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It seemed as if a second became eternity as the spell struck the Potter child. The innocent curiosity on his face did not change as the curse hit and bounced, and then suddenly the viridian light was flaring and brightening, and Tom Marvolo Riddle swore as he realised he was within point blank range, there was no chance to avoid-

 And he felt the curse wash over him, and it was as gentle as silk, and time was immobile all around but for the curse, and he knew that he was no longer hindered by flesh, his body crumbling without his magic, and it must be shock from his death, but he felt so joyous, free, blissful really and it was like he was ascending, descending, moving, what were directions if you were but a soul, and he was magic, scattering beyond the confines of his body, and if death brought this serenity then it seemed foolish now to have created such countermeasures, for in death he was magic and magic was life, and he was so eager to assist, to find the beings that channelled magic, for they were his Children and he loved them, but-

There was some tether, it was pulling him, tearing him from paradise, and-

No! The harmony was lost and he cried out, and it wrenched him back, and if he had eyes they’d be streaming, if he had lips they’d be screaming, the balance was gone-

Time began and the curse had dissipated, his body was gone, the child was frowning, reaching for where Voldemort had once stood, as if he knew-

The spirit whimpered, he felt fragmented, shattered, and the tethers were there, preventing him from touching, becoming that marvellous Magic, because he was not whole, and it was prickling, burning, scratching at his very soul, but the child! This child! He was made of magic and it was so bright, so warm like the sun. And he loved this child, he knew, this bright, warm child who saw him with curse eyes, and smiled, and he felt joy even as the burning grew, and he caressed the rune sowilo that was carved into his head, and with a body it would be called a kiss, and the boy giggled.

When the living soul embraced the dead one he shivered, and it was peace, and he knew this innocent soul loved him as no other and he felt the fragments healing, but the tethers were still there and they were tugging him, stretching him, taking him away, and he was distressed as the pain increased and the soul crooned to him, but he felt its’ fear too, the worry. The pain increased, and so he pushed the last fragment of himself away to this bright soul, to protect it, to love it, a gift, to spare this small part so that this soul wouldn’t worry for him when he left, and the child had tears in his beautiful eyes, and through the pain he was barely coherent, but he could only smile wistfully, if he had lips, a promise to meet again, the guardian of his soul, and he burnt so strong, but there was nothing to burn, and he was bleeding but had no blood and he could hear the wail of the child, his beautiful child.

The tethers seared, and snapped taut and he spiralled, and the pain was too much, he was fading, falling, lost, alone, consumed, seconds became eternity, and his last conscious thought before he slipped into the fire was of Harry Potter’s viridian eyes.

Harry sighed as he watched his family. The Dursleys were not bad really, but he always felt so alone near them. Especially now. Uncle Vernon was sitting by Dudley right now and smiling, truly smiling, as he unwrapped the Christmas presents he was given. Dudley was so excited, and could barely focus for more than a minute, and he jumped into Aunt Petunia’s arms and she kissed his head. He gasped as he felt that loneliness peak, and looked away to collect the paper left on the floor. He missed as Petunia’s eyes alighted on him. He missed the look she shared with Vernon, and he missed Petunia’s resigned nod.

Why couldn’t he do that? Why did the Dursleys never hug him, or smile when he drew a picture, or give him Christmas presents? It hurt, seeing the joy they all had. Why couldn’t they share it? Why did Dudley deserve it but not Harry?

He was so alone.

Harry frowned. For a moment it felt like, as if… he could catch an echo of the loneliness, of pain too intense. He wanted to help. They could help each other, and then neither of them would be alone. But then it was gone, and he was alone again.

He blinked. Must have been his imagination. Harry gave a sigh, rubbing at his scar.

As Aunt Petunia called to him and taught him to serve Christmas dinner, and told him serving meals was to be his job now, he looked to her and wondered if anyone had loved him once as she loved Dudley, and held him and kissed him. He must have once, he reasoned. A mother or father. A friend. Cousin. That thought made him cry though, since they must have left him, and he couldn’t remember.

He did remember some things. Flashes of memory, like green light, flying motorcycles, and a brilliant togetherness, joy, so soothing, and responsibility. A half remembered promise of ‘someday’. He felt content. This was not his family, just who he lived with. Someday he would meet them, his family.

He was alone.

Pain.

There was pain. Nothing else was left. Not Space. Not Time. Not even himself. Only pain. And fire, and ice, and tearing, ripping, searing, itching, stabbing, screaming and moaning, bleeding and bruising and stretching and squeezing, burning, freezing, dissolving, excruciating – oh, and the hunger! Need! Gnawing within, more, something missing, never enough, and the pain won’t stop, won’t leave, and he’s screaming, throat bleeding, but he has no mouth, no neck, no body. Too much, but he’s so empty. Needs more, the other-

And then he’s awake and he’s gasping, surrounded by life, small lives, green lives, but none like his Child, his Sun, his other, and he needs to find him, his love is so lonely, so sad, but he’s too weak, can barely move, there’s not enough of him left, and the pain is so strong, and he grabs at the lives but they’re too small, weak, they fade too quickly and join Magic and he’s left alone, so lonely, he must find the other, to save himself, to help the other, he needs his Sun, and they will be together, but he’s too weak, and the pain, he’s slipping under-

The agony, too strong, like poison, like fire, he’s screaming but there is no sound, his very being torn apart, and burning, bleeding, moaning, whimpering-

He’s lucid. How long has he been here, seconds? Years? When did he last awake? When will he wake again? The pain, still so strong, his other so miserable, but he’s still too weak, incomplete, he can feel the tethers pulling, binding, he can’t join Magic, he can’t find his love, he’s panicked, overwhelmed-

Nothing but pain, nothing exists. Freezing, shattering, aching, gnawing, it’s missing, he’s whining, he’s bleeding, engulfed in fire-

He feels the small happiness, short lived, the pride, and he loves his other, so much but his Child is so melancholy, so alone, his small joys few and as the joy fades he’s falling once more, the pain grasping, wrenching-

There is only pain.

Dudley’s birthday is coming up.

Normally Harry wouldn’t care, it was just another day he was left behind while everyone had a wonderful time.

But he was in year six now. The final year at primary school. And he just knew things were going to change soon, because even though they hadn’t said it yet, he was certain that the Dursleys were sending him to a different secondary school than Dudley. It made him smile just to think about.

“Boy! What are you grinning about? The bacon still needs fixing. And what happened to my coffee?”

“Right away, Uncle Vernon.”

Harry moved to begin the bacon, pouring the coffee as the pan heated. Even Vernon’s unpleasantness couldn’t lower his spirit. He took pride in being able to cook, and cook well. He could look after himself, a gift he didn’t think the Dursleys knew they were giving him.

Everything this year had this sense of finality about it. The last Christmas he would spend with them, the last Easter holiday he would spend with Mrs Figg. The last new kid who would be frightened away from him by Dudley and his friends. That had to be the best part, going to a school where Dudley couldn’t frighten away any potential friends from him. Even if next year he still lived here, at least he would be able to escape. Hopefully the Dursleys would send him to a boarding school, the better to keep him out of the way. One of the few issues that he and the Dursleys were in total agreement over.

And now Dudley’s birthday was coming up. Just one more milestone until September. Until he can leave.

This time it’s different.

He gains awareness slowly, rising above the haze, and the pain is there but he can push it aside. It feels like he’s panting though he has no lungs, and he can almost focus. And he feels it from his other, the anticipation, the hope, the joy, and it isn’t fading, and he can think. He can plan. He can observe, without the worry of slipping back under.

There is forest around, the slow green lives of trees, the bright sparks of insects, rodents, serpents, birds. He can recognise them. But the hollowness, the need is still there. For more, for his other, but he is still too weak. The stolen lives are too small, too quick. He needs stronger lives but there are none nearby. Sharing bodies lasts longer but they burn too bright, too quick. Dying again and again, and he is jealous of the small spirits who rise quickly and join Magic while he is trapped, but then he thinks of his Child, who is still so lonely beneath the hope, and he is determined to meet his love again and they will never part. His love who guards a piece of his soul, his love who heals him. Nothing will keep him away.

He travels far, searching, he knows time is against him for he cannot hold back the pain without his love’s hope. And he can feel it wax and wane, never gone completely but low enough to worry him. He needs stronger lives, ones that can withstand the brightness. But there are none nearby. He’s getting desperate. His Sun’s hope is fading faster now after that last surge. Counting down, the aches grow stronger, he can’t be late-

A life! A brilliant, magic life. He surges forwards, needs this so much, the soul’s will is weak, he has taken over the flesh-

Suddenly, it’s quiet. Quirrell looks around the forest, and he can’t see the lives, so many always buzzing and singing now silent. But no, he’s not Quirrell, Quirrell is the host, the body, the weak willed soul. He’s still here, just asleep, overpowered. But to have a body again, it is ecstasy. Before was a haze, pain and want and need, but it slips from his mind like the edges of a dream. He cannot feel the tethers any longer, the pain is gone, but there is still some plan, some need half forgotten. Even thoughts are different in a body, he muses.

What happened before, when he last had a body? There was pain, shock... A prophecy! Of course! It had been at Samhain, he had found the child. His Child, his Sun, no, wait, the Potter child. Something wrong...and killing curse eyes. Had he died? His Horcruxes worked! But that child, Harry Potter...prophecy child, his vanquisher. He is the Dark Lord!

He searches Quirrell’s memories, and gasps in shock. It has been ten years! Ten years wandering the Albanian forests as a wraith. The Boy-Who-Lived granted fame, glory over his false defeat. He growls. And he knows he hates this Harry Potter, hates him passionately with every fibre of his being. Needs to find him, destroy him even. He grins manically. Quirrell teaches at Hogwarts. He can kill Potter there. Already the wraith memories are fading, like tattered dreams.

No. His body is too tired. Already it is fading, slowly this time. He needs his own. Then Potter will die. Memories surface of Dumbledore, the Philosophers stone, at Hogwarts! Severus too, his Order spy. Plans begin to form even as he begins to slip into the first true sleep in a decade. He is barely aware as Quirrell awakens groggy on the forest floor.

He remembers his name was Tom once. A simple muggle name.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

I am Lord Voldemort.

It was something he had realised during the week they drove away. The letters followed them of course. Aunt Petunia looked worried behind her pinched expression, and Dudley was quietly miserable once he realised tantrums wouldn’t get him his way. Vernon had a glint in his eyes that Harry found somewhat unnerving, especially when he began to mutter to himself again.

At every place they stopped, letters addressed to his exact location arrived, and each letter was destroyed by Vernon. The pattern grew wilder, the locations more obscure, letters more persistent.

Harry couldn’t help but notice.

It was like this was all some sort of build up to something he couldn’t comprehend. A sense of anticipation grew with each letter, almost in tandem with his frustration at not opening one. That fragile hope that was born with the escape of the python weeks ago began to grow. But so did his fear of being proven wrong.

Was the letter-writer the one? The person to take him away, to love him?  It was such a deep longing, for another. Parent, friend, just a companion who wanted him, loved him that he could love in return. It was times like this that he felt the sharp pang of loneliness cut most deeply. He couldn’t help but resent Dudley, who acted so spoiled, focusing only on toys and food instead of the important things, like how he had a loving mother and father. Harry knew they cared a lot, just not for him.

