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Voldemort felt a headache coming on.
Recently, things had been progressing greatly. Although Lucius had failed to retrieve the prophecy—and had gotten it broken in the process—Voldemort had still managed to kidnap the Boy Who Lived, discover that the child was his Horcrux, and pry through his memories to uncover the full prophecy.
The prophecy was, obviously, null and void now that the boy housed his soul.
All his splendid plans to kill Harry Potter had once again been thwarted by something unexpected. From a mother’s sacrifice to housing a fragment of his soul— Potter is an enviable child who kept finding new loopholes for survival.
He had also, much to his great glee, succeeded in driving that old thing, Albus, nearly mad searching for his precious savior, while the boy was safely locked away in a warded house not even his own Death Eaters knew about.
All the way out in Pennsylvania.
No—what brought on this headache wasn’t the pleasure of watching the Order of the Phoenix scramble like headless chickens, nor the satisfaction of misleading his own followers into believing he didn’t possess Harry Potter, but wanted to find the child before Albus. What irked him now was the boy himself.
Since arriving in his custody, the child had been nothing but suicidal.
To think this was the same boy who had evaded death at his hands for fifteen years while Voldemort had been unaware of his value—and now that Voldemort knew, the child wished to die?
Perhaps the death of his useless godfather had affected him that badly. Voldemort could not relate. At the boy’s age, he had already murdered his own biological father. Why would one whine over a godfather of all things?
The boy seemed actively determined to invite the Cruciatus Curse at the yew wand. He ignored orders, provoked the Dark Lord with alarming consistency (a success rate Voldemort would never admit hovered near 99% certainty), and refused to eat, bathe, or even leave the bed Voldemort had graciously provided. Imperius did nothing—an impressive resistance, though Voldemort would never say so aloud. Instead, the boy sulked, sobbed quietly, or stared ahead with lifeless eyes.
It bothered Voldemort greatly.
He was far more accustomed to those defiant Avada Kedavra-green eyes, sharp and bright like emeralds—not dulled to a pale, deathly green.
Thus, the ever-merciful Dark Lord had acquired two house-elves to care for the living Horcrux. Anti-elf apparition wards had been installed throughout the manor, particularly those that responded to the calling of names. The elves were given strict instructions: Harry Potter was never to escape. This command ranked just below ensuring the boy ate, slept, and remained alive.
Harry Potter was a pet, and Voldemort would raise him as such.
As much as he would have preferred to spell the boy into endless sleep and be done with the inconvenience, the idea of a living, interactive Horcrux was far too intriguing. Especially one capable of sensing his emotions.
How useful the child could become, if trained to harness their connection properly.
There was also the matter of immortality. Horcruxes were not meant to be destroyed—would the boy’s youth remain fixed? Had the soul fragment halted his aging? If so, Voldemort should have possessed a perpetually one-year-old vessel.
But no. Potter continued to grow like any ordinary child. Fifteen years old now—slightly small, perhaps, but malleable. Dumbledore had never taken proper care of Voldemort’s belongings. Not even a living Horcrux. A pathetic man, truly.
The child bought out his inner academic.
So imagine Voldemort’s surprise when he returned to the manor after some time away (not avoiding the depressed child—no, never; merely allowing the boy to experience isolation, to understand that Voldemort’s presence was all he would ever have and need).
He apparated outside the manor.
With his immortal grace, Voldemort strode forward, prepared to summon the elves and demand Potter be brought before him.
But then he paused.
Voldemort prided himself on many things, including his memory. It took less than a second to notice that the manor’s dark, haunted atmosphere had changed.
It was clean. Spotless.
This almost made him hiss. He had ordered the elves to focus entirely on Harry Potter. Why, in Salazar’s name, had they cleaned his manor? Or was Potter so delicately unbalanced that living in disarray affected him negatively? The boy had been raised by Muggles—surely filth would not have been unfamiliar to the child.
His tongue was ready to lash out, to whip those pathetic creatures into obedience—
When the scent reached him.
His forked tongue flicked out once. Then again.
The house smelled… good. It smelled of warm food. A cooked meal. The scent tugged at a memory of his first night at Hogwarts, rich and unfamiliar, and the calling of home.
Had the elves cooked for the boy?
