Chapter Text
Living Hell
Cold water slapped Harry so hard in the face he stumbled. He wasn't aware enough to understand he was standing upright until he was falling, sliding down a wall choking on water. His skin was clammy - sticky. Harry's vision blurred as he blinked icy droplets off his eyelashes.
“I've never had a kid dropped off at this age,” someone was saying nearby, “You'd think they'd've given him up sooner if they couldn't handle him.”
The room was dim as Harry squinted and blinked, leaning back into the freezing wall as his strength waned. He had no strength, barely enough to move his head; all he could make out in the darkness was a great shadow before him and two shapes standing beside a strange table.
“What's his name?” asked a second voice, cold and feminine. “Didn't the parents leave a note?” There was a rustling of paper. “Ah… He's a runaway. Figures. If I had a kid run away, you best bet I'd drop him off somewhere too. See how he likes being without a home for real.”
“So unusual,” said the nasally first voice. “And look at him - he's in worse shape than we'd expect, even from a runaway. I'd guess neglect.”
Harry swiped a hand across his brow and shuddered. He was soaked to the skin and the room provided no warmth. His motion caught the attention of the two women, who paused their muttering.
“Where–” He didn't finish as a second wave of ice water was thrown into Harry's face, sloshing into his mouth and catching in his throat. He choked, coughing and heaving as he cringed into the wall.
“He's clean ma'am.” The voice came from the large shadow of a man, suspiciously clutching a pail steadily dripping water onto the stone floor. “Well, as clean as he'll get, for now.” Harry swiped at his damp mouth again as the man retreated.
“Hello,” said the nasally-voiced woman as she approached. Her long skirts sapped up water greedily as she knelt, looking Harry up and down with dark scrutinizing eyes. “Your name is Harry, yes?”
“Who's asking?” His voice was so hoarse Harry barely registered it as his own.
“Your new primary caretaker,” She told him. “You may be unsurprised to hear your parents have left no calling card, and likely won't be coming back for you.”
“My parents are dead,” Harry said. He choked up a mouthful of water, trembling as his lungs made it very clear that moisture was not to be inhaled. The woman wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Your guardians, then,” said the woman. “Whatever they may have been, they've left you here with us.”
“Where is here?” Harry's head pounded. It was almost worse than one of his Voldemort induced migraines.
“Wool's Orphanage: A Sanctuary for Unwanted Children,” she told him smoothly. “I am Ms Cole, Head and Matron of Wool's Orphanage. And you're Harry, aren't you?”
“I'm sorry – what?”
“Harry,” the woman repeated slowly. “The note we found shoved in your pocket clearly said–”
“No no!” Harry exclaimed. “I mean, I'm at Wool's Orphanage? Seriously?”
“So you've heard of us,” Ms Cole mused. “I'm not surprised. Let me guess, your guardians threatened to drop you off here if you misbehaved? I reckon that impacted your decision to run away. Oh well, perhaps you were meant to end up here.” She might've gone on, but Harry wasn't paying her any attention.
Wool's Orphanage? Voldemort grew up at Wool's under a Matron by the same name, which meant Harry had been dropped somewhere in Voldemort's life, likely his childhood. Harry knew enough about the orphanage to know it was the last place he wanted to be.
“Harry.” Ms Cole snapped a finger under his nose - Harry flinched in surprise. “You'll listen when spoken to. Understand? We don't tolerate disrespectful kids, and you're old enough to know better.”
“Old enough?” Harry blinked blankly. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You should be able to understand what's respectful and what's not by your double digits. The note left with you said you're ten,” Ms Cole said. “That's all we have to go on, unless you have something to say. You were damn near unconscious when we found you on our doorstep.” With half a gesture, the second woman was summoned to drop a crumpled scrap of paper in Ms Cole's hand. It looked like it'd been badly torn from a notebook.
Ms Cole cleared her throat and read, “Dear Ms Cole, I regret to inform you I am adding to your population of unwanted children. I leave my ten year old in your charge. His name is Harry Peverell. He's run away from home twice in the past three weeks, and I no longer have the resources to coddle him. The boy is nothing to me, do with him what you wish.” Ms Cole looked at him expectantly, but there wasn't much Harry could say to that. Harry just huffed a wet laugh.
