Worlds Beyond Death

by GeMerope

When technology triumphs over magic, Muggles attempt to wipe out mages. Desperate to undo the damage, Harry travels back in time to prevent Voldemort's demise. Only, things don't quite work out as intended and he ends up being reborn in a world not entirely like his own with a tattoo of a red eye on the back of his hand. HPLV, Soul mate AU, do-over fic, Master of Death!Harry.

10. Night of Hope

Chapter 10: Night of Hope

So many nightmares had been fuelled by this scene, once. The starry night overhead, the weathered gravestones and the twinkling village full of oblivious Muggles below are all the same. It brings restlessness and dread, which Harry has a hard time supressing with rational thought. He wants the resurrection to succeed, this time around. Voldemort won't emerge only to turn a wand on him.

Nevertheless, old wounds are being ripped open, memories drifting to the surface of Cedric's pointless death, of the first time he received a taste of the Cruciatus curse. The weight is doubled by this ritual taking place on the night of his parents' deaths, which he has far more vividly in memory now. He's known their love and cherished listening to their banter until Voldemort silenced their voices forevermore. The same man he now calls back to life.

Harry forces his mind to turn into another direction, reminding himself of the why. It is arguably more painful to recall the horrors that followed in the decades after the Dark Lord's permanent demise, but it is at least useful, lessening the pressure of guilt. Lord Voldemort is not a storm to weather, he is the solution.

One hand wanders to the mark on the back of the other, dragging a thumb over the red eye to focus. Things are different, now.

He stands back as Quirrell finishes the preparations, a tub filled to the brim with the remaining pearly unicorn blood shimmering in the moonlight. Slowly, the Death Eater undoes his turban so his Lord can inspect the work.

''May I ask what exactly is happening?'' Harry requests, the silence starting to get to him. So far, the ritual being set up looks nothing like he's experienced. Quirrell did mention it having been adapted to their current situation, but Harry still wonders how Voldemort went from apparently never having heard of such spellwork only a few weeks ago to being confident in being able to perform it tonight.

''Ever since you described my means of resurrection, I have concentrated on researching the necessary components. One of them requires me to inhabit a temporary body of my own, sustained by a Horcrux. Originally, I wished to turn Nagini into one, as I reasoned that using a living Horcrux to strengthen my body will be more effective than with my inanimate ones. Waiting is no longer a requirement when your blood shall more than suffice to create a homunculus that I shall only need for a few minutes until moving onto the second part of the ritual. All other ingredients have been procured as well. The potion is prepared and my father's bones, flesh of my servant and blood of my enemy are all present on this graveyard.''

Hesitant about whether he truly wants to hear the answer, Harry asks: ''Blood of the enemy?''

''We were enemies, once,'' Voldemort icily proclaims, sanguine eyes blazing again. ''By your own account, you have killed me twice, been my murderer across time. Our current status is irrelevant for the intent and purpose of this ritual.''

Mentally, Harry corrects the man as he's been his killer thrice, realising only now how vague he's been about the circumstances of Voldemort's permanent death in Harry's first life. Another hurdle, another unpleasant conversation to have at some point. He avows not to stay silent about it, to not let it fester as long as the secret of being a Horcrux had. This is not one he kept intentionally.

He feels a bit like a pig for slaughter at the revelation that he is apparently only here to donate blood. Although he imagines that refusing to attend the ceremony in person would just have meant that Quirrell would have been instructed to take it from him beforehand. It's not as if Harry is in any position to refuse. He caused the need for this resurrection in the first place by allowing Voldemort to die once again. At the very least, the older wizard makes no indication of the 'forcefully taken' being necessary. Another jagged scar across his forearm isn't what Harry wishes to take away from this evening.

When being handed a razor-sharp dagger and two empty vials, Harry wastes little time making a shallow cut across his palm to fill them. At least he isn't left bleeding, Quirrell being thoughtful enough to heal the wound instantly. Without a blood-replenishing potion, he needs to sit down due to light-headedness, finding a spot at a nearby gravestone to watch the rest unfold. Staying quiet in favour of observing, he attempts not to get in the way.

