Summary: After being turned into a snake by Snape and Dumbledore and unable to change back, Lord Voldemort has no choice but to turn to the only other living Parselmouth, Harry Potter. After making a deal with each other, Harry agrees to help the Dark Lord return to his human form. Forced to work together, how will Harry deal with having Voldemort live around his neck?

Rating: M for slight language and eventual slash

Warnings: Eventual Harry/Voldemort SLASH (please don't read if you don't like), Grey(ish)!Harry, Slightly-manipulative but not "evil"!Dumbledore

Disclaimer: I don't, and never will, own Harry Potter. All it's plots and characters belong to J.K. Rowling and company.

A/N: As always, a big thank you to all my readers! And I have more fanart by BkWriter! It's here at http: / drawr. net/ show. php?id =2621518

This chap is not beta-d yet so any spelling/grammer mistakes/stupid ideas are still mine ;)

Enjoy!


"Regular speech"

:Parseltongue:

'Thoughts'

"Spells"

:Spells:


He woke up wondering when exactly he had been Crucio'd and who the hell was going to pay for it.

Voldemort curled in on himself, intent on hiding his pounding head in the depths of his coils, only he found that his body was incapable of bending that far. Instead he just buried his head in his hands.

Hands? Fingers too.

For this Voldemort was willing to crack open his eyes just enough for him to study the twin appendages he now held away from his face. There was a moment where he thought he was mistaken, and that these really weren't his because, well, he didn't recognize them. He opened his eyes a little further. He changed his mind when he was continuously able to flex the delicate, un-clawed fingers. So these were his.

It was then that his jumbled mind caught up with another piece of information. He placed those soft, slim fingers back on his face to examine the nose that must be his as well. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have one. He moved his hand downwards and felt his full lips, and then trailed upward again to brush against his eyebrows. He carded the hand through his thick head of hair in fascination, feeling the mid-length strands fall back against his ears.

So, he had his body back. His old body. There was a certain amount of pleasure in this conclusion.

Gingerly, Voldemort sat up against the headboard and looked around the room. He remembered how he got here, in the form of a pale cobra wrapped around Harry Potter's shoulders. And then…yes, he took the potion; that he knew for certain. Beyond that, though, there was a distinct lack of clear, definable recollection. Voldemort rubbed his temples with his new hands, trying to fight the daze that had settled over his mind.

He remembered… a burst of magic…glowing, green eyes…heat, skin, confusion…and then pain. Lots of it. It really was the only clear thing he could remember. Everything else was a blur.

Voldemort hissed in discomfort as he slid out of bed, absently noting that he was unclothed. He flexed his toes against the cold wood floor, nonetheless enjoying the sensation. He would never take his hands and feet for granted again.

Hanging from one of the bed posts was a set of plain black robes. He took them, and dressed himself, feeling a bit more ready to take on the day.

Still barefoot, he padded across the room to the easily identified bathroom. He stopped and looked at himself in the mirror. There it was: his old face. His eyes were still red, he idly observed, but that was of little consequence. Voldemort had to admit the initial investigations of the changes with his fingertips really didn't compare to seeing it with his own eyes.

One would be hard pressed to find someone unwilling to admit that, intellectually, Voldemort was a genius. It didn't take him long to use his virtuoso to deduce what had happened yesterday. No matter what he did, whatever rituals or rejuvenating spells he used, there was only one thing that would reverse the inevitable effects on his body as a result of his Horcruxes.

It was because there weren't any Horcruxes. He was no longer immortal. He was human.

Part of Voldemort watched with a detached fascination as the panic and shock that had held off until that moment colored his expression while the other part of him experienced these emotions to their full extent. That same, disconnected portion of himself grudgingly admitted with wry humor that the old coot Dumbledore may actually had been right about something.

Voldemort's chest was tight, and he placed a hand right over his rapidly beating heart. This, apparently, was him in his prime, in his greatest point of strength and fortitude. His soul, his emotions, his mortality, his humanness…all brought back by a potion meant to re-claim the strength of bygone days.

It seemed, perhaps, that he had miscalculated something along the way.

Voldemort pressed his hand more firmly into his ribs. He wasn't sure if he could ever admit it aloud, but all the things he was feeling inside—this heat and ice, harmony and discord, and fullness to the point it almost hurt but never emptiness—were things that he might have actually missed. He remembered everything from his life. He remembered the pain of splitting his soul, and the resulting vacant and numb emotions that settled in his core. He remembered it, but he didn't feel it anymore. The offset was strange.

