Chapter Text
Harry was in Death’s arms, held closely to that ominous skeletal body like a lost lover, retrieved after being taken away unfairly.
Death’s head, hidden under the haunting, dusky robe, bent down when he spoke of spectral whispers towards lifeless Harry.
Unnatural wind blew; the rising mist obscured the world.
The world, without Harry in it with him, would be purposeless. Such realisation sent a whetted fright through his body, a pain without a spill of blood.
He reached with his empty hands, aware of Harry’s ghostly weight still on his arms. In this moment he felt so lost; a ship without a compass, without an anchor, beginning to drift aimlessly in an endless sea.
He realised, then moaned for the loss of the boy he came to embrace love for.
Dispassionate Death stretched his sable wings.
Beseeching words stuck in Voldemort’s throat; his chest was a terrible hollow with overwhelming anguish and fear over the thought of forever. The mist then thickened, rising higher at Death’s departure.
Roused from the sudden numbness, Voldemort sallied forth, screaming again this time as a terrible black shadow—hands reaching forward to take Harry back from Death’s arms.
“No!” A bellowing scream, desperate.
The tip of his fingers grazed the retreating other-worldly coldness.
He was gone.
Voldemort’s hopeless cry echoed into the night. “Harry!”
-
Death Do Us Part
-
Summer, 1998
The Present
Voldemort opens his eyes, slowly, to the brightness of the sun by the tracery windows. A terrible anger floods his heart and whilst breathing calmly, he can barely hold himself still.
It’s a dream.
“Harry.” A chant of sorts he finds himself doing at times. Futile, but the name, Harry, Harry, Harry…
He’s alone, occupying the bastion of knowledge, Hogwarts, his hard-won war. With the powerful elder wand the castle is restored to its former glory, if not more with his own personal, powerful magic interlaced with its every lattice of spells from the four founders’ ancient magics. He has fought for it and he is now its rightful owner.
No longer a wizarding school, it is now Lord Voldemort’s stronghold. Unlike a wraith he used to be, wandering in certain aimlessness within the foggy Albanian forest, he is now seated at the most powerful seat in Britain’s magical world, esteemed as the leader he has always known he’s born to be. He owns this—most priceless sentient magical artefact.
He gets up from the chaise and waves his hand for a cup of tea. A house elf provides without being seen.
With the taste of strong tea in his mouth he sets to pursue his endless research again.
To feel again, of Harry’s warm skin at the tip of his fingers and to hear the boy’s voice that haunts his every waking moment and dream, and once again, taste his tender kiss and touch so deeply as when they become one.
The books on the desk topple loudly to the stone floor, reality grounds him with each thud. He flicks his hand and they stack again neatly to where they were. With his wand, he pulls more books from the library shelves.
Harry Potter is not lost to him. Will never be, for Voldemort ensures that he will become the new Master of Death.
The lost Resurrection Stone, one of the three Deathly Hallows will be found soon. He knows it is in the overwhelmingly vast Forbidden Forest. With the hallows in his possession, soon he will rouse Death himself into his presence and force upon this amortal entity an ordinance as a mere ancient creature, subservient to his wish.
With Death at his beck and call, the power of death through sword, famine, wild beasts and pestilence will be his. Nothing ever will take Harry from him again.
He spends hours finding ways of locating this elusive stone. As if the stone itself exists in between veils, like the dead souls its power conjures. No charms Voldemort performs with mastery can serve this purpose, nor forgotten blood magics he practices to a fault.
With every flick of pages of tens of books he meticulously read, his patience is running thin.
Voldemort places the book on his desk with more force than necessary, the stacks of books topple yet again. He doesn’t bother; they have failed him this time. He knows, with patience he will find an answer, a way to find the stone and it will be in Hogwarts.
But the dreams.
“Harry.” Voldemort finds himself calling again. The futility is making him irascible, impatient.
He stands now on Astronomy Corridor, the crenelated parapet affords no protection from the night’s howling wind. His cloak billowing balefully, not unlike the rippling black cape Lethifold, writhes up into the moonlit night.
Elder Wand in his hand, stabbed towards the sky and in his own physical being, a dense magic gathers. A power he has learned from his travels far and wide, the lost ancient knowledge of Dark Wizard Raczidian, only he now possesses—the origin of these foulest non-beings, to summon and ways to control them.