One of the vials is used soon after, when Quirrell unwraps a blanket he brought and reveals a clay figure that is vaguely human-shaped, smearing Harry's blood all over it. A hole is made where the mouth should be to pour the rest in. It looks horrifying, a puppet parody of a new-born that has just emerged from the womb. He can't take his eyes off it, hardly noticing that Quirrell disrobes and steps into the pool of liquid silver, not until the man takes the clay figure in his arms.

The Dark Lord and Quirrell both chant spells in a language Harry doesn't recognise, raspy syllables freezing the air. Slowly, the men lower themselves into the unicorn blood until fully submerged. The surface ripples lazily. For what feels like a first in two lifetimes, Harry genuinely prays.

This is the first step into a new era, one in which he may be able to live with himself.

A song from bygone days fills his mind as he waits on a miracle. Harry's lips start moving of their own accord before he is consciously aware of it. He closes his eyes and allows his voice to carry the wish of thousands across the graveyard of this bright new world.

Hear our plea, Immortal Lord
Grant us mercy, our wands restored
If you can hear our desperate cries
Forgive us, we apologise
for the time we all believed the lies
that led to your demise

Sloshing and gasping is telling of the first rebirth having been achieved, but Harry can't bring himself to look yet, too lost in a tidal wave of emotion to stop.

Turn back time, Immortal Lord,
Grant us one more chance to hear your word,
Your absence made us faithful
In our hearts we're grateful
For any chance we might receive
Your blessing on this New Year's Eve

Show us a day where happiness holds us
where the future is bright, magic alight
For Magic is Might

''Potter?'' There it is: the high and hissy voice that Harry recognises from the few dreams he's had of Riddle Manor in his fourth year at Hogwarts. With blurry vision, he attempts to look at Voldemort, who is partially wrapped in a blanket and carried by Quirrell. The Death Eater's skin gleams unnaturally from the sheen of pearly blood that drenches him, not having had a chance yet to clean up or redress. Removing his glasses, Harry rubs stray tears away.

''I'm sorry,'' he chokes, an apology with more layers than he could possibly explain.

''Your repayment has already begun, by your own blood and that of the unicorn,'' the Dark Lord answers with a consideration that Harry never imagined Voldemort to be capable of. Upon roughly shoving his glasses back on his nose, Harry notices a silver lightning bolt going down the side of Voldemort's neck. It's unexpected that the soul mark appears to be such an integral part that it shows on this very temporary form. He takes a few hesitant steps forward, ignoring the way Quirrell uncomfortably twitches at the closeness, Harry focusing only on the bundle in his arms.

''May I?'' he breathes, raising a hand.

It had been his intention to only touch the mark, but Quirrell instead carefully hands Voldemort to him, to which the Dark Lord does not protest. The Death Eater hurries to put on robes and starts the preparations for the second phase of the ritual as Harry is left stunned. Quirrell enlarges a tiny cauldron drawn from his pocket and fills it with what Harry assumes to be the base of the mentioned potion. Have they been brewing this over the past weeks, ever since Harry told them about this ritual?

''I was mourned, then?'' Voldemort suddenly demands to know. Harry starts at the sound as he was a bit lost in thoughts while observing Quirrell. ''That song,'' the other presses on.

''Not at first,'' he truthfully replies. ''It was all a bit hypocritical to be honest. The first few years after your death – your second death – were ones of prosperity and peace that many seemed to treasure. The war was over, we rebuilt what we'd lost… People insisted on calling me a hero despite me wanting nothing to do with any titles of the sort. Then, the Muggles found us, and everyone backpedalled real quick. Your former followers sowed rumours about how none of it would have happened had you not been defeated, and it went from there. I hope they were right, otherwise me being here would be pointless, but I'm still a bit resentful how everyone pushed me to do what I did, only to then blame me afterwards as if I should have had 20/20 divinatory vision,'' The words flow out without hesitance, his previous vow to be completely honest already being fulfilled.

He continues with: ''My grievances aside; as Muggles grew more and more aggressive, the belief grew stronger that you would have been our only saviour. With it, the regret over your death swept through the country, leading to the creation of new customs and celebrations. Your Death Day was regarded as something of a national memorial day by the remaining mages, with hopes of your return soaring high in the most desperate times. You'd done it once, after all. As many did not know how you survived the first time, it wasn't difficult for the faith to spread about how you'd resurrect again, punish our enemies if we prayed hard enough and sung our praises loud enough. To have you return and announce a new age, hence why we shifted the date of New Year's in our hope.

