VII.

Harry struggles furiously against his bonds, the graveyard bathed in a chilling glow, the cold stone of his captor's history like ice against his back. He pays it no mind. No, he can't focus on anything other than the monster before him, risen from the cauldron like poison, like an instrument of death ––

This is not the Tom Riddle of the diary, he knows.

No, this––this is not human .

This is not living , not in the truest sense of the word.

When the monster's eyes finally meet his, his dignity clothed in a long, trailing black robe, Harry feels his whole body quake.

This is the end.

And he's almost certain of it.

But then––he isn't.

Because Voldemort, slowly, silently, like the scent of doom on the breeze, moves, coming to a stand-still before the bound, bleeding figure of Harry Potter.

"Harry Potter…" he hisses.

And though Harry is terrified, though he is shaking––he is a Gryffindor at heart.

Harry snarls, baring his teeth.

Voldemort–– for that is what this monster, this skeleton, this corpse is ––tracks the motion with blood red eyes, before they flick up to Harry's, bright in their bloodlust.

A nasty, demonic smile cuts across Voldemort's face like the slice of a knife.

"I can touch you now."

And he does.

One fingertip on Harry's forehead, and Harry's whole body seizes in overwhelming, apocalyptic pain.

He is unaware of anything, anything––it slashes through him like lighting, like the scar that has been on his forehead for so, so long, like the tearing of a nail down the sensitive skin of his spine––

He can't hear, but he's distantly aware he must be screaming, because he feels his vocal cords ripping, his spine bending, his body breaking, breaking––

And then it stops, between one breath and the next.

For reasons Harry can't explain, all he can think is, This is Tom Riddle no longer.

And in the next moment, Voldemort is taking Harry's jaw in one clawed hand, and whispering, in that chilling, high voice, " Legilimens."

Harry had not known that one thought would spark his doom.

But it had.

And as Voldemort had torn through Harry's mind, memories like camera flashes leading the way to that one, fatal discovery, all Harry had thought was, Yes.

Yes, Tom Riddle was no more.

When Voldemort had ripped through Harry Potter's mind that very first time, he had been presented directly with the memory of his sixth-year self. Handsome, horrid, a devil in human form.

He had seen his Chamber, had seen his lovely basilisk, and he heard the hissed words of, " Kill him."

And he had been presented with the startling, altogether astonishing notion that Harry Potter had wanted to speak back.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One… Voldemort's Horcrux, for that is surely the only way he could be speaking his tongue.

Voldemort's prisoner, now.

Voldemort walks through the halls of Azkaban, slowly. He is in no rush to visit his soul-piece.

He pays no mind to the suffering masses within these walls, the wailing creatures begging him for any reprieve, pitiful in their desperation.

As he continues down to the deepest, darkest recesses of this place, the occupants fall quiet––these cells belong to those that have been here so long, they no longer see the sense in begging. No longer feel the will to leave the only place they remember.

And still, still, Voldemort continues.

He comes upon a door, blood magic imbued into its very core.

Nagini had eaten the Dursleys, so the only people that would ever walk through this door would be Voldemort or Harry, and Voldemort had no intention of ever letting Harry Potter out of his sight again.

He takes his wand, pricking the tip of his finger on a conjured blade. Traces the lines of the rune with his finger, and he listens as the lock clicks open.

Harry Potter is standing in the corner, arms braced against the wall.

Voldemort observes him in his new, eternal habitat.

The room is relatively lush, outside of the barred area. Bathed in red, there are couches, pillows, chairs––a cozy drawing room, almost. But inside the bars…

The floor is dirt, runes carved around the perimeter, the prisoner tightened in the confines like a vice grip on the neck. No magic is permitted to course through the boy's veins, not with the wards acting as a suppression on his power.

The room is a study in the contrast between comfort and constriction.

Voldemort seats himself on his deserved side of the iron bars.

The boy is stubborn, evidently. He refuses to acknowledge Voldemort. Refuses to break first.

It makes no difference, because even if Voldemort relents, it is not as if anyone besides this boy, trapped in an eternal prison, will know.

"I trust everything is to your liking."

The boy doesn't look at him; he continues staring at the wall, leaning against it, as if it will support him against the pressure suffocating him.

"Better than a cupboard, I suppose."

