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In the middle of a gruesome battle during the First Wizarding War, in what many would later call a moment of terrifying serendipity, a beam of white lightning tore through the sky. It struck the earth with a thunderous crack, shaking the ground and slicing the air like a blade.
Before it, war raged.
Flashes of spellfire lit the battlefield in frantic bursts of green, red, blues streaking like comets through thick, acrid smoke. The roar of curses and spells being shouted over screams was deafening, detonating in showers of magical sparks.
The air was heavy, choked with the scent of ozone, blood, and burning. Bodies—both living and fallen—moved through the wreckage, their silhouettes flickering in the glow of wandlight.
Two sides fought with deadly precision: the Aurors and Order members, their faces grim, disciplined, marked by duty; and the Death Eaters, wild-eyed and cloaked in black, unleashing cruelty with gleeful abandon.
Shield Charms flared and shattered in quick succession, wards rose and fell like waves, and Unforgivable Curses sliced through the chaos with precise finality. The earth itself had been scorched and cratered by the sheer force of magic—no longer a battlefield, but a graveyard in waiting.
And then—
It happened.
It was as if time had stopped. A blinding aura surged outward from the impact, revealing two beings where the lightning had struck.
The first—a shadowy mass of crackling energy, composed from what seemed a swirling flock of black birds that screamed without sound, their wings folding and unfurling in unnatural rhythm.
The second—a lone, hooded figure, cloaked in something darker than shadow, stumbling and nearly collapsing as if wounded by the very magic that brought them here, yet somehow rising to stand tall amid the chaos.
In that single moment, for a heartbeat that stretched thin as a breath, when lightning illuminated death and dust, everyone froze in stunned disbelief.
The war came to a halt.
Then, without warning, the hooded figure moved.
With the speed and grace of an athlete honed by war, powerful legs launched it forward, towards the heart of the battle, towards the thunder.
Up a jagged ridge of blasted stone and bloodied soil, the Dark Lord Voldemort was locked in fierce combat with Albus Dumbledore, each trying to overpower the other in an attempt to end the war’s balance. It was the first time they had clashed wands in open battle. Finally, after months of manoeuvring, sabotage, and shadowed skirmishes, Lord Voldemort had him at wand point.
Their duel was a vortex of magic and fury, ancient spells colliding in arcs of raw, radiant force.
With the Order’s numbers dwindling and the Aurors scattered, hunted and overwhelmed by his Death Eaters, Lord Voldemort knew he had the upper hand. Inch by inch, he was forcing Dumbledore back, pressing his advantage with ruthless precision.
And then it happened.
Something that made his greatest duel come to an impossible pause, not by choice, but as if the very fabric of magic had flinched.
Voldemort breathed, wand still raised, his crimson eyes narrowing. The very air around him had changed—heavy, metallic, wrong.
Dumbledore paused as well, shaken, wand still drawn, as the lightning above crashed and screeched with ancient, wordless sound.
And then he felt it.
A cold pull that clawed at the edges of his tattered soul.
Not just power—something out of this world. For the first time in years, Tom Riddle hesitated. A flicker, quick and buried, but real.
And through that stillness came a sensation he hadn’t felt in decades.
An insistent tug.
A whisper threading itself into his spine. As if a snake had slithered into his robes and coiled itself around his heart, hissing not words, but recognition.
He felt the presence before he saw it.
The hooded figure had already spotted him and now sprinted toward him with terrifying speed, as if Death itself was at his heels.
And in a way, it was.
Those black, crackling birds were not birds at all, as he will come to know, but the fragmented shadows of something older than time, older than magic itself—Death, given shape and hunger. They spiralled after the hooded being in a frenzied swarm, their forms flickering between wings and claws and smoke. Wherever they passed, the air withered, spells faltered, and light itself seemed to bend away.
They were trying to consume the figure—pull it back. Not to kill, but to erase. To reclaim whatever had slipped through the cracks of fate and time. Each beat of their wings was a shriek of forgotten souls. Each flash of their bodies sparked cold fire in the air.
They were nipping at its heels, and it was leading them right towards the Dark Lord.
For a single, terrified second, Lord Voldemort felt fear.
Real, primal fear.
As the figure drew nearer—cloak billowing, shadows peeling off it like smoke—both Voldemort and Dumbledore tensed, each believed the same thing.
That the figure belonged to the other.
A hidden weapon.
A summoned champion.
One final gambit to turn the tide.
That is, until it spoke.
"TOM" it screamed in Parseltongue, the word lashing through the air like a curse. "TOM!"
“You dare!” Voldemort snarled, crimson eyes blazing, wand snapping toward the interloper.
"No time!” The figure shouted “I'm your horcrux. The future! We need to leave, NOW!"
The hooded figure raised his arm as he closed the final distance between them.
And Voldemort could taste it, not just the words, but the weight behind them. His Panic. His Adrenaline. His desperation braided with something alien and almost offensive in its purity: Hope.
All of it beating like a second heart on his chest and trumming on his veins in a rhythm not his own.
But he recognised it.
He knew it, terrifyingly so.
And it called to him.
Instinct overrode suspicion.
He reached out.
Their hands collided.
In an instant, the world around them fractured. The very air cracked. And then—
They vanished in a swirl of thick grey smoke, just as the storm of shrieking birds descended and a column of blinding fire surged from Dumbledore’s wand.
Where they had stood, nothing but scorched earth remained.
The birds faltered and scattered into the sky like a shattered curse breaking apart. They disappeared as magic fell apart, revealing a blue, sunny sky.
