Chapter Text
Harry’s blood froze.
“Hello, Potter.” The high, whispery voice was all too familiar. It haunted his dreams every night. The same dreams he awoke screaming from. The same dreams his cousin and uncle beat him for waking them with.
And there the man—if he could be called that—was, sitting on Aunt Petunia’s floral couch, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Harry swallowed, wishing desperately that he had his wand on him. Dumbledore had promised that the blood wards would keep him safe—or, at least, keep Voldemort out.
The snake-faced creature stood gracefully and stalked towards him.
“I heard word of the blood wards that supposedly protect you, Potter,” the man spoke, seemingly in answer to Harry’s thoughts. “But, you see,” the man chuckled, his lipless mouth contorting into a disturbing rictus, “I am your blood.” Harry’s pulse sped impossibly faster. Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken. “The wards can keep me out no longer.”
Harry felt frozen in terror, more hopeless than he’s ever been. More hopeless even than when he’d been tied to Riddle Sr’s gravestone. He had no wand, no friends to help him, and, frankly, no will to fight back. He’d been fueled with adrenaline in the graveyard. The reality of Cedric’s death hadn’t hit him yet. He hadn’t experienced this summer yet—this summer, which was surely the worst of his life. Worse even than when he’d been locked in his room with a cat-flap for food and a bucket to relieve himself.
He had heard the phrase “It’s better to love and lose than never to love at all,” but he thought it was bullshit. To have something you love, your lifeline, your only source of happiness ripped away from you after four years of depending on it was horrible. He’d experienced it to a lesser degree when Dobby had stolen his summer mail before second year, but, this time, he had needed his friends. And they abandoned him. Dumbledore abandoned him. Harry had sent letter after letter with no response. The only ones in the world who loved him… the only ones in the world who he had thought loved him… abandoned him in his most vulnerable state.
Harry remained frozen as Voldemort raised a hand to place it on Harry’s forehead. Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply, waiting for the same excruciating pain that he had felt in the graveyard. But, instead, there was a pleasant pulsing sensation. A warm feeling, almost magnetic, as if his scar wanted more.
“Harry…” Voldemort spoke softly, and it wasn’t a dangerous softness like back in the graveyard. The man sounded… gentle.
Harry opened his eyes and spoke hollowly. “What do you want?”
The man smirked, removing his hand from Harry’s forehead. “I’d like you to take a guess.”
Harry took another deep breath, trying to ease the tightness in his chest. There was no need to panic. Well, there was very good reason to panic, but panicking wouldn’t get him anywhere. He would rather die feeling calm and accepting of his fate, rather than fearing for his life. He answered his tormentor. “You’re here to kill me.” It wasn’t a question. It was the obvious answer.
The man’s smirk widened. “I thought you might say that, but no…” The man turned thoughtful. “I’ll admit, that was my first intention when Severus told me your location.” Harry’s insides boiled. That traitor—not that it was very surprising; Snape always was a bastard. “I quickly realized that the blood wards wouldn’t keep me out, and started planning your painful death.” The man seemed lost in the fantasy of it for a moment. “But then, Lucius told me of your parselmouth abilities… It got me thinking.” Damn Malfoy. Why did so many people hate him?
“Got you thinking what?” Harry looked up defiantly, his anger fueling some will to fight.
“Thinking that… you and I might not be so different.”
Harry scoffed. “You said the same thing in the Chamber of Secrets… Though I guess that was sixteen-year-old you.”
Voldemort cocked his head. “Indeed? Well, I suppose like recognizes like.” Harry scowled. They were not alike. “You see,” Voldemort continued, turning his back on him and pacing around the room leisurely. Harry stayed rooted in place. “You and that memory you saw… are quite the same thing.” Okay, now Harry was lost. This didn’t sound like Voldemort just trying to draw parallels. This was more than mere comparison. “The thing that gave that diary life was a piece of my soul…” He looked at Harry, studying him for a reaction. “The diary was a vessel that I chose to imbue a piece of myself into, so that, should my body perish, my soul would live on, allowing for me to be reborn endlessly.” Harry shivered. The ritual… Voldemort could keep using it forever. Except…
“I destroyed the diary.”
