Chapter Text
Prologue: A single spotlight. A perfect pose held front and centre. A sudden, suspenseful rise in the symphony. A vengeful monster waiting in the wings with a curse on his lips.
Ministry of Magic, June
Serene.
That is what he imagines Hermione would say. A good place to crack open a book and spend a few hours studying. Somewhere to forget who you are. Or so he thought when the attendant had dropped him off some time ago.
After an hour here he’s not so sure.
The cool ripping blue water that calmed him when he first stepped in, now comes off as hungry. Each passing wave eats up more and more of the sand that makes up the bank. The swans with their fluttering wings and the splashing fish, sound restless and on edge. The cheerful breeze that danced through the forest now crashes into the trees, disrupting their leaves and tearing at the bark.
It might be different if he hadn’t learned to fear reflective surfaces. Natural and otherwise. To fear the truths they distort and the illusions they create. Especially when the face he sees is so similar to the one his godfather trusted above all others.
He never used to avoid mirrors or water but now…
Now in the mirror he sees his parents' faces burning from a single touch of his hands as ghostly blue eyes flicker in and out of blood tipped shards crying for their loss and Harry’s part in it.
When he touches water, slippery planks of wood appear under his feet as a beautiful faced traitor saunters towards him and pushes him into icy wetness with a wicked smirk. Leaves choke his throat and the thick coils of a cylinder body wrap around his limbs stopping him from swimming after red hair and wild dark curls.
‘Hoot,’
Harry startles, dropping one of his cards into the crystal clear water.
His chest constricts expecting Hermione’s neat words to disappear in a blur of ink, but then he remembers the water is fake. The smooth stone floor is enchanted.
Ridiculous to forget something like that. Almost as ridiculous as pretending this speech will make a difference in the war effort. But it must, otherwise Dumbledore wouldn't have asked him.
Even as the clock above his head - odd in this place of nature- runs out of time.
His eyes follow the words on the card even though he has changed it as many times as followed it.
‘Thank you for coming to—’
Acknowledging the assembled turns a crowd into an audience.
Dumbledore’s voice advises in the back of his head.
Iridescent light from the sinking moon reflects back at him as a fish tries to nudge the paper on the floor, failing to make it move. Curious, more gather around his feet, sticking their heads above the water to determine if it’s edible.
His lips move into a weak smile as he mutters a few words and waves his wand to manipulate the spell to include food.
'If only my real audience were so easy to please.' He mutters as they attack the pellets, 'But I guess you’ll have to do.'
He raises his cards.
‘Ladies and gentlemen—’
But what if they are non-binary? Hermione's voice frets.
He cuts himself off, his face tightening before forcing himself to relax and start again.
‘Esteemed guests—’
Where do you think you're at mate? A Malfoy Ball? Ron snarks.
Dozens of yellow eyes stare at him blankly waiting for him to continue to reinvent himself again but his mind is empty.
He lets out a harsh breath, stomping his foot and splashing a spray of droplets around him. His audience scatters in distress as they escape in a flash of silver scales that remind him of cameras.
His shoulders slump with a groan, his hands balling into fists.
Well there is always…
He forces himself to meet the arrogant red eyes of the dark feathered owl perched on the painted elder tree on the wall. It narrows its eyes at Harry as if daring him to waste his time.
He gives it up as a lost cause. With a sigh he drops the rest of the cards on the ground.
The night breeze blows caressing his hair and setting the lazy cattails swaying. Dying leaves rustle and the brittle branches of the forest creak at the edge of his vision. It almost sounds like wings.
Wings. He watches as the last of the moon sinks into the water and an elegant swan more carefully crafted than the others lands in the lake. The rising sun glistens on its pure white feathers turning the edges gold.
A perfect representation of goodness.
Harry imagines no one ever dies when it comes to save them.
It glides up to where he stands, giving his scuffed-up trainers a wide berth. There is a judgemental feeling to it, though he’s not sure that’s even possible for a painting of a swan.
Its eyes seem to say, ‘Come on, you can do better than that!’
He squeezes his eyes tight, blocking everything out.
He’s not ready.
Probably never will be.
No matter how many of the books he reads that Hermione sent him or the frantic notes of hers he memorises.
Hermione’s voice in his head frets at him to sleep more. That she’s,
Worried about him.
