Harry wasn't a fool.
He was a bit thick at times, yes, but he was clever enough to pick up on a few things, especially when they pointed toward something that had already happened before.
And so, after Voldemort left in a huff and he found himself almost dizzy at just how much fun that had been, he began piecing things together.
On one hand, Voldemort had the Elder Wand.
On the other, the wand didn't seem to want to hurt Harry. He knew, from when he'd been its master before, that it would have likely orchestrated things to be able to get a spell or two through the wards over Grimmauld Place—or shattered them entirely, actually. If Voldemort had been its master, then it would have found a way to prove its power against a lesser foe.
But . . . it hadn't. Just as it had struggled to dismantle the cloud formation he'd set up outside of Voldemort's window, as Harry had sat perched on his broom just beyond the wards watching the madman scream at the sky in frustration.
Harry was using his holly wand that had travelled with him from his old life, and it was behaving just as instinctively as it had since he'd gained mastery of the Elder Wand at Malfoy Manor all those years ago.
Harry had retained mastery in his old life, and apparently had retained it here, too.
Or . . . maybe mastery had died with him in the woods, in this world. He hadn't been defeated, not really, since he had purposely walked to his death. There was no one to claim mastery after that, since he had chosen that death. And now, with him alive, he still held that claim over the wand.
Well, he didn't necessarily want to put it to the test and duel Voldemort head-on. . . .
. . . at least not yet.
Maybe after Harry had ruined his day a few more times.
But it certainly set his mind spinning. Was he the Master of Death? Was that even a real title, and power?
For the first time since he'd arrived in August Harry withdrew the stone from his pocket and gave it three turns.
There was a sudden chill in the room, the cluster of magnolias in the glass bowl by the window appearing to wilt, and the air around him seemed to squeeze tightly for a moment, then shudder.
And then the drawing room was just as it had been.
"Mum?" Harry called out hesitantly.
But there was no one there. He recalled her words to him in the end, her reminders that she loved him. It had sounded like a farewell, but Harry hadn't realised just how final they might have been.
He sank into his chair slowly, continuing to let his thoughts piece everything together. If this was another path, another world, then maybe his dead didn't exist to him anymore. Because this wasn't his world. Or at least, it hadn't been.
He looked at the cool stone, running his thumb along the grooves of the triangle, then the circle, then the line.
His mum had warned him. This was his path now, and everything—everyone—from before was gone.
Harry continued to stare at the stone, losing himself in that one stark thought.
Voldemort hadn't felt this much roiling tension beneath his skin in years.
As soon as he'd arrived back in his office at Hogwarts he'd immediately known that this was not the place for what was about to transpire and removed himself to a remote part of the highlands, and proceeded to allow his magic to flow. The earth cracked beneath him, and fire danced above him as the air swirled in a great funnel, spinning his outrage and his indignation and his resentment and everything away from him. His emotions were a cascade of destruction, taking apart the mountain he hovered above and casting every speck of its matter away, just away—
A horcrux. A horcrux!
And he had been tricked into destroying it. He hadn't even questioned the fact that Dumbledore's pawn, his prophesied nemesis, had walked to his death. Had practically demanded it, when compared to his countless inexplicably lucky escapes in the years preceding it.
A horcrux, all along, and Dumbledore had most assuredly known.
He let out a wordless yell as he sent a river of water up into his firestorm and watched as it doused every last flame, sending blankets of hissing steam over the rubble below and leaving a sheen of moisture over his papery skin.
It was beyond comprehension. He had come so close to losing everything. He had known that, before, the instant that the Longbottom boy had killed Nagini. And now he knew it again; he'd had one more horcrux than he'd known, but it had also been destroyed.
With another shout the steam turned abruptly to snow, feet upon feet of it, landing with a booming thud across the miles of damp ground around him. And still the funnel swirled on, sucking up that snow as it continued to spin.
