AN: Posting a day early because I'll forget tomorrow.
Dust motes dance in the slanting light as Harry's gaze scans the weathered spines of ancient tomes. He's surrounded by silence, save for the occasional crackle from the hearth and the whisper of turning pages. The Malfoy Manor library is a treasure trove of arcane knowledge, its shelves bending under the weight of forgotten secrets.
Harry leans closer to an old leather-bound volume, tracing the embossed title with his fingertips. Focused, he pours over the yellowed pages, seeking clues about Dumbledore's past decisions, trying to reconcile the man he thought he knew with the revelations that now gnaw at his trust.
As sunlight creeps across the polished wood floor, Harry's mind churns with unanswered questions. His curiosity, a living thing within him, grows insistent. He needs to understand why Voldemort intervened so personally in saving him from the Dursleys when he could have easily sent anyone—or come himself.
With a deep breath, Harry sets aside the book and sinks back into the plush armchair. He closes his eyes, reaching inward towards that peculiar connection that has grown more familiar. It's a strange sort of intimacy, one that exists within the confines of his own mind, yet stretches out to touch another's.
"Voldemort," he calls silently, the name feeling less like poison these days.
There's a flicker in the darkness behind his eyelids, and then the connection snaps into place. The presence on the other end feels distant but attentive, a darkened echo chamber waiting for his voice.
"Why did you send the Malfoys to rescue me when you said you were coming yourself?" Harry's mental query is direct, a line cutting through the murky waters of their shared headspace.
The question hangs between them, as tangible as the books lining the surrounding walls. Harry waits, the seconds stretching out, his heart beating a steady rhythm against the backdrop of his expectant thoughts.
"You passed out immediately after that," he says without preamble, his mental voice cutting through the silence of the library. "I didn't want to arrive and kill your relatives without your input. It was important for you to make that decision yourself."
There's a calculated tone to Voldemort's confession, one that suggests strategic thinking rather than empathy. "So I reached out to Lucius. He has the self-control and could ensure your safety without causing unnecessary bloodshed."
The young wizard exhales, a weight lifting off his shoulders as he understands the choice that had been respected.
"Thank you for sending help and for not killing them," Harry responds, his gratitude genuine even as he grapples with the complexity of his feelings. The words feel strange on his tongue, thanking the man who had once sought to end him. But the sentiment is genuine; despite their cruelty, the Dursleys are still the only family he's ever known.
He can't see Voldemort, but he imagines the older wizard receiving his acknowledgement, perhaps with a nod or an inscrutable gaze. "I don't want to see them dead," Harry adds firmly, his green eyes hardening behind his round glasses. "But they should be held accountable for what they've done to me." Justice, not vengeance—Harry clings to that distinction with the tenacity of someone who has seen too much darkness to allow it to consume him.
Voldemort's response is a silent murmur in the back of his mind, acknowledging Harry's statement without comment. Harry sits back in the armchair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, as he contemplates the unexpected mercy shown by his enemy. His fingers brush absentmindedly against the lightning scar on his forehead—a symbol of survival and a reminder that life rarely offers simple choices.
He feels the weight of Voldemort's gaze upon him from within the recesses of his mind—a curious sensation, like being watched through frosted glass. The air in the library grows heavy, charged with an unspoken question lingering between them.
"What happens next?" Harry's voice is quiet but deliberate, breaking the hush surrounding him. He leans forward, elbows resting on the desk, face shadowed by doubt. "I'm looking into past curriculums and Dumbledore's history to understand more, but I'm unsure how this will help."
A pause stretches long and thin, and Harry can almost picture Voldemort deliberating, choosing his words with the precision of a chess master moving a piece across the board. There is a hesitation, a rare moment of indecision that humanises the connection they share.
"Harry," Voldemort finally responds, his mental voice tinged with something akin to caution. "The past is a complex tapestry—each thread woven with intention that may not be apparent at first glance."
Harry frowns slightly, feeling the undercurrents of truth in Voldemort's words. He knows that understanding the weave of history may hold the key to untangling the present. Yet, the path remains shrouded, leading Harry deeper into a labyrinth of uncertainty. He senses Voldemort's own need to guide him through this maze, perhaps as much for his own purposes as for Harry's enlightenment.
