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High up in Hogwarts Castle, near a window overlooking an open courtyard, stands Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, her face set in an unreadable expression.
She stares down at the congregation of students. The Scottish weather is particularly mild today, sunlight bathing the castle grounds, suffusing them with warmth so much that every cloak and overrobe has been discarded in favour of lighter clothing. To the untrained eye, it could almost seem like a normal day.
“How long have they been like this ?”
“Too long,” Minerva sighs. She glances at the man standing next to her, clad in close-cut scarlet robes with a head of cropped black hair- greying slightly at the temples. He leans against the windowsill as he surveys the students below, shoulders relaxed though he maintains the bearing of a war general. “Which is why I am hoping that you can be of assistance.”
Her eyes return to the courtyard. There, everything is slightly too bright, colours saturated by the abnormal heat. Blending features and vacant stares, bare feet connecting with the earth as children dance in circles- creating an intricate formation as they move aimlessly, lost to an unheard tune. Further away, students gather as they observe the Dance, growing steadily uneasy at their friends’ fates. Three red-robed figures are posted nearby, awaiting command.
“Have you found a pattern ? A ritual that matches their movements ?”
“There are none to be found. The configuration does not match any known ritual or spellwork,” she says, turning to him though he studies the courtyard still. “We have already sent the relevant samples to St Mungo’s and had our Masters check for curses and other such malefices, both attempts which didn't result in anything substantial.”
Below, around the cursed students, unearthly flowers and fungi grow in the green grass, which has turned a few shades deeper where dancing feet tread. The blooms' velvety petals, painted in a variety of unlikely colours, are coated with shimmering spores that waft through the air.
“There appears to be a pull on their magical cores, but other than that, no real drain. No curse, no potion, no disease. General countercurses have had no effect. The students do not respond to outside stimuli, seemingly stuck in a state of parasomnia." She sighs heavily. "Every now and then, they fall to the ground, exhausted. Even as the faculty and I try to confine them in the Hospital Wing, they somehow always manage to return to their dance.”
Finally, the man turns to her. His features are set as he studies her- Minerva watches him pick her words apart, turning them over for examination.
“This is unprecedented,” she confides after a moment, voice strained. “No incident of comparable magnitude has occurred since my school years. Since Myrtle Warren died, inexplicably, seventy years ago.”
He doesn't visibly react to the news. Instead, he asks in a measured tone.
“Have you contacted a fey specialist ?”
Minerva stiffens imperceptibly. “None that will answer.”
The man hums, looking out once again at the strange picture below, surveying it with a steady gaze. Behind his glasses, green eyes, eerie, almost like jewels, stand out against his plain features. It’s the most memorable thing about him.
Her eyes linger on his forehead, but there is nothing there.
He pushes himself off the windowsill. Slipping his wand out of an arm holster, he summons a patronus. It darts out, flying down to the still awaiting Aurors- Minerva doesn't quite make out its shape.
“I’ll take a look around for now,” he informs her. “See if I can find a lead or anything you might have missed. My men will tour the grounds, and Jenkins and Williamson will stay on guard duty in case anything happens overnight. Auror Potter and Black will be back tomorrow to interview the staff.”
Minerva nods. “Will you be needing help getting around, Head Auror Robards ? Hogwarts has been quite temperamental as of late. It might lead you astray,” she warns.
The man smiles tightly at her. “I think I’ll manage.”
—
Silent steps hurry down the moving staircases of Hogwarts as the shape of Harry Potter fades from view. Jumping onto the stone railing, charming the soles of his boots smooth, he slides down the rest of the way as the staircase twists to connect with a different floor. Unseen, the illusion of scarlet robes falls apart, revealing a pair of faded muggle jeans and a well-loved black leather jacket.
Following her twisting hallways, Harry disappears behind lively portraits and into the secret passageways of Hogwarts, feeling out the wards of the castle as he is led around by her mysterious magics. He follows signs of spellwork, watching paths form on the floor beneath his feet as he traces the shifting runes carved into the stone walls, looking for something- anything- that could be out of place.
