened and lengthened, eyes shifted to a steely grey. He resembled a man in his sixties, marked by peculiar blemishes he couldn’t place. The stranger staring back was unrecognizable, and the sensation was strangely liberating. Magic coursed through him, more potent than ever, and he frowned, baffled by the change. Was it adrenaline? Desperation? Or perhaps, having finally made a choice of his own, had magic rewarded him? He snorted, Transfiguring his glasses into half-moon spectacles akin to McGonagall’s, and let out a nervous chuckle at his new guise. He looked like he could be a Malfoy!

By evening, he had made yet another reckless decision, buoyed by the heady rush of his own successes. He flung the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders, gripped the Snitch tightly in his fist, and Apparated to Grimmauld Place, where the Black family manor stood, once the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

The manor was shielded by the Fidelius Charm, but after Dumbledore’s death—the Secret-Keeper gone—it had grown vulnerable. Death Eaters could have found it… and there had been a Death Eater, one of them, when they fled the Ministry with Slytherin’s locket. Was the Secret broken? A clammy sense of danger curled in his gut—if Death Eaters were watching the house, they could track him. So Harry pressed himself against the wall, even though he was cloaked in the Invisibility Cloak and disguised by a glamour charm… he did not feel safe. Yet, at the same time, he burned to know, to confirm. Number 12 should be visible to him regardless, but could others see it too? Was the house now open to all, or was it guarded only by the ancient wards of the Black family? How strong were they?

He appeared in the shadow of an alley, his heart hammering faster than he’d like. Grimmauld Place was quiet, but to Harry, it felt sinister: the Muggle houses stood shoulder to shoulder, their windows dark, the air heavy with the scent of rain. Thunder rumbled. Harry swallowed hard and moved forward, wand at the ready.

The Black manor loomed before him, materialising between numbers 11 and 13—grim, its paint peeling, its windows boarded shut. He whispered, “Homenum Revelio,” but the spell revealed no humans inside. He circled the house, his steps silent, yet every sound—a creaking branch, a rustle of leaves—made him flinch. Was someone watching from those Muggle windows, as Mrs. Figg once had? He noticed traces of magic on the door: faint protective charms, but not the ones the Order had set… there was only one living presence within…

Harry didn’t enter. He deemed it too risky, even though, in theory, an ally might await inside. He wasn’t sure which thought chilled him more: encountering Death Eaters or facing his friends. But the manor had snagged his mind. If the Order still used it, there could be clues about their plans. If not… he could claim the house for himself, and that was what he truly wanted.

Harry returned to the hostel, his mind brimming with schemes, though beneath them smouldered unease. He felt as though he were playing with fire, yet he couldn’t stop… for Harry had nothing left, not after all his years at Hogwarts had yielded him nothing.

Chapter 10

Day Seven

In the morning, Harry gathered his belongings: his wand, the Invisibility Cloak, a Muggle jacket, the Marauder’s Map, and the Snitch, which he never removed from around his neck. In truth, these were all the possessions he had amassed over his years at Hogwarts, save for a broken broom and a few schoolbooks. The realization stung him bitterly; he had never dwelt on such things before. But now, with the dilapidated image of Sirius’s manor looming at the edges of his mind… he wanted it.

He left the key on the hostel’s counter without a farewell, slipping into a shadowed corner before departing to Apparate. No one would notice the sound, he reasoned, not with the new refrigerator humming in the kitchen for dairy products. But Harry made no sound at all. This time, he ventured to a district neighboring Number 12, where he found another Muggle hostel—small, with a fresh sign and windows draped in cheap curtains. He cast “Faciem” once more, altering his appearance to secure a room as a stranger: his hair now shorter, his face slightly broader, his eyes a deep brown. The magic responded even faster, almost instinctively, and a jolt stirred within him, like plunging from a great height, reminiscent of the fall from his broom in third year… not a surge of magic, but something… odd. What the hell? The thought flickered, but he dismissed it swiftly, muttering something akin to “meh” under his breath. His only desire was to reach the safety of the room as quickly as possible. Transfiguring a bit of rubbish into Muggle money, he paid the woman at the desk. She bore an uncanny resemblance to the last hostel’s clerk, and Harry, half in jest, wondered if they were churned out by those trendy “fax” machines, whatever that meant. He doubted she’d remember his face; her attention was fixed on a glossy magazine, and—good grief—Harry recoiled as he recognized what she was reading… the Spice Girls were breaking up. What a tragedy for Muggles, wasn’t it?

The new room was no better than the last: a narrow bed, the smell of mildew, creaking floorboards. At least the table was clean. More importantly, it was closer to the Black manor, and that mattered. Harry resolved to keep watch over the house, to check for any signs of activity.

Later that day, he stepped onto Grimmauld Place once more, shrouded in the Invisibility Cloak and still wearing the altered appearance he’d forgotten to dispel. From the shadows, he observed the house, noting small details: a broken branch by the fence, marks in the mud that might have been footsteps. He whispered “Specialis Revelio” to detect any new enchantments and felt a faint response—magic was present, but… peculiar… not human. He was almost certain it was the ancestral wards of the Black family, tied to the one soul still dwelling there. No one appeared, yet the manor was not abandoned. Kreacher was still inside.

Day Eight

Harry spent the morning in his room, perched on the edge of the bed, the Marauder’s Map unfurled across his knees. Hogwarts was still crawling with the marks of Death Eaters, not a single familiar name among them, but one thing brought a flicker of amusement: Peeves, circling their dots from time to time. A genuine chuckle escaped him as he pictured the poltergeist pelting the intruders with some foul mischief. But then, silence fell again. His lips pressed into a tight line, fingers crumpling the edge of the parchment. They’re alive, somewhere safe, he told himself. Yet his mind, that treacherous beast, painted horrors: Ron sprawled in a pool of blood; Hermione, her eyes wide open, her face blue… He banished the images, folded the map, and tucked it into his pocket.

Rain drummed against the window, its rhythm blending with the buzzing in his head, while the damp, moldy stench of the room clung to his skin, as if marking him as something wretched. His thoughts tangled, snagging on one another… he needed sleep, but rest eluded him. His mind burned, prickling with agitation, as if its owner were waging a daily war on his glial cells, berating his astrocytes like a Roman Senate while he, a cortisol-fueled Caesar, roared at them, “Sleep, you wretched thing!” It didn’t help. Had he managed even two hours of sleep a night? Doubtful. Clearly, he and serotonin had parted ways—he couldn’t recall a single thing that might spark joy. Flying on a broom? Friends? His mother… a white flash, a haze, a ringing in his ears, the telltale sign of spiking blood pressure. Hello, old friend… friend. Amid the churning soup of his thoughts, a name surfaced—Kreacher. He hadn’t thought much about the house-elf lately. Harry had given Kreacher the fake locket—the one engraved with R.A.B. The elf had collapsed to his knees, his bony fingers trembling as they clutched the gift, his hoarse, broken voice repeating words of gratitude. “Master Harry… Kreacher will serve you… always… Master Harry, you are so kind!” For the elf, that gift held immeasurable weight, and Harry knew it… he trusted Kreacher.

But now, that trust was fraying at the edges. He wanted the Black manor. That place was his. Yet so many souls knew of its existence—Death Eaters, sniffing out his trail, or, worse, Ron and Hermione, searching for him to… what? He wasn’t afraid of them—not exactly. It was a different fear, nameless, cloying, acrid, wrapping around his core, tightening his chest until he could scarcely breathe. The fear of being seen… as a betrayer. A coward. The fear of not being the hero they believed him to be, a hero he couldn’t find within himself.

What if Kreacher talked? His fists clenched, his pulse quickening, blood pounding in his temples. The elf was loyal to him, yes. Kreacher’s devotion to Regulus had been boundless. Yet he had betrayed Sirius—not deliberately, not maliciously, but his words, his lies, had been a link in the chain that led to his godfather’s death. Back in fifth year, when Harry had asked, “Is Sirius at home?” … oh, how he’d hated Kreacher then, how he’d blamed him, until he understood: the elf had acted not out of spite, but out of loyalty. Why, then, hadn’t he been angry with Dobby for what he’d done to Malfoy all those years ago? But now, Harry was Kreacher’s master. He’d been kind to him, hadn’t he? Given him that locket, offered something Sirius never had… And still… What if Kreacher decided Ron and Hermione were Harry’s friends and sought to bring them to him? What if, in his loyalty, he betrayed him without meaning to? What if he tried to save him?

The thought sent a shrill whistle through his ears, a piercing, high-pitched sound, as if someone had twisted an invisible volume knob. Harry rubbed his ear instinctively, as though it could ease the pressure building in his skull, but it only intensified. His heart pounded, his chest constricted, and shadows swam before his eyes. He stood, pacing the room, but his legs trembled, as if the floor beneath him swayed. This wasn’t mere anxiety—it was something deeper, something that splintered him from within. Faces. He saw their faces—Ron, Hermione, their gazes heavy with expectation. “Harry, you have to come back. Help us!” He hadn’t helped them… He hadn’t saved anyone…dozens of children…

His thoughts whirled like a swarm of blasted Cornish pixies let loose from a cage. The house. Yes, the Black manor… Kreacher… The elf had spoken of Regulus—Harry recalled Kreacher’s voice, recounting how Regulus drank the potion in the cave, how he ordered Kreacher to leave, to take the locket and destroy it… Regulus had died, and Kreacher had survived, carrying that story, that loyalty, undimmed even after years. Sirius had died because of that loyalty. Perhaps Kreacher wouldn’t betray him. Perhaps his presence could even help… but the mere thought that the elf might speak of him to someone, that his tearful, devoted voice might reveal Harry’s whereabouts, made his breath catch in his throat.

He crossed to the window, pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The rain still pattered, and in its rhythm, he heard his own breathing—uneven, ragged. His breath left no condensation on the glass. Who would notice such a thing? Not Harry, certainly… he was lost in thought. Pity welled up in him now. Pity that he hadn’t been stronger, pity that he’d left them, pity that even here, in this wretched hole, he couldn’t find peace… He didn’t want to do anything. Nagini? Voldemort? His friends? None of these thoughts led to anything remotely… uplifting. The pressure in his ears grew, the whistling sharpened, and he rubbed his ear again, but it was futile. His mind was fracturing, unmistakably, and a lump rose in his chest, one he couldn’t swallow.

Yet he knew: he had to enter the Black manor. He had to trust Kreacher, to believe that the elf who had wept at his feet would not betray him. But taking that step was daunting. He stood by the window, staring at his reflection—the reflection of Harry Potter—pale, with sunken eyes, hair tangled, greasy, repulsive… fitting, really, for the state of his thoughts. He looked lost, filthy, and he truly felt it.

His mind spun again, leaping from one jagged thought to another: the Inferi in the cave where Dumbledore had wielded Fiendfyre, to Sirius, on whom he’d nearly used an Unforgivable when he first saw him in the Shrieking Shack. “You left Kreacher alone, Sirius… like you left me.” A pang of guilt stabbed him for such foolish thoughts, and he quashed them instantly. He didn’t need Sirius. And Sirius hadn’t abandoned him.

He clearly needed sleep. His forehead practically stung from the onslaught of information his brain processed every moment, just to keep functioning… poor, wretched Harry’s brain, nearly withered from relentless emotional strain. He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. This wasn’t just a house. It was part of his legacy, his property, something he meant to claim. He resolved to enter Black manor, but only when he was certain it was safe.

Day Nine

Harry ventured to Grimmauld Place once more, cloaked in the Invisibility Cloak and wearing a new guise—this time, he appeared as a lanky lad with sandy hair and freckles. Not only his face but his entire frame had shifted, he noticed with particular clarity now. This boy was shorter than him. A Ravenclaw student, Harry recalled. How curious that his intuition had conjured this appearance for the spell. Brilliant! He also realized the charms held longer than before. In fact, there had yet to be a moment when the enchantment faded before he chose to dispel it himself. He didn’t understand why, but it stirred in him an odd sense of control, something he’d been deprived of for so long. It felt… right.

He lingered in the shadow of an alley, watching the manor, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He nearly stepped closer, but then—two men in dark robes appeared on the square, wands at the ready. Death Eaters, his mind whispered, as if sensing their very essence. He was certain of it, though their hoods concealed their faces entirely. They paused where Number 12 ought to have been, their gazes sliding over the Muggle houses as if the manor didn’t exist, yet they seemed to know it was there. Harry’s thoughts churned. He recalled that Sirius’s father had woven powerful protective enchantments, making the house difficult to detect, but the true secrecy had relied on Dumbledore’s Fidelius Charm. So why hadn’t that stocky Death Eater from before reported it? Or was the house shielded by something else entirely? He didn’t know. But the Death Eaters were here, and that meant they suspected something, regardless.

His pulse quickened, stirred by an inexplicable feeling, but he didn’t move immediately. He stood, waiting, until the strangers vanished in the opposite direction, empty-handed… though their wands probed the air around them. The Order might return here too, if they were still alive… they might find him. Harry wouldn’t allow that.

Invisible, he Apparated back to his room and collapsed onto the bed, letting the Invisibility Cloak slide from his shoulders to the floor. Clutching the Snitch in his hand, he tried to convince himself that the manor might be a trap he was setting for himself. Yet he needed it so desperately, despite the risks. It was strange, he thought, that meeting his friends now felt synonymous with “trap,” but he pushed the notion aside.

At some indeterminate hour, Harry wandered the hostel under his Invisibility Cloak, observing those around him. Early twilight in the Muggle hostel in London buzzed with life. People, such social creatures, gathered near the dining area—closed for supper yet still a magnet for chatter, some striking up new acquaintances with ease.

Hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, unseen by all, Harry glided through the corridors, his steps silent, though each person he passed seemed to stomp on the creaking floorboards like squeaky buttons. The hostel, at ten pounds a night, was a step above the last, but hardly qualified as “comfort.” Why was he here, drifting among these Muggles who knew nothing of his world? Why did he remain cloaked? He’d shed the Ravenclaw boy’s guise the moment he reached his room—something about adopting the likeness of someone he knew felt… wrong. Was he wandering among Muggles now, searching for answers? It was hard to say. The whistling in his ears had become near-constant, his forehead sometimes erupting with sensations as if someone had scalded his brain, bypassing the shield of his skull.

He longed to feel like them. Alive. To find joy in something. But all he felt was a chill, not from the draft of a half-open window, but emanating from within himself.

Moving slowly, keeping to the walls where the wallpaper peeled, revealing the hostel’s dubious hospitality to all who passed. He avoided the dim, flickering lamps, which seemed to pulse in their death throes. In the common room, where Muggles gathered to pass the time, armchairs and a few coffee tables were scattered about, the air thick and cloying with cigarette smoke. Voices overlapped in conversation. Harry paused by an old sofa, where two middle-aged men, clutching cans of beer, were locked in debate.

“I’m telling you, Bill, this referendum’s a bloody waste of time,” grumbled one, his face flushed, sporting a week’s worth of stubble. “Mayor of London? Who needs it? They’d do better fixing the roads than holding votes.”

“I’m going, dead serious,” the other replied, sipping his beer. “Maybe a mayor’ll sort things out. Two weeks ago in Islington, those nutcase cultists tore a teenager apart! And the police still haven’t a clue what happened! London needs a mayor!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, his already uneven breathing catching in a sharp exhale. At last, something sparked in his mind. Interest. Cultists. Was that what Muggles called Death Eaters? Though, now that he thought about it, he leaned more toward werewolves, recalling an article he’d nicked from The Sun a few days back and read more closely. Werewolves sided with Voldemort… His eyes snapped shut, his face twisting in a grimace as he fought to suppress the pain of a sudden, blinding flash of white light clouding his vision. He saw Professor Lupin’s body before him… it was unmistakably him. When Harry had descended into the Great Hall, among the bodies, there lay his professor and his young wife, side by side… their forms covered, but their faces… he had seen them. His pulse surged, and a grating screech filled his ears. He stumbled back against the wall, pressing himself to the cold, peeling wallpaper, burying his face in his hands, the rims of his glasses scraping the tender skin around his eyes. “The boy must die.” Dumbledore’s image flickered again. Oh, if Harry didn’t hold such respect for the headmaster… or was it respect? He could have hated the man, for every time, even in his thoughts, Dumbledore dared remind him, steering him still! Harry was supposed to die… Then, something cold brushed his ear—a breeze, tracing a gentle, fleeting path from his ear to his neck. He opened his eyes, lifting his gaze slowly. Blessed emptiness, at last. The Muggles…

Moved on, toward a corner where a girl sat with a tattered magazine, her fingers nervously flipping through its pages. She was young, no older than himself, with striking eyes and hair pulled back into a ponytail. Harry lingered too close—close enough to see her shoulders give a slight shudder, her gaze darting to the empty space where he stood, invisible. She saw nothing, but her fingers froze, the magazine trembling in her hands. She turned away, muttering under her breath, almost a whisper, “God, it’s freezing here…”

He hadn’t meant to frighten her, yet he couldn’t step back. Something within him, some unnameable part, relished it—her unease, her instinctual fear. Harry lived with that dread daily; didn’t others ever feel the same? Merlin, how painful it would be for them when they inevitably faced it! He wasn’t cruel, not a sadist—surely, if someone was uncomfortable, he ought to move away. He was no villain! But this feeling… it was a deep-seated pathology. He just wanted to feel, to become… No matter how many times he cloaked himself in another’s likeness with a spell, it didn’t help. He was still the Chosen One. So Harry stood there, watching her, her fingers now fidgeting even more frantically with the magazine’s edge, and he felt his own breath grow heavier, as if he were stealing the air she breathed. She rose first, heading toward the staircase to the rooms.

Harry Potter studied them for hours more—these Muggles, their conversations, their fears, their mundane lives. They existed, oblivious to the world he’d left behind, a world ablaze. They, too, would burn soon. Voldemort despised them; he would slaughter them. Harry pictured each person in that room reduced to the mangled mess described in The Sun’s column… The longer he watched, the more he felt, and even… in some twisted way, realized he was indulging in something utterly wrong. Yet he scarcely stopped.

In a corner of the room, a man with a tattoo snaking across his neck sipped coffee and muttered to his companion, “I’m telling you, something’s off in that area. The police say it’s lunatics, but my brother saw it… and that scream, even I heard it… not human. Werewolves, I’m telling you, they’re real!” His companion scoffed, but a flicker of something ancient and instinctual passed through his eyes: he was afraid, and he believed.

Harry retreated to the staircase, climbing to his room, the pressure in his head mounting, the whistling in his ears growing unbearable. Was it just the act of climbing stairs? He rubbed his ear, but it did nothing—his mind was a cauldron, brimming with too many potions, ready to explode. The rest of the evening, he paced his room, hands clasped behind his back, his thoughts circling back to the manor… and sometimes to the Muggles, to their homes, their families. A wave of self-pity washed over him, sharp and unfamiliar. He’d never indulged in such feelings before.

That evening, the hostel’s receptionist had to field complaints from guests multiple times, explaining that no, they didn’t have air conditioning, and regrettably, their refrigerator had broken down recently, so they couldn’t offer anything, certainly not the “sweets” some guests inexplicably demanded. An undercurrent of wrongness permeated the air, felt by all but grasped by none—a cold, heavy presence, a primal terror that set hearts racing, blood surging under cortisol’s command, urging the brain to flee, hide, survive. Every guest, though none spoke it aloud, came to the same silent conclusion: this hostel was dreadful.

Notes:

As you’ve likely noticed, I have a deep fascination with the mind’s descent into chaos. I can assure you — Voldemort and Harry will meet, haha. I’m saying this to spare some of you the question, “Wait, is this it?” — No. What you’re reading now is, let’s say… merely the prologue.

But twist and turn you’ve seen so far is crucial for the emergence of a new persona. I’m not fond of characters who just “flip to dark” overnight. So buckle up: I won’t be issuing content warnings for what comes next, but you’d better be prepared. The explicit rating isn’t there for show.

Chapter 11

Day Ten

Harry spent the day in his room, steering clear of Grimmauld Place as he had the day before. He sensed the Death Eaters might return, and he wasn’t willing to take the chance… It wasn’t fear, no—rather, their presence served as a reminder. They were a symbol of the Chosen One’s battle against Voldemort.

Instead, he toyed with enchantments, casting “Faciem” repeatedly, altering his facial features with each attempt. For hours, he played with magic, until he grew weary of experimenting with his appearance. Turning to transfiguration, he transformed a scrap of newspaper into a Muggle coin, and it emerged flawless on the first try, as if his will alone shaped reality itself… Was that truly the case? He couldn’t say why this was happening, but he felt the Snitch against his skin grow warmer, almost as if it were alive.

It was astonishing, too, how a wand that wasn’t even his own permitted him to wield magic with such ease. A pang of longing struck him as he thought of his original wand, now broken, its fragments likely still tucked away in Hermione’s bag… She would keep them, wouldn’t she? Shaking his head, he redirected his thoughts. Instinctively, he scratched at his ear, trying to dispel the sudden, irritating whistle that pierced through. His mind drifted to Firenze, the centaur he’d glimpsed among the survivors… Had he made it through? Why hadn’t he foreseen the coming horrors, or at least dropped a hint?

Harry leapt to his feet and paced the cramped room of the Muggle hostel. “Twelve-year-old children died there… Divination, prophecies—what utter rubbish!” The words didn’t burst from him; no, they were a whisper in the depths of his mind, the chilling hiss of a Dementor intent on devouring the last flickers of anything good. He froze, fists clenched, and Dumbledore’s image flared in his thoughts, like that blasted Deluminator, snatching something from the light to be saved for later. For himself. Another vision… The old headmaster, hunched and frail, pleading, his trembling hands clutching a goblet, swallowing the poisonous liquid in the cave to retrieve the Horcrux. Harry could almost feel the echo of that pain, that bitterness, burning through him as it had when he watched the man who had always been his beacon. Memories surged, vivid and fragmented: his first year at Hogwarts… the Boy Who Lived, who had never seen magic! His confrontation with Voldemort, lurking beneath Quirrell’s turban… The recollections came in tatters, as if his mind had lost the ability to hold them whole under the crushing weight of an emotional apocalypse. But one thing was clear… now…

…now those memories drowned in the void surrounding him, like the lake of Inferi, their cold fingers reaching for his very soul. Invisible but tangible tendrils of bile coiled around his body, squeezing his ribs, choking him. Why didn’t Dumbledore do anything? The thought struck, his mind reflecting shards of his first year, now stained with doubt. Was he so weak? So… foolish? Surely this couldn’t be the same man Harry had known these past two years… The Dark Lord hid his secrets with paranoid precision, that much was clear. But Dumbledore… he was cleverer, so brilliant he’d even deduced that Slughorn was the one who had told a young Tom about Horcruxes! And he’d been right… It was Slughorn. Dumbledore was always right… Harry squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head sharply, as if to shrug off something buzzing in his ear. The headmaster had been a chessmaster, moving pieces on a board where Harry was a pawn, doomed to be sacrificed. “Hey, Harry, I told you I’d win! You were meant to be the sacrifice, sorry.” Ron’s voice, gloating over a chess victory… His steps quickened, and he moved through the room like an endogenous hallucination, a shadow impossible to catch. Quirrell’s face surfaced before his eyes—distorted, reeking of scorched flesh, his scream echoing in Harry’s bones. A rasp tore from his throat, not a cry but a stifled sound, as if he’d swallowed an ancient book from Hogwarts’ library, its swollen pages clogging his windpipe, choking his breath. How could Dumbledore not have known?

The thought snapped like a spell broken by a counterattack, and Harry froze, trembling. The cold emptiness settled in. Silence, at last… White specks danced before his eyes, harbingers of spiking blood pressure. He couldn’t stop remembering… Second year. Dumbledore spoke Gobbledegook—Hagrid had boasted about it once, how the headmaster could negotiate with anyone, even “creatures like that,” Hagrid’s voice had said. Did Dumbledore know Parseltongue? Harry asked himself. He shuddered, his fingers instinctively clutching the edge of his cloak. If so, how could he not have heard the Basilisk hissing through Hogwarts’ walls, slithering through the pipes, bringing death to the children in the castle? Harry saw himself now, in that Chamber, heard the echo of his own voice: “Please! Someone, anyone! Help!” The squelch of his feet on the pipe’s metal… a rustle… something behind him, something that wanted to kill him! Ginny, lying motionless, oh God… Had he failed to save her? She was pale, icy in that vision… And another figure, loathsome…

Dumbledore stood there, arms crossed behind his back, those kind eyes watching as one of his students teetered on the edge… “How are you, my boy? I see you’ve done splendidly…” He just stood there, in Harry’s mind… His thoughts burned, stinging, and the Void grew, a black hole swallowing light, and he felt his sense of self dissolving, slipping away… He couldn’t endure this anymore… His entire life… the losses… He hadn’t saved anyone, not even himself. His life no longer held meaning; it had poisoned him. But worst of all… “They need help.” A voice… his own?

And third year? Harry pressed a palm to his forehead, trying to quell the trembling. Dementors… They drained every scrap of good, and Dumbledore knew how to repel them, so why hadn’t he stopped them sooner? Why had he let Harry learn to conjure a Patronus himself, forcing him to torment himself endlessly with images of his young parents… He froze. Something struck his mind so fiercely that, perhaps, this was it.

Catharsis.

The Dies Irae of his psyche.

Resigned, Harry sank onto the bed, the frame creaking under his weight. He lay back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes, hidden behind the lenses of his glasses, fixed on the blank expanse. Silence, at last. He closed his eyes, and the shadows of the past—Quirrell, the Basilisk, Dementors, the Sphinx, Umbridge—swirled around him like Dementors that, alas, no Patronus could banish. Were all his memories of Hogwarts like this now? Would they always be? He felt his sense of self dissolving… He needed to get to the Black manor… Perhaps he could at least take a few books from there…

Kreacher… Kreacher was as much a prisoner of that house as Harry was—a captive of his own chosen fate. Abruptly, without a second thought, Harry rose to his feet. He transfigured a sheet of paper, and upon it appeared writing, as if torn from some diary, the script ornate, elegant, refined… Whose handwriting had he conjured from memory? A single word adorned the page: Betrayal. Nothing more. Not an introduction, not part of a list, not the start of an unfinished sentence, nor an item in some catalog. Just one word. Harry set the paper alight, watching as the ashes drifted down before him. He noticed how the flames shimmered with every color, almost turning white. It was mesmerizing.

Day Eleven

Harry resolved that he could wait no longer; there was nothing else for him to do. Sleep had eluded him, and as soon as the nearest star bathed London’s surface in its faint light, he was ready. The urge to claim his godfather’s estate hounded him, despite his mind’s owner attempting to drown it out with “engaging” distractions—pacing the tiny rented hostel room counted, didn’t it? Merlin, but Harry needed this!

He draped the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and altered his appearance without so much as glancing in a mirror—now he was a striking dark-haired man with sharp cheekbones, brown eyes, and slightly curled hair at the fringe, looking to be in his forties. He paid little heed to the details, casting the spell almost instinctively, as he’d been changing his guise daily. So absurd was he that he barely noticed the movements of his wand—magic was a marvelous thing, wasn’t it? Who’d have guessed he had such a knack for Transfiguration? Why hadn’t Hermione known about this spell? So confident was he in his flawless transformations that, not for the first time, he neglected to check his appearance. In magic, he was exceptional, or so he believed.

The square lay deserted, save for the wind chasing leaves across the asphalt. He whispered “Homenum Revelio” and “Specialis Revelio” to check for traps or presences. Still,no humans there. He approached Number 12, closer now. His heart thundered so loudly he feared it might betray him to the Muggles in neighboring houses, cloak or no cloak. The door was shut. Swiftly, he slipped inside, wand at the ready, the Invisibility Cloak muffling his steps.

The man whose guise Harry had adopted gave a reverent smile upon entering the manor. Inside, it was just as he remembered: dark corridors blanketed in dust, portraits silenced by a spell cast by the Black family to prevent the spread of secrets and gossip… Even if the portraits wished to speak, they couldn’t. The stench of mildew, of ancient furniture and fabric, of something rotting, assaulted his senses. Everything was as he recalled. He started to move forward but froze when a rustle reached his ears. From the shadowed kitchen, Kreacher appeared, his absurdly large eyes fixed on the spot where the door had opened, revealing the empty expanse of the street beyond. Harry swiftly shut the door and cast off the cloak.

“M-Master,” Kreacher croaked, his eyes widening in abject terror as they took in Harry’s face, as if it reminded him of someone. Then suspicion crept in as the elf sniffed the air like an animal. His voice, like the creak of aged wood, nearly a squeak, pieced together the moment with his memories. “Master has returned! Master Harry!” With joy and fervor, the stooped elf hurried forward and fell to his knees before the man.

The elf’s face was alight with reverence, clad in a filthy rag and tattered loincloth… Around his neck hung the fake locket, R.A.B. Harry’s gaze lingered on it, his thoughts snagging on something. What was he thinking? With a gesture, he signaled Kreacher to rise, and the elf obeyed instantly, wringing his hands together.

“Hello, Kreacher… I’m sorry I haven’t visited,” he said, his voice soft, measured, and deep. It wasn’t Harry’s voice. Yet there was… something familiar in it. “How’s your work? Everything… all right?” A strange sensation pierced his body, as if his mind had drawn some parallel, hearing himself on the periphery of consciousness… Merlin, he scarcely registered it. His head was more a stew than a mind now.

Kreacher’s fingers twitched, as if a tremor of pride had seized his joints.

“Kreacher serves Master Harry!” he declared, his voice quivering as much as his ears. “Kreacher did what he must… Many came, but Mistress Walburga helped, Master Orion laid many charms, Kreacher lets no one in! No one has defiled the House of Black or Master Harry!” The old elf licked the strip of skin that passed for lips, almost smiling.

Harry listened, but his gaze was ensnared by the locket, inexplicably drawn to it… a Horcrux. At last, he lifted his eyes to the waiting elf and tried to muster an appropriate response. He stepped closer.

“Kreacher, thank you, I’m so grateful… you’ve done brilliantly,” he said mechanically, hollowly. He moved past the elf, along the corridor by the staircase, taking in his surroundings, occasionally turning his head to scan more of the space. He couldn’t decide… “Kreacher,” he said, casting only a glance downward, “only two may be in this house, no matter what happens, understood? Just you and me, unless I permit otherwise.”

The elf’s hands clutched the filthy rag he wore.

“Yes, Master Harry. Erm…” Kreacher hesitated, as if on the verge of saying more. He had no doubt this was Harry Potter—he felt it—but something else stirred within him, something unsettling that frayed his nerves, though he could not question his master. “Master Harry, shall Kreacher prepare a room? No one has been in the house.”

Harry felt his hand tremble. Did he want that? This was his home. No one else was here… He jerked his head against his shoulder, trying to banish the whistling in his ears.

“No, Kreacher, not this time,” he replied, his voice low, quiet, as he clasped his hands behind his back. “But I’ll return, I promise, and until then, your task remains the same.”

The old elf wept, clenching his fists, babbling something like, “Yes, of course, Master Harry, you are so kind,” but his insides churned with an inexplicable fear as he looked at the man before him.

“Kreacher swears, Master, by his life, no one shall disturb the House of Black unless Master Harry permits it,” he rasped.

Harry suddenly felt… something. The emptiness within him vanished, as if someone had pulled a plug and the darkness had been sucked into nothingness. He gazed at the elf, who stared back, speaking words of loyalty… His throat tightened. Tears welled in his eyes, and he sank to his knees beside Kreacher, his voice softening, though still carrying the low bass of his borrowed guise.

“I have one more very important request,” he whispered, his hands trembling. “You have never seen Harry Potter.”

The magical creature’s eyes met his, not with the confusion Dobby might have shown. No, Kreacher merely bowed and said, “Kreacher has never seen Harry Potter, my Master.”

Harry flinched, a sense that he was doing something strange, asking for something wrong… Nonsense. They’d manage without him.

“Lock the manor, Kreacher, do everything you can,” he said, his tone gentle and kind. He paused for a moment before adding, “Thank you, Kreacher, you’re brilliant… the best elf I’ve ever had.”

Kreacher pursed his lips, his aged face twisting into a grimace, making him look like an old infant ravaged by progeria… The elf was truly grateful to Master Harry, who seemed to him a good and worthy man… but each time Harry’s magic surged, rippling through the elf’s magically sensitive frame, his tiny heart raced like a hare’s.

“Thank you, Master,” he said humbly, barely above a whisper. “Kreacher will wait for you.”

Harry donned the Invisibility Cloak and Apparated back to his room from the Black manor. His mind was a tempest. He paced the room for hours, tormented by the thought that he’d made a mistake, that any moment a squad of Death Eaters would descend upon him. He shed his disguise only at dawn, when he collapsed onto the bed.

Day Twelve

Harry dozed, and it felt, somehow, better than usual. Yet when he opened his eyes, it was with the sensation that his mind was a room with an unshuttered window, a cold wind swirling within, scattering everything in its path. He lay on the creaking bed, staring at the faded wallpaper peeling at the corners. The Snitch, dangling around his neck, was warm as always, its weight a quiet solace, and for reasons he couldn’t fathom, its touch brought him peace each time, especially upon waking. After pacing the room a few times, Harry whispered “Faciem,” and his reflection in the murky mirror above the sink transformed: now a fair-haired young man with thin lips, weary eyes, and enormous bags beneath them, as though he’d toiled for days without rest. He descended to the receptionist and paid for a couple more nights. They chatted briefly about Ginger’s departure from the Spice Girls, Harry wanting to probe her about the attacks, whether she’d noticed any odd guests, but he never initiated the questions. He merely smiled, mechanically maintaining the pretense of conversation.

He stepped out onto Grimmauld Place, his movements silent, his wand at the ready in his pocket, his hand never straying from it after the previous day’s events. Kreacher could be betraying him even now.

The morning was grey, low clouds casting the street in the guise of a forsaken stage. He took up position in the shadowed alley, where he could observe the manor while remaining unseen.

And then, like a thunderbolt from a clear sky, he saw her. Minerva McGonagall appeared on the square, her dark robes billowing in the fierce London wind, whipped by the narrow street’s confines, making her cloak resemble the wings of a bat. Her pointed hat sat firmly in place, and little seemed changed in her appearance… yet Harry could see the past year had aged her a decade. She paused where Number 12 ought to have been, lingering for several minutes, her head turning as her wand traced an arc, murmuring spells he couldn’t hear. Some were unfamiliar to him, but one was surely a check for presences. Her brows knitted, and she stepped forward, as if straining to discern something in the void. She glanced at the neighboring houses. Harry held his breath. McGonagall knew the manor’s secret; she was part of the Order, but the house didn’t materialize before her—evidently, she couldn’t see the Black manor at all. He realized that Kreacher, that remarkable creature, was truly obeying his command somehow: the manor was locked, magically concealed even from those who knew its secret!

Then his heart lurched, pierced by a sudden thought, and he smacked his forehead with his wandless hand. Of course, she’ll figure it out! Kreacher had sealed the house, and she’d deduce that someone had intervened, someone had given the elf an order—and McGonagall would know who! Any moment now, Kreacher would emerge and declare that the Chosen One, Potter, had been here, skulking like a craven, cornered rat!

But the elf showed no sign of emerging, nor did he open the door. McGonagall lingered another minute, then turned and Disapparated with a loud crack that echoed off the walls. A Muggle peered out from a nearby window.

Harry didn’t move, holding his breath… He was relieved he hadn’t ventured closer to the house—if she’d spotted him, it could have been the end. Yet her appearance jolted him, like a bucket of icy water. They had managed without him. They had survived.

Back in his room, he collapsed onto the bed without removing his jacket, staring at the ceiling where cracks formed patterns reminiscent of constellations. His thoughts swirled around McGonagall—not her face, but what she represented: duty, struggle, sacrifice. He recalled her at Hogwarts, her steely gaze, her voice that could silence the entire Great Hall. How she’d offered to Transfigure him and Ron into a map and a clock… Of course, her authority paled beside Dumbledore’s, but Harry had no doubt about his subsequent realization: if McGonagall had been in Dumbledore’s place, she would have acted in precisely the same way. Would she have chosen Hermione? Ha! He’d have loved to see that… She might have done better than he had… A whistle pierced his ears. Reflexively, he scratched at it, shooing away his rebellious mind. They were all fighting, and where had it led Dumbledore? For what? So Harry could once again be their shield? Their cursed Chosen One, solving all their problems? Only for everyone to… die anyway?

Silence.

His fingers tightened around the Snitch, and he felt anger rising within him, a tidal wave. This was new. He didn’t want to be their savior. He was weary of it. Every time, he thought he could stop it, that his pain, his sacrifices, would change something. The mistake in the Ministry that cost Sirius his life… His honorable act with Cedric at the Tournament… Everything only grew worse. His life grew worse, and the world remained unchanged—brimming with pain, betrayal, death. Now here he was, in this mold-scented room, wondering if perhaps it wasn’t the world that needed saving, but himself. Not from Voldemort, but from what they had made him. They had stripped him of everything…

His thoughts took a strange turn. He imagined a world different—pure, free from pain, from fear. Not through battles, not through heroism, but through something more… final. He recalled pausing before “Crucio” with Bellatrix… that moment when he realized he lacked the will to cast such a spell. It wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to inflict pain… But now, he thought of another spell, one more… perfect. Harry flinched, his breath faltering, his eyes widening in disbelief. This was wrong—what were these idiotic thoughts? Yet the idea, lodged in his mind, was like a spine from a rare magical cactus: the more he tried to dislodge it, the deeper it burrowed. He didn’t want to cause pain, but what if pain was all the world understood? What if freedom from it was the only gift he could offer?

Harry sprang from the bed, hands trembling, and crossed to the window. The street beyond the glass was empty, but he felt something shifting, as if a part of him—the part that clung to Hogwarts, to friends, to hope—wasn’t just dying. No. It was dead. Rotted, devoured by worms. He could no longer think as he once had. How had he never doubted his choice to infiltrate Gringotts to steal the cup? How had he not hesitated when saving Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets years ago… He gripped his wand, and the magic coursing through him, lingering in the wood, pulsed with an alive, unnatural… heavy throb.

Chapter 12

Day Thirteen

The day had broken outside when Harry stirred, resolving to end the torment of his fragmented sleep. Truth be told, he’d almost grown accustomed to it, no longer feeling the bone-deep exhaustion of those first days. It had simply become a part of him. He found it strange that no nightmares of Voldemort plagued him. In fact, he scarcely dreamed at all—only fleeting, disjointed images, unfamiliar faces that sometimes wept, sometimes leaned over him to kiss his forehead, his face, as if bidding farewell. It was peculiar, but he settled on a simple explanation: he’d nearly died two weeks ago, he’d fled, abandoned everyone—naturally, his psyche would toy with him, weaving its own cruel games. Merlin, Harry was remarkably sensible in some matters and maddeningly blind in others…

Perched on the edge of the bed, his fingers gripped his wand, his gaze fixed on the ceiling’s cracks, which, in the dimness of the curtained room, seemed to form increasingly deliberate patterns. Even in the faint light, they held meaning.

He rose, intending to head to the Black manor… but first, he decided to take a walk. Perhaps he’d find a quaint park here to gaze at the stars, without Apparating into the unknown, far from his lodgings. Standing before the murky mirror in his hostel room, where the light of a single bulb, dangling from an exposed wire, glinted off the glass’s stains, he noted his appearance—altered yesterday and still holding. He remained the fair-haired youth with thin lips and ghastly, plum-dark bags under his eyes, as if he’d labored sleepless for days.

London, sprawled beyond the window, was grey and damp, as it always was in May 1998. The streets reeked of wet asphalt and exhaust, and the houses, with their peeling facades and narrow alleys, seemed as lost as he was, shrouded in a faint haze one might call the “breath” of London itself—though in truth, it was a layer of dust, grime, and fumes.

He stepped out of the hostel, pulling on a Muggle jacket pilfered shortly after leaving Hogwarts, and turned not toward Grimmauld Place but in the opposite direction, toward the bustling streets where Muggles lived their lives. He simply walked, letting his mind wander freely. At times, it drifted to Sirius, being pulled through the arch; at others, to Ron, shouting at the sight of Acromantulas in the forest as they sought to unravel the Chamber of Secrets’ mystery… His boots scuffed the pavement. He thought of Cedric. That boy had been a good person. His face—open, honest, with a smile that never seemed false—rose in memory. “Thanks, Harry!” he’d said, brimming with joy. If only Harry hadn’t been so noble… The thought struck his mind, summoning the familiar whistle in his ears. It was the Chosen One who should have died, Cedric. Not you. The Chosen One. Ha. What a ridiculous word. He recalled the Triwizard Tournament… the maze… that moment when they both grasped the Portkey’s handle, and Cedric said, “Together.” But it was Harry who’d insisted they both win! What if he hadn’t been such a fool? He’d challenged fate itself—he was meant to win! What if he’d simply taken the Cup and left Cedric in the maze? It was simple: Cedric would be alive. And Harry… Harry would be dead. And perhaps that would have been right.

A coarse voice shattered his thoughts. A group of three lads, around twenty, clad in leather jackets with cigarettes dangling from their lips, loitered against the wall of a pub. One, with a shaved temple and a chain around his neck, called out, “Oi, mate, got a cig?” Harry halted, his hand instinctively tightening around the wand in the pocket of his Muggle jacket. He could have Transfigured a pack of cigarettes, as he’d done with money for the hostel. He could have conjured a blasted crate of foul-smelling smokes to make them back off. But he did nothing. Said nothing. He merely stared at them—coldly, emptily, as if they weren’t people but filth he’d seen a thousand times before. They reminded him of Dudley and his gang… Merlin, he’d been through this before, hadn’t he? He knew what was coming… Turning, he walked on.

“Oi, you deaf or what?” The voice of the second, sporting a greasy ponytail, grew sharper. Harry didn’t look back. He heard their boots clomp after him, striking the asphalt like hammers. “Listen, you prat, I’m talking to you!” The third, stocky with a tattoo on his neck, grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Harry didn’t resist. His gaze slid over their faces—angry but ordinary, like the Muggles who debated the London mayor referendum or gossiped about “cultists” wreaking havoc in the city center. A single flick of his wand could stop them. But he did nothing.

The first blow came from the side—a fist slammed into his jaw, and Harry felt his teeth clash, the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth. He staggered but didn’t fall. The second strike, from the stocky one, hit his ribs, forcing the air from his lungs in a rasp. That’s when he crumpled to his knees, the asphalt biting into his skin through his jeans, and then it began. They kicked him—heavy Muggle boots crashing into his thighs, his back, his stomach. One kick landed on his chest, and he heard a crack—ribs snapping like dry twigs. Fists rained down on his shoulders, his neck, each blow flashing through his skull like sharp white sparks and golden bursts. Blood streamed from his split lip, his torn gums, soaking his chin, which scraped against the grit of gravel, debris, and stone. He didn’t scream, didn’t defend himself. He knew this already, didn’t he? Even this pain—sharp, throbbing, physical—he knew it too well… and the injustice, like poison, coursed through his veins. They tore off his Muggle jacket, spat on him, and sauntered off, their laughter fading into the street’s din.

Harry lay on the asphalt for a moment, feeling blood trickle down his cheek, his ribs searing with every heroic attempt his lungs made to draw breath. He rose almost immediately, his body protesting, but he forced himself to move. He didn’t want to Apparate. It was like… a ritual. His body carried him back on its own… He walked, each step sending jolts of pain through his chest, his legs, his head. He thought. The streets blurred at the edges of his mind… he scarcely distinguished anything. People passed by, but none spared him a glance. Was he under the Invisibility Cloak? Hardly… He didn’t need it for London to overlook him.

The hostel receptionist didn’t so much as glance up as he passed the desk. Harry swore he’d spoken to her, paying for his stay, already in his altered guise. But now, with a battered face and no jacket, he was invisible to her… Of course, she offered no help. He climbed to his room, dispelling his disguise with a muttered “Finite” on the way. That’s how it was always done, wasn’t it? He shut the door and approached the mirror. His lip was split, dried blood crusted on his chin, his left eye swollen shut, and the skin on his cheek scraped raw, exposing the pink of muscle beneath. His ribs, he knew, were broken—each movement sparked sharp pain, his breaths shallow, as if his lungs had shrunk to the size of a fist. Bruises bloomed on his arms, dark as nebulae, and on his thigh, where a boot had struck hardest, the skin burned hot and inflamed.

Raising his wand with a trembling hand, he pointed it at himself. “Episkey,” he whispered, and magic coursed through him like a cold stream. He felt his ribs shift back into place, grinding like dry bones, cartilage knitting together with a torturous, unbearable tug. The hematomas beneath his skin faded before his eyes… He aimed the wand at his face, mending the gash on his lip, and the bleeding stopped, though a thin, barely noticeable scar remained—a reminder… Voldemort… but the thought veered away. His body was a map of pain: fractures, bruises, abrasions—all fixable with magic, easily so. But not what lay within. Even the most skilled Healers at St. Mungo’s were powerless against the intricate chaos of the human mind… Neville’s poor parents were proof of that… Lockhart… Merlin, Harry was to blame for his suffering too, wasn’t he? Well… he deserved it.

Harry smiled.

Something cracked—he could almost hear it in his mind. Not ribs, not bones, but something deeper… Those lads on the street—they didn’t know who he was. They hadn’t beaten him for being the Chosen One, or for being their cousin who got under their skin, or for Voldemort, or for Horcruxes. They beat him simply because he existed. And in that senseless cruelty, there was something that resonated with his own emptiness. His mind was a labyrinth, every turn leading to a void. He could have stopped them with a single spell— Reducto to blast them to pieces, or Crucio to make them writhe in agony… He felt that impulse, the same one that had driven him to use an Unforgivable on Bellatrix… He was no different! But he’d done nothing. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the part of him that made choices was gone. His will, his self , was dissolving like ink in water, leaving only a cold, viscous nothingness. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t even a victim. He was… nothing.

That afternoon,for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Harry showered, his body heavy with the stale musk of sweat and neglect.

Day Fourteen

Dawn broke cold, the sky over London cloaked in grey clouds, the air thick with the scent of rain poised to spill onto the streets at any moment. His eyes stung with exhaustion, yet a strange energy pulsed within him, as if his body moved of its own accord, spurred by anticipation. He draped the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and altered his appearance—now a gaunt young man with short chestnut hair and scars crisscrossing his face.

He Apparated to Grimmauld Place, emerging in the shadow of an alley. The square lay desolate, save for the faint flutter of a bird’s wings in the distance. He murmured “Homenum Revelio” and “Specialis Revelio” to check for traps… anyone’s. Nothing. He knew the likelihood of McGonagall returning so soon was slim, but he proceeded with caution nonetheless. He could have Apparated directly into the manor, but preferred arriving nearby to scan for presences… his fractured mind still retained a thread of rationality.

Stepping into the house, he was met by Kreacher, who offered a courteous bow and said, “Good day, Master.” The elf didn’t use his name. Harry felt no joy, only a vague sense that this was as it should be.

He didn’t linger, his heart pounding faster than he’d have liked. Harry pulled out an old bag he’d found in the hostel’s hall and murmured “Capacious Extremis,” expanding its inner space as Hermione once had. The fabric shuddered, stretching taut, and he began gathering books from the Black library’s shelves. His hands moved swiftly, almost feverishly, seizing anything that seemed remotely significant: tattered tomes on Dark Magic with Latin titles, folios on the Black family lineage, yellowed volumes on alchemy, treatises on ancient charms. He didn’t read the titles, didn’t pause to consider—he simply took, as if these books could quiet the storm in his mind, fill the void that grew with each passing day.

His thoughts were a typhoon, ideas colliding and shattering. He wanted to read, to lose himself in the pages, to find something—an answer, a weapon, a purpose, anything to occupy him. He didn’t know what he sought, but he felt he had to find it, or everything he’d done, everything he’d fled from, would be for naught. His fingers trembled as he flipped through a book on curses before shoving it into the bag. Then he picked up a strange, untitled volume, its pages filled with handwritten text. His eyes skimmed the lines. It didn’t matter what he collected, but for some reason, he sat down and began to read the elegant, ornate script: a legend about a youth from the Nott family who felt an void between worlds. The boy found a lantern at the edge of an ancient graveyard, and when he lit it, he saw her standing at the boundary—not Death, but Void itself, given form. She couldn’t speak, but in her, the youth found kinship: he, too, felt like another dimension among the living. He became her guiding star, and she, his deliverance. No one saw the youth again, but in places where matter is born, the lantern’s light sometimes pierces through the boundary.

He reached for the next book.

Harry read voraciously, hungrily, as if each page could rescue him from himself. He thought of Hermione, her voice echoing in his mind, as it always did when he delved into books… But now he was alone, and the tomes were his sole companions. His salvation. The noise in his head did fade. Closing another book with a clap too loud for the ancient folio, he stuffed it into his bag and continued scouring the shelves. He didn’t notice an hour slip by, his breath growing ragged from his frantic pace, moving like a thief rather than the master of his own house.

As he passed through the corridor, he froze, his gaze falling on Walburga’s portrait, forever affixed to the wall by a Permanent Sticking Charm. Her eyes glared at him, brimming with disdain. She was shouting something, tearing at her hair, clearly not recognizing him beneath his disguise. Harry smirked. Grabbing his bag, he donned his cloak and Apparated from the manor.

The bag, enchanted with “Capacious Extremis,” felt weightless, yet its contents pressed on him like an unseen burden. He tossed it into the corner of his room, where peeling wallpaper revealed grey plaster, and collapsed onto the bed, still clad in his tattered cloak and filthy shoes… He’d need to steal another Muggle jacket… The window was ajar, and the chill evening air drifted in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and the distant hum of the city. Rain tapped rhythmically against the glass. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but his mind was too restless to permit rest. He felt the books calling to him, their leather bindings and yellowed pages promising answers he couldn’t unearth within himself… Two weeks of so-called rest hadn’t brought him any closer to deciding what to do next. Truth be told, Harry was only growing more entangled. Every vision of the future led to one inescapable truth: he was a Horcrux, tied to Voldemort. He dwelt more on his past, frankly too overwhelmed, like any living soul…

Rising from the bed with a lurch, his legs too weak to manage without the momentum of his body, he dragged the shoulder bag to the table and began unloading the books, one by one, with meticulous care, as if they might crumble at his touch. He didn’t know why he’d taken so many, but each volume was a shield, guarding him against the silence that had, in truth, already devoured “Harry Potter.”

He opened the first book at hand— Ars Tenebris II , its pages reeking of mildew and something metallic—and began to read, his eyes darting across the lines with feverish haste. Words about curses, the nature of magic, and power that demanded will blurred together in his mind, but he pressed on. He read as if each page could drown out the voices whispering of Ron, Hermione, Cedric, his parents, and all the others… too many names…

His thoughts flowed like a river, too swift to discern where one idea began and another ended. Sirius, and how he loathed this house yet returned to it, unable to escape his blood. Harry felt something akin—he’d fled Hogwarts, but he couldn’t flee himself. The books were his attempt to find a path, though he had no idea where it led.

Turning a page, his fingers trembling, he stumbled upon a description of an ancient ritual promising to “free the soul from burdens,” whatever that meant. The words were vague, more an observer’s interpretation than the ritual’s creator’s intent, but they hooked him. He imagined a world transformed—silent, serene, free of pain, free of loss. Not through battles or heroism, but through something simpler, more final. That thought was like the shadow of a venomous serpent that had slithered quietly into his mind days ago and now fed, growing ever larger.

Harry shut the book, his breath uneven, and reached for another, this one on the Black family lineage. Names—Regulus, Bellatrix, Sirius… He felt no bitterness. He read deep into the night, moving from one volume to the next, his mind a sponge, absorbing everything yet retaining nothing. You said our choices define us, Albus, but what if I don’t know what I’m choosing? He turned another page. Hermione, you said you’d always be there for me, but what if I don’t need that? His eyes burned, but he didn’t stop, his fingers flipping pages as if they held the last thread tethering him to reality. After so many days of emotional torment, that might well be true.

 

Day Fifteen

Morning crept in unnoticed, a grey light seeping through the curtains, but Harry scarcely registered it. He had dozed off at the table, his cheek pressed against an open book on alchemy, its pages scrawled with symbols he hadn’t yet deciphered. Waking, he felt his body ache, but his mind was oddly clear, as if the night’s reading had burned away some of the chaos. Or perhaps his exhaustion was so absolute it eclipsed all else. He leaned back in the chair and reached for his wand on the table, its warm wood the only thing that felt familiar, save for the Snitch.

The bag stuffed with books from the Black manor lay beside the table, but he dismissed the urge to keep reading. His mind was, at last, sated. Thoughts of the past barely stirred… He needed to get out, to breathe, to feel he was still alive, not merely a shadow drifting through the world.

He wasn’t afraid of crossing paths with his attackers… For some reason, Harry hoped to encounter them again, though he couldn’t fully grasp why. But he’d deal with it, whatever it was. He’d take the same route.

Murmuring “Faciem,” he watched his reflection in the cracked mirror shift into someone else’s: short, mousy hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes grey as the London sky, looking about twenty. Harry never envisioned a specific appearance; he simply crafted one, and it never struck him as remarkable that the faces he wore were so varied.

The morning air was crisp, tinged with rain and petrol, as he stepped onto London’s streets, inhaling deeply, as if he could expel the dust of that dilapidated hostel from his lungs. The city pulsed with life: cars hummed, passersby hurried along the pavements, a street vendor shouted about hot breakfasts at his establishment.

He walked, retracing his path from the day before. He reached the spot where the thugs had ambushed him, but now it was empty. Harry circled back, lingering near the place several times, before finally giving up and moving on. He observed the Muggles—an old man feeding pigeons, a girl laughing at a strange gadget in her hands—and their mundanity was like a sip of water after a long drought.

But then he saw them. A couple approached, pushing a pram where a child slept, swaddled in a blue blanket. The man, his face weary and beard unkempt, spoke sharply, his voice loud and irritated. The woman, dark circles under her eyes, snapped back just as fiercely, her words like sparks poised to ignite a blaze between them. Harry slowed his pace, his gaze lingering on them unbidden. He thought of his parents—Lily and James, so young when they died… because of him. Those memories always brought a sharp, all-consuming bitterness… but now he wondered: would they have argued like this? Had they survived, had the war not bound them so tightly, would they, too, have shouted at each other on the street? In that case, perhaps he’d saved their marriage—after all, quarrels between people were inevitable, weren’t they? No one could truly know what stirred in another’s mind. Harry smiled suddenly, his fingers tightening on the strap of his bag. No one could peer into another’s head, uncover what lay hidden… Oh, no one but me and Voldemort, peering into each other. He grinned, almost baring all his teeth. What was this? Shaking his head as if to physically dislodge the thought, he felt it leave a strange aftertaste, like the echo of a voice he didn’t want to hear… not a monster’s anymore. An echo of his past, unresolved. He still didn’t know what to do with it.

When his thoughts drifted back to the couple, his mood dimmed, mirroring the grey, cloud-choked sky. Did London ever know different weather? He stepped into a small café on the corner, its window streaked with droplets from a recent rain. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and burnt toast, and behind the counter, a young waitress with a tired smile took orders.

Harry sat by the window, ordered tea, and watched the people. In the corner, a group of friends, about twenty, laughed loudly, their mirth sharp like glass. One, a lad in a bright shirt, carelessly tossed a napkin to the floor; another spilled cola and made no effort to clean it. The waitress approached, her voice polite but strained, and the lad, with exaggerated sarcasm, remarked loudly that she “could move a bit faster.” The others laughed, and she walked away, her shoulders sagging slightly. It was an ordinary scene, nothing horrific—just the rudeness the world encountered daily. Harry had faced too much cruelty in his life to be unaccustomed to it. Yet he noticed. It caught him. His gaze lingered on the napkin, the sticky stain on the table, the waitress’s face as she masked her hurt with a professional smile.

He sipped his tea, but it tasted bitter, foul. He thought of how there was no war here, no Voldemort, no him—Harry hadn’t fought for this world, hadn’t sacrificed himself—but people were still unhappy, and most were wretched. They quarreled, insulted, wounded each other, as if pain were woven into their nature. He recalled Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione, their arguments, how Ron had turned from him in fourth year, how the whole school had stared after that Tournament… He’d believed his struggle, his efforts for others, could change something, but now, gazing at the Muggle world, he saw nothing could. His conclusion was starkly clear. The world was broken, with or without him. His fingers gripped the mug, and he felt something dark stir within—a deep disappointment, a bitter ache. It was so strange, so illogical, but he fought his facial muscles to keep from weeping right there. He couldn’t help these people. He couldn’t help anyone… but—

But what if your help isn’t what they need? What if they need something else… something to end their pain? Harry flinched as his mind dragged him back to those thoughts, his gaze falling on his reflection in the window—a stranger’s face crafted by magic. He didn’t know where the idea came from, but it moved with increasing vigor, devouring more of his dwindling reason.

He drained his tea, left coins (Transfigured from a scrap of newspaper with the same effortless ease as always), and stepped outside. The street greeted him with a chill, but Harry barely noticed—he hadn’t felt cold in months. His mind was preoccupied, sifting through images: the quarrelling couple, the rude friends, the waitress, Lily and James. He thought of how they were all trapped in their own heads, just as he was in his. And no one could escape.

London’s streets buzzed with their mundane life as he walked, steeped in dark thoughts: cars honked, passersby hurried, a street musician strummed a guitar. Turning into a small square shielded from the road, he breathed in the cold air, laced with smoke and wet asphalt, trying to banish the images. He wanted to keep walking, to dissolve into this city where no one knew his name, but his mind clung to unbidden musings. He couldn’t help these people, just as he couldn’t help Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione…

Harry paused before a small bookshop, its window cluttered with tattered tomes and vibrant covers of pricier new bestsellers. Something urged him to enter… That morning, he’d told himself to steer clear of books, deeming them a waste of time without a clear purpose, but he chose not to resist the impulse. Who knew—perhaps he’d find something intriguing? Wandering between shelves, his fingers grazed spines until they halted on two volumes, marked as “hot” and written in accessible yet subtly profound prose that captivated him. The first, Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time , its cover and synopsis promising to unveil the mysteries of the cosmos and time. The second, Marcelo Gleiser’s The Dancing Universe , where physics intertwined with questions of existence’s meaning. His choice wasn’t random: time—its flow, its enigmas—beckoned him, as if holding the key to what he sought. He yearned to grasp how events interlocked, how one moment led to the next, how he’d ended up here, in this shop, instead of facing Voldemort and dying countless times, as he had in their encounters… He paid with Transfigured coins and left, the bag no heavier, but his mind faintly unburdened.

Back at the hostel, he tossed the bag onto the table and began organizing the previously scattered books. The newly acquired Muggle volumes lay beside the Black folios, an odd contrast: Hawking and Gleiser’s sleek covers against the tattered bindings of Dark Magic.

He settled down, opened A Brief History of Time , and began to read, but his eyes soon darted across the lines, failing to grasp their meaning. For some reason, his mind refused to obey, though Harry himself noticed no difference. He shifted to a book on dark magic— Ars Tenebris —which detailed curses demanding not only power but intent. His thoughts wouldn’t still: he read of black holes, then of spells, then returned to the Blacks’ alchemy, as if attempting to piece together a mosaic from shards that didn’t fit. His mind leapt from one notion to another, never lingering long enough to find clarity.

Harry pondered time, how Hawking wrote of its nonlinearity, how past and future might intertwine in ways unseen. It evoked the prophecy, how it had shaped his life before he was even born. Flipping a page in Ars Tenebris , he stumbled upon a ritual that “binds fates.” This stirred memories of Voldemort, their uncanny connection, as if their lives were threads woven into a single knot… like a galactic filament. Frowning, his fingers froze on the page, his foot tapping nervously against the floor. He didn’t want to dwell on Voldemort, yet he couldn’t stop.

Chapter 13

Day Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen.

The days that followed found Harry ensconced in the hostel, immersed in books that served as both his sanctuary and his curse. His room descended into chaos: the desk was buried under open tomes, Muggle works by Hawking and Glaser jumbled with Black family folios, treatises on alchemy, and chronicles of lineage. Dust settled on the pages, mingling with crumbs from Muggle biscuits he’d bought at a nearby shop. The floor was littered with crumpled scraps of paper where he’d tried to jot down thoughts, only to abandon them unfinished. The window remained tightly shut, sealing the room from the outside world, rendering the air stale and heavy, yet he scarcely noticed. His eyes burned with exhaustion, and his mind raced like a spark through dry grass.

He read multiple books at once, flitting from Muggle physics to Dark Magic, from Black genealogy to Gleiser’s theories on the universe’s origins. His thoughts were nonlinear, each idea flaring brightly before fading to make way for another. Now he saw connections where perhaps none existed: Hawking’s event horizon evoked Horcruxes, how they tethered a soul’s fragment beyond death, beyond this reality; an alchemical principle of transmutation in a Black text echoed Gleiser’s claim that the universe was constant change. His conclusions might have been sound, but they lacked structure in his mind.

Setting a book aside, he stared at the ceiling, where cracks now appeared to him as a meticulously planned map of a world, with rivers, streets, houses. Such intricate fissures… have they always been there? He snorted softly, leaning back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, studying the patterns.

Now, as his thoughts turned to Horcruxes, to Nagini—the last fragment of Voldemort’s soul, save for himself, that he knew of—he could envision something further. He imagined tracking her, finding a way to kill her without revealing himself. His heart raced at the thought, sweat beading on his brow, his breath quickening. If he destroyed Nagini, Voldemort would be vulnerable. He could kill him. But then his thoughts halted, as if crashing against a wall. What would happen if Voldemort died? Dumbledore had spoken of their connection, how a piece of Tom’s soul lived in him, his scar a mark of an unintended Horcrux. If Voldemort perished, what would become of Harry? Would he vanish, a shadow bound to its master? Or would his soul fracture, trying to reclaim what belonged to Voldemort? His brow furrowed, fingers gripping the table’s edge. Perhaps his soul was no longer wholly his—half Harry, half Tom, forged in the fire of prophecy and the events that followed… Their lives were so entwined that Harry once saw his dreams, felt his rage, his fear… Could Voldemort do the same? If so, no one else could understand Harry as Voldemort did… The thought was terrifying yet strangely alluring, kindred. He now pictured them metaphorically as twin neutron stars, drawn together by their mass and gravity… Neutron stars didn’t fight; they converged, merging rather than destroying each other. What followed? They didn’t vanish—no, they took a new form. A black hole. And right now, Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to step off that trajectory. But the fact that he was even contemplating it didn’t strike him as surprising. His mind recoiled suddenly, as if refusing to peer into that abyss, shielding his consciousness in a final, desperate act. Unexpectedly, even to himself, he smiled warmly, recalling how Ron once tried to explain Quidditch rules to Hermione, stumbling over words until she rolled her eyes. That was so long ago, in another life. He laughed softly, almost mirthlessly, and turned to another book, as if he could outrun his thoughts.

Harry opened The Dancing Universe and delved into quantum states, how particles could be entangled across distances. His mind wandered to magic, how it defied laws Muggles deemed inviolable… what they called physics. Frankly, had he been more focused, he might have harnessed such knowledge to his advantage… but scarcely, scarcely did he think in those terms. He was consumed. Returning to the book on dark arts, he skimmed a chapter on rituals resembling what weren’t named “Horcruxes,” yet described how a soul splinters through murder. His eyes traced the lines, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Suddenly, an unbidden, vile notion flickered: what if he made a Horcrux? How would his soul fracture, already fused with a piece of Voldemort’s? Would it be his soul, or theirs combined? He shuddered, his breath hitching, yet he neither recoiled from the idea nor dismissed his musings. Closing the book, his hands quivered, and he stared out the window where London pulsed with life, steadying his breath and quelling the inexplicable euphoria that surged within.

Calming his breathing, he surveyed the chaos around him: books, papers, crumbs, dust. His room mirrored his mind—disarray he couldn’t tame. At some point, he resolved to summon Kreacher. He needed a respite, something familiar. Whispering the elf’s name, Kreacher appeared with a soft pop, bowing dutifully. Harry requested pumpkin pie, and within what felt like mere minutes, the elf returned, bearing a warm plate fragrant with cinnamon and sugar.

He studied Kreacher, searching within himself for any stir of emotion, any urge to engage further… but found none. Yet he smiled, courteous, praising the elf several times—first for arriving swiftly, then for fulfilling the task promptly. Devouring the pie, he leafed through Hawking’s book, but his thoughts drifted back to Horcruxes, to Voldemort, to their bond.

Days Nineteenth and Twentieth.

Disorder burgeoned around him: books, both Muggle and magical, sprawled open not only on the table but across the floor and bed, their pages marred with scribbles etched by a snapped pencil. Empty wrappers from pilfered Muggle biscuits lay scattered beside a plate still dusted with crumbs of pumpkin pie, delivered by Kreacher.The window stayed closed, and the air grew even more stifling, laced with the scent of dust, ink, and something faintly bitter and musky. Yet Harry’s world had narrowed to pages, words, and ideas he strained to grasp, only for them to slip away each time… he was so close. He read and thought in tandem, if such a process could even be described that way.

He resolved not to return to Grimmauld Place. He’d gathered the books, glimpsed his elf, and seemed to banish the manor from his mind. Instead, he delved deeper into his tomes, but his reading had shifted—more purposeful, verging on obsessive. He sought not answers but strength—something to grant him serenity, knowledge… pride in comprehending or achieving something… He craved power and insight… If he could find it… Now, he mused, if he faced Voldemort and the Dark Lord struck first, he needed to know what would befall them. Heaven forbid he test it in practice! In his mind, Dumbledore let out a weary sigh. Opening an ancient volume on dark magic, he hunted for intriguing spells.

One, “Ignis Mortis,” was described as a flame that consumed everything, even an opponent’s magic, though it left the caster weakened. He read it repeatedly, fingers trembling as he envisioned fire erupting from his wand, obliterating all in its path. It was terrifying… yet magnetic. Would his flame be green? he wondered abruptly… The notion of razing the world to start anew… much of it truly deserved it, didn’t it?

Setting the open tome aside, he reached for A Brief History of Time , which, in a few days under his care, resembled less a book than a tattered, scribbled draft. Hawking wrote that time travel could shatter causality, sparking memories of his third year, when he and Hermione used Time-Turners. Suddenly, he wondered: what if he could go back? Not to save Sirius or Cedric—not that he deemed it “impossible,” but such an option didn’t cross his mind now—but to alter a second version of himself, to make that “Harry” different, not the one bound by prophecy… He gave a bitter smirk, imagining telling his younger self: “Run, kid. Run.” But then his thoughts veered. What if time wasn’t a line but a loop? What if he and Voldemort were doomed to spin like the stars in his head, destined, sooner or later, to become like the void? Strange thoughts, yet he found meaning in them.

At some point, he decided to try a spell from Dark Crafts: Preservation and Display —not a battle charm but a diagnostic one, “Anima Revelio,” which, according to the text, revealed “the essence of the caster’s soul,” whatever that meant. Gathering his notes on the incantation, he locked the door with a nonverbal spell. Whispering the words, he traced the wand movement sketched in the folio. It worked. A faint glow materialized before him, golden but veined with black… and something else… silvery, almost iridescent, slithering like a living serpent, coiling around the gold-and-black energy. It shimmered like a precious gem… He stared, his breath faltering. Was this… his soul? Was it truly shared with Tom? The sight of that light, beautiful yet fractured, stirred an odd sensation, and he fought back tears, yearning to touch it… as if he were seeing something long lost. He was destroying this, wasn’t he? Yet… he’d saved so many… Abruptly, he dispelled the charm and returned to his books, as if he could hide in them from what he’d seen and thought.

The following day, he summoned Kreacher. The elf appeared with a pop, the medallion, as ever, dangling from his neck. When Harry asked for something to eat, without specifying, his gaze barely strayed from the serpent silhouette on the false locket… What an ignorant fool Harry Potter had been, hadn’t he? Kreacher returned swiftly, setting the table with a flick of magic. The dish was exquisite, yet Harry thanked the elf absently, scarcely aware of what he consumed. Roast? It was savory, but he merely satisfied a need, devouring the meal like an animal, nothing more. Hunger, though, didn’t gnaw at him. A faint echo of his mortal form demanded its due.

Gleiser wrote of chaos as the foundation of existence… Chaos was everywhere. Chaos was non-causality itself, for all flows, all shifts—not mere words of an ancient Greek, but the natural motion of matter. “Blimey, I’d probably die of rage in Tom’s place if someone told me an unborn infant would kill me… ugh, did Tom just crave dominion over this chaos because he could?” Harry shoved a forkful of meat into his mouth. But what if chaos wasn’t the foe, but the truth? What if the only way to halt pain was not to fight it, but to embrace it as part of oneself? A smile crept across his face.

Harry resumed reading, pausing at a chapter on the “Ash Ritual of Cuauhtémoc.” He pored over ancient sacrifices of a magical community, where priests burned hearts to nourish the sun. The ash, derived through this rite and smeared on a victim, allowed the ritual’s leader to temporarily siphon the magical power of that person—or several—yet at the cost of losing their own memories for each hour it endured… Oh, he’d mark the whole world with that damned ash, so many memories he’d willingly offer to that god!

His thoughts drifted to the couple he’d seen, who evoked his parents. He mused on how pain bound people—himself, Voldemort, his parents, his friends… it forged them into one. What if death wasn’t an end, but a beginning? What if he could wield it to craft something new… something greater? Something that could still chaos and pain forever, at least for someone? The mug beside his hand cracked, chocolate spilling onto the book, leaving a dark stain. He didn’t wipe it away. He merely stared as the blot spread, as if it were an answer he was intently heeding.

▓Day▓▓▓Twenty▓▓▓▓▓Fi̸̡rst?

Harry awoke with a wretched ache gnawing through his body. His makeshift sanctuary was nearly unrecognizable: books lay scattered everywhere, torn pages either crumpled or neatly aligned in rows on the floor, scrawled with feverish notes. Empty snack wrappers, crumbs of pumpkin pie, and hardened chocolate spilled across the table created the sense that time had stalled here, trapped in the turmoil of his thoughts. He surveyed the mess and felt a sudden revulsion—not for the room, but for himself, for allowing this chaos to consume him.

Rising, his movements were sharp, almost mechanical. Today, he wouldn’t read. He resolved to tidy the room, to bring order, as if it could align his fractured mind. He gathered the books, stacking them neatly on the table, wiped dust from the windowsill without magic, and, dampening scraps of toilet paper, tossed rubbish into the rusty bin by the door. His hands moved swiftly, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere, grazing memories he didn’t want to touch. The hope that rote action would distract him was naively simple.

Like thunder across a blackened sky, a memory of the house in Godric’s Hollow struck him—standing before its ruins, staring at charred walls where his parents once lived… he’d been there with Hermione. Oh, that place was his beginning, wasn’t it? “The boy must die,” Dumbledore’s voice echoed in his mind, his eyes kind, squinted as always. Harry laughed aloud at the old fool!

Yet, he longed to visit the place of his “birth” alone. His brow furrowed, his hand pausing over Hawking’s book, which he was about to add to the stack. Godric’s Hollow wasn’t just his birthplace… it was the site of his dual birth. It was where it all began—prophecy, Horcrux, his bond with Voldemort… Perhaps something would end there, too?

He finished tidying, but the sense of order was hollow. Gathering his things, he whispered “Faciem” for the first time in days. He didn’t use his wand or glance at his reflection: long, dark hair, sunken cheeks, sharp, almost fox-like eyes hinting at another heritage. He left the Invisibility Cloak behind—he saw no point in hiding.

Stepping onto London’s streets, he passed the receptionist, who didn’t spare him a glance, likely seeing this face for the first time. Though, engrossed in another magazine, she seemed barely more invested in her job than collecting her pay.

Harry scanned his surroundings, murmuring detection charms to ensure his Apparition wouldn’t draw unwanted attention, and decided to walk some distance from the hostel. His emotions were peculiar; it felt like ages since he’d ventured outside… Everything was as before, yet his mind was consumed… by an image… Oh, he couldn’t yet admit it to himself, but it was exhilarating, and it was precisely this that now drew him to Godric’s Hollow. There, he’d defeated Voldemort. There, their fates had intertwined.

Finding a shadowed corner cluttered with rubbish bins, Harry glanced around once more and Apparated to Godric’s Hollow. He’d lingered two extra minutes walking, hoping to be discreet—who’d have told him his Apparition barely resembled one, silent as it was?

When he took in his surroundings, he realized he hadn’t landed near his old home but on a neighboring street, still alive with activity. He’d pictured the place clearly, yet even the Chosen One could err, it seemed.

He snorted softly. The air in the Hollow was cool, as always, but, surprisingly, no snow fell… it was sunny. His gaze traced the church, marking the graveyard beyond, and he meant to head that way…

Then he saw them. A family of five strolled along the pavement, their laughter loud yet warm, like sunlight piercing clouds. The father, tall with silver in his hair, carried his youngest son, a small boy, on his shoulders; the child giggled, waving a toy wand. The mother, her smile kind, held the hand of an older son who spoke animatedly. A girl, about ten, ran ahead, her pigtails bouncing. They moved toward their home, their steps light, as if the world were theirs. Harry passed by, his altered face drawing no notice. They didn’t even glance at him, absorbed in their joy, their wholeness.

He halted, his eyes lingering on their retreating figures, and something within him tightened… a dark, writhing Lethifold stirred in his core. Bitterness surged, but not the kind that once gripped him when he gazed into the Mirror of Erised, mourning what he’d never had. These people are happy, but their happiness is fragile rubbish… They don’t know the world can collapse in a moment—a spell, a war, a choice they didn’t make, resting on some teenager… His exhale rasped painfully in his altered form, like the wheeze of someone plagued by a years-long lung affliction. He thought of Lily and James, how their love, their family, was destroyed not for their weakness but because the world denied them a chance. Pain and war had bound them, and taken them… They’d been happy, together. They’d known terror before, and it would have persisted… but now… His gaze fixed on where the family had nearly vanished, turning toward their home’s lawn… and then… that voice. Empty. His own, yet like a creature from the deepest abyss: “They need help.”

His fingers tightened around the wand in his pocket, and the thought pounced with menacing conviction: he could free them. Not from life, but from pain, from the chaos awaiting all. His mind seized on the idea, as if it were the key he’d sought all along.

The graveyard and his parents’ house called to him, but a strange exhaustion washed over him, as if his emotions had drained his last reserves of energy. He slept in snatches throughout the day, at any hour…

Chapter 14

C̷͇͛͘͝O̴͔̙̞̾̍̓̕L̵̖̗̤̘̔͐̀͘L̸̳̼̺̖̖̅̈́͊A̴͓̼̪̓̑̓̑ͅP̶̢̪̩̼̅͊̈́Ś̷̢͖̹̿̒̄E̵̛̤̤̘̱͊̅̈́

Harry passed the next few days in the hostel in a manner that could scarcely be called ordinary. The ringing in his ears had long since faded. As if his mind had wearied of its ceaseless creaking and clanging, those sounds were never mere noise… oh, they were signals. Alas, his neurons had taken root in their new alignment, the old ones buried long ago in the bellies of worms.

He sat at the table at times, reading, practicing spells he recalled from his Hogwarts days, those he deemed safe. But he abandoned these efforts when a simple Lumos lit his room so fiercely that he feared its windows might blaze brightly enough for satellites to see.

It was early morning now, the thermonuclear nightmare hundreds of thousands of kilometers away still slumbering below the horizon, and his thoughts swirled around Godric’s Hollow… to return there… His mother, barely older than he was now, had sacrificed everything… for him. Then, not thoughts but true Dementors circled around that family, around the idea born days ago, now refusing to leave his mind… Who was he to deny such hospitality? He had nurtured those monsters. At some point, he returned to musing on his own death, what might happen if he had to face it, how Tom Riddle craved immortality yet lost himself, and how Harry now understood that fear. Wasn’t it so human, after all? But he didn’t seek immortality. He sought an end—not for himself, but for the chaos he saw everywhere: in Hogwarts, in London… in the eyes of those dear to him. Oh, that chaos could depart them. He boldly envisioned how he might transform, not save, but grant release. Pure and irrevocable. Yet… he wanted to visit the place of his birth.

Rising, his movements were calm, almost ceremonial. He gathered his belongings, checked his wand, tucked the Marauder’s Map into the expanded bag with his books, folded the Invisibility Cloak into an inner pocket, and Apparated, once more with an altered appearance. He looked like a young man with gentle features: fair hair, warm brown eyes, a faint smile that invited trust. Harry arrived in Godric’s Hollow under the veil of early morning, when the sky was grey and the air carried the dewy tang of cooler hours.

Harry walked the quiet lanes of the village, his steps unhurried yet resolute. The ruins of his parents’ house lay behind him—wasn’t that where he meant to go? No—he didn’t pause to glance toward them. Something pulled him onward, toward ordinary homes, toward life that persisted despite his pain and the wars around… but it would come. Perhaps not a magical war, perhaps not war in the literal sense… That family he’d seen days ago: their laughter, their fragile happiness. He knew their house, glimpsed at the street’s end—neat, with white walls and red tiles, encircled by a garden where splendid, exquisite late asters bloomed. He didn’t want their pain… How much agony had he endured these weeks? In his lifetime? Oh God , he would help them!

Harry spotted them at the threshold of their home. The father, John, as he later learned, was tinkering with his elder son’s bicycle, his hands smudged with oil. The mother, Elizabeth, cradled their youngest, Oliver, humming softly. The older boy, Thomas, lounged on the steps, flipping through a comic. Ten-year-old Emma watered flowers from a can, her freshly braided pigtails neat yet bouncing playfully. Harry paused, his face breaking into a smile—soft, disarming. Approaching, he held a branch he’d swiftly Transfigured into a Muggle gardening guide.

Idea.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice warm as sunlight. “Sorry to intrude. I’m from the local book club, handing out gardening guides. I noticed your garden—it’s simply stunning! Care to take a look?”

Elizabeth smiled, her eyes weary despite the early hour, but kind as they met his.

“Oh, that’s sweet of you,” she replied, balancing the curious child in her arms. “Emma, come see.”

Emma bounded over, her curiosity outweighing caution. Harry, in the guise of the fair-haired man, crouched to her level, offering the book.

“There are tips here to make your asters even brighter,” he said, winking. “You love flowers, don’t you?”

Emma nodded, her cheeks flushing. John approached, wiping his hands on a rag, and Harry rose, shaking his hand with a sincere, flawless smile. He was charming, courteous, his words flowing effortlessly through the conversation, and within minutes, the family invited him inside for tea and to chat about gardening. He accepted, his pulse steady, neither his breath nor his eyes betraying the slightest hint of uncertainty.

Inside, the house breathed warmth, steeped in the scent of freshly brewed coffee and apple pie, but to Harry, this coziness felt… squalid. Alien, like stage props in a play, counterfeit. The decor, the surroundings… such a pitiful attempt to fill their essence. The living room was lived-in: a faded sofa piled with cushions bearing frayed embroidery, shelves where books jostled with family photos capturing laughter and embraces. Each frame held their radiant children. Light from an old corner lamp fell unevenly, casting shadows that quivered, though no draft stirred the air… the darkness itself sensed what Harry Potter had brought into this home.

He sat at the large dining table beside Thomas, who, engrossed in a superhero comic, pointed at vibrant illustrations. Harry listened, nodding, asking questions, his tone soft, almost paternal. He jested with Elizabeth when the toddler spilled juice and helped Emma open the gardening guide, pointing to flower pictures. Elizabeth and John smiled, wiping juice from the babbling child in her arms. Everything was mundane, almost perfect, like a snapshot of the life Harry had never known.

And then the child, little Oliver, began to wail. His cry, sharp and piercing, rent the silence like a spell cast at point-blank range. Harry froze, his smile fixed, but darkness flared in his eyes, as if someone had kindled a black flame. A shrill, slicing whistle flooded his mind, as if neurons, tormented by years of pain, erupted, sending pulses of chaos. That cry was more than sound—it was an echo, the scream of an infant amid Godric’s Hollow’s ruins, the shriek of his mother, Lily, still ringing on the periphery of his consciousness, drowning out all else. No one heard them, he thought, and his mind revealed the truth: It will be so for all, unless I help.

He turned to Thomas, still seated beside him, small hands flipping through the comic with innocent focus and undisguised delight. Was he saying something? Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his voice was hushed, almost tender:

“You love heroes, don’t you?” he asked, and Thomas nodded, his wide, trusting eyes meeting Harry’s, a smile revealing gaps from recently lost milk teeth, as the stranger’s wand slid into his hand beneath the table. “Oh, that’s so cool! They always win.”

Under the table, Harry flicked his wand toward the boy’s thigh and whispered “Avada Kedavra,” so faintly the words melted into the house’s hum, like poison in wine. A green flash flickered, barely perceptible in the kitchen’s warm glow, and Thomas stiffened. His eyes, still fixed on the comic, froze, his lungs releasing a final, choked rasp, as if the body’s vessels pulsed the last dregs of life, like water from a parched stream. Harry leaned forward, kissing his forehead, his altered eyes glistening, tears streaming down his cheeks, yet his face remained calm, almost saintly, like a martyr fulfilling a sacred duty. "I’m sorry," he thought. "You won’t suffer. I’m doing this right."

Elizabeth returned to the living room, carrying Oliver, whose tiny fists clenched in distress. She halted, her gaze falling on Thomas, motionless at the table, comic in hand. Her smile wavered, like the last spring leaf on a withered, desiccated tree… but she hadn’t yet grasped it. Or refused to. Poor woman.

“Thomas?” she called, her voice faltering… “Are you alright?”

The fair-haired man beside the boy slid back from the table and rose, his movements fluid. Round glasses, concealing his altered guise, caught the lamplight, and in that glint flickered something… fathomlessly dark. He gazed at Elizabeth, his expression soft, but his eyes—cold, devoid of warmth, like bottomless lakes where Inferi lurk—blazed with insane certainty. Raising his wand, he prompted her to step back, clutching Oliver to her chest, her breathing ragged, the terror in her wide, doe-like eyes all-consuming.

“What… what are you doing?” she whispered, her voice thin as a thread about to snap.

“Don’t be afraid,” Harry said, his tone quiet, almost apologetic, but his next words carried an unnatural gravity, like a Sanhedrin member pronouncing judgment. “You’re so happy. None of the world’s filth will touch you. I’ll take care of it.”

He gave her no chance to draw breath after his words, murmuring “Avada Kedavra,” his wand tracing a motion smooth as a wave, and green light engulfed her. She collapsed, Oliver still in her arms, his head striking the floor with a dull, distinctive thud, his faint babbling abruptly silenced. Harry gazed at them, tears flowing harder, but his hands were steady, unshaking. He turned as John burst into the kitchen, his face contorted with panic almost instantly. The man lunged, but his human body, his emotions, made his movements clumsy. He stumbled over a chair, and Harry didn’t flinch, merely lifting his wand.

“Please,” John rasped, his voice raw, “don’t touch them.”

“Oh, heaven forbid I lay a finger on them!” Harry replied, his voice tender as a lullaby, smiling, sounding earnest, almost singing. “Don’t be afraid, mate.”

Another “Avada Kedavra,” and John crumpled against the wall, beside family photos… One, capturing a laughing Emma, swayed and fell, its glass shattering with a chime. Harry glanced around the living room, searching for the eldest daughter. He knew Emma was somewhere in the house—he’d heard her quick footsteps upstairs, likely fleeing when she sensed something amiss… Oh God, she couldn’t be left alone! What horror she’d endure!

He moved to find her, his steps slow, almost ritualistic, like a priest approaching an altar. He knew where she was. His black robes writhed with each motion, yet didn’t touch the floor, as if governed by an unseen force, gliding like the veil of Death itself. The floorboards didn’t creak beneath him, and the silence that accompanied him was profound, like an abyss devoid of light or sound… an abyss that had been his companion for days… weeks… years… His mind was void, but a voice within—cold, guttural, tearing like a beast from that abyss—roared. He’d heard this voice before. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help you. Everything will be alright. It was his own voice. The Harry left behind the white veil that so often consumed his consciousness.

He found Emma in a bedroom, cowering between the wall and a wardrobe. Her eyes brimmed with terror, but she didn’t scream—only trembled as they met his. She still clutched the watering can, fresh tears streaking her cheeks. The stranger knelt before her, his face soft, consoling.

“Don’t be afraid,” a voice like velvet dusk “I won’t hurt you. Come, I’ll help.”

He extended his arms, and Emma, as if entranced, leaned toward him, her body quaking. She tried to pull away, recoiling from his unnatural coldness, like the touch of icy water, but he already held her, pressing her to his chest. His voice, a gentle whisper, sounded over her ear:

“Avada Kedavra,” and her body went limp in his embrace. He cradled her a moment longer, his tears dripping into her hair.

Returning to the living room, gently carrying the girl, he found Elizabeth and Oliver. He laid Emma carefully on the large, soft sofa before approaching the mother. The toddler, about two years old, lay beside her, unconscious. The impact with the floor had left its mark—blood crusted at his nape, dark as ink, matting his short, youthful hair. His chest rose steadily, signaling life still clung to this tiny frame. Harry stared, his heart constricting—not from guilt, but from a strange, almost divine and sacred duty. He saw himself in this child—an infant in Godric’s Hollow, surrounded by ruins, or a boy in a cupboard under the stairs, branded a “freak” by those around him. He saw orphanages, cold corridors, a world that would break Oliver as it had broken him. Utter rubbish. He didn’t need it.

“Your life would be full of pain,” he whispered, his voice unwavering, resolute. “I’ll give you eternity. You’ll be free.”

Raising his wand, the final “Avada Kedavra” extinguished Oliver’s life. The silence that followed was not mere absence of sound in the room—it was absolute, as if the universe itself held its breath, paralyzed by horror. The house, warm and cozy just an hour ago, had become a true crypt, where shadows on the walls quivered, as if trembling at what they’d witnessed. Harry stood in the center of the living room, his black robes, dark as night, seeming part of that darkness, while tears on his cheeks glinted in the lamplight, like shards of his shattered crystal prophecy.

Silence.

Harry stood amid the bodies, his tears drying, his mind clearer than ever. No ringing in his ears, no visions. Was there emptiness? By all accounts, he could exist within it, think nothing, and feel perfectly at ease! He gazed at their still faces, their eyes still open… and felt he’d done something right, something pure. But it wasn’t enough. Their peace needed to transcend mere endings. He yearned for it to be eternal, beautiful… Sifting through memories, only one rivaled the thrill of soaring on a broom: the moment he, as a child, first stepped into Hogwarts’ Great Hall.

His sacred moment. The moment that first sparked true wonder, unadulterated joy. He was eleven, a scrawny boy in hand-me-down clothes, raised in a cupboard under the stairs, under the constant terror of the Dursleys’ Muggle world, where the only miracle, the only light, was dust motes drifting through door slats. But oh, when he stepped beneath Hogwarts’ arches and lifted his gaze to the Great Hall’s ceiling, enchanted to mirror the night sky, it stole his breath. The stars, infinite, twinkling, weren’t mere magic… they were his home, a promise that something existed beyond pain, loneliness, and the Dursleys’ hatred. Hogwarts—his home. He’d stared, entranced, feeling he belonged, that he could be more than a “freak.” He’d find family there.

Now, standing in this living room, he understood why his thoughts returned to that ceiling. The stars were peace, purity, infinity, where suffering had no place. Magic woven into physics. He wanted to give this family the same—not death, but a starry sky to be their eternal home, far from this vile injustice and a world swayed by others’ choices.

His wand trembled in his grip, heavy with pulsing magic that tugged his hands earthward, an untamed, living energy, like the Nile ready to burst its banks. He began whispering spells not found in the Blacks’ books, yet ones he knew. His hand traced movements, as if it remembered them, and after wand flicks forming a pattern he couldn’t name, the living room’s ceiling quivered: its wooden beams dissolved, giving way to a dark canvas studded with stars. They shimmered, alive, spilling silver and gold, true clusters of thermonuclear energy in another realm, like that night at Hogwarts, but now this was his sky, his gift. He wove constellations—not those from astronomy, but his own, invented, as if he were a creator with the right to do so.

Finished with the ceiling, he knelt, arranging the bodies, his movements slow, almost reverent, like a true artist crafting his final masterpiece. He placed John and Elizabeth at the center, their hands entwined, as if sleeping in an embrace. Their faces were serene, and he brushed a strand of Elizabeth’s hair from her eyes. Thomas he laid beside his father, comic still in hand, a symbol of a childhood the world could no longer steal. Emma rested at her mother’s feet, her watering can nearby, a testament to her love for flowers. Oliver, small and fragile, lay at the heart, his tiny hands folded on his chest, a star around which this tableau revolved.

Rising, he surveyed them, his tears long dried, his heart pounding with a strange, almost manic joy. He saw perfection. His gaze drifted to the starry sky above, its light reflecting in the windowpanes, in the silver frame of a family photo on the mantel, in the lenses of his own glasses. This was no mere spell; it was his way to mend a world that had broken him, and he believed it utterly. Like He was giving them what he’d never had: peace, boundless as the endless universe. His eyes fell to the figures on the floor, and he added a final touch with his own blood, biting the skin of his finger. It was effortless. He had calculated that one particular person would find this. That person would understand… for their blood, after all, was one and the same. He’ll feel it, Harry thought.

Harry stepped back at last, suffused with complete satisfaction, and Apparated away from the house, leaving behind a starry sky that glowed over the bodies like an eternal memorial.

He chose the Gaunt house in Little Hangleton—a place that surfaced in his memory like a specter from visions. Hadn’t his story begun where Voldemort’s ended, in Godric’s Hollow? Or was it the other way around? Oh, how tangled it all was! Truly, the fates of Harry and Lord Voldemort formed a Möbius strip, looping endlessly no matter how one viewed it… the Gaunt house… He’d seen it in the Pensieve when Dumbledore shared tales of Voldemort’s childhood, revealing the dilapidated dwelling where his mother had lived, sacrificing the last of her magic to give Tom life. And where the ring Horcrux, a fragment of his soul, had been hidden. Harry’s heart quickened with an odd reverence as he trod the weathered boards of the ancient porch. Were his relatives as vile as the Dursleys… their mirror image, perhaps? He wouldn’t be surprised… Before crossing the threshold, he paused, fingers brushing his wand. He whispered a charm to dispel the altered appearance, and his true face returned—the scar on his brow, green eyes, tousled hair. It wasn’t a deliberate choice but an impulse, as if he yearned to shed the skin of the boy in Godric’s Hollow, the one whose hands had traced that imagined map of a starry sky. Not out of shame—shame was foreign to him, scarcely a memory—but because that young man with the gentle smile was a mask that had seen too much, done too much. His psyche, scarred by relentless stress, loneliness, and self-destruction over recent weeks, shielded itself, severing him from who he’d been an hour before. Successfully, it seemed. He entered the house as Harry Potter.

The Gaunt house was a ruin, as in those visions: rotting beams, moss-clad walls… but through the gaping roof stretched the sky—deep, black, strewn with stars so vivid they seemed alive, untainted by the city lights that smothered them in London. Harry froze, his breath catching, his mind contracting, gripped by the sight. This was no mere sky—it echoed what he’d wrought in Godric’s Hollow, what he’d seen in Hogwarts’ Great Hall as a child seeking home. Not literally, no, the sky wasn’t static, for the earth moved… as did everything… He sank to the cold floor, leaning against a wall, and gazed upward, letting their light fill him. Allowing himself to rest.

His thoughts were feverish yet not chaotic, strangely linear. Calm. He dwelt on the stars, how they shone over the family, over their still faces. His mind spiraled around the notion of endings—not death, but liberation, where pain vanished under the weight of nothingness. He didn’t notice his fingers tightening around his wand in a silent, instinctive urge to defend himself, nor how his breathing grew ragged. So absorbed, so heedless, he missed the faint rustle, the presence, until a voice—cold, smooth as a serpent, the embodiment of its speaker—sliced through the silence.

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort intoned, his voice both threat and invitation, yet to Harry, it seemed almost gentle.

He flinched, his body reacting before his mind. Turning, his eyes locked with Voldemort’s red, serpentine gaze, burning in the gloom like dying crimson stars. In that moment, he didn’t ponder how Tom had found him, nor what to do himself! His mind was void—not from fear, but from an instinct forged through years of fleeing this man. His lips whispered “Oh!” and he Apparated.

He materialized in his hostel room, collapsing to the floor, his heart pounding with a strange, almost sacred exhilaration. His breaths came quick and shallow—it was so… he felt ALIVE. A manic grin spread across his face as his withered mind swelled under the pressure of erupting emotions. His gaze swept the room—neatly stacked books, the bed, the cracked ceiling, repulsive and grating.

Tom’s voice still echoed in his ears: “Harry Potter.” Those words held more than menace… recognition? Oh, he could almost imagine it! It felt almost unfair they’d never spoken, not once in their lives… He couldn’t stop replaying his name on those lips. For reasons unclear, his heart raced faster, like prey after a chase, at any thought of his blood enemy. Hard to say if it was fear or something else—he was scarcely in a state to parse his emotions anymore… but now it was different. This “fear” settled oddly in his chest, spreading further, lower, with each frantic heartbeat. Their fates, their souls, so tightly entwined… he nearly groaned from the strange, almost familial emotions illuminating his mind. His eyes snapped open, his mouth parting in a gasp of awe, as one thought, one image, struck him… He smiled, answering himself: Oh, it would be so splendid! It was meant to be, wasn’t it? Summoning Dumbledore in his mind, instead of “The boy must die,” he laughed aloud, picturing the old man’s reaction to his prior thought: “Lemon drop, Harry?”

He would go to Voldemort.

-

The next morning, Harry felt strangely rested. He couldn’t recall at what hour, judging by the sun beyond the window, he’d managed not merely to close his eyes but to truly sleep, yet it was longer than usual. He didn’t dwell on the family; his encounter with Voldemort loomed larger, colossal in its magnitude, like a hypergiant: its mass warping the paths of all other structures, drawing them into orbit, incinerating doubts in thermonuclear plasma. Rubbing his eyes, he shuffled to the bathroom. He washed quickly, the first time in five days or more, and approached the table, still unclothed. His gaze drifted over the books. Hawking’s A Brief History of Time lay atop Gleiser’s The Dancing Universe , but his attention snagged on the Blacks’ tomes. Among them was the volume he sought. While standing under the icy spray of a shower that refused hot water, he’d thought of Voldemort… and the ancient, battered Mysterium Animae , its gold lettering nearly erased by time, was what he needed now. He opened it to the desired chapter, having read it cover to cover days ago. His fingers skimmed pages redolent of old leather and magic. Penned in the 17th century by an unknown alchemist, the book promised to unveil “the secrets of the soul and its eternity,” but its prose was florid, rife with allusions rather than facts. He sought knowledge of souls—how they functioned, how they splintered, how they returned. His warped mind clung to this enigma, as if it held the key to his own destiny.

When Tom created Horcruxes, tethering his soul to the world, one question gnawed at Harry: if Horcruxes shielded against death, why didn’t Voldemort revive instantly that night his curse rebounded off a one-year-old Harry? Why had he become a shade, wandering for years until he found a way back? Wasn’t a Horcrux, then, a futile spell? Frowning, his fingers paused on a page describing the ritual of “essence division.” No mention of “Horcrux,” but he surmised it referred to the same magic. The text hinted that Horcruxes demanded not only murder but a “sacrifice of intent,” yet offered no clarity on its mechanics. He turned the page, hoping to catch what he’d missed, but found only a warning scrawled over prior notes by a former owner: “He who divides the soul loses himself.” Useless. Irritation flared like a spark, then fizzled. He both craved and dreaded knowing what would happen to him if someone killed Tom. That thought was an abyss he wasn’t ready to peer into, let alone plunge.

Setting aside one, he reached for another tome— Obscura Magia , a slender volume penned in the 1890s by a wizard named Eldred Wolfe, whose name was struck from most archives. It detailed dark rituals with scientific precision, almost like Muggle research, making it a rarity even in the Blacks’ library. Leafing through it, his eyes scanned lines on “essence transfer” and “soul anchors,” but nothing specific about Horcruxes. His frown deepened, his mind racing as always, now with manic focus. He pondered his own soul, the fractures he’d glimpsed in Anima Revelio , how a piece of Tom lived within him. If someone killed Tom, what would become of that fragment? He didn’t want to die. Yet he wasn’t ready to kill Tom… not truly… not that he even desired Tom’s death under these circumstances. That man shared so much of his pain; Harry had carried his fragment his entire life… This thought, like Acromantula venom, began seeping into his bloodstream, reaching his neocortex… No, he wanted to understand him.

Closing the book, his fingers tightened around the wand beside it. He didn’t know where Tom was now, but felt their meeting was no accident… He yearned to meet him again. That thought was magnetic, like the light of a star, beckoning even if the star had long perished.

Rising, he crossed to the window, still utterly bare, and flung it open, admitting cold air scented with asphalt and distant smoke. He gazed at London’s grey sky, a fresh breeze stirring his hair. Closing his eyes, he let the wind caress his facial muscles… He wouldn’t linger in this room much longer.

Notes:

Well, mr. Tom,I think Harry’s quite ready now for that little rendezvous

Chapter 15

Voldemort stood at the heart of the grand hall in Malfoy Manor, the towering windows behind him casting jagged shadows across the floor. His long fingers twirled the Elder Wand, while his mind churned in contemplation. Crimson eyes stared into the void, yet saw only one image—the image that had haunted him since that night: Harry Potter, his scar, his green eyes flashing in the Gaunt shack. That encounter had been too sudden, too fleeting… in the window’s reflection, he almost glimpsed that face, veiled behind spectacles.

From the corridor by the far wall, Lucius Malfoy emerged, his steps hushed and tentative. His pale face was taut, his voice occasionally faltering with a faint stutter:

“My L-Lord,” he began, bowing his head. “Percy Weasley has regained consciousness. I administered Veritaserum, as you commanded. He is ready to answer your questions.”

Voldemort did not turn, but his eyes narrowed, mirroring a lightning flash beyond the window.

“Bring him,” he said, his voice soft yet rasping with its customary hoarseness.

Lucius vanished, returning moments later with Percy Weasley, whose wrists were bound by magical ropes. His tattered suit, worn since the day he infiltrated the Ministry under Polyjuice Potion, was stiff, crusted with layers of sweat and blood. Flakes of dried blood peeled from his face in patches. Percy looked utterly haggard: red hair plastered to his forehead, cracked spectacles, and eyes—once brimming with arrogance—now dulled by the effects of Veritaserum. His gait was unsteady, yet he held himself upright, as if vestiges of pride clung instinctively to his frame. Voldemort regarded him, serpent to mouse, his mind already crafting questions, each designed to rip truth from fear or magic. Information could not be erased.

“Percy Weasley,” he intoned, his voice almost tender. “You found yourself in the Ministry at an inopportune moment. Tell me, where is Harry Potter?”

Percy’s mouth opened, his face twisting as if wrestling with himself, but the Veritaserum did its work. His voice emerged hoarse, devoid of emotion, like a puppet’s.

“No one knows where Harry Potter is,” he said, his gaze fixed on nothingness. “He vanished after Hogwarts. The Order searched for him, but he left no trace. Even Ron doesn’t know.”

Voldemort leaned closer, his eyes flaring. His paranoia, his beast, hissed that this was a lie, that someone was shielding the boy! He quelled the urge to raise his wand—for now.

“The Order…” He paused, rephrasing with precision. “What were you doing in the Ministry?”

Percy’s mouth opened again, but his face contorted in agony. His tongue swelled grotesquely, bloating like a monstrous fungus, choking the words he strained to utter. He gasped, hands clawing at his throat, eyes brimming with panic. Lucius stepped back, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand, but Voldemort raised a hand, halting him. His eyes narrowed, and a faint smile, brimming with comprehension and approval, spread across his lips:

“A curse,” he murmured, his voice tinged with admiration. They knew he’d choke. “Clever.”

Voldemort straightened, his mind racing with terrifying swiftness. This was no mere spell—it was a safeguard, cast by someone who anticipated Weasley’s capture...if the Order guarded its secrets so meticulously, they knew something… but what? His thoughts darted to the Horcruxes, to the fragment of his destiny, his plan, he’d believed inviolable… he’d hidden them so masterfully! Yet, standing over the choking Weasley, a pang of suspicion struck, and an abrupt, chilling realization shadowed his face.

“Bellatrix!” he roared, his voice cracking through the hall like a whip.

Bellatrix Lestrange materialized almost instantly with the snap of Apparition, the urgency in Voldemort’s tone brooking no formality, which he typically favored. Bellatrix knew her lord better than herself. Her dark hair was disheveled, her eyes alight with fanatical devotion. She bowed low, her breath ragged.

“My Lord?” she hissed.

“Your vault at Gringotts,” he commanded, his tone shifting with each word. “Check it personally. Ensure what I entrusted you to hide remains secure. Now.”

Bellatrix paled, her eyes widening, trembling visibly in the throes of an uncontrollable panic attack… a secret flickered in her gaze. She vanished with a pop, and Voldemort turned to Lucius, who stood frozen, statue-like.

“Remove him,” he said, gesturing languidly with a long hand toward Percy, whose face was now tinged blue as he gasped. “He’s useless. His fate is of no concern to me.”

Lucius nodded and dragged Percy away, the latter clutching desperately at the elder Malfoy’s robes, particularly his pockets, in a final, futile struggle.

Voldemort Apparated beside the coastal cave where he’d hidden Slytherin’s locket. He materialized at the entrance, salty wind lashing his face, but he paid it no heed. The lake gleamed in the darkness, and he soared over it toward the basin… but the basin of potion was empty, the pedestal bare. His breath hitched, and for the first time in years, something akin to fear stirred within him, only to be swiftly smothered by fury.

“No!” he hissed, his voice echoing off the cavern walls. “Who?!”

His mind whirled, spinning theories...Potter and Dumbledore sprang to mind first: the old Director was frail, feeble; Voldemort had even believed Lucius’s whelp could dispatch the doddering fool… it had to be Potter! Not long ago, he could influence the boy, read his thoughts across any distance… but now that mind was sealed. Yet before, when he could pry, there hadn’t been a shred of evidence the boy knew! Surely Voldemort would have glimpsed in Potter’s memories back then that he hunted Horcruxes, wouldn’t he? Months had passed, and since the slaughter at Hogwarts when Potter vanished, that connection had severed entirely. Voldemort didn’t know why, but it seemed they’d been hunting and destroying pieces of his soul all this time! Harry Potter, that wretched boy… he’d mastered Occlumency at an elite level to shield himself! To ensure Voldemort saw nothing while he methodically, coldly… killed him… no, nothing was certain yet, the wizard cut himself off.

Voldemort froze, a thought piercing his mind like a lighting illuminating a shadowed corner of memory. The damned Gaunt house. The place where he’d encountered Potter that night… he’d hidden Marvolo Gaunt’s ring there, in a cache beneath the floorboards, secured by spells only he could unravel. But then, blinded by rage and fascination with Potter, he hadn’t spared a thought for the Horcrux, hadn’t linked the place to his sacred treasure. Merlin, Tom had reduced that house to splinters! His fingers gripped his wand so tightly the wood creaked, his eyes blazing like embers.

“Damn it!” The ring was a fragment of his soul, his immortality, his triumph over death… his anchor to existence. But that night, he’d seen only Potter, his fleeting figure. He’d been so consumed by the encounter, that euphoric rush that had rooted him in place, that his mind overlooked the obvious.

He couldn’t leave the Horcrux unchecked… Voldemort dreaded admitting the obvious, though his brilliant mind already knew the answer; his consciousness was in hysterics.

A crack of Apparition, and a dark figure melted into the shadows. The grounds of the Gaunt shack greeted him with a drifting veil of dust and ash as Voldemort materialized in this decaying, ruined place. He strode toward the hidden cache beneath the floorboards, his wand raised, poised to murmur incantations and dispel the protective charms, but the gesture was futile. A chill gripped Tom’s core as he realized the hiding place had been breached and lay empty.

Marvolo Gaunt’s ring, his Horcrux, was gone. Voldemort stood rigid, breath faltering, mind blank. A ringing filled his ears, his pulse hammering. Fear—something he should have shed—lanced through him, followed by a deluge of rage laced with panic and horror. His eyes darted about the room, as if the ring might emerge from the shadows, then fixed on the spot where Potter had been… it all fell into place. His voice was low, mad, each word punctuated by pauses.

“That boy dared…”

His heart seemed to pound its rhythm somewhere in his legs, the pulse reverberating through his bare feet from the ground. His mind raced with terrifying speed: Was Dumbledore in on it? How long had they been at this? The Order? His own Death Eaters? They’d betray him again in a heartbeat, abandoning him to be torn apart if they sensed even a hint of defeat or gain elsewhere… Voldemort was a hair’s breadth from total ruin… from death. Merlin… a thought so horrific struck him that the earth itself seemed to gape beneath his feet, dragging him into an abyss of dark terror. “No,” “not all,” “they can’t all be gone,” “impossible,” screamed the voices in his head.

Hallucinatory dread flared brighter, and he fixated on the diadem at Hogwarts. “No one could have found that…” If his skin could grow paler than it already was, it would have then. Fear, like the slimy tentacles of some monstrous creature, coiled around Tom as he doubted his own words. But truly, what were the odds someone could draw so many parallels?! If anyone deduced he’d made Horcruxes, how could they uncover… all of them? It was statistically impossible! roared his left hemisphere and frontal lobe.

Voldemort Apparated again, his movements frantic, and materialized in Hogsmeade . The ancient wards of Hogwarts still forbade direct Apparition onto its grounds—he had tried that first, to no avail. Propelled by magic, he hurtled forward at breakneck speed, pushed to the brink by the raw, destructive force of his own emotions.

Hogwarts stood desolate, its walls etched with the scars of recent carnage—cracks snaking through stone, stains of errant spells, the acrid reek of char lingering in the air… yet Voldemort had ordered the bodies cleared away. Their presence had felt… wrong, a visceral irritation that had gnawed at him in those first days. The castle wasn’t entirely reduced to rubble, but many floors groaned under piles of debris, gravel, and toppled tapestries. The staircases remained frozen, unmoving. Voldemort had concealed Ravenclaw’s Diadem in a chamber brimming with refuse, a place no one would deign to search. A smirk curled his lips as he paced before the portrait of Barnabas the Barmy, hands clasped behind his back, silently intoning: “I need the place where everything is hidden.” A door shimmered into existence, but as he wrenched it open, he froze. The room roared with Fiendfyre, its infernal tongues lapping all room, the heat so ferocious that even the protective charms woven around his body wavered. A tremor seized him, and in an instinctive surge, Voldemort staggered back, his face contorted with a fury so potent it pulsed like a tangible aura around him. The entire chamber blazed with Fiendfyre… a flame that could only be quelled by its caster, if they lived and could summon it back… a flame that didn’t merely burn but annihilated on a metaphysical plane, capable of obliterating even the smallest fragments of matter… the fire had devoured everything.

“No!” The roar tore from his throat, raw and visceral, erupting from his core. Nagini—he needed her now!

He Apparated back to Malfoy Manor , his mind a seething vortex, though his countenance remained an icy mask.

“Nagini!” he bellowed, and the serpent slithered forth, coiling sinuously at her master’s feet. Yet her presence did little to dispel the gnawing dread within him. “Lucius! The black book I entrusted to you—remind me, what became of it?”

Lucius shuffled hastily to the center of the hall, his face paler than its usual ghostly sheen, his eyes darting anywhere but to the Dark Lord’s piercing gaze. He bowed low, his voice quivering, his body racked with tremors.

“M-My Lord,” he began, the words a faint murmur. “The book… it was destroyed. At Hogwarts , according to Potter, he destroyed it in the Chamber of Secrets … with a basilisk fang, m-my Lord.”

Voldemort went rigid, the air around him thickening with the weight of his magic. In truth, he had known of the diary’s fate—Lucius had reported it a year ago, and he’d seemed to accept the loss of his “book.” Or so Lucius believed. The man hadn’t even grasped the diary’s true nature, knowing only that it held “the Lord’s magic” and must be guarded with care when Voldemort entrusted it to him during the First Wizarding War. Lucius, the poor fool, had merely sought to curse the Weasley filth, thinking the artifact bore some malevolent enchantment. Back then, Voldemort had dismissed it, too consumed by his raid alongside Potter’s godfather at the Ministry . But now, the truth struck like a bludgeon to his chest. The diary, the ring, the locket, the diadem—all gone.

“ Crucio! ” Lucius collapsed, his body arching as if a steel spike had been driven through his spine. His fingers clenched, clawing at the air, every muscle screaming agony—save for his throat, choked by the torment.

Abruptly, Voldemort’s gaze darted about, releasing the curse and dismissing Lucius, who seized the moment to crawl, belly-down, toward the nearest wall. Something—some fleeting thought—had stopped the Dark Lord’s breath. What if he’s already here? His fingers tightened around the Elder Wand, its weight a talisman of dominion he needed to feel. Absurd! What was this? Voldemort feared no boy! And yet, in truth, it wasn’t the child he dreaded… Voldemort feared death.

The paranoia that had always shielded Tom Riddle now turned inward, a venomous whisper accusing him of blindness. Potter, that… child … had outmaneuvered him, the greatest wizard of all time. All this while, the boy had crept closer to his goal, while he, Tom, floundered in ignorance. Potter was methodically killing him.

Hope was not yet lost. He still had the cup. Gringotts had been among the first strongholds he’d seized, its defenses manned solely by human wizards, with every guard at the entrance equipped with a truth detector. Despite the labyrinthine vaults below, the Lestrange family’s repository boasted additional privileges. The cup was as secure as it could be… but what if…

The hall’s doors burst open, as if fate itself had flung them wide, and Bellatrix Lestrange stormed in, her eyes wild, her face paler than bleached bone. She collapsed to her knees before him, her breath ragged, as though she’d sprinted through a tempest. Trembling, she muttered incoherently:

“My Lord,” she gasped at last, her voice quaking with terror. “The cup… it’s gone. The goblins… they say Harry Potter broke into the vault!”

Voldemort whirled toward the Death Eater so swiftly that the hem of his robes lashed the air. His face remained a mask of stone, but his eyes blazed with the same infernal fury he’d witnessed in the Room of Requirement moments before.

He advanced on Bellatrix, and she recoiled, her gaze a cocktail of dread and fervent devotion, tempered by resignation, as Voldemort raised his wand:

“ Crucio! ” Bellatrix’s eyes snapped shut, her face contorted in a grimace of stifled agony. Her teeth sank into her lips, drawing blood, as her body arched under the assault of a million volts. Voldemort lowered his wand, and though the curse’s grip faded, the woman writhed on the floor for several seconds, wracked by residual spasms of pain.

“Bring Ragnok to me, at once!” Voldemort roared, and Bellatrix stirred as if struck by another pulse of Crucio . “Y-Yes, my Lord!” She scrambled to her trembling feet, bowing low, and retreated without turning her back. She dared not expose herself now.

Voldemort paced from one corner of the hall to the other, the tip of his wand pressed against his lips. No tremor betrayed his form, yet within his mind a tempest raged...he could end… become nothing.The Dark Lord dreaded the unknown, feared losing control… yet even death should have bowed to his will! How could he have failed to sense the destruction of fragments of his soul? He had studied the ritual from a single source, and no mention of such nuances existed anywhere! Scarcely had Voldemort himself considered this possibility… yet not once had he felt a single cursed shred of it! Nagini, his serpent, his final Horcrux, slithered mere meters away, her hisses echoing across the smooth marble floor, stained with dried blood, coiling tighter at times.Voldemort’s gaze darted to her.The truth of Nagini—that she was his last bulwark against oblivion—cut like a mad surgeon’s scalpel, laughing as it plunged into living flesh. Fear, a sensation he despised, a weakness he ascribed to lesser souls, seeped into him like a frigid mist… panic? A primal, silent horror, vast and abyssal, yawned beneath his feet.

Voldemort sank onto the throne at the hall’s heart, rubbing his temples where a throbbing pain seared his brow… how to still the monstrous thrashing of his heart? Merlin’s beard, a mere mortal snake stood between him and annihilation! A sacred terror gleamed in his eyes, a mirror to the chaos within. His immortality, his destiny, his triumph dangled by the thread of a wretched reptile… Voldemort did not scream; his wrath was cold, suffocating, and terrifying. He yearned to hurl Killing Curses, but, by Merlin, no soul stood near! Save for… Nagini, vulnerable by her very existence. One strike, one spell, and his eternity would crumble. The thought was unbearable. His heart pounded so fiercely that his vision blurred, yet not a muscle on his face twitched as these thoughts consumed him.

Who knew of the Horcruxes? Potter, of course—his presence at the Gaunt shack was no coincidence. But how had he found them? How had he known? Was the boy… a genius? Dumbledore, that decrepit old spider, was frail and feeble, incapable of besting Voldemort, wasn’t he? Else he’d have done so long ago! He’d squandered his chance! Or was it betrayal? The thought sliced through him. If the cup was stolen from Gringotts , despite his loyal patrols? Even the lowliest clerks were under his Death Eaters’ sway! What if someone had let Potter in willingly, for gold? Or… what if someone aided him? Deranged suspicioncoiled around these notions like a serpent, tightening until its venom surged through his veins.

His gaze fell again to Nagini, who lifted her head as she sensed her master’s scrutiny. Her forked tongue flickered, probing the air as a reptile’s Jacobson’s organ might, tasting the chemical tang of human fear. She was his final anchor, yet his greatest vulnerability, and this duality tore at Lord Voldemort’s core. He could fortify her defenses, encase her in spells, conceal her where none would look. But what if Potter already knew? What if he hunted her, as he’d hunted the others? What if, even now, he lurked nearby, poised to strike? His mind lunged toward Harry, instinctively seeking to breach the boy’s thoughts, but met a wall, as if the child no longer existed. Once, he’d glimpsed his dreams, felt his joy...Now—nothing. This void unnerved him more than he cared to admit, hinting at something he couldn’t yet grasp...