It sounded like something Petunia might've written if she'd ever had the gall to give him up. Though, in Harry's day, that would've been the foster system. Between Muggle foster care and Voldemort's damned orphanage, Harry wasn't sure which was preferable.
“Of course,” Harry muttered. “Just my luck…” Not only had his name been changed (to Peverell of all things?) but he wasn't seventeen anymore either. Harry knew it would be bad from the moment Perdition first addressed them, but making Harry ten years old again was fucking absurd. He really was damned.
Being a kid would be bad enough even without having to grow up all over again, especially when considering the abysmal state of his childish body, and that wasn't counting the disaster of his implied time period! It was likely the mid to late 1930s, or perhaps earlier, if Ms Cole was at the wheel. The specifics entirely depended on whether Voldemort had already started school, or if he was only ten himself. Harry prayed it was the latter - he preferred to be on even footing with his enemies.
“Since you're not contradicting the contents of the note, I'm going to assume the information we were given is correct,” said Ms Cole. She stood, wringing the edge of her damp skirt. “We've got rules in place to keep children with their age groups, which means there's only one room available for you in the nine to eleven age range. Breakfast is soon, and Hammen here will help dress you up in time for your introduction.” She gestured to the hulking shadow lingering by the far wall.
“Introduction?” Harry echoed.
“To the other children,” Ms Cole said. “They'll be your new normal, so to speak, thus you will be formally introduced. You'll get used to it all quickly, I'm sure.”
“Ma'am,” said the second woman with a little curtsy. “I will inform the cook we now have another mouth to feed.”
“Very well Miranda,” Ms Cole waved her off. “Whatever needs to be done. Regardless, Harry, I'll be upstairs in my office whenever you're ready. Hammen, see to it that he's up before six o'clock.”
“Yes ma'am,” replied the man, Hammen. With a curt nod Ms Cole disappeared down a shadowed hall of echoing stone. Harry took the time to look around, trying and failing to orient himself with the information he was given.
From the look of things he was in a sort of basement, likely used to clean up kids off the street that looked sketchy or filthy. If the black smears on the floor were any indication, Harry was definitely placed in the ‘filthy’ category.
“Get up,” Hammen said to him. “Ms Cole doesn't like to be kept waiting.”
“Well I don't like water being thrown in my face,” Harry snapped. “Give me a second, I'm freezing.” Hammen raised an eyebrow.
“We can continue your washing with the pail,” said Hammen. “Or you could use the wash room. Your choice.” Harry glowered at him, but pushed uncertainly to his feet. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been so sore, he felt like one big bruise.
Hammen handed Harry a grey uniform and a scratchy towel before shutting him in a closet sized space with just a sink, toilet, and mirror. More of a cubicle than a washroom, but it was better than ice water thrown in his face. Unfortunately the ice water suddenly felt like a great option when Harry was forced to look at his reflection, even in such a dingy and warped mirror. He looked even worse than he felt.
It wasn't just his hair that was matted all to shit (that would've been normal), Harry himself was a walking rat's rest. With sunken cheekbones and shadows smudges beneath his eyes, Harry looked like he'd never slept before. His frame was too small, awkward in proportion as growth failed to surmount malnutrition, and a ghostly narrowness clung to his face. It was a face Harry didn't recognize anymore. He was more ghost than person.
What happened to the hard-earned muscles from years duelling and training? What about the healthy cheeks and flushed skin he recovered as Wizarding life won out over the Dursley influence? What of the hair he'd spent so long growing out, only for Hermione to chop it off so badly? Where was he, the man he'd grown to become after every trial and challenge?
“Hurry it up,” said Hammen with a knock against the door. “I've got a bucket of water out here with your name on it.”
“Fine,” Harry called back. “I'm hurrying.”
He dutifully rubbed his skin clean and raw with the towel and sink water before donning the dull grey uniform of Wool's Orphanage, which did nothing to hide the too-small frame of a starving kid. To his disgust, Harry was little more than a skeleton wrapped in skin and fabric. The other kids would definitely notice, which would make Harry a pariah if he wasn't careful.