Silence fell, stunned and brief, across the battlefield.
They apparated violently to the cold, crumbling grandeur of Riddle Manor—Voldemort’s current stronghold. Once proud, the house now stood rotting beneath creeping ivy and shadow, its windows darkened with grime, its halls echoing with emptiness. Dust clung to the walls like decay, refusing to let go.
Without hesitation, Voldemort slammed the figure on the wall, raising a cloud of dust under the force.
A weak gasp of pain and the hood fell, revealing no champion or weapon but a boy no older than seventeen. Pale and haggard, his black hair a wild nest of curls and unnatural green eyes were looking at him not in fear nor in reverence.
He didn’t have a name for it.
Voldemort’s fingers curled around his throat. Tight. Controlled. Lethal.
"Who sent you?" he hissed, voice low and trembling with rage.
“Hi” The boy only laughed—a sharp, breathless thing, like he found the whole situation utterly refreshing.
Dust still hung in the air between them, and with every breath the boy took, small wisps of electrifying magic bloomed in the dim hall. His lithe body sagged against the wall, relaxed, as if a Dark Lord wasn’t a breath away from snapping his neck.
If anything, he tilted his chin up—invitingly.
Voldemort’s grip tightened in generous response.
The boy’s breath only hitched—but he didn’t flinch.
“Who are you?” Voldemort growled.
“I’m Harry” the boy said, almost conversationally. “Er… sorry I messed up your war, but I needed to borrow you for a bit”
Voldemort stared at him, unmoving. The silence stretched, taut as a wire.
“Borrow me” he repeated flatly, as if testing the phrase for poison. “You borrowed me”
Harry gave a weak shrug, as much as the grip around his throat allowed.
“Well. Kidnapping felt rude. So I saved you”
A pulse of cold magic rippled through the space. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed—he could feel it now, more clearly than before. The tether. Thin as a thread, but real. From him to this boy. Something connecting them, buried in blood and soul.
“From what?” Voldemort demanded.
The boy blinked, his smirk faded, just slightly.
“Death” he said simply.
“Death?” Voldemort echoed, quietly.
For a heartbeat, the word just hung there.
Then he laughed—soft, low, dangerous. A sound like a blade being drawn across stone.
“Do you think that frightens me?” he said, his voice a silk thread wound too tight. “You think I haven’t conquered death already?”
But the boy didn’t flinch, didn’t argue. Just looked at him, knowingly. And that, somehow, was worse.
“I won’t ask again, boy” Voldemort hissed, wand steady, never once lowering his other hand. “Who are you?”
“Listen” Harry gasped, struggling against the grip. “It’s... hard to explain with you choking me”
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, but he didn’t release him.
“If you can save me from death” he said coldly “Can’t you save yourself, too?”
“I mean—I can, but I can’t. Not at the moment. It’s… It’s complicated. Life, death—you know”
At the sharp press of nails cutting into the skin of his throat, Harry huffed and let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud.
"It wasn't my fault! There was a pebble, and I tripped. I didn't know I would mess up the timeline! My mom doesn’t exist in this world. I won’t be born to become your equal! Death didn't want me to come, said to let you ruin yourself, but I couldn't let you!"
The words echoed strangely in the hollow, ruined hall.
"My equal?" He raised an eyeborw. He still has eyebrows, Harry noted.
“I guess you haven’t heard the prophecy yet” Harry said, voice low and measured, as if weighing a puzzling riddle. “Right—without me, there won’t be one. Maybe? We should definitely check”
“Why would Death destroy me without you?” Voldemort demanded, suspicion sharpening his tone. Skeptical. Still half-expecting Dumbledore to apparate behind Harry and explain this circus act.
“It can’t kill you. Horcruxes, remember? Unless they’re destroyed. But you and I—we are inevitable. In another time, another world” Harry said, whispering the last words.
It made Voldemort pause. His eyes narrowed as he considered the tangled threads Harry had pulled in his ramblings.
“Time and Death. Paradoxes. Yet here you stand”
"Barely"
Voldemort’s eyes darkened. His grip tightened around Harry’s throat, a silent reminder that this boy’s life was literally in his hands.
“Don’t forget that” he hissed. “One wrong move, and it’s over for you”
Harry sighed, exhaling through clenched teeth.
“I know. Been there, done that. Really don’t recommend it”
The half-response sent a flicker of annoyance across Voldemort’s face. With a graceful move, he raised his wand—Cruciatus spell ready on his lips.
But Harry was quicker.
The little wisps of magic rattled, sending small shocks of energy from Harry's skin into Voldemort’s hand. The grip uncoiled in surprise, just enough for Harry to twist free, roll sideways, and spring over the nearby couch, putting desperate space between them.
Despite his agility, his legs betrayed him. He stumbled, grasping the edge of the furniture for support as his knees threatened to buckle.
“I’m okay” Harry gasped, steadying himself against the couch.
But Voldemort was faster.
With a cruel flick of his wand, the Cruciatus curse struck.
Pain exploded through Harry’s body like wildfire, forcing him to collapse to the ground, gasping and writhing. His teeth clenched as the agony tore through him, every nerve ablaze as his vision swam and muscles seized.
Despite it all, he did not scream nor beg. He cursed in Parseltongue. Sharp, guttural words spat between clenched teeth. They sound enticing.
“Foolish boy” Voldemort hissed, voice cold and venomous, echoing off the cracked stone. “You think you can defy me?”
“I’m—on your side—! You stupid—nngh—” Harry choked, still twisting as the curse ended and the searing pain ebbed into a dull, shaking throb across his limbs.
