Part IV
Classes couldn't pass fast enough for Harry.
He spent much of the morning and afternoon fidgeting in his seat, touching the folded piece of parchment in his pocket when he wasn't paying attention. He did not dare take it out and read it again in front of Ron or Hermione. A mysterious book in the post was only mildly suspicious on its own, but if his friends knew that Harry was carrying around a love letter signed from a member of his supposed septuagenarian fan club, they might begin to ask unwelcome questions about the identity of the sender. And Harry was a poor liar at best when it came to his friends, especially with things that made him uncomfortable; he wasn't sure how long he could keep up the impression that Lord Voldemort was a batty, pining old lady with whom he had no prior connection.
Therefore, he spent the majority of dinner trying to come up with a plausible excuse to get back to his dorm, his letter, and Dream Warrior. This was difficult and slightly awkward, since Hermione had refused to speak to Ron since that morning's breakfast, but Harry was able to slip away after Ron began second helpings, pretending that he needed to practice with his new highly dysfunctional wand.
No one was in the dorm this early, but Harry shut the curtains around his bed anyway. After several unsuccessful attempts at Lumos, during which his hair, clothing, scar, and glasses all suffered grave insult, Harry ended up digging out his trusty flashlight from his chest. It had served him well during many stealthy nights at the Dursleys', and he was reminded of Privet Drive now as he pulled the covers up over his head and the book out from underneath his pillow. If it weren't for the occasional giggle from that stupid wand (which was now buried at the bottom of his chest, and still seemed to find itself amused) or the sporadic way the flashlight's colours kept changing to every shade of the rainbow (Muggle batteries did not play nicely with the magic in the castle), it might almost be possible for Harry to believe that he truly was at the Dursleys' again, listening hard for the booming steps that indicated Uncle Vernon was coming to reprimand him for studying such rubbish in the house.
Harry had never been so eager to read in his life. He quickly lost track of time, reading well after all of his dorm-mates had returned and gone to bed, one by one. Hour upon hour of reading, and he was still going strong, eyes burning a little from concentration but just as giddy as he was when he had first opened the book. Granted, the material itself was interesting: Legilimency, the magic behind dreams themselves, the connection to the dreamer's world and his mind, and, most interesting of all, using dreams to find one's way into the thoughts of another.
But what fascinated Harry the most were the comments scrawled in small, flowing script in the margins. They were not brief and cutting like the Half-Blood Prince's. Tom Riddle had reflected thoughtfully and at length about the material on the edges of each page, sometimes arguing with the author, sometimes expanding on the research that was presented. Harry was entranced; he felt like he was in his second year again, meeting a stranger who somehow felt so familiar to him.
Sometime around two o'clock, the light from his flashlight went all warped, as though it were shining through a cluster of crystals. Harry frowned and shook it hard, but then he was no longer holding a flashlight, and he wasn't looking at his book anymore, either. The boy's mouth dropped open when he looked up and saw that a huge, glittering crystal chandelier had grown straight down through the top of the ceiling above his bed. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head - surely, he must be seeing things - but when he opened them again, he was no longer in his dormitory at all, but standing in the middle of the most beautiful restaurant he had ever seen.
"Mr. Potter," said a voice, and Harry whirled around, wishing that he hadn't banished his new wand, however silly, to the bottom of his chest for the evening. A small voice in the back of his head told him that it wouldn't matter anyway; there was that small ripple, that tiny, foreign undercurrent behind all the images and faces and in the room, that Dream Warrior said was the first indication he was no longer in his own mind.
"Er - hello," said Harry, staring up at a waiter dressed all in white.
The man smiled; a dazzling flash of perfect teeth. "We've been expecting you. Right this way, young sir."
Harry followed him reluctantly, heart fluttering with nerves. Music - the sort of music that rich people listened to, a collection of string instruments accompanying a piano - floated on the air, the smell of delicious, classy food along with it. He felt so out of place among these laughing, wealthy adults who sipped at their wines and ate dishes whose names Harry probably could not even pronounce. A glance down at his clothes made him feel slightly better; at least he was dressed for the occasion in dress robes that reeked of pureblood sophistication, and his hair seemed to have been tamed into submission by some sort of wonderful Harry still found himself on edge. What business did Voldemort have summoning Harry here? And was this even Voldemort's dream? There was something about it - some pure, unadulterated happiness - that seemed so entirely outside of Voldemort's range of emotion that Harry doubted he could possibly be wandering through the Dark Lord's mind.
When Harry failed to spot a hairless, milky head in the sea of dream-customers, he almost believed that he had gotten it wrong, that perhaps it was his own dream after all. He was so busy looking for Lord Voldemort that he did not even realize when the waiter stopped him at a table for two.
"Here you are, sir," said the waiter, and Harry's eyes widened behind his recently-restored spectacles as he took in the other man seated at the table.
It was Tom Riddle, Harry recognized that much - but he looked as Harry had never seen him before. He was, perhaps, in his forties, but he was somehow halfway between the handsome, charming Tom Riddle of Hogwarts and the monster that he would eventually become. He was still a man, but his skin was unhealthily pale. The fine, silky curls that Harry had seen on the boy from the Chamber of Secrets had flattened and withered; they did not shine in the light from the chandelier. But there was something arresting about the sight of him all the same: power and sophistication - Tom Riddle, coming to the apex of his rule over Britain.
Harry realized that the waiter was beginning to look at him strangely, so he seated himself a little clumsily in the high-backed chair."Thank you for my glasses," Harry said, deciding that 'You look so different!' was not an appropriate comment to blurt out at the moment. "And for the book. I was up all night reading it." He was very proud that he didn't blush when he remembered how often he had touched Voldemort's letter that day, memorizing the loops in his handwriting like a silly schoolgirl.
"You are welcome, Harry. I am that pleased you received my gift - I understand that all post flying into Hogwarts is thoroughly checked these days." Voldemort smirked, the corners of his thin lips twisting up arrogantly – clearly inviting Harry to share in his amusement. The Dark Lord's voice was not yet the high, unnatural sound that haunted Harry's thoughts, but a pleasant – if slightly cold – tenor. His eyes, however, held a strange emptiness. Neither silver nor crimson, but a messy collision of the two - sclerae weeping blood - they lacked the beauty of either colour.
Voldemort took a sip of the light wine he'd ordered while waiting for Potter. The Dark Lord did not appreciate that the boy had made him wait in this miasma of Narcissa Malfoy's weakness. But now was not the time to show his impatience, but to smile and smile. "Apparently, the reason the volume has not been reprinted is that some ignorant Ministry official considered it dangerous and thus had it reclassified as a Dark work. I do grow tired of such narrow-mindedness. As if it were not perfectly possible to kill any number of people with a simple Hover Charm."
An elegant hand touched scant lips for a moment, as though apologising for a faux pas. "But I digress, dear Harry. Shall we order?"
The offhand comment made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. Killer, his mind whispered. It would not do for Harry to forget this, no matter how many beautiful chandeliers that Voldemort dangled over his head. But an even more dangerous part of Harry wondered at the significance of Voldemort's statement. Harry had yet to run into anything in Dream Warrior that could be considered 'Dark.' Certainly, the magic could be manipulated to serve a variety of wicked purposes, but couldn't all magic when placed in capable hands?
Harry looked away, confused. Why was he even thinking about this? It must have been Voldemort's dream, muddling up his thoughts. Voldemort wanted him to order now, anyhow, and he hadn't even the slightest clue about what he was expected to ask for. His questions - why they were even here, for instance - could wait.
