"Last time we were at the beach, you mentioned your childhood... Actually, I wanted to ask, is that beach far from the orphanage you were once in? Can I go take a look?" In the evening, Harry, watering roses under the window, asked Voldemort, who was sitting at the desk inside through the window.
"Not far, but it's already a ruin. Do you still want to go?" Voldemort casually flipped through a book, and Harry caught a glimpse of the title, "Metaphysics."
"If I can."
As if on a whim, Voldemort took Harry with him and apparated to a corner of a bustling street. Before Harry stood a silver skyscraper. Voldemort raised his chin, indicating the direction, "This was built on the old orphanage site. The orphanage was long gone, destroyed in the war."
"In the war?" Harry smirked, suspecting that Voldemort, as an adult, might have personally razed the orphanage to the ground.
"Heh." Voldemort smiled mysteriously, neither confirming nor denying Harry's question. "Anyway, that cursed place is gone, and there's nothing interesting left here."
"Too bad I can't touch my father's past here."
"My past? Oh, if you really want, I can take you somewhere else." Voldemort said, amused.
Then, they arrived near a village called Little Hangleton, and the landing point of the apparition was a cemetery. Voldemort, with a tall figure in a long coat, took a few steps forward.
"Do you see the house on the hill, Harry? My father lived there. My mother, Merope Gaunt, a witch, lived in a shack on the other side of the hill. They became lovers using a love potion, but when she revealed that she was a witch, he abandoned her... My father didn't like magic... He left her and returned to his Muggle parents. I was not yet born at that time." Then Voldemort turned around and pointed to a gravestone under the hemlock tree. The name engraved on the tombstone was Tom Riddle. Voldemort continued with a mocking tone, "You're standing on my father's bones, Harry."
Harry's gaze fell on the name engraved on the gravestone, the same name as his. "I heard Nagini say that you went to see him when you were sixteen?"
"Yes, and then I killed him, as well as his parents, my grandparents," Voldemort said, quietly. "Now thinking back, giving them a painless death with a single Killing Curse was indeed a cheap deal for them."
Harry had never realized so deeply that they were both abandoned, homeless children. Harry turned to look at his father and suddenly reached out to hug him. The boy's voice was clear and firm, "They're wrong. People who can use magic are not monsters."
Voldemort remained silent for a moment, then raised an eyebrow and asked, "How do you know what they said?"
"I've encountered those kinds of people too... When I was a child, there were many people who hated magic, calling me a monster, a demon."
"Oh, right, your parents also abandoned you." Voldemort spoke in a understanding tone.
"But I still have you..." Harry whispered.
Voldemort chuckled cunningly, neither confirming nor denying, but continued to recall his family history, "After the ridiculous and pathetic love affair fell apart, my mother had to leave, but the Gaunt family refused to accept her. My uncles didn't like Muggles and despised her for carrying the wild seed of a Muggle... That woman could only wander alone. Sacrificing everything for love, she gave birth to me at the doorstep of a London orphanage. In despair, unwilling to use magic to save herself, she went to another world."
"She didn't even want to live for you..." Harry felt a bit sad.
"For the stupid so-called love, she was willing to die for that man. Love does make people weak."
"That's not love." Harry bit his lip. "What brought by a love potion isn't love. Using a love potion is just a desire for control, not true love. And she... I'm sorry to say this, but she didn't love you. If she loved you, she would have gained the courage to live for you."
"Oh, is that so? It doesn't matter. I don't care about such things."
"Father..." Harry said seriously, "You still have me."
Voldemort did not answer. Between the tombstones, only the soft rustling of hemlock leaves could be heard.
That night, they became even closer. Voldemort was pleased that Harry took the initiative to kiss him. However, what annoyed him was that Dreamless Sleep Potion didn't work, and Harry was still having nightmares.
They had dinner in an Italian restaurant in the center of Rome. While Harry was cutting a slice of pizza, Voldemort spoke, "At the end of this month, we have a Halloween masquerade ball, and I plan to have you attend."