He lay on the cold floor, chest heaving. Then, slowly, he turned his head, voice rasping through clenched teeth and dry breath.
“Let’s… let’s start again, alright?” He coughed, winced, but still managed a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi, I’m Harry. I’m from another world… in another time. And I came here because—without me—your fate would be…worse than death”
He met Voldemort’s eyes, something dark and earnest settling behind his own.
“I’m your Horcrux” Harry said quietly. “I can destroy it—easily. But I don’t want to”
Silence.
Then Voldemort let out a cold, humourless laugh—a sound like shattering glass.
“My Horcrux?” he echoed, almost mockingly. “You expect me to believe that I—he—would ever choose you?”
He took a step forward, eyes narrowing to slits.
“A child. Weak, trembling, ordinary” His voice dropped, sharp with disbelief and growing disgust. “Why would any version of me put a fragment of my soul in you? What purpose could it possibly serve?” His expression twisted—between fury and something close to contempt. “I would never use a living vessel. Never risk my soul on something so unstable. So vulnerable. So...” His lip curled. “Human”
Harry gave a dry, humourless laugh, then winced as he pushed himself upright, leaning against the couch for balance.
“Human, huh?” he echoed, eyes gleaming beneath messy curls. “I’ve met the you with half a soul. The one with a quarter. And the one with none” He leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to a whisper—clear, deliberate, maddening. “Wanna guess which one’s the strongest?”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, red irises flashing with cold fury at the insinuation. Not just offence—insult. As if Harry had touched something too close, too true.
Harry didn’t stop. He pushed himself fully upright, swaying slightly on his feet, and took a shaky step forward—like daring a storm to strike.
“You know what your problem is?” he said, voice calm, almost conversational. “In splitting your soul… You didn’t just make yourself immortal. You split your magic. Your mind”
Voldemort's jaw tightened, but Harry pressed on.
“You’re still powerful—no one’s denying that. But every time you tore yourself apart, you made yourself easier to manipulate. Easier to enrage. Stronger to anger, weaker to reason”
He gave a crooked grin, green eyes blazing with defiance.
“You don’t need to split your soul in seven, you dummy” Voldemort flinched—not at the insult, but at the sheer audacity. Harry continued, a glint of mock cheer in his voice. “Three is fine. You’re pushing it, sure—but it’s definitely more balanced than seven. All things come in threes, right?”
“And I’m supposed to believe a child who carries my soul from another world?” Voldemort asked, voice cold and low. His wand remained steady, but his eyes—those burning red slits—were searching now. Piercing.
Harry rolled his eyes, still catching his breath.
“I’m older than you” he muttered “Technically. And truly—if I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t be here” He shrugged, letting the weight of exhaustion settle into his shoulders.
They stood face to face now.
A snake and a wolf. Predators, both. One coiled and calculating, the other wounded but unyielding. Magic crackled faintly in the space between them, the air thick with tension and something stranger.
Voldemort’s gaze narrowed.
“What are you?”
Harry met his eyes. No smile. No defiance this time. Just a simple truth, offered without pride.
“Just Harry”
The words lingered in the air, small and unassuming.
After them, there were no more spells or threats. Just the weight of everything unspoken, pressing in around them like a second atmosphere.
Voldemort didn’t move.
For the first time since the sky tore open with blinding fire and impossibility, he let the quiet settle. He let the boy’s words sink in.
He retraced it all.
The moment the lightning cracked reality, the ungodly shadows that spiralled in like a living scream, chasing the boy across the battlefield. The boy, sprinting toward him—not toward Dumbledore. Him. Not to kill. Not to attack. To reach him. Borrow him, away from Death.
Time travel.
World travel.
Paradoxes.
Horcruxes.
And then—Just Harry.
It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t make sense.
And yet... it fit. Somehow.
Voldemort’s grip on his wand didn’t loosen, but his expression shifted—just slightly. Calculation blurred into something harder to name. Not belief. Not yet.
But possibility.
Voldemort’s eyes glinted dangerously as he leaned in, voice low and sharp as a blade.
“What would you have Lord Voldemort do, child? Give up my Horcruxes? Let you destroy them?”
Harry shrugged, unfazed.
“I mean, I can do that” he said, voice casual, almost playful. “Or you can absorb them—retake what you lost. Like I said, your soul would be better balanced with three. So: me, you, and whichever artefact you prefer. I quite like the ring. But I beg you—destroy the locket. Nasty bitch, that one”
“How dare you desecrate my soul with such insolence!”
Voldemort hissed, voice dripping with venom in Parseltongue.
“And how does that make you feel?” Harry tilted his head, amused, voice soft and teasing.
Voldemort’s anger simmered—fierce but measured. It was a familiar fire, one he understood. It wasn't the wild fury of battle, nor the blind hatred sparked by his rivals, nor an illogical, violent response.
It was just anger. Plain and simple. Known, controlled and understood. He didn’t have that before.
“I know” Harry sighed, exhaling like the weight was as much on him as on the Dark Lord.
Voldemort hissed at the boy’s condescending tone, lips curling back in a snarl—like a cornered beast. The boy’s calmness, his familiarity—it was insufferable. Unnatural.
Here, so close to him, Voldemort could hear himself think for the first time in what felt like an eternity—not blinded by rage or instinct to attack. And worse, Harry seemed to know him. Not just the name “Voldemort” but the man beneath—the fractured soul, the hunger, the fear he tried so desperately to bury.