Voldemort demands the presence of his legion of Dementors.
They fill the night sky, one foggy ebon after another. Their presence was like a disease, a contagion of hopelessness and intense gloom almost unconquerable fill the air. They crave for sorrow to feast upon, but there stands only Voldemort, their master.
Voldemort turns towards the dark sea of greenery, the Forbidden Forest.
“Find me the stone.”
-
A week has passed. The Dementors have not prevailed. Their continuous failures erupt an uncontrollable rage and displeasure in Voldemort.
He walks into a spacious, open magical space. He’s in Hogwarts still, but all around him now is damned and shattered. A mirror of himself.
Isolated sand dunes rise and fall like waves of a long dead sea. They are without beauty. This is a space Harry used to love.
The horizon is bleak of the mutest grey. The desolation stretches endlessly, where in some distance he can see sharp, jagged stones and boulders rose grimly, bleached by the bright yet cold sun. The whispering wind only carries the faint sound of emptiness, of unsettling lifeless silence. Bones of long-gone creatures lie scattered. Once, they were beloved. Oh how precious they were to Harry.
Voldemort opens his palm and summons what’s on the ground, a skull of a magical beast he once knew its given name. A beast, one that Harry had once given it a name, cherished it like a friend. He drops it to the ground, for he has forgotten what it is.
In the midst of this isolation, stands a silver Pensieve, bare of precious stones and etching of arts that magical artefacts are common with, only precise runes and purposeful symbols. It’s powerfully enchanted. It has been his sanctuary, so often after dreams, in these lonely days.
Within the basin, white wind made solid swirls ceaselessly. Voldemort delves into his haven of precious memories.
-
Spring, 1997
The Past
It wasn’t the Room of Requirement. It wasn’t a prison. It was simply Harry’s Room.
The door which Voldemort conjured for this room was unremarkable in size, arch smoothly to a reasonable height and was of pure gold. Within it, enchanted with the same principle as the Room of Requirement, only it answered to no one but him—Lord Voldemort, the true master of Hogwarts.
“I have won.” How Voldemort loved seeing the hurt on Harry’s face. He relished it, in fact. “And it was glorious.”
Harry didn’t rise to his taunt however, he remained seated. A line of rigidity on his shoulders.
Voldemort’s footsteps echoed on the black marble floor, veined by lustrous gold that shone in a spellbinding beauty with each and every step of his. An ivory inlaid fauteuil materialised across Harry's own simple chair, where he sat obediently, unchained. Voldemort took his seat. Took his time. He took a moment to appreciate the beauty of his magical creation, the endlessness of the bright room. No wall to contain his greatest adversary, yet here the boy was, trapped and at his mercy willingly.
There were wide double doors standing on themselves that opened up into a spacious balcony, where the view was breathtaking, the gentlest of colour and weather, a scenery of nature conjured to taunt Harry of his lost freedom. The white curtains framing the doors danced like lissom dancers in the soft waft. It caressed them and it felt real on their skin.
“I must say. Perhaps I should thank you for your defeat. It served me so well.”
“Where am I?” Harry didn’t sound angry; his flat tone didn’t betray his feelings but Voldemort knew. Harry was exasperated.
Voldemort chuckled. How petulant this boy was, and it amused him endlessly.
“Somewhere. Take a guess.”
Harry glared. His eyes still shone with so much spirit, determination to resist that Voldemort couldn’t help but chuckled.
“Why haven’t you killed me?”
Voldemort didn’t need to answer that. Harry knew why Voldemort kept him alive despite hunting him fervently like a dark mongrel, hungry for blood. It was rather fortunate for him to learn that Harry was one of his Horcruxes, before he’d done anything regrettable. He would have ended him in a heap of blood, left to be feasted by the wilds in the Forbidden Forest.
“Come now, Harry. You should not be this stupid.”
Harry stood, as if to strike Voldemort with his clenched fists. He didn’t, but controlled his rapid breathing instead. Through clenched teeth and desperation that once again made Voldemort wanting to crow, he asked, “What have you done to them?” So palpable his desperation this time, he hadn’t bothered to hide it in his voice.
“Them?”