As he climbed into the rickety boat with his relatives, he felt his hope wane, for surely the letter writer would give up after so long without a reply. It was hard to stay hopeful in such a cold, damp place as this.

It took just under a week for the whispers of Voldemort to twist Quirrell’s mind. His each desire stressed, his fears mocked and anger replaced them. And a strong sense of being owed something. Everyone looked down on him, the stuttering frightened Quirrell. Wizards like Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore. He deserved better! He would show them his worth, make them bow at his feet!

In the back of Quirrell’s mind Voldemort laughed, and prodded further. He created dreams of stones that gave life, and an understanding companion, one who would help him achieve greatness. It was with some kind of sadistic amusement that he created dreams of longing, and snatched them away, leaving headaches in their place. He didn’t notice how tiring it was to rearrange a mind, caught up in the action of manipulating another, didn’t notice how each time he slept it was for longer than the time before.

He woke up rather suddenly in the early hours of the 31^st of July. Quirrell was asleep and dreamless. Thinking on what to do next, he growled in disgust.

What had he been doing for the past week? Had he really fallen so far as to torture a man with dreams of the unreachable and headaches for entertainment, when he should be trying to create a body for himself? This was not a time for fun. It was like he had been drunk on the power he had over weak-minded Quirrell. There would be plenty of time once he had a body and killed Harry Potter for fun and torture. He couldn’t forget his goals again.

With this in mind he slipped deeper into Quirrell’s mind, weaving a dream world and pulled Quirrell down within it.

Here, Voldemort shaped ideas of the philosopher’s stone, the suggestion of recognition he would earn with its theft. Quirrell responded predictably. The game was almost boring, too simple. Where was the backbone? The resistance? But still, there were times to be serious. And he had a plan to form about retrieving the stone.

Some time later, Voldemort had Quirrell sitting unobtrusively in a corner of the Leaky Cauldron, listening in on all the rumours. It had been a while since Quirrell was last in Britain, since he had spent the previous year travelling the world, and most wizards tended to gossip like nattering hens, even without a lick of alcohol in their blood. The skilled observer could pick out which of these stories were true, and what had been fabricated to defame the powerful and wealthy. It was often the only way to learn about the pureblood families on short notice, especially if you were denied access to such events as balls and societal dinners, as Quirrell was.

Voldemort mentally sighed, and wondered once again why one of his well connected followers had not found him, instead of Quirrell.

Listening to the surrounding talk, he found himself scowling, or he would be if Quirrell were not in control of the body right now. Everyone was talking about Potter. It seemed that, despite its ineptitude, the wizarding world could count and realized this was the year he would return to the public eye after ten years of hiding. No one knew where he was hiding, though rumours abound. No one even knew what he looked like, apart from black hair with green eyes and a lightning bolt scar.

At this, Voldemort had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes, as Dark Lords do not make such plebeian gestures, even mentally. Did not one wizard recognise the scar as the rune sowilo? Idiots. They were all perfectly happy to sit and reminisce on the night of his – temporary – defeat by a child, squealing like pigs as some wizard remarked how he had once met Harry Potter in a muggle supermarket. It was sickening, the stagnated way they behaved, like spoilt schoolchildren.

He had to leave. Even without any worthy rumours, this served to remind him of why he sought change in the first place. The wizarding world was a corrupt, slanderous thing, infested with rot to its core. It needed shaking up, reworking, a complete overhaul. But first, the return of his own body.

Quickly, he made Quirrell get up to leave but a flicker of motion at the muggle entrance caught his attention. He paused, still in the shadows, recognising Hagrid in an instant. It was the child following him that caught his interest. Since when was Hagrid trusted with the wellbeing of children? Particularly mudbloods, who seemed to have no proper sense of decorum or self preservation.

The child was nervous, he could tell. Glancing around, he looked fascinated by the surrounding wizards, yet apprehensive. Obviously he had never met another wizard in his life. Yet, there was something familiar about the boy, almost a resonance. It took a moment for Tom to realise that he was in full control of Quirrell’s body, and he was scowling again. It was effortless, like back when he had his full power using Imperius. And in the back of his mind was that echo of emotions not quite his own, joy, wonder, hope, fascination. He forgot again quickly, so engrossed was he in the study of this boy, so familiar.

He started as the boy made eye contact. Those eyes, so green, like a memory. He saw the child’s own eyes narrow, focus on his own even through the shadows and spellwork that he knew concealed him. That gaze was almost something physical, and the rest of the room seemed far away, muffled almost. He could see the surprise, the interest, and knew that the child felt it too, this strange connection, this draw. Curse bright eyes widened, blinked, and the boy seemed to lean forwards almost, and suddenly Tom knew. He almost laughed.

This was Harry Potter.

His curse eyes, so green. How had he not recognised the boy instantly? He wasn’t surprised the fools around him hadn’t noticed something as mundane as a child. A child, who was still watching him, despite his knowledge that he was near invisible in the shadows. And then, the boy smiled.

Tom was nearly floored.

It wasn’t any great grin, or tentative or nervous. Nothing more than a simple softening of the eyes, upturn of the lips, like a greeting to a well loved friend. Comfortable, familiar. Tom couldn’t look away had he wanted to.

Suddenly the boy startled, glancing to Hagrid, breaking the spell. Tom looked away with a soft gasp. He barely noticed the hush that had fallen over the pub, the barkeep’s murmured words. Quirrell’s heart was beating like a trapped bird.

Closing his eyes for a second, he focused, Voldemort calming his rapid thoughts. Now was not the time for solid conclusions or half-baked plotting. For now he had to observe this so called saviour while he had the chance. Nodding, he retreated mentally, allowing Quirrell to the front of his mind once more.

Quirrell glanced round the pub as the patrons all assumed a sycophantic silence, which a quick look confirmed, had unnerved the boy. Objectively, he studied Potter, noting the too large muggle clothing, his bemused reaction to his own fame, the curiosity in his expression. The boy was obviously muggle raised. The clothes suggested poverty, and the broken glasses did not dispel the image.  This boy had not lived a happy life. Even Quirrell couldn’t seem to see past Potter’s scar, and replied in a typical star struck manner when Hagrid called him forward.

Voldemort scoffed. This was no saviour.

Though, as he watched them leave, and saw the expressions of the patrons of the pub, he knew it didn’t matter. Potter was an icon, an ideal, and the stories and legends affixed to his name were too influential. That icon had to be destroyed.

Leaving the pub, Voldemort chose to ignore the shudder that seemed to pass through his soul at the thought of Potter’s death.

Harry was sat on his new bed, contemplating his life.

In front of him was spread his text books, and his wand lay by his right knee. Hedwig stood on the nearby desk watching him.

It was hard to believe that just a month ago he didn’t even have a room. Ever since he returned to Privet Drive, the Dursleys had ignored him, and Dudley trembled at the sight of him. It was brilliant, to say the least.

He was a wizard.

The thought brought a smile to his face, even as he felt a hint of sorrow. He had parents to be proud of, warriors against the dark lord Voldemort. His mother and father had loved him dearly. They had not been drunkards, killed in an avoidable accident, but strong magic users who had died in defence of evil. Then Voldemort had been destroyed by him somehow, saving many lives, and making him famous.

Now that was something strange.

Harry was not used to being noticed. At school he would keep his work average, never better than Dudley’s. The students ignored him, unless Dudley was bored and wanted to play ‘Harry Hunting’. At home, he was a servant, never seen, never heard. Except when something went wrong. Then all he got were scowls and harsh words. But wizards looked to him like he was something special. They smiled and laughed and asked to touch his hand. It was too friendly, really, especially since none of them knew him, and it was unnerving. He wondered if he wasn’t famous, would they ignore him like the muggles did? He had been quite happy looking around the room before they noticed him.

And there was that strange moment in the pub, when he felt eyes on him and turned to the shadow. He had tried to look but saw only the corner covered in deep darkness. Even so he was sure he was looking straight into this stranger’s eyes. It was weird, but he knew they would be red if he saw them in light. Harry had felt that piercing gaze, and then it had been like there was no one else there. The stranger felt almost familiar, a comforting presence in this new and confusing world of magic. They understood him, saw past the Boy Who Lived, to Harry. He had smiled then, and he knew that the stranger felt it too, this connection.

He had felt terribly disappointed when the stranger left while he was shaking the hands of the wizards and witches in the pub. Being famous suddenly seemed very stressful, and he had been enormously glad that Hagrid had hurried them along into Diagon Alley. He couldn’t help but feel a little lonely as they left though. Almost like something was missing. He wished for a moment that his own parents had not been the ones to die, and that some other boy defeated Voldemort, and that he was normal and loved.

But then Harry immediately felt guilty, because he would not want anyone to suffer the loss of their parents, to grow up without them. And being famous wasn’t so bad, since everyone liked him, even if he was a bit uncomfortable being noticed so much. He belonged to the wizarding world.

Although he was a bit nervous about Hogwarts. He was sure he would make friends there, like he had been planning to at Stonewall High. But would they treat him like they had in that pub? The thought of other children acting that way to him made him scrunch his nose. On the other hand that pale boy hadn’t seemed very nice. He hadn’t known who Harry was though. Were all wizards that snooty?

Which House would he be in? The snooty boy seemed sure of Slytherin, but Harry had no idea which was best. Did you get to choose or were the new children sorted somehow? He thought it might be nice to be in Gryffindor like his parents. The other houses he knew were called Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but that was all he knew. And Hagrid hated Slytherin. The House Voldemort himself came from, and all those bad wizards Hagrid mentioned. So why had that boy been so set on Slytherin? There had to be something appealing about it.

Harry huffed. All this thought was getting him nowhere.

Choosing a text at random, he picked it up and began to read.

Voldemort was pleased as he watched the Sorting. It had been a successful month.

Most of it was spent re-establishing Quirrell in the minds of his peers; a stuttering, stammering moron. McGonagall and the rest of the staff all seem to expect it, his fumbling of spells, his nervous attitude, they even compliment him on being more outspoken and daring now. How pathetic must Quirrell have been before! It makes him laugh, the way Quirrell resents their pandering and reassurances, how quickly his hate for his colleagues grows even as he begs approval from Voldemort. It’s amusing how quick he was able to ruin Quirrell, destroy his hopes and create new ones more in line with his own.

In front of the Head Table the Hat finishes its’ song, and McGonagall calls forward the first child.

Voldemort had also spent some of the last month learning the defences around the stone. He hadn’t seen it, but he’d gotten close when Dumbledore had them establishing protections. Quirrell had volunteered a troll, under Voldemort’s orders. Hagrid, Sprout, Hooch, McGonagall, himself, Snape and then Dumbledore, seven guardians for the stone. Unfortunately, they were each taken in separately by Dumbledore, so only he knew every protection. But it was easy to guess.

Some horrible creature would be Hagrid’s contribution, like that Acromantula he had kept in a cupboard during their school years. The halfwit hadn’t grown out of his deadly hobby. How Dumbledore trusted Hagrid for all but the simplest tasks eluded him. Of course, Sprout would place some plant-based protection, and Hooch would go for something flying based. It was the last three protections he was worried about. McGonagall was more than competent, a master of transfiguration and exceptionally adept at charms, defence, and arithmancy. Her protection was bound to be difficult. Snape was a tricky bastard, a potions genius and a spy, one who followed his own agenda. Honestly, he wasn’t sure if Snape was loyal or not, especially after so many years. He couldn’t risk revealing himself to discover Snape’s, no doubt deadly, defence.