The menu was daunting and full of names that didn't mean anything to him. Harry's eyes scoured the beverage list for Butterbeer - for anything that he recognized at all, really - but his hope quickly gave way to mounting panic. No, this was not the Leaky Cauldron. He sincerely wished that he had been given time to prepare for this. Ron might not have known very much about high-class dining, but Hermione's parents seemed pretty well-off; there couldn't be that much of a difference between fancy Muggle food and fancy wizarding food, could there?
"Do you, er, have any recommendations?" Harry tried and failed to look into Voldemort's expectant gaze as he spoke; it made him even more uncomfortable than usual to look at the Dark Lord in this half-and-half, not quite handsome and not quite monstrous body. "I've never really… this is all so…" Harry stared at the menu, mortified. "My aunt and uncle never really took me anywhere like this," he finally mumbled. He had only been on this bizarre dinner date for about two minutes and he was already embarrassing himself. Perhaps this would be a splendid time to practice waking up.
Without so much as glancing in the waiter's direction, one of Voldemort's long-fingered hands gestured dismissively and the man bowed respectfully and retreated. Something in Voldemort's expression softened as he stared at Harry. "My adolescence was hardly affluent," he confessed quietly. "I did not set foot in such a place as this until I had left Hogwarts. And, even then, Abraxas Malfoy paid for my supper and I was forced to abandon the indecipherably pretentious menu in favour of perusing everyone's minds." Voldemort's strangely human voice was quiet and oddly reassuring. "Besides, this is merely a dream. If you have been reading Dream Warrior as you say, then you should be perfectly capable of lucidly summoning a waiter with your desired repast." The Dark Lord gave another smile, raising a dark eyebrow. "Or... as we are hardly obliged to pay, I could simply order everything?"
The idea of practicing mind-magic in front of Voldemort might have made him panic - Harry was not very good at teaching himself straight out of a book - had he not felt suddenly and vastly more at ease. Tom Riddle had grown up in a Muggle orphanage, had probably encountered many of the same problems that Harry had as a newcomer to the wizarding world. Voldemort understood. It was so easy to forget that, especially when Voldemort sat with his perfectly kempt hair and high-collared robes, saying thing like desired repast and expecting Harry to know what the hell he was talking about.
"Thank you," said Harry softly; he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "That... means a lot. I think I'll give it a shot." He wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing, after all. Taking a deep breath, Harry narrowed his eyes and concentrated on Voldemort's wine glass. A moment of lip-biting and focus later, and a second crystal wine glass had materialized right in front of him, filled with white wine. "Oh," Harry said, positively beaming. It hadn't arrived on a waiter's tray, but that was a detail he could work out later. Grinning, the boy raised the glass to his lips - he had never had wine before - and then promptly struggled not to pull a face as the taste hit his tongue.
His spirits plummeted. Clearly, he hadn't gotten it right after all. Who would enjoy drinking something so bitter?
Harry cleared his throat awkwardly and set the glass back on the table, trying desperately to look like nothing was amiss. His lack of knowledge concerning the 'indecipherably pretentious menu' could surely be excused, but Voldemort clearly expected him to navigate dreamscapes with ease now that he had read Dream Warrior. And Harry was unwilling to take a chance with his food after having failed so spectacularly with the wine. "Perhaps I'll just... have whatever you're having?" said Harry, trying for a bright smile, and then added hastily, "As long as it's not sautéed Muggle or something."
Lord Voldemort watched his Horcrux with increasing annoyance. Clearly the boy had not understood what he'd meant at all. Nevertheless, Voldemort was not going to let his plan fail due to Potter's insecurities.
The Dark Lord carefully kept the irritation from his face and cast his mind back to his favourite meal when Potter's age: Yorkshire pudding with real sausages, drowning in gravy. He'd had it sometimes for Sunday dinner at the orphanage before rationing had meant the sausages were replaced by spam. The Hogwarts elves had cooked it occasionally. It made Voldemort feel slightly ill to think of eating such a thing now, but then he was no longer a somewhat malnourished human adolescent with a body determined to reach over six foot.
Feeling decidedly ridiculous, Voldemort visualised the most delicious Toad in the Hole imaginable, accompanied by a honeyed mead cocktail. It was a cause of considerable relief when he thought of the vegetable soup he himself had decided upon. Sautéed Muggle? How disgusting. Prey should be raw, its blood still hot, it – he blinked – focus.
Just as the small, warm fingers were about to retreat from the wine goblet Potter had summoned, Voldemort's hand shot forward and trapped them beneath his own. Sticky with nerves or perhaps embarrassment, they trembled at the touch. And there it was: the shimmering pleasure of connection. "Harry, you will have to forgive me, it has been many years since I was your age. I forget what it is like to be young - ah!" Voldemort released Potter's hand as a waiter glided over to their table, levitating gleaming silver trays.
The long, human fingers of this foreign body were so different from the cold hands that Harry had come to know so well both in and out of his dreams. And yet their touch seized him and held fast in the same way that Voldemort did whenever he touched him in any of his other manifestations. It was a reminder that they were bound to each other in ways that paid no heed to shiny dark hair or livid, serpentine eyes. Staring down at where those unfamiliar fingers covered his, like home against the back of his hand, Harry couldn't help but think that it didn't matter whether Voldemort was a baby or a man or a monster: it would always come back to this.
The moment was over just as quickly, but Harry did not have time to mourn the loss of contact; he was too preoccupied gaping at the waiter who had just arrived, and, even more importantly, the food. "Soupe aux Haricots Verts for Your Lordship," the waiter announced pompously, setting down their plates, "and tonight's special with our famed mead cocktail for Mr. Potter." Voldemort had ordered him a dish with Yorkshire pudding and mashed potatoes - and another drink to boot. Had Harry failed to conceal his discomfort when sipping at the wine? He might have been embarrassed if he hadn't been so overwhelmed.
"Wow," Harry breathed. He grinned foolishly up at the waiter. "Thank you." The man bowed himself away, and Harry immediately took a sip at the cocktail glass, pleased to find that it was much sweeter than the wine, almost sugary. He turned to his dinner and nearly began digging in - before he noticed the small bowl of soup sitting on its lonesome in front of Voldemort. In fact, his dinner companion did not seem to be very interested in his food at all.
Harry stared for a few seconds, and then slowly put down his fork. "Er, not to be disrespectful," he started, and then winced, because how could he word this in a way that would not be? "This is amazing - all of it - and completely unexpected, but… that's just it. I'm not entirely sure why you're, um, doing this. For me, that is."
The fact that their last encounter had ended with Harry being thrown bleeding down a flight of stone stairs was left unspoken, but how could Harry forget that? He couldn't even explain Voldemort's behaviour away with the drug of their connection - aside from that brief brush of fingers, they had hardly even touched. Not like that last dream, where the allure of skin on skin made it impossible for either of them to do anything but – Harry clamped down on this thought before it could go any further, the faintest shade of pink rising to his cheeks. No, this was no coincidental encounter in a forest; this had been premeditated, and it was confusing Harry more than ever.
The Dark Lord took a small sip of his soup and set down his spoon. "It is merely a pleasant setting for discussion. I sought to invite you here because I am certain you have many questions for Lord Voldemort."
Many questions? Voldemort had now idea. "Well - how do I know that this isn't just a trick?" he blurted out, and then cringed. "I'm sorry, that's - not how I meant it. It's just, it's all very confusing. The dinner, the gifts, the - the kisses," the colour returned to his cheeks full-force, but he ploughed on with admirable determination. "Not that I haven't been enjoying it, but - oh, that isn't what I meant either."
