Time moved slow as Voldemort fell from the roof. Harry watched, helpless, as his legs clipped the fence. Voldemort twisted, falling past the wards, and into the grass of the Dursley's backyard with a squelch.

He waited for something to happen. He wasn't sure exactly why, but he fully expected Voldemort to burst into flames like a demon to holy water.

But it never came.

Voldemort slowly rose from the ground, wiping away the mud from the side of his face. He looked from side to side, also expecting some sort of repercussion, and relaxed after a few painful seconds.

He made a 'wait' sign with his hand to Harry. Meandering to the fence gate, he disappeared to the front yard. What on earth was he doing?

There was some rustling, the fainting mutterings of spells, and then still silence. Not being able to see infuriated him just as much as it sent chills down his spine.

But Voldemort returned and walked up to the bottom of the window.

"I can get past the wards."

His voice was so unlike that of the snake-faced man that has crawled out of the cauldron. The rasp was still there, yes, but it just barely broke through the deep smoothness. The fluctuations were lesser than before too. It leaned on monotone rather than dramatics.

"I can see that," Harry replied, leaning out of the window.

"What are you waiting for? Come down." Voldemort beckoned him with a wave of his hands.

"What?"

"Do you want to stay here?" He raised an eyebrow.

"No, do you think I can throw my trunk down?" He had most of his things packed, didn't he?

"Yes. Move quickly, because the wards have detected that someone has passed through them. They don't show who, but someone will be here soon."

Excitement bubbled up under his skin as Harry threw the last remaining items into his trunk. He took special notice of the diary and the ring, carefully wrapping them in the invisibility cloak, but otherwise haphazardly packed everything else.

But what would the Order think when they arrived?

Harry turned over his mattress, scattered bits of parchment around, and left some drawers open. He wasn't exactly sure how to stage a kidnapping, but it seemed good enough.

Hedwig hooted at him sadly.

"I'm sorry, girl," Harry said, pausing to pet Hedwig, "but please find me as soon as possible, okay? If anything, I'll be at Hogwarts, it's one month; can you do that for me?"

Another hoot of despair.

"Sorry,"

He quickly opened the top of the bird food bag and emptied his water bottles into one of the bowls from a previous meal. Harry dropped the trunk onto the rose bushes below. It crushed them with a satisfying crunch. To hell with Petunia; he was the one who cared for them, and she wouldn't benefit from his hard work any longer.

"Ah, how will I get down?" Not that Harry hadn't fallen further, but at least he'd landed on the ground rather than in a tangle of thorny bushes.

Voldemort moved his trunk over and stepped over the broken branches. "Jump, I'll catch you."

"Are you sure? You just fell off of that roof - "

"Yes, hurry." Voldemort peered back as he raised his arms.

Harry bit his lip. This wasn't how he imagined his first trustfall to go. But there really wasn't anything else he could do.

With bated breath, he rolled himself out of the window.

In the moment of free fall, he wondered if he should have used his broom to fly down instead.

Electricity rippled through his skin as he made contact with Voldemort's arms. He clenched his teeth, waiting for the wave of pain that happened the last time Voldemort touched him.

But it didn't happen.

Voldemort gently placed him on the ground but maintained a firm grip on his wrist. He scooped up the trunk with his other hand, and together they hurried to the end of the wards.

A shiver passed over him as he left. Voldemort's eyes widened.

"It alerted them that you are no longer here. Hold tight; I'm apparating us."

Harry could only clench his arm as the world spun around him. He still clung close as they landed, his stomach flexing and threatening to spew out his potions. An arm steadied him, gently guiding him into something plush.

"Inhale to the count of three. Hold your breath and count to five. Breathe out and count to three." Voldemort instructed.

Harry slowly breathed in and out. It made him a little lightheaded at first, but he settled into a calm rhythm in no time.

"That - " Harry gasped, " - was the worst side-along I've ever experienced."

"We need to get you to a healer. Narcissa should answer a fire call at any hour - " Voldemort had already stood up and was walking to the limestone fireplace.

"Wait!" Harry exclaimed.

Voldemort stopped and turned with a questioning look.

