A/N:

this chapter is basically all of harry's awful backstory, meaning the story warnings apply in a hefty way here.

Chapter 6: A Boy Named Harry

Myrtle was ever so pleased to have Tom visit her two days in a row. Tom reminded himself that she was his last line of defense as he went to the trouble of complimenting her hair and petting her yowling cats. He stood every chance of becoming a millionaire by the end of the month. He could suffer in her company a while longer.

Once her desire for small talk was satisfied, Tom connected to Hogwarts and materialized in the master bedroom of his manor. He called up a photograph of his handwritten copy of the brokers' questions and threw the image onto the nearest wall, where it expanded to fill the available space.

It took Tom nearly two hours to answer everything. The questions were extremely detailed, each with multiple parts designed to trick and reveal frauds. Tom tripled checked his responses before he sent them off.

Talk soon, was the answer he received.

Tom figured he would hear back with a contract within the next few hours, which gave him plenty of time to speak with Harry. Setting Slytherin's Locket aside, Tom made his way downstairs and onto the grounds.

The terrarium that Tom had requested was well underway, its skeleton composed of what looked like enormous animal bones. Tom was curious as to how the glass would look once installed, but he had faith that Harry would do the design justice.

"It's quite lovely," Tom said as he approached. "The bones."

"I thought they would suit you," Harry confessed with a shy glance in Tom's direction. "Though if you asked me to explain why, I couldn't say."

"There's no need. I think I do understand." Tom laid a hand against the nearest post—the thin, curved bone of a creature's rib. "There is beauty in nature. In death."

The digital light of Harry's eyes flickered. It was an action that Tom associated with discomfort. "Are you here to work?" asked Harry.

"I am here to ask you some questions," Tom said, as gently as he could manage.

Harry's pleasant expression faded to neutrality. "Questions about the design?"

Tom reached for the soldering iron in Harry's hands and pulled it away, tossing the tool aside so that Harry would acknowledge the gravity of what he was about to say.

"I want to purchase you from Grunnings. I have drafted an offer and plan to send it later today. What I would like is for you to look it over and tell me if I've taken the correct approach."

Harry stopped moving. Without the distraction that his speech and movements provided, Harry's inhuman status was more apparent. His body flickered with noise and static, his outline faintly glowing despite the early morning hour.

"Here." Tom summoned his draft and expanded the screen so that Harry could see it. "You see? I have it written out. I'm not trying to trick you."

Harry scanned the document, eyes sliding from left to right, top to bottom, all the way to the lump sum listed at the end. When he was finished, he looked at Tom.

"You want to buy me."

Though Harry's tone was neutral, his statement carried an accusation.

Tom's instinct was to lash out. He did not want to hurt Harry. He did not regard Harry as property to be abused and branded like cattle. But deep down, Tom knew his decision to make this purchase was, at least in part, because of his own selfish reasons. He wanted Harry for himself. It would be dishonest of him to claim this as an action made purely for Harry's benefit.

However, dishonesty had never stopped him before. Tom was perfectly capable of lying. The question was, was he capable of lying to Harry? Promising freedom that he never planned to give?

Because that was the truth. Harry was a wounded bird trapped in a cramped, rusty cage. Tom would help Harry escape, would heal those broken wings. He would give Harry a beautiful golden cage to live in, but it would be a cage nonetheless.

For Harry, perhaps that was the best a bot could ever hope for.

"I enjoy your work," Tom said simply. "I enjoy your company. I am willing to pay to keep you with me. I would ask that you aid me with the interior design of the house so that it may match the gardens you have created, but after that you would be free to take on whatever projects you wished."

Harry's face was disconcertingly devoid of a reaction.

"This will be much better for you," Tom tried. "It will be safer. You will have as much freedom as a bot can have." While under Tom's protection, of course.

There was another stretch of silence, then Harry nodded.

"You want to know more about my owners," Harry said. Movement slowly returned to him: the rise and fall of a chest that did not need air, the blink of eyes that never dried, the casual shifting of a body that would never become restless. "You want to know more about the Dursleys."