It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. The boy had to go. Although time travel, world travel, paradoxes and part of his soul being snuggly held by Harry were good compensations.
“Look” Harry’s voice softened, exhaustion threading through his usual defiance despite meeting Voldemort’s fiery gaze steadily. “I solemnly swear I won’t hurt you, kill you, or betray you in this world’s timeline—as long as you let me help. I’m running on empty. I can’t make another jump right now, so I’m stuck here for a while. I promise I’ll explain everything better. Just... keep me for a while. I’ll borrow your company, and you’ll borrow mine. I keep you away from Death; you let me rest. Win, win”
“Am I to assume you killed Voldemort in your world?” he asked, voice like a basilisk—coiled, low, venomous, waiting for the strike. “Do you think me a fool?”
Harry didn’t flinch. He just gave a tired shrug.
“He killed me in many” he said. “I murdered him in others. I saved him... not as often. He doesn’t always listen”
A beat of silence.
Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, something unreadable flashing behind them.
“My little shadow ” he murmured, the words thick with both mockery and curiosity. “Haunting me across time”
“You don’t always call me that” Harry muttered, eyeing him warily. “And usually, I’m not allowed to talk back”
Voldemort’s lips curled, amused.
“We can change that”
He raised his wand with deliberate slowness, and Harry instinctively stepped back.
“Wait a minute—!” Harry yelped, but Voldemort seized his arm before he could retreat. Fingers like iron clamped down through the worn fabric of Harry’s hoodie, right where underneath lay a jagged and silvery scar.
Voldemort didn’t hesitate. His voice dropped into ritual cadence.
“A vow” he said, eyes gleaming. “You will explain everything. You will not harm me. You will not kill me. You will remain at my mercy. And—”
“Before you start plotting, no” Harry cut in sharply. “I can’t bring you with me. No, I don’t control Death. No, I can’t share my powers with you. And no— there is no magic in any world that can replicate the cosmic horror that is my life”
He took a breath, magic already stirring and coiling around his wrist like a silver chain, binding.
“So—yes” Harry said, locking eyes with him. “I, Harry James Potter–Peverell Black, solemnly swear to you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, to care for your soul in this world and time, until Death do us part”
Magic snapped.
The vow settled like frost over skin. Heavy. Final.
Voldemort hissed as the magic of the vow wrapped around them without him voicing his name or wants. It was binding and ancient—not unlike the feel of blood rites or soul magic. Heavy. Claustrophobic. A cage woven of truth and consequence.
Harry, meanwhile, remained utterly unaffected. He clapped his hands together, satisfied, as if he’d just finished dusting a bookshelf.
“Well” he said brightly “You should probably fetch some Horcruxes while the chickens are still running headless looking for you” And without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel. “In the meantime, I will shower and sleep. No—” he paused, nodding to himself. “I will bathe and hibernate. I deserve good things”
Voldemort remained where he stood, still in the shadowed, dust-laced ruin of the parlour, watching the boy move through the manor with disarming familiarity—like he’d lived there for years.
“And where exactly are you going?” he asked coolly, suspicion curling around every word.
“My bedroom” Harry called over his shoulder as he reached the staircase, already halfway up. “Mipsy! Prepare the bath and fresh robes!”
There was a long beat of silence.
Then—
Thud-thud-thud-thud—
Harry came clattering back down the stairs, indignation written all over his face.
“You haven’t hired Mipsy yet?!”
Voldemort’s eye twitched.
“Begone! ” he snarled, flicking his wand towards the imp. A whip of green flame shot across the room. Harry yelped and ducked behind the bannister just in time.
“Rude!” he shouted “This is exactly why people don't keep you more often!”
Voldemort snarled, another curse ready at the tip of his wand. But Harry turned on his heel again, muttering under his breath as he climbed the stairs, huffing.
“Honestly, I save one genocidal maniac from cosmic annihilation and still no thank-you...”
His voice faded as he disappeared down the corridor, talking to himself as if the manor were already his to haunt.
Below, in the gloom of the ruined parlour, Voldemort stood very still. Magic still clung to the air like sticky honey. The soul-bond shimmered faintly in his senses, a constant, quiet thread between them. Not painful. Not weak. But present. Real.
It made him be completely aware of Harry moving upstairs, settling in like a snake curling into familiar stone.
What kind of thing had he bound himself to? What madness possessed the other Lord Voldemort to sink his fangs on such a deceitful creature to carry part of his soul? How dare that imp that reeked of death and ozed electrifying magic dare to command him?
Why was Lord Voldemort considering and going along with his whims?
The boy should have died.
Instead, he made himself at home.
The manor fell into a tense quiet, heavy with wards and unspoken questions.
Voldemort moved through its halls like a phantom, his wand a constant flicker of sharp-edged intent. He layered the wards anew—twice as strong, twisted into overlapping circles of detection, entrapment, and disintegration. Any soul foolish enough to follow them would be torn apart before they could take a second breath. Any soul reckless enough to leave will meet the same fate.
Once he was satisfied—utterly and ruthlessly—that they were alone, did he slip into the shadows of the front gate and step out into the cool night.
The Gaunt shack stood just down the road, squatting beneath the tangled trees like a forgotten wound. He hadn’t returned to it since his... kind visit to Morfin, years ago. It had not aged well.
The house was a skeletal thing now—leaning, rotting, the roof sagging under ivy and time. The air reeked of mould, old blood, and something buried beneath the floorboards that had never stopped whispering.
Voldemort stepped inside without hesitation.
