Harry arrived back at Grimmauld Place short of breath, torn between exhilaration and giddy panic. His plan, if he could even call it that, had been stupid and reckless. He'd almost been trapped by the wards in Hogwarts no fewer than three times. He'd felt the alert go out when he'd touched the gates, and had been certain that the monster would come tearing after him.

And yet he'd done it. And now he felt like he could take on the world.

It was almost a shame that the horcrux was gone, he mused as he ate his dinner later that evening. He didn't miss the pain of it, but it might have been nice to glimpse the fruits of his labour all the same. Harry grinned as he imagined the reaction his note would have caused.

The next few days were spent exploring the house, determining what all he had at his disposal. He'd confirmed that the pantry was well-stocked when he'd arrived but he hadn't yet had a chance to check all of the rooms.

All trace of Buckbeak's residency had been eliminated from Sirius's mother's bedroom, and while a corner of the attic had seemingly been reserved for some of the old Black taxidermy (house-elf heads included, to his horror), much of the space appeared to have been turned into an art studio with easels, canvases, a trunk full of paints and charcoals and brushes, along with a loom and crates of silk thread. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it, in all honesty, and so left most of it untouched. It wasn't like he had any desire to correspond with the Malfoys, after all.

There was also a frightening quantity of flower arrangements, sometimes multiple in a room, each of them different from the last.

It was the drawing room though that gave him pause. The curio cabinets had been filled, their contents polished and gleaming behind panes of spotless glass, and many of those items were ones that Harry knew Mundungus had filched, or that they had tossed when they'd been cleaning the place before fifth year.

He was just beginning to mentally catalogue the items when Tommy silently entered through the open window and dropped a letter at his feet, finishing the work of the unknown owls that were not permitted into his home.

Mr H Potter

Pursuant to our last meeting on August 25th, please find enclosed a list of non-monetary assets that have been reclaimed on your behalf, and which can now be located within your vaults.

Gringotts regrets to inform you that we are unable to reclaim an invisibility cloak that is on record as a Potter family heirloom due to the magic containing it being that of this nation's sovereign. Additional measures will need to be taken in order to obtain this item; please return should you wish to review the options available to you.

Yours in trust

Grimrod

Accounts Executive
GRINGOTTS

Harry's eyes narrowed even as he scoffed at the title they'd used for Voldemort. He quickly checked over the document that had been included, his eyes widening in surprise at a few of the items listed, but then just as swiftly returned his thoughts to the topic of the cloak.

His cloak. Voldemort had no right to it.

And it would certainly help him in his future efforts to dismantle Voldemort's empire, not to mention the fact that he didn't even want to begin to imagine what nightmare would unfold should the tyrant also gain possession of the Resurrection Stone, since Harry was certain he still had the Elder Wand.

Because if there was any truth to the myth of the Master of Death—and he was purposely not thinking about the fact that he had arrived in this other path somehow—the last thing anyone would want was Voldemort holding that title.

"I'll be back in a bit," he told Tommy before making his way down to the ground floor and tossing on a cloak with a large hood. Then with a crack he was apparating to Diagon Alley to speak with some goblins.

Voldemort strode along the corridors of the Ministry, relishing in the tension that lingered in the air as more of his subjects caught sight of him. He'd recognised the alert that had gone out the instant he had appeared in the Atrium; no doubt everyone in the building knew that he was present, and was nervously bracing themselves for an unplanned visit.

Smirking slightly he turned from the main corridor of Level Three to the section that held the Children's Relocation Services. There were whispers somewhere behind him, and if he were juvenile like they were he might have rolled his eyes; surely they weren't surprised, as he'd made this visit every year, ever since he had created the department.

He stopped in front of the door tucked into the corner of the department and pushed it open, letting it fall shut behind him as he took a seat. "Miss Parkinson," he greeted as the witch looked up from her work, sitting a little straighter in her chair. "Tell me about this year's process."

She dipped her head in a quick nod, or a shallow bow, and spoke. "My Lord, all has proceeded smoothly. Thirty-four children have been identified, located, and transferred into children's homes, and we are currently reviewing a dozen applications for placement with suitable families."

"Were there any issues at all?"

