Chapter 1
Harry didn't think he'd ever get used to the feeling of being pushed through a narrow tube. When he opened his eyes, he found himself on a country road, large beech trees offering shadow from the July sun.
Three weeks he'd managed to stay with the Dursleys before he'd concluded sitting around wasn't going to help him find the remaining four Horcruxes. He was supposed to join Ron and Hermione at some point, probably after his 17th birthday, but so far Harry hadn't heard any concrete plans and he was getting anxious.
Dumbledore had left him with a momentous task and Harry didn't have a clue where to begin looking for the Horcruxes. He needed information and one place Harry was sure he'd find information was at the site where Voldemort had tried to kill Harry to make his final Horcrux. Of course, by now Voldemort had turned Nagini into Horcrux number six, but that didn't take away from the fact that the attack on the Potters had been an attempt to stop the Prophecy while also ensuring Voldemort's own immortality.
The Potters' home in Godric's Hollow mattered.
That is why Harry was absolutely sure he'd find some kind of information or some clues there. And why wait until he met up with Ron and Hermione at some unknown point in the future? Why stay at the Dursleys all day every day doing absolutely nothing useful when Harry could just pop over to Godric's Hollow and have a little looksee for himself?
Harry would simply use his invisibility cloak to keep himself hidden, take a look around and then get back to the Dursleys before nightfall. He knew how to apparate, after all, even if he hadn't passed his official test just yet.
Harry glanced around, pulled his invisibility cloak closer around himself, and started walking, wand in hand. His parents' house, or what was left of it, was supposed to be somewhere at the end of the long road leading into the village. Something heavy settled in Harry's stomach. He dreaded seeing his parents' house, the place where they'd died, where Voldemort had almost killed him. But he was also certain it was a significant place that needed further investigation.
Something black, like a shadow, moved under a beech tree to Harry's right, and Harry stopped dead in his tracks, raising his wand. The tree's branches waved at him in the warm summer wind, assuring him he was alone and quite safe.
Harry sighed, and continued his walk.
And then the birds in the trees around him stopped singing their summer songs.
Harry halted again, and glanced around. The shadow was back, and it moved, and Harry recognized the looming figure.
But before he could wrap his lips and tongue around a curse, a jet of red light shot from Snape's wand. Something hard struck Harry in the chest and he was thrown backwards, his body falling to the ground as his mind fell into complete darkness.
Footsteps. Distant.
A flash of red light illuminated Snape's face in the shadows of giant trees.
Footsteps. Closer.
Cold stones, rough and rugged beneath his palms. Red eyes staring down at him.
Breathing. Close.
Light and warmth as Harry opened his eyes, his mind slowly drifting back into consciousness.
A voice. Somewhere.
Harry heard flames crackling, and as he let his head loll to the side he saw a large fireplace, a comforting fire burning inside it.
A voice. Very close.
"Potter!"
Harry fell, and he hadn't even known he'd been lying on something. He landed on the floor with a dull thud, and scrambled away on sheer instinct, since his mind hadn't caught up with reality just yet.
But that voice.
"Potter! Wake up!"
His wand. He needed his wand. But his arms felt like liquid, much like the time Lockhart had spelled away his bones, and his fingers were stiff. Still, Harry blindly reached for his pockets in a desperate search for his wand.
He needed his wand because Lord Voldemort was staring at him from across the room.
"Don't bother, Potter. I already went through your pockets."
He didn't have his wand. Voldemort had taken his wand. Harry's heart was beating so fast, for a moment he feared it would burst right out of his chest.
And yet, he didn't seem able to suck in enough air to keep his mind from slipping in and out of focus.
He was wandless, and Voldemort was there. Harry briefly closed his eyes, concentrating as best he could, and ordered his body to disapparate back to the Dursleys'. He willed it, wanted it, gave everything he had into that single command, but nothing happened. He tried again, but there was no tingle of magic inside him, nothing that even remotely felt like apparition.
He couldn't apparate. He was stuck.
"I know you can hear me!" Voldemort had turned his back to Harry, and he seemed to be talking to someone else, although Harry had no idea who that might be. He didn't even have an idea where he was.
He needed his wand, dammit.
"When I get out, and be sure that I will get out, you are going to wish you'd never been born, Severus." Voldemort picked up an object and threw it against the wall, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "I will teach you the meaning of pain, you filthy traitor."
Severus?
Severus Snape.
What?
Harry abandoned his fruitless search for his wand and stared at Voldemort, who paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back tightly. From the door on the right to the desk, then to the large windows, and back to the door. Over and over again, until Harry was convinced none of it was real and he was stuck inside a bizarre dream.
But the attack in Godric's Hollow hadn't been a dream.
"Finally awake, Potter?" Voldemort stopped and turned to Harry, who could do little more than look for something that could be used as a weapon now that he didn't have his wand. But there was nothing besides the fireplace behind him and the rug beneath him and the couch in front of him.
He pushed himself up, and almost fell against the mantel when his legs buckled. He caught himself just in time, one hand grabbing for support and finding it when it touched the wall beside the hearth.
"What's going on?" Harry asked, his voice dry and raspy. Something was going on, because Voldemort hadn't killed him yet. Hell, Voldemort didn't even have his wand out.
"What is going on, indeed," Voldemort said, and looked around the room for a few moments before snapping his gaze back to Harry. "A question I've been trying to answer for the last hour while you were snoring on the sofa."
Harry gasped for breath, his mind in danger of shutting down under the onslaught of questions that exploded inside it. Where was he? Why was Voldemort keeping him here? Why hadn't Voldemort at least locked him up or tied him down? And why on earth wasn't Voldemort trying to kill him?