"Do Death Eaters participate in such events?" Harry knew that the dark side had similar team-building activities before, but as the Dark Prince, he had hardly attended any.
"Yes. There's nothing to worry about. Everyone wears masks at the ball, and they won't know who you are," Voldemort gracefully lifted his wine glass, swirled it in his hand, keeping his gaze fixed on Harry. "I want to invite you to dance. I assume Harry won't refuse me?"
"I am delighted to be invited by Father, but I... I don't know how to dance."
"Oh, you were probably too busy with work before, and you never learned such things. But I would be happy to teach you. My dear Harry is so clever, and with a month's time, you'll be stunning on the dance floor." Voldemort assigned the next task for the Dark Prince—learning to dance.
That evening, they practiced some basic dance steps in the spacious living room of their rental house. Harry learned quickly, especially as dancing wasn't too difficult. In no time, they could perform a simple dance routine. Voldemort held Harry's waist, guiding him in turns as the music played, and their steps gradually synchronized.
After a few songs, Harry was slightly sweaty, his cheeks rosy. He was a bit excited; he seldom had such happy moments, and this past month was the happiest time of his life. He enjoyed dancing with his father.
Before bedtime, Voldemort offered several types of sleeping potions for Harry to drink, but none of them worked. Under Voldemort's questioning, Harry reluctantly explained, "I've had trouble sleeping for many years. I've developed immunity to these potions."
"You've been like this before? I thought you started having nightmares only after that incident with the Death Eaters," Voldemort didn't explicitly mention the torture inflicted by the Death Eaters, but Harry understood what he was referring to.
"More or less... " Harry said sullenly.
Voldemort was momentarily speechless, realizing that this state had persisted for many years.
"So, why do you have nightmares?" Voldemort inquired.
Harry shook his head, unwilling to say. "I'm fine, no need to worry about me... Did I disturb your rest? Maybe... I should go back to my room and sleep alone." Harry said as he attempted to get up, unexpectedly triggering discomfort in a certain area that had been overused recently. "Ah." It hurt a bit, and Harry bit his lip.
"Or I can use a spell to put you to sleep. At least you can rest more peacefully," Voldemort suggested.
"Well... alright..." Harry enjoyed their post-sex chat time. He willingly snuggled into his father's arms again.
"My dear Harry," Voldemort whispered softly in Harry's ear, "Wishing you sweet dreams that won't wake up." Then, the glow of the spell lit up at his fingertips, and Harry drifted into a drowsy slumber.
The next day, Harry began to feel weak, lacking strength in his body, and frequently experiencing dizziness. It seemed that some of his injuries had recurred. Harry rubbed his forehead, confused about what was happening. He hadn't overused magic recently, and he had slept unusually well last night.
Harry remembered the sleeping curse his father used last night. Could it be related? However, Harry dismissed the thought—impossible. His father wouldn't make a mistake with such a simple spell, and Harry himself knew these spells well. A Sleeping Curse wouldn't have a negative impact on his physical condition.
Probably, he caught a cold due to the recent cool weather; tomorrow would be better. Harry thought so. However, the next day didn't bring improvement. In the following days, the situation worsened, and Harry developed a fever.
Harry instinctively concealed all his injuries and illnesses, not wanting to tell his father.
Harry had always been good at pretending everything was fine. His acting skills were top-notch, and he even used magic to lower his fever, not wanting his father to notice any abnormalities. However, his father was unusually keen this time.
"I'm fine," Harry tried to insist.
"You don't have to keep saying that. It's okay if you're not feeling well. I can help you heal, can't I?" Voldemort held Harry's slender figure in his arms. "You're not comfortable, and I can treat you, right?"
Harry sat on their bed, watching his father's face as he cast diagnostic and healing spells. Harry was familiar with being injured; he had often been hurt. Harry was too familiar with the feeling of being hurt, but he had always been strong. He had always treated himself, or simply ignored it. Anyway, no one cared, and he didn't care either, as long as it didn't affect his work.