Harry was sure his whole face was on fire now, and he took another sip of the cocktail, looking the other way as he did so, before trying again.
"You've spent my entire life trying to kill me." Killer, whispered his mind. Your parents and Sirius and the Grangers. Killer. "And the other day… you tortured me. You locked me up with that - that thing. Horcrux or no, you haven't got an obligation to treat me well. And I don't believe you'd be doing any of this if I were still in that cellar right now."
"Yes..." Voldemort whispered, something of the sibilance his voice would one day acquire slipping into the soft sound. "I know. You angered me, Harry, and I lost my temper with you. It was a mistake." Voldemort paused, glancing down at his soup spoon, rotating it between his fingers as Harry had seen him do with his wand. And again Harry caught that heady sense of intense happiness that flickered brightly around his dinner companion, strange and jarring in the pitiless wizard before him. "I have hated you beyond words. I have devoted years to envisaging your demise. And were you anyone else in existence, I would have left you to die in that cellar as punishment for your insolence. But I could not have kept you there for the same reason you are with me tonight. You would have haunted my dreams."
"Then where would you keep me?" said Harry, voice wavering. "What do you want from me? We're supposed to kill each other, not..." The hot, shivery press of a tongue in his mouth - the undulating weight of Voldemort's body, naked in the moonlight. "And I'm supposed to stand by and watch as you murder my friends and their families? How can I - how can you expect me to do that? It's all so confusing when I just want... I want..." His voice trailed off, and Harry found he could not look Voldemort in the eye. Anger choked the words in his throat - not with Voldemort, but with himself.
"Yesss..." and it was an entirely different sort of yes; an unrefined breath of possession that made the dreamscape ripple and shift in the wake of such desire. There was his precious piece of soul gazing needfully at him through the green, green stare. For a moment the bloodshot eyes burned pure crimson, but then the thin lips grimaced and it was over. Voldemort grit his teeth and lifted a hand to his cheekbones, letting them rest against his fingers. The Dark Lord closed his eyes. It was so difficult not to be provoked by Potter's emotion; his painful, exquisitely obvious desire.
His voice was hoarse and very human. He did not look at Potter. The emotion in his words was only half a lie. "You ask me this as though I do not know that you are my enemy... as if I knew anything at this moment but the fact that you are mine... all these long nights I have lain awake thinking only of... as though Lord Voldemort were not rendered as... vulnerable to this madness as-"
We're supposed to kill each other. Potter's speech triggered something in Voldemort's mind and all other thought came to an abrupt stop. His eyes narrowed and he leaned slowly forward in his chair, pushing the soup aside, his pale, waxen features suddenly composed and utterly intent. "Harry... tell me the prophecy."
"I knew it," Harry said, his voice full of bitter triumph. "I knew you wanted something."
He remembered the dreams that Voldemort had sent him, just last year, and it was like a slap in the face. It was all about the prophecy; it had always been about the prophecy. The pathetic, crying creature in his arms, the sea serpents, the kisses - even this fancy restaurant with Voldemort dressed in a human body, feigning distress over the circumstances - it was all for information. It had gotten Sirius killed last time, and now it would kill Harry. Voldemort would go back to hunting Harry's blood as soon as he had what he wanted, this prophecy predicting their demise.
And Harry had been such a fool. He had fallen for it once again. He had clung to that stupid letter all day long; he had melted beneath those fingers and eyes; he had played the silly, malleable little boy and now Mr. Granger was dead and he was trapped, and Voldemort would learn what Dumbledore had fought so hard to keep from him.
"You're the only reason that it even came true," said Harry furiously, anger rising in his throat. His fingers fisted the dress robes in his lap to stop the trembling in his fingers. "Isn't that funny? Dumbledore said that if you hadn't come for me, it would have never even been fulfilled. You marked me as your equal by attacking me - but your - your servant didn't hear that part, did he? I was just a baby - I was just Harry - and now you've fashioned me into some kind of saviour. You've made me your enemy! The prophecy says I'm supposed to kill you now, and I'll - I'll have to die as well. If you hadn't listened, if you hadn't done anything, none of this would have ever happened. But now," his voice caught in his throat, "now I've got to die either way, and it's all your fault."
The high-backed chair scraped backwards against the marble restaurant floor. Voldemort stood, glaring down at Harry, eyes blazing, the air around him choked with violent magic. "Neither of us is going to die, my precious Horcrux." The Dark Lord began to pace around the table, waiters and nearby tables simply melting away, allowing him room.
Voldemort stopped behind Potter's chair, placing his hands on the boy's shoulders, pressing him into his seat. "You imagine this to be a trick of Lord Voldemort's devising?" he hissed coldly. "We have passed the time for games, Harry. Shall I tell you who is going to die? Your beloved Headmaster... and within the next year, I suspect. He did not want to tell you about his hand, did he? No...? Well, there will come a time - very soon - when Dumbledore will not be able to protect you from me. I have tried to be kind, dear one, to let you see that eternity with me will not be the horror you imagine. I asked about the prophecy precisely because I have no intention of letting any part of myself die."
The nails dug into Potter's dress robes as Voldemort leaned down to whisper softly, triumphantly, in the boy's ear, "I know your weakness, Harry. You cannot stand to watch the suffering of others, knowing it is for you that they die. And if you ever attempt to end your own life, then your young friends will discover just what it is to face the wrath of Lord Voldemort."
"No," Potter breathed, but it did not matter how hard the boy clenched his robes, his fingers were trembling uncontrollably. As they should. "No, you're lying -!"
He wrenched violently away from Voldemort's fingers, flying to his feet and sending the chair clattering to the floor between them. The music had vanished, along with the waiters and other diners; they were very much alone. "Don't touch me!" Potter yelled, whirling around to face the Voldemort, who glared murderously at the boy. "You don't get to say these things and touch me. You don't get to dangle my friends over my head like some - some kind of damn ultimatum when you're going to kill them anyway! And don't you dare claim that you've been kind."
Potter's hands flew forward, grasping the Dark Lord by the front of his robes. The boy was still shaking, shaking with rage, and he clung pathetically to Voldemort merely to remain standing.
"I was kind to you," the boy hissed; young face screwed up with anger. "I was trying so hard and you called it insolence! You nearly killed me! You don't give a damn about me - just the part that's somehow wedged itself inside my soul." He drew himself up, inches from Voldemort's eyes. "But it doesn't matter. I will never be yours!"
Voldemort's large, pale hand slapped Potter across the face and he grappled the boy's flesh, denying the screams. He fixed his mind around Potter's errant consciousness; his arms wrapped firmly around the shaking, furious child, and denied him voice, fury, thought – binding Potter to his own skin.
For Voldemort their battle had become purely metaphysical, their minds wrestling for control of the dreamscape. It was a ruthless claiming of mind and soul and Voldemort held it with the tenacity of one who has spent years clinging to the minds of others. You are mine. He seized their connection –
(shivering perfection both utterly remote and all encompassing)
And refused to let go until Potter admitted defeat.
He was trapped. Voldemort's body encompassed him, holding him fast with an iron grip. Harry thrashed violently, swinging his arms, kicking his legs, but there was nothing he could do to break the hold that the Dark Lord had on his struggling body. He cried out in anguish as Voldemort's mind clamped down on him, too, invading him from the inside-out until he forgot that he was physically trapped in his efforts to eject the foreign, familiar force from his thoughts.
