Chapter 3: Out of the Fire


Start by pulling him out of the fire and

hoping that he will forget the smell.

He was supposed to be an angel but they took him

from that light and turned him into something hungry,

something that forgets what his hands are for when they

aren't shaking.

He will lose so much, and you will watch it all happen

because you had him first, and you would let the world

break its own neck if it means keeping him.

– "Start Here" by Caitlyn Siehl


"Rufus and Gus got sick today, because the janitor wasn't at school over the weekend and no one fed them anything," Harry said, sitting on a swing, his legs dangling under him. The sun had already set, but only just. The sky cast a deep red glow, slowly turning darker. Harry shivered a little, but couldn't go back to the Dursleys yet.

'I know.'

Of course Mr. Lord knew, he knew everything. And Harry could hear Mr. Lord everywhere. He'd been there when Harry had gone to his classroom and seen everyone gathered around the hamster cage. He'd been there when Harry had seen the little, unmoving bodies of Rufus and Gus. He'd been there when Mary had shrieked and fainted.

Mr. Lord had been there when Mrs. Williams had assured them that they were still alive, and explained how every living being needs to eat food and drink water in order to survive.

"Yeah," Harry said, kicking out a leg. There were a few guests at the Dursleys, and Aunt Petunia had said that if he stayed out of the way the whole time, he'd get some leftovers from the dinner. The best way to keep out of their way was to not be at the house at all. Something that suited everyone just fine. Even if it was getting a little chilly and he missed his blanket.

"I was just wondering," he started, eyes flicking around a little even though he knew he couldn't actually see Mr. Lord, "Don't you need to eat too?"

Mr. Lord laughed, and Harry pouted, pulling back on the swing, kicking off the ground to move faster.

'I don't need to eat.'

"Why?"

'Because I don't have a body, I'm in your head, remember?'

"But you're real!' Harry said, almost shouting as the wind swept past him, and he pumped harder.

'Just because I'm in your head doesn't mean I'm not real.' Mr. Lord's voice rang clear in his head, despite him swinging so hard he could hear nothing but the air whistling past. Harry could always hear him. Crystal clear.

"I wish I could see you," Harry said after a moment, this time lower. He always forgot that just like he could hear Mr. Lord all the time, he could hear Harry as well.

He was swinging so high that if we went higher he'd do a full round around. Not something he wanted to test, though, so he started slowing down a little. Especially after Mr. Lord had told him that he couldn't heal broken bones yet. Wouldn't do to get too reckless.

At least until he could learn healing very, very well.

'In time.'

Harry's feet touched the ground, and he skidded to a stop, already worn out sneakers scraping against the ground as he gaped in astonishment.

"Are you serious? I'll be able to see you?" he asked, looking up at the sky as if Mr. Lord would be visible against the dark.

'Yes.'

"That'd be so cool!" Harry said happily, starting to swing again. His legs ached a little from his sudden stop, but he loved swinging so much. It felt like flying. Like if he let go, he'd just zoom through the air, like he would never touch the ground again, like he could turn into a bird mid leap and flap far far away from his relatives.

His eyes lit up, "Mr. Lord?"

'Yes?'

"Can we fly using magic?" He really, really hoped they could. That'd be awesome. His favourite thing about magic, even if he couldn't do it yet.

'Yes. Although most wixen use a broomstick.'

A broom! Like those witches in some picture books he'd seen? Or some of the decorations during Halloween. Wouldn't they be uncomfortable though? Or maybe magic made them comfortable. And then he caught on to something else Mr. Lord had said.

"Most? What do the others do?"

'Well, I can- could- fly using just my magic, without a broom.'

Harry's eyes bugged out, and mouth opened, "Just like that?! Like superman! That's one of the coolest things I've heard! Could you teach me?"

Harry distinctly heard Mr. Lord sigh, '... a little like Superman, I suppose. Anyway, you're too young right now-'

Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Mr. Lord cut him off, 'But, I will teach you once you manage three other slightly harder spells.'

"Which ones?" Harry asked quickly, slowing down again so that he didn't miss anything important.

'One, I want you to be able to heal something more than small scrapes, without my guidance. Two, I want you to levitate something heavier than you. Three, I want you to put an adult to sleep.'

That didn't sound too hard. He was fairly certain he'd be able to heal scrapes without directions again, and maybe bigger injuries if Mr. Lord instructed him the first couple times. He just needed to get injured first. Mr. Lord had already shown him how to make smaller things float, like pens and erasers. Putting someone to sleep would be harder though, he'd never used his magic on someone else before.