And yet as much as he despised the notion, as much as it brought to mind that fear, he couldn't help but feel a thrill at the thought of actually having a worthy adversary once again.
Except he knew that his own arrogance had almost cost him before. He had come to terms with that fact, and had grudgingly accepted it.
He would need to remember it as their dance continued.
And he would make Potter dance.
He remained out in the highlands until well after dark, when he finally felt a bit more settled in his skin. Voldemort took his time reining back in his magic, allowing it to abate slowly, and drawing out the wildness of it as long as possible. Finally, he felt centred, and loose, and composed. And he apparated back to his office.
He then had the thought that all of the castle's occupants should feel rather fortunate that he had spent so long releasing his anger, because when he spotted the package lying innocuously on his desk his immediately felt a spark of renewed irritation.
He slashed his wand to ensure that there weren't any magical surprises included, then flicked open the note that was fastened to the top.
Dearest Tom
You were kind enough to give me a gift, so here is a gift in return!
Say, do you have any new horcruxes for me to hunt down?
ϟ
Gritting his teeth, he tore through the wrappings with a spell and used another to open the box, revealing a vial that contained the silver wisps of a memory.
Voldemort glared at it. He could already feel the lure of the unknown, the promise of knowledge contained in the memory, and he absolutely abhorred the fact that Potter clearly knew that. He summoned his Pensieve and dropped the memory in, before calling up a projection to its surface.
He watched as he and Potter circled each other, the vague shadows of onlookers gathered in a ring around the edge of the basin.
"So it all comes down to this, doesn't it?" taunted the Potter in the memory. "Does the wand in your hand know its last master was disarmed? Because if it does . . . I am the true master of the Elder Wand."
There was moment of stillness, then he heard two distinct and always-recognisable voices cry out:
"Avada Kedavra!"
"Expelliarmus!"
And then he watched, stunned, as the Elder Wand flew into the air and turned on him, almost in slow motion, and then as his own bolt of deadly green light impacted, as the memory of him fell to the ground, certainly dead.
Voldemort was vaguely aware of the sounds of cheers, but he couldn't look away from the husk that lay there, the empty shell that might well have been him. He stared at it in horror, every fear that he'd ever had surrounding the inevitability of death right there before him.
He swallowed forcefully and rapped his wand against the edge of the Pensieve, terminating the display, before stumbling backward into his chair.
He was breathing hard, he knew. He could hear his harsh breaths in the otherwise still silence of the room. His heart was beating rapidly in his ribcage, like it hadn't since he'd been a weak and pathetic child.
"Fetch someone. Anyone marked," he hissed, and somewhere in the room the flying snake responded, having since been restored from the transfigured form Potter had foisted upon it, and left once Voldemort opened the door.
He'd regained his composure by the time Draco Malfoy arrived, appearing nervous as he always did, still wearing his teaching robes despite the late hour. After a sharp gesture he was approaching and baring his arm, and Voldemort was pressing his finger against the Dark Mark presented demanding the Minister's presence.
Then the blond was dismissed as Voldemort waited, and fumed.
Finally, Yaxley appeared.
"Undesirable Number One has returned," Voldemort hissed in a low voice. "Use whatever means you must to capture him. Add additional names to the Taboo, offer a substantive reward, award Azkaban sentences to those who aid him. Whatever it takes. Bring him to me so that I may have his head."
The atmosphere in Britain seemed to change overnight.
The Death Eater patrols in London tripled, at least. Curfew was moved up to seven o'clock, rather than ten as it had been previously. People were furtive, eyes fearful, looking everywhere. In every corner there was a whispered conversation, followed by frantic shushing.
The sheer predictability of it all made Harry grin, even as he rolled his eyes in exasperation.
And so, he continued with his efforts, sneaking into printing presses during the nights, and pulling increasingly silly stunts during the day to ensure that everyone knew he was back, and that there was room in the future to not blindly and mindlessly obey Voldemort.