My friends and I ignored this when it first became popular, to still honour the people we'd loved and who had died by the hands of you and your followers, also because we were some of the few who knew with absolute certainty that you could not return. However, as our culture was whittled away and only stray mages remained free with the rest murdered or imprisoned, it was impossible not to grasp at anything that would remind us of who we were and where we came from. It may only be a song, but knowing that every last one of our kind was singing this in unison felt comforting, as if we weren't alone. As if one day, it would be alright again.''

A clawed hand is lifted to Harry's cheek, nails just barely grazing the skin. ''I will not allow it to happen as it did in your original timeline,'' Voldemort solemnly promises. Harry wonders where the resentment is, surely he said enough to let the Dark Lord know with absolute certainty that Harry had been responsible for all of this. Instead, he is being... comforted? Has Voldemort's triumphant mood over the ongoing revival ritual quelled any outbursts of anger when puzzling the pieces together?

It's strange just how consoling the gesture feels. The last time Harry faced the man in this embryonic form, Cedric had died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He attempts to shake that off, scolding himself for this unproductive, negative thinking. The Dark Lord has already proven to be different from the Voldemort he'd known, no madness clouding this man's mind. Whatever miniscule changes have affected his life so far, it's enough to indeed make it possible to work together. Perhaps as more than begrudging enemies with a common goal.

He startles himself with that thought and once again glances at the prominent mark of a lightning bolt, the fingers that itch to touch it gripping the blanket tighter.

The rest of the ritual passes fast and in relative silence. There's nothing left for Harry to do and Quirrell is concentrated as always. No more than ten minutes after he'd been handed Voldemort's rudimentary form, one far more familiar rises from the cauldron. Only a few details differ, Harry notes, the most obvious of which are Voldemort's eyes. In his world, the Dark Lord had had fully red and slitted ones, which at first made Harry slightly doubt whom his soul mark pointed towards. There is no mistaking now, the absence of a seventh Horcrux causing him to look more human in this regard. He's a tad less skeletal too, if Harry remembers correctly, digging up hazy memories.

Despite pressing the stump of the arm that is left bleeding from the needed sacrifice into his robes with noticeable pain, Quirrell slumps down next to the cauldron and rubs the back of his own bald head with his remaining hand. Relief flickers across the librarian's pallid face. Harry can't blame the man: the Death Eater undeniably suffered from hosting a parasitical spirit. It is remarkable that he hasn't shown more fear for his own life during the past months.

Harry doesn't know what should happen next. There's been no talk of summoning any Death Eaters, which had been the first action of the more callous version of Voldemort he'd known. The Gryffindor looks once more at Quirrell, then. Taking into account the Death Eater's dedication, Harry holds a small spark of hope that this Dark Lord will show more mercy for his follower's pain than Wormtail had received. After gathering enough strength to stand though, Voldemort does absolutely nothing but press one pale hand to his own chest and stare intensely at Harry.

''Magic's will…'' he reverentially whispers. ''I can feel it.''

Having by now gotten quite used to the odd buzzing sensation Voldemort's mere presence evokes whenever nothing distracts Harry, it didn't occur to him that this might be new to the other. He assumed that even without possessing a body of his own, Voldemort was affected just the same, or at least felt something, whether on the night he'd shown up in Godric's Hollow or while attached to Quirrell. Now, Harry reckons that the older wizard likely didn't perceive the subtle pull while caught up in the intent to kill, and Voldemort noticing his presence afterwards could just as well be contributed to the man's tremendous magical proficiency, not due to the soul bond.

It is an odd sensation to be regarded like this; the first look on Voldemort's face being one of wonder that had certainly never been directed at Harry in his previous life. It cements the belief that he's done the right thing, and that he can continue letting down his guard just the slightest bit.

''Strange, isn't it?'' Harry says with a half-smile. ''We'll have plenty of time to marvel over it later though, poor Quirrell is in need of some medical assistance, methinks. And you might catch a cold, standing around like that,'' he unsubtly hints due to Voldemort's continued state of undress, trying his hardest to look solely at the man's face. It doesn't bother him per se, but it's a bit weird to openly stare while very aware that another person is present. Plus, he gets a strangely unpleasant feeling when realising Quirrell is also looking.