It was dinner time. Feeding was expected.
Voldemort paused, considered briefly and then decided he would dine as well. Though he did not require sustenance, indulging in mortal habits had its uses. It could foster dependence from Potter—encourage the living Horcrux to endear himself to his master.
He entered the dining room, already considering how to assess the boy’s mental state and the progress of their connection.
And froze.
Harry Potter was there.
In an apron.
Voldemort blinked. Then blinked again.
The boy who lived—his enemy, the light’s savior, now his captive—was humming softly, something resembling a Christmas tune, while setting dishes on the table. Dishes that looked… immaculate.
Were those the dark lord's favorite meals? It couldn't be...
Perhaps he had overworked himself. Perhaps he had not tortured enough of his incompetent followers to relieve his stress. This was absurd. He was not seeing this. He was not mad to the point of this as a sight he should witness.
“Potter,” Voldemort said, forcing himself to breathe through his nostrils.
The boy finally noticed him—the audacity—and instead of bowing, Potter scowled. Hands planted firmly on his hips. He had changed clothes, wearing silk fitted clothes, looking groomed and presentable. The elves must have done their duty after all.
“Took you long enough,” Harry snapped. “I would’ve had to reheat everything if you didn’t come sooner. You kidnapped me—Merlin—lest you could do is come back early.”
…Huh?
Lord Voldemort was a great man. He was a man who rose from mortality to godhood; he would not be stumped or bombazzled by whatever this was.
“What is the meaning of this, boy?” Still, he asked—not because he was confused, nope, never confused, but because Potter’s antics were far too elementary, and Lord Voldemort was far too intelligent. Nevertheless, he indulged the behavior of his soul.
“Dinner. You got eyes, can’t you tell? Or did you leave that back at in the womb?” The boy raised an eyebrow at him. Perhaps Potter would fancy having those eyebrows shaved.
“Yes, Lord Voldemort has eyes, boy. Why are you with dinner? Where are the elves?”
“I had Bitsy and Mitsy dismissed,” the raven-haired boy shrugged.
“What—who gave you the right to?” He should just torture the boy a little to remind him of his place. Voldemort might have been treating him too well.
“No, no, they’re still at the manor! I just had them go shopping for me. I don’t even know where we are—do you know how hard it was to get the right ingredients to make this?” He flailed his arms openly, gesturing to the feast prepared before them.
Voldemort was tempted to rub his fingers against the bridge of his nonexistent nose, but instead, he took a deep breath and addressed the obvious. “So this was all cooked by you?”
“Obviously.” He was met with a judgmental look that clearly said are you slow, old man. Yes, he should torture this boy. The child was far too full of himself. A few curses—and perhaps the loss of a limb belonging to one of his dear friends—would settle this unruly behavior.
“Why would you do this, per se?” Voldemort asked again, patience pulled from his ever-honored heritage.
“Like, why would I cook for you?” Potter cocked his head to the side. The serpentine man gave a slow nod.
“Why don’t you take a seat, and I can go into why,” the boy said casually, pulling the head chair out as if to tuck Voldemort in himself.
Hah. It seemed the boy did have the manners to pull a chair out for his Lord. Perhaps he would not have to remove the limbs of the child’s friends after all.
Voldemort took his seat gracefully, eyeing the dishes before him. They looked fine. They smelled exquisite—but were they poisoned? Where would Potter even obtain poison? More importantly, how did the boy even know how to cook?
Even if he had found poison and used it, Lord Voldemort possessed a body no mere toxin could harm. And there was no chance the child could acquire ingredients to brew potions.
To top it off, every dish was one he vividly remembered liking as Tom Riddle. Had the elves told Harry? No—he had never eaten with or conversed with the creatures beyond issuing the bare necessities. So what prompted this, and how did the boy know?
As tempted as he was to stab into the meal and take a bite of the dish that practically beckoned him, Voldemort restrained himself. He was not a starving dog—he was a god. Instead, he looked at Potter, one eyebrow raised to prompt the boy to continue.
The boy looked visibly tense when he did not take a bite, bordering on disappointment. Although it irked Voldemort slightly, he moved past the feeling and silently urged the boy to speak.
Harry sighed and gestured toward the meal. “I was bored, to put it plainly.”
