Ch18: Am I Still Young

"Mom, I'll be quiet
It would be just to sleep at night
And I'll leave once I figure out
How to pay for my own life too"

— Mitski, Class of 2013

Voldemort did not regret what he did.

At the moment, it had been the most logical choice. Voldemort did not have enough magic to heal Harry if he broke his bones in the fall, nor was Harry's own magic stable enough for it, even if Voldemort had possessed him to do it. So, he'd done what was best for the situation. He couldn't have sent Harry back down the stairs, after all. Not with Dursley in the kind of rage he had been.

At least this hadn't been Harry's first experience with possession, or it would have gone worse. He knows it was uncomfortable, knows it unsettled Harry, probably completely freaked him out, but Voldemort wasn't sure how much of it was him and how much of it was Vernon Dursley literally trying to strangle Harry to death. So, he wasn't too worried.

He didn't let himself be too worried.

He hadn't tried speaking to Harry much, except to remind him not to heal his cuts since Aton had seen them. That was all. He needed to give Harry time to cool down a little, to get over himself, to settle down. A little less hysterical. Aton was doing a good job too, he'd calmed Harry down considerably.

Either way, the fact that Harry's babblings had only been about Vernon and not 'Mr. Lord' did seem to be a good sign. It had been a few hours since Harry had made his way to Aton's, and now he was curled up on the couch, staring ahead blankly.

Voldemort sighed and sat down on an armchair across from him. Harry's eyes flickered over to him before looking away again.

"You should drink some water," he said, deciding to break the silence. Better talk to him than let him stew. Harry just pursed his lips and curled up tighter. Voldemort frowned, "Don't be stubborn, I know you're thirsty. Being contrary is not helping anyone.

A pause– then he added, "It means doing the opposite of what you're being told."

Harry puffed out his cheeks in anger, seething and scowling. Voldemort just raised a brow, "I'm in your head, remember? You cannot get rid of me that easily."

"It's not fair!" Harry burst out, too loud, and Voldemort frowned at him. His voice hurt to hear, raspy and weak, yet loud enough. Voldemort knew speaking pained Harry, it was abundantly clear not just from his thoughts and emotions, but also from the way his face scrunched up and eyes teared.

Harry really needed to break this habit of his, of speaking out loud when talking to him. Especially this loud. Perhaps him appearing like this to Harry was making this habit worse. If he stayed invisible in his head, Harry might not feel the need to talk out loud as much.

Harry saw his expression and scoffed, "He's not here. No one can hear me 'cept you." With that Harry turned over, so his face was towards the back of the couch instead of towards Voldemort.

"You should try eating something, see if your throat hurts too much. We should try healing that a little bit, Dursley might have damaged something seriously. Aton was nice enough to leave you the apple slices."

Harry curled up tighter, and Voldemort could almost feel the way his lips turned in a pout, childishly upset.

"Harry."

"What?"

Voldemort grit his teeth, then took a deep breath. Not that he needed to, but he went through the motions nonetheless. When he didn't respond for a moment, Harry turned back towards him, frowning in a way that felt startlingly familiar. They stared at each other, until Harry repeated, "What?" His voice was barely audible now, and Voldemort mostly knew what he said because he was in his head.

He didn't have to mean it to say it. It's not like Harry could see into Voldemort's thoughts. The connection didn't go both ways, not to this extent, not yet. Voldemort was always aware of the distant possibility, though, as always. Especially the more Harry grew and gained control over his magic, the more Voldemort used Harry's magic to grow stronger, the more their connection deepened, the more he possessed Harry.

But it wasn't there yet. So, he didn't have to mean it.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, and Harry stared some more. A mix of emotions running through him, Voldemort only really managed to recognise disbelief. Voldemort added, "It was necessary to do, you understand that, right?"

Harry's little hands fisted in his bloodstained trousers, his knees all the way up to his chest, before he slowly uncurled and sat up, still picking at a rip at the knee.

"You don't understand?"

Harry bit his lips, then shook his head, "Why would you do that? I could have done it myself. And if I had– had broken any bone, then couldn't you have healed it yourself? Instead of– instead of–"

"I didn't have enough magic to heal you, not today, especially not something as severe as a broken bone. You know this."

"You knew I didn't like it."

"Of course I knew."

"Why did it feel like that? It had been fine the first time. It was okay. Kind of. This time wasn't okay," Harry sniffed, bringing up a hand and scrubbing it over his eyes, wincing when he put too much pressure on his swelling cheek. It will probably have a spectacular bruise on it the next morning. Aton should give Harry an ice pack for this.

