II.

Lily Potter's cooling corpse at his feet, Voldemort looks down at his nemesis.

Harry Potter is a little chubby, he thinks. Well taken care of; clearly loved and adored by his parents. Unlike Voldemort himself, when he was that young.

Pathetic.

He raises his wand, that wretched, seductive curse on the tip of his tongue, only too ready to be released, and then––he stops. Cocks his head, reluctantly intrigued, and, dare he say it, surprised.

The boy's… not crying.

The boy stares up at him, his eyes wide and green, green, green. The same shade as the spell Voldemort had used to orphan the child. He's guileless, innocent, and utterly unafraid of the mass murderer standing directly in front of him. The boy's would-be murderer, if all goes according to plan.

Is this what will make the boy Voldemort's one true threat? Is this naive bravery, this simple curiosity what will spell Voldemort's downfall?

Is this the creature that will spill his blood?

The boy is soft, sweet, fascinated by the dimming glow of green emanating from the tip of Voldemort's wand.

As the spell dies, fizzling away, so too does Voldemort's murderous intent.

This boy…

"Harry," Voldemort tries, his tongue wrapping around the words. Tasting them. Testing their worth.

The boy blinks up at him; no tears or grimace to portray his fear.

A thought wells, like blood from a fresh wound.

Harry Potter… his prophesied enemy, his foretold nemesis… A power Lord Voldemort knows not…

Could be useful.

They look enough alike, Voldemort supposes. That dark hair, that pale skin… He could pass. And besides, none of Voldemort's loyal would dare to question him, or his possible offspring.

Yes, he thinks, satisfied, as he relieves the cradle of its ward. He holds the boy carefully, gently in his arms. Those green eyes bore into him, still, blazing in their curiosity.

Yes, this will work nicely.

When he arrives back at Malfoy Manor, Lucius is clutching tightly to his wife's hands, lips thin, hair loose.

He looks anxious.

Voldemort steps inside, a shadow cast by the fireplace falling over the two Malfoy's.

Narcissa tenses, but does not turn. Lucius, though, looks up, grey eyes wide and deliciously fearful. But almost… shocked. Almost… disappointed?

And then, those eyes fall to his arms.

Voldemort has the impression that if the man had not been trained so rigorously in the Pureblood ways when he was young, he would choke.

"M–My Lord?" he says, hoarsely.

At this, Narcissa turns, her profile visible. She glances at his arms, and flinches.

No doubt thinking of her own child.

Voldemort smiles, sharp. "He is ours."

The silence he leaves in his wake is deafening. And then––

"Congratulations, my lord," Narcissa says, sweeping into a deep curtsey. Lucius quickly follows into a bow.

"Yes, our deepest congratulations," he adds, peering up cautiously through his loose hair, glinting in the firelight.

Voldemort inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Indeed."

His smile grows wicked.

"Tell me, where is dear Bellatrix?"

Bellatrix had taken quickly to the child, and it was then that Voldemort became certain that she would be a mother of sorts to the boy.

Harry was a quiet, obedient child, eager to please with a mischievous streak that never failed to entertain. Voldemort handled him with a firm hand, but was patient, kind, just as he had been with the younger children at that dreaded orphanage. Bellatrix doted on Harry as if he was her own. She played with him constantly, encouraging his natural cunning and curiosity. Voldemort had had to instruct Narcissa to teach her sister the basics of child-rearing, but Bellatrix took to it with an enthusiasm Voldemort had only ever seen her exhibit in battle.

Lucius and Narcissa, too, would assist with Harry's caretaking––and Draco provided a frequent friend to Harry, when neither Voldemort or Bellatrix could entertain him.

Harry is charming, kind, and unfailingly good. Soft, maybe, but perhaps… Perhaps there is merit in this childlike innocence that Harry wields so expertly.

And now, after a few years under his care and careful tutelage, Voldemort finds that he may be… fond, of the child.

