Part 2:
What's Past is Past
Not two weeks later, Harry senses a disturbance in the air. He opens his front door and follows his instincts down the winding path that leads to the village. There are roads and rail tracks not too far away, but what Harry loves most about this area is its remoteness, its detachment from what most would call 'civilized' society.
Halfway to the village, Harry spots a man standing in the middle of the path, his back slightly hunched, his shoulders draped in a heavy black cloak. He straightens as Harry comes into view.
Voldemort is young again. Not quite as young as before, but perhaps that's due to the haggard, waxen look that clings to his face like a grotesque mask. It's a wonder that the man is upright at all. He must have rushed through the rebirth ceremony to return here so quickly.
"Voldemort?" Harry asks, though he knows the answer.
Red eyes glare balefully at him in response. "Potter."
Voldemort's pride must be wounded after his debacle in the mountains, yet here he is. Harry takes in the sight of Voldemort's proud stature, the distasteful curl of his thin lips, the faint sheen of sweat that traces his hairline.
Harry has wondered why Voldemort cares so much about magic, why the idea of its loss in the world scares him so. Magic is part of them, but it is not everything. But what does Voldemort have, other than magic? Properties and power. Wealth and wickedness. Is there any true fulfillment to be found there? Harry doesn't think so. People need other people. People need each other.
"I don't go by that name anymore," Harry says quietly. He holds out his hand, flips his palm to the sky and stretches his fingers out. "Why don't we head back to mine. I'll make you some tea."
Voldemort hesitates long enough to instill doubt, but just when Harry thinks he ought to give up and drop his hand, Voldemort takes it.
The two of them walk down the path and back to the house. Harry takes out his kettle and boils enough water to make tea for two. Herbal tea, a special brew with healing properties. Voldemort needs it, that much is plain to see. What is equally obvious to Harry and perhaps somewhat less apparent to Voldemort himself is that such a state of unwellness generally requires rest.
"You're staying in the house," Harry says once their tea is finished and Voldemort is looking in the direction of the door.
Ever the bastard, Voldemort ignores him and stands, which means that Harry has to take the extra step of walking into the man's field of vision and blocking his path.
"This is my house. You will be staying in it because you are recovering, and while you are staying in it you will listen to what I tell you to do." Harry folds his arms across his chest to indicate the severity of his unspoken threat.
Voldemort's magic flares. Harry can feel the way it expands around them, creeping into all the cracks and flooding his senses with static. It is an oppressive sensation that coats the walls of the room like tar, but Harry refuses to let it affect him.
Harry takes one, two steps forward, intent on pushing back. Intent on enforcing a measure of care onto a man to whom he does not owe any care at all.
The magic deflates, so suddenly that Harry is alarmed by how rapidly the pressure in the room dissipates. The world around them tilts off its axis for a brief moment before Harry recovers enough to set a hand on Voldemort's shoulder.
"We don't have to do nothing," Harry allows.
Voldemort watches him with wariness. "Then what?"
Harry nearly smiles. It is a close call. "I'll show you the forest. Where the animals frequent. The fresh air will do you some good."
Voldemort opens his mouth to argue, then appears to think better of it. His face remains emotionless. It is a mask to hide pain, but it is also a shield. it is meant to keep others out.
"If you use more magic today, you will pass out and die," Harry says, matter of fact. "If you die again, I will not be so kind as to revive you."
Voldemort's lips twitch. "Very well," he says with the airs of someone who is beleaguered and put upon. "Lead the way."
They walk out together. They spend some time out in the forest, then walk home and have supper. Voldemort complains about everything the entire time, but it seems half-hearted. He has a reputation to uphold, even if it is a losing battle. That's alright. Voldemort is far from perfect, but so is Harry.
Later that night, Harry does allow himself a smile. It may come as a surprise to them both, but—
He wants Voldemort to stay.
The next time Voldemort comes to visit, there is no lover waiting in the upstairs bedroom. There are lights flashing outside, colourful bursts of blues and yellows as vehicles fly past Harry's sitting room window, tossing shadows against the wall. The traffic isn't unbearably noisy—few cars are, nowadays—but it is... it is noisy in other ways. The hustle of city life is not for him; he plans to move elsewhere very soon.
After breaking into Harry's house, the first comment Voldemort makes is: "You have a job."
"Must everything you say about me sound so judgmental?" Harry retorts, not bothering to turn around. Voldemort's stalker tendencies will not get a rise out of him. "Yes, I have a job. I happen to like having a job. Having a purpose. Weren't you berating me for doing nothing the last time we met?"
Voldemort is silent long enough that Harry sighs and turns around.
Only then does Voldemort cock his head to the side, his eyes alert and attentive. "Your talents are wasted here." He looks at Harry with curiosity. Like a sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle had once looked at twelve-year-old Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets. But Harry, unlike his twelve-year-old self, is no longer afraid of what Voldemort can do to him.
"If this is a recruitment pitch," Harry says, moving to the kitchen so he can make himself a cup of tea, "it's failing by the second."
"What would I be recruiting you for?" Voldemort says. He sounds amused, which is not what Harry wants. Voldemort is a pest; Harry wants to annoy him in kind.