"Yes," Tom agreed, relaxed now that Harry was on board with the plan. "Do you think they will accept the offer?"

Harry's eyes flashed. "They'll ask for more, certainly."

"I assumed as much." Tom altered the number on the screen to a larger amount. "If I act as though this is the upper limit?"

Harry shook his head.

Tom raised the number again. "And now?"

"No."

He raised it a third time.

"No," Harry said firmly.

Tom stared. Even greed had limits. "More than this?" he asked, bewildered.

"They won't sell. It doesn't matter how much you offer." Harry shrugged.

Tom glowered. Bots did not need to shrug. The shrug mocked Tom's plan. It mocked the generous amount he had placed upon the purchase proposal.

"Everyone has a price," Tom said in a low voice. "Your owners are no exception."

"For them to agree to sell," Harry said calmly, "you would have to offer them a truly exorbitant amount of money. No bot is worth that, so let's not pretend that I am."

"But why?" Tom demanded. "The income you provide is limited. One project at a time, sold to the highest bidder, is not comparable to immediate value of a large lump sum." He gestured wildly at the gardens around them. "Trends change. There is no guarantee your popularity will hold. If they accept my offer, they can purchase a dozen basic groundsbots to replace you and make thousands a month."

Harry shook his head a second time. His lips were pressed into a neutral line. He could not say, then. His owners were preventing him from saying. Tom wracked his own brain for an answer. Why would the Dursleys refuse to sell?

"Are you not theirs?" Tom asked. Risk of jail could be sufficient reason to avoid selling. "Did they acquire you illegally?" He could work with that. He could leverage it in his favour.

"I couldn't say."

Of course not. Harry could not implicate his owners in any wrongdoing. He had already been ordered not to disclose information about himself.

"I want to help you," Tom insisted. It took every ounce of his self control not to stride forward and shake sense into Harry. "But I can only help you if you give me information to work with."

"All information is considered to be the intellectual property of Grunnings," Harry recited, and Tom, already nearing the end of his patience, was one second away from explosively losing his temper and threatening to go to the police, never mind that it would not do either of them any good. If the police did find anything, Harry would be lost forever to the system, which was the last thing that Tom wanted.

What stopped Tom from snapping was neither his own common sense nor his reluctance to yell at a bot who had clearly been yelled at enough for several lifetimes. What stopped him was the very vibrant light in Harry's eyes; eyes that, prior to this moment, had always been very dull when discussing the specifics of Grunnings Gardenworks.

Harry walked over to the soldering iron that Tom had discarded. He picked it up and examined it for several seconds while Tom watched, chest tight and breaths uneven.

"I can tell you a story," Harry said quietly. "While I work."

Tom struggled to exhale the painful tension that had built up in his body. He did not want to frighten Harry away. "Yes," he said, "yes, go ahead."

Harry resumed building the framework of the terrarium, drilling holes into the bones and soldering metal brackets into place. "There once was a family," said Harry. "Two parents and a little boy. They were the happiest family in the world."

Though Harry had hardly begun his story, Tom felt the dread pool in the pit of his stomach, thick like tar.

"Then, one day, the parents died." The way Harry spoke—plainly, without the affliction of emotion colouring his words—was downright unsettling. "The government left the little boy in the care of his relatives, his aunt and uncle. His aunt and uncle also had a little boy, only the two boys didn't get along very well. In fact, none of them got along very well at all."

"That must have been very difficult," Tom said.

Harry rewarded Tom's comment with a half-nod. "Soon enough, the little boy was tasked with all the chores in the house. He did the cleaning, the cooking, and the laundry. He did it all without complaint, because complaints were met with punishments." Harry set the soldering iron down and opened a shop menu to browse for parts.

"It was a difficult life, as you said. But what the little boy liked best," Harry said, and his smile looked almost genuine as he paused in his scrolling, "was working out in the garden."

