Word Count: 5378
Warnings: Suicidal Thoughts / Passively suicidal / Character Death / Murder
wrong or right (please prove me right)
The ground was scorched, there were bodies splayed out across the ashy grass, and the victors were cheering, their bloodlust sated. The war was over, and the Dark Side had prevailed.
Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He was exhausted, tired down to his very soul.
He'd tried his best and had been found wanting; he'd been bested by the more experienced, the more powerful, and honestly he was just glad that it was over.
Harry knew that he wouldn't be allowed a quick death. He'd be played with first, used as a symbol of the Dark's victory, but eventually, he'd be sent into the welcoming arms of death.
He looked forward to it.
…
Voldemort surveyed the room, his eyes resting on each of the captives, before he finally let his gaze settle onto Potter.
The boy—young man, now, he supposed—had been the quietest of all those in the cells. He sat in the corner, his arms and legs bound, his head resting back against the wall behind him.
He looked like he'd given up.
The sight should be satisfying, after so many years of fighting the brat, but it wasn't. Potter had been a worthy adversary; it seemed wrong now to see him so… empty.
"My Lord, what would you have us do with them?" Rodolphus asked, nodding his head at the nearest cells.
Voldemort glanced his way, and then smiled. "Have them transferred to the cells at Malfoy Manor. I'll see to them later."
"And Potter?"
"Potter as well. And Rodolphus?"
"Yes, My Lord?"
"I do not want him harmed. Give him a private cell, and once he's in there, untie him, allow him some comfort, and feed the boy. He looks as though he hasn't had a decent meal in months."
…
Harry could see the remaining Weasleys in the cells closest to his. Kingsley and Tonks were in the ones directly across from him. McGonagall sat primply in the cell in the far corner, her eyes stern and unyielding, the same way they had always been.
She looked like she was about to give some unruly Gryffindors a detention. Harry didn't know how she was staying so distinctly unruffled.
Molly, on the other hand, was crying, leaning against the bars she shared with Arthur. The sound grated on Harry's ears. What good was crying going to do now?
Their death sentences were as good as passed already; crying wasn't going to change anything. Voldemort wouldn't be moved by neither her tears, nor her grief for the son she'd already lost.
The other cells were filled with other members of the Order, a few students, people who'd fought against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Many of them were crying, albeit mostly silent tears, and fewer still were emulating—or trying to—McGonagall.
A few of them asked him for help, as though he wasn't also in the cells along with them. Hadn't they just watched him fail? Hadn't he tried and tried and tried?
He didn't know what else they could possibly want from him; he'd given them everything he had already.
Oddly, Harry had been unbound as soon as he'd been deposited in the cell. The others were still tied up, but Harry had been freed, and a few minutes later, blankets, food and a bottle of water had appeared in his cell.
Kingsley's voice—still calm, despite the situation—had carried through the dungeons, warning Harry not to eat or drink anything he was given.
Harry hadn't planned on it, but the warning still rattled against his nerves. He wasn't a child, and he wasn't stupid. He almost wanted to eat and drink, if only because he'd been told not to.
Instead, he ignored the tray, and kicked the blankets into the corner. He curled up on the stone ground, and closed his eyes. He wouldn't sleep, he knew—he hadn't slept for days, but exhaustion didn't mean he would get any rest—but he didn't want to see their accusing looks anymore.
He just waited, silently, for the pain to be renewed.
…
One by one, the prisoners were brought to Voldemort's feet. He sat in his throne-like chair, his wand twirling almost absently between his long fingers, as he told each of them the same thing.
"The war is over. Conform to the new world, or be sentenced to death."
It was a simple choice; he'd learned long ago that giving people a simple choice was often the path of least resistance, and, despite the beliefs of the people being brought before him, Voldemort didn't want to kill them all.
Magic was precious, and the people who were gifted with magic deserved the chance to live.
Many of them didn't take it.
Minerva McGonagall was the first to choose to live, and she was rewarded for her choice with her job. Severus was gone, and Voldemort knew that she was the most competent choice for the Headteacher of his beloved school.
She would be monitored; but he thought that, perhaps, she was more reasonable than many of the people on the losing side.
Kingsley Shacklebolt was another who chose to conform, and he was returned to the Auror office, A Pureblood, his magic strong—it would have been a waste to have killed him, and Voldemort was pleased.
Others were not so smart.