He went to the place instinctively—beneath the floorboards, where the dust lay thickest, untouched. His protective spells were still there, dormant but sharp, a parasite curse coiled around the ring like a snake waiting to strike.
He dismantled the trap with practised ease, his fingers steady, his wand carving counter-runes with elegant precision. The curse hissed, almost disappointed, before vanishing into smoke.
And then he had it.
The ring was still beautiful—cracked and darkened with age, its ancient crest barely dulled by time. He turned it over in his hand, slow and precise, examining it like one might examine a piece of themselves returned after long exile.
Then, he slipped it onto his finger.
His soul shivered—despite the years away from his body, it recognised him instantly. A flash of warmth bloomed in his chest, fleeting but undeniable. And then, something stranger.
The ring pulsed. Not in warning or defiance—but in delight. As if it had tasted the foreign soul now bound to him, nestled in the background like an echo and approved.
Voldemort froze.
He did not like it.
In the next breath, the air cracked as he Disapparated into smoke, vanishing into darkness.
He reappeared in a different kind of tomb.
The cave.
Carved from black stone and sea salt, hidden behind blood and memory, it yawned open like the throat of some slumbering leviathan. He strode forward without hesitation, cloak brushing against wet stone and decay, his fury echoing in every silent footstep.
The lake was as he left it—glassy and still, a mirror for monsters.
With a hiss, he summoned the boat.
The Inferi sensed him even before he set foot inside. Pale hands stirred beneath the surface, slapping wet stone with slow hunger. Voldemort didn’t speak. He let the coiled rage he’d buried burn free.
When the first corpse dragged itself toward him, he let loose.
A wordless incantation—green fire roared across the cavern, twisting in elegant arcs. The Inferi burned. Another rose; he lashed it with a chain of searing, burning light. Another, he split with a purple blast. It wasn’t a fight. It was an exorcism of temper—clinical, brutal, almost casual.
He wanted them to suffer for witnessing him like this—off balance.
When the last of the creatures lay scorched or sinking, he approached the basin.
The green potion swirled inside like liquid sickness. He ignored its warning pulse and drained it with a flick of his hand, vanishing the contents into enchanted containment.
And there it was.
The locket.
He plucked it from the basin, cold and heavy in his hand. After everything he went through to get it, and yet, Harry condemned it with petulance.
With a flicker, he opened. It took that single action for him to feel what was missing and the world to tilt.
There was no soul, no piece of him inside.
Just a note.
To the Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead long before you read this,
but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret…
—R.A.B.
A sound escaped him. Quiet and dreadful.
Regulus Black. That cunning boy had dared to steal from him. Betray him! Outwit him. How didn’t he notice? Why didn’t he notice?! Was his Horcrux destroyed? Why can’t he feel it?
The cave trembled with the force of his magic as he screamed, the walls shuddering as curses and fire tore through the shadows.
The ring pulsed again on his finger.
Warm and reassuring.
He did not like it.
With a snarl that roared the air like thunder, Voldemort Disapparated from the cursed cave, his fury still coiling tight beneath his skin.
He reappeared in the grand, cold hall of Malfoy Manor, the marble floor echoing beneath his feet. The chandeliers flickered at his arrival, reacting to the oppressive pressure of his magic. Dust and blood lingered faintly in the air.
Abraxas and his scion were already waiting, fresh from the battlefield.
Their robes were scorched and torn, but clean from blood and dirt. They dropped to their knees the moment they saw him, foreheads bowed to the polished stone like penitent disciples before an altar.
“My Lord” Lucius said, breathless, eyes never rising. “The Order retreated. But we—no one knows what happened to you. We feared—”
“Silence”
The word fell like a guillotine, cold and clean.
Lucius shut his mouth at once.
Voldemort didn’t look at him. His crimson eyes were locked on Abraxas, the towering, battle-worn wizard at Lucius’s side. Loyal. Dangerous. Useful.
He raised a hand lazily, and Lucius was flung backwards by an invisible force, landing hard but silent, trained not to cry out.
“Abraxas” Voldemort said, voice low, crackling with residual power. “With me. Now”
Without a word, Abraxas rose and followed as Voldemort swept from the main hall toward a more secluded chamber—a smaller, shielded drawing room. The door slammed shut behind them with a flick of the Dark Lord’s wand.
The tension shifted instantly. The moment they were alone, the air felt heavier, almost choking.
Voldemort didn’t sit. He stood in the centre of the room, spine straight, the newly claimed ring still warm on his hand, his expression unreadable but crimson eyes burning.
“I require your discretion, old friend” he said at last, voice calm, but laced with something too quiet to be safe.
"Anything, my Lord” Abraxas inclined his head, faithful.
Voldemort studied him, eyes unreadable.
“Tell me” he said, voice smooth as poisoned silk, “Where is Regulus Black?”
“The Black heir?" Abraxas blinked, caught slightly off guard by the question’s precision. "He was not at the battle. Last I heard, he’d been withdrawn from the social circle. Walburga has not uttered a word. He has not been seen among the Death Eaters in months”
Voldemort’s expression didn’t change, but the temperature in the room dropped.
“Where” Voldemort repeated, “does his loyalty lie?”
Abarax hesitated—only for a breath, but long enough to count. “With you, my Lord. As it should. He is devoted. Young, idealistic. Always cautious, but firm in belief. Though...” Abraxas paused, thoughtfully. “He asked questions”
“Questions”
“Yes. About the nature of immortality. Of magic—old magic. Soul-bound curses. He was curious. And quiet. Too quiet”
Voldemort's fingers flexed at his side. He began to pace, slowly.