And then there was Dumbledore.

He looked up at the sudden silence. Ah. The Potter boy was being sorted. Whispers broke out around the Hall as the boy stepped forwards, looking nervous as hell. There was a quiet scoff from Snape beside him, and a mutter along the lines of “arrogant brat”. Voldemort nearly snorted in disgust. Snape was a truly commendable man, competent at his art, focused and imperturbable. Except when it came to the Potters.

Ahead, the Potter boy sat, head completely covered by the hat. This was a long sorting, interesting. Maybe the boy was headed for some other House than Gryffindor, where his parents originat–

“Gryffindor!”

Or not.

Voldemort blinked. That had been…odd. For a moment he swore he felt – was it relief? Joy? Hope? Definitely the melting of some tension, some nervousness he hadn’t noticed. It hadn’t felt like his own emotion, more like an echo in the back of his head. It must have been his own, relief that Potter wasn’t in Slytherin.

He easily ignored the rest of the sorting, leaving Quirrell to chat with the teachers during the feast.

Harry loved Hogwarts! Even if Professor McGonnagll had given him a detention on the first day. Even if Filch was always looking for reasons to take points.

Everything was so new, and exciting! And magic was used everywhere! Talking portraits, moving stairs, floating candles. Brilliant!

The first week, he and the other Gryffindor boys went exploring the castle, and got lost at least twice. Once they ended up in this tower that smelt of incense and sherry, and another time they found this huge dusty suit of armour in a dead end corridor that bowed whenever you mentioned a founder’s name. Ron was his favourite, though. They had sat together on the train, and even though he seemed a little dazed when they met, he quickly got over it, and helped explain all about the wizarding world.

Of course, some things weren’t as nice. Like Malfoy, the little blonde boy he had met in the tailors. He reminded Harry a little of Dudley, with the way he sneered and made fun of him. But now he had Ron, and the other Gryffindors to back him up. Like today, when Malfoy had challenged him to a duel. There was Ron, ready and willing to back him up. Of course, Hermione had scolded him for it, but he had to defend Gryffindor’s honour. Dropping out now would be cowardly. Even if he did feel quite nervous about it. He didn’t know any duelling spells yet.

Sneaking towards the trophy room, Ron behind him, Harry found it difficult not to giggle with delight. He wasn’t alone anymore. He had a best friend.

Idly, he wondered if the stranger he’d sensed in the Leaky Cauldron was happy too.

He’s awake more often now. Or perhaps aware is the correct term.

Quirrell doesn’t question his orders anymore. He has become a true sycophant after only weeks of courting, weak-willed idiot. Silently Voldemort watches from the back of his mind, observing. Some students show promise in combat magic, some even display the subtle signs of meddling in the dark arts. They would make good soldiers in the upcoming war. He knew that Dumbledore recruited directly from Gryffindor for his Order. Really, the fact that Dumbledore chose not to become Minister was a cunning move. He controlled the learning, hence the next generation, and through them he could influence their parents. Voldemort was glad he had cursed the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts, and hence the public’s knowledge of defence or there would be a true army ready for him when he rose.

But currently he can do nothing about it.

Potters’ class is interesting.  It seems he actually has talent in some things. Not that Quirrell is competent enough to provide a true challenge for even the first years.

Progress is frustratingly slow. Limited by such an inferior shell and his own weakness, it took weeks before even possibly acceptable plans were formed. Such a shame that this was no true possession like he could achieve at full strength, unable to influence his hosts’ magic, barely able to influence the body. He could feel the life, the magic being burned, consumed by his presence. By Yule he expected there to be nothing but a husk left of Quirrell.

That was too soon. But he couldn’t retrieve the stone yet. He needed something to provide longevity, to bind Quirrell tighter to life, but the potential methods of doing so all had rather large or incapacitating negatives. Like the consumption of unicorn blood.

He found himself sneering in distaste. Unicorns were powerful creatures, symbols of purity. Even injuring one was extremely bad luck, and killing one was like cursing yourself.

It wasn’t like he had much choice. If Quirrell died he would become a wraith again like before, unable to think past pain.

And he had to live.

It was amazing how quickly remarkable things became normal. That was Harry’s thought as he and Ron sidestepped a group of ghosts on the way to Charms. He had only been at Hogwarts two months, and already he was getting completely used to magic. Hogwarts was just a school, with lessons and homework and detentions, even if the portraits could all move and speak. Magic was normal.

That made the Halloween Feast seem extra special. Even if they couldn’t go trick-or-treating like Dudley did every year, this was going to be Harry’s first time having Halloween sweets and candies. Ron told him that according to his brothers the Halloween Feast was always the most amazing of the year, better even than Christmas. At Halloween, the entire table was laden with sweet cakes and candied fruits and weak, honeyed mead. It was a celebration, a time to remember and honour the dead. Even the ghosts celebrated. He just wished he could get more excited about it.

It wasn’t that Harry was the only one with dead relatives, of course not. Fred and George told him all about the prankster uncles they never got to meet, Fabien and Gideon, heros from the last war and their inspiration. Seamus Finnegan was recounting tales of a great aunt, who had always snuck him chocolate frogs when his mum wasn’t looking. Harry had even seen Malfoy lighting a candle to add to the altar at the back of the Great Hall.

The thing was, for everyone else, this was a day to remember the good things about the ones they had lost. For Harry, this was the day his parents were murdered. He wished he could join in with all the festivities, but he just didn’t feel much like celebrating. Ron hadn’t really noticed, too excited for the feast, and Harry didn’t want to let him down, but really he’d prefer to go to bed early and sleep until tomorrow. He was feeling all mixed up and wrong, and very definitely not hungry.

The only other person who seemed to share his mood, as they sat before the glittering sweet mess, was Parvati Patil. Talking with her while Ron was stuffing his face, Harry learned her parrot, a rose-ringed parakeet named Panna, had died only a few weeks ago. Parvati missed her too much to really celebrate the good memories. Harry wasn’t really sure how to make her feel better, so he only grimaced, leaning closer until their shoulders touched. It seemed to be enough, and she calmed down again.

It was at about that moment Harry realised he hadn’t seen Granger since Charms that morning. Parvati told him she hadn’t seen her either, although she had heard crying sounds in the girl’s bathroom earlier. Harry bit his lip, suddenly feeling very guilty for agreeing with Ron earlier when he began complaining about Granger. It was true, that she nagged and acted like she knew better all the time, but Ron had spoken in a very mean way about her. It wasn’t like she was trying to make them feel bad for not getting spells right, and she was trying to help even if it sounded condescending.

Harry bit his lip, considering it. This was their first Halloween at Hogwarts, and Granger was missing out on everything because he and Ron had upset her. That wasn’t fair. Harry knew magic was new and amazing to her too. Nodding, he decided the only thing to do was to apologise. Maybe bring her a plate of sweet things too, so she wouldn’t miss out. Harry turned to Ron to ask which of the treats were his favourites.

The doors burst open, Professor Quirrell running up the central aisle of the Hall screaming about a troll.

Harry blinked, and the man promptly fainted.

Voldemort found it disturbing to be woken by the screams of children. It was disorienting for him to wake with his host’s face pressed against the stone floor of the Great Hall. It was suspicious that said host was only feigning unconsciousness.

Quickly, he checked over the last few memories of the fool, dreading how he might have blundered.

Falling in a dead faint. Yelling out a warning. Bursting through the Halls’ doors. Persuading the troll to stay-

Troll! His idiot host let a troll into the castle.

Well, that certainly accounted for the panic of the rest of the school.

This had to be contained. What point was there in terrifying schoolchildren? How in hell had his host thought this would help, especially now when he was trying to keep a low profile? The faculty knew that Quirrell spoke troll! Snape was already suspicious. Oh the idiocy made his thoughts hurt.

Right.

This could be salvageable. The safety of the children was the priority of most of the staff. It was unlikely the rooms around the stone would be guarded. Unfortunately, he didn’t know enough about the protections yet to guarantee he could make his way through them, but he may be able to examine them further.

It sounded like the last of the children were being hurried out of the Hall now. Voldemort readied himself to move.

The Forbidden Forest was old. Very old. Harry could feel the age of the trees pressing against him as he wandered, Fang and Malfoy besides him. He thought maybe Malfoy could feel it too. He’d been complaining steadily since Hagrid left, but now he was silent, eyes wide and staring. It really served him right, trying to get them in trouble. Harry couldn’t argue that Professor McGonagall wasn’t fair, even if she was strict. Still, Harry thought going into the Forest at night was too dangerous for a mere detention.

No moonlight filtered through the twisted branches overhead, and the undergrowth was so thick Harry couldn’t see anything more than a few feet ahead in any direction. Worse than the dark, though, was the quiet. Shouldn’t there be birds? Little animals? Small noises from creatures just out of sight? It didn’t feel right.

Fang gave a small whine, shuffling closer. Harry looked over to Malfoy. The other boy was trembling, though he did his best not to show it. Biting his lip, Harry turned to face forwards again, trying to ignore the tickle of pity he felt for the other boy. It was obvious Malfoy was terrified, more so than Harry was, and with good reason if something was truly hunting unicorns. Harry glanced over at Malfoy again. Should Harry do something? It felt wrong to ignore his fear, but he knew Malfoy wouldn’t want Harry to bring it up, he was too proud. Still, he opened his mouth.

“What was it like growing up with magic?” It was barely a whisper, but in the silence of the forest it seemed loud. Malfoy froze, turning to stare at Harry in something like disbelief. Fang sort of snuffled, staring into the dark.

“What?”

“What was it like?”

“A-are you making small talk with me, Potter? Now?”

Harry shrugged.

“Why not? It is pretty boring here.”

At that, Malfoy forced a smile, gazing around at the trees with superiority. It might have been more convincing if his eyes hadn’t been so wide.

“Y-yeah, yes. Of course. Really boring. Mundane, really.”

Harry nearly rolled his eyes, turning to hide his smile.

“Wait a second, what do you mean ‘what was it like’, you’re a half-blood. You grew up with magic too.”

Harry frowned, turning to properly face Malfoy.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Of course you did, you’re a wizard.”

“My relatives are all muggles. I didn’t even know about magic before July.”

“What! You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not lying.”

“That’s absolutely outrageous! The Potter heir being raised by muggles!”

For a moment, Harry was oddly reminded of Hagrid’s reaction to the Dursleys, all those months ago. Harry grinned.

“You know, Malfoy, Hagrid said almost exactly the same thing when he found out.”

Oddly, Malfoy blushed, turning away to stare at the trees.

“Well, if that oaf and I agree, you know it must be true.”

Silence fell between them, much more comfortable now that the quiet of the forest before. At least Malfoy seemed less afraid now. Harry stepped forwards, leading the way in the dark. Even with the lantern, it was hard to see where to go. Somehow, though, Harry knew this was the right way. They were nearly there.

It was only a couple minutes later they entered a clearing, the leaf litter shimmering with splashes of silver blood. Malfoy gave a squeak, stumbling back. Across from them, a dark hooded figure crouched above the neck of a unicorn, ethereal white in the half-light. Harry stepped forwards. Oddly, he didn’t feel scared. Despite the blood, despite the obvious evil of anyone willing to kill a unicorn, Harry felt calm. This being wasn’t a danger to him.