As he moves onwards, he readjusts his mind map- places that should be destroyed aren't, corridors that caved in are now in perfect condition. Landmarks, walls once marked by spellfire, are intact. This Hogwarts doesn't share his memories- he made it so.
There are also other differences. New damage, new corridors- Hogwarts never stops growing, and in absence of conflict, she thrived . It's not so unfamiliar that it doesn't feel like home, but just enough that they need to be reacquainted- like catching up with a friend after a long journey. Even as she strains to recognise him, Hogwarts is reaching out- he meets her halfway.
“Fey activity has never been observed in the Forbidden Forest,” McGonagall had said.
In this time, Harry knows the words to be true.
He hears the echoes of the curse, young voices joining in a wordless call with an absent sort of joy. An ancient song, ringing out from the courtyard even as he moves further away. Weak still, but rapidly growing in intensity.
As he studies the inner workings of Hogwarts, picking apart thousands of colourful threads weaved together in a great tapestry, one stands out. A singularity.
“Curious.” The thread of magic twines through the others like a lie. Dissonant, familiar.
Harry seizes it and ties it around his wrist.
—
"What do you know about the fey ?"
Bartemius Crouch Jr startles as a figure appears to his left just as he steps out of the bathroom, slipping a small vial into the inner pocket of his coat. "Hello to you too," he grins, walking up to the bar. He picks a stool close to the doorway. “You know, it’s somewhat worrying to be asked about this all of the sudden. Is there anything urgent I should know ?”
“As if you weren't sent here for recon,” Harry throws back, unimpressed as he takes a seat next to the other man. “What else could you be doing at the Hog’s Head on a weekday ?”
And indeed, room candlelit as sunlight pains to make its way through grimy windows, the dingy inn is empty but for a small cluster of whispering teenagers as well as a scattered few shadowy figures- drinking cheap firewhiskey, conversations hidden behind privacy charms.
“You know, I really hate this power imbalance,” Barty tells him, waving Aberforth over for two drinks. Harry doesn’t look at his, pushing it aside as soon as it is set on the counter. “I don’t even know what it is you do. Give me a good reason why I should be helping you.”
“Mad Eye Moody, ‘07, Southampton,” he replies simply, ignoring Barty’s surprised ‘that was you ?’ . “And to be fair, I don’t know who you’re working for either- I have it under good authority that your main employer didn't send you here.” He squints behind his glasses. “Who are you even supposed to be ? A Fawley ?”
“What authority, your guts ?” Barty bites back with good humour. “Well believe it or not, it’s my day off- I’m here for entirely personal reasons. Nothing illegal here, no sir. Well, other than this marvellous disguise.” He gestures proudly at his- well, everything. Steel grey eyes crease, replacing cornflower blue ones. There is a distortion to his figure, two faces in overlay. “I’m thinking of going to a muggle amusement park- any recommendations ?”
Harry raises an eyebrow at the blatant subject change. “That’s lovely, but I don't have time. Start talking.”
“You're such a stick in the mud.” Barty takes a sip of the swill they have been served, unflinching at the taste. He leans back dramatically. “But I really haven't been briefed on whatever it is you're talking about, so I don't know the details yet. You'll have to be more explicit if you want answers.”
The words ring true, like the soft shimmer of a bell. Harry complies with the request. “Let's try something else then,” he begins, dropping one line of questioning for another. “Consider the theoretical event that a link could be created between our realm and another, somewhere where no previous link has ever existed. How do you reckon that could be ?”
His companion muses shortly, spinning his cup in his hands before taking another drink.
"A bridge would have to be built between the two, with an anchor on each side, sending out a call and receiving an answering signal. That, or there could be a breach in the wall between the realms- the result of a disturbance in the fabric of our world. Like someone opened a door and didn't close it properly.” Barty looks up from his glass, giving Harry a sly look. "You wouldn't know about anything of the sort, would you ?"
Harry looks into his eyes, glinting with intelligence where they should be without life.