'I'm certain you'll be able to do all that easily,' Mr. Lord commented.

"Because you're the one teaching me?" Harry asked cheekily.

'Obviously,' he said, and Harry laughed.


It had been a month since they began talking, and Voldemort found himself impressed by the boy's determination and power. He had taken to magic so easily, with so much love and reverence that he reminded Voldemort of himself.

Magic was a gift, beautiful and loving, and a haven. Magic was home and salvation. A light that had come through in the darkness of the orphanage and the war. Magic was safety and power and escape.

Magic was everything you wanted it to be. As long as you respected it.

Harry clearly saw it the same way, something so very extraordinary and magnificent amidst the mind numbingly boring and bleak life at the Dursley residence, surrounded by muggles and hate.

One of the reasons he taught Harry everything he could at his age and maturity was the sweet rush he felt whenever the boy did magic. Like sinking into cool water in a blistering hot day. Like sitting in front of a fire on a snowy day. Like eating your favourite food for the first time in a long while. Like finally finding the one wand that was made for you.

The most of anything he'd felt in so long. With every piece of magic Harry performed, with every day they spent talking, Voldemort felt himself growing stronger too. He could read more of Harry's thoughts, instead of just getting glimpses of his feelings.

Their connection had been strengthened, and soon, Voldemort would be able to go into Harry's dreams. It would at least fulfil Harry's wish to see him. Although he had no idea what he would look like. He knew he had been steadily losing his human looks as he split his soul and did more and more dark rituals, but, well.

In the dreamscape, reality is whatever you want it to be.

Harry slept now, quietly and curled up into a ball. He'd told him, before going to sleep, that he was cold. He'd been visibly shivering, clutching at his thin blanket with white knuckled fingers.

Voldemort had thought that after so long stewing in anger, he'd be incapable of it for a while. Especially on someone else's behalf.

The absolute rage he'd felt at that moment though, had been unparalleled. Even Wool's had made sure that every child had a proper blanket and warm clothes. Even if it had only been because they couldn't afford to keep taking care of ill children.

Warming charms next, he supposed. It'd be hard to convince the boy of it though, he'd been determined to master the three spells Voldemort had set as conditions first. The boy had nearly passed out trying to levitate a goddamn car. According to him, if he managed that, the smaller things would be easier.

Not a bad logic, except the boy couldn't even shake the car, and had ended up too exhausted to even lift an empty vase.

He'd agreed he'd listen to Voldemort's expertise after that. And if Voldemort wanted him to learn warming charms, he Merlin damned will. He wouldn't allow his horcrux to die of something as muggle as hypothermia.

And so he watched as Harry slept, and then watched as Harry started shifting uneasily. And then he started whimpering in his sleep. Voldemort watched as he started tossing and turning, unable to see, unable to help.

A nightmare. Another one. It's not like he could do anything about it. He had no corporeal form, not yet. And his voice always sounded in the boy's head, it'd just become another facet of the nightmare. He hoped Harry would wake up before one of the Dursleys did, though.

Harry's body really couldn't handle more starvation, skin and bones as he was.

He settled in for a long night, as much as he could, anyway.

It didn't take quite as long as he'd feared when Harry woke up, eyes snapping open with a gasp.

'Harry,' he said, to wake him up further.

Harry's eyes darted around the cupboard for a second before he relaxed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. "Hello Mr. Lord," he whispered, snuggling deeper into the blanket he'd gotten twisted into in his sleep.

'Hello,' he said, watching as the small crease on Harry's forehead vanished. He closed his eyes and breathed quietly for a while, so long that Voldemort would've believed him asleep if not for their connection.

It's several minutes before Harry spoke again, "Was I loud?"

'No, and you didn't wake anyone up either.'

Harry nodded, the gesture only visible because it was Harry. In the dark, Voldemort couldn't see anything but him.

"That's great," Harry whispered, before continuing, "That was the weirdest dream I've ever had."

'Do tell,' Voldemort said absently, not really caring either way. Children and dreams. But talking kept him from being bored or going insane. So even if he had no actual interest in the boy's ramblings, it was better than utter silence.

"There had been a dead rabbit hanging from the ceiling," Harry started, "And then the rabbit fell on top of me. Before turning into the biggest snake I've ever seen. And the snake talked to me, told me that her name was Nagini, before she vanished into the water. And then I was standing in a large, dark cave. There were things in the water, at first I thought they were super large fish, but…" Harry shuddered, trailing off.

Voldemort didn't reply, mainly because he didn't have anything to say. His mind had blanked out the moment he mentioned a rabbit hanging from the ceiling. Or rafters, if Voldemort wanted to be more accurate. Billy's rabbit, even more specifically.

