Chapter Text
He woke up to a vision of blackness and a massive headache.
Was this what death was supposed to be like?
No, that could not be possible, he refused to be dead! An attempt at moving was made, which made him realize that he was wrapped up in some sort of black cloth.
Now, he wasn't sure what death was supposed to be like, but it should not be half-suffocating in a black cloth for all of eternity. He tried to free himself, but for some reason the infuriating fabric wasn't feeling very cooperative, and he was only getting tangled up more and more.
“Bloody hell, what's that!?” A slightly familiar voice exclaimed from beyond his black cocoon.
Interesting, it might be one of his followers. He was just about to demand that he be freed, when he felt a hand on him. The suddenness of the gesture made him jolt, and he kept very still. Hopefully the person would free him now;He was however of course immediately obliviating whoever the soul was that had to see Their Lord this way.
Where was his wand though?
Whoever it was the voice belonged to was making quick work of freeing him, soon he was able to do the last bit of freeing himself, even if he still hadn't found his wand frustratingly.
The black cloth fell open and he closed his eyes at the sudden abundance of light. A shiver ran down his spine, for some reason, he felt very 'bare' without the cloth entrapping him.
He heard a gasp he could only identify as 'horrified'. Hmm, perhaps it wasn't a Death Eater that had freed him after all? Voldemort squinted and slowly opened his eyes as they adjusted to the light.
He noticed a very tall shadow looming over him, still squinting, he zoomed in on the face of whoever it was and had to let out a gasp as well, but his was more a gasp of despair.
So he was dead after all, there was no other explanation for James Potter staring down at him like he was about to faint.
The fainting part seemed a bit peculiar however? Wouldn't James Potter only be exhilarated, knowing that his wife's murderer had finally gotten what he deserved?
Voldemort's eyes narrowed even further as he studied the features of the man, still staring at him. He actually estimated this man to be older than James Potter had ever been. Perhaps it was what he'd have looked like were he to be still alive in this age and time.
Then his vision actually focused on the man's eyes and he felt a sensation he could only describe as his eyes bulging out of their sockets.
It was actually Potter!
Well, he supposed he'd concluded that earlier, but it was Potter, Potter, The Potter.
Everything came back to him then, their 'final fight' in which he'd been determined to finally rid the world of the teenager forever. He'd even tried the special spell, different from Avada Kedavra, of which he'd been sure it'd end Harry Potter for good. At first he'd tried to use his favorite of course, but seeing as Potter had risen from the death yet again, he'd gone to plan B. Apparently things had still gone wrong somehow, even with him wielding the Elder Wand.
Voldemort felt like screaming in frustration, but it wouldn't do to do that when Potter was standing in front of him with a dazed expression. Voldemort supposed he should try to flee for this time, no matter how frustrating that was. He would of course have engaged Potter in a fight again if he only knew where the wand was, but that was for later.
Voldemort stood, his legs were shaking madly and he was still shivering all over. When he glanced at Potter again two realizations hit him. The first thing was something he should've realized earlier, as he had first thought that the man was an older James Potter. Harry Potter looked far older than he had been when Voldemort had last seen him.
He was around his mid-thirties maybe?
Strange, seemed like the spell had worked, but not to the extend he'd have liked.
The second thing was perhaps the most disconcerting, Voldemort had to crane his neck to look at the man's face properly. From this he concluded that he was, much, much smaller.
What was this? A shrinking curse? Whatever it was, Voldemort was not amused. He wouldn't give Potter the satisfaction of ridiculing him however, he had to stand his ground.
“Potter,” he tried to say menacingly, but it came out wrong, and way too high pitched.
Potter looked at him, not stopping his silent staring contest. Voldemort looked around him in panic, as if something in the vicinity could explain his voice and height, or fix it. Of course there wasn't, where even were they?!
It didn't matter, he spotted a pond of sorts and made his way to it, stumbling over his own two ridiculously tiny feet. Potter didn't even try to stop him. Voldemort knelt down by the water and just stared at what he could only assume to be his face.
A familiar face stared back at him, grey-blueish eyes, messy black hair, a small nose.
It was him.
He looked like he was about four years old.
His last thought before he passed out was that, that was another spell that had backfired on him big time. The list only kept growing it seemed.
When Voldemort woke up, it all came back to him like some terrible nightmare that he'd had. For a second he actually believed it to only have been a nightmare, but that was before he noticed he was wrapped up in the black cloth again, which by now he realized were his robes. At least he wasn't trapped in them again, instead just comfortably wrapped up like some baby. That thought made his face contort into a scowl.
Voldemort sat up and saw Potter sitting in the grass, watching him with a unidentifiable expression. He stared right back at him, schooling his expression.
Of course Harry Potter hadn't killed him in his sleep, especially since he looked like a four-year-old, and this was a Griffindor he was talking about. Couldn't he however at least have restrained him or something?
Or left him?
Leaving him seemed like the most logical choice, it was what Voldemort would've done, if he'd been a Gryffindor at least.