“Potter.” Malfoy’s near-whisper carried through the silence, and the figure looked up. Directly at Harry. He heard Malfoy gasp, felt Malfoy’s hand on his shoulder, tugging him back. Harry ignored it, stepping forwards. “What are you doing! Come back!”

“It’s alright, Malfoy. Find Hagrid. I’ll be fine.”

Malfoy gave out a strained whine, obviously fighting the instinct to run, before Harry gave him a small shove. The blond boy needed no further encouragement, sprinting after the long-gone Fang and into the darkness.

Harry just blinked, smiling at the sensation of hidden red eyes meeting his own.

He was so close!

Curse Dumbledore, to trap the stone in a mirror. Things were in motion now, his host would burn out soon.

The boy was here.

He didn’t know how he knew that Harry Potter had just passed through the flame barrier, before he announced himself, before Quirrell knew.

He feels the touch of Harry’s skin against his own, the foreign familiar magic. It is familiar, but from where, when? He hesitates-

No! No hesitation. He will use the boy, then kill him. Simple.

Still, Voldemort found himself offering the boy a place besides him. It was wasteful to kill someone so young and talented. So malleable.

It was jarring to be rejected, though.

Harry was dreaming.

It was all very unclear, shape and sound muffled, but he could feel it like sunlight spreading across his skin, golden warmth. There was someone with him, someone infinitely familiar. Harry laughed, pressing closer to embrace them. Red eyes smiled back, and Harry knew. He knew. This was his companion, the one at the back of his head, the one be by his side and they would always be together. They’d nearly met once before, back in the leaky cauldron. Harry buried his face in the rustling warmth of the other soul.

No, wait. Something felt wrong. Harry frowned, finding his companion’s eyes among the indistinct shapes. He could feel pain, immense pain, and not his own.

The soul grimaced, eyes sad, and Harry could feel his own eyes watering. His friend shouldn’t be in such pain.

He was leaving. His friend was leaving.

Harry wanted to help.

Red eyes widened, before the soul shimmered with a smile. Awe and gratitude bled across their connection, shifting into an enormous protectiveness. Protectiveness. For Harry? That was…nice. Really nice. Especially since Harry could feel the soul’s pain, and his friend still wanted to protect him before healing themselves. If only Harry knew how to help his friend, maybe they would stay. Maybe they could be together, and protect each other.

The soul was leaving.

Harry woke up to Dumbledore’s twinkling eyes.

It hurt. Oh Merlin, it hurt! So long spent within a living shell. Even so, he could not help but sing in exaltation. Harry lived!

Worst was knowing that he’d interpreted his bond to the boy as hatred. Obsession, passion, but it should never be hatred. He felt like weeping.

Although now he carried the unicorn’s curse too, a twisting stain against his being.

Already he could feel the tethers of his horcruxes pulling tight again. He resisted. The boy needed him.

No! He had to stay away. Keep away. Get away. Far away. Not near his boy. Not near his sun child. Had to keep him safe, had to protect him, scare away his enemies – except he was the boy’s greatest enemy. Had to get away, keep away. Safety.

It hurt. Oh Merlin, it hurt. It hurt the further he got from his friend.

Why didn’t he remember? Why did a body force his memories away? Why leave the madness?

He could never heal this pain, never join a body again. Not if it threatened his boy. Not if he couldn’t remember how precious he was.

Away. Further away. Forever away.

What if something happened? What if someone hurt his child?

Protect him. Have to protect him.

It hurt. This hurt. Get a body. Protect the boy.

No! Dangerous thinking, he was more of a danger to the boy than any human.

Stay away.

Better to fade before the pain than kill his child.

Harry often wondered about his red-eyed friend.

Now he knew it was there, Harry could always feel it, the tug at the back of his mind. Usually it was static, nothing but the feeling that there WAS something. Then sometimes it would open up, when he was lonely or sad, and he’d feel a wisp of comfort pushed along it. A promise to meet up some day and be together. It made him smile. But sometimes when it opened up it wasn’t to give hope. Harry grimaced. Wherever Red-eyes was must be horrid, full of fear and pain. He could feel it, his friends’ terror and agony before it was blanked out again into static. Harry tried to send comfort back along their link, but he was never sure it worked.

It did make Harry feel less lonely about getting no letters from his friends. That hurt. He’d though after all they had shared that past year…and they had promised to send letters. Hagrid. Ron. Hermione. Even Neville.

But it was fine. Harry hadn’t had friends before Hogwarts. Maybe friends were a school-only thing. He knew there were some kids Dudley only hung around with at school, never inviting them over or anything. Maybe Harry’s friends were like that.

That thought made him feel heavy.

He swallowed.

Probably they just forgot. That was it. Harry was forgettable, after all.

Looking over to Hedwig, Harry grimaced. It wasn’t all bad, he supposed. He could still go out in the garden, and he still had Hedwig and his mysterious red-eyed friend for company. Even if Hedwig was locked in her cage, and harry would give anything to know how to pick a lock and let her fly. Even if his red-eyed friend was alone and scared and hurting. He could do this. Summer wasn’t forever, and when he returned to Hogwarts, he’d have his friends again. Everything would be better.

Being accused of being the heir of Slytherin felt really bad. It wasn’t Harry’s fault he was good at languages. Being able to talk to snakes was amazing. He didn’t know it was an evil skill. But what made it evil? Was it just because people didn’t like snakes? That was so stupid.

Harry was glad Hermione and Ron were still on his side, but it hurt that Seamus thought he was evil. It hurt that the students in the halls whispered as he walked by. It hurt when the other Gryffindors would slide away from him at meal times.

It hadn’t been like this back with the Dursleys. At school there, everyone had just avoided him. Dudley’s friends had chased him, but he’d known where to hide in the playground, and where he could hang within sight of a teacher. He’d had no friends, but no one had been whispering about him, or hissing as he walked by.

Harry didn’t mean to be ungrateful. He was so thankful to Ron and Hermione. Without them, he would probably be a lot more distraught about the way his classmates had turned from vaguely uncomfortable admiration to barely concealed hostility. But he still felt alone. Whenever Ron would look over at him after being reminded Harry could talk to snakes, squinting in something that was almost suspicion. The way Hermione would thin her lips and apologise, before murmuring there was no evidence Parseltongue wasn’t evil, and they couldn’t prove he was unrelated to Slytherin.

It wasn’t their fault, Harry knew. Neither of them really understood what it was like to have everyone turn on them so quickly, and so thoroughly. They didn’t understand how much it hurt to be thought of as evil for something you thought of as normal. Two years ago, Harry hadn’t known magic existed. How was he meant to tell which magics were evil? It wasn’t like anyone mentioned it in class. Even Hagrid hadn’t mentioned it, when he was telling Harry about Voldemort and why Slytherin was a bad Hogwarts House.

Red-eyes would understand, he thought. Harry had this feeling, this certainty, that Red-eyes knew what it was like to have a skill everyone loathed. His friend wouldn’t judge him for it. Merlin, he’d probably celebrate the fact that Harry could speak to snakes, it was such a rare skill. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew it was true. In fact, it was probably related to how they could sometimes feel each other’s emotions. That already made them unusual, even among wizards.

Harry missed him. It was an odd thought, since they’d never actually met, but that only made him miss Red-eyes more dearly. Their connection had been growing hazy ever since he got back to Hogwarts. Harry thought the wards around the castle might be interfering with their bond, whatever it was. It was very frustrating, and Harry often found himself worrying about his friend, out there afraid and alone. Harry hadn’t even been able to send any sense of comfort across their connection since coming back. He wished they could just meet. Harry would do anything to force away whatever had been paining his friend for so long.

Harry paused for a moment outside of the Great Hall, leaning against the wall. He swallowed, ignoring the look Ron and Hermione exchanged. They probably thought he was nervous or hearing voices in the walls again, not worrying for a friend he’d never met in person. A friend he’d never told either of them about.

He sighed, straightening up. Now wasn’t the time to worry about someone he wasn’t even sure he could help. Not when the castle halls were being stalked by Slytherin’s Heir, who everyone thought was Harry. No, he had more immediate things to worry about.

Even so, as Harry stepped into the Great Hall, he sent out a pulse of comfort and care along the link at the back of his mind. There was nothing there but static.

Tom Riddle seemed fascinating, if a little intimidating. He was so clever, so powerful, and Harry wished that when he grew up a bit he could be a wizard even half as competent as him. Tom said it was because he studied a lot. Harry tried to study, but he couldn’t focus on the dry text very well. The authors all wrote in such floofy ways, and some of them just started telling personal stories in the middle of spell explanations. He honestly couldn’t fathom how Tom or Hermione could find it interesting to read.

Luckily, it never took him too long to understand once someone actually explained it to him. Wizards seemed to make a lot of these things a lot more complicated than they needed to be.

Maybe when he grew up, Harry would write a textbook that was easy to read. It seemed like no one else had tried that yet, and Ron always seemed to understand alright when he explained whatever Hermione was talking about.

Harry sighed. There really wasn’t much to do now. Ron was stuck in detention, and Hermione had wanted to study, so they were sat in the library, but it was just so boring.

He wanted to speak to Tom.

Looking over to check Hermione was deep in study, Harry shifted to remove the small black diary from his bag. Hermione didn’t exactly approve of the book. She did think it was useful, and she agreed that Tom seemed to know what he was talking about as far as studying, but she also insisted Harry couldn’t trust the memory fragment trapped within the book. There was no telling if the memory even knew anything about the previous attacks fifty years before, let alone if the memory was telling the truth.

Harry knew she was right, but so far Tom had been trustworthy. Harry didn’t really believe Hagrid could ever have been the Heir, but he did like dangerous creatures so it would be an easy mistake to make, he had to admit. And knowing Hagrid had been around at the time was a valuable lead. He would probably be able to advise them who to look up next.

In the meantime, Tom was proving to be a very insightful friend.

Hi Tom.

Harry’s writing looked like rough chicken scratch against the creamy paper, but only seconds later the ink had faded into nothing. He had only to wait another second for Tom’s response, writing elegant in a way Harry could never hope to copy.

Hello, Harry. How are you?

Harry smiled, feeling something warm uncurl in his chest.

Pretty well, considering half the school is waiting for me to turn on them and the other half think I already have. How are you?

Pretty well, considering I am trapped in a diary.

Harry snorted, biting his lip to stifle the sound a second too late. Hermione glanced up, frowning when she noticed the diary. Harry shrugged, gesturing to the completed essay beside him. Hermione huffed, going back to her book.

Hermione and I are in the library. I think she’s looking up creatures, to work out what Slytherin’s monster is.

A pursuit that dozens of scholars have devoted time to this past millennia. Has she had any more luck than our forebears at deciphering the mystery?

Not really, I don’t think.

A shame. Though not particularly surprising. There are very few manuscripts from that age, and most are far from complete. To make things more difficult, some researchers believe that Slytherin only ever wrote in parselscript, the written form of parseltongue, to prevent his enemies from stealing his knowledge. His notes about the Chamber would certainly be in parselscript too, just to keep it safe.

Do you think that’s true?

It’s entirely possible.

Huh.

What do you think, Harry?

I don’t know. It makes sense.

Harry sighed. He didn’t want to talk about the monster, or Slytherin, or the Heir. Later, but not right now. It was too exhausting.