And because Voldemort could remember everything, he could honestly say he had never felt better in his entire life.

His eyes gleamed with vigor as he stared at himself in the mirror, deep in thought.

Voldemort pushed away from the sink he was leaning on and exited the bathroom, already bored of the bedroom and needing a new environment. Before he left, though, he paused and picked up an object that had been abandoned on the floor and put it in his pocket.

He wanted to find where Harry Potter had run off to.

From memory, Voldemort easily navigated the small house until he found the tail end of the Boy-Who-Lived. He quirked an eyebrow at the sight of Harry's backside and head in the Floo. Being who he was, Voldemort was very interested in knowing who was on the other side of the Fire-Call. Using a bit of magic he learned at some point during his life, he helped himself to firsthand knowledge of the conversation Harry was having.

He immediately recognized the voice of Dumbledore. This brought him a certain amount of discontent.

Voldemort listened tensely yet passively as Dumbledore explained his plan to incapacitate him. He could say he was honestly impressed by Dumbledore's cleverness. Idly he noted how, not calm, but generally stoic he felt, considering he should be raging at having been trapped and conned so fully. But then again, he wasn't alone in the deception; Harry Potter was his partner in this.

Strange, how it was now that he experienced a twinge of anger. Did his emotions have a delay mechanism? This having a soul thing was going to take some getting used to and practice interpreting all the curious little quirks.

After a pause in the conversation, Voldemort heard Harry asked softly, "Why didn't you tell me about any of this?" He waited for the answer, also wondering why the great Light Lord would keep his precious Savior from knowing the truth.

Ah, there was the ranging anger he had expected. It was a relief to feel the urge to reach through the flames and wring Dumbledore by the neck using his own insufferable beard. In a way it was a little shocking—though perhaps not by much—to learn that Dumbledore, the man who had defeated Grindelwald and left him to rot alive in Numengard, a man full of talks about righteousness and concord, had created a plan quite devious in nature that would ultimately end in his death at the hands of Harry Potter, a wizard not even of age yet.

Voldemort recognized the signs of his newly regenerated soul freezing until he could feel nothing but cool hate and resentment. Almost unconsciously, he planned for his survival. Harry Potter was no longer his Horcrux…after the year and a half required of the deal, there was no reason he couldn't retaliate if the boy wanted him dead. He ignored that tiny crack in the ice that radiated what might have been...disappointment.

But then that crack grew and shattered the ice inside as Harry said something unexpected. Dumbledore didn't hear him the first time he said it, and that was alright for Voldemort because he needed to hear it a second time to believe it.

Trust Harry Potter to be harebrained enough to give his enemy a chance.

These damn emotional Wronski Feints were going to give him whiplash. He always despised the useless game of Quidditch.

He could almost sympathize with Harry once Dumbledore told him about the accidental Horcrux. If Harry's reaction was anything to go by, he was about as dumbfounded as Voldemort was when he found out.

There was something unusual going on, though, as at that very moment a familiar link was brought to Voldemort's awareness when he felt someone prodding at the other end.


Harry's eyes snapped open, the green orbs glittering with some intense emotion.

"It's still there," he whispered, voice filled with wonder.

Not only was the connection not gone, but it was very strong, too, and exceptionally clear. Yesterday, now that Harry could stop and analyze what happened, he remembered he could feel something pulling, trying to merge back with Voldemort. It hurt…a lot. It was never torn from him, though. The feeling of stretched elastic was the last thing he remembered before he dropped into unconsciousness.

"Did you say something, Harry?" Dumbledore inquired.

Meeting Dumbledore's eyes, Harry opened his mouth to repeat himself, but he was suddenly dragged backwards and held against a solid body.

"Hey, what…!"

"Potter, if you have any intelligence at all, you will tell Dumbledore nothing."

Harry had only a moment to digest that Voldemort was apparently awake before he turned to the more immediate situation. "What? Why?"

Voldemort growled in frustration. "What do you think he will do once he figures out his plan failed?"

Harry hesitated. "I don't know."

The hands gripping his upper arms squeezed painfully. "Yes, you do."

Trying to wriggle out of the restraining hold, Harry said, "I won't let him manipulate me again. But let me tell you this…if I'm wrong and you do need to be stopped, I will not hesitate to ensure your last Horcrux—me—will not be in the way," he finished firmly.