“A child with questions... and access” he murmured. “A child who vanished. A child who stole from me”
He stopped, turning to face Abraxas again, eyes now gleaming with restrained fury.
“I want him found. Discreetly. No alerts. No reports. Not even to Lucius. You’ll trace every step he’s taken since he left my service. You will tear through Black Manor brick by brick if you must. But you will bring me answers”
“It will be done” Abraxas dropped to one knee.
“Good” Voldemort whispered. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “And Abraxas... if you find that he took something from me, do not bring attention to it. Do it quietly"
“Yes, my Lord”
Voldemort’s gaze lingered on Abraxas, sharp as a dagger's edge. His voice, when it came, was soft. Too soft.
“There is one more thing” he said. “Something I trusted to no one else. Not even dear Orion. Do you remember what it was?”
Abraxas’s expression did not change, but something in his stance tightened. Just slightly, a flicker of tension.
“My Lord…” he said carefully. “I do”
“Then bring it to me"
It wasn’t a request. Abraxas hesitated only for the briefest moment—just long enough for Voldemort to notice. It must have felt like punishment to him to have his loyalty questioned and revoked. Voldemort let him drown in his thoughts.
Abraxas bowed low and moved swiftly to a concealed drawer hidden behind an ornate panel in the far wall. No spell protected it, no traps or wards. Just secrecy and Abraxas’s word.
From within, he drew a small bundle wrapped in thick, charmed cloth. Reverently, he carried it to Voldemort and knelt, offering it with both hands.
Voldemort did not reach for it at once. He merely stared.
“Is it intact?” he asked coldly.
“Yes, my Lord”
“Untouched?”
Abraxas nodded. “By none but me. And I did not open it. Not once.”
Silence fell like frost.
Only then did Voldemort extend his hand and unwrap the bundle.
There it was.
The Diary.
Black leather. Bound in his own magic. Whole. Pristine. Timeless.
His first Horcrux.
He turned it over in his hand, and a shiver ran down his spine. Familiar. It pulsed stronger than it should, awake and aware of its surroundings. It called to him in a way the Ring didn't.
“You did well" he said at last, without warmth. “You will be rewarded”
Abraxas bowed again, unflinching. He said nothing more.
Voldemort didn’t look at him. He was already lost in thought, thinking of the ring pulsing faintly on his finger, his lost soul and the boy making himself at home in his manor.
His voice cut through the silence like a blade when he spoke next.
“Call back the forces. Let the Aurors and the Order waste their strength chasing ghosts” He turned, slowly, eyes distant but calculating. “In the meantime… take Macnair and Rookwood to the Ministry. Inquire about any recent prophecies and mentions of seers. I want every whisper traced”
Abraxas inclined his head. “Yes, my Lord”
“And you” Voldemort added, colder now, “will search for Regulus Black. Alone. No allies. No alerts. Follow his trail to the ends of the earth if you must, but do not move without my approval. Understood?”
“Perfectly”
Voldemort paused at the threshold of the room, just before the shadows claimed him. His voice came one final time, low and measured.
“Oh… and Abraxas—bring me everything you know about the Potters as well”
Then he vanished, leaving nothing but tense silence in his wake.
When Voldemort returned to Riddle Manor with a clearer head, the house greeted him with its usual quiet decay, peeling wallpaper, lingering magic, and the faint scent of dust clinging to old wood and older secrets.
But something had changed.
The rage was still there—always—but it no longer clouded his thoughts. The fury that once demanded blood and fire now coiled tightly within him, controlled, honed to a blade’s edge. Sharper than it had been in years. Each step echoed with purpose, each breath deliberate.
He could hear himself think. Not the roaring rush of survival or dominance. Not the noise of paranoia whispering treason in every shadow. Just thought—cold, focused, dangerous.
For the first time in decades, he felt something beyond fear and hunger, self-preservation. Real, strategic preservation. Of body. Of power. Of soul.
There were pieces in motion now—pieces that made no sense, not yet. A boy who bore his soul and spat riddles with a smirk. A prophecy undone. A war teetering without conclusion. And Death itself, snarling just beyond the veil.
He had no intention of dying.
He had no intention of being outplayed.
Not by Dumbledore, not by the Ministry and not by a seventeen-year-old paradox with a saviour complex.
With two Horcruxes now in his possession—his first two, in fact, the ones that held the biggest part of his soul and magic, still steeped in the echo of his former self—he felt stronger than ever.
Not just in power, but in mind.
The ring pulsed gently on his finger, the diary nestled safely in his robe, both of them singing back to him with familiarity. It was like standing under sunlight after years of fog—something clicked into place. Whole.
And with that terrible clarity came understanding.
He finally grasped what the boy had meant in his ramble.
Not having a soul wasn’t a tragic tale; it meant obliteration.
He will remain immortal, yes, but not conscious to even relish it. Just a blind monster destroying the world he wanted to rule, a fragmented thing clawing at existence with no direction but hunger.
His lip curled at the thought. The irony of it, to achieve everything and be too fractured to feel it.
But now…
Now, with two parts of his soul and a tether with an extra one, he could already feel the difference. The fog at the edge of his thoughts had lifted. His magic flowed cleaner. His reasoning felt untouched by the chaos that once clouded his instincts.
There was strength in this form of preservation.
He thought of the diadem, buried in the depths of Hogwarts—untouched. Well hidden. The cup, resting in Gringotts under ancient goblin wards and blood seals—secure. For now, they were safe. He will retrieve them in time, reclaim what was his. Rebuild with intention, not desperation.
