Either must die at the hand of the other

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/29356095.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Hermione
Granger/Ron Weasley
Characters: Harry Potter, Voldemort (Harry Potter), Hermione Granger, Ron
Weasley, Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Additional Tags: Voldemort is a bad guy, No Bashing, Kind Harry Potter, Dominant
Voldemort, Smart Voldemort, Captive Voldemort, Sane Voldemort (Harry
Potter)
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Either must die
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Stats: Published: 2021-02-11 Completed: 2022-06-07 Words: 260,011
Chapters: 25/25
 Either must die at the hand of the other
by Metalomagnetic

Summary

Voldemort survives the Battle of Hogwarts because Harry Potter had not been the one to kill
him, as the prophecy demands.

Notes
See the end of the work for notes

Translation into Русский available: Either must die at the hand of the other by Miss_Ghost
Translation into Русский available: Один из них должен погибнуть от руки другого by
Curly_boys_fan
Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 【授权翻译】Either must die at the hand of the
other by BigChubbyBunny
 Chapter 1

They’ll never be rid of him, Harry thinks, hopelessly, as he walks beside Kingsley into the
bowels of the Ministry.

Three days. They had three days of respite and most people spent them burying the dead or
sleeping.

Three days in which they have been too busy grieving and trying to heal, to even have the
time to be glad the Dark Lord is gone.

But he isn’t. He never will be, it seems. Harry should have chosen to move on, back when
Dumbledore offered it, in the Forbidden Forest.

“We made sure he can’t use magic. Or -not effectively.” Kingsley is old. Older than he’d
been three days ago. “Places like Azkaban or the holding cells here usually impede wizards
or witches from using magic, but-”

“But he’s different,” Harry says, disheartened. He’s still in shock, had been since Kingsley
had retrieved him from the Weasley’s, to privately tell him Voldemort is alive.

No one is clear on why; they had taken his body after the battle, so Healers and Ministry
officials could confirm Voldemort’s death, beyond doubt. And then he, apparently, woke up.

“He’s good with wandless magic. Far more control than most of us. Even so, the charms
dampen him sufficiently. We took him to our most secure room, in the Department of
Mysteries. To tell you the truth, it’s a new room, equipped with new-contraptions that the last
ministry had been working on. Ordered by Voldemort himself, it is said. It pains me to say,
but they work better than any we have made before.”

Trapped by his own inventions, Harry can at least take one small comfort in that.

“And you tried to kill him?” Harry asks, even though he remembers Kingsley already
confirming it. But Harry’s ears had still been ringing, reeling from the news.

“Numerous times. Multiple Aurors. The Killing Curse, Decapitation Spell, even really
dark stuff that I am not proud of using, but we had to try. Nothing works.”

And that is why they came to Harry. The Chosen One.

Harry is prophesied to be the only one able to kill Voldemort, so they are bringing him to
do it.

Only Harry already did it.

 Not really. A voice tells him. You never cast a single offensive curse against him. Just
Expeliarmus.

Voldemort had been the one to cast the killing curse, that, once again, rebounded.

The long corridor finally ends. There are eight Aurors standing guard beside a door. Wards
shimmer in the air, so powerful that Harry’s skin prickles when he passes through them.

Kingsley says something, but Harry is far too nauseous to hear him. He clutches his wand,
tightly.

The door opens. More wards. Another four Aurors, crammed in a short passageway. And
then another door is opened and Harry walks through it, side by side with Kingsely.

A room with no windows, no furniture. A harsh, bright, unnatural light almost blinds
Harry.

Two Aurors and an Unspeakable stand inside, and in the centre, in a cage, is Voldemort.

He looks like Tom Riddle, had Tom Riddle been allowed to age naturally.

Kingsley assumes Harry’s shock to be confusion or ignorance.

“His body started changing, before he woke up. We assume that is how he used to look,
before all the magical transformations he made. We’re searching our records to confirm it. A
name, to go with it.”

They don’t even know his name. For the first time, Harry wonders why Dumbledore never
spoke it, to anyone, why he hadn’t informed at least Order members about Voldemort’s true
identity.

The cage is metal, barbed with rusty looking wires; it surrounds him and immobilises his
body, so tight he cannot even move an inch.

Voldemort’s wrist twitches at the sight of Harry, but he can’t do anything else.

He might look like Tom Riddle, his complexion is pale, yet natural, his nose is there,
straight and long, his jaws powerful, his cheekbones high and his hair dark brown, as are his
eyes-

But in those eyes, there’s nothing human, and in all that rage, Harry sees Voldemort very,
very clearly.

His heart hurts. His hands are so sweaty, his wand almost slips from his grasp. Harry is
getting dizzy.

It’s not just that Voldemort persists in remaining alive, though this is certainly huge. But it
feels so wrong, for Harry to walk besides an adult, be backed by trained Aurors, all there for
him, under the harsh glare of the light, and for Voldemort to be caged, defenceless.
 This is not how their encounters go.

Harry is so mesmerises by those eyes, so pinned by the rage in them, that for a minute, he
cannot look away. When he does, he realises Voldemort’s naked.

This body is as ridiculously tall as the serpentine one, but the similarities end there. His
arms, held by the iron cage away from his trunk, are slim but muscular. His chest wider than
his waist. Very long legs. And between them, his penis, heavy and-

Harry abruptly looks away, cheeks flaming. Wrong, so very wrong.

“Is this necessary?” he spits out to Kingsley, though he keeps his eyes trained on
Voldemort’s shoulders.

“He needs to be restrained.”

“Naked,” Harry clarifies. “Why is he naked?”

Silence. No one answers. It’s so oppressive, the lack of noise, it’s all so surreal. The worst
nightmare he’s been into.

Please wake up. Please wake up. But life is never kind to Harry, so he doesn’t.

“Go ahead, Harry,” Kingsley puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder, his voice suddenly much
gentler. Harry flinches, frightened. He’s heating up, he’s so over sensitive, so very aware of
everything. “Try.”

This is why he’s here. To kill Voldemort. This is why he’s been born, it seems, because it’s
what he’s been trying to do, for a very long time, what he’s been prepared and raised to do.

Be done with it. So you can return to the Burrow, with your family. So you can hold Ginny
close as she mourns Fred. So he can be there for Ron, when neither can sleep. So he can help
rebuild Hogwarts. Go with Hermione to Australia, to look for her parents. So he can finally
start living, so they can recover from all the grief the monster before him has caused.

Harry aims his wand. His hand is shaking. He hates him so much, so much-he knows the
words.

Yet-yet to kill-to take away a life… To attack someone that is naked and chained,
defenceless.

Voldemort glares at him and he doesn’t look defenceless at all, his face set in stone,
radiating power only through sheer force of will.

“Avada-” Harry tries but stops, mouth dry. He shakes harder. He lowers his wand. “I’m
sorry-” He turns to Kingsley. “I-”

“That’s alright, Harry,” The man frowns at him. “You never-not once, in the war?”
 “Of course not!” Harry answers, surprised. Then he remembers this man was an Auror. A
soldier. A grown one, that’s been through two wars.

“I didn’t think. Let’s get you out of here, I’ll show you how to-”

“Pathetic.”

That voice, low and much deeper than what Harry recalls. Only he remembers this one too,
from the diary.

“Shut him up!” Kingsley says harshly, and the Unspeakable does something with his wand,
the cage glows orange, hot, and it’s in contact with every bit of skin on Voldemort.

Harry can smell it, flesh burning, and the room sways around him. He fixes his eyes on
Voldemort’s face, who’s jaw clenches, muscles straining in his neck, but doesn’t let out a
single noise.

“Stop,” Harry says. “This-stop.”

He can’t think.

The iron returns to its natural colour again.

Kingsley can’t teach him anything. He knows the words, he knows he needs intent. He just
needs to do it.

Harry raises his wand again, thinks of Fred and Colin, of Remus and Dora. His parents.
Most of all, he thinks of Sirius, the only one to have been there for Harry, to make him feel
safe, looked after, if only for a short while.

Their eyes meet.

“Avada Kedrava!” he says, determined.

Nothing happens.

Voldemort laughs.

(-)

“You can try again later,” Kingsley reassures Harry once they’re away from Voldemort.
“Your first try-it’s no wonder.”

But he sounds disappointed.

Because nothing came out of Harry’s wand, no famed green light. Nothing. He’d failed to
kill not only his enemy, but the monster that caused so much harm. Others failed too, but not
for lack of wanting on their part.

Harry doesn’t understand how it can’t work. He hates Voldemort. With all his heart, but-

(-)

“You’re not a killer,” Ron says, squeezing Harry’s shoulder.

Harry’s been terrified to confess, specifically to Ron, who’s just lost a brother to a man
Harry couldn’t kill.

“Kingsley shouldn’t have asked you,” Hermione is quick to agree. She looks so tired, big
dark circles under her eyes.

They’re all tired. They’re skinny and scratched and bruised and Voldemort has not one
mark on him, no dark circles. Nothing. And Harry couldn’t kill him.

“It’s because they-he is caged and -”

“I wouldn’t be able to do it either, Harry,” Hermione says, softly. “Perhaps, in the heat of
battle, against an armed opponent, perhaps. But like that? We’re not executioners. We’re only
eighteen for the love of God, we’ve been fighting our whole life, what more do they want of
us?”

Her eyes tear up, full of frustration. Hers are brown too. And as intelligent as Voldemort’s.

Yet Hermione’s are warm and familiar and loving.

She deserves a life. Ron deserves one too.

Harry will try again, for them.

(-)

The next time Harry goes in, Voldemort is wearing a robe. Other than that, nothing
changed.

“Can’t I be alone with him?” Harry asks. If it’s just the two of them...maybe Harry can do
it. As it is, under the watchful gazes of the Aurors, it feels like a circus.

It feels sacrilegious.

“No.”
 “He’s contained,” Harry tries again.

Silence.

“They don’t trust you,” Voldemort says.

“Shut him-”

“No!” Harry says, a little too loudly, holding a hand up before the Unspeakable can do that
thing again. “Please, don’t.”

“This is why the don’t trust you,” Voldemort points out.

Harry is very aware. He knows how it must look. Only, Harry is naive perhaps in thinking
they were the good guys. That the good guys won the war. And good guys aren’t supposed to
casually torture anyone.

Not even Voldemort.

“Don’t let him get to you,” Kingsley says, firmly, when Harry fails to cast the curse again
and he’s escorted to the Minister’s office.

He feels miserable. Weak. Pathetic.

“We have to change the two guards that stay with him every six hours. He has an effect on
everyone. He’s contained, yes, but we can’t seem to manage to shut him up in any way and
his tongue is as dangerous as his magic.”

(-)

Harry can’t sleep. The dead haunt him. The guilt. Voldemort in the graveyard, raising from
a cauldron. Voldemort, in Godric’s Hollow, staring down at Harry from a window, as they
barley make their escape. Voldemort in the Great Hall, furious.

Voldemort in the cage.

Kingsley obliviates the few that had found out, except a small number of Aurors that serve
as guards and a few Unspeakables.

The enchantments hold and Voldemort doesn’t escape. Harry imagines they try to kill him,
now and again, with different methods.

“Go on with your life,” Kingsley had said and Harry tries.

He’s failing. He’s not the only one.

 Life after Voldemort isn’t all it was cracked up to be, even for those that do not know
Voldemort is still around.

George starts drinking. Mrs. Weasley is a wreck. Percy can’t look at George.

Hogwarts is littered with graves.

Hermione’s parents do not want to talk to her, fear in their eyes as soon as their memories
are restored.

Andromeda hates, torn apart. She doesn’t cry at Dora’s funeral, pained beyond tears, but
she sobs at Bellatrix’s, rumour is. No one is sure how that rumour started, since from what
Harry knows, only Narcissa and Andromeda had been present for the event.

Most Death Eaters are in Azkaban, rotting away.

The Malfoys don’t leave their house, even after Harry testifies for them, gets their name
cleared.

Aurors hunt the ones that got away.

It looks like it’s not that easy to just go on, with so many people missing.

One man. It seems so impossible that just one man had this effect on thousand of people.

(-)

Hermione gets special permission to sit her N.E.W.T.s in December as soon as Hogwarts is
operational again.

She had thrown herself in her studies and she gets eleven Outstanding. She’s the one to
take advantage of the fame “the golden trio”, as the press dubbed them, had amassed.

Harry hides in Grimmauld place, only leaving it to go to the Burrow. The dream he’d had
of becoming an Auror had soured; he doesn’t have the stomach for it and besides, his dark
wizard is still alive, even after Harry gave his best.

Ron is helping George with the store.

They aren’t as strong as Hermione.

“We didn’t go through all of this for nothing. I will make sure we will change things, for
the better.”

So she accepts an offer for a job in the Ministry that wouldn’t have been offered to anyone
else so young. But she’s Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s best friend, the one without whom
he’d be dead, as he’d been sure to mention it, loudly and often.

(-)

The world starts to recover, slowly, by the anniversary of the first year of the Battle of
Hogwarts.

Harry is just getting worse. He sleeps fitfully during the day and wanders around
Grimmauld at night.

Ron and Hermione live with him. They’re all trauma bonded, and they only just recently
managed not to sleep in the same room.

Ginny breaks up with him, softly, tenderly. She too is made from stronger stuff. She’s lost
enough, she wants to live, and she can’t do that, surrounded by Harry, in a house of mourning
and misery.

Harry makes an effort to go see Teddy as often as he can. He looks a lot like Sirius, more
and more as he grows up.

“He looks like Bellatrix,” Andromeda counters Harry, when the observation slips from his
mouth.

Andromeda sees her sister everywhere. Especially in the mirror.

She has another sister, and it seems the Malfoys start leaving their sanctuary, because
Teddy mumbles excitedly about “Cissa” on occasion.

Harry won’t fault Andromeda for gravitating to the last family members she has.

(-)

He stills dreams of Voldemort, trapped in that cage. The graveyard Voldemort fades away,
slowly, same for the other nightmares.

He’s the best man at Ron and Hermione’s wedding. Best men for both bride and groom,
because Hermione refuses to get a bridesmaid, insists he’s her best friend too.

Harry’s heart soars, seeing them happy and together. They deserve it; they deserve
everything in the world.
 A little part of Harry feels more lonely than ever, when he insists he’s fine and they should
move out of his house.

They want to stay, not because they like the decrepit old dark place, that stays dark no
matter how much effort Kreacher puts into it, but because they don’t want to leave Harry
alone.

Harry will not hold them back, so he kicks them out.

The world is healing-it’s not easy, it’s not fast, but it crawls towards “normal”.

Harry despairs.

(-)

“We’ve been trying to make him talk,” Kingsley tells Harry in his office, at the Ministry.
“It’s not going well, suffice to say. He will not say anything.”

“About?”

“There are so many people we don’t know what happened to. That just disappeared. We’d
like to know and bring closure to their families. And, Lestrange remains at large.”

Harry nods. There’s been three attacks in the two years since the Battle. Very poorly
organised, but enough to install that terror back into the population. The Aurors find some
Death Eaters and they confirm it’s Lestrange that’s behind them. He remains elusive.

“We offered some commodities, some comforts to him, in exchange for information,”
Kingsley goes on.

But only after torture didn’t work. Harry knows.

“He is not speaking. But recently, he asked for you.”

Harry’s heart gallops in his chest, a phantom pain strikes his forehead. He almost touches
his scar, but stops just in time.

“Ok,” he says, after a long break. “Ok.”

If it helps them catch Lestrange, or give some comfort to some families-Harry will do it.

He will not admit there’s another part inside him, that hides behind these excuses, that
wants to see Voldemort.

(-)
 There are deep dark circles under his eyes this time. There are scars on his body, that’s
getting thinner and paler.

But the rage is his eyes is intact.

They’re left alone, Aurors retreating, because Kingsely said that after two years, he’s
comfortable in the measures they have, and trusts they are keeping Voldemort restrained.

Besides, he will not talk with anyone else there.

It’s ...better. It feels more natural, just the two of them. Of course, Voldemort’s still caged,
still naked, and Harry hates that it bothers him so much.

He comforts himself he’s not the only one. Hermione is on a campaign against the
conditions in Azkaban, she’s hounding the Wizengamot to stop torturing information out of
convicted Death Eaters.

Harry has been dragged along to some meetings, and he backs her up, because she’s right,
but mostly because he’s thinking of Sirius.

The Ministry agrees, somewhat. Only there’s nothing to do about the Dementors, who
cannot be killed or let loose.

The Aurors are unhappy with Hermione and Harry. They had been the ones to lose limbs
and colleagues to apprehend the Death Eaters; they had been the most at risk and they do not
care or understand some people can be bothered about how the scum of the earth is treated.

“They thought me, as a muggle born, scum of the earth. They thought me an animal,
undeserving of basic rights. We must be careful, very careful, to not become them and use
their sick rhetorics. They must be punished, they must be kept away from the population, but
they are humans, at the end of the day, and we must remember that.”

The public doesn’t agree. It’s human nature to want revenge, especially after so many
years of war.

They want the Death Eaters to suffer.

Merlin knows what they’d do or think if they knew the Ministry has Voldemort in its
hands.

Voldemort says nothing, glares at Harry, who shifts on his feet, uncomfortable to behold
him this way.

“Err,” he starts, when the silence is too much to bear. “Kingsley said you asked for me.”

“You came,” his voice remains as strong as his convictions, even as his body is
deteriorating.
 “If it will make you divulge some information-” Harry says, defensive.

“Liar.” A short break. “Look at me.”

Harry cannot. “Just a second,” he mutters and almost flees the room.

“Listen, I can’t talk to him that way. Can’t you at least clothe him?” he asks Kingsley.

“He doesn’t deserve clothes.” Another Auror says. Robards. His father had been tortured
by Death Eaters and his brother killed by Voldemort himself.

“We will,” Kingsley agrees and Harry waits, on teether hooks, pacing around the corridor,
before he’s told he can go back in.

It’s a huge improvement. Voldemort is wearing a robe, and he’s out of the cage, but still
chained to the wall, heavy links around his hands and feet.

Like this, Harry can hate him again. “What do you want?” He asks and this time he has no
problem meeting those brown eyes.

There’s adrenaline rushing in his body; he hadn’t felt so alive since the Battle of Hogwarts.

“You will tell me one thing about the outside world, Harry Potter. And I will give
something back.”

Kingsley had said Voldemort is not allowed to know anything, he’s to be kept in the dark,
literally and metaphorically. The only information he has, Kingsley says, is that Lestrange is
still at large, because they have tortured him for clues on his whereabouts and then tried to
bribe him for it.

Voldemort smirks, as if he’s reading Harry’s mind.

“It doesn’t have to be anything of relevance. A minor detail. About yourself.”

Harry draws a blank. He feels trapped, like a deer in headlights.

“I-” he starts, fishing for something, anything. “I-” he scratches his head. “I live at
Grimmauld Place.”

There. Everyone knows that, anyhow. Journalists have been stationed outside the buildings
for months after the war ended.

Voldemort watches him, eyes sparkling. He nods, slowly.

“Caradoc Dearborn remains are in Epping Forest, forty feet south of Nott’s vacation
cabin.”

Harry has heard Sirius talk about this Caradoc long ago. He’d even seen the man in a
picture, when Moody had shown him the old Order.
 “Who killed him?” Harry asks, because he imagines Dearborn’s family and friends would
like to know.

Voldemort raises an eyebrow.

“Ahh,” Harry stumbles, trying to come up with something to give in exchange. Nothing of
relevance. About yourself. Harry doesn’t do anything. The little he does, is in Hermione’s and
Ron’s company, and he doesn’t want to say those names to this man. Same goes for Teddy.
“I-I’m studying Ancient Runes?” Harry offers.

It is a stretch.

He’d only started because he’s trying to do something, about Grimmauld Place, make it
cleaner, livelier, and Hermione had told him a house so old, under so many enchantments will
not respond to regular magic.

“Karkaroff,” Voldemort says, without missing a beat. “On your own or at Hogwarts?”

“Ah, on my own.”

“It wasn’t a fast kill, from what I’ve been told. Oh, no. He took his time. I could go into
more detail, but it shall upset your weak stomach.” He smirks, vicious.

“What’s wrong with you?” Harry snaps. “What happened to you that you’re this-” Harry
cannot even find a word. “Like this.”

“Nothing happened to me, Harry Potter. I was born, and this is who I am.”

A/N : For those of you that are reading Ouroboros, have no worries, that story is still my
priority.
 Chapter 2

They find Dearborn’s bones, a day later.

There’s a funeral. His family is presented with an Order of Merlin, Third class, in his
name.

“Ask him about Lestrange,” Kingsley says, enthusiastic, pacing inside Grimmauld’s
kitchen. “And Dolohov, he’s missing too, though so far he seems to be lying low, hasn’t
caused trouble.”

Only it doesn’t work like that.

Harry finds Voldemort dressed already, when he next goes to the Ministry, chained but no
cage. Kingsley must have finally recognised Harry prefers it this way.

There’s also a chair that hadn’t been there before, but it’s clearly not meant for Voldemort;
his chains wouldn’t allow him to reach it. It’s meant for Harry, but he ignores it, standing
beside it.

“Tell me about Lestrange,” he says.

Voldemort tilts his head. “You tell me something first, Harry Potter. And I shall decide how
important your offering is, what to trade for it. Rodolphus will cost quite a lot, I’m afraid.”

Harry tells him he’s establishing a foundation for liberating House Elves and protecting
other creatures’s rights.

It wasn’t his idea, Hermione roped him and Ron into it, but he doesn’t say that.

Voldemort makes a sound that’s both derisive and amused, and tells Harry the location of a
hideout he had used during the first war.

(-)

It’s empty, just some bags of galleons and a few old maps. They find the plans for a battle
that had taken part twelve years before and the remains of a muggle.

Harry goes back every Wednesday.

He tells Voldemort several things, as unimportant as he can, only he receives unimportant

information in return. Bits and scarps.
 Harry will have to share something big; he tells this to Kingsely.

Yet Kingsely is adamant Voldemort is not to find out about anything major going on in
their world.

“I’ve seen men tortured before; I’ve seen men kept captive. And they break, eventually.
Now, we never- we never took it quite as far as we did with him; I’ve seen the effects
Dementors have on prisoners, how they tame them.

He has been here for three years and nothing. He’s as proud as ever, as unrelenting.
Unrepentant. We made the mistake, some two years ago, to bring Dementors-”

“You didn’t!” Harry groans. “Don’t you know Dementors worked for him, at some point?”

“We were desperate. We thought they wouldn’t obey a thwarted dark lord, that cannot give
them anything. But the Dementors took one look at him, and they turned on us. We barley got
them in hand. Luckily, it was just two of them. He’s not- he doesn’t look defeated, does he?
He stands in that cage like it’s a fucking throne, looks down at everyone.

I don’t want him to get information about the outside world. I don’t- it’s safer, he doesn’t
know. The scraps you gave him can’t hurt any, but Harry-”

“Than I will keep it personal,” Harry says. “But I can’t tell him anything too private, with
you lot listening in. I just can’t.”

“These are trusted men, Harry. Battle hardened Aurors, loyal to boot. I trust them to keep
quiet, and they did, about this whole mess, I’m sure they wouldn’t -”

“No,” Harry insists. He knows what he’ll tell Voldemort, and no one can ever hear that.

There’s a hard bargain, but Harry wins.

They’ll have their privacy, next time, the charms for listening in the room and seeing it
from afar will be taken out.

(-)

“I destroyed the Elder Wand.”

Voldemort is shocked to hear this-he shows it only by taking in a sharp breath of air. He’s
standing by his cage, some feet away from Harry, who still ignores the chair.

“Why?”

Harry tells him about the Deathly Hallows. It is no danger, now that the wand is gone. He
also lies that he threw the Resurrection Stone into the ocean.
 He gets a lot of satisfaction when Voldemort finds out he had two hallows during his life,
without knowing; that he turned one into Horcrux.

“How did you find out about them?” Voldemort’s left eyes gives a twitch. It’s enough to
convey his irritation.

So Harry tells him of Dumbledore’s gift, the wild goose chase, the subtle hints, the golden
snitch. He talks, more and more animated, as the minutes pass; it comes pouring out of him,
the frustration he still feels for the Headmaster, the game of hide and seek he’d played with
Harry, instead of just telling him, from the get go.

He tells Voldemort that he’d had a choice to make, to go for the Hallows or the Horcruxes,
as he had seen in his head that Voldemort was on the wand’s trail.

When he’s done, he looks at his watch to discover he’s been talking for close to forty
minutes.

Harry’s paced around the chair, he’s used his hands to push his hair back from his eyes.
Voldemort had not moved an inch. Doesn’t he want to? Harry wonders. He must, after
spending three years in a very limited position, locked securely in his cage.

“Do you know a competent Curse Breaker?” Voldemort asks, no inflection in his tone, the
first words spoken since Harry started talking.

“Why?”

Voldemort ignores him. “If they’ll allow a curse breaker to come see me, I’ll have
something for them.”

(-)

Bill doesn’t know the captive man he sees is Lord Voldemort. Just a Death Eater, who’s
identity had been kept secret during the war.

“I must say, that was-that was amazing spell work. Whoever cast that curse- I had never
seen a curse so complicated and so long standing.” Bill says at dinner, excitedly, after
working non-stop, for close to a week, in a team of four, following the instruction Voldemort
had given him.

But at the end, Hogwarts is free of the curse.

“We couldn’t even detect it, at first. Took us close to a day, to find it. Amazing. Absolutely
amazing! Who is this man?”

Ron goes pale beside him. Hermione is really interested to find out more about the
proceedings and engages Bill for details for the rest of the dinner.
 The next Defence against The Dark Arts teacher is there to stay.

(-)

“I’m so happy you’re here, Harry!” Ginny says, smiling.

They are at the Three Broomsticks; Harry hadn’t stepped foot in the village, nor in
Hogwarts, since the war. It hurts too much, it makes him feel guilty, all over again, for going
to the school, that fateful night, bringing Voldemort after him.

He rarely gets out of the house, except to visit Teddy, or the Burrow, or Ron and
Hermione’s place.

It doesn’t help that still, when he goes in public, the press hounds him. So Harry takes
Teddy to Muggle parks and muggle ice creams shops.

“Yeah, mate! It’s good to see you!” Neville agrees, the new Herbology Professor, the
occasion for the celebration.

They’ve all been shocked when Harry walked through the doors. The invitations to events
had never stopped coming, but he almost never answered them.

Yet lately he feels a bit more ready to face the world. He feels a bit less useless, since
wringing information out from Voldemort.

The whole D.A is there; or the least, those that had survived.

They all look older than they are. Luna has lost some of her airy disposition, Dennis drinks
a little too much, freshly graduated from Hogwarts. Neville has a hard look about him.
Parvati looks lonely, without Lavender at her side. There’s an empty chair besides her and no
one takes it.

And yet, they do their best to smile at Neville’s stories about unruly first years, to laugh
when Ron shows them some of the newest inventions he and George had made, to roll their
eyes and fight sleep when Hermione goes on one of her tangents, that no one can understand.

When they depart, Harry promises to see them all more often.

(-)

With his last outing in mind, Harry tells Voldemort that he knows he once wanted to be a
teacher, because Dumbledore showed him the memory. He tells Voldemort that he too had
seen the appeal, because he’d started a group at school in his fifth year.

Well, he hadn’t started anything, and he’s still sorry for yelling at Hermione when she did,
but he had grown to enjoy it.

“For what reason?”

So Harry tells Voldemort about Dolores Umbridge, about her decrees and her quill.

He rubs the back of his hand, unconsciously, until Voldemort’s eyes trace the movement.

The scars are still there, if faded.

“She had your locket,” Harry says at the end, and Voldemort’s face is awash in disgust and
revulsion. “That is why I broke into the Ministry, when you had control of it. To steal it from
Umbridge.”

“How did it end up with her?” There’s a glint in his eyes, a dangerous one.

“That’s a story for another time.”

Voldemort’s jaw clenches. Harry thinks he’s about to say something unflattering, but no.

“Where is she now?”

Harry shouldn’t tell him; he’s fairly certain Kingsley wouldn’t approve, what with his strict
rules. And yet, Harry cannot summon any concern over the woman, in the event Voldemort
were to escape and find her.

He hates her somehow more than Voldemort. And he’s not the only one. Even after having
Death Eaters invade the school, twice, those who had been under her short reign, still shudder
at her memory.

“Free,” he says, bitter. “In her house, knitting cat sweaters for a living. Hermione is trying
to have her prosecuted, but the toad claims that she thought she was working under a
legitimate government and we can’t prove otherwise, yet. Same goes for Thicknesse.”

Hermione is determined she’d eventually find enough proof to deal with Umbridge. The ex
Minister hasn’t been convicted, but they still summon him for questioning, from time to
time.

“Thicknesse was under the Imperius. I cursed him myself,” Voldemort barks. “Go to
Acker, from the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. He is a Death
Eater. I doubt they caught him with it. He will be able to tell you more, about Umbridge.”

(-)
 Acker is still working for the Ministry. The arrest is a scandal, provoking a ripple through
the community.

At the trial, he testifies under Veritaserum and he has so many things to say about
Umbridge. They both get a life sentence.

Thickness is offered a public apology.

(-)

Harry lives for his Wednesday visits. It sneaks up on him, how much he looks forward to
them.

He gets more energy during the week, more courage to get out and confront the press. He’s
sitting in a small room with Voldemort, after all; he can deal with them.

“You look livelier,” Hermione comments. “More at peace.”

“Do I?”

He supposes he does. He’s found his goal again. He always had Voldemort to keep him
motivated, through his school years and the Horcrux hunt, and now he has him again.

(-)

Harry tells Voldemort about the Diary. How he came in contact with it, all their
interactions.

When he gets to the part where Ron and him got to the Chamber, he mentions Lockhart
was with them.

“I do not know of that man.”

So Harry has to explain Lockhart. But that leads to Lockhart vanishing the bones in his
arms, so Harry has to explain Dobby; the cake exploding over Durselys important guests, the
closed barrier, the cursed bludger.

Voldemort laughs for the first time in these meetings. Well, he had laughed before, that
evil, mocking laugh.

This time, it seems genuine and full of mirth.

“Your friends and teachers almost got you killed more than your enemies,” he comments.
 He laughs again, when Harry gets to the part of Lockhart Obliviating himself.

Harry tells him about Tom Riddle, down in the Chamber. Quotes the boy exactly.

Voldemort rolls his eyes. “I always had a dramatic flair.”

And then Harry speaks about the basilisk, the horror that it was to be chased by the king of
snakes.

As he speaks, Harry can’t quite grasp he’d been through all that and survived.

“Stupid bird.” Voldemort wrinkles his nose when Harry mentions Fawkes arriving to his
aid. “Stupid hat.”

It’s Harry’s turn to give a startled laugh.

“Did you like him?” Voldemort asks, tilting his head in the way Harry is learning he does,
when he’s very curious. “Before you found out who he was. Did you trust him?”

Harry looks away. “Yeah.” He lost so much sleep over it for years. One of the things he’d
had in common with Ginny; they both felt so guilty to be so easily deceived. “Yeah, I did.”

A long silence settles and Harry becomes aware that he’s talking to Voldemort, that he’s
actually here for a reason, to gain information.

It’s hard to believe it, sometimes, because the Voldemort he’s accustomed to had always
talked about himself, or tried his best to kill someone.

This Voldemort listens, is attentive, motionless.

A lot like the Diary.

“What became of Lucius?”

Harry shakes his head. “Can’t,” he shrugs. It’s one thing to ask about Lestrange, whom
they need to find, and quite another to let Voldemort know one of his followers is free and
cleared of all charges.

Voldemort’s jaw ticks as he stares into Harry’s eyes. “He got away, didn’t he?” He sneers.
“You can’t all be stupid enough to fall for the Imperius excuse again.”

Harry stubbornly keeps his mouth shut.

A long silence falls, in which Harry allows his eyes to wander over a scar on Voldemort’s
cheek, going up into his forehead, bisecting an eyebrow. It’s thin and white. Must be old by
now.

“He’s not in Britain,” Voldemort says, eventually.

“What?” Harry frowns.

 “Rodolphus. They’ll never find him here.”

Right. Right. Lestrange. His true goal. The whole point in these meetings. “Where?”

Voldemort just smirks.

“A hint, at least!” Harry demands. “Isn’t a story about your very soul important enough to
exchange something?”

“I did say something. They are wasting their time searching around here.”

(-)

Teddy swings his legs, perched on a park bench, as he throws away crumbs of bread to the
circling birds.

He observes people passing by, and Harry has to be careful to always cast Notice Me Not
charms, because the boy shifts his features often, imitating anyone that strikes his fancy.

He turns to Harry, a pensive look on his face, and his eyes turn bright green.

“Are you my dad?” He asks and Harry’s heart drops.

“No, Teddy,” he says, gently. “I’m your godfather, you know that. Remus was your dad-”

“I know. But he’s not here, is he? You are.”

It hurts.

He feels like shit when he returns to his gloomy house.

He doesn’t go to see Voldemort, the following Wednesday.

Harry’s been almost enjoying himself, playing detective with Voldemort, when so many
people are still suffering, will suffer for decades.

(-)

“If you want me to return, you’ll give up Dolohov,” Harry says as soon as he enters.

“You missed our last meeting. Why?” Voldemort’s eyes are full of rage, and only now it
dawns on Harry that the last few times they weren’t.
 “Dolohov. I want Dolohov.” Harry is determined. He’s doing this for Teddy, so at least
Harry can tell him the man who killed his father is where he belongs. In Azkaban.

“I was under the impression he was apprehended already.” Voldemort frowns, a minuscule
crest between his dark eyebrows.

“He isn’t, obviously.”

“The cup,” Voldemort says.

Harry breathes deeply and sits on the only chair in the room, for the first time. Only
because he’s so tired, he hadn’t slept in days and he hadn’t thought the action through.

He soon realises it when he suddenly must look up at Voldemort. He jumps off it, as if
burned.

Voldemort doesn’t react to any of it.

“I found out about the cup from Hokey’s memory, that Dumbledore retrieved,” Harry says,
stepping away from the chair.

“Hokey?”

“Hepzibah’s elf. That you pinned the murder on.” Voldemort’s face is priceless. “We saw
when that poor woman showed you the cup and the locket. We guessed you turned them into
Horcruxes. But we did not know where the cup was. I found out at Malfoy Manor, when I
was captured. Bellatrix seemed terrified, when she saw we had the sword of Gryffindor. She
stopped Lucius from summoning you until she found out what else we took from her vault. It
made me think she’s hiding something important there; I was desperate, without any other
leads, so we went to Gringotts, as you know.” Harry says, fast and heavy, because he’s not in
the mood. “So, about Dolohov-”

“How did you destroy it?”

“At Hogwarts, with a Basilisk fang.”

Ron and Hermione had done it. But while Harry realised, after he talked about the Diary,
that Ron’s named slipped into the story, so did Hermione’s, that’s quite different from telling
the man they destroyed his soul.

“I’ll speak with Robards about Dolohov.”

(-)

“The lead was legitimate. The house was recently inhabited, and we found a wand that
belonged to Yaxley, at some point. However, we have Yaxley in Azkaban and he confirmed
Dolohav had taken his wand, when he lost his own, at Hogwarts.”

Kingsley runs a hand over his face.

“It’s still a start,” Harry offers. “He doesn’t know where Dolohov is, so it will be tricky.”

Kingsley nods, slowly. “What are you trading for this, Harry?”

“Nothing important.”

“It must be important. He’s cooperating.”

“It isn’t. It is, to him, but it can’t help him any. Trust me.”

Kinglsey doesn’t look certain.

(-)

“They’re like a herd of agitated Hippogriffs.” Voldemort shrugs when Harry says Dolohov
was not apprehended. “Auror raids are many things, but never subtle. Dolohov is fast and
paranoid, and incredibly careful.”

He exchanges another possible location, after Harry tells him about the Diadem.

(-)

“Lost him again. But Robards saw Dolohov this time! He escaped by sheer luck!”

Harry lets out a frustrated swear.

(-)

“My, my. The incompetence is phenomenal.”

“Just give me another location.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “Shall I remind you, Potter, that I don’t know where he is?
And there are only so many places he could go. The last two hideouts he used, he almost got
caught. He might take a hint and just hide in a cave, somewhere.”
 “I know you don’t know. But it seems you’re good at guessing. You know him. Give me
another one.”

“You? Not Robards?”

“Not Robards,” Harry says, determined.

Voldemort smirks.

“Don’t get yourself killed, Potter.” He considers Harry for a second. “Do not go alone.
Dolohov will demolish you.”

Harry is tempted to say, “I beat you, didn’t I?”. Only it would be a lie; Voldemort defeated
himself, in the Great Hall.

“Take that Curse Breaker along. He has a good head about him.”

He gives up the location without asking anything from Harry.

(-)

They get Dolohov.

Harry, Ron, George and Bill. It feels exhilarating, to be in battle again, however short, to
flirt with that danger, the adrenaline.

He doesn’t know what to do, in times of peace. Dumbledore prepared him for war and
hardship and no one ever showed him how to live in peace.

Just how to survive. Survive until it was time to sacrifice himself.

In the second they’re not paying attention, George kills a bound, wandless Dolohov.

The plan had been to bring the Death Eater to the Aurors.

“What?” George snarls, when they all stare at him, in shock.

As they burry Dolohov, in a dark forest, without talking to each other, Harry thinks the
world would be in a much safer place if George were to be the Chosen One.

(-)

“The ring,” Voldemort demands.

 “Dumbledore destroyed it,” Harry starts. “He went to the Gaunt shack and got it, alone. He
-he tried to use the Resurrection Stone and your curse, whatever it was, took hold.”

Voldemort smiles, a terrifying sight. “So, I did kill Dumbledore.”

Harry supposes that yes, in a way, he had.

“I don’t know what he used to destroy it, I assume the sword. By the time I laid eyes on it,
it had ceased to be a Horcrux.”

“Did you use the Resurrection Stone?”

Harry swallows, hard. “Yeah.”

Voldemort’s eyes spark. “Your parents? Or dear old Dumbledore?”

“My parents,” Harry spits out to their murderer.

“You never knew them,” Voldemort says. “How can you possibly be so attached to them, if
you never even met them?”

Harry opens his mouth, ready to say something nasty only-

Voldemort truly doesn’t understand. Nothing Harry will say or do, nothing anyone could
do-Voldemort will not get it.

“Did you never imagine your parents, growing up?” Harry asks, trying to be calm. “I know
you must have, you searched desperately at Hogwarts, to find your ancestry.”

“Every young orphan fantasies about parents,” Voldemort says. “Young. I was over it by
the time I was five. I knew I was alone, and I was all that was needed to move forward.”

He says it simply, without feeling. There is no place for pity, for it being something tragic.
Voldemort’s tone holds no inflection, truly believes this is normal, and that is the most tragic
part.

“Certainly, I wondered again, when I found out I was a wizard. It is natural to be curious.
Tell me, Harry Potter, I noticed from your little stories, you are not fond of Slytherins, is it
true?”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

“Are you kidding me?” Harry snorts. “They’re all bullies, entitled, self-serving brats.”

Voldemort nods. “And how do you think these rich bullies reacted to a dirt poor orphan,
with a muggle name and a Cockney accent being sorted into their House?”

Harry’s face falls. How, indeed. He thinks of Malfoy’s arrogant face.

 “Err,” Harry says, unintelligently. He’d never thought about this. Voldemort had always
been surrounded by sycophants. He never imagined a time when he mustn’t have been. “Not
very well?”

“Not very well,” Voldemort confirms.

“But you were a bully too, so I’m sure you got along great.” This is Voldemort. Harry will
not pity him.

“At the orphanage, one would need to steal, to not go hungry. It was during the depression,
food was not that easy to come by. The strong stole from the weak. We were all bullies. I had
my magic, to help me steal more. Be more.”

“I know.” Harry says, absentmindedly.

“You know,” Voldemort says, flatly. A bit annoyed.

“Dumbledore,” Harry explains. “Mrs. Cole told him.”

There’s a short silence. “At Hogwarts, they called me a Mudblood. I didn’t think I was
one, so yes, Potter, I wanted to learn who my parents were. And I found out. I have no regard
for either of them. I do not get offended, in their name. I never knew them. You never knew
yours. How can you possibly be so easily prickled by their mere memory?”

Voldemort is missing something, deep inside and Harry sees this, truly sees this now, faced
with a question that he cannot answer. Voldemort seeks a logical explanation, and there is
none.

“You killed your father,” he says, instead. “So you had some feelings towards the man.”

“I never thought about him, after finding out it was my mother that had been magical. I
assumed he was dead or perhaps had run away scared when faced with a pregnant woman.
Many did, it was the reason a lot of children ended at Wool’s. I did not care.”

“You went to kill him. That implies care.”

“I didn’t.”

Harry opens his mouth to contradict the lie, but Voldemort cuts over him. “I went to see
my uncle, Morfin. You know about the ring, the shack, so I am to assume you know about
him as well.”

Harry nods.

“As soon as I entered, he confused me for my father. It was him, who brought Tom Riddle
Senior up. He told me he was living just across the street. So I went. And yes, that big house,
all that money...it enraged me. He had my face, too, and that-” Voldemort frowns, distracted,
for the briefest second. “It bothered me.”
 He’s telling the truth. In Morfin’s memory, he was indeed the one to bring Tom Riddle
Senior up. Young Voldemort did not seem to know who he was talking about.

“He knew who I was, of course. His parents knew it too. It was hard to deny it, with our
resemblance. He called me a freak. He asked me to leave. Told me he will not give me
money. I admit, I have a temper. Especially back then. I got angry, and I killed them all. But
were someone else to have killed him, before I even knew him, I wouldn’t have cared, not at
all. After all, I killed my own mother, to be born. Should I hate myself, is that what you’re
suggesting?”

“No, of course not. It’s very different. You didn’t kill your mother-”

“I did. Were it not for birthing me, she would have lived.”

“You didn’t mean to. It was not your fault. On the other hand, you decided to go kill my
mother.”

“No. No, I did not. I offered her the chance to step away.”

Harry stops. He can hear it all over again.

Step away.

No, not Harry-please.

“Your father had no wand.” Voldemort shakes his head. “The stupidity. They know the
most dangerous dark lord in the world is after them, and James Potter did not keep his wand
close. In any case, he didn’t have one. He came at me, empty handed.” Voldemort snorts. “If
he had hid or bowed down to me, I wouldn’t have killed him. But he attacked me so he
died.”

Harry’s heart is hammering in his chest, wildly.

“And then I went up the stairs. Your mother was in front of your crib. Her, I gave three
chances -perhaps you don’t believe me, but I did. First, I told her to-”

“Stop,” Harry says, his voice shaking. “I know. I know already. Stop.”

“How could you know? Dumbledore wasn’t there-”

“I hear it, when a Dementor is close by,” Harry says and he feels his cheeks wet. He wipes
at them, furious. “I saw it in your head, when you remembered it.”

Voldemort blinks at him.

Harry leaves.
 Chapter 3
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Would his parents understand? Would they judge Harry, for not being able to kill the man
that murdered them?

Harry doesn’t know, because he doesn’t know them. He knows of them, but that is
different.

“I’m sorry,” Harry begs. “I’m really sorry.”

It’s raining in Godric’s Hollow and Harry can’t help but feel his parents are sending him a
message, as he stands beside their graves.

(-)

“It seems he was telling the truth; Lestrange might not be in the country. There was an
attack in Ireland. We’re working with the Aurors there. We believe he makes incursions in
England, but he’s not living here.”

Harry rubs his temples.

“We really need to get him. So we can put all this mess behind us,” Kingsley insists.

(-)

“You stopped inquiring about Antonin,” Voldemort remarks, after Harry tells him how
Dumbledore suspected Nagini was a Horcrux and how Voldemort confirmed it by keeping
the snake so close to him.

Harry stiffens. “I lost interest,” he says.

“Hmm,” Voldemort tilts his head. Harry can see a brand new scar on his neck, angry and
purple. “Robards still seems greatly interested.”

Shit.
 Harry hadn’t thought about it; that they will continue to interrogate him for Dolohov’s
whereabouts.

“What shall I give you, today?”

“Lestrange?” Harry asks, voice small, but Voldemort just shakes his head, once. It was
worth a shot. “Alright. Why do you look like this?”

Harry shouldn’t ask for this; it’s not helpful to anyone, Kingsley can’s use this information
to solve anything or capture any stray Death Eaters.

“My other body, it was temporary,” Voldemort says, after a slight break. “This is how I’m
meant to look.”

“But how are you alive?”

“How are you alive?” Voldemort asks, voice very low. “I saw you die, in the Forest.”

Harry's skin prickles with foreboding. “I- if you give me Lestrange, I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t. It’s different, talking about the rest of the Horcruxes
but -

“You shouldn’t touch your scar, when you talk about Horcruxes,” Voldemort says. “Or
when you think about them. It is very telling.”

Harry freezes. “You-you know?” He splutters.

Voldemort looks at Harry, gaze searching. “As you can see, there’s not much to do around
here. I had a lot of time to think, these past three years. Yes, Harry Potter. I know.”

Harry looks away, but this time he is aware his hand shoots up to his scar. He aborts the
motion, mid way.

He waits, half terrified, to hear Voldemort’s input on it. To ask Harry about it, how it was
to be a human recipient for his soul.

He’d never told a single soul, not even his best friends, though it’s quite possible Hermione
put it together.

And if Hermione put it together, then so did Voldemort. Harry shouldn’t be surprised.

“As for why am I alive,” Voldemort says and relief washes over Harry, mixed with
surprise. “I imagine it has something to do with the prophecy. I wouldn’t know, because I
haven’t heard it, but here I am, alive.”

And Harry is so relieved Voldemort just let it drop, he too is eager to change the subject.

“And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other
survives.” Harry quotes. “That was what you missed.”
 Voldemort’s eyes flash.

“I assume you can’t die because it wasn’t me that killed you, but that does not explain the
other part. We’re both living, as you can see, so-”

“Interesting wording,” Voldemort says. “Does anyone else know?”

“Ah-well, pretty much everyone knows there was a prophecy, and while no one heard it,
the guesses and speculations are surprisingly accurate.”

The press still refers to Harry as The Chosen one or The-Boy-Who-Lived. Never mind that
he’s twenty.

“Hmm,” Voldemort seems displeased about it.

“The power that I have, and you know not...” Harry starts, curious. “Dumbledore said it
was...love,” he says, cringing, because it sounds so lame.

That makes Voldemort laugh. “Love. That old fool. I wonder if he believed the shite he was
spewing.”

Harry is taken aback; Voldemort never swears, he seems too-elegant to lower himself to
such.

“What do you think it is, then?”

“It is very obvious.”

“Well, not to me. So?” he asks, impatient. “What’s my power?”

“You were the Master of Death.”

It hits Harry like a bag of rocks. Love, indeed.

“That is why I couldn’t kill you; why the curse rebounded. It wasn’t just the Elder’s Wand
allegiance. It was your title, exactly as Dumbledore intended. It is good to know you are
without it, now.”

Harry should not have told him he destroyed the Elder Wand.

Kingsley is right. Chained as he is, Voldemort does not look defeated.

(-)

Harry stays away. He had dropped his guard; without realising, he made a mistake.

It doesn’t matter what he knows. He will never get out.

 Only Harry doesn’t believe that, not with utmost confidence.

There’s an influx of babies after the war; every year some more. Hermione’s advanced
pregnancy, and her stubbornness to keep working, land her in the Daily Prophet often. People
look at these children with hope- the generation after Voldemort is coming, they say.

And there Harry is, aware they are not, in fact, post Voldemort. That he is alive. Waiting.

It feels like hubris, to think they can keep him locked away forever.

When Ron asks him to be godfather to their unborn baby, Harry knows why. Of course he
does. But a small part of him wonders- Ron and Hermione are among the few who know
where Harry has been spending his Wednesday in the past months.

Don’t they blame him, just a little? Aren’t they afraid, especially now that they are about to
be parents, that something will go terribly wrong?

(-)

His worries only grow when Kingsley tells Harry there have been some troubles with the
guards. Nothing major- one Auror, that Kingsley said is amongst the very rare to protest at
what she had called “inhumane treatment”, had been sneaking magazines into the cell, had
been standing close to the cage, folded the pages just so, for Voldemort to read them.

All precautions had been taken from the start, to ensure they leave no one vulnerable to
Voldemort- two Aurors are always in the cell with him, when Harry is not there. Five more
are always at the doors leading into it.

They aren’t allowed to talk to him, unless he is being interrogated.

Despite that, somehow Voldemort hoodwinked one.

It was just a couple of Muggle newspapers and the Witch Weekly, Harry reassures himself
as days pass.

The Auror only wanted to be kind.

Harry thinks about it at night. About that chair.

It makes Harry feel as if he’s at the zoo; as if Voldemort is a rare breed of exotic animal,
caged and restrained and there for Harry’s amusement.

Harry is well aware of what must happen to him down there. Of what had happened in the
beginning, when they were trying to kill him, by whatever method, and later on, when they
were trying to get information out of him.
 Of what still happens, from what Kingsley says, on the anniversary of the Battle, or on the
anniversary of the death of one of the Auror’s friends or family members.

Voldemort is an easy, deserving target on which to unload the ire and frustration one feels
in those terrible days.

And it must be bad, if even one of the Aurors had protested to it, made her pity Voldemort,
out of all people.

A part of Harry feels bad, too. It’s hard to pity Voldemort. Firstly, because he is not a
pitiful creature, even caged and kept in an underground room. Second, because he’s
Voldemort.

Yet- yet he is still a human, underneath his title, underneath the massacre he’d unleashed
upon the world; no matter how rotten he is inside, he is an intelligent human being, and to
treat him like that leaves an unpleasant taste in Harry’s mouth.

He feels the same about Azkaban; since Sirius and the way his eyes had darkened when
talk of the prison came up, Harry cannot rejoice at anyone being sent there, no matter their
crimes.

But Harry doesn’t see those prisoners every Wednesday. Doesn’t see them getting thinner
and paler, doesn’t see fresh scars now and then.

(-)

He stays awake in bed, imagining Voldemort in his cage, under constant guard. He
imagines the silence, the boredom.

Three years of nothing.

And one Auror had tried to treat him like a human being, had been kind enough to bring
him insignificant papers, gossips and muggle news, just to make it easier.

The first of his guards to show him a small mercy, lost her job and all her memories of
him. Harry wonders if that doesn’t reinforce Voldemort’s beliefs that kindness is a weakness.
That kindness is never repaid.

One Sunday morning, after having a little too many glasses of ancient Black wine that he
finds in the cellars of Grimmauld, the question comes to Harry.

What if she was the first person ever to treat him like a human? Or the first in a very, very
long time.

Who else would have? The Death Eaters had worshiped him like a god; his enemies had
looked at him like a demon.
 Did anyone remember he was just a man under his previous serpentine features?

Does Voldemort himself know it?

Probably not. Harry himself hadn’t seen him as anything remotely human, not as he was
being chased and hunted by the man.

But he’s seeing it now; he’s forced to, as they sit and talk.

In the safety of Grimmauld Place, with sunshine breaking through the windows, Harry
reassures himself that Voldemort will not free himself. That Harry is just paranoid; he still
sees Voldemort as omnipotent, when he clearly isn’t.

Three years had passed since he was captured, tortured, humiliated. Voldemort cannot
escape his entrapment.

(-)

He turns into a shut in again, and he’d only just started to try to get out more.

He paces throughout the house, thinking.

About the war, about the prophecy. About Dumbledore.

What would Dumbledore say, where he still alive? What would Dumbledore do?

Harry doesn’t know. The man remains an enigma to him.

Harry’s mentor. Harry’s executioner, along with Voldemort.

Harry loved-loves, still- his old Headmaster. He understands his reasons, had heard the
shame and grief in his voice, in King’s Cross-

You were dead. There was no King Cross. You hallucinated the whole thing.

No, no, he hadn’t. Dumbledore must have found a way to communicate with Harry.
Dumbledore had liked Harry, had truly cared for him.

Only the Professor had been a leader in a war waged against a dangerous maniac.

Dumbledore had done what was needed.

Harry only wishes he’d have told Harry about the Horcrux in his scar. About the Hallows.
That he’d had trusted Harry would not pursuit them.

Harry had gone back to his grave and broken the Elder Wand, in a fit of rage, during the
first few months after the Battle.
 It was the responsible thing to do, he comforts himself. It was, he thinks, what Dumbledore
would have wanted. To ensure it never ends up in the wrong hands.

(-)

“Harry dear, you look quite sickly,” Molly says, when she drops in to leave some of her
home-cooked meals for him.

Kreacher mumbles under his breath, insulted.

“You should get out. Come visit us. Ginny sent you a ticket, for one of her games. We’re
all going to see it and she’d love to have you there.”

He’s hard pressed to say no- Molly isn’t really asking, anyway, a hardness hiding in her
gentle tone.

Molly is determined, after Fred, to never lose any of them again. She watches after Harry,
as much as he allows her, loves him like her own son.

She’s as bossy as any mother, so Harry goes along to the match.

But he doesn’t really watch it, even if his eyes follow Ginnny through the air.

His mind is with Voldemort.

What is he doing right now?

Nothing. He never does anything. He’s trapped there.

But what is he thinking?

(-)

Unable to let go, unable to move one, five Wednesdays later, Harry returns.

They weren’t expecting him.

They Aurors seem agitated, but Harry pulls his status and his permission from Kingsely, so
they let him in to see Voldemort even if they don’t want to. Luckily, Robards isn’t there, or he
wouldn’t have allowed it.

Harry enters, a little tense, knowing Voldemort doesn’t like it when he misses these
meetings, and he’d missed a lot.
 There’s a lot of blood on the floor.

Voldemort is unconscious in his cage.

Harry rushes over, all instinct, pulls out his wand. He tries cutting hexes, with no success.
One of them cuts Voldemort on the arm, and he doesn’t need any more injuries.

He moans, low and pitiful, and Harry’s stomach clenches. He starts panicking, ready to call
for someone- who would you call? They did this- when one brown eye opens.

“I didn’t mean to!” Harry says, desperate. “I’m trying to get this thing to open! Relashio!”
he tries. Nothing.

“Exolutus,” Voldemort says, tone low and tired.

“Exolutus!” Harry says. Still nothing.

“Focus. Calm down and focus. Intent matters more than incantations, Harry Potter.”

Harry takes a big breath, closes his eyes, and envisions the cage opening. “Exolutus!” he
whispers and the cage opens, Voldemort spills out of it and onto the floor.

For a second, he just lays there, in his own blood, his eyes closed. He’s naked again, Harry
notes. He’s gotten very thin.

And then he’s trying to get up, but he slips on the wet floor, in his own blood. Instinctively,
Harry moves to help.

“Don’t touch me!” Voldemort snarls, all menace, and Harry draws back, raises his wand
because that hiss reminds him of who this is.

Voldemort doesn’t try to get up again. He simply moves a few inches to the right, supports
his back on the wall and raises his very long legs to his chest.

Harry lowers his wand when nothing happens. He gets his robe off and tosses it over at
Voldemort’s feet.

Voldemort ignores it, staring at Harry, all rage.

“What happened?” Harry asks.

He doesn’t answer.

Harry should leave. He should leave and yell at Kingsley. This is unacceptable, Voldemort
or not.

He doesn’t. Slowly, he sits on the floor, as far from Voldemort as the room allows, gripping
his wand tightly, because for the first time, Voldemort is not chained, though he is wearing
heavy-looking bracelets on both his wrists. Harry had assumed it was part of the chains, but
clearly not.
 “What are those?” he nods at the contraptions.

“Magic inhibitors,” Voldemort gives a derisive snort. “Invented them myself.”

“Serves you right,” Harry says, mad, because he knows just for who those were meant. For
Hermione. For Muggle-borns.

Voldemort closes his eyes, eventually leans his head against the wall. He looks tired. With
his eyes closed, he looks very human indeed. His hair is long, though when Harry first saw
him in this cell it was short. It’s past his shoulders, now.

He has the beginning of a beard too, and that is just -wrong. Very wrong. It looks nothing
like Voldemort.

“Tell me something, Harry Potter.”

“What?” Harry asks, mesmerised and horrified.

“Something pleasant.”

It hurts.

It’s hard to think of anything pleasant. His life hasn’t been very pleasant. And with him,
here, with the smell of blood in the air-

“This happened in my third year,” Harry starts.

He describes the weather, first. The anxiety from the locker room. The wind in his hair as
he lifted from the ground.

He describes the match, goal by goal, fault by fault. How he zigzagged into the sky,
dogged bludgers. How he spotted the golden snitch. The dive for it. The moment he closed
his fist around it.

“We won the Cup. For the first time, since I was at Hogwarts.” Such simpler times. “You
weren’t there, that year, to terrorise me.”

Voldemort hums. “I apologise. I believe I was held up in Albania, still reeling after the
effects of unicorn blood and possessing Quirrell. I assure you, if I’d have been well enough, I
would have been there.”

Harry laughs, startled. A joke. Voldemort, joking.

“That’s alright. There was Sirius that year to keep me busy.”

Voldemort opens his eyes, turns his head to look at Harry. “You killed Pettigrew. We found
him strangled to death, down in the cellars of Malfoy Manor.”

Harrys’ heart almost stops, remembering that awful, awful day.

 “Odd, that you could kill him and not me.”

“I didn’t. He-he was considering allowing me to escape. His hand, the silver one, just
wrapped itself around his throat and-there was nothing I could do! I tried to pull it off, Ron
tried-it just wouldn’t let go.”

“Ah,” Voldemort says, disappointed. “Me, again.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “It was you.”

“He had as much of a part in your parents’ death as I did. One would say, even more
reprehensible. I was their enemy. They were fighting against me. He was a trusted friend.
And yet you saved his life, when Black wanted to kill him and you tried to save his life, once
more, at Malfoy Manor.”

“Killing is wrong,” Harry says because he does believe it. He always did.

“How in the world did you survive?” Voldemort looks at him and he really is very tired,
because his face is much more expressive than usual. “You’re mediocre at best, in magic.
You’re selfless, ready to sacrifice yourself for anyone, unwilling to injure even wizards that
are coming after you, the first to speak up against injustices committed against your biggest
enemies, naive beyond stupidity. And there you are. And here I am.”

Harry has no idea what to say to this.

“Dumbledore,” he shrugs, in the end. “He orchestrated all this. The Hallows. All the clues.
And my friends; I’d have died loads of time, without them.”

“No honourable mentions to my Horcrux, I see.”

“What?”

“Did you ever bother to read something about Horcruxes or did you leave it all in charge of
that walking encyclopaedia that is Granger?”

“Weasley,” Harry corrects, distracted.

“No, definitely Granger. I am told Weasley is at best as ignorant as you are.”

“I meant, she’s Weasley now. She and Ron married.”

“My best wishes,” Voldemort quips, sarcastic. “Did you read about the very thing
Dumbledore sent you to hunt?”

“No,” Harry admits, embarrassed.

“No,” Voldemort repeats, incredulous. “Destroyed my Horcruxes, never even read a line
about them. Incredible.”

“I-she told me what I needed to know. How to destroy them.”

 “She should have told you about the protective properties a Horcrux has. How resistant to
damage they are.”

“I do know about that. I had to carry your stupid locket around my neck for close to a year,
because I had no means to destroy it-”

“You were a Horcrux! You were a vessel. The Horcrux protected its vessel, in order to
protect itself. Nothing could have killed you, save for basilisk venom, Fyendfire or myself,
the one who made the Horcrux.”

It leaves Harry speechless.

“It was the Horcrux, that helped you survive, in your first year, that killed Quirrell. Your
eyes flashed red at me and I was too out of my mind to understand what that meant. I thought
it was “a power I know not” or that you truly were a remarkable wizard. I could touch you
just fine, after I got my body, not because your mother’s love was in my new body, but
because the Horcrux in your head recognised me, when it hadn’t recognised me when I was
possessing Quirrell. I should have seen it.” Voldemort looks pissed off, and for a second, he
falls silent.

“And either must die at the hand of the other. Because I was the only one that could kill
you and you were the only one able to kill me-not by any merit of your own, but of course,
my curse would have rebounded, because you became the Master of Death.”

Harry just stares at him, shocked. It certainly makes more sense than “love.” Belatedly he
too wonders if Dumbledore knew the reason why Voldemort hadn’t been able to kill Harry,
but had to come up with something else, as he wasn’t willing to let Harry know he was a
Horcrux.

“I am a great wizard, Harry Potter. No one is as great as I. Not only am I a genius, an

effortless one, unlike your Miss Granger-Weasley that needs to swallow dictionaries, but
truly effortlessly genial. That is one part. The other, is my magic. Ask your friends, about
their control of magic, before they got a wand. Some barley manifest. Mudbloods would have
ended up killed by Muggles if they had that much power and used it. I alone could use it at
my will, with perfect control. That is what got Dumbledore so worried. Not just that I was
cruel and a thief, but because I could control magic, even without not knowing what it was.”

Harry knows most people do not have advanced feats of magic before eleven. He asked
Hermione, Ron and many of his classmates. As eleven-year-olds, they all talked about it. It
was only accidental and very minor things. Except-

“I was good too. Not like you, I couldn’t control it, but I used magic many times. I even
Apparated, once, when my cousin and his friends were chasing me. Straight on a roof top.”

“Yes,” Voldemort says very slowly, as if Harry is too stupid to understand. “My Horcrux
was keeping you alive. Protecting you. Try to Apparate without a wand now, Harry Potter.
See what happens. Your wand didn’t choose you. It chose the horcrux in you.

Without me, you’d be a little brat, no better than Draco, spoiled and entitled.”
 “I’d have had parents!”

“For how long? Your parents were fighting in a war. They were twenty-one, young and
foolish and fighting against me. Do you know how many people I killed? Have you seen the
duel at the Ministry? I held Dumbledore off -and he was an extraordinary wizard, wielding
the Elder Wand.

I would have killed your parents eventually, Harry Potter, the way I killed so many others.
Frank and Alice Longbottom were older, were skilled Aurors, unlike your parents that had no
jobs or actual life experience, and they fell to Bella and Rodolphus. You’d have been an
orphan anyway, even without the prophecy, and you’d be a no one. My Horcrux made you
great. Without it, you’re just a boy that breaks apart when he sees the blood of his greatest
enemy on the floor.”

Chapter End Notes

You don't need to take Voldemort's explanation on how the Horcrux works at face value.
If you liked the explanation from cannon, about how it all went down, you can assume
Voldemort is either lying or guessing wrongly.
If you like his explanation better, you can also go with it.
It will not make much of a difference for the main plot of this story.
That aside, I want to remind people that this will not be a nice Voldemort; he won't be as
cartoonishly evil as in cannon, or as two dimensional.
I'll give him some depth and development, but he is not, in any way, a good
misunderstood guy.
I just want to make sure people that like to read a redeemed Voldemort know what they
are getting into and won't be disappointed.
Thank you for reading and share your thoughts, if you wish!
 Chapter 4

Hermione comes with Harry to see Kingsely, that very afternoon.

She more waddles than walks from her Department to the Minister’s office, but somehow
that makes her even more terrifying.

He lets her do the talking; she is far more eloquent.

“I will not stand for torture. This must end, Minister. With all due respect, we did not win
the war so we can turn into our suppressors.”

“He killed Robards,” Kingsley says. He sounds exhausted.

“What?” Harry splutters. “How?”

“He didn’t kill him, kill him. But Robards was the one to stay with him, in that room, the
longest. To guard him. He killed himself, two weeks ago.”

“That is highly regrettable,” Hermione says, after a brief break. “I am sure Voldemort
would drive many men to suicide, but it is not exactly his doing. Even if Voldemort killed
him with his own hands, torture is still not a solution. It will not bring Robards back. It just
creates more monsters- do you think torturing Voldemort will have no effect on the men that
did it? Do you not worry that it will turn them-”

“You’re not there with him, Hermione. He is such a pice of- he’s nasty. Incorrigible. He
toned it down, while you were coming to talk to him,” He looks at Harry. “But when you
stopped, he was back at it again, antagonising every living thing that went near him.”

Harry feels guilty, which is silly. He’s not responsible for Robards. He certainly isn’t
responsible for Voldemort’s words and actions.

“Minister, if I ever hear he’s being treated inhumanly, I will go to the press.” Hermione is
very good at blackmailing. She has experience. “Naked and caged and unfed also constitutes
as torment, in my book. In any human rights book. Have you read the Geneva Convention? I
shall send it to you.”

They bicker back and forth. Kingsley isn’t happy with the Aurors’ behaviour either, but he
doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal, and he doesn’t understand why Hermione and Harry make
it into one.

Hermione wins, as she’s prone to do, when arguments are involved.

“Thanks,” Harry says, back in Grimmauld Place.

 “I suppose it was the right thing to do,” She says, still inflamed. She gives Harry a glance.
“But- Harry, why are you going there?”

“You know why. For Lestrange and all the others.”

It looks to him that she’d like to say more, but she doesn’t, clenching her jaws.

“Hermione?” He asks, hesitant.

“Yes?” She waits patiently as Harry gathers his words.

“Did you know? About the Horcrux? About me?”

“Oh, Harry!” She sits beside him on the couch, eyes getting wet.

She’s pregnant. She shouldn’t be upset. He shouldn’t drag her across the Ministry to fight
on Voldemort’s behalf, either.

“I suspected- the parseltongue, the visions- but I didn’t want it to be true!”

“He said his horcrux, inside me, was protecting me. That I couldn’t die, because only he
could kill me, besides basilisk venom or Fyendfire. Is that true?”

She sighs, wiping at her eyes. “In theory. You know those are the only things to destroy a
Horcrux- or amongst the extremely few. But that is for objects. No one wrote about a human
or animal vessel, so I cannot be sure. Living organisms- I don’t know. No one knows.”

“How did I not read about it?” Harry asks, bothered. “I made you do all the research-”

“Harry-”

“You know it’s true. All our school years, you did everything. I was so aware this
overpowered psychopath was coming after me, and what did I do? Did I bother to study, to
learn as much magic as I could? No. I played Quidditch and slacked off, barely did my
homework. No wonder he’s fucking pissed he lost to me, of all people.”

“You’re a great wizard, Harry!” Hermione says, fiercely. “Don’t let him get to you.”

(-)

Because he truly is a weak, pathetic fool, he returns. He can’t help himself.

Voldemort looks better. He’s shaved and properly dressed, with trousers and shirt and robe.
The cage is nowhere in sight, though the magical inhibitors remain, and he’s chained to the
wall by his leg.
 There are two chairs now, in the room, and a cot with a mattress and a particularly
uncomfortable-looking pillow.

I shared a soul with this man. For seventeen years. That’s why I can’t let go. Only he can’t
be sure if it’s only just that.

“I feel like I should have died, in the Forest. Since I came back, I don’t feel like I belong.”
Harry says what he cannot say to anyone else. “I feel distanced, from everyone else, like a
wall is separating me from the world. It’s when I lost the Horcrux.”

Voldemort watches him intensely, a strange glint in his eyes. “I don’t think it has anything
to do with it.” He says, surprising Harry. “Dying is a transforming experience. No one returns
unchanged.”

“No?”

“I should know, I died plenty of times.”

“So you feel this too. Like you don’t belong.”

“I’ve always felt that way, since I was born.”

Said so simply, so matter of fact. As if it means nothing.

“But after Albania, it was like you say; food tasted like ash. Drinks did not quench my
thirst.”

“And now?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’m yet to be fed.”

“They should, I requested they do-”

“Oh, I‘ve been told about your demands. But apparently, food is not a necessity for an
immortal being. I do not mind. I am not hungry.”

Harry rarely is, himself.

“What did you do to Robards?”

“Not worse than what he did to me.” Voldemort answers, brow raised. “Such weaklings the
Ministry holds in their employment, these days. I would have never gotten to Moody. It is a
sad day, Harry Potter, when you miss your old foes, because the new ones are just so
pathetic.”

“I bet you wish it was Dumbledore here, instead of me.”

Voldemort tilts his head. “No. I do not. You were never my enemy, I realise. You are just a
very passive recipient of an unrelenting obsession. Did he tell you, about your scar, or let you
figure it out on your own, as he was prone to do? Did he have the courage to look you in the
eyes and tell you he raised you like a pig to slaughter?”

Harry waits a long time before answering. “It won’t work.”

Voldemort gives him a searching look.

“You won’t be able to turn me against him.”

“Undoubtedly. He sent you to your death, and you obeyed, like a good little dog; there’s
nothing I can do to change your mind about him, if that didn’t do it. Can you imagine him,
Harry Potter, as he sat in that office of his, for months, years, and he plotted on when and
how to have you sacrificed?”

Harry does, occasionally. On really dreadful nights.

“He did what he had to,” he says with conviction.

Voldemort regards him carefully. “And after all that scheming, arranging all his puppets in
the ideal position,” he smirks. “Here I am. I won.”

Harry blinks at him. “I would hardly call this winning.”

“I’m alive,” Voldemort says softly, almost in a whisper. “It is all it takes.”

Harry suppresses a shiver. It’s complicated with Voldemort. His grandiose sense of self, his
delusions- Harry isn’t always sure what’s just empty brags or -more.

They stay in silence for a while.

“There is one last left.” Voldemort breaks it. “We’ve discussed all the Horcruxes, except
one.”

And after it’s done? Harry wonders. What is there left to say?

Harry tells him about the locket. About Regulus Black. Kreacher. Grimmauld Place,
having held it in his hands with everyone present when they first found it during the cleaning.
About Mundungus stealing it. Umbridge taking it from him. The plans to go to the ministry.
Ron, splinching; the tent, the months on end of starving; the locket affecting them all, but
especially Harry; the fight with Ron. Going to Godric’s Hallow, his wand breaking when
Nagini trashed it.

The despair.

Voldemort listens without interrupting as Harry pours his soul out. He needs a break when
recalling those very dark days, without his wand, without Ron.

“Did you dream about me?” Voldemort finally speaks, some two hours after Harry first
started.
 “Yeah. I had glimpses of your whereabouts, you were tracing Grindelwald, sometimes you
got mad or -”

“No. Did you dream about the Horcrux in the locket?”

Harry looks away. No one knows this. He told no one.

Tom Riddle had been twenty-something, young and handsome and so much more than
Tom Riddle at sixteen.

Harry was older too, wiser. He didn’t let the Horcrux speak, he didn’t trust a single word
he was saying. So Tom stopped speaking.

And started acting.

“I see,” Voldemort says, deliberately, when Harry fails to answer, and he feels his cheeks
redden.

“I’m certain the others dreamt about him too.” He says, defensive.

“Indeed. It made Weasley abandon you, played on his insecurities. That is what it does.
Finds your weakness, your worst fear and use it again you. Or, of course, finds your desires.”

Harry wishes the floor would open up and swallow him. “Anyway, Ron returned. Just in
time. Because Snape found us, through the portrait. He put the sword in a lake and I was
dumb enough to dive in, with the locket on. I would have died, if not for Ron.”

“You wouldn’t have died.”

Right. The Horcrux. “Well, still.”

“So, you finally had the sword. And the locket. Together.”

“Yes. I destroyed it.”

“Did you, now?” Voldemort leans back into his chair. “Harry Potter, haven’t you learned
lies do not work with Lord Voldemort?”

Harry panics, because he always made it seem like he destroyed them all. He and
Dumbledore, because he doesn’t want-

“I don’t care. You were all children, sent on a suicide mission by an old, meddling goat.
He’s responsible. I cannot possible hate Weasley and Granger more than I already do. I don’t
even care who did it. But I know it wasn’t you. You couldn’t, could you? You got attached.”

“They were affected too-”

“Affected, yes. But not attached. How could they be? The Horcrux in you recognised the
one in the locket. Yearned for it.”
 “Yes” Harry says, fast to latch on to that. Yes, it was the Horcrux’ desire to be joined by
the locket Horcrux, not Harry’s.

Voldemort smiles, and it is a significantly different smile than the other ones Harry had
witnessed so far.

It is predatory.

“How are you now? I mean-” Harry bites his lip. “When I died, so did the Horcrux. It was-
it was dead, too.”

And in so much distress.

“Are you just the piece of you that was left, in the Great Hall?”

“No. I am whole, once more.”

“But all the Horcruxes died-”

“So did I. And yet here I am.”

“I don’t understand it.”

“Magic is not terribly concerned with logic. And I always was an exception.
Extraordinary.”

“Extraordinarily full of yourself-” Harry mutters.

“The fact that I owned the Resurrection Stone,” Voldemort pretends Harry hadn’t
interrupted him. “Even more, turned it into a Horcrux, certainly had some effects. I cannot be
sure what, since I never studied the Hallows.”

“I can bring you the Beetle and the Bard.” Harry offers, even though it will be impossible
to give it to Voldemort; it will be confiscated immediately. But perhaps he can read it while
Harry sits there for the visit.

And what will you do, stare at him as he reads a children’s book?

“I would like that. But, at the end of the day, it is only a fairytale. There must be proper
studies, out there. Genuine History.”

Harry never researched it. Once again, he only did the bare minimum.

It’s only when he leaves that he realises he hadn’t asked Voldemort for anything in return.

(-)
 Voldemort starts the next meeting by telling Harry he’d given the current Head Auror,
Robards’ replacement, the counter-curse to a spell he invented himself. People are still
suffering from it, in St. Mungo, with Healers unable to fix them, years after they have been
cursed by Death Eaters.

“That’s good.” Harry says, stupidly.

“We have a deal, do we not?” Voldemort asks and Harry suspects he’s being mocked, but
he can’t prove it.

Silence falls. Harry is out of things to say. The Horcruxes are done with, the Deathly
Hallows out of the way- there’s nothing else.

His life hadn’t got any more interesting. The most exciting thing to have happened recently
was the discovery of a cabinet filled with what looks like old pictures in Grimmauld’s attic.
But Harry can’t open it, and neither can Kreacher, and while it will surely amuse Voldemort
to hear how a piece of furniture is defeating Harry on a daily basis, it’s not exactly anything
worthy.

The silence stretches on. To get it out of the way, Harry speaks.

“I heard you caused problems, with some Auror.”

Voldemort smiles, entertained.

“Did you notice all my guards are male now?”

“Ah-”

“Of course you didn’t. Typical Gryffindor. No eye for detail.” Voldemort sits as still as he
used to stand. He truly makes the dingy chair look like a throne.

“You should have seen them, Harry Potter, in the beginning; how careful everyone was;
how tense. But time erodes caution. Routine slows the mind. They got complacent. Some
forgot who I am- they have problems connecting this human face with the monster from
before. Others remember all too well, but they too got comfortable, confident I cannot fight
back.”

Which one am I? He thinks. Do I see him as a bit of both? But no. Harry isn’t comfortable;
not at all.

“Robards took that girl away from me. But he fired the other two women in the small band
of moronic guards. And they had nothing but contempt for me, but they were guilty of
sharing the offender’s sex. And they call me a bigot.”

“You are a bigot.” Harry is quick to remind him, though he shudders to imagine what
Hermione would have to say about this snippet of information.

“I am.” Voldemort allows, nonchalantly. “And I am also set on proving to these idiots that
men are not impervious to my charms. Already got my eyes on one. Looks promising.”
 “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I’ll alert Kingsely-”

“Go ahead. He’ll fire everyone, Obliviate them, bring others. As long as he brings me
people, there will always, always, be one to take the bait.”

Harry sighs, pushes a hand through his hair. “You’re just boasting.” He says. “It’s nothing.
What’s the big deal, anyway. A bunch of papers-really, just a kindness.”

“While I can’t claim I’ve ever read Witch Weekly before, that was certainly my mistake.
Knowledge can be found in the most curious of places. Between recipes for pumpkin pie and
the best way to clean the carpet, I learned quite a lot about you. Miss Skeeter truly seems to
adore you.”

Harry groans. “It’s all lies. She’s impossible.”

“I’ll admit I cannot help but like the woman. Wormtail used to read me the articles she
wrote about you during the Triwizard Tournament, waxing poetically about your bright green
eyes.”

Harry shakes his head, groaning.

“And then,” Voldemort goes on, gratified to embarrass Harry, “she switched. You know
what they say, nothing like a scorned woman’s wrath. She’s as vicious with that quill as I was
with a wand.”

“Made my life a living hell.” Harry mutters. “Worse than you, really.” Harry’s fifth years at
Hogwarts had been dominated by Skeeter and Umbridge, the terrible duo.

“I do wonder, what you had on her, to make her give that surprisingly honest and accurate
interview about that night in the cemetery.”

“She was an unregistered Animagus. Well, she’s registered now, but she wasn’t back
then.”

Voldemort laughs. “And here I was, thinking you above such things, forcing people-”

“It wasn’t me. I would have never figured it out.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

“After the Battle, she had the nerve to come around and argue that she alone gave me the
chance to tell people the truth about your return, in that Quibbler interview.” Harry spits, still
furious about it. “That she was the only journalist to tell the truth and alert the community.”

“Such a Slytherin. During my short-lived reign, there was pressure put on her, to publish
propaganda. But she would not, claiming she was busy writing a book that will discredit
Dumbledore.”

“She sure was.” Harry growls.

“Quite a gift it was. It’s through her book, that I learned Grindelwald had the Elder Wand-”

“I know.” Harry says and when Voldemort’s eyebrow raises, Harry just points at his scar.

Harry remembers seeing it in Voldemort’s head, finding the book in Godric’s Hallow, just
as Harry had escaped him once more.

“And now I got to read her articles about the saviour, the hero Harry Potter.”

"Don’t believe a word of it.”

“But I find there’s always some truth to her stories. Poor Harry Potter, raised by Muggles
that despised him.”

And wasn’t that a scandal when Rita had gotten hold of the Dursleys. It painted Harry as a
victim and the Dursleys as monsters, far more than they really were, which Harry would have
said was impossible to do, but she found a way.

Hermione insisted it did a lot of harm, having wizards learn that Muggles treat magical
children that way, especially someone like Harry, whom they love.

“Not all Muggles are like that.” Harry says what he’d told in the only interview he gave,
after the Battle, forced to reassure everyone that there is no need to hate Muggles. That
Dursleys were exceptions, and even so, they weren’t as terrible as Rita had portrayed them.

Voldemort just shakes his head, slowly, as if astounded by Harry’s insistence that the world
isn’t black and white.

(-)

The Dark Mark shines sombrely over the house. Four dead, parents and children, Muggle-
borns and half-bloods.

The outrage is tremendous. The panic makes people mad.

Trust in Ministry is at an all-time low, ever since the fiasco with Fudge and then
Thicknesse, allowing Voldemort to gain control of their world.

This just is the final nail in the coffin.

“He has to tell us about Lestrange.” Kingsley demands after the press starts questioning the
Ministry’s ability to keep them safe.
 Voldemort refuses.

“I’ll stop coming.” Harry threatens.

Voldemort gives him a death glare. For a second, Harry can almost see a spark of red in
them.

“You can not blackmail Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter.”

(-)

Harry stays aways to prove that he can, in fact, blackmail Voldemort.

He is almost tempted to join the Aurors, to become a dark wizard catcher, this time under
the law. He too is outraged by the last attack. They’re growing in daring and frequency.

Harry hates seeing people frightened again, shops closing on Diagon, just in case, wizards
and witches walking hurriedly on the street.

(-)

Hermione gives birth and Harry becomes a godfather for the second time. Rose is the
youngest, tiniest baby he had ever held in his arms, and it makes his knees weak.

Ron is the same, shaking with happiness.

There’s a brief moment, when they are alone in the room, as Weasley family members
keep coming and going; just the three of them and Rose.

Hermione’s laid on the bed, her daughter snuggled at her chest, Harry and Ron on either
side of her.

Their eyes meet in turn, and a powerful feeling that settles over them.

We made it, Harry thinks. Somehow we made it out alive, against all odds, and now Rose is
here.

Eventually Harry goes home, and he decides to walk, instead of going by Floor network.

Ron and Hermione have a family, a proper one and it’s what they deserve, what Harry
wished for them to have.

And what do you have?

 I have them, he scolds himself. I have Teddy.

(-)

Two more attacks happen, all in under three months. Only one victim dies, but several
others are severely injured.

Harry returns to the Ministry, determined to make Voldemort talk. Somehow.

He finds him back in the cage, naked again and full of blood.

“That’s it, that’s fucking it!” Harry snaps.

He pulls out his wand and breaks the cage open. Voldemort is conscious this time, and he
steps out of it on with more grace than the last time.

Harry pulls off his robe and throws it to him, but Voldemort doesn’t take it, staring at
Harry.

“Why are you so damn proud?” Does Voldemort hate him so much as to not even wear his
clothes, preferring to stay naked instead?

“Why haven’t you learned to transfigure a pice of anything into a robe? You’re in your
twenties!” Voldemort snarls back.

“Because I am stupid, that’s why.” And speaking of stupid…”Can you make an

Unbreakable Vow with those on?” He nods to the bracelets around his wrists.

“No.” Voldemort looks at him. “But I can make a magical oath.”

“What is that?”

“Same principle. I would swear on my magic. I cannot use it, with these inhibitors, not
much.” He gives a very soft smile. “But I can certainly swear on it.”

“If I get you out of here, will you swear to not leave my house? To not try to escape?”

Voldemort spends a long time thinking. “They will never let you take me.”

“I know you have a very low opinion of me. I can’t even blame you. But I am Harry
fucking Potter, and I did far more impossible feats. I broke and stolen not only from the
Ministry but from Gringotts.”

(-)
 Kingsley remembers it.

“I will tell them. Everyone. I will, I swear I will. I’ll go to Skeeter, If I have to.”

“You’re asking me to release him!” Kingsley is shocked.

“We will take all precautions, he will keep the cuffs, he will take an oath, and he will help
us with Lestrange. You said the inhibitors work; and they do. If they hadn’t, he’d be out
already. Because it’s not the seven Aurors that stop him, I assure you!”

“It will end very badly.”

“If he is to escape, he’ll escape from here too.” Harry points out. “Eventually, he will. Now
or in a year or seven or one hundred. He is Lord Voldemort.” Something in Kingsley’ tired
face tells Harry he knows this too.

“You are having problems with the Aurors. One day, someone will slip up. The more
people you expose to him, the more options you are giving him. I am the only one that was
ever able to stop him, albeit temporarily. Grimmauld is safe. I know him, I’ve known him all
my life, it’s not like he can fool me.” Kingsley's skeptical expression raises Harry’s blood
pressure. “I will take him, Kingsley. Unless you plan to kill me, I will take him.”

For a second, Kingsley seems to consider it.

(-)

“I swear on my magic I will not leave Harry Potter’s house, without his company or
permission. I swear on my magic I will not try to escape. I swear on my magic, I shall not kill
him.”

Or hurt him. Harry waits for Voldemort to say it, because they wrote it down as a demand.
Kingsley waits too.

Voldemort stares at them.

Harry sighs. Oh, well.

“That’s good enough for me,” he says.

The Unspeakable casts a spell at Voldemort. “The oath took hold.”

Finally. They’ve spent hours on it, with Voldemort refusing several different formulations.
 “How do you expect me to say I will not hurt any living being? The oath could take that to
mean a mosquito.”

“People, then,” Kingsley countered. “You will not hurt any people-”

“I could hurt someone’s delicate feelings.” Voldemort gives Harry a mocking glance. “And
the oath might interpret that as hurting, as well.”

Through it all, Kingsley kept looking at Harry, as if hoping Voldemort being impossible
would change Harry’s mind.

It hadn’t.

“On your head be it, Potter,” Kingsley says and leaves the room without another word.

“My, my. “Potter”. That was positively frosty.”

“We have to wait here a bit longer, as they secure the house.” Harry says, rubbing a hand
over his eyes.

Aurors are blocking his fireplace, sending Kreacher to Hogwarts, emptying the house of
any potion ingredients, because Voldemort might not be able to do magic, but he has just
little enough to manage a potion.

Voldemort had put on a robe- not Harry’s, it’s still lying on the floor- but one that the
Unspeakable had provided. He stands as still as always, no expression on his face.

“Aren’t you happy?” Harry asks. “To get out of here?”

“Do you think me a fool, to be grateful that I am leaving a cage only to get trapped in
another, albeit bigger one?”

“You should. You won’t be treated badly there,” Harry says.

“Comfort doesn’t matter to me. Only freedom and magic. And I can’t have those.”
Voldemort clenches his jaws. “Yet.”

“Why are you so antagonistic?” Harry doesn’t understand it.

“That is who I am, Harry Potter. Would you rather I pretend to be something else? You
should be honoured that I do not.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m very honoured.”

It’s dawning on him, what he’s actually doing, now that he has time to think.

He’s taking Voldemort home. In Sirius’ house!

Sirius hated that place. Besides, Sirius would understand. The Ministry wouldn’t be able
to contain him for much longer. But now he made an oath, and that’s for life.
 He is desperate to get out of here, surely. If he took such drastic measures, he must be
desperate to get out.

Voldemort might be able to find a way out of the cuffs, eventually, but for as long as Harry
lives, for as long as Voldemort lives, he will not be able to break the oath without losing his
magic.

That is the only reason Kingsley hadn’t actually killed Harry, and went ahead with this
lunacy.

“Five minutes,” an Auror says, opening the door briefly, to let them know.

“Is that the one?” Harry asks, adrenaline making him dizzy. “The one that you said looked
promising to fall for your tricks?"

Voldemort looks at Harry, tilts his head in disbelief.

“No, Harry Potter. That was you.”

 Chapter 5

“This is appalling,” Voldemort says as soon as they enter Grimmauld Place.

Harry can’t argue with him. Despite all his attempts, while at least it’s clean, Grimmauld
remains old and shabby, bleak and cold.

Wallpaper is missing in places and Harry cannot replace it, by Muggle or magical means; the
furniture is chipped, but it will not move, not more than a few inches.

Kreacher was of no help, suggesting Harry get along with the house, think of it as home.

“Yeah, I bet Malfoy Manor was much more to your taste.”

“Indeed.”

An eery silence surrounds them. Part of Harry’s brain hadn’t caught up with the rest, and it’s
still in disbelief that he’d brought Voldemort to his house.

That Voldemort is really there, standing in the foyer, as still and stiff as he’d been in the cell.

“Lestrange,” Harry reminds him, choosing to cling to the notion that this is what spurred the
decision that had brought a dark lord in his house.

“One of you should have considered to include Rodolphus in the oath,” Voldemort gives him
a smirk and Harry’s blood chills.

“You said you would-”

“My word means nothing, if it’s not in a magical binding oath. I’m a habitual liar, I would
say anything, Harry Potter, to get what I want. Besides, I never said I will give you
Rodolphus. You assumed.”

“I can take you back,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

“I am aware. I was simply pointing out how foolish you are, how rash. Think before you act.
I shall need an owl.”

“An owl,” Harry repeats with distrust.

“Yes. I have no idea were Rodolphus is. I’ve been locked up since the Battle. Now, of course,
we can go the Antonim route, trying to find him, from place to place, but surely Rodolphus
must have caught on there is a traitor speaking about our old hideouts when they kept getting
raided.”

Merlin.
“But you made it seem like you knew where he was. You said that he isn’t here-”

“What did I just tell you, about me and lies?” Voldemort sighs, as if personally offended by
Harry’s credulity. “I suspect he is in France, at some of his relatives, but he could be
anywhere. So- an owl.”

France? Not Ireland?

“I want to see what you write,” Harry tells him sternly, leading him down the hallway.

Just casually strolling with Voldemort.

He has a flashback of his fifteen-year-old self, of Order Members coming and going, making
plans on how to defeat the very man that is now calmly entering the kitchen where dozens of
people used to eat.

He remembers being seventeen, huddled with Ron and Hermione around the very table he
shows to Voldemort, as they made plans on how to steal the Horcrux from Umbridge.

“Very well,” Voldemort concedes.

Harry gestures for him to sit, brings him pen and paper, stashed in one of the cupboards.

It’s a muggle pen, but Voldemort doesn’t seem bothered, holds it with a confidence and ease
that comes from practice.

Rodolphus,

He starts, and the writing is remarkably familiar to Harry, the same one from the Diary, neat
and elegant, that Harry has nightmares of, on occasion.

I am alive, though a prisoner.

Let me first command you, for your efforts and extend my condolences, for Bella.

I am grateful to have had you as my loyal man.

To secure my release, I expect you to give yourself in. Your services, while deeply
appreciated, are no longer required.

D’s whereabouts are needed.

Lord Voldemort.

“No way he’ll believe that!” Harry insists. “No way. Anyone could have written it. Even if he
knows your handwriting, it could be copied-what’s D?”

Voldemort rolls the parchment.

“It is how he will know no one is impersonating me.”

“But what is it?”

“Nothing, Potter! A code. For him to know it is I that is addressing him.”

Harry takes the scrolls, unrolls it and reads it attentively a few times. He’s determined not to
be tricked, again. He points his wand at it, casting several spells meant to detect any foul
play.

He finds none.

He gets Voldemort to follow him-Harry had expected Voldemort will be difficult about it, and
he was just starting to panic- how am I supposed to get him to move if he doesn’t want it?-
but, for once, Voldemort complies, with no witty remarks.

Harry’s new owl, Midas, is slumbering in the living room. He blinks at Voldemort with his
big yellow eyes.

“Go, boy! Be careful!” Harry whispers as he ties the roll to his leg.

Midas flies away once he opens the window, and that is that.

It seems too easy. It seems mad that Lestrange will believe, despite the code, or that he’d
actually just hand himself in following the orders of a captive, fallen master.

Harry shows the house to Voldemort, room by room, except his own; Harry still sleeps in his
godfather’s old bedroom.

He makes a shitty host -

“this is the dining room, but it’s never used.”

“this is a guest bedroom. And um, so is this one- and the next.”

“I don’t know what this is, really, but ahm, yeah- here’s an old piano-”

The house is huge and looks even worse, outside of the few rooms Harry actually spends
time in.

Voldemort looks around, emotionless, right beside Harry.

He’s tall. Harry never truly appreciated it, had never stood so close to him, so it was never as
evident, the difference in height.

Harry barely reaches his shoulder, and he hates it.

He gives him Sirius’s mother’s rooms.

It’s as decrepit as the rest of the house. An old poster bed, though at least it’s huge, with dusty
sheets; a massive wooden desk that must have looked impressive some fifty years before, and
a generous, empty armoire.
It has its own bathroom, but Harry doesn’t even want to look inside to see the state of it.

“I’ll-uhm- bring some clean sheets. And towels. And -ah-” He scratches his head. He really
hadn’t thought this through, at all. “And I suppose you need clothes. There’s some in the
attic. They’re old but-”

Sirius’s been tall too, so Harry hopes some of his male relatives had shared that trait and
Voldemort can find something.

Until I can buy him some.

Buying Lord Voldemort clothes-

Harry frowns. He’ll have to leave the house for that.

I so didn’t think this through.

Voldemort is not pleased, but Harry knows he must be ecstatic to be out of the ministry’s cell,
no matter how much he protests about dust and moth eaten drapes. And then he slams the
door to his room in Harry’s face.

Harry stands there, unsettled.

What will you do, stay glued to his side for- for however long this will take?

Forever, Harry thinks, a little hysterically. This is forever.

But he refuses to think about it. Focus on the present.

Harry can’t realistically just stay around him all day. The man made an oath.

I will not harm Harry Potter. He hadn’t said it. He only promised not to kill him.

Harry spends minutes standing like a fool, until he hears the water running.

With a shudder, he goes back to the kitchen, but he doesn’t know what to do with himself,
sits there quietly, trying to process it.

(-)

It’s dark when he finally feels ready to move.

He finds Voldemort in the library, buried between books. He has this expression on his face,
raw and happy, like a child in a chocolate factory. He hadn’t had it as they left the Ministry
where he was tortured and beaten, but he has it now, surrounded by ancient tomes.
He’s also apparently been to the attic where he’d managed to procure a robe that fits him
perfectly. It’s a little old-fashioned, but in surprisingly good condition.

Of course, it has green accents around the collar.

He ignores Harry when he enters, but scolds his expression back into nothingness.

Harry sits on a couch and watches him.

He tries to read, picking a random book, but after his eyes go over the same sentence some
twenty times, he gives up.

The tall grandfather clock, adorned with snakes, ticks the hours away.

Harry struggles to keep his eyes open, after an especially stressful day, once the adrenaline
had left his system.

Incredibly, when time drags on and nothing happens, he falls into a fitful sleep. When he
wakes, the sun is high in the sky and Voldemort is still reading, unconcerned.

(-)

Heavy pounding on the front door brings Harry down from the library, at the crack of dawn.
Walburga starts shrieking.

“Oh, shut up!” Harry snaps at her as he runs past.

When he opens the door, both Ron and Hermione are standing there, wands drawn. Harry
hurries out of the house and closes the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” He whispers.

“Tell me it’s a sick joke!” Ron yells.

“Kingsley said-”

Harry grabs their hands and moves them off the stairs, to the corner, away from any windows
Voldemort might watch them from.

“Listen, I couldn’t leave him there. They would have slipped, at some point, and then he’d
have escaped-”

“Harry, you brought You-know-Who in your house-”

“Oh, seriously!” Hermione makes a face. “It’s Voldemort, Ron! But yes, how could you think
this is a good idea?”
Her hair is frizzier than ever, complexion deathly pale.

Ron, on the other side, is bright red.

“I just had to,” Harry will never be able to explain it to their satisfaction. Mostly because he
doesn’t really understand himself. “Listen, Hermione, you know what they were doing to him
and I just- it’s better this way, anyhow. He’ll give us Lestrange, he made an oath-”

“It’s insane!” Ron shakes his head. “Mate, come on! I know you have unresolved issues but-”

“What?” Harry snaps. “What issues?”

“Ron!” Hermione hisses. She pushes a strand of hair out of her eyes.

Some passersby are giving them strange looks, but neither hide their wands.

“I have to go back inside,” Harry says, after a few seconds.

“When were you gonna tell us?” Ron demands.

“When my owl was back!” Harry answers, a bit coldly. “I wasn’t hiding anything. There was
simply no time. I’ll write, when Midas returns. Or if you want to hear from me, you send
your owl. But don’t come around.”

“Why?” Hermione looks sick with apprehension.

“What do you mean, why?” Harry and Ron ask at the same time. “Voldemort is in the
house!”

“But you said it’s safe, that he made an oath.”

Harry rubs a hand over his face. “Yes. He made an oath not to escape and not to kill me. Me.
Not anyone else.”

“He’s wearing the inhibitors-”

“I have to go back,” Harry repeats, anxious to go in and make sure Voldemort didn’t sneak
out the chimney or something, keen to get away from the worried looks his best friends are
giving him. “I’ll be ok,” he says, trying to smile as he retreats.

It’s clear neither believe him, watching after him with something very much like horror.

(-)

Walburga is still shouting her head off when Harry locks the door behind him.

“FILTHY HALF-BLOOD!”
“Will you knock it out? Or at least try to come up with something more creative?” Harry
barks at her. “This half-blood thing is getting old.”

“She wasn’t talking to you.”

Harry jumps, turning to see Voldemort beside the staircase.

“HOW DARE YOU DEFILE MY HOUSE-”

“You’ve aged terribly, I must say.” Voldemort replies, serenely.

Heart beating a mile a minute, Harry frowns. “You know each other?”

“MY ANCESTORS-”

“Went to school with her.”

Merlin, but he’s old! Though one wouldn’t be able to tell, looking at him. Seventy something
means nothing for an immortal wizard. With the exceptions of a few very fine wrinkles at the
corner of his eyes, and a small crease between his eyebrows, Voldemort doesn't look a day
over thirty.

“But didn’t she like you? I mean she goes on all the time about dark shit and-”

“TRAVESTY, SHELTER FOR POOR, DIRTY ORPHANS-”

“Does she seem to like me?” Voldemort asks, one eyebrow raised.

Harry sighs. “Don’t mind her, batty old hag.” He goes towards the portrait. “Just help me
drag the curtains over her.”

Harry takes hold on one side, but Voldemort only starts walking up the stairs.

“OY!” Harry yells after him.

“You have a wand, Potter. Learn to use it.”

“Why, thank you!” Harry spits.

“TAKE YOUR HANDS OF ME!”

“It doesn’t work. Don’t you think someone would have dealt with her, otherwise?”

Granted, Kreacher was very experienced in shutting her up, when she went off, with patient
whispers, but Kreacher is not here, and nothing else works.

“Incompetent fools,” Voldemort sneers, peering at Harry over his shoulder.

“Yeah, right.” Harry snorts. “The whole Order came by-”

“Yes, the embodiment of competence,” he drawls, full of contempt.

“Dumbledore!" Even Voldemort wouldn't call the old Headmaster incompetent.

“He probably left her up to have a laugh at whatever wretched souls were living here at the
time.”

“She’ll scream for hours if we don’t cover her!” Harry has to yell himself to cover her.

“I’ve suffered through worse torments during my life than some measly screams.”

(-)

A day passes, then two, then three, and nothing happens. Voldemort is virtually always in the
library and Harry can’t be sure if he sleeps at all.

What a nerd, he thinks, with a hysterical laughter.

Harry spends his days mostly spying on him, or resting in his room, answering two letters a
day from Ron and Hermione, assuring them that yes, he’s still alive and no, he won’t be
returning Voldemort to his cell.

He’d imagined living with a dark lord, especially with their history, would be…dramatic, to
say the least. As it is, it is very, very quiet.

Quieter than it’s been before. Grimmauld always groaned and shifted around him, creaks and
bangs into the walls that used to wake him up.

It’s quiet now. Still.

It’s waiting, as Harry, for Voldemort to do something.

When Harry wakes on the fourth day, he finds Voldemort in the kitchen.

“Err-” he says, shocked by the sight, frozen in the doorway.

“How do you feed yourself?” Voldemort asks, looking through cupboards. He’s found
another well fitting robe, it seems, black with strands of silver.

“My house-elf deals with it, usually.”

“It’s not here.”

“Well, no. Of course not. You have a bad track record with elves.” With everything, really.
No one is safe to be around Voldemort.

Except Harry.

Are you, though? Are you really safe?

Voldemort refused to say he won’t hurt him; and Harry’s been so angry, so eager to get him
out of that cell, that he’d dismissed it. But it’s bothering him more and more, every time he
thinks about it.

What can he do, smash my head with a frying pan?

“If you have no elf, and you refuse to leave the house, how will you eat?”

Harry hadn’t thought about that. Hadn’t thought about many things, really.

Something whistles and Harry jumps, startled, clutching his wand.

Voldemort gives him an amused look, before turning to take the kettle off the flame.

Just a kettle. He stills his heart and puts his wand back in his pants.

And then Voldemort makes himself tea.

“You have no milk,” he says, displeased

Harry gawks at him. His shock turns into suspicion when he fills two cups.

He leaves one on the table and then passes by Harry, leaving the room.

Harry isn’t stupid enough to drink it.

(-)

Sweating profusely, Harry dashes over the street.

Won’t take more than ten minutes, he thinks as he runs so fast, he has trouble stopping,
barging into the Tesco located right at the corner of his house.

Some people give him suspicious looks.

Harry quickly fills a basket, with whatever he can find the fastest, head filled with awful
scenarios of what might he find when he returns.

You know he can’t leave. He made an oath. He can’t leave without Harry or his permission.

Still, it’s an exercise in paranoia, until he walks back through his front door; quietly, as to not
wake Walburga again.

As Harry fills the pantry, it strikes him that he hadn’t asked Voldemort what he eats, usually.
Harry’s rather convinced he won’t enjoy the crisps or the bags of sweets he had bought.
“Oh, well,” he tells himself. At least he got some milk and plenty of tea. Maybe he should
have gotten cookies.

Yeah, right, dark lords and cookies.

Harry puts the rest of the groceries away before opening a chocolate bar and quickly shoving
it in his mouth, starved.

(-)

Midas comes back with a note nine days after he’d left.

Harry scrambles out of his chair, heart wild.

He takes the note off Midas’ leg, with trembling fingers, tries to open it and is promptly
cursed.

He yells in pain, dropping it, fumbling for his wand-

“So stupid,” Voldemort manifests beside him, though Harry hadn’t heard him approach.
“Aren’t you in trouble? I’d go to St. Mungo’s, in your stead. That’s a quick acting curse. It
will reach your heart in minutes.”

“I want to read it,” Harry says, jaw locked. His fingers are already turning a deep shade of
purple.

Voldemort sighs, bends and picks the piece of paper with no troubles. He opens it in Harrys’s
sight.

Al Europe whelm.

That’s all it is.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Harry asks, his hand burning, reaching up his
arm-

“I have not a single clue,” Voldemort says, glowering at the note, indeed looking perplexed.
“I’ve no doubt I’ll figure it out.”

He folds it and puts it in his robe. “Hospital, Harry Potter.”

(-)
He’s amazed when he returns, exhausted, to find Voldemort in the library. He knows he can’t
escape; nevertheless, he’d been concerned for the three hours he’d spent in St. Mungo’s.

He only got away without Aurors getting called, because he’s Harry Potter.

“This is really dark magic, dear.” A kindly, elderly Healer had told him gently, but agreed to
not make a big deal out of it.

“What is ‘Al Europe Whelm?’” Harry demands, crashing on the couch. His arm still tingles,
as he was told it will for some time.

“I will find out,” Voldemort replays, unbothered, not even looking at Harry.

“Where do you find all these robes?” Harry asks, because he’s certain there can’t be that
many, in such excellent condition-

Another owl comes flying through the window, Daily Prophet tied to its legs.

Harry groans, getting up, woozy.

Rodolphus Lestrange had entered the Ministry Atrium, three hours before and had promptly
killed himself.

Your services are no longer required.

“What kind of influence did you have on these people?” Harry wonders, gobsmacked. “To
kill himself, over a few words-”

He clutches the newspaper, staring at Voldemort, who calmly turns the page of the book he is
reading.

Pure Lineage of the nineteen century.

“He was a loyal soldier.”

There’s no inflection in his tone, no sign of any feeling towards the death of a man that had
given his life to him.

Of course there is no feeling; remember who he is.

“It’s madness.” Harry whispers, shaking his head.

Voldemort finally looks up, fixes Harry with a glare.

“Says the boy who marched to his death because Dumbledore’s memory told him he must.”

(-)
I want to know how we can get rid of Dementors.

Harry puts away the letter from Kingsley, in which he’d thanked Harry, cordially, for
Lestrange.

There’s a cup of tea at the table, had been waiting for Harry, still hot, when he’d entered the
kitchen.

Harry ignores it.

He writes back that he’ll inquire about the Dementors and tells Kingsley about the letters
exchanged between Voldemort and Lestrange, about “D” and “Al Europe Whelm.”

When he arrives in the doorway of the library, he sees Voldemort standing by the window.

There’s clear longing on his face, as he watches the outside world and Harry is forcefully
reminded of the summer spent with bars at his windows, back at the Dursleys.

He thinks to retreat, he’ll come back later-

“What do you want, Potter?”

“Err,” Harry leans on the doorframe. “Kingsley would like to know how to get rid of
Dementors.”

Voldemort makes a disdainful sound.

“What gives him the impression I will ever tell him anything else?”

Harry doesn’t answer.

“I got what I wanted. I am out of his clutches. He can spend three decades studying
Dementors, in obscure libraries across the world, and he shall have his answers, then.”

Today he’s clad in a dark green robe, with silver cufflinks at the sleeves. He looks…better.
He’s still pale, but after spending so many hours by the window, every day, it’s not as ghastly
as how it’s been in the cell. The dark circles under his eyes are receding, though Harry can’t
guess how, since he’s always in the library, reading.

“Well?” He turns to look at Harry. “Aren’t you going to threaten to take me back, unless I
cooperate?”

Harry swallows. “No,” he says, simply.

Voldemort offers him an ominous smile.

 Chapter 6
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione doesn’t know what “Al Europe Whelm” means, either.

“A surge of all Europe? All Europe engulfed? All Europe buried?” she tries. “Perhaps it’s a
sick slogan, for their stupid ‘revolution’.”

“Sounds like it,” Ron makes a disgusted face.

“He seemed honestly confused, when he read it,” Harry says, gently extracting his hair from
Rose’s fist.

She giggles and tries to stand on his knee, her little face, with more freckles than ever,
splitting into a grin.

She’s got another tooth since Harry last saw her.

“He is a good actor, let’s not forget,” Ron points out.

“Besides, it could be just a thing Rodolphus came up with. Merlin knows he wasn’t the sanest
man,” Hermione sighs, and bends to wipe some drool from her daughter’s chin.

Harry knows it means something. Something that has to do with “D” and “D’s”
whereabouts.

Hermione can’t think what “D” stands for, either.

Harry would like to stay more, but as the minutes trickle by, he gets that uneasy feeling again,
so he hurries back to Grimmauld.

As always, Voldemort is in the library.

“Is that spit?” he asks, a curl to his mouth as he regards Harry.

Harry looks down and rubs at a wet spot on his shoulder. “Ahm,” he shrugs. “I saw a baby.”
He explains.

Voldemort’s disgust increases.

The next morning, or rather mid day, as Harry is prone to fall asleep hours after he gets to bed
and has a hard time waking in the morning, he not only finds the usual cup of tea waiting for
him on the kitchen table, but buttered toast.
He frowns, suspicious. They look hot. Voldemort must have just made them. Harry leaves it
untouched, making an omelette.

He should toss the toast in the bin and wash the dishes, only something inside him protests at
throwing food.

It is no matter; as always, by the time he comes back to get dinner, the kitchen is sparkling
clean.

(-)

“I missed you!” Teddy says, hugging Harry tight, ignoring the toys Harry just got him,
preferring to stay tucked in his arms.

“I missed you, too,” Harry whispers back. “I’m sorry, I’ve been a bit busy.”

Andromeda watches him with hawk eyes. Harry hadn’t known her before the war, so he can’t
be sure if she’d always been so intimidating and unsmiling.

They see each other rather frequently, but the woman keeps her comments short and almost
all about Teddy.

“I found a cupboard, in Grimmauld,” Harry tells her, to cover the silence, when Teddy finally
settles on the floor to unwrap his gifts. “I think it has pictures in it; I tried to open it, with
Kreacher but it won’t.”

“In the drawing room, up on the third floor?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

Andromeda nods. “You won’t be able to open it. Unless you have Black blood or know Dark
Magic.”

“What’s dark magic?” Teddy asks, looking up.

Harry pales a little-

“A branch of magic,” Andromeda answers, nonchalant. “If you’d like, I can give you a drop
of blood-”

Harry shakes his head, stomach in knots. “No, no, that’s-” Blood magic is dark magic. “It’s
fine, thanks.”

He gives Teddy a pointed look, trying to signal to Andromeda that maybe he shouldn’t hear
or understand is normal to use blood for anything, but she just dismisses him and returns to
her knitting magazine.
When he goes back to his house, he climbs on the third floor, peering through the dirty glass.
He’s positive he can see Sirius, on the top picture in a stack of photographs. Maybe it’s
Regulus, he can’t be sure.

Kreacher had said they had looked identical, at that young age, and there is no way to
determine unless he gets a better glimpse.

They’ve spent hours trying to open it; or rather, Harry did as Kreacher laughed every time
Harry would fail, telling him it will not work.

Harry goes to the library, ignoring Voldemort’s surprised expression as he starts looking
through the shelves.

“Err,” Harry stops between the rows of books after some minutes. He can’t say he’s been in
the library often, before Voldemort, but he’s pretty sure it had been a mess, thousands of
books everywhere. Hermione used to complain; she’d tried to deal with it, but half of the
books would scream at her or try to eat her face, cursed against muggleborns.

Now it’s all organised. Alphabetically, by function and language.

There’s no dust on the shelves.

“My, my. You’re looking for a book, Potter?” Voldemort drawls. “Have you hit your head?”

“Shut it!” Harry barks, walking among the rows, peering at the titles. After five minutes, he
sighs. “Something with locking charms and their counterspells?” he asks, uncertain.

Voldemort stands; his robe, another dark green one, makes him look even taller than he is.
Harry thinks he might have gained a bit of weight. Or it’s just the cut, putting emphasis on his
broad shoulders.

“For what, exactly?”

“I’m trying to open a cupboard,” Harry says, refusing to feel embarrassed by how easy it
sounds.

“You tried Alohoromora?” Voldemort asks, mocking.

Harry just rolls his eyes.

Voldemort walks right past him, so close their robes touch. Harry backtracks, right into a
shelf, his hand reaching for his wand, but Voldemort just moves past, without incident.

Blinking fast, he tries to calm himself. Granted, he isn’t expecting any sort of physical attack
from Voldemort, he doesn’t look like the kind to brawl like muggles, but still.

Having him so close, even for a second, had made his heart beat faster, his skin grow hot.

“There you go.” Voldemort is back beside Harry, some seconds later, though he keeps more
of a distance as he extends three volumes.
Harry takes them, mouth dry.

“If these fail you, you have others, on the right side.” Voldemort nods towards the last
shelves. “But I doubt you’d approve of that kind of magic.”

Harry nods; he wouldn’t. “Someone told me I can only open it with Dark Magic, but I’m
determined there are other ways.”

There always are other ways. It might mean more hard work, but it’s out there.

Harry goes to his room and opens the first book.

(-)

“What were you thinking?” Voldemort demands, pushing a newspaper in his face, as soon as
Harry steps into the kitchen.

As usual, tea and toast wait for him. But for once Voldemort is there as well, looking
displeased.

Lucius Malfoy has been photographed outside his house for the first time in years. The article
reminds the public of all the man’s crimes and of his trial, in which he was acquitted, on
Harry’s word.

“I understand Narcissa. Maybe even that stupid boy. But Lucius?”

“Don’t you start as well!” Harry says, defensive. He’s gotten enough grief over it, form
everyone.

He tried to have me killed! Ginny had pointed out before the trial.

Hermione had nodded, because she had been petrified by the basilisk that very same year,
curtsy of the same diary Lucius snuck into Hogwarts.

“I require an explanation,” Voldemort goes on, when Harry tosses the paper aside and starts
making his own tea.

“I don’t see why you’re so surprised!” He snaps. “After all, here I am, with you, of all people.
Compared to that, letting Malfoy go free is nothing.”

“You and I, are different.”

Oh, how Harry knows.

“He was punished enough. He did time in Azkaban when he was caught in the Ministry, you
terrorised him, sized his house, tortured his family. He learned his lesson.”
Voldemort shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. Idiotic child.”

Truth is, Harry doesn’t care. He did it for Draco, for Narcissa. Both of them had saved his
life-Draco at Malfoy Manor and Narcissa in the Forest. They helped put Voldemort away.
Instrumental, really, what with Draco having had ownership of the Elder Wand.

Harry giving them a father, respectively a husband back, had seemed like fair repayment.

“You are all naive, dithering idiots.”

“You’re just bitter because he abandoned you.” Harry shrugs, looking around for sugar,
opening cabinets at random.

“He abandoned me back in the first war, too. I always expected him to do it again. Slytherins
do not remain loyal, without something in it for themselves.”

“Bellatrix and Rodolphus remained loyal.” Fanatical, actually.

“They were special.” A brief break. “It’s on the top shelf, where sugar ought to stay.”

Indeed, Harry reaches up, and he finds it in a white jar, labeled in Voldemort’s elegant scrawl,
right besides other jars that supposedly contain salt and pepper.

Harry remembers buying condiments at Tesco, but he doesn’t remember owning jars, nor had
he ever needed them, when salts and sugar came in their own cans. But they are muggle cans
and, apparently, not good or classy enough for the dark lord.

It’s weird. Voldemort turns out to be rather domestic.

“Look, the man is basically a prisoner anyhow. This is the first time he leaves his house, he
was too ashamed to show his mug-”

Voldemort laughs. “Ashamed. Malfoy, ashamed. He testified against so many still free Death
eaters at the time. He didn’t get out of his house because they’d have murdered him. The
Manor is impenetrable. He was safe, there. And now Rodolphus is gone so he can walk
around unconcerned.”

“It doesn’t matter, yeah? If we can save a life, one family then so be it.”

Voldemort stares at him, hard.

Harry finds his tea bags on another shelf. “You went to school with his dad, no?”

“Same year,” Voldemort confirms after a few seconds.

Merlin, he’s old. It always shocks Harry when he remembers it.

“To give him credit, Lucius is far more willing to get his hands dirty than his father was.
Abraxas was all good about shoving money at me and introducing me to people that would
become my followers, but he nerver took the Mark. And when he found out his son did-he
threw a fit.”

Harry snorts. “I’m surprised he survived the first war.” He has a vague recollection of
Abraxas dying sometime in his sixth year.

“You know, Harry, I do not kill everyone that I encounter, no matter how tempting it is.”

Harry’s thrown off, because this is the first time in years the man uses just his given name.
No Potter, no full name. Just Harry. His heart beats faster, suddenly.

“If I would, there would be so few of us left.”

(-)

“Bombarda!” Harry yells, incredibly frustrated, after reading for days and trying all the spells
in the books. Nothing worked.

Harry knows it was a bad idea as soon as the spell leaves his wand.

Indeed, it rebounds, leaving the cupboard intact. He barely has the time to shield himself. The
spell doesn’t shatter him to pieces, because of it, but it throws him on his back.

“Fuck!” he swears, rubbing his head.

“Pathetic.”

Harry jumps to his feet and turns, sharply, to see Voldemort leaning on the doorframe.

Cheeks flaming, Harry gives him a nasty look. “You were defeated by a baby, so maybe you
shouldn’t talk.” He says through gritted teeth.

Voldemort ignores it, moving past Harry to inspect the cupboard.

“At least five spells come to mind that would open it,” he says, contemptuous.

“I’m not using Dark Magic,” Harry shoots back.

“I wasn’t talking about Dark Magic.”

Harry sighs. He should give up. But the promise of seeing something new with Sirius is too
tempting.

“Fine, I’ll bite. Tell me.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “I think not. You clearly lack the intellect to understand such
spells, if you go around casting exploding charms at an indestructible object.”
“Go fu-”

“However,” Voldemort says sharply. “I can open it for you.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not giving you my wand. I’m not that stupid.”

Kingsley had warned him to never allow Voldemort close to his wand; the small amount of
magic that the suppressors didn’t completely block is insignificant, but could become more
stable with a conduit.

In normal folks, a wand makes no difference, but he isn’t normal. In normal folk, the
inhibitors suppress all magic, but some lingers around him, anyway.

“Oh, you are that stupid,” Voldemort says with a ferocious smile. “As it is, I don’t need a
wand to open it.”

Harry goes to stand at his side. “No? So how exactly-”

Voldemort hisses.

At first, Harry thinks it’s out of frustration or anger but then, with a pang, he understands.

The clasps on the cupboard are made of silver snakes. They move, coming out of the loops
with a soft noise.

Parseltongue. Harry looks at Voldemort, shocked.

Is this how I used to sound? No wonder Justin and half the school thought me evil.

It sounds threatening. Ominous.

Inexplicably, Harry feels pain, deep in his chest, at having lost the ability, along with the
Horcrux.

Voldemort smirks, a smug expression on his face. His long fingers close around the handle,
also made in the shape of a snake, and the dusty glass door opens.

Harry grabs the stacks of photographs at the top.

A four, five-year-old boy smiles and winks mischievously at him, on top of a child broom.
Harry knows it’s Sirius, just by his expression.

Teddy could be his son, really, they resemble each other to an incredible degree.

He gathers all the many albums stacked in the shelves with shaking hands.

“Thanks,” he stays, stopping briefly, before he leaves the room.

(-)
Harry doesn’t understand what had happened with the Black family- Sirius looks so happy, as
a child, in all his pictures at that age. It’s Regulus that is shyer, less likely to smile.

Dozen upon dozens of pictures with them, along with generations of Blacks. Harry shoves
those aside, fast, looking for his godfather, so full of emotions he doesn’t even care
Voldemort is seated on the other side of the table.

Once Sirius had started Hogwarts, the pictures with him are rarer. His smiles more vicious
smirks than genuine merriment.

The last he finds, Sirius must have been around sixteen, tall and broad shouldered, looking
striking in his expensive robes. He isn’t smiling, a blank expression on his face and fire in his
eyes.

He looks very handsome and Harry blushes, ashamed. He was your godfather! Get it
together!

Harry had long before realised he has an appreciation for tall, dark men.

He realised it in the tent, with the locket dangling around his throat as he slept-

Harry shakes his head and looks up at Voldemort, who had been strangely quiet, no mocking
words for Harry and how much he evidently treasures this pictures of the only family he had
had, of the only adult in Harry’s life he had felt he could depend on.

But Voldemort isn’t even looking at him; he’s glancing down at some of the pictures Harry
had discarded.

Harry peeks over, leaning in.

Bellatrix Black had been gorgeous, no matter how much it pains him to recognise it. She
looks as proud as she had been in life, long, thick shiny hair falling in her very dark, alluring
eyes.

There are dozens of pictures with her as well; Harry recognises Andromeda and Narcissa in
some of them.

Strangely, the one that Voldemort is staring at, held loosely between his fingers, is with
Bellatrix as a very young child, Kreacher running after her, in and out of the frame, trying to
take away a wand she must have stolen from her parents.

“Where is she buried?” Voldemort asks, voice low.

That always means danger with him. When he’s most angry, Voldemort’s voice drops instead
of rising. “Or did they burn her?”

The Ministry burned most of the Death Eaters bodies, when no family came forward to claim
them.
They hadn’t wanted to release Bellatrix to Narcissa, Harry knows. Narcissa had been a
pariah, son and husband awaiting trial, in Azkaban.

But Andromeda, mother of a heroine, could not be denied. People had whispered, confused
about her request, claiming the body of the woman that had killed her daughter, but no one
dared say no to her.

“Why do you care?” Harry asks in a whisper.

“How insensitive,” Voldemort says, glaring at Harry. “And you called me callous, for not
caring about your dead parents.”

“But you didn’t care about her,” Harry insists. “You don’t care about anyone.”

“Is that so? How do you know?” Voldemort’s face is blank, but his eyes flash. For a second,
Harry imagines he can see a spark of red in them. “Oh, wait, let me guess: Dumbledore told
you.”

Well, yes. But Harry’s seen it for himself, the way he treated his Death Eaters and-

“He must be right; after all, he was omniscient.” It would be hard to miss the fury in
Voldemort’s voice.

“He was,” Harry defends Dumbledore, though he has his issues with him, still. “You never
showed-”

“Where is she? What have they done to her?” Voldemort hisses.

Harry bites his cheek, eyes falling on the young Bellatrix, laughing as she sets the curtains on
fire.

“She’s buried at Malfoy Manor.”

Voldemort’s face twists into a snarl.

(-)

Harry is melting. It’s one of those days, when Grimmauld’s weather charms just decide not to
work.

Harry tried to alter them, had read more books than he’d ever wanted, including Ancient
Runes, but nothing works in the damned house.

It is hot. August at its worst.

When Harry goes down to the kitchen, the coolest room in the house, he finds a cold tea
waiting for him, instead of the usual hot ones.

It’s starting to bug Harry, the whole breakfast thing. What is Voldemort playing at?

At noon, it’s almost unbearable to be in the house; Harry’s sweating, just in T-shit and jeans,
and he thinks to go to Ron’s, to cool down.

But then he thinks of Voldemort, trapped here, in this heat.

Harry goes looking for him, guessing correctly he’ll find him in the damned library.

It’s even worse there, the only room with tall, wide windows, the sun shining through them.
And Voldemort is clad in the black robe, the one with silver accents. It looks very thick.

Harry doesn’t know how the man isn’t sweating; he’s possibly too elegant for it, or
something, but he does look irritated, giving Harry a hateful glare as soon as he enters.

“Why don’t you go down in the kitchen?” Harry asks. “It’s cooler down there.”

“I don’t read in the kitchen,” Voldemort says.

“Why not?” Harry frowns.

“Because the kitchen is for eating; it is no place for books.”

It’s such a Hermione thing to say; he wouldn’t have thought she’d have anything in common
with Voldemort, but they share an unhealthy respect for books.

“That’s nonsense,” he says.

“You lack discipline.”

“Well, guess I didn’t have parents to teach me these things!” Harry barks.

Voldemort is not impressed. “Neither did I,” he reminds Harry. “And yet, I still posses
manners.”

“Oh, yes. What a gentleman, killing and torturing your way around the country.”

“Suit yourself. If you’d have a routine, if you’d discipline yourself, you wouldn’t struggle so
much, mentally.”

Harry can feel his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline. “What?”

Voldemort is done talking, plainly, because he turns back to his book and ignores Harry.

But Harry can’t let it go. The nerve on this man-

“If anyone here has mental issues, that would be you,” He tells him. “You’re monstrous and
psychotic!” Harry says, pacing around. His T-shirt is stuck to his back, wet. “And this?” He
gestures around the library, with all the books arranged, scrolls of parchment carefully
stacked besides ink-pots and quills. “This isn’t discipline! This is- I don’t even know what it
is, but it’s strange! I can’t find one damn thing in the pantry!”

It’s all so clean and organised. It freaks Harry out, trying to imagine Voldemort cleaning
cabinets or making breakfast, sorting tea bags by flavour. Ridiculous.

“You’ll get used to it.” Voldemort drawls, slowly turning the page.

“It’s my house!” Harry points out. “You should get used to how I do things.”

“You don’t do anything.” Voldemort says, still calm. “You’ve been rotting in this house, in
chaos and misery.”

Voldemort is too calm. Harry’s lingering on the edge, waiting for something terrible to
happen.

His stillness makes Harry think of a snake, patiently stalking its prey, waiting for the perfect
chance to strike.

“And what’s the deal with the tea, huh? Why are you making me toast?”

“It’s the polite thing to do, after you so graciously received me in your house.”

“Spare me!” Harry says, voice embarrassingly high. “You’re trying to poison me!”

Voldemort sighs, as if he’s dealing with a particularly unreasonable child. As if he hadn’t

tried to kill Harry for the best part of a decade. He looks up.

“Aren’t you paranoid?” he asks. “Poison you with what, exactly?”

“I don’t know! You can clearly open stuff that the Aurors, Kreacher and myself hadn’t been
able to. Who knows what’s hidden in this shithole!”

That’s how he gets his robes, Harry thinks. He found armoires with snakes on them and
commanded them to open.

“Are you quite done?” Voldemort demands. “My patience is not without limits, Harry
Potter.”

Back to Harry Potter.

Good. That’s good. You don’t want him calling you Harry, as if you are friends. He doesn’t
deserve to call you Harry.

“You’ll just have to suffer it,” He says, spiteful.

A muscles jumps in Voldemort’s jaw. “I thought you said I wouldn’t be tortured here.
Throwing a tantrum is not only embarrassing, but it is quite torturous.”
Harry takes in a big breath, shuts his mouth and leaves, before he can continue to act foolish.

It’s the heat, he thinks. It’s getting to him.

He goes to Ron.

Voldemort can go ahead and melt, for all Harry cares.

(-)

The next day is just as bad.

After a cold shower, he goes down to the kitchen, to find Voldemort already there, sitting at
the table, drinking water from a tall goblet, engraved with the Black crest. Harry has no idea
where that came from either, had asked Kreacher to use a nice, normal muggle set Hermione
had bought when she used to live with him.

Harry’s tea and toast are waiting. He groans.

“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he says, defeated.

“I am,” Voldemort confirms. “So you might as well just eat. We both know you will,
eventually. You always do what I want you to, even if it might take a while.”

“You’re delusional, sometimes.” Harry says, getting a jug of pumpkin juice from the pantry,
that he’d bought just days prior. “Most of the time.”

“We shall see.”

Harry could just go back to his room, or to the living room or to Ron’s. He could visit Teddy.

He sits across Voldemort.

“You’re sitting in Sirius’ chair,” he says, mildly. “I’d rather you not.”

“I rather not be here at all, I assure you,” Voldemort replies.

Harry sighs.

You can’t let him get to you. He’s just doing and saying these things to rile you up. Just don’t
react.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” he says. “I know you must be hot.”

Voldemort is in his care, as absurd as that sounds, and Harry should remember that. He gets
no pleasure thinking the man is uncomfortable.
“It was hot, back at the orphanage.” Voldemort responds. “There were no cooling charms
there, either. I trained my mind to ignore it. The heat, the cold, the hunger. Nothing bothers
Lord Voldemort.”

It’s so fascinating when he starts referring to himself in the third person. When Harry had
told Hermione about it, she’d said it’s most likely a way for him to dissociate himself from
certain parts of his past.

“The incessant wailing of children, the sirens in the war. If you think this is hot, you haven’t
been locked in a bunker, with fifty other people, for hours on end.”

Harry winces. He can’t imagine it. The war. He doesn’t know anyone else that had lived
through that. Tom Riddle had; he’d lived through the World War as a muggle, every summer,
starting his second year at Hogwarts and all the way until his last.

He looks at the man in front of him, made of pride and spite, and he can’t see the child he
once was.

And yet he’d seen that child in Dumbledore’s memory.

“You were creepy back then, too,” Harry says. “Violent. You killed animals.”

This is Voldemort. Harry can’t forget that, can’t let his empathy blind him.

“I beg your pardon?” Voldemort raises an eyebrow.

“Billy’s rabbit. Mrs. Cole said so, to Dumbledore.”

“Ah. The stupid rabbit,” Voldemort says, but he smiles, slightly. “No wonder Dumbledore
hated me; I never knew that woman had already filled his head with her tale of woe before he
even met me.” A brief pause. “Did he tell you he set my belongings on fire?”

Harry smirks. “Yeah. Because they weren’t your belongings, were they?”

Voldemort rolls his eyes. “We were all thieves there. We were poor. We stole from the streets
and from each other. Food, toys, books. Whoever was too weak to do so, died, carried away
by the pox, bodies too malnourished to survive. So we did what we had to do. The older ones
stole from the youngest. The smart from the stupid. It’s not my fault I had magic and was far
more intelligent than the rest. We were all vicious. I stole Billy’s breakfast, so he threw away
my book. I pushed him down the stairs and his older friends broke my nose. I killed his
rabbit, and they left me alone.”

Harry suppresses a shiver. He remembers Vernon threatening Harry with orphanages, when
he misbehaved. And even Harry had known orphanages were terrible, even if he’d never seen
one, even if he’d been only six years old.

But everyone seemed to know, a consensus of sorts, that those places were terrible. Hermione
says they did away with them, that they have another system in place now, for orphans.
“I only had Dudley to steal my food,” Harry says. “Granted, they didn’t give me much,
anyway.”

“You never fought back?” Voldemort looks at Harry, curious.

“No.” It would have only landed him in worse trouble.

Voldemort had chosen to have the others notice him, see him as stronger than them. He had
used his magic to punish.

Harry had chosen to become unobtrusive, did his best to be invisible to the Dursleys. He used
his magic to help him run and hide, when Dudley wanted to harm him.

“You wouldn’t have survived at Wool’s,” comes Voldemort’s verdict after a few seconds.
“We’d have eaten you alive.”

“I’m sorry you had to grow up like that,” Harry says, honestly.

Harry can acknowledge the terrible person Voldemort is, but he can be sorry for the boy he
once was.

Voldemort doesn’t appreciate pity or sympathy.

“Don’t get sentimental, Potter,” He spits. “Weren’t you raised in a cupboard?”

Rita had gotten hold of that gem when she’d talked to the Dursleys and now everyone and
their mothers knew it.

Harry takes a big gulp of pumpkin juice.

“You called me monstrous, the other day. Weren’t the Dursley monstrous? I only tried to kill
you, fast and clean. But who starves a child? What kind of people shove a baby in a closet,
hmm?” he asks, cruel. “And speaking of sadistic bastards, didn’t Dumbledore send you back
to them every summer, the same way he sent me back to a war torn London?”

Harry stands and leaves.

(-)

This isn’t such a big deal, get a grip! Harry tells himself when he enters the forth muggle
clothing store. Just pick something and get out!

Only, Voldemort will hate the clothes anyway, what with them being muggle.

Harry refuses to go to Madam Malkin and be seen buying summer robes for a tall man. He’ll
never hear the end of it, and Rita Skeeter will write about his mysterious lover for at least two
years.

So at least he should buy something fancy, to satisfy the snob in Voldemort. Something tells
Harry, Voldemort would rather melt than wear jeans and T-shirts, or Merlin forbid, shorts.

“How may I help you?” A young man about his age asks Harry, smiling large. “Would you
like a glass of water, or a coffee, while you decide?”

Right, it’s that kind of store. Certainly not a treatment he’d receive at Primark.

“Err,” Harry feels very out of place in his jeans and sneakers. The floor is cleaner than his
shoes. “I’m looking for a-present. For a man.” He clarifies dumbly, since he’s already in the
men’s section.

“Of course. A certain article or-?”

“Ahm, yeah. I mean, no. That is to say, a whole thing. Outfit. More than one.”

“I see,” the man agrees, pleasantly.

“I don’t have measurements,” Harry says, more and more uncomfortable. “He’s tall.” He
adds. “And- yeah. He’s tall. About -like this.” He raises his hand some dozen inches over his
head.

Charles, as his name-tag suggests, blinks at him.

“I’m afraid we need a bit more than that, sir.”

Harry looks around, wildly. There are plenty of posters hanging around the place, men
modelling various outfits.

“He looks like that one.” Harry points to an attractive brunette. It’s not like that’s his criteria
for Voldemort. All the models are attractive, that one just happens to be tall and slender, but
with broad shoulders.

Charles looks at the poster. “Oh, lucky you.” He whispers and Harry’s cheeks burn.

He’s unsure what to comment. Vernon had hated “homosexuals” more than magic, and Harry
remembers many muggles shared his opinions. Maybe times have changed.

“He’s not-ahm- no, I mean- Yeah. He’s about that size. It’s fine if he isn’t. I can-ah- tweak
them.”

“We have our own tailors, sir. If they don’t fit, you may return them for adjustments.”

“Sure.” Harry nods, but he’ll use his wand if it comes to it.

Though he can’t see how that conversation between him and Voldemort would go.

His cheeks burn again.

It’s torturous. In the end, Harry stops Charles from showing him various shirts and trousers.
“Look, just pick whatever you want. I trust you. Just make it fancy and nice.”

Charles is thrilled with Harry. No wonder, judging by the prices. Harry will have to confound
them into accepting cash, because he doesn’t have one of those card thingies muggle store
seem to request, after a certain threshold.

“Are you interested in underwear?” Charles asks, conspiratorially, just as Harry thought they
were done.

Oh, fuck.

No, Harry isn’t interested. He can’t. Surely, Voldemort would murder him, somehow, if Harry
presents him with underwear.

But he must need it, right?

“Ok,” Harry whispers, faint. “No, no. No!” He adds, when Charles shows him some
ridiculously over the top underpants. “Just -normal. Don’t you have normal stuff? Please?”

“Are you sure? These are very nice,” Charles winks, holding some red boxers made of silk.

Harry’s knees go weak. “I’m very sure. He hates red. He’s a green kind of guy,” he rambles.

“We have them in a nice, dark forest green-”

“No- please!”

He must look tortured because Charles leaves him alone after that.

(-)

He leaves the many bags at Voldemort’s door, swiftly, and then hides in his room for the rest
of the day.

Why are you acting like a child? You’ve done nothing shameful. It’s a necessity.

He dreams of the locket Horcrux, of Tom, wearing the silk red boxers, in the tent of horrors.

He wakes up drenched, and it has little to do with the persisting stifling heat.

(-)
 Voldemort is wearing a light white shirt and black trousers. They fit him perfectly.
Criminally, really.

Don’t stare. Ignore it.

Especially ignore the smirk on his face.

Harry’s so distracted, trying to do anything to ignore the awkwardness, that he only realises
he has a piece of the suspicious toast - waiting for him, as always- in his hand when it
touches his lips.

He hastily drops it back onto the plate, as if burned.

Voldemort’s suddenly very close to him.

Harry reaches for his wand under the table.

But Voldemort just grabs the toast.

Harry looks up, just in time to see Voldemort take a bite out of it. He chews it, slowly.

“You’re a fool, Harry Potter.” He says, after he swallows, sounding more amused than ever,
and very, very pleased.

Chapter End Notes

Some of you wanted to read more about day to day weird interactions between Harry
and Voldemort, so this chapter is just that. Not much plot happening, and it gets a bit
silly, but we will be back on track with the next chapter.
 Chapter 7
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“You really should do something with yourself. Find a career. You are young and you are
wasting away in this house. All your friends work, do they not?”

Voldemort is standing between two bookshelves, examining the titles.

Harry’s been pretending to read, for lack of anything else to do.

Voldemort really loves books, Harry thinks. He should have been a librarian.

He stifles the laugh that tries to rise at the image his mind provides.

Well, he’d be better to look upon than Mrs. Pince, that’s for sure.

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” Harry says, ignoring the twisted ideas that come to him, on
occasion.

“A poor excuse. I’ve been living here for two months. You’ve been out of work for years. Is
there nothing you’d like to do?”

“I always wanted to be an Auror,” Harry answers, after a moment.

“A terrible choice.” Voldemort glances at him, entertained.

Harry nods. An Auror that cannot kill the Dark Lord, chooses instead to take him home and
buy him designer clothes…

“It was Crouch, you know?” Harry says. “That made me want to be one. The Death Eater, I
mean, not the dad.”

“Barty always had a way with children,” Voldemort says, switching two books between
themselves.

“What were you thinking, with that ridiculous plan?” Harry asks him, remembering the
disaster. “There were so many easier ways to snatch me or get my blood-”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Voldemort raises an eyebrow, turning to face Harry, fully.

“Maybe. But it was so convoluted.”

“You shouldn’t complain. I made you the winner of a prestigious international competition;
you’d have never passed the first task, on your own. Yet another thing you would have never
accomplished without me. Amusing, how they keep adding up.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Harry waves it away, desensitised already to being put down at any
chance Voldemort gets.

It’s also true; “Moody” was the one that made it easy for Harry to go through the tasks;
without him, he’d have faced a dragon, with no prior knowledge; without him, he’d have
drowned.

That brings him too close to the third task, to Cedric, and Voldemort rising from the cauldron,
so Harry changes the subject, before the ache in his chest starts spreading.

“I hate the Ministry, so getting a job with them is out of the question. They must hate me
back, now, what with …ahm, the circumstances.”

He never gets along with Ministers, it seems. It’s his destiny to fight with the magical leaders
over Voldemort.

“Yes. Blackmailing people leads to hard feelings, Harry,” Voldemort says, condescending.

Harry opens his mouth, but before he can answer back with some choice words, Voldemort
goes on. “What else? There must be something you enjoy, besides moping around the kitchen
or staring at me all day long.”

Harry looks away, mortified. “I’m keeping an eye on you,” he repeats. “I don’t enjoy it.”

Voldemort hums and turns to his books, adjusting them until they are perfectly aligned.

“I guess I’d like to play Quidditch. Maybe,” Harry speaks into the silence, just to say
something.

“Then go and chase balls, if that is what you desire.”

“Well, I can’t because-”

“I can’t escape. If I could, I’d have been out already. Merlin knows, you give me plenty of
opportunities.”

(-)

“It went great, Harry! You were brilliant!” Ginny hugs him when Harry gets out of the locker
room, back in his street clothes.

She’s been flying with Puddlemere United for over a year, since she’d left the Holyhead
Harpies; between her and Oliver Wood, their Captain had been happy to meet with Harry.
His reflexes are just as good as they used to be, even if he hadn’t played in a very long time,
outside the rare friendly matches at the Burrow.

“I’m so excited!” she says, throwing her long hair over her shoulder.

“Me too,” Harry grins.

He’d missed flying. He’s been worried, as he always is when he has to meet new people that
gawk at his scar, with worship in their eyes; it always makes him angry and uncomfortable.

But the team was more impressed by Harry’s flying than anything Voldemort related, and
Harry is alright with that.

It’s different to be appreciated for his talent, unlike for the lie that he saved everyone from the
dark lord.

The dark lord who’s waiting for him back at the house.

“It went alright,” Harry announces, though Voldemort doesn’t ask. “I’ve made the team.”

“Shocking,” he drawls, turning the page of a journal he’d been scribbling furiously in.

“I’m a great flyer!” Harry says through gritted teeth.

One of the many reasons he hadn’t gotten a job was precisely because everyone would just
assume he got it because of his name.

“I’m not a Quidditch fan, so I shall take your word for it.”

“Shocking,” Harry spits back at him. But he’s too happy, for once, to be bitter. “It will be nice
to play again,” he says, though he doesn’t know why he insists on sharing these emotions
with Voldemort.

