The entrance hall of Potter Manor still enthralled him, even weeks later. The grand staircase, the crystal lights along the ceiling, the ornate woodwork on the walls, everything combined to make a welcoming space.
As he stood on the balcony, looking down at the enormous crest of House Potter, worked into the stone floor of the hall, he was filled with pride. He had made it here, after so long. He had cherished his memories of this place, few though they had been - for they had been some of the last memories he had that were not filled with anger and terror and longing.
Finally, he was home.
And he had no idea how to handle that.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. His hands idly moved along the wooden railing, feeling the inset designs and the grain of the wood. The basilisk skin long coat he wore flexed and stretched with his movement, the soft sound of the movement filling an otherwise quiet house.
The aromas of a light dinner wafted through the entrance hall, no doubt sent there deliberately by an elf. They both worried about his diet, and had resolved to make sure he ate often and well. "You must keep yourself strong, Master," the older of the two had said.
Having magical beings who cared what happened to him - that was another new sensation. When the two elves had walked into the manor, he had been shocked, seeing as the location was unplottable. From their telling, they were told that their new master awaited them at the manor, and then whoever had sent them gave them a portkey.
How someone knew where he had ended up, or even how they knew where here was, were both questions for another day. For now, he was grateful for their help.
Knowing that dinner would be ready soon, he walked down the hallway to the largest guest room. Quietly opening the door, he saw the only other being in residence.
Situated in an empty room, at the center of a large ritual circle, was a sleeping python. Thirty feet in length, the snake had coiled around herself for warmth and comfort. The ritual circle, inactive at the moment, had a runic array that had the effect of a dreamless sleep potion, except without its well-known addictive qualities.
Nagini, now that she had hope, was beginning to have nightmares again. She had had a long year, as servant to the Dark Lord, and the past three weeks had been equally exhausting. The pair of them spent long nights together, just talking about her experiences - both before losing her human form and after. One of the books in the Potter library called the process "Deprogramming." The book had been less than helpful in describing how exactly to repair the damage caused by Voldemort's enslavement, but it offered some clues at least.
Once Nagini was healed, mentally and physically, Harry Potter hoped that she would return the favor. Because right now, the reality of his situation was starting to dawn on him.
oOoOoOoOo
"Avada Kadavra!"
He was being torn apart. A million teeth ripped into his little body, a million daggers struck him.
For the briefest moment, he saw a pale wand before him, held in a shaking, ghostly hand. And then the green blast of hatred rushed back toward him.
And he was being torn apart. A million teeth ripped into his body, a million daggers struck him. He cried out in rage and anger, the wand dropping from his hand. Except it was not his hand, it was the snake man's.
Voldemort. The snake man's name was Voldemort.
He was floating over his room, now, watching the snake man's body crumble to ash. In the crib, he saw what remained of his own body - a hideous black smear on the bedding.
Memories flooded him. He had died. Whatever mommy had done, it had not worked.
He realized that he was still screaming. And then he was flying away, into the night. Into darkness.
And the darkness went on forever, and forever, and forever, nothing but the thoughts of Voldemort, the anger, the rage, nothing but plans and plots and pain and pain and pain and
"Master!"
Harry opened his eyes, and saw the house elf wringing its hands before him. His hair was drenched in sweat, as was his black shirt. Rising from the couch, he realized that he did not know what room he was in.
"Master," said the elf again, in a normal voice. "Master was dreaming again." It was not a question.
Harry shook his head, as if to ward off the memories. "It is nothing, Dobby. Thank you."
"Master must needs learn to lie better, Dobby thinks." The elf was smiling as he said this, causing Harry to chuckle.
"Perhaps you're right. Thank you, Dobby." With a soft pop, the elf disappeared. It was only then that Harry noticed the tray of water, tea, and snacks sitting on the table.
Looking around the room, Harry saw that this was some sort of study. It could not be the Lord's study, for he had not yet been in that room - and would not, until he had a chance to determine what effect the ritual would have on his heritage and inheritance.
The reality was that he had the body of Harry Potter, aged to its early twenties, but the blood of Cedric Diggory. One of Voldemort's plans had been to somehow usurp the Diggory family using that blood connection, taking control of a seat on the Wizengamot and, potentially, a wealth of political cover.
Who would suspect a light family of supporting the Dark Lord?
Subverting the ritual had changed everything, however, and Harry did not know if that had changed as well. But there were more pressing matters to deal with, including a sleeping python woman upstairs.
"Who the hell are you, boy?" Harry whirled about only to find an old, battle-scarred wizard looking down at him from a portrait. The man wore full battle robes, including an impressive array of daggers at his waist. He stood on a beach, in front of what had to have been a horrific battle. Nearby, three beams of steel had been welded together to form some sort of sculpture - an odd place for it, certainly.
Then the battlefield clicked - the uniform on the dead soldier being carried off frame sealed the image. It was World War II and the Invasion of Normandy.