Hammen, as promised, was waiting outside with a full pail and seemed disappointed to find Harry dressed and presentable. To Harry's relief, Hammen set the pail down with a shrug and beckoned him to follow through the dark.
Every move, every step, every muscle he attempted to use rebelled against him. Harry once promised himself he'd never be weak again, never be at the mercy of someone bigger and stronger; that promise seemed laughable now. Not only was he a child again, but he was a useless child too without his wand.
Harry soaked in as much as he could as he was escorted from the basement. The room they were in was sealed off by a great iron door, locked with three padlocks each with a separate key that Hammen had to fish from his large pockets. Through the door was a hallway that led to a stone staircase, several rooms and wooden doors lining the hall all closed tight. At the top of the stairs, to Harry's surprise, was a heavy trap door in the ceiling with a rickety ladder. Something about it told Harry they used the basement for more than hose-downs.
The rest of the orphanage was plain, sporting uneven checkered floor tiles, dingy grey paint on every wall, and halls void of art or personality; it was a structure built to be sturdy and industrial rather than fair or delicate. It was a very practical set up, but the identical corridors Hammen led him down with ease would be a problem. Trying to maneuver through a maze while so stupidly vulnerable was a recipe for disaster.
Mrs Cole waited in her small disorganized office filled with mismatched furniture; a mesh of bookshelves and couches, a too-large desk with a liquor cabinet tucked inauspiciously underneath. She looked up from a stack of papers as they entered, then dismissed Hammen with a wave of her hand. Harry didn't move, and for a long beat she didn't either.
“I wanted to ask,” Ms Cole said after a lengthy silence. “Do you have a middle name?” She produced a large binder from a drawer and flipped it open.
“James,” Harry told her. “Harry James - Peverell.” For fuck's sake that was an ancient name. The Peverell family name was meant to be long gone, their blood carried on solely by their daughters. Perdition likely picked it as a twisted reference to the myth about the Deathly Hallows and the alleged ‘Master of Death’ nonsense.
“Hm, thank you,” Ms Cole said faintly, oblivious to Harry's internal whirlwind of baffled anger. She scribbled on one of the pages. “I want to make sure you're documented accurately, including your name and personal information.”
“Fantastic,” Harry muttered. Ms Cole didn't even look up.
“You said your parents are dead.” Not a question.
“Yes,” Harry confirmed.
“Do you have siblings?”
“No.”
“Other living relatives or family?”
“Living?” Harry resisted a laugh. “No.”
“Looks like you're here to stay, then.” Ms Cole tapped her papers together, frowning as the corners folded. The binder was too full, likely with too many children being added too quickly.
“When's your birthday?” Ms Cole asked.
“July 31st.”
“So you were born July 31st, 1927?” Harry mulled it over for a moment before nodding.
“Yeah, sure.” Harry's noncommittal answer didn't impress Ms Cole, as she glowered at him warningly. Harry could only shrug. He hadn't the foggiest idea of the current year, and asking what year it was seemed a taboo question considering he was supposedly old enough to be sentient.
“Very well. Harry James Peverell, age ten, born July 31st of 1927, orphaned and abandoned on December 22nd 1937,” Ms Cole read aloud. “Only child, no living relatives, no affiliation with applicable organizations or contacts, nowhere to relocate, and a history of flight risk behaviors. Does that sound correct?”
“As correct as it gets,” Harry said tersely. He didn't like the picture it painted for him, but he couldn't contradict any of it without sounding like a lunatic. At least he knew the date now. It was mere days before Voldemort turned eleven, which meant they would soon be visited by Dumbledore. Whether that would be a comfort or a hindrance, Harry had yet to decide.
“Now, I'd like you to be honest with me.” Ms Cole leveled him with a firm, serious look in her eyes. They were unnervingly blank. “I will ask you once and I will not ask again, so do not lie. Are you a flight risk at this time?”
“No.” Ms Cole raised a skeptical eyebrow. “No!” Harry repeated, crossing his arms. “I have nowhere to go, I know that.” Ms Cole nodded, apparently satisfied.