You are mine, mine, mine - a painful, pounding mantra in his skull. With every pump of his heart, mine, the word was stamped into his blood, mine, released into his veins. Voldemort consumed him - Voldemort owned him - and Harry, thrashing, screaming, mine, held tight against Voldemort's body, could no longer tell where the Dark Lord ended and Harry began.
But it wasn't foreign, and it wasn't painful. Even through Harry's all-consuming rage, the beauty of their connection shone blindingly bright, drawing the fight from his body in one shuddering breath. It mixed and pulsed with his blood, mine, but it wasn't a condemnation - it was perfection, it was peace, it was everything that was right with the world and wrong with Lord Voldemort. The boy resisted its call for a few, impossible moments, flailing weakly against the Dark Lord's chest, before sagging against him, gasping and shaking. Voldemort's arms were still wrapped tightly around him, the only thing keeping him standing; his cheeks were wet, and it was very hard to breathe.
I hate you, he thought fiercely, but the words refused to fall from his trembling lips. He could feel Voldemort's breath against his hair, a long-fingered hand slowly brushing through Harry's sweat-spiked hair, stroking him possessively, one arm still firmly wrapped around Harry shoulders. "I have seen your dreams, Harry," the implacable voice murmured, "and I have seen your fears. Always, my precious one... always..." The same soul sang between them as the restaurant fell away, along with its strange mist of excitement, and the air became something cold and eternal. "Fate has given you to Lord Voldemort, Harry... and he shall never allow you to come to harm..."
It was a long time before Harry emerged from the crook of Voldemort's shoulder. He was tired, the kind that ached in his bones, but at last he lifted his head, blinking red-rimmed eyes. They were standing in a snowy hallway now, the night sky twinkling with stars. Harry somehow knew that this place was very far away from the dazzling tables with their sparkling wine glasses, served by waiters all in white.
"Where are we?" His voice was hoarse from his shouting. He disentangled himself from Voldemort's arms, taking in their surroundings with a tight throat. There were pieces missing from the wall and a gaping hole in the floor where it had clearly taken a bad explosive curse. But amidst the snow that had gathered on the once-carpeted floor, Harry could see the lines of a fallen picture frame poking through, faces too familiar even through the light dusting of snowflakes.
And there - the sound of a baby bawling, just down the hall. It was not the cry of a child who was hurt or hungry, but one that was badly frightened. The same instinct that had seized him in the forest took over now, and Harry tore himself from Voldemort, forgetting about the picture, forgetting his anger. The sound struck something in him, something deep and raw; a feeling of dread rose in his chest as he approached the door at the end of the corridor.
But it was numbness that greeted him when he saw her on the ground. She looked like an angel, this woman who would have been his mother. Her hair was almost purple in the moonlight, her skin as white as the snow swirling around her. And there - standing in his crib, hardly a year old - there, that must have been… him. That must have been Harry.
Harry approached the child with wonder in his eyes. This baby that was him but not him stared back, eyes as green as the woman's on the ground. For the first time, Harry vaguely understood the urge that Voldemort must have felt whenever he saw his Horcruxes. Harry wanted to scoop the child up, to shower him with kisses and love, to never let him see the neglectful hands of his aunt and uncle. "I was so young," he whispered, walking to the crib, stepping over his mother. "Look, I didn't even have - this was before you gave me -" Harry's fingers brushed over the toddler's forehead, so smooth and naked. Unexpected emotion swelled inside of him, and Harry turned away jerkily; it was suddenly painful to look at the crib, knowing that there was nothing he could do, that this child's fate was sealed in darkness forever.
"Why did you bring me here?" Harry asked, his voice choked. He could not look at the child, nor at Voldemort, nor the woman on the ground. He settled for his fingers, which were clenching against the palms of his hands, so dangerously near to trembling again.
"Harry, we are not in my mind any longer - you brought us here." Voldemort stood in the doorway, clearly unwilling to cross the threshold. He wore another face here: older and more warped, with wings of grey streaking what little remained of his dark hair. Stark black, grey, and white against the snow, Voldemort seemed almost like a reluctant ghost. "It was autumn, not winter... and I... I hardly remember what happened after I cast the curse. But you... you would have been left alone in the wreckage. You recall things I do not." Pale fingers gestured at the ruined ceiling resentfully.
Harry's surprise was dull and fleeting, if only because it made sense. "I dream about it sometimes," he admitted softly. His eyes wandered without his permission to his mother; he felt the first, cruel sting of grief for her death in his heart. "I hear her screaming. And then she goes quiet, and I see - I see -"
He raised his gaze to the man in the doorway, a dark silhouette with the glowing red eyes that had haunted his nightmares for fifteen years.
"I will never forgive you," Harry said, voice shaking. "How can anything make me forget all of this? Don't you see?" I hate you, he thought again, but the venom had drained from the words; they felt hollow, even inside his mind.
"And I cannot forget thirteen years of exile, you impertinent – " But something made Voldemort's livid eyes widen and he shuddered and drew back into the hallway as he caught sight of a smoky shiver on the night air, desperate in its suffering - a sliver of Voldemort's own magic brushing against him, less than the meanest ghost. Harry saw a wand clatter to the floor, seemingly out of nowhere, rolling away from Lily Potter's body to rest under the baby's crib. "No..." The Dark Lord hissed weakly, turning from the invisible weight of his own tormented, fearful shadow.
Harry's feet took him across the room without his asking them to. He passed straight through the ghost of the Dark Lord's spirit, hardly shivering as he did so - for it wasn't real, not truly. None of this was. But the pain on Voldemort's face was real, and that was enough to carry Harry to his side in an instant. Harry's skin was still warm from being wrapped in the folds of Lord Voldemort's arms; and this is why he needed to soothe him, Harry told himself, not because he cared, not because he pitied.
His hand reached out and brushed against a pale, gaunt cheek. "Then we don't forget." His breath misted on the cool night air as he gently turned Voldemort's head to look him in the eye. "We learn and we move forward. And we don't kill children anymore," he added with a small, slightly hysterical smile.
Warmth - alive and welcoming – unexpectedly caressed Voldemort's face and this time it was the Dark Lord who surrendered himself to the boy. In that touch was proof that he was still corporeal, proof he had conquered death and the insanity of such a terrifyingly slight existence. Few would want it, Tom, very few. Death would be preferable. He leaned down, resting his cheek against Potter's shoulder.
It did not occur Voldemort that Potter's words were rhetorical. He would gladly trade any amount of children for this comfort. It was not as if he could not kill them once they were older. "The werewolves will complain," he said softly, letting the reassuring pulse of their connection seep into him, "but I can bring Greyback and his cubs to heel. Very well. You have Lord Voldemort's word. What sort of ages are we discussing?" He kept his eyes closed - still haunted by lingering, evanid memories.
At first, Harry nearly laughed, his hysteria bubbling up inside of him. Harry had been teasing, and now Voldemort was talking about werewolves and age limits? Surely, he must be joking. But the laughter caught in Harry's throat, never finding voice, when he realized that there was no humour in the Dark Lord's words.
Lord Voldemort would stop killing children? Harry's eyes widened and he was very glad that Voldemort's face was hidden in his shoulder; the shock in Harry's expression surely would have ruined everything.
"Until they're of age," he answered automatically, his pulse racing. His fingers travelled to the back of Voldemort's head, touching his ears and throat; a resurgence of warmth and hope through his fingertips. "So they'll be able to defend themselves, should they need to fight for their lives."
Voldemort almost laughed as he brushed his own fingers up the boy's spine, letting their minds sink away from the bleak cottage - safe, safe and warm - his own rooms at Malfoy Manor; a fire crackling in the grate and Nagini a dark spool of sleeping scales on the hearth rug. And Potter still holding him, surrounding him with the wondrous, blissful heat.
