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If Harry had to choose the craziest moment in his life, it’d be the one he was facing right now. He was seconds away from killing himself just to find out that he was no longer able to.
In the back of his mind, Voldemort’s words echoed—
‘I won the war,’
‘Now is a distant future,’
‘You were kept in a magical stasis. I fed you the Draught of Living Death,’
‘All your allies are gone, only their descendants remain.’
All his allies were gone?
Gone?
What about his—friends?
Harry was now by himself.
At first, he was hoping that this was a big cosmic joke that Voldemort played. Guided by his Gryffindor nature, he escaped the castle. It was an arduous journey to navigate himself in the world he was once familiar with. The people spoke just differently enough from what he could remember; his tongue couldn’t adapt to their language.
With a stroke of luck, he managed to arrive at The Burrow.
Same red hair but no familiar faces.
It dawned on him: Voldemort wasn’t lying.
When he could finally come to terms, he went back to Voldemort’s palace; back to his room.
He sat on his bed, curled to himself.
His entire body trembled; it wasn’t even cold. The winter hadn’t yet arrived—but he felt an indescribable amount of pain chilling him to the bone. If this wasn’t cold, then what was this? In that moment, his mind projected a scene not too long ago—he was on his knees, begging Voldemort to let him die or put him back to where he was. But the Dark Lord was a cruel man; he remained stoic; leaving him with just a flap of robe before disappearing.
The world had gone.
The world had gone.
The world had—
Abandoned Harry here with Voldemort.
Time passed like a traitor; Harry was still asleep.
CREAK
The door creaked open. Of course. Leave it to that bastard not to knock.
Without asking for his permission, Voldemort stepped inside like he always belonged there. Like he’d always known that this moment would come.
There he was, the monster in everyone’s nightmares stood in front of him—though with an upgrade; a slight change—but a monster still.
But Harry remained unmoving.
He was carrying a tray: two china cups and a teapot on it. Maybe they were tea. Maybe they were poisons. Maybe they were nothing at all. However, the steams that rose in soft curls said otherwise.
But Harry remained unmoving.
“You’ve eaten nothing,” he asked.
Harry didn’t want to look at him. “Not hungry.”
The Dark Lord moved to the nearest small table and put the tray there, “You’re still a human.”
“Am I still a human if I can’t die?”
To which Voldemort shrugged and sat on the chair elegantly, one leg folding over the other; the seat across from him remained empty. He stared at it for quite a while before turning back to Harry.
“You went to The Burrow.”
Harry’s head snapped up from the bed, “You knew?”
And the other man—snickered, “Of course. Lord Voldemort knows—everything . Now, how about you take a seat and we shall—talk?”
How could he ever forget who this person was.
An insane bastard who had taken everything from his life.
Harry sat up, but made no move to approach him.
“Sit, Harry. I won’t say it twice.”
Grumbling, Harry dragged himself towards the other chair and grumpily sat on it.
It seemed like a tacit understanding between the two, because immediately, the Dark Lord spoke, “What do you think of a family, Harry?”
Harry’s eyes widened.
“You don’t deserve to even say that word!” Harry raised his voice, “I know what you did. You—you—killed your own! YOU. DON’T. DESERVE. TO. SAY. A. THING.”
It left him breathless; the hate—it was gnawing at him.
He had to destroy this man with whatever agency he possessed, even with words– even with anything. It didn’t matter.
After all, the man was unfeeling.
If he were, then he wouldn’t have razored the entire magical world, or hell—woken Harry up for his own amusement after decades had passed.
“I suppose—you are right. Family. A thing we both have been deprived of. I, an orphan. And you, orphaned by me. Too much history between the two of us. I wonder how we’re supposed to live,” Voldemort confessed.
The boy was silenced by the sudden statement. Maybe the Dark Lord wanted to blame him—to accuse him of being the eyesore to his otherwise perfect life—but Harry couldn’t deny that Voldemort was and always had been the center of his everything.
This couldn’t go on; something big was coming, he could sense it with how languid Voldemort became, like he felt relief after saying it. It didn’t bode well with him.
“Maybe we aren’t supposed to live together. One must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives, remember?”
And the other person laughed, “You still hold on to a loony’s word?”
It irked Harry how nonchalant the villain of his life was taking this, “Then if that person is a lunatic, what do you make of the person who acts based on that said lunatic’s word?”
The room went quiet after that. Had he struck a nerve?
But to his surprise, the man laughed—he laughed out loud, like Harry had just delivered him a clever joke. Then he stopped, he stopped laughing and drank the damned tea like they hadn’t been fighting.
The cruel man replied, “To answer your question, yes—I was crazy. Acting on ‘prophecy’, when I, myself set off the destiny to roll. I basically rolled open the red carpet for the star to come. Which, in this case, is you. Am I wrong?”
It was the most horrible way to put it; he didn’t have to say it like that.
How could he possibly have the audacity to bundle everything—the good and the bad—and to call Harry the star? Like he was meant to be the hero and Voldemort? An antagonist.
Cruel. Voldemort was a cruel man.
Tears ran across the boy’s cheeks; beads after beads fell silently on the table—and some into the cup. “It wasn’t me—” he sobbed, “—it was you. You. I didn’t want it to be like this either.”