"Not at all," he lies.
“Well then, without any more details, I can't tell you much else.” Barty shrugs. “Is there-”
A commotion starts behind them. The un-turbaned form of Quirinus Quirrell appears, running down the stairs from the first storey- from one of the rooms, presumably. Singed, short hair in disarray, he readjusts his soot-covered robes, hurrying up to Abelforth at the other end of the bar. They exchange a flurry of frantic whispers- something about a giant ashwinder.
Barty gawks at them. “Didn't that guy get drowned by a Kappa in Mongolia last year ?”
“I'm pretty sure only a soul parasite and an eleven year old with a blood protection can kill him,” Harry mutters, scratching at his stubble, receiving a weird look from his companion. He redirects. “How fares your little book club ? Think I should pay your president a visit ?”
Leaning back on his stool, Barty is quiet for a moment. “That would be for the best. He has been getting bored .” A slight grimace. “Of the books. And He will certainly know more about your predicament than I do. That is, if He is willing to tell.”
“Then I believe we are done here.” Pushing himself up, Harry leaves a few knuts on the counter next to his untouched glass, already moving towards the entrance.
Barty follows after him. They come to a stop outside the door, taking in the cold winter wind drifting through the streets of Hogsmeade. Strange, Harry thinks, how fast the weather shifts.
“Say, where goes your obsession with secrecy ?” Barty pulls at his disguise’s long auburn braid, throwing it over his shoulder as he tugs his collar shut. He rocks back on his heels, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Anyone could have heard our conversation back there.”
“If not for your warding, I’m sure they would have." Slipping on a pair of gloves, Harry checks the time on a grandfather clock in a neighbouring storefront. “But don't worry too much, no one will remember I was here. They never do."
A dubious look. "Does that include me ?"
Harry's jacket spins behind him as he apparates away.
"Goodbye, Barty.”
—-
A man appears in Knockturn Alley.
He walks through the maze of dark alleyways, shrouded by more than mere fabric- a sense of displacement, whispers that urge the eye to look away. Gazes flit over him, minds assured of his insignificance. Some may mistake him for an acquaintance, while others forget him as soon as he darts by.
In these parts where names are kept close and treated carefully, he is safe, for he has none.
Passing by the usual stalls, he encounters a few unusual ones- a hag selling rusted keys without locks, a vampire repairing broken mirrors with golden filigree, a veela who will tell a lie for a sickle. Barely paying attention, he walks by a display full of exotic pipes. From a single merchant, he buys a short branch of yew, an opal scale and a silver ring.
Closer to the edge of Diagon, he takes the twisting back alleys instead of the main streets. After walking into the same impasse for the third time, he stops in front of an out-of-the-way bookshop, ignoring the ‘closed’ sign and coming out with a silk-wrapped package.
As he moves through an intersection, he passes a woman with flaming red hair walking with a thin sallow-faced man. Matching green eyes meet for a fraction of time.
Lily Evans looks back, but she has already forgotten what she was looking for.
—
Pushing open the short white gate, a man walks the path leading up to the quaint country cottage. Beyond the wildflowers, he smiles at the sad attempt at a small potion garden- protected from weeds and gnomes by sheer force of will- which has never seen anything but a few sprouts of dittany and a stray tomato.
He finds the door unlocked, as it always is for him. Making his way through the foyer, he steps into an airy living room furnished in light woods and bright colours, bathed in an orange glow as the sunset filters through the curtains. In the back, an open doorway reveals a modern kitchen. Next to it, a staircase leads up to the first storey.
Harry closes the door behind himself, keeping the outside cold from invading the heated interior. Walking further into the room, his voice is obnoxiously loud as he calls out.
“Delivery for a Mrs- Harmony ? Hermine ? Hermano ? Her-mi-one ?”
Footsteps echo down the staircase. He looks up, trying to catch a glance of the source. A voice calls back, exasperated. “It stopped being funny the third time, Evan.”
Harry grins, leaning against the railing. “I assure you, it still is. Ron laughs every time.”