Harry selected a skylight, a beautiful hexagonal shape with a pointed dome, from the menu and processed the purchase with a few practiced gestures.

"The garden was a very important place to the boy's relatives, not because they liked to spend time there, but because it was a symbol of their wealth. The little boy's aunt enjoyed hearing compliments about the garden, and so she made sure he kept it in good condition. While everyone else sat inside, playing games and living their virtual lives, the little boy worked outside, clipping the hedges and pulling out the weeds."

The purchased skylight materialized in front of Harry, who directed it to rest at the top of the terrarium. "For a long time, nothing changed. The cruel relatives had their chores handled, and the little boy had his time in the garden." Harry shrugged. "The little boy grew into an older boy who was better friends with the bees he met outside than he was with the other kids at school."

"And then?" Tom asked, unable to help himself. He had his suspicions of what was coming.

"And then," Harry echoed, "and then there was an accident." His hands stilled in their motions, his brow crumpling for the first time Tom could remember seeing. "A punishment gone too far, perhaps. Or a wrong shove down the stairs. It was very bad. The boy's relatives didn't know what to do. If the truth of what they'd done, what they did—if it got out, they would get in trouble." Then Harry turned to Tom with an expectant expression.

"So they covered it up."

Harry nodded. "They tried to. They connected him to the virtual world. They uploaded him to their son's server, because some people on the internet said it had worked before, to store a consciousness long enough for the body to be saved, only they didn't intend to save the body at all. They couldn't risk the retrieval of the boy's memories as part of the hospital investigation, which meant his body had to die."

Harry conjured a ladder, which he propped against the nearest post, and began to climb. Tom followed Harry up, his footsteps heavy on each creaky wooden rung. The top of the structure was curiously made; the bones that formed the skeleton of the terrarium curved up and in, forming a circle shape.

"They said it was an accident," Harry said affably as he set the skylight above the gap and began reshaping it to fit. "Being plugged in too long, it addled the brain. Everyone knew that. Never mind that the boy spent every free hour he could sitting outside in the yard."

"Was there no investigation?" Tom asked quietly.

"There was no reason for one. The boy was a delinquent. He had no friends and none of the neighbours liked him. People believed the story that the boy's relatives told, and soon enough, the world forgot he ever existed."

"But he did exist," Tom said, "in the server."

"He did. The cousin complained about it constantly. He couldn't invite his friends over while the boy's ghost haunted him there. So the aunt and uncle purchased their own space and moved the boy there. The boy had no body to go to, they thought to themselves, and no legal player ID to navigate the game with. They placed him on a cheap property and locked the privacy settings, leaving him trapped inside."

It would have been awful enough, to end the story there. But the story did not end there. "The house," Tom asked, "did it have a garden?"

"The garden was a disaster. Overgrown and full of weeds. The boy wanted to fix it, but he had no credits to buy supplies. Luckily, there was a derelict shed full of old, rusty tools for him to use. So the boy cared for the garden, taking comfort in the warm virtual sun and the generated scent of fresh-cut grass. He was a consciousness without a body. He had all the time in the world and would never grow tired ever again."

Harry finished reshaping the skylight and lowered it into the gap. A drill appeared in his hand. Tom watched as Harry lined up the holes and began cutting into the bone below their feet.

"Then it was like you said," Harry said, his voice somehow audible over the noise of the drill, "trends changed. Suddenly, it was all the rage to own a virtual property. It was no longer something that only bored teenagers did for fun. The boy's aunt and uncle returned to the boy's virtual prison and found that it had been transformed into a beautiful estate."

Harry set the drill aside and blew the dust away from the bone frame. "From there, the chores began anew." He glanced down at his handiwork and sighed. "After all, the boy had all the time in the world. He no longer needed food or water. He would never grow tired. If he complained, they would get rid of him for good."

Before Harry could resume drilling, Tom snatched up the drill's handle and banished the item to his own inventory. "He deserved better," Tom said in a flat tone. "He deserved better than that."