Cheeky thing. Voldemort feels a twinge of annoyance, but he squashes it down. This boy is his horcrux, and there is nothing he can do to fight back, now. The battle is already won.

"Yes. I did hear about that," he says, settling in the armchair. "You'll be happy to find they're dead, now."

The boy twitches, but does not move from his position. His voice comes out strangled when he says, "And my friends?"

Voldemort adjusts, thoughtful. He could lie. He could say they are dead, say they are being tortured, not far from where the boy stands.

He could.

But, as if the soul-piece calls, even through the wards… He won't.

"Hunted. They will be found."

The boy laughs, harsh, grating. Hollow. It seems the wards have not only sucked out his magic, but his anger, that fierce spark Voldemort remembers from his time as a parasite in another man's body.

"Eventually."

Voldemort cocks his head, almost questioning. For some reason, he is not angry, he is not vengeful, as he had been for weeks after he had regained his body, discovered the truth of his soul's residence. For now, he is… curious.

The boy's head ducks down farther, and like this, Voldemort can see the shining sliver of white teeth.

"My friends… I am not the only one talented in escape, you know."

And just like that, Voldemort feels his vision bleed red. The boy had refused to look at him, to acknowledge him, and now, to reference all of his pathetic, skilless victories over him––

"Chance. Your escapes were nothing but talentless luck, and you dare insinuate otherwise?"

Harry Potter turns his head, finally, and something in his eyes is dark, amused. Captivating , infuriating.

"Yes, I fucking dare . I have nothing left to lose to you, Voldemort."

And because Voldemort cannot torture the insolent creature due to the ward wall between them, because he cannot hurt his horcrux, because there is no point at making this boy bleed––

Voldemort leaves like a storm, burning and crashing and thunderous, Harry Potter's haggard, cutting laugh echoing in his ears the entire way to the surface.

The next time Voldemort visits, he is calmer.

Harry Potter is audacious, daring, because, as he said, he has nothing left to lose. Even if Voldemort threatened the boy with the death of his loved ones, the killing of thousands of his beloved muggles, it would do nothing. Voldemort truly does not know where the boy's friends hide, nor would the boy have any guarantee of the truth of his words.

It would be utterly useless. And, truly, he has no reason to do so. Harry Potter is locked away in the most secure cell in Azkaban, buried under miles of water and an endless stretch of sea.

Voldemort has won. It would not do to lose his focus when he has not lost anything else.

When he enters this time, the boy is sitting in the corner, head down and thinner than before.

Daily, one of the Inner Circle come in with a single meal. Hardly that, if Voldemort is honest.

Voldemort ignores the discomfort of how similar the delivered food looks like rations from the war.

The boy refuses to be stoic, this time.

"Why have you come back?"

Voldemort is silent, and there lies the answer.

He doesn't know.

But he has returned, and he sits, waiting. For what, he's not sure.

Then, the boy looks up at him, his eyes blazing. There is still a defiance there, no matter that Voldemort has him trapped behind bars.

"Why haven't you killed me?"

Voldemort hesitates for only a second before he finds himself saying, "You harbor my soul."

The boy stares at him, incredulous. "I what? "

Voldemort doesn't look away. "A bit of my soul… Rests in you. You are its host."

The boy stares a moment longer, before his eyes flutter shut. Eventually, he croaks, "Leave."

Voldemort feels irritation rise. "No."

The boy looks at him, angry, furious, and somewhere, in the depths of those emerald seas–– broken .

"Leave!" he shouts hoarsely, staggering to his feet. He is weak, after so long with so little food. After so long without his magic. "Leave! Go! Get the fuck out , you terrible thing! Fucking go !"

Voldemort stays. "No."

The boy's face creases with fury, and he rages like a storm cloud, like a tempestuous sea, like a roaring fire––and still, Voldemort stays.

Voldemort stays, and when he finally leaves, Harry Potter is on the ground, sobbing, defeated. Devastated, at a truth that cuts through all of his softest places and hits, solid, against his most valuable asset––his heart.

Many nights pass in this way.

Voldemort comes, he stays, and he leaves. And during this time, he listens.

He listens when the boy–– Harry, after so long in his presence, he must call him Harry ––rages, cries, hopes. Voldemort listens, and he learns.

