"You spend a good deal of time at the Malfoys'."

Harry glanced up from the book he'd been perusing. His eyes, large and luminous behind his spectacles, blinked. "Yeah? I've been helping Astoria out." Then his forehead wrinkled slightly, his brow lowering, his jaw jutting out in proud defiance. "Is it a problem?"

Voldemort bit back a derisive response. Exasperation tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he maintained a casual air, pretending to focus on the paper he was writing. Harry was visible within the radius of his peripheral vision, and so there was no need to look up.

"It is not," Voldemort said. "I only wish to remind you of our prior agreement."

Resistance melted into an expression of minor puzzlement. "What agreement?"

"That you would not overwork yourself."

The defiance rushed back in as Harry sat up, eyes alight. "I'm not!"

Harry's stubbornness could rival all of Britain, certainly. "I doubt you would notice if you were," Voldemort said. "You ignore your limits."

"I'm not," Harry repeated, glaring. "Sometimes I just go over to visit and watch Scorpius while Astoria works on her Mastery. I know that I need to take breaks, okay?"

Harry liked to think he took care of himself. This could not be further from the truth; that bleeding Gryffindor heart only led Harry towards trouble. Foolish man would break his own arm if he thought some unfortunate soul would be better off for it.

Voldemort glared back, unfazed by Harry's disgruntlement. "If you did not conduct yourself like a petulant child, then I would have no need to treat you like one."

"You're such a hypocrite, Tom," said Harry. Then he rolled his eyes. Which, honestly, only proved the point about his childishness. "How about this: next time I go to visit, you can come with me."

Harry had been using that name lately. Tom. Tentatively at first, after their conversation, then with increasing regularity—but only ever in private. It was a name that Voldemort had not identified with in many, many decades. It felt new, different in a way that it never had before.

Perhaps he had dissociated the name from its origin. Perhaps he felt this way because this was Harry. Harry did seem to use it as a term of endearment rather than as a title.

The implication of that was flattering, though Voldemort had yet to decide whether he would halt this behaviour or not.

"And why would I need to go with you?" Voldemort asked.

"So you can see for yourself what it's like to socialize like a normal person," Harry said, his voice bright like a morning songbird's.

"Your insolence is not a virtue," Voldemort told him pointedly.

"But it certainly works," Harry said. His gracious smile barely masked the troublesome imp that lived behind it.

"It does not work."

"No, no, I get it. You don't like children. Bad for your public image as a brooding immortal." Harry shrugged his shoulders, flopping back in his armchair and dropping his eyes to the book in his hands.

That did not deserve a response, and so Voldemort returned to his writing, determined to ignore the nuisance on the other side of the room. He would not cave to Harry's ridiculous demands because of some immature taunting. It would not work.

"What a lovely surprise!" Astoria stepped away from the entrance, eyes wide. "My Lord, I was not aware you would be visiting with Harry today. Should I call my husband?"

"No need," Voldemort said. Just behind him, he could sense Harry vibrating with amusement. "This is a social call," he added, pleasant, pressing charm into the words.

"Ah, then allow me to welcome you into our home," Astoria said, sweeping into a curtsey. "Scorpius is with his tutor at the moment, but he will be along shortly if you would like to see him?"

Her skin, once olive, was pale, waxen. Her eyes were sunken, not heavily so, but faintly purpled underneath all the same. There were strands of silver in her brown hair. How long had it been since he had laid eyes on her? He could not recall. Most of what he knew of her progress, or lack thereof, was courtesy of Harry.

She was studying for a Mastery in Ancient Runes. She enjoyed writing in the backyard, where the gardens resided. She put her hair up when she was frustrated, regardless of what she was doing. These were the things that Harry had told him, things he would not have thought to learn otherwise.

"That would be wonderful." Voldemort gestured for Harry to precede him into the entrance hall, where they handed off their cloaks to the tiny House-Elf positioned by the coat rack.

Astoria led them down the hall into the sitting room. There were two armchairs facing a singular chair on the left side of the room. One of the chairs must have been freshly added—the sign of a diligent House-Elf.

This particular sitting room was smaller than the one at Malfoy Manor. Less grandiose; more comfortable. The pattern of the walls and the carpets were plain, and there was a distinct lack of old heirlooms and useless trinkets. The mantle above the fireplace was home to moving photographs that documented Scorpius' progress from infanthood to present day.

"Tea?" Astoria asked.

"Yes, please," Harry said.

Astoria turned her hostess smile to Voldemort. "And you, my Lord?"

"Tea is fine." Voldemort walked over to one of the chairs on the right side and settled into it. Harry followed behind, matching the motion.