Harry stared blankly at the spot where the drill had rested. "The boy's relatives purchased a defunct bot from the black market. They stripped the bot of its identifier and reassigned it. No one would know, they told him. They tried to implement the control measures, but even modern technology has its limits. The most they could do was apply content filtering."

Which explained why Harry was able to give him this information under the guise of a story.

"And then," Harry said, "and then..." His voice shook. Then his lips began to glitch, his words repeating over and over: "And then — and then — and then — "

"That's enough," Tom said, pained. Slowly, he approached Harry and took the boy's—not a bot's, but a boy's —hands in his own, wondering if Harry could even draw comfort from the pseudo-sensation of touch. "You don't have to continue if you don't want to."

Harry went quiet and still. The illusion of life melted away, leaving Harry's static consciousness to process the grief and pain of the past. Tom waited patiently for Harry to resurface, for the light to return to Harry's eyes.

When Harry finally glanced up, a hint of fear visible in his gaze despite his otherwise neutral expression—and fuck, wasn't that a harrowing thought, that Harry did have emotions, that Harry felt happiness and sadness but had gotten all of it beaten and filtered out of him—Tom had to deliberately calm himself before he spoke.

"Forget about the original purchase proposal," Tom said. "I have a better idea."

Harry's lower lip trembled for a brief second before it turned into a frown. "What plan?"

"A better one," Tom repeated. He gave Harry's hand a gentle squeeze, ran his thumbs over the other boy's knuckles. "But I need you to trust me. If they ask about today..."

"I won't say anything," Harry promised. Then he dropped his eyes to where their hands were joined together and added, "If they don't ask, I mean. I won't say anything if I can help it."

"If they ask, you will tell them I wish to buy you," Tom said seriously. "But nothing other than that."

Harry nodded. Satisfied, Tom released his grip and pulled back with great reluctance. "I'll have to start on this right away. You should continue working on whatever needs to be done here."

Harry nodded again, this time with less hesitance than before.

"This will work," Tom promised. "If I can, I'll return before the day is over."

Harry smiled. "Take your time."

Tom managed a smile in return and disconnected from the game.

Back in the 'real' world, Tom researched the Dursleys. The truth of Harry's origin had convinced Tom that there was no reason to adhere to the letter of the law. The Dursleys had forfeit any right to a fair deal from the moment they had laid harm to their nephew, who was a living, breathing human being.

Public information on Grunnings Gardenworks was plentiful. They were careless, these people. They were practically begging for Tom to deliver retribution to their doorstep. Tom gathered images and video clips, sifting through for relevant information, and eventually he had enough to locate the Dursleys' home address.

Number 4, Privet Drive,

Little Whinging,

Surrey.

Tom noted the distance from his own flat and how long it would take him to arrive via public transit.

In all likelihood, he could have charmed this information out of Petunia Dursley, but the act of doing so would have sickened him. Besides, it was better this way. When he caught them unaware, their surprise would be all the sweeter.

A notification appeared on Tom's main screen. The two brokers he'd contacted had replied.

Tom switched to his other account and opened up the message. The brokers had verified his answers and wanted a virtual meeting. Tom grimaced. This was what he'd been hoping to avoid. He did not want this sale traced back to his real name.

Although... he could transfer the item to his secondary account and handle the sale there for now. The temporary creation of a false identity would also help him maintain his privacy for a while longer, easing the way for his other plans. Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a viable plan, but was it the best plan? Only time would tell.

It took him two minutes to transfer the item and save proof of the transaction onto his hard drive, which he then proceeded to disconnect from his computer.

Tom reassured himself that, as far as he knew, there was no way for them to steal the item from his inventory unless he gave it to them, then wrote back to the brokers asking for an immediate meeting.

Within seconds, he was given coordinates and a password for a private space.

Tom released his VR implant from its chamber and placed it to his temple. By now, the process of connecting was quicker and easier than falling asleep. When he appeared in the virtual world, however, he experienced an unfamiliar rush of disorientation.

