AN: Please keep in mind for this chapter: Harry is still under the influence of Felix Felicis for the remainder of the day, plus has taken an ageing potion that makes him appear in his late thirties at the moment.

Extra warning: death of a child approximately age 8-10

Chapter 1 - Monsters

When Voldemort first described the dungeons in which he performed experiments on Muggles, Harry could only think of dark, damp spaces with rusty tools hanging on the walls and iciness chilling one to the bone. The cellar of Malfoy manor that he'd at one point been imprisoned in had largely fit this stereotype. The network of corridors and rooms beneath Hogwarts that Harry has such fond childhood memories of also aren't exactly cosy, certainly not with Severus' fascination of preserved ingredients floating in jars and the obsession most Slytherins appear to have with skeletons and serpents.

The dungeons beneath the ostentatious manor are rather the opposite of the expected medieval prison. When Harry steps through the heavy door that separates this space from the rest of the house, he is met with a clean corridor lined with etched doors and windows through which light streams in. He hasn't the time to ponder on it, the Dark Lord having taken his hand and dragging Harry through the first open door into a room which has obviously been magically expanded. They did not descend the stairs for long enough for such a high ceiling to fit otherwise.

The ceiling only holds his attention for so long when there are so many other fascinating details to take in. In the centre of the room stands a round table over which a glass dome has been placed. Within, storms rage and fire spreads. Blinking rapidly, Harry tries to make sense of the scene, approaching the table to have a better look. What he sees is a miniature landscape of an island of unfamiliar shape. Half of it is covered by a forest that is well on its way of being burned to cinders, whereas the other half is plagued by tornadoes and massive waves that cause wreckage on pinpricks of houses.

"A disaster simulator?" Harry asks. Natural disasters seem like a very ineffective way to kill, all things considered. Compared to their entire population, wiping out individual villages of Muggles with forest fires and typhoons will take far longer than they have time for.

The disappointment can evidently be read from his face, for the Dark Lord sighs deeply. "One small step in the grand scheme, darling. Obviously , the number of casualties resulting from even the greatest of disasters is barely comparable to what is necessary. The consequences, however, make this a worthy method."

"Meaning"

"Look here."

Interest piqued, Harry steps away from the table to approach his Intended, who calls his attention towards the wall where handwritten lists have been pinned. Above each, a different category is noted in Voldemort's neat handwriting: disasters , famines, epidemics, wars... It doesn't take long to figure out this is the summary of the research done in the past months, for the lists are arranged by death toll. Between the pieces of parchment stuck to the wall, an impossible to count number of arrows has been drawn as if by a madman.

Voldemort very much looks like one when he grins widely, a sharp nail tapping impatiently on the parchment. "It all influences each other, see? Disasters cause a decrease of economic stability. This gives rise to food shortages, sickness, and strife. With increased globalisation and political alliances, the range of these effects spreads even to areas entirely untouched by the disasters. Governments offer relief funds to affected countries and in doing so, cause dissent within their own population. It works reversed as well: a well-placed and -timed earthquake or flood can push an already struggling population over the precipice to extinction."

Harry takes a step back, mentally and physically, to re-evaluate what exactly they are doing here. All choices made from the moment he had travelled back in time had ultimately led up to this, the day that he and Voldemort would sit down and discuss very real options to eliminate the magicless.

It hadn't felt very real up until now. Although there had been plotting and talking, as well as attempts to convince those around him, it had been an idea in Harry's mind more so than a reality - until he stepped through the doors of this room and saw the clinical numbers of fatalities scribbled on the walls.

It has been his deepest wish to prevent his own horrible future by striking first and yet, he spent more time on fixing his family, his love life, as well as on the side projects at Hogwarts.

That is about to change now.

As it should.

He doesn't comment on the numbers for now, silently stepping away to give the rest of the room a critical look. A bit further away, a half-arch of full bookshelves has been placed behind a set of armchairs and a table that forms a reading corner of sorts. The walls are lined with more tables and desks upon which unfamiliar devices are placed, and in a corner stands a human skeleton that is most certainly not made of plastic. Regardless of the subject of study and eccentricities, the atmosphere is as pleasant and cosy as the Hogwarts library. It feels strangely unfitting.

Letting his gaze travel over the scene, a pressing need arises to justify himself to empty air.

What they are doing is neither right nor wrong. It is simply necessary to fulfil the promise he has made, to see to it that those he cares about won't be hunted down again. It is Muggles who started it, so it will have to end with their removal. Why shouldn't the methods to reach that point be discussed in inviting halls that bring comfort?