“Well, my husband isn’t here right now, is he ?”
Hermione appears, carrying a heaping stack of books, wearing a warm sweater and a pair of powder blue pyjama pants. Her short freshly washed hair puffs up around her face as she walks past him, setting them down on a low coffee table. Tugging a quill from behind her ear, she drops five rolls of parchment on the sofa, all of which were previously secured under her arm.
“Why, Mrs Granger-Weasley, I didn’t know you to be so salacious.” She gives him a deadpan look which does nothing to deter him. With an exaggerated sweep of his arm, four leather bound tomes appear in his hand, resting on a layer of glossy silk and reeking of old magic. “Here we go. One delivery of four slightly illegal books for our esteemed future Minister.”
“Oh Evan, stop. Everyone knows Percy isn’t stepping down anytime soon.” Accepting them, she shuffles the pages, reading through the lengthy indexes. She gasps. “Where did you find these ? You always manage to pick up the most obscure editions- at this point I’m almost afraid to ask.” Thrilled, she sets them down near the others. “Can I get you anything ? Tea ?”
“No, thank you.” Still, Hermione moves into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He follows her. As usual, she forgoes a boiling charm, prefering to do it the muggle way. Some traditions simply cannot be lost to magic. “How is Ron, by the way- I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Did somebody say Ron ?” Speaking of the ginger-haired devil. “Talking about me behind my back, and in my own home ? You people have no shame.”
Ron steps into the kitchen through the backdoor, taking off his cloak and scarf, his face visibly flushed from the cold. Leaving his bag on the table, he drops an icy peck on Hermione’s cheek and receives a playful glare. Then he rounds in on Harry, trapping him in a bear hug.
“It’s good to see you too, mate,” Harry manages, slightly strangled as Ron leeches off his warmth. On the table, something catches his eye. “Say, where did you get that ?”
Releasing him, Ron follows his gaze. “Oh, this ? Seamus- that’s Finnegan, you know, the guy who blew up the Leakey two months ago- gave it to me the other day. Didn’t think much of it. I reckon it’s some kind of Irish knot thingy.”
Ron pulls the keychain from the bag, setting it into Harry’s palm. The material is rough, loop making an overall circle-like shape, divided in four sections- each knotted in the middle-, rope coming to form a doubled square at the centre.
“Honestly Ron,” Hermione huffs as Harry sets it back on the table. “It's a Dara Knot. I was reading about them- this one symbolises strength and resilience. The shape is supposed to mirror the roots of an oak tree, and the continuous loop represents the eternal cycle of-”
Harry and Ron share a look over her shoulder.
“Oh, forget it.” She rolls her eyes at them, taking a seat at the table.
“Do you want to join us for game night at the pub, mate ?” Ron asks pointedly. Flicking his wand, he turns the stove off, pouring steaming hot tea into three mugs and passing them along. “We’re celebrating the shop’s twentieth anniversary. George’s still under the illusion that he can beat Felicity at Rune Riddles- Fred’s been taking bets. And Old Pete said he’d show me one of his tricks- I can’t believe the codger beat me at chess last week.”
“Peter isn’t that old, Ronald,” Hermione admonishes, before turning to Harry with a slight frown. “But really Evan, you should come around more often. You know you don’t need the excuse of a delivery, right ? We love having you here.”
“Yeah, mate.” A cheeky grin, laugh lines crinkling as Ron dances aside to dodge an incoming towel. He wiggles his eyebrows at Harry. “And if you ever get bored of your job, move in. I’m sure we'll find some space for you upstairs.”
“I know,” Harry replies sincerely, a smile in his voice. “And I’d love to come, but I’m afraid I’ll have to pass this time.” Setting down his mug untouched, he offers them an apologetic look, scratching at his stubble. “I’m visiting an old friend tonight.”
—
Small bones crunch beneath his boots as he enters the clearing, carefully avoiding slippery patches of moss. Slender roots and mycelium twist like pale veins through the dark soil, forming a tapestry of mesmerising patterns. Harry feels them shifting under his feet as the Forest breathes, pressure permeating the air like lungs expanding.