That answer did not sit well with the Dark Lord, and Harry quickly continued when he noticed it.
“Uh, so—you know—you’ve been away…” Green eyes blinked up into blood red. “And I was, like, spending days thinking a lot, and maybe thinking too much, to be honest, and I couldn’t, y’know—” He raised his hands to gesture to himself. The boy was very vivid with his hands, Voldemort absently noted.
“I can’t just sit still daily. It was eating at me. When I lived with my relatives—uh, they were Muggles—and they always, well, hated me for being magical. But yeah, they always used me to my full extent, so I’m very used to moving my body. And this kind of peace didn’t sit right with me. So… I don’t know if you noticed, but I cleaned up this dusty place.” The boy visibly puffed up with pride. “And since cleaning helped distract my mind, I figured I might as well cook, too. Bitsy didn’t like it at all—he tried to stop me—but it didn’t take long to coax the elf to hear my plea. And thus, I present to you dinner,” he finished smugly.
Voldemort stared at the boy, who slowly deflated under his gaze. To summarize, the child wished to curb his overthinking by engaging in mundane tasks to fulfill his need for activity.
It was not what the Dark Lord had expected, but it was far more acceptable than an escape attempt. From the expression on the boy’s face and the emotions carried through the connection, the child was still as actively suicidal as usual. It made sense—his fated enemy would want to kiss up to death while Voldemort lived in immortal bliss. There was no chance the boy would die, though.
Turning back to Potter, Voldemort noticed the boy was looking at him with a certain expression. Because Lord Voldemort did not communicate through gazes, he skimmed through the surface-level thoughts in the child’s mind and understood that he wanted him to try the dishes.
Well, for something done with his Lord in mind, Voldemort—ever merciful and ever gracious—did not mind taking a bite.
Using manners honed to perfection from his schooling days, he took an elegant bite of the slice of beef cooked to a perfect balance of sweet and sour. It had a tang of acidity to it, and although Voldemort did not need to eat, that did not mean he could not appreciate what he tasted.
By the time he realized it, he had already taken a third bite of the thinly sliced beef. Potter watched him with visibly tensed shoulders, like prey readying itself to run away from a beast. He seemed to be under the impression the Dark Lord won't like what he ate.
Begrudgingly, Voldemort had to admit the dish was prepared to perfection. If it had been anyone else aside from Potter before him, he would even say it was better than what he ate at the Malfoys’.
But since this was Potter, all he said was, “It’s adequate.”
The smile that bloomed across the raven-haired boy’s face told him that was more than enough praise. Voldemort saw the boy visibly relax and turn to eat his own plate. His giddy expression was so openly expressive that Voldemort could not fathom preening under an enemy’s praise. You would never catch him smiling this foolishly if Dumbledore had offered a compliment.
Considering this a one-time act, Voldemort ignored the child across from him and focused on his meal—enjoying every bite fully, the juices gushing into his mouth, the meat practically melting on his tongue. The wine paired with the meal was perfect, clearing the richness with a sharp, cold edge, and every side dish was an excellent accompaniment. It was like an opera playing in his mouth, and Voldemort had to admit that if meals were always this good, he would be very willing to eat three times a day more regularly.
But this was a one-time matter, and he did not believe Potter would be willing to cook again. He could threaten the child into it, but he refused to give the boy the satisfaction of knowing the Dark Lord liked his culinary skills.
The food was so good that he ultimately forgot to ask how the child knew all his favorite dishes.
It happened a second time.
And a third.
And then Voldemort lost count of how many times it happened.
Every time he came to check on his soul container, the boy had a meal prepared and seemed more than willing—almost eager—to invite him to eat. The Dark Lord was not arriving at proper mealtimes, nope; arrival lunch or dinner was never intentional. It was merely a coincidence that kept repeating itself.
He could tell when it was the boy who had cooked and when it was not.
Once, he arrived unexpectedly and found the elves responsible for the meal instead. Potter had clearly not anticipated his visit and had been caught off guard at the doorstep. Needless to say, Voldemort was severely displeased by the absence of Potter’s cooking. From that point on, reports from elves informed him that even in his absence, the boy had taken to preparing three meals a day himself—along with extra portions, always set aside for whenever the Dark Lord might return.
Something about this pleased him deeply.