"No, you won't," Voldemort agreed solemnly, though Harry wasn't sure to which of his statements the Dark Lord was agreeing to. "Now, try keeping a secret from Dumbledore for once," Voldemort ordered.

Harry stopped his struggling. Without any further preamble, Voldemort shoved him back into the Floo flames. Dumbledore looked rather alarmed by Harry's abrupt exit and sudden return.

"My dear boy, are you alright?"

Harry let out a nervous chuckle. "Ah, yes, I'm fine."

"What happened?"

Harry could feel a hand tangled in the back of his shirt. No doubt Voldemort was prepared to pull him back out at a moment's notice.

"House Elves can be surprisingly insistent," Harry told him. "I told one of mine to give me hourly updates about Voldemort, and he did as ordered," Harry lied smoothly. He was always good under pressure.

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "And what is the news?"

"Sleeping like a baby still," Harry jibed for Voldemort's benefit. That hand on his shirt gave a sharp tug. Dumbledore seemed both amused and disturbed by this description.

"Harry, I really must insist you let someone else go to where you are. I do not think Voldemort will be asleep forever, and when he wakes up I doubt he will be as agreeable. You don't need to be alone when you face him," he added in a way meant to be reassuring, but Harry was not comforted. It was clear Dumbledore still expected him to fulfill the prophesy as he saw it. Didn't the man understand he didn't want to?

Harry was still overly conscious of the presence at his back.

Harry said softly to his long-time mentor, "Professor, you are a great man, but you don't know everything. You are fully capable of making mistakes; just like me, and just like Voldemort. What if you are making one right now? You think Voldemort has to die; I think he can be saved."

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "He won't change, Harry."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Change? Probably not. If he's smart, though," Harry said, pausing to empathize the point to a certain eavesdropper, "then he will realize that if he wants to get anywhere in the world and actually have one to rule over, to have any semblance of what he envisioned, then he will stop being a selfish bastard and stop making this a war between Light and Dark and choose to work on the things that actually matter."

"And you think he will listen to you?" Dumbledore asked doubtfully.

Harry shrugged, forgetting Dumbledore probably couldn't see the gesture. "Everyone in their life needs help at some point, and though he may think it, he is not excused from this. I don't think anyone has been brave enough"—'or stupid enough,' Harry mused—"to tell him he's being an idiot."

Dumbledore visibly thought long and hard about what Harry had to say. "Perhaps," he said finally, "I have been a bit single-minded, and have not considered other possibilities. But, I cannot find it within myself to trust him."

"I just need you to trust me right now, then."

Dumbledore studied the face of one Harry Potter for several long, quiet moments.

"Alright, my boy," he said slowly. "I will trust you to do the right thing…whatever that is, when the time comes," he added, hinting to Harry that he hadn't fully given up on his original ideals.

Harry nodded. "Good."

"What will you do now?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry told him, "Well, I'd like to finish school. I don't know exactly if I'll make it back before the term starts again, but I promise to make up any assignments I've missed. I would come back now, but…I think there are some things I need to take care of here."

"I understand, Harry. I am glad to hear you are coming back, because otherwise I would have insisted that you did so."

"I made sure I would be able to finish school; it was part of the deal I made with Voldemort for helping him become human again. Hogwarts herself ensured the terms were binding, so for until the end of my Seventh Year there won't be a war, or at least not the bloodshed kind. But…I'm hoping there won't be one at all."

Dumbledore ran a hand down his beard. "Just remember this is not a normal person we are talking about, Harry."

Harry nodded. "I know. I have to go now, Professor."

"Alright, Harry. I'll be here, if you need anything."

"Thanks, Sir."

Pulling his head out of the fireplace, Harry disconnected it from the Floo Network and sighed, mind in turmoil over all he had learned. And, it kind of felt like he had just adopted a dog that had been labeled dangerous. But how exactly does one muzzle a Dark Lord?

The hand on his shirt was gone, but Harry remained kneeling on the ground, eyes focused on the sooty bricks in the floor of the hearth.

"You heard all of that, didn't you, even though Fire-Calls should be private." Turning to look over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched questioningly, Harry spotted Tom Marvolo Riddle, who had retreated across the room to lean a shoulder casually on the doorframe of the sitting room, a quiet and contemplative expression on his face. He was dressed in the plain black robes Harry had Scavy run out and get for the man. As Harry inspected him, Voldemort smirked.