He learns of Harry Potter's life. His dreams, his sorrows. He learns of what could've been, what already had.

Voldemort learns of what it is like to love, secondhand.

He feels each word like a heady caress, like a blow to the stomach––he consumes them with a fascination that is dangerous, that is horrid in its sincerity, but no matter what he does, he cannot seem to stop. And maybe Harry feels the same, for no matter his hatred for the man before him, he cannot seem to stop sharing.

And eventually, after days and nights, after moments and millennia––he realizes he would rather listen without a wall between them. With no separation between souls, who call for each other at every waking moment; who pull, with a magnet's ardour, to the only person who can share a true connection with him no matter how much Voldemort denies it, even in the safety of his own well-guarded mind.

And when he tries it––when he tries to remove him from that infernal prison, where Voldemort's magic feels chained and desperate, like a caged animal, and touches Harry Potter for the second time as himself, a gentle, helping hand to the forearm and the elbow––Harry Potter falls to the floor as soon as he crosses the threshold, seizing as if hit with the Cruciatus.

Voldemort, panicked, hurriedly carries him back over the line, arranging him, gently, on the floor.

And he finds the only man he trusts to have both an answer and indiscretion.

The answer is the worst he could've imagined.

"My––My Lord, the wards are killing him."

Severus's face goes white with the shock, pale with the realization. He had not visited the boy since his capture, too preoccupied with allaying Dumbledore's suspicions, and to be told this––

Voldemort sits up straighter, alarmed. "Then I must remove him from them."

Severus doesn't even question why he wishes to keep the boy alive. "You can't ."

Voldemort, voice cold and yet still composed, replies, "Why not?"

Severus's voice, as admirable as his calm facade is, shakes as he explains, "The wards––they are suppressing his magic, suppressing the very force that keeps him alive. But to remove him––the deluge of sudden magic would kill him."

Voldemort's eyes burn, the maroon brightening to crimson, to an angry blood-red. "He's doomed?"

Severus's head bows, hair falling in his face. Hiding his feelings. He whispers, "Yes, My Lord."

Voldemort feels something in the back of his throat. Something thick, blocking his airway. Blocking all these things unsaid.

"Leave me."

And Severus does.

When Voldemort returns for the last time, Harry is curled on the floor, shaking from the cold.

Voldemort says nothing, but it doesn't matter. Harry beats him to words, just as he has beat him to many things. Beat him to realization, because Harry doesn't seem shocked in the least by his approaching end.

"You know," Harry whispers, breath rattling in his lungs, "When I thought of myself dying… I thought it would be… it would be by your hand, because you wanted it so bad, for so long." He draws a breath, shaking, coughing, "It's funny, that I'll die because––because you're trying so hard to stop it."

And his eyes are so bright, so shining, that Voldemort notices immediately when the light is extinguished by the lowering of eyelids. "Voldemort… Tom..."

And despite the fact that he hates the suppression of his magic, hates how it leaves his veins empty of what makes them special, he is unlocking the cell in seconds, darting forward to cradle Harry's head in his lap.

The boy smiles, blinking up at him, unseeing. "Tom," he wheezes.

"Harry," Voldemort returns.

"Tom," the boy smiles. He draws thin breaths, and Voldemort knows this is the end. Feels it in the marrow of him when the boy says, "I think… I think I'm glad I'm dying your prisoner, Tom… Rather your prisoner… than your enemy."

And those beautiful, gorgeous green eyes shut, and Voldemort feels suddenly so empty. Somehow, he knows, this emptiness cannot be simply the departure of a horcrux, but the departure of a friend. Of something more.

Of Harry Potter.

'But I love you,' he mouths against Harry's forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to his wild, lovely black hair. 'I love you,' he howls silently, because he cannot bring himself to say it aloud. To admit it to the world––admit it to himself, even in loneliness.

And as Harry slips from the world like water, slides through the cracks like air, Voldemort thinks, maybe, he hears Harry's voice in his ear.

Hears the quiet whisper of, "I know."

Voldemort wants to hold his spirit to him, anchor it to the earthly plane. He is almost fooled into thinking it's already there, the warmth of it standing next to him.

Lord Voldemort has already conquered immortality.

Perhaps necromancy… is next on the list.