He can just wait for Ron to finish his shift at Weaslys’ Wizard Wheezes and say it to him.
Ron will actually be happy to hear it.

“What team?” Voldemort asks, sighing, when Harry doesn’t shut up, looking up from his
journal and putting the quill down.

“Puddlemere United.”

“Ah,” Voldemort gets a glint in his eyes. “Ginevra is with them, no?”

“How in the world would you even-”

“Witch Weekly.”

“Perhaps I should get you a subscription,” Harry mocks. “You seemed to have enjoyed it.
They also share recipes, maybe you’ll learn to make more than toast, for breakfast.”
Voldemort’s smile only grows more predatory. “If you’d like something else, you only need
to say so, Harry. But I happen to know you enjoy toast, slightly burned and with far too much
butter.”

“How-”

“I have eyes. Unlike others,” he gives Harry a pointed glare, “I actually use them to observe
what is happening around me.”

Harry’s skin flushes, imagining Voldemort watching Harry.

He’s only doing it to find your weak spots.

Maybe that’s what he’s writing down, a list of all the ways he can use to destroy Harry.

“I won’t let you upset me today,” Harry declares.

“Is that a challenge?”

“Merlin, no,” Harry runs a hand through his hair, more messy than usual, from flying. “Just
drop it.”

“You are unusually cheery,” Voldemort leans back into the chair. “Is it Quidditch or is it
Ginevra? I did read she is quite a heartless young woman, abandoning the poor national hero,
leaving him broken and refusing to leave his house-”

“I hate Skeeter,” Harry mumbles, remembering the articles.

Good thing Ginny is made of tough stuff and she ignored all the hate filled letters from
Harry’s fans, every glare she received in public, for months after the breakup.

Harry had offered they go out together, from time to time, so the idiots could see he has no
hard feelings towards her.

But she had refused, so close after the separation, had said it would mess her up.

Not that it would have been nice for Harry.

It took almost a year for him to be able to see her at the Burrow, without his heart aching.

He’d tried to stop going, but Molly wouldn’t hear of it.

“I’ll tell her to stay away while you’re here.” She had said, patting Harry’s back.

“She’s your daughter,” Harry had said, flabbergasted.

“I love her to bits, but she was the one to break your heart. Besides, I see her every day.”

Harry is very happy all that awkwardness and heart ache had went away, though Ginny still
doesn’t bring her boyfriend over, in the Sundays he visits the Weasleys.
“I’m going out,” Harry announces. “So you can return to your ramblings or whatever it is
you’re writing.”

“Thank you for your permission, Harry,” Voldemort's smile gets a tenser line to it and Harry
retreats before it grows worse.

He takes a quick shower, grinning to himself the whole time, imagining Ron’s reaction.

He’ll just surprise him at the store. Better that way; if he waits until Ron is home, Hermione
will be there and she’ll have much the same reaction as Voldemort.

Oh, she’d try to smile and congratulate him. Maybe she’d even be pleased that Harry is
finally doing something, but deep down she’ll think he can do better, as she still thinks of
Ron’s job.

He checks the pantry, before he leaves, to make sure Voldemort has something to eat. It’s
been almost a week since he’s gone shopping.

Perhaps I’ll get something from Diagon, he thinks, so cheerful, he feels generous. Something
magical, that he’ll like more.

Though Voldemort seems to enjoy muggle food well enough. In the first two weeks he’d only
eaten a little- toast and fruits; presumably because he hadn’t eaten anything in years and his
stomach couldn’t handle more, but recently, every day the pantry is emptying at an alarming
speed.

Especially the meat.

A true carnivore, this one.

“My, my. You showered.”

Harry jumps, hitting his head on the low pantry ceiling.

“Can you make some noise, when you move?” He asks, sharply.

“No. I relish in seeing your alarmed face.”

Harry rolls his eyes, stepping back into the kitchen. “What do you mean, I showered? I
shower daily.”

It’s not exactly true, Harry’s skipped some days, mostly in the beginning of their
cohabitation, because really, who wants to be naked and vulnerable with Voldemort around?

He’s placed strong locking charms on his door, and he keeps his wand in his teeth as he
showers, but even so, he always tries to be done as fast as possible.

“Perhaps,” Voldemort tilts his head. “But you never attempt to tame that messy mop you call
hair; not that you’d succeeded now, but you tried.” He smirks. “Are you going on a romantic
outing?”
“Oh, God. You just-agh!” Harry waves a hand. “I’m leaving.”

“I thought you wouldn’t let me upset you today, Harry.”

Voldemort’s amused voice floats after Harry, as he climbs the stairs to the foyer.

(-)

Training is hard; harder than it’s been at Hogwarts. Harry’s a bit out of shape, but he always
sleeps better afterwards, so tired his nightly terrors and worries melt away, as he goes out like
a light.

Of course, there are articles about him as soon as word gets out; not just the Witch Weekly,
but even the Daily Prophet.

Apparently there is already a love triangle happening between him, Ginny and her boyfriend,
Yannis, one of the Beaters. Either that, or they’re fighting over her affection.

It makes Voldemort laugh when Harry glances at these articles. He’s gotten into the habit of
reading them out loud, just to piss Harry off.

He retaliates by not buying some of the things Voldemort writes down on The List.

Because he’s leaving Harry lists now; every few days, when Harry goes down for breakfast,
beside the ever present tea and toast, Harry finds a groceries list.

He’s never even heard of some of the things on it; for an orphan raised in poverty, Voldemort
has expensive taste. Harry has to go further than the Tesco at the corner to get some of the
specific kind of foodstuffs.

There’s no ‘thank you’ afterward, not even an acknowledgment at first.

And then Harry starts finding dinner waiting for him; it’s always something extravagant that
smells heavenly.

“Stop it,” Harry barges into the library, after the third time it happenes. “You’re wasteful. I
don’t like throwing food away.”

“Than you are being wasteful,” Voldemort replies, uninterested.

Fine, Harry thinks. Fine. Two can play this game.

(-)
“I’ve made dinner,” Harry announces one evening.

“Good for you.”

“I meant for you, too,” Harry spits and marches back to the kitchen.

Part of him doesn’t expect Voldemort to join him, but he does minutes later.

He’s wearing the clothes Harry bought for him, but with an open robe over them, unclasped.

It’s getting chilly outside, as October rolls around.

Voldemort sits and only then it strikes Harry, that he had left Sirius’s chair, at the head of the
table, free for his guest.

Why did I do that?

“I believe it is you that is trying to poison me,” Voldemort looks down at his plate. “Not
intentionally, of course, not with your delicate nature, but surely this has the potential to
make me sick.”

Harry squeezes his knife harder, ignores the desire to shove it between Voldemort’s eyes, and
cuts his steak.

“I know how to cook,” he says, with his mouth full, because he just knows it will upset
Voldemort’s sense of propriety. “The Dursleys expected everything to taste good.”

“Ah, so you can add House-Elf on your very short resume,” Voldemort smirks.

“Right under ‘Defeater of Voldemort’,” Harry responds with a smirk of his own.

“That would be a lie,” Voldemort takes a bite and Harry expects him to make a face or say
something unflattering, but surprisingly he just chews and swallows. “Now, why didn’t you
poison them?”

“You know why,” Harry answers.

“Yes, killing is wrong.” Voldemort does make a face at that. “I’m not saying murder, but just
some food poisoning.”

Harry sighs and ignores him.

“Tell me you at least spat in it.”

Harry chokes with his beans.

It takes him minutes to recover and two glasses of water.

Eating with Voldemort is bad for his health, even if Harry’s the one cooking.
(-)

“Thank you,” Andromeda says, taking the pictures Harry had brought over.

She’s as stoic as ever, no expression on her face as she looks at them, but there’s something
unusually soft in her eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

Teddy is terribly excited. “That’s Cissa!” He asserts, and Harry makes sure his face betrays
nothing. He knows “Cissa” visits occasionally.

“And that’s you, Nana.”

“This is -was-Sirius.” Harry points him out. “And his brother, Regulus. You look a lot like
them.”

Not at the moment; Teddy’s hair is blue, and his eyes bright green, as they tend to be,
whenever he sees Harry.

“And who is this?” He asks, pointing at Bellatrix and Harry’s heart skips a bit. “She’s
pretty.”

Silence falls. Harry thinks to distract Teddy, with talk of Quidditch-

“Is she Bella, nana? You always say she looked like you the most.”

Surely not, Harry thinks. Surely Andromeda isn’t telling Teddy anything about Bella.

“Yes, that’s her.”

Andromeda sounds tortured.

What a fucked up position to be in, Harry thinks, with sympathy, even if he doesn’t
understand at all.

“Don’t be sad, nana. Don’t be! Look!”

Teddy’s short blue hair turns black and glossy, grows long, down to his waist; his eyes turn
dark with long eyelashes.

Thing is, Teddy looks like Sirius and he supposes Bellatrix, without having to shift. He
favours Sirius more, with steely grey eyes, but the Black features are dominant, no trace of
Remus or Ted Tonks in him.

Andromeda puts herself together, incredibly fast, a vestige of her upbringing, Harry imagines,
of her Slytherin House and how they all know to hide their feelings when needed.
“I’m not sad,” she lies convincingly enough for a five-year-old. “And hair that long is for
girls.”

“Nah!” Teddy smiles. “I’ve seen some rock singers on the telly, at Johnny’s house and they
have long hair.”

“Those are Muggles, love.”

“Lucius isn’t a muggle! He has long hair.”

“What?” Harry splutters.

“Not that long.” Andromeda sends Harry a glare.

“Lucius?”

“Oh,” Teddy looks up, hair shorter, blond, eyes green. “Cissa’s husband.”

“He knows who Lucius is. Go draw Harry a golden snitch, yes?”

Harry paces around the room until Teddy is persuaded to leave.

“Malfoy?” He hisses in a low voice. “I get your sister, but Malfoy? He hates half-bloods and
werewolves, and he fought against Teddy’s parents-”

“He is all that, but he loves Narcissa. If it makes her happy to have me and Teddy visit, then
he’ll allow it, and allow it with a polite smile.”

“You’re going to the Manor?” Harry forgets to keep his voice low. “People were killed in that
cellar-

“You’ll be happy to know they don’t receive us in the cellar,” she says, contemptuous.

“Well, they torture Hermione is a living room-”

“I’ll make sure to ask witch one, so we can avoid it,” Andromeda drawls.

Harry blinks at her, trying to keep his temper. He gives her a derisive laugh.

“And you won’t let me take Teddy to the Burrow? Why, have you changed your views?
Aren’t they posh enough? Too poor for your-”

“She killed my sister,” the venom in her voice takes Harry by surprise.

He’d forgotten it; Molly is the most caring, kind woman he ever had the fortune to meet. It’s
hard to remember she took down one of the most evil beings in the world.

“Your sister was about to kill her daughter,” Harry spits. “Your sister killed-” Harry shuts his
mouth, but his eyes go to Dora’s pictures. They are everywhere, all over the house, a
veritable shrine.
“I understand,” Andromeda says, stiffly. “I do. But she killed my sister.”

“I don’t get you.” Harry looks at her, dumbfounded. “I truly don’t. She was a murderer, rotten
to the core and-”

“You’ve no business to ‘get me’. I’ve known Bella since before you were born! I’ve known
her long before that monster turned her into- into what she became. Do you think it’s easy for
me? I could strangle her myself if she were to stand before me today; but I have years upon
years of memories with a beautiful girl, that took care of me, that solved all my problems and
protected me from the world. I’m mourning that girl, and you have no right to judge me!

We were fine in the first war! Death Eaters were killing blood traitors, right and left. And I
was the biggest traitor of all, a Black married to a Muggleborn. I wasn’t touched. Ted wasn’t
touched. He never understood why, but I knew she was keeping them away from us.

And then the second war came, and I begged Dora to keep her head down, to stay away, but
she had to follow Dumbledore and his little band of rebels! Once she was in it, Ted and I had
to come with her. And still she wasn’t hurt; at the Ministry, when you were stupid enough to
get tricked by Voldemort, Bella went right past Dora-”

“Yeah!” Harry yells. “To kill Sirius! He was family too-”

“And then Dorra had to marry him. I begged on my knees for her not to do it; but she was as
stubborn as any Black; when she fell in love, it wouldn’t matter that the man she loved was
not worthy. Just like Bella.

So Dora married that cowardly werewolf that left her as soon as she got pregnant, and of
course no one could ignore such a slight to House Black. A mudblood is one thing- a beast is
quite another.”

“Cowardly werewolf! Beast?” Harry screams. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“That is what he was!” She screams back, and she looks like her dear sister indeed, deranged.
“You ruined my family! Voldemort corrupted it, took my sister from me and turned her into a
lunatic, and then you and Dumbledore finished it! You three took everything from me!
Everything!”

“You’re insane-”

But a whimper stops him; he turns and sees Teddy in the doorway, tears flowing down his
cheeks. He is wearing his own face and his Black aristocratic features scream at the world,
lets everyone know whom he comes from.

But Harry’s never in his life seen a Black as devastated.

He’d seen anger in them, he’d seen madness and coldness. But he’d never seen this
vulnerability, not in Sirius or Lestrange or Narcissa.

Fuck.
“Hey!” Harry whispers, hurrying over, kneeling beside him. “Hey, it’s ok, don’t cry. I’m
sorry.”

Teddy flings himself into his arms and weeps.

(-)

“You look like you’d benefit from a tea,” Voldemort says, entering the never used room with
the piano in which Harry had attempted to hide, still rattled by his “talk” with Andromeda.
“But you’d only throw it away if I offered.”

“I need something far stronger than tea.,” Harry mumbles.

“Really?” Voldemort makes a gesture with his head towards Harry’s butterbeer. “That’s
stronger than tea? Are you twelve? You have a cellar filled with liquor.”

“I’m not getting drunk around you.”

How Harry would wish to go to the cellar, lock himself in, and make his way through ancient,
priceless wine and firewhiskey.

A sinister smile. “Do you think I’ll take advantage of your inebriated state?”

Harry’s cheeks flush at the innuendo. And there is no mistake that is what it is, not with the
way Voldemort smirks.

“What am I going to do, Harry? Hit you in the back of the head with the umbrella stand?”

The way in which he just goes on makes Harry think he’d imagined the innuendo, after all.

He wonders if Voldemort is aware how he sounds sometimes.

Of course he’s aware. He’s doing it to rile you up.

But- maybe it’s one of those things, the simple, day-to-day things that Voldemort is clueless
about. After all, he couldn’t have possibly flirted much, before.

“I can do that even when you’re sober.”

Harry just ignores him, staring at the wall.

“As it is, I think this is the first intelligent decision you’ve made since you entered the cell
they were holding me in.”

Harry shudders, inwardly.

(-)

His foot slips in the middle of the steps and he very ungracefully stumbles on them, still
somehow keeping his footing, trying to cling to the rail. But the rail will be gone soon and
Harry already flinches as what is sure to come-

A strong grip on his shoulder stops his momentum, righting him.

“Um-thanks,” Harry says, dismayed.

“It would take too much effort to clean the bloodstains,” Voldemort says, as impassive as
ever.

He clings on to Harry for another second, before releasing him. “Grown men that respect
themselves shouldn’t run. It’s undignified.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “I am late for training-

“Or are you eager to carve your forehead again? Perhaps if you’d wake in time, you wouldn’t
be late.”

“Whatever,” Harry arranges his T-shirt, grabs his broom, waiting for him by the door. “What
do you mean ‘to carve my forehead, again’? Because I never did. You carved my forehead.”

“You’re late, Harry Potter.” Voldemort says and departs.

Harry rolls his eyes again. Smooth, he thinks.

(-)

“I’d like to tell her that the entire world is watching,” Bertina Nettles says, when asked how
she feels about the recent news. “We all love that young, handsome boy, so this Weasley
better not break his heart again!”

“Can you please, stop?” Harry says for the third time. “I’m trying to eat.”

Voldemort puts the Daily Prophet away. He’d already finished his meal, cooked by Harry
again.

“No one would have dared write articles like that about me. You only have to torture one
journalist, in public, and they will back off.”

Harry’s tempted from time to time. “Chances are Ginny will, soon, if they keep going.”
“Fierce little thing, isn’t she?”

Voldemort has no fears about drinking around Harry, because he’d pilfered a bottle of wine.

He’s as measured with it as with anything else. Harry doesn’t know how one makes drinking
from a glass look graceful and sophisticated, but there it is.

He was born and raised in the gutter, he’s the biggest nerd there ever was, he probably spent
his Hogwarts years studying non stop and manipulating people and when did he find the time
to learn manners such as these?

Harry would really like to know.

“Lucius told me she was the one to get possessed by my diary.”

Harry bites into his chicken, so he can have an excuse not to talk.

“She must have been quite taken with my sixteen-year-old self if she ended up drained and
controlled, so fast.”

Harry does his best to ignore him. But that never ends as he plans.

“So it shouldn’t be surprising that she fell for another one of my Horcruxes, after. Nor that
she dumped you, when you ceased to be one.”

Harry clenches his jaws, hard. He could tell Voldemort that Ginny liked Harry before the
Diary, but then Voldemort would just say Harry’s been a Horcrux before the Diary. There’s
just no point.

Voldemort isn’t pleased when Harry doesn’t give him a reaction. “I though you’d marry her.
You had experiences with me in common and of course, she looks quite like your mother, all
tall and freckled and with that atrocious red hair. And you do have mummy issues, aplenty.”

Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react.

“Of course, I am yet to determine if your daddy issues run quite as strongly.”

“Shut up!” Harry snarls and Voldemort smirks, satisfied.

But if Harry doesn’t react at all, it seems he’d just keep going, nastier and nastier until Harry
does react. There’s no winning with this man.

“Why didn’t you find yourself another airhead darling?” Voldemort asks. “You’re not much
to look at, granted, but with your name and wealth, surely there are enough girls to throw
themselves at your feet.”

He’s right; it’s exactly why Harry doesn’t date. Because they only see Harry Potter, the
Chosen One. They don’t want him, they want a lie.

Not that he’s been terribly concerned with dating, but he’d felt the need from time to time.
Hermione must have guessed his issues with the witches, so she had made Ron take Harry
out on a “boys’ night out” in the muggle world, from time to time.

And eventually, Harry did find a girl- or rather she found him. She’s been daring, tall, with
tattoos and a bike. And quite bold.

She’d taken Harry home, and they spent a lovely night together, but then she’d asked for his
phone number, and Harry couldn’t give her one. She must have thought he was being a jerk.

And that’s how Harry realised he can’t date a muggle, either.

Harry can’t keep up with their rapidly expanding technology- year after year he becomes
almost as clueless as Ron. Even Hermione is stumped by some new inventions.

Harry would never fit in, and no matter the faults of the Magical side, it’s Harry’s true home,
even if he can’t go out in public without being hounded by journalists.

“Perhaps you’d prefer a man,” Voldemort carries on and Harry groans. He must blush, too,
because Voldemort isn’t done. “Yes, I think you’d like that more. You need a firm hand.”

“Do you enjoy hearing yourself talk?” Harry barks.

“Yes, I quite do,” Voldemort doesn’t miss a beat. “You’re tired of leading, of people looking
up to you, to tell them what to do. You’re done solving problems. You want a leader, not a
follower that’s in awe with you.”

“Just-”

“That’s not to say women can’t lead,” Voldemort cuts over Harry. “I’ve met some that would
eat you for breakfast. But there’s something alluring about testosterone and that specific kind
of aggression, isn’t it?”

Harry’s definitely blushing. He can feel his neck and face getting hotter.

“You shouldn’t hide it. It’s acceptable in the wizarding world, unlike the muggle world.”

“I’m not-”

Harry is not hiding anything. He’s just- men would pose the same issues as women, both in
magical and muggle world. A hero, a false ideal for ones and a misfit for others.

“Though I understand is hard to discard these notions. It was hard for me as well, you
know.”

“What?” Harry asks, instantly distracted.

“The muggles were even worse, back in the thirties and forties. It was a crime, to enjoy the
same sex. They’ve tried to make me feel wrong, as they tried to make me feel wrong in
anything else. They failed, of course, but then I have a stronger character than you do.”
Harry blinks at him. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? He likes men?

It’s Voldemort, he doesn’t like anyone! Get a grip.

“Did you get along with Lestrange?” Harry blurts. “Bellatrix, I mean.”

Voldemort sighs. “As subtle as a brick to the head, Harry. I’d say you need to learn more
skilful ways to interrogate someone, less obvious, but you are a lost cause so I shan’t even
bother.”

“So?” Harry persists, so very much used to the daily insults and jabs that he isn’t fazed
anymore.

“Did I get along with one of my Generals?” Voldemort raises an eyebrow as elegant as the
rest of him. “Why, yes, Harry, amusingly enough, I did.”

“I meant-” Harry bites his lips. Voldemort knows very well what Harry asked, but he won’t
answer until Harry words it in such a way it can’t be misconstrued. “You seem,” He bites his
lip again. “You sound as if you might have possibly liked her.”

Voldemort waits patiently, taking another sip of his wine. But Harry can’t say anymore, can’t
ask “were you involved romantically” or even worse “did you have sex with her.”

He always knew she loved him, was obsessed with him, and Voldemort had always talked
well of her, even as soon as that night in the grave yard, and then he’d lost his marbles at
Hogwarts, when she died.

Voldemort must take some kind of pity on him, because he speaks.

“She was magnetic, passionate, and incredibly compelling. She was powerful and loyal. And
dark lord I might be, but I’m not blind.” A tiny soft smile, that’s gone so fast, Harry wonders
if he’d imagined it. “You should have seen her, back when she was young. Not in pictures;
even magical photographs can’t capture her essence and beauty.”

Damn, Harry thinks, a bit puzzled. Voldemort shouldn’t talk like that; it’s unnatural. Harry
knows people that truly love each other, he knows Ron that would gladly peel off his skin,
layer by layer, to make Hermione happy, but never had he heard something so…well,
romantic, almost.

It’s because he’s so eloquent, Harry thinks. And because he always spits venom, so it sounds
weird when he doesn’t and speaks nicely of someone instead.

And of course, that someone could only be a deranged psychopath.

“Yes, Harry Potter. We got along.”

(-)
“I wish he’d be like you,” Harry tells Tom in the tent.

Tom is so awfully charismatic, he’s never cruel, always knows what to say, how to make
Harry feel better.

Tom holds Harry close, rests his chin on Harry’s head.

“You’re his jailer, darling. Would you be nice to someone that killed you and then kept you
captive?”

Harry draws away. “I didn’t kill him,” He protests.

He looks up and Tom has red eyes. Harry steps back. “Tom?”

“You did kill me.” He hisses, eyes flashing. “Every piece of my soul you hunted and
destroyed; you killed me. And now you’re keeping me as a pet, to amuse you.”

Harry wakes, mouth dry, heart thumping in his chest, wand already in hand.

He’s always a little surprised when he doesn’t find Voldemort there, bent over him with a
knife.

Your door is warded.

Harry made sure there are no snakes on it.

And yet he has his doubts about the insignificant amount of magic Voldemort might or might
not have access too.

He’d have used it, if he could do anything important with it.

Despite what Voldemort says, Harry is really good at Defence. His room is properly,
powerfully warded.

He wished there was a spell to keep Voldemort out of his head, too.

Harry had never stopped dreaming of the Locket since wearing it, those long nights.

Once, while drunk, Ron had confessed he has nightmares about it too.

Of course, Ron’s nightmares include torture, include dark whispers about Harry and
Hermione going behind Ron’s back.

Harry’s nightmares are-different. For him, the locket had always been seduction, since the
very first night he went to sleep with it around his neck.

Only lately, Tom keeps shifting into Voldemort mid-dream.

 (-)

“Good morning,” Harry mumbles, stumbling into the kitchen, heading to the stove, to put the
kettle on, even though his tea is waiting beside Voldemort’s own.

“It’s mid afternoon,” Voldemort says, in lieu of greeting. “And it won’t be good for long. Not
for you, at least.”

A shiver goes down Harry’s spine. “Why? What did you do?”

“So quick to blame me,” Voldemort answers. “Sit, Harry.”

Harry does, and Voldemort pushes the Daily Prophet toward him.

The Dark Mark floats over the ruins of a house.

Pius Thicknesse and his wife and daughter found dead.

Harry looks up, horrified.

Voldemort shrugs and takes a sip of his tea.

Chapter End Notes

I am sorry! I swear I intended to write more plot, but I got distracted again by "Harry
living in domestic Hell" as some of the lovely comments put it.
But I promise, we're getting serious in the next chapter.
I just had a rough day and I got self indulgent with this.
Let me know what you think!
 Chapter 8

The Aurors walk in; two follow Harry up the stairs, while another remains with the Minister,
in the foyer.

Kingsley looks ticked by this- he was a soldier himself. He doesn’t like the idea of others
going in first, to make sure it’s safe for him to come in, but such is protocol.

Voldemort is tense when they enter the library. Harry isn’t sure how he knows this- there are
no outwards signs to indicate it, he looks as unconcerned as ever, but Harry can tell, either
way.

He’s been tense since they received the letter announcing the “visit”, shortly after news of
Thickness’ death made the rounds.

“Stand!” Williamson barks, approaching Voldemort.

For a second, Harry is sure he won’t.

But he does, he stands as if he’d meant to do it all along, as if it has been his idea.

The other Auror, a younger one that Harry doesn’t recognise, grabs Voldemort’s arms, shoves
the sleeves aside, checking the cuffs.

Harry winces at the rough treatment, mostly because it’s unnecessary. If Voldemort didn’t
have the cuffs, these two would be dead already.

Voldemort gives no reaction, but the rage in his eyes strikes something in Harry.

It’s been absent since he’d come to live at Grimmauld’s.

“Human Revelio!” Williamson says, and they wait for the spell to show them they are alone.

Harry is a bit insulted, truth be told, but he tells himself these are typical, sane precaution.
Voldemort might have placed him under the Imperius, or who knows what else. Harry hopes
that is why they don’t seem to trust his word that Voldemort is cuffed and no, there’s no one
else in the house.

“You may come, Minister,” Williamson calls loudly, and Harry shares a quick, involuntary
smirk with Voldemort, as Walburga goes off in the foyer.

“I told you to keep your voice down! Now you’ve started her!” Kingsley’s voice floats up the
stairs. “Savage, take hold of the curtains, help me close them.”

“FILTHY BLODD TRAITORS TRASPPASING!”

“Harder!” Kingsley orders.

“ANIMALS! PIGS WALKING UPRIGHT!”

It takes them a minute or two to deal with the portrait.

Kingsley is already pissed and a little out of breath when he enters the library.

Voldemort sits.

“Stand!” Williamson snarls.

“No,” Harry intervenes. “This is my house,” he reminds them. “Everyone that wishes to sit, is
free to do so.”

No one else does it.

How does Voldemort do it? Harry wonders yet again.

He is a prisoner, he’s wearing heavy inhibitors, has no wand, and yet he sits behind the desk,
looking at ease, when everyone else is standing, wands in their hands.

Well, Harry’s wand is in his pocket.

“Who killed Thickness?” Kingsley cuts right to it.

“I don’t have prophetic abilities,” Voldemort drawls. “If I had, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Cut the crap. Tell me!”

Kingsley looks half out of his mind; it’s bad out there, Harry knows. Not two months after
the Ministry held a very public burning of Lestrange’s body and assured people they will be
safe, this happened.

Harry himself had received a dozen of letters, asking him what he thinks about it all.

“Listen, you worthless excuse of a wizard, if you want people to give you information, you
should ask nicely.”

“My house!” Harry says, loudly. “No insults!”

Everyone ignores him, glaring at each other.

Kingsley doesn’t seem fazed, he’s probably received a lot worse, from Voldemort.

“I rather drop dead that speak nicely to you.”

“That could be arranged,” Voldemort leans back into his chair and even that small movement
makes the youngest Auror flinch, halfway raise his wand.

“He doesn’t know,” Harry says, what he’d said before, in the letter.
Or at least Voldemort claims he doesn’t. For some reason, Harry thinks it’s the truth. Even if
it weren’t, Voldemort will never say anything to the Aurors. If he does know something, he’ll
tell Harry, once they negotiate a price, as always.

The Aurors barging in will not solve anything.

“You’re -naive, if you believe him,” Kingsley snaps.

“The boy said no insults,” Voldemort speaks before Harry can open his mouth. “Don’t take it
personally, Potter. The Minister likes to talk, but he isn’t good at listening.”

“It must be Dolohov,” Kingsley says, jaws tense. “So you’ll give us leads on how to-”

“It wasn’t Dolohov,” Voldemort says, as Harry struggles not to squirm.

Fuck, he thinks. Fuck. Now the Ministry will go on a wild goose chase searching for a dead
man.

“There aren’t so many free Death Eaters left; he’s our prime suspect.”

Fuck.

Harry can confess, take the blame on himself. He prepares to speak, but Voldemort cuts over
him.

“He’s deceased.”

What?

“Is that so?” Kingsley narrows his eyes. “And how would you know?”

Voldemort doesn’t even look at Harry, keeps his eyes fixed on Kingsley. They crinkle at the
corners as he gives a disdainful snort.

“You should check your Aurors more throughly. Little psychopaths, some of them. You knew
Robards had a sadistic streak. I told him where to find Dolohov, repeatedly, and he decided
his colleagues are failures, since they’ve allowed Dolohov to escape the previous times. So
he went alone. He bragged to me about how he made Antonim suffer, before he died, or
something alike, I admit I wasn’t paying close attention to his ramblings.”

Harry’s heart is thumping so loudly in his chest, he’s surprised no one else can hear it.

Why is he doing this?

It speaks volumes about Robarts, when Kingsley’s and Savage’ faces show that they think
this version of events had been quite likely to happen.

“Fine. But Lestrange is dead, and he was the one behind previous attacks-”
“He wasn’t,” Voldemort drawls, bored. “I distinctly recall telling you this, at the very
beginning.”

“You lied. All the Death Eaters we caught testified it was Lestrange.”

“I happen to know personally how you people conduct interrogations. Let me throw a guess-”

Kingsley opens his mouth, but Voldemort just goes on.

“You arrested them, you asked them who was behind the raids. They told you they didn’t
know. You refused to believe it. You set Robards on them. Some cracked. Robards asked
leading questions, as he was prone to do ‘It was Lestrange, wasn’t it?’ Because he wanted
Rodolphus to be the culprit, because it made sense to him; because it was easy. Tired and sick
of it, they said ‘yes’, to be left alone.” Voldemort smiles, though it looks- disturbing. “Am I
wrong?”

He doesn’t seem to need an answer.

“And then you were all set on Rodolphus, so desperate to get your paws on him that you
allowed Potter to come to me, in the hopes I will give him up. And I did. I gave him up. I
held my end of the bargain. But he was not behind any attacks. Hence why they continue, and
will continue to happen, even if he’s dead.”

By the look on Kingsley’s face, he’s as terrified as Harry.

They all got played. Only this time, they practically played themselves.

“I told you to stop torturing people,” Harry hisses, incensed. “I told you to just stick to
Veritaserum.”

“He trained many of them to resist it,” Kingsley refuses to back down.

“I did.” Voldemort admits. “But not all. And I only trained three in the mind arts. So you
could have used a Legilimens- Oh, wait. You probably don’t have one in your employment.
After all, very few wizards are talented enough for it, and those people know better than to
work for the Ministry.”

“So who is doing this? Who is behind-”

“I. Don’t. Know.” Voldemort enunciates every word, clearly. “Perhaps you will believe me
this time. If not, why don’t you go to Azkaban and torture a handful of Death Eaters until
they give you another name? That would be amusing, to watch you chase the wrong person,
again.”

“You know something. You always do.” Kingsley says. “And you will tell us.”

“Haven’t we played this game before? You know I won’t. There is nothing you can offer me,
this time. Unless, of course, you want to take the cuffs off. If you do, I promise that right after
I kill you, I’ll find whoever is behind the attack and kill them too.”
“There’s nothing I can offer,” Kingsley says. “But there are more things to take from you
now. Things you didn’t have, before. You look quite comfortable and well fed. How would
you like that to go away? To return to your little cell?”

Voldemort’s face twists into a snarl.

“You have thirty seconds to say something, to start cooperating or you’re coming back with
me.”

The clock ticks the seconds away. Harry pulls out his wand.

When Kingsley gives a sharp nod and the Aurors move towards Voldemort, Harry steps in,
faces them.

“He stays here,” Harry says, and his voice isn’t shaking, neither is his hand, though inside he
feels like jelly.

It’s not lost on him, the irony. The fact that he has his back to Voldemort, staring down three
Aurors and the Minister for Magic, to defend him.

Kingsley looks aghast. The Aurors look pissed.

Three wands are pointed at him. Harry keeps his own trained on Savage, the biggest threat.

What the fuck are you doing?

“He kept his word; all the information he gave us, was accurate. We wanted Rodolphus, and
he served him to you,” Harry tries to reason with them. “You know, even if you take him
back, even if you torture him, he won’t tell you anything. You know. So what’s the point?
What could his suffering help you with?

Kingsley doesn’t answer. They’re in a deadlock.

And then all the Aurors move a step back, choreographed, closing the gaps between them,
covering Kingsley completely.

And Harry knows it’s not him or his wand that made them go into a defensive formation.

No, it’s Voldemort, that is standing now. Harry can feel him at his back, very close.

“I wouldn’t upset Potter, Minister.” His voice is extremely soft, somewhere above’s Harry’s
head. “Word is, he’s quite fierce. Defeater of dark lords, and all that.”

“Can you sit? Just -please.” Harry says, because the tension is so thick, Harry can feel it
suffocating him.

Everyone is trigger happy, and it would take one more move from Voldemort, one more
provocation, and then disaster would happen.
If Harry wins, which is highly unlikely, against three Aurors and ex Auror, then what? He
goes on the run with Voldemort? Because Kingsley would definitively return with
reinforcements.

And if Harry loses, perhaps Harry could share a cell with Voldemort.

Kingsley seems to be thinking about the complete mess that would bring with the press.
Harry Potter, arrested. And they won’t even be able to say why.

Hermione and Ron would know, though. And Kingsley isn’t fooling himself that they will let
him take Harry, quietly.

“We’re leaving,” Kingsley orders his men.

Voldemort is still standing behind Harry.

“I want you in my office, tomorrow at nine, Potter.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry promises, lowering his wand as the Aurors retreat.

He waits in tense silence.

Someone, probably Kingsley, smashes something in the hallway, just to spite Harry.

“ABOMINATIONS! TRAITORS-”

The front door slams shut.

Harry’s shoulders slump; he turns and finds himself facing Voldemort’s green robe, up close.

His nose is touching it kind of close.

Harry steps back. He stares up at Voldemort.

“ANCIENT PURE BLOOD-”

“Why did you lie about Dolohov?” It’s the first thing he asks. “How do you know he’s
dead?”

“You looked so guilty, last I brought him up. I know you would never ‘lose interest’ once you
set your eyes on something. Who killed him? The curse breaker?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Hary says. “Why did you lie for me?”

“I enjoy lying to them,” Voldemort says, after a second. “It fills me with satisfaction.”

He closes the distance between them again. Harry has to force his neck to bend backwards, to
be able to continue to hold his gaze.

“Look at us; accomplices in a murder. How far we’ve come, don’t you think?”
“It’s not like that-”

“It’s precisely like that.”

“MY ANCESTORS BUILT THIS HOUSE WITH-”

“My little hero,” Voldemort drawls. “Touching, truly, the way you stand up for me. But I do
not require it. I don’t need your help or your pity.” His fury is back, though subdued. “Lord
Voldemort needs no one, Harry Potter.”

“-SHAME TO HAVE THESE CREATURES DEFILE IT,”

“Will you help me close the curtains?” Harry asks, deciding that things are getting quite
uncomfortable. Too close, far too close.

And just like that the fury is banished, and Voldemort resumes his blank expression.

“I refuse to try to contain a magical portrait, quite a powerful one at that, with muggle means.
It is an exercise in futility, as you should have surmised, after so many years.”

“AND NOW ANOTHER FILTHY HALF-BLOOD HAS TAKEN RESIDENCE-”

“How terrible are your transfiguration skills?” Voldemort asks, and he steps away, towards
the stairs.

Harry can breathe a little easier, he can think again, with some distance between them.

“I got an Exceeded Expectations, for my O.W.L,” he says, walking behind him.

“No N.E.W.T?”

“No. I was busy being hunted by a murderous lunatic, so I didn’t attend my seventh year, nor
did I return to finish it once it was over-”

Voldemort makes a noise that could be anger, could be amusement.

“Than it seems I owe you some lessons, to fill the gaps in your education.”

“Yeah, right, no thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Voldemort stops in front of Walburga’s portrait, who gets a second wind,
faced with him and Harry.

“MAY MERLIN CURSE YOUR POLLUTED BLOOD, STRIKE YOU DEAD WHERE
YOU STAND-”

“This is O.W.L level, so even you should manage it. Turn the curtain rails into snakes.”

Harry blinks and then -of course.

He grins, excited.
He points his wand, delighted, says the incantation, clearly.

The rails swirl, and after a second, two distinct snakes replace them on either side.

“Deplorable,” Voldemort sighs, no doubt commenting on the flowery pattern still imprinted
on the snakes.

“I did it on purpose,” Harry smirks. “They look prettier this way.”

Voldemort hisses and instantly the snakes coil, slither around until they lock their heads
around each other, forcing the curtain shut.

“You’re at best average, so don’t expect them to last long,” Voldemort says, but Harry’s
happy to get rid of Walburga, even if temporarily.

“It’s ok, we’ll do it again, when they revert back to rails.”

“I suppose we shall.”

(-)

Harry’s a bit drunk. Perhaps more than a bit. Neville and Ron kept pouring him drinks.

And Dennis keeps shouting, “It’s my birthday, you can’t say no!” as he brings Harry shots.

Of course, he was still mostly fine, until he made the mistake of drinking one of Luna’s
personal concoctions.

Everyone is a little drunk, except Hermione, who watches them with clear judgement, as they
get rowdier and rowdier.

Neville is whispering animatedly, slurring his words in Hanna’s year.

Ginny’s exchanging fluids with Yannis, draped all over him, at the furthers end of the table,
Ron and George sending them nasty looks.

Harry tries to say no, when Parvati offers to an eager audience to re-enact how awful of a
dancer Harry’s been at the Yule Ball, how she had to lead, because he had no clue what to do
with his hands.

He tries to refuse, but he fails. He finds himself dancing and the way Parvati spins him,
doesn’t help at all in that state.

Even Hermione laughs.

Parvati stumbles and he catches her, though it’s a wonder they don’t both topple down.
“You know, Harry, I sometime wonder what could have been, if we’d taken a walk in those
charmed bushes, that night.”

“Not much,” Harry says.

How had they ended up outside now?

He vaguely remembers her saying she needed some fresh air.

“Oh, right! You were busy staring at Cho.”

It’s as if it had happened in another life.

“What became of her, do you know?” he asks, curious.

“She married a muggle. Can you believe it?”

“Good for her,” Harry mutters, supporting his back against the Three Broomsticks’ outer
wall.

Hogwarts looms in the distance. Harry has yet to step foot in it. He thinks he never will.

He won’t have to. It’s not like I’ll ever have kids or anything. Not with Voldemort in his
house.

I’ll never have a family, he thinks, and it crushes him.

When Parvati hugs him, her darker skin looking lovely and smelling even lovelier, Harry
clings to her.

It’s nice. He needs it, needs some comfort, needs something nice and human and warm.

She kisses him, and Harry kisses back, though he knows he shouldn’t, that he should push her
away.

Parvati is a nice girl; she doesn’t deserve to be tainted by him.

Besides, he doesn’t want her.

He closes his eyes, and he imagines bigger, stronger hands wrapped around his waist.

“OY!” Ginny saves Harry from the mistake he’s making. “What you doing, Patil? Taking
advantage of my man?”

“Do you think I’d take advantage of your inebriated state?”

Harry shivers.

“Piss off, Weasley! Your man is inside!”

“And we’re going inside, too.” Ginny comes closer. “I think I saw Rita hiding behind
Zonko’s,” she whispers.

They all groan, simultaneously.

(-)

“Can I come with you? I don’t wanna go home. I promise I won’t wake Rosie-”

“Why don’t you want to go home, Harry?”

Hermione’s soft, worried voice.

“Would you want to be pissed out of your mind with You-Know-Who hanging around?” Ron,
whom Harry is leaning on.

“I really don’t want that,” he says. “I really, really shouldn’t.”

“Of course you can come with us. You’ll share the couch with Ron.”

“Come on!” Ron complains.

“You stink of firewhisky!”

(-)

Harry wakes with a massive headache and only bits and pieces of recollections from the night
before.

“Stay for coffee? Ron won’t be up for another few hours, I’m afraid.” Hermione says,
bouncing Rose on her hip.

She looks fresh and chipper, clearly having been awake for a while, since she retrieved her
daughter from Bill’s place.

“I should head back,” Harry says, wiping his glasses on his shirt to clear them. “I can’t
believe I’ve left him alone for a whole night.”

“The cuffs work, Harry. They really do. I imagine he tries to intimidate you, I can’t even
think how terrible it must be, but he’s only human. He can’t break out of them.”
Problem is, it’s not so terrible. Not by a long shot, compared to what he’d imagined.

(-)

They are out of tea-

That is to say, the only tea left is the one waiting for Harry. Besides that, the tin is empty.

Harry’s mouth is dry, the taste is downright awful and fuck it.

He drinks it.

It’s hot, but not too hot, sweet, but not too sweet. The milk just enough that Harry can’t
actually detect it.

It’s perfect.

“You should drop dead in about thirty seconds,” Voldemort’s voice makes Harry flinch. “You
also should never indulge in liquor to the extent it makes you sick, the next morning,”
Voldemort says, loudly, spiking up Harry’s headache.

“Have thirty seconds passed? I kinda wish I’d die.”

He takes another sip of tea and it soothes his sore throat, chases away the various tastes in his
mouth.

“I’m sure we’ll get to that goal, eventually.” A smirk. “You’ll look dashing in a coffin. But
not today,” Voldemort sits in his chair.

It’s not his, it’s Sirius’!

“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” he continues.

“That’s not true. You poisoned Hepzibah-”

“No, the elf did.”

“No, you did.”

“I was there, Harry,” Voldemort says, amused. “I Imperiused the pathetic creature, to kill its
Mistress in whatever way it saw fit.”

“Ah.”

He’s a murderer. Why are you getting comfortable? Why are you so desensitised to hear him
speak of his victims?
“Omniscient Dumbledore wasn’t so omniscient.”

“Whatever,” Harry warms his hands over the cup. “Malfoy!”

“What?” Voldemort looks confused, and it’s a satisfying sight.

“Draco, he tried to poison Dumbledore, but he ended up poisoning Ron, by mistake. It’s not a
woman’s weapon!”

“I know they were both originally red heads and had those tall lanky bodies, but even Draco
couldn’t possibly confuse Dumbledore with Weasley.”

Harry tells him of the mead and of Slughorn; the love potion, the way Slughorn had frozen
and Harry had to act fast.

“My, my. People were trying to give you love potions? No wonder you’re suspicious of my
drinks and meals.”

“Yeah, I’m not worried you’ll give me a love potion.”

Voldemort nods. “Indeed. I wouldn’t need to rely on that, would I, Harry?”

A light tapping noise comes from afar.

“That should be the paper,” Voldemort stands. “Eat your toast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You look like a teenager. I don’t like it.”

Harry blinks; does that mean he’d like Harry if he gained a few pounds?

Surely, that wasn’t what he implied. For the hundred of times, he wonders if Voldemort
realises what he’s saying.

Harry’s so distracted, he only puts it together when Voldemort’s been gone from the room for
minutes.

Oh, shit.

Harry sprints up to the library, where the Prophet owl usually comes and-

Voldemort’s face is hidden by the newspaper, held open.

On the front cover, Harry’s leaning on the wall, Parvati in his arms.

The kiss looks far more passionate than he remembers.

Oh, shit.

Voldemort lowers the paper and Harry runs to his room.

Why?

(-)

For once, he takes Teddy to Diagon Alley; Harry decided he won’t hide from the press
anymore. They always find him, anyway.

People still stare at him, but Voldemort says the more he stays indoors, the more people will
gawk at him when he emerges; that if he gets out more often, they’d get used to him, he’ll
lose his God like status, if they see him shopping and simply living like any other normal
wizard.

So Harry bears it, allows Teddy to drag him to every store he wants.

Businesses don’t want to take his money- please, it will be my honour, Mr. Potter! For all you
did in the war- and Harry’s in the middle of a fight with a cashier when he notices an
unmistakable blond head outside the window.

People stare at Malfoy, too, but with much less friendly eyes.

Draco tries to pretend he’s unaffected, but he was never very good at pretending. He looks
nervous. Harry remembers Luna saying Draco had married, months before, in a private
ceremony and is now expecting a child.

Jealousy blooms in his heart. Even Malfoy gets a kid, and Harry won’t. The ferret has it all.

He has a father, too, and Harry watches Lucius Malfoy walk towards his son.

He doesn’t look uncomfortable at all. And people are quick to stop their gawking.

A few whispered “criminal” and “Death Eater” can be heard, but they hold more fear than
contempt.

Draco relaxes when his father reaches him and Harry grits his teeth and tries to turn back to
his conversation, shoving a few gallons towards the girl-

“Harry, look! It’s Lucius!” Teddy shouts, and he’s off like a Firebolt, before Harry can grab
his hand, out the open doors. “LUCIUS!”

This is what I get for listening to Voldemort. I should have just went to Charring Cross, Harry
thinks as he has no choice but follow Teddy.

Two identical sets of gray eyes land on him; Draco immediately lowers his, can never hold
Harry’s gaze.

At his trial he’d never looked up from the floor, as Harry testified for him.
But the elder Malfoy has no issue. Harry stares right back.

“Hello, Edward,” he drawls, in that aggravating way of his.

“Hy!” Teddy beams up at him. It irritates Harry, because Teddy throws a fit usually when
someone calls him ‘Edward’.

People are pausing to watch, so intrigued even fear of the evil Death Eater won’t stop them.
Not when Harry Potter is there, at least.

Great, now they’ll think I’m friends with him or something.

“Come Teddy, let’s go.”

“But-” Teddy pouts, and his hair is already turning blond, growing longer. Harry hates it. “I
want to talk to Lucius-”

“Go with your godfather,” Malfoy says, as if he has any fucking input in what Teddy does or
doesn’t do. “The street is no place for conversations. Not for civilised wizards, at least.”

The nerve on this man. Civilised!

Harry grits his teeth, very aware he shouldn’t get into a fight with a child around.

“Good day, Edward.” Malfoy barely spares Teddy a glance. “Potter,” he nods, a short jerk of
his head and he strolls away, his grown son following quietly after him as Teddy does after
Harry.

(-)

Voldemort finds it hilarious. “You have the worst kind of luck,” he says, gleeful. “Of course,
that’s only fair, to compensate for the dumb luck you had when escaping me.”

“He’s so- it pisses me off, how he walks like he owns the street. Civilised!”

“Lucius is civilised, whatever else might be said about him.”

Harry glares at him. “Calling Teddy ‘Edward,’” he goes on.

“Isn’t Edward the boy’s name? Nicknames are undignified.”

“Who’s si-” Harry shuts his mouth.

He’d almost asked ‘who’s side are you on’ which is something he’d ask of Hermione or Ron
and most defiantly not something he should ever, ever ask Voldemort.

“I thought you hated Malfoy,” he says, instead. “You were annoyed he was set free.”

“I am,” Voldemort says, a slight smile at the corners of his lips. “I do not hold him in any
regard and it is frustrating he gets to walk around and keep his wand when I can’t. When I
shall be free, I will pay him a visit.”

Voldemort says he’ll be free almost every day. It’s been three months since he’s living at
Grimmauld. Over four years since he’d been a captive.

Harry doesn’t know if it just makes life easier for Voldemort to believe he will escape, if he
says it just to mess with Harry or if it could be a possibility.

But, as with many other things Voldemort says, Harry’s gotten so used to hearing it that it had
lost all meaning; his heart doesn’t threaten to jump out of his chest, as it used to, in the
beginning.

Just to show him that he can’t scare Harry with it anymore, can’t cause sleepless nights, he
declares, “I’d like to see that. To watch his face when you stroll into his living room. Bet he
won’t have that superior stupid smirk then.”

Voldemort smiles. “Oh, he will not. He begs so politely, Harry. You should hear it. We can
arrange it.”

Harry sighs, anger draining out of him. “How can you enjoy that, people kneeling, begging,
crying at your feet?”

“I don’t always enjoy it. It gets awfully repetitive after a while.”

Voldemort always has his answers ready, no time needed before them, no hesitation. He’s
used to rapid fire conversation, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t think before his mouth
opens.

He uses his words like a weapon, the only one he’s got left; he’s quick and undeterred and
has a counter for everything at any time.

Hermione is like that- or can be like that. At least in certain subjects, more academically
inclined.

When it’s personal, Hermione takes time to consider what she’s saying, perceiving she can
come across as insensitive and trying to avoid it.

They’re both frighteningly smart and yet Harry has the sudden, surprising realisation that
Voldemort posses emotional intelligence that Hermione lacks.

Which isn’t fair- she’s a good, empathic person, but, like Harry, she fumbles sometimes in
social situations. Even worse than Harry.
Voldemort feels northing but loathing and condescension for everyone around him and yet he
knows what to say to hurt his victim the most, or to compliment them the best. He is very
aware of what impact each and every single word has.

“I’d enjoy seeing you on your knees, however” he says, voice shifting to something darker.

Harry swallows thickly. “Dream on!”

Voldemort stands and gives Harry an ominous smile, one that makes Harry’s stomach flop.

“I hold no illusions you would ever bow to me, Harry,” he says, head tilted to the side. “I
wasn’t taking about a lord and a disciple, nor about two adversaries.”

He walks away and Harry wonders ‘then what did you mean?’, has a burning curiosity to
know-

Voldemort looks over his shoulder. “Just as two men, living together.”

Harry can feel his eyes widening as he looks at Voldemort, like a deer trapped in the
headlights, heart rate wild.

“You’d enjoy it as well,” Voldemort says, and then he leaves.

Harry stares after him long after he’s gone, mouth dry.

(-)

He is not Tom Riddle, Harry tells himself, over and over again.

He is.

Well, ok, but he’s not Tom Riddle from the locket. Actually, even the locket hadn’t been Tom
Riddle, had only been a corruption, a trap designed to lure people in or scare them away.

Voldemort must have inferred Harry had a weakness for the locket, and now he’s playing up
to it.

Harry will just have to ignore it, will just have to pretend it doesn’t bother him.

Only Harry’s never been good at controlling his face. Ginny had told him he’s very
expressive, that he wears his feeling on his face.

They’ve been a couple at the time so she said things lovers say, how his determination shined
through his eyes, when he was focused on something, how his anger showed in the tight line
of his lips, when someone insults someone he loves.

How cute he was, when he was shy, and a blush would rise to his cheeks.
Harry wonders if there’s a book on how to control that stuff. There mustn’t be, because then
Hermione would have read it and she clearly hadn’t, since she’s as easy to read as Harry is.

Voldemort mounts his attack. It escalates constantly since that day after Diagon Alley.

Sometimes it’s just the way he looks at Harry, when he knows Harry will notice.

Other days it’s small brushes, as he walks past Harry, startling him, because the man makes
no noise, he’s suddenly there, his arms knocking into Harry’s.

Then there was the thing in the kitchen, when Harry was cooking and Voldemort claimed he
was making tea. He’d moved so close, his chest almost touching Harry’s back as he reached
to grab the sugar- almost touching, but not quite. Harry had tensed up, part of him terrified
about having an enemy at his back, the other-

Well, the other not so terrified, but nervous nonetheless. He’d stayed frozen, spatula in hand,
minutes after Voldemort had left the kitchen.

The bacon had burned, and he’d had to start all over again.

Through it all, Harry says nothing, does his best to ignore it.

What else can he do?

(-)

There’s constant pressure- it’s smothering. Harry’s so paranoid, every single word out of
Voldemort’s mouth sounds like a sinister pass at Harry. And there’s that provoking smile
playing on his lips, constantly.

Voldemort is everywhere- in the kitchen, in the library, in rooms Harry goes to hide from
him.

It’s like an elastic band being pulled and pulled, expanded to its limit, and Harry fears it will
snap, soon.

It has to.

(-)
It’s chilly when he wakes up.

Harry looks out the window where a downcast sky greets him.

They’ll have to start lighting the fireplaces soon.

After he showers, he pulls on a thick Weasley jumper over his regular clothes and he heads
down for breakfast.

He frowns when there is no tea and toast waiting for him.

Harry puts the kettle on, trying to dismiss it.

It’s nothing. He just didn’t make tea.

Only everything Voldemort does or doesn’t do usually has a point to it.

He didn’t escape during the night, stop with the paranoia. You sound like Moody.

Harry snorts, because for a second he imagines Moody living with Voldemort and that would
have been horrifying and hilarious-

He remembers just then that Voldemort killed Moody. That sobers him up, fast.

When his tea is ready - not as good as Voldemort’s, his traitorous mind whispers- he takes it
to the library, even if Voldemort prohibited food or beverages in his sanctuary.

Harry doesn’t give a crap about that. It is my house, damn it!

He almost reconsiders when he recalls the exchange two days prior.

He’d have gone in the library with a sandwich and a butterbeer, flopped onto the couch and
raised an eyebrow at Voldemort, daring him to say something.

“You want to be punished, Harry?” Voldemort had asked.

Fuck him! Harry thinks, shaking his head.

Poor choice of words.

“Stop!” he groans to himself, holding on to his tea so tightly, he’s afraid the cup will break.

Voldemort is not in the library.

Harry’s unease grows. It’s past ten o’clock and Voldemort, without any exceptions, is always
in the library at this time of day.

I should check on him, he thinks. Maybe he escaped, after all. Maybe he’s ill or something.

But a part of Harry really doesn’t want to go to Voldemort’s bedroom, in which he hadn’t set
foot since the very first day.
He’ll have to, though, and he will. He’ll just wait a couple more minutes, drink some tea.
Maybe he’ll show up on his own.

Harry sits at the desk where Voldemort usually reads and he instantly understands what’s off.

The date on the Daily Prophet is 31 October 2002.

Voldemort doesn’t come down the whole day, and Harry doesn’t go to check on him.

Does he want me to think him considerate? Does he want me to forget he attacked my family
twenty-one years ago? What is he trying to achieve?

Harry touches his scar, before quickly snatching his hand away. He has to stop doing that.

(-)

The next morning his tea and toast await, as if nothing had happened. Voldemort lights a fire
in the library.

“How did you do that?” Harry asks, voice strangled, staring into the merry flames.

“Same way I make breakfast,” Voldemort says, and he circles around the desk to stand next
to Harry. “With matches.”

“Ah, right.” Harry uses matches for the stove- he supposes the habit is ingrained, since the
Dursleys, but always his wand for fireplaces.

“Too hot for you, perhaps? Your cheeks are reddening.”

The space between the desk and the fireplace is narrow and Voldemort is taking it all up-
Harry almost ends up in the fire, trying to avoid touching.

“Why don’t you take off that horrid jumper, that should relieve you. Did that moronic woman
think it likely anyone would forget your name, or did she sew your initial on it just so she can
pretend you belong to her flock?”

Harry employs a Quidditch manoeuvre to get around Voldemort, hastily. He immediately

feels better when he’s no longer trapped between a hot place and a hot man-

What now?

Harry forgets to ask how he knows Mrs. Weasley knitted his jumper.

(-)
Harry wins the first match of his career. He loves it; he feels free up in the air, the snitch the
only thing on his mind.

For a second, he is young and carefree, drunk with success. For a second, he can be like
anyone else.

But then he’s back on the ground, back in reality, and he only accepts to drink one butterbeer
with the team, at a fancy pub, before heading to his dreary home, where he belongs.

(-)

“Do you know anything?” Harry asks, as softly as he can, as nicely as he can, when they are
both looking down at the Prophet where the Dark Mark floats above another house.
“Anything at all, any insight, something helpful? What do you think?”

An elderly couple, with no involvement in either war. Tortured and killed. She, a pureblood
witch; he, a muggle-born.

This time “blood traitor” is written in blood on the front door.

Voldemort looks at Harry. “I think you should tell Andromeda to ward her house.”

(-)

“It’s been done already,” Andromeda says, stiffly.

Since their fight, they hadn’t exchanged more than “hello” when Harry comes to pick up
Teddy.

“Someone capable?” Harry asks, having just returned from Ron’s and Hermione’s place,
where Bill and his colleagues had helped them protect their flat.

Many people are doing it and Harry can’t believe they’re back to this, after everything.

“Yes, specialists. I had someone come from the Charms Institute in Egypt-”

Harry whistles. “Wow, I know they’re almost impossible to get.” Not to mention expensive,
but they just don’t offer their services outside their country.

“Narcissa and Lucius have some friends there,” Andromeda says, chin held high, daring
Harry to say something.
“Listen, don’t get mad but- do you think Malfoy knows somethi-”

“Ask your friend, Shacklebolt,” she shrugs. “He dragged Lucius to the Ministry to interrogate
him at least ten times now.”

“Kingsley’s a good man,” Harry says, though he winces to remember the fight in the
Minister’s office, after Harry refused to give up Voldemort.

“I know. He used to come for dinner, when Dora was alive,” her face softens, just a little. “He
sends Teddy gifts, for Christmas.”

Somehow, this insignificant bit of information almost brings tears to Harry’s eyes.

Maybe because he remembers Dora, joking around with Kingsley, in Grimmauld Place.
Maybe because he remembers Kingsley, big and tough, breaking down at her funeral.

“I know you’re not- that we’re not-” Harry falters. “But I’m here for you. Not just Teddy, but
for you. You’re not alone.”

Harry is gutted to think of this woman, alone with a child, in times such as these.

“Thank you. But I’m not alone. I have family.”

“Ok. Just- in case they- I’m here. Just wanted to say it.”

She nods and silence falls. Harry sighs and prepares to go-

She catches his hand, soft fingers curling around his wrist, holding him back.

“You’re not alone either. You seem to forget it. You look like a lost puppy. Just remember,
when it’s hard, when you stay in that cursed house, that you have friends that are willing to
die for you.”

“I don’t want anyone to die for me,” Harry whispers. He meets her eyes and the tears he’d
suppressed before, wet his eyes. “I never did. I never wanted Dora to-”

He shuts up, a knot in his throat.

(-)

Kingsley doesn’t contact Harry, doesn’t even come to check on Voldemort.

“Strange, don’t you think?” Harry asks, when he finishes the last bite of his beef- something.

Voldemort cooked it.

It turned out delicious, even though Harry can’t really enjoy it, haunted by the attack.

“I expected them to come and ask you stuff, or at least for Kingsley to send me a letter, but
it’s been almost a week and ...nothing.”

Voldemort doesn’t answer, cutting his meat with precision.

“They’re questioning Malfoy, Andromeda says.”

“If Lucius knows something than rest assured he will talk.” Voldemort’s jaw twitches. “In
any case, he doesn’t know anything. No one would trust a traitor like him again, not after he
sold everyone to the Ministry.”

(-)

Days drag by. The press is worse than ever, trying to talk to Harry about “events” as they call
the attacks.

They’re running long articles, reviving old wounds.

The atmosphere of fear settles heavily around them.

“I’m sorry,” Harry tells Ron and Hermione, when he goes to see them. “I’m so sorry.”

Ron gives him a steady look. “It’s not your fault. Not everything is your fault, stop doing
that, taking on responsibility that isn’t yours.”

“I have Voldemort in my house, the man who started all this-”

“He didn’t start it,” Hermione says. “Don’t give him that much credit. Blood purists had
always hated Muggle-borns, since the Inquisition. There were many dark lords since, there
was Grindelwald- Voldemort is just the last, in a long line. Not everyone will suddenly get
along just because he is no longer there to stoke the flames. This is a deeply ingrained hatred,
fed by continuing prejudice. It’s not just in Britain, it was never just in Britain. But this sort
of people never last long. They’ll catch whoever is doing it. It always ends like that.” She
looks at Rose, crawling on the floor. “We’ll be fine,” Hermione says, but her eyes don’t look
as confident as her words.

(-)

Voldemort’s leaning on the doorframe, watching Harry.

Still, silent and waiting.

Harry tries to ignore it for minutes, keeping his gaze on the broom catalog, trying to pick a
new model.

It’s impossible to ignore Voldemort.

Harry’s been aware of this man, had been thinking of him, since the first time he’d heard his
name, back when he was eleven. Most of Harry’s life had been dominated by first a shadow,
than a handsome boy in a diary, and then the serpentine monster.

And now yet another version is staring at him.

Harry stands; he’s exhausted, he can’t sleep, guilt gnawing at him, fear of whatever is going
on outside the walls of his house keeping him on edge, the way people had taken to writing
him letters, asking for their hero to come forward, to do what the Ministry cannot, slowly
driving him mad.

He’ll go to his room and spend another restless night, shifting in his bed, mind refusing to
shut down.

Harry walks towards the exist and Voldemort moves, blocking it. He does it successfully, his
body as large as his personality.

Harry breaths in, deeply. The tension in the air grows, stretches, reached its limit.

Harry doesn’t stop walking, hoping Voldemort will just step aside if Harry shows him he’s
not going to be intimidated.

Voldemort remains where he is.

Harry has to stop, inches away from him. He looks up.

Move, Harry means to say to but the intensity in those dark, brown eyes shuts him up.

Voldemort’s been tenser too, since the last attack. But he looks more alive than ever, even in
his stillness.

“Kneel,” he says, voice deep and low, reaching straight into Harry’s soul and twisting it.

The tension shatters.

And so does Harry.

 Chapter 9

“Are you off your rocker?” Harry asks, but his voice comes out squeaky.

Voldemort steps closer, and it forces Harry to bend his head significantly to keep eye contact.

He’s very aware how close they are. It makes him dizzy. It makes his skin hot and flushed.

“Kneel,” the command comes again, low and harsh, and Harry’s abdomen fills with
excitement.

What’s wrong with me?

He looks down at his trainers, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I-what-”

Voldemort says nothing. He just stands there, tall and imposing and it messes Harry up, fills
him with agitation.

He has no power, Harry reminds himself. I’m in charge.

Harry doesn’t feel in charge; he looks at Voldemort and sees power made flesh, cuffs or no
cuffs.

Harry hates it. Harry likes it.

His mind is all wrong, he’s living with this guilt, with this terrible man and Harry wants him,
deep down, somehow he wants Voldemort.

He’s tired of fighting. He fought Voldemort his entire life, to no success, and Harry cannot
fight anymore.

He feels empty, robbed of everything, since the Forest, and isn’t it ironic that he only feels
alive around the man that killed him?

He kneels. Only because he thinks this has to be sexual, doesn’t it? Kneeling for that, it’s
fine. It’s not like he’s kneeling for Voldemort’s ideas-

As soon as his knees hit the floor, a weight lifts of his shoulders.

The agitation increases, he’s shaking all over, but he feels lighter.

The only thing that’s hard about him is his cock, twitching in his jeans.

“Good boy,” Voldemort voice wrecks Harry, fills him with so much emotion he almost cries.
There’s a lick of humiliation, of outrage in the rapidly dying rational part of his brain, but it’s
just so hard to think. Which is the whole point; he doesn’t want to think. He just wants to feel
something other than guilt.

He must have closed his eyes for a second, without realising; he snaps them open when he
hears a fly being lowered.

What am I doing, what am I doing? Dread and excitement battle for domination inside
Harry.

It’s not the first time he sees Voldemort exposed. There had been those glances in the
Ministry’s holding cell.

And there had been the dreams, in the tent.

“I-” Harry speaks, though his tongue feels like lead. “I never-”

Harry has only ever been with Ginny and that muggle girl, and both were feminine and soft.

There is nothing soft about Voldemort. His cock is as big as the rest of him, though Harry
supposes any cock must seem huge when it's in someone’s face.

“That’s alright,” Voldemort fingers lock behind Harry’s neck. The touch burns Harry, excites
him. “We have established you are a very passive partner. I shall do all the work, as per usual.
Open your mouth.”

And Harry, Merlin forgive him, does.

He opens his mouth and stays still; Voldemort pushes in.

There’s nothing hesitant about it, nothing gentle or careful.

It’s rough and a bit painful. The tent dreams hadn’t been so, at all. That Tom was seductive,
focused on Harry’s pleasure.

But this is not Tom anymore.

Yet the world quiets down. The guilt ebbs away as Harry struggles to breathe, as he’s certain
he’ll choke to death.

In those seconds, before Voldemort draws back to allow him a few gulps of air, Harry feels
relief that he’s still alive, actually enjoys the air filling his lungs, instead of resenting it, as he
had since the Forbidden Forest.

Harry feels small and without choice, without any power, and he is not expected to make any
decisions. All Harry needs to do is hold on, survive. And he’s always been good at that.

There’s a small moment, about halfway through, when he panics, when it becomes too much
and he raises one of his hands, that had been laying uselessly in his lap-
He rests it on Voldemort’s leg. Not pushing, not hard- just touches his leg, briefly,
mindlessly.

Voldemort draws back, and Harry breathes hard, big gulps of air. Voldemort does nothing,
returns to that stillness of his, and Harry had fought him all his life and Voldemort fought
back, snarling, hissing, refusing to back down- and yet now, all it takes is a light touch and
he’s stopped.

It reassures something inside Harry that he can end this anytime he wants to.

He doesn’t want to. He lets his hand drop back on his lap.

“Good boy,” Voldemort repeats and goes back to it.

Harry wonders if it’s possible to come just from hearing a couple of words- demeaning
words, at that, and yet they still manage to please a very weird side of Harry’s brain.

He doesn’t come, only because he’s so focused on keeping his mouth open, focused on trying
to breathe through it, allowing all thoughts to just flee from his head, chased away by
Voldemort’s taste on his tongue, how hot and hard he is, at the back of Harry’s throat.

When it’s done, when Voldemort zips his trousers back up and leaves without a word, Harry
collapses on the floor, coughing and struggling to breathe, shaking all over. Even so, the
world stays quiet, just a white noise in his head, replaying on a loop.

(-)

It all comes back with a vengeance, some hours later.

Even more guilt, even more shame, topped with self-disgust.

Harry leaves, sneaking out of his own house, like a thief.

He goes camping in their old, trusty tent.

He lays in his bunk bed, staring up at the canvas, motionless. He really should have died in
the Forest.

But he hadn’t, and not eating, not drinking, just laying in his bed for two days straight doesn’t
kill him.

Is this what Voldemort had meant by it? Had he foreseen Harry will not be able to face him,
would run away like the coward he is? Giving Voldemort time to plot or escape or Merlin
knows what else.

He has to return. There’s just no going around it. Harry is responsible for Voldemort and he
can’t just run away.
He snorts with bitter laughter. Responsible for Voldemort. What a joke. Harry is no match for
him-never has been. Not in skill, not in strength, not in brains.

Harry should just take him back to the Ministry and leave him there to rot in more capable
hands.

He pictures it for a second-would Voldemort go quietly? Would he try to fight it? Would his
face express anything? Would he feel betrayed?

Harry just knows he won’t ever do it- return him, like a broken toy.

Voldemort means a lot to Harry. He always did, in one form or another-always there, always
a constant. Always inside Harry, souls intertwined. And now that Voldemort is incapable to
do magic, and he can’t fight-

Well, Harry likes him.

Or likes Tom Riddle, that shines strongly through the Voldemort persona.

He makes Harry feel alive, which is all sorts of crazy.

(-)

Voldemort is still inside Grimmauld when Harry returns.

Harry gets the briefest glimpse of him, in the library, before he runs up the stairs to his room.

The Marauders gaze at him, from the wall, alongside the mostly naked muggle girls, and
Harry covers the picture of the four friends with a cloth, so they won’t have to see him like
this.

(-)

“Look at me,” Voldemort demands, catching Harry in the morning.

Harry had been so close to freedom, just a few inches from the front door.

“Harry,” he says when Harry just stares at the floor, gripping his broom tightly.

With a monumental effort, he raises his eyes.

Voldemort looks like he always does.

There’s no mocking expression on his face, no evil laugh, no smug satisfaction. Well, no
smugger than usual.

“What would you like for dinner?”

Harry expected a lot, but did not expect that. “Mhm,” he mumbles. “Whatever is fine.”

“We’re out of bread and tea.”

What sort of universe is this? Am I still sleeping?

“Yeah, ok. I’ll get some.”

Voldemort nods, and Harry shoots out of the door, heading for practice.

It is easier, tough, to face Voldemort at dinner.

Harry’s quieter than usual, waiting to be ridiculed, shoulders tense.

Voldemort merely complains about a new law the Wizengamot had passed earlier that day,
insulting the members of the Council in so many creative ways, Harry’s lips eventually jerk
into a smile.

(-)

He can’t face anyone outside his Quidditch team. People lost parents, siblings, children to
Voldemort and Harry’s went ahead and-

No, he can’t meet anyone’s eyes.

He avoids everyone but Teddy. Not that it’s easy to look at Teddy, who has been wronged
more than others, but he’s just a child and it would hurt him to have Harry suddenly
disappear.

Teddy is a bit disappointed when they go back to Muggle Places, avoiding anything wizard,
but Harry makes it as fun as he can for him, taking him to ice rinks and autumn fairs, to
several zoos and to Madame Tussauds, where Teddy accidentally makes one of the wax
figurines melt.
“Listen Teddy, I know you didn’t mean to, but you have to try to be careful; we can end up
arrested by their police.”

Not that it would come to that, Harry has a wand, after all, but Teddy needs to understand
precaution.

He shrugs. “It’s just muggles. They’re dumb and easily tricked.”

Harry blinks. “Who told you that?” he asks, quite sure he knows the answer.

Teddy looks away. “No one,” he says, quietly, guiltily.

“Lucius?”

Teddy doesn’t answer.

Harry tries to keep calm. “Muggles aren’t dumb. They’re just like us, only they can’t do
magic.”

Teddy frowns. “Well, then they aren’t like us, are they?”

“We’d get arrested by Aurors, you know?” Harry says, because he doesn’t know how to best
explain all people are equal, regardless of magic. “For breaking the Statute. You can ask
Malfoy; he got in trouble for acting like certain people were beneath him.”

(-)

Harry wakes up hard, in the middle of the night. He tries to ignore it, but it’s not happening.

Unbidden, the memory from the living room comes to mind and he gets even harder. He
doesn’t understand why- it should cause him nightmares, it does cause him so much shame
when it’s daylight outside, but now he keeps replaying it in his head and his cock twitches
and throbs until Harry moves a hand under the blankets, touching himself.

He comes after two strokes, head full of Voldemort.

(-)

“You’ve been so busy lately.” Hermione corners him after training, Ron flanking her, Rose in
his arms.

It’s been a month since he’d seen them.

“Arm, yes. Quidditch -”

“Thank Merlin we caught you here, then,” Ron says, no nonsense. “You’re coming over, for
dinner.”

It’s not exactly an invitation.

“So, what’s going on?” Hermione demands, once they’re in the Weasley’s flat.

“Noth-”

“Don’t say nothing!” Ron warns. “We’re worried about you. You’re there, cooped up with
him and you suddenly avoid us, no one can get hold of you. What’s he doing to you?”

Thing is, Harry is too embarrassed to face them, since The Thing That Shall Not Be
Mentioned happened.

“He’s not doing anything. He sits there and reads and reads, and he cooks dinner.”

Ron blinks at him. “He cooks -what?”

“He must be doing something. You’re clearly troubled.”

Harry’s troubled alright, but not in the way Hermione would imagine.

“I’m fine, really. Nothing is going on. I’m just tired, with practice and I mean, I want to stay
home more, keep an eye on him. He’s not doing anything evil or suspicious-”

“He cooks. That’s suspicious!” Ron intervenes.

“Fine,” Hermione says, after a few seconds.

“Great,” Harry smiles, relived.

Too soon. Far too soon.

“Than we’re coming over, to see for ourselves.”

Ron’s face falls.

“No,” she snaps, when Harry tries to speak. “If he’s no danger to you, then he’s no danger to
us, either. So what will it be, Harry? Is he or is he not a danger?

Hermione should have been a Slytherin.

(-)

“Please, be polite,” Harry says for the tenth time.

“I’m not a child,” Voldemort looks at him from his chair. “I believe I am far more apt to
behave in society than you are.”
“Fine, not polite -polite. I know you are. Just-don’t be creepy.”

“Creepy?”

“You have to know what I’m talking about.”

“No idea.”

The doorbell rings.

Harry will not live through the night. Ron looks just as nervous as he feels when Harry opens
the door.

Hermione walks inside as if she’s marching off to war, head high and shoulders stiff.

There’s an awfully heavy silence as the three of them head into the kitchen.

Voldemort remains seated at the head of the table. He looks at them, bored and unimpressed.

“Hello,” Hermione barks and Harry can hear the shakiness under it, knows her well enough
to recognise she’s scared.

“Good evening,” Voldemort responds.

Nothing happens. They all stare at each other. And then Hermione marches on and Ron tries
to grab her arm but misses at the last second.

“Hermione Weasley,” she says, stopping right in front of Voldemort, hand extended forward.
“We’ve never been introduced.”

Voldemort stands and Ron hurries to Hermione’s side.

But Voldemort extends his own hand and then surprises everyone by turning Hermione’s and
rising it to his lips, instead of shaking.

Hermione’s face explodes into shock.

Voldemort used to be so predictable, once upon a time. Now he thrives in doing the exact
opposite of what people expect, enjoys throwing everyone off.

“Have a seat,” Voldemort says into the silence.

Ron doesn’t offer to shake his hand. He leads Hermione to the other end of the long table.

Harry sits beside Voldemort.

“Tea? Coffee?” Voldemort asks.

“Right. Right,” Harry forgot about that. He stands back up and serves Hermione’s coffee, one
sugar, Ron’s tea, two drops of milk and Voldemort’s tea, black.
Another long stretch of silence. Ron keeps one hand under the table, more than likely holding
his wand.

“So, Harry, how’s practice going?” Hermione breaks the silence eventually, voice a little
high.

Harry tries his best to speak about it, repeats the same sentence twice in the span of five
minutes, but that’s alright, because no one notices. Voldemort does, but he doesn’t count.

“What about you, Hermione? How’s work?” Harry asks, desperate after another silence.

Hermione goes off. Harry can never keep up with her, but now she doesn’t even try to filter
her words, nervous as she is.

“I’ve been reading this incredible book though, hard to put it down, and it keeps me up at
night,” she ends a ten minute long monologue.

“Nice, that’s nice,” Harry says, absentmindedly.

“Yes and -”

“What book?” Voldemort asks.

Dear God, please, please make it stop.

“It’s Muggle,” Hermione bites.

“I was more interested in the title or a brief summary.”

“It’s Muggle-” Hermione repeats and Harry just shakes his head at her, begging her to just
say the damn title.

“Girl, I’ve been reading Shakespeare before your parents were even born, let alone come up
with that silly name of yours. Will you name your daughter Perdita?”

Ron frowns, looking at Harry. Harry looks back, just as confused.

“I’ll have you know The Winter’s tale is considered one of the most-”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good. I was merely wondering who would name their child after such a
tragic character.”

“Well,” Hermione says, leaning back in her chair. “Well, then.” She narrows her eyes. “How
about Tolstoy?”

“Boring.”

A very surprised look on Hermione’s face. She covers it, fast. “Bet Dostoevsky was right up
your alley.”

Voldemort smiles. “Quite.”

They exchange more names between them that leave Harry and Ron completely lost. It goes
on for quite a while.

“I am reading The Lord of the Rings,” Hermione says, finally. “It’s wonderfully refreshing,
written by Tolkien, classed as one of the greatest writers of the century, and I see why. They
just adapted the first book into a movie.”

“What year was it published in?” Voldemort frowns.

“In ‘54-”

“Ah. I’m afraid my knowledge of muggle literature mainly stops after ‘45.”

It’s Hermione’s turn to frown. “Wait, you mean to tell me you read all that before you
finished Hogwarts? All of Dostoevsky?”

“I was done with him by the time I started Hogwarts.”

Hermione makes an indignant noise. “No wonder you turned up this way! It is not meant for
children!”

“I’m fairly sure most children wouldn’t understand it, in any way.”

“Of course not. You didn’t understand it!”

“I assure you-”

“Agh! Read it again, you will see it quite differently! This explains so much, so much-”

“Now, now, calm down. I will give them another go, you might have a point that I’ll see them
differently. Of course, that is, if Mr. Potter will buy them for me, since I am not allowed to
leave the premise.”

Mr. Porter-that’s new.

“I’ll send them over,” Hermione says.

Harry has never seen her so animated. Actually, he had; only it usually goes away fast, when
her audience loses interest. He’d never seen someone actually keep up with her.

They delve into arithmancy and runes after that, and they speak so fast about complicated
theories, it serves to lull both Harry and Ron into a more relaxed state.

They don’t agree on a single thing, that is all Harry is able to surmise from the conversation.

An hour later, Ron and Hermione leave quite bewildered, as if not quite sure of what had
happened.

Harry is not so surprised. “You really are a charmer when you want, aren’t you?”
“There was a time in my life when I was a no one. My charisma got me though seven years
of Hogwarts and gained me a lot of followers. Satisfied of our little get together, Harry? Did I
play nice?”

“Aha. Yeah. Ah-thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

(-)

“How do I make the goblins like me?” Harry asks, coming back from the bank, sweaty and
with a headache.

Voldemort looks up from one of the Muggle books Hermione had sent him.

“Why do you want to be liked and accepted?” he asks. “It is an unhealthy attitude to have,
trying to please those around you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s just so awkward, every time I have to go to the bank. I’ve inherited
the Black family vault ages ago, and I’ve never seen it; I doubt I would return alive, If I go
down so deep into Gringotts.”

Hermione and Ron are not even allowed to keep their money there; they have them in muggle
banks.

Since Harry is The Hero and owner of the Black and Potter Vaults, the goblins didn’t shut
down his accounts, but it’s always unpleasant to go there.

“You did steal from them,” Voldemort shrugs. “And then I murdered at least a dozen goblins
once I found out my cup was gone. These creatures carry a grudge like no one else. During
my last reign, I put them in their proper place.”

Harry remembers it. It was the reason Griphook was on the run.

“Yeah; you’d think they’d be a little more grateful that I-” Harry hesitates. “That I - I mean-
because-”

“Because you defeated me thus giving them their freedom?” Voldemort asks, returning his
attention to his book. “In my experience, Harry, no good deed goes unpunished.”

That is such a bleak outlook to have. Harry wants to say something, even if he knows it’s
useless to try to teach a seventy-year-old dark lord that kindness has its merits; he’s thinking
how to phrase it-

“Do not trouble yourself; once I get my powers back, I will eliminate them and you may visit
your vaults in peace, then.”
Harry ignores the “powers back” bit, like he always does.

What he can’t ignore is that in Voldemort’s fantasies, where he’s returned to his full power,
Harry would apparently still be alive and free to visit Gringotts. In peace, no less.

His heart skips a bit and he retreats from the library.

(-)

Ron and Hermione- though it’s really Hermione, Ron is clearly not happy about it- insist to
spend Christmas with him, at Grimmauld, instead of going to the Burrow.

They would rather miss their second Christmas with their daughter, just so Harry won’t be
left to spend the day alone with Voldemort. Neither point out that Harry doesn’t need to stay
at Grimmauld, that he could go to the Burrow. Harry constantly leaves the house for hours at
a time and nothing has happened.

And yet, Harry chooses to stay home, even if Christmas at the Burrow is one of his favourite
things in the world, hadn’t missed a single one since the war ended.

Harry feels like they’re pushing their luck; last time went well, but that was surely just a
fluke. Ron kept his temper, Voldemort kept his, and it just doesn’t seem wise to tempt fate.

“I’m not cooking for a mudblood and a blood traitor,” Voldemort says, when Harry lets him
know of the impending visit. “I don’t mind, otherwise.”

“Don’t call them that,” Harry says, but he’s ignored, as usual.

He’s the one cooking and even with the anxiety of the visit hanging over him, it feels kind of
nice to make his first Christmas dinner.

Voldemort hangs around the kitchen, saying disparaging things about Muggle traditions and
how they’re supposed to celebrate Yule, how Harry should serve wizard traditional food and
beverages.

“Three of us are very familiar with Muggle Christmas,” Harry reminds him. “And by now, so
is Ron, really.”

“Oh, yes, Potter,” His tone doesn’t change, but Harry knows that when it’s ‘Potter,’ instead of
Harry, Voldemort’s ticked off. “Of course I am very familiar with Muggle Christmas. After
all, we must have had grand dinners at the orphanages, fat turkeys and expensive cakes, on
top of the multitude of presents lying around,” Voldemort says, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“If you want me to have a familiar Christmas, why don’t you serve me a dry turkey sandwich
and give me a pair of socks as a present?”
“I’m sorry,” Harry says, quietly. He didn’t think what Christmas must have been like at the
Orphanage.

Voldemort only gets angry, because Harry dares have pity for him.

“I also got old, used socks for Christmas, at the Dursleys. Or a broken toy,” Harry says, to
stave off Voldemort’s fury. “They only gave me their leftovers to eat, but at least they were
good leftovers.” He shrugs. “That’s why I want to have a proper Christmas. How it was
supposed to be. This is my first Christmas in this house, after the one in my fifth year.”

Voldemort narrows his eyes. “How it’s supposed to be? I thought it was a celebration to
spend with family, not with your mortal enemy.”

“I would spend it with my family, but I don’t have one,” Harry reminds him.

Silence. They stare at each other for a couple of minutes, before Harry sighs and returns to
the oven, to check on the turkey.

“Ron and Hermione will be here, anyway,” Harry goes on. “They are my family.”

Only that night, as he goes over their fight, turning in his bed, Harry focuses a lot on the fact
that Voldemort didn’t receive presents as a child.

He knows from experience how terrible that feels. But since Harry arrived at Hogwarts, he
always got a mountain of presents.

Did anyone ever give Voldemort a Christmas gift?

Should I get him something?

Do you hear yourself? Really? A gift?

Well, he has one for Ron and Hermione and they surely got Harry something- it would be
weird, wouldn’t it, Voldemort being the only one with nothing?

What the fuck does one buy for a dark lord?

The next morning, at the crack of dawn, Harry goes to Diagon Alley; only most stores
haven’t even opened, if they’ll open at all, on such an important day.

Knockturn Alley doesn’t do celebrations so Harry reluctantly heads there, just knowing
somehow, someone will photograph him.

Journalists have no day off.

He spends more than an hour walking around the stores- some things he sees, Harry knows
Voldemort might enjoy, but they’re all dangerous to give to him.

Eventually he finds a beautiful quill, elegant, with dark green feathers and an intricate silver
nib, small emeralds caved into it.
It looks very fancy, it costs a small fortune, it has a bit of dodgy magic, promising to make
anyone but the owner’s arm erupt in boils, if used without permission.

It will have to do.

“Look,” Harry says, adding four extra galleons to the payment. “I’d really appreciate if the
gossip magazines won’t learn of what I bought here-”

“Beg your pardon, Mr. Potter,” the cashier says, pocketing the money. “But you’re not in
Diagon Alley anymore. We know our clients value privacy, in these parts. You won’t see
those pesky journalists setting foot in Knockturn. And if they somehow make it to my store,
they won’t get a word out of me.”

Harry nods, a little relived. “Great. Thanks!”

“We appreciate your business.”

(-)

Dinner goes well. A little tense, for Ron and Harry, who mostly stay silent. But Voldemort is
civil, and he engages Hermione in conversation; she quickly loses her stiff posture, as it
always happens when books are brought up.

They don’t shut up through the whole thing, not even when they retire to the living room, for
a cup of hot chocolate spiked with brandy. Voldemort refuses it with a sneer, preferring a
glass of wine.

“This is for you,” Hermione says, using her wand to send a small package towards
Voldemort, after they have exchanged presents between themselves.

Ron shakes his head beside her, gives Harry a look that clearly says “can you believe this?”

Oh, Harry can.

“Thank you,” Voldemort says, after he opens it, to reveal a book.

Something about the Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.

Harry waits until they are gone; Voldemort might know how to act with people, too well,
actually, but he’ll never let his guard down around anyone.

He won’t do that with you, either.

He might. He does sometimes. He is more himself with Harry, different from the cold mask
he has when Aurors are there, or Harry’s friends.

Harry gives him the quill, watching his face carefully, hoping he’ll like it, that he will feel
some joy, something positive.

Voldemort’s life had been awful, no matter what he might think- and it’s awful now, cut away
from magic, a prisoner. Harry just wants him to have something nice, even if he doesn’t
deserve it.

“How thoughtful of you, Harry,” he drawls.

Harry squirms, trying not to blush.

“My gift to you was not strangling your ginger at the table, when he kept shovelling food in
his mouth like an animal.”

Harry gives a little laugh. “He eats more, when he’s nervous.”

“And not stabbing the mudblood, when she dared contradict me on the uses of dragon
blood,” Voldemort continues, running his fingers down the green feathers.

Voldemort wouldn’t have done either of those things. He knows Harry would truly kill him, if
he ever hurts his friends. He must suspect that’s Harry’s limit.

“So really, I gave you two gifts,” Voldemort smiles. “And you only gave me one. Care to
compensate?”

And there’s something in his tone that lets Harry know exactly what he’s talking about.

It’s the first time Voldemort gets even close to acknowledging the Event.

Harry’s blood instantly travels south.

“Goodnight!” he says hastily and retreats before he does something stupid.

(-)

“Does he always act that... civil?” Ron asks.

“Pretty much,” Harry confirms. “Well, he has some nasty answers here and there, but yeah.”

“I don’t like it,” Ron says, frowning.

“You’d rather he makes Harry’s life a living hell?” Hermione scoffs.

“He already did that,” Ron shoots back. “And I didn’t mean-”
“I know what you meant,” Harry says, to stave off a fight. “It’s odd. But I got used to it.”

Ron nods, letting it drop, changing the subject until his wife leaves to feed Rosie.

“You shouldn’t get used to him, in any way. It’s-” Ron whispers.

“Wrong, I know,” Harry looks away, apologetic. Fred died because of-

“No!” Ron snaps. “It’s dangerous. For you. I don’t like it.”

“I can protect myself!”

Ron bites his lip. “You’re a great duellist; you’re -Harry, you are many things, but you are ...
You always want to save everyone, even people that are beyond saving. It was always your
weak spot.”

(-)

“There was another attack,” Harry tells Voldemort. “You won’t see it in the Prophet, because
they’re hiding it.”

Typical, really. All forms of Government are the same, even when good people end up in
charge. It must be a curse or something.

Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “And how would they hide that?”

“It was in Ireland. But Kingsley called me to his office and-” Harry sighs, runs a hand
through his hair. He’s been out of sorts all day.

“Ah, I see.” Voldemort gets that annoyed glint in his eyes. “You’re to ask me, again, if I
know something, or they’re to come and threaten -”

“No,” Harry looks at him. “He wants me to join the Aurors.”

“It would make people feel more comfortable, if you were working with the Ministry. Restore
their trust in us, when inevitably we’ll have another attack here.”

“Are you serious?” Harry yells. “Who are you? Fudge? Scrimgeour? They also wanted to
use me-”

“They wanted you to shake their hands publicly and be seen coming at the Ministry. I want
you to work on this Harry, to put your talents to good use and help us solve this, besides the
benefit it would bring to the Ministry’s reputation.”

Voldemort blinks at him, once, twice-

“You refused,” he says, a hint of anger in his voice, more a question, even if he phrases it as a
statement.

“I said I’ll think about it,” Harry shrugs.

“It takes five Outstanding NEWTS to become an Auror and three years of training,”
Voldemort points out.

“Yeah, but I’m- they’d make an exception, for me.”

“Of course,” Voldemort snarls. “You’d get preferential treatment, Saint Potter and his lucky
scar-”

Harry stands. “You sound like Malfoy! The lamer one, at that!”

Voldemort stands as well. Somehow Harry always forgets how tall he is, even if he sees him
every day.

“And you sound like an idiot. What will you do, when you’ll have to get out there and duel
Dark Wizards? Are you hoping they will all wield wands that secretly belong to you and a
simple Disarming Spell will work against them?”

“I know how to duel!” Harry growls. “Stop that! Stop pretending I can’t do anything! I faced
many of your Death Eaters and-”

“They all had clear instructions not to kill you-”

“I was the best in my year at Defence-”

“Oh yes, what a threat you are to grown men that actually finished their education and
studied the dark arts! Harry Potter, best in his year at Hogwarts, under the most incompetent
Defence teachers the world has ever seen! No doubt you’ll scare them to death.”

“I know more spells than ‘Expeliarmus’!”

“It’s all I’ve seen you use in a duel, spanning seven years. That and running around like a
headless chicken, taking cover behind gravestones.”

“Fuck you!” Harry screams, getting in his face, drawing his wand.

Voldemort doesn’t even look at it, chooses instead to step towards Harry, until they’re chest
to chest.

Harry makes a frustrated sound. He can’t curse an unarmed wizard- he wants to, but then
he’d be no better than Voldemort.

You can punch him, though.

For a second, he’s awfully tempted.

He’s two heads taller than you are, the rational part of his brain reminds him.

He yells some more, instead.

“I was a child! I was fourteen years old!” He sounds chocked up, remembering that night. He
can’t associate the man in front of him with the horror that came out of the cauldron. Every
day, it’s harder and harder to remember they are the same man. But they are. The polite, civil,
sarcastic prisoner in his house had committed heinous sins. “How could you do that -why?
Why kill Cedric? Just a boy-”

“He was an adult, and I didn’t kill him.” Voldemort says, voice low.

“You ordered it!”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there. It’s not my fault someone decided to bring him along.”

“Are you crazy?” Harry raises his voice even more. “Of course it was your fault! You ordered
his death!”

“Why do you focus on the past? The boy is dead and you can’t go back and collect the cup
alone, no more than I can go back and not give the order. It’s done with. Let it go, Potter.”

“You think it’s easy?” Harry asks, shaking with rage and guilt. “You think- let it go? You
fucking tortured me!”

Harry’s suffered a lot of injuries, since the Cruciatus placed on him in that graveyard, but
none came close to the level of pain he’d endured that night.

“You were my enemy,” Voldemort says.

“I was fourteen! I never did anything to you! I-”

“I wasn’t thinking straight!”

For a second, Voldemort has real emotions on his face, something other than anger. For a
second, his voice gets higher.

For a second, he sounds frustrated.

The Horcruxes, Harry thinks. He’d thought it before, ever since he’d started visiting
Voldemort in jail. The Horcruxes must have messed him up, -how could they not?- and now
he has all of his soul.

He’s still unrepentant, he’s still a scheming emotionless machine with no empathy, but he’s
saner.

Harry doesn’t know if that makes him less of a threat, or if it makes him more dangerous.

The second passes and Voldemort resumes his composure. Silence falls around them. Harry
stands back, because his anger is dwindling, and he shouldn’t be this close.
“You don’t want to go around looking for Death Eaters,” Voldemort says, after a few
moments. “You know that. I know that. So why even consider it?”

“Because people need me-”

“No one needs you,” Voldemort says, matter-of-factly, but to Harry is a knife to the heart.

No one needs him. Not him. They need his name, like they always did. They need a Hero, a
Chosen one.

“They need a martyr,” Voldemort says it at the exact same time Harry thinks it. “Stop serving
others, for once. Play your Quidditch, waste your time with your mudblood and your godson.
Do what you want, not what someone else wants.”

Harry steps even further away, pockets his wand. He deflates like a balloon.

“You won’t make a difference. Perhaps you’re not the worst wizard, fine. Perhaps you are a
decent duellist.”

It is the first -not compliment, but something resembling an once of respect that he gets from
Voldemort.

“But you’re not unique. They have fully trained, experienced Aurors, that have been hunting
dark wizards for decades. Compared to that, Harry, you really won’t make any difference.
You only managed with me because-”

“I know,” Harry whispers. “I know.”

“The world turned on its axis before you were born. Dark wizards rose and fell for millennia,
without your assistance. Stop involving yourself in matters that don’t concern you. Do you
want to make yourself a target? Do you want to make your loved one targets? Have you
learned nothing?”

“Why do you care?” Harry asks. “You don’t care about my loved ones, that’s for sure-”

“I’m tied to you,” Voldemort says, simply.

He needs me, Harry thinks. Voldemort needs Harry, because Harry’s the one standing
between Voldemort and a terrible fate.

From all the people left alive, Voldemort is the only one that truly needs Harry.

And he’s the only person Harry can actually protect, keeping him safe in Grimmauld.

(-)

“You were my enemy.”

Were.

Harry stays awake, looking out the window, perched on an ancient armchair.

“You were my enemy,” he whispers to the air.

(-)

Voldemort orders him to kneel again. It’s not verbal, this time.

Harry’s been getting more and more apprehensive, Kingsley hounding him daily with his
offer.

To top it off, Ginny announced her engagement to Yannis, which propels the press into
another frenzy.

For a week straight he has to wake up and read his story all over the Prophet. As usual, most
of it is false.

The gossip magazines are curious about his love life. Ask if Harry has been left too broken to
love.

And that hurts the most to read, because Harry is broken. Everyone around him is getting
married, settling down, and Harry-

He’s washing the dishes, furiously, going by hand because he needs to do something to
distract himself from all the anger and frustration in his head.

He feels Voldemort a second before his hand lands on Harry’s shoulder.

He freezes, dropping a goblet in the sink. Voldemort turns him around, slowly. Harry’s face
reaches up to his chest, so he stares at the crisp white shirt.

And then Voldemort’s hand starts applying some gentle pressure on Harry’s shoulder-it’s not
enough to actually force Harry down. Just an invitation of sorts, though Harry isn’t really
sure if it’s not an order.

Say no.

But why? Harry’s fucked up, he’s fucked up everything, he refuses to help with the Death
Eaters, he’s playing Quidditch and playing house with Voldemort. He deserves to be
punished. He was supposed to be a hero, and he did not rise to the occasion.

He never wanted to be a hero. He’d wanted to be a famous Quidditch player, he’d have liked
to win the Triwizard Tournament, to get the pretty girl and be well liked.
He never wanted fame for something that left him disfigured, something he had no merit in.

Harry allows himself to be pushed to his keens.

It’s the same as the last time, just as brutal and humiliating. Harry keeps his eyes closed, tears
running down his cheeks, caused by his gag reflex getting activated over and over again, but
also because he feels like crying.

He’s also rock hard during the whole thing, and that only cements his belief that he should be
punished, because he’s not supposed to like this. Not with Voldemort.

The world disappears, narrows down to every breath he’s allowed to take, to the fingers that
hold his neck.

(-)

He wanks off that very night, throat still very sore, his jaw still hurting. He comes as fast as
the last time, writhing in his bed.

And then, he cries some more.

He doesn’t run again, sits down for breakfast the next morning as if nothing happened and
eats the buttered toast that is waiting for him, as always.

(-)

Not a week after, Harry is preparing to leave the library, after he carefully places the book he
was reading back in its ‘proper place’, less someone throws a fit.

“Stay,” Voldemort asks, from his armchair near the fireplace. It is a new armchair. Harry
doesn’t remember owning it or buying it.

“What?” Harry asks, stretching.

Voldemort watches him in a way that instantly makes Harry self-conscious. His hands lie on
the armrests and there is no book in sight. How long had he stayed there, just watching Harry
read?

“Take off your clothes.”

Harry worries he’s being hypnotised or something similar, because just like that something
switches inside him-his heart beats faster, his palms are sweaty and he has this need to do as
he’s told.

But no, no. This has to stop, really. It’s absurd and uncomfortable, on many levels, and Harry
doesn’t know where it’s going, but knows it will end badly.

“I don’t want to,” he says, squaring off his shoulders and meets his eyes.

Voldemort leans further inside the armchair, getting more comfortable. He’s been off the
whole day-tenser. A muscle in his jaw kept pulsing.

“I didn’t ask if you want to. I asked you to take your clothes off. And I’m not in the habit of
repeating myself, so don’t make me say it again.”

“But why?” Harry asks to stall time.

Voldemort raises an eyebrow, rests an ankle on the opposite knee. And it’s sinful, really, for
anyone to look that good, but especially a 70 something years old evil dark lord. Yet here
they are.

“Because I want to see you without them,” he drawls, deliberately.

Harry doesn’t want that. It would make him feel vulnerable.

You saw him naked, beaten and bloodied, he reminds himself. Only Voldemort hadn’t
looked vulnerable.

Harry already feels vulnerable, even clothed.

Back in the tent, a younger Tom Riddle would pull Harry’s shirt himself, would bend to kiss
Harry’s shoulder-

Harry pulls off his t-shirt in one swift motion. The jeans are tighter than he wants, because
they’re new, they haven’t settled yet. Also because he bought them in his usual size that
seems to have changed a little, since Voldemort keeps feeding him at least two full meals a
day.

He must look ridiculous and he feels so, as he wrestles with the jeans, that do not seem to
want to part with him.

Eventually, he’s only in his boxers. His hands tremble on the waist band.

Voldemort watches, quietly. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Harry’s own.

In the tent, Tom Riddle would let his dark eyes trail all over. But Tom Riddle had been a liar,
Tom Riddle was only trying to protect himself.

And Voldemort isn’t?

“Why are you doing this?” Harry asks, voice so wretched he can hear it himself, the
desperation inside.
Voldemort doesn’t answer.

Harry pulls the boxers off and he can’t look at Voldemort anymore. He focuses on the carpet.
The luscious, clean carpet that has none of the holes in it that it used to have.

But as interesting as that is, it can’t distract him from what’s going on. He was right. He feels
all sorts of vulnerable and self-conscious, and he has to make a huge effort not to cover
himself with his hands.

Harry had shared a room with four other boys at Hogwarts. He’d been in a full locker room a
few times. He knows he’s at best average in size and it never bothered him with Ginny or that
muggle girl, but it bothers him now, being watched by Voldemort, whom Harry knows is
much bigger than ‘average’.

Just another way in which Harry comes up short, compared to the dark lord.

When he looks back up, Voldemort’s walking towards him. Harry flinches slightly, but very
soon Voldemort passes by him and Harry can feel him at his back. He touches Harry’s
shoulder and his fingers are so hot, so long- Harry shudders under them.

Voldemort guides Harry a little to the left, and he’s suddenly facing a full-length mirror that
had most defiantly never been there before.

The image shocks him.

Harry looks even smaller, in every aspect, with Voldemort looming at his back, at least two
heads taller, almost twice as wide, in shoulder span.

It’s unbearable. He closes his eyes-

“No. Look.”

Harry shakes his head. The fingers grab his throat, suddenly. Harry’s eyes snap open
instinctively and his own hands grab at Voldemort’s forearm.

Voldemort is barley squeezing, really. There’s almost no pressure at all, but it’s such a
visceral thing to have the fingers of the man that tried to kill him so many times, curled
around his throat.

The image in the mirror stops Harry. He looks wild, skin pale, every scar standing out, his
green eyes making a startling contrast with the rest of him.

“Let go,” Voldemort demands, and Harry allows his arms to fall beside his body.

Voldemort's other hand grabs Harry’s right wrist, his finger press against the scar Pettigrew
left with the knife, back in the graveyard.

Harry flinches, but Voldemort’s hand is already moving away. This time, it stops on Harry’s
chest, on the oval burn the locket had left behind, when he’d submerged himself in water,
trying to strangle Harry.
The touch feels good over the scared skin. This is so sick, Harry thinks and this time,
Voldemort moves his fingers very, very slowly and Harry just knows where they will end up.

They both watch those fingers in the mirror, as they push away Harry’s hair and rest on the
lightning scar.

Harry swallows so hard he almost covers the sharp intake of breath Voldemort takes. Almost.

Their eyes meet, in the mirror, and it just melts Harry inside, instantly lifts his temperature,
the intensity in Voldemort’s gaze.

He’s looking at Harry the same way he’d looked at the locket, in Hokey’s memory. Full of
possession.

And why shouldn’t he? He’s already claimed Harry so many times. Harry has marks all over
his body, left by this man, in some form or another.

The fingers leave the scar and go straight to Harry’s cock.

So many emotions are strangling him, more effective than Voldemort’s fingers, but none are
sexual.

Still, his body responds, and does it fast.

Harry struggles a little, so very sensitive. Voldemort’s fingers start squeezing his throat
harder, as the ones around his cock move faster.

Every time Harry closes his eyes, Voldemort demands he opens them, strangles him a little
harder.

It’s far worse than having his face fucked. Far worse, because Harry is enjoying this now,
properly enjoying it, even if a part of him doesn’t want to. The heat pools in his lower
abdomen, and his hips move upwards, against his will, to meet Voldemort’s hand.

When the fingers are so tight against his neck that Harry cannot breathe anymore, he comes,
ropes of white splashing on his chest and on Voldemort’s hand.

It must have lasted less than five minutes, from start to finish, and not once did Harry try to
fight it, his arms remained motionless at his sides the whole time.

As soon as he’s let go, Harry lunges for his boxers, shaking all over. He won’t even bother
with his jeans. He turns to flee the room, he’s almost at the door-

“Forgot something?” Voldemort asks, and there’s such glee and derision in his tone, it rips
Harry’s heart.

Furious, on top of deeply humiliated, he turns to say something -

His wand, his holly wand, is between Voldemort’s fingers. There’s a terrifying smile on his
face.
Harry freezes. He sees Voldemort, truly, for the first time since he came to Grimmauld Place.

Harry is all confused, frightened and mostly naked. Defenceless.

And Voldemort is in his black robe, wand in hand.

Do not let him get your wand under any circumstances, Kingsley’s voice rings in his head.

Voldemort points the wand at Harry, casually, as he walked closer and Harry can do nothing
but watch, in a mixture of horror and fascination, trapped between being fourteen in a
graveyard, and twenty two in the library.

Voldemort’s wrists flicks and Harry dodges to the right, because Voldemort seemed to be
casting to the left- it was a feint and it hits him, anyway.

Harry feels it touching his stomach, and he looks down, expecting blood and guts-

There’s nothing. Not a thing. The skin is uncut and clean-

Too clean. His semen had just been all over it, Harry had seen himself come in the mirror,
across his stomach and Voldemort’s fingers.

“So easily spooked, Harry. You disappoint me.” The wand is pointed at him once more, when
he looks up, but this time Voldemort is holding it by the wrong end, offering the handle to
Harry.

Harry grabs it, points it at Voldemort’s heart.

“Go and sleep. You’re tired.”

“You can do magic,” Harry growls. He looks at the armchair again. At the mirror. The
repaired carpet.

“You always knew I could. I told you since before you got me out.” Voldemort smiles, that
charming smile of his. “It’s not much but-useful for a few tricks.”

He runs his hand over a paper on the desk and a rose takes its place. Voldemort takes it and
extends it to Harry.

“That’s a lot more than a few tricks. It’s advanced transfiguration.”

“I could do this as a child, Harry. Might be it’s a lot for you, but it’s nothing to me.”

Voldemort comes closer, walks right into Harry’s wand, gently pushes it away and shoves the
rose under Harry’s waist band. “Goodnight.”

Minutes later, when Harry pulls off his boxers to jump in the shower, the rose falls off, along
with a drop of blood.

It was a thorny one.

 Chapter 10

“He can do magic, Hermione.”

Harry paces in her office, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t slept all night.

He didn’t even get to process the sexual part of the evening, because the magic part is far
more critical.

Terrifying, really.

The image with them in the mirror flashes behind his eyelids, but before Harry can feel
anything more than a thrill and a desperate shame, it is replaced with the image of Voldemort
pointing the wand at him.

Why did he hand it back? Harry wonders. Did Voldemort touch Harry only because he
wanted to distract him and steal his wand?

But then why give it back?

“Nonsense. Those cuffs are brilliantly made. I tested them myself, they’ve been tested on so
many others-”

“He made them! He knows how they function!” Harry snaps at her.

Hermione sights. “Alright. What magic did he do?”

“He transfigure something into an armchair, he fixed the holes in the carpet and he
transfigured a pen into a rose.”

It’s not what someone expects to hear, when thinking about dark Lord Voldemort doing
magic again. Still, Hermione takes it at face value.

“Did you see him doing that?”

“Just the rose bit,” Harry admits.

Hermione looks relived. “Well, that’s not so bad. Small things like that, if he puts in a lot of
effort, a man like him-it’s feasible. But an armchair-Harry, he couldn’t have. You have so
much furniture, stacked in all those rooms, I’m sure he just moved it around.”

Nothing moves in Grimmauld, ever.

He used my wand, Harry almost says, but doesn’t. “What if he gets my wand-”
“You’re not stupid, to let it lying around,” Hermione says, playing with some documents she
was working on, before Harry barged into her office.

Harry cringes. “But what if?”

“He shouldn’t be able to do much more than turn a pen into a rose. I know he’s intimidating
and I can only image what he’s been saying to you, but the cuffs work, Harry. They do.”

Harry knows the cuffs work, otherwise Voldemort wouldn’t be a prisoner in his house.

But Harry is certain they don’t work as efficiently as everyone else seems to think.

(-)

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Harry says, when he returns from the Ministry.

“Do what?”

Voldemort sits behind his office- it’s not his! He gives Harry a searching look.

“Stuff,” Harry says with emphasis.

He desperately hopes his face does not look as hot as he feels it.

“You’re a twenty-two-year-old man. ‘Stuff’? Really?”

“I don’t want it. Stop it.”

Voldemort takes a sip of his tea, no expression on his face. “Why?”

“I don’t like it,” Harry forces himself to hold Voldemort’s gaze, though he’d like nothing
better than to look away.

“Do not lie to Lord Voldemort.”

“Stop talking about yourself in the third person!” Harry snaps, irritated and on edge.

A muscle jerks in Voldemort’s jaw. “Very well. Do not lie to me.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t like it. It makes me uncomfortable.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not getting enjoyment out of it. Pleasure is a complicated
emotion. It sometimes comes with discomfort.”

Harry closes his eyes, briefly.

“I don’t want it,” he repeats.

“And I don’t want to be cut away from most of my magic and be captive in your house,
Harry Potter. What are we going to do about that?”

Harry can hear the rage simmering behind the words. It makes him shiver, but he doesn’t
back away.

“You should have considered it before you went ahead and theorised the whole country,”
Harry spits.

“And you should have put some thought into it, before taking me to your house, like an
oversized pet,” Voldemort says, voice getting lower.

Harry yells when he’s angry.

Voldemort’s tone lowers. “Stop lying to yourself, first and foremost, if you insist in lying to
me.”

(-)

Surprisingly, Voldemort stops staring at Harry. There are no more touches, no more
innuendos.

Harry expects him to turn nasty, but Voldemort doesn’t.

He continues making Harry’s breakfast, and more often than not, dinner.

They still talk, as if nothing had happened; Voldemort is his usual self, and except for calling
people ‘mudbloods’ or occasionally describing in vivid detail how he’d like to torture some
Ministry Official that had done one thing or another, Harry enjoys these conversations.

He can’t help it; Voldemort’s caustic remarks make Harry smile; his observations concerning
the news coming from the papers, ranging from trivial matters to more important ones, are
enlightening. After many years, through Voldemort, Harry finally understands something
about politics.

Because that’s the thing- Voldemort can carry conversations with Hermione that go right past
Harry’s head, but he also knows how to talk to capture whatever audience he chooses.

On the Weasley’s third visit, Voldemort somehow manages to insert himself into a
conversation Harry was having with Ron about muggle vehicles.

Ron had never said one word to Voldemort, watched him suspiciously, but when Harry fails
to describe how planes fly and Voldemort explains it, Ron finds himself asking a question or
two.
By the end, Ron gets it; Hermione looks a little frustrated, she’d tried many times to educate
Ron on the topic, in an attempt to convince him to board a plane to China, but she’d never
gotten through to him.

“She doesn’t know how to dumb it down,” Voldemort tells Harry, when they’re alone.

“Ron isn’t dumb- and neither am I,” Harry says, but without any ire.

“Perhaps neither of you are stupid, but you certainly seem stupid compared to the mudblood.
She operates under the illusion that all people are capable to understand matters as she does,
if only she gives them the information she holds. And that’s not the case. I have significant
experience speaking to idiots; have you met some of my Death Eaters?”

“How do you know about planes, anyway?”

“When I was a young boy, long before Hogwarts, I wished to be a pilot, so I could travel the
world. Commercial flights were still new and fascinating at the time.”

Harry’s heart gives a little tug. He can imagine that boy, smart and poor and trapped in an
orphanage, wanting to just get away.

There’s something so human about it, so mundane. Voldemort had once been a child with
dreams that did not involve mass murder.

Voldemort listens patiently when Harry comes home after a match and excitedly tells
Voldemort all about it. Harry knows he doesn’t care, but somehow it’s not evident on his
face.

When Dudley’s letter comes, the second since Harry left the Dursley household, Voldemort
reads it first.

He has no shame in reading Harry’s mail, when Harry isn’t home.

The first letter, about a year after the war ended, was long, filled with awkward apologies.
Something about Dudley starting therapy, forced into a program after he got into too many
troubles involving alcohol and street fights.

Harry had tossed it in the bin, at the height of his dark period. Ginny had recently broken up
with him, everyone was building their lives anew and the knowledge that even Dudley was
doing so had angered him.

The new letter contains even more apologies. Dudley has a young son, and he writes how
terribly sorry he feels for the way Harry was treated. He hopes Harry is doing well.

Harry sighs, buries his jealousy and spite, and responds.

Congratulations for the baby, assurances that Harry forgives him and at the very end, Harry
can’t help himself and throws a line how he hopes Dudley keeps his child away from his
parents.
“Why would you write him?” Voldemort asks, something like frustration flashing in his
eyes.

Harry shrugs. “So he can put it behind him. It wasn’t his fault, anyway. Like Dumbledore
once said, as much as the Dursleys neglected me and failed to provide me with anything, they
did damage to Dudley as well, by overindulging him. Besides, it’s good that he’s trying to be
a better man. That’s - that should be encouraged.”

“You’re an idiot,” Voldemort sneers.

“Whatever,” Harry waves it away and seals his letter. He could send it by Muggle Post, the
way it had arrived, but that is more effort that Harry is willing to spend on his cousin.

If Dudley has a problem with owls, then he hadn’t changed much. So Harry sends Midas and
as he watches the bird take flight, he feels just a bit lighter.

As winter turns to spring, Voldemort casually uses magic around Harry.

It’s jarring. Nothing big, but it sends Harry into panic attacks, watching the dishes float away
to the sink with a casual flick of Voldemort’s cuffed wrist.

Voldemort seems to get a sick pleasure every time he does it, watching Harry’s face, daring
him to say something.

Harry doesn’t. He ignores it, as he ignored all the signs that had always been there.

He just holds on to his wand, guards it carefully and looks the other way when things get
fixed or float away, when candles roar to life around him.

And when he catches Voldemort trying to transfigure one of the cabinets and he fails, Harry
hastily retreats.

The look of pure misery on Voldemort’s face as his magic doesn’t listen to him is… it makes
Harry feels sorry for him.

He deserves it, he should never use magic again.

But Harry is still sorry.

It’s a testament to Voldemort’s ambition, to his character, when two weeks later Harry comes
down for breakfast only to see the cabinet enlarged, sturdier and far more elegant than it’s
been.

Such a useless thing- Harry has cabinets all over the hose. There was no need. Insignificant.

Just goes to show Voldemort won’t concede defeat in any matter, no matter how trivial.

(-)
March starts with two attacks, back to back, just as people were appearing to relax.

Harry just stares numbly at the paper, for minutes on end, as Voldemort makes tea,
unconcerned.

“I’m pissed off,” Harry says, when Voldemort sits at the head of the table.

“Are you?” he asks, giving Harry a quizzical look. “All I see is desperate.”

Harry opens his mouth-

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Voldemort carries on, taking the paper from Harry and folding it
until he finds the International Affairs column.

(-)

Kingsley stares at Voldemort.

He only brought Savage with him this time.

The silence stretches on, Kingsley had not said a word since he’d entered, looking at
Voldemort as if he could find answers in his face.

He can’t.

Voldemort is seated, seemingly very comfortable, no expression on his features.

“It’s not Death Eaters behind the attacks,” Kingsley finally barks.

Harry turns his head towards him, shocked.

“It only took you four years to notice,” Voldemort drawls and Harry turns to him again.

You tosser, he thinks, but stops just short of saying it.

Not in company.

“I thought you didn’t know who is responsible,” Harry says, voice strangled.

“I don’t,” Voldemort says, but how can anyone believe him?

Kingsley doesn’t; never did. Because Kingsley is smart, unlike Harry.

“But you knew it wasn’t a Death Eater,” Savage says. “How?”

Voldemort reaches over, and Savage draws his wand, Kingsley's hand goes for his own.

Harry feels a little vindicated, seeing them still react this way.

I don’t flinch away any time he moves, he thinks, almost arrogant.

Which is bad. He is dangerous.

Voldemort only takes the Daily Prophet, laid on the desk, depicting scenes from the latest
attack.

He taps one of his long fingers on the Dark Mark, floating in the moving picture.

“It’s not mine,” he says.

Kingsley frowns. “It’s identical.”

Harry bends a little, squints his eyes, and yeah, it is identical.

“To outsiders, yes. Not to me. The Mark can only be successfully reproduced by someone
that bears it on their arm.”

Kingsley seems to consider it.

“I can tell by every mark, exactly which of my Death Eaters cast it.”

They all stare at him.

“It’s a Protean Charm,” Savage says, in disbelief. “Granted it’s tweaked, so it can be
ingrained in flesh, but there’s no way it would work like-”

“I’m a Parselmouth, you moron. Every single serpent on my Death Eaters knows who it
belongs to. It hisses the name, once in the air.”

Harry’s jaw drops.

A brief silence. They all glare at Voldemort, who looks very smug about it.

“You can’t hear it through a newspaper,” Kingsley points out, the first to recover.

“No. Nevertheless, I can still tell it doesn’t belong to either of my men.”

More silence. Harry’s head is spinning. Not Death Eaters. Than who? Why? Why didn’t
Voldemort tell him?

Stupidly, he feels betrayed.

He’s not your friend!

“Was it Lucius that finally convinced you to look elsewhere?” Voldemort asks.
Kingsley’s eye twitches, which is answer enough.

“Since he’s the only one of my free Death Eaters willing to talk to you, to have seen these
atrocities of marks, I would assume so.”

“He has some ideas, who it might be,” Kingsley says, after exchanging a look with Savage.
“Gave us a few names.”

“Did he?” Voldemort looks surprised and also at the same time conveys he’s not surprised at
all. “That Lucius, always so helpful, always full of information.”

“And since he has some hypotheses, you might have them too.”

“I wouldn’t presume. Lucius is far more well connected than I,” Voldemort smirks.

“Cut the crap!” Savage demands. “Malfoy told us, in that insufferable way of his ‘the Dark
Lord would have been the only one to know for sure, alas he’s dead’.”

“Lucius’ faith in me is flattering; especially after he betrayed me.”

“Who is it?” Harry asks, very upset. “Who’s doing this?”

Stop feeling betrayed.

I don’t feel betrayed, Harry argues with himself.

He only feels idiotic for believing the scheming, emotionless liar when he’d said he doesn’t
know.

Voldemort doesn’t look at him, and that only upsets Harry more.

“Tell us,” Kingsley orders.

Voldemort has no issues looking at him, it seems. “I fail to see what benefit that would bring
me.”

“What do you want?” Kingsley spits through gritted teeth.

“That’s just the thing; you have nothing to give me.”

Of course; Harry already gives him everything he wants.

So stupid. You never learn.

Kingsley glowers at him. “We already caught someone, otherwise we wouldn’t have believed
Malfoy’s word, just on its own.”

“Good luck, then!” Voldemort says. “It appears to me you have all you need, in this case.
Unless, of course, your prisoner is equally unwilling to share informations with you?”
“He’s clearly a lackey,” Kingsley answers, viciously. “I must say he’s much more loyal to
whoever he’s protecting than any of your Death Eaters have been to you, once incarcerated.”

Voldemort doesn’t react.

The conversation seems over, as far as Harry can see, but no one makes a move to leave.

“What about this snake,” Savage asks, after a few seconds, nodding to the prophet. “If you
were there, and you saw it, could it tell you something?”

Kingsley gives Savage a look- “you don’t mean to take him to the next they leave for us,
surely.”

“Perhaps,” Voldemort shrugs. “It is not an organic serpent; not exactly cognitive. But maybe
it can tell me something.”

“Something you already know, no doubt.” Kingsley snaps. “Why would we take him?” he
asks Savage. “He won’t tell us anything, either way.”

“He might,” Savage gives Voldemort a searching look. “I’m sure you’re desperate to get out
of the house, even for an hour. Isn’t that a nice bargain?”

This irritates Voldemort, his face expresses anger for just a second.

“Lord Voldemort is not desperate,” he hisses. But then he looks like he might agree and-

Harry thinks this is an awful idea.

“Well, I won’t allow it. No,” Harry cuts over him. “He’s not - seriously?” He looks at
Kingsley. “Out? No way.”

“It’s not your decision,” Savage says.

“I think it is. The oath states he can get out with my permission or in my presence. Not going
to happen.”

They don’t know that Voldemort can use a wand more efficiently than they suspect. Harry
can see this outing going poorly, very quickly.

They don’t know because you haven’t told them.

Harry should tell them. But he can’t. How is he supposed to tell Kingsley Voldemort got his
wand?

They’ll take Voldemort away from Harry.

“It’s useless, anyway. He won’t help you,” Harry says, and he’s the one that refuses to look at
Voldemort this time, though he can practically feel the rage emanating from him.

“I agree with Harry,” Kingsley says, after a brief break.

Without much fanfare, they leave.

A very tense silence settles over them. Harry is angry with Voldemort for the whole mess and
yet he is aware Voldemort is furious with Harry.

Seconds stretch, endlessly-

Harry could never stay silent for long; apprehensive, he turns to Voldemort, ready to face
him.

He is not imagining the red accents marring the brown eyes burning holes into Harry.

“Get out,” Voldemort hisses.

Harry squares his shoulders. “This is my house-”

Voldemort stands, inhumanly fast.

Harry grabs his wand, but Voldemort doesn’t seem concerned about it.

“Get out or I shall give you another scar when I break your skull open.”

He’s actually reaching for a tall, solid gold candle holder.

Harry decides it’s best he leaves before things escalate.

(-)

There’s no more breakfast waiting for him. The door to the library stays shut- not magically,
Harry could open it, but it is a clear sign that Voldemort wants nothing to do with him.

Harry tells himself Voldemort has no reason to be upset; in fact, Harry is the one that has all
the reasons. But then-

‘My permission.’ ‘I won’t allow it.’ Harry cringes when he remembers the words, when he’d
talked as if Voldemort is property.

It’s even worse, because Voldemort is, in a way, property. He has no say in what happens to
him, he’s at the mercy of either Harry or Kingsley and Harry can’t even imagine how that
feels, especially for a creature so proud.

I did the right thing, Harry reassures himself, pushes away the guilt. Voldemort is too
dangerous to be out, even with Aurors. And it’s not like he’d solve anything for the Ministry;
he never does.

Harry casts Human Revelio a few times a day, just to make sure Voldemort is still inside the
house, but does nothing else.
He worries, because the food in the pantry doesn’t decline and that means the man isn’t
eating and-

Stop. It’s not your business if he decided to go on a hunger strike.

It’s very lonely; Harry’s forgotten how that feels, how empty his chest is, in that cold,
dreadful house.

How the food taste like ash, when he’s alone in the kitchen. He keeps glancing at Voldemort’s
chair.

He can’t stand it. He goes out as much as he can, and he realises that he’d looked forward to
coming back to Grimmauld, when he knew Voldemort was waiting for him, with a meal, with
the promise of fascinating, if sometimes a little morbid, conversation.

But no more; it’s like before, when nothing and no one waits for Harry.

Hermione is pregnant again, and that makes him smile, for the first time in a week, as he
hugs everyone at the Burrow, Molly crying with joy, Arthur laughing loudly.

Such a nice family, Harry thinks, looking at the many people gathered around the room.

His heart twists, painfully.

They’re your family too, he tells himself sternly.

And yes, but Harry will never gingerly hold a hand over his wife’s stomach, the way Ron is
doing.

Harry will never hold two of his grandchildren on his lap, as Arthur does with Victoire and
Rose.

“Everything alright, mate?” Ron asks him, trailing after him when Harry offers to deal with
the garden gnomes, just so he can get away and not spoil anyone’s joy with his mood.

“Yeah-”

“Harry, I’ve known you for over ten years. What’s wrong?”

What can Harry tell him? That he’s happy for Ron, but so jealous? That he feels guilty for not
allowing Voldemort a possible chance to escape?

That he misses Voldemort’s company? Or about the dreams he has, remembering the thing in
front of the mirror?

Should he tell Ron how gutted Harry is when he thinks that Voldemort had no desire to touch
Harry, had only done it to get his wand?

“Is it…him?” Ron lowers his voice, even if there’s no one around. “It must be.”
“It’s nothing. We’re in a fight, that’s all.”

Ron blinks at him. “You’re in a fight?” he asks, incredulous, and Harry remembers all the
times Ron came to complain to Harry that he’s in a fight with Hermione, asking for advice on
how to apologise for whatever he did Hermione took issue with.

Harry panics. “Yeah, he threatened to smash my head with a candlestick,” he says, to let Ron
know it’s nothing like those innocent fights between spouses. “So it’s just a little awkward, is
all.”

“That git!” Ron says, enraged.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, looking over to the house; he can see Fleur dancing with Bill through
the open window. “Yeah, he is a git.”

“He can’t do it, though,” Ron goes on. “Smash your head, I mean. He can threaten all he
wants, but you’ve got a wand and he doesn’t. He can’t hurt you.”

Harry’s hurt, either way, but he just nods and forces a smile on his face, agreeing to return to
the house.

(-)

Harry finds himself in a silent war with Lucius Malfoy, over who can buy Teddy the most
expensive toys.

It’s silly; more than silly, actually, but it’s not like Harry has anything else to do and he wants
to win something.

Andromeda says nothing, when Harry gives Teddy a fantastic toy broom, that he’d asked
Yannis to bring from Greece, just two days after Malfoy had bought Teddy the top of the line
model available in England.

She just shakes her head, silently.

Teddy speaks of how cool it is to ride the winged horses as the Manor, so Harry takes him to
see some baby dragons, pulls some strings to be allowed to see them before they are shipped
off to a reserve.

He tells Teddy how he once rode a dragon, and as the boy’s eyes grow wide with awe, Harry
thinks “top that, Malfoy!”

“This is getting a little out of hand,” Andromeda takes Harry aside when he comes with the
second toy broom, just because Malfoy heard about Harry’s first one and gave Teddy
another.
“Why do you even let him buy stuff for Teddy?” Harry asks, childish.

Andromeda raises an eyebrow. “Why do I allow for my grandson to receive gifts that make
him happy?”

Harry looks away in shame. “Why does Malfoy even want to- I mean he’s…agh, why is he
involved all of a sudden?”

Andromeda sighs. “Draco’s son was born.”

“I know,” Harry hisses. He’d read it in the paper, without Voldemort there to say something
scathing about it, to distract Harry from the pang of bitterness.

No distractions; just pain and a cold kitchen.

“So why doesn’t he spoil that one?”

“Because Astoria doesn’t want to have Lucius too involved with her son, Narcissa tells me.”

Harry looks up. “Really?" Smart girl.

“Draco is trying to mediate but- well, I suppose Lucius transfers some of the attention he
can’t give Scorpius onto Teddy.”

Why can’t you be smart like Astoria and not let him? Harry thinks but thankfully doesn’t ask.

“He’s been telling Teddy that Muggles are worthless-”

“You’ve told me already, and I had a talk with Lucius; he won’t, anymore.”

Yeah, right.

“In any case, stop with this nonsense,” Andromeda says, though she looks amused. “It’s
childish and more than that, it’s a fight you can’t win. The Malfoy Vaults are bottomless.”

She smiles, as kindly as she’s able. “Teddy loves you, Harry. You don’t need to compete with
anyone for his affection, nor buy it. You’re his hero.”

Harry’s never put much weight on the word hero; in fact, he resented it. But Andromeda’s
words stay with him, stuck in his brain, an insistent whisper he can’t get rid of.

(-)

Two weeks and four days after their fight, Harry finds his tea and toast in the kitchen.

His face splits into a grin, a weight off his shoulders as he takes the tea in his hands.
He eats alone, trying to beat that grin into submission, before he goes up the stairs, walks
tentatively into the library.

“Morning,” Harry says.

Voldemort doesn’t look up from the Daily Prophet.

“It’s ten o’clock,” he replies, and Harry’s back to grinning.

He can’t sit still on the couch, though he tries to read one of the comic books he buys for
Teddy, in an attempt to make him like Muggles.

He can’t focus. He keeps peering over at Voldemort.

He’s suddenly filled with energy; everything looks promising. He’ll go to practice in an hour
and then he’ll come home and he’ll have dinner and the house won’t feel like a tomb.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” Harry asks, because he wants to make sure everything’s alright.

Voldemort folds the Prophet, spares a glance at the window.

Harry looks too; rain pours against the glass.

A loud thunder rumbles.

Harry promises himself he’ll check the weather before declaring a day nice into the future.

Voldemort pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You’re pathetic,” he says, but that only makes Harry’s day better.

Everything is normal, indeed.

(-)

Harry gives himself a week to enjoy it. The company, the meals, the way Voldemort’s shirt
strains over his shoulders.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed talking; he’d never been very talkative, but now he
finds himself blabbering non stop, about everything.

Voldemort listens, as he always does; even when he pretends he’s ignoring Harry, nose buried
in a book, Harry knows he’s still listening to every word.

When the week is over, Harry goes at a muggle pub with Ron.

“I’ll join the Aurors,” Harry says, after they had a pint.
Ron sighs, unsurprised. “I was wondering when Kingsley will get to you.”

Harry shakes his head. “It’s not Kingsley. It’s not!” he insists, when Ron gives him a doubtful
look. “It’s Teddy.”

Teddy thinks him a hero. And for him, Harry has to fight, even if he doesn’t want to, even if
he’d love to play Quidditch and stay home with Voldemort.

“Teddy?” Ron makes a face. “I don’t know mate, I think Teddy would rather you alive and
well, Merlin forbid, maybe even happy. Joining the Aurors won’t make you happy. Might
make you dead, though.”

“I have to make sure he’s alright, Ron. That he grows up in peace; that’s why everyone died
for.”

“So you’ll quit the team?” Ron asks, knowing better than to talk Harry out of it.

“Yeah, first thing tomorrow. I just wanted to tell you, first. Before I tell anyone else.”

“Good,” Ron nods. “I’ll let George know to find someone else to help him.”

“What?” Harry demands. “No, no. Ron-”

“Mate, we keep having the same conversation since you didn’t want us to come with you
down the trapdoor, in our first year. And I keep telling you, that we’re in this together.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He never knew what to say, what he did to deserve Ron and
Hermione.

Speaking of-

“Hermione won’t be happy.”

Ron snorts, orders another round of drinks. “Not in the beginning. But she’ll come around;
we have Rosie and this new bugger coming and you’re right. Gotta make sure they grow up
in peace. I certainly don’t want to receive the sort of letters mum did, while we were at
Hogwarts. I don’t want to have McGonagall tell me every year how my kids almost died,
fighting dark wizards.”

“Remember those Howlers your mum used to send you?” Harry asks, smiling.

Whatever is coming, Ron’s with him.

He refuses to think of what Voldemort will say.

“If I remember? I still can’t hear with one ear.”

(-)
They’re totally hammered when they leave the pub some hours later.

Ron’s reminiscing, loudly, about Hagrid and his Blast-Ended Screwts, as they head down a
deserted alley to Apparate home. To Ron and Hermione’s home, that is, because Harry keeps
his rule about not being drunk around Voldemort.

He’s only saved because of some long buried instinct, from the times he’d been regularly
attacked by Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Harry ducks, just as a curse rashes past him.

It crashes into a bin, shattering it to pieces.

He spins around, wand in hand, to find Ron in an equally defensive posture.

They only have time to exchange a surprised, confused glance before there’s no more room
for thinking.

Three masked men are attacking them.

It’s chaotic, which is the only way Harry has ever duelled, really. Just instinct and luck and,
as always, no concern over his own well-being, but terrified over Ron’s.

One of the masked men- and Harry takes a second to register the masks are very alike the
ones Death Eaters used to wear, but not quite right- is down on the ground, seemingly
unconscious, and Harry has no idea if it was him, Ron or just an accident, as spells rebound
from the walls of the narrow alley.

"Expeliarmus!” he says, at some point and he can almost hear Voldemort’s voice in his head,
calling him an idiot.

But it works, and a wand is flying into the air. “Stupefy!” he yells next, at the same time Ron
screams “Petrificus Totalus".

Both spells hit another of the masked men and he goes down.

But the remaining attacker’s spell connects with Ron’s side- he collapses on the floor,
convulsing.

“No!” Harry screams, rushing towards him, but he’s forced to backtrack when a red spell
almost hits him.

Harry turns to engage him, furious.

No more disarming spells, then.

Harry gives it all he’s got.

His opponent is competent, avoids most of Harry’s spells and gives back just as good.

Harry’s distantly aware he’s in pain and that he’s bleeding profusely from a cutting curse, but
those are less important, as he jumps out of the path of yet another unknown curse.

He’d lost count of how many of those were cast his way in the last ten or so minutes.

“Oppugno!” Harry sends two telephone poles at his enemy and vaguely realises some
Muggle onlookers have gathered on the main street, gawking.

“RUN!” he screams at them but then he looks at Ron, who’s stopped moving and Harry’s
heart in plummeting in his stomach, as he tries to go to his side.

But the masked man had gotten rid of the poles, and he’s preparing to cast again-

“Sectusempra!” Harry yells, desperate. He needs to get to Ron.

Blood gushes out the man’s ripped robe and Harry stares in horror, having flashbacks with
Malfoy.

The man Apparates away.

Harry drops to his knees, besides Ron.

His glasses must have been damaged in the duel, because he can’t see well with one eye.

“Ron,” Harry begs, grabbing his hand. “Ron, come on!”

Police sirens wail in the distance.

Harry’s dizzy, he feels weak, his vision darkens.

“RON!”

Ron’s hand jerks, feebly, between Harry’s own.

Thank God, he thinks, and then he blacks out.

(-)

He wakes up with Kingsley at his side.

“Ron,” Hary says instantly, mouth dry, limbs heavy.

He tries to stand up.

“He’ll recover. Hermione is with him. Lay down, Harry, you’ve been through a lot-”

He’s at St Mungo’s, Harry realises after a brief glance around the room.

He struggles to his feet, by sheer force of will. He has to see Ron, because the image with his
best friend laid down on the pavement is ravaging Harry.

“Where is he?”

Kingsley and a couple of Healers try to get him to lie down, but Harry will not, and
eventually they put him in a chair and wheel him to another ward.

Aurors are patrolling the hallway; Harry recognises Proudfoot and Savage among them.
Sunlight shines through the windows and he judges it’s at least midday.

“Did you get them?” Harry asks, looking up at Kingsley.

“The two you left for us, but the Muggles said there was a third, before we Obliviated them,”
Kingsely gives Harry a brief smile. “You and Ron did a great job. We’ll talk more when you
feel better.”

He shuts up, because they are going through a door-

“Oh, Harry!” Hermione’s face is tear-stained. She jumps off Ron’s bed and comes to Harry.

He stands on shaky legs and he’d had fallen if not for her hug.

“How is he-”

“He’s sleeping. He’ll pull through.”

Harry collapses beside Ron, who’s so pale all his freckles are standing out.

“He was brilliant,” Harry whispers. “You should have seen him.”

Though he’s glad she didn’t. Hermione shouldn’t be anywhere near danger, ever again.

Neither should Ron, for that matter.

What was I thinking?

“I sent him a letter,” Hermione whispers in Harry’s ear. “As soon as I was convinced you’d
both pull through, I sent him a letter.”

Harry looks at her, kisses her cheek. He knows who “him” is.

She has one of those expressions she gets when she figured something out. It’s mixed with
pity. The way she’s biting her cheek means that she’s trying hard not to say something that
she’s sure will upset Harry.

“I’d figured you’d want me to,” she settles on.

“Thank you,” he whispers back.

It’s the first time when he’s injured and there’s someone out there to be notified.

The first time a letter can be sent to Harry’s house and have someone there to receive it.

He settles by Ron’s side for some time, reassured by the steady falling and rising of his
chest.

“I want to go home,” he tells the Healers, who do not want him to go anywhere, speaking of
injuries and potions and rest.

But they can’t truly stop him.

“Send word when he wakes up,” Harry asks Hermione. “Or- for anything you need.”

She nods, tucking some hair beneath her ear.

“Perhaps I should stay-” Harry reconsiders.

“You should stay.” Hermione says with a small smile. “To recover. But not for me; I’m good,
Harry. Go home.”

“I’ll return after I-” Harry starts. After he sees Voldemort. He just wants to see him for a few
seconds.

Harry gives her his wand, though it’s hard to part with it, after what had happened.

Hermione frowns.

“I’m in no state to protect it,” Harry shrugs.

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t go there, if you feel unsafe.”

Hermione searches his eyes, but Harry doesn’t linger, heading for the door on shaky legs.

He locates Savage in the hallway and asks him to Apparate Harry on the doorsteps of
Grimmauld’s Place.

(-)

Harry enters his house, but he only manages to close the door behind him, before he sways
dangerously on his feet and falls two steps in.

The Apparition really didn’t agree with me, he thinks, and for the second time in twenty-four
hours he faints.
(-)

He wakes slowly, a gradual returning of the senses. He feels pleasantly warm, comfortable
even. But as soon as he thinks it, his head gives a dull throb, and it’s as if that sends a signal
to the rest of his body to start aching.

He opens his eyes, but everything is blurry.

“Here,” a hand comes close enough to his face that he can see it clearly. It’s holding his
glasses.

Harry takes them, the muscles in his shoulder protesting as he puts them on. He sits,
gingerly.

He’s on the couch in the library.

Voldemort is holding out a glass of water.

Harry drinks it fast, his mouth parched. He looks at Voldemort and it feels- well, it feels
good.

Voldemort is unchanged, though Harry can see a tendon in his neck standing out and he
understands Voldemort is angry.

“How is it possible you still need glasses?” he asks.

“Body modification is frowned upon, as you know. It’s Dark. How long was I out for?”

Voldemort doesn’t answer, but the only light from the room comes from candles, so Harry
knows it’s been some time.

“I have to go-” he says, wiping his mouth and settling the glass on the end table beside him.

“The mudblood wrote, again. It seems even in a crisis, she cannot keep a letter short. The
ginger woke up; he’ll be discharged tomorrow. She’ll drop over later.” A short break, in
which Harry breathes in relief. Ron will be just fine. “I hope, for your sake, that she’s
dropping by to give you your wand. It is not on your person and I shall be cross to learn you
lost it.”

“Why?” Harry asks, narrowing his eyes. “You hate my wand. Gave you loads of trouble-”

“I hate you, not the wand.”

Harry’s heart gives a brief pang.

Why? You know he hates you. He always did and always will. This is nothing new.
“Yeah, she has my wand,” Harry says, trying to keep his voice cool.

“There’s more than air floating around between your ears, it seems,” Voldemort drawls,
condescending.

“Go fuck yourself,” Harry mutters, rubbing his neck. It’s very stiff.

He’d forgotten how an intense duel can affect the body. He’s forgotten how much curses hurt,
especially without Madam Pomfrey there to shove pain relief potion down his throat.

“I’d have been able to help you better, with a wand,” Voldemort says. “As it is, with these on,
I couldn’t do much.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He tried to help me?

“Though I assume they took care of the worst of it at St Mungo’s.”

Harry nods. He sits in silence for a while, rolling his shoulders to alleviate the soreness.

Voldemort paces around the room.

It’s the first time Harry sees him restless and once more he’s reminded of an animal at the
zoo, of a fierce predator, trapped but still lethal.

He looks at Voldemort, fascinated, as always.

There, he thinks, with a boost of adrenaline. That’s more like Voldemort. More natural than
the stillness he’d displayed in the eight months they’ve been living together.

Voldemort turns to face Harry.

Their eyes meet.

“Let me go after him,” he hisses.