"You know me too well," he remarked, and Harry couldn't help but enjoy the smooth, rich tone of his voice. His voice vaguely resembled how he sounded both as a snake and as snake-face, though compared to both it sounded more masculine and far less hissy. Yes, Harry liked it very much.

"So, it seems to me you're going to let me take over Wizarding World now," Voldemort commented mildly, "if I…behave."

Harry dropped his chin towards his chest and groaned. The way he said it really did sound like Harry considered him to be a stray dog. Then again, substitute the term "dog" for the term "snake" and one may have an accurate description of this whole situation…

"War is messy and wasteful. I don't understand why you didn't try the Slytherin way; you know, by being clever, subtle, and cunning. Really, for being Slytherin's Heir you chose a very blatant way to get what you want."

Glancing back over his shoulder, Harry saw Voldemort scowling at him. Hey, someone had to say it. Harry turned back towards the fireplace.

"So," Harry drew out slowly, "what do you think?"

Voldemort—or maybe he was Tom now? Harry wasn't sure—Voldemort-Tom lifted up one of his pale elegant hands to eyelevel and looked at the back of it before turning it over to view his palm. He flexed his fingers before spreading them wide again.

"I don't know, it's quite a change from being a snake, and I have to say I enjoy looking in a mirror far more than I have recently." He rolled his eyes up to glance at Harry, who noticed both that they were still scarlet and that they were gleaming impishly.

Harry glowered and stood up, turning around so he could lean his back against the fireplace. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well, at least we know you're still a snarky bastard. You knew what I was asking," he accused, though his voice sounded more amused than anything. He looked across the room at Voldemort, eyes searching his face for any sign of what the man was thinking and feeling, but of course there was nothing to see but a carefully composed expression. Harry himself was trying to appear just as calm, but knew that at least some of his nervousness was leaking through in his body language.

He really wished he knew what Voldemort was thinking.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said in an amused and soft sort a way such as the young wizard had never heard him say before, and Harry felt something clench inside his chest. Pulling his Gryffindor courage to the forefront, he pushed away from the fireplace and crossed the room so he stood directly in front of the other man, who had straightened away from the doorframe. Green eyes stared into red. This close, Harry could see that Voldemort's eyes, while still scarlet, had pupils that weren't slits anymore, and the red color didn't remind him of fresh blood. Instead, they resembled the shade of a faceted ruby or red wine, which in truth didn't make much difference color wise, but to Harry it made all the difference in the world.

Just as he did yesterday before his body was ready to reabsorb the Horcrux soul pieces, Voldemort reached up and brushed Harry's fringe out of the way before he caressed Harry's scar, his finger gently tracing the lightning bolt shape. Harry knew it wouldn't hurt, but he hadn't expected for it to feel so nice either, to have that simple contact with the man who was and probably still would be the Dark Lord.

"Why am I still a Horcrux?"

Voldemort reached into his pocket and pulled out an empty, crystal vial.

"Harry, did you by chance take some of the potion yourself?" he asked, with dry humor.

Harry's first response was to send his brows up to his hairline. "No, of course not, I wouldn't—"

He stopped and nearly pulled his hand up to smack himself in the forehead.

"It spilled and splashed onto my face when I was knocked backwards by the magical backlash. Maybe I accidently swallowed some," Harry told Voldemort bewilderedly. He never would have taken the potion on his own free will—he just didn't think that it would help him in any way. And now that he had accidently took some and knew the results, he wasn't sure how "helpful" it was.

Harry had caught on to the implications that the Horcrux, that foreign piece of soul he harbored, was actually a good thing…supposedly.

"I took it first," stated Voldemort, his expression calculating.

"So, what?" Harry said. "You took it first and were in the process of regaining your soul, but then I had some and it caused me to hold on to the Horcrux and did not let it be taken?"

It made sense, but to Harry it still wasn't quite right. "It was like we were having a tug of war with it," Harry murmured. "But I don't remember there being a winner." Harry had already thought about the new strength of the connection, but he hadn't yet acknowledged how much stronger it was compared to before. It was almost tangible, a trail of magic leading to the other who owned the piece within Harry.

Harry questioningly looked up at Voldemort, who was at least a head taller than him. "Could it be possible that our magics combined could have altered the effect of the potion, much like when you turned into a snake?"

Voldemort nodded slowly. "A compromise," he stated thoughtfully.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "We both took the potion more or less at the same time, and the effects were working in opposite directions. So, what if, as a concession, the soul piece stayed with me, but you have full access to it?" He tapped his scar with his finger. "Can't you feel it?" Harry paused. "It's so strong."

