beta by the amazing Vanillaghost

The following three days Harry was alone and lonely.

He reached this conclusion quite early on the first night he had no one to share his newly acquired knowledge with. No one to better explain his assigned readings, no one to demonstrate the theories with a flick of elegant fingers, and no one to converse with. But not just anyone would do. Harry craved Voldemort's biting remarks, his seriousness and his coldness. The way he listened to Harry until late at night, and for what felt like eternities at a time. Harry enjoyed listening to him as well.

Only the house elves remained and none were keen to hold a dialogue. Their little bald heads hung low as half-empty plates were collected and if words left their mouths it was only in response to Harry's needs or something similar.

"Is master's guest not content with the food?"

"No, it was very tasty, thank you," Harry excused himself with the help of a smile. "I'm just not hungry."

Saying he was not feeling well would be a grave mistake. One mention about his health and the house elf would descend into a frenzy; fetching potions and the like and generally conducting a great amount of chaos. Harry wasn't actually sick but anxious for the Dark Lord's return.

How many shreds of his soul were out there for Voldemort to take so long in reaching them?

After the fiasco with the ring they had returned to the mansion in awkward silence where Harry had been abandoned the minute they set foot inside the enormous hallway. But he understood. Voldemort would move quicker without him. There would be no questions, no need to watch out for anyone else's safety but his own. But still… why hadn't he come back already? An ocean of uncertainties invaded Harry's mind. What if by some chance Dumbledore had appeared? What if the Dark Lord was wounded? Then Harry realised he was being foolish and Voldemort would have looked at him with amusement for even thinking it. Him, being defeated by Dumbledore.

Unfortunately, Harry's feelings did not seem to be on the same page as his rationality. Another few hours passed. Slow torturous hours that clawed at every uncertainty in his head. Sleep would not help. Sometime during the third morning he retreated into the garden where nothing grew but death. Decay surrounded Harry and if not for the fresh air, he would have remained inside, hiding beneath the bed covers. But here in the garden nothing happened other than walking and thinking and walking some more. A morbid routine until Voldemort returned.

Harry's entire being felt his presence in that precious moment. He stood on the stairs of the manor to find the other wizard treading steadily in Harry's direction.

In that moment Voldemort was everything. Both beauty and thorns. Both greatness and maliciousness, his black attire emerged from all the wild green of the untamed garden in a brutal juxtaposition. His steps echoed on the pavement.

"My soul," Voldemort acknowledged, eyes blazing.

The horcruxes were sheltered then.

"Welcome, my soul," Harry echoed, only for the satisfaction of watching Voldemort's pupils flare.

"Is this your attempt at flattery?"

Harry shrugged. "I got the idea you were teaching me more than magic. So…" he trailed off, suddenly on unsteady ground. "Are they safe?"

The corners of Voldemort's mouth quirked up as he motioned for Harry to walk with him between the lifeless flowers on the paved path leading behind the manor. Maybe the Dark Lord was as wary of closed spaces as he was.

"Of course. Our soul is invulnerable… All, saving one. They are safer than before. And the last… well… I find myself unable to reach it at the moment."

And yet Voldemort did not sound troubled.

"How come? Where did you hide it?"

Considering the ring should have been at that ruin of a house, Harry couldn't quite picture more sophisticated hiding places for the rest of Voldemort's soul. Maybe in the sea… or a lake. But you could swim in those, and one may yet discover what you had previously hidden.

"Hogwarts," the Dark Lord confessed, and Harry froze.

"What?"

"Room of Requirement, Ravenclaw's diadem — which is not as lost as most people believed it to be. You'll know when you see it. Perhaps before you even do. You could try, for all it's worth. Perched on top of your head, it'll paint quite the picture."

"That's why you need me back at Hogwarts," Harry sighed, ignoring Voldemort's last statement.

"Among other things."

Their eyes were glued to each other's faces. Talking about dishonesty would be futile. No one had agreed to these terms. The only promise had been safety and Voldemort had delivered. At the end of the summer it would be Harry's turn to keep his end of the bargain.

"Were you lonely without me?" Voldemort demanded in a witty tone, his eyes on the house.

"Of course not," Harry lied.

The man tilted his head in mocking distrust. As if knowing.