Not that it would do any good. Not with the return of the dreams.
They first started in the second year, after he found the diary. Blurry figments of images—a white hand here, arms wrapping him in a gentle hold, a few nonsense words of reassurance whispered in his ear.
They went away when he stabbed the diary. He thought - no hoped - they were gone for good.
But he was wrong.
They’re back, and this time they’re different. Painted with bolder colours and harsher sounds. Flushed red skin, constricting hands, loud pants and gasps, a groan of his name that vibrates straight through him.
They were better than the nightmares at first. Watching Sirius die every night, always a second too late to save him.
Proof he is a failure.
Until he whimpered the name Tom.
Because, despite never seeing the face of the man—as he always makes himself face the trembling mattress underneath him—he knows who he dreamed about.
He wants to run sometimes. To leave his guilt behind.
But only cowards run.
And somehow, he knows the dreams would follow him no matter where he went.
‘Harry,’ Dumbledore’s steady voice calls from the doorway, breaking him from his dark spiral.
Dumbledore doesn’t hesitate as he steps onto the hyper realistic floor - the way Harry did - instead he confidently walks towards Harry, his shoes sending ripples through the water. The fish nip and swirl around Dumbledore’s feet, and the swan follows in a slow procession.
‘Sir,’ he responds automatically, his head jerking up, ready to be issued a command.
He’s a good, loyal soldier, after all. Even if it is all that is left of him.
There is a noticeable twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes take in the room.
‘Swan Lake, if I’m not mistaken,’ he intones, tilting his hat at the swan as it settles beside him.
Harry has been too busy frantically practising his speech to take in the details, but now that he thinks about it, he feels silly for not realising it sooner. It is beautiful in an unsettling way, something he can imagine in the Malfoy Manor.
‘A remaining relic of Fudge’s Ministry. He always had a love for the dramatic and a secret soft spot for the Muggle arts. Though I can hardly judge him,’ Dumbledore says with a self-deprecating smile, gesturing towards his hunter green robes with tiny black prancing wolves.
The owl hoots angrily at Dumbledore and puffs up twice its size. It hasn’t looked at Harry particularly friendly the entire hour he practised here, but now it glares at Dumbledore like he wants to kill him. Dumbledore shoos it with a chuckle and a wave of his wand, silver sparks shooting out its tip.
The owl lingers for a moment as if to prove it's moving of its own volition before stretching its intimidating wings and taking off further into the dark forest in the painting’s background.
He is almost disappointed to see it go. It is the only one in the room that he suspects isn’t disappointed in him.
‘You don’t need to do this today if you aren’t ready,’ Dumbledore reassures in a knowing voice, as his eyes return to Harry, the furrowed brow that appeared when he first spotted the owl gone.
He attempts to find his voice, but he can’t speak when he can hear Dumbledore’s unsaid words.
He’s too young and now too weak to be helpful to the Order.
The twinkle dulls in the Headmaster’s eyes. Harry forgets how to breathe.
‘No, I’m ready,’ he spits out with confidence he doesn’t feel.
The twinkle returns as Dumbledore bends down, ‘Sometimes we are forced to find our wings as we fall.’
Harry tries to smile. But the are too stiff and will fall at any moment.
Dumbledore straightens up, turning towards the door.
‘I have every faith you are making the right decision,’ Dumbledore confides as if sensing his well-hidden doubt, ‘Sirius would be proud.’
Even if he knew that it’s all my fault, he wants to ask, but he has never managed to summon up the courage.
Some Gryffindor he is.
He picks up the cards before he follows Dumbledore out of the Ministry waiting room, he glances back just once at the swan. For some reason he feels a kinsmanship for the animal despite its clear disapproval of him.
He possess the regality of a king, not a smear in its paint. But something about it holds his eyes for longer. The swan’s shadow appears to be growing longer and darker, and for a second, Harry swears that a red eye glows from within.
Fear squirms in his stomach. He hopes it isn’t an omen.
‘Harry?’ Dumbledore questions, and Harry hurries to follow before doubt sets in again.
He stops a few steps from the entrance to the Atrium. In reality, he knows that he doesn’t hear splashing water. That the only sounds are voices roaring at top volume, bouncing off the high ceiling. The Brethren Fountain has been bone dry since that unfaithful night.
But he has been having trouble with reality of late.