He grinned a little wider each time he thought of the headache he would have most assuredly been feeling had the horcrux still been there. His grin remained as he organised a flower delivery to every registered magical business in Britain. As he ordered Lockhart's singing dwarves to perform Christmas messages for all of the students at Hogwarts.
As he handed over a stack of muggle banknotes and confirmed that yes, the approvals were all in order for the aircraft banner displaying 'HARRY LIVES' to fly in circles above Whitehall at eight o'clock in the morning on a Monday in January.
And then, when he felt like he was on the verge of becoming too cocky, he locked himself up in the small Grimmauld Place library that was crammed full of all manner of nasty books, and tried to figure out what he was going to do about Azkaban.
Harry was tucked away in that library room when a sound that could have only been the doorbell tinkled and chimed daintily, and after looked about for a few startled moments he snorted and muttered to himself, "Yeah, that needs to go."
He raced down the stairs to the front door, already knowing who was there because he had quite deliberately left Voldemort keyed into the wards enough to allow him to see the place, and then shot a spell at the door to turn it transparent.
Then he gave a little grin and waved at the being of pure ire on his front step.
His only response was the flashing of an array of lights as Voldemort flung spell after spell against the door, which continued to stand there utterly unaffected.
Harry's grin unfurled, a little wider, a little wilder.
Then Voldemort was yelling something, by the twisted lines of his face, and Harry waited it out patiently, yawning obnoxiously after a minute had passed.
Finally the tirade that he couldn't hear ended, and with a brow raised he mouthed quite clearly, 'Oath.'
There was another splash of green against the invisible door, and then Harry tossed out a spell in order to hear through it as Voldemort uttered his oath, the words identical to those of the previous visit.
Harry did the same, still grinning, then strode forward to open the door.
He was promptly shoved backward into the wall, sending adrenaline singing through his veins.
"Hi," he breathed, meeting the furious crimson gaze without batting an eyelash.
"What is the meaning of this utter nonsense?!" Voldemort demanded, not relaxing his hold. "The inanity! The folly! If you want to fight me, cease this childish display and challenge me to a duel!"
Harry could feel his heart hammering up behind his collarbone, the nerves in his body ready for a fight, and still his grin could have split his face in half. "Is that what you want?" he goaded, his eyes widening in excitement as the man pressed him even harder into the wall, the burning glare intensifying. "You want to duel me?"
"Spare me the theatrics and issue the challenge if that is your aim," Voldemort hissed dangerously.
He could feel the forbidden magic crackling around them and his fingertips itched to call on it and blast Voldemort off of him, and yet he felt another kind of power here, restrained as he was. Because in making his demands, Voldemort had exposed himself.
"Why don't you challenge me?" Harry asked quietly, still grinning, still feeling like he was outflying a dragon's fiery breath. "Are you worried? Scared?"
He could feel the man tense up more than he could see it, pinned as he was, and then the building seemed to hold its breath.
And then Voldemort released him and stepped back in one fluid motion. "Don't be absurd," he snapped.
"Oh," Harry replied in a disappointed tone that was at least partly feigned. "So this is a social call, then?"
Voldemort gave him an absolutely scathing look of disgust and marched up the stairs to the drawing room, so Harry followed, feeling breathless with excitement.
Once they were seated in the same chairs as the previous visit, Voldemort pinned him with a look. "What will it take to make you leave me and my country alone?"
Harry snorted. "It's not your country."
Voldemort's eyes shut for a fraction of a second too long to be a normal blink. Harry imagined that if he were the type, he might even be praying for patience.
"Productivity has stalled, and the economy's growth is slowing due to the uncertainty that your presence inspires. These people were living their lives in a stable world until you appeared, and you seem to have made it your mission to annoy me, and as a result, everyone. What will it take for you to desist."