Tom, what was Hogwarts like when you went here?

Harry spent the next hour losing himself in Tom’s rich recollections, imagining the gliiter of the Christmas feasts, and the joy of springtime on the castle grounds. For an hour, at least, he was able to push aside his anxiety at being accused of being the Heir, and his worry for the paralysis victims. Even his fear for Red-eyes faded for a while. Harry was so glad to have a friend like Tom.

Tom Riddle was the Heir. It – it didn’t seem possible. Harry felt all wrong, like there was some high whistling in his head.

“You? You’re Voldemort?”

Riddle smirked, and it did nothing to detract from his handsome features.

“If I were anyone else, surely you would have heard of me. I am the best, after all.”

It made sense. This was why Tom Riddle, star pupil, was never heard of again. Why he wasn’t in any of the history books for some great discovery, or achievement. He was, just under a different name. Oddly, Harry felt hurt.

“Why did you do it? Why hurt so many people?”

Tom’s face went blank, though his eyes seemed to sharpen. It reminded Harry of how a snake watched a mouse.

“Why not?”

Harry took a step back, breathing quick and sharp. This wasn’t the same Tom as his friend. This wasn’t the Tom who took the time to explain why magic worked the way it did. This Tom was a maniac, bloodthirsty without a reason.

Riddle’s eyes drifted over him, before he gave a patronising smile.

“Oh, my dear Harry. Do not worry! I have no plans on killing you anytime soon. You make such a clever toy!”

Harry flinched, eyes wide. His chest ached from the betrayal, but he couldn’t back away now. This was too important.

“You’re killing Ginny. Let her go.”

Tom – no, it was Riddle – dropped his smile.

“She gave herself to me. Or would you rather take her place?”

“I won’t let you hurt her anymore, and you can’t have me either.”

“Harry, don’t fuss.”

“Let her go, or I’ll stop you.”

That seemed to get Riddle’s attention. He prowled closer, still transparent but becoming less fuzzy as Harry watched.

“Will you, boy?”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I’ll find a way.”

 Riddle smirked again. With a flourish he stepped back, turning to face the statue of Slytherin.

“You did defeat my older self as an infant, I suppose, so by now slaying a simple basilisk will be easy for you, won’t it? I was so wishing to have longer to play, but I suppose I’ll make due with watching the basilisk eat you.”

He could feel it, his poor child, so scared, so alone. Betrayed. Bitterly triumphant.

Suddenly, clarity. He remembered! Oh, his younger self was so arrogant and proud, so easily offended by rejection. He had threatened his Harry, his child! Again! Even apart, he was a danger. It was agony, and he wailed across the astral plane.

Poor Harry had no idea how much of their conversations had been real. How much young Tom had found him fascinating, how much he appreciated Harry’s enthusiasm. His dear, brilliant, kind child, of course his younger self had been absolutely enchanted. The soul piece, now half bonded to the original, cried out at the memory of Harry’s soul, brighter and more beautiful than sunlight even muted by time. Resentful, regretful, betrayed. Why did Harry reject him? Of course, it was obvious now with his older perspective, how horrified Harry had been. Lost, alone, betrayed. And now Tom couldn’t have him, couldn’t have Harry. He was too moral, too bright, for a being like Tom.

 He had to get back to Britain. Obviously, there were more dangers there than he could possibly expect. Other horcruxes. House elves with agendas. He needed to protect his Harry, even if Harry would never chose him back. It was his purpose, his being, ever since the Death Curse had brushed his skin and released him.

He belonged to Harry.

Danger to Harry or not, he needed a body. It was obvious the boy could hold his own against Voldemort. Maybe this time he would be able to remember his true purpose.

Casting a Patronus required your happiest memory. And that was where Harry got stuck. If riding a broom for the first time wasn’t enough, if memories of his friends sharing hot chocolate by the fire wasn’t enough, if memories of his time at the Burrow among the Weasleys wasn’t enough, then what was? Lupin didn’t know what to suggest, other than to meditate on it. He wasn’t sure Lupin had meant actual meditating, but it had sounded like an alright idea anyway. The monks from India liked to meditate to focus their magic, so maybe it would work for him too.

So Harry was sat on his bed, eyes closed, meditating. Recalling anything happy. Anything that brought him joy. It was rather disheartening, how little there was to recall. Soon he found his mind drifting away to vaguely happy ideas. His parents. His Red-eyed friend. They weren’t happy, exactly, since it was always bittersweet, but it did leave him calm, and feeling sort of floaty. Especially imagining his Red-Eyed friend. When they’d meet some day and be happy together.

Harry sighed, feeling the tether at the back of his mind shift from static to awareness. He smiled. His friend wasn’t in much pain anymore, which was good. Harry worried sometimes, about what must be happening to him. It was a him, Harry was pretty sure. His friend pressed closer, as close as they could get over the fragile connection, and brushed a tendril of joy against Harry’s mind. He sighed, tilting his head back. It felt warm, like an embrace, and it left almost-ticklish feelings skittering across his skin.

One day they would meet in person. One day, they’d finally see each other, speak to each other.

Harry opened his eyes when he heard the other boys coming up the stairs. They must be back from Hogsmeade.

The connection at the back of his mind faded away as he become fully aware, but the floaty, warm feeling was slow to dissipate. Harry couldn’t help but smile.

He was definitely going to try and cast a patronus with this feeling.

Something was wrong with Red-Eyes. Harry hadn’t noticed immediately, caught up in the relief of saving his godfather and Buckbeak, but something was definitely wrong.

His friend was no longer responding. Of course, he didn’t always respond immediately, caught up with the pain of wherever he was, but if Harry sent out a ping to check up on him, he would always respond. That was their way. Harry would send positive things to him, feelings to help prop him up and keep him fighting until the day harry made it to his side. Red-Eyes would respond with gratitude and amusement, trying to mask as much of the pain he was in from travelling over their link. Sometimes Harry could feel something stronger woven through their bond, like affection but even brighter. It left him warm and his stomach fluttering. He hesitated to name it so, but he thought maybe…perhaps Red-Eyes felt something like love for Harry. Maybe. It did feel similar to how he felt around Ron and Hermione, though not identical. Harry sort of hoped it was. He really liked Red-Eyes, despite never speaking a word to each other. Their not-quite-conversations were a promise, one he intended to keep.

It had been days now, since he’d last felt Red-Eyes slipping across the back of his mind. Days since he’d felt that amused affection tickling in response to his shared hope, barely masking the agony that always left Harry concerned and worried. Obviously, he’d had no idea what worry was before.

What had happened? He was pretty certain his friend hadn’t died, but that still left a whole range of horrible things. Had enemies found him? Had he been left weak or unconscious? Would he recover quickly? Where on Earth even was he?

Maybe their mind connection had broken. The thought left him much more upset than he would have guessed, knowing he’d only been aware of their connection for about two years. But they had been connected much longer, since his earliest childhood. It made sense that he’d miss their connection were he to lose it.

Harry felt it was lucky he had exams to concentrate on, else he would have been panicking by now. Honestly, if he had any idea about where his friend was, or how to help, he would have left already. Schoolwork was fine. Safe, and challenging enough to block out everything else. Ron seemed rather disgusted with his new work ethic, where Hermione was delighted, but it wasn’t like he could explain he was studying to distract himself from worry. Neither of them knew about Red-Eyes. How do you just bring up that you have a mental connection with someone you’d never even met and you were worried they were in danger? How would he explain that he trusted Red-Eyes, and that they would meet up one day? Hermione would probably think it was dangerous, just like she had with Tom’s diary and his Firebolt. That was reasonable, logical even, but it wasn’t like she could feel what Red-Eyes felt. Harry knew for a fact that Red-Eyes was no danger to him, only wanted to protect him from others. He had no proof. He just knew.

It was nearly two weeks later before Red-Eyes responded. Harry nearly had a heart attack, freezing mid-conversation with Hermione at the brush against the back of his mind. He’d leapt up, with some hurried excuse about last-minute exam revision, already running to find some nook or cranny where he could get a modicum of privacy. Taking several turns into increasingly narrow corridors, Harry found a dusty little enclave beneath the curl of a staircase, the remains of a door marking it as an old cupboard. A small window illuminated the area, and checking around, Harry could see no other students. Stepping forwards he tucked himself into the corner, letting the absurdity of hiding in a cupboard beneath the stairs wash over him for a second before he opened his mind to his friend.

In terms of possession, a homunculus was completely different to warm flesh and bone. The living clay body was soft, and still, in a way that natural bodies were not. There were no organs within the tiny body, so no need to eat, no twitches to suppress, and no bodily discomforts. Heat and cold felt no different. Dampness was no longer uncomfortable. Equally, sunlight no longer felt pleasant. No stimuli of any kind really provoked a reaction anymore.

Equally, emotional sensations were practically absent. He knew he had once felt such things, very strongly, even if within a limited range, but now nothing but the very strongest of his convictions remained. The rest was blank, unimportant. Frequently, he found he was losing time to the apathy, sometimes even several days. Some inkling in the back of his mind suggested that he should be bothered by that, driven to action. This was a poor, undignified life for the most powerful wizarding soul of modern times. Unfortunately, even the thoughts of survival, of glory and conquest, his oldest obsessions, provided nothing more than a flicker of interest before sinking back into nothing.

Voldemort blinked hazily, his thoughts running slowly within the limits of clay synapses.

The Potter boy. He was important. Harry Potter, his vanquisher twice now.

Thinking of Harry Potter did elicit a reaction out of the nothingness. Some warm thing, flexing phantom wings within his chest. Some pull across time and distance to pluck the boy from under Dumbledore’s thumb. Thinking of him, the thing in his chest uncurled, burning the cobwebs from his mind. It urged him to action. What to do next, though, that was unclear.

Kill the boy? Twice now he had attempted that, and for his efforts been close to killed. Besides the fact that at this point, Harry Potter was the only goal he felt strongly enough about to take action over. To remove that before regaining a true body would likely be a sentence to forever trapped within clay, relying on the residual fear and awe of his few servants to survive. It was a mildly unpleasant image, one he knew would once have shaken him with horror and anger.

Convert Harry to a follower? It had potential, but the boy had already rejected his hand back in the mirror chamber. In normal circumstances he’d never offer again, but for Harry perhaps he would. The boy had potential, and from what Voldemort could remember of the defence classes he had witnessed, Harry also had power. Fully trained and converted, he would make a worthy lieutenant, particularly if he managed to retain Dumbledore’s trust.

However, it would be years still before Harry would grow into his strength. Voldemort needed to act sooner, to re-establish his power before his control wavered any further. Already he knew many Death Eaters would have abandoned him, and those in Azkaban would be practically mad by now.

His thoughts were growing flatter. The unimportance of it all seeped back into his mind, and he felt his thoughts drifting.

No. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be lost.

Harry. His Harry.

Voldemort felt his magic twist fluid-like beneath grainy flesh, mimicking blood-flow and bringing life to the clay. Magic-use was one of the only advantages of possessing this pathetic shell over a real life. He needed a real body, so that he could focus on thoughts beyond speculations about Potter. He had goals, ideals to bring into practice. Voldemort was beyond simply surviving.

Harry. His plan needed to include Harry. The Potter boy was essential to focus his thoughts.

He would worry about what to do next later, once his body was restored.