And while Harry was tempted to ask every single one of those questions, he didn't want to give Voldemort ideas, so he settled for the least provocative question. "Why are you keeping me here?"
Voldemort arched a thin eyebrow. "Oh yes, of course I'm keeping you here. This is exactly how I had planned to spend my holidays. Locked up in a house with the Chosen One." Voldemort spat out the last words as if they were the foulest thing he had ever tasted.
A flare of defiance burst through Harry, and he straightened his shoulders, pleased to feel the strength seep back into his arms and legs.
But not only his limbs regained their function. His mind was catching up as well. Voldemort seemed angry, but not at Harry. He'd been yelling at Severus Snape. Voldemort also mentioned being locked up with him. And Voldemort didn't have his wand out.
"You don't have your wand either, do you?" Harry asked without thinking.
An incredibly sour look passed over Voldemort's face before it twisted up in disgust.
"You don't have your wand," Harry said again, this time in conclusion. If Voldemort didn't have his wand, Harry might be able to...
Without finishing that thought, Harry eyed the room quickly, and when he looked over his shoulder at the mantel, he saw what he'd been looking for.
A heavy silver candlestick. A potential weapon.
Harry reached for it, weighing it against his palm and mentally calculating how hard he would have to swing his arm to bash Voldemort's skull in.
"Don't try me, Potter," Voldemort said, taking a step towards Harry, his fists clenching beside his body. "Don't even think about using that."
"You don't have your wand," Harry said yet again, drawing strength from those words. He gritted his teeth in determination, raising the candlestick halfway up in the air, and took a step towards Voldemort.
Who moved so fast Harry didn't even see him coming, but found himself pinned to the wall while a strong hand curled around his throat, cutting off his air.
"So rash, Potter. So careless," Voldemort whispered, his red eyes narrowed and his pupils dilated. Harry struggled and kicked, and tried to raise the candlestick again, but Voldemort caught his wrist, and didn't just squeeze it, but pulled it backwards until Harry was forced to drop his only weapon.
"Remember, I don't need magic to hurt you." Voldemort leaned closer, and Harry felt a jolt of pain shooting from his scar. He tried to kick again, his other hand tearing at Voldemort's robes, but Voldemort moved closer still, and trapped him against the wall.
"I could snap your neck right now, Harry. All it would take is one," Voldemort tightened his fingers around Harry's throat, giving it a careless jerk, "little twist of my fingers."
Harry stiffened. He tried not to, tried to keep struggling, but the idea that Voldemort now controlled his life, could kill him with one flick of his wrist, made Harry's body refuse to operate, and he stared in those hideous red eyes, his own gaze losing its focus while his glasses slipped down his nose.
"Or I could do other things with you," Voldemort breathed as he leaned towards Harry's ear. One pale hand travelled down Harry's body and cupped his groin. "Anything I want to."
And as quickly as Voldemort had caught him, Harry found himself slumping to the floor again. Voldemort turned around, and a small part of Harry's mind screamed at him that this was his chance. But Harry didn't agree with that and only cared about one thing: to get out of there as fast as he could.
Scrambling to his feet, Harry fled. He burst through the first door he saw, and found himself in a hallway. He slammed yet another door open, and vaguely noticed that he had landed himself in a kitchen.
Which had a door. With a large glass window through which thick beams of sunlight entered the light room, colouring all the white cupboards yellow.
Harry lunged towards it, intent on jumping right through. But a barrier, an invisible, strong barrier, thwarted his plans and threw him back into the kitchen. He landed on the floor while his head slammed against the corner of a cupboard.
A flash of a pain, searing and blinding, and then something warm dripped down his eyebrow.
That didn't stop Harry, and he pushed himself up and grabbed a wooden chair. He threw it at the glass with all his strength, but it bounced back just as he had and crashed against the table.
He was trapped. He was trapped inside an unfamiliar house with Voldemort. Harry was suddenly very close to panicking, and it was only through sheer stubbornness that he managed not to break down.
A weapon. He needed a weapon, so he could at least defend himself.
Pulling open cupboards and drawers at random, Harry found pots and pans and finally a large steak knife. He palmed it, gripping it tightly so it wouldn't slip away from his sweaty fingers, and dashed out of the kitchen again.
There was a large staircase to his left, and Harry ran up it, taking two steps at a time. Then a small hallway with several doors. Harry entered the first one, and after he made sure he was alone in what turned out to be a bedroom, he slammed the door shut, checked for a lock that wasn't there, and then leaned his back against it, letting himself slide to the floor.
He was trapped inside a house with Voldemort. And the only weapon he had was a knife. How in the bloody hell was he ever going to take out a man who had survived a Killing Curse, who had split his soul in seven pieces, with a knife? Harry tried not to think about it as he rested his arms on his drawn up knees and leaned his forehead against them.
Harry woke with a stiff neck and an aching back, half-slumped against the door. It took him a moment to shake his mind of the last flashes of his dreams, which had been vivid and surreal.
At least, Harry thought parts of them had been surreal, until he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pushed his glasses up his nose, and looked around.
He was still in that unfamiliar bedroom, in that unfamiliar house, trapped alongside a very familiar enemy.
Taking a deep breath, almost a yawn, Harry stretched and pushed himself up, noticing that he was still holding the knife. Despite the slight discomforts, Harry's body felt as if it had had a good night's sleep, and all the remnants of restraining magic that had bothered him earlier were gone.
His forehead hurt, but not his scar, and when Harry reached for it, he felt caked blood. Undeniable evidence of what had happened and that he had not been able to escape this prison. He would have to try again, just like he had to confront Voldemort again.