"Well, since you asked so nicely. . . ." Harry took a moment to drink in the discomfort of the other man, then affected a thoughtful expression. "Stop stealing children. Stop policing people who dare leave their homes for a reason other than work or a trip to the shops. Release the people you've stashed away in Azkaban. Chuck all of that Old Blood and New Blood marriage legislation in the bin and burn it. I think that should be a good starting point."
"Perhaps you've considered my response." Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, then added, "No."
Harry laughed. "Oh, yeah. I mean, I figured. Which is why I've been going about my days, having a little fun, making sure people know that I'm back, and that they don't need to stand for this. Sooner or later it'll be more than just me pushing back. Do you want to stay on top while your support gets thinner and thinner, until you topple right off your throne? Or can you adapt?"
Voldemort's eyes flashed in response to the challenge. "I have been taking a rather lax stance thus far, when it comes to you," he said, and ostensibly ignored Harry's scoff of derision. "But I can change that. Is that what you'd prefer? That I come at your wards? Impressive though they are, I am certain I can tear through them with the proper . . . motivation. Or perhaps I'll lie in wait and destroy you the instant you leave your protection."
Harry felt like he was vibrating in his seat, he was buzzing with so much energy. He licked his lips in anticipation. "So you're actually going to challenge me then, is that it?"
There was a hesitation, faint, but undeniable. And he could tell in the way that Voldemort drew himself up a moment later that he'd caught it, too. And oh, his glare burned, and only made Harry grin all the more.
"Tell you what, Tom," Harry said in a soothing tone, his pulse quickening when he felt the bristling anger in the other man's magic. "You get started on those things we talked about, and maybe I'll consider letting you catch me out and about. All right?"
Voldemort stood, the movement abrupt and jarring and not at all the smooth effortlessness that he usually put on, and left without another word.
Once he heard the distant sound of the front door slamming shut Harry held a hand to his racing heart, then threw his head back against the chair and laughed. He'd gone mad, but he didn't care, because he felt alive.
The library didn't end up revealing any secrets pertaining to the wrangling of enormous quantities of dementors, and his experience with the Ministry hadn't exactly taught him that skill. And so, Harry mulled over the matter of Azkaban for about a week, seeking inspiration while sober, while under the influence of caffeine, of alcohol, of lack of sleep, a combination of those states. . . .
And he had an idea.
It was mental.
But it was an idea.
So he dove back into the research, sparing a few grumbles about how he was turning into Hermione, and then a few more grumbles wondering if it would be easier to just ask Hermione, before taking a few days off to actually see if he could find out what had happened to her and Ron anyway.
Well, the good news was that he could still sneak in and out of the Ministry with no one the wiser.
The bad news. . . . Voldemort hadn't exactly taken kindly to their actions in destroying the locket and the cup, nor to their assistance in rounding up the rest of the horcruxes with Harry.
And so Harry pushed those thoughts firmly out of his head as he immersed himself once more in research, teaching himself the charms and rituals that were used all across the procurement industry of magical Britain, and which could possibly—and he was only considering it because so many witches and wizards were fundamentally shortsighted and entirely lacking in creativity—help him with the Azkaban problem.
And before embarking on his plan, he made sure to seal that particular opening firmly shut in his own wards, because he wasn't entirely hopeless.
At the end of February he apparated to a spot he vaguely remembered from his flight around the Hebrides then hopped on his broom and continued north to the Faroe Islands, landing on the mostly-uninhabited island of Stóra Dímun and hoping the Danish didn't mind too terribly what he was planning.
He spent a day meticulously mapping out his coordinates, laughing helplessly the entire time about the complete and utter stupidity of his entire plan, then set off across the North Sea.
When he arrived he remained low in the air, the crashing waves occasionally catching the tips of his toes as he skimmed over the surface of the ocean, carefully chanting while he did a circuit of the island once, then a second time, then a third time just to be sure he hadn't missed a spot.
Then he stopped and tilted his head back, looking up at the cloud of dementors that hadn't noticed him because he was farther away from them than the prisoners were.