"World domination," Harry answers without hesitation. He summons his mug from its place on the rack and fills it with water before setting it back down on the counter. With a wave of his hand, the water boils instantly. Now he only needs to steep a tea bag. It's been harder to source regular tea bags over the years; Harry has invested in a number of businesses out of a personal desire to see the industry live on.
"Was that not on my list of banned activities?"
Harry cups his warm mug with both hands and steps over to his sitting room. "If you were to recruit me, that would release you from the ban." He sits on his couch and gestures for Voldemort to join him. The bastard isn't getting any tea, but Harry isn't about to participate in a conversation where they are on anything other than level ground.
Voldemort lifts a lofty brow at him. "Would it?"
"No," Harry says calmly. "But I'm sure you'd like to think so."
Voldemort sits down on the couch. He crosses one leg over the other, points his silver-accented dress shoe off to the side in such a way that the low light of Harry's sitting room makes its design appear to be made from strips of moonlight. "Where do you see the world, ten years from now? In fifty? In a hundred?"
It is a serious question. Harry decides he'll give it some thought. He hums and sips at his tea, he ponders the scope of the universe and the ambition of humanity.
Since his truce with Voldemort, Harry has moved on with his life. He has accepted that no war lasts forever and that no world is perfect. His resentments and regrets remain in the past as surely as the name 'Potter' does.
"I don't know," Harry decides. "I don't know where it will go, but I hope it's somewhere good."
"They buried your remains," Harry says over supper later that day. "A proper funeral and everything."
Voldemort has a bowl of soup in front of him that he's been periodically picking through. Bits of carrot and potato float amongst the leafy greens that Harry had picked from the forest or purchased from the village. "Did you attend?"
"I did." Harry taps the backside of his spoon against the rim of his bowl. "They asked me if you had family or friends to bury you. I told them you didn't. It was… interesting. Seeing the village gather for a stranger's funeral in an outpouring of empathy. "
"I suppose it must have been."
Their spoons cling and scrape against ceramic while Harry wracks his brain for topics. Conversation between them is different now. He can't tell if it's because of his new mindset or because of Voldemort's thinly-veiled exhaustion. There are things Harry wants to say, but he has no idea how to word them.
Harry is nearly done eating when Voldemort says, "We shall resume work in the morning."
The word 'we' is very telling. Harry glances up to see that Voldemort's bowl is now empty. "You say that like I have any idea what you're talking about," says Harry. He isn't about to let Voldemort off easy. "As far as I'm concerned, all you've done since arriving here is blow yourself up, and that was work you certainly did all on your own."
Voldemort sets his spoon down, bracing the concave side on the ceramic rim of his bowl. Harry waits expectantly for a response, for Voldemort's irascible denial, for a period of silence interrupted by the sound of the chair scraping backwards on the floor as Voldemort walks away from him.
"Your help would be appreciated," Voldemort says instead, like the modicum of decency is being forcefully wrung out of him.
Harry feels a strange relief upon hearing those words. "Right," he says. He stands and gathers the dishes with a snap of his fingers. As the bowls and spoons float off to the sink, he turns to meet Voldemort's gaze with his own. "Then I guess we will resume work in the morning."
The world goes to good places as well as bad ones. Harry lives on the sidelines while humanity plunges through war and politics. He bears witness to the rise and fall of world leaders, to the patterns of cruelty that a selfish society seems eager to bury itself in.
Buildings blow apart until all that remains are their metal skeletons. Lush landscapes are razed to the ground, revealing jagged outcrops smeared in blood. Metal melts and rusts, wires bend and break. Even technology cannot save anyone from war. War brings ruin, a cycle of conflict that traps innocents underfoot. War strips humanity of its excess.
The world struggles through sweat and tears, through death and madness. The world burns, but it also rises from the ashes, a phoenix reborn. The world gazes upon barren land and declares the beginnings of a nation. Even in the darkest of times, humanity perseveres. War ruins, but it also reveals warm hearts and steady hands. Hands that build and hearts that feel.
Humanity is made of survivors and Harry is proud to be one of them.
Harry has searched long and hard for the obscure, for the unknowable, for the fragile peace of mind that evades him. He had lied when he told Voldemort he was content with his place in the universe.
Harry survives, but he does not live, and perhaps that is the root of his issues after all.
Time marches on, unending and merciless. Harry is dragged along like an unruly child. The moments of his life blend together like blood droplets dotted into the ocean. He sees less of Voldemort, and in many ways, he is relieved. Voldemort's presence turns him into someone he no longer wants to be. Someone angry, someone bitter. Someone broken.
However, it feels inevitable that they will meet again, if only because fate has tied them together.
When Harry dies for the third time, he wakes as a spirit in the middle of a wasteland, in the ruins of a nuclear war. It is not the first war he has witnessed—it certainly won't be the last—but it is his first death as an innocent bystander, free from the shackles of prophecy.
At first, he wanders. He picks his way through the crumbled, blown-out buildings. He watches without eyes, he bears witness without hands to pray for forgiveness. His bare feet—the ghostly remains of them, at any rate—creep over the dirt and rocks like winter's first frost, sluggish and inexorable.
There is no one around. There is no one for him to help, no one to help him. Harry remembers the brief period of time in which his body had departed from its earthly existence for the first time. It is as painful now as it had been then. He thinks he can hear the dead calling to him, their lively whispers in his ear like morning birdsong. It hurts to hear, not because the calls are harmful, but because he knows he cannot join them.
