//////////////////////////

Accidental Magic

...

Chapter 1: Voldemort's Accident

//////////////////////////

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I claim ownership of nothing but ideas and plots that are not mentioned in her works.

/////////////////////////

Voldemort woke to a blinding headache. His last clear memory was that of his killing curse somehow rebounding on the brat and coming straight at him. From there it was easy to deduce that he had been hit by his own curse, and now he found himself in a situation that he most definitely did not like: he was no longer in his body.

Panic. Rage.

His peaking migraine grounded his jumbled thoughts long enough for him to evaluate the situation. Contrary to his expectations regarding the effect of his horcruxes on his 'death', he had apparently not been reduced to a wraith by the killing curse. He was… in a cage?

Who dared imprison Lord Voldemort!? Ragerageragerage—

A loud, shrieking wail startled him out of his emotional tumult. Potter? The killing curse had rebounded, so it was conceivable that he was still alive. No, that wasn't right. The wail was too close… almost as if it came from… the cage?

Confusion. He did not like being ignorant. Anger. Ignorance made people powerless, and that was right after 'dead' on his list of things he did not want to be. Determination. The ignorance issue had to be resolved immediately.

Voldemort examined his loud entrapment; it was warm, soft, and panicking—emotion from an object? The entire situation was starting to get far too out of hand. To his short-lived relief, he found that there were orifices to the outside world … a world that was merrily blurring and disproportionally tall. After further observation, he took note of the mudblood's corpse lying not too far away from robes and—was that his wand? The wail grew louder, and he noticed bars and blankets around him.

A frigid, sinking calm washed over him with the realization. He was in the brat's body. The only way that could have happened, short of accidental possession while in wraith form (sadly not the case, as he couldn't for the life of him move any part of his—he mentally spat the word—prison), was that his consciousness was a horcrux, trapped in the body of a very much living Potter.

It was preposterous. Lord Voldemort did not throw ineffective curses, nor did he fail to kill mere infants, and he most certainly did not make a mess of his horcrux rituals only to end up as a powerless entity sealed off in an infant.

He could not possibly allow himself to remain in this humiliating situation.

Voldemort extended his awareness within the cage in search of Potter's soul: if he was lucky, it would be weak and easily pushed out of the body. He did not, as it turned out, have any luck at all. In fact, as all things that night did, things went wrong. He did find what he was looking for, but the brat's soul was solidly attached to its body. Not only was it as bright as it could possibly be, but it was also surrounded by an odd binding shield—was that love it was made of?—that appeared to send off rather hostile intentions toward Voldemort.

He tried to reach for the soul; the shield prevented him. He tried pushing the soul away; the shield shone brighter. He tried stealing energy from the body to throw it at the shield in hopes of destroying it; the latter was unaffected. He tried lashing out with the strongest, most destructive legilimency he could muster; the stubborn, godforsaken shield still held.

That arrogant mudblood had seemingly set up an infallible protection against his efforts. Outright ousting or destroying the brat was impossible.

Well, perhaps there was another way. He certainly wasn't giving up: he was getting this situation under control, no matter what it took. Ideas flew madly through Voldemort's mind; each was examined and rejected in a flurry of angry thoughts… until one of them—a word, really—caused the hubbub to quiet: merge.

His consciousness was, after all, only 1/7th of a soul; it wouldn't take much to merge it with the still-developing soul of the infant. The shield probably wouldn't protest, as he wouldn't be harming Potter—in fact, he was going to be strengthening him: Voldemort's own magic would combine with the brat's, and his consciousness after the merge would still contain all of his memories. Hopefully, the shield would interpret those as an extra protection from magical attacks rather than a nefarious influence on Potter's innocent mind. Voldemort would, of course, be getting what he wanted: a body, with the additional bonus of a much larger magical core. In a word, power.