Merlin, the boy had been seeing his memories.

Perhaps the connection was stronger than he'd imagined. Perhaps he'd be able to enter Harry's dreams sooner, rather than later.

But this also posed a problem.

Right now, the memories were too disjointed to be interpreted as anything but dreams. But what about when they got clearer? More specific? That'd… prompt a lot of questions from the boy. Uncomfortable ones. Ones about the war. About the murders and the atrocities.

It's not like Harry could get rid of Voldemort. But some trust on his horcrux's part would go a long way.

For the time being, he decided not to say anything to Harry. He still had time, maybe not as much as he'd thought, but enough. He'd figure something out by then. He needed to strengthen his occlumency shields, he didn't know when he'd gotten so lax. He'd been losing his edge. He couldn't afford to get distracted like this. He was trapped in a vulnerable state right now.

And he also needed to see if he could enter the boy's dreams.

He barely heard as the boy told him about the inferi, a little disturbed by the way such grotesque creatures were described in a child's tongue.

When the boy had gone quiet, and the shivering had started again, he turned his attention back to Harry. Disliking the cold rage that rose at the sight.

'Harry,' he said, making Harry open his eyes back up, 'I'm going to teach you how to cast a warming charm.'

"Warming charm? Will it help keep me warm?" Harry asked eagerly, sitting up and wrapping the blanket around himself.

'What else?' Voldemort asked, then continued without input, 'The way the Dursleys treat you is abhorrent. They'll pay for it when you're more capable. Right now we need to make sure you don't freeze to death'

"I won't freeze to death," Harry mumbled, but his eyes lit up at the thought of being warm.

Voldemort scoffs, 'With the way you're shivering?'

"Aunt Petunia won't let me die."

'She also shouldn't be starving you, keeping you locked in a cupboard or not giving you proper clothes and blankets. Don't tell me about what she would or wouldn't do about your welfare. It's clear she doesn't care about you one whit,' Voldemort said, perhaps a little too harshly, given the way Harry's face fell and eyes lowered. There was no room for softness here. Harry needed to let go of the childish notions that his relatives cared. Will ever care.

"But if I was really, really good, then she would!" Harry protested, and Voldemort felt a pang. No, she wouldn't. She never would. Voldemort knew these types of people. They didn't care. Were never satisfied, and will never be.

'Harry, close your eyes and concentrate,' he said instead of replying, 'You need to learn this one quickly.'

Harry obeyed, and it didn't take long for Voldemort to feel that telltale spark of magic. Harry truly was a remarkable student. Focused and determined. Intent and will played a big role in magic, and Harry had both in spades.

Except… except Harry was four years old. Too small to be learning spells, magic too immature and chaotic. No wand to channel it and give it direction. Overconfident.

Harry yelped when uncontrollable magic rushed out of him, and while the elation of it was spectacular, it was brief. Overshadowed when the blanket Harry had been clutching caught on fire, blazing upwards in a frightening burst.

Harry shrieked and let go, scrambling backwards, and Voldemort hissed, trying to talk to the boy, calm him down. He didn't do a really good job, considering he was too busy panicking himself.

The cupboard door didn't budge when Harry banged on it. Terror like nothing before gripped Voldemort, and it took him a moment to decipher that most of it belonged to Harry. Not all of it, though. Not all. Not all. His helpless state mocked him now. Rankling worse than ever. What was the point of staying with his horcrux if he couldn't even protect it?

The flames rose high enough to lick the slanted roof, and Harry started crying, legs kicking out like they could bat out the fire.

Then a– rush, sparks, and a bang, loud enough to startle even Voldemort. The door to the cupboard burst open, falling off its hinges as Harry crashed forwards and onto the floor. The clatter and commotion still rang in Voldemort's head, and the boy's panic and pain was palpable.

'Harry,' he said, urgently, to the now sobbing child. 'Harry, listen to me. How hurt are you?'

Voldemort had been a fool. A complete idiot. He should've thought of this. He'd been careless and impatient. He'd spent three years waiting, in utter silence and dark, helpless. He could've waited a little more. He should've waited a little more.

There were footsteps and shouting. The cupboard still blazed with fire, crackling and bright. Harry still lay curled up in a ball, crying, although quieter now. Voldemort didn't take this as a good sign.

Of all the people, it had to be Vernon Dursley who found the boy.

Harry truly had remarkable luck.

The man took one look at the scene and started yelling, making Harry flinch.