A tea tray popped into existence on the glass table that sat between Voldemort and Astoria. Porcelain resting upon shining silver.

Astoria waved her hand, causing the pot to rise and pour out three cups of tea. There were pastries on the tray as well. Harry had mentioned that Astoria liked to bake.

"Treacle," Harry said happily, leaning forward to snatch a tart.

Voldemort took one as well, so as not to be impolite.

"Why don't you tell us about how your research is going?" Harry asked.

Astoria's cheerful expression waned, giving way to hesitation. "Oh, you don't want me to bore you with that—"

"It's fascinating," Harry said firmly. "And I think we'd love to hear about it."

Astoria did not glance in Voldemort's direction, but her body language did relax somewhat at Harry's reassurance. "If you insist. Just to pass the time, but feel free to interrupt me."

Scorpius Malfoy was an interesting child. He possessed his father's features: blonde hair, grey eyes. But he smiled often, mostly at his mother, and also at Harry, who he must have taken a liking to. He did not pitch fits or engage in dramatics. He was quiet, well-spoken, and he behaved in the presence of others.

Once the boy had acclimated to the guest his mother introduced only as 'our Lord', the questions had begun. Polite enquiries, but enquiries nonetheless.

Next year, the boy would be at Hogwarts. His curiosity was understandable; he had yet to socialize with many children his own age, and here was the man that his parents said ruled their nation. There could be no better person to ask.

Scorpius also spoke highly of his father. The idolization was clear, and it mimicked the relationship Draco Malfoy had with Lucius. A handsome, powerful father who was unversed in the art of child-rearing. A figure to admire and aspire to.

Only this boy, affecting the wisdom of children much older than ten-nearly-eleven, was tempered with the knowledge that his mother was not well. He clung to his mother like a damp sea creature, soaked up her warmth and care like a sponge.

Had Scorpius been told of the future, of what his mother's illness could entail?

Though practiced in offering condolences to adults, Voldemort was unsure how to offer the same comfort to a child. What was it like for the boy, to see his mother's health in sharp decline? Was he angry, upset?

Harry had the boy settled on his lap. The two of them were flipping through a large book on Quidditch while Harry went over his favourite plays.

"Did you play Quidditch at Hogwarts, Mr. Harry?" Scorpius asked.

"No," Harry admitted. "I never did. But I did play games for fun, sometimes. My best friend played Keeper for Gryffindor."

Scorpius pondered this, then looked up, pale eyes settling upon Voldemort. "And you, sir?"

"I did not," Voldemort confirmed. "I had no inclination towards Quidditch. I kept my focus on my academic pursuits."

The boy's pointed face pinched up in thought. He shut the book on Quidditch and placed it aside. "I like both," Scorpius decided. "But I don't like reading as much as flying."

"There's a balance to both that's necessary," Voldemort said. "You must build strength in your body and in your mind."

"That's what father says," Scorpius observed. "He used to play Seeker for Slytherin. And mother played as Chaser. That's how they met," he added, looking at Voldemort again.

"Draco was a better Captain than he was Seeker," Astoria said, sounding fond.

Scorpius scrambled off the armchair. "I can show you my broom," he said, cautious excitement evident in his restless shifting from foot to foot. "Do you want to see?"

It was only when the child blinked, grey eyes wide, that Voldemort realized who the recipient of the question had been.

"It's alright," Astoria said quickly. "Our Lord is a very busy man, Scorpius. He likely needs to return to work soon."

"Nonsense." Voldemort stood, waved her concern aside, watched the happiness that stole over the child's face at being accepted. "Lead the way, Scorpius."

The rest of the afternoon passed in a bearable way. Harry, however, was unbearably pleased by it all, and there was a bounce in his step when they returned to the manor.

"Did you have fun?" Harry asked.

"It was a house call."

"That's not a no," Harry decided.

Voldemort removed his cloak and passed it off to the waiting House-Elf. "The Malfoys have been loyal to me for generations. I will continue my work on a cure for Astoria's blood malediction."

"I know you will," said Harry.

They moved into the main hall and, by unspoken agreement, proceeded to the study. Harry was walking backwards, he was so intent upon their conversation.

"What did you think of Scorpius? He's older than when you last saw him."

"A bright child. A bright future lies ahead of him," Voldemort said.

Harry sombered, his hands slipping into his pockets. A habitual motion of melancholy that signalled deeper thoughts.

"He's been very strong," Harry said. "I don't know if I could have been, if it were me in his place. We talk about kids growing older physically, but we don't talk about growth emotionally. Not nearly enough, anyways. Scorpius acts a lot older than he needs to be. Than he should have to be."