There are a few almost inaudible voices stemming from Harry's buried conscience that whisper how wicked this is. They sound annoyingly like his godfathers. Harry closes his eyes and takes a deep breath to squash these thoughts. Sirius and Severus can scold him all they want in reality, there's no need for echoes of their misplaced worries to worm their way into his head. He fights for magic. For a promise of a brighter future for his family. There's only one way to ensure he reaches it.

Rather than his broken moral compass, he listens to luck. Envisioning his goal of defeating Mugglekind, he stills in hopes of catching a bout of sudden inspiration from the Felix Felicis that courses through his body still. It's rather silent, as if he already is exactly where he needs to be.

"Harry?"

Putting a stop to these unhelpful ponderings, Harry's focus returns to his soul mate. Wandering back and leaning in to study the lists on the walls to acknowledge the man's work, Harry rubs his chin in thought – secretly delighting in the way his fingers run through coarse hair granted by the ageing potion taken earlier today. Its effects will likely fade soon, so he'll enjoy this while it lasts.

"This is… impressive," he at last speaks up. "I know you were devising ways to kill without having to directly face them but this… How difficult is this to pull off? I don't know of spells that can raise tsunamis, create illness or cause famine. Also, as much of this poses a risk to the environment, won't it affect magical creatures and Muggle-born kids who still live with their parents?"

"Creatures can be warned, Muggle-born children removed," Voldemort easily waves these concerns away. "Identification spells for Muggle-borns currently used to track newborns for soul mark-related Obliviations can be adapted to find them and whisk them to safety within the blink of an eye. Squibs too are registered by our governments," the man adds in afterthought, clearly to appease Harry. "Additionally, you may be over-estimating how many mages this would affect. Most of the wizarding population already lives separately from Muggles, plus Muggle-borns number few."

Harry nods thoughtfully and turns towards his Intended with a strained smile. "I'm sure there'll be many details to work through together. So many unknown factors could blow our cover and expose that magic is at work or have mages be dragged into it as victims. Nevertheless, it's a great start. Having so many possibilities that you are looking into at once is promising…"

There's still an odd mixture of guilt and giddiness that is difficult to shake. Speaking more of this without seeing the enemy they are facing is odd. Most people find it easier to harm those out of sight. For Harry, it is only when he looks the enemy in the eye and finds them dangerous that he can be certain of his righteousness. Inhaling deeply, he proclaims: "As lovely as it is to see your theoretical research into calamities and death counts, you promised me a chance of retribution. Where are those captives you can spare?"

Harry's tense stance and crossed arms only relax when the Dark Lord invades his personal space and envelops him in a tight embrace. A flat nose buries in untameable black hair, Voldemort inhaling deeply to revel in Harry's scent. "How sweet your words of violence, darling… such exquisite music to my ears. If only you had been born fifty years earlier, we could have terrorised Hogwarts together, shared our first kill together."

"I rather carry your soul than split my own," he responds, twisting in Voldemort's grip and tilting his head until their lips brush together. The Peverell ring weighs heavy on his hand: a Horcrux, a Hallow and now, a sign of their commitment. "Wasn't I worth the wait?" he teases.

A growl slipping past Voldemort's lips is his only warning before the kiss delightfully deepens. Harry allows it for a breathless minute before tactfully retreating, not wishing for a repetition of the awkward moment earlier today, when the Dark Lord had struggled against the influence of Felix Felicis to not be dragged into sex right then and there. Harry understands that his Intended has a somewhat more traditional idea of romance and planned it all out long before he knew who his soul mate would be.

'Don't ruin this for me', the man had demanded, and Harry would be loath to start their engagement with spoiling Voldemort's idealised picture-perfect courtship – however that may look now the Dark Lord had already proposed on one knee and practically demanded to slip a ring on Harry's finger.

"You're gorgeous," Harry cannot help but murmur as he retreats and spots a slight flush to otherwise so pale cheeks. He barely holds back an 'I love you', for he just knows they'll end up naked on the floor otherwise.

Another time.

Tomorrow , Felix whispers in the back of his mind, though it's less of an actual whisper and more a strong feeling of certainty about tomorrow being perfect for such a step. Harry expertly ignores it, for if he starts focusing on the accelerating avalanche that is his romantic life, he might as well have waited with coming down here to sort out his relationship in full first.