“Very well.” Again she tapped her papers together, sorting them and pressing them into place with smooth efficiency. “Now that that's done, we can move on.” She stood, sliding the binder into a drawer with a finite click. Harry's identity, falsified as it was, was solid now. There was no going back.
“To what?” Harry prompted. “My introduction?”
“Yes, but, more importantly,” said Ms Cole. “The expectations we have for all our children, and the rules we live by. Don't worry, there's not many to remember, and most are self-explanatory.”
Ms Cole came around her desk, snagging a clipboard as she stepped away, and drew his attention to the small plague hanging by the door. In bold letters it read, ‘EXPECTATIONS’ with a short numbered list below it. Harry stepped closer.
EXPECTATIONS
(1.) Children must wear their uniforms neatly and correctly at all times
(2.) Children must arrive promptly to every mandatory gathering
(3.) Children must speak respectfully to staff at all times
(4.) Children must follow directions given to them by staff at all times
(5.) Children must not speak of or incite violence to other children or staff
(6.) Children must remain with their assigned age group at all times
(7.) Children must remain in their quarters from the hours of 10 o'clock at night to 6 o'clock in the morning
(8.) Children must not break curfew under any circumstance
(9.) Staff reserve the right to discipline disobedient children as the applicable staff member see fit
“It's pretty simple,” Ms Cole said. “Do as you're told, always be on time, respect the staff and the other kids, respect curfew, and don't act out verbally or physically. None of this should be difficult or new to you. You've likely been given similar restrictions at schools you've attended in the past, yes?”
“Uh, sure,” Harry said.
“Good, then I'm sure there won't be a need for you to see the basement again.” Ms Cole smiled sweetly, but the edge to her voice turned Harry's stomach.
“The basement?” Harry echoed.
“Yes, that's where troublemakers spend their punishments,” Ms Cole told him. “But that's not for you to worry about. You seem like a smart boy. Make good choices and you'll find life here plenty amicable.”
“Right…” Ominous. Something told Harry he didn't want to find out what happened in that basement.
Ms Cole led Harry from the office and through the maze of corridors. He had to scramble to keep up with her brisk pace, ignoring the slight side-eye she gave him all the while. Clearly she didn't believe him about the flight risk thing; she thought he'd be a runner. Luckily for her there really wasn't anywhere else for Harry to go, leaving to brave the streets of 1937 alone was suicide.
They arrived at a large cafeteria after taking three turns and following numerous long hallways. It was the size of a classroom, a long buffet table along the far wall staffed by two women that surveyed the entire room carefully. Set out and filled with kids were seven long tables with chairs of all shapes and sizes shoved into place to haphazard enough seats for everyone. They all stood as Ms Cole entered, and soon after every eye found Harry at her side. He lifted his chin and scowled at them all, especially the ones not so subtly sizing him up. Harry's self doubt flipped like a switch.
If they thought he'd be an easy target because he was small, they'd be in for a considerable shock. So what if he was a scrawny kid again? He still had his magic. Even without a wand Harry was confident he could control it enough to make every of them regret going after him. He wouldn't take bullying lying down anymore; he'd sat around and taken it from Dudley, from his classmates, from his relatives, from everyone all his life and where had it gotten him? Absolutely nowhere. He wouldn't let anyone get away with touching him again, consequences be damned. He was done being a victim.
“We have a new kid joining us in the nine to eleven age group,” announced Ms Cole to the attentive room. “This is Harry Peverell. Make him feel welcome.” A murmur of greetings and mild welcomes echoed through the hall with hushed softness.
Ms Cole dismissed their attention just as easily, ordering them in a clipped tone to line up for their food without delay. In clusters of kids roughly the same age, they slowly made their way to the buffet at the back and began collecting plates.
“Now Harry,” Ms Cole turned to him. “There is one available room for you in your age range: B25. You will have a roommate, and as you age you will remain in the same room until you age out. It's best you introduce yourself sooner than later. Come, there he is now.” Dread crawled up his throat.
