Harry was twenty-nine now, and next year he would be thirty. He thought about the number of his age often. What it meant in the grand scheme of things, how much bigger that number stood to grow in the future.
He had told Voldemort that he would take the years as they came. Only, hitting thirty felt like an invisible line riddled with hidden meanings; he would soon be leaping over it, no seatbelt on, no safety catches in place. Thirty years out of an immeasurable denominator.
When Harry had asked her, Nagini had said that the number of years in her life had mattered little. She measured life in moments, in the pleasures she sought, in the achievements she won, in the time she spent with her Lord and his followers. It was a simple way to look at things, and Harry hoped he could manage it.
Still, Harry was mostly content with the way everything was. Unfortunately, that didn't mean there was nothing to worry about.
Following Harry's confirmation that Nagini was sick, Voldemort had grown… well, impulsive was a good way of describing it. The mercurial mood from before the war ended had returned, and Voldemort's fuse was unbelievably short for anyone who was not Harry or Nagini.
Not one had been seriously harmed just yet, but Harry felt it would only be a matter of time before it happened.
But it was no surprise, really, that Voldemort was working himself into mania over Nagini's weakened state. Harry still had no idea what had caused her illness. Voldemort refused to talk about it at all, and Harry wasn't knowledgeable enough on familiars and their possible illnesses to be able to figure it out on his own.
Harry had debated sending an owl to Ernie, but such an action came with its own risks. Harry didn't want to get Ernie in trouble for something that the Healer hadn't asked to be involved in.
Which, unfortunately, left Harry on his own to run damage control in the manor and at the office.
Narcissa was one of few people who could still frequent the manor without any issue. Harry often wondered if she was still reporting back to Voldemort with their conversations, or if their interactions were now built on a mutual appreciation of each other.
Harry stirred a spoon through his cup of tea. Then he tapped it on the edge, dislodging the droplet that clung to the spoon, and set the spoon down onto the saucer below. Narcissa was distracted today; she kept having to undo mistakes in her embroidery. So Harry had let them sit mostly in silence, thinking that she might feel comfortable enough to share whatever she was bothering her.
"How are Draco and Astoria doing?" Harry asked, when it became apparent she was not about to share. The subject of her son was one she always liked to talk about, so Harry hoped it could coax her into a happier mood.
But Narcissa's eyes began to water, much to Harry's horror. He had never seen her cry before, and he was unsure what level of comfort would be appropriate to offer.
She produced a handkerchief to mop at her eyes, sniffling. "We have received terrible news," she said.
Harry allowed her to compose herself before he asked, "What's wrong?"
And so Narcissa proceeded to explain, in clipped and clinical terms, the blood curse that had afflicted Astoria's family for centuries. It had surfaced in Astoria's blood after generations of dormancy; she would deteriorate over time, weakening until the curse took her life.
"They are expecting a child soon," Narcissa finished, and she once again appeared close to tears. "I don't know what to do."
"Does… does the Dark Lord know?"
"He is aware of the situation," Narcissa said. She had long since set her embroidery aside, and now her hands twisted themselves in her lap. "He had said he would seek a solution, only—" She stopped, glancing up at him. "Do you know? Has any progress been made?"
Harry didn't know, but did have his suspicions, and he would feel terrible if he told her that Voldemort had been preoccupied with other things. "I don't know how well things are going," Harry said. "He hasn't been telling me much lately. But I know he values you and your family, Narcissa." The words tasted sour in his mouth, and Harry resolved to bring this topic up with Voldemort at the next opportunity. "I'll be sure to remind him, when I can, and I'll let you know what he says."
"Thank you." Narcissa smiled. "I appreciate your help in this."
"I just hope that I can help," Harry said honestly. "Maybe you should have Astoria send along any relevant information to me as well, and I'll see what I can do at the Ministry."
"I will be sure to do so." She stood, moving towards him, and placed both of her hands atop his. Her eyes were brighter, her smile more hopeful. "You are a good man, Harry. Your position is a credit to your talents and your compassion. I know that, with you by our Lord's side, there is nothing that cannot be achieved."
Voldemort continued to work in the room Harry had begun to think of as a laboratory. It was where Voldemort conducted his grander tests and experiments, where there was room for the wide table that held a frightening number of artifacts, many of them no doubt dark in nature.
Today in particular, things were going poorly. Of course, Harry still had little to no clue what was actually going on, but he could discern from Voldemort's disposition whether the work was productive or not.
Nagini was off wandering in the manor, leaving Harry to read and doze in and out of wakefulness. The air was thicker than normal, a result of that heavy magic in the air, hot and electric. But the magic was familiar—it was Voldemort's magic. Harry had spent enough time around the man to feel relatively at ease even when surrounded by that suffocating aura of power.