"Can - Can we wait? At least until morning? I'm a little - this is a little much." To be frank, so many bombshells had been dropped on him over the last few days that he was dizzy just thinking about it.

Voldemort's mouth formed a thin line. "When you go to bed, I will administer a sleeping potion. Then I will call her, and you will be properly treated. The phoenix tears should be in within the month." He spoke slowly.

"Fine," Harry said, finally looking around the room.

It looked like a standard living room, albeit much larger. He was sitting on a dark blue sofa across from the fireplace. One large window sat to his side, overlooking rolling hills thick with woods. Small lights of houses dotted the area.

The walls were a muted green, more on the side of grey than anything. An armchair sat next to a bookcase that was completely filled with books. But overall, the room was so bare.

It reminded him of that one time he helped Ms Figg clean out her cat room and only left the essential furniture inside. Barren.

He kneeled next to his trunk and dug around under the curious eye of Voldemort. Finally, he found the green package and tucked it under his arm, upright.

"The dining room is connected," Voldemort said, motioning to the back wall, where a door had appeared.

"How'd you do that?" Harry asked, getting up and stroking the wood.

"Fidelus charm, each room a different phrase, with me being the secret keeper. I occasionally have company in here and in my office, which is by the bookcase." As he spoke, a door materialised by the bookcase.

"I love magic," Harry muttered.

The corners of Voldemort's mouth twitched. "The manor's wings are less segmented in their restrictions. I only use two, one for hosting visitors and the other for only personal use."

The two went into the dining room. It was similarly bare. A dark wooden table with eight chairs sat upon a large green rug. The wallpaper matched the sitting room, but at least there were decorative candelabras that held white candles to make it look less blank. Harry thought it could use some more decoration. Maybe he could convince him to add a tapestry.

"Pipskey," Voldemort called.

This house-elf was larger than Dobby. But she was fitted with a grey dress and white apron with the Slytherin crest on it, not a pillowcase. Pipskey's large blue eyes looked up at him as if he were Merlin incarnate.

"Yes, sir?" Her speech held Dobby's nervous sway but was more structured.

"Prepare a dinner for both of us and work on the adjacent room in the Lord's wing." He said without looking down.

"We will work on it, sir. Dinner will be served before 11:30. The room will be ready by midnight. Is that all, sir?" She bowed.

"You are dismissed."

She popped out of existence without another word.

"How'd you teach the house elves to be like that? Dobby can't seem to form a proper sentence no matter how hard we try." They had given up a while ago, but at least his vocabulary had been better.

"Much like with dogs, those who were selectively bred have their problems. And I do not induce nearly as much brain damage as other families. Certain house-elves may be faster than mine, but I cannot stand the terrible stuttering nor the constant nervousness of a standard house-elf."

"So you get the half-bloods of the house-elves. Get the half-baking half-cleaning elf." Harry cracked a grin.

Voldemort twitched, "Yes. If they retain their mind, they can work independently. For instance, if they were the normal house-elf, I would have to instruct them on how to specifically arrange your room. But since they are not, they will arrange it based on the context of the rest of the manor."

"Is there any fixing the selectively bred, brain-damaged house-elves?" Sure, Dobby was great, but he often hurt himself because he was scrambled. Kreacher too; he was worse for wear.

"I have not studied that. Phoenix tears fix almost everything if you wish to investigate." He caught the look on Harry's face, "But do not get your hopes up. Phoenix tears are also incredibly hard to acquire."

They sat down at the table, an awkward silence passing. Harry wasn't exactly sure what to talk about from there. He honestly never thought that this would get that far.

Voldemort pulled a slip of parchment from somewhere in his robes. How many pockets did one man need? "Tonight we will be having mushroom risotto."

Harry wasn't sure how to respond, but he managed a small, "Okay."

Voldemort stared at him long and hard. He hummed, then snapped his fingers. A long scroll appeared in his hands.

"This has every meal for the rest of the summer written on it. Small, in-between meals will be at your discretion." He slid the parchment over.

Harry gazed at it blankly. The meals were quite… fanciful. A lot of it was in other languages, and Harry wasn't quite sure what they were.

"There's a lot of Asian food," Harry commented. There wasn't much to comment on that wouldn't make him sound like a complete idiot.