"Father," Harry, now four, says, tugging at his robes. Voldemort glances from his work to Harry's unruly head of curls. No matter what he or Bellatrix did, no matter their vast knowledge of all sorts of magic, they have never managed to tame his hair.

(Privately, Voldemort prefers it this way.)

"Yes, Harry?"

Harry looks up at him, his green eyes big and glittering. "Can I have a snake?"

Voldemort turns back to his work, though he does card a hand through Harry's feather-like hair. "What's wrong with Nagini, child?"

The pet name drops from Voldemort's lips without a thought, carelessly affectionate, and even after all these years, despite his ever-growing power and ruthlessness, Voldemort still finds it difficult to hate how weak Harry has made him.

Harry pouts, adorable and sweet. "She keeps bossing me around. I want a snake that's mine."

Voldemort sighs, before picking Harry up, placing him onto his thigh. He holds him close, fond and charmed and weak and not caring one bit. Not when Harry has so quickly become his world.

"I make no promises, Harry."

Harry snuggles into his robes, right under his heart. "That's okay. I believe in you."

And Voldemort feels his chest, for so long empty and aching, warm.

When Harry is eleven, Voldemort stands on platform 9 & 3/4, Bellatrix and Lucius at his side.

"Remember to write, okay, baby? I want to hear everything. And if anyone says anything mean, remember what auntie taught you."

Harry rolls his eyes, disgruntled, though a small smile curves his lips. "Yes, auntie."

Bellatrix sniffs, haughty, before she tugs him into a tight hug, her eyes suspiciously wet. Quietly, she says, "remember how much I love you. I'll send a howler otherwise."

Harry peers up at her suspiciously, eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

And, though her innate aura of intimidation is slightly dampened by the shining of her eyes, there is no mistaking the sharp danger in her too-wide smile when she says, "I would."

And Harry, though stubborn and embarrassed and slightly cowed, hugs her back. "Fine. I'll remember, promise."

She lets him ago, and Harry tugs his hand through his hair, ears burning. He turns to Lucius.

"Bye, Lucy."

Lucius's lips tighten at the nickname, but Voldemort knows that he won't say anything. He secretly likes the attention, Voldemort's certain. "Bye, Harry. Stay with Draco, alright? And Merlin forbid, at least try to become a Slytherin."

Harry nods, a smile that clearly says 'No promises' blooming on his face, before he finally turns to Voldemort. Turns to his once-savior, his father.

Harry's throat works, his mouth opening, closing. His eyes shine, and he holds it back. He holds back that emotion that Voldemort knows he's feeling, because he himself had dreamt of feeling that for someone on this platform, once upon a time. He is a proper Pureblood heir, though inwardly, inexorably just like Voldemort. Blood so similar it's almost fate.

And selfishly, hypocritically, despite the lessons he has bestowed upon the boy… Voldemort wants to see Harry's love pour from him like a waterfall.

Instead of saying anything, Harry lunges forward, his arms a vice grip around Voldemort's waist.

He smooths a hand through those wild curls, gentle.

"Goodbye, Harry," he says, whisper-soft.

"Goodbye, Father," Harry chokes out, hands squeezing tighter.

And in a flash, Harry has stepped back and wiped his eyes, before smiling, a little tremulous, a little scared.

And then he's on the train.

Bellatrix sniffles next to him, and Lucius turns, pretending to look for his wife in the crowd but really disguising his emotion. He will be losing two children to Hogwarts, after all. Still, Severus will be there. Severus will watch over the children.

Despite his dispassionate exterior, Voldemort cannot help the longing that builds up in him. He will miss Harry. He will miss his child.

And Voldemort thinks that, despite his accomplishments, despite his victories, there is no greater fulfillment than the overwhelming warmth of Harry's affection, even if his absence stings like the most biting of winters.

But, just as summer will return with a warmth, so too will Harry, and Voldemort will await his arrival with all the patience in his bones.