Voldemort, in a rare sign of disgruntlement, rubbed his hand against his forehead. "It's very difficult to tell that it is not with me." He had a very odd expression on his face.

Neither said anything for several beats.

"You're human now, Voldemort," Harry remarked softly. "Really human. What does that mean to you and what will you do now?" Harry was surprised at the strength of his voice as he critically questioned the Darkest wizard in history about his plans.

Voldemort's hand fell back to his side and he inhaled deeply before slowly breathing out. "I don't know, Potter. I haven't been human in so long that I can't truly remember what it was like to begin with," he mouthed deprecatingly. All throughout, he kept looking at Harry's forehead.

"Did you know about it before?" Harry inquired.

Voldemort ceased his scrutiny of Harry's scar to look into the other's eyes. "Just recently."

"Ironic, isn't it?"

Voldemort huffed. "If I had killed you I imagine you would have found a way to come back just to laugh in my face," he said wryly.

"Of course, I could never miss that chance." Harry paused after the gentle teasing, surprised at how nothing seemed that different from the time Voldemort was a snake and now, and then he asked, "Are you…are you mad? That your Horcruxes are gone save for…the one in me? As much as you'd like to kill me…" Harry snapped his mouth shut and looked down at the ground. He didn't know why his voice wasn't working. He could feel Voldemort's gaze on the crown of his head.

"I won't—can't—do it now," Voldemort blandly finished for Harry. "It's strange, as I probably should feel angry—I don't like not being in control, after all—but I'm not. I am angry at one Albus Dumbledore, though. Old meddling coot may have more Slytherin than even me, Harry."

Harry stole a glance upwards. "…hurts to say that, doesn't it?"

"Does it hurt you to think, Potter?" Voldemort snapped, and while Harry flinched slightly, he didn't back away. Voldemort looked at Harry with narrowed, irritated eyes before he dropped the glare and sighed resignedly. "Maybe just a little…"

Tentatively, Harry offered a smile. So maybe there were some differences from before. Teasing the Dark Lord while he was a snake had been an easy and relatively safe (for the moment) endeavor, but now that he was presumably at full, magical strength, he was, even without a wand and the snake-face, still very intimidating and dangerous.

"Do you want lunch?" Harry abruptly blurted. "I'm starved, and I'm sure you'd like to eat something that wasn't a rat for once, huh?"

After giving him a narrowed-eyed look, Voldemort agreed, and Harry led to way to the kitchen where the House Elves had left two plates of food on the table Harry had eaten at earlier. Harry remarked that it was a little creepy how they did that. The Dark Lord had simply rolled his eyes and sat down.

Lunch was decidedly awkward but not overly so. Neither Voldemort nor Harry offered comments that could lead to deeper, more complicated discussions. Those were better left for later.

It was as Voldemort was taking a bit of meatball from his pasta that Harry remembered something he'd said earlier and grinned wickedly, asking, "So, when do we get to go castrate Lucius Malfoy?"

Voldemort promptly choked and spat the meatball back on his plate. Glaring murderously at Harry, he wandlessly cast a stinging hex at the boy, causing him to yelp and fall out of his chair.

Pulling himself back up using the tabletop as support, Harry groaned but still had a slight smile on his face. "You've been waiting to do that for a long time, haven't you? I hope that counts as an act of war and you've just lost your magic."

Voldemort merely responded to that by sending another hex, clearly showing that he had not, in fact, lost his magic.


Harry drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair. His eyes were scanning everything in the room save for the Dark Lord sitting in the other seat.

They had relocated to the sitting room again after lunch. It felt oddly domestic. He found this room to be the coziest and most relaxing room in the house, especially after he had lit an actual fire in the fireplace. He sat in one of the overstuffed sandy-brown chairs, while Voldemort sat in the other next to his so that they both partially faced the fire and partially to the other person. They were supposed to be talking—or something—but Harry didn't know where to start and Voldemort wasn't exactly offering much either.

Well, Harry could try something…

"Um…"

Voldemort cocked an eyebrow at his elegance.

"Yes?"

Harry drummed harder. "So…"

Harry scowled at himself. This wouldn't be so hard if he hadn't had one particular question on his mind. To be fair, it wasn't everyday one had to ask their mortal (ex?) enemy what sort of dastardly, conniving plan involved kissing said enemy.