As if they would be able to defend themselves against the greatest sorcerer in centuries. As if Potter's bargain would save such young fools from the slaughter, should they be foolish enough to fight. "Seventeen. And, in return, you will continue to..." The hissed whisper elapsed in a sigh of pleasure. You will continue to do this...
Seventeen. Harry could hardly believe his ears. Every child, safe and sound until the age of seventeen! He was exulting - Dumbledore had said that Harry couldn't help the Order, that he needed to block Voldemort from his thoughts, when all this time he simply had needed to let him in. Seventeen. How many hundreds, thousands of lives had he just saved? Harry no longer felt helpless. He felt powerful and strong, he felt full of hope and –
- very, very warm. Harry blinked, and realized with a jolt that they were no longer in the ruins of Godric's Hollow, but in a warm, comfortable room with a fire. There was no more midnight winter breeze, but he shivered all the same at the long, lazy tour that Voldemort's fingers made up his back. And in return... Harry was very proud that the only outward indication of his understanding of this statement was the way his breath shuddered on the next exhale. Was that even what he was asking? Perhaps he only wanted Harry to continue holding him - which would not be a disappointment, Harry told himself firmly, no sir. But he still felt his cheeks growing warm as he took in the fireplace, the snake, the bed.
Harry knew then that his resistance was useless. He would do anything. If he were fated to spend an eternity with Lord Voldemort, he would make damn sure that it was on his own terms.
It was as though a physical weight had lifted off his chest; the absence of his guilt was that tangible. "Yes." Shame was the farthest thing from Harry's mind as he moved his mouth to Voldemort's ear, fingers still tracing the other. There was bare, smooth skin behind it now - Voldemort had shed his human skin and returned to his serpentine body. The boy took a shaky breath and half-whispered in their shared, secret tongue, lips brushing against the cool lobe of the Dark Lord's ear, "Yes, I will."
Voldemort's breathing stuttered out of tiny, anguine nostrils as Potter's fingers splayed across his skin. He was caught in the hot breath that hissed such divine promise into his ear. It mattered not that the werewolves would likely defect, he hardly cared. This war would be won by control of the Ministry... not by a pack of savages. But then Potter pressed closer against him and all thought of Wizarding Britain vanished from his mind.
And Voldemort, who had never once allowed another being to have power over him, and who shrank from all connection to any other soul but his own, found himself utterly helpless in Potter's embrace. Hands and lips pressed into his pale, skeletal body and he did nothing but tremble and hiss small gasps of pleasure - enthralled - tongue flicking lazily, his livid, crimson eyes wide and eerily becalmed; a wild, deadly creature tamed by a hypnotist.
Harry watched, captivated, as Lord Voldemort transformed for the fourth time that night. He melted beneath Harry's gentle touches, so unlike the possessive creature that Harry had come to expect during these sorts of encounters. It made him feel wildly powerful. Harry dragged his open mouth up the line of Voldemort's throat simply to feel the way the pulse quickened beneath his lips; he traced his blunt fingernails along the slender jaw just to feel it tremble. And he stared, green eyes wide and hungry, at the naked, raw pleasure in Voldemort's crimson gaze.
Harry had never done anything like this before, but some blessed instinct brought him to the bed, pushing Voldemort gently back against it. Their knees brushed together; his fingers never left the Dark Lord's face, touching his jaw, his throat, drinking in his skin. But Voldemort's small, trembling responses were all the encouragement Harry needed. He was high off the knowledge that this was all for him, that he, Harry, was doing this to the greatest wizard of their time.
Harry was so caught up that he hardly realized how badly his own body was shaking. Unwilling to let his legs buckle, Harry climbed carefully into Voldemort's lap, knees bracketing the Dark Lord's thighs, a new sort of contact. He was ecstatic and uncertain all at once; how much could he do? How far could he go? He tentatively ran his fingers down the Dark Lord's cheek, leaning in closer. It was suddenly twice as difficult for him to breathe.
"Can I kiss you?" It was only half of a whisper, and his voice came out too husky; the words ghosted across Voldemort's mouth, and Harry's lips felt very dry, because they were only an inch from touching.
Scarlet eyes blinked up at the uncertain, verdant gaze above; the boy's weight resting atop him with his cheeks flushed and his chest belling with emotion. Lips which no pain or madness could touch, just scant fingertips from Voldemort's own. Potter's question almost seemed as though it were in a foreign language, or asked underwater. It was a long while before Voldemort even registered that heat had stilled at this inexplicable moment, trembling on the brink of delirium
Oh, Harry... be not afeard. Yet Voldemort's assent, when it came - after a long moment of wondering, incipient breath - was oddly grave. It was the testimony of a lord: imperious and formal. A voice, a wizard out of context. As if Voldemort were not lost beneath Potter, dizzy in skin buzzing and begging for the boy's touch, but giving a servant permission to fulfil some great task. What vocabulary could truly satisfy the significance of such allowance?
A pale spider of a hand caught the boy's chin, the claws gently guiding Potter closer as Voldemort slowly opened his lipless mouth and his serpent's tongue slipped out to brush seductively against Potter's own.
"You may."
It was this gentle submission, hidden beneath the domineering tones of Lord Voldemort, that thrilled Harry most of all. His heart was racing wildly as he let himself be led forward, every cell in his body concentrated on where Voldemort's tongue touched first Harry's lips, and then his tongue. He couldn't help but wonder how this would feel outside their dreaming minds - if it would be just as sweet or simply more intense. And then his tongue was allowed entrance into Voldemort's mouth, and Harry stopped thinking.
The boy slowly curled himself into the Dark Lord's body, giving him a long, slow kiss, and then another. Voldemort was letting Harry take charge, but despite Harry's inexperience, he felt emboldened by the generous reactions beneath him: a shudder when Harry touched his tongue against Voldemort's, the rapid dilation of ophic nostrils when Harry's hands smoothed up and down his sides. It was exhilarating. This wizard could kill him with the merest flick of his wand, and yet here he was, powerless beneath Harry's mouth and hesitant explorations.
Their agreement was all but forgotten in the back of Harry's mind; he was focused entirely on learning this creature beneath him, a fission of triumph and something else shivering across his nervous system whenever he managed to find a new place in Voldemort's mouth, on his neck, behind his ear, that elicited any sort of response, however small. He simply could not stop touching. His fingers were restless and needy, betraying the slow, hot tangle of their mouths.
But it was all a bit to much for him. Harry realized with a wave of fresh mortification that, somewhere during the proceedings, he had moulded his body completely against Voldemort's and that his arousal must be horrifyingly obvious. Breathing very heavily, Harry forced himself to pull away, resting his forehead on Voldemort's shoulder and trying fruitlessly to calm his pulse. "I'm sorry," he finally breathed against the pale column of a throat. "I've… never exactly done anything like this before." A shameful admission for any boy his age, and Harry felt his warm cheeks flush even deeper. "I'm sorry if I'm being… inappropriate."
"No," Voldemort whispered into the black hair soft against his gaunt cheek. "Quite the opposite." He shifted onto his side, drawing Harry with him up the bed, further entangling them. "Besides which, I have never allowed anyone such intimacies with my person either."
Harry blinked with disbelief. "Really?" It didn't seem possible. Voldemort moved with unrivalled grace; his fingers knew exactly where to touch to keep Harry strung tight as a bow.
But perhaps that was because they were, in many ways, reflections of each other; perhaps it was the same sort of knowledge that guided Harry's fingers and lips across the Dark Lord's skin that rendered Harry just as helpless beneath Lord Voldemort's touch.