He will not scatter his soul like shards of glass on the wind. He will balance it, reforge it if he has to, to keep his self. He will master what no man had before, not by defying Death blindly, but by making Death wait.
Voldemort ascended the stairs, steps silent but sure, his wand loosely at his side.
The manor creaked faintly under his weight, as if remembering the last time someone walked these halls rather than a spectre. The hall felt noisy now with two magical presences invading the seams. It was a temporary space while he finds a secure place to lock Harry better.
As if invoking him, his eyes narrowed the moment he reached the landing as he saw a trail of clothes.
A battered hoodie tossed haphazardly across the bannister. Dirty, black sneakers with stars on them were kicked off and left sideways like a boy who didn’t know the meaning of reverence. Socks. Robes. A shirt two sizes too big.
He didn’t touch them. With a flick of his wand, they burst into flame—silent and smokeless, consumed in seconds by green fire; no ashes remained.
He pushed open the master bedroom door, stepping over a pair of dark denim trousers. Not just a rotten personality, but this imprudent creature had no sense of fashion either.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of bath oils and steam. The ensuite door was ajar, and he could hear water running—the lazy echo of a long bath being enjoyed far too comfortably.
He stalked forward, silent as a shadow, feet barely whispering over the creaking floorboards. The air grew warmer as he approached the bathroom door, humid with steam and magic and something else.
He pushed the door open, and there he was.
Harry.
He wasn’t surprised to see the boy sleeping in the bathtub.
Curled up like some creature of myth, half-submerged in pale lilac water. Sparkling bubbles shimmered across the surface, catching the candlelight. The scent of honeysuckle and something sweetly herbal filled the air, heady and warm.
He lay with one arm draped over the edge of the tub, the other across his chest, head tilted against the porcelain, lashes casting dark shadows over faint circles under his eyes. His breathing was slow, deep, unbothered.
Unarmed.
Unarmored.
Unbelievable.
Voldemort said nothing, only stood there.
Watching.
The audacity of it.
Who—what—was this shameless creature? To sleep so vulnerable, here, in the den of the serpent? No wards. No caution. No fear. It was insufferable. Yet it wasn’t arrogance. Not entirely. It felt like… trust. Or something that imitated it so well it didn’t matter.
He stalked closer, nose flaring as his senses were attacked. The bathwater, a soft milky lilac and glowing faintly with magic, looked inviting in a way Voldemort found unsettling. Almost dreamlike. Almost decadent. It reminded him of things he had long since burned out of himself—softness, comfort, indulgence.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste, as if the bath itself were a personal affront.
How had he—Lord Voldemort, any version of him—ended up tethered to a creature so bizarre, so disarming, that he bathed in bubbles and fell asleep in enemy territory without a second thought?
It couldn't possibly be lust. How was it possible that Lord Voldemort became entrapped with a nymphet? Carnal pleasures had never tempted him. He had transcended such needs early, discarding them like useless threads. But this?
This boy?
This paradox?
There was nothing seductive about him. And yet, the audacity, the maddening sincerity—it drew him in.
How else did one explain the boy’s influence?
It wasn’t power. Not in the way Voldemort understood it. It wasn’t manipulation. The boy was too blunt, too honest. It certainly wasn’t his charm—Voldemort doubted he would stand this snarky little thing without killing it.
So what, then?
His soul, perhaps. That cursed half-latch of spirit tangled up in the boy’s very existence. Maybe that was it. Maybe that thread was pulling at him in ways he couldn’t yet name. But he will. He will drag every sweet secret and dark devotion Harry kept hidden.
He wouldn’t put it past Dumbledore to wipe the memory of a youth and groom him to become his weapon. That was the old man’s way—kindness that stank of strategy, light hiding a leash. But no memory spell, no matter how intricate, could forge the pull Voldemort could feel.
That connection. That unmistakable recognition. That strange, hollow ache in his chest where a fraction of his soul had once nestled alone and inert.
This thing carried his soul.
And not just any sliver—but one that had endured paradoxes, universes, deaths. It had travelled through time, through fate, through Death itself.
To warn him.
To save him.
And it spoke plainly, bluntly. No manipulation. No honeyed lies. Just maddening honesty.
Voldemort let his eyes drift lower now, toward the still figure in the bath. The candlelight danced across golden skin, the kind earned from long days under open skies. Marks ran across his forearms and collarbone—burns, shallow slashes, the silvery imprint of something sharp and old on his sternum.
Being this near and with half of his soul inside the room, his entire being pulsed in fulfilment.
He should have been repulsed.
Instead, Voldemort took a step closer.
He let his gaze roam with impunity now, studying the boy like a puzzle carved into living skin. This boy had lived. Had bled. Had survived gods and monsters—including himself.
And now he slept.
In his tub.
In his house.
Like it belonged to him.
Voldemort's lip curled in something close to dangerous amusement. Not a smile, nothing warm. But a ghost of approval.
Suddenly, the boy slipped in his slumber, his body shifting under the surface with a soft splash. He jolted upright with a gasp, eyes wide and disoriented, scanning the shadowed room.
They settled on Voldemort’s looming form like it was familiar. Like it was safe. Incomprehensibly, that made him relax.
“You’re back” Harry murmured, voice thick with sleep, rubbing a damp hand over his face. Then, with a lazy blink and a whisper-soft exhale, he added, “I’m back”
Voldemort said nothing. He simply watched, unmoving, as the imp crossed his arms over the edge of the porcelain tub, water sloshing softly against the sides.