The sound of water hitting water trickles through his ears. His eyes find the telephone box.
It had all started at twilight. A time that he logically knew wasn’t safe, but somehow felt safer under the cover of night.
He watches six familiar teenagers stumble out of the telephone box, each wearing a badge declaring their names and the words ‘Rescue Mission’. No one else seems to find the sight startling, even Dumbledore.
He feels numb.
The one with bright, determined green eyes gets to his feet first. The others are quick to follow, but with more caution and wariness. The group sprints past the bubbling Fountain of Magical Brethren without a backwards glance.
‘Come on,’ the green-eyed one says, gesturing to his companions.
Instead of disappearing past the empty security desk and down the hall like they’re supposed to, they circle to his other side just behind Dumbledore.
His gut tightens with foreboding. He’s powerless to stop them as they halt in front of the plain black door of the Department of Mysteries.
Flash!
Pop!
He reels back as a bright light goes off in his face.
Spellfire! Danger!
In a trained reflex, he reaches for his wand, but as soon as his hand curves around the familiar handle, a steadying hand settles on his shoulder.
It forces him to examine the faces around him, holding up old-fashioned Muggle cameras and quick-quoting quills against floating parchment.
Reporters, he thinks, the sickness intensifying.
His gaze wavers as the children gather around the door, intimidated.
‘Okay, listen,’ the one with the scar on his forehead says in a wavering voice, the mark of a good leader. ‘Maybe…maybe a couple of people should stay here as a—as a lookout, and—’
Ginny, stubborn, protective, fire burning in her eyes, interrupts him with a raised brow.
Rightly doubting him.
‘And how’re we going to let you know something’s coming?’ she asks. ‘You could be miles away.’
Neville steps forward, his eyes determined even as his hands shake.
‘We’re coming with you,’ Neville says, his voice brooking no argument.
His brave, naive friends. He doesn’t deserve them now.
Dumbledore smiles encouragingly at Harry, gesturing for him to stand behind the sole podium. He places Hermione’s notes in front of him and shuffles them, watching as the words blur before him. His hand goes around the little green ballet slipper in his pocket, steading him.
He opens his mouth, then catches Rita Skeeter’s eye and closes it.
‘Let’s get on with it,’ Ron says, his calulating eyes assessing the door like a chess match.
‘Careful, they’ll lead you to your death, little dove’
Tom—no, Voldemort; Harry refuses to associate the monster with anything so relatable as a normal name—warns as his grey ghostly schoolboy face appears on the outskirts of his vision, almost distracting him from Ron.
He keeps Voldemort in his periphery, instinctively knowing that if he looks at the monster, it will become real.
These are Hermione’s words, not his; he reminds himself.
‘Thank you for coming today,’ he forces out, then chokes as he remembers.
Words garble in his mouth.
‘Ladies and—Esteemed gues-’
He cuts himself off. Think, Harry think.
‘Welcome everyone,’
He eyes find a face in the crowd instead of the - handsome - smirking apparition next to him. He wishes he feels more surprise at Voldemort's sudden arrival, but that emotion ran out for him a long time ago.
‘It’s important during these difficult times that we stand together and show a united front. To keep our light burning bright.’
Voldemort tilts his flickering head at Harry, his worried frown deepening.
‘All in your mind. Hmm. Well, I suppose that’s true enough,’ the figment of his imagination mutter.
No phantom finger traces his jugular vein, leaving behind the faint impression of a touch.
No cool breath accompanies the brush of lips against his ear.
No shadowy fingers curl around his hip, encouraging him to lean against a translucent chest.
He straightens his spine, assuming the pose he practised over and over again during the beginning of the summer at the Dursleys.
He twirls his wand and says, ‘Lumos,’ sending multiple little lights above the head of each person in the crowd.
Flash!
Pop!
The door swings open out of the corner of his eye.
‘Our enemy wants us to be doubtful, to be divided. To let our light wink out in the dark.’
‘You look tired Harry. When was the last time you slept?’
Focus, he thinks. He’s not really there. He’s not even a he but an it. A thing. Smoke and mirrors.
‘Someone shut the door,’ the golden boy mutters.
He whispers, ‘Fumos,’ creating dark smoke to weave around the little balls of light, winking them out.
Gasps, followed by explosive whispers and more flashes of cameras.