At least he was lucky enough to get in a last kiss at an opportune moment, for no sooner does he step out of Voldemort's arms, does Harry feel his body unpleasantly shrinking. When he lets out an annoyed grunt, it is with a prepubescent voice that hasn't cracked yet. With a low snarl, Harry draws his wand to adapt the now far too large robes once again.

"I've got to find a solution for this. I can hardly keep taking ageing potions every hour of the day."

"You have survived almost twelve years with the body you were born in here," Voldemort points out.

"Yeah, when I was single and living with my godparents or at Hogwarts. It feels different now, even more restricting than before. I don't want to be reliant on potion supplies every time I want to kiss you or have a drink. I don't want to be underestimated by possible followers of ours for looking like a child if I don't happen to have an ageing potion at hand. Now I know how I can look closer to the age I truly am, it's difficult to accept… this."

Harry frustratedly gestures towards his own body, which makes his engagement slide an inch down a now much thinner finger than the one it had been placed on. Only a sudden urge to lift his hand in the last second prevents it from falling off entirely. It's an exceptionally subtle push, so Harry is glad he's actively watching out for Felix' guidance to listen to. The potion's nudges are so much quieter now than in the first few hours after drinking it. It's bothersome, especially since Harry isn't quite certain whether the reason is due to clashing with the far more powerful magic of the Hallows and Death, or perhaps simply due to passing time. Before today, he'd only ever taken this potion in small doses, enough for an hour or two, never a whole vial.

Unhappily, Harry gazes down upon the ring, realising that only his thumb is broad enough to secure it on – and even then, he needs to be careful, for it's not a very tight fit. He wonders why the soul piece lodged inside the metal has not shown any reaction… Can it not move its vessel similarly to how the Locket had made its chain strangle Harry once, or how the diary mysteriously washed up each time it was flushed down a toilet?

Shelving the thought of his engagement ring being a possibly malicious artefact, he concentrates on Voldemort's main soul and shows his Intended how loose the ring fits by holding his hand up, letting the Horcrux dangle on his fingertip. "See? Not ideal," he pouts.

"I understand why it is bothersome… I will look into solutions for you," the other seriously promises. "May I ask… which version of your older body offers most comfort? The one that resembles that of your first life or the one you wore today, untouched by past hardships?"

It's a loaded question, one Harry isn't sure he can answer so swiftly. Does he wish to carry all those battle scars? They certainly don't make him any prettier, but they are his. A reminder of why Harry became who he is. Why he does what he must.

Smiling wryly, he is reminded of how his soul mate had fished for Harry's opinion on Voldemort's own looks. "Is there any version of me that you prefer?" he echoes the man's own question that had been asked on the day Voldemort had shown up on the doorstep of Grimmauld place number twelve.

"Your old one," the older wizard promptly answers, not even needing a second to think about it.

Taken slightly aback by how quickly Voldemort decided, he asks: "Why? Didn't you comment that I looked like a walking corpse?"

"The malnutrition can be taken care of easily if you no longer revert back to a younger body all the time. No, that was not what I took into account. It is because of your scars: visible evidence of the life you have already lived, of the war that led you to travel here in search for me. As well as…" His Intended looks away for a moment, pensively staring at the raging storms in the large glass dome. "…to remain acutely aware of the importance of my promise to you. Perhaps it was not precisely I who gave you half your wounds, yet it is I who will repent for them, as I swore to you. Do not misunderstand me; you looked stunning with unblemished skin, and I most certainly am pained to see your soul mark distorted in your true form, but seeing you in the other feels off. As if a part had been forcibly erased."

How is it that Voldemort can put words to it so much better than Harry himself? It's interesting to see how he should have grown up in an ideal world, where no malice had touched him since the Killing Curse had failed to strike him down. However, it also felt too fake to look at, even more so than the youthful body he had grown to dislike so much as it did not age fast enough.

The other isn't quite done, reaching out to gingerly press the pad of his thumb against Harry's forehead, tracing the lightning bolt with a feathery touch. Predictably, the Dark Lord cannot keep away, once more closing the distance that Harry created before, as if the steps belong to a slow dance. Brushing jet-black hair to the side, Voldemort leans down to replace fingers with cold lips.

Securing Harry in his arms again, the Dark Lord whispers: "I wish to kiss every one of your scars to remind myself of my vow. Our enemies will burn so you may sleep peacefully when it is over."