He refused to even consider the possibility that merging his small soul sliver with a full one would change him in any way. He was, after all, Lord Voldemort. Surely, he could overpower any influence of the brat's soul. It was therefore without any hesitation that he drew nearer to the glowing orb and its shield binding, making sure to keep his intention to merge without harming Potter in the forefront of his mind. When the shield didn't attack him or even repel him, he edged closer and closer, until he felt Potter's foreign presence prodding at him—and then the brat's soul was both around his own and inside it, and it was stifling, and he sure hoped the unpleasant child was suffering more than he was, and—and then he was Harry, no, Potter—he was Lord Voldemort, not some helpless child!—it was overwhelming, and he didn't know who he was any longer—oh but he resisted, long after he forgot what he was fighting—and then Harry and Voldemort blacked out for a second, and when they woke… they were no longer two entities.

A quick examination confirmed to the consciousness that it was in Harry Potter's body, only… its identity was unclear: both Voldemort and Harry, and neither of them. Voldemort-who-wasn't-quite-Voldemort-anymore decided at that moment that he would most definitely never go anywhere near soul magic again. His current predicament was complete and utter chaos. He was both the malevolent culprit and the anguished witness of his parents' murder, for the sake of magic. He even recalled two perspectives: one was gloating about the Potters' murder, and the other was in a panicked state, half-aware of what had taken place. Definitely no more soul magic. He only hoped that, once he managed to sort through the pandemonium in his mind, having a complete soul would make him sane enough to permanently stay away from the current bane of his existence.

And so it was that Voldemort/Harry, still wrestling with his identity and trapped in his crib until someone saw fit to release him, attempted to bring his fingers to his temples to relieve his growing migraine… only to find that his infant's body lacked basic motor control. Instead of the desired effect, an exaggerated muscle spasm sent one of his arms flying into the crib's banister, and his fist slamming painfully into his nose. Abject frustration, wild disbelief and various profanities flooded his thoughts.

For the second time that night, his emotions were cut off by a loud cry. Well, well, well. It appeared that a very devastated person had finally stumbled upon the scene. At least, whoever it was—luckily, probably not the old coot, as he wouldn't have had such an exuberant reaction and was more likely to send a sycophant anyway—wouldn't be trying to kill him. Hopefully, if this person was any danger to himself, he could force a bout of accidental magic to defend himself… He waited with baited breath as rushed footsteps hit the stairs and grew louder as the intruder ran to his room and skidded to a halt before Lily Potter's body. He watched Sirius Black sink to his knees and a torrent of emotions cross his features. The man's face was agitated, caught between rage and grief as he swore to torture and murder Pettigrew. Voldemort/Harry didn't really pay attention to the wording.

Instead, Voldemort/Harry, once more a victim of his identity crisis, found that he was darkly pleased by the idea of making his family's betrayer suffer. In fact, he had quite a few ideas for drawing out the rat's pain indefinitely, most of which relied on dark magic to force his would-be victim to remain alive and conscious long after the pain levels would have caused his nervous system to shut down… It was therefore his amused and uncontrolled gurgle (a far cry from Voldemort's hysterical laughter, which actually sounded better when he heard it as Harry, he absently noted) that finally drew Black's attention to him.

He was engulfed in shaking arms before he even processed Black's movement toward him. He was being hugged. And—for Salazar's sake, why?—cried on. Lovely. It would almost be worth it to say something silly in parseltongue to make his torturer let go of him and end this farce. But if he was to judge the affectionate monster a priori… the Black family didn't exactly breed in favour of quintessential sanity, and distraught men who had just lost their best friend and been betrayed by a close friend couldn't possibly be stable. Parseltongue was not a good idea. The man would probably think him possessed (not entirely falsely), an imposter (again, not entirely falsely), or a dark wizard (not falsely at all). Either way, he would likely be an accidental casualty of Black's insanity if he even so much as hissed a single word.

As he reached these conclusions, Black seemed to regain some sense; he began to look around frantically, muttering a string of incoherent nonsense about secret keepers, traitors, and guardians. Really, for a pureblood from a Dark family, it was almost insulting that Black didn't even have enough of a grasp on occlumency to lucidly organize his thoughts. At this rate, the idiot was going to hunt down little weak Pettigrew while everyone thought he had betrayed the Potters. The endeavour was almost sure to end in a disaster. Well, no matter. He was a blood traitor, an irresponsible one without any sense of self-preservation. Voldemort/Harry scoffed. Black was as foolishly Gryffindor as they came. If only he was in more pleasant company…

His wistful hopes met an abrupt demise when worse company came along: Rubeus Hagrid. Of course, he heard him lumbering around like a great big oaf before he saw the half-giant, but it was his words that finally made Voldemort/Harry realize that he was not yet out of the proverbial woods even though the 'soul situation' was no longer an immediate concern.