The group grows dim and vaguely blue-tinted, their outlines blurring as the walls spin around them. The crowd of citizens fades behind the wall of smoke.
When it stops, Ron swings his head around in fear and whispers, ‘What was that about?’
‘I think it was to stop us knowing which door we came in from,’ Ginny whispers back, doubt colouring her face.
‘To become lost and forget how to protect and defend, to make the necessary hard choices and sacrifices we will need to make to win. We must not forget the people we were before, must not forget the simple trust we feel for our neighbours or take everything on ourselves.’
‘You should rest. I’ll keep you safe while you sleep.’
His teeth clench. He didn’t realise how much he longed to hear those words until now.
‘I can help you. You just need to trust me. ’ Voldemort coaxes in a whisper.
Not real, he repeats in his head like a mantra.
The figures in the hallway waver and flicker, moving their steps forward in a wild dance until they stand in front of rows upon rows of shelves with smoke-filled orbs.
‘I don’t think you should touch it,’ Hermione says sharply.
Pleadingly.
‘Don’t, Harry,’ Neville seconds.
‘It’s got my name on it,’ Harry countered, a rebellious expression on his face as his fingers closed around the ball’s surface.
‘Because when we stand together, when we share our burdens, when we trust each other—’
‘SIRIUS!’ Harry yells. ‘SIRIUS!’
‘There’s nothing you can do, Harry—’
‘We can still reach him—’
The wood of the stand digs into his hands, steadying him as the room sways around him.
‘Oh, Harry.’ Voldemort simpers, his voice full of pity, ‘Why do you push yourself like this? Do you think that running yourself into the ground will bring back the dead?’
Not…real.
‘There’s nothing you can do, Harry…nothing…He’s gone.’
No.
Harry’s knees buckle as he lands in Dumbledore’s office.
He can’t be.
The portraits on the wall are too quiet.
Harry’s breath freezes as he tries not to see it again. To convince himself, it isn’t real.
Because that would mean…
It is all his fault.
A hand on his shoulder gives him a little shake.
‘Shh. I’ve got you,’ a voice whispers in his ear as he feels the impression of cool arms wrap around his neck.
He forces himself to take a breath and then another. He steps away from Voldemort’s hologram-like arms, sidestepping his translucent hands when they reach for him again. He squares his shoulders the way saviours are supposed to.
‘We burn brighter than the night they try to trap us in.’
With a complicated wave of his wand, the balls of light shine brighter until the smoke is forced back.
He’s met with applause.
For a moment, he feels relief. He’s fine. He got through it. He doesn’t want or need comfort.
Then the questions follow.
‘Mr Potter, over here!’
A voice cuts through the quiet, sharp as a blade.
‘No, over here!’
Another voice demands, hands reaching, grabbing, pulling.
‘Is it true?’
Their faces swim before him.
‘Is he back?’
As if they don’t already know. As if the growing body count isn’t proof enough.
‘How do we keep our children safe?’
A mother’s desperate plea pierces through the din, and his chest constricts.
Say something.
But how does he tell her he doesn’t know?
‘Vultures,’ Voldemort scoffs as if in solidarity.
As if in comfort.
Is it so wrong to want it? To want to be held instead of looking at him to solve everything.
‘There’s no shame in what you are feeling, Harry,’ Dumbledore says.
‘On the contrary…the fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength.’
They crowd closer, quills poised like daggers.
All at once, Harry wishes he hadn’t brushed Voldemort off.
As if reading his mind, Voldemort appears behind him, resuming their earlier position without a word. He resists sinking back into him. Resists trapping himself into a corner like a fool.
Say something.
‘Do you—do you think I want to—do you think I give a—I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU’VE GOT TO SAY!’
Adrenaline pumps through his veins as the mob of frantic witches and wizards pushes and pulls at him like a rag doll, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. The intense flashing of cameras blinds him, each pop and flash burning after-images into his retinas—green light, falling bodies, vacant eyes.
The strong arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him away from the overwhelming crowd.
‘It is my fault that Sirius died,’ Dumbledore confesses, regretful weight in his eyes.
No, he thinks, guilt filling him for directing his anger at Dumbledore. It’s his fault.
Dumbledore guides him out of the Ministry Atrium, out of reach from the grasping hands and desperate eyes.
‘You did well, Harry.’
Dumbledore and Voldemort say in sync.