Ms Cole, much to Harry's dismay, led him towards a pale boy lurking behind the other kids with a blank expression. Harry recognized Voldemort immediately, even as a child. With thoughtful hazel eyes and porcelain skin that perfectly contrasted his dark hair, Voldemort was definitely the same age as Harry. A relief, but a short lived one.
“Tom,” said Ms Cole. “This is Harry. You'll be sharing a room from now on.” She gestured between them, a calculative curiosity glistening in her eye. “Harry, this is Tom Riddle. As your roommate it will be his responsibility to show you around and keep you on schedule as you acclimate here, so play nice.” Her silent ‘Good fucking luck kid,’ wasn't lost on Harry.
“Pleasure,” said Voldemort softly. The sound of his voice alone had Harry's hackles rising.
“Likewise,” Harry managed. Ms Cole nodded, satisfied, and stalked off to do whatever she was meant to be doing when not indoctrinating new kids.
“We have much to discuss,” Voldemort told him with the same malicious softness. “But not here. Dinner is being served, so let us eat first.” Harry balled his hands into fists.
“Fine.”
It was perhaps the most stressful dinner of Harry's life. Voldemort, even as a child, was enough of a wildcard to keep Harry on edge the entire time. He was acting completely normal - eating his food with perfect manners, ignoring the other kids just as they ignored him, speaking evenly and mildly to staff that addressed him - which unnerved Harry more than it would've if Voldemort slaughtered everyone in sight. The change in behavior from the man Harry knew was what scared him most.
Harry, after the full hour of dinner, had only managed a few bites before nerves had nausea turning his stomach over and over. Thankfully nobody said anything, though they likely looked at his starved body and assumed he couldn't've eaten more even if he tried. He was content to let them think that as his anxiety skyrocketed when they were dismissed from the meal and were ordered to their rooms.
“Where are we going?” Harry asked sharply as they walked.
“Room B25,” Voldemort replied. His voice was annoyingly neutral. “The room we'll be sharing from now on.”
“This place is a fucking maze,” Harry muttered.
“You'll get used to it,” said Voldemort. “After all, we're going to be here for a long while.”
Room B25 was exactly as Harry remembered from his time delving into Dumbledore's Pensieve. A small window on one side and a bed parallel to it against the wall, a desk at the back of the room with a single book, a mirror hung as decoration over the desk, and a wardrobe to the left of the door as they entered. The entire room was grey, from the walls to the bed frames to the sheets to the curtains. It was as plain as possible, likely to make it easier to replicate so every room looked exactly alike.
Voldemort shut the door behind him, closing them together in the small space. Harry felt claustrophobic immediately.
“Peverell?” Voldemort prompted. “Where did that come from?”
“Apparently my body was dumped on the doorstep this morning and all they found was a note shoved in my pocket labeling me as a ten year old called Harry Peverell,” Harry told him curly. “Believe me, I like my name. I'd never change it on purpose, especially to such an old and ridiculous name.”
“Peverell is hardly ridiculous,” Voldemort countered. “It's one of the oldest Wizarding names out there. You're lucky to carry it. The Peverells would be practically royalty among the Pureblood circles.”
“First of all, I'm a halfblood,” said Harry firmly. “Second of all, why the fuck should I care? I'm not a Peverell. Sure I have the ancestry through my Dad, but I'd never call myself a Peverell on purpose.”
“You're lucky to carry such a name. It might help offset the pitiful ambience this version of you carries.” Voldemort stepped closer, eyeing Harry up and down. “How weak you were as a child, I still see that sorry orphan I met while living a parasitic existence through Quirrell. Scrawny, underfed, and utterly incapable of doing anything substantially impressive.”
“Fuck you,” Harry snapped. “You don't know a damn thing about me!”
“I know you've got a temper,” Voldemort challenged. “I know you don't take well to insults. Especially those about mudbloods and that tainted mother of yours–” Voldemort had no time to react before Harry's fist met Voldemort's perfect nose.
They both shrieked in pain, a sharp crutch of their noses blinding them before a sudden spasm clamped down on their throats. Harry gagged, pressing a hand to his aching throat as he grew dizzy and saw stars. Voldemort didn't look any better, doubled over sputtering. But there was something weird on his neck, writhing and swimming through his skin like an ink stain across flesh.