Harry is alone. In this moment, he is well and truly alone. This realization unnerves him more than it should, more than he expects it to after decades of telling himself he has moved on from his emotional agonies. Being alone, being trapped, being lost—he should be beyond those troubles. Why does the world feel so small?
Even the quietest suburbs are too bright, too loud. Nothing feels right. Nowhere feels like home. Harry misses Hogwarts. He misses the Burrow. He misses all that he has lost, all that exists only in his memory.
No, not only his memory. He shares his past with Voldemort, and he would do well not to forget that. The past that they share is fraught with complexity: the history of the magical world, full of heroism and pointless bloodshed; the legacy of Hogwarts, an eternal refuge for all the children of war; the names and faces of the dead, who Harry longs to meet again someday.
It is with this in mind that Harry travels to the Austrian Alps. The air is clear and the snow-covered mountains remind him of Voldemort's previous freefall in Tibet. Nurmengard castle is cloaked in layers and layers of magic. This will be the first time Harry visits here on his own.
Several dozen enchantments push against Harry as he approaches, but as a ghost, he knows no physical limitations. He passes easily through each level of protection until he floats within viewing distance of the castle. As he draws near, the magic in the air shifts, parting like the Red Sea as it makes way for a greater, more powerful force.
Voldemort regards him with a calm, vermilion gaze. Harry feels small under the scrutiny. How many times has Voldemort been in this very position, bodiless and vulnerable?
"Well, do hurry up," Voldemort says in greeting. "It is rude to linger."
Inside the castle, everything is wonderfully ancient. Lanterns and candles line the grand hallways, and there is not a single electrical plug in sight. Harry drinks in the sight with detachment; it is difficult to feel anything other than despair in this form. The banners and carpet runners are a vibrant Slytherin green. The accents are silver and tasteful.
Perhaps Nurmengard is Voldemort's tribute to their world of magic. Perhaps Nurmengard is Voldemort's homage to Hogwarts. As they walk through the halls in silence, Harry's feet make no sound upon the floor. He can't help but wonder: when this castle eventually crumbles to dust, will his life have mattered at all?
After several days of fruitless experiments, Harry can tell that Voldemort is frustrated. This isn't because Harry knows the man's tells particularly well—or if he does, it must be on a subconscious level that has yet to register with him properly—it's just that Voldemort's response to unfavourable situations tends to result in one of two emotions: anger or apathy.
The lengths Voldemort will go to ignore his problems are truly impressive, Harry will admit. Voldemort puts Harry's own bottling tendencies to shame. So Harry leads without words; he leads them down one of his preferred trails for a late afternoon walk. Voldemort follows, occasionally pausing to examine the trees or the shrubs or whatever it is that catches his interest.
"Anything interesting?" Harry asks curiously.
Voldemort straightens, an affronted air settling over him. "You invited me to enjoy the scenery."
The corner of Harry's mouth quirks upward. "That I did."
Harry notes that Voldemort has faint splotches of colour high on his cheeks. The winds here can be vicious should the mood strike them. Voldemort would not be the first visitor here who was unprepared for the weather.
Still, despite the winds, Harry feels mildly possessed by an urge to climb the nearest mountain. He wants to chase the sunlight that will eventually vanish behind the horizon. He wants the sun to warm his skin for as long as possible. It is one of the little pleasures of life that he will never take for granted, not after years of living in the cupboard under the stairs and further years spent living underground.
Deciding to cave to his sudden whim, Harry alters their path so they can begin an assent.
Voldemort makes no comment on the direction or length of their journey. Again, Harry thinks he knows why. It's been nearly a week since the explosion, but it is better to seem omnipotent than to admit weakness. Better to act fine than to let anyone think there is anything wrong.
Dirt and gravel crunch under Harry's boots as he walks. He kicks at the ground here and there, scattering twigs and pebbles across the path. If Voldemort wonders where they're going, he's doing a fantastic job of keeping his curiosity to himself. No matter. The higher they go, the clearer their destination will become.
Sadly, they do not reach the summit before the sun starts to vanish behind the horizon, but they do reach a nice plateau that is high up enough for them to enjoy the view. Harry inhales deeply, filling his lungs with the clean mountain air, then summons a boulder, which he transfigures into a plain wooden bench. Voldemort sits next to him, leaving a respectable gap between them.
Up on the mountain, the winds are on the pleasant side of bearable. Harry lets his eyes fall shut for a moment, allows the gorgeous gold of sunset to press delicately against the darkness. In his mind's eye, he pictures the villas that make up the village far below. The structures crafted with the use of manual labour instead of artificial. It is one of many such small encampments dotted across the globe, like sprouts of greenery peeking up through cracks in solid pavement.
Harry opens his eyes and watches as sunset burns dying colours into the sky. He stares at the sliver of sun until his vision strains at the edges. He is thinking about what he wants to say.
"If magic dies," Harry asks, "what will you do?"
Voldemort's reply is instant. "Magic will not—"
"Humour me. If magic dies, is that really so bad?"
Silence settles over them again. Harry finds he doesn't mind it. There is no rush to speak; they have all the time in the world. After several minutes, though, Harry does glance in Voldemort's direction, just to check in. Voldemort is not watching the sunset. Rather, Voldemort is watching him.