"Knowing Dumbledore, there will be layers hidden beneath layers," Harry muses aloud, more to himself than to Voldemort. "It's like trying to read a map without knowing the destination."
"Indeed," Voldemort agrees, a faint echo of respect in his tone. "But you are adept at finding your way through the darkness, Harry. You have done so before."
A small, wry smile touches Harry's lips at the acknowledgement. He has always found his way, hasn't he? Through trials that would break many, guided by an inner compass of bravery and resilience. The thought lends him a measure of confidence.
"Then I'll keep looking," Harry decides, his voice gaining strength. "There has to be a reason for all of this. And I intend to find it."
"Right now, I understand you're confirming what you've been told," Voldemort's voice slithers into Harry's consciousness, as tangible as if the man were standing beside him. The air seems to grow colder, but Harry remains focused on the task at hand.
"I'll be at Malfoy Manor this evening," Voldemort continues, his words curling around Harry's thoughts like smoke. "To explain more about Dumbledore's past—things that aren't in any books."
Intrigue prickles at Harry's skin. He has long suspected that history books and even his own memories provide only fragments of a much larger, obscured picture. Voldemort's promise of unrecorded knowledge dangles before him—an alluring, dangerous thread to unravel.
"I'll also outline your next steps," Voldemort adds, the measured cadence of his speech belying the weight of his intentions.
Harry pauses, pensive. His gaze rests upon the faded ink of the parchment, yet sees nothing of its contents. "What steps?" he wonders aloud, though the question is directed inward, meant for the serpentine presence in his mind.
"This is not the only plan I'm working on," Voldemort reveals, and Harry can almost envision the former Dark Lord arranging pieces across some vast, unseen chessboard. "There are many layers to our strategy. However, this particular plan directly affects you, Harry, so I'll be walking you and the Malfoys through what needs to be done to take Dumbledore down."
Harry stiffens. The idea of plans woven around him without his consent awakens a familiar defiance, a need to assert control over his own destiny. But the urgency in Voldemort's tone suggests a gravity Harry cannot ignore.
"For now, it's the only one I want you involved in," Voldemort explains, leaving an unspoken implication hanging between them—there are greater machinations at play, forces that could sweep Harry along in their wake unless he learns to navigate them.
He pauses, the parchment beneath his fingertips whispering secrets of a past long shrouded in shadow. Dumbledore's cryptic remarks and half-truths unravel like threads in a tapestry, leaving Harry grasping for the solid form of reality.
His jaw sets in determination, green eyes hardening behind round spectacles. "I'm not a kid," he insists into the silence that surrounds him as if the very walls could undermine his autonomy. "I don't need protecting." His voice, though but a murmur within the vast chamber, carries the weight of his growing self-reliance.
The connection stirs—a snake uncoiling in the recesses of his consciousness. The immediate presence of Voldemort slithers through his thoughts, invasive yet oddly comforting in its familiarity.
Harry halts mid-sentence, the air around him seeming to thicken. There it is, the unmistakable echo of amusement resonating in the shared space of their minds. This mirth that Voldemort harbours is almost tactile; it brushes against Harry's defences with the softness of velvet yet leaves an impression as indelible as steel.
"Amusing, isn't it?" Voldemort's voice is smooth, tinged with dark humour. "Your fervent declarations of independence."
Harry can't see him, but he imagines the slight upturn of Voldemort's lips, a smirk playing across those pallid features. He stands motionless, caught between irritation and an inexplicable sense of camaraderie.
"Very amusing, indeed," Voldemort continues, the words winding through Harry's mind with serpentine grace.
Harry resists the urge to scowl, understanding that their peculiar relationship thrives on such exchanges—push and pull, challenge and response. A game of chess where emotions and secrets are the pieces they manoeuvre.
"Maybe to you," Harry replies, his tone laced with a newfound edge. "But I'm still standing here."
"Indeed, you are," Voldemort concedes, and the tinge of respect in his voice feels like a victory, however small.
The connection begins to fade, receding back into the corners of Harry's mind. Yet the sensation of Voldemort's amusement lingers, a reminder of the strange camaraderie that has taken root between them. Alone once more, Harry turns back to the books, his resolve undimmed.