"Not with the process, my Lord." Her lips pinched together, then she opened a drawer in her desk and removed a single sheet of parchment. "This did come through last night, though."

She handed it over and Voldemort narrowed his eyes at the familiar scrawl.

What are you doing with the muggleborns?

"I see," he said after a moment, before folding the parchment and tucking it away in a pocket. "And who else has seen this note?"

"The redirection wards caught it and sent it straight here, as with any other correspondence that includes . . . that word."

"Good." He gave her an assessing look, a part of him pleased when she seemed to withstand the force of his gaze. "I expect you to pass along any other similar communication. Directly to me, with no word to anyone else. Understood?"

"Of course, my Lord."

As he was rising to his feet a parchment on her desk flashed, and Parkinson glanced over at it briefly before her eyes widened and she looked up at him. "The Minister, my Lord. He's requesting that you see him."

Voldemort looked over and saw more writing filling the page, almost frantically. "Anything additional?"

Her eyes widened a bit more as she also looked back down at the page, then she shook her head. "It seems urgent, my Lord. But nothing more."

"Very well." And with that he apparated straight into Yaxley's office two floors above, to find the Minister there with Rookwood.

"Well?"

Rookwood immediately bowed. "My Lord, there is a matter in the Department of Mysteries." At Voldemort's slow blink he hurried to add, "The Potter Vault."

He inhaled deeply, smelling the trepidation in the air and also willing down his desire to simply curse the lot of them and handle things himself, then released the breath. "Show me."

The walk down to Level Nine was a quiet one. He allowed Rookwood to lead the way, his eyes narrowing as he considered what the little wretch was up to now. He wouldn't have been able to breach the protections on the case that held his most prized former possession, as those had been layered carefully over the course of countless hours, with the full might of the Elder Wand no less.

As they passed through a series of corridors and black doors he could sense Rookwood's mounting nervousness and found himself clenching his jaw in irritation. A pack of snivelling cowards. Loyal cowards, but cowards nonetheless.

His follower stopped before a familiar door, before stepping to the side and turning back toward him.

"And? You are going to show me the problem with the vault, are you not?"

"I am, my Lord. The problem is the vault."

Exhaling sharply in impatience he strode forward to open the door himself and then stopped when his hand passed right through the handle. His eyes narrowing to slits he reached a hand forward to touch the door, feeling as it passed right through.

He took a step back and slashed his wand in a sharp gesture, cutting through the illusion, and then let out a roar of fury when he saw the utter nothingness that lay beyond it.

The contents of the room were gone. The entire room was gone, walls, ceiling, floor and all. It looked as though someone had scooped out a chunk of the building and had only left loose stone and air in its place.

Through the haze of his rage he was aware of Rookwood's screams as he writhed and flailed under the Elder Wand but his thoughts were on the boy, the utter bane of his existence and the agonising demise he would be facing as soon as Voldemort caught up with him.

After he had dismissed a limping Rookwood and sat there in the empty pit that had once held the spoils of war, a small bit of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. With a twitch of his hand a small rectangle of parchment was fluttering toward him, its edges jagged as if it had been torn from a larger piece.

Dearest Tom

Thanks for holding onto my things.

You might want to start thinking about
what else you'll soon be losing.

ϟ

The lightning bolt started appearing everywhere, after that. It was on doors in Diagon Alley, before the shops opened for the day. It was on issues of the Daily Prophet, after they left the press but before they arrived at their destination. It was even on Chocolate Frog cards, somehow, within their sealed packaging.

It was in the sky above Hogwarts, in long trails of golden clouds, clearly visible through the windows of Voldemort's quarters when he rose one morning, and it took him nearly an hour to dismantle the despicable thing.

It was the talk of Hogwarts, when the students didn't think Voldemort could hear them, and when the students were in their common rooms and dormitories it was the portraits, and the ghosts, who whispered about it. It was the talk of the Ministry—the talk of London. Even muggle London, which had become more populous once vermin had sought the perceived safety of the big city after the wartime attacks in the countryside, had taken to adopting the symbol in their fashion, despite not having an understanding of its meaning.

Voldemort fumed, and declared the symbol a sign of treason, but it still appeared everywhere.

And with the symbol came disturbances. They were small, here and there, nothing too alarming on their own but when combined clearly pointed toward unrest, whether the growing rebellion even knew it yet.

