Chapter Text
The sweet smell of rain-soaked jasmine poured in through the study’s open window; the breeze that carried it inside caused the candle flames to flicker precariously. It was as though they too, the bright tendrils of light, felt outwardly the pressing impatience no indication of which was present upon Lord Voldemort's serene, almost bored face.
The strong curve of his jaw was tilted down, as he sat with one leg crossed over the other on the plush velvet settee.
With one pale hand, he flipped through the pages of Morgana’s Sixth Treatise on The Astral Planes. With the other, he toyed absent-mindedly with the mahogany frame of his seat, carved intricately into a coiling serpent. His red eyes scanned over the pages at a steady, unbothered rate, but the corners of his lips were pinched tightly in something not quite a scowl.
The wind picked up again, carrying another wave of sweet-smelling jasmine into the room, and with it came a not-so-unexpected guest. Harry Potter stood shivering bare-footed on the cold marble floor. He was dressed in nothing but blue and grey plaid boxers, which hung low on his narrow hips, and a ghastly oversized muggle T-shirt. For a moment his curse-green eyes were blown wide and unfocused as if in a daze, and besides the shivers racking his body he stood motionless.
The tension that had worked its way into the tight line of Lord Voldemort’s mouth melted like snow in the spring, replaced with a satisfied smirk. He uncrossed his legs and placed his book gingerly on the side table.
At the first sign of movement, Harry jolted to life as though waking from a nightmare. His once vacant eyes fixed brilliantly on Voldemort, and he reached instinctively to his waist for his wand, but his fingers closed around nothing but air and the fraying threads of his rag-worn clothing.
The belated realization dawned on Harry’s face, and he bore a remarkable similarity to a field mouse with his leg caught between the jaws of a snake. But before he could make another move Voldemort heaved out an exasperated sigh.
“Must we continue to play this tedious game, Harry dear?” Voldemort’s deep clear voice rent the tense silence like a well-cast Sectumsempra through warm butter. He leveled Harry with an unimpressed look, “Have you not bored yourself yet?”
It had been nearly three weeks since the first time Harry had Astrally Projected into Voldemort’s study, and since he had done so every night upon falling asleep. It would play out the same way each time; Harry’s first instinct was always to fight, as surely as it was unsuccessful. Even if Harry had his wand on him while projecting he was largely incorporeal, though capable of touch and sensation to a certain degree. He could exert force on relatively light objects, but not anything significant enough to cause damage. He’d explained as much several times, but more often than not the boy would merely glare from the farthest corner of the room like a petulant child in a time out.
Harry didn’t respond, but his thoughts were so loud rattling around in his frantic little head, that he hardly needed to. ‘He’s going to kill me” echoed over and over like a morbid round. If the smell of his panic had been any more deliciously intoxicating Voldemort might have let it go on forever, but as it stood he was growing impatient.
“I won’t kill you, not now nor ever,” He said. “I’ve already told you as much. You really must begin to listen when others are speaking, it’s terribly rude. Now, won’t you join me on the sofa?” He paused for a response, but when none came he quirked his brow expectantly and with no small amount of exasperation flicked his wrist in Harry’s direction. An invisible tendril of magic coiled around the boy’s midsection, pulling him across the room faster than then he could get his legs under him, and setting him down briskly onto the seat next to Voldemort.
“That’s much better,” Voldemort continued casually. He summoned his teacup which had been cooling on his desk, stirring it three times clockwise before setting both the dish and his spoon on the coffee table. “Would you like some tea?”
Harry held himself so rigidly that a less astute observer might have entirely missed the small jerky shake of his head that somehow constituted a proper rejection in the boy’s mind.
“Words please, Harry”. This time Voldemort didn’t pause to see if Harry would respond of his own volition and instead allowed magic to seep into the command of his own words.
“No,” said Harry despite himself. Another expectant quirk of Voldemort’s eyebrow had Harry sputtering out, “Thank you,” faster than his tongue could keep up with.
Satisfied with this, Voldemort set his teacup down on his saucer, “Won't you tell me where you are now?”
“I won’t,” He said, “And anyway, why don’t you just imperio it out of me if you want to know so bad."
“I could,” Voldemort conceded diplomatically, “But I’d rather you told me yourself.”
“And I’m expected to believe you won’t just kill me as soon as I tell you? I'm not stupid.”
“I wouldn’t. You have my word.”
“You’re a Liar,” The boy hissed, baring his teeth, before composing himself, “What could you possibly even want from me anyway, if not to kill me?”
Voldemort momentarily allowed himself to imagine telling the boy who lived that he had the distinct honor of housing a shard of Lord Voldemort’s soul. It had been such a revelation, that night in the graveyard. His new and grotesque body had been alight with forgotten sensation. The smell of death, damp dirt, and musty tombstones filled his lungs as they expanded for the first time in a decade with the rush of breath. Newly formed muscles twitched and filled with blood as he took his first steps. The boy was so small pinned against Tom Riddle's Seniors Grave. Hardly a threat at all.
“I can touch you now,” He remembered saying. But no sooner than he pressed a jagged finger to the boy’s scar and all at once his nerves were bombarded with the all too familiar sensation of Nagini’s soft, undulating scales, of the scratch scratch scratch of his quill flying over the pages of his boyhood journal. A Horcrux! His reflexes became dull with the shock and delight of it all, he barely put up a fight as the boy slipped away into the night. It did not matter, after all, he suddenly felt completely certain that the boy would be his in the end. His soul.
Voldemort was quick to gather his remaining Horcruxes after that. He had, at the time he created each one, thought the vessels to be the most exquisitely beautiful and powerful objects in the world, the most worthy of housing his soul. Suddenly, in comparison to Harry, they were nothing but gaudy trinkets. A living, breathing human whose own soul had given way, entwining itself around Voldemorts, like a sapling grafted onto a mighty yew.