"That's a rather long story, sir. Who are you?" Harry saw the wizard consider the question. After a moment, he seemed to relax a little.
"My name is Charlus Potter. I was the last Lord Potter."
oOoOoOoOo
"Perhaps," was the only answer Harry could give to that bold statement.
"Perhaps, nothing, lad. My son and his wife got themselves killed by a Dark Lord, and their baby died killing the sod. All I had left of the boy was a pile of ashes, not even enough to bury." Charlus' sorrow was palpable, and Harry worried that the portrait would begin to weep somehow.
"Eight years, I lingered, knowing I was the last of my line." He waved at the wall, where a World War II era long rifle was displayed alongside a cutlass and a revolver. "When magic would not allow me to end my life, I tried muggle means." He laughed bitterly. "But the family magic protected me."
"Family magic is powerful," Harry said, processing this information. "What could cause your family magic to do that, though?"
"I can tell you exactly why. They never declared my grandson dead!" The words poured out of the man, his rage building. "Nothing but ash and soot, and the fucking goblins tell me that Harry Potter is only presumed dead. That his soul is intact, and that it survives. Absolute nonsense."
Harry's mind was racing. Could it be this simple? "My Lord, how would the goblins know?"
"Magic," replied Charlus, spitting the word like a curse.
Harry looked the wizard in the eye. He could always remove its memories if this proved to be a mistake. "What if he did live, somehow? What then?"
Charlus looked at him, his eyes narrowing. "If Harry's spirit was out there, it never returned home." He shook his head. "But if he did, somehow, walk through that door, then he would be Lord Potter, and our family might yet survive."
Harry watched as Charlus fought the urge to hope. He had wallowed in despair for too long.
"Let me tell you a story, my Lord." Harry began, sitting down in one of the leather chairs. Charlus sat down on a stool, one that somehow remained level despite the sands of Omaha beach underneath his feet.
"When Voldemort went to Godric's Hollow to attack the Potters, he prepared two rituals. One would take the boy's magical power and add it to his own. The other would use his cold blooded murder as a catalyst for the creation of a horcrux." Charlus cringed at the idea of a horcrux, even more than he had cringed at the name of the Dark Lord. "The first ritual, he did because he was a greedy piece of shit for whom the whole world would not be enough to sate his hunger for power. This, we knew. The second, though - that was the Dark Lord's greatest secret. For he made not one of these craven artifacts, but six."
"Six?!"
"Six." Harry confirmed. He sipped his tea, smiling. "The death of Harry Potter would have created the seventh. But see how he failed. When he attacked Harry Potter that night, his rituals met a third, when the curse was actually fired. Lily Potter protected her son with a runic array designed to deflect the killing curse. But such an array would be inadequate, unless it was fueled by a very powerful sacrifice." He watched Charlus carefully.
"No." The horror spread across the old wizard's face. "No she didn't."
"She did. Lily Potter willingly gave her life in defense of her son. And that sacrifice created a protection around the boy."
"Then, where did he go?"
Harry stood, pacing in front of the portrait. "Sacrifices are powerful. Such was her love for her son that her death subverted not one ritual, but two. When Voldemort attacked, instead of breaking his own soul, he made himself into a horcrux." His voice grew quiet. "The soul of Harry Potter was rescued from death by his mother's protection. And it latched onto the only living being nearby."
Utter horror crossed the man's face. "No, it's not possible."
"Yes, Harry Potter's intact soul was grafted onto the fragmentary, broken soul of Voldemort. But we still have that killing curse to sort out, don't we?" Harry shook his head. "The boy died, his body crumbling to ash, and his soul latched onto that of the Dark Lord. And then the killing curse rebounded, striking that Dark Lord and annihilating him."
"So, he did die?" Charlus caught himself. "No, of course not, the horcruxes. But then, how?"
"How did he survive? He already had six of the cursed things, remember. His soul, or what remained of it, subsisted as a wraith, a spirit thing. And it carried the intact soul of a fifteen months old boy."
"Merlin," said Charlus. In the dim light of the study, with the fireplace growing low, Harry could see the troubled expression on the man's face.
"The spirit of the Dark Lord made its way to Albania, where it lingered for a time, possessing small animals and snakes and such. And the entire time, the spirit of Harry Potter watched and listened. He learned about magic, about how to control it and make it bend to his will. He learned about Voldemort and his history, his goals, his methods. And he waited."
Harry's voice was barely a whisper now. "Then, one day, one of the death eaters found his master, and together they devised a ritual to create a human form to house the spirit of Voldemort. A great tournament was held, and the champion from that tournament - a seventh year Hufflepuff named Cedric Diggory - was taken to a ritual site."
"There, they took the bones of Voldemort's father, the hand of his servant, and the forcibly taken blood of his enemy, Cedric Diggory, whose family opposed him. If successful, Voldemort would rise and lay waste to Wizarding Britain." Harry grinned. "Instead, Harry Potter reached out, and touched the Dark Lord's servant with the imperius curse. He forced an oath, making the man his servant as well as Voldemort's. He made the servant use the bones of James Potter, instead of the muggle man who sired the Dark Lord." Charlus looked up at that, but said nothing.
