Chapter 6: Dubious Parenting
As a birthday present for Harry, Voldemort agreed to teach the boy flying.
Or, well, some of it. Kind of. Bodiless wraith or not, Voldemort still had enough intellect to not teach a six year old boy flying, no matter the skill or power level of said boy. He himself hadn't mastered it until his twenties. Given, he'd had to literally invent it, and Harry only needed to learn it, but still.
Mostly, he just wanted to ensure that the next time the boy got it in his head to jump off the stairs or a roof or a half broken swing, he wouldn't break his neck and die. It would also save Voldemort quite a bit of whining and the disembodied version of a headache.
He knew he hated children for a reason.
The other kids at the orphanage had stopped approaching him after a few years, and that had been quite blissful. He didn't really have to deal with kids much at Hogwarts, mostly just his year mates.
Now though, it wasn't like he could escape Harry, or Harry escape him.
Well, technically he could. But it would probably also undo quite a bit of the progress he'd made on himself if he were to detach himself from his so-called 'host'.
No, he'd have to bear in with the helion, and if it meant giving in every now and then, Voldemort would swallow his pride and do it. And it's not like anyone knew. And he knew enough blackmail on Harry to keep him silent. He lived in his head, after all.
And it was Harry's birthday, so there's that. People were supposed to get presents on birthdays, weren't they? He had gotten his share of them before he'd left his old name, and everything associated with it, which included his birthdate, behind.
Also, possibly, by a very slim margin, he might have felt guilty about killing Harry's parents and being the reason he had to live with these abominations.
But he tried not to think about that night on principle of his already precarious sanity.
'Just two steps, Harry,' he said sternly, watching Harry eying the third step. 'You can break an ankle if you land wrong, or too hard. Both ankles, maybe, if you're exceptionally talented.'
"But I won't!" Harry said, but obediently stayed on the second step. Voldemort wanted Harry to float down the two steps. No one would bother their practice right now. The Dursleys had locked Harry in his room with a water bottle and said they'd be back by the evening. Harry, of course, got the unlocking charm as soon as Voldemort told him he'd teach him flying on the stairs.
Floating to be honest, but flying sounded more tantalising. He'd also wanted to see if Harry would be scared of the stairs, or maybe wary, at least.
He was not. Voldemort didn't know whether to be impressed or unnerved. He settled on being impressed because Lord Voldemort didn't get unnerved, he was the one who made others unseasy.
'Overconfidence will get your bones broken, Harry. Like last time.'
"But it turned out alright!"
'Because I had been able to use magic on you, and I told you I can't do it more often. Do you want to know the various ways broken bones can affect the body? Especially the spine. Or a dislocated knee, maybe a shattered kneecap, or another dislocated shoulder, or maybe a twisted elbow, or a cracked sk–'
"Alright alright!" Harry yelled, slapping a hand over his ears, eyes round as saucers and complexion pale.
Well, now, that wasn't so hard, was it? Voldemort thought smugly, watching as Harry inched closer to the bannister.
He'd been unable to enter his dreams that night, having thoroughly exhausted himself by that little bit of magic.
But, sweet Salazar, the rush of magic, his own magic, dark as turbulent waters, soothing as Nagini (and he tried not to think about her) wrapped around him, powerful and all consuming. He didn't think he'd ever felt that measure of euphoria before. Despite all the reverence he held for magic, he never quite appreciated it as much at that moment, when he'd learned what it was to live without it.
'Very good,' Voldemort said, 'It'd do you well to listen to me.'
Harry rolled his eyes, "Yeah yeah, 'cause you're always right."
'One day Harry, you'll realise that I am.'
'Do you know where your relatives keep their money?' Mr. Lord asked suddenly, right as Harry jumped off the ninth step of the stairs. Harry yelped in surprise, but managed to conjure up enough magic to float down at the last second. He scowled, sure that Mr. Lord had done it on purpose. Before he registered what Mr. Lord had said.
"What?" he squeaked.
'Where do the Durlseys keep their money?' Mr. Lord asked, sounding a little impatient now.
"I– I don't know! Why are you asking?" Well, he did know. Or suspected. More than one place, actually. But he tried not to think about it, he'd found out that he was often wrong about what Mr. Lord was thinking.
'You do know,' Mr. Lord sounded smug, 'And to steal it, of course,' he said, sounding quite oblivious.