In the dying light of day, Voldemort's pale skin glows faintly. The man's profile had always been striking as a youth, moreso as an adult, as a serpent-man, but sunset drapes everything in further layers of beauty.
Darkness conceals the best and the worst of everything. Daylight exposes it. Sunset greets both extremes with a loving, golden embrace.
"You alright?" Harry asks mildly. He hadn't meant to cause an upset.
"If magic dies," Voldemort says, so softly that Harry can barely hear him, "will we?"
Harry does not have a response to this statement. Perhaps he ought to be surprised, or outraged, or scared, but after centuries of living, who is he to demand the right to outlive magic?
If magic is dying in the universe, then he, too, must die. If all things have their end—the brightly burning stars, the luminous moon, the glorious universe—then magic must end, and if magic must end, then it is only right that Harry ends, too.
"If magic dies," Harry begins, the syllables melting on his tongue, "if we die…" His voice withers to dryness, fading like the sunlight he can no longer see.
The slow death of magic reveals ignorance after ignorance. It reveals their embarrassing incomprehension of the world they cling to like lost children. Harry has lived so long that the concept of death is foreign to him. For him and Voldemort, death is transitory, temporary. For them, death is a mere inconvenience.
So Harry leaves his sentence unfinished; he has no answer. Voldemort does not pry for more words. Once the sun is wholly gone, once all that remains above them is the night sky full of twinkling stars, they stand and Apparate back to the house.
In short order, Voldemort brings Harry's spirit back to life. Harry pays attention to the process this time, more out of curiosity than any real desire to retain the knowledge.
When Harry finally returns to consciousness, it's as if he's been asleep for a hundred years. As he sits up, his muscles tug and pull, his bones cracking like the spines of paperbacks when he rolls his shoulders. The burn of returning sensation in his limbs is familiar and not altogether unpleasant.
"Welcome back to the world of the living." Voldemort's drawl is also familiar. Harry forces his eyes open and struggles to focus on the man's face. "Drink this," Voldemort continues, placing a potion into Harry's hand. His other hand is braced against the small of Harry's back, a warm anchor in the wild ocean of Harry's new perception of the world.
Harry swallows the liquid without tasting much of it and feels better immediately. Now that his head is clear, he takes a moment to orient himself in his surroundings. His body is clothed in a grey cotton tunic. With great slowness, he raises a hand to his head to tangle in his hair. The texture is off. Is that because he's unused to this body, or is it the result of something else?
"How long?" Voldemort asks, once some minutes have passed and Harry is lucid enough to regard the room with wary eyes.
His tongue is heavy in his mouth; it takes a few tries to unstick it. "I'm not sure," Harry admits. "A few weeks? The explosion took out most of western North America." The coast is in ruins, and if this war continues, the rest of the continent will soon follow.
The side of Voldemort's mouth curls upward; it has all the implications of an 'I told you so' without it being spoken aloud. His hand withdraws, leaving the impression of warmth in its place. "You are now free to leave. I trust you will not require my aid again in the future."
Harry thinks he hears something else in Voldemort's tone, but he can't pick it out just yet. "I wanted to talk to you about that, actually."
Voldemort hesitates long enough that Harry notices despite his disorientation. "Then I shall leave you to dress yourself first."
Voldemort leaves. It takes Harry an embarrassingly long time to get out of the bed. There is a wand on the bedside table—with a pang, he realizes that his phoenix and holly wand is likely gone for good. No Elder Wand can repair what has been reduced to ashes.
Unwilling to mourn his loss just yet, Harry reaches for his new wand to distract himself. He tests the grip, twisting his wrist this way and that while he examines it. The wood is still holly, but the core must be different. For a second, he is curious—he wants to know what the wand is, why and how Voldemort had chosen it for him. But then he remembers why it doesn't matter.
There are clothes laid out on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Harry dresses with slowness, then stumbles over to the vanity. At first glance, he looks the same. Harry blinks at his reflection, then tears his gaze away. If he looks too long, he will begin to pick out the little details, the imperfections of a body that is not his body, only an expert facsimile of it. Magic can only do so much.
Voldemort is waiting just outside the door. Harry lifts his left hand in an awkward wave. Without a word, Voldemort sets off down the hall. Are they going somewhere? Having breakfast? Harry doesn't even know what time it is. He should have thought to check before leaving the room.
"Been here a while," Harry comments as they make their way through the castle. "Have you remodelled since your last remodel? I can't tell." Voldemort lets out a mild huff of air that might be a snort. Harry will take what he can get. "Nevermind. Everything here is very dark and brooding, which is spot on for you."
They reach a sitting room. Harry walks in with hardly a glance at Voldemort's undoubtedly expensive decor and settles into a chair without asking or waiting for an invitation. Voldemort seats himself in the chair opposite and looks at Harry expectantly.
Harry breathes out and steadies his hands on the armrests of his chair. The soft fabric will not make what he has to say any easier. He has thought about this for some time, and now he will say the words aloud for the first time.
"I want you to kill me. Permanently."
It comes out more desperate than he'd like for it to, but he can't afford to think on that because Voldemort's response is instant and forceful:
"No."
Harry's heart pounds in his ears. He is prepared to argue, to bargain, but Voldemort waves a dismissive hand, stalling any response.