But right now, said aura was gradually passing over into warning levels of discomfort, and so Harry stretched, yawning, looking over to see what was going on.
Voldemort had shed his heavy outer robes and had his shirtsleeves pushed up past the elbows. But he also had ceased all movement in this moment; his shoulders were fraught with tension, his right hand clenched around a glass vial that Harry was sure must be on the verge of shattering to splinters. From the way his eyes flashed, Harry could tell that Voldemort was about to either throw something or blow something up.
"Hey," Harry said, standing. His hand was now outstretched, though he wasn't sure what he expected to be able to do from this distance. "Hey—"
The vial cracked, which was expected at this point, only the glass slid through the skin clutching it, striking a red line across Voldemort's palm.
Harry ran forward without thinking, pushing past the thunderous atmosphere encircling the Dark Lord. He took Voldemort by the arm, leading him away from the table, then slid his hands up to grip lightly at Voldemort's biceps.
"Hey," Harry repeated, softer, less urgently than before. "It's okay. It's okay. Let me see your hand."
The palm was relinquished, only the skin was already knitting itself back together, morphing into a scar, then a pink line, then nothing, leaving only the few beads of red that had bled to the surface. Harry blinked, and then the red vanished as well, leaving only clean, dry skin. Wandless healing magic?
"It's inconsequential," Voldemort said in a monotone. "You see that you need not concern yourself with it."
Harry eyed Voldemort, searching for the answers that had not been provided, and decided to bite the bullet. "What is it, then, you're keeping from me? Because I know that's not inconsequential."
Voldemort twisted away. Or tried to, because Harry held fast to Voldemort's elbow, keeping him in place.
"Release me," Voldemort said, glaring, a latent tone of command lacing the words. "Or else you will regret it."
"Oh?" Harry said, challenging. "Will I?"
They held their respective positions, both of them immovable, rooted to the floor of the laboratory.
"What's going on with Nagini?" Harry pressed, when Voldemort failed to move away. "What aren't you telling me? I know that she's sick—is it something that only happens to Horcruxes? Is that why you won't tell me anything?"
Voldemort's face contorted, handsome features stretching into vulgar lines of anger and disgust. "I have told you I have it under control."
"Bullshit," Harry snapped. "You're stressed all the time, and you yell at everyone who isn't me or Nagini."
Voldemort grit his teeth, yanking his arm out of Harry's grasp.
"You're not in this alone," Harry said. "I'm here to help you. If there's something wrong with Nagini, I want to help."
Come on. Let me help you.
"You—" Voldemort started. His features were still contorted, misshapen, carrying an expression that Harry did not recognize. Voldemort's breaths passed irregularly for a moment, chest straining with some unknown struggle, and then he said, "Your book. On the differences between magical and mundane beings."
Harry struggled to follow the topic change. "Yes?" Harry remembered the book. Voldemort had taken it away.
"Do you recall the chapter on what causes the body to fail?" The question was calm, instructional, and Harry could sense them falling into the familiar pattern of mentor and mentee that had kept them afloat during those first few months of work at the Ministry.
"Yes," Harry said, confidently this time. "It's different for Muggles than it is for us, and for creatures like Nagini. It's why some magical people or creatures can live to be a hundred and sixty or older."
"Precisely." Voldemort nodded almost absently, then his focus sharpened on Harry. "Let us retire to the study. We shall continue this conversation there."
The fireplace in the study was already lit when they entered. Harry felt he was seeing the room with new eyes. The cool evergreen rugs, the polished wooden bookcases. The neat scatter of papers on the Dark Lord's desk. The Pensieve in the corner. His Pensieve.
Across the room, one of the desk drawers slid open, a book rising out of it. Harry recognized the cover as that of the book they had spoken on.
As the book continued its rise, it opened up, the pages moving on their own. The book floated over to Harry, who took it in hand just as the pages settled.
Voldemort spoke into the silence: "What do you know of Horcruxes?"
"Not much," Harry admitted. Then he stared down at the open book. It was the section they had discussed. Harry had read this book many times, wondering if it could give him any insight on his new lifespan.
It was a book written from a magical perspective that looked down upon Muggles and mundane creatures. Mundane and magical lifespans were far apart from each other, but Harry knew that he would outlive them all.
"Then I will explain," said Voldemort, and he settled into his chair with a weary motion.
Harry followed suit, seating himself, unsure what to expect.
"Horcruxes," Voldemort began, "play host to a portion of the soul. This portion is sustained through the permanency of the host's physical form, thus preventing a loss of magical energy."