His fingers tightened around the wand that slid from his sleeve, and with a wordless spell, he bolstered the protective charms around Nagini. Her scales gleamed silver, catching the distant torchlight of the manor, and a faint relief steadied him, granting the semblance of calm he so desperately needed.

He had to find Potter, wrench him from the shadows, obliterate him before he could reach Nagini. Before Potter struck him down first… oh, that terror, that silent, icy monster, whispered that time was slipping away, that every second dragged him closer to the abyss. Who else knew? How many hunted him now, scheming while he clung to a mere serpent? The worst of it was his uncertainty—he, Voldemort, whose will had shattered death itself, teetered on the edge of doubt, a torment sharper than any Cruciatus Curse.

A crack of Apparition, and Bellatrix Lestrange materialized in the center of the hall, alongside a creature resembling a house-elf—short, with sharp features and eyes like those of a small rat. Bellatrix staggered sharply, struggling to maintain her balance after the torment of the Cruciatus… Ragnok… who could have imagined that, not long ago, Voldemort had plans for this scum! But clearly, he had been right all along—they were no better than house-elves! Worthless vermin! His Horcrux! Voldemort bared his teeth, letting his fury blaze across his face. Bellatrix cowered, her voice trembling with fear, evidently mistaking his wrath as directed at her…

“My Lord,” she breathed. “Ragnok of Gringotts . He… he is here to speak.”

Voldemort rose from his throne and all but glided toward the goblin, who, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch. The Dark Lord knew the goblin tongue, having mastered it during his time at Hogwarts , though it had never once proven useful. He would scarcely prefer these wretched creatures to werewolves! The choice was obvious, and he had not erred. Such were the terms in which Voldemort contemplated magical beings and… rights—or rather, freedoms—in general.

The finely dressed goblin stood before him and offered a slight bow, his body quivering.

“Ragnok, keeper of vaults,” Voldemort intoned in the guttural cadence of Gobbledegook, “Speak! Let truth flow freely, as coin does. What is the fate of the treasure entrusted to your kin?”

The goblin straightened, his head twitching as he registered the familiar tongue. His eyes flared as the question’s weight unfurled before him:

“Greetings, Lord of Shadows, whose name echoes through halls of power,” he replied, his voice steady despite the tremor in his frame. “The Lestrange vault was breached… breached on the first of May, my lord, and that which was entrusted was stolen. Let gold flow like rivers, but it cannot wash away the shame of betrayal…”

Voldemort went rigid. Nearly a month the vault had stood empty? Within him roared an inferno, a blaze of hellfire. Nagini, his final Horcrux… the goblins… the Order… Potter. His Death Eaters had already secured Gringotts by then, Bellatrix herself had inspected it multiple times—why… And then, it clicked. Voldemort turned a venomous, bile-filled glare on Lestrange. The woman lay prostrate, her forehead kissing the floor, rocking slightly as she muttered incoherently. Betrayal .

Voldemort hissed something that stirred the serpent into motion. In an instant, Nagini was upon the goblin, her jaws unhinging, her throat everting like a grotesque glove as she clamped onto his head. Fangs sank deep, holding fast, while her thin, black tongue coiled around his face, grazing his eyes. Ragnok screamed. Futile. Nagini began to swallow him alive. First the head—the cartilage of his nose snapped with a sickening crunch, teeth scraping along his temples. Then the shoulders, bones grinding and splintering as they were forced into her maw. The goblin’s body thrashed, his feet clawing at the stone floor.When his ribcage vanished into her gullet, a muffled pop signaled the rupture of his lungs, bones collapsing inward. Only his twitching feet remained visible, quivering with the body’s final impulses. Then—a gulp. They were gone.

The floor gleamed, pristine as if scrubbed after a surgical procedure. Nagini, sated, slithered back toward Voldemort’s throne, her soft hisses filling the silence.Bellatrix held her breath. Her turn was imminent… she drew a soft inhale, gently closing her eyes, awaiting the emerald spark of a curse…

“ Crucio! ” Her nerves became taut strings, stretched by an executioner who played not notes but the stifled screams trapped in her throat. Convulsions wracked her entire being, dissolving the boundaries of her flesh—she felt only an alien will, driven into her very sinews.

Voldemort cast the Cruciatus on her several more times, yet the fury within him refused to abate. For some reason, he never resorted to the Killing one against those closest to him. Whether this stemmed from his penchant for predictability—for those whose habits could be cataloged like ingredients in a potion, one of his favored disciplines—or touched something more elusive, buried in the shadows of his own psyche, was hard to discern. Subconscious echoes of attachment, banished to the depths where forgotten, decayed social reflexes festered. Whatever the truth, he would never deign to ponder it himself. Of course not.

Bellatrix lay unconscious, sprawled in a pool of her own fluids.

Nagini, swollen from her recent feast, coiled beside the throne as Voldemort began to pace the hall with measured steps. The Order surely knew of the Horcruxes if Potter did. How many were they? He had over ten names, none of which he’d heard since the Battle of Hogwarts , save for the captured Weasley. Voldemort halted. They were plotting something monumental, an assault against him.

“Nott!” His bellow reverberated off the hall’s walls, the echo barely fading before the crack of Apparition replaced it.

“Yes, my Lord.” Theodore Nott Sr. appeared instantly, dropping to one knee before Voldemort. Ah, Nott, one of his most loyal minions, bowing so often his frame had grown hunched, his pallor ghostly, his long, dark hair perpetually unkempt, hygiene an afterthought.

“Bring me the Minister,” Voldemort commanded, his eyes narrowing to slits, like a serpent poised to strike. “Pius Thicknesse must receive new instructions.”

Nott nodded and vanished with a pop, leaving Voldemort alone with Nagini, the unconscious Bellatrix, and his thoughts, which swirled like a maelstrom. Pius Thicknesse, the current Minister for Magic, was little more than a puppet, partially subdued by the Imperius Curse , but his authority was a tool Voldemort wielded at will, as circumstances demanded. The Ministry had never imposed such constraints, but Voldemort was not one to squander opportunities. Those who knew of the Horcruxes must be hunted down swiftly...they were everywhere, their voices echoing in his mind like a chorus heralding his doom. Traitors. He closed his eyes, but the darkness behind his lids was worse than the shadows of the grim Malfoy Manor —it was alive, writhing, filled with eyes that watched him, eyes with faces belonging to the Order of the Phoenix . His heart thundered, his body growing cold. He, Voldemort, was the hunter, not the prey, yet now he felt like a cornered beast, its paws mired in a swamp as the pursuit closed in.

A crack of Apparition, and Nott reappeared, prostrating himself as Pius Thicknesse materialized beside him. The Minister was short, his usually florid face now ashen, his eyes clouded by the Imperius Curse , staring into nothingness. His once-luxuriant robes hung on him like a scarecrow’s rags, his steps faltering, as if his will had long since been stripped away. Voldemort advanced, his wand rising to reinforce the enchantment, ensuring utter compliance.

“Pius,” he said, his voice soft, almost tender, “You will declare the following individuals undesirable persons. Harboring or aiding them will be deemed an equivalent crime. Name them: the entire Weasley family, Hermione Granger, the Longbottom family, the Diggory family—if any remain alive. Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hunt down the rest, all tied to the Order , all linked to Harry Potter, anyone known to oppose me. Their names must become a curse within the Ministry . Their properties will be confiscated, their rights nullified, their magical… privileges revoked. Do this at once.”

Pius nodded, his voice a monotonous drone, like a machine’s.

“Yes, my Lord,” he murmured, his eyes unblinking. “I will issue the decree by noon.”

Voldemort inclined his head, his gaze sliding over the Minister as one might appraise a tool that had served its purpose. With a flick of his hand, Nott rose, roughly seized Pius by the arm, and Apparated away.

Voldemort rubbed his temples and strode toward the throne, where Nagini rested serenely. He sank into the seat, but his mind refused to quiet: paranoid delusion whispered that it wasn’t enough, that these decrees, these useless Death Eaters … that Potter would find a way to slip through, to hide. Worse, to kill him. Voldemort hardly skulking within Malfoy Manor —if the Order had even a shred of capability, they’d have struck by now, wouldn’t they? Besides, what army did they have? By noon, their options would dwindle to nothing. Voldemort smirked. Yes, all was well. Those around him were mere worms, insignificant, he thought, his lips curling into a sneer of disdain. The Order , even Potter—pathetic wizards, their unity a fragile lie, incapable of mounting an assault on manor . He straightened in his throne, settling into a commanding posture. Yes… though the Horcruxes may be gone, Nagini is  his, and He, Voldemort, the greatest wizard to ever live, the Heir of Salazar Slytherin, tower above them all! No one could stand against Him in a duel… And then his mind faltered, snagged by a fleeting thought that shattered his narcissistic certainty, a reality that stung the remnants of his rationality… No, it’s not the same! The boy merely got lucky, he dismissed, brushing the notion aside.

His breathing steadied, and the chill in his chest receded, replaced by a surge of conviction. He was the embodiment of magic, the one who rewrote the laws of death. Potter? A mere boy, a pitiful child whose fate was scripted by Voldemort’s own hand. A shadow of his grandeur, a reflection the Dark Lord could erase with a flick of his wand. To even consider him a threat was absurd!

But then, like lightning cleaving a clear sky, a thought struck him: “I must create another Horcrux.” His eyes narrowed, his pulse quickening. This wasn’t mere insight—it was a spasm of genius, as if reality itself had whispered the solution, filling him with power and certainty for the future. Yes… exactly… another Horcrux. He nearly smiled, envisioning the world bowing before him once more, powerless against his supremacy. As if to affirm this, Lord Voldemort cast a condescending glance across the empty expanse of the hall. Bellatrix let out a rasp, signaling her return to consciousness.

Footsteps echoed from the shadows, and three Death Eaters emerged into view, their forms barely discernible in the gloom. They held their masks in hand, unremarkable figures: one gaunt, with greasy hair plastered to his skull; another, a burly man with a face etched with claw-like scars, reminiscent of werewolf marks; the third, hunched and as disheveled as the first, plagued by a nervous tic that jerked his left shoulder.

Voldemort gazed at Nagini with studied indifference, pointedly ignoring the trio as they bowed before him.

“My Lord,” the scarred Death Eater spoke, his voice rough but obsequious. “The giants are fortifying our positions in Wales. Additionally, David Kessler’s pack has set up camp in the forests bordering Scotland. They’re open to our terms… Kessler claims that if the rumors hold and your offer stands, several packs from North America are prepared to join.”

Excellent. Werewolves, constrained by a decree from distant 1637, were a valuable asset in war. Scorned by the magical world, such a subclass was easily swayed with promises of leniency and influence—mere tools of terror against true “enemies.” Let the despised feel chosen… until the first “night of long knives,” naturally.

“Nott!”

“Yes, my Lord?” The response was near-instant, accompanied by the crack of Apparition.

“Draft a decree,” Voldemort instructed. “Werewolves will gain rights: in the new order, they shall be recognized as full magical beings. Full moons will no longer justify isolation. Tracts of forest and villages will be ceded to pack leaders, where the word ‘fear’ will be forgotten. Their packs must swear allegiance by the next moon. Prepare it, have Dolores review it, then bring it to me. Ensure the Ministry presents this as an act of mercy. Consult any Ministry personnel as needed, and if the International Confederation of Wizards raises concerns, defer to Dolores.”

Nott Sr. nodded and vanished swiftly to carry out the command. The trio of Death Eaters bowed deeper, their forms melting into the shadows, but the third, plagued by a nervous tic, lingered a fraction longer, as if poised to speak further. There was something peculiar in him...yet Voldemort was accustomed to gazes of awe fixed upon him. Had the oddity in this man been even slightly more pronounced than that of his usual followers, the Dark Lord might have deigned to grant him greater scrutiny.

A vague unease pricked at Lord Voldemort’s core. He cast his gaze about the hall. Potter could not evade him forever.

Potter would be found, his allies crushed, Nagini safeguarded, and he would have another Horcrux.

Chapter 16

The sun—a spectrally yellow star of middle age—plunged toward the horizon in another turn of its eleven-year cycle of activity, hurling coronal masses into the void like the sighs of a god that had forgotten it must not breathe. Its dim light spattered the hall of Malfoy Manor through vast, vintage windows. At the center of the chamber stood several figures… save for the vile heap that was Bellatrix Lestrange, sprawled in a pool of her own bile and urine. Oh, that woman had earned her fate.

The unremarkable Death Eater, the twitchiest and most hunched of the lot, was nearly invisible among his peers, blending seamlessly with them: narrow-shouldered, lanky, with a broken nose and thin arms jerking from an uncontrollable nervous tic. His face, shrouded beneath a hood, revealed only sunken cheeks and dull eyes that shunned direct contact. Greasy, dark, tangled hair clung to his temples, and his pale, almost luminescent skin gleamed with sweat. The Death Eater lingered with two others in the shadows by the western entrance, awaiting his turn to report. His breathing came in ragged gasps, and even his fingers trembled with an inexplicable tremor. This face, not truly his own, behaved unpredictably… his body now felt like an ancient mechanism, echoing remnants of its former owner… but that couldn’t be, could it? Surely, it was merely the situation unnerving him. Indeed…

A few meters away stood Lord Voldemort himself, alongside some minions… one of whom seemed familiar… the Minister for Magic? The Dark Lord’s voice rang out, decreeing undesirable persons, all of Harry Potter’s allies—names, names, names… Each name struck at the edges of his hearing, yet Harry Potter felt no familiar urge to act. His heart, however, pounded like a pulsar, driving blood through his veins with such force it drowned out the tremor. Adrenaline sang in his frame, and Harry forced himself to stare at the floor, though his traitorous eyes kept drifting back to the Dark Lord…

Him .

Voldemort’s presence was more than physical—it saturated the space like the gravity of a black hole, warping reality around him. Harry couldn’t tear his gaze away. He felt no fear, not the kind that gripped him when falling from a broom; what pulsed within him now was a need, blossoming in his mind, a chaotic blend of emotions. If pressed to name it, Harry might have stammered something like: “He’s here.” “I’m here.” “He exists.” “And so do I!” Was this the residue of their blood feud? Oh, even their blood was the same! Harry felt it coursing through him, sending his mind reeling in euphoria. What others might call bone-chilling terror, absurdity, madness, illogical—it sparked in him an almost physical exultation!

Harry hadn’t felt anything like this in so long! What was it? Joy, ripping through his chest like a Cruciatus Curse? Terror, crushing his ribs like serpentine coils? Fear, ringing in his temples like his mother’s scream? Or something greater—an euphoria searing his mind like solar wind? One thing was certain: his heart pounded in such agony that each beat echoed in his bones, the pain radiating with the reverberations of the Horcruxes he had destroyed... Harry Potter now understood that pain—the anguish he had inflicted by shattering fragments of Tom’s soul, severing their bond, their shared blood. And now, standing in Voldemort’s shadow, Harry conjured a fantasy of his own soul writhing, shrinking, mirroring the torment he had caused. Voldemort sought his death because Harry was his pain . His mistake. But he was wrong !

He yearned to draw nearer, his body straining, spinal reflexes pulling him toward the central figure, and beneath these impulses loomed a rooted, acquired pathology: Dumbledore had not raised a hero, no, the scoundrel had cultivated a weapon… Harry was merely a vessel, a laboratory retort, a Petri dish nurturing a poison that, by the old wizard’s meticulous design, was meant to tear Voldemort apart from within. All this time, Harry had been part of the matrix into which that venom was injected. The syllabus was flawless: duality reduced to zero when one was eradicated. How convenient that Albus was not chosen as the disposable component. Harry Potter—the legend, the Chosen One—had died before he realized he was alive.

Harry, cloaked in the guise of an unknown man, sank to his knees before Voldemort in unison with the others. He felt no shame in the act—it was not about pride but a step toward his goal. Within him roared a tempest—not mere emotions, but a galactic storm where endorphins clashed like stars, igniting supernovae in his chest. His lips parted slightly, and Harry barely restrained a sound: not a moan, not a cry, but something primal, clawing to break free, as if his ribs caged something vaster. This was right. Everything was perfect. This was the moment. He was where he belonged. His eyes, veiled beneath the hood, bored into the marble floor, yet he sensed Voldemort as one feels a magnetic field—an invisible force that drew and crushed… his magic was exquisite! Harry felt it, it seemed, with his entire being. How had he been so blind before?

Voldemort was not merely an enemy… not an adversary… he was the answer. A fragment of his soul! The scar on his forehead pulsed with this truth, now distinct from before; in these surges, Harry discerned not a threat but a summons: an unseen half demanded assembly, unity, wholeness! Harry jerked his head sharply side to side as a familiar ringing pierced his ears. So consumed was he by thoughts of completeness, of merging, shattered by the weight of countless emotional torments, that he scarcely recalled how he had lived before—what path had Harry Potter trodden? Now, the Boy Who Lived was ready to kneel forever, if only this moment could endure. Metaphorically, of course—had Harry found a greeting more fitting than a bow, he’d hardly have done this…

Nearby, a stocky Death Eater , his face etched with scars, reported in a gravelly voice about giants and a pack of werewolves. Voldemort listened, his eyes narrowing, and issued an order—to grant werewolves certain rights. Harry smiled inwardly, recalling, Oh, I know...I read it in the papers… I know what Voldemort’s doing… For some reason, the thought curled the corners of his lips into a crooked smirk. He was on his knees. His mind was a strange brew of focus and madness: here he knelt at the heart of his fated “enemy,” under a disguise that trembled in both literal and figurative senses, and, oh, there was that exhilaration, perilous and almost sacred! His fingers, still quivering, itched to seize the wand hidden beneath his robes—an instinctive, residual impulse of his body… but Harry quelled the urge. In truth, he was extraordinarily fortunate to be here. His entire life could be called a remarkably lucky chain of events...

-

When Harry decided to abandon the hostel, he Apparated to the first place his mind summoned, discreetly dropping the key on the counter. Malfoy Manor. He lingered under his Invisibility Cloak, circling, not daring to approach the estate’s gates even by a hundred feet. He skulked in the forest for a time, wandering, hoping to encounter a single living soul, but finding none, he Apparated again without a second thought. Magic led him to a forest, cold and steeped in the scent of damp wood and rotting leaves, where mist swirled above the ground. In the distance, a distinctive wolf’s howl echoed.Harry pressed through the thicket, buoyed by an inexplicable good mood and musings about the solar system, pondering the number of Saturn’s moons. His own face had long vanished, replaced by another’s—a stooped man’s, with lank, greasy hair and a persistent nervous tic. He also decided it would be wise to remove his glasses… noticing his vision was somewhat sharper without them now. He didn’t dwell on how it worked. To him, such things felt as instinctive as breathing—he paid no heed to what others might call peculiar. He simply did what was necessary. Wasn’t that how magic functioned, after all? Harry would never forget his astonishment upon learning that the gift of speaking with snakes was, in fact, rare. Magic could weave wonders far more extraordinary than that!

Harry found them in the forest after half an hour: two Death Eaters huddled by a campfire. One, gaunt and wiry, griped about the cold, his voice sharp as a dog’s bark as he recounted some tale, cackling between words. The other, a burly man with unkempt stubble, sharpened a dagger, his scars—reminiscent of werewolf claws—glinting in the firelight. They were alone, and this was his chance… Oh, I’ll be part of a trio again! Harry thought irrationally, spitting out a private parallel to images even he couldn’t fully grasp. Concealed behind the trees, Harry raised his wand and whispered “ Imperio ,” aiming at the thinner man. The man’s eyes clouded instantly, his body freezing, mouth agape, a husk devoid of will. Barely audible, standing behind him under his Invisibility Cloak , Harry ordered him to rise, a simple act to distract the second, and he obeyed… Then Harry turned to the stocky one, and a second Imperio clamped down like unseen vices, forcing him to still. Perfect.

Harry shed his cloak, stretching his arms skyward, lacing his fingers as if truly weary.The goal toward which his actions propelled him flickered before his mind, illuminating his path. His decision, his choice to seek Voldemort, was no longer a mere impulse—it was his purpose. His mission. It was the calling of the Boy Who Lived. But now he was the boy who did not exist, and, oh, Harry was so exhilarated by the impending encounter! Each time he envisioned the meeting, his mind snagged on a vivid green flash… How should he even begin? Yet Harry resolved first to sate his primary urge—to go there. Beyond that… for some reason, he couldn’t force himself to feel fear, couldn’t convince himself his decision was utter madness! Every internal dialogue ended with visions of stars whirling faster around their shared axis, images of their conjoined soul that Harry bore within… he would go, and the universe itself would guide his way.

Harry smirked, and with a swift Legilimens, he breached the mind of the first man to uncover their activities. He saw a circle of Death Eaters in a forest, bathed in the glow of a full moon, their wands raised, tips pulsing with the green intent of Avada Kedavra, held back, poised to unleash at any moment. At the circle’s heart, a pack of werewolves—five or so—snarled and writhed, baring massive fangs, their half-human forms grotesque, sinews bulging beneath patchy fur, eyes gleaming with a hunger worse than bestial, a human hunger. Claws raked the earth, tearing furrows in the damp soil, while a chilling hum and howl rent the air. Beside them loomed a giant, its massive frame hunched, its club—a splintered tree trunk—dragging through the mud. At times, it bellowed a low, guttural roar of pain or rage, or both at once.

“Keep those freaks in line!” barked the voice of the mind’s owner. He stepped forward, his wand slicing an arc of crimson light, casting Crucio with a flourish. One werewolf shrieked, its body contorting as foam spilled from its maw, while the giant roared in glee, its enormous fists pounding the earth, sending tremors through the bog. “These traitors spurned their final chance! They had eight hours until the full moon—what a pity!Ha!” the mind’s owner’s voice sounded gruff.Another Death Eater muttered “Imperio,” his wand aimed at the giant and the creature’s roar stilled the instant its eyes clouded… but one werewolf broke free, its chains snapping with a clang in that moment. The beast lunged, jaws gaping wide, only to be caught mid-air by a flash of green light from the wand of the second Death Eater Harry had met at the campfire. The man afflicted with lycanthropy crumpled, lifeless, his body steaming in the chill air. The remaining “beasts” howled louder as the Death Eaters tightened their circle, hemming in the chained werewolves. The Death Eater’s wand flicked again, and a werewolf’s scream dissolved into a gurgle as blood sprayed from its throat, a perfect Diffindo slashing its neck. The giant, now swaying under the sway of Imperio, hoisted its club to crush the corpse into a pulpy mess—blood sprayed across the ring in long arterial ribbons, painting faces, soaking cloaks — anointing the witnesses in gore. The chained werewolves recoiled as one, the clinking of their restraints a harsh. They were no longer men. Not even beasts. They were instinct calcified in meat, scratching at ground with bloodied nails, howling with the hopeless fervor of creatures who know their own extinction..The Death Eaters laughed, Their voices became a chorus — guttural, jarring, a liturgy of rot rising under the full moon.. The giant lumbered closer to the remaining werewolves...

Harry sifted through a few more memories, each one a grim echo of the last. It seemed his makeshift trio was something akin to… tamers? Herders? He mulled over the terms in his mind.

He slipped out of the mind with ease, fluid as a shadow. The savagery, the blood, the screams—they should have horrified him. Once, perhaps, they would have horrified Harry Potter, the boy destined to die. But now they merely… well, Harry was glad those werewolves had met their end. The world was a tapestry of such scenes, woven from orbits of pain varying in intensity and force, pain that birthed more pain, and this was just another axis. Harry felt neither horror nor revulsion—only faint ripples of euphoria, harbingers of his imminent rendezvous, like disturbances in the still expanse of his thoughts.

His wand glinted in the campfire’s flicker, and a Confundo spell wove into the Death Eaters’ minds. Harry altered their memories, convincing them they had always been a trio, that he, the third, had been their comrade from the start. No one must suspect their group had grown overnight. He lifted the Imperio, and they returned to the fire, resuming their talk as if nothing had changed.The skinny idiot complained about the damp, the stocky bastard grunted—and he, the third, said nothing. He sat on the wet ground, letting himself relax, his gaze lifted in reverence to the haze-softened sky. And in that moment, it was as if he understood the essence of it all: none of it was in vain. The world kept turning because someone had to watch.

-

The report concluded, and as Nott Sr. departed with his assigned task, Voldemort flicked his hand dismissively toward the three Death Eaters, as if swatting away insects. Harry rose, his eyes fixed on Voldemort… no, on Tom Riddle, the man whose will had ensnared him before he was even born. Speak? Now? The thought flared in Harry’s mind like a supernova, and he envisioned it: a step forward, “Oh, hi, I’m...”, and then — the void. But a green flash flickered before his eyes, followed by a darkness, thick and final... but to die now, without revealing to Tom the truth… without unveiling how their fates were entwined! That was not what Harry Potter desired.

Harry barely noticed his own movements, rising from his knees to depart with the group, trailing last, struggling to match the pace of his “comrades.” His heart thundered, adrenaline still humming through his veins, when suddenly he felt a piercing stare boring into his back. He whipped around, his dull, altered eyes darting across the hall, and locked onto Nagini’s gaze. The serpent was sated, her belly bulging as she coiled at Voldemort’s feet, hissing something Harry heard as “ I’ll go. ” She reared her body several feet upward, lifting her head higher… her emerald eyes gleamed, and Harry held his breath as the snake hissed again, her tongue flickering. Slowly, with a terrifying grace, she began slithering toward him… Harry didn’t pause, and as his companions turned into the manor’s corridor, he took a few long strides to catch up, his steps quick but his tremor intensifying, his breathing growing rapid… the snake followed, her scales rasping across the marble… he could hear her… had she sensed something? Should Harry… He couldn’t grasp the thought… he moved as if in a delirium, merely following the path set by those ahead, clinging to the shadows, his dim eyes shunning the light… he swallowed hard, nerves fraying. He didn’t know what would happen next. Did it frighten him? Or had fear itself lost its foothold in his cortex? Clearly, the last time he saw those vivid golden, white, multicolored flashes… when leather boots struck his flesh, it wasn’t just the surface that cracked. The poor brain absorbed not only emotional blows but a near-literal fracture in its frontal-limbic connection. The manor no longer triggered his amygdala as it once did; even the Death Eaters seemed mere shadows at the edge of his vision, their threat registered by his eyes… yet it failed to spike his norepinephrine, failed to terrify. They were nothing.

Their shared journey ended when they reached a common lounge, where the air was heavy with the scent of wax and aged wood.

A dozen Death Eaters, cloaked in black robes, lounged by the fireplace or murmured in corners, as if the Dark Lord himself stood over them, watching their every move. One Death Eater, who had accompanied Harry, drifted toward a table bearing a decanter of wine, while another joined a group by the window. Harry, however, paused at the grand archway into the lounge and swiftly slipped back in the opposite direction. A silent debate raged in his mind—should he don the Invisibility Cloak nestled in his pocket? Alongside his few possessions, he had shrunk his bag, which now rested there beside the Marauder’s Map, resembling a small cloth purse. With resolute steps, he strode down the corridor, toward where shadows deepened… each footfall sent his heart pounding harder, anticipation swelling within him. When he turned to check the path, he froze. Nagini was there, mere steps away! Her sinuous body coiled, scales catching the light like polished obsidian. Her eyes bored into him, and Harry felt his emotions fade, replaced by a hollow void.

He sank to his knees, bowing his head, his hair falling across his face, clinging to his sweat-dampened brow. His mind reeled: she could kill him, expose him, betray him with a single hiss. Or he could… one simple Avada Kedavra, one green spell, and the Dark Lord would be vulnerable, his final Horcrux destroyed… who needed that?! Harry was his soul!

No, instead, Harry chose to bow. His breathing came in jagged gasps, and his fingers released the wand gripped in his pocket, as if persuading his body to remain calm and reframe the encounter.

Nagini hissed, her voice low and melodic, her words in Parseltongue, which he understood but didn’t acknowledge before the serpent, shattering the silence: “ Minion of my master ,” she rasped, her tongue flickering like black lightning. “ You are like a water snake, out of place. ”

Her voice was not human, yet it carried magic—ancient, instinctive, tied to her reptilian nature. Not supernatural power, but something else—a serpentine intuition that pierced through shadows, sensed warmth, her perfect sensory organ in her mouth detecting the subtlest shifts in a creature’s hormonal balance… tracking the rhythm of his heart. Harry didn’t flinch, his face impassive, and when he replied, his voice was low, subservient, in English, naturally: “I serve our lord,” he murmured, his head still bowed.

Nagini lingered, her tongue slicing the air… but then she turned, her body coiling, and she slithered into the shadows. Harry heard the rustle of her scales for a few moments more… he remained on his knees, tremors coursing through his arms, waiting until her presence dissolved. Then he rose, brushed off his knees, and, crossing his arms behind his back, proceeded with measured, confident strides toward the hall where he had seen Voldemort.

This was it… his fate… his destiny. The Dark Lord stood hunched over a table strewn with maps, now situated in the great hall. Torchlight glinted off the marble floor, rendering the dark wizard’s figure almost ethereal in the contrast of his black robes against the stone’s sheen. Harry felt not a parsec of fear. Harry, whose consciousness was woven from pain, scars, and agony—both physical and emotional—now experienced only a thrill. He, Harry Potter, and Voldemort were bound. No—they were fused! He was the second dose of the same poison, the same pain that had torn this world apart! A warped gene, a discarded soul fragment… finally poised to be whole.

The Death Eater sank smoothly to his knees, his hunched shoulders quivering, and spoke, his voice low and tinged with subservience to conceal his true intent.

“My lord,” he uttered, bowing his head so the shadow of his hood veiled his dull, evasive eyes… and a crooked smile.

Voldemort turned, his movement deliberate, like a serpent sensing prey. His scrutiny slid over the Death Eater’s form, appraising but devoid of interest—merely a flicker of annoyance, as if interrupted from a matter of consequence. His voice, low and sibilant, dripped with the disdain he seldom bothered to mask from his followers. “What do you want?” he demanded, his tone icy, laced with a faint undercurrent of menace.

The Death Eater’s ears rang with his own heartbeat, loud enough to drown out the typhoon of his unmoored mind. Excitement surged within him, mingled with a strange weight settling in his chest. Never before had he heard the Dark Lord address him so—with such haughty indifference, as if he were mere filth on the floor, unworthy of notice. His lungs constricted, as though he were a boy standing before something vast, unfathomable. How strange and thrilling! He had to tell him! Harry dipped lower in his posture, almost reverently, and spoke, his voice steady, infused with a zeal meant to persuade.

“My lord, I wish to be useful,” he said, his words chosen with care, yet brimming with a devotion he portrayed with alarming sincerity. “I am not one who craves glory, but I know how to track. I have hunted… worthy wizards. I can serve you, if you grant me a task. Give me a task, my lord.”

He fell silent, his head still bowed, but he felt Voldemort’s gaze, piercing to the bone. For a moment, his eyes widened as he envisioned a green flash before them… a whistle sliced through his mind again… his heart pounded, but it was exhilarating! A single misstep could spell his end—Harry had considered this in the forest with the Death Eaters, yet he deemed his disguise sound, certain he would come to no harm. He needed this meeting. This conversation. But he hadn’t known how to bring it about. Now, here was his chance. Yet something instinctive, deep within, guided him toward the right path. It was as if he’d drunk Felix Felicis… if Harry revealed himself now, Voldemort wouldn’t even hear the end of his sentence.

Still… his mind, conditioned to cling to goals, to tasks, to orders that had driven him forward through his wretched life… that pitiful brain seized the chance to accomplish something, like a habit, a lifeline. Had Harry been out of his senses, he might even have been glad to act solely for Voldemort’s sake.

Voldemort straightened, his eyes narrowing, a spark of interest flickering within them. He stepped closer, his robes whispering, his voice softening to a near-mocking murmur, as if addressing a child:

“Useful,” he echoed, his tone derisive, yet laced with something else… calculation, as if weighing the Death Eater’s words. A shiver rippled through Harry’s frame. “Very well. There are those who are… deeply unwelcome to me. You know their names. One Weasley is already in our grasp—but he’s useless. I need to know where the others are. Where Potter’s friends are. Find them.”

He paused, his gaze sharpening, and added, each word etched with cold clarity: “But do not touch Potter. If you see him, report to me. Immediately. He is mine.”

The Death Eater stilled, a tremor coursing through his arms.The mention of a Weasley stirred curiosity—was it Ron they’d captured? But the thought barely lingered in his skull. Not that he’d ceased to consider Ron a friend, not at all. It was just… Ron seemed to belong to another realm entirely… and then, Voldemort uttered something far more intriguing to Harry’s mind: The clarification about Potter surprised him, stirring an odd sensation… the way Tom said “He is mine” made Harry’s heart lurch upward, constricting his lungs, choking his breath.

Well, then. Find, report, don’t touch. This was familiar, oh yes, this was right—he’d been doing this sort of thing his whole life! Harry felt a strange relief, as if the world had regained its order and familiar contours. “I will do it, my lord,” he said, his voice firm yet tinged with deference. “Allow me to study the map.”

Hearing no sharp rebuke, he dared to rise, his hunched shoulders straightening, and the stooped figure stepped toward the table, a tremor still quivering in his fingers. Voldemort regarded him, crimson eyes glinting as their owner narrowed them, as if searching for a flaw to seize upon or weighing whether to probe this follower’s mind with Legilimency then and there… but then he drew back,Nagini slithered after him, leaving the disguised man alone.

Harry pressed a finger to his lips in thought, his mind conjuring strange images, as if he were observing his life unfolding in this very moment, struggling to focus on his task. Echoes of old memories flashed vividly before his eyes, forming familiar scenes, yet slightly skewed for the Boy Who Lived. He knew their habits: Would McGonagall always be with them? Harry doubted it. More likely, she’d appear sporadically, like Dumbledore. Where would they hide? Harry could find them… he lowered his eyes to the map, finally concentrating on it. His dull gaze roamed its surface eagerly: it was worn, crisscrossed with black lines snaking in all directions, some areas shaded, others outlined, though Harry didn’t try to decipher their precise meaning, as no labels clarified the markings.Long, trembling fingertips, which could not have originally belonged to Harry, glided hesitantly toward the map of London, where Muggle streets bore an additional layer of ink atop them, like a translucent haze, forming magical thoroughfares. He traced the annotations: red crosses marked the Ministry, dense hatching encircled Diagon Alley, another red crosses clustered near King’s Cross station…black crosses lined the coast at Tinworth… shading covered Islington, where Grimmauld Place lay.But one mark, golden, glowed brighter than all—above Little Hangleton… roughly where the old Gaunt shack stood. Harry’s heart stuttered once more. That mark could signify only one thing—his location. It was the sole point on the map in such a hue.He smirked, thinking that a touch of black wouldn’t hurt that gold.

Ok,them... Where could they be hiding? Should Harry believe he was doing something wrong? A question without an answer… for those images, for them… they hadn’t vanished, only receded, as if he viewed them through a spacesuit. The air was the same, yet breathing the air outside felt impossible...It’s nearly impossible to tell whether Harry Potter realized that, at some point, “friends” had slipped into a faceless mass of “them,” as if the neural pathways in his brain had become tangled and abandoned their former connections...ok...map...According to the map’s markings, Shell Cottage had been searched, and no trace of them remained. Ron would likely seek refuge in the countryside, perhaps in some barn, grumbling that at least they wouldn’t starve there. Hermione would choose an abandoned house or transfigure a camp on the spot. Neville… a garden or greenhouse? Harry pondered. Luna… Luna, whose thoughts always veered toward the peculiar, might opt to hide on a train, for instance. And the other Weasleys? Oh, finding a single place large enough to hold all the Weasleys would be a challenge… He chuckled at his own private musings, clear only to himself.

Harry mentally ruled out several places: Hogsmeade was too obvious, crawling with Death Eaters—Hermione would never agree to it, though Harry might have suggested it… after all, he’d had a fine time near the Ministry’s entrance! The area around Ottery St. Catchpole was surely under surveillance—he saw the dense, furious hatching on the map, clearly marked with rage, meaning the Weasleys, Diggorys, Lovegoods… He lingered on one family longer than the others, but his thoughts raced onward, processing more possibilities. Diagon Alley? Too crowded, too risky; they wouldn’t take a room there… someone with Muggle roots and their homes? Dean? Seamus? Unlikely they were involved now… Harry’s eyes settled again on the Lovegood house in Ottery St. Catchpole, near the Burrow. The mark was faint, almost imperceptible, with dates scrawled in tiny script: “31.12.1997—captured,” “15.02.1998—destroyed.” His mind snagged on it. Could Luna be there? Her father, as far as Harry knew, was in prison, but Luna might have returned to her home at some point, and perhaps he’d find something there… His gaze scorched the Lovegood house on the map… or maybe he simply didn’t know where to start, and Xenophilius had once been the first to speak truths others dismissed as heresy… Harry wanted to search his belongings, and he was almost convinced Luna had interacted with the house in some way after the Battle of Hogwarts… perhaps they’d hidden there briefly before moving on? Harry resolved to start with that house regardless. Something convinced him he needed to be there.

In his mind, Harry outlined a plan to fulfill his task: the Lovegood house first,then perhaps an old farm near Barnton—a place absent from the map entirely… yet Ron would have suggested it, recalling its mention in Quidditch magazines, wouldn’t he?Or a site in London, indicated by a dot? Shell Cottage, according to the map’s annotations, stood empty—what else could crosses signify? Yet those markings didn’t compel Harry to dismiss that option entirely. So consumed was he by the task, so fervent his desire to accomplish something, that the essence of the mission itself… held no meaning for him.In a life woven from threads of emotional torment, concussions, and loss, his body and mind now yearned not for victory, but for symmetry.

He would find them . Harry now saw his path clearly, lit by the dim glow of an otherworldly lantern: it was not a journey into void. It was the way back to what the void had once lost.

Notes:

I'm considering making this work available to registered users only in the near future. I realize that might be inconvenient for some, and believe me, I understand — no one enjoys extra clicks and sign-ins...but unfortunately, I've seen fragments of my writing lifted and reposted elsewhere without credit. I don’t mind being inspired by — in fact, I love it — but I do mind when the original remains invisible. So, thank you for respecting the space this story lives in!

Chapter 17

The Lovegood house stood atop a hill in Ottery St. Catchpole, like a chess piece discarded after a lost match. In truth, the building bore a striking resemblance to one. Its round tower, crooked as a drunken lighthouse, leaned precariously, looming over fields thick with thistle and wild clover. The walls, crumbled in many places and built of grey stone, were cloaked in moss and etched with strange patterns—spirals, stars, silhouettes of creatures that never existed. The roof, scattered with multicolored tiles, resembled a patchwork quilt, while a weathervane shaped like an unknown beast spun suspiciously, despite the absence of wind. The garden surrounding the house was untamed, overgrown with snitch-grass and bushes adorned with charms of feathers and beads, which tinkled like bells even in the stillness of absolute calm. The house was gravely wounded: one wall had vanished entirely, exposing the innards of rooms where star-patterned wallpaper hung like flayed skin. Black scorch marks from spells marred the facade, and the round, porthole-like windows were shattered, their shards glinting in the grass, casting sparks of prismatic light.

A Death Eater materialized at the hill’s base. His hunched shoulders quivered faintly with a tremor, and his black cloak, blending with the cold translucence of dawn, became part of the sky’s pale unraveling—not cataclysmic, but inevitable. This was not the birth of a new day, but the slow forgetting of night: a weary diffusion of starlight bled from the edge of collapsed shadows. Entropy in the vestments of awakening.

Harry recalled this house in far tidier condition. So, the hospitable Lovegoods had entertained guests… more than once since his last rendezvous here with Ron and Hermione. Yet something drew him back—not mere nostalgia, but a sensation as if the very fabric of space, steeped in magic, permeated his body with invisible, guiding particles.

He didn’t expect to encounter anyone right now. Luna was likely with others… but the Harry knew he would find something here. Oh, the finale of his impromptu hunt felt almost mystical: not the culmination of events, but of meaning itself! He could barely contain his impatience to report to Voldemort! Even if the likelihood of facing a green flash after succeeding still outweighed the chance of being heard… But what if he completed the task so swiftly, so flawlessly, that even the Dark Lord felt not rage… but astonishment? Harry knew exactly what to say to stoke his curiosity further in that moment! After all, Harry Potter knew even Voldemort’s childhood, the essence of his solitude, every fracture in the pattern of his fear—before it became his own curse. And oh, he intended to return it all to him—with a single phrase. A phrase akin to a gravitational ripple cast into the early universe, one that sparks the formation of a galaxy… he envisioned it clearly in his mind. A phrase like the dark mark of a singularity: tiny, inexorable—the key to a rift where two broken souls languished, an escape visible only from within… and no one, save the two of them, would ever know why it ignited and set them free.

Harry tread along a pebbled path. At the entrance, where the door dangled from a single hinge, he paused, his wand flicking as he whispered Homenum Revelio. Emptiness greeted him. Only the wind, wandering through the ruins, and the distant clinking of charms filled the air. Stepping inside, his eyes—dull and vacant—swept the hallway with care. The walls, as he recalled, were covered in drawings; here and there, scattered amidst the chaos, lay artistic tools—brushes, pencils, even a quill. Objects were strewn in utter disarray. The floor was littered with torn scraps of The Quibbler, its headlines shrieking about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks and Ministry conspiracies. On the wall hung a half-burned painting: a young Luna, with solar flares in her hair, smiled, clutching a flower Harry couldn’t identify. A sudden pang of longing gripped him, his heart constricting… they could have been so happy, if not for Harry Potter, if not for the prophecy, if not for the war. A ringing in his ears surged; he scratched his shoulder against his ear, as if to physically dispel it.Harry pressed onward through the living room, where furniture lay upturned and the fireplace choked with ash. A spiral staircase curled upward in the hall’s center, but his attention was drawn to bookshelves in what must have been Xenophilius Lovegood’s favored haunt. Feverishly, he searched for something belonging to the man whose passion for the peculiar was legendary. Clearly, Harry wasn’t alone in finding the Lovegoods odd. He recalled a conversation in the Burrow’s living room before a school year… the Lovegoods, Diggorys, Weasleys, and another family—whose name eluded him—lived in the same village. Everyone deemed the Lovegoods strange; their interests teetered on madness: magical creatures, forgotten artifacts, theories others dismissed as lunacy. It was from Luna’s father that Harry first learned of the Deathly Hallows, and the man had been proven right… Curiosity urged him to rummage through these shelves, perhaps to claim a few trophies for himself. Xenophilius had no use for them anymore.

The Death Eater sank to his knees, his trembling, thin, bony fingers sifting through books on toppled shelves. Secrets of Horned Serpents — tattered, adorned with sketches of snakes entwining beneath a moonlit sky. Wrackspurts: The Invisible Menace — a pamphlet scrawled with Xenophilius’s sharp, almost frantic notes, claiming these brain-munching creatures thrived in vast numbers within the Ministry.  His gaze fell upon a leather-bound volume, inexplicably heavy for its size and thickness, embossed with the title: The Moment That Erases All . Reaching for it, he opened it, and dust from yellowed pages swirled upward. Inside were illustrations and drafts of star charts, but not ordinary ones—constellations formed silhouettes of beings he’d never heard of: winged lions, shadow stags, twin-headed serpents. So Harry mused. This was a wizard’s treatise, and he couldn’t discern whether it was a fairy tale or merely a record of someone’s fevered dreams. Leaning his shoulder against a creaking wall, he read.

In a forgotten castle dwelt a witch, ancient as space itself,

whose hair grew not from skin,

but from the void—and it wove memories.

Each morning, she combed it,

and as she touched the tangled strands,

lovers perished, children suffocated, wars erupted,

and volcanoes spewed forth.

One day, a boy came to this castle—

the only one without a past, bearing not a single memory.

Death, long a resident of that castle, was enthralled.

In the end, she fell in love with him.

Death bestowed upon him her eternal gift:

she gave him everything.

But when the witch learned of this,

she was enraged—

and strangled the boy with her hair.

Death wept, bidding farewell to the boy,

and her tears flowed, crystallizing into veins of quartz—

found nowhere else.

At this point, the handwriting shifted; the ink turned red, and the sentences sprawled across two pages. These were not the author’s notes but handwritten commentary: The witch, in even greater fury, carved the boy’s face to punish Death. Yet the face endured, becoming a mask, and whoever wore it could speak with the voice of anyone Death had ever touched. But there is a condition: the more often you don the mask, the less you recall your own face.

Harry snapped the book shut and slipped it beneath his cloak, into his pocket, deftly tucking it into the transfigured purse—designed mainly for storing books. Absently, he wiped tears from his eyes with his sleeve, unaware of when his eyes had even begun to weep. He would examine the drawings later, at home. Did his starry sky hold such constellations, he wondered… or had he long gazed at patterns of his own invention, crafted to keep him from feeling alien beneath the true ones?

His gaze darted to a shelf where a scroll lay, bound with silver thread. Unfurling it, he found a map of Britain, but not an ordinary one: instead of towns, it marked “ley lines of magic,” places where, according to Xenophilius, “the earth breathes.” All of Ottery St. Catchpole was circled, annotated with a single word: “Here.” Harry tucked it away, his fingers trembling. Then he began snatching anything that caught his eye—books with vibrant covers or, conversely, those worn by time.

A wooden box, carved with spirals and half-buried under splintered shelf fragments, drew Harry’s attention. The Death Eater pried it open, revealing an amulet—silver, crescent-shaped, with a tiny crystal resembling celestial opal, glowing like moonlight. Etched on the box’s lid were the words: “For Luna.” Oh, how charming! Harry smiled, slipping the amulet into his pocket as a trophy. Nearby, on the floor, likely fallen from the same shelf, lay Xenophilius’s diary, dusted and damaged. Flipping through it, he found entries about meetings with the Order, Luna’s capture, and the Death Eaters’ invasion of the house. One line read: “They came…” before the words abruptly ceased. Certain images seemed to stir… something, faint emotions. But those signals flickered out at the edge of perception, fading before reaching his cortex. Oh, if he were near his star now—perhaps everything would collapse into that singular pull. Toward him. Toward something alive and his own… Instead, only glimmers remained within, fleeting frames of thought shifting like soap-bubble visions of Hogwarts and “them,” tinged with something alien, like the aftertaste of Skele-Gro on his tongue—too bitter to ignore, yet already coursing through him.

Surprisingly, Harry felt remarkably at ease, as if the room, with its enchanting secrets, paintings, and books, had soothed him, dampening his frenzied excitement. Or perhaps it was something else: fractured by multiple concussions, frontal lobe impairments, and pockets of PTSD, his mind had learned to find fleeting relief in action—in the simple ritual of doing. Well, he hadn’t found Luna, but he’d uncovered something else, now his own. The trophies Harry gathered were less proof of triumph than an internal prosthetic for missing stability—symbols of control amid chaos, which his brain, having lost clear boundaries between object and subject, compelled him to collect, much like a wandmaker in a frenzy hoards precious ingredients. Such behavior was an inevitable outcome of frontal dysregulation and survivor’s complex… yet there was an upside: it let him escape the weight of the past.

He stepped out of the house, and somewhere in the garden, bells chimed, as if heralding something…

They weren’t here. Harry stood with his hands clasped behind his back, peering into the silent fields—the horizon melted into the air, and his gaze grasped at emptiness, finding no anchor. His peers, those of his age—they surely weren’t alone now… or was there a chance they’d chosen to keep Nagini’s secret? No… There must be adults involved. McGonagall would be cautious. Harry fell into deep thought, his mental processes weaving neurons in the needed sequence, deftly navigating through memories. Indeed, he knew nothing of McGonagall, unlike Dumbledore—an image flared—swift as a photon veering off its intended path, and suddenly, before his eyes, the old man sat at his headmaster’s desk, a live Chocolate Frog squirming in his mouth, struggling to escape as he devoured it alive, his hands smeared with chocolate. Harry shrugged off the persistent ringing in his ears. Dumbledore, to be fair, had been Headmaster… Over the years, Harry had uncovered much about his past, but of McGonagall, he knew only that she was a professor. His face twisted as if he’d bitten into a peppermint sweet. Hmm, then there was Kingsley Shacklebolt. Harry had glimpsed him a few times, and during the Battle of Hogwarts, he’d proven himself a formidable wizard… perhaps he was making decisions now? Kingsley struck Harry as a fitting figure—someone gliding between the Ministry and the underground. If anyone was aiding them, it might be Kingsley, and in that case, the search should begin in London, at the Ministry of Magic… Kingsley had been an Auror once, hadn’t he? Harry thought he had dreamed of becoming one too... or had he? Strange... The thought sparked and vanished, like a star glimpsed only at its death—a light arriving too late to reveal anything.

Exactly… the Ministry! Voldemort hadn’t constrained him, hadn’t dictated where to go or how to search. Now, as a Death Eater, he could Apparate there, stride through corridors still lined with portraits of former Ministers, past the new statue of Magic Is Might , carved from black stone. He could hunt for records, rumors—anything pointing to Kingsley or McGonagall. Harry grinned at the visions he conjured, sketching scenarios: Ministry archives, the Auror Office, perhaps even the Minister’s office itself, where papers tied to Kingsley’s holdings might lie. Something intriguing could surely be found in the Minister’s office… after all, he’d infiltrated the Ministry illicitly more than once. Imagining himself visiting it for a purpose came easily. Especially since, in this guise—stooped, trembling, cloaked in another’s skin—Harry didn’t feel entirely himself, and that made him bolder, as if he were a ghost, a dead man no one would notice.

A sharp crack of Apparition, like the snap of breaking wood, shattered his thoughts. Harry instantly retreated into the shadow of a crumbling wall, his hand darting to the Invisibility Cloak tucked beneath his robes. Slipping it on, the fabric cascaded over his shoulders like a cool, silken stream, and he froze, standing nearly exposed at the house’s entrance. His heart thundered, yet a fierce certainty burned within him: the stars in his mind promised he’d remain unseen. A faint, cold breath brushed his ear, like a tender kiss. A ringing in his head. He didn’t cower or duck; his cloaked figure stood motionless, hands clasped behind his back as he assessed the situation. No longer was he the boy who checked every corner, who flinched at shadows trailing him—years ago, it seemed. Now he viewed the world differently, a shift so subtle he scarcely noticed it himself, as all things that become constant do. His poor mind, battered by relentless assaults from the world around its owner, seemed to have rewired itself: fear reflexes faltered, facial and bodily reactions to danger were severed before they could form. The adrenaline surge no longer signaled flight; instead, it fueled calculation… one might say, where once he froze to survive, now he froze to observe.

Three figures materialized at the hill’s base, their outlines sharpening in the dawn’s haze. Luna Lovegood, her pale hair fluttering, wore an odd cloak embroidered—likely by her own hand, without magic’s aid—with stars, her wide eyes fixed intently on her home. Beside her strode Hermione Granger, wand at the ready, her face taut but resolute, her wild, bushy hair tamed into a ponytail that barely restrained its chaotic curls. She looks so sad, Harry noted. The third figure was short, half-grey, clad in a tattered hat and spectacles. At first, he doubted his eyes—could this be the Charms professor from Hogwarts? But as the small figure moved closer to the house with surprising grace, Harry recognized him. Flitwick’s half-goblin—does that mean goblins are… partly in the Order? So short… half and partly in the Order? He pondered gravely, lifting his chin to gaze down at them. Were goblins also against Voldemort? How did they fare with the current Ministry? Harry knew nothing. The Death Eater observed, his breathing soft, nearly inaudible, but his mind spun, leaping from one thought to another. Why were they here? What did they seek? He immediately surmised Flitwick was their escort, suggesting something vital to Hermione… or, obviously, Luna. War forgave no recklessness, and Flitwick’s presence confirmed it. Harry didn’t even question Ron’s absence.

Harry frowned as Hermione drew nearly level with him. Motionless, he studied her face. Had she always been so… wretched? A sting pricked his eyes as tears welled, spurred by his thoughts, and he caressed his wand, unaware of how long he’d been clutching it. A roar in his mind—a voice, low, as if from the void itself… She needs help. Oh God, she’ll be so sad when she learns! 

Hermione, in turn, raised her wand, her voice sharp and steady: “Homenum Revelio,” she said, her eyes scanning the ruins. “No one.”

Flitwick nodded, his wand tracing a circle, a delicate silver thread of a spell weaving around the entrance, checking for curses. “Careful,” he cautioned, his voice high, distinctly goblin-like. “Death Eaters might have left traps. We’re only after Xenophilius’s records.”

Luna stepped forward, her movements so peculiar they seemed like a dance. She touched the wall, where spirals and stars, still visible beneath a layer of soot, adorned the stone. “Papa always hid important things in the library,” she said, her voice dreamy yet laced with an odd certainty. “He left notes, drawings, perhaps even a map.”

Hermione frowned, her fingers tightening around her wand. “Luna, we already know about the Hallows, and I hope what you’ve told us is truly important,” she said, her tone sharp but softening toward the end, tinged with a wistful note. “Ron and I—” Harry’s head snapped up, puzzled. She hadn’t mentioned him? “—we’ve figured that out. So, let’s grab your father’s tales and maps, as you say he made them, and leave quickly.”

Luna turned, her eyes glinting like moonlight. “Oh, Papa read far more than tales; there are many other artifacts,” she replied. “He wrote about how the Hallows are tied to the planet’s magic, to lines where stars touch the world. I’ll show you.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the word “lines” and, with a loud huff, turned away from Luna.

Harry narrowed his eyes, assessing those present. The roar in his mind faded. Why were they seeking Xenophilius’s records on the Hallows? Or had he misunderstood? His fevered, frenzied mind whirled around this enigma until he abruptly halted the cascade of thoughts. Raising his wand, his movement beneath the cloak fluid, he whispered a spell he’d read in a book on souls from the Black family library. “Sequor Anima” slipped from his lips—a charm that traced the movements of those it touched, leaving an invisible trail he could sense later. A silvery spark, visible only to Harry, brushed Luna, then Hermione, then Flitwick, before the spell dissolved.

The girls and the professor vanished into the shadowed hallway, their sounds echoing among the debris. Harry trailed them, absorbing their words and gestures as the earth drinks rain… His confidence in the Invisibility Cloak was almost tangible, as if he’d merged with the air, unseen even by those who knew him best. Death itself couldn’t find him… He paused near the entrance, where he had a clear view of the figures moving through the house’s space. Luna, Hermione, and Flitwick navigated, mostly among ravaged shelves, treading on scattered parchment, gravel fragments, and other refuse. Hermione sifted through books, her movements swift yet precise, as if searching for a needle in a haystack with exact knowledge of its location.

Flitwick, balanced on an overturned crate,waved his wand over the shelves, murmuring spells that made books quiver faintly but not rise. A few volumes eventually levitated toward him, and he caught them gracefully in his bag, like a net for insects. Luna’s pale hair swayed as she moved more slowly than her companions, her fingers sorting through the remnants of her home, as if listening to the house through her touch.

“Papa always said the important things are hidden where no one looks,” Luna said, her voice soft as a whisper of wind. She approached a corner where shattered shelf fragments lay in heaps, her eyes scanning the floor. “He loved boxes.”

Hermione glanced up, her brows knitting together, though she didn’t pause, flipping through the pages of a tattered tome. “Luna, we need his records, not… not boxes,” she snapped, then sighed. “If Xenophilius knew something unique and important, just give it to us. Luna, you said this was so urgent we barely had time to prepare.”

Flitwick coughed, drawing their attention. His wand stilled, and he looked at Luna, his gaze gentle but wary. “Miss Lovegood, I understand your intuition, but Miss Granger is right,Xenophilius’s records are our goal. If they point to… magical lines, ahem, or artifacts you say he discovered, tell us everything you know.”

Luna didn’t reply. Her fingers glided over the debris, and she knelt. She pushed aside a plank, and the Death Eater, concealed beneath his cloak, tensed, his breath catching. His eyes widened as he realized the girl now held the box where he’d found the crescent-shaped amulet. He slipped a hand into his pocket, confirming the amulet’s presence… Luna froze, her eyes narrowing, and she slowly glanced around, as if searching for something. Her fingers brushed the lid, and she opened it, her face growing graver than Harry had ever seen. The emptiness within the box seemed to speak louder than words, and she rose, her gaze still roving the room, as if unable to believe what she saw. “Someone was here recently,” she said quietly, her voice nearly a whisper, yet brimming with certainty. “Not Death Eaters. It would have been broken.”

Hermione turned, her wand rising as she stepped closer, her eyes darting to the corner. “Luna, are you sure?” she asked, her voice taut with genuine concern. “We checked with spells. There’s no one here.”

Flitwick leapt down from his crate, his wand sweeping in an arc, sending a subtle wave of magic rippling through the room like water. Harry smirked. Let them try. “No one,” the professor confirmed, though his gaze lingered on the box. “But if someone touched it… Miss Lovegood, why did you insist we come here now? Was there a reason?”

Luna met his eyes, their shine like stars in a moonlit night. “I felt it,” she said simply, as if that explained everything. “Papa said amulets keep us together. This one… it was for me. If it’s gone, someone knows about us.”

The Death Eater beneath the cloak didn’t stir, though his eyes narrowed at his deduction: had Luna sensed his touch on the amulet? No matter. He would track them, learn their destination, but keep his distance… he had a purpose… a soul. This thought, these images, like the cold gleam of a guiding star, pierced the fog of his fractured mind, leading him onward—not to a goal, but to an orbit around which his obsessive fixation revolved.

Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping, but she nodded. “Alright, Luna,” she said, her voice softening. “But let’s find the records...”

Flitwick raised a hand, “I’ve found something!” the half-goblin announced, diverting their focus as another hefty tome sailed toward the diminutive professor. He guided it into his bag with a flick of his wand, tied the knot, and cleared his throat before continuing. His voice was calm but carried authority. “We’ve also secured several scrolls and a few curious volumes—enough for today. It’s time to return… Tinworth awaits.” Flitwick glanced around suspiciously, as if sensing a cold, slender figure, dark as the void itself, watching them like an unseen, grim shadow. The professor yearned to leave this place swiftly. He couldn’t tell the students, but from the moment they arrived, he’d felt something… an icy dread that made his very being shrink with clammy terror.

Harry stood in awe at that moment, his fingers tightening around the wand beneath his cloak. Tinworth. The name echoed like the call of a distant lighthouse piercing the fog of his consciousness: oh, he knew that small town on England’s southern coast… he’d been there, as if in another life. Bill and Fleur… He recalled their wedding, the clamor, the laughter, and how it all collapsed when Death Eaters stormed in… so tragic. Could they be there, at Fleur’s estate? Dobbi was buried there… Tinworth was marked on Voldemort’s map with crosses, but without detail. He’d assumed the crosses meant they’d scoured the place and found nothing… yet, it seemed, Voldemort still didn’t know about Shell Cottage. Ha! He grinned, baring his front teeth in a feral smile.

Luna, Hermione, and Flitwick moved toward the exit, their footsteps resounding in the living room as the splintered wood of the ruined estate bore their weight. The Death Eater stepped back, letting them pass. His Invisibility Cloak brushed the wall like a shadow. They Disapparated with a crack, and Harry followed, utterly silent.

With a sound sharp as a gunshot, the trio appeared on the sandy shore by the sea, a stone cottage with two tall chimneys rising before them… Oh, Harry had hidden here mere months ago, spirited away from Malfoy Manor by Dobby! The Death Eater—stooped, with sparse, greasy hair plastered to his temples, skin glistening with sweat, lean shoulders quivering with a tremor—moved fluidly, shrouded by the Invisibility Cloak.

Harry fell into step beside the professor, walking precisely to Flitwick’s left. The diminutive man, grey strands escaping his tattered hat, adjusted his spectacles, his keen eyes darting in horror to where Harry trod. He wiped his brow nervously with his sleeve. Nearby, Hermione’s dark hair, gathered in a now-disheveled knot, swayed as her crumpled robes billowed in the wind. Luna, in a faded cloak embroidered with stars, gazed skyward as they approached the estate, clutching the box she’d taken from her home as if it were a treasure. To Luna, it likely was.

The silent, unseen figure’s feet moved alongside them, as if he were their shadow, their echo. The hidden man’s mind raced, cataloging every detail: the crunch of twigs beneath Hermione’s boots, Luna’s soft hum, Flitwick’s anxious glances as he gripped his wand… Harry noticed a change in the professor—his movements quickened, and his eyes, usually kind at school, now sparked with unease. He sensed something, perhaps Harry’s presence, settling like sediment on the sharp instincts of his goblin blood, leaving a trace Flitwick felt but couldn’t fully comprehend.

Oh, Harry was meticulous: he sidestepped every branch, watched his footing, believing he moved so deftly that even a Silencing Charm was unnecessary! His steps seemed nonexistent… His gaze shifted to Hermione, breaking his thoughts as they veered into another current: she and Ron were surely together… He recalled the three of them at the Three Broomsticks, and his eyes stung. He felt such sorrow for Hermione, erasing her parents’ memories—they could have had grandchildren! Harry turned his head forward, sensing the barrier of protective charms around Shell Cottage.

Frankly, Harry scarcely realized who he was following. The name—Hermione—surfaced like a faded label in an old black diary, carrying no meaningful weight… To him, she still registered as “friend,” but only in the same way as the others: a mere function of the past. They were friends of Harry Potter—the boy who died in some temporal rift… long ago. In the present, she simply occupied no cell in Harry Potter’s coordinate grid. He thought of her as one might a vanished constellation: with warmth, but without access or understanding. A vacuum stood between them—an utter absence of gravity. Harry didn’t draw near not because he couldn’t… but because he didn’t want to.

They approached closer, and the Death Eater trailed them, his Invisibility Cloak rustling softly, reassuring its wearer of complete safety. Harry crossed the barrier alongside them. His dull eyes, veiled by charms, bored into the backs of the hastening girls, now nearly at the cottage’s threshold. Hermione was speaking to Luna, her voice low but resolute, as if unraveling a puzzle. “…well, it’s theoretical, of course, and we don’t know what’s happening there. But it seems a brilliant opportunity if we want to avoid the Unforgivables,” her words reached him, and Luna nodded, her fingers twisting the box. The Death Eater glided behind, his presence cold, stalking their heels. His steps left no trace, his breath disturbed no air, yet he was there—invisible, silent, like a monster whose heart beats in time with its prey. Something in his wordless pursuit, in his unyielding stare, felt profoundly wrong…

At the manor’s threshold, the door flew open, and Fred and George Weasley burst out, their red hair blazing in the morning light like lions’ manes in fireglow. They reminded Harry of a decrepit Fawkes burning with a scream: the twins looked utterly exhausted. Their wands were poised, their usually mischievous faces taut, like soldiers’. Behind them emerged Ron, his lanky frame hunched, freckles stark against pale skin, blue eyes darting across the sandy shore where the four had appeared. His wand trembled, but his grip was firm. Seeing him, Harry felt nothing.

“The wards triggered,” Fred said. “Three people crossed the perimeter.” “But here’s the odd bit,” George added, his eyes narrowing as he raised a small copper device resembling a compass, its needle quivering. “Our invention’s picking up a fourth. Someone else is here, and they’ve got magic, or it wouldn’t have worked.”

Hermione frowned, whirling around as the twins’ words sank in, her dark brows knitting together. Luna tilted her head, as if listening to the wind. Flitwick stepped forward, his wand flickering as he whispered Homenum Revelio. The air shimmered, but only their figures registered… no other living presence. Ron muttered Revelio, his voice hoarse, stumbling slightly, yet the spell took hold. Fred and George waved their wands in unison, casting Protego Totalum. The charms hummed, weaving visible shields that enveloped the space.

The Death Eater, cloaked in invisibility, remained unseen. His heart pounded, the ringing in his ears swelling like waves crashing against cliffs. His mind clouded, as if shadows of the past—screams, blood, voids, darkness, despair—closed in around him… suddenly… “The boy must die,” Dumbledore says to Snape, his lips slick with melted chocolate, brown smears clinging to his beard like dried blood… Harry felt his body tremble, not merely from the tremor of his disguise, but from something deeper, as if he were again that boy who always got it wrong, who failed at what mattered most…Why hadn’t he saved anyone?

His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving unevenly, like a drowning man gulping air devoid of oxygen. His palms spasmed, covering his face, fingers digging into the skin, clutching tightly as if to claw away the remnants of his own identity—erased, tainted, loathed features. A thought emerged in his mind, slow as a creeping discharge: Chosen One! Of course, it would come to this—only pain, only accusing stares, only a chorus of voices listing the fallen, the children buried beneath Hogwarts’ rubble. And again, his duty. He must act! He… But then… a flash.His mind, with the exquisite precision of a tortured psyche, detached from the catastrophe.That boy was gone. Or never real. Or something like that. Not all was lost. Now he was beyond reach. He could vanish, like mist on a frosty morning. Harry lifted his head and stepped back, poised to Disapparate, his eyes already trembling with anticipation—for, despite everything, he had completed his task! He would report to Voldemort… But he froze as Hermione suddenly lowered her wand. Her face, bathed in morning light, was taut, yet a spark flared in her eyes, as if puzzle pieces had clicked together in her mind. Her lips quivered, and she shouted, her voice bright and resonant as a bell: “Harry!” Ron flinched, his eyes widening, staring at the girl as if she’d spoken in Parseltongue. Then his face lit up, and he yelled, his voice hoarse with hope: “Harry! It’s you, isn’t it? You’re under the cloak?”

The Death Eater felt his chest constrict, as if the air had turned to glass, shredding his lungs. A roar? No… a slick, glutinous groan — not heard, but felt — as if something immense and ancient dragged its tendrils through his mind, freezing everything it touched… I’ll help… He saw their faces as if peering from darkness: Hermione, gazing at him with understanding, reaching out as if to embrace; Ron, freckles framing his face, lips pressed tight as if fighting tears; Fred and George, their smiles masking boundless respect… They were here, right now! Alive, in the flesh, but he couldn’t be with them. I’m sorry… Void. He saw them now through a haze, like an old film marred by time’s mildew. In truth, his sorry wasn’t about choices. It was neither apology nor remorse. It was a sorry uttered as a diagnosis: pity that he’d been a child. Pity it wasn’t then. Pity it was too late. Pity it was him. His thoughts weren’t rational. They weren’t built on logic—rather, on a fractured inner topography. The world had ceased to be symmetrical… not yet, not quite symmetrical… His stars—goals, ideals, hopes—lay beyond this sector of existence. These people, these voices, these bodies—they anchored him to a point where he’d already died. He looked at them as a surgeon might an excised organ: with acknowledgment, with respect—but with no intent to restore it...

Harry gripped his wand, resolving something within himself, a tremor rippling through his arms like an echo of his decision. But at that moment, a cry—laced with alarm—rang from the house. Ginny Weasley burst onto the threshold, her red hair blazing like a sunset, brighter even than the twins’, her green eyes burning.  Her robe was torn at the sleeve, and her face, usually defiant, was pale, betraying her frail state: “Everyone, inside!” she shouted, her voice quivering yet firm. “The radio’s about to broadcast an important Ministry announcement!”

Hermione turned, her brows knitting together again. She scanned the shore once more before heading toward the house, followed by Luna. The half-goblin professor cast a few more detection spells, glancing suspiciously around as if convincing himself of something, then entered as well. Ron lingered longest, his eyes still searching the space, but then he too moved toward the threshold, muttering under his breath. His head was bowed, eyes half-closed, as if steeped in profound sorrow.

Harry vanished the instant Hermione crossed into the house, his form dissolving into the air without a trace. Those who followed her inside silently, in unison, touched a chessboard resting inconspicuously on the edge of a coffee table by the wall—a Portkey disguised as a wooden game, missing a pawn. In the next moment, the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix were whisked to safety, transported to their true sanctuary.

Notes:

I think I’ve now laid down the axis of Harry’s current behaviour clearly enough — so I won’t be circling back to over-explain it. I’ve chosen to show his stance towards his friends early on, so that we’re all on the same page moving forward...poor Harry... he can’t afford to wait anymore :(
+When I showed this bit to a friend, they thought the “mask” was literal — like an actual magical artefact.
Just to clarify: I like metaphors...

Chapter 18

Inside the living room of the temporary refuge, which Fred and George fondly dubbed the “rebels’ hideout,” the fireplace crackled softly. Tension hung thick in the air, heavy as smoke, and every sound—the creak of floorboards, the rustle of robes, the snap of burning logs—seemed louder than usual.

Hermione stood by the hearth, twisting a strand of hair around her finger, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. Ron paced the room, his blue eyes darting from wall to wall, thoughts churning with agitation. Luna perched on the sofa, turning her box over in her hands, her gaze dreamy yet attentive, fixed on some distant point. Her mind didn’t so much think as weave a kaleidoscope of images, captured in fleeting moments by her unique consciousness, though she couldn’t always articulate them clearly.

By the door, Fred and George Weasley stood as if guarding the entrance. George still clutched the copper device resembling a compass, its needle rattling furiously in his hand. Fred, arms crossed, gazed at it with a pensive expression mirroring his twin’s. Flitwick positioned himself at the window, his spectacles glinting in the firelight, wand at the ready. He scanned the street outside with unease, searching for that elusive something even in the shadows of corners. In the room’s darker recesses, Neville and Ginny lingered, the latter lost deep in her own thoughts. Charlie was elsewhere, with Kingsley, Bill, and Fleur, seeking news of Percy.

At the room’s center, hunched over an old radio receiver—its wooden casing scratched, its dials coated in dust—stood Molly Weasley. Once warm and vibrant, she now seemed a dim reflection of herself. Her once-rosy skin had paled, a hint she rarely saw sunlight, and her hands, accustomed to knitting and cooking, trembled as she twisted the dial, struggling to tune in a clearer signal. Occasionally, she muttered curses under her breath when the frequency eluded her. Beside her sat Arthur Weasley, utterly still in contrast: the back of his head caught a faint gleam from the fire, his glasses had slipped traitorously down his nose, as if they, too, were weary of holding on. Yet his expression was grave, brows knitted sternly as he awaited the announcement.

The radio crackled suddenly, and a voice—smooth and measured—burst into the room, drowning out the fireplace’s murmurs. It was the voice of Pius Thicknesse, Minister for Magic:

“Good morning, magical community!

“Today, pursuant to Decree No. 27/A* on the Protection of the Cultural Integrity of Magical Heritage, new preventative measures come into effect.

“Henceforth, in accordance with the Resolution on the Recognition of the Destructive Influence of Familial Clans and Ideological Formations ,Section IV, Article 9, the following individuals and their immediate bloodlines are designated as agents of malignant magical corruption. Their names: Ronald Weasley, Ginevra Weasley, Molly Weasley, born Prewett, Arthur Weasley, Fred and George Weasley, Charles Weasley, Percy Weasley, William Weasley, Hermione Granger, Neville and Augusta Longbottom, Luna Lovegood, Muriel Prewett, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minerva McGonagall, Hestia Jones, Fleur Isabelle Weasley, born Delacour.

“The aforementioned individuals and their kin have been entered into the Unified Registry of Anomalous Behavioral Units (URABU), assigned the status of magical renegades of the first category, and classified as ‘agents of deleterious influence.’

“As of this moment:

“All property, movable and immovable—including magical artifacts, financial assets held in Gringotts, books, and familial heirlooms—is subject to complete nationalization and transfer to the Fund for Strengthening Public Stability.

“All registered wands owned by the named individuals are to be disabled under the ‘Project Silence’ initiative. Any attempt to use magic will be deemed a terrorist act, resulting in immediate loss of rights.

“Pets, magical creatures, and Muggle-derived technologies belonging to these persons are subject to mandatory confiscation and redistribution to licensed Ministry institutions.

“Access to Portkeys, Floo Powder, and other forms of teleportation is restricted. Movements of those designated as agents of deleterious influence are now subject to mandatory oversight, per Decree No. 27/MM on ‘Transpersonal Transparency,’ ratified by the Council for Magical Security at an emergency session on the 27th of this month. Under the ‘Echelon’ project, developed in collaboration with the Department for Oversight of Muggle Technologies, all attempts at unauthorized relocation will be automatically blocked, with violators detained immediately.

“They are prohibited from teaching, publishing, public speaking, participating in gatherings, or disseminating magical information of any kind. Letters, owls, and communication methods are subject to interception.

“All individuals associated with the aforementioned persons through professional or personal ties are temporarily reclassified as ‘observed persons,’ pending evaluation of their loyalty.

“A magical curfew is instituted in the residential areas of these individuals. From 9:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m., wand usage in these territories will be equated to acts of sabotage.”

The Minister paused. When he spoke again, his voice took on a peculiar tenderness:

“These measures are not aimed against citizens; we strive to protect the magical community. We do not persecute based on lineage—we respond to their choices. Those you once knew as friends or neighbors have committed something egregious against our society: they have embarked on a path of destruction, rejected the values of our world, and become instruments of external influence. We did not choose this path for them—they have forsaken the boundaries of trust within the magical community.

“Remain vigilant. Remain loyal. Magic lies in unity. May order be with you.”

Silence fell. Ron was the first to break it.

“What did he say?”

Molly gasped, straightening beside the table, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, darted to Arthur, whose fury seemed to scorch the radio, as if his glare alone could reduce it to ash.

Arthur broke the silence next, whispering “Lumos” to test the Minister’s claims. The tip of his wand remained dark. His brows furrowed so fiercely they shifted his glasses, his face contorting with raw anger. Molly, trembling, pointed her wand at the table and muttered “Accio,” but nothing stirred. She turned to Arthur, horror in her eyes.

“They… they’ve taken our magic… how can this…?” Hermione whispered, her voice faltering as she twisted her hair around her finger. She gripped her wand tighter in her other hand, as if sheer will could force it to function, but it lay lifeless, its magic no longer lingering within. She felt its absence keenly.

“This is worse than arrest,” Fred growled, his voice low and seething with fury.

“How is this even possible?!” George chimed in, his tone equally incensed.

“How dare they? Aunt Muriel too… they named her as well…” Molly pressed a handkerchief to her face, dabbing at tear-damp eyes. She gazed at her sons, her husband, the other children… her eyes swept the room, fists clenching as she brooded over something unspoken.

“Damn the Ministry!” George spat, hurling the brass device that had held his attention until the Minister’s announcement onto the floor. “They think they can ban us from everything?”

Molly suddenly erupted: “Let them all rot in Tartarus, those cursed bastards!” The Weasleys froze for a moment, stunned by such an outburst from the usually composed Mrs. Weasley.

Flitwick shifted in his chair with a low, despairing groan, his small hands clutching his wand. His name hadn’t been mentioned. “This… it’s unthinkable. They’re controlling the very essence of our existence…”

Luna, still turning her box in her hands, lifted her gaze. “Magic isn’t just in wands. They can’t take everything. The magic remains.”

Her words were drowned in the rising tide of emotions. Ron slammed his fist against the wall, his face flushed with rage. “We’ve got to get out of here! The coast’s patrolled nearly every day, and now they’ll strip everything! They know the estate’s there—they just can’t see it yet! We need to leave now, or someone’s bound to find us!”

“Ron, quiet,” Arthur said calmly, his glasses glinting as he surveyed the group, assessing those present. “We need to acquire new wands. They’ll be inferior, not perfectly matched, but better than nothing.”

Molly nodded, her face resolute as she tightly clasped Arthur’s hand resting on the table. Fred and George exchanged glances, faint smiles flickering across their faces. Flitwick muttered something under his breath, adjusting his spectacles while still clutching his wand as if it were a priceless relic.

“They’ll lose,” Arthur declared firmly.

A momentary silence settled over the room, like the faint midday breeze drifting beyond the cottage windows, cradling the world in its briny embrace. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting glimmers on peeling, dust-laden wallpaper and the old radio in the corner, long silent yet still holding the echo of the Minister for Magic’s cursed proclamation. Cold seeped through cracks in the walls, settling on the shoulders of those gathered, and even the flames couldn’t dispel the clammy sense of… uncertainty.

Arthur Weasley rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate, almost as if in slow motion, as the chair scraped across the floor. His glasses glinted again in the firelight, reflecting tongues of flame. His gaze swept the room, lingering on each person present… it paused on Fred and George, and when they noticed, their expressions hardened. Arthur squinted slightly, as if weighing them in his mind, making a decision.

“Well, then,” he said at last, his voice steady and resolute. “We need to act. Fred, George, you’re coming with me. We need unregistered wands, and we can’t waste time. There are a few places in Tinworth where we might find at least a couple.”

Fred nodded, his eyes flashing. He straightened, brushing off invisible dust, and said curtly:

“We’re ready, Dad.”

George stood next, his long fingers, which had gripped the brass device—their latest invention, now useless on the floor—reaching into his robe’s inner pocket to grasp a vial containing someone’s hair. “Time to show those bastards the Weasleys don’t go down easily.”

Arthur gave a faint smile, the corners of his mouth twitching, though his gaze remained steely. He turned to Molly, standing beside him. Her eyes still shimmered with unshed tears, but she lifted her chin sharply, a wordless gesture of agreement. Molly gave her husband a brief, firm nod. Arthur returned it, then faced his sons. The three Weasleys—father and two sons—headed toward the door to the storeroom, where they would brew Polyjuice Potion for their venture into the village, a place where wizards had lived quietly alongside Muggles for years. As they left, cloaked in hoods for added cover, their footsteps echoed in the silence, each sound underscoring the gravity of the moment, until the door slammed shut behind them with a dull thud, severing them from the others.

The silence returned, but it was different now — taut, quivering, like the air before a storm. All eyes darted about the room, seeking comfort in familiar faces. Neville Longbottom, seated in the darkest corner on an old chair with frayed upholstery, rose suddenly, revealing himself to the group. His round face was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light. He swallowed hard, clenched his fists to still the trembling in his fingers, and stepped forward. When he spoke, his voice quavered, yet it carried a controlled certainty:

“Hermione,” he began, fixing his gaze on her, “you remember what Harry told us, don’t you? How he pulled the Sword of Gryffindor from the Sorting Hat in his second year, right?”

Hermione, still clutching her useless wand, lifted her eyes. Her dark brows knitted in thought, but she nodded.

“Yes, Neville. He told us. The Hat gave him the sword when he was in the Chamber of Secrets. When he was in danger.”

Neville took another step, his eyes flickering across the faces of those present — Ron, Luna, Flitwick, Molly, and Ginny — as though searching for support he dared not ask for outright. He drew a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. This wasn’t new — he and Hermione had discussed it a day ago, but she had shown little interest. Now, he resolved to bring it into the open, before them all, to find backing. If they didn’t act now, tomorrow could be worse! Neville had been thinking about this for a week, or thereabouts. And he had been right… their wands had been taken! His grandmother’s possessions had been confiscated! Neville refused to entertain the thought that Augusta might be dead…

“I think…” His voice faltered, but he pressed on stubbornly. “I think we should try. We talked about it, Hermione, remember? What if the Hat can still summon the sword? We know the Sword of Gryffindor can destroy Horcruxes — it absorbed the basilisk’s venom. We could also try going back to the dungeons where the Basilisk was killed, Ron, maybe you could manage it?” Neville glanced at Ron, who nodded firmly, his brows drawn together. “If we can get it… if the Hat is truly as magical as they say… maybe it’ll give us the sword again? And… and we won’t just have a trap—” Neville gestured toward the room where potions and the twins’ latest invention for capturing Nagini were stored—“the Sword of Gryffindor would work, one hundred percent.”

The words hung in the air. The room grew quiet — so quiet that the crackling of the fire and the faint wind battering the windowpanes were all that could be heard. Luna Lovegood, sitting cross-legged on the floor, absently twisting her keepsake box from home, lifted her gaze. Her pale eyes gleamed like stars in a midnight sky, and she spoke softly, yet with conviction:

“The Hat is magical. It always knows what’s needed. Perhaps it’s waiting for someone worthy.”

Professor Flitwick, small and fragile in his oversized armchair, adjusted his spectacles on the tip of his nose and nodded.“The Sorting Hat is one of Hogwarts’ most enigmatic artefacts,” he said. “It doesn’t merely sort students — it holds the magic of the Founders. If it gave the sword to young Harry once, it may well do so again. But that person must be truly exceptional…”

Ron, still leaning against the wall, ran a hand through his dishevelled red hair. His face was grim, the shadows under his eyes making him appear older than his years, but at Flitwick’s words, an unfamiliar spark flickered in his gaze.“That’s all well and good,” he said, “but how do we get it? Hogwarts is crawling with Death Eaters. Oh, and we don’t have wands. They’re not going to leave the Hat lying about or wrap it up with a bow like a present…”

Hermione frowned, her fingers nervously tugging at the hem of her sleeve. She had already been pondering this — maybe they could get some basilisk venom after all… if Ron somehow managed…

“We could sneak in,” she said at last, her voice quiet but resolute. “We’ll go through the Hog’s Head. We still have samples from the Death Eaters.”

Neville nodded, his expression growing determined, almost stern. He straightened, and in that moment, something new shone through him, something that filled his entire being with pride.

“If it comes to it, I’m ready,” he said, and there was no tremor in his voice. “If there’s even the slightest chance the Hat can help us, we have to try. We can’t just sit here and watch the world fall apart! This is all wrong!”

Molly, still standing by the fireplace, wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She had been mulling something over and, at last, reached a decision:

“You’re right, my boy. We can’t wait.” She made to flick her wand to summon a Patronus to send to Minerva, but let out a defeated gasp when nothing happened. Molly rose, striding toward the room where the owl perched, resolved to take the risk and send a letter… the poor feathered creature could use another potion to make it look less like an owl.

-

Hermione sat on the tattered sofa, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her robe, her lip bitten so hard that a faint red mark lingered. Her gaze was fixed on the flickering glow of the dying embers in the fireplace, but she saw no fire — her mind replayed the moment they had Apparated to their safehouse… when she had thought it was him . Harry. She was certain now that it had been him, beneath the Invisibility Cloak, for the twins’ invention shared the same magic as her and McGonagall’s map. She had traced the magic. Hermione glanced at the shattered device, abandoned by its creator on the floor. The bent needle could no longer move, but its faint rattling suggested it was still frantically trying… Harry hadn’t spoken.

Why didn’t he show himself? she wondered, her thoughts racing to find an answer. She knew Harry so well, didn’t she? They were friends… A bitter pang, raw and hollow, surged within her — as though someone had scooped out all the warmth inside. She felt betrayed, forsaken, despite being surrounded by dear, familiar faces. Her heart clenched, as if squeezed by an invisible hand. She recalled how Harry had looked when she and Ron found him in the Great Hall… whatever he had learned from Snape’s memories must have been monstrous. Then he had resolved to leave, and he hadn’t gone to Voldemort, as the Dark Lord had demanded…

Hermione closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting back to the years that had shaped Harry. Their first year at Hogwarts… He had been so small, so lost. She had only wanted to be his friend — at first, out of curiosity, having read about Harry Potter. But then she realized that Harry was the kindest, most genuine,and most sunny-hearted person she had ever met. Back then, she hadn’t known about his life with his relatives. The newspapers claimed Harry was a spoiled boy, a celebrity… What a cruel lie that had been. She wanted to be near him — not as the “Boy Who Lived,” but simply as… Harry.

He had saved her in that bathroom, risking everything… By the end of their first year, he had faced Voldemort himself. They had gone through trials together, but in the end, he was alone… alone . She remembered how he spoke of the Mirror of Erised — of parents he had never known. Hermione pressed a hand to her chest, feeling another stab of anguished longing. He had been only eleven… And how he had lain in the hospital wing, so tiny, as though swallowed by the bed. She viewed that memory now through adult eyes, and her heart could scarcely bear it. Dumbledore had said Harry’s memory of that final hour was gone… that Professor Quirrell had burned alive. Their second year — Harry, a twelve-year-old boy who had only known magic for a year: the Chamber of Secrets, whispers that he was Slytherin’s heir, hearing things no one else could, fear in his friends’ eyes, distrust in the gazes of every house… faces turning away. He had been poisoned by basilisk venom! Harry had been ready to die. He had told her how terrified he’d been in those pipes, surrounded by bones. Yet Harry endured. Then came Sirius, the Tournament, the battle at the Ministry… the arch… the Horcruxes. As memories flowed through her, Hermione’s analytical mind pieced together the puzzle. When the picture was complete, she let her lips fall, her face contorting into a silent, raw grimace of sobbing.

Every year, Harry had fought so hard for them all… since he was eleven. Such a small boy, and yet he had saved her, saved Ginny, tried to save everyone… but he couldn’t save his godfather. No one had helped him with that. Each summer, he returned not to a home, but to a cell… where windows bore bars and doors held locks. His punishment was called a “break.” Cedric had died in his arms… And though Harry always rose, always pressed forward, it didn’t mean he was whole. Those wounds could not heal. Harry was only human. Only a boy. Everything he had endured piled up, pressed down… and at its climax, it became something that took control of him. He had carried too much, for too long. Hermione imagined him standing nearby, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak… and not stepping forward. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t .

The realization struck her, but it only deepened her pain. Harry always took everything upon himself, always believed his burden was his alone. But now that he was gone, he didn’t know how to stop. How to return. Her fingers tightened around the wand that had fallen into her lap. She loathed this feeling — helplessness in the face of her best friend’s pain. Her cheeks were already red and swollen, though she wept silently, her throat unable to produce a sound beyond:

“Harry…” she whispered, so faintly that her words drowned in the room’s low hum. She lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with heavy tears. “I’m sorry…”

Ron, who had been discussing something with Neville, fell silent and turned to her, his brows furrowed. When he saw Hermione crying, he leapt up and sat heavily beside her, wrapping his arms around her and letting her bury her face in his chest. She no longer held back. Professor Flitwick cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles.

“Hermione… what’s wrong?” Ron asked, his voice soft and gentle. He smoothed her hair with his hand.

Hermione took a shuddering breath and pulled away from Ron, wiping her eyes with the inside of her palm. She shook her head and wiped her face again, this time with the sleeve of her robe.

“It was him. On the coast. I know it. But he didn’t come to us because… because he thinks he has to be alone. That it’s better for us. Ron, we have to find him.”

Her words lingered like an incantation — deft, precise, and potent even without a wand. In that moment, Hermione was unchanged: steadfast, unwavering, a force poised to stare into the void if it meant dragging her friend back. To help him. Ginny sat with her arms crossed, pointedly turning toward the fireplace, finding the embers there remarkably fascinating. Fresh tears glistened on her cheeks.

Flitwick cleared his throat again, his voice trembling as he spoke:

“Miss Granger, I don’t mean to alarm you, but that wasn’t a person following us. I sensed it back at the Lovegoods’ estate — something dark, viscous, dreadful, like a shadow clinging to our world.”

The tension in the room thickened. “A ghost?” Ron whispered softly, though a playful smile flickered on his face.

“Perhaps,” Flitwick murmured, deep in thought, “but it felt… ancient, malevolent. Like something from an abyss, watching…”

“Blimey, as long as it’s not Professor Binns,” Ron quipped again, trying to lighten the mood.

Neville, Hermione, and Luna let out quiet laughs, but the professor’s unease lingered. Of course, he was only part-goblin, but his instincts were keener than those of any ordinary human. They had been a hair’s breadth from death.

Chapter 19

Tinworth still pulsed with a collective consciousness, as though it were a single neuron plagued by the illusion of consensus. But Harry… Harry had already slipped beyond its orbit. Oh, he had broken free from the gravitational pull, like a tiny satellite ensnared by a stronger force. He had fulfilled his mission — and therein lay his personal gospel! He always fulfilled it! Harry himself didn’t notice that the whispers of mania in his ears were not inspiration but his hippocampus pressing against his visual cortex, flooding it with dopamine in celebration of yet another act of control… Oh, how glorious he felt, so much so that even the walls of Malfoy Manor no longer seemed so loathsome! He was lucky — and that meant he was right. For when a hallucination aligns with reality, it becomes a strategy, does it not?

Harry Apparated to the corridor leading to the great hall.Portraits of Malfoys gazed down at him with haughty disdain, their whispers barely concealed as they remarked on his slouched, unkempt appearance and altogether wretched countenance. He had not yet shed the guise of the lanky, greasy-haired man. Harry moved as though a spectre gliding through the air, his hunched silhouette trembling with a faint tremor that had become second nature. His mind blazed — feverish, unmoored. He had completed the task faster than even Lord Voldemort himself could have imagined! He did not move like a living soul — but like the consequence of an event, driven toward a purpose… A green flash flickered before his eyes once more, like a signal or some primal premonition.

The hall loomed before him. In a corner lay a figure, and by their state, Harry instantly surmised the Death Eater was dead. Upon a black throne, as though seated at the gravitational heart of this architectural galaxy, presided the Dark Lord. The ebony velvet upholstery seemed to devour light, while the skin of his hands, in stark contrast, reflected it in a spectrum of merciless white radiance, like a supernova against the backdrop of annihilation. Long, flawless, elegant fingers glided over the scales of Nagini’s head, her sinuous body coiled around the throne’s base, her head resting upon his knees. The serpent, the final Horcrux, languidly raised her gaze as she noticed the newcomer. Divine.

Harry Potter, concealed beneath the guise of a Death Eater, exhaled as though he had just finished a long sprint. Had he been running? His mind? Oh, how it was enveloped by this magic! Or were these the symptoms of his mania? It scarcely mattered when the feelings, the sensations, made his entire being tremble, his organs — his heart chief among them — surge and race! Not from fear, but from a rhythm that propelled him forward, like the hidden pulse of a black hole — the call of mass without voice, the song of singularity thrumming in his blood. He sank to his knees, the black hood slipping lower, shrouding his dull eyes — a curtain of cosmic night, veiling the light of long-dead stars. His voice broke into one long, tremulous breath, laden with awe and reverence:

“My Lord,” he uttered, bowing his head lower still. Oh, let it be so, and may the word, the phrase, slice through space, embedding itself in the living flesh of reality! Just a little more…

Voldemort, like an angel cast out before his creation, lifted his eyes with cold indifference, tearing his gaze from snake. His voice was a whisper, a hiss akin to Nagini’s own:

“You have returned. What have you brought me?”

Harry held his breath, his lips twitching into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. His heart quickened, two stars in his mind spiralling in a merciless dance of converging orbits, drawing closer with ferocious speed. The pressure in his skull thrummed, stung, as though his blood vessels might burst under the fury of this frenzied pulse! Oh, he had fulfilled the task — tracked down the hiding place of Harry Potter’s friends, just as he had promised the Dark Lord, playing the part of a faceless shadow, a servant of the Dark Lord… Weeks of solitude in that wretched hostel — vile filth, endless nights, Muggles, emptiness… inaction… h𝙖rr𝘆 p͘͢͟͟ot̷t̷͞e͡͞͠r … all of it dissolved in this moment. Now he felt alive, needed. Euphoria crashed over him like a wave, a manic clarity, a shift of consciousness, and reverence for his own role… the point where two worlds intersected, Voldemort and he — a singularity fused in an infinite paradox, where death was merely the dawn of a new form of life… just a little more…

“I found them, my Lord,” Harry said softly. “I found the hiding place of Potter’s friends.”

Voldemort straightened, lifting his chin, his fingers freezing on Nagini’s scales. His eyes flared, widened. A trace of disbelief flickered in his voice:

“What?” he asked again. “It’s been only half a day. How could you have found them so quickly?”

Oh, by Merlin, this moment — Harry smirked, a tremor rippling through his arms. He licked the thin line of his lips. He hadn’t lied. He knew how to seek and stalk — the Invisibility Cloak, Polyjuice Potions, years of evading death, evading Voldemort, had made him a master of shadows! He had infiltrated the Ministry, survived the Triwizard Tournament, endured the battle with the Basilisk… He knew how to track — thanks to Dumbledore, when he hunted Horcruxes, destroying his own soul… The Headmaster, smeared with chocolate, chasing yet another lively Chocolate Frog that darted away from him. Now Harry imagined his soul — scarred, shrivelled, wounded — stitching itself back together, coming alive like a reanimated corpse under the assault of unnatural impulses. This was more than mere success — it was triumph, proof… The Boy Who Found. The key to the fracture resonated with some unknown matter, and in the delicate pause between words, the space around them vibrated, as though strings stretched to their breaking point, ready to snap and spark the first ember of a new world… just a little more…

“I told you, my Lord,” he said, his voice low, laced with a confidence he rarely allowed himself. “I know how to hide and how to track. They didn’t see me, didn’t hear me. But I know where they are.”

Voldemort nodded, his fingers resuming their glide over Nagini’s scales, but his gaze remained piercing, though less tinged with distrust, holding something unreadable:

“Where are they?”

Harry bowed his head and spoke evenly:

“At Fleur Delacour’s estate, hidden by a Secret, my Lord. Near the coast, in Tinworth, Cornwall.”

Voldemort stilled. His mind instantly turned to the Delacour line — cursed traitors! According to all Ministry records, that harlot had married one of the red-haired vermin, and by their declarations, the land on Tinworth’s coast belonged to them. Yet no house had been found there… Clearly, a Fidelius Charm, but his Death Eaters scoured that place regularly. He had ordered them never to leave the area unguarded, ensuring at least one patrol remained! Just as he had done with that… estate in Islington, reported by Yaxley… His followers were ever-present there! And then there were Xenophilius’s oaths… no, those had been lies; they hadn’t found even a trace! Voldemort himself had sifted through the fabric of the coastline’s magic, commanding daily patrols of the area! His paranoia stirred anew: Betrayal? A trap? No one had seen so much as an Apparating figure in that region, despite Xenophilius’s sworn claims. Was there a liar among his trusted Death Eaters? Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, his voice turning razor-sharp:

“We have scoured Tinworth. There is nothing there. They built no manor.”

Harry, as though anticipating the doubt, pressed on swiftly, as if he had “read” Voldemort’s thoughts, though in truth he merely described what he had seen:

“They have an estate, Shell Cottage, concealed by a Fidelius Charm, with William Weasley as its Secret-Keeper. Regrettably, I couldn’t obtain a written address, my Lord. But those I tracked were hiding in the area marked on the map. I followed them, overheard their conversations… though I could not see the house itself.”

Voldemort fell silent, his fingers releasing Nagini’s head. Astonishment wrestled with disbelief. His paranoia hissed of treachery, serpentine and insidious, yet curiosity tipped the scales… A vision flashed before him, a spark of his own madness: green eyes hidden behind spectacles, a foolish chuckle spilling from those lips… The boy had been hiding under his nose all this time, in the house of those filthy Weasleys, and he hadn’t found him? Impossible. Voldemort raised his chin once more, Nagini slithering higher to coil about her master’s form, and his voice rang with authority:

“Show me,” he commanded, his hand extending forward — a god, a Caesar, pronouncing judgment upon the fates of a Roman dominion, his benevolence poised to deliver death should disappointment follow.

Harry froze. He didn’t grasp what was being asked of him. The Dark Lord remained still, with Nagini still staring intently at him… Harry awaited a command, some action, but Voldemort merely tilted his head and continued softly:

“Come closer,” he said quietly, “and look into my eyes.”

A green flash flickered before Harry’s eyes. He rose. He’ll know everything , a thought darted through his mind, weightless in its fleeting mass. Yet his legs carried him forward of their own accord. He sank to his knees at Voldemort’s feet. A liturgy. Was he only truly alive at the precipice of destruction? Lifting his head, Harry met those red eyes, his own gaze trembling.

Voldemort slipped into his mind with ease, like a blade slicing through soft fabric. Harry didn’t resist — he tried to focus only on what was needed, opening a memory: how he had stalked Hermione, Ron, Luna, and Flitwick, remaining unseen; the beach, where he had watched the house… which he saw in his mind’s eye! Damn it! He was a fool! Voldemort glimpsed it, his eyes flaring for a moment, and he abruptly withdrew from Harry’s mind, as though stumbling upon something unexpected.

Harry lowered his head, a tremor coursing through his body once more. Voldemort sat in silence, gazing thoughtfully into the void. This minion… reminded him of someone. Did one of his traitorous followers have a more intriguing past than he knew? The Dark Lord lifted his eyes, his voice soft but tinged with curiosity:

“Are you of the Prince line? Or related to Severus for… some other reason?”

“Wha—?” The word slipped from Harry before his beleaguered mind could intervene. His eyes widened in shock. The question caught him off guard, and he scrambled for an answer. “My apologies, my Lord, I… er… don’t know who that is,” he managed, struggling not to laugh.

Voldemort regarded him with the expression of an alchemist handed dung instead of the Philosopher’s Stone. His lips curled into a grimace of disgust as he prepared to speak:

“I have seen such Occlumency shields only once before,” he said slowly, as though tasting the dung itself. “With Severus,” he spat. “I taught him that art myself. But you… your barriers are even stronger. That is impressive.”

Harry straightened, barely suppressing a hysterical laugh as, in his mind, a dishevelled pixie cackled: “Well, who’d have thought!” It was his father’s voice, an image torn from Snape’s memories: “Snivellus,” James Potter added with relish, “greasy bat, the boy’s even better than you! Ha!”

Harry felt his pulse quicken, his breath catching. Voldemort hadn’t seen anything more — and he had praised him! He had missed this feeling so desperately, and to be honest, praise from the lips of the Darkest wizard felt so monumental that Dumbledore’s approval seemed trivial and insignificant by comparison. A scream — no, a woman’s shriek — pierced his ears. Harry shook his head against his shoulder to banish the intrusive noise.

“My Lord, I tracked down Harry Potter’s friends. Allow… allow me to ask a question.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow slightly. He permitted a flicker of surprise to cross his face… Betrayal.

“Ask,” he said, a hint of curiosity threading through his tone. Nagini stirred on his lap, coiling higher around the throne’s back.

Harry swallowed and smiled… On a single breath, he murmured, like a wanderer who had stumbled into the hall of a god whose name he had long ceased to believe in:

“What do you want with Harry Potter?” he asked, striving to keep his voice steady, but something strange bled through, something Voldemort noticed — not mere fear, typical of a Death Eater of his rank… his ugliness… but a deep, almost… obsessive interest.

Voldemort stilled, his eyes narrowing. Potter. Want? What did he , Lord Voldemort, want with that boy? The entire world knew! What an absurd question! Potter… a nerve impulse, endlessly igniting the pathological cycle of his consciousness… In every shadowed corner lurked the chance to glimpse that cursed image… This mania was the core of Voldemort’s mind, a mental black hole devouring every shred of logic, perpetually sustaining his existence in its orbit… What did he want with him? Everyone knew!

Voldemort smirked, reclining in his throne:

“Potter is bound to me more deeply than anyone. He is a symbol of resistance, and his death will secure my final victory.”

He paused, assessing the Death Eater before him for a moment.

“I want to find him,” Voldemort hissed, the words of a tyrant forced to hunt his enemy himself — a vile admission of vulnerability he scorned to acknowledge.

Harry lowered his head, concealing the tremor rippling through his being.

“I understand, my Lord,” he murmured. “My Lord, I have… something important for you… information that cannot wait.”

Voldemort’s brow furrowed, his interest now unmistakable. The fracture — a barely perceptible rift in the fabric of reality — began to widen, growing larger… like a crack on the surface of a neutron star, light piercing through endless darkness, beckoning to a singular dance of two shadows that had long since merged but dared not admit it… Nagini, still coiled around Voldemort’s form, rose higher, her gaze fixed on Harry.

“Speak,” Voldemort said, almost a hiss.

Harry lifted his eyes, then let them dart across the room with altered, dull grey irises, as though searching for someone. He shook his head to one side. “I don’t trust the Death Eaters around us, my Lord,” Harry began, his voice low, almost a whisper, still on his knees, leaned closer to the Dark Lord“I fear there is a traitor among us. I found Potter’s friends in half a day… something’s not right. Someone might betray what I’m about to tell you. Allow me to share it… in private. I won’t just tell you… I’ll show you.”

Voldemort flared inwardly, the words searing his mind. Unacceptable conclusions, like a glitch in a flawless program… betrayal… adrenaline surged through his veins, demanding immediate action. A traitor was near! This rat… it wasn’t merely a threat, it was a rejection of order. Eradication was the only answer!

“Very well. Come.” He barked, rising from his throne, his jaw clenched tight. The wizard’s gaze clouded, veins bulging on his forehead. His cloak billowed behind him like a living Lethifold. Nagini uncoiled from his form, slithering alongside her master on his left, never falling a step behind. They moved toward a door leading into a shadowed corridor. Harry muttered something under his breath and hurried to catch up… He walked on Voldemort’s right, a shadowy sentinel to the Dark Lord, much like in ancient manuscripts where darkness always lingered at the master’s right shoulder, whispering its fatal decree into his ear…

They entered a room — stark, bare, with a solitary chair at its center, as though left for an interrogation or execution. Nagini glided between Harry’s legs, moving deeper into the chamber. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy thud, cutting off any retreat. Voldemort strode swiftly to stand before Harry, his red eyes slicing through the dimness, and he raised his wand:

“Lies cling to you more strongly than the scent of Potter’s blood !” the Dark Lord’s voice roared. “On your knees!”

Harry hesitated.He had rehearsed his options countless times...only a phrase… His voice came softly, still not wholly his own:

“My Lord…” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t lower his wand. He didn’t cast a spell. In truth, the Dark Lord was poised to strike with a curse — betrayal hung thick in the air around this Death Eater! He was too successful… yet Nagini… she was suspiciously silent. Her animal instincts never failed when a traitor stood before her. Flickers of interest, curiosity, long-buried echoes of human emotion… a flash. That mocking boy before his eyes… oh, he slipped away from him time and again! If this worthless parasite knew something about Potter…

But then, something happened that Voldemort hadn’t anticipated. As the Death Eater sank to his knees, he slowly, so slowly, raised his head — still shrouded in the shadow of his cloak. Through that darkness, two unnaturally vivid emerald eyes burned. A scalpel seemed to slice through the Dark Lord’s thoughts.

The boy reached for the hood concealing his face, and it slipped away smoothly, revealing pale, youthful skin, charmingly disheveled, slightly tangled black hair, and eyes — green, like the most exquisite curse… Harry Potter knelt before Voldemort.

Stupefaction. Voldemort couldn’t even draw breath. His raised wand sparked green, brimming with the intent of a curse… but then the boy spoke, and his words struck like a spell without defense:

“I am your Horcrux.”

The words fell, a ripple, a pulse of gravitational waves compressing the space around them. In that compression, in that quantum knot where two souls had once unraveled, they now became one — not separate, but inseparable — a singular Dark Mark that tore through the fracture…

A minute passed. Silence. Nagini slithered behind him, her hissing blending with the soft scrape of scales across marble… The boy rose. Voldemort tracked his movement with his wand. Harry’s black cloak, too large, hung from his thin shoulders like a shroud woven from darkness, an image imbued with an almost prophetic aura, as though Death herself had chosen him as her herald… Voldemort’s death.

He drew his wand and aimed it — at him. Silence. His mistake. His story. The air in the room thickened, the magic growing viscous, like tar, while the space pulsed, echoing as though matter itself had gained a heart and throbbed… in agony.

Voldemort’s facial muscles twitched first. His lips curled into a grimace teetering between a sneer and disgust. A Horcrux? What nonsense was this? What heresy? The word was absurd, an insult, a lie… a Horcrux… he had destroyed them himself! The scar… that night… fragments of memory, that vile prophecy dictating that he, the Dark Lord, was destined to fall by the hand of an infant… the scream of that woman… pain… No, Harry Potter was his mistake! But not a Horcrux! His prey, the one whose death would crown his triumph, proof that nothing — not even fate or prophecy — could stand against Voldemort! For years, he had dreamed of the moment when he would crush him, not merely kill him, but annihilate him on his own terms, forcing the world to witness that no one could defy the Dark Lord…

...but his pathology wasn’t mere self-love. It was a belief that he was the law. That every part of him was sacred, and thus even a perverse fragment, accidentally bound to another’s body, could not be destroyed — for to curse it would be to curse himself… and to curse himself was impossible, unthinkable! He was greatness, above all, above fate, above prophecies, above the boy who dared to stand before him, wand raised, as though his magic could rival the might of the Dark Lord… How dare he?! A Horcrux?

And so the Dark Lord stood, staring at the boy… this pitiful vessel of flesh and bone… a young man whose face twisted in an unnatural grimace… no, an unnaturally joyful smile… He… dared to claim he was a part of him?! A Horcrux… The image of Potter morphed into Voldemort’s own, a mirror reflection… Voldemort, a younger version, nearly twenty years ago… His mistake stood, wand aimed at himself.

No. It’s impossible. It’s a lie!

His mind refused to accept those words. Impossible! Yet somewhere deep within, in a part he had long sealed behind walls of will, a shadow of doubt stirred. Godric’s Hollow. That night, when his spell, his perfect, as always,  Avada Kedavra , had turned against him… somehow reducing him to little more than a wraith, more spirit than matter… That wretched woman’s scream had somehow torn his soul, but he hadn’t performed the ritual! Some… magic? Voldemort’s gaze darted to Harry Potter’s scar. The boy stood before him, smiling… and, Merlin, that face had haunted his nightmares! Surely they were nightmares — what else could explain the way his mind taunted him with such images, the way his lungs constricted?! A mistake! Voldemort hadn’t created a Horcrux — heresy! He had planned to make one after…

What? The thought was venomous, like a serpent’s bite, and he felt his heart — or what remained of it — clench with a fleeting, almost forgotten fear. He came for me. Harry Potter’s wand… no, his own… was aimed at him.

Panic, sharp and cold, pierced him, but he quashed it with fury worthy of his name. He was Voldemort, the conqueror of death, impervious to weakness. But this boy… he had destroyed his Horcruxes! It could only be him — who else would dare, who else would even conceive of it, if not the subject of his prophecy? An equal… Only Nagini… and… The thought broke off. No… impossible… Voldemort took a deep breath, tucking his arm back, the Elder Wand burning his hand… He had hunted Potter for months… years… decades…

Silence.

Harry’s heart, an object at the edge of a black hole’s Schwarzschild radius, still beat but no longer registered in time. The smile twisted his face. The green flash no longer tormented his mind, unlike the unending scream and ringing in his ears, but oh, he had grown accustomed to it, hadn’t he? Harry closed his eyes… allowed his body to relax and slowly lowered the hand holding his wand.

Voldemort stood frozen, as though paralyzed by his own reflection in another’s form — a catatonic stupor, the harbinger of impending shock. A slow, deadly intoxication of realization that he stood face-to-face with his own curse, the incarnation of his power and his frailty… What was he doing?!

Voldemort, without breaking his gaze, lowered his wand.

It had always struck Voldemort as… peculiar, his ability to sense not only the boy’s thoughts but his emotions, no matter the distance. Was this the reason? A Horcrux…

“I know it sounds like madness,” Harry burst out suddenly. “But honestly, I only just found out myself, I swear! The old man deceived me! Oh, it’s quite a story, really…” The youth pressed a palm to his face, as though wiping away grime, pushing back his hair… revealing the scar, shaped like the silhouette of a Killing Curse. “But… it’s true. I think you know it yourself… So, er… what’s this room, anyway?”

“An interrogation chamber,” Voldemort snapped, the words erupting as if compelled. What in Merlin’s name?!His arm gave a violent shiver of intent — a Cruciatus wouldn’t go amiss for this whelp! Red sparks nearly materializing at the wand’s tip… The boy’s face shifted, morphing into his own… Tom Riddle stared back at him and… he smirked?! Veins bulged on Voldemort’s forehead. In that moment, he was like Emperor Caligula, deifying his own beast — except, instead of an animal, he had once personally “crowned” each fragment of his soul… every shard anointed, even the exiled, even the defiled, housed in this … this… body!

He drew a loud breath through his nose, the air hissing through narrow slits.

Silence. Their gazes locked — Harry’s eyes, green and blazing, against his own, red and burning. Neither uttered a spell.Their wands, like weary banners of two armies whose battle had long since turned to slow self-destruction, hung in suspense, binding them in this moment where time itself seemed to halt… twin reflections in void, uncertain who first released their rage — subject or shadow, executioner or victim, god or his own mirror image.

This is a mistake.

“How will you prove it?” Voldemort’s voice was low, venomous, like Nagini’s hiss, but it trembled with a faint, barely perceptible note… of uncertainty… a vile, loathsome feeling that should never have surfaced. “You dare claim that my soul, my essence, resides in you? You, a wretched boy I should have obliterated in your cradle? I performed no ritual! What… proof!”

“Oh, you can just dive into my mind. I’ll show you… Hm, what I saw in the Pensieve would be accessible to you, wouldn’t it?”

The boy stepped toward him, and in his eyes, Voldemort saw no trace of instinct, no hint of fear! The Dark Lord, in turn, took a step back — short, almost imperceptible… thank Merlin, even to himself! “Go on, see for yourself.”

Not a moment’s hesitation.

“ Legilimens! ” Voldemort roared, impatience driving him as he plunged into the sacred recesses of the mind:

Severus stood before Dumbledore.

“I… I’ve come with a warning — no, a plea — please…”

“Why should a Death Eater come to me with a plea?” Dumbledore’s wand flicked subtly toward the hunched figure.

“It’s… the prophecy… the prediction… Trelawney…”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said, a faint mockery in his tone that made Voldemort grit his teeth. “How much did you tell Lord Voldemort?”

In his mind, Voldemort hurtled back to that night — the green flash, the pain tearing his soul apart, the infant… who survived. A vile mistake!

“Everything,” Snape rasped. “Everything I heard! That’s why… he thinks it’s about Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy didn’t concern a woman,” Dumbledore’s voice was almost icy. “It spoke of a boy, born at the end of July…”

“You know what I mean! He thinks it’s her son! He’s going to kill them all!” Voldemort stood, not as Harry Potter but alongside him, gazing into the scene… Rage boiled within him with such ferocity that even the ten plagues of Egypt wouldn’t suffice to quench it — still too little blood, too little pain! Snape, that rat…

“If she means so much to you,” Dumbledore said quietly, “surely Lord Voldemort would spare her? Did you not beg mercy for the mother in exchange for the son?”

“I did…” Snape’s breath tore out, like steam escaping a fissure in stone. “I begged him…”

“You disgust me,” Dumbledore cut him off.

Snape seemed to shrink. Voldemort and Harry both smirked at the man’s wretched expression.

“So the lives of the husband and child mean nothing to you? Let them perish, so long as she survives?”

Snape didn’t answer. He only raised his eyes. The mountainside vanished, and suddenly he — Lord Voldemort — stood in Dumbledore’s office. Something nearby emitted an unbearable sound — low, broken, like a beast wounded in its very soul. Snape sat, slouched, a heap of filth and refuse, while Dumbledore loomed over him like a taskmaster.

Lord Voldemort froze. This was a memory, yet the blood pounding in his temples felt real, a cloying horror… That evening when he had vanished…

“I thought… you promised… to keep her safe…”

“She and James put their trust in the wrong person,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Much like you did, Severus. Did you truly believe Lord Voldemort would spare her?”

Lord Voldemort averted his gaze. That wretched woman… The image of a red-haired young woman shielding an infant…

“The boy survived,” Dumbledore added.

Snape’s head twitched slightly, as if swatting away a fly. Or a thought. Voldemort’s mind darted to the image of the boy… The boy. Potter. The mistake…

“If you truly loved Lily Evans,” Dumbledore continued, “then you know what you must do.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how and why she died. Don’t let it be in vain. Help me protect her son.”

“He doesn’t need protection. The Dark Lord is gone…”

“He will return. And Harry Potter will be in mortal danger.”

A pause stretched, like the gap between lightning and its strike. Voldemort stood, breathless. They remained in the same office, but the scene shifted. Dumbledore was still at his desk.

“You place far too much faith in a boy who can’t master Occlumency, whose magic is mediocre, and who shares a direct connection with the Dark Lord!” Snape shouted.

“Voldemort fears that connection,” Dumbledore said with a smirk. In that instant, Voldemort’s body, against his will, reacted: cortisol surged through his blood like an injection of humiliation, and a shiver ran down his spine… fleeting, treacherous, almost human. Heresy! He did not fear! He could not fear!

“Not long ago, he touched Harry’s mind. And he learned what that meant. Pain — such as he had never known. He won’t dare enter Harry again. Not in that way.”

“I don’t understand…”

Voldemort held his breath.

“Lord Voldemort’s soul — mutilated, broken — cannot bear contact with Harry’s soul. It’s like a tongue stuck to frozen metal. Like flesh thrown into flame…”

“Souls? We were talking about minds!” Snape nearly shouted, but Voldemort, listening, felt his own mind splintering. Soul. My soul?

“With Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other,” Dumbledore said, his gaze seeming to pierce through the memory, straight into Voldemort’s eyes. He looked precisely where Harry and Voldemort stood. He was looking at them . The Dark Lord froze, his breath catching, and fear, cloying as a Lethifold’s shroud, engulfed him.

Dumbledore surveyed the room. Everything trembled, as if the memory were heating from within. Snape sat motionless. Dumbledore circled him, as though tightening a noose woven from words.

“Harry must not know. Not until the final moment. Not until it becomes inevitable. Otherwise, he won’t be able to do what must be done.”

Lord Voldemort, watching, felt time collapse into a single point. He sensed the breath of his his serpent — as something mortal… Shadows thickened…

“There will come a moment,” Dumbledore said, “when Lord Voldemort begins to fear for his snake’s life… When he stops sending her on errands, when he keeps her close, under protection — then we will tell Harry.”

“Tell him what?” Two voices asked in unison. One was Snape’s. The other — Voldemort himself.

Dumbledore drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes.

