Chapter 22: This Broken Battlefield of Mine
Harry's body had always been faster than his brain. Living two half-lives hasn't changed that one bit.
The cork Severus so vigorously sealed the flask with after his inspection is ripped off and cast aside, the vial set to eager lips before its stopper comes close to hitting the ground. It tastes of forest and burning embers. The unpleasant aftertaste of blood and ash is barely registered as Harry is busy changing, growing, all the while trying desperately to keep his breathing even as he stares – stares at shaking hands that thicken and harden in front of his eyes.
There's a distortion on his right one that he can't quite place. The soul mark remains, seeming to shrink a tad as the skin it's tattooed on stretches out, but it's as if the mark gets cut in half by a streak of white.
He can't think much about it when hearing fabric rip. Oh. Maybe undressing beforehand would have been practical. Gathering a shred of common sense, Harry shrugs off his robe and shirt right before they're damaged beyond what easy mending spells can fix.
''Harrison!'' Severus indignantly reprimands, but Harry cares little about undressing in front of them. Three of those present are family, and as for Voldemort, Harry saw his Intended naked first.
''Mi- mirror,'' he coughs out, the potion still burning down his throat. Jeans are impatiently kicked off and land on the growing pile of laundry until only his briefs are left, clinging a tad painfully when becoming several sizes too small.
The nearest wall ripples and shimmers, turning a metallic silver before coated with a reflective layer. Harry ignores the ruby eyes that follow every movement with unhealthy interest in favour of approaching the newly created full-length mirror.
For a moment, he believes it to be the mirror of Erised. But no – in there, he'd seen a younger version, already tainted by war yet not that war. Not the endless horrors that had destroyed even the hope of a pack of once so optimistic Gryffindors.
The version he is met with now has. Harry stares straight at his own hollow face, red-rimmed eyes and a beard he hadn't bothered shaving for weeks since knowing he'd travel back in time. Gaze moving downwards, he can pitifully count every rib and scar that mars the body he knows so painfully well. Rough fingers trace over some of the prominent bumps that form a map of the battleground his first life had been.
It feels as if he's fallen back in a dream. Realities collide harshly.
This is all sorts of wrong, Harry slowly realises, even as he marvels over finally feeling home in his own skin again. It's damaged and broken, but it's his. This body has not made a new start, has not forgotten all the hardships that had once been so important.
''Why- why did it not merely age my current body?'' he croaks, looking to the only person who possibly holds the answer.
Voldemort does not immediately react, hands balled into fists, face exhibiting more emotion than he ever dared show before. Fury, anguish… The Dark Lord takes a shuddering breath and resolutely steps closer to curl cold fingers around Harry's lower arm, looking down on the largest scar Harry bears.
''Who did this to you?'' he spits out, voice rough and quivering.
How ironic that it's this one that Voldemort points out first.
In the mirror, Harry sees his own face twist in a forlorn smile before he speaks, as calmly as he can muster in this state: ''The first thing you ever gave me was a scar. Who do you think?''
The Dark Lord does not answer by anything else than a tightening grip, as if Harry's arm is all he can clutch onto.
''How many…'' he finally breathes.
It's a difficult question. Voldemort had never directly scarred him after cutting a lightning bolt into Harry's forehead. Many, however, had been because of the man. The jagged line from Wormtail's knife to draw blood for his master, every mark the Dursleys had ever left, the words Umbridge had forced into skin…
I must not tell lies about the return of Lord Voldemort.
Despite rigid fingers having a bruising hold on his lower arm, Harry manages to turn his hand over, understanding now what the lines that cut through the soul mark are. When he balls it to a fist, the words appear, starkly white streaking through red, twisting the eye.
''Less than half were caused by you in some form or another,'' he settles on saying, lifting his head towards his Intended, whose horrified stare is still so glued to the cut that he doesn't notice the damaged soul mark. ''More were because I made the mistake of killing you.''
Muggles were rather creative, after all, and when healing potions had run out, there'd been little that could be done without trained Healers in their group. Shields that slowed bullets had saved lives, but the impact being magically spread rather than completely halted made for some nasty scars.
''Let me repent,'' Voldemort demands, shockingly strong and insistent. There's a fever in his gaze that Harry doesn't entirely understand. ''Will you forgive me for your wounds if I punish the ones who gave you more than I?''
It wouldn't be fair to make this version of the man pay for what the Voldemort of another world had done. Harry could use this as an incentive, though. Bind the Dark Lord even closer.