“What the fuck,” Harry choked and whirled around, staring into the mirror as he lowered his hand. He had one too.
“The Mark of Damnation,” Voldemort whispered hoarsely. Harry could only stare.
Marring his throat like a deathly choker, a snake coiled around his neck devouring its own tail. Amongst the scales were lines of barbed wire intertwined in the snake's long body, spikes digging into the skin as the snake writhed and constricted. It was so starkly black, darker than any tattoo could ever feasibly be, and as alive as any magical animal. On the snake's broad head was a symbol - a lightning bolt. The mark of the Killing Curse.
“Perdition warned us that our safety depended on our ability to coexist peacefully,” Voldemort said tightly, interrupting Harry's racing thoughts. He swiped at his steadily bleeding nose. “It seems that's being enforced by the Mark of Damnation. Like a reminder of where we came from.”
“I don't need a reminder.” Harry would likely see those ghostly vestiges again in his nightmares, if his string of luck continued.
“Maybe you do,” countered Voldemort. “Because you're missing your other reminder.”
“My what?”
“Your forehead.” Voldemort pointed, “The scar I gave you–” He broke off with a hacking cough as his snake tightened. Evidently it didn't appreciate Voldemort referencing their past.
Harry slowly reached up and touched his right eyebrow, expecting to feel the rough, damaged skin he'd always known. Then panic sparked again as he felt no sign of it. Harry stepped closer to the mirror and pushed back his bangs. Acid rolled in his stomach and burned his throat.
Harry's forehead was unmarred, flawless skin stretching the whole width. The lightning bolt scar was gone, the slash of Voldemort's Killing Curse absent from its home on Harry's brow. The slit in his eyebrow from the tail of the strike was likewise missing, uninterrupted hair filling its place. It looked different in its absence than Harry imagined it would in so many fantasies…
“Funny,” said Voldemort as his breathing eased. “Yet another side effect of our circumstances.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” Harry balled his hands into fists, confusion mingling with steadily growing anger. He always hated that scar, hated what it represented, hated the staring and the worship and the disdain it created in those who looked upon and judged him. Hell, he even fantasised about removing it somehow! But without it… was he anyone at all? Was he still the same Harry Potter without his Chosen One scar? Was he now cursed to be someone other, someone truly belonging to the new name and new curse he now carried?
“I thought you'd be happy to be rid of it,” Voldemort said faintly. Harry resisted the urge to punch him in his pretty face again. His own nose was still throbbing, and he wasn't a big fan of intentionally injuring himself if it was avoidable.
“I'd be happy to be rid of you,” Harry muttered. “Unfortunately I don't have much choice. I have nowhere else to go in fucking 1937.”
“I wouldn't leave even if I could,” Voldemort replied evenly. “And neither should you. Despite the abuse I endured here, there is nowhere I'd rather be. Aside from Hogwarts, of course.”
“What, you like it here?” Harry was under the impression Voldemort hated the place he grew up, willing to do anything to prevent him returning to the hellhole every summer.
“Hardly. World War 2 is coming soon,” Voldemort told him. Familiar hatred bled into his voice. “A Muggle war. There were bombings, famine, riots, shortages in power and water - nowhere was safe, everyone was constantly afraid. Around 60,000 people died from air raids and bombings alone, concentrated in big cities like London, Coventry, Liverpool, Hull; homes were destroyed, large buildings and entire blocks gone in one swoop, and that's without accounting for what Grindelwald contributed when he decided to start a Wizarding war at the same time. Their collisions and ‘incidents’ left too many dead to count.
“This orphanage was one of the only surviving homes for unwanted children in London, and if we leave we risk becoming a part of the wrong statistics.” The passion and certainty in his voice was dangerous. “I sought to ensure I never tasted death so early in my adolescence because I came back to this place every summer and feared for my life - feared this place would be bombed or raided or burned, and for the first time waking up here didn't feel like a death sentence.” Voldemort met Harry's eyes unflinching, unyielding.