Harry fidgeted in the seat he sat on, alternating between looking into the fire and glancing at Voldemort.

"Potter, if you don't sit still I'll be forced to petrify you to ensure you do," he said, all high-and-mighty.

Harry wrinkled his nose. "I'm sorry, there's just a lot I want to ask you and I'd rather not get cursed if I say something wrong."

"Terrified I will enact all those torture threats I've made over the last weeks?"

"Thought you wouldn't kill me 'cause I'm your Horcrux," Harry grumbled and sunk deeper into his chair.

"I said torture threats, Potter, not death threats."

Frowning, Harry looked at the other man full on for once in disregard of possibility of pain. "Do you really not want to kill me anymore?"

Instead of right out answering, Voldemort said, "You said you didn't want to kill me…is that true?"

Harry cursed Voldemort's non-answer and his emotional control of his expression. Would it kill the man to just give a tiny hint of what he was thinking?

Nevertheless, Harry responded to the question given to him first. "Yes, it's true. I'm not an assassin."

Voldemort's expression was still blank, but his eyes now held a certain intensity to them. "You're my Horcrux. I take good care of the things which are mine."

Harry blinked at the underlying possessiveness to the statement and his immediate reaction was to say, "I'm not an object, and I'm not yours."

Harry only had to blink once more and he was up and out of his seat and pressed against the nearest convenient wall as Voldemort held him against it. He probably should have expected such explosiveness from the Dark Lord, but he hadn't exactly considered just how much Voldemort might actually feel he was in his right.

"Hear this, Potter, you are mine. My soul, my Horcrux."

Harry squirmed, trying to free himself before finding it a useless endeavor and stilled to look Voldemort in his burning eyes.

"Yes, it's your soul, but I am myself. I am not your property to control."

"And what do you suggest I let you do?"

The two were so close Harry could feel Voldemort's breath of his face.

"It's the prophesy."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "What?" he spat.

"I'm your equal."

"You're also the one supposed to kill me."

Harry scrunched his nose in a grimace. "I hate divination," he said almost conversationally, as if it was normal to talk to someone while he was pressed against a wall. "I always thought it was a load of rubbish."

"Get to the point," the Dark Lord snapped.

Harry shrugged. "Basically, I think we should just ignore our prophesy."

"You just said you want to take the 'you're my equal' part literally," Voldemort sniped irritably.

Sighing, Harry said, "Fine, if you're going to be so difficult, let me ask you this: when you woke up this morning, how did you feel?"

"Sore."

Harry huffed in frustration. "That's not what I mean. You just got your soul back. You can't tell me, that after years and years of going around with only a fraction of it—oh, and add the years you spent as a shade or a little golem—you can't tell me you've never felt more alive. I don't know about you, but spending every year with a homicidal maniac chasing after me intent on my death makes me feel more like I'm surviving than living."

Now there was a sharp, contemplating expression of Voldemort's visage. Harry knew he was smart and that it wouldn't take him long to catch on to what he was trying to say.

"You think…that the prophesy is already fulfilled."

Harry cocked his head. "A piece of crap, fulfilled," he sing-songed, "whatever way you want to see it. Why not say it's done and over with?"

"You think you've vanquished the Dark Lord, then?" Voldemort asked, relatively amused.

In response and without really knowing why, Harry brought up a free hand and trailed the pads of his fingertips down Voldemort's cheek, the touch so light it almost wasn't a touch at all. Voldemort's eyes changed once again, losing something of the intense concentration.

"The Dark Lord Voldemort never looked this good," Harry stated mildly as he met Voldemort's eyes. "You look like Tom Riddle. Do you remember what Professor Slughorn said about him at the Christmas party?" Almost unconsciously, Harry caressed Voldemort's cheek again. "I think you should listen to him."

While Harry was still set against the wall, Voldemort's clutch on his collar had gradually loosened so it was more like he was resting his hand on Harry's shoulder than gripping it. The heat of it almost soothed the place where that same hand had held a little too hard.

"Very well, Harry. I will think on it." That felt like an ending to the conversation, but Voldemort did not immediately move away. Harry tried not to fidget at the close proximity. But eventually the older man stepped away, his eyes, which had stayed locked with the younger wizard's, turning to another part of the room. Harry sighed.

'For a moment I thought he would kiss me again,' Harry voiced in his mind. That dark voice inside him whispered, '"Thought" or "hoped"?'

Harry squeaked and moved away from the wall.

"Tell me, Potter, what do you see for the Wizarding World?"