"Stealing is bad!" Harry said, eyes wide. The Dursleys already hated him because they thought he stole their stuff by just existing, since he didn't deserve any of it, and they had never wanted him. They'd kill him if he actually stole money from them.
'So is child abuse,' Mr. Lord said dismissively.
Harry blinked, "Uh, what?"
Mr. Lord sighed. He'd been doing a lot of that lately. Harry folded his arms, standing at the bottom of the stairs. His stomach rumbled and he cast a wistful eye towards the kitchen. The Durlseys won't be back until after dark, so he might get away with it. But he wouldn't put it past Aunt Petunia to have counted and weighed everything before leaving in case Harry took something without permission.
'This, exactly.'
"What?" Harry coloured, embarrassed at the repetition, he always sounded a little stupid when talking to Mr. Lord. He seemed to know so much more than Harry. He seemed to know literally everything.
'Not feeding a child in their care properly is wrong and is a punishable offence by law. Now, tell me where they keep their money.'
He stood there dumbly for a moment. Punishable offence by law? He cleared his throat, saying weakly, "I'm not allowed to go into my Aunt and Uncle's room. What if they found out? I'd be punished so badly."
'You can't hide things from me,' Mr. Lord said primly, and Harry flushed again. Right. Not the only place they kept their money. Mr. Lord went one, 'Besides, they don't even know you can get out of your room without them letting you out. And of course they won't find out. Who do you take me for, an amateur? I know how to steal properly.'
That didn't really sound like a good thing in Harry's opinion. Not something you would brag about. Or should, if you wanted to remain a good thief. But then again, who would Harry tell? And what would he say? And even if he could, without coming off as a delusional lunatic, he would never sell Mr. Lord out like that.
Even if he was a thief.
Which, apparently, Harry was about to become, too. So it's not like he could berate Mr. Lord about it. As funny as it sounded.
After all, hadn't he decided he'd listen to Mr. Lord from now on? Even if he didn't want to. Because in the end he always turned out right. It would have irritated him more if he wasn't so delighted by it.
Harry sighed before he could catch himself. Some of Mr. Lord's habits were catching, it seemed.
He looked at the kitchen, then down at his hands, twisting them nervously. "Aunt Petunia also keeps an emergency stash of money in the kitchen," he whispered.
'Even better. Emergency money isn't checked on that often,' Mr. Lord said, completely unfazed by the fact that they'd be stealing someone's emergency money. What if there was an actual emergency and they didn't have any money? What if someone died because Harry had taken money that had been saved for something that important? What if he got blamed for it–
Mr. Lord scoffs, 'Harry. You care way too much about people who will happily feed you to the wolves given the chance. They don't deserve that money. Think of it as compensation for all the things they never gave you. Food, clothing, a room, anything, really.'
"I have a room," Harry said automatically, then continued before Mr. Lord could go on a tirade about how his room could barely pass house elf standards, let alone human wizards. Harry still hadn't gotten around to asking him what a House Elf was. "But I'm not their son. Of course they didn't give all that stuff to me."
'They're your guardians, are they not?' Mr. Lord said simply, 'Now, go to the kitchen and open the cabinet under the sink.'
Harry hesitated one last second before quickly making his way to the kitchen. He pulled open the cabinet, grimacing at the cramped space, stuffed full with cleaning supplies and some old, cracked pots and pans. Over at the back, crammed in the corner, was a box of laundry detergent powder. He carefully opened the box, wrinkling his nose at the sharp smell.
'Go on,' Mr. Lord urged.
Harry put his hand inside and rummaged around until his fingers hit something like paper. He quickly grasped it and pulled it out. A brown coloured, nondescript paper envelope, slightly crinkled at the edges and dusted with yellow, lemon scented detergent.. He slowly opened it and found several pound bills inside. He blinked down at it. He had no idea how much money it was.
'Take two of the twenty pound notes, yes, those. And one fifty pound one, and another ten pound one.'
Harry fumbled, trying to do as instructed. He'd taken maybe half of the notes in the envelope, and couldn't quite crush the guilt climbing up his throat.
'They spend triple that money on Dudley's birthday gifts. Take it,' Mr. Lord said sharply, feeling Harry waver.
Triple? Just for Dudley's birthday! And they also get him whatever he wants the rest of the year too. Maybe it won't be so bad. He could call it a birthday present to himself. He'd be in so much trouble if they found out though.
'They won't. Now, put the envelope back inside the box, no need to leave any evidence.'