Molly Weasley had tried to appeal to his sense of compassion; an unfortunate choice for her, given that he didn't have one. His only kindness was the swiftness of the spell that took the air from her lungs.
Her husband and youngest children followed soon after her.
Percy Weasley chose to conform, as Lucius had predicted he would. The boy's ambition had long outstripped his attachment to his family, after all.
William and Charles had requested to return to their chosen homes in other countries, and Voldemort had accepted their vows to never return to the British Isles, and let them leave.
The last remaining Weasley, one half of a twin set that had already been destroyed, had simply stared at him with empty eyes, until green light stole the oxygen from his lungs. He slumped to the ground, relief etched in every crease of his face.
It was a kindness.
On, and on, it went, until finally, only Potter was left in the cells.
Still undecided on his course of action, Voldemort decided that he didn't want to deal with that confrontation quite yet.
"Take him some more food, and ensure his comfort," were his only instructions when he was asked if he'd like the boy brought before him as he had the others.
"My Lord, he hasn't eaten a single thing since he'd been here, and the blankets have been ignored in favour of him lying on the cold ground."
Voldemort barely bit back a sigh. Were these idiots Wizards, or not?
"Then spell the food directly into his stomach, and charm the ground soft. I have not come this far, only for him to succumb to dehydration, illness, or your incompetence!"
…
Harry was left alone in the cells for three days, if he could trust the sun's pattern through the small windows. The ground he'd curled up on had been cushioned, until it was as soft as a mattress, and the blankets had been charmed to slide over him, whenever he moved.
He didn't try to fight them.
He had no idea why any of it was happening. He wondered, absently, why he hadn't been murdered yet, but he didn't really care for the answer. He'd die eventually, even if it was just by being left in the cells.
Harry was good at waiting; he'd had plenty of practice.
A clatter on the bars signalled the arrival of whichever Death Eater had been sent to check on him, and Harry didn't bother to move, to see who it was. It didn't matter in the long run—they didn't speak to him, and he didn't speak to them.
He listened to the measured footsteps as they got closer, until eventually, they stopped. Except, this time, they didn't go back the way they'd come after a few moments.
Harry heard the lock clanking, the bars sliding open, and a few more footsteps, as whoever was there came directly into the cell.
Was it finally time for his death? He found himself hoping so.
A surprisingly gentle hand manipulated his body, until he was looking up into the vibrant red eyes of the Dark Lord himself.
Voldemort was frowning down at him.
"You weren't supposed to give up, Potter."
…
Voldemort found that he was distracted. He'd finally won the war he'd fought for so long, the country was his to guide, his to rule, and yet, the victory felt strangely hollow.
His Horcruxes—almost all of them—had been destroyed. Only one remained, and ironically, it was one that he'd never intended to make in the first place.
And now, in the bowels of Malfoy Manor, Potter lay in his cell, the light gone from his eyes, as he stared, unblinkingly at the wall. It rankled.
Was it really a victory, if his biggest enemy simply rolled over and accepted the loss like it meant nothing? Was it truly a victory when Tom now knew that he needed the boy to survive?
Voldemort had seen more life in the victims of a Dementor's kiss than he found when he'd looked into Harry Potter's eyes.
While he'd planned Potter's death for so long, as a point of pride in the war, a supposed turning point, he was now forced to change all of his plans. To what, he didn't know yet.
Either way, he was sure that Dumbledore was laughing at him from beyond the grave, the bastard.
…
Harry was moved from his cell in the dungeons to a tastefully decorated bedroom. He didn't really care, beyond a brief curiosity at the change. It didn't really make much of a difference, in the long run.
It was one cell for another, no matter the decor.
The bathroom was a welcome addition though, and he did enjoy the long shower he took, once he'd been left alone.
Dressed in fresh clothes for the first time in Merlin knew how long, Harry curled up in the armchair, by the largest window in the room.
He didn't trust the view, of course—window charms were not uncommon—but it was still a nicer view than the wall of the dungeons.
He ignored the food when it came, leaving the elves to pop in and out as they chose, and remained where he was, as the sky outside slowly darkened.
Instead of testing the bed, Harry remained in the armchair, and stared up at the stars. If only wishing upon a star was a true form of magic; his life wouldn't be what it is now.
