Notes:

I'm back!

This time, I'm doing things a bit differently. I am going to post chapter by chapter as opposed to the whole thing at once. I want to see what this experience is like. I am almost done the story at this point, and I will post the chapters when they are finished.

This story is nowhere near as dark as If Paths Diverge, but that is not to say that this is fluff- it's not. There is violence and this Harry begins darker than the Harry in IPD.

Anyways- enjoy! And please please comment to let me know what you think.

CHAPTER 1

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Harry collapsed onto his doormat, shaking and bleeding. His torso was pouring blood as he dragged himself to the cache of concentrated healing potions he kept hidden behind his dragon hide boots and necked back three of them.

Gasping, he closed his eyes and waited for the miracle of magic to stitch his flesh back together.

Bugger.

Another failed attempt.

Each time he worked out where McNair was hiding, the man's traps always caught him. He almost hadn't made it home this time.

Bowing his head, he exhaled a long breath.

Useless.

All of these years and he still couldn't beat the man. Robards was going to be so disappointed.

Gingerly getting to his feet, he slid up the wall to steady himself while the vertigo took his sight.

Bed.

He could eat tomorrow morning. Shower, piss.

Fuck.

He looked down. His doormat was mostly clean and soft enough. He let his legs unlock and bring him back to the floor. Laying down, he closed his eyes and was almost lost to unconsciousness when he heard his Floo whoosh to life.

Instantly on his feet, he rushed into the shadowed dining room, heart thundering. His knees hit the hearthrug and he accepted the call.

"Potter," Robards said, a confused frown on his face. "Where did you go? Stevens saw you Disapparate before the team was dismissed. If he hadn't, they'd still be out there looking for you."

Harry clenched his fists. The strangling guilt for abandoning his team hit home solidly.

"I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

Robards paused and then his eyes softened fondly.

"No need for that. You did well. Next time, you'll have him."

Next time and next time and there had already been over twenty next times.

Robards's keen eyes were scrutinising his form. Harry tried to seem relaxed.

"Were you injured?"

"No, sir," he answered at once.

The man's eyes swept his saturated robes.

"There's blood—"

"His. Not mine. I got him with a Sectumsempra."

Robards nodded in approval.

"Have you written your report yet? I need those in immediately. We have to figure out what went wrong and I'm counting on you to get everyone organised again."

Harry felt himself stiffen, I can't—

"Yes, sir."

"Go take a shower and then I'll see you back at Headquarters."

Harry heard the words, but they made no sense.

See you back at Headquarters. See you back.

No, I need to sleep—

He inclined his head once.

Robards cut the connection.

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"Harry?" Selena asked, sounding astonished and touching his arm as he dazedly walked past her. He failed to control his flinch. "What are you doing here? I saw McNair take you down last night. You were screaming—"

"Shh," Harry said urgently, grabbing her hand and pulling her into his office.

He shut the door.

"Why?" Her expression fell. "You didn't tell Robards you were hurt again. Why, Harry?"

"Leave it, Selena. It doesn't matter. Anyways, I'm fine. See?"

He pulled up his shirt to show her his unblemished skin. She put her hand gently onto his stomach, spreading out her fingers. His breath caught. Stepping closer, she looked into his eyes.

"You almost died."

"But I didn't," he said, wanting to drop his shirt, but worried he would offend her. "Besides, I'm Harry Potter." His voice held a bitterness no one ever picked up on. "If I can defeat the Dark Lord, then I think I can handle McNair."

He tried for a grin.

Sure, you handled him so well a couple of hours ago. You're worthless, useless—

"Harry," Selena said, her voice dropping breathily, her nails lightly flexing to scratch his skin—

A cursory, single knock on his door sounded and then it swung open.

"Harry?"

Hermione. He tried not to let his relief show.

Selena dropped her hand and stepped back. Harry gratefully let his shirt fall. More exhausted than ever, he plastered a smile onto his face.

"You look terrible," Hermione said, ignoring Selena's greeting.

Harry grimaced and backed up towards his desk.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked, suspicious. "I thought you were working last night."

"I just came in to finish some paperwork," Harry sighed.

"He almost caught McNair again," Selena said, a hint of pride in her voice, which hit him like a blow.

Almost.

You're a failure. You can't even do the one job you're supposed to be good at.

"Can we talk, Harry?" Hermione asked, and he looked up to see her giving Selena a pointed look.

"Can I come by tonight?" Selena asked as she walked to the door.

Harry's blank gaze got caught on her swaying hips.

Sleep. Jesus fucking christ, I need to—

"Sure," he replied.

She smiled at him and shut the door. Hermione crossed her arms, her gigantic pregnant belly making the gesture look comical.