"Thank you," he said, not just a little breathlessly. Everything seemed to change with this admission. Harry remembered the gasping baby in the forest, the way that Voldemort had shrunk from his touch in Malfoy Manor, and it all suddenly made sense to him. Voldemort, who had never known love, who had never had any friends, would never have possibly let anyone this close to him. This no longer seemed like a bargain - it was a gift.
Harry took hold of Voldemort's hand and brought it slowly up to his face. The fingers were so long and elegant, the pale, spidery digits understating the strength beneath the skin; they fascinated Harry as much as they terrified him. Heartbeat picking up again, he massaged the palm with his thumbs, circular, firm motions. Harry had seen Hermione touching Ron's hands like this by the fire after a particularly rough Quidditch practice, and Harry focused all of his attention in this way now, rubbing from wrist to palm to the base of each finger. His eyelashes fluttered involuntarily as he lifted an index finger to his lips, running his mouth from the long, grotesque nail, down to the soft, ticklish skin that separated it from his thumb. He placed an open-mouthed kiss in the centre of the palm; he felt very warm all over. "Thank you," Harry said once again, this time to the smooth wrinkle of Voldemort's heart line. His voice was very low. "Is this all right, then? Perhaps you can just tell me what feels good. Whatever you want."
Voldemort said nothing, swaying slightly as his wand-hand was tenderly osculated by the boy's lips. The conduit for his power, his fingers seemed to almost bleed magic like a sparking wand under Potter's touch. It was strange and wonderful to see that pink, excited face against Voldemort's marmoreal, over-large hand. Yet it looked so dead against Potter's fine, youthful skin. Colourless flesh barely covering the bones beneath. It made Voldemort swallow, but he did not glance away, losing the thought to Potter's caress. He had moved beyond death and that came with a cost he was proud to wear on his skin so that those who saw Lord Voldemort knew it too. Yes.
And how astonishing it was to have a body at all; to be able to see, smell, touch... after so long crouching in the minds of lesser creatures, ripping into their thoughts just to feel the friction of his - their - scales against the grass... or his - their - fangs sinking into warm rodents, or their coils entwining and... and... to be able to trick his mind even for a second into believing it was not trapped in an endless abyss of pain without true sensation... "Yesss..." he hissed slowly, and something of the raw desperation of that time came into his voice.
Voldemort had never looked more like a serpent than he did at that moment. It stirred something feral inside of Harry, and he found that his mouth had suddenly gone dry, Parseltongue whispering through his thoughts. Was this how it normally felt, he wondered, when other people were together in this way? Was there some wild place in everyone's mind that came alive with the rush of arousal through the veins?
Or perhaps this was, like so many other things in this increasingly bizarre relationship, unique to them.
Harry slid his fingers in the spaces between Voldemort's own and crawled on top of him, against him, fitting their bodies together. He remembered the way that Voldemort had moved against him in the forest, naked limbs against Harry's bare chest, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Parseltongue," he whispered; the language was somehow infinitely more sensual when hissed in the buzzing space between their mouths. "It's because of you, isn't it? Because I'm -" yours, he had almost said, and caught himself just in time. "Because you're inside of me." He took a shuddering breath. "Is that what this is, too?" He let his lips brush the skin around Voldemort's mouth, the jolt of thrilling energy that tore through them a punctuation mark for the statement. "Is that why... ?"
Is that why-?
And the ecstatic warmth blinked out.
It was dawn. A peacock screeched. Voldemort's trembling fingers found Nagini, but her blood was as cold as his own. The Dark Lord did not rage, or tear at the sheets. He lay, shocked at Potter's absence, just keeping from feeling for the boy's warmth beside him. Then he curled into himself for a long time, eyes tight shut, imagining he was still being touched as he had been in the dream, making himself vulnerable to imagined caresses. He did not answer Nagini's questions; he tried not to think of anything but the ghost of the boy's body, still entwined, still… still…
Eventually, Voldemort climbed out of bed – restless with need – and glided silently into his study.
Potter's wand still sat on his desk where he had left it. An ill-kept twig of a weapon. He drew it close, stroking the finger-marks left in the varnish. The Dark Lord settled himself beside the fire, Nagini coming to curl obediently at his feet. How real it had been. How like this very chamber. The ghost of the boy filled his senses, haunting the room with his unfinished words. The sharp nail of Voldemort's index finger came away from his temple with Narcissa's silvery gleam of memory, which sparked and hissed like an angry snake, as the Dark Lord flicked it bitterly into the flames.
Curled up in his armchair, with the sun just beginning to slip between the gaps in the heavy curtains, he reached disconsolately for Potter's thoughts.
The world gave a horrible, jerking shudder. Harry's eyes flew open - even though they were already open, even though they had just been gazing straight into Voldemort's for the better part of thirty minutes. But now the burning crimson eyes were nowhere in sight. There was only the darkness of the Gryffindor dormitory, lonely and unending, save for the sputtering flashlight that had wedged its way underneath his pillow. Just a dream.
Harry's heart wrenched painfully inside his chest. For the first time, he was truly upset that they had been torn from each other's minds in the night, because, dammit, they had finally been getting somewhere. Harry suspected that Lord Voldemort had never felt so human. And it was Voldemort's connection with his humanity, with Harry, that had made every underage child safe from Voldemort tonight. Perhaps - perhaps if Harry could continue to make him see and feel as a human did, perhaps the rest of the wizarding world might be saved as well.
Harry lifted his head slowly. He found that it had not been resting against his pillow, but the book. Dream Warrior. His throat tightened as he saw the beautiful, careful handwriting of the wizard that had just been shivering beneath his fingertips. He closed it with a loud snap, but his churning emotions did not vanish with the now-familiar scrawl.
Perhaps he could return to bed? It was true that he had gotten very little sleep, but Harry found that he was no longer tired. And he had fulfilled his end of the bargain; Voldemort was the one that had pulled out of their dreamscape, not Harry. So then why did he feel so empty?
He sat up, burying his face in his hands. He forced himself to stay this way for many minutes, trying to clear his thoughts, trying to keep from obsessively pouring over every fine detail of the past few hours. It was not before long that he caved, his traitorous fingers pulling out the folded sheet of parchment from where he had tucked it inside the book. He tried to read it in its entirety, but his eyes kept getting stuck at one line in particular: I know we have only truly known each other in my head, but I hope that one day this shall change.
The boy gave a weary sigh and closed his eyes.
Harry!
Harry nearly leapt out of the bed. He looked about wildly, expecting to see a pair of blood-red eyes staring at him from the folds of his bed-curtains. But he was just as alone as he had been upon waking - just as alone as he had been all night, he reminded himself. Perhaps he had fallen back asleep? That was the only explanation for -
Harry…!
He shook his head, rubbing at his scar subconsciously with the heel of one hand. He had definitely heard it this time - but it came neither from his curtains nor his bed, but from inside of him. How was that possible? "Voldemort?" he whispered as loudly as he dared. The hope he would not admit to burned brightly, treacherously inside of him.
Voldemort closed his eyes, oblivious as Nagini slid into his lap, all of his concentration focused on letting words slide through his own soul and slip into Potter's: "Yes, yes, Harry I... I did not wish to awaken..." Voldemort's half-closed eyes glittered as he rubbed the nape of his neck against the darkly embroidered upholstery of the chair. His fingers pressed against the soft armrest, clawing into the velvet. Voldemort thrilled to hear his name on those lips, murmured within him.