He'd also hate himself to hell and back for playing into the one weakness that had so carelessly been displayed.
''I already forgave you.''
His arm is at last dropped, two gaunt hands cradling his face so intimately that Harry could almost believe it's just the two of them locked behind privacy wards. ''I wish to earn it nonetheless. All of my life, I have taken and stolen. For once, for you, I wish to do right. I shall massacre them, my darling. Every last Muggle on this earth shall lay broken at your feet so they will never have the chance to lay a finger on you again.''
Promises of murder shouldn't knock the breath out of Harry's lungs like this. Shouldn't make him desperately cling onto the one making these earnest vows.
His throat constricts as his gaze lifts to meet the eyes that have accompanied Harry throughout all of this life.
''Thank you,'' he chokes.
The distance between them has grown so much smaller after taking the potion. It is closed entirely as Harry sways forward, allowing himself to freefall into Voldemort's arms. Cool, remarkably soft lips brush against his own. A hand that finds his lower back draws him closer, the kiss – wonderful, dizzying – becoming firmer. A balm to this damaged body.
Fearing to get lost in a maelstrom if not putting a stop to this sooner rather than later, Harry pulls back and sucks in a harsh breath to clear his head. Voldemort looks… victorious, as if he's already trampled every enemy between here and a safer future.
''I need a drink,'' Sirius mutters, which is Harry's cue to remember they're not alone. ''This is- this is going to be a long night, isn't it?'' The man looks absolutely devastated, but his eyes are not directed at Voldemort, or even at Harry's face that had just been attached to the Dark Lord. A steely gaze roams over Harry's back, which looks no prettier than the front.
The doorbell rings for the second time tonight, making Sirius groan. ''Oh no. No no no, I cannot deal with Reggie right now. One soulmate conversation is enough for tonight. No offence kiddo-'' he tells Hermione, then shoots her a wary look. ''You are a kiddo, right? Not going to do-'' A few odd wavy hand gestures that reminds of Muggle magicians pretending to cast spells before pulling a rabbit out of a hat follow. ''Funny business with aging potions and what sounds like impossible time travel?''
Hermione quietly shakes her head, unable to look away from Harry's scars either. ''Harry- did I look like that too? The future me?'' she shakily asks.
Shielding her – or anyone – would be counterproductive, as much as it pains to divulge the truth: ''All survivors who found no safe hiding spot looked like this, Mione. Better than the alternatives.''
''Imprisonment?'' she doubtfully questions.
He tiredly shakes his head. ''Being imprisoned wasn't the worst part of it. They ripped our magic away. Made us unable to function. Hermione…. the first time I was forced to step into a cancellation field was when I realised Muggles cannot have souls. Anyone who feels that empty all of the time and is fine cannot possess the same humanity we do. Forcing that emptiness upon others…''
He is breathing too fast, remembering too much all at once. The hole in his chest, worse than any bullet, the sound of his own soul screaming in agony.
''Darling,'' Voldemort whispers in his ear, enveloping Harry in arms that are so magnificently filled with magic that it almost bursts out of his veins. The one being Harry wishes to preserve above all others is here and will set that crooked future right again. The embrace does wonders to calm him as fast as the panic had risen. ''Hush.''
The bell disagrees, a few more impatient rings sounding through the house. Sirius doesn't react anymore – it seems he's left for the kitchen to the stash usually reserved for birthdays – so it is up to Severus to make a decision. So far, the man has quietly observed the scene as he is prone to doing when unable to make any useful additions.
''Miss Granger, you have a proper head on your shoulders, unlike some people.'' The hint is as unsubtle as they come. ''Direct Regulus inside and take him to the drawing room upstairs, will you? I trust you to handle your own soul mate without supervision. Unlike some people. You surely won't need a warning not to spontaneously undress. Unlike-''
''Message received, okay?'' Harry exasperatedly exclaims, sticking his tongue out towards his godfather, sheepishly realising a second later that this gesture may not look as disarmingly adorable on the face of a thirty-four-year-old man in too tight undies and an unshaven beard.
At least one of those problems is remedied quickly, as with a slow wave of Voldemort's wand, shimmering dark cloth materialises and wraps itself around Harry's torso and arms: a robe fancier than he's ever owned, of such a deep green it borders on black. ''Dressing me in your colours already?'' he questions, arching an eyebrow.
''Are you opposed to my colours?''
Harry decides to take it as a rhetorical question, turning to a still anxious Hermione who keeps glancing between him and the door towards the corridor. ''Severus already said it's okay,'' he reassures. ''Go before he thinks we aren't home.''