“Tell him that on the night Lord Voldemort tried to kill him, when Lily stood between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Voldemort, and a fragment of his soul broke off from the whole, latching onto the only living soul left in that ruined house. A part of Lord Voldemort lives in Harry, and it is this that grants him the ability to speak with snakes and the connection to Voldemort’s mind, which he has never understood. And while that soul fragment, unnoticed by Voldemort, remains bound to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die.”

Voldemort stood petrified. His body refused to obey his will, as though a fracture had opened in the very fabric of his nerves. He felt something expand in his chest — not an emotion, but a loss of control, a tachycardia without cause, a spasm in his throat, as though Potter’s name had lodged in his airways. His thoughts couldn’t take root — they crumbled like dead neurons, scorched by the heat of comprehension. This wasn’t mere fear. It was the dissolution of cognitive wholeness. Impossible.

Yet the truth, relentless as an implant in living tissue, continued to rattle like a foreign body, pulsing in his consciousness. Voldemort saw — saw clearly, like a vivid image before his eyes — how his soul had torn at the seams, an autopsy, the soul illicitly fused with this boy’s body, suture material grown into alien flesh and sinew… A Horcrux. It was impossible: his ego, dense as a tumor’s capsule, couldn’t even entertain the notion of symbiosis… And yet… Albus Dumbledore knew. Knew the tumor had broken through…

“So… the boy… the boy must die?” Snape’s voice shattered the silence of the space, calm but laced with pain, and Voldemort, listening, felt his mind splinter further. Die? Potter? Me?

“And it must be by Voldemort’s own hand, Severus. It is necessary,” Dumbledore said, his words a verdict, a spell that could not be undone. Voldemort, a mere spectator to the memory, felt his wand tremble in his grip, lurching toward the hated figure in the garish, vibrant robes… He felt something indescribable, not even horror — a cognitive stupor in all its grandeur!

Dumbledore continued:

“We protected him because it was necessary to teach him, to raise him, to let him test his strength. Meanwhile, the connection between them… grows stronger, like a parasitic growth. Sometimes I think Harry suspects it himself. If I know him, he’ll arrange it so that when he goes to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort.”

Dumbledore opened his eyes, and his gaze, half-hidden behind glinting spectacles, fixed once more on the space where they stood. He bored into that void, smirking, sinister as a goblin… He was looking at them — at the Dark Lord, present within this memory of a memory. His lips twitched in… a sneer? This was his triumph. Voldemort felt his mind, like a chalice brimming with boiling venom, ready to erupt! It was as though he screamed, his consciousness roaring, pulsing with sickening agony in his skull.

The notion that Potter was not merely a vessel but a thread to his own soul, a fragment of the Dark Lord himself, evoked not just horror but visceral, biological revulsion! Heresy! His narcissism, the calloused armor of his soul, cracked. He, who had believed in his eternal autonomy… Voldemort saw himself from the outside and, in his place, beheld Harry Potter. A lie! And yet—there he was. In that memory, beside Dumbledore, it was not Tom who watched. It was the boy. It was him. A Horcrux.

The pain in his head swelled to cosmic proportions, no longer merely physical… Everything he had built, like a star bloated by its own gravity, collapsed inward… The realization that grazed his mind made him feel like a supernova whose final flare was not victory but death itself: when a star comprehends it has become a black hole.

And the most revolting, the most unbearable… monstrous truth was that he, Lord Voldemort, did not know himself. He had been a pawn on a board where Dumbledore had already played his game. And the match wasn’t for the wizarding world… it was for him . Yet… had Dumbledore… ultimately… lost? Horcrux.

Catharsis.

Suddenly, he saw it all with stark clarity, as one who has lived years in delirium might, in a single act, grasp the full spectrum of their affliction. He, Voldemort, was part of the plan. His will had been calculated, his flawless schemes understood. His immortality — twisted into a vulnerability… One man had nearly outmaneuvered him… He had been a hair’s breadth from ruin… A flash, white as the strike of lightning itself… His soul…

Voldemort slipped from the boy’s mind, returning to the damp confines of the chamber where nothing surrounded them but a wooden chair at its center — like an empty courtroom in a Kafkaesque trial. No one sat upon it, for the verdict had already been pronounced: whoever sat would be condemned. Whoever turned away would be dead.

“Why are you here?” Voldemort’s wand rested in his hand. Lowered. The staff of a prophet who had renounced his revelations.

Harry’s grin spread like the sun breaking through clouds — all teeth, all fire:

“Well… because I stopped believing that fighting you was about winning.” Harry Potter lifted his gaze to the blank ceiling, as though he truly saw something there. “Every time I tried to defeat you… things got worse. More pain, more death. Oh, there’s nothing unusual about that, it’s natural, but I started thinking… maybe it was never about the fight? Maybe, since we’re truly one soul… we weren’t meant to fight at all? Life, it seems, doesn’t ask for heroes…” Harry paused, taking a short breath, then finished in a whisper, meeting Voldemort’s eyes:

“I’m not here because of the prophecy… I’m here… as… as a side effect of your thirst for immortality, Tom. But… but the universe is indifferent enough to let stars explode… they trigger that moment themselves.” He took a step closer to Voldemort. “You always wanted to be immortal, Tom. But you’re part of me! And that’s the whole point! If one soul has two faces, is the meaning in victory? Isn’t it just… to be ?” If the void in Voldemort’s mind could have grown blacker, it would have, but the wretched boy pressed on, eviscerating the last scraps of his grasp on the situation: “Well, I just want to be .” And he smiled, clasping his hands behind his back, his disheveled hair catching the dim light.

Voldemort, like Zeus hesitating to gaze upon young Ganymede, followed Nagini’s movement with his eyes as she glided smoothly at Harry Potter’s feet. Slowly, he raised his gaze — in his eyes burned a red fire, cold as the icy whisper of Tartarus’s depths.

“You’re not lying.”

“Of course not, I must not tell lies! I swear… I dunno, on frog kidneys?” The youth raised his hands in theatrical surrender.

“It’s not a question, foolish boy!” Voldemort snapped. “I know when I’m lied to — a single glance is enough to smell it! Lies reek of fear!”

“Oh, I’m touched. Must be my new shampoo. ‘Fearless and Dandruff-Free,’ you know?” The boy casually surveyed the room — mold-streaked walls, the solitary chair, a torturous throne. “Listen… I get it. Great Lord, dark halls… been there. But I’m not staying. I may have nothing but my dad’s cloak, but I’ve got taste. This decor’s worse than the flophouses I skulked in, even worse than my Muggle guardians’ place, and oh, they knew a thing or two about refined interiors.” Harry glanced at the barred windows in the room.

Silence.

Voldemort, frankly, was frozen not just in body. Blow after blow. As though someone were hammering into his skull an Avada Ke-What-Da-Fuck-He-Just-Say?! First, the revelation that his minion, a Death Eater, had found Harry Potter’s friends. Then, a flash — that Death Eater was Harry Potter! Memories, the truth that Snape had been a traitor from the start… that they had cultivated a weapon against him… And now, after these last words from Harry, Voldemort couldn’t even muster a “What did he just say?!” — too many “he’s” in this “he” to spark rage at the familiarity of his address! No one had spoken to Voldemort like this since… since he was still called Tom! And that was… what… half a century ago? His breath faltered. His mind plunged into an icy abyss.

Voldemort drew a deep breath, the air thickening around him as though bearing the weight of his momentous decision:

“I will not kill you,” he said, his voice catching Harry’s attention. The boy, in that moment, had reached into his pocket and slipped on his spectacles. Harry looked straight into his eyes, even through the lenses. His gaze, refracted, a vivid green, seemed deeper than it truly was — not an Avada Kedavra , but like a star appearing closer than its true distance. Before him stood simply… a boy in glasses. And yet, that image — like the flash of a star dying trillions of kilometers from human sight, its light piercing the retina in that precise moment — stirred something. Voldemort, whose body had long ceased to be a body, suddenly felt it — muscles, veins, the delicate electrical crossroads of awareness — all trembled. His breath sank somewhere deeper. He didn’t recognize the emotion, but it left an aftertaste of copper and blood, like a breath drawn too deeply after anesthesia. His organism, forgotten, suppressed, crushed by its master’s will, abruptly recalled that it was… “Do you swear not to do the same?”

Harry gazed at him for only a few seconds — but those seconds stretched like interstellar distances, where the gravity of time no longer held sway.

“Yes,” he said, a radiant smile illuminating his face. A signal surged up Voldemort spine, as though his body were not his own but something ancient, primal, awakening in terror before a light it was never meant to behold. And Voldemort suddenly realized, confound it, that skin could remember touches it had never known! His entire being, every nerve ending, quivered as if struck by currents of something that couldn’t be called passion but matched it in intensity — as though all the forbidden impulses, buried for centuries, had suddenly breached the shell that it was… human.

“Give me your hand and repeat after me. The words spoken under this spell become an inseparable part of a wizard. Breaking the vow leads to the destruction of one’s inner magical structure.”

“Oh, isn’t that like the Unbreakable Vow—”

Voldemort shot the boy a glare. If he had hair, it might have bristled like a cat’s. That wretched spell, a mechanism where some external force dictated his death rather than he himself! Utterly unacceptable to a consciousness that had cheated death time and again at the cost of its own soul!

“Never.”

“Alright, I get it.” The boy stepped almost close enough to touch and extended his hand as if for a handshake.

Voldemort gripped the offered palm with such sudden ferocity that a sharp clap echoed through the room. He needed to be done with this quickly!

“I will not bring you death nor take your life, so long as we are bound by this word. Should either of us break this, let magic itself turn against the betrayer.Vincere Verum.”

Harry repeated the words. Along their clasped hands, a faint thread of light traced across their skin, finer than the silkiest filament. The spell wove around them, a magnificent glow like the pulse of a pulsar, its rhythm dictating the cadence of the universe! The light slowly enveloped their hands, shimmering with emerald and ruby hues, reminiscent of the flicker of otherworldly quartz… Harry, at one point, held his breath slightly, feeling the vow become part of his very being, a part he would never abandon. Why would he? The delicate yet unbreakable thread of the spell was not just theirs but the bond itself, akin to the invisible force that holds galaxies from unraveling… Oh, Harry seemed to understand: this moment was not merely a vow but a destiny, woven from light and time! For light and time were one structure!

The spell seeped into their skin, vanishing beneath it like an intravenous substance coursing through a venous network — impossible to extract, with no way back. Voldemort didn’t move until it had fully dissolved. But his breathing — imperceptibly — faltered by a quarter of a breath. The hand in his grasp… Voldemort released it with near disgust! Of course, with him ! Harry Potter… the target, the victim, the mistake, the sacrificial lamb — now a variable embedded in his very framework. Essentially him . For how else could Voldemort view his own soul, even encased… even in Harry Potter? The boy had been part of his clinical history for nearly two decades. And for the first time — the very first time — he was no longer the object of a pursuit.

“Come with me.” Voldemort swept past Harry Potter, barely sparing him a glance, though he caught a stifled, bewildered “oh” from behind — a reflex devoid of intent, an acoustic fragment surfacing from the rubble of frontal lobes. The boy muttered something else and hurried to follow.

Voldemort would never have used the Unbreakable Vow… for nothing was worse than an end, and the theoretical loss of magic — not that he was contemplating killing his Horcrux… well, he needed to think it through… In theory, he didn’t know what would happen to the boy..— to his own soul, of course — if struck by an Avada Kedavra … and he wasn’t ready to peer into that abyss just yet. No, if he lost his magic, he would find a way to rectify it. Unlike an end, unlike that void that yielded to no persuasion… where even will was powerless, for no magic of the soul could resurrect a fallen god.

Chapter 20

Time, that illusory homeostasis of light, moved… as though knocking at the shutters of dense matter, demanding existence itself. The room was constructed according to the axioms of a bygone era: lofty, like an anatomical theater, with ceilings soaring overhead. A four-poster bed — a sarcophagus fit for a king, adorned with intricate carvings of peacocks — stood at the heart of the chamber. At its foot rested a heavy, ornate dresser, its brass handles shaped like serpents’ heads. The walls were stone and stucco, a dark grey, with curtains the color of blood diluted by time. Waves of light crept along the bedroom walls, filtering through the fragile, geometric stained glass of an eastern window… a window that, by all appearances, hadn’t been opened in two hundred years. That ferret Malfoy truly had an enormous manor!

Oh, what a morning! Even archangels didn’t fall with such grace as Harry Potter slid from the celestial pedestal of his dreams. He lingered on a pillow soft as a cloud, turning away from the light like Lucifer spurning grace — though, in truth, it was merely the physiological reality of flesh: laziness, languor… bliss. Drool trickled onto the pillowcase, sanctifying the fabric, while one hand dangled off the bed, fingers grazing the floor as though searching for something in the dust. Harry slept in glorious disarray. The blanket was Merlin-knows-where, may its soul rest in peace.

Three hours of sleep — had it been like that? Nonsense! Sleep was wondrous! And a sleep that left nothing behind, not even sorrow, was doubly so! Three hours of sleep — or none at all — back when he was in hiding after escaping Hogwarts, when his mind, like an ouroboros coiled in on itself, slowly devoured its own tail, feeding on scraps of memory and the venom of self-sacrificial hatred for his own role… Whose role? Fractures in his frontal lobes — invisible, jagged wounds on the map of what once might have been a personality… Now he lived not by motivation but by mechanics — vectors and impulses. An idea like a metastasis, a compulsive fixation on meanings… His consciousness no longer assigned meaning; it compelled it.

What should he do today?

Harry sprawled across the grand bed, staring at the ceiling. Oh, one thought loomed colossal in its gravitational weight: Voldemort. He replayed the events of the evening, stretching languidly, eyes squeezed shut, a grin spreading wide across his face as the memory sparked. Hm, Voldemort had been rather generous, granting him an entire room — not to mention allowing Harry to keep breathing at all. He summoned the scene in his mind, the moment they stood opposite each other. Wands, like weapons, trained on one another… The air had hummed around them, the very fabric of space thrumming with the density of magic… with the acknowledgment that all great things, even such enmity, would wither if held too long in mortal matter… Harry’s flesh responded to these thoughts almost viscerally: a heat beneath his ribs, a pulse in his throat, an euphoric smile.

What should he do today? Obvious!

Harry nearly laughed, throwing his hands behind his head. It was the kind of laughter born not merely in the lungs but somewhere deeper — in the synaptic netherworld… Before his eyes flashed the image of Voldemort’s face when Harry had declared himself a Horcrux. That serpentine visage, stripped of anthropomorphic mercy, nostrils mere slits like those of his Nagini, melded into a human semblance, subcutaneous veins mapping across pale, almost translucent skin. The moment of stupor on Voldemort’s face — Harry Potter would replay it in his memory forever, if his brain permitted, of course! In that instant, the Dark Lord’s pupils had dilated, as though absorbing not information but a curse — which, in truth, it was… Strange, who had this image once evoked terror and dread in? He looked powerful! Like something from a realm beyond… hm.

The image shifted to a young Tom Riddle, accompanied by a ringing in his ears, like a hidden relic finally cast ashore by a cognitive storm. Harry didn’t resist: his neurons retreated, like priests before a holy vision. Tom stood in the Chamber of Secrets — though “stood” felt too innocent a word for how Harry now perceived this vision: damp walls, slick with slimy mold, as though the architecture itself suffered from infection; the air thick, like amniotic fluid long gone rancid… On the floor lay the body of Ginny Weasley. Blue. And not merely “blue” in a poetic sense — this was true, cadaverous cyanosis, coating her skin like icy glaze. The catatonia of her muscles had long given way to true rigor: her jaw slightly agape, pupils dilated to their final grasp of light. A touch would reveal skin waxy, dense, like dried serpentine hide… Tom… Tom Riddle stood beside her, immaculate, an outdated form beneath a slightly faded robe, his hair was flawless... He looked like an archangel before his banishment. He smiled at Harry. His face resembled an anatomical mask, carved to a template where every line obeyed order, yet the order itself was stillborn… a symmetry perfect to the point of absurdity. A human in all his beauty, he looked like a forbidden rite — not a face, but a mere facsimile.

“Did I not say that killing Mudbloods has lost its meaning for me?” His voice didn’t sound; it was born directly in Harry’s hippocampus. “For months now, my aim has been you.” A flicker at the corners of his lips, as though he regarded Harry not as an adversary but as an unfinished work… beautiful. As if Phidias himself had returned to Athens to find his Parthenon incomplete… the temptation too great.

Harry buried his face in his hands and squirmed on the bed. In this almost childlike gesture lay pure physiology — a mortal body, its innards swept by a wave of chemical triumph, intoxicating his brain with endorphins.

Harry jolted upright in bed, his hand fumbling for the glasses perched on the bedside table. A wry smirk tugged at his lips as he glanced at the trophy from the Lovegoods’ home, resting beside the now-disappointed Marauder’s Map, reduced to a blank sheet of parchment. His mind was a labyrinth, each twisting path leading to startling revelations, yet all spiralling around a single axis: he and Voldemort. Two facets of a singular essence, two gravitational anomalies warping the fabric of a shared reality. A single consciousness, refracted through twin phases of entropy!

He rose, the cool floor beneath his bare feet sending a pleasant shiver through his soles. In the corner of the room, a narrow door to the bathroom—almost imperceptible, as though it were a quiet summons to a mundane human ritual he had long forgotten, somewhere in the haze of his month-long flight.To be honest,the grime on his skin wasn’t mere dirt—it was a testament to his isolation, his rejection of a world that demanded he play someone...he was sticky, sweat-slick, human in the most wretched, unremarkable way that time. The mind, really, is adept at forgetting the body when it's too preoccupied with tearing itself apart. But now... he needed water. Not to be reborn—just to be clean. Every day.

Harry stepped into the bathroom, where an absurdly oversized bathtub dominated the space. He settled onto the cold stone of the tub, bare skin against the mineral chill, before turning on the water. He watched as the torrent enveloped his body… his gaze lingered on the rippling surface, but his mind wandered far beyond, to a place where two neutron stars slowed their dance yet refused to break their orbit. Do enemies ever feel the weight of being alone? Harry stretched his arms along his sides, the water now cradling his form… Horcruxes—like extinguished stars, long since exploded, their light still travelling through the void… an illusion of a soul intact, nothing more than an echo of former radiance. But light—information—could never truly become nothing, could it?

The water, sloshed slightly over the edge as Harry shifted his legs. It threatened to spill further when he finally deigned to consider that, perhaps, he ought to stop the flow. The tap shut off of its own accord, as if by magic. The Malfoys were cautious enough to save their blasted carpets, Harry thought with a scoff.

Harry closed his eyes, submerging himself beneath the water, letting it close over his head. He sat up again, rubbing his eyelids, feeling the icy rivulets glide across his face, his scars, his body—a body that felt both intimately familiar and strangely alien. The water was frigid, almost scalding in its biting chill, yet Harry no longer registered the cold. He hadn’t felt cold in months. His fingers traced the curve of his neck, where the Snitch hung—the one thing he hadn’t removed. The Snitch was oddly warm. Familiar. Ha. Albus. Of course. A maddeningly brilliant man.

“You’re still here,” he whispered, clutching it in his palm.

His lips barely grazed the gold when a secret whisper found its voice:

“Go to hell, Albus. I’m not afraid of the end.”

As if rising to the challenge, the Snitch quivered. Harry’s brows furrowed instantly as he sensed movement… and with a faint click, the golden orb unfurled like a flower blooming in the darkness. Nestled on a velvet lining, black as the void between stars, lay a stone—small, irregular, etched with cracks. Harry froze, his eyes widening, and in that moment, the icy water stabbed into his skin for the first time. The sensation crashed over his senses like a torrent of afferent impulses. His body reacted almost instinctively: gooseflesh prickled across his skin, muscles tensed, and Harry lurched upward with clumsy haste. But as one foot met the glossy, wet floor, it predictably skidded sideways. His fingers gripped the edge of the tub, saving his hapless frame, but momentum was merciless: his hip slammed into the stone rim—a dull, sharp pain that tore a muffled groan from his chest. The Snitch remained in his hand, still open, as water surged over the edge, flooding the floor.

“Merlin’s saggy knickers…” he hissed through gritted teeth, as if caught between a curse and a laugh.

He straightened, water streaming from him, guided by gravity, pooling on the flawlessly polished marble. Harry Potter gazed at the ancient artefact, a relic. Not some mere magical trinket, but a shard of the very law of existence, governing long before the first spell was ever cast. The Resurrection Stone rested within the opened Snitch, cradled tenderly in the young man’s hands—an artefact that shouldn’t exist… a legend of a will so potent that death itself took form...

His mind began to hum—not with a thought, but with a true ultrasonic frequency, the kind that could summon hallucinations. It was as if a compartment in his head had swung open, unleashing a thousand furious wasps, battering against glass in search of escape. A thought was forming—molten, alive, like magma beneath his skin. He felt it approaching—not as an epiphany, but as inevitability itself...

“I need, damn it, some pants,” he exhaled, shooting the Resurrection Stone a look as if it ought to have anticipated this.

Harry snapped the Snitch shut, the stone secured within, and slipped it back around his neck as if nothing had happened. The warm metal grazed his skin, feeling almost hotter now, as though reminding him it was, after all, an ancient artefact! Pfft, Harry didn’t care.

He didn’t understand. And didn’t want to.

Resurrection? Phantoms? Death? Even if an entire gallery of ancestors lined up for confession, it wouldn’t matter. He felt nothing—nothing but the urge to dry himself with a towel and move on.

“It’s beautiful, though,” Harry said. But honestly, who cared about archaeology when the human soul itself was merely a temporary tattoo on the flesh of entropy? Humanity—what we call human essence—was unstable, ephemeral, existing for even less than a fleeting moment in the universe’s vast expanse.

Chapter 21

Typically, after the ritual of bathing, a person cloaks themselves once more in layers of fabric—not out of shame, but because civilisation takes root on the skin through textiles. Clothing is not mere protection; it is a contract, marking allegiance, signalling danger, defining social roles. Yet Harry mused that perhaps one dresses only to shield themselves from the sensation of the vacuum seeping through their pores… that same void he now felt, lingering between atoms.

The first thing the human eye deciphers is not words, but lines. The symmetry of a face, for instance, is processed by the brain in mere fractions of a second. The visual cortex and amygdala function as a triage system: the more symmetrical the features, the higher the likelihood of health, triggering a subconscious surge of dopamine. Evolution, that relentless dictator, has cemented beauty as the shortest path to selecting a viable genetic host—or, at the very least, a bearer of pleasure, if one prefers.

Harry Potter was not beautiful in the conventional, polished sense. His face still bore the unsteady edges of adolescence, yet something sharper was emerging: high cheekbones, a defined jaw, a sly squint in his eyes. Was it because he found himself smiling more often now? His frame was lean, taut rather than muscular, his sinews visible beneath the skin—not like an athlete’s, but like a fighter’s. His body had been honed by relentless tension, constant motion. If one looked closely, the veins on his forearms and palms stood out, a testament to unyielding readiness, arteries that were never permitted to rest… during his time at school, of all places, where he was supposed to be learning!

Emerging from the bathroom bare, with only the Snitch hanging around his neck like an eye watching from another realm, Harry now stood before a hulking wardrobe. He opened it, expecting to find something suitable, but inside hung only ostentatious robes—far too elaborate, far too… Malfoy-esque? Gaudy? Draco’s been scurrying about, filling every guest wardrobe with robes? he thought with venomous irony, his fingers sifting through the hanging fabrics.—Definitely him. Or his father… wonder how he’d react if he knew I’d rubbed my bits against the rim of his bathtub? The thought escaped unbidden, generously conjuring an image of Lucius with a defiled expression.

Nothing in the wardrobe would do. Utter rubbish. Harry had no desire to look like a Malfoy, nor to resemble a Death Eater, and he certainly didn’t want to be that version of himself—or to wear Muggle clothes ever again.

He seized his wand from the bedside table, aimed it at one of the robes hanging in the wardrobe, and whispered a Transfiguration spell. The magic that surged from his wand was dark, almost tangible, like ink spilled not into water but across the air—fluid, deliberate. The robe quivered, its fabric writhing as though alive when the palpable magic brushed against it, as if the material of this world resisted but was ultimately forced to yield to his will. It transformed into a long cloak, black as a starless night, fitted with straps to secure it tightly across his arms and chest, refusing to hang loosely like the oversized clothes of his childhood. The straps also wound around his forearms. The leather—or what appeared to be leather—was smooth, with a faint metallic sheen, as though it had absorbed the darkness of an ocean’s abyss. Harry mused that, since he was a Horcrux, and the mechanics of that state remained shrouded in mystery, it wouldn’t hurt to have something… stabilising, protective. The outer garment,thin, like the breath between two heartbeats, yet dense enough to shield against… Muggle interference and Diffindo spells...and perhaps even the fangs of a Basilisk...The image of the diary, rupturing under the violence of his own hand, surged to the surface—unbidden and bright...a high-pitched tone spiked behind his temples, not a sound but a pressure, blooming like a cerebral alarm in the auditory cortex.

Harry Potter turned his gaze to the Lovegood trophy. After a quick check for enchantments, detecting only a faint curse—likely triggered by some form of… contact?—he cast a modified Salvio Hexia . Satisfied it was merely a trinket, he fastened the moon-shaped medallion around his neck and raised his wand with deliberate intent, murmuring the transfiguration spell. The medallion’s material stretched with an almost menacing elasticity, swiftly taking the form of a garment. Though it appeared to be black fabric at first glance, under the light, a subtle metallic glint shimmered between what seemed like fibres. It was chainmail—not the clunky sort a knight might wear, but scale-like, flexible, and thin, clinging tightly to his chest, Adam’s apple, extending beneath his wrists and down past the waistline...it felt charged with an ancient pulse, as if every link bore the weight of magic.

Harry had first pulled on his underwear and black trousers, freshly cleansed with a Scouring Charm. Donned the cloak — and it was long, trailing behind him in sinuous folds. Its fabric shifted subtly, as though he were already walking forward, though his body hadn’t moved. Harry imagined the room around him trembling for a moment, as if the very void gasped at his magnificence! He glanced at his reflection in the mirror across from the bed, to the left of the room’s entrance. Someone cool grinned back at him.

The young man hung the Snitch over his attire and strode out of his room, a strange, contented smile playing on his lips—the kind that graces someone who has found peace, like a navigator from the age of exploration, steering confidently through storms and darkness, having discovered a centre amidst the chaos of uncharted waters...Oh, Harry felt like the North Star itself, unwavering amid the tempests, for it alone sets the course for all lost ships! He felt utterly in his element.

But no sooner had he stepped into the corridor than he collided with Yaxley. The Death Eater froze, his eyes widening, his jaw dropping slightly. Harry’s eyes rounded. Oh, what a fool I am! Can I even leave? He said I wasn’t a prisoner, but… damn it, I didn’t even think,Ha. His hand instinctively twitched toward his wand, but at that moment, the neighbouring door—heavy, adorned with what seemed a living serpent that stirred along its surface—swung open, and Voldemort emerged into the corridor.

The Dark Lord’s gaze swept over the two figures before him: his narrow eyes lingered first on Harry, naturally, then flicked to Yaxley for scarcely a second before settling on the door from which Potter had emerged. Voldemort’s facial muscles twitched, a flicker of rage igniting within him, only to subside into an impassive mask once more.

He had woven enchantments upon the door to Potter’s chamber—not merely “powerful” ones. In the art of sealing, he was a master, honed since youth! That fool Morfin had been proof enough...Voldemort didn’t even need a wand for it! His spells were artistry, intricate layers woven into the very structure… in this case, the frail wood, bound at a molecular level! The charm was flawless! Yet Harry Potter had strolled through as though it were an ordinary door, as though Voldemort’s magic were mere ornamentation...  Pup! He’s nothing, nothing compared to me!  The emotion left a faint aftertaste of fury—the amygdala, that sly guardian of the limbic system, sending a trembling current to the hypothalamus, not to spur attack but to remind him that humiliation, too, was a form of pain...

Silence.

Harry broke it first.

“ Imperio. ”

He snapped his wand toward Yaxley, giving the man no time to react—though the hapless Death Eater was hardly in a state to think, clearly questioning his own sanity. Yaxley blinked, his features smoothing out, his eyes turning vacant, signalling the curse’s complete dominion. Voldemort merely stood there.

“Looks like he was coming to see you,” Harry said, and that casual familiarity slipping so effortlessly from the boy’s lips snapped Voldemort out of his cognitive stupor, igniting an inner flare of indignation. You!? Oh, it was time to put him in his place! Horcrux or not, for nearly two days this wretched boy had been asleep… Well, Voldemort was sure he had been asleep… only a handful of times had he slipped into the Chosen One’s designated chambers—gliding quieter than a draft, like a ghost embarrassed by its own existence. He stood there like a forgotten black floor lamp by the bedside, sometimes merely watching the boy sleep… Naturally, he watched—just in case Potter was plotting something! Not that Lord Voldemort doubted himself, but the very fact of this reality still seemed so profoundly wrong! Yet the truth was singular... Voldemort had employed a battery of spells: from a basic Specialis Revelio to a half-forbidden charm known only to him, hunting for traces of tracking enchantments, magical seams—anything. And, of course, he checked for the magical bond, which proved too powerful for the pact they’d made the day before, a consequence of the fragment of Voldemort residing within Harry. It would have been convenient to study the soul more closely, to understand its workings, but Voldemort knew no such spells. Not that he’d ever pondered souls much before; he’d viewed them only as a means to his immortality.

Voldemort bared his teeth, ready to snap at the boy, but Harry preempted him, speaking with an almost gleeful tone:

“Ha! Going to wipe his memory of me?” His voice was playful, a smile curling his lips, but his eyes… Voldemort shifted his gaze to his Death Eater...For a fleeting moment, the image of a fifty-year-old Tom Riddle flickered where the boy stood… “Or what’s my status with them?” Harry paused, his grin widening. “Oh, I could change my appearance!”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, a spark of curiosity piercing his mind. He was clearly trying to parse the meaning of that last remark. Is Potter speaking of Polyjuice Potion? He assumed Harry might have used the potion to infiltrate the Death Eaters’ ranks, but something in the boy’s tone and phrasing stirred an odd, intuitive doubt. Voldemort couldn’t fathom that a boy capable of wielding Unforgivable Curses with such ease could be so naïve about magic. His gaze slid to the rigid Yaxley.

“Take him to the next room,” Voldemort barked in a single breath, like a command. What had fired in him was not logic, but a microsecond synaptic misfire—the kind that arises when cortical inhibition fails to suppress a deeper limbic urge...He wanted Harry alone,of course. But instead of facing that vector of reality, the command had exited his mouth like a redirected seizure—an impulse dressed in authority...He wanted proximity—but repression, like muscle memory, spoke first. Voldemort drew a sharp breath, air hissing through his narrow slits under the pressure, and abruptly turned toward the aforementioned room...after the words left his mouth, the serpent—once seemingly forged of metal, its form slithering across the door from which Voldemort had emerged—glided soundlessly across the stone wall to the adjacent doorway, coiling around it in a single, sinuous ring.

Harry nodded, his wand twitching slightly to guide Yaxley forward. The Death Eater complied, stepping toward the door, while Nagini, slithering behind Voldemort from his chambers, hissed softly. Her piercing gaze fixed on Harry before she glided through the open doorway after her master.The door was not merely an entrance, the serpent on it was conjured, imbued with a fragment of Voldemort own sentient magic— a byproduct of a charm Lord had devised alone, a singular manipulation of magical theory, a modified Capacious Extremis elevated to a form no one else had conceived! The room it protected did not belong to the Manor, it belonged to the Lord Voldemort of it all. It was his archive.

They entered the study—a dimly lit room with towering cabinets brimming with ancient tomes and rolled scrolls. Crimson wax seals shimmered faintly on some volumes, glass orbs rested in the corners of shelves, each flickering with slow lightning...the air was dense—spell residue clung like smoke to the ceiling, drifting like particles circling a silent singularity.At the center of the room, before the archive’s abyss, stood a wide, austere desk—its surface marred by alchemical burns, silver-etched runes, and stains of ink that pulsed with restrained magic. Behind it, the library walls stretched up and out, enclosing the space in towering columns of books. A collection of skulls—human, elvish, unidentifiable—watched from their niches in the stone walls. To the left of the entrance, a fireplace embedded in dark serpentine marble had come to life the moment they stepped inside, spilling green flame that danced against the hearth’s obsidian frame, casting skeletal light along the floor.

Before the door closed, Voldemort strode swiftly toward the desk, his robes brushing the floor in a soundless glide. He made no gesture, uttered no command, but the moment he reached, the unruly pile of folders and loose parchment responded to his presence as if to a magnetic field—or as if a minor star had entered orbit, and the fabric of the room bent to accommodate its mass. They lifted, hovered, and realigned themselves mid-air into precise, disciplined stacks—sorted by an unseen intelligence, then settled back down in perfect order.A tremor passed through Harry’s mortal frame, as if his flesh were a membrane resonating with something vast and incomprehensible! Whether it was the magic, the intention—or simply the presence—it was impossible to tell. Oh, but the emotions were exquisite, blooming through every nerve like the stolen flame of Prometheus, too divine for mortal veins, yet burning all the same.

The door shut behind them with a heavy thud, muffling the outer world, and Harry, wasting no time, lifted the Imperius Curse from Yaxley.

The Death Eater blinked, his face contorting first with confusion, then with horror, as he registered Harry—who, with the unceremonious audacity of Cain returning to God with his brother’s blood staining his palms, approached Voldemort… for he had claimed that right since birth. He stood beside him. This caused Yaxley’s pallor to deepen further. The ambiguity of the scene triggered a momentary collapse of psychological equilibrium: Yaxley’s perception of reality splintered, akin to a sudden onset of derealisation—everything remained in place, yet nothing felt familiar. A localised stroke. Voldemort offered no explanation,seated atop a towering black throne—gothic in make, far too tall and angular for any ordinary study, as though transplanted from some cathedral of judgment—his gaze locked on the Death Eater, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.The wretched man was left to drown in this vacuum, struggling to make sense of a scene that defied his former logic unaided.

“Report,” Voldemort commanded, his voice slicing through the air like a legionary’s whip, leaving bloody psalms etched upon the minds of the condemned—in this case, the psyche of the hapless Death Eater. “What news from our international division at the Ministry?” 

Yaxley swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Voldemort and Harry, but he swiftly composed himself, as though the Dark Lord’s decree was the gladius itself, cutting through hesitation and fear, forging a servant. In that moment,  Yaxley unfurled a scroll, picking it up delicately by the corners, his fingers trembling faintly, though his voice remained steady as he began his report:

“The incident in Lyon has been framed as a localised conflict,” he started, his words finally gaining firmness and the requisite formality. “Our operatives are already embedded in the prefecture; everything is proceeding according to plan. The French have requested contact through the Department of International Magical Cooperation… er…” He glanced at Harry Potter again and realised the boy was utterly infuriating! That look in the young man’s eyes… Did he just raise an eyebrow? Arms crossed, the disdain with which he regarded him… Yaxley nearly grimaced. He loathed children!And yet—something curled in his gut like cold abyss...a tremble, quick and traitorous, moved through his legs...he couldn’t name it...a pre-verbal instinct, uninvited and raw, as if some ancient part of him wanted to flee...a feeling that had latched onto him about a week ago, and now seemed to have waited for just this moment to remind him of its existence... But… the Dark Lord remained silent. Could he continue? Must he? Yaxley cleared his throat. “Regarding the Ministry’s request for an ‘exchange of young specialists for international experience in Auror training’ with other countries under the banner of ‘European magical security’… er… Beauxbatons has agreed to a pilot programme. The first cohort is set to depart in September, yes. We propose sending Malthe and Ashlyn; they’ve been fully briefed and are ideal candidates, capable of operating discreetly without drawing attention.” Yaxley extended the rolled parchment to Voldemort.

Voldemort inclined his head, his fingers tracing the edges of the scroll he’d taken from Yaxley’s trembling hands. His mind sifted through the Death Eater’s words, though, in truth, the Dark Lord’s thoughts were processing an overwhelming torrent of information all at once. First and foremost, of course, was Harry Potter. What in Merlin’s name is he doing just standing there? And why did he look like some ragtag scarecrow? Where was his proper robe? The superficial vein at Voldemort temple bulged faintly—a byproduct of temporalis strain, as if his jaw sought to crush thought itself. Yet his face gave nothing away. He truly could not curse this whelp! Every time he even intended to think about it, his consciousness crashed into the blockade of his own narcissism: after all, the boy carries a fragment of his own soul! Voldemort never lingered on why none of his other Horcrux had ever stirred the same feel—They were discarded debris, repositories stripped of reverence the moment they served their function. But this? This was different, and such distinctions were not for the current state of the Darkest Wizard to unravel. Caligula crowned his horse, and now he was forced to bow—unthinkable, wasn’t it?

To be honest, Voldemort barely registered what the boy might have overheard. He could always lock him away, erase his memory—after all, what use would that information be to him now? The Order of the Phoenix…his mind would return to it in due time. Voldemort made a sharp turn of his head and cast a glance at the boy smiling at Yaxley. Voldemort’s eyes flicked back to the scroll, which detailed the credentials of two people posing as spies under the guise of trainees...He saw almost nothing, of course! Potter! That wretched Yaxley—he needed to be sent far away, quickly! Harry Potter had consumed his thoughts for so many years, and now, his fixation stood right next to him, so why couldn’t his mind allow him to move toward his goal? Clearly, they had much to… discuss? His cognitive apparatus, overheated by multiple vectors of attention, was stuck in a looping circuit: Potter… Oh Merlin, Potter—not just a subject, but literally a retraumatizing stimulus for Voldemort… His presence activated neural patterns like in epileptic seizures: a discharge starts but never completes its arc—constantly returning to the same point… Potter...Is a Horcrux, no less! Unthinkable!

“Very well,” Voldemort said at last, rolling up the scroll. “You’ve done well, Yaxley.”

The Death Eater nodded, but his eyes flicked back to Harry, and he finally dared to speak, his voice quavering with uncertainty about whether he was even permitted to ask.

“If I may… my Lord… is that… Harry Potter?”

Voldemort turned to him, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer, mimicking the Death Eater’s hesitant tone.

“If I may, my Lord,”  he spat the words like they offended his mouth. “What else could it possibly be, Yaxley? I tasked you with searching, and you can’t even recognise what you were meant to find?” The Dark Lord’s gaze slid across Yaxley with venomous contempt—a supreme master of the arcane, saddled with a fumble-fingered apprentice. And without a word, Voldemort cast a mental sneer at this masterpiece of incompetence.

Harry, standing nearby, suddenly let out a laugh—sharp, brief, and somehow both eerie and oddly childish, if such a thing were possible. He leaned slightly closer to the Death Eater. Oh, it’s that wretch who chased me to Grimmauld Place during the Ministry escape...Odd, that he kept that little humiliation to himself. Harry’s eyes glinted, practically glowing with the promise of a deadly curse.

“No worries, Yaxley,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery, his grin twisting like a glitch. “I’m the Boy Who Lived.O, Funny title,right? Sounds like I’m the only one who’ll get to live... Want me to show you what that means?”

Yaxley’s face drained of colour, his gaze frozen. Voldemort felt the corner of his mouth twitch in an involuntary smirk. He glanced at Harry with a sensation… unfamiliar, uncharted. The Dark Lord fixed his eyes on Yaxley, raising his wand.

“Approve those two candidates,” Voldemort said, his voice as cold as the distal tip of a nerve ending, where empathy fades and only a callous reflex remains, utterly devoid of feeling. He handed the scroll back to the Death Eater and flicked his wand, intoning Imperio . Then came Obliviate , and a thin beam of light erased Harry Potter’s image from Yaxley’s memory. The Death Eater bowed at first, then turned slowly, moving toward the door. He exited, his steps mechanical, his mind as empty as if he had never seen the boy standing beside the Dark Lord.

The door closed with a heavy thud, leaving Harry and Voldemort alone.

At last, Voldemort allowed himself to slowly pivot, his body turning deliberately toward Harry Potter… who still stood, arms crossed over his chest, meeting his eyes unflinchingly! Those striking, vivid emerald eyes gleamed with sparks reflected from the lenses of his glasses...though seated on a throne grand enough to mock kingdoms, Voldemort reason failed to grasp that one of them now rose, not in height but in essence, above the other...Voldemort stared, like an anatomist dissecting a heart and finding his own name etched upon the endocardium. Heresy! Yet, damn it all, he couldn’t look away! O, a soul with two faces—not merely a moral dilemma, but a flaw in the grand architect’s design, inserting two operators into a single circuit... bound like binary stars circling a dark abyss, they were trapped in an eternal waltz — a cosmic entanglement for even the light born of their mutual gravitation could not explain why obliteration carried the weight of... desire.

Chapter 22

Relationships begin with a glance. The synchronisation of pupils—the first neurological lure. But, in truth, the pull toward connection is a glitch in the brain’s predictive system. Humans harbour an innate error in modelling others: they believe they can be understood. This miscalculation is later reinforced by touch, cemented by expressions, scents, and, over time, morphs into a pseudo-sensory dependency. Like phantom pain, but in the form of an eternal yearning for it. People enter relationships not for love, but due to the hormonal architecture of attachment. Oxytocin, vasopressin, dopamine—biochemical knots binding two psyches into an artificial homeostasis. Evolutionarily, it’s a mimicry of safety; anthropologically, a pact of mutual observation over each other’s decay. Voldemort, a master of the human mind’s architecture, had never burdened himself with romantic constructs. What were relationships, if not a vulgar game of neurons feigning meaning? Heresy. He surrounded himself with people, studying them as a pathologist examines a plague’s victim. But, in truth, who would share eternity with a being whose emotionality outpaces its neocortex, whose self-awareness is merely a byproduct of fear? To Voldemort, nearly everyone was… a primate. Well-dressed, often articulate… almost all of them...

“I like this room!” Harry Potter declared, his voice carrying a spark of amusement as he gazed at Lord Voldemort, who still sat enthroned mere feet away. “Magic’s all over the place, and so many books… It’s like the office of a professor who took ‘Dark Arts’ a bit too literally. Hmm… though, I expected more… bones, you know?” Oh,The boy’s smile widened, his eyes locking onto the Dark Lord’s face, a look like the empty hand of a god reaching toward humanity—not to bless, but to remind: divinity begins with the decay of flesh... Voldemort inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Sit,” he commanded, swivelling to face the desk, his posture rigid, chin raised—a behavioural marker of dominance, asserting control through physical expansiveness. A black chair, its armrests resembling intertwined serpents, which had stood motionless against the dark stone wall, responded to the Dark Lord’s words. Its legs lifted slightly from the floor, and it glided, as if drawn by an unseen force, to the centre of the grand desk, directly opposite the throne. The metallic armrests gleamed in the dim light, as though eagerly awaiting the touch that would coil around forearms.

Harry Potter let out a stifled sound—something caught between a nervous chuckle and a sigh. He spun sharply on the heels of his black boots, his cloak billowing behind him like a shroud, emitting a soft rustle akin to the wings of bats. The boy took only a couple of steps after the swift turn, but the fabric, as if anticipating his movement, unfurled in the air, tracing an arc as though yearning to brush the wall.

Harry sank into the chair almost carelessly, the way one does when they’ve long ceased to associate themselves with consequences. He leaned back, shifting slightly to settle comfortably, arms crossed over his chest, and slowly dragged his gaze across Voldemort’s face.

Silence.

“How did you get out?” Voldemort forced the words out, more as a reflex than a deliberate query. It was the first thing his mind latched onto amidst the sharp overload of cognitive static. A billion semantic impulses swirled in his head, none coalescing into a coherent thought. He had thousands of questions! This one, clearly, wasn’t the most pressing—but it was the first to breach the intracortical noise. His eye twitched in a faint mimetic tic.

Harry blinked, his brows lifting slightly, as though the question had caught him off guard, expecting something entirely different.

“What do you mean?” he replied, genuine curiosity lacing his tone. “I just… opened the door. You know, grabbed the handle, turned it, pulled it open. I wanted to leave, and that was that—it wasn’t locked. You said I wasn’t a prisoner, so I didn’t think twice… Oh, sorry if I stepped out without checking. I suppose it won’t happen again, if that’s how it needs to be.”

Voldemort froze, his mind flaring at the response. Just opened? He had woven charms on that door strong enough to restrain even a powerful wizard! Had the boy not even noticed them? I’ve underestimated him all this time! What did Albus Dumbledore teach him? For a moment, the image of a frail, feeble old man in his mind morphed into a terrifying wizard, whose name now echoed fully even in thought. Regardless, Voldemort deftly banished musings about Potter’s abilities. His gaze slid over Harry’s attire—the black cloak, bound with straps, the glossy dark fabric rising to his throat, its overall tone and cut somehow complementing the boy’s round glasses…and what was that? A golden sphere? A Snitch? Not quite the scarecrow after all... Heresy!

“That’s impossible,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing. Nagini stirred, her presence marked by a soft, wordless hiss in response, as she glided beneath Harry Potter’s chair, coiling around one of its dark legs. “Tell me how you ended up in Malfoy Manor.”

“Oh, I ran into two of your people in the forest, used some Disguising Charms, a touch of Confundus , and—voilà—I was part of their crew.”

The young man rocked slightly, lifting his crossed arms and clasping them behind his head, as if preparing to recline. His body arched in the chair at a relaxed angle, his right leg sliding forward. He fell silent, staring intently at Lord Voldemort. The air grew still.

“If you want,” he added, “I can show you the memory.”

Another hissing, forceful exhale escaped Voldemort, not merely a breath but an act of anatomical reassessment of the moment. Here he was—the artefact of his nightmares… and yet, a human. No, worse. A vessel. A container. A prosthesis of his immortality… his soul. Each word from Harry Potter felt like an internal catheterisation, stirring a nauseating blend of exhilaration and revulsion. The paradox wasn’t that Potter stood beside him—not at all. The paradox lay in the fact that Voldemort… had no intention of killing him.

The Dark Lord held his breath, sensing the brush of a strange, uncharted emotion… a touch of desire, a phantom that had lingered in his sensory cortex for decades. And, by monstrous coincidence, its object was… a person! No, not just a person—his most fatal error! Himself! His very essence, encased in another body! Intolerably… alluring! How could an immune system grow attached to the antigen it was meant to destroy? A hyle, refusing to be mere form, yet becoming it in defiance of nature’s laws.

“You… have closed your mind,” Voldemort hissed, but it was no whisper—it was more a constriction of words, as though the question had been born in his oesophagus rather than his brain. “Is this… some form of Occlumency? Or something else?”

“Good question,” Harry replied, his tone light with genuine intrigue. “I don’t even know myself… I’ve tried it… doesn’t seem to work, does it?”

Voldemort’s grip tightened on the armrest, his knuckles whitening, and he drew a sharp, noisy breath. No one—no one—dared breach the boundaries of his mind! Clearly, penetration from one side implied the possibility of mutual resonance… What blasphemy! Repulsive! How often had the boy done this? And these sensations… He could almost physically envision something vile, like the saliva of a rabid beast, touching him with its sticky mass, spreading across his skull… as if something foreign, base, insect-like had crawled into his mind! He felt the contact with biological filth at the mere thought of someone infiltrating his consciousness. It wasn’t horror or fear—it was the reaction of a superior intellect forced to endure the neurochemical gag reflex. Voldemort’s face twisted in disgust.

“Tell me about the Order of the Phoenix,” Voldemort’s voice took on a faintly… livelier edge, as though a pulse of telemetry had surged through his vascular system, diverting him from his previous train of thought.

Harry’s expression shifted abruptly. His gaze dulled, the muscles of his brow smoothing out. There was a detachment in his look—like that of a man suddenly numb to his own memories.

“Haven’t been with anyone since the second of May,” he said.

“What?” The Dark Lord leaned forward in his chair, a minimal movement but enough to alter the electromagnetic aura around him. His eyes narrowed—not out of doubt, but from a cognitive dissonance between expectation and reality. “You weren’t… with them?”

“Er… no,” Harry replied, running a hand across his temple as if trying to clear something from his mind. “I… got Snape’s memories that night, and…” Harry Potter faltered. His gaze locked onto a point, as though his retinas had lost their depth. His speech didn’t halt because he refused to speak, but because something within him physically couldn’t navigate to the right neural pathways. Oh, the poor, battered brain, scarred by both traumatic and metabolic damage, showed signs of fragmented autobiographical memory laced with traces of allopsychic amnesia. The boy didn’t merely fail to recall, say, the face of a woman from a hostel—he couldn’t find the contours to which that face once belonged. His perception was like shattered glass: each fragment existed, but alone, without a unifying centre. “…and, well, I decided I didn’t want to be part of that mess anymore. To hell with it all. I was done.” Suddenly, his face lit up, reclaiming an enthusiastic spark. “By the way, I didn’t even know they were still hiding in Tinworth, seriously. I used that place as a hideout before, too. You must’ve seen the house in my memories.”

“I saw no coastal house in your memories,” Voldemort snapped. Every word from this boy unleashed waves of affective turmoil in him: from sharp irritation to an irrational, viscous confusion — a sticky fog clinging relentlessly to his mind.

“Did you? Oh, well… I figured it’d be smart to hide that one,” Harry said, his tone casual. “You know, just in case of instant death. Didn’t really think it’d work, though. If you want, you can try again—I’ll show you the house in detail, as I remember it. I was hiding out there, plotting how to steal Hufflepuff’s Cup.” Harry Potter concluded his monologue elegantly, pursing his lips with a “well, I tried” expression, shrugging slightly and glancing around for some reason.

Silence.

It seemed the boy had finally pieced together one fact with another, and with his current predicament. Alas. The armrests of his chair came alive, coiling like living serpents around his wrists, from elbow to palm, securing him firmly in place.

“Hufflepuff’s Cup…” Voldemort repeated, his mouth twisting as though tasting something slimy. The armrests gripping Harry’s arms tightened further, his cloak creaking under the pressure. “How nice to know you had time to plan it all out there…”

“Oh, come on, what else was I supposed to do?” Harry burst out. “At eleven, I found out some dark wizard was hunting me! Every year, he tried to destroy me, and, oh, guess what? From the start, there was one person who could’ve stopped it! I think you know who I mean—the one who stood between us, one bloody genius. But why would he take the risk when I’m a part of you? If I died, you’d weaken yourself! I just did what I was told, Tom… I… I didn’t know anything.”

The magic in the room thickened, growing viscous, pulsating, as though the very space thrummed with energy. The chair beneath the boy began to transform—its frame unravelling at first, subtle as a serpent stirring before a strike. Then, in a single instant, it coiled around Harry’s throat. One loop pressed against the base of his skull, another slid across his larynx. As the metal clamped over his mouth, sound ceased—Harry could neither gasp nor cry out, tasting only the metal’s sharp, cold, almost antiseptic bite. Flames in the fireplace erupted in green tongues, licking the air:

“ Don’t you dare call me that name! ” Voldemort roared. The green fire twisted, forming shapes, writhing like a swarm of slender serpents, nearly enveloping Harry.

The boy’s brows furrowed, his glasses slipping to the tip of his nose, refracting the emerald blaze, but he made no sound. The metallic structure gripping his jaw squeezed his bones with such force that they seemed to hum. The metal pressed against his gums like a cutting prosthesis, digging into flesh. Silence bore down on their ears, a solid vacuum, until Voldemort spoke again:

“I think we need to clarify something,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, a vibration that seemed to ripple through every piece of furniture in the room. “You are nothing. Not an ally. Merely… a vessel. Right now, I am restrained. Perhaps even generous. But if you continue to test my hospitality… you will experience the pain your hands inflicted on my relics. Only, in your case, it won’t end. It will become your mode of existence, boy. Nod if you understand.”

Harry rolled his eyes. A breath rasped from his tongue—a faint, hoarse moan vibrating deep in his throat. Voldemort, catching the sound, took it as a sign of triumph, certain that a little more pressure would shatter the boy’s bones. The sound pattern mimicked that of injury: low, inarticulate. Yet the tone betrayed something else… no panic, only a dense exhalation, a brief, instinctive sigh, as if born of paradoxical… pleasure. The boy tilted his head faintly up and down, a subtle shift of his nape. Voldemort settled more comfortably on his throne, and in that moment, the vice-like grip around Harry’s jaw loosened, the metal hovering menacingly near his face, as if warning that one wrong word would snap it back into place.

“Now,” the Dark Lord continued, “tell me in detail what ties you to the Order of the Phoenix.”

Harry straightened, the taut metal still tightly coiling around his forearms. Oh, what magic swirled in the air! He felt utterly exhilarated, emotions surging into his ravaged mind, igniting a chemical bacchanalia—so vast was the spectrum of his feelings! A wave rippled from his neck downward, subtle, almost mythical. No pain registered, not from the vice-like grip on his arms, nor when it had encased his face. Instead, it was something akin to what might be called cognitive warmth, had anyone ever dared coin such a term in a neuropsychiatric lexicon. It was a deeply autonomic, parasympathetic inversion, triggered by Voldemort’s words, his cadence, the weight of his magic, and a profound, archetypal closeness… As if, for a fleeting moment, the insulation between two planetary magnetospheres had vanished, and through that breach roared a solar storm, shattering the silence of an inner cosmos! Harry’s neurons, depleted and scarred, felt… something entirely new for the first time in ages. A flare. Chaotic thoughts, spurred by the hormonal tumult of his adolescent body, wove strange propositions: What if this weren’t just an impulse, but a touch? And if I felt it—would he feel it too? If he did—what if he craved… more? Could it become endless? Harry let his lips quiver in a faint smirk at the enormity of his thought.

“Mmm… I left on the second of May and saw no one until… your assignment, my Lord,” Harry Potter said, lifting his head to study Voldemort’s face as if examining its entirety. At the motion, the lens of his glasses glinted green.

Voldemort leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, drawing closer to the boy. His crimson eyes narrowed.

“You understand,” he murmured, his voice a shade softer than before, “that Weasley and the others are doomed if they don’t show loyalty. And they, most likely, won’t—despite your… situation.”

“Er, yeah,” the boy replied, as if it were obvious. “That makes sense.”

“Are you telling me,” Voldemort pressed, “that you’re indifferent to their… fate?”

The air thickened, and a rustle emanated from the shelves laden with ancient parchments.

“They’re very capable people, my Lord, but they’ve lost meaning for me. Truth be told, for years, my aim… has been you.”

Harry locked eyes with Voldemort, and… something went awry again! The Dark Lord tried to summon his usual repertoire of reactions—irritation, fury, even affronted superiority—but his psyche remained deaf to the stimulus. A fleeting areflexia gripped his cortex. Not emptiness, but that same stupor: as if an impulse had stalled at the synapse, failing to reach its effector. His face twisted involuntarily—not in disgust, but in the sheer inability to identify his own state. What is this nonsense? His affective perception had malfunctioned. Instead of the boy, his mind reconstructed a projection—Tom Riddle, an image unnervingly precise: the symmetry of the face, the slightly wavy hair, even the silver at the temples—an aesthetic version of himself as he once was… beaming radiantly. No. It was Harry Potter smiling. Invasive empathy? Or a narcissistic collapse? Heresy! Like Nero hearing his own harp played back to him and failing to recognise his voice, Voldemort felt a strange dread—not from ugliness, but from a resemblance too… exquisite. He shifted his gaze to Nagini, who had just curled into her final loop, settling behind Harry Potter’s chair.

“By the way, if I may, my Lord,” Harry said, “which Weasley did you capture?”

Voldemort’s mania ignited, like incense in a temple of Dionysus—a wild, unpredictable ritual of madness he’d secretly craved. This was the culmination of an inner conflict, the moment when tension fused with rage and took form. Aha, the Weasleys, is it? Part of some scheme to save his wretched friend? The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed.

“Percy Weasley,” he said, watching Harry’s reaction closely. “But he’s likely dead by now. Cursed.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, a slight crease forming, yet his gaze held neither anger nor fear—only genuine bewilderment.

“Blimey… I haven’t seen Percy in years,” he said, his voice honest, almost childlike, punctuated by a faint whistle. “Seriously.”

Voldemort felt his mind plummet. Haven’t seen him? The pieces of Harry’s words began to click together. After the Battle of Hogwarts, the boy had been alone. The Order knew nothing of Potter… Weasley hadn’t lied then, and it wasn’t the information they’d tried to conceal. Until this moment, Voldemort had been certain Harry was tied to the Order, linked to whatever was hidden in that ragged Weasley’s mind. The Dark Lord had stewed on this thought… He’d seen a safehouse in Percy’s memories—Granger, the Mudblood; McGonagall; that strange fog cloaking something. Now, staring at the boy’s baffled expression, he felt his paranoia crack, like thin ice beneath his feet. Realisation grazed his body with a faint tremor—not fear, of course. They were plotting something. Voldemort’s eyes widened, and he froze.

Oh, how enchanting—the magic around them turned almost glacial! Not the cold that stings the skin, but the kind that seeps into bones, like the vacuum between celestial bodies! It was as if they stood on an orbit far from light, beyond the warmth of their own star. Harry gazed at Voldemort, and—oh, Merlin—everything within him zeroed in on one thing: a monstrously sublime attraction! For, yes, over time, a planet drifts… but what if the star grows denser? Its gravity stronger? What if it’s a black hole? Wouldn’t the planet spiral inward, collapsing into it?

“My Lord,” Harry said, his voice casual, almost languid, “when did you last check his condition? Are you certain he’s dead?” He paused. “If I may offer advice—check the body.”

Voldemort’s gaze snapped to Harry Potter’s face. His look… was it genuine? No, worse—it was… unpredictable! The Dark Lord felt intrigue, even doubt, if one could call it that. His perception was sharp—likely due to the somatic construct of his body, nourished by Nagini. It carried a genetic echo of reptilian sensory precision: the nuance of pheromones, the detection of neurohumoral fluctuations, especially fear—dopamine, vasopressin, cortisol. Voldemort had never once sensed this profile in Potter in these recent days. No fear, no anxiety in their usual concentrations… For a psyche accustomed to total sensory dominion over its subjects, to complete understanding, this fact wasn’t merely unsettling—it was a pathological irritant. Not to mention the boy’s mind was entirely sealed! Heresy!

Something strange coursed through his body again—not an impulse, but a low-frequency, warm tremor, slow, like the onset of a fever. The sensation was unfamiliar yet recurring, manifesting whenever the boy too close...it resembled a sensory reflex, an alien muscle memory—as if his body retained a template for interacting with something his mind sought to avoid...his body deemed the situation potentially significant but didn’t know how to classify the entity before it. Alas, as always, what sits so near is often already embedded within—like the phantom pain of a limb long gone, engraved deep into our neurons.

Chapter 23

Friendship, one might think, is a choice. In reality, it’s a misclassification. Contrary to prevailing constructs, friendship within the social hierarchies of higher primates arises from the same neurohormonal cascade as romantic attachment: oxytocin, endogenous opioids, dopamine. The mechanism is the same—the only difference lies in the contextual tags of arousal. The organism reacts to a “friend” as to a stabilizing external referent—a psychic placeholder compensating for cognitive overload, stress, or perceived reproductive inadequacy, take your pick. Anthropologically, it is a pact of mutual survival. Neurophysiologically, it is a low-cost simulation of intimacy. The neocortex intervenes, of course, regulating social ties. We can choose or terminate a friendship consciously—particularly in adulthood,provided the cortical machinery responsible for such discernment hasn’t gone offline...and if it has—well, they likely met them?

“...just a thought. But have you seen his body yourself, my Lord? Sometimes, no body means no death. You know that better than anyone.” Harry found that talking about the Death Eaters was surprisingly easy. He absolutely didn’t care about any of them. "Percy" was one, wasn’t he? Or… was it something else all other hated him for?Hm..Didn’t matter, really. Long, drawn-out strands of metal from Harry’s chair, stretching like snakes—those very same coils that had choked him minutes ago, hovered beside his head in the air, waiting…

Voldemort extricated himself from his cognitive stupor with a surge of incandescent rage. The sharp flare of anger erupted like an epileptoid discharge: he sprang to his feet, hands slamming onto the desk, his long, slender fingers pressing into the carved runes. How dare he address Lord Voldemort in such a tone?! First, that stunt with Yaxley—which, frankly, the Dark Lord had ignored only because he appreciated the correctness of every move… and every word,of course! What if it was all part of some cunning manipulation?! Their fates lost meaning to him?! Pfft! Voldemort's masterful, brilliant mind was already substituting rationality with hysteria. The image of the prison cell where the captive had once been flickered behind his eyes—persistent and unbidden...Potter! He glared at the boy with something akin to hatred. His mind clung to Harry’s words now like a zealot to prophecy—blind to its source, obsessed with its fulfillment.

“You dare accuse my followers?” Voldemort hissed. Nagini, coiled on the floor behind Harry Potter, hissed in echo, raising half her body upward. No, he had to see the chamber for himself—not later—now! 

“Sorry, my Lord…” Harry began—oh, would he make a habit of starting with apologies now? It always sounded like a confession! Ha! “I mean—I don’t care, obviously. Just saying, if he’s not dead, someone let him out. And the fact that it was Percy Weasley who went, and not someone else—wherever you caught him—is a very curious fact. They had plenty of candidates, and if he went, obviously he had some advantage, didn’t he? Oh, if I’m not mistaken, the Weasleys have a wide choice of whom to send.Also, they’ve been fighting you for what—a decade? Two? It’s their pattern, their orbit!” The boy drew a breath, as if eagerly reporting the conquest of an empire to his master. Then, as if a supernova had pierced his skull, Harry froze, his pupils dilating, as though… in the void between atoms, he glimpsed a structure, echoes of events yet to unfold… something impossible, yet he knew that soul as he knew his own! Harry snapped upright. “Let me go with you! I have my Invisibility Cloak. I’ll stay silent,” he blurted out abruptly. The armrests around his wrists tightened, the fabric of his cloak emitting an eerie, unnatural creak, as if something slick yet dense were caught in their grip.

Voldemort loomed over the desk, his eyes narrowing at the boy’s words. Intrigue. An Invisibility Cloak? So that’s how he’d been hiding… A rare artefact indeed. How many had he acquired? From whom? Though, truth be told, the Dark Lord scarcely needed such a thing—there were countless other ways to conceal one’s presence, less artful than a cloak, perhaps, but sufficient. The cloak had its flaws, after all… Weasley…It’s not the rational mind that demands to see the body...to see the cell. It was the compulsion of irrational  doubt. Like a pathologist carving into dead flesh, needing proof of what he already knew...

“Follow me,” Voldemort commanded, striding toward the door, which swung open silently in that instant. As the Dark Lord passed by Harry, his aura—intangible yet so… alive, so dense—brushed against the boy’s skin. Oh, it was like a rewriting of his very body temperature! A wave of goosebumps cascaded down Harry’s spine, as if the fingers of the void itself had traced the contours of his soul. Under the weight of magic, the chair’s framework unravelled, smoothly reverting to its primal state. The serpentine curls retreated, releasing his forearms, coiling back into the curved black metal armrests.

Harry sprang up, almost reflexively, practically launching himself from the seat as if fearing he’d miss a summons to the Final Judgement where his name had already been called. He hurried after Voldemort, his dark figure flashing through the air, his heavy cloak billowing behind him, slicing through space with an arc and a crack, as if the fabric itself had snarled a brief incantation.

“One moment, my Lord,” Harry said, catching up to Voldemort at the threshold of his chamber. He stepped inside, pausing… Merlin, where had he left it? He had so few possessions as it was… Harry reached beneath his cloak, secured at the chest with straps, and felt the cool, pleasing fabric. The Invisibility Cloak was sewn in as a lining, like a second skin stitched to the inner layer of his cloak. When he tugged at its edge, the material unfurled with a rustle, stretching elastically.

“Oh, handy, isn’t it?” Harry murmured. He extended one arm, pulling the fabric to its full length with his other hand, holding it between his fingers. The cloak’s surface shimmered, catching tiny flecks of light. Voldemort stood in the doorway, observing. What is he doing? How old was he? Seventeen? Merlin’s beard, what a nightmare… The Dark Lord mentally grimaced, picturing a decade of this vessel’s antics by his side… Wait, what was that thought? Heresy! Should he lock the boy in this room right now? Truly, why did he even need him? …Hmm… Meanwhile, Harry draped the Invisibility Cloak over himself, unfurling the fabric like a wing with a sharp, circular motion, accompanied by another crack of his heavy leather cloak. The Invisibility Cloak, as if alive, enveloped his form, settling smoothly over his figure. While Voldemort’s mind churned, the boy vanished entirely from sight.

The air turned frigid.

“WAIT!” Voldemort’s voice erupted in a howl, a reflex coursing through his body like an electric jolt—starting at his diaphragm, seizing his vocal cords, bypassing his will entirely. His breath faltered. This wasn’t his decision, once again—it was a somatic interruption of an inevitable… loss. Something eerily akin to himself. His vessel. The object of his everything! It had… vanished again. The Dark Lord felt a near-horror—but let no one dare ask him why…

The boy materialised a few steps away, one hand clutching the edge of the Invisibility Cloak above his head, his face now only half-visible. The portion of his body shrouded by the fabric seemed woven into the very fabric of existence, as if embedded in a fold of reality itself.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Harry Potter said, dropping to one knee. The Invisibility Cloak draped over his shoulders, creating a peculiar sight for Voldemort as he gazed down at the boy’s visible nape and hands. “Would you cast a charm to sense my presence?”

Silence.

What was this farce?! Voldemort hadn’t voiced his intent—he hadn’t even completed the thought, hadn’t issued a command! How did he… dare? Hmm… but, in truth, yes, this was precisely what the Dark Lord desired. What had he been displeased about to begin with? Everything was perfect.

“Umbra Sequitur ,” Voldemort whispered, his voice soft as the spell demanded, twirling his wand in a double circular motion. Black smoke laced with white edges poured from its tip, settling into a thick, ribbed mass along the ground, stretching from Voldemort’s feet toward Harry Potter. With this charm, the target’s shadow extended toward the caster, as if drawn by a setting sun, infinitely long… It required the target’s blood, but how convenient that he and the boy shared it. The spell could only be cast at night, just like a shadow itself… but Voldemort had mastered that obstacle long ago. When he’d studied the incantation, he’d enhanced it, weaving the surrounding magic’s structure into a delicate, nearly imperceptible cloud of aerosolised dust—a blend of soot and silvery phosphorus. It scattered photonic waves as if the sun had already set: short wavelengths dimmed, while longer ones dispersed in a soft glow, mirroring the spectrum of moonlight. The spell, like consciousness, bowed not to time but to the medium of perception. Voldemort could conjure night itself—or at least its chemical echo.

The shadow conjured by Voldemort was visible not only in darkness—but only to the wizard who had cast the curse…

Harry Potter remained on his knees, his gaze unreadable, impossible to tell where exactly he was looking.

“Rise,” Voldemort commanded, extending his hand as he always did with such orders—a preacher’s gesture, not of mercy but of mandate. The boy stood, almost awkwardly, yet retaining a certain… bodily grace. Voldemort’s eyes lingered on his face… the tousled black hair barely revealed the scar, a silhouette of a deadly curse, falling in a chaotic cascade across the youthful visage, one strand catching on the frame of his glasses. His skin bore a faint pallor—not sickly, but rather…  exquisitely. What were those faint scars on his cheek? His gaze shifted to the boy’s eyes… and Harry was looking back at him.

Voldemort spun sharply.

“Follow me. Stay close,” he ordered, striding forward swiftly, his cloak billowing behind him like a thin, dark veil, long and trailing like a comet’s tail. Nagini slithered beside him, weaving in sinuous arcs. Harry vanished into the air with another sharp, circular motion, treading silently in the Dark Lord’s wake, like a Ka cloaked in the mortal shell of a youth, moving behind the bearer of Ra, ready to dissolve entirely at a single glance…

The forward motion in silence opened a space for… analysis. Movement seemed to divert the body’s reflexes and resources to coordinating limbs, allowing Voldemort a momentary reprieve from… somatic enchantment. Potter! What was happening now? Truth be told, the Dark Lord had intended to cast the Disillusionment Charm on the boy himself—himself! A protocol of security, driven not by logic but by something far more refined: the aesthetics of possession. He still hadn’t decided whether to reveal Harry Potter to the world, to his followers. Potter had simply decided for him. Rational? Perhaps. It was also a calculated delegation of effort—using the cloak to spare Voldemort’s magic. Clever, indeed...

Of course, sustaining magic—especially enchantments on another’s body—was complex, requiring constant mental mapping of topography, particularly when the target moved through space. But when had complexity ever deterred Voldemort? His vestibular system would adapt instantly; his neural map was already primed to process three-dimensional models! He simply hadn’t had the chance… he hadn’t been allowed to command. The boy had preempted him, mentioning the cloak. Leading him to Weasley… A click sounded in Voldemort’s mind as they approached the entrance to the staircase descending into the dungeons...wait. Was the boy trying to usurp his will?! Was he plotting something? The Dark Lord’s brow furrowed, his jaw clenching. Whelp! Horcrux! He should have locked him away!

Voldemort descended into the dungeons, his eyes tracking the black shadow trailing behind him, quite literally at his heels along the stairs… rows of sealed cells stretched ahead. They reached the chamber where Weasley had been held. The door was shut. The Elder Wand rose to dispel the charms and unlock the room… the air hummed, a breeze from a distant corridor sweeping through the narrow space. Cold. The wand felt remarkably responsive—Voldemort could sense it reacting to the needed spell before he’d fully formed the thought.

The door swung open, revealing, as expected, an empty cell. Chains dangled from the wall, swaying slightly, and a lone chair sat in the centre. Somewhere down a distant corridor, the clink of another chain echoed, hinting at the occupancy of other “luxury suites.” From the empty space beside Voldemort came a sharp whistle—a gleeful, impish sound, like the voice of a mischievous gremlin brimming with venomous mirth. Harry raised his hand above his head, unveiling himself once more.

“I’d bet he’s still alive,” the boy blurted, his voice crackling with amusement through a wide grin, his eyes crinkling with the smile.

Voldemort whirled around, his crimson gaze piercing the void where half of Harry’s have been, then locking onto the face emerging from the fabric of space itself. Harry raised both hands, the Invisibility Cloak slipping magically to rest on his shoulders, baring his form from the front.

“My Lord, it wasn’t me!” Harry’s voice blended a manic grin with furrowed, serious brows. He glanced at his feet, then at Voldemort, taking in the surroundings—and an idea sparked in his mind about how this must look through another’s eyes. Through Voldemort’s eyes! Oh,but clearly, a curse was coming now! Any second, Tom’s wand would flare with intent… what? Crucio ? Wait… so what? Pfft.

But instead, the Dark Lord merely stared, his face an unyielding mask. Within, he barely suppressed a gag reflex as the boy’s behaviour over the past hour began to make sense. Truth be told, Voldemort could stomach the sight of his own entrails, a gutted serpent, even rotting human remains—little could provoke him to empty his stomach. But this ? Before him stood no monster, no Inferius, no embodied terror… Worse. Far worse. A teenager. Merlin, what had he been thinking? Hmm… but, on the other hand, his vessel possessed remarkable abilities with the Unforgivable Curses, and generally—judging by all appearances—not a fool at all…WHAT?! Heresy!

“It certainly wasn’t you,” Voldemort hissed through clenched teeth. He’d lock this boy away to the devil himself! “He’s dead. ” ...of course they disposed of him! Can’t have the stench festering in the air, can we? Wait, why did Voldemort come down here himself?!

Harry Potter blinked. A chill grazed his body… a tremor… his pupils contracted, a green glint reflecting off his glasses’ lenses. His gaze drifted over Voldemort’s shoulder, unfocused on anything specific yet fixed with unnerving precision, as if he saw something… invisible, yet watching. A thought entered, caused a stir, and departed—leaving nothing behind. What he’d grasped slipped beyond time itself. Literally—no variable remained to reconstruct it. 

He returned his gaze to Voldemort. His eyes fluttered shut. A slight bow, head tilted downward. A gesture of acquiescence. But…

“Forgive my impertinence, my Lord,” he said, “but I must insist. If it wasn’t the one watching him, check the house-elves. One helped me last time.” Nagini hissed, her eyes fixed on Harry, her long, massive body coiling in a sweeping arc at Voldemort’s feet.

The Dark Lord’s gaze flicked sharply, accompanied by a quick, jerking nod, scanning the space where Potter stood. His eye twitched, his lips curling in yet another sneer of disdain. He shifted his attention to the empty cell that had held Percy Weasley. Impossible! Surely that rat was dead, wasn’t he? He hadn’t asked Malfoy about Weasley—after all, that day had coincided with the one when Voldemort discovered that his Horcruxes were being destroyed... that Potter had been hiding right under his "nose"! And there had been far too much of Potter...Voldemort had been acting merely on inertia—pursuing goals and issuing orders, interacting with his minions.In any case, that Weasley hadn’t found what he was looking for at the Ministry! Or… The Dark Lord froze as his thoughts spiralled. Damn it all, he’d lost such valuable memories! All because of… Potter! He needed to know what they were plotting! A strangling curse wasn’t so easily undone—he’d personally witnessed it strike the redhead… unless…

Voldemort’s hand flicked wand in silence—summoning a serpent with a wordless Serpensortia. The snake would swiftly find the person he needed right now—who was, evidently, still inside the Manor.

Harry’s mind was a roiling chaos, a nascent universe in the throes of creation! He stood there, in a narrow stone corridor of the dungeon—yes, with nothing to do, yet his mind… sparks flared in his prefrontal cortex. Oh, he felt something akin to this before… had someone else felt it? Who… was it that girl? Trying to recall the image of a Hogwarts student, Harry instinctively veered down a worn neural pathway, looping back to the vessel of his current obsession… Instead of any other face, he saw only Tom Riddle. Voldemort. He reached for someone, something else—but even that fleeting mental gesture to recall “something different” was swallowed by the gravity of Voldemort! Oh, he needed this! On the edge of his consciousness lingered a remnant—an awareness of an anomaly… something… but it existed beyond his “self,” like debris drifting through the vast emptiness… Harry jerked his head sharply to the side, a half-circle motion, as if to dispel a whistling sound… but was it inside him or out?

The boy heard hurried footsteps approaching, their heavy echo reverberating through the corridor, and with a practiced motion, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over himself. A tiny serpent appeared first, slithering toward Voldemort, coiling around his bare ankle. Harry’s gaze followed it involuntarily, lingering, lost in his own thoughts… Voldemort, meanwhile, stood with his arms crossed behind his back, awaiting his minion. His crimson eyes narrowed, glinting red as if heralding a Cruciatus Curse, as Lucius Malfoy entered the dungeon. Pale, with long blonde hair tangled from haste, he dropped to one knee in a low bow.

“What is this, Lucius?” Voldemort asked, gesturing toward the empty cell. His voice was ice-cold. He never denied himself this pleasure.He uses the fear of being destroyed, not destruction itself, as his primary instrument. “Look. What do you see?”

Lucius froze. For the briefest second,  the spine sagged just enough to betray the nervous system’s surrender. His eyes, bloodshot and watery, flicked to the cell and back to Voldemort with frantic speed. He swallowed — audible and dry — before forcing his voice through the tightening throat.There was nothing in the cell.

“Percy… Weasley, that is, he’s dead, m-my Lord. The curse… it worked quickly. He ch-choked.”

Without wasting a moment, Voldemort raised the Elder Wand, making the elder Malfoy flinch. But the Dark Lord merely tilted Lucius’s chin upward with the wand’s tip, forcing their eyes to meet. Legilimens . His mind surged into Lucius’s consciousness. He saw the memory: a young man of twenty-two, bright red hair disheveled, glasses askew, gasping, his tongue swollen, eyes filled with terror, pain, tears, and other fluids seeping from his nasal and tear ducts, pupils rolling back. His hands clawed at Lucius’s robes, fingers digging into pockets, tugging… fabric tore under his convulsing movements. Lucius dragged the struggling, weakening youth until, at last, he ceased thrashing, though his body still shuddered with residual lung impulses. Weasley’s form went limp. Voldemort saw Lucius check for a pulse, his gloved hand delicately touching the vein at the neck… Lucius’s face twisted in disgust before he Apparated with the body to the Acromantula territory. The spiders descended, their mandibles clicking, tearing into flesh. Lucius vanished.

Voldemort withdrew from Lucius’s mind, the Elder Wand lowering and slipping back into his sleeve. In truth, Tom felt genuine relief. The Malfoy line was an ancient magical family, and, of course, there was still an heir…Lucius’s fate was sealed, but killing him now would be irrational. He was still… useful.

“You are dismissed,” Voldemort said. Lucius needed no second bidding. The man muttered something incoherent, vaguely resembling “Yes, my Lord,” bowed deeply—his face paling even further in the act—and hastily retreated, stumbling up the dungeon stairs as he fled.

Harry Potter emerged from beneath his cloak in the narrow stone passage, materialising exactly where he had vanished. Voldemort’s gaze snapped toward him, his breath hissing loudly through his nostrils.

“I regret to inform you,” the Dark Lord said, “that your friend… has been devoured by Acromantulas.”

He spoke almost tenderly. Yes. Voldemort had seen that moment: dilated pupils, tears, a scream. He was waiting for it now. Betrayal. Deception. The Weasleys were his friends, weren’t they? The boy couldn’t be serious!

Harry’s eyes widened… there it was! A lightning bolt flashed through Voldemort’s mind, and for a trembling fraction of a second, he felt… not the anticipated triumph, but… regret. Clearly, the victim of his little psychological experiment had proven all too predictable.

But Harry, of course, didn’t scream.

“Oh, that Weasley always fancied rats more, didn’t he?” the boy said. “So you’ve got a breeding ground here, my Lord? Blimey, I’ve heard Acromantula venom’s worth a fortune!”

Voldemort froze.

“They’re still in the Forbidden Forest,” he snapped, his mind stalling as well. Truth be told, he hadn’t meant to answer boy’s question! No, he’d lock him away for good! To hell with it all!

“Come!” Voldemort strode toward the staircase, ascending in a whirl of black smoke. A strange sound came from behind—had the boy said something? No matter! He needed to think alone.

As he paced the corridors of Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord was consumed by his thoughts. Potter had been sincere—seemingly all along. Voldemort entertained the notion, almost accepting it as a temporary truth. No curses clung to the boy, no spies trailed him… Had he truly betrayed his friends? He needed to verify the information about Tinworth… It was likely true. But his mind, the very organ of his brain, warred with his consciousness, fuelled and conditioned—his neurons tuned to assess the boy in a specific configuration. Weasley… Harry Potter was only seventeen. Something was amiss. A pact of mutual non-destruction is hardly the same as handing your friends over to the executioner! Then again, he’s young… perhaps it was a personal quarrel? Everything he’d heard about him, seen in their prior encounters, didn’t align with the boy’s current behaviour. It was… strange. Had the revelation of being a Horcrux affected him so profoundly? Voldemort’s gaze flicked sideways, tracing the black shadow conjured by his spell, which darkened into an abyssal gradient, pooling like an eye of utter void that absorbed no light, not even a ripple, marking the spot where Harry Potter trod silently behind him… his Ka. In truth, such knowledge would unsettle even a grown man’s cognitive spectrum. To be the Dark Lord’s Horcrux in the hands of his enemy…

Harry Potter. A weapon. A mere Petri dish—not a subject, but a medium, nothing more. A temporary vessel, destined for a single cycle: to incubate the venom, destroy, and then be discarded. Venom isn’t cultivated to preserve the vessel. Albus Dumbledore… what did you teach this child? No...this Voldemort’s vessel?!

“My Lord, why not check Tinworth?”

Voldemort halted in the empty corridor, the door to the room he sought already visible in the corner of his vision.

Silence.

He drew the Elder Wand and, guided by the shadow, aimed it unerringly at the boy’s chest. Was he truly intending to curse him, or was this a reflex-driven gesture? His hand burned strangely, unnaturally… clearly from his indescribable fury!

“What are you plotting?” he snarled, yanking the cloak from Harry’s head with a sharp motion, flinging it upward like a tablecloth. “Potter—do you think you can manipulate me ?”

The boy’s face turned grave, devoid of creases, utterly blank. Facial expressions are easiest to control when the body isn’t in a state of hypermania, flooded with endorphins—when, conversely, it’s nearly impossible not to smile.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” Harry said. “I shouldn’t have been so forward. I only thought it beneath you to waste your time. Please… don’t cast me aside. I just… want to be useful.” An idea slithered through his mind like a serpent. The truth. “You gave me back a reason to exist, whether you meant to or not. Before, all I did was resist, but now I see how foolish that was! I wasn’t defying you—I was defying gravity itself!”Harry Potter looked into Voldemort’s face, the Elder Wand pressed against Harry’s chest. His pupils dilated, and he drew a strange breath—too slow, too deep, like someone savoring a forbidden pleasure. “Let me prove I understand what it means to serve you.”

Voldemort bared his teeth, the skin over his brow-bone furrowing slightly. Through parted lips and clenched jaws, he inhaled sharply through his nostrils, as if testing the air for authenticity by its chemical composition… Nothing. Well, obviously: the boy felt guilt for… everything he’d done. He was young. Seventeen. A Horcrux… Voldemort took a swiftly step back, lowering his wand, his thin silken robes sliding forward with the motion, brushing against the dense black leather of Harry’s cloak. The boy raised his hands, palms forward. He stood still. Unmoving. His glasses caught the torchlight flickering on the corridor wall…How delightful it was for Voldemort that his mind had blocked the structure of Potter’s words, catching only the essence.

Yes, it was entirely plausible that he genuinely wished to be useful. Being useful was, after all, a natural strategy for survival. A basic behavioural pattern. And why not? His compliance… all this time, it had been driven by guilt, not cunning. His flamboyant behaviour? Well, of course. Hogwarts was long overdue for an overhaul in its upbringing methods. A lightning bolt pierced Voldemort’s mind. Could the Horcrux within the boy wield influence beyond mere mind-reading?

“Follow me,” Voldemort commanded. They proceeded down the empty corridor, stopping at the chamber assigned to Harry Potter.

“Your wand.” Voldemort extended his hand expectantly. Door to room creaked open before them, revealing a luxurious double canopy bed. Harry hesitated for a moment to resist, something flickered in his eyes, but he drew his wand with a flick of his hand—it slipped from his sleeve, held by straps on his forearm. Only this morning Voldemort hadn’t even seen the point in this gesture, since all scenarios where Harry’s wand posed a threat to Voldemort were literally blocked by his ego. The boy was no threat to him! And those sensations he’d felt several times—the terror that gripped his body when the boy appeared before him a few days ago… well, Voldemort skillfully forgot such things.

Harry Potter entered silently, turning his torso to cast a green-eyed glance at Voldemort before the door slammed shut.

Potter managed to open that door, right?Let’s see how he opens what no longer exists! Voldemort carved a sharp, rectangular perimeter into the air before the sealed doorway with his wand, his words a low, incantatory murmur. The door convulsed inward. First, it halved in size. Then again, and again, each reduction exponential—until it collapsed into itself entirely, crushed beneath the weight of its own unraveling, until nothing remained but unbroken stone… and, perhaps, one atom, trembling at the base of the wall.

Nagini slithered forward between the Dark Lord and the dark wall where the door had stood moments ago.

Anxiety,master? Cause?

Voldemort didn’t deign to answer his Horcrux. With a sharp turn, his cloak flowed through the air like liquid silk, and he strode toward the Great Hall to hear reports. A long, black shadow—like the void itself—trailed behind the Dark Lord’s silhouette, reaching the wall of the manor, beyond which was the object of the curse... He’d had far too much of Harry Potter in the last few hours! Voldemort still had a thousand questions for a boy, yet he got distracted by some trivial matter! He was simply exhausted! Now, in the hall, he would give the order to summon all the groups that had patrolled Tinworth for the past month... He would ponder some things... as long as he needed. Also, He needed to hear and review some reports on those quietly maneuvering toward the newly promised post of London’s Mayor... Potter wasn’t going anywhere... Oh, Potter! It should have been simple. Simple, of course! Heresy! His mind recoiled, yet something—more instinct than intellect—had tilted toward the boy...oh,not sentiment, but some deeper pulse of the flesh... Had the Horcrux twisted him? Or had the boy simply… occupied too much of his mental architecture, for far too long?

In any case, his mind refused to accept it. Voldemort consciousness, built on the sharp edges of logic and disdain for humanity, rejected such a revelation. But his body—this vile error of nature,despite being reshaped by the dominion of higher magic, it was still human, however grotesque—registered vibrations, triggered like a switch: Harry’s pupils, his voice, scent, even his youthful antics, if one looked closely, didn’t truly enrage the Dark Lord… These patterns wove delicate threads into his subcortex. Oh, how repulsive. How… Horcrux… The boy he’d hunted was morphing into a living myth—and myths,ah, seductive as they are, awaken desire even in gods!

Notes:

Yes, I know "show, don’t tell" might not be the best principle when it comes to writing...but I really can’t stand it when a character later uses knowledge the reader has no clue where they got from...I needed this chapter for future..

Chapter 24

Humanity is a pitiful jest—a mockery of the very notion of "structure" and "governance". Blindly believing they can regulate morality and assign a price to justice, they’ve constructed not a society but an execution machine. All their progress is merely the refinement of instruments — sharper shackles, quieter prisons, sweeter poisons. A man steals bread to survive — and they speak of law, not hunger. He invests in an hour of life, and they call it theft. Because the system does not recognize life. It recognizes only obedience. Their trial is no reckoning — it is theatre. And the sentence is not death — but ugly conformity! Was their sacred algorithm violated? Their cursed, Muggle rules. Their vulgarity. Their vileness! That’s the question. Not why, not who, only how dare you.

What is this, if not slavery? Forced labour, the theft of leisure, the excision of time from an individual’s biography—all slathered in the appetising sauce of “taxes” and “civic duty”? And if you, a pitiful, insignificant wizard, dare believe a Muggle will let you remain free—you’ve already lost. Voldemort remembers that day. He remembers… when Muggles landed on the moon. They did! They conquered space! Magic cannot take you where you’ve never been, but Muggles… they had been there! They didn’t cast spells… Their technology would surpass magic, he thought nearly thirty years ago… and, it seems, it has. Their rockets aren’t mere transport… they are teeth. And those teeth are already sinking into magical flesh.

Wizardkind will fade into oblivion. Wizards will become their slaves, their specimens, their organic raw material… they’re already stealing magic! They don’t want to be wizards. They want to replace wizards. Just as their rockets don’t fly but tear through gravity, so too does a Mudblood not learn magic—they destroy it!

A year passed since the first Muggle’s step on the Moon — a year Voldemort used to sharpen his final preparations. Then, the First Wizarding War began.

The Dark Lord lounged upon his throne,at the center of the Malfoy Manor's great hall, relaxed, one leg extended forward. His left arm, bent, rested on the throne’s armrest, supporting his chin like an emperor reclining on a triclinium. In his other hand, he twirled the Elder Wand. His gaze didn’t linger on it but pierced through, as if seeing beyond. He remained still—yet the entire hall bowed to the rhythm of his sympathetic nervous system. Silence enveloped the room, but before him stood several aspirants… political larvae. Voldemort’s eyes flicked to Nagini… his Horcrux… and the current of his thoughts dragged him back to the image he sought to banish! Every damned minute, it haunted his mind! Heresy!

“My Lord—” A low bow, and a man, appearing around fifty, remained half-bent, his hand resting at his chest, head lowered as if swearing an oath. “Ben Redcliffe, former officer of British Intelligence, MI5, now a consultant for the Conservative Party,” he said, his voice steady but taut, like an eager cadet at his first parade. His suit, impeccably pressed, seemed absurd amidst the opulence of Malfoy Manor, where every corner was steeped in enchantments and an alien culture. The charmed windows, bewitched to show not daylight but a cold lunar glow, reflected a pale face, a neatly trimmed grey beard, and dull grey eyes. As Voldemort’s gaze met his, grazing the man’s mind in that fleeting contact, his lips twitched in a barely perceptible smirk. Redcliffe dropped convulsively to one knee. Worm. Perfect.

“Er, good… good evening, my Lord?” came another voice, slightly muffled,as if rising from somewhere near the floor. “Sabrina Rahman, my Lord, thirty-two, my Lord. I hail from Bangladesh and…”

Voldemort exhaled theatrically, his wand flicking lazily toward her—a hint she’d do well to heed. The dark-skinned woman, kneeling upright on both knees with her back held almost straight, short dark hair wrapping in a ponytail, her prominent nose accentuating her face, widened her eyes and pursed her lips like a child who’d blurted something foolish before a professor at her first exam. Her dark, dilated eyes darted to him, only to drop back to the floor an instant later.

“…M-my apologies, my Lord,” she stammered. “In truth, I’m more of a social activist, with my own programs supporting… impoverished districts.” On some impulse, she cast another nervous glance at Voldemort, her body pierced by raw terror and cold as the Dark Lord’s eyes met hers… something icy slithered through her mind. Voldemort lazily averted his gaze, returning it to the Elder Wand. The woman swallowed hard, her throat dry.

“Sabrina Rahman, advisor on ethnic communities and urban poverty. Labour. Fiat voluntas tua.”

Voldemort wasn’t particularly intrigued. Like a Dementor, he’d devoured nearly all the woman’s memories to glean what he needed—her mind was an open pamphlet, requiring no effort to unravel, unlike Potter’s… His eye twitched at the unexpected thought, but he pressed on. The woman was enamoured with magic, a healer, trained through an absurdly long Muggle medical education, unashamed to wield feeble restorative spells where applicable...her childhood—a heap of filth, grime, and pervasive stench, oil and slime all around. Disgust. Voldemort’s mind recoiled, though not at her memories alone. A faint muscle above his upper lip betrayed him with a nervous twitch. Repulsive. Useful.

Voldemort exhaled, his fingers, which had been cradling his chin, gliding smoothly over Nagini’s head. The serpent, coiled around the throne, continued her sinuous movement, slithering across his knees toward the other armrest.

All Muggle-borns must be subjected to systematic control, strict accounting, and constant surveillance—their exponential proliferation poses a direct threat to the genetic integrity of the wizarding world. They must be excised like a disease, a tumour on the body. The subject of Muggle Studies had been entirely revised and reconstructed under the current educational system. One Hogwarts professor who had dared, a year prior, to publicly defend Muggles in the Prophet was executed before all the Death Eaters. But use does not equal respect — oh no. Instrumentalizing a subject for its utility is the highest form of dominance. A man may breed cattle and feed them well — not out of respect, but to ensure the meat is tender.

The third figure, clad in robes, was already kneeling on one knee, head bowed, his voice sharp and assured.

“Harry—” Voldemort’s gaze snapped to the centre of the hall where the man stood. The figure cleared his throat nervously. “Ahem. Harold Bright, my Lord. Program—” He coughed again. “Specialist in digital influence, my Lord. I’m not aligned with any political parties, as you know, but I assure you, as… a freelance consultant for… er—” The young man, about thirty, with several earrings in one ears and thick eyebrows over large green eyes—not like Potter’s, Voldemort’s mind supplied with an absurd comparison, eliciting something akin to a chuckle—“two competing, independent platforms currently vying to establish a ‘mayoral movement’ post-referendum, I’ll have the chance to make my choice.” The dark-haired man raised his head, gazing at Voldemort as a pagan might stare at a deity’s statue suddenly come to life—mouth slightly agape, pupils dilated, silent. Wretched. Handy.

The Dark Lord’s perfect mask of indifference cracked for an instant, his lips twisting in another spasm of disgust. To achieve his aims, he had welcomed beasts into his ranks—Acromantulas, Dementors, Giants… These three were beneath beasts.

For great purposes, the great make acts of profound sacrifice. He, heir of Salazar Slytherin, did not shy away from any caste of degenerates: Goblins, werewolves… Knowledge and power was currency, and he wielded it like a usurer—ruthlessly and rationally. It wasn’t rational to kill every rat when one could be loosed in the enemy’s nest. Let it die, but not before infecting the brood. After all, a single corpse is meaningless. But its trace? That’s everything...only a fool believes that a handful of followers—or even all of magical Britain—could stand against the Muggle world, its numbers, its technologies, its steel-boned empires. Victory was never about loyalty. Cadres decide everything.

His gaze drifted downward as Nagini slithered forward across his body, still entwining the throne… Voldemort’s eyes caught on his own black shadow, stretching across the white marble to the darkest corner of the Manor, toward a corridor leading to his chambers and…

Tom closed his eyes, inhaling sharply through his nostrils. His hand still rested on the armrest, supporting his chin, his thumb moving almost imperceptibly, betraying some inner workings of a thought even the Dark Lord couldn’t fully grasp… It was hardly about the candidates before him… No, of course… London. The candidates.

Voldemort peered into the minds of each aspiring minion before him. The last man… so many screens, formulas flashing across them, text… Clearly, he was involved with something tied to television, radio? …and something new, a technology that looked like “TV,” used screens, but differed from what was normally thought of as such— it was something else. The Dark Lord had been extraordinarily fortunate to select these three.Nott had provided dossiers on a dozen candidates—individuals closely embedded within various Muggle London structures poised to participate in the imminent formation of new political bodies. And from among them, upon closer study few hours ago, here were the most intriguing—a trio—granted a personal audience. The sooner he began extracting intelligence from within, the better. Besides, Voldemort had made what he deemed a perfectly rational decision: that such an act of desecration might scour his mind of Potter, replacing it with nothing but a revulsion for the present moment. Alas, the boy had carved himself a place in his thoughts even here!

Nott himself now lingered by the far wall, in the shadows, where he belonged. Voldemort finest tool, perpetually bent in obeisance, his spine having long forgotten what it meant to stand upright.

Voldemort’s face twisted, anticipating the distasteful task before him. Revulsion—faint yet persistent, like the acrid aftertaste of warm wine. Human nature was tiresomely predictable. It, not blood, made them all the same. The urge to serve, even one who could execute them… human who senses a will stronger than his own feels, however faintly, the echo of divinity pressed upon him. The Dark Lord had never particularly concealed his appetites. What god hides their presence? Only one that doesn’t exist. Voldemort didn’t hide, didn’t explain. Across magical Britain—repression. In Azkaban—his foes. At the Ministry, an entire department now oversaw Muggle-born filth. Most “subjects” were either in Azkaban or soulless. Yet these… objects…

These objects before him: Mudblood and... worse—Muggles. He regarded them—a soldier in suit, a servant of screens—both Muggles, their awe toward Voldemort akin to a divine epiphany. They might not even have fully grasped the circumstances of magical Britain, nor what the title of “powerful wizard” truly entailed. But their ideals had been touched, they were intrigued. And now, after personal contact, they scarcely retained the illusion of choice.Despite being vermin—lower than Dementors by blood—their minds, their cultural cognition, made them irreplaceable assets…history is bloated with such specimens. Classic example: Germany. Their campaign—messy, inefficient, and yet rich in precedent. Judenrat, collaborators, agents—many of them truly believed they could “improve the system,” even as they signed the deportation orders of their neighbors’ children. Bureaucracy of Hell incarnate. The infamous line: better if I do it than someone worse—became a system unto itself...only a few rose beyond survival into strategy. Fewer still proved their utility to power.

Muggles, especially, were simple prey: their only exposure to magic came through the lens of their grotesque media and crumbling myths. When faced with its true form, they suffered collapse—cognitive, emotional, civilizational. But if harnessed correctly—if chosen well—they were disturbingly easy to manipulate. Of course, no one ever intended to fully trust them. At the slightest suspicion, their memories would be scanned—along with those of anyone mentioned within them. And then, all involved objects would simply be removed.

Voldemort rose from his throne. Before him stood the three, kneeling like deacons before an icon—not in prayer, but in an act of pure recognition. This wasn’t worship; it was acknowledgment of him as living law. A master exists only when a slave consents to servitude.

“How curiously humans are constructed…” He took a step forward, circling past the bowed figures, a Dementor, a deathly spectre, the long sleeves of his robes barely brushing the floor, the Elder Wand resting in his slender fingers. “…They bring their names, titles, deeds—as if these could be arguments. As if I cannot see through them. As if I could be… persuaded by such things.” Nagini coiled, like a cobra on the throne, stretching out and hissing.

“But I have no interest in your virtues. Strength is not weakness. It is a language. And I am prepared to give my friends its grammar. I am prepared to give it to you, for you came…” Voldemort circled the man in the suit—loyalty clung to him like a uniform—and stopped at their centre, hands clasped behind his back, his voice soft, laced with a faint hiss. “Voluntarily. That alone sets you apart. It speaks volumes about your desires, whatever they may be, about your minds, your appetites. I would have no need for your names, your dossiers, your ambitions. They mean nothing to many.” He paused, reading the faces of those kneeling before him. “But I have read them.” A sharp inhale, and the woman flinched. “You know how to play by the rules. Some of you are ‘inspiring,’ some ‘dangerous,’ some ‘geniuses.’ Splendid. But the rules…” He tilted his head slightly. “…as you may have realised… are void.”

Silence.

“You no longer need to pose as citizens striving to mend what has long rotted…” He extended his wand at arm’s length, its tip grazing the woman, making her shudder. She raised her head, meeting his gaze. Voldemort didn’t hesitate to slice through her mind with Legilimens once more, dissecting her past in detail. Her heavy exhale piqued the curiosity of the two men beside her. They tensed, like hunting dogs, eyes locked on their master.

“…For rules are the refuge of those who fear change, who cling to a dead structure. But now…” A pause, his voice low, cold, fluid, like saline flowing into a vein. “You do not reform it—you birth a new order. The old frameworks collapse because you came not to repair the old, but to build anew. And you know this. You know how, better than they do.” A distinct emphasis on "they". “Soon, I shall grant you the Mark. Not a brand—a symbol. A symbol of belonging. Of status. Of influence. Not of submission—of participation in greatness. A memory and a sign that you were… chosen. Not because you are the best. But because you are fitting, and because you made the only correct choice.”

Voldemort drew a sharp breath through his nostrils again. Ah, there it was! Cortisol — thick, viscous, almost mineral on the tongue; adrenaline — bitter as vinegar… a sweet pinch of dopamine lurking at the edge: one of these larvae stirred with exhilaration tinged by panic. Nothing awakens the body like fear of power and the chance to be seen. This — true power: when another’s flesh quivers but does not flee. When fear transforms into a gift.

“Every Friday, you will deliver information to a designated individual,” he said. “Not merely your written observations, but your memories. Every face you deem charismatic, resourceful, or ambitious must be documented. Record their behaviour, their manner of speech, their influence on others—observe. I will examine each one you consider potentially dangerous… or useful. Share your thoughts, your ideas. I will read every single one. I demand transparency. For you are now my eyes. My ears. My mind in places I will not go. Not because I cannot—but because I need not, because I have chosen you. Your perspective on others is what holds value. Your judgment is what I esteem.”

Voilà . The boy’s voice surfaced in his cortex like an unbidden cognitive intrusion—an echo of Potter’s recent, outrageous act of insolent behaviour! The mental image of the boy materialised vividly: Potter in Voldemort’s study, lounging, hands clasped behind his head… an alien memetic marker, uncontrollably embedded in his current associative matrix! In fury at this vulgar trick of his own mind, Voldemort allowed his eye to twitch—a reflex from a microspasm in the orbicularis muscle, sparked by internal conflict. Yet—yes, voilà. Judging by the thoughts and hormonal profiles of these objects, they would serve his purposes admirably… The Dark Lord knew precisely what to say to trigger the human reward system flawlessly—elation, loyalty, euphoria. Cheap biochemical sorcery. Perfect.

Of course, these objects had benefited from their brief, meticulously orchestrated interactions with Lucius Malfoy and Nott Sr., who, under the effects of Polyjuice Potion, had held private, “insignificant” conversations with each candidate on the list. They manipulated subtly—with unobtrusive remarks, laced potions, and well-timed charms—artfully nudging their targets toward the desired ideological conclusions. Magic, naturally, couldn’t force submission without shattering cognitive integrity and will. The Imperius Curse, after all, was fleeting and far less effective than pure willcraft—for with precise spellwork, one could elegantly align ideals and goals with the required vector. These things—each of them—had their own reasons to be so easily influenced. Also, Voldemort himself didn’t shy away from using suggestion—nonverbal spells cast the moment these three materialised alongside Nott. Ah, dear Nott… One wonders what words he chose to impress upon these three the impossibility of disclosure? Typically, he prefers a decay curse sealed with a contract.

Wizards are not suited for integration into the Muggle world — just as Muggles aren’t suited for life in the magical one. Only a few wizards can stay unnoticed or gather intel through ordinary conversation. Only two of his Death Eaters were fully briefed on the intricacies of this project — Malfoy, naturally, as the most repulsive and obviously deserving of such an assignment, and Nott, who simply wouldn’t fail. But it’s doubtful they were gathering information in any real sense... more likely, they were preachers. A wizard, in a casual social exchange, would likely stumble over something as basic as the term “rubber duck.” Yes,these objects will be useful. The Mayor of London will be Voldemort’s man. London. Britain. Europe. Then North America...

Alright, excellent. Perhaps that was enough for now. In the coming days, he should also expect a draft of the decree granting new privileges to werewolves...curious how things are going with Dolores....that woman once taught at Hogwarts for a year— she was the one who taught Potter Defense Against the Dark Arts… No, by Merlin, the Horcrux was definitely warping him! It was obvious! In the silence, standing before the three objects, Voldemort gripped the Elder Wand tightly, its warmth… oddly pleasant in his hand.

“Nott, if you please,” he said. Nott Sr. approached swiftly, positioning himself behind Sabrina at the centre.

“Until we meet again, my friends.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the three responded, their voices varying in tone and tinged with spasms of nerves. Nott’s voice, steady and clear, followed:

“Kindly take hold of my forearm.” The group rose, grasping the arm draped in a flowing black robe, and with a loud crack, they vanished.

Voldemort inhaled sharply and strode back to his throne. He paused before it, his gaze snagging once more on the shadow stretching toward Potter. In a surge of fury, he cast Specialis Revelio upon himself. Of course, it revealed no curses. Nagini slithered off, coiling around the tall back of the throne, yielding her place to her master.

As the Dark Lord reclaimed his seat, the massive doors of the Manor’s drawing room swung open, revealing Bellatrix Lestrange. Her heels clicked sharply against the marble, her dress writhing elegantly beneath her flowing robes, the echo of her steps reverberating off the high walls of the vast chamber. She knew, of course, that even the Dark Lord preferred not to be startled by the sudden crack of apparition—at least when the matter wasn’t urgent. And truth be told, she shared that preference. Walking in allowed her to linger in motion, to savor the drama of her entrance… rather than fall to her knees too hastily.

She approached the throne, dropping to both knees at the Dark Lord’s feet, her forehead nearly grazing the marble, her hair cascading forward like a dark waterfall.

“My Lord,” she breathed in a single rush. “I’ve reviewed the memories of all those stationed at the Tinworth coast, where the Delacour-Weasley estate is declared to be. My Lord…” Her breath hitched. Though kneeling, her thick mane obscured her face entirely, like a mop surrendered to gravity’s pull. Her hormonal aura, paired with the trembling of her breath, betrayed the obvious: excitement bloomed within her, like a rose steeped in embalming fluid. Voldemort’s lip curled. The object of this repulsive cocktail was, unmistakably, himself. Each time this realisation brushed against him, a faint disgust stirred. A creature driven by the basest instincts… Yet Bellatrix was forgiven for it—she was, after all, female. “Travis Randal, Laura Wenlock, Philip Stokes—dead, my Lord. I killed them, my Lord, forgive me, my Lord! They failed to perform their duties diligently!” Her words tumbled out, teetering on the edge of euphoria. “There was a surge of magic detected in Tinworth. I was there myself, my Lord—these people chose to idle in the local town! They ignored orders!”

As the woman’s words took root in Voldemort’s mind, his brow ridge and his forehead tensed sharply. Of course. Vile humans… The vile human factor. The fragile, defective component of their nature. A pathetic flaw that twisted any ordered intent from within!

This was why traitors Apparating to Tinworth’s territory had gone unnoticed… for so long. His petty, worthless minions had squandered their surveillance resources on cigarette smoke, local cider, and whores. Unseen by all… except one. Voldemort inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. By two.

Bellatrix had warned him about Tinworth. And he had personally dismissed her observation.

“Well done, Bella. Show me.”

Voldemort extended his wand arm forward. Bellatrix raised her head, her eyes wide, pupils twitching—excitement and fear swirling together, twin facets of her chemical obsession. The Dark Lord slipped effortlessly into her mind.

The memory surged into his consciousness: Bellatrix stood over a man, two others nearby, all under the effects of a potion, partially paralysed. The man before her had eyes clouded with pain, his cheek half-severed from the facial fascia—Diffindo had torn the flesh in jagged edges. The possessor of the memory licked her lips. A flick! Another curse struck, this time slicing through the tendons on the back of the man’s hand—his fingers went limp with a deathly crack, dangling like strips of fleshy fringe. The wail he let out was inhuman. Several more sharp wand flicks followed, accompanied by relentless cries of Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo! until nothing remained of Travis that resembled a human body—only minced flesh, foul-smelling scraps, and sodden clothing tatters in place of vegetables. Laura Wenlock was pinned to the wall, her chest cavity split from collarbone to xiphoid process, blood seeping through her torn abdomen. Bellatrix, with a surgeon’s curiosity, traced a finger along the exposed ribs while the girl, wracked with agony, thrashed her head side to side in an unbroken scream. The next man earned a pair of Diffindos as well, already lying without both feet. Then his skin and clothing erupted in bright flames. Convulsions, hyperreflexia, seizures, howls of pain… Bellatrix cackled, clutching a severed fragment of the previous victim’s ear like a trophy. Her face was splattered with blood, and she licked her lips as if she’d just savoured a pie—not of entrails, but of sweet cherries and rum.

Voldemort emerged from the memories thoroughly satisfied.

“Well done. Good work,” he hissed softly, resting both hands on the throne’s armrests.

Bellatrix jerked her head slightly, her lips curling into her manic grin. “My Lord, let me take charge of that location. I’m certain Potter is hiding there with the Mudbloods! Allow me to bring Potter to you!”

The mention of that cursed name from this woman’s lips stirred something… strange, hitherto unexplored. So much provoked by Potter awakened in Voldemort for the first time. This sensation… almost disgust, laced with fury. Potter didn’t merely carry a piece of his soul—he was that piece, made flesh and self-aware… Of course, Voldemort had felt something akin to this when he entrusted Bellatrix with his Horcrux for safekeeping… A mistake, clearly! A foolish act! But the fleeting feeling he’d experienced when this profane woman touched the relic containing his soul…wait.No. It wasn’t like this. Voldemort wanted no one to touch Potter, not even in thought! Potter was his! The violation of this felt like a desecration—not of an object, but of his very self! His body tensed, primed for a verbal assault on Lestrange. But, of course, the Dark Lord suppressed the impulse in his frontal lobes.

“No need, Bella,” Voldemort purred softly, waving a hand. “You may rise. I shall personally visit that picturesque locale soon enough.”

“Yes, my Lord, allow me—”

“Bella, I have a task for you.” His voice carried a faint smirk. “Today, Yaxley provided me with two particularly intriguing individuals for our ‘exchange’ program to Beauxbatons.” He chuckled at the word exchange. “I need you to personally vet these individuals.Test their resilience under stress—use unexpected encounters, fleeting moments, for at least two or three days. But, Bella, be cautious. They must remain sound in mind and body.” He delegated the task to her, for the company he’d require on his little seaside excursion would, this time, be chosen from… other candidates.

“Yes, my Lord! I’ll head to the Ministry to meet Yaxley at once!” Bellatrix bowed deeply, bending nearly in half at the waist, and Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Voldemort let out a sound akin to a hiss—clearly, the reflexes of his semi-human body asserting themselves. His head tilted toward the floor, his gaze catching on the long, dark shadow.

No one yet knew of Harry Potter’s status… The Order of the Phoenix, no doubt, was scouring for him. Should he send a message to the Daily Prophet? Voldemort bent his arm, resting his chin in his palm, lost in thought. His entire opposition—the Order—was merely a handful of Mudbloods and weaklings who hadn’t managed a single attack in three years! Clearly, they weren’t worth his attention… and, frankly, he only paid them any mind because they stood between him and the boy… For decades, Voldemort had craved Potter’s, to capture him! Yet now, with the boy in his grasp, it was evident: those decades of hunting hadn’t prepared the Dark Lord for this moment. Years of desiring the object… the subject… hadn’t equipped him for what to do with a living vessel of his own self. He had sought domination but hadn’t foreseen… resonance.

Once, Voldemort had imagined that an image of a defeated Harry Potter splashed across newspaper headlines would convince magical Britain of his unchallenged supremacy! He’d envisioned Potter in chains, sprawled on the ground, gracing every front page—a testament to his triumph. The Chosen One, vanquished. Or perhaps assigning Potter some exquisite task—not only to test and prove him but to display him to the world. He pictured it: the Boy Who Lived, surviving only to serve the Dark Lord! Alas, neither plan sparked the old enthusiasm. He had obtained what he wanted—and that “something” proved deeper than power.

The world did not deserve to know as much about the boy as chance might allow. Voldemort would not be the one to initiate such a needless revelation—for the boy was his Horcrux...two of his Horcruxes were not objects but mortal entities. A bolt of lightning seared through his mind: before the Dark Lord’s eyes, a shadowy silhouette—a vengeful Fury wielding a sword of retribution—cleaved through two mortal vessels, the last fragments of his soul. Punishment for what should never have lived. Icy dread pierced every cell of his body. Merlin’s beard, they were in the damned Malfoy Manor, and his two remaining Horcruxes were living creatures! Surrounded by a horde of… humans! The human factor!

Nagini, as if sensing something in her master’s scent, slithered from the throne’s backrest, resting her head on the Dark Lord’s knees.

He needed to find a better place than this peacock’s nest. Preferably somewhere the likelihood of the unforeseen dwindled to nothing… Clearly, even a moment’s separation from Voldemort increased the chances—the probability—that something could happen to the boy. While hidden within these walls, Potter existed in a state of quantum uncertainty. Alive? Dead? Escaped? Scheming? Unwatched, Potter was clinical blindness. A cognitive glitch, existing only as a function of probability until someone looked. Until Voldemort looked…what was he thinking, locking this child alone in such an unsafe place?! Hmm, it would be entirely rational to share quarters with his Horcrux. Perfectly reasonable. Yes, yes… An utterly brilliant plan. A Horcrux must not be left alone while they remain in this estate. Pure logic. The most rational choice. The Dark Lord nodded slowly to his own thoughts, as if affirming their correctness, and brushed Nagini’s scales—his Horcrux—with the same gesture a narcissist might use to caress a flawless portrait.

Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue, his sharp, clear sibilance echoing through the hall:

What about boy? Strange? Thoughts?

Out of place. Not human.

The serpent’s reply came swiftly, almost instantly, her tongue flicking forward like black lightning. Her delicate reptilian sensory system had clearly detected that the boy was merely a vessel, a Horcrux like herself, no longer human. Voldemort smirked at yet another evidently correct deduction of his.

Indeed, the boy was out of place. The Dark Lord had hidden his Horcruxes, mistakenly believing that was the best course. He had devised a flawless strategy—placing fragments of his soul in locations unconnected by space or logic: from a cave at the world’s edge to the very heart of Hogwarts, right under the lion’s nose! No patterns, no repetitions… Yet one person had found the parallels. One! And he’d even crafted a plan that, in the end, worked perfectly, piercing through every secret, destroying almost every Horcrux…

The consciousness of a near-centennial being — one who scorned the corporeal as primitive and the human as stench — had, of course, tested both. Out of scientific, not hedonistic, curiosity. But he never lingered. Not because he couldn’t — but because it wasn’t worth a flicker of his attention. Or his time. Neither physicality nor attachments held any weight in his gravity.

And yet… Potter moved in an orbit, violating laws, like a star whose mass had been miscalculated. Gravity, after all, is not a choice—it is a distortion of the fabric of space. Even if the mind screamed “Heresy!”, even if the one gravitating was a god, not a man, the “I” still warped. And stretched, like an infinite shadow… a shadow that does not vanish in light—on the contrary, it lives through it. Ra, who illuminates all, could not have seen himself if his Ka did not reflect him in reverse—in that which followed him, trailed behind him, like a copy and a mockery. An eternal companion, cast out to the periphery, where form becomes idea, and idea—threat, desire. Whose reflection followed him now—his own, or someone else’s—one thing was certain: without it, he would be something less than a god. But with it, he is becoming something even worse.

Notes:

sorry that I won’t tag V as “rational” or smth else here

Chapter 25

The ancient Egyptians told of Ra—not merely a sun god, but the one who steered the celestial barque through the abysses of the underworld. Ra was light. Ra was order. He bore the sun above mortal heads, yet even he could not escape what was ordained for every being… he cast a shadow. The Ka—shadow, double, a trace on the inner surface of creation. It couldn’t be called a “soul” in the modern sense… rather, a byproduct of it. The Ka did not vanish, even when flesh crumbled to nothing: the shadow trailed what once was, through time, endlessly. Into the Ialu, as they called it.

A beautiful concept—symbolic, alluring, but useless to one who believed only in himself. Voldemort had, perhaps, read of Ra in passing, but what are fictional gods to a man who sees one within himself? But the curse of the shadow, used to track a target, the Dark Lord had borrowed from texts over two thousand years old, and this wizard wove small annotations into his spell book in the form of metaphors. Humans had wrought magic millennia ago, and countless papyri, preserved against temporal decay by enchantments, held troves of knowledge. A spell crafted by an ancient was perfected by a modern.