Voldemort will always gaze at Harry. Will always insist on being told about what had happened in his absence, and though Harry would rather die than admit his loneliness, he couldn't exactly make abstraction of it. So he told him about his readings, about his daily walks through the garden, and even praised the nameless house elves for their marvellous cooking and the way they took care of everything while Harry had moped around in the library. But not quite in those same words, naturally.

"There was this author…" Harry began that night during dinner, with animation creeping into his voice. The manor felt different with this wicked man seated across from him. "Can't exactly remember the name… something like Egorov… doesn't really matter. From what I gathered, he was a political activist a little more than a century ago. Also quite the believer in how the Dark Arts was simply magic. His writing was unique. The way he described them; no light, no dark, but just magic. He reminded me of you. A bit more polite, to tell the truth, but I guess you can't exactly talk any way you want in a book… Well… what I'm trying to say is that you have your living example that one can both hold your beliefs and work inside the system to make them a reality. The book was in your library so I suppose you've already read it—"

"We're talking about dreams, my soul. Dreams are nothing but just that: Dreams. And if you had read more closely you would have found Egorov, as you well remembered, to have different perspectives from me."

"No," Harry insisted. "I don't know if he was a pure blood or not, but he still seemed to be an immensely powerful wizard from the way he talked about the world. All he cherished was power — just like you — even if he never explicitly said so, it's pretty clear he considered all magical blood to be equal. The blood division was trampled over. It was ability, to him, that stood above anything else."

"Men are not equal."

Harry made to protest but Voldemort held up a hand.

"Give me the respect of listening before you speak. Now… we're not concerned with specifics… blood purity, equality emerging from wealth or social status. In the end they're just parts of a whole. A concept. Think of equality as a concept but the concept itself is a lie. Consider this… is Dumbledore equal to his brother? Are you equal to a house elf? Is Lucius Malfoy equal to me? Or… is a shop worker equal to a lord? The answer is no. And it's obvious, no matter what society tells us. The opportunities are not the same, nor are the capabilities. I am infinitely more powerful than Lucius could ever be, a lord could buy the shop worker, and Aberforth Dumbledore doesn't hold a candle to his great brother. Most of us fancy all these people to be equal when the truth is staring us right in the face. So why do we lie to ourselves and preach about egalitarianism? Why do we cherish a lie when we otherwise condemn dishonesty?"

Voldemort waited for an answer as Harry's mind worked, heart in his throat, while the food on his plate lay forgotten.

"I can't give you an answer this instant. Maybe never," Harry admitted. "You're right but… something like this simply cannot be. If we accept this moral ground devoid of any morality, what stops us from justifying violence? Or oppression, mass-murder, and slavery? Where would be the justice in that?"

"Now we're going back to the start, Harry. Who dictates what's fair in a society other than its leaders? Who imposes those values which in time we consider our own?"

Harry was at loss for words. Until — "Again, it is true. But if there's no moral standard, then everything is permitted."

Voldemort returned to his food and made an accurate slice to the dry meat. "I'm not saying the moral standard should perish. Nor that it is good or that it is bad. It simply is. I will have one when the times comes. The same wheel spins on, only on different spikes."

"Am I one of those spikes?"

Grey eyes darkened at Harry's question. The Dark Lord held his knife so firmly Harry could see the bones in his knuckles bulging.

"You belong to me, my soul," Voldemort's refined voice corrected. "We are a gift to each other. Something precious. None of us can truly be alone, not even if we wish for it. Blindly, I found you in the dark. In the cold. How I desired to have you on your knees with wide eyes begging for mercy. To put an end to the legend that sullied my own… Words don't do it any justice… yet the pages have turned, time has passed. The fantasy must take another shape. And Harry, do not fret. Ever since I laid eyes on you in that crib, you were far too special to compare to the rest of them, both in death and in life. A tiny menace whom my soul deemed fit to claim as its own. A spike, you ask? No, more like part of the hand which spins the wheel."

Greedy and frightening his words were.

"Why do you sometimes let me forget who you are? Replace the monster with the prince and then shift back into it. Is it for amusement? Does it entertain you?"

"Hardly. You see, fairy tales are misleading in that regard," Voldemort explained, his handsome face illuminated by the countless candles across the dining room. Slowly, without taking his eyes from Harry's, he continued. "Whoever told you the monster and the prince are required to be two different beings was a fool. That or the truth behind Beauty and the Beast had escaped him or her."

"I wasn't told many fairy tales growing up. Sorry."

