4. Breakfast at the Burrow
The snow from the night before lay in scant, mottled patches, clinging to the long, untended fields of Ottery St Catchpole. He and Harry stood arm and arm in the middle of a narrow, country lane - their cases safely shrunk and stowed away in the deep pockets of their robes. Thankfully, it was a dull, overcast morning, dark with the promise of rain, so he had no need to veil his eyes overmuch. Still, it was brighter than he would prefer. Voldemort, cloaked and hooded, lifted his nose to the crisp morning air. "So which way to this… warren?"
"Burrow," Harry corrected him, smiling up at him with green eyes, "and it's just down the lane here. C'mon." His Horcrux did not feel the cold as much as he; his hood hung loose around his shoulders, leaving his dark, wild hair to the breeze. The tips of his ears were slightly pink from the weather. Voldemort reached across to ruffle that messy hair with his gloved fingers.
"Very well," but the further they walked the more reluctant Voldemort became. Eventually, the Weasley homestead came into view beyond a small copse of trees. It seemed to be a ramshackle collection of pastoral detritus, a pile of haphazard charms stacked one atop the other over long decades. A single, well-placed counter-charm would, in all probability, bring down the entire edifice. Chickens clucked and scratched in the yard. A rusted cauldron lay on its side. At least the five smoking chimneys meant it must, at the very least, be warm in there. Voices carried from inside:
"But Muuuuum!"
"Absolutely not! You are not going anywhere until you've finished with that attic!"
"But no one even goes up there, Mum! And the stupid ghoul keeps following me around and knocking things over!"
"Harry is going to be here at any moment, young lady, and when he does this house is going to be spotless! Now go finish or - GEORGE WEASLEY, YOU STOP THROWING THOSE DOWN THE STAIRS THIS INSTANT - or you won't be leaving your room for the next week!"
"I'm twenty years old, Mum!"
"And for the next month you are still living under my roof, so until then you will follow my rules! Now go finish upstairs!"
Harry smiled sheepishly up at him, squeezing his arm. "Er - that'll be Mrs. Weasley. She can get a bit… overexcited."
"So I hear," Voldemort murmured, brows raised.
Harry sniggered helplessly for a moment, and then his smile softened. Voldemort felt his young lover's mind skipping across his thoughts, sensing the tension there. Harry reached up suddenly and gave him a quick kiss on the mouth. "Relax. It's going to be fine. I promise."
Voldemort accepted the kiss gratefully, coating himself with Harry's confidence, taking one last, heady mouthful of warmth, soul, scent, and comfort before the inevitable. "Ought we to announce ourselves now or give them a moment to finish their argument?"
"They'll be going all day if we leave them to it," Harry grinned at him. "Let's go."
As if on cue, a red-headed figure appeared in one of the many disparate windows, and an excited voice rang out clearly across the yard: "HARRY'S HERE!" Voldemort took one discrete step behind his lover and hoped that no one would notice.
Harry laughed and looked back at him. "Come on! Let's go introduce you." A hot hand gripped his wrist and dragged him forward as Harry opened the front door, which was not locked. The kitchen was small and cramped and Voldemort almost hit his head on the lintel as Harry pulled him inside. The room was dominated by a large kitchen table, laden with delicious-smelling breakfast. His nostrils flared appreciatively while his stomach turned at the thought of such rich fare.
There was a flurry of footsteps from the stairs in the corridor, and Harry's red-headed friend came sliding into the kitchen. "Harry!" he exclaimed happily, and then, upon spotting Voldemort, "And - um - hello again…"
More noise from the stairwell, and then a short, plump, red-headed woman appeared in the doorway. Her flushed face lit up immediately upon seeing his Horcrux, eyes filling with tears, and Harry positively beamed at her. "Oh, Harry, dear - how you've grown -"
She flew forward and pulled him tight against her considerable bosom, and Harry laughed and returned the hug. Voldemort ground his teeth.
A variety of rude noises suddenly rang out from the stairs, and Mrs. Weasley released his lover and spun around, face going red with fury. "Fred and George Weasley, what did I tell you -?!"
Clambering footsteps, and then two more red-headed young men appeared in the already overcrowded kitchen. They were identical twins, with identical smug, Gryffindor grins on their faces. One of them was holding a spring contraption which blew an offensive raspberry sound at them as it uncoiled. "Sorry, Mum, you know how it is - work never stops when you've got your own business -"
"It very well will stop for the holiday! Especially when we've got guests-!" she hissed, gesturing at Harry and Voldemort.