Inwardly berating himself when picking up on jealousy of all things, Harry hurriedly grabs the prepared robe and pushes it into Voldemort's arms. The Dark Lord looks disgruntled as Harry marches past. Distantly, he recalls that Wormtail had been ordered to robe Voldemort last time. Well, surely someone as independent as a Dark Lord can manage to fucking dress himself.

''Thank you, my Lord,'' Quirrell mutters when flexing newly formed silver fingers a minute later. On one hand, Harry is happy that the man survived this time around, as he honestly started looking forward to their talks. On the other… he can't help but worry about one more factor changing, unable to tell whether it will be for the better or worse.

Each day, certainty is slipping further from his grasp. At some point, his old life will be erased entirely, this new world relentlessly turning onwards as he stumbles blind. Having used his future to have the upper hand for so many years, it is a terrifying thought, only calmed by strictly reminding himself of his entire goal being changing the future in the first place.

~Harry,~ the Dark Lord hisses, jerking him from those musings.

Squaring his shoulders, able to gaze at Voldemort without getting side-tracked now the man is covered up and Quirrell is no longer in pain, Harry does just that. ''Yes?'' he warily responds as the other approaches. It sucks being small again, as he has to strain his neck not to break eye-contact.

~Is this form… familiar to you?~ the Dark Lord asks, flexing skeletal fingers with interest. From the tone, Harry can't discern whether the right answer is supposed to be yes or no. ~Or does is frighten you in its strangeness?~

He ponders on the question for a moment, using the opportunity to let his eyes rove over his Intended more openly than he considered polite before. ~I've seen many faces of yours. You tried your hardest to scare me regardless of which one you presented. This one is both recognisable and different enough,~ he replies, not quite certain what is expected of him. Voldemort's character does not change with the mask he wears, after all. Why would it matter?

~Then, you do not mind?~

~Mind what?~ Each question leaves him more confused as to what they're even talking about.

Maybe he did say something wrong, for Voldemort holds his stare for a few seconds before abruptly changing the topic, stating a tad stiffly: ''Your aid tonight has cleared any remaining grudges surrounding my death. All of my deaths. Consider it a sign of my mercy and goodwill. Furthermore, all that has been revealed in the past few months was enough to realise that working with you in an open manner will lead to fruitful results.''

''O… kay?'' Harry asks, puzzled by the sudden formal attitude while at the same time immensely relieved to hear Voldemort vocalise his forgiveness. ''Meaning?''

''Meaning that I am very much aware of you specifically changing time in favour of our people – myself included.'' He stills and gives Quirrell a brief glance, who has already moved on to cleaning up the evidence of the ritual. ~As magic has plans that involve us both, I would like to use tonight to discuss our next steps. It won't do if our paths are to cross in an unfavourable manner in the future due to a lack of knowledge. You harped on communication before. I'm open to giving that a try.~

''Will we go to your manor?'' he inquires, jutting his chin into the general direction of where Riddle house lies.

He receives a sharp look in return. ''That place has been occupied by filth just a few months ago.'' Voldemort sounds non-too pleased about the fact. ''I should have ordered Quirrell to install Muggle-repelling wards as soon as we left. Alas, I had other worries on my mind at the time than keeping an eye on this property.'' The news startles Harry, and he reminds himself not to ask such revealing questions again if they can backfire so spectacularly. Is it believable that he knows of the house, but not about it apparently having been sold to Muggles?

His lie of having been reborn in the same dimension is catching up again. Yet, he is cautious about playing this card in fear that his concerns for the future will be considered less valid. No, better to keep this last piece of information close to his chest. Perhaps this secret is the only one to never see the light of day.

''Where to, then?'' he pushes on in hopes that Voldemort will play it off as Harry not being omniscient and possibly having heard no more than vague rumours about Voldemort's Muggle family having owned a house here. Or something along those lines.

''You'll see.''

Not fond of being left in the dark so, but unable to speak up about it without being called a hypocrite after his considerations about refusing to reveal the whole truth of his own existence, Harry waits. It thankfully does not take too long before his burning curiosity is sated, as Voldemort side-apparates him to a small flat - one-bedroom, Harry guesses. ''My apologies for this surely not meeting your standards, my Lord-'' Quirrell winces, revealing whom it belongs to.