But this time Harry would be prepared. Or at least in better shape, and he tightened his grip around the knife.
Voldemort didn't have his wand, and thus he was as vulnerable as Harry was.
But what if Voldemort had found weapons as well, a soft voice whispered in the back of Harry's mind. What if Voldemort had found larger, sharper, more powerful weapons than Harry's pathetic steak knife? And what was Harry going to do with that knife, anyway? Voldemort couldn't be killed before all the Horcruxes were destroyed.
Harry silenced that voice and narrowed his eyes, reaching for the doorknob. He would deal with that when he got to it, and he would not let the speculation lead him into insecurity.
Opening the door a few inches Harry peeked into the hallway, and when he neither saw nor heard anything suspicious he crept out of the room, his back turned to the wall. He kept the knife raised, poised to strike, and moved silently along the corridor to the stairs. There wasn't a sound except for the soft ticking of a clock downstairs.
Perhaps Voldemort wasn't there anymore. Perhaps he had found a way out, which made Harry wonder if perhaps he could find a way out now as well.
"You will bleed for this, Severus!"
Or perhaps Voldemort was still around, busy yelling profanities at Snape that made little sense to Harry. Still, Harry couldn't very well spend the rest of the day pressed to a wall in the upstairs corridor, so he crept silently across the carpeted floor and descended the stairs without a sound.
As he stood at the foot of the stairs and held his breath, Harry heard the faint sound of rustling paper coming from the kitchen. The knife still gripped tightly in his fist, Harry tiptoed to the open door, and pressed his back to the wall again as he glanced around the door post.
Voldemort sat at the kitchen table, the Daily Prophet in his hands.
"Come in, Harry."
Harry started and inhaled a sharp breath. Voldemort's gaze traveled from the newspaper to the door and met Harry's, and Harry was at a loss of what to do. He had his knife and Voldemort didn't seem armed at that moment, but Harry remembered how Voldemort had pushed him up against a wall the previous night, and any thoughts of attacking Voldemort he might have had vanished under the weight of that unpleasant memory.
"We've made headlines, boy." Voldemort's gaze had returned to the Prophet, and Harry worried his lip, still not sure if he should enter the kitchen, stay where he was, or run back upstairs to hide.
"'Harry Potter and You-Know-Who die in final confrontation,'" Voldemort quoted, and he held the newspaper so Harry could see the headlines. "Our wands were delivered to Rufus Scrimgeour as proof of our deaths." Voldemort snorted, his face wrinkling up in disgust.
"What?" Harry asked, finally daring to make a sound. "Who...what?"
"Get inside, Potter, and sit down. We have much to discuss," Voldemort snarled.
Harry felt a flare of defiance burn in his chest. He had nothing to discuss with Voldemort. But Harry couldn't deny that something was going on, and Voldemort seemed to know more about it than he did. Keeping his fingers tightened around the knife, Harry shuffled inside the kitchen, keeping as much distance between Voldemort and himself as he could.
"But..." Harry wanted to say they weren't dead, and realized that seemed rather obvious. But then he thought about ghosts and Inferi, and he suddenly wasn't all that sure anymore. "We're not dead. Are we?"
Voldemort cocked his head and gave him a look as though Harry had said the stupidest thing imaginable.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Harry glanced at the knife in his hand, and then at Voldemort and the newspaper in Voldemort's hands. He really wanted to understand what was going on, so he took a few careful steps in Voldemort's direction. Just enough so he could see around the edge of the Prophet.
The thick black letters announcing his death were still there.
"But," Harry tried again. "My friends will know I'm missing, that I'm not at the Dursleys'."
Voldemort released a very impatient sound. "Your friends think you're dead. The whole world believes us dead, Potter."
Harry's mind swayed. "But they haven't any bodies."
"You stupid child!" Voldemort threw the newspaper down on the table. "Of course they have bodies. It's easy to feed someone Polyjuice Potion and then kill them. They'll have bodies looking exactly like us."
Inhaling a sharp breath, Harry tried to process that. His friends thought he was dead. The whole world thought he was dead. While in fact he was locked up somewhere with bloody Voldemort.
He glanced at the newspaper again, unable to believe it. And he noticed the picture below the article. Scrimgeour stood there, holding two broken wands, the tip of a large feather sticking out one of the ends. Harry recognized his own wand immediately, and he was quite sure the other wand was Voldemort's.
And then he inhaled another startled breath. Behind Scrimgeour stood Severus Snape. Flanked by Draco and Lucius Malfoy.
"What?" Harry forgot all about Voldemort as he leaned closer to examine the picture. "That fucking bastard!"
"Glad to see you're catching on," Voldemort said, his voice humorless.
Harry raised his knife, suddenly aware he was standing close to Voldemort, but Voldemort slapped his hand away. And Harry let him, too shocked by Snape sneering at him from the picture.
"But how can he – he killed -"
"Dumbledore," Voldemort said, and looked pleased for a moment. "Yes. And then that traitor lost his nerve." Voldemort pressed his hand down on the article. "Convinced the Ministry he was working for Dumbledore all along. That Draco and Lucius had been aiding him in his fight against me. Honestly, that pair of incompetents? But they believe him, and they believe us dead."
Harry stared at Voldemort with his mouth open. If it weren't for the fact that Snape had betrayed him too, Harry would have applauded him for stabbing Voldemort in the back.
"But why this?" Harry waved his hand around. "Why not - "
"Kill us?" Voldemort glanced up at Harry. "Because Severus can't kill me and he knows it. I'm convinced he believes you can." Voldemort gave a loud snort. "So he locks us up in here and hopes you'll be the one who survives."