But there was a minuscule increase in breaches of curfew, some of them in London but most in the villages of West Country, where many of the enemies of the war had once lived. There were reports of the brat's name being uttered, though his Snatchers had yet to actually catch someone. There were leaflets turning up in odd places, having been slid under people's doors or tucked into Witch Weekly issues, each of them asking pointed questions, such as:

Does freedom from muggles matter when you're not free to think?

Or:

What if they stole your baby?

The first such leaflet that had been shared with Voldemort had caused him to level the thestral stables.

And yet his people could find nothing. There were no witnesses to Potter's actions, or if there were, they were keeping silent.

When the latest of the leaflets surfaced (If your leader weren't a pureblood, would you even follow him?) he cancelled his meetings for the day and apparated to London, uncaring that he was standing on the pavement of a muggle street, or that there was the squealing of tyres behind him where several vehicles had swerved abruptly, their drivers likely startled out of their wits at his sudden appearance.

"Carry a message for me," he hissed as the flying snake launched itself from his upper arm where it had been coiled. "Tell him to come out of his pathetic little hole and face me like a wizard."

He watched after the snake's retreating form with narrowed eyes, his gaze following it as it hovered in front of a few houses before darting between numbers eleven and thirteen, vanishing with a brief ripple in the air.

Several minutes passed, during which he completely ignored the sounds around him and stared fixedly at the lie of the houses before him.

Finally there was another ripple in the air, and what appeared to be a large snake plush landed at his feet a moment later, unmoving.

"Sorry, Tom!" called a cheery voice from beyond that ripple in the air. "Couldn't be sure it wasn't another snake horcrux hell-bent on killing me. You know how it is."

"You insolent wretch!" Voldemort shrieked, feeling the air around him heat with the crackling of his magic. He lashed a few streaks of power toward the ripple and felt his ire grow even hotter as the spells impacted against the brick façade, scorching some stones and dislodging a few others.

There was a loud tutting, then Potter said, "Temper, temper. You'd almost think you weren't happy to hear from me!"

The next spells he flung toward the ripple were bright green, and they splashed harmlessly against the houses behind where Potter undoubtedly stood.

"That wasn't very nice, Tom," came the next words, an infuriating taunt. "And I might've invited you in for tea. Such a shame."

Voldemort's palm was tingling, and it took him a moment to place the sensation as the same one he'd felt when he'd been at King's Cross several months earlier. Narrowing his eyes, he gripped his wand tighter and looked straight at that ripple. "What will it take for you to cease your hiding and face me? Or are you frightened?"

There was a laugh of delight, which was most assuredly not the appropriate response. "How about an oath to keep this meeting peaceful, then? No magic cast by either of us from the time that I let you inside until the time that you leave. How does that sound?"

Voldemort considered. No magic, rather than no spells. Well, that rather eliminated part of his strength. Then again, his reborn form was physically powerful, certainly more so than the boy who had always been scrawny. And there were certainly weapons within the house, should he need them.

He swore the oath, and so did the boy, and then the ripple in the air melted and revealed number twelve, with its black door open wide.

He strode forward purposefully, entering the front hall that he'd seen a few times over the past ten years, and followed a shadow up to the first floor drawing room.

When he arrived it was to find a tea service out already, as if the boy had been waiting for him.

"Well, I'll admit it took longer for you to finally make your way out here than I expected," Potter said from behind him as he swung the door shut, then crossed the room to drop lazily into an armchair. "Honestly, I thought I'd have to deal with one of your tantrums the second I got back. Nice to see that you've changed a bit."

Voldemort clenched his jaw tight and didn't allow his magic to lash out, though it took a considerable amount of restraint. Instead, after a beat of silence he took the chair opposite Potter and ignored the tea. "What is the meaning of this."

Potter's eyes were positively glowing, as if he were having the time of his life. Voldemort felt his loathing for the boy triple on the spot.

"Well, I found myself completely bored after we won the war, and was given the opportunity to live a little. So here I am!" he replied brightly, before reaching forward and preparing himself a cup of tea. Then he was leaning back in his chair, cradling the saucer in his lap, looking the absolute picture of lazy confidence.