Mr. Lord guided Harry through the process of 'cleaning up his trail'. Something which consisted of Harry putting the detergent box exactly at the same place as before, and arranging the rest of the pots and pans back in. Not even a quarter of an inch displaced. It really did look like he'd never been there. Except for the several bills in his hand. For little rectangles of paper, they felt surprisingly heavy. Or maybe it was just his mind.
He stood there clutching the notes, crumpling them a little in his fist, and jumped when Mr. Lord spoke, 'Go to your room and find a proper hiding place for them.'
"Right," he murmured, and quickly made his way upstairs. He'd already fixed his sprained ankle and the lingering pain in his shoulder earlier this morning. Only a few fading bruises around his torso and legs remained. He couldn't be bothered to get rid of them, he'd rather spend his magic learning how to fly.
He pushed open the door to his room, and stood at the doorway, looking around to see where he could hide something. He padded around the room, touching the broken shelf, the broken table, the rickety bed. The shelf or table would probably be the first place someone would check for something, so not that. Maybe under the mattress?
'No,' Mr. Lord said, and Harry frowned. He explained impatiently, 'It's also a very conspicuous place. Do you know how many people keep their precious possessions under the bed or mattress?'
"No?"
'Well, I do. And you're not keeping the money there. Especially since you need a big enough space to keep away other items too.'
"We're going to be stealing more?" Harry asked, eyes widening. He didn't think they'd do it again! He already felt so guilty about doing it once, and it was his birthday. What else would he be stealing anyway? He doesn't know what he can do with this money either, let alone any more.
'Didn't you say just last night that you'll listen to me? You still haven't learned flying, for that matter.'
Harry scowled, that wasn't– that wasn't fair!
'Life's not fair,' Mr. Lord said primly. Somehow he always managed to have a comeback. And Harry never knew how to argue with him. How do you argue with someone who's in your head and can hear all your counterarguments anyway?
'You can't. Mostly because I am also always right.'
Harry hissed in irritation, folding his arms petulantly, "Fine. You tell me where to hide it. You know this room as well as I do."
Mr. Lord's answer came so immediately that Harry knew for sure he'd just been waiting for Harry to ask, and hadn't really expected him to have a suitable hiding place. It did nothing to lessen the scowl on Harry's face, but Mr. Lord, as always, remained unfazed. The only times he ever really seemed affected was when Harry got hurt, otherwise he never so much as sniffed at things. Unless it involved the Dursleys. Mr. Lord seemed to always be scoffing at them.
Harry both hated it and loved it in equal measure.
Harry got onto his knees and dug his nails under the floorboard Mr. Lord indicated, and with the gentlest push of magic, Harry pried it open. The hollow space beneath it could probably contain the whole detergent box in it, not just the money bills. About half as big as the drawer on the table in his room. A table he didn't use because it didn't come with a chair, and was too high for Harry to do his work standing up.
'It'll do for now. You might learn to expand spaces when you're a little older. They're a little complicated.'
Harry drew in a furious breath to defend himself, he could do anything he wanted to. Hadn't he proven himself? He'd healed his bones, hadn't he? But then what Mr. Lord said caught up with him, and he gaped, "Why would I need even more space for?" Then he paused, "No, don't answer that. I'm not stealing anything else."
Mr. Lord just hummed noncommittally. Harry narrowed his eyes, before quickly stuffing the money under the board and closing it, thumping it a few times so it looked more even in place with the other boards.
He stood back up, and went downstairs. Or floated downstairs. Harry really loved the free fall sensation. Without the pain. The wind rushing through him, the warmth and excitement, that moment when he's airborne, nothing holding him up, he wanted to feel that way forever. But he couldn't quite hold himself in the air for more than a few seconds at a time, gravity working against him. Or something. Mr. Lord had called it physics.
Harry didn't quite care.
He walked up to the fridge, grinning because he can finally drink some cold water instead of the lukewarm tap water. He had just pulled open the fridge door when Mr. Lord said, 'You can drink the juice.'
"What?" Harry's eyes immediately went to the near full bottle of orange juice on the side, he bit his lips, "No. Aunt Petunia definitely knows how much is in there."
Harry had no proof that she didn't actually weigh every food item in the kitchen before leaving him alone in the house. It would be in line with what the Dursleys thought of him. And who knew what she'd do to him if she found out?
'If you drink less than a half of the bottle and fill the rest with water, it'll be fine.'