Harry blinks. Before he can comprehend it, Voldemort keeps going.

“You can come along, to make sure I don’t escape or to assuage whatever misgivings you
harbour.”

“You know who he is?” Harry stands, despite the protest of his body, sending spikes of pain
everywhere.

“I have some potential candidates in mind. If you’d let me use your owl, I can find out for
sure. And then I’ll kill him.”

“How?” Harry nods at the cuffs.

Voldemort gives him a pointed look. “Don’t play dumb; if I have your wand, the cuffs will
still hold me back, but I am positive I can bring down some second-rate pretender.”
“I’ll never give you my wand,” Harry tells him. “Even you can’t possibly think I would.”

Voldemort snarls, and there, he looks like that Voldemort again. The one from before.

Harry steps back, instinctively.

“I’d make an oath to give it back, directly after it is done,” Voldemort says and he tries to
sound reasonable, but he’s far too angry to be able to keep it out of his voice.

Harry knew- he knows- that all Voldemort’s been doing- the cooking, the stillness, the flirting
and the sex- it’s all to seduce Harry, make him become attached and lower his guards.

And Harry might be attached, he realises with a pang, with a clarity it’s hard to deny, but he’d
never give Voldemort his wand.

Voldemort is severely overestimating his charm and underestimating Harry’s intelligence.

He doesn’t understand that Harry mostly allows Voldemort to manipulate him.

“No,” he says.

“He’s killing people. Surely, you’re upset about that. Weasley almost died. I’d put an end to
it- we both know the Ministry will stumble blindly, for years, meanwhile this fool will only
grow stronger, bolder-”

“No matter how dangerous, no matter the destruction, he is nothing compared to you, back
out there. I know you’d find a way to free yourself, or at least create a stepping stone for it, if
I let you leave this house with my wand. Even if I come with you, I am smart enough to
know you can outwit me. I know you’re not offering to end this man, just to save people-”

“He’s using my Mark!” Voldemort almost shouts. Almost.

Lightening fast, he’s in Harry’s face. “How dare you stand there and not allow me to do
things? You frown at killing and torturing, but how does slavery sit with your morals,
Potter?”

“You’re not my slave,” Harry says, lightly.

Voldemort grabs him by the throat. Hard.

Harry twists, hits him in the side, but Voldemort’s fingers are relentless, his body unusually
resistant to pain, after so much torture.

They wrestle, briefly but intensely, and Harry is so tired, still injured, he’s two heads shorter
than Voldemort and at least forty pounds lighter.

His back slams against the wall, knocking the breath out of him, rattling his teeth. And he
doesn’t have much breath left, what with Voldemort’s grip around his throat.

Harry’s vision is darkening, he’s pulling at Voldemort’s arm, desperate-

The grip loosens and Harry breaths in, sputtering and coughing.

“You thought yourself so smart, leaving your wand behind, didn’t you?” Voldemort says,
looming over Harry. “After all, I can’t get it if you don’t have it. But Harry, you forgot, if you
don’t have your wand, there’s nothing you can do to protect yourself from me.”

Harry barely hears him, his ears ringing.

“I can break every single bone in your body, slowly, agonisingly. I could watch you try to
crawl towards the door, only to stop you, when you think you’re so close to freedom. And
maybe then, Harry Potter, maybe then you’ll know how I feel.”

“It’s not my fault,” Harry whizzes, looking up, Voldemort’s fingers still around his neck, but
just resting there. “It’s not my fault you’re here! Why don’t you fucking admit it! It’s all you!
Everything you did, every single mistake, every single poor decision led you here!”

Voldemort’s eyes flash, mouth curled into a snarl.

But when Harry pushes him away, Voldemort steps back.

Harry doesn’t move, needing the wall at his back to support him. “Do you think I want this?
It gives me no pleasure, having any power over another human being! I’m not you! I fucking
hate it, alright? Why are you like this?” Harry hurts, a sharp ache in his chest. “Why can’t
you- why do you insist on saying these awful things?”

“Wouldn’t it be just grand if I didn’t? So you can live in your fairytale, with no shame? If I’d
play along and pretend I don’t want to go out there and conquer the world, so you can enjoy
me, guilt free? I don’t think so, Potter. If I’m forced to be miserable and a captive, then you
shall suffer with me!”

“Can you even tell how wrong you are?” Harry asks him, willing himself not to cry. “Can
you understand that I’m trying so hard to be kind, to give you something, when you never
gave me anything but pain?”

“I don’t want your kindness! I don’t need it! I want my freedom!”

“It’s my kindness that keeps you alive!” Harry shouts, though his voice is rough. “Do you get
that? Do you get that if I’d be like you, you’d be dead?”

Clearly, he doesn’t. Voldemort knows this as a fact, but he doesn’t get it. For him, it’s not
Harry’s kindness keeping him alive; it’s what he sees as Harry’s stupidity.

“If you’d be anything like me, Potter, you’d have a much easier life.”

And sadly, that is a fact as well. Harry would have been able to kill Voldemort, he wouldn’t
have fallen into a dark depression, knowing he is letting a monster live on, he’d have married
Ginny, had a nice enormous family, with beautiful weekends at the Burrow, surrounded by
Weasleys. He would have become an Auror, and he’d sleep easy at night, without worrying
the next day the Dark Lord would be free once more.
“If I’d have any genuine power over you,” Harry says, feeling defeated. “I’d force you to not
kill anyone ever again. I’d let you out, so you could be the great wizard that you are, so you
can accomplish feats of magic unprecedented, so you can shine in the light, not live in the
shadows. You don’t need to hurt people to be extraordinary. You already are! I wish you’d
see it! You are extraordinary even like this, with those on.”

“One more word, Potter,” Voldemort growls. “And I’ll break your neck! I might live as a
muggle for the rest of my life, but it will be worth it!” Voldemort steps towards Harry again.

“My God,” Harry sighs. “Even a drop of truth, of kindness hurts you.”

Voldemort leans in. “Nothing hurts Lord Voldemort!” he says. “Nothing! You presumptuous
little shit!”

“You’re not just Lord Voldemort,” Harry tells him. “You’re To-”

The fingers grab his throat again.

Harry doesn’t fight it, just stares back into those furious brown eyes.

Seconds later, he’s released.

Voldemort leaves the room.

Harry slides down the wall, all the way to the floor.

He knows he’s spoken the truth. He knows somewhere behind all that nastiness, all the
menace, Tom Riddle still survives.

Harry knows it, because that’s the man he wants; the man that sometimes comes towards the
surface, with bits of witty sarcasm, with the love he has for books, with the way he secretly
enjoys Hermione’s company. The man that knows how to cook and had once wanted to be a
pilot.

That’s the man Harry is falling in love with.

 Chapter 11
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Harry writes to Hermione that he’ll retrieve his wand personally, there’s no need for her to
come over.

He goes to his room, and he’d have thought it would be hard to find sleep, after everything,
but he’s so exhausted, physically and mentally, that he falls into a coma like slumber.

He’s still sore when he wakes up and to his horror, when he brushes his teeth, he can see
purple bruise marks around his throat in the shape of Voldemort’s fingers.

Now how in the world will he explain it to Hermione?

He doesn’t even own a scarf beside the old Gryffindor one he’d had at Hogwarts; even so, it’s
early April in London- wearing a scarf would be suspicious. Especially indoors.

Maybe I’ll tell her I got mugged on the way to her place?

Yeah, even Teddy wouldn’t believe it.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

Maybe Andromeda would heal it for him, before he sees Hermione?

She’s less likely to ask questions or care about what Harry gets up to.

Andromeda it is.

He puts on the Gryffindor scarf, anyway, because he doesn’t want people staring at him on
the bus.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Voldemort’s voice startles Harry, just as he’s about to
open the front door.

He turns, surprised, because he’d expected Voldemort will go back to ignoring Harry, at least
for a while.

He looks angry.

Shocking.

“Ah-to get my wand,” Harry’s voice comes out hoarse. It makes him cough a little.
You fucking arsehole, Harry thinks.

“To get your wand,” Voldemort gets even angrier. “You will walk out of that door, wandless,
when you know someone is trying to kill you?”

Ah. Right.

Harry -Harry hadn’t thought of that.

In truth, being attacked is not such a big deal. He is worried for Ron, he got scared because of
Ron, but Ron isn’t with him at the moment so …yeah, Harry had no reason to think about it.

“I’m used to having people trying to kill me, no big deal, really,” Harry shrugs. “Besides,
they won’t try again so soon.”

Voldemort closes his eyes for a second, as if praying for patience.

“And why wouldn’t they do that?” he asks, opening them again, fixing Harry with a stare.

“I- look, I don’t know. It doesn’t work like that, ok? You took a year off, between attacks,
so-’

“Because you spent ten months a year at Hogwarts and the other two inside blood protected
wards around your filthy muggles. Not exactly easy to reach.”

“Whatever, I’ll be alright,” Harry just knows he won’t get attacked again. Not that day, at
least.

“I won’t do anything to your precious mudblood,” Voldemort sneers. “I’m not stupid. Have
her bring you the wand.”

“I know you wouldn’t hurt her,” Harry says.

Voldemort really isn’t stupid, he knows the second Hermione or Ron are hurt, all bets are off.

He never insults them like he does the Aurors, he’s actually perfectly polite and agreeable
when they visit, at his most charismatic.

“Then?”

Harry pulls at his scarf. “She can’t see this or I’ll never hear the end of it. I’m going to
Andromeda to get rid of it.”

If Harry had been stupid enough to expect some measure of regret from Voldemort, when
faced with proof he’d strangled him, then Harry would have been disappointed.

Voldemort just rolls his eyes. “I can heal that. You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry should tell him to go fuck himself, that he’s in no position to tell Harry what to do, and
he should also ask “how dare you?” because it is all deserved.
Instead, Harry follows him to the kitchen. He just doesn’t want another fight.

He strangled you!

He was upset.

Do you hear yourself? He was upset?

Harry dismisses the smarter part of his brain.

It’s the consequence of Voldemort having killed him, tortured him with the Cruciatus once
upon a time.

After that, some little strangling in the heat of the moment is nothing Harry can’t get over.

He sits and takes off the scarf.

Voldemort drags a chair to sit directly in front of Harry.

He doesn’t flinch when the same fingers that caused the bruises lay on them again.

It’s a feather light touch and Harry swallows, trying not to think of anything, of how wrong
this is, to still want Voldemort to touch him-

And then he fells the magic.

Harry breathes out;

It feels very- intimate. More intimate than what Harry’s done with anyone, including
Voldemort.

To feel magic on one’s skin is rare, outside of curses, and those definitely don’t feel nice.

Even when non-combative spells were directed at him, by Hermione or Madame Pomfrey- it
came through a wand, no touching involved.

He’d never experienced this, the touch of a hand, magic coming directly from it.

It feels…well; it feels magical.

Voldemort is focused, a little frown between his eyebrows, like Harry saw him displaying
when he’s forcing magic through the cuffs.

If he’d have a wand, it would probably take no time at all.

If he’d have a wand, he’d probably be torturing you, not healing you.

As it is, it takes minutes.

Harry squirms, because it’s almost unbearable, the emotion it awakens in him.
Finally, Voldemort takes his hand away. He looks a little paler, like it’s been an effort for
him.

“There you go,” he says and then- a smirk. “A pity; I rather liked to see you bearing my
marks.”

Merlin.

Why does that send a shiver in Harry’s lower abdomen, when by all rights it should send him
in an outrage?

And then, before Harry can regain his bearings, Voldemort lifts his hand once more, and
Harry does flinch, when he moves Harry’s hair out of the way, and touches his scar.

Harry’s about to stand, to just leave the room. This isn’t- it shouldn’t-

“Could you feel it?” Voldemort asks, and he looks so curious, head tilted slightly to one side.
“I know you didn’t when you had it, obviously, but could you tell you were missing
something, once it was gone?”

Yes, Harry thinks, though he always refused to think about it, only allows himself a pang of
loss every time he sees a snake and remembers he can’t talk with it, remembers he used to.

Harry doesn’t answer, sits there, frozen.

Voldemort keeps looking at the scar, tracing his fingers over its shape.

Harry can’t wrap his mind around the fact that he’d had Voldemort’s soul inside him. He’d
had contact with the other Horcrux and they influenced him so much, they were so real and
how was it the one inside him did nothing?

“Why-” Harry starts, voice cracking and not because of his injuries, already healed. But he
can’t speak further.

Voldemort is so very close and this time, seated as they are, their faces are mere inches from
each other.

“Yes?” Voldemort probes, his fingers stopping, but still there.

His eyes are so dark- it’s not the colour; it’s something else that makes them hard and
magnetising, like a vacuum pulling Harry in.

“The locket,” he says, swallowing, not sure how to put it. “The diary- different but they were-
they-” he just can’t concentrate but apparently Voldemort can piece the jumbled words
together.

“It is not the soul that has autonomy, but the charms on the vessels, once the binding ritual is
done. I did not finish the ritual for the one inside you. I gave no direction to the vessel.”

His eyes leave the scar to look into Harry’s.

“It was just there,” he says. “How extraordinary.”

He takes his hand away.

“I saw it,” Harry whispers, almost in a trance.

“You saw it?” Voldemort frowns. “Ho-

“When I died. When it died. We were both at King’s Cross.”

“King’s Cross?” Voldemort asks, sharply. Harry can’t make sense of the look that crosses
over his face.

“Not the actual Kings Cross,” he clarifies. “I don’t know why I was there. I- it-” Harry closes
his eyes.

“What?”

Harry says nothing for a few seconds.

“What did you see?” Voldemort insists.

“I-”

A small creature, deformed, crying. Hiding under a bench.

Harry shakes his head.

“I tried to help it, but Dumbledore said I couldn’t.”

It’s terrible. The image is imprinted in his brain and it won’t dislodge, no matter how much
he shakes his head.

Harry can’t bare it, can’t bare remembering it-

“Even dead and you were still obeying Dumbledore,” Voldemort says, and his voice is harsh
and mocking again, nothing like the soft tone from before.

It pulls Harry right out of the memory.

He opens his eyes, grateful.

He stands, though his knees feel weak.

“I’m going to write to Hermione to bring me my wand, when she’s able.”

Voldemort is standing too, but heading towards the pantry.

“You do that,” he says.

(-)

“It’s like we jinxed it,” Ron agrees when Harry tells him they best forget about joining the
Aurors.

Ron is still on bedrest, still a little pale, half a dozen potion vials on his nightstand.

“Dada!” Rose says, climbing on the bed. She looks very much like Ron, all freckled and red-
haired, but with Hermione’s busy hair and her eyes.

She calls Harry “Ary” and smiles toothily at him, because she knows he always gives her
chocolate frogs, when Hermione isn’t looking.

Ron hauls her over. “Let’s not mention to anyone we even thought about it, yeah?” he asks,
over a fit of giggles from Rose.

“That would be the best,” Harry nods

He still would join, if it were just him. But seeing Ron on the pavement, looking lifeless, had
reminded Harry of all the times he’d placed his friends in danger.

He can’t believe he almost did it again.

Molly comes into the bedroom, a tray laden with food on her hip, looking at both of them
with a panicked expression she hadn’t lost since she heard of the attack.

She basically moved in to look after Ron, driving Hermione up a wall, though of course she
doesn’t say anything, very understanding.

Voldemort is not so understanding, and he throws away all the food that Molly sends by owl,
burns all her letters before Harry even has the time to read them.

He supposes he doesn’t need to read them to imagine what was written, he just writes back
that yes, he’s doing well, thanks her for her food and no, he doesn’t need her to come and
look after him.

(-)

The Daily Prophet has a field day with the attack. They only mention Ron once, as a
footnote, and as the days go by Harry reads how he singled handedly brought down first six,
then nine, then twelve Death Eaters.

“Well, there it goes again, any hope of me going out in public,” Harry exclaims, exasperated.
And people had just stopped bowing when he passes by; now all that progress, after all of
Harry’s attempts to show he’s just a normal man, is lost.

“How terrible that must be for you,” Voldemort drawls, without sympathy.

Harry remembers he is talking to a man that can’t get out at all.

He never complains about it again.

Not like Harry has anywhere to go; Andromeda, rightly so, refuses to let Teddy out with
Harry, even in their backyard.

“This is not safe enough,” she grunts, when Harry Apparates outside her superior standard
wards, under his Invisibility Cloak, and walks very quietly to her front door. “If someone is
trailing you, there are spells to see through Invisibility clocks.”

Not through this one, Harry thinks, but of course he’s not about to tell her about the Deathly
Hallows.

He can’t tell her why he declines to connect Grimmauld’s fireplace to her own, either.

She doesn’t understand why he won’t do it, and he has no good excuse for it besides
“because Voldemort might come strolling in your living room”.

So they fight about it every time Harry visits Teddy.

“The best way to deal with Black women when their temper flares is to completely ignore
them,” Voldemort advises when Harry returns with a headache. “That, or curse them, but I
assume that is not a solution you are willing to consider.”

“Of course not!”

Voldemort nods. “Might be for the best. Quite possibly she will send you home in a
matchbox, if you draw your wand at her.”

"You forget I expertly, superbly dealt with twelve “Death Eaters,” Harry reminds him,
quoting from the Prophet. “I can hold my own.”

“You’re behind; it’s thirteen now.”

Harry snorts, throwing himself on the couch, massaging his temples.

“Did Lestrange yell at you, then?” he asks.

Voldemort laughs. “No one dares to rise their voice in my presence. No one but you,” he
gives Harry a pointed glare. “But Bella yelled at everyone else. Some of my Death Eaters
were occasionally less terrified of me, than of her.”

He says it admiringly, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his lips.

How could anyone have liked that psychotic, deranged woman is beyond Harry.

You like Voldemort, a masochistic part of his brain reminds him. So perhaps you shouldn’t
judge.

(-)

Kingsley is alone; which really, by itself, should have been a red flag.

Also, because he showed up unannounced.

He doesn’t look at Voldemort, but at Harry.

“I have reason to believe we have been compromised,” Kingsley says, and can Harry’s week
go worse?

As it turns out, it can.

“These new terrorists might be aware this one,” he jerks his head in Voldemort’s direction, “is
alive. And that he’s staying here.”

“What?” Harry demands, his skin prickling. “How would that happen?”

Kingsley doesn’t answer.

Voldemort does.

“Perhaps one of his Aurors, that was displeased I am alive, talked.”

“No,” Kingsley denies it too vehemently. “We don’t know for sure, anyway, but-”

“Williamson, maybe?” Voldemort intervenes, and a vein pulses on Kingsley’s forehead.

“How would you- that’s an oddly specific guess?”

Harry is used to Voldemort knowing everything. The way his mind works is beyond Harry’s
comprehension. Beyond most everyone’s, really.

Voldemort points to the window. “For ten months, you have them rotate in the area.
Williamson was replaced, recently.”

“What?” Harry asks. “You’re spying on me?”

“Oh, come on!” Kingsley gives Harry a look. “We’re keeping an eye on him. Of course we
do. In any case, they are under Invisibility Cloaks or camouflaged-”
“Yes, yes. They were good at first, careful. But I suppose it gets boring, staring at a house
without anything happening. Williamson’s camouflage slipped a few times. Didn’t help that
he always bought a Costa-

“A what now?” Kingsley asks, bemused.

“It’s a coffee, they sell it at the corner shop-” Harry explains.

“Suffice to say, Muggles might ignore a cup of coffee moving on its own once in a while, but
I don’t. And there was no Costa for about two weeks now.”

Silence. Harry rubs his forehead. “So it was Williamson?”

“Not like he insinuates. He was captured. We don’t know if he is alive or where or who took
him- he is a loyal, strong man. But just in case they cracked him, it is no longer safe for him,”
again with the head jerking at Voldemort, “to stay here.”

Harry automatically moves in front of Voldemort.

“He’s staying,” Harry says.

“Do you realise what would happen if they get him? Maybe they’ll set him free or- in any
scenario, it is a terrible thing. So he has to return to the Ministry.”

“We’re already under guard,” Harry says, through his teeth. “What, don’t trust your loyal,
strong men to defend this house?”

“Quite frankly, no. There are four Aurors alive, five with Williamson that know of his
continual survival. They take shifts in two. Two men are not enough.”

“Then place more. Tell them you’re just guarding me, after the attack last month-”

“Harry, be reasonable. He needs to be at the Ministry.”

“Oh, yes, because no one ever broke into the Ministry,” Harry spits. “Oh, wait! I did, twice!
Once when I was fifteen. Voldemort did. Dumbledore. Oh, you did! Safe, my ass.”

“Don’t compare me with Fudge or an Imperiused Thickness,” Kingsley says sharply, and
Harry can’t argue with that. Kingsley is a much better Minister. More efficient. An ex Auror
that had once served with Moody. He takes safety seriously.

“Look, he’s not going anywhere,” Harry says simply, out of arguments.

Rational arguments. He has plenty of irrational ones, but Kingsley won’t care much that
Harry just can’t imagine having Voldemort gone, will he?

“He won’t be tortured, I give you my word. We’ll get him a bed and books and food and
whatever. He will be treated humanely. You have to give him back.”

“No!” Harry says, more and more upset.

He’s very aware Voldemort had gone very silent, and he’s very aware of how Kingsley and
Harry are talking about him, in his hearing, like he’s an object to be passed between them.

“Why not? Merlin’s beard! Give me one good reason!” Kingsley finally snaps.

In a distant part of his brain, Harry understands the Minister perfectly.

“He’s not going,” Harry repeats. “You’re taking him out of this house only over my dead
body.”

Kingsley’s mouth twists in disgust.

“He’s letting you fuck him or something?” he spits. “Surely you can find someone else to
spread their legs for you, beside the man that murdered your paren-”

Several things happen at once.

Harry lunges for Kingsley, who quickly draws his wand; fingers that can only belong to
Voldemort grab Harry by the back of his t-shirt, stopping his momentum, and he yanks him
out of the way of the stunner Kingsley is already casting at Harry.

It misses Harry’s hair by an inch, making his face tingle.

And then Harry is pushed, hard, on the floor.

He jumps back to his feet, reaching for his wand in the back pocket of his jeans-

It’s not there.

“Harry, run!” Kingsley says, blocking a spell.

Voldemort uses Harry’s wand to raise a shield around him; Kingsley’s curse smashes into it
with an awful noise.

Harry can only stare, dumb with horror.

“RUN!” Kingsley yells, using a chair to stop a sinister white spell.

Harry doesn’t run; he’s not the one in danger. Kingsley is.

He tries to get between them, but Kingsley wastes a moment to send a repelling charm at
Harry, who cannot advance anymore.

“Stop!” Harry yells.

No one listens to him.

They can’t come back from this, he realises with dread. The best-case scenario, Kingsley
survives, but then that’s it for Voldemort. They’ll drag him out to the ministry, Harry be
damned.
Or Kingsley dies and Harry can’t think of that either, agitation and fear rising-

Only that might not happen. Voldemort is evidently struggling.

He’s fast, but he uses that quickness more to duck than actually use the wand, a remarkably
focused look on his face, that’s getting paler and paler by the second.

One of Kingsley’s spells hits him in the side and Harry’s heart twists-

A snake shoots out of Harry’s wand- a huge cobra, angry and Voldemort hisses something. It
lunges for Kingsley, who has to whip his wand very fast to get rid of it, and misses the
smaller snake that came right behind it.

It leaps on Kingsley’s wand hand, squeezing his wrist, trashing-

Harry can’t do anything.

Kingsley tries to fight with the snake that’s obviously cutting off circulation, his spells come
slower, Voldemort just dodging out of their path-

And then he raises Harry’s wand and a yellow curse hits Kingsley, who freezes on the spot.

The repelling charm ends with the caster seemingly unconscious.

Kingsley’s wand drops from his hand, at the same time the snake lets him go, disappearing
into thin air. Harry grabs the wand.

Voldemort’s next spells hits Kingsley a second before Harry moves to shield him.

“Expelliarmus!”

But Voldemort had already let go of his wand, even before Harry summons it back.

Voldemort stumbles into the desk, supporting himself on it.

“Are you just doing that to piss me off?” he growls and even his perfect posh accent drops to
something less refined. “Is that fucking spell the only one you know?”

“What did you do to him?” Harry demands. “Is he alright-”

Voldemort more falls than sits in the chair.

“Are you alright?” Harry doesn’t know whom to check on first.

Kingsley is staring ahead, unseeing but clearly alive, even if seemingly petrified.

Harry steps towards Voldemort.

“Repair the chair and the shelves that were hit,” Voldemort says, moving his own chair to the
right, until he’s hid by the desk.
“Now!” he barks and Harry just does it.

“Put his wand back in his robe- no, you idiot, he’s left-handed, so it goes in his right pocket.
Good, now drag him to where he was-”

“I-”

“Just drag him, Potter!”

“Here?” Harry asks, breathing hard, because Kingsley is heavy.

“A few inches to the right-no-more-there. Come back here, face him, put your wand back-
perhaps this taught you not to keep it in the back pocket of these denim contraptions you call
trousers and then turn your back to anyone who can grab it.”

Harry does what he’s asked, getting the idea.

“Get rid of him, quickly.” And before Harry can regain his bearings- “Finite.”

“He’s letting you fuck him or something? Surely you can find someone else to spread their
legs for you, beside the man that murdered your parents!”

Harry just stares at Kingsley, shaking when he thinks what Harry’s stupidity almost cost
them.

A brief silence.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Kingsley says, a second later, deflating. “I apologise, Harry.”

“That’s aright,” Harry says. It is. Kingsley is alive, he won’t drag Voldemort away.

Everything’s alright.

“I better go, this isn’t helping anyone.”

“Yeah, yeah. Better go, for now.”

“And you,” he spits at Voldemort. “You nasty piece of shit, I hope you see all the effort Potter
is investing in you, all the chances he gives you that you do not deserve.”

Kingsley despises Voldemort so much, he doesn’t even glance his way as he turns and
leaves.

Which is a good thing, because when Harry turns, Voldemort doesn’t look so well.

He’s gone as white as he used to be, before, he’s barley holding his eyes open and as soon as
the front door slams, he closes them and slumps into his chair.

Walburga starts screaming for the first time in months and Harry’s blood runs cold.

“Hey!” Harry shoves the desk aside, bending over Voldemort. “Hey!”
Nothing.

“Voldemort!”

Forcing the little magic he has through a wand might just as well kill him, Hermione had said
when Harry asked her for the hundred times what could happen if Voldemort gets his hands
on one.

“No, no, no!” Harry touches Voldemort’s neck, searching for a pulse. He doesn’t find any.

He can’t be dead!

“Voldemort!” Harry screams.

No one can kill him, but me. He can’t be dead!

“You can’t die, remember!” Harry shakes him. “You can’t die!”

A pit opens at the centre of his chest, threatening to pull Harry under.

“You can’t leave me,” he says stupidly, and he thinks he might be crying.

He puts his hand on Voldemort’s cheek, on the face of the monster that destroyed their
world.

The face of the man Harry had wanted dead throughout his Hogwarts years.

It’s not the same face.

But is it the same man?

“Please,” he begs, but he’s not sure who he is begging.

He’s light headed, shaky. This can’t be the end-

Voldemort opens his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath.

Thank you, thank you.

Their eyes lock. They’re both surprised to find themselves in that position, so close, Harry’s
hand still on his face.

Voldemort recovers first, and he pushes Harry away from him.

“Why are you weeping?” he demands, belittling. “Your dear Minister is alive, just short of a
few memories.”

Harry doesn’t tell him he was crying for him, because it’s stupid. Pathetic. He wipes at his
eyes, furious.

Voldemort stands, still white as marble-

“You should rest,” Harry says, going close again, in case Voldemort topples over.

“I will. In my bed.” Voldemort starts walking; too deliberately, too careful to look like his
usual self. “When I return, I expect all the books to be in in their proper place; some fell
behind the shelves.”

Harry trails after him.

Voldemort stops in the hallway when he hears Walburga, but doesn’t comment on it, heading
to the stairs, after only a second.

“I though you died,” Harry says softly and Voldemort stiffens.

“What gave you that idea?” he asks, tense, grabbing the rail as they begin their climb.

“Walburga is screaming again and you- you just-you didn’t have a pulse.”

“Someone should have taught you about consent and such, Potter. You don’t touch people if
they aren’t conscious.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry stops, because really? That’s ridiculous. “It was only to help you!”

“Oh, and how did you help me? You have a wand and you help by searching for a pulse? I
bet you didn’t cast a single Renervate, did you? I know you didn’t cast a wound closing spell
either, seeing that I’m still bleeding. But thank you, Potter, truly, for touching my neck and
crying over me. That put me to rights. You should have been a Healer.”

They’re in front of Voldemort’s room. He looks like he’ll drop at any second-

“If you want to help, leave me alone.”

Harry can only watch as the door slams in his face.

It’s the first time Harry stands in front of it, since he gave the room to Voldemort.

He can’t be certain if wooden, solid dragons were carved on it before.

But he’s sure it’s never been so clean, he’s certain the door handle, even if it might have used
to be a snake from the beginning, hadn’t been made out of silver, with green eyes.

“Just call if you need anything, alright?” Harry says, loudly.

No answer.

Harry waits around for a bit, checks the other doors on the hallway and none have snake
decorations.

Voldemort made them. And that would explain why he occasionally looks so tired, why he
grows paler on some days, for no apparent reason.

He’s exhausting himself, doing stupid shit.

It’s not stupid for him. It’s magic. The only thing he ever had in his life.

(-)

Over the next day, Voldemort doesn’t eat, a shadow in his eyes; he’s strangely silent as well.
Harry hates it.

He hates that he feels like Voldemort somehow fixed Harry’s mistakes.

He didn’t kill Kingsley because Aurors are watching the house and they’ve seen Kingsley
come into it, that is all. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to kill.

And he only got into the duel, not to protect you, because if you’d attacked Kingsley, then
Voldemort would have been taken away.

Still, Harry feels guilty, like it is his fault Voldemort is …unwell.

He feels guilty because he feels relived that Voldemort struggled immensely during the short
duel.

Even if he does get Harry’s wand, Harry’s done for, but a couple of Aurors can still put
Voldemort down.

(-)

“You died, didn’t you?” Harry asks, in the library, watching Voldemort rearranging books,
because apparently Harry didn’t do a good job with it.

He doesn’t answer, shoulders tensing.

“You really died, like in the Great Hall, but you came back, because I didn’t kill you.”

Nothing.

Harry’s heart hurts. He remembers how terrible, how jarring it was, to come back- he hadn’t
the time to process it, just then, what with Voldemort and the Death Eaters around.

But he remembers the coldness, the wrongness, lasting weeks.

Nature says that the dead must stay dead, and Harry’s mind and body did not enjoy going
against that.

For months, he’d felt as if a shroud was separating him from the world, a dark, cold veil. It
hadn’t went away, not fully, even after almost five years, but it had become easier to bear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know how it is and- I’m sorry.”

He’s the reason why you know how it is. He killed you! a dying whisper reminds Harry.

But that had been a red-eyed monster, with no nose and only hatred, venom and anger
keeping him glued together

“I’m used to it,” Voldemort answers after a few seconds.

This man is different. He must be. He makes Harry tea, for Merlin’s sake! He frowns when
he reads, or smiles, in turn, upon stumbling on an interesting paragraph. He has a dimple in
his left cheek and fine lines around his brown eyes.

Harry frowns. “It’s not the thing to get used to,” he says, softly. “Just because you
experienced once-”

A derisive laugh. “Once? I’ve lost count, but I feel confident it’s been more than a hundred.”

We tried everything. He faints and just comes back, Kingsley had said, at the very beginning
of Voldemort’s captivity.

“You died? All those times?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s stomach twists, a weight settling on his chest. It’s making it hard to breathe.

“Fuck,” Harry whispers. “Fuck.”

And Voldemort fears death so much…how awful.

“I don’t wish to speak of it,” Voldemort spits, guarded.

He only knows to defend himself with anger. He has no other coping mechanism. No one had
ever taught him.

It’s what he chose, the whisper says, begging Harry to be reasonable. To not lose sight of who
exactly he’s pitying.

Perhaps. But can Harry truly blame an orphan child for making those choices, even when
Harry himself had chosen differently?

“I wish you’d have made difference choices,” Harry says.

Voldemort looks at him.

“I wish that too.”

But Harry has a suspicion they’re talking of entirely distinct things.

(-)

Harry,

I dearly hope you will join us this year, although, of course, everyone understands if you
won’t.

Sincerely,

Minerva.

The short note is attached to the formal invitation to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the
Battle of Hogwarts, approaching fast.

Harry doesn’t bother to read it- he hadn’t, after the first one.

He doesn’t just avoid Hogwarts; Harry has been avoiding McGonagall since the Battle, too.

Minerva, she signs and Harry doesn’t like it, because if he thinks of her as Minerva, then he
is forced to acknowledge everything that happened that day in May, that turned him from
Potter, her student, into Harry, hers and everyone’s else saviour.

Because if he sees her, he’ll meet the Hogwarts Headmistress and Dumbledore won’t be the
last Headmaster he met. Harry will lose him, just a little more, just another piece of
Dumbledore.

Celebrate. What is there to celebrate? he thinks, filled with a sudden fury that fights with the
loss, with the sorrow.

All those deaths… How does one celebrate one of the deadliest days in their history?
Children died that day.

Voldemort died that day; and Harry knows that is what they are celebrating.

No one knows, besides Hermione, Ron and Hagrid, that Harry had died that day, too.

(-)
“This is the second time you’ve missed Quidditch practice,” Voldemort observes.

Harry shrugs, putting together a gift for Teddy, and one for Rose.

“I’m busy,” he says, like a moron, like Voldemort isn’t living with him, watching Harry do
nothing all day, just hanging around the library.

“You shouldn’t miss it; one must take their work seriously, even if it is an incredibly useless
type of work.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“No one is coming for me,” Voldemort says, amused. “And even if they were, you certainly
won’t make much of a difference.”

“If Williamson told them about this house-”

“Grimmauld is a veritable magical fortress. Its wards are almost as ancient as Hogwarts, even
more potent because generations upon generations of Blacks had reinforced them with their
blood. Not to mention, unlike Hogwarts, Dark Magic was used to consolidate it.”

“Yeah but-”

“There is no ‘but’. I knew you were hiding here, after I took over the Ministry. I had people
waiting for you outside. I came myself, on a few occasions.”

Harry shivers. He had no idea that as he was sleeping beside Ron and Hermione, Voldemort
was just outside.

“And the wards are strong, freshly powered by your godfather’s blood, not so very long ago.
You’d have to walk everyone inside this house that wishes to enter.”

“I don’t trust the wards,” Harry says.

“Of course, since you refuse to read anything. If you would, you’d trust. Dark Magic,
specifically blood magic, does not fail.”

“It failed you,” Harry says.

“No. I made mistakes. Magic has no fault.”

Harry says nothing, focusing on his gift boxes, making sure no sweets have ended up in
Rose’s. Harry will have to give those to Ron separately, so Hermione doesn’t go on about
teeth and cavities again.

“I need you to get out, once in a while. To practice, to wherever else. You’re suffocating
me.”
Harry tries not to be upset when hearing this.

Voldemort sighs. “Even if you don’t understand Grimmauld is impenetrable, fine, they find
me. So what? I’m Immortal.”

It is embarrassing how easily Voldemort can tell that Harry, unlike Kingsley, is not worried
those people would set Voldemort free; he’s just worried they’ll hurt him.

“A Killing Curse, I’d drop to the floor, they’ll assume I’m dead and move on.”

“If Williams talked, then they know you can’t die-”

“Williamson doesn’t know that. Just Kingsley, Proudfoot and Savage. Well, Robards knew,
but he’s dead.”

Harry just shakes his head. “What if they ‘kill’ you and then I don’t know- burn your body?”

“It’s not like that hadn’t happened before.”

Harry’s head snaps to look at him, horrified.

“Robards tried everything. I just burn, die and then heal and come back.”

Harry feels like throwing up. “That’s-” he says through clenched teeth. “That’s barbaric.”

Voldemort shrugs. “They would have been stupid not to try. I personally seldomly burn
people to death; I find the smell distasteful.”

“Just-” Harry raises a hand.

“In any case, I’m perfectly fine and I find it rather insulting that you think some second rate
dark wizards can actually trouble me.”

Harry has nightmares for days, thick orange flames consuming a tall shaped man- it turns into
the diadem, twisting in Fiendfyre, in the Room of Requirement.

Harry doesn’t leave the house, writes to his Captain that he is still recovering after the attack.

(-)

On the Weasley’s next visit, Voldemort asks Ron for a game of chess.

Hermione convinces Ron to do it, looking at him pointedly.

Voldemort wins the first time, though it is clear it takes much longer than he expected.

“I was nervous,” Ron bemoans. “I started off badly. A rematch!”

And Ron wins, the second time, after a two-hour show off.

Ron is extremely pleased with himself. He’s been starting to look a little jealous, of the way
Hermione can speak with Voldemort and actually be understood, he’d had this twitch in his
eye when Hermione called Voldemort highly intelligent.

Harry doesn’t blame him. He’s a little jealous himself, because Voldemort also said Hermione
is unusually competent and Hermione can keep up with him when Harry-Harry can’t have
those sort of discussions.

“Did you lose on purpose?” Harry ask, when they’re alone, later in the evening.”

“Of course. He’s good, but not as good as to beat Lord Voldemort at strategy.”

“You’re doing the third person thing again,” Harry says and Voldemort just gives him a dirty
look. “So? Why did you lose?”

“She might be intelligent, your little mudblood, but Ronald is a far better judge of character.”

“Don’t call her a mudblood,” Harry says, but not as hotly as he did in the beginning. It
happens four times a day, so by this point he’s just wasting his breath.

Of course, to their faces, he always calls her Mrs. Weasley.

“He’s harder to win over. She is still that little girl that struggles to be accepted by her peers;
she doesn’t know when to shut up. Far to passionate. She’s disliked and comes across as
snobbish and arrogant, traits people shy away from. If I pay some attention to her, engage her
in topics she cares about, for however long she needs, she’ll forget who it is she’s really
talking to.

Ronald was the youngest brother, the least remarkable. And then he’s been Harry Potter’s
best friend. He is stupider than his wife. Everywhere he goes, he’s surrounded by people
better than he is. Beating the dark lord at anything will make him feel worthy and confident.
He’ll get that feeling whenever he is in my presence and it will make him lower his guard.”

He’s very spot on, but Harry knows Voldemort reads people very well. Like his Horcruxes,
he immediately gauges where to hit or where to stroke.

“What about me?”

“I don’t need to be anything than I am not, around you. You are predisposed to give people
second chances, you have a tremendous saviour complex and you sympathise too much, with
everyone, but especially with someone that grew up an orphan. I don’t even need to
pretend.”

“You do like Hermione,” Harry says, because he thinks he’s getting to know Voldemort
better. “If only a little.”

“I tolerate some of our conversations. It’s been quite some time since I found anyone to
discuss certain topics with. Though she gets grating, eventually. What can I tell you, Harry?
My world has become very small, if the prospect of arguing about potions with a socially
inept mudblood is the high point of my week.”

Harry looks down, because Voldemort is the high point of his day, every day.

(-)

“Don’t call me Teddy,” Teddy says, haughty. “My name is Edward.”

Just like that, Harry feels his blood pressure rise.

Andromeda, who doesn’t leave them alone anymore, lest men show up to attack Harry in her
kitchen, sighs, clearly showing this is not the first time Teddy made the request.

“I called my husband Ted,” she says. “So-”

“He was just a Muggleborn,” Teddy scoffs and Harry has half a mind to pay Malfoy Manor a
visit.

“Teddy!” Andromada says, sternly.

“My name is Edward!” he screams at her. “I don’t want a muggle name.”

“Oh, yes, because Edward is such a wizarding name,” Harry says, barely holding his
composure.

“Why didn’t you name me something nice?” Teddy demands of Andromeda. “All your
family has cool names!”

“I didn’t name you,” Andromeda says and looks devastated for a second. “Nymphodora did.”

Teddy often dismisses his parents, or any involvement they had in his life. Which is
confusing to Harry, who glorified his own.

Then again, Harry had no one. For Teddy, Andromeda is his mother.

“Lucius’s grandson is called Scorpius,” Teddy goes on. “That’s a wicked name-”

“It’s stupid, is what it is,” Harry mutters.

“Harry,” Andromeda says. “You’re talking about a few months old baby. It’s hardly the boy’s
fault.”

“It’s not stupid!” Teddy kicks a toy car. It goes flying through the living room. “This is
stupid! I don’t want muggle toys. I’m a wizard. I want a wand! Lucius says he gave Draco a
wand long before he went to Hogwarts-”
“Pick up that cursed toy and go to your room!” Andromeda says, sharply.

“I don’t want to!” Teddy screams and he was always such a well-tempered boy, never one to
throw a tantrum.

“Hey, don’t yell at her,” Harry intervenes.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” Teddy’s so indignant, his eyes are watering from pure
frustration.

“To your room. Now. Don’t make me get up.”

Teddy marches out of the room and a few seconds later they hear the door to his room
slamming shut.

“I told you Malfoy is a bad influence!” Harry sneers. “You shouldn’t let him go there-”

“I won’t be lectured on parenting by a twenty-two-year-old boy. And this is hardly Malfoy’s

doing. Merlin knows the pillock would never encourage a child to throw a tantrum. No, this
is his Black blood. It’s Sirius, reincarnate.I used to laugh when he’d bring Aunt Walburga to
despair with his behaviour, but I’m not laughing now, am I?”

“Sirius wasn’t like this!” Harry says, insulted on behalf of his grandfather. “Maybe he was a
prankster-”

“He was a bloody menace. A nightmare of a child. I’m profoundly sorry if that doesn’t fit the
pretty view you’ve built in your head about him.”

“I’m not talking about temper! I’m talking about all this muggle stuff-”

Andromeda snorts. “You should have heard Sirius laughing at that Snape boy, saying how
low the Slytherin House had fallen, to allow a ‘filthy little half-blood’ in our midst.”

“He was best friends with Remus! And my mum-”

“And? I married a Muggleborn, what of it? We were good, Sirius and I, with learning to
respect individuals that did not quite fit with the worldview we grew up; but only people that
were close to us. You won’t see me being Muggleborn Champion either.”

“Great!” Harry stands. “So it isn’t just Malfoy that’s the problem, then. It’s you!”

“I’m not telling Teddy anything bad about Muggles or Muggleborns, I never will. We can all
live in this world, peacefully, regardless of blood status or wealth, and that is what I am
trying to teach him. But yes, I hold on to my traditions, Harry. I like Yule and Samhain the
way I celebrated them as a child, not these warped versions that are trendy now and imported
from the muggles. And I want the same for Teddy-”

“Again with the Yule shit! You sound like Voldemort!” Harry snaps without thinking.

“I beg your pardon?” Andromeda asks, and she doesn’t look insulted, she looks confused.
“I mean,” Harry hurries to add. “The sort of thing he said, I imagine. Pureblood culture,
muggleborns ruining it, and all that rubbish.”

He well remembers the lectures from Christmas.

Andromeda blinks. “Voldemort certainly didn’t say any of that.”

Harry bites his lip, restrains from yelling “yes, he did. he does”

“This ‘pureblood culture’ is what actual purebloods go on about, the sane ones, at least. Old
families and old members in the Wizengamot. We don’t want to hurt or oppress
Muggleborns. Voldemort was all about terror. He didn’t care about our culture; he cared
about nothing but power and not mixing pureblood with “impure” blood.” She snorts. “You
don’t even know anything about your nemesis-”

“I do!”

“So forgive me if I don’t take your advice about how to live as a witch and raise my grandson
as a wizard, in a world I was born into and lived here for fifty bloody years!”

(-)

“And before I left she said ‘he has no need to know about muggle technology and transport,
so I don’t see why you insist in showing him these things.’ God, she’s so annoying”.

“That’s foolish,” Voldemort declares when Harry is done ranting about Andromeda.

“Thank you!” Harry exclaims. “Wow, even you agree-”

“Of course he should have some sort of education and awareness about Muggles.”

“Yes, exactly-”

“He should know his enemies.”

Harry groans.

“I can’t believe that for a second it seemed you were…you know, sane.”

Voldemort smiles.

“Here I was, worried about Malfoy and there Andromeda is, poisoning his mind. She might
be even worse than Malfoy. I can refute him, I can show Teddy muggles aren’t filthy and
stupid and whatever else Malfoy says, but Andromeda is the polite sort of bigot, she would
just rather ignore them like they’re some sort of irrelevant bugs.”
“I don’t understand your insistence in having the boy approve of Muggles.”

“Of course you don’t-”

“No,” Voldemort raises a hand. “Shut up for a moment.”

Harry sputters, indignant, but Voldemort goes on.

“Does Ronald interact with Muggles? What about his horde of siblings? For that matter, what
about his father?”

He won’t even mention Molly, Harry thinks but then he frowns, reflecting on the question.

“Well, no but-”

“Do they hate Muggles?”

“Of course not!”

Voldemort nods. “How about Longbottom. Is he well acquainted with Muggle culture?”

“I don’t think so-”

“They were all magical children, raised by magical people in a magical society. There was no
point for them to have any interactions with Muggles or familiarity with their culture. Their
families were not anti muggles or mudbloods. It simply never came up; there was no reason.
There is no need or reason for your godson either.”

Harry is rendered without arguments, for a second.

“Well, Teddy is not a pureblood so-” he tries.

“He is raised by a pureblood woman, in a magical society. His parents were both magical and
assimilated into our culture. He has what? Two great grandparents that are Muggle? I assume
they must be dead by now or close to it.”

“They are dead,” Harry confirms.

“So, what reason does he have to be close to Muggles, more than knowing they exist and I
agree, some basic knowledge of their ways, just enough to blend in when needed?”

Harry doesn’t know what to answer.

“You wear their clothes and know how to use their money but that’s about all, isn’t it?
Ironically, your only interactions with muggles, besides occasionally buying food from them,
are because you are hiding from journalist and drag your godson along for the ride. Tell me,
if you had the choice, as a child, to live in a magical community, wouldn’t you have preferred
it?”

“Of course!” Harry says. “But just because the Durselys were terrible-”
“How about your mudblood? From your stories it seems she spent a lot of holidays with you
at Hogwarts or even at Grimmauld instead of electing to stay with her parents. Or were they
abusive to her as well?”

“No, of course not,” Harry says only- well he assumes so; somehow Hermione’s family was
never much of a subject.

He frowns. He knows their names, their professions but that is all. Harry met the Weasley,
early on, but he only saw Hermione’s parents once, in passing.

Voldemort smiles, victorious and it pisses Harry off.

“It seems to me they aren’t involved in her life.”

“Because she erased their memories. They’re -I mean, after she restored them they are..a bit..
well can you blame them?”

“She saved their lives,” Voldemort raises an eyebrow. “My Death Eaters searched for them,
when I took control of the Ministry.”

Harry cringes. “Don’t ever tell Herm-”

“She knows; that is why she hid them, because she knew we will go looking. In any case-
they are frightened of her; they cannot understand why. They were not a part of something
major in her life. And never will be. Because they are muggles and she is a witch. She didn’t
choose to pursue a muggle career, and from your conversations, yes, she lives in London, but
in a magical house. Even if there was no riff between her and her parents, they’d still grow
distant. Because there’s nothing in common anymore, just some shared genes and some
distant childhood memories.”

Harry falls silent. He can’t believe he never thought in depth about Hermione and her parents.
Throughout Hogwarts, yes, he knew she had parents, but in most ways, it was as if she didn’t.
The Weasleys were always there, tangible in a way the Grangers were not. In fact, during
their school years, Hermione, like Harry was sort of adopted into the family of red heads.

“You insisting the boy have contact with Muggles, shoving their toys at him might only make
him resent them, really. Which he should, in my opinion, but you don’t want that. Let him be;
how old is he? Six? He’s old enough to have preferences. Of course, he shows poor taste if he
likes Lucius, but the fact remains that he does and you trying to force the matter won’t
change it.”

(-)

As May rapidly approaches, even people like Rita Skeeter have the decency to give respect to
all the fallen victims covered in the Daily Prophet, write about their accomplishments and
achievements- or in the case of the ones that have died far too young, write a few kind words
about them.

Harry only read these sorts of long obituaries the first time around. He can’t make himself
read them again, so he cancels his Daily Prophet subscription for a week.

It occurs to him, only after he does it, that he shouldn’t have. That maybe, just maybe, having
Voldemort confronted with pictures of his victims at breakfast, reading about the atrocities
he’d caused might…

Might what? He won’t care. It’s not like he’s deluded. He knows it was wrong. He just doesn’t
care.

Reading about Colin’s photographs and his wishes to become a journalist will not move him
to anything.

Harry takes long walks in secluded Muggle Areas. He doesn’t go to visit Teddy, doesn’t want
to see the grief and hate in Andromeda’s eyes; he can’t bear to see the Weasleys- not with
Molly shut in her room, with George disappearing, Ginny’s hard eyes-

Harry stays away from everyone and everyone knows to stay away from him, trapped in their
own grief.

He doesn’t want to hear or read about nooks and crannies in Knockturn alley that display the
other fallen.

It caused a mass upset that first year when Aurors found pictures of Rabastan and Bellatrix
Lestrange put up on walls, some with Crabbe Senior alongside his son and several others.

'We will not forget' written under them.

They did not find the perpetuators.

(-)

When May first rolls around, Harry locks himself in his room.

Usually, he has some alcohol with him, but not this time around.

He shuts his curtains and stays in bed.

Harry tries to force himself to sleep, hoping, as always, that he’ll just wake after the whole
thing is over, that he’ll go down the stairs and the date in the paper will be the third of May.

It never works. Not even when he tried to drink himself into a stupor; he’d still stayed awake,
remembering.
Fuck it, Harry thinks, after some agonising hours. Fuck it.

He leaves his sanctuary, to collect a few bottles of anything he can grab in the cellar.

Of course, he just has to find Voldemort already in the kitchen; he’s sitting there, staring at
the wall as if it had done him great harm.

Harry imagines he’s spent the last four anniversaries being tortured by grieving Aurors.

When Harry enters, that gaze shifts onto him, full of hate.

“Shouldn’t you get ready, Potter?” he spits. “To attend your party?”

Harry snaps. “So many people are dead!” he says, chocked, throws it in Voldemort’s face,
uselessly. The man doesn’t care.

He only cares about himself. And he proves it.

“I died,” he reminds Harry.

“So did I!” Harry yells. “You killed me! You killed dozens! You killed yourself!”

Voldemort stands and the atmosphere grows heavy, dangerous, the air around Voldemort
cracks with magic.

Harry pulls out his wand, holds it steady.

“Give me a reason!” Harry snarls, because he’s boiling with anger. “Just one reason, and I
swear-”

“You won’t,” Voldemort’s face transforms, full of rage. He steps around the table, close to
Harry. “You want to know why?”

“Because I’m weak and pathetic -” Harry imitates him.

“Because you are alone. You have no one left. Your friends have their own family. You have
no one. You never had anyone. Just your godfather, for all of five minutes. That is all you
ever had. That, and me.”

“You took him from me,” Harry says, and instead of geeing angrier, he just gets desperate.

“Will you go there? To celebrate? Will you pretend that you’re not keeping the dark lord in
your house? Will you accept toasts and applauses while I wait for you here, making dinner?
What a hero you are-”

Harry puts the wand in his pocket, and before Voldemort can even blink, Harry punches him
straight in the face.

That finally shuts him up.

Harry thrills at the expression on his face, once Voldemort’s head returns to its previous
position, blood pouring from his nose.

Harry turns and leaves him to stew in silence.

He only realises he’s forgotten his drinks when he’s already back in his room.

(-)

Fred must have died right around this time. Harry looks at his watch, curled around himself
in his bed.

Colin.

Lavender.

Tonks and Remus must have died around now, he thinks, some time later.

He can see them in the Great Hall, laying side by side, eyes open and unseeing.

Harry feels like he’s bursting apart.

He remembers walking past the Great Hall, Snape’s memories fresh in his head, the
realisation of it all.

He remembers stopping beside Neville, telling him to kill the snake, because he had to think
of the Cause. It was all there was. All that mattered.

So why was everyone surprised when there was nothing else, once Voldemort was gone?

“Does it hurt?” Harry had asked Sirius, five years before, to the second.

“Not at all.”

And he’d been right. Death had not hurt at all. It’s living that gives Harry issues.

He remembers the Horcrux, in despair. Unwanted, stuffed out of sight under a seat,
struggling for breath.

Harry had wanted to help him.

“You cannot help. Is beyond either of our help.” Dumbledore. Fucking Dumbledore.

So many deaths, so much grief, because Dumbledore had not tried to help Tom Riddle.
Because Dumbledore had been so secretive.
Dumbledore had been all for second chances. He handed them like candy. For ex Death
Eaters, for petty criminals like Mundungus, for cunning, conniving professors like Slughorn.
And he hadn’t given even one to an eleven-year-old Tom Riddle.

Were you too blinded by memories of Grindelwald? Or was Tom already beyond help? Was
he that incorrigible, so early on?

Did it hurt you to send me to my death, after having me hunt Horcruxes all around the
country? Did you ever care for me, for Sirius, for anyone, besides the cause?

Harry had not made his peace with the Headmaster. Harry hates him some days.

He misses him terribly on others.

Harry would like to know what Dumbledore would have to say, about what his current living
arrangements.

There’s a lot of dead people at Dumbledore’s feet. And even more, far, far more, at
Voldemort’s.

But Harry has his fair share. All those students that were lost in battle, buying Harry time to
destroy the diadem. Sirius.

Harry wants to die, is the sad truth of it, had wanted to die since the adrenaline of the Battle
had went away, leaving him empty.

Death is living with him.

Harry gets up, puts his wand in a drawer in the nightstand.

He breathes in deeply and then exhales.

He makes his way down the stairs, through the long, winding, dark hallway, knocks on the
wooden door.

There’s no answer. Harry enters anyhow, the snake shaped doorknob biting him when he
touches it, leaving two tiny wounds in his hand, with its sharp, silver fangs. It hisses at him,
and fives years prior Harry would have understood what it was saying.

Voldemort’s room is resplendent.

It looks nothing like the bedroom he’d last seen, some ten months before, when he’d given it
to the dark lord.

A few candles shed a dim light over it; the curtains are dark green velvet, thick and heavy and
not a speck of dust on them. The armoire is black, shiny new.

There are no books, no portraits, the walls look as if freshly painted, pure white.
All there is, on a nightstand, a picture of Bellatrix he must have stolen from the ones he got
for Harry.

The bed is downright imperial, massive four posters in the shape of dragons. The sheets are
dark green, mixed with black. All silk.

Voldemort lies on top of it, upper body supported by the beautifully sculpted headboard.

“You could have done so much good,” Harry laments, running his fingers over the snakes
moving on the side of a desk that had never been there before.

He’s such a phenomenally gifted wizard.

“I don’t owe anything to anyone,” Voldemort sneers. “No one was good to me.”

Harry knows. He knows, and he’s so very sorry for it.

For what could have been.

“Except you,” Voldemort says, tilting his head, the same way he’d done in the forest, when
Harry showed up, ready to die. “You are good to me. I might owe you something.”

Hearing him admitting it was all that Harry thought he’d wanted.

And yet it hurts.

“I destroyed your soul,” Harry says, and he feels the tears welling in his eyes.

Hacked at it, piece by piece. At someone’s soul. Someone who was so terrified of death, he
willingly parted with those pieces, protected them so fiercely.

Harry’s very much the bad guy in Voldemort’s story.

“You were a puppet, obeying orders. A child, playing at war. When it came to it, you couldn’t
say the words.”

“You think my kindness makes me weak. Is that why you’re never kind, to anyone?”

“You are weak,” Voldemort says, looking at Harry more intensely than he’d ever done before.
Because it is not one of his practiced seducing looks. It’s not calculated. It’s raw and pure.
“But you are mine. Mine to torment. Mine to play with. Mine to take care of.”

What would have happened if Voldemort had known Harry was a horcrux? Would he have
chained Harry in a dark cave? Would he have kept Harry close, like Nagini?

Would he have locked Harry in a silver green castle?

“No one took care of me,” Harry says, and it hurts so fucking bad. “No one cooked for me.”

Molly had cooked for all of them. But no one had made Harrys’ favourite dishes, day after
day.
Harry always wakes up, and his tea is ready, his toast burned just how he likes it. Harry
doesn’t even remember the last time had to do anything around the house.

No one ever listened to his incessant rambling.

Harry talks and talks and talks, like he never talked to anyone, because he’d been afraid not
to bore them, because he thought they wouldn’t understand, that Harry can’t possibly have
anything interesting to say.

He’d never talked to anyone about the Dursleys, Aunt Marge and her dogs.

He’d told Voldemort everything.

And if it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would have never met the Durlseys. He’d have
had his mother and father, Sirius and Remus, to look after him.

It just hurts, all of it, it’s so confusing. It wights heavily on him, the duality of his feelings.

He just doesn’t want to feel all that pain, anymore.

And Voldemort is good with causing all kinds of pain.

I swear on my magic I will not kill Harry Potter. But just that.

Harry craves that other pain that brings his mind peace and Voldemort knows it, knew it
before Harry did.

Harry takes off his shirt, and instantly he’s more grounded in the present. The guilt and
sorrow distance themselves from him, as shyness and apprehension move to take their place,
adrenaline rushing through him.

Voldemort watches him as he takes off everything until he’s naked.

“You’ll have to beg me to touch you, after that little stunt you pulled in the kitchen.”

His nose is already healed, but there’s a drop of blood smeared on the bridge. “After you
insisted you don’t want it.”

Harry closes his eyes. “Please.”

Humiliation comes and yes-it washes away everything else.

It’s just him and Voldemort, in the present and in his head. It’s only Voldemort that matters,
now.

Wasn’t that always the case, one way or another?

“I’m angry, Harry.” His voice has that softens to it that raises the hair on his neck. “Perhaps it
isn’t wise to do this now.”

“Please,” he asks again, opening his eyes.

Harry cannot go through the night, alone and locked in his head with the dead and the guilt
and the what ifs. He simply cannot do it anymore.

Voldemort stands.

Harry’s pulse, impossibly, races even harder.

There’s something about him that keeps Harry centred.

Voldemort is indomitable, carries himself with confidence and authority, and his impressive
height only adds to the illusion that he is someone that cannot be fought against.

It isn’t just an illusion. Many had tried to fight this man, to end him. None had managed. Not
even Dumbledore.

And seeing him like this, gives Harry the permission to stop fighting, tells his brain that it
would be useless. To just let go. Accept it.

“Kneel.”

He does, shivering, like a puppet whose strings have been cut, like he’s been so tired and
finally he was given the permission to rest.

He’s not being Imperiused, but it’s similar in a way. The way his body feels lighter, the way
his concerns and fears melt from him. The way he only needs to listen to that deep, assertive
voice.

Voldemort circles around Harry until he’s at his back.

What will he do? Harry wonders, unable to see. What is he doing? he thinks when long
seconds pass and nothing happens.

The anticipation, the not knowing only builds Harry’s…whatever he is feeling.

Eventually, Voldemort must kneel too, behind him, because a hand comes to his shoulder,
pushing Harry forward, until he’s supporting his weight on his hands and knees.

The carpet is very soft, he notices, distantly. Harry’s fingers just sink into the material.

“Don’t move.”

The hand retreats from his shoulder, but it leaves Harry’s skin scorching hot, in contrast with
the rest of him.

He grows hard, just from that.

Harry closes his eyes, heart smashing against his ribs.

Voldemort spits, an unmistakable sound and it startles Harry, the vulgarity of it, from a man
that presents himself as a Lord.
He grips Harry’s right hip, with bruising force; at the same time, one of Voldemort’s fingers
rests very lightly between Harry’s cheeks.

Harry makes a noise, he flinches-

“Don’t move,” Voldemort repeats, and his grip only gets more crushing.

It is an almost impossible demand, when a wet finger starts applying pressure, slowly
pushing inside.

A strangled noise escapes through Harry’s open mouth.

He’s on fire- so so hot all of a sudden. It’s not just the foreign feeling, the way his muscles
rebel at the intrusion- it’s the idea that this is Voldemort.

He doesn’t give Harry the time to accommodate, pressing another finger in, shortly after.

And if the first had been just strange, two are mildly uncomfortable, a burning sort of stretch.
Harry can’t focus on anything else- the only parts of his body that he feels are the ones in
contact with Voldemort.

“Did you dream of this, with the Horcrux?”

Harry’s tent dreams had been -well, they had been what he’d wanted them to be, the Locket
guessing his desires and trying to please him.

And Harry wanted love in those dark, horrible months. He’d wanted comfort, after Ron left
and Hermione stopped talking.

Tom had kissed him, long, deep kisses, held Harry, wanked Harry slowly, before taking him
in his mouth. And sometimes Harry would return the favour, eager to please Tom, too, but his
mind had somehow never conjured this.

“No,” Harry breaths out and then Voldemort’s fingers brush by something that sends a wave
of too much pleasure up his spine, makes his cock twitch. It lasts just a second, but it leaves
Harry shaking even more than before.

Voldemort isn’t gentle or careful. More like, methodical. Harry wonders, just briefly, with
whom he’d did this before.

But he can’t sustain prolonged thoughts, too focused on that stretching burn, the way it mixes
with the pleasure, when Voldemort touches his prostate again.

Harry can’t be sure, but after a minute or so, he thinks Voldemort’s avoiding it on purpose,
giving Harry just a taste of it, but not more.

And then the fingers withdraw, and even that feels strange-

Voldemort spits, again. It makes Harry’s abdomen clench.

Voldemort’s cock, hard and hot and big, presses against Harry, insistent.

Fuck, he thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He lets out a strangled yell, when Voldemort forces his way in through not so willing flesh.

It hurts.

All his muscles tense up, even more than they were before, taunt and stiff. Harry forces
himself to stay still, gripping the carpet between his fingers, hard.

On and on, Voldemort pushes further until it seems he’s reached a limit. Without a pause, he
draws back, making Harry whine.

He’s fucking me, Harry thinks, as if just now it dawned on him.

When he thrusts back in, unhurried but determined, Harry’s elbows give out from under him,
and he falls on the floor, resting his head between his arms, biting his lip, eyes very tightly
closed, trying not to shriek.

But when Voldemort starts to build a rhythm, Harry tries to draw away without thinking.

Fingers curl around his cock and Harry’s surprised he’s still hard, but he is. And now he’s
confused, between the pain in his arse and the pleasure building as Voldemort expertly
touches him.

There’s no way I can come, he thinks, pain chasing pleasure and the other way around,
Harry’s body writhing.

He comes, minutes later, when Voldemort stops fucking him, stays still inside Harry. It’s a
tortured kind of orgasm.

White stars explode behind his closed eyelids, his body seizes up, and that only makes him
clench harder around the cock inside him, which only brings more pain.

He doesn’t even recognise his voice, when it comes out of his mouth, in a string of
meaningless sounds.

Harry can’t think, at all, there’s no thinking with that combination of pain and pleasure,
which was the sole point of this.

He doesn’t think that five years before, Voldemort was dropping, lifeless, in the Great Hall.

Voldemort must remember it, because once he starts moving again, he’s brutal. Harry jerks
forward, just instinct, to get away-

Voldemort grips his hip harder, slams his other hand between Harry’s shoulder blades,
pinning him to the floor.

He lowers himself over Harry, his chest covering his back.

“Ask me to stop, if that is what you want.” His mouth is right by Harry’s ear-

Harry stays silent.

“Good,” Voldemort’s lifts his upper body away from Harry’s. “You know you deserve it.”

Harry knows.

He can’t be sure how long it lasts. Time just stops. It’s possible he loses some moments,
focused to just stay still, just stay still. That is the only thing that matters.

He doesn’t even realise when Voldemort comes, just becomes aware it’s over, when he’s
laying on the floor, shaking from head to toe, sweat and tears mixing on his face, breathing
hard.

His entire body hurts all over, especially his arse and lower back, but there’s only a vague
sense of relief washing over him.

And also, a pang of loss, because Voldemort will kick him out, surely, and Harry can’t bear to
be alone.

Voldemort turns him around, face up, and even that tiny movement reignites the pain.

And then he’s floating.

No, he’s not floating. He’s lifted up in Voldemort’s arms. Like he weights nothing.

Harry does feel weightless, slumping against his chest, holding onto Voldemort’s neck.

Even when he’s laid over silky, cool sheets, Harry doesn’t let go, rests his forehead on
Voldemort’s shoulder.

You can’t keep him with you, if he doesn’t want it. Harry can’t make Voldemort do anything.

You can’t make him love you. You shouldn’t want it.

Another cool sheet covers them.

“Sleep,” comes the command and just like that, Harry knows no more.

(-)

The discomfort sinks in before he’s fully awake. Harry moans, shifts in his bed. The sheet
slides off his midsection.

It feels off; it feels like silk?

 Harry opens his eyes, flounders for his glasses on the nightstand-

Finally, they’re on his face and he realises he’s in Voldemort’s room.

He remembers.

Fuck. Heat travels to his chest and face, and how in the world will he ever face Voldemort
again?

He sees his wand on the nightstand and that gives him some relief, he grabs it-

Only, he had left his wand in his room, locked in a drawer, not wanting to go with it
anywhere near Voldemort, in the state he’s been in.

Harry jumps off the bed. His legs almost buckle under him, as his arse protests to the motion.

Voldemort looks at him, calmly, from the other side of the bed, still wearing the robes he’s
been in the night before.

“Good morning.”

He looks positively chipper, all a terrifying smile.

Before Harry can start to feel whatever he’s supposed to feel about what happened between
them, he sees Voldemort’s hands, laid inconspicuously on his knees. The sleeves are rolled
back-

The cuffs are gone.

Terror seizes every cell of Harry’s body. Pure, unadulterated terror.

The Dark Lord is free, at last.

Chapter End Notes

I know the sex was really uncomfortable and twisted, but it wasn't really about sex-
Harry was in a very bad head space and Voldemort wasn't too happy either. This isn't a
healthy relationship and of course there are many issues between them, on top of the iffy
dynamic -Voldemort is, at the end of the day, no matter what he likes to say, a prisoner,
there against his will.
But hey, now he got his magic back, so that dynamic is about to shift a little.
Let me know what you think, if you'd like! Thank you for reading!
 Chapter 12
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Pure, unadulterated terror. The Dark Lord is free, at last.

Harry raises his wand. “Petrificus To-”

The wand leaves his hand and lands neatly in Voldemort’s open palm, as an unseen force
slams Harry in the chest, sends him crashing to the floor.

The force of it is staggering, takes Harry’s breath away.

“Now, now, Harry. That’s not nice at all.”

Harry scrambles to his feet, panicked.

The sheer power of Voldemort’s raw, wandless magic is impossible to comprehend.

“Before you get yourself into a frenzy, remember I am still bound by the Oath. I cannot leave,
without your permission; I cannot try to escape. I cannot kill you.”

Ok. Ok. It’s not all lost. It’s not.

But it still feels like it.

Everything is happening too fast; he doesn’t have time to think, to understand-

“I will give you your wand back, but if you attack me again, I’ll break it in half,” Voldemort
throws the wand at Harry’s feet.

Harry scrambles for it, trying to make sense of what the hell is going on, relieved to have it
back, but terrified because it won’t make much of a difference.

Not after seeing how easily Voldemort disarmed him.

“How-” his voice cracks and he’s gripping the wand so tightly, sparks shoot out of it, setting
the carpet on fire.

Voldemort stands and Harry shrinks back.

With a smirk, Voldemort waves his hand and the fire is put out, just like that.

Harry realises he’s naked. But all his senses are so assaulted, he doesn’t even know what to
do with this information.
“I only needed a wand, for some extended period. My will is great enough to break through
anything, with a little help,” he tilts his head. “That wand does suit me rather well, I’ll
confess.”

“I-”

Harry grabs the sheet and wraps it over himself, instinctively. He’s cornered.

The grand bed on one side, the wall on the other, and Voldemort now blocks the small space
Harry could have used to flee.

Flee where?

“You knew it will happen. You’re not well read at all, you’re frustratingly naive but you’re
not stupid,” Voldemort says, calmly, as if walking Harry through a very simple problem with
a very obvious solution. “You knew this was going to happen, eventually.”

Harry knew, didn’t he? He’d always known. He’d told Kingsley as much, when Voldemort
was still in his cell at the Ministry.

And that is why Harry took him, because the oath is the most important part, the one
Voldemort can’t break.

“What now?” Harry asks, willing himself to breathe.

“Not much will change,” Voldemort says, waving his hand and the sleeves of his shirt fasten
around his wrists, the robe covering them. “I only need to make a brief trip.”

“No,” Harry says, agitation spiralling out of control. “Absolutely not.”

“Now, you can come with me, or I could go alone,” Voldemort goes on, ignoring him.

“You can’t. Not without my permission.”

The Oath! The Oath can’t be broken, Kingsley assured him, the Unspeakable assure him-

“You already gave me your permission. Remember? When you said you’d let me go to
Malfoy Manor, just to scare and I quote ‘the crap’ out of Lucius?”

Harry has made several comments of that nature during his many rants against Malfoy.

“I retract it!” he says, desperately.

“Magic doesn’t work like that, Harry. I have your permission. You gave it, you must have
wished it. It is done. I could have already gone, you know. But I’m being considerate. I
figured you’d have a heart attack if you woke up and I was not here.”

“It can’t work like that. You don’t have my permission. I don’t want you to go to Malfoy’s.
No!” Harry says, full of fear.
Voldemort stands, unbothered. “Very well, I’ll be going alone then. Now, before you go to the
Ministry and blow this out of proportion, remember I cannot escape. I’m not trying to escape.
I have full intentions of returning here.”

“No!” Harry yells, stumbling with the sheet around him, almost falling on his face when
Voldemort turns and walks out the door and Harry tries to follow him. “Wait! Wait! I’m
coming along! Wait!”

“Five minutes,” Voldemort’s voice floats down the corridor.

Harry hastily puts on the clothes that are still all over the floor.

He’s in discomfort, his lower body feels strange, but he doesn’t feel pain, nothing seems
wrong, inside.

It’s not his primary concern, in any case.

He goes to the bathroom, barely taking notice of how grandiose it looks, still trying to wrap
his mind around everything. He throws water on his face and goes after Voldemort.

He has to find a way to keep him in the house, even if Harry apparently stupidly gave him
permission to leave it.

(-)

There is no way to keep him inside the house. After another short, confusing argument in the
foyer, Voldemort camouflages himself to perfection and opens the door.

Harry lunges for him, even if he can’t see him, and luckily his hands close around a robe.

And then the door to Grimmauld closes behind them and Harry is pulled into the void that is
Apparition.

They’re spit out in the countryside, the enormous gates of Malfoy Manor looming ahead.

Voldemort becomes visible again. He looks around him and just for a second up at the sky,
closing his eyes, as if basking in the morning sun’s light.

He looks happy, truly so. It’s the first time Harry sees him experience joy. His smile would be
contagious, if not for why he’s so deliriously pleased. “Shall we?”

Harry doesn’t even have time to process anything. Not the sex, not the lack of cuffs, the fact
that Voldemort is out of the house.

The gates open, and Harry is dragged along through the winding pathway.
“Still has the peacocks, I see. Must have bought new ones. Nagini went through quite a few.”

“You can’t kill him,” Harry says, as if he has any authority over Voldemort.

The right thing to do is to go to Kingsley. Right now. Well, right now is too late. He’s already
inside the AntiAppartion wards. But as soon as they get out. IF they get out.

Yes. That’s what he has to do. He hopes Draco and Narcissa aren’t home. He hopes no one is
home, not even the annoying patriarch.

Draco’s son, Harry thinks, panicked. Does the boy live here?

Teddy! What if Andromeda is visiting-

Narcissa opens the door.

She gives Harry a smile. “Mr. Potter! What an unexpected surprise! Please, do come in.”

What?

Voldemort pushes him in.

“Pardon Harry, Madame. He’s not been raised with very good manners,” Voldemort speaks
and Narcissa smiles at him too, though her sharp eyes scan his face.

She must not know this face, because she doesn’t run away screaming.

“No matter; young ones aren’t as concerned about old traditions. Narcissa Malfoy.”

She extends a hand, nicely manicured, fingers adorned with expensive jewels.

Voldemort takes it, bends over and kisses it. “A pleasure.”

Think! Think! Just do something.

What? What could he possibly do?

Voldemort doesn’t introduce himself. “I am aware this isn’t the proper hour for visits,
especially unannounced, but I am afraid we have a rather urgent matter to discuss with your
husband.”

Narcissa’s eyes narrow, but she maintains her smile. “Of course. Please, if you’d be so kind
to wait in the living room.”

She must think this is Ministry related. Something about the “Death Eaters”. Merlin knows
how many times Aurors and politicians had strolled inside Malfoy Manor demanding to
speak to Malfoy.

A house-elf pops out of nowhere and leads them through a corridor that thankfully looks
nothing like the part Harry had seen of the house.
“She never could stand me,” Voldemort says, as he takes a seat on a very expensive-looking
armchair. “You should get something like this for our house.”

“My house,” Harry says, stupidly.

Malfoy has a wand; Narcissa as well.

Could we take him down, together?

Voldemort is powerful, but he’s wandless. Surely, three armed people could stop him.

Malfoy fought in two wars. He must be well acquainted with dark magic- maybe there’s a
chance.

The doors open and Malfoy comes through.

For a second, he looks his old, arrogant self.

Just a second. Than his face falls, almost comically. Harry would laugh if they weren’t all so
screwed.

“My Lord-” Lucius says, and he adapts fast. He falls to his knees. “My Lord, I tried to-”

“Spare me. Stand up.”

Lucius does, rapidly loosing colour.

“I-”

There’s no trace of the previous joy on Voldemort’s face. His eyes are hard, expression blank.

“There is no excuse for the high treason your wife and son committed against me. At least
you deserted me after I was presumably dead. They did so before.”

“It’s my fault. All mine. Punish me.”

Harry had thought, back in the living room of Grimmauld, where all this was theoretical, that
it would be funny to see Malfoy grovel at Voldemort’s feet. It isn’t.

It’s horrific.

The terror on his face, the lack of any concern for his own being, clearly worried only for
family-

Is this how my father looked?

“Harry here,” Voldemort says, and only then does Malfoy seem to notice him. “is rather
adamant to save your traitorous family. Not only from the Ministry, but from me as well.
He’d requested I’m not to kill any of you.”

Malfoy’s eyes meet Harry’s, surprised. Grateful. Confused.

“And I am prepared to indulge him, on one condition.” He considers Malfoy for a second.
“Do you still have it?”

Malfoy seems to breathe for the first time in minutes. “Yes, My Lord. It wasn’t easy to hide
it, when they came, but-I did.”

“Fetch it.”

“Tinsy!”

The house-elf pops in.

“Master,” she bows.

“Bring me the long, brown box, from the West Wing, the one you sealed behind Mother’s
portrait.”

“Master,” she bows and disappears.

“He doesn’t have a wand,” Harry blurts out, drawing his own, moving away from Voldemort,
to stand beside Malfoy.

They can act now, before whatever no doubt evil thing Malfoy’s about to hand Voldemort.

Harry doesn’t look at Voldemort, staring at Malfoy, trying to communicate with his eyes.

But Malfoy just frowns, gaze moving between Harry and Voldemort.

“He doesn’t have a wand,” Harry repeats.

“I know,” Malfoy says. “My Lord?”

“Ignore him,” Voldemort drawls, and he sounds amused.

Harry can’t believe it! What is wrong with Malfoy? He’s clearly terrified of Voldemort, he
wants his family safe, why won’t he do something?

In less than a few seconds, spent in a deeply uncomfortable silence-

or at least Harry and Malfoy are uncomfortable, Voldemort seems unconcerned- Tinsy
appears again, presenting Lucius with a box.

Lucius gives it to Voldemort, head bowed.

Inside it, the yew wand waits.

Harry glares at Malfoy. “Why would you keep it? I went through all that bother, to keep you
out of Azkaban and here you are, hiding the wand.”

Voldemort must have left the yew one at Malfoy Manor, since he was using the Elder wand at
Hogwarts.
“In case my lord would come back-”

“He meant to sell it,” Voldemort cuts over him. “Or keep it, so his great grandsons can brag
about having such a prestigious artefact.”

“My Lord-”

“Shut up. For once, you did something right.”

Voldemort holds his wand tightly; Malfoy doesn’t notice the pure joy shining in those brown
eyes, but Harry does.

Even when he speaks, his voice has an undercurrent of pleasure to it.

“This is your last chance, Lucius. Once, during the first war, you were quite competent.
Nothing like the man I found after my return. I must infer that family life had made you
softer.”

“My Lord-”

“Fail me again, and I shall see your family suffers greatly. There is no Bella now to beg for
her sister’s and nephew’s life. Remember that.

If you breathe a word about my existence, about what happened here today, to anyone,
including your little wife, I will skin her alive and make you watch. And that is nothing
compared to what I will do to your useless son. I hear he has procreated as well- more
Malfoys for me to kill. You will keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, My Lord, I swear-”

“You’ve been talking to the Aurors quite a lot.”

“My Lord, only because I thought you gone! I will not- I will do anything you want-“

“Good.”

Voldemort stands, and Malfoy kneels again.

“Harry, we’re done.”

“My Lord. Ah-” Lucius raises his head to look at Harry, quickly, before returning his gaze to
Voldemort’s shoes. “A word, in private?”

“No,” Harry says. “No. Absolutely not going-”

Voldemort cuts over Harry, sharply.

“I already know all about it. Nothing goes past me, Lucius. Best remember that.”

And then he walks out of the doors and Harry runs after him.
(-)

“Calm down,” Voldemort says, for the hundredth time. “I didn’t kill anyone; I didn’t even
torture Lucius. Everything is fine.”

It isn’t.

Harry is beside himself. He still hadn’t went to Kingsley; what is he supposed to say? ‘He got
free while I was passed out, because he fucked me so hard I fell asleep?’ Yeah, that’s not
going to go well. And even if he goes to Kingsley-

Voldemort has his wand. And he can’t leave the house without permission or without Harry,
but certainly no one will be able to drag him back to the ministry.

In fact, Harry might not be able to leave the house, now. It’s unlikely Voldemort will let him,
and Harry doesn’t fool himself that he could best him in a duel. Not when Voldemort
disarmed him, when he’d been wandless.

“Harry,” Voldemort sits beside him on their brand new transfigured couch. It looks precisely
like the one in Malfoy Manor.

He puts a hand on Harry’s shoulder and Harry should flinch, he should push him away-

Harry melts into it. He needs comfort, he needs someone to tell him everything will be
alright, and this is the only human around, if he could even be called human.

He is human. He is.

Harry saw him bleed, Harry saw him in pain.

Harry saw him ask for something pleasant to hear.

Harry had sex with him. All human.

But therein lies the problem. Harry had tried so hard not to view Voldemort as a monster, he
had forgotten that while Voldemort is human, he is a terrible, dangerous man.

He had been tricked, lulled into a sense of security and look where that got him.

And yet-

Voldemort had gotten his wand back and Harry had not been hurt, even if it hadn’t been a day
since he punched the dark lord in the face.

“What will you do now?” he asks, so incredibly numb. The shock had went away, once back
at Grimmauld, after an hour of just staring dumbly at Voldemort.
“Not much I can do,” Voldemort answers, and his joy about having his magic and wand must
have diminished as well, because he sounds like his usual self, no inflections in his voice.

Harry stares up at him. They’ve never been as close; not in normal circumstances.

The hand around his shoulder feels good. Solid. Grounding.

“Don’t look so guilty. You did nothing wrong.”

“I did.” Harry is very aware of it. “You were right. I knew you’d get your magic back. I just
ignored it.”

“I did say you are prone to lying.”

“I’m not like you!” Harry says.

If only he were- they wouldn’t be in this situation. Voldemort would be dead and Harry
would be-

Alone, a traitorous voice whispers in his head.

“You aren’t,” Voldemort assures him. “I lie to others; you lie to yourself.”

“We can’t talk anymore,” Harry says, his stomach twisting, a chilly feeling in his chest
because he’ll lose Voldemort.

He was never yours.

He draws back- or tries to.

Voldemort doesn’t let him go, his fingers digging into Harry’s shoulder. “Why?”

“Because you’ll use my words to twist the oath. I’d always have to be careful about what I
say. Months ago, you made me give you permission for Malfoy. You were planning it since
then, you manipulated me. I can’t keep up with this. I-you’ll twist my words again and I can’t
take that chance.”

“Oh, Harry. You are so -” he says, and there’s some exasperation there, but almost fondness
too. “I couldn’t have gone anywhere. You really should research matters so pivotal. I need
express permission, not just for an ‘what if scenario’.”

“But you said-”

“I lied. I wanted you to believe I could go without you, but I couldn’t. Especially after you
said I couldn’t. I merely said it to make you come with me. It was the only way to leave the
house.”

Harry groans, buries his head in his hands.

He doesn’t know what to believe anymore. He truly never learns. Again, he hadn’t researched
anything. And he doesn’t have Hermione with him, day and night, for her to see through this.

Is Voldemort telling the truth now?

Harry swears to himself he’ll head straight to the library and study all Grimmauld library has
on Oaths.

“I want a new oath, if you want us to speak,” he says.

Voldemort gives him a searching look.

As if he’d care about you not talking to him, now that he has his wand.

“Go on,” Voldemort finally says.

“You can’t leave the house ever, period.”

That sounds safe enough.

“What if it caches fire and I’m trapped here?”

Harry gives him a look. Voldemort laughs.

“What if I cast a terrible, long range curse, and the Ministry comes to take me away, and they
can’t, because I can’t leave the house? What if you want to move? I’ll have to remain here.”

“You can cast curses from here?” Harry’s stomach twists.

“You’ll just have to read and find out.”

“You can’t leave the house without me at your side. There. In case we need to move you.”

“What if you need saving? You do attract the worst sort of attention. Can’t I come then?”

“I don’t need saving. I can hold my own.” Voldemort doesn’t look convinced at all. “I
escaped you for years! Since I was eleven!”

“With a lot of luck and help-”

“I don’t need saving!”

“What if the mudblood is in trouble and I am the only one to help?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Like you’d want to.”

“They make you happy. I couldn’t care less if they dropped dead, but it would devastate you.
And while I enjoy that tragic lost look in your eyes, I think you’d had quite enough trauma to
last you through a lifetime. Besides, whom will discuss Gamp’s Laws with me if she’s
dead?”
Just like in his cell at the Ministry, Voldemort keeps throwing out scenarios in which he
would need to leave the house without Harry, each more outrageous and unlikely than the
last.

The literal apocalypse is amongst those, right after a large scale war with Muggles in case the
Statute of Secrecy is broken and Voldemort would be the last wizard left alive capable to help
their kind.

One after the other; it seems he could go on forever.

“Fine,” Harry says, thinking of something. “You can’t leave the house without me unless to
save an innocent soul, that will not bring you any benefit what so ever. And you won’t twist
my words to escape. There.”

That should never happen.

Voldemort goes quiet, finally!, as he ponders on it.

Harry considers the wording, carefully. It seems pretty solid to him.

“I vow on my magic not to leave Grimmauld Place without Harry Potter, unless I am to save
an innocent soul with no evident benefit to myself. I shall not twist his words to escape.”

Harry gets a modicum of relief, when he feels the magic settling around them.

And there’s that sick part of his brain, pleased that Voldemort seems to care enough about
having Harry talking to him, that he’d make another vow.

(-)

Harry spends the rest of the day watching Voldemort; it’s very similar to when he first came
to live with Harry.

The same sense of dread, the same waiting for something to happen.

When eventually Voldemort closes a book and retreats to his room, well past midnight, Harry
trails after him.

“You wish to join me?” Voldemort asks, with a little smirk, from his doorway.

“No,” Harry shakes his head but remains in the hallway long after Voldemort closes the door
to his room.

Harry goes to his own room, when the sun is almost up, spends an hour or two in a very fitful
sleep, awaken by every small noise, wand in his hand.
He checks and rechecks all the wards around his door, every time he awakes, heart
hammering in his chest.

When he finally gives up on trying to sleep, he goes to the kitchen. His breakfast is there, as
usual, and it relaxes a part of him.

He has his magic and his wand. He could torture me; instead, Voldemort still made Harry’s
breakfast.

Don’t! Stop trying to think him changed or even remotely nice. Look where it got you!

But the breakfast is there and even if Harry can’t stomach more than a bite of toast, his
stomach still in knots, the tea offers him some energy.

Again, he spends his day watching Voldemort, trailing after him everywhere.

Despite Harry’s desperation the other day that he won’t be able to speak with Voldemort
anymore, so the man won’t twist his words, Harry doesn’t say anything, even with the new
Oath that should prevent anything bad happening.

He just doesn’t know what to say.

Everything is uncertain.

Malfoy could tell Kingsley at any moment.

He should. You should want him to say something, to alert the Ministry, since you are
obviously incapable.

Harry tells himself he doesn’t want the Ministry to know, because then they’ll come to take
Voldemort and Voldemort will kill them all.

He could turn on Harry at any moment.

What would happen if Harry just got up and told Voldemort he’s leaving?

Would he try to stop Harry?

Try, a sarcastic voice laughs in his head. He can stop you. There would be no ‘trying’ about
it.

Voldemort just taps his wand on the desk, and in the blink of an eye it turns into its former
glory.

In the span of a day, the library looks new and luxurious.

The temperature in the house doesn’t shift anymore.

He commands magic so easily, so flawlessly. Harry had only seen Dumbledore perform such
feats of non verbal spell casting, just a flick of a wand, without seemingly any focus behind
it.

What would Dumbledore say?

For the first time since the battle, Harry thinks he wants to go to Hogwarts, to speak with the
Headmaster’s portrait.

It’s not the real thing, but it’s something; perhaps it has some advice for Harry.

His tiredness catches up with him at the end of the second day and he goes to his room,
telling himself that it’s useless anyway to stay glued to Voldemort.

Even as exhausted as he is, Harry can’t sleep. He rests his eyes, but his mind keeps conjuring
awful situations for him.

He tries to come up with a plan of action.

Hard to do that when you don’t know what you want, no?

“Interesting wall decor,” Voldemort says, and for a second Harry thinks it’s just happening in
his head, but then he opens his eyes and Voldemort is right there in his room.

He stands so fast he gets dizzy.

Watching Voldemort inspecting the naked muggles on the wall is surreal.

“They’re not mine. Sirius put them there, with a Permanent Sticking-”

A flick of his wand and they’re gone.

“Don’t touch the picture!” Harry warns, moving towards the small photograph of the
Marauders, to protect it.

Voldemort looks at the four boys. “Do you want me to curse Pettigrew out of it?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head.

Wormtail from the picture was not who he became later in life. The Marauders look happy,
side by side.

“How did you get past my wards-?”

Voldemort laughs, seemingly very amused.

Another flick of the wand and the armoire moves aside to reveal a muggle lady, completely
naked, even if very dusty.

“I wish I’d have seen Walburga’s face when she discovered it,” Voldemort says. “I got rid of
her portrait, while you slept.”

That piece of information would cheer Harry up, if he wasn’t so uneasy.

See, Voldemort can do something good for the world, even if it’s just removing any remains of
Walburga from it.

He vanishes the poster and soon the walls are clean, as if just painted.

The armoire becomes vaster, more polished.

So does the bed.

“I don’t- Hermione tried so hard,” Harry says. He tried too, but Hermione really made an
effort, studied tomes after tomes trying to improve the house. “But Kreacher kept laughing at
her and told us we can’t-”

“The house listens to me,” Voldemort explains. “Old wizarding buildings, like this house,
have a personality. They welcome or not welcome people. It quite hates you, and I am sure it
was equally resistant to the Mudblood. It likes me.”

“Why would-?”

“I take care of it. It responds to me, with only a little push. I was grateful to be here, after the
cell. It appreciates my investment in it. It can feel your resentment toward it. Do you like
your new bed, Harry?”

Harry turns to look at it; the sheets are now a rich red, with subdued golden details.

It looks exactly like the one in Gryffindor tower, only bigger.

Voldemort pushes him on it; Harry hadn’t even seen him move.

He lands on his back, on a much more comfortable mattress than he’d grown used to.

Harry’s apprehensive, the pain had been too much last time; but a treacherous part of him
instantly gets excited at the thought of having Voldemort close, interested.

His clothes just vanish out of existence; Harry gasps at the feel of magic on his skin.

Voldemort doesn’t turn him around, however. He gets on the bed, between Harry’s legs, and
his own clothes vanish.

Harry breaths in, struck by the view.

He’s seen Voldemort naked before, but Harry did his best never to look, because of the
circumstances, because Voldemort wouldn’t have wanted to be seen like that.

He seems to be made of marble, very pale skin stretched over a lean, hard body.

And the scars- the ones he hadn’t had when Harry first saw him, three days after the Battle
when Kingsley brought him in to kill the dark lord.
Voldemort will never forget those years; Voldemort would never forgive what has been done
to him.

Surely he blames me for it, too. He can’t really want me. He’s just doing it to manipulate me
or hurt me or-

Whatever reason, Harry should stop giving him weapons to use against Harry.

He opens his mouth to tell him that he doesn’t want this and he can only hope Voldemort will
care-

Voldemort leans in and kisses him.

Harry almost jumps out of his skin.

His lips are soft on Harry’s chapped ones.

He makes a little noise and Voldemort’s tongue slips between Harry’s lips.

Of course he’d be a great kisser, Harry thinks.

He’s caught wrong-footed, as always. Everything intimate they’ve done had been hard,
brutal, twisted-

The kiss isn’t so.

It’s exactly like Tom, from the Locket.

Harry kisses him back, winding his arms around his back, uncertain, convinced Voldemort
won’t allow it-

But he does.

When Harry can’t breathe anymore, Voldemort moves to his neck as Harry pants for air.

It’s nothing like the last time; Voldemort flicks his wrist at some point, and Harry is barely
aware a bottle of oil appears on the nightstand.

He prepares Harry slowly with his fingers and Harry had had sex before, but it never felt so
fantastic.

He doesn’t have to worry about his performance, as with Ginny or that other girl.

He doesn’t have to think about Voldemort’s pleasure- Voldemort is the type to get whatever
he wants.

The attention he pays to Harry however is overwhelming.

By the time Voldemort pushes inside him, slowly, Harry is close to crying, only not from
pain.
Why is it so different from the last time? Harry questions, with the tiny part of his brain that is
still capable of coherent thought.

Because he has his magic back, comes the answer. Because he feels safe, with his wand close
by.

But then Harry can’t think any longer.

He’ll burn in hell probably, but for the time Harry feels like he belongs.

He feels happy, without any concerns.

He feels loved, even if he knows it is a lie.

When he reaches orgasm, without Voldemort even touching his cock, Harry sees stars.

An expression he never understood before, thought of as just a stupid metaphor; but he

experiences it, the lights flashing under his close eyelids as his whole body relaxes.

Once Voldemort’s done, he doesn’t leave. He just lies next to Harry, and it takes all the
willpower in the world for Harry not to nestle close to his body, to touch him.

“Please, we can just stay in the house. Please don’t do anything that would make me fight
you,” Harry begs, though he knows, he knows it serves no good.

Voldemort can appear loving and considerate, but he isn’t. He never knew these things, and
he despises them.

“You won’t fight me again, Harry. There’s no Dumbledore to throw you in my way.”

“I’ll stand in your way, if you mean to hurt people.”

Harry doesn’t need Dumbledore for that.

He wants to tell Voldemort it wasn’t Dumbledore that pushed Harry to fight him.

Dumbledore helped, he might have manipulated a little, but he never threw Harry in the fight.

It was Voldemort himself that made Harry fight him, when he would not leave Harry alone,
when he threatened to destroy everything Harry loved.

But he doesn’t say it.

Voldemort sighs. “I suppose you want me to never leave this house again.”

Harry really does. He turns his head to look at Voldemort and he finds his eyes.

“That’s not who I am.”

Harry knows.
(-)

Tom is slumped in the chair, eyes closed.

“We have to go,” Harry shakes him, trying to rouse him, but Tom is unresponsive.

Harry tries to lift him, but he’s far too heavy-

A noise at his back.

Harry turns, wand out. Moody is there. He’s missing his eye, a gaping hole instead.

“Move away, lad,” he grumbles, wooden leg thumping on the floor, wand trying to aim at
Tom.

Harry shield him with his body.

“No,” he says. “No, just listen, for a second-”

“Harry, get away.” Cedric says, and Harry startles, because he hadn’t seen him entering.

While he’s looking at Cedric, the whole room fills with people.

They’re all demanding Harry steps away.

“No, wait!” Harry begs them, feeling sick. “Please, if you just hear me out-”

“Harry,” his mother says, and Harry doesn’t want to cry, but his visions get blurry with
tears. He doesn’t look at her. “Harry, step aside.”

“Let us have him!” someone yells.

“Let they have him,” his father says, and Harry shakes his head.

“No, he’s -look at him, he’s sleeping-he’s dead! You can’t- there’s no need to hurt him
anymore-”

“How can you do this?” his mother asks. “How can you protect him? He killed me, Harry.
He killed all of us-”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and he feels so wretched, why can’t he be dead too? Why is he
always alive?

Harry looks amongst the bodies pressing forward, crowding him- he’s looking for an ally,
someone that understands.
But Lavender is crying, half her neck bitten off, and Colin is trying to take a picture, Remus is
whispering something to Harry’s father and Harry doesn’t want to look at them, he can’t.

He sees a man that looks so much like Tom, a man Harry had once seen in a memory.

“Won’t you help him? He’s your son!”

“He killed me,” the man says. “He walked into my house and killed me and my parents. Why
would I help him? Why would you help him? He killed your parents.”

Harry looks around, getting desperate. Moody is trying to shove Harry away, and he’ll hurt
Tom, he will-

Finally, his eyes find Sirius.

“Sirius,” Harry says, begging.

Sirius is abnormally quiet, just looking at Harry harshly. Besides him, out of all people, is
Snape, bleeding from the snake bite.

They don’t say anything, they don’t interfere.

“Sirius, please, help me! I’ll explain it later! Please!”

Sirius was never one to go by the rules. If he’d just let Harry explain it-

Everyone else is yelling at him to step aside.

Harry just grips his wand, but doesn’t -cannot raise it against them, tries to convince them to
give him a chance.

And then the crowd parts and Dumbledore walks through and Harry knows this is the end.

Dumbledore won’t even care about Harry, like the others did. Dumbledore won’t ask him to
step aside, he’ll just make Harry do it-

His blue eyes aren’t kind- they’re looking past Harry, as if he’s invisible, straight at Tom,
filled with hatred.

Harry turns, and he gasps because Voldemort is standing now.

Harry feels relived, for a second. They can’t hurt him now.

But then Voldemort whips out his yew wand, a cruel smile on his face.

“No!” Harry opens his arms, tries to shield the crowd from him. But there are so many of
them, Harry can’t cover them all. “No, Tom, don’t!”

“Tom is dead,” he says, and with a flick of his wand Harry goes as rigid as stone.

He can’t move.
Everyone is screaming, they are trying to run-

“Not Harry!” his mother yells and she comes to stand in front of him and Harry closes his
eyes as the green light floods the room. “Not Harry! Kill me instead!”

He wakes gasping for breath, cheeks wet with tears.

Voldemort isn’t in the room anymore, must have left when Harry fell asleep.

How can you sleep around him? How can you have sex with him?

Harry covers his head with the blanket, disgusted with himself; every time he blinks he sees
Moody’s outraged face, he sees the judgement in Sirius’- the pain in Cedric’s-

His mother dying for him.

Just a dream. They’re in a better place; they’re not suffering anymore. Voldemort can’t hurt
them again.

How about the living ones?

(-)

“I’m going out,” Harry announces, his fingers grasping his wand inside the pocket of his
robe.

“About time; we’re running out of food,” is all Voldemort says, without even looking up from
his book.

Harry breathes in relief, but remains tense, until he’s actually out of Grimmauld Place.

He can’t believe Voldemort didn’t try to stop him.

Harry could go to Kingsley and Voldemort didn’t-

He trusts me, Harry thinks.

He trusts in your stupidity, that’s why he thinks you you won’t tell anyone.

It appears Voldemort is right, either way.

Harry just goes to the store.

(-)
Voldemort is calmer. Which is strange to think- Voldemort always appeared calm, but now
that he has his wand, Harry can see the shift in him, the more relaxed line of his shoulders.

He’s not as still as before, either.

He likes to torture Harry; standing by the window, caressing his wand, he smirks at Harry and
says things like “I could cast the Imperius from here. See that subtle disturbance in the air, by
the oak? That’s Savage.”

Harry tells himself that if Voldemort wanted that, he’d have done it already.

Maybe he did.

Sometimes Voldemort tells Harry the truth, declares his intentions clearly- “I have my eyes
on someone, he looks promising” Voldemort said when Harry was worried someone will get
Voldemort out of the cell.

And then Harry got him out.

“I’ll get my powers back.”

He did that too.

“I’ll be free,” he says, and Harry- fuck, Harry has to believe it, but this is easier to control.

It all depends on Harry. Not his wits, not his feelings- Harry has to actually say “I release you
from your oath.”

And Harry will never do that.

“Can’t you Imperio me?” he asks, after spending days researching Oaths.

He's on the couch, reading a new book about them, as Voldemort just plays with his wand,
looking at it like a long-lost lover.

“No,” Voldemort says, unbothered. “Didn’t you just read that?”

“I did,” Harry shrugs. “But -I don’t trust them.”

Voldemort sighs.

“I don’t share Hermione’s confidence in books. Not when I dealt with you my whole life and
you defy any text book. You always brag you push the limits of magic.”

Voldemort seems pleased to hear it.

“I can’t place you under the Imperius to break the Oath. It has to be your pure intent,
uninfluenced.”
Harry closes the book. “And how will you manage that?”

Voldemort smiles. “I am glad you learned to accept it will happen. It will spare us the
dramatics when it does.”

“I won’t do it,” Harry says, determined. “And there’s no other option.”

“There are loopholes,” Voldemort offers.

“And you wonder why I don’t trust texts!” Harry sneers, opening the book again.

“I can’t coerce you, I can’t give you potions or blackmail you into it. There are rules even I
can’t cross. But there are loopholes. Do you actually believe I’d have ever accepted making
an Oath without knowing I can get out of it?” Voldemort scoffs.

Harry pulls at his hair. He needs to figure it out. He can’t ask Hermione- besides, Hermione
trusts books too much. This isn’t an information to be found in books. Voldemort just said so-
it’s a loophole. Hermione isn’t good with those.

“It is not an option I am…. eager to choose,” Voldemort says, and he looks almost- he
sounds-

Harry breathes in.

Voldemort sounds regretful, and he looks at Harry with something akin to pity. So Harry
knows whatever the option is, it will be bad, bad news for Harry.

“Perhaps I’ll wear you down and you will agree to do it, before I have to resort to more
unpleasant methods,” Voldemort says and his face goes back to its usual blank expression.
“But I do not hold much hope. You are particularly stubborn.”

Harry squares his shoulders, draws out his Gryffindor courage. “Does- do you-” he bites his
lip. “Does it have anything to do with sex? Are you using that to-”

“No,” Voldemort says. “It is not related.”

Harry blushes, but feels lighter. He hates to think Voldemort doesn’t really want Harry that
way; that he only does it to gain things.

He wants Voldemort to want him, not for what he could gain from Harry. That’s how other
people would want Harry, and he doesn’t want Voldemort to be like that.

He isn’t. He wants to sleep with me. He said so.

He could be lying.

No, he isn’t.
(-)

Harry learns to leave the house without fear, in time.

Like in the beginning, step-by-step Harry becomes reassured Voldemort won’t escape, every
time he returns home to find the dark lord in the library, dinner on the table.

But Harry refuses Hermione when she asks if she may come over, for a cup of tea.

He goes to visit his friends, once or twice a week, lies that he was in the neighbourhood,
pretends he isn’t home much so they can’t stop by at Grimmauld.

(-)

It takes approximately a month before Harry gets out of the shower to find Voldemort in his
room again, leaning against the armoire.

Harry goes to him, eager.

Sex is simple; Harry doesn’t have to think, he doesn’t have to feel guilty for however long it
lasts.

He can just focus on the present, on his body and leave the rest behind.

What will I get this time? He wonders, already removed from the harsh reality he’s been
living in since Voldemort got his wand back.

“You’re growing daring, little lion,” Voldemort says, when Harry reaches him, stops just
short of touching and looks up at Voldemort, expectingly.

“I was always daring-”

“Hush now,” Voldemort reaches over, grabs Harry by the throat and pulls him closer. It’s not
a hard grip, but it makes Harry shut up.

He’s already hard underneath the towel around his waist.

He isn’t sure why he likes it so much when Voldemort manhandles him, what is it about it
that is so enticing.

He guesses why Voldemort likes it; Harry assumes he misses ordering people around, being
obeyed without question.

And that’s never going to happen in their day-to-day life, but in special circumstances, Harry
is more than happy to indulge him.
He’s not as brutal as before- not when he pushes Harry to his knees, nor when he takes him to
the bed- but he’s not as careful as the last time either.

Harry lets him do whatever he wants, lost in his pleasure, mind hazy.

He’d only like it more if Voldemort at least got off his shirt.

He must say it out loud, eventually, even if he can’t remember asking - though in that state
he’s hard pressed to remember his own voice-because Voldemort takes it off, before pushing
inside Harry.

He’s already used to it- it’s like Harry’s body remembers him, wants him as much as his
mind.

Harry tries to put his arms around him, like he did the last time, to touch him and hold him
close, but this time Voldemort grabs both his wrists in one hand and pins them above Harry’s
head.

Harry likes that too.

He feels his body vibrating, as sensations envelope everything from his core to the tips of his
fingers.

He’s just lost in all of it, mindless-

And that’s when it happens.

“Tom,” he hears himself saying and instantly he’s dragged back to reality; all of his muscle
tense, expecting punishment, his eyes fly open-

Voldemort just grips his wrists harder, to the point Harry fears he might crush them, but does
nothing else.

Their eyes meet and Harry’s heart was already galloping inside his chest, but now it’s just
smashing painfully against his ribs.

“I’m sorry-”

Voldemort lets go of his wrists to cover his mouth.

“If there is one thing I respect you for,” he says, voice deep and reaching straight down
Harry’s spine and into his cock, “is that you don’t fear me. You’re afraid for others, but not
for yourself. Don’t start now.”

Harry nods.

He said he respects me, he thinks, his skin itching with the compliment.

“No,” Voldemort says when Harry tries to move his arms, because he wants so badly to
touch- “If I left them there, it means I want them there.”
Harry nods and doesn’t move again.

Voldemort’s hand keeps covering his mouth and nose, even when he resumes thrusting hard,
depriving Harry of air.

But Harry finds he enjoys that, too.

(-)

“Would you like to duel?” Voldemort asks so casually.

“No,” Harry shakes his head, putting down the tea. “Of course not!”

Voldemort smirks. “Afraid, Harry? No need, we’ll keep it friendly.”

“I know you’re better than me, alright?” Harry says. “There’s no need to prove it-”

“Of course you know; you’re not as deluded as the rest of the world. Yet you always insist
you are a good duelist. I’ve never seen it.”

“I dealt with the attackers, alright?”

Voldemort would say his Death Eaters had gone easy on him because they had orders not to
kill him; he’d say being the best in his class at Hogwarts means nothing.

With these pretend ‘Death Eaters’, however, he can’t find any way to say luck saved Harry
or-

“So I hear. But I did not see.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head.

It is such a bad idea.

You’ve been full of them for the past year.

“Then I shall continue to operate under my assumption you can’t fight at all.”

Harry grits his teeth. He stands.

“If there is one thing I respect you for, is that you do not fear me.”

“No blood, no Cruciatus,” he says.

Voldemort laughs. “You are such a child. I can’t believe you would fall for that.”

“Of course I would!”

Harry is a Gryffindor. The best way to get him to do something is to tell him he can’t do it.

He wants to, as well. If he can make himself believe Voldemort won’t torture him, Harry
would like to duel him.

He always liked magical duels. He’s good at them; Defence had been the only subject in
which he never felt inadequate.

And he never got to really enjoy it- when he’d taught the others in Dumbledore’s Army,
Harry was there just to instruct them, to correct their position or incantations, to cheer them
up.

Outside that, he’d always been worried he’d die or worse, someone else would die, so
enjoyment was out of the question.

He wants to prove he’s good. He knows he’ll lose, but Voldemort will see Harry is not as
hopeless as he believes.

“I like to duel,” Harry says as they go up the stairs, adrenaline sinking in. “But outside you
know- the frequent murder attempts, I only truly did it once, with Malfoy, in our second year,
during Duelling Club.”

“Who won?” Voldemort asks.

“Well, it was undecided, I suppose. Unfair to begin with since Snape was whispering in
Malfoy’s ear- but hey! That’s where I learned the Disarming Charm! Snape used it on
Lockhart.”

“As if I need more reasons to hate that spell,” Voldemort mutters.

Harry laughs, a little nervous. “When Snape wanted to give Sirius to the Dementors, I used it
on him- and I wasn’t the only one, so we kind of knocked him out.”

“Deserved it, the filthy traitor-”

“Anyway, Malfoy conjured a snake, and it wanted to attack Justin- a Hufflepuff, so I told it
not to. Suffice to say, that was how all the school learned I was a Parselmouth. How I learned
I was one- well, I knew I could talk to snakes, I once set one free at the zoo, but I didn’t know
it was rare or it had a name. They all thought I was the Heir of Slytherin-”

Voldemort snorts. “As if!”

It’s Harry’s house- technically, at least. But Voldemort seems to know it better. He leads
Harry to a ballroom on the second floor, a large empty space Harry had only seen once in his
life.

He imagines it had once hosted beautiful parties, full of laughter, dancing and expensive
robes.

Harry is buzzing with adrenaline.

You really shouldn’t do this. But the voice is very weak; Harry has become quite adapt at
ignoring his good sense.

Voldemort smiles at him, lazily.

He doesn’t insist on bowing and Harry is glad, because he did that in the graveyard and-

Not thinking about that!

He just waits there, watching Harry curiously.

It’s Harry that casts the first spell.

He’s half tempted to go in with the Disarming one, but he reminds himself the goal isn’t to
get tortured, so he refrains.

It is thrilling.

Harry doesn’t think much, all instinct, but even so, as the duel progresses he knows
Voldemort is going very easy on him.

He blocks all Harry sends against him, with no sign of effort, without even moving a step.

But that was to be expected. Harry just wants to show him he knows how to defend himself
as well.

And he does. He can block half the spells, or doge them, at least.

The ones that land are surprisingly tame.

Stinging hexes, simple charms- one turns his T-shirt green and perhaps Voldemort is mocking
him, choosing such harmless spells, but the truth is, it makes Harry happy, more relaxed.

Then again, perhaps relaxed isn’t the best state to be in while duelling.

The only injury Harry gets is when he falls on his face, because of a Leg-Locker he doesn’t
manage to dodge in time.

“Expelliarmus,” Voldemort drawls, the only spell he’d said out loud, towards the very end
when Harry is breathing hard, tired.

It’s the price he pays because he grew cocky after he squeezed himself between two rapidly
cast curses.

He was just congratulating himself mentally when the red spell hits him squarely in the chest
and his wand goes flying out of his hands.

Voldemort laughs. “How do you like it now?” he asks, holding the holly wand.

Harry makes a face, a little worried, since he’s wandless.

He just proved it wouldn’t matter if you have a wand or not. He can deal with you,
regardless.

But Voldemort tosses him back his wand.

Harry catches it, fast.

“You aren’t used to fight in a formal setting,” Voldemort comments as they go down the
stairs. “You do much better in chaos, far better when the stakes are high. You like an
unpredictable environment around you.”

“Yeah, I suppose I do,” Harry says, rubbing his forehead, which will most likely bruise later
on.

He feels- he feels good. He liked it.

A challenge, but not a dangerous one.

“I told you I never got to do it properly.”

“Hogwarts really lowered its standards; back in my day, Duelling Club was mandatory for
OWL students. Of course, that old goat presided over it, so I could never show off to my
heart’s satisfaction.”

Harry shrugs. “Well, he hardly had the time when I went to Hogwarts; he was the
Headmaster. And thanks to someone-” he narrows his eyes at Voldemort, “we never had the
same Defence teacher for more than a year so- yeah, maybe education was better in your
time.”

Harry sits on the sofa, exhausted, when they reach the library. Voldemort sits beside him,
instead of his usual place at the desk.

Harry stares, the dull pain in his head forgotten, but Voldemort acts like this is an everyday
occurrence.

“I had Death Eaters that were worse than you.”

Harry smirks, pleased with the admission.

“Well, that’s not saying much. Some of them were really, really bad at - anything, really.”

Voldemort just nods.

The next day, it’s Harry that asks him if he wants to duel.
Chapter End Notes

Sorry for the delay! Life got busy!

I have a tumblr; you can drop by anytime! https://metalomagnetic.tumblr.com
 Chapter 13
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“You won’t hurt them.” Harry says it simply. He doesn’t make it a plea, he makes it a
demand.

The letter for Kingsley is still in his hand, scrunched up.

Voldemort tilts his head. “Define hurt, because you and I have very different definitions.”

While not reassuring, Harry had expected him to start with the ‘you don’t tell me what to do’
variation of an answer.

“You won’t do anything to them,” Harry clarifies. “Talk away, but don’t use any magic-”

“Impossible. Savage will check the cuffs.”

“Kingsley didn’t, last he came-”

“Because he was alone; he didn’t follow protocol, and he paid for it.” Harry well remembers
it. And back then Voldemort’s magic had been tampered, he used Harry’s wand, and he still
subdued Kingsley. “Savage will check them.”

Harry paces around the kitchen, trying to think.

“Can’t you transfigure something to look like you still have them?”

“I will,” Voldemort looks unconcerned with the impending visit. “But he will be able to tell
the difference. There was a certain magical signature keyed to them.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, no doubt making it stick up even more. “Then what do we
do?”

The ‘we’ is very novel. It is profoundly different from ‘we are having breakfast,’ or ‘we
duel’.

This ‘we’ places Harry and Voldemort on one side, and the Ministry on the other.

“The Confundus Charm or the Imperius,” Voldemort says, and he sends the rest of the bread
and butter to the pantry, without even moving a muscle.

“The Charm,” Harry says.

Voldemort gives him an amused look. “I wasn’t asking you to pick, Harry. I was merely
conveying the most simple solutions.”

“I don’t want the Imperius.” It is a dark spell and it can be long lasting. “So-”

“That’s quite enough demands for today,” Voldemort speaks, and just like that the amusement
and easy going attitude dissolves.

He can jump through emotions with dizzying speed sometimes. It gives Harry whiplash.

Harry opens his mouth-

He won’t harm them. He agreed to it, didn’t argue the matter. Compromise.

However, it is a slippery slope; very slippery. The bar is getting lower every day and Harry
doesn’t like it. One moment he is agreeing with an Unforgivable, and what will he be forced
to agree to in the future, so he may keep others relatively safe from Voldemort?

What choice do I he have?

“Ok,” he says, a very bitter taste in his mouth.

Voldemort’s anger passes just like that, and he bites into his toast, satisfied.

(-)

“I’d prefer the Confundus,” Harry tries one more time, hastily, minutes before Kingsley is set
to arrive. “If you can.”

Voldemort narrows his eyes.

“It would make me feel better,” Harry goes on.

“I don’t care about your feelings,” Voldemort says, flicking his wrist and big fake draperies
appear to cover the empty space on the wall left by Walburga.

Without another word, he goes up the stairs.

Harry remains by the door, waiting.

(-)
Savage heads straight for Voldemort, who is standing for once. The Auror grabs his hands,
roughly.

Harry’s heart is in his throat, praying Voldemort doesn’t lose his temper, praying the whole
thing will somehow not end in tragedy.

It’s frightening how capable Voldemort is.

For a second, when Savage lifts his sleeves, there is a glimpse of shock and fear in his eyes as
his wand taps on the fake cuffs-

Voldemort doesn’t move, doesn’t whisper, nothing; and yet the look in Savage’s eyes quickly
goes away, replaced with a glazed one, unfocused.

“All in order,” he says, and he steps back.

He blinks, the slightest of lines between his eyebrows. He looks confused, but that too passes
as soon as it happens.

“Someone talked,” Kingsley says, straight to the subject, as always. “These people know you
are alive, there is no doubt about it.”

Voldemort doesn’t react.

Kingsley gives him a scrutinising stare. “It seems we were wrong; they do not want to free
you. They want to kill you.”

Harry already feared that. Voldemort knew that.

Kingsley expects a reaction. Voldemort doesn’t disappoint.

“I am trembling in fear. How will I ever sleep again?” he drawls, every word dripping with
ridicule.

“You insist you don’t know them, but you do. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” Voldemort agrees.

A muscle jumps in Kingsely’s jaw. He gives Harry a hateful glance that translates very
plainly into ‘see? I told you’.

“Don’t you want them caught?” Savage intervenes. “They want to kill you!”

“I heard it the first time, no need to repeat yourselves.”

“I don’t understand you,” Kingsley spits.

“A common problem amongst small insects looking at their betters,” Voldemort says.

“So you won’t cooperate, even now?” Kingsley phrases it like a question, but he delivers it
like a statement.
Voldemort laughs. “You want me dead. You tried your best, for years. And you think I would
want to help you catch someone that also wants me dead? Let them try. We all know they will
be as successful as you were in this endeavour.”

Kingsley turns to Harry; he knows by now that Harry wants Voldemort alive.

“He will be better protected at the Min-”

“No,” Harry says, apologetic. “Sorry, but no.”

They’ve had this conversation already; Kingsley understands it is useless to insist.

“If-when- they will come to your doorsteps, he,” his head jerks to Voldemort, “won’t die. But
you might. Your luck can only hold for so long.”

“Oh, fuck you!” Harry spits. “Luck. Really? Is that what you think of me? That I am lucky
and that’s how I survived all the shit in my past?”

“Truth hurts, doesn’t it, Harry?” Voldemort intervenes.

Maybe that is why Harry’s angry. Because it is, at least in part, the truth.

“No, I don’t think that,” Kingsley ignores Voldemort. “You are an exceptional wizard-”

Voldemort snorts.

“But-” Kingsley adds, loudly, to cover it. “If they come in great numbers- and they will,
when their target is him, then there is only so much you and two Aurors watching your house
can do.”

Harry was concerned about it, before. He worried they would come and hurt or kidnap
Voldemort when Harry was not home.

But that was before. Voldemort got his magic and wand back since then.

The only people that will get hurt will be the ones attempting to pass through the door.

“Is this a risk you are willing to take? For this monster?” Kingsley asks, meeting Harry’s
eyes.

“I’m confident the wards will hold,” Harry says, as calmly as he can. Voldemort said they
will; he could have lied, of course, but it is the only answer he has for Kingsley.

“Try to pry it out of him,” Kingsley suggests, when Harry is leading the Aurors down the
stairs. “He clearly wants to keep your favour.”

Harry’s cheeks blush, remembering what assumptions Kingsley made about them, last they
met.

And they weren’t even fucking back then.

“We need to catch these wizards, Harry. They’re gaining ground all over the United
Kingdom.”

“I know,” Harry whispers. He reads the newspapers. “I’ll try.”

Kingsley sighs and leaves without another word, Savage close behind him.

“Why do they want you dead?” Harry asks when he’s back in the library.

He knows there are more chances to get an answer to this than asking for an identity.

“I insulted them.” He’s seated on the couch, his posture relaxed, legs slightly spread, one of
his hands on the armrest, playing with his wand.

Harry snorts. “You insult everybody.”

Voldemort smiles. “Not everyone takes it in stride, as you do.”

Harry rolls his eyes, leaning on one of the bookshelves. Much sturdier than it used to be.

“Thank you,” he says, softly. “For going with the Confundus. I’m grateful.”

Positive reinforcement. Hermione says it works miracles.

He’s not a dog.

“Why don’t you show me how grateful you are?” Voldemort asks, and even if Harry was
dense enough to not get the meaning, Voldemort parts his legs a little more, to make sure
Harry understands what he wants.

Just when he gets used to the way sex works between them, Voldemort likes to change it up.

When Harry kneels between his legs, Voldemort just looks at him, expectingly, and that never
happened before. He’s supposed to take control; that’s what always happened so far, and
Harry found comfort in that, knowing what to expect.

He swallows, peering up, uncertain.

“Go on. Show me,” Voldemort says and if his tone was mocking or amused, Harry would get
up and leave but it isn’t the case.

His eyes are always dark, but when he’s aroused, they get darker and they are almost black
when he looks down at Harry.

Harry reaches out carefully, because Voldemort never lets him take off his clothes or touch
too much.

Yet he’s asking for it now.

Harry parts his robe and then hesitates a little, before going for the trousers’ buttons. His
fingers feel numb as he opens them.
His knees are already aching, even if there’s a new, surprisingly soft carpet underneath them.
But Harry is just so aware of his body, in painstaking detail.

Voldemort is half hard already, Harry can see it through his underpants. His wand is still in
his hand, twirling, and it makes Harry slightly anxious.

In an unexpected kind of way. It’s not fear, not exactly; it’s…something else.

Voldemort hardens quickly in Harry’s hand. Harry never touched his cock, not with his
fingers at least. He’s not really sure what to do, which is nonsensical; Harry has a cock as
well, and he’s well practiced in handling it, but he and Voldemort clearly have vastly different
preferences.

Shifting further, Harry bends over his lap and takes it in his mouth.

Will he ever do this for me? The thought makes his own cock throb, tapped in his jeans.

(-)

There are always plenty of Aurors at Harry’s Quidditch games and practices, their eyes never
leaving Harry.

It makes his teammates uneasy and he hates it.

It used to be the only place where he could have fun, forget about the outside world.

(-)

“Is he acting up or something?” Ron asks.

More like blurts it out.

“Ron!” Hermione hisses.

Harry puts down his hot pink empty, miniature tea cup.

“No!” Rose yells. “Drink!”

“Oh, sorry!” Harry takes it back and pretends to drink; Rose imitates him.

They are having a tea party. One of many; Harry always insists he is to come to their place, or
they should meet at the park or anywhere else but Grimmauld.
“No, Ron, he’s -you know, as he is.”

“You hadn’t invited us over in a while; mind you, it’s not like I want to spend time with the-”

“Ron,” Hermione sighs, pouring them all some more imaginary tea.

“But I’m just wandering if everything is alright.”

“It is,” Harry lies. “Sorry to break it to you, but you two aren’t as interesting as you used to
be. Now I’m more interested in this lovely little lady,” he says, winking at Rose. She giggles,
proud to show many teeth. “And she’ll never step foot inside that house, so I have to come
over.”

Rose will never meet Voldemort, that’s for sure.

“Since Ron so tactfully brought it up,” Hermione says, biting her lip. “I think it’s good for
him, that we come over.”

Ron makes a face. Possibly so does Harry.

“No, truly. Listen, he’s forced to spend time with a muggleborn and a-” she mouths the word
‘blood traitor,’ so Rose won’t hear it, even if she’s only a few months over a year. “And he
can see we aren’t as he thought us.”

Harry doesn’t tell Hermione Voldemort knew exactly who they are, since long before the war
ended.

But Hermione must get it from his face. “Fine,” she adds. “Then he can witness how normal
people connect. He-”

“He knows that, too.”

“I’m sure he’d seen people interact before,” Hermione is getting heated. “But it must have
been long ago, maybe even as far back as when he’d been a student. But since then, God
knows what company he kept. I think he’s making progress, he doesn’t seem to dislike us-”

“He’s pretending,” Ron points out. “Because he knows that if he doesn’t play nice, Harry will
take him back to Kingsley.”

“Thank you, Ron,” Hermione snaps at him. “I am aware. It’s just that from the first time we
went over, he started talking more every time-”

“With you,” Ron mumbles.

“Well, he’d hardly want to talk to you, since all you do is glare at him and hold on to your
wand for the entire visit! Last time I was there, we had a chat about elemental runes and I
think he genuinely enjoyed it.”

“So what if he did? I don’t wanna make him enjoy anything!”

“It’s not about that,” Hermione insists, pushing a long strand of hair behind her ear, her other
hand resting on her belly.

“You want to rehabilitate him?”

Hermione glowers at Ron, but she slumps her shoulders after a few seconds.

“I don’t know. It’s silly, probably. It’s just- it’s such a waste. A mind like his…he should-he
still could do something good with it! If he’d share his theories, if he’d speak of all the magic
he knows-”

“A mind like his?” Ron asks, incredulous. “You mean twisted and cruel-”

Harry takes Rose to another room when the argument between her parents gets heated.

Incredible how Voldemort manages to cause strife even when he’s not present.

(-)

Harry combs through the thin books he’d bought for Teddy, carefully, trying to decide if they
are suitable for a child his age.

“They never have parents in these blasted things!” Harry complains, slamming a booklet with
famous fairytales on the table.

“That’s good,” Voldemort interjects and Harry glares at him.

“It is,” he insists. “The boy doesn’t have parents either, he can relate better to the little
heroes.”

Harry opens his mouth but closes it again after a second. It’s useless to try to explain
anything of the nature to the man.

He returns his attention to the stack of gifts, separating them in two piles, one for Rose and
one for Teddy.

“It’s all you want, isn’t it?” Voldemort speaks after a while, watching Harry intensely. “A
little family.”

“Well, I’ll never get it,” Harry snaps at him.

Voldemort took his first family and now he took Harry’s chance at another one. Harry can
hardly marry and have a kid with Voldemort tied to him.
(-)

“Who waits for you on the other side?” Harry asks, cautiously. It’s a very touchy subject,
death. “For me, it was Dumbledore. At King’s Cross. I think I told you.”

“I wouldn’t mention that name in my bed, if I were you,” Voldemort says.

Harry had avoided his room since that terrible morning when Voldemort got his wand back.

But now he’s in it again, between silk green sheets. He’s still on his stomach, aching
pleasantly, lacking the energy to move.

Voldemort’s back to his domineering ways; Harry doesn’t protest, not at all.

He wonders if Voldemort will let him sleep there. Besides that first night, Voldemort always
leaves after sex, but now Harry is in his bed. Where is he going to go if Harry just falls
asleep?

In the other dozen rooms. Or he’ll just curse you out of it.

“Is there anyone-” Harry tries again, but trails off.

Was Voldemort alone, in all that whiteness, scared and desperate and confused? Or maybe it
was dark for him, maybe-

“Yes, there is someone,” Voldemort cuts over him. “Now shut up and sleep.”

(-)

“Did a vampire bite you, Harry?!” Teddy asks, concerned. He lowers his voice, his face
scrunched up with anxiety. “Or a werewolf?”

Harry frowns. “No, of course not.”

“Then what is on your neck?”

Oh, fuck!

Harry instinctively moves his hand to cover what must be a hickey. He splutters, terrified and
embarrassed.

“Looks like a doxy bite to me,” Andromeda says, highly amused. When Harry turns her way,
she gives him a knowing look.
“Doxies bites are small! Remember when one bit me on the hand?” Teddy says, abandoning
his new toy motorbike to come closer to Harry, who is still gripping the side of his neck.

“Must have been a big doxy,” Andromeda says, smile broadening, and Harry just gets redder
and redder. “See, that’s why he’s flushed like that. And that dreamy look in his eyes, the way
he dropped his cup two times-”

“Yes!” Teddy says, nodding. “I noticed!”

“That’s the doxy venom, intoxicating him.”

Harry wants the floor to swallow him.

“Oh, no!” Teddy throws himself into Harry’s chest. “Will you be alright? Is there a cure,
Nana? We can take him to Lucius, he always knows how to fix things!”

“Oh, don’t you worry love, it will ultimately pass.”

Harry doesn’t know how he gets through the rest of the visit.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he tells Andromeda before he leaves. “I will- it will not happen again.”

He’d rather not mention it at all, head lowered between his hunched shoulders, but he doesn’t
want Andromeda to think Harry is a bad influence on Teddy.

Andromeda snorts. “What are you sorry for, boy? It’s perfectly normal.”

She’s grinning and what a difference it makes; she looks far younger when she’s not her
stern, scornful self.

“Teddy-”

“Teddy is six, he can hardly understand. Even if he would, there’s nothing wrong with it.
Dare I say, I’m glad you found someone to spend some time with. Maybe that will pull that
stick out of your arse.”

“Hey!”

She shrugs. “You can bring them over, if you think it’s something serious and they’ll stick
around. I have nothing against it. Of course, if they are a muggle, we’ll have to make
adjustments.”

“He’s not a muggle,” Harry blurts.

Fuck, can you shut up!?

“Splendid!” Andromeda’s eyes twinkle. “How come I didn’t read about it in the papers?”

“No one knows. Not even Ron and Hermione,” Harry adds, extremely uncomfortable. But
Andromeda sometimes takes Teddy to play dates with Victoire, if Molly isn’t there, and Ron
might visit Bill at the same time. Harry doesn’t want this piece of information to reach them.

“Oh my, how did you manage that feat? And why hide it from your friends?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say.

She frowns. “Because he’s a gentleman? Though gentleman might be the wrong word, he
quite mauled your neck, love.”

Harry is going to die! He groans and looks away.

“In any case, I know you were raised by muggles, but it is not an issue here. Men can date
men.”

“No, no. It’s not that.”

Andromeda waits, eyebrow raised.

How in the world has he ended up talking about this with her, of all people|?

A terrible thought comes to Harry. “For Merlin’s sake, don’t tell your sister! Malfoy can’t get
wind of this!”

“I assure you, Lucius has zero interest in you love life.”

Oh, he would. He knows Harry’s somehow involved with Voldemort.

“I’m not a gossip. You know I don’t care. I just wanted to let you know that you have my
permission to bring them over, if you think Teddy should meet them.”

“No, no. Not going to happen.” Ever.

Andromeda nods. “Nothing serious, then?”

Harry shrugs, because what else can he say?

“I hope you’re making Sirius proud, having dalliances right in front of Walburga’s portrait,”
Andromeda says gleefully, and yes, she is a Black, as mad as the rest and just as cruel.

“Sirius wouldn’t be proud,” Harry says, dejectedly.

It feels awful to say it out loud. Sirius would be livid with him.

Her sharp eyes take Harry in. She tilts her head, regarding him, in an eery imitation of
Voldemort.

“So you don’t want your best friends to know, you insist Lucius never learns of it, you don’t
want to bring him around Teddy- are you having an affair with a former Death Eater?” she
asks, incredulous. And then - “Don’t tell me it’s Draco!”
“WHAT?” Harry speaks so loudly Andromeda winces. “The ferret? Oh Merlin, I might throw
up! He’s- forget anything else, he’s married!”

She rolls her eyes. “Like that ever stopped anyone.”

(-)

“So now she thinks I’m shagging Malfoy! Ugh!” Harry shudders. “And it’s all your fault!”

Voldemort looks amused. “She’s delusional if she thinks any Malfoy would come within two
feet of you. Your sense of what you call fashion alone would make them run in despair.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“You’re mean,” Harry says, realising how it sounds when it’s too late to take it back.

“I’m mean? I’m a Dark Lord, Harry, what do you expect?”

Voldemort is lounging on the sofa, an open book on his chest, which never used to happen
before. He always read at his desk.

My desk, his mind corrects, uselessly.

“Perhaps this will teach you to glance in a mirror before you leave the house, in the future.”

“Perhaps this will teach you not to bite me.”

“Unlikely,” Voldemort says, taking hold of his book and ignoring Harry for the rest of the
evening.

(-)

It takes many dulling sessions before Harry realises Voldemort is teaching him things.

He doesn’t voice anything, but he keeps making Harry fall into the same trap over and over
again until Harry finally learns how to avoid it.

He moves his wand deliberately, and eventually Harry is forced to admit it’s because he
wants Harry to observe what he’s doing, to associate certain movements with certain spells.

Their sessions grow more intense too, gradual enough that it takes Harry a while to notice.
Nothing too sinister, but the jinxes grow nastier, more painful.

It makes Harry more alert, makes him move faster.

“I know what you’re doing,” Harry accuses him.

“Even you couldn’t have possibly missed it,” Voldemort drawls, giving the holly wand back
to Harry.

Every single time, without exceptions, Voldemort ends the duels with the Disarming spell.

Harry is starting to hate the spell.

“Why?”

Voldemort sighs, as if tired of Harry’s stupidity.

“They can’t get inside this house. So they’ll come after you outside of it. I know you are
being careful, but one day you will slip, and when that day comes, you’ll be grateful for
having learned a thing or two.”

Harry pulls himself off the floor, limping a little.

As always, Voldemort doesn’t have a single scratch on him, though Harry almost got him
with a stinging hex.

Next time, he promises himself, like he always does.

“If you care about my life, you could tell me who they are.”

“I don’t care that much.”

(-)

Eventually, Ron and Hermione come to his door, unannounced.

Harry just glares at them but doesn’t have time to say anything before Ron shoulders his way
in, forcefully.

“We were in the area,” Hermione says, sweetly, the same thing Harry told them dozens of
times.

Harry runs up the stairs, the fastest he’d run anywhere in his life.

“Ron and Hermione are here,” he says, panting for breath.

“Delightful,” Voldemort answer with a sneer, folding the Daily Prophet.

“Don’t-” Harry starts.

“Don’t start again. I am not going to curse them.”

“The cuffs-fuck! I’m going to delay them!” Harry runs back out, only to stumble right into
Ron at the top of the stairs.

“Why don’t we head to the kitchen?” he asks, but he must look frantic, because Ron draws
his wand.

“I don’t think so,” he says, jaw set in that determined way of his. “Hermione, stay back,” he
says and marches to the library.

Hermione doesn’t listen to him, waddling right after her husband, Harry along them.

“Listen, there’s-let’s have a cup of tea-”

But Ron is already entering the library.

Harry blinks.

Their sofas are shabby again, all the furniture decrepit and old.

Voldemort is at his desk, the faint bulge of fake cuffs under his sleeves.

Wow.

Harry was only gone for five seconds.

“Good evening,” he says, folding the same paper he did before. “You didn’t tell me you were
expecting guests, Mr. Potter.”

Ron looks around, suspiciously. Hermione is more discrete, but it’s clear she’s been expecting
something too.

“They were in the area, apparently.” Harry says, sarcastically.

He refuses to leave them alone for the entire visit. Four bloody hours, but Harry doesn’t even
go to the loo.

Harry has no leverage- before he was sure Voldemort understood that if he hurts his friends
Harry would kill him; or at the very least send him back to the Ministry.

Now that he has his wand and magic back, neither of those options are valid.

But Voldemort is mostly silent, happy to ignore them as they talk amongst themselves. At
some point it’s Hermione that draws him in a conversation about something nerdy.

Towards the end, she complains about a bill she’s been trying to make the Wizengamont pass.

“They always reject it, and I’m certain they don’t even read it!”
“I’m not convinced some of them even know how to read,” Voldemort says.

“What do you think about house-elves?” Hermione asks him.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron mutters, hiding his face in his hands.

“I don’t think anything at all; why would I waste time on such lowly creatures?”

“Oh, no,” Harry and Ron say at the same time, because Hermione gets that look about her
that signals she’s about to go on a tirade about elves and servitude, one they have heard at
least a hundred times.

“But,” Voldemort adds, possibly sensing the impeding doom. “I could always learn more.
Feel free to send me that bill proposal. I am sure I will find it riveting.”

Hermione can’t decide if she’s being mocked.

“If Mr. Potter will allow it, of course,” Voldemort continues.

“Whatever,” Harry says.

“Did you liberate that atrocious elf of yours?” Voldemort asks him after Ron and Hermione
finally leave.

“I tried,” Harry says. “But Kreacher said he’ll kill me in my sleep if I suggest it again.”

“Where is it now?”

“He,” Harry says, with emphasis, “Is at Hogwarts.”

When three exhausted owls bring over Hermione’s bill proposal the next day, Voldemort
looks surprised for once.

He sits at the desk, blinking at the mountain of parchment. “All this,” he says, when he
recovers. “About house-elves?”

Harry laughs at him.

(-)

For the next few days, he hears mutterings about ‘exasperating mudblood, no wonder no one
ever reads her papers’ and ‘snivelling, disgusting creatures’ as Voldemort goes through the
parchments, quill in hand, striking entire paragraphs, with such force Harry is sure he’s
perforating the parchment.

A week later, Voldemort hands Harry a neat scroll.

“Give it to the Mudblood,” he directs.

Harry pulls out his wand and checks it for curses.

“So little faith you have in me, Harry,” Voldemort says, close to his ear, his chest pressed to
Harry’s back.

Harry shivers. “Reading about house-elves put you in the mood?” he asks, trying to feign
disinterest.

“Watching you trying so hard to foil my plans and failing miserably puts me in the mood.”

(-)

“Wait up!” Harry pushes away at the witches and wizards surrounding him, glad for the
excuse to get away from all the adulation.

Malfoy doesn’t stop, pretending he hadn’t heard him, but Harry runs until he’s at his
shoulder.

“Can we talk?”

Malfoy’s face is carefully blank. No usual sneer, no look of contempt.

“Of course,” he answers, and even the posh superiority is missing from his voice. “I would
suggest a private place,” he goes on nodding to the two Aurors dressed in simple robes,
watching from afar.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, aware of all the eyes on them. And it is a busy day in Diagon, more
onlookers than usual.

“My manor is private,” Malfoy says, and Harry makes a face. “Or your home; the most
private places in Britain.”

Harry shakes his head. “My house isn’t...safe.”

Malfoy immediately gets his meaning.

They Apparate to Malfoy Manor, even if Harry loathes that house. He has the worst
memories of it. Every time he entered through those gates, something terrible happened.

“Let Narcissa know I have a guest and I am not to be interrupted,” Malfoy barks at an elf,
before taking Harry in an enormous office.

A solid, wooden desk dominates the room; behind it, on the wall, the Malfoy Family Crest
stands proudly, surrounded by portraits of blond men with pointy faces, in various stages of
life, ranging from young to very old.

“Please, sit,” Malfoy says, and Harry had never heard him so polite and accommodating.

Well, except when he was addressing Voldemort, but he hadn’t been polite then, he’d been
grovelling in fear.

They both sit on opposite sides of the desk.

Harry isn’t sure what he wants to say. It had been an impulsive decision; he’d been trying to
escape the people harassing him for autographs, he’d seen the light blond hair in the distance
and he’d just went after him.

But now in the silent office, with Malfoy looking at him expectedly, Harry isn’t sure how to
proceed.

“What are you doing with Teddy?” he asks, because it’s easier.

Malfoy clearly hadn’t foreseen that question. He shows his surprise by lifting an eyebrow,
before quickly subduing his face back to blank.

“I am gratifying my wife,” he answers. “The boy and her sister are dear to her.”

Right. Andromeda said the same. Harry knew it and believed it. He’d just asked it to break
the silence, but it persists.

“However, if it bothers you, I will cut all contact,” Malfoy says, when it’s clear to him Harry
won’t say anything else. “They will not be welcome in this house anymore, if that is your
wish.”

Harry blinks at him. What? Since when does Malfoy care about-

Since he saw you side by side with Voldemort.

The politeness makes sense, in hindsight.

“Listen, it’s not like that,” Harry hurries to say, because he feels dirty having someone fear
him and for that reason. “I didn’t join him or anything. He was a captive and-”

“With all due respect, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy interrupts him, raising a hand. “I have no desire to
know yours and my lord’s business. Unless, of course, my lord wishes for me to know.”

“Oh, come off of it,” Harry spits. “You don’t need to act like that. I’m not going to tell him
we talked so feel free to be your obnoxious, disgusting self.”

“How dare you, you filthy little half-blood, in my house-” one of the portraits start,
indignant.

Malfoy points his wand at it and the man keeps talking, his lips are moving but no sound
comes out.
“I apologise, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy says, still no expression on his face.

“Stop it!” Harry is getting really irritated. “You called me worse than that. You tried to kill me
and you think I’ll be bothered your dead relatives call me a half blood?”

“That was before,” Malfoy says, smoothly.

Before you walked with Voldemort into his house, shoulder to shoulder.

“I’m not going to snitch on you or anything like that, ok?”

Malfoy gives him a wary, look. “My lord knows everything, Mr. Potter. Everything. Nothing
goes past him.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “This will,” he says.

“If you say so,” Malfoy says, clearly not believing.

Another long stretch of silence.