Voldemort wrinkles his nose when he realises he said the same thing as Dumbledore.
But he didn’t say anything; he thinks, the words sour on his tongue. He keeps silent, nodding along like the puppet the Order needs him to be.
What good are his words when people only believe him when he lies?
-----
Malfoy Manor, July 1996
Draco resists the urge to fidget as he stands in the most grand receiving room in his family manor.
Cold, unfeeling black marble veined with emerald covers the floor, whilst silver viper statues coil and writhe around the furniture, each poised in striking positions with gleaming fangs bared. The ceiling depicts the story of Salazar, who dared to challenge Godric’s proposed Statute of Secrecy and suffered the gruesome fall that followed. Mirrors line the walls like silent sentinels, reflecting any sign of deceit or hesitation for all to see. He avoids his own vacant grey eyes in them.
Avoids looking at anything, really. Ghosts that haunt their own houses aren’t supposed to draw attention, after all.
Though it’s hard not to watch as Nagini curls around the Dark Lord’s ankles, her scales scraping against marble. Impatiently waiting to devour the poor shivering creature kneeling at their feet. Tonight’s entertainment.
‘Your father told me about your childish rivalry with the Chosen One,’ the Dark Lord hisses, making Draco flinch, and the assembled Death Eaters titter like mad pixies.
As if sensing his presence, the creature meets his gaze.
Draco’s heart stops in his chest.
His horrified eyes take in the messy black hair that fails to hide the jagged lightning bolt scar etched into his forehead, the green eyes that stand out even more against hollow cheeks as tears fall. Every aspect of it chills him with its wrongness.
But how?
The desperate thought pounds in his head as he scrambles for an answer. He’d overheard just yesterday Severus’s complaints that Potter was resting warm and coddled with his Muggle aunt and uncle, the Order of the Phoenix acting like impenetrable walls around him. Yet somehow the Golden Boy snivels like a scared child, faltering at the danger he faces.
When he dares to take a closer look, his heart picks up. The glamour falls away as he examines the Muggle’s fear-stained eyes, clouded with hints of murky brown and streaks of blue.
Severus always said that the windows of the soul are the hardest part of a doppelgänger to fake.
‘I thought my newest recruit deserved a gift after the great task he agreed to take on for me.’
He fights the urge to bite his lip bloody.
‘Thank you, my Lord.’
The words taste like ash in his mouth.
He imagines the taunting sneer spreading across the Dark Lord’s face, stretching the skin on that skull-like visage even tighter. He keeps his eyes lowered, focused on the trembling Muggle wearing Potter’s face.
‘Begin.’
The Muggle cowers under Draco’s gaze, comprehending the pain that awaits—that he most likely has already experienced a taste of. Draco's grip on his wand weakens, his resolve unravelling like the delicate threads of his sanity.
But failure is not an option.
Dark magic gathers and courses through Draco as he raises his wand, aiming it directly at the scar on Potter’s forehead. It builds, toxic and brutal, until he tastes blood on his tongue. It fills him up, seethes into something cruel and vicious, because he just needs to hold on a little longer.
‘Crucio.’
-----
A Muggle Cafe, August, 1996
‘That’s a funny newspaper,’ the waiter says as he peers over the side, his eyes settling on the picture of Malfoy.
Dark brown eyes and short black hair replace the black and white image of Malfoy.
Harry smiles nervously, his hand tightening around the ballet shoe in his fist as he shoves the newspaper in question further down the table, trying to obscure the headlines from sight.
Muggle Death Tolls Rise After Bridge Crash
Greyback on the Loose and Reigning Terror
Malfoy’s Blacklisted After Trial of the Century
He’s almost a little jealous. He imagines sometimes he doesn’t know the meaning behind them but then he feels guilty and stops.
He remembers Hermione telling him about a similar thing happening to her when she read their newspaper in the Muggle world and forgot to glamour it.
‘It’s for a project for my Journalism class. We had to create our own newspaper,’ he is quick to answer, remembering her reply.
The boy’s eyes light up and his smile is friendly and welcoming.
Harry’s cheeks grow hot.
The boy extends his hand in invitation and Harry hesitates for a moment before taking it.
It’s pleasantly warm in his hand. Soft, free of the calluses of riding a broom or using a wand. A firm, self assured shake. No danger of meeting his eyes and seeing someone else reflected back at him.