Voldemort inclined his head. “You did. However, the diary was not the only vessel I utilized.” Harry felt like his body was growing heavier by the second. “There are others that I created intentionally…” he looked at Harry, who waited for him to continue. “And one that I created unintentionally.” Voldemort strode back over to stand in front of Harry and pressed a hand to his scar again. He did not move as gentle and slow as the first time, but it still resulted in the same warm feeling in his scar. The attraction. Like his scar wanted to be a part of the man who created it. Harry swallowed. His scar… Voldemort nodded. “I see you understand.” He removed his hand once again, placing it instead on Harry’s chin, tilting his face up, so that Harry was forced to look into his deathly red eyes. “You are my soul, Harry.” Harry shivered and closed his eyes, hating the sound of his name on the man’s lips. Hating the statement even more. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he didn’t fight them as they rolled down his face. Voldemort swept them up with gentle fingers. “I no longer wish to kill you, Harry. You are not my enemy, even if you consider me to be one.”
Harry opened his eyes back up. “So what do you want, if not to kill me?”
The man withdrew and folded with hands behind his back. “I want to protect you, little soul.”
Harry shook his head incredulously. “Protect me from what?! You’re the one I need protection from!”
Voldemort shook his head sadly. “No, Harry. I’m afraid there are others who are after you. I am not the only one who has pieced together the puzzle of what you are. Dumbledore knows of your parselmouth abilities. I have no doubt that he knows what you are.”
Harry swallowed. “Dumbledore wouldn’t…” Wouldn’t what? Kill him? Harry knew the headmaster. He knew the man would do anything for the greater good. His heart sank as he remembered… Dumbledore would try to kill him, even if he wouldn’t be happy about it. Perhaps that was why he had withdrawn. Why Ron, Hermione, and everyone had withdrawn. They all knew he was going to die… They didn’t want to experience the pain. Or they wanted him to experience the pain of losing them so that he’d be willing to die. Harry’s mouth had a bitter taste, and he screwed it up like he’d eaten one of the headmaster’s lemon drops.
Voldemort waited patiently while Harry pieced together his thoughts. When Harry looked back up at him, the man finally responded. “He would. Dumbledore cannot be trusted.”
Harry nodded, agreeing. But, if Dumbledore and Harry’s friends couldn’t be trusted, and he wasn’t safe at either the Dursleys or Hogwarts, what else could he do?
He finally found control over his body as all the fear left him, replaced by an overwhelming numbness. He sat on the sofa and stared at his hands. Now what? He had no idea. He looked up, not caring where the advice came from at this point, and voiced his question. “Now what?”
Voldemort looked smug, though like he was trying to hide it. Harry felt something creep down his spine. Maybe he shouldn’t take the man’s advice. Well, it was obvious that he shouldn’t, but he had no other choice.
The man spoke, and he listened. “Now… you let me protect you.” Harry’s heart thumped painfully. Let me protect you. Had anyone ever offered that? Dumbledore had promised protection, but that was empty, as it turned out. And the man had never truly cared about Harry’s safety; he kept sending Harry back to his horrible relatives after all. The Weasleys were kind and took him in for some time over the summers, but they had never really offered him protection. They never even batted an eye when a thirteen-year-old had stayed alone in a seedy pub for three weeks. Arthur had warned Harry about Sirius, but he hadn’t offered to protect him. No one had ever cared enough to, he realized. No one ever wanted to. Here he had been for the past four years, desperate to protect others, sacrificing himself to save them, beating himself up when he didn’t do enough. And yet no one cared about his protection. So why should he care about them?
He looked up. What did he have to lose? “Okay.”