The clearing is surrounded by a ring of birch trees, their shadowy gazes contrasting against bleached bark, following him. Bioluminescent mushrooms grow at their feet, colours and shapes morphing in an entrancing display. Beyond, thick foliage and sickly spruces block the view, coated by parasitic lichen even as red flowers grow out of dead trunks.
Dwarfing him, an immense yew tree towers on the opposite side of the clearing, great limbs and branches extending outwards and upwards- forming a high ceiling of silvery leaves dotted with berries like beads of blood. A thin purple mist blurs his perception of it.
Everything is slightly hazy, slightly false, colours too vivid like a picture taken in a heatwave. Like a fever dream. In the air, thick with spores, reigns the sweet scent of decay.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Harry Potter ?”
The words are spoken in a rustle of wind through the impenetrable silence, blowing between the hollow trees, voice tasting of honey and smoke. Harry recognises the language- soft and sibilant, the dry whistle of a pungi and the hiss of the dancing snake- knowing he shouldn't be able to understand it.
He stops a few feet away from a large toadstool, the stem taller than he is and the stool six feet wide, standing in front of the great gnarly yew. It is entirely sculpted out of incandescent amber which seems to glow with the light of an internal flame. On it sits the cloaked figure of the Dark Lord, inky hair cascading well past his shoulders, a long lean pipe held loosely between clever fingers.
Tom Riddle’s figure radiates with amusement, warped features a shade too knowing as the man stares down at him. It’s then that Harry realises there will be no need to explain his predicament. He watches closely as the Dark Lord takes a long breath of his pipe.
Harry tugs at the thread of magic looped around his wrist. It unspools seamlessly. He holds it up, the bright red mirroring the eyes that gaze upon it.
“This is yours ?”
The façade- the mask of Tom Riddle’s face- shifts imperceptibly, then locks back into place. He breathes out slowly, purple smoke forming itself into circles as it leaves his lips, floating upwards. “So it would seem.”
When he makes no move to reclaim it, Harry stuffs the thread back into his pocket. He steps closer, leaning forward on the inclined rim of the amber stool. Tilting his head, he asks with barely disguised humour. “What were you doing in Hogwarts, Voldemort ? I thought you had moved past harassing schoolchildren ?”
Before him, the man's shape shifts and morphs, fractals unravelling and sliding back together, reflecting different truths as they war against each other, like a fractured mirror.
“Indeed, there are other matters which hold my attention,” Voldemort agrees, snapping his fingers for ignition at the end of his pipe, sparks leaving his fingertips. He breathes in once again. “What were you doing in Hogwarts, Harry Potter ? You never do tire of playing hero.”
Breathing out, the smoke leaves him in the long contorting shape of a serpent. It sways through the air of the clearing, spinning like a ribbon of lavender mist, curling and twisting between trees before coming to twine playfully around Harry's body.
“Pretty sure it's too late now to stop.” He runs a hand on the back of the smoke serpent, feeling the vague impression of scales even as it slithers away, slowly dissipating. “But you have been awfully quiet lately- I hear you’re getting bored. Tell me, Dark Lord, why don't I feel a scheme brewing ?”
“How good of a ruse would it be if you could sense it approaching ?”
The birch trees are observing them, dark gazes rapt with attention, and so are the fungi. Roots lining the ground are reaching out to him, twisting up his boots as if attempting to seal him into the clearing. Harry has to shake them off every now and then, to make sure they don’t succeed.
Harry raises both eyebrows. “Hasn’t stopped you before.”
Voldemort stares at something past Harry's shoulder, eyes following a silent motion. His lips quirk, fangs peeking out. Harry knows not to look back. He will find nothing.
“Insanity lies in repeating the same actions even when they have proved to be inadvisable.” Voldemort taps the end of the pipe twice, holding it out like a wand. Harry watches as he waves it in an arc, bubbles coming out of the end, drifting around them. “But I am insane no longer. Isn’t that right, Harry Potter ?”