“You know damn well who I’m talking about!”
Voldemort stood, he approached Harry. His nail dug on the boy’s skin when he grabbed his jaw, pulling it without compunction. Harry’s breathing fastened and he winced from the pain.
“For now, alive.” Voldemort sneered when Harry’s breath hitched as he dug his nail harder into the young skin. “Should you do anything stupid, I will perhaps… serve them. On silver platters.”
“No!” Harry retaliated.
Voldemort threw Harry to the ground and left. He had his fun.
-
Inept. The Ministry of Magic was full of inept, pathetic idiots. They were in desperate need for a true leader and here Voldemort stood, to lead them to where they should have been all along—honour, prestige, glory. For magic is Might.
Voldemort’s work here took most of his time. He worked on his vision, the Ministry of Magic would be like a towering oak. A mighty, ancient tree that its rugged trunk and expansive branches casted shadows onto wizards and witches to shade them from the harms of the sun. It would not be just a mere impression of strength.
But at the moment, this so-called mighty oak was decaying from within, wherein insects crawled and did more harm than they could ever contribute, exacerbating, pushing further into the tree’s inevitable demise. Of course, had he not taken it upon himself to reinvent the magical community of Great Britain, to take on this terrible responsibility to heal this governing body, they would be beyond saving.
Soon, wizards and witches on his soil would sing praises to him, in their everyday lives.
However, as for now, where he sat as their ultimate leader, he had to deal with this horde of inept personnels.
A thrum of annoyance sparked in Voldemort as the head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation stuttered in his pitiable explanation on the workings of International Magical Trading Standards Body. It was unmistakable that the man was not familiar with the legislation of trading standards. Pure blood; there solely as a beneficiary of family ties.
Inept. Inept. Inept.
They could never rise.
Voldemort hadn’t needed to hesitate; he had his wand up. “Crucio.”
He listened to the man’s scream of pain and became impossibly more annoyed.
“Prove yourself to me.” Voldemort put his wand down and let the man go.
“M-My Lord.”
“Prove to me that you’re not completely useless. And I shall let you live.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Voldemort scoffed as the man retreated in fear like a scurrying rat. He held no false premise that this was going to be easy, recreating the world to his suit. But he was misguided to believe that this tediousness wasn’t going to be his every day. It wouldn’t stop him, of course. It was a mission he must see fulfilled.
He came back home then, back to Hogwarts. The moment he apparated there, dense magic bathed him like a warm welcome.
-
“Harry, the world as we speak, has never been better. Shall we celebrate?” Voldemort made himself comfortable on his usual chair.
Harry was sitting in the middle of his canopy bed, knees drawn onto himself and head bowed into it. The gossamer white veils were pulled down to hide the bed’s occupant. It was as if Harry was an ethereal nymph, hiding behind a wall of fog, futilely separated from Voldemort.
The endless room was dark; but the scenery of the open balcony was that of a beautiful, serene night. The moonlight spilled into the room and dust motes glistened, twirled and twirled in the air indolently.
“What has become of my friends?” Harry’s voice was deceptively calm.
As Harry’s face was hidden, Voldemort thought perhaps the boy was in desperate need to hide his tears, and as the chosen one, he was simply too prideful to show weakness. Voldemort found himself smiling triumphally, endlessly entertained.
“Had it never mattered to you, losing this war?”
“Nothing matters, but them. Tell me!” Harry was beginning to sound like a petulant child. He composed himself again and said, “I need to know if they’re well. That if you’re… hurting them.”
“Oh, Harry.” A mirthful laughter escaped Voldemort and the silhouette of Harry flinched. Even to his own ears he can hear the malign lacing his own laughing voice. “Why of course not. I keep them safe like precious wines. Only the best for the boy-who-lived’s beloved ones.”
Harry didn’t appreciate Voldemort’s mockery. For he lifted his face from hiding and looked at Voldemort. Perhaps, fuming, for all Voldemort knew, being on the other side of the veil. But one truth stood out, even in the darkness of the room and the diaphanous cloth between them, those deep, verdant eyes could still shine like the finest of emeralds.