"Yes. Do you dislike it?"

"N-No, I'm just - I thought you'd be someone with more European taste." Harry cringed at his words.

"I travelled the world. There is better food than just Europe." Voldemort stated.

Harry sighed to himself. Why couldn't they go back to just writing again? It was far less awkward.

Voldemort cleared his throat and gestured to the table, "Sit."

Well, nothing better to do.

Harry patted the box in his lap awkwardly. He flinched. The expression on Voldemort's face drew serious and still. It made the back of Harry's neck stand on end. Voldemort tilted his head at him.

"What exactly do you know about horcruxes?" He slid into the chair across from him and folded his arms.

"Well, I don't know much. I know it's a home for a piece of someone's soul. You have to kill someone to do it." Perhaps running away with Voldemort wasn't the best decision.

"And how do you know that?" He furrowed his brows.

"Uh - " He couldn't reveal the diary, "I overheard Dumbledore talking about it. In reference to the diary."

Voldemort's face twitched at the mention of the soul piece. "What does he know about my horcruxes?"

Plural.

He had a feeling it didn't stop at two. Harry tilted his head. "Well, he - "

The ring.

"—he seemed to know the diary was one, and I saw him with the ring, so I assume he's tracking them down. "Make you moral and everything."

Voldemort sneered, "I will never be mortal. My horcruxes are under the utmost protection."

"Hence why two of them were found, right?"

A downright murderous glance was thrown at Harry.

Perhaps, perhaps it was a bad idea to say that.

"It will be handled."

A tense silence covered them. Harry examined the grain of the table. The silence only seemed to aggravate Voldemort. A long sigh left him.

Luckily for him, dinner arrived.

Silver platters of food covered the table. Not only was a fresh, steaming mushroom risotto in front of him, but more food of all kinds littered the table. From vegetable platters to stews, from bacon to chunks of cheese, a little bit of everything was laid out.

Harry practically salivated at the aroma. He looked at Voldemort.

"Should you have dietary preferences or restrictions, inform any house-elf." Voldemort stabbed his fork into a nearby baked potato.

Harry let out a sigh of relief as he bit into a forkful of risotto. He practically jumped when he saw a jug of pumpkin juice next to him.

He ate to his heart's content. Though he was almost certain he couldn't be denied food, he had no idea how long he'd be dormant from the sleeping potion. The pangs of pain when he would wake up three days later were something he never wanted to repeat.

Even the dinner seemed to be coated with magic, like the manor. He would only have to tap his glass to refill it, and sometimes, if he thought hard enough, the platters would float towards him without so much as a command.

"Do you need anything before you sleep?" Voldemort broke the silence.

"No," Harry said, wiping his mouth. "Do you want cake?"

"Cake?" He furrowed his brows in confusion, glancing across the table.

"Cake,"

Harry placed his box on the table and opened the lid. His cake was perfectly intact, even if it shouldn't have been.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "You want to… share it with me?"

"Yep!"

Harry grabbed a sharp steak knife and plunged it into the cake, splitting it down the middle. It wasn't a large cake, and half would do each of them nicely.

He snatched a spare side plate and plopped the cake onto it. Arm outstretched, he offered it to Voldemort.

"... thanks." Voldemort muttered after a long pause.

Harry grinned. Well, he must have grinned a lot brighter than he should have.

"What are you smiling about?" Voldemort narrowed his eyes as he sat his plate down.

Oh. What had got him so sour? "Just thinking about how Rita Skeeter would write about this." Harry laughed lightly.

Voldemort actually snorted, "That woman would make it five pages long and describe everything down to your cake as 'bleak and oozing with dark magic'."

"Yes, yes, she would," Harry chuckled.

His own cake plated, Harry tapped his glass of pumpkin juice. But this time, it refilled with a white-yellowish bubbling liquid.

"Champagne," Voldemort replied, sipping his own glass, "non-alcoholic."

"Aw, couldn't you break one law for me?" Harry teased, testing the drink. Bubbly with a nutty flavour of white grape juice.

"I do not have the patience to drag you to your room drunk." Voldemort rolled his eyes.

"Cheers, nonetheless." Harry raised his glass.