‘My name is Eric. I get off in ten minutes. I would love to hear more about this project of yours,’ the boy says, giving him an encouraging smile.
He has a feeling it's more than just Harry’s project he wants to talk about.
He starts to reply, but startles when he sees a grey familiar figure across from him.
The waiter’s eyes pass right over the chair where Voldemort sits.
‘Sounds great,’ he hears himself mumble, and the boy walks off beaming.
Harry’s eyebrows furrow, and his mouth twists in utter confusion as he stares at the empty spot in the chair next to Voldemort. He still looks like he did in the diary. Perfect coiffed hair and slim, handsome features. Gracious smiling lips.
Human. Aside from the fact that he is mostly see-through.
His mouth goes dry. The boy from before all but forgotten. He thought the moment in the Atrium was a one-off.
Now he’s not sure why he thought he’d be so lucky.
‘What are you doing here?’ Harry hisses under his breath.
Voldemort lets out a soft chuckle.
‘Pleased to see me?’ Voldemort asks, his head propped on his chin, examining Harry with a soft congenial expression, ‘Did you miss me that much?’
There’s a liveliness to him that Harry has never seen before. A snake entranced by his charmer. His eyes drink up the cafe around them with a curious hunger, from the woman managing the electric till to the waiter pouring cheap coffee into a chipped white mug. His fingers tap a restless rhythm on the table as if stopping himself from getting up and touching everything. Which seems like a real possibility Harry thinks with rising panic as he notices Voldemort is no longer flickering.
‘You aren’t real,’ he replies faintly.
A teasing smile spreads across Voldemort’s face as he leans forward, trying to catch Harry’s eye.
‘You still think it’s all in your head when I can do this,’ Voldemort demurs in a playful tone, reaching out his hand and brushing his fingers across Harry’s forearm.
A grave yard and burning pain. The hissed words ‘I can touch you now.’
‘No,’ he growls as he jerks his arm back from the spine-tingling touch that cuts right through him.
He goes rigid, ready to defend against another attack. Ready to be hurt. It isn’t real, he repeats to himself as his breath stutters.
Even if there is a heightened sense of something that wasn’t there last time. Voldemort has fooled him with false dreams before.
A small voice whispers, still is, but he ignores it.
Regret lights up Voldemort's face in Harry’s peripheral and he withdrawals his hand, tucking it beneath his other.
‘I’m sorry,’ Voldemort apologises, in a formal, remorseful voice, ‘I do not mean to startle you.’
Harry scoffs.
‘Then don’t touch me.’
‘I will not. I promise.’ Voldemort says a strange sincerity to his words.
Harry forces himself to relax, muscle by muscle. They protest upon release though they should long be used to such treatment. Voldemort's eyes crawl over his skin like a spider. Obviously faking concern. They snag on the keychain in Harry’s now uncurled hand, with interest.
A real smile graces Voldemort's face.
‘You dance.’
It’s not a question.
The words, ‘How did you know?’ are startled from his throat.
Voldemort’s next words make him freeze.
'You wanted me to prove that I was real. That I exist.’
‘I never-‘ he retorts angrily but Voldemort cuts him off.
‘I know everything about you, Harry. I know that Ms. Figg taught you ballet during the times she babysat you. I know the keychain in your hand was the first thing you ever bought. That you paid for it from money you collected from the Dursleys couch cushions for years. I know that you purchased it at the Royal Ballet when she took you to a performance of Swan Lake for your seventh birthday.’
Voldemort’s eyes gleam with satisfaction as Harry gapes at him.
‘That doesn’t prove anything. You’re a figment of my imagination of course you know everything I do!’
Voldemort’s eyes narrow in thought.
‘If I was a figment of your imagination I could only come to the same conclusions that you do. I wouldn’t worry about how hard you're pushing yourself for an ungrateful and undeserving Wix World. About the frightful eating habits the Dursleys child abuse-‘
Voldemort pauses as Harry flinches away from the word. He continues in a gentler voice.
‘I couldn’t force you to confront the truths you refuse to acknowledge, even in your mind.’
‘It wasn’t chi-‘ he can’t even say the word, ‘that.’
The patient set of Voldemort’s features unnerves him. Doubt grows in his stomach. He folds his hands against his chest and leans away putting space between them.