''It's not my first visit here, Quirinus,'' Voldemort dryly cuts him off. ''Besides, I've spent years in worse places.'' A second armchair is conjured with ease and a fire lit a second later. ''At least you own a flat on our side of the world, so we don't have to worry about prying Muggle eyes for the evening.''

Unable to wandlessly cast conjuration spells and not willing to either set off the Trace or impede on Quirrell by taking the only remaining free seat from the one who owns it, Harry makes himself comfortable on the floor, completely missing the disapproving frown he receives from Voldemort. He jumps, however, when something like a pistol shot echoes through the room, instantly on high alert for Muggle intruders, Trace forgotten as he already has a shield spell on his lips and a hand on the handle of his wand.

He swallows it just in time when Quirrell appears with an opened bottle. ''My apologies, Cheering Champagne becomes a bit bubbly over time and I'm afraid I've had little to celebrate in my career so far,'' the man declares when noticing Harry's bewildered expression. Then, he looks Harry over once more. ''Although I suppose that for you, I might have to dig around for some juice…'' he wavers, wrinkles appearing in his forehead.

''The man is forty-five, Quirinus,'' Voldemort scoffs. ''Surely old enough to be educated on the dangers of heavy drinking.''

''Hand on my heart that even in the direst of times, drowning my sorrows never even crossed my mind,'' Harry agrees, pleasantly surprised and grateful both by this confirmation that Voldemort truly accepted not only the theoretical explanation of his rebirth, but also what this means for Harry's mental development. Although at times he does feel like a teenager again, as he confessed to Hermione, it doesn't erase the fact that he is very familiar with adult themes, be it loss of loved ones or alcohol consumption. ''I'll be especially careful just in case,'' he reassures Quirrell, who doesn't seem entirely convinced. ''Truth be told, I don't know how my body will handle alcohol in its current state, but it's not like I'm a curious kid trying out beer for the first time without knowing when to stop.''

The reassurance works, Quirrell ceasing the unnecessary worrying about Harry's age to direct it something else. ''Ah- I'm afraid I do not own any proper flutes…'' he admits with a touch of discomfort after summoning a few glasses from the kitchen. Harry is not quite sure what would be wrong with those, they look like regular wine glasses. Probably fitting for any similar drink, right?

''I'd gathered as much, Quirinus,'' Voldemort speaks, and it's remarkable how he can manage to sound both endlessly patient and exasperated at the same time. ''This is hardly Malfoy Manor.'' The Death Eater makes a surprised noise when with a lazy wave of Voldemort's hand – the one not holding a wand – the glasses grow longer and thinner. ''If you insist on good manners to impress me however, I'm not too proud to assist,'' he adds with more amusement than Harry thought Voldemort to be capable of when talking to his followers. ''Do sit.''

Once all three of them have settled, Voldemort leans back in his armchair, eyes trained firmly on Harry once again. ''I assume you'll be staying at Hogwarts for the time being, then? It is not beyond my capability to erase your Trace. I removed my own when I was sixteen.''

The unexpected offer is tempting. And yet… ''I have some unfinished business at Hogwarts. Possibly business that keeps me occupied until summer. Might get back to you about it though, as I can't waste too much time playing pretend at school. I'm going to have to bite the sherbet lemon one day and come clean to my family.''

''Will this business be helpful in the grander scheme?''

Harry sees the question for what it truly is: fishing whether or not he is unnecessarily dawdling despite urging Voldemort to hurry.

There is no doubt in Harry's mind however, that preserving the Philosopher's Stone is important enough for their culture to chase after. Plus, he has a few other plans that could be useful in the long run that can only be achieved within the castle. ''Absolutely,'' he confirms. ''Let's just say that Hogwarts holds a couple of important artefacts I wish to get my hands on that might just play a vital role to our… success.''

Two of which are still in Dumbledore's hands for now. The closer Christmas draws, the more Harry looks forward to at last receiving his cloak…. and the more the idea worms into his head that it might not be a bad idea to gather all three Hallows again.

''You're being intentionally vague again,'' the Dark Lord notes, peering accusingly over the rim of his glass while taking a sip. ''What did I just say about crossing paths by remaining uninformed?''