Voldemort raised his glass in the air, but didn't move to clink.

The cake was a nice, moist, tasty red velvet with chocolate. A strange combination, but it tasted like heaven on earth. He voraciously ate the slice, his sweet tooth finally satisfied.

Voldemort looked pleased as well and he ate his piece rather quickly.

It was odd, for a moment, he could forget he was sitting next to Voldemort.

For a moment, he was just another person.

But his reality came sooner rather than later.

"How fast do you fall asleep under sleeping potions?" Voldemort patted his mouth with a napkin.

"Almost instantly." Harry admitted. They worked so well on him. "Lasts for a bit longer as well."

Voldemort contemplated his response for a moment.

"We will take your items to a spare room, and you'll take it while lying in bed. I have not the patience to catch you." Harry was about to point out he already caught him today, but he chose not to point that out.

Harry simply nodded along. All things considered; it was a successful day. A part of him was worried he wouldn't wake up from the sleeping potion, but a larger part was telling him to trust the situation.

"The Lord's wing is this way," Voldemort stated.

As he said it, an ornate, dark wooden door appeared on the opposite wall. Voldemort guided him through it, and the vast hall before him was nothing but extravagant.

Carvings of ivory stone adorned the dark green walls. Embroidered grey curtains cascaded over large waist-to-ceiling windows with wooden rails across them. A long black rug with cream borders ran atop mahogany floors.

"Wow," Harry muttered under his breath.

The man appeared to hear it and bustled with pride. He should have just kept his mouth shut. Voldemort didn't need his ego stroked more.

They walked almost completely down the hall, then stopped directly across from a window.

"Here," Voldemort said, motioning to a dark-brown door with a small fox engraved in the centre. "It should be prepared."

Wordlessly, Voldemort flicked his hand and opened the door. Such a show-off.

A large four-poster bed with dark-green bedding and cream pillows lay in the top centre of the wall. Beside it, a writing desk with a shelf above it and two long-necked candles lay.

Two doors were opposite to the bed, right by the maroon sofa with a small bookcase next to it. A plush black circular rug sat in the centre of the room.

Fancy curtains were draped across the tops of the walls all around the room, connecting to a sizable window with a dark-green cushioned area to sit on that overlooked a vast garden.

His trunk was at the foot of the bed. It stood out in the room, with its painted-on Gryffindor emblem (courtesy of Luna) and semi-busted gold edges that no longer glistened.

Perhaps he should get a new trunk. He had the funds to do so.

"Familiarise yourself with this room; I suspect you'll be spending your time here. I'll retrieve your potion." In an instant, Voldemort was gone, and the door was shut.

A cold feeling crept into his bones. How long would he be staying here? Weeks? Months? Would he even be allowed to go back to school?

Would he ever be allowed to leave?

The idea made him freeze. Horrifying, yes, but there was a small part of him, a little shadow in his light, that was relaxed.

No more deathly adventures, horrible education, or going back to being harassed all the time.

But he'd miss it. He knew it. His friends, those who are left, would miss him as much as he missed them. A sigh escaped him.

There you go again, doing before thinking.

It was too good to be true. Mostly because it was.

His fate uncertain, he sat on the end of the bed. The sheets were silken, and the mattress was just soft enough to sink into but firm enough to hold its shape.

Why was he doing this?

Harry shook his head. He could fret when he was healthy.

Restlessness burned under his skin. He paced around the room and took interest in the bookshelf.

The books were much like the ones he expected to read for school. The word "age appropriate" entered his mind. It annoyed him. Even if he wouldn't have picked them up, he would have appreciated something that challenged him.

The Dark Arts: Defensive and Offensive interested him. He'd never learned about many offensive spells that didn't involve maiming someone else. If any existed.

Thumbing through the pages, his interest only peaked. There was a page on how to use Protego as an offensive weapon (bashing it against your opponent or using it to deflect spells onto others). It made sense, even if he didn't think about it.

Voldemort entered without knocking. He held an off-blue potion in his hands.

The potion was familiar to him—a dreamless sleep mixed with a long-rest potion. It was one he drank frequently.

"Sit down." Voldemort commanded, nodding to the bed.