"She's just using you."

Harry exhaled and moved to sit in the chair behind his desk.

"I know."

"Then why do you let her?"

He rolled his favourite quill between his fingers, thinking about Marius, Selena's brother. He had apparently been in fourth year during the Battle of Hogwarts and had sneaked back to fight when he shouldn't have. His small, brave body had been crushed under the rubble because Harry had taken too long to do his job.

"What can I help you with, Hermione?" he asked wearily, trying to resit rubbing his eyes.

No one liked to see him tired. He glanced up and caught an annoyed look on her face.

"I wanted to talk about something that's causing a bit of a stir in my department, but I can see that you're not up for a discussion right now."

Harry marshalled himself and sat up straighter.

"What is it?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Just tell me, Hermione," he persisted, feeling a strange sense of foreboding.

She was Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so it wasn't often that their departments worked together.

She sat down opposite him and dropped a report onto his desk. He glanced at it, but his pulsing headache barred him from reading it.

"What does it say?"

She picked up the parchment and looked it over, but he knew she probably already had it memorised.

"There have been thirty-two Muggles killed in a small town in Scotland."

Harry drew his head back in shock.

"Why haven't I heard of this?"

Hermione tapped the parchment idly.

"Because the coroner's reports consistently say that there is no question as to the cause of death. Snake bites. Snake venom."

What the hell?

"I've sent a dozen people," Hermione went on. "I've even gone myself and we can't find anything."

Weird, to be sure. But not really my problem.

"Isn't that more of an animal control issue?" he asked. "It doesn't sound magical."

Hermione put the papers back down neatly and then drew her wand. She cast multiple privacy wards. Harry tensed, sitting straighter.

"Is your office secure, Harry?"

"Yeah, of course. What's this about?"

Hermione looked apprehensive.

"Do you recall the memory you showed us of Tom Riddle asking about splitting his soul seven times?"

Harry's whole body jolted at that name.

The fuck?

He hadn't heard it in ages. Nine years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts.

He gave a jerky nod in reply.

"As far as he knew," Hermione continued, "Tom Riddle only created six Horcruxes. He never knew about you."

"Dumbledore said..." Harry muttered slowly, thinking he understood where she was going with this, "that he wanted a seven part soul, not seven Horcruxes."

Hermione nodded.

"And we believed him. It made sense. But Harry."

Hermione got up and came around the desk to sit down upon it. She took Harry's limp hands in hers.

"What if he was wrong? What if Voldemort wanted seven Horcruxes? What if we didn't destroy them all?"

"His body—"

"There was a body at Godric's Hollow too. That doesn't mean he's truly gone."

Not gone— You failed, you fucking failed again—

Harry pulled back from her and stood.

"This is quite a leap, Hermione. Why do you think a snake killing people has anything to do with... with him? The thing could just be rabid or another Dark wizard is controlling it."

"You've caught almost every remaining Death Eater," she said wryly. "There aren't many dangerous people left."

"So it's gotta be the Dark Lord back for another go, then?" he joked, hoping to disperse some of the strangling tension with sarcasm, but her face didn't crack.

She was worried. She believed this.

With a sigh, she pushed off from his desk and returned to her chair.

"I know it sounds ridiculous," she admitted. "Ron is sick of me talking about it. I just... there's something not right."

She was gazing down at the parchment, her mind seemingly far away.

"Thirty-two deaths," she whispered. "Cove Bay has a population of eight thousand."

"Yeah, but—"

She looked up.

"Did I mention it's an adder? The killer snake. They're tiny and usually not dangerous unless they can get enough venom in. Or if you're old or sick, but these Muggles weren't. So why are so many dying?"

An adder? He couldn't imagine Voldemort so small.

"I know it sounds crazy, but I just feel like something isn't right." She shrugged, a hint of embarrassment entering her tone. "Ron insisted I ask you for help."

"Why me? It's not like I speak Parseltongue anymore."

"No, but you are rather the leading expert on Voldemort."

Voldemort.

A surge of murderous rage erupted inside of him, but he beat it down. Not here, not now.

Not yet.

He blew out a breath and returned to his chair.

"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"

Hermione hesitated.

"You're always busy, Harry. I've tried. You work seven days a week and when you're not... Well, you aren't exactly alone at Grimmauld very often, are you?"

Harry's eyes darted away for a moment, but then he dragged them back. He took a deep breath.

"What do you need me to do?"

Her eyes shined with gratitude and relief.

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Hermione, as always, had a plan.

He went over it in his head as he traipsed along the coast in his Invisibility Cloak a few days after their talk.