Harry's mind was spinning, and he reached for something to steady himself, but when he realized he touched Voldemort's shoulder, he quickly drew his hand back.
Voldemort raised his gaze again and stared at Harry for a moment. "There is ice in the cooler," he said, and picked up a cup of tea. He sipped it delicately, and Harry wondered what the hell he was talking about, until he remembered the dried blood he'd felt on his forehead earlier.
"I'm fine," he muttered, gritting his teeth.
"No, you aren't," Voldemort said. "And neither am I. We're faced with a problem without an immediate solution."
Harry gave a faint nod. He'd noticed that much.
"And thus we have much to discuss," Voldemort continued, his thin lips curling up. "Under any other circumstances I'd be more than happy to end your miserable excuse of a life, but alas, it seems we might need each other's...assistance to get out of here. I believe we can only break out of here if we combine our forces."
Harry blinked. He did not want Voldemort's assistance. Nor did he want to discuss anything with Voldemort. He wanted to get as far away from Voldemort as he could, at least until he found the remaining Horcruxes. Once they were destroyed, Harry was more than happy to ram his knife in Voldemort's chest.
"I don't need you," he said. "I'm going to find a way out of here and I won't need your bloody help for it."
Voldemort stared at Harry impassively. "Go ahead then, Harry. You have all the time in the world to find a way out of this house."
Feeling heat rising to his cheeks, Harry glared at Voldemort one last time and then stomped out of the kitchen in search of some way to escape. A way that did not include discussing things with the person who'd killed his parents and who'd almost killed him.
There had to be a way out of the house. There had to be.
As Harry made his way through the house, meticulously checking every window in every room he came across, he was forced to conclude this was a Muggle house.
There was electricity, and the rooms were littered with electronic devices, such as alarm clocks in both of the bedrooms, and a washing machine and a dryer in what Harry assumed was the laundry room. There was even an electric toothbrush in the bathroom.
He was also forced to conclude that the invisible, magical barrier he'd encountered in the kitchen the previous night stretched around the entire house.
No matter how hard he tried, the windows would not break. He couldn't even touch them, much less bang on them to attract attention.
It was a simple house. There was a dusty attic filled with odd things Harry thought he might investigate later. There were two bedrooms, a laundry room and a bathroom on the first floor. And downstairs there was the kitchen, which Harry avoided all morning since he didn't want to run into Voldemort again, a dining room, a living room, and a conservatory filled with large plants and a piano.
All the windows in the house offered the same view; the house was surrounded by a large garden with wide lawns and tall trees in the distance. No sign of any neighbours, Muggle or wizard.
Harry sighed and crouched down in the living room. He reached an arm inside the hearth and learned that even the chimney was protected by the invisible barrier. He sat back on the rug in front of the fireplace and glanced around the room. For all the electronic appliances he'd seen around the house, he hadn't encountered a television or a radio. It seemed Snape had cut them off from the world entirely.
He was stuck inside a house with Lord Voldemort. If it wasn't for the icy hand of fear that insistently squeezed around his heart, Harry would have laughed. It was too ridiculous for words. But it was happening nonetheless, and as he grew hungry and thirsty and tired, Harry had to conclude that there didn't seem to be a way out of the house. At least, none Harry could find.
Perhaps he should talk to Voldemort.
Harry hated to admit it, but Voldemort was far more experienced in all things magical.
He couldn't believe he was stuck with Voldemort. That notion kept torturing Harry's exhausted mind and eventually it morphed into a throbbing headache. Harry buried his face in his hands and tried to gather his wits. He figured he'd need them to talk to Voldemort.
Slowly, he pushed himself up and took a moment to steady his legs before he walked towards the kitchen. He halted in the kitchen doorway and stared at the sight before him.
Lord Voldemort was cooking.
Whatever he was making smelled good, but the sight was so surreal all Harry could do was stand there and stare.
"Found a way out yet?" Voldemort asked without looking up from the stove, stirring the contents of a large pan.
Harry scuffed his shoe against the threshold. "No," he whispered, his jaws clenched.
"What are you standing about for, then? Go escape, Harry."
"No," Harry said, stubbornness colouring his voice.
"Is that all you can say?" Voldemort clucked his tongue, and then raised the ladle to his mouth and tasted whatever he was making.
"What the hell is going on?" Harry yelled, having finally found a voice for the frustration that had been brewing inside him all day.
Voldemort slowly turned his gaze towards Harry but said nothing.
"Why are we...why are you...cooking?" Harry felt his muscles tense and he fought back the urge to kick the door.
Voldemort glanced at the clock on the wall above the back door. "Perhaps because it's supper time," he said, unfazed, and continued stirring.
Harry released a strangled breath. "Why did Snape betray you? Why did he have to drag me into this?"
"Do get a grip, Potter," Voldemort scolded, his face tight. "Will you join me for supper or do you prefer to starve?"
Groaning, Harry threw his hands up into the air. "Why are you being so bloody civil?"
Voldemort's thin lips tugged up into an amused smile. "I assure you, Harry, that once we get out of here, I will kill you the first chance I get. However, as long as we are stuck here, I see no reason not to act maturely around each other. Or is that a concept your hormone-riddled brain can't understand?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "Now, tell me, will you join me for supper?"
Harry huffed and was tempted to say no, but he was rather hungry. "You'll probably just try to poison me," he muttered, and finally stepped inside the kitchen. "But sure, I'll join you for supper," he said with a shrug.