"Which means they last forever," Harry stated.
"Yes."
Voldemort did not continue, which Harry took to mean that he had all of the relevant information and was expected to come up with the answer himself.
The magic contained in a Horcrux kept it alive. And this was related to the book Harry was holding, because magic was what kept magical people and creatures alive, too. So there was a link between the two concepts, and that link was what was causing the problem.
Horcruxes could last forever. People could not. Which meant that a living Horcrux existed in the overlap between the two concepts. And that meant—
No, no, that couldn't be. Only—
All of that paranoid, unpredictable behaviour: Voldemort's irascible temper, his inability to restrain his natural magic. Those feelings of care that Voldemort would not acknowledge.
Harry had named love as a universal concept, only there was one more thing that was just as universal and no less powerful in that it affected them all.
Harry lifted his eyes to meet Voldemort's.
Green touching red, two souls connected, one of them tethered to the other.
"I'm going to die," Harry said plainly.
Not tomorrow, not in the next year, or decade, or century. But eventually Harry's magic would wane, dwindling, dying away, and Harry would pass into the afterlife he had once so eagerly sought.
Albus had spoken at great length about Voldemort's fear of death. A result of an impoverished childhood, of growing up in the midst of two great wars—magical and Muggle alike. A primal fear facilitated by an inclination towards dark magic and an unquenchable thirst for power.
And this, this was as close to that fear as Harry could have gotten short of attempting to kill the Dark Lord himself.
"You will not," Voldemort bit out. "I will sort a solution. We have plenty of time."
Harry did, as he was still young and there was time for him to grow old. But Nagini did not, would not, and so there lay the current heart of the matter.
"How long for Nagini?" Harry asked, fearing the answer. "How much longer?"
A pause, the longest pause so far, and then the answer:
"Five years, at the most."
Harry set the book aside. He felt the urge to stand again, though he knew, logically, there was nothing he could do to remedy the situation at this moment. Five years. Five years for them to find a solution, or—
It was with some shock that Harry realized what this meant.
Because he could help Voldemort fix this, to save Nagini, and that would mean he would be ensuring his own survival in the process. If Nagini lived, so would Harry. Their fates were now entwined. And if Nagini lived, if Harry lived, then so would Voldemort's reign.
Was that why Voldemort had kept this from him? Out of concern for losing control of his empire? Or was it because he was genuinely afraid that Harry, too, would be leaving him someday?
"I helped you once before," Harry said at last. "With Nagini. I helped save her. Do you think my feelings have changed since then?"
Voldemort was watching the fireplace, his face now drained of all emotion. He looked tired, Harry thought. He looked tired as he should, as a man who had lived many, many decades ought to look.
"I do not," Voldemort said. "I believe your affections for her are genuine."
Harry rose to his feet, carried himself to the Dark Lord, knelt lightly upon the floor. This task would be the most difficult he had ever undertaken. More complicated than swearing loyalty to the man he was prophesied to defeat; more daunting than the idea of accepting his own eternal existence.
In this, he could only follow one path, because here was the representation of evil he had been raised to fear, the Dark Lord he had permitted himself to humanize, the man he had decided to save.
"I promised you loyalty," Harry said, his voice so low as to be barely heard above the crackling of the fireplace beside him. "Do you doubt that?"
Voldemort was now looking at him, his red gaze reflecting the dancing flames. "I… do not."
"Then trust me," Harry said, "when I say I'll help. I just have one condition." The familiar act of negotiation between them lay here, as well.
"Oh?" Voldemort stiffened, eyes narrowing in the low light of the room; the whites were nearly gone. "And what might this condition be?"
"We will try our best to find a solution," Harry said. "For Nagini, and for me. But if we fail—"
"I will not fail—"
"If we do," Harry continued firmly, ignoring the interruption, "then you have to accept it. That we're going to die someday, Nagini and I."
Voldemort refused to accept failure. But more than that, he refused to accept death. So Harry would have to prepare him for this, to instill the lesson that countless others failed to do over the course of their lifetimes. The lesson Harry had taken to heart at the age of seventeen.
"Death is part of the way the universe works," Harry said, "and if you have to accept that you are not above it, that you cannot change it, then I will help you do so."
Harry had accepted his own death long ago, and now he would teach Voldemort to do the same.
A/N:
so i forgot i was sitting on this chapter this entire time lmao. since i'm stuck with what i'm working on for the next part, i am publishing this in the hopes that feedback will help jumpstart my brain into finishing the next chapter
anyways next chapter will seal some fates,,, maybe,, we'll see