His father had never cared about him like this before. He had never been cared for like this... this strange, sudden, cherished feeling made Harry want to cry. But he didn't cry. He smiled lightly. He thought that this past month had been the happiest time of his life.
Then he thought, maybe someone like him didn't deserve happiness... He had done so many wrong things, hurt so many people... Harry's mind became more and more chaotic. He couldn't smile anymore, just sighed. He thought, at least... at least the war will end, right? That's Harry's only hope for now.
As October arrived, the weather gradually turned colder. Harry, who had always been sensitive to the cold, found it increasingly challenging to endure the chill. One day, Voldemort, concerned about Harry catching a cold, wrapped a silver-green scarf around him. Harry recognized it as the Hogwarts uniform.
"A Slytherin scarf? But why does it look different from the ones I've seen before?"
"This is my school uniform when I was a student." Voldemort had always cherished his time at Hogwarts, so he kept it over the years. Voldemort looked satisfied as he watched Harry tie the scarf. The color perfectly matched Harry's eyes. "Green suits you better. The Sorting Hat must have gone mad. How could it place you in Gryffindor?"
Harry recalled, "The Sorting Hat did say both houses were suitable for me."
But after careful consideration, the hat decided that Harry should go to Gryffindor to discover his true self. Harry didn't say this out loud; he feared Voldemort would get angry and burn the Sorting Hat.
Harry didn't have any objections to the Slytherin colors; after all, he had grown up in the Slytherin family's castle. He gladly wore the scarf to school.
This even shocked Jess, who exclaimed, "You're from Slytherin? Oh, right, you know dark magic... But I always find it hard to associate you with those dark wizards."
"This scarf belongs to my friend," Harry blinked, clarifying that he was in Gryffindor.
"Severus, your sleeping potions are not working. It seems our patient has built up resistance due to excessive consumption of such potions," Voldemort sat on his throne, while Severus Snape stood nervously below.
"I apologize, Master," Snape admitted his mistake first, then calmly analyzed, "This is already a very effective formula. If a more potent one is needed, I may have to personally examine the patient to develop a more targeted solution. Resistance levels vary among individuals, and blindly increasing the dosage may pose risks."
Voldemort pondered for a moment, studying Snape's eyes that seemed like black holes. A master of Occlumency, a double agent. Snape had reported to him when Harry was caught by Dumbledore and attended Hogwarts. Snape had always known Harry's true identity... that could be useful.
"Well then, Severus, you are a person who can keep secrets, right?" Voldemort said with significance.
"Of course, my Lord. I will not disclose any information about the patient you care for to anyone," Snape obediently lowered his head.
When Snape saw Harry dressed in Muggle attire in a Muggle world house, both of them stared at each other in surprise.
Harry, breaking the silence, greeted, "Hi, Professor Snape."
Snape had a lot to say, but he didn't know where to start. Being mindful of Voldemort's presence, he didn't dare to speak out. However, he really wanted to deduct fifty points from Gryffindor before speaking.
Voldemort, on the other hand, showed interest, teasing, "Need some space for your reunion?"
"No, thank you, my Lord. I just need to diagnose Prince," Snape replied with an expressionless face.
The diagnosis was conducted professionally. Snape, being one of the foremost experts in magical potions, carefully inquired about Harry's history with magical potions and used various spells and potions for testing. His expression grew darker, "You've developed resistance even to the Draught of Living Death?"
"Yeah," Harry shrugged indifferently. "I've tried almost all common ones."
"Do you know that overdosing on potions can be detrimental to your health, Potter? If you were still my student, you wouldn't pass your Potions class."
"I was just—" Harry began to explain but decided to stop halfway. How could he not know? His sleep issues were severe, and he simply pursued finishing his father's tasks as quickly as possible without caring for himself. It was a desperate measure.
Voldemort, standing nearby, corrected with displeasure, "Don't call him Potter, Severus."
Harry turned to look at his father, feeling something in his heart being touched. He still remembered the scene from the last time his father called him "Potter." At that time, Harry was profoundly saddened...