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Harry stares into the mirror, and it’s not only him that stares back. His eyes flicker to the side, ignoring what he saw. Perhaps, if he ignores it long enough, it will go away.
(And yet a part of him—something small and battered and hopeful despite it all—doesn’t want it to go away; wants it to be real. Because loneliness is a deadly disease, and Harry has contracted it despite being in a sea of friends).
It begins with dreams. Erratic, nightmarish dreams, in that familiar white limbo of King’s Cross Station, filled with red eyes and a looming figure, long fingers digging into his jaw. It is a delicate dance, seeing the monster that he once vanquished, the monster that he can never forget, the monster that he can never seem to let go of.
At some point those dreams turn into conversations—mad ramblings between himself and the imitation that his mind conjures, secrets shared, longings realised. Somehow, inexplicably, those nightmarish dreams turn into something he looks forward to. Something that was just for him, in a world where it felt like no part of Harry truly belonged to himself.
He just doesn’t expect for those dreams to unsettlingly bleed into reality. He sees him everywhere now. In the muddy puddles in Diagon Alley, in the tinted liquid of his tea, in shop windows and mirrors and the shadows on the wall if he stares too long. And then there are the hissing whispers, characteristic of a parseltongue that he thought he could no longer understand, constantly in his ears.
He doesn’t speak of this to anyone. He doesn’t want them to worry, or look at him any more differently than they already do, as if he is a piece of glass just waiting to shatter. And perhaps a part of him just doesn’t want to share.
A shuddering breath leaves him, and looks back at the mirror out of the corner of his eyes.
Still there.
Look at me, my little Horcrux.
‘I-I’m not your Horcrux. Not anymore.’ Is it just Harry, or is there a note of disappointment in his tone?
Perhaps my soul is no longer there, but it doesn’t change the fact that your soul is shaped in my image. And nothing will be able to change that.
Harry turns on the sink, splashing cold water onto his face.
What, nothing to say anymore?
He wipes himself dry with a towel, walking out of the bathroom.
Don’t you want this? I know deep down that you ache in my absence.
Harry withholds a grimace, not at the statement but at the fact that it was true. It was true, and he was a terrible person because of it. He longs for that chilling embrace of his dreams—or he supposes they were something more than dreams; something far more real, and yet not real enough—wrapped around him so tightly that his ribs creak. Theirs was a connection that was nothing like love or friendship. It was far more twisted than that, and yet Harry can’t help but feel that it was far stronger.
Ignoring me now? Fine, I’ll let you think about it. But deep down you know that you need me, just as I need you.
And then that whispering presence is gone, and Harry has never felt so hollow before.
He goes through the rest of the day automatically, mindlessly, his sense of self fractured. He doesn’t remember much, and when he meets up with Ron and Hermione he can barely manage an hour before he is crawling back home, tucking himself into bed before the sun fully sets.
That night he does not dream.
Nor does he the next night.
This is a punishment, he knows. Terrifyingly effective.
He feels that emptiness press against him and widen into an endless chasm. Feels it clamp down on his throat with its maw, until he can no longer take it anymore; until he is unravelling.
He sits up, fingers digging into his arms in a mockery of a far crueller embrace, and whispers, ‘Voldemort.’
Finally stopped being so stubborn?
Harry can’t help but let out a puff of air. ‘Did you expect anything else? I’m always stubborn.’
That you are. There was a fondness to that whispering tone. And then, turning more serious, Have you thought about it?
Harry picked at a loose thread in his blanket. ‘What happens if I say yes? You’re…you’re dead. I killed you.’ He gives an almost hysterical laugh. ‘I don’t even know if this is all just a figment of my imagination. Perhaps I’ve managed to contract the Black family madness, after all.’
I can prove to you that this is real—that I am real—if you just do what I say.
‘I’m going to regret this. I just know it.’
I’ll make sure you won’t.
A beat. ‘Okay.’
This will only hurt for a moment. And then there is a blinding pain piercing through his head, splitting his skull in two. Harry lets out an agonised sob, fingers clenching into the blankets. Warm blood drips down his forehead, down his brow and across his eyelid, his lightningbolt scar born anew.
Arms wrap around him, arms that are not his own, and a firm chest bends over him, covering his back fully, pressing their full weight on him.
‘Shhh,’ hushes Voldemort, and his voice sounds clearer than ever. One of his hands slides up the side of his face, wiping at his bleeding scar. Harry can’t help but flinch at first, expecting more blinding pain. But instead Voldemort’s touch feels like a cool balm. ‘It’s alright, Harry.’
They stay like that for what feels like hours, until Harry finally drifts to sleep.
When he wakes again, Voldemort is still there, wrapped around him. His chest rises and falls steadily. He is, to Harry’s shock, asleep.
Harry shifts, feeling those arms tighten around him.
Later, the weight of what he has done will come crashing down on him. Later, he will feel nothing but self-loathing at his selfishness and impulsiveness. But for now, he pulls Voldemort’s arms even tighter around his waist, and slips back into sleep.
He wonders if he will still dream of him, even if he is now here in reality.
He hopes he does.