"Good. Set the table, and we'll eat and talk." Voldemort turned his back to Harry, and Harry was tempted to reach for his knife, which he'd kept with him all day tucked inside the pocket of his robes, and stab Voldemort right there and then, but he knew that wouldn't be a very smart move, so he controlled himself and went in search of plates and cutlery.
Once Harry set two places – as far apart as the kitchen table allowed – Voldemort lifted the pan to the table and Harry peeked inside it curiously.
"What is it?"
"Boeuf Bourguignon," Voldemort said, and sat down. "It's French."
Harry made sure he didn't look impressed, but he had to admit that it smelled quite good. He sat down as well and watched quietly as Voldemort filled his plate. After he was finished, he offered the ladle to Harry.
"You asked why Severus betrayed me," Voldemort said as Harry filled his own plate. "Of course, I can only guess what his motivations are, but I daresay he saw an opportunity and grabbed it."
"So he wants to take your place, then?" Harry asked, unsure. "Become Dark Lord and all?"
Voldemort let out a snort. "No, Severus has always lacked that ambition. I believe he saw an opportunity to convince the public of his innocence. Convince them it was he who enabled my demise. Win their trust and respect. Severus is very keen on having respect. And of course, with having public respect comes power."
Harry considered that, resting an elbow on the table and he stabbed at his supper with his fork before taking a bite. It was good, and he took another bite and another, and soon he almost forgot about Voldemort sitting across from him as he enjoyed the fine meal.
Voldemort seemed to ignore Harry as well, and they both stayed silent as they ate their supper.
After Harry finished, he stared at Voldemort for a while, taking in his pale, snake-like features and how his long, white fingers handled the knife and fork with care, cutting his food in tiny pieces before raising it to his mouth.
"Snape ambushed me in Godric's Hollow," Harry said. He wanted to know more about what Snape had done, and how he had done it.
"On my orders."
Harry glared at Voldemort.
"He brought you to me. And I turned my back on him." Voldemort shook his head, as though he couldn't believe he'd done that. "And I woke up here. With you."
Harry nodded, and lowered his gaze. "Why didn't you kill me?"
Voldemort put his knife and fork down, and got up from his chair. He placed his hand against the invisible barrier, much like Dumbledore had done in the cave, searching for some specific magical sign.
"Because these spells can only be broken with both our magic. Oh yes, Severus was always clever like that. He of course hoped I'd kill you the first chance I got, and that would leave me locked up in here forever."
"But you didn't," Harry whispered.
"No, I have more sense than that." Voldemort sat down again and continued his meal. Harry stayed quiet, considering the things Voldemort had told him. Snape had locked them up together, hoping Voldemort would kill him. But Voldemort didn't seem very inclined to want to kill him, which made sense if he needed Harry to get out of there.
"How much magic can you do without a wand?" Harry asked when Voldemort had emptied his plate.
Voldemort pursed his lips, and then muttered something Harry didn't understand and flicked his hand. The empty plate in front of him levitated, spun a time or two and then lowered to the table again. "Some," Voldemort said with a slight smirk. "But not nearly enough to break these spells. You?"
Harry shrugged.
Suddenly Voldemort vanished from his seat opposite Harry and instantly stood beside Harry. "You can't even apparate?"
A sharp surge of pain burst from Harry's scar and he leaned back. "Get away from me!"
Voldemort chuckled and disapparated back to his chair again.
"I can apparate," Harry said, and he concentrated hard on the doorway. A moment later, he stood there, his body trembling in protest. He really did not like apparating very much. "But I can't apparate out of this house," Harry said as he walked back to his chair.
"I had noticed that much."
Harry rolled his eyes. "What more can you do?"
One moment, the kitchen was coloured white, and the next, it seemed oddly red as more pain seared through Harry's mind, followed by a distant voice letting out cold laughter.
"Get out of my bloody mind!" Harry shouted, grabbing at his forehead. The pain ebbed away and the world around him returned to normal.
"And it seems I can still possess other people," Voldemort said, smirking as he leaned back in his chair.
"Don't you ever do that again," Harry said through gritted teeth. "You stay out of my head or I will kill you."
"You can't kill me, Harry."
"Just stay away from me."
"That would be my pleasure," Voldemort said. "However, we do need to make a few plans before I leave you alone."
"What plans? None of the magic you can do in here is going to get us out," Harry mumbled.
"Not at this moment, no. But there is magic to be found in the smallest of things. One only needs to look."
Harry decided not to ask what the hell Voldemort meant by that. He wanted this conversation to be over with as soon as possible.
"And of course, there are the sleeping arrangements that need to be discussed."
"There are two bedrooms," Harry said quickly. "You take one, I take one, end of discussion."
"I think not," Voldemort replied evenly. "If we're both asleep at the same time, we'll both be vulnerable. I suggest we share a room at night, and one of us sleeps while the other one keeps watch."
Harry's mouth dropped open. "Share a room? Are you insane?"
"Hardly."
"I'm not sharing a room with you," Harry said, his heartbeat speeding up.
"Use that brain of yours and think, Potter," Voldemort snarled, looking as if he was about to lose his patience. "This is about survival and clearly, you don't know anything about the subject. If Severus changes his mind and decides to pay us a visit during the night, we'll have a much bigger chance of defeating him if one of us at least hears him coming. We're sharing a room and we'll take turns keeping watch."
Harry opened his mouth, and closed it again when he couldn't think of anything to say. He swallowed and bit his lip. "Fine," he said at last, and for the umpteenth time that day wondered how on earth he'd landed himself in this ridiculous situation. "What else?"
"Stay out of my way for the rest of the time and I think we'll get along marvellously, Harry," Voldemort said, his voice tainted with sarcasm. "As for right now, you can do the dishes."