Instinctually, Harry reaches out to him. He glimpses at Voldemort’s soul, refracting like light through stained glass, like the iridescent sheen of soap bubbles, like a kaleidoscope- golden filigree filling the cracks. Not unbroken, but restored. Whole.
A knowing look. “Regret has such a bitter taste, hasn’t it.”
An echo of loss that Harry feels in his own soul. “Sometimes, it's for the best.”
A clap of hands, and the bubbles turn into shimmering glass butterflies, exploding in a flurry of fine gossamer wings as they whirl around the clearing, reflecting and refracting amber light through the air, creating multicoloured prismatic shapes on dark soil and bleached bark.
“Do you miss it ?” Voldemort asks. Harry stares raptly at the spectacle. Something like awe coats his throat at the vision, wonder building in his chest. “Having me chase after you. Running for your life, betting everything on a chance at getting away.”
There is an understanding here, unspoken. They both know the answer.
Leaning back against the giant toadstool, Harry returns his focus to the Dark Lord. An air of nonchalance, a hand tucked inside the pocket of his jacket. “It certainly would make my life a lot easier if I always had to deal with the same madman and his convoluted plots.”
He watches as the butterflies come to rest one by one, flying down from their dance, landing high on Voldemort's cloak, stilling into place as they each turn into delicate crystalline ornaments, now fated to be eternal fixtures adorning the low collar of the rich emerald cloth.
“Would it not bore you, the eternal recurrence ? After an eon, a lifetime ?”
A breath of smoke, a soft inhale. Such a spectacle of beauty, of deception. Enthralling.
“If it’s you ? Never.”
Harry's fingers find the hem of Voldemort's robes, spilling around the man’s form, draping down the edge of the large amber stool. He traces the fine embroidery, the silver of his ring clashing with the gold, hearing Voldemort breathe out heavily above him. Harry looks up to find scarlet eyes staring down at him, a cascade of inky hair spilling onto the Dark Lord's bare shoulders. His throat feels awfully dry at that moment.
“Is this it then,” Harry asks again. “Your move ?”
A soft sigh. “You know very well that it isn't. That is why you are here, after all.” He tilts Harry’s head up with the end of his pipe, staring deeply into his eyes. Harry feels him like a flood, sliding into the confines of his mind. “It’s a wonder, that even now that you have given everything up, you still insist on implicating yourself in these situations.” For a second, a trick of the light, pale skin inlaying with opal scales, round pupils slitting. “You could go anywhere, do anything- be anyone. And yet here you are, standing before your fated enemy, pleading for council.”
Harry smiles ironically. “I live to serve.”
“Perhaps," Voldemort muses, "You are simply too nosey for your own good.” Scarlet fills with humour, waters subsiding as he pokes Harry’s nose with the end of his pipe. “Or perhaps, you understand that you had to do with this one.”
Harry hears it then. The sound of slithering, smooth scales sliding through the foliage, slow and heavy- large, dangerous-, circling around the clearing. Harry's eyes never leave Voldemort’s.
“This Curse of yours,” the Dark Lord begins, bending forward, closer, as if sharing a secret. Harry is drawn in, listening raptly. “Takes hold of the students' cores and, though it isn’t draining them, it is doing something much more insidious.”
A scent enfolds them, honeyed and warm- a sense of intimacy. A snare.
“They wouldn't have noticed it, not so soon, not with a surface study. Certainly not if they are looking for malicious intent- there is no such thing as human intent when dealing with the fey.” Once again, Voldemort breathes into the long pipe. “The Curse does not touch those who are magically of age. Can you guess why that is ?”
He doesn’t give Harry a chance to answer.
“Contrary to grown wizards, childrens' cores are still in development. They are still moving, somewhat unstable.” Hints of smoke trailing from the corners of his mouth, Voldemort waves his pipe through the air, fashioning wafting fumes into elaborate designs. “They have yet to solidify into the rigidity of a matured core, and are thus much more malleable. Not unlike clay.”