Potter coughed, as if he didn't have Voldemort's undivided attention already, and simply said: “So..”
Voldemort tried to raise an eyebrow-an old habit from when he still had them-but as he was in the body of a four-year-old right now he didn't quite manage. Inwardly shrugging, he regarded Potter for a while, analyzing the situation, and the way he should go about it. He probably couldn't get away with playing like he hadn't retained his adult mind and had suddenly reverted to being a child mentally. His reaction to all of this had ruined that possibility, though it could've been fun to possibly get Potter to actually care about him only to betray him.
He supposed he'd have to come up with a more solid plan later, right now he'd follow Potter's lead.
“You're not suddenly deaf too, right?” Potter sounded almost amused.
Voldemort narrowed his eyes and sent what he hoped was a somewhat menacing glare Potter's way. It seemed not to do much of anything and Voldemort sighed.
“Patience Potter, let me process this for a second.”
“I've let you process 'this' for what were probably about five minutes. It's questioning time now.”
Voldemort almost snorted, as if he held all the knowledge of where they were, or what had exactly happened to them. Nevertheless, he supposed it could help to gather their thoughts and paint a clearer picture.
“Fine then, what do you remember?”
Potter narrowed his eyes at him, probably having wanted to question Voldemort exclusively or something. He seemed to compose himself, taking a deep breath to hold whatever cutting remark probably had been on the tip of his tongue back. Voldemort smirked, apparently being in the body of a four-year-old did not diminish his ability to get under Potter's skin.
“Good well, we fired a spell at each other. In my case, it was an Expelliarmus,” Voldemort's smirk grew at that,” in your case, I'm not sure.”
“Well of course, it was something I had saved as a Plan B of sorts, and obviously that was needed, since you decided to become The Boy Who Lived Twice.” Potter seemed almost thoughtful after that admission.
“How did that spell exactly differ from the killing curse?”
To tell Potter, or to not tell Potter, the spell hadn't worked of course, but that didn't mean it may not be handy to keep this information to himself. The thirty-something man sighed as he came to the realization that the 'four-year-old' wasn't going to be very cooperative.
“My guess is that it had to do something with aging?”
Potter was correct obviously, but Voldemort didn't feel like confirming anything, or explaining himself. He himself did go over the specifics of the spell in his head. The spell-work had been a rather tricky for it, but with the Elder Wand it should have worked perfectly, especially with him now being its master.
Wait a second, that thought brought back a strange feeling, like he should remember something. His mouth fell open and he stared up at Potter, who simply frowned at him. In the heat of the moment Voldemort had dismissed almost everything that came out of Potter's mouth, simply because of his need to finally be rid of the pest, but now that he'd somewhat calmed down everything came back to him. The moment before they'd unleashed their spells, had not Harry Bloody Potter declared himself the true master of the Elder Wand?
It had been a truly dumb Gryffindorish thing to tell your enemy, but he, Voldemort had not even found a way to take advantage of the fact that Potter had been handing out all this information!
He balled his fists, driving his nails into his flesh until little red crescent shaped moons appeared. Voldemort looked in Potter's direction again. The man appeared quite annoyed. Well, Voldemort would keep it this way. If he had any brain cells, Potter could probably figure out what happened all by himself.
The Elder Wand had clearly not wished to kill its true master, instead reflecting the spell to Voldemort, but still influencing Potter somehow. And when you took Potter's disarming charm into that mess, somehow that equated to finding themselves who knows where in bodies way younger or older than they should be.
Voldemort was startled from his spiraling thoughts by Potter's grating voice.
“You're talking to yourself Tommy boy.”
“Don't call me that.” Voldemort had been trying to glare again, but Potter simply snickered.
“You'd do well to remember who you're actually talking to,” Voldemort tried to warn, but this time Potter simply rolled his eyes.
“I'm sorry, but I'm not afraid of you, especially how you are now.”
That comment brought back a thought Voldemort had had earlier, along with a surge of annoyance Voldemort was too tired to really get worked up about.
“Potter, you do realize you could have left me here right? I know with your bleeding heart you wouldn't have been able to murder me in cold blood, but leaving me should've done the job.”
“I wanted answers, still do, plus I'm not really sure where we are. We both would probably die, if I did that.”
Voldemort had to concede to that point, the body he had right now had its limits-he was already exhausted- and as far as he knew they didn't have their wands with them. Apparition wasn't an option either, since they both didn't know where they exactly were.
Wait a second, Potter might have a wand, or the Elder Wand even. If he had the Elder Wand he might be able to get out of this mess immediately by disarming Potter somehow and reversing the spell on himself. That is, if this could even be reversed. He certainly hadn't wanted to take any chances when taking out Harry Potter, but he should hold on to a sliver of hope that the Elder Wand's interference may have influenced that somehow. Voldemort certainly didn't wish to be a four-year-old again for much longer, even if he still possessed his own mind, it already felt peculiar and wrong, and he didn't feel like he held any control over his magic.