He never paid them any particular attention before, he knew now of their beauty. This pleased him well, thought Voldemort. This boy, his horcrux, was a war trophy too. One of them. A young man that nobly sacrificed himself, as befitted old celebrated tragedies, like all the ancient beauties written in tales.
“You ridicule me.” Harry made his hurt known so discernibly.
Voldemort could barely muster any sympathy for it. He only smiled, like one of the true, malevolent antagonists in those very tales.
-
“My Lord, if I may?” Asked Narcissa. She spoke up amongst reluctant men, although she herself was fearful of Voldemort.
She was seated next to her reluctant husband at the long table, in a capacity of a part of Voldemort’s trusted Death Eaters. They have increased in numbers as he elevated their positions and installed his own men into the workings of every department.
“Speak it.”
“The dissension within the ministry is… impairing their performances. Perhaps, having people like-minded with them may help them figure out the workings of their roles better.”
Voldemort considered this. She was right, of course, for people weren’t like him. They would never achieve the height of his brilliance, of his expertise in logical thinking and charisma. Synergy was a necessary element for normal people to achieve their intended results because they could never stand solitary like him, they constantly needed others to work with. People couldn’t do anything alone.
He looked at this woman—Narcissa, analytically, and came to a conclusion that she perhaps bore a potential hidden away by the Black dynasty and Malfoy after, playing an acquiescent noble lady in the superfluous pure blood society.
Voldemort hummed.
Narcissa then seemed as if she had more to say. Voldemort gestured for her noncommittedly to continue.
“There is one more thing. Your non supporters, My Lord. The opposition…” Here she became reluctant, as if her honesty could offend him. Regardless, she continued, “Brings disunity in your ruling.”
And disunity could fracture their already brittle community. Lack of collective strength and support could only lead them to more conflict which served Voldemort’s purpose nothing. What he wanted least at the moment was his authority to be diminished.
“You mean it’s vital to unite them.”
“Yes, My Lord. Together, the wizarding world will become mightier and closer to your vision.”
Voldemort hummed again, leaned back on his high seat and gave it a thought. “As for the ministry’s current ineptitude, you, Narcissa, see to its restructuring, or reorganisation.”
Narcissa was completely taken aback by the sudden responsibility trusted to her. Clearly, she hadn’t expected this, but Voldemort didn’t discriminate; it would waste his time to do so with his own people.
She wavered in self-doubt for a short minute, but knowing Voldemort would not accept ‘no’ as an answer, she nodded obediently.
“Do not disappoint me.”
“Y-Yes, My Lord.”
“As for the second concern…” He could, of course, rule by fear alone. Living in terror, they could possibly be led like sheep. And that would be easy but endlessly exhausting, vexing even on good days.
Harry Potter. He thought of the boy, and said, “An alternative solution.”
-
“Like a puppet?” Harry seethed. “To be… to be manipulated?” He was half screaming.
Voldemort wondered why Harry had become so enraged at the proposition. He offered no deception to the boy, in fact, it was an honest offering that both of them could benefit from. He would be their true ruler and for this he needed their faith. Faith that they were unwilling to give. Harry would be the vessel for such impractical need, and he, Voldemort would use him as much as reward him.
“A martyrdom, Harry.” Voldemort spread his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Stand by my side, and you’ll gain your freedom. You’ll love it.”
Harry scoffed; he shook his head before glaring at Voldemort with the intensity of a ruffled hippogriff. “Freedom?” His voice was filled with indignation.
“Yes, freedom.” Voldemort didn't need to repeat himself.
Harry’s glasses were askew as he rubbed his own face roughly, that it must have hurt. He began to pace, pushing his black curls back in frustration.
Harry turned to Voldemort; his eyes lit quite defiantly so.
“No.”
“No?”
“No! I won’t do it, Voldemort. I won’t be reduced to a pawn for your political machinations. A bloody tool to serve your inflated sense of importance!”
“Ah.” Thus it shall be.
Voldemort flicked his finger and sent Harry across the endless room, thudding on the floor harshly. Harry gasped in surprise and the pain that followed after.
How very amusing it was, Voldemort chuckled darkly and flicked his finger once again. This time Harry was pulled closer, forced to sit on the chair and became unable to move, jinxed as if tied to it. He was like a puppet he just refused to be. Voldemort was the master.