She had assumed that, once Voldemort saw him, he would stop possessing the snake and become a vapour again, unable to be contained. Voldemort's unique potion made of unicorn blood and Nagini's venom had transferred his soul into the scaly infant's body, but obviously Voldemort had told no one of his methodology for that so it was not an option here.

Instead, Hermione had recommended that he stick with a simpler solution: Petrificus Totalus.

Feel for the snake. Trap it before it could escape. The man could not do much magic while possessing a foreign body and would therefore be stuck. She said to scoop him up and head back. Then, all they had to do was figure out what his last Horcrux was, destroy it, and finally kill him for good.

All of this, of course, hinged on this ambitious little snake actually being the Dark Lord Voldemort.

Harry snorted.

With my bloody luck, she'll be right.

Nausea churned his stomach whenever his imagination began to construct what it would mean if he had actually failed at doing the one thing the wizarding world had asked of him. His prophesied purpose.

I'd be a fraud.

Harry slowed his steps. Between his work and his... partners, he never really left himself any time to think. He needed to be useful. People depended on him and he had learned that the crushing weight of their disappointment was not something he could manage.

But if this snake actually ended up being Voldemort...

He would have failed everyone.

His parents. Fred. Sirius. Mad-Eye. Anyone who had died for him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone who followed him now.

It would all be a lie.

His whole life. All of him.

He'd only gotten the Auror job because he was famous. Everyone who smiled at him, or talked to him, or slept with him did so because he was Harry Potter. It was obvious. He was short and scrawny, he wore Muggle glasses still, and he was the least charming or charismatic person around.

He owed everything he had to being Harry Potter. And he owed it to everyone to be worthy of their devotion.

Which will disappear if Voldemort is actually still alive.

Good. I don't deserve anyone's devotion. I get people killed, I—

He closed his eyes, willing himself to focus. Be stronger. Get yourself under control. You have a job to do.

Shaking his head to clear it, he opened his eyes.

Buck up.

He took a heavy step forward and then resumed his search.

Hermione was counting on him to find this snake. Everyone else had been unable to and so they had called in the Chosen One.

And Harry Potter never failed.

What he was about to attempt was perhaps reckless, but Hermione hadn't been wrong to call him the Voldemort expert. After five hours of searching, his exhaustion was becoming too overpowering to ignore.

Yet he couldn't return with nothing, so he took a gamble.

Harry knew that Voldemort was a master of the long game. He had existed for eleven years as a wraith knowing that one day a servant would return to him and give him aid. He had endured months of Wormtail's cringing assistance to orchestrate an elaborate plan to regain a body. He had painstakingly acquired fitting objects to house his soul and hidden them because he had known eventually someone would succeed in killing his body.

He had proven that he could wait patiently to achieve his goals.

And yet, no amount of planning had ever held up against the man's obsession with Harry.

After months of manoeuvring to avoid going into the Ministry during Harry's fifth year, he had thrown it all away when Harry had shown up. The Dark Lord had recklessly revealed his existence, drawn there by Harry's unprotected presence, almost as if he couldn't keep away. He had lost countless opportunities to allow one of his many followers to kill Harry because of his unerring determination to be the one to do it. Even the Horcrux Tom Riddle couldn't resist him. The teen had wanted Ginny's soul to get his body back and free his basilisk— until he had met Harry. Then, his plans had shifted.

Killing Mudbloods doesn't matter to me any more, Tom Riddle had said. For many months now, my new target has been— you.

An obsession.

If there was a way to lure Lord Voldemort out of hiding, it was the presence of Harry Potter.

Especially if he thinks I'm weakened.

He conjured a knife and cut into the skin on his left forearm.

Come and get me.

"Voldemort!" Harry shouted, pulling off his Cloak and holding out his arm as enticement to the hungry reptile the Dark Lord was supposedly possessing.

He felt foolish, but his instincts seldom led him astray. He meandered towards a grassy bank, alert to any signs of movement.

"It's Harry Potter!" he called, peering under a gap beneath a rocky arch. "Come and get me! I'm wounded!"

His feet took him further inland. The grass here was tall, making his visibility limited as adders were easily camouflaged.

"Voldemort!"

He shook his arm, letting droplets fall.

"Tom!"

That would piss him off.

A sudden sound had him freezing. Although he could no longer speak it, he was very familiar with the insidious hiss of Parseltongue.

The grass to his left rustled. Harry only had time to turn his head before he felt the muscular press of a tiny, twisting body against his leg and then the sharp sting of teeth sinking into his bloody hand. The snake's smooth, cool skin curled around his forearm and then released him to puncture closer to the knife cut. The persistent bugger's bites hurt, but Harry's victorious euphoria was stronger.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

The chances had to be minuscule that he'd selected the correct area. Cove Bay was small, but so were adders. And Harry hadn't felt anything. There had been no traces of Dark Magic. And yet he somehow innately recognised the little villain that clung on tightly as Harry gripped it at the base of its head.