"You wish to elaborate. You wish to convince me. Let me save you the effort. You will not change my mind. I refuse."
Anger bubbles up in Harry's chest. It is a new emotion in this new body. He has to remind himself where he is and who he is with. He has to remember that Voldemort, like most people, will not respond well to anger. If anything, Voldemort wants him to get angry.
"Why?" Harry asks, willing his voice not to shake.
"You may believe death is a kindness," Voldemort says, "but it is not. It certainly is not to my own benefit."
This isn't about you, Harry nearly says. But it's to be expected, isn't it, that Voldemort makes everything about himself? "Your benefit?"
"What reason could I possibly have to want your death?"
Harry needs to argue that. He has to. The mere notion of it is impossible. Voldemort has wanted him dead for centuries. Voldemort's antagonism is the very basis of their relationship with each other.
His death has nothing to do with Voldemort. This isn't about Voldemort. It shouldn't be, but—but it is. It is in so many ways. If Harry dies, Voldemort will be alone in a way that no human being has ever been before. He will be the last immortal being on Earth. He will be the ribbon that laces throughout history, the memoirs of a modern universe. He will be alone.
"We're not friends," Harry says instead, but he can feel himself deflate, the desire to argue fleeing in face of his insight. "Why do you care if I die or not?"
"You and I… we witness the incredible evolution of humankind." Voldemort sounds strangely impassioned. Harry can't help but wonder if this is how the man had won over his Death Eaters, with grand speeches based on self-importance and a new world order. "Our grasp of human nature and the human experience is unique, unparalleled. The secrets of the universe lay within our grasp, should we choose to seek them."
Voldemort rises and starts to pace, a fervent scholar delivering a lecture. Oddly enough, Harry finds the sight endearing. In a world where so much has been lost to time and technology, here is a man who remembers not only the days before space travel, but also the days before mobile phones and flat-screen televisions.
"Why life? Why here?" Voldemort asks, turning to face Harry. "Do we exist in a universe where there are no other forms of intelligent life? Humans have travelled far and wide within our galaxy and returned with nothing." His vermilion eyes are bright like rubies. "So much remains unknown to us. Unknown, but surely within reach given enough time. Time we have to spare."
"I'm tired," Harry says. There is more to say, more to elaborate on, but the words are failing him. He is tired. Isn't that enough?
Voldemort stares, baffled. "Tired," he repeats, like the word is foreign. "Are these not worthy causes of exploration? Do you not understand the delicate position the fates have placed us in?"
"I'm tired of fate, too," Harry says bluntly. He pauses to breathe out, to ground himself with the lungs that are not his and the alien heart that aches in his chest. It hurts to live. Centuries later, that much hasn't changed. Voldemort may want to live forever, but Harry does not and never has. "I never asked to be special."
"You do not have a choice. You may believe you are at peace with your life, but this is not peace. This is desperation."
"You're wrong."
Voldemort's expression is stony. "You are not tired of living. You are tired of surviving. There is a difference." Voldemort walks to the door and waits there, arms folded across his chest. "If that is all?"
Harry's hands itch for the wand in his robe pocket. He is one wordless spell away from starting a fight.
Voldemort smiles flatly. "You will never find purpose in the mundane. You will never gain satisfaction from any humdrum job or meaningless sexual flirtations. You and I are alike, born out of magic, born into war. Death cannot hold us." The smile fades, replaced by a softer, pitying look. "You may run all you like, Harry, but that will never change."
At first, working with Voldemort means that Harry sits around and watches. This makes sense; the two of them hardly know how to co-exist, let alone work together. Harry doesn't mind watching because it allows him to take his time and think. He can decide when and where he will be the most helpful.
The first thing he learns is that Voldemort works without spellbooks. He works from the encyclopedic knowledge that lives in the depths of his mind; he scrawls pages and pages of notes that Harry is determined to read through.
More recently, Voldemort asks him to help out, gives him tasks to do. Harry weaves experimental spells in the air. He traces a thousand different runes in the dirt and mixes terrifyingly complex potions that give off ominous, noxious fumes. Harry does what he can because that is all he's ever tried to do—give back to the world around him.
Voldemort respects him for this, which makes a startling amount of sense. Voldemort values hard work and rewards effort. The Death Eaters would not have stayed with him for so long otherwise. So Harry toils away and maintains a professional demeanour. If they are to save magic, then it will be because they work in harmony.
Despite his strong work ethic, Harry doesn't have high hopes of finding a solution. Based on what Voldemort has told him, the conservation of magic is impossible. Magic will slip between their fingers like the delicate sands of time.
Someday there will be no more magic. No more wizards, no more witches, no more wixen. No magical creatures, no vampires or werewolves or dragons.
Magic is not forever. No one lives forever, perhaps not even him and Voldemort.
"This is not an issue that will be solved in the span of months," Voldemort snaps when Harry expresses doubt about their project. "This is an undertaking that will span years, if not decades. Are you not prepared for this?" Voldemort narrows his eyes. "If so, you ought to speak up now."
Harry wants to roll his eyes just so he can match the level of drama Voldemort is not-so-subtly placing on the metaphorical table. "I'm not afraid of hard work, you berk. If you think we can put up with each other for that long, I'm fine with doing however much it takes to get this done."