“So you won’t tell Kingsley, right?” Harry goes on. It’s been months, and nothing happened.

“Of course not,” Malfoy doesn’t waste a second.

Harry stares at him. “I don’t know how anyone trusts you,” Harry says. “Voldemort-”
Malfoy’s jaw twitches at the name. “Kingsley. How can anyone trust your word? It means
nothing.”

Still no reaction, though all the portraits are waving hats or fingers at Harry, in silent outrage.
One even makes a very rude gesture that Harry had never seen an old man displaying.

“I understand why you feel this way,” Malfoy says. “But I will keep my lord’s secret. I am
grateful to be given another chance.”

The man is talking like Voldemort is in the room with them. It is frustrating.

“Who is behind the attacks?” Harry goes on, because that is why he came. Voldemort won’t
tell him. Harry should take advantage of Malfoy’s fear.

But Malfoy gives him a scrutinising look; Harry can see the wheels turning behind his cold,
grey eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says, and Harry scoffs.

“Kingsley said you gave him a few names of men that are likely to lead this new wave of
terrorism,” Harry says. He bites his cheek. “We would like to know those names as well.” He
hates himself a little as he says it, at the implication.

“I will be glad to tell him about it,” he says, carefully.

“You can tell me,” Harry says. “I’ll tell him.”

“Hmm,” Malfoy scratches his jaw. “I have no doubt you would, Mr. Potter. Like I said, you
can’t hide anything from him. But still, I would...it’s prudent we have this conversation with
him here.”

Harry sighs. It was worth a shot. But Malfoy probably guessed Voldemort knows already- he
told Kingsley as much “the dark lord would be the only one to know for sure, alas he’s
dead”.

And he guessed Voldemort doesn’t want Harry to know.

Well, this was a waste of time.

“One more thing, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy says when Harry stands. He looks uncertain.

“Yes?”

“My son,” he starts but closes his mouth for a few seconds. “We have properties in France.
Would it be alright if my son would take his wife and child to live there, for a time?”

Harry is speechless. He has a tightness in his chest, looking at Malfoy, asking permission-
only he’s not asking for Harry’s permission. He’s asking for Voldemort’s.

Harry softens. “Listen, I- he can’t hurt Draco. He can’t hurt anyone. I won’t let him. I won’t
tell him we talked or- I can’t tell you what to do with Draco, but he’s safe.”

Malfoy stands, and even surrounded by grand furniture, his family crest at his back, proud
and pure silver, portraits of his ancestor covering the wall, he looks vulnerable.

“I’ll wait for an answer,” he says, completely ignoring all Harry said.

(-)

“I’m home,” Harry says loudly, as he does every time he’s walking through Grimmauld
Place’s door.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, because Voldemort never responds.

He’s still in his Quidditch clothes and he can’t wait to get out of them. He hadn’t changed in
the locker rooms, not with the Aurors insisting to follow him everywhere.

But he stops on the first floor, before heading for his room.

He thought he heard a noise…a soft voice- no, it couldn’t have been. But he heads to the
library, just to make sure.

He drops his broom when he goes through the door.

There is a child in the library.

Harry’s heart flies to his throat, chocking him, before plummeting to his stomach.

A little girl, about the same age as Teddy, dressed in a dirty, frayed nightgown, sits on the
carpet at Voldemort’s feet.

She looks up to him and stands immediately, a terrified expression on his face.

Harry takes out his wand. He tries to speak, but he can’t. Terror gripped every single cell in
his body.

“Hey, come here,” he forces the words out. “It’s ok.”

She has some scratches on her bare arms, but they look old. She doesn’t seem freshly injured.
And Harry will make sure it stays that way, no matter what.

But the girl hides behinds Voldemort’s long legs. “It’s that wicked man,” she whispers.

“Harry is not wicked. He’s my friend.” Voldemort reaches down, grabs the girl by the
shoulder-

“Don’t touch her!” Harry says, shrilly, moving forwards, wand ready.

Voldemort rolls his eyes. “Child, don’t be shy. Come now, meet Harry.”

She shakes her head, eyes wide, but Voldemort pushes her in Harry’s direction.

It dawns on Harry, what this is.

He went and kidnapped a child, to give Harry a family.

“All you want is a little family, isn’t it?”

How, how did he get out?

Harry feels like yelling.

Later, he thinks.

First, he needs to get this child to safety.

“Hey,” he says again, trying to smile, though his face feels stiff. “Hey, it’s ok. I’m Harry.
Come here, please. You’ll be ok.”

She stumbles closer, pushed forward by Voldemort.

She starts to cry, silently.

“He killed mama,” she says and Harry’s blood freezes. He stares up at Voldemort-
“No, he didn’t. That was a lie,” Voldemort says. “Harry never killed anyone.”

What?

The girl runs back to Voldemort, hides behind his legs again.

“What’s going on? What did you do? How did you leave the house? The Oath-”

“You said I could leave Grimmauld to save an innocent soul,” Voldemort says, looking
extraordinarily pleased with himself. “Here she is, as innocent as they get.”

“He killed mama. He is evil!”

Voldemort bends down to her level. “No. A woman killed your mother. Her name is Molly
Weasley.”

Oh God. Oh, Merlin. Oh crap!

“She’s-no! She’s Bellatrix’ daughter?” Harry asks, dizzy.

“Yes.”

“But-but-” Harry stares, uncomprehensive. What?

“Rodolphus was taking care of her; when I demanded he hands himself in, he gave her to
someone else. Now, Delphini, stop hiding. I told you, Harry didn’t kill your mother.”

“He killed my father!” she says, voice very high, tears running down her face. “Rody said
so!”

A long sigh. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’m not dead.”

Harry feels faint. The room sways around him for a moment.

He looks closer at the girl. At her dark, beautiful brown eyes. Identical to Voldemort’s.

“Calm down, child,” Voldemort demands.

Harry keeps staring. “You’re her father?”

The world stopped making sense. Is Harry dreaming? Is he trapped in a horrible nightmare?

Voldemort gives him a strange look. “Why else would I bring her here? Did I ever gave you
the impression I like children? Horrid little noisy things, demanding and messy. But she’s
mine, and Rowle wasn’t treating her right. It’s my duty. Child, stop crying!” His voice gets
hard, and that only makes the girl cry harder.

Voldemort looks miffed and out of his comfort zone.

Harry pockets his wand and goes to her. “Your name is Delphini?” he asks, putting himself
between her and Voldemort.
She nods, hiccuping, but tries to go around him and back to her father.

Merlin, this can’t be real.

“That’s such a pretty name. Never heard anything like it.”

“Mama chose it,” she says, hesitantly. And yes, those are Voldemort’s eyes, no mistake about
it, when she fixes them on Harry’s face. “Rody said so.”

Her face is very pale and dirty, her hair resembles a bird nest, a long, tangled mess of black
curls.

She’s incredibly skinny.

Harry’s chest hurts.

“It’s very beautiful,” he says, voice cracking. “How old are you, Delphini?”

She hiccups. “Seven.” She frowns. “I think.”

“Oh, wow,” Harry says, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way. “Seven, huh? You’re a
little lady.”

She looks at him from under long, wet lashes. A small, tentative, watery smile pulls at her
pouty lips. “I am?”

“Oh, yes.”

“I’d like a nice dress like ladies have,” she says, tugging at her filthy, well warn nightgown.
“But she wouldn’t let me. She kept me in the attic.”

So eerie. How is Harry’s destiny so fucking fucked?

He looks up at Voldemort, who had retreated further away.

“Where is this Rowle woman?” Harry asks.

“Dead, of course,” Voldemort answers with such satisfaction it leaves no doubt he was the
one to kill her.

Later, Harry thinks. I’ll deal with this later. The girl needs all my attention now.

He makes a gesture with his head towards Delphi, to signal Voldemort shouldn’t speak of this
in front of a child-

“Oh, she knows Rowle is dead. She was there when I killed the hag.”

Delphini nods, empathically wiping her tears away, and she slips past Harry and closer to
Voldemort.
 “Yes. You promised, and you did!” She stares up at Voldemort and when she smiles, there is
confidence in it.

“See? Now you don’t have to cry anymore.”

Chapter End Notes

I didn't read The Cursed Child, but I looked up Delphini online. It is unclear to me
exactly what happened and when, but apparently even though Euphimia Rowle raised
her and was very mean to her, Rodolphus at some point was with Delphini too. I'm sorry
if I got the sequence of events wrong.
If anyone else would like to read about Voldemort's relationship with Bellatrix and how
Delphini came about, I posted a one shot called "Beauty and the Beast." It is canon
compliant and has some mentions about Harry too.
Congratulations to the people who guessed "D" was Delphini!
Please let me know what you thought about the chapter! Thank you.
 Chapter 14
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Harry spends a few hours trying to put Delphini at ease. It’s complicated; Harry is still dazed
and she, understandably, is scared.

“Where is father?” she keeps asking, peeking around the room.

Voldemort had long since left the room. On one side, Harry is grateful; Voldemort shouldn’t
be around children. On the other, the girl would clearly feel safer with him around.

“He is busy,” Harry says. “You will see him later, ok?”

She doesn’t trust him. Because Rodolphus told her Harry Potter had killed her parents, had
showed her pictures of Harry in the newspapers and taught her he is the enemy, her mortal
enemy.

But Rodolphus also said her father was the wisest man in the world, and when news reached
them that Voldemort was alive, he told Delphini to always listen to him.

And Voldemort says Harry is a friend.

So the poor girl is conflicted.

She has nothing. No clothes, no toys, just the wand Bellatrix was using at the Battle of
Hogwarts, salvaged by Rodolphus. It is in a box Delphini clutches close to her chest, doesn’t
let go of, even when Harry takes her down to the kitchen to feed her. She’s terribly skinny.

She eats fast, falls upon the food ravenous, getting herself even dirtier.

It is so painfully obvious she hadn’t been fed properly. Harry knows all the signs, because
he’d lived through them.

Eventually her eyes close, exhausted, and even is she tries to fight it, she falls asleep on the
sofa in the library.

“You killed someone!” Harry whispers-yells when Voldemort finally makes an appearance.
“You got out and killed someone!”

“She was starving the child, kept her locked in an attic. That’s the definition of saving-”

“You could have saved Delphini without killing Rowle!”

“She knew who Delphini is; she had to go. Besides, she needed to pay for her sins. What was
Rodolphus thinking, leaving the girl there, I could kill him if he’d be alive-”

“D’s location,” Harry whispers, remembering. “Al Europe Whelm?”

“An anagram for Euphemia Rowle. Rodolphus dropped Delphini there, with a bag of
money.”

“Merlin, the poor little girl.”

Dragged along by Lestrange on the run, then drooped on to someone horrible and now
trapped with Voldemort.

“She’ll be fine. You’ll take care of her, won’t you?”

“I know nothing about raising a child!”

“Of course you do; you’re always taking your godson places-”

“That is way different from having a child full time! And no child should be exposed to you!
You killed someone in front of her!”

“She’s staying here, Harry.” Voldemort’s voice is soft. Dangerous. “No one else will raise my
child when I have the means to raise her myself. You and Kingsley kept me from being there
for her in her first years. And then I spent months deciphering what Al Europe Whelm meant.
She’s not going anywhere. Her mother is dead. Also thanks to you. Quite similar to our own
stories, no, Harry? We had no parents. Yours were dead, at least. My father abandoned me.
Do you want history to repeat itself? Do you want her to grow up an unwanted orphan? Who
will treat her right, with her parentage?”

“She can stay,” Harry says. “Of course she can stay. We can-I can-I’ll be-I’ll take care of
her,” he tells himself.

What else is there to do? Voldemort is right. Who would take Bellatrix’ and Voldemort’s
daughter? No one.

Narcissa might, Harry thinks. But then… what will the Malfoys expose her to? What will
they teach her?

And how is Harry supposed to take the girl away from Voldemort if he doesn’t want to let her
go? Impossible.

“But what to tell Hermione and Ron-”

“We’ll hide her for a while until we think of something. You did want a family, did you not?
You wanted to be a father. Knock yourself out.”

(-)
“Where is father?” Delphini asks as soon as she awakes, rubbing at her eyes, small body
tense, the box with the wand instantly in her arms.

“He’s making us breakfast,” Harry says, exhausted. He’d watched her sleep all night. He
hopes he isn’t lying and Voldemort is indeed making breakfast.

Since he got his wand back, he doesn’t cook as often.

“Rody made me breakfast,” Delphini says, smiling.

“Hmm,” Harry says. “Say, Delphini, will you let me transfigure your nightgown into-
something else?” Harry asks, tentatively. “It’s not that it isn’t pretty, but maybe you-”

“It’s horrid! Yes, change it!”

“And maybe a cleaning spell? You know what that is?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“It might tickle,” Harry warns, pulling his wand.

“I know, Rody sometimes used them on us when it was winter and we didn’t have where to
bathe.”

The cleaning spell it easy. It won’t replace a real bath, but at least it helps. He struggles with
the transfiguration. It isn’t easy to transfigure something to exact measurement. Not to
mention Harry has no idea about dresses.

Besides, Delphini has preferences.

“Make it pink! Rody made it pink! And I want stars on it. Blue stars.”

As Harry struggles, Delphini speaks about “Rody”. Apparently they had traveled all over
France; sometimes it appears a relative of Rodolphus would give them shelter.

“But we couldn’t stay long; bad men were after us. Rody said they wanted to lock him up and
take me away. But he wouldn’t let them.”

Mostly, they stayed in tents, in all sorts of forests.

“I don’t like it,” Delphini says, looking at her dress when it is finished.

Harry can’t blame her. One sleeve is longer than the other, the colour is terrible, and the stars
look more like circles.

“I’m sorry, I’m not great with household spells.”

She nods, solemn. “Rody wasn’t either, for a long time. But he learned. Where is he? He’ll
teach you.”
Fuck.

“I’ll buy you proper dresses, soon,” Harry says. “The nicest. Now let’s go eat, first, ok?”

She trails after him, her treasured box in her hands. She trips on the stairs, because the dress
is too long at the back, but Harry quickly catches her.

Voldemort is in the kitchen, food already on the table.

“You dressed her like Dumbledore,” he sneers upon seeing Delphini and her very colourful
attire.

Delphini stares at him, her eyes cataloguing his face, silently.

“I never made a dress before,” Harry hisses, leading Delphini to a chair, but she manoeuvres
out of his hand and takes the one next to Voldemort, at his left, climbing on it with difficulty,
since she won’t let go of the box.

She places it delicately in her lap when she’s seated and immediately grabs the toast and
shoves it in her mouth, barely chewing before she swallows.

Voldemort nose wrinkles.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry mouths behind Delphini.

Thankfully, Voldemort makes no comments, though he is clearly displeased when Delphini

attacks a banana, and then rips apart an orange, biting straight into it, juices running down her
face and arms.

Harry is just happy she is eating. She isn’t picky at all with food, he notices, over the next
two days.

She wants to stay in the library, refusing Harry when he tries to show her some of the rooms,
let her pick one for herself.

Voldemort also wants to stay in the library. Which might be why Delphini refuses to leave the
room.

“You may remain here, but you shall be quiet,” he tells the girl.

He reads and Delphini stays on the floor or on the sofa, with her box, looking at Voldemort
intently.

Harry gives her some of the gifts he had ready for Teddy and Rose, but Dephini doesn’t know
what to do with them.

She doesn’t know how to play, scrutinising the toys with distrust.

“I want books,” she demands of Harry, pointing at the bookshelf.

Harry gives her some of the muggle fairytales instead. “The ones on the shelf are grown-up
books, they’ll bore you.”

Delphini accepts that easily enough, taking hold of a copy of “Cinderella.”

“I can read it to you,” he offers, because the night before she fell asleep only after Harry read
her some stories.

But Voldemort wasn’t there at the time.

“No,” she says, in a whisper. “Father said to be quiet.”

Father smiles slightly at his desk when he hears that.

“I can’t keep using cleaning charms on her,” Harry comments when Delphini is asleep, curled
around herself on the sofa, that had become her temporary bed.

“There are about eight fully equipped bathrooms in this house,” Voldemort responds.

Harry balks. “I can’t wash her! I’m a strange man and she’s a little girl-”

Voldemort rolls his eyes. He puts down his book.

“Delphini.” He speaks loudly and the poor girl jerks awake.

Harry glares at Voldemort.

“Yes?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

“Do you wash by yourself?”

She shrugs.

“Words, child. We are not animals.”

“Hey!” Harry snaps at him.

Part of Harry hadn’t accepted that he’ll have to basically co parent with Voldemort, for the
foreseeable future; that he’ll have to somehow shield this child from …well, everything:
unacceptable behaviours, insults, dark magic and who knows what else.

When thinking about it, despair threatens to overwhelm him, so Harry is determined to take it
day by day.

“I never tried. The house-elf washed me, at Rowle’s. But he was mean and old and pulled at
my hair. It hurt! I want Rody back. He was so nice, he never pulled my hair. Where is he?”

She constantly asks for him, and Harry always distracts her.

“Ahem,” he starts, “go back to sleep, we’ll talk-”

“He’s dead,” Voldemort says, emotionless.

This, his mind supplies. This is exactly what you have to shield her from. Cruelty.

Delphini cries the entire night. Of course, Voldemort doesn’t stand crying, so he walks out
five minutes into it, leaving Harry to console her.

“Father was dead too,” she says, between hiccups. “And now he’s alive. Will Rody be alive
again soon?”

“I’m afraid not,” Harry says, heart breaking for her even if he’s personally grateful Lestrange
is gone from the world.

But for Delphini, he had been her world for so long.

And he seemed to have been kind to her, even if Harry is particularly surprised to learn it.
Not only was Rodolphus a cruel, twisted murderer, but he had to raise the daughter of his
wife with another man.

How did that happen? Harry is so curious to know about all of it, but he squashes it. It is not
his business.

“He told me stories about mama, every night before bed. I want to go back to him! He was
always smiling, and he gave me everything I wanted! And then one day he said there was
glorious news, that father was alive and he will come and get me soon. He left me with
Rowle and disappeared.” Delphini looks up at Harry. “I waited for a long time,” she says.
“And father came, but he doesn’t like me. Rod said my parents loved me.”

Harry doesn’t know what to tell her; he rubs her back and pats her messy, very long hair.
He’d tried to comb it, but she screamed and said he’s hurting her so he’d stopped.

“The bad men got him?” Delphini asks when the sun is rising.

By ‘bad men’ she means Aurors, but they certainly aren’t bad so Harry tries to think what to
say-

Of course, that is when Voldemort returns.

“They did.”

Harry groans.

“Will they get me too?” she asks, looking between them, voice small.

“No,” Voldemort and Harry say at the same time.

(-)
Harry has to buy her all she needs and since he isn’t comfortable leaving her alone with
Voldemort, she will have to come with him. Only he is afraid that if he goes out with her
looking that way in public, someone might call the police.

So, after she sleeps fitfully for some hours, Harry takes her to the bathroom.

Delphini has no sense of discomfort or shame, discarding her transfigured dress with glee.

The bathtub is claw footed, very tall, and he takes her in his arms, worried she might slip- the
second he lowers her into the water, she screams.

“It’s too hot!”

Harry hastily puts her back on the floor and hands her a towel. She hugs herself tightly; Harry
checks the water again- it’s fine for him, but if she says it is hot…he cools it down a bit.

But then she says it’s too cold when they try again.

“I DON’T WANT TO!” Delphini yells after Harry gets it warmer.

“Delphini, you have to wash, come on-”

When he gently touches her shoulder, the candles on the wall extinguish.

“What the-”

And then the mirror shatters, loudly, shards of glass everywhere. Harry’s fast; in the blink of
an eye his wand is in his hand and he casts a shield around Delphini, but has no time to shield
himself. Bits of glass fall all over him.

Water splashes out of the bathtub in a wave.

Harry is speechless at such display of magic.

“I WANT RODY! WHERE IS HE! I WANT HIM!”

“Delphini, please, calm down,” Harry tries to approach her. He winces when he steps into
some glass. “It’s ok, we can take a bath later-”

“ROD!” She yells. “I want him!”

They’re both exhausted after it; Delphini shakes quietly, eyes wide. Harry comforts her the
best he can.

During all this, Voldemort is nowhere to be found.

They both fall into a fitful nap.

Once they are up, another tantrum follows when he tries to comb her hair. She’s not having it
at all.

So he casts some more thorough cleaning charms at her, wipes her face with a wet cloth, and
searches through a part of the attic until he finds some old, moth-eaten dress. He shrinks it
and -

Well. He hopes the muggles will think she’s in costume, Halloween is around the corner in
any case.

He finds an old, smaller hat in the attic and places it on her head, hiding the bird nest.

Just when he thought it over and they are finally in the foyer, she takes one look at the street,
people milling around and she cries again, obviously frightened.

“Bad people! Everywhere!”

Harry remembers she was never in public. Rodolphus seems to have kept her only in remote
places, and after that she spent more than a year in an attic.

This is impossible, Harry thinks, close to crying himself, when they go back inside the house.

He feeds her and then falls asleep watching her trying to figure out a toy car.

He wakes up more tired than when he’d went to sleep. He’s confused for a second, his neck
and back hurting from the position.

He’s alone.

Harry stands up so fast the room swims around him.

“Delphini?” he asks.

He finds her in the kitchen.

She’s clearly washed, wearing a well fitting black dress, with a dash of silver stars on the
collar and sleeves, her clean hair braided neatly at her back.

She’s almost a different child- for the first time, Harry can see Bellatrix very clearly.

He gawks at her, and she smiles sweetly at him.

“Look!” she spins around. “It’s so pretty!”

“I believe it’s best if I come along. You won’t get her past the front door.”

Harry rips his eyes away from Delphini to find Voldemort dressed in one of the suits Harry
had bought him.

Silence falls.
Just leave her with him; clearly he hadn’t hurt her while you slept.

But he wants her to choose her own things.

Are you really allowing him out of the house? Again?

“You can only come if you don’t go a foot away from me,” he says, defeated.

Voldemort nods.

“It will have to be muggle stores,” Harry points out.

“Obviously.”

“Rody said Muggles are filthy, dangerous animals,” Delphini interjects. “One saw us when
we were living in a cabin. It looked like a man to me,” she shrugs. “But Rody said they just
look like people but they aren’t and then he killed it and transfigured it into a shoe.”

Harry feels faint. He sits down heavily, hands shaking.

“Oh, Harry,” she comes to him and takes his hand. “I know they are scary, but you don’t have
to worry. They won’t hurt you if father is with us. Rody said father is the most powerful
wizard that ever lived.”

(-)

It starts as soon as they leave the house; Voldemort discreetly waves his hand.

“To confuse the Aurors standing guard,” he explains.

“Don’t do anything else,” Harry says, but truth is, he can’t stop Voldemort from doing magic.

Delphini still looks hesitant and scared, but she clings hard to Voldemort’s hand and he walks
so fast, she has no choice but to follow, the box with the wand in her other hand.

Harry protests to such treatment, but it seems it works, and in any case, Voldemort just
ignores him and walks faster, as if to spite him, Delphini almost having to run to keep up.

Voldemort himself looks a little thrown off, seeing muggle women in short jeans, with shaved
heads and piercing in their nose.

“Everyone was much more elegant in the ‘40s,” he comments.

The entire day is surreal.

Voldemort in a children’s store is-something else.

“Muggles are people,” Harry tells Delphini before they enter, terrified of how she will act
around them. “Just like us.”

“Rody-”

“We will pretend Muggles are people, for today,” Voldemort stops her. “Think of it as a
game.”

It’s the right thing to say, Harry understands. Clearly he wouldn’t have been able to change
Delphini’s mind in five minutes, especially since she’d known Harry for a week and
Lestrange is almost a god to her.

“You know about the Statute of Secrecy?” Voldemort asks her.

“The animals don’t know about magic and they can’t find out?” Delphini says, unsure.

“That’s the gist of it,” Voldemort agrees and pulls her through the door before Harry can say
anything else.

There is not a single employee that doesn’t immediately fawn over Voldemort and Delphini,
Harry ignored completely.

Delphini gets over her fear as she receives sweets and compliments.

It really is the best introduction to muggles; women in children stores like children, it seems.

Especially since Delphini tells everyone that asks that her ‘mama’ is dead; she receives even
more sympathy and sweets, and by the end of the day she is willing to let go of Voldemort’s
hand for a while, to better inspect toys and dresses.

It is a good thing Harry is rich.

He has a short, whispered argument with Voldemort, about actually paying and not just
confusing the employees into thinking nothing is owed.

Harry doesn’t relent, and he pays, though he confuses the Muggles himself, so he can pay
cash.

They shrink all the items, because it would be impossible to carry them otherwise.

(-)
“No, no,” Delphini shakes her head vehemently when she sees the nice sign Harry made and
stuck to her door.

‘Delphini’s room.’

“Take it down!”

“Why?”

“Because the wicked men would find me much easier if my name is on the door,” Delphini
explains, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry’s heart drops.

“No one will hurt you here,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him, so he takes the sign down.

She picked a room on the first floor, close to Voldemort. She had wanted the one right next to
his, but Voldemort said “no” and that was that. She chose another one.

Thankfully, that was the end of Voldemort’s involvement.

Harry spent an entire day with Delphini, arranging furniture- and the house obeyed him like
never before. In fact, Harry suspects it obeys Delphini and her Black blood, because for the
first time ever, Harry has no issues moving things around, cleaning them or transfiguring
them.

She really likes pink and blue, so her room ends up being an explosion of colour.

She arranges the books she picked in the Muggle store neatly on her brand new shelves, as
obsessive as her father about what goes where.

She’s fascinated with the various dolls Harry got her, and she arranges the many stuffed
animals around her bed.

“You like it?” Harry asks, when they are done.

Delphini looks around, walks to her dresser and inspects her pretty clothes.

“Very much. I always dreamed of having my room. Thank you Harry, it’s lovely.”

And her smile cheers Harry up tremendously, despite the hell he’d went through during the
past days.

(-)

“Are you alright?” Harry asks, exhausted himself.

He thought Voldemort avoids them on purpose, to not subject himself to Delphini’s still
adjusting temperament, but when Harry gives him a closer look in the first instance he sees
him for more than five minutes in a week, Voldemort looks rather pale.

Paler than usual, that is. There’s a shadow under his eyes that suggests maybe he hadn’t been
resting well.

“Of course,” Voldemort answers, but when Harry serves them breakfast and Delphini is busy
wolfing it down, Voldemort eats very little.

Not that Harry looks much better; but he’s actively following Delphini around the house at all
hours, so at least he has a reason to look worn down.

“More?” Delpini asks, licking her fingers after she’s done with her crepes.

Voldemort gives her an annoyed look and departs before Harry serves her another portion.

(-)

He killed someone. He went out and killed someone, and I wasn’t even aware of it.

Harry can’t stop thinking about it, as he spends his nights on an armchair in Delphini’s room,
watching her sleep. On the one occasion Harry left her to sleep on her own, Voldemort found
Delphini in the pantry, under the jam shelves, where Kreacher used to sleep sometimes.

She said she felt safer in a tight space.

Voldemort found the perfect loophole in his oath. Did he manipulate Harry in asking for that
very specific vow?

Harry thinks back on the conversation and even then he can’t be sure how he came to ask for
Voldemort never leaving the house unless to save an innocent life.

He suspects Voldemort lead him to it, patiently.

But surely, there are no more innocent lives that Voldemort can hide behind, so he can get out
of the house.

Certainly, it was always meant for Delphini.

(-)

“But I don’t want to, please don’t lock me anywhere, please!”

Harry’s heart shatters as he sees Voldemort dragging Delphini away.

They have no choice, however. Harry hurries down the stairs, heart pounding, speculating
what this could be, who it could be-

When he opens the door, he barely sees the bushy hair before Hermione is hugging him
tightly.

“It passed!” she says, when she finally lets him go and steps inside the house.

“Huh?”

“The bill! The house-elves bill! They passed it!”

She’s grinning from ear to ear.

“Oh! Oh, right! Wow, Hermione, that’s great. We have to celebrate, I’ll come by your house
later, now it’s not-” he tries to say, but Hermione is already heading for the stairs.

“Is he in the library?”

“Uhm, I don’t know- listen, I have to head for practice...”

“Sure, sure! I just want to let him know, it will only be a minute! This is huge, Harry!”

Merlin forgive him, but right that second Harry doesn’t care much about the house-elves. But
there is no stopping Hermione.

The library is empty, Voldemort is probably still fighting with Delphini, and Harry shivers to
imagine how that is going, to what methods he might have resorted to make sure Delphini
obeys.

It all happened so fast, the knocks on the doors, Harry’s panic. There was no time to explain
it calmly to Delphini- poor girl, she must be so scared.

“Where is he?” Hermione asks, so excited her foot keeps tapping against the floor, her fingers
playing drum on her bulging stomach.

“I have no idea, maybe he’s taking a nap-”

“Good evening, Mrs. Weasley,” Voldemort says, walking through the doors.

“They passed the bill!” she almost screams at him, that’s how delighted she is.

“Hardly a surprise,” Voldemort says. “I am very persuasive.”

She shakes her head, but she’s still smiling.

“You were right, it was better to start small, they would have never gone for full liberation
from the get go.”
“Make sure you pay your elf from now on, Mr. Potter, or you will be fined.”

Hermione grins.

“Oh, no!” Harry complains, imagining Kreacher’s face when Harry will offer him money.

“And give him three free days a month,” Voldemort goes on.

“I still think six would have been-”

“Patience, Mrs. Weasley. Get them used to the idea. Both the politicians and the elves.”

“Hermione,” she says, after only a momentary hesitation. “You may call me Hermione.”

Voldemort gives her a mocking smile. “You may call me ‘my lord’, he says and Hermione
rolls her eyes.

Harry loves that she is happy and house-elves will get more rights, but he hates how
Voldemort is playing her.

It’s disheartening to see her, smart as she is, fall for his tricks. What hope does Harry have,
then?

“I really have to go, Hermione, I’m sorry.”

She pulls out a parchment from her bag and places it on the desk.

“They didn’t agree to the whole thing, as you anticipated, but here is the final compromise
that made it through.”

Voldemort nods, feigning interest. He couldn’t care less; he despises elves.

The second Hermione is out the door, Harry runs to Delphini’s room.

It takes him four tries to open it, because Voldemort didn’t mess around, he locked it with
multiple spells.

When he gets through them, it is clear there had been a silencing charm on the room, too,
because he’s instantly assaulted by screams.

Delphini is raging, banging her fists on the walls.

The whole room is destroyed.

(-)
“Sometimes you will have to hide, but only for a few hours at most, ok?” Harry says once she
settled down, and he had restored her furniture.

He can’t fathom how a child can make such damage in less than ten minutes.

Some of her toys and books are beyond repair.

But it’s fine, Harry will replace them and she is calmer, once it had been explained to her.

“So the bad people are still after us?”

“No, Delphini. They aren’t bad. They just can’t know about you or your father living here, is
all. Well, some know about him, but-”

“Why?”

Because he is a bad man.

“It’s complicated, but one day I’ll explain it-”

“Explain now. Rody said it was because he and mum and father lost a war and the bad people
won and-”

“No one bad won, ok?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry, I really am,” Harry says, feeling so very guilty. But he needs to think carefully
about how to explain the war to her, how to navigate that mess.

Delphini regards him closely for a few more seconds, her eyes as intelligent as her father’s.

“Promise you won’t forget I’m locked here, and you’ll come and get me when they leave!
Promise!”

“I would never forget about you! I swear! And usually we have more time to prepare. It
won’t be as scary, ok?”

Delphini stares at him, intently. “Alright,” she says, and he thought she was agreeing but
then- “Only plebeians say ‘ok’. Rody said so.”

“Rody said so” quickly climbed to the top of the list of Harry’s most hated sentences.

(-)

Harry can’t remember when he last slept; Delphini had three dreadful nights in a row, where
she just refused to close her eyes.
The more tired she gets, the worse she behaves, the more she refuses to calm down.

Raising a child, a traumatised child no less, is not at all easy.

“You can buy a lightweight sleeping potion,” Voldemort says, and Harry swears, because he
hadn’t heard him come in.

He looms at Harry’s back and for a second Harry just wishes he could lean against him and
close his eyes for a second.

He prepares the tea with shaking hands. “Sleeping potions? For a child?? Do you hear
yourself?”

“They aren’t that harmful. Especially if just given here and there. You need to rest, or you’ll
collapse.”

The dark kitchen indeed swims around Harry, he’s so tired he can barely see.

“I’m fine,” Harry snaps at him and takes the tea to Delphini’s room, hoping it will soothe
her.

(-)

“Are you afraid of father, Harry?” Delphini asks, as they are bent over a puzzle in her room.

Harry eyes her carefully. “No,” he answers, which he can’t be sure if it is true or not.

He doesn’t fear what Voldemort could do to him, but to others.

He is afraid of muggleborns being rounded up and killed, of Diagon Alley looking gloomy,
half the stores closed; Hogwarts under attack-

He banishes the images out of his head.

“No, I’m not. Why would you ask that?”

She tilts her head to the side, like her father does, regarding Harry thoughtfully.

“Should I be afraid of him?”

She should.

In a perfect world, no child should fear their parents. But they aren’t living in that world.

Harry doesn’t want her to live in fear; but he doesn’t want her to be unaware of the danger
and get hurt.
He opens his mouth but closes it again, trying to make a choice.

He can’t settle on one quick enough.

“Rody said father is very powerful. More powerful than anyone else,” Delphini goes on,
breaking the silence. “When he thought father dead, he said father was amazing, and he loved
me very much.”

Harry breathes in, deeply.

“But when he found out father was alive…” Delphini bites her lip, hesitating. “He was happy,
he truly was but…”

“But?” Harry asks when she doesn’t say more.

“Before he left me with Rowle, he said father will come for me. And that he will protect me
better than Rody ever could. But that I-he said I have to be very careful with the way I speak.
He said father doesn’t have much patience, and it is extremely important to always obey him.
No matter what. He said I can’t use my tricks on father, that I can’t cry to get what I want or
demand he gives me things. He said it all in a rush, but he looked- I don’t know, he looked a
little concerned, before he left. The last thing he told me was ‘you will be alright’ but it
seemed he said it more to himself, like he needed to believe it.”

Harry moves closer to her. He puts an arm around her shoulders and pulls her at his side. She
snuggles in his chest.

It always reassures Harry, how affectionate she is. When the similarities between her and
Voldemort are getting too worrying, Harry likes to treasure these moments, to reassure
himself they are not the same.

Delphini has some issues, mostly due to her isolation and treatment at Rowle’s hands, but she
is a good kid.

“Lestrange- Rodolphus, I mean, was right. Your father isn’t very patient, and he likes…
ahm…discipline. It is not wise to scream at him.”

“What would he do if I scream at him?” Delphini asks, and Harry can hear the edge of fear in
her question.

Again, he takes too long to answer.

“When I was bad, Rody just asked me to behave. When I screamed and broke things at
Rowle, she cast silencing charms on the attic and she wouldn’t give me food for that day.”

That fucking woman.

“Would father be like that?”

“I don’t know.” Harry says the truth. “But best we don’t find out, right? You should be good-
you are good. There’s no reason to scream and break things. You and I, we can discuss
anything you want, calmly, yes?”

“Rody said I have the Black temper, that is what he called it. That I take after mama.”

“We don’t have to be like our parents. They don’t define us,” Harry says, which is ironic,
since he always looks for Remus and Tonks in Teddy; Harry himself had tried to be like what
he thought his parents were.

He likes seeing Ron’s mischievousness in Rose, Hermione’s stubbornness.

But in Delphini- He shudders, inwardly.

“You are your own person, Delphini. And you are wonderful. You don’t have to be like
anyone else.”

She climbs into his lap and rests her head on his shoulder.

“You yell at father often. You don’t seem to obey him- in fact, you have to allow him to get
out of the house. And he didn’t do anything bad to you so far.”

Harry kisses her head but doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Are you a very powerful wizard too, Harry? Is that why father can’t get out of the house
without your permission? Why won’t you let him out?”

“It’s time for bed,” Harry says, stilted. “I’ll read you a story. Any story you want.”

Delphini sighs. “Do you know any stories about mama?”

She always asks about that, no matter how many times Harry says ‘no’.

“I miss hearing about her.”

“I’m really sorry; I only met your mother a couple times so I don’t really-”

“Tell me about those times, please.”

Harry opens his mouth to refuse, but she draws back, eyes flashing. “Since you won’t answer
any of my questions, at least you can tell me about mama.”

And there it is, the harsh undertones of Voldemort making requests, the taunting, vaguely
threatening way in which she phrases the innocent sentence.

No matter what Harry tells her, tells himself, she is Voldemort’s daughter, and sometimes it is
obvious.

But because he had avoided her questions- he avoids dozens of them everyday- Harry caves.

“Right; so we were at the Ministry- you know what that is?” he says, when Delphini is in her
bed, her blanket neatly arranged around her.
She nods.

“Ok, so, your mum didn’t like me very much, and I didn’t like her either-”

“Why?”

“Hmm-” Harry fishes for something in his head. “Well, she was-”

Terrible? Murderous? An evil bitch? Great things to tell a child about their dead mother.

“She had a forceful personality. We were both trying to get some—ah—secret papers out of
the Ministry.”

Delphini watches him, attentive.

“So we fought a little about that.”

Which is the biggest understatement in history, but what else can he say?

“Who won?”

“No one, really. The papers got destroyed.”

“Was she pretty? Rody says she was the most beautiful woman alive.”

There are pictures of Bellatrix all around her room, taken from the stash Harry found in the
cabinets. Delphini knows very well how her mother looked. She just likes to hear it, Harry
imagines.

He can never see Bellatrix as anything but disgusting. But of course he can’t say that,
especially since Delphini is aware she looks greatly like her mother.

“Yeah.”

She seems pleased to hear it.

“And how did the fight end? Did you duel? Rody said she was the greatest duellist, after
father.”

“No, we didn’t duel,” Harry lies, suddenly realising he’d tortured Delphini’s mother.

Well, he tried, at least.

“Your father came and- well, that was that.”

Delphini smiles. “He saved mama, right? He came to help her.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, just to simplify matters.

(-)

Incredibly, a month passes and they all survive it.

Delphini is a year older than Teddy, but in many ways she acts younger. There had been no
socialisation, no discipline at all in her life- on one side Rodolphus seems to have spoiled her
rotten; and then she ended up with Rowle, whom Harry prays had only neglected Delphini.

Not to mention she’s been thrown into yet another strange home, with two men that have no
idea how to raise a child.

So she’s prone to tantrums or, in turn, long periods of silence and shyness.

Harry reads her stories before bed, but it doesn’t put her to sleep. Instead, she gets so curious
about them, interrupts him often when something sounds ‘silly’ or offers better alternatives
the heroes of the story could have taken.

Because in other ways, Delphini seems much older than Teddy.

There’s an awareness to her that Harry hadn’t seen in other children as young. She’s
frighteningly observant and fiercely intelligent.

At Rowle’s, she says she only received books, given to her so she would stop yelling.

Her vocabulary is quite extensive for her age; if Harry’s honest, for his age too.

Rowle had apparently been interested in history and romance books because while Delphini
lacks information on many crucial day-to-day matters, she can talk about goblin wars and
Herpo the Foul for hours, or tell Harry about love stories that seem quite spicy.

She finally takes an interest in the horde of toys Harry bought her, but mostly for the dolls.
She likes to play with them a lot, and carries a brunette Barbie with her everywhere, that she
names Bella.

Harry tries not to laugh when she picks a Ken doll as her father.

It is easy to contain the laughter when he watches as Delphini plays “family” with them.

Most of the other toys she ignores, far below her intellect. She enjoys puzzles, but not ones
meant for children; Harry gets her the most complicated puzzles he can find. It is the only
thing that keeps her busy for hours on end.

Harry teaches her chess, and then immediately gets destroyed at it.

But they discover Monopoly together and it’s the only game Harry can win, though he lets
her win most of the time since she doesn’t react well when she loses.
He brings her muggle books too, because he doesn’t want her hating muggles. Fairytales and
history, even a few romance novels since she enjoyed them so much at Rowle’s; he checks
with the sellers to make sure there’s nothing explicit in them.

“I want to take you to a movie,” he says, explaining the concept.

Delphini is curious but when she hears she will have to be in a dark room with muggles, she
says she will only go if father comes.

Once more, Harry allows Voldemort to leave the house. But he gets his revenge, when he
picks a Disney movie, a rerun of ‘The little Mermaid’.

Delphini loves it, staring at the screen in awe from her seat between Voldemort and Harry.

By the end, Voldemort looks ready to kill someone.

“I’d rather never leave the house again,” he says, as they leave.

Luckily Delphini liked it so much, she’s willing to only go out with Harry, just so she can see
more movies.

Delphini is fascinated by the bubbles in the drink he buys her at the cinema.

“How do they make the fizz, father?” she asks when they are back home, Delphini still
holding a bottle of Coca Cola.

She’d asked Harry too, but he had no clue.

Voldemort knows, and he launches into a terribly boring explanation about the carbonation
process.

“How would you even know this?” Harry complains.

Voldemort frowns, slightly. “I must have read it somewhere; I was a curious child.”

“I am too,” Delphini says, hopeful, looking at Voldemort with such longing.

She always tries so hard to make him like her.

As her fear and stress diminish, her true personality emerges.

She’s an extraordinary child. Smart, daring, wild but sweet. She laughs, every day a little
louder. She is more at ease with Harry than she is with Voldemort.

Affectionate, always wanting to hold hands, always kissing his cheek or climbing on his lap
every chance she gets.

She disobeys Harry easily once she learns there are no repercussions for doing it.

Harry knows he’s not supposed to let her do what she wants, he remembers how that turned
out for Dudley, but it is all still so new, he just wants her to feel safe around him.
She does none of that with Voldemort. She follows him around often, but in silence, keeping
her distance and just staring at him. When he deigns to say something, she listens.

When Harry tries to convince her to bathe or brush her teeth, it is always a struggle that ends
in tears or bribes, and it is impossible for him to comb her hair without things exploding all
around them.

Voldemort only needs to tell her once to do something, and she instantly does it, no questions
asked.

On one hand, Harry would like it if Voldemort would get involved more often, so they can
avoid the dramatics; on the other he doesn’t want it, because he knows Delphini obeys not
just because she wants to impress her father, but because she is scared of him.

Harry never asks her about what happened that night when Voldemort came for her and killed
Rowle and she doesn’t volunteer.

There will be time for that later, when she will be more comfortable.

(-)

Another attack, right on Halloween night. This time, four wizards lose their lives and for the
first time, three Muggles.

Harry seethes at the news, glaring at Voldemort.

“Tell me who-”

But Delphini enters the kitchen and Harry quickly tries to hide the newspaper- too late.

“What’s that? Is it about Rod? He had a tattoo like that on his arm,” she says, trying to grab
the newspaper from the bin.

“No, it’s not about him,” Harry says, pulling her away.

“I want to see!” Delphini’s voice hits that critical level that means a tantrum is coming soon.

Harry wrestles with her, but of course he does it gently, and she escapes his grasp, going for
the bin.

The Daily Prophet catches fire, the flames big and hot-

She rears back, eyes wide.

“What the fuck!?” Harry yells at Voldemort, outraged, checking Delphini’s hands to make
sure she is unharmed. Then he remembers a child is right there, and he just swore. “Shit-”
Fuck! “I mean, sorry, Delphini, we shouldn’t say that word.”

But Delphini is frozen on the spot, eyes glued to the flames; Harry douses them in water.

“You could have hurt her!” he hisses, getting in Voldemort’s face.

“Unlikely,” Voldemort replies with no emotion.

“Don’t do that, ever again! I’m dead serious!” Harry spits, so mad he’s shaking.

Voldemort leans back on the chair; he takes an unhurried sip of tea form his cup, before
fixing Harry with a glare of his own.

“Or what?” he asks.

Harry doesn’t back away. “Don’t test me,” he says, and he can hear how determined he
sounds. “You won’t hurt this child. I put up with a lot of shit from you, but don’t cross this
line.”

Neither blink. They stare at each other, tension mounting-

“You said ‘shit’ again,” Delphini speaks into the heavy silence. “I suppose you think that’s a
nasty word too. You shouldn’t worry, I heard much worse from Rody. Much worse. You want
me to teach you something more impressive than ‘fuck’, Harry?”

Harry sighs, and he looks away from Voldemort to take Delphini in.

She smiles, but her shoulders are very tense, her eyes moving quickly between Voldemort
and Harry.

“Come, we can have breakfast at McDonalds,” Harry says, taking her hand. “And we will
have a chat about language.”

“What’s McDonalds?” she asks, following him out of the kitchen.

(-)

They are in between Quidditch seasons, so Harry affords to miss a few practice sessions, but
soon he will have to make a decision.

Can he really be a part of the team, with Delphini stuck at home with Voldemort?

Is it fair to have her cut off from the magical world?

Harry asks Voldemort to Confound the Aurors keeping watch at the door, every time Harry
leaves the house with Delphini, to go to the cinema or other Muggle places.
“You could do it yourself,” Voldemort says, aiming from the window. “You are powerful
enough to override their will.”

Harry chooses to be pleased by the compliment and ignores the implication, but Voldemort
doesn’t let it go.

“Interesting how you agree with something immoral, as long as you do not have to get your
hands dirty.”

“You just have better control and aim,” Harry answers, which is true, but he knows he could
do it himself.

He doesn’t want to, however. Having Voldemort do it is not much better, but it is different.

It is for an innocent reason.

It is, he convinces himself. It’s for Delphini.

When Voldemort refuses to help, no doubt hoping Harry will be forced to Confound the
Aurors himself, Harry just wraps the Invisibility Cloak around Delphini.

Voldemort snatches it away, lecturing Harry about misusing such a priceless artefact, that it
wasn’t made so a child could get out and eat ice cream.

Harry reminds him he had the cloak since he was eleven and ‘misused’ it many times.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t lose it,” Voldemort sneers, folding it and locking it securely in a
cabinet, away from Delphini’s reach. “What was Dumbledore thinking, handing it to a child-”

“He was thinking it is mine,” Harry answers, eyebrow raised. “Sorry if that doesn’t fit with
the image of Dumbledore you’re trying to project. But he really was not a power hungry man.
He could have had the Hallows any time he wanted. In my sixth year, he had the stone, he
had the wand, and the Cloak was in my backpack. He never tried to get it back.”

“What an idiot,” Voldemort declares.

(-)

After a quick shower, Harry stills himself for what he knows will be another sleepless night;
Delphini had been difficult all day, and Harry knows the signs.

She won’t fall asleep easily, or at all. And if she sleeps but wakes up and Harry is asleep, she
runs and hides in the pantry.

He sighs, brushes his teeth and marches down the stairs, making sure to hide his tiredness.
He stops abruptly when he hears Voldemort’s voice coming from her room.

That never happened before. Voldemort didn’t step inside the room, even if Delphini asked
him several times.

He’s speaking in a low tone and Harry opens the door to see Voldemort seated in Harry’s
usual armchair (purple with pink and blue accents); Delphini is in her bed already, head
supported by several fluffy pillows, the box with her wand hidden under them, as always.

Delphini ignores Harry, eyes on her father, but Voldemort gives Harry an empty look.

“Get out,” he says.

“No,” Harry refuses, because he just doesn’t like these two alone; he knows that while
Delphini craves his attention, she’s also afraid of him.

“Please, Harry,” Delphini speaks softly. “He is telling me a story about mama. I want to hear
it.”

Surprised, Harry retreats, but stays in the hallway.

What’s this about, he wonders. He’d love to think it is Voldemort’s paternal instinct finally
kicking in, but he knows better than that.

He’s after something, and it makes Harry weary.

Voldemort either casts a charm on the room or he really is speaking quietly, because Harry
doesn’t catch any word, even if he hears his voice.

Harry can only hope he’ll leave murder and torture out of his story about Bellatrix, but what
else is there to say, if violence is taken away from that woman?

It doesn’t take long before the door opens. Harry peeks inside to see Delphini sleeping.

“Thank God,” he mutters, but Voldemort doesn’t let him enter, closing the door.

“Hey!” Harry whispers. “I have to be there in case she wakes up-”

“She won’t wake up.”

“That sounds ominous,” Harry tries to enter but Voldemort grabs his shoulder and drags
Harry away.

“She’ll sleep, she’s exhausted. You need to do the same.”

Harry keeps protesting, right until they reach Voldemort’s room.

“No, no!” Harry says, stepping back. “Fine, you’re right, I need some sleep, but I’ll just go to
my room. Sometimes she goes there, when she wakes up. If she doesn’t find me anywhere,
she will go to the pantry and stay there the whole night-”
“So?”

Harry stares at him, but Voldemort doesn’t look bothered.

“It’s our pantry, nothing will happen to her there.”

Even with his soul intact, Voldemort is still soulless.

Harry finds himself inside the grand room, pushed on the bed. And Merlin, it’s so good, just
to rest on something that isn’t an armchair-

“What if she finds me sleeping in your room?” Harry asks, stretching; several of his joints
pop. It feels amazing.

How on earth had Molly raised seven children? At once, no less. The woman is a hero, Harry
never truly appreciated how hard a task that would be until he met Delphini.

Voldemort joins him on the bed, pulling a blanket over them.

“She would never dare barge into my room. Even if she would try, she has no way of
bypassing the curses on the door.”

“That is awful, you should make yourself available to her,” Harry mumbles. He can’t
understand how it’s possible Voldemort has no mercy for his own daughter.

“And if she were to find you here, I fail to see the issue.”

“She’s a kid…” Harry whispers, eyes closing, snuggling more comfortably into the mattress.

Voldemort says something scathing, but Harry interrupts him.

“It was nice of you to tell her a story.”

He understands now he did it so Harry can get some rest. He isn’t sure how to feel about it.
Flattered that Voldemort cares about Harry’s rest? Sad he doesn’t care about Delphini?

“She’s trained to fall asleep hearing about Bella.”

The bed shifts and Voldemort is suddenly plastered to Harry’s back.

Harry would like to tell him he is not in the mood for anything, but he lacks the energy to
even open his mouth.

However, Voldemort does nothing else to imply he’s interested in sex.

“You make a terrible father,” he says, amused. “She plays you like a fiddle.”

Harry knows; if he were more awake, he’d say at least he isn’t as terrible as Voldemort.

“I had never seen anyone put so much effort into a child,” Voldemort goes on, his mouth so
very close to Harry’s ear.
Harry falls asleep in the next few seconds.

He wakes more rested than he’d felt in over a month. He basks in the comfort of the bed for
another minute, before remembering why he’s there.

Oh, right.

Delphini. He needs to check on her.

Voldemort is awake beside him.

It dawns on Harry that he slept in the same room with Voldemort without having sex with
him prior.

Voldemort hugged him to sleep.

He tries to banish the warmth that settles in his chest.

It means nothing. Just another manipulation. Voldemort needs Harry alive for whatever he
plans, and for that he has to make sure Harry sleeps from time to time.

But he can’t convince himself.

Harry clings to it already, knows he’ll always come back to the memory of simply falling
asleep beside him.

“Ar, I need to-” he says, shy.

It feels more intimate than sex, what they’ve done.

Harry can’t look at him, and is grateful for the darkness surrounding them, because he feels
his cheeks blushing.

Voldemort stands, but Harry is already at the door, opening it. He rushes out of the room.

In the dim hallway, he sees a shadow at the end of the corridor.

He yelps, stepping back, before realising it is Delphini.

He waves his hand and the candles light up on the walls. She’s in her nightgown, holding the
box with the wand in one hand, and her doll in the other.

“Oh, Delphini,” Harry says, hand massaging his chest. “Sorry, you scared me-”

“Good morning, Harry,” she says, chipper. “Don’t be silly, how can I scare you?”

He doesn’t tell her how creepy the silhouette of a child can appear to be in the shadows.

“Harry is easily startled,” Voldemort comments, coming out of his bedroom.

Delphini doesn’t seem surprised or confused about them sharing a room.

Should Harry address it?

No, better not.

Delphini remains in a great mood as Harry prepares breakfast; she even brushed her teeth and
braided her hair.

“No,” Voldemort says, when the food is on the table and Delphini lunges for it. “You’ve seen
me eat, you know how to use cutlery. That is how you will do it.”

Delphini looks mutinous for a second- she doesn’t like hearing ‘no’.

“But-” she starts to say.

“There is no need to hurry; no one will take your food away. Accept that and behave
accordingly.”

He isn’t wrong, but Harry glares at him throughout the meal, for the harsh way in which he
said it.

Delphini imitates Voldemort to perfection, from the way she holds her fork, to the way she
chews.

She’s left-handed, as is Voldemort.

“See, I was good,” she says when she finishes. “I didn’t sleep in the pantry, I didn’t bother
Harry, I brushed my teeth and I ate properly.”

“That’s great, Delphini, I appreciate it,” Harry says, after a break, because she was talking to
Voldemort but he doesn’t seem interested in responding. “And you never bother me.”

It becomes clear, as the day progresses and Delphini is on her best behaviour, that she acts
this way as a reward for Voldemort in exchange for the story about her mother.

She obviously hopes to show her father that she will behave, if only he’ll go back to her
room.

It’s sad and eerily manipulative at the same time.

But it works- manipulation is a language both Delphini and Voldemort understand naturally.

Delphini caught on that Voldemort wants Harry to rest, and she uses that to her advantage.

Voldemort seems willing to exchange stories about her mother for it. Not always; he keeps
Delphini guessing. There are nights in a row when Harry finds Voldemort in Delphini’s room,
and there are also nights in which Harry has to struggle to put her to sleep on his own, but she
always insists he is to go away after that, promises she’ll stay in her bedroom until breakfast.

It’s wrong, it’s twisted, but Harry feels more human once he gets his sleep back on track.
 It isn’t how it used to be before Delphini, when he’d get up whenever he wanted.

No, Harry is always on his feet when seven o’clock rolls around, but that’s fine, since he
doesn’t spend his nights awake, troubled by his guilt and memories.

He doesn’t have the energy for it anymore.

When Harry goes to bed, tiredness claims him easily, and he rarely has nightmares these
days.

Christmas is approaching and Harry is so excited about it, plans it in his head in minute
detail, hardly waiting for it, imagining Delphini's delight at celebrating such a nice holiday.

He tries not to think about what he’ll tell Ron and Hermione, how he will explain Delphini’s
presence.

Voldemort says he has a plan.

And his plans always seem to work.

Chapter End Notes

I know there is a lot of Delphini in this chapter- it won't be like this, moving forward.
This isn't a kid fic, it's a fic with a kid in it, but we needed to learn more about her in this
one and sort of settle her inside the house. For that reason, the plot was put on hold, only
for this chapter. We'll return to it with the following one. (Also I just wanted an excuse
and a scenario to force Voldemort to sit through a Disney movie haha)
I know some of you hate Delphini, but for the ones that don't let me know what you
think of her!
Thank you for reading.
 Chapter 15
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Hermione snatches the book out of Harry’s hands as soon as he enters the house.

She looks tired and a bit angry, which is to be expected, so late into her pregnancy.

She’s been forced to stop going to the Ministry, what with the baby coming soon, but that
doesn’t stop her from working, she just does it from home. Lately, there’s a constant
exchange of letters between her and Voldemort, Harry having allowed Midas to deliver letters
written by Voldemort, but only to Hermione.

“Maybe you shouldn’t read books the dark lord gives you,” Ron comments.

She huffs and holds the book up. “It’s about centaurs, Ronald! We’re working on a bill
proposal for their diminishing forests. I’ll hardly go dark because of it!”

Ron mumbles something about her going dark already, and the despotic ways she’s been
acting lately, but thankfully Hermione is already out of the room by then.

Harry is happy they are both so tired, because neither drill him about his prolonged absence.

It’s the first time he leaves the house without Delphini, and he’s incredibly stressed about it,
but realistically he won’t be able to stay with her non-stop for the rest of their lives so he
needs to get used to leaving her with Voldemort.

He made sure they were both in good moods before leaving, though.

Not that it means much- with their tempers, that could change at the drop of a hat.

So Harry plays with Rose a bit, talks with Ron though they are both distracted so nothing of
importance is mentioned.

Harry’s back home in under two hours, just in time for dinner.

“I helped!” Delphini says, proudly, inspecting the table and checking an eighteen century
book about ‘Dining Etiquette’. “Oh, wait.” She frowns and turns a page before she closes the
book down and arranges the napkins in a slightly different manner. “There, it’s perfect now!”

“Good job!” Harry smiles at her, wishing she’d help similarly when he’s the one cooking,
instead of just stealing raw ingredients off the counter and trying to eat them.

“I pulled the fine china and the silver cutlery from the cabinets at the back. They were very
dusty! I had to clean them for an hour! You better like them.”
Harry hates them. They look stuffy and formal, the Black Family crest engraved on
everything, “Toujours Pur” scribblings on every surface.

“I love them,” he says.

He had discovered the secret of parenting. Lying. A lot.

Voldemort looks a tad irritated and Harry guesses that even if he put her to work cleaning
ancient silver sets, she had still managed to talk a mile a second during it, because as soon as
she starts chatting when food is placed in front of them, he snaps at her.

“Was there nothing in the book about not talking during dinner?”

“Actually, we are supposed to engage in several topics, as long as they don’t involve politics
or personal affairs or-”

“We’ll stay silent during this one,” Voldemort hisses.

“But I am supposed to ask Harry how his day went,” Delphini complains. “And compliment
you on the food, but only after I take the first bite.”

A vein throbs dangerously on Voldemort’s forehead.

“My day was fine,” Harry intervenes before Voldemort gets a chance to either tell her
something terrible or dump the hot fancy soup on her head. “As you know, since I spent most
of it with you. But I had a good time with my friends.”

So Harry talks during the meal, because that doesn’t annoy Voldemort.

And Delphini is a good listener, which is rare, in Harry's experience, for someone that talks
so much to also be interested in what anyone else has to say.

“Go to your room,” Voldemort demands, as soon as Delphini places her knife and fork on her
clean plate.

She gives him a venomous look, but she hides it fast enough and then she leaves the room in
silence.

“How is it possible she has so much energy?” Voldemort asks, making Harry laugh.

For Voldemort, who’s a tireless force of nature, always up to something, to ask that
question…

“She must have inherited it from someone,” Harry says.

Voldemort pours himself a generous amount of wine.

(-)
“Get on the bed.”

A shiver of pleasure travels down the length of his spine, desperate to please Voldemort.

No matter what goes on outside the bedroom door, when they are inside and Voldemort uses
that voice, it just gives Harry such a rush.

Tension seeps from his body when he does as he’s told; it’s just so easy.

So rewarding to focus on what he’s told to do and allow his many worries and burdens to
melt away.

It’s not always like that; sometime they just have ‘normal’ sex, as Harry thinks of it. And
that’s very satisfying on its own.

But Harry never forgets just who is fucking him, in those occasions. The guilt doesn’t truly
go away.

When Voldemort orders him around, voice low and rough, Harry has no regrets.

He’s already hazy with need, completely disconnected from everything. He’d been that way
since Voldemort striped him in the master bathroom and pushed Harry into the wall, face
first.

“Spread your legs.”

It only happened minutes before, but Harry shivers remembering it; he can still feel
Voldemort’s long fingers stretching him open.

Voldemort takes his time watching Harry writhe on the bed; Harry almost begs him to hurry
up.

He remembers in the nick of time that he’s not supposed to speak.

Voldemort usually wants Harry begging, but this time he’d told Harry to keep silent.

So he swallows his unspoken pleas, and that brings another flutter of joy, because he’s doing
what is expected of him.

Voldemort unbuttons his shirt, slowly. It drives Harry mad.

He always wants Voldemort naked- not just because the man looks good, but because it’s
more intimate that way.

It rarely happens.

But now he’s taking off his clothes, but does it so slowly, eyes fixed on Harry, waiting naked,
spread on the big mattress.
He’s so hard, it hurts.

When Voldemort finally joins him, he does so with a slanted smile.

“Turn around.”

So cruel. He took off his clothes, but now Harry won’t be able to see him.

But he turns, dutifully. Eager. So impatient, he takes initiative and shifts on the bed until he’s
on his hands and knees, before Voldemort even asks it.

“Good.”

Pleasure floods Harry at the praise. It’s not a physical thrill. Something else inside him, a
dark corner, vulnerable and empty, swells with delight.

Harry wants to be good. He wants Voldemort to like him, to forget he’s being held captive.

He must hate Harry so much for it-

Voldemort’s hand at the base of his spine banishes the train of thought.

Harry’s relaxed and ready. So ready. He’s been dreaming about this for weeks, having quick
wanks in the shower every night.

Even prepared as he is, Voldemort’s cock always takes the breath out of him, in those first
few seconds.

Harry loves it. He bites his lip, hard, to stop any noise.

Not a sound, Voldemort demanded, back in the bathroom.

A part of him wonders what Voldemort would do if he disobeys.

His cock twitches at the brief thought of what could happen, but for the moment he is
determined to be good.

And apparently Voldemort is determined to do everything slowly that night, torturing Harry
with lazy thrusts.

Harry uses all his willpower to not push back against him.

Even that torment is so incredibly arousing. The idea that Voldemort does what he wants, that
Harry is just there to please him-

It makes his mind calm; it’s like being submerged under water, into a place where he can just
exist, in a state of bliss.

The world is reduced to the way Voldemort’s cock drags in and out of him; it’s the only thing
that matters.
“You were made for this,” Harry hears as if from far away and he’s elated. “You were meant
for me.”

Yes. Harry has a destiny, a reason to wake up in the morning.

“My reward,” Voldemort grabs his shoulder with one hand, his hip with the other, pulling
Harry’s body towards him.

The thrusts are more powerful; they come faster, a constant assault on Harry’s prostrate,
sending hot, almost unbearable spikes of pleasure straight to his brain, making his vision
white.

The taste of iron is heavy in his mouth; a drop of blood falls on the pillow from his lip, as
Harry bites it so hard, because it’s almost impossible to stay quiet.

“I will destroy you, take you apart piece by piece and build you up again, to my liking.”

Harry comes all over the sheets. His arms give out and his chest and head collapse on the
pillow.

Voldemort fucks him harder.

Harry’s oversensitive, the urge to get away claws on his spine, but he goes boneless, pliant,
and soon he doesn’t feel his body at all.

He closes his eyes and floats on a cloud of bliss, where he has no name, no identity. Where he
doesn’t need a body, his soul is free of any packagings. Where it’s safe and silent.

It’s so good. So perfect.

When Harry comes back to himself, tears are spilling down his face. It isn’t the first time it
happens.

He’s on his side, facing the wall; he presses the heels of his palms to his eyes to stop the
tears.

His limbs feel heavy, his mouth is dry.

He’s shivering.

He always hates these moments, when reality comes crashing back, when the weight of the
world seems to settle on his shoulder.

He feels at his most vulnerable, naked and confused, with his enemy at his back.

He always thinks there’s something wrong with him to crave all he just received; that deep
down Voldemort might not want him at all.

Maybe Voldemort laughs at Harry in his head. Of how stupid and pathetic these desires of his
are-
Hot fingers come to rest on his neck and Harry presses his hands to his eyes harder.

His lip is bleeding and hurting.

Voldemort lets his fingers trail down, over every one of Harry’s vertebras, until he reaches the
last one.

And then back up, soft pressure on each one, until Harry stops shivering.

He pulls his palms away and blinks the last of the tears. The deep shame and confusion melt
under each caress on his back.

Harry hates these moments, right after intense sex the most.

He also loves them the most, because Voldemort is so gentle afterwards, so at odds with his
usual character.

He turns, rests his head on Voldemort’s chest.

“Are you bleeding?” Voldemort sounds teasing and amused and it makes Harry smile, makes
him feel normal, the casualness in his tone.

His long fingers grab Harry’s chin, lifting his head.

Harry protests, wordless. He’s not ready for that yet; he feels better, but he wants to hide in
the solid chest in front of him.

Voldemort waves his other hand and Harry’s lip is healed and his chin is let go.

Content, Harry snuggles closer.

It doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep, safe in the knowledge that they won’t hold it
against each other- not all the weird things Voldemort sometimes says during sex, nor the
way Harry behaves. When morning comes, they’re both happy to go back to normal.

(-)

He quits the team. Harry can’t play Quidditch. He has more important things to worry about.

He pulls out all the books about Oath again, and spends long nights in the library going over
them, trying to find that loophole and do his best to circumvent it.

But there is nothing. Every text clearly says there is no way out of an Oath, unless the
recipient of said Oath releases the one who made it.

Or upon Harry’s death. Only Voldemort took another Oath not to kill him, and that also
means Voldemort cannot plot to kill him- he cannot ask someone else to do it, cannot even
hint at it, cannot contribute in any way otherwise he would lose his magic.

Voldemort sits on the couch beside Harry on one of those nights.

“You won’t discover anything in those books, though I must say I’m pleased to find you
reading something of value instead of those muggle magazines or broom catalogues.”

“I’ve quit the team,” Harry says. “I can’t play with Delphini here alone with you.”

“I won’t do anything to her.”

“It’s not that.” Harry doesn’t worry Voldemort will intentionally hurt his daughter. Not
anymore. “You ignore her. She might fall down the stairs or drown in the bathtub or find a
cursed object in the attic and-”

“I don’t need to run around after her like you do to make sure she’s alive, Harry. I have
magic. I know where she is, at all times. And this house won’t hurt a Black, in any case.”

Harry slumps into him. He can’t help it. It’s comforting.

“I still can’t play. I can’t focus on it. It’s not fair to the team.”

“No matter,” Voldemort dismisses it. “Once everything is done with, you may go back to it.”

Harry snorts. “Yeah, right.”

“You will. You look quite fetching in that uniform.”

Harry blushes. It’s so annoying.

But Voldemort never tells him he looks good; quite the opposite. He always finds passive-
aggressive ways to insult Harry.

“I thought I am not much to look at,” Harry reminds him.

“You aren’t.” Voldemort smiles at him. “Unless you are in your Quidditch gear.”

There is no winning with this man.

(-)

“I’ve never done this before,” Harry tells her, when they are about to set the Yule altar on top
of the fireplace in the living room.
“Rody usually built it,” she says, and she turns sad. But when Harry tries to speak, she shakes
her head and goes on. “I remember how to do it. I’ll teach you and then you can teach me
what to do with that Christmas tree of yours.”

It’s fun. Way too much fun.

And there are no looming worries about the upcoming holidays. Hermione just gave birth to
the sweetest boy Harry had ever set his eyes on. She’s in no state to attend dinners at Harry’s
house any time soon.

It won’t last forever, but Harry is glad for the short time little Hugo bought them to figure out
how to explain Delphini.

They put up their altar and then they put up the tree. Delphini loves the decorations in it, even
if for her it is strange to have a tree inside.

“We also decorate Yule trees, but just with candles, you know? Not with all these shiny
things!”

The tree is a right horror. There’s too much tinsel, far too much; blue and pink, because those
are her favourite colours. Harry loves it.

“You know nothing about Yule and I’m not really sure about which log would burn better,”
Delphini says, when they are already dressed in warm clothes. “Father knows, I’m sure.”

Father is quick to smirk at Harry, who has no choice but to let him out of the house, again.

Voldemort Apparates them to a freezing forest in Scotland.

It can’t take that much time to pick a damned log, Harry thinks, but he doesn’t say anything,
lets Voldemort enjoy some time out, the way he likes it.

With no muggles around.

“Did you use to celebrate Yule?” Harry inquires, suspicious.

“Oh, yes. It was my priority; without fail, I built altars and picked logs, every December,”
Voldemort drawls, full of sarcasm.

“Then why do you say it’s better than Christmas-”

“Because it’s a magical tradition. Just as stupid as the muggle one, but it is ours.”

Delphini picks the tree; it is very tall. Voldemort cuts its branches and roots.

“Yes!” She is satisfied. “This shall be the Yule Log.”

“Delphini, it won’t fit in our fireplace-”

“If only we were wizards,” Voldemort remarks.

Right.

And indeed, the fireplace in the library expands with no resistance, until they fit the whole
thing in.

It has to burn for twelve days, but Voldemort charms it and Harry trusts he wouldn’t let them
all catch fire in their sleep.

“Do you think we can put the candles in Harry’s Christmas tree, father? Even if it is inside
and has all the other stuff in it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Voldemort answers.

Delphini reverently takes one out of the bag with the specific golden candles she had
carefully selected at the Muggle store, some days prior.

“In the tree?” Harry asks, wand out to make sure it won’t catch fire.

“Yes. It is for the ones we lost,” Delphini says. “This one is for Rody.”

She stands on her tiptoes and places the candle on a branch.

Harry has a knot in his throat, but he secures the candle there.

“And this one is for mama,” Delphini says, taking another candle. “But I want it to be at the
very top. I can’t reach.”

She looks at Voldemort, shyly.

Voldemort looks out the window.

“Here,” Harry lifts her, gently and Delphini sighs.

She’d obviously wanted her father to do it.

“Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome.” He kisses the top of her head once the second candle is safely on the top
branches. “Now let’s have dinner and I bought you a surprise for desert- Delphini?” Harry
asks when he moves but she doesn’t follow.

She’s frowning at him. “Don’t you have any candles to put up for your lost ones?”

Harry’s chest grows heavier.

A long silence stretches over them.

“I bought enough candles,” Delphini says, raising the bag.

Voldemort quietly leaves the room.

“Ok,” Harry whispers.

“Good. This way they will know you’re thinking about them.” Delphini extends him a
candle. “Who’s this one for?”

Harry would have thought he’d gone through enough loss as to become numb to it.

Yet there he is, emotional, blinking back tears.

“For my mum,” Harry says.

Delphini nods, solemn. “Then it has to be a top branch. The most important go there. But
please, Harry, not higher than mama’s, alright?”

“Alright.”

Harry wonders if his parents celebrated Yule. They must have. His father was a pureblood
from a fairly old bloodline.

Had he put up candles for his own parents?

Delphini wouldn’t have enough candles for all the people Harry lost.

So after he is done with his parents, he only takes one more.

“For Sirius,” he says, and he places it just as high as the others, but as far from Bellatrix’, his
murderer, as possible.

“Cousin Sirius?” Delphini asks, surprising Harry. “Rody said he was mama’s favourite cousin
before he turned blood traitor.”

“He wasn’t a blood traitor,” Harry says, harshly.

Delphini takes his hand as they both look at the tree.

“That’s alright, Harry. If mama liked him, I like him too.”

It’s strangely peaceful and yet painful at the same time. There’s something about those
candles, their light flickering in tandem with the ones on the altar and the log in the fire that
makes Harry’s chest hurt, and yet fill with warmth, too.

The scent of the many herbs Delphini had demanded to be placed on the altar fills the room.

“Do you know if father has a lost one?” Delphini asks. “I’ll put it up, but I need a name.”

Voldemort caused the lost ones in the tree.

Not counting Bellatrix, Voldemort is directly responsible for all the others.
(-)

“It was the best birthday I ever had,” Delphini says, sleepily, snuggled in her bed, with all the
presents she received.

Her favourite is the silver star, safely placed around her neck.

Voldemort had made it by melting a goblet.

He’d been so happy when Voldemort extended the small gift to his daughter. Harry was
elated to see her face light up with joy.

Harry gave her a mountain of presents but he understands very well why she cherishes the
one from Voldemort the most.

She’d received a knitting kit on Christmas, and every day since she stayed in her room for
hours, working on a scarf for Voldemort’s birthday.

Harry’s been so shocked to learn the two share a birthday, so intent on making sure she will
have a day to remember, so busy buying her far too many presents, that he forgot to get
something for Voldemort.

So after Dephini falls asleep, Harry goes to the library.

He foolishly suggests taking Voldemort out, as a birthday gift.

Just for half an hour, now that Delphini is asleep. Somewhere remote.

Harry knows Voldemort wants to be outside- and while he must treasure even going out to
Muggle places with Delphini, occasionally- he hates Muggles and Delphini can annoy him,
especially if she’s excited.

“I’m not a dog,” Voldemort snarls. “You think you can put a leash on me and take me out for
a walk?” He stands and Harry backs away from him. “Train me not to bite and teach me new
tricks?”

“No-I- hey!” Harry says, raising a hand. “I didn’t mean it that way, I only-“

“You think you own me? That you can ‘take me’ outside? How dare you?”

“I wanted for you to have something!” Harry shouts back. “To be happy-”

“And a walk in the park would make me happy?” Voldemort’s eyes flash. “Worry not, Harry.
I will walk outside again, don’t concern yourself over it. But you won’t be needing to ‘take
me’.”

Harry sighs. Voldemort is so volatile sometimes, that any word can set him off. Before he got
his wand, he’d been able to control himself, but after… he’s quick to resort to anger at every
little thing.

“Why do you want to make me happy? Do you ever wonder about that?”

Harry knows why. He knows that Voldemort knows too.

He will not be mocked for it

“I don’t know,” he spits after Voldemort, who’s already walking out of sight. “Perhaps you
can tell me why, when you’ll be all mighty again, I would still be alive, visiting my vaults in
Gringotts or playing Quidditch?”

He should not have said that, Harry realises, just as the words left his mouth.

Voldemort says those things on purpose, to fuck with Harry’s head, as always. It meant
nothing, no matter how many times Harry revisits the conversations in his head and wishes it
would mean something.

Voldemort stops and turns to face Harry.

“Forget it,” Harry says, blushing.

“You will be able to go to Gringotts and play Quidditch. You will be wearing a pretty green
collar with my name on it and no one will disturb you. It will match the nice green cuffs
around your wrists. And when you’ll be in my presence, I’ll even give you a leash, Harry; I’ll
take you to the park. I’m a generous lord.”

Harry just stares at him, mouth open.

“And I will act all surprised when it turns out none of that makes you happy.”

(-)

“It’s not my fault, if in God’s plan,” Delphini sings, as she’d done all day since returning
from a viewing of ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’. “He made the devil so much stronger
than a maaaan.”

Her voice travels all the way to the kitchen.

“Can’t you take her to a normal movie, without songs?” Voldemort asks, opening a bottle of
wine.

“These are kids’ movies,” Harry says, salting the meat. “She enjoys them.”

“Destroy Esmeralda! And let her taste the fires of Hell! Or else let her be mine and mine
alooooone!”
“What children movie is that?” Voldemort raises an eyebrow, amused. “Certainly a departure
from ‘The Little Mermaid’.”

“I didn’t know it was a bit dark, ok?”

“Hellfire, Dark fire! Now, gypsy, it’s your turn! Choose me or your pyre! Be mine or you will
buuurn!”

“Delphini!” Harry shouts. “Please stop singing that-”

Voldemort laughs, thoroughly amused.

“Why would you sing it? Frollo was the bad guy!” Harry says just as Delphini enters the
kitchen.

“God have meeeercy on her!” she sings but stops when Harry groans. “He just loved
Esmeralda.”

“He wanted to kill her!” Harry wrinkles his nose. And really, who would put such themes in a
children’s movie?

“Well, she was fine by the end.” Delphini shrugs it off.

Harry sighs. “Sit down, you can eat the little sandwiches until dinner is ready.”

“He did kill her,” Voldemort says, a small frown between his brows.

“Huh?”

“In the book. This must be ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’, by the sound of it. In the book,
she died.”

“Oh, no!” Delphini says. “Sorry!” she adds when Voldemort glares at her for talking with her
mouth full.

She swallows, fast. “I didn’t know there was a book! I want it!”

“She died??” Harry didn’t know there was a book either. “You read a children’s book?”

“I was a child,” Voldemort says, sipping his wine. “And it was not considered a book for
children.”

“I can’t believe she died,” Delphini exclaims. “She was so pretty! And what happened to
Quasimodo?”

“He killed Frollo as he was laughing while Esmeralda was hanged-”

“They hanged her? Oh my God!” Harry snatches Voldemort’s bottle and gulps a mouthful of
wine.
“In the original book, Quasimodo’s skeleton is found many years later in a mass grave into
which the bodies of the destitute and criminals were thrown. It is implied Quasimodo had
sought Esmeralda among the decaying corpses and lay beside her to die. As the guards
attempt to pull the embracing skeletons apart, his crumbles to dust.”

“That’s….that’s…” Harry has no words.

“That’s Victor Hugo,” Voldemort says, amused.

Harry has no clue who that is. A sadistic man, probably.

“So romantic!” Delphini declares. “Poor Quasimodo! Oh, he loved her so much! Everyone
loved her! I want to be like Esmeralda!”

Voldemort snorts. “You want to be hanged?”

“The movie Esmeralda,” Delphini says, rolling her eyes and biting into another sandwich. “I
want everyone to love me.”

(-)

Voldemort flicks his wrist and his wand, left on the night table, flies in his hand. Harry’s
pulled out of the state of exhilaration and anticipation he’d been in.

He blinks, confused and slightly anxious, because Voldemort hadn’t mixed sex with wands
until now and Harry’s not very sure about it-

Voldemort takes Harry’s hand, which had been resting above his head and points the wand at
it.

An intense heat, so unbearable Harry tries to snatch his hand out of Voldemort’s grip, but to
no avail.

It only lasts a second, and then he is released.

Harry look at the back of his hand, still tingling with a subdued burn-

Nothing. The skin is unmarred.

And it shouldn’t be.

‘I must not tell lies’ should be there, in faint, white scars.

Gone.

Voldemort lowers his body on top of Harry’s, lips at his ear.

“You won’t bear anyone else’s mark. You are mine and mine alone.”

Harry opens his mouth but only a high whine comes out of it, because Voldemort presses his
cock into Harry.

“When I break Azkaban open, I’ll find her. I’ll torture her, for days, I’ll have her bleed out of
her skin, slowly, until there is no more blood left and she will lie dead at your feet.”

Harry shuts his eyes tightly, trying to ignore the words, to get lost in how his body stretches
around Voldemort.

(-)

They stop at Foyles on Charing Cross Road before they head home after watching a movie.

The employees at the bookstore already know Delphini, always coo over her and her love of
reading.

She wants ‘The Hunchback of Notre Dame’ and no matter how much no one wants to give it
to her, she won’t accept no for an answer.

“My father read it as a child and said I can read it too!” she tells the nice young lady working
there.

She and a coworker give Harry an incredulous look. “Sir, it’s not appropriate-”

“My other father,” Delphini rectifies. “Now, please, tell me where I can find it.”

Harry’s heart threatens to burst out of his chest. He fells dizzy. He leans on one of the
shelves.

My other father.

He’s so touched he buys her the damned book.

(-)

“The Muggles at the bookshop didn’t seem to like I have two fathers,” Delphini tells
Voldemort, carefully stacking her new books on the shelves. “The man especially looked at
Harry in a hateful way.”

Indeed, Harry got some venomous looks and no more friendly smiles or banter as he paid.
It was unexpected. Harry was still reeling after the father comment so he didn’t let it bother
him.

He hadn’t thought Delphini would see it.

And she said it again. Two fathers. Harry looks at Voldemort, to see his reaction, if maybe
he’s bothered.

“No one cares what muggles think,” is all he says.

Harry goes closer to Delphini, sits on the floor beside her books.

“Listen, we shouldn’t talk to muggles about our …our…” his face heats up; the warmth
travels to his chest. “Our family?” he asks.

Maybe she won’t like the term.

But she just looks at him, curious.

“Some of them don’t really-ah- they don’t agree with two men raising a kid and-”

“Why?”

Harry isn’t sure how to answer it. He doesn’t really know either why someone would hate
people based on sexual preferences.

“Because they are stupid, undeveloped animals,” Voldemort supplies, so helpful.

“They aren’t,” Harry tells Delphini. “Well, some of them, like some wizards, can be mean
and hateful, but not everyone. In any case, it’s better if they don’t know, because we can’t be
sure if one of the good muggles will hear it or one of the not so good ones. They might react
badly.”

Some might turn violent. He doesn’t tell that to Delphini, lest she starts fearing muggles
again.

“So?” Voldemort closes his book. He leans back into his chair and rests one ankle on the
other knee. “What if they do? You have a wand and a mean punch.”

Harry remembers briefly that he’d punched Voldemort. He’d managed to completely forget it,
what with all that happened later.

“I won’t get into a fight with her present,” Harry tells him.

Delphini nods. “You shouldn’t fight,” she says. “We can take father with us and he’ll fight
them.”

Harry sighs.

Voldemort smiles.
(-)

The invite is ridiculously fancy for the birthday of a seven-year-old. Top quality parchment,
very stiff formal wording, asking him to celebrate Edward Lupin, Lucius and Narcissa’s
beloved nephew, at Malfoy Manor.

They actually put that in the letter, the nerve on them!

It is sealed with the Malfoy family crest, in expensive wax.

Teddy is thrilled when he hands it to Harry, smiling from ear to ear.

“I already know some of the kids, but Lucius says I’ll get to know more! I am a little anxious,
even if Draco told me everyone will be nice. I’d like it if you were there, Harry! We’ll have
contests and Quidditch games and prizes! You’ll come, right? It wouldn’t be the same
without you!”

Behind him, Andromeda gives Harry a threatening look.

“Of course, Teddy! I never missed your birthday, did I?”

Teddy hugs him, excited.

(-)

“How is he?” Harry asks, barging into the room.

Ron looks terrible; his face is smudged and bleeding, clothes smelling of smoke.

But he’s standing.

George is in the bed, unconscious. Two Healers are hovering over him, while the third is
fighting with Molly, trying to keep her away.

“They’re cautiously optimistic,” Arthur says, trying to smile at Harry, but failing.

Arthur looks…he looks old. He looks small and vulnerable and it breaks Harry to pieces;
somehow seeing him so defeated and afraid is worse than seeing George’s prone form in the
bed.

“Did someone look at you?” Harry asks Ron.

Ron nods, distracted.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’d be dead though, if it weren’t for George and Bill.”

“And Bill-” Harry starts to asks, even though he already knows.

“Just some scratches,” Arthur confirms patiently.

“You don’t understand, I can’t lose him!” Molly cries. “I can’t!”

Harry’s stomach twists, painfully.

Arthur stands and heads to her side, the Healer giving him imploring looks.

“I need some air,” Ron says abruptly and Harry goes with him outside the room, in the large
hallway.

They find a quieter place to sit. Ron puts his head between his knees and Harry frets around
him uselessly.

“They weren’t supposed to be there,” Ron’s voice comes out muffled and Harry bends to hear
him better. “It was supposed to be just me. I close up alone every Monday night. But Bill
came over, right before George was supposed to leave. He had a fight with Fleur, so George
took him to the back room to have a glass and talk.”

A strangled laugh. “I need to send Fleur a thousand roses, for annoying Bill. I’d be dead,
Harry. There were seven of them. There’s no way I’d have survived.”

Harry shivers, blood cold. “I’ll send her two thousand roses,” he says and Ron laughs,
weakly and raises his head.

He’s crying, tears silently running down his dirty cheeks.

Harry’s never seen him cry. Not even at Fred’s funeral.

“Show off,” Ron mutters and Harry hugs him, fiercely.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there-”

“Don’t start. Do you know how terrible and predictable you’re about this? So much that as I
was fighting for my life, after thinking about Hermione, Rose and Hugo I thought of how
guilty you’ll feel about it, like the idiot you are. If one of those muggle big cars runs me over
in Bangkok when I’m ninety, you’ll still find a way to make yourself responsible.”

They let go of each other.

“Bill will be fine, right? I mean I came here first to make sure you’re all ok, but I’m going to
talk to Kingsley and-”

“Nah,” Ron waves it off. “I’m sure it’s just procedure. It was clearly self defence. But he still
killed two people, if one can call them that, and yeah… the Aurors took him over for
questioning, but Proudfoot told Fleur they’ll let him go as soon as they get his statement.
Percy is there with him, anyway. You know they’ll want to get rid of him as fast as possible.”

Harry tries for a weak smile, and Ron rubs his eyes.

“Are you thirsty? Hungry? Should I get you anything?”

“Go to Hermione. I’m sure she’s going crazy. Some Auror went there, and they made her see
sense; she’s safe inside the wards of our home and there’s no point in leaving them, with the
kids and all.”

“On it,” Harry says. “I’ll take care of them-”

“I know.” Ron stands, and when Harry does the same, another hug follows.

They’ll talk later about what happened there. Aurors came in time to arrest one, while the rest
managed to flee.

But that is for later. For when George will be fine, and Hermione will be ok, and the Aurors
have had the chance to investigate everything.

Hermione is not ok.

“I’ve never in my life felt so useless,” she tells Harry. “Never!”

Harry puts Rose to bed, with great difficulty, but they all stay in her small room, unwilling to
lose sight of each other, Hugo safe in his mother’s arms.

“Don’t you dare blame yourself,” Hermione whispers, when she notices Harry can’t meet her
eyes.

“Voldemort knows who these people are and-”

“And you can’t force him to say it. We all know nothing ever worked to make him talk.”

Harry says nothing, trying to find something to do with his hands.

“You’re getting good at that,” Hermione remarks and just then Harry notices he’d been
braiding the hairs of Rosie’s dolls.

Harry is getting good at it, because he helps Delphini every day.

God, it’s been more than ten hours since Harry left and what if these fake Death Eaters go to
his house-

They won’t get past Voldemort. They won’t get past the wards. She’s safe.

They receive letters from time to time, from Percy and Ron.

Bill is let go after some hours of interrogation.

George hasn’t improved.

“But he hadn’t worsened, either,” Hermione says, clutching the latest letter. “That’s a good
sign, right? Ginny wrote Ron, she is pissed off!”

Harry can imagine it; she’s still trying to get authorisation for an Emergency International
Portkey, trapped in South Africa, with her team.

On the last Floo Call Harry had with her, he’d begged her to keep her temper. It wouldn’t do
any good for her to curse the authorities there and get arrested, on top of everything else
going on.

Harry forces Hermione to eat, as they both make something for Rose and keep her distracted,
the following day.

Eventually, Ron comes through the door, wearing clothes that aren’t his. But he’s clean and
healed and he smiles when he sees his little family.

“Charlie arrived from Romania and he kicked me out of there. He’s trying to make mum go
home to rest, but… yeah, that’s not going to happen, is it?”

“I’ll go there to keep an eye on everyone,” Harry says, standing.

“You need rest too; you haven’t slept at all.” Hermione hugs him tightly. “Please, Harry,
you’re no good to us if you drop dead of exhaustion. Sleep for a while, please.”

“Ok,” Harry lies but as soon as he leaves, he Apparates to St. Mungo’s, where he spends
some hours holding Molly’s hand and bringing Arthur coffee.

Molly doesn’t react to anything, alternating between staring at the wall and crying.

She only gets out of her chair beside George’s bed when the door opens and Ginny strolls in.

They cling to each other in silence.

Eventually, when Harry falls asleep while waiting in line for food down in the cafeteria,
Charlie and Percy team up to kick him out.

(-)

Harry startles awake, his face tickling.

He had fallen asleep on the living room sofa, so exhausted when he’d arrived in the middle of
the night, he lacked the energy to climb the stairs.

Delphini’s hand rests on his cheek.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you!”

“It’s ok,” Harry assures her, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“I made you coffee. Father said you would need it more than tea. I’ve never made coffee
before, so it might taste bad.” She points to a cup on the table. “And I’ve made tea for your
injured friend; it has chamomile- Rody used to make that for me when I was sick and I
always got better. So I hope your friend will get better too.”

“Come here.” Harry pulls her in his arms. “Are you ok? Everything went well without me?”

She nods in his shoulder. “Oh yes, no issues.” She pulls back and looks at Harry with a
mischievous smile, lowering her voice. “I beat father at Monopoly but never mention it,
because he got upset about it.”

“He’s a sore looser,” Harry says, jaws clenching.

“That he is,” Delphini agrees.

Voldemort hides in his room, the filthy coward. Harry doesn’t have the time for him, so he
showers fast, eats the toast Delphini made for him and leaves to check on George.

(-)

It takes weeks for George to recover. Harry barely talks to Voldemort during that time.

“Tell me who these people are!” Harry demanded in those first days, as George was still
unconscious.

“Release me from my Oaths and I shall,” Voldemort answered.

Voldemort let him be for a while, but eventually he forces Harry to talk to him, engaging him
in conversation when Delphini is present.

Harry answers him then, stiffly.

“Are you in a fight?” Delphini asks after yet another silent breakfast.

“Don’t worry about it.” Harry smiles at her, putting on her jacket.

And the Invisibility Cloak. Voldemort locked it in a cabinet and Harry couldn’t figure out the
unlocking spell, but then he’d asked Delphini to open it and Grimmauld Place denies her
nothing.

He’s very careful, he always was, but now he’s paranoid, after the attack on Ron.
At first, he hadn’t wanted to take Delphini anywhere, but she’d grown restless and pale and
Harry relented.

Harry takes her in his arms and drapes the cloak over both of them.

They only get out of the house with the Cloak on; Harry Apparates them away as soon as
they are on the doorstep, where Grimmauld’s ancient Anti Apparation wards end.

Delphini loves being invisible. She likes to watch the people around them, knowing she
cannot be seen in turn.

When they reach the coffee shop, and Harry pulls it off, getting her a waffle and finding a
secluded booth for them, she looks at him.

“If we don’t upset him, everything will be fine,” she says. “If he’s happy, we can all be
happy.”

Harry closes his eyes, briefly.

“Rody said father is great, as long as everyone obeys.”

“You can’t-” Harry bites his lips. He wants to tell her that she shouldn’t have to please
anyone, that her wants are just as valid as her father’s, that they can’t all just bend their lives
around his wishes or forgive all the shit he does, just to keep him content.

But he doesn’t. Harry can’t tell her not to obey him. Not when she’s just a child. Not when
she is safer if she obeys.

“Here, you can have half my waffle,” Delphini offers. “Maybe it will cheer you up.”

(-)

“You’re upsetting Delphini,” Voldemort has the audacity to say one night. “She doesn’t like it
when we don’t talk.”

Harry tries to leave the kitchen, he can wash the dishes the next day-

Voldemort catches his wrist on his way out.

“Even if you knew their names, it won’t help much. They’re not from Britain. I’m sure they
have gathered some British followers during the last years, but originally they are not. Aurors
knew my name for a few dozen years- didn’t help them any.”

Harry tries to wrench his hand free. But Voldemort won’t let him go.

You’re not trying that hard, are you?

“I know you miss sleeping in my bed,” Voldemort goes on. “Cease this nonsense and come
back.”

Harry does miss it and he hates himself for it.

“Piss off!” Harry spits at him, but his struggles are even less pronounced.

When Voldemort pulls him hard, and Harry stumbles into him, he stops struggling all
together.

He hates how comforted he feels when Voldemort’s arms go around him, squeezing almost
painfully.

It’s the only thing he has left, Harry tries to convince himself. The name of this new terrorist
is the only control Voldemort has.

“I’ve grown used to having you in my room,” Voldemort says and-

Harry sighs.

It’s the closes thing to ‘I miss you’ he’ll ever get from him.

Does he really? Does he truly want me there?

“Fine,” Harry says. “I’ll find out on my own.”

Though that is hard to do. Kingsley doesn’t trust him anymore, not after Harry fought tooth
and nail to keep Voldemort safe.

Not after he’d denied Kingsley access to Grimmauld, when the Minister wanted to talk with
the dark lord, after the attack on Ron.

They got away with hiding Delphini from Hermione that one time, because Hermione doesn’t
cast “Human Revelio” every time she enters his house, like the Aurors do.

Maybe Kingsley already knows who these people are. They did catch one in the attack.

And they just won’t tell Harry.

And like Voldemort says, their names won’t matter much. It doesn’t mean they can be
stopped just by learning them.

You’ll tell yourself anything, just so you will allow yourself to talk to him again.

(-)
“No movie today?” Delphini asks, upset. “But it’s Thursday! We always go to the movies on
Thursdays!”

“There’s nothing on that sounds good, and I couldn’t find any Disney reruns. I’ll take you
somewhere else, you’ll like it.”

“I won’t!” Delphini crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at her plate, upset.

Harry pays her no mind. Delphini’s moods don’t last long, if he just ignores them. When she
gets upset, for no reason, or because Harry asks her to do something, he only needs to act
normal and she’ll eventually let it go.

By the time they get to the zoo, she’s delighted.

She likes the animals; there’s a bit of a problem when she vanishes the fence surrounding the
‘poor gorilla’ and Harry has to act really fast to put it back up.

“It was an accident,” Delphini says, when Harry tells her not to do it again.

“No, it wasn’t.” Delphini has frightening control over her magic. “Don’t do it again!” He tries
to sound stern. “People can get hurt.”

He holds her hand firmly, and he holds his wand with the other when they reach the lion. But
she doesn’t set anything else free.

And then they reach the snake exposition and Harry should have known, but it’s still a shock
to hear her hissing at them, head pressed to the glass.

Harry’s breath hitches, his pulse flutters in his veins as he sees the cobra hissing back.

“He gets plenty of food,” she tells Harry. “So he’s content with that. But he misses roaming
around. He won’t hurt anyone if we set him free. He promised. Besides, snakes don’t attack
humans, they try their best to avoid us, you know?”

“We can’t,” Harry whispers, voice rough. “Come on.”

He leads her away, and she waves at the snake as they go.

“Does your father know you can speak to snakes?”

“It’s called Parseltongue,” Delphini informs him. “Rody said so. He said only Salazar’s
descendents speak it and that father was the only one, before I was born.” She shrugs. “I
don’t know if father knows.”

(-)
“She’s a Parselmouth,” Harry says into the darkness. “Did you know?”

“She’s my daughter,” Voldemort’s voice comes from the other side of the bed.

Harry almost never sleeps in his own room anymore. There are even some of his clothes in
Voldemort’s armoire, an extra toothbrush in his bathroom.

Harry would like to say he doesn’t remember how the items got there, but he does. He
remembers bringing them in.

Most of the time they just sleep, each on their side of the bed.

But other times Voldemort throws an arm around Harry, pulling him closer.

And then there are the moments when Harry himself snuggles closer to him.

Those seconds in the morning, when he’s still groggy with sleep, when nothing seems very
real and Harry reaches out, rests his head on Voldemort’s chest or on his shoulder.

Voldemort never pushes him away.

Harry wants to kiss him, sometimes. Not in a sexual way, just- just a kiss.

He doesn’t. That would take it too far, make it seem like a real relationship.

Too far? Your toothbrush is in his cupboards and your boxers in his armoire.

But that’s more convenience than romance.

There is no romance, Harry tells himself.

“Of course she’s a Parselmouth.”

“Yeah.” Harry shifts, pulling the blanket more firmly around him.

He knows he’s hogging it, but Voldemort never complains.

“I should have known, but- It took me by surprise.”

Minutes pass. Harry can’t let it go.

“She wanted to set the cobra free.”

“Be careful. She’s still too young to truly control some headstrong species. They won’t turn
against her, but they might not listen to her.”

Harry nods, though Voldemort can’t see him, what with the darkness and Harry’s back to
him.

“I set a boa constrictor free, when I was ten,” he says. “I didn’t mean to. Dudley was
bothering him. He was the first snake I talked to.”
Deep down, Harry is jealous. Voldemort and Delphini have their secret language.

Of course, they both speak French, but Harry is not jealous about that, even if he can’t
understand a word.

The Parseltongue though… Harry used to speak it and it makes him sad that he can’t,
anymore.

“I wonder what happened to him.”

“The Muggles recaptured him in a matter of hours, I imagine.”

Why does Voldemort always has to be so pessimistic?

He’s right.

Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

The mattress dips and Voldemort’s plastered to Harry’s back, his hand on Harry’s hip.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

Harry shrugs. “It saved my life in the Chamber of Secrets.”

It sounds better to miss it, if it was a life saving skill. More bearable.

“Hmm,” Voldemort mutters, not fooled.

You’re being silly, Harry tells himself. He presses back into Voldemort.

“I could turn you into a Horcrux again,” Voldemort says, right in Harry’s ear.

Harry startles, shocked. He tries to turn but Voldemort winds his long arm around him and
holds him still.

“It won’t be as easy, with you being older, but if I made it by mistake the first time, I can
certainly make it work again.”

“You can’t be serious,” Harry splutters. “How can you suggest something like that-”

“You’ll like it,” Voldemort goes on. “It will keep you safe. You won’t ever feel alone again.”

Voldemort is getting turned on by this. The proof of it is hard at Harry’s back.

How incredibly fucked up.

“How would you even think to split your soul again, after everything that happened to you?
You can’t die, anyway so-” Harry’s voice comes out squeaky.

Voldemort ignores him.

“We could go out at night and find a muggle. A bad muggle, to appease your morals. A
murderer or a rapist. Plenty of those out there. I’d kill him-”

“Stop!” Harry whispers, strangled, but Voldemort not only doesn’t stop talking, but he thrusts
against Harry’s back.

“And then we’d come home-”

“Stop!”

“In this very bed. I’d perform the ritual and give you a part of my soul. Isn’t that romantic,
Harry? Much more than anyone else could ever give you.”

Harry can’t even speak, horrified.

Horrified and… something else. A weak, pathetic thing inside his heart can imagine it. Not
the murder. He ignores that.

But having a part of Voldemort’s soul inside him.

That weak part of him is incredibly touched Voldemort would ever trust him with his soul,
after Harry destroyed many parts of it.

But most of him is gripped by terror.

“You’re sick,” Harry whispers.

“I know who I am. I am a murderer. I relish in the power of taking someone else’s life. You
know it too. You do, no matter how you deny it. And yet here you are, in my arms, in my
bed.”

“Stop!” Harry says, again, squirming to get away from Voldemort’s hard cock, hot and heavy
against his back.

Voldemort laughs. He presses a kiss on Harry’s temple and then he retreats to his own side of
the bed.

“You’re so easy to rile up, Harry. Go to sleep, Delphini will be up in a couple of hours.”

(-)

“What’s inside?” Delphini circles the big wrapped box in red and yellow. Harry just knows
everything else will be green, so he is paying homage to Remus and Tonks House colours.

“A gift for my godson. It is his birthday.”

“Oh.”
She circles it a few times, curious. Harry got her a gift too, so she wouldn’t be jealous.

It lays discarded a few feet away.

“What is a godson?”

“Muggle nonsense,” Voldemort intervenes.

Harry huffs, irritated, and explains the concept to Delphini.

“I’ll bring you cake, ok? Loads of it!”

Delphini smiles. “Will it be pink?”

“Ahm- well, yes.” Harry will just have to stop at a bakery on his way back and buy a pink
cake.

She grins. “Perfect!” And then- “Father, what is your favourite colour?”

“I don’t have one,” Voldemort doesn’t even look up from the parchment Hermione sent him.
Something about mere people and their diminishing magical lakes. “But I dislike bright
ones.”

“Ah,” Delphini looks back to Harry. “Then maybe the cake will be-” She frowns. “A not
bright colour. So he can eat, too.”

“It will be pink,” Harry says, staring at the back of Voldemort’s neck.

“Don’t they make black cakes?” Delphini wonders.

“They don’t,” Harry assures her.

It is heartbreaking seeing how hard Delphini tries to capture Voldemort’s attention, how hard
she tries to make him like her.

“Harry,” Voldemort speaks after Harry shrinks the gift so it would fit in his pocket. “You
might want to wear a robe, at a pureblood event-”

“Teddy is a half-blood,” he snaps.

“He will wear a robe, I assure you.” Voldemort looks up. “And tell Lucius the answer to his
question is ‘no’. Draco will not flee the country. He will stay right here, where I can get him,
should Lucius displease me.”

Harry’s blood goes cold. “What-how?”

Voldemort smiles. “Lucius is not an idiot, no matter how well he plays the part occasionally.
Unlike you and Kingsley, he remembers I am the most accomplished Legillimens alive. Do
have fun at the party.”
Chapter End Notes

Some of you asked in the comments on the last chapter if I would write more about
Voldemort's relationship with Bella. I won't, in this fic, maybe a line or two from time to
time.
But there is a one shot on my profile, "Beauty and the Beast" that details it; there's some
Sirius in there too, for those of you that asked about these three characters. And some
"quality" Father!Voldemort at his best haha.
Thank you for reading and let me know if you liked this chapter, if you want!
 Chapter 16
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Teddy’s party is far more glamorous than any seven-year-old boy needs, but Harry is too
distracted to scoff over such insignificant things, not with the knowledge Voldemort can read
his mind.

He’d hyperventilated outside Malfoy Manor for an hour or so before he made himself go
inside, knowing Teddy would be very disappointed if Harry wouldn’t show up.

There are many kids in attendance, some of them progenies of Harry’s former schoolmates,
some of them grandsons of Death Eaters wasting away in Azkaban.

Yet Harry is surprisingly popular amongst them. Teddy had told them how cool Harry
apparently is, how he rode a dragon, and a boy that looks very much like Flint remembered
his father telling him Harry had once faced a dragon armed only with a broom and stole a
dragon egg.

They find that ‘awesome’.

Some of them are Quidditch fans and they ask Harry for autographs. He signs them, because
these are the first one he gives simply as a famous Seeker rather than the Chosen Ones.

There’s an adult table further away in the garden, but Harry only stops by to greet
Andromeda and mumble a ‘good day’ for Malfoy (Lucius, Draco is thankfully not around)
Narcissa and Astoria, whom he vaguely remembers from school.

Harry spends his time with the children and he tries not to like Scorpius, caught in a stage
between baby and toddler, but it’s impossible to resent the angelic-looking boy.

The tension between Astoria and the Malfoy patriarch is palpable.

She guards her son from him, always taking him away when Scorpius wants his grandfather
to pick him up.

Harry approves; even if it is hard to accept it, he imagines Draco had once been this innocent
before his father twisted him into the ferret Harry met at Madam Malkin’s.

And then he’s forced to ponder that Lucius himself once had been a baby and his father had
molded him and where does it stop? How did it begin?

And it will continue; it’s clear when the kids suggest they play “Aurors and dark wizards”,
but no one wants to be an Auror.
“They always come and bother grandfather,” a six-year-old girl says. “They search through
our house and they make a mess.”

An older boy nods. “They took grandfather away, locked him in Azkaban, where we can’t see
him. Mama cries about it every day.”

“They took my uncle too.”

“They killed mine.”

Harry feels defeated. There is no purpose in telling these kids that their family members were
pieces of shit, murderers and bigots.

Teddy stays silent, head bowed, because his mother had been an Auror and Harry just doesn’t
know how to fix all this, if it can ever be fixed.

“Another game,” he suggests, so they can get past it.

“Founders!” the oldest girl says, a Rosier, bound for Hogwarts the following year.

“We’re too many-”

“I’ll be Rowena! Aunt Narcissa, please come help me dress like Ravenclaw! We’re playing
Founders!” she raises her voice.

All the boys naturally want to be Salazar.

“I will be Godric!” Teddy declares, and at least that puts a smile on Harry’s face.

“Eww! But your Nana was a Slytherin!” someone protests.

“Harry was a Gryffindor!” Teddy shoots back. “And Bill, too! He’s Victoire’s father, and he’s
really cool! He’s a Curse- Breaker!”

“Your dad was also a Gryffindor,” Harry reminds him.

“Oh, yeah,” Teddy says, dismissive. “Can you make a sword for me, Cissa?”

“I’m afraid not, love,” Narcissa says, waving her wand and conjuring a tiara for her niece,
now dressed in blue and bronze.

“LUCIUS!” Teddy screams and he runs towards Malfoy, hair turning from black to blond. “I
need a sword!”

Malfoy is apparently incapable to refuse children, Harry observes throughout the day,
surprised.

He can see how Draco grew up so spoiled.

Narcissa sighs as Malfoy produces a sword, and she narrows her eyes when he conjures a
snake for another boy, so he can be Salazar.
“Harmless, darling. A garden snake.”

“Here, let me, you got it wrong,” Harry says, very proud of himself when Narcissa hands
over a transfigured cup.

It looks nothing like the cup he dreams of sometimes.

He’s gotten very good at transfiguration, always adjusting toys for Delphini.

He’s especially gotten good at it during his duelling sessions with Voldemort.

Harry makes modification to the cup until it resembles the real cup to a satisfying degree.

“Well acquainted with our Founders’ heirlooms, Mr. Potter?” Narcissa asks, a perfectly
groomed eyebrow raised.

"Hermione told me about it," he says.

Mention of Hermione instantly gets everyone off his back.

You filthy bigots, Harry thinks.

Though it could be it’s not only that she is a muggle-born; they might be more cross with her
for her (in reality, Voldemort’s) bill that now forces the Malfoys to be somewhat civil with
their elves and pay them, too.

Will Delphini make friends easily, he wonders as he watches the children play.

Teddy is a very sociable child, always has been.

Delphini could pretend to be sociable, Harry suspects. She certainly does when he takes her
to Muggle places, mindful of her ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, smiling sweetly at everyone.

Yet Harry knows she still views Muggle as some sort of animals that are beneath wizards; she
doesn’t think them very dangerous anymore, more like amusing sort of pets that provide her
with fizzy drinks.

Coca Cola is a staple at their house. Harry even caught Voldemort drinking one once. From a
fancy Black crest engraved goblet, of course. God forbid he drank it from the can.

Incredibly, even with all that, Delphini is more receptive to Muggles than Teddy, who now
refuses to have anything to do with them, had put all his muggle toys aside and doesn’t touch
them anymore.

(-)
Both Narcissa and Andromeda look oddly at Harry when he asks Malfoy if they can have a
word in private.

Narcissa is more discrete about it, just the briefest edge of curiosity in her eyes before she
switches her attention to Astoria and Scorpius.

But Harry can feel Andromeda’s eyes on his back as they start walking down the pathway to
the house.

In the office, Harry waits a few seconds before he speaks. He hates having to do it.

“He said Draco can’t leave the country.”

The words come hurried, wrenched out of him.

Malfoy cares about his son- whatever else might be said about him, that is a fact.

It is the reason Draco isn’t there with his wife and son. His father won’t allow him anywhere
near Harry, knowing how they dislike each other, fearing perhaps Draco will annoy Harry.

Fearing retribution.

It makes Harry feel nasty.

Malfoy shows no reaction to the news, except to nod.

“I didn’t tell him,” Harry adds, guilty. “I didn’t tell him we talked or anything. But-”

“It is not wise to keep secrets from the dark lord,” Malfoy says, smoothly.

Harry remembers their last talk, the almost pity in Malfoy’s eyes when Harry kept insisting
Voldemort won’t learn what was discussed in the office.

He doesn’t want to be doing this, essentially threatening people with their families, at
Voldemort’s orders.

How did it get to this point?

Harry doesn’t want to go back to the house and face the disaster that awaits him.

He must look as miserable as he feels.

“If I may offer you some advice, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy says, as bland as ever. “There is no
stopping whatever is coming. It is futile to try. Best go along with it, if you care about your
loved ones. Take it from someone that made the mistakes you’re probably thinking of
making.”

Harry snorts. “And damn the rest of the world, right?”

“Right,” Malfoy says, unironically.

How are these people built? Harry wonders. How is it possible they don’t care at all of what
happens to others, as long as they and their close family are safe?

“You’re a terrible excuse of a man,” Harry says, so tired he doesn’t even muster any kind of
venom.

“But I’m alive and free,” Malfoy points out.

And so many of the good ones are dead.

Malfoy has this baffling skill of somehow always ending up on top. It shouldn’t have been
possible, not after everything he did.

There are people with far fewer crimes on their records, far less involved with the war, that
are rotting in Azkaban with a life sentence.

Harry himself got Malfoy out after the second war, it’s true.

But he escaped justice after the first one, too.

And most surprising of all, he survived Voldemort’s ire, a few times over.

“You’re like a cockroach,” Harry tells him.

Malfoy smirks. “I am in similar company,” he drawls.

“Huh?”

“I might have gotten away with many things, but I never returned to life after taking a Killing
Curse to the chest.”

Harry swallows.

“I was there in the forest that night, Mr. Potter.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes fix on Harry’s.

“It appears I am not the only one to survive against all odds.”

(-)

“He’s a Legillimens. How did we forget that?”

Harry looks at Ron and Hermione, feeling desperate.

He’d come straight to them after the party.

Ron pales and there’s a reaction from Hermione but she quickly shoves it away.

“I’m sure the Aurors didn’t forget. He doesn’t have magic or a wand so it’s fine.”

“Hermione, he read my mind. It’s not fine.”

Hermione gulps. “But he can’t. He just can’t. What was it? Maybe he found out some other
way-”

“He didn’t.”

“He’s a natural Legillimens,” Ron says. “They’re very rare, like Metamorphmagi or
Parselmouths, traits passed down through ancient bloodlines.”

“Nonsense; Legilimency is a skill that requires discipline and years of hard work but you
need a wand-”

“It’s not nonsense. There are natural ones out there that can do it from childhood-”

“That’s just a theory, Ron, no one proved it-”

“He’s right,” Harry intervenes.

Though, of course, Voldemort has his magic and his wand, but he remembers from the
Pensive, he remembers Dumbledore telling him Tom Riddle had always been very
persuasive, always had a knack at guessing when he’s being told the truth or he’s being fed
lies.

“Well,” Hermione says, stubborn. “Then we’ll just have to learn Occlumency.”

“That will only take years, no problem.” Ron's sarcastic tone annoys Hermione.

“Then what do you propose?”

Ron shrugs. “I always avoid his eyes. And Harry- I’m sure you’re not spending a lot of time
in his presence and you avoid him as much as you can, right? When you have to be around
him, just don’t meet his eyes.”

Ron nods to himself. “Yeah, that is what we will do. I know you and Hermione- you were
muggle raised, but us that were raised here, we are taught early on that it’s not a good idea to
meet the eyes of strange, powerful wizard or witches.”

(-)

“You forgot my pink cake,” Delphini says, when he returns home.

Shit.
“I’ll go get one now-”

“It’s fine.” She takes his hand. “You look upset. Did the party not go well?”

Harry pulls her closer to him and kisses her forehead.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m ok, just a bit tired.”

She nods. “Father says children are very irritating and tiresome- where there many children
there? Is that why you’re tired?”

“Kids are not irritating,” Harry says.

That wanker. Telling that to a child…

“I love spending time with kids,” he assures her.

But somehow that seems to displease her.

Before Harry can figure out what the problem is, Voldemort strolls in.

Harry quickly looks away, keeping his gaze lowered.

Just don’t meet his gaze and it will be fine.

(-)

“That won’t help you,” Voldemort says, bending over Harry to get a better look at the
Occlumency book he is reading.

“Shut up,” Harry mutters. He doesn’t look at him. He hadn’t, since the Revelation.

“I can teach you.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry snorts. “Why would you-”

“Because you keep my secrets in your head, where others might glimpse them. And you
insist on staring everyone in the eyes, like the uneducated peasant that you are.”

“Sod off!” Harry gathers his books from the desk and stands. “You stare at people, too!”

“But I am an excellent Occlumens.” Voldemort moves around him, blocking his path. He
catches Harry’s chin and raises it.

Harry closes his eyes, drops the books and uses his hands to try to dislodge Voldemort’s grip.

“I already saw every corner of your mind, you don’t have anything to hide from me.”
“I fucking hate you! Saw that?” Harry snarls, pulling at Voldemort’s wrist.

“Must have missed that part,” Voldemort says.

“Let me go!”

“Look at me.”

“NO!”

“Let me help you, you will never learn on your own.”

“Let. Me. Go!” Harry hisses.

Voldemort sighs, as if Harry is acting like an unreasonable child, but eventually releases him.

(-)

He hates not being able to look at Voldemort, properly.

It feels cowardly.

Irritatingly, a part of Harry misses the sight of those brown eyes.

He’s having no luck with his studies. He can’t even know if he’s making progress or not.

When he visits Hermione and Ron, he finds Hermione is not particularly successful either,
which frustrates her to no end.

Ron doesn’t even try.

“Only the greatest of wizards truly have any luck with it,” he shrugs, placing around the
room, rocking Hugo.

“Malfoy learned it! At sixteen!” Harry reminds them, again.

The thought annoys him greatly.

“Didn’t Snape say Bellatrix Lestrange taught him?” Ron asks. “That awful bitch was
monstrous, but she was capable.”

“Language, Ron! Honestly, your son-

“He’s four months old, come on!”

“If Malfoy can do it-” Harry interrupts them, only for him to be interrupted in turn.
“We don’t know for sure that he was any good at it, ok? You only overheard Snape
mentioning it once, that it was clear his aunt was giving the ferret lessons.” Ron looks
between Harry and Hermione. “I don’t know why you bother. Just don’t look at him, avoid
him as much as possible and that’s that.”

But Harry and Hermione stubbornly keep going.

Hermione because she can’t stand not being able to do something, and Harry because- well,
he doesn’t want to avoid Voldemort, but he can’t say that to Ron, can he?

(-)

They finally publish the truth in the Daily Prophet, after a particularly gruesome attack in
Ireland.

Apparently they are calling themselves ‘The Shadows’, Harry reads, now that the ruse is up
and they can’t pretend they are Death Eaters anymore.

“The Shadows,” Harry snorts at breakfast. “What is it with dark wizards and ridiculous
names?”

He can’t look at Voldemort to see his face, but Harry hopes he’s insulted.

“Why are they hurting people?” Delphini asks and at least Harry can look at her.

“Because they are nasty bigots.”

Delphini frowns. “But they’re hurting wizards and witches,” she says. “Not just Muggles,
which would be understandable.”

“It wouldn’t be understandable,” Harry sighs, folding the papers. “I told you that Muggles are
just as-”

“Yes, yes.” Delphini waves a hand, bored with Harry’s constant attempts to make her
understand Muggles are people, too. “We will agree to disagree, Harry.”

“No, this not a matter of opinion. We can agree to disagree weather a movie is good or not.
Human rights are not a matter of opinion-”

“But why are they killing wizards and witches? I don’t understand. Please forget the Muggles
for a second and explain that.”

Harry risks a glance at Voldemort, but the man is focused on the paper.

“Well,” Harry starts, unsure how to explain blood purity and blood status with Voldemort at
the table, no less.
“Some people- and they are very wrong- think that witches or wizards that have muggle
parents are less than witches and wizards that are born from magical parents.”

Delphini considers him.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think that way. You’d have to ask someone that does.”

Silence. Voldemort doesn’t share his wisdom, thank God.

“So that’s what pureblood means,” Delphini says. “I read the term in some of the books here-
a person with magical parents.”

“Magical parents and both sets of grandparents; all those have to be magical for a person to
be considered ‘pure’.”

“Aha. And I read of blood traitors-”

“Stop reading the books in the library, please-”

“And Rody said cousin Sirius was a blood traitor-”

“He lied to you-”

“What does it mean, exactly?”

“It’s a pureblood that marries or generally accepts Muggles and muggleborns-wizards or

witches born of muggles- in their lives.”

“Thank you, Harry.” Delphini is seemingly satisfied, and Harry breathes in relief, because
he’s uncomfortable talking about it. He’s very glad, though, that he got to answer these
questions, instead of Voldemort.

Sadly, his relief is short-lived. As he serves dessert, Delphini appears pensive.

“What are we? Purebloods?”

Again, Harry glances at Voldemort, swiftly.

He’s put the paper down and is watching his daughter.

But he doesn’t say anything.

“We-I’m a half-blood,” Harry says, because she is expecting an answer.

She nods but keeps looking at him, waiting for more.

“My mother was a muggle-born and my father a pureblood.”

She nods again, but shifts her eyes to her father.

Harry’s skin itches in discomfort.

“You spend hours staring at the tapestry of the Black family in the library,” Voldemort finally
speaks. “You know your ancestors.”

Delphini tilts her head, lost in thought. And Harry just knows what is coming. ‘My maternal
ancestors’ she’ll point out and then-

But she says nothing, and after a few seconds she picks up her fork and digs into her crepes.

“He’s not a pureblood, is he?” she asks Harry, helping him clean up the table, once Voldemort
had left.

Harry sighs, wiping the leftovers off some plate, into the bin.

“No,” he answers, softly. “He’s a half-blood.”

“Hmm.” She hands him another plate. “And he’s like those people; he doesn’t like wizards
and witches that are not pure.”

It’s not really a question.

“We are all pure,” Harry says, gently, taking the plate from her. “No one is impure.”

She frowns, taking hold of some glasses and putting them in the sink.

“If he doesn’t like impure wizards, but he’s a half-blood, then he mustn’t like himself very
much.”

Harry blinks at her, surprised.

Voldemort likes himself far too much; arrogant to the bone, no one is on his level.

And yet he doesn’t know how to refute her logic.

He could, he could call Voldemort a hypocrite, but Harry seeks to never speak ill of him in
front of Delphini.

He slips, here and there, but mostly it is a rule he doesn’t discard.

“Is that why he doesn’t like me? Because I am not a pureblood either, since he isn’t?”

Harry puts the plate down, a painful feeling in his stomach when he looks at her cute little
face, when he hears that matter-of-fact tone that she uses to hide the sadness she feels
because her own father doesn’t love her.

“Delphini-”

“It can’t be,” she answers her own question. “You’re a half-blood and he likes you.”
Harry doesn’t know what to tell her. It is so hard when she speaks of these issues; there is no
answer Harry can give her.

He can’t tell her that she’s wrong, that her father loves her. Because she just knows it isn’t so.

He can’t tell her Voldemort doesn’t like Harry either, that he’s a prisoner and they fuck and
that’s all there is, Voldemort forced by the Oaths to stay at Harry’s side.

“Will these Shadow people come after us, since they don’t like our blood?”

“No, of course not. You are safe here, darling. I told you the house can’t be found.”

She nods. “You did. And anyway, father is here. He’ll protect you. He’ll protect me too,
right?”

“Yes, of course he would.” At least Harry can say that with conviction.

Voldemort might not love, but Delphini is his and just the sense or property would move him
enough to eliminate anyone that steals from him.

“Shouldn’t the bad Aurors try to catch the Shadows?” Delphini hands him another plate.
“They chased after Rody and I for so long; they should be chasing these ones instead.”

“Aurors aren’t bad,” Harry says, carefully. “You know there was a reason they were after
Lestrange, right? He told you there was a war, that he lost a war.”

She nods.

“He was not very different from the ones that are hurting people now.”

“He was!” she says, heated. “He didn’t hurt anyone! He was kind and always smiled!”

“You told me he killed a man-”

“It was a muggle!” she says, stubborn, but Harry can see the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“He-” Harry bites his tongue. He can’t bring himself to tell her Lestrange killed many more
people than that. “He hurt wizard and witches too, you know.”

“No. He only hated muggles and mudbloods.”

“Don’t say that word!” His voice comes out so harshly, she flinches.

Harry instantly feels terribly guilty.

“Sorry,” he says, bending down to her level. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s just that it
is an awful word.

“What does it mean?” she asks. “When I asked Rody, he said it means abominations, freaks
of nature. I figured it is a type of Muggle.”
“It is an insult used for muggleborns. We should never use it. You’re such a smart girl,
Delphini. I know you realise that this is all stupid. Blood status doesn’t matter. Look how
powerful your father is, and he’s a half-blood. Hermione, one of my best friends, I told you
about her-”

She nods. “The smart woman that reads a lot and writes letters to father.”

“Yes, she’s a muggleborn. And she’s brilliant! You’d like her a lot, I’m sure. It’s all crazy, and
hateful. Ok, I understand, you don’t like muggles, for some reason. That’s alright. I get it. I
don’t agree but just not liking muggles isn’t a problem, I guess. They are people, but they are
not like us.

Hermione, though- your father, myself. You. We are all just as magical as purebloods.”

In a stroke of inspiration, to make sure Delphini will never look down upon others, he knows
just what to say.

“You mum,” he begins, because Bellatrix Lestrange is sacred in Delphini’s eyes. “See, she
loved your father. People like the Shadows would have called her a blood traitor.”

“She wasn’t!” Delphini yells, instantly enraged. “Mama was the best!”

Right.

“If bigots like them are allowed to have power, if they are encouraged, if we don’t stand up to
them- in a world like that, your mother would have been punished for loving your father. You
wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t have been allowed to exist either. Your father wouldn’t be here.”

“I hate them!” she says, vehement. “That’s terrible! I hope those stupid Aurors catch them!”

“They will. Eventually they’ll go away. You don’t have to worry about it. And we can all do
our part, by declaring them liars. As long as we don’t do what they say, they will never win.”

That’s how Voldemort ended up a prisoner. That’s how her mother died.

But he’s not ready to tell her yet about their own war, how her parents were even more
vicious than these new idiots.

One day, however, she will learn. Everything. Harry dreads it.

As if to cement the impeding reality of what is to come in the future, Delphini comes closer
to him.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“In the papers, they speak of He-Who-Must-No-Be-Named. They used to say the Shadows
were his supporters. Who is he?”
Had she figured it out already? Does she suspect?

She does suspect, because when Harry fails to answer, she affects an air of forced causality.

“What’s father’s name? Rody always referred to father as his lord and you never speak his
name.”

Fuck.

“He.. hmm.. see, he-” Harry stutters and Delphini’s eyes narrow, suspicious. “He doesn’t like
his name.”

“Why? Is it silly?”

Oh, his assumed name is silly, alright.

“No. It’s just- common. Your father doesn’t like to be like others.”

“What is it, then?”

What to do? Saying ‘Voldemort’ is out of the question, but if he says ‘Tom’ and Delphini
throws it in Voldemort’s face…

“It’s Tom,” Harry whispers, deciding. “But he hates it. So you can’t say it, ok?”

She looks surprised. “Tom?” she whispers back.

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t suit him at all,” she declares.

She is her father’s daughter, indeed.

(-)

“Are you sure you want my opinion?” Harry asks Rita Skeeter, who cornered him in Diagon
Alley, wanting his input on the new terrorists and how the Ministry is handling the issue.

“I’d be delighted! And so will my readers-”

“My opinion is that you are a nasty piece of work.”

Rita is unfazed. She’d heard much worse from him throughout the years.

Why, after the article about the Dursleys, Harry cursed her.

The Bat-Bogey Hex, to Ginny’s amusement.

She didn’t press charges, probably knowing Kingsley would laugh them off, but she wrote
about the whole incident and how she doesn’t blame him, traumatised boy that he was.

“I am in perpetual despair knowing you feel that way about me, but returning to the subject:
there are rumours the Aurors knew for years these people aren’t Death Eaters and-”

“Piss off, you old hag,” a familiar voice comes over his shoulder and Harry turns to see
Seamus. “You don’t want to upset Harry,” he adds with a smile.

“Mr. Finnegan, is that correct?” Rita asks, her quill whooshing through the air. “A member of
the esteemed Dumbledore’s Army-”

“Boot it?” Harry asks, smiling himself, referring to their old code name, back from fifth year,
when they needed to escape Filch or Umbridge.

Dean had come up with it, football fan that he was.

Seamus grins. “Boot it!” he agrees.

“What is-” Rita asks, but starts coughing when Harry casts a mist charm.

The photographer yells in surprise when Seamus makes some fireworks shoot off, one of
Fred’s inventions.

In the chaos, helped by the heavy mist, Harry grabs Seamus’ elbows and they make a run for
it.

They’re close enough to the Leaky Cauldron, so they go through it, and out of it, on the
Muggle side.

“That was fun!” Seamus says. “More excitement than I had in ages, really.”

“Oh, come on! Arthur always amuses us with stories of your adventures.”

Seamus had ended up working under Arthur in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office.

“I’m sure he exaggerates some of them. Good to see you, mate! You missed quite a few DA
meetings.”

Harry hadn’t went to any, since a couple years before, when he ended up kissing Parvati.

“How’s Dean?” Harry asks, to change the subjects.

“That’s how I know you’re antisocial these days. He and I parted ways, last year.”

“Oh,” Harry mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, we’re on good enough terms, I guess. His mom is delighted. She hopes now he’ll
find a nice lass to start a family with.”

Harry snorts.
“Are you busy? Join me for a pint?”

“Sure,” Harry agrees.

He can’t go back home without Delphini’s list of books and sweets, and he needs to wait a
little longer for Rita to give up on stalking Diagon Alley.

They talk about their former school mates, who ended up where, that sort of thing.

They talk about the Shadows for a while, too.

And then Seamus comes back to Skeeter and the articles she writes about Harry.

“All lies, I imagine. Merlin, I can’t believe I bought her shit back in our fifth year- so sorry,
mate-”

Harry waves it off. “Water under the bridge. You where there when it mattered.”

Seamus smiles at him. “So nothing changed, huh? No truth at all to anything she writes? I
remember reading a piece about you last summer; about- you know, Ginny and stuff.”

Harry frowns. “She hadn’t written about Ginny in a while. She’s getting married in August.”

“Yeah, I know. I got the invitation. I meant- Skeeter wrote that you aren’t with her because-”
His cheeks flame a bit.

“Ah!” Harry remembers.

Eventually, when Skeeter couldn’t make anyone believe he and Ginny were still a thing, she
switched tactics. But she still wanted to go with the whole love triangle, so she wrote it’s
actually Ginny and Harry fighting over Yannis, her fiancé.

“Obviously I’m not involved with Yannis,” Harry says and Seamus nods.

“Yeah, of course. I meant- forget it.”

He’s asking if it’s true Harry likes men, too. And he must be asking for a reason.

Harry blushes.

It’s unexpected, is all. Oh, he still gets love letters from strangers, witches and wizards
promising him eternal love, even though they never met him.

He occasionally even gets letters from other countries.

They always amuse Voldemort.

But this isn’t a strange wizard. This is Seamus, who fought Umbridge with Harry, who fought
and bled in the final battle.

Seamus, who lived at Hogwarts in his final year, under the Carrows and fought there too.
He knows Harry, not the Boy Who Lived.

He doesn’t glamorise the war, like those that didn’t fight in it.

Seamus, who remembers Harry’s moods, back in fifth year, who knows Harry is a complete
slob, because they lived in the same dorm for six years.

Seamus, who was there when Harry woke up from a nightmare, predicting Arthur’s attack.

It’s just unexpected someone that truly knows him would like him.

“Shite, I made you uncomfortable-”

“No, no.” Harry shakes his head. “Just surprised a little-”

“Surprised? You must have a horde of suitors.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know me,” Harry says what he was thinking. “If they would-”

“They would only like you more.”

Oh, fuck. Harry has no idea how to deal with compliments. Insults are a common occurrence
in his household, he’s used to those, but compliments-

“I’m seeing someone,” Harry blurts out, to get out of dealing with whatever is happening.

Seamus smiles. “Of course you are. I knew there’s no chance you’d be single. I just figured
I’d ask, you know, so I don’t kick myself later.”

Harry gulps down his beer, because he doesn’t know what to say.

Seamus changes the subject, and then soon says he has some business he needs to attend.

“It was nice seeing you, mate.” He shakes Harry’s hand as they leave the pub.

Harry forgets to buy Delphini’s things, distracted, and has to deal with a mild tantrum when
he gets home, but he manages to pacify her with promises of a movie later in the evening.

(-)

“You’re not doing it properly,” Voldemort says from the doorway to the living room, where
Harry had taken refuge. “The more agitated you are, the easier it is for a Legillimens to slip
into your head, undetected.”

“Shut up!” Harry is frustrated.

He’s trying to do what Snape told him. Clear your mind, Potter.
What sort of shitty advice is that? It helps him as much as it helped him in his fifth year.

“I’m going to my room. I can’t clear my mind with you here.” Harry gets off the sofa.

“You won’t clear it any better in your room. Who would have thought you’d have so much
trouble emptying your mind when it’s already empty to begin with?”

“Hilarious,” Harry snaps at him. “How are you supposed to clear your mind, anyway? Snape
didn’t give me any pointers.”

“Terrible instructor,” Voldemort says. “Why didn’t dear Dumbledore help you with it? You’d
think he wouldn’t let something this important to anyone else.”

Harry shrugs.

“If he’d helped you, maybe you wouldn’t have fallen prey to my influence and you wouldn’t
have come to the Ministry-”

“Stop it. The Ministry wasn’t Dumbledore’s fault. It was yours.”

Voldemort ignores him.

“I’ve taught many men Occlumency. Successfully so.”

“Good for you!” Harry gives him a nasty look before he remembers he’s not supposed to
meet his eyes.

He looks away.

“You could become the greatest Occlumens to exist,” Voldemort goes on. “You won’t, of
course, but let us assume a miracle happens. I’d still be able to break your mind open. No one
can resist me. But I’d have to use a wand, I’d have to focus and at least you would be aware
I’m doing it. Or, as aware as the extreme pain would let you be-”

“Lovely,” Harry spits.

“It would take years for you to be great, in any case. Years, discipline and mental fortitude.
You lack all of those.”

“I lack time?” Harry asks, confused and again he looks up at Voldemort before swearing and
fixing his eyes on the carpet.

“What you want to achieve now, what is realistic you would be capable to, is so that an
accomplished Legilimens won’t get into your head without you knowing, just by making eye
contact. I can teach you how to efficiently detect any small intrusions. If it’s someone really
determined, I have no hope for you, but discrete peeks you might avoid.”

“No.”
“Harry, be sensible. I already know everything. What are the risks? I could have left you
ignorant of the matter, if I wanted, but I told you. So I can help you.”

“So very altruistic of you.”

“Look at me.” His voice hits that low, seductive quality.

Harry hates it, because he can’t ignore it.

He looks up.

“You’re doing it now?” he asks.

“No. It’s not that simple, especially if I don’t use my wand or if I don’t wish to cause you
pain.”

Harry sits.

It’s just pointless. Voldemort is right; he already knows everything Harry does.

Long ago, Harry used to refuse to eat the food Voldemort would leave for him.

He remembers Voldemort telling him to just eat, because they both knew eventually he will.

And he was right about that, too.

Somehow, in the end, Harry always ends up doing what Voldemort wants.

It terrifies him.

“Your mind is especially vulnerable to me, since it used to host a part of my soul. Even so,
don’t imagine I can just look you in the eyes and search for whatever I want. I just glimpse
what you are thinking about at that precise moment. We shall not discuss how inane most of
your surface level thoughts are… the amount of nothing in your head is astounding, really.”

Fuck you, Harry thinks, with as much will as he can muster. “Got that?” He asks Voldemort.

Voldemort smiles, just the briefest turn of his lip.

“Crystal clear.”

“Good.”

“To get something I really want, I would have to ask you a question about it, to make you
think of it.”

“Could you always do it, or just after the cuffs came off?” Harry asks, curious.

“It was muted with the cuffs on. Much better now.”

“Did you- with the Aurors?”

“All Aurors are trained in basic Occlumency. They would have detected even the most
discrete invasion. They wouldn’t have been able to stop me if I had my magic and a wand,
but as it was, I didn’t even try. Ronald is careful never to meet my eyes and the mudblood…
well, yes. I do occasionally get an interesting information or two from her.”

“I told them,” Harry says, boldly.

“I know.”

“How would you know!? I was careful to not look at-”

“I know because I know you. I don’t need Legilimency to predict your behaviour.”

They stare at each other.

Harry hates himself for missing those intelligent, cruel eyes.

“Fuck it. Fine. How do I do it?”

Voldemort smiles.

(-)

“It will rot your teeth,” Harry says, when Delphini gulps down a can of Coke and then
immediately opens another.

He should stop buying them for her, he well knows it, but it’s hard when she either pulls a sad
puppy face at him in the store or throws a tantrum if that doesn’t work.

“Don’t be silly, Harry.” She must hear a noise because she hastily throws the empty can in the
bin and then pours the full one into a goblet.

Voldemort enters the kitchen not a second later.

Harry hadn’t heard him. He wonders how Delphini always seems to know when her father is
close.

“Even if my teeth rot, there’s a spell to fix them. Rody fixed some of his teeth with it. I don’t
know it, but father must.” She sips gracefully at her goblet, nothing like the savage gulps
from before. “Right, father?”

“Yes,” Voldemort confirms, waving his hand.

The kettle floats to the stove.

Delphini smiles at Harry, winningly. “See, there’s no danger. I can drink however much I
want.”
“Sometimes we can’t do everything we want,” Harry tells her. “Even if it might seem there
are no consequences.”

“Why?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “Well, because then you might grow up spoiled and-”

“I like being spoiled,” she interrupts him, frowning. “It shows that you love me when you do
everything I want.”

Harry sighs. He has no idea how to have this conversation, how to explain it to her. For a mad
second he looks at Voldemort, who is much more eloquent, hoping for advice.

Then he realises just whom he’s looking at.

“I didn’t see muggles with rotten teeth, and they don’t have magic.” Delphini comes around
the table and sits on Harry’s lap. “How do they fix them?”

“They go to a dentist.”

“What’s a dentist?”

“Well, a sort of doctor -healer- only for tee-”

“A torturer, you mean,” Voldemort scoffs, taking out two cups from the cabinet.

“Oh, my.” Delphini puts the goblet on the table and leans on it, on her elbows, watching her
father. “A torturer? Like in the books? The man that takes you to the dungeons and hurts you
until you confess?”

“What have you been reading?” Harry asks, horrified.

“About the Inquisition. Father gave me the books, so I can read them before bed.”

Harry glares at Voldemort, who turns his back and busies himself with milk and tea bags.

“She needs to know our history,” he says.

Harry closes his eyes for a second, willing himself to calm down.

“You won’t be reading those anymore, Delphini. Especially before bed-”

“It’s fine, I finished them already.” She twists in his lap and kisses his cheek. “So, dentists-”

“Are not torturers. They are doctors that-”

“Pull people’s teeth out, or drill into them,” Voldemort interjects.

“Well, when you put it like that!” Harry snaps. “I know it sounds bad, but they have this
medicine to numb you first and you don’t feel a thing-”
Voldemort snorts, loudly.

“You don’t!” Harry insists.

He’d went to the dentist once, when his school made the Dursleys take him.

He doesn’t even recall what they did to him, but it hadn’t hurt at all. He just remembers his
lips feeling numb and funny for a while after it.

“They took some of the children at Wool’s to the dentist when they wailed about toothaches.”
Voldemort takes the kettle off and pours the hot water in the cups. “They all came back with
swollen and bruised faces, crying their hearts out. Once I trailed after them, and I could hear
the screaming from the street.”

Silence.

Right; dentist visits in the 30s mustn’t have been as painless.

“What’s Wool’s?” Delphini asks. “What children were those? You don’t have other sons or
daughters, do you?” She jumps out of Harry’s lap and stands beside him.

“Not to my knowledge.”

Dephini narrows her eyes at Voldemort’s back

“He doesn’t have any other children,” Harry assures her, because he can tell she’s upset.

“Promise?” she mouths at him.

“Promise,” Harry whispers back.

Of course, he doesn’t know for sure either, but somehow he can’t see Voldemort having other
children. Delphini is incredible enough.

He’s so very curious how that went- did he and Bellatrix decide to have a child?

How in the world did she convince him?

Was it an accident?

“Do you have children, Harry?” Delphini asks, settling back on his lap.

“No.”

“Good.” Delphini takes back her glass, satisfied.

She changes the subject, deciding to torment Harry with her newly gained knowledge of the
Inquisition.

Voldemort finishes the tea, sending a cup to land neatly at Harry’s side, as he takes his place
at the head of the table.
It strikes Harry that it’s been months since he last had a flashback of Sirius sitting there, of
him tipping the chair on the back legs, a smile on his face.

He feels extremely guilty, immediately.

He doesn’t want to forget Sirius. Yes, it is painful to see him all across the house, but not
seeing him feels like Harry is moving on, leaving Sirius behind and that is wrong.

Because it’s his fault Sirius is dead and Harry has no right to just live on, guilt free-

“He’s looking a tad pale, Delphini; perhaps you should stop.” Voldemort’s voice drags Harry
back to the present.

“Oh, Harry, don’t worry!” Delphini cups his cheek. “It was actually mostly other muggles
they tortured and killed; muggle women especially. Very few actual witches died. You don’t
have to feel bad, yes?”

Harry takes a sip of his tea, hoping to calm himself, hoping she doesn’t see his hand shaking.

He doesn’t even have the strength or the lucidity to tell her they should feel just as bad for the
muggles killed in the Inquisition, as they do for the magical people that lost their lives.

“Yeah,” he agrees, preoccupied.

Delphini switches to telling him about a book called ‘Wuthering Heights’ or something like
that.

Slowly, Harry’s hands stop shaking, and the cold inside his chest is chased away by the tea.

They’re just about to retreat to bed, when Delphini turns her gaze to Voldemort.

“You didn’t tell me what Wool’s is.”

Oh, crap.

“It was the name of the orphanage where I grew up,” Voldemort says, after a few tense
seconds.

Delphini doesn’t seem to blink.