"He will come through it," Voldemort said. "And even so, he will be taken care of. Should Astoria pass, I will extend an offer of assistance to the family."

Harry smiled, a half-smile that did not reach his eyes. "I appreciate what you mean by saying that."

They passed the threshold that led into the study. Harry stepped around his usual chair, walking to where his personal Pensieve was stored. Voldemort watched, curious to see if memories from today would be deemed worth saving or not.

The bowl remained as pristine as its first day, gleaming and polished to a beautiful shine. Harry ran a finger around the edge and set it upon the side table.

"I never got to say goodbye to my mum," Harry said. "If we don't find a cure, then Scorpius will have to say goodbye to his. I don't know if I envy him. Goodbyes are hard."

With that said, silence fell. Harry continued to watch his Pensieve, expression distant, and Voldemort was unsure how to contribute to the conversation. If he had ever mourned his own mother as a child, those memories were long forgotten. They would never be placed into a Pensieve for viewing, would never be revisited.

Voldemort used his own Pensieve for memories of triumph, of victory. To relive his successes and celebrate his achievements. Now, however, his Pensieve sat mostly unused, save for the times where he wished to review a recent Ministry meeting or Wizengamot gathering for clarity. The past was the past, and he found less pleasure in it than he once had.

"Time keeps rolling on," Harry said. "And every single day I feel like I'm missing something."

"What could you possibly be missing?" Voldemort asked, equal parts offended and curious.

Harry shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at where Voldemort was seated. "That's the thing, Tom. I don't know what it is."

"Is it the monotony?" Voldemort pressed. "We could go abroad this summer, if you wished."

Harry shook his head. "It's not that. But I wouldn't mind that in the future. Just not right now, because Astoria still needs our help."

"If we do not make progress soon," Voldemort said carefully, "it is unlikely she will live past the length of her son's Hogwarts education." It was a harsh truth to deliver, but it had to be done.

Harry's shoulders slackened, his head slumping down. Then he turned back to the Pensieve and drew his wand, pressing the wand tip to his forehead.

Slowly, Harry retrieved a wispy strand of silver from his mind. The process was measured, the gesture gentle. Once the curl of silver was free, he deposited it into the bowl, where it spilled into the whirlpool of shimmering liquid.

Harry would always want to save people; this desire was a part of Harry Potter as much as Voldemort's soul was.

Harry would always want to save people, and he would blame himself if he failed.

"Get dressed. Warm clothing, Muggle style. We will depart in fifteen minutes."

Voldemort did not wait for Harry's blearly agreement before he left the room. Harry would rise and follow eventually, likely before ten minutes were up. Punctuality was one of Harry's stronger traits, even if said trait was the result of general anxiety rather than a genuine inclination to timeliness.

True to expectations, Harry arrived in the entrance hall eleven minutes later, fully dressed in a lumpy sweater, scarf, and Muggle coat. None of the colours complimented.

The scarf was a brilliant emerald green, a gift from Narcissa. The coat was a summery brown, more suited to fall than winter, and the sweater beneath was an atrocious, obnoxious shade of lavender. His boots, at least, were black.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked. He adjusted his glasses on his face and ruffled a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. There was a faint line on his face from how he'd slept on his pillowcase.

"You will see." Voldemort offered an arm in invitation.

Harry took it. His arm was cold, body heat having not yet sunk through the many layers he was wearing.

"Hold tight," Voldemort warned. "This will be a longer journey than usual."

Harry jerked his head, tightening his grip. "Where—?"

Voldemort turned on the spot, cutting Harry off. He could have prepared a Portkey, but for this he prefered to leave no magical evidence behind.

The familiar squeeze of Apparition overtook them, compressing their physical forms into the magical dimension reversed for travel. The pressure piled on with each passing second, releasing only when the tension had passed into the uncomfortable side of unbearable.

Harry heaved a gasp as they landed, coughing wildly, jerking away so he could brace his hands on his knees.

"I did warn you," Voldemort said.

Harry scowled, rubbed at watering eyes beneath his glasses, panting as he straightened. "I would have done just fine if you hadn't Apparated me mid-sentence, you prat."

Then Harry's eyes focused on their surroundings. Trees and grassy fields. They were standing on a well-worn path aside a concrete road. "Where are we?" he asked again. "And you better answer me this time."

"Come this way," Voldemort said, "and you will recognize the area." He withdrew his wand and cast two spells in quick succession; the crack of eggs and the fluid feel of invisibility washed over their bodies.