“Despite my fears, this orphanage was never attacked, never threatened in all the years it stood, which makes it a haven. An abusive haven, yes, but one I came out of alive. I can put up with their torture if it means I can go about my days knowing I'm going to survive. I'm not going anywhere, not when I know for a fact that this place is my only guaranteed shot at surviving the war, Muggle or otherwise. And if I'm staying, you are too. I'll chain you down and lock you up, but you will never endanger our lives for the sake of our flesh. It is not worth the risk, nor the cost. I will not hear otherwise from a child with no concept of the possible consequences.”
Harry was struck speechless, unable to retort as Voldemort crossed his arms expectantly. This information… It changed everything. And nothing.
Voldemort created his Horcrux not because he wanted to kill and maim and rule the world forever, rather because he was a scared child living in a war zone and was willing to rip himself apart to survive. He did it because Hogwarts offered no protection to students during Break and ignored his pleading. He did it because he felt he had no other choice. Voldemort didn't start out a villain, he was a scared kid who couldn't see a way out. Harry remembered when he was that kid too, a long time ago.
“Fine,” Harry said. “What would I know? It's your life, anyway.” Voldemort just looked away with a scowl.
Unfortunately, understanding did not erase the truth of what Voldemort had done in return. He suffered, yes, but that didn't excuse the evil he'd chosen to become. Voldemort had been dealt a shitty hand and promptly turned around to distribute that same hand amongst thousands of innocent people. He'd spent years cultivating an army with the sole purpose of slaughtering an entire people. Muggleborns. Even at his worst, his lowest, never did Harry consider such monstrous acts.
Understanding did not always warrant forgiveness. There was no forgiving the atrocities Voldemort committed in his pursuit of immortal power. Harry would never forget what he went through, what he heard of and saw done to others during the war; Voldemort was unequivocally irredeemable, even to the gods.
A brisk knock on the door made Harry jump. Voldemort only moved to answer it without so much as a twitch.
Three older boys appeared from beyond, shoving a bed down the hall, sweating and swearing up a storm. They looked to be older teens, likely close to aging out. Tom stepped out of their way.
“Jesus these beds are heavy,” groaned one of them. “Of all the things to be high quality in this shit hole, why did it have to be the bed frames?”
“It's mahogany - hand carved,” said another. His face was flushed from the effort. “Mahogany is one of the denser woods, but not so dense it becomes hard to work with, which is why it's good for structurally sound and surprisingly comfortable furniture pieces.”
“Fucking nerd,” the third said, but it held no heat.
“There,” said the first. “One bed for the new kid.” The three boys wedged it between the window and Tom's bed against the far wall, leaving a very small aisle between them to access the desk and mirror. They all stared at it proudly.
“Thanks,” Harry said. “That looks heavy.”
“Nah, Mrs Cole picked us for a reason,” said the third. “We've got the guns.” He patted his bicep with a grin and a wink.
“Speak for yourself,” muttered the second, crossing his poor noodle-like arms.
The boys left with casual goodbyes, but Harry noticed the way they collectively leaned away from Voldemort as subtly as they could; as if they didn't dare get close but likewise didn't dare directly avoid lest they spook him. They especially didn't stare at the blood smeared across Voldemort's upper lip, though they did glance at Harry to check his knuckles, which were indeed red and angry. Their attempts at subtly were wasted as Harry figured Voldemort didn't care about them one bit. He'd be surprised if Voldemort even noticed them.
“How old were you when people started avoiding you?” Harry asked as the door clicked shut. He was amused to see irritation flash across Voldemort's face.
“They've avoided me all my life,” Voldemort told him. “The staff knew there was something wrong with me from the moment I was born, though they were courteous enough to ignored it until I was old enough to understand and follow instructions. The other children could feel it too. They knew I was different, knew I was other compared to them. Avoiding me was the least of what they did. Though not many dared touch me for fear of punishment from the staff, there were the odd outliers who figured they could get away with it. They were wrong. But even if they had been smart enough to leave me alone, really it was the staff that were my abusers.” Something in Voldemort's voice told him not to ask further, but Harry was bad at following instructions.
“What did they do?” Harry said anyway. Voldemort glowered at him, silent. “Come on. We'll be living here for a while, I'll find out eventually.”