"Harry," Voldemort's voice intrudes, the connection between them a live wire once more. His tone shifts, solemnity replacing the earlier amusement. "I don't think you've ever been a child, given the way you were raised and treated." Harry pauses, the weight of truth in those words pressing down on him. "I want you to focus on gathering information, completing your summer homework, and figuring out where you stand in all of this."
Harry feels the gravity behind the directive. It's not just an assignment; it's a lifeline thrown across the chasm of uncertainty that gapes open at his feet. His head tilts back, eyes closing as he absorbs the implications. To search for his place in a world turned upside down is no small task, but it's one he cannot refuse.
He licks his dry lips, contemplating the shifting sands of allegiance beneath him. "What happens if I decide I don't want to be on your side?" Harry's voice is barely above a whisper, yet it echoes through the vast chambers of his mind.
The air in the library grows dense, as if charged with the weight of his spoken fears. The silence stretches, every second a lifetime of waiting for an answer that will either mend or unravel the tentative threads of understanding between him and Voldemort. Harry waits, the question hanging in the air, unanswerable for a moment longer. His heart hammers against his ribs, knowing that the answer could very well shape the course of his life.
Then, the voice comes, a low murmur in the back of his mind, smooth and unfaltering, "I would leave you alone." The words resonate, heavy with a promise Harry hadn't dared hope for. "You never asked to be involved in this war and you, like everyone else, deserve the right to decide. Given I don't wish to be involved in violence anymore, it shouldn't be hard for me to leave you alone, even with our connection."
Harry exhales a shuddering breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. Relief briefly touches his heart, feather-light. It's not absolution nor forgiveness, yet it is something—a recognition of his unwilling part in a narrative written by others. The assurance carries a gravity that tugs at Harry's resolve, hinting at complexities in Voldemort that Harry is only beginning to comprehend.
A flicker of gratitude kindles within him, quickly smothered by the reality of their situation. Harry sits back in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His eyes open, fixed on the intricate wood carvings of the library desk, tracing patterns without seeing them. He is alone, yet not alone; Voldemort's presence lingers, a shadow across his thoughts.
"Thank you," Harry murmurs, unsure if he's grateful for the response or the fact that Voldemort took his question seriously.
"Of course, but it may not be possible - there's a prophecy," Voldemort starts, his voice a low rumble in Harry's mind. It carries with it the weight of history, of truths untold and fates unwritten. "It predicts that you will defeat me."
Harry stiffens, his breath catching. Dust motes dance in a shaft of light, undisturbed by the gravity of Voldemort's admission. The surrounding books are silent witnesses to a confession that chills the air despite the sun streaming through the tall windows.
"In my madness, I acted on what little I knew and killed your parents, attempted to kill you, hoping to prevent it." The words fall heavy, laden with the burden of past sins. "But I don't know if the prophecy was fulfilled when you defeated me as a child, or even if it had to end that way."
The notion of a prophecy—a script dictating the ebb and flow of their lives—sends a shiver down Harry's spine. The room feels smaller, the walls inching closer as he grapples with the implications that his life has been mapped out, that his parents' deaths were mere pawns in a larger game, and it ignites a spark of rebellion within him.
"Only the person a prophecy is about can retrieve it," Voldemort explains further, unravelling mysteries with each word. "That's why it remains a crucial piece of information that we must collect at some point, but I hope there's more to it than what I know as I don't want to allow it to shape our future when there's work to be done."
Understanding dawns, pieces falling into place with the click of a lock. The prophecy isn't just a harbinger; it's a key—a key that Voldemort believes only Harry can turn. Yet, amidst the revelations, there's an undercurrent of something else in Voldemort's tone—a hint of respect, perhaps, or an acknowledgement of Harry's inherent role in the tangled tapestry of their destinies.
Harry's fingers graze the spine of an ancient tome, its leather cracked and worn. The texture grounds him, pulling him back from the precipice of thoughts too vast to comprehend fully. Prophecy or not, the choice of his path remains his own. And though the road ahead is shrouded in shadow, one thing is clear: knowledge is power, and Voldemort has just handed him a torch.
"I could collect the prophecy," Harry offers, his voice echoing slightly against the high, wood-panelled walls.