Voldemort's face does a thing—namely, it scrunches into an expression that typically precedes a lecture on the nobility of their goal and how there is no task in the history of magic that has ever been this important.
Harry has heard the monologue several dozen times before. It isn't that Voldemort fails to convince him of their work's importance; rather, Harry suspects that Voldemort's grandstanding is meant to convince them both that everything will be okay.
Voldemort is stubborn, set in his ways after years of history and trauma have beaten into him that magic is necessary for survival. Voldemort will not accept the inevitable until his last, rotten breath, and Harry can't blame him for it.
"Draw your wand," Voldemort instructs once his latest lecture on the importance of magic is finished.
"I do just fine without," Harry says calmly, but he does as he's told, retrieving his holly wand from its holster. Its reappearance tugs a question free from the recesses of his mind. "What's in here, by the way? You never said."
"The hair of a Thestral."
"And who made it?"
"I did."
This response is laced with impatience, so Harry shuts his mouth and allows Voldemort to redirect their focus elsewhere. Harry's curiosity will have to be satisfied at a later point in the day. For now, they will return to work.
Harry leaves Nurmengard with mixed feelings. He shoves them down and down until they are locked away. If Voldemort will not help him, then… then maybe he'll try to find a way to cope with immortality.
The decades do not feel as long as they used to—years fly by, undistinguished from each other. Harry attempts to treasure every moment when he can, attempts to assign meaning to them.
Barren lands heal. Nature grows over what had once been lost. New buildings rise, but they no longer reach for the skies the way they used to. There is hope, perhaps, that the world is changing and healing for the better.
Harry is changing. He does not die, but he does try to live. He places both feet firmly upon the ground and imagines himself setting down roots in the dirt. Someday, he will return to the earth, to the land that has borne his weight for centuries. Someday, he will be worthy of the death that evades him.
The earth below him is constant, devoted and unwavering, but Harry has not been kind to it. He has buried friend and foe alike. He has buried the remnants of his childhood. More recently, he has considered burying the hatchet—not now, maybe not even for some time, but Harry has always been forgiving in nature. More forgiving than he ought to be, and this holds true no matter how many years have passed.
How much longer? Harry doesn't ask. There is no one for him to ask anymore, and that is his fault, his own fault for holding the world at arm's length. For believing himself to be too alien, too damaged to form new relationships with people.
For a long time, Voldemort is nowhere to be found; Harry finds himself glancing over his shoulder for different reasons than before. The gift of life is complicated, not in the least because Harry has no idea what he should do with it.
To Harry, immortality is penance. It is an endless void that he has never managed to fill. What does he know of what it means to live? He had been raised for war; he had been raised to die. Since the second wizarding war ended, he has staggered his way through the pretenses of a normal life. He seeks fulfillment in acts of service, in paying his dues with blood and sweat and tears, paying a thousand times over for a burden of guilt that never leaves.
Voldemort has never experienced regret or remorse, has never known the agony of losing a loved one. Voldemort has never lost anything other than his own mutilated soul pieces, yet Harry envies him. To Voldemort, immortality is a standing invitation to dig up the sandbox of the universe, to uncover the arcane secrets of time and fate. To Voldemort, life is an endless chain of goals and ambitions, all devoid of human connection.
The wounds of the world heal with time. Do souls heal too?
Maybe he and Voldemort have more to learn from each other when it comes to their place in the universe: how to feel at home in an ever-changing world; how to find meaning in anything when the years blend together, fresh ink spilled over dry parchment; how to feel okay again after centuries of history have run their course.
Maybe it is the true course of life, all life, even an eternal one, that everything is unknowable.
Regardless, Harry has never been one to ask for help. He doesn't give up and maybe that's because he never learned how to. His heart carries the weight of a thousand years, so if his mind must live a thousand more, then he will find a way to bear it, even if that means doing it alone.
Their afternoon of experiments passes in short order. Harry is hyper aware of the wand in his hand, the wand made by Voldemort. He'd sworn to himself more than once that he would toss it and find a replacement. Maybe he is sentimental in his old age.
"When did you learn wandmaking?" Harry finally asks over dinner, which is chicken pot pie.
Voldemort takes his time in answering. "Some time ago."
"Was it complicated?"
"No."
Harry tries again, determined to get a proper response: "Thank you for the wand."
"You're welcome."
Better. Harry smiles and turns back to his food—
Voldemort continues, "You could stand to take better care of it."
After a brief pause to check if he'd heard correctly, Harry looks up. Voldemort seems innocently occupied with a piece of chicken clinging to the crust of his pie. "What?"
"Your wand. You hardly use it." Voldemort's tone is dismissive. Is the man offended? Harry wants to roll his eyes if so.
"I don't use magic much at all, in case you haven't noticed." Harry only carries his wand because Voldemort is here. Magic is not his friend, is not his enemy. It is simply there. It is everywhere and nowhere.
Harry is prepared to leave magic behind, but it's clear that Voldemort is not and may never be. Magic is too vital to Voldemort's sense of self. Harry feels bad about that. If only there was some way to make this easier for the both of them, he would do it in a heartbeat.
"You brew potions in your basement," Voldemort says pointedly.
Harry shakes his head. "The people here prefer natural remedies. I like to help them out. Modern medicine could replace any of the potions I make and you know that."