Suddenly, everyone seemed to be staring at him. Voldemort took a deep breath to speak, but then yet another person came charging down the stairs - how many of these Weasleys could there possibly be? - and a young woman with flaming red hair appeared behind her brothers.
"Harry," she breathed with a soft smile. Then she caught sight of Lord Voldemort and the colour drained from her face.
The silence that descended over the kitchen seemed, at last, to be final.
"Er - hello, everyone," said Harry, squeezing the Dark Lord's arm reassuringly. "I'd - introduce you, but I think you, um, all know Voldemort already…?"
"Hello," said the Weasley's youngest son faintly. The rest of them simply stared.
"Good morning," he said quietly, stepping out from behind Harry and pushing back the hood of his cloak. He blinked, squinting in the light of the wide, kitchen windows. "I am aware that many of you fear and revile me, so it would seem appropriate to address your quite sensible concerns. I have vowed," he did not say it was not a magical vow, "not to harm any of you, or indeed anyone, during our stay in England. I appreciate that your welcome has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Harry." He glanced fondly down at the young man beside him. "This peace between us is due entirely to his efforts. Nevertheless I am grateful to be invited into this, your home."
He glided a few steps forward, towards the group of nervous, staring faces, and sank into a deep, elegant bow. It made him feel like a child again, all politeness and veiled wrath. "I am a wizard of very little wealth, but prodigious means. Ask, and I shall render you whatever assistance it is within Lord Voldemort's power to grant." He straightened, assuming his best humble orphan expression, and eyed the mother of the Weasley brood. "Nor do I speak merely of great feats of magic. Of myself and Harry, I am more often than not the one doing the cooking and cleaning and, I assure you, you will not find me too proud to assist with such." The red eyes gleamed.
He took off his heavy cloak, folding it over one arm, revealing yet more layers of black: long-sleeved, oriental robes of warm, finely-spun Nepalese cashmere. "As to my name, I ask you to please refrain from such soubriquets as You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and refer to me by my title if you cannot bring yourselves to call me Voldemort." He carefully observed those who flinched and those who did not.
Mrs. Weasley was the first to speak, though her voice shook slightly. "Well, I have it on Dumbledore's word that no harm will come to our family. And any friend of Harry's is a friend of ours. Thank you for accepting our invitation." She paused to clear her throat. "This is Ron, Fred, George, and Ginny - and I'm Molly, of course."
"A pleasure," he nodded, though being the object of so many naked stares was beginning to irritate him. Their eyes roved over his inhuman physiology in with an unabashed curiosity. His Death Eaters would never dare to regard their lord with such disrespect.
Harry seemed to sense this, because he turned to the woman and said, "Blimey, Mrs. Weasley, breakfast smells delicious!"
"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Weasley clapped her hands together nervously. "Why don't we start eating? Have a seat, dears - that's it -"
"Sure you don't want me to finish with the attic first, Mum? What if they want to go eat upstairs?" the girl said sweetly as she passed her mother.
Harry tugged the Dark Lord to the end of the table, where he was seated between Harry and his red-headed friend. The twins sat down across from them, still with their narrowed, unnerving stares. The girl sat next to her twin brothers.
"So. Voldemort." One of the twins leaned forward on his elbows. "Hermione mentioned yesterday that you enjoy experimenting with new types of magic." Oh yes, he thought to himself snidely, her parents were extremely useful in that regard.
"Oh, lay off that already, would you?" said the youngest Weasley boy irritably. "I'm sure he's got loads better things to do than help you think up joke products."
"They're not joke products!" said the other twin, offended, and turned back to Lord Voldemort. "I'll have you know that you're speaking to two of the most successful entrepreneurs in Britain."
"And the most handsome, according to Witch Weekly," said the other, and Harry's red-headed friend groaned loudly beside him.
"Fred!" Mrs. Weasley snapped as she bustled back to the table with a pitcher of juice. "What have I told you about discussing your Wheezes at the breakfast table?!"
"Well," Voldemort cleared his throat, a little overwhelmed by so much chatter, "magic is a fluid substance. We divide it into all manner of disciplines, construct theories around its proper and improper uses, but it should never have been taught as an academic subject. Rather, it is an art, and its truest virtues are intuition, experimentation, and imagination."
"Wow," breathed one of the twins. They were both staring at him with expressions of newfound admiration. "Now here's a bloke that gets it. D'you hear that, Mum? From the mouth of Lord Voldemort himself - magic should never be taught as an academic subject!"