And how absurd was it that these trinkets should harbor more of his soul than his human Horcrux! At once Voldemort began the delicate process of unbinding his soul from them, taking a third from each for himself, a third for Nagini, and a final third for Harry. With each Horcrux he lost he found himself growing more powerful, more in control of his mental prowess. His face and body which the Horcruxes’ dark magic had whittled away returned, and the sharp beguiling features of his youth were once more in full bloom.
Would Harry take this for the honor it was, Voldemort was certain he would not. His little Horcrux had been twisted and confused by that fool Dumbledore. But with a third of his soul safely tucked away inside Harry’s body, the connection between them grew stronger. Without understanding, or even being aware of any change Harry’s soul was reaching out for Voldemort night after night. With his soul so acquiescent, Voldemort was sure his heart and mind would be quick to follow.
Judiciously Voldemort bit his tongue, “You’re very thin,” He said instead, “Could it be that the mighty Order of the Phoenix cannot manage to care for a single boy?” With a snap of his fingers Voldemort had them sitting in the dining room, a sumptuous feast laid out before them. He took his rightful place at the head while Harry was immediately to his right.
The boy practically growled in rage, “Of course they can!” He swiped his fist across the table, sending delicate silver platters topped with food clattering to the floor, shattering crystal glassware and spilling the contents across the spider-lace tablecloth.
Voldemort continued as though he hadn’t even noticed the the rude display. “So then who, pray tell, is caring for you if not the ever capable order? Lucius tells me you were raised by… muggles,” He spit the word out like something foul, “Is it perhaps their tender mercy onto which Dumbledore has foisted you?”
His eyes scanned over Harry’s body. For a boy of seventeen, he was small, all bones and knobby knees. His T-shirt, which must have been at least three sizes too big, kept slipping off his right shoulder, revealing the startlingly pronounced jut of his clavicle and shoulder.
And yet, Voldemort wondered how he’d never noticed before that just below the surface of this bedraggled urchin- like boy, was an undeniable jewel. His body, though scrawny and small, was lithe, and his skin was smooth and clear. Dark curls fell about his face in charmingly disordered waves, framing his eyes which stared out at the world like two brilliant green planets making love with everything they saw, catching everything up in their pull. It was hypnotic, and Voldemort, for all his occlumency and wards, was entranced.
When Harry caught his staring he pulled his sleeve back up with an indignant huff. “You don’t know anything,” Was all the boy bit out—such a stubborn little thing.
“I’ll give you one more chance to tell me yourself, Harry. I can be quite generous to those who are obedient.”
The boy resolutely avoided his gaze, green eyes lingering on what must have been a very fascinating point on the ceiling. For some reason, the stubborn set of his jaw sent a thrill through Voldemort’s body, and what ought to have been little more than irksome disobedience was something delightful. Perhaps because of how quickly shattered this little act of rebellion was to be.
Voldemort's eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned back, a predatory smile playing on his lips. "Very well, Harry. If you won't tell me where you are, perhaps we can play a little game instead."
Harry's eyes narrowed, his body tensing. "What kind of game?"
Voldemort waved his hand dismissively, summoning a small, ornate box from the corner of the room. It gleamed in the light of the sconces, as it floated gracefully to the table between them, made of delicate mother of pearl and trimmed with gold. With a flick of his wrist, the lid opened to reveal a collection of tiny, enchanted figurines.
"These are representations of various places you've been," Voldemort explained, his voice silky smooth. "Let’s see if you can tell where each represents?”
Harry's jaw tightened, his gaze flickering to the figurines. Voldemort watched the boy with rapt attention as his eyes scanned over the trinkets – Hogwarts was represented by a miniature snitch with eagerly flapping wings, then there was the burrow, which was a hand knit sweater. There was even Hogsmeade, a miniature pint of butter beer. Finally Harry’s eyes caught on one he didn’t recognize.
Voldemort picked it up from the pile, turning it slowly in his fingers. It was a small golden door latch. "Let's start with this one, shall we?" His eyes bore into Harry's, searching for any sign of recognition.
Harry's heart pounded so loudly that Voldemort could make out the pace, but his face remained calm. "I don't know that place."
Voldemort's smile widened, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Oh, but you do, Harry. This is where you spent so many of your childhood years, isn't it?" Voldemort's voice was a low, mocking whisper, “Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, isn’t it?”
Harry's breath caught in his throat, his mind reeling with the sound of a muggle automobile crash. Panic surged through him, but he forced himself to stay silent, his eyes blazing with defiance.
"Ah, but you won't admit it, will you?" Voldemort continued, his tone almost playful. "No matter. Let's try another one."
He picked up another figurine, the snitch that represented Hogwarts. Harry felt a pang of longing and nostalgia, but he refused to let it show.
"This is where you feel safe," Voldemort said, his voice softening. "Where you believe you can escape me. But even here, you cannot hide forever."
Harry's fists clenched at his sides, his anger rising. "What do you want from me?" he demanded, his voice shaking with suppressed rage.
Voldemort's smile faded, replaced by a cold, calculating gaze. "I want you to understand, Harry. You cannot escape me. No matter where you go, I will always find you. Your defiance is admirable, but ultimately futile."
Harry’s eyes were wide and glistening, as a single tear slid down his cheek. A part of Voldemort wished to comfort his little Horcrux, the fear swelling inside him was spilling over into Voldemort’s mind. He brought his hand to the boy’s face, his thumb slid tenderly along his jaw wiping away the stray drop. He said instead, “I’m coming for you.”