Harry wanted to protest, but Voldemort stood up and left the kitchen without saying another word. Harry stared after him for a moment and then took in the dirty dishes. With a sigh, he got up and thought that doing the dishes would at least give him something to do. For now.
Harry spread the damp dishtowel out over the back of a chair, and opened the refrigerator. It seemed well-stocked, with milk, eggs, bacon, fruit, vegetables, and everything else to be found in the average refrigerator. Harry reached for an apple and a carton of orange juice.
It seemed Snape had no intention of starving them, at least. That was, until they ran out of food.
Sighing, Harry got a glass from one of the cabinets and sat down at the table. He drained two glasses of orange juice, and then bit into his apple. He grimaced at the initial sour taste, which passed after his second bite.
He was stuck in a house with Voldemort while his friends thought he was dead. That thought had tormented Harry constantly while doing the dishes, and it seemed that it wasn't about to go away now.
They were stuck, but Voldemort seemed to think they'd find a way out. And Harry admitted that if anyone could do unexpected magic, it was Voldemort. They did call him the most powerful wizard in the world, besides Dumbledore. Harry's biggest worry was what Voldemort would do to him once they got out.
Harry crunched on a piece of apple, frowning. That didn't necessarily have to be a problem. The moment the spells around the house fell, Harry could apparate straight back to the Dursleys. And Voldemort couldn't harm him there, at least according to Dumbledore.
But that meant Harry had to know the exact moment the spells were deactivated. And he had no chance of knowing if he didn't keep an eye on Voldemort.
Voldemort could be breaking through them at that very moment.
Harry pushed his chair back, dropped his half-eaten apple in the bin, and went in search of Voldemort. He found him in the sitting room, standing in front of the high windows, the setting sun casting him in orange light.
"Come," Voldemort said, not looking at Harry. He had one hand pressed against the invisible barrier Harry knew was there.
After patting his pocket to make sure his knife was still there, Harry crossed the room and stood beside Voldemort.
"Touch it. Feel its magic."
Harry raised his hand, unsure what he was supposed to feel, and searched with his fingers until he found the barrier. Warmth seeped into his hand, tingling and teasing. Magic, Harry realized.
Voldemort withdrew his hand, and the warmth disappeared until only a vague tingling in Harry's fingertips remained.
"It's gone," Harry said, giving Voldemort a confused glance.
"No, its magic is still there." Voldemort replaced his hand against the barrier, and instantly the heat seeped back into Harry. "However, like I told you before, it's designed to respond more strongly to our combined magic."
"Ah." Harry had to admit the warmth felt nice, familiar in a strange way.
"Now this should be interesting," Voldemort said, and reached for Harry's free hand with his own. The moment Voldemort's fingers closed around Harry's a surge of liquid fire shot up Harry's arm, so strong his knees buckled and he almost lost his balance.
Harry tried to pry his hand from Voldemort's fingers, but Voldemort tightened his grip.
"Push against it," Voldemort breathed. He glanced down at Harry, his red eyes blazing. "Use your magic. Push."
Closing his eyes, Harry concentrated on the glowing pit in his stomach, his magic, and forced it upwards, through his arm, his fingers, into the barrier. Another flash of fire hit him in response, and the barrier pulsed against his palm. More magic surged through him, from the barrier and from Voldemort's hand, and Harry realized he'd just connected his own magic with Voldemort's.
And it felt so good, so warm, so overwhelming. His toes curled and his nostrils flared, and it felt an awful lot like having an – no, Harry refused to think of that in reference to Voldemort. And yet he had to admit he wouldn't mind if they stayed connected like that for the rest of the evening.
And then Voldemort released his hand. Harry heard a moan, and after a second, he was shocked to realize it was his.
"Good," Voldemort said, nodding. "We need to find a way to concentrate our magic before we release it into the barrier."
"A wand?" Harry guessed.
"That's one possibility, but since both our wands have been snapped, we'll need to find another way."
"Are there other ways?"
Voldemort nodded. "Let's try this experiment, to see how we can combine our magic." Voldemort reached for Harry's hand again, and the moment his skin touched Voldemort's cold fingers, the fire inside him was back.
"Give me your magic, Harry." Voldemort sounded breathless, and Harry stared into his eyes, and pushed the heat back out through both arms, forcing it inside the barrier and inside Voldemort.
"Yes, like that." Voldemort raised their hands, his narrow upper lip curling, revealing clenched teeth. A surge of magic struck Harry, so powerful he swayed on his feet, and then a bright, yellow flash sprung from their clasped hands. It hit a painting across the wall, leaving it scorched and ripped once the smoke cleared.
"Fuck," Harry gasped, unsure what had just happened. Voldemort released his hand, and Harry felt strangely empty without the heat inside him.
Voldemort chuckled. "Just as I had expected. The barrier will allow us to combine our magic, therefore making it possible to cast stronger wandless magic."
Releasing the barrier, Harry blinked, trying to get his mind back under control. They'd just done magic together. They'd just used the spell that kept them inside the house to boost their own magic.
"So we can use the spell to destroy it?" Harry whispered.
"Yes, precisely." Voldemort stepped away from the window, and stood in the middle of the room, gaze narrowed and unfocused. "Now all we need is a way to focus our magic. Concentrate it."
Harry wiped across his forehead and found cold sweat. He was still trembling, and he made his way to the couch on unsteady legs. Once he sat down, he released a deep breath. He had just combined his magic with Voldemort, let Voldemort use his magic. To say that Harry didn't trust Voldemort one bit was an understatement, but at least now he knew Voldemort needed him, his magic, to break the spell. That assured Voldemort wouldn't kill him anytime soon.