There's a pause on the other end of the connection, and when Voldemort responds, his words are careful, almost delicate. "It's something we should handle before September, but we can't reveal our hand just yet."
Harry feels a twinge of frustration. It's not the answer he wants, not when he's ready to step into the fray, to take control of this piece of his destiny. But Voldemort's voice remains steady, a calm counterpoint to the waves crashing inside Harry's head.
"Your disappearance hasn't been reported," Voldemort continues, his tone implying layers of strategy that Harry isn't privy to. "The Order may be aware, but it's not common knowledge, and Severus Snape hasn't reported to me, so I do not believe they know."
Harry leans back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His fingers tap a rhythm against the wooden armrest, his thoughts racing. There's more at play here than he realises, and Voldemort is keeping him in the dark. He doesn't like it, but he understands. They are, after all, still chess pieces manoeuvring around a board that spans further than Harry can see.
Nodding, Harry swallows the knot of conflicting emotions in his throat. The tapestries on the walls seem to watch him, ancient threads of history and magic intertwining just as the present weaves its own intricate patterns. "I appreciate the information," he says, his voice tinged with an honesty that surprises even himself.
The mental space they share vibrates with a tension that's both familiar and unsettling. Voldemort's presence is a constant hum in Harry's mind, a thread of silk spun tight with potential energy. "I'll see you at dinner," Voldemort promises, his voice a low rumble that resonates within the confines of Harry's skull.
It's a simple statement, but it carries the weight of a promise and a warning, a reminder of the delicate balance they now tread. The connection between them wanes, like the dimming of a lantern flame until it's snuffed out, leaving Harry in the quiet solitude of his own consciousness.
The library's air feels suddenly cooler, the silence more profound. Harry sits alone, the knowledge of the upcoming evening meeting settling over him like a cloak. A shiver runs down his spine, not from cold but from the apprehension of what revelations might unfold once the sun dips beyond the horizon.
Harry rises from the leather chair, its worn surface groaning at the loss of his weight. Each step he takes across the library is echoed by a soft thud, the sound oddly grounding amidst the whirlwind of his thoughts. He runs a hand through his unruly hair, exhaling slowly as he tries to anchor himself in the present.
His gaze drifts over the spines of ancient texts, words that have withstood the test of time, whispering secrets of history and power. They hold answers yet also breed questions that gnaw at the edges of his mind. Dumbledore's past, the truth of his own heritage—it feels like standing on the precipice of a vast chasm, peering into depths unknown.
"Focus," he murmurs to himself, his voice a low command that slices through the quiet. Harry has always been one to seek answers directly and to face challenges head-on. But the complexity of the path Voldemort has hinted at weaves uncertainty into his resolve.
He presses a palm against the cool wood of a bookshelf, the intricate carvings beneath his fingers a testament to the craftsmanship of another era. It's a stark contrast to the lightning-shaped scar searing his forehead—a badge of survival and a beacon of fate's twisted humour.
"Prophecies and plans," Harry whispers, tasting the bitterness of those words. That his life has been a chess game played by others fuels a flare of rebellion within him. Yet, there's an allure in steering his own destiny, of choosing a side not out of allegiance but informed conviction.
Pacing now, his steps are restless, mirroring the tumult in his chest. He recalls Voldemort's words and the unsettling kindness in his tone when speaking of choices and protection.
"Where do I stand?" The question hangs in the air, unanswered, challenging. Harry's green eyes, usually bright with determination, now reflect the storm of emotions brewing inside him. Loneliness wraps around him, a familiar companion in this grandiose room filled with the echoes of other people's legacies.
"Choices," he reaffirms, a promise to himself. His resolve solidifies with each syllable, each breath. Harry knows the importance of understanding every facet of the looming conflict, whether ally or adversary. It's not just about survival; it's about shaping the outcome, leaving a mark that is solely his own.
The light shifts outside the window, signalling the approaching evening. Shadows lengthen, stretching across the floor like dark fingers reaching for Harry's own shadow. Time ticks forward, inexorably, leading him towards that promised meeting and all the revelations it may hold.
Whatever dinner brings, whatever Voldemort reveals, Harry is ready to listen, learn, and ultimately, choose his path.