He leans in, breathing out directly into Harry’s face, smoke forming a perfect circle.
“They can be shaped.”
As he coughs out the smoke, images flicker through Harry’s mind, hazy and disparate. A hundred threads in a hundred hues, weaving a multicoloured tapestry. Children dancing in a now familiar pattern, features blending and eyes vacant, bodies bending impossibly, like reeds in the wind as unearthly plants grow around them. As their feet carve paths into the earth. As their cores unendingly trace the same shape into being.
A signal, reaching out. An ancient song- young voices joining in a wordless call.
A knot. An intricate pattern like the roots of an oak tree.
A great yew- a growing oak. An anchor.
A ring.
They are building a bridge, he realises. They are opening the door.
“An open door,” Lord Voldemort enunciates carefully. An hourglass turned upside down, a river of quicksand flowing uphill. Endless hallways way down underground, an old rusted lock. “Does that sound familiar, Harry Potter ?”
Harry steps back from the amber toadstool, finally taking notice of the roots that have succeeded in climbing up to his knees, mooring him to the ground before it. Caught in a web.
“Will you tell me why this is happening ? Why now ?”
“Would it be so unbelievable that I do not know ?” Voldemort rises from his seat, silky robes falling down in elegant waves, his emerald cloak embracing his form as long hair drapes on a collar of fine crystal wings. He glides to the edge of the stool, reaching out a hand expectantly. “That I had nothing to do with it ? Would that disappoint you ?”
Voldemort takes Harry’s offered arm, pale skin resting against dark leather as he steps down gracefully from the great amber toadstool, bare feet meeting the earth. Red eyes, eerie, almost like jewels, are fixed on Harry’s face. Unmemorable features warring against a soul that refuses to forget.
“You have opened a door, Harry Potter. Created a breach in Space when you were meddling with Time. Now, the hour has come for you to search for that which stole the key.”
Although Voldemort’s words are spoken softly, they echo with a deafening finality. And even as he pronounces this sentence, his mocking gaze regards Harry fondly.
“But I’m sure you’ll find it soon. After all, you have always loved a mystery.”
A curling dread grows, but not only. The rush of adrenaline, the thrill of uncertainty.
He asks. “How can I trust that you aren't trying to lead me astray ?”
"You know lies, don't you ? You hear them too. Like a false note. Dissonant."
Harry’s fingers come to trace the back of his hand. The skin there is smooth, unmarred and unbroken. Still, he knows the words, feels them in their absence for he was the one to carve them.
Voldemort pulls the hand away, deftly avoiding the silver ring as he slides the long pipe into his fingers. Harry accepts it, bringing it closer to appreciate the golden inlays set into the glossy black wood.
He takes a deep breath from the beak, dense smoke permeating his lungs, sweet and tangy, playfully blurring his senses. "You reek of deceit, Dark Lord, even if your words ring true."
Voldemort's smile grows slowly.
Harry breathes out. He knows that what he is about to do is dangerous, but for once, he chooses to indulge a whim. Turning to the man at his side, he inquires.
"You wouldn't be interested in a treasure hunt, would you ?"
A glint of delight, lips parting to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. "Would I ?"
Harry watches as the unshaped smoke flies up, joining the rest in a thick purple cloud that has formed high above their heads, confined by the foliage in the cage of the clearing.
Voldemort guides him out of the clearing, hand resting in the curve of Harry’s elbow as they step beyond judgemental birch and glowing mushrooms. As they step out of Lord Voldemort’s Ring. Once again, Harry escapes the trap unscathed after knowingly stepping inside, leaving the web hand in hand with the spider.
He asks. "What time is it ?"
Voldemort slips two long fingers into Harry’s breast pocket, pulling out a pocketwatch that wasn’t there before. It dangles from a golden chain.
"It's only four. There is time yet till sunrise, Dreamwalker."
"We must wake."
Voldemort gestures at him. "Lead the way."