"Here," Voldemort said, and placed an empty glass on the coffee table. He unscrewed the cap of a bottle, and poured an amber-colored drink in Harry's glass. Then he filled a glass for himself, and sat down on the couch beside Harry.
"What is it?" Harry scooted a little further away from Voldemort.
"Whisky." Voldemort sipped his glass. "At least Severus hasn't forgot my tastes."
As Harry reached for his glass, he saw the Daily Prophet lying on the table. He picked it up as well, and stared at the picture while he took a sip of the whisky. It burned his lips and tongue, but it was a welcome addition to the blaze of pure hatred that formed in Harry's stomach.
Snape had betrayed him. Not just once, when he'd killed Dumbledore, but twice now.
"I'm going to kill him," Harry muttered, more to himself than to Voldemort. "I'll shove one of his cauldrons right up his arse."
Voldemort made a disgusted face. "You're thinking like a Muggle," he said, and made it sound like an accusation. "There are far worse things you can do to him than merely shove a cauldron up his rectum."
Snorting, Harry took another sip of his whisky.
"You could spell one of his cauldrons, animate it, have it creep down slowly over his head, suffocate him. It could take hours."
Harry actually rather liked the sound of that. "Or I could use a Sectumsempra on his testicles."
"I'll drink to that," Voldemort said, and drained his glass. Harry mimicked him, and had a brief coughing fit when some of the whisky went down the wrong way. Voldemort seemed unconcerned by that, refilling first his own glass, and then Harry's.
"He set this whole thing up," Harry said in a moment of clarity. "Snape did. He had to have been preparing everything for weeks."
"Most likely, yes."
"Find a Muggle house that's remote. Cast those spells everywhere. Clean the house of everything that could possibly help us do magic." Harry stared at Snape's picture, wondering how no one had seen this kind of betrayal coming. Snape must have been preparing it long before he even killed Dumbledore.
"Yes, this certainly testifies of Severus' strange sense of humour. Locking away the most powerful wizard of all time in a Muggle house." Voldemort gave a loud snort.
"Not so powerful without a wand," Harry muttered, and then wondered why he'd said that aloud. Must be the whisky talking.
"Shall I demonstrate exactly what curses I can do without a wand, Harry?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes, and Harry quickly shook his head. "Then I suggest you keep your tongue in check."
Harry nodded, and stared at the picture again. "How did you get the Prophet?"
"It was lying on the kitchen table this morning, along with a box of food."
"Ah. So Snape's not going to let us starve?"
"I don't think so. It's not his style." Voldemort tilted his head, and gave Harry an amused smile. "He might try to poison us, though that would have little effect on me."
Harry's eyes widened.
"However, if he truly believes you're the only one who can kill me, he'll not try to take your life." Voldemort sipped his whisky, and Harry tried not to appear relieved. Dumbledore had certainly thought Harry was the one who could kill Voldemort, but Harry didn't think Voldemort needed to know that.
He stared at the picture again, imagining Snape's smug face transforming into an expression of pain, caused by Harry's perfect Cruciatus he knew he was going to cast at Snape if he ever got the chance. He had enough hatred for the man to make it work. And then his eye caught a few words above the picture: ...tragic death of a young hero, who will forever be mourned...
Something got stuck in Harry's throat, and he quickly washed it away with a gulp of whisky. His friends thought he was dead. Everyone thought he was dead.
Harry realized that the whisky had gone to his head, confusing him and allowing him to feel sorry about his own death while in fact he was still very much alive. He leaned back in the couch, staring up at the ceiling. Then a yawn took control of his mouth.
"Perhaps you should get some sleep," Voldemort said. "I'll take watch for the first half of the night."
"Yeah," Harry said, and then realized what he'd just agreed with. If sitting on the couch with Voldemort was surreal, it had nothing on the idea of sleeping while Voldemort kept watch over him. But Voldemort's reasoning seemed solid. If Snape decided to pay them a visit, Harry wanted to hear him coming, too.
Voldemort rose from the couch, taking the bottle of whisky and his glass with him as he strolled out the room. Harry got up as well, his mind dizzy with whisky, and then followed Voldemort up the stairs to the small hallway.
"This room should do just fine." Voldemort entered the room Harry had spent the night in, and Harry trailed behind him. But as he crossed the threshold, his heart started beating faster and faster, his palms suddenly clammy. He did not trust Voldemort not to kill him in his sleep.
Voldemort seemed to sense his reluctance, and turned around on his feet to look at him. "I do believe I've demonstrated already that I have absolutely nothing to gain by your death while we're locked up in this house."
Harry gave a faint nod.
"Well then, you may rest assured I'm not going to kill you, not until we break this spell. And I need your magic to do that."
Snorting, Harry took another step inside the room. "And then you'll kill me, anyway."
"Probably." Voldemort leered. "However, that is of no matter to our sleeping arrangements for tonight."
Harry sighed. Voldemort had a point, and Harry was too tired to argue it. He walked up to the bed, and then realized he only had the clothes he was wearing.
"You'll find a proper attire in the wardrobe," Voldemort said, rearranging one of the nightstands in front of the window. "I discovered it while inspecting this room earlier." And then Voldemort disappeared with a crack.
Pulling the wardrobe door open, Harry saw robes, Muggle clothing, underwear, and striped pyjamas. He picked up a pair, and quickly changed into it. Just as he buttoned up the last of the buttons, Voldemort appeared again, with a large, leather chair by his side. He placed it beside the nightstand, and with the bottle of whisky in his hand, he lowered himself into the chair.