Begrudgingly, Harry has to concur that Voldemort makes a valid point, not in the least due to one of his Horcruxes containing a Hallow. After thinking it over some more, he divulges: ''There is a set of ancient artefacts called the Deathly Hallows, which possess abilities to do with the realm of death. A wand of Elder and Thestral-'' to not incite Voldemort's obsession over a wand more powerful than any other, Harry purposefully does not elaborate on its abilities, ''-a cloak of Invisibility that hides the owner from death and a stone that can call forth an impression of loved ones who have passed away, even if they did not leave behind ghosts. The one who gains ownership over all three gains the title of Master of Death, which is wrongfully believed to grant immortality.''

''Wrongfully?''

''Mastering death means accepting that everything must die one day,'' Harry bluntly clarifies, ignoring the way Voldemort's upper lip curls in distaste. ''After all these years, I am still surprised you never heard of them, considering Grindelwald was obsessed with gathering these Hallows based on his fairy-tale assumptions. Not that he ever managed to do so.''

''And you plan to? What if your theory is false and the Hallows do grant eternal life?''

''I already did possess all of them, once,'' Harry pensively replies. ''Right before you threw another Killing curse at me. Which would have done me in, hadn't there been something to die in my stead,'' he adds. ''Point is, it wasn't the Hallows that protected me that day.''

He lets that information sink in slowly as he nips from the champagne and glances at Quirrell, who listens with rapt attention without contributing to the conversation.

''And yet… if I am counting correctly, you survived two Killing curses in your previous life, were reborn once and survived another here. Are you certain there isn't more to this… fairy-tale?'' Voldemort theorises.

Harry seriously considers it, entertaining the idea for a moment. He felt something when touching the ring in this dimension, a hint of recognition. It shouldn't have been possible as he didn't become their master in this world yet, nor had he been at this point in his first life. Magic could work strange wonders sometimes, and it's not completely ludicrous that artefacts as powerful as the Hallows, artefacts that deal with death, aren't stopped by the concepts of time or space. What if his strange luck in both lifetimes can be accredited to becoming the Master of Death at some point?

''I cannot be certain,'' he at last admits. ''However, it's a feeble theory at best, one I've not found any proof for. I'm not sure why it would be important in the first place, as I wish to gather them regardless of immortality… if only to ensure others cannot use them, those who may be our enemies in the future.''

''Do you not wish to become eternal?'' Voldemort asks in a strangely hushed tone. Next to them, Quirrell leans forward ever so slightly, clearly captivated by the topic. The Dark Lord does not need to glance to the side for Harry to realise that the man is fully aware of his follower's interest. Perhaps there is another reason behind the librarian's wish to obtain the Philosopher's Stone than mere educational interest…

''I must already be,'' Harry confesses, which has the Dark Lord sit up straighter. ''Not due to the Hallows, but due to you, which is confirmed by the prophecy.'' He tilts his head. ''You never asked me to recite it in full. Why is that? You must have realised I know it.''

Thin, pale lips stretch into an ironic smile. ''Interesting you mention that. I had intended to ask about it tonight. As I was partially dependent on your cooperation for my swift resurrection to go smoothly, there was too much on the line to incessantly pry,'' he confesses. ''I did speculate whether you were deliberately hiding this or not…''

Harry is quick to shake his head. ''Not at all. When recounting my tale to you, I was more focused on what had happened and which actions I took rather than what drove those actions, that is all. I didn't think to mention it, then…''

He clears his throat, but is quickly interrupted with a hissed: ~I'd appreciate the full wording not to be revealed to Quirinus… Not before I can decide whether I wish my followers to know.~

As it is a sensible request, Harry does as told, comfortable enough about the clear wording of this world's prophecy not to feel threatened. If anything, it might solidify to Voldemort that they needn't attempt to kill each other.

~The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and they will bear the marks of equals, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other, but neither can die while the other survives…~ he recounts, leaving Voldemort a bit of space to think upon finishing, downing the last drops of Cheering Champagne.