It did not escape Harry's notice that Voldemort had mentioned a muggle story. But instead of mentioning it, he ate and drank and thanked the house elves when it was time to clean the table.

"Philosophy, fairy tales, what else will follow to be discussed?" Harry noted when Voldemort pushed back his chair and towered over the other occupants in the room.

"I'd tell you but then it would ruin the surprise and we cannot have that. Sweet dreams, my soul."

Harry wasn't sure he welcomed this surprise. Still, excitement coiled in the pit of his belly and morning could not arrive soon enough. A recurring thought came and went… Was it still betrayal if the one you were betraying was yourself?

They went out the following morning.

Harry hadn't been informed on the specific destination. But it was not as if he really minded. It was a surprise, after all. He simply placed his hand in Voldemort's own and let himself be pulled into darkness. When he blinked, sunlight had disappeared and wetness hit his face. Rain.

"Follow me."

Voldemort had brought him to a village. A muggle village. The streets were deserted due to the storm so there was no need to hide from curious eyes as they threaded onto the main road, Voldemort leading with his black coat fluttering in the breeze. At some point Harry was ready to question the purpose of the visit when Voldemort came to a stop in front of a house just like any other and knocked twice.

Seven heartbeats later Severus Snape materialised in the doorway. His impassive face twisted as it moved from Voldemort to Harry. Harry was sure he wore the same expression.

"My lord," Snape finally drawled as he welcomed the pair in, voice strained.

Harry's eyes sought Voldemort's, trying to read the man's face, his mind. But only somber darkness met him. Was this the surprise? Because it certainly qualified as one, just not the pleasant kind. In spite of the initial dread, Harry felt a strange giddiness from having been right all this time. Snape was a Death Eater, and loyal to the Dark Lord. What would Dumbledore say now if he could see this?

But why had Voldemort brought Harry here? Did he not care that Snape now knew? Or was he aiming to improve the obvious animosity between them before they returned to Hogwarts? Make them act like civilised beings for a higher purpose?

Right, like that would ever happen.

Snape appeared to have the same dilemma, his inky eyes glued to Harry regardless of Voldemort's presence. What went through his head, Harry ached to know.

"My lord, would you desire coffee? Tea?"

Had Snape ever sounded so servile? Not that he could be blamed. Voldemort's presence could overwhelm if he desired it to… no, it overwhelmed without him even trying. That's who Voldemort was. Having this living menace in your cozy home on a soothing morning must have been terrifying.

Harry observed both men in silence, already used to Voldemort's commanding existence by now.

"It won't be needed. Our visit is a short one." A parchment materialised in Voldemort's hand before he handed it over to a reluctant Snape whose gaze hurried to scan its contents. "I require these this instant."

The greasy man nodded his greasy head. He folded the paper, stole one last look at Harry, and left the room before his steps echoed in the sharp silence.

Voldemort's hand raised without any reason at all as he faced Harry.

"You are not pleased."

A privacy ward.

"I hate him. And he hates me. I fail to understand why my presence was necessary."

"Hate… You once hated me, remember?"

"That's different," Harry said defensively.

"Different how?"

Harry gazed at the door Snape disappeared through before returning to Voldemort.

"I don't know how to explain… It was a different kind of hate. He always disliked me for no reason at all. Even before we exchanged a single sentence. You, on the other hand, were at least fair in your dislike. Both Quirrell-you and diary-you granted me the favour of having a civil conversation first."

"And then we aimed to murder you," Voldemort concluded with some mirth.

Harry was convinced he flushed. "Well, yes, but… that's different! And look, I'm literally making excuses for you and you're not helping at all."

Voldemort's grey eyes burned holes into Harry's skin. He inched closer, not yet touching but close. Damn him and his handsome face. Harry's heart had the most fervent habit of clenching while looking up at it.

"I know you are, my soul," Voldemort whispered. "Do not restrain yourself from doing so. It might even be a step in the right direction… and if you are wondering where that direction leads—"

"My lord?"

Voldemort's eyes widened ever so slightly before he pulled away and all air returned to Harry's lungs as breathing proved to be easy once again. With a small move of the Dark Lord's fingers, the professor was able to hear again.

Snape leered at them, a tiny brown bag clutched in his hands. Maybe he took notice of their proximity and wondered why Harry was in his house with such abnormal company. What was he doing at Voldemort's side, and unharmed, of all things? But the questions would have to remain questions. Snape couldn't exactly demand answers from Lord Voldemort himself.