It was like learning that he had grown an extra limb overnight. He wondered at this new place inside of himself where Voldemort could whisper to him. The Dark Lord's pleasure shivered through him when he prodded at this space inside his soul, and he bit his lip, hope, hope.
"Me neither," he hissed softly in the darkness, unsure of how to respond in turn through the use of simple thought. It was easier to slip into Parseltongue, imagining Voldemort's face in his mind's eye. Without a wand to cast a Silencing charm, it was the safest way to speak aloud right now in a room full of sleeping boys. "I couldn't fall back asleep. I wanted to, though," he felt it was important to add. He leaned back, trying to calm himself; he was sure that his pounding heart was loud enough to wake his dorm-mates on its own, never mind the hissing. "It was... a very nice dream. I never got to thank you for dinner."
You are jesting with me, Harry, you hated the dinner. Voldemort's mood darkened as he recalled the boy's flash of temper and misplaced suspicions. He doubted if Potter had understood a word of what he had been trying to communicate.
Frustration burned into the link as Voldemort stood, lifting Nagini from his chair and gripping the mantelpiece, glaring daggers into the fire. Anger flared within him. It opened its red jaws and shrieked at Potter's absence; Voldemort fought to think as it howled in his broken mind.
Narcissa slept on the same floor: Lucius' beautiful, pureblood wife, whose lovesick feelings had so disgusted him. It had not been enough: Malfoy's punishment for losing Lord Voldemort the prophecy. Such incompetence. For all her breeding, the witch screamed the same as any Muggle woman. He needed to hurt her, kill her – anyone – Voldemort began to pace, his heart filling with unleashed fury and despair at a world which continually, spitefully denied him Harry Potter.
"No, I - wait, please -"
The hisses sounded disjointed and desperate in the silence of the dormitory. Harry fought to remember that he was alone - that this was Voldemort's fury, not his own - but it was very difficult when it was inside of him like that, so very near to his own emotions. Gritting his teeth, Harry tried to force his own calm back through the connection. He shut his eyes and remembered the way that Voldemort had felt in his arms, the way that Voldemort had held him as he'd come down from his own fit of rage; he surrounded the foreign space inside his soul with every ounce of goodwill that he possessed.
"I'm sorry," Harry whispered frantically, his fingers fisting into the sheets. He wished very badly that he were with the Dark Lord now, to soothe his temper back down to a level that was, at the very least, not quite so homicidal. "You were only trying to be kind, and I had to go and botch it all up. But - but the last bit was still nice, wasn't it? Please." His helplessness was back full-force; the brief power he had gained during the dream had shattered upon their ascent to reality.
Memory bit sharply into Voldemort's mind; the intimacies of slumber, of being coiled up in each other's skin, the room bright with Potter's presence, and his tender worship of Voldemort's flesh. The last bit was still nice, wasn't it? The voice in his mind was accompanied by a soothing calm that settled upon his temper like salve. Potter was doubtless trying to protect others from his anger, but the Dark Lord could not find it within himself to care, devouring whatever emotion was there to be salvaged at the end of this long night.
He lowered himself back into his chair, tangling his hands together, trying to remember the paths the boy's touches had taken up and down his long digits and palms. You said we were destined to kill each other... if those were the seer's words then the prophecy must be void. For I shall never kill you and, in order to achieve my death, you must already be dead - so you shall never have an opportunity to kill me. Voldemort's half-closed eyes glittered. The anger was still there, but if he laid his head very still, he could hear Potter breathing beside him.
Neither shall live while the other survives. Trelawney's voice echoed eerily in Harry's head. The image of her likeness rising up out of Dumbledore's Pensieve last spring had been burned permanently in his memory; the thought that it might truly be void - that his incessant anxiety over the course of the summer, his dread for the inevitable, might be for naught - filled him with tremendous relief.
He remembered Voldemort so easily surrendering the lives of so many children to Harry's wandering fingertips. Perhaps (hope, hope) neither of them would need to die to stop the killing after all.
"I wish that none of it mattered," Harry murmured, settling back against his pillows; his soft, sleepy hisses were almost lost in a drawn-out yawn. The letter was still open in his lap, and he couldn't resist running the tips of his fingers over the beautiful penmanship again. But his eyes lingered on the sentence that had so preoccupied his thoughts, and his breath caught in his throat. "And sometimes… sometimes I wish that it was more than dreams as well."
I have learned, Harry, that a few months - however wearisome they are to endure - are not very much time when compared with eternity. Patience, my treasured one. Still, perhaps... The words were as much for Voldemort as they were for his Horcrux, almost as though he were talking softly to himself. It was the satisfaction of Potter's confession which allowed the Dark Lord to relax into his armchair and his plans for the future. Trust, yes, Potter was beginning to trust him. His thin mouth curved upwards into a taut, greedy leer.
If my memory serves, there is one more Hogsmeade outing before Yule, is there not?
Harry's heart leapt into his throat. "Could you really?" he breathed, slipping back into English in his excitement. "But - how exactly -?" He had a feeling that Lord Voldemort making an appearance in Hogsmeade village for a lunch date with Harry Potter would not go over well with either his friends or the professors charged with his safekeeping. He felt a twinge of guilt over even allowing himself to contemplate the idea; Dumbledore and the rest of the Hogwarts' faculty were working very hard to keep the students safe, escalating security measures around the castle so that the school currently resembled more of a prison than an educational facility. But his guilt was overridden with a fresh wave of resentment for Dumbledore - Dumbledore, who had lied to Harry, who had kept all manners of important information from him, who was about to abandon him forever without so much as a single warning.
Voldemort had promised he wouldn't harm anyone under the age of seventeen. Surely it couldn't hurt to keep the Dark Lord docile in the meanwhile - and in his heart, Harry knew that he would find a way regardless.
Because above all else, Harry wanted. He had never wanted so badly in his life.
"There's one this weekend." Harry forced his words back into Parseltongue; the first beams of sunrise were beginning to seep through the cracks of his bed-curtains. "But I don't have my wand, or even my broom - and it's not exactly like you can just come meet me in the square."
Why should I not? Did you not receive Lord Voldemort's note? The best plans are those which rely upon hiding in plain sight. Yes, await me in the square. And Harry could feel that a plan was already forming in Voldemort's manic, eager thoughts. In the meantime, there are things which require my attention. But should you need me, my treasure, you have only to call and Lord Voldemort shall answer.
Hiding in plain sight? Harry's mind immediately leapt to the image of Voldemort disguised as the besotted old woman of Ron's imagining, and he had to fight not to burst into laughter. But all thoughts of laughter - of anything whatsoever, really - left him when Voldemort's spirit flooded through his senses, surrounding him, a gentle cocoon of completion.
Harry sagged back into his pillows, all the tension rushing out of his bones upon his next exhale. "The square," he murmured sleepily in agreement; with the comfort of Voldemort's mind encompassing his own, he found that it was very easy for him to feel tired again. "Will you…" He yawned, curling into himself atop his comforter, remembering only last minute to speak in Parseltongue. "Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? Like this." He wrapped his arms around himself, settling into the warm, safe swathes of the Dark Lord's mind. "S'nice."
Harry Potter's trust was not far from Lord Voldemort's mind as he walked through the snow, gliding under solemn trees. They made him think of naked black claws reaching up, tangling their stark silhouettes with the pale winter sky. The Dark Lord, in his obscuring cloak, was simply one more shadow in the empty wood: the long fingers hidden by well-lined leather gloves and the serpentine face lost within the deep hood of his cloak.
Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? The little ones at the orphanage had often asked such things of the older children, eager to make parents of them. Deluded, desperate fools. Of course, Voldemort had remained with Potter. Am I too attached to the boy... too indulgent?He had paid a high price for those few, dreaming caresses. Lord Voldemort did not forget Potter's demand.
But his pureblood followers would approve of the chance for their own progeny to grow before taking their vows to serve the Dark Lord. As for Voldemort, he did not care one way or the other. It was a slight loss of leverage, but there was only one wizard under the age of seventeen who was truly of interest to him. Besides, Potter only had the power to make bargains while Dumbledore lived to protect him.
A few ramshackle cottages stood in the clearing. The old structures seemed stooped, almost groaning under the snow. They rattled in the wind. Two ragged wizards stood outside, perhaps keeping watch, shivering and rubbing their hands over a small ball of spellfire in a jar. Pathetic. Voldemort wordlessly cast a Disillusionment Charm, tapping his shoulder with his wand, and quietly moved close enough to overhear their conversation, his booted feet not touching the ground.
"We-ell, what d'ya expect, Remus? Maybe wi'out Greyback ye'd have a chance, but..."
"They can't really believe You-Know-Who will keep his promise?"
"About improvin' our lot? We supported 'im in his last war an' that's enough for most. The Ministry sure ain't interested in improvin' our lot..."
"Dumbledore-"
"Oh, sure, Dumbledore, what's 'e ever done for us, then? Wasn't interested in findin' you another job, was 'e?"
"I wouldn't expect-"
In a way, it was almost a shame. The werewolves were desperate for anyone who would improve their station. But Voldemort's bargain had been with Greyback and dependent upon the Dark Lord allowing the man his pick of children, and right now Potter could offer more to Voldemort than Greyback's rag-tag forces.
"Excuse me, gentlemen," Voldemort's cold, high voice made the two wolves jump as they suddenly saw the cloaked stranger who had been observing them. "I am seeking a werewolf by the name of Fenrir Greyback."
"'E's inside. You ain't no wolf. Piss off."
"Tell him that Lord Voldemort wishes to speak with him," scarlet glinted from beneath the hood of Voldemort's cloak. The was a yelp rather like a kicked dog, and one of the wolves scrabbled off through the snow towards one of the hovels, leaving Voldemort with Remus Lupin, who had the amusingly pompous expression of one who believes he is about to sell his meagre, unimportant life dearly. "I am not going to kill you, werewolf." Voldemort sniffed, eyeing the wizard's miserable little conjured fire with distain. "I merely require you to watch."
And there was Greyback, poking his blunt nose around the door, a surprised look on the vicious face beneath matted, grey hair. Yellow teeth bared a smile, "My Lord!"
Voldemort executed him like the animal he was, without the dignity due to a wizard. A simple Slicing Hex across the throat. "Let that be a lesson," he said softly over the silence of Greyback's blood seeping into the deep snow, "to those who would fail Lord Voldemort. Our bargain is at an end." He disapparated.
The Dark Lord knew that Greyback would never have agreed to cease preying upon children. Easier by far to simply end the wolf's life under the auspices of some mysterious failure. To his Death Eaters he would simply say that, as they were soon to be the rulers of Wizarding Britain, they must act in accordance with the dignity of such rank, and focus their attentions on infiltrating the Ministry of Magic. The order to cease killing underage wizards would be slipped in amongst other instructions. Voldemort could not afford to look weak.
Was it weakness to allow his Horcrux such power? He shook his head, the corners of his thin mouth curving mirthlessly upwards, remembering his words to Potter: a few months - however wearisome they are to endure - is not so very much time when compared with eternity. Potter would come to him, willingly, and then all bargains would be at an end.
Sunday morning brought with it anxiety unprecedented. It had not been until the morning after that Harry had begun to think this whole thing was a very bad idea, and he'd been occupied with nothing but nauseating dread ever since. Harry had invited Voldemort into Hogsmeade Village; he was placing the lives of dozens of students in danger if the Dark Lord did not live up to their agreement. And what about Harry's life? What if the Chosen One showed up in Hogsmeade's square only to be snatched away by Lord Voldemort forever, fated to an eternity in a dark, blood-slicked cellar while Voldemort laughed and laughed over Harry's foolishness?
But then he would remember the pathetic dream-baby gasping for air in his arms, or Voldemort melting beneath him in front of a crackling fireplace. It couldn't be a trick - Harry was sure of it. There was far too much affection in Voldemort's whispers and fervent touches for a boy that he loathed so utterly. Intimacy was just as unlikely a weapon in the Dark Lord's arsenal as pity.
This did not stop Harry from spending the rest of the week leading up to the trip with something bordering very close on hysteria. A part of Harry was afraid that he had completely invented Voldemort's kindness in the delirium of their shared dream, and that his delusions of a gentle, benign Dark Lord would be shattered irrevocably by another physical confrontation much like their last encounter. By the time Sunday morning rolled around, he was so nervous that he was startling at every shift in the shadows; and when Ginny carried him a letter at breakfast from Dumbledore, requesting that they restore their private lessons the following night, he was ready to sprint back to his dormitory and refuse to emerge from his bed for the rest of the day.
"I think it's a good thing," said Hermione encouragingly, while Harry tried to decide which sudden illness would be most likely to send his friends running. "It's about time we all started focusing on the bigger picture again. Dumbledore said he had more memories to show you, right?"
Harry was so shocked by the underlying message of this statement that it took him a few good moments to realize that Hermione was probably right about Dumbledore's intentions. If Dumbledore had any suspicions about Harry's plans for his trip to Hogsmeade, he would not be waiting until the night afterward to summon Harry to his office. By the time he had finished mulling over the invitation and burying his sudden panic, his friends had finished breakfast, it was time to depart for Hogsmeade, and his opportunity to escape with a devastating, contagious disease had passed.
They joined the queue in the Entrance Hall to undergo one of Filch's thorough inspections with his Secrecy Sensor. Ron grumbled his displeasure at the wait while Hermione rambled on about the school supplies she wanted to replenish during their visit; she only had six extra quills now instead of seven after her last one had snapped during that last Transfiguration test. Harry, meanwhile, was hoping half-heartedly that perhaps Voldemort had forgotten about the trip altogether, when Filch gave him a particularly sharp jab in the side.
"Potter," he spat, passing the Sensor over Harry twice for good measure. "Professor McGonagall wanted me to inform you that your entourage will be waiting for you in the village square."
Harry's eyes widened. "Pardon?"
"Official Ministry protection for the Chosen One," Filch leered. "They've got an Auror to escort you around the village. Don't look so glum, Potter - all your dirty rule-breaking will hold till you're back in the castle."
"Really, did you expect any less?" Hermione said as they walked out into the bitterly cold October morning. "They had a whole retinue accompanying you to King's Cross. You ought to be grateful that it's just one."
Harry, however, could think of little through his rising panic. Voldemort was going to be waiting for him in the same square as an Auror - an Auror who was planning on shadowing Harry during his entire trip through Hogsmeade. The boy tried to reach out to Voldemort's mind - you have only to call and Lord Voldemort shall answer - but the connection was as lonely as the rest of him. They were walking straight into a trap, and there was little Harry could do about it, especially with his friends ushering him along the path as the sky darkened with the promise of inclement weather. He could only hope, as they approached the gates leading out of Hogwarts, that Voldemort truly had forgotten about their foolhardy rendezvous - or that his batty old woman disguise was damn convincing.
And that's it for Part IV! Many thanks to everyone who has been reviewing. We've already started editing the fifth part, so we hope to get that up for you guys by next week :)