Voldemort rose from his throne and followed the shadow as if treading a path of utter darkness… like an artery leading to the heart. The shadow—black, dense, like blood on obsidian—stretched onward, would stretch eternally, always toward the same point… Potter. Nagini trailed behind, her body tracing wide, sinuous arcs.

When the Dark Lord halted at the wall where the shadow continued along the floor, slipping beneath like a thin sheet of paper, his breathing grew uneven. Truth be told, he had scarcely hurried or run. Half the journey, he had flown—why walk, after all? Tom Riddle drew the Elder Wand, which seemed to leap toward the wall of its own accord, pointing downward to the sole fragment of matter that retained the memory of a “door.”

He raised the wand slowly, arm extended, murmuring a repetitive incantation until the door reached the desired scale. Then he stopped. The moment he stepped into the chamber, he nearly grasped the howling truth of his consciousness, which almost formed the thought that no one could have discovered the door—or Potter’s presence, for that matter—but something weightier, with its own gravitational pull, shattered those musings. He saw the bathroom door to the left, the bed ahead…

Empty?… How…

“Oh, my Lord, good evening,” came a voice from behind. Voldemort spun sharply, his silken robes flaring under the force of gravity. The boy sat on the floor, leaning against the wall beside the door.

“Didn’t know what to do with myself, and the bed’s right in view of the door, with that window—” He waved a hand, cloaked in black, toward the large window on the left wall by the dresser. “Not exactly safe if someone decides to use Bombarda or something worse, or if someone enters and it’s not you. My apologies.” Potter rose to his feet, his glasses glinting. A smile, teeth visible, eyes squinted. Voldemort froze, almost imperceptibly. Zeus in the moment he finally gazed upon Ganymede: not merely a god beholding a mortal, but the divine void itself confronting its perfect form.

The Dark Lord’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t arrhythmia. It was a vacuum: Naturally, he attributed it to a physiological reflex—satisfaction that the boy was unharmed, the Horcrux secure. But his vision felt the weight again—the weight of another’s presence, bending reality as gravity bends light. Voldemort cleared his throat—a ritual to mask the glitch. Or an act to reject a feeling that had no name for him… Yes. The Horcrux hadn’t vanished. All was well.

“Gather your things,” Voldemort said, clasping his hands behind his back. He stood in the centre of the room. To his right, a four-poster bed with a canopy. Before him—the object of his everything.

Potter gave a slight nod, eyes half-closed, and brushed past the Dark Lord, the heavy leather of his cloak deliberately grazing the light fabric of Voldemort’s robes as he moved with silent steps to the bedside table. The boy slipped a long, blank parchment into his cloak’s pocket. Splendid, phew, he was ready! This had been exhausting, of course! Potter grinned broadly at his own thoughts, spinning on his heels, his cloak slicing its characteristic arc through the air. Harry was almost accustomed to it now—he loved the weight of his cloak!

“I’m ready, my Lord.”

Without another word, Voldemort drew the Elder Wand. He traced a slow semicircle in the air, as if slicing through the very fabric of space, and whispered, “Revertare…” The air quivered. The bed slid back into shape. The pillow dipped and rose, gliding smoothly into place, as if no one had ever touched it. The carpet’s creases straightened. Even the faintest scent was swept away, as if the air had exhaled itself.

Voldemort stood motionless, as did the boy beside him, merely observing. The space wasn’t just empty now—it had never been touched. No trace of Potter remained.

Harry watched the Dark Lord’s movements unblinkingly, privately puzzled by the necessity of such actions. Was Voldemort planning to lock him in some dungeon? Or hide him in a secret vault, like his previous Horcruxes? Clearly, Harry had been too persistent? Foolish? Had Tom thought something he shouldn’t have? Oh, Harry hadn’t meant for this! Well, pity. But did it matter? Wherever Tom confined him, sooner or later, Harry would emerge. It was a law, like the pull between masses: inevitable. The boy pondered, nodding to himself in silence, as if an invisible interlocutor stood nearby.

Voldemort’s forehead creased subtly as he observed his Horcrux, his mind devoid of thought. He turned, head still empty, and the door swung open as if by magic. The Dark Lord veered left… then heard the rustle of a cloak, signaling that Potter had darted after him.

Voldemort halted just a few steps later, at his own door. What in Merlin’s name was he doing here? The boy would never have been discovered! Only his chosen Death Eaters were permitted in this wing of the Manor, and only until midday. No one had ever set foot in Voldemort’s private chambers! Yet even, his own “self” lingered on the fringes of a cunning brain that, with treacherous deceit, activated vestigial neural pathways once meant for reproductive instincts, attempting to trigger a response for a species to which he no longer belonged. If Voldemort could analyze his own reactions, he would have roared, Disgusting! Behavior suited only for creatures incapable of mental immortality! “Bombarda or something worse”—instead, that phrase surfaced above all else. The Dark Lord inhaled sharply through his nostrils. Even his perfect lungs would soon be oversaturated.

Harry was genuinely puzzled. Should he ask how his day had gone? After all, why had Voldemort locked him away instead of letting him stay nearby, in the robes… hmm… The Dark Lord had led him into the corridor—how long had it been? Ten hours since he’d left him? Harry didn’t know. Truth be told, he’d spent most of the time just sitting. The absence of himself beside himself—or rather, beside that part of himself that “Must-Not-Be-Named” but yearned to be understood—had paralyzed his perception of time… The absence of time felt like a void, a lack of the one through whom he now experienced it.

The boy shifted his gaze to the door where they’d stopped. A serpent, as if forged from metal, coiled and elongated around the frame in smooth, circular motions. Harry let his lips curl into a daring grin, baring his teeth in an act of blatant triumph, as a fire blazed within him brighter than any Inferno… Merlin’s beard, the personal chambers of the Dark Lord!

Voldemort vanished through the doorway, and from within, Harry heard a sound that made him feel as if the cosmos itself had compressed into a point beneath his ribs and exploded!

“Come!”

Oh, the Dark Lord hardly needs to be told twice! Harry gave himself a booted push and literally tore after the man, the crack of his heavy cloak echoing behind him. He burst in as hunger does… but alas, not toward a feast, but into the cell where one was about to starve himself by choice.

Oh! Voldemort’s chambers could scarcely be called “chambers”—they were more… a diminished replica of the Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts, Salazar Slytherin’s sanctuary? Except, instead of the founder’s face, a statue of a colossal serpent’s head loomed ahead. The comparison struck Harry instantly: The floor, laid with dark marble, was threaded with fine, silvery veins resembling frozen lightning or blood vessels. Under the green flicker of torches, mounted in elegant silver serpentine holders on the walls, the marble reflected their light, transforming the floor and air into an emerald glow—a living, magical pulse at the heart of the wizard’s lair. The walls, partly clad in ebony wood panels, bore two large tapestries on opposite sides, their images writhing with life. 

At the room’s elongated center rose an imperial four-poster bed, its canopy draped in dark green velvet, its sheets of black silk, smooth and cold to the touch. Four pillars soared toward the ceiling, entwined with enchanted silver serpents that slithered upward and materialized endlessly at the base. Behind the bed, poised as if to devour it, sprawled a gigantic serpent—its gaping maw ready to consume any fool daring to seek Morpheus’s embrace. Naturally, it was touched for mere hours each day, at most.

Along the walls stretched bookshelves of the same ebony wood. Like Voldemort’s archive, where shelves groaned under the weight of tomes, these were no less cluttered, yet with refined elegance—scattered books mingled with mystical artifacts. Harry’s gaze involuntarily settled on a crystal skull—it stared from empty eye sockets, and Harry stared back.

“Sit.”

Harry snapped out of his stupor. He blinked. The door closed behind him in that moment, and Nagini slithered forward toward the Dark Lord. Voldemort sat a short distance away, in one of two massive, soft black armchairs upholstered in deep velvet, with elongated straight spines and carved serpentine legs.

Honestly, Harry’s face ached—he couldn’t keep smiling like this! A slippery idea darted through his mind, like a marsh snake. The boy approached the chair and, before moving to sit, gripped its back and dragged it closer to the Dark Lord.

Not a single muscle twitched on the wizard’s face, but the chair—now bearing the boy’s weight—glided back several feet by some unseen magical force.

With a sharp rustle, as if someone had blown a pile of leaves before them, green flames erupted in the enormous fireplace, nearly two meters tall and wide.

Silence.

Harry didn’t know what to do with his hands—he placed them on his knees, giving one a pat with his whole palm, then leaned back in the chair. Merlin, he should’ve sat somewhere else, really! Hmm… Harry abruptly rubbed his ear with his shoulder. He turned. His heart quickened. A single, persistent thought took root… Harry’s gaze fixed on an exposed thigh—Voldemort had casually crossed one leg over the other. Oh, Harry liked his light robes too! The skin was pale, flawless, smooth… yet far from lifeless—it gleamed in the flicker of flames the color of a Killing Curse, like a planet stripped of atmosphere, bared to the stellar inferno, cold, perfect… uncovered by fabric. In an instant, Harry’s expression went blank. Too blank. His lips formed a straight line. His gaze sharpened. Wait. Why couldn’t he just… take it?

The Dark Lord stared back, unblinking, his gaze was empty too, as if piercing straight through, lost in his own thoughts. His elbow rested on the armrest, his palm cradling his chin, his index finger slowly tracing along his jaw—a purely mechanical gesture. Curious... The boy had slept for over a day without asking for water or food... Clearly, he’d conjured water with Aguamenti... Voldemort’s eye twitched—barely perceptible, a microspasm in the orbital muscle. No matter!

Harry cleared his throat, his head jerking oddly for the second time in minutes. Voldemort narrowed his eyes suspiciously, scrutinizing him.

“Er… well… Acromantulas, yeah…”

“What?”

“You know… in the Forbidden Forest…”

“Yes, they’re there.”

Silence.

Nagini slithered between their chairs, coiling in a few loops before settling by the green flames, casting shadows between herself and the firelight from the hearth.

Voldemort remained immersed in thought, stroking his jawline. His gaze caught on the Golden Snitch hanging at the boy’s neck. It drifted upward. Potter looked… odd. His entire demeanor was peculiar. A faint suspicion stirred that the boy was plotting something… Weasley… the Order… but after mulling it over all day, Voldemort found no rational basis to fuel this hysteria. The boy was merely a teenager who’d learned whose Horcrux he was.

Yes… just a boy. A Horcrux. Discarded, used, not merely a weapon—a biological virus, cultivated by that cursed Albus Dumbledore. But the immune system of the world itself had faltered, and the virus, engineered for destruction, had instead woven itself into the host’s tissue, bringing not death but a salvation, as if a sword had turned into a shield. Yes. That was it precisely. The boy genuinely wanted to be useful to him. It was the natural order. His strategy was clear—he wished to serve the Dark Lord, his master, offering his gift: all his knowledge, all his memories, everything the last remnants of the resistance knew. A bolt of lightning struck Voldemort’s mind—oh, of course, the boy would be invaluable in his utility! He would grant access… to all his thoughts, all his experiences, all his fears. The notion washed over Voldemort’s body with a strange, almost comforting warmth. He grimaced at the vile sensation.

Another thought pierced his mind, and he narrowed his eyes at the boy, focusing on his senses… Nothing. Voldemort’s reflexes detected no abnormal hormonal signals… just emptiness. His gaze dropped to the shadow cast by the spell, distinct from the ordinary aura an object might produce… The firelight enveloped the room, but the boy’s face remained… unreadable.

The Dark Lord’s crimson eyes narrowed. It wasn’t his imagination. No shadow beneath the eyes, no darkening along the jawline. Voldemort lowered his gaze—Harry’s hand rested on his knee, yet cast no shadow, not even on his own thigh. The Dark Lord noted no change in the surrounding aura: no shadow on the chair, none on the floor. Was something amiss with the fabric of reality around this boy? Or with the source itself… the influence of a Horcrux on a living vessel? Voldemort fixed his gaze on Nagini. No, her physical interaction with reality was perfectly normal.

Almost mechanically, Voldemort summoned an analysis—no fluctuation in temperature, pressure, or density. He’d noticed this in his study, but now… now his scrutiny was trained more on the figure before him than on the “why” or the questions. Of course, the questions were endless! But… The boy was likely maintaining an illusion—for appearances? Naturally. Laughably childish behavior. Yet a permanent illusion would cause distortions in the infrared spectrum, and Voldemort would have seen it. But… here—homeostatic emptiness. The Dark Lord looked again into the boy’s face, straight into his eyes, through the thin film of his spectacle lenses. For one nearly microscopic moment, he held his breath.

“A small reminder.”

Harry’s eyes widened in anticipation, his mouth slightly agape.

“You are a vessel. My vessel. A container for my soul. An object, nothing more.”

Voldemort made a careless gesture with the hand that had been propping his chin, indicating the space around them.

“This place is my private chambers. You have no right to approach my sleeping area or venture beyond this guest zone.”

Harry quickly furrowed his brows—clearly unsure where any such zones even were.

“Your place…”

Lord Voldemort, without looking, waved his hand again—this time toward the opposite wall, where a tapestry hung. At the spot where his elegant, elongated finger pointed, a rectangular, faintly writhing cloud began to form from a black mass resembling coiling serpents. It stretched, solidified before their eyes, and became the frame of a bed forged from dark metal. With a pop, a mattress, sheet, large soft pillow, and then a heavy blanket descended one after another, the latter folding itself at the headboard with aristocratic grace, almost like in a luxurious inn. Harry, of course, had never stayed in such a place.

“There.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” As if Harry Potter could complain! He’d be closer to his soul—oh, what was this feeling devouring his body, prickling his skin with goosebumps? He’d recognized it minutes ago but swiftly banished the conclusion, and now he was simply in awe, sitting there with a foolish grin. Harry felt his pulse sink to his lower abdomen, as if every receptor had locked onto a single focus. He could barely resist the urge to leap up and do something! But all was well. This was a sign. Just a bit more! “It’s truly a very sensible step, my Lord, considering this is the Malfoys’ Manor. Even their house-elf was a traitor.”

Voldemort’s face remained unchanged, but a shadow fell across his cheekbone. A gust—like the swipe of an invisible blade—cut through the air, leaving a faint arc.

Harry’s cheek—no, Tom Riddle’s—split with a thin line. He didn’t flinch, merely inhaled as the force turned his head. He grinned, his signature predatory smirk, slowly returning his head to its original position. His crimson eyes locked onto Voldemort’s.

The Dark Lord inhaled. Closed his eyes. When he looked again, the boy before him was adjusting his glasses with one finger. A thin bead of blood slid down his cheek.

Voldemort’s lips turned downward, like a master whose creation had become a farce. What devil keeps pulling your tongue, boy?! And yet…

“What do you mean?” His voice was a quiet hiss at this farce.

Dimness.

The green light of the torches quivered in the air, the hearth’s flames casting shadows—onto two armchairs facing each other. Harry inhaled deeply, enthralled. Voldemort’s magic, lingering on him after the attack, felt like something innately familiar—like an embrace etched into his skin long before his birth. Naturally, he felt no sting or pain: his epidermal receptors registered the painful impulse, but the signal dissolved into nothing before reaching his cortex. His central nervous system simply refused to recognize the event as a potential threat. Or anything at all, really.

“It all started when I couldn’t get onto the platform—literally, the wall was solid, can you imagine? Ron Weasley and I crashed into it like a pair of idiots, Muggles all around, us with our trunks, me with my owl… ahem, and of course, we decided the only logical thing was to nick his dad’s flying car and drive it to school! In it, T—” Harry’s eyes widened, and he grinned, meeting the impenetrable gaze of the Dark Lord, who remained seated, unmoving: his left hand propped up his chin like an ancient god idly observing a pitiful mortal… because he found something intriguing in him. “…My Lord. We followed the Hogwarts Express all the way to Hogwarts! And when we landed—straight into the Whomping Willow…” The car tossed us out like rubbish! Voldemort stared at the boy, fixed on a single point, as if casting some nonverbal charm requiring unwavering eye contact. “It was funny how it reacted, clearly not impressed with the ride.” Harry grinned even wider, throwing his hands behind his head. “They had to nurse that Willow back to health for ages, by the way. But… you know, despite it all, I thought back then, ‘Yeah, this is great. I’m home.’”

“What business has this with the elf?” Voldemort lifted his gaze from the boy’s flawlessly smooth cheek. Perfect. Not a single blemish.

“Oh? Oh, right, it was the Malfoys’ elf who sealed the platform!” Shadows played across Voldemort’s furrowed, bare brow. “He was literally stalking me that year! Kept trying to save… Harry Potter from Hogwarts! He dropped a cake on a guest’s head… on Privet Drive, nearly killed me with a Bludger. Oh, and that’s when I first tried Skele-Gro because of him—he broke my arm.” The most revolting taste on earth. And Harry tried plenty of vile stuff since! He physically grimaced, as if the phantom taste of that wretched potion had been forced into his mouth. “By the end of the year, I gave him a sock. That sock had been on my foot for five days, no joke, and after the Chamber…” He faltered, inhaling sharply through his mouth, as if the memory he’d cut off sparked delight, a secret too sacred to voice. “…Well, I freed him.” Harry tilted his head toward the ceiling, lost in thought. “He belonged to the Malfoy family, knew their secrets, and somehow learned from them that Harry Potter needed saving. I don’t even know… why he chose me? Anyway, even their elf was a traitor. So… you get it, right?”

The muscle lifting Voldemort’s upper lip twitched faintly—a brief, involuntary pulse. The Dark Lord extended his long, cold fingers along his jawline, as if erasing the trace of that microscopic betrayal of his facial nerves, and continued to stroke it—methodically, with his usual indifference.

“An elf couldn’t make such a decision on its own,” he hissed.

“Mmm? Well, he did it. Also, I’m in the same year as their younger heir… you know?” Harry Potter grinned, still staring at the ceiling. “He’s a coward, a wretch, and utterly talentless,” the boy spat, then turned his gaze back to the Dark Lord. His eyes lingered on Voldemort’s bare foot, with its slender toes.

Voldemort allowed his lips to twitch, revealing a faint, almost weightless smile. Ah, so that’s it… childish rivalry,little pest.

“Your personal dislike has no bearing on loyalty,” the Dark Lord cut in coldly.

“No, seriously, he’s the type who’d say ‘everything’s fine’ and then sell you out for a Galleon or a title,” Harry grumbled, sighing and sitting up straight. “I’d never lower my wand around him.”

After several moments of silence and brooding reflection Voldemort reflexively tried to slip into Potter’s mind, locking eyes with him.

“When did you first notice… the barrier to your mind?” he asked in a flat, almost clinical tone.

The boy’s eyes widened, and he froze, startled, then straightened, pressing his shoulders back, and said thoughtfully, “It’s hard to pinpoint… maybe in the autumn term? When I started trying, I couldn’t anymore, and then I couldn’t even recall the last time I… felt you.” Harry’s face remained stone-like, impossible to tell whether it was loss or veiled joy. Voldemort’s lips twisted.

“We must find a way to restore that… connection. Unilaterally,” he added, his mind conjuring the image of a slimy finger, coated in secretions, sliding across his brain. A shudder of revulsion rippled through his body.

Harry’s brows knitted together, his pouting lips lending his youthful face a slight comical air, like an infant expected to respond to Latin.

“But…”

Voldemort exhaled, lifted his chin, and two small, perfectly round tables glided toward the boy. On one sat a stone platter, flawlessly polished, bearing a translucent white fish, thin as embryonic tissue, slices of pale meat, dates resembling shriveled eyes, and grapes—food fit for an immortal who savored time, a god to whom flesh was alien. On the other, a flawless, edgeless carafe held clear water, like a suspended droplet.

“Not today. Now you can sit quietly and keep silent. You have water and everything else—do not disturb me. I will read.”

As Voldemort finished, a book levitated toward him. He caught it deftly, opened it, and held his thumb at the spine’s center.

Harry glanced at the food beside him. Truth be told, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten. Strange… he didn’t exactly feel hunger. But the moment he thought of it, his stomach clenched painfully, his insides twisting with nauseating emptiness. He reached for a slice of meat, nearly grasping it, then flinched and released his fingers.

“Use magic!” Voldemort barked. Harry’s gaze snapped to the Dark Lord across from him. The wizard lounged in his chair, book in hand, but his crimson eyes peered over it, fixed on Harry. The boy swallowed, muttering a spell under his breath, focusing on the sliced meat. He’d never considered eating without utensils before, and now the idea felt… oddly natural. He barely needed to visualize: a thin, translucent slice rose effortlessly into the air and, obeying his will, drifted to his lips. The taste was peculiar—not wild, but soft, with a faint nutty undertone. Harry grinned, sprawling in his chair, arms flung wide so his hands dangled lazily over the armrests, legs stretching forward. Grapes followed—warm, crisp, juicy—then a thin layer of something like white fish: delicate, with a taste of the sea but no hint of salt. The selection wasn’t vast… But those strange, resinous-brown things… Harry eyed them suspiciously, occasionally squinting. At first, he thought they were sweets—then, perhaps some ancient mushrooms the Dark Lord was fond of consuming… Harry Potter had never seen a date in his life.

Voldemort clutched an ancient tome, dated to the second century AD—a volume that first sketched the fragile attempts to comprehend the boundaries between matter and soul, the theories and observations of generations of wizards. The book was weighty, its text alive: some words tracked the reader’s gaze and morphed into illustrations, others into formulas… Yet, for all the time Voldemort held it, not a single inscription so much as stirred.

Meanwhile, the boy caught grapes that, obedient to his spell, drifted lazily through the air, tracing smooth trajectories. Harry, reclining in his chair, opened his lips at the last fraction of a second, letting the fruit graze his tongue before vanishing into his mouth. Another grape—he caught it with deliberate slowness, wrapping his tongue around it, lingering for a moment, as if the taste mattered more than hunger. His eyes never once left Voldemort.

The Dark Lord observed. Analyzed. Wandless—and such precision… intriguing. The boy had clearly practiced. In allowing him to “feed,” Voldemort pursued a purely scientific interest, of course, not some pattern resembling “care.” It was now evident that Potter was a competent wizard for his age… though, truth be told, the delicacies the boy consumed were enchanted: the meat, half-crafted by magic, was infused with all the nutrients a human body required—proteins, fats, carbohydrates, and key elements like calcium, iron, magnesium, even mitochondrial molecules meticulously woven into the flesh to sustain life at a cellular level, ensuring energy metabolism and biochemical balance. Everything was perfect. This was what Voldemort himself consumed, on occasion, naturally. But the boy, his vessel… he was no fool. Of course not. His soul deserved only the finest vessel! Ancient relics belonging to the Founders, a family ring… yet the boy stood apart from this list. Not an object, but a subject… a Horcrux.

Voldemort lifted his gaze over the book. The centuries-old tome, defiled by his inattention, would later exact its revenge on the Dark Lord, scratching Tom’s fingers at some point.

“I’ll ask again.” The boy locked his stunning green eyes directly onto the monstrously blood-red ones. “Do you understand that Weasley and the others will not be spared, regardless of your situation?” His voice was a quiet, even, calm hiss.

A piece of flesh floated toward Potter’s mouth, pausing for a fraction of a second at his lips before disappearing inside. The boy shrugged, gave a slight nod, and made a few chewing motions.

“As I said, my Lord,” Harry’s voice was far too calm, as if the two were performing an ancient rite, purifying an enemy through words, like partaking of a paschal lamb—not out of hunger, oh,but because liberation from captivity begins with a meal. “Months… years—my entire purpose was you, even if I didn’t fully realize it… not always.” He leaned forward in his chair, back curving, resting on his knees, emphasizing the intimacy of his confession. “Sometimes I think that if it weren’t for you, my Lord… I might never have met them. Who knows? If I’d grown up with my parents, maybe they’d have divorced. And I… might have gone to a different school? Or none at all?” Voldemort’s slender, elegant fingers gripped the heavy tome, obscuring half his face, leaving only his crimson eyes visible. He lowered the leg crossed over the other to the marble floor. Those scarlet eyes studied Harry unflinchingly, unblinking. A date, drifting through the air, floated slowly toward the boy’s face. Harry caught the fruit with his lips, never breaking eye contact with the Dark Lord’s crimson gaze peering over the tome. “But one thing I know for certain, my Lord,” Harry spoke softer now, almost a whisper, his tone carrying an unbidden closeness, unsettling in its own right, “the only one I ever felt was you.”He smiled then—a warm, gentle smile that never bared teeth. “So yes, my Lord, they are capable people, but this time, our paths diverge.” Boy clenched his jaw, crushing the date between his teeth,and a dry crack rang out.

The light from the lamp, reflected in the lens of his glasses, flashed green—an Avada Kedavra incarnate, its pure echo, or a reverberation of something that had once torn another world apart. The room grew colder. Voldemort let out a sound—something between a muffled grunt and a click of his tongue, as if cursing something within himself.

“Tomorrow, we will travel to Tinworth,” Voldemort hissed, his eyes never leaving the boy. “You will enter the estate registered to the Weasleys’ plot and do exactly as you are commanded.”

“I’ll do everything you order,” Harry said calmly, without a moment’s hesitation. He didn’t even pause to think. As if there were no need to consider. Voldemort narrowed his eyes. He studied the boy’s face, which cast no shadow… Obedience, unexplained by anything but emptiness.

“But, honestly…” Harry continued slowly, sinking deeper into his chair, his hands dangling over the armrests. “…I don’t think they’re still there. Even back then, remember…” Voldemort’s lips twitched upward, baring white teeth in contempt. Oh yes, the Cup, he understood what the boy was getting at. “…even then, the three of us didn’t consider that place safe. It was… a temporary hideout.” The boy’s gaze flicked briefly to the black marble ceiling. “My Lord… if I may,” Harry slowly shifted his eyes back to the Dark Lord, with feigned languor, “why do you still use the Malfoys’ Manor?”

“Ten centuries of paranoid ancestral enchantments: anti-Apparition domes, a woven web of detection charms on every inch of this wretched place…”

Voldemort’s voice trailed off into a strange hiss, cutting himself short with a flare of anger as he glared at the boy, then abruptly ducked behind his tome. He jerked his hand away from the book and hissed again—this time with such venom that Harry thought, if it was Parseltongue, the word was surely absent from ancient scrolls and the standard reptilian lexicon due to its sheer obscenity. The tome hovered in the air before Voldemort’s face, open to the same page.

Suddenly, Harry’s chair swiveled toward the wall where his sleeping area now stood.

“Go.”

Harry furrowed his brows. What in Merlin’s name? What had he done wrong? Well… fine, a task was a task! He pushed himself up from the chair with a surge of momentum. Nagini raised half her body, her tongue flickering in the green firelight. Harry spun sharply, his cloak whipping through the air in a arc, and took about ten strides toward his sleeping area at the wall opposite the armchairs. As he approached, the tapestry seemed to detach from the wall like a solid slab, slicing the space at a precise geometric angle, forming a vertical membrane behind the bed’s headboard, then began to extend: Its edges glided through the air, outlining an almost symmetry frame, and within seconds, the dense fabric unfurled, creating a sort of magical cocoon around the bed.

Harry turned, glancing at Voldemort, seeing only half his body and head. Astonishingly, the Dark Lord wasn’t even looking his way while performing such magic! Harry’s eyes gleamed with awe as he surveyed the space, his cloak slipping from his shoulders of its own accord. Before he could think where to put his belongings, a serpent slithered toward the bed. Her body twisted and stretched, transforming into a bizarre construct—a magical hybrid of creature and object. Her tail coiled around the base, while her torso elongated, rising vertically into a sleek, stable stand. Her scales shimmered with hues of dark metal—a hanger, crafted from a living snake, perfectly suited to hold Harry’s outer garments.

Harry muttered a brief spell and, without slowing his pace, strode toward the bed. His trousers, sensing his intent, began to slide gently from his hips, gliding down his legs and slipping past his feet without touching the floor. At the same moment, the blanket on the bed quivered, as if it had drawn breath, and slid aside, softly unveiling the sheets.

Stretching out across the bed, he nestled his cheek into the pillow, rubbing against it with a faint half-smile. Since he hadn’t removed his glasses, they slid down his nose. He whispered another spell, and the spectacles slipped from his face, settling onto the marble floor beside the bed. Harry tugged the blanket up with one hand, securing it just under his chin, then pressed it closer, burrowing his face into it. The boy’s smile shone like a supernova—not merely a source of light, but an event capable of tearing space itself apart.

But lurking beneath the veil of quiet comfort,Ka— born of a god and wandering through its own lair, had long drawn the gaze of an ancient and silent terror, whose presence had pierced this tiny, singular living nest of decay within the fabric of cosmic space for aeons… gaze cold and relentless... In the faintest glimmer of any shadow, one can hear the vibration of the void, signifying that even in the very heart of any evil lies something older and more dreadful, poised to emerge from oblivion,something that lies beyond all taxonomy of mind— for even direction collapses in the presence of such a thing.Neither entity nor lifeform— It is what the ancients sensed in madness and the unborn reject in silence—a principle not of death, but of un-being...humanity possesses no word, no model, no myth for such a thing, though, truth be told, some have tried—not because it is too vast, but because it is angled against cognition itself.

Chapter 26

The room was white, but not gleaming. Paint peeled in places, tiny bubbles clustering in the corners, plaster crumbling in patches and littering the floor with chaotic, pallid fragments. Daylight seeped through a lone, curtainless window, consuming the small space. Within it stood only two single beds, separated by that bare window. At the foot of each bed sat a dresser, identical, crafted from faded dark wood.

On the left bed, made up with a thin, black, moth-eaten cover and a neatly folded blanket in the corner, sat a dark-haired boy, an open book resting on his knees. His back was straight, too rigid for a child his age, his vest impeccably pressed over a short-sleeved shirt, shorts brief, socks pulled taut to his knees. His polished shoes gleamed as if from a shop window, but the right one bore a faint mark—a scuff on the outer edge of the sole. A trace of a blow? A sign of flight? Likely. On his handsome, plump childish face, faint abrasions marred his cheeks, just as a thin, nearly faded bruise—almost imperceptible unless one knew where to look—graced his exposed forearms. This was the thirtieth day of the first month of summer in his eighth year.

A sharp sound erupted outside the window—a harsh, cawing clamor, like an alarm triggered in distress: a murmuration of birds swept through the air. Tom Riddle turned his head toward the window. He ran his thumb over the dry parchment of the old book, shivering. A chill coursed through his body: unnatural, sudden, piercing—not the kind brought by drafts, but by premonitions. The boy furrowed his brows and lowered his head to his blanket, mulling something over in his mind. He turned a page, his gaze returning to the book. His fingers moved slowly, each gesture imbued with a discipline born of years of fear.

A knock at the door. Tom flinched, his back snapping upright, and he spun toward it, eyes wide. His heart raced, the knocking unnaturally rapid, his eyes widening further, instinct and foreboding tightening his grip on the book. The door—grey, almost faded wood—creaked open slowly, a long, drawn-out groan that raised the hairs on his arms with the alarm of an ancient instinct.

A man appeared in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a strange, flowing robe, beneath which peeked a plain, dark grey knitted jumper, a red tie, and a shirt. Over it all, a velvet cloak of crimson with golden embroidery. His kind, handsome, almost unnaturally perfect face was framed by neatly trimmed dark facial hair, threaded with faint strands of silver. Round spectacles glinted in the dim light, concealing eyes the color of ripe olives, in which only warmth flickered. A broad, toothy smile spread across his face.

His voice was soft and cheerful.

“Oh, Tom, hello!” The door closed behind the man of its own accord. He stepped closer. Tom couldn’t even draw breath. A catatonic stupor gripped him, terror piercing every cell of his body. The man before him… he’d never seen him before. But…

“No, don’t come closer!” The book slipped from his hands, thudding dully against the floor. The boy leapt from the bed and, without taking his eyes off the man, backed toward the slightly open window, clutching the frame. He tugged at it futilely, trying to fling it wide.

The man frowned, glanced around, and raised his hands, palms forward.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” The door creaked open again with its characteristic groan. The man’s hands remained outstretched, displaying his lack of weapons.

Tom couldn’t move—every muscle fiber in his body was locked in a relentless, absolute paralysis, a primal behavioral protocol, the freeze response in its final act before a fainting collapse, when consciousness contracts to a pinpoint and fear seizes full motor control.

The air in the room thickened, grew viscous; the space around the man shimmered. A black silhouette seemed to detach from him, trembling and fragmenting into layers, each containing an abyss of endless darkness, a vertical chasm stretching infinitely through the very walls of the room. The outline pulsed, contracting and elongating, as if a glitch disrupted its synchronization—its contours quivered, and the space fractured again with vertical ruptures. Tom recoiled, his back pressing against the short windowsill. He would have screamed, but his lips only whispered.

“No…” The man stood tense, his face a mix of puzzlement and sorrow, brows knitted, mouth slightly open, lips downturned, as if he wanted to speak. He drew a long rod—a branch or wand of dark wood—and waved it through the air. A strange, warm light burst forth. Tom gasped in silent horror as the man’s form wavered again, tearing through space with jagged vectors.

The man whispered something, and a dome formed around him, settling over him in a golden glow. He glanced down at himself, then up, his gaze fixed on the boy, filled with bewildered sadness. He stepped closer.

“My name is Harry. I won’t hurt you…” The man took another step, then stopped, one knee touching the floor. His massive thigh strained the fabric of his trousers. “Tom, I’m here to take you away from this place.” The boy’s eyes darted past the man toward the door. Without a second’s hesitation, he lunged forward, propelled by his heel, but a strong hand seized his waist and, with a swift motion, pulled him against a sturdy chest. Tom wailed, clawing at the stranger’s arm, kicking, struggling to break free. The man only held him tighter, whispering, “Shh… it’s alright… I’ll handle this, Tom… I’ll help…” The words were murmured, the embrace tightening, as if through physical contact he sought to banish the boy’s terror and claim it for himself.

The boy’s vision caught only something black, like tar, flowing and shifting, contracting and stretching around the man’s silhouette, dissolving into dark particles that swarmed like insects before reforming. The man’s hands felt like icy hell, his breath and heartbeat a funereal dirge. Tom froze as something slick and cold traced a path along his neck to his ear. “I’ll help you.” Before the scream, long clawing at his throat, could tear from his mouth, the boy saw the bewildered gaze of grassy green eyes. The man’s hand waved the strange wand once more, and darkness fell.

 

Ah,The Earth, spinning on its axis while tracing an elliptical orbit around its star, remained embedded in the dynamic structure of the Solar System, which, itself a fragment of the galactic disk, described a slow spiral around the central supermassive black hole, warping the fabric of space-time and dictating the configurations of mass, momentum, and temporal shifts within the local continuum. At this moment, one segment of the planet’s surface was gradually emerging from the shadow of its nightside, bathed in photons emitted by the star eight minutes prior—a star that itself rotated and moved along its epileptoid trajectory within the galactic gravitational funnel. The void, drawn toward the event horizon, possessed a formally infinite curvature, and the human brain lacking neural architectures to comprehend such scales… but, Merlin’s beard, Harry had an infinite persistent boner!

Harry Potter burrowed into the warmth of the blanket, like an infant emerging from amniotic darkness into the ritual embrace of corporeal existence. A blissful, almost idiotic smile froze on his face—an icon of a resurrected martyr, abandoned in a long-rotted cathedral dedicated to vice.

Young man allowed himself to stretch, closing his eyes as if sinking into a warm bath. His spine signaled satisfaction with a contented crack, his chest lingering full for a single moment… Hmm. What should he do… now? His gaze, the very color of the Killing Curse itself—empty—fixed on the marble ceiling.

Oh, right. Harry turned his head to the right, his eyes sliding toward the extinguished fireplace. Through the nearly opaque veil of his makeshift enclosure, two armchairs loomed, their tall, imposing backs turned toward him. Harry Potter scarcely thought twice.

Harry, with a brazen air fueled by an inner heat, licked his palm in a long, deliberate motion of his tongue, exhaling hotly, like a reptile. With his left hand, he tugged down his boxers, revealing his taut erection, which twitched in a spasm of desire. Reflexively, he tensed the muscle at its base—the one that made his cock give that satisfying little “jump” in moments of arousal—and it shuddered again. Harry bit his lower lip, a faint smirk playing across his face, and hissed through clenched teeth as his hand gripped the base: tighter, his finger tracing the prominent vein. “Ah…” The languid exhale melded seamlessly into the word.

His lean, youthful body quivered with the rhythm of soft, spasmodic breaths, faint veins standing out against the defined muscles of his abdomen. Harry slid his hand upward to the tip, making slow, massaging circles. Eyes closed, mouth parted in a smile that bared his teeth, his thumb gently glided over the slick, precum-dampened head. His hand moved down and up again—smoothly, almost tenderly. His mind was chaos, flickering with images: hot lips, bare skin, crimson eyes, a cock, flesh soft and alive beneath his fingers. Harry let out a sound—half moan, half gleeful “ah!”—as his hand, gripping tighter, repeated several rhythmic strokes along the pulsing dick. His breathing faltered, saliva glistened at the corner of his mouth, his pulse thundered, and with a sharp “aaah,” his body convulsed, his cock jerking in his hand. Harry exhaled heavily, white fluid spilling in streaks across his trembling torso.

Harry filled his lungs to their brim, cheeks puffing out like a cherub on a sacred canvas—he held the breath as if it were grace, then let it slip slowly through pursed lips. As the final spasms of pleasure deigned to leave his mortal frame, Harry’s eyes widened, staring not through the haze of climax but with his wretched vision at the ceiling. Merlin, when had he last done this? In the room near Grimmauld Place, a week ago? Oh… especially in those final days there. But only today, fueled by memories of the previous day’s encounter, had he performed this act with a specific person in mind, not merely out of bodily instinct or to pass the time.

He sat up on the bed, lowering his bare feet to the cold marble. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, he carelessly wiped the semen from his skin with a single motion. He surveyed the dark room, devoid of any light source… yet it held no window, only a cold, silvery glow, as if light seeped through the misted ceiling, bathing the entire space.

Young man arched his spine to retrieve his glasses from the floor, only to mentally chastise himself moments later—he was a wizard, after all! He needed to match the Dark Lord’s standards, didn’t he? Straightening up, he whispered a spell, casting a cleansing charm that left his skin with a faint sensation of freshness. With a second, barely audible murmur, moving his lips almost imperceptibly, he summoned his trousers—black, form-fitting. They glided smoothly up his legs, hugging his thighs and waist as he rose to his full height. Another spell, this time voiced only in his mind, and his transformed chainmail flew from the hanger toward him.

Harry Potter didn’t hesitate, despite the previous day’s experience. He strode toward the armchairs, and with each step, his black boots materialized onto his feet. Extending his arms, he let his heavy black leather cloak magically drape over him, along with black soft chainmail.

Harry furrowed his brows. The light in the room was green; every torch in the chamber burned with an emerald flame, as did the fireplace. He turned, the fabric of his sleeping area’s barrier brushing against his cloak. Hmm. Even the torches near his bed were alight.

“Turn around.”

Harry did so. With a sharp movement, he found himself staring, surprised, at the armchair where Voldemort sat. Before the Dark Lord hovered a quill, scribbling furiously on a parchment, alongside a long, unrolled scroll and several open books.

“Oh, good morning, my Lord,” Harry said, taking a few steps forward. Voldemort narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the boy. Hmm. No sweat, no quickened heartbeat, no sudden spikes in pheromonal activity, even after waking? Yet the air around the boy had grown thick… almost astringent. It smelled faintly of oxidized metal and protein, a stench that perpetually haunted every room where his Death Eaters gathered. Voldemort’s gaze swept over the boy from head to toe, lingering for a moment on his toned torso. The metallic sheen of the strange fabric caught his attention, naturally. With a sharp flick of his eyes, he fixed on the boy’s face. His wretched, unruly dark hair looked even more disheveled, the collar of his peculiar cloak stood upright this time, and belts hung loose, dangling in long ribbons.

“You seem to have rested well.” Voldemort’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“My apologies, my Lord. To be honest, I forgot I wasn't alone.” The boy approached the armchair and bent double in a bow. Voldemort narrowed eyes even further. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Harry flashed a toothy grin and, without waiting for an invitation, settled into the chair. “But I wouldn’t have minded if you’d stopped me, my Lord. Though I understand, of course—you were occupied… with important matters.”

Voldemort surveyed the boy impassively, though in truth, his thoughts had been consumed entirely by the boy since he retired to sleep. Nearly eight hours had passed, by his reckoning… Voldemort had cast spells on the sleeping child again, weaving charms laced with a pinch of neuro-scanning enchantments. Though his knowledge of healing magic fell short of even a moderately trained St. Mungo’s healer, who would dare tell the great wizard such a thing? A low-frequency diagnostic curse, capable of reading micro-signals of motor activity, epileptoid impulses, and trace patterns of circadian fluctuations, settled like pollen from his wand onto the boy’s head… and simply passed through, as if meeting no resistance. He sought a disturbance—for the boy’s odd nervous tics could hardly be deemed natural, nor could his… peculiar behavior. How did the fragment of his soul affect the child’s mind? Or was something else at play? A quarrel? Albus Dumbledore? He needed to demand all of the boy’s memories. But this thought… the absence, the inability to predict the child’s actions, did not fit within the rigid structure of Voldemort’s existence. Not at all.

What finally compelled him to halt the observational ritual was, perhaps, the most repulsive sensation he had ever endured… and, Merlin’s beard, this cursed week had mocked him at every turn! When Voldemort allowed his gaze to linger on the sleeping child, something stirred from the hypothalamic ruins below, where centuries of unconscious contours had amassed. Dopaminergic pathways, tied to social recognition systems, flared to life… what others might describe as “warmth.” An embarrassingly familiar pattern—like that of creatures cradling a youngling or a wounded beast. It was a molecular tyranny, a vile invasion of the Dark Lord’s autonomous system of self-control! His face reacted of its own accord: mimetic muscles, bypassing the cortex’s command, tugged toward a smile as he gazed at the sleeping vessel.

At the neurochemical level—an absurdly trivial yet inescapable cocktail of prolactin, oxytocin, dopamine—the entire triad of attachment, a typical response to contact with a biologically significant subject. At the structural level—a monstrous catastrophe with no explanation whatsoever! Heresy!

Voldemort cast silencing charms on the boundary structure, for, to compound the outrage, the blasted Chosen One had muttered something in his sleep that Voldemort distinctly recognized as his own vile Muggle name!

“I had no need of you.” A long pause followed, and the longest scroll in the air curled shut. The quill made one final, sweeping stroke with a characteristic rustle and levitated toward the bookshelf along the wall. The papers and the rolled scroll glided neatly after it.

“Oh…” The boy furrowed his brows, lost in thought for a moment, his head turning briefly toward his enclosure as the gears of his mind began to turn. Then, slippery as a phosphorescent serpent in the dark, an idea slithered back into his consciousness. Merlin, if only he’d been more diligent in his studies, any scrap of knowledge might serve him now! “My Lord… did you know that light penetrates mammalian skin? Even through eyelids. That’s why, when you close them, everything seems red—it’s just light refracted by blood.” A carafe rose toward the boy, hovering beside a glass so thin it was nearly invisible, and, obeying the will of a spell, filled it with water.

Voldemort let out something akin to a dry chuckle—more an exhale than a sound—and the corners of his lips curved into a careless, condescending smirk.

“I’m aware, Potter.” The books snapped shut with a soft thud and, tracing an arc, returned to their shelves. “Do you possess any skills beyond the Unforgivables and Expelliarmus?”

The boy drained the glass, frowning as if trying to balance something within himself, and, releasing the glass into the air, let it glide smoothly onto the black table before the furniture drifted back to the wall.

“Yes, my Lord.” He stared stubbornly at Voldemort, his gaze empty and unyielding. Oi, no! Voldemort should be praising him! “I’m not an outstanding student, but in—”

“When we’re in Cornwall, you’ll be under my Invisibility Charms.” The Dark Lord’s voice grew colder, drier, as he waved a hand toward the seated boy, gesturing at him with a slight flick. Whatever robes the boy procured, nothing could rival the Dark Lord’s skill. “You must not be seen, neither from without nor within.”

“Of course.” The boy crossed his arms over his chest and turned his gaze toward the fireplace, something stirring in his memory. “But, my Lord, spells… I don’t have a wand.”

“You won’t need one.” Voldemort barely blinked as he spoke, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I didn’t ask for tactical reasons, but for assessment. I need to know how the Order evaluates you.”

Voldemort fell silent for a moment, letting the quiet thicken.

“You will enter,” he said slowly, “for one moment. And you will leave. Immediately.” He spoke almost without looking at the boy, his voice, as always, dry, laced with a thin film of contempt he rarely concealed—a habit. Yet this was trust, an act he was about to undertake with Potter, in the only form available to a being woven from paranoia, survival, and… loss. The cottage, hidden by the Fidelius Charm, was a potential lair of traitors, and Potter had pointed it out like a loyal hound finally grasping its place…

But even if the boy spoke the truth, Voldemort could not forgo verification. Not merely for victory, but for himself. To witness, for one fleeting moment, how another’s design—now his personal myth, this living vessel, this… child—faced a trial by fire. By old friendships, under his watchful gaze. He could not afford to trust completely, not even his Horcrux. Not the Chosen One. Especially not him. He knew the boy hadn’t lied—yet in this game, where the stakes were measured not in lives but in eternity, trust was an asset. He needed to see with his own eyes. Faith is born not of words, but of sight. And… if the boy emerged—perhaps Voldemort would begin to see him as part of eternity. If not—Voldemort would watch him burn alive in infernal flames, and after such betrayal, he would not flinch. He wouldn’t mind tearing his soul again to create a new Horcrux, after all! This one wasn’t so vital to him!

“I understand. Of course, if anyone’s there, there’s not a chance they’d attack me…” He looked at Voldemort. “Unless they don’t see you, my Lord.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“Hmm…” The boy crossed one leg over the other. “My Lord, last time I tracked them, protective charms triggered. I don’t know how far their boundaries extend…” His words cut off as a sudden gust of air sliced past him—not sharply enough to leave marks on his face this time.

“That’s not a problem.” A venomous hiss. The Order of the Phoenix was no threat! Pathetic worms he would burn away, like any obstacle that dared stand before him and his… Horcrux! Though the boy could relay all that was needed through his memories, the very notion of receiving information at another’s mercy was unthinkable to Voldemort—a concession that he lacked control. Though he entertained the thought, his mind hit a wall, unable to plan further. Nothing could be hidden from Voldemort, yet those Occlumency shields were remarkable… Hmm, it would be intriguing to work with the boy and study his capabilities in greater detail.

“Very well. I’ll do everything you command.” The boy uncrossed his arms, leaned back in the chair, and clasped his hands together on knees, tapping his upright heels against the floor. “When do we leave, my Lord?”

“When I give the word.” In truth, Voldemort intended to act within the next five minutes… well, an hour would suffice too!

Silence.

For some unknown reason, it was the Dark Lord himself who broke it first.

“You said you haven’t seen them since the second of May, correct? Where were you, then?”

Harry Potter’s mouth split into a smile, bright and captivating, like Prometheus’ flame bestowed upon a mortal—a fire that could not be extinguished without consuming its bearer.

“In Muggle dosshouses, filthy and reeking, my Lord,” Harry said sharply, as if singed by the memory, his voice carrying a snarl, like a venomous snake had struck just as he prepared to continue. “By the way, if you’ve checked on Malfoy, I’d recommend taking a closer look at Yaxley, my Lord.”

The boy paused, as if awaiting a reaction. Voldemort’s eye twitched, but he offered no reply. The magic in the air thickened, yet Harry pressed on, as if oblivious to it.

“Once, we were in the Ministry, and Yaxley was after us… Well, we used a secret hideout then, and it seems he didn’t tell you, my Lord, that he was there, likely to cover his shame that I slipped away from him!” Harry Potter smiled, a soft sound of gathered saliva accompanying it.

“You mean that decrepit ruin on Grimmauld Place in Islington?”

Harry froze, his brows furrowing as he jerked his head back.

“What? How did you… My Lord, how do you know that?”

“Yaxley reported it to me, naturally. What did you think?” His voice was almost lazy, but storm clouds of irritation gathered within it. “That address has been under constant patrol for some time. The team changes every twelve hours. My direct orders.”

Harry Potter narrowed his eyes suspiciously. His reaction wasn’t theatrical—rather, it was painfully analytical. The boy was thinking. He clearly didn’t know how to interpret what he’d heard.

“My Lord… I watched that house from the outside for several days. I was under the Invisibility Cloak, and I deliberately chose positions to avoid being caught… But in all that time, I saw your people only once.”

Silence hung in the air, heavy as in an operating theater where an inexperienced surgeon didn’t know where to cut. Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his face a mask of cold disdain. It wasn’t rage. It was bewilderment… His brow ridges twitched almost imperceptibly. A faint sense of déjà vu stirred within him.

“Repeat that.” Voldemort had personally reviewed his minions’ orders and current locations just before the boy awoke!

Harry furrowed upping brows gravely.

“I’m saying… I watched the house for days on end. Once—just once—I saw them. It was the eleventh, I think. They passed by, checked something with their wands, and left.”

Voldemort’s face contorted, as if he’d been served slop instead of a delicacy, and he, the critic, was forced to behold it.

“When I finally decided to enter,” a brilliant confession sparked in Harry’s mind, “there was the Blacks’ house-elf. I… told him to hide the house. I don’t know what he did, but it worked. The next day, McGonagall came—” Voldemort’s eye twitched again at the mention of that name. He propped his chin on his hand, leaning against the armrest. “I saw her walk along the facade, stop, look—but… she didn’t enter. She didn’t even come closer. Yet she knew the Secret; she’s in the Order and has been there countless times! She should have been able to see it, shouldn’t she? But she didn’t!”

Voldemort’s lips stretched vertically, suppressing a laugh at the boy’s feeble reasoning. A house-elf? Merlin’s beard, this child had some unhealthy fixation on them! There was likely a long story tied to it…

“House-elves can’t hide houses, Potter. What made you think she couldn’t see it?”

Harry furrowed his brows again, a jolt of surprise making his head jerk back.

“Well… she definitely used Homenum Revelio, i think? But if she didn’t enter, doesn’t that mean she didn’t see it?” Harry paused, recalling. At that moment, Voldemort summoned the very same long scroll that had levitated to the shelves minutes prior. He would find the names of those rats assigned to that address!

“And? She didn’t detect Harry Potter inside and left? Why would she need to enter?” Before Voldemort, the scroll unfurled, his eyes scanning it intently, his hand brushing across it as one layer of magical data shifted to another. “House-elf magic is worthless for concealment and has nothing to do with spatial enchantments. He couldn’t have ‘hidden’ the manor from wizards.” Voldemort spat the words, not tearing his gaze from the scroll.

“Oh… My Lord…” Harry exhaled reverently. Merlin, he was such a fool! Truly, why had he assumed McGonagall didn’t see the house? Obviously, she checked for the Chosen One, and that was all she needed! On the other hand… it was Harry’s house. She had no reason to enter, did she? Oh, Harry’s body felt the weight of that indescribable pull again! But still, that didn’t change another matter. “My Lord, why didn’t you go there yourself, then?”

Voldemort deigned to lift an affronted gaze from the scroll.

“Because Yaxley was with you. Not me.”

“And he can’t Apparate with you? Or I—” Harry faltered, fell silent, then exhaled. “My Lord, forgive my incompetence—” His voice wavered. “But for such a reason… why can’t I Apparate with you to the Shell Cottage?”

“Is the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage dead, Potter?”

“William Weasley?”

“Only if the Secret-Keeper dies does the Secret become accessible to all who knew it during their lifetime, allowing you to share that knowledge further.”

Harry’s eyes widened, climbing his forehead.

“If you learn the Secret from someone other than the Secret-Keeper, and they’re still alive, it’s useless. There’ll be nothing but void.” Voldemort raised his palm before the scroll, and six distinct lines, each bearing a name and surname, floated from it like tangible objects, drifting gently through the air. He pointed a long, slender finger at the hovering parchment, and the names imprinted onto it in a neat list.

“I… didn’t know, truly, my Lord.” Harry offered a soft smile. “My understanding of how that spell works was terribly shallow. Thank you for taking the time to explain.”

The scroll snapped shut, curling in the air, and returned to its place.

Silence lingered for several minutes. Harry Potter occasionally broke it with the tap of his boots against the marble floor or the shifting of his hands, which moved from his lap to the armrests and back again.

Voldemort voice slid out in a soft, deliberate hiss:

“You will enter the manor and leave her there.” Voldemort extended his hand forward with a fluid wave. In his palm appeared a small, thin snake, grey with orange markings. Voldemort intended to observe through it. Not abstractly. Not metaphorically. Literally. He drew the Elder Wand and, with a casual flick toward his own face, uttered the words of several spells. A burst of red dust, like shimmering, translucent metallic sand, enveloped half his face. In that moment, the outer segment of his retina, responsible for peripheral vision, detached in a gossamer-thin, nearly invisible film. The capillaries feeding it quivered, levitating alongside the delicate film in a magical red cloud, as if suspended in cryogenic gas. Voldemort directed the wand at the snake in his hand, and the red cloud, carrying the fragile, microscopic tissue of flesh, enveloped the creature. The reptile writhed in spasmodic motions, coiling in Voldemort’s long palm as it absorbed the magic. The spell, woven from rare and seldom-used enchantments, would magically graft part of his eye’s capillary network—the outer retinal segment responsible for peripheral vision—onto the summoned snake. He could close one eye and see through hers. It came at the cost of pain… but not the sort Lord Voldemort couldn’t endure.

“Wow, that’s incredible!” Harry held his breath, staring at the red and black eyes of the snake before him. He wanted her for himself! Why leave her there? Instead— “Will… this not harm you?” Harry gave the Dark Lord an odd look.

In that moment, Voldemort closed one eye and looked as if seeing with two pairs of eyes from two perspectives. Had anyone else dared voice such a suggestion, they might well have been cursed—not with a lethal spell, perhaps, but with a Cruciatus that would linger for minutes, doubled in torment. Yet at Harry Potter’s words, Voldemort nearly laughed.

“No.”

“But animals…”

“The Fidelius Charm does not extend to animals, if you're inside, that is — how do you think owls manage to fly in and out?” The tiny snake slithered toward Harry, coiling slowly around his leg before slipping into the outer pocket of his cloak.

The boy smiled, baring his teeth.

Voldemort rose, and at that moment, Nagini glided toward him.

No. You stay.

Nagini lifted her head, half her body rising like a cobra, her massive form towering near the Dark Lord’s chest. She flicked her black tongue, tasting the air.

Master’s word.

Before lowering her body, she turned her enormous, almost canine-like head toward Harry. Her tongue darted out once more.

“Come. Put on your cloak for now.” Voldemort swept past Harry. The heavy black door swung open the moment he approached it. He paused at the threshold and turned. Harry Potter, with a circular curve on his heels, wrapped himself in the Invisibility Cloak. Voldemort’s gaze dropped nervously, tracking the dark shadow and the black hole that lingered beneath boy`s invisible body. The Dark Lord turned, striding down the corridor. Behind him, a sound signaled the closing of the chamber door.

Voldemort needed a minion—someone he could place under the Imperius, to be released in case of danger and used as an additional attacking force. Of course, the likelihood of anyone being there was low… and the Intruder Charm...They would need to Apparate somewhere on the outskirts of the village—deep enough into Cornwall to trace the edge of the enchantments shielding the Shell Cottage, for calculation and control were all he had left, now that his body betrayed him more often than it served as an instrument.

The Dark Lord was indifferent to the prickling in his eyeball—not because he didn’t feel pain, but because it had long lost its status as something worthy of notice. He knew the difference between signals and noise, and even his own body produced more noise than meaning.

Biological impulses were no longer part of his “self.”

How, for instance, could there be a longing for touch when his skin felt more like an expensive suit than a boundary? Why should a godlike being feel drawn to primates when the chasm between him and humanity rivaled that between Homo sapiens and a macaque?

And yet… pain, deep pain, had a way of piercing through divine filters. This grotesque evolutionary relic refused to relent—it haunted him, a phantom in his flesh… always. Surface sensations could be ignored, like static electricity on the skin. But this pain didn’t originate in his eye. It sprouted from a place that didn’t exist—from some deep, pre-linguistic zone where the craving for connection thickened the air...

Was it possible to want… not for a purpose, not by calculation, not by will? Was such a thing possible? Could one yearn for absence, like the phantom pain of a missing part—something, Merlin help him, one both desperately craved and dreaded to reclaim?

If so… then maybe even a god could ache for the lesser—not as a regression, but as an echo of identity lost in the noise of totality. To be someone, not everything. For one, not all.

Chapter 27

Yes, ache for the lesser, of course. Heresy! Neurochemically, desires were mere satellites of hormonal surges, chaotically rising from the limbic abyss before passing through the thalamus’ gates, where filtration of the excessive determined the permissible. There, at the neuroanatomical frontier, all social and pseudo-emotional impulses were either sifted out or integrated, depending on the behavioral patterns honed through the temporal sequence of "past to future".

Of course, genetics remained the conductor of primary reactions, embedding even aversion or attachment into the matrix of reflexes. But that didn’t mean Voldemort couldn’t, by sheer will, strike through those flares, couldn’t isolate an impulse from the system and suppress it at the level of decision! And yet… why in Merlin’s name did it keep returning? Never!

Voldemort entered the dark expanse of the common room through a grand archway, a chamber provided to the Death Eaters as a pen for respite. As his shadow fell across the hall’s floor, robes rustled, and figures dropped to their knees one by one, as if a silent black mass had begun without words; something between a vow and the epilepsy of sacred dread rippled through the ranks.

The Dark Lord stepped forward into the center of the hall, ritualistically, deliberately, as if in a camp of the condemned, solely to sort this vile flesh.

Voldemort called out the names and surnames of six individuals—slowly, savoring each as if intoning ancient curses, every name stripped bare of excess words, stealing a breath from the crowd with each utterance.

Four figures approached him. Trembling forms in dark robes, one woman among them. They sank to their knees. They raised their heads.Voldemort was interested in the final curvature of human vileness: the traitor’s last attempt to appear whole at the moment when his insides had long since rotted. A judge still needs a verdict, even if the execution has already taken place.

“My… my Lord…” they muttered one by one, as if the sound clawed its way through suffocation.

Voldemort stepped close to the first Death Eater on the left. He lifted the man’s chin with the tip of his wand. Legilimens! Dates assigned to this man flashed like Polaroids: a bottle of brandy, fogged glass, a woman’s laughter, hurried movements in the half-light… An apartment. Children. Shouts. A quarrel… Voldemort slipped out of the mind, and his serpentine face twisted, the upper lip curling to reveal pale teeth—a grimace of disgust, akin to a true snarl.

A question, a dragon’s hiss:

“Where were you on the third… the sixth… the ninth…” With each date, the man’s knees trembled harder, as if bones clicked within him of their own accord. “…the twenty-first, the twenty-fourth, the twenty-seventh, the twenty-ninth?” Voldemort lowered his wand, crossing his arms behind his back. The man swallowed dry air.

“My… my—”

Flick!

Diffindo sliced open the thin man’s throat: a crack, a fountain, a hot geyser of scarlet. He collapsed to his knees, clutching his neck—bony fingers slipping, eyes bulging, breath gurgling. Air hissed through the severed windpipe like water on scalding oil, spasming in futile attempts to draw breath through torn tissue.

The next. Wand under chin. Legilimens. The figure froze, as if preserved in formalin.

“Where were you…” The same litany of dates.

Silence enveloped them, like a vacuum in a breached capsule—no sound but the arrhythmia of fear. Unable to draw a full breath, the Death Eater simply stood mute.

Flick!

Diffindo carved the body diagonally, from ribs to pelvic crest. Blood—thick, like congealed demi-glace—surged forward, grazing the Dark Lord’s robes, leaving a sharp, linear stain. Skin and flesh parted obediently, like the pages of an opened book, revealing a mess as if peering into a slashed sack of meat. Loops of intestine spilled out, steaming in the cool air before collapsing to the ground with a dull, wet slap, accompanied by the Death Eater’s prolonged wail. His scream was cut short by another Diffindo, launched precisely at his face, tearing through muscle and bone. A muffled thud, a splatter in a pool of blood—the body hit the marble floor.

The next figure. As Voldemort turned his head toward them, they sprang up, fumbling for their wand. The Dark Lord’s rage at such insolence was instantaneous.

“Crucio!” Scarlet bolts of the torture curse pierced the wretch, who doubled over in the same instant, their piercing, animalistic shrieks echoing off the walls. Their body writhed in convulsions, as if rats scurried beneath their skin, clawing at every organ with tiny talons—they rasped, spat, smeared in blood and vomit, dragging themselves across the floor, leaving a wet trail of bile, urine, and crimson.

Amid the cacophony of screams, Voldemort locked eyes with the fourth figure. From her memories, she had resisted, argued, but in the end, biology and her subservience had prevailed. A pathetic spectacle! Humans! The human factor!

“Avada Kedavra!” A green flash shot from his wand, and with a dull thud, the body crumpled to the floor.

“Crucio!” Another burst of sparking red lightning erupted from the wand as Voldemort cast a second curse on the writhing figure.

He folded his hands behind his back, standing barefoot in a pool of dark red blood. The massive fireplace that had blazed against the wall suddenly extinguished itself. The room was now lit only by the dim, evening light seeping through heavy, tightly drawn velvet curtains.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his hiss was steady, yet something trembled within it, like gathering storm clouds. “Let me remind you: without trust, there is no order. Without order, there is no victory. Without victory, there is no us.”

He paused, and in the silence, one could hear the intermittent wheeze of labored breathing and the hum of a dozen racing hearts — a sound nearly drowned out by the wet, revolting noise of a body choking on its own vomit under the effects of the Cruciatus Curse.

“Betrayal does not begin with a knife in the back,” he continued. “It begins with a thought of hesitation. A averted glance. A desire to sit idly by. A trifle.”

As if to underscore that no trifle was beneath his notice, he flicked his wand toward the figure and whispered another Crucio. A burst of red lightning surged toward the silhouette of the barely twitching body, whose mental sanity had surely been devoured by rats.

“But that trifle cost ME a risk. Cost you a risk. It could have unraveled the plan. And if the plan unravels, everything unravels.” His voice grew colder. “You are not merely a group. You are a link in a new era. You have no right to weakness.”

“A traitor is not simply one who disobeys. It is one who endangers me. You. Your families.” Voldemort twirled the Elder Wand in his hands. “Your lineage. Everything we fight for.”

He took a step, then another, stopping beside the body. His voice turned almost gentle.

“I fight for a world where magic no longer hides. For freedom—not the paper kind, but true freedom. Freedom that we, the worthy of magic, will finally seize from the weak.”

“I ask for little: discipline. Attention. Vigilance.”

“Because betrayal always begins with trifles. And it ends—” He kicked the head of the Death Eater whose abdomen he had torn open, leaving a smear of crimson blood from his anointed, blood-stained feet. “Here.”

Voldemort closed his eyes and filled his lungs with oxygen through his nose, tasting the air, searching for traces of betrayal, fear, or hesitation. He opened only his right eye—the vertical pupil narrowed, catching the light—and in the next moment, his consciousness shifted: the world trembled, realigned, and he saw it… differently.

From beneath the collar of a cloak that now seemed not fabric but smooth black stone, his tiny embodiment slithered forward… along pale skin, tracing the lateral neck, gliding over the carotid artery. If he focused, Voldemort could discern the faint pulse of his Horcrux’s heartbeat… each throb of blood. Harry Potter, concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, loomed like a giant—a warm, humid, living landscape, his black locks a shadowy forest. Through the silken thicket, a silhouette emerged… Voldemort. Himself. A colossus. He saw his own body towering ahead, a marble idol, and the snake, curving, caught the cold glint of his crimson gaze—a gaze that, in that same instant, looked back through her.

The dual vision sparked a strange vertigo, as if time breathed in reverse. The Dark Lord’s eyes slid from Potter’s shoulders to the gathered Death Eaters, standing in a semicircle with bowed heads in the shadows. Among them, by the wall with armchairs and an old bookcase, knelt one of his most loyal and undoubtedly most capable minions.

Perfect. Tonight, he was due for his regular patrol among the werewolves, but for now…

“Antonin,” Voldemort hissed softly, but with no trace of ambiguity. It was not an invitation, but a fact.

“Yes, my Lord,” replied the man with a gaunt, slightly elongated face and unkempt stubble. He rose, keeping his gaze lowered.

Voldemort surveyed those present. With a flick of his wand, he gestured toward two hunched figures, whom he recognized as those who had been with Potter. At the motion, they raised their heads.

“Follow me.”

Reflexively, Voldemort drew a barely audible deep breath and lowered his head, watching as the black shadow beneath the invisible boy drew closer to his side… almost touching. His breathing deepened involuntarily—not from tension, no, but from something else. A strange pressure bloomed in his chest, as if an unnamed impulse, alien and awkward, had lodged between his ribs. Voldemort ignored it—he didn’t “fail to notice” this filth! This noise!

Turning, he glided across the floor, careful not to brush against the invisible silhouette… His silken robes parted the air like a wave, billowing as a canopy might over an altar, while his barefoot steps left a faint crimson trail of prints, growing dimmer with each silent stride.

Voldemort swept through the corridor and emerged into a grand hall, where dim light refracted through the ancient dust of the sprawling, timeworn manor, like scattered radiation piercing a dense cloud layer—in this case, through enchanted, towering windows. He halted, turning sharply to face the Death Eaters trailing behind him.

Dolohov stopped precisely when expected, straightening and clasping his hands behind his back. He stood rigid. Two others—a stocky, scarred man and a hunched figure with a vacant, bewildered expression—halted beside Antonin, their dull faces radiating utter confusion.

Voldemort waved his hand, and an open map levitated from the large table behind his throne. He pointed a long, slender finger at a section of Tinworth marked with a line of black crosses.

“Apparate here. If you see anyone alive besides our own—”  he hissed, narrowing the slits of his crimson eyes. “Eliminate them without hesitation.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the two figures in black robes responded in unison, as if a single organism, before vanishing with a sharp crack of Apparition.

“Antonin. You will Apparate with me here.” His thin finger indicated the village’s boundary. “You will go ahead and locate the edge of the detection charms. I will wait at the designated point.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Dolohov disappeared in a swirl of Apparition with a resounding snap.

Voldemort lowered his gaze to the shadow. He inhaled through his nostrils, drawing in the air. His Horcrux… he needed to act. The sooner, the better. This uncertainty gnawed at him, like spider venom: the inability to peer into another’s thoughts, the void gaping where only clarity should exist for the greatest wizard! His neurocognitive framework demanded absolute control—always and everywhere! Precision and certainty. Especially now. This deviation sparked not a logical protest but a physical discomfort… tangible. The idea in Voldemort’s mind crackled like living lightning; Zeus himself would envy the persistence and destructiveness of his cognitive bolts.

Yet, for some reason, instead of thrusting his hand into the empty space where he knew the boy stood, to seize this vessel in fury, Voldemort spoke:

“Take my hand.”

He heard no breath—neither exhale nor inhale—but instead of the expected light touch on his forearm, the shadow contracted. The void edged closer, mere millimeters from his bare feet on the marble.A ripple passed through his body, like a tremor along a neural network—as if someone had struck crystal, and the sound rang out within his bones.

Voldemort felt something warm clasp his palm.

Revolting!

What did he think he was doing?!

Voldemort… would endure this sensation.

He Apparated, immediately wrenching his hand free and striding forward. Above, the noon sky unfurled—not merely blue, but in that phase of celestial sterility when the sun reached its peak above the southern horizon, casting minimal shadows and maximum clarity of color. The air’s humidity hinted at an approaching frontal cyclone—cumulus clouds formed with slow, languid turbulence. The Tinworth coastline greeted him with a restrained, almost archaic landscape: a strip of damp sand sprinkled with fine pebbles gave way to sparse coastal vegetation—sea grasses, tough spikes, bristly and stubborn, piercing the shoreline.

The sea breeze, laden with iodine and salt, didn’t merely ruffle Voldemort’s night-black robes; it seemed to tug at them, as if trying to strip them away, exposing him to the unseen gaze of the hidden traitor’s house in the distance.

Voldemort crossed his arms behind his back and fixed his gaze on the distant horizon. Ahead, Dolohov moved, his hand extended, casting a spell every few seconds that sparked a small spectrum of light. He grew ever smaller in the distance…

A voice emerged from nothingness:

“My Lord, if I may…”

Voldemort didn’t stir. His body, as if carved from white marble, loomed over the coastline where waves crashed against the pebbles with cosmic monotony.

“…you should consider the families of those who died today. They… they’ll be waiting for them.”

Voldemort’s head jerked back, as if stung by a sudden whiff of sulfur. What an absurd suggestion!

“Potter, are you mocking me?” His voice lashed out, like the crack of a slaver’s whip. “I am not a lackey at a slaughterhouse. I am not a nursemaid to… widows and whelps.”

“Oh, my Lord, forgive me,” the voice from the void to his right was almost ecclesiastical, melodious like a boy-soprano’s. “I meant, of course, Avada Kedavra.”

Voldemort’s brow furrowed so deeply that shadows creased his skin.

“Including the children, you realize?”

“Merlin’s beard, my Lord…” Now Harry’s voice held a tenderness, a tenderness akin to a prayer. “All the more reason! Imagine how angry they’ll be… for years… and how they’ll grieve.”

A strange exhale followed from the invisible space…

…A peculiar sensation: Voldemort detected no pulse, no faint biomechanical micro-noises from outside, the tells he usually used to distinguish the living from nothingness, even under an Invisibility Cloak. Only the voice. Pure speech… without a heartbeat.Strange.This could not be coincidence. Likely, Potter’s cloak was enhanced with something akin to resonance modulation: it filtered out noises but didn’t suppress breathing. Clever, remarkably resourceful… and infantile.

But the words… they were rational. More than that—strategic.

Voldemort sighed almost imperceptibly. Dolohov’s silhouette had dwindled to a black speck in the distance. Within, in that part of his psyche he usually kept hermetically sealed from self-reflection, a faint, almost humiliating response stirred: the boy was right. Nothing fostered such enduring loyalty as preemptive retribution. For nothing was more dangerous than an unaccounted-for enemy’s heir. Their existence was a chance. Their suffering, a motivation. Their vengeance, a risk.

Lord narrowed his eyes, staring into the void ahead. He had known this before. But when spoken—through another’s lips—it sounded like a challenge. The boy spoke much… and rationally.Potter was desperate to be useful. Voldemort nodded inwardly. Not in agreement. In processing, of course. He despised advice. From anyone. But this wasn’t advice! This was logic!

Voldemort drew the Elder Wand. With a swift spell, he scanned the surrounding space for hidden presences, aside from the insolent child before him. He aimed the wand to his right, where his gaze caught only the waves crashing against the shore and the sea stretching beyond the horizon.

A quiet hiss:

“Reveal yourself.”

In the daytime halo of light, space tore open, and beneath his raised hand, Voldemort saw a smile. Spectacles glinted in the sunlight. “The cloak can be removed. When I cast the spell, take it off.” Voldemort pointed the Elder Wand at the boy. Harry’s eyes flicked to the center, watching a gathering of sparks. With a nonverbal spell, Voldemort summoned a web of blue threads that enveloped the boy’s form, settling around him like a silvery glow—a thin yet resilient layer of protection, strong as silver, that would last no more than eight hours at its peak before beginning to fade. On Nagini, Voldemort renewed such charms regularly when they left his chambers.

As if on cue, a small snake slithered from the corner of Harry’s bare neck across his skin.

Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue, soft and monotone:

Boy will leave you.Nest.Stay there only.

The reptile raised its tiny head, no larger than the tip of kid little finger.

I will.

Voldemort made a sharp, sweeping gesture with his wand, his silken robes dancing in the wind as he nonverbally activated another spell.

The space before him warped. Harry, still holding one hand above his head, revealing half of his already concealed form, began to “sink” into a localized phase interference. This Invisibility Charm operated on the principle of controlled light refraction: light waves entering the area around the body altered their vector, bending around the object—imagine water flowing around a stone. An observer couldn’t distinguish him from the background, as the photonic return wave was adjusted: the vector of illumination returned to the viewer as if the object were absent.

Voldemort, with his superhuman integration of temporal, parietal, and visual cortices, crafted and sustained the illusion without visible effort, even on a moving object in the desired space. The boy vanished again, but not to the one who had wrought that vanishing, provided he focused his vision not on the surrounding blur but on the object itself.

The Dark Lord shifted his gaze toward the coastline. Dolohov was no longer in sight…

A minute later, a sharp crack of Apparition sounded directly before him.

“My Lord, there are… no detection charms on the premises.” The dark-haired man, with slightly curly, perpetually grimy hair, met the Dark Lord’s eyes with his own grey ones.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed at the words. Strange. Had they removed the charms? Changed locations? Had the other two triggered them? The Elder Wand in hand, he swept it forward in a broad arc, sending a probing spell across the beach for about ten meters.

Voldemort extended an open palm toward Dolohov.

“Give me your hand.”

A gaunt forearm, scarred and marked with dark hair, its skin like something carved from a steppe winter, rested in Voldemort’s long, slender-fingered hand, which nearly spanned its length. He touched the Elder Wand to the Dark Mark on Dolohov’s arm. The serpent’s head lifted slightly.

“You have permission to summon. Use it instantly if… an unforeseen situation arises.”

Voldemort turned and, before continuing across the wretched sand, nonverbally cast a Repelling Charm on his feet, creating a mere millimeter of separation beneath his soles.

As the black, almost grotesque figure, draped in billowing robes, strode along the desolate British coast, free of tourist absurdity, his hand wielding the Elder Wand traced for potential traps—short, sharp flicks through the air, testing reality. The sand beneath—dark, viscous—he didn’t feel it. Crimson eyes occasionally darted downward: a shadow trailed him. His Horcrux. He would enter. And exit. Or… would he not? Merlin’s beard, what was he doing?!

No!

Only the boy could enter that place—that nest of vermin! Those… slimy worms who had hounded him for twenty years… The Weasleys… weren’t they the brothers of that red-haired old cow who fell to the Dark Lord’s hand? Oh, he remembered them! He would carve out their accursed line! Dumbledore’s lapdogs! They lacked strategic cunning. They wouldn’t strike first. Of course not! Voldemort would. He would find them, track them, tear them from their lair at the perfect moment, and use their own Chosen One to do it! He would ensure it! He needed this, and he was doing it!

Ka drew closer, almost brushing against him. Voldemort halted. His skin sensed the boundary of contact at his neck—breath, hot, foreign, enveloping… like the vapor of a perfect potion. It clung to his neck, as if anointed with the oil of a forbidden rite, leaving a mark that could no longer be erased—it had invaded his body.

Harry hissed. Parseltongue, a language laced with Old Testament vices,temptations language:

Ss..In placsse, my Lord.

Another wave of trembling. Voldemort swallowed. Slowly, mechanically, he felt the biological treachery: dryness, a sticking tongue, and yet an excess of saliva pooling in his submandibular glands.

The Heir of Salazar Slytherin had, for the first time, heard Parseltongue from another’s lips. Not that Voldemort didn’t know—he recalled, unmistakably, this fact from Severus’s memories—but Merlin, the flood of information! A lightning bolt to his brain: only two in the entire world could speak it. Lord Voldemort and… his Horcrux… Harry Potter. The Chosen One. His.

Despite the Dark Lord’s sensations, his face twisted into a snarl. He glared venomously at Dolohov beside him, who stood silently staring ahead, evidently oblivious to Tom’s expression. The man stood with arms crossed behind his back, posture rigid—an honor to be the sole companion of the Dark Lord. As if the Dark Lord ventured out for no reason…

He would wait. The shadow stretched farther, trailing until his serpent’s eye halted in a sandy patch surrounded by sparse tufts of dry grass.

Time flowed like blood through an isolated vein—slowly, monotonously, too evenly to avoid suspicion.

Five seconds. Through the snake’s gaze, Voldemort saw only darkness. Ten. A minute. Blackness.

The boy was gone.

He wasn’t alarmed, of course not! But strange bodily impulses stirred, as if gravity shifted for a fraction of a second, and his innards sagged askew. He felt it—not in his mind, but in his flesh: the world froze, breath didn’t return.

Two minutes. Nothing! Another. Only the salt-laden air and the dry gust of daytime wind across the dune’s slope.

Crack!

Before Voldemort’s eyes appeared a repulsive, ancient house-elf with enormous, drooping ears that quivered with movement. It was clutching Potter. The boy was hunched, coughing, something eerily like black sand spilling from his back… The elf raised its head—and had the audacity to glare at Voldemort with disgust?! A crack. The rustle of Dolohov’s robes brushed the edge of his hearing from the right. The elf vanished.

Potter snapped his head up — and met Voldemort’s eyes.

The boy lurched, a movement more like a convulsion—so abrupt he nearly fell, the heavy black cloak snapping upward with a crack. His fingers clawed through the sand, but his other leg shot forward, steadying his balance. Another motion, and he pressed himself against Voldemort.

The embrace was fierce. Arms locked around his neck, gripping tightly at the upper back, near the shoulder blades. It smelled of sweat. Apricot. Wood, leather, and something else—damp, animal, human… Lips froze, breath caught beneath the tongue. Not confusion—a complete signal failure. Strange… reciprocate the embrace? NO.

With a sharp jerk, Voldemort recoiled. Before the phantom of Tom Riddle flickering in the boy could snag his gaze, the wand seared his palm.

“Crucio!” he shouted.

The curse vanished in less than a second. A mistake.

Potter knelt with a straight back. He clutched his head. No scream. Nothing. But the trembling hands betrayed him, pressing his temples with inhuman force, as if trying to quell an explosion in his skull.

In that instant, several events unfolded at once:

Voldemort realized there were no Invisibility Charms on the boy, nor any protective enchantments, as figures materialized from the empty space around them.

“Expelliarmus!” Hermione Granger’s cry sliced through the daylight coast. Voldemort froze. His gaze, as if in slow motion, followed the Elder Wand, torn from his grasp, spinning through the air like a falling leaf.

Heartbeat.

Accio! Voldemort roared in mind, and the wand, obedient, darted back toward him. But no! It wouldn’t reach him in time!

A pop of Apparition. Beside Potter, Granger appeared! Her eyes blazed, her hands already reaching for the boy.

“Avada Kedavra!” Dolohov, from the right. The curse shot straight toward Potter’s space, green light illuminating his black cloak. No! He should have summoned the others!

Granger made a sharp dodge, stepping aside from the boy and the Killing Curse. Voldemort’s wand landed in his hand. The girl’s wide eyes flicked back to Potter, not to Voldemort. She lunged toward boy on all fours! She dared!

Voldemort swept his wand in a circular arc—a magical surge twisting the air. The spell struck Granger’s side, her body jerking, spinning through the air, breath knocked from her. Spine, pelvis, shoulder—all contorted under the monstrous vector of the curse, and she crashed onto the sand.

Shield!

In the same second, a blow. A red curse slammed into Voldemort’s Protego. The glossy, glass-like barrier absorbed the force but not the momentum, his feet sliding slightly across the sand.

Three figures stood on the beach appearing out of nowhere, Three Weasleys.

“Molly, is it?” Voldemort voice was a venomous, almost mocking hiss. “Care to share memories of Fabian and Gideon?”

Voldemort shot a glance at the Horcrux: Potter was kneeling, back straight, bent only under the weight of his head and neck, which hung low. His arms dangled at his sides, limp. Like noodles. Damn it!

The woman stood silent, lips trembling with hatred, her gaze darting toward Potter. Beside her, two of her brood: the red-haired girl and the youngest Weasley boy, both with wands raised. Pfft! Seriously?

From the void, another emerged—a sturdy, red-haired youth with a weathered face, his wand already poised. He didn’t hesitate.

“Confringo Maxima!” Charlie bellowed, and a fireball, blazing like a dragon’s heart, hurtled toward Voldemort. The Dark Lord thrust out his other hand, reinforcing his shield, and the flames shattered against the barrier, showering the sand with sparks and turning patches to glass. Charlie attacked again, his movements swift, precise—a tamer accustomed to battling beasts.

Dolohov, standing to the right, launched another spell—a burst of red sparks streaking toward the woman and her offspring. Voldemort spun, his shield like a mirror reflecting the attack from Granger and exploded into the sand. Potter!

Charlie Weasley stepped forward on the beach, wand extended at arm’s length unleashed a stream of fire—not mere flames, but living, roaring tongues twisted into the shape of a dragon, its claws rending the air. Voldemort smirked, flicking the Elder Wand, and the fire, like water, was sucked into an invisible vortex, extinguishing with a hiss. Charlie didn’t falter—a new wave of his wand, and the sand beneath Voldemort erupted, transforming into spikes sharp as daggers. The Dark Lord was flung sideways in a black cloud, his robes billowing, and he unleashed a rope of thick, dark light that coiled around Charlie’s arm, yanking him forward. But Weasley, with dragon-like agility, dodged Dolohov’s curse mid-air while simultaneously disapparating with a sharp crack, slipping free from the magical bindings—his body flickering out of reach just in time. His wand created a blue beam that struck Voldemort’s instantly conjured shield, making it quiver.

Hermione, swaying, gripped her wand with her other hand, her face pale, chest heaving, her unbound hair a wild tangle trailing her movements.

“Protego Totalum!” she shouted, and a dome of light enveloped her just as Dolohov’s flames surged toward her. Voldemort, wasting no second, slashed his wand in her direction, conjuring a whirlwind of fiery blades from the reflected flames, slicing the air like molten Betelgeuse razors aimed at the elderly Molly Weasley.

Woman raised a blue-glowing, like glass, Protego with a sharp flick, steadying it with her other hand. The magic trembled but held, crackling as it absorbed the searing, cutting strikes. Ginny unleashed a blue pulse of Reducto, accompanied by a piercing scream that echoed across the coast, her fierce, unstable, powerful curse bursting from behind the shield. Voldemort blocked it, redirecting the ricochet toward Ron, who, cursing, collapsed onto the sand.

Charlie hurled another spell—a swirling wave of blue light rushing toward Dolohov, who had aimed at Ron. The Death Eater dodged, but the sand beneath him exploded, and he staggered.

“Avada Kedavra!” Voldemort fired a green flash toward Molly. A split second. With a crack, Charlie appeared beside her, lunging forward, shoving her aside, and falling onto the sand amid shards of glass.

A wand flick, and the sand beneath mother and son ignited, transforming into sharp, meter-long glass spikes. A scream tore through the air. This was his chance!

“Avada Kedavra!” He watched, as if in slow motion, the Killing Curse nearly reach its target, only for the silhouettes to dissolve in the crack of Apparition… they fled, of course!

Shield! From the left, a barrage of spells from Molly Weasley, Granger, and Charlie pummeled Voldemort. He thrust out a hand, reinforcing his barrier, his gaze sliding to Potter.

Ron, swearing, cast two spells in quick succession—a red beam and a wave of Reducto. Voldemort, gliding across the sand like a specter, dodged the first and conjured a blue-gleaming Protego. The magic, like liquid silver, absorbed the strikes, but the sand behind him erupted in a pillar from the impact.

Another crack from the left. Minerva McGonagall materialized from the void, her robes billowing, her face cold, her pointed black hat concealing a tight bun of hair, her wand already glowing with the intent of a red curse.

“Shrew! You look dreadful!” Voldemort snarled, his voice quivering with rage as he jerked his forearm back. A Killing Curse was already forming at the tip of his wand. McGonagall didn’t respond, only fixed him with her wretched stare! Old hag!

She flicked her wand,barely moving her lips as she muttered the curse and a green bolt of Avada Kedavra, swift as lightning, shot toward him. Voldemort vanished in a wisp of smoke, reappearing meters away, his heart pounding.

Charlie attacked again, his spell a swarm of needle-sharp sparks hurtling toward Voldemort, who sidestepped. Charlie’s focus shifted to Dolohov, who had conjured a vortex of tiny glass shards around him, Weasley`s shield holding like a dome, preventing distraction.

Pop!

Ron and Ginny materialized beside Potter in sync. Molly and Minerva unleashed a volley of spells on Voldemort—a red beam and a wave of heat. Tom, sliding across the sand, held his shield against the impact but couldn’t tear his eyes from Potter! They were almost touching!

In that moment, a crackling yellow curse, like a whip, streaked toward them. The air whistled. Dolohov swept an arc—the curse grazed both: Ron was flung sideways, and Ginny hit the ground, her cheek sliced along the cheekbone. Blood streaked the air.

McGonagall attacked again—her spell, a net of lightning, compressed the air around him. Voldemort dropped his shield with fury and countered with another curse, materializing as a burst of yellow and black lightning that shot toward the Weasley girl and boy, already knocked back by Dolohov’s spell.Molly Weasley’s loud scream cut through the coastline: “No!”

Voldemort sharply raised his wandless hand, summoning a wall of sand with a magical pulse to absorb Charlie’s fiery curse. Potter! He darted a glance at the boy, then at the figures before him.

Dolohov cast another spell, black vortex with snow, cold and icy, striking Charlie and sending him sprawling onto his back. McGonagall unleashed a wave of light that shattered Voldemort’s shield while he stared at Potter. Hermione lunged toward them again, nearly touching him. No! Voldemort flicked his wand, and the sand beneath her exploded, hurling her backward.

And suddenly—cracks. One, another, dozens. The daytime void shuddered. The air tore with laughter—high, sharp, relentless, madness incarnate. Bellatrix. Behind her, silhouettes of Death Eaters emerged as if from the seams of space, and Voldemort, gripping his wand, didn’t tear his gaze away from Potter.

“Harry!” The red-haired girl’s scream was cut short by her elder brother’s embrace, and with a crack of Apparition, they vanished—Voldemort barely registered the moment.

The daylight sky, piercingly blue, was streaked with rare, translucent clouds. Against the light, dozens of black silhouettes. A black mass. The lamb stood before them.

“My Lord… is that… Harry Potter?” Bellatrix’s eyes widened, the whites trembling in their sockets as she stepped closer, drawn as if by Amortentia.

Heartbeat. Voldemort flicked his wand, materializing a protective orb around Potter.

Silence.

He stared at Bellatrix, whose eyes reflected nothing—just blankness, suspended between thought and instinct. The others mirrored her: statues cast in confusion. Only Dolohov stood out, his gaze widening just slightly, the ghost of a victorious smirk flickering at the edge of his lips.

Voldemort drew a slow breath. He crossed his arms behind his back.

They were all staring at his Horcrux?!

“Empty the village at once. ” His hiss was level, almost weary. “Interrogate everyone. Extract memories from anyone who seems even remotely suspicious. If anyone resists—kill them.”

“Bella.” A hiss through nearly closed lips.

Bellatrix snapped her head up, her gaze darting back to the boy, then to him again. Her lips quivered. She waited.

“Search for traces. Someone aided them. Someone supplied their wands. Find them. Anyone who helped, directly or indirectly. Now.”

Harry Potter’s cloak, within the sealed dome of the spell, began to writhe, defying gravity, floating limply as if submerged in water: alive, yet adrift.

Voldemort closed his left eye for a moment. What?! Why in Merlin’s name had that snake disobeyed him? Where was it? He saw only a multitude of books, splinters of wood resembling a broken wand, papers, and a few Hogwarts photographs.

Voldemort caught the faint rustle of a cloak. Bellatrix still stood, as if weighed down by her own body, unable to move. Her gaze was vacant. Her spine curved, head slightly bowed, right hand hovering midair—frozen between a gesture of devotion and an attack. Psychotic fixation. Woman couldn’t reconcile Harry’s image with his presence here, now. Her “target-reward” schema collapsed in her Dementor-ravaged mind. The paranoid vector of action broke: she yearned to present Potter as a token of loyalty, but now the token was beyond her control. Catatonia of anticipation. Should he erase her—and everyone else’s—memory? Neutralize?

Voldemort straightened, silently approached Potter within the protective sphere, and touched the boundary of the spell—colder than the abyss itself—and Apparated with him.

Notes:

Dolohov: "Bloody hell! A ugly old elf and Harry Potter?! Unforeseen situation! *activates mark*

Chapter 28

Mental destabilization often goes unnoticed by an external observer: it does not distort one’s gait, nor does it warp the voice beyond recognition, nor always manifest in the expression of the face—at least not while the prefrontal cortex maintains its compensatory activity. Contrary to popular illusions, most individuals with severe psychological disorders exhibit a persistent social mimicry, and this is not a “mask.” It is part of the structure. The brain—what a marvelous object! Behavior can adhere to normative patterns through the routine regulation of the prefrontal cortex, even amidst profound disruptions in dynamics.

But alas, this balance is fragile; any abrupt shift—from hypomanic agitation to a frontal disintegrative episode—shatters the finely tuned filters: a voice slightly more piercing, speech quickened, a contextually… misplaced objective… Then, an unbridled drive toward domination and accelerated action. Oh, this is not “rage” nor “ecstasy”—it is the neurophysiological attempt of the brain, one of the universe’s greatest marvels, stripped of stable feedback, to seize external reality… anything… to compensate for its own collapse.

And what does a person feel when pain is no longer encoded? What happens when the neurons responsible for suffering are destroyed, yet the memory of suffering remains? One can endure a catastrophe without cognitive loss, only to later strike their head and cease to be “themselves.” Take the Cruciatus Curse, for instance—it recreates the very structure of pain, down to its finest sensory and emotional components. It targets the thalamus, the cingulate gyrus, the medial regions of the prefrontal cortex responsible for internal representations of pain, fear, and reflexive helplessness. But if those structures are damaged, the curse’s exquisite electrical neurostorm cannot be “read” as ordinary pain—it awakens visual pseudo-sensations, old memories of agony… Where neuroplasticity is scarred, Crucio does not elicit a pain response—it unlocks an archive. A personal, complete archive of suffering. In forms for which there is no language.

An hour had passed since Voldemort Apparated to his chambers and, with a spell, directed Potter to the cot assigned to him. The room flared with vivid green light, reflecting off the elongated expanse of black marble. The Dark Lord paced along a narrow rug to the fireplace and back to the bed—back and forth, retreating from the space where the boy lay motionless.

His silken black robes shimmered behind him, and his hand, propped beneath his chin, slid a long finger along his jawbone, as if the friction against his own anatomy might summon a thought like a genie from a lamp!

Diagnostic charms revealed nothing! They had, of course, functioned perfectly: no signs of internal bleeding, no metabolic failures. Whatever had happened to the boy, everything was in order. Except he was not in order!

“Weakling!” he hissed for the third time in recent moments, venom seething through clenched teeth, lips barely moving. And yet… was the boy truly a weakling? Why had a fleeting Crucio affected the child so profoundly? Voldemort’s Horcrux was no weakling! He couldn’t be, could he?

A bolt of lightning struck his skull, a memory flashing: Voldemort had used Crucio on the boy before, at least at the graveyard. The entire scene played before his eyes: their duel… a frightened child before him… his Horcrux… Merlin’s beard, it could hardly be called a duel! Their wands were merely compatible! No, that didn’t matter! Regardless, the boy had endured Crucio and, more than that, had mustered the strength to keep resisting… What had happened to him in that house?!

The narrow, serpentine pupil tightened, locking onto Potter. Voldemort approached the boy again. Fall to his knees? Of course not. He merely crouched—deliberately, heavily. His wand hand hovered over the body, not touching, as he whispered a spell of red dust that reacted to vital signs. Sparks scattered, outlining the contours of a living, intact organism before him. No irregularities the spell would indicate. Stable vitals. Stable! What in Merlin’s name?!

Oh, how he loathed this! The incomprehension tore him apart from within! He would torture that Order of slugs, Merlin’s oath! This was all their fault!

Voldemort inhaled through his nostrils—narrow, devoid of pliable skin, like a snake’s. Not that he had no intention of torturing the boy as well; he deserved it! With the rush of air, a memory of sensation flooded his sensory system: the incoming stream split through his nasal passages, bypassed the upper olfactory receptors, and struck his brain, awakening what could only be called… attraction. But it was the memory of scent and contact. The smell of sweat, skin, a woody undertone… peach?

Abruptly, his gaze jerked aside, his brain’s defenses kicking in, refusing to follow the prior logic.

Elf!

Voldemort had seen it in Yaxley’s memories! Elf was old, battered… Wait. Wasn’t it the same filthy creature that should have perished in the cave? No—no matter! They all look the same! He recoiled from the bed with such speed that the fabric of his weightless robes flared forward, slicing the air.

Nagini! S-Stay only with boy!

The serpent slithered from the direction of the fireplace, stretching her body upward; her massive head swayed in the air, and with a fleeting flicker of her forked tongue, she fixed her gaze on the boy before slowly turning to Voldemort.

But Tom didn’t wait for his Horcrux’s questions. Launching from his spot, he transformed into a cloud of intangible black smoke, hurtling toward the exit. The door slammed shut.

Voldemort materialized with a deafening crack—like a bolt of lightning piercing a vacuum—in the spacious, sterile office of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, where even dust seemed banished before the room’s construction. The office, rectangular and black, with panels of cloudy, glossy glass and steel lines, induced a faint vertigo. The space was devoid of excess, as if the mere existence of color or unnecessary texture repulsed its occupant: no books, no objects without function, no trace of paper outside a strictly designated folder. No chaos.

Corban Yaxley, seated at his desk and hunched over a parchment, jolted with his entire body—reflexively: his shoulders lurched upward, as did his lank, shoulder-length blond hair, as if an invisible spring had fired from his spine. His reading glasses, slipping from his nose, hovered briefly before levitating onto the desk. He stared at the figure that had appeared, mouth agape, voice faltering:

“M… my Lord?” Yaxley shoved himself back, intending to stand. Voldemort, without so much as glancing at him, crossed the room and approached the desk.

“Yaxley. Apparate to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Bring me the elf. Now.” Voldemort’s voice remained low, a quiet hiss. Without looking, he swept aside the parchments Yaxley had been examining with a flick of magic—not out of curiosity, but from an unconscious need to control his surroundings.

“At once!”

With the dull scrape of a chair hastily pushed back and a crack of Apparition, Yaxley vanished. The office turned sterile. And far too quiet.

Death Eaters, Dementors take them! Voldemort thoughts weren’t shaped into words—more like static in an electrified, stress-charged mind. Voldemort felt neither the desire nor the need to speak with them about Potter. What was he supposed to say, truly? That the boy was with him? That they now shared something greater than war? Absurdity and heresy. He owed no explanations—to anyone! …But he would do it. Not out of duty, but because a body trained to survive amidst lies and hierarchies, one that understood the necessity of control, would not allow the mind of a genius wizard and heir of the great Salazar Slytherin to reject it. This current rejection wasn’t a decision but an affective outburst—a hypercompensation for the present cognitive dissonance. The mechanism of denying all that wasn’t immediately critical operated really fast.

Voldemort pressed his palms against the desk, as if poring over the documents in French and English scattered before him. They were all upside down, in truth. A thought sliced through his consciousness—diagnostic mental charms didn’t work on the boy, nor did Legilimency...at least, not as freely as it once had.Had Albus Dumbledore crafted a protective spell rooted in Occlumency, on the child? And did Potter himself not even know about it? Or had the boy lied to him when Voldemort asked directly? No... judging by his reaction, the boy had been honest. A spell that completely shielded the mind… a brain barricaded from within? All of it—just to keep Voldemort from penetrating where something vital lay… of course, the way he sent the boy to destroy the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes! He cast a fleeting glance at the floor, tracking the long shadow of the curse. The snarl on his face sharpened, twisting his already predatory features.

A crack of Apparition, and Yaxley appeared before him.

“My Lord,” he said, dropping to one knee. In his right hand, he gripped a creature by the head, its legs bound by magical blue light like shackles—the elf writhed—and with a whip-like motion, the Death Eater flung it forward. The elf collapsed to its knees, thin as those of a perpetually starved child, convulsing.

“It resisted,” Yaxley clarified, tilting his head slightly. The elf couldn’t Apparate due to the magical restraints on its legs.

Voldemort straightened. The snarl on his face lingered—now taking on a crueler, anticipatory edge. The question wasn’t about truth now, but about the right to extract it.

He scrutinized the writhing thing on the floor. Clad in rags caked with ash and dust, the elf looked… broken. Swollen eyes, one ear sliced and bleeding, breath rasping and whistling. On its chest, an expansive burn—charred skin blackened at the center where the pillowcase had also disintegrated under a fiery curse.

“Master… forgive…” the elf sobbed, choking, pressing its cheek to the floor. “Master…” It alternated between whimpers and rolling onto its side, “…Master ordered… let no one in… no one must… again…”

Without hesitation, Voldemort struck its head with his foot, silencing the rasping pleas. His sole lingered on the elf’s cheek, pressing it into the floor, increasing the pressure. Saliva dribbled from the creature’s mouth, its tongue lolling awkwardly. Voldemort would not sully his mind by delving into the memories of this filth!

“What were you doing with Potter?” he demanded. A pulse of magic seeped around his foot. The elf gasped—something cracked beneath its skin.

No answer came. Only a shuddering, wet inhale.

A grimace of disgust contorted Voldemort’s face. His cheekbones sharpened, jaws clenched, lips pulled taut in an exhale of pure, biological rage that had long demanded release.

He lifted his foot, drew the Elder Wand, and with the short, precise motion of a skilled neurosurgeon, sent a nonverbal Diffindo at the frail body. The spell’s blade sliced into flesh. A splash of blood. Voldemort severed the joint—and the fragile, sagging-skinned arm, like a dead root, fell to the floor, leaving a ragged, oozing stump of bleeding vessels.

The elf trembled. A scream caught in its throat, turning into convulsive gurgling. Voldemort foot pressed against its face again, muffling the anguished cry tearing from within.

“I’ll let you live,” Voldemort said, his voice utterly even, occasionally tilting his head on a word, his words sincere. “But you’ll serve no more. The next will be your other arm. Speak, creature!”

“N-n-nothing!” the elf wailed. “Master Harry told… told me to carry him to the entrance… and leave!” the elderly, tormented elf roared as Voldemort slightly lifted his foot, his movement accompanied by a grimace of revulsion. He flicked his wand as the elf, clutching the remnant of its limb, curled on the black, mirrored floor—like a patient in an experimental ward where the glass floor was not mere covering but mirrors for suffering, reflecting not the body but the wretched diagnosis… its base essence, in this case. Where the stump-like wound had been, a red haze now rose—a clot of magic, instantly coagulating blood and searing tissues. There would be no more blood.

Yaxley stood with a blank face, hands hanging limply at his sides. He raised his gaze as Voldemort turned to him.

“Extract its memories from the last w—” Voldemort’s words were cut off by the sharp crack of Apparition.

With a characteristic swirl of smoky air, Dolohov appeared in the dark room—grinning from ear to ear, like a man bearing monumental news to which he was intimately and deliciously connected. Even his eyes gleamed with it. But as his gaze met Voldemort’s, it was as though he forgot how to breathe. He straightened abruptly, as if struck, and dropped the sack he carried. Thud. A wet, heavy slap of fabric against marble. A stench wafted from the cursed sack immediately—rotting, damp, the reek of flesh, mud, fish, and innards.

Yaxley flinched. His lips twisted, simultaneously suppressing a gag and the urge to cast a cleansing charm. It was as though a command raced through his nervous system: Clean it! Wipe it away! But he remained rooted, his eyes alone darting toward Dolohov in a flash of fury.

Dolohov, as if compelled by the sack, sank to one knee beside it.

“…from the last week,” Voldemort continued, not sparing Dolohov a glance. He turned back to Yaxley. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort vanished at once, retreating to his chambers, where he paced for the next several hours.

By evening, Voldemort sat in the receiving parlor of the manor, at a long table of polished black oak that gleamed like a mirror. Only one other figure was present. For now.

The silence was broken only by a wet, smacking sound. Fenrir Greyback, slouched in his chair, was practically devouring his nails as though they were meat—crunching, leaving yellowed scraps on the armrests and table. His mouth hung open, dog-like, and every so often, he licked his lips.He was the last to receive the Dark Mark, and his seething hatred from the rest of the community played perfectly into Voldemort’s hand—especially now, when his small canine pack was soon to gain new recruits. A werewolf was needed, one who would report directly to the Lord.

Voldemort presided at the head of the table, barely registering the embodiment of hunger before him. His long, elegant fingers rested motionless on the arms of his chair. Voldemort did not eat. Did not drink. His spine was aligned in a flawless, almost inhuman architecture, each vertebra obeying a design not of this world. His lips remained still. He waited.

The far door swung open, and Lucius entered. He stooped forward, as though the air in the room pressed harder on him than on the others. With each step, he seemed to beg forgiveness of the floor itself. Stammered over “M-my Lord” and sat, pale, his eyes skittering across the walls, occasionally lingering on Greyback’s smirking face across the table.

Next came Dolohov. He flung the door open with his elbow, striding in with a swaggering flourish of his robed figure—a man who had something to boast about. A bow downward. “My Lord.” His tongue stayed in his mouth, not his throat; before Voldemort, he knew his limits, though it cost him effort now, buoyed by his own triumph. Azkaban had left his mind quick to flare. The stench trailing him wasn’t merely the scent of a seaside stroll—it carried a rotting tang, as though something decaying still lingered in his pocket. With a smirk, he took a seat one place down from Greyback.

“Good evening, my Lord,” came a voice from behind Voldemort. Bellatrix entered through the servants’ passage. Fluid, like a bead of mercury, gleaming and gliding, she approached until she was nearly pressed against her Lord’s throne. For a moment, her gaze locked with his. It slipped into her mind, open like parchment eaten through by creatures. A mistake. Images—vivid, sticky, wet, and revolting as compost—flooded forth: she imagined him , Voldemort, in scenes that were… blasphemous. His power, his triumph, Potter defeated, his lifeless body entwined with her fantasies… Voldemort’s stomach clenched with visceral revulsion, and he wrenched himself from her mind. He recoiled, almost imperceptibly, his eyelids flickering faintly. Disgust. Forget it!

“Sit,” he said.

Bellatrix took her place beside Lucius. Her lips trembled, as though quivering from ecstasy, but the creature within her continued to revel—the boy was with her Lord! He had what he wanted! Outwardly, she was the picture of discipline—as much as that was possible in her case—save for the twitching of her lips.

Bellatrix would not mention the purge of Cornwall and the nearby villages. Not because she had failed to carry out the order—ha, the very thought of disobedience would never cross her mind! She had thrown herself into the task with that rare fervor she understood as love: today, her wand had unleashed Cruciatus more often than it had in the entire past month. The screams of mothers, old men, and especially children sounded to her like the singing of cherubim, an echo of approval from someone far greater.But… no trace of smuggled wands. Not a single one. And Bellatrix did not lie by keeping silent—her mind simply did not register the absence of results as failure. The task, in essence, was still in progress. That was the key.

Of course, if the Dark Lord asked her directly, her consciousness would detonate, and the inner vault of her failure would burst open, spilling pain, rage, and supplication—but as long as he remained silent, she was unblemished.Lestrange did not fear judgment, for her mind was not built on an architecture where failure was an object of reflection. Her identity was not shaped by rational assessments but rooted in a manic devotion, forged in the crucible of a fractured self. This was not merely love for Tom—it was an attempt to become his organ. His finger. His blood. His everything.That was why she had kept silent about the Cup back then. It was not betrayal. It was the direct logic of her warped love… She had not lied. She simply… hadn’t thought to speak.

In the absolute silence, Nott entered. A bow. Wordless. Hunched, carrying decades of old orders on his bac. He sat beside the increasingly smirking Dolohov, not uttering a sound.

Almost on his heels came Yaxley. Wary, his face that of someone who had just scrubbed his hands raw to rid them of a clinging stench. Again. And again. And again… But when his gaze settled on the only empty seat near Lord—between Fenrir and the staring Antonin—he could not suppress a grimace. He bowed deeply, his “My Lord…” almost silent,Yaxley took this place. He would not seat himself at the very end of the table like some pathetic outcast!

Lucius Malfoy, seated closest to Voldemort, opposite the werewolf, fidgeted nervously with the cuff of his robe in the silence. Suddenly, he coughed, covering his mouth with his hand, and immediately, with a stricken look, cast a quick, wide-eyed glance at Voldemort, like a frightened mouse, as though fearing even that sound might be deemed insolent and earn him another dispatch… to the Muggles. The tormented Malfoy had finally realized there was a boundary of vileness he could not cross without mental consequences. That humiliation with the Muggle rendezvous had been the final straw.

The two Carrows and Travers arrived from their Hogwarts routine—dust-covered, taking their seats in a synchronized, sluggish bow.

Voldemort would inform his inner circle; the rumors had already begun to spread. He was not in the mood for clamor or noise now. Perhaps he would have to repeat this later...

Yaxley, seated beside Dolohov, was nervously rubbing the corner of the table with a handkerchief, though the surface already gleamed. The stench still lingered stubbornly around him. His movements were sharp, almost convulsive, and his eyes darted repeatedly toward Dolohov, who, in contrast, sprawled in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk. He tapped his fingers lazily on the table, ignoring Yaxley’s irritated glares.

The door creaked open, and the last of Voldemort’s most trusted lieutenants — Goyle,Crabbe Senior and Rookwood— entered with a bow and took their seats at the far end.

The customary silence followed the gathering. Voldemort sat upon his elevated throne, chin propped on one hand, contemplating lazily as he watched the flickering heads of his followers.

Ordinarily, such meetings were, for Tom, almost a pleasure. They were typically devoted to the hunt for Potter, of course—strategy, pursuit, all the things he relished. For Potter was not merely a target but the axis of his design, his proof, his… everything.

The boy was in his grasp now. That fact required no announcement, for it was not open to discussion. Voldemort had no intention of turning it into news, let alone sharing it. There was no need in his eyes to affirm his right, no desire to share, no urge to explain. Did a serpent justify to others why it devoured the mouse rather than shared it?

Yet, plainly, Voldemort had to tell them. To stifle the whispers, to keep discipline from rusting, to stop himself—finally—from replaying the scene over and over. He did this out of strategic necessity, for now, because of the Order of the Phoenix, he could not keep it secret. Only because of them! 

“My Lord,” Lucius began at last, his voice quivering like an aspen leaf. “M-may I ask… what… what will be discussed?” At that moment, Dolohov’s smirk widened, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully several times, staring across the table at Lucius.

Voldemort remained silent. His fingers froze mid-stroke on his jaw, and that alone was enough to make Lucius flinch, while Bellatrix leaned forward, as if caught on an invisible thread. He looked at none of them, his gaze fixed somewhere in the void. Thinking.

Dolohov, unable to restrain himself, let out a low chuckle when Yaxley made another jerky, nervous movement, sniffing the air around him.

“Something wrong, Corban?” he asked, raising his voice just enough, leaning toward his neighbor on the right. “Your little handkerchief seems exhausted from all your fussing. Perhaps you should check if your chair’s been soiled? Don’t forget to summon the Muggle press.”

Yaxley froze, his face flushing red, his fingers clutching the handkerchief so tightly it nearly tore.

“And you, it seems, still find pleasure only in filth,” Yaxley retorted quietly, sniffing again and glaring venomously at the northerner. “Evidently, your sense of humor died in that sack!”

“Oh, as I said—” Dolohov’s grin widened, his eyes glinting. “Just a souvenir from my morning stroll, a keepsake— for you. Thought you might appreciate it.” He raised his eyebrows again, as if privy to some secret, and glanced at Bellatrix, who snorted through pursed lips, barely containing a laugh that threatened to break free.

Nott, hunched like an old raven, sat at the far end of the table near Antonin. His eyes, cold and calculating, slid over the assembled company.He even breathed quietly and respectfully, but each time his gaze flicked toward Dolohov, it lingered, a flicker of genuine yet restrained disdain sparking within.

“Today…” Voldemort’s voice was soft, but it silenced every rustle. All heads turned to him. Dolohov straightened instantly, his smirk vanishing, though his eyes still danced with embers of mischief. Corban, on the other hand, exhaled with relief, though his fingers continued to fidget with the handkerchief. “I have gathered you to share something… of importance.”

He paused, his eyes gliding over the faces of his Death Eaters. When his gaze met Bellatrix’s, she leaned forward, her lips parting slightly. Suddenly, in the depths of Voldemort’s mind, in that part he despised, the images from her defiled thoughts—those he had glimpsed and remembered—shifted. The body in the background vanished. The woman’s dark hair grew shorter, her features younger, her eyes… green. He could almost hear the groan that tore through his subconscious. Voldemort twitched, physically recoiling, suppressing the urge to fling his hands up as if to push the abomination away from him.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix’s voice was laced with anticipation, her body nearly sprawled across the table, forearms propped as she gazed at her Lord with eyes brimming with wild adoration.

Potter. His Horcrux. His… No, not a mistake. A necessity. Hm…

“Harry Potter,” he said, and the name seemed to hang in the air like a poisonous mist. “He’s in my hands now.”

The silence became absolute. Rumors spread quickly, but spoken from those lips, the fact carried an irrevocable weight. Even Yaxley ceased fidgeting with his handkerchief. Lucius let out an odd sound, a stifled squeak, and flinched immediately. Bellatrix, in contrast, leaned forward, her eyes blazing like a beast scenting a delicacy.

“My Lord,” she breathed, “you… you’ve taken him captive?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said slowly, each word measured, his scarlet eyes narrowing with vector-like pupils. “He is in my grasp. And I have… a plan.”

“What plan, my Lord?” Dolohov, unable to contain himself, leaned forward, palms pressed against the table. Yaxley jerked reflexively toward Fenrir Greyback, only to recoil with even greater disgust when his hand brushed against the werewolf’s discarded nail clippings. “Can we… interrogate him? Destroy him?”

Voldemort’s gaze flicked to him, and Dolohov fell silent, his face paling.

“You ask too many questions,” the Dark Lord’s voice was soft, but it carried the menace of a lightning bolt poised to strike. “I said I have a plan. That is enough.”

Fenrir snorted and, with another crunch, bit off another nail. Lucius swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he lowered his gaze, as though wishing to sink through the floor. Bellatrix let out a stifled chuckle, casting a contemptuous glance at Dolohov before returning to her worshipful contemplation of Voldemort, her lips moving silently as if whispering to herself, her head resting on her outstretched forearms.

Nott, in turn, permitted himself a murmur, his words too soft to discern. His hunched figure seemed even more stooped, a shadow of flawless discipline, a monument to enduring loyalty.

Antonin, noticing this, turned fully toward him.

“Theo, if you’ve got something to say, speak up,” Bellatrix cut in before Dolohov could, her voice sharp and mocking. “Or are you muttering to yourself again, you old piece of filth? Shall I tell you, I was there! And so was Tonin!” She sprawled further across the table, propping her head on one hand, legs stretched out, lounging carelessly and leaning back against Lucius.

Nott slowly raised his gaze, his eyes narrowing at the vulgar woman. “I was saying,Madam Lestrange, that some of us prefer to think rather than shout,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl, as he glared at her from beneath the shadows of his thick, graying brows. He cast an equally stern look at Dolohov beside him. “Perhaps you should try it, at least in our Lord’s presence.”

Bellatrix opened her mouth to retort to Nott, but Dolohov beat her to it.

“I’ve done more than you, you decrepit windbag!”

Nott let out a soft but distinct sound, something between a chuckle and a cough, and leaned slightly closer, his eyes glinting with anger and envy, in truth.

“You, Dolohov, merely happened to be there, obviously,” Nott said slowly, almost languidly, but each word dripped with venom. “Don’t mistake luck for merit.”

Dolohov flushed, his cheeks reddening, but he restrained himself, shooting Nott a look of pure disdain.

“While you were polishing your ideas and gold, I was in the thick of it! With the Dark Lord! It was me who helped capture Harry Potter!” he snapped back, though he lowered his voice, mindful of Tom, who remained deeply immersed in his thoughts.

Yaxley, still clutching his handkerchief, snorted. “In the thick of it?” he echoed, his voice high, almost shrill. He bared his teeth, shuddering as he relived the day’s incident in his mind, and cast a look of utter revulsion at Dolohov.

Voldemort let out a deep, hissing breath. The room fell silent instantly.

Bellatrix leaned forward on table...

Silence.

Voldemort said nothing, his gaze fixed blankly ahead. His hand rested on the armrest, a finger tracing the sharp line of his jaw.God revising the final chapter of a scripture he spent decades hunting—never letting on it was his to finish.

Nott straightened, lowering his eyes. “My Lord,” his voice was calm, measured. He had heard the rumors, of course. “May I ask… the Order of the Phoenix. They know, don’t they?”

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed slightly as he processed the question. Nott was always the most perceptive. The most dangerous, were it not for his absolute devotion.

“The Order,” Voldemort paused, letting the word linger in the air, “poses no threat. Weaklings. And now they’ve lost their Chosen One, the symbol Albus gifted them. They are nothing.” Words that were easy to believe.

Bellatrix burst into laughter—a sharp, almost manic sound that made Lucius flinch. “Potter!” she shouted his name, her eyes blazing. “I knew, my Lord! I saw him today, I knew it was him! And now he’s yours! Yours!”

Voldemort looked at her, his lips curling into a cold smirk. “Your zeal, Bella, is, as ever… impressive. But control yourself.”

She fell silent, though her chest heaved as if restraining a tempest.

“M-my Lord,” Lucius stammered, his voice trembling so violently the words were barely audible, “this… this is m-magnificent. But… w-where is he? Potter… he’s… alive, I take it?”

The question hung in the air like poisonous smoke. Voldemort turned his head slowly, and Lucius shrank back.

“He is alive,” Voldemort replied, his voice devoid of warmth. “And that is all you need to know.”

Yaxley, seizing the moment, ventured to speak. “My Lord,” his tone was cautious, though it carried a faint quiver, “if… if Potter is in your hands, does this mean… we are close to victory? Will you use him, my Lord? His blood? His will?”