Harry, his own horcrux, perhaps had forgotten it. Another flick of Voldemort’s finger, Harry was hit on the face by an invisible fist.
Harry took in a sharp breath. He was stunned, disoriented at the development. He was then perhaps in some form of pain from the way he breathed so rapidly, irregularly, but Voldemort didn’t pity him. He stood and strode towards Harry, loomed over with a palm spread to press on Harry’s thorax. Harry hissed and groaned in pain.
A broken rib. But not enough to kill him; Voldemort wouldn’t allow that.
“No?” Voldemort repeated. He didn’t require an answer this time. A punishment was necessary.
Hermione Granger shook like a leaf, surrounded by cackling Death Eaters in a dark room. From every angle, wands pointed towards her. Firework of silent spells torture her physically, but not kill her. To left and right she was tossed, unlike a red-headed rag doll. A shrill laughter echoed, she was then hit by a particular bright light and squirmed on the floor. She convulsed, for a moment she seemed to break and the torture stopped. Then, another bright light…
Harry struggled under Voldemort’s palm, breathing much more erratically with the vision. He whimpered in pain still, for Voldemort pressed harder.
Azkaban. Ron Weasley cried out helplessly as he reached out from behind bars in futile towards starving Dementors, where in the midst of it, Molly Weasley shook in wide eyes as if her very life was sapped out of her body. Next to her, unconscious on the grimy floor were her precious husband and daughter, eyes soulless…
Voldemort knew Harry would contemplate if these were all true, or just deceptions designed to torment him. The boy wouldn’t leave anything to chance. Harry looked at him with such desperation that Voldemort found himself chuckling again. Harry would agree now. Except, that option was no longer available for him.
“Please…” Harry cried softly.
Voldemort’s palm on Harry’s body was no longer inflicting pain. Voldemort was, in fact, healing Harry.
“No.” Voldemort grinned.
-
Summer, 1998
The Present
The world spins in a whirlwind as Voldemort pulls himself out of the Pensieve. It takes a moment to regain his composure after the vivid recollection within the enchanted basin. It can be detrimental to one’s mind if used so liberally like he does. And yet, he keeps coming back, uncaring of the consequences.
The desolated desert is still the same muted grey. Sand has blown towards and piled around him. A magical release blows him clean of it.
He feels it; a sense that his Dementors have prevailed in their exceedingly difficult task. They are congregating in one location within the Forbidden Forest.
They have found it.
He will have him again. It feels close now.
Voldemort closes his eyes and releases a deep sigh. It’s there, the last Hallow he desperately needs, the Resurrection Stone.
He rises as a black mist and apparates there. Little in his mind except the thought of victory he will have over Death.
The forest floor is damp with dew, the foggy morning forest is filled with the scent of summer wildflowers and fresh pines. Voldemort appears as silent as the moss, he disturbs nothing. The forest however, is far from silent. Far to his left comes a critter from a cluster of acromantulas. From the weaving silks here and there, Voldemort knows there is a large colony of them nearby. Centuries old trees tower all around him like guardians; protecting all within the forest, all that are beautiful and are horrible.
As he walks, his legion of Dementors part to make a path. At first, it seems as if they are surrounding nothing of importance. But as Voldemort approaches the centre, he can see it. The irregular shape, black subtle sheen and the markings on it. A familiar Gaunt ring, one of his horcruxes.
Voldemort takes it into his palm, scrutinising it. It’s his again, although that part of his soul has long since been destroyed by Dumbledore. The rage in his heart at that thought is fleeting, for what truly matters now that he—Lord Voldemort, is the new Master of Death.
He is the new Master of Death.
Flashes of those green eyes, smiles directed only to him, warm intimate nights and moments he had with the boy that at first felt short live, ephemeral happiness he never knew he’s capable of, now eternal in his memories; they came into Voldemort’s mind like cascaded waterfall. He comes so close now, to get what should only belong to him.
The air is charged with electricity and the humidity is heavy. Voldemort chuckles as he stares at the stone. Strong gusts of wind begin whipping through the trees; branches and leaves sway as violently as tidal waves crashing ashore. Darkening thick clouds roll and gather, the distant rumble of thunder grows louder; rain will come.
“Harry.”
He will make Death kneel for taking what’s his.