"Alright, alright." Something about him was a little off, something sharper about the way he spoke.

Harry uncorked the vial and sniffed it. Like fresh spring air and peppermint. Voldemort raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Harry was knocked out cold before he could even hand over the empty vial.

He was hungry and it was dark. That's all he knew. That's all he could sense. Wait, no, he was also cold. The air was musty, like mold and dirt. And he was only wearing a long t-shirt.

"You will stay in there, devil child, until you repent." A muffled voice said. Harry couldn't even tell where it was coming from.

"B-Burn alive, you n-nutcase." He retorted back through chattering teeth.

"Guess you don't want dinner either. You have two days to repent." A loud bang sounded, and Harry flinched violently.

The hours of stilliness were enough to make him go mad.

Voldemort was never a man to involve himself with the feelings of others. Sure, he was aware of how he affected people; one must always be, but he never did more than intellectualise them.

But recently, there was a change.

He didn't know when it started, but around a month ago he felt it. Losing his edge, growing to notice the happiness in others rather than their fear.

It infuriated him.

What made it worse was the back-and-forth with Potter. It was meant to insult him, remind him of his imprisonment by the manipulative bastard Dumbledore, but he seemed to flourish under the attention.

It only doubled after he dropped his glamour.

He didn't even know why he did it, but the insult against his looks bruised his pride when it came from Potter. He never planned on revealing himself to anyone. He was to be feared above all and needed a fitting exterior for that.

But the constant talks at night while he was exposed, with no one else watching, were enough to make Potter significant to him—more than just a prophecy.

And when he saw him get hit, there was a possiveness over the boy. When he was beaten half-to-death, there was something that burned.

It was just because a muggle would have killed him. That a muggle would do what he couldn't.

But if his suspicions were correct, the boy would have a much bigger part of his life than he would like.

Voldemort took a moment to breathe. His glamour encased him again, hiding his hair and flattening his face. His hands changed into claws, and his skin turned paper-white.

"Pipskey." Voldemort called.

"Yes, Master Slytherin?" She asked, bowing lowly.

"Give this to Lady Narcissa Malfoy, the healer. Make sure you are as discreet as possible and do not reveal my identity. Am I clear?" Voldemort handed her a pre-written letter with the Slytherin crest as a seal.

"Yes, very clear. Discrete and no identity." She repeated.

"Leave."

Voldemort paced outside the room as he awaited Narcissa's arrival. The letter worked as a portkey—one of the few he'd ever made to the manor—and would send her directly to him.

The wait wasn't long. She was dressed as pristine as ever, even at this time of night, with the only thing amiss being dark undereyes.

"Narcissa," He greeted. That was a new addition as well. The inner circle was referred to by their first names.

"My Lord," She stepped away from his personal space and gave a modest bow. The fact that she did not grovel at his feet both enraged him and earned her respect.

"I have acquired Harry Potter," Her eyes grew wide, "And I require a full health scan on him before I proceed with any action."

"Of course, my Lord." Her tone didn't tremble, and she regained her composure.

Narcissa didn't react to seeing Harry knocked out on the bed, nor did she when she cast the scan. The parchment stretched to the floor with previous injuries and current ailments. She didn't hesitate to pass it to Voldemort.

Again, the burning feeling. Those muggles would die.

"I will need a visual soul spell as well." It would confirm or deny -his fears.

Narcissa blinked but nodded.

It was no laughing matter to see someone's soul. The visualisation of souls revealed their very magic, the way they've been shaped by the world and the individual's hearts.

Narcissa began the chant. Voldemort had never performed the spell, and he knew the dangers of doing it wrong. One could damage the soul beyond repair, strip away the magic, and make the user bleed from the inside out.

Before long, a whisp appeared above Potter's chest. It was greenish-grey, morphing into an amorphous blob as it increased in opacity. But when she was almost done, Voldemort's stomach dropped.

Imbedded, buried deep in the middle of his soul, was a small scrap of dark maroon.

A piece of Voldemort's soul was attached to Harry's.

A horcrux.

Voldemort: Come with me child

Harry: Nothing about this can go wrong

Harry: See, nothing went wrong. Have some cake

Voldemort: ... oh no something went wrong