Red-Eyes was different now. Harry had the idea that he wasn’t entirely aware of Harry anymore, none of his thoughts were directed to Harry the way they once were. Before, their bond had been filled with hundreds of tiny interactions, so small Harry hadn’t even noticed them until their absence. Little questions, half-made thoughts, tiny facts and trivia about each other scattered between conscious sharing and connection. Now, their bond felt alarmingly blank. Empty. It was like a phone call, where even if the other side never spoke a word, you knew they were there, could hear their breathing.

It was unnerving. Even so, Harry tried to keep their connection open as much as possible, trying to do the mental equivalent of shouting. Calling for his friend to answer. Working in the Dursley’s garden wasn’t exactly mentally taxing, it was easy to keep up. Sometimes he got a flicker in response, but it would die out quickly.

There were occasions that Red-Eyes would light up again, some warmth spreading across their bond, filled with echoes of frustration. Determination, focus, anger, fear, all woven across a few minutes before they began to fade.

Harry wondered if his friend had been obliviated. Maybe that was why he wouldn’t answer. He resolved to pick up some extra reading the next time he made it to Diagon Alley. He was getting tired of not acting.

The next morning, Harry woke to a searing pain in his scar, and the memory of Voldemort murdering a muggle gardener.

Of course Harry’s name was somehow in the Goblet. Merlin forbid he spend a year out of danger and the limelight. Would it always be like this? Would he always be dragged back in? He was meant to be safe this year.

Harry sniffed, shifting the thick cloak further around his body. He was tucked away in the cupboard space he had found the previous year, away from all the other students. A quick check of the Map confirmed no one was anywhere near his hideaway. He settled again with a sigh.

Finding a place to be alone was a blessing, now. It seemed like there wasn’t a student in the school who didn’t want something. Hufflepuffs sneered as he went by, loudly proclaiming their support for Cedric. The Slytherins seemed endlessly amused by their unexpected allies, and Malfoy had been selling Potter Sticks badges like crazy. Harry had even seen several second years selling them for him. Most of the Gryffindors supported him, but in Harry’s eyes that was even worse. They knew him, and still they thought he put his name in the goblet. The older students rolled their eyes at him, declaring him a glory-chaser or demanding he tell them how he tricked the age line. The younger years looked up to him with stars in their eyes. One girl had even told him how much he inspired her to be brave too. Harry had frozen, unwilling to tell her he hadn’t done it and unable to lie. Her face had fallen a few seconds later, and she had apologised for bothering him before running away.

Harry rubbed at his eyes, frustrated. Yesterday, he’d spotted the girl being picked on by several other Gryffindor girls. She had some blank look on her face, and they’d run off before he could do anything, but all he could think about was how that girl had been looking up to him and he’d let her down. It wasn’t her fault she was idolising him for something he hadn’t actually done. Why had he frozen?

The worst part of this whole mess was Ron. Ron, who thought Harry had entered for gold and glory. Ron, who thought Harry had entered without telling him how. That hurt. Hermione was nice, and he loved her really, but she wasn’t the same as Ron.

Sighing, Harry let his eyes slip closed, leaning back on the wall.

What was he supposed to do? What in Merlin’s name was he meant to do? The challenges loomed ahead, dangerous even for adult wizards let alone a fourteen-year-old. The only friends standing by were Hermione, his fugitive godfather and a being who no longer even acknowledged their connection.

Why hadn’t anyone stepped in to help? Why did all the adults just stand by, gossiping?

Harry sniffed again, wiping away a few treacherous tears.

Why did Red-Eyes leave him alone? Harry needed him. He needed someone to step in, and make this better. He needed someone to hug him close, and say it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t Harry’s fault. He didn’t choose this. Why had Red-Eyes abandoned him? Even now, Harry could feel his mind, nearly blank of everything but the focus on one plan. Couldn’t Red-Eyes feel his distress? Why wouldn’t his friend send comfort now? Harry was still trying to help him, why had his friend stopped?

Red-Eyes was feeling happy.

Harry froze, before his breath escaped in a sob. Here he was, near actually crying in misery, and his friend was happy? His friend was ignoring him?

Suddenly, Harry was angry. Snapping their connection shut, he huddled in on himself, digging his nails into his forearms. What right did they have, Ron and Red-Eyes, to keep taking and taking from Harry when all was well and to abandon him when times grew rough? To turn on him whenever the opportunity arose? Didn’t they know him better than that? Didn’t Red-Eyes know him better than that? Couldn’t he feel how much Harry would risk for him, give for him to be happy and free? What about their promises to each other? Were those worthless now too?

Irrationally, Harry had the sudden thought that Red-Eyes would be pleased he was in the tournament. That Red-Eyes was the cause of it somehow.

The thought broke a second later, quickly followed by enough guilt to drown out his anger. This wasn’t Red-Eyes’ fault, any more than it was Harry’s. He knew Red-Eyes was in a bad situation, alone and hurting and in danger. He knew Red-Eyes loved him.

Harry sniffed. He wished, for the hundredth time at least, that they were in the same place, safe and together. Everything would be alright, then.

Harry stared at the beautiful glass of the Triwizard Cup. Swirling patterns, half-formed images of dragons and sea creatures and even a sphinx danced across its’ surfaces, slowly shifting from one to another. Looking closer, he realised each image actually depicted an event during the tournament. Just there was Harry stealing a golden egg from atop a broomstick. Nearby, a half-shark man was rescuing a frizzy-haired woman. And there, Harry and Cedric standing at the centre of the maze before the cup. The magic that went into the making of the cup must have been very complicated.

Turning to the real Cedric, Harry nodded. They would take it together.

Listening as Cedric counted down, Harry found his eyes back on the cup once more. Everything would be alright now. As long as Harry touched the cup, everything would work out. The sacrifices he had made would all be worth it. The waiting, the hardships, the risks, all worth it to lead to this one moment.

Harry touched the cup.

Somehow, the sudden wrenching sensation of a portkey was both a surprise and totally unexpected. As it went, both of them landed heavily, Cedric falling to the ground. Harry blinked, some odd wave of euphoria slowly giving way to dread as he looked around, and recognised the graveyard from his nightmares.

“Kill the spare.”

Barely a whisper, a green flash of light. Harry looked back down to where Cedric was sprawled across the ground, somehow too still. It took far too long to register through his weird calm that Cedric was dead. Had just been murdered.

Cedric was dead.

Eyes wide, Harry stumbled backwards, tripping over the uneven ground. Seconds later, a spell wrapped around him, lifting and binding him to something made of stone, and Harry tried to scream but no sound came out.

Helpless, he could only watch as Wormtail stepped into the light while levitating a large cauldron. He could do nothing, as the tomb to which he was bound cracked open and bone dust poured out. He could do nothing to prevent Wormtail taking his blood, could do nothing to stop the man from cutting off his own hand. Harry stared, cloudy eyes transfixed as Wormtail carried a small figure, no bigger than a child, and dumped it into the cauldron.

Sudden pain flared within his scar, and Harry cried out, though he was still silenced.

It was several moments before the pain began to fade, and Harry slumped against his bindings, panting. Forcing his eyes up and back onto the scene before him, Harry found himself freezing at the sight of red eyes.

Red eyes.

Voldemort.

The connection at the back of his head burst open, flooding his mind with foreign confusion and wrath. With Voldemort’s every step closer, the bond strengthened, fluttering between Harry and Red-Eyes. Red-Eyes, who was now feeling ecstatic. Red-Eyes, triumphant over his enemy. Over Harry.

Harry’s eyes were watering.

“No.”

It took a few seconds for Harry to realise he’d actually managed to speak aloud. The silencing had been lifted. Voldemort paused, half a step away, head tilted in what Harry could feel was bemusement.

“No, this is wrong.”

Harry’s ears were ringing.

Harry stared at the ceiling of his small bedroom.

Red-Eyes was Voldemort.

There was a stain in the upper-left corner.

His friend was Red-Eyes.

Harry blinked.

Cedric was dead.

Wormtail murdered him.

Red-Eyes had betrayed him.

The front door slammed.

Dudley must be home.

Tom Riddle was Red-Eyes.

Harry had fallen for his lies, again.

The stain was brown and splat-shaped.

Surely not everything was a lie.

You couldn’t lie with your mind.

Harry had been worried for Voldemort.

The pain must have been from being bodiless.

Harry frowned.

He sat up.

Pain. That had been a lot of pain, the kind that debilitated and made you stupid and desperate. Harry had only felt the edges of it and he knew that. Despite that, Red-Eyes had still sent him feelings of goodwill and companionship whenever Harry had felt lonely. Harry had felt the joy Red-Eyes felt whenever Harry tried to reach out. They used to reach out to each other, unknowingly during his childhood, but Harry could remember it now. Odd feelings of peace whenever he needed them. A secondary echo whenever he was feeling happy. But it had all faded not long before he started Hogwarts. Really, Harry had though he imagined it. The lonely musings of a child.

But it had come back, after he’d fought off Quirrell. That weird dream that even years later he could remember perfectly.

Red-Eyes wasn’t fake. No one could fake those things. Could they?

Because Harry was also certain Red-Eyes was Voldemort. It was fact.

Was it possible for one person to have such disparate personalities? How could his kind friend also be an insane, genocidal dictator?

Maybe…

Bodies? Voldemort had been bodiless for years but Red-Eyes had been there. Then Quirrell got possessed, and Red-Eyes faded away. Then Harry defeated Quirrell, and Red-Eyes was back. Then Wormtail escaped, presumably to make that weird infantile clay body, and Red-Eyes fades again. Until Voldemort rose, and Harry could feel him again nearby.

Was Voldemort mad? Did having a body drive him insane? No, it was probably the pain of being bodiless that did that. It just carried over when he got a body. Or maybe he’d already been mad.

Harry knew he was missing something vital. There was some clue that would tell him why all this weirdness was happening. But, he just couldn’t work it out.

Perhaps the only benefit of no longer being able to turn off the mind connection to Voldemort was that Harry could sense the difference between a true vision and a fake one. The vision of Arthur Weasley being attacked by Nagini was unnerving, but undoubtedly real. Harry could feel himself drawn into Voldemort’s mind, full of anger and half-formed thoughts about prophecies and worrying, frustrating blanks. Voldemort was missing bits, and he knew it. It scared him.

How though, could something like Voldemort end up missing bits? He’d been a soul thing, a wraith all twisted up and in pain for years. And souls weren’t exactly physical. You couldn’t just break off a fragment. Could you? Harry wasn’t sure. Voldemort seemed to think so, though the thought never fully developed.

The image of Tom Riddle, trapped within a diary, came to mind. That had been a piece of Voldemort, hadn’t it. His false friend Tom.

Would a sane Voldemort be more like Tom? Would he still want to hurt people? True, Tom had outright said he hurt others just because he could, but that Tom hadn’t been whole either. It seemed reasonable to assume splitting something like a soul would have consequences. Tom had actually been a very good friend, for the most part. Comforting, and intelligent, and passionate about magic. He’d eagerly talked about new discoveries, new applications of theory, things he wanted to invent. Most of it had gone straight over Harry’s second-year head, but the inventions had sounded amazing. Most of them hadn’t even been useful things, simply new ways to use magic. And Tom had seemed excited when Harry saw him face to face for the first time, almost grinning until he brought up Ginny. It was only then Tom had gone all brightly blank.