Harry blinked. He could. And he really liked orange juice. And his birthday didn't come everyday. It's not like the Dursleys were going to celebrate it. And it had been so long since he'd had some. And he loved orange juice so much. Dudley rarely even finished a full glass of it, rather sticking to cans and cans of soda which made Harry's mouth feel like static.
'Exactly,' Mr. Lord said, and Harry thought he sounded smug, 'Now go ahead.'
"But what if they figure it out?" he whispered. Because he really didn't want to make them angry. This wouldn't just be about stealing juice, it would also be about roaming around the house while they were gone.
'Do you really think your cousin is smart enough for that?'
Harry snorted, because okay, he had a point. Feeling the last of his hesitation ebb away, he grabbed the carton and quickly poured himself a small cup. Barely a forth of the bottle, and quickly filled the rest of the carton up with water and shook it hard. Opening the cap once again he sniffed. It still smelled tangy and citrusy, and the colour looked like before too. So it must be alright.
After putting everything away, he plopped down on the cool kitchen tiles and sipped on his juice. He couldn't remember having a better birthday.
The thorny bushes scratched and scraped at Harry's skin as he burrowed as far as possible on the ground, curling his body as small as it would go and wedging himself between the wall and the rose shrub he had stuffed himself against.
Harry could hear Dudley and Piers' taunting cries as they ran around looking for him, and stuffed a hand into his mouth to stifle his panting. Several scratches stung fiercely on his skin, but he couldn't concentrate enough to heal them right now.
Mr. Lord kept up a steady, vicious monologue in his head, which had started about twenty minutes ago, about how once he had gained enough power, he would cut Dudley into several small pieces while still keeping him alive. He had several very graphic descriptions, actually. Mr. Lord had a whole list of ways to murder the Dursleys. If Harry hadn't been so used to it, he'd probably have thrown up. But Harry had come to realise now that Mr. Lord was Just Like That.
And, to be completely, guiltily honest, Harry enjoyed his rants.
Enjoyed when he got angry on Harry's behalf and gave detailed descriptions of how he'd punish them. Harry did think he sometimes went a little overboard, but Harry really wouldn't be against setting a couple hundred spiders on Dudley either. Especially given the way he'd screamed the last time Harry had cleared out a spider.
That had been brilliant. Even Aunt Petunia had looked disgruntled at that.
It took a while, but the other boys moved past. Harry stayed in place though, afraid they would come back, or that Dudley's other friends might have been recruited and were also searching. His legs had started cramping a little from the crouched position, but such pains didn't bother him anymore.
'Harry,' Mr. Lord's exasperated voice came, 'Your thumb.'
Harry winced, sheepishly pulling his thumb from his mouth and wiping it on his shirt. He didn't really see why he shouldn't do it, but both Mr. Lord and Mrs. Williams told him off for it.
"What are you doing in my bush?"
Harry startled, almost falling straight into the thorny bush, barely catching himself in time. He whipped his head around, trying to see who'd just spoken.
"Get away from my bush! It's mine, what are you doing here?"
Harry stared down at the worm wrapped around one of the thin branches of the bush. "Mr. Lord," he whispered.
No answer.
"Mr. Lord! That worm is speaking!"
"I'm not a worm! You're a worm!" the worm hissed at him, tail end flicking around in irritation.
"Mr. Lord?!"
'I am listening,' Mr. Lord said, sounding, once again, distracted. What did he have to be distracted for? Couldn't he see he was talking to a worm? Could he talk to other animals? Was this a magic thing?
"Who are you talking to? I told you to get out. I am not sharing my bush."
"I don't want your bush!" Harry said, eyes wide as he bent down to take a closer look at the worm.
'It's not a worm, Harry. It's a grass snake.'
Harry blinked, and frowned. Because, yes, it… upon closer inspection, it's body was long enough to wrap thrice around the thin branch, and about twice as thick as a pencil. Not terribly big, but definitely bigger than any worm he'd seen before. Also, it did not have the fleshy pink colour of the worms he'd dug up in his aunt's garden.
'You need glasses,' Mr. Lord said, a little disdainfully. But Harry knew it wasn't directed at him. And, well. It's not like Mr. Lord was wrong. He did need glasses. The snake, because if Mr. Lord said it was a snake, then obviously it was a snake, also had brilliant bright green scales, almost seeming to glow even in the shade of the leaves. 'It is a magic thing, but it's a rare talent. To be able to talk to snakes. It's called Parseltongue.'