"Explain yourself," he said evenly, even as he felt one of his eyelids twitching. "Without your games, and your riddles. I'm much too busy for this."

Potter snorted. "No you're not. This place runs itself, doesn't it? I've seen the people you've assigned to every nook and cranny in the Ministry, and the hierarchy of your Death Eaters. I mean, if it weren't for the fact that there's no bloody freedom in this country I might actually be impressed with how smoothly everything runs. I mean, it's a well-oiled machine. Definitely more organised than the Ministry ever was on its own."

Voldemort quirked a hairless brow. "You certainly sound impressed."

"Yeah, you caught me," he admitted, holding his free hand out to the side for an instant before returning it to his saucer. "I'm impressed that the tyrannical dark lord managed to clean up the bumbling mess that Fudge created.

"But," Potter continued, pausing for a few seconds to sip his tea, "that doesn't excuse the fact that you're stealing children and indoctrinating them. They're all growing up in fear of you, because you actually live right there in their bloody school, watching everything they do. And then once they're out of school, they live in what's essentially a military state, being watched over by your Death Eaters every moment of every day. And that's not even mentioning what you've done with the muggles."

Voldemort cocked his head as he considered the man before him. To admit that he had actually accomplished something impressive, whether it was true or not, was something that the angry adolescent of the war would have never stomached. Something had changed this man.

"You say that you won the war?" he instead asked, not addressing their differing political opinions. "And how exactly can you justify that bold claim?"

Potter somehow managed to lounge even more casually in his chair. "Why should I admit anything to you?"

"Because you seem to want to discuss matters with me. So go on. Discuss."

An odd look flickered across those green eyes for a fraction of a second, too swiftly for Voldemort to capture what it might have been, but it was enough to cause some of the joviality to fade from the man's face.

"I walked to my death in the forest," Potter said with a nod in his direction. "You hit me with the killing curse, destroying the horcrux that I'd carried with me since that night in Godric's Hollow." Voldemort hissed as his outrage reached a new peak. "And then I survived it. We duelled in the Great Hall, and I had mastery over the Elder Wand, so my Disarming Charm won over your Killing Curse. You died."

Then Potter shrugged, a lazy gesture that was in direct counterpoint to the stiffness he wore on his face. "And then I stopped caring about pretty much everything. Turns out defeating you was pretty much the one reason I existed, so once I did that there wasn't any point to anything."

"What a fantastical tale," Voldemort drawled, thinking it over. Certainly it was nonsense. Then again, he had no explanation for how Potter, who had absolutely died and then whose body had been burned at the stake in the centre of London for all to see, was sitting before him now, appearing a decade older and apparently possessing much greater magical skill than he had as a child.

"And you've chosen to instead come to my world to be a nuisance, have you? To attempt to dismantle what I have so painstakingly built—and earned, with my victory?"

Potter's eyes shone again as his entire demeanour brightened. He sat up a bit straighter as he chirped, "Pretty much!"

He exhaled harshly and stood, having had enough of this ridiculous conversation. "You will fail. You can't even begin to understand what I have established here. You may put your graffiti on every stone in the land but no one will follow you in your silly uprising. Because everyone here has bowed to the greater power, and has submitted to my rule."

He stepped forward and Potter rose as well, keeping his teacup in hand.

"I will admit to being impressed by the magical feats you've accomplished since your return," Voldemort granted. "So in recognition of that I will give you one gift. An opportunity to leave, now. Leave this country, make yourself a life elsewhere. Because if you choose to stay then you will be not only my enemy, but everyone's enemy once more. And as I did the last time, I shall take pleasure in snuffing the life from your pathetic body."

By the end his words were hardly more than a whisper, and he was leaning forward, practically looming over Potter.

And Potter was leaning right back, appearing to be balanced on the balls of his feet as he grinned madly up at him. "Great. I thought you'd say that. Can't wait for you to try."

It was madness, certainly. That fact alone remained in Voldemort's mind as he apparated back to Scotland shortly thereafter. It was madness that made those green eyes glow, just as Bella's dark grey eyes had done, and Evan Rosier's icy blue ones, before they'd both met their ends.

Potter was mad, and as much as the thought of his perfect country being messed with infuriated him, he couldn't wait to face that madness and crush it.