Voldemort sets his fork down upon the table. The action is gentle, but the aura radiating from Voldemort is not. He is angry, but this is not the first time Harry has lived in a household where magic was a sensitive topic. Dinner wraps up in silence. Harry hopes the quiet gives Voldemort space to calm down.
Unfortunately for them both, Voldemort's dour mood lasts until the next morning. Harry prods the man into having breakfast, then delicately suggests that they take extra food with them so they don't have to return to the house for lunch. That concession appeases Voldemort enough for him to consent delaying their departure.
It's not quite like walking on eggshells, but it's close. Still, Harry doesn't mind it, although that may be because he's not afraid of any outburst or insult thrown his way. The worst that Voldemort could do to him lies in the past. All that can be ruined now is the goodwill they've managed to build between them.
The day goes on, gently easing Voldemort's ire into tranquility. Harry cracks a few jokes and is rewarded with some banter in return. When Voldemort smiles, Harry pretends not to see.
The original problem of Voldemort's fear isn't fixed, but there is time for that. When they finish with their experiments here, Voldemort wants them to travel. The man has an organized list of tasks and goals. He claims he'd sought Harry out only after exhausting all of the tasks that could be performed alone. Harry doesn't buy it, but he's willing to let the illusion stand.
Voldemort talks aloud, proposes his theories and experiments to an attentive audience of one. Harry pokes and prods at the ideas, searching for holes, searching for a spark that will ignite a fire. They reach an equilibrium while working together. They learn from each other: Harry learns more about magic than he thought was ever possible to learn; Voldemort learns some humility and what it means to regard someone else as an equal.
They are equals now. There is no mistaking that. Harry Potter, young child of prophecy, had been bolstered by greater men, by the power of love, by luck and happenstance. The man he is now, just Harry, is the second oldest being on the face of the planet. His wisdom is measured in centuries, in deeply personal losses. There are lessons he carries with every step he takes.
Harry knows that he and Voldemort will not stay here in the forest forever. There are ingredients and books that Voldemort wants them to collect. There are magical landmarks with specific properties that require extensive testing. Their ventures will span the globe, will span years and years, and Harry finds himself looking forward to it.
If their goal requires a truly excessive amount of research—well, Harry had been best friends with Hermione for years. His memories of her may be distant now, but they are no less dear to him. Even now, he hears her voice, and Ron's, as echoes in his mind, reminding him to slow down, to take care of himself.
But Harry has never been good at doing nothing, and centuries later he is no better at it. So long as there are people to help, he will help them. So long as the world needs him, he thinks he can convince himself that he belongs in it. So long as Voldemort walks the earth—
Harry will walk with him, and perhaps someday they will find peace in this world together.
.
NINETEEN YEARS LATER.
.
When Harry closes his eyes, he sees colour. In the absence of sunlight, his mind creates its own visuals, a wash of rainbow streaks in the dark. It reminds him of magic. He may never know or understand all the finer points of magic, but he knows how it feels . The way it settles like a second skin, tingling and electric. The way it flares, on red alert after all this time, whenever Voldemort takes him by surprise.
Harry sits in a wide open field with his arms wrapped around his knees. The stars twinkle high above and the winds brush like icy fingers through his messy hair. He and Voldemort are no closer to uncovering a solution for the decay of magic, but more recently, there is less urgency to it. In the meantime, Harry has come to realize things about magic that had never occurred to him before.
Magic is not a monolith. Magic is not someone to be saved. Magic has empowered him, but the reason he is here today is not because of magic—not because dark magic or light magic or soul magic. He is here because of so much more than that. Love, firstly. Friendship and courage. Loyalty and wit and cunning. The hearts and minds of many before who have given him the strength to go on.
Some minutes later, the currents in the air change. Voldemort hovers a good distance away, just outside the temporary house they've set up for themselves here. He pauses for a moment, then strides with purpose to where Harry is seated in the field. Voldemort doesn't do anything in half measures; when he approaches, it is with confidence.
A hand settles on Harry's shoulder, the palm and fingers warm and heavy as they press down. Harry tips his head back until his head bumps against Voldemort's forearm.
"Come to join me?"
"The sky is remarkably clear tonight," Voldemort replies neutrally.
Harry opens his eyes. "It is quite the sight," he agrees. Voldemort stares down at him, red irises nearly pitch black in the darkness. "Come on, then." Harry gives the ground a pat. "The grass won't hurt you, old man."
Voldemort drops down next to Harry with the grace of a man in his mid-twenties rather than one who is mid-quincentennial. There is a beat of silence followed by some minor shuffling before Voldemort declares with disdain, "The ground is wet," like Harry's to blame for it.
"You have a wand," Harry says, amused. "Use it."
Magic washes over the ground beneath them like a gentle tide. Harry feels it rustle around his feet—millions of tiny particles vanishing the moisture that clings to the grass below him.
Harry smiles and lets his eyes fall shut once more. "Next time I'll bring us a picnic blanket."
"The longer I know you, the less amusing I find your sense of humour to be."
"Thanks, I like spending time with you too."
Voldemort sighs. Harry's smile grows ever wider. They sit for some time like that—listening to the universe and letting the moonlight soak into their skin. The air grows colder by the minute, raising goosebumps on Harry's arms, until that, too, is banished by the touch of Voldemort's magic.