"Got you," he muttered, and then cast his spell.

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He would fire-call Hermione soon.

He would. His fingers just tingled with the need for some privacy with his spoils first.

Harry tossed the snake onto his kitchen table. The dull thud it made reminded him viscerally of the sound that this man's dead body had made when it hit the ground at Hogwarts.

Mundane and human.

Lord Voldemort.

As a fucking snake. This was too ridiculous to be real.

He peered down at the pathetic creature. Its sleek scales had dark brown and cream-coloured diamonds in a checkered pattern. The body was small and lithe, about the length of his arm. Frozen with its jaws distended in mid-attack, the creature looked absurd.

Vulnerable.

"You are so fucked," he laughed quietly, rubbing a hand down his own mouth.

Lord Voldemort, at his mercy. Sure, he couldn't die yet, but all Harry really needed to know was if he could suffer.

Because Harry wanted him to— oh, how he yearned for it.

Unable to stop himself, he lifted that cold body off of the table. He gazed into the coppery-red eyes for any hint of fear, and maybe there was a shadow of it. Maybe Lord Voldemort knew how close he was to death for the first time in eighty-one years.

"I don't know if you can understand me as a snake," Harry said, the fingers on his other hand absently stroking the glossy scales. "I hope that you can."

A sudden image of Snape, bleeding out pointlessly on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, overtook his vision. Snape had been killed by a snake.

His fingers tensed around that hard, still body. It would be so easy to crush it. To snap the hundreds of rib bones and burst it like a balloon.

For Snape.

For everyone this monster had ever hurt.

It was with immense restraint that he stayed the impulse.

Postponed it.

Although he somehow knew that this was Lord Voldemort, until his instincts could be confirmed, he didn't want to kill an innocent creature.

"I have to collect some ingredients now," he told the snake, enjoying how much it looked like a toy. "I have a potion to make."

.

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It occurred to him that giving Lord Voldemort back his body might not be a wise decision. However, Hermione wasn't the only one who could make a plan. She had wanted to keep the Dark Lord as a snake, but how were they supposed to figure out what his Horcrux was if they couldn't... persuade him to talk?

Voldemort needed to be able to speak.

To scream.

He stifled the wild anticipation that flared up inside of him whenever he pictured seeing that familiar form once again. That tall, imposing body. Those blazing red eyes.

The potion was almost complete. It steamed and bubbled as he remembered it doing. He had Hermione's book, Secrets of the Darkest Art, and his own memory to thank for his ability to recreate it.

But he had decided to make a cruel alteration.

Setting the huge stone cauldron to simmer, he approached the snake still Immobilised on the table.

"Ready for a swim?"

Again, once he had the pitiful thing in his hands, his muscles ached to squeeze, to feel the creature dripping between his fingers.

That can wait. Be patient.

Harry carried the snake to the stone cauldron and then unceremoniously chucked it in. The surface of the water hissed and he waited to hear its body softly thump against the bottom.

This time, he didn't want it to drown.

Too easy.

He moved to the last ingredient on his work bench. There had not been much of it left in the man's grave. If this failed, Voldemort likely wouldn't get another chance at a body.

Lifting the fine powder into his hands, he sprinkled it over the sparkling liquid inside.

"Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son."

The contents churned, hissing aggressively, and then turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

Perfect.

And here was the moment where a servant would sacrifice their flesh to strengthen and revive, but Harry intended to deny him that. He would build this body from nothing but hate: that of the father and of the enemy.

The book hadn't gone into detail about the outcome of such an omission, but Harry had read between the lines. And that fate for the Dark Lord, with his chosen Ministerial motto for his rein of terror, would be delicious irony.

He picked up a sharp knife and cut along his palm, his mind pulled helplessly into a memory of the last time he had participated in this ritual.

But this time, he was in control. He was choosing to bring the man back so that he could carve some remorse from his flesh. He cleared his throat.

"Blood of the enemy, eagerly given, you will corrupt your foe."

Ignoring his nausea, he brought his hand over the bubbling cauldron and let a few drops of blood fall. The liquid immediately turned a blinding, piercing white. Harry brought up a hand to shield his eyes.

Yet he was ready this time.

When the surge of bright steam billowed out to indicate the ritual had been a success, he moved forward, wand pointing directly at where a tall body was slowly unfurling.

"Hello, Tom."

Through the thick mist he saw that flat face turn towards him. Harry hit him with a powerful Petrificus and watched him fall.