His friends would all be alive, well, and happy. His godfather would be alive and laughing. His school would have remained the safe haven it had been when Harry was freshly turning eleven and only just delving back into the Magical world.
The Dark Lord would never have existed, or, perhaps he would, but in a different way. Tom Riddle could have been an exceptional beacon for the world.
Harry couldn't help but remember the young Tom Riddle he'd met in the diary; the intelligent, ambitious boy that could have changed the world for the better, if only he hadn't been so twisted up by hatred, and the need for revenge.
And he could have changed it for the better, Harry didn't doubt that.
It is our choices that show who we really are.
Harry sighed to himself, running a hand through his hair. He didn't think that Dumbledore had ever said anything more true than that.
…
Voldemort stood in the doorway, watching the boy. He'd been sitting in the armchair for hours, according to the elves, and the monitoring charms that had been placed on the room before he'd been moved.
Stepping inside, he let the door fall shut behind him, and sat down on the bed, waiting. Slowly, Potter turned to look at him.
"Why am I here?"
Voldemort almost chuckled. He should have known that would be the first—and only—answer Potter would want.
"Is that an existential question, Potter? I'd rather thought that we would work our way up to such interesting conversational topics."
Potter merely sighed and didn't reply.
"Did you truly believe that I'd kill you, when I learned the truth?" Voldemort asked softly. "Did you honestly believe that I'd allow any harm to come of you, once I knew?"
Potter arched his eyebrow. "The truth?"
"You house my soul, Potter. You've gotten rid of almost all of them—yes, I'm fully aware of your adventures—but not the one inside of yourself. No, only I could rid you of that one."
…
Harry knew Voldemort knew of the others; hadn't he seen the man as he travelled to each hiding place? He was surprised though, that Voldemort knew of the one in Harry's scar.
Dumbledore hadn't believed that he'd been aware of that one, as far as Harry knew. Then again, it wasn't like the old Headmaster shared much with him.
Perhaps it was a new awareness, Harry supposed. He didn't know, and he likely wouldn't ever know. Nor did it really make any kind of a difference to the situation; Harry wouldn't be allowed the freedom of death.
"So, I'm to be caged for the rest of eternity?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "Caged, so that you can live forever?"
Voldemort regarded him for a long moment. "That's the question, isn't it, Potter? What does one do with a living Horcrux? It's never been done before."
Harry didn't have an answer for him. How long would it be, before he went utterly insane, locked in a room?
Voldemort was never going to trust him with any amount of freedom—which was, objectively, not a terrible decision on his part—and Harry wouldn't be allowed to die.
It was a conundrum, but Harry couldn't help but regard it with an absent, almost detached, sense of curiosity. He felt numb to the fact that it was his own situation.
Actually, he just felt numb in general.
…
"For now, you will remain here," Voldemort said eventually. "If you would like some company, I will ensure that you are provided for."
"Is there even anyone alive that I would like speaking to?" Potter asked, his face blank of emotion.
It was such an odd contrast to the always passionate boy that Voldemort had encountered over the years.
"Miss Granger chose to live," Voldemort replied softly.
Potter's eyes widened. "You gave people a choice?"
"Of course. I am merciful."
There was a choking sound, and Voldemort realised that Potter was trying to bite back a laugh.
"You're not serious," he muttered, shaking his head. "The day that you show mercy to anyone, is the day that pigs fly, unaided by a spell."
"And yet, here we are. Minerva McGonagall is back at Hogwarts, Kingsley Shacklebolt is in his place at the Ministry. I do not, nor did I ever, intend to waste magic, Potter."
"The Weasleys?"
Most of them had chosen death, of course, and Voldemort tilted his head slightly before he answered. "William, Charles and Percival are all still amongst the living."
"Ron and Ginny?"
"Chose to die."
Potter nodded, running a hand through his hair. "Right. I. Yeah. I suppose that I expected as much."
Voldemort nodded his head, and then stood up. He'd given Potter enough to think about, and he supposed that he should send someone to track down Miss Granger.
…
"Harry?"
Harry didn't have time to even fully turn before arms were wrapping around him, right enough to compress his lungs. He hugged Hermione back for a long time, feeling her tears soak into the t-shirt he'd been wearing, until eventually, she pulled back.
Unable to conjure a second chair for her, he tugged her onto his lap, his hand playing with the ends of her hair.
"I thought you were dead," she murmured.
"I thought that I would be too," he agreed. "They didn't hurt you?"