"You know what I think?" Harry asks. The cloak draped around his shoulders has gotten warm all on its own, which is not a coincidence.
"Enlighten me."
"Magic won't die," says Harry.
"Is that so?"
Harry knows without needing to look that Voldemort's expression is that of reluctant interest. Pleased, Harry flops backwards onto the grass behind him and blinks up at the starry night sky. "Magic is everywhere and nowhere. In our souls, in the way we love, in the way we live."
Everything is cyclical. The seasons change over, the tides go in and out. History repeats itself time and time again. Humanity is flawed, is spotted with good and bad. The universe will end someday, and then it will begin anew.
Harry nods to himself. "Magic may leave for some time, but it will always come back to us. I believe that."
"A plausible theory," Voldemort allows after a pause. "What evidence do you have to support it?"
"Just a feeling." Harry yawns and stretches his arms out over his head, careful to avoid bumping his companion by mistake.
"A feeling."
"Yeah." Harry knows he's being a little shit, but he can't help it. Voldemort makes it too easy. "Sometimes they're synonymous with this other thing called 'emotions'? You may or may not be familiar with those."
Voldemort doesn't give into the barb. "I shall devise some experiments to test your theory. We will require more research on the origins of magic—"
Harry resists an urge to interrupt the monologue. Voldemort has cycles and patterns of his own; Harry's gotten used to them. While Voldemort talks and talks, Harry relaxes into his comfortably-warm cloak and shifts his focus from the inky night sky to Voldemort.
Voldemort's voice is a lovely baritone that drifts through Harry's brain like a midnight lullaby. Harry is absolutely not going to retain any of this lecture come morning and Voldemort will be annoyed at him for it. Right now, however, what Harry wants most is to lay here and enjoy the serenity of the moment.
When Voldemort finishes speaking, Harry stifles another yawn. It is long past bedtime. Harry sits up, cracking his spine as he goes. "Problems for tomorrow," Harry says cheerfully.
Voldemort narrows his eyes and folds his arms over his chest as if Harry is a disobedient child, never mind that they're both practically ancient. "You weren't listening."
Harry huffs, mildly exasperated. He had only wanted to watch the stars and reassure Voldemort that everything would be fine. "Sorry. It's late. I promise I'll listen to you when you tell me all that again in the morning."
If his scowl is anything to go by, Voldemort is neither convinced nor mollified by Harry's apology.
Voldemort has never apologized for the past. Their shared past. Harry has never asked him to. In many ways, Harry doesn't want an apology. He doesn't want to talk about the past he spent far too long trying to kill.
Harry shifts his weight so he can lift his hand and place it atop Voldemort's. The skin beneath Harry's palm is cool and dry. Voldemort freezes in place, scrutinizing Harry's face for answers. Oddly enough, Harry thinks he might be fond of the scrutiny.
"We can work on saving magic," Harry tells him, "but that doesn't have to be all that we do."
"Then what do you suggest we do? Find tedious, ordinary jobs? Find another little village to brew potions for?"
"We live," Harry says plainly. He can't explain it any better than that. "We just live."
"Live?" Voldemort asks. His tone is dismissive, but Harry knows better than to take it at face value.
It is easier, now, to look at Voldemort and forget who he is and what he has done. Harry has met thousands of people during his time on earth, but none of them have ever come close to Voldemort. Harry has met thousands of people, all of them similar but different. Rosalind is not the first girl to remind him of Ginny Weasley, she definitely won't be the last.
In the grand blueprint of the universe, in these intricate designs traced by fate or god or magic itself, there has only ever been one Harry and one Voldemort.
Someday in the far, far future, history may repeat itself. Someday a prophecy may declare two new souls as equals, each destined to never live while the other merely survives. It's funny, though. Harry has a hard time imagining anyone will ever be as connected as he and Voldemort are.
"I don't think either of us has really figured that out yet. How to live." Harry looks up at the moon, lets the light wash over his face. He knocks his shoulder into Voldemort's and smiles. "But I think we stand a good chance if we do it together."
Voldemort looks at Harry with mystification, as if they haven't spent the past two decades working together and living out of their trunks. Seconds stretch between them like glimmering gossamer threads while Harry wonders how long it would take to count the stars in the sky.
"Harry," says Voldemort. He sounds oddly self-effacing. "Harry, I—"
"Hey now," Harry says. Gently, with kindness. He gives Voldemort's hand a squeeze. "There's time for that tomorrow, I said." Harry stands, pulling Voldemort up as he goes. At full height, Voldemort is several inches taller than him, a towering shadow backlit by moonlight. "Now it's time for bed."
Harry takes Voldemort by the arm and tugs him close. Their quiet, asynchronized breaths pass into the cool night air. They have time. Tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. An indefinite number of starry nights and golden sunsets. Their own little eternity.
With this in mind, Harry rests his head against the man's shoulder and walks them slowly back to the house.
.
END.
A/N:
thank you so much for reading! i had a wonderful time immersing myself in this universe.
the ending was a bit of a pain to write, mostly because i was determined to capture the melancholy, healing vibe that i had envisioned from the very beginning. i hope that i've managed to convey that sentiment through my writing to you, the reader.
while i won't promise anything, i do feel that there is a good possibility i will return to this universe with a further one-shot or sequel. we shall see.