Harry, feeling awkward standing in the middle of the room, returned to his chair. Voldemort did not, instead looking perfectly natural where he stood.

"Well, how cliché would it be if I said peace?"

"Enough to make me gag."

"You really are a charmer," Harry muttered under his breath. "Fine, you tell me what you really want."

Voldemort smirked. "I want Dumbledore dead."

"Because that's not cliché," Harry reproached scathingly. And here he thought he'd managed to make a dent in Voldemort's brain, while maybe all he had been doing was knocking his knuckles on solid steel. "He's already dying, what does it matter to you?"

"He is the leader of the Light. They will be much easier to control if they are first broken by their leader's murder."

Harry gaped. "'Control'? 'Murder?' Dammit, Voldemort, what kind of political move is it if you declare war on them? They won't just back down because he's murdered by your hand. The thing is, I think you know that," Harry accused. "Why do you really want Dumbledore dead? Revenge?"

Voldemort's condescending visage was shaded in shadow as the light outside faded over the horizon. His eyes burned the red of a dying sun. He sneered. "You can't tell me you aren't furious at Dumbledore for hiding almost every important detail about your life."

"Of course I am!" Harry exclaimed loudly, standing up from his still-cold chair. And he was; Dumbledore had resorted to manipulation rather than telling him the truth his entire life. "Nothing about my life has ever been what it seemed."

"Then why don't you do anything about it?" Voldemort suggested.

"I am doing something about it. Don't you see? I refused to kill you because I don't think I need to, in case you don't remember."

Great lot that was turning out to be. Harry was beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake. He and Voldemort were still…not quite on opposite sides of the war, but far from seeing eye to eye on how things should be. And maybe Voldemort really couldn't see anything else but what he wants.

Harry couldn't call himself strictly on the Light side, but he wasn't Dark either, and nor was he strictly Neutral in the sense of the term. He supposed he fought for a fourth party in the Wizarding World which to make it simple could be called Grey in whatever shades it came in. If he couldn't find a way to get the Light and Dark to get along, then there was a possibility the Wizarding World would always be divided. Things were coming to a head, and pretty soon something was going to have to give.

Voldemort's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer to Harry, a tantalizing, almost predatory glint in the ruby red. "And what are you hoping to accomplish by letting me live? In that very act you are giving me permission to do as I please. You know who I am, how there is no guarantee I would ever listen to you or anyone else. I'll give you that having a complete…soul has proven to be rather enlightening, but that hasn't changed the integral part of who I am." He took another step closer, but Harry stood his ground. "Tell me, why did you really not want to kill me?"

Something about the way he said it threw up metaphorical red flags in Harry's mind. "I'm not a murderer," he supplied assertively. "Everyone deserves a second chance," he added in a softer tone.

Voldemort was very close now.

"But why me? Maybe you've forgetting that I can see into your mind, either with Legilimency or through the Horcrux?" the Dark Lord hissed almost beguilingly. Harry frowned. What did that have to do with anything?

"You see, Harry," Voldemort emphasized, "I saw what you were thinking, just a short time ago."

Harry honestly had no clue what he was talking about. He figured his blank expression would clue Voldemort in. In fact, when he didn't react, Voldemort's eyes narrowed even more.

"I saw your…fantasy."

That got a reaction from Harry, because he immediately knew what he was talking about, but he probably was not reacting how Voldemort was expecting.

"What!" he exclaimed before falling into a fit of unhinged laughter. "That…is not…oh Merlin…a fantasy of mine!" Suddenly all humor washed out of Harry's aura and his laughter was borderline eerily cut off. "That was a memory. Of yesterday, hello? You should have it too, only at a different perspective."

Harry could visibly see wheels turning in Voldemort's mind, and it was almost comical how Voldemort took a stumbling step backwards when he connected the dots. Harry wasn't going to let him off the hook that easy though. He brought it up, he was going to have to finish it. Harry followed that step back with a step forward of his own and gave Voldemort a solid poke to his breastbone.

"It was you who kissed me, so don't go accusing me of being the one with fantasies."

Harry had only seen such a shocked expression on this face when he was down in the Chamber of Secrets stabbing a Basilisk fang into an old diary.

"That…was real?" Voldemort choked out.

"Sure was, Riddle. You don't remember? Gee, I don't know if I should be glad or insulted," Harry voiced sardonically. "I didn't even know you liked men," Harry muttered, suddenly feeling a bit flustered. "So, ah, yeah…since you don't remember it I'll just forget it ever happened too." He moved to make a quick retreat but found himself frozen with Voldemort latched onto his arm.