“Like in Oliver Twist?” Her voice lowers, and Harry hears the discomfort in it.

He really needs to start reading what she does.

“Not quite. That was a workhouse.”

“But why were you in an -”

Voldemort stands. “Take her to her room,” he snaps at Harry and leaves the kitchen without
looking at them.
A heavy silence lingers in his absence, Delphini staring at the doorway.

“Come on,” Harry says, eventually.

“I’m not sleepy,” Delphini answers, when Harry gently takes her off his lap.

“That is what happens when you drink two cans of coke before bed,” he mumbles.

She follows him up the stairs nevertheless, and that’s enough to let him know she’s lost in her
head, because if Voldemort doesn’t take her to her room and tells her a story, Harry always
has a hard time convincing her to go to bed.

“He didn’t have a mama either?” she asks, when Harry pulls the blanket over her, tucking her
in.

“He didn’t.” He sits beside her. “Listen, it’s- it’s not something he likes to talk about.”

“Why? I love talking about mama; it makes her feel more real.”

Harry understands that very well.

He couldn’t speak about his mother growing up, but he’d liked to imagine her at night, in his
little cupboard under the stairs.

It gave him comfort.

Isn’t reasonable to believe Voldemort had once been the same?

It’s so easy to forget he had been a child- even when he remembers, it’s simpler to see him as
the boy from Dumbledore’s pensive.

Cold and creepy.

But that couldn’t have been the case.

Not from the beginning, at least.

He looks at Delphini’s brown eyes and he knows once, long ago, an eight-year-old Tom
Riddle must have gone to bed thinking about his mother, like so many orphans before and
after him.

“I had Rody,” Delphini says. “But orphans don’t have anyone. In Oliver Twist, they were
always hungry. Always. The children considered eating each other, that’s how hungry they
were.”

“From now on, you’ll only read something after I read it first, ok?” Harry asks, because this
is just appalling.

Delphini frowns. “But you don’t read,” she points out.

“I will,” Harry promises.

 “Oliver Twist is child friendly, remember? You asked the muggle at the bookshop.”

“It doesn’t sound-”

She shrugs. “It was fine by the end. Oliver’s mother died in childbirth and his father was
dead, too, but Oliver runs from the workhouse, meets a gang of thieves in London-”

“Great,” he mutters.

“It’s sad for a while- he gets shot-”

“What the f-”

“And his half brother is hunting for him, so he can kill Oliver and inherit their father’s money
alone-”

“Delphini-”

“But in the end he’s adopted, and all is well. It’s a nice story, Harry. All stories are nice when
they end well.”

She closes her eyes tightly, pulls her hand out of the blanket and extends it.

Harry’s about to ask her what she’s doing when a book zooms through the air, fast.

Harry catches it by instinct, his Seeker reflexes making him reach out.

“There; you can read it.”

Harry just stares at her, dumbfounded.

Wandless magic. Nothing accidental about it. Full control.

It dawns on him in that moment that while he fully embraced Delphini is a genius like her
father, while he worries what unpleasant traits she might have inherited from him, he’d
somehow never considered magic.

He’d never looked at this slip of a girl and thought ‘power’.

But clearly, he should have.

Delphini will grow up to be a remarkably powerful witch.

Chapter End Notes

I am sorry for the delay!

If you have the time, I'd like to hear your thoughts about the chapter. Thank you for
reading!
 Chapter 17

“There! I think I felt something!” Harry exclaims, excited.

Voldemort looks frustrated.

“You can’t feel Legilimency. Not if it is discrete. You would only feel it if I were ransacking
through your head. You’d feel pain.”

“But I felt something!” Harry insists.

“You felt excitement because you thought you felt something.”

“Ah,” Harry says, disappointed. “This is hopeless,” he mutters.

He’s been really trying to detect Voldemort in his head, with no luck.

“Try me, father!” Delphini says from where she’s sitting on the floor, painting something.

Harry bought her a nice painting set, and she likes to stay around them as he tries to learn
Occlumency.

Well, not quite. Voldemort says that first he needs to learn to detect Voldemort in his head,
and then he’ll learn how to defend against it.

“Now, now. No need to humiliate Harry.” Voldemort smirks.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I hope you’re not going to try it with her,” he tells Voldemort.

Legilimency on a child… who knows what could go wrong.

Two sets of identical brown eyes look at him with the exact same expression. Harry can’t
quite decipher it.

It’s a little creepy.

Even their heads are tilted the same way, slightly to the left.

“Focus,” Voldemort says, and Delphini goes back to her activity. “I told you, the only way to
detect me is if you recognise when your thoughts change, seemingly without reason. When
you think of something that you would have no reason to be thinking of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry sighs and shakes his head as if that will help him regain his focus. “Ok,
I’m ready.”
(-)

Voldemort is on the bed, back supported against the headboard, one knee raised, a book
propped up on it.

Harry has gotten used to him in the past couple of years.

It's not like he doesn't always appreciate how handsome Voldemort is, but one gets used to
that if exposed daily.

But there's something about him just then, with his book and his robe open, just enough to
reveal a bit of his chest-

It strikes Harry all over again, how good he looks.

How unfair, too, for someone so…so Voldemort, to be this beautiful.

Harry's mouth waters, and he hesitates in the doorway, freshly out of the shower.

Harry coughs to get his attention, but it fails. Voldemort doesn't glance up.

Before Harry does it again, he's reminded of Umbridge, so he stops.

Instead, he starts moving around the room aimlessly.

There's nothing out of place, no discarded trousers or stray sock he can pick up.

No bags of crisps, like how Harry used to have in his room, or a glass of juice he can use to
make some noise.

Nothing.

Harry opens the door to the dresser loudly.

Both their clothes are inside, carefully folded.

Well. Harry's jeans and T-shirts are.

Voldemort's suits and robes are hanging neatly on hangers.

There's nothing Harry can arrange.

He just doesn't know how to start something with Voldemort.

It's never him that makes the first step.

If it were Ginny, Harry would simply slip in bed beside her, kiss her shoulder, make a cheeky
joke or something.
But it's not Ginny.

He goes back to the bathroom and brushes his teeth again, slowly.

Hermione would be proud, really. At least four minutes.

When he peeks out of the room, Voldemort is still engrossed in his stupid book.

It's thick and in French, but judging by the skull on the front cover, it can't be anything good.

It should put Harry off, imagining the dark rituals or spells Voldemort is reading about, but it
doesn't.

The furthest thing from it; just seeing him so focused, with the smallest of frowns between
his brows, is…

Hot.

Once, over a bottle of Firewhiskey, shortly after the war, he sat with Ron in the Burrow's
overgrown garden and asked him what was his favourite thing in the world; what he'd like to
do now that the war was over.

And Ron said that he was looking forward to just sitting peacefully in his room, watching
Hermione read for hours, with no worries in the world.

Harry didn't understand it back then, but he does now as he watches Voldemort.

Harry has many worries, in general, but they are far away from his mind at that moment.

He knocks over the laundry basket with his foot, but that doesn't get Voldemort's attention
either.

Just go there and tell him-

Tell him what? That I want him to fuck me?

Harry can't.

It's not so much to do with shame or embarrassment.

It's more that if Harry doesn't start it, he can pretend-

He's not sure what he can pretend, but he feels less guilty about fucking a warlord that killed
his parents if at least he's not the one to initiate it.

That's stupid.

Harry sighs.

He takes off the towel from around his waist and hops back in the bathtub, waving a hand.
The door closes.

Harry blinks, surprised.

Wandless magic comes easier to him these days.

It probably happens because, outside their duelling sessions, Harry never sees Voldemort
using his wand.

All the magic he does, and he does a lot, Voldemort simply makes a gesture with his hand
and somehow, when Harry wants something, he finds himself just gesturing and -

But his cock is too hard for him to think about anything else.

Harry will just have a quick wank, and then he can go to bed without his skin burning and his
balls hurting.

It's not as quick as he intended.

Harry keeps imagining Voldemort inside him, how good that feels, and before he knows it,
he's frantically looking in the cupboards for something to use as a lubricant.

He finds one of the oils Voldemort always summons to bed, and just the smell of it makes
Harry's blood run even hotter.

He spreads some on two of his fingers and settles back into the bathtub, returning to his
fantasies.

But it's not enough.

Harry's fingers don't feel anywhere near as good as Voldemort's, never mind his cock.

Just go there and say something.

And Harry's so fired up, the prospect of having Voldemort inside him too good to pass on,
that he stands on shaky legs, washes his hands and puts the towel back around his waist
though it does nothing to hide his erection.

Voldemort is still reading, God damn him.

"Enjoying your book? Any good?"

Voldemort doesn't answer straightaway, his eyes moving over a page in silence before he
turns it.

"No, I habitually read books I find boring."

Even that deadpan tone is arousing to Harry.

"Hmm," he says, going with it.

He moves closer to the bed, his pulse racing.

"If it's bad," he says slowly, reaching a hand and touching the book. "Then you should stop
reading it."

Harry takes the book away. He waits for a few seconds, still as a statue, and when he's not
cursed, he places it on the nightstand.

Voldemort looks at Harry, eyebrow quirked up. Harry thinks he smiles for a second, but it's
gone so fast, he can't be sure.

"However shall I entertain myself now?"

He just looks at Harry.

Harry is stumped. He imagined taking the book away would be enough. He imagined
Voldemort seeing his cock jutting through the towel would make him do something.

But he just sits there, displaying a half-smile.

Harry puts one knee on the bed, somehow awkwardly. When nothing happens, he throws his
other leg over Voldemort.

His towel falls off.

And there he is, straddling Voldemort.

Who still looks at Harry with that smile.

Harry leans in and kisses him, just a slow press of lips.

“You didn’t bookmark the page,” Voldemort drawls, amused.

Harry groans, embarrassed, and moves to get off him, but strong fingers grab his hip on one
side and his thigh on the other.

“Luckily, I memorised it.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” Harry mutters before kissing him again.

He places his hands on Voldemort’s chest, slips them under the parted robe.

He feels the scars scattered between the otherwise smooth skin.

Harry draws back and parts the robe further.

If you had taken him out of the Ministry sooner, he wouldn’t have had them.

“Always the martyr,” Voldemort says, meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Stop,” Harry complains, looking back at his chest. “Merlin, no wonder you’re good at sex, if
you’ve been reading my mind-”

Voldemort’s laugh vibrates through his chest, under Harry’s palms.

“One of these days I’ll blindfold you,” he promises, voice low and Harry swallows, thickly,
the desire ramping up. “And I will prove I don’t need Legilimency to give you what you
want.”

Harry kisses him again, bolder.

Eventually Voldemort’s hand moves from his hip, down to his ass.

Harry’s breath hitches.

“My, my, aren’t you presumptuous?” Voldemort asks when one of his fingers easily slides
into Harry, finds him already open and lubricated.

Harry squirms, cheeks flaming.

“Go on, then. Since you’re so eager.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

There’s some fumbling as Harry tries to figure it out. It’s different, and his cheeks don’t stop
blushing. He can feel the heat in his face.

Voldemort watches him, head comfortably propped against the headboard.

It takes some tries, but eventually Harry finds the right angle and he lowers himself on
Voldemort’s cock.

He’s so focused, he stops breathing. His thighs are already shaking on each side of
Voldemort’s narrow hips.

When Voldemort is in control, everything goes more smoothly, but now, somehow, Harry
finds it harder to relax himself.

He rests his head on the shoulder in front of him. Voldemort must grow impatient, because
his fingers tighten on Harry’s waist and he pulls Harry down for the last inches.

“Breathe,” he says and only then Harry remembers to do it.

“I can’t..” Harry whispers. “I- can’t you-?”

“If you ask nicely.”

“Fuck me,” Harry breathes out.

“Nicely, Harry. That sounded like an order-”

“Please, fuck me,” Harry cuts over him, looping his arms around Voldemort’s neck.

He does. But he doesn’t turn them over; he holds Harry in place, thrusting up into him.

It’s slow and… different, in this position. Harry is snuggled close to his chest, he can press
long, wet kisses on the column of his neck.

“If you’d have taken me sooner from the Ministry, I’d have killed you,” Voldemort says
because he had to ruin it, didn’t he?

But Harry has practice in ignoring the words themselves and focuses just on the tone,
instead.

“As it is, I think I’ll keep you.”

One of his hands goes high on Harry’s back, pressing their bodies even closer. His fingers
cup the back of Harry’s head.

“Would you like that, Harry?”

God forgive him, Harry would.

“Answer me.” Voldemort’s voice is rougher, lower, his grip harder.

“Yes,” Harry moans.

(-)

Harry is a terrible liar. He has no faith that he'll pull it off.

Especially with Hermione, one of his best friends.

Voldemort told Harry what to say at least ten times, and that was only that morning.

He's already forgotten how he was supposed to start.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asks because Harry just sits in her office, looking at his trainers.

He's been doing it for minutes.

"Harry?" Her voice turns worried.

"I'm raising Voldemort's daughter," he blurts.

God, Voldemort will kill you.

"You- what-you? Huh?"

"I received a letter from a woman called Rowle," Harry starts to speak because now he
remembers how he was supposed to start. "She wrote that she was dying and that she wanted
to see me. That she had some important information, and she'd exchange it if I could get her
son released from Azkaban."

Harry dares to look up; Hermione is frozen, eyes wide.

"And I went- I mean, no." You're fucking it all up! "I deliberated for a while; I asked
Voldemort if he knew what information she could have. He said she couldn't have anything of
importance. So I didn't go straight away, but I couldn't shake it off."

"Rowle? I believe she died some six or so months before; heart attack-" Hermione stutters.

"Well, yeah. See- when I got there, no one answered the door. I got an awful feeling about it-
I don't know. Just- I got a feeling."

She nods. She is experienced with Harry's gut feelings.

"I went in and found her dead, in her room. But I heard screams."

So he goes on, how he went to the attic and found a little girl locked up there, dirty and
malnourished.

How she'd told him her mother's name was Bellatrix Lestrange.

"And I knew- Voldemort told me they had a child. He and Lestrange-"

Hermione's eyes only grow bigger.

"So- I just panicked, you know? I -I was afraid to take her to Kingsley- I just- Hermione, with
her parents- before I could think it through, I was with her back at Grimmauld."

And Hermione's familiar with that too. With Harry acting instead of thinking.

"And I said to myself that I'd just feed her and calm her- she was terrified- and then take her
to the Ministry but-she didn't want to leave. So -here I am. Yeah. I'm raising Voldemort's
daughter."

Hermione needs a minute to process this. Few things are baffling to her, but she's bewildered
as she keeps staring at Harry.

"So the girl is at Grimmauld now?"

Harry nods.

"With Voldemort!?"

"Yeah..."

She stands.
"Let's go," she says, and both Harry and Voldemort predicted this would happen.

Hermione will want to make sure the girl is safe. Like Harry did in the beginning, she thinks
'child' and 'Voldemort' in the same house and she has to check it out now and ask questions
later.

And what a sight they find.

Delphini in her best, most demure pink dress. Voldemort has braided her hair less neatly than
usually- and Harry knows this must be on purpose, because Delphini looks even more angelic
with a few strands out of order.

She looks more childish.

Voldemort has left toys all over the house, in random places.

He never allows that, neat freak that he is; everything needs to be in order.

But now her toys are scattered around, screaming -'see, normal environment for a child to be
in.'

Harry can't tell if the way Delphini seems surprised and instantly stands to hide behind
Voldemort is an act or real.

"Will Delphini be able to sell it?" Harry asks, pacing around the living room, hands sweaty.

"I am far less concerned about her. If anyone ruins it, it will be you," Voldemort answers.

"Hi," Delphini says, shyly, moving closer to Voldemort.

It goes swimmingly.

She's a natural, acts more innocent than she is, all wide-eyed and curious. She doesn't
mention Rodolphus, and when Hermione gently asks about Rowle, fat tears cling to
Delphini's lashes, and she climbs in Voldemort's lap.

And Harry can tell that wasn't part of the plan.

Voldemort doesn't act fatherly because Hermione wouldn't buy it. But he acts more interested
in Delphini than he really is, during the visit.

However, when his daughter takes full advantage of the fact that he can't throw her off him,
Harry sees the shock in his eyes.

Delphini snuggles at his chest, hands locked tightly around his neck, and only Harry is in a
position to see the huge grin on her face.

When she eventually lets him go, she rubs at her eyes pathetically and says she doesn't want
to talk about Rowle, if that's alright.
Harry doesn't say anything because Voldemort said the less he speaks, the better the chances
are they'll get away with the story.

He just sits there, nervously.

Which is alright; he would be nervous, even if they were telling the truth.

Hermione waits until Delphini seems comfortable with her.

"Won't you show me your room? I would love to see it!" she asks after Delphini says she
loves all the things Harry was kind enough to get for her.

And off they go; Voldemort anticipated it, said Hermione would want to talk to Delphini
without him there to ensure she isn't being mistreated.

And Harry was so worried, but now that he's seen Delphini's performance, he isn't anymore.

They wait in tense silence. Harry stares at the clock, ticking away the minutes.

Hermione returns alone, after some half an hour. She looks bewildered.

"She's such a precious girl."

"She is," Harry agrees. "She really is. I can't let anyone take her away, Hermione."

He is very truthful about that. In the last six months, Delphini has become the best part of his
life. He can't imagine living without her.

She makes Harry happy like no one else can. Guilt-free.

"She's taken care of, I'm doing everything I can and not to brag, but it's been months, and
she's alright. Just- I won't have us separated."

Hermione is watching Voldemort carefully.

"What do you think?" she asks.

Voldemort waits for a while before he answers. If Hermione had known him better, she'd
have known this was off. That he can always answer any question, without pause.

"I think it would be best for her to find another family."

"What?" Harry is standing, shocked and enraged. That was not part of the plan.

"Let's face it- I shouldn't be around children," Voldemort says. "A nice family would-"

"No!" Harry snarls. "Absolutely not!"

Hermione looks between them, but she seems more comfortable after Voldemort's answer.
"She's very fond of you. Both of you." She looks at Voldemort again. "She told me you read
her bedtime stories."

Voldemort looks awkward and uncomfortable, and Harry calms- it's all fake.

He's just doing this for a reason. It must be. Voldemort never looks awkward or
uncomfortable.

"She enjoys them, and I figure it's something I can do. I don't know how to raise a child, but I
can read."

Hermione smiles weakly. "That's…a start. Of course, it's not my business, but as a mother, as
someone who knows kids, I think giving her away wouldn't benefit her. She feels safe here,
with you."

Voldemort looks away, as if he can't bear being told he's not a terrible dark lord, only good
for killing.

Hermione falls for it, hard.

"Then what do we do?" Voldemort asks her. "I wouldn't want her to be shut off in this house,
just because of me. She deserves to go to Hogwarts, and how can she do that when she's
living with us, in secret?"

Alright, they're back on track. Harry remembers those rehearsed lines. He sits.

"I was thinking of adopting her," he tells Hermione. "Just say I found her on the streets. Can I
do that? You know the laws better-"

"No," Voldemort shakes his head. "I told you before, it wouldn't help us. Kingsley will never
let you adopt a child when he knows you're living with me."

"But what else can we do?" Harry thinks that's his line.

"To be honest, I was hoping Mrs Weasley- Hermione," and Hermione smiles because this is
the first time Voldemort has called her by her given name,"would pity her and adopt her after
meeting her." He shrugs. "You do seem like the kind to do that, especially with all those
postpartum hormones running amok."

It's such a Voldemort thing to say, it sounds authentic, and Hermione snorts.

"I mean, I would take her; of course I would," Hermione says. "But she wouldn't want that.
And Harry, you don't want that either."

"I don't. Not that I don't trust you, but-"

"I understand." Hermione nods.

She knows how much Harry wants a child. She must have seen the jealousy in his eyes when
everyone around him started having kids.
"Then we're back to nothing," Voldemort says. "Do what you want, Harry, you have all the
power here after all, but I think it's selfish to deprive the girl of a normal life just because
you've gotten attached to her and crave a family of your own."

Hermione cringes at the jab and narrows her eyes at Voldemort.

"Actually, there is something we can do."

Bingo! Voldemort's eyes flash with victory, only for a second.

Harry feels relieved. And guilty for playing Hermione like this.

But relieved most of all.

"What?" he asks, though Voldemort already told him all about it. But it has to seem like
Hermione's idea.

"Ok, so this is old pureblood law. It's kind of stupid and very antiquated if you ask me, but it
could help us in this situation."

"Oh?"

"The only way that would force Kingsley to let you take Delphini is if Delphini were a Black.
The laws of the Sacred Twenty Eight state that a child's right to reside in their ancient
residence cannot be contested. Kingsley would be breaking the law if he kept her out of this
house. Obviously, that rule could be contested by the Wizengamot due to the circumstances,
but the Winzengamot doesn't know who lives here, do they? Kingsley didn't tell anyone; he's
backed himself into a corner. I told him, we told him, that he should tell the truth when..." she
peeks at Voldemort. "You know, when the war was over. But he refused, and what can he do
now? What reason could he give to the Wizengamot against you getting Delphini?"

"But-but-" Harry stumbles.

"But she isn't a Black," Voldemort cuts over him. "She isn't even a pureblood."

Hermione looks at Harry, biting her lip. "She could be," she says slowly. "We'd have to lie,
and -well. She actually is the Black heir. The first child of the oldest Black daughter,
Bellatrix. In the absence of a male heir..."

"I don't want anyone to know that woman is her mother!" Harry says his line, one with which
he agrees, completely.

"Yes, I wouldn't want that either. But-" Hermione coughs. "We could say she is Sirius'
daughter."

"That could work," Voldemort says as if he hadn't thought about this himself.

It's frightening that Hermione had the same idea, that she sort of has the same way of
thinking as Voldemort.
She shrugs. "Sorry, Harry, but Sirius had a reputation. We can say he had a brief affair with-"
she bites her lip. "Actually, who would he have an affair with? What with him being a
fugitive? It would have to be someone in the Order, and we all know each other and-"

"A French witch," Voldemort says. "Harry told me Sirius travelled after his escape. He could
have met a woman in France. Delphini actually lived in France, and she speaks the language
perfectly. No one would catch her lying."

Hermione is getting excited. "Yes! Yes, that would work. And now, her mother had sadly
passed away and- hmm." She runs a hand through her hair.

"And before she died," Harry continues, "she sent the girl to London- she paid a man to bring
Delphini here and look for Harry Potter, since Sirius told her all about me."

"Yes!" Hermione agrees. "But obviously, Grimmauld is Unplottable, so the man couldn't find
you. But he read Ron and I are your best friends, and he found us." She stands, starts pacing
around the room.

Harry exchanges a brief look with Voldemort because in their plan, the "man" stalked around
Grimmauld until Harry came out of it and handed over Delphini.

"And we took her in. We'll tell Kingsley that we didn't bring her to you, because obviously,
we know Voldemort is here. But we told you, and now you want to be certain she really is
Sirius' daughter."

Back on track; Harry breathes out, relieved. "Yeah, I would want that. Is there a way to
check? Because if there is, they'll find out we are lying."

"No, no-" she shakes her head. "It's perfect, actually. The only way to test in with a drop of
her blood, in the Wizengamot. I know, I know. It's nasty. Blood magic." She makes a face.
"But that is why they did it that way. To ensure no impostor would ever gain access to the
inherited seats in the Wizengamot. Delphini will drop some blood on the Black chair, and it
will accept her. That's proof enough."

"Disgusting!" Harry says what he said when Voldemort told him of this tradition.

"It really is." Hermione sits back down. "But it will cement our story. You will then ask for
custody, and since you live in the Black ancestral home-oh! Oh no! Wait!"

"What?"

"Wizarding law states that orphaned children should be placed with blood relatives before
anyone else. What if Malfoy wants her? He'll win over you because Narcissa is her aunt. But
would they really want Sirius' child? I don't think so. No?"

She looks at Voldemort.

"They wouldn't," Voldemort says after pretending to think about it.

But that will be a problem, he'd told Harry. Because Narcissa will know this is Bella's
daughter, and she will want her.

"Well, then. That's that." Hermione leans into her chair. "You'll have to make sure Delphini
can go along with it in front of the Wizengamot. She's such a sweet, honest girl- I don't know
if she'll be able to lie."

Oh, if only you knew.

"We'll do our best," Harry assures her. "Hermione, I- do you think Ron will understand?"

He's actually concerned about Ron the most. Somehow he is far better at seeing through
Voldemort and Harry than Hermione is.

That’s why Voldemort insisted Harry go to Hermione first, when she’s without her husband.

"He'll want to see Delphini is doing ok here, with his own eyes,” Hermione says, after a
second. "You know how protective he is of any child."

Harry knows. Dad Ron is quite frightening.

"Can you talk to him about this- I just, I can't-"

"I'll talk with him."

(-)

"She was eating out of my hand after ten minutes," Delphini says when Hermione leaves,
sneaking back to the library. "I 'sold it,' Harry. I told you I would."

How can Harry ever tell her now that lying is wrong?

"You improvised," Voldemort sneers at her, talking about her climbing in his lap, no doubt.

"She did very well," Harry defends her.

"I don't think you understand how children work, father, will all due respect. If I were
frightened and in distress and we were a normal family, I would want to hug you. You both
said she'd be concerned about you, most of all, about our relationship. So I showed her all is
well."

Voldemort grits his teeth, but he doesn't come up with any rebuttal.

Poor girl, having to resort to manipulation just to hug her father.

Would it kill Voldemort to hug her?

"You improvised as well," Harry says, to take the heat off Delphini.

Voldemort rolls his eyes. "My' willingness' to give Delphini away to a better family showed
your mudblood I care enough about my daughter to want something better for her than what I
can offer. It told her I want Delphini safe."

"You could have let me know beforehand!" Harry says. "My heart almost stopped."

"You're a terrible actor. Your emotions had to be genuine."

"You really are a bad liar, Harry," Delphini says softly, climbing on Harry and kissing his
cheek. "I can always tell when you're not truthful."

Just great. Voldemort says that's her natural Legilimency showing up, the same way it
happened to him.

"Gather your toys and take them back to your room," Voldemort orders her.

Delphini gets tense in Harry's arms. "You scattered them around the house; it was your plan.
Why do I have to clean it up?"

"Delphini," Harry warns. "I'll help you-"

"Because I say so," Voldemort answers.

"It's not fair! You have a wand! It would take you a second! It would take me an hour-"

"Delphini!" Harry insists when a muscle jumps in Voldemort's jaw. "I'll help you. Let's make
it a contest. Whoever gathers the most, wins an ice cream."

"Alright! I'll win!" She jumps off him and starts picking up toys.

(-)

They have a couple of weeks to prepare.

Voldemort drills Delphini daily, pretending he’s a member of the Wizengamot, asking
Delphini question after question.

“You should have a French accent, if a French witch raised you,” he concludes, and they
rehearse that until it sounds authentic. “Make sure to hesitate around some English words.
Say them in French, first. Look nervous and after some seconds, ‘remember’ the right one.”

“Oui,” she says. “I mean, yes.”

“Yes, like that.”

They decide her ‘mother’ was a muggle-born. It’s the easiest way to ensure members of the
Twenty-Eight won’t easily track the invented woman.

“But I’d like to be a pureblood,” Delphini protests, not because she has any prejudice against
half-bloods, but because she thinks Voldemort would like her better if at least her alter ego
were be a pureblood.

“No. Pureblood lines are straightforward to trace. Besides, it’s modern to be a half-blood
these days. Purebloods are so desperate to disassociate themselves from ideas of blood purity
they've started breeding with Muggles and Mudbloods left and right.”

“Oh, God,” Harry groans. “Just shut up.”

When he’s not coaching Delphini, he’s coaching Harry.

“Listen, I did ok with Hermione because… well, because she trusts me, you know? But I
won’t fair well with Andromeda and Narcissa. I just won’t.”

Because Harry needs to talk to them first, before the matter goes public.

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’d crack like an egg. But Lucius will be there, he can handle
it.”

Harry is to meet with Malfoy before he sees the women. He’s to tell Malfoy Voldemort said
to back Harry up.

“You look green,” Voldemort mocks him. “You headed inTO battle with no reluctance but a
conversation with some women makes you shake.”

“I’m not a good liar, ok? And Andromeda can be scary.”

“Lucius will handle it,” Voldemort repeats.

“How will he-”

“I don’t know. He’ll find a way. He always does. Now, he is an accomplished liar.”

(-)

“You should have told us sooner,” Ron says, watching Harry carefully. “Why didn’t you?”

It’s just the two of them, in Ron’s flat.

“Because you wouldn’t have agreed- you’d have told me to give her away.”
“Yeah,” Ron nods. “Yeah, I reckon we would have. I mean… I still-”

“Ron, she’s- she’s like my daughter now. I won’t give her to anyone else. She’s safe.”

Ron looks doubtful. “Maybe. But you didn’t see her as a daughter when you got her, did you?
And Voldemort was right there.”

“I know.”

Harry can’t very well explain to Ron that Harry would have given her away, in those first
weeks, because he realises she’d be better off with a nice, normal family. But he couldn’t
have. Voldemort wouldn’t have allowed it.

Yet Ron doesn’t know Voldemort was the one to bring Delphini in. He doesn’t know
Voldemort has his magic and his wand.

So Harry can’t explain why he allowed Delphini to share a house with a mass murderer.

But he can explain why he wants her now.

“I know it wasn’t wise. But she’s doing great. She’s safe; I’m keeping her safe. I’m doing
everything I can to give her all she needs. And I love her.”

Ron looks pensive. “You shouldn’t lie to us. All these months you found excuses not to let us
inside Grimmauld-”

“I’m sorry, I just-”

“Don’t take this as me thinking you should tell me everything in your life- it’s not like that.
You have a right to your privacy. I just worry that he made you hide it. I worry that he’s…
that both you and Hermione seem to think he’s harmless now. I worry he’s breaking us apart,
driving a wedge-”

“Ron, there’s nothing,” Harry starts, grabbing his shoulder. “Nothing in this world that will
ever come between us. He didn’t make me hide it. I was just selfish. I wanted to have her for
a while first, so I could have proof that half a year passed and Delphini was safe and in a
good place. So that when I did tell you, you could see that there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Well, I still worry.” Ron shrugs. “But it is what it is, I guess. Hermione says she’s lovely.
How did Voldemort’s and Lestrange’s daughter turn up lovely? How did she come to be?
Since Hermione told me, I've been having nightmares imagining her conception.”

Ron shudders.

Harry laughs, weekly. He, too, has nightmares about it, sometimes.

But not for the same reasons Ron does. No, Harry doesn’t like the idea of Voldemort and
Bellatrix, because he is jealous, deep down.

Bellatrix didn’t need to hold Voldemort captive to have him show interest in her.
Magnificent, radiant, powerful. All words Voldemort associated with her that he will never
think of in relation to Harry.

“She is lovely. You’ll see,” Harry says, banishing those awful thoughts. “And soon I will be
able to take her out of the house, have her meet children. She’s… she’s never met another
child. Of course, I understand if you don’t want her around Rose and-”

“Stop it. She’s a kid. I won’t judge her for what her parents did. I wouldn’t like anyone to
judge Rose and Hugo-”

“For what?” Harry laughs. “You and Hermione are great people.”

Ron smiles. “I don’t want anyone to expect things from them because of what Hermione and
I did in the war. I remember how much that sucked, when I was young. Being compared to
Bill and Charlie and Percy.”

Harry remembers it, too.

Ron might be a war hero, but Molly still sometimes gives him and Harry grief over their
decisions not to take the N.E.W.T.s, like all her other kids.

Besides George. Molly says nothing to George, always speaks kindly to him, no matter what
he does.

Fred is still with them, whenever George is in the room, an empty seat by his side.

It’s painful, heartbreaking.

Fred wouldn’t want it.

Just like Sirius wouldn’t want you brooding over him, something inside him says.

It’s to assuage the guilt that Harry has about parading the daughter of his murderer as Sirius’
own kid.

Sirius wouldn’t mind, Harry tells himself. He’d like Delphini.

(-)

It's so quiet that Harry expected to find the kitchen empty as he wandered down after his
shower.

It isn't.

Voldemort sits in his chair; Delphini stands close to him, her hands curled into fists at her
sides, her face flushed.
A broken plate is on the floor, food everywhere, a glass fallen on the table, pumpkin juice
dripping steadily onto a chair.

They're locked in a stare-off.

The silence coupled with the image instantly raises the hair on Harry's neck.

"What's going on?"

It's like he triggers something, shattering the frozen picture.

Delphini rushes so fast towards him he can barely see her coming.

She slams into him, her arms going around his waist, and she starts crying, shaking from
head to toe, head buried in his T-shirt.

"What did you do?" he asks Voldemort, panicking.

Voldemort just rolls his eyes.

Harry tries to unglue Delphini from him to check her, but she doesn't want it. She only clings
tighter; she's surprisingly strong.

"Delphini, please, look at me. What did he do to you?"

Harry's voice is high with fear.

Stay calm, stay calm.

He can't scare her more. He needs to know what happened and then he has to solve it. He
needs to stay calm.

"She won't look at you anytime soon, because then you'll see there are no tears in her eyes,"
Voldemort says, and God help him, Harry's going to kill him.

Delphini only shakes harder.

"Shut up!" Harry yells.

Calm, stay calm.

"Delphini, please," he tries again, but she refuses to move.

"She's faking it."

"She's trembling like a leaf," Harry snarls at him. "What did you-"

"That's rage, not fear."

"He took mama's wand!" Delphini's voice is muffled by Harry's T-shirt. "Make him give it
back!"
"You can hardly remember Bella. I knew her for thirty years."

Voldemort sounds completely unbothered, and Harry calms, if slightly.

He doesn't seem mad; that's good. That's good. It means he didn't hurt her. Right?

Harry's eyes find Delphini's box, which she still carries around everywhere. It's open on the
table.

And there's the wand, between bits of bacon and slices of apple.

"If anyone has a right to her wand, it's me," Voldemort goes on, the heartless bastard.

Quick as a snake, Delphini lets go of Harry, and she turns her back to him to stare at her
father.

"IT'S MINE!"

The table starts rocking. Harry can feel the magic coming out of Delphini.

"NOT YOURS! MINE! GIVE IT BACK!"

"Don't yell," Harry hurries to say because Voldemort won't appreciate that at all.

He moves to stand in front of her.

Voldemort was wrong- there are tears on her face.

Tears of frustration. Harry saw them in Teddy a few times.

Her face is scrunched up but determined. There is no dread in her eyes.

He's never seen her this angry; calming her down won't be easy at all.

It's hard enough to put her at ease after he refuses to buy her sweets and she gets mildly
upset.

This, however-

If only Voldemort would leave; that's the most important thing. Harry can't have him get
angry too.

He tries to take her hand, hopefully lead her out of the kitchen, but she wrenches it back and
steps out of his reach.

No, no, chasing her around won't help anything-

"It's not even her real wand," Voldemort says from behind him. "She lost that one before she
died."

Oh, Harry remembers that particular event. Lost.

More like Harry stole it.

"She only had this one for a couple of months."

Delphini's anger halts. She blinks, and a new tear falls on her cheek.

"But it has a dragon heartstring core, like the original she bought from Ollivander when she
was eleven."

Delphini's curiosity battles with her rage. She's still trembling.

This isn't normal, Harry knows.

The way she gets angry so fast, without any control over it.

She's a child. No child can control their emotions that well. Right?

"Come here," Voldemort orders, and yes, Delphini is not afraid, because she goes, steps big
and assured.

Voldemort hands her the wand. Delphini snatches it, and then she retreats, holding the wand
tightly, with both hands pressed to her chest, almost cradling it in her desperation to protect it.

"Why do you keep it in the box?"

She frowns.

Harry frowns, too. Voldemort is acting as if there isn't food all over the table and floor, as if
she didn't scream at him.

"Rody made me promise I won't ever take it out unless I am under attack."

Harry doesn't like reminders of the life she must have lived before he got her.

Always on the run, always waiting for someone to attack them.

Rodolphus' paranoia seeped deeply into Delphini.

There are still nights, though rarer and rarer, when they find her curled in the pantry.

"Rodolphus is dead," Voldemort says, emotionless. "You have to let him go."

"It doesn't work like that," Harry whispers. "You can't ask her that."

Merlin knows Harry himself would rather Rodolphus Lestrange never even touched
Delphini; he'd prefer Delphini forgets him murdering muggles at random in her presence and
all the many disturbing things he told her.

But, at least from her naive perspective, Rodolphus had been kind to her. He'd protected her,
and she loved him.
There is no chance she would forget him any time soon.

"I will ask anything I want," Voldemort informs him, but he keeps his eyes on Delphini. "Do
you know any spells?"

She forgets her anger.

Sometimes she stays mad for hours; other times, she jumps from one emotion to another with
dizzying speed.

She's relaxed enough to unfold her arms. She raises the one that isn't holding the wand.

"Lumos," she says, and she puts one finger down. "Nox, too, in case someone is tracking me,
and I have to be unobtrusive. A locking spell." A third finger goes down. "And an unlocking
one. That's the only one I really used when some evil men hunted us down in Toulouse, and
Rody locked me in a cupboard. I waited, but he didn't come for me, so I unlocked it myself."

Fuck.

"That's all. He was trying to teach me a camouflage spell, but I couldn't do it properly. He
said I would when I got older."

In one of the movies Harry saw with Ron and Hermione, there was talk of therapy after
something traumatic.

Hermione more or less suggested maybe Harry should see a therapist.

Ron snorted and asked how he would tell a Muggle about the war.

Harry dismissed the whole thing, but… maybe there is a muggle-born or a squib therapist
somewhere in the country. Perhaps they could help Delphini.

"That's all I know."

Voldemort's expression doesn't change; there is no sign that his daughter's violent experiences
have any impact on him.

How? How can he be so uncaring?

"You can keep the wand without the box."

Just like that, Delphini smiles.

"Maybe we should talk about it first," Harry intervenes.

Her magic is strong enough without a wand.

With her power and temper, Harry doesn't think it's wise at all to throw a weapon into the
mix.
"No," Delphini says. "Father is right. Rodolphus is dead, so my promise died with him. And
the wand is mine. I'll keep it."

"Come closer," Voldemort says before Harry can press the issue.

And then he extends his own wand toward her, holding it by the tip.

Delphini takes it, far shier than when she snatched her mother's wand out of his hand.

Harry stares in disbelief.

"It's so pretty," Delphini says, examining it. "So white. Is it yew, father?"

"Yes."

"And…. bone?"

Harry wrinkles his nose. "Who sells wands with animal remains?" he mumbles, having half a
mind to go and ask Ollivander what he was thinking.

"No one," Voldemort answers, amused. "The bone on the handle is my own addition, for a
firmer grip."

"Ah."

"And it is not animal remains."

"Oh my God! Delphini, give it back!" He has the instinct to take it out of her hand, but not
only does Harry know Voldemort won't be as easygoing about Harry holding his wand, but he
doesn't want to touch the wand that murdered his parents.

Delphini smiles, all evidence of the previous meltdown gone apart from a pinkish hue on her
cheeks.

"He's joking," she informs Harry.

Voldemort regards her, head tilted slightly. "Am I?"

Delphini meets his eyes and tilts her head the same way.

"Yes," she says after a second or two.

"Close your eyes."

Delphini does.

"Feel them. Which one do you prefer?"

Voldemort watches her so intently it makes Harry go closer, holding his breath.
A frown mars Delphini's smooth forehead as she concentrates. She stays like that for so long,
Harry's getting anxious.

"Mama's," she says, opening her eyes.

Is that good? Harry wonders. Is it bad?

"Hmm," Voldemort takes his wand back, nodding. "As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce
wands with the most power." He stands. "They tend to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts;
very temperamental."

"Don't tell her that," Harry hisses.

"Don't tell her facts? Why not, Harry?" Voldemort doesn't wait for an answer. "Clean up,
Delphini. I will return in ten minutes, and I want no evidence of your atrocious behaviour.
You won't be going to the movies for the rest of the month. Perhaps that will teach you not to
yell in my presence."

Delphini swallows thickly, looking up at him.

"If not, I shall resort to more unpleasant methods to ensure you understand it is a dangerous
mistake to cross me."

He leaves the kitchen. Harry goes after him, because Delphini should clean on her own, and
he thinks the movies bit was fair enough, but he follows Voldemort to the library where they
have a massive fight about him threatening Delphini.

Well, Voldemort doesn't fight, not really. Just sits there and stares at Harry.

After talking himself in circles a few times, he doesn't have any other way of saying
Voldemort should never again threaten her, so he moves on to the wand.

"She could hurt herself. She's too young to have a wand."

"Many pureblood children get their wands a couple of years before Hogwarts."

"Maybe," Harry says, uncertain because he's not sure how true that is. "But I bet they aren't
left alone unsupervised, and I don't think they have Delphini's power."

"They also don't have her mind," Voldemort argues. "She's not an idiot to start fires or poke
her eye out or whatever it is that concerns you so."

Harry runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up. "Now, if I take it away, I'm the bad
guy."

"That's why she does whatever she pleases with you; you're too afraid to refuse her
anything."

"I'm sorry, but I think it's quite enough she has a psychotic, cold, unloving father! I want her
to feel loved."
Voldemort shrugs. "That's your prerogative, but don't come to me when you can't keep her in
check anymore."

"Oh, believe me, I won't! Not if you will threaten-"

"Not this again!" Voldemort pinches the bridge of his nose.

Harry crosses his arms but stops himself from diving into another rant about it. He'd just
finished, after all.

"Fine," Voldemort says. "Tell her she isn't allowed to use the wand unless one of us is
present. Is that a satisfying outcome for you?"

"No," Harry spits.

But he uncrosses his arms and sits in one of the armchairs.

"It will do, I guess," he allows.

Voldemort mutters something that sounds awfully like 'I'm living with two children'.

(-)

"If you release me from my current Oaths, I am prepared to make another one," Voldemort
says, in their bed. "I will swear I will not kill or hurt your friends and your godson. You
would never need to worry about them."

Harry sees Malfoy, in his office, willing to sell out the world as long as he and his are safe.

"Otherwise, I will still free myself, and you won't have anything."

For a second, for a terrible second, Harry is tempted.

But the second is gone, and he's back to himself.

"I won't fall for it. I won't ever release you."

He tenses because he expects an explosive reaction.

Voldemort just sighs.

"You always make the wrong choices, Harry."

 Chapter 18
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Remember, he’s harder to fool than the mudblood.”

Harry hears Voldemort talking to Delphini, as he leaves the living room to go down the
stairs.

“Harry says ‘mudblood’ is a bad word. Worse than ‘shit’ or ‘fuck’,” Delphini’s sing song
voice follows Harry.

“Right on time,” Harry says, opening the door.

Hermione is holding a pizza box in one hand and a bag of Chinese food in the other.

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I know,” Ron says, shaking his head. He’s holding a gift bag. “She never lets us have it at
home, because it’s unhealthy-”

“It’s a special occasion!” Hermione hisses.

Harry knows what this is. Because he did it, too. Hermione is ready to break her rule about
unhealthy food, so she can expose Delphini to Muggles and have her like something Muggle.
And she knows Delphini won’t like healthy vegetarian meals; not the ones Hermione eats.

He hides his smile.

An unnecessary compromise. Delphini already loves muggle food. The greasier the better.
Same as Harry.

They constantly make Voldemort wrinkle his nose in disgust when they come home with fast
food.

“Hermione!” Delphini says, excited, when they enter the living room.

“Hi,” Hermione smiles at her. “This is my husband, Ron-”

“Hello there.” Ron’s face looks softer than it ever did in Grimmauld, since Voldemort had
taken up residence.

“Hello! Harry told me all about you!” Delphini comes closer to Ron. “He said you are
hilarious.”
Ron laughs. “I try.”

“And father said you are a skilful chess player!”

Ron’s eye twitches. He hadn’t looked at Voldemort yet.

“I play chess, too! I beat Harry at it!” Delphini brags.

“I’ll tell you a secret.” Ron winks at her. “Everybody beats him at chess. Except Hermione-”

“That is not true!” Hermione intervenes, placing the food on the coffee table. “Hello.” She
nods at Voldemort.

“Good evening.”

“I brought food,” she says. “Should we go to the kitchen or-”

“Here is fine,” Harry says, though Voldemort doesn’t like food anywhere else in the house.

But of course, he’d never attempt to order Harry around with his friends there.

“Oh, pizza!” Delphini claps her hands. “Perfect!”

Both Ron and Hermione look surprised.

“Harry, can I eat, please? I know I had McDonalds yesterday and I’m not allowed fast food
twice in a week, but could this be an exception?”

“Just this once,” Harry says, though it’s hardly an exception. He tries to keep to the rule, but
sometimes he caves when she insists.

“And here, a little gift-” Ron extends the bag.

Delphini looks surprised.

“For me? Oh, but now I feel bad! I didn’t get you anything!”

God, she’s so good. It’s a bit scary.

Ron blinks. “Ah-that’s not- you don’t have- how sweet of you!”

“Next time,” Delphini promises, taking the bag gracefully. She doesn’t tear into the wrappers
as is her habit, but gently peels them away.

“The book is from Hermione. She says you like them.”

“I love books.” Delphini smiles. “Thank you!”

“And the doll was my idea, I hope you like it, here- if you press this button, it sings!”
Delphini pretends to be intrigued by the mechanism, observing the doll for a few moments
before excusing herself and leaving the room.

An awkward silence follows.

“Please, sit,” Voldemort says and Hermione does.

Ron hovers around Harry’s armchair.

“How is it going with the centaurs?” Voldemort asks Hermione.

“Pff, as you’d imagine. They are too proud and the Ministry is too close-minded to reach a
compromise.”

Voldemort nods and they speak about legislation for some minutes.

Ron finally sits, and Harry asks him about George.

Delphini returns some minutes later, with a tray loaded with goblets, bottles of Coca Cola,
water and wine.

Ron and Hermione look oddly at her.

“I brought water for you and I, Hermione. I know you don’t drink fizzy drinks, because your
parents are dentists. Or would you like some wine?”

“She’s reading some book about etiquette and being an excellent host,” Harry explains.

Hermione helps her fill the glasses, lecturing Harry about giving Coke to a young girl, though
she had the same idea of bribing Delphini with muggle tasty things to make her like them.

They set the plastic plates and forks that came with the food.

Voldemort, of course, does not touch them.

“Do dentists truly torture people?” Delphini asks.

Harry groans.

“No,” Hermione says.

“Yes,” Ron says. “What?” he asks, defensive, when Hermione glares at him. “I saw your dad
at work once and-Merlin!” He shudders.

It goes well. Harry has a warm feeling in his chest. He tries to forget that Voldemort is a
murderer, up to no good. He tries to forget that Delphini is nowhere near as innocent as she
looks.

He tries to pretend he is with his normal family, having his best friends over. All normal
things.
The people he loves most in his life, all in one room.

It lasts for about an hour.

Delphini took Voldemort’s warning seriously, and she focuses on charming Ron.

She asks him many questions, expresses a desire to visit the shop, exclaims that Ron has the
best job ever and when she grows up, she wants to have a joke shop too, because he makes it
sound amazing.

And then it comes.

Harry doesn’t realise it at first, thinks it’s just another question, like all the others.

“Do you have siblings?”

“I do. Loads of them!”

“How wonderful!” Delphini says, smiling angelically. “All brothers? Now that I think of it,
Harry said you have a brother or two, but do you have any sisters?”

“Only one sister. Ginny.”

“Ginny?” Delphini smiles. “Sounds very nice. I’m writing a story about three best friends, all
girls. But I don’t know any girls and I’m afraid I don’t know any magical names. Is Ginny a
magical name?”

“It’s Ginevra, actually. I suppose it is, I dunno.”

“Do you know other girl's names? Your daughter Rose, and- what is your mother’s name? Or
do you have any aunts?”

Harry still wouldn’t think anything is amiss. But then he sees Voldemort tensing.

“Delphini, why don’t you bring dessert for our guests?” Voldemort stands. “I will help you.”

And Voldemort would never, ever offer to serve food to a ‘mudblood’.

“Yes, Father. In a second.” But she doesn’t take her eyes off Ron. “So?”

“Well, my aunt was named Muriel -I suppose that’s a magical name. More than mum’s, either
way. Molly.”

That’s exactly when Harry realises it.

A woman killed your mother. Her name is Molly Weasley.

Delphini’s eyes flash and her smile turns a little cold.

“Wonderful!” she says. Her voice betrays nothing. “Thank you Ron, I will go for the desserts
now.”
Harry trails after them, mumbling something about Voldemort not knowing where the ice
cream is.

He finds them in Delphini’s room.

Voldemort is bent down to her level, holding her by the shoulder.

She’s crying, trembling.

Before Harry can make another step, Voldemort turns his head-

Their eyes meet.

I will handle it.

The words slam in his head, forcefully. It hurts. Harry gasps.

“-doesn’t matter that he is her son. The boy did nothing to Bellatrix,” Voldemort resumes a
sentence he must have started before Harry’s arrival.

“You made me sit there with them and-his mother killed mama! You didn’t tell me!”

“Delphini-” Harry says, moving closer.

“Harry, shut up.” Voldemort doesn’t turn to stare at Harry this time, but the menace in his
voice- Harry hadn’t heard it since… since before the Battle.

“You think I wouldn’t realise? I know they are Weasleys! I just had to learn what that
monster is to Ron!”

“And now you know,” Voldemort goes on.

“Mama-what would mama think-”

“Bellatrix wouldn’t care who we have to eat or speak nicely to, as long as I get what I want.”

Delphini sniffles. She is obviously trying to hug Voldemort, she’s seeking comfort, but
Voldemort’s hand on her shoulder keeps her at bay.

“But-”

“She always set aside everything so that I can get what I want.” Voldemort pauses for a
moment. “But above anything else, your mother wouldn’t want you crying.”

Harry stands there, frozen. He doubts Delphini even realises he’s there; she’s looking at her
father, desperate.

“She never liked it when you cried. She was always by your side, day and night.”

“I don’t remember it,” Delphini whispers, crying harder. “I would give everything to
remember mama.”
Slowly, Voldemort lifts his other hand, lays it on Delphini’s cheek. With his thumb, he wipes
away the tears.

“I remember her. I knew her. And I know she would tell you these people are not worth your
tears. You must be strong, like she was. Bellatrix never cried.”

Delphini takes a haltering breath, leans her head into Voldemort’s hand.

“She died laughing,” Voldemort says, and it’s so morbid, who says that to a child?

“She did?” Delphini stares up at him.

“Yes. She wasn’t afraid of anything, not even death. So you can collect yourself, go back to
the living room and act nice. Ronald and Hermione did nothing to your mother. There is no
reason to hate them, just by association.”

“But that woman- Molly Weasley- what about her?”

Delphini grabs Voldemort’s wrist with both of her hands, leaning more into him.

Voldemort gives Harry a brief look, before returning his attention to Delphini.

“I will kill her,” he answers, voice soft.

It raises the hair on the back of Harry’s neck.

But Delphini smiles, even if tears are still running down her cheeks.

(-)

After Ron and Hermione leave, Harry tries to talk to Delphini about Molly.

But she doesn’t want to hear it. When Harry insists, trying to speak about forgiveness, she
throws a tantrum so wild, Voldemort is needed to calm her.

“Don’t tell her you’ll kill people! Are you insane, she’s eight! Don’t talk about murder and-”

Voldemort comes very close to Harry, very fast. “I’ve had quite enough of you dictating how
I should or shouldn’t act with my daughter.”

Harry shoves him, pushing at his chest. “And I’ve had enough of you saying terrible things in
her presence! She doesn’t need to hear- she’s eight!” He repeats.

“That woman killed her mother, Harry. Of course she wants Molly Weasley dead.”

“Of course,” Harry spits. “Of course??? You killed my mum! And I don’t want you dead-”
Voldemort doesn’t back down. “Delphini is not like you.”

“She’s not like you, either!” Harry can hear how desperately he wants to believe that. It’s
there, in his voice, in the way he stares at Voldemort, hopeless.

Voldemort seems to soften, if only a little. He takes a step back. “Let us hope she isn’t,” he
says.

(-)

He could tell Delphini Molly killed Bellatrix because Bellatrix tried to kill her daughter.

Harry considers it, wonders if it would make Delphini hate Molly less.

But no matter how monstrous Bellatrix was, Harry fears he’d only do more harm if he tells
Delphini, at her tender age, that the woman she so idolises went around killing people.

Even worse, he fears it would make Delphini hate Ginny, too, if Harry offers her as a
motivation on Molly’s behalf for the murder.

It takes days for Delphini to act normal again, to stop alternating between tantrums and long
periods of complete silence.

It takes days for her to stop drawing a woman bleeding on a forest floor, a knife in her chest.

‘Molly’, she wrote above the body.

‘Delphini’s knife’, she wrote above the knife.

But eventually it stops, Delphini smiles at breakfast again, her appetite returns, her manners
return and she goes back to drawing flowers and crude portraits of Harry, Voldemort and
herself.

‘Family’, she writes above them and she asks Harry to charm them to the walls in her room.

To take her mind off knifes and revenge, Harry offers to teach her some spells.

She’s eager and so focused, so good at it.

Harry likes it, too. He knows he shouldn’t, that maybe she’s too young, but he just likes
showing her simple things, he likes the joy on her face, how childish and innocent she looks
when she perfectly performs a cleaning charm.

“You’re not a bad teacher,” Voldemort comments once, after observing Harry showing
Delphini how to move her wrist.
Delphini nods. “He’s the best! He used to teach other people, too, you know? In
Dumbledore’s army, right Harry?”

“Right.” Harry told her he had a special group at school and he helped them learn when their
teacher refused to do so.

Harry and Delphini both notice the muscle jumping in Voldemort’s jaw.

She waits until he’s gone. “Does father hate teaching?” she asks, guessing something upset
him.

“No,” Harry answers. “Here, let me show you a spell that you can use to repair stuff you
break.”

But Delphini forgets nothing. She lets nothing go. Half an hour later, after Harry shows her
three more spells and declares the lesson over, Delphini puts her wand in the special pocket
of her dress that Voldemort made for her.

“Who is Dumbledore?”

Harry struggles to keep a straight face, to keep his shoulders relaxed.

“He was the Headmaster at Hogwarts, when I was a student. He sadly passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” Delphini says, because Harry isn’t good at keeping his emotion off his face.

“Thank you. Let’s go have some cake, ok?”

“Did father hate him? Is that why he seemed upset earlier?”

Harry sighs. He runs his hands over his face.

“He wasn’t Dumbledore’s fan,” he says, waiting for the questions, preparing himself for
having to navigate them.

But she seems to take pity on him. At least for the time being.

“I want lemon cake. May I also have a Mars bar, Harry?”

(-)

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” Narcissa says, as cold as ever.

“Where is she?” Andromeda is already standing, eyes alight with excitement. “Why did you
hide her from us? Half a year, Harry??”
“We appreciate your help,” Narcissa goes on, ignoring Andromeda. “It was very kind of you
to take care of her, and we will never forget it. But now she can come home, with her
family.”

Harry told them the same story he gave Hermione. Rowle wrote, Harry went and found
Delphini in the attic.

He told Malfoy the truth, just a day before he met with all of them.

Harry glares at him, sitting beside his wife in Andromeda’s kitchen.

Malfoy knew. Rowle actually wrote him, when she read Lestrange died and yet no one came
for Delphini as he’d promised.

And Malfoy did nothing.

“I sent Rowle money, to cover the expenses. But of course I didn’t want to raise the girl, my
lord will understand. With all the Aurors watching me… it wouldn’t have been prudent. How
was I supposed to know Rowle was keeping her unfed and dirty?”

“I want to adopt her,” Harry says, squaring his shoulders.

Andromeda reacts immediately. “What? No! She’s ours! Adopt her!? What business do you
have taking care of a child- a Black child, no less. You’re a child yourself-”

“Mr Potter,” Narcissa cuts over her sister, taking Andromeda’s hand and pulling, making her
sister sit down. “You might not be familiar with the law, but as her family, as her blood, we
have not only the right, but the obligation to-”

“I know the law,” Harry says.

“Then you must know that my claim will take precedence over yours. There is no need to
involve the Wizengamot, we can settle this privately-”

“I don’t want anyone to know your sister was Delphini’s mother,” Harry spits.

“Understandable,” Narcissa allows. “We’ll say she’s Sirius’ daughter.”

Harry sighs. How was this solution obvious to everyone but him?

“She’s still our blood, even in that scenario.” Andromeda nods to herself.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’ve bonded with her; she wants to live with me. I’m really sorry,
Mrs Malfoy, but I will adopt her.”

Andromeda huffs.

Narcissa doesn’t react. “You will lose,” she says, simply.

“He won’t,” Malfoy finally speaks. “I’m afraid we won’t be pressing any claim, Narcissa.”
Finally, a reaction from her. Just for a second, but Narcissa’s impassive face gives way to
surprise before it molds back into nothing.

“Lucius,” she tries, but he doesn’t let her talk.

“We won’t. We all know who the girl’s father was. I am not bringing her into my house.”

Clearly, Andromeda knows, too. She never bothered to inform Harry about it, but she very
obviously knew Lord Voldemort had a daughter and that her sister was frantically searching
for her, ever since Rodolphus kidnapped Delphini after the battle.

“You coward,” Andromeda spits, standing once more, glaring at Lucius.

“Lucius,” Narcissa says again. “Let us talk-”

“No. That is my final word. I am not taking the girl.”

“I’ll take her,” Andromeda says. “She’s my blood, too. They’ll give her to me.”

And this is what Harry fears.

He’d known that Narcissa won’t be a problem, that she won’t have a choice once Malfoy
refuses to take Delphini.

But he doesn’t imagine how Malfoy is supposed to stop Andromeda from doing it.

“She’s safe with me,” Harry tries. “Happy. You can see her, I’ll bring her over any time you
want, but-”

“Shut up! How dare you? You have no right to her! You think I’ll stand for her growing up
around Molly Weasley?”

Another one that won’t ever forget or forgive Molly.

“Andromeda-”

She never looked more like Bellatrix, her dark eyes sparkling with fury, magic gathering
around her, making her hair frizzy.

“I’m going to the Ministry right now,” she says.

Harry stands.

“And how will you raise her?” Malfoy asks, and he stands, too.

Andromeda turns to look at him.

“You haven’t worked a day in your life, you don’t know how to do anything. Your husband
was hardly rich, you’ve long since spent the meager savings he left behind. Lupin was so
poor he couldn’t even buy himself clothes, so I know there’s nothing left from him. You have
no close friends. How will you raise Delphini, Andromeda? How will you raise Edward?
Because I’ve been raising him; your house, the protective charms around it, your clothes,
your food- I provide you with everything.”

Harry feels his eyes growing wide.

He never knew Andromeda- well, of course he didn’t. He never lacked for money, so it
wasn’t something he often thought about. And he was too busy moping around, depressed
and locked in his own head to consider how Andromeda was taking care of herself and
Teddy.

“If you take the girl, you will have to manage on your own. And when you will fail, when
you can’t feed her, the Ministry will give her to Mr Potter. And they’ll give Edward to me.”

With amazing speed, Andromeda’s wand is in her hand and a purple spell is speeding for
Malfoy, all in the blink of an eye.

He ducks, just in time; before Andromeda can cast again, both Harry and Narcissa block her
path.

“Stop it,” Narcissa tells her sister, before giving her husband a look. “Merlin help me if you
pull out your wand, Lucius!”

“I’ll wait outside,” Malfoy says, in his usual drawling manner.

Andromeda attempts to curse him again on his way out, but Narcissa pulls her wand hand.

Harry doesn’t like his chances being left alone with the two women so he follows Malfoy.

He’s by the gates, still as a statue.

“You don’t look that concerned,” Harry mentions.

“I lived with Bellatrix for over a year; Andromeda pales in comparison.”

Harry snorts.

“I believe that,” he mutters, and Malfoy almost smiles.

“Besides, I’ve been fighting with Andromeda since we were barely crawling. I’m used to it.”

Harry is yet again forced to consider how well these people know each other.

She ran away. She doesn’t seem violent or particularly snobbish; she married a Muggle-born,
but Andromeda grew up with Lucius and Bellatrix and all the other Death Eaters.

They’re family.

The thought always surprises him.

“You knew Sirius?” Harry asks after a few minutes of silence.

Andromeda’s voice comes from the house, high but unintelligible.

Malfoy quirks an eyebrow at him.

“I mean, you knew him well?” Harry corrects.

“Yes.”

Harry waits to hear more, but Malfoy doesn’t elaborate and in a way, it’s better. Harry doesn’t
think he’s ready to learn that maybe Sirius was close to these people, too, once upon a time.

“She’ll always hate me, now. She won’t let me see Teddy-”

“She’ll get over it,” Malfoys says. “You’ll bring the girl to visit, you’ll shut up and take her
insults and, in time, you’ll be fine. If not, blackmail her. If she doesn’t let you see Edward,
you won’t let her see Delphini.”

Harry sighs. “I’m not like that, you know. I can’t-”

“You have to be.” Malfoy gives him a searching look. “Considering the… circumstances, I
suggest you adjust your behaviour, fast. You don’t stay alive by being nice, Mr Potter.”

Harry hates hearing it. He disagrees. If hurting others is what it takes to stay alive, he’d rather
be dead.

If turning into someone like Malfoy means life, Harry doesn’t want it.

“It’s Narcissa you’ll have to worry about,” Malfoy goes on. “Andromeda’s quick to anger,
but just as quick to let matters rest. Naricssa...” A short break. “People forget she’s a Black,
too.”

Harry forgets often; it’s easy, with her blonde hair and icy demeanour.

“How would you handle Kingsley, if you were me?” Harry asks him. Since they are there,
why not?

If at any other point in his life someone would have told him Lucius Malfoy would be the
only person Harry could talk to about certain matters, Harry would have laughed himself to
death.

But that is his reality.

Malfoy is uniquely suited for this question; he knows Voldemort is living with him and he
knows Kingsley is aware of it.

Ron and Hermione know that too, but they don’t know Voldemort has his wand and his
magic.

“I’m sure my lord would have better ideas than anything I could suggest-”
“Your lord said to tell Kingsley to go fuck himself.” Harry shrugs.

“I very much doubt that.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “He didn’t phrase it quite like that, but that was the gist of it. He said
Kingsley will just have to live with it, that he can’t stop me from taking Delphini as long as
no other family members want her.”

“It’s true,” Malfoy answers, after a second or so.

“Yeah, I suppose. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to-” Harry rubs his forehead. “Kingsley
will grow more and more suspicious, and I don’t want that. It’s worth it, so we can have
Delphini legally, but isn’t there something else we can do? You’re good at… stuff like this.
What would you do?”

Malfoy ponders on it for a short while.

Andromeda finally stopped screaming; or maybe Narcissa put a silencing charm over the
house.

“If my lord agrees, I could take Delphini, on paper.” Malfoy looks at Harry. “You would have
her in effect, but I would press my claim and there’s nothing suspicious there.”

Harry blinks, rapidly.

“I would have all legal rights, so I don’t know if you will be comfortable with that, but rest
assured, I don’t plan to do anything my lord doesn’t want me to with those rights.”

Harry frowns. Yeah, that doesn’t sound good.

“Kingsley won’t question it-”

“Why would you want to raise Sirius’s daughter, Kingsley knows there was no love between
you,” Harry says.

“She’s the Black Heir. She has a seat in the Wizengamot and she does technically have the
right to Grimmauld and the Black vault, no matter to whom Sirius left it. Her blood trumps
his wishes. Just like his mother’s testament didn’t stop Sirius from getting the house and her
money, after she died. That’s reason enough for me to want control over her. Everyone knows
I’m power hungry.”

Such a disgusting man; but he’s right. No one would question Malfoy’s willingness to get his
hands on such assets.

“Not to mention, she’s Narcissa’s blood. There are precious few Blacks left.”

Harry hesitates.

“And, of course, people know Sirius was your godfather- no one would find it odd that you
are willing to put up with me, just to see her. No one would doubt the fact that I allow her to
spend time with you. They know my family owes you. It would be perfectly normal for you
to be seen alone with her in Diagon or wherever you want to take her.”

“I don’t know-”

“Of course, I would have to be seen with Delphini in public once a month or so- have her
attend some play dates at the Manor, with other children, as if she lives there. But at least you
won’t have Kingsley questioning your sanity and loyalty when you show you are willing to
bring a child in the same place that houses the dark lord.”

It sounds like a suitable solution. Reasonable.

But it’s Malfoy.

(-)

“That Lucius, always scheming.” Voldemort laughs, putting down his book.

Harry takes off his T-shirt before climbing in the bed.

“Not that bad of a solution, I think. I mean it’s Malfoy, but- You terrify him; it’s not like he’d
use his rights to take her for real.”

“Of course not. And then you’ll go to Diagon with him and Delphini one day, especially in
the beginning. You won’t feel comfortable leaving her alone. You will be seen at the Manor,
from time to time. People adore you, they look up to you. If the great Harry Potter thinks
Lucius is reformed enough that you are willing to allow him to raise the daughter of your
beloved godfather… they’ll look at Lucius more favourably.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, even I saw through that one.”

Malfoy is trying to weasel his way back into the good graces of the people. He’d laid low for
some years, and now he’s attempting to climb up again.

“It’s up to you,” Voldemort says. “I don’t care, either way. Nothing changes, in practice.
Delphini stays with us. And mind you, even if you take her legally, you’ll still be sending her
over at the Manor for a weekend. Or a week.”

“I would?” Harry asks, doubtful.

“Yes. You have to understand Narcissa and Andromeda won’t back off. They will want to
spend time with Delphini, at the very least. And you’ll accept it; you won’t want to deprive
her of her only family, women that will love her. Once she knows them, Delphini would like
to spend time with them. She’ll want to go there, you’ll see.”
Harry is already jealous. He shifts in the bed, restless. What if, like Teddy, Delphini will like
the Manor better, with its lush, extravagant gardens, the many animals around it? What if
she’ll like Narcissa, who can help her with dresses and teach her how to host a tea party and
other things Harry has no idea about?

Voldemort sees right through him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says. “She will always want to come back here. She’s very attached
to you.”

Harry hopes so.

(-)

When they read about the attack on Neville, Voldemort looks as enraged as Harry.

For a second, Harry feels hope-

“The incompetence!” Voldemort snarls. “How is it possible Longbottom got away?”

“He’s a great wizard,” Harry barks at him. “Killed your stupid snake, didn’t he?”

He shouldn’t have said it; but he’s upset.

“That’s not nice,” Delphini comments. “Father, you had a snake? Someone killed it-”

Voldemort just leaves the table, fuming.

“What’s going on, Harry?” Delphini asks but Harry shakes his head.

“I’ve got to go, ok? Neville is my friend and I want to see him. I’ll be home later.”

Delphini frowns. “But father’s angry. You never leave me alone with him when he’s angry.”

Harry sighs. “You’ll be fine.”

Delphini scowls at him. Harry doesn’t understand why.

It’s true, he used to be so paranoid, he never left the house without her if Voldemort was in a
mood.

But that was long before. By now, Harry is convinced Voldemort won’t hurt her. Delphini
seems to know it, too. She still obeys Voldemort more readily than she does Harry, talks back
less, but there’s no more hesitation around him.

“You don’t care about me anymore!” she hisses. “You’ll give me away to that Malfoy man
and you don’t even care father is angry and I’m alone with him! You don’t love me!”
“Delphini-”

She crosses her arms. “Go to your friend, then. GO!”

“Of course I love you. I’m not giving you away. It’s just for show, you’ll stay here-”

But she doesn’t want to hear him, storming from the kitchen.

Harry closes his eyes for a second, his head throbbing.

He’ll talk to her when he returns. He needs to check on Neville first.

(-)

“This is one way to get you out of the house,” Neville jokes. “If I knew the only way to see
you these days is to get attacked by dark wizards, I' would have become an Auror instead of a
teacher.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harry says, accepting a tea from Hannah.

Neville says he’s fine. He looks fine.

“They picked a terrible moment to come after me. I was having a pint with Seamus and
Dean-”

“Oh, they’re back together?” Hermione asks, checking her watch. She has an important
meeting at work, but she wanted to see Nevile.

“Luna tricked them into talking again,” Parvati says. “I helped. We just needed to get the
idiots in a room together.”

“Hey! I was almost killed. Can we focus on that, please?” Neville throws a napkin at Parvati.

“No such thing happened,” Hannah corrects him. “The Aurors and Healers agreed none of
the curses sent your way were even close to lethal.”

“I wonder why.” Ron says the same thing Harry’s thinking.

“Maybe they were rookies or something, and this was their initiation,” Neville guesses. “Who
knows? Have to admit, was rather exciting.”

Hanna slaps his shoulder, still looking concerned.

“Got to say, the Auror response was rather prompt. They were there in less than two
minutes.”
Hermione nods, standing. “Since the Shadows became more active, there have been new
regulation and changes in the department. Hit Wizards are now wondering around in civilian
clothes in every magical dwelling.”

She kisses Ron quickly, gives Harry a one arm hug and reminds Neville and Hanna that she’s
there for them, before she leaves for work, looking harassed.

Harry doesn’t stay long either. He wants to go home and reassure Delphini everything will be
alright.

Ever since she heard Malfoy will be her guardian, she’s been standoffish.

It didn’t cross Harry’s mind that she’ll feel insecure about it, even if he assured her many
times that nothing will change in practice.

(-)

“Neville’s a pureblood,” Harry says, sitting up abruptly. He was almost asleep when the
thought came to him.

Voldemort’s awake beside him. Harry can’t see his face, but he knows he’s awake.

“And he’s not a blood traitor, either. Hanna has a muggleborn grandmother, but her mother is
a half-blood and her father is a pureblood from the Sacred Twenty Eight.”

“So?” Voldemort asks after a second or two.

“So they’ve been targeting muggleborns or traitors so far. Neville is neither. He’s not an
Auror, or any threat to them. Why was he attacked?”

Voldemort hand comes to Harry’s shoulder, pulling him until Harry’s flat on the bed again.

“Go back to sleep, Harry.”

(-)

Hermione and Ron don’t seem concern about it.

“Mate, while most people, even blood purists, won’t consider Neville a blood traitor for
wanting to marry Hannah, trust me, some will. The most fanatical blood purists might take
issues with it.” Ron shrugs.
“We all know this blood nonsense is mostly just an excuse to cause mayhem and grab
power,” Hermione says. “They’ll kill anyone who stands in their way, regardless of heritage.
It would have been easy for them to learn Neville will always fight against dark wizards.
Besides, he’s friends with me and other muggleborns. That’s enough to be considered a
traitor in their sick minds.”

“The charms on your house-” Harry starts to say.

“Up to date. Bill always checks them, every month,” Ron assures him.

“And I have an Auror guard at the Ministry,” Hermione says. “Ron has been very careful
since the attack on the store. Diagon Alley is brimming with Aurors, anyway.”

Still, Harry can’t get it out of his mind. He thinks it’s relevant that Neville was attacked, the
only one from all the targets so far with pure blood and an acceptable future wife.

“You’re paranoid,” Voldemort waves his concerns away. “Put it out of your mind and calm
that child before she angers me. She’s awfully clingy lately, haven’t you noticed?”

As the day of the Wizengamot meeting approaches, Delphini is indeed very clingy.

She always wants to stay in Harry’s lap, she refuses to sleep alone, demanding Harry sleeps
with her, she throws a tantrum every time he leaves the house, even if he just goes to the
store.

“Swear you will never give me away, Harry! Swear it!” she asks at night, her thin arms
wrapped tightly around him.

“I swear,” Harry says, patiently. He’s swearing it at least three times a day, and many more
every night.

“You’re mine,” she says. “You’re mine, and we have to be together. I won’t allow anyone to
separate us. They took mama, they took Rody, but I won’t let them take you. I’ll use my
wand, if they try. I will, you’ll see. I’ll make them leave us alone.”

She’s so fierce about it, she even glares at Voldemort when he tells her he’s being patient with
her now, but after the Wizengamot meeting is done with, Harry will return to his room.

(-)

Harry is convinced there is no way to take Delphini out of the house when the dreaded day
arrives. Especially once he informs her she can’t take her wand with her.

She refuses to dress; she refuses to get out of her bed, even.
“I’m not going! I’m not!”

“I’ll be right there, Delphini. Everything will be alright, you’ll see. And for the five minutes I
won’t be there, Hermione will, and she’ll take care of you-”

“That’s what Rody said when he left me with Rowle!”

Voldemort waves his hand and the bed under Delphini just disappears.

She yelps, falling on the carpet.

“Hey!” Harry snaps at him.

But with Voldemort there, Delphini finally gets dressed, and she allows Harry to braid her
hair, though she keeps complaining he’s pulling her hair and he’s hurting her.

Harry knows it’s not true. He’s been braiding her hair for months, with no issues. He’s
become quite the expert, even replicating to perfection hair styles Delphini had taken a fancy
too, found in Muggle magazines.

Harry leaves her scowling and wringing her hands so he can answer the door.

By the time he returns with Hermione at his side, Delphini is smiling.

It’s not one of her most convincing smiles, it’s obvious she’s still nervous but a far cry from
what he’d just witnessed.

They take the muggle way, to give Delphini more time to calm herself. She holds Harry’s
hand tightly, not letting go even for a second.

And then they reach the telephone booth.

“I’ll go in first, and then Hermione will bring you after a few minutes, ok?” Harry repeats.

Delphini nods, but she doesn’t let go of his hand.

Her fury, her temper- all gone.

She just looks incredibly scared and vulnerable. Harry’s heart throbs painfully.

It’s hard for him to get inside the booth and leave her behind.

He feels awful when the booth starts descending and she slowly disappears from view.

He doesn’t even know how he makes it to the grand room where Wizengamot sessions are
held.

Seems like everyone is there already when he arrives.

The room is divided in two- a few rows of seats on his right, for the elected members of the
Wizengamot.
On the left, on a lifted platform, exactly twenty-eight seats, one for each Sacred Family.

Malfoy is there, on the fourth seat. From Harry’s understanding, it’s the first Wizengamot
session he chose to attend, after the Battle.

Harry is the only non-member allowed inside, because he’s… well, he’s Harry Potter.

But he doesn’t get a chair. He stands, awkwardly, on the right side of the room. Many people
leave their chairs for some seconds, to come and shake his hand. As always, they thank him
for everything he did and Harry wonders if they’ll ever stop, or if he’ll have to put up with it
for his entire life.

The Chief Warlock, Tiberius Ogden, an ancient man dressed in official robes, heads for the
centre of the room, where a lectern awaits.

He nods at Harry and a few other people, before banging a gavel on the lectern.

The room goes silent.

“We are gathered here today to hear a petition that has been put forth for the Black seat.”

Everyone knows it already; Malfoy said a letter came to all the members, with the reason for
the emergency session detailed inside, explaining Delphini’s sudden appearance.

They keep looking at the door, eager.

“Let us proceed.” Ogden raises his wand to his throat. “Mrs Weasley, we are ready.”

The double doors open and Delphini walks in, alone. Harry gets a glimpse of Hermione,
before the doors slam in her face.

Delphini looks terrified.

“Hello,” Ogden says, kindly.

“‘ello,” Delphini whispers, barely audible. She did not forget her French accent.

She lifts her head and some of the older women make cooing noises.

“Was it explained to you what we will do here today?” Ogden asks.

“Oui,” Delphini nods. “I mean, yes.”

“Can you state your name for us?”

“Delphini Black.”

“The names of your parents?”

“Belle Allard and Sirius Black.”

They all know this. Hermione’s testimony was included in the letters; the entire invented
story.

“Date of birth?” Ogden asks.

“31 December 1996.”

Harry can practically see some of the members doing the math in their head.

Delphini was born six months after Sirius died.

The people that were part of the Order of the Phoenix will find this odd. After all, Sirius was
confined to Grimmauld at the time of her conception.

But they also know Sirius liked to sneak out.

Kingsley, a little further away from Harry, doesn’t look suspicious.

And whatever doubts there are should be settled soon.

“Thank you, Miss Black. Now, your father’s family holds a seat in the Wizengamot, do you
know that?”

“‘ermione told me,” Delphini says.

She’s struggling to meet Ogden’s gaze. Instead, her eyes dart around the room, anxious.

In her mind, she’s surrounded by people that are her parents’ enemies.

And Rodolphus told her they are her enemies as well. The evil men that hunted him, and her,
during all their years together.

Harry desperately wants to go out there and hold her. But he can’t.

And she only allows her gaze to linger on him for a few seconds.

After all, they do not know each other.

“A member of the Sacred Twenty Eight will lead you to the Black seat, and you will have to
give it a drop of blood. It won’t be painful, I promise.”

“D’accord,” Delphini whispers.

Harry guesses that means ‘yes’ or something close.

Gareth Greengrass is the one to stand from the other side of the room, where the so called
‘Sacred’ seats are, and make his way to Delphini.

He was never a Death Eater, came out squeaky clean from the war. And yet how can anyone
trust a man that allowed his daughter to marry into the Malfoy family, even after Lucius did
two stints in Azkaban?
But he asks Delphini to follow him to the platform, a gentle expression on his face when he
looks down at her.

The Black seat is the first one out of the row of twenty-eight. Harry squints from his place
and he thinks he can recognise the family crest etched into it.

It’s a monstrosity of a chair, solid silver.

“Will you give me your hand, Miss Black?”

She does, extending one shaky arm.

Greengrass doesn’t touch her, simply points his wand at one of her fingers.

“A numbing spell, first.”

Delphini nods.

“And now a slight cutting hex. It will not hurt at all.”

God, how barbaric.

Delphini nods again, and the hex comes, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Will you please raise your hand so everyone can see?”

Delphini does. People twist their necks, some even stand up. Just to witness a few drops of
blood coming out of Delphini’s finger.

Wizards are insane, sometimes.

Most of the time.

“And now you just have to put your finger there- right under ‘Toujours Pur’.”

Delphini touches the chair.

It glows- first a golden bright light, followed by a subdued red one, and then pure black.

It lasts a second, and then it is back to silver.

Greengrass smiles. “The seat is yours, Miss Black.”

“Merci.” Delphini puts her finger in her mouth and sucks it. “Is it done now, can I go?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Soon,” Ogden speaks from the lectern. “It will just last a few more minutes. You can sit,
Miss Black. Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thank you.”

She climbs on the Black chair. It swallows her up. She looks tiny in it.

“Since the girl is a child, both her parents deceased, if anyone would like to press a claim for
guardianship, speak now.”

Harry is shocked to see many people stand.

On the side of the inherited seats and on the side of the elected ones. Malfoy’s words about
what important asset a seat in the Wizengamot is, not to mention the Black vault, ring in
Harry’s head.

They speak over each other-

“Wait, Andromeda should be given a chance, she’s the girl’s blood, she has the right-”
someone says, an elder witch with a bright red hat.

“No need,” Malfoy drawls, standing. “I will claim guardianship, Chief Warlock.”

Outrage follows.

It’s not like Harry doesn’t get it. Of course he does. But he wishes they wouldn’t be so loud.

They’re scaring Delphini even more.

She clutches her head in her hands and starts rocking, slowly.

It breaks Harry’s heart.

“You have no shame! Death Eater-”

“How dare you even stand in this room, let alone-”

“I will die before allowing an innocent child to step foot in that house of horrors-”

“-should be in Azkaban-”

Malfoy ignores them, fixing his eyes on Ogden.

“The law,” he starts, but Kingsley cuts over him.

“I know the damn law, Malfoy. We all know it. Settle down, you lot,” he demands, twisting in
his chair to glare at some people.

“But he’s Death Eater-”

“Murderer!”

Someone grabs Harry’s hand, so suddenly he startles.

“Wasn’t Black your godfather, Potter? Stop this madness!” a man Harry has never seen in his
life says.
The other side of the room is silent, composed, the members of the Twenty Eight giving
Malfoy inquisitive glances.

Harry just wants to get to Delphini.

“The girl is my wife’s cousin. I will take her.”

Ogden sighs, frustrated. “You need to come with me and file the papers.”

More outrage.

Malfoy moves, passes by Delphini without looking at her.

“Narcissa is outside. I trust she’ll be allowed inside to look after the girl while we deal with
necessary steps?”

“Do you want her in this mob?” Kingsley asks loudly over the people still yelling at Ogden.

They start yelling at him, too.

“Minister, he’s a Death Eater! You need to intervene!”

“Scum of the Earth!”

“I pity the mob,” Malfoy says and Kingsley snorts.

“The man was acquitted, stop it!” Ogden snaps at the noisiest group. “Meeting over.” He
bangs the gavel, twice. “If you all will please head out- no need to spit, Jones, it won’t help
anything. This is our sacred law!”

Finally, the door opens, the first people leaving. Narcissa darts inside.

She, too, receives glares, though at least no one yells at her.

But she’s completely uncaring. Her eyes instantly find Delphini.

She freezes in the doorway, blocking it, creating a line.

No one shoves past her, either because they don’t want to touch a woman that hosted the dark
lord in her house, either because as much as they yell at Malfoy, they aren’t too keen on
shoving his wife in his presence.

It only takes a few moments, and then she’s moving, fast. Harry joins her and they both make
their way up the steps.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, kneeling beside the ugly chair. “Hey. I’m here, it’s ok.”

Delphini takes her hands off her ears and opens her eyes.

“We’ll leave in just a few minutes, alright? Here, this is Narcissa Malfoy, your aunt,” he
whispers.
But there’s no need to be discrete; no one is listening anymore.

Harry knows from experience that wizards aren’t that interested in orphaned children and
their wellbeing.

Their outrage is more about Malfoy getting something, rather than actual concern over
Delphini.

So no one looks at her anymore, people just leaving in fury or still hounding after Kingsley,
Odgen and Malfoy.

Delphini is so frightened she barely looks at Narcissa.

“We should leave now,” Narcissa says, thickly. “She seems in distress.”

“You don’t say!” Harry hisses. “But your husband doesn’t have the papers yet-”

“They won’t stop us,” she says, sounding certain.

He takes Delphini’s hand. No one would question his interest in her, anyway.

Delphini comes easily, her head bent.

“Do you mind,” Narcissa pushes through a crowd waiting for the elevator, getting herself,
Harry and Delphini in front of the line.

It’s like she has the plague. Harry’s popularity is wiped away by her husband’s infamy. No
one goes into the elevator with them.

“We’ll be out soon, just another minute,” Harry keeps saying.

Delphini grips his hand so tightly it hurts.

And then they are in the Atrium, heading for the place where there aren’t Apparition Wards,
so they can finally leave.

But Hermione said the Ministry can track Apparition from that spot, so he Apparates to
Malfoy Manor.

The huge airy grounds are a very welcomed sight, for once.

Delphini flings herself at him, hugging him tightly.

“You did so well, love. You were brilliant!”

Narcissa hovers around them. Her face holds the most expressions he had ever seen her
wear.

“We can go home now, alright?”

Delphini lets him go, wiping her eyes.

“Can I- just a second. Please, Mr. Potter.” Narcissa sounds strangled.

“She’s upset,” Harry says, annoyed. “We’ll visit later-”

“A second,” Naricssa begs.

“Delphini, say hello to your aunt. She’s your mum’s sister, you’ve seen pictures of her.”

Delphini is so scared that even meeting her beloved mother’s relatives doesn’t interest her.

But she looks at Narcissa, finally.

“Hello,” she says, sniffling.

Narcissa bends down until they are face to face.

“You have no idea how much I’ve searched for you,” she says, tears in her eyes.

For a second, Harry feels tempted to tell her dear Lucius knew where Delphini was.

But he’s so happy it’s all over, he just wants to go home.

“You look so much like your mother. It’s like seeing her again.”

A tiny smile pulls at Delphini’s lips.

“I know you want to go home, and you should. I just want to tell you that if there is anything
you need, anything at all, no matter the hour- you can write to me and I will be there. You can
write Malfoy Manor on any piece of parchment, give it to any owl, and I will receive it.
Yes?”

Harry rolls his eyes.

“Yes,” Delphini agrees.

“You are happy with Mr Potter?” Narcissa’s eyes roam over Delphini hungrily.

“I love him! He’s my dad!” Delphini hugs Harry again, hiding her head in his robe.

Narcissa straightens her back.

“Take care of her,” Narcissa threatens, her face closing off. “And as soon as possible, we’ll
be expecting a visit.”

“Fine,” Harry barks and Apparates before anything else can delay him.

(-)
When she sees days pass, and no one comes to kidnap her, Delphini relaxes.

Voldemort is satisfied. “Now we can send her away for a few days, from time to time.”

“Stop it,” Harry says.

“Just imagine it- the silence,” Voldemort goes on, almost wistful.

“I don’t like the silence,” Harry tells him.

“I do.”

Though Voldemort never seems to mind when Harry is the one talking. But he has limited
patience for Delphini, especially now that she’s not so afraid of him anymore.

“You must need a break,” Voldemort looks at him, curious. “You must be tired, surely.”

“Of course I am, but that doesn’t mean I want to get rid of her! I’d rather be tired.”

“Even your Mudblood expressed once she was delighted to go to Paris for work, since it
meant a break from her offsprings.”

“Her kids are far younger; babies and toddlers cry a lot and they take up much more energy
than Delphini does- you wouldn’t understand the difference,” Harry says.

Rose and Hugo, at once, can be a handful. And it’s different- Hermione has Mrs Weasley, a
woman she trusts, to look after them. She doesn’t have to worry if her children are treated
well in her absence.

Harry doesn’t trust anyone with Delphini, especially the Malfoys.

“I don’t understand? I was born and raised in an orphanage,” Voldemort counters. “I’ve seen
more babies and toddlers in seventeen years than you’ll see in your lifetime.”

Harry shudders, imagining a teenaged Voldemort surrounded by so many defenceless kids.

He feels a prickle of sensation, something is slightly off for a second-

“They weren’t defenceless, the little imps.”

“Hey!” Harry stands up from bed, grinning. “I felt you! I felt you in my head!”

He can’t believe it! Finally! He gave up hope it will ever happen, but it did. Harry recognised
the intrusion.

“Good,” Voldemort says. “Starting tomorrow we can work on how you can defend against it,
now that you’re at least aware of it when it happens.”

Harry bends over him and kisses him. Just a peck on the lips.

It always surprises Voldemort when it happens.

 He has no problems kissing during sex, but he doesn’t seem to understand Harry’s need for
these quick little kisses outside of it.

He’ll get used to it, Harry thinks, snuggling at his side, smiling.

After all, Harry got used to a lot of things in the past years, hadn’t he?

Chapter End Notes

Now that we solved the Delphini issue, Voldemort will get his wish. She'll leave from
time to time to stay with her aunts, so our boys can have some peace and quiet.

Well, not so much peace 👀

Thank you for reading!
 Chapter 19
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Harry determines it’s best if Teddy isn’t there when Delphini first meets her relatives.

She’s never interacted with another child and, possessive as she is, she might not react well to
Teddy.

Harry tried to encourage her to speak with children at the muggle parks he takes her, but she
gave them one look and declared them ‘stupid’.

Voldemort told her Narcissa places great importance on manners and appearances, so the
poor girl spends hours in front of the mirror, obsessing over every little wrinkle in her new
dress.

“Father is dead,” she mutters to herself. “Don’t speak of muggles. Don’t speak of Hermione.
Compliment the house and the food, even if tuns out to be nasty.” She keeps repeating things
to herself all morning.

“Ready?” Harry asks her when the time comes.

“Ready,” she declares. “People are complicated, Harry. With Hermione and Ron I have to
pretend to be childish, but now with these people I’ll have to look mature.”

“You shouldn’t pretend to be anything you aren’t,” Harry says, though he himself asked her
to keep some aspects of herself from Hermione and Ron.

Not to the extent she takes it, but still.

“They’ll like you, anyway. It’s impossible for anyone not to like you, trust me.”

She gives him a brilliant smile.

Harry Apparates them inside the grounds of Malfoy Manor.

They’ve both been keyed in on the wards, which is wild to think of; that Harry can just pop in
whenever he wants.

And there they are. Malfoy, Narcissa, and Andromeda, standing in a line.

Andromeda cries two minutes into the introductions.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Delphini. “But you look so much like Bella. You look like my daughter,
too.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Delphini says, all serious, because Harry told her why Andromeda
is raising Teddy.

Well, he told her Dora died in the war. Not who killed her.

They show her around the Manor.

Harry goes too, because Delphini would not let go of his hand.

It takes a long time.

He has no clue about architecture or anything like that, but even so, he can recognise the
building is… something else.

Fortunately, they aren’t taken to the room where Hermione was tortured, nor to the cellars.

“And this is your room,” Narcissa says, opening a door on the third floor, in the west wing.

“I already have a room,” Delphini says, stiffly, gripping Harry’s hand tighter.

“Oh, I know.” Narcissa smiles down at her. “But this is your pretend room. Maybe when you
visit us, if you get tired, you can retreat here to rest. We’ll keep some toys for you here, too.”

“Ah, alright.” Delphini relaxes slightly.

Harry hates the room.

It’s gorgeous. It belongs in fairytales about ridiculously rich princesses.

A bit too grown up for a child, the four-poster bed gigantic, but other than that-

The discrete shades of pink and yellow, the perfect wallpapers. The toy castles that are almost
as tall as Harry, the many dolls, shelves filled with magical games Harry had never heard
about.

Delphini lets go of his hand, eyes wide.

Harry already feels inadequate. Her room back home is nice, clean, and Harry decorated it
how she wanted but…. it’s nothing like this.

“Oh, my!” Delphini exclaims.

“I have a good eye for sizes,” Narcissa continues, opening another door that leads to a
dressing room.

Filled with robes and dresses. Elven woven silk, Harry guesses, by the way the material
shimmers.

“You can go through them, in time, and tell me what you like and you don’t like.”
“I like them!” Delphini says, running inside the room and touching everything. “Rody said
mama loved dresses! I love dresses, too. Harry tries to give me trousers, but I won’t wear
them. Mama didn’t. Did she?”

“Bella loved dresses, it’s true. I still have some of them, you know.”

That does it. Delphini forgets any fear that she will be abandoned there.

She disappears with Andromeda and Narcissa to some other room, talking about Bellatrix,
and Harry just stands in the hallway, alone.

Malfoy remained in the garden, so he doesn’t even have the bastard to keep his mind off the
jealously he feels.

How can I compete with this, he thinks, desperate.

Maybe he can buy her a nicer bed, better clothes… but he can’t buy Bellatrix’ dresses, stories
of her childhood.

Voldemort has stories about her, he tries to tell himself. Voldemort is at Grimmauld. Delphini
will want to come back, at least for him.

“Harry!” She comes running after ten or so minutes! “Harry, quick! Come see!”

Harry goes, happy she came for him, even if he has no interest in seeing anything of
Bellatrix.

She leads him to a room as gorgeous as everything else in the house.

“I was born here!” Delphini says, full of wonder. “Look, right there in the bed.”

Harry looks at the bed, shivering.

At the time of her birth, Harry was at the Burrow, trying to listen in to Order meetings,
planning on how to defeat Voldemort.

Plans that left Delphini an orphan.

“I delivered you,” Narcissa says. “I saw you take your first breath. I was the first to hold you,
before giving you to your mother.”

“Who else was here? Who saw me? You?” Delphini asks Andromeda, excited.

“No,” Andromeda whispers, eyes watering again. “I wasn’t here.”

“Rodolphus,” Narcissa says quickly, before Delphini asks why Andromeda wasn’t present.
“He was a strong man-”

“I know.” Delphini nods.

“But he wept like a baby that night. More than a baby. After all, you didn’t cry.”
“He loved me,” Delphini says, all a smile. “Who else?”

“That’s all.”

Delphini frowns. “Father wasn’t here?”

Instantly, the atmosphere changes; from nostalgic to tense, in the blink of an eye.

“Rodolphus-” Andromeda tries, thinking perhaps Delphini isn’t aware of her true parentage.

“She knows the truth,” Harry intervenes. “Lestrange told her,” he adds, defensive, when he is
glared at by the two women.

“So, father wasn’t here?” Delphini asks again, looking between her aunts.

“No,” Naricssa says, curtly.

“Where was he? Was he busy with work?”

No one answers.

“Delphini, why don’t we go outside?” Harry intervenes. “I’m sure there’s a lot to see there.
Do you know they have winged horses?”

“I can fly on them?” Delphini asks. “Yes! I want to see them. Please,” she adds after a
second, careful of her manners.

And so Harry is forced to use something Malfoy owns. He hates it, but he can’t deny it’s
awesome.

He’d never been on an Abraxan. It’s nothing like a hippogriff or a centaur.

The horse is magnificent, obedient. It’s easy to hold on to, and unlike centaurs, he doesn’t
mind being ridden by a lowly human.

Harry doesn’t go very high in the air, though if he were alone, he definitely would. Alas, he
doesn’t want to endanger Delphini.

“You can pick one for yourself,” Narcissa tells her when they return to the ground. “You may
ride any of them, but it would be nice, wouldn’t it, to have one just for you? This one,”
Narcissa rubs the head of the horse they had just climbed off. “Is Lucius’, but I will take you
to the stables so you can see the younger ones.”

They have fairies in the forest that surrounds a decent sized lake on their property. Fairies!
Cute and sociable; they bring flowers to Delphini, buzzing around her head, excited.

No wonder Draco was such a spoiled little shit.

Delphini looks ecstatic, laughing and smiling all the time. Nothing fake about it.

Harry tries to be happy for her.

“Your mother adored dogs,” Andromeda says, when they walk into an enclosure. “Her
favourite animals.”

“She did? I never knew.” Delphini frowns. “I love dogs!” She declares, though it’s the first
Harry hears about it. Possibly because Delphini never loved dogs until that very second.

“We don’t have dogs, Lucius doesn’t approve of them, but I am sure if you ask him, he might
be persuaded to get one.” Narcissa winks at her. “You’ll learn that Lucius has a hard time
saying no to a sweet little girl like you. In any case, we have crups. Wizard bred dogs. Very
loyal to wizards, but vicious towards muggles and squibs.”

The crups are cute. Especially the puppies. Delphini pets all nine of them.

“Harry, may I have a dog at home?” Delphini asks, holding one puppy.

“Maybe,” Harry says. He should have thought of getting her a pet.

But he has to talk to Voldemort first, he supposes. And he has an inkling Voldemort won’t
want animals in the house.

“You can have one here,” Narcissa says, a bit coldly, probably hating Harry for depriving
Delphini of anything she wants.

“Teddy does,” Andromeda says. “You can’t keep a crup inside a house, they’ll chew
anything. But look, that one, with the black scruff of hair on the head, that’s his.”

Delphini eyes the crup, a displeased expression on her face for a second, before she banishes
it.

Finally, they go to a table set out for them on the terrace, where Malfoy awaits.

“What is your favourite food? I prepared a bit of everything, just in case,” Narcissa enquires,
when they sit down.

Pizza is her favourite food.

“Ah,” Delphini blinks, realising she has to come up with something else.

McDonalds is her second favourite, right along with kebabs. She also likes a strange stew
Voldemort makes, but neither of them knows what it’s called.

“She’s not picky.” Harry saves her. “She’ll eat anything.”

Delphini flinches when the house-elf pops beside them.

“It’s just a house-elf,” Andromeda says, kindly. “They won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t like them,” Delphini says, getting off her seat and coming closer to Harry.

Everyone is surprised.
“She doesn’t like Kreacher?” Narcissa and Andromeda ask at the same time. “Impossible,”
they add, in a chorus.

“Ahm, I don’t have Kreacher, anymore.” Harry rubs Delphini’s back in a calming manner. “I
gave him away when she came to live with me. Because she doesn’t like elves. Had an
unpleasant experience, before.” He gives them a loaded look and instantly they understand
they should drop the subject.

Harry heard enough about Rowle’s elf and how badly he treated Delphini. But it is her choice
if she wants to share that with others.

“Go away,” Narcissa snaps at the poor elf. “Then, in that case, I shall serve,” she says,
sounding uncertain.

“Please, you never held a plate in your life.” Andromeda snorts. “I’ll do it.”

“I can help,” Delphini says. “Harry, tell them I can arrange a table to perfection!”

He gets some glares, as if they imagine he’s making her serve him every meal or something.

Harry glares back. Fuck you all.

“Sit down, Andromeda. Tinsy will serve us.” Malfoy decides to finally speak.

Harry wishes he wouldn’t have.

“If the girl doesn’t like-” Narcissa starts to say.

“Delphini,” Malfoy addresses her for the first time since their introduction. “I’m sure you
don’t remember it, but you liked Tinsy when you were very young.”

“I did?” Delphini asks, doubtful, her eyes searching Lucius' face.

“Yes. They are harmless creatures, in general. They will only do as they are ordered. And no
one in this household will order them to displease you, in any way. They are your servants,
nothing more. You are a young woman from a noble lineage. It wouldn’t do to fear them.”

“You know what-” Harry starts, heated.

How dare he try to make Delphini face something she doesn’t want-

“I don’t fear them!” Delphini says, narrowing her eyes. “I’m fearless, like mama!”

“Good.” Malfoy doesn’t miss a beat, meeting her stare calmly. “Bella didn’t mind the
creatures.”

“Fine,” Delphini says. “Fine. It can serve us, then.”

Harry wants to wring Malfoy’s neck. He remembers these people are Delphini’s family, so he
doesn’t. Not there at the table, with Delphini present.
But he’ll have a talk with the stupid blond in private, afterward.

“If you don’t want to,” Harry says, gently. “You don’t have to-”

“It’s decided, Harry.” She squares her shoulders and stoically goes back to her chair. When
Tinsy is called again, she refuses to show a reaction.

(-)

“The food is lovely, Narcissa,” Delphini says.

“Thank you, dear.”

Delphini’s foot hits Harry in the shin, under the table. She has an expectant look on her face.

“Yeah, it’s good,” Harry mutters.

Delphini eats like she does when Voldemort is present. Carefully, elbows off the table,
chewing before she speaks.

Nothing like her feasts with Harry, where they laugh and fool around, eating on a blanket in a
park, or in her room at Grimmauld.

Harry isn’t sure how it happens. It must be a curse or something.

In no time, Delphini talks almost exclusively with Malfoy.

What is it with this man and children?

Harry fumes.

She giggles at him, batting her eyelashes in a way he’d never seen her do before, blushing
and twirling her hair.

She’s just not comfortable with women. She only knew Rowle, who abused her. In contrast,
Lestrange, Harry and Voldemort never harmed her. That must be it, he hopes.

When they finally leave, Malfoy bends from the waist and kisses her hand.

Ridiculous.

Delphini is very pleased, flushed from head to toe.

(-)
Lucius is all she talks about when they get home.

“He’s like in my books,” she says to Voldemort dreamily. It doesn’t seem to deter her that her
father completely ignores her, eyes glued to one of Hermione’s letters. “A gentleman. He
kissed my hand. I thought that only happens in movies!”

“It does,” Harry says, frustrated. “No one does that anymore. Only ancient people.”

Delphini sticks her tongue at Harry, before turning back to Voldemort.

“He’s like you, father.”

Now that gets Voldemort’s attention. He looks up from his letter, one eyebrow raised.

“He talks like you,” she clarifies.

Delphini herself has a cultured accent, probably Rodolphus’ influence.

Narcissa and Andromeda also have it.

But nothing beats Malfoy’s insufferable drawl. Harry has to endure Delphini trying to imitate
it.

“No, he doesn’t,” Harry says, crossing his arms. “Your father doesn’t sound ridiculous like
Malfoy.”

“I don’t mean the accent, silly!” Delphini picks out pins from her hair, letting it down. “He’s
just eloquent, like father. Composed.”

“Agh!” Harry throws himself on the couch, covering his face with a hand.

He’d rather she had liked the crups or the horses or the extravagant Manor.

“Authoritative,” Delphini goes on.

“Stop!” Harry begs.

It’s not just that she likes Malfoy, but it makes him uncomfortable that she’d like him because
he’s authoritative.

That can’t be a good sign.

Molly said girls like men like their fathers. She’d told it to Harry, back when he was dating
Ginny.

That it was natural for Ginny to like a kind, devoted man, because that is the example she
saw growing up.

Harry dearly hopes that isn’t the case with all girls.
(-)

He has Delphini meet Rose and Hugo, before Teddy. She never seems upset when Harry
brings them up. She is, when he mentions Teddy.

“She’s like a doll.” Delphini remarks after they leave Ron and Hermione’s house. “She did
everything I told her. I liked that. I gave her my head band, did you see? She wanted it and
you’ll buy me another one, right Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry says, delighted that she shared something.

He’s quite certain Voldemort never did, as a child. Or as an adult. That he never handed out
something he owned just because someone else wanted it.

“Hugo is boring. All he does is drool and cry. I didn’t like him. But I held him well, did you
see? Like Hermione showed me. I didn’t let him fall.”

“You did wonderfully,” Harry praises her, taking her to McDonald’s, even if he just took her
the other day.

But she deserves a reward, doesn’t she?

(-)

She does not like Teddy. Harry sort of expected it. He wanted to try to talk more about him
with her, before the meeting, to tell her he’s a good, funny boy, but Voldemort said that will
only make her hate Teddy more, so he hadn’t.

At first, she’s overwhelmed by Teddy’s energy and enthusiasm. He keeps asking her to play
games, to do that or the other, to show her around the Manor. She refuses, stiffly.

She has a standoffish attitude, doesn’t to let go of Harry, sitting in his lap.

Harry doesn’t know how to navigate the situation. He can’t ignore Teddy, like Delphini
would want.

It would hurt his godson.

She even seems jealous that Teddy is so familiar with the Manor, with Andromeda and
Narcissa.
“All the other boys have cousins their age,” Teddy says, unbothered or unaware of Delphini’s
dislike. “I only had Draco and Scorpius, but they’re too old or too young to play with me.
Now I have you! We can be allies!"

Those are Malfoy’s words. Allies. Instead of friends.

And speaking of Malfoy, there he comes.

Delphini leaves Harry’s side, asks Narcissa if she can move so she can sit next to Lucius.

And if Harry, Andromeda and Narcissa couldn’t make themselves ignore Teddy, just for
Delphini’s comfort, Malfoy has no issue.

All his attention is firmly on Delphini, which she loves. He’s short with Teddy, dismissive,
and now it’s Teddy’s turn to be jealous.

“I’d love to ride, Lucius. Will you take me?” Delphini asks after they finish lunch.

Teddy begged her earlier to go riding, but she rejected him.

“It would be my honor,” Malfoy says, making Delphini giggle.

“I want to ride, too!” Teddy stands up, trailing after them.

“No!” Delphini crosses her arms, chin raised.

“Hey,” Harry says, standing at the same time Andromeda does.

“Maybe Mr Potter can ride with Edward,” Malfoy suggests to Delphini.

“No.” She glowers at Teddy. “Harry’s back hurts. He injured it this morning. He can’t ride.”

A lie.

She doesn’t want Teddy to have anything. Not Lucius’ attention, not Harry’s.

Teddy is on the brink of crying, trembling in Andromeda’s embrace.

Fuck. What do I do?

“Than he can ride alone,” Malfoy decides.

Delphini opens her mouth to protest, but she doesn’t have a chance.

“I promised him he can ride this weekend and a man must never go back on his word,
Delphini.”

Harry snots at that. Malfoy’s word is worth nothing.

“Oh. Fine, then.” She deflates, out of excuses. “I suppose he can ride alone. But he’s small.
He should have a small horse. The smallest.”
And so they go.

“He’s good with children,” Narcissa says. “He’ll sort them out in no time.”

“He manipulates grown politicians like puppets,” Andromeda agrees. “Two eight-year-olds
are a walk in the park to him.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen how great he is with children,” Harry spits. He raised a spineless clown.
But he doesn’t say that part. No reason to get nasty with Narcissa.

Even if he doesn’t say it, maybe they inferred it from his tone. He’s treated very coldly after
that.

Harry sees the horses in the air- the huge one, with Malfoy and Delphini, and a smaller one,
with Teddy flying a little behind.

They circle around for a while before disappearing from view.

But then, to his surprise, he sees the Abraxan taking flight again. This time, Teddy and
Delphini are on the small one, Malfoy alone on his horse, flying above them.

“Told you,” Andromeda winks at Harry.

Narcissa is still very frosty.

They land the Abraxas very close to the terrace.

“NO! WAIT! I HAVE TO HELP YOU!” Teddy yells, almost breaking his neck in his haste to
get on the ground first. “I have to be a gentleman!”

He holds a hand to Delphini, helping her dismount.

Apparently, being a gentleman means Teddy has to do whatever Delphini wants.

She decides she likes his crup better than the one she picked the last time. Teddy sneaks a
glance at Malfoy, who nods.

“Ok, you can have it,” he says, uncertain.

She wants his dessert, when sweets are served. Narcissa offers her more, but she just wants
his.

“Alright.” Teddy hands his plate over.

Should I say something? But no one else does.

It’s not ok, though. Not just for Teddy, but Delphini shouldn’t get used to everyone always
doing what she wants.

Who’s fault is that?

Harry’s. He knows. He spoils her too much. But this is the first time he truly sees the
consequences of that spoiling.

Teddy, God bless him, keeps trying to impress her. They already look alike, Black features
dominant on both their faces, but when he’s allowed to move closer to her, he tentatively
copies her eyes.

It’s so weird to see Voldemort’s eyes on Teddy’s face. Especially with all the innocence in
them, all the hope and the uncertainty as he watches Delphini.

“I love you so much, Teddy. You’re the best! Thank you for being patient with her.” Harry
hugs him when Delphini is busy saying goodbye to the Malfoys.

Teddy nods. “Lucius says I have to.”

“We’ll talk later about that,” Harry promises. “When it’s just us two.”

(-)

“I can learn to tolerate him,” Delphini says, when they arrive at Grimmauld Place.

“That’s good,” Harry mumbles, displeased. He has a headache, and it’s not helped by trying
to figure out how to approach Delphini regarding her behaviour.

He’s afraid that if he doesn’t pick his words carefully, he’ll only turn her more resentful
towards Teddy.

“Went well, I take it?” Voldemort asks, when they enter the library and he sees Harry’s face.

He’s drinking a cup of tea, some scrolls of parchment scattered around him, all over the
desk.

“I thought we’re not allowed to bring drinks in the library,” Harry says, scathing.

Voldemort always tells Harry to take his drinks in the kitchen.

“That rule is only for children,” Voldemort says, smirking.

“Children are terrible, father. You were right, as always,” Delphini says, sitting in one of the
armchairs. “Loud and messy and stupid.”

“Teddy’s not stupid,” Harry tells her, sternly.

Delphini shrugs. “He is, compared to me.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s-”

“You must learn how to deal with stupid,” Voldemort interrupts Harry. “As you grow,
everyone you will meet will be far less intelligent than you are.”

Delphini grins, very satisfied. “Lucius isn’t stupid.”

Harry groans. The pain in his temples amplifies. He hates Malfoy.

“Give it time,” Voldemort mutters.

Yes. Go on, talk badly of him!

“He’s so handsome, too!” Delphini blushes.

Voldemort blinks at her. Then he turns to Harry.

“Isn’t she a little young to notice that sort of thing?”

Harry shrugs, defeated.

Teddy has a crush on Victorie. But that’s cute. Innocent. Everyone likes to tease him about it.

Delphini thinking Malfoy handsome isn’t cute.

“I have eyes!” Delphini counters. “What does it matter if I am young? He is handsome. And
smart. And powerful.”

Voldemort looks displeased.

“See what I deal with?” Harry asks, sitting across from him.

“He betrayed me when it was convenient to him,” Voldemort says.

Delphini smiles. “He is sneaky, isn’t he? I like that.”

“Rodolphus despised him,” Voldemort attempts.

Delphini dismisses it. “Rody hated everyone. He only liked mama, you and me.”

“Your mother didn’t think Lucius was handsome. She thought him a coward.”

Yes, yes. Perfect. Harry looks between them. Bellatrix, the ultimate weapon. Now Delphini
has to stop liking Malfoy.

She ponders on it.

“Of course mama didn’t think he is handsome,” she says. “I’m sure she found you handsome,
so there was no reason for her to find anyone else pleasing.”

Voldemort opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

It’s the first time Harry sees him speechless.

(-)

When he comes down the stairs, he’s met with two identical stares.

Everyone says Delphini looks like Bellatrix, and she does. But Harry sees a lot of Voldemort
in her, especially when they’re standing close to each other like that, with an irritated
expression on their faces.

“I have to go,” he says, again. He talked with her about it numerous times.

Ron and Hermione insisted they bring her along. Molly wrote to him, expressing a wish to
meet Sirius’ daughter.

Harry lied and said Delphini has to go to the Malfoys that day. That it was part of the custody
arrangement they reached between themselves.

He tells so many lies these days, he can’t keep track of them all.

“No, you don’t,” Delphini answers. “You want to go.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

“They Weasleys are like family to him, Delphini,” Voldemort, the complete bastard, says. “Of
course he wants to be there.”

“We’re your family,” she snaps. “Father, tell him! We’re his family, not those people.”

“Delphini, come on! It’s not-”

“Might be a tad awkward, if you ask me. Do you know he almost married Ginevra?”

“WHAT?”

“Will you shut up!?” Harry spits at Voldemort. Why would he tell Delphini he used to be
with Ginny? “Merlin!”

“Oh yes, the romance of the century. Everyone wanted them to end up together. Start a
family, have children and all that.” Voldemort smirks as Delphini’s face gets red with anger.

“I’m your child! You don’t need another!”

“Delphini, she’s getting married today. With a nice man and she’ll have children with him,
alright?”

“Maybe she’ll change her mind at the last second, when she sees you there,” Voldemort’s
smirk just gets wider. “You do look unusually handsome in those robes.”
“You’re not going!” Delphini is shaking her head. “Stay home with us!”

She is so difficult about it, Harry barely gets to Ginny’s wedding in time.

The wedding is nice. Harry’s happy for Ginny. She looks radiant, more beautiful than ever.

For a second, as he watches the couple making their vows, Harry wonders what it would have
been like if it were him instead of Yannis.

But he can’t imagine it anymore.

He can’t see the very nice, simple, normal gatherings with the Weasleys, the large family he
always desired.

Instead, he imagines a cottage, somewhere by the sea.

A nice one, new and without a past, without generations and generations of Blacks having
been raised in it, without skulls on the walls, and chandeliers in snake shapes.

Cozy and warm.

Voldemort would have his study, that would smell of books. Maybe he’d research ancient
magic. Powerful, but harmless. He’d be a lauded author.

He hates people, so he’d only work from home. Maybe they’d travel from time to time for
him to find ancient artefacts and discover all their uses.

Harry would play Quidditch. When he’d be on tour, Voldemort and Delphini would come
with him, too.

Voldemort would complain about the hotels, of course.

But Delphini would love all the new food; she’d love to visit other cities.

And when Quidditch season was off, Harry would just stay home with her all day. They’d
play by the sea. He’d teach her how to make sand castles.

Ron and Hermione would visit on the weekends.

Harry would mess around on brooms with Ron, or have a pint in their small garden. Ron
would mock Harry for plating the flowers himself. They’d keep an eye on the kids, laughing
in the distance.

Voldemort would argue with Hermione in the living room, heated discussions about one
theory or another.

And at night, when Delphini sleeps, Harry would go with Voldemort in the ocean.

They’d stay on the beach, naked, under the moonlight.

It would be lovely. Better than anything, even having the Weasleys as a family, even having
Ginny as a wife and children of his own.

“You with us, mate?” Ron asks, and Harry shakes his head.

“He’s green with jealousy,” Bill teases him.

“Leave him alone, you git!” Ron punches Bill in the shoulder.

“Poor Yannis. Mum still goes on about what a pity it was you and Ginny didn’t work out. She
says that with him around.” Charlie snickers.

Percy is a little further away, with George.

Since Fred died, Percy is always with George. A strange thing to happen, but somehow Percy
is the closest to George now.

And on such an important day, their little sister getting married-

Harry is sure some of Molly’s tears are more than just happiness for her daughter.

The man you’re fantasising about caused that pain. It’s Harry’s conscience.

But by this point Harry can ignore it without too much issues.

(-)

“Is it true? That you always wanted children?” Delphini interrogates him the next day.

Harry took her to the park to enjoy the last day of summer. They’re sitting on a blanket,
surrounded by ‘notice-me-not’ charms.

“You know I like children, Delphini. And now I have you.” He kisses her head, but she draws
back.

“Father says men usually want their own children. Their flesh and blood, to carry on their
names and their features.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Harry says, through clenched teeth.

“Father is very wise,” Delphini insists. “And since you can’t have children with him-”

Harry feels his face blushing. “Delphini,” he says, uncomfortable because this is veering into
sex territory and he doesn’t know how to handle that.

“You can only have them with a woman-”

“I don’t want other children. Your father is wrong. Rodolphus thought of you as a daughter,
too. And you weren’t his, you didn’t have his blood, but it didn’t matter to him, did it?”

He’d said the right thing. Her face brightens.

“That’s true! He loved me anyway, because he loved mama. And since he was her husband, it
was like I was his daughter.”

“See-”

“And you love father. You’re with him, so I am yours, too.”

Harry falls silent again. Love.

He knows he loves Voldemort; it’s not the type of love he had for Ginny, the one he has for
Ron or Hermione.

It’s twisted, and it hurts, but it is love. He accepted it.

To say it out loud, however…

“Can’t you get married? In my muggle books, men don’t get married, but that’s silly. You
should get married, so we’d be a proper family. This way, nothing will separate us, ever.”

“Delphini, listen to me.” Harry takes her hand. “Don’t run this idea by your father.”

He can’t even imagine Voldemort’s reaction to it.

“Why? Why doesn’t he want to get married? He didn’t marry mama, either. I don’t
understand.”

“It’s just the way he is, ok?” He has no other answer for her.

“But would you want it? Would you like to be father’s husband?”

She looks at him, an intense expression in her eyes. Harry can feel her in his head, trying to
reach out with Legilimency.

She’s nowhere near as good as Voldemort. He says Delphini can only glimpse surface
thoughts, at best. That she’d only guess emotions.

Either way, Harry now knows how to black any such attempts. He does it.

“I really don’t want to talk about this-”

“Wouldn’t you like to have his name?” She bites her lip. Hesitates for a second. And then-
“What is his name?”

“I told you his name,” Harry lowers his voice, even if they’re at the park and there is no way
for Voldemort to hear them.
But that’s such a touchy subject, Harry is just extra careful.

Just the other week, he’d been a little too excited, lost in pleasure and that liberating feeling
he gets when Voldemort is inside him and, once more, “Tom” slipped from his lips.

Voldemort pretended he hadn’t heard, and since then Harry is very careful to keep his mouth
shut. He’s half tempted to ask Voldemort to gag him.

Because “Tom” always comes up, from time to time, in bed.

Harry wishes it wouldn’t. Voldemort hates it.

“His family name,” Delphini says. “If you were married, he’d give you his family name.
What is it?”

“Maybe I’d give him mine,” Harry says. He doesn’t want to entertain Delphini’s fantasies of
marriage, but he just needs to make her stop asking for names.

“Harry,” she says, a tick in her jaw that is very similar to the one her father gets when he’s
angry. “What is his full name? Why won’t you tell me?”

“Because he doesn’t want you to know,” Harry tells her, truthfully. “And sometimes, no
matter how curious we are, we have to respect the wishes of those around us.”

“That’s not fair! His name would be my name, too! I want to know it!”

“We can’t always get what we want. Your name is Black, now, and that’s that.”

Delphini narrows her eyes. She stares at Harry, but he doesn’t back down.

“Fine,” she spits, ripping some grass from the earth and throwing it away. “Fine. I will get it
out of Lucius.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, you won’t.”

(-)

Narcissa corners Harry during one visit. Not alone, of course. Never alone. Andromeda’s
with her.

Harry looks longingly in the distance, where Malfoy talks to Teddy and Delphini.

“She needs socialisation,” Narcissa starts. “Perhaps you don’t understand her needs, young as
you are-”

“Hey-”
“But she greatly needs company her own age. So next week, we’ll arrange for some children
to come over. They will all go to Hogwarts together. Always better to get a head start on
those type of friendships.”

Harry sighs, a little relieved. He’d expected something bad when they approached him with
the air of someone going to war.

“Well, yeah. Sure.”

He, too, believes Delphini should socialise. That she should spend some time with children
her age. Bad enough she is shut up in a house with an eighty-year-old man, and then at the
Malfoys with forty-fifty-year-olds.

No wonder she talks like an encyclopaedia.

It could turn her into Hermione. Which would be great, of course it would, in a general
sense.

Yet Harry remembers how hard it was for Hermione to make friends, when she came to
Hogwarts.

“Good.” Narcissa smiles. “You won’t be here, though.”

Ah, there it is.

“Mr Potter, she won’t play with the others if you are here. She’ll just stay in your lap and
ignore the rest.”

She’s not wrong. Either way, Harry narrows his eyes. “If I’m not here, she’ll just hide behind
your husband-”

“She won’t. Because he won’t be present, either. Just us women and children.”

“I don’t know.” Harry looks at Delphini again. She ignores Teddy, barely sparing him a
glance, her attention on dear Lucius. “She won’t like it.”

“Bella didn’t like other children, did she, Andy?”

“She didn’t.” Andromeda nods.

“Our parents didn’t know how to deal with Bellatrix,” Narcissa goes on. “She’d throw
tantrums, she’d fight, so they just let her do what she wanted, hid her away when other
children would come for a visit. She never learned how to deal with uncomfortable social
situation, she never learned to compromise. All her life she only associated with people that
did what she demanded and we all saw how that turned out.”

“All right, all right!” Harry throws his arms in the air.
(-)

Delphini isn’t pleased when Harry leaves, the following visit. He’d only stayed long enough
to introduce Delphini to the four children.

“Stay with me!”

“You’ll have fun-”

“Fun? Have you met those stupid little imps?” She crosses her arms, a hateful look on her
face.

“Listen, Narcissa kicked me out, ok?”

Let the blonde deal with Delphini’s ire. She insisted, after all.

(-)

Apparently Delphini was mean to the other children, Harry learns when he picks her up.

Shocking, a sarcastic part of his mind supplies.

“She scared them.”

It’s not Narcissa that tells Harry this. Nor Delphini.

It’s Teddy.

“She just doesn’t know how to play.” Teddy has a small frown on his face. “But don’t you
worry, Harry. I’ll teach her. Lucius told me it’s my duty to take care of her because she’s my
cousin and she’s a girl.”

“Her being a girl doesn’t matter,” Harry says, but doesn’t insist on it. Whatever. As long as it
makes Teddy be patient and look after Delphini.

(-)

The forced socialisation doesn’t really work as Narcissa hoped.

Even after many playdates, Delphini still doesn’t like the other children and they don’t like
her either.
Yet something else happens. She grows closer to Teddy, who is always at her side. He fights
with the other children on behalf of Delphini.

Scary, how they wanted for Teddy to integrate her in his friend group but he ended up
discarding them instead.

Harry doesn’t like it.

It just- he keeps having flashes of memories, from Dumbledore’s pensive, with an eleven-
year-old Tom Riddle, alone in his room at the orphanage.

He keeps hearing Mrs Cole telling Dumbledore how Tom doesn’t get along with the others.

“From my understanding, Bella wasn’t very social, either.”

Harry felt Voldemort in his head; he does often. But most of the time he doesn’t try to cast
him off, as he’s supposed to.

“Delphini accepts Edward now,” Voldemort says, watching Harry from across the table. “And
she seems to be fond of Scorpius, from what she tells me. Bellatrix was like that- she
treasured family.”

Harry gives him a look. “Well, I don’t want her to be like Bellatrix, either.”

Voldemort ponders on it for a few seconds. “Better than the alternative.”

“We should get her a pet,” Harry says.

Pets are supposed to teach children good things. He’s not sure what, but he heard it often
enough.

Voldemort’s eyebrow raises. “Sure, get her a rabbit. We have plenty of rafters for her to hang
it from.”

Harry sighs.

(-)

Young, single witches keep appearing at Malfoy Manor while Harry is there.

They’re so nice to Harry, even if some of them went to Hogwarts with him and they weren’t
so nice back then.

They’re nice to Delphini and Teddy, too.

“Oh, I would love to try this pizza you speak of,” Ismelda Urquhart says, when Delphini
describes it to Narcissa. “Perhaps Harry will show me where to get one.”
Harry vaguely remembers her; she used to cheer for her brother at Slytherin-Gryffindor
matches.

“A lovely idea,” Narcissa says, making Harry blink several times, thinking he hallucinated it.

“It’s muggle, you know that, right?”

Both women laugh. Andromeda rolls her eyes a little further away.

“Harry has a boyfriend,” Delphini snaps, when on the next visit Tracey Davis asks Harry if
he can offer her advice on how to cast a Patronus.

Oh, God.

Worse, Malfoy is there. He chokes on his firewhiskey, turning to gawk at Harry.

“Oh,” Narcissa says, a little displeased. “You didn’t say, Mr. Potter. Why don’t you bring him
over so we can-”

“No,” Malfoy cuts over her, hurriedly. “Leave him alone.”

"Stop trying to introduce these women to him, Cissy.” Delphini throws her hair back when
Tracey finally departs. “I know you do it for me, so I can have a nice woman to play the role
of a mother, but I have you and Andromeda already. And I have two fathers. I don’t need
anyone else.”

(-)

“She’s already calling your partner a father?” Narcissa corners Harry when Delphini drags
Malfoy away, to play with the crups. “Then I must meet him.”

“I agree,” Andromeda pipes in.

“Listen, it’s my business.” Harry barks at them.

“Is this the same man from last year?” Andromeda doesn’t back off.

“It’s Delphini’s business, too,” Narcissa insists. “And if it concerns her, it concerns all of us. I
assure you, we will be very pleasant. Even if he’s a mud-muggleborn, we’ll still be polite.
Lucius will behave.”

Harry huffs. “Why would a muggleborn willingly enter your house, with Malfoy’s reputation,
huh? Perhaps your husband tortured him or killed his parents in the war. Ever think about
that?”

That makes Narcissa pale. She finally backs off.

Even Andromeda looks contrite, though she and her husband never hurt anyone in the war.

But that’s their family. Andromeda and Narcissa now share everything, even guilt for crimes
neither actually committed.

By the next visit, Andromeda approaches him, alone. “Maybe I could meet him,” she
suggests. “Narcissa understands now why perhaps you wouldn’t want to bring him to the
Manor, but I could see him-”

“No.”

“Why not? I know how to act with Muggleborns and put them at ease. I’ll have you
remember Ted was-”

“He’s not a muggleborn, ok?” Harry says, exasperated. “He’s just a very private person.”

But they keep asking Delphini about it. Not when Harry is there. And Delphini says not when
Malfoy is there, either, cause apparently the man tries to avoid any conversation about
Harry’s partner.

“I tell them father is wonderful,” Delphini says to Harry, at McDonalds.

Harry is glad that no matter what she must hear about muggles at the Malfoys, Delphini still
happily eats fast-food and wants to visit the zoo and amusement parks.

Though now she eats her hamburgers with a knife and fork.

“I tell them you love each other very much and that you both make me happy.”

“You shouldn’t speak of-”

“She kept trying to force those girls on you. I had to do something. Besides, I like inventing
things about you and father. It feels good, for those minutes. I can make myself believe we
actually go away to the country side for the weekend and that we have a lovely time there as
a family.”

Harry’s heart twists with pity and sorrow. Delphini deserves so much more than Voldemort.

“You can go with the Malfoys to France,” Harry relents, because Narcissa kept pestering him
about him and Harry always refused, unwilling to allow Delphini to leave the country
without him. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

It makes Harry jealous, but- but Delphini can have her fantasy, going with some sort of
parents on a nice vacation. They’ll spoil her and they can do stuff together as a family.

Delphini glares at him. “You’re not shipping me off to France!”

Harry is taken aback. “I’m not shipping you off anywhere, it would just be for a week or-”

“No, thank you.”

She stabs a chip with her fork, forcefully.

(-)

After the third time he allows Dephini to sleep at Malfoy Manor for a weekend and
everything turns out just fine, he loosens up.

And then he gets over his guilt that he’s somewhat a bad parent if he enjoys the days without
Delphini there.

He loves her, wants to spend time with her, but he has to admit one or two days a month
where he can just relax are… nice.

He can stay in bed until noon, like he used to. He can suck Voldemort off in the living room,
like he used to.

Voldemort can fuck him in the duelling room, after disarming Harry.

And while Voldemort generally most enjoys alone time, it is rather obvious that when the
mood for company strikes him, he appreciates having Harry all for himself.

For all he complains Harry is stupid or average or all the other delightful insults he hurls at
him, he never looks bored when Harry babbles on about one thing or another.

On occasion, he even looks amused.

On even rarer occasions, he talks back, tells a tale of his own. That can be horrific, if
Voldemort decides to reminisce about a bunch of men he once killed in Berlin; or it can be
fascinating if he tells Harry of amazing things he’d seen during his journeys.

“I’d love to travel,” Harry says, lounging on the sofa, playing with a Rubik cube.

“What stops you?” Voldemort is on an armchair, so close to the fireplace Harry worries he’ll
go up in flames.

“You.”

“What stopped you from travelling when I was held at the Ministry?”

Harry sighs, frustrated with the cube. Delphini can solve it in less than five minutes.

She makes Harry count her down. She’s been aiming for two minutes lately, but she’s not
quite there.

“You,” Harry repeats.

He couldn’t have just left, with Voldemort locked up somewhere, out of his control.
“Take Delphini to Spain for a weekend. She wants to meet an Aloja.”

“Aren’t those pretty dangerous?”

Harry remembers reading about them in one of the lesson plans Hermione made for Hagrid,
back in fifth year.

“They can be,” Voldemort smiles. “But I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure Delphini can protect you.”

“Fuck off,” Harry says, throwing the Rubik cube at Voldemort, aiming for his head.

Of course, it doesn’t hit him. It lands in his hand instead.

Voldemort barely spares it a glance. His hands move fast, long, slender fingers gliding over it.
Harry blinks a few times and the cube is solved.

“Show off,” Harry mutters.

Voldemort’s smile widens. He puts the cube down and summons a book.

Harry closes his eyes, preparing for a nap. Another thing he can’t do when Delphini is home.
The girl has endless energy and a constant need for attention.

She would love to travel, too. Harry can see her, when he closes his eyes, how excited she’d
be, about everything.

Harry would be equally excited.

And Voldemort- he’d have that exasperated look on his face as he reigns them in, tempering
their enthusiasm with his derisive, sarcastic way of speaking.

Only, of course, Delphini and Harry are so used to it, they find it endearing instead of
insulting.

Maybe they can drag Voldemort to a beach somewhere.

Harry feels a smile on his lips when he imagines Voldemort in some colourful swim trunks,
with a sombrero and a cocktail served in a coconut, as Harry saw in some movies.

But then the image shifts from hilarious to hot, when his mind conjures Voldemort in some
tight black underpants, water glistening on his perfect body as he gets out of the ocean.

Delphini wouldn’t be there in that scenario.

Harry sighs, turning on his side, getting more comfortable, as the fantasy lulls him to sleep.

(-)
“What is it, darling?” Harry asks Delphini.

The night before, after he picked her up from the Manor, she’d been so silent throughout
dinner, hadn’t even looked up from her plate, and then she retreated straight to her room
after.

Harry wanted to go to her right then, but Voldemort told him that whatever it is, she’d
appreciate space.

And Harry wasn’t sure- he hardly had experience with this sort of thing.

So he accepted it and went to bed. But Delphini was equally subdued at breakfast and Harry
decides she doesn’t need space. She needs to say what’s wrong.

He finds her in her room, perched on the windowsill, her knees drawn to her chest.

She doesn’t answer and Harry goes to her, kneels at her side and slowly reaches over, taking
her hand.

“You can tell me anything,” Harry says.

Delphini just looks out the window, her big brown eyes clear of tears but full of emotions.

“Teddy told me a woman named Bellatrix Lestrange killed his mother,” she says, softly.

Oh, no. Harry takes her other hand, slowly turning her to him.

“He speaks nicely of ‘Bella’, his nana’s sister, but he doesn’t know Bella is Bellatrix.”

“He doesn’t,” Harry says. “Teddy… listen sweetheart, Teddy doesn’t think too much about
his parents. He was fortunate to have Andromeda and, well, I was always there too and the
Malfoys, so he’s not as- he’s not as attached to his real parents. Not like you.”

“Mama killed his mama, though,” Delphini says. “I want mama, I always did. It hurts that I
don’t have her,” she touches her chest. “It hurts here, really badly.”

Harry’s stomach lurches; his heart breaks-

“And Teddy is without a mother too, even if he has Auntie. He feels that ache, I’m sure. And
mama caused it. I don’t like that.”

A tiny part of him is relieved that Delphini shows compassion; the same part of him that
worries at night she might take after Voldemort.

But the rest of Harry is devastated by her pain.

“I know it’s not something that can be-” Harry starts, not sure how to say it. He’d never
spoke about his emotions, especially as a child. “I know you miss your mother and-”
“You didn’t have parents, either,” Delphini says, and her eyes grow wet with tears. Her voice
turns shaky. “Teddy told me Lord Voldemort killed them when you were a baby.”

Harry stops breathing. To hear that name in her mouth makes him sick.

They tried so hard to hide it from her. Harry made sure never to utter it, the papers never
write it down and Voldemort himself has no reason to say it.

But of course Teddy would know it. Andromeda never feared the name, and she wouldn’t be
raising Teddy with nonsense like “You-Know-Who”.

“Delphini,” he whispers.

“That’s father, isn’t he? Rody always called him the dark lord. Everyone thinks him dead-
that’s why you don’t want me to speak about him.”

Harry nods, a knot in his throat.

She was always going to find out, he tells himself. But he’d hoped they’d have more time.

“He killed your parents when you were a baby!” Delphini is crying in earnest now, hiccups
and everything.

Fuck. Fuck. Harry tries to soothe her, petting her hair, kissing her hands and lying to her that
everything is going to be alright.

“Was mama a bad woman, Harry?” Delphini whispers. “Rody said she was the best, Cissa
says so and even Andromeda but- was she?” Fat tears rolls down her aristocratic cheeks that
look so much like Bellatrix’. “Is father a wicked man?” her voice is so soft Harry barely
hears it. “Is he evil?”

Harry hugs her. Delphini hugs back, tightly.

Parenting is brutal.

It’s worse when you co parent with a mass murderer, a part of his head supplies. Harry would
give anything so Delphini would stop crying- he’d do anything to take away the pain.

Harry will keep lying.

“Your father is a hard man,” he says. “He’s… strict and he can be very harsh; he hurt many
people in the war.”

“Did they deserve it?” Delphini asks, hopeful. “Was Teddy’s mama evil, maybe? Or your
parents? Did he kill them because they were mean to you, like Rowle was mean to me?”

“No, no one was evil. It’s just- in war, there are- things happen,” Harry says, lamely. “When
two factions fight each other, they both think the other is in the wrong. Everyone forgets that
they are fighting against other human beings.”
“You fought against father. Teddy says so. Rod said so. He said Harry Potter was my parents’
biggest enemy. The papers say you defeated the dark lord.”

“Yes, I did. I thought his side was wrong; I still think that. And he thought my side was
wrong and no doubt he still thinks that, too.”

Delphini draws back, looks into Harry’s eyes intently.

“But now you live together,” Delphini says. “You laugh often when he’s present, and he
sometimes smiles at you. You sleep in the same room.”

“I once had a great teacher, one of the best men to have ever lived. He knew magic better
than most anyone else. He was a very powerful wizard, a Master in Transfiguration, but he
had so much knowledge, about everything. And you know what he told me?”

Delphini shakes her head, eyes curious. “Is this that Dumbledore?”

Harry nods.

He’d have liked Delphini.

Do you think so? The jaded part of him questions it. Or would Dumbledore have seen
Delphini in her worst moments, would have seen the pictures she drew of Molly and the
casual way she speaks of Lestrange killing Muggles? Would he have condemned her from the
get go, just on account of that?

“He told me that love is the most powerful force in the world. I was young, back then; just a
boy. I dreamed of cool spells and fast brooms and impressive skills; I dismissed it. But he
was right. Love is very powerful; I love your father, and that allows me to be in the same
room with him, even after everything.”

Delphini gives him a shaky smile.

“That’s so romantic, daddy!” she says. Harry loves it when he calls him “dad’, even if it
happens rarely. “Like in my books!”

Harry nods, makes himself smile back. If only it would be as simple. But he won’t burden a
child with the truth.

He’s not sure he could explain it, anyway. Anyone else would condemn him for his
relationship with Voldemort. Harry condemns himself. It’s disgusting and wrong and he
deserves to be hated for it.

Only a child, intelligent but still naive, would accept it, think it romantic.

“Do you think father loves you?”

Harry opens his mouth, closes it again. “He likes me,” Harry says, hoping at least in this he’s
telling the truth.
Delphini nods. “Do you think he loves me, even if only a little?”

Fuck.

“You are so lovable, Delphini,” Harry says. “You are the smartest girl I have ever seen in my
life, you’re funny and witty and so very beautiful. Perfect. I love you more than anything in
the world.”

Delphini smiles, but she is indeed very smart. She isn’t blinded by Harry’s words. She
noticed he avoided her question.

“I love you, too!” She places a wet kiss on Harry’s cheek.

(-)

Harry decides to take Delphini and Voldemort out.

It has nothing to do, of course, with the fact that Harry worries Delphini might like the
Malfoys better, what with the fact they can all go out together. Nothing at all.

“You can pick where you want to go,” Harry tells Delphini, happy to see her this excited.

“Not the movies,” Voldemort corrects.

“Harry just said I can pick-”

“And I say you can’t, If I don’t like it.”

Harry sighs. They’re already ruining the day.

But Delphini never stays mad for long with her father. By the time she comes back down the
stairs, dressed in a simple blue dress, she forgot all about it.

“I want you to take me to one of my mama’s favourite spots,” she tells Voldemort.

Harry winces. “Delphini, we can’t go anywhere magical. You know this.”

She nods. “I’m sure she must have had a favourite place that wasn’t magical.”

Harry looks to Voldemort.

Only to see the man frowning.

That almost never happens. Just like that, Harry is certain Voldemort has no idea what
Bellatrix’ favourite place was.
Please don’t tell her that. Please. It will upset Delphini, ruin the fantasy of the great romance
her parents must have shared.

After an awkward pause, Voldemort seems to have come up with something, because the
frown clears.

They get out of the house, confusing the Aurors, as always. Voldemort Apparates them in a
forest.

Harry feels uncharacteristically nauseous after the Apparition. Delphini looks a little pale,
too, swaying on her feet for a couple of seconds.

“We’re in Ireland,” Voldemort explains, steadying Harry.

Oh. That’s quite far. Long range Apparation is more taxing on the body.

“I came with Bella here, once. To celebrate Beltane.”

It is a magical forest. Very much so. Wild. Harry doubts any people set foot in it recently,
least of all muggles.

“Tell me all about it!”

Voldemort transfigures some leaves into a blanket for Delphini and Harry to sit on.

He makes a throne for himself, out of fallen branches.

Figures.

Harry finds himself listening as enraptured as Delphini. He never knew how wizards and
witches celebrated Beltane.

Also, he’s very curious, too. About Voldemort and Bellatrix.

Thankfully, there is no human sacrifice involved or anything of the like.

Apparently, it’s a witchy affair. Bellatrix was the one chanting and casting, as Voldemort just
watched.

“Bella is not here to protect you anymore.” That’s what Voldemort told Malfoy, on the day
he got his wand back.

It dawns on Harry, as he watches Voldemort talk about the woman with a soft look on his
face, that he loved her.

It all makes sense.

Even the little care he has for Delphini- it is not on account that they share blood. No.

It all comes back to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Voldemort doesn’t wish harm on Delphini, because she is Bellatrix’ daughter. Because she
reminds him of her.

He allows the Malfoys to live, even after they betray him, because Bellatrix apparently loved
her sister.

It’s almost tragic- he keeps people he despises alive, in her memory, but he couldn’t save her.

Harry remembers the inhuman sound Voldemort made when Bellatrix fell.

The pure rage in it, coming from a man Dumbledore insisted doesn’t have any human
feelings.

The fury in his magic when he threw McGonagall, Flitwick and Slughorn into the air with
just a wave of his hand.

Bellatrix’ death destabilised him. It hurt him, Harry realises, with shock.

So much so, Voldemort didn’t even seem to pay attention to Harry, as Harry was telling him
about the Elder Wand and how it got in his possession.