"Er, Sirius—look, yer goin' ter have ter hand 'Arry there ter me, yeh see," here, his chest puffed out in pride, "Dumbledore sent me ter get 'im, I'm s'posed ter bring 'im, fer safety I mean, yeh understand." The barmy old coot! The nerve of him! Sending an incompetent, uneducated half-giant to handle a toddler! And Hagrid, barging in like that and demanding things… why, had he no sense of tact?

Thankfully, Black appeared to share his opinion. At the very least, he seemed reluctant to release him to Hagrid's tender care; his arms stiffened around him. Voldemort/Harry took the moment of hesitation as his cue to make sure that he stayed with Black—definitely the lesser evil—and drew on the trauma of the evening to push a loud and distressed wail as he tightened his grip on Black's jacket. He even burrowed his face into the man's chest for effect. There; that should be enough of a hint.

Miraculously, his act worked; it tipped the balance in Black's struggle to decide between Harry and Pettigrew.

"Well, he's safe with me," Voldemort/Harry inwardly cheered as Black spoke, "Dumbledore probably just thought that Harry was alone in here." Not a particularly coherent explanation, let alone for someone like Hagrid, but he couldn't expect much out of a mentally unstable wizard. Once again, sheer luck seemed to be on his side; the half-giant actually accepted the flimsy argument!

"Yer prob'ly right," a tear slid down his face—had he no pride?—as he continued, "but don't yeh think yeh ought ter bring 'im somewhere else?" His query was met with silence; it was quite clear that Black was still disoriented. Voldemort/Harry heard Hagrid shuffle his feet when the other man's silence grew long.

Finally, Black gathered his dismal wits and hoarsely let out a whisper, "I… I don't know what to do."

"Dumbledore would know what ter do," Hagrid mumbled under his breath before addressing Black, "We could always bring 'Arry to Dumbledore, he'd know." A quick glance at Black's face, disguised within a particularly exaggerated gasped sob, revealed that he was actually considering Hagrid's idea.

He did not like where this was going. Where was Snape and his acerbic tongue when you needed him to ward off floundering idiots? Voldemort/Harry toyed with the idea of using the imperius curse on one of the imbeciles. He looked at his wand, which was still lying on the ground next to his crumpled robes, from the corner of his eye. Even if he didn't use it right then, he couldn't just leave it there to be snapped or placed in a ministry exhibit, it was his wand and he was tired and sick of this idiocy, and he needed it and—the yew wand flew into his clumsy hand. Aghast at his burst of accidental magic, Voldemort/Harry whirled his head around to see if it had been noticed. Apparently not; the two men were still discussing what to do. Presently, Black was back to being hesitant, and Hagrid was still singing his cherished headmaster's praises. Good; they weren't watching him. He once again turned his attention to the wand. He needed to keep it safe in one way or another. He couldn't exactly crawl or apparate away to find a hiding spot for the wand while he was being 'supervised' by these two, but neither could he openly keep it. The entertainment of seeing the Light wizards' reactions if they found Potter 'playing' with a Dark Lord's wand wasn't worth losing it to them.

Before he could reach a decision, a voice he could have picked out among thousands interrupted Black and Hagrid. "Gentlemen," its owner pointed his wand at Black with a stern face, "I'm terribly sorry to put an end to a discussion which I'm certain is delightful, but I believe we have more pressing matters to attend to." Dumbledore. Why was he not surprised? Everything in the last few hours had gone spectacularly down the drain, so of course the manipulative, meddlesome old fool had to show up.

Voldemort/Harry (he still needed to figure out who he was) decided that he would forevermore loathe Halloween.

/////////////////////////