It was clearly harder for Voldemort to just casually brush off this knowledge like he normally could, but eventually he straightened his shoulders and smirked roguishly, never giving up his grip on Harry's bicep.

"Did you like it?" he asked in a way that had Harry blushing and fumbling for a retort.

"Ah…I…you kissed me!" he finally settled for and immediately realized how useless that was. Voldemort gave him a wry glance that seemed to indicate that was a useless thing to say as well.

"There is something attractive about you," Voldemort admitted. "And there certainly is more incentive with you being my Horcrux."

"That doesn't make me your plaything." Harry was beginning to panic, and didn't know why. He just suddenly had to get away, and said the first thing that came to mind. "Look, this isn't working. You're free to leave whenever you want, I'll see you in a year and a half if it comes to that." With a short burst of strength Harry freed himself from the only mildly restraining grasp and bolted.

Not bothering to check if he was being followed, Harry fled upstairs to the master bedroom and locked the door behind him. He was Master of this house, and it would not let anyone in whom he didn't want.

Emotions in turmoil, Harry sat on the too-big-for-one-person bed and drew his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them as he stared at the wall. He felt like a quitter and a failure…what was the point of all this that the moment he panicked he fled? Why did he panic? Harry decided put all his effort into trying not to think.

Voldemort would be gone in the morning, Harry figured. There was no reason for him to stay.


Voldemort sat in the sitting room for a long time, watching as the magically-fueled flame sputtered in the hearth.

That boy was seriously more trouble than he was worth. If ever he doubted before, he couldn't doubt now that if Harry really wanted to, he would be the death of him.

There was something building within him, something that started the moment Potter picked him up and warmed his chilled snake's body with his own human body heat, even before Voldemort knew about the Horcrux within the young wizard. It was easy enough to ignore initially, but with the loss of his Horcruxes came the loss of his numbed emotions. It was only now that he couldn't ignore the pull that had been there for a while to something he could not rightfully explain.

There had been hurt in Harry Potter's eyes as he so quickly gave up on even trying to make their odd allegiance work before he left. It made Voldemort feel uncomfortable…even troubled. He supposed that maybe Harry was correct by saying it wasn't going to work in the end. Yes, he could see it now. He had his ideals about how things should be, and if Potter didn't like them why should he, a Dark Lord, care about what a sixteen year old boy thinks?

A boy surprisingly smart and insightful for his age…so remarkably like him at sixteen and yet so utterly different there was almost no comparison.

Damn, his thoughts never got away with him before. They were gallingly fragmented. It was possible he was having a break down—a side effect of the potion, perhaps.

Voldemort looked down at his slender hands. Harry was right about one thing…these weren't the hands of Lord Voldemort. Alive, Harry said, and he was right about that as well. When he breathed now, it felt like a necessary pleasure, rather than a boring routine.

But ultimately it came down to a choice: was he Tom Marvolo Riddle, a half-blood orphan prodigy, or the Dark Lord Voldemort? Either way, he's been changed by the circumstances of the past weeks; by the potions' effects, or perhaps by other things. He would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't gained a new sense of…humbleness…while being in the care—good care—of Harry Potter. He could go back to the way he was—it might even be easy—but he thought it would almost be cheating himself.

Did he want to live? Or did he want to die? Live, of course, but did that depend on the decision of Tom Riddle versus Voldemort? It was all under his control, and yet his life felt like it was running wild. It simultaneously angered him and caused him fear.

Voldemort straightened in his chair and felt for the other wizard in the house. It was so easy to do, even more than before. Harry was sleeping, but it wasn't peaceful.

He should leave. He really should. Harry told him to. Harry had already given up on him. Who was the failure in this?

But he was the one who kissed Harry. Why? He didn't do that to anybody, not even when he fucked, which, admittedly, hadn't been in a while.

Nobody possessed as much weight in his life like Harry Potter. It wasn't arrogance if he said he had a similar stance in Harry's life as well.

Harry had saved his life…multiple times. What had he ever done for him? Why did he care?

All he was doing was asking himself questions and not finding any answers. Voldemort felt tired. And cold, despite the fire. He stood up and thought of his private home, where Nagini and his wand would be waiting for him. He gathered his magic to Disapparate.

The magic dissipated unused as he instead walked upstairs.


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