"George!" Ron Weasley kicked his brother under the table. "You can't just talk to him like that!"
"It is what I believe," Voldemort said carefully, "but then, most wizards and witches would view my life as a cautionary tale on the subject of experimentation…"
"We live for experimentation," the other twin told him, his brother nodding sagely. "We've endangered our beautiful faces with beards and wrinkles for the sake of experimentation!"
"We've sprouted boils in unmentionable places for the sake of experimentation!"
"What's life without experimental magic?"
"A whole lot easier on one's poor mother, I'd imagine," Mrs. Weasley said crossly, pouring them glasses of orange juice, "but then again, I wouldn't know, would I? Now if you don't stop talking about these awful joke products, boys - he's only being polite, listening to you go on like this -"
Later, one of the twins mouthed at him, and the girl began to giggle.
"Voldemort once turned himself into a camel, you know," Harry said casually, taking a sip of juice.
His red eyes narrowed and he treated Harry to a dirty look, "Might I trouble you for water rather than juice, please, Mrs Weasley?" he asked politely before turning back to the twins who were now mouthing camel incredulously, and grinning across at him. "Technically, Harry, I did not turn myself into a camel, I merely - to my great shame - incorrectly dispelled an ancient anti-intruder hex whilst exploring a buried city in the Sinai. Still, the local bedouin said I was the most evil-looking camel they had ever seen."
"I'm sure they were quaking in their sandals," Harry murmured, grinning around his cup.
"Merlin's beard! Did you figure out the spell?" the twin on the left demanded. "Imagine that, Fred! A locational hex that transfigures people into animals! I wonder if you could enchant something edible with it…?"
"Mammal Enamel!" grinned the other, "Turn your enemies into camels!"
"Boys, this is your last warning," Mrs Weasley said furiously, and then, with a quick smile, she handed the Dark Lord a glass of water and seated herself at the head of the table. "Now, then - Ron tells me the two of you have done quite a bit of travelling together?"
"Ah - my thanks..." It was difficult to know who to answer. "Well, naturally, I discerned the nature of the spell and one might indeed implant an edible object with such an enchantment with only a basic alteration to the curse's trigger - perhaps saliva…?" He sniffed the water discretely then, satisfied it was without contaminants, took a small sip. "But yes, we have just returned from Brazil." He realised he was still wearing his gloves at the table. "Oh, forgive my manners…" He began pulling them off, embarrassed to be caught out in such a way when he was making every effort to show these blood traitors respect for Harry's sake.
"Oh, no need to apologise - especially dining with the likes of these two..."
The twins did not seem to notice, however; one of them had whipped out a small notebook and was scribbling intensely, and they were both talking in low voices about hex triggers and marketing campaigns.
"We've been all over the world," Harry said quickly, before Mrs Weasley could chastise them for this. A small hand slipped under the table to squeeze his knee in reassurance, and Voldemort was overwhelmed by the happiness radiating from his Horcrux's young soul. "It's been brilliant so far, hasn't it?"
"Oh yes," he echoed softly, caught up in Harry's emotions, "brilliant." It was becoming difficult to think. The crimson eyes glazed over, their slit pupils dilate. Skin itching for Harry's caress, Voldemort attempted to distract himself with breakfast. There was a pile of warm bread-rolls that did not seem too daunting. He reached for one with a pale, spidery hand and began to butter it meticulously all over even though he knew he would hardly eat more than a few mouthfuls. He offered half to Harry.
His young man had already piled his plate full of eggs and bacon, but Harry accepted the roll with a small, knowing smile.
"Things have been busy here as well, as you can imagine," Mrs Weasley was saying, "what with the new baby, and of course there's little Teddy changing colour every ten minutes… and did Ron tell you? Ginny's gotten an offer from the Harpies!"
"Ginny!" Harry exclaimed, turning to the girl, who blushed to the roots of her red hair. "That's incredible!"
"Mum's getting ahead of herself," the girl said, seeming both pleased and embarrassed by the attention. "I'm only a reserve at the moment -"
"She leaves for Wales to train in January," Mrs Weasley interrupted tearfully, and patted a small, gold talon that she had pinned to her bosom. "Imagine... our Ginny... a Holyhead Harpy..."
One of the twins gave a great, dramatic sniff into his handkerchief, and the girl elbowed him viciously.
"We ought to pitch a game while you're here, Harry!" said Ron Weasley suddenly. "We'll have enough for a team again!"