Voldemort did not answer immediately.What a stupid question?Victory?! Ugh. His fingers, which had been rubbing his chin, stilled, and his hand settled on the armrest. “Our victory, Yaxley,” he said at last, “is not measured by one wretched boy. But Potter… he is significant, and he will be used. At my discretion.”

Lucius, summoning a shred of courage, lifted his head again. “M-my Lord,” he began, faltering, “if… if the Order knows… they might… t-try to…”

“And now,” the Dark Lord continued, ignoring Malfoy’s muttering, his voice soft and almost insinuating, “I want you all to remember: Potter is mine. His fate is mine.” His gaze swept over the faces of his Death Eaters. “Is that clear?”

The Death Eaters nodded, some swiftly, others more slowly, the truth of it undeniable. Bellatrix looked as though she might fling herself at Voldemort’s feet from her seat, but she restrained herself. Nott, in contrast, remained motionless, his eyes studying Tom Riddle intently.

“My Lord,” Dolohov spoke suddenly, his tone cautious but tinged with a trace of his former bravado. “Today… I saw him appear. Potter and an elf. Right before you. How did he end up there?”

Voldemort froze. Dolohov did not know that Potter had been with him from the start. And he must not know. No one must.

“You saw what I permitted you to see,” Voldemort replied, his voice cold as ice. “There was a plan from the beginning. Do not forget your place, Dolohov.”

Dolohov lowered his gaze, jerking slightly as the specter of a Cruciatus Curse flashed through his mind. Yaxley, noticing, snorted but quickly covered his mouth with his handkerchief, feigning a cough. Then, with a sudden start, he recalled something. Carefully using the handkerchief to retrieve it from his pocket, he drew out a small vial containing a nearly luminous white substance—Kreacher’s memories—and levitated it across the table toward Voldemort. Yaxley lingered little on the memories; they clearly belonged to an elf connected to the Order of the Phoenix, judging by the multitude of images within. But nothing of importance—Yaxley scarcely remembered any of it himself.

Voldemort flicked his hand, and the small vial vanished into a faint wisp of smoke, tucked into the inner pocket of his robe.

Yaxley opened his mouth to offer an explanation for his action, but Dolohov cut him off. “My Lord, the elf is in the dungeon. I put it to sleep.” A venomous grin spread across his yellowed teeth.

Voldemort stared blankly ahead. Why could the boy summon the elf but not escape himself? It was only three minutes!

“If that is all, my Lord,” Nott said with the impeccable courtesy of a priest who knows when to grant his deity silence. His voice neither prompted nor rushed. “We are ready to carry out any command you give.”

Voldemort nodded—yes, he truly should have been somewhere else entirely by now. Potter.

“You are dismissed,” Voldemort said at last, rising. “Spill wine, spill blood—I leave the evening to your... imaginations. This day has smiled upon us.”

The Death Eaters gazed at Voldemort with a mix of awe and dread, clearly imagining the monstrous torments their Lord had planned for the Chosen One, and they understood his distraction completely.

Voldemort did not wait for anyone to ask further questions. He had fulfilled his strategic minimum, purging his mental architecture of the burden of notification, and Apparated before the door to his chambers. The metallic serpent coiled once around the doorframe. Child had been unconscious for seven hours…

The door swung open—and Voldemort froze. Before him: Potter, seated on the bed, clad in a black leather cloak that writhed upward behind him as if alive. Around him, Nagini’s body, unnaturally twisted, coiled like a figure-eight looped around Potter form. Her skin was split along its length, her inner tissues splayed as if displayed for an anatomical exhibit; her head was gone, and from the exposed artery, blood sprayed, splattering the walls, the floor, the boy’s face. A green flash ran across the glasses.

“My Lord!” Harry called cheerfully, as if meeting Voldemort were expected, almost welcomed. Oh, he was glad to see him! He had thought to read, and indeed he had, until Nagini began distracting him with her questions…

Blinking, Voldemort saw the snake’s body stir back to life, as if it had never died. Her elongated form rose, gazing at Tom—her stare direct, devoid of emotion.

The sound of the door slamming snapped him out of his cognitive stupor. What was that?

Wait! The boy was awake. Whelp! How dare he suffer so lightly from the Cruciatus?! The Elder Wand, clutched in his hand, burst with flame—its tip flaring red, pulsing with a nascent will.He had nearly spat another Cruciatus at that useless child!But… he held back.There was something in the figure before him now that made punishment feel discordant—not Horcrux fact, no, but that haunting kind of frailty which whispers of the cost of destruction... to the destroyer himself. The Elder Wand trembled in his grip caught in the throes of metaphysical hesitation: was it death that stood before him, or the echo of his own lost innocence daring to meet his gaze?

Chapter 29

In the seeming infinity of the cosmos, there is no longer room for the truly “incomprehensible”—only the uncalculated. Oh! In mere millennia—a trifling span by the measure of even a single galaxy—mankind has learned to predict the trajectories of planets, calculate the mass of subatomic particles, and approach an understanding of the event horizon of black holes.

Physics and chemistry tell us that a quasar and a brain are phenomena of the same spectrum: condensed streams of energy, bound by the limits of symmetry. They differ only in context. And yet, how does a neural ensemble, localized in the gravitational hum of one insignificant, wretched planet, manage to emulate the curvature of time around objects it will never approach? Could it be that the complex is merely the simple, cunningly encrypted?

If the former can imagine the latter, without being in spatial or sensory contact with it—what does this say about the nature of the imaginer itself?

But there exists a structure that resists even conceptual intrusion. Consciousness—the only phenomenon whose essence is not a function of its representation. It cannot be externalized into the realm of objects, nor is it accessible to an observer. It cannot be read; it can only be mimicked. Legilimency, in turn, reveals only the algorithms of past waves, stabilized by memory. Magic, in this case, does not engage with the image but with the neural record, the pattern of activation, the sequence of fragments—and only the caster’s consciousness lends them the semblance of a linear memory in their mind. Perhaps what we call personality is nothing more than the final flare of metabolic resistance before the encroaching… nothingness.

“Praise Nagini and pay her some attention, my Lord,” Harry Potter said, perched on the edge of his neatly made single bed. The black marble of the chamber was bathed in an eerie neon-green glow from the flickering flames. His voice trembled with an almost boyish excitement—Harry loved snakes! Nagini had proven utterly charming. Strange, and so unnatural, to think that Harry Potter had once wanted to kill her… when they were, in essence, of the same nature. She was quite friendly, though not as talkative as his other companion today. Nagini coiled around his shoulders, her gaze fixed unblinkingly on Voldemort.

Only with boy! she hissed, raising her head as if expecting praise for her valiant behavior.

Voldemort still stood — a Zeus chastened by the weight of his own volition, letting the gaze of his Ganymede cool the fervent lightning of godhood.

His nostrils flared slightly, drawing in the air—a predator attuned to the faintest pheromones of fear. His gaze, sharp and serpentine, pierced Harry, tearing through the distance between them. The joy in the boy’s voice grated on his ears like the edge of a lancet. He moved swiftly toward him.

“Potter,” he said, his voice low, hoarse, quivering with restrained hissing, “You wretched creature! What was that?! You’ve faced such a curse before! Speak. Now!”

Harry continued to smile evenly, teeth bared; in truth, he had already gathered his thoughts, piecing together what he could since waking, trying to recall how he had ended up here. To be honest, he didn’t fully understand it himself.

But whatever had happened, it was all for the best! Since awakening, he no longer heard that maddening “screech” in his ears. Hm.

“Well…” he exhaled, awkwardly raising a hand to run his fingers under Nagini’s chin, where she rested heavily on his shoulders. “I walked in, and something hit me in the face—Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, you know, the kind the Weasley twins peddle in Diagon Alley. Your people don’t shy away from such toys, do they?” Voldemort, without responding, slowly passed the Elder Wand over Harry’s head, searching once more for traces of curses and check vital signs. “Anyway, it all worked in a strange way: first the powder, then I was doused with water, and then, I think, a charm was lifted—or was that before? In short, the illusion your spells were holding dropped instantly, and I found myself in some sort of bubble that collapsed right away… It felt like I was… I don’t know, stuck there? For days?” Harry straightened, and Nagini slid downward, coiling around his legs in a soft, flowing motion, almost like a magnetic current. Harry did not pull away; instead, his hand settled on the snake, his fingers tracing the curves of her scales as her body moved, as if charting the trajectory of a charged particle.

“I felt nothing: no time, no body…” he continued, his voice growing softer, more pensive. “Just emptiness. Or rather…” He paused, stroking the curve of a scale on her tail as Nagini fully slipped from his body. “There was one voice. Did you check on the little one?”

Voldemort’s brow ridges furrowed slightly. His gaze remained the same—tense, focused. He was listening intently, but he had his own questions.

“Was the Order there?” His stare bore into Harry’s face. Analysis.

“No,” Harry shrugged, continuing as if he hadn’t registered Voldemort’s clarification. He truly hadn’t seen anyone, and he would speak only the truth and what he had pieced together himself. “So… I didn’t want to give her a name… but she’s so tiny. It was, as I said, a protective sphere, with… powder? And some other curse, I guess.” He paused. “We were stuck inside together. I don’t know how much time passed. It felt like an artificial dream. At some point, I realized it was a trap, an illusion. Then it took a few more hours, while in the present, to make my body move my lips. That’s when I called Kreacher. He pulled me out. I asked him to get me out… and to leave.”

Harry blinked, trying to continue the memory, but it cut off abruptly at the beach.

“And then—nothing. I don’t remember.” The boy squinted. “Will you tell me?”

Voldemort stepped closer, and his shadow fell over Harry—dark, sharp, as if it consumed the light itself.

“Three minutes, Potter,” he said evenly, his voice like the steady beep of a monitor tracking a pulse. “That’s how long you were there.”

“Ha?” A short laugh. “Seriously? It felt like days, at least.”

Voldemort reached out and seized Potter’s jaw in his hand, tilting the boy’s head from side to side, peering into his eyes.

“You thought I stood still for days?”

Harry mused sincerely.

“Is that all? Show me.” The words came out in an almost affronted hiss. It certainly wasn’t his fault! The boy was clearly just a useless, careless child—any other would have noticed the trap at the entrance!

Voldemort held the boy’s face close to his own, their breaths nearly mingling. Slowly, as if performing a ritual, he raised the Elder Wand, each movement precise… it would work. He had never known failure. The very idea that this boy, this child who had once been entirely open to him—his—could “allow” him to see something was unthinkable. He had never encountered a mind completely closed to him. He was a master Legilimens! This was unacceptable. Insulting. That vile memory of Snape, the rat…

Of course, he would do it. How could he not? For there was nothing the brilliant mind of Salazar Slytherin’s heir could not fathom—especially when that mind was so narcissistic as to refuse to acknowledge limits, even neurophysiological ones.

“Legilimens!”

Nothing could be hidden from him! Especially not by this… child, who, not long ago, had allowed it anyway! There was no cause for change, was there? Ah, the brilliant wizard had scarcely forgotten the Cruciatus Curse so artfully applied at the perfect moment… alas.

Voldemort saw… blackness.

He emerged from the mind almost instantly, colliding not with a barrier but with emptiness—absurd in a system where error had no place. His lips twisted.

Voldemort glared at the boy, gripping his jaw until white patches bloomed from constricted blood vessels.

“Child… do you dare play games with me? Show me! Now!” A precise, measured command, yet each word seemed strained through a sieve of doubt.

“What? I’m not doing anything, my Lord!”

Voldemort tightened his grip—the corners of Potter’s mouth turned downward, his cheeks contorted under the pressure, his flesh protesting against the authority… But Harry, contrary to expectation, did not resist, nor did he wish to. In truth, the Dark Lord’s touch pleased him; the magic seemed to bring a strange calm. An emptiness born of the collapse of two neutron stars would not exist without their fusion.

“I… would be glad to feel you inside,” the boy mumbled, barely coherent through the vice of Voldemort’s hand.

Potter’s gaze slid sideways oddly. Voldemort, baring his teeth, shoved the boy’s chin away with a sharp, controlled motion. Harry tilted back only a centimeter, grinning as he stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his cloak.

The Dark Lord paused for a moment, his thoughts churning. His gaze darted from Potter’s feet to the scar on his forehead, taking in the boy’s entire figure. He raised the Elder Wand forward.

“Aurum Revelare!”

A golden dome unfurled over Potter’s body. A thin, shimmering veil enveloped his shoulders, glided along his neck, and, trembling like glass, closed over him in a radiant cascade. A rare diagnostic spell of the highest order, used to detect and neutralize residual traces of curses, compulsion charms, and dark magic—even those not structured by the caster. Due to its intricate formula, demanding utmost concentration and a precise magical impulse, this spell was almost never employed—not even taught to Aurors. Frankly, it was seldom used at all, not because it was dangerous. On the contrary, it was almost divinely precise. But it required from the wizard not merely power, but a flawless cognitive alignment: the mental map of the spell was more complex than the structure of old-fashioned medical stabilizing charms, and a single stray thought could lead to unforeseen consequences during the “cleansing” of curses. Of course, he would try it! On anyone but himself, naturally.

As the residual golden dust settled on the boy, and he raised his eyebrows meaningfully, Voldemort directed the Elder Wand at him once more. Legilimens! Nothing! Damn you! The agony of omniscience, barred from vision.

Voldemort bared his teeth, the magical aura around him thickening. He closed one eye, forcing his vision to invade the retina of the snake he had tasked Potter with retrieving. Parchments, parchments… a comb?

“Where is it?” Potter noticed the gesture and, with a fluid motion, drifted toward the wall, where tall, cluttered bookshelves stood in a dense line. He ran his fingers along the spines, moving slowly, as if he were alone in the room—not because he forgot Voldemort’s presence, but because he saw no threat in him. Or, worse, no observer. And strangest of all—no one stopped him…

Voldemort aimed his wand at him.

“What are you scheming, Potter?” Oh, how many times had he circled back to this? Again and again, Voldemort clung to the specific,but he tried to anchor himself in reason: the boy simply wanted to be useful. He was foolish. Child. The Order and the Weasleys were no longer tied to him. The Horcrux was influencing him. But, as it often was with those whose lives were spent in perpetual readiness for betrayal, the thought did not fade—it took root. None of the signs were fully convincing! Heresy! Too orchestrated. Too quick to complete the task without knowing anything. Too calm in renouncing them afterward. Too talkative. Too everything. Voldemort glared venomously at the boy’s face, a face distorted by the green glow of the fireplace yet casting no shadows. As if his skin reflected light evenly, without contour. An utterly cursed appearance! Only the lenses of his glasses glinted with a poisonous green.

Harry tilted his head back slightly, his brows furrowing, his glasses slipping just a fraction, as if he had collided forehead-first with something cold and unpredictable.

“What?”

“Don’t play dumb!”

The room pulsed with the pressure of Voldemort’s magic, permeating every atom of the enchanted space over which he held absolute dominion. The air warped, as it does when stepping into a sealed chamber, where one can almost hear bones creak from the shift in pressure.

Harry straightened, turning his torso toward Voldemort, his hand gliding smoothly down the row of books. His gaze dimmed, and he lowered his head slightly, studying Voldemort’s face at an angle—as if experimenting with perspective. There was no emotion, no fear. Only focus. Like that of a creature no longer interested in you as a person. Only something incomprehensible. His face—a stable vacuum. His figure—a compressed neutron star, silent. But get too close, and alas, it’s the end. He was calibrating something. Oh! Pity… he doesn’t even have a wand!

And yet, the gravity in the room intensified. The space didn’t collapse; it bent, curling into a single point: a focal point where the universe itself seemed to vanish.

Harry let out a soft snort and dropped his hand to his side. He turned fully, his cloak sweeping upward in an unnatural arc, as if caught by a sudden motion.

“Well, lock me up and be done with it, then!” he said, striding toward the armchairs with long, lazy steps, his fingers grazing the back of one as if testing its reality. He stared at the empty stone plates on the glossy black side tables, his brow furrowing. “Tell me instead—did Dolohov see me?” he muttered. As if on cue, his imagination conjured images of food that should have been on those plates, and his stomach responded: hunger, triggered by associative stimulation, set smooth muscles contracting. Makes you want to retch.

With a graceful wave, like a masterful conductor, Harry gestured—and the table, obedient to his magic, came to life, lumbering forward like a beast to settle between the two armchairs.

Harry turned to Tom with a meaningful look. Oh, really? The wand was still pointed at him! Ha! Should he bow before sitting? With deliberate nonchalance, Harry flopped into the armchair, crossing one leg over the other, folding his arms across his chest, and sinking into the soft upholstery as if planning to stay for a while.

“He saw you. That’s all about him for now,” Voldemort replied reflexively, sharply. The boy didn’t know about the skirmish with the Order. Voldemort would tell him, but only when it served as the most effective lever of influence. Perfectly timed. With a flick of his hand, Voldemort summoned from the nearest cabinet—one containing potions and essentials—a tiny cube emitting the characteristic lens-like ripple of magical stabilization. It appeared crafted from crystallized ether or enchanted liquid nitrogen, though in truth, it was a refrigerated box, if you will: a permanent magical artifact based on spatial and temperature-regulating charms, capable of maintaining its interior in a state of absolute thermodynamic vacuum at the required temperature. With a second gesture, barely shifting his hand, Voldemort sent a short pulse—and thin, pale slices of tissue levitated from the container, settling with perfect smoothness onto the table between the armchairs. Food as a correction of biological state, not pleasure. Yes, his Horcrux needed to replenish energy… Hm… perhaps he had different tastes before? Curious, what were they?

Harry’s smile spread wide, baring his teeth. Voldemort, exhaling sharply, moved to his seat, cutting off his strange and unnatural train of thought. He shifted the armchair silently with magic before sitting.

Silence.

Voldemort held his breath and, for a moment, closed his eyes, as if gathering his strength. His fingers slowly unfurled on the armrests—not like a man poised for attack, but rather like one resolving, for the first time in ages, to touch something… repulsive.

“How long did Albus Dumbledore train you?”

A piece of meat, following its prescribed trajectory, froze in midair and awkwardly bumped against Harry’s slightly open mouth. The boy caught it smoothly with his tongue, wrinkling his nose slightly. Voldemort, as always, made no comment but didn’t miss the detail this time.

“What? Train me? Are you serious?” Harry’s face twisted into a grimace, like an alchemist expecting the silver breath of Living Death, but handed troll piss in a jam jar instead. “Hardly! He spent most of his time at school hiding from me. Communicated through letters—” At this, Tom let out a knowing, meaningful hum. “Letters, notes, riddles—that was his ‘training,’” Harry spat, his tone laced with resentment.

“Hm…” Voldemort settled into his usual pose, propping his jaw on his hand. Astonishingly, the state bordering on paranoid hysteria seemed to dissolve the moment Harry didn’t answer the question about his intentions. Now, seated in his favored posture, Voldemort resembled a psychiatrist who had suddenly lost interest in a protracted conversation and decided to move on to the next case. Psychopathologically, the shift was almost graceful: frustration, driven to the brink of a thunderstorm’s pressure, collapsed the moment the lack of response became permanent. Instead of his screeching, a reassessment of the current context began—a typical pattern for structures with high affective plasticity and a rigid narcissistic framework. Something like: It’s not that you didn’t answer and insulted me; I simply lost interest in it!

“Oh, nearly forgot!” Harry said, and as he reached into the inner pocket of his leather cloak, he opened his mouth to catch another slice of meat that floated toward him at that moment. Deftly. Masterfully. It’s worth testing the boy outside this room’s confines; there’s a chance this behavior is merely the influence of this space… the Horcrux… the boy speaks Parseltongue because of its influence. Perhaps being near its master, the Horcrux has affected the living object this way… Oh, if only there were a single record of someone creating a living Horcrux before!

Meanwhile, Harry pulled out a fabric pouch, resembling a wallet, and plunged his hand into it up to his forearm. He withdrew a book, inspecting its spine.

Voldemort waved his hand, and under Harry’s sharp, indignant “Hey, that’s mine!” the book landed in Voldemort’s palm.

“What is this?” Voldemort squinted, his scarlet gaze glinting with interest as the title Obscura Magia registered on his retina.

“From my library,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes, watching with suspicion as Voldemort slowly turned the pages, tilting his head with almost pained attention to each line. Oh, yes, this was precisely the moment when the self-proclaimed greatest wizard of all time discovered material he “absolutely needed,” and needed it immediately.

“Er… give it back?”

Voldemort, without lifting his head, shot him a quick, heavy glance from under his brow. With a flick of his hand, the book obeyed a silent command, levitating behind him and settling neatly onto the nearest shelf.

Harry stared at the shelf for a moment, then, tilting his head slightly, said no more and tucked the shrunken pouch back into his pocket. Hey, it’s not like I mind sharing, but first I need to make sure these shelves are mine too. I’m not handing over more museum exhibits without being able to touch them!

Harry sighed. What else had he expected? Tom Riddle, it seemed, was not one to share. It was foolish to flaunt his possessions in front of him! Surprising, really, that he hadn’t demanded the pouch as well! Harry glanced at Voldemort, confirming his thoughts. Well, he only wanted to brush up on his knowledge…

“Wanted to check a spell I used on Luna and Hermione,” he said, chewing. “It’s not in that book, by the way…” Harry trailed off, distracted by a sudden surge in the magical pulse around him. “You alright?”

Voldemort jerked so sharply it was as if an electric current had shot through his chair. A sharp inhale. His fingers clawed at his chest, as though trying to rip out the source of something that had stalled, it seemed. But alas, it wasn’t his heart that ached where he clutched—it was his pride.

A genuine psychogenic pseudo-infarction: fleeting tachycardia, mental fog, his face paling, then flushing with blood. As an added flourish, Voldemort muttered something obsessively under his breath.

“What?” Harry leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees, arching his back to draw closer. “Mudblood?” He caught the barely audible word.

Voldemort seemed to fall out of time. Before his eyes, images flickered, fragmented into milliseconds. A vile screech: Expelliarmus! A wand slipping through the air. SHE MUST BE KILLED IMMEDIATELY.

Voldemort leapt to his feet. Harry followed, driven by pure evolutionary reflex: if the alpha bolts upright, danger is near.

Voldemort stared convulsively at the wand, the magic around him thickening at times, the Elder Wand pulsing with different colors as if alive, its arteries coursing through the elder wood.

“What’s happening?” Harry thought, acutely missing his own wand. It would have been useful… His gaze darted around, settling on the bare marble ceiling, utterly devoid of anything. Should I try asking for a wand next week? I’ll be here… next week, right? Harry smiled at his own thoughts, oblivious to the raging hysteria beside him.

“That wretch… dared…” Harry snapped his attention back to Voldemort. The Dark Lord’s chest heaved and fell, his breathing rasping as it steadied, quelling an inner storm. “…Expelliarmus,” he muttered again. Voldemort waved his wand, and red sparks streaked through the air toward the far wall. Flawless. Even better than before—the wand responded instantly, as if reading his intentions. At times, it showed its own character, but that only proved his greatness! A wand chooses its wizard. Clearly, it had deemed the Mudblood unworthy! The gift of Death belonged to him and him alone!

“Who? Someone disarmed you? Seriously? Wait, when?” Harry closed the distance between them, waving a hand to command the black table to move aside. He suppressed the urge to grab Tom’s arm and turn him around, distracted by Nagini slithering at their shared master’s feet.

Tom did not answer. Analysis. He felt no change. The conclusion was obvious… but he would kill her regardless! That vile Mudblood was now his primary target!

“My Lord?” Voldemort’s gaze finally flicked toward Harry, his ruby irises meeting emerald.

“Not long ago. A careless mistake—I was occupied with… other matters. That wretch acted like the rat she is, unexpectedly!” Voldemort spat. “But…” He lowered his eyes reverently to the wand. “Clearly, all is well. It didn’t work…” A flash, and he pulled himself back. What in blazes is he doing, conversing here? “This doesn’t concern you! Know your place, vessel!” The armrests of the chair suddenly extended, seizing Harry by the waist and hurling him back with gleeful speed. Potter let out a sound as if struck by a Quidditch ball, landing on the soft upholstery without, however, losing his glasses.

Splash. Something—or rather someone—had conjured a jet of water into his face. Harry squinted, his glasses fogging as rivulets streamed down them. A pause.

“And stay away from me!” Voldemort roared suddenly, almost startled by his own outburst. Clearly, he had no patience for these… primitive bodily sensations, as if his very flesh sought to impose something alien to his consciousness every time he merely looked at the boy! From the start! With every thought, every internal argument, he grew more convinced of his rightness—of course, he could take whatever he desired! But to take something dictated by biology? This… Horcrux? What cursed irony—to want precisely what the flesh craved? To yield to it would mean admitting he was merely a body, nothing more. A human… He would sooner destroy the world than allow himself that admission!

Harry snorted and waved a hand to dispel the excess moisture, though he didn’t fully dry himself. “My apologies… is this person still alive?” He cast a glance at Voldemort, crossing one leg over the other as if measuring a pause.Hm. How long had he been unconscious, that Tom had time to curse someone? According to Nagini, Lord Voldemort had returned from their "date" “reeking of fear and rage, as if he wanted to bite himself.” Harry’s facial muscles twitched, stretching into a wild, relieved grin as he recalled his brief conversations with serpent.

Voldemort gave the Elder Wand one last look, forcibly convincing himself that it was his—nothing had changed. As if on cue, his mind constructed a defense: the wand was not fickle; Death simply did not tolerate haste. It would choose. And, of course, it would choose him. That explained the lack of change.

He tucked the wand away, and as he sat back down, papers levitated toward him. “For now,”  he said, squinting at the boy — his gaze lingering, for a moment and without reason, on the golden Snitch hanging from the child's neck — and seizing one of the floating sheets with more force than necessary. “Tell me why you didn’t complete the task.”

“I did complete it, my Lord!” Harry lifted his chin slightly. “I just decided… if there’s a trap like that at the entrance, it means the place is used, but not lived in. They return there, but only briefly. It’s not a base; it’s an access point. I told her to be cautious, to hide in a fold of fabric or the pocket of whoever enters, to find out where they go next.”

Voldemort did not voice his agreement, but it made sense. Logical, reasonable. His gaze lingered on the list of duty rosters, where names of recent corpses had been freshly struck through. With a gesture, as if snatching something from the air, he duplicated the names onto a fresh parchment. A quill levitated from the bookshelf, and Voldemort scrawled a brief instruction for one of his lieutenants to “deal with” their families.

Harry glanced around. While standing by the shelves, he had scanned the nearest titles and was surprised to find, among ancient magical tomes, equally ancient Muggle works… and even manifestos.

“You don’t recall when your mind began to shut me out… do you?” Voldemort asked, not lifting his eyes from the papers, though he was hardly reading them.

“That’s right.” Harry paused, lost in thought. “Listen, what if I tried? Maybe it’d fix something?” The boy barely noticed how his words quickened, leaning slightly closer, driven by a sudden urge to act—without a plan, but with absolute inner conviction. It wasn’t naivety; it was the intuition of someone who sensed a tear in the fabric of events, a gap through which he could delve deeper. That’s where he needed to go.

“Try what?” Another wave of Voldemort’s hand, and the papers aligned themselves into a neat stack in the air.

“Legilimency.”

“On me?!” Voldemort recoiled, his eyes widening at the sheer audacity of such an absurd notion. He stared at Harry, their gazes locking. Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort caught Harry whispering the incantation, and the pressure within narrowed, unlocking a memory. The glide through his mind was not merely natural—it was like a touch. Harry moved through the memories like a being untying a lover’s hair before a kiss: unhurried, with an almost enamored smoothness and reverence. Mesmerizing. Voldemort, in contrast, preferred sharp, merciless intrusions over such caresses.

Flashes of images stirred in his consciousness, warm beneath the skin: constricted breathing, a faint tingling, as if each movement of Harry’s thoughts unraveled knots of sensation. For a moment, he saw the boy—Tom Riddle, staring in terror at something coming for his soul. Orderlies? The memory trembled. A fragment lasting no more than a second in real time, but Harry saw nearly a minute of his life… It was an instant. Yet enough. Voldemort slammed his mental barriers shut with a fury worthy of his name, and Harry was expelled like air forced from lungs by a blow to the chest.

“How dare you!” Another instant. His hand clamped around Harry’s throat. The Elder Wand, already in his other hand, pressed against the boy’s carotid artery. Perhaps put him to sleep and be done with it? Contrary to all his instincts, expectations, and reflexes, Harry’s touch on his mind didn’t feel repulsive or slimy—quite the opposite: it was… damnably strange. Utterly inexplicable… His breathing quickened, his mouth grew viscous. His pulse raced.

“Sorry, my Lord! It won’t happen again, I was trying to help! Thought it might work…” Harry said.

Hm, in truth, Harry was also testing how many boundaries he could cross before a curse struck him: a hungry beast sniffing the blood of a previously caught prey at the edge of a trap.

Oh, Voldemort and Harry had been each other’s targets for years — years that bled like open wounds. One, a self-declared immortal tyrant; the other, a boy into whom he had accidentally lodged a shard of his own soul in the act of murder. What was this, if not a lover’s suicide in slow motion? He had killed the boy’s parents in pursuit of liberation, only to find himself sealed inside their orphan. Even their blood had become the same! It couldn’t be that only Harry wanted to fuck him!

Harry’s smile bared his teeth, a green fire blazing in his eyes. Brilliant idea!

“My Lord… today...Tinworth …” Harry began, his voice, teetering on the edge of a whisper, more a mechanical motion of his mouth than true speech.

Voldemort leaned forward, silent, but his entire focus condensed into a single point—the source of the sound emanating from the boy’s throat. His scarlet gaze narrowed, and the fingers gripping Harry’s neck tightened slightly—not to cause pain, but to feel the living pulse beneath the skin begin to vibrate. Harry swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding against the curve of Voldemort’s fingers. A tremor pierced Harry’s mortal frame, a ritualistic spasm like the chime of a tuning fork hidden within flesh.

“There’s something that kept me from madness there… besides the little one…” he whispered, less a confession than a challenge.

The hand on his throat tightened further. Harry let out a languid exhale and allowed his body to lean forward as Voldemort yanked him closer. The Elder Wand burned like a scalding scalpel; the flesh on the boy’s neck began to hiss under the pressure of the restrained magical will within it. It looked like death, but it felt like a beginning—like the moment time touched light and both knew they were one.

Harry looked at Voldemort—not into his eyes, but a little lower: to the line of the jaw, the pale stretch of neck, the ridge of the collarbone. He bent his knees just enough to meet the height,  his stare unfocused—pupils widening, breath thinning.

Voldemort leaned closer. A fraction more, and their foreheads would have touched. Harry didn’t move.

And then—a phrase. Almost without inflection. Almost off-topic.

“Tell me, Potter… what’s three plus four?”

Harry blinked, utterly thrown off. He froze for half a second. Then:

“Seven, my Lord.” Seriously? What kind of trick is this? Ha! It won’t work, Tom!

“And what is your owl’s name?”

Pause.

“Hedwig. Was,” he replied instantly, a faint smile flickering. “She’s gone now.” The hand on his throat loosened slightly, Tom’s thumb reflexively sliding higher along the edge of his jaw. The sensation of touch felt strange to Voldemort—repulsive, of course; he wouldn’t linger longer than necessary!

Voldemort nodded, almost imperceptibly, as if checking a box in his mind. Simple questions, almost childish, but he was watching the response—speed, clarity, the tremor in the voice. There was a theory that the boy’s mind was simply mush, which explained why Legilimency didn’t work, but no such case had ever been documented…  at least not in the handful of ancient tomes Voldemort had collected before his own death. Something was wrong with the boy, from the very start! It gnawed at him, like a splinter under a nail. He needed to understand. Not for Potter’s sake, of course. For the Horcrux. For himself!

Harry exhaled suddenly and took a tiny step, closing the millimeters between them. Voldemort’s hand remained on his neck, but he allowed the boy’s body to draw nearer, exerting not a hint of pressure. They were almost touching, separated only by breath: Harry’s chest rose unevenly, each exhale, wrapped in the heavy leather of his cloak, struck the silken fabric of Voldemort’s robes like a wave crashing against a shore.

Harry pressed closer. The warmth of his body struck at the core. Almost skin-to-skin—a touch.

“My Lord,” Harry’s voice dropped lower, deeper, resonant like a low-frequency wave, “there’s something...”

Potter raised his head, and his warm breath grazed Voldemort’s jaw, washing over it like solar wind. Harry’s teeth nearly brushed the skin as he exhaled into his neck, his mouth open like a beast’s. The hand gripping his flesh was now nearly flush against Voldemort’s own body, yet he didn’t loosen his hold.

Voldemort didn’t flinch. Not out of desire—his body betrayed him, refusing to obey, like a paralyzed rabbit before a lion. He had always kept himself in check, subduing the flesh, but now control slipped away. Retreat? He couldn’t even tighten his grip on the boy’s throat! Curse him? The wand was in his hand, but his hands were no longer his own. Alas, within him, logic finally ceded control to biology: blood pulsed, hormones—norepinephrine, vasopressin—flooded his mind. It was base, animalistic, repulsive, unworthy of his greatness! Fury should have ignited—but instead, a dull, viscous numbness settled in…

“Well?” His voice came out lower than usual, almost a whisper, as if his throat were inflamed. A question—not a command.The heat of their mingled breath hovered between them,humid.

Harry exhaled again, the warmth sliding across Voldemort’s skin from collarbone to ear. His hand fleetingly brushed Voldemort’s fingers. The Dark Lord’s jaw clenched, tension rippling through it like a spasm.

A hissing whisper in Parseltongue slipped from Harry’s lips:

Aaaah… I cannot forget you for a single moment.

Voldemort felt another crack—one impulse, seared to the bone through years of voluntary alienation, demanded withdrawal, punishment, annihilation of this sudden, vile intimacy. Yet another, faint and disturbingly viscous, like the magnetic field of a distant planetary body, urged him to hold fast—to press his palms into the boy’s waist, draw him closer, dissolve the boundary to nothing. His ego exulted: the boy moved toward him like an object caught in the gravitational well of a massive body, inevitably, without intent, like a satellite whose orbit was predetermined by the central mass! As it should be!

His mind reminded him: this was the Horcrux. Protection. A capable mechanism! A vessel! Perfect!

And yet, in the silent depths—beneath layers of logic, beyond the framework of power and function—something stirred. A shadow, forgotten but unconquered, began to expand, intent on seizing control. An old, ferocious longing… not for the body, but for belonging. And something didn’t add up—rather, nothing did. How long had the boy been with him? A few days, perhaps—and already this? A piercing sensation—the shadow devoured everything, and something ignited in his consciousness: this was impossible. A lie. Betrayal…

Potter was a child. Though physically a man, in Tom’s coordinates, he was a child. Not someone who could consciously desire… this! He was Voldemort, and he was the Chosen One! Not someone capable of desiring him, the one even senior Aurors now avoided—not out of fear, but out of awe before something… inorganic.

He was Voldemort! He was not meant to be an object of desire. He was the initiator. Thus, what was happening now was a trap, or perhaps an illusion. A product of youthful hysteria or cunning magic, the Horcrux’s influence embedded in behavior. His brilliant mind, warped by paranoia and years of living beyond symmetrical contact, constructed a narrative where all this was merely a script of deception. Unconsciously, this sting didn’t register as fully formed thoughts. It was a reason to withdraw, a thought his “self” was compelled to grasp.

His ego, paranoid, forged in isolation, in torment, in the wails of an orphaned night, perceived the heat of this moment as an attack—too sweet to be safe.

Silence.

Voldemort’s hand slid from Harry’s throat—the imprint of a frantic pulse seemed burned into his palm. The Elder Wand slipped into his sleeve. One moment. Irreversible. Chronos himself had taken a breath and choked on it, rupturing the veil between intent and consequence, and thus all return was lost.

Against reason, like an agony of the doomed, Tom Riddle yanked the hated yet unbearably desired body toward him with a fierce grip, his lips crashing into Harry’s parted mouth with such fury it was as if he sought to erase him, claim him, consume him—as if this kiss were the final means to destroy his own illusion.

Their lips clashed fiercely, almost painfully—mouths devouring each other: Voldemort’s sharp teeth grazed Harry’s lips, his tongue invaded, probing, demanding, while low, hoarse moans tore from his throat, mingling with Harry’s ragged breaths. The boy’s hands wrapped around his shoulders, and his exhale—a short, almost surprised “Ah!”—drowned in the searing kiss as he instinctively rocked his hips, pressing his clothed erection against Tom’s flesh. Voldemort, in turn, drew a sharp, beastly inhale into the kiss.

One hand sank into the silken, pleasant hair of the boy, gripping tightly, fiercely, as if this hold could halt his own degradation. His lips stayed locked on Harry’s, sucking, biting, while his other hand seized Harry’s waist; the cloak pressed against him felt cold and alien. Ah!  Voldemort squeezed, pulling Harry against him, and when their erections collided through the fabric again, Harry arched backward, consumed by the heat of carnal impulse. Voldemort splayed his fingers, covering more of the boy’s lower back. Harry trembled, clinging to his shoulders. His body moved on its own—hips thrusting forward, rhythmic, fluid.

Sweat clung to the air, thick and musky. Voldemort’s mouth remained pressed to the boy’s, the kiss deepening into something almost ritualistic—hatred twisted into obsession, repetition into need. Breaths mingled—short, desperate gasps punctuated by muffled groans. Tom’s palm moved upward from Harry’s waist, gliding along the spine, pressing him closer each time, feeling the boy’s hips thrust forward in a fluid, uncontrollable rhythm. He dug the nails of his other hand into Harry’s scalp, hard enough to scrape the skin, threading soft locks of hair between his fingers, pulling as if afraid the boy might vanish. His lips continued to devour him, their bodies pressed together, moving in unison, each thrust, each breath intensifying the heat rising from the pit of their stomachs. Mm! An exhale, and they mingled their breaths before their tongues entwined in a new, deep, primal kiss, until their breathing became a series of short, desperate moans, and the heat pooling in their lower abdomens grew unbearable, demanding release.

Their mouths never parted—lips swollen, tongues clashing in a deep, wet dance that drowned out everything but the scorching heat pooling low in their guts. Harry shuddered, his body reaching its peak in rhythm with their movements. His fingers dug into Voldemort’s shoulders. Breaking eye contact, they shared the explosion of tension—Harry felt the searing shudder of flesh against his clothed erection. He bit his lip, not breaking the gaze, though his eyes were half-lidded. Voldemort, breathing heavily, froze. The realization of what had happened crashed over him, colder and more unpleasant than the sensations beneath his robes now!

His mind, accustomed to control, to dominance, refused to accept this moment of vulnerability! This was… stop, so what? He was Voldemort! He could take whatever he wanted! The boy’s thoughts shouldn’t concern him! …The shadow within devoured something in his chest, spreading a near-physical pain. Heresy…

“I… I told you stay away from me.”

Harry drew a sharp breath through parted lips and, in a surge, wrapped himself around Voldemort. His embrace was firm—one arm coiled around the Dark Lord’s neck, the other just above, his head nestled in the hollow between collarbone and throat. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes as the scent settled into his consciousness, imprinted. Forever.

Harry hissed, like a damned serpent on the tongue, his voice bold… heated. It’s right. It’s as it should be… I am your Horcrux, my Lord. Let it stay this way. I’ll help. I’ve missed you so much.

Potter, usurping his will? He knew from the start! Oh, the magic around them thickened, grew heavy. Voldemort opened his mouth to roar, but the boy cut him off:

“My Lord, if I may—will you be Headmaster of Hogwarts?” Will it work?

Voldemort furrowed his brow, processing the question, and Harry gently loosened his arms, releasing the embrace just as Voldemort hissed:

“Me? Potter, are you joking?! Of course not! And get away!” He didn’t take a single step back himself.

“By the way, is that spell permanent?” Harry sprawled back in the armchair, nodding toward the stretching black shadow, like the void itself, reaching toward Voldemort.

“Until I remove it. Forever.” He moved to his own chair, and Nagini slithered onto his lap. Merlin’s beard, what has he done?! He should…

“Madness! I’ve never heard of anything like it—that’s bloody convenient! Why haven’t you used it before?”

Voldemort focused on the boy’s question.

“Because, Potter, obviously, I haven’t had the time. The spell requires the object’s proximity and stillness, as well as the fact that it demands the actual consent and flesh of the spell’s target…”

Voldemort explained the mechanics of the spell, while Harry interjected with immature yet entirely logical questions. He hardly gave a thought to such a trivial detail as the boy not being supposed to witness the shadow curse. He answered mechanically.

What had happened between them should have provoked revulsion. By all frameworks, by all systems, he—Voldemort—should have recoiled from what he’d done. Outrage, rejection, sterilization of memory—that was the vector of his behavior. Yet nothing of the sort occurred.

On the contrary. The memory of Potter’s lips, the damp warmth of his tongue touching him, didn’t spark panic but a steady, almost physical… fixation. A sensation akin to an opioid’s effect: first a faint numbness, then a heat in the chest, then something he didn’t immediately dare to interpret… of course, a wizard of his brilliance would likely find a thousand reasons to erupt later—but not now...It had an effect deeper than Amortentia.

Voldemort did not love. He was incapable of love.His brain didn’t form stable attachment pathways; he didn’t respond to soft voices, didn’t fear loss, didn’t idealize… ever. But Potter—his Horcrux, his target, his vector. His mania. Somehow, the boy had woven himself into the rhythm of Voldemort’s perception as a stabilizing reality.

When Harry Potter sat in the room, bathed in the eerie green glow, with a book granted by the Lord’s permission, an orderliness emerged in the space, as if a gravitational center had found its mass. Everything fell into place, like stars ceasing their oscillations to enter resonance.

Order. Form. Satellite. Fixation… An erroneous but inevitable choice.

Notes:

Interesting—I wonder if anyone else noticed that the other "Harry" used the same spell as V? I’d bet anything he was thinking, “on myself, never on anyone else!”
Anyway, there’s something important I wanted to say about V. I’m not a fan of the fanon version of his character, where so many fics have popularized him as some full-blown psychopath... That’s just not who he is in my mind...his dialogues with Harry,in books, as I see it, rather a deliberate attempt to create the mythological core of the scene—to establish himself as the archetypal adversary, not just a murderer... not true psychopath narrative.

Chapter 30

The house's space, reworked by McGonagall and the Weasleys, was a unique weave of Expansion Charms and portal magic and perfectly suited for a hidden refuge. Certain individuals needed only to touch a specific artifact to Apparate into their sanctuary. Something similar had been done in secret by a powerful dark wizard, though his craft was more mobile… and, obviously, more stylish.

Of course, the Order had been forced to relocate the portal’s anchor point three days ago when Harry Potter, attempting to flee from Voldemort, fell into their trap. The Weasley twins endured two full evenings of Ginny’s furious curses and even blows when they realized Harry had stumbled into what they’d created while experimenting with a Protection Orb, designing a “weapon” against Nagini. They had woven sophisticated mental curses into it to ensure that a pursuing Death Eater—like what happened with Ron, Harry, and Hermione at Grimmauld Place—wouldn’t repeat the mistake. The Death Eater was supposed to collapse, knocked unconscious. But, as is often the case, knowledge and information are confirmed through experiments and experience, not mere theory. Alas, Harry Potter was once again the test subject, wasn’t he?

Hermione stood at a large table, her fingers swiftly scanning a map where not a single marker of Unforgivable Curses had lit up today. Piles of Muggle newspapers were stacked at the table’s edge, some pages marked with magical bookmarks noting “ritual murders” in various non-magical London districts.

Hermione had barely slept, as evidenced by the heavy, dark bags under her eyes, as if someone had tucked pinches of coal beneath them.

Beside her, arms crossed, stood Ron. His silhouette seemed larger than it was—not from confidence, but from pent-up tension with no outlet. His red hair was disheveled, as though he’d run his hands through it in despair too many times. His robes were crumpled, his gaze darting between Hermione and the window.

Beyond the window, there was nothing: no shapes, no movement, not even light. Only emptiness, perfectly mirroring their state of mind.

They were here like survivors of a fire—whole on the outside, charred within. That horrific feeling—watching a friend being taken by a true monster. Literally. Not an allegory, not a metaphor—a being without even a nose!

Hermione avoided looking at Ron too long, for in his pupils she saw the reflection of what churned within her: disgust at their own sluggishness, at the silent scream of “how could they not prepare for Harry seeking them in the Shell?!” and at the powerlessness that slithered under their skin and lingered there forever. Ron frequently clenched his fists until his knuckles whitened; Hermione pressed her nails into the map. If even a single chance appeared, they would not let the monster take Harry a second time.

In the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, stood Ginny. Her new wand—willow, with a unicorn hair core—rested confidently in her hand, as if it had always belonged to her. Fleur had found them a wandmaker, reliable and discreet, who crafted wands for half of Beauxbatons. Fleur’s friend, despite the risk, had Apparated them one by one from different points in Cornwall, all to avoid overloading the magical perimeter around the “Shell” with activity and drawing attention, as all Apparition was monitored.

Arthur, however, had managed to procure one earlier than the rest—by chance, at a flea market in Tinworth. It was exquisite.

Ginny twirled her wand in her hand, nervously rolling it between her fingers. On her left cheek glowed a magical cut—long, stretching from temple to cheekbone, reaching the edge of her mouth, left by Dolohov’s curse. The wound, held together by charms, didn’t bleed, but its edges were inflamed, the skin around it taut, as if the flesh still burned, resisting the tissues’ attempts to heal. This mark would stay. Everyone knew it—Ginny knew it too. Her hair was pulled tightly into a low ponytail, but it was already coming loose: a few copper strands slipped free, falling against her neck.

A little ways off, perched on a rickety wooden chair, Neville sat, barely breathing. He wasn’t looking at the map—or rather, he looked but didn’t see. Before his mind’s eye played a scene he hadn’t witnessed but knew too much about. Ron’s furious, disjointed recounting, Ginny’s eloquent silence, Molly’s heavy gait and bloodied bandages, Charlie’s burns… it all fused into a single emotion—a sense that he had failed. That he hadn’t been where he needed to be. Next time, he will be in the right place.

Charlie Weasley appeared in the doorway leading to the next room, where thick, acrid steam billowed out. His worn, dark brown dragonhide cloak was streaked with soot stains. He had been tending to the Polyjuice Potion for the last three days, and now it was nearly ready. Polyjuice was brewed regularly in this “rebel hideout,” their stores endlessly replenished.

“Hermione,” he called, wiping his hands on his trousers. “The potion’s ready. Time to bottle it.”

She nodded, set down her quill, and straightened. Her gaze flicked over the map, then settled on Ron.

“I think it’s time we moved,” she said, her eyes shifting to Ginny and Neville.

Ron’s head snapped up, his face flushing with barely contained rage.

“Are you seriously saying that?!” he snapped, stepping closer, his voice rising. “Time? It was time three or four days ago, Hermione! When we could’ve… could’ve, damn it, done something while he was still alive! He—” He trailed off into a mutter, barely audible, pacing nervously. “Do you think he’s making Harry drink snake venom like it’s some twisted tea party? ...or making spiders eat him slowly? Wait! We’re too late, I’m telling you!” Suddenly, he jerked back to the moment, striding toward the window and then back to the table. “Hermione! Harry’s out there, with that… that monster!” Ron clenched his fists in fury. He should have made it in time! Worse, Ron had concluded yesterday that there was a chance Harry had escaped Voldemort after nearly a month of torture following the Battle of Hogwarts… he’d come to them, and Ron had failed him again…

Hermione spun sharply in her chair, her eyes blazing.

“You! Again!” She slammed her palms onto the table, the air clapping beneath them. “We should’ve charged in there? With Ginny bleeding, your mum injured, and you throwing yourself at Voldemort like a lunatic? Yes, we know where he is! We still know!”

Ginny twirled her wand in her hand, nervously rolling it between her fingers. Her voice was low and hoarse when she interrupted:

“We’re getting the venom soon… in a few days… we’ll do it. You want to go there now—go. But without us, you’re a dead man. And you’ll only put Harry in danger. Don’t forget—” Ginny shook her new wand, hinting at the less-than-ideal one Ron had in his possession.

Ron squeezed his eyes shut, his face twitching. He turned, slamming his fist against the wall.

In the side room, Charlie lifted the cauldron from the fire. The potion inside swirled, a thick mass, its hue a dull silver-gray. One more moment, and it would be ready.

“I’m going to Dumbledore’s office with Neville,” she said quietly, as if to herself, as if cementing the plan to ensure no step was forgotten. “We take everything that might’ve survived. The Hat. The relics. The portraits—we ask them everything they know.”

“I’m going to the Chamber,” Ron said without prompting from his girlfriend, without hesitation. “I open it.Maybe poke snake a bit. Extract the venom.”

Ginny gave a curt nod, her expression unchanged.

“I’ll cover Ron.”

“You’re injured,” Charlie threw in, his eyes darting to the side of her face… pain and guilt reflected in his gaze.

“I said I’ll cover him,” she snapped, her voice rising for a moment, her copper hair sparking as if conducting electricity in the surrounding air.

Ron opened his mouth—wanted to say something, but the words caught, as if they held no weight. He turned away, casting a glance toward the window.

Ginny pushed off the wall.

“I’ll get him out.”

Ron whipped his head toward her. No, I can’t watch another loved one suffer right in front of me… Harry’s scream when he lost his godfather was seared into his memory for life. That recollection always came with an accusatory, vile torrent from his conscience, dragging up memories of their fourth year… His face twisted—hatred, anger, reproach. His upper lip curled as he cursed himself again… the scar on his sister’s face, crimson, as if raw flesh peered from beneath the skin. A reminder. Luna should go instead…

“Ginny,” he said, pointing at her face. “Charlie’s right, you shouldn’t go at all.”

“You too?” Ginny cut him off, stepping toward the table. “This isn’t up for discussion, Ron. I’m going with you to the Chamber of Secrets. And you won’t stop me.”

This wasn’t just an act— This was stepping straight into the line of fire. Tom Riddle… Her voice in her head, her handwriting—not hers. His words—sweet, soothing, until they became a command. Her lips curled into a grimace of pure hatred at the mere thought of Voldemort… of Tom Riddle and that damned diary. The very idea of him left a moldy aftertaste on her tongue—she spat sharply to the side, as if expelling rot.

Charlie placed a hand on Ron’s shoulder, cutting off his objections.

“Alright,” he said. “You know she’s like Mum.” Quietly, but without irony. “Ginny’s coming with us. She needs this. As much as you do… if not more.”

Ron clenched his teeth. Exhaled through them. A second—and a nod. Not agreement, but acceptance. A retreat laced with pain.

Neville lifted his eyes from his new wand, his voice soft but resolute.

“What if someone’s there?” he asked, looking at Hermione. “I’m not sure I can pretend to be… whoever I’m supposed to be.”

At that moment, Charlie, who had stepped away, returned from the side room with a tray bearing five faceted glasses filled with a murky, viscous liquid, thick as swamp sludge. He set it on the table and gestured to them.

“Oh, ladies and gentlemen, soon we shall be—” a theatrical pause—“Death Eaters.” He glanced at Neville, then fixed his gaze on the map in anticipation of his next words. “According to the records, these people patrol Hogsmeade and the Ministry. Today, they...”

“...they won’t be there.” Hermione finished, taking her glass.

Her gaze drifted back to the map—not so much for new information as a reflex, a final, silent grasp for control over the situation. For a few moments, the pause lingered—a wordless act of reassessment, a refusal to trust memory, a refusal to trust herself.

“If someone’s there,” Charlie said, snapping to attention and meeting Neville’s eyes directly, “don’t worry. I’ll get to each of you.” He raised a faceted glass to eye level, as if summoning the viscous potion’s bubble to life—a massive, quivering orb, ready to burst at any moment. “But if things go completely, utterly wrong, do it immediately to Luna.”

“Luna?” Neville echoed, lifting his head.

From the room above, a light voice floated down:

“I’ll stay here,” Luna said, poking her head through the opening on the second floor, like a bat hiding in the shadows. Her pale hair, woven into a braid, swayed in the air, yielding to the relentless gravity of the planet. “If anything happens, send a signal to my name… the mirror will be with me…”

Ron nodded, but his gaze remained grim.

“Mum and Dad, if they come back before us, don’t tell them anything!” he called up to Luna, as if recalling a recent conversation. Bill, Fleur, and their parents had gone to a meeting with Professor Flitwick. Fred and George were guarding two prisoners…

Hermione froze for a moment, then, almost emotionlessly, began muttering under her breath, nibbling her nail as she mulled over the past meeting and its possible outcomes.

She saw in the goblins a chance for an alliance in this war, where every ounce of strength was worth its weight in gold. Unlike tyrants, everyone in the Order wanted to build bridges, not walls, recognizing that only through cooperation with all magical peoples could they avoid annihilation. Bill had proposed it initially, and they’d all agreed to try…

“Harry…” Ron gripped his glass so tightly it creaked. “We have to get him out. Charlie—” Ron fixed a serious stare on his older brother, their eyes locking. “If this damned venom plan doesn’t work, I’ll go to the Malfoys’ alone! I’ll burn it all down! Tomorrow or the day after!”

Charlie raised an eyebrow for a moment, glancing subtly at the wand clenched in Ron’s hand. It was barely better than his last one, just like his girlfriend’s—they hadn’t had much choice in the matter… or rather, no choice at all.

“We won’t abandon him,” Ginny said sharply, her eyes flashing at Ron as she tugged a glass toward herself from the tray with a swift motion.

Charlie surveyed them all, his face grave.

“Everyone ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hermione replied, raising her glass.

“Yes,” Neville nodded, though his hand trembled slightly.

“For Harry,” Ginny said, glaring with disgust at the sludge.

Ron looked at them, his eyes burning, his lips tightening in a faint grimace of revulsion as his body instinctively recalled the taste and viscosity of the vile stuff he was about to drink.

“For Harry,” he said hoarsely.

Charlie nodded.

“Well then.”

The five of them raised the rims of their glasses to their lips in unison. The potion seared their throats, and their bodies began to change. Ron grew shorter, his hair darkening. Hermione stretched into a tall, gaunt woman, her features sharpening, her hair lightening. Neville broadened at the shoulders, grew taller, his features coarsening into those of a middle-aged man. Ginny, too, grew, becoming an adult woman with a weathered face and thin lips. Her scar vanished. Charlie kept his red hair, but his face took on almost aristocratic, refined features.

They looked at one another, adjusting to their new appearances.

“Hermione?” Charlie raised his voice slightly to match his new form.

Hermione stood at the center, reaching into her pocket to pull out a small leather pouch tied with a thin cord. Untying it, she poured five small objects into her palm: smooth, slightly warm stones, each etched with a rune, emanating a faint, barely perceptible glow. These were runic portals—magical artifacts designed to bypass the strict restrictions imposed by the Ministry of Magic. All of them were on the Ministry’s elimination list, and regular Apparition was a deadly risk after the latest decree. Apparition was used only in extreme cases, when the risk of detection was already present… and in places where it wouldn’t draw particular scrutiny. These runic portals were single-use.

“Activate them simultaneously,” Hermione said softly, distributing the stones to the others. “Each is set for Hogsmeade, the back courtyard of the Three Broomsticks.”

Ron took his stone, turning it over in his fingers, his face still grim. The others followed his lead.

“Get ready, this will feel different…plant your feet and hold on” Hermione said, stealing a glance at Neville and Ginny. “On three. One… two… three!”

The moment they all touched their wands to the runes, the world around each of them spun, as if they were sucked into a point the size of an atom, each rune pulling them into its own tiny vortex.

In an instant, they found themselves in a narrow alley behind the Three Broomsticks.

Charlie dropped to his knees in the mud, while the others, with varying degrees of balance, managed to stay upright as they materialized in the space.

Hogsmeade smelled of wet stone, chimney smoke… and food? Some shop windows on the main street were boarded up, like Honeydukes, but a few remained open. Muffled laughter drifted from Zonko’s. In the window of Madam Puddifoot’s, silhouettes flickered. The streets weren’t as crowded as they once were, but there were still people: a pair of elderly witches hurried home, a man in a dark cloak spotted them and quickly ducked around a corner. The faces of passersby were tense, constantly glancing over their shoulders, yet the very fact that people were trying to live ordinary lives… as if they were ready to grow accustomed to a tyrant’s rule!

“Strange,” Ginny whispered, her brows furrowing. “I thought it’d be… empty. Completely.”

“Yeah,” Neville agreed.

“Let’s go,” Charlie said, pointing across to Honeydukes.

They moved forward along the main road, avoiding a direct path, and quickly veered toward the target building, sticking close to the walls to avoid attention. No signs of destruction or screams… why were people so ready to accept this?

“Alohomora,” Hermione whispered, and after a quick glance around, they slipped as a group into the dark, empty shop, slamming the door behind them. What’s the point of locks when that spell exists?

Charlie cast Lumos, and with a confident stride, headed toward the basement. He tapped the floor with his foot, revealing the secret passage.

Ginny and Ron burst out laughing.

“Charlie, don’t tell me you used this too? How’d you know about it?”

Charlie grinned broadly, shrugging his broad shoulders in a silent oh, who knows?

“Well, Ronald, you first? It’s going to be… a long trip.”

Ron let out something between a “ha!” and a snort, then, bending forward, began to descend. Charlie went last, glancing around the shop once more before casting locking charms on the front door.

The secret tunnel from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts was narrow and damp, like a rabbit’s burrow. They moved in a single file, occasionally discussing plans—or, more likely, what to do in case of failure. Lit only by the faint glow of Lumos from Hermione’s and Ron’s wands, they trudged through the tunnel Harry had told them so much about… The unbearable weight of pain for their best friend, intensified after Hermione saw him… defeated, nearly dead, as she’d imagined on that beach… and she could do nothing!

Charlie raised his wand as they reached a dead end concealing the exit.

He whispered a camouflage charm, waving his wand over himself, then Ron, Ginny, and Neville. The rudimentary invisibility charm, weak but effective at a distance, blended them into the surroundings like faint camouflage. It worked best if they stayed still and pressed against a solid object.

The statue of the One-Eyed Witch, hiding the passage into Hogwarts, creaked open, its hump giving way to release the former students. They emerged into a fourth-floor corridor, wands at the ready. Hogwarts greeted them with silence, broken only by the distant creak of old floorboards… someone else was still walking here… The smell of the ancient castle—wood, stone—hit them like a cherished memory, tightening and warming their chests.

The corridors, lit by the dim glow of torches, looked untouched, as if no one had ever ravaged them. Portraits on the walls slept, their painted faces serene…

Ginny glanced uncertainly at Ron, who, at that moment, was looking at Hermione with an identical expression.

Charlie jerked his hand forward, hearing footsteps ahead… too late. His sharp, battle-honed instincts, trained against monstrous creatures, failed him, ensnared by Hogwarts’ enchantment… From around the corner leading to the staircase came a rustle, far too close, and Sybill Trelawney appeared. Her shawls swayed like ghostly wings, her eyes, magnified by her glasses, wandering as if seeing something beyond reality. She shuffled forward, clutching something invisible in her hands, muttering about omens of the Great Unraveling.

Ginny reacted first, her wand flashing upward with lightning speed.

“Petrificus Totalus,” she whispered, and Trelawney froze, her shawls stilled, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud and the additional clink of glass from something in her pocket. Hermione shot a glance at Ginny, her heart pounding, but she gave a restrained nod, blinking, approving the quick reaction.

Charlie stared at his sister with wide eyes, as if he’d seen a ghost. His face—a mix of confusion and horror— like he’d just discovered his beloved sister was a secret agent of chaos.

“Gin!” he gasped, his voice breaking under the weight of disbelief. “That’s a teacher!”

“I’ll check,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, as if she’d been in such situations a million times… cursing a teacher? They did it back in first year. She raised her wand, her eyes meeting Trelawney’s glassy stare. Legilimens.

Her mind plunged into the professor’s consciousness. She wasn’t particularly skilled at Legilimency, but Trelawney’s memories were chaotic, filled with ringing voices and smoky visions, her mind easily breached. Hermione focused, filtering out the noise. A bar, alcohol—Sybill had spent much time at a table in the Hog’s Head… Aberforth… There! Hermione glimpsed a letter, delivered by owl —a parchment bearing the Ministry’s seal, signed by Theodore Nott Sr., the new Headmaster of Hogwarts.

His name surfaced from the depths of Sybill’s memory, and a shadow crept along the edges of the recollection. The letter had invited her to return to her post as Divination professor, promising that the castle would reopen in September. Hermione saw a woman — flattered by the offer, yet hesitant — quietly gathering her shawls and crystal balls in a dim little room, preparing to return. The memory cut off, and Hermione surfaced, her breathing uneven.

“Obliviate,” she whispered, erasing the last few minutes from Trelawney’s mind. Then, with a flick of her wand, she cast Somnus, sending the professor into a deep sleep. Trelawney slumped softly to the floor, her shawls splaying out like the wings of a drunken, wounded owl.

“Right…” Hermione said, her voice sharp but hushed. They hurried out of the corridor, around the corner.

“Trelawney got a letter from Theodore Nott Sr. He’s Headmaster now. Hogwarts is reopening in September, it’s true.” She paused, her voice dropping lower. “If Nott’s here, he might be in the office.” She exchanged a glance with the others. “We’re heading to the office. Ron, Ginny…” She fixed a serious look on Ron. The odds of things turning out differently this time were slim, but Ron had been practicing.

“Nott?” Ron whispered, involuntarily picturing the younger Nott.

“Ron…” He met his girlfriend’s gaze, lowering the hand he’d just raised to his mouth. They’d spent so much time together that their bodies had even adopted the same stress responses—like biting their nails.

“Open,” Ron hissed in Parseltongue, his pronunciation slightly mangled, still unrefined by practice. His tongue and throat weren’t suited to the pure speech of those born with the rare gift… a living snake would likely struggle to understand Ron Weasley. But charms and magic operated on patterns—they weren’t alive. “It’ll work this time, Hermione, I promise.”

“Alright…” She smiled—not just with her lips but with her eyes, her breath, her entire being, as if, for a moment, her anxiety dissolved. Her cheeks flushed, caught off guard by her own boldness, and before Ron could say anything, she pulled him into an embrace—quick, awkward, almost childlike, unlike their kiss.

Ron drew her closer, his hands settling instinctively on her waist, fingers brushing gently as if to memorize the moment forever. They laughed together, and in that laughter was a strange harmony, as if their souls had, over the years, adopted each other’s inflections. He touched his nose to hers—a childish, insignificant gesture that became the most honest confession.

“Be careful.”

“Well then… I’ll wait for you here. Always check your surroundings, better to look twice…” Charlie gave them all a stern look, lingering longer than necessary on his sister. He straightened and stepped toward the wall, nearly blending into the surrounding stone.

Hermione moved toward the stairs with Neville to the second floor. They’d already rounded a few corners when a hiss came from the depths of a side corridor—low, serpentine, a whisper that slithered under the skin because it was unmistakable.

And it wasn’t alone.

Two voices—enveloping, viscous, like snakes gliding over one another—sounded in unison, now rising, now fading.

Hermione felt her racing pulse, no charm could muffle it… paralysis. Her eyes widened. She and Neville, moving as one organism, pressed themselves against the wall, hiding in the shadows. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth, her transformed, slender fingers trembling, wedging herself between the wall and Neville, whose broader frame seemed ready to dissolve into the stone, become air, or cease to exist entirely.

Her breath caught—her body, without permission, stopped breathing, as if her lungs had switched to manual control.

If only I had his wand… It was hers now!

And Nagini was with him, right here!

If that monster came any closer, Hermione would strike. Even with this wand. Even here, in Hogwarts. She’d burn everything. Even herself!

She’d use Fiendfyre.

Neville gripped his wand, the creak of his damp palm against polished wood echoing softly…

The hissing grew louder, closer, as if something was moving toward them…

The creatures were communicating.

Hermione clenched her teeth. If only… If only she had a bit more time, a bit more certainty—she would’ve attacked. But the hissing was fading now. Retreating. Its echo dissolved into the distant corridors.

A chance… lost.

Hermione didn't even know whether to be grateful for her restraint or to curse herself later for missing this perfect opportunity — for something terrible would come of it.

Neville finally spoke, his voice trembling slightly but controlled:

“I… I heard it…” He trailed off, his eyes darting as if seeking confirmation in her gaze. He was trying to recall something… he’d heard it… “You-Know-Who… probably,” Neville ventured, nodding to himself without delving into details about when he’d heard Voldemort’s Parseltongue.

As Hermione and Neville crept through Hogwarts’ corridors and staircases, their rudimentary invisibility charms held, but every rustle made them freeze, glancing back. Reaching the stone gargoyle guarding the Headmaster’s office, Hermione tried passwords Dumbledore might have used: “Lemon Drops,” “Sugar Quills,” “Peppermint Toads”—none worked. Neville, standing beside her, suddenly stepped forward, his voice quiet but unexpectedly firm as he suggested:

“Dumbledore.”

The gargoyle shuddered and stepped aside, revealing the spiral staircase. Hermione looked at Neville, her eyes widening, but she said nothing. They ascended, their hearts pounding, Neville’s ragged breathing audible, and entered the office.

The Headmaster’s office was not as Hermione remembered it. Instead of Dumbledore’s bright, eclectic space filled with silver instruments and books, it now resembled a room in the Black family home—somber, with heavy black velvet curtains blocking the windows and shelves lined with scrolls and artifacts that radiated a cold, pulsing magic. On the desk lay a massive parchment, and in the corner, on the perch where Fawkes once rested, a tiny dragon, no bigger than a pigeon, slumbered. Its dark green scales, veined with gold, gleamed, its plump belly rising and falling as if it had overeaten. It didn’t stir, not even opening its eyes, its breathing steady, almost cozy.

Hermione and Neville exchanged a glance, then jolted forward in unison as their eyes fell on the Sorting Hat, lying on a shelf. Its tattered appearance contrasted with the grim opulence of the office, making it almost invisible, as if it had chosen to blend into the space of its own accord. The Hat suddenly stirred, its folds twitching as if awakening.

“Oh, visitors,” the old Hat said, its voice low with a faint rasp, like a friend delighted by a reunion. A friend who knows everything. “Didn’t expect you here. But, alas, I cannot leave Hogwarts. I’m no help to you—my magic would fade if taken away. I must stay to sort new students.” It paused, its tone almost cheerful. “The new Headmaster, Theodore Nott, such a busy man! For a whole month, I lay forgotten on the floor until he picked me up yesterday! He even dusted me off! Said the school must run as it always has. Charming, isn’t it?”

Hermione pressed her lips together. Neville, standing beside her, looked as if he wanted to speak but held back. Clearly, the Hat wasn’t lying—its magic was bound to Hogwarts, and taking it was impossible… so why were they here? Neville exhaled heavily, his shoulders slumping.

“Thank you,” Hermione said quietly, peering at the Hat through half-closed eyes. She scanned the office, deciding to approach the desk…

Neville, to Hermione’s shock, suddenly grabbed the ancient Hat, clutching it to his chest. Her eyes widened as she whispered, “What are you doing?!”

Neville stared back, gripping the Hat like a rag with both hands. He’d insisted on this, and was it all for nothing?

“Neville, no…” She fell silent as she noticed movement beneath Neville’s skin… his features under the Polyjuice Potion began to warp, reverting to his own. They froze, staring at each other. Charlie’s potion is worse than the twins’—it didn’t even last an hour!

They hurried back, nearly hunched over, quickening their pace after every glance around a corner. They paused in one classroom. Hermione stopped, pressing herself against the wall and gesturing for Neville to follow as they neared what Harry called the “One-Eyed Witch corridor.” From the far end of the hall, around a corner, the silhouettes of Amycus and Alecto Carrow appeared, dressed in neat dark robes that suited professors more than Death Eaters, in truth.

No dirt, no dust… no blood or scraps of flesh as Hermione had imagined. She grimaced in fury at the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty corridors. Amycus, who had taught Dark Arts the previous year, and Alecto, responsible for “Muggle Studies,” were quietly discussing something. They passed by, not noticing Hermione and Neville, their voices fading further down the corridor…

Hermione and Neville reached the statue of the One-Eyed Witch, where Ron and Ginny awaited. Hermione’s eyes widened again, seeing that their Polyjuice had worn off too. She ducked as if the ceiling might collapse, whispering:

“How did it go?”

Hope flickered in her eyes, only to die as Ron shook his head.

He pursed his lips, guiltily dropping his gaze to confirm her suspicions, scratching the back of his neck. “I… I tried… but nothing worked…”

Ginny’s stare was oddly vacant, fixed on a single point, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

Charlie, now back in his own form, hissed a sharp “Shh!” and tapped the statue with his wand, muttering, “Dissendium!” The passage opened. Ron gaped at his brother, a surprised “Whoa! You knew?!” bursting from his lips in awe.

Charlie looked at Hermione. “And you?”

“Nothing,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The Hat won’t help. Time to go.” She stole a glance at Neville.

They stepped into the tunnel. Defeat weighed heavily on their shoulders, but deep within each of their minds, it was nearly impossible to find even a spark of surrender.The crawl through the rabbit tunnel, and the climb up the endless staircase — did little to clear their minds. If anything, it made things worse.

They emerged beyond the village, near the Forbidden Forest where anti-Apparition wards might be absent altogether, and, without a word, joined hands. Charlie Apparated them all to a Muggle suburb, where identical houses lined up, each adorned with different decorations on their fences and gardens.

“We need to come up with something,” Hermione said. “Fiendfyre. I have an idea…” She paused, her fingers gripping her new wand tightly. She shook her head. “Controlling such magic is nearly impossible...” She murmured. But the idea that had burned in her mind the entire way through the tunnel…

Ron snorted, though his voice lacked its usual mockery.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, rubbing his neck. “My wand nearly set my robes on fire when I cast Lumos, remember?”

Hermione shot a sidelong glance at Ron. Yes, something like that had happened…

Ginny clenched her fists.

Charlie let out a cheerful snort.

“Come on, you lot! At least we had a nice stroll! I was… glad to be there, to walk those halls, even if… under such circumstances.” He fell silent for a moment. “While I was waiting for you, I checked the classrooms. The Defense classroom was sealed with strange magic, completely locked. The others were empty, nothing valuable… except a couple of scrolls.” He patted his pocket meaningfully.

They approached a cluster of Muggle decorations on a fence and simultaneously touched a chess pawn taped to the ground with blue Muggle tape, nestled among children’s plastic toys and other debris.

The moment they materialized on the porch, the front door flew open, and they were pulled inside as a group. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto them: Bill, standing by the fireplace, and Fleur, who had been sitting in an armchair nearby, sprang up in sync with her husband, right before the arrivals’ eyes.

“It’s us. Password: ‘The Burrow burns, but never falls,’” Charlie said.

Molly stepped forward. Squinting, peering at their faces, she froze for a moment—then nodded.

The wands of those in the house lowered.

Molly came closer, her voice ringing with palpable relief.

“Thank Merlin… you’re alive.” Then she roared, each word punctuated by a fleeting pause. “But. Where. Were. You?!”

Arthur, standing beside her, spun toward Charlie, his face flushed with anger.

“Charlie!” His voice was sharp, cracking. “How could you take Ron and Ginny? Where?! Do you realize what could’ve happened? Why didn’t you wait for us?!”

Charlie raised his hands in a defensive gesture. His face remained calm, but a flicker of irritation glinted in his eyes.

“Dad, we had everything under control. We were under Polyjuice, under invisibility charms. In Hogwarts. No one saw us. The more people, the higher the risk. We know the school. We got it done quickly.”

“Hogwarts? Today?!” Molly and Arthur exclaimed in unison, and simultaneously:

“No one?” Professor McGonagall’s voice, from where she stood at the edge of the dining table, was even but cold. Her eyes narrowed, her gaze sliding over the faces of her former students, assessing them not as children but, for a fleeting moment, as potential threats. She flicked her wand almost imperceptibly, casting a nonverbal charm. The shadow of her hat split her face in half. Her eyes shifted to Hermione. One brow arched slightly.

Hermione swallowed. She opened her mouth to speak, but then caught a faint hum—a subtle, vibrating buzz.

The Weasley twins’ device—a copper contraption with a needle that detected magical pulses, calibrated to everyone present—began emitting a faint but recognizable sound from an adjacent room, reacting to new magic in the space.

Hermione froze. Her eyes darted to Ron, who sat in a relaxed pose beside his mother. His gaze flicked to Hermione, his lips turning downward… he didn’t understand.

Hermione heard nothing but that hum and the pounding of her heart. Holding her breath, she slowly scanned the room. Her pulse quickened. She looked at Charlie, who continued speaking, his voice steady, occasionally gesturing as he addressed Arthur Weasley. His voice… it was his own.

“We split up as planned,” Charlie went on, his hands moving to emphasize his words. “I stayed on guard, checked the classrooms quickly. Everything was under control, honestly. We knew the risks, but for Harry…”

Hermione couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face, the same weathered one with stubble, his broad, stocky shoulders… but something in his movements, in the way he spoke, felt… off? Was she imagining it? Her heart pounded harder as the device’s sound finally registered with the others, judging by their glances. Ginny’s eyes widened in horror, and Molly finally snapped:

“For heaven’s sake! Someone go turn that thing off!” Molly glared at Ron and Hermione. “And you…”

Hermione followed Ginny with her eyes as she slipped into the room where the sound was coming from, her wand in hand. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her own wand, and she shot a glance at Ron, who was still in his seat, rubbing his neck.

Of course, the device had been malfunctioning for a couple of days after the incident, as Fred and George had tried to repair it. It had made noises intermittently, but after Molly’s last complaint, they’d “shut it down” completely—the sound hadn’t recurred for days.

“Ron tried to get the basilisk venom,” Hermione said, her voice steady. She flicked her eyes to Charlie, watching his every move.

Ron looked up, his face illuminated by the room’s light, his eyes filled with guilt and sorrow. He cleared his throat, as if gathering his thoughts.

“Yeah… I tried to get into the Chamber,” he began, his voice hoarse but sincere. “I said everything in Parseltongue, like I’d heard… but the column… it didn’t budge.” He clenched his fists, his face reddening. “I wasn’t mimicking, I was speaking for real! But nothing worked. Ginny was there, she… she’ll back me up.”

Molly gasped, her hand pressing against her chest.

“You tried to get into the Chamber of... The very one that…” She shot a glance at Arthur, then at Ginny, her face etched with genuine horror. “Ron, Ginny, just the two of you?! What if there’d been another creature?!”

“What? Of course not,mum!” Ron snapped back, putting an odd emphasis on “Mum,” his tone sharp. “We had to try, for Harry! He’d have done the same for us!”

Arthur shook his head, his gaze returning to Charlie.

“I’m disappointed in you, Charles. Why didn’t you…” he began, his voice heavy with accusation.

Charlie straightened, his expression growing more serious.

“I told you, I was checking for anything useful too. They’re not kids anymore,” he replied, his tone calm but laced with mounting irritation as he argued with the older generation. Charlie Weasley was the sort who’d seen caution dismissed too often and wasn’t a fan of it. “And I found books…” He trailed off, realizing the argument wasn’t convincing, as the books were mostly for his creature collection. “And I made sure no one came around the corner to cut off our escape!” Of course, Charlie is unlikely to mention to their parents that Ginny hexed a teacher — unless they bring it up themselves, of course.

The tension wasn’t just from the argument—it hung in the air, stubbornly clinging to glances, gestures, unspoken words… even among family, it was normal. It stemmed from accumulated stress, misunderstanding, and the suffocating system of control they were forced to survive under. People grow weary. Of orders, patrols, fear that becomes routine. Stress becomes routine. They hated Voldemort not just for the murders but for stealing their chance to live normally. Whatever the cost, they were determined to topple the King who made the chessboard unplayable.

“Listen…” Ginny said softly, having approached Hermione unnoticed. “It shouldn’t have turned on…” Her eyes darted, latching onto the faces around them, as if searching for an explanation.

Hermione slowly turned to Charlie. Ginny caught the movement and frowned, shooting Hermione a silent gesture of disagreement. The young man stood calmly, but Hermione’s overwrought mind saw something unbearably foreign in him. His gaze was warm, and he was smiling, yet an icy chill spread through her chest… because of this.

No, it was just her imagination, her psyche exhausted by anxiety. Diagnosis: paranoia wrapped in hyper-suspicion.

McGonagall, who had been silently observing, cleared her throat with a sharp “Ahem,” and Hermione’s eyes snapped to her. Their gazes locked. The older witch’s brows shifted noticeably.

“Miss Granger, pray tell, where were you?” she asked. Her voice was softer than usual, but no less wary.

“We… we found the Hat,” Hermione said. Her voice trembled but held surprisingly steady. “But it can’t leave Hogwarts. Its magic is tied to the castle. And… we saw Trelawney. She’s returning to the school. Oh! The new Headmaster is Theodore Nott!” She burst out with the memory.

“Theodore Nott?!” Arthur echoed, stepping forward. “That slimy git? It can’t be!”

“Yes,” Hermione nodded. “And the school’s reopening in September.”

Neville, who had been silent until now, spoke up. His voice was low, but it carried a precise resolve, as if filtered through an inner sieve.

“It was… strange,” he said. “Hogwarts looked the same as ever. Even Hogsmeade.”

Hermione shot him a quick glance. Her heart lurched painfully, slamming against her ribcage and spinning like a trapped bird. The hissing in the corridor… It came alive again in her memory. An echo. A vibration. A cold shiver down her spine.

Those two voices.

And now—the twins’ device.

The terror wasn’t that it could happen… but how. The memory of Bathilda Bagshot—an eccentric old woman, smelling of books and soap—suddenly splitting open to reveal Nagini’s form. Not a werewolf, not an illusion…

A marionette of dead flesh controlled by an alien mind…

Hermione’s gaze didn’t waver from Charlie as the others discussed the Headmaster’s office and Hogwarts with Neville. Luna asked about Ravenclaw Tower, saying she’d dreamed it was gone…

Charlie stood with his arms crossed, occasionally responding to his father. A faint, almost lazy smile lingered on his face. He’d just been accused of negligence, and yet… he was smiling.

“Charlie,” Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re sure everything was under control?”

He raised his brows, the smile unshaken.

“Of course,” he replied, shrugging. “I told you—I watched the corridors. Everything went smoothly, no fuss. You lot did great.”

An inner chime.

As if somewhere beyond the wall, beyond the very fabric of space, a liturgical chant swelled and burst. A hum. It grew in her consciousness, filling it like water flooding a ship’s hold. A monstrous, silent chorus…

Someone in this room wasn’t who they claimed to be.

And everything in her, from her heart to her very fingernails, pointed to Charlie.

Ron rose quietly, muttering something under his breath that sounded like a curse, and approached a cluttered table piled with scrolls and books. His hands didn’t tremble as he sifted through the papers, shifting them aside. Hermione followed him with her eyes, her heart tightening. Oh, they shared this feeling… how desperately they wanted to bring Harry back, how guilt gnawed at him for failing in the Chamber of Secrets. Again… Oh, Ron… But Hermione forced herself to look away, her focus returning to the conversation, which was gaining momentum. She’d check on Charlie without drawing his family’s attention.

Bill, standing by the fireplace, mirrored Charlie’s stance—arms crossed, his face serious but weary, the firelight glinting off the scars on his cheeks. Fleur, beside him, rested a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re back from the goblin negotiations,” Bill began, his voice low and steady, his gaze fixed on the empty space beyond the fireplace. “Their anger at the Death Eaters over Gringotts—it’s not just about lost influence, it’s a profound humiliation. There’s an overseer over every goblin, and often they’re treated worse than objects… sometimes I heard things that were outright vile…”

McGonagall, standing in the corner with her hands clasped behind her back, kept her wand ready in both hands, poised for an attack at any moment.

“And what did they say?” she asked, her tone measured and cold. “Can we count on them?”

Bill nodded, though the grimness didn’t leave his face.

“They’re willing to discuss cooperation,” he replied. “But goblins trust no one, not even us. They want guarantees their interests will be considered in victory. Flitwick was with us; thanks to him, we connected with a goblin named Bodrig the Boss-Eyed…” He caught the recognition in Arthur’s and Hermione’s eyes.

Fleur tilted her head slightly toward her husband.

“Zey’re not just angry… zey feel betrayed,” Fleur said, her voice tight. “Ze Death Eaters didn’t just seize Gringotts — for zem, eet’s personal now…”

As she spoke, Luna rose from her seat, holding a shard in her hands as if carrying water, and ascended to the second floor.

Neville, who had been silent in the corner, lifted his head. His voice was quiet but surprisingly venomous, almost spitting.

“If they’re so furious,” he muttered, “why don’t they rise up? What’s holding them back?!”

Bill shook his head thoughtfully.

“Three or four failed uprisings, maybe,” Bill said, his tone measured. “But fear plays a bigger part. Voldemort, to them, is more than a dark wizard — he’s a creature of myth, real and terrifying. Without someone to stand behind, they’ll stay hidden. Bodrig might be the one, though.”

Hermione’s attention shifted to Ron, who was rustling through parchments and books. Their eyes met. She pursed her lips and gave a slight, approving nod at his actions. Ron loved to snack and read in bed. He responded with a half-smile and, stepping back with folios and parchments pressed to his chest with one hand, subtly raised the fingers of his other to his lips, as if by chance, then gently pushed the air toward her, sending an air kiss. Hermione smiled, as if his gesture had brushed her skin with a cool, fleeting touch. She watched as Ron climbed to the second floor, clearly heading to their shared room, just for the two of them… A few minutes later, Neville followed, his head bowed low, as if his neck could no longer bear the weight of his dark thoughts.

McGonagall, straightening her spine, cast a glance at Hermione, then at Molly Weasley, deciding something in her mind.

“Respect is the start of a conversation,” she said crisply. “But goblins won’t join until they see profit. What did you offer them, William?”

Bill took a deep breath, running his fingers along the scar on his cheek.

“We offered to restore their control over Gringotts, obviously!” he said. “And to lobby for equal rights in the magical world after the war… in any case, they don’t even have cooperation now.” Arthur looked at him with a mix of confusion and disapproval—hardly likely the goblins believed such promises. Merlin, they didn’t even have seats in the Wizengamot! None of those opposing Voldemort did…

“You’re sweet if you think ‘equal rights’ will impress goblins,” Charlie muttered, dragging a chair back and dropping into it. “They’ll want leverage. Something real. Like half the treasury and a seat at the war table.”

Arthur looked at Charlie and gave a restrained nod.

Molly shot her son a stern look. She’d hold Ginny’s condition against him for a while… not sending her on missions in less than four days after! Two months, at least!

Ginny, still leaning against the wall, finally spoke, her voice low but brimming with restrained anger.

“Enough about that,” she said. She looked at Charlie, who turned and met her gaze. Ginny clenched her fist—those pitying looks from her family were already grating on her nerves! Always underestimated because she was a girl, and now they’d pity her even more! Oh, poor thing, scarred for life! Ginny bared her teeth, the magic around her crackling. “The goblins won’t help us get Harry out.”

“About Harry,”  Charlie said, resting his chin in his hand, elbow planted on the table, voice steady but low “If Voldemort’s showing up at Hogwarts, that might be our shot. He can’t be in two places at once — and no one can Apparate in or out. So we watch Hogsmeade. Carefully.”

Hermione moved to the table where Ron had been sitting and sat down. Her gaze settled on Charlie again.

“Yes, that makes sense,” Arthur muttered, propping his chin in his hand, fingers squeezing it.

Charlie turned to him, his smile too wide.

“I suppose the plan to burn down that manor and get him out is still on, right?” he said, shrugging. “We all owe Harry.” Arthur flinched at that. Harry was like a son to him, a son who had saved his life… Molly placed a hand on his shoulder.

Hermione didn’t share the enthusiasm. Her suspicion was mounting. Should she accuse him right here, in front of his mother and father? Pull him aside right now? She gripped her wand under the table, her eyes narrowing. Who stood before her? Charlie Weasley or someone else, hidden beneath Polyjuice? How could he mimic his voice so perfectly? Know his habits? Her instincts screamed of danger…

Just as Hermione opened her mouth to speak, the door creaked open. Everyone jumped, wands snapping up toward the newcomer.

Percy Weasley stood in a Muggle hoodie and worn jeans, pale, with deep dark circles under his eyes. His glasses, slightly askew on his nose, caught the firelight. The room’s eyes locked onto him, and the silence grew denser than any magic.

“Son?” Molly gasped, her hands freezing in a gesture before her chest, as if ready to embrace but still clutching her wand.

“Molly, wait!” Arthur stepped beside her, keeping his wand trained. “Er… is that you?”

Percy straightened, letting out an odd, uncharacteristic chuckle… clearly, the double Cruciatus Curse — brutally powerful and agonizing enough to be worthy of the Dark Lord’s name — on his weakened body had frayed his mind... the remnants of pain lingering in his nerves, making his movements jerky… and there was something else, something that had latched onto him at some point.

“The Burrow burns but never falls? Still that one? God, I hope you’ve changed it, honestly…”

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Molly beat him to it, rushing forward to envelop Percy in a suffocating embrace. A long wheeze escaped his chest, and, leaning on her shoulder, he returned the hug he’d genuinely missed.

Bill, his eyes wide with disbelief, stepped forward and clasped Percy in a tight embrace, wrapping his arms around both his brother and mother, gripping Percy’s shoulders as if afraid he’d vanish again before he could.

“Percy!” he exhaled, his voice hoarse with relief. “You… you’re alive! What the hell happened? What the bloody hell?!” The gold of his earring—clasping a fang—glinted in the firelight, contrasting with the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

Percy, pulling back slightly from his family, adjusted his glasses. His face, pale and gaunt, was serious, almost stern. He glanced at the gathered group, his eyes lingering on Hermione, as if weighing where to begin.

“I… well, I was in Cornwall, but there are people on watch for hours there, so…” he began evenly, showing little trace of exhaustion, though his jeans bore stains of fresh and dried mud. On his feet were red trainers with large stars—proof he’d been hiding in the Muggle world. “Charlie, you idiot! We discussed that if we set the Portkey in this village, we had to be under Polyjuice or invisible! I saw you lot! And I had to wait to make sure no one noticed you!” Percy had spent nearly an hour on a Muggle bench, pretending to read a newspaper to avoid drawing attention…

He shot a stern look at his brother. Hermione’s gaze flicked to Charlie, then met Ginny’s eyes. Ginny narrowed her eyes slightly at Hermione.

Arthur roared:

“Merlin’s beard!” he swore. “You said you used charms!”

“Dad!”

“Wait with it. I have information. And it’s important.” Percy commanded the room’s attention, and silence fell.

Hermione, still feeling her heart pound with every glance, barely tearing her eyes from Charlie turned to Percy.

“We thought you’d been caught at the Ministry…”

Percy nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“I was,” he said. “But I escaped. About… a week ago, sorry, I haven’t kept track of time, always… on the move.”

Bill let out a low whistle, his brows shooting up, but he stayed silent, letting his brother continue. Percy gave him a small grunt and stepped forward to the large dining table.

“They held me at Malfoy Manor,” he began, his voice low, almost monotonous, “I didn’t know the Ministry had blocked our wands. When I… retrieved mine from their vault—no, don’t ask how—it didn’t work.” He paused, his eyes briefly meeting Hermione’s before he quickly looked away. “I decided I had to try again.”

“What did you say? Try what? You went back to the Ministry?” Bill, Molly, and Arthur said in unison.

“Hold on! One at a time!” Charlie cut through their chorus of questions.

“I escaped the Manor on foot,” Percy explained. “Through the gardens, through the woods. Got to London by Muggle transport: trains and buses. It was… interesting.”

Ginny approached her brother and hugged him impulsively. Percy noticed her fresh scar in the firelight, frowned, but said nothing.

“Bu-ses?” Bill muttered, pronouncing the unfamiliar word syllable by syllable, eyeing the trainers on his brother’s feet skeptically. “I won’t ask for details… but you, Percy, rode a Muggle.. buz? Can you imagine the horror your poor Crouch would feel in his grave hearing this?”

Percy didn’t react to the jab, merely nodding slightly. Fair enough, he agreed. Logical. Funny.

“I watched the Ministry entrance,” Percy continued evenly, “for days. The telephone box, Dad, I mean,” he clarified, seeing Arthur open his mouth. “I waited. And then one day, one of their officials came out—definitely a Death Eater… in robes, papers in hand. I… knocked him out.”

Ginny raised a brow, her mind instantly painting the scene.

“How?” she breathed, her eyes gleaming.

Percy gave a faint smirk and ruffled her copper hair with a broad hand. She grinned back, then stepped away, pulled a chair closer, and sat astride it, resting her arms on the back.

“Muggle way,” he said. “I pretended to trip, dropped a newspaper. He got distracted, and I hit him on the back of the head with a metal flask I found on the train. No one noticed. Well, I think… they didn’t arrest me.”

Pride rang in his words—a challenge to himself: to act without magic. He glanced sidelong at Arthur Weasley.

Bill whistled again, swearing in disbelief.

“Bloody hell, Percy… you actually took out a Death Eater with a whack to the head?”

Percy didn’t respond, just continued:

“I took his wand. Didn’t wait… I… I got into the Department of Mysteries…”

He reached into his robe’s pocket and pulled out a parcel, unwrapping a Muggle plastic bag with a distinctive rustle.

“I found this.”

Percy stepped forward, holding out a white, glossy scroll, enchanted with preservation charms to withstand time. It was thick, suggesting it could unroll for meters. McGonagall raised her hand, and the scroll levitated toward her. Her thin, elderly hand trembled as she read a few visible words in an ancient, dead language, etched in golden script where two serpents formed interlocking figure-eights around the scroll.

“What’s that?” Arthur asked quietly, cautiously placing a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Could it be…”

Percy looked at them.

“Yes,” he said evenly, pausing as if letting the words sink into everyone’s consciousness. “…it seems anything is possible.”

Silence. The weight of his words hit them all at once.

McGonagall levitated the scroll before her, examining it, casting charms to check for curses. They would study it the next day.

Percy cleared his throat, the sound drawing Hermione’s attention. She tore her gaze from the scroll and, unexpectedly, met his eyes.

He swallowed, his expression turning graver, almost anxious, before he spoke.

“There’s something else,” he said, his voice softer, as if he feared what he was about to reveal. “When I reached London and was watching the Ministry entrance, I stayed in a Muggle hostel. Rented a room with coins I scavenged from fountains, you know, somewhere to sleep… The next day, after surveillance, I returned and overheard an argument. One of the guests was yelling at the manager.” Percy paused, his eyes scanning the skeptical faces around him. What’s he getting at? “He demanded another room, said his was… cold. Foul. That he just wanted to escape it, demanded his money back or a new room. The manager argued there were no vacancies. I… offered to switch. He agreed.”

Percy reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled note, his fingers trembling as if the paper were cursed… though, of course, it wasn’t. Every gaze fixed on that scrap of parchment, the air in the room seeming to hum with tension…

“Entering room seven,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “I knew instantly what he meant. The furniture was shabby, the wallpaper peeling—a normal room. But the air… it was thick, alive. I checked for curses later: nothing. But the cold was real. It felt like the walls were breathing, like a maw ready to snap shut around me… ha… ahem!” He stopped abruptly, glancing at the others, realizing he needed to choose his words more carefully. The last thing he needed was to be thought mad! “Anyway, under the mattress… I found this.”

Hermione, her heart pounding, stepped toward him, her voice a whisper despite her impatience.

“What’s in your hand, Percy?”

Percy closed the distance, his hand trembling as he handed her the note. Hermione took it, unfolded it, and her eyes fell on jagged, almost feverish handwriting. Just three words, but words like a curse glowing with deadly emerald: I am Harry Potter.

Her breath caught. What does this mean? She stared at Percy in disbelief, her mouth slightly agape as her mind raced before he continued. Molly and Arthur flanked her, wrapping their arms around her shoulders: Molly’s eyes widened, Arthur paled as if facing a ghost. A deathly silence settled over the room, gazes darting between the note and Percy, the quiet pressing harder than any enchantment.

The same question trembled on everyone’s lips:

“What does this mean?”

Fleur cautiously approached Hermione and touched her arm, looking at the writing.

“Zat garçon… was ’e zere? Does ’e… h’ave some plan?”

Her voice held not panic but the same feminine, almost maternal care that Harry had earned during the Triwizard Tournament. Back then, young and brave, he’d performed a selfless act—an image forever etched in her memory… brave, beautiful, little lionceau! Fleur wouldn’t hesitate a second to help him.

Percy continued, his voice low, steeped in strange echoes, as if he were still standing in that room. All eyes turned back to him, pulling away from the nearly blank paper.

“I really didn’t want to stay in that room,” he said, his words slow, as if dragged from the depths of memory. “I barely slept there. It made me spend more time outside. I… stole Muggle money to buy things, to blend in.”

Molly gasped, her hand pressing to her chest.

“Percy!” Molly exclaimed, her tone a mix of horror and reproach. She snapped out of the analytical stupor she shared with her husband, both fixated on one thought: Why couldn’t the boy come back to us? Why was he hiding? But now: “Stealing?! You…”

“There was no other way,” Percy cut in, his voice sharper. “I had to keep watch on the Ministry.”

Arthur opened his mouth, but Percy raised a hand, his gaze hardening.

“When I snatched the wand from that official by the telephone box,” he continued, “I cast Legilimens on the hostel manager. I saw… Harry in her memories.”

His voice grew quieter, almost reverent, like a priest before the unknowable. He cleared his throat again. “He was there, in room seven, for about a week. He didn’t go out every day, but sometimes sat in a nearby café. He… did nothing. Just stared into space. She remembered him: he handed the key back at the reception on May 9th... Lost… completely lost.” Unexpectedly, Percy faltered as the image of the boy, his green eyes meeting his through the memory, resurfaced. A strange, almost rapturous exhale escaped his lungs...

Hermione, still clutching the note, felt her heart constrict… Harry… Why was he hiding for a week? Longer? He only decided to return… three days ago? What did he learn from Snape’s memories?

She tried to analyze, her mind piecing together the puzzle… she’d figure it out, sooner or later. Soon. Perhaps Neville will unexpectedly remember something he heard at Hogwarts, and that will help, who knows?

Granger raised her eyes to Percy, her voice calm but taut:

“Percy, from what you saw, do you think he was alone?”

“Definitely alone.”

Another hour passed. Many still gathered on the ground floor of the house, but Hermione, gripping her wand, ascended the creaking staircase silently. Pausing before the locked door of the boys’ bedroom, she knocked and, receiving no answer, pushed it open sharply. The door clicked shut behind her with a muffled snap.

Without a sound, Hermione cast Muffliato charm—her fingers trembled, but the magic of her new wand, though reluctant, responded, weaving an invisible barrier to stifle any whisper.

Percy stood by the bed, pulling off his shirt completely, revealing a gaunt frame marked by scars that bore witness to torment. Thin, barely fading lines across his chest—traces of Diffindo. On his shoulders and back, welts from cutting curses and other cruel tortures. Burns along his ribs. Bruises on both sides of his waist—distinct, oval-shaped marks, as if someone had gripped him violently and held him down.

He froze as her gaze fell on those marks. Hermione raised her wand, her hand steady, but her eyes brimmed with doubt and pain.

“How did you escape?” she asked quietly. “Tell the truth, Percy.”

Percy slowly folded hoodie in his hands and set it down on the edge of the bed, his eyes remaining calm. He gave a small grunt.

“I escaped,” he said evenly, though tinged with guilt. He coughed into his fist as the image of the person who helped him flashed before his eyes. “That’s all you need to know.”

Hermione stepped closer, her voice sharpening.

“Why didn’t the curse work? Or did they not interrogate you after catching you at the Ministry?”

Percy swallowed, his shoulders slumping.

“It worked,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “I was choking, just as it was meant to be… They gave me Veritaserum, but I couldn’t answer, don’t worry. He was furious but didn’t kill me. Told…” Percy hesitated for a moment—could he say the name? “…Lucius to take me, thinking I was dead.”

He exhaled and added:

“I gave an oath not to reveal who helped me escape or how. Please, Hermione… don’t ask.”

Hermione pressed her lips together. She stepped even closer, her voice barely audible but firm.

“Will you let me see the memories? You can shield the person.”

Percy gave a weary half-smile.

“Funny, only you would think to ask. Of course.”

Hermione raised her new wand and whispered:

“Legilimens.”

Her mind shakily pierced Percy’s memories—she saw the Manor, the cell, the escape. The memory shifted to a frantic run through the Manor’s grim gardens, hiding in the woods, and Muggle transport to London. He even spoke to someone there. Then, abruptly: vivid green flashes, pain, scars from torture, blood… pain. Humiliation…

Hermione surfaced from the memory, her breathing uneven. Her wand lowered, gaze sliding to the scars — which she now knew how they had been earned.

“Thank you, Percy,” she said quietly, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry… please.”

She took another look at those welts, and Percy nodded—restrained, wordless. With a brief, Hermione turned and left the room, not intending to delay the exhausted man further…

Hermione glanced into the shared room with Ron, lit only by a lamp, empty of any presence.

Her descent down the creaking, steep staircase was accompanied by the dull thud of her heels, quickening like a heartbeat before a sprint. At the bottom, she stopped.

Suddenly—a sensation.

Not simple fear, no—this was something else: the space dimmed, time stalled, her breath felt foreign, as if borrowed from a corpse…

Somewhere deep inside her—not in her head, but nearer the diaphragm—a sticky, imperceptible, yet absolute dread was forming.

She couldn’t move: her shoulders shook, her knees gave way.

It was the feeling widows carry just before they open the door to the messenger bearing news of a husband's death… they already know… they feel it…

Where is Ron?

Notes:

Haha, well... Hermione, come on — Charlie just brewed a crappy potion, he’s only human, that doesn’t mean he deserves that much suspicion!
Anyway, what I also wanted to say is that this was originally supposed to be two chapters. But I’m not a fan of stretching side characters’ stories over too many parts.
Whew. There are so many characters... but I really hope I managed to show their personalities the way I intended...

Chapter 31

When we say “particle,” we substitute the unseen for the seen. We imagine a sphere, assign it charge, mass, a pseudo-form of corporeality. Convenient. But a proton is not a sphere. An electron is not an object. None of these existents, despite our visual fetishism, have form… it. It is mathematical modes, clots of numerical relations teetering on the edge of being and inquiry. If you try to touch “matter,” you touch structure. If you attempt to compress an atom, you meet no resistance of density—you collide with the impossibility of reconciling quantum states into identity. Two atoms cannot merge, not because “the space is occupied,” but because their wave functions must remain mutually exclusive—fermionic in their antisymmetry, forever refusing to coincide. Only bosons, by contrast, can share quantum states, merging their wave functions in perfect concord, forming a collective unity! To cease repelling is not a matter of force, but of quantum statistics, a subtle choreography of union and...collapse.

Harry began to stir, a sensation of something smooth and heavy gliding across his feverish skin. He lowered his hand—languidly, still not fully free from the dregs of sleep—onto the scaly surface of Nagini’s head. Her body, alive and cold, continued to writhe, slithering over his bare form. He wore only thin undergarments—though even that now felt almost symbolic.

Opening his eyes, he didn’t turn his head—just stared at the ceiling.

Nagini slid upward slowly, a single muscle rather than a body, her coils lazily tightening and releasing.

Is it awake-s? Is it hungry?

Harry frowned.

S-Stop calling me that! You’re-ss more of an ‘it’ than I am! Call me ‘boy’ ins-stead!

For a moment, her head froze, either thinking or merely mimicking the act. Her body, meanwhile, continued its motion: stretching along his thigh, half his torso… Harry let out a sharp hiss, as if a snake had choked on an acorn, then shifted to a lower, more languid sound, drawing in air. Blimey, she’s heavy on his dick!

Harry opened his mouth—perhaps to ask a question, absurd, repulsive—but didn’t get the chance. Nagini cut him off:

Master chos-se the name. Nagini does not name. IT!

The snake stared at him oddly, her head as large as Harry’s face, truly! Her tongue flickered like black lightning in the space before his nose.

Then ‘minion’! Harry hissed, baring his teeth. You called me that at… our first meeting.

Sss!Not you!

Harry rolled his eyes, exhaling, his thoughts scattering. As Nagini slid off him, he rose from the bed.

The previous evening, Harry had spent in an armchair with a book, graciously lent to him by Tom Riddle. The book was old, its spine creased, its cover slightly cracked; yet there was no trace of decay—rather, it held an air of intimate significance. Oh, Voldemort gave him his own Hogwarts copy! Did all his books bear such annotations? Harry shared that habit! Smiling, he pored over every phrase scribbled in the margins. The handwriting—neat, strikingly elegant… occasionally, Harry caught the occasional glance from Tom, seated nearby.

Harry didn’t mind reading material he’d already studied. Pfft, he’d read anything Tom might ask of him! If Tom demanded he study alchemy in an ancient tongue and surpass Flamel, Harry would pore over it night after night, without sleep or food, until he succeeded… in two hundred years, perhaps, but that didn’t matter! Harry needed no explanations—only presence.

“Hm.” Harry surveyed the room with his bleary gaze. The notion of fixing his eyesight had never crossed his mind, not even fleetingly. He waved a hand—a smooth, almost theatrical gesture, as if performing an unspoken line for an imaginary audience. His glasses rose from the floor, gliding through the air to settle precisely on his nose, the temples softly hooking behind his ears.

“Hmm…” Stretching onto the tips of his bare toes, Harry reached upward, his lean, wiry frame, muscles faintly defined, moving without a creak. He stepped toward the center of the room—an expanse that stretched to the right, where the gaping maw and Voldemort’s chambers loomed. With a languid point of his fingers, he summoned his clothes. The garments levitated toward him, slipping onto his body with deft, almost living precision, each piece falling into place.

Harry paused.

His cloak came last, whipping onto his outstretched arms with a sharp snap of heavy leather.

“… Tom’s not here?”

He approached the fireplace. His eyes flicked to the shelf, a finger trailing along the spines. Mentally, he scanned the titles until he found the one he sought. A light touch—and a pulse jolted through his finger, a brief tingle, as if bitten. Harry’s face didn’t so much as twitch. He didn’t even grunt. He pulled the book free, tucking it into an inner pocket, stuffing it into his enchanted bag.

Nagini rose beside him, her body level with his gaze.

IT! Why take it?— Giant wet jaws gaped wide.

It’s mine. And I’m not IT YOU SSS....

IT must put IT back!

Frowning, Harry straightened, tilting his head back as if he’d bumped his forehead on something. He stared into her eyes—as if she, a creature, had no business speaking at all. Yesterday, she’d been kinder… Clearly, she was being contrary for some reason.

The flames around them flared suddenly. Vivid green, nearly blinding: the fireplace and torches burned brighter as the pulse subsided.

Harry spun around. Is Tom still here? Then—a slow turn of his head, his gaze tracing the room. It settled on the bed, framed by a colossal serpentine maw. He trudged toward it, his cloak seemingly approving the motion, billowing behind him.

“May I inquire where you’re off to?”

The voice came from the doorway behind him as Harry neared the boundary of denser magic.

Voldemort stood in the threshold, still as a statue, surrounded by levitating scrolls and books. How dramatic! Did he actually read them, or were they just for show in front of Harry?

Voldemort’s eyes never left the boy; his gaze slid to the scar, lingering, and without looking away, he pointed at the shelves. Several old tomes, bound in crimson leather with unfamiliar titles, levitated back into place. Something indescribable flickered in his expression—almost unease: his eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second as he studied the child’s face. Something had happened last night. Voldemort barely slept, but now, clearly, that would be an even greater issue… Which was why, this morning, he’d been sifting through his study, seeking those few… volumes he still possessed.

“I thought I was clear,” Voldemort said, his voice low and precise. With a flick of his hand, Harry lurched toward him with a viscous “ugh” as Voldemort deftly caught him at chest level, a black carpet of magic wrapping around the boy’s midsection, suspending him before his face, movements restrained.

Harry smirked, teeth hidden, his green eyes glinting. Oh, so that’s his taste… Harry wondered if he could’ve done the same. Instead of struggling, he let himself be caught.

“You… can’t go there.” The Dark Lord’s red eyes narrowed, deepening the creases at their corners. With a gesture, he lifted the collar of Harry’s leather cloak, straightening it, then smoothed his hair… only to muss it with a single wave of magic, like a sudden gust of wind. Tom tilted his head, studying him.

The reason he kept Harry close again was the emptiness that gripped him in the boy’s absence—even a brief venture into the next room felt unsettling. Strange. When something you’ve desired for years finally rests in your hands, would you let it go? He indulged that desire now, unconflicted.

Of course, his mind also clung to the fact that he was exposing his vessel to greater danger. The Order of the Phoenix now knew exactly where their Chosen One was… No matter. One Horcrux would remain hidden. He’d ask Nagini to stay concealed in this room.

“You’ll be with me today.”

Voldemort waved his wand toward Nagini, renewing her protective charms.

“But under your…” He gestured in the air before the suspended boy, still held by the magical carpet. “…cloak.”

Voldemort had wondered a few times whether that cloak would have shielded the boy from the curses he’d endured. After all, it couldn’t be removed… Where had they even gotten the means to mimic the “Thief's Downfall”? He was almost certain it was the same mechanism the goblins used, based on the description…wretched pests!

Without another gesture, Harry drifted closer in the air, obeying the Dark Lord’s will, halting mere inches away. Voldemort ran a finger under the boy’s chin, catching his widened gaze and the unmistakable languid exhale from his lips. Horcrux…

The distance between them shrank to a line of sight.

Voldemort squinted.

“Curious, given how you look…”

He fell silent, then traced his thumb upward along Harry’s chin to his lower lip. Neural pathways connected, unleashing a cascade of oxytocin and dopamine—the wretched hormonal storm sparked by the sight of an object of… deep attachment, let’s call it that.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord’s gaze shot past Harry to where Nagini slithered toward them.

Boy! Took! Things!

Harry narrowed his eyes at her with contempt, curling his upper lip at her first word, when Tom’s hand clamped his cheeks so tightly his lips pressed together, the magical aura around them pulsing.

“You took something of MINE?!”

“No! I took what’s MINE! Hey!” Harry felt a surge of magic graze his body at his waist… From his outer pockets, the Marauder’s Map levitated—a blank parchment, of course. Had anything else been in those pockets, it likely would’ve followed… Voldemort still gripped his cheeks with one hand. What’s with this habit of his?!

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed as the parchment settled gently into his palm. His curiosity flared: its odd shape and the fact that it was the only item the boy deemed worth taking spoke louder than words. This is important! Aha! His secret plan written here? Pfft. Of course not.

He hadn’t missed that Harry Potter always carried that endless Extremis Bag, but in this moment, asserting overt control over his environment mattered more. Oh yes, a classic display of a personality framework craving validation of self-worth: the initial reflexive impulse, the aggressive “give it back,” swiftly morphing into a curious “oh, what’s this?” when neural networks anticipated gain from information rather than conflict… with a significant object. Intuitive, remarkable behavior…

And whatever the boy had “taken” was unlikely to stray far from him… ever.

“What’s this?” The Elder Wand appeared in Voldemort’s hand.

Harry, caught—as it seemed to him—in this soft, almost reverent hold, his cheeks pressed between cold fingers, not with force but as one might cradle a fragile vessel, stuck out his tongue, slowly, wetly licking those fingers. This vile gesture was his manifesto: Let me go yourself.

The magical carpet released Harry, slithering back into place. Voldemort’s hand lingered on his jaw for a few moments longer…

Tom exhaled quietly, almost imperceptibly.

With a sudden jerk, Harry arched his back and, like a trained diver, dropped to his knees, slipping free of the grip. He ducked under the levitating parchment, rising to his feet, his head brushing against Tom’s chin.

Voldemort’s face twisted in a fleeting surge of hatred, his eyes instinctively narrowing to slits, but his focus didn’t waver. Both he and the boy were riveted to the parchment, which sprang to life—as if traced by an invisible hand, words began to appear when he touched it with his wand:

Mr. Moony greets you, Lord Jobless, and advises you to keep your grubby hands off our property.

Mr. Prongs joins Mr. Moony and adds that, judging by your nose, you’ve already poked it into every alchemical affair, yet still failed to snag the Philosopher’s Stone.

Mr. Padfoot expresses admiration: it takes real talent to waste so many years and remain one colossal failure.

Mr. Wormtail bows respectfully… then adds that students would prefer a Dementor’s kiss over your open lesson! Even ghosts would chase you out of the classroom for sheer dullness!

Voldemort hissed something, and the parchment flared green, but… it didn’t even smudge! What a pathetic childish trick! Ten years of this?!

“What filth is this, Potter?!”

“Ha… ahem… My Lord, this belonged to my father!” He gestured at the map, eyebrows shooting up,“Prongs.It’s enchanted with Homunculus Charms…”

“What?! You’ve been tracking Malfoy Manor all this time?!”

“Oh… no…” Harry exhaled dreamily, a smile curling his lips. He gazed at the parchment, which dimmed without a single mark in that moment, with an odd look, as if bidding it farewell forever. Oh well. “I’ll show you…”

Pressing close to Voldemort, Harry’s shoulder and chest brushed against the thin fabric of his robe and the body beneath… he felt the heartbeat, and the sensation sent a thrill through him. In the next instant, hot breath grazed Voldemort’s smooth, pale neck and jawline as Potter aligned their gazes.

Suddenly—without warning—Harry crushed his lips against Tom’s. The boy’s breath broke loudly, almost a rasp, his glasses scraping Tom’s face. This wasn’t a kiss—it was primal hunger. Mouth devoured mouth, tongue sliding over teeth again and again, as if tearing away something vital.

For a fraction of a second, Tom’s body seemed to sink into cotton—or become it—under the onslaught of a racing pulse. Is he seeing white sparks in the half-darkness of his half-closed eyes from sheer pressure?

Muscle tension dissolved, his spine wavered, his chest softened… his entire body lost all rigidity.

He might have staggered—not fallen, of course—if Potter’s hand hadn’t slid to his lean waist, halting the sway with a possessive grip, yanking him close. Oh…

It all unfolded within a few heartbeats. Voldemort felt the stir of will to pull away—but Potter was quicker: he took two calm steps back… tilted his head slightly, studying Tom’s face.

If the Dark Lord had known stupor before, now he tasted it in a deeper, more lingering form. Harry Potter is taming him to be more statue than man or creature! Any moment now, he’d say: Vessel! How dare you?!

“You need to tap it with your wand and say, ‘I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.’”

…What?

The Dark Lord’s lips, tightly pressed until now, let out a long, scoffing exhale. His eyes widened. Despite the frenzied rhythm of his heart—a beat that even shamans in the ancient Amazonian forests would envy for its ritualistic thrum—only one thought broke through to be voiced:

“What absurdity is this! Another of your jokes, Potter? Is that all?”

Harry’s gaze lingered wistfully on the parchment, which, contrary to his expectations, didn’t fly off to the cluttered shelves but settled on a small table by the armchairs.

“Not mine, the Marauders’,” Harry clarified, noting how easily Tom’s brows furrowed. “My father’s gang from his Hogwarts days.”

“Splendid,” Tom muttered, casting a sidelong glance at him. For a moment, he entertained the idea that the boy carried it for sentimentality—a mere parchment with a jest. But that didn’t align with the now-idealized image of his Horcrux; Tom’s mind rejected the notion. Wonder what territory this map actually traces—homunculus charms are astonishingly complex…He’d study it… of course. What was he even doing here?!

“Leave whatever’s in your inner pocket there.”

“Pfft.” Harry strode over and placed his bag directly atop the blank parchment.

They’d need to discuss this… probably. Harry wouldn’t initiate it. Frankly, he didn’t care. But if he remembered the map and needed it, he’d just take it.

“By the way, do you remember him?” Harry asked suddenly, returning to stand near Voldemort. Eyes locked on eyes.

“Who?” Voldemort waved his wand, casting protective charms on the boy, a layer of magic—initially visible, slightly thicker than Nagini’s—glimmering briefly before blending into the surroundings.

“James Potter.”

“No. I don’t remember trash, Potter.”

Voldemort tracked the slightest twitch of facial muscles. Nothing. Absolute zero. He inhaled. Nothing! That was utterly bizarre for the Dark Wizard, because he distinctly recalled the boy’s scent in moments of closeness—pheromones, if you will, typically coded as “alluring.” Not universal, of course, but a pattern shaped by an individual’s neurochemical matrix. Peach, perhaps? Apricot? In that moment, his body shuddered with the memory of a hot tongue in his mouth.

But Voldemort said nothing. Again. Just waited for a reaction. He’d killed him, both his parents—wasn’t that the boy’s motive for hunting his Horcruxes? Or how had Albus Dumbledore instilled that in him? What was in those blasted letters to Potter?!

What else was he supposed to think? Say? Recall what happened a minute ago? “Don’t you dare do that, Potter!” Nonsense. What was this feminine sentimentality? Why? He’d likely have initiated it himself… theoretically. Why not? The boy was even attractive… no… stop. Why was he thinking this? “Crucio”? The boy was his Horcrux! It was absurd to curse a living vessel of his soul—not to mention his body still remembered yesterday too vividly. That experience had been wretched for Tom Riddle himself. His rational psyche would simply block the act. Morality had nothing to do with it; this was the essence of a great wizard. These… new, base feelings. Well, they probably wouldn’t hurt. Hmm… they might even strengthen control! Yes… exactly… the Horcrux and his age affect the boy, all to his advantage! But…

“Oh, I get it.” Harry snorted, his face finally coming alive with a smirk on his handsome features. “So, where are we going?” Potter pinched the shimmering fabric of the Invisibility Cloak between his fingers.