For just a few moments longer, anyway.
And then he pushed with his magic, sending his enormous cargo along the procurement chain to its destination, just as farmers did to send their crops to the grocers every harvest, just as printing presses did to deliver their books to Flourish and Blotts in time for the book lists to go out each summer, just as every magical manufacturing company transported their stock to shops across the country. It was how magical logistics worked.
And so too did it work on prisons, apparently, when there was enough will and magic involved.
There was a deafening crack as air snapped into the vacuum that the sudden absence of the prison had left behind, and then the dementors very suddenly and eagerly spotted Harry down near the water, a lone platter of food after he'd just vanished the buffet table, so he was off, laughing madly, the roaring of the wind in his ears as he raced off toward the prison's new location, sending Prongs cantering off behind him.
Once he'd passed the boundaries of the rapidly-unravelling anti-apparition wards he twisted while still on his broom and found himself popping into existence some thirty feet above a flock of very startled sheep, and spun, squinting at the landscape until he spotted the dark looming shape in the distance.
Then he was off again, streaking toward the prison until he reached the main doors, and uttering the Auror passphrase that he was hoping hadn't been changed by Voldemort, since it most certainly hadn't ever been changed in his time.
There was a moment of silence, then loud banging as the series of locks on the main doors released, and then sounds of confusion and fear emanated from within.
It took next to no time to gain access to the small grubby office just inside the main doors. From there he quickly skimmed the incarceration records, ensuring that he wasn't releasing someone like Greyback or anything, then spun a few large valves on the far wall. He could hear heavy chains dragging within the walls, and far away shouts had started up—potentially sounds of alarm, or excitement, he wasn't sure, but they were something, which meant that things were happening.
And then alarms were sounding inside the office, and lights were flashing, and the panel displaying the layout of the prison was telling him in a very concerned manner that there was a full facility breach in effect, and Harry felt like he was floating on a cloud.
Then Harry retreated to the frigid winds of the outdoors, refreshed the atmospheric charms that were keeping the area warm and dry, and waited on his broom.
The prisoners emerged shouting, though the shouts quickly quieted and turned to shocked and confused whispers.
"Harry?" he heard a familiar voice ask, and it was Arthur Weasley, looking gaunt and ragged and old but staring at him with a brightness in his eyes that Harry recognised. Ginny was pushing through the crowd to stand next to her dad, and then George was there too.
He nodded, beaming, and the whispers became more excited.
"All right, you lot. I don't have wands for you all but I can make you some portkeys. We're about halfway between Scotland and Iceland right now. If you want to try your luck against Voldemort back home, that's your decision. If you want to actually live with a reasonable chance at safety and lasting longer than a day, you'll be able to seek amnesty in Iceland. I won't judge either way. But you can't stay here, since pretty soon someone's going to notice that this great ugly prison's gone missing and he won't be too pleased, I reckon."
There were some titters of hoarse laughter at that, and in short order Harry had everyone separated into groups and was sending each one of them off to their requested destination, with those bound for Britain being dropped off in a designated foyer within Gringotts.
And after a final look at the empty shell of a building that had taken so many lives and broken so many spirits, he apparated back to Grimmauld Place.
When he arrived Tommy alerted him to a package that was sitting innocuously on his front step, and he levitated it inside, flicking a few spells over the surface before unfolding the note.
A gift, in repayment of yours.
Curious, he unravelled the wrappings as he made his way up to the drawing room. He dropped his broom on the sofa and then sat in his usual chair before opening the box, and felt his eyebrows shoot up when he caught sight of the silver wisps inside the vial that was cradled on a silken bed of green.
Ten minutes later his eyebrows were still raised incredulously, though his mouth was twisted into a frown. "You had my corpse burned at the stake? Really?"
Then he leaned back in his chair, head tilted as he considered. "Surely you can do better than that."