Harry rolled his shoulders, casting a hesitant look in Voldemort's direction. But he nodded in acceptance anyways.

They stepped down the road. One of the large houses awaited them. In a neighbourhood like this one, the houses were spaced far apart, leaving plenty of room in between for structures like gardens and sheds and, in one case, a trampoline for children.

The particular house they were visiting was surrounded by beautiful greenery. The front yard was filled with colourful flowers, and there was a proud apple tree planted firmly on the left side, a child's swing hanging from one of the tree's large branches.

Harry's eyes wandered over the front of the house, his breath catching. "This is Ron and Hermione's house," he said, and he turned an accusing gaze to where Voldemort was standing.

"It is. Do you wish to leave?"

Harry swallowed. He had said many times that he did not wish to be reminded too much of his past, that it was painful to think of and even worse to witness.

But now that they were here, Voldemort knew the temptation to look, to see, would win out.

Harry's friends had a son.

They had a young boy who was approximately the same age as Scorpius Malfoy. Dark brown curls and a wide smile, tan skin with freckles smattered across the cheeks and the bridge of the nose. The boy ran on sturdy legs and laughed wildly when his father picked him up, swinging him around.

Harry had cried upon seeing the child.

He had cried harder when Granger addressed the child as 'Harry'.

Admittedly, Voldemort had not checked for the name of the child before deciding to bring Harry here. So the name had come as a surprise to them both. But Harry's reaction was distressing to witness.

The three family members here were happy, healthy, left untouched as had been promised—surely this sight was more reassuring than upsetting?

Voldemort hovered a distance away, undecided on if his presence would be welcome or not, listening as Harry's sobs faded to hiccups and sniffles.

When the little family went back into the house, Voldemort felt it appropriate to step to Harry's side. Harry was kneeling on the grass, eyes fixed distantly on the treehouse that his friends must have built for their child.

"Would you like their memories returned?" he asked, gazing down at Harry's shrunken form. It was not the first time he had asked, but in this moment he felt the option ought to be reasserted.

Harry stood up, chest heaving, and looked away from the treehouse. "No. Thank you, though."

"The name of the child upsets you."

"No," Harry said. Then he laughed, the noise of it warped and watery. "It doesn't."

Voldemort took Harry by the arm, tentative, and pulled him closer. Harry acquiesced, settling against him, head tilted to rest on his shoulder. Harry was warm, bundled as he was, and his body heat pressed through the layers of fabric and into Voldemort's side.

Inside the house, lights flickered on in one of the rooms. Then Granger pulled the curtains open, revealing a cozy dining room complete with a colourful, misshapen clay centerpiece. The clay sculpture looked like a large cat curled up on its side.

"They still remember me," Harry said. "They named their son after me." Then his face contorted, slackening. "Even with all their memories wiped?" he asked, his voice flooding with panic.

"Relax," Voldemort commanded. Through their delicate connection, he could perceive the gist of Harry's thoughts. "Their memories have not changed; they have not broken through the Obliviation you cast. I examined their minds myself, and there is no reason to believe there have been any changes."

"But Hermione's really smart," Harry said. The sentence cracked right down the middle; another breakdown held at bay. "She might have figured it out. If anyone could, it would be her—"

"If that is the case, then I will recast the spells myself."

Harry shuddered, the motion an act of violence, a full body tremble that Voldemort felt against his chest and arm.

"They're happy here," Harry said, sounding sad. "I don't want to ruin it."

"You would not." Voldemort touched a hand to the nape of Harry's neck, fingers digging past the collar of the brown coat to press against the warm skin there, holding Harry in place.

Harry twitched, leaning into the hand, to the steadiness of comfort. They stood silent for a few more minutes, watching as Weasley set the table with magic while the child beamed at the dramatic, dancing display of cutlery.

They were older, Granger and Weasley. Voldemort's memories of their youthful visages blurred around the edges, the image made more surreal by the subtle changes he had exacted upon them. And beyond that, their current appearance played a sharp contrast to Harry, who maintained the face and body of a young man in his mid-twenties.

"Okay," Harry said. "We should go now. Thank you for taking me here."

"Is there anything else you would like for them? Material items could be provided easily."

"No."

"Then we may depart, if you are ready."

Harry pulled away, moving towards the window. He stopped a short step away from the glass, his hand reaching to rest upon the windowsill.

"Goodbye Ron," he said. "Goodbye Hermione." His green eyes touched upon each beloved figure in turn, and then came to rest upon the child.

His throat bobbed, and he said, voice a mere whisper, "Goodbye Harry."

This time Voldemort gathered Harry up in his arms, only pausing to check the hold was secure before they Disapparated.