"FREAK! WHAT DID YOU DO?" Vernon made his way over to Harry, and grabbed him roughly by his bicep, hauling him up. Harry let out a scream, and Voldemort desperately looked for a way to help.

He couldn't come up with one, no matter how hard he tried. And he did. He'd not felt this panicked since the night when the killing curse had rebounded on him. And that had only been a split second of agony before he'd ceased existing in the physical plain.

This… this helplessness while his horcrux sobbed and cried in pain, with a hulking muggle screaming at him. This felt somehow worse.

"Vernon!" came a second voice from the stairs, "Vernon, the neighbors will hear. And the house! We need to put the fire out!"

Petunia stood in her night dress, clutching her chest as her eyes darted around fearfully, settling on Harry who now lay limp in Vernon's grip, still crying.

"Stop that infernal racket," Vernon hissed at the boy, rattling his small body before throwing him to the floor. Harry let out a whimper but didn't get any louder. Voldemort tried to console himself with explicit visions of just how he'd made Vernon suffer, and he will. He will get his revenge. He will make Vernon regret the day he ever laid a hand on Harry. He will regret the day he was born.

Vernon left Voldemort's line of sight, presumably to put out the fire, and he observed Harry. Imagining even the most grotesque of tortures wouldn't help Harry right now.

Harry had several first degree burns lining his forearms and palms, and his clothes were singed and burnt off at places. His ankles had a few burns too, the skin red and already starting to blister. Harry's face had escaped relatively unscathed, but a small burn darkened his chin. There were some cuts and scrapes from the splinters where the door had broken.

'Harry,' Voldemort said quietly, gently. 'Harry, take a few deep breaths. Go on, I'll count, and you breathe.'

For a second he thought the boy hadn't heard him, or was in too much pain to listen, but then he gave a small, shuddery nod.

'Good, breathe in. One, two, three…' The breaths were shaky, but Harry listened. Soon, his sobs had settled down to small sniffles and whimpers. And then Vernon returned, face furious and purple.

Harry flinched and started crying again.

Voldemort sighed as the man grabbed Harry's wrist, his burnt wrist, and started dragging him upstairs, not even giving him a chance to get his feet under him.

Harry didn't struggle, but he did stumble and fall several times. Enough that Vernon was effectively pulling him by his hand, as Harry shrieked and cried. Voldemort caught a glimpse of Petunia, watching the scene unfold, but not lifting a single hand in Harry's defence.

Vernon opened one of the doors in the hallway, and bodily threw Harry in, who then curled up on the floor again, cradling his hand. The boy could barely breathe through his sobs.

"We gave you a place to sleep, and that's how you repay us? By setting it on fire? You did this to yourself, boy. Don't come whining to me about your injuries now. You're not going to get any help from us."

Harry didn't respond, only curled up tighter. He gave no indication that he'd even heard Vernon. But Voldemort wouldn't have been able to hear him so clearly if Harry couldn't either.

Vernon only seemed to grow more furious at the lack of answer. The absolute buffoon took everything like an offence to his person.

"Was this a plot? To get Dudley's second bedroom? How long had you been plotting to steal this room? You want this room? You can have it." Vernon gave a sneer, hideous and full of malice, "You're not getting anything else from us. No food, no new clothes or blankets, and no medicine! You deserve this! We've catered to your whims for too long!"

With that, the man turned around, slamming the door shut hard enough to make Harry flinch again.

Voldemort braced himself for an even longer night.


The house had woken up about two hours ago, or something like that. Voldemort couldn't quite keep track of the time, especially since Harry couldn't. Vernon's voice boomed louder than the rest, continuing on as if he hadn't locked away his injured nephew like so much garbage.

Voldemort will get his body back, if only so he could kill Vernon Dursley with his own hands, watch the terror leave his eyes along with his life. But only after he'd suffered.

Soon, Vernon's voice faded away. Voldemort saw Harry let out a relieved breath, relaxing further. During the night, he'd drifted away to a corner of the room, curled up in the barebones cot, wrapped up in the bedsheet, with his feet and forearms sticking out so the burns weren't aggravated.

It was a pitiful sight.

A knock on the door startled Harry, before he heard the turning of a lock. Harry scrambled up, staring wide eyed at the door.

Petunia stalked inside, a sneer plastered on her face. She carried a bowl of water with a washcloth draped over the side. Harry's eyes tracked her movements as she set the bowl down on the rickety, cluttered table with a thud. She also set down a small tube of what looked like cream- ointment?- beside it.

"Hurry up," she snapped, "I'll be back to take this away in an hour."

Then she turned her nose up and left, the door locking behind her.