Harry stared at him for a moment, and then decided he might as well just go to bed. The sheets felt cool and smelled fresh, and Harry pulled them up to his chin, eyes focused on the ceiling. Voldemort flicked his hand, and the light switch on the wall lowered, leaving the room in darkness.
Even though the whisky made him drowsy, and all the events of that day left him exhausted, a thousand thoughts spun through Harry's mind, none of them making any real sense. Snape had betrayed them, and his friends thought he was dead, and he needed to play nice with fucking Voldemort to find a way out, and his magic was useless without a wand, and he didn't think he'd ever felt that helpless before.
A memory popped up between those swirling thoughts. Snape telling him he needed to close his mind to keep Voldemort away from him. Harry tilted his head, and saw Voldemort sitting in the chair near the foot of the bed, moonlight filtering in through the cracks in the curtains casting him in a faint blue glow. Snape telling Harry he needed to close his mind before going to sleep to protect him from Voldemort, and now Harry was trying to sleep with Voldemort sitting by his bed.
It was such a ludicrous thought, such a ridiculous idea, Harry burst out in hysterical laughter.
Voldemort glanced at him. "I had no idea trying to sleep could be that amusing."
Harry hiccupped. "No, it's just that, this whole situation is so stupid. So fucking stupid."
Sipping his whisky, Voldemort made a vague sound of agreement.
And then something got stuck in Harry's throat again, and his eyes suddenly prickled with tears. Harry turned his back to Voldemort, squeezing his eyes shut, and he vowed never to drink whisky again.
A hand shook Harry awake, and Harry batted it away, muttering, "No, Ron, don' wanna gerrup yet."
"Wake up!" a cold voice said very close to Harry's ear. Harry snapped his eyes open, and the first thing he saw was a pair of red eyes staring at him. A jolt of pain shot from Harry's scar, and he wanted to scramble away until his mind caught up with reality.
Voldemort had kept watch over him. And now it was apparently Harry's turn to keep watch over Voldemort.
The alarm clock announced in glowing red figures it was a few minutes past four in the morning. The room was illuminated by a small lamp on the nightstand beside the leather chair. Harry blinked, trying to rid himself from the fog of sleep in his mind, and noticed Voldemort was wearing only a dressing gown, which revealed far too much wax-like, pale skin.
"I'm up." To demonstrate this, Harry sat up, and managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"Good. The house has been quiet all night. I don't expect any problems, but do try to be on your guard." Voldemort untied his dressing gown just as Harry got to his feet. The blue fabric spilled to the floor, and there was no way Harry couldn't notice Voldemort was naked.
Snatching up his glasses, Harry hurried to the leather chair, keeping his eyes away from the bed as he heard Voldemort settle under the sheets.
Well, it seemed that splitting your soul in seven pieces at least let you keep your private bits. Harry snorted inwardly. He really did not need to know that much about Voldemort.
When Voldemort lay still and quiet in the bed, Harry switched the lamp off. Darkness enveloped him, and Harry drew his legs up into the chair. The leather was still warm from Voldemort's body.
And now all Harry had to do was stay awake, and if Snape did show up, scream bloody murder to wake Voldemort, because Voldemort knew a lot more wandless magic than he did.
The house was quiet, and all Harry heard was his own irregular breaths, and Voldemort's even breathing. What if Snape apparated inside the house? What if he pushed the bedroom door open silently, wand poised to kill? What if Snape was quicker with a curse than Harry was to wake Voldemort?
Harry reached for the nightstand, and switched the light back on. He swallowed, and glanced to the bed. "Er...is it all right if I keep the light on?" he whispered. When no response came, Harry concluded that Voldemort was already asleep.
The light drove those worried thoughts from Harry's mind, and he settled on the things that had bothered him all day. Harry's friends thought he was dead. Snape had told them, and the whole world, that he'd been helping Dumbledore all along. And Harry's friends would see Harry's dead body, and Voldemort's dead body, and they'd believe Snape, wouldn't they?
Harry frowned. Ron and Hermione knew about the Horcruxes. They knew Harry could only kill Voldemort after he'd destroyed all of them.
But what if Snape had told them he'd already destroyed them?
Harry sighed, and shifted in the chair. There was no way of knowing what Snape had come up with and how much his friends believed. Harry liked to think Hermione was clever enough to see through any deception, but if Hermione saw Harry's dead body, would she still doubt what had happened? Surely she wouldn't try to find Harry when she'd seen his corpse.
And that idea made Harry feel incredibly alone. He'd always had his friends on his side. He'd always been able to count on them. Yes, they'd had their fights throughout the years, but Harry had always known that if he ever were in any real trouble, Ron and Hermione would do anything in their power to help him.
But now Harry was dead, at least to them. And they would mourn him, most likely, and then they'd move on with their lives, and Harry would be left stuck inside a house with Voldemort.
Harry glanced at the bed again. Voldemort seemed fast asleep. He could tiptoe across the room, get his knife from his robes, and slice Voldemort's throat.
But what good would that do? Voldemort couldn't die, and Harry didn't like the idea of being stuck inside a house with Voldemort's pissed off soul to haunt him. Besides, he needed Voldemort to break through the spells. And, even though Harry was loathe to admit it, it didn't seem fair to slice Voldemort's throat in his sleep when he hadn't attempted to kill Harry when he'd been asleep earlier.
No, everything in Harry's mind pointed in one horrible direction: he was stuck with Voldemort, and for the time being, a truce between them seemed the wisest choice to make.
Harry leaned his head on back of the chair, and stared at the ceiling.