"Oh," Harry said, and grinned, "Hello Mr. Snake."
"Better," Mr. Snake said bossily, "What are you doing here? Get out."
Harry ignored that with the ease he'd learned from Mr. Lord, "Do you have a name? What are you doing here? Are there other snakes here? You're so tiny, what do you eat? You have a very beautiful colour. Green is my favourite colour, my Mum had green eyes. Like me. And it's also Mr. Lord's favourite colour. Where's your mum?"
Mr. Snake looked too stunned to answer, and Harry could hear Mr. Lord's distant laughter echoing in his head. He didn't understand it, they were all valid questions. And it's not like he gets to talk to snakes everyday. Or anyone, really. Except Mr. Lord. The Dursleys usually just order him around, and no one at school wants to be friends with him because of Dudley.
"Do all humans talk this much?"
"Have you heard many humans talk?" Harry asked immediately, were there other magical people around? That would be amazing, he could finally talk to someone about magic. Maybe even help Mr. Lord with his powers. And also maybe ask them to turn Uncle Vernon into a walrus and drop him off at the local zoo.
The snake paused, "No. Why do you talk so much?"
Harry shrugged, quickly swallowing down his disappointment, and then held out a hand, "Can I touch you?"
"No."
Harry's face fell, and he had nearly pulled his hand away, when the snake said, "Don't make that face. You can touch me. But be careful. If you squish me, I'll bite you."
Harry hesitated. He had no doubts that the Dursleys would rather he died of poison than take him to the doctor.
'Grass snakes are not venomous,' Mr. Lord said pointedly. Harry's lips twitched, and he slowly reached out a hand, about to caress the snake, when it just lunged up and slithered over Harry's hand.
Harry almost yelped in surprise, but managed to keep it in. He would've definitely bolted if his legs hadn't fallen asleep.
The snake felt cool against his hand, its scales scraping gently against his skin. It slowly wound itself around Harry's wrist, only able to curl once, and rested its head on his palm. Out of the bushes, in his hand where plenty of afternoon sunlight slanted, the snake looked even more stunning.
"You're very pretty," he said, and could practically feel the snake preen in his hands.
"You're not too bad to look at, yourself. For a human. And you're warm."
Harry laughed, and so did Mr. Lord. But he still sounded a little off. Harry didn't pay attention to that, slowly lifting his other hand to gently caress the snake. It felt extremely delicate, and Harry could understand why it had been so hesitant to allow itself to be touched.
There were scratches littering his body, especially his palms, knees, and face still. But he could always just heal them back in his room. No need to scare the snake away with magic.
The snake flicked a tongue out, and Harry giggled as he felt it tickle against his skin. Then it said, "I'm staying with you. You're more comfortable than my bush."
Harry froze, staring down at the snake comfortably nestled against his hand. "Mr. Lord?"
"Who is that?" the snake asked, at the same time Mr. Lord replied, 'Well, it's small enough to be easily hidden from your relatives. Not particularly useful, though.'
"Mr. Lord is a friend of mine," Harry said to the snake, ignoring the bit about it being useless, "And I asked him if I could take you with me."
"Where is he? I can't see him," the snake demanded.
"In my head. You can't see him. Only I can."
The snake sounded suspicious when he spoke next, "Okay."
"Does that mean we're friends?" Harry asked, almost bouncing in place. His second ever friend! He had two whole friends now. He couldn't believe it. He'd been grateful for Mr. Lord, and even that had been unexpected. But to have two friends? And such cool ones too! If Dudley knew, he'd be so jealous.
Or maybe terrified of the snake.
Maybe if it had been a venomous one, Harry could have set it on Dudley. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon surely would have taken their son to the hospital, so it wouldn't even have been that bad.
'You don't need a snake to enact revenge on your cousin,' Mr. Lord said, making Harry shrug.
"It's fun to imagine, though." Harry got up to his feet, wincing at the pins and needles sensation that rocketed up his legs, making him wobble and almost topple right into the bush. Which neither he nor the snake would have appreciated.
He dusted off the dirt and twigs from his clothes with his free hand, then he took a moment to adjust the sleeves of his shirt so they fell halfway down to his hand, covering the snake almost completely, only the small head poking out from under the stained, frayed cloth.
His second friend. He'd made another friend.
And also, he could talk to snakes.
A/N: I have settled on a stable update schedule for this, that is, the 7th and 21st of every month.