Was the diary soul the part that had loved magic? Was there another piece that could be empathetic, maybe Red-Eyes? Was there any way to heal him, bring the pieces back together? It was something he thought about a lot.

Altogether, this meant that when Harry received a vison of Sirius, trapped in the Hall of Prophecy, he knew it was fake. There was nothing attached to it, no thoughts or feelings. Simply an agonising amount of pain in his scar and a sharp headache. Obviously, Voldemort had no idea how deeply their minds were connected if he thought that was convincing.

Wandering the deserted halls of the Ministry, Voldemort found Bellatrix cackling to herself. The door to the Death Room hung open, illuminating a battle of brightly coloured lights and sharp sounds. He walked past, concerned only with the Hall of Prophecy.

“Black is dead!”

Voldemort paused on the threshold, turning to the mad woman he’d chosen to lead his berserkers.

“Black. Sirius Black. Your cousin?”

Bellatrix giggled, swaying forwards to crouch by the hem of his robes.

“Yes, yes, the filthy blood traitor! I pushed him, pushed him, through the curtains! The Veil took him!” She giggled again, eyes wide and glittering with adoration. Voldemort stared down at her, bemused that parts of himself felt equally disgusted and deserving of her worship. It was troubling, how often his thoughts seemed to be divided these days.

“Black is dead, then,” he murmured, unable to say why the idea disturbed him.

The day after Harry received his fake vision, newspaper headlines announced the return of Voldemort.

Harry didn’t notice.

Sirius Black was dead.

Harry was blank.

Voldemort had recently found himself reminiscing about his school days. There was a boy, several years younger but very bright. Clever. Passionate about magic. Together they had spent endless hours debating magical theory, despite the boy being several years his younger and relatively unlearned. He was intuitive, and that more than made up for it. Besides that, the boy also understood what it was like to be raised by hateful muggles. Had confessed to growing up alone, and isolated, although his accidental magic had still played up. Voldemort had fully expected the boy to grow up intelligent and powerful, if his tales of accidental apparition to the school roof had been true. Vanishing an entire sheet of glass was yet another example of his power. He would have made a worthy lieutenant, despite his youth.

Truthfully, he had grown almost fond of the boy. Their time together had been a pleasant break amidst the lethargy of his school years. But something had gone wrong. The boy had discovered something of his true nature, and been horrified. Frightened, yet determined to fight back. Voldemort cannot remember how it ended, but he must have done something, defeated the boy or obliviated him. He couldn’t remember, but it had hurt to let him go.

Oddly, the only thing he really remembered about the boy’s appearance was that he had had green eyes. They had been as bright as sunlight, until Voldemort snuffed it out.

He missed that boy.

Professor Slughorn was the kind of self-interested person that left Harry with the feeling of slime on his skin. Sure, he did seem like a generally nice person, and it wasn’t a bad feeling to have talent appreciated. Harry wished it was his own talent though, and not just something he read from a book. There was just something about Slughorn that reminded Harry unpleasantly of Dudley. Nothing so superficial as his figure, which was rather similarly rotund, but more his greed. It was clear to anyone that he picked his favourites entirely depending on the chances they would do well later in life. He ignored the average students.

Worse, though, was the fact that Slughorn was bending the rules for his favourites.

Harry realised that was a little hypocritical of him, but their situations weren’t really the same. Harry was a student, it was normal for students to occasionally break the rules. If they got caught, they were punished. And besides, Harry really only broke the rules if he had a good reason, otherwise he did try to follow them.

Slughorn was a teacher. Breaking the rules he was meant to enforce was completely different. He did it all the time, too, and mostly to make the students like him. To make his favourites like him. Slughorn breaking the rules was like saying that it was okay to be above the law, as long as you have powerful friends. It’s okay to break the law, as long as you’re talented. If you’re special, you’re above those other students, other people, and don’t need to be treated the same.

When he’d shared his thoughts with Hermione, she’d hugged him.

Still, Dumbledore had asked him to get close to Slughorn, enough to discover what a Horcrux was. Harry was going to do it. He was going to pretend he wanted Slughorn’s favour, even if it made him feel sordid. Already, the man was convinced he was some new potions Master in the making. Combined with his ambient fame, Harry was sure it wouldn’t take long to coax the memory from the man.

Honestly, though, he had a pretty good suspicion as to what a Horcrux might be. It was definitely something to do with the blank bits he could feel in Voldemort’s head, the missing pieces. Had the diary been a horcrux? A piece of soul torn away from the main body and trapped? Voldemort must have made many of them, with all the blanks in his head.

At the back of Harry’s mind, the connection was humming with malcontent. Something unspecified and upsetting and frustrating and more than a little lonely. Voldemort had been feeling that lately, loneliness and longing and nostalgic. Harry was pretty certain he was remembering an old school friend who died.

Absurdly, Harry sort of missed him. Not Voldemort so much as Red-Eyes and Tom. Red-Eyes, who he had promised to save from pain and loneliness. Tom, who shared everything he’d learnt of the world with enthusiasm. Harry knew he was compromised. How was he meant to fight someone he knew was insane, someone he actually liked on some level and sympathised with, without attempting to help them first? How could he fight someone who tried so hard to make him happy and give him joy? It did make it a lot more difficult to hate your enemy when you could quite literally feel what they did.

There had to be a way, some way to save both Voldemort and the rest of the wizarding world.

Dumbledore was dead.

Harry couldn’t let that sacrifice be in vain. He wouldn’t.

Two horcruxes were destroyed, of six. The locket, and three unknown others were left. Probably Founder’s items. Probably Nagini.

Sort-of-friend or not, loving Harry or not, Harry couldn’t let Voldemort win. He couldn’t destroy everything, Harry wouldn’t let him.

All around him, the students and teachers of Hogwarts were tearing up, mourning for Dumbledore. The tears in Harry’s eyes didn’t look out of place.

Harry would break his promise. He would kill Red-Eyes, let Voldemort die.

Then he would mourn for his fallen friend.

They now led opposite sides of the War. There would be no happy ending between them, whatever Harry hoped.

As soon as he was ready, he’d slip away. Before Ron and Hermione reaslised he was leaving. He wouldn’t put them in danger.

The Horcrux hunt was about to begin.

This wasn’t right.

This wasn’t his vision.

Voldemort sat upon his throne within Malfoy Manor, awaiting the report on the progress of his empire. With Dumbledore dead and the Ministry corrupt, it had taken little time to establish himself as the new leader. Already, it was beginning to normalise, thanks in part to the Daily Prophet.

It wasn’t right.

Voldemort presided over the wizarding world, a successful dictator. That did not prevent him from spotting the cracks in the façade around him, as society began to crumble around him. The economy was near dead, and the trade deals with the rest of Europe had collapsed. Death and injury rates were high, his own soldiers responsible for most of them. Bright, Mudblooded minds were being taken from his workforce, forced back into the Muggle world.

Tom had fantasised about a golden utopia, where meritocracy ruled over blood supremacy.

Voldemort had created a bloodbath.

He lifted a hand, inspecting the pearly, scaled skin. Yet another sign of how things had changed. Aesthetically, it was somewhat appealing to him, but he was aware it marked him as inhuman to the rest of the world. Voldemort, the monster, our Lord.

Tom wished these moments of clarity would last long enough for him to act. He knew he wasn’t right in the head, though it was debatable whether it was the horcruxes that had shattered his sanity or the years spent as a bodiless wraith. He couldn’t remember much from before then clearly.

Oddly, he could always remember his favourite clearly. The boy from his childhood, the boy he had chosen to teach. Even when he was mad, he missed that boy.

He could feel it coming on now, the madness. Feel his mouth curve open to bare teeth. Feel the jittery anger that underlay Voldemort’s every action. It began in the empty spaces in his head, the echo-y places where pieces were missing. Spreading out, he could feel it infect his mind, blacking out his awareness of the world around him until he began to run on instincts and rage and pride.

He hoped he didn’t kill anyone this time.

As they snuck into Hogwarts, Harry wondered.

He had felt the conflict, the seesawing clarity and wrath that made up Voldemort for months now. It only happened more frequently after they had destroyed the locket. Perhaps the soul pieces were returning to Voldemort, rather than simply being destroyed when the Horcrux was. Maybe they worked like tethers, binding him into life.

Harry frowned.

Was that why Voldemort had begun to reminisce about a boy from his childhood? The soulpiece from the diary must have returned to him years ago. But that wasn’t right, diary Tom had never mentioned a friend or a favourite tutee, he’d never really mentioned anyone.

Harry froze within the tunnel, until Ron shoved him forwards. Giving a glare that went unacknowledged in the dark, he began walking again.

What if the boy diary Tom was remembering was Harry? Harry blushed, shaking his head. It couldn’t be him. It fit well, though. The age of the boy, the joy in discussing magic, the feeling of some bad ending. Voldemort had even thought directly of green eyes, strongly enough for Harry to notice.

If it was Harry, that meant the soulpiece was missing him. Regretted how things had ended.

Harry ignored the absurd feeling of warmth that idea created.

Would destroying the other Horcruxes return Voldemort to full sanity? Maybe…maybe Voldemort could be saved too. Maybe Harry could make him good.

Only Nagini is left. Harry knows he has a soul piece, decides to sacrifice himself, then maybe Voldemort will be sane enough to stop the destruction. If not, his friends are nearby, they will kill him.

This…this was it. This was as much as Harry could do. Together, they’d destroyed as many of the soul tethers as possible. Only Nagini was left. Nagini and Harry. Living soul carriers. This was how it ended.

Harry watched everyone from beneath the Cloak, invisible. The makeshift medical bay within the Great Hall was already full, harried students running back and forth under Madame Pomfrey’s direction. Second years were working to heal mild injuries, helping to administer potions and salves. Most of the older children were working on cursebreaking, or being healed themselves.

There were so few adults.

On one side of the Hall, the Weasleys were gathered, shared grief muting their usual boisterousness. Hermione was wrapped around a distraught Ron, murmuring into his ear. Harry quickly looked away, feeling his eyes burn. He didn’t have time to mourn. Other familiar faces were mixed in with the crowd. Just there, Malfoy, helping to uncurse some younger students, bright blue burn salve covering half his face. Neville, grim yet determined, was speaking to a group of injured, radiating confident intensity. McGonagall strode down lanes between beds with a slight limp, checking on individuals and offering tired smiles.

No one was missing him yet.

Quietly, Harry slipped out of the Hall, out the front doors. Evidence of battle was everywhere. Rubble, and burn marks, and oddly transfigured objects completely out of place. Mixed scents filled the air, the warm dryness of crushed quartz mixing with sulphur at one moment, and metallic ozone the next.

Almost in a daze, Harry turned to the Forest. Funny, that their last meeting would be in a forest, after Voldemort’s wraith had spent so many years trying to escape one.

This had to be enough. It must be enough. If Harry gave himself up, the fighting would stop. If Harry gave himself up, Voldemort would gain his penultimate Horcrux. Surely, this would be enough? The fighting would cease. His not-quite-friend would be restored to sanity.

Harry swallowed hard, slowing when he realised he was nearly jogging down to the forest. He wasn’t eager to die, he knew Voldemort wanted to kill him.

