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“My lord, there’s a letter for you.”
“From who?”
“...”
There wasn’t anything worse than Lucius Malfoy entering Voldemort’s study with useless updates.
“Who is it from, Lucius?”
“Erm… it appears to be from…”
“Can you read?” Voldemort spat. His impatience took control and he summoned the envelope Lucius was holding to his hands.
Mr. Voldemort Malfoy Manor
From Harry Potter (real) (This is not bait) (please open)
With a hand wave, he dismissed Lucius and performed his cursory detection charms on the envelope. It came out completely clean.
Confused, Voldemort opened the letter and squinted to decipher the chicken scratch inside.
Dear Mr. Voldemort
Is it okay if I call you that? I’m going to call you that. What can you do about it anyway, other than burn this letter? (Just kidding, don’t burn this)
If you haven’t burnt the letter yet, and are still reading then I will take that as a sign of your goodwill. Of which I am certain you have some despite what everyone says. I’m hoping you will act more on this goodwill and possibly reconsider being mean to me. What has it really achieved? Nothing good for either of us! I, for one, am being held hostage for the entire summer.
I know you consider me an enemy, but living with the Dursleys is so terrible that not even you would wish this on your enemy. Dumbledore won’t let anyone near me. I’ve written to everyone I know and all of them have brushed me off.
You’re my last hope, Voldemort. I can’t write to anyone else who would have the power to get me out. And hey—it’ll be like the biggest ‘fuck you’ to Dumbledore if you do get me out of here! You’d like that, wouldn’t you?
So why don’t we talk this all out like normal, rational beings? It’ll save magical lives and our lives. I’m sure we can come to an agreement of some sort.
From, Harry James Potter (real)
Voldemort stared at the letter. He blinked and re-read it seven times.
The letter wasn’t tampered with in any way, as far as he could tell. Perhaps it was worth writing back.
Potter,
Don’t call me that.
What are ‘Dursleys’? If it’s a deadly disease like I think it is, then I assure you I can come near you. Unlike those other wizards, I can withstand any disease.
Send me your address.
That should do it, Voldemort thought. It was highly unlikely that this interaction would work out as he wanted, but it was worth a try.
***
The next day, he was on the grounds of Malfoy Manor when a snowy white owl delivered a letter to him directly.
Scowling, he snatched the note from the owl’s beak and tore it open.
Dear Mr. Voldemort,
Sorry, I have to call you that, otherwise Hedwig won’t know who the letter is for.
Thanks for not burning my letter and responding so quickly. The Dursleys are my Muggle relatives, not a disease.
If you plan on helping me, the address is 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. If you plan on killing me, then please forget the address and burn the letter instead.
(But if it’s the first, then I’m so glad we took this step forward in our relationship. I knew Dumbledore was wrong about you!)
From, Harry
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. That was not the response he expected.
This whole exchange has been suspicious from the beginning, but his curiosity wouldn’t let him sit it out. He had to go to 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, to see what was waiting for him there.
***
A boring, old house.
That’s what was waiting for him.
Voldemort tucked the letter into his robe pocket and walked up the steps to the front door. He let himself in.
A set of plates shattered on the floor as a woman screamed. A high, grating noise.
“Avada Kedavra!”
The words were out of his mouth before she could take a breath to continue.
As her dead body dropped, a loud man drew attention to himself by howling. He was yelling unintelligibly, staring at Voldemort in horror and rooted to the couch.
“Avada Kedavra.”
A boy ran into his view. He took one look at Voldemort’s face and before he could scream, he dropped dead too.
Not a single survival instinct in this house. Really, if one were this stupid, they deserved to die.
“What have you done?!” a new voice shouted.
Ah, the boy he came for.
Voldemort turned back to see Harry Potter standing on the staircase, his hands fisted in his hair and his owl perched on his bannister.
“What did you do?!”
“Is this not what you asked for? You said they were awful,” Voldemort shrugged.
“I didn’t mean for you to kill them!” Harry exclaimed, coming the rest of the way down. He stared, horrified, at his dead relatives.
“Well, then,” Voldemort said sarcastically, “You should have thought long and hard about who you were writing too. Avada Kedavra.”
He crouched down to search Harry’s limp body for his wand. Just as he was about to pocket it, Harry’s owl—Hedwig, he had called her—screeched and nipped at his fingers.
“Get off,” Voldemort snapped at the bothersome creature.
“Hm, might as well—Avada Kedavra.” The owl fell on top of Harry. “Teach you to send me letters…”
Productive, thought Voldemort. He was done for the day.
Or so he thought.
Behind him, there was a quiet pop. He turned to face the next unfortunate Muggle, only to see—
Himself?
"Who are you?" he demanded, pointing his wand at the tall, serpentine man.
"I'm you from another universe," the other Lord Voldemort said, unbothered. He came closer to inspect the dead bodies. "I see my work here is done. Excellent."
And without another word, he disappeared.