Can he truly love? Is it possible?

Harry wants it to be true.

And if he loved Bellatrix when his soul was ripped apart… now his soul is intact-

Hope. It blossoms in Harry’s chest, even if he tries to stomp it.

(-)

The waiter smiles at Harry, which makes him blush.

No one usually notices him when he’s out with Voldemort, who commands attention, and
with Delphini that’s so lovely, people hardly look at anything else.

He’s a handsome waiter; tall and dark-haired with a daredevil look about him and when he
walks away from the table, Harry can’t help but notice his long legs and his-

He shakes his head to clear it and focuses on Delphini, who’s critiquing the table
arrangement.

“Not at all up to standard,” she concludes. “Rody wasn’t wrong, they really act like animals,
these muggles.”

“How many animals have you seen using forks, Delphini?” Harry asks her, annoyed that she
still talks badly of Muggles even if she enjoys everything Harry shows her or buys her from
the Muggle world.

“Rowle used cutlery, and she was a bitch,” Delphini answers, spiteful.

“Language-”

“A bitch is a female dog, wolf or fox. The dictionary says so, Harry. It isn’t a dirty word.”

“She got you there,” Voldemort intervenes, a smile on his lips.

“Yeah, very clever,” Harry says, narrowing his eyes. “You won’t say that word again or I’m
not taking you to the movies this weekend.”

He so rarely gets serious with Delphini, it’s no wonder she isn’t used to it.

It’s like he declared war; Delphini’s face closes off. She gives him a look that is a perfect
replica of one of Voldemort’s more threatening ones and then she turns to her father.

“Harry smiled at the Muggle with the tattoos that served us our drinks.”

What the hell? Harry just stares at her, mouth agape.

Voldemort doesn’t react, which unsettles Delphini. “And the Muggle smiled at Harry, too!”

“So?” Voldemort asks.

“So you’re supposed to get upset!” Delphini exclaims, confused.

“You should stop giving her romance novels,” is all Voldemort has to say on the matter.

Delphini ignores Harry for the rest of the meal, chatting with Voldemort about Alchemy.

She’s so spiteful sometimes.

She’s just a kid, Harry reminds himself. He would be childish to get upset with her.

He makes sure not to make eye contact with the waiter again, though.

Delphini’s ire is temporary. By the time her ice cream comes, she offers to share it with
Harry, who agrees, eager to bury the hatchet.

Harry pays and they are all standing, heading for the exit when the waiter trips over nothing,
bashing his head on a table, causing the tray of another passing server to fall on top of him,
scalding him in hot soup.

People hurry to help.

Delphini grins like a shark, delighted. She looks up at her father.

“You hurt him!” Harry hisses at Voldemort. “You agreed never to do that, if I take you out of
the house-”
“Hurt,” Voldemort dismisses it, grabbing Harry’s shoulder and dragging him along. “He’ll be
fine after a few stitches and some burn treatment.”

“He had it coming!” Delphini says, taking Harry’s other hand.

“No,” Harry tells her. “That’s not alright. We don’t hurt people, especially for no reason!”

“There was reason.” Delphini is as arrogant as Voldemort. “If you don’t want people to get
hurt, don’t smile at them. You should only smile at father.”

(-)

Harry doesn’t talk to Voldemort for the rest of the evening. When Voldemort tries, Harry
glares at him.

“I’m never taking you out of the house again!”

After that, Voldemort doesn’t seem to want to talk to Harry, either.

“Don’t fight!” Delphini takes his hand when he puts her to bed. “Such a silly, insignificant
thing. You shouldn’t fight with father over Muggles.”

Harry kisses her forehead. “Goodnight. Sleep well, love.”

He goes to his old room. It’s cold, for some reason, colder than the rest of the house.

He pulls a thick blanket over him, tossing and turning.

And just as he dozes off, he sees the entire thing again. Voldemort’s disinterest when
Delphini was upset the waiter smiled at Harry; the way Delphini looked up at Voldemort
when the man fell.

He thought it was awe, but was it? Harry’s seen that look on her before, when she does
something she considers worthy of praise and looks up to check if Voldemort saw it.

He jumps up from bed, practically running out of his room and down the stairs.

Voldemort is brushing his teeth when Harry burst into their bathroom.

“It wasn’t you, was it?”

Voldemort looks at him, through the mirror. He spits the toothpaste into the sink and wipes
his mouth. “Let it go,” he answers.

(-)
He finds her sleeping.

She truly looks like what people imagine angels would appear. So beautiful and innocent.

She hurt a man for no reason.

He sits beside her, slowly, as not to wake her.

But she wakes anyway, as he watches her.

“Harry?” She’s only confused for a second. It goes away, and she grabs her wand, eyes alert.
“Did they find us? Do we have to run?”

She jumps out of the bed and pulls a bag from underneath it.

Harry knows she keeps clothes there, some of her favourite books and a few chocolate bars.

Delphini’s always ready to go back on the run; she always expects for someone to hunt her,
no matter how many months pass without any sign of trouble.

“Shh, it’s alright. No one found us, we don’t have to run.”

“Why are you here? Where is father?”

“He’s sleeping. I just came to see you.”

She pushes the bag back under the bed.

“You missed me?” She smiles, climbing back into bed. “We’re not supposed to sleep
together. Father wants you with him, but I think he won’t get to upset for just one time, would
he?”

“He wouldn’t,” Harry says softly, and he lets her drag him under the blanket with her.

She settles at his chest, long limbs around him like a vine.

“Rody always held me as I slept, to make sure nothing happens to me. Once, when I was
little, I wandered off, and he didn’t wake up. I think he was drunk, because he stole some
bottles from a store and drained them all. I went to pee, but once outside, the sky was so
pretty! I found mama’s star and lost track of time looking at it. When I returned, poor Rody
was awake, and he was crying. He thought he lost me. After that, he’d tie my wrist to his
when we went to bed.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. With every new horrific story she tells, without her even
realising how terrible it is, Harry only hurts more.

“Why are you really here? Are you still upset with father about the muggle? Is that why
you’re not sleeping there?”
Harry sighs, resting his chin on the top of her head.

“You shouldn’t be upset. Maybe…” she swallows. “Maybe father didn’t even wish to hurt
him, and it just happened, because he loves you so much he can’t help it. Maybe it was an
accident. Please don’t be upset with him.”

“I know it was you,” Harry whispers.

Delphini tenses. “Ah.”

A long silence.

“Did he tell on me?”

“No. I figured it out myself. Why would you do that? You can’t hurt anyone, Delphini.”

“I want us all together,” she says, and she moves until her mouth is on Harry’s neck.
“Nothing can separate us. We’re a family. I want my family.”

“Oh, Delphini-”

“And I have this bad feeling that we won’t be. Father doesn’t want to be here, does he? I
overheard you enough times to know he made some sort of magical promise that he can’t get
out. Only you can set him free.”

“Delphini-”

“And you’re so easy to trick.” She cries, hugging him tighter. “You can’t let him go free! You
can’t! If he deceives you, he’ll go and we won’t be together anymore. I can’t stand the
thought of it.”

She cries harder, clinging to him.

“What will happen to me? If he takes me with him, I’ll lose you. I can’t lose you! I love
you!”

“You won’t lose me-”

“That’s what Rody used to say, and he lied! I never saw him again! And if father abandons
me here, I will never see him again and I love him, too. I need to be with him.”

“Listen, we will figure-”

“I won’t let anyone come between us, muggles or wizards! You’re both mine! We’re
supposed to be a family. You only need to keep father, Harry. Please, that’s all you need to
do! Keep him here and I’ll deal with anything else, ok? Don’t smile at other people! You
should only smile at him. And maybe, maybe even if he tricks you and he’ll be free, maybe
he’ll want to stay with you, anyway. You need to make him love you very much.”
What are we doing to this little girl, Harry thinks, desperate. How will Harry fix it? How can
he make it better?

“Don’t tell him I said you have to keep him here. He’ll hate me. He wants you to set him free,
but that won’t be good for any of us.”

“Stop crying, love,” Harry says, close to tears himself. “Please. I’m here, we’re all here, don’t
think of… we’re all here now.”

“Promise me it will be so forever! Promise, Harry! Swear to me!”

Harry stays silent and Delphini only cries harder.

They hold each other through the night, neither closing an eye.

(-)

“You didn’t bring Rose?” Delphini asks, disappointed when Ron and Hermione come to
Grimmauld, alone.

Delphini enjoys Rose. She treats the younger girl like a doll, indeed.

Rose is very independent, doesn’t like her parents or anyone fussing over her, doesn’t want
any attention.

And she’s small enough that she does whatever Delphini tells her to do.

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchange a look.

“Ah-” Hermione starts, uncomfortable.

“See-” Ron is next, when she can’t come up with anything.

They can’t tell her no one sane would bring their children to meet Voldemort.

“She had to see her cousin today,” Harry invents.

“Victoire?” Just the way Delphini spits the name out makes Harry wince.

She heard about Victoire from both Teddy and Rose.

“You don’t interrogate guests in the entry hall, Delphini.” Voldemort is standing at the head
of the stairs. “You wait for them to sit first.”

Ron is still uneasy with Voldemort. Harry suspects he will always be, even if a hundred years
pass.
He has every reason to be.

Hermione though… after so many discussions, so many books shared between them, the
three laws Voldemort helped her write on behalf of house-elves, then centaurs and recently
merpeople…

Her guard is down. She speaks easily to him, she smiles, listens attentively to what he has to
say.

He calls her by her name, while addressing Ron as Mr Weasley.

“You boys should go play,” he tells Harry and Ron, after they are finished with their meal,
enjoying a cup of wine in the library. He turns to Hermione. “I am going to tell you how to
get rid of Dementors.”

He invites her to his desk, giving her a scroll of parchment and a quill.

“Really?” She’s flushed with excitement. “But why?”

And a little suspicion.

“The men incarcerated in Azkaban are there because of me.” Voldemort says it simply, tone
neutral, but he looks down, briefly and….

Hermione falls for it.

Why? How? She’s the smartest witch of her generation.

Not that Harry can see what he’s after with this Dementor business. But it sure as hell isn’t
guilt.

“They are grown men that made a choice,” she says.

“I know. But since I am here, all comfortable, I think at least they deserve some peace.
Because only if their minds heal could they realise they were wrong and have the chance to
repent for it.”

Oh, for Merlin’s sake!

But he seems so honest, Harry can’t blame Hermione. He never overdoes it. He doesn’t look
too regretful; he doesn’t look emotional.

“I-” Hermione takes a quill, dips it in the ink, but hesitates. “This, if it works-”

“It will.”

“It’s going to be groundbreaking. They’ll publish books about it, they’ll want to give an
award and- I- to take credit for-”
“I do not care about credit.” He shrugs. “You’ll deserve it, anyway. I will tell you how to do
it, but it isn’t easy. You’ll have to work hard. You’ll earn the recognition you will get. Maybe
you will use it to gain a position at the DMLE. We all know you are wasted on Magical
Creature Regulation. You did all the good you could, there.”

Ron and Harry exchange a look. Oh, they all know it, but none dare say it.

“I can do it. I can work hard.” Hermione’s shoulders stiffen with pride.

“I know you can. Shall we?”

It goes on for hours.

Delphini watches them, standing beside Hermione, who only pauses from her writing to ask
for clarification, on one thing or another.

Voldemort is a very patient teacher. Harry knows it already, from their duels.

Ron and Harry don’t understand any of it. It’s complex runic spell craft, way over their
heads.

But it seems she understands it. Close to midnight, after another talk, she nods.

“II think I got it.” Her hair is frizzy, like it used to be when they were children. Her chin is
smeared with ink.

Delphini fell asleep, head in Harry’s lap, feet in Ron’s.

Voldemort regards Hermione for a few seconds, before he nods.

“You truly are very bright,” he says, and she looks so happy to hear it.

(-)

It takes Harry a while to realise Voldemort is communicating with Malfoy through Delphini.

Surprisingly, it’s not Delphini nor Malfoy that slip up, but Voldemort himself.

“Clear your mind.”

Harry hears him, tone sharp, just as he passes by the duelling room, to get to Delphini’s.

“I’m trying,” Delphini snaps back. “Do you know how uncomfortable it is? It makes my
brain itch!”

Harry stops, abruptly.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“It’s even worse when Lucius takes it out. It really itches, then. It’s weird-”

“Will you shut up already?”

“Why don’t you just write him a letter? I promise I won’t read it! I swear! And I’ll be sure no
one sees me when I hand it to him. Don’t you trust me?”

“No. Now clear your mind or you’ll feel more than an itch-”

“What’s going on?” Harry goes into the room, furious.

Voldemort has his wand pointed at Delphini’s head.

She’s perched on a chair, eyes closed, but she opens them when she hears Harry.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Harry goes between them, his own wand in
hand.

Voldemort doesn’t look impressed.

“Harry,” Delphini whines. “Leave it be-”

“I’m implanting a message in her head,” Voldemort explains, as if he’s just telling Harry
about an interesting spell. “I block it, so she won’t have access to it. Lucius takes it out and
views it in a Pensive.”

Harry sees red. For a second, he actually sees red. Or actually, more like black, as his blood
pressure rises dangerously high.

“Get out,” he growls at Delphini. He doesn’t mean to snap at her, but he can’t control his
temper any longer and he doesn’t want her in the room when he explodes.

Mercifully, Delphini slides off the chair and leaves them alone, even closing the door behind
her.

That won’t do much in stopping Harry’s screams from reaching her.

“You absolute monster! How can you- a child- your own child!”

He doesn’t attack Voldemort only because the man doesn’t say anything, stands there and lets
Harry yell for close to ten minutes.

When he finally stops to regain his breath, Voldemort speaks.

“It doesn’t harm her. There are no risks involved. I’ve been doing it for months, and as you
can see, she’s fine. Not so much as a headache. I assure you, Lucius is highly accomplished
in the mind arts. He, too, knows what he’s doing. At worst, she feels discomfort for a
second.”
And only then it dawns on Harry, once his blind rage and worry over Delphini fades, that
Voldemort is communicating with one of his Death Eaters, has been doing so for months.

“So what?” Voldemort demands, just as the horror of it hits Harry. “What if I am talking to
Lucius?”

Harry just stares at him.

It was one thing to order Midas not to take any letters from Voldemort.

They never fought about it. The rule was in place since Voldemort stepped foot in
Grimmauld, back when they weren’t anything to each other, just mortal enemies.

Voldemort never questioned it.

You can’t talk with Malfoy? You aren’t allowed to talk with him? Harry can’t say that.

It’s just so messed up. It feels wrong to dictate who he can or can’t talk to. The man is over
fifty years Harry’s senior.

It makes Harry deeply uncomfortable. He always is when he realises Voldemort is his

prisoner, there against his will.

Even if it is for the good of everyone, even if he has valid reasons to not want him talking
with Malfoy, it’s just so wrong, all of it.

“How will you stop me?” Voldemort presses his advantage when Harry doesn’t answer.

“I’ll stop taking her to Mal-”

“Try it. See how she reacts. We’ll see how Kingsley reacts, too, when Lucius goes to tell him
you kidnapped his charge.”

He’s cornered. Trapped.

You knew you shouldn’t have let Malfoy take her legally. Deep down, you knew.

But it wasn’t Voldemort that suggested it. Surely he couldn’t have planned for it.

Is this him taking advantage of a situation or somehow he did plan it? Had he known Harry
would ask Malfoy for advice?

He couldn’t have known. I did it on a whim.

He shakes his head. Can’t change the past.

“Even if you somehow explain it away to Kingsley, even if you convince him it’s a good idea
to keep a child in the same house as me- and that is a big if-” Voldemort tilts his head,
regarding him. “Harry, I have my wand. I am extremely patient with you and I don’t use it,
but do not forget, if you upset me, you won’t step a foot out of this house, ever again. And
whoever tries to enter it to save you, will have to face me.”

You wouldn’t hurt me, Harry thinks, stupidly. Luckily, he doesn’t say it.

He would. He would do anything, the rational part of him speaks up.

Harry’s dizzy with fear. His limbs are numb and cold and he can’t think.

How did we get here? It’s not the first time he asks himself that.

But then the new crises always passes and Harry feels safe again in the knowledge the worst
hasn’t happened. Then, after a few months, Voldemort pulls a new trick and once more Harry
asks “how did we get here?”

“You can’t stop me, Harry. You never could.” Voldemort doesn’t look arrogant or malicious
when he says it. Just stating a fact. “I will send him messages and there is nothing you-”

“You can’t use Delphini for this stuff,” Harry begs. Because there is nothing else to do but
beg. “It’s not right. She’s a kid.”

“You think that will stop me?” Voldemort looks at Harry almost pitifully. “Guilt? Really,
Harry. It’s as if you don’t know me. Don’t mix up your fantasies with reality.”

“What- what are you- with Malfoy- what do you tell him-”

“None of your business.”

Harry paces around the room, panicked.

Can’t be anything good. It’s not like Voldemort just wants to say hello.

But what? What can it be? He can’t use Malfoy to break free. Only Harry can. No one can
coerce him into it, in any way.

So what could it be about?

There are people he wants dead. Even if it won’t help him escape. Just for revenge.

People like Molly.

“Go lie down, Harry. You don’t look too well. Call Delphini back, I haven’t finished with -”

“I can’t let you do that to her. I can’t.” Harry stops pacing, facing Voldemort.

Who doesn’t look surprised.

“You can- use Midas, ok?” Harry says, risking it. He thinks he knows what Voldemort is
trying to do.

What if you’re wrong?

“I’ll let him carry owls to the Manor from you.”

Voldemort snorts. “So the owl can be intercepted? No, thank you.”

Harry narrows his eyes, even more suspicious.

Voldemort glares at him. “You’re right, I shouldn’t use Delphini. When it shall come to pass
and Delphini will realise she was instrumental to my plans, she’ll hate it. It will crush her.”

Harry’s heart sinks.

“Bring Lucius here, and we can spare her of this unpleasantness.”

“You don’t care about Delphini’s feelings,” Harry says, trying to remain strong, to see
through the manipulation.

Voldemort clearly wants to talk to Lucius, face to face.

He didn’t slip up, he made sure I heard him. Harry knew it. He knew it! He was sure
Voldemort won’t accept Midas, because he wants Lucius, in person.

“You won’t be using Delphini again and I won’t bring Malfoy here. If you try to use her-”
Harry shrugs. “I won’t take her to the Manor anymore. Fine, torture me, lock me up. Do
whatever you want. I’m willing to go through it.”

He feels like he won, when he sees Voldemort’s eyes flash in annoyance.

But he didn’t. Harry isn’t winning. He’s losing control, fast.

“I see,” Voldemort says, softly. Too softly. He draws his wand and Harry suppresses the
instinct to curse him on the spot. “Always so willing to sacrifice yourself for the greater
good, no? To endure unspeakable pain.”

“Yes.” Harry’s fingers curl tightly around his own wand.

Voldemort comes closer and closer until they almost touch. Harry doesn’t back down.

“What about Delphini? Are you willing to sacrifice her, like Dumbledore sacrificed you? Are
you willing to let her go through unimaginable pain just so I don’t exchange some words with
Lucius?”

Harry breathes in, deeply.

It’s a game of chicken. Harry is almost sure.

Voldemort won’t torture Harry and Delphini, he won’t allow people to come to Grimmauld
looking for Harry.

Ron, Hermione, Aurors- the whole bloody Ministry. It won’t help him get out of the house. It
will only ensure every Auror in existence will find out he’s alive.
 And Voldemort must know that despite what Harry said, he won’t stop taking Delphini to the
Manor, because he, too, doesn’t want to risk Malfoy actually complaining about it to
Kingsely, in case Voldemort already instructed him on the matter.

They keep staring at each other.

Stand your ground, stand your ground.

After what seems like an eternity, but couldn’t have lasted more than a second, Voldemort
steps back.

He smiles, slightly. It makes Harry’s blood freeze.

“As you wish,” he says, simply.

Harry blinks. Can’t be that easy, can it?

“Really?”

Voldemort raises his hands in mock surrender.

“What’s the catch?” Harry asks.

“Would you like some tea?” Voldemort is moving to the door, seemingly unbothered.

He is not someone to admit defeat. Even in the rare instances he’s forced to, it’s never with
dignity.

“I don’t trust this,” Harry says, going after him.

It makes Voldemort laugh. “Oh, Harry. But you have to, don’t you? After all, how else would
you make sure I’m not using her? You’ll have to trust my word. And hers.”

Harry stops at the top of the stairs.

Voldemort turns to look over his shoulder at him.

“After all, she wouldn’t lie to you, would she?”

Chapter End Notes

So this is the last...peaceful chapter. I know it has a lot of Delphini and the Malfoys; in
an ideal world, I would have given you all this information over a number of chapters,
but I am very pressed on time lately.
I also know it's a very long chapter, sorry for that. But I needed it all this out of the way
so we can get to the main plot, finally. And I promise I will compensate for the lack of
Voldemort in this chapter in the next one.
So I hope you enjoyed this last 'domestic hell' part of their lives.
Please, let me know if you liked it. Thank you for reading!
 Chapter 20
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“I’ll kill him! Do you understand me? And then I’ll make sure you go to Azkaban for the rest
of your life, even if I have to join you there,” Harry tells Malfoy, very serious. “If you hurt
anyone, if whatever he’s telling you leads to anyone dead or tortured, he will pay for it, and
so will you.”

Malfoy watches Harry, unflinching.

He’s sat behind his desk.

Harry is standing on the other side of it, heart pumping wildly in his chest.

“And how will you kill him?”

Well, Harry doesn’t know. Yet.

“I’ll find a way. I’m resourceful when I have to. You’ll remember I stopped your stupid plan
when you wanted to frame Ginny for the Chamber. I stopped him, many times.”

It’s a stare off. Harry refuses to blink first.

Those grey eyes are far colder than Voldemort’s. They’re just… lifeless, in a way
Voldemort’s never are.

“Then why don’t you?” Malfoy asks, no inflection in his tone. “Why haven’t you killed
him?”

Harry can’t answer that question.

Malfoy stands and Harry is suddenly at a height disadvantage. He straightens his back, taking
a step back from the office, so he won’t be forced to bend his head backwards to keep that
gaze.

“You did well just now. Your voice, your stance. You almost looked like a man, Mr Potter.
Like an imposing man, worthy of respect.” He smirks. “Almost. In the future, make sure you
have an answer for any possible rebuttal if you want to be taken seriously. As it is, you boast
you can kill him, you threaten to do it, you claim you are capable, and yet you have been
living with the dark lord for quite some time. You are raising his daughter.

You’re still your usual muggle loving, bleeding hearted fool, so I know you haven’t changed
your mind and joined him because you woke up to the reality around you and finally saw
muggles are our enemies.”
Harry glares at him. Malfoy glares back.

“You can’t kill him. You won’t kill him. And I have my guesses as to why, but most
importantly, I have one solid reason. Delphini.

You love that girl. Get her father killed, and you will lose her. Throw me in Azkaban, but I
shall tell Kingsley of your little adventures and how you allowed the dark lord a wand, even
if evidently you weren’t supposed to. And then you will join me in Azkaban. What will
happen to Delphini when I tell the world she’s Bellatrix’ and the dark lord’s daughter? It will
follow her forever. She’ll become a pariah. How will she react when she finds herself an
orphan again?”

Backed into a corner indeed. Harry feels sick. He hadn’t stopped feeling sick, ever since he
realised Voldemort was communicating with Malfoy and Harry didn’t have a way to stop
them.

“You might be a talented wizard. You certainly have your secrets, since I saw you survive a
Killing Curse with my own eyes. But you’re no match for the dark lord. His power is
absolute. You, the Aurors, the Order, Dumbledore- you played your little cards, and you lost.
The dark lord is alive and well.” Malfoys says, softly. “You’re no match for me, either. I dealt
with four ministers, and while they gained and lost power, here I am. I dealt with Bellatrix
Lestrange and the dark lord. I dealt with Dumbledore. I survived them all. Wise up, Mr
Potter. Grow up. Make your choice and commit to it. Otherwise, I shall still be here when
you won’t be.”

Harry breathes in deeply, trying to calm his heart.

“Don’t make enemies where you can make friends. You can have an ally in me-”

“I want nothing to do with you!” Harry snarls at him.

Anger brings some feeling back into his numb limbs.

Malfoy ignores him. “I owe you my son’s freedom. I owe Draco’s life to Bellatrix. And while
I won’t hesitate to throw you or Delphini to the wolves if I have to do it to save my family, I
don’t want to. I want to repay that debt and look after Bella’s daughter.”

“Oh, yeah. Honourable Lucius Malfoy.” Harry huffs. “That will be the day!”

“You can’t keep the dark lord your prisoner forever. No one can. The Ministry couldn’t. Even
without his magic, he has had his brain, and it was all that was needed to get away from the
Aurors. I don’t think you realise how monumental that is. You’re too wrapped up in it, but the
dark lord convinced you, his arch enemies, to save him from the Ministry. Mr Potter, if you
think I can talk myself out of anything, better revisit those memories. Better revisit the
choices you made that brought you here today.”

Harry does revisit those memories. They keep him up at night.

“You can’t stop him. Compromise and save the few that can be saved, instead of being
stubborn and saving no one. Release him from his oaths; barter your loved one’s safety for it.
I promise you, if you don’t, you’ll regret it. Do it, and do it soon.”

The way he says it, the way emphasis falls on ‘soon’ makes Harry’s skin prickle.

“He told you about the Oaths,” Harry says, numb.

Somehow, he didn’t think Voldemort would. Harry thought him too proud to admit he’d ever
been in such a vulnerable position.

“Don’t try to threaten me again, Mr Potter. And if you must, at least have the decency not to
do it in my own house.”

“You’ll never be safe again once he gets out of those Oaths. Draco, Narcissa- no one will be
ever safe again,” Harry tells him. “This isn’t a threat. This is what happened before. I saw
you back then. A prisoner in your own house! I saw Draco in the Astronomy tower, almost
crying, begging Dumbledore to understand he has to kill him, to keep his mother safe. I saw
how afraid he was.”

Malfoy’s expression doesn’t change. Nothing shows into his eyes.

A small part of Harry is deeply jealous of this composure. He knows Malfoy loves his family.
But he can’t see it.

“I’ll be fine,” Malfoy drawls, chin held high.

Can he genuinely want Voldemort in power again? Or is it just fear?

Harry can’t tell.

(-)

“If you think I’ll let you blackmail me with Delphini, you’re wrong,” Harry tells Voldemort.
“It won’t work. I won’t let you destroy the world just for her.”

“The world?” Voldemort asks, looking up from his book. “Aren’t you ambitious, Harry? I
was just thinking Great Britain, but I suppose I should aim higher.”

“I’m not joking.”

Voldemort meets his eyes. “Neither am I.”

“Why can’t you want a normal life? Why do you need to rule-”

“This is normal to you?” Voldemort asks, voice very soft. “I’m a prisoner.”
Harry rubs his temples. “I could- We can all leave Britain. We’d head to wherever you want
in this world. And I’ll release you from your oaths. You’ll make new ones- we’ll see,
something so you can’t kill or torture anyone at all- and then we can have a normal life.
You’re the most skilled wizard in existence. I’m sure you can make it so we will start a new
life. You could have any job you want- or you don’t have to. I’ve got enough money- we can
just be happy,” Harry begs. “All of us.” He looks at Voldemort, pleadingly. “Would that be so
awful?”

“I’d still be a prisoner. You’d still dictate my life. I’m astounded that you can’t see how
wrong that is.”

“I know it’s wrong. But you want to dictate everyone’s life-”

“Because I should. I am worthy. You aren’t.”

How can he think like that? Why is it so impossible for Voldemort to see how wrong he is?

“Yes, it would be awful. I don’t want to live quietly somewhere in Mumbai. I’m not meant to
just waste away in a corner or the world, unobserved.” Voldemort stands from behind his
desk. He comes closer to the couch Harry is sitting on. “But we can do that, from time to
time,” he adds, and he looks at Harry-

He looks fond, and just a little soft.

“If it means so much to you, we can take a vacation. I know you’d like it, and so would
Delphini. I can suffer it for a few weeks, once every two or so years.”

He comes even closer.

“See, I can compromise.”

Harry blinks at him. “You think that’s a compromise?”

Voldemort frowns. “Isn’t it? I’m willing to do something I don’t really want, just to please
you.”

He looks proud of himself, as if he learned something new, as if he offers something

monumental.

And it is, for him, Harry supposes. Any kind of compromise is huge.

Harry pities him.

“What about that leash, huh?” Harry asks, bitter. “The green leash and the collar with your
name on it that you said you’ll put around my throat.”

Voldemort’s eyes harden.

“We can go that route, too. It all depends on you. You can choose to stand in my way, and
that will end in pain, or you can simply stand aside and you’ll have a good life. I’m willing to
give you a good life.”

“You can’t turn this on me,” Harry tells him. “It’s- you can choose to be normal and not
murder people-”

“I’m not normal,” Voldemort says, simply.

Harry sighs. So hopeless.

“I can’t choose to let people die and suffer, no more than you can choose to be a good
person.”

“Than we are at an impasse,” Voldemort says.

“Fuck,” Harry groans, putting his head in his hands. He knows a world of pain is in front of
him. And not the physical type, though he’s sure that will be part of it. “Fuck.”

Voldemort sits beside him. “Don’t worry too much. Anyone that is around me bends to my
will. You did, after all. And you’ll continue to do so. I just have to find the right
circumstances for that to happen. And I will. I always get what I want. Always. You should
count yourself lucky, because I do want you reasonably content.”

(-)

Harry finds it difficult to sleep beside Voldemort. To have sex with him.

Because he knows he’s actively plotting nasty things.

He always was. Maybe, but Harry could ignore it then. It was just in Voldemort’s head.

Now it’s real. Malfoy is out there doing God knows what. People could be dying at
Voldemort’s orders right that second.

So Harry finds it very difficult to share a bed with him.

At the same time, he’s more desperate than ever to stay in that bed, because he knows their
time together is coming to a close.

He’s desperate to spoil Delphini, teach her as much as he can, as fast as he can.

He feels he’ll lose them soon, so he clings even harder to them.

He won’t ever release Voldemort, no matter what, but if he’s using Malfoy to hurt anyone,
Harry will hand them to the ministry. He’ll hand himself over, too.
(-)

He really would have made an excellent teacher, Harry thinks, when he watches Voldemort…
almost playing with Delphini.

It’s not really duelling. But Voldemort teaches her the proper stance, teaches her how to
dodge, how to move.

Very little magic involved. Harry is surprised to see.

Of course, it makes sense. Delphini will turn nine years old soon. She is already a powerful
little girl, but she is far too young to properly use many spells and Voldemort doesn’t push
her.

“Why didn’t you leat him teach, goddamn it?” Harry asks Dumbledore in his head. So much
could have been avoided-

Because Dumbledore was far smarter than you are. Dumbledore wasn’t fooled by him, like
you were.

Voldemort wouldn’t have stopped being Voldemort, even if he was allowed to teach.

But maybe if he was shut away at Hogwarts, under Dumbledore’s careful watch- maybe.

Harry shakes his head. It does no good to think of ‘what ifs’.

Delphini is focused.

She expertly twists out of the way of a tickling charm, and then immediately twists out of the
way of a tripping jinx, without even stopping or hesitating once. One continuous, elegant
move.

“Well done!” Harry says, from the corner of the room where he observes.

Even if it was just two harmless spells, even if Voldemort didn’t cast them as fast as he could,
they still came one after the other and this is still Voldemort, so for her to dodge them
perfectly-

“Thank you, Harry. I learned it by watching you all those times.” She smiles at him.

They do let her watch the duels, sometimes.

Harry is so flattered he learned that from him.

He beams at her and then they’re both hit with an itching jinx.

“You should both pay attention to the man with the wand,” Voldemort says lazily.
God, what a waste. What a tragic waste. Harry laments everything that went wrong with Tom
Riddle, as he watches him teach Delphini how best to aim.

He could have been everything he wanted to be. He really could have been a Professor and
made sure hundreds of students would have come out of Hogwarts with knowledge.

Harry would have given anything to have had a teacher like him.

“That wand is too long for you,” Voldemort says, when Delphini casts a jinx she’s read in one
of the books in the library. Voldemort lets it hit him, but only so Delphini can cast the counter
course. “It’s too heavy for your wrist.”

“I’ll grow,” she answers. And then she giggles, because the jinx turned Voldemort’s robe a
hot pink. But she sobers up fast, cast the counter course, and it turns back to black.

“It was too long for Bella, too.”

“Mama was tall. She had long limbs-”

“She was, but the wand is still too long. Of course, your mother could master any wand, as an
adult, powerful witch. But you’ll have to get another one when you turn eleven. To get
measured and-”

“No.”

Voldemort sighs. “You can keep this one, but it will hinder you.”

Delphini’s jaws lock together in that angry way of hers, but she doesn’t argue.

“I’ll see if I will be able to trace down Bella’s real wand in time. That one will suit you much
better.”

Harry feels unease in his stomach. Hermione handed over the wand to the Ministry, after the
battle.

You won’t find it, he thinks. He hopes. You won’t get free.

“That would be wonderful, father!”

“No.” Harry speaks, going over to Delphini. “You need a new wand. Your own wand.”

“I want mama’s!”

Harry bites his cheek. “I am sure Bellatrix knew that a wand that will choose you at eleven
would be a better match for you. She would have wanted you to go to Ollivander’s and
experience that joy of finding your true wand.”

And Harry isn’t even lying. Whatever Bellatrix was, there is no doubt she loved her daughter.

“Is that true, father?” Delphini inquires.

“It is.”

After lunch, Delphini retreats to her room to pick clothes for the weekend that she’ll spend
with the Malfoys. Harry stays with Voldemort in the kitchen.

“Bellatrix must be so pissed I am raising her daughter,” Harry says, a little gleefully.

Voldemort’s jaw twitches. “She isn’t.” He says it with so much conviction, as if he chats with
Bellatrix every day. “Why would she be upset? You love Delphini and are her slave,
practically. What good mother wouldn’t want her child to have someone like that?”

Harry grunts, picking up the plates and putting them in the sink.

“Your mother, on the other side… I bet she isn’t happy at all.”

Harry turns to glare at him.

Voldemort shrugs. “You started it,” he says, handing Harry the teacups.

(-)

Harry watches Delphini sleep.

That particular night, she has her Bella doll in her arms, and a plush dragon almost as big as
she is standing guard by her bed.

He loves her. He doesn’t think he’d ever loved anyone as fiercely.

Can I fuck over the world just so she’ll be happy?

No, he knows.

No matter how much he loves her, he can’t.

He might, if it meant saving her life, he might do whatever it takes.

But her life won’t be in danger. Voldemort won’t kill her. At least of that, Harry is certain.
She won’t be tortured and she won’t be killed. She’s Bellatrix’ daughter.

Am I a terrible parent? He must be. But he’s willing to have her miserable, for her to live
without Harry or Voldemort. Harry won’t just stand aside and let Voldemort destroy their
world, just so Delphini can have a semblance of a family.

And what family would she have, anyway?

Harry looks at her sweet little face. How will she go to Hogwarts and be a normal girl, with
Voldemort as a father? If he is successful and takes over the world- Hogwarts won’t even
look like Hogwarts anymore.

If he isn’t successful, she’d be the daughter of a wanted man.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, softly.

If the worst happens, if Voldemort somehow frees himself, and Harry will be forced to fight
him-

He’ll take Delphini to Andromeda. She’ll see sense. Unlike Malfoy, Andromeda will
understand she needs to run, once she learns Voldemort is alive. She’ll take Teddy and
Delphini and go far, far away.

Harry already withdrew a small fortune from Gringotts. It’s in a bottomless bag, hidden in
Harry’s room. Thousand upon thousand of galleons, thousand of dollars and euros and
pounds.

It’s ready to be handed over to Andromeda, along with Delphini.

All Harry needs to do is get his hands on a long distance portkey. He’ll need to do it quietly,
so word doesn’t go back to Kingsley, Hermione or Malfoy.

The United States sounds like the safest bet. Maybe Australia. But no Portkey would take
them that far. No matter- he can get them one to Eastern Europe, and they can board a plane
from there, before Voldemort even has the time to track them.

They’ll make do. Andromeda is a tough woman; she knows how to navigate the muggle
world, even if she disdains it.

And Delphini is a survivor.

(-)

“Malfoy told me these Shadows- he has information that they loved Bellatrix,” Harry lies to
Ron.

It’s just the two of them, in the back of the joke store.

“They hate your mum for killing her. They are bent to get revenge.”

Ron pales. “What?”

“I don’t know how to protect her,” Harry says. “I just don’t know how to protect her, Ron.”

He feels like crying. If anyone is in immediate danger from Malfoy and Voldemort, it would
be Molly.
You know how to protect her. Go to Kingsley. Right now. Walk out of the store and-

But Voldemort has his wand. He has his magic. He’ll destroy whoever enters that house.

“Wait, how does Malfoy-”

“He knows these people,” Harry says. “He told Kingsley all he knew, but yeah, he didn’t tell
him this. He just mentioned it to me. You need to try to keep her safe, Ron. Maybe send her
with Charlie to Romania for a while-”

“Hey!” Ron takes Harry’s shoulder.

He’s so stoic, Ron is. He’s pale, eyes wide, freckles standing out, after just learning his mum
is in danger.

And still-

“Harry, don’t- mate, you’re scaring me-”

“You should be scared-”

“I’m not talking about mum. It’s you. You look- you look terrible.”

Harry looks at him, desperate. He betrayed Ron. Hermione. Their children.

He betrayed Dumbledore.

“I don’t trust Malfoy. Maybe he’s just saying that shit to upset you-”

“No!” Harry insists. “Ron, this is serious. She’s in danger!”

Ron’s eyes search his face. “We’ll place even more wards around the Burrow. We’ll make
sure she’s never alone. We’ll- Harry, we’ll be fine. As long as we’re together, we can do
anything. The Golden Trio, right? We might be parents now, I might have a bit of a dad belly,
and Hermione wears heels and sleeks her hair, but we still have it, right? We faced
Voldemort, at eleven and fifteen, and seventeen. And he wanted to kill us all, yeah? We can
handle anything, but we need you. We need you to look like you believe we can pull through
this. We need your fire again.”

Harry’s all out of fire.

(-)

“Just breathe,” Voldemort’s voice is in his ear, as Harry hyperventilates.

He’s confused, his heart beating a mile a minute. It’s dark in the room and he finds himself
siting in his bed, hands clutching his chest, woken up from a nightmare he can’t remember.
“Calm down.”

A strong hand on his shoulder. Another one on his back, moving in a circular, comforting
manner.

It’s the fourth time in a week this happens to him.

“Just breathe, slowly. There you go.”

Harry’s heart slows down as the minutes pass.

Voldemort pulls him until Harry’s on his chest.

“Why do you torture yourself so much?”

“You think I want this?” Harry asks, voice strangled. “You think I like this? That I can stop
it-”

“You can stop it,” Voldemort insists. “Get out of your head and come back to reality where
nothing happened. You’re crying over milk that hadn’t spilled.”

Yet, Harry thinks.

Yet.

(-)

He’s not the only one losing it.

Malfoy might look very composed. Maybe he doesn’t have panic attacks three times a day,
but he’s not alright.

Harry is at the Manor with Delphini, when Draco comes over with Scorpius.

That happened before, once or twice. Only Draco had been with Astoria on those occasions,
and when he saw Harry, he usually scurried in some part of the Manor.

Or Harry left.

But this time Harry doesn’t want to leave Delphini alone with Malfoy. He’s paranoid that
they’ll be alone and Malfoy would read messages in her head, even if Delphini tells Harry
Voldemort doesn’t do that anymore.

And Draco- who knows why he doesn’t leave.

Malfoy goes uncharacteristically quiet, taking his grandson in his arms and holding him there
for a good while. He almost snarls at Narcissa when she wants to take him.
Draco and Harry ignore each other; the ferret talks with his mother, and Harry with Teddy
and Delphini, occasionally Andromeda.

And then Astoria comes thundering through the garden.

Harry watches her expression, and he knows instantly he doesn’t want to be there for
whatever is coming.

“Let’s take a ride on your horse-” Harry starts to say, but when he looks at Delphini, she’s no
longer at his side.

She moved beside Malfoy. She’s glaring at Astoria.

Harry heard her comment occasionally that she doesn’t like Astoria- ‘she won’t let Lucius see
Scorpius as much as he wants’- but there is more than dislike on her features. It’s hate.

“Astoria-” Draco says, standing. “Let’s not-”

“What is Scorpius doing here without me?” she demands.

God, this is so awkward. Harry does not want to be there. His eyes meet Andromeda’s, and
they have a shared moment of ‘we shouldn’t be here’.

Narcissa looks tense.

Malfoy is made of stone, as usual.

“Oh, no!” Teddy hides his face in Andromeda’s robe.

Draco fails to answer.

Astoria moves around the table, arms extended for her son.

For a mad second, Harry is sure Malfoy won’t hand him over. And he doesn’t, not really.
Astoria has to rip Scorpius from his arms, but at least he doesn’t stop her.

The boy starts crying.

“We’re leaving,” she says to Draco, who refuses to look at his father, turning instead to go
after his wife-

“You spineless little coward.”

Malfoy, cold, unflinching Malfoy looks pissed off. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw ticks
uncontrollably.

“You let her walk over you like a doormat.”

“Lucius,” Narcissa says, quietly.

Harry feels so embarrassed, just for being there.

It’s Astoria that stops and turns. Not Draco, though the words were clearly meant for him.

“And you wonder why I don’t want my son anywhere near you, without my supervision. You
aren’t fit to be any sort of influence in a young boy’s-”

“Do not insult me in my house,” Malfoy spits through clenched teeth.

“Let’s just go,” Draco says softly, taking Astoria’s elbow.

“I am tired of people insulting me in my house.”

Harry is one of those. He imagines a horde of Aurors called Malfoy many things on their
many visits to Malfoy Manor.

To say nothing of how Voldemort treated him between those walls.

“I will gladly never step foot inside this place again,” Astoria shoots back.

“You’re living in my house,” Malfoy snarls. “That home of yours on the shore is mine. The
clothes on your back are payed with my money. Everything he owns,” Malfoy makes a
derisive gesture towards Draco. “Is mine. Including your son.”

“How dare you-”

“Draco, why don’t you take her-” Narcissa stands, trying to diffuse the situation.

“I don’t need your money. Or your house. I have my father,” Astoria says, proudly. “He can-”

“Another spineless coward,” Malfoy cuts over her. “You think I’m afraid of your father, girl?
I bought you from your father when you were still in diapers.”

“Lucius, that’s quite enough!” Narcissa says, voice high.

“You don’t own my son!” Astoria yells, to cover Narcissa. “You won’t ruin his life, like you
did with Draco. I’m not letting that happen. Over my dead body!”

Malfoy stands, swiftly.

Harry draws his wand, because the man looks ready to kill.

Andromeda, closest to Malfoy, pushes Delphini away and takes Malfoy by the shoulders.

“Lucius!” Narcissa screams, placing herself in front of him. Draco’s there too, right behind
his mother.

“For Merlin’s sake, get it together!” Andromeda is saying loudly, standing on her toes to
reach Malfoy’s ear. “Draco, take her out of here, right now!”

Harry takes Delphini and Teddy further away from the table, still clinging to his wand.

“Lucius!” Narcissa keeps saying his name.

Finally, after what seemed like a long time, but must have been just seconds, Malfoy shakes
Andromeda off, turns around, and walks away.

Draco does the same, taking his wife with him, without another word.

“What is going on with him? I know he doesn’t get along with Astoria, but he never blew off
like that.” Andromeda stares after Malfoy.

“I don’t know,” Narcissa says. She looks shaken.

Harry’s never seen her, nor her husband, display so many emotions in all the years he’d
known them.

“He hasn’t been like this since-” She trails off.

Harry knows what’s going on. Malfoy, for all his boasting that he’ll be fine with Voldemort
loose again, feels as without control as Harry does.

“No.” He takes Delphini’s arm when she tries to walk after Lucius.

“But he’s upset!”

“He wants to be alone, love.” He coughs to get Narcissa’ attention. “I think we’ll take our
leave-”

“I’m sorry Mr Potter.” She arranges her face back into a pleasant, but empty, expression.
“For-”

“Don’t be silly, Cissa. We’re family,” Delphini intervenes.

“Even so; I wish you didn’t have to see that.”

She takes Harry to the side as Delphini hugs Andromeda goodbye and says a few words to
Teddy.

“I know what I will say sounds- I know how it sounds, but despite everything you know of
Lucius, I give you my word he is not a violent man. Not with us. Never. This was- Delphini
is safe here. He would never-”

“I know.” Harry takes pity on her. She’s obviously worried Harry won’t let Delphini visit
them anymore.

Harry wouldn’t. Not because of Malfoy’s outburst, but just because. Yet he is unable to stop
these visits, for reasons Narcissa doesn’t know.

“I know he’d never hurt her.”

Voldemort would skin Malfoy alive, so Harry has no concerns over Delphini’s safety.
(-)

After years of tormenting Harry with ‘when I will be free’ scenarios, Voldemort stops sharing
his fantasies of violence and revenge.

“You’re… quiet, lately,” Harry says, fidgeting around Voldemort in the library.

“I’m focused on Hermione.” Voldemort dismisses him. Indeed, his nose is buried in many
documents.

Hermione got rid of the Dementors.

The general population isn’t happy. They felt safe with Dementors guarding Azkaban.

The Ministry is divided; some wanted the creatures gone, because they remember all too well
how vicious they are and how fast they can turn on the Ministry.

The other half is concerned that now they’ll have to pay human guards to replace the
Dementors.

“Malfoy gave another loan to the Ministry,” Hermione says, looking tired, when she drops
by, after a long day at the Ministry.

“It is the reason he is not in Azkaban, I hope you understand.” Voldemort gives Harry a look.
“Harry thinks it was his testimony. And it would have been enough to save Narcissa and
Draco. But Lucius?” He snorts. “If he’d been poor, he’d be rotting away in Azkaban, too. But
they needed his money.”

“We rebuilt Hogwarts almost all on his donations,” Hermione remembers. “With many other
financial crises the Ministry had in those chaotic months, they went to him.”

“Obviously. He could hardly refuse them.”

“It’s fair. He was part of the reason Hogwarts was ruined. It’s fair he should pay.”

“You should ask him to convince some of the richest ones held in Azkaban to give up some
of their gold.”

Hermione snorts. “Yeah, like Malfoy will ever listen to me-”

“He would. He wants to be seen as helpful. And you are quite popular right now, Hermione.
It would boost his image to be seen around you.”

She blushes, still uncomfortable for taking credit for something she didn’t do.

Because she did get a lot of credit. Academics all over the world came to Britain to witness
the charms that killed Dementors.
The Charms Institute in Egypt offered her a place at their school.

The American Congress is sending her letters, inviting her to spend some time in the States.

“Why would the rich Death Eaters in Azkaban give up their money- I mean, Malfoy is at
least free- besides, they all hate him for turning ‘traitor’. Again.”

“Lucius is extremely persuasive.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Hermione. Just- I can give you money!” Harry offers.

“Rabastan is still alive, no?” Voldemort speaks over Harry. “Upon Rodolphus’ death, he
would have inherited a fortune. He was very fond of liquor. I am sure Lucius can convince
him to give up a substantial amount of money, for even a bottle of firewhsikey a month.”

“Hermione, no!”

Harry does not want Malfoy in contact with more Death Eaters. He doesn’t want Voldemort
in contact with more Death Eaters.

“Hermione is a politician now. She understands that gold is important to keep a stable society.
Rabastan miserable in Azkaban, does not help anyone. Rabastan miserable in Azkaban, but
drunk once a month and giving money- well, that could help many people. What is it more
important, at the end of the day?”

“Kingsley tried,” Hermione admits, biting for lips. “He always offered small comforts to the
richest in Azkaban, in exchange for gold. Very few accepted, because-”

“Because they couldn’t think properly with Dementors at their door. There is no comfort to
be had with those soul sucking beasts around. And Kingsley is… well, he’s not meat to be a
politician. He does not have a silver tongue. Blunt, and forceful, like any Auror. Consider it,
Hermione.”

(-)

“You can’t possibly-”

“Harry.”

Hermione looks at him when they are alone in her office. Her new office. The only superior
she has now is the Head of D.M.L.E and Kingsley himself.

"We need to hire and train about fifty people to keep Azkaban prisoners under control. That’s
my duty now; it falls under my department.”

“The suggestion came from Voldemort-”

“It is a good suggestion, though. One that Kingsley tried before. Do you know how indebted
we are to the Goblins? How much gold we needed to rebuild and make order? Train new
Aurors to replace the many we lost? Only Malfoy helped. The riches members of our society
are all imprisoned. The goblins refuse to allow the Ministry to size their assets, just like after
the first war. If Malfoy can talk the Death Eaters into it-”

“You think Voldemort wants to help? The very Ministry that tortured him?”

“No. Of course not. I think he wants to help the men he condemned to prison. His own Death
Eaters. You said he loved Bellatrix. Maybe he was… He can have friends. I’ve seen it. He
likes me! He likes you! So maybe Dumbledore was wrong. He is human, and it is possible he
regrets that his old friends are suffering in Azkaban. So he helps them by getting rid of
Dementors and giving them small comforts-”

“Hermione, that’s not-”

“What else would he gain? If he has dreams that he’ll ever get out of your house… the
Dementors would have helped him. They always did. So why get rid of them?”

Harry doesn’t know. He doesn’t have an answer. But he is sure it wasn’t because Voldemort
felt pity or guilt for the Death Eaters.

“I think, above everything else, he gets a kick out of still being in the game. No matter how
remote, no matter that he gets no credit. He knows he’s still influencing things. I think it
makes him feel… powerful. He has no other kind of power left, so he clings to this. Why not
use him? He is so intelligent. We can use him. We should.”

Tell her. Tell her he has his wand. Tell her he’s talking with Malfoy-

“I’m worried,” Harry says, quietly. “That he might be saying things to Delphini or- I don’t
know, giving her letters- to Malfoy-”

Hermione frowns. “I did think of that possibility when you told me you allow Delphini to
spend time at Malfoy Manor. But then-” She shrugs. “It’s Malfoy. He wouldn’t follow a weak
captured Master, even if he found out he was alive. He would have told Kingsley about it.
God knows he blabbered everything to the Aurors. Everything. And all the money he gives
up- it’s just so one day Draco can be seen as an upstanding member of society again. That’s
what Kingsley says Malfoy wants. For his son to be left in peace. All the gold he gave, all the
information- just so no Auror ever bothers Draco; just so he won’t have to deal with raids at
his home, or being dragged for ‘interviews’, every time something goes wrong.”

Tell her he’s not weak. Tell her Malfoy woke up with Voldemort in his house, able to do
magic-

Tell her!

And then what? What can she do? What can any of them do? Who will take Voldemort’s
wand again? Who will defeat him in combat and imprison him? How many people will have
to die just to get close to him?
People Harry knows and loves.

“Please, demand an Auror is there, at all times, when Malfoy talks with Lestrange or whoever
else. Just in case. Someone has to be there to make sure that is all they talk about. Please,
Hermione!”

She smiles. “Of course, Harry. We wouldn’t just allow them to speak in private.”

Harry breathes a little easier.

(-)

Weeks pass. Nothing happens. The Shadows attacks increased in Ireland, but they are
infrequent in England.

Molly is alive and well. Everyone is alive.

Harry still has panic attacks every other day.

Voldemort returned to his pre-wand domesticity. He insists he’s the one to prepare all their
meals. He teaches Delphini how to cook.

Despite everything, Harry loves those moments. When all three of them are in the kitchen, as
the season turns cold, surrounded by comforting, delicious smells.

Delphini is so, so happy. She finally looks like a child, smiling all the time, flour in her hair,
or chocolate smeared on her face when they bake a cake and Voldemort lets her lick the
whisker.

Hermione visits often. She comes with Ron for dinner, once a week, and alone for a tea, to
speak with Voldemort, several times a month.

Apparently Lestrange accepted to donate a substantial amount to the Ministry. And not just
him, either.

“Use the money to fund a program for Muggleborns,” Voldemort tells Hermione.

“Malfoy will throw a fit,” Hermione says, grinning viciously, and she spends hours with
Voldemort, planning on setting up a school muggleborns can attend from the minute they get
the letter up until they go to Hogwarts. They plan what subjects should be taught, how to do
it to cram centuries of tradition in just o few weeks or months, so that muggleborns don’t go
to Hogwarts clueless.

Voldemort reminisces about what he found the hardest things to understand as a muggle
raised child, and Hermione pipes up with her own struggles as an eleven-year-old. They bond
over shared experiences of being outcasts in a magical world.
It’s frightening.

(-)

They spend Yule at Malfoy Manor.

If Malfoy is hurt his son and grandson are not there, he doesn’t show it.

Narcissa looks hurt, though, and she clings to Delphini and Teddy, spoiling them beyond
belief.

The Yule tree is outside, a monstrous one. Malfoy flies on the Abraxan with Delphini, in
order for her to place a beautiful, enchanted silver and green candle at the top of the tree. For
Bellatrix.

There are many, many candles. Harry doesn’t have to put one for Sirius.

Narcissa does.

“Every year,” Andromeda whispers in Harry’s ear. “Every year since he died, there is a
candle for him.”

There’s one for Regulus, too.

For Rodolphus, at Delphini’s instances.

And then she looks at Teddy with a gentle expression. “We can put one for your mum, just
beside my mum’s. At the very top.”

Harry refuses to hang candles for his parents. He will do that at Grimmauld, not in Malfoy’s
damned garden.

Overall, it is a pleasant meal.

The Manor looks gorgeous, decorated in winter flowers, with never melting snow
everywhere, fairies laughing around the place.

Teddy and Delphini look carefree as they open mountains of presents.

Harry doesn’t feel like an outsider anymore. Not after so many months of seeing these
people.

He enjoys the way Malfoy and Andromeda always go at each other, with subtle barbs.
Neither gets insulted, only amused, as they outdo each other with witty remarks.

Apparently, they were supposed to get married, arranged by their parents, before Andromeda
fell in love with Ted and ran away. So Malfoy got Narcissa instead.
They all laugh about it, as if it isn’t weird as fuck.

To make it worse:

“I’ll marry you, when I am older,” Delphini declares, starring at Malfoy lovingly.

That also makes everyone laugh. Except Harry.

“I am already married,” Malfoy tells her.

“That’s fine. You’re rich enough to have two wives.”

“Marriage is not about money,” Harry says.

Delphini frowns. “It seems to be. About money and blood status.”

“No, it’s not. Not happy marriages, at least.” Thankfully, it’s Andromeda that said it, while
Harry was busy choking on a piece of candied apple.

“They’re happy.” Delphini gestures at Malfoy and Narcissa. “Lucius, will it be a problem that
I’m a half-blood?”

“You’re not a half-blood,” Narcissa says, forcefully.

Surprisingly, out of all of them, Harry learned Narcissa was the biggest blood purist. She
doesn’t seem to want muggleborns dead, but she despises them and looks at half-bloods as if
they are beneath her, in a way not even Malfoy does.

“How is she a half-blood?” Teddy frowns. “Wasn’t Aunt Bella and your Rody purebloods,
Delphi?”

“You are not a half-blood,” Narcissa insists. “And neither are you,” she tells Teddy.

“But my-”

“No. You are both Blacks. Our ancient blood is enough to clean anything else.”

Andromeda sighs, rolling her eyes.

Harry just doesn’t see the point in starting yet another confrontation with Narcissa about her
nonsense. Just no point to it, anymore. He’ll never change her mind.

“Cissy, I am a half-blood.” Delphini gives her a steady look. “I don’t appreciate the way you
are trying to erase my father as if he never existed. I am a half-blood, and I am proud of it.
Harry is one. Teddy is one. We’re just as good as you are. We’re not less.”

Harry is so proud of her. He gives her a wink, and she winks back.

(-)
They stay home for Delphini’s and Voldemort’s birthday.

She’s wearing her mother’s diamond necklace; Narcissa gifted it to her at Yule.

It’s far too expensive for such a young girl, but no one listened to him.

Delphini wears it to sleep, wears it when she bathes. It became entangled with the silver star
Voldemort gave her for her last birthday.

“I wish we will always stay together,” she says, solemnly, when Harry presents her with her
cake, nine birthday candles stuck into it.

“You’re not supposed to say your wish out loud,” Voldemort drawls.

She ignores him, blowing out the candles. “Why don’t we have a cake for father, Harry?”

“Because he doesn’t want one,” Harry says, slicing pieces for each of them. “And because he
is so old, I don’t have enough money to buy a million birthdays candles to put in it.”

Delphini laughs. “Like Gandalf. He was over twenty thousand years old, did you know?”

“You mentioned.”

She just saw the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and then she immediately demanded the books,
sprouting random details at Harry all day long.

When they go to bed and Harry kisses Voldemort, snuggling in his arms, Voldemort draws
away.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I’m old. I can’t possibly keep up with a young man-”

“Oh shut up,” Harry says, struggling to get rid of his underwear.

(-)

“Release him,” Malfoy whispers in Harry’s ear, as they watch Delphini and Teddy fight over
a crup. “Just do it. Do it tonight.”

The first day of spring is uncommonly warm, the sun bright in the sky.

Harry instantly turns cold, even if he’d felt just fine moments before.

Malfoy stares at him with those lifeless eyes of his.

“Release him and spare us all of what I’ll be forced to do, if you don’t.”
Harry clenches his jaws.

“You can’t pressure me, Malfoy. I won’t fall for it.”

“Remember this moment, Potter,” he spits. It’s been years since he called Harry ‘Potter’, in
that tone. “When you’ll want to blame me, in the future, remember this moment,” he says,
putting more pressure on Harry.

What’s more frightening of all, is that Voldemort hadn’t tried to ask for his freedom for
months.

He hadn’t tried to manipulate Harry, offer deals of any kind.

He just stopped, and it’s terrifying.

Harry hopes it’s all a mind game these two came up with. That they knew it will creep Harry
out.

But Harry won’t release him. He won’t.

And he can’t get free if Harry doesn’t say the words.

(-)

Voldemort is gentle. He kisses Harry slowly, moving almost lazily inside him, his cock
stretching Harry in all the right ways.

“Tom,” Harry whimpers when he comes. As soon as his orgasm runs its course, he tenses.
“I’m so-”

“It’s alright,” Voldemort whispers in his ear, still chasing his own pleasure, rhythm building.

Harry’s oversensitive, satiated, yet a part of him wouldn’t mind it at all if Voldemort just
stayed buried inside him forever.

“Though I must say, I prefer it when you call me God, instead.”

Harry almost laughs, but just then Voldemort comes and Harry’s laugh turns into a moan, as
he’s filled up with Voldemort’s seed.

Harry says things like “God” or “Merlin” or ‘fuck’ all the time, in bed.

And yet, he still often calls Tom’s name.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sprawled over Voldemort’s chest. “For today.”

The man has been on his very best behaviour. Charming, like he never bothers to be when
there’s no one there but them.

He played Monopoly with Harry and Delphini and he didn’t throw a fit when he lost.

He read Delphini a story, before bed, with Harry almost falling asleep too, head on his
shoulder, before they retreated to their room.

And the sex…. it’s always good, but that night it felt almost sweet.

Harry shouldn’t thank him for acting like a decent human being, but this is Voldemort, so
Harry thanks him anyway, hoping to encourage him to repeat this behaviour.

“It was a nice day,” he adds, still getting his breathing under control.

Voldemort doesn’t say anything sarcastic. Harry frowns.

He lifts his neck to check if he didn’t fall asleep-

He hadn’t.

He meets Voldemort’s eyes.

For a second, Harry can almost swear there’s pity in them.

“Go to sleep,” Voldemort says, turning Harry on his side and hugging him from behind. “You
need to rest.”

(-)

Sadly, it seems like Voldemort wants to balance out how nice he’d been that day, by being
moody on the next.

Though moody is not the best way to describe it.

He’s just very quiet. He doesn’t say a word the entire day.

He just watches Harry, silently.

“And don’t forget to get the mint ice cream, not the regular!” Delphini screams from the first
floor, when the sky starts to darken.

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry takes his jacket from the coat rack. “Are you sure you don’t want to
come along?”

After all, she’s the one that insisted she wanted pie. And she usually loves going to Tesco.
“Father has me on a timer with my math problem.”

“Be back in ten,” Harry yells.

Right as he’s about to open the door, he feels he’s being watched, as he’d felt all day.

He turns, and he sees Voldemort at the foot of the stairs.

He’s looking at Harry with an impassive face.

Harry smiles at him, tentatively. “You want something?”

There’s a flash of emotion in his eyes; he takes a second too long to answer, his gaze trailing
over Harry’s face.

“No,” he answers.

“Well, alright then.”

He’s so weird. What’s gotten into him?

“You forgot this.” Voldemort comes closer, holding out Harry’s wand.

“I don’t need it. I’m just going to Tesco.” No need to confuse the Aurors, since he’s leaving
the house alone.

Voldemort forcefully places the wand between Harry’s fingers. His hand lingers on Harry’s
for just a second.

“Only a moron would leave the house without a wand.”

Harry rolls his eyes.

Back to his usual self, then.

He pockets the wand and leaves the house, Voldemort’s eyes burning holes in his back.

(-)

“Mr Potter.” The voice is right in his ear.

Harry startles. He hadn’t heard the man approaching.

“I don’t have time, sorry,” he says, irritated.

Journalists have given up on stalking his house, since the Aurors stated guarding it. But it
seems they’re at it again.
It’s been a while since someone bothered him. Harry really isn’t in the mood. Delphini’s ice
cream is melting in the bag.

“It’s best you come with us.”

“What?” He stops and looks carefully at the man.

Harry doesn’t recognise him. As short as Harry, dark-haired, with an ugly scar bisecting his
face.

“Yes, it would be for the best,” another man says, coming from behind. He has long, thick red
hair.

Harry’s instincts flare-

He drops the bag, and he reaches for his wand-

“We have Teddy and Andromeda.”

The man with the scar has his wand out already.

Right outside of Tesco.

Harry’s heart leaps, lodges in his throat.

Yet another man approaches him. He’s holding a key chain with a miniature golden Firebolt.

Teddy’s key chain. Malfoy gave it to him for his birthday and Teddy never takes it off.

“They’re fine, but if you make a scene, they won’t be.”

A fourth man steps out of thin air. Harry sees the shimmer of an invisibility cloak as he pulls
it off.

“We mean you no harm.” The redhead’s accent is thick.

Irish, Harry thinks.

The Shadows.

“Where is Teddy?” Harry demands, fingers tight over his wand, still half in his pocket.

“With our friends. And if we all return safely and in your company, Teddy can go free and
unharmed. You just need to give us your wand and come with us. We truly don’t mean you
any harm, Mr Potter. We only want to talk.”

Yeah, right. “Then why do you want my wand? Why- Teddy. Andromeda-”

“Just an insurance for your cooperation.” The man with the scar comes closer. “So what will
it be, Mr Potter? Are you coming?”
Harry looks towards Grimmauld. He can see it. His eyes scan the entrance to the building-

“We took care of the Aurors guarding it,” the redhead says. “I’m afraid no one can help
you.”

The other man dangles Teddy’s key chain. “So?”

The one with the scar holds out a hand.

Out of choices, with the key chain in sight, Harry gives the man his wand.

In the blink of an eye, a hand closes around his shoulder and they’re Apparating away.

(-)

He opens his eyes to find himself in a clearing, in an unfamiliar forest, surrounded by men.
Must be at least a dozen of them.

They’re all masked, Death Eater style. But the masks are a little off. The symbols aren’t the
same ones the real Death Eaters used to have.

Two steps aside from the circle they were forming-

“Teddy!”

Harry runs toward him and no one tries to stop him.

Teddy is on the ground, unmoving, eyes closed. No. Please, God, no!

Andromeda is kneeling at his side. Her hands are bound behind her back. She has something
stuffed in her mouth. Tears make a path through the blood on her cheeks.

“We wouldn’t have hurt the woman, but she fought more impressively than we expected,” the
redhead says.

Harry barely hears him, throwing himself on the ground, arms around Teddy-

He’s breathing.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

“The boy is unharmed. Just a sleeping spell.”

“Untie her-” Harry demands, letting go of Teddy to help Andromeda-

Someone grabs his shoulders, drags him to his feet and away from her-
“Let me go!” Harry struggles, but more hands join the first and there’s too many of them,
they’re too strong-

“Calm down, Mr Potter. Let’s not lose our heads, yes? She and the boy will be let go as soon
as you do us a little favour.”

“What do you want?” Harry snarls at them.

“You are a difficult man to trap. We’ve been trying for years to get our hands on one of your
friends. But you are a lucky bunch, aren’t you? Weasley escaped us twice, Longbottom once.
Tonks here was fiercely protected by dear old Lucius, hidden in his Manor or under the
ridiculously expensive shields he placed around her house. But finally, we got her.”

“That- you wanted them because they are my friends-”

Neville’s attack never sat right with Harry. It never made any sense.

“Of course.”

“Why not come for me directly?”

“It would have been easier. You don’t hide too well. We’ve seen you out and about with that
little girl of yours, plenty of times.”

Harry’s blood runs cold.

“But you are supposedly a phenomenal wizard,” the man with the scar says. “You brought
down the great Lord Voldemort. Much can be said about him, but he was unrivalled in his
magical skills. And you defeated him.”

He looks at Harry up and down. He seems doubtful.

“You don’t look like much,” he continues, reminding Harry of Voldemort.

Only Voldemort says it differently. Teasing. Lightly.

This one doesn’t.

“But looks can be deceiving. We want no trouble with you. We just want Voldemort.”

Andromeda makes a noise behind him.

“We know you have him. That Auror we captured, Williamson, told us all about it before he
died. That Voldemort is cuffed, his magic gone. That he took an oath. He seemed confused as
to why you insisted on taking the dark lord home.”

Laughs fill the clearing.

“But we understand. See, Mr Potter, we have something in common. Voldemort killed my

family, too. And he gave me this scar, to remember him by.”
The man is the shortest of the bunch. Skinny, too. But Harry knows this is their leader.

Harry’s been around dangerous wizards all his life, so he recognises the look in those hazel
eyes.

“I want revenge. I am sure it must be satisfying having him as your slave back home, but you
had your fun. It is time for him to die. By my hand. And since only you can bring him out of
the house… here we are.”

Harry swallows, mouth dry, heart beating painfully under his ribs.

“You don’t just want revenge,” Harry says, to stall time.

Try to think.

“You killed people. Many people, that have nothing to do with Voldemort. Muggleborns
and-”

“I used to be an associate of his, before this.” He points to his scar. “The dark lord had the
right idea about mudbloods, but he couldn’t see it through. Went a little batty right there at
the end, didn’t he, lads?”

“Just a little?” Someone else asks, and another round of laughter follows.

“You’ll fuck up, eventually. He’ll escape or you’ll take pity- after all, your kindness is
legendary- and he will get out. I don’t want him out to interfere with my plans. I want him
dead. So, Mr Potter. You will bring him here. I shall kill him. And your godson and the
woman will go free.”

“What about me?” Harry asks, not believing a single word.

He counts, fast. Sixteen men. The four unmasked ones that came after him, and another
twelve in the circle.

“We will consider it. But your friends can go in peace. That, I can promise.”

“How do you suppose I bring him?” Harry demands, adrenaline making his muscles jerk.
“I’ll need my wand if you want me to Apparate home and-”

Laughter again.

“You have an elf, no? Our informants said it is called Creature? Call it here, and order it to
bring Voldemort to us.”

“He can’t leave without me-”

“He can leave with your permission, Williamson said. Sending a house-elf to get him is
permission.”

Harry swallows. “He’ll be suspicious-”

An uncaring shrug. “He’s without his magic. He can’t fight a house-elf, no matter how
suspicious he will find it.”

Voldemort can certainly fight an elf.

Would he come?

He would. But Harry is bringing him in blind.

He’ll know I’m in trouble if I just send a house-elf to take him to me.

He’ll be prepared. He always is.

But what if he kills Kreacher on sight?

“You have one more minute to decide, Potter, or we’ll use the woman to persuade you.”

The feigned politeness is gone.

Andromeda fights in her binds, clearly trying to speak.

Harry looks at the surrounding men.

Can Voldemort take out sixteen dark wizards?

“Thirty seconds.”

What if he can’t?

What if he dies?

What if we all die?

Teddy-

“Ten seconds.”

I have no choice. I have no choice.

“Kreacher!”

Pop

“Master Harry?”

He’s wearing a clean Hogwarts uniform. He frowns, long white eyebrows almost covering
his eyes, as he looks around.

He sees Andromeda.

“Mistress Andromeda?”
“Kreacher, listen to me-”

“Is master in trouble?” Kreacher tightens his little fists, turning his back to Harry to stare at
the attackers.

“Don’t think about it, elf,” the man says, wand pointed at Kreacher. Others have their wands
pointed at Harry. Some at Andromeda.

Most terrifying, two of them are pointing it at Teddy.

“We’ll kill the child if the elf does anything,” a voice muffled by a mask says.

“Kreacher, do not act against them!” Harry says, hurriedly. “Listen to me!”

Kreacher turns back, looking up.

“There is a man in Grimmauld.”

Will Kreacher recognise Voldemort as the man who basically led to Regulus death?

“This is an order,” Harry says, to make sure Kreacher will obey, will not lose his mind.

Kreacher blinks, surprised. Harry never orders him around.

“You will tell him-”

“It won’t tell him anything,” the leader says. “It will grab him and bring him here, without a
word. Order it!”

Fuck.

Harry can’t. If Kreacher just tries to kidnap Voldemort, Voldemort will blast him to pieces.

But he can’t say that, of course, because they don’t know Voldemort has magic.

Should I just tell them that? Will they get scared and stop with the plan?

Maybe. Maybe they won’t want Voldemort anymore, but do you think they’ll just let you all
go?

No, they most definitely won’t.

“Can’t Kreacher at least tell him that I -”

“No, Potter. Do as I asked, and do it fast!”

Harry stares at Kreacher, who stares back, confused.

Fuck!

“Conor, help Potter here decide.”

A masked man whispers a spell and Andromeda falls on her side, trashing, muffled yells-

“Stop!” Harry yells. “Stop, please! Kreacher, you will go to Grimmauld and take the man that
you’ll find there. You will not say a word.”

Harry has to pray Voldemort would understand Harry must have sent the elf.

The man named Conor lifts his wand and Andromeda stops trashing.

“Order it to return to Hogwarts and say nothing, to anyone, once he brings Voldemort.”

“You will return to Hogwarts and you won’t say a word to anyone about what you saw once
you bring the man here.”

Kreacher blinks at him. “Is Master sure?”

Harry takes a steadying breath. “Yes. Go.”

Kreacher disappears.

Well, this is it.

God, please, I beg you, keep Teddy and Andromeda safe!

“Can you take your wand off Teddy?” Harry asks, getting closer to their leader.

He has Harry’s wand.

Harry needs to get it, once Voldemort arrives.

“Everyone in position! Conor, you stay out of it to guard the woman and the child. Let us
prepare for our guest.”

They close ranks, leaving one man outside of the circle with Andromeda and Teddy.

Anticipation builds up. Harry can feel it in the air. He’s not the only one nervous in that
place.

“Just kill him, Liam,” the redhead tells the man with the scar. “When he comes, just kill him
as soon as you set your eyes on him. Don’t-”

“You coward! Are you still scared of him? He’s wandless, magicless-”

“It’s been months since we had Williamson, things could have changed.”

Liam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Potter here gave him his wand back, I am sure.”

Laughter all around.

Aren’t you a cheery bunch, Harry thinks, sweating, despite the cold.
Night had set in, bringing in a chill that Harry cannot feel, just acknowledge rationally.

“And Voldemort stayed in Grimmauld with him, because he suddenly fell in love.”

More laughter.

“Malfoy assured us things remain as Williamson told us,” Liam adds, when the redhead
doesn’t laugh, like all the others.

“What?” Harry speaks without meaning to, blood draining from his face.

“You can’t trust that slimly snake, Liam. No one can. He refused to cooperate with us for
years and yet now he suddenly decided to help us-”

“It’s because of the girl Potter has. Malfoy’s cousin or niece or whatever the fuck she is. The
girl told him she saw Voldemort inside Grimmauld and assured Malfoy he’s still a prisoner.
No wand, no magic. You know Malfoy- once he learned Voldemort lives, he must get rid of
him. He wants his family safe.”

“So we rely on Malfoy’s word based on a child’s knowledge?”

“We rely on common sense and on Williamson’s intel. If Voldemort was dangerous, he
wouldn’t just be staying with Potter for the fun of it.”

“Just kill him, Liam. Don’t mess around with him. Kill him on sight.” The redhead looks as
anxious as Harry feels.

“I don’t think so.” Liam’s face twists into an even uglier grimace. “He always liked to talk,
didn’t he? To humiliate me. Laugh at my pain. We’ll repay him in kind.”

“Williamson said the Aurors didn’t break him; they couldn’t make him beg-”

“Are you comparing us to those incompetent fools? We are masters of the dark arts. I’ll make
him beg!”

“Liam-”

Pop.

Harry breathes in, deeply.

Voldemort materialises with Kreacher at his side.

Suddenly, absurdly, Harry feels much, much safer. He feels everything will be alright.

Another pop, and Kreacher is gone.

Voldemort takes everything in, fast. His eyes move hurriedly, first over Harry, then over Liam
and the redhead.

After that, he seems to spot Andromeda and Teddy, through the small gaps in the circle.
“Well, well, well. Mighty Voldemort,” Liam spits out.

Harry is so tense, his eyes strained, staring at Voldemort-

He never had good peripheral vision. He thinks he sees something moving in the trees, but he
can’t be sure.

“Liam-” one of the masked men, the one close to the trees, starts to speak.

“Silence!” Liam isn’t interested. “How low you’ve fallen! Brought down by a child; turned
into a slave!”

Liam’s voice is full of hate.

Voldemort says nothing.

There is no more laughter.

Just an eery silence.

“Cat got your tongue? Or did Potter remove it, so he won’t hear your insufferable rants? You
used to be so talkative-”

Voldemort takes one step toward him.

There’s a collective flinch going around. They all have their wands pointed at Voldemort and
Harry can see a few of the hands shaking.

Even Liam takes a minuscule step back.

They’re so afraid of him. Even when they believe he has no magic.

A smile breaks on Voldemort’s face.

Not his taunting smile; not a smirk.

A genuine smile.

It reminds Harry of the pure joy he displayed the day he got the cuffs off and he felt the sun
on his skin for the first time in years, outside Malfoy Manor.

“You,” he says, and even his voice is strangled with pleasure. “Are in deep trouble.”

Liam forgets his plans of revenge when faced with the joy shining on Voldemort’s face.
“Avada-”

Voldemort waves his hand, knocking Liam’s wand out of his hand.

For a second, everything stands still.

And then chaos erupts.

Curses are flying at Voldemort, who now has his wand in hand.

Harry jumps on Liam, barely avoiding a curse meant for Voldemort.

They wrestle on the ground, desperate; he’s trying to get his wand-

He can’t. Liam is apparently accomplished in wandless magic.

He knocks Harry away. Harry falls on his side, curses flying above him, around him.

Screams.

Liam has Harry’s wand in his hand, but he doesn’t dare to use it on Harry, its master.

He turns to Voldemort, instead.

Yeah, good luck with that. Voldemort disarmed Harry so many times, the holly wand is
basically his.

Liam won’t fair well trying to hurt Voldemort with that wand.

Somehow, in all the pandemonium, Harry spots Liam’s wand on the ground.

He grabs it. It feels nasty in his hand.

Harry can’t see shit.

It’s just a show of lights, an explosion of colours. He doesn’t dare stand up and get hit by one.

He crawls towards his godson. He can see Teddy, on the ground, in the distance,
Andromeda’s body bent over him, protecting him.

A man falls down, right in Harry’s path.

He’s-

Harry feels vomit rising from his stomach.

Half his head is gone, blood spraying from what’s left of it.

Fuck.

He’s blocking’s Harry’s path.

Harry casts, conjuring a powerful shield around him.

Voldemort taught him this one. And Harry was good at it.

With his own wand, though.

This one feels strange in his hand. Reluctant.

The shield appears, but Harry can’t be sure how long it will last, how strong it is.

But he has to stand and get to Teddy. So he does.

Instantly, the shield takes a hit. But it holds.

He runs towards Andromeda.

All the men are focused on Voldemort, it seems.

Except one. He’s coming from the trees, and Harry shouts a warning, but it gets lost in all the
screaming around him.

But then he sees the blonde hair and a second later he recognises Lucius Malfoy.

What?

He reaches Andromeda about the same time Harry does.

Malfoy raises his wand, and Harry raises his.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Harry ducks-

He shouldn’t have bothered.

The curse goes way to the left. When Harry turns briefly, he sees Conor falling to the
ground.

Voldemort is swarmed by men, meters away.

Harry throws himself on the ground, lifts Andromeda's head.

“It’s alright,” he says, pulling the gag out of her mouth.

“Teddy!” she moans. “Teddy.”

“Was he hit by anything?”

“I don’t know!”

“Get up,” Malfoy snaps, and he drags Andromeda to a standing position.

Harry stands as well. He keeps looking over his shoulder.

He thinks there are eleven men left-

One flies into a tree and collapses at its root.

Ten, then.
Voldemort is bleeding, Harry thinks, narrowing his eyes so he can see better.

He’s having the time of his life. He’s still smiling, though he has blood splattered all over his
pale face.

When Harry looks back at Andromeda, she’s untied, and Malfoy is just depositing Teddy in
her arms. He keeps his eyes trained on Voldemort, too, wand ready.

“Come. Hurry!” he snaps. “Stay on this side!” He moves his body, so it shields Andromeda
and Teddy.

“Just Apparate them out!” Harry yells at him.

“I’ve raised an Anti Apparition ward, Potter.”

“Why?” Harry looks at him, so confused. How is he here? “Why are you here- why did you
raise-”

“He called me through the Mark. I’ve raised the ward so they can’t get out. My lord wants
none to escape.”

“Lucius, we have to get out of here!” Andromeda’s voice is shrill with fear.

They start moving. Absolutely no one comes at them, busy with Voldemort.

Eight left? Nine?

There are body parts scattered on the forest floor.

“A few more steps,” Malfoy says. Andromeda is limping, but she has a determined look
about her. “That’s it. We’re almost there.”

And then Malfoy stops-

“Harry, grab Lucius’s arm-”

Before Andromeda can even finish her sentence, they’re gone.

Jerk, Harry thinks. Figures he’d leave without me.

But Harry isn’t upset. Harry wouldn’t have left, anyway; not without Voldemort.

Teddy will be alright. Malfoy will take him to the best healers.

Are you sure about that? These men said he helped them.

Well, he clearly didn’t. Malfoy assured them Voldemort has no wand.

Stop thinking and start acting!

Harry rushes to the fray.

He yells out curses as he goes. The first rounds hit the Shadows like sitting ducks, since all
have their backs turned to Harry, gathered around Voldemort in a tight circle.

But then they turn.

They wouldn’t have, if you’d used the killing curse, a voice that sounds very much like
Voldemort tells Harry.

You could have killed them while they weren’t paying attention.

He can’t think about it anymore, as he’s forced to engage the attackers.

It frees up Voldemort a little; Instantly, another man dies, the one closest to Voldemort, as
three of his mates come for Harry.

I’m fighting with Voldemort against dark lords.

Surreal.

With Teddy safely away, Harry’s not afraid anymore.

At all.

He used to be, back when he was a teenager, and he’d been ambushed by Death Eaters, at the
Ministry, in the graveyard-

Maybe it’s the age- he’s older now, after all.

Maybe it’s just that after facing Voldemort in combat, nothing can be as terrifying.

Or maybe it’s because this time, Harry doesn’t have friends around to fear for their lives.

Instead, he has the most capable partner in the entire world on his side.

And Harry fights better. All that training he had with Voldemort, back at Grimmauld,
combined with Harry’s natural gift and instincts-

Harry is good.

But so are these people. They are more competent than the average Death Eater. Or maybe
it’s just that they don’t have orders not to kill Harry, to save him for the dark lord.

Harry does well.

He ducks, he shields, half his curses reach their target.

And he’s not even fighting with his wand.

They chase Harry throughout the meadow.

Voldemort always says Harry does best in a defensive stance.

“Dignified wizards like myself don’t run. We have no reason to.

But you should run. Keep it chaotic. You’re used to it, and most dark wizards don’t enjoy
running.”

Harry risks looking at Voldemort, now and again; every time he does, fewer men surround
him.

He was right- Harry does well with running, ducking behind a tree, once in a while, hiding
for a second, regaining his breath and defogging his glasses.

He still gets hit; most spells just graze him, but one took him pretty badly in the side. Harry
had to choose between letting a Killing Curse hit him, or that one.

Not much of a choice, really.

He holds his own, even injured, even tired.

One man goes down, falls to a more powerful version of the stunner, one that Voldemort
showed him.

Some minutes later, another one loses his wand to Harry’s famous Disarming Spell.

Harry hopes Voldemort saw that.

And then there’s only one left.

The redhead.

He casts a strange spell, one Harry’s never heard before, and a circle traps Harry in place.

He can’t get out of it, can’t run anymore.

He still ducks from two killing curses, twisting his body, years of Quidditch practice having
made it flexible.

Do it, do it! The practical side of Harry begs him to use the Killing Curse.

But Harry won’t.

If Teddy was there, he would.

If Voldemort’s life was in real danger, he would.

As it is… Harry can’t kill.

I can find another way.

He did put two down without it, didn’t he?

He does use more sinister curses learned from the Black library. Learned from Voldemort.
But the man keeps fighting back, expertly.

Harry’s getting exhausted. He thinks the wound on his side is even worse than he first
assumed.

He thinks he’s losing a lot of blood.

He feels himself getting sluggish.

He looks towards Voldemort.

Just Liam and another man left around him. Liam must be a powerful wizard. He’s still
standing, even if he’s fighting with a wand that should obey Voldemort.

Harry pays for the distraction, a yellow curse connecting with his right shoulder.

“Fuck!” he yells, in agony.

The pain is so severe, worse than the Cruciatus almost. He yells again, a chocked out sound.

He falls.

“Got you,” the redhead says, approaching.

Harry can’t move anymore. He tries, but it’s just so hard. He’s driven mindless with pain-

He turns his head with his last strength.

His eyes connect with Voldemort’s, who’s ignoring his attackers, keeping them at bay.

Help me, Harry thinks. Why aren’t you helping me?

“Avada Kedavra!”

Even as the redhead says the words, Harry is sure Voldemort would do something, would find
a way-

He’s never seen those brown eyes looking so animated.

Voldemort looks guilty, and that’s the last thing Harry thinks before the green light envelops
him.

(-)

He wakes up in King’s Cross.

Harry almost sobs in relief, because the pain is gone. He can breathe-
He remembers Voldemort, just standing there, looking on as Harry died.

He does start sobbing then, for real. He curls around himself, briefly realising he’s naked, and
weeps.

He never felt so betrayed in his life.

You’re such an idiot. Why, why would you ever let yourself believe in him?

And he’d been so sure, it’s what hurts the most. Harry was convinced he’d be saved up until
the moment he died.

“Shh,” a voice comes from above, and a warm blanket is placed over his body. “I’m so sorry,
Harry.”

Harry cries harder, because hearing that voice again-

A part of him is almost happy, but no happiness can overcome the misery he feels. And the
shame.

How can he possibly face Dumbledore?

He hides his face with his arms, trying to draw away.

Dumbledore is a stubborn old goat; Voldemort was right. He doesn’t let Harry go, his hands
on his shoulders.

Though of Voldemort brings a fresh wave of despair.

“I fucked up,” Harry says. “I fucked up so badly. I should have killed him.”

But the worst part is, even now, if Harry was to return to that cell in the ministry, he still
wouldn’t be able to do it.

“I should have killed him,” Dumbledore says. “Before you were even born.”

Harry sits then, anger igniting inside him.

Dumbledore should have done something. Anything. He shouldn’t have allowed the burden to
fall on the shoulders of a child. He should have known better.

Harry turns, but upon seeing that old, wise, regretful face-

Harry missed him so much.

“Headmaster,” he whispers.

Dumbledore smiles, a small, sad thing.

“I think you can call me Albus.”

Harry shakes his head. He doesn’t want to call him Albus. He feels seventeen again, under
those ancient blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I know I let you down.”

“Never apologise to me,” Dumbledore interrupts him.

Silence stretches between them, but somehow it is not oppressive.

How many times had Harry wailed in despair, in those first few years after the war, alone in
Grimmauld? How many times had he yelled at the empty walls, pretending they were
Dumbledore?

Asking ‘how could you? why did you do that to me?’

But now- now he looks at that face he so missed, at his mentor-

He doesn’t ask about all that.

“Are you upset with me?” he asks, instead. “For- you know-for everything?”

“No,” Dumbledore says. “You are the kindest person I’ve ever known. Your kindness gives
you strength, but it also makes you vulnerable. Voldemort used it against you.” A long pause.
“And so did I.”

Dumbledore looks miserable. He looks as guilty and ashamed as Harry does.

“I tell myself that I did it for a good reason. I did it so we can end Voldemort. He,
however…” And there it is, that fury that Harry only saw once or twice in his life, that
formidable strength that made the man in front of him the only one to scare Voldemort.

But it’s gone as fast as Harry’s anger dissipated.

Maybe this place won’t let us feel angry, he thinks, a bit confused.

“Yet the truth is, he and I are both users,” Dumbledore continues. “You… you are a giver.”

“Do you see everything from here? Can you see him?”

Harry looks down, but he doesn’t see the earth or anything silly like that. There’s only the
clean marbles of the train station underneath him.

“I can see him,” Dumbledore says, and he looks in the distance.

Harry turns in that direction. It’s just fog.

“I can’t,” he says, upset. He wants to see.

“You aren’t dead.”

Harry blinks.
“I’m not?”

“Well,” Dumbledore turns his eyes to him. “You are, but not for good. Unless you choose to.
Like before.” A brief pause. “And if you do, if you will want to stay with us, you will be able
to see Beyond.”

Us.

Who is us?

Harry’s mother? His father? Sirius? Everyone he ever lost?

“I can choose? But-“ Oh. Oh! “Because he wasn’t the one to kill me?”

Figures it would work both ways.

He thinks of Voldemort, tortured to Death in the Ministry, time and time again.

“Did he have that choice every time he died?”

“He did. Unsurprisingly, he always went back.”

Harry stands. The blanket was not a blanket but a robe, that dresses him, cocoons him in
warmth and comfort.

“Did he come here? Who waited for him?”

Dumbledore stands, as well.

He looks away into the distance again.

“I did.”

Ouch.

“Make your choice quickly, Harry,” he suggests.

Just as he says it, the red train approaches, steam surrounding it, blending in with the fog.

“You can go in, or you can go back.”

Harry can take the train. He can rest. He can see his family. Maybe…maybe they’ll be like
Dumbledore, too. Maybe they will all forgive him.

“If f I stay dead- the prophecy- will he be mortal again? Can anyone else kill him, if I am
dead?”

“If you take the train and someone else kills him, he won’t have the option to return to life.
He will stay dead. But that is a tremendous if, Harry. He’s difficult to kill.”

“I don’t want to kill him,” Harry whispers.

He already made his choice.

He wants to stay dead. To meet his parents, at long last, seek comfort in their presence.

Sirius. He wants to see how Sirius would look like, when he’s happy, with his best mate at his
side.

Sweet, everlasting rest. No more pain. No more heartbreak.

But he can’t.

He can’t abandon Delphini.

It’s him you can’t abandon, Harry’s conscience says. It also says he doesn’t deserve to rest
with his parents, not after he slept with their murderer.

“Do you think he can change?” Harry asks. “That he can maybe-”

“No,” Dumbledore says. “He is who he is.”

“You have so little faith in him!” Harry accuses. “You always did, since he was but a child.”

Dumbledore meets his eyes.

“And you have too much faith in him.”

“I’m going back,” Harry says. No matter what waits for him, he has to go back.

King’s Cross fades around him, Dumbledore’s worried face blurring, distorted, until Harry
can’t see anything anymore.

(-)

He wakes up in pain. His side is burning, all his bones are hurting.

And there’s a coldness in his chest, an unnatural feeling.

The same one he had when he returned from the Forbidden Forest all those years ago.

I died, he thinks, his mind clearing.

A hand is on his forehead. Am I still in Kings Cross, with Dumbledore?

But no, Dumbledore would never touch so possessively, his fingers wouldn’t press so
harshly-
Harry opens his eyes.

And he is greeted by dark brown ones, right above his own.

They are so close Harry can see red stains in them.

Voldemort smiles.

The nerve!

Harry punches him. Not hard, unfortunately; it’s an awkward position and everything hurts.

It lands almost innocently on Voldemort’s cheek.

The yew wand points at him and Harry stiffens, waiting for punishment-

His side stops burning. Several of his deep pains go away.

Before Harry can even comprehend why Voldemort does the things he does, he’s lifted to his
feet.

“You need a blood replenishing potion,” Voldemort says.

“You let them kill me!” Harry hisses at him, rubbing his chest.

He still feels odd. As if he should be dead.

Great. It took so many years to feel normal, after the Forest and now this again-

The meadow is a slaughterhouse.

If Harry wasn’t so numb and alienated from his surrounding, he’d feel like throwing up.

There’s so much blood. Dead bodies, and not all of them whole, bits and pieces all over the
place. He swallows, bile rising from his stomach. He’d never seen something alike.

Not even at Hogwarts, in the final battle. Not even in Muggle movies.

Liam is alive. Bound and gagged, forced into a kneeling position.

And so is the redhead that killed Harry.

Terror is etched into every feature. Harry starts shaking as his eyes meet theirs.

They hurt Teddy. They hurt Andromeda.

They wanted to kill you and Voldemort.

But it doesn’t help. It was easy to hate them when Harry and his loved ones were still in
danger. But now- now they are just two frightened men, kneeling on the ground.
“I let them kill you? I thought you didn’t need me to save you,” Voldemort teases Harry.
“That you can hold your own, wasn’t it? You kept yapping about it for the past years.”

“So you let me die out of spite?” Harry asks, incredulous.

Voldemort holds out his hand. In it, Harry’s wand. Like everything else around, it’s full of
blood.

Harry takes it, wiping it on his trousers, though those are bloody too.

“I knew you’d come back. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Harry steps closer to him, but he sways on his feet.

He really lost a lot of blood.

Voldemort ignores him, heading for Liam and the redhead.

“Now, you, however, are in for a lot of harm.”

“No,” Harry says, forcing himself to follow Voldemort, even if his vision swims.

He somehow makes it past Voldemort and places himself in front of the men. “We’ll go home
and we’ll send Kingsley a note to come arrest them.”

They’ll have to make up a story about how they know the Shadows are there. And who killed
them?

They’ll talk.

But Voldemort surely can come up with something. He always does. He can erase their
memories-

“That’s not going to happen, Harry,” Voldemort says softly. “Now, do step aside, don’t make
me force you.”

“We’re going home,” Harry says, stubborn, heading to Voldemort and grabbing his robe.

“I’m afraid we won’t be doing that, either.”

Voldemort tilts his head, watching Harry with anticipation.

“You have to come home. The Oath- you don’t have my permission to be outside anymore.
Let’s go!”

Voldemort looks at him with pity.

It scares Harry worse than death.

“I’ve seen you read those books a dozen times, trying to figure it out. Your eyes passed over
the loophole you were searching, time and time again. The oath breaks upon your death.”
 No. No!

But he sees the words, he remembers reading them. The oath breaks on his death but Harry
felt safe, since Voldemort couldn’t kill him. He dismissed it as a possibility.

Dread fills him, mixing with the wrongness inside his chest brought by his abrupt return to
life.

“I am free, Harry,” Voldemort says. That smile, that beautiful, heartbreaking smile. “It is
done.”

Chapter End Notes

And...here we are. The man finally got what he wanted.

I'm sorry? 😬
As always, I would love to hear your thoughts. Thank you for reading!
 Chapter 21
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Trigger warning: suicide.

The light is blinding. He’s weightless, not unlike when he’d been a wraith, floating away in
Albania.

He’s at King’s Cross. A heavy, thick white mist surrounds him. He reaches for his wand, but
it isn’t there.

He’s naked. When he looks down, he sees his old body. The human one.

He’s dead, he knows.

Lord Voldemort feels no fear, he reminds himself.

And yet he feels it- with each breath the dread increases; becomes him.

He sees a shape in the distance and he almost calls out for help, because he’s been reduced to
Tom Riddle again, in body and in spirit, he’s been reduced to a child, hiding in a bunker, the
sirens wailing above and he doesn’t want to die, he’ll do anything to survive.

The shape comes closer and the terrifying anguish mixes with hot, burning anger.

“You!” he spits and once more, he reaches for his wand.

No wand. He’d lost it. He’d lost everything. He’s defenceless.

“Me,” Dumbledore agrees, a stern expression on his face.

The old man won, and that’s most upsetting of all.

“Why? Why can’t I get rid of you?!”

He almost says “it is not fair” but that would sound terribly childish.

And life had never been fair to him, so it’s a moot point.

“Because I am the only one to know you, Tom.”

Voldemort reaches for his wand, again, and gives a snarl of frustration when it’s not there.
He thinks he’s starting to panic, this oppressive feeling settling over every fibre of his being.

Voldemort cannot defend himself; he cannot flee.

He can’t take this.

Anything, he begs in his head. Send me everywhere, to muggle hell, anywhere, just get me
rid of him!

He’s not sure who he’s begging. He knows no one listens, no one ever did, when he’d been a
child and he’d prayed for food, or for his parents. He’d always had to do everything himself
and now he can’t.

“That’s a lie.”

It is the sweetest sound. It travels up his spine, in a flood of warmth, soothes his mind-

Dumbledore frowns, turns around, and so does Voldemort.

“I know him, too,” Bellatrix says, stepping out of the mist.

She’s young again. Beautiful and healthy.

She’s glowing.

And she’s fierce, fire in her eyes, her shoulders straight and proud.

“Get lost, old man.”

Dumbledore just fades away, disintegrates into the mist.

That easy.

“I told you to let me deal with him,” Bellatrix says, in her singsong voice, mischief and
worship in her words. “I’d have done a better job than Snape. The filthy traitor. I apologise
for the delay, but I’m also freshly dead.”

Voldemort is so relieved to see her, he can’t even get angry about Snape.

He goes closer to her; as he moves, a robe appears out of nowhere, clothing him.

He takes her in his arms and holds her tightly.

He’d failed her. They killed her right in front of him and he couldn’t protect her.

“You abandoned me!” he snarls, because it’s always easier to blame others. And she’ll take
the blame, she’ll take his ire, she’ll take everything he has it in himself to give.

“Forgive me,” she whispers.

“I won’t!”
“I didn’t mean to! I died!”

Like that is any excuse. His useless mother probably has the same one. Death had been
stealing from him since he was born.

“I can’t be dead,” he says. “I can’t.” He can hear how strangled he sounds.

But it’s fine; Bellatrix had seen weakness in him before, and she didn’t flinch from it.

“You aren’t.” She looks up, smiling. She hadn’t looked so well for years. Unburdened.
“Unless you want to.”

“Of course I don’t want to!”

She nods, slowly. “Then you can return.”

Voldemort calms.

“You cannot move forward, anyway. No train will ever come for you, not after what you did
to your soul.”

He swallows, looking at the empty train tracks.

“You’d be trapped here, forever.” She looks sad. “Or until you feel remorse.” She snorts, and
even that noise comes with the effortless elegance of her bloodline. “I’d stay with you, of
course. I’d fight with anyone and anything that would try to keep me away. But we won’t
have to. You can go back.”

Yes, he thinks. He doesn’t remember the last time he was happy. But he feels it now. He isn’t
dead!

“It won’t be easy,” Bellatrix warns. “They have you. You will suffer- “

He’ll be alive. He bends and kisses her.

“You’ll come with me,” he says.

“You know I can’t. No wizard can, besides you and Potter. The rest of us just take the train.”

It displeases Voldemort to hear it.

“But you’ll have a piece of me,” she says. Her dark eyes look up imploringly.

Voldemort has a daughter; it only strikes him then. There’s a little girl out there, and both her
parents are currently dead. She’s abandoned.

Like Tom Riddle once was.

“Be as kind as you can with her. I beg you,” Bellatrix whispers. “Please!” She tries to kneel.
He won’t let her, pulling her back to her feet, in his embrace. Because it feels warm, as he
holds her. It feels safe and familiar.

“Rodolphus has her. He kept his head and left when he saw you fall. He’d have wanted to die
with us, but he remembered Delphini, when neither of us did.”

“I will find her,” Voldemort says. “I will. And then I’ll send Rodolphus to you.”

He doesn’t like imagining Bella, alone in this strange place, or what lies beyond it, if she
takes that train she mentioned.

She’s made many enemies along the way. She can’t be alone.

She smiles. She’s so beautiful it causes an ache inside his chest. He’d never appreciated her
beauty enough, in life. Or had he?

He isn’t sure.

“I love you,” Bellatrix says, fading away.

She’s never said it, but it seems she’d grown bold in death.

It’s not love, he wants to tell her. You’re too fierce to love, too strong. It’s obsession.

But he doesn’t get to say it, as everything goes black.

He wakes up, cold.

When he opens his eyes, someone shouts in panic. Voldemort thinks he sees the red robes of
an Auror.

He’s on a table, in a tall, gloomy room. He’s hurting, his body protesting to even a simple
breath.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Green light consumes everything.

And then he’d dead again.

Dumbledore is there. “Make better choices!” he urges, eyes flinty, the way they always were
when he’d looked at Voldemort.

Bella is quick to banish him, appearing through the mist. “It’s alright. Just go back. Close
your eyes and go back.”

(-)
Voldemort is killed at least eight times, in rapid succession.

It’s not pleasant. It’s distressing, and he dislikes the coming and going, the way his body
feels, when he returns to it.

“It’s the prophecy,” Dumbledore says, for once, helpful. “Only Harry can kill you, for good.”

“But he did,” Voldemort says.

“No, he didn’t!” Bellatrix snorts. “As if that weakling could ever best you. Your curse
rebounded. He didn’t try nor mean to kill you.”

“Make better choices,” Dumbledore insists.

“Burn them all,” Bellatrix counters, eyes blazing.

(-)

“Repent. Repent and you can choose to take the train, Tom,” Dumbledore says, the hundred
time Voldemort is sent over. “Repent, and you can move on. The pain will end.”

Bellatrix sneers. “Don’t listen to him!”

“Don’t you want him with you?” Dumbledore asks her.

“I’m not selfish!” Bellatrix spits at him. “He’ll be happier alive.”

“He’s a prisoner, tortured and - “

“He’ll get out, won’t you?” Bellatrix asks Voldemort, who is dizzy and terribly confused.
“Go back. Don’t linger here.”

(-)

The pain is excruciating. It burns every one of his nerves. Voldemort welcomes it, embraces
it, because it distracts him from the fear.

He’d died, he’s whole, and he doesn’t know when he’ll die again, if it will be for good.

They put the magical inhibitors on him; after one of his first deaths, he wakes up with them
around his wrists, and it’s terrible. He can feel the magic snuffed, and it’s such a vital part of
him that he doesn’t even remember how to breathe without it.
They keep him in a cage.

Sometimes they throw four, five, six Cruciatus at him at once.

He refuses to scream; he keeps it all in- if he lost everything else, he can at least keep his
pain. It’s something he owns, the only thing he has left.

It upsets his captors, that he makes no sounds.

In their eyes, he sees fear as well, and that soothes his own a little.

Voldemort levels a stern, practiced glare at them. It is a testament to his former magical
prowess and leadership capabilities that even naked, chained, disastrously disoriented and
maybe at the tipping point of going completely insane, he can see the exact moment when the
Aurors physically shrink back from him.

I am Lord Voldemort, he reminds himself. Chained and defenceless, but I am Lord

Voldemort.

I terrify them even like this.

He refuses to scream, bites down on his tongue instead, hard, until he chokes on his blood
and dies again.

(-)

Harry Potter walks through the doors and Voldemort’s fear is back, full force.

But only for a second.

He’s just a boy, he realises, surprised, when Potter goes white as chalk, starts shaking all over.

Just a boy. How is it possible Voldemort lost?

Horror downs in his green, wide eyes, when the cage burns Voldemort.

“Please-this… stop it!”

They talk amongst themselves, Shacklebolt whispering in his ear, having to bend
considerably to do it.

Voldemort can’t hear them, because his ears are ringing still. They tried to crush his head just
hours before. Maybe they succeeded; he can’t know. He died shortly into the process, but he
woke up with a worse headache than before.

“Avada Kedavra,” Potter says, voice trembling.

No green light comes.

Voldemort laughs, relived.

He’ll live forever, he knows, right then. Harry Potter cannot and will not kill him.

He’s just a boy, and Voldemort can surely deal with him, intelligently this time.

(-)

Torture becomes repetitive. Even so, Voldemort grows to look forward to it, because it’s just
that boring in his cell; he can’t stand the silence, days on end, not a word spoken to him.

In that silence, he tries to make sense of his memories. Of the choices he made.

Everything after his resurrection is hazy, as if he’d watched himself go through life from far
away.

Why did I do that?

It’s a question that often pops up.

How did Dumbledore know about his Horcruxes?

How on Earth did I lose to Potter?

He tries to remember what the boy said in the Great Hall, but those moments are fractured by
the pain of losing Bella, by the confusion he felt seeing Potter was still alive.

He craves the torture because sometimes he dies from it, even if it’s just momentarily.

And he gets to see Bella.

Even Dumbledore is a welcome sight, after the cell.

There is no pain in the afterlife. No cage.

But it’s rarer and rarer that he dies. They learn how to keep him conscious, upset when he
“faints” as they call it.

Shacklebolt, Robards and Savage know he actually dies, but it is something they keep a
secret from the others.

There is tension between Shacklebolt and Robards. They try to hide it from him, but as time
passes, Voldemort’s mind is clearer than ever. As it used to be before Albania.
Shacklebolt doesn’t agree with the torture. Once he becomes convinced no amount of pain
will make Voldemort talk, once he realises no curse or blunt force will make him stay dead,
he doesn’t see any reasons for torture.

Robards doesn’t need reasons. He only wants revenge. Voldemort can understand that.

He never needed much reasons either. When someone wronged him, he wanted to cause them
pain. It’s only natural Robards wants the same.

Voldemort understands, but he will not forget it.

“Repent. Make better choices.”

But even if Voldemort would find it in himself to do it, even if he’d somehow decide to tell
the Aurors all they want, to help them round up the remaining Death Eaters, give them the
counter-curses to relieve the patients in St Mungo’s- even if he does all that, no one will ever
forgive Voldemort.

He could spend his eternal life repenting, and no one is likely to forget what he’d done to
them.

Dumbledore doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He always gave Voldemort terrible
advice.

So he chooses to torture Robards back, with the only weapons he has at his disposal.

He taunts him about his dead family members. Voldemort can barely remember Robards’
brother. A quick kill, he thinks. But he invents tales of torture and pain, of great sufferings he
put the man through.

“And then, once he was dead, we ate his body. An ancient ritual for Samhain.”

Robards hurts back, with spells and fire, but Voldemort feels a sense of power as he sees the
desperation and hate in Robards’ eyes.

Voldemort can still control other people, even locked up as he is.

“Oh, but he trusted you so much. Up to the second he died, he kept telling us that his big
brother will rescue him,” he invents, barely able to speak through his broken jaw. “He had so
much faith in you. I can’t imagine the disappointment when you didn’t show up to save him.
Because you are a weak fool. A coward. You dared not enter my fortress, not even for your
brother.”

He dies again, before he can say more.

(-)
Many of the better trained, more experienced Aurors died in the war. These new ones lack
discipline, lack the hardness of decades on the job.

A young, soft girl, starts protesting when Voldemort is tortured randomly, by some Auror or
another, on the various anniversaries of certain important events.

So Voldemort makes sure to leave the hate out of his eyes when he looks at her.

He allows his pain to shine on his features.

She’d clearly like to talk to him. Twice, she opens her mouth, but the other guard- there are
always two of them, in an effort to protect each other from his influence- coughs loudly and
the girl looks down, avoiding his eyes.

He doesn’t dare use Legilimency on the older ones. Without a wand, with most of his magic
shut off, they would instantly detect him.

But she can’t be older than twenty-five. Occlumency needs time- a lot of time- to master.

So he skims her surface mind when he catches her eyes.

He finds pity. Voldemort hates pity, but this time it is useful.

Naive. We’re not supposed to treat people like this. Not even him, she thinks.

“What year are we in?” he asks, one day, when she’s on duty.

Her colleague, bored, touches the cage with his wand. Voldemort’s body tenses with the pain
going through his nerves. “Shut up!” he barks.

Voldemort doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t need to.

A week later, the girl brings a magazine with her, holds it open just so, and that is how
Voldemort learns it has been over two years since the Battle of Hogwarts.

(-)

Someone is killing people out there and, for whatever reason, they have decided it is
Rodolphus.

Voldemort knows that’s impossible. Rodolphus must be in hiding, protecting Delpini. He’d
never risk himself and abandon the girl.

Whoever it is, Voldemort is grateful, because it gives him true leverage.

“I want Harry Potter. I will only talk to him.”

He’d seen in the magazines the girl reeds that Potter is a shut in, but when he comes out, he
goes with Granger to give speeches to the Wizengamont, urging for forgiveness, for better
treatment for the Death Eaters in Azkaban.

Potter, it seems, took Dumbledore’s advice to heart. Kindness. Forgiveness.

I’ll show you, old man. I will show you what weakness your famed kindness is.

They took away Voldemort’s weapons, but that is fine. Voldemort will use their own weapons
against them.

(-)

Harry Potter comes. He’s still a boy. He’s a bit older, but he’s broken. Voldemort can see it in
his eyes.

He can hear it in every word Potter utters.

He gets him to talk about the Horcruxes.

Potter pours his own soul out; it’s clear he’s kept it all in, that he has no outlet. Voldemort
becomes his outlet, though Potter would never think to hurt him.

Whenever he says Horcrux, his hand moves to his scar.

It’s rather obvious, now that Voldemort can think clearly. It explains everything.

Voldemort gave him a piece of his soul on that ill fated Halloween.

Potter tells him about the Deathly Hallows.

Fucking Dumbledore. He’d had the advantage of growing up in a magical world, reading
about those Hallows from an early age.

Once more, Voldemort was cheated, disadvantaged, just on account of his birth on the wrong
side of the border between magical and muggle.

Potter is so easy to manipulate, far easier than the Aurors. He’s very susceptible to
Voldemort.

The boy thinks he lost everything in the war; his brief brush with death impacted him deeply.
He has trouble adjusting to life again. He can’t relate to those around him.

He thinks he can relate to Voldemort, simply because they both died and came back. He
thinks he understands Voldemort, because they shared a soul for seventeen years.
Getting to know Potter only enrages Voldemort. Because Potter is harmless. How did I fool
myself into thinking this boy an enemy? Why did I put him on such pedestal? Why did I fall
for Dumbledore’s meddling?

(-)

All his venom hissed at Robards, over years, finally takes effect. Voldemort senses it days
before it happens.

The desperation in Robards’ eyes, the guilt he has for not being able to save his brother.

Voldemort doubles down, knowing now it’s the time to push.

He constantly brings the brother up, the imaginary terrors he’d suffered.

You fool, he thinks, full of contempt. Robards did not fail his brother. Realistically, there was
absolutely no way to save him. Robards did everything that could be done.

But guilt, compassion, love- such absurd, illogical feelings, they turn against Robards,
torturing him.

He offs himself.

Voldemort laughs when Williamson and a few other come to inform him.

In his last letter, Robards begged his fellow Aurors to seal Voldemort in a metal coffin and
bury him under the ground, remove him from humanity entirely.

It would be the sensible thing to do. But people are greedy. Shacklebolt wants to use
Voldemort’s knowledge. The Aurors are desperate to get Rodolphus, since whoever is
attacking wizards and witches seems to have only gotten more powerful.

They don’t seal Voldemort in a coffin, but they hurt him so much they kill him again. It’s the
first time he dies in over a year.

(-)

Dumbledore looks terribly put off. Worried.

“You truly are a heartless bastard. I almost admire you,” Voldemort spits at him, now that he
knows Potter’s been a Horcrux and how easily Dumbledore served him up on a silver platter.

Bellatrix smiles, content. Voldemort takes her hand and-

To feel human touch again-

It was never something he wanted much. Not since he first split his soul. But now his soul is
whole, and it wants touch, it seems. Or it wants her.

Either way, holding her hand brings bliss. She’s warm and soft, unlike his hard, cold cage.

“Go back,” she whispers, regretful to part with him. “You have a surprise waiting for you.”

Voldemort lets her go, even though it isn’t easy. He knows pain and cold and misery will sink
into his mind as soon as he chooses to return to life.

But he will always, always choose life over any comfort.

And there is his surprise. Potter, trying desperately to open the cage.

His eyes are wild with panic, with fear. He suffers for Voldemort. Such burden empathy must
bring in people.

Potter crossed a line when he raises his wand to help Voldemort; a line that cannot be
uncrossed.

Got you, Voldemort thinks, and he knows he’s going to be free of the cell, sooner rather than
later.

(-)

It becomes clear Potter has some sort of obsession with Voldemort. It’s only fair, since
Voldemort spent so many years obsessed with the boy.

But Potter had very different feelings about the Locket. He spent too much time with it
around his neck. And in such rough conditions. On the run, desperate, his best friend
abandoned him and the other shut down inside herself, leaving Potter vulnerable to the
Horcrux. He didn’t end up possessed only because the Horcrux inside his forehead protected
him from the one in the locket.

But it did a number on him. Potter blushes when he speaks of the locket. He looks at the
floor, at the walls, anything but Voldemort when they discuss it.

Voldemort has been close to his mid-twenties when he made that Horcrux. I can pretend to be
that man again, he thinks, remembering how he acted back then.

It certainly helps his body now looks similar to the one Potter saw in the Locket.
(-)

The girl gives him water from her own flask. It’s laced with a pain relief potion. Voldemort
detects it instantly.

She does it quickly, when her colleague goes on a bathroom break.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry for what they do.”

Water feels good, going down his raw, parched throat, even if it is humiliating to not even be
allowed to hold the flask, his arms tied to the cage, unable to move.

No one gave him water since his capture.

No reason to waste it on him.

“I deserve it,” he tells her.

It’s not really a lie. These are the rules of nature. Suffering begets suffering.

Violence is answered with violence.

It is natural they treat him that way. And it will be natural when he escapes and repays them
back in kind.

It is she and Potter that are unnatural. Wrong. Mysteries for Voldemort, with their
determination to forgive.

But if violence calls for more violence, then what do her actions call for?

Voldemort looks into her brown eyes, sees her mind wishing they would give Voldemort
more comforts, that they would give him food and water and stop torturing him.

He decides that when he will take control over Britain, she will be spared. She will be locked
up, because she saw Lord Voldemort caged, because she took part in this humiliation, but
Voldemort will give her a bed, and he’ll make sure she is fed and given Witch Weekly.

Alas, just days later Savage discovers she lets Voldemort read the gossip section.

He wipes all her memories of Voldemort and fires her.

Even better. When he will be free, Voldemort will just ignore her entirely.

(-)
Potter decides to play stubborn, when Voldemort refuses to give up Rodolphus.

He doesn’t come to visit for three months and without him, the Aurors fall back on what they
know, trying to torture the information out of him.

The most ironic thing is that Voldemort has no clue where Rodolphus is, to begin with.

But even if he would know, he would never say it.

He doesn’t believe in a higher power; not in one that would favour Voldemort, in any case,
but he sends a prayer anyway, hoping that whoever is killing mudbloods and blood traitors
doesn’t get caught.

(-)

Potter returns and he snaps when he sees Voldemort all bloodied and naked.

He asks Voldemort to take an Unbreakable Vow. He’s actually willing to take Voldemort out
of the Auror’s clutches.

That was fast. Voldemort thought he’d need at least another year or so before he could seduce
Potter into breaking him out.

He can’t take a Vow, but he can take an Oath.

It’s not ideal. An Oath can trap him more securely than any cage in the world.

“The only way out of an Oath is if the recipient of that Oath dies,” Shacklebolt tells Harry,
considering it.

He, like Voldemort, knows how impossible it is to break an Oath.

It’s why he allows Potter to take him away. Shacklebolt senses he is losing control over the
Aurors. He’s uneasy with so many of them knowing of Voldemort’s existence.

It would be better if he could wipe all their memories, save for a couple, and send Voldemort
away, trapped by a magical Oath.

“So he needs to swear he will not kill you. He wouldn’t, in any case,” Shacklebolt explains to
Potter, who is so nervous and scared he doesn’t seem to be listening. “He can’t plot or ask
anyone to kill you. The Oath would take his magic if he tries to get out of it that way.”

Should I do it?

Yes, of course. Voldemort casts his doubts aside. He will find a way out of it. Even if he can’t
get Potter killed, he can seduce the boy into releasing him.
Eventually.

He fights over the wording with Shacklebolt, with very little involvement from Potter.

It’s shocking how ignorant and unconcerned Potter is with the entire thing.

He doesn’t even protest when Voldemort refuses to promise not to hurt him. He accepts it
readily.

As they wait for Grimmauld to be secured and cleaned of anything Voldemort might use to
cause problems, he does his best to hide his joy.

He can’t believe he’s getting out.

A traumatised part of him expects the Minster to return and chain him back in the cage.

(-)

He’d never been inside Griammauld before. He wouldn’t have been allowed when several
Black men were in charge of the family.

Bella said it used to be grandiose.

It’s terrible now, shabby, run down and no wonder Potter’s depressed, living in it.

Even so, it’s the best sight he’d seen in years.

Rodolphus would be very useful. One day, when Voldemort will be free, he will need him,
his most trusted, dependable man.

Rodolphus is strong enough to resist through several years of torture in Azkaban. He’d done
it before. He can wait, patently, in jail, until Voldemort is free once more.

I will need him.

Bella might need him more, however. She’s all alone. Who knows what horrors she faces?

So Voldemort asks Rodolphus to kill himself. “Your services are no longer required.”
Rodolphus should get what Voldemort means by that.

It’s what Rodolphus himself would have wanted; to be with his wife.

Voldemort had always been selfish, but for Rodolphus and Bella he made concessions, from
time to time.

He asks about Delphini, though that is a problem he doesn’t know how he will solve.
Surely Rodolphus isn’t daft enough to drop her off with Lucius. To hand Lucius a weapon
like that, before Voldemort can have a chat with the blond…

No, Rodolphus wouldn’t. That’s why he took her from Malfoy Manor in the first place. He
never trusted Lucius.

(-)

Potter gives him what he says had once been Walburga’s room.

I hope you’re seeing this, wherever you are, Voldemort thinks, gleeful. She used to sneer at
him, at Hogwarts, poor orphan that he’d been.

And no wonder. The room is old and dusty but Voldemort can tell it used be luxurious, when
Walburga was alive.

And the bathtub- Potter forgets to give him soap. It’s no matter, he’ll remember soon, once he
recovers from the shock.

For now, just the hot water is more than enough. His body hurts all over, and for the first time
in years, he is alone. He doesn’t have to pretend anymore.

He winces as his various cuts sting, the water turning pinkish. But the warmth soothes his
stiff and tired muscles.

It feels marvellous, washing off all the dirt and suffering.

For an hour or so, he just lies there, in a state of bliss. It’s not over, there is a long way ahead,
but he can savour this first victory before he starts planning for the next.

He can’t believe Potter is this stupid.

(-)

Extremely stupid. More than Voldemort could have ever imagined.

The boy buys him clothes. Voldemort already wandered through the attic and transfigured
some old robes into something wearable.

It took so much out of him, just that simple bit of magic, but it is magic. He almost cried
when he first used it again, after so long.
Potter brings him muggle clothes, but of the best quality. Voldemort can tell they are
ridiculously expensive just by the look of the bags.

He keeps expecting Voldemort to attack him. And it is tempting, sometimes, but he reminds
himself not to. That he’s taking an intelligent approach, this time around.

Voldemort needs Potter to start trusting him.

He makes tea for the boy every morning. When Potter will give up and start drinking it, it
will be a sign of trust and Voldemort will know to push harder.

(-)

No one can be this kind. It’s just impossible.

Maybe he’s tricking me. Voldemort has to think of that option when Potter buys him the best
food, gives him the best, fluffiest towels, accepts whatever Voldemort changes around the
kitchen and the library.

But no. This isn’t a plan on Potter’s part.

How can you be so good? Why?

Voldemort finds out he testified for Narcissa, Draco and Lucius. Lucius! Who was there in
the graveyard, watched as Potter suffered under the Cruciatus.

“If we can save one family,” Potter says, unrepentant.

Snape used to say that Potter was spoiled, arrogant. A typical rich boy that always got what
he wanted.

Snape was an idiot, apparently. Voldemort read in Witch Weekly that Potter grew up in a
cupboard, neglected and mistreated by his magic hating relatives.

Potter only buys expensive things for Voldemort, never for himself. His clothes have holes in
them, but he just takes out a needle and thread and patches them up.

His trainers are old and worn down and absolutely horrid, even by muggle standards.

He wears no jewellery, his glasses are the cheapest, most nondescript model to be invented,
and yet he buys the mudblood a rare edition of Hogwarts, A History that Voldemort knows is
worth a fortune. He buys his ginger friend gold cufflinks with rubies on them.

And then he eats chips from a plastic bag with SALE stamped all over it.
But when Voldemort asks for expensive meat cuts, Potter dutifully brings them over and
never touches them himself.

This is not a spoiled brat. There’s nothing arrogant about him. He blushes furiously every
time he sees an article in the Daily Prophet that calls him ‘handsome’ or ‘heroic.’

Voldemort watches from the window when Potter leaves the house, watches how the boy tries
to be unremarkable, to avoid any attention.

Not that he is remarkable. Just an average looking young man. A dime a dozen like him on
the streets.

Everything is average. His stature, his face, his magic, his intelligence. Why, it’s almost
remarkable how unremarkable he is.

Dumbledore would no doubt say the universe compensated by giving Potter a huge heart.

Voldemort just thinks that’s a punishment for the boy, not some hidden asset.

He used to be so fiery. Voldemort remembers that. He used to meet Voldemort’s eyes and
glare at him, stubborn, even if he was afraid.

But his fire is gone. He rarely holds Voldemort’s gaze.

He’s a shell of a man, broken, traumatised.

Perfect.

(-)

He sees the Dark Mark in the newspaper and instantly knows no Death Eater cast it.

And then Potters tells him these attacks are happening in Ireland, too, and that settles it.

Liam Murphy and Noah Byrne. Voldemort used them, talented boys that they were, but they
were too ambitious. He refused to brand them, and then he killed Murphy’s family when
Murphy started causing problems for him.

Well, this is interesting.

(-)
Potter takes out his wand and faces off the Minister and the Aurors. Before he turns his back
to Voldemort, he can see the sparks of the old fire that used to reside in those eyes of his.

It’s humiliating to sit behind Potter, to have a boy defend him. So he stands and the Aurors
move in a defensive battle position.

That’s more like it. You are still so afraid of me, you insignificant bugs.

Potter is so lost, going against the Ministry to side with Voldemort.

In the tiny part of his brain that isn’t laughing at Potter’s stupidity, he’s a little touched.

(-)

Knowing Potter’s need for praise, having sniffed it on him ever since he was still in a cell
under the Ministry, Voldemort makes sure to insult him daily.

The boy thinks he’s impervious to it; he rolls his eyes and doesn’t take it to heart.

Or so he thinks.

Without Potter’s knowledge, all those insults only reinforce Harry’s deeply buried belief that
he is worthless.

Voldemort had heard enough about the filthy muggles that raised Potter to know he’s been
subjected to this treatment since he was a baby.

Words of that nature, heard at such tender age, never quite leave a person.

Luckily, no one ever called Voldemort stupid or worthless or incompetent.

They’d called him evil, instead. A terror. A bad boy.

When Voldemort enquires why Potter doesn’t relay more on his friends, why he kicked them
out of the house when they wanted to stay because he was obviously struggling under his
trauma, Potter doesn’t have an answer for him.

He does answer, a few days later, unaware that he’s doing it.

“Uncle Vernon always said I was a burden,” Harry says, splayed on the sofa, playing with a
golden snitch, catching it at the last moment, right when it’s about to fly out of his reach.

Potter still feels like a burden to anyone around him. That’s why he never told his mudblood
and blood traitor about what happened to him with the Muggles. So he wouldn’t burden
them.
He felt like a burden during the war, when all those adults in the Order were risking their
lives to protect him.

“You have to see their point,” Voldemort drawls. “Who wants to raise and feed a child they
despise, after all? It requires time and money. It would be burdening.”

Potter shrugs, but he’s distracted for a second. The snitch flies away. He turns his head, bright
green eyes clouded by some emotion.

“Didn’t you feel like a burden at the orphanage?”

Voldemort laughs. “I felt cheated. The government was paying the Matron to take care of us.
She often bought gin, instead of getting us other necessities. Besides, I fed myself, since I
could walk. There was no supervision, especially in the evenings, when she liked to drink and
the younger nurses would sneak away to meet their lovers. That’s how I became a good
thief.”

“Do you get the feeling wizards aren’t… normal? Regarding children, I mean?” Potter looks
at him, frowning. “Dumbledore was a good man-”

Voldemort sneers, but Potter goes on.

“Yet he left me on a doorstep. In November. And when he showed me the memory- you
know, about how you two met- he didn’t seem concerned that Mrs Cole drank a bottle of gin
in the middle of the day, when she was supposed to look after dozens of kids. I don’t think he
even… considered it, you know? And if he didn’t, then imagine the… you know… lesser
wizards.”

Voldemort raises an eyebrow.

“My, my. What do you mean, lesser wizards? I thought we are all equal.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “We should all have equal rights. We should all be treated equally.”

“Read up on communism, Harry?” Voldemort asks, amused. “Careful, even communists have
ruling classes, an elite that receives preferential treatment.”

“Huh?” Potter blinks, confused.

Voldemort groans. The boy was muggle raised! Though he supposes by the time Potter was
eleven and escaped to the magical world, communism wasn’t as much of a concern in
England as it was back when Voldemort was young.

“Never mind,” Voldemort mutters.

“Anyway, I never pretended that I -or anyone-” Potter says, pointedly, with a smirk- “can be
Dumbledore’s equal.”

You little shit.

“Really?” Voldemort asks, containing his anger. “What made him so great, then? Why can’t
any wizard or witch rival his reputation?”

Potter, surprisingly, sees the trap. He must imagine what is coming, being led into a
discussion about how some men are more than others- more intelligent, more powerful, more
magical.

“Whatever,” he huffs, like the teenager he just stopped being.

(-)

Seeing Bellatrix in the photographs is… painful. He hadn’t imagined it.

He suffered through much pain, especially in the last years, but when he’s faced unexpectedly
with her youthful, beautiful, innocent face-

“Where is she?” he growls at Potter, who has tears in his eyes after looking through
photographs of that filthy dog that used to be his godfather.

“She is buried at Malfoy Manor.”

He paces inside his room, a squeezing sort of pressure in his chest. What is happening to
me?

He really misses having Horcruxes. They never allowed him to feel anything so acutely.

The last moments before her death flash before his eyes, even if he tries to stop the images.

The panic that seized him the second she fell comes with them, and he can’t stop it.

He has nightmares about it all of a sudden.

At the Ministry, he’d been too exhausted to think of her. In too much pain and doing his best
to think and plan an escape.

But in this house, he has every comfort necessary. There is no need for urgency, and he’d
grown complacent. He relaxed. He let his mind wonder, and this is the result.

He tries to ignore it, tries to think about what to do with Lucius, with Murphy and Byrne.

But it won’t give him peace. The pain stays with him. He thinks of her all the time.

I will never see her again. It’s hard to accept it.

It’s hard to imagine he will never hear the worship in her voice. He will never see the
devotion in her eyes.
You can see her again, a nagging voice keeps whispering in his head.

(-)

It’s been such a strange few years, so wrong and twisted, that he doesn’t even laugh at the
irony when he shatters the mirror in the bathroom and uses a shard to cut his wrists.

It takes a long time to go like that. It hurts, but only for a few minutes. After that, it’s almost
peaceful. He falls asleep and wakes up in King’s Cross.

Only Bella awaits this time. She’s crying.

“I don’t want you doing that.”

“They put you in Malfoy’s garden,” he snaps at her, like it’s her fault. There is no pain in
King’s Cross, but if there would have been, the sight of Bella would have diminished it.

“My body. It’s just bones and skin,” she says. “I’m here.”

“Are you well?” he asks, hesitant.

Such a stupid question. She’s dead, and he keeps dragging her from her rest. He can’t believe
he cares, suddenly. Or, maybe he always cared, but now he feels it, it’s not just intellectually.

“I miss you. Sometimes,” he says.

She smiles and touches his face, as hesitant as he is.

Why hadn’t he let her do that more often?

“I figured out where Delphini is. With someone named Rowle. I found her name in one of the
linage books once I realised it was an anagram.”

“You have to hurry,” Bella says, a dark look crossing her face. “She’s not doing well. That
whore is mistreating her.”

“I’ll get her.” Voldemort takes in her face, commits it to memory.

Bella leans in, presses her full, warm lips on his own.

The last time. This is the last time he’ll see her.

“May I ask for something?”

“Yes,” he answers. She could ask for anything right then. Her last wish.
“Andromeda…” Bella looks down. “Can you spare her when you free yourself? And I know
Narcissa lied, but-”

“Nothing will happen to your family,” Voldemort promises. “Well… we’ll see about
Lucius.”

She smiles. “I don’t care about him. Just my sisters.”

He nods. “They’ll be fine.”

“They should meet Delphini. They’ll watch out for her.”

He nods again. “I won’t be coming back. I don’t plan on dying again.”

“Good.” She touches his face one last time.

“And if I do, I don’t want you waiting for me. Rest.”

Voldemort needs to put her behind him. This is the last time, he promised himself. It’s not
beneficial to him to keep seeing her in this place. It’s tempting to know she is there.

“Swear you will not meet me here again.”

Bellatrix sighs, hesitant. But she always did what he asked. “I swear.”

Voldemort takes her hand.

“I-”

I’m sorry? Thank you for everything you’ve done? He doesn’t know what to say.

She smiles, the way she used to before Azkaban. “I would do it all over again. I don’t regret a
thing. You gave my life meaning; a second at your side was worth all the years in Azkaban.”

Where will he find this devotion again? Who else would willingly, gladly make Voldemort
their only priority?

“You were the only joy I had,” he tells her. He hopes that conveys everything he feels for her
but doesn’t know how to express.

“I hope you can find joy again. It’s all I want. I want you to get everything. You deserve it.”

“I will get all I want,” Voldemort promises her.

“Go back. It’s not good for you to linger here.”

Voldemort takes one last look at her and closes his eyes.

He wakes up in a bathtub filled with his blood. His wounds sealed, but there are scars left on
his wrists now, angry looking.
He cleans up, washes his blood down the drain, along with the pain Bella’s absence brought.

He can make peace with it now.

(-)

He has never had sex with his soul intact.

It’s more intense this way. The pleasure feels sharper.

Or maybe it’s just the sight of Potter, the bane of his existence, the undefeated little shit,
kneeling at his feet, lips stretched around Voldemort’s cock, choking on it.

Potter is touch starved. He feels the need to be punished, the survivor's guilt he carries with
him whispering in his head that he doesn’t deserve anything nice.

It’s a simple way to bring Potter closer, chip away at his barriers, lower his guard. Sex always
made people stupid.

Yet Voldemort has to admit it’s a very satisfactory part of his plans. Unexpectedly enjoyable.

(-)

The mudblood is obnoxious. Forceful with her beliefs, close-minded, completely unaware of
how she’s perceived.

Witch Weekly hates her.

But she’s entertaining; she knows her books, at least. The reports he got from Death Eaters on
her intelligence were slightly exaggerated, but not completely false.

He used to believe it was her that kept the trio safe.

She might have been the brains of the little group, but he sees now that Potter is the one to
have gotten them out of many pickles, his instincts as valuable as her mind.

Weasley surprises Voldemort greatly. He’s been told the ginger was insignificant, a useless
blood-traitor, Potter’s sidekick.

Yet out of all of them -the smart mudblood, heroic brave Potter- it is Weasley that’s hardest to
fool.

They function well together; they complement each other perfectly.

(-)

Potter’s not handsome in the traditional way. But he’s pretty enough. Especially naked. He’s
compact, small but slim, limbs muscular even if on the skinny side.

His eyes are by far his best feature, and all the expressions in them.

Voldemort touches the scars he’d put on this boy, and it feels right.

And how tortured he sounds, when Voldemort makes him climax, how wild and scared and
defeated.

Perfect, really.

Voldemort can manipulate his body even easier that he manipulates his mind.

And then the holly wand is in his hand and it is a good fit, because of course it would be, he
feels it even through the cuffs.

He’s tempted to keep it. He only needs some hours to free himself, but even Potter is bound
to notice his wand is missing before those hours pass.

It’s too soon. If he’s caught now, he will lose Potter’s tentative trust.

He hands the wand back, but before he does it, the fear in Potter’s eyes is just priceless.

(-)

Potter’s attacked while he’s drunk.

He reads the mudblood’s frantic letter and he worries.

If Murphy targets Potter or his friends, it could be a good thing. It would be a wonderful
solution to the Oath problem. They’d kill him and Voldemort doesn’t need to move a finger.

But he can’t allow them to kill him too soon. Voldemort still has the cuffs on.

Potter can’t die before Voldemort gets his magic back.

The boy hurries home to Voldemort, not waiting to get proper treatment.

As he uses the little magic he has to heal some of his wounds when the boy is unconscious,
Potter’s fingers curl around his wrist, clinging to Voldemort for a good half an hour.
Stupid boy, he thinks.

And then he wakes up and refuses to fall for Voldemort’s plan to use his wand, get rid of the
cuffs, and get Potter and Murphy in the same place all at once.

He angers Voldemort, speaking of feelings and kindness and daring to mention his previous
name.

The Oath makes his blood rush dangerously to his brain when Voldemort forgets himself and
almost strangles Potter to death.

(-)

Potter forgives him easily. Far too easily.

Voldemort expected a tantrum the following morning, but Potter is as docile as ever.

He sits in the kitchen and lets Voldemort touch his bruises, eyes closed.

The famous scar catches Voldemort’s attention, as it often does.

It’s just unbelievable that a piece of his soul, corrupted by dark magic, ripped apart forcefully,
had taken residence in a baby and still, it didn’t manage to influence him any.

Potter is like a fairy-tale hero, all good and kind and ready to sacrifice himself.

And he was like that even when a part of Voldemort lived in his forehead.

Quite remarkable.

(-)

The boy does like his fairy-tales. He lies to himself that he only reads them to make sure
there’s nothing in them to upset his godson. But the truth is, he simply enjoys them.

There was no one in his childhood to read silly fantasies to Potter.

And Potter sometimes daydreams about reading those stories to a child of his own.

He sits on the couch as Voldemort pretends to read, and he just stares ahead, picturing a child.
A warm house. A family.

Even Voldemort’s limited Legilimency can’t miss how badly Potter wants that.
Every time there’s an announcement in the paper that one of his former classmates
procreated, Potter looks crestfallen. He’s an idiot, so he’s happy for whoever it is, but he’s
also crushed because he knows he won’t ever have a family.

That answers Voldemort’s dilemma about what to do with the Delphini problem. Potter will
be all too happy to have a child. He’ll not see her as the shackles she represents, another thing
to tie him to Voldemort, bend him to his will.

He’s not like Lucius, who would never raise and love a child that is not of his own flesh.

Potter wants a child and Delphini needs a father now that Rodolphus is dead.

Because Voldemort might have contributed to her genetic makeup, but he is no father.

He refuses to be as terrible as his own- he will get the girl and make sure she survives in
comfort- but that does not make him a father.

He remembers Bellatrix’ hysterics, shortly before the battle; she’d been convinced she’ll die,
due to some blood pact she made with her crazy cousin when they were very young, that they
will share a fate. Sirius Black was dead, so to her that meant her death was close.

Voldemort overheard her talking to Rodolphus about it, giving him instructions about
Delphini.

“You won’t die. I won’t let you. Our Lord will never let you die, Bella.”

“Shut up and just promise me you will take care of her!”

“And if you die,” Rodolphus’ deep voice cuts over her sharp one. “I will not survive you. I
refuse to.”

“You have to! Delphini-”

“Delphini has her father; she has no need of me. How do you imagine I would ever protect
her better than he can?”

“He will protect her,” Bella said, voice lowered. Careful. Mournful, almost. “He will make
sure she survives. But she will need more than that. He will not love her, Rod. He doesn’t love
her. He will never read her stories or play with her dolls. He will not kiss her goodnight or
wipe her tears away when she cries. He won’t comfort her when she’s older and some boy
breaks her heart. Please,” Bella begs. “Promise me. I need to hear it.”

“You won’t die-”

“Rodolphus!”

Voldemort hears footsteps and then Bella’s cries are muffled. He imagines Rodolphus is
hugging her and Voldemort has to grip his wand and get rid of the desire to rush inside their
room and murder him where he stands.
“I will take care of Delphini. I swear it,” Rodolphus says. “I will read to her and learn to
play with stupid dolls. I will wipe her tears, but there won’t be many tears. I will teach her not
to cry. I will kill anyone that dares to upset her. And if a boy breaks her heart, I’ll comfort
her. I’ll give her chocolate and flowers and then I’ll find the fucker and I’ll break his heart,
rip it out of his chest and smash it under my boot.”

Potter won’t be ripping any hearts out of chests, but surely he would play with the girl and
comfort her and love her, like Bella wanted.

For the first time, Voldemort wonders what the girl is like. Does she still look like her
mother?

Does she swear like Rodolphus? What did he teach her?

(-)

Voldemort often counts the occasions in which he could take Potter’s wand, daily.

In the beginning, he’d get to three or four chances.

As the time passes, Voldemort could get it any time he wants. Which is terribly frustrating,
because he could so easily take it, but the boy would notice it and call for help or panic
unnecessarily.

And then Shacklebolt comes to their house alone; he is equally frustrated with Potter.

He says the wrong thing, and it proves Potter does have a temper, lacks the patience he has
with Voldemort when it comes to someone else.

He attacks the Minister of Magic. Like a muggle. With his fists!

And while Voldemort also shares a desire to punch the man, it is idiotic.

Shacklebolt will take Voldemort away if he thinks Potter has become compromised and too
fond of Voldemort.

So he takes Potter’s wand, kept in the back of his trousers.

Shacklebolt is a powerful wizard with excellent training. Moody had been his mentor, and it
shows.

But if he’d have his magic, Voldemort would mow over him in under a minute.

As it is, Voldemort only wins because Shacklebolt is taken by surprise; he only wins because
he has Parselmouth in his arsenal.
Even the little magic he used, the simple spells- the will to force that smidgeon of magic out
stops his heart.

Voldemort feels the pain in his chest, spreading to his neck and shoulder, like a vicious,
unrelenting grip.

He does his best to hold on, dizzy and nauseous, the pain debilitating, until Shacklebolt
leaves.

(-)

Dumbledore is silent when Voldemort stands in King’s Cross.

He’s glaring at Voldemort, full of hate.

Bella isn’t there. She obeyed him, like she always does.

For a second, he regrets giving the order. But no. It had to be done. Voldemort has to move
on.

And she needs to rest in peace.

Unlike Dumbledore. He deserves nothing.

“I’ll get out of these, soon.” Voldemort lifts his hands to indicate the cuffs, but of course, they
aren’t there. Not in King’s Cross. “And I’ll get my wand. If Lucius still has it. If not- I’ll take
Potter’s.”

“You are a monster,” Dumbledore says, from his place on the bench.

Voldemort laughs. “Why? Because I’m taking advantage of a stupid, naive boy? The same
one you took advantage of?”

Dumbledore says nothing to that.

“He still defends you,” Voldemort says, softly. “Still so loyal to you. I’m not the only monster
here.”

“If you weren’t so lost, you’d learn something from Harry,” the old man says.