“No unnecessary questions!” A reflex of an aroused system. Voldemort flicked his wand sharply, as if mathematically plotting a vector, nonverbally casting a Binding Curse that tethered Potter to him, allowing a couple of meters’ leeway.

“Nagini! Here!”

Harry cast a wistful glance at the snake, who glided sullenly toward the fireplace blazing with green flames. Hopefully not to slither into it!  Poor thing—Voldemort had found himself a better living Horcrux.

Voldemort turned and strode into the corridor—a star in Harry’s sky of consciousness, with Harry as his silent satellite trailing behind… Oh, he was like the moon, forever echoing the fire for an observer, never truly belonging to it

Harry didn’t have to wait long for an answer to his question: they entered the grand hall of Malfoy Manor, bathed in dim, grayish-white light filtering through enchanted, towering Gothic windows lining the walls.

Voldemort drew level with a black throne. He sat with a sweep of his black silk robes, reflexively resting his hand where Nagini usually coiled—but… Tom’s crimson gaze shifted to the invisible space where Potter should be, judging by the dark void beside the throne.

No one was around.

Harry let out a quiet snort, clearly resigned to his fate for the next half-day. He remembered his report… Merlin, how long will I have to just stand here?!

Ss-Would’ve been better-s if you’d left me with Nagini.

Voldemort bared his teeth, and with a flick of his hand, as if casting aside something useless, he nonverbally cast Serpensortia. A large, dark-gray snake with a white underbelly materialized on the floor. It reared up instantly, its black maw gaping—its dark, gleaming gums hinting at deadly venom. The serpent wasted no time: it slithered toward Voldemort with the speed of one fleeing fire, coiling around his forearm, poised for a command. Voldemort had no intention of looking like a madman, hissing left and right, if he chose to hiss… at a certain someone!

The grand double doors swung open, admitting Lucius Malfoy. His pale face, framed by long platinum hair, tightened, his gray eyes avoiding Voldemort’s direct gaze. Yet he looked… slightly better than usual. Stopping a few paces from the throne, he bowed low, pressing a hand to his chest, and froze in a half-bent posture, staring at the floor.

“My Lord,” Lucius began, his voice jagged as always. “I come with a report on the Muggles you tasked me to oversee.”

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, his red eyes narrowing. Without a word, he made a faint gesture, permitting him to continue.

Lucius swallowed.

“These… Muggles… are disciplined, ready to serve great causes, and each day they strengthen their loyalty to you, my Lord. If I may, a few words about Harold Bright,” he said, striving to inject confidence into his tone. “The Muggle wears cloaks and robes, mimicking one of… our kind… but it’s not… frowned upon, as I’ve observed. At times, he collects archaic symbols, even wears them now—it’s merely a personal eccentricity, not a threat to our position.” The elder Malfoy paused, his eyes darting nervously left and right, his body still half-bowed. Strange… cold. He cleared his throat and continued. “Also, the South West End police now avoid St. John’s Street—everything proceeds as planned.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a faint smirk, his long, thin fingers tapping the armrest of the throne. Those objects… in a few days, he’d receive their first reports. Frankly, Tom Riddle was curious how these Muggles would structure their thoughts, what they’d choose to write, and how… it would likely be revolting! Their loyalty had been unquestionable during their audience—weak, craving minds yearning to be something…

A hiss of emptiness:

Sss? Muggles?!

“Thank you, Lucius.” Voldemort’s voice was low, a hoarse half-hiss. “Our plans are entering a critical phase. The Muggles we’ve warmed to our cause are an excellent tool. Their discipline must grow, their usefulness surpassing expectations, or even the time spent on them would be a pity.”

Lucius dipped his head almost imperceptibly, as if responding to a faint scrape of claws across his insides.

Voldemort paused in thought. Perhaps he should bring boy into his future plans…

Still bent, Lucius swallowed, a question clawing its way out as if by mistake:

“My Lord… if I may…”

“Speak,” Voldemort said, without a trace of interest.

“Potter… is he still alive?”

Voldemort didn’t answer immediately. He leaned forward slightly, then languidly crossed one leg over the other, propping his chin on his hand as if pondering a trivial matter. A jagged, unattractive smirk slid across his inhuman face. Lucius swallowed again.

“For now—yes,” he drawled, as if not lying but merely toying with his tone. “The child was in absolute terror. Lost, broken. He no longer calls for anyone.”

He paused, deliberately brief, then continued with cold theatricality:

“I’ve permitted myself to torture him. He’s unconscious now. Barely breathing—when he bothers to at all.”

His lips twisted into another smirk. Voldemort chuckled inwardly at his vile lie, but in the shadows of his mind, a gremlin cackled, reminding him that Potter could very well ruin his performance. Oh, the boy’s probably thinking about it. But in that moment he was merely restraining his laughter, although now and then a resonant snort escaped—none of which ever crossed the cloak’s boundary. Tom’s so cool! How amusing it was to watch Lucius, whose temple skin seemed to pale further, his eyes widening into silver saucers at the mention of torturing a child. Seriously, why does he care? Hmm…

“Ah, my Lord… that is truly remarkable. The boy… may yet serve to further your will.” Lucius’s voice trembled. “We haven’t informed Skeeter…”

“No need.” Voldemort cut him off with a sharp wave of his hand.

The Order—a gaggle of nobodies! Their faces plastered on every street corner, weathered station walls, and leaflets across magical London. No newspaper hack would dare publish such a thing without the Dark Lord’s knowledge… and why would the Order want that? Would they proclaim Potter’s fate loudly? Did they even believe he was still alive?

“My Lord…” Lucius tried to fill the pause with his voice again, but, hearing no encouragement, took a deferential half-step back and quickly retreated, barely concealing his fright.

From behind came a hiss. Lucius, for a moment thinking it was aimed at him, turned in terror, expecting a snake’s attack. But the voice, slow and viscous, continued to echo in the grand hall, answering another—equally serpentine.

By the way, i s-s Draco here too?

Of coursse.

Voldemort gave an almost dismissive shrug, recalling the pitiful failure… though, poor lad, Voldemort had ordered him to curse that frail old Headmaster… No wonder young Malfoy turned into such a wreck during that year at Hogwarts. Albus Dumbledore, who uncovered all the Dark Lord’s Horcruxes, had clearly sniffed out the fool’s plan! One shudders to think what moral tortures he inflicted on him.

Hiding in wesst wing of manor, —Voldemort hissed.

Hiding… Harry, still cloaked by invisibility, couldn’t suppress a grin. His dark mind served up a feast of images on a silver platter: Harry, in his current position, mocking the little git.

Voldemort, meanwhile, felt something oddly heavy settle in his chest, like a leaden drop in his lungs, then flare into such rage that he gripped the armrest tightly. A reactive disorganization of intent: his consciousness abruptly collided with its own distorted motive, a fleeting, primal he won’t choose me. No clear structure, just an impulse. Both Potter and Malfoy were young. Too young. And he—was not. Voldemort would NOT allow them to interact!

An irritated hiss broke the silence after several minutes:

How much-s longer?

Without turning his head, Voldemort replied in the same serpentine tongue:

As-s long ass necessary!

The doors swung open again, and Fenrir Greyback entered, his cloak sleeves rolled up, revealing the Dark Mark starkly on his arm, accompanied by a man in a waistcoat, about thirty. Fenrir gave a lazy bow, flashed a brief smirk, and spoke, his words more a growl than speech:

“My Lord, an American werewolf.”

Fenrir stepped aside, and the other half-beast moved forward, his gaze fixed on Voldemort. Tall and muscular, with dark, disheveled hair peeking from beneath a wide-brimmed leather hat—worn and sun-bleached—and a piercing stare, he looked like a man accustomed to command.

Tattered black fabric robe, layered with a wolf-pelt waistcoat, bandoliers of vials, flasks, and leather tubes holding scrolls strapped tightly to his body, made him resemble an alchemist. The beast indeed carried numerous potions, enhanced by his own formulas—one, for instance, interfered with the lunar-hormonal cascade, triggering lycanthropy a day early—or late—defying nature’s schedule. This margin allowed America’s monsters to shatter predictability, striking when enemies slept or thought the night had passed…

A symbol of the Deathly Hallows was burned into one of the werewolf’s bags. Stepping deliberately toward the throne, he knelt on one knee like a vassal to his suzerain, a chronicler peering over a blood‑written scroll that may already bear his name.

“Lord Voldemort,” the werewolf began, his voice deep and assured. “My name is David Kessler, Alpha Prime” He raised an odd gaze, as if recognizing something long sought, something he yearned to join.

Voldemort studied him closely, his fingers pausing on the armrest.

“I presume Mr. Dolohov and Greyback have briefed you on the current state of affairs, have they not?” he asked, his tone even.

Kessler straightened, his eyes glinting.

“They have, my Lord. My rise to lead the North American werewolves began with the vow that no one would strip them of their rights or freedom again. Vile, unjust oppression! Unfair! When I heard the call of your vision for a new era—whether I was a bloodthirsty creature or a humble gentleman driven by justice—I did not hesitate!”

Kessler tilted his head slightly, taking in Voldemort’s grotesque, serpentine form. He hadn’t expected him to look so… snake-like! His eyes shone, his voice ringing with genuine admiration:

“We pledge ourselves to You, Lord Voldemort. Though we hunger for retribution against our enemies, our greater need is to exist under a leader whose strength can right centuries of injustice. All we ask is land where our packs may dwell in safety, and the liberty to ensure that those who once hunted us will instead bow to our dominance.” A deep breath, his gaze locked on the Dark Wizard’s face. “We know you make promises—and keep them. Behold David’s Legion: once fractured wolfclans scattered across the frozen reaches of Canada, the rolling plains of the United States, and the arid wilds of Mexico, now united and bound in loyalty to you.” A slow inhale, as though sealing a covenant. “Four hundred and thirteen souls.”

Voldemort tilted his head toward Kessler, scrutinizing every word, every twitch of a facial muscle. His gaze flicked to the Grindelwald symbol. The man even wore a small necklace bearing the mark. Voldemort was intrigued.

Of course, the loyalty of these... beasts might be fleeting—but Voldemort had no intention of building long-term foundations on it.

There were scenarios. One, purely utilitarian, involved unleashing them on London’s streets, granting them free rein, letting Muggle security forces face an enemy they couldn’t comprehend for the first time in half a century. Werewolves didn’t just kill—they infected… How would Muggle society react? A biological and psychological blow. Terror. The principle of “divide and conquer” in bestial form.

But this option lay in the red zone. Its consequences could be unpredictable: too blatant a display of power might unite Muggles and wizards, previously divided. Such actions were permissible only if all other strategies collapsed. Moreover, Muggles were more cohesive than the magical community. If he unleashed open bloodshed, who knew how many forces the entire planet might throw against him…

“Yes, indeed… For too long, magical society clung to a convenient lie: that you are beasts, not heirs to ancient nature.” Abruptly, the Dark Lord bared his teeth, as if something heavy had crashed upon him. Voldemort inhaled sharply through his grimace. A tremor coursed through the two werewolves, sparked by a pulse of magic—whether it was Voldemort’s, they could scarcely tell. “I offer not forgiveness, but… status… recognition. You shall have ‘territory and rights,’ land acknowledged as yours, and Britain shall know peace. I will ensure nothing tarnishes your new life. Your pack will no longer cower in forests—it will rule them. And I shall be the guarantee that no whisper of protest survives till dawn…”

Voldemort spoke with a faint, almost imperceptible catch in his breath, which those present mistook for a sign of deep engagement… These two fools have never seen Voldemort during audiences!

During the exchange, Harry Potter, tired of standing, simply settled onto the Dark Lord’s lap. He sprawled comfortably, leaning back against Voldemort’s chest, nearly sliding off, legs dangling over the armrest. He perched on the Dark Lord’s knees like a wild creature permitted to nuzzle its master’s leg—a primal hunt for comfort and ease, in truth.

Invisible, Harry watched the werewolves intently, barely noticing the simmering discontent beneath him.

Kessler nodded, his voice taking on an almost reverent rasp:

“We trust you, my Lord. You… I see what you’ve achieved. Under your shadow, even a wolf might forget it’s a beast.”

As Kessler rambled on about the unity of “the wolf’s mind with higher purposes,” Voldemort couldn’t shake the feeling that he was wasting time on pointless drivel! On his lap sat Harry Potter, a young, beautiful boy, clearly craving physical closeness, swayed by the Horcrux. A slight dissociation between ego and body—he still argued with himself but didn’t even register the situation as abnormal. Rather, he savored the possibilities.

Voldemort was already forgiving himself for the vile images inspired by Bellatrix’s memories, his own fantasies… His personal experiences had faded entirely eight years after the act, utterly useless, worthless—trash. But Harry Potter? He thought of him for hours, days, weeks… So what if his thoughts had shifted slightly?

Oh, he would bed Harry Potter. The thought seared through him like an inferno, forcing him to draw a sharp breath. With Harry’s weight on him, Voldemort leaned back, sitting straighter, and slid his arm behind the boy, resting his forearm on the far armrest. Harry let out a breath directly into his ear, caught in a half-embrace, pressing closer to his side. Hot breath scorched the Dark Lord’s jaw, an invisible presence gliding along his face as it had in their chambers:

Ss..I want you s-so much… ahhh…

In the vast, half-empty hall, silence fell abruptly as all eyes turned to Voldemort. The summoned snake, unnaturally agile for its size, slithered up the throne and hissed at its conjurer’s nonverbal command.

Potter!

“Fenrir, please escort Mr. Kessler to Pius Thicknesse—let the Department of International Magical…” The Dark Lord paused for a fraction of a second, a seemingly deliberate pause of contemplation. But in truth, the word broke off not from hesitation: Potter, driven by some heretical impulse, had moved.Something warm and heavy slid across Voldemort’s thigh, then settled precisely on his groin, pressing the fabric of his robes.Did he just mount him?! Another touch grazed his chest—five fingers of each hand splayed wide, covering more space, gliding down his flat stomach through the thin, black, almost deathly light silk. “…Cooperation immediately formalize his status, including temporary rights to independent Apparition across the Union. A list is also required. Names, occupations, transformation profiles, and permanent residences of all four hundred and thirteen. Submit it to the Ministry as well.”Then—movement. The weight straddling his hips lifted, paused for a moment, and softly sank back down. The first test. The silence around Voldemort’s ego deserved its own name now.

“Yes, my Lord!” Greyback bowed, then curled his lips, baring a row of yellow, sharp, beast-like fangs at his companion.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Kessler cast a final glance at the Dark Wizard before turning to his comrade. Their eyes met. The smirk they shared was carnal, anticipatory, as if Beelzebub himself had flung open the gates, unleashing beasts to a feast: from darkness to flesh.

They Apparated to the Ministry with a crack, and Voldemort had just opened his mouth to speak when the massive main doors swung open.

“My Lord!” Bellatrix Lestrange. A gaunt face with sharp cheekbones, pure madness in her eyes, tangled hair like a wyvern’s nest. In her hands—a coarse gray brocade sack, wet with blood that trickled down its folds but vanished upon touching the marble floor, as if consumed by a charm.

“I found the traitor! He sold only one wand… they’re all on Polyjuice Potion—and there were three of them!”

Abruptly, the shadow cloaking Voldemort shifted… a body smoothly slid off him. Voldemort tracked the dark void crossing the marble floor: a patch of blackness where light didn’t reflect. It stopped. The spell wouldn’t let it stray far. Pfft… what’s he planning? He doesn’t even have a wand.

Yet something stirred within him, defying such logic. A crease formed where eyebrows should be—not from threat, but… an odd melancholy: Hey, boy felt good on his lap! He needs to be put back!

“Bella, excellent work.” The shadow swayed side to side, like a caged animal behind tight bars. “How are Malthe and Ashlyn faring?”

“Splendidly! Ash emptied her stomach only once, both are equally… average in duels, the boy’s better at defensive charms…” She stepped forward, and the black void darted toward her… too far to reach. Voldemort summoned the Elder Wand to his hand. Reflex?

What are you doing? S-s tand here.

Bellatrix flinched at the menacing, threatening hiss, dropping to her knees.

Voldemort watched as the void lingered in place before drifting closer to his throne.

Harry Potter said nothing.

Master of the Dunes-Ss, will you give me an orderSs?— The summoned snake’s voice rang out clearly, laced with hope.

Lestrange lifted her gaze, meeting Voldemort’s eyes. She yearned to approach but, of course, wouldn’t dare…

“Marvelous.” Voldemort rose, and the agile snake slithered onto his shoulders. “You’re dismissed.”

The Dark Lord turned and approached his invisible Horcrux. For a moment, Bellatrix thought she saw Voldemort touch something before Apparating—perhaps the air, perhaps something she wasn’t meant to see. Her lips parted, as if to speak… but no words came, only a reverent stare at the vanishing figure of her obsession.

How astonishing, the way a mind, enthralled by a compulsive image, reshapes the very topology of the inner self, weaving the object of fixation into the vector of existence—not as a partner, but as an axis around which consciousness must orbit.

Chapter 32

Biological impulses were not part of Voldemort. That much was true. His body—a vessel, his will—an instrument, his consciousness—a tower of black glass from which a god gazed indifferently upon pitiful apes. Voldemort wasn’t devoid of physiology—he transcended it. Desire, attraction, the skin’s craving for touch—all were regressive vestiges, echoes of evolutionary programming his mind left no room for. Heresy and filth unworthy of his time.

His behavior was a strategy of cognitive dominance: systematically suppressing biological patterns for maximum control and predictability. Voldemort didn’t seek to be understood—he sought freedom from the need to be understood.

Alas, even with total neurocognitive sterility, the chance of a glitch… an error… persisted. The so-called “pupil synchronization”—a primal stage of recognition, triggering, if you will, a trust protocol. In primate terms—an act of selection; in neural terms—the activation of a safety mechanism and cognitive scan for compatibility. Isolate and suppress it at the decision level?Ah, and how long had he allowed himself to think of boy? Decades! Good luck, Great Lord!

When Harry Potter, driven by heretical impulse, kissed him—Harry’s tongue didn’t merely leave a trace on skin but etched itself into neural topology. Far more than a vulgar act, it sparked a cascade, activating an ancient circuit through which the brain builds attachment when a signal of deep alignment is detected…

And so, distracted by memories of such recent events, Voldemort was forced to acknowledge: in Harry Potter, he saw not a primate but a resonant architecture of consciousness—another “god” on the threshold of immortality, if you will. Harry Potter wasn’t human to him. He was—the same. His Horcrux, his soul! So many vectors of resonance!

This alignment of cognitive structures sparked a rare glitch in his previously isolated system, igniting something ancient: what human culture glorified in epics as feeling. In truth—a failure of his predictive model. And perhaps, the first crack in his tower… for it needed space for another…

As soon as Harry’s feet touched the floor, he instinctively pressed closer to the lean, desired body, eliciting a faint ugh. A hand rested on his head through the cloak. Harry glanced around. Frowned. He’d expected to be near the door, yes, but not… in a shitty library room…

The activating charm sent metal snake slithering swiftly on the doorway, and Voldemort strode forward. Harry didn’t move at first, but the spell tugged him along. It was starting to grate on him—he could follow Tom on his own; he didn’t need anything controlling him!

To his left, the fireplace flared with a sharp crack, glowing green. Harry’s gaze trailed the snake, which slid from Voldemort’s shoulders and vanished into the shadows behind the lower shelves of the bookcases. His eyes drifted upward, tracing the rows of elven skulls lined neatly on the shelves.

With a sharp turn, Voldemort yanked the Invisibility Cloak off Potter, as if parting heavy curtains—brushing aside the unnecessary. The fabric, weightless, hung in the air for a moment before folding into the inner lining of his cloak.

“We will continue this… interaction in more suitable conditions. You need to keep yourself in check. Understood?”

Harry frowned, a venomous smirk touching his lips. He tilted his head, ear brushing his shoulder, like a curious puppy.

“What’s suitable, my Lord?” Oh, Merlin… Please don’t let him be one of those schedule-obsessed types… Though… Tom Riddle, he’s nearly eighty, isn’t he?

Voldemort drew a sharp breath—almost a hiss—his chest expanding as he forced himself to step back when the boy took an almost imperceptible step forward.

“Firstly,” Voldemort said, pointing a long, thin finger at a chair by the wide table in the center. The boy sauntered to it with a theatrical snort.

“Your… physical exuberance,” Voldemort continued, circling him and, with a sharp gesture, dispelling the Binding Curse as if slicing an invisible thread in the air, “may be… permitted. But it requires clarification.”

He extended a hand, and the corner lined with bookcases—cluttered more with artifacts than books—parted: a Pensieve levitated smoothly from within. Voldemort approached it and turned to Potter—at a safe, appropriate distance—and allowed himself to look directly into his face.

“I have no patience for these ostentatious displays of sentimentality. I have far graver matters at hand,” Voldemort said at last, his tone restrained. “If I say be invisible—you stay invisible. If I give an order—you obey without question. If I have not granted permission—you keep silent. And if I ask for such conduct—you comply. Secondly: do not come near my people unless I specifically command it.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. But his smile was bright, elated:

“Very well, my Lord. Forgive me, I understand.”

Tom gazed into those striking, venomously beautiful eyes, made only more vivid by the lenses of his round glasses, and something in his chest—near his heart—stirred with an irritatingly faint warmth. He permitted himself to note it as a symptom. A pleasant one.

“If I may, whose is it?” Harry watched as Voldemort, with a wave of his hand, levitated a vial glowing with near-white contents—someone’s memories—toward the Pensieve.

Voldemort lifted his gaze from the silvery, mirror-like surface where an elf’s thoughts, now languishing in the dungeons, had spilled.

Pfft, no issue at all! He’d tell Potter his property was currently missing a limb—no reason to hide it… but… the boy had mentioned those lowly creatures so many times… Why is he thinking about this now?! It hadn’t mattered to him yesterday!

He remained silent as the memories dissolved, plunging into the elf’s recollections. Yaxley—excellent choice, by the way. Corban was so fastidious and loyal that he had clearly done the task precisely as instructed, without lingering on what he saw. The Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement regarded such creatures with even greater disgust than Voldemort himself. Every preserved memory bore vivid images:both human figures appeared distorted, their features coated with an additional, semi-transparent layer: Polyjuice illusions stretched thin across their true selves. The younger Weasley, red-haired, clad in rags, clutched a wand aimed at the elf. Beside him, Granger knelt: “We need to know, Kreacher. If he’s here, please, don’t say the name—just nod when we return.” The elf, hunched, shook his head wildly. “Filthy traitors!” he screeched, his voice breaking into a rasp. “Get out of the Black house! You don’t belong here!” Bound, he watched as they rifled through shelves, inspecting books amid his shrill wails. The next memory, now the Polyjuice had worn off—faces returned to their proper shape—but elf didn’t react. He had seen them clearly all along: “Voldemort’s hunting Harry Potter, Kreacher. The one who caused your master Regulus’s death. If you don’t help us, he’ll face a fate worse than Regulus’s! You can’t imagine what he’s put Harry through! In his first year, he nearly strangled him with his own professor’s hands—Harry was eleven, and that monster was already there! Second year—a basilisk poisoned him! And the year after that? Do you know what happened then?! He forced your master to watch his friend die before his eyes, then tortured him!” Ron’s voice broke, fists clenched. “And in fifth year, when Sirius Black…” Ron fell silent, eyes glistening, but forced himself to continue. “If you, you wretched thing, know where Harry is and don’t tell us, I’ll break your arms myself.” Granger, standing nearby, struck boy`s outstretched arm. “Ron!” The next image: a dark room in the Black manor. Elf Apparated with a soft pop, answering an unseen summons, landing in pitch blackness. He sensed his master—Harry Potter—and, wasting no time, seized him, pulling him from a trap he’d stumbled into.Harry, coughing, knelt, his breathing ragged, voice trembling as he looked up at the elf: “Please, Kreacher, Apparate me outside, to the entrance—someone’s waiting for me! Then leave immediately!” Voldemort caught a faint hiss, unintelligible to the elf but clear to the Dark Lord: you okay, harryss? I’ll do everything-ss!

Voldemort surfaced from the memory’s currents as his mind filled in the final strokes—an embrace from Potter, met with a Crucio in return. So what! he dismissed, though the internal contradiction of that moment battered his mind…

It was the same elf he’d used to hide his locket...Voldemort had been certain the creature died then…  yet something vaster and more intangible eclipsed that:

The realization slithered into Dark Lord`s mind like a slick, repulsive serpent:  How could Potter so easily let go of the past? How could he forget the suffering deliberately inflicted by Voldemort himself? And now this boy beside … wanting him? Was he utterly deranged?!

Harry sat, head tilted, arms crossed, watching Tom intently. Oh, the magic around was bloody freezing, as if a thousand Dementors circled, awaiting a feast! What had Tom seen in there? Damn, Harry had a thousand questions! What the hell did Muggles have to do with any of this? And Merlin — he’d kill to see Malfoy’s face when Tom gave that order! Werewolves? Why the hell did he need so many?! Obviously, it was related to what he had read in the news back then — clearly, it was all part of some larger strategy... Well, Harry wouldn’t ask unless Tom chose to share. He’d be obedient, he decided. For how long? At least for now, he supposed.

...how could Potter so easily let go of everything he, Lord Voldemort, had done?! How could he forget—or, worse, forgive? Diagnostic spells had shown no structural damage to the boy’s brain—he’d checked him for nights in a row. And yet... those tics. Hm. Whatever they were, they’ve ceased. Perhaps the boy had endured some transitional neural crisis—plausible, given the tons conditions he’d survived... But to desire this? Him?... he’s not even human! Voldemort bared his teeth in a near-snarl and left away from the Pensieve.

As he sank into his chair, the Pensieve vanished behind the wall.

Voldemort clasped his hands together, letting his chin rest on the edge of his interlocked palms. Analysis. What did it matter what he felt? Even if Voldemort were a troll, if he so desired, he could take what he wanted! Unbidden, the thought conjured a vile image, and a cold sweat washed over him.

Horcruxes…How many years had it taken Dumbledore to find them? Clearly, a decade, while the boy grew, Dumbledore sent him letters filled with horrific tales of what awaited Potter if he didn’t do this or that… and passed all the information to him before his death, unable to finish the task. Harry Potter had been at the shack where he’d hidden the ring… Voldemort drew a sharp breath. Perhaps it was Dumbledore who sealed the boy’s mind—yes, it must have been him, and during the destruction of the final Horcrux, something must have gone awry... considering the boy himself was a Horcrux...

“My Lord? Is everything alright?”

The Dark Lord fixed a silent stare on the boy.

“As I understand it, the last Horcrux, my ring, was found and destroyed by you, wasn’t it? But you said you discovered you were a Horcrux on May second…What were you doing in that vile dump?! I saw you in the Gaunt shack!”

Harry Potter frowned, clearly unprepared for the conversation to veer into such territory. Is Tom sure he wants to discuss this?

“There? No, I was merely resting there. And no, the ring was destroyed by Dumbledore,” Harry said, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he pictured the old man—draped in a garish, open purple robe, sagging skin slack around his limbs—crawling insect-like after the Resurrection Stone that fled from him as if alive.

“You… Tell me about it.”

Harry watched him closely, then, with a lazy nod, settled more comfortably, hands behind his head, legs stretched out:

“Two years ago, he found the ring. Got himself cursed by it, as I understand.” He noticed the corner of Voldemort’s noseless face pull into a smile—jagged but grotesquely gleeful. Of course, everything had worked as intended—his traps on the Horcruxes were devilishly clever. Resisting the urge to wear the ring was near impossible!

Harry grinned, recalling the Headmaster’s hand. Ha! It looked like a spoiled chicken foot. Naturally, he wouldn’t mention the Resurrection Stone in the ring! No need to tie it to the map!

“Snape kept the curse in check, so Dumbledore lived longer. But you know, he had no idea how many Horcruxes you’d made… until I told him. And I found out—thanks to Slughorn, who was hired at Hogwarts because of ME… and… that was last year—” Voldemort’s eyes widened, realizing where the boy was going… he wasn’t ready for such a blow… Potter, have mercy.

“Well… erm… from August to May, I suppose, after Albus left it to me, I… got to work. I cleaved the cup in Bellatrix’s vault.” He recalled, with a pang of annoyance, the magnificent Sword of Gryffindor, snatched by that filthy goblin. Wonder if he still has it? Maybe the goblin’s dead by now? If Harry were to make a Horcrux, that relic would be his choice! Hmm… “The last was the Diadem, at the school… just before you killed Snape. And, by the way, it wasn’t even me who burned it! Your Death Eater’s son, Crabbe. He… he also torched the Room of Requirement!” Harry flinched, as if his body remembered before thought could catch up. Fucking bastard! Good thing it died, or Harry would’ve helped him along! Rage surged, so fierce it tugged his lip into a snarl. If not for Tom’s presence, he might’ve swept everything off the desk. “Anyway. I found them. All of them. In nine months, I think? Well… not counting your diary. I punctured that in second year.”

Harry actually felt a strange blend of melancholy and twisted pride. The melancholy came from the thought that he had destroyed what he considered his soul, fragments of which were trapped in the Horcruxes. The pride came from having found them so quickly and efficiently — a skill Voldemort himself should have been proud of. This was no mere achievement. He hadn’t lied to him; he truly knew how to track.

Silence.

For a fleeting moment, Voldemort’s psyche flared white: a total rejection of reality, an instantaneous pulse of annihilation, followed by a cold, scorched field of comprehension.

All this time… it had truly been him. Harry Potter. Not Albus Dumbledore, but a teenager. And the worst part—it had taken him less than a year!  A span that, by the measure of Eternity, could scarcely be called time. What Eternity had Voldemort sought?! Safe?! Harry Potter—slayer of immortality!

Oh, Salazar, what a nightmare... or no... his Horcrux was simply a genius... so capable...magnificent and superior...

“My Lord… I… I’m truly sorry, I swear… I told you, I didn’t know I was a Horcrux… not until that night. That was his… plan. Now I just want to be useful, to be with you…” Harry felt a pang as he recalled the radiant boy, torn apart like a cracked icon in his second year… that scream of horror. Harry froze, utterly paralyzed.

What if… someone kills Voldemort?

Harry stared at Tom, seated across the table, and his mind conjured a gruesome, vivid scene as if it were real: Voldemort’s gaunt body collapsing to its knees, hands clutching his chest in reflex, blood gushing through his fingers. His form, riddled with countless tiny, precise ruptures, as if pierced by dozens of invisible… meteors? Blood was everywhere, streaming down black robes, crimson eyes fading as they fixed on him. Harry… He heard and saw it as if the event were truth. Suddenly, a deluge of viscous, oil-like crimson blood poured over the image, drowning it.

Cold.

Harry Potter hadn’t felt fear for long... But now, picturing this—Voldemort crumpling, drenched in blood, vanishing into it—something in Harry’s consciousness collapsed too. A flash. His mind flickered chaotically through images: Sirius, Cedric, Dobby, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, then a black, will-less corridor etched with the names of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle stretched into a dark, unthinking void. Not just familiar faces—strangers too. Faceless visages. Crushed, gutted ribcages. Students, friends, enemies, all. They lay here, as if the path of two souls was carpeted with their deaths.

These images merged, saturated with the horror of association… his personal nightmare—for each lost acquaintance wasn’t just a memory but a whisper of the inevitability of losing the most vital, the most precious object of his fixation…

Tendrils of clammy cold gripped him, stifling his breath, for this wasn’t fear of death, not fear for himself, but the terror of losing what fueled his inner chaos, the dread of his “own” vanishing in a world that was itself chaos… his soul! He didn’t even know what to do! He didn’t want… to kill himself! To tear away a part of HIMSELF, even…

“I don’t care about your pity. We’ve been through this.” Harry blinked, wrenching his consciousness back, and focused his gaze on Voldemort’s eyes, which watched him intently.

Harry shot to his feet:

“Tom! We can’t stay here any longer! We need to find a hidden, secret place no one will know about! N—” Harry fell silent as the armrests coiled around his arms, yanking him back into the chair, and metallic clamps sealed his mouth as they had before. Voldemort, as if anticipating the onset of hysteria, shared the feeling—the wretched, enchanted room seemed to reek of the panic of two fractured minds.

“Don’t call … what?” Voldemort expected from boy another tantrum about his usefulness, but… yes,yes, this assertion was logical. Voldemort had come to the same conclusion himself. It was long past time to shift his own location from this ancient, bird’s-nest perch… but to where?

The clamps slowly receded from Harry’s face, retracting fully into the chair’s metallic frame.

“Yes. It’s in the plans.”

Harry began to babble, like a prophet teetering on the edge of delirium and revelation:

“My Lord, I understand Lucius Malfoy is your long-time ally, but he has a family—I don’t trust them. Malfoy at school didn’t exactly strive to complete your task; he had the chance and only disarmed him. And Lucius—he’s very odd. He hates me, but today, when you spoke about me, he seemed almost… concerned for me. No, my Lord. Something’s not right here.”

“What did you say?”

“My Lord! We need to be somewhere else…”

“That’s not what I meant. The Malfoy boy disarmed Albus Dumbledore? When did this happen?”

Harry drew a sharp breath. What does that have to do with anything?! Frankly, he’d pieced it together when Voldemort left him in that guest room for half a day and taken Draco’s wand. The electric surge of anxiety tore the next words from his tongue:

“At the Astronomy Tower. But Snape killed him,” he said, squinting as the question’s weight slowly pierced the dense fog of his foolish mind. Damn, I’m an idiot! He’d meant to keep that to himself! He was curious to know what kind of wizard could disarm Tom… Harry opened his mouth to continue, but Voldemort slammed his hands on the table, leaning toward Potter. His gaze was glassy, shoulders trembling slightly:

“Draco Malfoy was the master of the Elder Wand all this time?!”

Harry grinned. Oh, he had a nasty, sticky, almost intimate secret. Would Tom use Avada Kedavra on the spot if he kept it hidden?

“No. He was disarmed too.”

The magic in the room thickened. A name. Name! The boy knew the name! Who?!

In Voldemort’s mind, the outlines of a true catastrophe began to form. Was it before Granger?! He’d killed Severus… No, of course, he deserved it, the foulest traitor the world ever born…

Harry Potter didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence hang, a petty, spiteful gremlin savoring the memory:

“Actually… the wand you took from me belonged to Draco Malfoy… when I escaped from here… I disarmed him.”

The lenses of Potter’s glasses glinted green.

“The Elder Wand is mine.”

At those words, Voldemort’s right hand twitched. An impulse—to lunge for the object the boy mentioned and curse him! His breathing grew uneven, his throat bitter with his own rage. But…

Potter... of course. The wand didn’t pass to the Mudblood because it “chose” otherwise. It’s a pathetic object, pfft, how could he have thought differently? It happened because the universe that compelled him to create a Horcrux in Harry Potter made him so perfect that everything aligned! No one took the wand because it was protected... bound to a fragment of his soul. To himself—but in another body. Harry Potter delivered himself to him. Thwarted Albus’s design. Protected the Deathly Hallows. Voldemort felt reverence for the precision of the alignment.

Potter—the perfect Horcrux! Not a random mistake, but perfection itself! Albus Dumbledore was wrong... his plans turned against him. Potter wasn’t the end of Voldemort. He was his guarantee…Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that the Mudblood will die first! Potter had said he didn’t care about them—on that point, the boy hadn’t lied, Voldemort was certain. He had no intention of meddling in adolescent quarrels; in that regard, he no longer thought at all. In fact, Voldemort had even allowed himself—at times, for a few seconds—fantastical visions: side by side with Potter, eradicating every single member of that slug-infested Order.

“If it matters, I don’t need it,” Harry said, nodding casually across the table. “You can disarm me… or whatever it takes… Do as you please.”

Voldemort fixed his gaze on the scar. Soul. Avoiding this for so long had been impossible… He saw that image in the boy too often; confronting his greatest mistake felt almost like a trial he’d unconsciously delayed. Voldemort turned right from the table.

Harry’s chair, obeying magic, traced a curved arc around the table and stopped, as if positioned on a theatrical stage. Almost touching. The clamps retracted into the chair.

“Come here.”

Harry tilted his head to the side. He was surprised Voldemort hadn’t snapped at him because of the wand— curious, what was he thinking? Harry was already so close their knees could brush with the slightest movement. The armrests of Voldemort’s throne stirred, the metal flowing, twisting into serpentine shapes, freeing space, curling into superfluous, asymmetrical loops around the legs.

Harry rose slowly, his movement almost rehearsed. The golden Snitch at his neck gave off an unnatural metallic sound as it touched the thin layer of chainmail that felt almost like fabric. His hips turned gently, as if guided by some ritual. He settled atop, feet touching the floor, back straight. His lips parted, but his breathing remained steady.

Voldemort drew his wand. Potter’s face was mere inches away. The warm tip of elder wood brushed his forehead, slowly pushing aside a lock of hair, as if reluctant to touch the skin, revealing the scar.

“I’m going to check something.”

Anyssing…

Potter hissed in Parseltongue.

Voldemort would examine this curse from within… He inhaled through narrow slits, focused, and cast the spell nonverbally. It felt as if he was being pulled inward; the space around him stretched while he remained still. Darkness pierced by white flashes, like blotches of light behind closed eyes.

Then—a sharp shift.

The backyard of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Muggle, with a perfectly trimmed lawn, low white fences…

“Ugh.”

Voldemort turned his head. Reclining on a white stone bench, resembling a chaise longue and placed along the house’s wall near freshly tended flowerbeds with splendid asters, was Tom Riddle.

The Demiurge rested his head on one hand. His dark grey robe was draped over a wizard suit of smooth, heavy fabric that shimmered faintly. Perfectly styled hair streaked with silver-grey, early wrinkles at the corners of slyly narrowed eyes, deeper shadows accentuating a wicked smile. A lightning-shaped scar on the left side, almost concealed by curls falling over his forehead. His eyes—red, with a spark of emerald in the cornea near the pupil, framed by a halo of flame surrounding black voids.

He gazed at Voldemort with a lazy squint, devoid of hostility.

“Took you long enough,” Tom said playfully. “I thought this would be the first thing you’d do. Afraid to face me?”

Voldemort didn’t answer immediately. He clasped his hands behind his back, studying him.

Himself. Almost twenty years ago. Beautiful. Human.

“Have you always been here?”

Tom smiled.

“Guess.”

In the distance—a crack. As if the world’s fabric snapped like brittle bones.

Voldemort turned. On the horizon, where the street stretched into a line of identical houses, something went… wrong.

The houses began to warp vertically. They distorted, letting through something inky, digital yet numberless… the code of creation itself… Shadows, like tendrils, tore at the geometry. They shot upward, then down, fracturing space like thin sheets of oil.

“Is this all your influence?” Voldemort asked, his voice quieter.

“Me?” Tom arched a slender brow. “Pfft… I don’t do anything at all. Just watch.” He made himself comfortable, bending one knee and placing a bare foot on the stone, like a god on a cloud, stretched out in bliss above chaos. He was merely relaxing… for he had long since touched his Adam with a finger…

“The boy’s mind being locked—is that not your doing either?”

A brief pause.

“No…”

“Explain your existence.”

Tom Riddle’s gaze turned to him, stripped of interest, his tone oddly detached:

“The first years… were vile. Being literally embedded in Harry’s mind. Imagine, little one: you’re a mirror imprint overlaid on another’s neural network. I replayed my memories in perfect detail, flawless illusions, day after day… emotions included. All of... Harry’s emotions and illusions too...”

Another crack. Closer now.

“Anyway.” He exhaled.  “Now I don’t care, darling, about anything. Pfft. Utter nonsense and heresy. You can’t stop time. Not one moment can you reclaim.”

Tom Riddle remained reclined, propped on one hand, letting his head relax, his gaze drifting to the sky. Voldemort followed, and his breath caught.

The sky.

Not black, a color born of chemical displacements no human eye could parse; vivid, multihued—a galactic sky in ecstatic bloom veined with millions of threads of light. Stars here weren’t mere points but crystals—quartz in myriad hues. Along the sky’s right edge—a galaxy. A sprawling violet-azure nebula, stretched into a spiral. Pulsing. Breathing with an inner rhythm. Hundreds of comets pierced horizontal layers, streaking across. Vast stellar fields shimmered in copper, gold, and icy turquoise… nebulae…

“Don’t care… even about… it ? No longer… afraid?” Voldemort asked, unmoving. In his crimson gaze, the fall of a comet was reflected.

Tom Riddle stayed silent… moments passed before he spoke:

“It’s no longer relevant.”

“What does that mean?”

Tom closed his eyes. As if savoring the ripest apple in the world. His lips trembled, as if still tasting a drop of juice:

“Humans… so pitiful in their need to give everything form. A name. An explanation. Sometimes… it’s just not necessary.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He was right…

Riddle snorted.

“No, not right. I don’t influence Harry Potter. I’m just your projection. I’m not ‘sitting in his head’ literally. Frankly, it’s hard to say if this vessel could be used for restoration. My memories and… I… I… in his head…” Tom Riddle faltered strangely. Then—a glitch. His face twitched; where shadows marked wrinkles, a vector of darkness pierced space horizontally into infinity, as if a film had stuttered. Thin, trembling artifacts of green light flickered across his eyes. He blinked—and all was as before. “So, no. You’re mistaken. You can fuck that boy as much as you want. No foreign will. Only yours...and his,ew...”

He let his gaze slide appraisingly over the tall, gaunt figure in black robes. In truth, Voldemort’s grotesque form perfectly matched the black destruction unfolding behind him. Tom snorted disdainfully.

“Now shoo! Ugh!” He waved a hand in his characteristic gesture, dismissing something bothersome. “You’re ruining my mood.”

Demiurge turned back to the stars. In absolute calm.

Voldemort closed his eyes, his gaze lingering on the vivid scar mirrored precisely on the opposite side of the face,where Potter’s own mark burned—and drew a deep breath. The space seemed to collapse inward, and he was back in his study.

Harry Potter sat on his lap, the Elder Wand clutched between slender fingers, pressed to the boy’s temple. Green eyes gazed at him with fascination, so close. Potter barely moved, spellbound by curiosity:

“What did you find?” Unsure where to place his hands, Harry rested them on either side of Voldemort’s body, bracing against the chair’s back.

The pulse awakened at the tip of the Elder Wand. Voldemort squinted: a thin crimson thread, like tiny stitches, traced the scar’s outline, the curse within. A medical charm, stabilizing invasive enchantments, anchoring and isolating the symbiotic magical structure. As if he had be fool enough to trust HIMSELF! That arrogant mistake wasn’t worth revisiting! Voldemort adjusted a lock of hair with the wand’s tip, covering the scar.

“Nothing. I was checking its integrity.” Voldemort slipped the wand into his sleeve.

The Elder Wand belonged to Harry Potter. Within him—Voldemort’s soul: a separate consciousness, locked within… a parasitic twin, existing as an observer, stripped of influence… Ugh. If the wand’s mastery shifted, Voldemort would revisit the matter… but for now, nothing had changed. Everything had simply clarified, falling into place. Yes. Forget it.

Voldemort felt the warmth of palms on his sides. The boy didn’t fidget or make unnecessary movements, perched on him like a comfortable throne. Voldemort placed a hand on the back of Harry’s neck, letting curls slip through his fingers.

“What were you going to do to Lestrange?”

Harry leaned closer, lips parted, eyes lowered—as if ready to sink his teeth into the air.

“Hurt her…”

Voldemort half-closed his eyes. His fingers, buried in the boy’s hair, tightened, nails grazing the scalp. He maintained distance, but not detachment. Their breaths were already one. Emerald and ruby pupils oscillated in shared resonance.

“Your elf lies in the dungeons. I removed his hand.”

Harry’s eyes widened. His elf? An impulse—his hand rose, settling on the pale neck. A precise grip, like a vice: the Adam’s apple pinned, thumb and forefinger under the jaw. No swallowing possible. Instead of resisting, Voldemort let himself be caught.

Harry, rising slightly, leaned closer. Their faces were millimeters apart. Breathing became sound, his mouth a bared threat.

“You… you’ll do what you did to rat on sssemetery…”-Harry instinctively switched to Parseltongue

What?! No way! Voldemort wouldn’t touch that filth with his magic!

“Agreed.”

Voldemort pulled him closer by the nape, and their lips, previously breathing in sync, collided in a kiss. Harry shifted upward on his hips, seeking balance, then moved like a hungry, uncertain animal: slow but pressing, deliberate friction, mechanical, almost pulsating flesh. Hot.

Voldemort’s right hand, still at the nape, gripped tighter, his mind shrouded in the darkness of closed eyes, enveloped in bliss from the sensation of a hot, young, deft tongue in his mouth. He mirrored the motion, his twin forked tongues flickering out like serpents in a deadly dance, weaving around Harry’s tongue —entwining them in a chilling embrace. Voldemort other hand clutched the boy’s waist, the cloak’s leather creaking with each movement. He guided Harry’s hips, matching every wave of intensifying friction.

Harry tightened his grip on the neck. The skin under his fingers burned. When the kiss broke—for a mere moment, lungs greedily gulping air—Voldemort kept his eyes closed. His voice dropped, denser, as if sinking to the root of his tongue, then into his spine:

“This… This place isn’t for further interactions…”

No. No. No.

Harry, like an exposed nerve, dove back into his mouth, but Voldemort sharply yanked him back by the hair.

Potter arched, his backside sliding over the hard flesh. On an exhale, more moan than air, Tom responded dully:

“I said.”

He waved a hand before Potter’s face, and in the next instant, the dilated pupils, flooding the green irises with black, contracted sharply, as if struck by a sudden light.

Harry blinked. Awareness hit like icy water down his spine: arousal vanished. Muscles remained tense, his member still wet, but his psyche was coldly sober.

“Damn, Tom… That’s low. How do you do it—without a wand?”

Potter braced his palms on the chair, deliberately—defiantly—sliding back over the firm flesh before returning to his seat.

“I don’t need a wand to mimic a chemical cascade of a specific scent in this space.”

Harry raised his brows in surprise.What’s that got to do with it?

Tom turned in his chair, leaning slightly closer, Ministry papers sliding toward him, and added softly, with lazy, cold tenderness:

“A nuance: the scent of isovaleric acid. Similar to what’s released from armpits under fear, registered as the most repulsive stench. But if you feed it to receptors externally, the brain ‘wakes up.’ It takes priority. Even if you were just about to fuck someone — fear and disgust are evolutionarily primary.”

Harry paused for a moment, then burst into laughter, the sound pulling the corners of Voldemort’s mouth upward.

“Disgusting! Tell me, can you make it smell too?”

“Of course,” Tom replied quietly. “I sometimes use it on Lestrange. Does her good.” His gaze drifted thoughtfully into empty space. “Azkaban broke her of hygiene…”

Harry laughed again, but the smile vanished from his face.Blank.

“Don’t tell me you shagged her.”

Voldemort snapped his head toward the boy seated to his right at the desk. What absurdity! But, hmm, what of it? Let him think what he wants.

“That information is irrelevant.” Voldemort smirked at the thought of Potter tormenting himself with guesses, letting his gaze drop to the papers below. A thought struck him. He raised his head, eyes staring blankly beyond the room’s horizon. Straight ahead. Pfft, He don’t care about such a pointless question, he won’t ask… “And you—have you had experience?”

Harry Potter grinned wickedly, like a cat with prey caught in its teeth:

“That information is irrelevant… my Lord.” Voldemort shot him a snarl. Of course, he’d expected that. But Harry wasn’t done: “You can look into my mind if you want.” The lenses of his glasses glinted bright green again.

Whelp!

Sss why don’t give an order, desert lord? The summoned black snake slithered past the desk, coiling around it toward Voldemort.

Harry leaned forward with interest, rising slightly from his chair to get a better look:

Sso you’re from Africa,yesss?Do you have a name?

The slithering stopped. The snake reared up like a cobra, stretching a meter high. Its mouth opened—black, gleaming, even its tongue black: voice. unseen. terrifying. protection. The snake uttered no words, only hissed menacingly, poised tall.

Harry opened his mouth to protest:

“Don’t start. It’s not a grass snake or a hatchling—you won’t make friends with it.” Without looking, Voldemort waved a hand toward it, and the snake erupted in green flames. The fire flashed across its body—flesh blistered, scales blackened, crackling in emerald tongues. The creature writhed, as if trying to shed the flames, but within a second, its body coiled into a spiral, fractured, and collapsed into ash.

Harry’s gaze lingered on the spot, tracking the slowly vanishing flecks of black dust.

Voldemort, in that moment, closed his eye for a heartbeat—and as the world split, again he saw the wreckage of splintered wood and scattered scrolls… that snake lingered near them, always, no matter where she was. He waved his hand again, activating an enchanted parchment listing the names of David’s werewolves. Only a few had magic education... Obvious...

“Why is Kreacher, in your dungeon?”

Voldemort lifted his head, staring at the space ahead where there was only a door and a bookcase, bare of artifacts, just books.

“Isn’t it obvious? You Apparated with him and…” Voldemort faltered. Reflexively.The boy,didn’t remember… “He abandoned you, you passed out immediately. Naturally, I needed to know what happened.”

“Oh… I see…” Harry tapped his chin thoughtfully with his index finger. Kreacher… it was hard to say what Harry felt recalling the elf. More like an entry logged in the registry of memory. Just… there. Like an undeleted file, its presence requiring no processing but impossible to erase.

“Hmm…” Harry mused, smoothly crossing one leg over the other, leaning back. Curious—Professor  passed by but didn’t come in. Unlikely those two were as respectful… Merlin, they broke rules together since first year! Of course, he suffered alone… but they could’ve been there…

“Yes, from what I know, Weasley and Granger were indeed at the Black manor.”

Voldemort, eyes fixed on the papers, waved his hand again, and a black book levitated beside him—identical to the one Tom Riddle used in second year. No title, no names, just a number embroidered in silver on the spine: XVI. A black quill scribbled data for his personal archive. His gaze skimmed the shifting details… Hmm, these creatures are quite productive. According to reports, they resort to forced infection of useful pack members… they don’t just feed…

And then, not a voice but a soft, tender spasm:

“Tom.” No, of course, he can use ‘my Lord’ or whatever, but oh, how Harry love the sound of that name! So short, like a moan… “Tom…”

“WHAT?!” Voldemort spun his body right, shoulder pulling away from the chair’s back toward Potter.

“I didn’t say it. I just thought about them.”

A smile stretched across Harry’s face, like an asteroid’s orbit veering out of control.

Voldemort frowned, processing the fact for several seconds. When the meaning hit, his mind flared like lightning: the boy had mentioned it felt like it happened at the start of autumn term…when exactly had Dumbledore died?!

His furious gaze darted to the scar on Potter’s forehead.

Bastard!

Chapter 33

How can one consider magic within the constraints of matter? In a world where reality isn’t an objective given but an informational process, localized within a biological vessel, the most logical act becomes not disruption, but editing.

A localized shift in the conditions of wave function collapse, where thought gains weight and becomes an event. For reality is not a closed system but a projection, distilled to the boundary of subjective perception, refracted through neural tissue and interpreted by an act of attention…

…that’s how it works, isn’t it?

As Harry recounted Kreacher’s tale, he slipped into the story of Mundungus Fletcher, revealing how that rat had been among the Order,  and how the locket had been in the Ministry. Who exactly had it, though, didn’t quite fit into Harry’s narrative—Voldemort’s thin lips twitched now and then, as if tempted to smile, not so much at the content of the tale—he had heard more dramatic confessions—but at the delivery itself. There was something… charming about this bitter, teenage bluntness, ever since that first meeting with Yaxley, obviously. In all his interactions with Potter, there was a strange… authenticity Voldemort had never quite felt before. Naturally, Voldemort didn’t bother naming his feelings.

The spell for heightened isolation demanded focus, several seconds of unrelenting cognitive strain to hold the cloud of crimson curse above the Horcrux scar on his forehead… Voldemort had already restarted three times, distracted. Heresy! In any case, it was utterly unclear what this was. Upon reflection, it felt entirely different. Before, Voldemort had sensed the boy’s emotions—a kind of “reading of another,” like watching a film from the sidelines, and it had occasionally unnerved him, depending on the spectrum. But now, he didn’t even register that it “wasn’t there.”

“…I gave him a replica of your locket, the one Black left in place of the original. It’s pretty well done, by the way.”

“Hm.” As the crimson dust sank into the scar, Voldemort leaned back, arms folded in a locked brace before his face, his wand caught between them, resting lightly against his lips as he observed the boy sitting almost indecently close — and unnervingly at ease.

“Think of something,” he said, “that could never, under any circumstances, touch even the edges of my imagination.”

Potter squinted, the gesture theatrical and faintly weary, as if the mental effort were some unbearable burden. Think? Fine. Flying on a broomstick. Harry immediately pictured Voldemort, stark naked, gripping the broom’s handle between his thighs with regal disdain, staring down at him and muttering, “Potter, what is this heresy? Remove it at once!”—his posture so grand, as if he’d just been forced to pose for the cover of Spellbound.

Harry blinked — and the round lenses of his glasses flashed green, catching the reflection of the fire. Another memory surfaced: when he was six, hiding fruit scraps in the cupboard. In the stifling heat, maggots had bred in them. When Dudley left with… his guardians, Harry had dumped a handful of fat, wriggling larvae into the corner of Dudley’s underwear drawer. Then he’d watched as Diddykins tore through the house, twitching, brushing off imaginary crawlers. A subtle thrill fed the rot of his worm-eaten, festering mind with a sickly sweetness. Harry nearly smirked. The Dursleys…

…or—fucking Voldemort? Harry closed his eyes, drawing a breath through his nostrils as he leaned back. His body loomed over another, hips crashing into flesh, a rhythm that gravity itself obeyed. His hands pinned Tom face-down, cheek pressed to cool stone in a pose of almost ascetic submission; he entered him sharply, each thrust resounding like a strike in a temple where, instead of liturgy, there was the wet slap of skin on skin, moans tearing through the air like revelations from divine lips.

Surely that could never cross his mind, could it?

Harry tilted his head slightly, raising an eyebrow, studying the flat, focused face across from him.

Analysis.

“What did you think of?” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, boring into Potter’s as though his gaze were a piercing X-ray, trying to delve deep within. Nothing. Somehow, he had expected as much.

“Your first broom flight.” Potter’s tongue flicked out, caught briefly between his teeth, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Hm…” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed further, the notion absurd enough that it would never have occurred to him. Truth be told, he had assumed the boy would conjure some carnal fantasy. “Not bad, Potter, but clearly, it’s not enough… Think harder!”

He spun sharply back to his place at the desk, a flick of his hand resuming his writing. The matter was genuinely intriguing—this werewolf had been in London precisely during the month Voldemort “vanished” in Godric’s Hollow. A few reports mentioned the creature’s activity in the city, but nothing that particularly distinguished it from others… a curious coincidence?

Yet, despite his resolve to focus, his thoughts kept slipping—not from lack of interest, but because something else gnawed at him, more persistent, more… repulsive. That grotesque friend of Potter’s resonated like a blow to something not fully realized. Of course, Voldemort remembered every detail perfectly, every act he’d committed with Potter, and he took pride in it—yet… why did a memory that should have been a mere fact suddenly stir within him, causing physical discomfort? The organ that pumped blood through Tom—four times older than the boy’s—shuddered. And against his own volition, he felt not triumph, not pride—but a piercing, dull ache… echoing with the ghost of his own lost youth...

Harry, meanwhile, existed in a kind of vacuum. A monstrous thought loomed over him, cold as a specter on his shoulders… bloody hell, could he convince Voldemort to hide in some cave where no one would find them? Even his own followers inspired no trust—Tom had, just yesterday, obliterated the lazy fools meant to guard Harry`s manor. Why hadn’t Voldemort done anything about it from the start? Harry stumbled over his own thoughts. Truly. How could he have? Hm…

“Can I grab something to read?” Harry leaned back, arms behind his head. He shifted positions often when he had nothing to do… or say.

“Yes.” Voldemort replied without a moment’s pause, lifting his head, gaze fixed forward. He should have specified—which shelves were allowed? Should he choose for him?

Voldemort turned as Potter rose and took a few steps forward—not as if he had any particular goal in mind! The shelves in this room, at least here, were dedicated solely to magic. Ha, Death Eaters could roam here, but Muggle tomes? Tom hid those in his bedroom… How many other things did Tom have that Harry hadn’t even suspected? Like the fact that he had two tongues! Though… he’d sort of noticed that. But when they’d first kissed, Harry hadn’t quite registered the difference in muscle movement… a matter of practice, clearly. Tom needed more practice… Oh, what’s this?

Of course, Voldemort would simply clarify what he wasn’t allowed to take… His gaze didn’t waver from Potter’s fingers as they hovered, not quite touching, along the books. Voldemort flinched. In that mundane act, he felt a surge of defensive instinct, a mental snarl of “No! Ugh! Mine!”—a flood of images, clammy, sweaty hands tearing and clawing at his possessions. But his body, as if arguing with that reflex, countered with a quiet “It’s fine… it’s him.” A subtle but distinct warmth, a sense of attachment, spread through his chest, urging his near-century-old frame to draw a deep, instinctive breath…

Harry turned back to Voldemort, flipping through a book in his hands with evident curiosity.

“Put it down.” Voldemort couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t even properly seen what the boy had picked up, but the burgundy-red embossing suggested something medical, or…

“What?” Harry’s gaze shot up, affronted, as he snapped the book shut. He levitated it in his hand, as if wielding a ball of energy, and sank into a chair—a smaller replica of Tom’s gothic throne—at the massive desk. “It’s just about creatures, why?” The book floated gently onto the desk, inching slowly closer to Voldemort.

“Fine,” Tom huffed, that peculiar blend of disdain and approval Potter alone seemed to earn. Odd reading material. Clearly about magic and magical creatures, yet the word “magic” didn’t appear once. The book held nothing worth confiscating… hm, indeed. Nothing dangerous. Let him read it, then. He wouldn’t take it, after all, would he?

Harry opened the handwritten tome, its author signed only with the cryptic initials “PRR.” The reflections within were dry, impartial—dedicated to studying the cognitive capacities of creatures and their “resonance” with humans. The writer was clearly no zoologist, but rather a contemplative scholar. The author phrased thoughts oddly, sometimes referring to their subjects as “hypothetical beings,” as if wary of being misunderstood, yet accompanied this with meticulous, precise descriptions of real “specimens.” Harry read about Kneazles with curiosity… no connections to his past stirred in his mind.

Harry Potter didn’t pester Voldemort with unnecessary questions. He read with genuine focus, just as he had the first time, though back then his face had often been painted with an almost pained smile—so much so that Tom had wondered how his face didn’t ache from such expressive trials! Harry was… surprisingly comfortable, strangely comforting… Like two neutron stars orbiting in resonance, weaving a quantum cocoon around themselves... even in the most catastrophic transformation, there remained a space for harmony.

Hours passed, and with only a few pages left in Potter’s book, Voldemort gestured with his hand, fingers curling inward. The scrolls around the room rolled up and levitated back to their places, like a swarm of peculiar insects.

Voldemort straightened in his throne-like chair and caught, from the corner of his eye, the boy watching him with interest. Was he thinking of… furthering their interaction? Or of the elf? Merlin’s beard, how it infuriated Voldemort not to know what occupied the boy’s mind—it was monstrous and…

“Can we go down to the dungeons now?”

Elf, of course…

“…And then you’ll show me your chambers.”

Voldemort’s head snapped toward the boy. The book near Potter rose in a precise arc and shot back to the shelves.

“Conceal yourself,” Voldemort muttered, rising sharply from his seat, almost leaping from the single step on which the desk stood… he needed to do this quickly…

Voldemort heard only the crackle of boy leather cloak, no other sound, as Potter vanished into nothingness, following him along the familiar route…

...hm… Voldemort had mentioned that Percy was caught at the Ministry, and then he’d interrogated Lucius, that blond bastard who was damnably suspicious… oh, the Malfoys again! Harry felt an odd sense of déjà vu, echoing back to when he was twelve. What, should he use Polyjuice again to uncover the ferret’s secrets?

As Voldemort descended alone into the dungeon, he encountered not a single soul.

In the cold, dark corridor, Voldemort drew his wand and scanned the space, ensuring no one was near. Without lowering his hand, he directed a sharp flick at the heavy door—it swung open with an ancient groan.

Shriveled elf was curled up, smashing its head against the floor. Its forehead was torn, a bruised purple-red, with bare bone protruding from the center, angry and white like an exposed tooth. It screeched:

“Master Harry… forgive…” Between wails, it clawed at its own face, lifting its head only to slam it back into the stone.

Voldemort’s lips twisted in disgust as he stepped into the cell’s confines, a dense shadow,void itself, Harry, followed close behind. Tom slammed the door shut.

A dull thud of the elf’s head against the floor. Like it was rhythmically driving a rusty nail into living flesh. Even the arrival of someone in the room didn’t stop the elf’s lamentations. It paid no heed to the Dark Lord.

“Ugh...” A flick of the wand—the elf froze mid-motion, its contorted pose suspended as if the air around it had hardened, turning its joints and body to glass.

Voldemort stepped closer. His face deepened into a grimace of revulsion, as though he were about to touch this vile creature not with a spell, but with his bare fingers!

Voldemort lowered his wand to the stump. The flesh on the elf’s shoulder was dark, dried at the edges, the wound crusted with repulsive dust and grime. The burn on its chest festered grotesquely. The magical shackles binding the elf’s power prevented it from using its regenerative charms. Voldemort took a deep breath. Very well.

He didn’t speak the spell—merely thought it.

First, the humerus emerged—dry, black, an unnatural substance conjured from nothing, as if pressed out of the air itself. Then came the radius and ulna, snapping into perfect anatomical alignment with a crunch. Muscles followed—slowly, fiber by fiber—unspooling like strips of living fabric, as though woven in real time by some invisible loom.

When the fingers appeared—thin, glistening in the warm torchlight—Voldemort regarded the wretched creature. Odd… he had expected the spell to take effect identically on the elf, yet the material was clearly not silver.

The elf did not move—still frozen, as if trapped in sleep.

Hss add the ssame curssse that was on se rat.

The void hissed.

Voldemort furrowed his brow, tearing his gaze from the elf to stare into the space before him.

It’ssss an elfs; it won’t act againsst you.

Yet Voldemort cast the crimson curse almost immediately, shaping the thought—Betray Potter—into the spell’s intent. It was, of course, logical. He paused, struck by the brilliance of the notion… he’d have thought the same himself, regardless of what they said about loyalty! It was merely an asset. No matter what creature stood before you, if it was sentient, it had the potential to err.

Oh, I told you… thisss one mights. It’sss the ssecond one...

After a brief pause, another hiss.

Can I sshow mys-self?

Voldemort nodded, flicking his wand to lift the creature’s paralysis.

Old elf shuddered, gasping raggedly, choking on air as though dragged from an icy swamp. It clutched its new shoulder joint with its other hand, as if trying to rip away the foreign, unnatural flesh. Its face contorted: fear, disbelief, the primal tremor of phantom pain that shouldn’t have existed—but did. Its mind still sought the absent void, only to find the weight and heat of alien matter instead.

It collapsed onto its back, clawing at the stone, keening—not from pain, but from the unbearable sensation of otherness seeping from the new limb into its skull.

“Hey, Kreacher, hello.” The voice was soft, tender, slipping through a warm, kind smile.

A void patch bloomed in the air—but it was only Harry, adjusting the edge of his Invisibility Cloak, holding it at his chest with one hand below, like a banner, as knights once held their cloaks before a tribunal. Half his body melted into nothingness—he was there, yet barely.

The elf froze for a moment, its eyes flashing white. Then, nearly collapsing, it scrambled to its knees and crawled, as if pleading for its right to exist. The creature raised its gaze, horror and tears swimming in its eyes.

“M-Master! Forgive me! Forgive me! They… they cast a vile—”

“Shh.” Harry stepped closer. Voldemort, in the shadows, said nothing, standing with his arms crossed behind his back like a statue.

“Kreacher, you’re remarkable. You’ve handled everything brilliantly. Without you, it all would’ve fallen apart.”

Potter knelt, his voice softening further, almost reverent.

“And now, my friend, I need you to go to the Black manor. You remember how Mistress Walburga—and I—cherish that house, don’t you?”

Harry paused. The elf trembled.

“If anyone enters, no matter who…” Harry rose slowly.

“Kreacher, just Apparate them somewhere they’ll regret defiling the sacred home of the ancient House of Black!” At these words, the elf’s ears twitched nervously.Harry really should’ve been more specific the first time... An elf couldn’t directly harm humans; it was a limitation woven into their magical nature, preventing direct attacks… unless their master gave an explicit order. Even then, the mechanism didn’t always work, especially if it contradicted deep magical foundations… But not for this elf. This wasn’t “cause harm” but “protect what I cherish as I wish.”

“Apparate them…” Harry glanced at Voldemort. “Oh! You know where Azkaban is, don’t you? Drop them right off the top of the tower!” His gaze didn’t waver from Voldemort’s crimson eyes. Well, if they survive, the Dementors and Voldemort’s people still control that place… He won’t mind, will he?

And then, in a near-whisper, edged with instinctive Parseltongue politeness, he added, “And then, Kreacher, just report back to me. That’s an order.”

Voldemort stared straight into Harry’s eyes. His pupils didn’t flicker, though they were unnaturally dilated. Kreacher meant nothing to him—neither threat nor interest. A parasite of the past, significant only to others. With a sharp, whip-like flick of his hand, the magical shackles on the elf’s thin ankles dissolved into the air, crumbling into magical dust.

The elf silently inspected its lower limbs, then turned its transfigured hand. Magic had returned—it clenched its fingers into a fist, and a faint click from the new hand confirmed its functionality. Kreacher’s face was closed, almost impenetrable, as if the creature always mirrored its master’s demeanor or caught some cerebral resonance.

It didn’t look at Harry—not directly, more at the hollow of his cheekbones.

But when Kreacher’s gaze slowly shifted to Voldemort, it sharpened. Not furious, not hysterical, just narrowed in an unreadable emotion. A look of ancient disdain, almost animalistic appraisal—as if it weren’t beholding the Darkest and Greatest Wizard, but the filth clinging to the boots of its masters. Duty. The old, shriveled elf sniffed the air toward the two figures like a beast.

“Kreacher will do it, Master. Kreacher knows where the triangular tower is…” Its transfigured hand pressed to its chest, and with a dull pop, the elf Disapparated.

Voldemort looked at Potter expectantly—“Thank you, my lord,” should have followed, shouldn’t it?

“Well, then… now…” Harry surged forward, pressing himself against Voldemort’s tall frame, his hands gripping the slender waist with a strength surprising for a youth. His groin pressed into Voldemort’s thigh, and he dragged his tongue from the angle of the jaw upward, sliding to the earlobe—wet, hot, brazen.

Apparate usss ,You promisssed— he hissed in Parseltongue.

His hand traced down the spine, slipping lower—beyond the bounds of propriety—flattening against the small of the back. The touch was insistently firm: not a request, but a claim. Their faces aligned, and in the moment Harry’s breath grazed the jaw, the Crucio and Avada Kedavra of their gazes locked.

“…or I’ll strip right here and do it all myself, my lord.”

Voldemort tilted his head back, retreating from the intimately close face before him, though he registered the sensation of the embrace. Promised? What infantile, pathetic manipulation—he had promised nothing! Hm. The boy was trying to control the situation? Not a chance! No, boy, this would happen when Lord Voldemort decided. Lord Voldemort was the boundary between choice and power! The mechanism of dominance, as old as his many rhetorical flourishes: if you impose the moment, I will take it away. Even if I crave the same thing. The reason… was solely that… undoubtedly. He could take what he wanted, who he wanted, whenever he willed it!

Tom placed a hand on the crown of Harry’s head—not pressing, but claiming, an act of control, like a god touching a tempted prophet—and Apparated to the threshold of his chambers.

Harry, flushed with heat, leaned forward, clearly intent on capturing those lips, his mouth slightly parted, his gaze clouded. But Voldemort, with effortless ease, pushed him back with a palm to the chest. Harry didn’t resist—he had expected something entirely different—and with a dull thud, he landed on his backside in the open doorway. The Snitch clinked against fabric.

“Cool off.” Voldemort glided into the chambers like a dark cloud. No jest rang louder than the fall of another’s expectations. Ha! No Potter looked more convincing than one humiliated—and still smirking. Like now, for instance.

“Why do you carry that like some trinket?” Voldemort flicked his hand toward the sprawled Potter and swept past across the carpet toward the armchairs, pausing as Nagini slithered out. Her body rose, sniffing the air, as if… her master had been with another snake?!

“Oh, this?” Harry, sitting on the dark, mirrored stone, gently held the Snitch, though his lips twisted into a wicked grin. “A gift from the Headmaster. I like it.”

Voldemort cast a suspicious glance over the figure on the floor, then shifted his gaze to the desk where the map lay.

“You’re overly sentimental, Potter, carrying around all these relics of the past.” Voldemort’s eyes returned from the blank parchment to Potter.

“Hm.” Harry rose, still smiling. Oh, Harry had plenty of secrets, Tom! He’d hardly reveal that this Snitch held one of the damned Deathly Hallows… hm… wait. Harry Potter also had the Cloak, didn’t he? And… the wand? He moved instinctively toward the armchairs by the fireplace, paused, and leaned his hands on the backrest. He froze. Analysis.

“Tonight, you sleep in your own place.”

What? Harry’s gaze flashed green. Hey,for what reason?! He wanted touch. Wanted flesh. Wanted, damn it, to be fucked or to fuck him right now! In the context of hyperfixation, especially with someone embodying so many patterns— Voldemort was, for Harry, both loss and threat, power, authority… his soul. God and Grave in one. Sex, in this context, wasn’t just an act; it was proof of their inseparability. The part of Harry still capable of analysis and planning—and oddly enough, now more lucid than ever, as if multiple traumas had narrowed his consciousness into a beam of light—felt… coherent. Without emotional clutter, there was no confusion. Without the empathic pause, no hesitation. Just a path. Just precision. Well, Tom Riddle adapted quickly enough, considering he couldn’t even take his hand on the first day… Oh, Tom wanted him too, Harry was sure! Ancient git!

Harry opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Voldemort cut him off with a sharp, almost paternal flick of his hand, silencing the words before they could form.

Without a sound, two glasses of water levitated toward the desk—as if gravity itself had bent to his will, not magic. Voldemort sank into his armchair, crossing one leg over the other, and one glass hovered before his face while the other settled gently on the table. He stared into the void, pensive.

“You demand neither food nor water… nor ask for comforts…” He grasped the glass with long, aristocratic fingers, took two measured sips, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his gaze shifted to Potter, who had taken his seat and mirrored the motion: a slow, deliberate wave of his hand, like a conductor, draining the entire glass in one bold gulp.

“…you say your paths have diverged from the friends you studied with at school.” The boy set the empty glass down on the stone with a clink. Voldemort, without touching his, levitated it smoothly back to the table’s edge. “…No, I don’t doubt you. You carried out my orders at Shell Cottage, despite your incompetence…” Voldemort interlaced his fingers, studying him. Harry flashed a warm smile and scratched the back of his head—a wordless gesture, as if to say, Well, yeah, that’s me, what’s next?

“…but, Potter, I meant to kill you. And now you’re ready to couple with me right in front of my followers?”

In Voldemort’s mind, an image flared: the boy in a cloak two sizes too large, on his first day in the interrogation cell. I’m here as a byproduct of your thirst for immortality… No.

He would definitely fuck him.

But… “interactions” with men, frankly, Voldemort had never practiced. He hadn’t even considered it. No, of course, he didn’t count those ancient oral caresses he’d received; he didn’t even regard them as proper sexual acts, barely recalled they’d happened at all. But this… this would merely be a ritual of symmetry… yes…

Harry frowned. What absurdity—in front of his followers? He’d been invisible, for Merlin’s sake.

Voldemort cleared his throat.

“…Ahem. In any case.” Another wave of his hand, and a plate of fresh fruit levitated onto the table beside the map and shrunken bag: thin, translucent slices, as if carved not by a knife but by a beam of laser-like magic—each cut perfect, like an anatomical display rather than food.

“Have you not felt any mental shifts in your perception?”

Harry froze, tempted to laugh. Not felt? Merlin, every single day… But Tom didn’t need to know that—it’d definitely keep them from fucking tonight. Hm...

Harry pressed a finger to his chin, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling… ugh, it could use some decoration…

“Well?”

“What?”

Voldemort’s shoulder twitched, a barely perceptible motion, but enough to feel a spark of fury within—the greatest wizard alive, ignored. Oh, he’d never get used to that…

“Oh, come on, I’m just joking, my lord. My apologies.” Harry’s smile warmed. “Honestly—no. But it took me nearly a month to process being a Horcrux. I thought about it alone. And, well… I just… want you because I feel…”

Potter lowered his gaze, biting his lower lip—slowly, with delicate uncertainty, something almost innocent, almost childlike. Endearing. Charming. That pose, that look… He wanted to seem like a foolish, naive, lovesick youth.

“I don’t think, by the way, it’s the Horcrux’s influence.” The boy’s gaze sharpened, studying Voldemort’s face for a reaction. Curious—why had Voldemort worked so long on his Horcrux? Regardless, Harry hadn’t noticed any changes… and Voldemort hadn’t commented on the wand… hm…

“And when you destroyed them, nothing either?”

Pause.

“Absolutely nothing, my lord…” Harry’s gaze drifted wistfully in the direction of his turned head. “By the way, that was some brilliant magic you used on the elf! Transfiguration, right? I transfigured money while I was in hiding…”

“What nonsense are you spouting? Transfiguring currency, like food, is impossible.” Voldemort waved dismissively at the boy. What was he after? Trying to seem competent after Voldemort mentioned his failure at Shell Cottage? The blank parchment of the boy’s father levitated before him. Potter gleefully paired a slice of apple with some meat. Voldemort exhaled, making a decision.

“Come here.” His tone was almost tender, against his own will. Voldemort cleared his throat faintly, as if to banish the cause of it—not that he was the cause, of course!

Harry rose, and in the single step he took, the dark-upholstered armchair seemed to exhale, subtly expanding its lines to accommodate a second body—just enough to avoid crowding, yet close enough to touch. Harry settled beside Voldemort, his waist in its tight black leather brushing the soft silk of the dark robe.

A moment later, Voldemort’s left arm encircled him. The motion was fluid—deliberate. Harry felt the crook of the elbow settle along the small of his back, slender fingers drifting lightly over his side, pausing there...

Harry froze.

What was this? He wasn’t pretending…

It was like a sudden glitch in the system: not a threat, not a demand, not control. Something… a soft, quiet pulse. He didn’t know how to interpret it. Forgot. As if his body had received a signal erased from memory, like so many forgotten names… And as he sat there, his thoughts dulled under this strange sensation… as if someone, for a fleeting moment, demanded nothing—just was. Wasn’t that what he’d been seeking, after all? Harry took a deep breath and let his head fall onto the sharp, almost fleshless shoulder…yes… even Tom’s blood is the same… when Harry inhaled, the breath came out strangely ragged, broken.

Voldemort made a sharp movement, and in his palm, as if sprouting from the bone itself, appeared the Elder Wand. Overlong, it looked less like a magical weapon and more like a sixth finger, unnaturally blackened against his pale hand, blending into its owner’s anatomy.Long, elegant fingers, dry and precise, gripped the handle—and in that same instant, his hold on Potter tightened. He pulled the boy closer, as if Harry’s body might vanish at any moment, evaporating along with the relic. A muffled exhale escaped Potter’s lips.

“Activate it.” The voice was even, but the tension in it pulsed with magic, wrapping Harry like a delicate cocoon.

Potter tilted his head along the pale neck, inhaling the scent… strange… how had he not noticed before? Sea breeze, smoke, acrid metal, and something… familiar. He sank into the scent, nestling deeper into the embrace, like a parasite yearning to curl beneath its host’s ribcage—a faint shift, just adjusting, just pressing closer.

Harry reached out—slowly, as if in a dream—and let his half-lidded gaze drift to the wand, his head still resting against the neck. As the wood settled into his palm, Voldemort, gently but unyieldingly, pressed Harry’s body closer with his elbow. In that instant, emerald sparks pulsed along the wand, from base to tip, as if flowing through the wood’s veins—glimmering like phosphenes, as if an inner energy had risen slowly from its core to its end.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good…” Harry whispered, pressing the wand’s tip to the parchment. His face slid along the jaw, inhaling…

Voldemort didn’t even glance at the parchment, though the moment the words were spoken, black lines began to sprout across its surface, “greeting” the closed page. Harry’s gaze remained fixed on the blazing eyes before him. And—as if in slow motion—he placed his hand, still holding the wand, into Voldemort’s palm. Those fingers closed around it, softly encircling the foreign hand.

Harry’s breath hitched—and in the next moment, his lips brushed against the other’s. Lightly. Barely. As if he kissed not lips but the memory of them, or the idea. It lasted a second, but it was enough—for the kiss was not attraction, but a transfer of meaning.

Harry pulled back first, studying Voldemort’s calm face, and if he were delirious, he might have called that nearly inhuman face almost tender. Harry rubbed the crown of his head against the jaw, as if seeking a point of balance. Settling, as if in a void, and this man was the only thing anchoring him. Voldemort gripped the Elder Wand a fraction tighter—it vanished into the fold of his sleeve in a heartbeat, as if drawn back into his body.

“What the hell?! That’s Hogwarts?!” Voldemort’s eyes widened, his gaze darting to the map, though his fingers still clutched the foreign leather of the boy’s cloak in a vice-like grip. He stared at the emerging lines with disbelief—and, if unasked, with awe.

Truly, he hadn’t expected it. No one would have. To use homunculus charms on such a vast space… A wave of his hand—the map unfurled in all directions, and Voldemort’s sharp gaze tracked a tiny dot: “Peeves.” The map even showed poltergeist?! How had a bunch of kids created this?!

“Pretty cool, right? It helped me a lot… By the way, back in third year, I found out Peter Pettigrew was a rat. Didn’t believe it at first, I’d heard he was killed by Black… ha! Listen, it just hit me…” Harry stifled a laugh, rubbing against the foreign neck. “The Weasley twins gave me this map, and you know what’s funny—they never mentioned that some guy named ‘Peter Pettigrew’ kept showing up in their brother’s bed.”

“Given your manners, I’m hardly surprised by anything anymore,” Voldemort muttered, glancing sideways. “Those you mentioned have likely seen worse in that school. Clearly, Albus Dumbledore was busy with anything but discipline… hm…”

Harry snorted. Ron would never kiss a man. Then he recalled fifth year—Umbridge torturing students right in the school, and the Headmaster not only failed to intervene but seemed to deliberately step back, as always. It wasn’t quite anger Harry felt—more a strange suspicion: the only piece Dumbledore was ever ready to sacrifice in the game was Harry Potter. The Chosen Pawn with a golden name.

Voldemort’s gaze tracked the Carrows moving through the corridors, pausing as it caught on the label “Defence Against the Dark Arts Classroom.” Curious—did curse still hold?

“So you cursed the classroom?!” Harry burst out, laughing. “Ha-ha-ha! Listen, the old man said it was nearly impossible to keep a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. No one lasted more than a year!” Harry might’ve broken into full-blown hysteria, but the comfort and calm wrapping around him softened it into something almost teasing. Tom was so damn cool! He was denied the post twice—and instead of letting it go, he curses it for everyone else~

“Not actually cursed.” Voldemort’s tone was measured. “It’s something more intricate. The spell operates on the principle of inverse fortune—like Felix Felicis, but in reverse...”

Pause.

His gaze drifted into the void ahead. Then, a sharp turn to the left, where Potter nestled against him, warm and soft as some furry beast. How dare he…

“You…” Voldemort’s mouth opened, a hiss beginning to form… Fine. Nothing critical. It didn’t allow… mind-reading. Did it? He wasn’t touching his thoughts… That old, familiar gag reflex stirred—as if someone had blown green snot into their palm and smeared it across his brain. He’d have recoiled at the very idea that the boy could now interact so strangely… but: the source mattered.

“Really? Blimey, my favorite was in second year. Had to face your Horcrux, poor bastard—nearly pissed himself. I gave him a kick up the arse straight into the tunnel, thought he’d smash his skull, and we’d land softly on him…”

Harry rambled on while Voldemort tracked the moving dots on the map. June already. By July, they’d need to start sending out letters, and the list of professors had to be finalized by mid-month. Hm. For the Headmaster’s post, he was considering several candidates. One, of course, stood out as the stronger contender… Perhaps he should draft the appointment decree now—finalize it with the Ministry by morning for a signature by noon…

Voldemort waved his right hand, his left still firmly holding Harry close.

“By the way, it’s not ‘Defence’ anymore, just ‘Dark Arts,’ right?” Harry remarked lazily, watching a black quill and parchment levitate in the air. They hovered beside the open Marauder’s Map, where Harry suddenly noticed: Mrs. Norris and… Argus Filch?

“What?” he exhaled, startled, sitting up slightly. “I thought Argus was dead. You left a Squib alive?”

Potter glanced at Tom, shifting to settle more comfortably.

“What?” Voldemort repeated, his eyes fixed on the map. “The castle registers owls, rats, elves, and two Felis Catus. Tunnels lead from Hogsmeade; Hogwarts is riddled with passages… No Animagus. No traces of magical activity.”

He fell silent for a moment. Harry caught a flicker of something in Tom’s expression.

Pause.

Squib? Someone had enchanted a Squib to wander Hogwarts? Why? Was someone… plotting something? Voldemort would need to personally inspect how both Carrows and Travers had handled their tasks…

Harry began to fidget more actively, and Voldemort took notice… hm, Harry thought, he couldn’t quite recall, honestly, how he’d fallen asleep so quickly last night? He’d been reading, then woke to find Nagini slithering over him… oh, right, Harry sometimes forgot the presence of that monstrous, as many would call it, reptile.

His gaze slid across the room, lingering on the serpent’s head resting on the floor—Nagini, coiled in rings behind his empty armchair.

Harry snorted, as if forgiving her presence, and deliberately draped a leg and arm over Voldemort, pressing himself closer, his whole body flush against him—this time, Tom wouldn’t pull any vile physiological tricks! And then—a wand flashed before his face. Seriously? Just because he’d distracted him from something “super important”?

For a split second, Harry genuinely tensed. A flashback of Tom’s words flared in his mind—truth be told, Harry remembered almost everything word for word, especially the way Tom said it. The stench of armpits and betrayal already hung in the air before Harry’s nose—but instead, something far worse arrived, if the youth himself were to describe it.

A nonverbal Somnus plunged Potter into instant sleep, his body relaxing, though his grip around Voldemort didn’t loosen…

Voldemort drew a breath through narrow slits. Comfortable. He registered it as one might note symptoms, tracking mutations… The quill was nearly finished drafting the template for approval, scratching out the final lines: “…Theodore Nott Sr. appointed Headmaster of Hogwarts, effective immediately. Authority extends to administrative and magical governance. Retroactive enforcement not applicable.”

Voldemort rested his hand on Potter’s head. His long fingers slipped briefly into a lock of hair before he issued a silent command: the boy’s body lifted gently from his chest, rising as if hoisted by the shoulder blades. He slept, his head lolling forward, arms dangling limp at his sides.

Сloak on the boy had always behaved strangely—stretching, bending, as though immersed in a viscous medium rather than simply caught by air.

Voldemort watched as the garments slid from the boy’s body toward a transfigured coat rack. A faint clink. Metal? He registered the sound but didn’t analyze it—his attention was scarcely on the material.

Voldemort allowed himself to look. He hadn’t done so yesterday.

Before him was a body. Harry… Narrow shoulders, a slender waist, taut hips—and those two hollows at the base of the spine, which anatomists call “Venus dimples,” and poets, “traps of desire”...

To Voldemort, everything about Potter seemed beautiful. The only thing… without shadows. Not a single one. A divinely disturbing phenomenon. How many such phenomena did Potter gather within himself?

The emerald firelight failed to uncover even a trace of shade or gloom on him; the boy seemed to absorb—or reject—the light. His figure, faintly damp with sweat, in the green glow of the dim chamber, looked sculpted from marble and submerged in a black lake—so that its contours were covered in a veil of green silt… He evoked the need to look longer than permitted.

Voldemort curled his fingers under his chin, elbow resting against the armrest. His gaze lingered on the dimples at the base of Harry’s spine—a sharp, hot surge twisted through his gut, forcing an intake of breath.

He permitted himself neither movement nor even an internal remark, as Harry’s body slowly settled onto the bed.

His index finger traced nervously along his jaw, stroking. Potter was truly beautiful. Young. And he himself? Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort?!

The thought slithered within, a vicious, slimy shadow nurtured by a young Tom Riddle… Two decades—then a century. By eternity’s measure, it was nothing, but in the coordinates of solitude… it was a palpable hollow. A horror not rooted in fear of death, but in the impossibility of co-existence in that eternity, a sticky, vile whisper: You’ll always be alone, needed by no one, needing no one.

For there was no equal. Not among wizards, nor alchemists, nor even his most loyal followers. His mind, a symphony in a range beyond human hearing, always crashed into the void, unanswered… but…

As Voldemort pondered, Nagini slithered toward him, curling around the black armchair. The emerald firelight danced on her scales, her hiss uncertain—she still recalled how Voldemort had snapped at her last night…

Ss Anxiety again, Masster? Causse?

Voldemort turned a pensive gaze to his Horcrux. Yes… the boy’s tics weren’t the only thing gripping his mind… but such an act could merely be a reaction to the stress Potter endured, trapped in that “Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder” and the subsequent Crucio from Voldemort… Perhaps it wouldn’t happen again.

Boy. Ifsss it persistsss, don’t crawl to him!

Nagini’s tongue flicked in the air… She only wanted to help; the strange creature felt fear, but it was important to her master—he’d even given it a name…

A wave of his hand. Two tomes on medical charms—standard training material for St. Mungo’s Healers that he had brought in the morning—shot toward him from the shelves along a sharp trajectory. Though they contained their share of outdated and absurd material—such as references to respiratory leeches as a means of restoring neural conductivity after mental curses—they remained foundational.

Another wave, and from the farthest corner, his private domain shrouded in shadow, Muggle books glided into the air, bound in library leather: Gray’s Anatomy and Pernkopf’s Atlas. He’d stolen them in the ‘60s, of course, as Voldemort explored countless ways to return to existence should his current body be destroyed. Even this body, sustained by Nagini, drew on knowledge gleaned from studying medicine and healing.

…When the boy was fourteen, Voldemort had used the Deathly Artifacts: a father’s bone, taken without consent; a servant’s flesh, freely given; an enemy’s blood, forcibly taken… The last—Potter’s blood… Perhaps it was their shared blood… oh… Harry was truly made for him… a universal formula, woven into a living matrix…

From where Harry lay, a hoarse exhale broke the silence. Not the sound of waking, but of a body slipping into something deeper than sleep. As if breath were pushed out not by lungs, but by fear.

Tom spun sharply, as if catching the scent of smoke in a sealed room.

The boy’s lips parted at once, and a sound burst from his mouth—primal, without prelude, without crescendo. A pure howl, with no beginning. A voice torn from within, ripped from the throat of someone whose mind, in that moment, saw death.

“Silencio,” Tom whispered, and the spell settled over the scream like a leaden veil, muffling it to absolute silence.

But that only worsened the spectacle: the space filled with soundless, animalistic convulsions. Potter wasn’t merely tossing — he resisted sleep itself. His body jerked with unnatural spasms; his legs twitched or stretched into cramping arcs, and his hands… were searching. They grasped at his own face, as if the cause of his torment lay precisely there. His fingers scratched with a focused, almost mechanical obsession, digging into the skin beneath his eyes — not in pursuit of pain, but as if something needed to be retrieved. Two fingers slipped beneath an eyelid, as though the source lay behind his eyes. The fingertips, slick with ocular secretions and blood, tried to extract the eye —as if something embedded in the orbits had to be removed.

And at that moment, the will of the chamber’s master took hold. The bed’s metal stirred. The bars uncoiled — not with a creak, but with the silent grace of transfiguration — and wrapped around Harry’s limbs, binding each wrist, each ankle, with careful, deliberate precision — allowing not a single millimeter of movement.

Voldemort didn’t move. He merely inhaled. His cheeks puffed slightly, as though drawing in the full weight of the moment. Then — a sharp exhale through pursed lips, dry and whistling. Like a necromancer realizing that what he had summoned was not a spirit, but something older than death… And in Salazar’s name — what was he supposed to do with it now?!

Voilà! — echoed mockingly in his mind, unmistakably in Potter’s voice.  How many problems could one Harry Potter possibly cause him?!

Chapter 34

Notes:

Oh, I apologize for dedicating space to secondary characters—it's just that I'll be using them later, and I'm not a fan of abrupt exposition. Hopefully, these small, obvious dialogues gave at least some idea of what they're about. Oh, and I also drew a lil doodle of them, eh. Well, this chapter is mostly just anchors... hope that's alright, because this is going to be a long ride...eh...

The café was bathed in amber light and a quiet hum—spoons clinked against cups, the till beeped with the morning rush, someone laughed, a few voices murmured into phones, and the scent of freshly ground coffee wove into the buzz of conversation and the warm air drifting in from the street.

At a two-person table by the window sat a man: silver hair neatly trimmed, a matching silver beard cut with ruler-like precision. His straight back, clad in an impeccably pressed navy suit, betrayed the disciplined posture of a veteran.

He slowly raised his cup to his lips, his cold grey gaze never straying from the passersby outside, discreetly scanning each face. He knew he was being watched. The question wasn’t whether there was surveillance—it was whether they’d dare approach. Every movement of a passing figure was noted automatically, as if he were matching them to a mental sketch. The loaded pistol beneath his blazer was betrayed only by a faint heft at his lower right side.

The newcomer’s gaze shot immediately to the left, locking onto the man he sought. Three black rings gleamed in his left ear, a bar piercing above them, the ear red and with crusted blood. On his lower lip, a fresh piercing—a titanium ring against inflamed skin. The young man’s face looked pale under the warm lamplight, his dark hair styled in a deliberately tousled fringe. Kohl-lined green eyes swept the surrounding tables before settling on Ben.

The young man grinned and strode confidently to the empty seat across from the former intelligence officer, sitting without asking permission. A heavy leather coat with a long hem draped over the chair. A chain wallet hung from his belt alongside a black ankh amulet of oxidized metal.

“Whoa! It’s you!” the idiot exclaimed loudly, his voice carrying a theatrical flair, as if greeting an old colleague—the only place passersby might assume these two had crossed paths. “Blimey, I wasn’t sure it was you! How long’s it been? Still working the same gig?”

The grey gaze warmed on cue, lips spreading into a practiced, deceitful smile. They’d only met once before.

“Yeah, you got out just in time.”

In that moment, the waitress approached, her dark burgundy apron embroidered with the café’s name, a glossy plastic badge pinned to it. Her hand hovered over the notepad in her other hand. Chomp. Her mouth twisted with the chewing of gum, moving in tandem with her question.

“Coffee or something else?” she asked, voice flat with disinterest.

“Black,” said Bright. “No milk, no sugar, no hopes.”

She cast a barely concealed sneer at the young man.Lingering on his dark, greasy hair, then walked off without jotting anything down.

Two men, as if on cue, clasped hands across the small square table—a touch longer than necessary. Both assessed the other’s grip. Old man’s sharp grey gaze flicked to the thin, pale hand in his own, dwarfed by comparison. A gaudy ring with a skull and serpent on the thumb? Telling. Their eyes met—fleeting, but deep enough to remind them: one encounter was enough for both.

The young man gazed thoughtfully out the window.

“Funny… in this weather, you always want to be in a basement, eh?”

Not a muscle twitched on the older man’s face. He, too, looked out the window, turned away from those present, his faint reflection the only hint he was speaking.

“Agreed… or at least underground. Less noise there.”

Pause.

They tore their gazes from the window and fixed them on each other.

The older man cleared his throat and, with a brief shift, settled back in the cheap metal chair.

“If you want to be useful, I’d suggest a less conspicuous appearance,” Ben said quietly, not looking at his companion. He sipped his coffee.

Harold smirked and slowly reached into the pocket of his leather trousers. He pulled out a mobile phone with a retractable antenna, weathered by many nights. Next, two pagers landed on the table: one with a cracked screen, the other in a case with initials and crudely scratched runes. Finally, from an inner coat pocket, he produced a small rectangle—a pocket organizer with a fold-out keyboard and a green screen. Ben’s eyes settled on the device in Harold’s hands; where the hinge connected the screen, another component seemed fused to it—only a trained intelligence officer’s eye would notice the hand-modified enhancement.

“Unobtrusive is when no one looks at you. But when everyone looks—and no one understands what you’re doing—that’s art,” Harold tossed out, eyes fixed on the device’s screen, leaning back with a nod that flicked his fringe aside.

Another sip of coffee. A glance out the window.

“I suppose…” Ben began calmly, not turning.

“You listen to London After Midnight, eh? Bet your Amanda would’ve loved it… Such a pity.”

The voice was lazy, almost distracted, as if he’d thrown out something trivial.

The goth figure’s dark green, kohl-lined eyes lifted from the Psion 5’s screen, fingers pausing on the keys—slender, with neatly painted black nails. The corners of his mouth twitched faintly. A smirk.

Ben sipped his coffee, not a muscle stirring at the mention of his late daughter’s name.

“Yes, I suppose you might’ve even been friends,” he replied. “Considering she studied at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d met.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“And my condolences… Your mother was a talented artist.”

“Hm. I didn’t finish.” Smirk. “Found a more… interesting hobby.” Harold gave a barely audible snort. He snapped the PDA shut and set it beside the phone as the waitress returned to their table.

A cup appeared on the table—the liquid inside paler than it should have been. No froth, no depth of aroma. More like warm water that had merely passed by the coffee beans… no hopes…

Harold eyed the cup as if it were a crime scene. His brows arched in theatrical horror, as though someone had just mispronounced Baphomet’s name aloud. He reached for the cup, sniffed it without tasting the drink, and set it back down with an expression of profound disgust, a faint sound escaping his lips. It’d be grand if every establishment had a website on the global network where you could rant about the swill they serve for the whole world to see!

“Kindly, we won’t be long,” Ben said politely, his voice steady, to the chewing waitress hovering expectantly.

Both men smiled—broad, strained smiles that seemed friendly in public but could mean anything in private.

A moment of silence.

Bright took a napkin in both hands, carefully tore off a narrow strip, and dropped it into the mug filled with something that only resembled coffee by its hue.

“Oh, you picked a table with a perfect view, eh? Both exits in plain sight—just in case something goes down and you need to scarper. Old habits, officer… They cling to you like mold, don’t they?”

The silver-haired man slowly placed his used spoon on the saucer, not blinking once.

“Beg pardon. I chose a table where you couldn’t miss me.”

A glance out the window.

“Pray tell, does that metal in your lip make you feel like a rebel when you meddle in systems you don’t fully grasp? What do you want?”

Bright smirked, another scrap of fabric sinking into the “coffee.”

“I understand enough—more than you, old fart, stuck in your wet Cold War dreams. You’re all the same. Borders used to mean something: no one could speak across them, scribes scratched clay tablets read only by neighbors. Now? That’s history. We’ve got TCP! The planet’s ready to negotiate with itself, person to person, no middlemen.” A cold, hateful glare at the man opposite. “…no freaks in suits. I won’t let the likes of you stand in the way of the new century. The Dark Lord’s chosen to reveal himself now, on the cusp of this new age—a sign that the old must retire. Everything he’d said…” The young man froze for a moment, as though an image that could not be named had flashed before his eyes.

The young man twisted his face into a manic expression, tilting his head and leaning forward.

“It’s my destiny, my chance, and I’ll seize it fully. If you show the slightest hint of anything, and I begin to suspect you…”

“Beg pardon,” the older man interrupted, thrusting a hand forward sharply. Not a hint of hesitation. He knew exactly what this smug dropout would say, whatever he fancied himself. “I know where you live. And on the night you least expect me, I’ll ensure you understand the cost of your betrayal.” He lifted his chin, drawing a breath. He meant precisely what he said.

After a brief pause, he added, cloyingly polite.

“By the way, you must agree, no one would believe an old gentleman in a perfectly pressed suit is capable of anything beyond a game of bridge.”

“Look at you, playing the tough overseer, you old codger!” Harold sneered. “I’m here now because of the Dark Lord, and I believe he can start changing everything—so much that I’m ready, you know, to play bridge with an old gentleman,eh…” He made air quotes with his fingers.

“If you’re here to choke the future with your grotesque games, or if I find out you’re genuinely working for the government, if you spill anything, I’ll tear you apart atom by atom and offer you as a sacrifice to my lord. All your achievements will be erased, your papers will vanish, and no spy tricks will save you. The millennium’s coming, Ben, and I won’t let you drag us back. This is a sign. And the Darkest chose me for a reason.”

Another torn scrap—handled by long fingers, as if it were not a café napkin but a fragment of the old world.

The muttering continued.

“…I know your kind, old fart. You lot, mired in politics, military budgets, breeding empty people who endlessly…”

“Hm.” Ben coolly lowered his eyelids. Genius? Was that about him? Information said that in his early twenties, Harold had already written code deemed “unbreakable” by government experts—complex encryption protocols for internal departmental communications. He’d built a database with millions of entries and was now designing programs for emerging political parties, forecasting electoral behavior based on statistics, press, and even television mentions—a real-time monitoring system capable of detecting shifts in public sentiment and generating graphs.

“…What, planning to resurrect your daughter with magic, eh? Hit the mark?”

The silver-haired man allowed himself a deliberate raise of an eyebrow, as if a dog had just spoken. He might have snorted at the absurdity of such a claim…

“I have no intention of disturbing her peace.”

“What? Seriously?” The young man leaned back, tipping the chair. His entire body—long nails, black polish, silver chains—mocked the space around him.

Pause.

Pfft. After a short breath, the older man crossed his arms over his chest and spoke with steady confidence. 

“You know, most go for Marlboro, but for certain reasons I stick to Parliament… or Embassy.” The pause weighed heavy on the last two words. “But the taste… off. Perhaps they should rethink the blend. Maybe go… Silk Cut?”

The goth stared at the older man, eyes wide, then burst into laughter, loud enough to halt the clinking of spoons in the room for a moment.

“Ha, so you’re a stand-up comic too, old man, eh? Got it.” A predatory grin flashed uneven teeth. “One BBC’s enough for this whole graveyard, right? Gonna be a Teletubby in retirement?”

Faint, barely perceptible smile touched the thin lips framed by a pristine white beard.

“I’ll pass. I don’t work with television.”

With a deliberate verbal “hm,” Bright reached into the pocket of his long black coat and pulled out something clenched in his fist.

Ben’s dull, piercing gaze didn’t waver from the pale, slender hand as it slowly opened over the table. A metallic clank—a bracelet hit the surface: heavy, forged from dark alloy, shaped like a coiled serpent, its scales carved with such precision it spoke of exorbitant cost. The tail entered the open maw, and at the clasp, a skull with empty eye sockets threaded the serpent’s body through its jaws, as if swallowing it.

“What, think I hid a bug in it, eh?”

A dry, curt chuckle.

“What do you take me for?” Ben replied coolly, his expression unchanged.

“But admit it, old man… it’s nice, isn’t it?” The goth quirked a brow and, in the same motion, gathered his devices from the table, stuffing them into the cavernous pockets of his coat.

Ben lifted the bracelet, rolling it in his palm. The weight of the metal felt like the weight of the name-that-must-not-be-spoken. A symbol, cleverly disguised as jewelry… a mark visible only to those meant to see it. Yes. Nice. Logical.

In the starry latitudes where space knows no bounds, the front of light called “morning” glides across the surface of the third planet—the one where even the most mundane act is named “destiny”…

Harry stretched, slow and languid, as if his joints were filled with honey and indolence. “Ah…!” he groaned, as though he hadn’t woken but had just materialized anew in a body that welcomed him with delight.

He blinked up at the ceiling. Hm… what should he… Harry snapped his head toward the fireplace at a rustle.

Voldemort sat in an armchair, one leg crossed over the other, staring at him. At that moment, the quill made its final flourish.

“Oh… good… er… morning? Or what time is it?” Harry mumbled, blinking, and with a light flick of his hand, summoned his glasses from… a table? They landed squarely on his nose. The lenses caught the green light and glinted. Hm… had Tom not slept at all? Harry rose to his feet, unbothered that the dark fabric of his boxers was hopelessly stretched over his cock: firm, straight, its outline stark through the thin material,glans pressed against the waistband, the curve veering slightly to one side. Harry tilted his head, studying the pensive, silent figure: Voldemort, like Newton in a painting wrestling with the law of gravity, sat motionless, his face pale and empty—a corpse’s face. For ideas and thoughts were the most destructive forces in the universe…

Red pupils stared into space, hardly focusing deliberately on the foreign erection. While Harry Potter slept, nearly six hours had passed, and his wild behavior had ceased only a few hours ago. No spell Tom used had worked. Astonishingly, Voldemort had swiftly quelled the indignation that would’ve once flared—“What the hell?! I don’t know?!” His brilliant mind found solace in tactical retreat, setting the “healing” task aside for later. After all, his physical restraints were helping. No changes, no problem. Why waste time on it?

Voldemort sat in silence, broken only by Potter’s thrashing on the bed and Nagini’s hissing, and thought. Like, how long had he been “torturing” him for his minions’ sake? A few days? Long enough. Hardly would Voldemort explain anything: he’d made it abundantly clear that Potter’s fate was in his hands,it was simply a matter of revoking his status.

“Oh, where’re you looking?~” The narrow pupil widened as Harry drew closer. Potter stood within arm’s reach, flexing a muscle, causing his cock to twitch in his underwear.

Harry wasn’t hinting at anything, only imagining how thrilling it’d be to grab the back of that head and press that face to his groin. But he voiced nothing, merely lifting a leg to step closer…

The Dark Lord’s hand didn’t move from cradling his chin, but the other made a sharp gesture. To Harry’s surprise, he felt a crackle of magic around him, as if it were absorbing something nearby. With a faint snap, it erupted, unleashing a surge of water. It struck Harry’s body, enveloping him from shoulders to hips, yet left no puddle, no droplet—the moisture vanished the moment it lost contact with his skin, evaporating in a thin, almost imperceptible mist.

“Don’t think such things faze me, but I remind you, you still need to…” A heavy, drawn-out inhale. “respect personal boundaries. Some things… require the right moment.”

Harry pursed his lips. He allowed himself a few seconds of exaggerated stillness—perhaps Tom would sense his icy waves of indignation? Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Voldemort found Harry’s presence and its effect anything but cold. No matter what he did…

Did Harry seriously not twig? Tom got a hard-on from half the things Harry did—like Harry wouldn’t notice. But what was the deal? Some geriatric bloke ritual? Some power-trip thing? Or was it just a “he’s a lad please nooo” sort of fetish? He smoothly waved a hand through the air, and a nonverbal cleansing charm washed away the remaining dampness, leaving a sensation of pristine clarity. Hm. Such simple spells worked in this space—perhaps he should try an Accio outside the room…

“Get dressed.” Another wave of the pale, slender hand, sharper than before, and the levitating books and scrolls—covered overnight with his meticulous, calligraphic notes—began stacking themselves neatly. Voldemort had documented every detail: the effect—or lack thereof—of each curse on Potter’s hysterical nocturnal storm. Or whatever it was called. Speaking of which, a scroll with duty rosters levitated too… had he forgotten anything?

Voldemort’s lips twisted. Potter. In one of those old, useless tomes—on which he’d hesitate even to cast an Accio—there was a theory, treated with grave seriousness, that such states stemmed from so-called womb hysteria, supposedly caused by the organ wandering the body. Amusing. By Victorian medicine’s logic, Harry Potter would be suffering from… prostate hysteria. No, Voldemort definitely needed to update his library…On the agenda: to plunder the Hogwarts library—well, only the bare necessities would be taken, of course—to call at the bookshops… hm… perhaps even visit France? …odd thoughts; what had that to do with anything? In any case, Voldemort was no Healer; when the question of his own ending had arisen, he had studied everything within his reach and seized upon anything that bore even the remotest connection to his purpose. The alchemical ritual he had chosen had, in any event, been… successful.

“By the way, what happened to Filch in the end? Is he still on the map?” Potter lifted his legs, slipping into trousers that floated toward him.

“Who?” With a wave of Tom’s hand, Harry’s hair seemed to harden as if coated in wax, then a gust of air shook the strands, restoring their usual disheveled state. The gesture was both intimate and habitual: not so much care as an innate drive to control what he deemed his. My body, my will.

Voldemort’s gaze shifted to the forgotten map hovering near the armchair by the fireplace. Hm. He’d discussed Nott’s potential appointment to such a post; Nott was the ideal candidate—calculating, meticulous, intolerant of his own errors…

“Squib!” Harry rolled his eyes with an “argh!” and, exasperated, stepped forward, leaning over the levitating map. Wasn’t it Tom who’d asked him about mental changes? Seems he could use a memory check himself…

“You forget yourself, worm!” Voldemort sucked in air so sharply it whistled. Yes, it was that thing again—unclear whether it was spoken aloud, and an indescribable feeling altogether. In the past, entering a mind felt like peering into someone else’s dream from the sidelines… That’s what he wanted—carefully measured access. And only when he chose! Not… this!

“He’s gone,” Harry said, tracing a finger through the air above the map, his eyes tracking movements. “Have you even been there? Maybe you…”

“I was,” Voldemort cut in. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a room ablaze with hellish flames flared in his mind, while a cloak drifted past him slowly. A crimson eye cracked open, following the strange fabric.

“Where’d you get that?” The Dark Lord finally deigned to ask aloud, ignoring the boy’s earlier question for certain reasons…

“What? This?” Harry didn’t turn, his emerald eyes still roaming the map. “Transfigured it from Malfoy’s cloak. They were in that room.”

Harry slid his arms into the tight leather sleeves, his gaze fixed on the moving dots. “Listen, what if we change appearance—maybe pass as his father? Maybe he’d tell us everything he’s planning?” The verbal torrent burst from the boy’s lips, a projection of his obsessive ideas.

Voldemort let Potter’s suggestions settle. So much absurdity in one monologue—he’d never heard the like, well, except perhaps from Potter himself… charming… Change appearance? Pose as the father? Planning? No, of course, Voldemort remembered the boy kept Polyjuice Potion… His ruby pupils glinted with suspicion as his eyes narrowed: mentions of the Malfoy heir kept recurring, and it wasn’t the fact itself but the strange frequency that caught him. Of all the Death Eaters’ offspring from those school years, Potter singled out this one… of course… both teenagers...

“What do you mean by change appearance? How much Polyjuice Potion do you have? Who?” Tom threw out. Potter had transfigured his clothes… had mentioned he could change his appearance back at his meeting with Yaxley—clearly, something was off here… the mention of transfiguring currency… Voldemort’s thoughts wove together yet never formed a single coherent picture, for the simple reason that he was incapable of perceiving anything of the sort… No, but just imagine—for Voldemort it had been a shock when Harry Potter simply walked out of the bedroom, and now there was a possibility that Potter—…what even was it?

Harry lifted his gaze from the map into the void. Oh, was this impossible again? Why had he even said it?! If Harry wasn’t mistaken, this was the second time he’d heard something like this? Third? But… a spell? Hm, pity he didn’t have his wand on him; he’d love to test something based on what he’d been thinking about last night… Why hadn’t he asked yet? Probably because he hadn’t felt an urgent need. It wasn’t that Harry believed he could cast without it, but that wand wasn’t his. It felt as if it didn’t exist at all, so the thought of it surfaced only in rare moments—when an idea snagged him like a thorn, threatening to take root into something greater.

Potter, overall, aside from landing in this trap… by his own fault, naturally… was drawing logical conclusions. Perhaps he truly had reasons for suspicion? And it wasn’t about some attraction between young Malfoy and Potter? No, of course not—his Horcrux belonged to him. 

Voldemort would sift through Lucius’s mind when the boy was asleep or otherwise occupied — the decision about timing presented as fact. And it was not about fatigue, nor about calculation — merely that the remaining time could be spent differently... to spend a day at Hogwarts with Harry Potter… madness… charming…

“So, about the Squib?” Harry pressed, hoping his lack of response would be overlooked. He followed Voldemort’s figure with his eyes as it drew level with him and the hovering map. “He’s not on the map. What floor did he vanish on? There’s a passage to Honeydukes on the fourth…”

“I know!” Voldemort’s hand slashed through the air, matching the sharpness of his words… he’d simply ignore it, sidestep the topic. As if the boy would notice…

…And as if Tom would admit to the boy he’d forgotten about the map entirely… Of course, he’d glanced at it, tracked the two dots, but how and where they vanished, Tom hadn’t seen. Hm. What nonsense, who cares! In theory, all the relics were still in place, nothing had been stolen or broken into, and even the Restricted Section was kept under constant enchantment. The pitiful house-elves slaving in the kitchens remained the only semi-sentient beings around…

His ego would never allow him to regard most things as a threat. And as for the sense of "fear" that he had only two Horcrux left—that thought would at times slither nastily along his convolutions, yes, the eternal and personal Boggart of Tom Riddle… but now—“no threat”—and the prefrontal cortex, instead of assessing risks, was occupied with anything else, for instance the absurd cartography of boy’s penis to determine proportions.

“I’ll handle it. Tell me about him. What’s this ‘Norris’?” He recalled the second name mentioned alongside and extended a hand over the low black table between the armchairs, his palm clenching into a tight fist—several parchments instantly shrank, compressed to the size of a fingernail, barely visible scraps that quietly levitated and slipped into a hidden pocket of his robe.

Meanwhile, Harry deftly caught thin slices of peach from the air, like paper scraps, trapping them between his fingers. Hm. His gaze slid along the fireplace to the bookshelf by the entrance, where essentials were kept… and a tangible cube of blue ether—a basic storage charm where Tom kept fruit and the like, a spell familiar in every household, but to Harry, a mystery and a find. Hm… oh, Filch.

“Oh, there’s not much to say about him, and ‘Mrs. Norris’ is his mangy cat…” Harry muttered as the Elder Wand materialized in the Dark Lord’s palm. Nagini slithered near his feet, and a protective charm, like a daily ritual, softly enveloped her body and on Potter after. Meanwhile, Harry recounted a tale from his first year and his run-ins with the caretaker.

“…hm, by the way, birching, torment… does that really serve any purpose?” Harry reached for the map, which hovered in the air, folding itself neatly along its creases—only to dart away from him toward Voldemort, who caught it mid-air.

“It does.” Voldemort hissed, glancing sidelong at the boy… no, his Horcrux, though vulgar, was perfect in its own way, no any associations.

Norris—a cat… The castle had registered two cats. Evidently, the two documented creatures were the Squib and his pet. But a Squib, even if enchanted into a useless animal, could hardly pose a genuine threat… though he might have been used as a living tool for surveillance…

Voldemort studied the young man’s face, and when Harry turned his head, both their gazes dropped to the shrunken bag on the table. Fine. Why was Tom even worried? Nothing serious… Pfft, it’s not as if Potter was hiding a weapon of mass destruction in there.

“Pfft, you joking? Just books, honestly, these ones I actually love.” Harry made a smooth, light wave of his hand, and the fabric storage pouch fell into his waiting palm. “Truth be told, I’ve got bugger all, so I prefer not to part with… my stuff.” Harry’s eyes flicked to Tom. A thought. No, hiding in Hogwarts wasn’t an option, and Tom would obviously never agree… “Though, you know… every holiday, Mrs. Weasley gave me all sorts of rubbish. Once—even a watch. Belonged to her brothers… I think?”

He paused for a second, as if checking with himself.

“In theory… it should be in my trunk. At school… hm… I don’t remember…” Harry tapped the chin with a finger of his empty hand, dreamy.

“Give it here!” Voldemort lunged, his robe billowing, snatching the bag with deft, slender fingers. Harry watched calmly as it vanished behind Tom’s sleeve, and unbidden, a memory surfaced: Serpensortia, the dungeon, a summoned snake gliding up Tom’s ankle… intriguing… Harry’s gaze grew hazy, pupils dilating, breath slowing—a bodily echo of that phantom touch caressing his skin.

A double snap. Voldemort’s thumb and middle finger clicked twice near Harry’s nose—a sharp, dry sound that made Potter blink and refocus.

“Go.” Voldemort strode toward the opening door, pausing at the threshold with hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the dark figure approaching. Harry tossed the Cloak of Invisibility, half-vanishing, and leaned forward, pressing his cheek to Voldemort’s chest, arms encircling his waist, knees bending. Harry froze, his top brushing beneath Voldemort’s jaw. Eyes closed. He gulped air through his mouth, as if the scent had tangible flesh and taste.

Voldemort reached out, his spidery fingers grasping the edge of the Invisibility Cloak, shrouding his Horcrux beneath it, accompanied by the monstrous thrum of his own heart and the creak of the closing chamber door.

Moment. With a crack, they materialized in a spacious room flooded with stark, cold light. The Minister for Magic’s office was a perfect rectangle of dark brown lacquered wood: high ceiling, a massive desk paired with an equally imposing chair, bookshelves embedded in the walls—not for books, but to anchor meaning and image. Everything in this space was less opulent than irrevocably final, like a coffin. Fitting for a Minister for Magic.

Pius sat ramrod straight, as if a level were sewn into his spine, mouth slightly agape with downturned corners. He looked barely alive. His eyes—clouded with grey mucus, crusted film scarcely revealing pupils—didn’t move. His consciousness, ravaged by repeated Imperius curses, no longer connected to neurons; the cognitive trace of his “self” lingered, perhaps, only as phantom activity, like a brain registering a severed limb’s ghost. The wretched subject no longer belonged to himself; the slimy, roughly 1300-gram mass of flesh in his skull was scorched, a flat field under ashen ritual where nothing would rise on its own.