Harry stared after her for several moments, before Voldemort grew irritated and spoke, 'Harry.'

Harry flinched, and Voldemort prayed to Merlin for strength. He'd never seen Harry so skittish, and didn't care for it now.

'Take care of your burns,' he ordered, 'Take that cloth, dip it in water and clean the burns. You don't want an infection.' He wasn't really sure if Harry's magic would protect him against it. It could, but he wasn't taking any chances. The Dursleys certainly wouldn't be of any help.

Harry blinked owlishly for a few moments, before nodding and gingerly making his way over to the table. He had to jump a little to be able to pull himself up on the chair, but he managed. The cloth was dipped into the water, and Voldemort had to hastily tell him to wring the water out.

He kept forgetting how young Harry really was.

The movements were clumsy, with Harry's palms having sustained quite a brunt of the damage. He dabbed the cloth carefully against one of the worst burns near his elbow, and left ankle.

Voldemort didn't think more than a couple of them would scar, if taken care of properly. Or even if he used magic to heal them. If nothing else, these injuries provided practice grounds for Harry's healing. Something he'd need to get proficient at if the abuse kept up.

He watched as Harry whined, before throwing the cloth into the bowl with a huff. He stared at it with bright eyes, lips wobbling, and Voldemort hoped he wouldn't start crying again.

And then the boy plunged his hands into the water, shoulders slumping in relief. The water must be cold. Voldemort didn't say anything. Really, he'd expected such behaviour from him earlier. And if it helped with pain, then all the better. Pain didn't bode well for focused magic, only accidental bursts. And they'd had quite enough of that for a while now.

When several minutes had passed and Harry hadn't moved, Voldemort said, 'You need to heal them.'

Harry's shoulders tensed, "No."

'No?'

"No, no, no." Harry repeated, shaking his head, a stubborn tilt to his jaw, face blotchy, and eyes red rimmed. That's what kept him from getting angry.

'Harry, you will heal yourself. That was what we had agreed upon, remember? Healing worse injuries than scrapes.'

"You didn't tell me magic could do- do that!" Harry burst out, finally pulling his hands out of the water and wrapping them around himself. His teeth were clenched to try and hide the chattering.

'Magic can do a lot of things,' Voldemort scoffed, 'Just because it went wrong once doesn't mean you can just stop.'

"I don't wanna do this anymore. What if something worse happens next?"

'Then you'll get over it,' Voldemort said, a little unkindly. Harry wasn't going to get any sympathy from him for being scared of magic.

This mishap could potentially set them back several steps. It wouldn't do for Harry to be afraid of his own magic. That paved the way for an obscurial, and who knew what havoc that would wreck? Accidental magic happened, and children got over it. Just a regular part of regular life. For a wizard, that is.

Damn the maggles.

Harry scowled, shaking his head again.

'Listen, Harry,' Voldemort snapped, regretting it instantly when Harry flinched, he softened minutely, 'Accidental magic is a thing that happens to every wizarding child,' he continued more gently, 'They're— you're— children, your magic is developing. Mistakes are going to be made, especially in high stress or emotional situations. You'd been cold, and eager for warmth. The warming charm went wrong, or overpowered, and instead of just warming, it started a fire. Let this serve as a lesson to be more careful, and that is it.'

"But if I just don't do magic, then nothing will go wrong," Harry mumbled, putting his hands back inside the water. That couldn't possibly be good for him. Such cold water, in such cold weather. But he didn't have the heart to tell Harry either, with the way he relaxed when the pain eased.

'It will,' Voldemort said firmly. He had to disabuse Harry of this notion as quickly as possible, before Harry went further down that train of thought. 'You're a wizard, magic is in your very blood. You can't just not do it, no more than you can will your heart to stop beating. That'll just open doors for even more uncontrolled bursts of magic.'

Harry's eyes widened in horror, and Voldemort felt a kernel of satisfaction. At least Harry understood the consequences of decisions made in fear.

"How do I stop it from going wrong?"

'Practice.'

Harry started chewing on his lips, and took his shaking hands out of the water.

'Usually,' Voldemort started, 'Parents or guardians of the child are there to set any accidental mishaps to rights. And, in case of children staying with muggles,' he didn't try to keep the contempt out of his voice, 'They care enough about their children to provide medical care and emotional support. It's not your fault that your relatives are such abysmal people.'

"Okay," Harry whispered after a while, "But I'm not doing any more warming charms."

Nothing Voldemort hadn't expected already, 'Alright. Heal your burns, then. The same way you did your scrapes. This is a visible injury. Concentrate.'