"Voldemort can play as well! I was teaching him a bit about Quidditch down in Brazil!" said Harry. "They were much keener on Quodpot down there though… rubbish sport…"
"Harry exaggerates both my ability and my interest," Voldemort said rather quickly and coldly, suddenly realising that he was being volunteered. "Even at school I had little interest in Quidditch and very seldom turned up to support the Slytherin team. Now duelling," the crimson eyes glittered, "there is a sport I enjoy." His voice softened as he described such deadly beauty. "Two sorcerers in single combat and nothing between them but magic. It is perfection. It is only in that dance of skill and power that you discover if you truly are all that you imagine yourself to be. But whatever happened to the Hogwarts Duelling Club? I do hope it was not retired with Professor Merrythought."
It was a moment before he realised that all five Weasleys had stopped eating and were staring at him. A piece of bacon was dangling from the youngest boy's gaping mouth.
"Er - well, there was a duelling club in second year," Harry said quickly, rushing to fill the silence. "But I'm not exactly sure if that counts…"
"Yeah, it was mostly just Lockhart demonstrating duelling stances that best showed off his arse -"
"- followed by Snape knocking him straight onto it."
"Only time I ever liked the greasy git," Ron Weasley muttered into his juice.
"Boys!" said Mrs Weasley, aghast. "Language!"
"And then there were those meetings Harry taught when Umbridge was around," the girl said, giving his Horcrux an admiring look. Harry looked away, embarrassed.
"Pardon me," Voldemort interjected, "but who is Lockhart, and what meetings did Harry conduct? He has not spoken to me of either of these things."
"Gilderoy Lockhart," said Mrs Weasley, bristling, "is the crackpot who exploited many witches and wizards for deeds far greater than he could have ever accomplished! He led the public along for years, and made a great deal of money from it!"
"Mum's still sore about it. She was mad about him," one of the twins muttered for Voldemort's benefit.
"I absolutely was not!" she protested, with high spots of colour in her cheeks.
"Oh, but Mum, his golden locks! His shining smile!"
Harry seemed to be shovelling more food into his mouth than usual - perhaps to keep from answering Voldemort's other question.
"I see…" the Dark Lord said carefully, respecting Harry's wish, he would inquire about the meetings once they were alone once more. He too, had held gatherings, teaching his fellow Slytherins magic forbidden by the Ministry. "it seems I missed a great deal in my exile. Still, such a pity about the duelling club - I suppose I must hold myself responsible. Traditionally, the running of the club was the purview of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
"Well, none of them have ever stuck around long enough to teach it, have they? S'not your fault - I mean, unless you were just picking them off yourself somehow -"
"George!" Harry's friend hissed, although it came out mangled through a mouthful of food.
"The job is cursed," said Harry. "Everyone knows that."
"Ah…" Voldemort said awkwardly.
"Not that it matters," Harry went on, oblivious. "Most of them could hardly teach their own classes, let alone a duelling club. Must have been downright fortunate for you, though - the one class that might have helped train people to stop you…" He trailed off, turning to Voldemort with a look of dawning comprehension. "Hang on... it was you!"
"You were never curious as to who cursed the position?" Voldemort asked lightly, picking delicately at his bread roll, avoiding outright admitting it was indeed he.
"Er…" His Horcrux looked rather embarrassed. "Honestly... no."
"That's brilliant," Fred Weasley burst out. "Cursing an entire position! And to think that it's lasted so long! Have you ever considered a career in retail, my good Lord, because this sort of magical genius is wasted on those half-wit Death Eaters of yours."
The crimson eyes did a complete double-take - my good Lord? - and he hardly knew how to respond. "Much as I... appreciate your sentiments, the year and a half I spent working in a shop as a young man was quite enough for me. I daresay half the hexed items Mr Borgin passes off as ancient artifacts of rare properties were enchanted by me. As to the spell, it has lasted as long as it has because, as the Heir of Slytherin, I bound it into the foundations of the castle. Also, it has an extremely simple counter-curse - the best curses often do." The Headmaster merely had to offer the position to Lord Voldemort.
"It's probably for the best, honestly," said the youngest Weasley boy, who had returned to his breakfast, "imagine getting stuck for seven years with the likes of Quirrell… urgh…"
"Do not complain to me, Ronald Weasley, of being stuck with Quirinus Quirrell!" Voldemort hissed with a shudder. At first it had seemed wonderful, to simply inhabit a human, but the airless, claustrophobia of that turban had driven him to distraction, encased in quivering skin not his own. And Quirrell had been so weak, begging to be released, begging not to have to slay a unicorn, incapable of undertaking even the smallest of tasks without guidance.
