IX.
"Just try… try for some remorse."
Voldemort stares into green eyes, stares into the depths of them, down the line of his wand. There is such a sincerity there, such an utter, aching honesty in his face––this boy does not want to kill him. This boy has no intention of doing so, and he's not quite begging, no, too proud to––but he's close.
It would be so easy , to achieve what he had been longing to do for so many years, to kill the boy before him for all the slights against his own person, born of the boy's own actions or not.
So easy, to achieve what he had wanted to do since he met this infernal creature.
And he should. He should kill him.
But he hesitates, just a moment, reflects on his life, and for just a second, just a moment, as he stares into bright eyes––there's something heavy in his gut, at the thought that he had doomed this boy to the same life he himself had experienced.
It is barely there, but it is enough.
And endless, white-hot pain flashes, blinding, just behind his eyes.
Voldemort's eyes flutter open, briefly. His body feels as if it is burning through, as if the sun has made a home in his chest––and a face leans over him, and all Voldemort can think is, Merlin, Mrs. Cole's stupid muggle fascination with angels was actually real.
Because the creature over him––oh, he seems bathed in a pure, heavenly glow.
"You're going to be alright," the creature says, eyes bright as spring. "I know it hurts, but it's for the best."
And if this creature believes it––well, then maybe it must be true.
Voldemort slips under, and he knows, distantly, that he will not remember his delirious thoughts when he wakes.
When a horcrux is destroyed, it does not destroy the piece of one's soul contained within it. It only sends it past the veil between life and death, where it may be reunited with its main soul piece once it passes through into death's quiet embrace.
So, when Voldemort felt that glimmer of regret, just a shard, piercing the delicate skin of his stomach––his soul pieces, banished just seconds or days or years earlier, had raced to his body, slamming into him like a rush of air.
And oh, how it burns.
Voldemort has handled many different pains in his life, but this time, when he wakes up in an unknown room, in an unknown house, he knows he has never felt anything quite like this.
It hurts even worse than the first time he had tampered with his soul, torn the once-beautiful, once-resilient tapestry of it.
It dulls his perceptions, dulls his once-quick mind, and so he has remind himself several times before he has able to hold onto one, single conscious thought: the ceiling is white.
He sits up, slowly, even as the blood pounds behind his ears. Even as his body shakes with the effort.
He blinks.
He is… In a Muggle room.
At least, that's the first thought.
But then, he looks around, and he sees moving photos on the walls, disguised by the many posters of scantily-clad women, sees a quill and ink on the table, hidden under piles of books and CDs.
Where… is he?
And then, he's turning, slightly, because it still hurts, this tug on his chest, and he comes face to face with his reflection.
He is… human.
He is whole.
As Voldemort stares, he traces his features. The skin around his eyes––no longer red, now dark––the bridge of his nose––no longer flattened, now defined, aristocratic––tugs a hand through the dark hair on his head––no longer bare, now thick and healthy.
He looks how he imagines he would've in his thirties, had he never made any horcruxes. The thought sends a pang of fear through him.
He is no longer immortal, and he has no idea where he is.
Potter. Potter did this.
He feels his mouth open in rage, a scream of sheer fury.
In a flash he's out of the four-poster bed he'd woken in, ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs, in his whole body, channelling it into smashing the mirror to pieces; picking up a shard, so that he may have a weapon when he breaks out of this room.
He charges for the door, and promptly blacks out as soon as his hand meets the wood.
The next time he opens his eyes, he is staring into someone else's.
No, no, not someone else's––he'd know those vivid eyes anywhere.
Potter's.
He sits up, the killing curse already on his lips–– he shouldn't have hesitated, he shouldn't have stopped to think, he shouldn't have bloody believed those blasted words–– when a gentle, firm hand is pressing down on his bare shoulder, pushing him to the bed.
And then, a wand is pressing into the delicate skin under his chin.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Potter says, green eyes flashing. He seems relatively relaxed, considering that he is in the same room as a murderous Dark Lord, and Voldemort tries not to feel slightly miffed at the notion.
"And why not?" he snarls, spits, pushing up against the hand, but he is too weak. Too weak to even fight against a seventeen year old boy.
"Because," the boy says, jabbing harder, his brows furrowing in irritation, "if you do, I'll be forced to knock you out and call Kingsley, and believe me, we both don't want that."
"What a threat," Voldemort hisses, tilting his head away from the wand at his throat. "I'm terrified."
"You should be," the boy retorts, calm. "Because if you don't behave, they're going to push you through the Veil, and we don't want that, do we?"
Voldemort doesn't let his eyes widen, doesn't let his nostrils flare. Does not betray the fear, the anxiety of walking a tightrope.