When the mysterious bag transferred into the Dark Lord's hands, Harry thought their visit would be over. That they would finally leave and head back to the manor. But he should have known Voldemort's visit had no chance of being this brief or harmless.

"Severus," the handsome Voldemort began, leisurely circling Harry's teacher as if he were a predator and Snape the helpless prey. "You must be wondering why, of all people, Harry Potter is in my presence. In your living room. Alongside me. Alive and well."

"I must confess I am," the grave voice responded. "Last we knew of the young saviour, he had run away with some lover on a romantic escapade. The Order is restless in their search for him."

Harry was unable to suppress a chuckle and Voldemort rolled his eyes.

"Sorry," Harry mouthed.

"Do keep quiet, child. You'll talk soon enough. Now, to answer your questions," Voldemort began as he looked the other man in the eye. "Harry Potter is mine. He belongs to me of his own free will. If you wonder how that came to be, then do so, but listen. You'll guard him with your life while at Hogwarts; from Dumbledore, from all harm. Do I make myself clear, Severus?"

"Of course, my lord," stated Snape, head bowed. "Dumbledore would not touch him. I swear it."

"You swear," mocked Voldemort, and both Harry and Snape felt the swift change in the air. Of darkness growing into something vile. "Tell me, Harry, how much do words and promises weigh?"

That piercing gaze urged him to understand. That a game was begging to be played. So Harry played.

"Nothing. They weigh nothing."

He could swear Voldemort's eyes gleamed with approval. "Precisely, my Harry. Dust in the wind, they are… Visible to the eyes, ghostly to the touch… and yet. The road remains the same, the task remains the same. Severus… do not give me that look… I do not question your loyalty. We are merely taking further steps to ensure it."

Then Voldemort extended his arm as if expecting Snape to hold it. Harry's jaw clenched. He did not understand. Touching was… there was no need! Touching was forbidden. Voldemort did not touch people — his hands only ever grazed Harry to inflict pain or for whatever other purpose. But his hands trailed across Harry's feverish skin and Harry's skin only. This was meant to be a known fact… An unspoken truth. And Harry was inwardly raving like a spoiled child at the possibility of Voldemort touching another. Was that sane?

What would anyone say if they knew?

"My lor—" Snape began.

"Come, Harry, your wand," the Dark Lord coaxed, and Snape's voice snuffed out into nothingness. "The spell you learned days ago."

If Harry's confusion persisted, it soon vanished the moment Snape was shoved to his knees in the middle of the room. Voldemort followed; a requirement for the spell, but the image made Harry's stomach tighten all the same.

Strangely enough, kneeling there made Voldemort appear more human than Snape. There was purpose in his grey eyes while in the black orbs of the other man there was nothing. Did the knowledge of being forever imprisoned in an Unbreakable Vow frighten him? With Voldemort of all people? But Harry saw nothing for sure. The professor's face remained unchanged and uncaring even when he rose an eyebrow at Harry.

"Do get on with it, Potter," Snape snarled.

The hold Voldemort had on the man's arm visibly tightened and this time Snape did flinch.

Harry inched closer to the pair, placing the tip of his wand over the linked hands. He nodded at the Dark Lord and Voldemort commenced.

"Will you keep Harry's secrets from Dumbledore and from any other person with the exception of those in this room?"

"I will," responded Snape in a heartbeat, and Harry's hand quivered as a flimsy line of fire emerged from his wand and laced around the hands of the pair.

Voldemort trailed on, unsatisfied, imposing.

"Will you protect Harry from Albus Dumbledore and those who would raise their wand to him even at the cost of your own life?"

"I will," came the promise, and another thin snake made of fire took shape.

The spell broke the instant Voldemort's hand retreated. It was done.

Harry watched Snape clench his fingers as if they were stiff while keeping a wary gaze on the Dark Lord. Harry knew whatever hate the greasy-looking man had for him before now had only doubled. Little difference it made. If Snape desired to protect his life, a single course of action prevailed. He desperately needed to preserve Harry's safety. The complexity of the situation reeked of unscrupulousness. Of Voldemort.

It was safer thinking about Snape's affairs than Harry's own gratitude to the Dark Lord. All this had been fulfilled for Harry. The older man had done this for him. A surprise indeed.