Anyone could use him: make him sign documents, escort him to meetings, force smiles and nods where needed. Staff from other departments occasionally tidied the husk—cleaned robes, rubbed fortifying elixirs into his skin, ensured the Minister appeared “presentable.”

“Pius,” Voldemort said calmly, staring into the milky void before him. He didn’t demand a response, merely spat the name.

A thin folder with the Ministry’s dark green seal appeared on the desk. A charm clicked, and it opened with a burst of tiny sparks. Pages flipped on their own until they stopped at the desired decree—a parchment slid out, hovering in the air. From behind Voldemort’s sleeve, the parchments from the chamber levitated, expanding to full size.

A quill darted to Pius’s hand. A scratch. The hand struck through lines, erasing Harry Potter’s name from the list of Undesirable Persons. Seconds later, the line was blank. The hand moved lower, and a fresh date and the Minister’s signature appeared beneath the document. Voldemort merely observed—the sole visible witness in the room.

“That’s it?” Harry’s voice sounded right by his shoulder, nearly brushing it. “So you could just tell him to sign any decree?”

“Oh, a brilliant discovery,” Voldemort said, glancing right where the boy should be. “Potter’s unlocked the basics of control. Next, you’ll tell me the sun rises in the morning?”

“Actually…” Harry continued, as if the sarcasm hadn’t touched him, and Voldemort felt a warm hand glide gently over his shoulder, curling around his neck. “Gleiser wrote that everything tends toward harmony. What you call ‘morning’ is just a local burst of photons coinciding with our habit of dividing dark and light. It’s us, not the sun, who decided something ‘rises.’ The universe doesn’t split things into beginnings and ends—it just… dances.”

Something faintly pressed against Tom’s right side. Invisible, alive, and warm, it began to sway its hips rhythmically—as if mimicking an intimate dance… or violation, take your pick.

Voldemort let one bare brow arch upward. He voiced a thought, his inner “self” speaking, but… something was different this time: Hm. Who’s this Gleiser?

“Oh, a Muggle scientist, from what I gather, I don’t know much… listen, by the way, can we share the shelves? I kept thinking you’d offer… I’ll let you… read some stuff… you’ll like it… sss I’m withss you forever, aren’t I?” A hiss in Tom’s ear. The familiar shiver ran through his near-human frame. A recurring pattern?

A sharp whistle of air forced through reptilian slits. Curious. Thoughts… It didn’t always work, but the dynamic seemed clear… odd, it was his inner voice, which the boy had obviously heard, and this time Voldemort caught the moment of his “thought”… but something was off… Again. Pius continued signing and scratching papers.

Scratch.

As if his inner voice, his “self,” took on a different tone, a personality… But how to summon it?

Another scratch with quill.

Ha, so, want me to fuck you right here on this filthy desk? Voldemort nearly snorted as his thoughts formed the question.

Silence. The invisible body only pressed closer, flush against the rigid figure.

Clearly, it didn’t work that way. How could “self” change their own inner voice? Not mimicry? Perhaps Tom was mistaken… hm… still, it was strange… an effect of isolating the curse? Or… maybe… the mere fact of Voldemort’s interaction with it?…

“Use. By your cot, second shelf from the bottom, left corner.” For the Dark Lord’s nature, granting permission to occupy or use even a square foot of his space was akin to letting someone into his own mind—ugh! But not with Potter now.

The clock on the wall—massive, with golden hands and Roman numerals—chimed the new hour with a single, resonant toll, accompanied by the crack of Apparition. Theodore Nott Senior materialized precisely on time, having received the summons at dawn.

The figure bowed low, pressing a hand to his chest, and held the pose.

“My lord,” he said, voice steady.

Voldemort still stood by the long table, lit by the low glow of enchanted lamps; his Ka pressed close to him, and Nott straightened, though his back remained slightly hunched.

“Theodore,” Voldemort’s voice carried an almost playful lilt, his lips curling into a condescending smile. “Headmaster… of Hogwarts.”

Nott dipped his head, another curt utterance escaping his lips.

“Milord…”

The necessary facts came out dryly, wiping away the vestiges of his previous sardonic humor:

“The decree takes effect today. Collect the keys, seals, and full access to the archives, including those at the Ministry. In June, appoint teachers; in July, send letters to students. I expect comprehensive reports. And remember, Theodore,”—his tone sharpened—“by the time the first owls deliver those letters, the school must already breathe your order. By the end of the week… preferably.”

“It will be done, milord.” No hesitation. By week’s end? Absurd. A day held twenty-four hours, and Theodore would begin at once.

Voldemort tilted his head slightly, studying the man’s profile.

“Consult the Carrows about their views on last year. Note those we’ll retain and those we no longer need.”

“I’ll begin immediately, milord.” A downward nod. Magnificent! Full legitimacy for his name! Power. The right to shape a generation of future wizards, to filter knowledge and destinies… A weighty advantage in any conversation and access to anyone of significance. This post was a grand gift the aging Nott would scarcely squander.

Pause.

Voldemort scrutinized the weathered face of his most loyal minion. Nott, likely, had already grasped it all. Curious.

“What do you think, Potter… who might return, now that the school is entirely under our control?” The Dark Lord’s crimson, serpentine gaze remained fixed on his follower.

Nott didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed trained on his lord, not a muscle betraying surprise. Only a slight movement of his wand hand—and from the Minister’s desk, where Pius sat as motionless as ever, a blank form and a quill levitated, poised to write, as if the suggestion were part of routine business.

From the void, a face emerged, baring a two-word sneer: cold mockery.

“Sybill Trelawney,” Harry Potter drawled, stretching the words as if long, wet, slippery weeds were being pulled from his throat out of the Black Lake… all her prophecies… “She’ll be so busy staring into her crystal balls and tea leaves, she won’t even notice who’s hired her now. And as I recall, she’s got nowhere else to go. Screeched like a maddened Mandrake when Umbridge tried to boot her out.” The boy lifted his chin, eyeing Nott from head to toe. His body and brows twitched in sync with a stifled chuckle. A hand slipped from the void, fully revealing its owner to the physical world. The hem of his heavy black cloak snapped unnaturally, as if delighted to be there.

The black quill, under the new headmaster’s command, covered sheet after sheet with proposals without so much as a raised brow from the spell’s caster. He truly couldn’t care less about the boy’s status or behavior; he’d suspected something was amiss years ago—Tom Riddle had never focused on any person as intently as he did the Chosen One... How curious, that cloak. Did Lord craft it? Never seen such material. Looks costly. Oh, what’s that? Gold?

“Thank you for the information, Mr. Potter. Kindly, what can you tell me about Septima Vector, Rubeus Hagrid, and the half-goblin Filius Flitwick?” Nott slipped the name of filthy gamekeeper in reflexively, a need to glean any additional detail. Rubeus Hagrid was a mental checklist item, alongside Horace Slughorn... and Nott genuinely couldn’t fathom how they were still alive?! And for Care of Magical Creatures, there was an eccentric fellow still living in Hogsmeade… Albus had sacked him for personal reasons...

“Hm. Hagrid?” The boy shifted his gaze to Tom, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall of books. Voldemort stepped closer, standing beside him, hands clasped behind his back; his alien, grotesque face never wavered from the other’s striking, human one.

Hagrid unseen… perhaps in Hogsmeade, or… did he have someone special who could help him hide? Who?

“Pfft, he’s incompetent, and reckless, you know that, right? But, by the way, he raised a whole pack of werewolves in the Forbidden Forest—or so I gathered, you lot dealt with them, I saw the memories. Also, Hagrid bred a new species of creature. Overall, he gets on well with beasts… but he’d sooner eat a dragon hatchling himself… or choose death. No clue where he is, or if he’s even alive.” Potter spoke evenly, almost tonelessly, just facts. “As for the Arithmancy teacher, I’ve got nothing to say. Never took her class… I think… hm… I chose Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. All nonsense, frankly.” The boy grimaced faintly, sticking out his tongue. Truly, even without Voldemort’s influence, few students could grasp what those teachers were on about. Perhaps in their minds, their lessons sounded different… but who could climb into another’s head? An odd mental image—by association, it shifted to London’s streets during his dreary wanderings: a couple with a pram, his reflection then… truly… and for a fleeting moment, he wondered how their gait might change if the pavement vanished beneath them.

“Oh, and Flitwick, my lord, you remember he’s with the Order? Send him a letter too.” Harry grinned, baring teeth like a gargoyle on an ancient tower’s ledge: teeth seemingly stone, like the creature itself, yet the gaze alive, waiting… predatory. Something in the memory of that small, trembling figure, quaking under Harry’s unseen presence, sparked an odd thrill. No, he didn’t want to be a villain, not at all! Such associations didn’t even exist in his mind; he just… thought in that vein.

The headmaster’s gaze slid to his lord’s face, still fixed on the boy. For a moment, wide, near-black pupils flicked to Nott. A nod.

“Indeed. Severus reported that many teachers didn’t support Albus… but clearly, that was a vile lie. Potter has provided much new information, which proved… useful.” Of course, Nott wasn’t one to spread rumors, but Voldemort would maintain the image of the Chosen One broken under torture and finally enlightened. The details were utterly irrelevant.

After a brief pause, the Dark Lord’s hiss sounded again.

“Nott… do what’s necessary.” Voldemort lazily waved a hand through the air, his habitual gesture—brushing away dust. With the other, he encircled Potter’s waist and drew him close. The boy didn’t merely yield—he seemed to crave it, like Cain lunging toward his God, forever his. “I’m not in the habit of explaining the obvious.”

With a dry crack of Apparition, the two dark figures vanished. Theodore Nott spun on the heels of his boots and, wasting no time, raised his wand. An Imperius on the Minister, and he sprang to life—immediately setting to work.

The magic bound to the post of Minister functioned as a metaphysical seal: each signed decree drew its power not only from ink, but from an ancient weave of spells whose roots reached into the distant past. The Minister’s signature—a magical spatial artifact—triggered a chain of bound documents: scrolls in the archival departments automatically adopted the new wording, and the pages of the Ministry Codex quietly rewrote themselves without the touch of a human hand.

How exquisite! Nott anticipated his future with relish: he would select individuals of impeccable standing — with pedigrees, with achievements, of course, for this was hardly about caring for the children. Young minds would be shaped in the absolute ideology of Lord Voldemort. But from long years of observing wizards, he had learned: titles and length of service did not make a mage capable.

He would personally examine each one. A man might be weighed down with regalia, have gone through a magical war, and yet, like a dullard, ask about the obvious. Intelligence, alas, was not something one could be taught. No, he needed not those who made a loud clatter with their medals, but those who, at the right moment, acted without orders — and whose loyalty to the Lord would require no enchantments to secure… or at least, no strong ones.

Nott allowed himself the narrow shadow of a quick smirk, tearing his attention from his task for just a moment. Young Potter… oh, he could hardly wait to see the reaction of the others.

Chapter 35

The birth of a star is a monstrous compromise between gravity and plasma, between collapse and ejection, between that which strives to implode into singularity and that which fiercely resists. A person sees the light, but does not see… the calculations that the Universe itself conducts in nothingness, balancing on the edge of impossibility. And, perhaps, the mind is not so different. At its center, there is no solid core, no point one can touch. There is only dynamics—the pulsations of meanings and the compression of memories, their incomplete fusion, an eternal attempt to become something whole…

Crack of Apparition revealed two former students near the British school of wizardry.

They appeared on the edge of the woods not far from the Quidditch pitch, two heads turning synchronously in opposite directions for absolutely identical reasons: searching for a moving shadow, a suspicious silhouette—anything that might breach their boundaries. And in that same motion, on the same breath, their pupils dilated not from anxiety anymore, but with sacred reverence… Hogwarts… the sensation was strange, as if you’d been invited home, but this time you entered not alone, but with someone utterly unexpected here—and it was precisely that which made the return sharper than before.

Overall, Voldemort didn’t think anyone could use the Killing Curse, and he himself enjoyed seeing Potter. In any case, he’d handle any threat; he’d revoked the boy’s status— no need to hide him…

“And Nott can Apparate straight into Hogwarts now? Does that mean… he has more privileges than you?” A light chuckle, and Harry Potter, with the hand still resting on his waist, turned, wrapping his arms around the Tom’s neck. His height allowed him to look straight into the eyes. Should he add that he’d still need to ask permission to use Harry’s wand? Harry snorted, preparing, but didn’t get the chance.

“Privileges?” The corners of Voldemort’s thin lips barely twitched. “Nott can enter the castle. And I can enter…” An exhale. “…anywhere.”

Harry smiled faintly and, closing his eyes, pressed his lips to the foreign mouth. This time, there was almost no stupor—Voldemort immediately tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and Harry’s tongue was encircled by two others, dominantly, softly, depriving him of the chance to breathe. Harry slid a palm onto the smooth nape, pulling the entire body closer to grind his hip, and in response received a synchronous thrust of hips, their cocks’ flesh meeting through layers of fabric. The friction was slow, the rhythm of their bodies part of the kiss. Voldemort’s forked tongue glided and divided, exploring and claiming, touching the palate, the frenulum beneath the foreign tongue, then with a sharp, cutting stroke slid along the edge of the lower lip before he pulled back slightly, placing palms on the other’s shoulders.

“Mmm…” Harry, his mouth half-open, stared as if witnessing a galaxy’s decay in real time: a glittering singularity. Damn, what in Merlin’s name? Harry needed this! Enter anywhere?! Pfft, enter in me! Or I’ll do it!

Voldemort adjusted the boy’s hair with his fingers, concealing the scar, and shifted the other hand to his waist. What the hell—why did his lungs feel like repositories of fluff and cotton? Pleasant. But what the boy had thought… oh, he’d heard it. He wouldn’t comment.

His gaze slid toward Hogwarts on the horizon—a sneer suddenly lit his lips: Well, Albus, how would you like this? The warmth of young Harry Potter still lingered on his lips, making the rot of the thought almost tangible.

“Mmm… by the way, why are there two? Was that your design?” Harry, walking slightly to the side, pressed his right shoulder against him, gripping the forearm with both hands and not letting go as they moved toward the castle, through the shattering daylight shadows.

“What, like it?” A smug smirk—Tom didn’t bother tempering his tone with even a gram of modesty. “No, it wasn’t a deliberate design. There’s reason to think it’s a secondary effect: a bifurcation of the distal portion of the lingual musculature, entirely unplanned. My current body isn’t of natural origin, obviously. Its foundation—you’ve met it—I nurtured long before… vessel, if you will, formed alchemically, with flesh later nourished by Nagini’s milk and curses binding matter to soul. I wasn’t aiming flawless aesthetics—I required only a functional shell. When the ritual completed its work, the tissues fused differently than in a human body, as you’ve noticed, Potter; I also lack nasal cartilage architecture. In any case, why not? It’s like giving the brain an extra hand. A new sensory channel, a new axis of control…” He will not elaborate on his additional capabilities.

He bent his elbow slightly, not pulling away, and Harry, squeezing the forearm tighter, matched his stride—their movements aligned indecently, like conjoined Siamese twins, one personality favoring leather, the other silk. Two hearts and two breaths. What had appeared on the map? Absurd! Harry would’ve attended all of Tom Riddle’s classes! He’d even stretched out such nonsense ~

“Yeah, it’s… cool… best…” Harry tilted his head, his ear barely brushing the foreign shoulder. “That there are two, and that it happened so magically, accidentally. Listen, it’s like… you’re some… next human. You’re truly awesome in everything; your appearance just highlights the difference.”

Voldemort snorted quietly, and in his body, such refined and sophisticated praise—as well as Potter’s rare erudite speeches—triggered a chain reaction: a dopamine surge in the mesolimbic pathway, resonance with the hypothalamus sending commands down to spinal centers—the heart skipped a beat for a fraction, and blood flow abruptly redirected to the pelvic region.

And yes, that meant his cock hardened. A frequent pattern, unfamiliar, repulsive, biological, but somehow felt different now—was the constant hand on his waist and those touches to blame? Absurd, of course… but… the boy had highlighted his appearance? Was that a vector of his desire to please? Clever…

“And can I get that done?” Harry squinted, glancing at his mouth. “I know Parseltongue too, and it’d be damn impressive… we’re already similar.”

“Similar?” Voldemort automatically pictured in his mind a radiant, beautiful young Harry Potter with lightning in his hands, and himself beside—a black, slender figure peering from the gloom, more like a god of the underworld than a man. But obviously, the boy meant something else… “Don’t rush to conclusions.” Eyelids lowered. A sigh. “Clearly, Dumbledore overlooked one key detail in priming you for cold-blooded murder: my youth was accompanied by the Second World War in a Muggle orphanage, while yours passed under cozy British rain and a Muggle hearth. And yes, unlike me, you lived in luxury.”

Harry burst out laughing—bright, genuinely merry, debunking the very notion of that “luxury.” The creaky span of the covered bridge over the lake echoed woodenly under Voldemort’s steps: the air here smelled of old stone, dust, and a faint fishy tang from the nearby water.

Similar.

“Guess who told you that… Snape?” Harry turned his head and squinted. For some reason, his lenses glinted green, as if the owner’s will hinted at a corresponding curse. “Or read it in the Daily Prophet?…”

Harry scanned around, holding Tom’s hand in a vice grip.

“Luxury, yeah… the only luxury I had were calluses—from endless house chores. I was, if you want to know, a house-elf without magic. And in the Muggle world, by the way, you’re also supposed to go to school from about the age of seven. My cousin needed only a couple of days there to gather a gang of mates, and I liked to hide—in the astronomy or biology room. There were pots with plants there, warm… quiet… And no one touched me.” His voice shifted slightly, acquiring a strange evenness: “At least he didn’t do to me what they once did to another boy—glasses, short hair, suspiciously like me, by the way. Poor sod. He was raped for an hour in the school bathroom; naturally, he told his parents nothing.”

Just another fact, not some monstrous ordeal—pfft, big deal, after all Harry was later sent to a magical school! And that’s where he was ‘raped’ every year: the sensation of bubbling flesh on his fingers, the smell of eye sockets baking… Harry burned his professor alive at eleven; his psyche is hardly burdened by memories of traumatic events from living with the Dursleys… oh, there were so many of them…

They descended the bridge into an arched, covered passageway, its high windows overlooking the castle’s inner courtyard. Hogwarts… intact?

Harry squeezed the foreign forearm a bit harder—smooth silk, warm. The enormous pendulum of the Clock Tower glided past them with a hum, slicing the space… Harry drew a deep breath, feeling his chest tighten. Oh, Tom and Home…

“Hm. Indeed, Severus, and the fact that his information was corroborated by other sources was clearly disinformation…” Tom managed to utter after a few moments of contemplation. Wretch! Albus Dumbledore, you raised the Dark Lord’s slayer, of course you left him in the care of true monsters! How else could it be? Especially since he’s merely a Horcrux, isn’t he? Blood protection? Brilliant Albus Dumbledore, was that the only safeguard you could muster? Laughable! …The image of that red-haired misfit sliced through Tom’s consciousness: “You can’t imagine what he’s put Harry through! ”

Voldemort would obliterate those wretched, elfin memories to hell and back! They were utterly useless to him! And hardly was Voldemort such a cold-blooded killer! He’d had a thousand chances to kill the boy over the years, during their personal encounters, and had he ever acted on them? Barely!...

…

“By the way, are we just going to sit in the castle and track that old codger until he shows up? Or what?”

Voldemort allowed his lip to curl in disgust at his own thoughts, yet he responded. A Squib? Voldemort here for entirely different reasons! What reasons?

“Your freak and his pet? He poses no threat, and if anyone enters Hogwarts, I’ll know immediately.” Voldemort unfurled the Marauder’s Map.

“You think it’s the Order? Hm… well, honestly, I didn’t know anyone who ever spoke to him, apart from the Headmaster, of course… Minerva? Mmm…”

Voldemort cut Harry off:

“How, in Salazar’s name, deactivate it if need?!” In the Dark Lord’s mind, the facts still didn’t add up—that a handful of people, let alone students, could create this… Potter? Pettigrew? Voldemort almost despised it. They were barely competent!

They moved along the corridor lined with suits of armor, horses, and knights. “Harry Potter” and “Tom Marvolo Riddle” stood in the Clock Tower. Travers was on the same floor…

“Tap it with your wand and say, ‘Mischief Managed,’” Harry said, tilting his head, his mouth slightly agape, mesmerized by the pulsing vein beneath the pale, almost translucent skin of the other’s neck, already tempted to sink his teeth into it—when Voldemort seized his wrist, pushing him back, and stepped forward to fling open the door to the castle’s outer staircase.

“Tell me, Potter, was it Granger?” Voldemort gritted his teeth, barely restraining himself from spitting out a second name as a guess. That filthy Mudblood was repulsive enough—bold, vile creature. Her name alone was more than his lips could bear! The boy’s vulgar behavior, and the chaos that had reigned at Hogwarts, could well suggest that much had changed since Tom’s graduation. That girl always trailed after Harry Potter… Merlin, no. Disgusting. His Horcrux couldn’t possibly have been involved in that, could he?

“Ha!” Harry nearly hopped to keep pace with Tom. “What, curious, my Lord? Don’t worry, your Horcrux inside is perfectly intact.”

Absurd. Tom genuinely didn’t care. Oddly enough—he never delved into his followers pasts for any reason other than to assert control. But now… the feeling was different. Clammy, unpleasant. Revolting. He wouldn’t ask about it again. He wasn’t thinking about it.

“Young Malfoy?” …Everything clicked into place… subjects often harbor resentment toward former partners… kill him?

“What?!” Harry snorted sharply. “Ugh, disgusting! How dare you… blech!” He stuck out his tongue, doubling over theatrically and gagging hoarsely, as if retching. “I’m telling you, he’s more likely to stick a knife in your back than anything else. You need to keep an eye on him… He had his chance, and it wasn’t Avada Kedavra—it was Expelliarmus.” Harry squinted. Hm… surely Tom couldn’t monitor everyone, not literally? That could cause problems, even with his own people… it could do harm… Such spells don’t exist… or do they? If they did, Tom would have used them already. No one can know what goes on in another’s mind… A flash—and his gaze froze. The Knight Bus, the Three Broomsticks, Borgin and Burkes… Tom’s voice in his head, praising some success. Harry held his breath.

“Hm,” Voldemort murmured, watching Potter. As they turned into a corridor lined with living portraits, the animated figures, spotting Tom, scurried to hide within their painted landscapes. “Fine. I don’t care. But I think it’s obvious and needs no clarification: I don’t want to later encounter some girl carrying your… heir. Whatever you’ve been up to here, Potter, you are mine .”

He nearly added “vessel,” but it was clear enough.

“Oh, don’t worry…” Harry’s thoughts drifted to his past, trying to recall… and realized it was simply impossible. “No heirs. As for the rest… ssssdon’t remember anyone-sss.” The last words he hissed in Parseltongue, right into the other’s ear.

“Judging by your behavior, you’ve had to forget quite a few,” Voldemort sneered, and the sensation of the boy’s body brushing against his thigh sent visceral memories coursing through him. Heresy…

It felt like madness. But his venomous tone wasn’t rooted in logic—it ran deeper, in the dominion of power untamed. Even those who consider themselves above base human biology act this way: the neural web doesn’t ask whether a “superhuman,” a god, or whatever he fancies himself, wants to feel jealousy. It simply hands it over: Here, great one—a chain of associations, a scent, a voice, a fleeting image of two bodies—and voilà! Voldemort would likely mock another for such behavior, recognizing it instantly from the outside, but knowledge doesn’t always change how one acts. Alas, even great minds can’t always apply analysis to themselves.

From the corner of the corridor, Travers appeared. He froze like a statue, his cloak billowing forward from the abruptness of his halt: arms flung out, one foot forward as if petrified by absolute zero.

“M… my Lord, it’s you…” His back bent in a bow, his wide eyes fixed on the floor. Waiting. One second. Two. No orders? He couldn’t wait—had he imagined it? He straightened, his mouth dry, realizing, by all the curses, it was true—Harry Potter! He… was alive?

“Travers.” The Elder Wand materialized in the Dark Lord’s hand. He glanced sidelong at Potter, standing beside him… The boy merely smirked. Again. Would every Death Eater receive the same greeting from him? “News?”

“Uh… er… no, my Lord, all quiet, no—”

“Crucio.” Voldemort spat the word, and the Death Eater’s body crumpled to the stone floor, clutching his head as if a swarm of stinging, buzzing wasps had been unleashed inside his skull, sinking lower—into his chest, his gut.

“All this time, an unregistered Squib has been prowling the castle, disguised as a cat,” the Dark Lord hissed lazily, striding onward down the corridor.

“Hm,” Harry said, stepping around the trembling Death Eater to catch up with Tom, glancing about. A grand staircase, cozy armchairs on the landings.

“By the way, when I was sorted, the Hat offered me Slytherin. I refused,” Harry said, his gaze sliding slyly to the face beside him, a smirk curling his lips. “Because of Malfoy. He annoyed me so much, I’d have taken anything to avoid that house.”

“Really, you refused voluntarily?! Because of some boy you could’ve ignored? You could’ve been in Slytherin?!” Voldemort tilted his head slightly, studying Harry. The map vanished into the folds of his sleeve. “Perhaps if you’d been in Slytherin, some trace of manners might’ve remained.” Potter was clearly mocking him by mentioning Malfoy—oh, that sly little grin. Tom noticed it… that’s what it was. A little gremlin. Charming. But he’d check on Lucius anyway… and that wretched boy. Perhaps. Suspicion’s poison was slowly seeping through his veins.

“Hm, by the way, suppose Slytherin was off the table, and you weren’t an heir—would you have gone to Ravenclaw?” Harry tilted his head, his hand brushing against the sleeve of Voldemort’s robe, lingering a second longer than necessary. “Or perhaps Gryffindor?”

Voldemort’s thin lips curled into that familiar, caustic smirk, though a flicker of amusement danced in his eyes. What an absurd question—was he really asking Lord Voldemort this? How… charming.

“Gryffindor?” he echoed. “Oh, of course, Potter, I’d fit right in with a gaggle of penniless and orphans banking on luck, wouldn’t I?”

Harry threw his head back and laughed, the sound reverberating through the corridor where students once scampered, now trodden by two killers. He nudged Voldemort with his elbow.

“Ha, hilarious! You’d probably have half the house at each other’s throats and the rest recruited by breakfast. And considering Gryffindor’s the house of courage, not cunning, I reckon your followers would’ve resurrected you by the next day, ha-ha. But seriously, red…” Harry’s lips quirked into a sly smile as he slid his chin along the other’s shoulder. “It suits you.”

Voldemort mirrored the warm smile. What absurdity…

“The house of courage and honor… Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor. Betrayed his… ahem, friends to save his own fur…and ended up dead like the rat he was. Courage and honor don’t grant second chances, Potter.” His fingers tightened briefly, then relaxed, and he allowed himself a fleeting touch—the tips of his long fingers grazed Harry’s wrist. He nearly pulled away… but a second impulse overpowered him: Why not? He’s mine. And Tom swiftly clasped the warm hand in his own.

Harry exhaled, his eyes fluttering shut, lashes trembling. He might have stopped entirely if their stroll hadn’t already been leisurely.

“Well, you know… I was one too,” Harry replied cryptically, as if the statement carried some profound weight or explanation. “And, by the way, the Gryffindor common room is far better placed than that miserable Slytherin dungeon. No regrets there.”

“Absurd! Exquisite green and dark tones, vast windows overlooking the Black Lake, majestic columns, a vaulted ceiling, and plush armchairs you could sink into without risking death by poor taste. Silence, Potter.” 

Riddle spoke as if defending a personal fortress. He scarcely acknowledged that even the light in his transfigured spaces carried a swampy green hue, much like the enchanted lanterns in the dungeons below…

“Pfft, heresy!” Harry scoffed. “By the way, I’ve been to the Ravenclaw Tower, but never set foot in Hufflepuff. No one from other houses really has… the entrance is near the kitchens, isn’t it? Oh, shall we go sometime? Will you show me? Or do you need to ask the Headmaster?” Harry intertwined their fingers. Their walk through the castle felt like navigating a personal labyrinth where time flowed slower. They ascended a staircase.

“You got into Ravenclaw Tower? I’d wager the question was how many fingers are on your hand, and you still had to check.” Voldemort arched a brow ridge, casting a sidelong glance. Yes, Potter was squinting mischievously. Adorable. “Getting into the Hufflepuff common room is child’s play. They always have one ‘password’—just find the right barrel in the corridor and tap the correct rhythm. Legend says the location shifts, but in all my years at Hogwarts, it never did. No reason to think the second barrel from the bottom in the middle of the second row won’t open the passage. It’s said no one from other houses can get in, but a couple of well-placed curses, and you’re privy to all their secrets.”

“Really? That’s it? Pfft, Hufflepuffs really are simple…” Harry’s voice trailed off. “By the way, that… body at the graveyard, when you returned—it was a Hufflepuff… oh… I can’t recall… Diggory.” A flash. The earth torn up, a frail, sagging silhouette rhythmically devouring the body beneath it. An old, flabby, naked man pressing into the remains: vile, slick, darkened, and sunken—barely recognizable as the once-handsome youth. Fingers clawed through rotting flesh where a face should have been, now just bones and scraps of gray-green meat. The trembling, jerking motions of the repulsive figure blurred—were they sobs or some bestial act? The stench of decay flooded Harry’s senses—sour, sickly sweet, cloying. Cedric’s father. Wretch. It was unjust! Harry had nothing to do with Cedric’s death, yet that wretched sobbing tore at him… unjust…

Harry quickly snapped back as Voldemort spoke:

“Hm… funny thing, in all these years, not a single follower from Hufflepuff. Can you imagine, Potter? Even Ravenclaw gave me Quirrell and Crouch.” Voldemort allowed himself a chuckle. “What a humiliating void in that house’s legacy.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed as the image of Tom’s face—the one revealed when Quirrell unwrapped his foul turban—flashed in his mind. How had Tom done that? Harry needed to know. Just in case… he’d ask at the right moment.

“Crouch, by the way—you know, he gave some brilliant advice. Dare I say, he was your best…”

The conversation flowed, dissecting Barty Crouch from every angle and perspective. A pang of pity and loss—he’d been valuable.

Before them stood the doors to what was no longer the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry, recalling a past conversation, burst into laughter.

“Oh, let Nott hire Flitwick, and you cast the exact same curse! It’s bloody effective: one burned alive, another went mad, a third nearly devoured children, the fourth—Crouch, and with Umbridge, I dread to think what the centaurs did. Then Snape, ha-ha-ha! Loser, he wasn’t even the wand’s master, ha!” Harry’s laughter echoed off the walls. Every year, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher got what they deserved—what a marvelous curse. Even bloody Snape hadn’t escaped it, ha!

“Oh, indeed, what a tragic record,” Voldemort’s lips curved into the shadow of a smile. “But alas, no. It would mean a wasted half-year of my life.”

“What? Half a year?!” Harry nearly choked on his own astonishment, though admiration seeped through the shock. “You’re saying you… planned it all for six months?”

“First: I prepared everything in advance. All that remained was activation.” Voldemort flicked his wand, and the heavy door swung open, revealing the classroom: a creature’s skeleton hung from the ceiling, desks lined the room, and light streamed through windows, dancing with a flurry of dust.

“And second, explain your logic, Potter.” Voldemort glided inside without breaking stride, veering toward the spiral staircase and tugging Harry by the hand toward the professor’s office. “Why expend effort on such an elaborate curse when you could simply find him and kill him?”

“Hm… fair point… but the thing is, with a curse like that, his luck runs so dry that something happens to play right into our hands, and you don’t even need to lift a finger. It all just… happens.” Harry squeezed the other’s hand tighter, extending his arm as Voldemort pulled him up the spiral staircase.

“Hm. In that case, simply brewing a potion suffices. Anyway, its just theoretically, do not imagine Nott would dare send him a letter upon learning of the Order. Whatever Nott does with this creature, all remains under control.” Voldemort paused in the doorway, and as Harry stepped behind him, the door to the professor’s office creaking open, Voldemort began to whisper an incantation. He raised his wand, and jagged lines materialized in the air between him and the ceiling—sharp as cracks, interlocking into shimmering golden squares. They stretched, faded to gray, and melted into the stone vaults and absorbed into the door with magical layer. Another flick of his wand, another spell—and a second geometry emerged, peeling from the stone, an abyssal black imprint of a curse on the very fabric of the space. With a swift jerk of his hand, Voldemort drew the darkness back, and it surged toward him, vanishing into the Elder Wand.

“You know, Potter, I was denied this post twice,” he said as the last traces of the curse dissolved into the wand. Tom glided into the professor’s office alongside Harry, his gaze sweeping the cluttered, dust-laden room. “First when I was young, and later… well, I don’t think I expected a different answer. As I said, I prepared everything in advance… though, had that first refusal not happened, I might still be sitting here, at this desk, readying myself to greet yet another Malfoy or Weasley… what a horror.”

His face froze abruptly, as if a black shroud had passed through his mind—an utterly foreign thought for a narcissist like him: without that refusal, perhaps… Salazar, how many events had to align for Harry Potter, his perfect Horcrux, to be standing here?! Heresy!

“Curious,” Voldemort’s voice was steady, almost dispassionate, barely betraying his thoughts. Revelation after revelation. Who could say why he shared all this? He didn’t even think about it; hardly ever in his life had a single soul heard anything like this from Lord Voldemort. It was like watching a Dementor unexpectedly hand you a basket of crumpets. “How sometimes time itself becomes your ally… That everything fell into place as it did—” he waved a hand, brushing away invisible specks, his gesture ambiguous yet truthful—“allowed me to observe from the sidelines, to study, and to reach one conclusion: wizards are rotting, dying out. Instead of honing power and knowledge, moving forward, they stagnate in a swamp of lies, catering to the weakest, bowing to the worthless… and the worthless keep multiplying… hmph.” Voldemort’s lip curled in disdain. “I can do better. I know how things should be.” No one had the right to decide for him—he alone could decide for all!

“Ha! Oh, I’ve no doubt you’ll arrange everything… better.” Harry’s eyes roamed the office walls. Hm, what’s Tom after? Killing Muggle-borns hasn’t been part of his plans for ages, has it? Harry didn’t even know Voldemort’s exact intentions, beyond… catching Harry. Would he share when he was ready? Well, judging by the pack of werewolves and certain Muggle connections… he wasn’t stopping at the Ministry of Magic, was he? Did he want to be a king? Something like that? Oh, intriguing—had he already chosen a new name for himself? Why wasn’t he telling Harry? Or could Harry not help? Hm…

Silence. They both, almost in unison, leaned toward the lower shelves. Their hands drifted along the bookcases, fingers trailing over spines as if selecting prey.

Harry ran his fingers along the dark wood of a cabinet, swung open its door, and peered at a stack of old books. He pulled them out one by one, brushing dust off with his palm. Oh, teaching materials in this one.

“Well… whatever you’re planning, I’m sure you’ll pull it off,” he said softly, almost approvingly, as if speaking from personal experience. He snapped a book shut, blinking rapidly as a cloud of dust flew under his glasses, stinging his eyes. His gaze, teary from the dust, slid sideways. “And even if you don’t… you’re so bloody stubborn the world will bend to your will eventually.”

Voldemort didn’t turn his head, but the corners of his mouth twitched into a smirk. Was he referring to the prophecy?

“Stubbornness is for those who can’t shape their circumstances,” he replied, still facing the shelves. “I mold the world to my design.” After a brief pause, he went on, “Don’t ask questions—you’ll know soon enough.”

He took a few steps, drew the Elder Wand, and slowly traced it along the shelves, checking the books for curses. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “You were a circumstance I couldn’t accept.”

“Pfft,” Harry exhaled. Yes, he’d already thought about this—when it came to Voldemort, it all seemed perfectly obvious. “If I were you, and someone told me an unborn infant would be my downfall, and with so much depending on me—well, that’s quite an uneven trade, isn’t it? A mighty wizard for some unknown baby… I don’t know if I’d have acted differently in your place. Regret it? Definitely not. I didn’t even have memories back then… a perfect blank-slate victim, no past, no baggage. So it makes sense.”

Silence.

Not that Voldemort was dwelling on robbing the boy of his youth—hardly.No,No... Voldemort was ready to gift him eternity, and boy ought to be grateful for such a grand opportunity! But the fact that approval had been voiced, and so… logically. It registered with a slow, languid exhale. Strange. His Horcrux was simply astonishing~

Harry glanced at Voldemort now and then,methodically stacking books on the table, darting back and forth. All of them—texts for every year—but he reached only for the oldest, the most worn, their pages creased, perhaps marked by some long-dead professor… could be useful. Then the black, heavy tomes, emanating a faint, almost tangible glow. He didn’t even read their titles; he just liked them.

“Hm. I’m sure I already have all of these,” Voldemort said lazily, his tone tinged with disdain as he scanned the spines, lips curling ironically. Whatever he was searching for was clearly not here.

“Great. Then these are mine. I like jotting down thoughts. And I definitely don’t want to ruin yours,” Harry said, one corner of his mouth lifting. Then, as if offhandedly, he added, “Shall we pop by the Gryffindor Tower for a bit? And then maybe…”

“Shh. I’m not here for a stroll,” Voldemort hissed sharply, as if convincing himself. Perhaps he’d have agreed to anything the boy suggested, but his face and voice betrayed not a hint of it. “The Gryffindor common room is guarded by an irksome, overly chatty fat witch in a frame. And getting in there…” He cut himself off, the words on his tongue feeling inadmissible.

Harry caught it—and knew his earlier jab about the Headmaster could’ve landed perfectly now… but instead, he grinned broadly, green glints flashing in his glasses, mirroring the sparks in his eyes.

“Come on… let me try.” He suddenly felt that strange blend of tenderness and sharp admiration Tom always stirred in him… attraction… Even his scent was perfect… “I’ll show up, shed a few tears to get her to let me in… and then you—voilà!” Harry approached with an almost dancing gait, wrapping his arms around the pale neck.

Voldemort’s hands immediately settled on his waist. Hm… theoretically… curious… I’ve never been there… Potter had spent years in that place. But his method… Merlin, should he tell him? Or would he figure it out himself?

“Voldemort…” Harry pressed his forehead to Tom’s, his gaze turning languid, almost hazy, though a flicker of intent simmered beneath the softness. He gently brushed his knuckles along the other’s cheekbone, half-expecting resistance, but Voldemort only inhaled sharply through narrow nostrils… “Tell me… why don’t you fuck me?” Harry’s hand slid abruptly to Voldemort’s hardening cock, fingers curling around it through the fabric, feeling its pulsing heat as he gripped it in a ring. Merlin, bloody hell! Harry’s mouth parted, caught off guard…

Voldemort snorted, as if dismissing the very notion, and practically leapt back. With a single wand flick, all the gathered books slid into his sleeve in a smooth, near-silent wave, vanishing into a hidden pocket woven with a secret charm.

And the question: why? He could. Perhaps he even wanted to… Salazar, he could imagine it all too vividly… often. He wanted it badly. But every time the possibility drew too close, he recoiled—no thoughts, no excuses.Even if he had already made up his mind.

For an ancient being nearing a century, this desire was… unknown. Decades spent severing anything he deemed base or burdensome… and no one had ever sparked desire in him! Then—Harry Potter. Young, radiant. The only one… his soul.His blood. His Horcrux. Himself.

…But a divine ideal tolerates no risks, no imprecision. No mistakes by his own hand. Tom Riddle’s nature forbade acting blindly—and this was all uncharted, beyond calculation! That was the crux of his instinctive retreat: not a lack of desire, but an inability to predict the fallout from personal experience or current circumstances… he was eighty, not even human! Salazar, how he loathed not knowing!

Hm. Harry watched Tom closely, unblinking, studying. He tilted his head, thinking. Godric, his own cock threatened to tear through his trousers, the sensation of Voldemort’s flesh in his palm burning through him, pooling in his gut as a thick, tangible weight. Hm…

“Well, shall we go?” Harry extended his hand with a theatrical, fluid flourish, as if offering not a path but a divine trial: pluck and taste.

“By the way, if it doesn’t work, surely there are other ways?” Harry cast a final glance over the professor’s office bookshelves before darting toward the exit. Not a single thought lingered on the room itself.

“Of course there are. I’ll resort to them if your brilliant plan fails. I’m almost curious.” Voldemort followed Harry, who was already bounding down the spiral staircase, his cloak whipping around the spiral, snapping with each step.

“She let me in without a password once, when she was overly emotional—after the Headmaster died. I think I’ve got a shot, my Lord.” Harry pressed himself against Voldemort’s forearm, fingers curling around it, resting his head on the other’s shoulder, listening to the thud of a foreign heart like a ritual drum. Yes, yes, Tom… the common room…

As they traversed Hogwarts’ corridors, Harry recalled a Quidditch match from 1994, slipping Crouch into the tale. Tom neglected to mention that the British championship had been canceled this year due to his regime…

“Listen, won’t the other portraits tell her?” Harry glanced around suspiciously at the canvases, which showed buildings, forests, haystacks—anything but living people… although, if you looked closely, here and there curious faces were still following their movement through the castle.

“Oh, really, Potter, has it finally dawned on you?” Thin lips curled into a smirk. “I’d wager she won’t even be there.”

Hm… Harry leaned his head against the other’s shoulder. They were almost there, on the right staircase. Harry gazed into the distance.

“Fine, just let me try!” Harry wasn’t one to back down from a decision. “Wait…” He slid his nose along Voldemort’s cheek, brushed his jaw, and fleetingly grazed the Dark Lord’s lips with a kiss.

He smiled.

Then, like a shot, he bolted up the staircase. Tom remained below, watching, listening… his breathing out of rhythm again.

Harry ran, scrambling over the floor, nearly tripping twice just before the portrait but catching himself.

“Oh… it’s you!” he gasped, collapsing almost to his knees before the Fat Lady, gulping air as if he’d sprinted through frost.

The Fat Lady, powdered and disheveled, looked alarmed, her eyes darting around. She pressed a plump hand to her mouth when she recognized the boy.

“Merlin’s grace, Mr. Potter… what’s happened to you?! Why are you here?! What’s going on?!”

“I… I escaped…” Harry caught his breath, clutching his stomach as if in pain, and raised a gaze filled with desperate pleading—hard to fake unless you knew exactly how it looked. “He’s here… Lord Voldemort! He’s here! I…” He swallowed hard, his eyes darting wildly, wide with sheer terror. “I don’t know where to go… except to you. Please… let me in! I… need… to hide! Please!”

Her round face blanched. Her eyes flickered frantically. Her portrait, locked since the incident five years ago, had no access to other spaces… She’d heard nothing, untouched for nearly a month, with no attempts to enter the tower until Potter. The Death Eaters prowled the castle, but only to mock her…

“Harry… dear boy… but…”

“Please, I’ve nowhere else to go!” His voice broke into genuine despair, nearly a sob. “He’ll kill me! I… I barely got away! You’re… my last hope…”

The Fat Lady hesitated, tears welling as her chubby fingers fidgeted nervously.

Silence stretched taut. Somewhere deep in the corridor, a floorboard creaked. The Fat Lady exhaled sharply.

“Quickly, boy, quickly, hide!” she whispered.

Harry stood inside as the frame swung open, accompanied by a soft, lazy, almost mocking chuckle from the approaching silhouette of the Dark Lord.

Arms crossed behind his back, a shadow of a smile in his eyes.

“Remarkable performance, Potter.” He stepped calmly through the frame, ducking slightly, and surveyed the space with disgust: a round room, all red, flecked with gold, garish armchairs—had Albus Dumbledore personally selected them? Vile. The warm, golden glow of the lamps… ugh.

Harry surged forward, boldly seizing Voldemort’s hand and tugging him onward. “Come on, come on!”

He bounded up the staircase to the boys’ dormitory—a circular room with windows overlooking the school grounds, beds draped with heavy red canopies, absurdly bright tapestries with crests like illustrations from a children’s tale, pfft. Voldemort lingered by the row of identical beds, his gaze settling on one by the window. He felt it, like a point in space tethered to his own essence. Not by the folds of the blanket or any scent—he simply knew. This one was his. Potter’s.

“Listen, ha, I thought they’d have been looted.” Harry flung open the trunk beneath his bed, unsealed. Voldemort crossed his arms behind his back, watching as the boy rifled through assorted woolen fabrics. “Oh, here they are!” Harry pulled out an old pair of watches—gifts from Molly Weasley, once belonging to her brothers who perished. He slipped them into his cloak pocket. Not sentimentality.

Harry straightened, grinning, and gestured to the wall by the opposite bed, where a Quidditch field map and a clutter of wizarding posters once hung.

“Ron and I used to spend hours arguing over the Chudley Cannons’ latest losing streak and whether the Holyhead Harpies could outfly them if they swapped half their Chasers. The only thing—my spot was absolute rubbish. Without the canopy, the light would’ve woken me every morning.” He waved toward the window. “And at night…” He smirked. “If I wasn’t screaming about you, we were just talking about ‘You-Know-Who,’ ha.”

Tom paused by the window near Harry’s bed, arms still crossed behind his back, staring out at the Black Lake’s glassy surface, sinking into his own thoughts.

Curious, probably, given this new information… did the boy also dread leaving this place for the summer? Unexpectedly: were womans allowed in these dormitories??? Who else slept here?

“Ah, such touching nostalgia for those… objects,” he said evenly, venomously. “Don’t think it stirs any fondness in me.”

Harry laughed softly, stepping close, shoulder brushing against shoulder.

“Oh, come on, wouldn’t dream of it. Just thoughts…” His head nestled against Tom’s shoulder. “Always hid my cloak in that drawer, along with the map. Studied by the common room fireplace, though honestly, ha, I didn’t dedicatesss much time to it-ss…” His words slithered in Parseltongue, hissed right into the other’s ear.

Tom swallowed hard.

“I suppose you’re suggesting I make up for your… neglected education?”

“Listen, Tom, why are we here?” Harry cut him off. He turned his body toward his old bed, its burgundy coverlet emblazoned with a golden crest, and gave it a quick, confident once-over, letting out a sharp humph. “I mean, in Hogwarts? You wanted me to prove I don’t give a damn about the Order. Fine. Next morning we’re on a beach. You spot some suspicious figures on the map—next day Hogwarts has a new Headmaster, and you’re dragging me there?!”

Harry pressed himself against Tom, seizing his arms and pulling him close. Voldemort offered no resistance, melting into the embrace.

“I’ve been asking for something specific for how long now? Ages! Come on, Lord Voldemort… do it…”

Harry’s face was inches from Tom’s, his breath mingling with the other’s lips, eyes half-lidded, breathing ragged.

“Ahh...Fuck me...”

Harry drew himself to Tom’s lips, pressing his body against him, hands gripping the slim waist, and toppled onto his old single bed, pulling Tom with him. Voldemort collapsed atop him—it would’ve been easy to push away again… but not in this position! Impossible… His tongues were already exploring Harry’s mouth, probing, while the boy’s thighs curled around, knees clasping tightly at the narrow waist..

Voldemort thrust his hips, his body deciding for him. Even through layers of clothing, the sensation of his cock so close to where it needed to be struck like a sudden disorientation—an electric jolt through his nerves, from groin to spine. Harry’s body arched in a responsive wave of desire. A low, wet moan escaped their throats in near unison, echoing in the boys’ dormitory like a prayer torn from a two-headed fallen seraph—not to the heavens, but to the depths of hell.

“Ah! Yes, yes, my Lord…” Harry half-moaned, half-whispered, pulling away from Tom’s mouth. The bed was cramped for two—Harry felt his body teetering on the edge as he pressed his groin upward, grinding against Tom’s cock.

“Sss,You want-s this sso badly, do you-ss?” Parseltongue hissed directly into Harry’s mouth, Voldemort couldn’t speak English now, delirious, half-conscious from the impossible sensations: heat in his veins, tingling in his fingertips and groin… Take it off. Yes, yes, yes, take it off. Their thoughts merged.

A nonverbal spell—ah!—a thrust of hips coincided with Harry’s trousers unraveling at the side seams, sliding off and levitating away, stitching themselves back together midair, revealing the bare thighs of a young man,trembling with anticipation, skin glistening with a faint sheen of sweat and adorned with noticeably dark, curly hair. Voldemort slid a hand under Harry’s head, gripping his hair, tilting his head back. Another thrust. Harry’s knees clamped tighter around Tom’s sides. Voldemort’s chest pressed against something metallic he’d mistaken for fabric all this time… Oh…

“Oh God, yes, my Lord, just enter me, please, yes, yes… Fuck me…” Harry muttered, hands roving over Tom’s clothed back, clutching the fabric, fingers digging in. This crap needs to come off now!

“Mff…” Voldemort buried his face in Harry’s neck. The scent… apricots… Another thrust, and Harry’s hips responded with a circular motion.

Oh, Harry knew exactly how this could end!

“No, no, no!”

A thought—will took form—and the lower layer of Voldemort’s robe, tight and form-fitting, simply wasn’t there anymore. In less than a second, it was on the floor, Harry’s boxers following suit, leaving his lower body entirely bare. The black cloak didn’t hinder, lying beneath them like a warm blanket.

Tom’s sheer silk robe was nearly transparent, his exposed groin pressing against Harry’s cock. As the slick shaft slid against Harry’s, a wave of shudders rippled from the base of his cock up his abdomen, goosebumps prickling his skin.Mvaah.

Harry…

“Come on, come on, come on…” Harry babbled, his hand slipping between their bodies to grip Tom’s hot cock. He nearly howled, feeling the pulse in his palm, the thick vein swelling under his thumb, sending jolts of desire straight to his own groin. In one breath, like a prayer into Tom’s lips: “Oh, my Lord, yes, put it in me, enter me, do it.”

He tightened his grip, thumb tracing the thick vein up and down—Merlin, his ass was literally clenching with the need to take it in, muscles contracting rhythmically, as if his body screamed for fullness, for connection, to make them inseparable! It was essential!

Voldemort nodded—short, almost unconsciously, to Harry or himself—and his forked tongue flicked between his lips, hissing:

“ Yesss… yess, child… you’ll have it-ss. Fine. ”

Slender fingers dug into the muscles of young calves, pressing Harry’s knees to his chest; the position exposed everything—genitals and anus, trembling in the air of the small Gryffindor room. No thoughts.

A nonverbal spell, and Harry felt a sudden cold rush inside—something thick, slick, and abundant, spreading along his walls… Oh, fuck, that feels good! Harry thrust his hips, as if trying to catch the cock himself.

But there was no need to hunt for a piece of Voldemort this time.Harry replacing Tom’s right hand, supporting himself under his knee, holding himself in a bent position. Yes, Yes, Yes! Tom straightened, guiding his hard, pulsing cock to the entrance, spreading the slickness with the tip. Godric, what a mess… The swollen, wet head pressed against the ring of muscle, a slender index finger pulling the outer skin to aid entry. As it began to slide in—slowly, centimeter by centimeter—Harry’s muscles clenched instinctively. He pulled his legs closer, eyes squeezed shut, bright flashes tearing through the darkness of his closed lids. AH! A short motion, and the tight ring of muscle suddenly gave way, enveloping half the cock in a hot, gripping vacuum.

A wave of reverent ecstasy: for Harry, it was like lightning in his veins, a searing stretch and compression all at once, where pain briefly mingled with pleasure, amplifying their bond, a collapse, as if his body had finally found its missing piece; for Voldemort, it felt more like plunging into void...the end of Voldemort.

He pressed his face close, breathing his voice into Harry’s lips, eyes half-lidded, breath uneven. Every inch inside set Harry aflame, his body gripping tight, desperate, as if it would never let go, muscles clenching and cradling the pulsing heat within. A sharp thrust, and dick slid deeper, filling Harry completely. Merlin…a piercing, brief squeal, resembling a woman’s, shot through the chambers of Harry’s mind, causing him to smile even wider

Voldemort collapsed onto Harry, hooking Harry’s knees under his elbows. The red of his irises was barely visible—blackness drowned in an emotion he’d never known. Oh, what the hell, where would his eternity be without this?! Harry…

“Ah, Voldemort, yess… oh yessss, your cock insssside me, ssso hot, so big… fuck Harry Potter!” Harry hissed some words instinctively, moaning, his hands clawing at Voldemort’s shoulders, nails digging through fabric, gasping erratically as the Dark Lord’s forked tongues slid into his mouth, entwining his. Yes…

Voldemort hips drew back, then forward smoothly, circling deep inside.

“Fuck, ah, my Lord, yes, yes, yes, yes.”

Again. Pulled out halfway and thrust in, his tongues weaving around Harry’s, again—oh, how hot and tight Harry Potter grips him, like his cock was sinking into ambrosia… oh, he won’t last long… Each thrust rocked Harry against the bed, a jolt that arched his body, curling his toes. Then sharper—Tom moved in and out in a steady, unhurried rhythm, knocking breaths from Harry’s lips into his mouth.

Harry’s half-moan broke through:

“Oh, yes, yes, like that… ss fuck me, come inside, I beg you, sss fill me completely, ah,ss do it! I’m gonna come! Ah!Sss!! Yess, yesss—” His hissing was punctuated by thrusts into his body, his own cock, pressed between them, rubbing against their clothes, pre-cum smearing across the dark fabric.

“SsssssSsSsssss—” No, no, not yet! “Ahhh!” Voldemort buried himself as deep as he could, drawing a grunt from the boy as he fucked him with precise, rhythmic, short thrusts.Damn, damn, yes…

“Oh, yes, I’m coming, please, yes!!!!” Harry screamed. Voldemort hissed, clutching Harry’s head with both hands with long spider-like fingers, bending him almost in half, pressing his hips tightly against the boy’s ass as his legs locked crosswise around Voldemort’s narrow body. Eyes squeezed shut until white sparks flared, pressing into a ravenous kiss. Mff. The cock buried inside Harry swelled even more. Harry felt the thick vein pulse, and with a low, vibrating Aaaah, Tom came, face pressed into Harry’s neck below his ear: hot, viscous streams shot inside Harry’s body, unnaturally abundant, triggering a final wave of ecstasy. Voldemort thrust his hips deeper, circling them, as he felt Harry’s muscles clench around him and a wail: “Yes, Tom, inside, inside, inside, oh GOD, yes!” Harry gasped at the end, going limp, his body arching in a sharp spasm. His cock, trapped between them, shuddered, releasing long streaks that smeared across their clothes as Tom’s final, juddering thrusts wrung every drop from him.

Pause.

The last pulses of orgasm coursed through their bodies like adrenaline, leaving warmth, weary sweetness, and a languid emptiness in every muscle. Voldemort blinked, as if returning to reality. His fingers still gripped the tangled hair at Harry’s nape.

“Don’t… call me that filthy Muggle name,” he whispered into the curve of Harry’s neck. Warm breath brushed the skin, and Harry squirmed from the tickle.

“Tom? Mmm… but I like it… Toooom~” His voice slid into an almost purring tone. Come on, Tom should be used to it by now…

Harry’s knees were pressed to his shoulders, calves sliding along Voldemort’s forearms, his body still arched in a curve.

Voldemort, unhurried, slid out, and Harry sprawled across his old narrow bed, arms flung above his head like a saint—only instead of a halo, a tousled crown of black hair framed his head, lips slightly parted, as if a prayer had morphed into a moan. Exquisite. His body felt like cotton, so blissful… Oh, Merlin, he’d fucked by Lord Voldemort—not in the vile Malfoy Manor, not in some random place, mmm, but here, in his old Gryffindor dormitory, where he once trembled at the thought of being killed by this very dark, terrifying wizard. Perfect. As if his entire childhood and youth had been leading to this moment: Harry Potter bending his knees. Perhaps, in another place, Dumbledore might have succeeded… Pfft, no way! How much Harry would have missed!

A sharp flick—Voldemort cast a nonverbal spell, and Harry jolted as something swept through his body. The young man lifted his head, staring at his legs… Moments ago, his shins and thighs were dusted with dark, curly hair; now, they were smooth as polished marble. He glanced higher—his balls, too...all his body!

“OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, YOU BLOODY MONSTER!” he blurted, making no effort to soften the words. “Why?!”

Voldemort silently tossed Harry’s trousers and boxers back to boy with a spell. Harry caught them and began pulling them on.

“What,” Voldemort said at last, his tone dry, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he watched Harry’s fingers fumble with the belt, he reached out when, after the proper spell, his robe levitated toward him. “Didn’t you say we’re alike? Want me to shave your head and eyebrows too?”

Harry gaped in horror, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“No way… you like it too much, you wouldn’t.” Harry glanced at his boots, wow, how long would he keep feeling the phantom presence of a cock inside him? If Harry focused, he could almost summon the bodily sensation back—especially with the hot weight still seeping through his insides!

“So, shall we raid the Restricted Section now? I bet you’ve already scoured it, but can I take a look?” The daylight, almost golden, streamed through the window, haloing Harry’s hair in a radiant glow. Voldemort cupped his chin, thumb stroking gently, lost in thought.

“Hey?”

“Yes, let’s go.” Voldemort flicked his wand, tidying Harry’s hair into its proper tousled swirl,using a flawless, non-wet cleansing spell on Harry and himself after and vanished down the staircase to the common room in a wisp of smoke...it was magnificent—that should have been done long ago. It changed nothing. Except, perhaps, a new… ordained exercise might now take place. He felt the totality of himself inside the boy,oh, its impressed upon him a rare and exhilarating awe of his own corporeal presence. Voldemort had much to ponder. The tightness in his chest… worse than any curse. Oh no, there it was again, stirring when Harry caught up and brushed his forearm...a curse, but one that teased him with pleasure.

Yet, when Lord Voldemort shall become Sovereign Of All, and the boy stood as an indelible part of his eternity and dominion… hm. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, would look impeccable in that role. Even his name—cast by fate itself. His Chosen One… for eternity… yes… and the means to grant him eternity remained to be chosen. A Horcrux? Hardly! The risk was too great; even the Dark Lord wasn’t ready to discover what would happen to the boy’s soul if attempted, with their souls already entwined…The boy ages, which means, at the very least, death from old could touch him… no, it cannot.

Hm, Harry could help. Hiding— wasn’t ruled out, but controlling everything… being prepared… Instinctively, he refused to entertain the thought of losing Voldemort—the void that would remain felt more perilous than any spell, oh, not just for him… His scarred, rotten mind, like an Inferius, stirred over the chaos, seeking a solution… and it seemed he’d found one. He began forging a chain—each link sprouting from the last until it closed into a perfect loop. Not merely a list of spells—an Idea .

It led him to where he could not look himself… To a place where there is no color, no shape, not even darkness.A place that cannot be imagined.A place where there is no something . There is only… nothing … and no otherworldly lantern from the tale he had once read would help the youth.

Notes:

Hmm, I'm curious—is anyone still reading this, or am I alone in this graveyard? Ah, well... Anyway, fair warning: I’m really not a fan of tags, but I think an attentive reader has already figured out that 'horror' and 'dark Harry' will eventually... collapse together, right? In the future, I’ll add warnings at the start of each chapter(where the dead dove get too dead.) But no tags.

Chapter 36

Cosmos, with its collapses and supernova explosions, obeys laws; even "infinity" is nothing more than the limit of a formula. If that's the case with matter, then why should consciousness remain a mystery? Perhaps it is no more complex than the chaotic chemical collapses within us: subjectivity is merely a rhythm, a tremor, a vibration, a cloud of chemical activity sustaining the illusion of continuity.

And so it follows... that the "incomprehensibility" of consciousness is just a coincidence, a synchronization error, thanks to which the brain imagines itself grand. Ha! But how... to capture the moment when the simple turns into the complex, when the cloud of activity trembles on the brink of dispersion, like a star cluster before collapse? There it is, the true wonder: in the fragile equilibrium between order and chaos, where the fabric of the mind hides! Can I... look?

"Damn, Tom, for the first time I'll sneak into the Restricted Section without hiding."

Elder Wand in hand, Voldemort swept an arc across the room, transfiguring the screaming scarlet fabrics around into a burgundy like venous blood. Nothing more than a personal imprint.

"Amusing, how quickly you've grown accustomed to the privileges my company affords. It seems some articles in the Prophet were truthful, and you've always been a little hypocrite, haven't you?"

The portrait swung open, and scarcely had the two dark, satisfied figures crossed the threshold,

"That wretched Skeeter... by the way, did you tell them about me? I think it wouldn't be an article but a bomb! Just imagine..."

The frame slammed shut with a clap, the cloak arched as if pulled taut by a line to avoid injury.

The Fat Lady froze, her eyes growing round as saucers, her plump finger trembling like a pupating larva pointing at the monstrous figure beside the boy:

"Harry, my dear... this... this..." she began, but her voice faltered as her gaze fixed on Voldemort, who stood calmly, yet his very presence seemed to suck the light from the corridor, and only a shadow of a smirk slid across his lips, cold and commanding as befitted a monster.

Harry, wasting not a second, pressed his back against him, smoothly gliding his body along the lanky figure:

"Oh, Lord Voldemort," a thin, plaintive boyish voice, "I... you did this... you... you used me! Forced me... oh, your cum is still inside me! Spare me, I beg you! Don't touch my friends!"

Spider-like fingers closed around his waist, the other hand on his throat, forcing the youth to tilt his chin up. Eyes gleaming with amusement, Voldemort leaned in and deliberately hissed loudly:

"Pitiful Potter! I thought my semen would run dry, but it flowed and flowed until your ass drowned in it! Do you think screams will save you?! You are my property and my captive! One wrong breath from you, and your friends will die like rats!"

"Nooo!" Harry drawled, buckling as if ready to burst into tears. "Take me! Take me, but don't touch them! I... I am your victim! I'll do anything you want!"

The young body slid downward, as if from weakness, and Voldemort's hips jerked sharply, pressing into the Gryffindor with an overt imitation of the act; from the portrait's side came a hysterical squeal and:

"I! Ah!! Little boy... I... somebody... I..." The Fat Lady backed away with a face pale as chalk, ragged uneven breathing. Plump fingers clutched at her chest, trying to grasp something. A skipped beat. Irregularly. A few seconds—and her vision was covered by a dull film, everything blurring, lips trembling. She wheezed something incoherent and, seized by a sharp pain in her chest, collapsed into the portrait's background. The memory experienced a phantom heart attack.

Voldemort slid his breath along the smooth foreign neck, loosening his fingers on the neck with an almost tender smirk:

"Wicked little hypocrite, Slytherin was the place for you..." Skipped beat. Irregularly.

"Mmm..." Harry swallowed, his Adam's apple grazing the other's phalange bones, eyelids fluttered and dropped. Oh come on, as if anyone expects anything else from "Harry Potter"... the Chosen One, eternal victim. Oh, how charming! It's hard to say whether Harry likes it more when Tom is polite, because on the other hand, those rare sensations of pressure on his neck also evoke a thrill... Tom...

"That was fun, curious that a portrait can black out," Harry tossed out as they turned in sync, their robes flaring out in arcs in opposite directions, like a single motion.

"Of course," Voldemort replied. "A portrait is a fixation of consciousness, its cognitive trace. And though the body is long dead, the psychic matrix continues to function according to the laws of perception that were recorded. Phantom sensations can mimic bodily ones, for them there's no difference at all."

Touch. Harry grabbed Voldemort's hand and pulled him along the corridor leading from the Gryffindor common room to the staircases that descended to the library. After some time, he rested his head on the shoulder—mmm, his body still felt so blissfully, as if gaining a brief respite from its own mortality.

"Curious... does a Horcrux work on the same principle? But I only saw one from your diary. Why not..."

"My Book was an exception. Initially, I used it for its direct purpose— for fixing memories. That gave it... an unintended function. The Horcrux itself shouldn't 'evoke' a likeness of the caster like that; it merely stores a fragment of the caster's soul. But in the case of the book—the structure was already adapted for recording, interaction, immersion. Thus, something more than a passive vessel arose." His lips twisted into a cold smirk. "What, had to sweat it out? What memories did it tempt you with?"

Before his inner eye flashed scenes—his own youthful face, too perfect, but not yet weighted by experience... pfft... nothing special. Contrary to that, Voldemort felt a sharp guess pierce his mind: this guise could influence the boy not only with authority to gain trust, but in a far more base way... sensations of hot envelopment of his member by the youth's body and op— he corrupted Harry Potter?! Well, no... he would have probably cast Cruciatus on the boy right away, or some other foulness, considering that one was guilty of his "death"... but tell that to Voldemort's brain! Even distorted by the Horcrux fact and unreality, his youthful "self" retained those advantages from which his current self felt disgusted. Mine!

"Oh yes, it tempted me magnificently; from the first day I started doubting my friend, but damn, you were already so devilishly sexy then... Honestly, I could have talked to you for hours. And if not for all that idiocy that year, I probably would have wanked over you every night. Would have thought only of that handsome in the book..." Thin fingers clamped on his palm with such force that Harry's joints cracked, but he didn't even wince, only arched a brow noticing the change in finger position. "But now... you match your status, my lord... by the way, I didn't know until the end, until you literally... wrote it to me, ha-ha, I'm such an idiot, can you imagine?"

Hm.

“Has the Horcrux within you ever… shown any sign of activity?” Voldemort’s voice was level, but truth be told, he felt a prickle of unease at the thought of the answer. “In dreams, for instance? Did you see only… me?”

“Hm?” Harry tilted his head. “I didn’t even suspect it existed. I saw only you.” Dreams… nothing dreams to him now.

Portraits flickered past them, their occupants more animated now, darting from frame to frame, crouching yet never losing sight of the pair, curiosity plainly overtaking them. And no wonder! Some whispered brazenly, only to freeze, as if struck by a curse, when Voldemort’s crimson gaze swept over them.

“Hm…” Harry snorted, waving a hand dismissively at the paintings and letting his cheek brush against a bony shoulder. In Parseltongue, he hissed, “…ss everyone’s so afraid of you. Even the dead.”

“Fear, is the inevitable consequence of power.” Voldemort’s tone was measured, almost academic. “Biologically, it serves as a universal survival mechanism—primary, as I’ve said before. Humans are social creatures, and their fear spreads faster than any plague. A single personal terror can become the legacy of an entire group.”

“Hm.” Harry bit his lip. “So, you’re saying fear is the root of all behavior?”

“Evolutionarily, yes. An organism strives for survival, and for humans, the mind became their adaptive weapon. Just as the Hungarian Horntail’s spines on it tail grew larger with each generation for protection until they reached an optimum, so too did the mind expand from fear until it achieved its ideal. It is our cognitive spines, a response to the pressures of existence.”

From Voldemort’s sleeve, the Marauder’s Map slid smoothly, hovering in the air.

“Consider, for instance, the history of Imperio,” he said, his gaze lingering on a dot labeled Bloody Baron in the dungeons. “Its earliest mentions trace back to the early Middle Ages. It was an answer to the eternal question of power: how to subdue one ruled by their own fear? When fear itself becomes the enemy’s weapon, you need a method to override it. Imperio doesn’t act from hatred but from calculation—it suppresses the chaos of the mind, replacing it with clear, obedient silence. Unlike Crucio, it doesn’t torment. Its effect is almost intoxicatingly pleasant. No trace of sadism—just efficiency. Why wait for a strike from behind a wall when it’s wiser to send forward those whose lives are worth nothing? There’s a word for that, by the way: strategy. I’ll give you the materials. Draw your own conclusions.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to the map, his head still resting on Voldemort’s shoulder. Logical. But…

“Still… fear’s too chaotic,” he hissed. “How do you make sense of it? Endure it, carry it, drag it along? Constant Imperio? Pointless. No one knows where that leads a person…”

Flash. Where were you on the third… the sixth… the ninth… A wand slashed. Torn flesh, crimson arcs, arterial sprays. Someone’s fingers clawed at their own throat. A scarlet curtain drowned the vision, and Harry didn’t even have time to blink before everything dissolved into red before him.

“Exactly.” Voldemort’s lips curled into a smirk, the title dripping with irony. “You saw the Minister, didn’t you? When you find a way to subdue the mind without destroying its will… perhaps even I will bow to the luck of Harry Potter.”

Silence.

“Hmm,” Harry drawled, tightening his grip on Voldemort’s forearm. “Interesting…”

His green gaze snagged on the map.

“Oh, look. Theodore Nott. Standing in the Headmaster’s office, not moving.”

Voldemort tilted his head, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I think I’d like to see that first,” he said, a note of anticipation threading his voice. Of course, he’d had countless chances to enter Albus Dumbledore’s office… but why hadn’t he? He’d scarcely been in Hogwarts since that battle, save for the time he found his Horcrux blazing in its hiding place. His thoughts had been elsewhere entirely—as they had been for the last decade.

Harry grinned, weaving his scarred, slender fingers with Voldemort’s smooth, spider-like ones.

“Brilliant, agreed. And, by the way, can we linger a bit? I want to roam the castle, poke around here and there…” His face grazed the other’s neck. “Unless, of course, my Lord is in a rush to get back to the Malfoy den.”

Voldemort turned Harry to face him, one hand encircling his waist. The boy spun theatrically, his cloak flaring like an entrée, and Voldemort hissed against Harry lips, “Let’s try it…” The words hung, ambiguous. In the next moment, Harry’s body felt weightless, like a cloud scattered by the wind—light, ephemeral, every atom dissolving into a vortex of darkness. A single black wisp surged forward, cold and enveloping, like night mist over a lake. Merlin, actual flight! Yet the embrace still held, as if they were one. Harry’s heart raced as they materialized before the stone gargoyle guarding the entrance on the second floor, leading to the Headmaster’s tower.

The grotesque, hulking gargoyle, contrary to expectation, spoke.

“An entity seeking to become legend forgets what it has lost.”

Who was that meant for? The stone apples with carved eye sockets remained motionless.

The gargoyle shifted, stone grinding against stone, revealing the passage. A simultaneous, indifferent “hm” escaped them, and a single black cloud shot up the long staircase to the tower.

The doors to the Headmaster’s office stood wide open. Harry’s gaze caught first on the massive rectangular void in the decor behind the desk—an emptiness where the portrait of the last Headmaster should have hung. He froze. Had Snape vanished, or was it still… Dumbledore? Hermione had carried one Headmaster with her—what if…

Pair of planks sailed over Harry’s head, forcing him to duck. Theodore Nott stood before the black desk, turning his head. His eyes slid over Voldemort, then dropped his wand abruptly. A full-body bow. His gaze shifted to Harry—neutral, indifferent, as if he were part of the floating furniture.

When Nott straightened and took a single step toward Voldemort, his tone was deliberate, each word punctuated by a pause.

“I, Theodore Nott II, grant you… Lord Voldemort, full permission to access any fireplace in this castle at any time.” The flames in the office fireplace flared green, confirming the access. Harry’s mind flashed to an image of himself hurling some trinket of Dumbledore’s into a hearth, nearly wrecking the office. A brief smirk bared his white teeth as he stared at the empty space where a Headmaster’s portrait should have been.

Voldemort didn’t acknowledge the vow with a nod; his gaze, too, was fixed on the void behind the desk. Clearly, it was tied to that wretched creature—but it could hardly have made it here…

“Hm. Curious.”

“It was empty, my Lord,” Nott added quickly. He gestured toward the other Headmasters’ portraits, veiled to obscure their view, and lifted one. “Master Everard, greetings. If you please—who committed this outrage, and when?” His gaze slid disdainfully to a pile of broken objects by a cabinet. The wood of the wall around the portrait darkened visibly, as if struck by necrosis, spreading in a slow black gradient.

The frame stirred, and a man with red hair and spectacles twisted his head about. The portrait’s thoughts churned: These vile people… Death Eaters! But the enchanted imprint of consciousness could not resist the will that governed the space. Worse than Imperio. You exist, yet something decides for you, as if it were your own volition. That’s how it must be.

“Yes, of course, Headmaster!” Everard’s voice quavered. “The boy was a Gryffindor student. It happened that day. The lad took Dame Antonia Creaseworthy Portkey and was in quite a hurry.”

Three sharp, predatory gazes narrowed.

“And Albus Dumbledore’s portrait?” Harry stepped closer, crossing his arms over his chest. The ancient Headmaster stared at him, clearly recognizing the youth who had sent him to the Ministry through another frame time and again. What’s happening here?

“Mr. Potter? Have you… lost?” Everard asked, bewildered.

Three mocking snorts answered him.

“Answer the question, please,” Theodore Nott interjected, his tone icy. He flicked his wand toward the ceiling, and the beams supporting the tower’s vault transformed into elegant crossbars, adorned with carved serpents and dragons.

“Oh, my apologies, Headmaster,” Everard’s voice faltered. “Someone unknown came, I’d say, mid-last month. I was veiled, but I heard a voice beforehand. It didn’t match the image of the old man I saw—likely someone under Polyjuice, I presume.”

Voldemort might once have unleashed Crucio on every follower if it meant Harry Potter was slipping away again. But now, what was there to fret over? A dead Albus Dumbledore? A failure like Severus Snape? And their helpers—a Squib and a cat? Quite the company, whoever they were. Lord Voldemort had ordered Draco Malfoy to curse Albus Dumbledore back then, genuinely believing the Headmaster was a feeble old man. That had truly been Lord Voldemort’s perspective. Which, by the way, was why, since his return, he hadn’t spared a thought for his Horcruxes. Pfft, his genius was so vast no one could unravel his secrets! So this situation was noted. Registered. Acknowledged. And mocked with a sarcastic chuckle. He had everything he needed. Time to move forward. No worthy opponents remained.

Harry lifted his head, surveying the office. Damn it. This is bad. Absolute rubbish! When the Headmaster fell, his portrait awoke and was evidently well-informed. By all accounts, Albus had spent hours conversing with his “self”… Whoever this was, they now had a dangerously astute advisor. House-elves are still working in the kitchens… Harry thought suddenly, slicing his fingers across the Headmaster’s desk as he took a few steps, circling it to the left. Thinking.

“Nott,” Voldemort said softly, casting Harry a brief glance. Of course, Voldemort wouldn’t have recalled that wretched creature… “A small task, if the Headmaster doesn’t object: personally inspect every kitchen house-elf. If there’s the slightest hint of collusion—dispose of them.” He paused, crossing his arms behind his back, eyeing the hunched figure. Curious. “And one more thing: how did you come to be here? Did you sense any changes in the local magic after your appointment?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Nott draped the portrait with its magical veil once more. “I Apparated into the Great Hall and made my way to the office through the corridors. Not only the portraits but the ghosts… they’re unusually cooperative. I’d even call it a warm welcome—a rare shift in their behavior.”

“Excellent. According to my information, Carrow and Travers missed an unregistered Squib under charms—feline.”

Nott, unflinching, responded the moment his Lord’s lips closed, the information settling into his neurons.

“I’ll immediately consult the castle’s consciousnesses, my Lord. And if it pleases you, I insist that the school grounds and Hogsmeade be patrolled by werewolves and Dementors. With your permission, I’ll draft an order for the deployment of a Dementor unit to be signed by morning.”

“Yes, yes, of course…” Voldemort waved a hand dismissively, his expression devoid of emotion as he surveyed the space, which had noticeably darkened. The last traces of wood creaked, peeling away and reshaping under the new Headmaster’s enchantment. The copper of the candelabras gleamed, dulling into black. No strong emotions? Ave within? Indifferent.

Harry caught a twisted golden bird’s claw sailing through the air among warped metal rods—the pitiful remnants of Fawkes’s cage, once hidden in the darkest corner of Snape’s office. Oh, phoenixes had golden beaks and claws. Looks cool. Harry slipped the keratinous fragment into his pocket. Nott’s eyes narrowed as the golden glint vanished into Potter’s clothing. A faint spark of rage registered.

At that moment, a rolled parchment bearing the Ministry’s magical seal, marked with a glowing golden E for tracking and rapid response, shot from Voldemort’s sleeve. It unfurled in the air, and above the Minister’s signature, new words materialized, destined to vanish after a time. Lord Voldemort’s thin lips curled into a smirk as the magical missive completed its display: an automatic decree reporting the immediate dispatch of a unit to coordinates where an international Portkey had been activated. Kingsley fleeing to Germany? Hoping to find support there? Hm… After a moment, Voldemort tucked the scroll away with indifference. Bellatrix would provide a report regardless.

Theodore Nott mirrored the gesture: his parchment trembled in the air, but the Hogwarts Headmaster merely glanced at the lines before shifting his eyes to Voldemort. This was, undoubtedly, no longer his concern. He levitated the scroll to his desk. The Headmaster of Hogwarts had more pressing matters.

Hunching further, he approached the window and, with a restrained motion, flung open the sash. For a moment, the air beyond shimmered, like ripples of light. Only when something drew closer did it become clear: a small dragon, no larger than a seagull, approached the Headmaster. Its wings beat heavily, as if bearing a weight disproportionate to its body. Each flap was not flight but a struggle against its own mass, making the motion clumsy rather than swift. Like a scaly bumblebee.

Losing its camouflage entirely, the dragon’s dark green scales, threaded with golden veins, glinted in the late afternoon light. It hovered awkwardly at the window, wings flapping like heavy canvas, its tail slowly dragging downward, scraping the stonework.

Harry couldn’t hold back a gasp.

“Whoa! No way! Can it deliver letters too?”

“One of its possible functions,” Nott replied dryly, adjusting a sleeve that already sat perfectly. “Indeed, Mr. Potter.”

Behind Harry, by the wall where Dumbledore’s Fawkes’s cage once stood, black metal bars writhed and formed a new perch. Harry watched as the dragon lumbered through the air, wings slapping, and dropped its body onto its new roost. The metal shuddered under its weight.

“Too slow, too willful, demands more effort than it’s worth,” Voldemort said with a shrug, as if repeating an oft-spoken truth. “Keeping such a creature for status? Too high a price for such a trifling cultural symbol.”

Harry mumbled, nodding with exaggerated eagerness as he grasped the point.

“Oh, yeah, yeah…” he agreed, as if his Lord’s word were axiom. Nott, standing to the side, took note.

“Yeeeah,” Harry drawled again, sauntering past shelves and casually pocketing scrolls without bothering to check what they were. Cheeky brat. But could Nott say anything? Not a word. His words would carry no weight—worse, they could bring dire consequences. “And why bother with all this letter nonsense anyway, my Lord?”

Boy sidled closer, pressing his hip against the other’s body.

Voldemort tilted his head, crimson eyes glinting.

“Quite so,” he said softly. A pale hand settled on the Chosen One’s waist, and he slipped into Parseltongue as their eyes met. “Sss Truth be told, Nott dreamt of dragons even in his school days. Ssaid: ‘Once you achieve greatness, I’ll get myself one—not just any, but a golden one.’ ” Tom’s lips curved into a thin smile as he pressed his face into the boy’s neck, hissing. “Sss Well, I’m certain: behind the shadow of that fat beast, it’ll be easiest to claim new feats—just as his father wrote himself a marvelous family history. ”

A second hiss. Nott bowed his head, his eyes widening in astonishment. The boy speaks Parseltongue?!

“S Oh, really? Nott loved claiming things for himself? I knew someone like that too… distant relative, maybe?” Harry grinned. He didn’t recall that the Headmaster’s son had studied at Hogwarts. Was it worth mentioning that his memory worked oddly? Logic remained intact; he could reason, sometimes brilliantly, connecting facts and acting deliberately. But memories themselves… they didn’t lie in neat rows, ready to be revisited. They were chaos, a mosaic in which the whole could only be glimpsed if someone pointed to the right fragment at the right instant. He needed a trigger—a word, an image—for something to rise from the void. Until that spark came, nothing remained… except for one light, and that, in truth, was profoundly unusual. Blood. Body. “Soul.” Mind.

Voldemort tightened his grip on Harry’s waist, holding him close, and, after a few hisses, exchanged a couple of remarks with Nott about the teaching staff, following a brief discussion of lost, dead Headmasters. Evidently, the Divination candidate had already been dealt with. The Headmaster would thoroughly mold the new hire’s mind—standard practice in any hierarchy. That louse needed to be kept close, and Lord Voldemort had given Nott personal instructions regarding her memories…

“Listen, it seems,” Harry tossed out casually, almost merging with his Lord, “even Hogwarts doesn’t mind you being here—you know, ha, Umbridge never made it here, even though the ‘Minister’ appointed her too.”

Nott’s greying, bushy brows shot up—a rare expression for his face—and he responded with noble courtesy, his body dipping into a slight bow.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter. Your insight does you credit.” His gaze flicked to the Lord. Of course, Lord Voldemort offered no overt approval, but Nott imagined he might have nodded: Yes, yes, absolutely the right approach, Mr. Nott.

They dissolved into black smoke once more, spiraling toward the library. A moment later, they materialized on the first floor, ten thousand books and ten thousand shelves sprawling before them.

“Listen, how do you do that?” Harry veered toward the far end of the reading room, where a magical rope still cordoned off the Restricted Section. “I mean, what’s that magic that lets you fly? Can I learn it too…?” He stepped over the rope. Voldemort let the lower half of his body dissolve into smoke, passing through it as if in answer to the question. Harry let out an involuntary breath—yes, he wanted to learn that. And so much more…

“Hm. I doubt you’d manage it straight away. I’d recommend practicing Apparition for a start. Ten years or so. I’ll provide materials later—study them. If you have questions, I’ll point out your mistakes.” Voldemort flicked his wrist, his mind on the books he needed. The shelves remained still.

He narrowed his eyes slightly and refined his request. Fine then… ugh. Muggle Studies. Cultural objects. Architecture and gathering places. Precise information was required: which were mere pathetic Muggle decorations, and which were woven into the fabric of wizarding history? It was better to check before a careless attack razed something that was part of magical heritage—and thus, his own.

“Pfft.” A short sound escaped Harry’s lips. Hm. They’d hardly come to the castle with Death Eaters about—why would they? Who took the portrait? Who’s that wretched Squib helping? And who doesn’t know where Lord Voldemort’s lair is… this is bad… Curious, though—why hadn’t Voldemort checked Nott? Just to be sure? Why, in general… hm… wait… even at the graveyard, Tom… only cursed one of them once? Just one? Killed no one? When Tom was barely more than a wraith, no one helped him! And Tom… just asked for thirteen years of service? Even Harry didn’t get an Avada Kedavra right away—just Crucio. For Tom, it mattered not to be a mere killer but to triumph, inexplicably, in a duel? Strange… The image of Voldemort in his mind had always been different: a colossus of terror, a shadow ceaselessly craving the death of everything, devouring, destroying! Harry hadn’t even questioned it… But now… Albus Dumbledore, is that you? Exquisite manipulation from the first year: fear him. Hagrid… then through stories, coincidences… events… All nudging toward one truth: Lord Voldemort was a monster.

Yet reality was… slightly different. Human near him didn’t fit the horrifying picture fed to his mind for years. Mmm, no. Unfair!

“Tell me about the charms you used on those fabrics to get that material you’re wearing.” Voldemort ignited the library’s lights, and they cast a dim green glow.

“Oh… uh…” Harry blinked. Damn it, answer can’t tie back to those blasted Hallows he apparently own. All those “impossible” things Harry had heard were clearly connected… but he wanted it to be him, not the pressure of some relics… which Tom would probably demand for himself immediately. Or would he? Either way, it was all his, and he wanted Lord Voldemort to notice Harry first, not his possessions. “Listen, I was so thrilled to finally be here that I was thinking about dragon hide. I mean… thanks to a dragon, I escaped Gringotts, smashed the bloody roof to bits!”

“Ah, yes. Your little escapade…” Voldemort’s lips twitched. “I forgot to mention—your theft of my property left a mark in great goblin history, child. Know this: since that night, your family is barred from any interaction with their holdings in Gringotts. A goblin curse has been placed on the Potter name… monstrous and terrible.” A smirk. “No gold, no relics of the Potters are yours any longer.” He waved dismissively toward the shelves of magical history, and several ancient tomes stirred—one even squealed, as if the author’s soul begged to be heard at last—while Voldemort watched the boy’s reaction expectantly. Oh, it was obvious to his Horcrux.

“What?! What the hell?! That’s mine! They’ve got no right—it’s completely unfair!” Harry flung out a hand, and with the motion, his blasted cloak flared, though his body hadn’t moved an inch. “You can do something about it, can’t you?”

“Oh… I don’t know… can I?” Voldemort strolled to a table. With a flick of his wand, a chair morphed into a throne-like seat, and a massive parchment unfurled across the table’s endless surface, revealing a map that curved at the poles, mimicking the true scale of the land. “In any case, it’s obvious to me—a mere audacious formality. Everything in those vaults already belongs to me. But rest easy—there’s no need for Galleons.”

Harry stood, arms crossed.

“And if I want to sort it out myself?” His eyes flashed stubbornly, brows furrowing.

“Sort out what, exactly?” Voldemort opened a few books… no, no, he wouldn’t read them—he was merely checking he didn’t already own these editions, noting their architecture… hm, curious, authorial flourishes by Lisette de Lapin, one of the witches who fled during the Muggle witch hunts in the fifteenth century… Henry VI? Oh, clever, clever…

“With something?” Harry waved toward Voldemort as if it were all perfectly clear. His gaze caught on a tome that seemed steeped in frost: its spine bore a thin crust of ice, pages parting of their own accord, exhaling a cold mist, as if a shard of eternal winter lurked within.

Voldemort glanced sideways and snorted as Harry took a seat beside him at the table.

“Dolohov would approve,” Voldemort chuckled. “He’s got a personal weakness for Eastern European curses.”

“Really? You use them too? Like, say, that spell for preserving food… I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Voldemort rolled his eyes and began hissing in a low, measured tone.

“Typically, one uses any vessel and cools it with a variation of Glacius. It depends on the wizard’s skill: the more adept the caster, the longer the desired temperature holds. But obviously, a skillful combination of charms always surpasses rote repetition of basics, as I explained with the Shadow. For preservation, I don’t need a vessel—I fix the moisture already present in the air and give it a stable spatial matrix. I prefer cubes; they’re convenient to store. The facets are pure crystallization, and the moisture’s structure itself sustains and serves as the vessel. You need only visualize the form precisely when casting the spell… By the way, sometimes a single spell a wizard works on can have a dozen names—simply because each new mind approaching the same phenomenon discovers it from a different angle but never completes it…”

Harry traced his finger along the pages under Tom Riddle’s murmurs, occasionally muttering “yeah, yeah,” greedily absorbing the lines, the words aiding his darting eyes to focus. He read a few words ahead, his vision sweeping the space. There were precise instructions: wand movements, descriptions, history… whoa, you could even use it as a whip, but Merlin, that’s insanely complex! Discovered from another angle? Oh, Harry had a book where someone mused about Horcruxes without naming them… and about “souls” too, though those books weren’t solely focused on that.

Ten minutes of silence followed, broken only by the scratch of quill on parchment or the levitation of blank scrolls soon to be inscribed and tucked into Voldemort’s personal black tomes.

Suddenly, he spoke again, as if picking up a thought that had never paused.

“Even fairy tales are merely retellings of real events. Take Beedle. His Babbitty Rabbitty was clearly inspired by Madame de Lapin.” He pointed briskly at the handwritten lines he was reading. “That childish nonsense told of a monarch, a liar, and a witch who, facing the pyre, not only escaped in animal form but turned even such foolish magic into a lever of power. The crowd believed her ‘death’ only amplified her curse, and fear forced the king to declare witch hunts unlawful. Amusing—one rabbit, her guise, essentially compelled a monarch to enshrine magic’s sanctity. The king kept his illusion of strength, while the Muggle ended with a noose around his neck. Everything in its place.”

“Wow, I haven’t read that one…” Harry mumbled, his eyes still racing over his frosty tome. “Wait, you read Beedle’s tales?” Harry’s brows shot up. “I felt like an idiot when I realized they had historical roots and real… things.”

“Of course I read them, though at an age when it was… embarrassingly late.” Voldemort grimaced, as if he’d swallowed a wad of fur. “The archives even hold essays by Albus Dumbledore on that particular drivel. That eccentric’s allegories were a favorite subject for his moralizing.”

“I still think his favorite was the one about the three brothers…” Harry muttered, not looking up from his book.

“That one too…” came the quiet reply.

And the parchment rustled again.

The Marauder’s Map lay unfurled before them, its enchanted ink ever-shifting. At some point, Theodore Nott’s name materialized in the kitchens. Some house-elf names flickered into existence and vanished again within the walls, in hidden alcoves rather than sleeping quarters… Clearly, the map didn’t show every place.

“Of course not. An elf told me about the Room of Requirement, and about Chamber know only we…” Harry lifted his head, and almost simultaneously, Voldemort mirrored the same movement. A few seconds of eye contact. Sensation. Harry leaned in closer as long fingers traced under his chin, slowly outlining the jawline, rising toward the cheek… closer, letting the pull between them complete the movement. Voldemort leaned forward, and their lips met. A kiss, not a devouring. Breath. Just a single moment.

Sensation… what was it like? Not fear, though his body trembled in response. Not victory, though his mind knew the cost of possession all too well. But this “puff” was something Voldemort had never known. Where once there gaped a void, demanding to be filled with phantoms, now a different signal emerged: the impossibility of imagining himself alone, as if existence itself had become vulnerable… Harry.

And a thought, formless yet commanding: to be someone, not everything. For one, not all.

Then it all collapsed into a mundane detail, almost trivial—Harry pulled back, and their gazes returned to their books, shoulders still pressed close. On the Marauder’s Map, unnoticed by either, the dot labeled “Winky” near Theodore Nott in the kitchens slowly faded.

Rustle.

“By the way, would you ever get a house-elf? You know, for cleaning, cooking…”

Again with this? Voldemort snorted. A page turned itself, and the inked silhouette of a Frenchwoman in his book pressed a hand to her forehead, as if exasperated by the reader’s gaze.

“Guess,” he said. Hm. What if he doesn’t guess? He didn’t need their manor—his and Harry’s—crawling with those loathsome creatures! “Of course not. Those things are too… primitive. I’d prefer staff of a more refined sort.” The words hung in the air. A manor? Something to consider… Relocating the space would mean it couldn’t be re-registered for a full sidereal month… Circumstances could be critical. Voldemort wouldn’t deactivate the lair at the Manor just yet.

“Hm… who’s Antonia Crisworth?”

Voldemort stared into the space before him.

“What did you just say? Who?” His eye twitched as he realized who was meant. “You mean to tell me you don’t know the names of every Hogwarts Headmaster, let alone the years of their tenure? Outrageous. Zero education.” From somewhere in the general section’s distant shelves, something crashed. Harry, lips downturned, watched as several books hurtled toward him, clearly expecting Voldemort to halt their trajectory… but one velvet-bound tome after another smacked him square in the face with a dry thud. Ave, Gryffindor’s finest Seeker! Harry squinted as they plopped onto the table and adjusted his glasses with a monotonous nudge of his finger.

“Speaking of Hogwarts history…” Tom continued, his tone cooler now, “we should raid that old fool Binns’s office on the fourth floor. That doddering idiot was so obsessed with his pitiful history lessons he couldn’t even die properly. He doesn’t need anything anymore.”

Harry lit up, as if a young necromancer had been handed a fresh corpse to study.

“Wow! I’ve always wondered what he was like when he was alive—that dreary rubbish was impossible to listen to!” Harry flipped a page in Frost Seals and Cold Curse Practices. So thrilling! Is there anything interesting in there? Anywhere else?

Voldemort glanced at Harry sideways. Perhaps they’d linger until lunch…

When the windows showed nothing but a thick, star-strewn sky, he spoke, as if tossing out something casual.

“Ever been to the Prefects’ Bathroom?”

Harry blinked, tearing himself from a page detailing practical curses, and the corners of his mouth curled into a suggestive smirk.

“Hm… once. What, does my Lord wish to show me those lavish baths? Are they worthy of Salazar Slytherin’s heir, worth spending time on? Mmm…” He nudged Voldemort’s shoulder, his eyes glinting.

“The baths aren’t worthy of me. But they might just be worthy of us. Convenient—slippery walls, hot steam…” A vision of a bare Harry Potter, water streaming down his skin… Plenty of room for you to kneel.

Voldemort swallowed dryly, picturing something, his gaze fixed ahead rather than on the boy. He waved a hand over the map, where Britain was marked with new magical sigils, and several inked wolves began darting across Scotland and Ireland.

“Aaah, yes!” Harry bit his lip. Oh, he’d kneel, alright! Back or front? Mmm, just remembering how it felt to have that cock inside… “You know, I’ve never sucked anyone off…” Harry’s finger slid up the other’s thigh, his breathing uneven. “Will you let me?”

Voldemort seized Harry’s hair sharply, lifting his face, holding him just at a distance, as if dictating the rhythm. The young lips let out a soft “Ah.” Breath against breath.

“No more acts on your terms!” he hissed. “You may want, you may offer, but I decide where and when.” He wasn’t stripping here! And Potter was damn good at… usurping his will!

“Okay, okay… then in the bathroom.” Harry grinned playfully, flicking the tip of his tongue across the other’s closed lips. The hand at Harry’s nape loosened, and before it dropped back to the wooden table, Voldemort’s slender fingers adjusted the boy’s cloak collar. How could he ever call him a scarecrow in mind?! His Harry looked utterly magnificent~ Wait… in bathroom? Oh, Salazar…

Harry stepped deeper into the Restricted Section, where dim lamps smoked in their glass globes, casting a green haze that stretched long shadows between the rows of books—shadows as elongated as the one trailing Harry, which he’d clearly seen since its activation.

He moved between the shelves, images flickering before his eyes: The Knight Bus, The Three Broomsticks, Borgin and Burkes… Curious, what kind of magic was this? Did it all work on the same principle as the portraits? Idea…

Harry’s hand glided over faded spines. His emerald gaze snagged on titles, one after another, but none were quite right. He paused, slowly scanning the rows from bottom to top—towering stacks of books loomed into the darkness, swallowed by the swampy glow of the ceiling, like the bottom of a lake.

Thought. Harry narrowed his eyes slightly, making a fluid wave of his hand, as if summoning something invisible. Silence. The shelves stood motionless.

“Hm,” he muttered, shrugging. Worth a try.

And at that moment, from the lowest shelf by his feet, a book shot out. It thudded against his boot and bounced back with a dull thunk. Harry froze, then bent to pick it up. A grin. Oh, brilliant!

But the joy lasted a second.

From above, from the right, the left—a crash, and another book tore free, striking his palm. Harry caught it with a sharp clap, managing to thrust his hand forward. The next one he missed—another smack, this time to his face. A third hit his shoulder.

“Ow!” He ducked, but it was too late. A fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth… they came all at once, from every direction, as if the entire section had conspired against poor Harry Potter, determined to bury him in a literary grave for his disrespect toward these tomes.

When the clamor subsided and the last covers slapped onto the stone floor, Harry stood in the center, buried in books up to his knees, glasses askew, and with an expression of doomed seriousness, adjusted them with a single finger. Déjà vu.

Well, then… looks like he’d take them all.

A minute later, Harry emerged from behind a bookcase, laden like a walking library. His arms barely held the teetering stack of tomes, the top ones pressing against his face as he took cautious, unsteady steps.

From the direction of the black throne came a familiar hiss.

“Judging by the noise… you’ve clearly found something extraordinarily valuable?”

“I didn’t drop anything!” Harry jerked, nearly losing his balance. He took a few quick steps, snorted defiantly, and with a resounding “ugh” dumped the load onto the table. The stack wobbled but held.

Voldemort began inspecting the books one by one without preamble. Mnemocorrection and secondary memory charms, more cognitive enchantments, dream practices, simulations, Legilimency… And what was this? A tome bound in dry, grey leather floated toward him.

“Why do you need all this, Harry?”

The chair creaked as the boy returned to his seat. Before him lay an ugly, dreary list of Headmasters and their accolades. He snapped it shut and pushed it aside.

“Curious. Maybe, by the way, I’ll figure out why you can’t always read my thoughts anymore… I’d like that.” Thick black lashes veiled his eyes as Harry’s hand slid toward Tom’s. That last part was the honest truth.

“Hm, I support your pursuit of understanding.” Voldemort’s gaze skimmed the titles skeptically, then flicked to the boy, to the spot where the scar hid beneath his hair.

“By the way, it’s nearly morning. Don’t you need to hear from your people and all that?”

“They can wait.”

The rustle of pages filled the space between them—Voldemort made regular magical notes on parchment, his movements sharp and precise, while Harry scribbled comments, sometimes directly in the book, his hand occasionally making a clumsy stroke when he waved the quill, mimicking wand movements. At times, he wrote a single word repeatedly, forcing it into his memory.

At one point, Harry asked, “Can I have my bag?” A brief “mmm,” and from the extended sleeve above the table, a transfigured satchel dropped neatly into Harry’s hand.

Harry found the books he’d picked from the “Dark Arts” office neatly stacked atop his earlier haul. Without much care for tidiness, he began shoving his new finds inside. He glanced sideways at Tom, and stealthily, drew a leather-bound volume toward himself with a finger.

Harry left only a few out, including one on frost curses.

When morning light began piercing the library’s high windows, Voldemort rolled his head side to side. Nothing cracked. The world map now bore countless annotations across the European continent.

Harry was engrossed in Bonds: Curses and Transmutation, which detailed, among other things, a spell that trapped people in magical portraits. Apparently, one could literally turn a person into paint, but it required an exceptionally skilled wizard to transfer consciousness and keep such a “portrait” alive… The “person” trapped in the portrait differed from a painted figure—they could never cross the boundary of their “world.” Years could pass before the consciousness faded… but there were no precise details on how or what it was, just the fact that the consciousness would persist…

“Remarkable how, with such zeal for learning and reading, your head remains suspiciously empty in some areas.”

“Oh, come on, who do you think found all your hiding places, huh? And, just so you know, I was the best Seeker in my House!” Harry elbowed Voldemort.

“Oh, really?” Voldemort cast a skeptical glance at the figure beside him. Slowly lowered his gaze to the Golden Snitch on neck— "Dumbledore's gift," as the boy had called it. Hm, it made more sense now. But then— his brilliant mind instantly conjured a vivid, realistic image of Harry in fitted leather Quidditch gear.

“Ahem. Let’s head to the fourth floor. I’ll clear the space.” Voldemort’s tone dripped with disdain—he had no intention of lingering there! He’d fulfilled his nominal plan for the future; now he needed to issue orders to the American werewolf, but that could wait… Harry… begin cultivating a vessel for consciousness transfer?

A synchronized creak of chairs. Harry stuffed the satchel into his pocket, and the massive map under Voldemort’s hand folded—first in half horizontally, then vertically, shrinking until it was palm-sized. Harry took the Marauder’s Map and said, “Oh, Trelawney’s in the Headmaster’s office.”

“Hm, a wise choice on her part, I suppose. The Headmaster is likely already working on her ‘schedule.’”

As Voldemort levitated the remaining scrolls and books, Harry still studied the map.

They walked through the corridors. The portraits whispered animatedly, until Voldemort flicked his wand at one, and figures in even the neighboring frames scurried to hide.

Harry tossed out, “Nott’s gone. Trelawney’s still in the castle. Hm, looks like they’ve come to an agreement, ha… Is he off for the signature? And the Dementors, what, they’ll listen to Nott too? How many will there be? What’s your Patronus?”

“Dementors answer to me—we have an agreement. Nott is my tool; they’ll obey, so long as their numbers are managed to use the resource wisely.” Voldemort ignored the Patronus question. What an absurd query? Charming. But that spell wasn’t feasible for him… was it?

Keeping pace, they moved through the corridors.

“The material you’ve gathered—I’ve studied it all, but unfortunately, Hogwarts, like the entire Ministry, was remarkably thorough in erasing any mention of the magic I chose to ensure my immortality.”

“Horcruxes?” Harry slipped into Parseltongue, his hiss gliding softly, echoing through the corridors.

Voldemort nodded.

“Yes, invented by Herpo the Foul, and I possess the only copy of his treatise. Soul magic… drives one to insanity, according to the Ministry. By the way, Herpo was the first recorded Parselmouth, per all surviving documents.”

“Didn’t even the Founders use something similar, like with the Sorting Hat?”

“The Sorting Hat? It was imbued with Legilimency, true, but how exactly is unknown. It doesn’t contain a living person’s consciousness.”

“Ss Wasss Herpo the Foul the only known persson to study soul magic?”

“What-ss? Hardly. As I said, plenty of information liess hidden in perssonal treatises. For instance, up until the sixteenth century, it’s clear there were diagnostic spells tied to souls, but not a single ritual or spell description survives. All obliterated.”

Harry seemed to notice something on the map—five new dots. Them?! But his face remained impassive, no flicker of change in his expression, his green eyes simply sliding onward.

“That’s vile. Knowledge can’t cause insanity,” he said softly. “Insanity lies in those who fear knowledge.”

Closer… Granger and Longbottom… here. The movement of the dots matched the echoing thuds in his skull. Around the corner…

“Hm.” Voldemort glanced at the boy, who held the map in both hands. “See something?”

“Sss..Only that Potter-s and Riddle are strolling sside by sside through thiss marvelouss castle.” Harry smirked.

Voldemort huffed. Indeed.

They reached the office, the Marauder’s Map still clutched in Harry’s hands, his eyes fixed on it.

The ghost’s office was scarcely less dreary than its owner: two cabinets, a teacher’s desk, a dining table, and behind heavy, dusty curtains, a bed untouched for ages. A biting hiss broke the silence.

“The dullest of the dead. Death should liberate, yet he’s turned it into a craft of tedium… Albus Dumbledore loved surrounding himself with the grotesque, pfft, and this one was clearly his prize exhibit. Nott, of course, won’t tolerate such dreariness going forward.” A flick of Voldemort’s wand, and a multitude of handwritten scrolls lined up against the wall as the room’s furniture began to crumble slowly.

“He was so vile, no one but Dumbledore would’ve hired him even when he was alive,” Harry replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

As Voldemort sorted the room into debris and manuscripts, Harry tossed out casually, “Oh, I remembered something!” He reached into his satchel with one hand.

Voldemort didn’t lower his wand but responded with intrigued curiosity.

“What?”

Harry pulled out Dark Crafts: Preservation and Display and Obscura Magia, both scavenged from the Black family library, and Voldemort levitated them toward himself.

“I found mentions of it in both of these…” Harry faltered, his breath catching. Two dots were in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. Filth! Only HE and Voldemort! Cold. Harry froze. His face a blank void, utter silence. His head turned toward Voldemort, who, engrossed in a book, had materialized a throne for himself and was now pondering and documenting amidst the floating objects in the office. Yes… a diagnostic curse could track the dynamics of a “soul.” What a nightmare, is this Harry’s handwriting? This needs work. It seems it was even used by Healers… Perhaps with visualization, one could activate a Horcrux curse on just a specific soul fragment? Split it? No. Why? Could the boy perform the ritual? Is his will strong enough? Hm…

Harry had anticipated this behavior but threw out, “What, my Lord, right here? Can I step out for a bit? I’ll come back.”

Tom, as often happened with Harry, answered without thinking.

“Yes, yes, throw on cloak.” A beat. Voldemort tore his gaze from the book and looked at Harry. No, what the hell?! Why there? Harry couldn’t leave! But then again, the boy wasn’t a complete fool—he’d be invisible. What danger could there be? The castle was under Death Eater control; nothing would happen. And Harry clearly loved this place as much as he did—a thought that mingled with an unfamiliar warmth, fluffing up his grey insides at the most inopportune moment.

“Go on, then. Don’t knock over every shelf.” Voldemort skipped a heartbeat as the boy swiftly draped the Cloak over himself. Pfft. Nothing will happen. This is starting to sound like nonsense! He’d check the map if needed! Voldemort’s gaze flicked to the black shadow stretching toward the door. Eternity… He buried himself in the book, levitating a few papers without even checking where the map was.

Cold.

Cold tunnels beneath Hogwarts. Ginny—older, taller, a woman transformed under the Polyjuice Potion, bearing no resemblance to Ginny Weasley—followed her brother, each step echoing dully underfoot, swallowed by the stone, muffled beneath the oppressive weight of the earth above.

“You sure you remember the way?” she asked softly. “No side paths?”

“I’m sure. We won’t get lost, don’t worry.” Ron offered his hand as they navigated rubble that had blocked the passage years ago. Lumos lit the space from his wand, a lone beacon… There’d be no trouble now; he’d make it to the end! Ron had his wand! Ginny swatted his hand away, declining help.

With a sharp flick of her wand, the stones scattered with a crash. Ron flinched at the sudden noise but said nothing.

Forward.

She ducked reflexively, fingers brushing the cold stone floor… Something scorched the back of her neck—not a draft, but something strange. A premonition. She held her breath. Turned. Nothing, just an echo of her past… Muscles tensed, she forced her legs to move, listening to every rustle in the silence… Ahead loomed a massive circular door, engraved with serpents coiling around the frame, their heads gripping the edge.

Ron—also under the Polyjuice Potion—hissed in broken Parseltongue, “Open-ss.”

And just like the tunnel, it yielded to Ron Weasley’s clumsy mimicry.

Two blood traitors stepped into the space, their steps uncertain, wands raised to illuminate the surroundings. Torches flared one by one, revealing Salazar Slytherin himself and the enormous corpse of the Basilisk, slain by Harry.

Something constricted their chests, as if an invisible weight grew with each step; their minds signaled danger, but their eyes saw nothing. Ginny and Ron exchanged a glance.

Moving forward, only one image filled the girl’s mind: her body weakening, life draining… emptiness. It was the most unforgettable, most monstrous sensation of her life… cold and nothingness. Like a dream where you can only despair, knowing you’ll never wake, surrounded by cold… Until Harry saved her—his face then, the way he gripped her hand… Something choked her breath. Ginny clutched her chest, fingers trembling.

Ron, fists clenched, darted forward, pocketing his wand and drawing a knife instead. His steps splashed through water, small stones adding to the rustling… But tension gripped him—shoulders hunched, breathing uneven. They’re here! It worked! But why was it so… terrifying?

The young man swallowed and, without giving himself time to think, plunged the knife into the Basilisk’s open maw, sawing rhythmically at its gums. The sound—squelching, soft, rotting. Just a dead Basilisk… So why was his breathing quickening, knees trembling? Cold touched his body, and Ron shivered.

Ginny swallowed, tossing her head as if adjusting her hair, and wrapped her arms around herself. Her heart raced too fast.

She approached the statue’s base, looking up into Salazar Slytherin’s maw. Bottomless void stared back.

Suddenly, she felt movement beneath the fabric—her body beginning to betray the effects of the potion.

Ron’s eyes widened as they landed on the emerging scar. “Damn it… Charlie… what the hell?!”

Ginny swallowed hard.

“Just...hurry.”

A new cold tightened her chest, like a dissociative episode where reality blurs, leaving only paranoia… Wait, what’s that? Invisible fingers seemed to graze the base of her skull, her skin prickling with goosebumps. Ginny couldn’t move, only her lips trembled.

“Ron… do you feel that? Like…”

Ron frowned, looking at her. A faint squelch—he pulled out a fang, and in that moment, a familiar, dear voice rang out.

“Oh, Ron, mate, hope you got here alright? Not too messy?”

From nowhere, Harry appeared behind Ron, spinning in place, the blackness of his cloak shedding its invisible veil.

Ginny Weasley gasped loudly. She rushed to him, tears burning her scars, stinging her skin, fingers digging into Harry Potter’s shoulder.

“Harry?!” The exclamation tore from her lips, tears streaming down her chin, eyes wide with pain, like someone seeing light after darkness, unable to believe it. She grabbed him with both hands—he was here. She crushed him in a hug.

Harry raised a hand, holding Ron’s wand. A motion.

“Imperio,” and warmth flooded the girl’s mind. Thoughts softened, edges blurring, becoming obedient, alien, as if in a hypnotic trance. She shifted aside with quiet grace, hands loosely gathered before her, as if to steady the sudden fullness within her chest. A luminous fondness smile lingered,head tilted, eyes lifted to Harry’s face.

Ron stood rooted, grappling with reality.The sight of Harry felt both solid and slippery, even the world itself doubted him. Ron stepped forward, as if in a trance, voice shaking.

“Harry…” A tight embrace, the echo of Ron’s grip reverberating off the empty walls. “Mate, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I thought we’d lost you forever… forgive me!” The embrace tightened, his shoulders shaking, emotions spilling out… Harry…

Harry hugged back, his tone steady, caring.

“Ron, I thought I could handle it alone. Didn’t want to drag you into it. Oh, sorry, mate…”

Ron swallowed, pulling back slightly, holding Harry at arm’s length, relief and tears still shining in his eyes. “The main thing is you’re alive… we were so worried, mate, you’ve no idea! How’d you escape? Let’s go, quick!”

Harry nodded, his smile unwavering, his gaze sliding over him—attentive, probing. In reality, only a moment passed, but in his mind, an evolutionary explosion unfolded: thought, obsession, revelation—ecstasy, where the idea itself became flesh. Eureka!

Images surged, overlapping: a mocking, hissing voice pronouncing judgment in Manor dungeons—I regret to inform you, that your friend...Flash, and space blazed crimson, red pouring from every corner of consciousness, drowning perception, as if reality itself were sinking in blood. Fear is the root of all behavior? The trampling of a million tiny legs. But there’s no time! How? Not enough time! Something more like a command than a thought seized Harry. Idea.

His fingers lingered on Ron’s neck longer than necessary as he pulled away from the embrace—almost ghostly, the tips brushing skin, as if by mistake. Time. But in this one, Harry knew precisely what within, didn’t he? He didn’t need everything… A phantom pulse of cold seared his fingers holding the wand, sparked by thoughts of the newly studied curse.

Harry’s lips parted—his breath hitched, as if for the first time. Oh, Salazar… this is it!

“Ron,” Harry said, tilting his chin up. So deep... If it doesn’t work… well. Here will do too… but… “I learned something back then. Had to work with it a long time… Dumbledore’s weapon.” He twisted his lips. “Come on, just the two of us…”

No crack, no snap. Harry touched his friend’s forearm. Ron started to say something. Moment.

Ginny’s figure stood motionless, rigid. Her eyes gleamed, still smiling, tears drying on her cheeks. She stood by the giant dead Basilisk, her feet in corpse sludge. Only her breathing filled the Chamber of Secrets—no one else.

Six minutes.

Ronald Weasley beside her, red hair disheveled, boot slipping on the remains, nearly falling.

“Ugh,” he grunted, irritably shaking off the sticky rot.

But his voice lacked its usual warmth.

Only void.

“Gin, let’s hurry, quick to the exit, we’ve got to escape!” Oh, right! Ron flicked his wand, mimicking an Obliviate to erase memories of the Chamber, leaving only obedience under Imperio. Ginny nodded as Ron pointed to the exit. Time, time!

He grabbed her hand and bolted toward the exit. Remarkably, his clothes transfigured so conveniently, not a drop of… filth!

Pausing at the tunnel leading upward, he froze. Gripping Ron’s wand, he hurled a spell into the hollow above. A tangible stream of cold—not the searing frost that recently scarred Ginny’s face—shot into the tunnel’s endless dark.

The red-haired young man glanced at Ginny, as if she were not a person but an object he was tasked with carrying, unasked. Pfft. He crouched, slung her body over his shoulder like a sack of unwanted weight, grunted something inarticulate, and braced his wand. The curse hooked onto the top like a whip, yanking him—and the body he carried—toward the summit.

Map in hand, quick steps through the corridors. Phew, Tom Riddle’s still there. Ron’s gaze lingered on the dot longer than needed. Charlie’s moving toward the statue, Nott’s nowhere. Faster! Ron grabbed Ginny’s hand and raced to the fourth floor.

“Damn, Ron! How long since the potion wore off?!” Charlie Weasley crept closer, crouching against the wall.

“A few minutes, quiet!” Ron pressed against the wall near the witch statue. His eyes widened as he glanced at Ginny. Dispel .

Ginny began blinking, her expression emptier than under Imperio. How… how’d she get here? They hadn’t reached the chamber…

“How did it go?” Hermione crept along the wall toward them. Ron scratched the back of his head guiltily, eyes down. What a shame…

A faint, barely audible hiss, like a boot scraping stone. But Ron heard it. Ss-Harrys ? Time. He wouldn’t linger—just take what was his, find out where they’re hiding, as it should’ve been… and return.

“I… I tried… but nothing worked…”

The words slid off his tongue, the voice native to the body, the guilt and sorrow convincing, but the truth was cold… Another cold—something icy burned through his pocket’s fabric, as if the transfigured vessel refused to contain its contents. A hermetic cube, once glass, pulsed, and within, matter frozen on the brink of existence, bound in a single moment at absolute zero. And if you held your breath and listened closely, you could almost hear a liturgical final chord, a silent scream, trapped on the edge between flesh and eternity…

Chapter 37

Back and forth. The figure of a middle-aged man in a velvet crimson cloak paced the corridors of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, somewhere entirely different, in a completely different time, and it was not to be said that this time was bright, though Lord Voldemort had been defeated by Harry Potter on May 2, 1998, and that was more than twenty years ago.

His hand thoughtfully stroked his chin, encouraging the thought process—or cognitive torments—while his lower lip remained bitten in nervous tension. Occasionally, rare sighs escaped his lips, and his gaze kept returning again and again to the curtained door.

“Sir.” The woman in a strict pale robe, her badge bearing a name above which a three-digit identification number was added, drew back the curtain and stepped out, momentarily allowing a view: the dark-haired boy sitting on the bed immediately snapped his head toward the man, his gaze sharp and wary in response. Eyes the color of blooming stems, hidden behind round glasses, met those of tree bark.

The moment was brief; the woman promptly drew the curtain shut, blocking the view, and turned to face the man.