Voldemort tapped his fingers against the armrest, slowly and deliberately, "For one, you were already quite distressed from everything that had happened. For another, you were awake when the transition happened. You remember how last time I made you fall asleep before possessing you?"

Harry nodded, and Voldemort waved his arm in a 'see?' kind of gesture. "There hadn't been any warning or time for you to prepare yourself. So it was quite a bit more disorienting than your usual fare." After a beat he added, "That means confusing, off putting, unsettling, uncomfortable." His fingers went back to tapping upon the armchair, making no sound even as they knocked against the wood.

"I don't… I didn't like it."

Voldemort blew out a frustrated breath, "Believe me, I know." His voice came out harsher than he'd intended, making Harry flinch, which in turn made Voldemort even more frustrated, this time at himself. He made an effort to gentle his voice, "As I said, I know. I knew it wouldn't feel good even as I did it. But you do understand now why I had to, yes?"

Harry shrugged, leaving the thread on his pants alone as he buried his face in his knees and wrapped his arms around himself.

At least Harry didn't feel quite so angry anymore, mostly just exhausted and upset.

He'd give the boy a day or two to recover, before they had to figure out what to do from here. They were not going back to the Dursleys, no matter what– that was something that was absolutely, completely, irrevocably out of the question. And if James tried to send Harry back… well, he was just a single muggle. Voldemort could handle him. Somehow, he'll manage. He'd grown lax, the last several weeks. Things had been going good, and he'd been careless with his magic, expending too much on frivolous things, meaning he didn't have enough when he had– when Harry had– needed it.

He hoped it wouldn't come to this, though. James had seen what Vernon did to Harry. James didn't seem like the kind of man to send a child back into a situation like this. He was sickeningly compassionate, in that regard. Dumbledore would've had a field day with a man like this, had he been part of the wizarding world, either as a wizard or as a squib.

Voldemort nodded towards Harry, looking pointedly at the plate of apple slices on the table, making Harry sigh and reach towards them.

His cane made soothing tapping sounds, slightly muffled against the pavement, as James walked across the block. This was not unusual, he often took walks around the area, and he was a familiar face around.

He felt slightly bad about leaving Harry alone so soon, but he needed to find out what the Dursleys were doing. Needed to see what kind of precautions he needed to take, whether the police were going to be involved, and what kind of action he might need to take against the Dursleys if they tried to get Harry back. He didn't think giving Harry back would be a good idea, in any way at all.

To be quite honest, a situation like this had been a long time coming. Everything reaches a boiling point, a point of no return, something that cannot be ignored. And this one had reached that. Harry would not be going back while James could do something about it.

A frown crept up his face as the sound of an ambulance siren reached his ears, and right before he could round the corner, said ambulance rushed past. He turned to look at it as the vehicle drove off, the sound blaring, the lights flashing. He hurried up his pace.

There was a thinning crowd in front of the Dursleys' house, people now divided up into clumps of smaller groups, talking, gossiping.

An elderly lady nearby spotted him, and her eyes widened as she gave James a wave, "Hello, Mr. Aton! Did you know what just happened?"

He looked around, and couldn't see any of the three Dursleys anywhere, and drew conclusions. Petunia would never have stayed inside the house with a commotion like this right in front of the door. "Something with the Dursleys?" he ventured.

"Yes, it's horrible, isn't it?" the man standing next to her cut in, frowning, "Dursely didn't look too good as they carted him off into that ambulance."

"Oh?" James asked, "What happened?"

"Oh, Mr. Polkiss will tell it better, certainly. He was the one who heard Mrs. Dursley screaming, and came running to help," the elderly lady said. He thought her name might be Emily. Emily White.

Polkiss was nowhere to be seen, so James just turned back to the two people he was talking to and saw Mrs. White's lips twist and thin. Startled at the expression, he asked, "What is it?"

"I didn't see the Potter boy. The three Dursleys left in the ambulance together, but I didn't see the Potter boy. Is he locked up in the house? Because I swear to god, that's no place to keep a boy like this. They should have taken him with them. He must be worried sick about his uncle as well."

James planted his cane on the ground, and covered the head of it with both his hands, fingers tapping against each other, thoughtfully. She did sound concerned about the boy, at least. "Did you hear about the child protective services case that happened?"

"Oh dear, we're talking about that now, are we?" she asked, her brows rising to her white hairline, and the man next to her snorted. James couldn't for the life of him recall his name.