The boy’s willingness to serve his lord encouraged Voldemort to linger longer, to observe more closely, to learn more about his container.
“How do you know how to cook?” he asked at last.
“Well, I grew up cooking for my Muggle relatives,” Potter replied easily. “Started when I was four. I’m just… good at it now. If I didn’t know I was a wizard, I probably would’ve made a living off cooking alone.”
“I see,” Voldemort said coolly. “An impressive skill. Not one commonly associated with a savior of the Light.”
Potter grinned. “Did you think I was raised in a posh castle with servants running back and forth? Nah—that’s just Snape’s delusion. Been poor all my life. Barely ate until I started Hogwarts.”
Voldemort found, to his surprise, that he could relate.
The orphanage had not been a place of generosity. Food had been scarce, affection even scarcer. He, too, had known hunger—had grown sharp and hollow because of it. Grown up powerful because of it.
To think that the so-called savior of the Light shared such similarities with him.
How ironic, that Dumbledore had raised this boy to oppose him, when they were merely two sides of the same coin—cast in different molds.
And if, sometime later, a certain Muggle neighborhood were to go up in flames, a Dark Mark looming ominously above the ruined house…
Well.
No one needed to know about that.
Certainly not the darling boy, who waited so obediently—like a good soul container—for his master to come home.
“How does one know what Lord Voldemort enjoys to consume?”
Harry looked up from his plate, licking sauce from his lower lip absentmindedly—an action not missed under Voldemort’s sharp, slit gaze.
“Your diary,” he said simply. “Sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle in your diary told me about it.”
As if that alone were sufficient explanation, the boy returned to his meal. Voldemort found himself watching him chew, the small bob of Harry’s Adam’s apple with every shallow swallow, and suddenly his mouth went dry. Then there were the boy’s lips—small, pink, and far too inviting with the way they bit down into each mouthful.
He looked away sharply and coughed, dismissing the thought.
Potter glanced back at him at the sound.
“And how did you know to cook for me that night?” Voldemort asked. It was a question he had intended to pose before—one he kept forgetting each visit, inevitably distracted by Harry Potter himself.
The raven-haired boy flushed a vivid, enticing red. He looked sheepish, turning away as he muttered, “Uh… I figured you’d come by sooner or later to check on me. I’d been cooking for a few days straight. It was just a matter of when you’d show up.”
The thought of Potter waiting every night, food prepared, made something coil pleasantly in Voldemort’s abdomen—something he did not care to dissect. The sight of the boy like this, youthful and flushed, only worsened the sensation. He would not examine it now. Certainly not in front of the boy in question.
Voldemort huffed softly, red eyes tracing Potter’s features one last time before he spoke, low and deliberate.
“One shall inform you of one’s arrival from now on.”
If Harry’s now-bright green eyes perked up at that, Voldemort chose not to notice.
The war had become inevitably boring now that Harry was no longer part of the equation.
Dumbledore was scrambling, tearing the world apart in search of the missing child, while Voldemort had already noticed the shift and discreetly relocated his Horcruxes the moment he understood Harry’s true nature.
It wasn’t difficult to deduce what the old man was hunting for. If Dumbledore knew Harry was a Horcrux—and Voldemort was certain he did—then there was no possible way the man had remained ignorant for years while aware of their shared mental connection.
Even commanding his own Death Eaters was beginning to lose its appeal. Dumbledore would never win; Voldemort had beaten the fool to within an inch of his life every time their paths crossed. The only reason the man still drew breath was his uncanny ability to slither away like a particularly stubborn eel.
What Voldemort found far more interesting was returning—going home, though he was uncertain when that word had taken root—to the hidden manor where Harry waited for him. Somewhere along the way, they had fallen into a strange, unspoken domestic rhythm, one Voldemort found himself disturbingly addicted to.
The sheer breadth of the boy’s expressions delighted him every single time. Harry Potter was an enigma, one Voldemort took pleasure in unraveling piece by piece with each visit. Sometimes the boy greeted him at the door with a hiss, other times with an angry pout for arriving late or missing a day altogether—and each time, it made Voldemort’s nonexistent heart lurch in his chest.