“Ahem. Mr. Potter, we’ve run all possible diagnostics again—magical brain scans, echo-spells on consciousness to detect hidden anomalies in perception—and the results remain unchanged: no deviations, no traces of external influence or internal disruptions. The phenomenon’s dynamics persist, manifesting spontaneously. We can’t track them— they leave no mark on his magic or body.”

Harry nodded slowly. Shoulders tensed beneath the odd cloak, from under which peeked a simple grey knitted sweater and a red tie. His black beard twitched as he asked in a low voice, almost pleading.

“But he’s alright now? No consequences? It’s… just there, and that’s it?”

The woman shifted a scroll from hand to hand, and with a gesture, it glided into the air and vanished around the corner, toward the senior Healer.

“Physically—yes. He’s stable. The nighttime episodes maintain the same pattern. They don’t respond to standard healing, regarding the hallucinations—they present a single dynamic of occurrence, and it is not rooted in the subconscious. The boy is able to recognize them for what they are, and, to some extent, exert control.  If this is tied to his past or deep structures of consciousness… it’s best to observe further. To not miss the moment when it grows stronger.”

A heavy hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, fingers gripping the cloak fabric firmly.

“What’s the word?” Ron stood nearby, stubble sparse, face marked with fine scars. He patted Harry’s shoulder lightly.

Harry turned sharply, his voice trembling as he made a nervous gesture with his hand.

“What does Kingsley say? And Hermione? Why can’t I use it anymore?.. Obviously, somewhere there’s…”

He cut himself off: the air in the corridor seemed to freeze, like a regular ritual. Everyone—patients and Healers alike—involuntarily lifted their heads to the enormous window, beyond which a metallic device slowly drifted—designed to locate, track, and, in exceptional cases, eliminate dangerous subjects. All watched. Did nothing. A narrow red beam skimmed the glass, lingered, traced across their faces and bodies, and only when Muggle apparatus flew onward did the wizards breathe again—all except Harry, who for a moment held his gaze on the corner under the ceiling, above the round black camera, and only then allowed himself to exhale, not having noticed he’d been holding his breath.

“They find no causes,” he said quietly, “but Ron, he’s here alone. He has hundreds of questions, and they don’t even let us visit normally… and it’s me who brought him under this.”

He stepped toward the curtain, but Ron gently stopped him, squeezing his shoulder harder.

“Wait. He’s in Mungo for a reason. There are people here who can watch him, and you and I will search for answers. Just this time, please, without your ‘stunts,’ because it’s already strange that it opened only to you.”

Harry frowned deeper, his eyes darkening behind his glasses.

“I clarified the historical context, gathered all the data when I was there, nothing changed…” he said dully, as if from underwater. Tom was absolutely not to blame “… he should be fine now.”

He stared at the curtain.

“Yeah… listen, mate,” Ron spoke after a heavy breath, “I get you want to help. And it might even be right… damn noble. But you’ve got a family now, a wife, your own worries…”

Footsteps drew two gazes to the approaching woman. She carried a report, archaically formatted on parchment with a magical seal, ink laid itself on the final lines at the bottom, indicating the time of the fresh conclusion. Harry silently drew the scroll to himself—with a light gesture, wandless—and, quickly scanning the glowing words, nodded with an “aha.”

“Here’s the confirmation. All indicators stable. No deviations. All good.”

He rolled the parchment sharply and said firmly.

“Today, I’m taking him.”

The Healer frowned slightly. Ron pinched the bridge of his nose—Ginny had asked him to be more persuasive today; the wife of the Unspeakable Harry Potter was away at a professional Quidditch training camp on another continent. The Mungo attendant glanced at Ron, pausing as if expecting an argument, and when silence stretched, her voice remained polite.

“We’re not holding the boy by force, Mr. Potter.” She narrowed her eyes, as if wrestling with herself to add a word, perhaps something like “for now.” The whole hospital knew about the mysterious patient, but the Ministry had given clear instructions— “But you must understand: he could harm himself… or others. Especially considering your presence affects him most strongly. The nighttime episodes could be called seizures, but the visions he describes when looking at you—that’s different. I hope you’re certain in your decision.”

Harry nodded silently, and at that moment, a metallic female voice spoke overhead in the corridor—dry and rhythmic, like a regular station announcement: “To all visitors, good day: any use of magic outside prescribed procedures is recorded and subject to report. Unauthorized discharges of patients and relatives are strictly prohibited.” The words dissolved in the air, as if not touching those gathered.

Harry drew back the curtain and entered. The boy on the bed jerked and froze, unblinking. His gaze was piercing, focused—as if he saw a monster before him, yet knew it wasn’t an illusion but also not dangerous. The cognitive “charms” he was adapting to had taught him to distinguish deception from reality, and thus he watched intently. Studying. Thinking.

“Hey!” Harry said softly, sounding cheerier as he approached. “How’re you doing, eh? They didn’t wear you out too much?”

“Yes,Sir, all’s well. Thank you. May I now return to the orphanage?”

Everything inside Harry constricted, his lip dipping downward into his beard, fingers unexpectedly clenching into fists, knuckles whitening. Poor boy! If in all his childhood, just once, someone hadn’t feared his oddities but simply covered him with a blanket and said “you’re not alone”… I’ll endure… I’ll help… Would the child now sit with strained politeness, asking to be returned to a place colder than the street? And worse, Harry was such an idiot—with Tom’s traumas, who knows what he’d endured! And here was some unknown man, who sometimes seemed a monster to him, snatching him away to who-knows-where! And now the orphanage—a place of loneliness, pain, but at least familiar pain—seemed safer to him than Harry.

“Oh, Tom, that place is awful! Ugh! Why would you want to go there?! No, no, no…” Harry waved a hand, wiping his eyes with the knuckle of the other as if dust had gotten in. The boy’s vest, neatly and perfectly folded on the chair, levitated into his hands. Tom followed with wide eyes another act of magic. “You have a home now, Tom. And I…” Green eyes, usually dull, gleamed emerald. “I’ll sort it all out. I promise you.”

Void.

Fear—the oldest tool of survival, a subtle chemistry on which millions of years of fragile living order rested. But there’s a strangeness: having gained reason, humans didn’t develop fear of their own end, though it seems logical! Humans observed death nearby constantly, saw foreign bodies turn to nothing, yet didn’t drown in panic. All are idiots? Or as if nature deliberately left a gap: allowed us to remember, but not bear the weight of constant knowledge… curious. Reason survived because it distanced itself from void… Ha! What an elegant move~

Rustle.

Voldemort, seated with one leg crossed over the other, rubbed his chin with a finger, pondering. Voldemort knew several paths to immortality… A Horcrux doesn’t negate aging—that’s regrettable. Wouldn’t suit for Harry Potter —obvious from this fact.

The room of ghost now looked as sterile as its owner’s flesh: bare walls lined in even rows with parchments and stacks of folios.

Hm. After reading the spell lines one last time, Tom rose from the throne, keeping the books orbiting nearby.

One wand motion toward the walls sufficed for all papers to detach and, folding into proper order, vanish into the robe’s sleeve folds as swiftly and neatly as a Niffler hides shiny things in its pelt.

How long has Harry been gone? Ten minutes? Half an hour? An eternity? At some point, the crimson serpentine gaze darted toward the movement of the elongating shadow—Ka reflected the shift of the figure to the… eastern wing? Not a particularly effective spell in terms of precise location… Harry had taken the map... logical, that’s how he should avoid encounters with Death Eaters when his master wasn’t nearby, after all, Voldemort had ordered him not to approach them! His chest tightened. Voldemort hissed through his teeth, his eye twitching, but his body continued the interrupted motion: a diagnostic curse enveloped him in a ring.

The Elder Wand burned his hand painfully, confirming the vector of his current thoughts: the boy must remain by his side always! A flash: shrink him to pocket-sized Harry Potter? Carry him along, avoiding the unbearable emptiness when his gaze didn’t catch the familiar and pleasing presence, when he was invisible? Hm…no, of course not.

At that moment, the mist of the activated spell rose higher from his body, forming from the flows above him something resembling a sphere—a pulsating black matter that didn’t reflect light but absorbed it, as if it itself were the boundary for any spectra. Golden veins—thin as a vascular network—vibrated rhythmically in sync with unknown impulses. Along its surface writhed a silvery, shimmering formation, in shape and plasticity resembling a serpent, it coiled around the central mass as if holding it in balance or preventing its disintegration…

Something sharply constricted in his chest—as if his diaphragm jerked, not receiving the signal to relax. A second’s breath delay, and his heart surged harder, as if trying to break through an invisible ring squeezing his ribs at the sight.

A long, slender finger traced over a line in the levitating book, revealing hidden writings not discovered by Harry: always whole, one color spectrum, no additional structures around.

Tom crossed his arms behind his back, not taking his eyes off the glow, and shifted his gaze sideways. Ka. Harry. What the hell had his lips said that rubbish?!Go on, then?! Seriously?! What recklessness! Why did he leave? Would Lord Voldemort fly after him through the castle like some… damsel? Again?! Hm… why not? No!

Abruptly from the projection of his black soul, a tiny vector cracked—straight, black, like an energy burst in one direction, slicing… no, the sphere remained intact, the writhing silvery formation as if creating a vacuum with its movement, its pulse.

Curious, the golden… clusters and this—a sign that he had used Horcruxes and split his soul? Well, the serpent here is obvious—he’s Salazar Slytherin’s heir! But why such a color matrix?

The door creaked, and two heads appeared in the doorway.

“My Lord? Nott said that you…”

“Crucio!” Amycus collapsed, arching, his scream breaking into a rasp, he clutched his head and began thrashing his legs wildly, as if fleeing needles tormenting his organs.

Another flick, and the soul projection in the room dematerialized.

Alecto remained in the doorway, not daring to step in—but her brother writhed at her feet, and she finally crossed over him, not tearing her gaze from the Lord.

Hiss:

“I didn’t permit entry. Nor approach. What?”

“My Lord…” Alecto dropped to her knees, nearly burying her face in his robe. “Forgive me…”

“Arm.”

She extended her wrist. The spider-like palm gripped her forearm, the tip of the Elder Wand pressing into her skin.

A crack of Apparition revealed Fenrir. Massive, shaggy, with yellow eyes gleaming from under tufts of fur instead of brows. He knelt on one knee beside Alecto, emitting a growl.

“Fenrir, how did the registration go?”

“All according to plan, my Lord. Two packs have already occupied the assigned territories.”

“Excellent. For the nearest expedition, take our American colleague.” From his sleeve floated a tiny rolled parchment. A clawed hand reached up and caught it. “In the marked quarter with red, a Muggle cathedral and residential homes. Marks inside the cathedral and around the perimeter. The rest… to your taste. No magic. And green one—no marks, but take any possessions.”

Harry… London. Why not take the boy on Voldemort’s outing there? For over half a year, the streets resembled a game preserve: his beasts left their traces, and their government was powerless, limited to rare meetings with the Minister and Dolores… Hm. Even their Floo in the Muggle government building was now firmly embedded in the network; one could pass through any day.

But no recklessness. Voldemort was no longer the same as before—Merlin, he’d returned to life and spent it all seeking the boy! Now, with Harry in place, his mind seemed to reassemble: unified, whole, directed toward his supreme task. But carefully! Yes… let them whisper of “secret experiments,” secrets from the government, monsters… they’d seek answers. It’s their nature. They’d seek a savior, in the end. Just wait for data from those… objects. What’s happening in London’s government now? People hate chaos. People love order, even if built on bones…

“Of course, my Lord,” the beast said, bowing his head low, his voice rasping through a sharp grin. “Theodore suggests one pack settle near Hogsmeade for constant patrol. With your permission, I’ll oversee the placement for a couple of days…”

“What? Leave someone in the main camp—” Voldemort made a lazy flick toward the two crouching figures and nearly stepped on Alecto’s outstretched hands on the floor. Hm… Harry would return here soon, wouldn’t he?

“My Lord, if you’ll allow…” Alecto spoke again from somewhere near the ground, as if from a grave.

Voldemort shot her a glance. Silent.

“We… we found a strange passage, on the second floor, in an abandoned place… There was nothing there before. We believe it’s…”

The Lord’s eyes widened.

“Crucio!”

Alecto’s body arched in spasm and, losing balance, collapsed right onto Fenrir kneeling nearby. She clutched his shoulder, but he, grimacing, roughly shoved the trembling form off. Thud—it fell face-first onto stone.

“You mean to say you conducted regular checks of floors with passages and somehow overlooked how this happened?” The curl of his lips vividly showed the Lord’s regard for these fools.

“Fenrir, dismissed,” Voldemort’s voice chillingly calm. “All questions on Hogsmeade and Hogwarts—to Nott.”

“Carrow!” A flick toward the laying man, and the Dark Arts professor flew aside from the magic surge. “Lead me!”

Amycus, rising to his knees, braced on his hands, shook his head, while Alecto emitted convulsive jerks, as if residual from an electric shock.

Voldemort stepped over Alecto’s body, which let out only a grunt, and moved to the doorway. Amycus, still unsteady after the curse, hastily rose, brushing off his robe.

“Our… fault, my Lord,” he began babbling so quickly, as if rehearsed in his head. Their lives hung by a thread if it turned out something happened because they lost vigilance! Merlin, curse this castle—nothing had happened here for so long. “All entrances under charms, we check every two minutes, I swear! But the tunnel… it opened itself!”

No response. Only the rustle of silk robe and Alecto’s heavy breathing, still weakened after the curse. She coughed at one point and, straightening rigidly, caught up to them.

As soon as they reached the doorway to the abandoned girls’ bathroom, the two Death Eaters swallowed hard. Oh, they saw snake-engraved tap, yet they still hesitated… The place was hardly suitable for what they had in mind: the wall tiles were cracked, dark patches of damp, mold, and filth crept into the corners, the mirrors were cloudy and fractured, and rusty water dripped monotonously from the broken faucet in the sink. Underfoot, the sticky stench of the sewage pipes lingered. And there it was. The passage to the Chamber of Secrets.

Another flick of the Deathly Hallow—and a silent Obliviate dimmed Alecto’s eyes, then Amycus’s. In a couple of minutes, they turned synchronously and departed toward distant halls.

Obviously, it was Harry. What was he seeking here? A rustle accompanied the flight of the black dark clump until Voldemort materialized opposite Salazar Slytherin’s head.

Ugh. A nonverbal spell, and another thick layer of magic settled on his soles, isolating skin from the viscous sludge spreading across stone slabs. Voldemort shook invisible grime from his robe, as if the stench could be shed from his silk, not his lungs. An inhale of rot, decay, dampness—the air dragged into lungs like vile acid, corroding from within. Salazar’s beast. Lord Voldemort expected something from himself—a pang of loss, regret—but something else spread in his chest: Harry had killed it… at twelve.

The strange sensation of heaviness suddenly gripped his chest and groin: on one side, an echo of incomprehensible sorrow—as if he pitied the child enduring that… and on the other—a sharp, almost painful surge of arousal: Harry proved so magnificent that the world simply had to bow before him! So, but where was he?

A strange wave of cold from the side, running down his spine, and then…

Sensation.

Something coiled around his neck— hot breath of the invisible pressed to his skin, and his legs treacherously trembled. A sound escaped his lips, a low moan. No one would spill whose it was…

Youthful arms locked, strong, commanding. Voldemort’s palm lunged to the waist—and met emptiness. Fingers, long, slender, hooked the fabric edge. Cloth flung upward, and green eyes, half-lidded, gleamed through spectacle lenses. Parted lips. Harry Potter. His sacrilege, his divine obsession.

The second hand, still gripping the waist, yanked the fabric down, revealing the figure fully. In the next instant, Harry pressed in, clinging greedily and roughly, seizing the lips. The kiss—fierce, consuming, and Harry led it: his fingers squeezed the neck, his hips ground against Voldemort’s thigh, demanding reciprocation. Bodies moved in a ragged symbiotic rhythm, as if drawn to the vanishing air between lips, drowning in hunger to devour it.

Underfoot squelched slime, the distorted stone face of the Founder gazing upon them.

“Sss ahh, my Lord, forgive me-s,” Harry hissed, lips gliding over his neck, hand coiling around the smooth nape, “I so wanted to revive memoriesss…”

“Decission made ,” Voldemort gripped dark locks with his fingers, face sliding to the collarbone. “You won’t ssstep away from me again.”

“And I wasn’t planning to, thank you for allowing, my Lord.”

“Aah… Tom. From your lips, it sounds quite acceptable. But…”

“…only between usss,” Harry ended together with him.

Oh, it was like madness, the attraction monstrous, as if gravity itself lost patience and decided to break laws, compressing them into one center.

Hiss. And the black cloud tore from the spot, flying from the hall, leaving behind the hum of darkness. The Chamber of Secrets belonged to serpents; the two-headed monster needed no such slimy stone walls. The Chamber Of Secrets had been closed.

Tom and Harry materialized in the Prefects’ Bathroom, and at once, water gushed from a multitude of taps, gilded in gold and silver—streams of fragrant liquid and thick, shimmering foam, sparkling like snow under moonlight, poured from several spouts, mingling in the vast bathtub where the water’s surface quickly became cloaked in a layer of iridescent bubbles.

All this time, their lips remained locked, Harry’s head tilted—Voldemort’s two tongues entwined in Harry’s mouth, drawing moan after moan, while their clothes melted away magically: Voldemort’s main robe dissolved into a haze, leaving only a thin layer of silken fabric, and Harry’s cloak was the first to fly upward as if tugged aside, the rest gliding along a trajectory alongside Voldemort’s robe. Still entwined, a single shadow, they found themselves in the water.

“Ah,” Harry broke the kiss and surged forward, straddling those slender hips, pressing his entire body close. “A-a-ah, my Lord…” He wrapped his arms around Voldemort’s head, letting out a long, throaty moan as hands beneath the water gripped his flesh, parting it, and a hard, hot cock slid between his cheeks. Harry moved deliberately slowly, savoring the moment—oh, even underwater, the sensation was unbearably scorching~

Harry himself made his arse grind against that cock, pressing, rubbing, as if pleading for more. Long, bony fingers dug into his flesh so fiercely that an ordinary body would have howled in pain, but Harry only groaned hoarsely, arching even further, offering himself up. Voldemort gripped that flesh harshly, greedily—oh, what a sensation! He had held ancient artifacts, the most powerful relics, yet none sparked this primal hunger, this—to put it delicately—desire to devour.

Mine.

Water splashed over the edges, droplets running down their bodies. Harry arched toward him, moaning directly into the kiss:

“Mmm, decision made. You shouldn’t have gotten into the water. Sit.”

The Dark Lord did just that, his silken robe clinging to him, soaked and nearly transparent,outlining every hollow of his skeletal frame as he settled onto the cold marble. His cock rose above the water—heavy, engorged, trembling faintly with breaths that were barely there. Harry positioned himself between those thin legs, half-submerged in the water, his glasses speckled with droplets, and the green gaze through fogged lenses turned even more feral. Harry seized Voldemort’s lips, his hand gripping both their cocks above the water.

Moment by moment. Harry pulled away from his lips, kissed his neck, teeth grazing the skin where a pulse thrummed. One hand pressed against Voldemort’s torso, the other grasp his dick—too thick to close palm around—feeling it twitch under his grip, and he slowly stroked up and down, breathing hoarsely into his ear:

“Ohhh, your dick is so hard, I could cum just thinking about it on my tongue… i need it,my Lord…”

He sank lower in the water, gripping the base of the shaft, brushing the tip across his lips, his tongue darting out, slapping lightly against it as if taunting himself, water splashing against his cheeks as he moved. Then he opened his mouth wider, pressing an open palm along the length on one side, and slowly lowered his face on the other, pressing the hot flesh to his cheek, the veins brushing his eyelashes as if he were rubbing something cherished. He ran his tongue along the thickest, most prominent vein, exhaling raggedly.

Voldemort hissed, his hands clutching Harry’s hair, claws scraping his wet scalp. Green eyes flashed up at him through fogged lenses—his hand tightened, and Harry’s lips enveloped the head, tongue flicking out. Voldemort barely stifled a squeak as heat engulfed him lower, as  Chosen One took the cock to the root of his tongue.

Voldemort rocked his hips—a test, a first probe—moving smoothly, almost tenderly, fucking that hot mouth. His fingers trembled on Harry’s skull, scratching as if trying to keep reality from collapsing. Oh, Harry…

Oh, Harry moved with obsession, near madness—wow, why did he love this so much? The weight of that cock in his mouth, that heaviness felt so deliciously sweet, and the face that sometimes bore a predatory, deadly emerald gaze only fueled this hunger. With each motion, Harry swallowed deeper, lingered at the head, sucking it, leaving wet sounds, mmm.

He gripped the cock with both hands, pressed it to his face, rubbed it against his cheek, whispering, breathless with arousal:

“Mmm, Tom, you’re so fucking perfect, so beautiful, so great, mwahhh—” Voldemort leaned back, fingers scraping the marble, his gaze fixed, lower body trembling as if locked in a freezer, as Harry, without prelude, opened his jaws and swallowed him down to the balls. Again. He found a rhythm, his nose pressing into Voldemort’s groin with each downward plunge of his head, the cock surging up into his throat.

Then—their eyes met. The lenses of his glasses, dotted with bubbles, glinted, and through them, a green inferno pierced the Dark Lord’s gaze. That, or the hand squeezing his balls, killed Lord Voldemort. His body arched, hips thrusting forward, hands flying up to clutch Harry’s hair as if he wanted to dissolve his Horcrux within himself.

The heavy shaft throbbed in his throat, filling the cavity with thick, hot streams of seed. Oh, Harry barely pulled away—swallowing greedily, moving his head down, breathing through his nose, while the flesh pulsed in his throat, and his palms massaged the balls, feeling them contract, expelling the last drops.

Voldemort trembled, his body and mind crumbling in the afterglow… relaxation giving way to the exhaustion of a sleepless day. Oh, how sublime it would be to sleep now, such bliss, such warmth.

Splash. Harry rose sharply in the water, gripping his own cock at the base. His other hand seized Riddle’s thigh, sliding the tip along that smooth, pink ring, pressing, leaving a trail of pre-cum. The muscles tensed under his pressure—oh, he could almost feel it. With a reverent Ah! Harry came, stroking his cock, spilling every last drop. He bit his lip, collecting a bead with his finger and slowly pressing it into that tight ring with circling motions, watching it vanish into the tender, searing heat. Voldemort’s eyes squeezed shut, but when realization hit, they snapped open, the whites flashing—though they couldn’t, not really—and his breath caught, as if he’d swallowed the entire Black Lake in one gulp.

Harry let out a vulgar Aaaah, smirked, and, leaning over Voldemort, scorched his neck with his breath, kissing the fabric-clad shoulder before slipping back into the water. A splash, bubbles—and the smooth surface covered his silhouette up to his shoulders.

He leaned back, exhaling like a predator sated with its prey. Magnificent. Voldemort, hissing, materialized beside him in the water. He snapped his head, clearly debating whether to speak, to voice his indescribable indignation. Harry merely crossed his arms behind his head, blissfully relaxed.

Suddenly, from a tap in the corner came not water but a plaintive moan, and from it emerged the ghostly figure of Moaning Myrtle—stooped, her spectral hair seeming greasy and plastered to her face. She brought two fingers to her nose, sniffing them loudly, and a smirk twisted her pale lips—those fingers had just been somewhere within her own ghostly flesh, and the scent, which didn’t exist, hinted she’d been spying on them, reveling in the spectacle alone, though pleasure was among the sensations denied to ghosts.

“You know, I was sent to check,” her squeaky voice echoed off the walls. “No one can believe you two… oh, you know, like… Harry Potter and… that. What are you two getting up to, huh? Harry, I saw everything! You’re soooo… why was it me killed in that bathroom and not someone else?!”

The Dark Lord’s attention was wholly fixed on Harry, who pressed closer, and, as if by reflex, Voldemort slung an arm around him, their bodies entwining symbiotically in the water. Harry theatrically rolled his eyes, jabbing a thumb toward the ghost:

“Can Nott banish her?” In an instant, the Elder Wand slid into Voldemort’s hand, a flick, and Myrtle, shrieking like a banshee, dove back into the tap, leaving only the fading echo of her sobs amid the splashing water.

“That creature was relocated here. Soon she shall linger no longer.” Voldemort said, casting a brief glance. The next second, a pair of patchwork washcloths began methodically scrubbing Harry’s outstretched forearms, scattering soap bubbles. Harry’s head slid to the hollow between Voldemort’s shoulder and neck.

“How does a ghost come to be? I mean, why don’t all become them?”

Voldemort snorted, as if that explained everything, but hissed nonetheless:

“Fear, of course. Sometimes guilt, regret, any passion so intense it anchors them, refuses to let them move on. A pitiful existence without a body, without sensation, without new knowledge—all to cling to this ‘almost-life’ here.”

“Hm… so someone could become a ghost and leave their ‘soul’ in a portrait, like the headmasters?”

“Naturally.”

Silence.

“And the others—will you banish them too?”

“Why? Hogwarts is Britain’s most ghost-populated place. I see no reason to strip it of that crown.”

“Ha!”

Harry’s thoughts wove together, the conclusion making him glance at his resting cloak. Hmm… interesting… where’s Malfoy’s wand? He raised a hand as a washcloth scraped down his smooth armpit to his ribs.

“In my chambers,” Voldemort answered. “Truly… you don’t need it?” He threaded a strand of wet black hair through his fingers and wand.

“Mmm… honestly? I miss, but it’s not mine… and I’m always with you. Don’t think I need it like I used to, ah?”

A chin rested on the dark crown of Harry’s head. Hm. Of course Harry needed it—safety. Voldemort had taken it the first day after boy appear and rest... boy just threw him off balance, left him unsure of what to do or expect! But now... perhaps Apparate with him to Gregorovitch?No. A flash of lightning in his skull, like an omen. Oh, Godric, an idea!

Voldemort inhaled sharply, the thought stoking his sense of possessiveness. Symbiosis. Unity.

Harry noticed the shift in his breathing, muttering, “Huh?”

“How’s your research going? Found anything worth noting?” Voldemort hissed almost tenderly, toying with Harry’s curls with his wand. The motion was like drawing—imaginary lightning bolts sketched on the back of Harry’s neck.

“Oh, yes,” Harry’s eyes gleamed with excitement, triumph. “I’ve got a couple of questions, ha… but later. Tell me, did you use that spell? Did you see?”

Voldemort nodded without hesitation. His fingers, cold and long, intertwined with Harry’s beneath the water.

“Yes, I tested a few from those… sources,” his voice faltered for a moment, followed by a hiss of fury and the thought: Filthy Black!… said there was nothing! Trust no one!

“You can trust me…” Harry whispered, writhing and resting his head on the fabric-clad chest, the wet material damnably pleasant to the touch. He listened to the rhythm: a heartbeat, heavy, ragged, human.

Harry lifted his head, his breath scorching the line of Voldemort’s jaw. Their fingers gripped tighter, and the air was sliced by a sharp flick of the wand above his head.

“Anima Revelio.”

The spell settled like a ring, not just around Harry but encompassing both, stretching from their bodies into a pulsating cloud, a single sphere whose nature defied the human eye. The color… it was whiter than white, so brilliant the gaze refused to comprehend it, as if every spectrum converged at once. It was a radiance beyond human sight, a hue that didn’t exist in nature. The indescribable glow enveloped two silhouettes, serpentine, as if dancing or mating, twisting into an ouroboros around a blinding core.

Wands. Blood. Soul. Mind. An echo of a weathered, elderly voice—not a prophecy, but a revelation: When it comes to Harry and Lord Voldemort, to speak of one is to speak of the other.

The feeling was akin to the revelation of those who’d wandered in emptiness their whole lives, only to have light appear. For some reason, neither the Chosen One nor the Dark Lord deigned to comment on the event; it merely stirred a tremor of confirmation that each wounded soul craved and awaited.

After another ten minutes of kisses and touches beneath the radiant light, their breaths mingling, they finally burst into the corridors of Hogwarts, materializing on the fourth floor. Their robes, dried by charms, fluttered—Harry’s leather cloak billowing in contrast to Voldemort’s thin, flowing, almost living robe. They looked like shadows of a single myth—youth and antiquity, but the moment between them was existence.

Voldemort raised his gaze, sensing an approach—wand was already in hand. Trelawney drifted toward them, less walking than floating, her scarves fluttering, her eyes fixed upon them. Moment. As if in a fit, she darted like a marionette yanked in their direction, her fingers twitching convulsively toward Harry’s sleeve.

They never touched. A spell flung her aside, and she collapsed to her knees, palms splayed against the floor, slapping it as if testing its solidity. Trembling, an unnatural voice tore from her throat:

“The Great Unraveling is coming… From antiquity, a man dead yet living divides the sword and the ship, yet lies beneath the vaults of the crown, and his servant of night still waits. The boy is the key, the boy is the hound, the boy is the blood that binds the living to the dead. In the name… in the name… no!”

She froze, sitting back on her knees, mouth agape, arms hanging bonelessly, her face contorted in panicked horror. Her gasps grew ragged, as though her lungs filled with the cold air of the void. Her pupils dilated until only a thin, pale rim of iris remained. Her gaze was not here, not on them—it pierced through, into an abyss where even the notion of existence crumbled. Veins bulged at her temples, convulsive pulses rippling beneath her skin.

A scream sliced through the corridor. Her hands flew to her face, tearing off her glasses and smashing them against the stone floor. Sharp fragments pierced her eyes as she clenched her fists: with a wet crack, the glass stabbed through the tough cornea, sinking deeper, rupturing the sclera. From her torn eye sockets, a whitish vitreous fluid instantly spilled, mingling with crimson blood as her scream shredded her throat, saliva dripping down her chin. The fluid from her eyes trailed down her cheeks, leaving viscous tracks of varying shades of red.

She kept screaming, her voice breaking into gasps and rasps, wretched body wracked by a seizure.

A simultaneous hiss:

“Ugh.”

They stepped over her trembling form.

“Oh, I thought she’d at least make it to September to meet the kids before going mad,” Harry smirked, pressing closer, wrapping his arms around Voldemort’s waist. “Does she even need eyes? She’s a Seer, isn’t she? And what was that? Definitely not about you… you’re not that ancient.”

“Hm.” Voldemort committed every detail to memory. Should he create a prophetic record to preserve it? Oh, the haze before his eyes sometimes forced them to close involuntarily... exhaustion and mental overload demanded rest, his body heavy with drowsiness. From his sleeve, a quill and parchment soared, transcribing every word verbatim before vanishing. He continued, voice low, still pondering:

“In any case, her gift is verified by Ministry records. Nott will regulate… her behavior.” Voldemort paused, his red eyes narrowing, appraising the woman like a museum exhibit… interesting… did Harry know that one prophecy?

Harry’s hands slid along Voldemort’s forearm, a soft hiss escaping like a serpent’s whisper in the silence, and he pressed himself closer, body brushing against him like a tempter.

“No…” Harry drawled, his lips grazing Voldemort’s ear, pulling him from his thoughts. He nipped the earlobe, hissing on: “It doesn’t matter. Dumbledore only ever emphasized one…” A languid exhale. “… the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal”

Voldemort swallowed. Of course, Albus Dumbledore! He knew from the start what even the Dark Lord did not—that event in Godric’s Hollow was a secret to the Lord, but not to the Headmaster! Yet in the end, there was only one victor! Finite!

“Hm, and a man dead yet living, you think…”

Harry cut him off, his lips capturing Voldemort’s in a deep, insistent kiss. Hands slid down Voldemort’s back, pulling him closer, and only breaking away for a moment, Harry whispered, still holding him:

“Oh, to hell with her—prophecies aren’t worth the attention. The universe is too indifferent for that… I told you” Oh, how exhilarated he feel, what a magnificent day!

They entered the Dark Arts classroom. Voldemort strode to the fireplace, turned, and extended a hand. Harry, smiling, took it, pulling himself into an embrace. His leather cloak whipped the air with a sharp crack, like a flag in the wind, and his eyelashes lowered as his chest pressed against Voldemort’s—like the opening step of a waltz.

Vanished in green flames.

Reappeared in the fireplace of Malfoy Manor.

Harry pressed closer to Voldemort, their bodies bending into another kiss, passionate yet almost routine, like a ritual—hands roamed over backs, caressing, pressing. Voldemort’s fingers buried themselves in Harry’s hair, while Harry’s hand slid along a thigh, eliciting a soft moan. They stepped from the fireplace, lips still locked.

There stood Dolohov, frozen: mouth agape, a half-eaten piece of sugared bread in hand, crumbs clinging to his mustache, chewing mechanically. A few quick chomps. His eyes darted from one passing figure to the other. What was this? His eyes widened and stood abruptly, hand twitching toward his wand but stopping halfway, retreating. His face twisted in a grimace of confusion, brows knitting as his brain processed the sight. For a moment, his cheeks flushed. No way…

Voldemort didn’t spare his minion a glance, placing a hand on Harry’s waist and striding across the marble floor of the hall, leaving the residual embers of a spell crackling—as Dolohov’s mind crackled now.

Dolohov blinked, swallowed hard, and finally shouted, his voice breaking into a falsetto:

“My Lord! That’s Harry Potter!”

A loud, vibrant laugh cut through the space. Harry, still pressed against Voldemort, his lips nearly brushing the other’s temple as he turned his head. A smirk sliced across his face toward Dolohov, eyes flashing with bold defiance:

“Oh, really? And how’d you figure that out, genius? The round glasses?”

“You little four-eyed piece of sh—”

He didn’t finish. Diffindo slashed across his neck, and with the sound came agony. The skin parted, the artery opened like a predatory maw, blood spurting in a crimson arc. Dolohov clutched at it frantically, pressing the edges, trying to close them, as if he could hold the life pouring out. Colder… His head drooped limply, breath turning to a wheeze.

He had little time before the pressure expelled everything…

“You have twenty seconds to croak something resembling an apology…” Voldemort said evenly, eyeing the streams of blood. “Less, by the look of it.”

Through gurgles and bubbling, face drenched in his own blood, Dolohov collapsed to his knees, managing only a hoarse:

“S-s… srry…”

Voldemort lazily flicked his hand with Elder Wand. The wound sealed: the skin’s edges shuddered, stretched, and, as if pulled by an invisible suture, closed tightly.

“Your face, as far as I’m aware, is equipped with visual organs,” he said coldly. “If you fail to use them properly, I’ll conclude they’re vestigial and, therefore, expendable.”

Harry let out a loud, theatrical “hm,” almost mocking, looking down at the bowed Death Eater. Dolohov, panting heavily, spat a thick glob of blood and lifted his eyes—meeting Potter’s gaze for a moment. The sensation was strange, like an echo of Azkaban: something… icy…

As Dolohov tried to grasp the remnants of that feeling, the Lord had already turned. His hand encircled Potter’s waist, possessive, almost predatory, and Potter lightly laid his own hand atop it in response, resting his head on Voldemort’s shoulder.

Potter! Little filthy whore! …How did he manage this?!

Still kneeling, Dolohov’s trousers had soaked up so much blood they grew heavy. As Harry and Voldemort vanished from sight, the crack of Apparition signaled that the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would soon share one impossible piece of news… and mop the filthy floors.

“Wonder if Malfoy’s spread rumors about my monstrous tortures?”

“I’ve emphasized your belonging to me repeatedly. Moreover, your presence at my side was hardly ambiguous. I see no point in wasting my time on it...But Dolohov is still quite the chatterbox; everyone will know soon. It all happened of its own accord, as it should have.”

“Hm. Makes sense.”

The portraits of Malfoys stared at Harry Potter, striding in step with Voldemort; their unhurried rhythm resembled a procession of the “Chosen One” beside a god, though contempt still played on their pureblood lips.

As they moved along, the corridor revealed an open door: three people with identical white hair sat in the dining hall, not in their usual places, huddled closer as if distance between them spelled doom. Harry and Voldemort passed by. Flash. A vision surged in his mind, bright yet trembling as though the entire space quivered with a tremor, and the couple Harry had once seen plummeted into an abyss that opened beneath their feet, then a green, blinding flare sealed the image, leaving only the echo of a lone infant’s scream, which, in truth, was cut short almost at once.

Harry allowed himself to lean into the rhythm, movements synchronized, step by step, as if they were a single organism, but his eyes grew heavy.

Fear… always the first. Human fear wasn’t just the animal instinct to save one’s skin. Fear for oneself was nothing compared to the gut-wrenching terror of losing those nearby. Lily… her feeling proved stronger than any spell. Fear for another’s life outstripped the fear of losing oneself.

Thoughts surged like a wave, pulsing with sweet tension in his weary mind: oh, betrayal, too, was born of fear! But not always the cowardly panic for one’s own body. Sometimes it was the horror of losing those you called yours. That terror cut deeper than duty, was crueler than honor, more indifferent than memory… hm, what would be more agonizing: to die yourself or to watch what’s woven into your flesh, what made you whole, vanish into oblivion? The answer was obvious…

And if ghosts were truly born of guilt, regret, and fear, it was no surprise that one would choose not a battlefield or a place of death, but the simple Gryffindor Tower, where once, in fleeting moments of joy, the air smelled of pine resin and festive wrapping paper… the wool of new clothes from Mum… where laughter rang, too bright to fade, familiar, the closest, and faces flickered, forever beyond the veil. Yet every time the darkness thickened in the castle, on the Marauder’s Map, one might notice dots with a new name, in the spot where Harry Potter’s bed once stood, resonating with those lingering emotions…guilt, regret...fear.

Chapter 38

Well, and how, in essence, to prove that another truly lives? Not breathes, not moves, but precisely lives with their own "I"? Everything we see might be merely an imitation that only mimics thought, when in reality all their decisions and actions are determined by an algorithm... Beautiful phrases to a friend, personal letters, opinions on how to look at someone, certain... legends and stories...

Person doesn't live like that... A world where one's own consciousness has become unnecessary, because it's simpler to allow... "something," an algorithm, to be you? Madness!

And suddenly the question unexpectedly acquires a sardonic smirk: and overall, am I seeking another's consciousness... or simply observing how my own departs, yielding to void? Ah! Divine!

Oh, even stars do not die so quietly as Harry Potter parts his eyelids. No, not now~ Still sprawled on the sheets—and immediately he felt an alien heavy pressure. It stirred.

“O... Tom~”—he exhaled, not immediately understanding whether this was alive or merely an echo of nonexistence.

The weight moved closer. Black pupils with a vertical slit, tongue—a thin lightning bolt cleaving the air.

“Is it hungry? Does it want to rip?”

The body still immobile, but consciousness thrust him from sleep, and the first thing to meet him was the cold marble of the ceiling. Oh, exactly, that's what he lacked! A bit of galaxy and stars, perhaps?

Hey, why is he sleeping alone in this bed? The pleasant swampy glow of the room enveloped the space, but... absolutely empty? A turn of the head toward the fireplace.

Wasting not a minute, Harry jerked upright on the edge of the narrow bed, and the snake softly slid from his chest, dissolving into shadows simultaneously as clothing donned itself on Harry. As soon as the cloak habitually enveloped his body, fingers groped the inner pocket.

Inside his storage, to the multitude of books, scrolls, parchments, had recently been added not only the ossified golden claw of a phoenix and once someone's now clearly unnecessary to the owner wand, little pieces of wood, but also a vessel that contained an instant. Damn it, Harry truly doesn't know how long the needed temperature will hold! That would be sad, because what exactly in this one, he knows for sure, this will clearly help to understand, to help...

With a crack of the cloak, the hand fished out from the inner pocket a bag that now fit in the palm. Climbed inside. And only as his fingers touched the cold, signifying he had stumbled upon the needed, a tall shadow gracefully straightened and glided from the side of the Dark Lord's chambers, as if the sovereign of the underworld himself deigned to bestow upon the dear mortal his darkness. Hands clasped in a lock, chin proudly lifted, gaze—through everything, into the very structure of the world, as if reality were merely a draft in his book.

Harry froze, hand still in the bag. Their gazes intersected.

Instead of questions—a short humph; Voldemort passed by to the armchairs, and to him already habitually levitated a scroll.

Harry frowned, with a finger beckoned to himself the glasses from the table, adjusted them higher on the bridge of the nose with a finger. Thinks. For a second it surged: and what if everything he saw about Hogwarts—was merely a dream? Maybe he's been lying unconscious all this time after Shell Cottage? Well yes, naturally, fucking with Lord Voldemort in the Gryffindor bedroom... Ohhh, Harry bit his lip, body jerked as from an electric impulse: his damaged brain, with destabilized centers, aroused by awakening again confused memory with reflex, and for a second he looked as if orgasm overtook him right in the middle of the room—several times bounced in place swaying, mad and happy.

Thoughts interrupted—sharply he was drawn to Tom by a natural flow of magic, and thin spidery fingers already closed on his side. Harry did not resist, on the contrary—with his whole body pressed close, burying his face in the alien neck. Oh, not a dream~

“Oops,”slipped from him, when hand waved, and cleansing spell softly glowed on the skin.

Nagini glided to the feet of the youth and the dark mage, ring by ring encircling the bodies,—space enclosed, time closed upon the two.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Damn, I dreamed of Nott with a fat lil dragon, Trelawney who gouged out her own eyes, and also my first sex, and oh it was magnificent! You have such a fucking awesome dick, mmm... I can't find another explanation that this wasn't a dream, Tom, I don't remember undressing. Again.” The youth narrowed his eyes and looked at Tom, pouting his lip, as if demonstrating with mimicry the question "do you have some dirty secret?"

Voldemort barely noticeably twitched, catching with his hearing the word "first," without verbal stimulus he did not think of such things... but now as if a cold current passed through the nervous system. Variants: "first" in general or "first" with a man? From the instantaneous mental reaction, that somewhere in Harry's past might hide another "first," along the body slid a sticky vileness—like a slug crawling under the skin.

On the tongue remained the taste of bile, by the way, a similar sensation the great lord experienced when someone, who is not Harry, touches him, or invades personal space. Slimy, rotten... vile sensation...

“Silly boy” he drawled affectionately nonetheless. “You passed out yourself. I know nothing“

“Pff. Nagini, tell me honestly—did I really go to bed on my own?”

The snake stretched out, looking scrutinizingly at Harry's face. Slowly turned to the lord, as if the reptile truly were capable of some thought process, why would it?

“Sss-boy lay and sscreamed,” the snake replied serenely, lowering and coiling around them ever tighter.

Voldemort narrowed his gaze at the reptile, briefly, like an accusation of betrayal, but immediately returned again to Harry's face, studying his reaction.

“Again?” Harry’s eyes widened. “That's strange. I used to always yell at night... mostly about you,yes—yes…” He pressed into Tom, encircling him with arms around the thin waist. “Well by the way, nothing has dreamed to me for a long time... Sorry if this bothers you.”

Voldemort narrowed his gaze. He had bound Harry and cast Silencio and immediately went to sleep. Stared long at the ceiling, almost without thoughts as if one extra movement of a neuron would disrupt the order of the universe itself. His body found no peace: internal conflict between the regular "occupy the bed alone" and the irrational but monstrous pull toward joint presence. Harry would have solved the issue elegantly, simply taking the place beside without questions, and Tom's brain autonomously solved the issue roughly and in the end knocked out the great consciousness, sparing even dreams.

“No problem. I cast Silencio on you so that your undisputed oratorical talent does not torment space at least at night,” said Voldemort with a half-smile, almost routinely, fingers on Harry's waist stroked the side up and down.

“Oh, really?” An elegant arched brow. “Cute. Well, on the other hand, your reputation would scarcely suffer if someone heard Harry Potter’s screams.”

Voldemort laughed; his hand pressed into Harry’s shoulder, drawing him closer.

“Hmm. Lucius should have processed the information extracted from the subjects by now,” Voldemort negligently slid his eyes over the list.

From the hidden by shadows corner by the entrance door smoothly flew slices of meat and a handful of dates. Harry extended his hand, grabbed first: hooked them with fingers and shoved into his mouth, simultaneously beckoning to himself a carafe with water in a smooth motion.

“Oh, you mean the Muggles?” he spoke with a full mouth, chewed, so the sound of his voice interrupted. “I really didn't expect that among the Death Eaters there would be Muggles...” 

A sound cut the air—dry, gliding, like the hiss of a snake. But it was laughter. Voldemort laughed, while Harry quenched thirst washing down the snack.

“Harry, silly boy. I will never give them the Mark. For what? But Muggles can be useful.” He tilted his head closer, so that breath glided over the youth's neck and he swallowed water along with a feeling of heat.

 “Remember: the bones of my father gave life to this body. Your mother—giving her life preserved yours. Muggles are insignificant, but even insignificance can nourish the great. Unwise to refuse a resource.”

“Mmm. Logical,” Harry chewed a date, while the transparent like a tear glass that served as vessel for Harry's lips filled again. Voldemort even drank like a demiurge, Harry smirked,—eyes half-closed, fingers hold the glass barely by the bottom with the very last phalanges.

“Bleh… it’s so sweet. Never would have thought you ate such.” Harry rolled the date pulp in his mouth. “And by the way, about Lily—are you sure that on that night it was the same as a Horcrux? I mean, portraits, ghosts… Horcruxes…” 

He crunched the pit, biting through the fruit.

“ Similar to that. It may have different names, but definitely—”a sidelong glance—“my particle is in you.” the Elder Wand parts a strand of hair examining exposing the scar to view. “But we...—”

“…won't take it out.”

Single hiss.

Mmf! Kiss was predatory, almost painful—date sweetness remained on their lips, and Harry sank deeper, His hands closed on the neck, and body drew close flush.

Voldemort did not break the contact when their mouths parted. Why not? With one smooth motion, he waved his hand toward his chambers. From the depths of darkness levitated an elongated black case, which the Great Lord had prudently checked immediately after awakening, not as if he had been thinking about it! The box settled into his pale palm, plopping down with an unnatural speed for its weight, as if the item inside were hurrying to be useful.

What madness; why is he doing this, anyway? The sensation resembled a strange spasm whenever he thought about it, generally how and why the body demands to give away a part of itself to another, just so that this other would remember the source... this feeling, so that Harry would have something connected to him personally... is this a curse, this desire to see surprise flash in the green eyes, or even better, delight?

Harry pulled away only for a fraction of a second, sliding his cheek along the alien profile. His ear caught the quick beats of the foreign heart—accelerated, uneven, alive. Whatever was stored in this case, it was no trifle. What was there? A necklace? A bone? Snake skin?

Voldemort leaned in, burying himself in the youth's neck, and inhaled the scent of skin, holding his breath. Of course, not much time had passed... heresy! This boy has been with him since birth, and now they are together every minute; hardly does Voldemort have a chance to regard Potter from the side of "oh, wait, nearly a week of their cohabitation has passed," dopamine and oxytocin always ahead along with the reminder of the infinitely intimate union, creating a framework of "trust and dependence," if one replaces that-word-which-cannot-be-named in Voldemort's context. And no, of course, all these intimate "interactions" had no influence whatsoever, naturally.

A low, enveloping hiss:

"I am sure..." he whispered, not detaching from the skin, with a voice in which a smirk seeped through; he knows the answer "...you will not disappoint me."

The movement between their bodies made Harry surprisedly lower his head: a new guess pierced him, but the mind refused to accept it. Oh, Merlin... no. It cannot be, can it?

Fingers trembled as the lid open. Inside—perfectly preserved, on velvet like a jewel—a yew wand. Lord Voldemort's wand.

Harry touched the handle, and his hand was immediately enveloped in a green pulse. Energy raced from palm to wrist, closing in a ring above the elbow. Voldemort straightened, still holding him by the shoulders, and peered at how the light slowly faded in Harry's fingers. Oh, this sensation... Hello, friend—as if he had taken his own holly wand in hand! Did it recognize the master of its "brother" and feel now that the masters are closer than brothers?

"I do not share what I consider mine. But you... Harry, the only one who is worth the impossible." Long fingers ran one after another. "She is yours."

Harry exhaled hoarsely and reached for Tom lips. Mouths entwined each other in several coils, and only the flickering of lashes, a sidelong glance—remained fixed on the wand in his hand.

Avada Kedavra materialized in the gaze, but not on the wand, though as soon as Harry took it in his palm, he seemed to feel through himself its entire deadly history... oh, or were these merely his ideas? Yew! What a magnificent tree! Oh, Salazar... if Tom presented a gift, then he too must respond.

"My lord... this is like a dream," he whispered, pressing the wand to his face so that the bridge of his glasses slid askew. "Thank you... inconceivable... mmm."

"It seems this item has taken a liking to you," Voldemort exhaled, almost playfully, "in the year of your coming of age, when your company of losers dared that impudent escapade up to Grimmauld, I used Lucius's wand... it died, if you will, against you; not simply refused to work—it decided... to annihilate itself."

"Ha-ha!" Harry burst into laughter, throwing his head back, even his eyes sparkled when he opened them after the guffaw. "Look, even here we are similar: we deprived both Malfoys of wands!" He exhaled merrily and continued on enthusiasm, cheerfully and spiritedly. "But, that such magical items as a wand have something akin to will, I am sure... After all, even an 'inanimate' stone has a striving—to be drawn by gravity to something... and there, the more majestic the object, the stronger it alters the space around itself, forcing everything to submit to its presence... to its grandeur.

So too a wand, if viewed that way," Harry paused, his gaze not detaching from Voldemort, "...power enclosed in the object always seeks correspondence in the consciousness of one who can understand its impulse."

Voldemort swallowed, fitting into Harry's face with wide black pupils. They are supposed to be like a snake's, not like a doe's, aren't they?

A snap with two fingers before himself, as if Harry recalled something, and without breaking tactile contact, he pulled from the pouch a scroll, the thickest of those he had stored:

"I, it seems, also found a thing worthy of your attention."

A wave, and the source of knowledge levitated before their faces, unrolling to the floor.

"What abomination..?" The Darkest's lip twisted as soon as he mentally began reading. "What brainless idiot dared to cross runes and Latin in one text while writing?" Voldemort blurted with disgust, examining the crookedly written text as a specimen of ignorance... who is the author? What dilettante? The gaze slid to the very bottom and caught on the letter R.

"Yeees, but here it's definitely about Horcruxes, isn't it? And look, this can be undone."

"This is all known anyway." Continuing to lead his gaze along the lines. When eyes reached the Latin inscription: A soul, splintered into fragments, became “fragile” yet invulnerable so long as the Horcrux endured—the text began writing further before their eyes, this time with sharp, confident strokes, in red ink:

"...measurements of deviations in perception dynamics, heart rhythm and breathing conducted in wind from North Shields; comrade demonstrated resonance in the nearest perimeter..."

Red lines multiplied along the perimeter of the parchment, capturing the margins where earlier only scraps of recipes and vague notes were woven. Now—reflections, engrossed and specific: musings on living Horcruxes.

"Well? Cool, huh?" Harry shifted his gaze to the lines, then to the wand in his hand, then again to Voldemort's face, which was literally nearby, flush, in an embrace, so that one’s breath touched the other’s skin.

Voldemort bestowed upon him a gaze—long, expectant.

"You studied this?" he tossed quietly, attentively inspecting the paper, and after the furrowed gaze of green eyes a couple centimeters from himself, which meaningfully but briefly stared at the text, shook his head. "Curious... Curious..." The Dark Lord's eyes glazed for an instant, as if a thought illuminated him, and then, sharply returning, pierced into Harry: "Where did you get this?"

A dull swallow which the great concentrated lord did not notice, but the thought stream in Harry's skull tries to form, tries, but stumbles and veers. He himself did not know how to explain; damn it! He hadn't even taken the exact coordinates of the hideout when he found this crap. That screech around had worn him out too much, Hermione's looks, too sharp was the crack of that cursed thing! How could he have known that the “Faciem” wouldn't help? Or does it always crack like that with them?! Is this important? No, not important! The main thing—the scroll is useful, right? Right?.. But Tom... if he understands that Harry did not fulfill the main task—to pinpoint the place... again... Oh, Merlin!.. why is this sad? Unfair... did something... not work out for him? Thoughts tore off, fragmented, raced in circles, as if inside the skull someone had released a swarm of locusts to devour and tear the remnants of neural threads.

A sharp exhale:

"This was... there. By the way!" his voice trembled; he hastily grasped the first thing that came to mind. "I've long wanted to ask: did you check that snake?"

Voldemort's red eyes tore from the letters. He pondered, then squinted. A movement: covered one eye, checking. Nothing. Emptiness.

"Hm..." lips curved in a barely noticeable smirk. "Dead. Died of hunger. Unimportant." Indeed, he had forgotten to think about this thing, even when in rare moments his vision closed on one organ, he did not think that on the last day he saw only emptiness, and not the habitual wood or other rubbish. The "Shell" was a sort of test for Harry; the snake so, an additional framework of conviction, as if the great Lord tried to assure himself that there exists a goal broader than to learn how deep this "adolescent quarrel" is and how strongly Harry is ready for betrayal... pff, obviously! Harry belongs only to him and by his will alone! Harry~

"...so where did you get this?"

Fuck!

Unexpectedly like a blessing—a loud knock, but not the door, around.

Voldemort darted a glance. Nagini, raising half her torso, stood as a menacing spire over their heads. She resisted being left again; well, she aided the being, yes? Unlikely this cold something would object... especially since Nagini clearly senses through all this some kinship.

A wave— a protective spell clenched the Horcruxes with a shielding layer; the scroll rolled up, sliding into the sleeve.

"...go."

The exit rather resembled a procession; black silk behind the Lord billowed after him like the tail of a black comet, and beside, clutching with hand the proffered foreign forearm, Harry walked pressed to the orbit, like an asteroid caught in the field of attraction and no longer able to free itself.

Gliding.

Along Harry's back settled Nagini; her heavy body, like a gigantic mooring line, tightened his shoulders and chest, and the head, like a dog's, lowered to the boy's neck, slid tongue into ear, as if deliberately.

The door swung open—did the door groan, or was it the body sprawled to the right of the entrance? On the stone threshold lay Bellatrix, her black form splayed out, hair scattered across the tiles, face pressed to the floor. What a pity, a victim of her own cult—stretched out, hollowed, like a candle burned out in the temple of her own fractured mind… Pfft. But let her try to remind Harry of her existence, to snag his attention with something, anything. She was of no interest to him now.

“My Lord!” The words tore from her lips, muffled, as though rising through layers of earth. “Azkaban…”

She dared not rise, only a moment later, as if remembering a slave still had eyes, she lifted her head. And then she saw.

Red eyes—unblinking, predatory. Green eyes—glittering, and all the more terrifying for it. And a third gaze, slithering, animalistic, from dark, beady orbs.

Bellatrix froze for an instant, her mouth falling open as though the breath had been knocked from her chest. Harry Potter! Hand in hand? NO! What… what… what was that in his other hand? Her crazed, widened stare latched onto the all-too-familiar yew wand, and her stomach clenched. A gurgling sound erupted from her throat, as if the stress might make her retch.

Voldemort towered above them all, his silhouette stretching into the space like the shadow of a planet. He didn’t speak—he showed.

A feverish whirlwind, not a stream of thought: boy? Man? Punishment? Why wasn’t he dead?! Why was he beside him? Why hadn’t even Nagini touched him?! Her inner scream was a cocktail of jealousy, horror, and some perverse thrill. Yet, through the stench of this delirium, a structure remained, astonishingly intact: duty, faith… obsession.

“Azkaban,” she forced out, biting her lip until it bled. “An escape… four prisoners, darkness has engulfed the entire perimeter…”

Boy! Oh, why, why must she endure this? But wait… an escape from Azkaban! Potter was surely involved! And hadn’t the Dark Lord wanted to use her… body? Bells tolled in her head—not church bells, but funereal, heavy, relentless.

Harry snapped his head toward Voldemort. The lenses of his glasses caught the emerald gleam of his own eyes, though such a reflection was impossible.

“It’s those two! Fred and George, it’s got to be them! We need to go there! Now!”

The frenzied eyes of Lady Lestrange locked onto Voldemort, quivering with anticipation. Yes, yes, of course… he’d echo the call! She was ready!

“Foolishness,” Voldemort cut in coldly. With a flick of his wand, new lines appeared on the parchment that had informed the Death Eaters of the immediate Apparition order to the island: “Identify the closest associates of each escapee. Eliminate them at once. Confiscate all property.”

“No fuss, no information leaked about this,” Voldemort continued evenly, no trace of anger, only calculated precision, though his hand tightened further on the boy’s waist. “Firstly, they’re not there. Secondly, they wish to prove they’re still capable of something. Curious… why now?” His gaze lingered on the written names—Bones, Lovegood, Abbott… “No matter. They’ll learn the cost of their gestures. Their kin will pay first.”

“Heresy! Why are they even still alive?” Harry’s voice broke into a half-exhale, his temples throbbing with a desperate, almost tangible echo of his mother’s scream—a primal memory, fury entwining with recently seared images, the freshest neural pathway. “People rarely tremble for themselves, not until the end… but for children—always. For me, even a portrait lost consciousness, though I hardly look like a kid…” He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips, eyes half-lidded, gaze lingering on Voldemort’s lips as his breath grazed the man’s cheek. His lips moved, the whisper barely audible, but when two words slipped from Harry Potter’s mouth, Voldemort’s eyes widened. Logical.

Harry smiled, releasing the other’s forearm to drape his arm over Voldemort’s shoulder, pulling him closer. The yew wand in his right hand traced an arc through the air, and his voice shifted to a playful soprano.

“Or better yet… leave them at the gates later. Like garden gnomes—those filthy creatures always sit and wait to be tossed out, and if that doesn’t happen, the neighbors will know: the owners have ‘left.’”

Voldemort paused to think. He had never relied on such depravity. Harry Potter was his target purely from logical deduction—either him or some unknown infant. No prophecy dictated his fate! And those lazy Death Eaters had certainly earned this! But in this case…

“You’re right, my boy,” his voice dropped to a thick, viscous whisper, close to Harry’s ear, like a confession in a darkened bedroom. “You’ve grasped the essence. So perceptive… biology always prevails.”

His heated breath brushed against skin. “To witness such an act is true emptiness, enough to make even the most loyal shatter their convictions. Seeing hope rot at the threshold is worse than any torture.”

He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching as their breaths mingled, as the pale hand of death added Harry Potter’s words to the parchment’s freshly written lines.

“A neighbor who witnesses another’s future fading before their eyes will see their own fate in it. The same awaits them all if they dare resist. But excessive grotesquery… is dangerous. It’s unwise. Bella.” His gaze flicked downward without turning his head. “I know you won’t fail me.”

Bellatrix felt a rasp tear from her chest—jealousy burned her, as though her own skin writhed in convulsions. Was the Dark Lord using an Imperius Curse on the boy to sate his fantasies? Yes, yes… Her wild eyes darted from the wand in Potter’s hand to Nagini’s head on his shoulder, desperately ignoring the moments when their lips brushed each other’s skin.

“Yes, yes, my Lord! I’ll request lists of students, friends, colleagues… I’ll burn them all!” Bellatrix’s gaze stabbed at Harry, her words laced with an unmistakable tone, as if the boy should understand, no matter what spell he was under! But suddenly, it all crumbled into nothingness. A wave of trembling coursed through her body. The boy… no shadows… and that look… that feeling… too familiar.

A ragged, gasping exhale escaped her as her body jerked, like an otter surfacing from water.

“The great wizard Harry Potter! The Chosen One, Potter, haha!” Her voice cracked with manic laughter. “Tired of hiding in filthy hovels?”

A sharp turn—three heads moved in unison, as if they’d heard something utterly alien. Even the air held its breath.

“Hm.” Harry Potter tapped his chin, gazing upward thoughtfully, ignoring Lestrange as if she were nothing. He pursed his lower lip in an exaggerated parody of contemplation.

“Abbott? Oh, yes, Abbott… she’s from Hufflepuff, right? How long has she been in Azkaban? We went to practice together.” Harry stressed the last two words deliberately and then didn’t laugh—he guffawed, tilting his head as if recalling a joke, though it was hardly a true memory. “You know what I called it back then? ‘Dumbledore’s Army’!” He let out a few more booming “ha-ha’s” as the memory in his mind formed an anecdote he couldn’t voice even if he wanted to. “And then… then… haha, Fudge showed up and was like, ‘Oh, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, here’s proof of your betrayal!’”

Disgusting! Not Imperius… some potion? Nausea surged in Bellatrix’s throat, frothy bile burning the root of her tongue, ready to erupt, just like an Avada Kedavra from her wand. She barely stopped herself from doubling over. A swallow. Her hand clenched into a fist, wandless. What was this absurd teenage babble? What madness? The Dark Lord wouldn’t waste a single breath responding!

“Oh, ‘Army’…” Voldemort hissed.Bellatrix rasped, sprawled on the floor. “How touching that the great Albus Dumbledore approved such charming school clubs, and that their leader was his most bloodthirsty little experiment, wasn’t it?”

Voldemort’s face didn’t turn toward Lestrange. With a wave of his hand, the parchment bearing the new orders vanished into the fabric. “If you’re curious, I’ll provide the lists, Harry. I don’t keep track of every name.” A turn—two bodies pivoted toward the study, their robes flaring in opposite directions like the wings of a single Thestral, synchronized with the transfigured serpent holding the spatial charms.

Silence.

Splash. Her stomach heaved, bile splattering the floor for meters, hitting the stone like a fountain. Her fingers slid across the tiles, her disheveled hair, like a frayed broom, smearing the puddle as if an artist had swept a brush through vomit.

Lady Lestrange could still be useful to the Dark Lord, couldn’t she, given… physiological circumstances? The moment she seized the thought—Oh, my Lord, that’s it!—the scaffolding of her last intact mental structures held firm: the pathetic boy, no matter his… ass or dick, her gift was eternal loyalty and a fitting body! The boy was just a toy, a fleeting whim, a revel in triumph! The Dark Lord would tire of him, kill him, and move on!

Snarl and the crack of Apparition signaled that the rage flooding her would be unleashed in fulfilling his orders. How fortunate! Half to Azkaban with formal charges, the others reduced to ash instead of guts!

The green flames in the fireplace flared, heralding the arrival of three figures into the study. Harry’s gaze caught on a crystal skull to the left. No, it didn’t mean anything—just a cool skull. A head. Wicked. For some reason, Harry’s mind flicked to a ritual he’d read about, one involving the dusting of ash, and oh, he really needed to sit down soon and dive into the new material he’d gathered from the Restricted Section. The tribe mentioned in the title of that leather-bound tome, dedicated to the study of curses, hinted at answers. Even that foul Crabbe had brought something like it to school once, until Filch confiscated it!

Voldemort would continue reading now. A scroll hovered above him as he glided with smooth steps toward his black, twisted throne behind the massive desk, the silk of his robe billowing like the edge of reality itself.

Nagini slithered past Harry’s feet, and he nearly tripped over her.

Hiss—not Nagini’s, but Harry Potter’s.

“Listen, doesn’t it bother you at all? Dumbledore and Snape are in someone’s pocket, the Order’s regrouping, and people have escaped from Azkaban?” Harry made a theatrical, unnecessarily wide flourish with his yew wand, and a chair scuttled, as if alive, from its place across from the room’s master to right beside him.

Silence.

Harry stood there, scratching his head as if trying to spark a thought, to electrify his own mind. But alas, only the clumsy physiology of a damaged brain shone through: short bursts of associations, fragmented images, useless details clinging to his consciousness. Were there toys by the entrance there? A rubbish bin? Some wretched village! 

Trying to recall anything, Harry only grasped at the nervous thrill that had accompanied him there. Oh, what a clever biological trick—a reward for success. His body remembered that exquisite dopamine rush, like a rat finding a path through a maze. His flawed, gaping brain squealed because lies had become a weapon, and the sheer fact of going unnoticed was the pinnacle of his personal triumph. A flash. Heresy! Where was their hideout? It was definitely them! Why now? Pfft, they’re all weaklings! No one would kill Harry or Voldemort! No! Oh, how inconvenient that Tom couldn’t just slip into his mind and take a look! They could only hear each other’s thoughts, and even that they hadn’t yet learned to control.

Voldemort was reading the next lines around the perimeter of the wretched scroll: “The rhythm of small circles—observable even in primitive amphibians—can resonate in other structures, including the human brain. This intersection does not impair cognitive functions; on the contrary, it creates suitable conditions for a ‘living vessel’…”

“Hm…” Clearly, this person had used such a writing style deliberately. Perhaps in their time, wherever they lived, it was customary? Or was it a way to stand out? Or, conversely… In any case, someone had created a living Horcrux—unthinkable!

Crack. With a sweep of his cloak, Harry sat beside Voldemort, his shoulder brushing against the other’s, his hot breath sliding across the skin of Voldemort’s neck, instinctively demanding attention. His gaze fixed on the scroll, his fingers ceaselessly stroking the yew wand resting across his knees. Odd, wait a second—something about this text felt familiar. Two studying gazes locked onto the footnotes and musings about the structure of “mind” in lower animals.

“My friend, know this: the northern wind there is not so much fresh as salty; and beneath stone arches, it is exceedingly damp. Yet do not be troubled by this gloom—our meeting shall be my delight.”

Ten minutes of silence were broken by the rustle of parchment. The scroll of communication and orders for Voldemort’s minions announced that the Bones family—mother and daughter—had been eliminated. Another name followed, and then another… Apparently, despite the risk, her former Ministry friends had decided to help. Pointless. The number of Death Eaters kept growing, while most wizards didn’t even react to the changes, preferring quiet, futile existence over action.

Emerald eyes tracked the lines until the parchment fell to the desk, useless now, its purpose fulfilled. Harry pressed his side closer, their thighs touching. Voldemort sat upright, like a buoy on water, while Harry curled up like a shrimp, fidgeting, shifting.

“Hm… Tom, tell me,” Harry said. “Besides the Order, does no one in Britain ever cross paths with your people? Don’t you have enough werewolves and Death Eaters? Are you planning to be, like, king of Britain later?” He shifted again under the creak of his cloak, settling comfortably, nearly lying across Voldemort’s side, resting his head on his shoulder, twirling his marvelous wand under the desk—a wand that seemed to hum with impatience, sweet and drawn to Harry. 

By the way, the little snake, also sweet and once tied to Tom Riddle’s visual organ before fulfilling her “function,” had told Harry, with her last strength, that no, there were no talking portraits in the house. Nor in Hermione’s bag, where she’d spent most of her time hiding. Harry hadn’t seen any either… Perhaps it wasn’t them who took Dumbledore and Snape? And Filch… Well, that was the strangest part. Harry could hardly imagine Ron suggesting something like that, for instance.

Flash. The mental echo of a name conjured an image, stretching Harry’s lips into a grin, his white teeth gleaming like silent porcelain—too wide a smile for someone carrying such a vile trophy in his pocket. Still smiling, Harry turned his head, glancing at the spot across the long desk where no one sat now, but blood, trickling along the black wood, carved filthy streams. A moment later, Ron was there—or rather, just his head, as if peering out with curiosity. The blood formed a pattern—a chessboard, framed as if by grease, the blood perfectly outlining a nonexistent game. Hey, you! You were supposed to be the sacrifice, sorry! Ron was meant to make his move now. Checkmate. A crimson waterfall poured from the depths of the desk’s wood, as if it bled instead of oozed sap, then erupted like a geyser, flooding the image before his eyes completely.

“What? And what do you think the Ministry’s for?” Voldemort’s voice rang out a second after Harry’s question. “Do you want me to march my people in columns through London, cursing everyone in sight? Foolishness.” Harry blinked, and as if nothing had happened, his green eyes returned to the scroll, reading about the “ritual” for a Horcrux curse that required a sacrifice. Nothing special—no animal corpses, bones, or the like… Oh, how curious. Clearly, this wouldn’t be a problem for Harry!

The muttering continued.

“Numbers are for those who lack wit or power. In our case, that would end badly—we don’t even have numerical superiority. Any force displayed openly invites an opposing force, and Muggle technology…” Voldemort cleared his throat. “Yes, skirmishes happen; there are always those who make noise or resist. But they’re either carted off to Azkaban or sent underground.”

Harry leaned closer, rubbing his head under Voldemort’s jaw, shifting on the hard chair as Nagini slithered between his back and her master’s body.

“With Ireland, for instance, things couldn’t have gone better. Whose achievement do you think that was? Their infighting dragged on too long. But in April, it all ended—quite spectacularly, wouldn’t you agree?” The corner of his mouth twitched. “In the magical community, there’s no doubt or dissent now: most are devoted to the idea of magical supremacy. My people saw to that personally. And the Muggles there? A splendid resource.”

Harry frowned but said nothing. He didn’t even understand what the Dark Lord was talking about. Voldemort caught the look and allowed himself a thin, almost affectionate smile. Charming ignorance~

“The only problem might come from international Ministry ‘partners.’” He paused, as if savoring the word. “London is already mine. They just don’t know it yet. While you were conducting… your research, Fenrir received new orders. Of course, I could start with international expansion. But I prefer to make my intentions clear here, on the land I command. Britain’s well-positioned on the map, don’t you think?” His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And I’m not a public figure. There are resources for that. My presence will manifest only where it’s truly needed.”

Harry moved his head again, rubbing under Voldemort’s cheek, exhaling. He listened and thought. With his wand, he’d be immensely useful—his studies wouldn’t be halted by that factor now. But the main unresolved issue remained: the place. Ugh, the foul Malfoy nest! And Harry wanted… something like his own study. To fill it with cool skulls, magical artifacts, wizarding photographs, enchanted figurines, and loads of books… maybe some portraits?

Mmm. His thoughts jumped, but one snagged as his thumb brushed the wand’s handle, almost absently. Without it, his magic sounded like a distorted signal: noise, bursts, but no rhythm. Now, though—perfect coherence, resonance. Exhilarating~ He couldn’t bear the thought of losing this extension of his hand again! A flash. An idea.

Voldemort, meanwhile, spoke as if to himself, with a sudden predatory relish, savoring his words.

“Do you know what most Muggles are thinking now? That their government’s conducting secret experiments. Some, raised on Muggle stories, are already whispering about werewolves, monsters…” Harry closed his eyes and smiled as a memory surfaced.Flash. Hostel, two men whispering about murders in London:I’m telling you, something’s off in that area… “Their government couldn’t provide answers,they can’t . In essence, they were just people, as You knew, the competence of many… questionable. Murders, looting, disappearances—blows to society’s faith in its protectors. And paranoia, my boy, is worse than specifics. They’re starting to fear their own city, distrusting it, talking of decay, believing no one can cope, no one will help. Power arrives not by proclamation but by exhaustion; wait until they beg.

“Mmm, logical. I read the papers—they didn’t even put the murders on the front page. Haha, on the front page, even on the covers, they had music bands! The Spice Girls broke up! Ah!” Harry leaned back, dramatically emphasizing the mock grandeur of the news. “But people still talked about it among themselves… some believed, some were scared…”

Voldemort’s pale face brushed against Harry’s cheek. He stared ahead at the levitating scroll as a quill rose from the desk, scribbling notes from the scroll by R.: “The northern wind there is not so much fresh as salty; and beneath stone arches, it is exceedingly damp,” and another hint of a place—“North Shields.” Was that person still alive? Unlikely, but perhaps there was a chance to find the place where they “waited” and uncover something useful? Research notes, maybe? Oh… Tom Riddle’s eyes practically blazed, and the quill worked faster, sketching a schematic map from memory. He could effortlessly translate images into lines, almost reflexively bypassing conscious thought. A single glimpse of a detail was enough to commit it to paper. Frankly, Voldemort could probably recreate an entire small town from memory, seen only once. Phenomenal memory. A pity the owner’s consciousness sometimes got in the way.

Harry’s breath hitched as his lips grazed Voldemort’s temple, and through a smile, Voldemort continued as the quill finished the sketch.

“…And when it all becomes filthy enough, I’ll appear… we’ll appear. Hundreds? Thousands of Muggles?” Voldemort’s tone rose. “They’ll see their rulers and Ministries so rotten, unable to stop the murders on their streets, the gangs, the chaos, thinking only of themselves, spewing nonsense. And worst of all—they hid something so… incomprehensible that the mere existence of the lie will be a revelation to the masses. Their disbelief, combined with our dramatic entrance…” His teeth grazed Harry’s neck as Harry leaned into him, baring his throat. A moan. “…But it needs the right, precise moment. As Isaid, the international…” Voldemort cut himself off meaningfully, his breath hot against Harry’s neck, a brief kiss. Another, higher up. As if that explained everything—or simply meant let’s move on. Harry arched into it, moaning, wrapping his arms around Voldemort’s neck.

Voldemort wasn’t afraid, of course, but even briefly acknowledging the enemy’s advantages in creating something like him was a challenge. So, silently, he levitated several parchments from the shelf to the left, beside the cabinet of artifacts that concealed a Pensieve.

Sigh. He pulled back from Harry, meeting those magnificent green eyes. A skipped heartbeat. Harry~

“Ahem. To France, for instance, spies will soon be sent, integrated directly into their structures—unremarkable exchange students, their appearances pathetic, but their sole task is gathering information from within.” Sheets with names, assignments, and a precise magical map with markers slid toward Harry, along with a detailed list of Azkaban prisoners.

Voldemort didn’t insist or command Harry—what idiot would order themselves? But, like with the book of Hogwarts headmasters, he’d drop persistent hints.

Harry flicked his new wand over the parchment, though he could have easily done it without. His eyes skimmed the names and assignments—not particularly important, but now he was in the know.

“I reckon plenty of Muggles would crave magic, no matter their age. But among wizards, you think no one’s plotting anything? Sure about that?” Harry wasn’t exactly afraid—if that term even applied—but still.

“Oh, they’d want it, no doubt. It only fuels their curiosity, their desire.” Voldemort turned his head. Harry sat pressed against him, nuzzling, and a slender hand draped around Potter’s neck. A pale palm slid behind his ear, long fingers threading through a strand of hair. “If you’re afraid of something, I assure you, there’s no need. People just live, work, serve their purpose. Everything’s in its place.”

Harry blinked and returned to studying the scroll he gifted to Voldemort. Curious… it seemed this person had created multiple… living “Horcruxes”? What were the odds something awaited in North Shields? Voldemort checked a parchment in his book, filled with notes scrawled across thin lines mimicking the streets and coastline of North Shields. Clearly, it referred to something right by the water. Oh, another rendezvous on the beach with Harry Potter?~ His fingers still toyed with Harry’s hair.

Harry shot a glance at the scroll too, squinting at the author’s handwriting and the occasionally odd, imprecise phrasing about living organisms. And, seriously now.

“So, what, are we going to keep living under the Malfoys’ roof? I’m really not keen on that. Hogwarts would be better, honestly.”

Crimson eyes flicked from the scroll, staring into the void. Exactly.

A wave of his left hand—not the one around Potter, of course—and a serpent slid from Voldemort’s sleeve, swiftly slithering through the crack of the slightly ajar door.

Harry watched, surprised, narrowing his eyes meaningfully.

“I think this time it’d be better if you stayed hidden, for… a dramatic entrance, what do you say?” Voldemort smoothly withdrew his hand, tracing a long finger along the skin of Harry’s neck peeking from beneath the leather collar. He placed his spidery fingers under the boy’s chin, lifting his face until their gazes met. Slowly, he leaned in, pressing a brief, tender kiss, his thumb gently stroking Harry’s jaw.

“Mmm, who’s coming?” Harry bit his lip, tugging the Invisibility Cloak with his fingers and draping it over himself.

He pressed tightly against Voldemort’s side, waiting…

A perfect chance to rummage through the minds of those wretches, to silence the gnawing suspicions Harry kept feeding with his mentions of them. Harry… oh, Voldemort shifted in his seat as a vivid memory surfaced: their “souls” glimpsed in the Prefects’ Bathroom, followed by their kisses. He blinked again, the sensation of fluff rising in his chest, nearly settling in his mouth, on his lips, and perhaps on his eyelids from his frequent blinking.

Silence.

A faint rustle behind the door as it began to creak open.

“My Lord?” The door groaned sharply, and a pale blond head peered through the gap. Simultaneously, a nimble snake darted from below, slithering straight into the fireplace. To Harry’s surprise, it burst into flames and burned alive, leaving a faint smell like scorched kerosene.

For a moment, silence reigned in the enchanted room, where Apparition was impossible. Even Nagini stilled, coiled around Voldemort’s throne. She rose, watching the door, her tongue flickering from her jaws.

“We’ve arrived at your summons,” Lucius Malfoy mumbled, lowering his head, his eyes glassy. His wife followed, as if by symbiotic impulse.

“We’re honored to serve.”

“Ah, Lucius, Narcissa, please, take a seat.” Voldemort gestured to solid chairs conjured from swirling tendrils of darkness before his desk. Did they notice the second chair beside their master, suspiciously empty?

Lucius Malfoy stepped forward first, forcing himself to stand tall, his cane peeking from beneath his robe’s hem. Narcissa entered as if attending a funeral procession, her intricate black dress flowing, her sleek hair gathered in an elegant bun. The couple bowed deeply before settling into the assigned seats.

Their voices were steady, their postures rigid, their gazes—as befits the presence of the Dark Lord—wary and fearful. But what was this sensation in the air? The green glow of the firelight, the pulse of the Dark Lord’s magic permeating the enchanted space… The pure-blood wizards sat, swallowing the thick unease knotting in their throats.

Hiss.

“How are our… lesser objects faring? Met with them yesterday?” The snake’s tongue flicked again, and her massive coils slid downward, releasing the throne and writhing beneath the desk.

“Y-yes, my Lord,” Lucius stammered, reaching beneath his robe to retrieve three enchanted folders. Each contained not only written reports but also essence for the Pensieve, brimming with memories. Moreover, that deranged, obsessive young Muggle had thrust some strange square object upon him. The Death Eater had checked it for curses ten times, just to be safe, and found nothing.

“From the Muggle Bright, an additional unknown artifact. I couldn’t discern its purpose, but I recorded the words accompanying its delivery.” Lucius swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the floor, avoiding the object of his nightmares.

Lately, he’d been thinking about Harry Potter. Why had the boy let himself be caught? Lucius genuinely believed there had to be… some plan. And now, things would surely… calm down. No, no, of course he didn’t entertain thoughts or phrases like “without the Dark Lord.” Certainly not. But Harry Potter, it seemed, had been tortured to death. A pitiful, wretched child. Hope was dead. They’d have to adapt further…

Frankly, Lucius hadn’t even considered openly betraying the Dark Lord. His feeble mind was clear, but beneath layers of false memories, a… foreign secret lurked.

Another secret was kept by certain Death Eaters, who’d shared news of their Lord’s impossible “actions” with the Chosen One, Harry Potter. Even Dolohov  had dived into the Pensieve yesterday to see what exactly had been witnessed, only to decide to mull it over with Yaxley ten liters of liquor in a distant room of the Manor.

“Excellent, excellent… thank you, my friend.” With a wave, Voldemort drew the objects to himself. One, two, three—they settled softly on the desk, but a single sheet, as if caught by an invisible draft, rose higher, slipping from one of the folders. The Dark Lord lazily caught it with his long fingers, lifting his head as if inspecting a tedious trifle not worth his time. He wasn’t reading—just pretending.

“And you, Narcissa…” Pause. “Will you tell me about your intrigues?” His words were measured, precise; his crimson gaze studied her face. “How fares the Ministry? No whispers of… doubt? Your connections have always struck me as so… useful.”

A hiss along Narcissa’s chair—Nagini now slithered below, brushing their legs, her coils barely fitting between the chair legs.

Not a muscle twitched. Narcissa sat upright, offering only a smooth nod. The green firelight reflected on her cheekbones, the shadow of her lashes falling like a frozen, masterful painting.

“All is under control, my Lord,” she said evenly, almost monotonously. “No one dares even think of betrayal.”

The warmth at Voldemort’s side vanished. From the elevated desk, he watched as the void’s eye on the floor aligned with Narcissa.

She continued, her voice slightly quicker now, an impulse to fill the silence—a tactic often used by those with something to hide. But someone else was hidden before her, too. Her eyes widened, staring ahead, though no one was there.

“Rumors circulate of wizard clashes in Scotland. I personally delivered orders to Yaxley in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for inspections in several settlements…”

And then the shadow moved back. Hot breath grazed Voldemort’s ear. A soft hiss, a report. Harry had his wand now. Harry was rather skilled at Legilimency.

Voldemort’s face remained unchanged, his hand merely sliding to his chin. The sheet detailing the lone half-blood among those subjects slipped back into place, unexamined. He’d study it with Harry later, in private.

Harry had been right all along… mistaken only in certain details. How much did this act actually change things? Harry says she didn’t have time to do anything. Still. Ugh. Of course, this feeling… this connection, this… Voldemort’s face twisted faintly as he searched for the right word. Biological loyalty in females toward certain beings. How curious, isn’t it, Harry? That’s what drove your recommendation for the Azkaban escapees, wasn’t it? It makes people do strange things, doesn’t it? No, no, what he and Harry shared was entirely different—not at all like this base, pathetic biological urge. What Harry and Voldemort shared was cosmic, divine, grand, a fated phenomenon!

But in truth, Harry’s suggestion to “kill them” today stemmed from the same logic as with the Death Eaters tasked with watching the Black estate: excess trouble, danger, pain. In all directions. Even if Harry Potter himself didn’t fully grasp the sequence or logic of his actions, they were perfectly explainable by a broken mind’s drive to protect the only thing of value it had. Well, all methods were fair, and one person’s logic wasn’t always clear to another, was it?

Harry Potter’s Parseltongue whispered on in his ear.

“…Ss ...with Molly Weasley. Their children will not be harmed in each other’s homes. She went alone, didn’t even think she’d be killed… It was McGonagall, the one who sealed their vow… Sshe was in contact with her.-ss”

Betrayal. Everything was decided. Instead of catching the only ones openly opposing the Dark Lord, those ugly slugs, this miserable ones, this woman had the nerve to shake hand one of them!

“Splendid, splendid… Lucius.” Pause. A dual inhale in unison. “Summon young Draco.” The words rang as a duet: Voldemort’s bass intertwined with Harry’s echo, slightly higher, like a shadowy replica, a true double from ancient Egyptian soul treatises.

An inexplicable chill gripped the air.

Cold. Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a meaningful glance without turning their heads, a sense of inevitability clutching their throats like ice. But the echo, surely, was just the Dark Lord being his terrifying self—who knew what to expect from him?

Lucius silently unfastened his cuffs, baring his forearm and extending it over the desk. Voldemort’s wand slid to the skin, and the Dark Mark flared, coming alive under his touch.

Silence. The shadow moved toward Lucius, evidently to perform the same procedure to Narcissa on him. Voldemort watched Lucius silently as he adjusted his robe. For a moment, Lucius lifted his gaze from his sleeve, as if lost in thought—or as if something was watching him, forcing memories to surge through him.

The door creaked. Narcissa Malfoy closed her eyes, her chest rising with a deep breath.

Voldemort smiled, revealing a brilliant and thus terrifying grin, tilting his head slightly.

“Draco,” he drawled, savoring the name, “sit, dear boy.”

The air shivered, and a chair materialized between Lucius and Narcissa—dark, with carved armrests, as if torn from a nightmare and ready to unravel at any moment.

The youth said nothing, though his lips mumbled something akin to “my Lord.” A bow.

Draco Malfoy’s steps were quick. He sank slowly into the seat between his parents, his hands instinctively gripping the armrests, as if seeking support. Narcissa twitched, as though she meant to rise. She reconsidered, evidently.

Draco turned his head right and left, glancing at his parents, lingering longer on his father. He frowned, accusingly. Then he stilled, staring straight at Voldemort. His sharp cheekbones quivered slightly as he nervously bit the inside of his cheek. The month Harry Potter disappeared had been horrific. Draco had been so terrified that some days he didn’t leave his room, fearing either an attack from the Order and Harry Potter or that Lord Voldemort would come and torture him to death for some infraction. Fear tore at him from both sides. At some point, he began to wonder who could possibly stop Lord Voldemort.

“And so,” Voldemort leaned forward slightly, his crimson eyes glinting with a green spark—likely from the fireplace. “You know I value honesty. Especially when it comes to family.” He paused. “What does it mean to you to be the heir of a revered line, Draco? A burden? Or a privilege?”

Draco clenched his teeth, holding the pause, his cheeks flushing.

“Yes, my Lord, thank you. Under your protection, our family knows no hardship.”

Come on! He’s trembling like a ferret! Voldemort gave a slight nod, as if agreeing with an unseen ally… or his own thoughts?

His gaze fell on the shadow standing to his left, the one that had worked on Lucius. It hadn’t approached Draco. It stood. Waiting?

“Hm,” Voldemort traced a finger along the desk, as if distractedly. Young Malfoy-boy and heir, the mother is undoubtedly important, but... “Or perhaps being a son means doing what your father wouldn’t dare?” All it takes is to push him into hysteria, Crucio will be soon, and mother will blurt it out herself. And they will watch, and sneer a little—it will be amusing~

Soft female exhale, a turn of her head to the right, toward her son. She clearly didn’t understand what was meant. Draco Malfoy flinched, his eyes widening in matching confusion.

Lord Voldemort was skilled in Legilimency, but he wasn’t looking into his eyes! Moreover, his mother wore the artifact he’d given her; her thoughts should be well-protected. Had it failed? Damn it! Draco opened his mouth, but the words stuck. Lucius sat motionless, only his jaw twitching.

Voldemort, relishing the moment, drew the Elder Wand. When the wood was recognized, all three Malfoys flinched in unison.

“My father knew nothing!” Draco blurted, a verbal reflex to stress, projecting his current thoughts.

Voldemort smiled slowly. What an idiot. And this one was hiding something. Oh, of course… Harry~

“Knew nothing…” he repeated, as if tasting the confession. Mmm. A tang lingered on his tongue—sharp, metallic, tickling the palate: adrenaline. Then the bitterness of cortisol, the dampness of cold youthful sweat; a less sharp, coppery note of norepinephrine. Fear flooded the room, thick and sticky, and the Dark Lord felt it not with ears or eyes but with his body. Oh, blood speaks more honestly than words… blood… shared blood. Harry~

“Ah… but what’s curious, Draco, is that you said it as though you actually did something.” He leaned closer, his eyes gleaming. “And I didn’t even ask you about it.”

The framework of the three metal chairs, so graciously provided to the Malfoys, unraveled in an instant like the opening to a cancan, coiling around their slender forearms and wrists with a painfully tight grip, whitening their knuckles, as if they were shackles straight from Azkaban.

Crack.

Pale eyes watched as Darkness itself thickened beside Voldemort. But a second later, as Draco’s brain processed the sight, it became clear: it was Harry bloody Potter, unfurling theatrically as if stepping up for another interview, his cloak billowing more dramatically than Snape’s! That wretched Potter! How did he get here? His father had said Harry Potter was captured and tortured. He’d escaped and come to kill Voldemort! Just in time! A nod, and Draco agreed with his racing thoughts that no matter what happened or how Harry Potter saved him, he wouldn’t be thanking him!

The Chosen One’s emerald eyes burned, his head tilted slightly, strands of hair falling over his face, framing it, obscuring the green glint of his round glasses’ lenses, as if he’d materialized from limbo.

Draco held his breath. What was this sight? Was that really Potter? Yes, but why was he hesitating?

Harry Potter moved—not just toward Voldemort. In an instant, he pounced, straddling him, pressing his hips to Voldemort’s so sharply that the sound echoed through the room.

The Gryffindor’s fingers dug into Voldemort’s shoulders, claiming them, and then he lunged forward, seizing a kiss so greedily that his loud moan of anticipation reverberated off the walls. Meanwhile, Voldemort’s slender, spidery fingers slid to his waist, gripping tightly. The kiss wasn’t soft or searching—it was predatory, ostentatious, theatrical. Harry rocked his hips in short thrusts, the air filled with the rustle of fabric and his ragged moans. Potter was practically fucking Voldemort in front of witnesses, brazenly, shamelessly, as if it weren’t an intimate act but a public execution of the Malfoys’ dignity.

Voldemort didn’t interfere—on the contrary, his stillness was tantamount to encouragement: he’d allow Harry almost anything, if not everything, and he himself loves drama and spectacle.

Harry pulled back, gasping for air. His back arched, and still straddling Voldemort, he leaned back sharply, lying across the desk, head tilted downward to face the Malfoys, his rear still pressed tightly against Voldemort’s body.

Potter bent and broke, yet he looked as though he reveled in his own deformation. His green eyes flashed through his lenses, his lips trembling in a fit of ecstasy. He sprawled across the desk, like one crucified, but crucified willingly.

“Lord Voldemort!” he shouted, tossing the phrase on a single breath. His face contorted in real-time: eyes wide with horror, mouth agape as if choking on fear, as if facing a Dementor… and then—collapse: the corners of his mouth crept upward, stretching into a grotesque smile. That smile was like the herald of good news, but in truth, it was mere psychosis.

“Won…” he rasped, drawing out the word, as if pronouncing a verdict.

Draco Malfoy instinctively braced his feet against the floor, trying to push himself and his chair back. He stared at Potter as though he’d just watched him devour Neville’s toad alive. For a moment, he locked eyes with his mother—her face frozen in the same disbelief, staring ahead; Lucius looked no better—and something clicked inside Draco: of course, he’d always suspected it, always! Potter was sick! Here was proof: Harry Potter was moaning on Voldemort’s lap… wait, what?! Draco frowned, now staring intently into Harry’s eyes. A spell, or… had he cowered and surrendered?

Draco didn’t see how, for a second, both his parents’ brows fell, their faces collapsing, as if some thought akin to “hope” still clung to them. Alas, not this time. They had to act themselves, not wait for the “Chosen One” to finish the job. Narcissa had tried to protect only her son, having heard that one wizard—her bet was on Kingsley, tied to the Order of the Phoenix—was trying to convince the international community of the current Ministry’s complete illegitimacy.

What frightened Narcissa Malfoy was proximity. Being too close to Voldemort always made their family the first prey for anyone daring to raise a hand against him… and since they were so active, they might try. She’d learned of this weeks ago… But she hadn’t betrayed the Dark Lord—she hadn’t even done anything! Percy Weasley had been a dangerous situation, but he’d escaped on his own…Wait... She blinked, lips pursed, and turned to Draco. She didn’t understand what her son could have done, but a suspicion was forming.

Her eyes quickly scanned the room. Her wand stirred in her mind, and the moment she thought of it, she felt its handle.

Draco was still staring at Harry Potter.

“So, Draco…” Voldemort hissed, running the Elder Wand along Harry Potter’s mail, up to his chest, brushing the golden Snitch. Harry squirmed, stretching his arms, nearly swiping Draco’s face, lying on the desk. His hips grazed the hard length beneath him, his glasses slipping down his nose.

Flick. All three Malfoys flinched as Harry’s yew wand appeared in his hand, slicing through the air and pressing straight into Draco’s throat.

“Well? Speak—what didn’t your father know?” Potter’s voice was hoarse, laced with impatience warped by madness. Oh, how he hated him! Frame by frame, his mind flickered with flashes of curses and taunts he’d heard from Draco Malfoy. “You always loved sneaking around the edges until the last moment, but I always knew…”

Draco jerked, glancing between Voldemort and Harry, and whispered.

“I… I didn’t…”

“Don’t start,” Voldemort cut in coldly, not even raising his voice. His other hand still gripped Harry’s hips, anchoring him. Without Harry, he’d probably have just used Crucio, but he was a bit distracted. “I hear your fear, Draco. But what I don’t understand is what you’ve done.”

Narcissa, paling, leaned forward, her lips trembling, trying to rise, but Harry lazily flicked his wand from Draco’s throat—like a conductor silencing an errant note in an orchestra. In that instant, the fabric of Narcissa Malfoy’s mouth sealed shut from within: her lips fused, as if a burn had melded the mucous membranes. Her skin drew inward, leaving a pale scar-like trace. Her eyes widened, tears welling, but no sound escaped. Her hands jerked, frantically seeking an opening that no longer existed, but her movements were restrained.

“Hush,” Harry tossed out, not even looking. Oh, what a feeling! No, no, Harry wasn’t the villain—they were the villains, the traitors! All his actions were perfectly logical! A flash. His wand pressed into Draco Malfoy’s throat again, under his jaw, forcing him to lift his chin.

Voldemort raised an brow ridge, briefly holding his breath at the quality of Potter’s transfiguration, and gave a subtle thrust of his hips, rubbing his dick against Harry’s, approvingly noting his actions.

Lucius Malfoy sat staring at a single point, as if under Imperius, though he was hardly spelled. This man was already a weak personality, and the last four years had worked on him better than any curse. And those… Muggles… His eye twitched. Empty.

Draco cried out.

“She… she’s bound! If Weasley, if Weasley died, she’d have died with him!”

“Weasley!?” Dual voice. Harry pressed the wand harder into Draco’s throat, letting out a long “hnnn,” lifting his head higher and swallowing. Cold. A shiver ran through him—too familiar a feeling.

Lucius Malfoy snapped his head up, suddenly animated.

“My Lord, I swear, I saw it myself! Acromantulas tore Weasley apart!”

“Oh, really?” Harry turned his head, still lying on the desk, toward Lucius, looking at him sideways. Well, he wasn’t entirely wrong, to be honest. “Quite a spectacle, I believe you. Only, there’s a problem, you know…” He twisted the yew wand into Draco’s neck, as if drilling. It sparked green. Narcissa Malfoy watched, unblinking. “Your son wasn’t in a hurry to share the details with you. He chose silence, typical ferret, while you fed yourself pretty pictures in your head. That’s you, Draco? Oh yes, the pictures—they’re crap, fake. That’s what I mean.”

His green eyes glinted through his glasses, his voice turning thick, almost mocking.

“See, that’s your humiliation. Even your own son thought you too weak to be involved in whatever this is! I won’t even mention the house-elves! Ha! And yet…” He fixed his gaze on his school rival. “Hey, Draco! Look at me!”

Draco did as he was told. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his face contorted as if the skin tightened over his skull in a grimace of humiliation and revulsion. His nose wrinkled, his lips trembled. He lowered his head, pressing his chin into his neck. But he didn’t break eye contact or shut his eyes: the sapphire of his pupils met the green fire before him.

Idiot. He hadn’t even thought twice. Someone had told him Harry Potter wasn’t particularly skilled at Occlumency or Legilimency.

“Legilimens!” Draco Malfoy’s eyes widened. A green flash engulfed his consciousness. Then, one by one, his memories raced before his eyes—fast, so fast. Harry Potter rifled through Draco Malfoy’s mind, barely caring for subtlety or structure, twisting and turning neurons, relishing the exquisite sensation in his own brain as it drank in foreign information. A flash. A frame froze when he glimpsed something red, forgetting the rest. Harry knew! Yes, yes! Seeing confirmation of his suspicions live ignited a fresh surge of triumph in his core:

Imperio! A black cloak rustled, and Draco Malfoy bent before Percy Weasley, pulling a vial from Lucius Malfoy’s robe. Lucius stood like a statue, unmoving, eyes glassy—not a particularly skillful Imperius.

A heartbeat. Harry heard the thought of the mind’s owner: If I don’t hurry, it’s over! The pauper was supposed to get the potion himself, but the curse had worked too quickly. A memory within a memory spun in his consciousness, making Harry nearly moan from the flood of information into his brain: Percy hadn’t known about the Vow until a certain point, and Narcissa had wanted to handle it alone. When Draco caught her preparing the potion and started asking questions. Voice. So familiar. “I strongly recommend you do this, dear boy.” The Manor’s dungeon. In Draco’s hand, a vial, the potion glinting, and he pressed his wand to the prisoner’s throat, forcing him to swallow. Percy twitched but gulped down the viscous liquid. His throat rasped.

Splash. Water struck the redhead’s face.

“Hey!” Draco sent a jet of water into Weasley’s face. “Time’s short, move! Remember, talk, and you’re dead. Clear?”

Draco Malfoy nervously tossed Percy a bundle of his clothes with his wand inside and strode off. His cloak billowed around the corner, his steps fading. He’d vomited from nerves across the corridor after reaching his wing.

Harry slipped out of the foreign mind, his mouth agape, his breath ragged. His body jerked; the yew wand slid across his skin, lingering in the hollow of his collarbone, pressing deeper. His gaze glazed over.

“You pathetic, filthy…” A near-sob of contempt escaped the figure of Potter sprawled on the desk, but it held more sweetness than fury. He had even taken care of a wand for him!

Voldemort tugged the chain with the Snitch, pulling Harry closer. He yielded softly, settling onto Voldemort’s lap, his arms entwining around the Dark Lord’s neck. Hips on hips. Captivity and alliance at once.

A hiss in Salazar Slytherin’s tongue.

“Ss- what did you ssee?” Voldemort could have done it himself, of course, but something indescribable, previously unknown, fueled an almost animalistic excitement in him. Exquisite, magnificent—Voldemort didn’t even need to give orders to his Harry~ so clever and capable.

Draco, frozen, watched as Potter hissed in Parseltongue in response, only the top of his head visible, obscuring the Dark Lord’s face. Draco blinked.

His breath faltered. Panic clawed to break free. He tried to move his wrist, but the metal gripped too tightly. His gaze fixed on the ring on his finger. He flexed and bent every knuckle.

What a shitty idea. He should’ve used something around his neck! Then it would’ve been enough to lower his head, bite his tongue to draw blood, and clench it with his chin! And this ring didn’t even respond to Summoning Charms—what a brilliant suggestion, thanks! Though, of course, he’d hardly have been so foresightful on his own; he should be grateful for that at least. Escape!

He turned, and his gaze fell to the left.

His mother sat beside him. Green light played on the artifacts, some stirring behind her. Her face was pale, perfect, but where her lips should have been, only smooth skin remained. Her eyelids trembled, but she couldn’t scream or whisper: Draco, why? I could’ve handled it myself! How had he come up with this?! She couldn’t even remember!

A chill ran down his spine. Draco’s fingers began to cramp. He swallowed, but the act barely quelled the primal terror piercing his body.

Сrack. The cloak creaked as Harry Potter settled more comfortably on the Dark Lord’s lap, half-leaning against him, half-falling back onto the throne. His arm wrapped around the ghastly pale man, writhing as if his body lacked bones, no Skele-Gro needed. He pulled himself closer to Voldemort’s ear, continuing to hiss.

“Sss Look at Luciuss! Ha, honestly, I don’t recall him ever doing anything bad to me. He was always perfectly polite…” Harry’s yew wand in his right hand traced along the silk of Voldemort’s forearm, sketching a figure-eight pattern.

Voldemort turned his head toward Lucius and smirked. Lucius didn’t move, but when his master’s gaze fixed on him, his dull pupils darted in response. They locked. Ugh. Lucius had such a… frayed mind? Why? What had changed? Voldemort sifted through his current thoughts and stream of memories, meeting his focused gaze. He truly knew nothing. Well, that changed nothing…

“Ss- Yes… Lucius can be usseful, especially with his eloquence and certain… family advantages.”

Draco Malfoy stared wide-eyed at his father, but one thought pounded in his head: this was the end. He’d freed Weasley, that pathetic worm, and now this was the price for THAT! He didn’t even know what to say in his defense—he didn’t want to be interrogated by bloody Potter! His thoughts leapt from disgust to outright revulsion when he thought of Harry Potter. But something massive kept overriding those thoughts, stifling them. Surely the Gryffindor’s sex life couldn’t be worth more than his own. Escape!

The blond youth tugged at his wrists again. It felt as if the metal, like Devil’s Snare, only tightened further. Another pull—the bars dug deeper, scratching until they drew blood.

His breathing quickened. His gaze swept the room: shadows danced on the walls from the green enchanted torches, like the Slytherin dungeons. Harry Potter, that deranged freak, writhed on the Dark Lord’s lap as if they were shagging right there!

No, no one was coming… you couldn’t Apparate here. Run. His gaze returned to his bleeding hand. But his mother… She couldn’t even sigh aloud. No, he couldn’t escape without her. She wasn’t even at fault—it was all his father, tying them to Lord Voldemort.

Dry swallow. He couldn’t let his mother pay for this… Not her. Narcissa Malfoy didn’t deserve it. Unfair. His heart pounded like a drum in his chest, each beat throbbing in his temples, his stomach twisting into knots—fear, raw, animalistic, making his palms sweat.

Voldemort leaned closer to Harry, his slender fingers holding the Elder Wand gliding along Harry’s back, tracing a smooth line from his shoulder to his forearm, entwining with the fingers of his other hand, which gripped his former wand.

Eyes locked—green Tartarus and red Inferno—and Harry smirked, his lips twisting as if at a joke only he heard.

“Malfoy,” Voldemort’s low, half-hissed voice sounded in unison with Harry cheerful. Draco flinched and focused his gaze.

Harry tilted his head, his lips curling as if over a private jest:

“You freed a prisoner of Lord Voldemort… What was the point? Some kind of stupidity. Was it even worth it?”

Voldemort added quietly, almost businesslike:

“Harry, don’t be so quick. Family is a strong motivator. In this case, little Draco, as a weak and incapable child, clearly had a… special bond, or he wouldn’t have survived. But alas. Nobility in the hands of the incompetent always looks amusing and leads to one thing…” Pfh. Harry certainly never felt anything for this worm. Foolish that Tom ever thought so! The Elder Wand in the hand embracing Harry flicked—Narcissa Malfoy shuddered silently, watching as Draco writhed under the “Crucio” Voldemort lazily hissed. Draco’s head jerked, rubbing against his shoulder, his face trembling, his mouth open in a rasping attempt to draw air. But his breath froze.

“And do be so kind—was this a spontaneous sacrifice or a carefully planned scheme?”

The emerald eyes behind Harry’s glasses widened beside the Dark Lord.

“Exactly! My Lord, let’s do it again!” Harry aimed his wand at Draco, intending to dive back into his mind. Oh, Salazar, why had he slipped out so quickly? There might be something else interesting there. The air grew thicker, heavier, as if pulsating with the agony of someone’s will in the space.

Draco swallowed, his eyes still twitching, saliva pooling in his mouth, a monstrous ringing in his ears. Though the Cruciatus Curse lasted mere seconds, to the youth, it felt eternal. His throat parched, an impulse under the pressure of their gazes, like arterial blood from flesh.

“I did it for my mother!” His voice broke, faltered. “T-truth! My Lord, please understand… we’re not plotting, we’re hiding nothing! She’s bound by an Unbreakable Vow—if the prisoner died in the Manor, she’d have gone with him. I… I couldn’t let that happen! My mother… she’s worth far more than any filthy Weasley! She shouldn’t have died!” He gulped his words hurriedly, as if haste would make them more convincing. “I swear, we’re not planning anything! Nothing!”

A moment of silence.

And suddenly, the space shuddered—laughter, as if the very air’s sinews were being torn. It sounded strangely vibrating, resonant, too simultaneous: dry, ragged, grating, merging into a single hum that made the room tremble, as if ready to burst. Sssha-ha-ha!

“For your mother?!” Harry and Voldemort echoed in unison, laughing, not bothering to mask their surprise and mockery. They had been waiting for a moment to sneer. To them, it wasn’t a concept but a phenomenon, almost an anatomical curiosity. Not a real term, though its meaning was familiar.

Pause.

“Crucio!”

“Avada Kedavra!”

ERROR. Crucio and Avada, cast in perfect unison by one soul, with the “same” wands, created an impossible resonance. The curse glowed vilely: one stream a storm of pain on the soul, the other its annihilation. Red and green merged into a shimmering, near-white spectrum. What a pity that both wizards’ impulses were so potent, the power of each curse disgustingly immense.

An instant. Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes filled with blood, vessels bursting, her lush lashes protruding further under bulging sockets. Her skin turned translucent from an inner glow of blinding biological intensity. When the pressure reached its limit, her body tore apart like an overfilled sack: her skull cracked with a wet snap, her chest split into fibers, her abdomen burst outward, spilling. The red electric pulse of Voldemort’s Cruciatus sparked where a person had been.

Warm sprays of flesh flew in all directions; bloody arcs streaked the walls.

Narcissa Malfoy seemed to scream as the skin of her face tore, a cry not from her throat but her entire nervous system: the final wail of neurons resonating on the frequency of pure agony, a biological impulse to seek help… to not die.

And if scraps of brain could screech, Lucius Malfoy could swear he still heard the echo of his beloved’s voice in his head. He froze.

Draco inhaled—and tasted his mother on his lips. He didn’t move. Run! He was drenched in blood. Nagini hissed, displaying her massive form, her scales holding red scraps of matter, looming behind the momentarily stunned Harry and Voldemort. A hiss—her giant maw, nearly the size of a human head, opened, writhing menacingly.

Lucius didn’t sob or scream, only whitened, paling as if death had carved all humanity from him.

The dust of blood and a strange green haze settled in the space, but the two gazes responsible for the chaos still stared in surprise at their wands.

“Hm, curious.”

Flesh scraps began to splatter onto the floor, slick like wet leaves, and the air filled with a metallic tang—thick, sticky, seeping into nostrils.

Draco didn’t breathe; his chest constricted as if his lungs failed, his mind pulsing: Mother, Mother, this isn’t real, it’s a dream, wake up. Fear.

He blinked. His eyelashes were sticky, heavy.

Reality sank in like a werewolf’s claws: blood streamed down his face, and something bitter, bilious… no. All warm, viscous, and he felt his body stiffen further, muscles petrifying with horror.

Run!

The ring on his finger—salvation—but his wrists were bound, the metal cutting into his skin, preventing movement.

He glanced at his father. Lucius sat beside him, hands restrained, showing no impulse to act. His face was stone, his eyes… filled with emptiness.

Voldemort and Harry sat enthroned, and Draco froze further as both their gazes turned on him simultaneously. Unblinking. Harry tilted his head slightly, clearly stirred by a particular interest, intent on testing something again. He cared not a whit for Death Eaters, let alone traitors.

Draco clenched his fingers, his knuckles cracking, the ring burning his skin—so close, so close. Thought after thought: Bite the ring off? He couldn’t reach it! It wouldn’t be summoned! It wouldn’t budge! Of course, the pain in his wretched finger was nothing compared to the agony threatening to flood his eyes with tears. The family heirloom activated with blood, and he’d chosen a portal, as advised… Mother! Draco blinked. He drew in a breath.

Crimson and emerald eyes locking onto Draco. Their faces were a blend of pure curiosity and indifference—if that could describe it—since the object of their “experiment” was the indifferent one. Draco Malfoy had had countless chances to act, yet he was always a traitor! Harry had warned him! Here it was—the monstrous, vile knife in the back!

Harry’s face, perched on the Dark Lord’s throne, framed a smile, and a spark of intent flickered at the tip of his yew wand.

Flash. Nonverbal, but the caster’s will was too strong.FEAR. Diffindo, still weak but enough for the crack of bone to signal a fractured forearm bearing the Dark Mark. A sharp jolt snapped the bone against the writhing, enchanted restraints.The magical vise clamped down to the limit from the ceaseless movement. Blood gushed. Draco Malfoy arched his back, a sob finally escaping his lips. Mother…

His free stump touched the ring on the severed right hand resting on the armrest, reflexively ensnared by the chair’s enchanted bars.

Drenched in his mother’s blood, Draco Malfoy managed only to move his lips. Harry Potter heard.

“I’ll kill you.”

And as the portal began to suck the youth into a single point like a vortex, that whisper was more a curse. No one heard.

“…Dumbledore will know.”

Harry and Voldemort blinked.

Harry turned his head, thick blood dripping through his matted hair, his lips downturned in theatrical, mocking surprise.

“Oh, how’d he manage that? Honestly, I… didn’t expect it. He’s… eee…” Harry faltered.

The third person present began making sounds like rapid exhales, as if waking from a nightmare.

“Imperio.” Harry flicked his yew wand toward Lucius Malfoy, splattering droplets gathered on the handle. In an instant, Lucius’s face took on an almost reverent ignorance. He relaxed, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes.

Bound to the chair by metal, he couldn’t move, yet he looked as if he’d just been granted permission to die gracefully. His cheeks trembled, his breathing steady, almost serene.

Voldemort turned his head, breaths collided, lips crashing like lightning. Harry, seated on the throne, half-turned his body into the other’s. The kiss was ravenous, tearing the air, so the hall, recently filled with screams of pain, now rang with the hoarse clash of two greedy gasps and moans.

What was it that pathetic worm said? Kill Harry?! Salazar, how amusing! Let him try to even come close, that pitiful child. Voldemort doesn’t even regard him as human—just a small, wretched brat. Another flick—while both of Voldemort’s tongues slid inside Harry’s mouth while around the severed arm, cut from Draco Malfoy, materialized  spray of droplets and vapor, then a hermetic cube, as though filled with liquid nitrogen, preserved the flesh. Kill Harry?! Voldemort will make him suffer from afar! Thank you for such an exquisite carnal trophy.

“Ah, what’ll we do with him?” Harry exhaled against foreign lips, pulling back just barely, and shifted his hips, eliciting a response from the other’s arousal.

“Hm…” Voldemort twisted his wrist, and a vial flew from the cabinet by the door, hovering in the air. The glass glinted amid the blood splatters.

“Draught of Living Death?”

“Lucius is only needed on certain days,” Voldemort said lazily, almost playfully. “The rest of the time… I think a crypt will suit him.”

“And I, by the way, brew a stellar Draught of Living Death and Wiggenweld Potion!” Harry smiled, too warmly for this room, and wrapped his palms around Voldemort’s neck from behind, gripping tightly, smearing warm blood across pale skin.

Voldemort glanced sideways, the corners of his mouth twitching. He nearly blurted something like, “The finest Draught of Living Death is your lips on mine,” but instead said.

“Really now? I suspect in your case, it’d be more a potion of death.”

A rustle and a crack.

The Elder wand rose smoothly alongside the yew. A flick of a cleansing charm slowly gathered the droplets of blood and flesh into a structured fractal vortex.

Harry and Voldemort pushed their chairs back simultaneously—symmetrically yet distinct: Harry’s heavy leather cloak snapped through the air, while Voldemort’s fine silk barely whispered.

Nagini glided smoothly, unhurried, coiling around Harry’s legs, starting at his calves. She was heavy, but Harry didn’t mind.

“No, an excellent potion—I made it myself!” Harry replied enthusiastically. No, really, even Hermione had been cross then… Granger… hm. During their practice with Dumbledore’s Army, Hermione had been so prudent and cold, cursing the list with names. Could she have been the one to curse Percy with suffocation? Wow! Definitely! That’s why he didn’t return to them? Ha! The echo of Ron Weasley’s voice, when Hermione Granger was neither friend nor anything: “She’s a nightmare, honestly.” 

The door swung open. Harry took Voldemort’s arm, and the Dark Lord let his head tilt with a deep inhale, as if in ritual. Lucius Malfoy, hands clasped over his chest, followed slowly. His face was relaxed, reverent, his breathing even; he looked livelier than before, though his eyes betrayed a crack of madness. But who in this room wasn’t mad today?

I’ll kill you. The crimson-soaked image around Harry’s vision wasn’t a trick of his mind this time, but a true memory. Harry almost laughed. Well, good luck. Harry Potter had the three Deathly Hallows, a wand to brag about, and the best dick,the best soul, best anything on planet Earth!

“Hm… what color spectrum did your soul structure have when you looked?” Voldemort mused on the woman’s fate, seeking connections. Pfft, he hardly felt sorry—she’d been useful, though the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation hadn’t been replaced since Barty Crouch Sr., and Narcissa occasionally aided with certain contacts… oh, never mind. What an effect… magnificently intriguing.

“Oh! Golden… but with flecks of black too…”

They turned into the corridor. Voldemort chose the Malfoys’ private dungeon—a room where, among wine racks, tiny, empty closet-like spaces hid. There, Lucius would find his “crypt.” Harry pressed against the Dark Lord, resting his head on his shoulder, nuzzling like a beast too long denied warmth. Nagini tightened around his waist like a bracelet.

Voldemort, without breaking stride, released hand, draping it over his shoulder. Their steps were in unison—the heavy thud of leather and the light rustle of silk.

Two Death Eaters appeared ahead. One—stocky, face scarred with old wounds. The other—tall and gaunt, moving like a shadow. Harry slipped to the side, nearly brushing the first’s shoulder. Both their gazes flicked to him, and for a moment, it seemed one grabbed the other’s arm—a gesture too brief. Oh, those were the two from the trio!

Their eyes widened upon seeing Harry but quickly slid past, forward, as if terrified of being caught even thinking.

Ha! Death Eaters would need time to get used to this~

So why had the Azkaban breakout happened only today? Perhaps it wasn’t just Bellatrix Lestrange awaiting a specific reaction from her master, but others interested in safely infiltrating Malfoy Manor, even briefly.

Harry and Voldemort’s steps continued in unison. The other two’s footsteps echoed downward, toward the dungeons—hurried, precise, yet also in sync. A single organism. Their eyes looked ahead, occasionally glancing back, ready to unleash darkness at a moment’s danger—a personal invention now used by many.

The only place to hide their target was the dungeons… he’d vanished yesterday, during the Hogwarts visit. No one waited long. He must still be alive. And the portals in the main hall were already poised for the right moment.

Notes:

Yeah... um... too much, right? Well, you have no idea how much I want to share. I hope your brain doesn't explode, like mine almost did while I was writing all this....ugh.
It was originally planned as two, but I decided merging them would pack a bigger punch and just be more… surprising lmao. There are… a lot of refs, honestly. so so much. To old ch too... like,from the most non-obvious:V in 34ch-has he forgotten anything? Oh,dear...i think...yes...like two death eaters u took to Tinworth with Dolohov? "Phenomenal memory",yeah.

+scroll that McGonagall had in Chapter 5— Harry swiped that, not the same one Percy went through all that trouble to get. Just a little thing to keep in mind.

...and lastly, a confession: I really had to turn Harry into someone Draco would genuinely despise. Sorry, dude,plot demanded it :(