"And finally, with a burst of magic, Harry asked Cedric Diggory to give his blood willingly. When he did that, the ritual shifted, and now they were resurrecting the intact soul and not the broken one."
Charlus looked at Harry, as if seeing him for the first time. "It's you, isn't it?"
Harry smiled, showing the head of house ring he had salvaged three weeks prior. "I am Harry Potter, grandfather."
oOoOoOoOo
Darkness had fallen before their conversation turned to more immediate concerns.
"Fourteen years as a spirit," said Charlus. "Merlin, it's a wonder you didn't go mad."
Harry snorted at that. "Who says I haven't?" He took a sip of his tea and considered the question. "I have nightmares, grandfather, such as you would not believe. I have his memories, I remember things he did, tortures he devised, and I want to claw my eyes out of my skull." He flexed his hands, as if testing them for function. "For so many years, I dreamed of being alive again, seeing a sunrise, breathing in the air, living life."
He stood now, spinning around for his grandfather, the long coat flaring behind him. "And now, I'm alive. My soul is almost fifteen, my body is maybe twenty-five or so, but I feel like I'm the seventy years that Voldemort had." He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I was never really even a child before I died, and now I'm all grown up. I can barely function."
Charlus did not look unsympathetic, but he would not coddle his grandson. "There's a but here, I think."
Harry rubbed his eyes. "But, I feel like I'm drowning, like everything threatens to overwhelm me, and all I want to do is curl up into a ball and weep at the pain of it all." He looked up, his eyes meeting those of the portrait. "And part of me, small though it may be, wonders why I escaped in the first place."
"You're not alone, Harry." Charlus meant to reassure the boy, but Harry misinterpreted his meaning. The look of anger on his face worried Charlus, especially the bright green eyes that flickered over to red for an instant.
"Don't you think I know that?!" Harry almost shouted. "Voldemort enslaved a woman, who sits in a guest room trapped in her snake form, waiting for me to revive her. I have an entire wizarding world who trembles at the mention of Voldemort and reveres my memory - what will they think when they hear my tale, grandfather? Resurrected in a dark ritual, slayer of death eaters, hunter of dark artifacts?" He scoffed. "The Prophet will crucify me."
"And don't forget the best part, Charlus Potter." Harry lifted his fringe, pointing at the angry, serpentine scar on his forehead. "What remained of the Dark Lord is trapped IN MY FUCKING HEAD!" Harry was shouting now, and did not notice the elf pop into the room behind him. Nor did he notice Dobby's trembling.
Charlus Potter said nothing.
"If I lose my focus for one moment, and this soul fragment takes control? Voldemort returns. If I die again before I destroy his horcruxes, Voldemort returns. If a death eater stuns me and realizes what happened, Voldemort returns. If Albus Dumbledore decides that I'm a dark wizard, and goes after me? Voldemort returns." Harry quieted down, starting to catch his breath. Charlus saw, at the boy's feet, that a large python had wrapped itself around his legs.
"Well, then," said Charlus. "I suppose you'll have to make sure that none of that happens."
Harry looked at the portrait, incredulously, but said nothing. Charlus heard the snake hissing softly, only to see Harry look down and hiss back. Whatever the snake was doing, it seemed to have a calming effect on his grandson.
"I swore on my life, Grandfather, that I would see the remains of Voldemort removed from the face of the earth." He looked up with determination in his green eyes. "I meant it."
Charlus considered his words, then smiled to himself. "You would do the honourable thing, then. To see that it is done?"
Harry collapsed back into the leather chair. "This creature destroyed so many families, on both sides of the war. I saw him torture his own soldiers, kill the families of his own people, just because they disagreed with his false supremacy." He shook his head. "He killed my parents. He killed me." He rolled his neck and shoulders, feeling the muscles stretch and flex, the fatigue seeping into him. "Yes, grandfather, I will see that it is done."
"Good." Charlus nodded, approvingly. "Then tonight, you will rest. You will take a potion of dreamless sleep. At midday, when you finally awaken, you will eat a full breakfast."
Harry nodded, too tired to argue. "And then?"
"And then, Lord Potter, we plan."
A/N: This story follows on from Inside Man and Inside Woman, and the Harry Potter and Nagini here are the same characters from those works. How Harry deals with his new situation - a Lord with seventy years of experience in the dark arts, fifteen months of life as a person, and close to fifteen years literally in the mind of his killer - will be the focus as we move forward, though Nagini will have some adjustments to make as well.
Updates will come sporadically, as they come to me. This will be a slow-moving story, as far as my pace will go. If you want something updated on the regular, please have a look at Harry Potter, et al, and the Keystone Council.
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Feedback, as always, is welcome.