“Very well,” Voldemort snapped. “They routinely performed exorcisms with the help of nuns, as they believed my oddities were symptoms of demonic possession.”
“Exorcisms?” Harry's stomach twisted. “What does that entail?” He remembered what Perdition had said: °you will be sent to relive your life starting at the point of great change, dropped into a place you are unsafe, unloved, and without allies° That didn't give him much to go on, but Harry was always rather good at assuming the worst.
“There's a cell in the far back of the basement, hidden behind a large iron door that's always locked.” Voldemort looked away, fixing his gaze out the window. His expression was cold. “They strap you to an old table by the wrists and ankles, sometimes around your chest too if you struggle too much. They pour holy water down your throat until you're choking on it, until it burns your eyes and it leaks out your nose. Then they gag you so you can't scream as they beat you, praying and chanting. Sometimes, when it's especially bad, they burn a cross into your palms. They think it adds potency.”
Voldemort held out his small hands, the hands of a child, unblemished and porcelain on the backside, but brands marred his palms, a cross carved and scarred in one spot over and over, deeper and deeper. Harry felt like throwing up. He'd stood in that basement room - seen the table where it happened.
“For how long?” It was all Harry could think to say.
“It started when I was five years old, and stopped when I was fifteen,” Voldemort said. “I mastered the ability to control others through Legilimency without my wand, and I gave them in return exactly what they deserved. They killed themselves after I was done with them. Nobody tried again after that.” His voice was so dull, so empty, Harry couldn't see the evil monster or spiteful man he knew Voldemort to be.
“I'm–”
“Don't pity me,” Voldemort snapped. The red in his eyes flashed, torment replaced by sharp anger. “I don't want your pity, and I don't want your empathy. I have accepted what it means to be here again, what I must endure. By the time I was eleven I was getting ‘treated’ every six to eight weeks, depending on how often the nuns came to visit the children. Regardless, what I must do and endure to survive does not concern you.”
“The hell it doesn't!” Harry exclaimed. “I'm going to feel everything you do! Remember? Mirrors. Our bodies are mirrors.” Voldemort seemed to pause, then frowned.
“That's unfortunate,” Voldemort muttered.
“We'll just have to find a way to stop them,” Harry said. “Maybe you can use your Legilimency to prevent them from doing it again, but without the killing part.” Even if they deserved it - just a little bit.
“I don't have the magical maturity or control to use such advanced magic in this body,” Voldemort snapped back. “That kind of magic takes years of discipline to cultivate in a person. I was a prodigy in every way, but even I wasn't that powerful so young. At best I can influence their emotions, but even that is unreliable.”
“Well you're just gonna have to try,” said Harry as firmly as he could manage. “Because I have no interest in experiencing an exorcism.” And because, no matter how terrible Voldemort was, nobody deserved that kind of torture.
“Do it yourself, then,” Voldemort said sharply. “Everyone goes on and on about the perfect powerful golden child Boy-Who—” With a choke Voldemort broke off, the black snake flashing into view as it strangled away his voice.
“Maybe quit talking about where we came from,” Harry said. “And you won't get cut off.” Voldemort's glare was glorious.
Instead of watching Voldemort suffer under the pressure of their curse, Harry flopped onto the bed and shut his eyes.
Voldemort wasn't wrong, unfortunately. Harry would have to pitch in and use his own magic to stop them if he could too. Despite Voldemort's confidence in his abilities, Harry wasn't half as powerful as everyone said he was - Hermione was the real prodigy. All Harry had was his unreliable instincts and bad directions to guide him. Now he was without directions and had even less reliable instincts because of his fucked up surroundings! Really, Harry didn't have much going for him.
Thankfully logic and facts never stopped him before, so he'd have to move forward with that Gryffindor confidence he carried deep in his chest. He'd never attempted Legilimency before, and he'd sucked at Occlumency, but it couldn't be too difficult. How difficult was it to learn a new skill? Harry was a fast learner, with the right teacher. Unfortunately his teacher would have to be himself or Voldemort, and he wasn't sure which was worse...
Goddamnit. He already hated his life already.