He goes limp in the bed, slowly, showing his acknowledgment and begrudging acceptance.
The boy smiles, small and clean and bright. "Good," he says, before withdrawing his wand, shoving it into his pocket. He offers a single hand. "I have breakfast, if you want it," he says, his hand steady where it rests in the air.
Voldemort eyes it, wary.
His eyes look up into the face of its owner. His face is open, hopeful, as if he wishes to spare Voldemort his fate.
Voldemort would believe the boy a talented actor if he hadn't seen the utter honesty in his eyes at the battle of Hogwarts. At that moment, when their eyes had met over their wands, the boy had had no desire to kill him, despite all the pain Voldemort had inflicted on him, all the things he had done and still did not regret, no matter his sudden change in form.
An idea sparks.
If Voldemort plays nice––if he obeys, becomes the perfect example of a reformed member of the Dark, the leader of them, even––he will gain this boy, who is too trusting. Too ready to save him.
And then, when the time is right––he can seek revenge, for all those years alone and in pain, empty and barely tangible.
He takes the hand.
"You live here… alone?" Voldemort asks, eventually, into the cup of coffee he holds.
He can't check if it's poisoned, but he doesn't see why the boy would. All he has to do is hand Voldemort over to Kingsley, and this madness would be finished.
"Kind of," the boy says, shrugging. Voldemort doesn't ask about it, because already, he has another question of more immediate concern.
"Where is––here?"
The boy looks away, refusing to answer. Voldemort would push, but considering his new goal––considering the change in circumstances, he settles for observing.
The boy is moving food from the stove onto plates. When Voldemort just watches in silence as he sets them on the table, he looks up at him, as if surprised that he didn't try to get an answer. Still, he only seems to shake his head to himself, before standing, as if to retrieve something else––cutlery, probably––before hesitating. He watches Voldemort with narrowed eyes.
Voldemort's face betrays nothing, he knows. The boy will learn nothing from him.
After a moment of his steady observance, the boy eventually goes to the drawer, taking two forks.
Their hands brush as he passes it to Voldemort.
The boy's throat works as he says, "I'm trusting you. It may be a mistake, I'm aware. But if you can change as your body has––I have faith your heart can lighten, too."
He sighs, sitting down, before he continues, "But if you don't, Kingsley has a tracker on my pulse. If it stops for longer than plausible, you'll be dead in minutes."
Voldemort nods, after a moment. If he is correct in his assumptions––and he usually is––there is some spell linking their heartbeats. If one of their hearts stop, so does the other.
Belatedly, he thinks that Dumbledore might've called it romantic.
Voldemort, irritated at himself, pushes the thought away and drinks deeply from his coffee, neglecting to eat from the plates laid out. Potter eats in silence, before he eventually looks up, meeting Voldemort's eyes in the awkward silence. His eyes brighten in question.
Voldemort doesn't look away, deciding that he will answer all the questions he can. An icebreaker, almost. The first step in thawing out Potter's wariness.
"In my old body––I didn't eat. Or sleep, for that matter."
The boy regards him for a long moment. Eventually, he says, "that sounds terrible."
Voldemort blinks.
After all Voldemort has done, for the boy to try and comfort him is––disconcerting. Astounding, really.
A hint of a smile appears on Potter's face at the rare, unguarded display of emotion. "I mean, to live without food to fill your days, without sleep to recover––no wonder you went batshit."
Voldemort feels the anger like slow-boiling water, but he doesn't act on it.
Strange. In his old body––Voldemort would not have hesitated. In that moment, he realizes everything seems… clearer, somehow. Not hidden behind a fog of dull, throbbing pain, or mindless rage and deep-seated fear.
He can see clearly for the first time since he was sixteen.
He lets out a slow breath.
A discovery to contemplate, later, when he is alone.
"It was… bearable."
The boy looks down at that, picking at his food. "Bearable does not mean enjoyable, you know."
Voldemort inclines his head. "That it does not."
The room descends into silence, and Voldemort regards his jailer with an intensity that borders on obsessive.
Voldemort does not know how long their arrangement will last. He does not know how long he will stay with Harry Potter, or how many days, weeks, years he will spend, trying to steal his way into the boy's good graces.
But now, as he sits across from him, watching the blush creep up his cheeks at Voldemort's attention…
He thinks, Perhaps this could be enjoyable, not just bearable.
Perhaps this could be… Something fun .
Voldemort has not had fun in a long, long time.
A slow grin spreads across his face, and the Potter boy eyes him, nervous, and rightly so.
After so long living inside of his own, fractured head, fun sounds like the perfect remedy, even if it comes at the price of Harry Potter's heart.
Fun sounds like seduction of the best kind.