‘Even if you are real. I would never trust you. You murdered my parents.’
Voldemort’s expression goes embarrassed as his attention turns to the salt and pepper shakers, his hands trying to pick them up with grim determination.
‘I will grant you that a version, a much more-‘
Voldemort pauses as if searching for the right word.
‘Unstable version of me certainly killed your parents, but that wasn’t me.’
Voldemort scowls when his hand fails to grab the shaker.
‘You can’t be serious?’
Voldemort wears an ironic smirk.
‘Deadly. I’m not part of this time line I fear. Possibly even this dimension. I traveled here by accident about fifteen years ago when a spell I performed on Samhain night went wrong. I somehow ended up trapped in your head and have been stuck ever since.’
Harry connects the dots in his spinning head. Fifteen years ago on Halloween night is when his parents died. Meaning two Voldemorts appeared in the universe at the same time. What if Tom had landed right in front of Harry and the spell instead of killing him interacted with his mother’s blood ward sacrifice and….sucked him into Harry’s head?
It sounds ridiculous even when not said outloud.
A growl of frustration pulls Harry from his thoughts as an increasingly irritated Voldemort fails at picking up one of the shakers, his sneer growing darker with each attempt. Harry finds himself fighting back a smile trying hard not to imagine Voldemort as a cat chasing a laser pointer.
‘It’s like Diderot’s demon is following me,’ Harry mutters, with a hint of humor.
Voldemort glares affronted.
’Excuse me?’ Voldemort hisses in an insulted voice, his body going tense, ‘Are you calling me a demon?’
Despite Voldemort’s anger, Harry senses his words managed to hit some forgotten soft spot in him. It makes a mirroring part of him want to explain his words.
Walk away Harry, engaging will bring you no satisfaction. It will only strengthen your belief that he is real and give him more power over you. Hermione warns.
It would be easy to drop the words much like it is easy to ignore the unanswered letters piling up on his desk or Hedwig’s expectant stares.
That is what is waiting for him if he leaves now. Just thinking about it makes him want to curl up under his covers and never leave the house again.
Voldemort expects nothing from him. Barely even seems to care about him, past entertaining himself. It is almost a relief.
‘It’s from a book that I read.’
He knows Hermione would disapprove of his words but all he feels is relief.
It might be Harry’s imagination, but he thinks Voldemort relaxes, his ‘weight’ settling firmly back into his chair. Voldemort smiles teasingly as if they are two friends sharing a joke.
His mood is more mercurial than his body, Harry thinks.
’You read it?’
‘Yes, I can read!’ Harry snaps defensively.
‘I never said that.’ Voldemort chides, sounding perfectly polite, leaning closer again, eyes burning into his despite Harry avoiding them, ‘What is it about?’
He tries to recall Hermione’s words but he only remembers bits and pieces she spit at him and Ron as she paced.
‘It was about how demons affect the senses,’
‘And what was the book called?’
‘Diderot’s Demon,’ he blurts out even though he doesn’t know if that is even close.
‘Denis Diderot, the French philosopher who came up with consumerism?’ Voldemort asks, sounding doubtful.
Nerves squirm in his gut. He doesn’t have a clue who he is but he sounds like someone Hermione would read.
‘Who else?’
Voldemort raises an elegant eyebrow confused.
‘I was going to read it,’ he admits, ‘But I was a little busy trying to make sure you didn’t kill half the school with your giant snake.’
‘That wasn’t me.' Voldemort intones with what sounds like to his ears false brightness.
‘You didn’t set a large snake loose in a school full of children?’
Voldemort's perfect face spasms like he is struggling to pull himself back together behind his friendly bland mask.
‘No. And I also didn’t have any Death Eaters.’ he huffs predicting Harry’ next question. ‘It would be very hard to become the Minister of Magic before I was thirty with a merry band of imbecilic fools following me around, wouldn’t it?’
Harry finds himself believing him if only just slightly.
Or you are finally losing it from not talking to anyone for months, mate. Ron mutters.
Harry ignores Ron, leaning forward to rest his head on his hands. Something is stirring in his chest for the first time since Sirius died. Something dangerously close to curiosity.
‘Minister of Magic, huh? That sounds suspiciously legal.’
Voldemort sighs.