She shook her head. "No. I was planning to go to Australia. Find my mum and dad, you know? Probably stay there. I didn't think that there was anything left for me here."
"You should still go," Harry told her softly. "If anyone deserves a fresh start, it's you."
"I can't just leave you here!"
"I'll never be allowed to leave, Hermione," Harry replied softly. "He figured out that his last Horcrux is inside me. He'll never let me leave."
"He can't just… keep you locked away in the room forever," she said, frowning slightly. "Harry… you'll go mad."
"I can't fight him," Harry replied. "Even practically, I'd have no chance. I have no wand. But more than that… I can't fight him anymore, Hermione. I tried. I tried so goddamn hard, for so long, and I just… I can't do it anymore."
"I know," she told him, stroking her hand through his hair. "I know. I was there, Harry. I saw you give it your all. And hey, we did well, didn't we? We managed to stay alive for almost a year, with half of the Wizarding community after us."
Harry chuckled. "Yeah, I guess we did. I just want peace now. I just want to be left alone. Forgotten about."
She stared at him for a long moment. "You wanted to die. You wanted him to kill you."
Harry shrugged. "I believed that he would. Death didn't sound so bad."
She bit her lip. "They said that I can stay here with you. For as long as—"
"No," Harry said, shaking his head firmly. "I'm glad to see you, and I can't even tell you how happy I am that you're alive, but you can't stay here, Hermione. I need you to go to Australia, find your parents and live your life. Do something amazing, have lots of incredible babies that will change the world, have some fun. But you can't stay here, Hermione."
"I can't just leave you here!"
"You can, and you will. Maybe they'll let you write to me. Tell me about the world, about what you end up doing. I'd like that. I… don't make me be responsible for you being held captive here, Hermione. Please."
"Maybe I can visit a little. Maybe once a year?"
"Maybe," he agreed softly. "I… I guess I could ask for that. He said that I could have some company if I wanted it, so… maybe he'll allow you to come and see me sometimes."
"I can stay for a while now though, right?" She asked. "My flight isn't for a few days, Harry. I can stay with you until then."
He smiled, kissing her cheek as he squeezed her hip. "Okay."
…
Voldemort had been expecting a request for a room for Granger—a guest room, at the very least—and when it didn't come, he found himself walking to the room to check on them.
Granger was curled up on the bed, fast asleep, but Potter was still sitting in the chair.
"She's staying?" Voldemort asked quietly.
Potter shook his head. "Not for long. Just until her flight to Australia."
"She didn't want to stay, even knowing that you're here alive?" Voldemort asked, admittedly confused.
He'd watched the girl stand by Potter for years, and he couldn't understand why this would be any different.
Potter smiled, his eyes never leaving her. "She wanted to stay, but I told her no. I'm trapped here, but she isn't. She's got so much to offer to the world; she deserves better than a caged existence."
His words didn't settle well with Voldemort, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.
"I could make her stay."
"You could," Potter agreed. "But I don't think that you will."
"Oh? So sure that you know my motivations, Potter?"
"Definitely not," Potter murmured. "But I can only go off of your own words. You offered her a choice. You don't want to waste magic. To keep her here would be against my choice, and it would be an absolute waste of one of the brightest minds of the current generation. So, no. I don't think that you'll force her to stay here."
"And what about you, Potter?"
"What do you mean?"
"If I allowed you a choice, what would you do?"
Potter sighed, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he looked at Voldemort for the first time. "I'd go back to the Muggle world. Travel, perhaps. Anything that didn't include more fighting."
"You wouldn't try to kill me? Wouldn't rally an army for a second attempt?"
"No. No, I wouldn't. But it's all a moot point anyway. You won't endanger me, because I'm part of you, and the world is inherently dangerous, even without a magical war."
Voldemort couldn't find fault in Potter's argument. He left the room feeling unsettled. As he closed the door, he saw Potter finally abandoning his chair for the bed, though he didn't get into it.
Instead, he sat beside Granger, and stroked her hair.
Voldemort tried to ignore the tears on his face.
…
Hermione had sobbed when they parted, but Harry had smiled at her softly, promising her that he'd be okay. He made her promise to live her life for herself, and to maybe write to him occasionally.
He was expecting her to write the first letter before her flight had even landed in Australia, if he was honest.