It reached a point where he formally abandoned the Malfoy residence altogether, opting instead to apparate every morning to conduct his affairs and return by nightfall. Even Nagini had been moved into the manor, and to Voldemort’s mild surprise, the two got along just fine.
A bit too fine, in his opinion. More often than not, Voldemort found himself competing with his own damned familiar for the boy’s undivided attention.
“Why do you not try to escape?” Voldemort found himself asking.
By all accounts, the boy’s personality—Gryffindor through and through—should have driven him to attempt escape the moment he was left alone in the manor. Yet Harry had done no such thing. Instead, he had settled in, mourning the loss of his godfather, and then spent the following months entirely within Voldemort’s grasp.
It made Voldemort wonder whether the boy had something hidden up his sleeve—though he was certain that wasn’t the case. He had layered tracking spells upon the child, reinforced the wards repeatedly, and kept absolute silence about Harry’s whereabouts, even from his most loyal servants.
They all believed their Lord simply withdrew each night to meditate before returning to torture them endlessly. An assumption he didn't bother correcting.
Harry lay at his feet as of the moment, head resting on Voldemort’s lap while the Dark Lord absently threaded clawed fingers through dark curls. The boy hummed a tune Voldemort didn’t recognize, but he found he liked the sound of it—liked that the child was relaxed enough to hum at all.
“I don’t know,” Harry murmured, half-dozed. “I thought about it at first. But escaping is pointless. I have nothing to live for. My whole life I was pushed into fighting you—I’m... tired. And the only man I ever thought of as family is dead.”
He shifted slightly, voice soft but steady.
“I thought you would torture me and kill me. But this… this is more than I imagined. When you do kill me one day, I think I can accept it peacefully now.”
Voldemort’s jaw tightened.
“You will not die, Potter,” he said coldly. “I have already explained what you are to me. Death is no longer an option for you.”
Harry huffed out a quiet laugh and lifted his head to meet Voldemort’s gaze. “Then as long as I’m living like this, I’m fine with staying alive. I have nothing left to fight for. You can have this life—I’m used to trading my safety for others.”
His eyes fluttered. Green orbs shimming under long lashes.
“You promised the people I care about would live. You gave me a binding vow. I believed you. Do whatever you want now.”
With that, the boy settled back down, obediently resting his head once more in the older mage’s lap—entirely unaware of the turmoil he had stirred.
It wasn’t that Harry Potter didn’t want to escape.
He had simply lost the will to fight.
That realization should have brought Voldemort joy. The extinguishing of his enemy’s fire ought to have felt like victory—but instead, he found himself unsettled by the fact that it was Harry who had been reduced to this.
He had liked the boy who defied him at every turn, who met his gaze without flinching and spoke his name without fear. Yet this obedient version of Harry—unashamed, pliant, resting so trustingly against him—was just as captivating.
Still, this would not do.
Voldemort could not allow Potter to continue wanting death. What had once been active suicidal intent had merely dulled into passivity, and Voldemort would not put it past the boy to one day devise some absurd, near-impossible method of dying that even he would fail to anticipate, then succed at it.
No—Lord Voldemort wanted Harry Potter with his fire intact.
He wanted the boy’s obedience and his spirit.
He found he enjoyed the way Harry almost behaved like a wife—nagging him softly, fussing over his appearance, making sure even his morning black robes sat perfectly before he departed. The domesticity pleased him, and Voldemort had never been a man to deny his desires.
No. Lord Voldemort had to plan.
He was destined to rule Great Britain. He would command witches and wizards alike. Such a ruler required a suitable queen at his side—and who better than the bright, green-eyed, curly-haired fae chosen by prophecy itself?
His feral grin flickered in the firelight. He had to prepare the wizarding world for the return of their great savior. He had to also prepare the boy for his new upcoming role.
Now that he had a solution, he would need to speak with Severus Snape about brewing that fertility potion.
Harry seemed the type to desire a large family, if his fondness for the Weasley brood was any indication. Binding him with Voldemort’s own offspring would surely reignite the boy’s instinct to survive—grant him purpose, maternal comfort, something worth living for.
Voldemort traced a finger over the lightning-shaped scar on Harry’s forehead.
Ah. The future was bright.
Lord Voldemort would have it all—Britain, power, and Harry Potter as his bride.
Now it was just a matter of how to break it to his followers.