“I did. I learned what I already knew. Forgiveness, kindness, love- all weakness. I will defeat
him with the weapons you armed him with.”

Voldemort closes his eyes, satisfied with the look of pain on Dumbledore’s face.

He wakes with Potter crying over him.

“You can’t leave me,” the boy whispers. He sounds so vulnerable, so desperate.

So alone.

Oh, have no worries, I won’t.

He opens his eyes and pushes Potter away from him.

(-)

Potter ignores his Quidditch practice, to stay home with Voldemort and protect him in case
the Shadows come after him.

Which is ridiculous.

And yet- seeing the moron skipping practice, one of the few things in this world that bring
him some happiness, just to stay home in case Voldemort needs him-

Potter’s loyalty is hard to dismiss. It is a trait Voldemort always valued in his followers. But
his followers adored Voldemort, wanted him in power so he could give them the things they
wanted.

Potter despises everything Voldemort stands for. Potter wants nothing from Voldemort, only
his attention.

And still, he is loyal.

If he doesn’t become a pain in my side once I am free, I will remember this, Voldemort thinks
to himself. I will be merciful with the boy if he doesn’t fight me when the time comes.

(-)

Potter cancels his newspaper subscription, as May approaches. He ignores the several owls
that come to the house.

He spends hours in his room, looking worse and worse every time he comes out to play with
his food at dinner, eyes lost in the distance.

Voldemort finds the letter from McGonagall, inviting him to Hogwarts, to celebrate.

Potter looks like he’s mourning, instead.

He’s in good company. Voldemort is mourning, too, even if with more dignity.
But when the second of May arrives, he can’t simply ignore it.

The day he lost everything. His life- if briefly, his magic, his freedom.

The day he lost Bella.

And he has no one to blame. That disaster was on him, no one else. It wasn’t Potter’s fault.

It was Dumbledore’s, but the man is dead and was dead even back then.

Voldemort and his mistakes led to that day and the disastrous outcome.

(-)

Potter punches him, which is -

No one punched him after he turned eleven. No one dared lay a hand on him. Oh, he’s been
hurt, in battles and in his cell in the ministry, but punched? The indignity!

Voldemort stands there, startled, blood flowing down his face.

Potter is surprisingly strong for a skinny lad.

And then he comes begging to be fucked and Voldemort oddly doesn’t truly want to hurt him,
not even after the punch.

It was well deserved, after all. He’d established the Battle of Hogwarts was his own fault.

Potter doesn’t have his wand with him. Voldemort had never seen him so lost.

He stares at Voldemort, green eyes filled with pain and desperation, simply wanting to forget
everything.

Potter considers himself responsible for many of the deaths on that day, years ago.

This is Voldemort’s chance. If he plays his cards right, he could have the time to get rid of the
cuffs.

Potter wants to be hurt, wants to stop thinking.

It’s distasteful to hurt someone this way, even for his preferences. But it is needed, he needs
Potter unconscious.

It would have gotten to sex, eventually. But Voldemort planned it differently, as a seduction,
fulfilling the boy’s fantasy of something close to a romantic encounter.

Alas, it was not to be.

Voldemort orders him to his knees, orders him to stay still and there’s something so
satisfying, always, to have the boy obey without hesitation.

The hero that defeated him five years ago, to the day, is at his feet, naked and trembling.

Waiting to be used.

Voldemort doesn’t have to pretend to seduce, to make it tender.

Potter is tight and hot around his cock; his whimpers of pain are beautiful. The promise of
freedom is so close-

Voldemort has to struggle not to come too fast. It’s never a problem he ever had before, he
always could control himself, but the pleasure, the adrenaline, is too much now.

He comes sooner than he’d wanted, but it’s alright.

Potter’s barely conscious by the time it’s done; he falls asleep when Voldemort lays him on
the bed, instantly.

(-)

The cuffs break open.

All his magic awakens at once. Just like that, everything is better. More.

Voldemort has to bite his fist, hard, because otherwise he fears he might cry at the feeling.

It’s just overwhelming.

Few things overwhelm him, but this- this is just incredible.

I did it, he thinks.

This was the hardest part. The fear that never truly left since the Battle of Hogwarts, the
anxiety that Potter might change his mind at any time, that the Minister will demand him
back and Potter won’t manage to stop them- it is truly gone now.

No one can touch him anymore. No one can hurt him again.

Not quite. You need a wand first. Your wand, preferably.

He’d decided long ago he’ll try to get his own wand back. He’d laid the groundwork to
deceive Harry, making the boy say he’d let Voldemort see Lucius, even if it was a joke.

And if Lucius destroyed the wand… he has Harry’s. The holly wand does work well. Of
course, Voldemort wants his own, but the boy’s is almost as good.
Stop planning for just a second.

Just enjoy it.

And he does. He lifts his hand and light dance across his palm, easily. With his other hand, he
summons an apple from the cellar.

He bites into it and it tastes better, juicier. Like the real thing, not just an imitation of food.

He returns to his room, leaves the wand on the nightstand on the boy’s side, and plays with
his magic, like a child, the entire night.

When Harry wakes and tries to attack him, it’s so easy to disarm him. Child’s play, really.

The boy is beside himself, panicked, confused.

He convinces Potter to come to Malfoy Manor, lies until he gets his way.

When he Apparates and he feels the sun on his skin, the smell of nature and freedom- he has
the instinct to take off his shoes and feel the grass on his bare feet.

You’re not yet free.

You’ll enjoy everything again, once you get rid of the Oaths.

(-)

Lucius. Oh, Lucius.

How frustrating that he has to lean on the cunning, traitorous snake.

But he’s the only one he has. Lucius is not as easy to manipulate as Harry, not even close. But
he still fears. He doesn’t know of Voldemort’s promise to Bella to keep her family safe.

He will do anything for his family.

And he has the wand.

Voldemort can’t quite believe it when his fingers curl around it. The bond, the unique bond he
has with it sparks to life and it welcomes him like a lover, a faithful one, always ready to do
his bidding.

I am sorry I thought there was another better than you, he thinks, caressing the wood. I will
never abandon you again.

Voldemort’s first friend; first protector. His safety. Back in his hand, where it should have
always remained.
“A word, in private?”

Lucius is a superb Occlumenes. He would be- Voldemort thought him how to resist any
Legilimens, how to resist any Veritaserum. Voldemort provided him with all the skill to avoid
capture and pretend to be innocent.

But when Voldemort’s mind presses insistently against his, Lucius allows him entrance.

He only gets a glimpse of the panic, the fear, before Lucius shoves forward thoughts of
Delphini, of Murphy approaching him to join his cause, of Aurors asking questions-

“Nothing goes past me, Lucius,” Voldemort assures him. “Best remember that.”

(-)

Harry is catatonic, sitting on the new couch, looking like another piece of him died.

Voldemort relishes at the sight. At how defeated the boy is.

Has he learned yet? That kindness is a weakness? Can he see it now?

Can he see what happens when you trust your enemy?

Voldemort doesn’t want him to see it. Not yet. So he reassures Harry. But he keeps enough
menace around him until Harry asks for new vows.

There we go. Voldemort makes sure how to word his new oaths so he can get Delphini.

“You can’t leave the house without me unless to save an innocent soul, that will not bring you
any benefit what so ever,” Potter demands as part of the Oath.

“With no obvious benefit to myself,” Voldemort swears instead and Potter doesn’t see the
slight difference.

After all, Delphini will bring him plenty of benefits, but none obvious to Potter.

He hopes Dumbledore is weeping in despair.

(-)

He needs to wait before going for his daughter.

Harry is still reeling over the cuffs and the wand, their short trip to Malfoy Manor. Wouldn’t
do to spring a child on him so soon.

(-)

He fucks him gentler the next time. It’s easier to be gentle with the yew wand close by, with
his powers restored.

Harry is weary, but he doesn’t refuse him, even if he expects pain again.

Voldemort strives to never be predictable, so he offers the very opposite, takes him time to
prepare him.

He even kisses him, an activity that never appealed to Voldemort, not even with Bella. It’s
just so useless.

It’s obvious no one took care of the boy, no one gave him their undivided attention.

Voldemort can imagine what lacklustre experiences with sex Harry must have had, with his
little redhead, both virgins and clueless. He knows Harry played the selfless lover, always
preoccupied with her pleasure, putting his last, as he always does.

There’s no need for that now.

Voldemort is not some blushing teenager Harry has to please. He can give the boy the luxury
to be selfish for once, to close his eyes and just enjoy.

(-)

Voldemort is on his best behaviour. Not hard to accomplish. He’s far more relaxed with his
magic singing in his veins, his wand safely in his pocket.

Harry’s shocked when Voldemort allows him to leave the house; no doubt he’d expected he
will be the prisoner now.

It’s the boy’s lack of foresight and strategic planning. How can he imagine Voldemort would
lock him up, when he has a Minister and friends that will check on him?

With every outing he takes, with no torture happening, with the peace inside Grimmauld,
Harry slowly deludes himself everything is fine.
He doesn’t alert anyone, mostly because he’s aware that any Auror that comes through that
door to arrest Voldemort will meet a terrible, terrible fate. With his magic back, it would take
dozens of people to capture him, and Harry knows it.

But it’s also Harry’s incapability to let go of Voldemort.

He doesn’t want to be alone again.

(-)

“Tom.”

Harry freezes underneath him, all muscles tensing.

Including the ones clenched around Voldemort’s cock.

He almost comes, right there.

“I’m sorry-“

Fuck, he looks so delectable. Scared and vulnerable and split open on Voldemort’s cock.

“If there is one thing I respect about you is that you don’t fear me,” Voldemort lies.

Maybe it’s not a lie. There is some reluctant respect for the boy’s lack of fear.

But when it shines so brightly in those green eyes of his… it is sweet.

Powerful.

The boy calms slightly and Voldemort covers his mouth and nose, cutting off air.

He does deserve a little punishment for saying that name out loud.

But Harry likes to be punished. He relaxes, as he almost stops breathing, his eyes closing in
ecstasy as his mind slips into a place where he can’t think of saving the world, of the burden
he carries on his shoulders.

(-)

He goads Harry into a duel.

Voldemort is curious. He knows Harry is no match for him, but he wants to know exactly
how good or bad of a duellist he is.

Not terrible, is the verdict.

In fact, considering how little knowledge the boy possesses, he is quite good.

He has a severely limited repertoire of spells, but the boy’s instincts are surprising.

Spells can be learned; strategy can be learned. But instinct, a natural inclination for duels,
cannot. Harry already has that.

If he’d had competent teachers, if he’d been only a little more inclined to read something
other than Quidditch magazines, Harry could do very well in a duel.

Voldemort disarms him often, to win over the holly wand, make it his.

Harry loves the fights. He is focused, animated like he never is these days, that old fire of his
making his eyes spark.

He wouldn’t love it so much if Voldemort truly let loose, but as it is, with tame spells
involved, it quickly becomes Harry’s favourite pastime.

(-)

He can see glimpses of the Harry he remembers from before, on occasion.

When Voldemort lets a week or two pass without alluding to his impending freedom, without
retelling any morbid story, when he pretends he isn’t a dark lord, Harry’s eyes come back to
life.

He’s got a sense of humour, buried between all that guilt and depression. Some surprisingly
witty come-backs.

Voldemort can learn of a boy that was once ambitious; that once wanted to prove himself, to
do well in life.

He can meet a boy that once wanted to learn as much as he could, become popular and well
liked, a star in Quidditch.

Harry was normal before Voldemort and Dumbledore forced him to step into the ‘chosen-
one’ role.

If he’d lived in peace, Harry would have grown to be a confident and successful wizard. He
was on his path of becoming just that before Voldemort’s resurrection.
Of course, the Dursleys and the negligence of the teachers at Hogwarts that Voldemort well
remembers would always ensure Harry would never listen to authority figures.

Harry was used to doing anything on his own. As young as eleven and he trusted his ginger
and mudblood to come with him to save the Stone before he even considered talking it over
with a teacher.

At twelve, instead of blabbering to Dumbledore about the diary, about his ability to speak to
snakes, he kept it to himself and his friends.

At thirteen, he’s saved his wretched godfather with only his sidekicks.

He trusted Sirius Black. It’s obvious from his stories. He’d tell Black of his problems,
seeking advice. But Black died.

And then, finally, Dumbledore managed to gain Harry’s trust, in their meetings during his
sixth year. Finally, Harry looked up at an authority figure with no distrust, tried to tell him
about Draco being a Death Eater, tried to do nothing without Dumbledore’s say so first.

He finally thought he had someone with authority on his side and then Dumbledore stuck a
knife in his back and never told him he was a Horcrux, never had the decency to tell Harry he
will need to die. Harry had to learn it from the memories of a man he thought an enemy.

So, really, it is no wonder, with his track record, that Harry does not trust the Ministry. That
he doesn’t tell Kingsley of Voldemort’s magic and now his wand.

Harry thinks he can handle it on his own, as he had his entire life.

In one of these moments, where Harry is relaxed, where his many burdens seem far away, he
makes fun of Voldemort, on small things.

But it is light-hearted. In a similar fashion Voldemort observed Harry does with his friends. It
doesn’t anger Voldemort, because the boy means nothing insulting.

Harry, gloomy and depressed and lost is what Voldemort needs for his plans to work. He
needs Potter broken and without his fire.

But once that is done… perhaps Voldemort will allow him to grow confident again. To have
some of his old spark shining in his eyes. Who else would dare speak to Voldemort this way?
No one.

Voldemort wouldn’t accept it from anyone else, even if someone dared.

But due to their circumstances, he’d gotten used to these moments when Harry is what he
used to be. He knows it’s friendly banter, and Potter may poke harmless fun at Voldemort, but
he only laughs harder when Voldemort pokes fun at him, as long as it is nothing malicious.

(-)
“Tell me how good it feels to have me inside you,” Voldemort orders. “Thank me for it.”

“It’s perfect,” Harry moans, his voice brimming with the promise of obedience. It’s the
moment his walls crack, his composure, his guilt. “Thank you.”

He’s pliant, boneless, split open on Voldemort’s cock.

He takes orders well, when he’s this lost. He obeys the second they’re in bed, but it always
starts with a dose of reluctance.

There’s no reluctance now.

Harry has that glazed look in his eyes that means he’s out of it.

Voldemort once made the mistake of peeking inside his head when he’s like this. It was a
bizarre experience.

The complete detachment, the satisfaction derived from the knowledge someone is taking
care of him-

Frightening.

Yet Harry loves it. He’s so relaxed, so ready to obey. If Voldemort would ask to be released
from the Oaths now, Harry would do it.

But the Oaths themselves won’t allow it; magic knows he’s not in his right mind, that it’s not
really his will.

Harry has no will when he’s in this state.

If Voldemort isn’t careful, he can see it would be easy to become addicted to sex of this
nature.

He’d never had a partner like Harry. Not that he paid much attention, before. When he’d been
young, Voldemort would do whatever was asked of him, when there was a need to resort to
seduction. He’d play whatever role was needed, focused only on the reward: an ancient
artefact he couldn’t steal, a spell no one else could teach him; a few times, in the beginning of
his travels on the continent, he’d traded his body to keep his life, when he ran into dark
wizards or witches that he could not yet defeat in battle.

He did what he had to do, and he never enjoyed it, even when his body did.

Bella was different. He wanted her. He enjoyed her. But even if he was always in control of
those encounters, he never ordered her around in bed.

He did that plenty, in day-to-day life.

When they had sex, Voldemort did his best to forget he was her master. And she was all fire,
eager to pretend they were equal during those moments.

He can’t order Harry around outside his bedroom. He would like that, but he knows it won’t
happen.

So it is a pleasure to have the boy bend to his will like this.

“I like it when you’re good for me,” Voldemort tells him and Harry goes even deeper into a
space where nothing can hurt him.

Harry wants praise, most of all.

Voldemort would have thought the boy gets enough of it from the public, from the
newspapers, but apparently not.

He wants honest praise, for something he actually does, rather than myths.

Voldemort curls his fingers around Harry’s neck in a firm grip.

He gets no reaction, those green eyes of his staring back adoringly, no trace of the suspicions
or caution from just half an hour ago.

Tighter and tighter he grips, but Harry doesn’t fight, not even when his face turns a bright
red, when air won’t pass through a windpipe Voldemort is almost crushing.

And that is addictive. To have this boy that never stopped fighting him lay pliant, accepting,
trusting under him, as he’s minutes away from dying-

“Come for me,” he orders, and he hears how rough his own voice has become, clouded by
lust.

Harry does, instantly, arching his back, closing his eyes, his entire body trembling.

Voldemort gives one last hard squeeze to his neck, and he comes too, allows himself those
few seconds of pure, thoughtless, simple pleasure.

(-)

After some visits from the Weasleys, after Harry allows Hermione to communicate with
Voldemort by letters, he decides it is time to go for the girl.

Harry is all comfortable again; he can take another surprise.

And Voldemort deserves something, after reading about house-elves for three weeks straight,
even worse, writing a formal proposition that the mudblood will use to grant the despicable
creatures some rights.

It is time he fulfils Bellatrix’ last wish.

(-)

He finds the girl locked away in the attic, dirty and hungry.

She jumps from the old mattress on which she’d been sleeping and attempts to hide behind
some fallen shelves.

She does a poor job of it.

Voldemort just stands there, observing her because-

He knew she’d be bigger. Of course he’d known, in theory.

But to see it, it’s quite another matter entirely.

He has a flashback of the last time he saw her, clean and waddling around the Malfoy Manor
garden, in a pristine pink dress, a bow in her head holding her short curls out of her eyes.

He remembers her laughing, holding Bella’s hand.

It makes him angry. Furious.

She looks like Bella to a painful degree.

Except her eyes.

Voldemort fights the sudden urge to turn back and head to Rowle’s room, torture her to death.
It can wait another minute.

“Are you my father?” Her voice is soft.

She peeks from between the shelves, braver after he just stood there, without attacking her.

“Yes,” Voldemort says.

“Rody said you will come for me.” She steps around the shelves and Voldemort sees the
scratches on her arms.

The urge to torture Rowle increases.

“But it’s been so long, I stopped waiting.”

He, too, had waited a long time for his father, watching out of the orphanage’s window.

“I’m here now,” he says, and she comes closer.

The resemblance to Bella is even clearer when she pushes her long, tangled hair out of her
face.

“So we can go? I don’t have to stay here anymore?”

How easily she trusts a complete stranger; how bad Rowle must treat her if she’s so eager to
leave that place.

Her lip trembles and she’ll start to cry and Voldemort will not know what to do.

“I only need to deal with Rowle, and then we can depart.”

She sniffs. “You’ll kill her? She has a house-elf. He’s just as mean. Can you kill him too?”

Voldemort blinks at her. Is it normal for children to be talking about murder?

Is it something Rodolphus told her about him?

He turns to leave, barely waiting to meet this Rowle woman-

She flings her arms around his hips. “Don’t leave me! Please! I’ll be good! Just take me with
you! Take me back to Rody! Please!”

She always had a firm grip; even as a newborn, the first time her tiny fingers had wrapped
around his own, she couldn’t be persuaded to let go.

“Stay,” he orders, pushing her away. “I shall return shortly.”

He heads to find Rowle next.

Using his magic to hurt, to punish is empowering. He finally feels like himself again. In
control.

The woman weeps, bleeds, writhes on her bed; she pleads with him to stop, but he won’t.

He pours all his hate and frustration into his curses, punishes her for everything that he’s
suffered in the last five years.

The elf comes- a gift for Voldemort, that had to spend time researching the things.

He gets lost in the torture, mind humming with satisfaction and control.

Sadly, she is old and even with his reviving spells, she dies far sooner than he’d have liked.
The elf doesn’t last long, either.

For a second, when he realises they are dead, he almost panics, because he doesn’t want to
stop. He wants to hurt, maim, destroy everyone. To make them pay for the indignities he’s
been subjected to, for taking his Bella from him, for everything. He doesn’t want to stop, but
he has to. He has to go back to his prison or he will lose his magic.

Through the cloud of anger that takes hold of him, he hears a noise and he turns-

It’s the girl, leaning on the doorframe, her eyes fixed on the woman’s body.

How long has she been there?

She walks inside, careful, hugging herself, and only stops when she’s above Rowle.

Delphini stares down for a second, and then she spits on the body.

“She has mama’s wand. She keeps it in here somewhere.”

The only emotion in her eyes when she lifts them to meet his- relief.

(-)

Voldemort almost pities Harry. Almost.

Delphini is emotional, scared- of Harry Potter, of all people. She starts crying.

He hates crying, he’s still high on adrenaline from the kill, dark magic still whispers in his
head to keep killing, to hurt. So he leaves the room. It’s safest that way.

There are so many priceless artefacts around the house. Especially in the attic that the boy
never bothered checking.

Ancient, valuable, unique objects.

Voldemort resists the temptation.

Instead, he steals a two pound coin from Harry’s wallet.

He performs the ritual locked in his room, with a silencing charm around the walls, to keep
his screams from reaching the other inhabitants of the house.

Ripping the soul apart always hurts. Especially for the first time.

By the time he made Nagini, he couldn’t feel a thing.

But the soul in his new body had been remade anew, so the vicious pain is present, as it was
when he made the Diary.

He does yell, when he never yelled as he was tortured by Aurors. But this pain is unlike any
other. It surpasses dignity.
Hour later, when he can move again, he carves an unique set of runes on himself that will not
allow him to ever make another horcrux, especially by mistake.

They are designed to keep his soul in, and they will.

He isn’t sure when he started losing his sanity, if it was with the third or fourth Horcrux; if it
was even the Horcruxes at all.

He rather thinks it was Albania. Living as a wraith possessing snakes for eleven years was
what damaged his mind.

But he can’t be sure. To avoid further complications, the runs won’t let him split his soul
again.

He hides them, buries them beneath his skin, so the boy won’t see them. Not that he’d know
what they mean, but he’d question Voldemort’s choice of suddenly getting a tattoo.

And now he is truly immortal.

Harry could never kill him, even wound him, in a fair duel, but with a Horcrux, no matter
how lucky Harry gets, Voldemort can’t die.

He drops the coin in a small cupboard upstairs, without placing any enchantment on it that
could potentially attract attention.

He got his magic back, his wand, his daughter, and now a Horcrux.

All he needs is to get rid of the Oath.

(-)

Harry is useless; so weak even a child defeats him.

Voldemort had been content to let them bond, make sure Harry will love the girl; he’d also
kept his distance because now that Delphini is safe, there’s nothing else Voldemort can do for
her.

Nothing else he wants to do for her. He isn’t sure what one does with children that age.

But Harry should know; he has that godson of his.

He doesn’t. It’s easy to feed Delphini, but she won’t do anything else.

And when Harry tries to bathe her, Voldemort feels the rush of magic coming out of her and,
of course, Harry being Harry, instantly ceases his efforts, lest he scares her even more.

She throws a fit when he tries to take her out of the house.
And Harry folds. He falls asleep, exhausted, on the sofa in the library.

This won’t do. Harry has to like Delphini and surely even the masochistic idiot wouldn’t
enjoy someone like that.

“What did Rodolphus tell you of me?” he asks Delphini, casting a compulsion spell on Harry
to keep him asleep.

Delphini looks up, clutching the box with the wand to her chest.

“That you’re the greatest wizard, the most powerful.”

A brief silence.

“What else?”

She shifts on her legs. “That I shouldn’t upset you.”

Voldemort lets silence settle over them; she grows more and more uncomfortable in it,
peeking up at him from time to time, each time more scared than the last.

Few men can bear his silence and his gaze.

Delphini holds on longer than most people, but eventually she breaks.

“Father?” she whispers, her knuckles whitening with how hard she’s gripping the box.

“You will go to the bathroom down the hall and you will wash yourself. Your hair, too.
Thoroughly.”

She gulps.

“I’m afraid of water. I almost drowned once, in a river back in France. I thought I’d die. I
couldn’t breathe-“ She takes a big gulp of air. “And the house-elf at Rowle’s always poured
water on my face-“

“You won’t drown in the bathtub.”

“But I am afraid!“

“I do not care, child. You will wash or you might find out why Rodolphus told you not to
upset me. I assure you, drowning is preferable. Go.”

She goes.

So simple, really. Drama and tantrum free. But Harry wouldn’t agree.

It’s not like Voldemort would hurt her- he knows it wouldn’t come to that. The simple threat
would make her behave, but Harry wouldn’t agree with that either.

She returns some forty minutes later, trailing water behind her, naked.
“I’m clean,” she says. Her eyes are red and puffy, but she is clean.

“You can’t walk around naked,” Voldemort says.

“I don’t have any clothes.” She shrugs.

There are towels in the bathroom-

No matter.

He dries her and the carpet with a spell before summoning a piece of fabric. He transfigures it
into a black dress and Delphini looks down, touching the soft material, her hands trailing
over the sleeves.

It’s perfect, as everything else he does, but she’s so surprised by it.

“I’ve never had such a pretty dress,” she says, awed.

Rodolphus was never great at subtle, detailed transfiguration.

She did have pretty dresses. Dozens of them. Bella would make them- not transfigure them,
but knit them herself.

And then there were those Narcissa bought her.

“Could you put some stars on it? Mama was named after a star. Please, I was good. I bathed!”

A reward system seems appropriate to him, so he waves his wand and silver stars adorn her
collar and sleeves.

He conjures a mirror and Delphini looks at herself, smiling.

She isn’t as excited about the shoes.

She tries to comb her hair when Voldemort hands her a brush, but it becomes obvious it is a
rather hard task.

She lacks the skill and the brush’s teeth get stuck repeatedly in her tangled curls.

How low I am brought down, he thinks, and he takes the brush from her and turns her to face
the mirror as he sits on a chair at her back.

So much hair. He thinks to cut it short; that would save them the trouble.

But right before he does it, he decides against it.

She looks so much like Bella this way, and Bella would want her hair long.

Besides, the more she looks like her mother, the fewer chances there are Voldemort will hurt
her in a fit of anger.
So he combs through the strands patiently.

She’s stiff in the beginning, but soon loosens up when she doesn’t experience any pain.

It’s surprisingly calming.

A simple task, but repetitive enough that it puts them both at ease.

When he’s done, and the brush runs smoothly from top to bottom, he braids her hair.

“You can’t tell Harry you liked it when I tortured Rowle. Best you don’t tell him you even
witnessed it.”

“Why?” She looks at him through the mirror.

“He is a…. gentle boy.”

“Like Rody?”

Voldemort contains his laughter.

“Even more so. It is not normal, child, to like it when people are in pain. You can’t let anyone
know.”

“But she hurt me. She deserved it. And you’re my father. You’re supposed to punish those
that hurt me.”

Voldemort lays her braid over her shoulder.

“No one will hurt you again.”

He waves a hand and the shallow bruises and scratches on her body disappear.

She smiles, a tentative little thing, and she turns to face him.

Clean and put together, the resembles to her mother only intensifies.

“We’ll go outside when Harry awakes. You’ll behave.”

“It looks scary,” she whispers. “Many bad people-”

“Your mother was fearless,” Voldemort tells her. “I am fearless. So I know there is no place
for fear in your bloodline. There mustn’t be.”

She doesn’t know what to answer.

He has her follow him to the kitchen, and he prepares breakfast for her.

“It’s caution, not fear,” she says, after she thinks it through. “Rody says to always be
cautious.”
Voldemort hides his smile. Clever little liar.

“I shall accompany you.” Harry won’t have any choice but to take him, surely. “Nothing can
happen to you in my presence.”

(-)

It takes months for the girl and Harry to adjust to each other. Voldemort has to intervene from
time to time, when it seems Harry just can’t take it anymore, too exhausted to even eat.

Other than that, he does his best to stay out of their way. To enjoy time on his own, now that
Harry is busy with Delphini, at all times of the day.

Weasley gets attacked again, and it is obvious Murphy is trying to take him to use the boy as
leverage with Harry, in exchange for Voldemort.

But they can’t get the redhead, sadly. His older brothers were there and they all escaped
capture.

No matter; Murphy will try again. He won’t give up. He never did.

Voldemort just has to wait. And when it happens, when they’ll force Harry to bring
Voldemort along-

In the chaos, it is not unreasonable to expect Harry might lose his life.

(-)

“I can speak to sneaks,” Delphini offers, apropos of nothing.

Harry is away visiting his godson. He left first thing in the morning, presumably because he
can’t meet Voldemort’s eyes after the past night.

The boy hates that he misses being a Horcrux; he hated even more the way Voldemort teased
him about him.

“I know. No, it needs to boil more,” he says, when Delphini wants to take the pot off the
flame.

“Ouch! Harry told you?” She rushes to the sink and holds her hands under cold water, after
touching the handles of the hot pot.
She always burns or cuts herself when she helps him cook. Voldemort doesn’t stop her from
making these mistakes. It is the only way to learn. The fastest.

And she is much better than she’s been just weeks before.

“I was there when you said your first word in Parseltongue.”

Delphini turns her head to look at him, the pain in her hands forgotten.

“I didn’t know! What did I say? When was it? Where? Was mama there? Did she-”

“Child,” Voldemort hisses, and she calms herself.

“Sorry.” She bites her lips. She knows he doesn’t like it when she gets too excited.

“We were at Malfoy Manor,” Voldemort tells her, preparing the meat. He always enjoyed
cooking. It was similar to potion making.

And a life skill. It’s not like he had elves at the orphanage, or after he was done with
Hogwarts.

When he returned from his travels, he did have elves, Rodolphus put them at his disposal.
Even so, on the rarer and rarer occasions he’d find himself hungry, he’d wait for night to fall
and he’d cook for himself, confusing the elves.

Voldemort didn’t trust anyone not to poison him. Especially since he knew how easily one
could influence an elf to slip something into his food.

“A great snake attacked one of Lucius’ peacocks while we were in the gardens.” Voldemort
misses Nagini, here and there. Smarter than any serpent, corrupted by his soul, but so loyal.
Like Bella. She would have done anything for him, and she would have never betrayed his
secrets, even if she’d wanted to. Who would understand her?

“You got frightened. You could barely walk, but you waddled away.”

“No, I wasn’t! I’m not afraid of anything! I don’t fear snakes!”

Voldemort ignores her outburst.

“Your mother tried to take you away, but I didn’t allow it. I wanted to see if you’d be a
Parselmouth. And you were.” He’d only seen Delphini a handful of times before that. He
didn’t want to acknowledge her. But that day, when he’d heard her hiss, he fully realised he
had a daughter. He couldn’t imagine her as Rodolphus’ child any longer. “You are,” he
corrects himself.

“What did I say?” she asks, sibilant and smooth.

Harry said he could never talk the language if he didn’t have a snake in front of him. He
needed to see one, even a fake one. He needed to imagine it moving. He didn’t even realise
he was speaking in Parseltongue the first times he did it, at that zoo with his cousin.
That was because he was no Parselmouth. He couldn’t control it. It was only the piece of
Voldemort inside him that could access the gift.

Delphini, like Voldemort, doesn’t need a snake. They can always distinguish between
Parseltongue or English, no matter how natural they both come.

“You said ‘go away’.”

Delphini giggles. “Did it obey me?”

Voldemort huffs. “No.”

Nagini was patient, allowed Delphini to first hit her, then pet her, when Voldemort explained
to Delphini Nagini will not hurt her.

It was the fifth and last time he saw Delphini. The last time they were together- she, Nagini,
Bella and Voldemort.

An uncomfortable sensation falls over him, but he quickly banishes it.

“I had many pet snakes,” Delphini says. “They’d always find me in the woods. I wanted to
keep them all. Poor Rody was exasperated. Some bit him.” She giggles again. “Not all snakes
listen to me.”

“They will, as you grow older.”

“The ones that wouldn’t listen, Rody killed them and cooked them. We didn’t always have
enough food. Sometimes, he grew so paranoid about Aurors that he would refuse to step foot
near any sort of village, for months.”

Voldemort puts down the salt and looks at her. She’s checking the soup. She doesn’t look
bothered.

“But the sixth Bella I found- I always named the females Bella, so Rody wouldn’t cook them-
she helped us hunt. She’d catch rabbits and bring them to Rody.”

“You had a varied diet,” Voldemort says, after a few seconds, for lack of anything better to
add to the conversation.

“I was almost never hungry,” she says, smiling, looking up at him. “Even if food was sparse
sometimes, Rody would give all of it to me. I only felt true hunger with Rowle.”

A shadow falls over her face. Her eyes glint, hands curled into fists at her side.

“She’d dead,” Voldemort points out.

Delphini takes a few seconds to refocus. “Yes, she is.”

Their eyes meet and they share a small smile.

(-)

He decides to make Harry aware of his Legillimency. He needs to teach the boy some basic
Occlumency.

If- when- Murphy will meet Harry, Voldemort doesn’t want the risk to have Murphy learn he
has his magic and wand back.

Harry reacts as expected. He freaks out, the little fool.

(-)

Delphini asks if she’s a pureblood at breakfast. Voldemort keeps silent, listens to Harry
stumble around an answer, with the grace of a drunk Hippogriff.

She’s less and less afraid of Voldemort as weeks pass, and soon she’ll find enough courage to
ask about his family.

It is not a conversation he’s eager to have.

(-)

Harry caves, as always, and allows Voldemort to train him in the mind arts.

It’s frustrating. The boy is gifted, he has good instincts, but he is so insecure, lacks even a
grain of confidence, that it’s difficult for him to learn anything.

Delphini always begs him to teach her, too.

She was born a natural Legilimens, like he was. Her mind is organised, admiringly so for one
so young. There is no hope of teaching her Occlumency, however. Not at this age.

But he shows her a few tricks to enable her to use Legilimency with more control.

(-)
He’s enjoying sex with Harry more than it is prudent.

He could give himself a pass in the beginning. It was natural to take such satisfaction into
fucking, dominating, the boy who defeated him, the one who is now keeping him prisoner.

But they’re sleeping together so often the novelty of it had worn off and Voldemort has no
more excuses to enjoy Harry’s body so much.

He thinks it’s because he misses someone, anyone, having such faith in him.

Delphi claims she loves him, but she is a smart girl. She wants to trust him, but she’s careful.

And Harry, when he’s not naked and sprawled on the bed, wouldn’t trust anything that comes
out of Voldemort’s mouth.

But when Voldemort fucks him, Harry gives up any control, puts his life and wellbeing into
Voldemort’s hands, completely.

Harry obeys every order, unquestioningly, and it’s so good to not have to be placating, to not
have to navigate Harry’s fears, Delphini’s hopes.

He can be himself.

He can have release in those moments, and not just the physical type.

Even immediately afterward, when Harry struggles to come back to his right mind, when he
collapses under his shame and guilt, Voldemort likes soothing him through it.

See, I can be a generous lord. If you’d do what I want, I would always take care of you.

(-)

“It’s good,” Voldemort says, when he takes the first bite of whatever it is Harry sets in front
of him at dinner.

The boy instantly flushes, a red tinge on his cheeks. He rubs the back of his head, lowering
his eyes. “Err, thanks.”

Voldemort hides his smirk, and Delphini starts talking about one of her books.

It’s the first time Voldemort gives something resembling a compliment for his cooking and
Harry stays red for some ten minutes, but a grin spreads over his face.

You poor idiot, Voldemort thinks.

He wants to determine how Harry’s need for praise would work in day-to-day life, if it would
make him bend as he does in bed.
(-)

Harry is reading up on Oaths. Again.

It’s right there, in the first paragraph. Clear as day. It breaks on his death.

Harry knows he’s immortal. He doesn’t want to think of it; he doesn’t acknowledge it at all,
because for him, eternal life is a curse.

He’s deluded himself into not believing it. But every time some article singing him praise
points out how young he looks, younger than all his friends, something like panic blossom in
his eyes.

Even with all his denial, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware of it. That, and
knowing Voldemort’s Oath in itself prevents him from killing him reassures the boy.

Will he choose to come back?

Voldemort knows that, eventually, when he’s old enough, when all his friends are dropping
dead around him, Harry will want to stay dead.

He wants to die, now. Or a part of him does. He’d have killed himself long before, if only he
didn’t feel that he was not allowed to give up.

But now he has Delphini. Will he leave her behind?

It’s not that important, Voldemort tells himself. It would be better for his plans if Harry
returns. His name and the reputation that comes with it would be greatly beneficial to
Voldemort.

But if he doesn’t, it is no significant loss.

“You’ll never figure it out,” Voldemort says, sitting beside him.

Not even Voldemort knows yet how Harry will die or who will kill him. He can imagine how
it will go down, but he can’t plan it.

Harry sighs and closes the book. “I’ve got a headache.”

“You exhausted your only remaining neuron, you poor thing. Go back to reading your comic
books.”

Harry fights off a smile. “You’re an arse,” he mumbles.

He waves a hand and one of those foolish booklets comes flying to them from a stack.
Harry used to forget he was a wizard, when Voldemort first came to live with him. He’d have
gotten up and went to retrieve the book himself. At the very least, he’d use his wand.

It’s the way the magical society conditions young witches and wizards; makes them reliant on
wands that can be traced, controlled, verified.

They introduce non verbal spells in their sixth year at Hogwarts. They never touch on
wandless spells, even if all of them did them as children.

Wizards forget they are magic and don’t need a wand for simple things.

But seeing Voldemort do magic that way, day in, day out- Harry unconsciously imitates him.

If the boy would like to study, if he wouldn’t be so depressed and sensitive, he could become
a relatively powerful wizard.

But Harry has no interest in power.

“You’d hate Superman,” Harry says, getting more comfortable on the couch. And then he
launches into explaining the ridiculous character to him.

Harry does not know how to tell a story. He’s chaotic, too excited to make much sense.

“Oh wait, I didn’t tell you about Lex Luthor! So-”

How easily the boy goes from mopey to animated. As Voldemort pretends to show interest in
the story, Harry smiles more and more, gets a lively spark in his eyes.

Voldemort very much enjoys how much control he has over the boy moods, how easily he
can drive Harry to despair or to ecstasy, in less than five minutes.

(-)

Delphini is a very good liar. Harry doesn’t do as bad as Voldemort expected.

The meeting with the mudblood goes well.

Except for Delphini climbing in his lap and hugging him. She inherited her mother’s desire to
touch people.

Bella would always kiss and hug Narcissa, cling to her at all times.

She’d drag Draco in her arms, to the boy’s increasing discomfort.

She always sat down on Rodolphus or Rabastan’s laps, snuggling at their chests.
Even when she’d torture people, she liked to be close and personal, caressing them in a
mocking manner, scratching them with her long nails.

When Voldemort allowed it, rarely enough, she couldn’t get enough of him. Even when he’d
been bald and with dried, flaky skin, with no nose, she still wanted to touch.

He wonders if Harry would be so eager to have sex if Voldemort would look like that again.

He doubts it. Not so much because the boy would be superficial enough to care about looks,
but because he wouldn’t be able to confuse Voldemort with Tom Riddle anymore.

(-)

“You did well today,” Voldemort whispers in his ear, after the mudblood left and Delphini
picked up all her toys. “You pleased me.”

Words he only says in bed, usually.

Voldemort touches his hip, just slightly, drawing closer.

Harry goes stiff all over.

Delphini is eating a bowl of ice cream at the table, yapping away about her ‘superb acting
skills’.

He wishes he could see Harry’s face, but he’s plastered to his back.

Luckily, his daughter is quick to tell Voldemort all he needs.

She looks up from her bowl and frowns. “Harry, are you alright? You’ve gone red as a
tomato.”

Harry turns and hides his face in Voldemort’s chest.

“Aww, that’s so romantic!” Delphini exclaims, clutching her spoon to her chest.

(-)

Lucius gets those crazy Black women in hand, as Voldemort expected, and they cease trying
to take Delphini from Harry.
Lucius is rather useful. Always was. Voldemort needs to find a way to communicate with
him.

It’s clear he needs Lucius when Murphy and his followers fail to capture Longbottom. How
frustrating.

“I need you to do something,” he tells Delphini, one night, after he told her another story
about Bella. “But Harry cannot ever find out.”

Delphini looks up at him, conflicting emotions in her eyes. She bites her lip.

“Will it hurt him?”

“No,” Voldemort lies, holding her gaze with no issues. “But it would help me. And Lucius.”

And she likes Lucius, has a little crush on him. She’s only been to the Manor a handful of
times, but she’s rapidly warming up to Lucius.

“Alright,” she accepts, though she sounds doubtful.

(-)

He abhors it when the boy calls him ‘Tom’.

It’s the greatest insult.

He’s been called a mudblood, a monster, a psychopath, a piece of shit- so many, many things,
yet nothing is as insulting as that cursed name.

He reminds himself that Harry- unlike Dumbledore- doesn’t mean it as an insult; it’s the only
thing that stops Voldemort from torturing him.

That and how guilty Harry is whenever he slips up, too lost in his fantasies, and the name
comes up.

It serves to remind Voldemort that he can never stop acting with Harry.

The boy will never accept him as he is; Harry will always need a crumb of ‘Tom’ to be kept
at Voldemort’s side. Just enough so Harry can cling to something.

(-)
“I almost like Teddy. He’s not that smart, but then no one is.” Delphini admires a beautiful
bracelet she received from Narcissa.

It’s four in the morning, but it didn’t stop her from coming to the library and disturbing his
peace.

It’s impossible to get her to stay away. Unless he’s willing to hurt her.

And he isn’t.

“Teddy is family,” she says. “So he’s fine. I like Andromeda, too. She reminds me of mama.”

Delphini has no memory of her mother, but she’s seen pictures, so she decided Andromeda is
close enough.

“I don’t like Draco. He’s annoying and weak. He allows that wife of his to walk all over him.
”

Voldemort nods, turning the page of his book. His daughter has good intuition.

“I really like Lucius. He’s handsome.”

He groans.

“Who do you like the most?” he asks, because he can’t bear to think about that.

“Harry,” Delphini says, without hesitation.

He snorts. “He’s handsome too?”

She makes a face. “He’s pretty, I suppose. But he’s…” Delphini ponders on it. “He’s warm. I
like how he smiles. He’s a bit naive, but I like that, too.”

“I agree.”

She stands and makes her way to him, stopping when she’s uncomfortably close, staring
straight into his eyes. “Do you like me?” she asks, and he forgets she’s just a child,
sometimes, but he’s forcefully reminded of it just then.

“I’m getting there,” he says, slowly, deciding to be honest. “It takes time, with me.”

She nods, serious. “But you don’t hate me.” She bites her lip. “You always say you can’t
stand children-”

“I don’t hate you. I tolerate you just fine.”

“Good,” she smiles. “Because I love you.”

Voldemort could brush off Bella’s love as lust and obsession. He can brush off Harry’s love
as naivete and trauma.

But he doesn’t know what to do with Delpini’s love, how to dismiss it.

It makes him uneasy.

(-)

“Come.” He leads her to the pantry, past the secret door that he doubts Harry ever noticed.

Even if he did, he could never open it. Neither can Voldemort.

They shoulder their way through the many shelves. He gestures to the barely visible door and
Delphini places her hand on it-

It springs open.

The heart of the house. The source of its magic.

Empty and made of stone, the only room to remain unchanged since Grimmauld was built
centuries ago, far before muggles started building their own houses around it, forcing the
Blacks to perform incredible magic to hide it between the muggle constructions.

The runic circle is visible on the floor, blood stains that gathered over a thousand years, every
generation on Black adding to it.

Sirius Black has been the last one; his blood was so potent the magic still held strong, even
after so many years, keeping the wards up.

It protects Harry, that is clear, it keeps the house hidden, but whatever Black tried to do, like
adding the clearly new runes with Harry’s name inside the circle- Harry is no Black, no
matter how hard his godfather tried.

“First, we’ll consolidate the circle.” He tells Delphini. “Your mother’s cousin died some eight
years ago. It is time to feed the runes again.”

She nods, and he cuts her finger. She winces, but grinds her jaws together, determined.

He explains the runes to her, distracting her from the pain, as she draws her blood above the
old ones, careful to not go over the lines.

Voldemort can feel the magic that is always present in the house grow stronger, with fresh
Black blood.
“And now erase Harry’s name- that’s the rune for him.” Voldemort points at Sirius Black’s
attempt to make the house accept Harry.

He wasn’t successful, but he didn’t exactly fail. The house does at least permit Harry some
things.

No more, Voldemort thinks, pleased.

She takes out her wand. Voldemort helped her practice for two days straight. With all his
power, he could never add or erase anything in that house that was put there by a Black.

“Evanesco!” she says, clearly, her wand steady in her hand.

The rune goes away and the house’s allegiance shifts firmly, incontestably, to Delphini, and
Delphini alone.

“I feel bad,” she says, when they are back in the library. “Like I am stealing from him.”

Voldemort waves a hand, dismissively.

“Your mother grew up in this house, at least partly. It is yours, by birthright.”

It’s not the first time he assures her in this manner to assuage her guilt.

“Yes, but- he lives here. Cousin Sirius gave it-”

“Do you plan to kick Harry out?”

“NO!” Delphini shouts. “Never!”

“See, there’s nothing to feel bad about.”

(-)

Connecting the Floo to Malfoy Manor proves more difficult than he suspected.

The Ministry keeps strict control and observation over such matters. Of course, when
Voldemort worked at Borgin and Burke’s, one of the services he offered was to illegally
connect Floo’s for his clients.

But Lucius tells Voldemort, through Delphini, that the Aurors not only have new ways to
oversee such matters, invented recently, but they are especially keeping an eye on Malfoy
Manor.

They can’t track Grimmauld, Unplottable as the Blacks made it, but it is of no help if Malfoy
Manor is compromised.
 Voldemort researchers through ancient books concerning magical structures and blood magic,
and finally comes up with a solution.

He instructs Lucius, through a letter passed through Delphini, to use Draco’s blood and send
a vial of it to Voldemort.

The boy is the only one alive with both Malfoy and Black blood. His blood is the only one
recognised and trusted by both ancient houses.

They don’t exactly connect the Floo- not in a manner that the Ministry can detect. They
simply connect the houses, through Draco’s blood, and even if the fireplace is the bridge, it is
such ancient, dark magic, that he very much doubts any Auror alive could begin to guess it or
invent a spell to track it.

Voldemort has no Malfoy nor Black blood. He won’t be able to use it at all.

Only Lucius.

And there he is, stepping out of the fireplace, at a date Delphini told him to, when Voldemort
knew Harry would be busy celebrating the mudblood’s daughter birthday.

Chapter End Notes

We'll continue with Voldemort POV next chapter. It was supposed to be just one, but it
grew massive, over 30k words, so I had to break it in half.
I promise, the next chapter will be here before the year ends (it's almost all written).
 Chapter 22
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Voldemort’s old temper flares when Lucius sits in front of him.

He has his wand, he’s free of the cuffs, but he’s still a prisoner, and they both know it.

Voldemort worked hard to get his magic and his wand back; he was tortured and there Lucius
sits, no concern in the world-

He reins his temper in before he does something regrettable. He needs Lucius, as grating as
the thought is.

He is the only man Voldemort has in his corner at the moment.

And, as always, Lucius is full of information. Murphy reached out to him several times.

Lucius is hiding Travers and Avery from the Aurors. That is excellent news; Travers is a
strong, capable man.

“I am surprised you didn’t sell them out,” Voldemort says, detached.

Lucius doesn’t hesitate. “Those I could save, I did. My closest friends.” A short, tense
silence. “I also had a pretty good idea where Antonin was. I could have, if pressed enough,
helped them track Rodolphus down. But I didn’t.”

Voldemort did. Lucius is reminding him they both did what they had to, to save their own
skins.

“Can we trust Travers and Avery?” Voldemort makes an effort to include Lucius, to say ‘we’.

“Travers, yes. Avery… not yet. He’s suffered many losses. His faith in us is shaken.”

“I am sure he’ll find himself invigorated after I am back in power.”

“Undoubtedly. Until then, it would be prudent to keep him in the dark. But Travers is solid.
He always was.”

And efficient. In the first war, he practically killed the McKinnons on his own.

Rodolphus always spoke highly of Travers, and Voldemort trusts him only because of that.

“How is your standing with the Ministry?”

“Poor,” Lucius says, honest. “But not as poor as it used to be, five years ago. Shacklebolt is
impossible to win over. He takes my gold when he needs it, but he will never trust me.”

“Aurors,” Voldemort huffs. Much harder to fool than politicians.

“Indeed. But I am making…. progress with his undersecretary. A Ravenclaw, half blood. His
mother comes from good stock, an old family in Scotland. He is a naive, mudblood loving
fool, but he’s susceptible to bribes and is… willing to give second chances.”

“Second chance? You’re at your forth, at least.”

Lucius smirks. “You know Ravenclaws. They like to think they can’t be fooled. He’s aware
of my track record, but he believes he’s smarter than his predecessors. He won’t bend his ear
just yet, but he’s willing enough to slip some harmless information here and there. And I am
sponsoring a couple of young talents that are just climbing up in the Ministry ranks. From the
shadow, of course. They need money, they need advice to advance forward, and I can give
both.”

“You’ve done well.” Not that Voldemort is surprised. Lucius was never going to shut himself
in his Manor and fade away.

“I did what I could for my son. So he can one day enjoy good standing. But, in light of recent
developments, I shall double my efforts, to make sure I will get back some influence. I’m not
there, but if you give me another year or so, my lord, I’ll carve myself a spot in the Ministry
again.”

“We’ve got time. Take it slow. Steady. I’m working the mudblood. Granger. Weasley. If I get
my hooks in her, she enjoys much respect.”

Lucius doesn’t seem shocked to hear there is a possibility famous Granger might work for
Voldemort.

“If I may-” he says, and waits.

“You may.”

“She doesn’t have respect, exactly. She has influence, she obviously holds the Minister’s
trust, but… respect… she’s stepping on too many toes, too quick. She’s crass and forceful,
bent on change at whatever cost. It’s not even just us old purebloods that find her distasteful.
Even her fellow mudbloods, that share her political views, find her hard to stomach, due to
her arrogance. And she’s completely unaware of how she comes across. If you’d accuse her
of arrogance, she’d splutter in indignation.”

Voldemort laughs. “Yes. But she has influence and I will make sure she’ll gain a great deal
more. I’m planning to move her from the Department for the Regulation and Control of
Magical Creatures to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We need to secure that
department first. It’s crucial we have the Aurors under control.”

“It would be ideal. We never had them in the past.”

“Crouch was impossible to reason with. And so were Moody and Shacklebolt, that came after
him. The mudblood- she has a weakness.”

Moody and Shacklebolt never had families. Crouch did, but he was an atypical man. He did
not allow his work and morals to be compromised by family loyalty.

The mudblood would do anything for her children, however.

“I’m helping her with her ridiculous creatures. Elves, centaurs, merpeople- The more
successful she becomes, the faster they will promote her. Do support her, quietly, in whatever
nonsensical proposition she has for the Wizengamont. I do my best to make the papers….
close to reasonable, but no one gives a damn about creatures.”

Lucius smiles. “She’s been trying for years with her elf liberation. She was laughed out of
that room plenty of times, I am told. But as soon as I heard the new draft, I knew you wrote
it, my lord. As impossible as it seemed that she’d be acquainted with you, there was only one
man that could make that outrageous idea sound plausible.”

Voldemort feels a bone deep exhaustion when he remembers the thousands of rolls of
parchments he’d had to go through, written in the mudblood messy scrawl. The two dozen
books she’s sent over, as ‘reference’.

(-)

“Please, may I have a story about Rody today?”

It is already an unusual request; Delphini only wants to hear about her mother. And then he
sees her eyes tearing up.

His eyes. It always rattles him to see them on her face- kinder, with a half corrupted
innocence. Different, yet the same.

“Please.” Her voice breaks.

Oh. He thinks he knows what’s the matter. “Today was his birthday, wasn’t it?”

Delphini nods, wiping away a stray tear.

He already learned that demanding she stop crying rarely helps matters, so he ignores it.

He knew Rodolphus far longer than he knew Bella. But there is not much to say. Not as much
as with Bellatrix.

Rodolphus was always there, loyal to the bone, a good listener when Voldemort ranted about
someone or another.
He thinks Delphini already knows more about Rodolphus than he ever did.

He finds some stories from when they were very young, still in school. It’s not much, but
Delphini is easy to please when it is story time.

Every minor, insignificant detail he shares, she treasures.

“You don’t have to cry for him,” Voldemort says, when he’s done. “Rodolphus is not the type
of man that needs crying over. He was a powerful, wealthy wizard that always did what he
wanted. He lived his life the way he chose, and he lived it fully.”

“I know.” And yet even knowing, she hiccups, pathetically. “He’d be upset if he knew I cried
because of him. But I can’t help it. I miss him.”

“Isn’t Harry giving you all you need? Don’t you like him?”

“I love Harry,” Delphini says, fiercely. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t miss Rody. Why would
it mean that?”

Voldemort isn’t sure.

“I wish I could have all three of you.” She looks to her right, where her dolls rest on a pillow.

The one that is clearly supposed to be a woman is between two identical men. And then
another man, but Delphini cut of a portion of its legs and coloured his eyes a bright green.

“I tried to make him shorter,” Delphini explains, seeing his raised eyebrows. “And I tried to
make Rody’s hair red-” she lifts one of the dolls, shows him some red stains in its hair. “But
it doesn’t stick.”

Voldemort doesn’t have to move a finger, and the hair turns the exact shade of red Rodolphus
had.

She makes a joyful noise.

“Can you give Harry’s legs back, but still have him shorter?”

Voldemort nods, changing its eyes to a proper green, too.

“Why am I wearing a bathrobe?” he asks.

“These are muggle dolls, father. They don’t come with robes, but Harry bought me a
bathroom set with all the accessories. It was the closest to a magical robe I could get.”

“That won’t do.”

Delphini really is easily pleased. She’s never looked as childish, smiling from ear to ear as he
changes the remaining dolls, making them more lifelike. He spends perhaps too much time
with the Bella one, giving her hair the shine and the curls he remembers, painting her lips red.
He needs his wand for such detailed work, and he can’t remember a time where he used his
wand for something as silly.

When he’s done, Delphini happily arranges them back on her pillow, with Bella in between
him and Rodolphus, and Harry to his side.

“You couldn’t have had us all,” he says after a minute or so of silence. “If Bella was here,
there would be no Harry.”

“I know,” she whispers. “Do you think mama is upset with me because I love Harry?”

“No,” he assures her. “She’d want you to have someone like him in your life.”

Granted, she might be peeved it’s Potter, of all people, but he’s so kind to Delphini, so loving,
she would put aside anything else, even his affiliation to Dumbledore, even his blood status.

Well, she already set aside the blood status matter when she decided to keep a half-blood’s
child, he imagines.

“I really miss Rody,” Delphini whispers.

Voldemort feels just a tiny bit of discomfort.

The girl will find out, eventually. Better if I tell her.

“He wanted to be with your mother, you know? It was what he desired.” He hesitates for a
second. “He had to die, so I can be free. I was kept in a cell, before. But I bargained his life
for my freedom. It is what he would have wanted,” he says again, more forcefully. “Maybe-
well, they didn’t want his life. They wanted him in Azkaban, but I did him a favour and
spared him of that.”

He watches her carefully, but she has no reaction.

“I looked through the bin, after Harry threw away the newspapers,” she says, after a brief
silence. “I found the one that said Rody killed himself.”

Her eyes spark.

“He didn’t give those filthy dogs the opportunity to hurt him,” she spits, venomous. “He
mumbled in his dreams about Azkaban. I am glad he didn’t go back there.”

That’s a relief. He nods. “Yes.”

“Sometimes, when he was very drunk, I could fool him I was asleep when I really wasn’t.
And he would get outside the tent and speak with mama’s star.”

Delphini sniffs again, wiping at her eyes. “He’d tell her he wants to be with her, that every
day he wakes up he hates that he still lives. That he should be with mama and with you. But
he couldn’t, because he had to take care of me.” Her hands tighten into fist, gripping her
blanket. “It made me feel very guilty. Poor Rody. He had to stay here because of me.”
He doesn’t understand the guilt she speaks of; why should she care so much about
Rodolphus’ wants and needs, when he was a grown man, making his own choices?

“It’s done now. Everything is as it should be. I made sure of it.”

It’s perfect that she won’t resent him for having Rodolphus killed.

She nods, but it takes her a few minutes to relax.

“I read a lot of old newspapers and documents in the cellars of Malfoy Manor. I was trying to
find your name.”

Voldemort watches her intently. “You know my name.”

“I know Voldemort.” That Edward boy filled her in. “But I wanted to find out the other one.”

“You know that one, too. Harry told you.”

He’d seen it in her mind occasionally.

Tom, she would think, trying the name out. It doesn’t suit him.

It made him smile

“Please. It would be my name, too.”

“No,” he answers, appalled at the idea that he’d give anyone that Muggle’s name. “You are a
Black; your mother would be over the moon if she knew you’d carry her name. She never got
used to Lestrange.”

“Please.” Delphini won’t desist.

Voldemort waves his wand. The old trick, in reverse.

I AM LORD VOLDEMORT swirls in the air and then it turns into the old name, letters
arranging themselves.

Delphini watches, fascinated. “That’s clever,” she whispers, when the letters vanish. “Thank
you.”

“You will never speak it, to anyone.”

She nods her acceptance.

“I like Marvolo,” she says, smiling.

“It was my grandfather’s name,” he tells her, after another brief hesitation. “He was a Gaunt.
You can look them up in the books about noble lineages down in the library.”

“I will,” she whispers. She turns on her side, taking the Bella doll in her arms. She closes her
eyes. “When I will grow up and have a baby, I will name him Marvolo.”
Voldemort blinks in surprise. He stares at her for a long time, even after she falls asleep.

He has half a mind to wake her up and demand she never grow up, let alone have a child.

Because if she does, she’ll make him a grandfather. She’ll add another title to him that he
never desired, never consented to.

This child he’s only starting to get used to will change, will transform into a woman and he
can’t stop it, has no control over it.

Will she have friends? Lovers? A family?

He never considered it. But it seems it is something she desires. No doubt Rodolphus filling
her head with pureblood nonsense, with a woman’s role in society.

Or maybe Harry is at fault with his fantasies about family and children.

And there the boy is, opening the door and peeking inside.

“Everything alright?” he whispers, looking at Delphini’s sleeping form. “You’ve been here
kinda long.”

It doesn’t concern me, Voldemort tells himself. What Delphini will choose to do with her life.
Once he’s out of the Oaths, he can and will be focused on his own life.

He will always make sure she is safe and in good health, but the rest? No, it is not his
concern.

He stands. “Today was Rodolphus’ birthday,” he answers, in a low voice.

“Oh.” Harry’s face falls, eyes softening. “That’s why she was out of sorts. I wish she’d have
told me.”

Voldemort pushes him out of the room, closing the door behind them. “It’s done now. She’ll
be back to normal when she wakes up.”

“God, you’re so clueless.” Harry looks up at him, shaking his head. “You think you can be
sad over losing someone for a day and then it’s done with?”

No. Even he understands that is not how it works. Bella still bothers him. Not as much as it
did in the beginning. Not as much since he made sure he will never see her again, even if he
dies and goes back to King’s Cross.

Especially not as much since he made the Horcrux.

But it’s not over. There are still moments, rarer and rarer, in which her memory will bring
discomfort.

Yet it’s not something that impacts his behaviour.

Harry’s loses cling to him, drag him down into a dark, hopeless hole he dug for himself. The
boy lives half in the past, shares his dreams with the dead.

Voldemort understands that life moves on. Delphini is the same.

(-)

Harry is getting more comfortable. To the point where he’s initiating sex. Every day he
forgets a little more who Voldemort is, forgets he is the same snake like monster that tortured
him in a graveyard.

It doesn’t happen often, but not because the boy still feels guilty about wanting to be intimate
with Voldemort.

Harry just likes it better if Voldemort is the one to initiate because Harry desires to feel
wanted.

All his guards are down.

Gone are the days when Harry would barely shower, afraid to be vulnerable around
Voldemort, hiding his wand constantly.

Now Harry takes long baths, wasting up to an hour just soaking in the bathtub, his wand left
on the nightstand, beside Voldemort.

In the beginning, when Voldemort cooked, and he was armed with a kitchen knife, Harry
would keep his distance, shoulder tense, watching him like a hawk.

Now he moves around Voldemort’s transfigured sharp, sharp knives without even paying
attention.

When his friends visit, Harry doesn’t sit there anxiously, hovering at Voldemort’s side.

He even goes out with Ronald and Delphini to Tesco, leaving Voldemort alone with
Hermione.

It’s Ronald that doesn’t seem comfortable leaving his wife behind, but the readhead still
thinks Voldemort is cuffed, without magic.

The mudblood is very confident. She never feels unsafe. Not even after she sees him do
magic.

“Harry told me you still have access to some of your magic,” she says, one day, when they
are alone in the living room, the boys and Delphini down in the kitchen.
Voldemort waves a hand and the glamours around the living room fade, restoring it to the
way it usually looks, when they aren’t trying to hide all the improvements he made from the
Weasleys.

She swallows and looks around in awe.

“That’s… that’s a lot,” she whispers, but she seems more impressed than worried. She, too,
had lowered her guards, after hours of talks, after hundred of letter exchanged between them.

After the damned house-elves.

“A pale imitation of my true powers,” Voldemort says.

She bites her cheek, her intelligent but naive eyes fixed on the fake cuffs. “You designed
them.”

“I was wrong,” he says, simply. “I regret it.”

Simple works best with the mudblood. He makes sure to never overdo it, but to still always
state that he regrets his old ways.

“It’s a brilliant invention, actually. Of course, using it on muggleborns as you intended is

wrong, but if- this could be a good way to keep prisoners from escaping, without using
Dementors. Those creatures are wrong, using them to torture people, even Death Eaters…”
She shakes her head. “The cuffs seem more humane.”

They only seem so. There’s nothing more torturous than not feeling one ‘s own magic.
Nothing as cruel.

“What would you do if you had your magic back? If you were free?” She is hesitant to ask,
but she is brave.

“I try not to ponder on it. Doesn’t do me any good to imagine something that will not
happen.”

“But… but what if? You must think about it.”

So insensitive. The woman is completely unaware of other’s feelings. Not that Voldemort
needs his feelings coddled, but Lucius is right. She is completely unaware of social do’s and
don’ts.

What would seem believable?

“I would torture those that tortured me in the Ministry,” he says, because he would and she
knows he would.

She pales a little.

“And then I’d erase their memories of my existence.”

She swallows, thickly. “You wouldn’t… hmm… kill them?” She whispers.

“No. If two Aurors and the Minister of Magic drop dead at the same time, people would
question it.”

She frowns. “So you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t want people to know you are alive. You
wouldn’t plan for -for what you did before?”

“Hermione, I realise I made poor choices during the second war, but I wasn’t in my right
mind. I am not using it as an excuse; it is simply the truth. I am myself again. I wouldn’t do
the same mistake thrice. Clearly, war and brute force failed me, no matter how powerful I
was.”

Harry’s voice floats up the stairs, followed by footsteps.

“Hide it,” Hermione whispers. “This-” she gestures around the living room. “Ron- Ron
would worry. He doesn’t trust the cuffs as it is. No point in making him lose sleep.”

Voldemort waves his hand again and the room resumes a shabby appearance.

And even with such displays of power, the mudblood trusts the Ministry, trusts the cuffs she
checked herself, years and years ago.

She trusts that he is a changed man.

In many ways, she is more easily manipulated than Harry.

The boy never trusted book theories, he never trusted authorities.

Hermione places too much faith in the competence of her elders, in written knowledge found
in thick tomes.

You will have no one to blame but yourself, Voldemort thinks, gleeful.

Harry will have to live with the fact that it was his kindness that freed Voldemort from the
Ministry.

And Hermione will have only her stubbornness and her sense of superiority to blame.

If either of these two would tell Ronald all they know of Voldemort’s abilities, the man would
alert the Ministry before Harry could blink.

Because Ronald was raised in the magical world, with no logic or mathematics taught to him.
He understands magic has no rules and makes the impossible possible, in a way muggle
raised wizards and witches will never truly understand.

Voldemort struggled with the notion a lot, growing up. He had to actively, consciously
deconstruct all he knew of physics and gravity and logic. He put a lot of work into undoing
all he knew about the world and putting his faith in magic.
Neither Harry nor Hermione have the self awareness to do that.

(-)

Delphini is curled into an armchair reading Hogwarts; A history.

Harry lies on the couch, reading a comic book.

Voldemort thinks he could, potentially, enjoy a quiet afternoon like this, with the rain
washing down the streets of London, the wood in the fireplace crackling at his back and a hot
tea on his desk.

He could enjoy it, if he wasn’t trapped in it. If he’d been away for a week or at least a day,
and he’d return to this, he thinks he wouldn’t mind it.

But he can’t get away, so he resents it, instead.

You could be at the Ministry. This is preferable, he tells himself, to stave off his anger. It
wouldn’t do, after all, to walk up to Harry and strangle him.

So he sips his tea and tries to focus on his book.

“Harry?” Delphini whispers, mindful to keep her voice down while Voldemort reads.

“Yeah?” Harry has no such concerns, the disobedient hellion.

Delphini puts Hogwarts; A history down. “Why did Godric have a sword?”

“Oh.” Harry sits, running a hand through his wild, unkept hair.

Of course he doesn’t know, the uneducated, stupid little shit.

This boy defeated me-

No. Voldemort will not get angry.

“Because he was a Gryffindor,” he answers, and Delphini turns her head to look at him.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“Don’t mind him.” Harry rolls his eyes. “He means to insult Gryffindors, that we are dumb
and do senseless-”

“Godric had a sword,” Voldemort cuts over him, sharply. “Because he was a brave,
chivalrous man, traits that defined the House he founded. Muggles carried swords back then
and used them in confrontations. Godric considered it unfair to use a wand against muggles,
since they couldn’t defend themselves from it. So he had a sword, just in case he’d get into an
argument with a muggle, he could fight them on their terms.”

“Oh,” Harry says, sheepishly. “I didn’t know that.”

“I doubt you ever even had the good sense to question it,” Voldemort drawls.

“That’s stupid,” Delphini argues. “To fight with a lesser weapon just because your enemy
doesn’t have suitable weapons.”

“I agree,” Voldemort nods to her. “But that’s Gryffindors for you.”

“It’s not stupid,” Harry argues. “He was just being fair.”

“Why be fair when you can easily win without being fair?” Delphini questions, curious.

Voldemort almost pities Harry for a second. He looks so stumped.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he says, lamely.

It makes no sense to Delphini, as it never made sense to Voldemort.

She picks her book again. “I’ll be a Slytherin. Like mama. Slytherins seem to have the most
common sense.”

“Did you get to the part where Salazar hid a monster in the school to kill muggleborn
children?” Harry inquires, eyes narrowed.

Delphini laughs at him. “That’s just a myth, Harry. The book says so.”

Harry and Voldemort exchange a look over her head.

Harry opens his mouth but then he seems to reconsider what he was about to say.

It pains him he can’t talk badly of Slytherins, what with him imagining Delphini will be one.

Just like that, seeing the annoyed expression on Harry’s face, the flicker of worry in his eyes
as he looks at Delphini, probably pondering what kind of person she’ll shape up to be,
Voldemort’s anger is finally banished.

Harry didn’t win anything. He’s just as trapped as Voldemort. Even when Voldemort was
wearing chains, Harry was just as much of a prisoner of his own kindness and guilt.

“All Houses are respectable,” Voldemort says, graciously. Young ones still hold on so tightly
to House loyalties, but after a while it gets childish. No mature, self-respecting wizard should
take that nonsense into consideration. “They all have much to offer to any student.”

Harry seems surprised to hear it. His eyes soften and he offers Voldemort a smile.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right. They don’t determine who you are as a person, Delphini,” he says,
mostly to reassure himself that Delphini will grow to be a good girl, even if she is a Slytherin.

“Lucius says it does. That you make connections in your years at Hogwarts that stay with you
for life.”

“Friends,” Harry corrects her. “Children make friends, not connections. And you can develop
lasting friendships everywhere, not just in Slytherin. Stupid Malfoy-”

“He didn’t say you can only make connections in Slytherin,” Delphini argues, quick to
defend Lucius.

They start an argument about Lucius, and Voldemort kicks them out of the library and goes
back to his tea and his book.

(-)

“Was your father the muggle?” Delphini asks, clutching a genealogy book in her hands. Most
likely she just read all she could about the Gaunt family tree.

Voldemort gives her a look. “Didn’t Harry warn you not to pester me about that?”

She shrugs. “I’m taking my chances.”

He is caught between a desire to laugh or strangle her. Possibly both, at the same time.

He doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t desist. “I think he was. Did he die, too? When you were
very young, like your mother? Is that why you were in the orphanage?”

She looks so brave, talking about things she was warned not to approach. She looks
confident.

Voldemort gives her another look. “I killed him when I was seventeen.”

And just like that, all her confidence dissipates, her shoulders shoot up around her ears.

“Oh.” She exhales, softly.

“He left me,” Voldemort says. “That’s what happens if someone abandons me. I kill them.”

Delphini stares at him with wide eyes and parted lips.

Voldemort stares back.

Later that night, when Harry tries to tell her a story, Voldemort listens at the door.

Delphini isn’t interested in the story. “Harry, promise me you won’t leave us.”
“I would never leave you,” Harry says, softly. “I love you-”

“Us,” Delphini insists. “Harry, promise me you won’t ever abandon Father.”

Voldemort smirks and heads to his room.

(-)

“My lord,” Lucius bows his head, because Voldemort told him there is no need to kneel
anymore, since they are old friends.

Such is the indignity of having to depend on Lucius Malfoy, after torturing the man for the
better part of a year. Voldemort has to tread as carefully as possible.

He even serves the man expensive firewhiskey from the cellar, on a day that Harry is out with
Delphini. Voldemort ordered her to keep Harry away from the house for at least five hours.

He’d try to make polite conversation and ask about Lucius family in these meetings, but
Lucius is more likely to perceive that as a threat than civil interest.

Luckily, it is Lucius who brings them up, eventually.

Rodolphus always sneered at Lucius, calling him a pampered boy.

But he never had Lucius’ burdens. Rodolphus didn’t have a fragile wife and a son, in front of
whom he could never look weak.

Lucius is his family’s pillar of strength. Unlike Rodolphus, he would never complain to
Narcissa about a bad day, or ask for her help or advice.

Rodolphus never cared for his reputation in the Ministry, even before his imprisonment.
Which is why he was never as useful as Lucius was on that front.

Lucius always had to appear strong, unbending, to everyone around him. Not a moment of
weakness, or all those politicians would pounce on him.

Not even in his house could he relax, in an effort to never worry his bothersome family.

He was a very lonely young man when he came to Voldemort. His father had expectations,
the politicians were testing him, to see what kind of man they were dealing with, if he was as
harsh as his father or if they could take advantage of him.

Lucius was never allowed to be himself. He was never enough.

Once upon a time, Lucius laid himself bare in front of Voldemort, because he wanted a
mentor, a father figure that would tell him he was good enough, that he was appreciated.
Lucius was allowed to be weak, to crumble in front of Voldemort without judgement.

I was a fool, treating him the way I did in the second war.

But cold, heartless Lucius is so starved for a time where he could complain about something,
to anyone, that he seems willing to ignore their… distasteful past.

His daughter-in-law is driving him insane, it seems so, and Lucius complains about that.

“Greengrass had the good luck to escape with his reputation unscathed after the war. The fact
that he stood by my side, gave his daughter to my son, helped in our circles. I can’t alienate
him, but I can’t stand her much longer, either.”

“It is unfair, is it not? He delayed so much in picking a side, he came out pristine. While you
were fighting for his rights; his pureblood legacy and old ways,” Voldemort says.

Lucius stews in silence, a muscle jumping on his usually composed face.

“Once I am back in control, you won’t have to appease him any longer,” Voldemort says,
thankful to have something to offer Lucius.

Until now, he thought Lucius’ cooperation was only insured by the threat over his family.

But now Lucius wants something. Something Voldemort can give him. They can plot
themselves back into power, back into a position in which Lucius doesn’t have to put up with
Greengrass.

“I will kill her,” Lucius says, no inflection in his tone.

“Oh.” Voldemort is a tad surprised. Lucius was always best used in politics. He always
advised for a diplomatic solution, back in the first war. He did get his hands dirty when he
had to. He fought Aurors and even took part in some muggle hunting sports, as Rodolphus
called them, to ingratiate himself with his fellow Death Eaters. But to hear him jump straight
to murder- a girl- his own daughter-in-law…

“No one takes my son away from me,” Lucius says, voice still carefully measured.

Sneaky Lucius. It’s not exactly a threat to Voldemort, but a reminder that Lucius will do
anything, from unconditional support, to murder, to betrayal- anything it takes for his son.

Best settle this, then.

“You must know your family is safe from me,” he says, as nonchalant as he’s capable. “I was
unsure of your loyalties when I came to your Manor with Potter. But now that I know I can
trust you, I mean them no harm. Bellatrix was always very fond of her sister and nephew.”

Lucius eyes him carefully before he nods. “Yes, my lord. After all, we are now family.
Through Delphini. We will always have the same interests.”

Family. Voldemort suppresses a shudder. The audacity- family-

If it keeps him loyal, what does it matter?

(-)

“Was mama ladylike?” Delphini inquires, perched on a counter, watching Voldemort

preparing tea.

It’s three in the morning. She should be sleeping.

Yet she stalked after him when he left his room and followed him to the kitchen.

He had trouble sleeping since he was a child. He’d sit in his bed, bored and tired, but unable
to fall asleep. When he’d get caught going downstairs to the orphanage’s small sitting room
trying to find a book or a toy to occupy his time, the stern telling off “you should be
sleeping” never helped with his problem.

So he doesn’t tell her off, nor does he inform Harry that Delphini is often up during the night.

“Narcissa says I should behave like a lady. And I always wear nice dresses and I am mindful
of my manners, but she says that’s not all there is to it.”

“Your mother could conform to the asinine societal expectation of a lady.”

Bella could be the picture of a demure, well behaved woman. But then she’d also enjoyed
torture and went on murder sprees once in a while. She was dressed well for those occasions,
but certainly not a behaviour expected of her.

“I like to play ‘Aurors and Dark wizards’ with Teddy more than I like to play the piano with
Narcissa. But she says mama could play the piano and the violin.”

Could she? Voldemort has no idea.

“Best you learn to play any role, depending on what situation you find yourself in. But don’t
concern yourself with Narcissa. You don’t need to please her. She’s probably just uneasy to
see you pretend to be a dark witch in your game with the boy.”

Delphini shakes her head, her long hair flying around her head. “I play the Auror.” She
shrugs. “It would make Harry uneasy to see me play the dark wizard.”

Voldemort snorts, taking the kettle off the flame.

“Besides, I like to play the villain. It’s more fun.”

Voldemort frowns, pauses as he reaches for the milk. “I don’t think Aurors are considered
villains.”
Delphini shrugs again. “They are to me. They hunted for Rody and I. They arrested mama
and put her in Azkaban; Lucius, too. Harry couldn’t adopt me legally because of them. They
hurt you. Villains.”

What simple logic children have, even his child.

“How do you know they hurt me?”

Again with the shrugs.

Voldemort grabs her chin and forces her to meet his eyes.

“I heard Harry in one of your fights. He was screaming that you’ll never forgive them for the
way they hurt you.” She stares at him, in the intense way Bellatrix used to. “I will never
forgive them, either.”

“No one hurts Lord Voldemort, child.” He lets go of her chin and returns to his tea. “Heroes
and villains don’t exist. There is no such thing as good or evil. Only power and those too
weak to take it.”

Delphini likes this line better than Harry did when he was eleven. Her eyes spark, interested.

“I wanted power, and they tried to stop me. It was all there was to it. You’ll hear people
saying the war was about mudbloods, or corruption. About dark magic or a better society.
About resisting. Everyone has their own version. But it was about me and the people standing
in my way.”

“They won?” Delphini ponders on her question, frowning.

“No. I suffered some setbacks, but they did not win.” Voldemort hands her a cup of tea. “I
lost some battles. I lost followers. But not the war.”

She takes the cup, cradles it between her hands.

“Remember this: while you are alive, no battle is lost, no matter how hopeless your
circumstances can seem to get. You never give up.”

Delphini nods, carefully. “That’s very wise, father.”

It makes him smile.

“I know you lost mama and Rody. But I am here now.” She smiles back. “Rody always told
me I will grow to be extraordinary. I can be your follower and help you.”

Lord Voldemort does not need help, he almost tells her. Only he needs her at the moment. She
facilitated his communication with Lucius. She is an anchor that ties Harry to him. He needs
her silence and cooperation.

She’s proved more useful than many of his previous Death Eaters.
“Rody said you always granted him favours, because he served you well.”

He nods.

She gnaws at her bottom lip.

“If I serve you well, can I keep Harry?”

(-)

“We shall coordinate it,” Voldemort instructs Lucius. “Touch your mark, right before you go
into Rabastan’s cell. And then, after a minute, I shall call him through the mark.”

Otherwise, Rabastan will never listen to Lucius. Would never give money to blood traitors
and mudbloods. But he will when he understands it is Voldemort who commands it.

Rabastan will do anything for him, like his brother.

“Impress upon him the need not only to co-operate with the Ministry, but to take care of
himself. I need him as sane and recovered as possible. I want him to eat and try to regain
focus.”

Lucius nods. He’d been skeptical when he heard Voldemort was getting rid of Dementors.

“Aren’t they our allies?” he asked.

And they were. But they are driving his remaining followers insane. And their destruction is
vital to gaining the mudblood on his side, and, most importantly, get her transferred to the
D.M.L.E.

People are fallible. And it will be hastily trained people that will be put in charge of Azkaban,
with only two or three Aurors to oversee them.

A break-out won’t be impossible, down the line.

“The mudblood will insist the prisoners are allowed to mingle with each other, under
observation, to fulfil their social needs, which apparently is a human right or such nonsense.
Eventually, their observers will let their guard down. When that happens, Rabastan is to
spread the news that I am back, discreetly, to those loyal to me. Those sane enough to
remember it.”

“It will take a while,” Lucius says. “I need to find a way to convey this to Rabastan. And then
he’ll need time to deal with the others.”

“We have time,” Voldemort says, what he always says to Lucius.

“Forgive me for asking, but… Isn’t the mudblood suspicious? At least a little?”

“No. Like you pointed out, it also made sense to her that if I had bad intentions, I would keep
my allies, the Dementors, instead of destroying them.”

Lucius asks about Hermione from time to time. If she isn’t suspicious, if he is sure she will
do as she is told later on.

He never asks about Harry. Ever.

Why would he? After all, the boy got me out of my cell. What other proof would Lucius need
that Voldemort has Harry under his spell.

Delphini looks upset and guilty, as she always is after Lucius’ visits. She doesn’t like lying to
Harry. She fears he will get hurt.

“I was talking to Lucius about finding a way to set Rabastan free,” he tells her as they prepare
dinner.

In her excitement, Delphini almost slashes her finger off, with the knife she’s using to dice
the onions

“Rody’s brother? I heard so much about him. Rody said Rabastan loved me, too!”

She puts her finger in her mouth, sucking at her wound.

“Don’t do that,” Voldemort snaps at her. He puts a stasis spell on the sizzling steak, to teach
Delphini how to cast a simple healing charm that will work on minor cuts.

(-)

He stops trying to get Harry to release him from the Oaths. He never will.

And he’s growing impatient. Murphy is taking too long, far too long.

Voldemort has waited enough. Six years.

He cannot wait anymore.

(-)

“You need to set up an encounter between Edward and Murphy,” Voldemort says.
He can’t say more. He can’t explain his reasoning or the Oath might take it as plotting. He
can think it, but once he says he hopes Harry will lose his life- that is dangerous.

Lucius isn’t an idiot. He knows how Oaths works. He knows the shadows want Harry to get
to Voldemort. He, too, can imagine what would happen to Harry in such an encounter.

“Murphy is unlikely to harm the boy. I know you care about Edward-”

“Andromeda,” Lucius corrects him. “I care for Andromeda.”

He cares about the boy, too, but he won’t make himself admit it.

Lucius had gone to great lengths to keep them safe so far, knowing Edward is a sure way to
get Harry to do anything Murphy would demand.

“You can control the circumstances,” Voldemort points out. “I will not allow them to get hurt.
You can be there, too.”

Connect the dots. Envision what I do.

Lucius is silent for a long time, probably trying to gauge Voldemort’s plan.

“Give me one more month to scare Potter into releasing you. Please, my lord.”

Voldemort grinds his jaws together- you’re so close, so close to freedom, to no one daring to
make demands of you.

“You have two more months,” Voldemort says, generous, hoping to win Lucius’ favour,
enough that the man will send his dear sister-in-law and a child straight into the arms of dark
wizards.

(-)

Voldemort gives one last half-hearted attempt to scare Harry into letting him out of the
Oaths.

He pretends he is using Delphini to talk to Lucius. He pretends it could potentially hurt the
girl.

He hopes at least Harry might relent and allow Lucius to visit.

Lucius’ been visiting for months, but it’s always complicated to arrange. Harry leaves the
house less and less, as if sensing the peaceful times are coming to an end.

But Harry doesn’t crack. He’s frightened, but he doesn’t bend.

(-)

“Fourth of March,” Lucius says, pacing in Voldemort’s living room, once his two months had
passed. “Eight o’clock.”

Voldemort is very satisfied. He didn’t have to try to convince Lucius again. He didn’t have to
plan anything at all. No plotting whatsoever. He needn’t say a ward about Harry.

And it is so soon.

“I suggested they have Potter use Kreacher, the Black’s old elf, to get you.”

A good idea.

He’d tried to imagine how exactly will they come for Voldemort once they have Harry.
Lucius always finds a solution.

“Do you wish to join me, once I am there, or do you prefer it if I return Andromeda and the
boy-”

“I will be there,” Lucius says sharply. “My lord,” he adds, more contrite.

“I shall call you through the mark, the second I arrive.”

Lucius nods.

“Don’t interfere,” Voldemort orders.

“I won’t. Only enough to get Andromeda to safety.”

“You’ll need to raise an Anti Apparition ward. They will try to flee when they see I have my
magic back. And I want to kill them all there. It is vital no one escapes.”

“My lord, you should be careful with your wording,” Lucius says, eyes a bit wide. It’s getting
too close to plotting.

He thinks Voldemort wants to be trapped in an Anti Apparition ward with a dozen or more
dark wizards only because he needs one of them to have the opportunity to kill Harry. And
that is plotting.

But-

Voldemort smiles. “I have a plan, Lucius. Unrelated to my situation. It is for that than I am
planning. Is Travers ready?”

Lucius sits. “For anything.”

“There are three people, besides us, the Shadows and the Weasleys, that know of my
existence.”
“Savage, Proudfoot and Shacklebolt,” Lucius says, uselessly.

“Have Travers stalk Proudfoot. It would be best if he can snatch him on the fourth of March,
but if an opportune moment arises a day or two before, that is fine. They’ll think it was the
Shadows.”

Lucius frowns. “Snatch. Not kill?”

“Have Travers bring Proudfoot to your Manor. I shall deal with him, when I am free.”
Hopefully that very night.

“And I need you to get Savage. That very day. Preferably shortly before Andromeda is
taken.”

Lucius seems frozen for only a second, but then he relaxes, an excited look in his eyes.

“It shall be easy. I will call him at the Manor, tell him I have information.”

“Good.”

“And Shacklebolt?” Lucius asks.

“I only need to know where he is. I will deal with him.”

He trusts Travers would easily handle Proudfoot. He trusts Lucius is accomplished enough to
subdue Savage, especially if Savage will be taken by surprise.

But Shacklebolt is a ridiculously good fighter. He might win against Lucius or Travers.

“After Travers brings Proudfoot, I’ll have him discreetly monitor Shacklebolt,” Lucius says.
“When you are done with Murphy, you will know where to find the Minister.”

Voldemort nods. He’s getting terribly excited.

“How many of Murphy’s followers know of my existence?”

“Plenty,” Lucius says. “But still a small portion. It is not common knowledge. Since some of
them were your sympathisers, Murphy feared they would try to free you and put you back in
power. He only told his most trusted. And I imagine he will bring them all with him that
night.”

“And how many can they be?”

Not that Voldemort isn’t confident, but it’s one thing to deal with ten wizards at once, another
to deal with fifty.

“I’d say- twelve? Fifteen. But I can’t be sure.”

“Who has twelve trusted men?” Voldemort sneers, aggravated.

“You did,” Lucius says, softly, one eyebrow lifted.

I never in my life trusted twelve people, let alone all at once.

(-)

Harry struggles in his sleep. Voldemort sighs. It’s been happening often now, ever since he
told the boy he’s in contact with Lucius.

“Please, no! Please, don’t hurt her!”

Her. Who is Voldemort hurting? Lily Potter? Delphini? Hermione? Molly Weasley?

“No,” he moans. “No, please! NO!”

Harry sits, abruptly. He’s crying.

Outside of sex, Voldemort had rarely seen the boy cry. And it’s nothing like those silent tears,
right after they fuck.

It’s a proper cry, noisy and ugly, tortured. Potter can’t calm himself down.

Voldemort watches him for a few seconds, intrigued by the sight.

I like him crying, he thinks. There’s something so raw about it, so real.

Voldemort never wanted to feel strong emotions, and he has little personal experience with
them. But he always enjoyed inspiring them in others.

Awe, worship, fear, terror, adoration. Pleasure, pain. He enjoys getting them second hand,
filtered by someone else, to lessen their intensity.

Harry clings to him, body shaking with out of sync breaths. And isn’t it beautiful that he’s the
one causing Harry’s nightmares and fear and yet the boy still looks at him for assurance?

“You don’t ask me to set you free, anymore,” Harry sobs in his chest.

“I know a futile endeavour when I see one,” he answers.

“I can’t,” Harry says. “I want you to be free, but it would mean everyone else has to suffer.”

Not everyone. It need not be like before. Voldemort tried pure terror, twice, and it failed. But
the boy wouldn’t believe him, even if he’d promise.

And people will die. Not as many as before, but there is a list. Harry is so sensitive, he
wouldn’t agree to even one death; he wouldn’t pay such a simple price to set Voldemort free.

And yet he thinks he loves me.

Granted, Voldemort is not the authority on love, but from what he knows, if one loves
another, they wouldn’t want them imprisoned.

If what he felt for Bellatrix was love, if it was not- what matters is that he felt for her. He
wanted her free. He wanted her happy. He even accepted to be saddled with a child, a thought
he detested, just because he couldn’t bring himself to kill her.

Harry only loves a young man in a locket, a boy in a diary; not Voldemort.

Or maybe he learned the absurd concept from his dear mentor. Maybe it was Dumbledore
that thought him it was fine to lock up the man he loved.

“You will never forgive us for those years at the Ministry,” Harry whispers.

“You want me to be human,” Voldemort tells him. “And in this regard, I am as human as any
other. It is not in our nature to forgive, Harry. No one would forgive me for what I’ve done to
them. I could spend my life baking cookies for orphans and helping old ladies cross the
street, but they will never forgive me. Why should they? And why should I forgive them?”

They haven’t forgiven Lucius, after all, who spent the last years donating money left and
right, helping the Aurors with all they asked. He was nowhere near as destructive as
Voldemort and yet they still yell Death Eater after him in the streets. They want him in
Azkaban to rot in his own suffering.

“Why can’t we all do better?” Harry asks, fingers digging in Voldemort’s ribs.

How can you ask that after living around people for twenty something years? When will
Harry learn people can’t do better?

“I suppose because it would be hard work,” Voldemort throws a guess.

Being a good man looks like hard work. It looks like torture, constant inner fights, constant
loss and disappointment.

It’s really rather impressive that Harry still puts himself through all that, after everything.

Maybe Dumbledore wasn’t completely wrong. Maybe it is a twisted, painful strength of the
boy’s.

After all, if Harry wasn’t this determined to be good, Voldemort would kill him as soon as he
gets out of the Oath. As it is, he can be assured Harry won’t learn, won’t ever learn. He’ll
never raise his wand to kill Voldemort.

Not that he could, but even if he’d be powerful enough, Harry won’t want it.

(-)
“If you escape, will you leave Harry?” Delphini asks when Voldemort finishes a story about
Bella.

It was a good story, but Delphini seems more concerned with the boy.

“It depends on how he reacts to it.”

Delphini draws the blanket up to her chin, but she doesn’t take his eyes off him.

He stands, preparing to leave, when she speaks again.

“Will you leave me, if Harry doesn’t want to be with you anymore?”

Voldemort hesitates at the door. “Would you like to stay with him? Or would you rather come
with me?”

“I want to be with both of you.”

She pulls out a hand from under the blanket and she takes her Bella doll, holding her tightly.

“That is not what I asked.”

She sighs.

What would Bella want? Would she rather someone like Harry raise Delphini? Someone to
comfort her and lie to her that everything will be alright? Someone to hold her hand and wipe
her tears?

Or would she want her daughter to be with Voldemort?

“You can’t leave me behind,” Delphini says, voice tight. “You’re my father.”

“If you do what I ask, there won’t be a need to separate. If you obey me, it is likely Harry
will stay with us.”

(-)

Lucius comes through the fireplace, startling Voldemort.

Harry is at Malfoy Manor, after all.

“Travers just brought Proudfoot.”

“I trust Harry saw nothing suspicious.”

“Of course not. My elf picked Travers and Proudfoot at the edge of my property, miles and
miles away from the garden where the children play. She Apparated them into the cellars.”
“What’s his condition?”

“I didn’t linger long, but Proudfoot wasn’t doing too well. Travers is fine.”

“See to his injuries. I want Proudfoot alive. Now, return to your little get together.”

“Yes.” But Lucius doesn’t make a move to leave.

Voldemort quirks an eyebrow at him.

“My lord, I advised Murphy to be very careful with my- with Edward. He gave me his word
that he will only use a sleeping spell and that he will not inflict irreparable damage on
Andromeda. But if- if they are injured- I need to know that you’ll see to them, without
delay-”

“I will,” Voldemort promises, keeping the irritation out of his voice.

Lucius is excited for their plan to come to fruition. It means power. Of course he’s thrilled,
even with the guilt he feels for endangering his Edward and Andromeda.

But now that the day is almost upon them, Lucius must realise the second the Oath breaks,
Voldemort won’t be forced to play nice and be so accommodating anymore.

He’s excited, but he’s afraid, too.

“Lucius, you best return to the Manor before Harry has one of his panic attacks and decides
he returns home early.”

“Right. Yes. My Lord,” he gives one of those little bows. Every time they get less and less
deferential.

It’s almost just a nod now.

Voldemort sighs, watching Lucius step into green flames.

You never asked Rodolphus to kneel or bow before you, he reminds himself.

But Lucius is not Rodolphus.

Lucius wasn’t there from the very beginning, the first to bear the Dark Mark. Lucius wasn’t
as loyal. Lucius didn’t share his wife with Voldemort or raise his daughter as his own.

He is no Rodolphus, but, even so, Lucius will have to suffice.

(-)

Voldemort takes the book from Delphini, sitting beside her on the couch in the library.
She gives him an irritated look.

“In one hour, you will tell Harry you want something from Tesco. You will insist on it until
he agrees. He must go alone.”

The irritation turns to concern, fast.

She’s a wilful child, and she’s grown very bold with her questions.

Voldemort glares at her with more menace than usual.

He still expects ‘why’, and he’s ready to tell her to just do as she is told, or else.

Instead, she takes back her book. She waits for a heartbeat, before meeting his eyes, all traces
of worry gone from them.

“If you take him from me, I will never forgive you,” she says, simply.

He doesn’t remember ever being threatened by a nine-year-old.

He does remember many threats- the ministry, the Aurors, his victims, Death Eaters; and yet
none of those threats were serious.

This one is.

She holds his gaze, unflinching.

She is my daughter, he thinks, and he feels rather proud.

“I don’t need your forgiveness,” he tells her calmly.

He won’t allow her to climb over him.

A child like her should never be given any room to get ideas that she would ever get away
with disobeying.

(-)

“Haaaary!” Delphini comes into the room, smiling widely.

“Do you love me?”

Harry sighs, putting down his broom and his maintenance kit for it. “What do you want?”

She giggles and sits in his lap. Harry smiles back at her.

The poor idiot.

“Nothing, just wanted to know if you love me.”

“You know I do.” He kisses her forehead, and she hugs him tightly.

They spend some time in silence. The clock is ticking away and Voldemort stars at Delphini’s
back, intently.

This would be the worse time to disobey him, and she is hesitating-

“I would love some pie, right now,” she says. Voldemort hears no trace of the torment that
must be inside her.

Harry laughs, rolling his eyes.

“So that’s what you wanted.”

“And ice cream.”

“Delphini, it’s eight o’clock-“

“Haaaary!” She pouts. “Please! Father wants me to do math next.” She shudders.

That’s news to Voldemort.

“I need something to look forward to, after I’m done. Something sweet.”

Unsurprisingly, Harry caves. “Alright, alright.”

“Cherry pie! If you come back with apple, I’m going to throw it from the widow at one of the
Aurors.”

(-)

“You forgot this,” he says, holding Harry’s wand.

You should have left him leave without it.

But surely those idiots will take his wand away.

Besides, will Harry choose to stay behind after Lucius leaves, if he has no wand?

Yes. He’d stay behind for you even if he’s only armed with cookies.

He puts the wand in Harry’s hand.

It will give a sense of security to Harry, once he comes back from the dead, to have his wand
around.
Voldemort allowing it will be a sign of peace.

Or, if there are too many Shadows, the boy can help. He can at least deal with one or two of
them.

He watches Harry get out of the house and Voldemort wonders if this is the last time he ever
sees him.

If those were the last words spoken between them.

He watches out the window, and he sees Murphy following after him.

Byrne, easily distinguished by his bright red hair, quickly kills the two Aurors that stand
guard in front of Grimmauld, taking them by surprise.

Voldemort doesn’t see them fall, since they are under invisibilities clothes, but the green light
is unmistakable.

“Mama, what was that!” A muggle child asks, looking around, as Byrne pockets his wand
and heads over to Tesco, after Murphy, who already went inside with Harry.

“A laser, I imagine,” a harassed woman answers, not looking up from a device. Harry said
those are mobile phones.

Time constricts, passing incredibly slow. It takes ages before Harry emerges from Tesco.

They stop him right at the entrance.

It’s far enough that he can’t see their expression. They surround the boy. Four of them.

Time suddenly flies by. In the blink of an eye, Harry hands over his wand and they all
disappear.

Delphini starts crying hysterically at his side.

“Who are those people? What will they do to Harry!?”

(-)

Voldemort refuses to pace around the living room like a restless child.

He sits at his desk, tense.

There’s always the chance Harry will refuse to give Voldemort up and choose to take the
Shadows on himself.

Surely, he isn’t that stupid.

Only he is. But he won’t risk Edward.

And if he does? Well, then he’ll still die and Voldemort will be free, only it complicates his
other plans.

What matters most is my freedom, he reminds himself. The rest can be adjusted.

Delphini paces around, scowling at Voldemort every five seconds, clinging to her doll.

Lucius will come to pick her up as soon as he safely delivers Andromeda and the boy to his
Manor.

“Harry better be alright,” Delphini keeps saying, more to herself than to him.

He doesn’t answer.

Pop.

An ugly elf, but one of the best sights Voldemort has ever seen. He stands.

Kreacher heads to him, but he freezes when he sees Delphini.

“Miss Bella?” he asks, confused, eyes wide, mouth gaping.

And then he seems surprised. The surprise elves get when they disobey an order.

Delphini watches him with distrust. “I’m your new Master,” she says, voice wavering.

Kreacher looks terribly confused. “But-”

“The house is mine, by right of blood. And you belong to the house,” she repeats what he
instructed her. “To me. You are bound to me. What were your orders? Tell me!”

And the order takes hold, overriding anything Potter might have asked of him.

“To find the man in Grimmauld and bring him to Master Harry. I shouldn’t speak of it. And
then I am to go to Hogwarts and keep my silence.”

“How many men are there?” Voldemort asks, towering over the elf.

He’s easily ignored.

“How many men are there?” Delphini snarls at him, anxious.

“Eleven masked men. Five unmasked ones. And Master Harry. Mistress Andromeda too,
with a child.”

Sixteen. A bit much. But not impossible. Not by far.

“Tell him to take me there and then to go to Hogwarts and keep his mouth shut.”
Delphini’s lip trembles. She looks scared. But she does what she is told and gives the order.

Before Voldemort can blink, the elf’s skinny fingers are around his robe and they’re
swallowed by the void of apparition.

He summons Lucius as soon as his feet touch solid ground.

Now, he has to buy Lucius a couple of minutes to have time to raise the wards. Because once
Voldemort unleashes hell upon them, some will try to leave.

So he keeps his silence, quickly taking in what is happening around him.

Harry looks relieved and hopeful to see him.

Voldemort banishes the sliver of guilt he feels for the idiot.

He sold you. He traded you for a child.

It doesn’t matter it is what Voldemort wanted. Harry had no way of knowing it, and he still
chose to bring Voldemort in, blindly, amidst men that want him dead.

Harry wouldn’t have betrayed the mudblood like that; he wouldn’t have sent Kreacher to
fetch Ronald.

Bella would have never agreed to give Voldemort up, even if she, like Harry, would have
known Voldemort can deal with sixteen men at once.

It’s a matter of principle. Bellatrix would not have done it, she’d have chosen death, torture,
for herself, her sister, her nephew- anything, but she’d never just hand Voldemort over.

So really, there is no reason to feel guilt.

“Cat got your tongue?” Murphy asks. “Or did Potter remove it, so he won’t hear your
insufferable rants? You used to be so talkative-”

Voldemort takes one step toward him.

They all flinch.

Their fear is like a balm. Their fear is validation. The biggest compliment.

I am Lord Voldemort. Even if they think him cuffed and wandless, his reputation is so great it
makes them shrink from his path.

And that is and always will be more addictive than sex, or food, or life itself.

Power. Sweet, comforting, mighty power. Any lingering, half acknowledged worry that he
might be out of shape after so many years, that he might not be able to destroy sixteen dark
wizards on his own dispels.

He can do anything.
“You are in deep trouble,” he informs them, a wild feeling in his chest.

Liam loses his cockiness. “Avada-”

So it begins.

Beautiful. Oh, how he missed this. How right it is, to plow through opposition with nothing
but magic.

He doesn’t need to be charming, intelligent, handsome- he doesn’t need to be Tom Riddle.

Only his magic is needed, and it will conquer anything else.

It was a good call to give Harry his wand, he discovers. He laughs when, after a scuffle with
Potter, Murphy loses his own wand and faces Voldemort’s armed with the holly and phoenix
feather.

Even he hadn’t foreseen this immense advantage.

Murphy and Byrne are by far the most skilled, dangerous men in the group. And now
Murphy is fighting with a wand that belongs to Voldemort.

That will not end well for you, Voldemort thinks at Murphy. He knows it from experience.
And isn’t it just perfect that Harry is also fighting with a reluctant wand?

Two men die almost immediately. It fills Voldemort with joy.

He hears Lucius yelling out a Killing Curse in the distance; when Lucius resorts to it, he
always hits his target.

So another one is down.

They’re good; smart. They don’t panic and break ranks, instead keeping the circle tight,
forcing Voldemort to keep up a shield at all times, guarding his back, which hinders his
attacks.

Slow and steady.

Three times he doesn’t go for a kill. He needs someone alive to deal with Harry, after all.

And there the boy is, running towards them. He doesn’t use the Killing Curse.

Three men break away from the circle, facing him.

Byrne is one of them. Perfect. Surely, he’ll get killed. No way Harry can put the Irishman
down. Even Rodolphus would struggle against him.

Voldemort slows down, as men drop around him like flies. He stalls for time, keeping them at
bay.

Murphy is irritatingly competent, though. Even with Harry’s wand hindering him.
(-)

The boys’ eyes turn to him with that hope again, as he lies on the ground.

Why do you have to be such a trustful idiot?

It annoys Voldemort that he feels a smidgen of guilt.

And then the curse hits and Harry dies.

This is what he wanted. He feels the Oath releasing him, the oppressive burden lifting at
once.

The rage coursing through his blood is unexpected.

It explodes out of him in a wave of power, making the earth shake.

Murphy falls. The only remaining masked Shadow dies.

“You!” Voldemort spits at Byrne, who takes one look at him and runs for the woods,
probably hoping to get out of anti apparition wards.

“You can’t run from me!” Voldemort calls after him.

He stops him.

He hurts him. He’s so into it, enjoying his screams so much that he forgot about Murphy, still
alive.

Voldemort sees him crawling toward Harry’s body-

“Don’t touch him,” he snarls and turns to Murphy, who’s just trying to get his wand out of
Harry’s hand.

Kill.

No. No, he needs them as bargaining chips for when the boy comes back.

He subdues Murphy and Byrne and ties them up, seething with anger.

Harry isn’t moving.

It’s been kind of long.

He’s just having a cry with Dumbledore, surely.

What if Dumbledore convinces him to stay dead?

He’ll come back. He must.

And if he doesn’t?

Voldemort kneels beside him.

“Harry,” the word falls from his mouth, without his permission. “Come back.”

Harry opens his green, bright eyes and Voldemort exhales a breath he hadn’t been aware he
was holding.

Everything went according to a plan Voldemort couldn’t even plan too much.

So much was left to chance. And yet, here he is. Finally, fate smiled down upon him.

He’s free. And Harry is still alive.

Now that it’s over, his freedom sinks in, making his skin tingle.

Predictably, Harry tries to save his killer and abductor from torture.

Freshly resurrected, recently stabbed in the back and there he is. He learned nothing.

It’s almost endearing, really.

It means Harry will eventually forgive this betrayal, too, after he’d have some time to calm
down.

But he will need time.

(-)

“I am free, Harry. It is done.”

Harry looks more frightened than Voldemort has ever seen him when he realises what
transpired.

“Kill me, then.” Harry says, eyes watering, but he refuses to let the tears drop. “No Oath
stops you now.”

“You’re a fool, Harry Potter,” Voldemort whispers. Why would he kill such an asset? One of
his tickets to immortality?

Harry blinks back his tears.

“If you do this, if you go back to who you were, you cannot return home anymore. We will
be enemies again, “ Harry says. Voldemort can virtually see his heart breaking. “I won’t let
you terrorise our world-“

“Go back to who I was? There’s nothing to go back to. I was, am and always will be that
man,” he gives Harry a searching look. “If you insist on fighting me, Harry, so shall it be. We
shall only see each other on the battlefield. Make no mistakes, I will ignore you. You are no
threat to me. If you wish to oppose me, I cannot stop you. But I would like you to consider
your choices, carefully, before you decide. Now, step aside.”

Harry just stands there, frozen. “Don’t do this,” he begs.

He never begged outside of sex. But Voldemort foresees a lot of begging in their future.

“We can deliver them to the Aurors, you can think of a story-” Harry stumbles over his
words, voice high with panic. “And then we can leave the country. We’ll take Delphini and
go. Anywhere you want. I’ll do anything- please! Please, don’t this!”

“If it means so much to you, I won’t torture them. If you step aside, now, I will just kill them.
If you don’t, then they will suffer before dying.” Voldemort keeps his voice firm.

This is the first test. How Harry acts now will determine how he’ll react in the future.

“If you don’t, then we won’t be leaving here together. Delphini is already out of the house. I
will join her. You? You can do whatever you want, go wherever you please. And as long as
you keep your mouth shut about me, I won’t kill your friends. Your choice.”

Harry’s shaking. He looks desperate.

“I won’t fight you,” Voldemort repeats. “You can try, if you’d like. You can warn whatever
remains of the Order, get your friends killed- you can chase me around England- I won’t fight
you. But that mercy only extends to you.”

Death already broke him, once more. The boy isn’t as strong as Voldemort. He can’t hold
firm and ignore the icy feeling in his chest, the unnatural doom that comes with it.

Harry looks at Voldemort, looks behind his shoulder at those two idiots.

Make the right choice, for once.

Harry steps aside. He lowers his eyes, defeated.

“You are very lucky,” Voldemort tells the gagged Irishmen, and he gives them a quick death.

“Teddy.” Harry whispers, voice horse, not looking up from the ground. “Where is Teddy? I
want to see him. And Delphini-”

Voldemort grabs his chin, holds his head up, but Harry won’t meet his eyes. He’s probably
trying to keep his thoughts private.

He flinches at Voldemort’s touch and Voldemort lets him go.

“At Malfoy Manor, both of them. You can go back to Grimmauld, if you want,” Voldemort
lies. Harry is coming with him. If Voldemort gives him time to think, who knows what could
cross his mind and propel him into action. But he can pretend to be nice and giving Harry a
choice. “Or you can join me. I saw the boy was hurt,” he adds, vaguely threatening. “It
wasn’t part of my plan.”

That does it. “I need to see him. I’m coming.”

Perfect. Harry won’t be able to leave Malfoy Manor. Not until Voldemort can be convinced
of his loyalty.

He grabs Harry by the arm and Apparates straight inside the Manor’s sitting room.

Lucius is there, pacing, not a single hair out of place.

He, too, has a choice to make that will determine how they will relate to each other from now
on.

Voldemort stares at Lucius, waiting.

And Lucius nods.

He doesn’t kneel, even now when he knows Voldemort is free.

Voldemort sighs, but accepts it. He’s too happy to do anything else.

“Have an elf take Harry to see Edward.”

“Tinsy!” Lucius barks and in a few seconds they are alone.

“Does Andromeda need healing? Or the boy?” Voldemort says, hastily, trying to keep his
word, even if he has urgent matters to attend.

But Lucius wants to play partners now.

“They are fine. Edward is under a rather powerful sleeping charm. I could wake him, but I
chose not to. If he seems unwell, the women are more unlikely to do something… unwise.
The boy will keep them distracted.”

Voldemort nods. “Delphini?”

“I did as you asked. She’s locked in her room, with all comforts necessary available to her.”

“Savage?”

“In the cellar across Proudfoot. He’s a tad…. indisposed, but alive.”

“The Aurors outside Grimmauld?”

“I dragged their corpses inside Grimmauld.”

Perfect.

“The wards around the Manor?”

“I modified them. No one but you and I can leave the grounds. No one else. Not Narcissa, not
the elves- no one.”

Just then Travers walks inside the room. He looks at Voldemort, and his old face lights up.

He comes closer and drops to his knees, touching Voldemort’s robe.

“My lord,” he whispers, full of emotion.

“Rise,” Voldemort tells him, very pleased. “You shall be rewarded for your loyalty.”

“My only wish is to keep serving you,” Travers says.

He was always a fanatic. But a powerful fanatic.

“Shacklebolt is in his home. I couldn’t get too close- he has very strong wards around it.
They’d warn him immediately, so I kept my distance and left rather quickly, but I managed to
place an unobtrusive curse on the door. It should let me know when Shacklebolt leaves the
house. He hadn’t.”

“You’ve done well. Give me the location.”

Travers does.

“And Avery?” Voldemort looks between them.

“Also in the cellars,” Lucius answers.

“Oh?” Voldemort quirks an eyebrow.

“Just a precaution,” Lucius says. “We haven’t told him you’re back yet; we will, soon. It
would be better we deal with everything before we do, however.”

“If he reacts poorly, if he can’t be trusted, if he hesitates even a little, keep him in the cellar
until he changes his mind.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I’m going for Shacklebolt,” Voldemort says, brimming with anticipation.

He has to trust Lucius and Travers can deal with Narcissa, Andromeda and Harry if they
decide to rebel.

They wouldn’t; at least not Narcissa. Andromeda and Harry are unlikely to try to flee, with
Edward unwell and Delphini missing.

But if they do… they would need Merlin on their side to get past Lucius and Travers.
 As long as Lucius is alive, Malfoy Manor is a fortress.

Voldemort Apparates at the address Travers gave him, a gated community in Leeds.

It’s wonderful to be out again, without Harry or Delphini.

I can do whatever I want. I can go wherever I please.

He supposes it will take a while to sink in. Six long years of captivity won’t just disappear as
if it hadn’t happened.

Voldemort takes out his wand and climbs the steps to the front door.

Chapter End Notes

This ends our Voldemort POV, we will be back to Harry from the next one. I think we
only have 2 chapters left to go, but then if one of them gets larger than I anticipate (like
the Voldemort POV that was supposed to be one) that might change.

Happy holidays! ❤️
 Chapter 23
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Narcissa flinches when the elf Apparates Harry inside a room. She’s always pale, but now
she’s sickly pale. Her eyes mirror the same dread Harry feels.

Andromeda pulls out her wand, but when she sees it’s only Harry, she puts it back in her
robe. She’s dirty, bloodstains on her face and dress, but she isn’t pale- quite the opposite,
cheeks painted with an angry red.

She doesn’t look scared.

She looks ready.

It’s obvious they were in the middle of a fight.

Harry goes past them, as in a trance, stopping by Teddy’s bedside.

He’s unresponsive when Harry takes his hand. He doesn’t look injured, his chest raises and
falls evenly, but he won’t wake up, no matter how many times Harry whispers his name, no
matter how loud Andromeda’s voice rises as she yells at her sister.

“He’s alive! I saw him with my own eyes. Don’t you understand?!” Andromeda roars for the
fifth time in as many minutes. “WE HAVE TO LEAVE! Potter, for the love of all that is
sacred, say something! Back me up!”

“He’s here,” is all Harry can bring himself to say, eyes on Teddy’s innocent face.

It’s hard to speak, almost impossible to concentrate. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the
shock, or the blood loss, or the sight of Teddy unresponsive.

“Here?” Narcissa doesn’t go above a whisper. “Here as in… the house?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking hells!” Andromeda paces in and out of Harry’s vision. She’s limping, but she
doesn’t seem to be aware. “Alright. Harry will stay with Teddy. You and I will take every
piece of jewellery and gold you have in your room. I suppose we won’t find Voldemort in
your quarters-”

“Don’t speak his name!”

Andromeda carries on. “Once we do that, we leave. Harry will carry Teddy. We’ll go to
Grimmauld and get Delphini. And then we make a run for it.”
“We can’t leave!” Narcissa says. “Andromeda, he’s here!”

“Yes, we can, but time is running out. We have to hurry-”

“Lucius modified the wards,” Narcissa says, and Harry thinks he heard her say it before.

“Teddy?” he tries again. “Teddy, please wake up.” If only he’d open his eyes, or squeeze
Harry’s hand- if only Harry could know for certain Teddy will recover, then he could focus.

“Surely there is a way out of this fucking house-”

“There isn’t. He shut us in.”

“We can’t Apparate. But we can go on foot, I am certain. There must be something- I know
how paranoid Malfoys are! There must be a tunnel out or-”

“I’m not leaving without my husband and son!”

God, where is Delphini? Voldemort mentioned she’s in the Manor, but he could have lied.

Is she scared? Is she safe? Harry thinks to stand, but Teddy looks so defenceless.

Dora’s face, eyes closed, laid on the floor of the Great Hall- Harry blinks, trying to stay in
reality. Teddy isn’t dead. He’s breathing, and he doesn’t seem in pain.

A part of Harry urges him to climb in the bed and rest beside Teddy.

“We’ll stop at Draco’s, after we take Delphini. He can come along. He’s smart, his wife is
competent, they must have some gold in the house, too. As for Lucius, he chose this,
Narcissa! He dragged you into this shit not once, not twice, but thrice! It’s his fault you are
in-”

“My father sold me into this!” Narcissa is screaming as well now. “And only because you
left! You put me in this position!”

“Oh, I’m sorry for having the brains to realise what a marriage to Lucius Malfoy meant! Of
course I left! I offered to help you leave, too! Sirius offered you his protection. You stayed!
You! So stop blaming father and I!”

“I lied to him,” Narcissa’s voice breaks in terror. “At Hogwarts- I lied. I saved Potter’s life.”

That soft voice, like a gentle summer wind, as Harry lied on the cold forest floor, surrounded
by Death Eaters.

“Is Draco alive? Is he in the castle?”

“The more reason you have to leave!” Andromeda points out. “He isn’t likely to have
forgotten that detail-”
“And who will he punish in my absence? If I stay and he takes his ire out on me, maybe
Draco will be- maybe he has a chance. I can’t leave!”

Get up, Harry. It sounds like Sirius. Harry can almost see him, standing there on the other
side of the bed.

He blinks, and Sirius disappears, even if the room is still blurred at the edges.

Harry stands. “What’s wrong with Teddy?”

Andromeda shakes her head. “I think just a powerful sleeping curse. Nothing else seems
wrong. We can move him.”

“Delphini is here. I don’t know where, but Malfoy brought her here.” He takes out his wand.
“I’ll go- I’ll distract Voldemort. I can buy you time so you can get Delphini and get out.
There’s a bag of money in Grimmauld. Pounds, dollars, galleons. It’s hidden in the attic.”

Andromeda isn’t one for emotional goodbyes, or for gratitude. She’s practical. She nods
harshly, clutching her own wand.

“Take care of them,” Harry says, uselessly. He knows Andromeda will die for the children;
that she will do her very best to give them a semblance of a normal life.

Tell them I love them. Tell them I’m sorry. But it’s too much effort to open his mouth again.

“Good luck, Potter. Harry.” She nods again and is out of the door, despite Narcissa’s protests.

Harry goes out, too.

(-)

He can’t find anyone. Not Voldemort, not Malfoy, not Delphini.

It’s a huge fucking Manor. Harry walks along the long, winding hallways, opening doors,
listening carefully.

As he searches aimlessly, he can’t avoid the realisation that Voldemort must have planned all
of this.

Teddy and Andromeda taken by the Shadows, Delphini’s extraction from the house. Harry’s
death.

He planned it. With Malfoy.

And you let him plan it. You said nothing. You covered for him when the Aurors came to check
his cuffs.
It hurts, deep inside, more than any curse he’s been hit with. The guilt is so immense, it is
like a physical burden that settles in his stomach, making him nauseous. He can taste the bile
at the back of his throat.

Harry should have stayed dead. Why does he never learn to just stay dead?

He’s dizzy; Voldemort closed his wounds, but Harry lost quite a lot of blood. He tires fast,
but he keeps going, even if he has to steady himself now and then, leaning into a wall or
another.

“Boy-wonder!”

Harry startles. He turns, wand up, and is faced with a familiar figure. He’d seen it on many
wanted posters in the last years.

Travers. That’s Travers.

God, how many Death Eaters does he have back already?

Don’t panic. You need to find him and keep him busy while Andromeda makes her escape.

He opens his mouth to demand to see Voldemort, when Travers cuts over him.

“The dark lord requires your presence.”

Harry swallows. His palm is sweaty, but he readjusts his grip on the wand. “Lead the way,
then.”

Travers turns his back to Harry and starts walking.

Harry follows, heart in his throat.

He doesn’t want to see Voldemort. Because this will be- this is Voldemort. Free and
unrestrained. With followers.

This isn’t the Voldemort from Harry’s house, the one Harry fell in love with.

That was a fake. A lie. An illusion.

What hurts the most is that Voldemort didn’t even try that hard to- actually at all- to pretend
to be anything but what he was.

It’s Harry’s own fault for looking at the dark lord and seeing another man in his stead.

It doesn’t matter. All you need to do is keep him busy for as long as you can. Once
Andromeda is out, Harry will do his best to warn Kingsley, Ron and Hermione and then he’ll
just find a nice, tall cliff and take a dive.

If Harry dies, Voldemort will be mortal. If Harry dies, Voldemort can’t keep his loved ones
over his head.
Maybe he’ll kill me now.

His heart hurts at the thought, but he pushes it away. It doesn’t matter.

Travers stops abruptly in front of a door. Harry almost steps into him.

He knocks. “My Lord, I have Potter.”

The door opens. Travers gestures with his hand. “After you.”

Harry takes a deep breath. You’ve done this before. You stepped out of the trees and faced him
at seventeen.

Only he’d only faced an enemy, then.

Now he’s still facing an enemy, but one that Harry allowed himself to love.

He goes in, and immediately all the thoughts fly out of his head.

Kingsley, Savage and Proudfoot are kneeling on the floor, hands tied at their backs.

Harry’s brain malfunctions.

Already, he thinks, absurdly. How can this happen so fast?

He looks up, shocked. Voldemort sits behind Malfoy’s desk, in Malfoy’s chair. There are
specks of blood on his face, a small injury on his jaw that hadn’t been there last Harry saw
him.

Malfoy is at his side. All the portraits look down at them in silent disgust.

Harry remembers how those proud, dead, old men sneered at him for daring to talk back to
Malfoy. What must they think to see their heir standing guard at a half-blood’s side?

And then Harry’s instincts kick in, burying the shock.

He lifts his wand.

Voldemort disarms him before he can cast, without even standing up. The wand flies out of
Harry’s hand and straight into Voldemort’s.

What illusions Harry harboured that he can hold on for even a minute?

He does, in their mock duels, but only because Voldemort is amused by them.

He’s not amused now.

He’s tense, holds himself differently than when he’s at Grimmauld, with Harry and Delphini.
He nods, a short incline of his head, and a curse hits Harry in the back.

Travers.
Harry expects pain, but he just freezes. Panic seizes him.

It’s the same spell Dumbledore placed on him, so long ago. That rendered Harry incapable,
that forced him to stand there and watch as Dumbledore got blasted off a tower.

He still has nightmares about it and he tries to struggle; he’d take anything else, even the
Cruciatus, anything but this.

“I will allow you your voice, but if you abuse that right, it will be taken away,” Voldemort
says, placing Harry’s wand on the desk. “Now that we’re all gathered here…” He moves
those cruel eyes to the Aurors.

“Don’t,” Harry speaks, and at least he can speak. “Don’t. Please-”

The Aurors are wounded, bleeding, but Harry spares them only a glance. He remains focused
on Voldemort.

Harry can’t let them die. He’s so desperate, more desperate than he’d ever been in his life.
Something snaps in him, like an electric zap that travels down his spine and Harry is moving.

“What the-” Travers exclaims, surprised Harry broke through his enchantment.

Voldemort stands, swiftly.

Harry ignores Travers, Malfoy, the hostages. He only has eyes for Voldemort. He walks to
him, on unsteady feet.

“Please,” he says, again. “You don’t have to do this.”

It’s useless, a cruel voice informs Harry. He is who he is. It sounds like Dumbledore.

But Harry has to try. He has to do something, and there aren’t many things one can do to
make Voldemort listen.

So he kneels. More like drops to the floor, dizzy, exhausted and terrified. “Please, don’t do
this.” He looks up.

Voldemort glances down at him, and Harry hates how blank he looks. He was never like that
when it was just them, in Grimmauld.

Sometimes amusement flickered in his eyes, sometimes anger- but it was something real.
Something human.

There’s nothing now, mask securely in place.

“You can Obliviate them,” Harry whispers. He’s so focused on Voldemort that he truly
doesn’t care about others seeing all this. It’s just us.

But Voldemort won’t forget he has an audience.

So Harry tries to play up to it, because not only does he need to convince Voldemort to spare
the men that tortured him, but he has to give Voldemort an excuse to listen, so Malfoy and
Travers won’t think him a weak leader or whatever nonsense these people think.

“You’re powerful enough to make it all go away,” Harry says. He swallows, tongue heavy in
his mouth. Dry. He tries to remember how Death Eaters asked things of him, how he might
be persuaded. “I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t kill them. Please.”

He’s knelt in front of Voldemort many times- in a way, it seems normal, familiar. But just in a
muscle memory sort of way. The position is not new, but the sentiment is harrowing, foreign.

His vision swims, and Harry thinks he’ll faint. He grabs Voldemort’s robe to hold on to
something.

There must be complete silence in the office. He can’t be sure, because his ears are ringing,
but it just feels like it’s silent. Like no one breathes, no one moves, all waiting for Voldemort
to decide their fates.

The way Voldemort likes it.

“Stand,” he says, and Harry hears him clearly, even through the ringing in his head, even if he
used that soft tone of his.

“Tell me you won’t kill then,” Harry says.

He won’t stand before he hears that. He doesn’t think he can get back on his feet, truth be
told. There are needles and pins in his arms and legs, he’s very cold and his head feels like it
will explode.

You don’t have to kill them, Harry thinks, meeting those brown eyes. Empty, closed off, but
Harry knows they’re not always like that. There’s a chance, a slim chance- we can leave the
country. We’ll raise Delphini somewhere peaceful. Wherever you like. Even after tonight,
Harry would forgive it all if they would just go away without killing anyone else.

He can’t be sure if Voldemort is using Legilimency, but he hopes that is the case.

But then he is standing, even if he had nothing to do with it. Magic pulls him up and keeps
him from collapsing.

Voldemort steps around Harry; he goes to the window. His robe is stained with blood, too. It
trails on the floor, transferring it to a previous pristine, white carpet.

If Harry closes his eyes, he fears he’ll lose consciousness. He blinks, fast, trying to stay
awake, to cling to that sense of urgency, to the fear.

It’s wrong, it’s all wrong.

Voldemort never needs to think before he acts or speaks. Just the fact that he’s standing at
that window, looking out- it must be a game. For who’s benefit, remains to be seen.
Voldemort already decided what he will do, and Harry feels hopeless.
He looks to the right, to the bound men- they are all injured. Kingsley is almost
unrecognisable, his face swelled up, one eye shut down, deep gashes on his face.

If it weren’t for his dark skin, impressive constitution and the proud way in which he keeps
his head held high, Harry really wouldn’t know who he was.

Savage and Proudfoot aren’t in as bad of a shape, but they aren’t doing too well, either.

None of them acknowledge Harry, eyes on Voldemort.

Travers is alert by the door.

Malfoy is made out of marble. He might as well be a statue.

“I believe we can reach a compromise.”

His heart jumps weakly against his ribs. Maybe- maybe Harry got to him.

Don’t be an idiot. Nothing gets to him. He doesn’t care.

Voldemort finally takes his eyes off whatever had captured his attention outside, and back to
the hostages.

He walks towards them, unhurried.

Harry does his best to follow after him, but he can’t. Whether a charm is responsible or
simply the blood loss, he can’t tell.

Voldemort stops in front of Kingsley, who bends his head backwards, trying to meet his eyes.

“I’ll never bow to you,” Kingsley says, voice strong, despite his injuries.

Harry’s heart plummets.

“You didn’t even hear my offer.”

Kingsley shifts, struggles. With amazing will, he slowly stands, hands bound. He’s of a
height with Voldemort, almost.

And just as stubborn.

“You can take your offer and shove it up your arse.”

“Kingsley,” Harry says, and he manages a step forward. The room spins around him, blurred
at the edges. He grabs the edge of the desk to support himself.

“Shut up, Potter. Traitor.”

It’s like he stabbed Harry. It hurts, because it’s true. It’s Harry’s fault. All of it.

Voldemort tilts his head to the side.

“Just do it,” Harry urges him. “Obliviate him and send him on his way. You don’t need him to
agree to it!”

Voldemort smiles, and it’s a sin, because he looks mischievous, he is amused, as if this is only
a joke without consequences. He smiles like that when he teases Harry about dinner, and it’s
just wrong. “I am a reformed man,” he says. “Don’t you want me to have morals, Harry?
What kind of man would I be if I did not respect consent?”

You fucker.

“I gave you two chances, Minister,” Voldemort says, the playful tone gone, all serious.
“That’s two more than you deserve, but I am merciful. I will give you a third opportunity.
The last one.”

“Fuck you!” Kingsley snarls.

Voldemort nods, and he looks satisfied. “I tried,” he tells Harry, though he didn’t. That’s not
trying. He knew Kingsley will not listen.

Harry attempts to move; he stumbles and Voldemort catches him. His grip is iron tight around
Harry’s shoulders. “Lucius,” he says, softly.

Malfoy points a wand-

“No!” Harry struggles; his vision blurs, but he keeps fighting, twisting in the sick imitation of
an embrace. Voldemort won’t let him go, trapping Harry against his chest-

“Avada Kedavra!”

And that’s it.

It’s over.

Harry slumps on Voldemort, staring at Kingsley’s body.

His ears stop ringing. It’s done. The little hope Harry had is lost. There will be no raising
Delphini. There will be no happy ending for either of them.

“Savage?” Voldemort asks. Harry can feel the vibrations in his chest when he talks.

Savage spits on the floor, blue eyes alight with hate.

Malfoy raises the wand again. Harry closes his eyes, but he can still see the spell. His head is
filled with green.

He can hear the silence now. Devastating. He wants the ringing back.

Harry wants to have been him in Kingsley’s or Savage’s place. They’re free at least.

They won’t have to live with what happened in the last hour.
You won’t, either. Just make it through the night, and then it can end. He’s already dying, he
suspects. He won’t even need to jump off a cliff.

He must lose a couple of seconds, because next he blinks, he’s sat in Malfoy’s high chair and
Voldemort is walking towards Proudfoot.

“Go on with it, then,” Proudfoot says, voice shaking. “Have your lackey kill me.”

Harry closes his eyes, willing himself to just slip away from life, quietly, unobtrusive. He
thinks he can already see the bright light in King’s Cross-

“Where are your manners? Lucius is your host.” Voldemort says, voice as calm as ever. His
voice pulls at Harry, keeps him rooted in that room, with no hope of escaping.

Harry opens his eyes in time to see Proudfoot glaring at Voldemort’s boots.

“I made my choice,” he says. “I will follow my brothers.”

“I’m afraid I have other plans for you.”

Proudfoot snorts. “What happened to consent?”

“Oh, you will be given a choice, fret not. But I have an inkling you will survive through the
night.”

“I won’t wear your mark. Never.”

Voldemort laughs. It turns Harry’s stomach upside down. I let this man touch me. I shared his
bed. And he’s laughing over corpses.

“You aren’t worthy of my mark, Proudfoot. Don’t flatter yourself. Alas, if you insist on
dying…” He looks to Harry’s right, where Malfoy probably stands.

Harry knows Malfoy is there, but he won’t look.

“Where will we send his corpse, Lucius?”

Malfoy speaks an address. Proudfoot flinches.

“Ah, yes. Should I give you some parchment, Auror? So you can write your last loving words
to your wife, Evelynn? And I am certain you must want to send a message to your daughter.
Bethany? Is that right?”

“God,” Harry whispers, but no one in the room is paying attention. God isn’t paying
attention, either.

“Lucius tells me you are quite the dedicated husband and father. Surely, you wouldn’t want to
part with your sweet wife. Who am I to stand in the way of love? You will share a fate, as
you promised in your wedding vows. But then- how could I leave a little girl orphaned?
Unbearable. I am sure she’ll wish to be with her parents in the afterlife.”
How can they do this? Malfoy is a father; Voldemort is a father. How can they so calmly
threaten killing someone’s child?

“What do you want?” Proudfoot whispers.

Another cold laugh. Harry shivers, uncontrollably.

“Oh, so you reconsidered? I am glad you made the right choice.”

“You call that a choice?” Proudfoot spits.

“Of course. A hard choice, but a choice, nonetheless.”

“What do you want?” Proudfoot asks again. “Just- I’ll do it.”

Voldemort walks back to the window. Harry’s eyes follow him, despite himself.

He looks so detached, so utterly unfazed about the two dead bodies on the floor. Even the
euphoria from an hour ago, when he got his freedom, had passed. He just stares out that
damned window.

“You’ll only have to tell a story and you will keep your life, your family, and your illustrious
career. We might need a favour, here and there, but do not concern yourself over it. Oh, and
you’ll have to take a Vow. You’re terribly fond of them at the Ministry, after all.”

“Fine.” Proudfoot already sounds defeated. Harry recognises it, because he feels it, too.

“You will take an Unbreakable Vow that will prevent you from revealing my existence to any
soul, alive or departed. You will never speak of Travers. You will vow to never move against
me, or the Malfoy family, or Harry.”

Harry flinches. It’s awful- hearing his name, in that sentence, makes it seem like he’s a part of
this-

You are. You made all of it possible.

After another silence that seems like an eternity, Proudfoot agrees.

It’s Malfoy that steps forward, that kneels beside Proudfoot and their arms link, as Travers
binds them in the Vow.

Harry stands on unsteady feet; Voldemort sends a hard glare his way, but he relaxes when he
sees Harry is only stumbling to him.

He reaches the window, supporting his weight on one of the walls. He looks out, looks to see
what is it that has captured Voldemort’s-

He can’t see anything. Harry always had poor vision, and now it’s worse, everything is
double. And it’s night outside.
He leans against the window frame. He’ll collapse at any second-

A loud pop startles him.

He turns and there are two elves- no, it’s actually just one, he thinks after he blinks several
times and his vision comes back into focus.

“Master!” She bows down at Malfoy’s feet, who just stood up. She’s shaking like a leaf.
“Master, the girl left the room-”

Delphini. Harry straightens, becomes more alert.

“Dismiss it,” Voldemort says, still looking out into the vast garden.

“Leave,” Malfoy barks, and with another pop, she’s gone.

“Allow Travers to take the bodies out of the Manor,” Voldemort says. He flicks his wrist, and
a chair appears under Harry just as his knees give out.

Harry breathes in, slowly. Delphini is out of her room. Hold in just a little longer. Give
Andromeda time.

“Are you ready?” Voldemort asks.

Malfoy does not hesitate. “Yes.”

Travers takes hold of the two bodies and disappears with them.

Harry can only think about Delphini and Teddy. It’s his only goal. Survive just enough to buy
them time.

Unbidden, an image of Delphini’s face comes to his mind. She’s in a warm place, close to a
beach. She’s safe. But she’s devastated. She lost her family. She’s angry, and she refuses to
listen to Andromeda. She finds a way to contact Voldemort, and he finds them.

She’ll never let go of her father, Harry thinks. Maybe it’s safer for Teddy and Andromeda to
leave on their own, after all.

Delphini will survive Voldemort, but Teddy? Andromeda?

If Delphini stays behind and Harry dies in this forsaken Manor, will she be forced to see his
body?

He shudders.

Travers Apparates back into the room.

Malfoy gives Voldemort his wand-

Only it is not his wand. Harry knows how Malfoy’s wand looks, and it’s not it. Harry held
that wand an hour ago. It belonged to Murphy.
Voldemort takes it, and without further fanfare, he curses Malfoy.

Harry just stares; he’s so removed from it, so numb to the violence already that the sight of
deep laceration tearing into Malfoy, dripping down blood everywhere, doesn’t even make
him flinch.

Malfoy collapses on his desk, hissing in pain.

“I would offer a pain relieving potion, but they might detect it at St Mungo’s,” Voldemort
says, handing Murphy’s wand to Travers.

“I can take it,” Malfoy says, through gritted teeth.

Voldemort nods. “You will only have to endure it for an hour or so. Travers, take him away.
Carefully, if you will.”

Travers does as he is told. He moves hastily, and he supports his fellow Death Eater to a
standing position before they Apparate away.

Voldemort turns to Proudfoot, who looks as numb as Harry feels.

“The Shadows kidnapped the Minister some hours ago,” he says, coming around the desk and
sitting in that fancy throne-like chair. “Desperate, you came to Lucius, who was always your
informant, who revealed Murphy’s identity to you. He helped you set up a meeting to
negotiate with the Shadows. Savage was adamant on secrecy- it would have looked bad to the
press to learn their Minister was so easily taken. So Savage decided to only take Proudfoot,
the two Aurors that were guarding Grimmauld and yourself to the meeting. His best, most
loyal men.”

God, they even killed the Aurors that were guarding Grimmauld. How? When did they find
the time?

“You went to the meeting place. Sixteen dark wizards awaited there. It seemed hopeless. But
Kingsley- such a magnificent, brave Minister, he created a distraction; you fought. Four
extraordinary Aurors and Lucius. Quite the achievement, to put down all of Murphy’s men.
Tragically, your partners and your Minister lost their lives, doing what they do best.
Protecting Britain from dark wizards. Such heroes. It almost brings tears to my eyes.”

The story- the meaning behind it, is already terrible. But to hear the pure glee in Voldemort’s
tone, more at ease now that his Death Eaters aren’t around- it makes it ten times worse.

“In the end, only you, Lucius, and Murphy remained. And you were sure your death was
close. You were injured, tired, on the ground. Murphy was ready to execute you, but Lucius
sacrificed himself and jumped to protect you.”

Revolting. Just- revolting.

“Travers is setting the scene as we speak. All the wands your colleagues will find there will
tell the story of a battle, including your own. I hear you put out an impressive, if short fight
when Travers ambushed you.”
Another twisted, terrifying smile.

“He will take you there shortly. He will unbind you and return your wand. When he gives the
order, you will call for help. You will give the Aurors the story you just heard. I do hope you
memorised it. Bethany’s and Evelynn’s lives depend on it.”

Travers Apparates inside the office.

“Perfect synchronisation,” Voldemort jokes, and Travers smiles. They are so pleased with
themselves, it’s unbearable. “Take him and wait for my order to have him call the Aurors.
Before they descend upon the clearing, return here.”

“My lord.” Travers bows.

Voldemort stands. “Keep Lucius alive until help arrives. Now, I need to see what these
women are up to. I suppose you want to join me, Harry?”

(-)

It’s impossible to keep up with Voldemort and his long stride. Harry collapses in the hallway.

“Elf!”

Harry hears a faint pop, but he can’t see her. He can barely see anything.

“Bring me two vials of blood replenishing potions from Lucius’ cabinet.”

Harry closes his eyes, but it doesn’t stop the dizziness. He feels like he’s liquified, like he’ll
just disappear within the cracks in the stone floor.

It’s impossible to think.

How funny would it be- survived multiple killing curses and dies of blood loss?

Sirius will find it amusing. They’ll have a laugh about it.

He imagines it clearly, like he’s already there with Sirius. They’re in a park- the trees are
green, the sun is pleasant against his cold skin, and Harry has no more worries, joking
around with Sirius-

He feels a bitter taste in his mouth. Disgusting. He’s drinking, but he doesn’t want to drink.
He’s not thirsty.

Sirius is making him, holding his head.

No, Harry tries to say. No, I don’t want it-

“One more,” Sirius says, fingers praying his jaw open. But it doesn’t sound like Sirius.

It’s a cold, merciless voice.

Harry swallows, instinctively, to avoid choking.

The park disappears, the pleasant breeze, the smell of trees.

He blinks, and he’s propped on a wall in a poorly lit hallway, with Voldemort above him,
throwing a vial away.

“That should do it,” he says, watching Harry carefully.

The elf is there too, Harry can see her almost clearly. She’s holding a glass up, shaking so
much, the water sloshes around the rim-

Voldemort snatches it from her and puts it against Harry’s lips. His other hand holds the back
of Harry’s head.

Cold. Clean. Much more satisfying than the potions.

Harry’s surroundings become sharper. He hates it, because his mind clears, registers
everything that happened.

Kingsley, Savage-

Voldemort holds his gaze; Harry thinks he can feel him in his head- he looks away.

“I gave them a chance. They refused it.”

Harry pushes him. He’s still weak, so it wouldn’t do anything, but Voldemort steps away,
regardless.

“Don’t touch me,” Harry tells him. “Don’t you ever touch me again!”

His skin burns in the places Voldemort had made contact to keep Harry up. It crawls in
disgust.

“You were putting on a show. You always wanted them dead, so you can- so you can have
your plan. You needed dead Aurors-”

“Yes. But when you begged so nicely, I would have allowed them to live. Of course, in that
awful battle, they’d have sustained terrible brain damage. They’d have recovered, eventually,
but they would have lost all their memories. I was willing to give them that. Just for you. To
spare people that tortured me, Harry. And you are ungrateful.”

Harry wants to glare at him, but then he’ll just make himself vulnerable to Voldemort’s
Legilimency.
They’re moving again, and now Harry can properly worry. About what will happen next,
about Delphini and Teddy.

He’s still exhausted, in pain, but he can think and it is so awful, he’d rather lose two pints of
blood again.

Harry recognises Delphini’s room when they reach it. The door is blown off its hinges, on the
floor, scorch marks on it.

Inside the room, everything is destroyed, teared apart, all her dolls dismembered, the mattress
ripped, feathers everywhere.

The image from the clearing comes to his mind- the destruction Voldemort left behind him.

It’s not the same. They’re not the same.

“Such an ill-tempered child,” Voldemort has the nerve to comment, barely stopping to glance
at the room, passing it by.

“You taught her the Blasting Curse?” Harry shouldn’t be shocked anymore, at anything
Voldemort does, but to teach a child- his own nine-year-old girl, who he claims he will keep
safe-

“No. The door is Andromeda’s work, I imagine. Delphini wouldn’t have left her room on her
own.”

God, let them have escaped. If at least Teddy, Delphini and Andromeda are far away, it would
be just a smidgeon more bearable.