"Serve well and I will never forget," said Voldemort, unraveling Harry's inner musings by making a vow of his own.

Snape composed himself by making his back a little straighter. "I know you won't forget, my lord. Have no doubt that neither will I."

No other words were offered. The door closed and from now on Snape's life hung by a thread called Harry while the Dark Lord handled the scissors.

A mysterious battered man awaited in the obscure place Voldemort Apparated them to. From chains he hung, body draped against the wall like some sacrifice from an ancient tale. Unconsciousness blessed him.

"Wha—" Harry began but his voice faded. It was numbingly cold down here. How he knew this was down, he honestly had no idea. He just did.

Voldemort kept his silence, too busy retrieving different objects from Snape's bag. Harry's eyes widened as one thing followed another, dozens of them, and then some more. Magic. Jars in different colours and other tiny containers crowded the wooden table; the only piece of furniture decorating this place. Were they in the basement of the manor? Or a different place entirely? Where?

Soon enough, a significant portion of the objects were moved aside with a flick of Voldemort's wrist. A bowl and a lonely jar remained to ponder upon.

"Countless things; some needed, most not. Severus must not know what will be born out of his ingredients," the man explained with shadowed eyes. "Chances are slim that he would be able to successfully identify the purpose, even confronted with the specific components, yet one cannot ever be too careful."

"Oh — okay," Harry stammered, wrapping his arms around himself. "I'm cold, why don't we—"

"No heating charms," warned Voldemort, looking to him. "You'll thank me later."

Something monumental was approaching; no longer a shadow in the distance, but here. Harry could taste it in the air. Voldemort stunk of it.

"Now… you must be wondering who our guest is. I confess I did not bother to learn his name," Voldemort began, and clutched Harry's shoulder in his grasp, fingers lightly curling into the thin material of his jacket. "Off with this, my soul."

Voldemort closely observed Harry to the point of perversion until the boy awaited shivering in front of him, obeying his every command. The hand returned. "Shall I tell you of this man? Shall I soften the imminent blow? Shall I be kind to you, Harry? Yes… I think I shall be merciful to my very soul. This man is a muggle, as you may have already guessed. A child rapist — a pedophile, as they name it. I possess a permissive soul — everyone has their little passions — but his happened to be quite young. How young, you must be wondering? When I searched his pitiful mind the youngest I discovered was four. He desires boys, pretty little boys gasping beneath him while crying and shivering until they're starry-eyed and beg no more. Then he fucks them again. Shall I continue?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Harry croaked as tension settled over him. A feeling of wrongness.

They now stood in front of the muggle. Abruptly, the rapist awoke and feebly wrenched at his restraints, wild blue eyes on him and Voldemort and afraid to the point of weeping.

"Please! Who are you?" he begged, more at the boy than the man. "Please just let me go and I'll tell no one, I swear! I—"

"Is my boy too old for your taste?" Voldemort inquired, hand abandoning Harry's shoulder and letting the warmth melt away with it. "I always wondered about scum like you. Do you enjoy fucking only children below ten or do you sometimes make exceptions? Can you get it up for a beautiful exception?"

"Please, I don't—"

"Better to answer me, I do not relish in asking a second time, remember? Now… do you find him beautiful?"

The muggle shuddered, cringing back against the wall as if wishing it would swallow him whole as tears gathered in his blue eyes. Not yet crying but close, Harry decided.

"I… I… yes — he… he's beautiful."

"Isn't he?" drawled Voldemort, his satisfaction seeming to fill the room. "Look into his pretty eyes and confess what you'd do to him if you were to…. meet in different circumstances?"

The man sobbed now and Harry felt sick to his stomach.

"Please… please… I—" He seemed to remember something excruciatingly painful when Voldemort's eyes met his. "I'd want him… on his knees at the beginning, with his mouth open." Another sob wobbled through his body. "Then — th-then on his back so I could look at him while I—"

"Would you stop if he were to say no?"

Voldemort's voice was colder than the room itself.

"No."

"Please end this," pleaded Harry, facing the Dark Lord, glancing anywhere else but the muggle. "Hurt him, kill him — Just let me leave… I don't want to listen to anything he has to say. Snape was enough for today."

"I know you do not, my soul. I wish him death as well. But I'm not needlessly cruel, Harry. Not to you. There was a purpose to his confession. It was to help you."

"Help me?"