The words touch a vulnerable spot in Harry's heart, piercing its core and filling it with warmth. Maybe it is twisted and unhealthy to be so flattered by the offer of violence, but he's come to realise quickly that lashing out towards everything that might cause Harry harm is Voldemort's way of showing love.

"You're such a romantic," he replies, unable to keep a smile from creeping up on his face.

"That, I will admit solely to you." With one more kiss dropped to the crown of Harry's head, Voldemort untangles himself until only their hands remain interwoven. "Come, I have so much more to show you."

That is a grave understatement, for the study they leave behind turns out to be only the tip of the iceberg, the calm before the storm. Harry is led through a labyrinth that puts the Department of Mysteries to shame, from potion laboratories to large greenhouses to rooms that experiment with temperature. Most require protective spells to enter, and in more than one lie corpses that have not yet been removed. A macabre museum of the dead.

"I have observed a difference in temperature tolerance between ourselves and Muggles," Voldemort explains as his nonchalant gaze sweeps past a body that has succumbed to hypothermia, blue-grey skin covered in ice crystals. "One point three degrees in minus and two point six degrees in plus, on average, before extreme symptoms appear. Without the use of protective charms, that is. It is difficult to research the exact difference in tolerance until the point of death as you would not wish to risk the lives of mages for such a thing, but logically, it should be in the same range."

Harry does not comment, on higher alert as each minute passes. Not all Muggles kept here are as dead as the ones they have passed by. Instinctively – an instinct honed by years of fear and a battle he hadn't chosen to fight – he can feel it as they draw closer to the heart of this maze and with it, the still beating hearts of Voldemort's captives.

It is likely good for everyone involved that Sirius and Severus raised him far away from any Muggles. Had he been given to Vernon and Petunia, he likely would have been locked up in St Mungo's for violent outbursts of magic wiping out half the city by age three. His godfathers' pro-Muggle political views do not actually require them to interact with any. Even the door of Grimmauld place Number Twelve leading into Muggle London is an illusion, for apparition, floo and Portkeys take them to any place of importance – all in the wizarding world. The little contact Harry has had with Muggles was for the sake of Hermione at Wool's, where he was far more concentrated on getting his friend back than enacting vengeance.

"Here we are," Voldemort unceremoniously announces, waving his hand to open the next door – heavy wood with metallic finishes. It's unclear whether the smell it emits comes from the door itself or seeps through the cracks from the room behind it. Iron or blood?

Crossing the threshold with trepidation, Harry realises this place looks far more like what he'd been expecting to find in the cellars. A dimly lit room with dark brickwork and rows upon rows of cells. Not all of them are filled, but behind metal bars, he can see many an underfed figure.

A deep discomfort settles over Harry as he inspects the cells and their occupants while Voldemort waits at the door to give him space. It takes a while to figure out why he feels the way he does. Despite all their differences and the inevitability of their fates, Muggles are still human, a fact Harry has never attempted to deny. It is unfortunate that only one side can survive the war that cannot be averted (that Harry cannot risk trying to avert for lack of a watertight alternative) or that experiments on effective murder are necessary to succeed in winning it when the odds are one to a thousand (at least? Harry will need to ask Voldemort on the exact calculations sometime. He'll be sure to know). That does not mean that he can delight in their suffering the same way that the Dark Lord so clearly does. It brings Harry no pleasure to see these people locked up like badly treated cattle: starved and dirty.

Wishing to butcher something does not contradict the urge to give them humane living spaces prior.

He is about to speak up about these appalling conditions in the small hope for future improvement, when the first Muggle spots him and whispers: "A child? Hey… hey you, how did you escape?" To his right, a fairly young woman shuffles closer until she is pressed up to the bars. If it weren't for the grime on her skin, the matted strands of ash brown hair or red-rimmed eyes with traces of smeared make-up, he would have considered her fairly beautiful. "Hey luv, how old are you? Can you help us?" Her voice is laden with pain, with desperation that Harry loathes to hear, for the heart he always imagined to be so encased in layers of cold grief now burns for these prisoners all the same. Human. He can tell himself all the excuses in the world but in the end they are still-

"Stop it, Emilia," someone behind her growls. "Look at his weird clothes, he's one of them!"

"It's just a boy! Nothing at all like those monsters who locked us in here!" she hisses back over her shoulder.

Harry's fist clenches the moment she takes the word monster in her mouth. The flame in his heart dies, nothing left but ice and stone for these hypocrites. Glancing over to the door opening, he sees that Voldemort is merely observing the scene, perhaps judging Harry's reaction.