~I cannot fathom why you ever truly destroyed me,~ Voldemort ponders aloud, disturbed. ~If you knew that neither can die while the other survives… You threw away immortality for the sole purpose of ending me?~

~You were quite a fair bit more insane and tried very hard to murder everyone I loved,~ Harry reminds the man to avoid having to explain that his original prophecy hadn't been worded as clearly. Or even that there had been a different prophecy in the first place. Ugly can of worms there. ~Succeeded in too many cases too,~ he quietly adds, lungs suddenly burning as the image of a laughing Sirius falling through the Veil shoots through his mind. He shoves the glass away. ~It didn't help that you were hell-bent on offing me as well. You never heard the full Prophecy and got stuck on those first two sentences, despite me having the power to destroy you didn't necessarily mean I would have, had you not targeted me in the first place.~

Voldemort works his jaw as if he has something to say yet holds back. In the end, after swallowing down whichever words he wished to impart on impulse, the man merely declares: ~An unfortunate outcome that we'll avoid this time.~

It sounds like a promise, one Harry wishes to take hold of without ever letting go. ~Yes… I certainly will,~ he vows. Tentatively, he reaches out across the table, glad when cold fingers enclose tightly around his and shake his hand as if they just sealed a pact. The mark on the back of his hand tingles pleasantly even after the other has pulled back.

''That is settled, then,'' Voldemort affirms. ''Little remains to be said and done. Quirinus, you will remain my contact within Hogwarts until I have need of you elsewhere. Give me your left arm.''

Harry is a tad surprised by the revelation that Quirrell will remain at school. He expected different, maybe because Voldemort's followers always seemed to leave with him or intended to return to his side as soon as possible. The assistance with today's ritual, as well as their current meeting at what turned out to be Quirrell's home made him think that the Death Eater planned to leave the castle to aid his master directly instead. Admittedly, it makes more sense for the librarian to return to Hogwarts. Voldemort has no other spies in the castle, and it would be suspicious for a staff member to disappear overnight – or even for one to officially quit within months of the school year. Secretly, Harry is glad for it, only able to fully be himself around a select few without needing to put up an act. Three, in fact, one of whom won't be available for the foreseeable future.

He watches with interest as the Death Eater pushes up one sleeve to expose a pallid, thin arm. No tattoo adorns it yet: Quirrell only became a follower after Voldemort was reduced to his wraith-like form, unable to perform regular magic. Ink blooms under the tip of the infamous white wand that is a brother to Harry's own, a wand he's used for a decade until returning it to its original owner. He does miss it…

Twitching fingers are quickly hidden under the table as it is unbecoming to be so attached to someone else's wand. He has his own now, which suits him just as well as when first stepping foot into Ollivander's. Besides, only thinking of himself is rather tactless to Quirrell, who is clearly fighting horrible pains for a second time this evening as the Dark mark is burned into his skin.

''Here.''

Harry blinks, raising his head to see the handle of the yew wand being offered to him. 'I- I can't,'' he chokes in embarrassment for having been so transparent.

''There is no shame in following magic's pull, Harry,'' Voldemort chides. ''You've used it for years and mine shares a core with your own.''

It doesn't erase the shame creeping up Harry's neck, but not accepting the offer now would be ungrateful. Tentatively, he grasps the handle, ecstatic when it buzzes in recognition, old friends reunited again. Unbelievable that he stuffed it up the butt of a plushie once to hide it. Harry firmly presses his lips together not to snicker at the thought, knowing he should never mention that – at least not in this wording – to its owner. ''Thank you,'' he finally sighs, returning it after a minute.

''Consider it a parting gift. Now, the both of you must be off. Quirinus, remain as inconspicuous as before, do not attempt to go after the Philosopher's Stone and grant Harry your aid in matters you judge to fit our mutual plans. You are to take care of Nagini for a few more weeks also, until I have procured a secure, permanent residence. This place is not nearly remote enough. Or well-enough protected.'' At that statement, an image swims in Harry's mind of Voldemort returning to the apartment, arms full with grocery bags – of M&S, for some reason. Voldemort would go for a snobby posh supermarket if only to keep up appearances - and Quirrell's shocked neighbours raising alarm.

''Is- is your familiar aware of your leaving, my Lord?'' Quirrell nervously questions.

Voldemort clearly isn't impressed with his follower's reservations regarding Nagini. ''I've let her know not to make trouble and that she'll be reunited with me soon. I expect you to make her health a priority, Quirinus. That includes entertaining her whenever she wishes to.''