"Oh hey, hey!" a young woman– girl, really– barged her way into the conversation, looking terribly interested. James had seen her a few times at the library, talking with Maggie. She seemed friendly enough, most of the time. "What is it that I'm hearing about a CPS case? It wasn't for Dudley, was it? That kid's spoiled rotten, as far as I know."

The man reached out a hand to smack it against the back of her head, "Martha," he said, exasperated.

Martha scowled at him, "What, you know he is."

Emily cut in then, "No, of course not. It was for Harry. Harry Potter. Have you seen him around?"

Martha's eyes lit up, "Oh yes! He's a weird kid, isn't he? I've seen him reading medical books in the library sometimes. I wonder if he's just particularly morbid and likes looking at those pictures. I wouldn't want him as my doctor, honestly. But he's a far sight better than Dudley."

Medical books? Well, that was new. James didn't know Harry read those, wasn't sure if he actually read them. He knew Harry loved science though, so maybe the boy was just shooting for the stars or something. Either way, the conversation had gone off topic. He wanted to know what had actually happened with the Dursleys. He shouldn't have brought up the CPS case.

"What happened to Dursley, though?"

"Ah, yes," the man said, "Well, seems like the man fell down the stairs. His back's broken. Could be paralysis, if he's particularly unlucky. They said he couldn't move at all when his wife found him."

James' fingers stilled and he blinked in surprise. "Oh?"

"Terrible, isn't it?" Emily said, and looking like she didn't mean it half as much as she'd like to pretend she did.

James hummed in lukewarm agreement. Well, he didn't know exactly what happened in the house, but at least he knew Dursley wouldn't be trying to kill Harry anytime soon. They didn't seem to care at all. If it really was as serious as the others were making it out to be, then perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about them for another day or two, which would give him enough time to come up with a feasible alternative for Harry.

"Well, I don't think there's anything much to see here anymore, now that they've left for the hospital. I'd best get going," James said, giving them a polite, close lipped smile, and walking away.

He tried to ignore the little feeling in his stomach, that vindictive pleasure that arose at the thought of Dursley's misfortune. But if anyone deserved such an unfortunate injury, it would be a man like him.

Mr. Lord kept telling Harry to explore the house, but Harry kept himself to the sofa. He liked Mr. Aton, and didn't want to snoop around his house. He only did it at the Dursleys because Mr. Lord told him they were supposed to be giving him the stuff he was stealing anyway.

It was fine, he didn't need to look around. He just needed to be away from Uncle Vernon. He didn't think he'd come looking for Harry here, and if he heard knocking or the doorbell rang, then he'd just– hide under the sofa. Or maybe in the large closet he could see in the hallway.

Or maybe he should just explore the house and check where the best hiding places are so he could stow himself away quickly in case Vernon did come looking for him.

"Stop sucking your thumb," Mr. Lord said, and Harry scowled. Then defiantly kept his thumb in his mouth. He didn't want to listen to Mr. Lord right now. He hadn't listened to Harry earlier, so why should he do it?

"Harry." Oh, that was his 'listen to me, I'm the adult and I know more than you' voice. Harry bit down on his thumb and didn't say anything.

"Alright, I suppose you can have this," he relented, to Harry's immense surprise. Tentatively, he started kicking his legs too. Another thing he knew Mr. Lord hated. Harry didn't even feel all that fidgety right now, but he wanted to push Mr. Lord.

He heard him sigh, loudly and tiredly, and kept kicking, his heels hurting from where they were bouncing against the sofa. But that was okay, it gave him something to focus on. Other than the exhaustion weighing him down. His eyes burned and he just wanted to curl up into a ball and sleep. It was cold as well, and shivers wracked his frame every few seconds. It wasn't even supposed to be cold, it was supposed to be nice and warm. The weather was nice, he could see it outside the window. He'd even seen several cats sunning themselves on the steps to the library when he'd ran all the way here.

"You're cold because you used up a lot of magic. You need rest and food to recuperate."

Harry didn't know what recuperate meant, but he could take a guess. He eyed the apples on the table. He did feel hungry. But they hurt. The one apple slice he'd eaten hadn't gone down easy and had left his throat hurting even worse.

And also, he didn't want to do what Mr. Lord was telling him to do.

He did understand. He understood why Mr. Lord had done it. But it still didn't feel good and he still wasn't ready to just… let it go. His body itched all over, under his skin, crawling. Like it didn't fit right. Like all his bones had been taken out and rearranged the wrong way.

"Eat some of the smooth peanut butter you have in your bag," Mr. Lord suggested, but Harry just shook his head.

Harry was contemplating just curling up and going to sleep when he heard the front door rattle. Fear shot through him like an arrow and he gasped, suddenly regretting not looking around the house for hiding places, or a backdoor he could escape out of.