Before he can tell the Muggle off for insulting his fiancé, a small gasp is uttered from his left side, coming from a cell which he thought to be empty before. "You can get us away from the scary man?" a small, soft voice speaks up. "Please, please get me out!"

Rooted to the spot, he mechanically and mutedly swivels his head to the left, where he spots the figure of a shivering little girl. She's smaller than he is, even now. For some reason, Harry hadn't expected Voldemort to imprison children to use for these tests. Perhaps he should have. The Dark Lord's very first kill, that which had set him onto the path of immortality, had been a fourteen-year-old.

(Red eyes gaze down at him with an emotion akin pity as Harry sits in his crib, unable to utter a word before a wave of death washes over him, then rebounds.)

He shakes away the memory.

In the end, is there truly much of a difference? When deciding the lives of all Muggles are forfeit, why draw an age boundary as a moral line to not cross? Why raise their enemy into adulthood when more difficult to kill?

"I can't," he hoarsely replies, turning his back on Emilia and the gruff man stuck in the same cell. When the woman does not cease calling out in an increasingly frantic tone, he impatiently points into her general direction and casts a wandless silencing spell. When his attention rests on the child again, it is clear that she has realised he is not a Muggle. Is not on their side. Small fingers whiten as they tightly grip unyielding metal.

Harry reaches through the bars with both hands, cupping the trembling girl's hollowed cheeks. "I can't, for you will grow up to hate us and hurt us," he whispers with sadness. She is of such an age that ten or twenty years from now, she'll be active among those who grew up believing mages to be an unnecessary evil. "You too will call us monsters. This cannot be changed."

There is something familiar about the girl's features. Straw-blonde hair and sharp bones, youthful as she is… he pictures her in the feared cobalt blue Magehunter uniform, hair pulled back in a bun and ice in her eyes.

A flash of a memory long buried surfaces. A hazy image trying to sharpen as if recorded with a bad lens. Screaming, fighting, gunshots ringing.

"Did you kill Ginny?" he mutters, the grip on her cheeks tightening until she squirms. "Is it you? Did you kill Ginny?" he asks again, frantic this time. Ginny… his dear friend who'd yelled at them to run for the hills and avenge her. A part of his loving family, gone long before he'd had time for proper goodbyes, the last Harry saw of her a fleeting glance over his shoulder before he had run, run, RUN.

"Harry," a voice calls out behind him, stern and calm. He doesn't want to hear it, eyes locked with those of a murderer. It doesn't matter that she is young and stricken, that tears roll down the back of his hands. The pit of grief and hatred has opened too wide to close without getting what he needs. What Ginny deserves. What he hadn't been able to give her before.

Avenge me.

He does not need either Holly or Elder to let death roll off his tongue and well up from his palms. The Killing curse is swift, the dark brown of her frightened gaze overshadowed by a neon flash as the child's eyes reflect the last colour the Muggle will ever see.

His hands still hover in the air beyond the bars when the body has long crumpled to the floor.

"Harry."

The sharp breath he sucks in tastes of salt and blood. An illusion? He finds it difficult to tell, mind still half in that damned forest haunted by the ghosts of his fallen friends.

"Come back to me, my angel of death."

He can't. He can't. Memories trap him like sticky cobwebs, Devil's Snare, a maze of enchanted hedges. Every inch of his skin is touched by images of loss. Panic needles its way deeper into his mind the longer he thinks about laughing faces going rigid. Of the one face that didn't, Teddy crying out for Harry when taken away, never to be seen again.

''Angel,'' Voldemort mutters, and he knows it is Voldemort because the soul mark recognizes his Intended before Harry himself does as it is brushed against, an emaciated thumb tracing slow circles over the back of his right hand.

Harry never wanted to fall into pieces.

He is flooded by a deep warmth as he realises that there are arms he can rely on to catch him every single time that he inevitably does.

Aren't they just the cutest murder husbands :3 For anyone questioning why Death didn't show up when Harry killed someone: this will still be explained in future chapters.

As for the next update, I have a couple chapters pre-written and will be posting one every 3 weeks on the weekend in hopes of being able to write enough in between to not need to halt that update schedule for a while. So, the next chapter should be posted somewhere between the 6th and 8th of September, depending on your timezone and which weekend day I have most time for some last editing.

Please let me know your thoughts about this chapter ^^
xx GeMerope