Perhaps out of whatever goodness was left in the Dark Lord’s heart or he just hated somebody ruined the tea he had crafted, he offered the boy a handkerchief. As if he already expected this to happen.
Harry took the cloth and thanked the man while wiping away the tears.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Harry. I thought being against the world and punishing everyone in it would bring me great delight—and it did.”
He waited; Voldemort seemed to have not yet finished. “But now? I don’t know what to live for anymore. It’s the same old pattern: people are defying me, trying to bring me down and attempting to kill me even—” then he darted his gaze back to Harry; his eyes—accusatory, “I bet if I didn’t win this war, I would’ve probably laid waste under your feet—not even dust to be seen.”
His tone was bitter. Hollow.
Harry couldn’t fathom the depth within.
Then his voice softened, “I remember that someone had told me in passing, the joy of having a family. They said, family can stay with us forever. But that isn’t entirely too right, Harry? My family? Gone, before it even existed. My mother forced my father; he hated me too. Then the Riddles discarded me like a rat.”
Voldemort sighed, “My quest to find my lineage brought me to the discovery of my perfectly alive wealthy father. So I killed every single one of them—would’ve loved to kill my late mother too.”
He paused and quietly added.
“Still, maybe with you—but with you—I can finally understand family. You’re the only one left, Harry. Would you like to try it with me?”
Harry’s face turned red, his eyes were bloodshot and his nose flared; words could barely escape his clenched teeth, “How could you ask me—HOW COULD YOU ASK ME THAT—TOM ? You knew—you knew—you could’ve chosen something else! And now you’re telling and asking me—this ?!”
He panted, the air felt thin, “You’re insane! That’s what you are. An insane megalomaniac selfish—selfish man!”
Again, the Dark Lord sighed; he sounded tired, “Even the first person who brought me to Hogwarts was against me. How could I be anything else—but insane?”
The boy didn’t want to entertain this any longer, he turned quiet but his eyes were still burning with hatred.
“I agree, there were other people too in my life but I guess I was too consumed with the first person who showed me real magic. At that moment, I was thinking I could finally be—more . Imagine Harry, dirty little orphans shoved into one old dingy house under watchful eyes of a matron who lost her husband in the war—” Voldemort smiled longingly.
“—yess... the war —” his sibilant tongue drags the s sound, “—we were frightened too but Dumbledore decided not to let me stay over the holidays lest I evoke hell when I, just wanted a sturdy shelter on my head,” he chuckled darkly.
The boy flinched, his fingers clenched into his a fist; his nails dug into the skin.
“Perhaps that was too much of a request. Do I have to lower myself begging to be saved, Harry?—” he stopped and directed his red eyes—the testimony of his past choices—towards the roof—looking rather pensive, “—even if you drag me to hell and beyond—I won’t beg. Ever.”
Harry spat out, “You’re a prideful man.”
Voldemort couldn’t do this to him. It was as if he was trying to make him understand the reason for his carnage; Harry didn’t want to.
It justified nothing, it only further fortified that everything that had happened was only for the other person’s self-satisfaction.
Oddly enough, the man didn’t get upset with Harry’s comment, instead he looked at him with curiosity, “Of course I am prideful. I’m a man. Aren’t all men supposed to carry themselves with pride?”
Harry rolled his eyes—thinking, ‘Ancient man with his ancient thinking.’
His gesture earned a flat, “Rude,” from Voldemort.
Still, Harry didn’t budge from his stand, “I still don’t follow. Fine—you might have reasons for your actions but why family? And why now? After all this time?”
Voldemort drank to that, his face looked slightly—slightly guilty, “I know you weren’t raised in a happy family too. But I guess time has somewhat changed for you. While I was the devil’s child; you were the freak. Priest came to exorcize me; you pulled the weed. We are similar, but not the same, Harry. Not the same.” Voldemort gently shook his head.
The boy huffed, “So? What are you trying to imply?”
Voldemort’s index finger caressed the cup’s handle, “Maybe the universe is setting us up. When I think about it carefully, what were the odds that my soul would have latched onto yours? It’s—unprecedented. It’s unthinkable even.”
“Now you’ve said that, I feel like the world just loves to treat me like a chew toy. Setting me up with the person who murdered my parents? Crazy. Can’t it kill me now that it already had its fun?” Harry replied. He noticed that the Dark Lord wanted to reply but quickly interjected, “I know. I am immortal as you are. We’ll never be rid of each other.”
To that, Voldemort smiled, “You understood.”
Suddenly, the man in front of him shifted ever so slightly, his eyes seemed—full of hope? Impossible. Harry didn’t want to believe it. But Voldemort, being the asshole he was, dropped the bomb that shattered his thoughts, “Maybe we were never meant to destroy each other. Maybe we were just meant to be the same story told backwards. But with you, choosing a different option—unlike me.”
This entire conversation tired him to no end, Harry rested his cheek in the palm of his hand, his elbow propped on the table. “Okay, so now you want me because—I am the only one.”
All teeth; he replied, “You understood.”
Then he did something Harry wouldn’t ever think about, he softly reached for Harry's hand on the table, “Now you’ve heard everything and know too much. Would you like to give it a try with me?”
THE END