He caught himself before he actually let out a yawn.
“Yes, I do suppose that would be a wise action from your perspective.”
Voldemort wanted to ask him about the wands, but knew that even Potter would be smart enough to lie about that, if he did have one.
Potter simply nodded and said: “I actually propose we stay together, at least until the next inhabited place.” Voldemort didn't like the idea, but had to concede it was probably for the best to play along. For now, traversing through the woods as his four-year-old self alone was less appealing than suffering Potter's presence.
“I agree,” Voldemort answered, hopefully they'd of course resume their duel earlier rather than later. Perhaps soon he'd be able to stumble across a wand somehow, and return himself to normal, so he could rid himself of the last obstacle and finally conquer The Wizarding World.
Potter looked somewhat surprised at his easy acceptance of coming with him, but made no further comment on it. “So,” he began after an uncomfortable silence, “where do we even start?”
“I can't travel like this,” Voldemort said, gesturing to his way too large robes which hid his tiny naked body.
He half-hoped this predicament would prompt Potter to pull out a wand from somewhere, it didn't. Potter scratched his neck in contemplation, the man's own clothing still fit him well enough Voldemort observed.
“I think I might be able to achieve a wandless shrinking charm, it's not that complicated,” Potter said, more to himself than anybody else. “Take off those robes for a second, wouldn't want to make you any tinier than you already are.”
Voldemort huffed, as if Potter could ever manage something as complicated as shrinking down a human wandlessly, he even doubted the man's ability to be able to do the charm on the clothes alone. He decided on humoring Potter for now, mainly because it wasn't like he had any better ideas, or had enough control of his magic to accomplish shrinking the clothes himself. Luckily, it was pretty sunny, wherever they were, even if Voldemort still couldn't hold back his shivering.
“Reducio!” Potter cast, and miraculously enough the robes actually obeyed.
Voldemort said nothing as he quickly pulled the clothes on, well as quickly as he could with the ridiculous amount of buttons his robes held. He let out an almost childish cry of frustration. For some reason with everything going on he'd been feeling like giving up, curling into a ball and crying his heart out, for some time now, but the adult in him managed to stay in control thankfully.
If Potter noticed anything off about him, he didn't comment about it.
Voldemort finally fastened the very last button. There, he already felt more in control now.
“Let's set up camp for today,” he said, trying to sound authoritative, but instead probably sounding more like a whining toddler ready for his bed time. Voldemort decided that he really was losing himself to his exhaustion.
“With what?” Potter asked, not holding back his clear amusement at Voldemort.
“Let's just find or create shelter for now.”
They began inspecting the clearing and found enough branches to built something against a tree, with which Voldemort meant that Potter found enough branches to have built something against a tree. He was simply sitting on a rock, not doing much, except nodding off occasionally. Potter had by then been building a small fire, lighting it with a subtle flick of a finger. It had started to feel like he was not as incompetent with wandless magic as Voldemort had expected of him. Voldemort was almost impressed when he saw Potter transfiguring two more sticks into containers to hold some water from the pond in.
“You know, you could've at least pretended to help me,” Potter commented, after he spotted Voldemort's location.
“Why? You're the adult here, and I'm a four-year-old technically.”
“That sounds like a lame excuse, but fine, be that way.”
They made their way into the shelter, Voldemort would usually never even have considered sleeping on a dirt floor, let alone in Potter's presence, but as soon as he actually laid down on a bunch of leaves he was fast asleep.
Nightmares were something very foreign to adult Voldemort, but to a four-year-old him they had been quite the commodity.
It had started simple enough, in that damned orphanage, always that rotten place. He had walked around aimlessly, until he heard the voices. They were all of people that he had known, talking about him, berating him. They turned into shadows that were chasing him, their forms reminding him of dementors almost.
It was utterly ridiculous, and Voldemort felt quite ashamed of himself waking up with a gasp, his cheeks wet from tears. He glanced over at the dark unmoving form next to him, removed as far away from Voldemort as he could be in the small shelter. Thank Salazar the man was a heavy sleeper. Imagine, the great Voldemort being plagued by childish nightmares conjured up from his apparently four-year-old subconscious.
If he wasn't the one being affected by all this it would've fascinated him how an adult reduced to being a four-year-old, even with his memories intact, seemed to regress to a more basic sort of emotional system. At least it felt that way to him, in his memory he hadn't felt certain emotions for years, and except for a few specific ones, he'd thought he'd rid himself of them.
In fact, he couldn't quite remember his time or mindset as a four-year-old and had always assumed he'd never really felt these sort of things in the first place. Not that he actually felt much of anything right now, other than perhaps the slightest bit of shame. He wiped away the lingering tears and closed his eyes again.
This time it took a while to fall back asleep, but somehow he managed, still being exhausted.
Potter would pay for this when it all was finally over.
Voldemort would make sure of it. He'd gladly dump the blame for this on the Gryffindor too, even if a little voice in the back of his head told him he only had himself to blame.