A worrisome minute passed before he realized the cause. This was not his usual avatar. He was unused to this body. Tom shook off his discomfort and took a moment to examine himself. This account owned the bare essentials, which meant he was dressed in starter clothing. Tom pulled up his inventory and confirmed that Slytherin's Locket was there.

Now for a change in wardrobe. Tom selected the locket's multi-item function and transformed it into Salazar's Cloak, which he put on. The cloak would serve to disguise his basic avatar while also lending an air of prestige.

Next, Tom summoned a mirror and looked himself over. Prestige was doubly important considering he did not even have any shoes on. Tom decided that the character he was now, the anonymous owner of Slytherin's Locket, was an ancient dark lord, and that the bare feet added to his mystique.

He brought up the location menu and input the coordinates he'd been given. The confirmation menu told him he was about to enter a server in Greenland. Wonderful. Tom confirmed his desire to teleport and shut his eyes, making sure to brace himself. When he landed, he kept his feet under him.

There were two people standing in an open grove of apple trees: a grizzly old man with a funny animated eye piece, and a young woman with bubblegum pink hair that reminded Tom most unfortunately of Bellatrix.

"Wotcher," said the woman, winking. "You must be... Voldemort. Fancy name for a fancy bloke, huh?"

"Let's get down to business," grunted the man, stalking forward several steps to fix Tom with a disinterested stare. "I see you've got the cloak on. Come closer."

Tom did so and permitted the man to inspect the faint sheen of the cloak that gave away its unique status. "I want a clean sale before the end of the month," he told them. "Highest offer of immediate payment."

The man snorted. "You mean before they announce the lucky winners for everyone and their grandmum to take potshots at?"

Tom refused to be baited. "If I've satisfied your need for verification, we can discuss the percentage you'll get. I'm willing to offer a generous cut—"

"Seven percent off the top," said the man. "No negotiation."

"You're working with the best," the woman added, nodding. "That seven percent is the difference between hiring us and hiring some other chumps. You'll get the money back just 'cause we're the ones arranging the sale."

Tom didn't doubt that, but it went against his very nature to agree without attempting to wrangle himself a better deal. However, he had to remind himself what was at stake here. Greed would not be his downfall. "I'll agree to that percentage," he said finally. "Draw up the contract and have it sent my way."

"Excellent. That's that done, then," said the man, clapping his hands together. Then he gestured at himself and said, "Moody," before pointing at the woman and adding, "Tonks."

The woman, Tonks, rolled her eyes. "You've no idea how long it took to get him to call me that. Had to remind him that real names are a security risk before he'd stop using what my damned fool of a mother gave me."

"Pleasure doing business with you," Moody said loudly as a large staff appeared in his hand. "We'll be on our way if that's all." He stomped the staff once on the floor.

Tom cleared his throat. "I would also like to request your services for another, smaller purchase."

"Oh? You never mentioned a side piece." The woman grinned. "What're we talking? Another Legacy item? Hufflepuff? Gryffindor? Godric's got a nice arse, I'll say."

"A property purchase for myself," Tom clarified. "Something cheap and out of the way, with enough yard space for a terrarium."

"A terrarium?" Tonks narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't see those much anymore."

Tom grinned beneath the hood of his cloak. "Call me old-fashioned."

"It'll be easy enough to find a cheap dump for sale," Moody said, scowling. "What I assume you really want is for it to be listed not under your real name, Mister Lord Voldemort."

"If it's no trouble," Tom said innocently.

"Real cute," Tonks said with a low whistle. "You know what? I'll do it for you, on the house. Freebie for the shoeless freak. It's not every day I get to broker a huge sale like this one. I'll get you an untraceable garbage heap for your gaudy old man terrarium."

Tom very deliberately avoided looking at his feet. "Sounds perfect. Will you require anything from myself?"

"Nothing but your ugly, overpriced locket when the time comes." Moody nodded. "Tonks will handle your property acquisition and we'll be in touch. Good bye."

Before Tom could respond, Moody knocked his staff against the ground a second time, forcibly ejecting Tom from the area.