''I can take care of Nagini,'' Harry quickly suggests, at which the Death Eater looks greatly relieved. ''It will be easier for someone who can communicate with her and as I have already proven to you, I know very well how to get around the castle undetected. I'll be careful, of course, not to be seen too often around Quirrell's office anymore, considering my own agenda could put me on Dumbledore's wanted list soon…''

The Dark Lord considers it for a moment, then dips his chin. ''That would please her, and I appreciate your thinking ahead to not risk the position of a valuable spy. Very well. At the same time, you may use your covert visits to Quirinus to send messages back and forth, should the need to contact me arise. I'll regularly get in touch as well to question you about Muggle advancement and the way it spreads. We'll first and foremost need to chokehold their technological speed without being too obvious about it.''

They exchange a few more words – Voldemort enquires about further details on Harry's plans, which he dances around a bit in case they don't work out, whereas Harry attempts to get more information on what the Dark Lord concretely wishes to do now no longer confined to another's body, which Voldemort is just as ambiguous about – until no more remains to be said.

For indiscernible reasons, Harry lingers nonetheless, feeling funny about leaving Voldemort behind. Ridiculous, they've only interacted a few times over the course of barely more than a month, during which he's also been completely ignored for three weeks straight. They've hardly grown close. He attempts to ignore the nagging in the pit of his stomach when a Portkey is created that should take them to the vicinity of Hogsmeade. Stepping over his uncomfortable hesitance, he reaches out towards it, freezing up when his hand is caught mid-air.

~We'll meet again soon, Harry, have no doubt about that.~ The soft words, which have an inexplicably feral undertone, are accompanied by the insistent dragging of a thumb across the back of his hand. ~I do not intend to let what is mine slip away.~

Despite all careful resolve to wait and see before agreeing to become more than allies in the future, it's difficult not to give in to what his singing core is telling Harry: his soulmate, the one magic has intended to be his equal partner is right here. And if he reads the room correctly, Voldemort does not appear to be as indifferent to the idea as Harry previously thought. Some of the man's reactions since officially meeting come to mind, such as the brief flash of disappointment when Harry stated that his intentions to form an alliance don't stem from their soul bond, but a common goal instead.

It slowly dawns on Harry that those three weeks of being ignored had followed right after…

Teeth chattering more with nerves than from the October air, he works up the courage to ask: ~I hope you're not referring to the piece of soul in me when you call me yours?~

~Still so concerned about that? You made your opinion perfectly clear,~ It is less of an answer than the way Voldemort tugs at his fingers so cold lips can brush against the prominent tattoo on the back of Harry's hand. The mark practically glows in response. Resolutions are flying out of the window rather fast. Snatching his hand away to protectively cradle it to his chest doesn't appear to discourage his Intended at all. Harry doesn't know what to think. Hearing about the concept of soul bonds is one thing, experiencing it something else entirely.

Besides, it has been a long, long time ago since he's had anything resembling a relationship. Merlin, during the span of two entire lives, he's literally been with someone for less than two years: a few disastrous months with Cho, two more with Ginny during his sixth year and then about a year after the Battle of Hogwarts in which he and Ginny had given it another shot that hadn't lasted due to separate grieving issues. Everything had spiralled out of control soon after, leaving no time for a dating life. Some people found each other especially in such desperate times, but Harry had sought other kinds of support: from friends and those he considered family. He'd been too jaded to put energy towards maintaining romantic relationships.

Exhaling slowly, he meets Voldemort's intense gaze head-on, then lets his eyes briefly wander to the zigzag line so prominent on the slender neck. ~Would you like me to return the gesture?~ he brazenly asks before his brain can filter his mouth.

The Dark Lord's answering smile could cut diamonds. ~Let us save that for next time.~

Unsure whether to feel relief or disappointment, Harry chooses not to press the issue, to take this as a much-needed chance to mull over just how set his beliefs are. There are far more pressing issues to attend to in the coming months. Despite Voldemort's words of meeting 'soon', Harry doubts they'll see each other face-to-face before summer, with his godfathers likely being around constantly during both Christmas and Easter break.

~We shall see then, next time,~ he replies, answering the grin with one of his own.

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AN: Do I smell some budding romance? ;) Why yes, I might.
This was chapter was such a joy to write and i hope you had just as much fun reading it.

Please Read and Review!
xx GeMerope