She was led from the room by a house-elf, and Harry had flopped onto the bed, staring up at the canopy above it. Alone again.
At least alone meant that she was okay. And she would be, he had no doubts about that. Hermione had always been destined to do amazing things.
The door to his room opened, and when he looked up, it was to see Draco standing in the doorway. Harry arched his eyebrows as he sat up, eyeing his school rival carefully.
He didn't have a wand to defend himself if Draco decided to get him back for… whatever he felt like he needed revenge for, Harry supposed.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Come with me, Potter."
Curious despite himself, Harry followed him from the room into a long hallway. Draco led him to the left, until they arrived in front of a set of ornate, double doors.
Draco opened one and slipped inside, clearly expecting Harry to follow him, which he did.
It turned out to be a large library. The high walls were stacked with shelves, all of them filled to the brim with books. In the corner of the room, Harry spotted a few armchairs, a coffee table, and a lamp, by an expensive looking fireplace.
"The Dark Lord has instructed that you are to have open access to the library. If you need anything, Anabel is the elf assigned here. She'll be able to guide you to any specific books, or get you parchment, ink or quills if you have a need for them."
Harry nodded, glancing around. "Wanna point me towards the Quidditch books?"
Draco snorted, but he dutifully pointed to the left hand side of the library. "Third shelf up from the bottom."
Harry nodded. I… thanks. Tell him thanks, too, I guess."
"... You're welcome, Potter."
Draco left him alone, and Harry moved slowly around the library, looking at the many subjects and books on offer. A vague plan began forming in the back of his mind.
It was a long shot, he knew, but perhaps not entirely impossible.
For the first time since he'd been bound and dropped into a cell, Harry felt a stirring of hope in his chest. Maybe all wasn't quite lost. Not yet.
…
"He appears to be searching for something specific, if his book choices are anything to judge," Lucius said, handing over the parchment that automatically recorded the books taken from the shelves in the library.
Voldemort scanned the book list, and then chuckled. Potter was searching for books on Horcruxes, though to what end, Voldemort could only guess.
Surely the boy didn't think he would be able to destroy the one in himself?
As he glanced over the book list again, another possibility struck him. Perhaps Potter was looking to see if there was a way to move the Horcrux to a new home.
It was, technically, possible, though the reasoning was beyond Voldemort, if that was the boy's intention. Should he find something, he would literally be giving Voldemort the means to kill him.
Unless that was what he wanted.
Standing up, Voldemort swept from his office and went in search of Potter.
…
Harry was taking notes when the doors to the library slammed open. Voldemort walked inside, his eyes glowing with what Harry suspected was anger.
He flinched, his scar hurting for the first time since he'd been captured.
"It won't work," Voldemort snapped, nodding to the books.
"It might," Harry replied, glancing down at his parchment.
"I won't take the risk," Voldemort said, his tone firm. "This isn't a regular Horcrux, Potter. I didn't do the rituals, I didn't split my soul intentionally in Godric's Hollow. Even if you found a foolproof way to move a normal Horcrux, that does not mean that it would work for the one in your scar."
Harry stared at him for a long moment, and then dropped his quill, slumping back into the seat he was sitting in.
"There's really no way out."
"It was a sinking realisation, one that he'd already had multiple times, and yet this time, it seemed to hit with more finality. This was his life.
Trapped.
Voldemort stared at him for a long moment, and then sat down in one of the seats facing Harry.
"I find myself unwilling to leave you so… unhappy," he said, looking rather perturbed at the thought. "I can give you everything but freedom."
The pain in his scar dulled, and Harry wondered how it was that he wasn't in pain simply due to Voldemort's proximity, but he didn't bother to ask. He wouldn't complain, if he didn't have to deal with his forehead hurting all the time.
"Are the grounds warded?" he asked, eventually.
Voldemort nodded, slowly.
"Then can I go for a walk outside? You can come with me, or send someone else to watch me. I just… I'd like to be outside for a while."
There was a long pause, and then Voldemort stood up. "Come."
…
The new routine was… oddly satisfying.
Voldemort spent the morning doing paperwork—being a Dark Lord came with a surprising amount, particularly now that he'd won and taken over the government—before he'd go and find Potter in the library.
The two of them would take a walk on the grounds, mostly in silence, before Voldemort's meetings.
After his meetings, Voldemort would once more seek Potter out, again, usually in the library, and spend a few more companionable hours with him.