Harry tilted his head, gaze sliding to Voldemort’s hand—the Gaunt ring, dark and cracked, now resting proudly on his pale finger. With a soft smirk, he raised a single finger and beckoned, eyes flicking from the ring to Voldemort’s eyes and back.
Voldemort’s jaw twitched.
“You felt it, didn’t you?” Harry asked quietly, voice dipped in something too knowing to be innocent. “The clarity. Like you finally put a piece of yourself back in place”
The Dark Lord didn’t respond, but the weight in his gaze spoke volumes.
Harry hummed, fingers trailing lazy circles in the water. “That one was always the strongest. Even more than the diary. The stone worked in your favour for that”
Voldemort’s wand stirred at his side, but not in threat. Reflex. Instinct.
“And now you feel whole again” Harry whispered, resting his chin on his arms. “You’re starting to remember what it was like before, don't you?”
Before the splintering. Before the insanity that crept in the cracks. Before he began tearing pieces off himself and calling it immortality.
Voldemort considered hexing him. Cursing him out of the bath and back into the realm of acceptable behaviour. On his knees, perhaps and bleed the audacity out of him.
Instead, Voldemort breached the gap and sat on the edge of the tub.
Quiet.
Calculating.
A predator who had not yet decided whether to maul or study the strange creature soaking in his porcelain lair. The heat from the water rose in gentle, fragrant bubbles. Lavender, honeysuckle, and something vaguely citrus. Insufferably domestic. Infuriatingly pleasant.
Harry didn’t flinch. He exhaled a slow breath, face slack with peace. That same maddening peace he carried him across the battlefield. Into his manor. Into his bath.
Voldemort tilted his head slightly, watching him in return.
What kind of creature could have easily outrun a being as powerful as Death? Dared it to leave Lord Voldemort alone with his mere presence next to him. How could Voldemort even trust a honeyed excuse from his lips?
Yet still… his magic stirred again at the boy’s. His crimson eyes rose towards the pull he has felt, drawn towards what those atrocious black curls hid. So clear now, on his temple, like a leftover red kiss, was a lightning bolt.
Old. Raised. Still faintly red as if the wound never fully closed. His magic whispered to it instinctively, his soul sang to it. It was undeniable that part of him lived there, however small. Lodged. Trapped. Familiar.
“I should kill you” Voldemort murmured, barely more than a breath.
Harry smiled, closing his eyes.
“You will" he replied sleepily. “Eventually. But not tonight”
Voldemort’s fingers twitched.
There was something terrifyingly honest in that answer. Not bravado. Not manipulation.
Just fact.
"The locket is hidden under Fidelius in the Order's HQ" Harry offered some minutes later, voice low and casual, as if speaking of the weather. An olive branch extended from steaming water. "They don't know" he quickly added to soothe to rising panic. "And probably will never know. Not until years later. It'll be tricky… but I think I can get in. Hogwarts will be easier though"
Voldemort’s gaze sharpened.
"You can break into Hogwarts?" he asked, suspicion curling under the words like smoke.
Harry cracked an eye open, the corner of his mouth twitching into a crooked smile.
"Don’t tell me you didn’t scout secret passages during your prefect routines, Mr Head Boy"
The title was mockery wrapped in silk, too familiar to be harmless, and Voldemort’s jaw ticked at the insolence.
Harry stretched slightly with a laugh, the water sloshing with the movement, arms folding on the tub’s edge as he looked up, chin resting lazily on his wrist. He watched him, openly. Unflinchingly.
Against his nature, Voldemort reached out. Fingers brushed through wet, tangled black strands, tugging idly as if trying to unravel the truth from the mess. The hair was damp and horrid, the touch idly soft, but he did not stop.
"You seem to know me well" he said, voice barely more than a whisper.
"All the good things" the creature murmured, half-lidded, sighing under the touch like a mangled cat too tired to fear the hand that once struck it. "And the worst"
There was something broken in those green eyes.
Something lovely.
Quite like madness.
Voldemort did not look away.
"Don't worry" Harry murmured in cadence "You’ll know me too"
And there was a weight in the words, a promise, whispered not just with breath, but with magic. Voldemort didn’t understand him, and that unnerved him. But he would. He would dissect the boy if he had to—cut through every layer of calm and cleverness, through grin and madness, until all his blood had bled dry and his magic burst like those glittering bath bubbles.
Mine.
It called to him.
His soul to Harry.
Harry to his soul.
Not a vow, not a plea. But a truth threaded in soul-deep recognition, as ancient and inevitable as they were.
Voldemort did not respond aloud; he didn’t need to. Harry knew him too well for that.
And as he sat there, watching the boy exhale into warm water and lean into his presence without fear, Voldemort felt something else bloom alongside his returned clarity and control.
The tide had turned. The battlefield was irrelevant now. Dumbledore could keep his Order, the Ministry could chase shadows. Because Lord Voldemort had already won.
Not through brute force. Not by slaughter or conquest. But through time, magic, and an impossible creature that defied Death to come back for him.
With Harry at his side, the dream that had long festered in shadow flared into life—a magical world shaped in his image, eternal and obedient, untainted by weakness.
And now? Now, with the key to mastering Death purring in his lap, he had the means to outlive every one of them. And perhaps—for the first time—to outlive himself.
Floating in warm lilac water, as if knowing exactly what Voldemort was thinking, Harry smiled again in tired amusement.
Voldemort let him.
Let him smile.
Let him dream.
After all, there would be plenty of time to take it all apart.