"Help you," Voldemort echoed, coming so close Harry could feel his breath on his skin. "I fear for you, my soul. For your safety, for the thought of leaving this world, and of leaving me. Do you desire to leave me?"

"No," Harry let out, the honesty of his reply choking him.

"Marvellous. We need to make sure something like this could never happen, with or without mine and Severus' protection. I need you to be immortal, Harry. To ground yourself to this realm the same way I did. I want you to make a horcrux. I want you to kill this scum. I want you to be safe."

Harry made to inch back but Voldemort seized his arm, bringing him against a firm chest.

"I would not force you, nor will I kill him for you. But before you rebel at the thought of ending another person's life, do consider the purpose. There will be one less criminal, and you live with me forever to the end of days. You will live, Harry. This was more than I was given. The chance of not looking back. His repugnant taste is a blessing, so do not look me in the eye and tell me you don't want him dead. Do not lie."

Could Voldemort be this cruel? Play with his guilt, with his desire to live? The one thing that had brought them together? Then he recalled the man's words. Whoever told you the monster and the prince are required to be two different beings was a fool. How right the Dark Lord had been. But what if Voldemort meant well? What if he had Harry's best interest in mind? After all, the one whose soul he shared had peculiar ideas about devotion and things alike.

Even so…

"You don't understand—" Harry urged, trying to make the Dark Lord listen. "I trust you to keep me safe, you are more than enough! Truly, because I — I can't do it… I can't kill him, I don't think I—"

Voldemort's eyes softened. He circled Harry so that his back was to the Dark Lord's chest again as the other whispered into his ear, nose nuzzling Harry's neck. Fingers fiddled with something before pushing it into his numb hand. Voldemort's wand.

"It is not difficult. You're a smart boy. Think only about his acts, about those poor children. So many lives shattered with no hope of being repaired. Seeking their mother's warmth but unable to forget this man's hands and flinching when those women offer it. Standing back in revulsion of their own bodies. At how filthy they feel… And if even that image proves not enough, think of me. Make me proud, Harry. Just like you always do. Try."

Harry did, trusting in this ruthless man who, after taking him apart, was willing to sit and rearrange the pieces how he saw fit. Patience and dedication were required. Voldemort had them, and compelled Harry to do the same. Try.

When the green glow faded Harry went to his knees, whimpering. Whimpering for what? For who? Surely not for the muggle. For that disgusting piece of human being… No… Harry was crying for himself, for doing something he had pledged to never do. The Dark Lord killing people for sport was one thing but this was different. Harry had murdered someone. He had—

The wet sound anchored him to reality and Harry gasped between his tears.

Voldemort held the muggle's severed arm in his left hand, blood dripping down to the floor where it gathered in a small puddle. Drip drip drip like a bloody lullaby, a prelude to an eternal sleep.

"Would you prefer a leg?"

"What… what do you mean?" Harry finally managed to say, bile rising in his throat as he struggled not to throw up.

"Why do you think my followers are called Death Eaters?" Voldemort disclosed with amusement.

With one movement of his slender fingers, the flesh slid off the bone and into the empty bowl with a horrible sound. The mysterious contents from the jar followed and Harry clasped the man's wand until it stung. What was Voldemort doing? The answer he'd just received seemed like a clue, Harry cynically mused, just as the Dark Lord knelt in front of him and brought the bowl to his lips.

"Open wide, my soul. Make sure to swallow."

This was the beginning of something greater. It had to be. Everything had a beginning. The unwilling one — the one when you're born — and the one you chose for yourself. This monologue repeated in his head as the first chunk of meat slid past his lips.

Voldemort's eyes resembled a hawk's.

Harry gagged at the taste, liquid spilling over his lips. He went on, desperately needing this to be over, and pictured something else; bad house elf's cooking, muggle pub food, muggle's flesh — no! Voldemort's palm clawed over his mouth to prevent him from spitting anything out while Harry spasmed against his hold, conscious of the meat sliding down his throat. Utterly disgusting, worse than any pain, worse than —

"Swallow for me, Harry. There you go, you can do it."

When it was finished and he recited the phrases told by Voldemort with a gaping blood-filled mouth, Harry thought he understood why the Dark Lord had forbidden heating charms. Harry's skin was burning hot — all wrong — while the softness in Voldemort's eyes as his fingers touched Harry's lips was full of innocence and wonder, spreading that fire inside of him.

Then the pain began.