Of course, there were times when the routine would be interrupted, and Voldemort found himself getting more and more irritable when that happened.
Curses flew from his wand much easier when he hadn't spent some time with Potter before his meetings, and his Death Eaters began to dread the days that something came up.
He considered, to himself, whether it was a weakness, this new found companionship, but he decided that, in the long run, it didn't really matter. Potter, as the home to his soul, was already his biggest weakness.
Now though, three days into a disaster at the Ministry, and Voldemort was considering murdering his entire following, if it meant that he got half an hour's peace.
…
"Potter?"
Harry glanced up from his book to see Lucius in the doorway of the library.
"Is he okay?" he asked, even though he knew, by the prickling in his scar, that he wasn't. He hated that he even cared. Every single part of him knew that it was ridiculous, but he couldn't help it.
Voldemort had become his only constant.
Lucius' eyes widened slightly. "He is… agitated."
"Can I do anything to help?"
"I… believe so. But this is a risk, Potter. You should be forewarned of that."
Harry put his book down on the table. "He won't hurt me. You should be warning yourself. If anyone is going to take the brunt of your plan going wrong, it will be you."
Lucius paused, and then he nodded his head. "It will be worth it. If you're sure, come with me."
Harry stood up and followed Lucius out of the library. He didn't know what he was walking into, but it was different, and… Harry wanted to be useful.
Even if it was to Voldemort.
Perhaps especially because it was Voldemort.
He didn't even know anymore.
…
Voldemort only became aware of Harry's presence in the crowd when he saw his messy hair moving amongst the cloaks of his gathered followers. He watched, in barely concealed disbelief, as Potter sat down at the foot of Voldemort's throne, leaning back against the leg of it as though it was something that he did every day.
There was silence in the room, as though every single person was holding their breath for the explosion that was sure to come.
And yet.
Voldemort felt himself calming a little, and his hand slipped into Potter's hair, playing with the strands that were in perfect reaching distance.
"Avery, continue with your report," he ordered, turning his attention back to the meeting.
As Avery spoke, Voldemort twirled his wand almost absently conjuring a comfortable pillow beneath Harry. They were going to be there for a while; it wouldn't do for Harry to be uncomfortable.
…
Harry stayed until the end of the meeting, watching as the Death Eaters trailed out. Only a few of them were brave enough to look back at Voldemort, with Harry at his knee.
"Lucius, I presume?" Voldemort asked, when they were alone.
Harry nodded. "He felt that, perhaps, I would be able to ease your… agitation."
"You've been stuck inside for three days now," Voldemort pointed out.
"I have. I… I'm glad that you're okay. I was… concerned."
Harry ducked his head slightly, so that he wouldn't have to see whatever Voldemort thought of Harry's concern. There was silence for a long moment, and then Voldemort stood up, and held his hand out to Harry.
"Come, Harry. Let us take a walk. You must have energy to spare."
Harry took the offered hand, and let Voldemort pull him up to his feet. Their hands didn't part as Voldemort led the way to the doors.
…
"What… why do you have that?" Harry asked, frowning at Voldemort.
Voldemort handed the object over to Harry, and hoped that he understood. Harry accepted his wand with wide eyes, staring at Voldemort for a long moment.
"You're letting me go?"
Voldemort nodded once. "In the hopes that, when you're ready, you'll come back to me."
"Why?"
"Because I believe that if I keep you locked up here, you will be content, perhaps, but never happy. I… your happiness is… important to me."
"You trust me?" Harry asked.
"More than I trust anyone else," Voldemort admitted. "Perhaps it is folly on my part, perhaps not. Only you can prove me wrong or right, Harry."
Harry stood, pocketing his wand, and then reached out a hand to cup Voldemort's cheek. Voldemort leant into the touch, unable to help himself.
"I'll come back."
And then he was gone.
Voldemort could only wait, and the hope, that he hadn't just made a mistake.
…
"My Lord?"
Voldemort looked up to see Lucius standing in the doorway to his office, a smile on his face that hadn't been present there for a while.
"What is it, Lucius?"
"You have a visitor, My Lord. Should I send him in?"
Voldemort silently nodded, waiting impatiently for whoever had interrupted his day. He didn't have the time for interruptions, and he'd ensure whoever it was—
Harry stepped into the office, a small smile on his face. "I told you that I'd come back."