He threw himself to the floor and shimmied under the couch. It was a tight fit, and felt suffocating. It had been a really long while since he's been locked in his cupboard, and Harry wasn't used to such small, closed spaces anyway.

He took in shallow, gasping breaths which were probably too loud. There were tears already leaking out of his eyes, making his vision even blurrier.

"Harry?"

Oh god, Harry let out a loud sobbing breath, relief coursing through him as he heard Mr. Aton's voice call out. He buried his face in his hands and just kept crying.

"Harry— oh."

Harry could see his legs now, standing near the sofa. The man walked nearer and Harry saw him transfer his cane to the other hand and very slowly crouch down, grunting all the way. When his face appeared in Harry's line of vision, it was creased in half concern, and half pain.

"Hey, kid," he said quietly, "It's alright, it's just me. Your uncle's not here. He's not even in Privet Drive right now, actually, so you don't have to worry about him."

Harry sniffled, an iron grip around his heart loosening.

"You must have been scared, hm? That's alright. Do you think you could come out from under there?"

Harry nodded, and Mr. Aton smiled, scooting backwards to give Harry space to crawl out. Mr. Aton adjusted himself so he was sitting cross legged on the floor, and Harry mimicked him, his bag in his lap with his fingers twisting into one of the straps.

Mr. Aton opened his mouth, then closed it, staring at him.

"What?" Harry asked, quite rudely, before clamping his mouth shut and wincing.

"Did you eat something?"

Harry looked at the table with the apple slices, the plate still mostly full, and shrugged.

"Does your throat hurt? I could make you some tea. That should help. Your cheek doesn't look too good either, I'll give you some ice for it. I have quite a few of them, you know? For my knees. They give me quite a bit of—"

"Why's Uncle Vernon not in Privet Drive?" Harry blurted out. He thought Mr. Lord would scold him for being rude, but then Mr. Lord spoke and said, "Thank Merlin. Aton's dithering worse than you."

The thing was– Harry was scared. Why wasn't Vernon here? Had he gone to the police? Will Harry be going to jail now? What if he'd gone to an orphanage so Harry could be put there. Would an orphanage be better than the Dursleys? He was sure jail wouldn't be better—

"Stop being ridiculous," Mr. Lord said.

Harry stopped that train of thought, but started picking on his fingers instead.

Mr. Aton sighed, "Well. I went there, and saw an ambulance."

"An ambulance?"

"Yes. Apparently your uncle has taken a nasty fall. Some people were saying that he's broken his back."

"Broken his back?" Harry felt like a broken record, but– broken his back? Did he actually fall? Did he break his back when he tried to follow Harry up the stairs? Or did his magic throwing him into the wall do that? If it had been his magic, then Vernon will definitely kill him if he ever sees Harry again.

Harry's breaths started coming fast again, his chest constricting. He couldn't get in enough air, and he felt like Vernon's hands were around his throat again, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing—

He could vaguely hear Mr. Aton cursing, and then there was Mr. Lord's voice in his head, urgent, loud, blotting out all other sound. "Harry, breathe. Try counting, alright? Slowly. Backwards from twenty. You can do that, yes? Vernon is not going to kill you. He's not even going to touch you. Not if I have anything to say about it. And I have a lot to say about it."

Harry just whimpered.

Then someone was lifting him up from the ground, and he only just remembered to keep his grip on his bag before he was set down on the sofa. A firm hand rubbed circles in his back, and Mr. Lord started counting slowly, backwards from twenty.

Harry joined in around the fourteen mark, and by six he didn't feel like he was about to pass out anymore.

He was crying again, and wanted to just scream in frustration.

"Harry, it's alright. Dursley– your uncle, he cannot hurt you now. He probably won't even be able to stand for the next several weeks. You're safe," Mr. Aton said, tone trying to be soothing.

"That's not helping, you fool," Mr. Lord snarled, and Harry snorted. It came out wet and snotty. He swiped the back of his hand across his nose and sniffled some more. Okay.

Okay.

So he had at least a few weeks to get away from here. Far, far away. Somewhere Vernon will not be able to find him. He also had to make sure that Petunia didn't come after him as well. That would be… bad.

"Harry," Mr. Aton asked, "Can you understand me?" At Harry's nod, Mr. Aton continued, "It's alright, okay? I won't let you go back to the Dursleys. You don't have to worry about them. If I have any say in it, none of them will ever lay a hand on you again."

Harry breathed out, and loosened his grip on his bag the slightest bit.