''I wish to be here to support you as well,'' she unhappily answers, obviously torn.
''He's in capable hands, Miss Granger.''
The girl furrows her brow and juts her chin up to meet Voldemort head-on. ''He better not have been wrong about you making him feel safe and happy, else you'll have to face me!'' she decidedly says, turning on her heel to march out.
''Mione!'' Harry hisses, cheeks flaring up hot. What utter betrayal.
As Hermione firmly closes the door to the living room behind her, they don't hear more than muffled voices and the dull sound of footsteps heading upstairs when she puts Regulus out of his misery by letting him in.
''Time travel, huh?'' Severus mutters, carefully putting his chair into its original position again. ''Sit, Harrison.''
The stern gaze is enough to make Harry feel rather meek, quickly sitting down and tugging at Voldemort's hand so his Intended follows. They decide to settle on the sofa for a spot of comfort, able to sit close without turning it into a compromising position.
~Your kiss was a thing of beauty,~ Voldemort fills the silence as they wait for Sirius to return.
On second thought, maybe these robes really are a bit too hot, Harry thinks as he tugs at the collar.
His intended isn't quit done yet, continuing: ~I imagine it will be even more pleasant when you have had a decent shave.~
''Hey, don't come at my beard,'' he retorts, rubbing the rough hair. It's not even that long. Well, maybe his moustache could use a bit of a trim. ''I forgot how it feels to have one.''
''Yes, I can sympathise,'' Voldemort dryly says.
Harry can't help but laugh at the absurdity of their situation, sitting in the living room of Grimmauld Place, joking about facial hair with an out-of-depth Severus listening to them like the world's sourest chaperone. ''Merlin, all of this is so weird. You, being in my home. Me, looking like this again… You still didn't say why it turned out… this way.''
''As I mentioned earlier, experimental potions can lead to side effects. Regular aging potions use the information stored in your cells to determine how you are likely to look at a certain point in time. In this case, I theorise it used your memories and magic to reproduce what you already looked like, once.''
Or maybe a little bit of both, Harry thinks to himself, as he wouldn't still have the soul mark otherwise. Without thinking, he flexes his right hand again. Voldemort takes it in his own as if compelled and is about to stroke the tattoo when he freezes for a second time. ''Mage or Muggle?'' he snarls, reading the damning line. ''Who dared damage our soul mark?''
''Mage,'' Harry sighs, pulling the hand away. Or trying to and failing. ''Who was not aware of my mark, in case that makes it any better. She was a Ministry worker invading Hogwarts who was less than pleased I announced you had returned to life. Used a blood quill to let the message 'sink in' that I should not spread such information.''
''Did you take revenge?''
He gives Voldemort a tired look. ''Things don't always work out like that in real life. No, I didn't take revenge on my abusive Muggle family and I did not get to take it on her. Not permanently anyways. I ensured she got booted from Hogwarts and she had a run-in with a horde of centaurs that may have screwed with her head, but about a year later she was practically running the Ministry on your behalf and then claimed innocence after your final death. She got demoted a bit and that was it. Didn't hear anymore from her after the second war started. And before you get any ideas, I do not want her dead. I do not want anyone with a drop of magical blood dead. Which reminds me- we need to have a talk to clear the air about your plans for Muggle-borns and Squibs.''
''What is taking Sirius so bloody long?'' Severus suddenly hisses under his breath, glaring daggers at the door. ''I want to understand this all, not get snippets of conversations that make no sense out of context!''
''Should I go check?''
His godfather doesn't seem too thrilled about that idea, probably not wanting to be left in the same room as Lord Voldemort. With all of Harry's history and involvement with the man, he's been a bit insensitive about Severus', who'd fought against the Dark Lord's impending reign for years and seen friends murdered. Including Harry's parents.
It's a sobering thought.
Much more sober than Sirius anyways, who barges in again, clearly having had a shot or three already to calm the nerves before stepping foot in here.
''Am not allowed to work if I'm drunk,'' he explains, plopping down on the remaining armchair. ''If I weren't, I would have needed to report… well all of this, frankly, as soon as the shock of having a serial killer in my living room promising to commit more murder wore off. I'm off the hook until it wears off, so start talking. Not too fast, I have to keep up.''
AN: Bit of a shorter one, but I figured Harry's existential crisis and their first kiss deserved its own chapter ;)
Please Read and Review,
xx GeMerope