‘The Wixen World is just as corrupt in my world as yours. It needs help, stabilization, not chaos and war. Wixen blood should be preserved, not wasted. I will be voted in legally, because I am the best candidate for the job.’
Voldemort spits, the passion painted across his face in a pleasant flush. It makes him even more alive despite his ghost-like status. Then Voldemort's face falls and he attempts to pick at a piece of food dried to the table with distaste. His finger goes through each time he tries.
‘Or I would have if I had not been stranded here.’
He wants to say something but he isn’t sure what he can say in this situation. He thankfully doesn’t have to wait long for Voldemort’s attention to change again.
’And why did you compare me to this demon, Harry?’
Voldemort leans even closer to him, his head cocked to the side as if he is genuinely interested in Harry’s answer.
His mind goes blank at the sudden switch in topic and how close Voldemort is.
‘You are like the demon in the book. Just because I can see, hear and feel you doesn’t mean you’re real,’ he remembers.
Voldemort stares at him in silence and Harry fights the urge to blurt out that he’s questioning that idea now.
Instead Harry waves his hands for emphasis.
‘You know,’ he tries to explain, hating how hesitant he feels exposed under those assessing eyes, ‘The cave shadows.’
Voldemort’s eyes widen with understanding. He laughs low in his throat, nothing like the high-pitched screeches of his snake-like self. A smile plays around his well-shaped lips.
‘You are referring to Descartes’s Demon from Meditations on First Philosophy. The ‘cave shadows’ you so eloquently speak of are from Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.’
There’s an energy to Voldemort’s slim face that reminds him of Hermione in the middle of making a discovery. His chest aches.
Voldemort’s eyes gleam. Something shifts in his expression—satisfaction, or perhaps hunger. He sits up straighter, assuming a lecturing pose and starts speaking as if he had paused mid-speech,
‘Plato used his book to explain his theory of Forms. To see the ‘real world’ instead of the ‘shadows on the cave wall’, you must commit to intensive education. Whist Descartes based his writings on Cartesian philosophy….’
It’s strange to see him so normal, so human, after watching a future version of the man slither out of the cauldron in the graveyard like a snake.
But maybe they aren’t the same at all?
There is that once familiar temptation again that has been egging him on throughout the conversation. To keep engaging. To find out more. He imagines this is not what Hermione meant when she suggested he find a hobby that got him out of the house.
Voldemort’s red eyes trail over his face—Harry is careful never to meet them directly. He still has some self-preservation.
Not nearly enough. Hermione mutters.
‘You haven’t the first clue what I’m saying, do you?’ Voldemort asks, unimpressed.
Harry shrugs, not at all embarrassed. He’s used to that same look from Hermione.
‘Cutting out the incredible complexity, you’re not completely wrong about how you compared the two texts. They both focus on the misleading power of our senses.’
Harry perks up spotting a chance to trip Voldemort up.
‘So you think two Muggle philosophers are brilliant?’
Voldemort frowns.
‘I have nothing against muggles as long as they leave us alone.’
It’s Harry’s turn to frown, that’s not something he ever imagined coming out of Voldemort's mouth.
‘In this case they are both wizards. Plato is obviously discussing soul magic, Descartes the deceptive field of mind magic.’
‘There’s soul magic?’
Voldemort gives him an magnanimous look and opens his mouth to no doubt explain but a nervous voice interrupts.
‘Excuse me,’ Eric squeaks. ‘There’s a man outside looking for you.’
Outside the window, Professor Dumbledore stands tall and imposing in a Muggle suit. A mix of relief and guilt goes through him knowing that he doesn’t have to make up a fake project while Voldemort watches and picks apart every lie.
‘Umm…right I am supposed to meet my…’
Harry stares out at Dumbledore in complete panic, settling on his white beard.
‘Grandfather. I will have to cancel.’ he apologises.
Eric now wears the same expression his classmates used to when he’d been sent to the headmaster’s office for accidental magic.
‘More like great, great grandfather,’ Voldemort mutters.
Harry ignores him.
He searches Professor Dumbledore for a flaw in his Muggle costume. Finds none.
Then he remembers. Only he can see and hear Voldemort.
His stomach twists as he watches Eric retreat. No matter how hard he tries, he never appears less freakish.
‘You’re not a freak,’ Voldemort snaps in a hard voice, reaching out in an abortive movement, but Harry steps forward through the door and out of his grasp.