The Weasley boy made a small, high-pitched noise of distress beside him, fork slipping from his fingers. "I - er - never really thought about it that way - honest -"
Voldemort gave an irritated sniff and then nodded, picking at his bread in reserved silence, resisting a strong urge to subject the young wizard beside him to the Cruciatus Curse. He hoped no one would press him on the matter.
"At least he wasn't completely useless," said George Weasley with a complete lack of discretion. "You would've been fine if he ever came up on a vampire, what with all that garlic in his turban…"
Beside him, Harry began to choke on his bacon.
"What an epitaph," Voldemort said dryly, biting back the rage that was beginning to heat up behind his eyes. "Ten years after his death and all anyone has to say is at least he was not completely useless. Not that I disagree," he added spitefully, "but unfortunately one is obliged to make do with the tools at one's disposal." Young, foolish, and gullible, Quirrell had been no match for Voldemort's gifts for persuasion. A wizard ripe for use, he had seized upon him with all his might.
Mrs Weasley glared at her sons. "Whatever else he was, Professor Quirrell was a poor, misguided young man. It doesn't do to speak ill of the dead." He had died with Voldemort still inside him. The screaming ceased, the trembling flesh slackened, and the mind went dark. Then had followed a desperate disentanglement from that still, awful meat. It was a headlong, windborne rush of a journey – thought tumbling over thought with mile after mile – on footless, fleeting shadow. Harried by despair and driven onward by fear, crying out past fast-flying land and sea in a wordless shriek of thwarted fury.
His face lost any expression and he stared blankly at the bread roll he had barely touched. It had been summer in the forest - he remembered - the same as when he'd left it: warm rocks, shallow streams, and a breeze rustling the leafy canopy. After coming so close, the sight had dissolved his mind further into insanity. Eleven years. How many more? Will another even come? Is this to be my eternity? Then, he had truly given up hope of ever regaining all that he had lost…
Perhaps, Harry's voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts, deceptively sweet, if you hadn't been trying to cut down a bloody eleven year old boy, you wouldn't have had to wonder! He caught Voldemort's eye and glared, but his tight mouth softened upon seeing the Dark Lord's face. Hey. The tip of a shoe nudged at his ankle as Harry dipped deeper into his thoughts, frowning. Hey, you're here. It's all right. You're with me.
The rest of the table did not seem to notice their silent exchange. Ronald Weasley was staring at his blood-traitor mother, aghast. "But Mum, he nearly killed Harry!"
"Not such a foul crime these days, is it?" muttered one of the grinning twins to his brother.
"That is quite enough, boys," Mrs Weasley snapped, pushing back her chair. Voldemort noticed that everyone else had finished their plates. "Outside with you. That garden is not going to de-gnome itself!"
"But Mum," the youngest boy whined, "it's cold!"
"Then perhaps you should have done it yesterday as I suggested, when the sun was still out! Now get to it!"
When his Horcrux began moving to get up, however, the woman held out a hand to stop him. "Oh, not you, dear - Ginny will be showing you upstairs. Ron's got a bed made up in his room for you, Harry, and for you," she said, turning to Voldemort with a strained smile, "we've set up Bill's old room."
He would not be sleeping in the same bed as his beloved Horcrux? And he had left dear Nagini behind in London with an ample supply of prey. Alone. The thought was abhorrent. "Surely-" he began, but Harry interrupted.
"Excellent - thank you, Mrs Weasley, that should be great." Harry was smiling at her.
And then there was raucous laughter and a loud bang from outside and Molly Weasley was out the door and yelling at her sons before Voldemort had a chance to protest Harry's acquiescence.
"Why on earth did you agree to this absurd arrangement?" Voldemort demanded coldly, ignoring Ginny, who was waiting to show them upstairs.
"Bill's old room isn't that terrible," said Harry flippantly. "It's the biggest in the house. And besides, Ron's always smells of dirty socks. Nobody would want to stay there." He stared hard into Tom's eyes, words laden with unspoken meaning.
"Why, does he not wash them?" Voldemort asked, clearly not catching on.
Ginny smiled at Harry slyly. "He does when Hermione comes by."
"Like your mum would let her within two feet of his room," Harry said quickly.
Ginny snorted. "As if that stops them once Mum's gone to bed."
Harry pointedly raised his brow, and Tom's crimson eyes narrowed in understanding. "How commendable of your mother to hold to such traditions." His dry tone said exactly the opposite.
Harry couldn't agree more. It was going to be a very long holiday.