Just…

Harry had promised years ago that he would help his friend, no matter the cost. He had promised. This way, there was a chance he might recover. Harry had to take it. And if Voldemort was actually evil, even when he was sane…Harry bit his lip, blinking through the tears building up in his eyes. If Red-Eyes was lost forever, then Harry knew this gave his friends the best chance to…to defeat him.

It was the only way.

Harry squared his shoulders, giving a firm nod.

This was the only way. The only choice that would actually help. He didn’t want to die. But he would gladly be the last death of the war.

Voldemort saw Harry Potter standing before him, unarmed, willing to die. The Boy would sacrifice himself for his cause, for the lives of his friends.

He remembered that Potter was the reason for the delay, the cause of his death, and he felt like cackling as the anger, the hate burned through him again. No hesitations, no second thoughts. Pawn or not, this boy had cost him a lot, set his return back years, destroyed his Horcruxes! He nearly snarled. But instead he smirked, and lifted his wand.

Still Potter didn’t move to defend himself.

Gleefully, he spoke the killing curse and watched it fly towards the Potter child.

Recoil was unexpected.

It hit him like a shock wave, and he felt himself fly back, heard Bella scream. Pain seemed to tear through his body for an instant, unbearable, familiar. Like when he had been a wraith.

He was blinking, and it must have only been seconds ago that he spoke the curse. Panting, he struggled to sit up barking at Bella, ordering someone to check if the boy was dead.

He looked over to see the boy splayed where he had fallen, Narcissa Malfoy kneeling beside him to check for a pulse. It was strange, hoping against hope for another miracle, that Harry still breathed.

“He is dead, My Lord.”

Tom’s eyes fell closed. Curse Dumbledore, the clever fool! His Horcrux, destroyed by his own hand. The mind link he had shared with Harry silent now, empty. Strange that he could only realise now that the echo of emotions, companionship he felt occasionally must also have been from Harry. Regret felt sharp in his stomach.

“Leave me. I will summon you for the final attack against the castle.”

The cracks of apparation surrounded him and he sighed, casting a barrier with the last of them.

Tom stood, walking towards Harry. How had this happened? How did this boy end up with some part of his soul?

He paused, standing above him. That part of his soul that had been in Harry was with him now, struggling, crying out for its’ previous host. He caught thoughts, memories, something about Horcruxes?

Of course! It makes sense now. His increasing clarity of thought, the upwelling of his magical strength, Harry had been destroying his Horcruxes! Removing the pins that held his soul in this world.

“Harry Potter, you’re responsible for your own death.”

Harry desperately controlled the impulse to leap up, to run. He was alone with Voldemort now, without a wand. Voldemort would only kill him again. Probably. Maybe.

But he was running out of time! If Voldemort realised he was still alive it was all over. Unless his theory was right. He was probably wrong. Nagini wasn’t dead yet, the last Horcrux. He didn’t come back just to die immediately. Voldemort just had to leave!

“You knew you had a piece of my soul within you. Sacrificed yourself for them.”

His mind flashed back to the Horcrux in the ghostly King’s Cross. That miserable, pained infant. His heart ached to think of it, of the pain so clearly writ in its’ every feature. Dumbledore had led him away, but he wished he hadn’t listened. Oh, he shouldn’t think of this now, not with Voldemort so close to victory. Had it worked? Was Voldemort sane? Or was Harry seconds away from death, yet again? Harry kept himself still. Surely this monologue would end soon?

“Did you know destroying my Horcruxes was restoring me to sanity? That each part of my soul returned as its vessel was destroyed? Of course not. I didn’t realise until just now.”

Harry tried not to react. He had hoped, of course, but he hadn’t been certain. Did that mean he was safe?

There was a crunching noise as Voldemort knelt beside him. Cold fingers brushed against his forehead, across his scar. Harry held his breath.

“Still warm.” Well, of course. He wasn’t dead! “There’s part of me right now that’s happy you’re dead. I don’t think you’d believe how big a part of me regrets it.”

Regrets about killing him, but for what purpose? Wanting to keep your enemy as an immortal chew-toy was different than wanting them to live happily. His lungs were aching, he needed to take a breath. He tensed, ready to spring up, to fight. He’d only get one chance.

With a gasp, he sprang up, knocking Voldemort back. Without a wand all he could do was sprint, escape back to the castle. But there was a barrier ahead, no!

Harry felt like weeping as he felt his limbs freeze, a spell lifting him, turning him until he could face Voldemort who-

Who looked surprisingly gleeful. Waxy, snake features twisting into a grin as if he really was pleased Harry had survived. It didn’t look like the maniacal, insane glee he’d witnessed in his fourth year either, but true pleasure.

“You were faking.”

A hand reached out to brush his cheek, and it was only then Harry realised the touch wasn’t painful. It hadn’t hurt earlier either.

“I hate you.” His voice trembled as he said it. Voldemort’s smile faded, but his eyes remained soft.

“Harry. Both you and I know that isn’t true.”

Harry was alive!

Those brilliant curse bright eyes, the warm flush beneath his skin, breath coming quick and sharp.

Harry. His Harry. His favourite.

Fragments were beginning to fall into place now, half-remembered pieces from the diary horcrux mixing with hazy half-thoughts from his time as a wraith.

The boy was chattering now, a loud vehement speech about why he hated Voldemort and all the evil things he had done. Of course it was completely undermined by the way Harry hadn’t moved to step away from him, even though Tom was making no effort to keep him still. The binding spell was long worn off. If anything, the boy was beginning to sway into his space, now.

Tom blinked as an earlier memory began to drift into place, something full of pleasure and agony and selflessness.

“I don’t think you were a Horcrux.”

Harry stopped mid-rant, his eyes flashing.

“What?”

“You were never a Horcrux, Harry.”

“Stop calling me Harry! Of course I was! Dumbledore said-”

“He is hardly an authority on Horcruxes. Possessing a fragment of soul is not the same thing.”

Harry paused, frowning.

“What are you talking about? I saw the Horcrux when I was de– in limbo.”

“You did?”

Harry met his eyes, indecision clear in his expression.

“It was an infant, its’ skin raw and bloody, in pain. I-” He cut himself off. It was easy to read the pain in his expression, even as he tried to hide it.

“You wanted to help it. Protect it and heal it. Despite it being a part of your enemy.”

Wary eyes watched him.

“Of course,” he whispered. Tom nodded. When he spoke, it was in a daze, struck nearly dumb by the brightness of the being before him. Brilliant Harry, his Sun Child. His chosen.

“I can see it now, the moment I gifted you with that piece of myself. It was meant to ease your worry.”

Harry bit his lip, ducking his head down. One arm came up across his body in a half hug.

“I know. It did.” Harry turned, catching Tom’s eyes. “It helped a lot. I tried to help you too.”

“I know.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, harry staring as if fascinated by the red in Tom’s eyes. Tom stared back, memorising the features that belonged to his beloved.

 “So…” Harry swallowed, obviously not fully at ease in Tom’s presence. “So, what do we do now?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? A war – his war – was on pause, waiting for Tom to step forth and claim victory. His berserkers would start howling for blood soon, new flesh to rip apart in his name, for the glory of Magic.

Maybe he could kidnap Harry? They could live together in an ivory palace away from the horrors of the world…

No.

It wouldn’t work.  Harry was too stubborn. Short of killing him, no action would permanently impair him or prevent him from acting for the good of others. Tom didn’t want Harry distracted with worry for other people when they were together. In a perfect world, Harry would reject the others as unnecessary, and they would orbit each other alone, but Tom thought it was unlikey Harry would agree to that.

“We are both icons, Harry. We cannot simultaneously exist opposed as we are and hope for peace. Which means one of us must be destroyed,” he spoke, calmly. “Oh, will you calm down, Harry? I already told you I won’t injure you.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I don’t trust abstract feelings of goodwill!”

Tom snorted.

“It’s the icon of Voldemort who needs to die, Harry, not you. Honestly, this whole war effort is a mess. I am actually much more intelligent than this brutish slaughter would suggest. You have no idea, Harry, how frustrating it is to discover that part of yourself would throw away established political clout in order to terrorise your own society and give them a common enemy.”

Harry, for his part, looked completely bemused, a feeling Tom could sense seeping across what was left of the soul link.

“By killing Voldemort, you’re not talking about suicide or something, right?”

“No. I believe you’re self-sacrificing enough for the both of us and then some.”

“Good.”

Tom blinked, smirking as Harry blanched.

“Why Harry, I had no idea you were so fond of me.”

“Shut up. I’m not fond.”

“You’d miss me.”

“I said shut up!”

“You already know I’d miss you.”

Harry’s eyes flicked over to him. Tom could sense the conflict roiling within him, even without the benefit of a bond to his mind. Instinctively, he found his hand brushing against Harry’s cheek, trying to soothe the soul within. Harry visibly relaxed at the touch, leaning into it a little. Not a second later, he stiffened, seeming to realise he was pressing closer to what he had known to be his enemy until very recently. Tom stepped closer, brushing a thumb across Harry’s cheekbone. Once more, the boy relaxed at the touch, wary green eyes gazing into Tom’s.

“Can’t you feel it? My soul fragment yearning to return to its rightful place, nestled against yours?”

“I…yes.”

“One impulsive action of mine whilst reduced to no more than a wraith, and we are bound. I can see you fighting every instinct telling you to relax and move closer. Our souls know each other completely.”

Harry was biting his lip, eyes endlessly green.

“I…I had a suspicion for years that it was you. That you were Red-Eyes. What? No, don’t laugh. I gave you the nickname when I was eleven.”

Tom grinned, shuffling closer.

“Red-Eyes?”

“When you were possessing Quirrell, when we met in the Leaky Cauldron. You just felt like you had red eyes.”

“Interesting that you could get that, simply from proximity to my soul. I suppose it is accurate, now.”

Harry sighed, leaning forwards into Tom’s chest. His arms slid forwards around the boy’s shoulders, one hand burying itself in the soft hair at the nape of Harry’s neck. Tom’s eyes fell half closed, enjoying the unaccustomed intimacy. He could feel Harry’s every breath against his own chest, his heartbeat a steady comfort. Visceral signs of life, pressing against him. Harry was safe. Harry was alive.

It was as if something within his chest unlocked and shifted, and suddenly all of Harry was amplified. Emotions, half-made thoughts, even the ghosts of physical sensation were humming across his mind. Harry’s gasp seemed to indicate he was feeling something similar, and a quick internal search found that the soul fragment was missing once more. But this wasn’t the same as a Horcrux. Tom could still feel the soulpiece, sense the mild shifts in personality between it and himself. Tom smirked.

“Do you have to feel so smug?” Harry murmured lazily, apparently very comfortable with the feeling of the soulpiece nestling into his own.

“The confirmation of a theory should always be enjoyed thoroughly.”

Harry snorted, before burying himself in the feeling of companionship once more.

It was several minutes later that he spoke again.

“So, when exactly were you planning to finish the war? We’ve been here for much longer than it would take to honour a dead enemy.”

“Why, Harry! I am in awe, so trusting already?”

Harry rolled one shoulder, drawing back from their embrace far enough to actually look Tom in the eye again.

“I suppose? I mean, you feel just like Red-eyes did, and I trusted him. And honestly, even suspecting that you may be Voldemort, I wanted to help heal you and meet with you regardless. I know you."

Harry shrugged again. Tom felt a smile grace his lips.

 “How long can you play dead?”