But no. God hates Harry.

(-)

He can hear the screams as soon as they turn a corner.

“I AM NOT LEAVING! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”

That’s Delphini, in a tantrum.

Andromeda’s voice joins her; high, but not as high for Harry to understand what she’s saying.

“NO! LET GO OF ME! I WANT HARRY! WHERE IS HARRY!?”

They reach Teddy’s room in no time.

Voldemort opens the door; Harry goes after him.

“HARRY!” Delphini shoots out from Andromeda’s arm and slams into Harry with so much
force, she almost knocks him down.

She’s alright. Harry only allows himself to give her a customary glimpse, to make sure she’s
not injured, before pushing her away, because Andromeda draws her shoulders back, proud
and fierce, and she’s staring at Voldemort with so much hate, it’s impressive, even for a
Black.

“You!” she spits, full of venom.

Harry quickly places himself between them, back to Andromeda.

I have no wand. Last he remembers, Voldemort left it on Malfoy’s desk.

Harry is shorter than both of them, so Voldemort has no issues meeting Andromeda’s eyes
over Harry’s head.

He appears stricken, as if he saw something he hadn’t expected.

Harry glances over his shoulder, to see Andromeda simmering in rage, hair frizzy around her
head, magic flowing from her, blood still smeared on her face.

She always resembled her sister, but she’d never looked as much as Bellatrix as she does
now.

In a corner of the room, Narcissa falls to her knees, head bent.

For a second, Voldemort seems incapable of speech, staring at Andromeda with something
akin to longing.

Delphini comes by Harry’s side; her hands are shaking, he notices.

“Father, Teddy is sick,” Delphini says, breaking Voldemort out of his strange mood. “Can
you help him?”

She’s trying to deflect Voldemort’s attention from Andromeda, clearly.

Voldemort is all too eager to look away, retreating under his mask, resuming that lifeless
expression, eyes falling on Teddy, still in the same position Harry left him.

He takes one step towards the bed, but Andromeda is like a thunder-storm, loud, fast and
forceful. She pushes past Harry and Delphini, successfully cutting Voldemort from the bed.
She gets right in his face, so close they might actually be touching. She has her wand pointed
at his throat, the end of the slim wood pressing hard on the skin on Voldemort’s neck.

She is a very tall woman; she only needs to bend her head back slightly.

“Stay away from him!”

Voldemort won’t look at her, choosing to focus on Teddy, choosing to ignore the wand at his
throat.

Harry fell asleep months on end, with Bellatrix’ picture staring at him from the nightstand.
He heard Voldemort’s tone shift, on the rare occasion he spoke about her. But he never truly
realised how much she meant to Voldemort until that second. If anyone else would have
dared to point a wand at him, he’d have shattered them to pieces. But it’s Andromeda,
Bellatrix’s sister, wearing Bellatrix’ face.

“He won’t wake on his own,” Voldemort says, making Harry’s stomach clench. That doesn’t
sound reassuring at all.

Delphini gasps. She joins them by the bed, looks at Teddy with a worried expression.

“I rather he dies than be anywhere near you,” Andromeda hisses.

Voldemort shrugs. He steps away; for a second, with his back turned, Harry is certain
Andromeda will curse him-

Delphini pulls at her sleeve, fiercely, glaring up at her.

Voldemort walks to where Narcissa is kneeling.

Harry is torn, in the middle of the room, Narcissa alone on one side, Andromeda with the
children on the other.

Andromeda seems to decide she will stay with the children, wand clutched tightly in her
hand, the other one gripping Delphini in a protective manner.

It seems everyone on the planet can fuck over someone just to take care of those most
precious to them. So Harry can do it, too- he goes to his family and watches Voldemort
crouch down in front of Narcissa.

It’s not like you can help her. You can’t do anything.

Harry tries to convince himself nothing will happen to Narcissa. Nothing much, anyway.

Malfoy is out there, a seemingly crucial part of Voldemort’s plans. He needs Malfoy, so that
should mean he won’t kill his wife. But he can do so many other things to her.

“Delphini,” he whispers, but in the silence only pierced by Narcissa’s laboured breaths, it’s
like he yelled out. “Come with me.”

The door slams shut before Delphini can answer.

“I’m not trying to run,” Harry tells Voldemort. He just doesn’t want Delphini to witness
whatever is coming.

Voldemort doesn’t care. He ignores Harry and keeps staring at Narcissa.

He kept his distance from the Aurors in the office; he stepped away from Andromeda-
Voldemort never gets in someone’s face that way, but now, he even crouched down, looms
over Narcissa completely.

Because this is far more personal for him than even the torture he suffered at the hands of the
Aurors.

Narcissa is the biggest reason Voldemort lost the battle of Hogwarts.

She saved your life, a weak, dying voice insists in Harry’s head.

But there is nothing Harry can do to save her now.

After what seems like an eternity has passed, long after Narcissa started hyperventilating,
Voldemort finally speaks.

“From the moment I met Bellatrix, she always talked about her beloved Cissy. She bore your
father’s anger in your stead. She looked over your husband in battle, so he can safely return
to you, even if she personally despised him.”

Narcissa gives a pained noise, her fingers white, circulation shut off, that’s how hard she’s
squeezing her own thighs.

“She kept me from killing him after the fiasco at the Ministry. When Draco insisted he
wanted to join me, when I gave him the task to kill Dumbledore just to have a laugh at him,
only you and him took it seriously. I wouldn’t have hurt him. I wouldn’t have touched a
single hair on that empty head of his. Because of her. All throughout her life, she kept you
and your family safe,” Voldemort gets angrier and angrier as he talks. His soft voice turns
into a growl, his eyes narrow, a muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Look at me,” he barks.

Narcissa trembles from head to toe. Tears fall on the floor. It takes her a few seconds, but she
raises her eyes.

She flinches as soon as she meets Voldemort’s gaze.

“You stuck a knife in her back. It wasn’t only my defeat you secured with your little lie in
that forest. You ensured her death.”

Every piece of furniture that isn’t stuck to the walls starts shaking, groaning under
Voldemort’s anger. The air gets hotter.

Harry reconsiders- Malfoy or no Malfoy, Voldemort looks ready to kill.

“Father.” Delphini’s voice is high, and she tries to move. Andromeda stops her, her fingers
curling around Delphini’s arm, just as Harry grabs Delphini’s shoulder.

It’s not safe, not even for Delphini to attract Voldemort’s attention right then. Luckily- or at
least lucky for Delphini- Voldemort is focused only on Narcissa.
“You sneered at that filthy dog for abandoning your family, you refused to speak about your
other sister, but you are all the same. Sirius, Andromeda, Regulus. You. The only one in that
miserable family to honour and show loyalty to the Blacks was Bellatrix. And you got her
killed, so you and your precious son can live in comfort. You robbed my daughter of a
mother, you condemned her to live on the run with an unstable man, while you lived in
luxury, without consequences.”

Narcissa looks tortured, tears and snot running down her face, her hair in disarray, despair
and pain etched into her features.

“Even so,” he says, after a few seconds in which he struggles to get his anger under control,
erasing the pain off his own face. “She wouldn’t want you hurt. You don’t deserve her
devotion; you never did. You don’t deserve to have her bones in your garden. You’re a
pathetic excuse of a woman. A traitor of the worst kind. I’ve never met a creature as
wretched.”

He stands, and the air is breathable again, the furniture stops moving.

“You will receive an owl from the Ministry soon. It will bring news of Lucius, who will be in
St Mungo’s by then. You will go there. When you will be questioned, you’ll say Savage and
Proudfoot came around demanding to speak to Lucius. They left together, and that is all you
know. Do you understand me?” he asks, when she shows no reaction.

“Y-yes,” she mumbles.

“Lucius has gone to great lengths to make himself useful to me and keep you safe. Don’t ruin
it for him. Do as you are told.”

“I will,” she whispers, between barely contained sobs.

“I hope so. Go make yourself presentable.”

It takes Narcissa two tries before she properly stands. And then she just leaves, showing that,
indeed, she only cares about her husband and son, leaving Andromeda and her niece and
nephew behind.

“I shall return within the hour,” Voldemort says, looking at Andromeda. “Don’t do anything
stupid. I might have promised Bella I won’t kill her sisters, but I made no promises for that
boy.”

“You don’t frighten me,” Andromeda says, though she’s gone as pale as the rest of them.

Voldemort almost smiles, but it’s gone so fast it’s hard to say if he had.

“Where are you going?” Delphini asks.

“I need to have a conversation with a certain mudblood,” Voldemort says and Harry can’t
take more hits.

It keeps getting worse and worse.

(-)

He sits on the floor as Andromeda fights with Narcissa and Delphini.

He can’t really hear them.

Hermione.

Ron.

Their children.

Harry tried running after Voldemort, but to no avail. The man vanished into thin air.

Harry can’t Apparate. He forcefully took Delphini’s wand and tried to do it, but nothing
happened. He found two elves in his frantic search of the house, but they refused to Apparate
him.

Harry used the Imperius on them, out of choices, but even then, while they agreed to take him
to Hermione’s house, they simply couldn’t.

“How odd, sir,” they said, eyes glassy, voice empty. “Master must have put us into lockdown,
sir.”

Harry ran over the vast grounds, got onto an abraxan, and tried to fly away.

And he flew. Five or six miles from the Manor, in every direction, but it’s like an invisible
dome surrounds the area and the abraxan couldn’t get through it.

He can’t walk through it, either. An invisible line is on the ground that simply throws Harry
back, no matter how many curses he throws at empty air.

He tried sending owls, but no owl Delphini brought to him obeyed.

He tried sending a Patronus, but he saw his silvery stag crumble into mist as soon as he hit
that invisible line.

He tried three fireplaces before he gave up on that venue. All shut off.

Harry did all he could think of, with no success.

He lost everything.

When Harry goes back to Teddy’s room, he simply collapses on the floor and shuts off.

It’s too much; after everything he endured, to know that Voldemort is at his best friend's
house, and Harry can’t reach them- it’s too much.
The panic, the adrenaline, the guilt, the horror- they all mix, growing and growing until they
hit a wall of numbness.

He doesn’t even react when Travers enters the room.

Harry sees him, sees Delphini questioning who he is, but Harry just lost any ounce of energy
he had, mind plagued with images of Ron and Hermione.

“Where is Lucius?” Narcissa asks Travers, what she must have asked of Harry at least a
dozen times.

“He is busy, but he will return. Eventually. Now, what is this ruckus about? Put down your
wand, Andromeda, before you take your eye out,” Travers sneers, full of derision.

“It seems to me you are outnumbered, Travers,” Andromeda shoots back.

He rolls his eyes.

“How shall I defend myself from two women and two children?”

“I don’t like you,” Delphini snaps. She, too, seems to be struggling under the pressure inside
the Manor. But she doesn’t shut off- no, she only gets angrier and angrier, had been
screaming at her aunts for at least forty minutes, pacing around the room. She took back her
wand from Harry a while ago, gripping it tightly, rage contorting her features.

And now she’s mouthing off to Travers, all her frustration zooming in on him.

“Delphini,” Harry finds himself speaking, as if his mouth has an independent will.

“Come here.”

Travers turns his head when he hears Harry. “Oh, and the wander boy! I saw you running
around the grounds earlier. Amusing-”

“Shut up! Get out!” Delphini commands. Sparks fly out of her wand.

“You shut up, blood traitor’s daughter-“

Harry stands, but it’s like someone else is in command of his body.

He’s detached. Even the fear of seeing Delphini facing off a Death Eater is dimmed down, far
away.

“Delphini,” he says again. His voice doesn’t sound like he remembers it.

She draws her shoulders back, eyes on fire. Her father’s eyes. Their exact shape and colour.
The same ingrained, violent rage. “My mother is Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Delphini!” Narcissa pulls her away. “Leave us alone, Travers. I don’t know what power trip
you’re on, but when Lucius returns, you don’t want him to hear you disrespected me.”
Travers is staring at Delphini, eyebrows raised.

“Beg your pardon, Narcissa, I wasn’t disrespecting you. Bella’s daughter, truly?” He inspects
Delphini and then he gives a bark like laughter. “I’ll be damned, you do look like her, but
then all you Blacks look alike. In that case, I apologise, little one. Your parents were no blood
traitors-“ he glances at Andromeda- “unlike others around here. They were good people.
Loyal. My condolences.” He gives her a curt bow.

Delphini relaxes, if only slightly. “You are excused, but only if you stop antagonising Harry
and my aunts.”

Travers laughs even harder. “Fierce little thing, aren’t you? Befitting the daughter of such
heroes. So, what is the rucks about? You’re giving me a headache, I can hear the yells from
downstairs.”

No one answers him. Harry sits back on the floor.

“My cousin is cursed,” Delphini says. “He won’t wake up.”

Travers sends Teddy a glance.

“I’m sure Lucius will fix him when he comes back. Might take a while, though.”

“Why? Where is he exactly?” Narcissa asks again.

“He’s doing his part,” is all Travers says.

“Lucius protected you all these years. He gave you shelter in our properties; he fed you! The
least you owe him is tell me where-“

“Narcissa, all due respect, but I don’t owe you a thing. I owe Lucius and I serve my Lord, and
neither told me I am at liberty to divulge our plans. Now, please, do keep the screaming to a
minimum. I’m trying to read.”

“We’ll stop screaming,” Delphini says. “If you help Teddy. You must be a powerful wizard,
sir, if you serve the dark lord. I am sure you know how to wake him.”

Travers looks at Teddy and back at Delphini.

“No one told me not to,” he mutters. “Just a kid. What harm could it do?” He walks closer,
drawing his wand.

“I hope your aim got better through the years,” Andromeda says, though she doesn’t look
concerned.

“I am not a boy any longer, love.”

“Oh, I can see that. You aged like milk,” she hisses.

He casts a few spells over Teddy, a focused look on his face.

“I invite you to spend a decade in Azkaban, and then six years on the run; see how you age,”
he says.

Andromeda doesn’t answer; Travers steps back, drawing a wide, complicated looking pattern
in the air, before he flicks it into Teddy.

Dark magic saturates the air, making Harry’s hair stand up.

Teddy opens his eyes drowsily.

“Nana?” he asks, confused, when Andromeda falls over him.

(-)

Harry moves to another room with Delphini, because he couldn’t be around Teddy.

The boy remembers nothing. Just that he was walking down the street and then he fell and
woke up in Malfoy Manor.

Harry can’t pretend to be happy, can’t keep his misery and anguish at bay.

He can’t keep it from Delphini, either, but she’s different from Teddy. She follows him into
another room and simply sits at his side, on the floor.

They don’t say a word to each other. Harry puts a hand around her, squeezing her tightly.

She falls asleep after a while, her head on his shoulder.

Harry still doesn’t feel in control of his body. He is desperate; he is terrified, but it’s like a
wall separates him from those feelings, blocking him full access to his brain.

He can’t do anything. There’s nothing to do, in any case. He waits, focused on Delphini’s
slow breathing, on the warmth her body radiates.

(-)

When Voldemort enters, he is wearing a clean robe, not a hair out of place, no trace of the
injury he had earlier.

“Hermione,“ he says and Harry is suddenly brought back into his body again, the fear felt in
his every cell, raw and paralysing. “-is waiting for you in the office.”

Harry stands; in his haste, he knocks Delphini down.

“She’s alive?” Harry asks, breathless, just as Delphini rubs her eyes and looks around.

“What’s happening?”

“Sleep,” Voldemort says, moving his wrist. Delphini slumps on the floor like a puppet with
cut strings.

Harry doesn’t even protest about it; after the violence, the horror he’d seen, this is nothing.

Voldemort moves his hand again. Delphini floats gently through the air until she is on the bed
that dominates the room.

“Your actions in the following hours will determine how we shall relate to one another, going
forward. I suggest you choose wisely.”

“I want to see Hermione,” Harry says, hands in his pockets, just to make sure he won’t punch
Voldemort.

(-)

When he stumbles into the office, he finds her seated on a couch that hadn’t been there
before.

Harry blinks, several times-

He’s never seen her so pale. Her hands are shaking in her lap and when she looks at him, her
eyes are wet with tears.

But she isn’t bleeding, she isn’t tied down.

She doesn’t look injured.

“Harry!”

In a second they are hugging each other tightly. Harry isn’t sure if he’s holding her up, or if
she’s supporting him.

“You’re alive,” she whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

There, in Hermione’s arms, Harry allows himself to cry. He clings to her, buries his head in
her neck and allows the tears to come. She cries too, wetting his T-shirt.

“Are you hurt?” she keeps asking him.

She’s alive. She’s alive. Harry hadn’t yet lost everything.

He looks over his shoulder, but there is no sign of Voldemort.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” he says. “You’re so smart, you can do something. Help us
escape.”

Hermione is a genius. If there is someone that can hope to find a way out, then it’s her-

“My children,” she says, voice broken, a fresh wave of tears pooling in her eyes. “I can’t-
Harry, my children!” She puts a hand over her mouth, terror in her eyes.

“Where are they?” Harry asks, frantic, shoving her hand away so she can speak.

“Home, with Ron. They’re sleeping. Or at least they were when I left. But he said someone is
watching them. And if I do anything rash- they’ll- Ron is sleeping, he’s defenceless- my
children, Harry!”

For a second, when seeing Hermione, Harry felt like his old self again, like they were
seventeen, stubbornly going forward.

Like they were in Bathilda’s house and Hermione somehow got them out of there just as
Voldemort showed up.

But they’re no longer seventeen. They have children now.

“I am so sorry, Hermione. I fucked up. This is all my fault. I ruined everything-”

She shushes him, a hand on his shoulder, looking up into his eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” she whispers. “How it got to this.”

She leads him to the couch.

“Start at the beginning,” she coaxes, when they sit.

So Harry does.

(-)

“How could I have been this stupid?” Harry asks when he’s done. It was hard to cram years
into a story that lasted a quarter of an hour, but he did his best to give her the essential parts.

Guilt is killing him from the inside. He thought confessing to his crimes might make it better,
but it hadn’t.

Hermione doesn’t answer. She’s been silent the entire time.

Harry at least expected a reaction when he told her he fell in love with the monster in his
house. That they started sleeping together.

But when he’d dared meet her eyes, she didn’t look at all surprised about it.

“What are we going to do?” he asks, after a tortured silence.

“What can we do?” She looks down at her hands. Her fingers play with her wedding ring.
“What is there to do?”

“We can-“ Harry starts, but trails off. He doesn’t know.

“Dumbledore’s gone. So is Moody. Snape.” Hermione sounds strangled. “Without

them….Kingsley is dead. The only Auror who knows Voldemort is alive is under a vow not
to speak about him. He apparently set it all up so it will look like the Shadows did this. You,
Ron and myself are the only ones alive that know he is back. Will anyone believe us?”

No one believed them, back when Harry was fifteen. But they aren’t kids anymore, Harry is a
hero-

Dumbledore wasn’t a kid in my fourth year, Harry remembers. Dumbledore, too, used to be a
hero. He defeated a dark lord.

And yet when he said Voldemort was back, they branded him a lunatic.

“Who will be Minister now?” Harry asks.

“The Undersecretary, until the Wizengamot elects another Minister.”

Harry knows of him, but doesn’t know him. A forty something year old man that Harry only
saw in passing.

“He’s decent, but-” Hermione looks at him. “Harry, my children! He said a Death Eater will
watch their every move. He had Kingsley, Savage and Proudfoot kidnapped while he was
confined to your house. Imagine what he can do now that he is free.”

Harry still can’t imagine how Voldemort did all that.

“I-” she hesitates. “We talked about this a few months ago. He and I. Theoretically.” She bites
her lip. “I asked him what he’d do, if he was free again.”

She looks as guilty as Harry feels. She shouldn’t. This is solely Harry’s fuckup.

“He said he’d erase the memories of those that know of his existence and then start fresh.
That he wouldn’t- that it wouldn’t be like before.”

“He obviously lied. They’re dead.”

“He told me he wanted to spare them, but they did not want it. Is that true?”
Hermione looks hopeful. Voldemort got to her, too. Not as much as he got to Harry, but she
had done her best to think of Voldemort as someone different from the serpentine enemy they
fought against.

“Only technically. He wanted them dead, so that is why he gave them a choice. He knew
what they’d chose. He only did it so he can later claim he tried.”

“But- see, just the fact that he felt the need to-” Hermione hesitates again, looking uncertain.
“He wanted to show you he tried. Why would he care what you think if he’s like he used to
be?”

Harry swallows. He doesn’t know, but he won’t fall for it again.

“The only thing that’s changed about him is that he’s saner,” Harry says.

Voldemort from before wouldn’t have helped himself, when faced with the three kneeling
Aurors. He’d have played with them, tortured them to no end.

This one was detached from it, had Malfoy kill them.

This Voldemort is focused on his goals, without any emotion to get in his way. No more
obsessive need for revenge. No more mistakes on his part.

He’s thrice as dangerous as he used to be.

“In any case, I can’t- before my children are safe, I can’t do anything but what he wants-”

“What does he want from you?” Harry asks. “We have to think. We need time to think-”

As if time is mocking them, the grandfather clock chimes, loudly.

Immediately after, the door opens and there is Voldemort. The brief comfort Harry felt at
seeing Hermione, having her there, dissipates instantly.

Both Hermione and Harry stand.

“You should leave,” Voldemort tells her. “You’ll be wanted at work soon. With the news,
with the dead Minister, they’ll need all the Department heads on hand. They will send a
summon to your house.” Voldemort says.

He can’t possibly mean-

“Yes,” Hermione’s voice comes as a squeak. “Yes,” she says again, with more confidence.

Silence.

No one speaks for a good minute. Harry refuses to look at Voldemort.

“On your way, then.”

“Right. Right.” She walks tentatively, and it must be a trick, right? He can’t let her leave?
“I’ll need my wand,” she says.

Voldemort hands it over. Just like that.

“Don’t disappoint me, Hermione. Remember our talk.”

“Hard to forget,” she hisses, snatching back her wand.

“You are a smart girl. You’ll pull it off. An elf will take you to the edge of the property. The
wards will let you out.”

Harry can’t believe she’s allowed to leave. She looks at him and tries to smile. She fails.

Stay strong, she mouths the words and then she is out the door.

(-)

“What now?” Harry makes himself ask once they are alone. “I need to know what is
coming.”

Not like he’ll tell you.

But he has to ask, at least.

“This was it,” Voldemort answers. Now that he’s alone with Harry, no audience to play to, he
looks relieved.

Excited, really. He smiles, a large, beautiful, venomous thing.

“Those that knew about me are dead. Proudfoot and Hermione will do as I say, and the
Malfoys are under control.”

In one night. In a matter of hours.

Harry often pondered over why Dumbledore, mighty Dumbledore, hadn’t managed to take
down Voldemort, way back in the day, before Harry was even born.

He hadn’t realised how irrational the Voldemort Harry met at fourteen has become; he hadn’t
considered Voldemort wasn’t always that way.

This, this man in front of him is the foe Dumbledore could not stop, the dark lord that
gathered power, influence, followers despite all attempts to stop him.

Harry remembers people talking about the first war, how close Voldemort was to winning.
His victory was almost guaranteed, he was at the height of his power when he tried to kill
Harry and everything went to shit.
The man that returned from Albania, after years of living as a wraith, in a body concocted by
snake venom, was but a shadow of the true Tom Riddle, the brightest student Hogwarts had
ever seen.

Whatever name he goes by, that overpowered genius now stands before Harry.

“What will you do with Ron?” Harry makes himself say it. He has to know.

Voldemort’s eyes linger on Harry’s. “I decided it is best Hermione handles him. I can’t figure
him out,” he adds, miffed. “She’ll come up with a way to keep him obedient. It’s one of the
tasks I gave her.”

Ron won’t be obedient. Harry dreads that part. There is not much Hermione can do.

Ron will not just keep his head down and take it.

“But what will you do? You’re free, no one will alert the Ministry about it, you made sure of
it, but to what end?” Harry bites his tongue, to stop himself from begging Voldemort to just
leave the country. It won’t happen.

“I will take over.”

Harry rolls his eyes. Obviously. “But how?”

Voldemort smiles again. “Worry not, Harry. No one needs to die after today. Or if someone
does, it won’t be anyone you know, nor will you hear about it.”

Even if Harry was to believe that, which he doesn’t… there’s Molly.

Maybe he shouldn’t bring attention to her.

But it’s stupid to think that way. Voldemort forgets nothing, and he isn’t likely to forget about
his precious Bella and her killer.

“What will you do with me?” he asks, trying to find the right angle.

Voldemort doesn’t answer right away, and Harry doesn’t give him the time.

“I- I will do what you want,” he says, defeated.

Harry learned. He learned what Lucius fucking Malfoy tried to tell him in this very office
long ago.

Keep your loved one safe and forget about the rest.

Harry won’t forget about the rest. He won’t ever sleep peacefully again in his life, but he can
at least try to keep the people he loves safe.

“Anything you want. I only ask one thing.”

Voldemort comes closer. He narrows his eyes. “Is that so?”

“If you don’t harm Molly, I will- whatever you want from me, you’ll have it.”

“You have no leverage, Harry,” Voldemort says, softly. “I warned you. You should have
released me from the oaths, and I would have vowed to you that Weasley survives. You
refused. There is nothing you can offer me now.”

Harry tries not to panic. It won’t do him any good, in any case. He’s been panicking all night,
to no results.

“I won’t fight you.”

“You can’t fight me. You can try, but I am not concerned.”

“There must be something,” Harry insists. There is always something with Voldemort.

Hermione’s words ring in his head. ‘He wanted to show you he tried. Why would he care
what you think if he’s like he used to be?’

He needs Harry for something.

“Don’t kill her- don’t hurt her, and I will do it,” Harry says.

Voldemort regards him for some seconds, head tilted to the side.

“Do you know what you are asking? Do you realise what not killing that insect means?”

Harry frowns. “What does it mean?”

“If I don’t kill her, Harry,” Voldemort gives him a pitying look. “Delphini will.”

Harry’s stomach drops.

“One day- in a year or three or ten, Molly Weasley will open her door to find Delphini there.
Do you truly want that?”

Christ. All those drawings Delphini had- blood everywhere, a knife stuck in a woman’s body.

She’s just a child. It won’t come to that. She can be difficult, but she’s not a murderer.

“She’s not you.” She can’t be like him. Harry doesn’t want to believe Delphini’s future is
already ruined.

Voldemort says nothing to that. He used to deny it as much as Harry- Voldemort wanted
Delphini to be nothing like him. He tried to see only Bellatrix in her, but now he’s silent.

“Let me worry about Delphini,” Harry goes on, with a confidence he doesn’t have.

“There is something you can do for me.”

There you go. Of course there is. Voldemort’s lack of fury at the prospect of Molly’s
prolonged existence only proves he must have planned to hold her over Harry’s head.
“What?” Harry asks, relieved but also apprehensive. I’ll do it. Whatever it is.

But he dreads to think what it might be.

“You will only have to say one word, nothing important.”

“Ok,” Harry whispers. “Alright. Let’s make a vow, to -”

Voldemort laughs. “Are you that naive? I will never take a magical oath again. My word will
have to do.”

“Your word means nothing. You told me that yourself, remember?”

When Harry first brought Voldemort into Grimmauld. ‘My word means nothing, if it’s not in a
magical binding oath. I’m a habitual liar. I would say anything, Harry Potter, to get what I
want.’

“You’ll just have to hope I mean it this time.” Voldemort heads to the door-

“Wait. My wand-” Harry trails off, making Voldemort turn back.

“I’ll keep it safe for the foreseeable future. I allowed you to have it after the Shadows, but
you lost that right when you tried to use it to get in my way.”

Harry can’t think of anything to say.

“I suggest you get familiar with the Manor. You’ll be spending quite some time here. Until I
can be convinced of your… cooperation.”

Harry isn’t shocked, exactly. He didn’t imagine Voldemort will just let him go.

“Cheer up, Harry. It’s a beautiful prison. Certainly better than a cage, tied down by chains,
tortured every day. Better than stuffy Grimmauld, where there is no breath of fresh air to be
had. What more could you need? Isn’t that what you used to ask me? “You have me and
Delphini, you have comfort, good meals, books- is it so horrible?” Voldemort throws Harry’s
words back in his face. “Why, I did promise I will be a generous lord. I will take time to take
you to the park. That should make you happy, no?”

And Harry remembers that conversation, too. Making the mistake of offering to take
Voldemort out of the house on his birthday, saying he wants Voldemort to be happy.

What an idiot I was.

He also remembers Voldemort promising he’ll collar Harry and put him in cuffs.

Do I have that to look forward to in my future?

Voldemort is still high on the adrenaline, the euphoria of freedom. He’s still high on the kill
and doesn’t appear in any hurry to hurt Harry more than he already did.
But once that passes, will he turn vengeful?

He leaves, and Harry doesn’t try to stop him this time. He goes to the window instead, the
one Voldemort seemed so fascinated with while Harry’s world was crumbling around him.

Now that his blood is replenished, with the sun starting to rise, Harry can see it in the
distance.

A great headstone, surrounded by flowers.

Narcissa must feel terribly guilty about her sister, because she’s built her a monument.

Harry can’t read that far, but he has no doubt Bellatrix is buried there.

(-)

Harry is not allowed to see Teddy; it’s Travers that breaks the news to Harry, in Harry’s
‘room’.

It’s as large and luxurious as any other room in the Manor. Every piece of furniture, every
detail carved in it screams wealth, but to Harry it looks cold.

“You have everything you need here, wonder boy,” Travers says. “Malfoy hospitality is
legendary.” He snorts. “Of course, they’ll never let you forget it, the fuckers. They’ll throw it
in your face forever, but you will live in comfort, at least. And who knows, apparently we’re
not to antagonise you, so might be you won’t even have to suffer Lucius’ obnoxious
reminders that he’s the one feeding you.”

Travers mutters somewhat bitterly about Malfoy helping him out in the last years and holding
it over his head, but Harry isn’t paying attention.

His numbness returned full force.

“You can only leave your room after Edward goes to sleep. If you want to stroll around the
garden at night, just call the elf and I’ll come and let you out.”

Travers eventually leaves when Harry doesn’t respond.

He is so cold. Exhausted, physically and mentally. The sun is rising outside, announcing a
bright day, and he can’t understand how that is possible, how the sun didn’t get the message
that everything is over. There is nothing bright in anyone’s future anymore.

Harry doesn’t want to touch anything that belongs to Malfoy, but he’s already in Malfoy
Manor, so what difference does it make?
He climbs into the bed, staining everything with blood and dirt. He’s tired, but when he
closes his eyes, instead of drifting into unconsciousness, he keeps seeing Kingsley dead.

The slaughter in the clearing.

Teddy’s slack body.

Hermione’s desperate expression.

So Harry opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

(-)

He knows he won’t leave his room, even if Travers said he could. Harry has no desire to do
so. He wants nothing. He shuts his blinders, because he can’t bear to see the mockery of the
beautiful day.

He refuses to eat or drink anything Tinsy sends to his room every few hours.

The windows have heavy bars, and Harry knows it’s not to keep him from escaping- after all,
if he wants, he is allowed to get out on the grounds as long as Teddy doesn’t spot him. The
bars are there to keep Harry from plunging to his death.

He realises this must be it, because there are no razors in his bathroom. No sharp things,
nothing breakable, not even a mirror.

Nothing from which he could hang himself.

So Harry just stays on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

(-)

“Harry, can you hear me?”

Delphini looks so worried, half on top of Harry, her slender arms on both sides of his head.

“Yeah.” It’s such an effort to say that little word.

He heard her coming in, heard her talking to him, but he just can’t make himself talk back.

Delphini doesn’t leave. She tries to make Harry eat, when the tray of food appears, holds a
glass to his lips. He can’t.
So she stops eating and drinking, too. “I won’t let you die,” she says, sometimes during the
following day. Or maybe it’s the day after that.

Harry doesn’t know or care.

“From now on, we share the same fate.” She stubbornly lies beside him. “Father said you’ll
be a little upset for a while, but that you’ll get through it. I just have to be patient.”

Harry forces himself to take a few sips of water, just so she will drink some.

“Your father is a piece of shit,” he says. His voice comes out as cold as he feels.

Delphini sighs. “I thought we weren’t supposed to say ‘shit’.”

All of Harry’s efforts to shield Delphini- from foul language, from the war, from the
knowledge her father is a mass murderer- what purpose does it serve anymore?

It was always useless, in any case. Delphini grew up with Rodolphus who, from all her
stories, was a drunk that swore like a sailor, and who randomly killed muggles in her
presence.

Harry was just trying to shield her from something that had already happened to her.

What’s the point, anymore?

But, when her stomach grumbles, he eats, so she can eat. He drinks and even walks around
the room to stretch his legs, so she can do the same, because she stubbornly refuses to do
anything he doesn’t do.

He showers, too, and someone brought his clothes from Grimmauld, because he finds them in
an armoire; fortunate. He’d have preferred to stay in his blood-stained clothes than wear
something given by the Malfoys.

When he returns from the bathroom, he sees Tinsy took the opportunity to change his sheets.

Delphini only leaves to go wash herself, but she’s promptly back by his side.

She tries not to sleep, because Harry can’t, but she occasionally falls into fitful slumbers.

She tells him stories, hoping they’ll help Harry sleep. He can’t tell if he does. The blinders
stay shut, and the days or nights blur into each other. Harry sometimes closes his eyes and
when he opens them, he can’t be sure if he slept or if only a second has passed.

Andromeda and Narcissa knock at the door insistently, trying to coax Delphini out, but she
refuses.

“I’m taking care of Harry,” she snaps, inpatient. And she’s so good, so gentle, her eyes soft
every time she looks at him, full of love.
But she’s also something else, because when her aunts keep knocking, calling her name, her
face sets in that dangerous way of hers, her eyes turn darker.

“Leave me alone! Stop bothering me or I will call father!”

The knocks stop after that.

‘If I don’t kill Molly Weasley, Delphini will.’

Harry refused to believe it, but he can’t lie to himself anymore. He’s done with that. Delphini
is who she is, the product of her parents and her environment.

He hoped his love will change her, soften her, but Delphini, like Voldemort, isn’t swayed by
kindness.

Harry needs to talk to her in a way she understands, the way Voldemort handles her. But he
isn’t sure how to do that. He doesn’t know how to manipulate; he doesn’t know what threats
to use to make her obey.

She gives him an opportunity, eventually.

Delphini breaks down, some days into their stay at Malfoy Manor and she confesses how she
helped Voldemort with his plans, how she took Grimmauld from Harry, how Malfoy had
been visiting for months and Delphini hid it, kept Harry busy out of the house so he won’t
catch them, how she told him to go to Tesco, because Voldemort asked her to.

Harry doesn’t blame her; how could he? She might be very smart and calculating, but she’s a
kid- she has no hope of resisting Voldemort; not when so many grown men folded before
him.

Even through his numbness, his heart hurts for her, when he images what Voldemort put her
through, the pressure she was under.

“I’m really sorry, Harry. I didn’t want to hurt you. But he said you won’t be hurt, and you
aren’t. You’re alive, with me.”

It’s Harry's chance to try to get to her. If he was in his right mind, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t
take advantage of her guilt, but as it is…. all his feelings are dimmed down.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” he says, hugging her. They’re under the blanket, surrounded by
darkness, only one candle lit far away. “I don’t care about Grimmauld. It should be yours.
But I am hurt, Delphini. Voldemort took everything from me. Again.”

She sniffles in her pillow, her back to him. “No, no. You have me. You even have Teddy-
they’ll let you see him, eventually. You’ll see, everything will be fine.”

“He took my freedom-”

“He was a prisoner, too!” Delphini states, her voice firmer. “The Aurors hurt him. I heard you
talk about it. And then you wouldn’t let him leave the house!”
Harry hugs her tighter. “Because he killed people,” he whispers. “He killed children, students
in a school.”

Delphini inhales, deeply. But she is stubborn; she is Voldemort’s daughter, and she was raised
by Lestrange. “It was war. People die in war.”

“I know you can tell wrong from right,” Harry says. Delphini knows, she understands, but
Harry fears she just doesn’t care. “It was a war he started. My side- we were only defending
ourselves. The Aurors were trying to protect the innocent. Teddy’s mum was protecting
students, innocent children, when she died. When your mother killed her.”

Delphini might not care about faceless strangers she only heard about, but she cares about
Teddy, she relates to him, because neither have mothers.

“I didn’t know your mother- I only met her briefly, so I can’t speak of her character.” It is a
lie. While he didn’t know Bellatrix, he knows how brutal she was. How cruel.

“She killed Teddy’s mum, and she killed Sirius, the only father figure I had. Maybe she was a
good woman, I don’t know. Maybe she only did it because she was in love with the wrong
man. But she destroyed many lives, mine and Teddy’s included, in a war your father started.”

Delphini says nothing, gets stiffer in Harry’s arms.

“Voldemort killed my parents; he tried to kill me when I was a baby, just because he heard a
man, who in turn overheard a woman saying I was destined to be his enemy. He took away
my family, Delphini. I was sent to live with muggles that didn’t love me. They didn’t want
me and they made that clear every day. I was given a cupboard to live in, scraps of food from
their leftovers. I was so alone, growing up. I didn’t even know my parent’s name, why they
died. I didn’t know I was magical.”

“Oh, Harry!” Delphini turns around, burying her head in his chest.

“But then I came to Hogwarts, and I found Ron and Hermione. I had food and a warm bed. I
didn’t feel wrong anymore, the way the Dursleys made me feel my entire life. It was the best
year of my life, I felt like I was in heaven. But then, at the end of it, your father tried to kill
me again.”

“No,” Delphini says. “No.”

“Yes, he did. I was only eleven. I managed to escape. But that summer, the Dursleys wouldn’t
let me leave my room. They said they wouldn’t allow me to return to Hogwarts. I was locked
in my room. Ron and his brother saved me. It was wonderful, Delphini. They came with a
flying car, and they took me to their house. They’re poor, so their house is nothing like
Malfoy Manor, nothing like Grimmauld. But they were so loving. That’s where I found out
what a family ought to be. I wanted so badly to be part of their family, you know? We
returned to Hogwarts and your father almost killed Ginny, Ron’s sister-”

“Harry, stop.” Delphini squeezes his T-shirt tightly.

He’s aware he’s causing her pain, but he has to. He has to try everything in his power to
avoid her turning into her parents. Just loving her, shielding her, lying to her did not seem to
work.

“I wanted to help her, but I almost died as well. It was only luck and Dumbledore’s phoenix
that saved me. Phoenixes have healing tears, and Fawkes- that was his name- was there for
me.”

Harry wonders, briefly, what happened to Fawkes. Where he is.

“In my third year, I met Sirius. Sirius, who was tortured in prison by Dementors. He was in
Azkaban with Bellatrix and Rodolphus, only Sirius was innocent. He didn’t do anything at
all. He escaped because he knew I was in danger. And he wanted to take me with him, he
offered that we live together. I was so happy. God-”

Harry feels a knot in his throat, but he doesn’t cry. He doesn’t think he can cry. He is
hallowed out, empty of everything.

“But we couldn’t. Because of a Death Eater that framed him.”

That was also Harry’s fucking fault. If he hadn’t stopped Sirius from killing Peter, Peter
wouldn’t have escaped. They’d have brought his corpse to Dumbledore, and maybe the
Ministry would have believed them, then, would have given Sirius a fair trail.

I was such an idiot.

Kindness is weakness, Voldemort always said, and finally Harry agrees with him.

Harry’s kindness always got the people he loved dead.

“Before my fourth year, the Weasleys took me to see the Quidditch World Cup. We went
there as a family, and we had such a nice day. The game was brilliant. But then Death Eaters
attacked the area we were in. Malfoy was amongst them. They caused terror for the sake of
terror, just because they were drunk and wanted a bit of fun. That was their idea of fun. And
it set the tone for the entire year. I made new friends. I met this boy, Cedric, in a magical
contest. We helped each other through it.” Harry breathes out. “Your father killed Cedric. He
kidnapped us both, and he killed Cedric and tied me to a gravestone-”

“I don’t want to hear anymore. Enough.”

“The next year I lost Sirius. The year after that I lost Dumbledore. Voldemort took everyone
away from me. And then he lost, and he was imprisoned, and we slowly built our lives again.
I didn’t- not properly. I lost too much. Instead of wanting revenge for all those people that
were taken from me, I decided to help your father. I took him out of the Ministry because
they were treating him badly. I brought him home, and did everything I could to make him
happy, even if he didn’t deserve it. And this is how he repays me. He took everything from
me again. I don’t know what’s happening with Ron, with Hermione. I can’t see Teddy. And
the only family I had- the only mother I knew, is in danger.”
Delphini draws back, looks at him through thick, wet lashes. “What mother?”

“The woman that hugged me, after your father tied me to the gravestone and took my blood,
tortured me in that cemetery. She stood by my hospital bed and held my hand. She took me
into her house, even when she knew Voldemort was after me and everyone that hid me would
meet a terrible fate. She came to fight for me at the battle of Hogwarts. Her son died, and her
daughter almost died, but she never blamed me. She opened her house to me, time and time
again, and now your father wants her dead. You want her dead.”

Delphini tenses all over.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt me by doing what your father asked you to do . I don’t
blame you for it. But I am hurt, and he will always hurt me. I just ask that you won’t do the
same, Delphini. Don’t take more from me. I already lost enough.”

He cups her cheek. “I know Molly killed your mother. But your father killed my mother, and
my father. Bellatrix killed Sirius. I only have Molly and the Weasleys. If you insist on hating
them- if anything happens to them- I won’t survive it, Delphini.”

There. It’s an awful thing to say to a child. But these are the circumstances he was forced in.
This is what happens when you bring a dark lord home and fall in love with him, only to have
him stab you in the back.

Kindness and consideration didn’t get Harry anywhere. It only got him in trouble. It put
people in danger.

Manipulation, blackmail, playing with people’s emotions took Voldemort a long way.

Delphini turns her back to Harry, and she doesn’t say another word for a very long time.

(-)

Andromeda and Teddy are also prisoners, but Teddy isn’t aware of it, Delphini says. Harry
sees him out of the window, playing around, no concern in the world.

Teddy knows, like the rest of the Wizarding Britain, that Harry left on holiday.

“You took me to visit my ‘mother’s’ relatives in France, and then we decided to tour
Europe,” Delphini informs him.

So Teddy can’t see her, either.

“How long has it been?” Harry asks, one night.

“A week,” she answers.

She looks pale. Unhealthy. She still refuses to leave his room, though no one tries to get her
out of it anymore.

“Let’s get out tonight, yes?” Harry asks. If it were just him, he’d just stay in his bed forever,
or until he dies of hunger. But he can’t do that to Delphini.

So he ate, he drank, and now he will take her out.

“YES!!” Delphini yells in delight, clapping her hands.

Harry calls Tinsy, who alerts Travers.

“Do whatever you want, just be back in your room by dawn,” Travers says, bored.

They stroll around the vast gardens; Harry doesn’t go on the side where he now knows
Bellatrix is buried. He chooses the familiar sights, the ones he visited before.

There is no escaping the Manor. Harry has no energy, but he manages a forty minutes walk,
and then they sit on a bench that oversees a small lake.

He supposes it’s a beautiful sight, but he can’t find anything beautiful anymore.

(-)

On the ninth day, early in the morning, Harry is perched on the window still, Delphini in his
lap.

That’s when he sees Malfoy returning home, walking side by side with his wife, leaning on a
cane.

“Oh, I’m so happy he recovered!” Delphini squeaks. She’s been worried about Malfoy,
wondering out loud if Lucius was alright, since last she heard he was in St Mungo.

“Your father cursed him. That’s why he was injured,” Harry tells her.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I liked it better when you refused to talk badly of him in front
of me.”

“I was an idiot.” He pats her back. “Go. I know you want to see Malfoy. I’ll be fine.”

Delphini looks conflicted, before her face sets in that determined way of hers.

She shakes her head. “No. I’m staying with you.”

(-)
It’s Voldemort that finally draws Delphini out of the room.

There’s a knock at the door, two weeks into Harry’s stay, and he’s surprised, because
Andromeda and Narcissa had long stopped coming to try to convince Delphini to get some
air.

The door opens, and Voldemort stands there.

Harry instantly scrambles to his feet, knocking his breakfast tray off the table; the strange,
numb feeling in his chest that he’d felt since that fateful night shatters, replaced by fear.

“Father!” Delphini runs and hugs him.

No matter what Harry tells her, she’ll always love Voldemort. Which is fine, as long as she
understands that Voldemort is not a role model.

Voldemort looks startled when Delphini winds her arms around his waist. He stands stiff as a
board, staring down at Delphini, who has her head into his robe.

When seconds pass, and she doesn’t let go, Voldemort tries to ignore her.

“Hermione wants assurances you’re still alive,” he says, speaking as if there isn’t a child
plastered to him. “She’s quite insistent. I arranged for a visit in the morning.”

Harry can’t talk. He just nods. He can’t stand to be in the same room with him. It’s
unbearable.

Everything about Voldemort brings him pain. Sharp, throbbing, visceral pain.

“Child, let go.” Voldemort seemingly wants to leave as well, only Delphini is still clinging to
him.

“I miss you,” comes her muffled voice.

He pries her hands away from him. Firm, but not violent. “Then come along. I have time for
a cup of tea.”

Delphini looks between him and Harry, eyes teary. Voldemort, finally freed from his
constraints, leaves without another word.

“I’ll be right back,” Delphini whispers, and goes after him.

(-)

Hermione looks ten years older than last he saw her, and ten pounds lighter.
Harry hugs her, and they spend a few moments like that, in silence.

They’re in Malfoy’s dreaded office.

“How are you?” she asks and Harry laughs.

He hasn’t laughed in two weeks but, really.

“The kids? Ron? Molly?”

“They’re fine,” she says, but she avoids his eyes.

Harry’s stomach plummets. “Hermione, what’s wrong-”

“They’re fine,” she insists. “In fact, they’re together right now. Breakfast at the Burrow.
They’ll go visit that magical menagerie that opened last year.”

“Ron must hate me so much,” Harry whispers. If Ron didn’t come to see Harry, it means he
can’t even stand to look at him, doesn’t even care if Harry still lives. Rightfully so. Harry
deserves it.

Only- only it seems a bit odd that Ron would have breakfast at the Burrow, visit menageries
while knowing Voldemort is out and about.

“He doesn’t hate you,” Hermione says. She burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks, more and more afraid. It takes minutes to calm her.

Every time she tries to speak, she starts sobbing anew. Harry wants to shake her, to scream at
her to just tell him already.

His heart is beating so fast, he’s dizzy with it. After the surreal emptiness that plagued him
during the last weeks, the emotions come far too strongly now.

All kinds of scenarios form into his head-

“He could never hate you,” Hermione finally speaks. “When I told him what happened, he
freaked out. Harry, it was bad. He wouldn’t accept that the Manor was closed, that there was
no way to get through the wards. He was talking about telling the Aurors, he was half atop
his broom before I was even done with the story. He refused to understand you are in no
imminent danger.”

Oh, Ron. His best mate. Harry’s heart swells and shatters at the same time.

“He wouldn’t calm down. I told him Voldemort got rid of all the Aurors that knew of his
existence, that he staged it all so perfectly. Ron didn’t care that he threatened our kids. He
insisted we send them away to Romania, with Molly and Arthur, and then fight against
Voldemort with all we have.”

That’s Ron, alright.

“I told him it would take an incredible task force to siege the Manor, to get rid of the wards,
and that in all this time you’d be trapped inside, with Voldemort. That Teddy and Delphini
would be here, vulnerable. But he wouldn’t let it go. He wanted to at least gather what
remains of the Order and the D.A. and start planning and I-”

Hermione shudders. “I couldn’t let him. You don’t know how bad it is, Harry. The
newspapers were already out. Kingsley dead, Malfoy suddenly a hero, injured heavily to
bring down the Shadows and protect Proudfoot. The confusion in the Ministry- and Malfoy
must have worked relentlessly, for months now, because the Undersecretary is already in his
pocket. I’m sure the man doesn’t know about Voldemort, or anything like that, but clearly
Malfoy got to him. Even if we convince him Voldemort is back- Harry, we helped Voldemort!
You, Ron and myself. There’s no Kingsley now to speak the truth about how it got to this.
There are no papers to prove his existence. Nothing.

When Voldemort came to me that night, he threatened that if by a miracle I manage to expose
him, he will say he survived because you saved him. Because you gave him shelter after the
battle, with mine and Ron’s support. He said Proudfoot would back that version up.”

Harry’s mouth falls open.

“So even if we somehow convince the Ministry to take us seriously about this- we can easily
be arrested. Maybe they’ll believe us Voldemort is back, but they’ll ask how Voldemort is
back and where was he all this time? Think about it, it doesn’t paint us in a good light at all.
And Proudfoot will make it seem like you just saved Voldemort, on your own, with no
Ministry involvement.”

“I’m so sorry I dragged you into this,” Harry whispers. He’s not afraid of being arrested- he’d
gladly give himself in, but Hermione and Ron had no fault in all of this.

“I explained all this to Ron, but he’s… he’s Ron. He didn’t want to wait, to think it through.
He wanted to get you out. He wouldn’t understand, Harry. He was- after hours of fighting he
just turned his back on me, heading for the door and-”

She hides her head in her hands, crying desperately.

“Hermione,” Harry says, tense. “What did you do?”

“I had to do it. I had to. He’d have gotten himself killed- he’d have gotten all of us killed,”
she hiccups. “He just wouldn’t listen. I had to!”

“Hermione,” Harry grabs her arm, quite tightly.

“I erased his memory.”

“Oh, God, you scared me!” Harry almost yells at her, adrenaline in his every nerve.“You’ll
just find a new way to tell him again. I can write him a letter, so you can give it to him when
you approach the subject and-”
“No. No. Not just that memory. All of it. I just- all of it. He thinks Voldemort died in the
Battle of Hogwarts. He thinks we won.”

Harry steps back from her. “You took years? You- years?”

“I had to!” She looks up, screaming. She seems deranged. “And you should see how much
happier he is, since then. Like a burden lifted from his shoulders! He thinks Voldemort is
dead and you have a strange roommate, that you are happy and well, on holiday! He doesn’t
worry anymore, he’s cheerful all the time- I only took out the Voldemort parts, and what
couldn’t be erased completely, because it was tied to something else- I just made him think
Voldemort is your roommate-”

Harry is horrified. It’s like he can’t recognise her. He just can’t process it, it’s unfathomable
to him that she’d do something like this, violate Ron in such a way-

She did the same thing to her parents.

Yes, but that was different.

Was it?

It seemed different. It was different. They were muggles, it wasn’t like they could help in the
battle-

It was still wrong.

It only strikes Harry right then, how wrong that was. He only now understands why her
parents don’t talk to Hermione much anymore, why they are afraid of her.

“Leave,” he says, his voice foreign to him. “Just- leave.”

“Harry-”

“I don’t want to see you right now!”

She looks so desperate, so pitiful and a huge part of Harry wants to hug her, to console her,
but the other-

The other recoils in horror.

He turns his back to her. She says his names two times, but when he doesn’t answer, he hears
the door opening.

Harry breathes in, deeply. He’d give anything to feel numb again, to return to that state where
nothing could bother him -

“She’s quite terrifying, isn’t she?”

He turns, and there’s Voldemort, leaning on the doorway.

“I didn’t believe her when I asked how she handled her husband. But I went to see him
myself…” Voldemort smiles. “Quite frankly, I am impressed. That’s an extremely difficult
thing to accomplish. To erase, mould, change memories, spanning so many years…”

“Can it be reversed?” Harry asks, though he vowed he will only speak to Voldemort when
absolutely necessary.

“No.”

“But her parents- she fixed her parents.”

“She didn’t completely erase her parents’ memories. She gave them news ones, hid the truth
under them. You can reverse and dig past an implanted, fake memory to pull the real one out,
but she didn’t just give Ronald false memories. Not many, in any case. She throughly erased
most of them concerning me, after the battle of Hogwarts. She truly is a capable girl. Pity
she’s a mudblood, or she’d have made an excellent Death Eater.”

Voldemort shrugs. “It is a satisfying outcome. Ronald isn’t hurt, and since he now won’t get
in my way, there is no reason for him to get hurt. He sends you letters- that boy, Neville
writes to you as well, amongst others.” He sighs. “You’re so popular, aren’t you? I answer the
important people back, with your own writing.”

(-)

He wakes up numb again, and that’s just fine with him. He is even a tiny bit relieved,
knowing Hermione and the Weasleys are safe.

Apparently Voldemort isn’t out there killing people yet and there is still a legitimate
Ministry.

Over the next weeks, Delphini spends most of the day with him, and most of the nights, but
she leaves from time to time to see her aunts and Malfoy. And, even though she doesn’t say
it, Harry suspects she sometimes sees Voldemort.

She informs him, after two months, that Andromeda and Teddy were finally allowed to leave.

Harry wonders what Voldemort did to Andromeda, or what Andromeda told Voldemort to
reassure him she won’t make problems for him.

“I’ll get to get out, too!” Delphini is excited about it, playing with a new set of dolls Narcissa
got for her. “Lucius will take me to Diagon Alley tomorrow. They will say I returned from
the trip abroad, but you decided to tour Africa next, on your own.”

Harry tries to be happy for her. She deserves to get out of the damned house. She’s been shut
in most of her life, in one place or another.
“Harry, please! You should attempt to convince father you won’t betray him, and then you
can get out-”

“Get out where?” Harry asks, staring at the ceiling. “I’ve nothing left out there.”

He is relieved Ron and Hermione are alive, but Harry can’t picture seeing them again. Lying
to Ron, covering for Hermione... He just can’t envision it.

“So you’ll spend the rest of your days in your room, with the few exceptions when you walk
with me in the gardens, but only after I beg you?”

“It’s not up to me. Your father is keeping me here. I shouldn’t have to convince him of
anything.”

“You kept him in your house, too.” Delphini's voice drops, becomes colder.

“You know very well why. I kept him there so he wouldn’t hurt people.”

“You think if you get out there and convince people to fight him that it won’t lead to pain and
death on all sides?”

“You’re not naive, Delphini. You know he’s not keeping me here to avoid a war so people
won’t get hurt. He doesn’t care about people. He doesn’t care about anyone. Only himself.”

She slams the door on her way out.

(-)

“What did Voldemort do now?” Harry asks Delphini a few days later, watching the Malfoys
returning from somewhere.

It looks rather serious. Draco is crying, Harry sees it even from so high up. He’s leaning
heavily on Lucius, who has an arm around him.

Narcissa is sombre, face drawn, holding Scorpius.

They’re all dressed in black.

Delphini sighs. “Father didn’t do anything. Astoria died. They just buried her.”

“What?” Harry turns to stare at her.

She shrugs. “There is a curse in her father’s family bloodline that only affects girls. They
were aware of it and hired experts to get Astoria and Daphne protected as soon as they were
born. The Healers assured Mr Greengrass back then that it was done, the curse will never get
them, but apparently they were wrong. Astoria fell ill, suddenly, a week ago. No one could
help her. She was getting worse and worse- Draco came crawling to Lucius, asking for help.
And Lucius did try- he brought Healers from all over the world, curse breakers, rune masters-
but she died, anyway.”

“That’s terrible.” Poor Scorpius.

She shrugs again, completely unconcerned. “At least now Draco realised his father will
always be there for him. Scorpius will live at the Manor with us. Draco, too.”

That means Harry has to hide again, Malfoy informs him later that day.

It’s the first time Harry sees him since that night. Malfoy is completely recovered, his usual
self, arrogant and with his head held high.

“Draco obviously doesn’t know anything, so it would be impossible to explain why you’re
living here.”

“I don’t get out of my room much, anyway,” Harry offers. Even after Teddy left, Harry rarely
ventures out.

“You should. My lord was adamant that you have access to the grounds, if you so desire. Just
ask Tinsy about Draco's whereabouts first.”

“I’m sorry about Astoria,” Harry says. “Must be hard on Draco.”

Malfoy has no reaction, face unreadable as always. “He’s young. He’ll recover.”

(-)

Harry can hear Scorpius crying. The heat has become stifling in full summer, so he has all his
windows opened.

Delphini didn’t like to see the heavy black bars partially obscuring their view. She made them
invisible. Weeks had passed, and the charm had not yet faded. She’s an incredibly gifted
witch, and now Malfoy hired tutors for her to teach her magic, history, table manners, society
dances and etiquette. Delphini proudly tells Harry she shocks every one of them with her
skills.

Harry doesn’t like to see her use her wand, doesn’t like this talk of skill and power. “They
said I am destined for greatness,” Delphini boasted and Harry especially did not like that.

“You should be careful,” he said, perhaps too harshly, too spiteful, too worried. “Your father
might get paranoid you’ll grow more powerful than him.”

There’s a small pond under Harry’s room and he hears the boy crying, Narcissa trying to
calm him.
He asks for his mother, constantly. “I want mama, where is she?” Narcissa says Astoria is on
a long journey, and tries to distract him with flowers, or with toys, but nothing works.

Sometimes Harry hears Draco. He doesn’t talk much, and when he does, Harry can pick up
the pain in his tone. The mourning.

Harry knows how that feels.

He’s mourning the partner he loved, too. The illusion he loved, but nonetheless, Harry’s heart
understands Darco’s pain.

It becomes unbearable to listen to. Harry does not want his own pain, fights against it, and he
certainly doesn’t want to deal with Scorpius’ or Draco’s.

So he starts leaving his room, sneaking around the Manor, when he knows Draco is outside
and unlikely to bump into him.

Sometimes Delphini joins him in his explorations, when she’s not busy with her lessons. She
shows him her favourite rooms- a greenhouse, perfectly maintained that hosts flowers far
more exotic than what Harry saw at Hogwarts, and twice as lethal. A planetarium, where they
spend many hours, watching an eternal night sky, the stars far more detailed than he’ll ever
see on a real sky. Delphini points them out to him, naming them, reciting the Black family
history, showing Harry the Delphinus constellation, after which she was named.

“Poseidon wanted to marry Amphitrite, a beautiful nereid. But she didn’t want him and fled
to the Atlas mountains,” Delphini says, staring at the stars. “Poseidon then sent out several
searchers, among them Delphinus. Delphinus accidentally stumbled upon her and was able to
persuade Amphitrite to accept Poseidon’s wooing. Out of gratitude, the god placed the image
of a dolphin among the stars.”

She smiles, turning her head to look at Harry. “Father said he suspects mama hoped I would
bring him closer to her, and that is why she named me so.”

Harry snorts.

“I made fun of him, because in that case he’d be the beautiful nereid and mama would be the
god.” She makes a face. “He cursed my favourite doll in retaliation and now I can’t pick her
up anymore.”

“God, he’s such a-”

“Shh,” Delphini cuts over him and turns back to the stars. “Come on, show me where Sirius
is. I hope you remember.”

Other times, Harry goes on his own. Many doors are locked, and the ones opened are guests
chambers. Who needs so many guest chambers? No one, of course. But Malfoy Manor was
not built with need in mind. It was built to flaunt wealth.

He finds a room that’s filled with Draco’s old things, from his baby crib, to old toys, even old
clothes.
There’s even a Hogwarts uniform hanged neatly on a steel bar. His old Nimbus 2001is there,
too. Everything is orderly, memorabilia protected by glass cases. Harry thinks of that room as
the “Draco museum”. The prick had the complete Chocolate Card collection, even Devlin
Whitehorn, who was almost impossible to find.

Some parts of the attic are accessible to Harry. Many old portraits are hidden there, Malfoy’s
father amongst them.

Harry wondered why Abraxas Malfoy wouldn’t get a place of honour in Malfoy’s office, but
he finds out quite fast. A menace of a man, that even his son wants nothing to do with him.

He insults Harry in a hundred different ways under two minutes. “You have that Potter look
about you- poor vision, hopelessly tangled hair, and what’s with that mundane attire? Ah,
don’t tell me. You must be Harry Potter. Bad enough you are a Potter, but you’re a half-blood
to make it worse. What are you doing in my house? Has Lucius lost his mind completely?”

“I’m a prisoner,” Harry explains, sitting on the floor.

That gets him a raised eyebrow and an incredulous huff. “In my time, prisoners weren’t
allowed free rein of the Manor.”

Apparently, it’s a longstanding Malfoy tradition to imprison people in the fucking place.

“Voldemort is keeping me here,” Harry says, remembering Abraxas went to school with him.

Another annoyed huff. “Still not dead, I take it? I lost count of how many times that man
died. I gather he is back in control of my house. A pity- we just dispelled him not long ago.”

“Not a fan of his?” Harry asks, vaguely interested.

“No.” Abraxas stays silent for minutes, staring at Harry, who lies on the floor, exhausted.

He’s always exhausted, even if he does nothing all day.

But Abraxas must be bored, stuck in the attic, because he talks again.

“I used to be,” he says, vexed. “But I wised up, fast. He took my son just to spite me.”

God, Voldemort destroys everyone he ever meets.

(-)

When the memories come, when thoughts of Hermione and Ron won’t let him sleep, Harry
practices Occlumency.

Snape would be impressed with how fast Harry can force his mind to go quiet these days.
He asks Delphini to test him from time to time. She can’t even glimpse a thought, even when
she stares intently into his eyes, a focused look on her face.

She grows frustrated. “Let me use my wand,” she begs him until he allows it.

“Legilimens,” she whispers, wand pointed at Harry’s face, and he can feel her magic
insistently trying to find an opening, with far more power than before.

But she’s still so young, even as skilled as she is, there is no hope she’d perfectly master a
spell such as this, no matter that she’s already a natural Legilimens, born with the gift.

Harry can repel her quite easily.

(-)

In August, he asks Tinsy to bring him newspapers with his breakfast. He does it mostly just
to tell himself he asked; he doesn’t expect he will actually be allowed to read the Prophet, but
the next morning it’s waiting for him on the tray.

Nothing seems amiss. Business as usual. It means nothing. Voldemort could have already
gained control of the press, like he controls Harry’s mail.

So he puts no value on the words printed in the Prophet.

Delphini insists everything is fine, every time she returns to the Manor after she visits
Andromeda, or goes out with Lucius into the magical world. Sadly, Harry doesn’t trust her
word much more than he trusts the press.

She would tell him anything Voldemort ordered to, he is well aware.

(-)

“Why don’t you go to Europe?” Malfoy asks his son. “A change of scenery might bring you
some joy.”

Harry truly didn’t mean to overhear them. He’s been wandering around, and it is well after
midnight, so he did not expect anyone to still be awake, especially in the garden.

He freezes by one of the tall bushes. He’s not even that close, but Malfoy’s voice carries over
in the silent night.

Harry can see them through the leafs, sat on the terrace, sharing a bottle of Odgen’s Finest.
“My wife is dead,” Draco says. “No change of scenery will-”

“You’re upsetting Scorpius. He’s very young. If we act normally, he’ll forget about her-”

“I don’t want him to forget her!” Draco snaps, voice strangled.

Will they notice him, if Harry goes on his way? But he doesn’t, just in case he makes a noise
and attracts attention. He remains where he is, as still as he’s able.

A long pause.

“His memories of her will be practically nonexistent as he grows. But if you insist in moping
around and speaking of her in his presence, you’ll only make him miserable. Go to Europe,
Draco. Travel, as you should have, after Hogwarts-”

“Leave without Scorpius?” Draco sounds incredulous.

“I will take care of him until you feel better.”

Draco doesn’t answer. He has his back to Harry, so Harry can’t see his face, but he must
make a gesture. There must be an expression, because Malfoy sounds positively icy when he
speaks next.

“Or did Astoria brainwash you into thinking Scorpius wouldn’t be safe with me?”

“Don’t-” Draco starts, but Malfoy is already pissed off, so he cuts over him.

“If you had a spine, you wouldn’t have felt the need to lie to her. But it was easier to tell her
you were somehow forced into taking the mark, wasn’t it? She might have believed you,
Draco, but I was there-”

“No, you weren’t!” Draco exclaims, and he sounds more like the Draco Harry remembers,
voice high and whiny. Nothing like the sombre tone he’d had in the last months when his
voice floated up to Harry’s window.

“You asked for it. I never wanted you in that war, I never gave you a hint you should bear that
mark. Even if I wasn’t there, you knew I would have never allowed it, had someone asked
me. Your mother advised you against it, Severus told you not to, but you didn’t listen. You
wanted it and then when you realised it wasn’t whatever fantasy you had in your mind, you
wanted out.”

“Aunt Bella-”

“You should have known better than to listen to that crazy woman. You should have known
better than to take your mission seriously. How could you believe anyone with half a brain
would expect a sixteen-year-old to murder Dumbledore?”

Harry remembers how cocky and satisfied with himself Draco was, on their train ride to
Hogwarts, back in their sixth year. He remembers how that excitement faded through the
year, as he succumbed to the pressure.
“But then you actually found a way to get those other lunatics inside the school and you
didn’t like what transpired there. So it was easier to blame it on me, wasn’t it? No wonder
Astoria hated me.”

“It was your fault!” Draco insists, angry. “All my life you never let me handle things myself,
and then you went and got arrested and you ask me why I couldn’t handle being head of the
family in your absence?”

“You think I waned to get arrested? You forgot that when I came back, no one asked anything
of you anymore? Though I suppose you have a point; I spoiled you too much; you always
relied on me to get you out of trouble. I’ll make sure not to repeat that mistake with
Scorpius.”

If Harry would be in Draco’s place, he’d punch Malfoy right in the nose. But then, Harry
doesn’t know anything about father-son fights.

There’s another heavy silence, and Draco slumps, his shoulders fall forward.

“I don’t want to go to Europe. Of course I don’t think Scorpius is unsafe here. I just don’t
want to leave him. His mother died and I can’t just-”

“I’m trying to reintegrate our family into society. I need to be focused and I can’t be, when I
have to worry about you.”

“You don’t need to worry-”

“Don’t I? You’re acting foolish. I heard you punched Greengrass earlier today. I thought you
got along splendidly. After all, you chose to spend all your past holidays at his Manor, to
satisfy Astoria, instead of coming home for Yule, as you should have.”

Draco stays silent. Malfoy sighs, sipping at his drink. “Punching people… in public, no less.
No matter what he might have done, Draco, I told you we need to be very careful how we act
in public. I won us some good grace back, after that Shadow debacle, but it’s not much. Our
position is precarious. You can’t assault-”

“He spoke ill of you,” Draco says.

“Your wife spoke ill of me. I hope you didn’t punch her over it.”

“Of course not!” Draco shifts in his chair. “It wasn’t just some silly- it- he had it coming.”

More silence. Harry’s spine is protesting to his position, his legs are cramping up.

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s done. You don’t need to send me to Europe. I won’t do it again.”

“Draco. What did he say?”

“He… insinuated you had-” Draco drinks, emptying his glass. “That you had something to do
with Astoria’s death. It was his fault, if anyone’s! He should have gotten her better experts
when she was born, to make sure the curse won’t take effect.”

“He’s a grieving father, Draco,” Malfoy says, slowly. “Pain addled his mind.”

“I know. But that doesn’t give him the right to- absurd! You did your best to help her, even
with all the animosity between you. For him to have the nerve to-”

“You don’t need to defend me. Let him run his mouth. I’ll deal with him.”

(-)

Draco ends up leaving for Europe, the next week, which is for the best. Malfoy probably
worried his son will put his foot in his mouth and irritate Voldemort at some point.

Why he wouldn’t have sent Scorpius away, too, it’s anyone’s guess. Maybe he thinks it’s
unlikely the boy will find himself in Voldemort’s presence.

Harry is glad Draco left. Lately, he can’t stand being in his room; it’s easier to get out of bed,
and now he can spend his days on the grounds, either with Delphini, or with the several
animals.

He’s turning into Hagrid- after all these years, Harry finds it easier to be around animals,
rather than people.

I should have visited Hagrid more often, he thinks with remorse.

Only Harry had avoided Hogwarts; and when he saw Hagrid in Diagon Alley… Hagrid was
there that night in the forest. He knew Harry died, and Harry did not want to think about it,
speak about it, acknowledge it in any way, especially in the first couple of years.

He realises, as weeks pass, that the coldness he felt- he still feels- and the detachment that
had plagued him since the night Voldemort broke free must also be due to his death
experience.

It had been the same way after the battle of Hogwarts. That eerie feeling that he’s between
worlds, where nothing is tangible.

It’s starting to pass, slowly but surely. Harry doesn’t shiver so much at night. His anger is
awakening, like a small spark that ignited in him. He isn’t so lethargic and exhausted
anymore.

Harry is getting restless.

(-)

Delphini is practicing walking in heels. Small heels.

“Cissa says I have to get used to it. Have you seen her shoes?? I don’t know how she does
it!” She walks around in Harry’s room, with a heavy book on top of her head, trying to keep
her balance and her head high.

“You’ll be a very tall girl, Delphi. You don’t need heels,” Harry says, taking the evening
Prophet Tinsy just sent up.

Delphini says something, but Harry can’t hear it, because Hermione is on the front page.

She looks exhausted, and Harry’s heart feels like someone is squeezing it. He’s still upset
with her- but it’s Hermione. He misses her terribly. The wave of need washes over him
forcefully. It knocks his breath away, how much he misses her and Ron.

He spends minutes just looking at her, taking in every detail, before he can focus on the
article.

She opened her school for Muggleborns.

Some people appreciate it, but others not so much. She’s facing criticism for discriminating
against purebloods.

God, these people.

Augusta Longbottom is quoted saying that she is unsure what to think of the project. Augusta
Longbottom!

“I understand Mrs Weasley wants to help her kind, but this is a bit radical,” Abbot says.
Terry’s father! Abbot was there at Hogwarts, fighting against Voldemort and now he - her
kind. How dare he?

These aren’t blood purist, they had never supported Death Eaters and yet-

“First the house-elves, then she got rid of Dementors, now this. She should make an effort to
understand our culture better, really. All due respect,” another witch is quoted.

The article says the Prophet reached out to Hermione, but she refused to comment.

She told our correspondent that she does not have time for ‘this nonsense.’

There are those to speak up for Hermione. McGonagall, Neville- all the teachers at Hogwarts
seem to be in favour of the project.

“Oh, it’s a mess, Harry,” Delphini says, suddenly beside him, looking down at the paper.
“Lucius says some question where she got the funding for the school. He says most
purebloods are bothered because muggleborns will get to attend it for free.”

“But purebloods don’t need it,” Harry exclaims. “It’s specifically to teach muggleborns about
our ways-”

“Lucius says people want free things, even when they don’t need it. They feel robbed now,
because someone gets to have something they don’t.”

Harry doesn’t know what to make of the entire thing. Why did Voldemort allow it? Harry
remembers it was his idea, but he thought he was only saying it to get Hermione to convince
the Aurors to let Malfoy speak to Rabastan Lestrange. Because Harry knows Lestrange paid
for it, even if no one else seems to be aware.

Maybe he allows this because it paints Hermione in a bad light. Harry’s surprised by the
vitriol aimed her way, but Voldemort is a better judge of these things. He must have expected
even the ‘kind’ purebloods will have strong feelings about it.

“The article is a lie, anyway,” Delphini informs him, resuming her practice, walking
carefully, aiming for an elegant, effortless poise. “The school is not just for Muggleborns. It’s
for any magical child that was muggle raised, regardless of their blood status. But Lucius
says the media dubbed it the ‘muggleborn school’ because it sounds more sensational and
because it’s divisive. Apparently, people like reading about scandalous things.”

(-)

“Let me serve you proper tea,” Delphini insists, dressed in a stiff looking dress. She even has
gloves on, long and white and expensive looking.

“Is this not a house-elf job?” Harry asks, mockingly. But he plays along, sits where Delphini
directs him.

They’re in a room on the second floor, a grand thing, filled with mirrors.

“No, silly! A house-elf serves guests, and the main meals! But a wife should know how to
serve tea for her husband when he comes home from a long day at work.”

Harry pretends to vomit, and she laughs.

“Have you considered maybe your husband will serve you tea after you come home from
work?” he asks.

He doesn’t know what Delphini’s future looks like, but he’s quite certain she won’t be a
house-wife, despite Narcissa’s best attempts to turn her into one.

“Haaaary! You’re ruining my demonstration!”

He shuts up and lets her do it, busying herself with fancy pots and cups, making a show out
of pouring the tea.

She’s having fun with it, clearly.

“Don’t put your elbow on the table!” she says, giggling. “Narcissa says it will be hard to
make a lady out of me, but I believe it will be impossible to make a gentleman out of you!”

“I don’t want to be a gentleman.”

She grins like a shark, very much at odds with her perfect princess attire.

“I don’t want to be a lady, either. But serving tea is fun! I want to do something nice for you.
And you smiled twice this evening, so it’s worth it.”

Harry does his best to pretend to be functional around her.

“You know what will really upset Narcissa?” Delphini asks, holding her teacup, pinky
extended. “If you teach me how to play Quidditch. That is very unladylike.”

(-)

Finally, Harry finds something that Delphini is bad at. She cannot catch a Quaffle to save her
life.

She can’t defend the goals, and she gets bored trying to find the Snitch. But she likes racing.

That, she loves.

They zip through the air, circling the vast grounds, and in those moments, when she laughs,
face red and animated, her braids out of order, strands of hair flying everywhere, Harry can
feel a tiny bit of happiness.

He always dreamed of showing his kid how to play Quidditch and whatever else he’d lost, at
least he has this.

(-)

“Where is he staying?” Harry asks her, one night, in late September. “I don’t suppose he’s
here, right?”

Granted, it’s a huge place, but still- Harry thinks he’d know, he’d feel it, if Voldemort was in
Malfoy Manor.
He hadn’t asked about Voldemort until that moment, but Harry is feeling better. He doesn’t
want to die as soon as he opens his eyes in the morning.

He still has moments, plenty of them, but it’s not constant.

“No. But he comes twice a week to have tea with me. He said he’d visit more, but he’s busy.”

“Busy?” Harry asks, anxiety climbing. “Busy with what?”

“At work,” she answers, making Harry choke on his pie.

“Wait, you mean-”

“He has a job at the Ministry. I asked him more about it, but he said it’s bad enough he has to
go there. He doesn’t wish to speak of it in his free time. Something in the Department of
International Magical Cooperation.”

Harry can only stare at her.

“You know how he is.” She shrugs. “He doesn’t say much, lets me talk about my lessons, and
then when the hour is up, he just leaves.”

“Where does he sleep, then?”

Delphini looks uncomfortable. “He has a new house. He hadn’t taken me to see it yet. I keep
asking about it, but he won’t relent.”

Harry tries to picture what a house like that would look like, to Voldemort’s taste.

Tall ceilings, Harry thinks. It would be in the countryside. Very tidy. It would have a library,
filled floor to ceiling with shelves, but the rest of the house would be sparsely furnished.
Dark wood-

It’s sad how fast Harry can imagine it. You don’t know him. Everything you think you know
about him is a lie.

Harry can’t be sure about the smallest things- maybe Voldemort doesn’t even like toast and
tea, and he’d just ate it for years to lie to Harry. Maybe he doesn’t like long, hot baths, and he
just took them to have a moment away from Harry.

Maybe he doesn’t even fancy men at all.

Everything could have, and most probably was, a lie

Delphini won’t meet his eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

She shrugs. “I-” she bites her lip. “Some months ago, father instructed Lucius to take me to
Gringotts, so I can claim the Black Vault. I didn’t want it, but father insisted. I’m sorry,
Harry. He sent a letter to the goblins, signed by you, in which you relinquish your rights. The
goblins said my blood and name trump Sirius’ will, anyway. ”

“It’s your money,” Harry says, going over to sit beside her. He puts his arm around her and
draws her closer to him. “And Grimmauld is your house. I told you I don’t care about that. A
Black should have them.”

He certainly doesn’t care about ancient gold in a vault he hadn’t even seen.

“The goblins gave me the key- but father took it. And he bought a house.”

That upsets Harry. It’s her gold, not his. “He’s an arsehole. He shouldn’t spend your-”

Delphini shrugs. “Apparently, there’s enough gold there to buy a hundred houses and live
comfortably forever. But I just- I don’t like him leaving. I don’t like you and I having to stay
here. I wish we were all back in Grimmauld. Together. I- that was the best time in my life.”

“It was a lie,” he whispers, a pain in his chest.

“It wasn’t!” She hides her head in the crook of his neck. “It wasn’t! It was nice. We were a
family.”

(-)

Harry can’t imagine him working. It’s just hard to picture him around people that aren’t
Death Eaters. With a superior that maybe screams at him, the way Hermione’s superiors
screamed at her.

Voldemort would snap and kill anyone in his vicinity.

It’s November when Harry wakes up and he needs to know what’s happening out there in the
world.

He wakes up, and he’s ready to face the consequences of his mistakes. The price the world is
paying.

“Next time he visits you, tell him I want a word,” Harry asks Delphini.

She searches his face. “We need to have a plan. Let me help you rehearse, or come up with
excuses- I can-”

“No.” He’s no Voldemort to use Delphini, to have her between them, to have her plotting.

“But you need to have a convincing story. And if he’s satisfied, maybe he’ll let you out of the
house. If he thinks you won’t try to escape, then maybe- maybe we can all move together to
his new house.”
“Delphini,” he says as gently as he can. “I don’t want to go to his new house.”

To have to be in contact with Voldemort every day would be torture. He’d rather never leave
Malfoy Manor in his life.

“He’s not doing anything bad!” Delphini snaps, eyes narrowed. “He says he’s seizing power
by the books, this time-”

“He’s a liar. You don’t know what he’s doing-”

“Why won’t you give him a chance?” she screams.

She’s so ready to resort to anger. She can be the sweetest, most tender girl, but then she can
snap in under a second.

“I gave him a chance. I brought him to my house, I fed him, I-”

“You kept him locked up! You didn’t give him a chance to show you he won’t start another
war! You made sure he won’t be able to, while you locked him in! You never trusted him!
That’s not giving him a chance!”

“He killed my friends the very night he got free,” Harry says, angry himself.

She crosses her arms, defiant. “He killed Aurors. The men that tortured him. He did it so
another war won’t start. Father said if they were allowed to live, they’d have started a war
with him.”

Harry tries to take her arm, but she snatches it away. “There is no excuse for murder.”

She glares at him. “There is no excuse for torture, either.” She pins him with her dark eyes, so
alike her father’s. “If you don’t plan, if you don’t get smart, he’ll never let you leave the
Manor. And I’m starting to think it’s for the best.”

She storms out of the room before he can recover enough to give an answer.

By the next day, she forgets about their argument. That is Delphini- quick to anger, but quick
to let it go. She’s as sweet with Harry as always.

A week passes, and Harry has a suspicion Delphini isn’t telling Voldemort Harry wants to see
him, even though she says she informed him.

So Harry asks Malfoy to call Voldemort, and just hours after that, Voldemort comes to the
Manor.

(-)
Harry approaches the office door, heart slamming painfully against his ribs.

He’s surprised Voldemort actually came. Part of him expected to be ignored.

He does his best to still his heart.

But his heart is treacherous, and it reacts when he opens the door and he sees Voldemort
standing by the desk.

His brain reacts, too. With fear.

But his heart is another matter entirely.

It’s unnerving how powerful Voldemort looks just while standing still, emanating quiet
authority in a way that makes Harry’s knees weak.

Ridiculously tall, in his simple black robe, with his sculpted features and piercing eyes.

You know how rotten he is on the inside.

Harry’s mouth is dry.

“You wanted to see me,” Voldemort says, when Harry just stands there, silent, as the seconds
tick away.

His voice sends shivers up and down Harry’s spine.

“Yes.”

Voldemort waits in silence, his eyes scrutinising Harry.

Just say it.

“I want to go out.” He lifts his chin, tries to make his voice strong.

“I wanted to go out, but you wouldn’t let me,” he expects Voldemort to say it.

At the very least, he’s certain he will be refused. But Harry has to try. He can’t hide in the
Manor anymore. He can’t numb himself again.

“You’ve been practicing Occlumency,” Voldemort observes, when he gently pokes at Harry’s
mind.

He could force his way in. Harry’s not yet as good as to stop him. But now he detects him,
can keep his mind private from a subtle attack.

“Not much else to do,” he answers.

Though that is not true. There are plenty of things to do at Malfoy Manor. Far more than
there were at Grimmauld.
But practicing Occlumency helps Harry not think. About the world, about Hermione and
Ron. About his guilt.

Voldemort goes around the desk to sit behind it.

“You expressed a desire to do what I want in exchange for Weasley’s life.”

Voldemort said it won’t be anything big. Not only is Harry not reassured by it- it could be a
great number of terrible things, but he knows it won’t end here. Voldemort will keep Molly
over Harry’s head forever.

Love is a weakness, he thinks. Dumbledore was wrong.

“What do you want?”

Voldemort smiles. Harry hates him. He hates how victorious he is, how easy it is for him to
get what he wants.

It wasn’t that easy, though. It took him many years to get here. Harry dismisses that bit of
trivia.

“You’ll receive word from me soon. I have to arrange it first. You will do what I tell you, and
we’ll see about you getting out of the Manor, afterwards.”

Voldemort keeps looking at Harry with an indecipherable expression. “Is there anything else
you wanted?”

“No,” Harry whispers. “That’s all.”

(-)

Word comes as December rolls around.

“Tomorrow morning. Be ready.”

The note, written in Voldemort’s tidy calligraphy, comes with a robe. A black one, simple but
formal.

Voldemort clearly doesn’t want him dressed as a muggle.

Delphini, who delivered the note, is bursting with anticipation.

“Do you know what he’s planning?” Harry asks, dreading it. He wishes Voldemort will, at the
very least, keep this child out of all the terrible things he does.

She grins. “Oh, to hell with it! Yes, I know.” She hasn’t looked this excited in months. She
paces around the room, biting her lip so often she leaves teeth imprints in them.
But she refuses to tell him. “You’ll only fret unnecessarily. Besides, father forbade me to talk
about it. He said it will give you time to reconsider. But Harry, I promise, it’s nothing bad! I
swear! Don’t look so anxious.”

Delphini’s judgement of what’s bad or not is not stellar. It doesn’t put Harry at ease at all.

“You’ll get to get out, Harry! I know how tired you are of the Manor,” she tries to encourage
him.

Yeah, but who knows where they are going and who will have to pay for it?

“I’ll tell you a little secret, though. Maybe you’ll stop worrying.” She smiles even wider. “I
will come with you! I’ll be there, Harry!”

That only makes it worse.

(-)

He doesn’t sleep at all. The excitement of finally getting out of the Manor is hard to contain,
even with the dread of what he’ll be made to do.

Delphini bursts through the door at six in the morning. She crawls into his bed and kisses his
forehead.

Her hair is curled around some strange shapes, tightly around her head.

“Come on, come on! Go shower!” She pulls at his hand until he’s out of the bed.

She’s much too chipper.

By the time Harry is out of the bathroom, she has her wand out.

“Sit, sit!” she says, dragging him to an armchair.

“Hey, hey-!” Harry protests, because she’s pointing her wand at Harry’s face.

“Don’t be silly! It’s a charm, so your face looks refreshed and dewy! I practiced it with Cissy
for hours. You look like you hadn’t slept at all. That won’t do.”

“Delphini-”

She’s fast. Too fast.

Harry doesn’t recognise the incantation she whispers, but nothing bad happens to him. When
she hands him a hand mirror, he looks… well rested.
“I don’t suppose you’ll let me try to tame that hair, will you? No matter,” she answers before
he can. “It’s part of your charm, anyway. Put on the robe, Harry. Try not to wrinkle it! I need
to get ready!”

Harry feels more and more nauseous as he sits in that armchair, staring at the mirror Delphini
left in his hand. He stares straight through it, but he can’t seem to do anything else for a
while.

Eventually Tinsy sends over his usual breakfast. Harry can’t touch the food. He’s struggling
with eating on a good day, let alone in that instance. He sips at his tea, and braces himself.

He’s just buttoning up his robe when Delphini comes in again.

She looks straight out of a fairytale. Her hair, always curly, now falls over hear back in
bigger, more defined curls. There are small flowers in it.

All her dresses are beautiful, but this one is just something else, shimmering and alive
looking, a pearly white that pools around her legs.

On top, a silvery robe, with sparkling star patterns on the collar.

“You look like a winter fairy,” Harry says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

He suspects she’s even wearing some kind of paint on her lips, because they are a tad redder
than usual.

She twirls around, and Harry gets a glimpse of her equally silvery shoes.

“Cissy helped me. I’m thrilled you like it!”

There’s a knock at the door, and before they can answer, Voldemort opens it-

“No!” Delphini hurries to the door, trying to shut it in Voldemort’s face. “You’re not
supposed to see him before he’s ready! It’s bad luck!”

“Aren’t you festive,” he drawls, his dark eyes passing over her attire. “Don’t let me hear you
sprout superstitious nonsense again. We make our own luck in life. Leave us.”

Delphini tries to protest, but one glare from Voldemort finally sends her away.

“Where are we going?” Harry asks, a knot in his throat.

“To the Ministry.”

His stomach drops. The Ministry. He has terrible scenarios popping in his head, forming
instantly.

An entire crowd made to kneel, as Voldemort holds a victorious speech, with Harry at his
side-
Voldemort pulls something out of his robe pocket. He comes closer to Harry, who flinches
back.

He opens his fist

Two silver rings lay on his large palm.

Harry frowns at them.

“We’ll get married,” Voldemort says and Harry-

He’s lucky the armchair is right under him when his knees give out.

“I mentioned you will only need to say a little word. ‘Yes’, in this case.”

(-)

They Apparate straight into the Atrium.

Harry’s still dazed. He must be dreaming. It must be a special kind of nightmare.

He can’t even process the fact that he’s in the Ministry.

Wizards and witches hurry along, looking harassed, as always.

A normal weekday at the Ministry, he thinks, distracted.

“Mr Potter!” someone calls, and then others turn to stare. They’re coming towards him,
hands already stretched out for a shake, with that excited expression they always have when
they see Harry.

Delphini tenses at his side. She never liked large crowds.

Voldemort, who has a death grip on Harry’s shoulder, starts moving.

“Ignore them,” he commands.

“Don’t talk too much. Don’t talk at all, if possible. ‘Yes’ is the only word I want from you.
Molly Weasley’s life depends on it.”

Harry grips Delphini’s hand and allows Voldemort to push them through the crowds.

Everyone is starring. Harry Potter, home after his long holiday.

And Delphini, sparkling like a beautiful ethereal child-creature. Not to mention her father,
who naturally captures everyone’s attention, as he always did.
But no one mobs them, and it’s not Harry’s disinterest that keeps them back. Harry was never
interested in shaking hands and taking pictures with random strangers, but that never
discouraged the crowds before.

Delphini is a fierce little thing, but she looks like she couldn’t hurt a fly.

It’s Voldemort, the aura around him, that must ring all sorts of alarm bells in people’s heads
to stay away.

It’s not that bad, really. A wedding. Now that the shock is wearing off, just a little-

There are worse things he could have been asked to do for Molly’s life.

This is just- it means nothing. He’s already tied to Voldemort in a hundred different ways.
What is a piece of paper and a ring, compared with all the other things they share?

“But why?” Harry asked, when he could speak again, staring up at Voldemort.

“Your name and fame will help me further my career,” Voldemort offered. “It is, after all, the
most respected name in our small world.”

Voldemort takes them through several hallways. Some people nod at him, and he nods back.

It’s surreal.

Finally, they step into a small room. A woman waits at a desk. She stands when she sees
them.

“Right on time, right on time!” she declares, happy.

Harry is pushed forward until he stands in front of her.

“Such an honour, Mr Potter,” she gushes, extending a hand. Harry automatically takes it.
“Thank you, sir, for everything! And I am so happy to be the one to officiate the ceremony. I
am honoured,” she repeats.

Delphini looks on in surprise. She never witnessed the crazy, bordering on obsession
devotion people have for him.

Finding out I released Voldemort into the world might finally get them to stop idolising me.

“So, like we discussed? No magical oaths-”

“No,” Voldemort says, sharply. “We’re not ancient.”

You are ancient, Harry thinks, but he’s relieved Voldemort won’t make him take the magical
wedding vows, that, of course, only break upon death. He guesses Voldemort will never
allow himself to take a magical vow ever again, under any circumstances.

She nods. “It is going out of fashion. About the name-”

“I’ll take his name.”

“Of course, of course,” she says, arranging some parchments. And then she launches into
what Harry guesses is a standard wedding speech, about duties and obligations and other
such things.

He loses focus, still unbelieving he’s getting married. To Voldemort.

Figures he’d spoil something Harry always wanted, something pure and sacred, a marriage-
he had to twist that knife in Harry’s heart, by giving him the fucked up version of it.

“Mr Potter?” the woman asks and Delphini, at his side, elbows him in the hip.

“Sorry,” he says, coming back to reality. “I was-agh-”

She smiles. “It is natural to be nervous. Don’t worry. I’ll repeat the question.”

If Harry promises loyalty, support, love to his new husband. He’s so nauseated he doesn’t
even catch what Voldemort’s fake name is.

“Yes,” he says, finally, thinking of Molly. “I do.”

Then she turns to Voldemort, and he, too, promises the same love and loyalty to Harry.

It hurts, and Harry didn’t think he could hurt anymore.

They sign the official-looking parchment that glows brightly, before it rolls itself neatly.

“The rings?”

Delphini has them. She places them on the desk.

“I charmed them already,” Voldemort says, making the witch smile.

“Oh, how romantic. The standard spells?” she traces her wand over the rings. “I see, I see.
All in order.”

Harry can only stand there numbly when Voldemort picks the smaller ring, and takes his
hand.

Harry does his very best not to flinch from his touch.

The ring slides on his finger, and Harry feels the magic settling over him.

Then they all stare at him, expecting something. Delphini nudges him again and Harry finally
understands what they want from him. He takes the bigger ring off the table. Even if his
entire being protests against it, he makes himself face Voldemort and takes his hand in his
own, slipping the finger on one of his long fingers.

“Congratulation Mr and Mr Potter!”

Harry shivers.

He’s given his father’s name to his killer.

Delphini applauds, radiating happiness. She launches herself at Voldemort. They’re in public,
so Voldemort allows it, places his hand on her head, for all of three seconds before Delphini
releases him and jumps onto Harry, clinging to him.

Harry always wanted a family, as much as she does.

And he has it, technically. Lawfully. Only it’s a corrupted version of it, with a traumatised
child, a wedding held under duress and a violent, mass murdering husband.

Husband, he thinks, horrified.

“Do try to look happy for a second,” Voldemort hisses in his ear, as they are walking out of
the room.

Harry can’t look happy, so when the door opens and the flash of a camera blinds him, he’s
sure he looks at best startled.

Of course Voldemort leaked the information to the press. At least it isn’t Rita, but an older,
more dignified looking man, that doesn’t shout questions after them, nor tries to get in their
way.

They Apparate back to the Manor, not even an hour after they left it.

“It was lovely,” Delphini declares, blissfully ignoring Voldemort’s bored expression and
Harry’s probably sickened one. “So nice! But you should have taken the old magical vows,
like Narcissa and Lucius. Those are unbreakable.”

It started snowing, Harry notices, watching the flakes come out of the sky. He thinks
someone once told him rain is a bad omen for a wedding.

What does snow signify?

“Delphini, can you give us a minute, please?” he asks.

She accepts, heading for the Manor, a skip in her walk, laughing and trying to catch
snowflakes.

“Yes?” Voldemort prompts him, when Harry doesn’t speak for a while.

“You said we’ll talk about me being able to get out.”

Voldemort pulls out his wand and Harry is instantly defensive, expecting pain-

Only it’s not Voldemort’s. It’s Harry’s holly one.

Voldemort plays with it, twirling it between his long fingers. “It’s done. You can’t stop me.
Ronald can’t be made to remember- you can fill him in, of course, but I imagine that would
break his marriage apart. Hermione is already greatly involved in many projects we co-
signed. If you expose me, she’ll be a wanted woman. The Weasleys are safe and so is
Edward. No one is dropping dead in the streets. Don’t ruin all this by doing something
stupid.”

He extends the wand, handle first.

Harry takes it; the faithful old wood feels warm under his grip. Welcoming. How Harry
missed it- it makes everything more tolerable.

“And when you’ll be made Minister, eventually? What will happen then?”

Will Voldemort keep his peaceful facade? For how long?

“Chaos benefited me before, but it is unnecessary now. I have Delphini to think about. I want
her to grow up safe.”

Yeah, right. As if Voldemort would care about Delphini growing up in peace. He snorts, and
Voldemort narrows his eyes.

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

Harry only wants to be out of his presence. What’s the point in talking to him if he can’t
believe any word that comes out of his mouth?

“So, I can go out now? I want to visit Teddy and-”

“Yes. You may come and go as you please. But without Delphini- you may only take her out
in my company.”

Harry can’t quite believe it. “I can just- walk out? Right now?”

Voldemort looks straight into his eyes, gaze piercing. “Yes.”

They should rewrite all the children's stories in the world. The villain in them is always ugly,
always so obviously, visibly monstrous.

It’s wrong.

Evil, Harry learned, hides behind beautiful brown eyes, perfectly parted dark hair, high
cheekbones and a defined jaw.

Harry looks away.

He turns around and walks to the main gates. With every step he takes, he’s sure he’ll be
cursed in the back.

The closer he gets to the gates, the more his heart slams against his ribs.
 He doesn’t look back. He walks, one foot in front of the other, for what seems like an
eternity.

The gates part for him with a loud, groaning noise.

Harry Apparates away.

Chapter End Notes

All I can say in my defence is that it won't get worst than this for Harry. From now on,
things won't be so miserable.

I looked up Astoria on the wiki, and apparently she died of a blood curse in the Cursed
Child. In my story, the people of the wizarding world get the same version, but
obviously Lucius poisoned her.

I know I took long in writing this chapter. The situation in my country is chaotic and
very tense, due to the war in Ukraine. I wanted to wait to write this so my dread won't
seep inside the story, but then I realised that I might be waiting for a very long time.

Thank you for your patience.

 Chapter 24
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

He sits on a bench in Hyde park; so far from Malfoy Manor, the snow had turned to sleet.

Passersby hurrying along, protected under umbrellas, give him strange looks.

He must make quite the sight: a man in a robe, holding a stick.

Harry can’t make himself put away his wand. He can’t believe he’d went so long without it.

Every noise startles him, his head turning around in alarm, thinking it’s Voldemort, there to
take Harry back.

He doesn’t know where to go. He doesn’t know how to be free anymore, even if he craved it
so much, just hours before. Having options seems overwhelming.

He’d like to see Ron and Hermione, to feel her warmth, her soft lips on his cheek; he wants-
needs- to feel Ron’s strength; Harry thinks he’d find his own, if only he could hug Ron.

To hold Hugo, small and cheery; have Rosie serve him empty pink, plastic cups of pretend
tea, so different from Delphini’s porcelain cups, filled with expensive tea and pureblood
expectations..

Hugo and Rose are innocent, untainted by war, by Voldemort.

But it wouldn’t be like that. He wouldn’t get Hermione’s warmth, he’d get Hermione’s
haunted, guilty eyes, her gaunt face.

And the moment he sees Ron, Harry becomes an accomplice to the wrongs committed
against him. Harry will become a liar. Ron won’t lend Harry strength, won’t help Harry find
his own, because Ron doesn’t know they need strength. Seeing Ron will only make Harry
feel defeated, and he already feels that.

Rose and Hugo will only serve as a reminder that their innocence will soon be lost, that they,
too, will grow up in Voldemort’s ever expanding shadow.

Harry has nowhere to go.

I can leave the country.

The thought brings instant, breathtaking relief. He’d go to Bahamas- Sirius said it’s nice.
Warm.
The frozen water falling from the sky had seeped into his robe, weighting Harry down with
cold.

He could feel the sun instead. He could have soft, golden sand underneath him, and not a
hard, wet bench.

There are many miles between Hyde Park and Malfoy Manor, but there is an ocean between
Bahamas and Voldemort.

Do I need a passport for that? Harry thinks he does. But Harry has no birth certificate or any
other muggle papers. Does Petunia have them? Is there a tiny box somewhere in her attic,
with Harry’s stuff? Maybe some legal documents? A broken toy soldier? Or did she throw
everything in the bin, erased Harry’s existence?

He knows he can’t Apparate across the ocean; he knows it’s tricky even with a Portkey, at
these distances, but he isn’t sure what the procedures are-

Hermione would know. She always knows everything, she always finds a solution-

No. You can’t use Hermione anymore. You can’t get them involved in this more than you
already did.

Alright, not the Bahamas. Not right away. Harry can go to Greece. He thinks they have nice
beaches there, too. And maybe eventually he’ll start solving his muggle papers and he can go
everywhere he wants, after that.

Delphini. Teddy.

Harry squeezes his wand tightly in a hopeless attempt to distract from the pain in his chest.

Something hurts in his hand, and he thinks maybe there’s a splinter- has Voldemort mutilated
his wand?

He looks down, opening his palm- the ring. Silver, simple, innocent looking around Harry’s
finger. The wand was pressing into it, with how tight he was gripping it.

Harry needs it off. Now. He needs to take it off and throw it far away from him, have a
squirrel or a fox steal it and take it even further.

It won’t come off. Harry pulls, and pulls- his fingers, already red from the bitter cold, start
hurting. But Harry can’t do it. It moves a little, but it won’t go past his joint.

Of course it wouldn’t. Rings come off when the marriage is officially annulled. He thinks he
heard that- he isn’t sure where, maybe at Ron’s wedding, maybe at Ginny’s-

But Ginny had one of those ancient types of vows. Barbaric, as Hermione called them. The
ones that bind couples until death quite literally parts them. Harry panics-

But no, no. Hermione and Ron had a regular wedding; magical, yes, but not forever binding.
And their rings won’t come off either, as long as they don’t divorce-
Or am I confusing them? He should ask Hermione-

You can’t ask her. You are on your own.

A growl of frustration comes from his chest, spills out of his mouth. It sounds so angry, so
feral, Harry can’t quite believe it came from him.

He stays on that bench, fighting uselessly with the ring, until his finger starts bleeding, and
long after.

(-)

Andromeda looks displeased to see him on her doorstep.

“If you’re on the run, I can’t help you.” She starts to close the door in his face-

“I’m not! I’m- he knows I left. He-” But Harry can’t say ‘Voldemort gave me permission’.
It’s the reality, but he can’t say it.

She gives him a doubtful look.

Harry shoves the wet hair from his eyes, and he realises he looks exactly like a runaway,
drenched as he is.

He waves his hand over himself and his hair and clothes dry.

“Please, I only want to see Teddy for a minute.”

“I just sent him to his room for a nap.”

“Ah. I’m sorry,” Harry says. “I- I’ll wait outside until he wakes-”

Andromeda reaches out, grabbing his elbow. She pulls Harry inside and closes the door.

“Teddy knows nothing. He thinks you went on a long holiday,” she says, stern. “And we’ll
keep it that way, am I clear? I don’t want him fighting. I won’t raise another hero. I refuse to
do so.”

“He’s eight,” Harry says, slowly. “He won’t fight-”

“Dora was six years old when she first said she wanted to become an Auror. It was during the
first war, a war he was winning, but Dumbledore kept going around telling people to resist, to
do the right thing, to fight for justice, no matter how hopeless it seemed. I won’t let you do
the same for Teddy, fill his mind with-”

“I understand,” Harry whispers.

If Andromeda would have said that just months before, Harry would have thought her a
coward. He’d have been appalled, he’d have pointed out that one can never stay silent in the
face of injustice.

But now Harry understands. Harry would do anything so that Teddy will never- not now, not
in ten years, not ever- stand on the wrong side of Voldemort’s wand.

“I just want to see him. I promise.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Harry feels her eyes on his back, all the way until he reaches Teddy’s room. He opens the
door-

“I’m sleeping, I’m sleeping!” Teddy says, quickly trying to hide a broom catalogue under his
pillow.

He looks up and when he sees him at the door-

“Harry!” His face lights up, his grey eyes turn green and he’s off the bed in record time.

Harry kneels on the carpet and opens his arms, not a moment too soon.

Teddy is on him, hugging him tightly, laughing, vibrating with excitement.

Harry is so grateful he has the chance to hold him again. He doesn’t know how he will let go.

“I missed you so much! Soooo much!” Teddy says.

A tight knot forms in Harry’s throat, but he blinks, determined.

I won’t cry. I won’t ever cry again, he promises to himself.

“I missed you more,” he says, and his voice comes out normal, or normal enough not to
distress Teddy.

When they break apart, Teddy looks at him with Harry’s eyes, but it is the only feature he
borrowed.

The rest is all himself, and Harry realises he’s grown while they were apart. He’s losing the
baby fat, bones sharper, more defined. His black hair is a tad longer than Harry remembers.

He’s a bit taller.

Harry has to swallow hard past the knot in his throat.

“You were gone for ages!” Teddy exclaims.

“I know, I-”
“I kept everything you sent-here!” He pulls at Harry, and then leads him to the corner of the
room. On the wall, postcards from all over the world are pinned with magic.

‘One day, I’ll bring you here’ it says, in Harry’s writing, on a postcard from a dragon reserve
in Romania.

‘With love, Harry,’ it says on another, from Rome.

‘I’ll be home soon,’ on one from Morocco, dated in September.

Harry stares at them in shock- at least a dozen postcards, all sent by Voldemort. He told Harry
he will handle his mail, that he will only respond to the important people.

And Teddy is important- but he’s only important to Harry, not in a general sense- not in the
way Voldemort would deem important, like a ministry official, or an Auror or anything like
that.

“I have all the toys, too! Thank you so much, they were amaaaazing.” Teddy starts going
through a tall basket filled with toys, throwing them on the floor with negligence until he
finds a plush dragon.

“This is my favourite.” He squeezes the dragon, and it blows steam out of its nose, flaps his
wings and tail around.

“I wanna know all about-”

“Tell me about yourself!” Harry says, instead. “My travels were boring, without you there.
Grown up stuff. I want to hear about you.”

They talk all afternoon. Harry keeps thinking he will leave- just another hour, and I will go,
but then the hour is up, and Harry is still there.

Andromeda calls them to dinner, but Harry barely touches his plate. He is hungry, but not for
food. He is hungry for Teddy, for love and-

He drinks Teddy in, his every feature, his expressions, his voice; he commits all of it to
memory, and when Harry puts him to bed, he kisses his forehead, and has a hard time letting
go.

“Can I see your eyes, Teddy? Please? Your real eyes?”

Teddy blinks, and there they are, grey and innocent.

“I love you,” Harry tells him. He repeats it several times, hopes that Teddy will remember it,
that he will never doubt it.

“I love you, too!”

Harry stays there until Teddy is asleep.

I won’t cry, he reminds himself.

(-)

“Why didn’t you run?” he asks Andromeda, when they’re in the hallway.

She takes a few seconds to answer, looking through Harry. “If he would have meant us harm,
he’d have done it in those months we were confined to the Manor. If he wanted me dead, he
wouldn’t have let me leave. I believed him when he told me that as long as I mind my
business, we are in no danger. It was like that in the first war, too. For my family, at least.
And he believed me when I told him all I want is to raise my grandson.”

She looks away, to where the living room is. They can’t see it, but Dora’s pictures are there.
Everywhere.

“I told him I don’t need another Order of Merlin to hang on my wall. I don’t want that. I want
a living flesh and blood boy; I want him to grow up, safe.”

She meets Harry’s eyes. “If it looks like it will get bad, I will leave. But for now, for as long
as it is quiet, I want Teddy to be around the small family he has left. Narcissa, Scorpius,
Delphini.”

That’s not small at all; but then again, for Harry, a family of three would be a dream. But
Andromeda comes from the Blacks. She must remember a time when Britain was filled with
Blacks.

“Just in case, if you ever need it, that bag with gold and muggle money I told you about is
still in Grimmauld. In the attic. Delphini took Grimmauld, but I am sure you can still get
inside it, with your blood-”

“I don’t need gold,” Andromeda says. She straightens her shoulders defensively. “Delphini
claimed the Black vault. Voldemort offered me a significant portion of it, since I am a Black.
I am entitled to it, in any case. It belonged to my family.”

Harry’s mouth falls open.

He can’t believe he never thought of it; some of that gold should have went to Andromeda
and Teddy. And Harry never- Voldemort thought of it and Harry didn’t.

“I am so sorry,” he says, miserable. “I never- God, I’m so sorry Andromeda. I should have
done that. I just forgot I even had it, I never even saw the vault-”

She waves it away. “You were a very young, rich boy. I am yet to meet one of those that
spends time worrying about other people’s finances. It’s fine, I wasn’t starving or anything;
Cissa made sure we had all we needed. But now I don’t have to depend on Lucius anymore.”
Harry remembers when Andromeda wanted custody of Delphini, how Malfoy threatened to
cut her off is she fights against Harry. Yeah, he would be relieved, too, not to have to depend
on Malfoy.

She glances at his ring. No, not his. Never mine. At the ring. Voldemort promised he’d put
Harry in shackles, but he never imagined it would be something so small. Small, but just as
restraining. It weights nothing on his finger, but it weights Harry down, either way.

“The evening Prophet came while you were playing with Teddy. News of your marriage is on
the front page.”

“I can’t get it off,” Harry says. “And it wasn’t an old fashion binding ritual, but it still won’t
come off.” He can hear how desperate he sounds.

Andromeda watches him with pity. “It won’t,” she confirms. “Even with the new, modern
vows, you can never take it off until you both agree to renounce the marriage.”

Andromeda still has her wedding ring on. A thin, golden band. She could take it off, but she
won’t. Because she doesn’t want to. Because she loved her husband, and he loved her back.

(-)

“Did you feel like this, too?” Harry asks Sirius.

He’s back in Hyde Park. The rain pours, so heavy and dense Harry can’t even see the stars.
But with all the time he spent with Delphini in the planetarium, he can almost feel them.

“You went against everything your family stood for. You betrayed them.” Harry hates that
word, because it sounds like blood traitor, but the Blacks must have felt betrayed by their son.
The same way Harry betrayed his parents when he took Voldemort into his house and fell in
love with him. Did Sirius simply not care what his parents thought? “Did you feel guilty,
torn?”

Andromeda left, too, but Harry can see how she clings to family, how she proclaims herself a
Black. How she mourns for her sister, even if that sister killed her daughter.

Harry never considered it when he was fifteen, but Sirius must have loved his family.
Delphini insists Rodolphus told her Sirius was Bellatrix’ favourite cousin. Narcissa hangs
candles in the Yule tree for him. Malfoy mentioned him, here and there, when discussing
childhood memories with his wife and Andromeda.

Sirius doesn’t answer, of course.

You can talk to Sirius, if you want, a voice whispers in his head, tempting. You can have all
the time in the world with him.
Sirius will forgive Harry.

“You like them bad, huh?” Sirius asked when he caught Harry hiding in a room, looking
through an old, dusty porn magazine he found in one of Grimmauld’s cupboards. One of the
very few good surprises to come out of Molly making them clean the entire house.

The girls were scantly clad- well, they were not clad at all, just a leather strip that was
supposed to serve as knickers, but really, it wasn’t hiding anything.

The whips some of them were holding had more leather than the knickers. Some even had
tattoos strewn over their lovely looking skin.

If anyone else would have caught Harry looking at it, he’d have died of embarrassment. But
it was Sirius, who was grinning, so Harry only blushed, in mild discomfort.

“I have better ones up in my room.” He winks at Harry. “I’ll give them to you, though don’t
tell Molly.” His face darkness, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I am one fight away from
showing her why it is a bad idea to scream at a Black.”

“I know she’s annoying,” Harry says. He wishes Molly would stop acting like Harry is a kid,
like he needs to be protected. He’s tired of being kicked out of the kitchen when they discuss
Order meetings. However, he’s sometimes worried when Sirius glares at her, fingers
twitching, as if yearning to grab his wand. “But she does it because she cares for me-”

“I know,” Sirius says, coming to sit by Harry on the couch. “That’s why I haven’t cursed her.
Yet. Why I put up with Dumbledore.” The twitch gets worse when he speaks about the
headmaster. Harry understands him- Dumbledore treats them both like they are stupid
children. And if Harry hates it, he can’t imagine how it must be for Sirius, a grown man.
“He’s the one keeping you safe. That matters more than my pride,” Sirius says, but his eyes
glint, and Harry knows how he gets when he’s like this. He can be the funniest man Harry has
ever known, he can laugh and joke for hours, but then sometimes Sirius gets this look about
him, retreats in his head, where the Dementors and Azkaban still torture him. Then he gets
quiet, grabs a bottle of whiskey and hides away from everyone.

“No way you have something better than this,” Harry says, quickly, waving the magazine, to
distract Sirius. “It doesn’t get better.”

It works. The veil lifts off Sirius’ face, and he is grinning again.

“Oh, kiddo, you have no idea.” He pats Harry on the back. “When you’re just a tad older, I
have some interesting stories for you. The shit I gotten myself into over a piece of arse, you
wouldn’t believe it.”

Harry laughs. “I’ve heard some things,” he says. “Remus was talking to Hestia the other
day, about some Christmas Party long ago where you were almost castrated.”

“James always used to say I go after the crazy ones. You dad liked good girls, filled with
virtue and whatnot. Me…not so much.” He smiles, and Harry can glimpse the young man
Sirius had once been, handsome and carefree, before Azkaban robbed him of his youth.
“I can’t wait for this shit war to be over, for you to be of age. I’ll take you to muggle pubs and
we’ll get in trouble together. The fun kind of trouble.”

Harry was always in danger, his entire life, so is it any wonder he’d like a dash of danger
with his pleasure, too? That he’d be attracted to it?

Harry did his best to look at Voldemort as someone other than Voldemort, someone more like
Tom Riddle. Someone intelligent, intense, but not completely monstrous.

But he was always dangerous, in any form, at any age- at sixteen, in a Diary, at twenty
something, in a locket, at seventy, in Grimmauld Place. And that was part of his appeal.

Yeah, Harry thinks. Sirius will forgive Harry. He’ll understand. He said he liked the crazy
ones, too; the ones that got him in trouble.

Harry plays with his wand, trailing the tip over his wrist. A simple cutting hex would do the
trick. It doesn’t even have to hurt, if he uses a numbing charm first.

He wonders if there are houses in the afterlife. If he can live with Sirius, like he always
wanted as a teenager. If there is firewhisky allowed.

“How does it taste?” Harry asks Sirius, in the dark kitchen. It’s well past midnight, and
Harry can’t sleep.

He knows Sirius almost never sleeps, that he’ll find him brooding in the dark, nursing a bottle
of Odgen’s Finest.

And Sirius is drunk, smelling of Mundungus’ cigarettes, of firewhsikey and danger. He has
that dead, cold stare in his eyes, and he looks exactly like a mass murderer on the run and out
for blood. But he never scares Harry- Harry feels safe with him, safer than he feels with
anyone.

Because Sirius loves him. His only goal in life is to protect Harry.

And he proves it, even when he’s that drunk. He almost gives the bottle to Harry, before he
reconsiders.

“One day, I’ll get you so drunk you’ll fall under the table,” he slurs. He’s in his chair, at the
head of the table, like he always is. He never lets anyone else sit there. Harry heard Molly
whispering with Arthur, how deranged Sirius is, how he screamed at Dumbledore to get out
of his chair in an Order meeting. “One day,” he promises. “But, for now-” he waves his hand
and a different bottle comes flying out of the pantry. “C’mere.”

Harry goes. Sirius pours some wine from the new bottle into a tall goblet. “You can have
some wine, for now.”

If there is firewhsikey in the afterlife, Sirius can keep his word and drink Harry under the
table. They can talk all night, they can laugh, and Harry can finally hear all the stories Sirius
promised to tell him.
And Harry can tell him about what he did; Sirius will listen. He’ll get it. He will. He will
forgive Harry for allowing Voldemort to sit in his chair.

Harry dearly hopes so.

Maybe there is tea, too. Maybe there are lemon drops and Dumbledore can visit. Sirius won’t
like that very much, he was never Dumbledore’s fan, and that’s unlikely to have changed
considering the Horcrux debacle, but Harry will insist. He forgave Dumbledore, long ago.

And Dumbledore will also understand. He fell in love with a dark lord, too, didn’t he?

He didn’t seem upset at all with Harry in King’s cross.

Harry presses the wand tip into his skin, mutters the numbing charm.

His parents probably won’t forgive him; but that’s alright. Harry never knew them; he never
had parents, so it’s not like he’ll lose anything if they refuse to talk to him, is it?

He opens his mouth to cast the cutting curse-

You are a parent. Delphini won’t like this.

But no, he’s not really a parent. A parent would have taken their kid far away from
Voldemort. A parent doesn’t break down in front of their child; it was Delphini that took care
of Harry in those first few weeks in Malfoy Manor, when it should have been the other way
around.

Delphini will be just fine. Better off, really. Teddy has Andromeda. Hermione and Ron have
each other-

Harry can only fuck things up for them, at this point. He isn’t helping anyone. And if he dies,
Voldemort will be mortal again. Someone- a very powerful, very lucky, very smart someone-
could eventually kill him.

What if he dies for good and finds me in the afterlife? God, that would be horrible. At least
Harry can escape him now, he can kill himself. But how do you escape the afterlife?

No, Voldemort wouldn’t be allowed in. He’ll go straight to Hell. Harry pities the Devil that
will be stuck with Voldemort forever.

With relief, with the promise of sweet escape, Harry closes his eyes, presses the wand straight
over his most prominent vein in his wrist.

“Diff-”

Molly.

Harry closes his mouth; opens his eyes. Molly. She’s only alive because Voldemort can use
her as blackmail. If Harry is not here anymore-
No, he thinks, upset. No, no!

He almost had it. He was almost out! He doesn’t want to let go of the house he’ll share with
Sirius-

Maybe, he thinks, desperate, maybe she’ll want to be with Fred, too. Perhaps Molly wound’t
mind dying.

The fact that he thought it, that for a second he considered trading her life just so he can take
the easy way out shocks Harry back into his right mind.

He pockets his wand.

Molly won’t just die. She’ll suffer terribly, she will be tortured. For hours, days maybe. Even
weeks. Voldemort is so hungry for revenge, he’s only holding back by a thread, he almost
killed Narcissa-

“Fuck,” he snarls into the frosty night. “FUCK!”

Thunder covers his words. His pain gets lost in nature.

(-)

He spends the night on the bench. He has nowhere to go.

He could go to another country, but how is that fair? He released Voldemort into the world,
got Kingsley and Savage killed, and who knows how many others, destroyed Hermione’s
life- Harry doesn’t get to simply fuck off and relax on warm beaches, while Britain burns
behind him.

There’s nothing he can do to stop it, but at the very least, he can burn with it. It’s only fair.

The sky is clear, finally, after many hours of rain. The sun is up, and Muggles start to appear,
giving him strange looks.

Part of him whispers to just give up and return to Malfoy Manor. He can have a hot bath, a
warm tea, and snuggle close to Delphini in the bed.

But he can’t. He can’t go back there. Delphini or not, he just can’t make himself. Not yet.

What if they won’t let him out again?

What if Voldemort is there?

It’s close to midday when he stands, his spine protesting. He’s stiff, he’s cold, and he can’t
spend his life on that bench park. He would have, but some muggles called the police, and
Harry slips away, just as the bobbies show up.

He might as well get a tea. But he has no money.

You have a wand. It’s not like you’ll be robbing a bank, just a cup of tea, really-

Harry shuts that voice up. He won’t deceive muggles. He won’t go to Gringotts, either. He
doesn’t want wizards to see him. He can’t stand to be looked at as a hero, be thanked for his
efforts, for saving them. He never could, but now it would simply be unbearable.

Surprisingly, when he Apparates on Grimmauld’s steps, he can open the door.

When he enters, he has the same eerie feeling he got when he first entered the house, back
when he was fifteen.

Like someone is dead or dying inside.

(-)

“A cup of tea, please- no,” Harry says. “No, actually, I will have a coffee.”

Being in Grimmauld, even briefly, for the couple of minutes it took him to run to the attic and
retrieve a few pounds from the bag of money he hid in the attic, made him remember a time
when the house was lived in. When Delphini danced in the hallways, singing muggle songs
to herself, and Voldemort made tea in the kitchen.

Harry is done with tea.

He drinks his coffee and a glass of water in a quiet restaurant. He’d thrown his robe into the
first bin he found on the street. He’d have thrown his clothes too. He wants to burn them, to
burn everything he had on when he was forced to promise love and loyalty to Voldemort the
day before.

But he’d be naked if he did that. Someone brought his clothes to Malfoy Manor the very
night he was taken captive, so Harry assumes he has nothing left in Grimmauld.

And it’s useless, anyway. He can burn his clothes, but he’ll still have the ring.

(-)

He goes to them, as evening falls, because he can’t not go. His heart wants little these days,
but it still wants them.
It’s a Saturday, so Hermione opens the door when he knocks. Her face, drawn and awfully
pale, morphs into shock when she sees him.

She opens her mouth and closes it again.

Their eyes meet, and there’s so much pain, so much guilt in hers. Probably a mirror of his
own.

Harry should say something. He wants to say something, but he can’t.

“Mummy! Hugo threw his food at me! Mummy!”

Rose appears between Hermione’s legs.

“Rosie, don’t be a snitch!” Ron. That’s Ron’s voice. Harry’s heart swells. “Who’s at the door,
love?”

His voice gets closer. Hermione looks panicked now. Harry thinks she is about to close the
door in his face-

He’ll never know, because before she can reach for the handle, Ron’s there.

“Harry?! Merlin, I’m gonna kill you!”

And then Hermione’s shoved to the side, and Harry finds himself in a tight hug.

Harry clings to him, more than he clings to life. It just feels so good. For a second, everything
else goes away, and he’s just Harry, with his best mate.

Of course, it can’t last forever.

Ron draws back. “You disappear on me, and then you come back and get married? What the
fuck, mate?”

“Fuck,” Rosie says, loudly.

“Fuck,” Hugo’s voice wafts from further away. “Fuck!”

“Oh, no! Sorry, sorry!” Ron says to Hermione, pulling Harry inside.

“It’s f-fine,” Hermione whispers, still looking like her life is about to be over.

“It’s fine?” Ron’s eyebrows shoot up into his red hair, to a chorus of ‘fuck’ coming from
Rose and Hugo.

Harry missed every single one of his freckles. His kind, blue eyes.

“See what you’ve done, Harry? She’s so upset with you she won’t even yell at me for
swearing.”

“I’m not upset,” Hermione whispers. “I’m not upset.”

Ron is busy with dragging Harry to a couch, and shoving him in it, as Hugo toddles closer,
looking curiously at him.

Hugo probably can’t remember who I am, Harry thinks, a pang in his chest.

Hugo’s hair turned brown, like his mother’s; his eyes are blue, like his father’s.

Rose’s red hair is as wild and curly as ever, with some food mixed in it.

“How could you do this?” Ron demands, and Harry, for a wild second, thinks Ron somehow
knows-

But no. Ron takes the Daily Prophet off the coffee table and shoves it in Harry’s face.

Harry does not look happy in his wedding picture. He looks dazed, blinking slowly at the
camera, only to then look to his left and up at Voldemort.

Delphini laughs, winking at the camera, fidgeting with a flower in her hair.

And Voldemort- Harry can’t look at Voldemort.

“You got married, and you didn’t tell us! We weren’t there! What the fuck, Harry?”

“FUCK!” Hugo screams.

Hermione picks him up. “Shh,” she says. Her arms tremble so much, Hugo is shaking in
them.

“I-” Harry tries, but he doesn’t even have the time to try to come up with something.

“It’s his fault, isn’t it?” Ron narrows his eyes. “Bet it is! Mr American didn’t want us there, is
that right?”

American? Who’s American?

“Ron,” Hermione says, weakly.

“I don’t like him,” Ron explodes, as if he’s been stopping himself from saying for a long
time. “Look, I’m sorry,” he turns to Harry. “I know you love him and I tried to like him, but
there’s just something off about him and I think he knows I can’t stand him. Is that why he
didn’t want me there at your wedding?”

Silence. “Why don’t you like him?” Harry asks.

Ron paces around. “I just don’t. He’s- Harry, I’m sorry, but he’s just… not friendly, you
know? He’s cocky and full of himself, and you seemed scared of him sometimes.”

Fuck.

Harry doesn’t know what memories Hermione changed, what she did with all the times she
and Ron came to visit Harry and Voldemort. He doesn’t know what she added, or what she
adjusted to turn Voldemort into Harry’s roommate, what interactions changed.

Hermione rubs her forehead, looking away.

Ron sits down. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, Harry-“

“No, it’s fine,” Harry reassures him.

Ron looks surprised. After all, Harry would be upset if he’d have a normal boyfriend-
husband- and Ron couldn’t stand them. For apparently no good reason.

“You don’t have to like him, Ron. I’m the one that married him, not you.”

Ron bites his cheek. “Will you have a big wedding that we can all come to? My mum- Harry,
she’s going to freak out when she hears she didn’t get to see you get married.”

“No! You know I don’t like attention, ok? A big wedding, with so many people- and- I just
don’t want that. You’re right. You should have been there. You and Hermione. But- I just- I
wanted to be selfish, for once. To not share- to have a moment, for myself, not shared with
the entire nation.”

I can’t do this, he thinks. It feels terrible to lie to Ron. And he’ll have to do it forever.

Ron softens, only slightly. “I didn’t think about that,” Ron mumbles.

“And it was a spur-of-the-moment thing, you know? I didn’t stop to think it through. I just-
did it.”

Ron hesitates. “Did you take the unbreakable vows? He seems like the sort to like that kind
of old shit.”

Harry shudders. “No.”

Ron breathes in relief. “Good.”

“Ron!” Hermione warns him.

“Yeah, no! I don’t mean that you’ll break up, Harry! Or that I want that! Just that-
unbreakable wedding vows are barbaric. That’s why we didn’t have them either, right,
Hermione?”

“Right.” She rocks Hugo back and forth, looking between Harry and Ron.

Ron sighs, inspecting Harry closely. “Merlin, weren’t you on holiday? You look like shit.”

“Yeah.” Harry forces a smile on his face. “Yeah, grand. Just tired. I did -lots of visiting.”

Ron looks great, however. After his upset about the wedding, he loosens up. And he does
look free. Unburdened.
Perhaps it’s a mercy, Harry tries to tell himself, watching Ron laugh and chat away, no hard
glint to his eyes, no trace of the suspicion or unease that was present in the past years.

Hermione remains tense, eyes focused on Harry, imploringly.

But Harry won’t tell; even if it proves too hard to lie to Ron, Harry would rather stop seeing
Ron. It would hurt him, and it would hurt Ron, but the alternative is to tell the truth and
deprive Ron of his family, his wife, children split between them on the weekends. Not to
mention what Ron would do with the knowledge Voldemort is free.

Harry finds out they were taking care of Midas. ‘Harry’ apparently sent Midas to them, when
he left on his long journey. The owl hoots, when they free him from the cage, and comes to
rest on Harry’s shoulder, pecking him affectionately.

Harry was certain Midas was long dead, killed by Voldemort, or simply starved to death
inside Grimmauld.

Ron wants to hear about Harry’s adventures, and Harry has no idea what to tell him-
Hermione intervenes, often. When Ron asks how was Tunisia, and Harry can’t come up with
anything, Hermione jumps in.

“Oh, God, Harry, I am so envious! I always wanted to see that old Charms temple there!
Must have been fascinating. Did you know that’s where the-” and she drones on until Ron
almost falls asleep.

Ron got letters, too, describing apparently adventurous things.

“I wish I’d have been there when you got into a fight with that Polish bloke!” Ron exclaims.
Or “You lucky dog, you saw the Eastern European Quidditch final!”

Harry wonders who informed Voldemort about Quidditch matches, because he certainly has
no idea about anything relating to the sport.

He sent Ron an amazing chess set from India, a glorious thing that is set up in their living
room, with protective charms around it so the kids won’t topple it down.

“My third child,” Ron jokes, petting an obsidian king lovingly.

Harry keeps asking to hear about what they did in his absence, and it’s much easier that way.

Listening to Ron talk and laugh about several incidents at the joke shop while Rose climbs in
Harry’s lap... it feels good. Normal.

Even Hugo gets reacquainted with Harry, smiling up at him and whispering ‘fuck’ from time
to time, to Hermione’s exasperation.

“She works like a mad woman, though,” Ron complains, lovingly caressing Hermione’s hair.
“I know she always did, but… mate, I am happy you are home. Maybe we can knock some
sense into her. She leaves as dawn breaks and returns after dinner, and she keeps working,
even in bed, with all those damned parchments.”
Hermione does look extremely tired, with very dark circles under her eyes. She’s so slim, too,
skinnier than she was even when they were on the Horcrux chase.

It’s not like Harry forgave her, but he still loves her, he always will, and seeing her like this,
imagining whatever she’s being made to do…

“Alright, I’ll go out and buy some champagne,” Ron says, eventually. “So we can celebrate
your wedding, Harry.”

“No, really, it’s not-”

“Since we weren’t there, at least we can have this.”

He goes out, muttering to himself to also get some cake, and then Harry’s alone with
Hermione and the kids.

“I- I’ll put them to bed,” she says, when minutes pass in silence.

Harry can’t quite believe he’s there, in their living room. After Malfoy Manor, after believing
he won’t see them again, after nightmares he had with their broken bodies at Voldemort’s
feet-

It’s like an out-of-body experience. Like a dream- he keeps expecting to wake up in his room
at Malfoy Manor any second.

But he doesn’t, and Hermione returns and sits in front of him.

“Why doesn’t Ron like him?” Harry asks.

She sighs, rubs her eyes. “I can take memories, but I can’t take feelings. I made him believe
Voldemort is your roommate- Ron remembers some of the dinners at Grimmauld, only
changed a little- I can’t take away feelings he associates with Voldemort, even if he thinks
him another person. It’s not something that can be helped. Emotions aren’t tangible, are not
something that can be modified or erased. Plus, they saw each other a couple of times at the
Ministry. When Ron gets it in his head to visit me at lunchtime- he came in while Voldemort
was in my office and- you know how he is. He’s not someone that Ron would ever like.”

Voldemort at the Ministry. In Hermione’s office. Harry just can’t picture it.

“He claims he’s American?” he asks, instead.

She nods. “He had to explain his lack of- no one knows him here; we’re a small world. So he
said he was born of British parents, but was in the States up until a couple of years ago. He
came here, you met at a coffee-shop and you offered him a room in your house.”

Voldemort is taking his cover seriously, apparently. He’s truly working at the damn Ministry.
Harry hadn’t really believed Delphini… but it must be true.

He opens his mouth to ask more, but just then Ron returns with cakes and bottles of
champagne.
The cake is like ash in his mouth, the champagne taste bitter, but Harry does his best to act
normal.

“Will you stay in Grimmauld?” Ron asks, and Harry doesn’t know what to answer. Christ,
Ron might visit him, now that Harry is ‘back from the holiday’.

“Ah- well. No. Yes.” Harry swallows. “He’s a-he bought a new house, but obviously is not
ready yet so- he’ll be there to furnish it and, you know, stuff. Getting it ready. And I’ll stay at
Grimmauld, meanwhile.”

Shit, now I have to go back to Grimmauld.

“And Delphini?” Ron asks, and Harry doesn’t know what Ron remembers of Delphini.

“She’s at Malfoy Manor. You know we agreed to have her spend time with both me and
Narcissa.” Which was what Harry had told Ron and Hermione, before.

When Malfoy got full custody of Delphini, but she was still living in Grimmauld.

Apparently Ron remembers that. “Does Mr Smug know she’s You- Know-Who’s daughter?”

Oh, he remembers that as well.

Harry nods. "Yeah, he does.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t bother him so much, since he wasn’t around during the war.”

Harry knows what Ron is saying. Few British witches or wizard would accept the dark lord’s
daughter in their family.

“Yeah, he doesn’t care about that.” Harry stands, because it’s just too weird to hear Ron ask if
Voldemort knows Delphini is Voldemort’s daughter. “I’ll get going, it’s getting kind of late-”

Ron grins. “Go, go. I remember how it was in the first few weeks after our wedding. Can’t
keep away from each other.” He laughs and winks at Hermione.

Harry’s stomach turns.

“Listen,” Ron says, at the door, a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “I’m sorry about what I said-”

“It’s fine,” Harry insists.

“No, it’s not. I didn’t try hard enough before, since- well. But you’re married now. He’s your
husband and I’ll make an effort to like him, get to know him better.”

“That’s really not-” Harry starts to say, but Hermione cuts over him.

“There’s time for that. We’re just happy you’re back home, Harry. I…I missed you so much. I
worried about you, constantly.”

She tears up.

Ron snorts. “I told her not to worry. You defeated the dark lord! You’re invincible.”

Hermione starts crying. Harry feels like throwing up the little cake he ate.

Harry would hug her if everything was normal; he’d kiss her cheek and hold on to her. Ron
watches, expectantly.

Harry hugs her. “I’m back, now,” he says.

She sniffles harder in his neck, her fingers digging into his shoulder.

(-)

Grimmauld is worse than ever. The house never liked him, but now it hates Harry.

Normal cabinets won’t open for him, doors slam in his face on occasion. There’s no hope for
warm water when he finally takes a shower.

Every stone in that house wants him out of it.

“It’s not like I want to be here,” Harry shouts, and the chair he was staying on collapses under
him in retaliation.

He lies on the hard, cold floor, in darkness.

Voldemort will eventually come to find Harry, and he can drag Harry back to Malfoy Manor,
but he’s not going on his own, not even to see Delphini.

He writes her a letter, telling her he’s fine, and that he’s sure he’ll be captured and brought
back to her soon, but he’s staying at Grimmauld for now.

The letter returns, unopened, hours later.

(-)

There are no clothes in his room. Well, there are clothes, but not Harry’s. Some of Sirius’ old
ones that Harry never threw away.

Maybe Harry has some clothes left in Voldemort’s room, but he will not step foot inside it.

He sleeps fitfully, the house groaning around him non stop.

It’s hard to get up, but he does. He makes himself take some money out of the bag, forces
himself to go out and buys some jeans and T-shirts, a pair of sneakers.

He can’t eat toast anymore, so he buys some bananas for his breakfast, and some ready to go
meals for the rest of the day.

They look awful compared to what he was served at Malfoy Manor, but at least they don’t
taste like terror.

Apparently Voldemort redirects Harry’s mail back where it belongs, because letters come,
from everyone. Over a hundred. People he never heard of- Harry opens one, out of curiosity,
just to confirm its congratulation and well wishes for his wedding. He throws the others
away, without reading.

There’s a letter from Ginny; she demands to talk to him as soon as possible.

Another from Molly, berating him for not calling her to witness such an important event.

McGonagall, Hagrid- Harry pushes them in the bin, and writes a new letter to Delphini.

It comes back unread.

(-)

He finds the Invisibility Cloak in the attic and he’s amazed Voldemort hadn’t taken it. Maybe
he forgot about it, Harry thinks, swaying on his feet.

He went into the cellar and spent some time there, with century old wine and dusty bottles of
firewhiskey.

He tripped and fell when he walked out of the kitchen, and for a second he winced, waiting
for Walburga to start screaming.

But Walburga is gone- Voldemort even took her away from Harry.

Stop it, you’re being ridiculous. You hated her.

He did take Kreacher away; Harry tried to call him, but the old elf doesn’t show up. He has a
new Mistress now. That is, if he’s still alive.

He ignores the letters from Ginny and random strangers, he writes a couple of words to Ron,
and many, many words to Delphini. His letters get longer and longer, but they always return
unread.

Malfoy probably sends them back, Harry tells himself.

Deep down, he knows it’s not Malfoy.

Deep down, Harry knows Delphini herself rejects the letters.

She must be so hurt. Harry sometimes marches to the door, determined to go and see her, but
then his heart starts jumping in his chest, he gets sweaty, nauseous, hands shaking. He can’t
make himself.

He can’t bear to think he’s hurting her, either.

So he drinks.

(-)

In a rare state of sobriety, he grabs the Cloak and goes to Diagon Alley.

It’s bustling with life, so close to Yule and Christmas. Children in colourful scarfs laughing
around and demanding gifts from their parents.

All the stores are opened.

People look a bit stressed, but he thinks it might have more to do with the holiday hustle and
bustle.

Nothing seems out of the ordinary.

He goes to the Muggle side to buy gifts for Delphini, Teddy and the Weasleys.

No one invites him over, thankfully. They probably all assume he wants to spend his first
holidays as a married man alone with his husband.

He makes another effort to not drink as soon as he opens his eyes, when he drops off to see
Teddy and give him his gift.

Andromeda force feeds him some breakfast. “Since when are you drinking coffee?” she
inquires, when Harry rejects the tea.

He doesn’t answer. At least her coffee is better. Harry tried to make his own at home, but it
comes out terrible.

So he usually has a glass of firewhsikey instead, every morning, after he takes a couple of
bites of his rotting bananas.

(-)
At Christmas, Delphini’s gift returns with the letter.

On the last day of the year, on her birthday, the same thing happens.

She turned ten. She was always afraid she will be abandoned, and now Harry did it.

She’s fine. The Malfoys are there for her. They surely spoiled her rotten. Voldemort probably
made an appearance, maybe even gave her a gift.

No matter how much Harry drinks, he can’t stop thinking about her. He wallows in his room,
and he hates Voldemort even more when he stares at the white walls.

The bastard banished Sirius’ muggle girls, on the day he got his magic and wand back. He
fucked Harry that day, too, and Harry let him.

He remembers it so clearly, even after the bottle of alcohol he’d ingested.

It was the first time Voldemort kissed him-

Stop. Just stop.

Harry drags himself out of bed to look at the picture of the Marauders. At Sirius, really. Sirius
hurts the most, always did. Because he had Sirius. They had plans together, they were
supposed to do things, Sirius was supposed to take him to muggle pubs, teach him how to
pick up girls. They were supposed to get in trouble and now he’s gone.

(-)

Sirius’ jacket is a bit too large for Harry; it’s heavy too, thick leather and many silver clasps
and zippers. Harry’s seen a picture of a teenage Sirius in it, and it looked tight on him.

It’s not for Harry, but it’s not too bad, either.

The dragonhide boots are also too big, but Harry charms them in his size.

He goes out. To a muggle pub. He decided he’ll be Sirius for the night. It’s much more
preferable than being Harry.

He’s in Sirius’ clothes, he’s already drunk, and he even bought a pack of cigarettes. So he’s
half-way there, already.

He chokes and coughs when he first lights a cigarette, but he won’t give up. He remembers
how naturally it came to Sirius, how he’d inhale deeply, how the smoke would come out of
his nose.
I’ll get the hang of it.

He goes inside the crowded pub. The music is loud, overwhelming; a deep bass vibrates
inside Harry’s chest.

And it’s very crowded. New Year’s eve and all that.

Alright, what would Sirius do?

He isn’t too sure. Maybe Sirius would have gone to the nearest pretty girl and made some
terrible, but charming, joke, started a conversation-

Harry doesn’t have that kind of confidence.

Sirius also might find a chair to sit and brood, the way he did so many times at Grimmauld.

It’s easier to do that. Harry waits in line for what feels like a very long time, but eventually he
captures the bartender’s attention and gets himself a glass of… something.

Whatever it is, it’s strong. He likes it. He finds a chair and sits, watching the people around
him.

Some are dancing, some are laughing, yelling in each other's ears.

Oh, look, someone’s fighting, too. A few men, that are quickly thrown outside.

A girl is crying by the bathroom door, makeup running down her face, gesturing wildly to a
boy.

Harry thinks Sirius looked attractive when he was quiet, withdrawn, drinking in a corner of
Grimmauld. But that’s because Sirius was attractive; he looked dangerous and handsome.

Harry probably just looks pathetic, and he thinks he better leave, the alcohol is free at his
house, after all-

“You look like one of those old rock stars, from the seventies,” a girl says, startling Harry.

She’s as drunk as he is, judging by the way she sways on her very high heels. Her hair is dyed
blonde, with dark roots, and it’s wild and disheveled around her head.

She giggles. “I meant- the jacket looks that way. You don’t look old, I didn’t mean that.” She
giggles again.

Harry doesn’t know what to say; he hadn’t spoken to someone new in…he can’t remember.

Sirius would know what to say, Harry thinks and he starts talking, unsure himself of what
comes out.

At some point, he hears himself saying he has a motorcycle.

The only thing that drives Harry is a need to not let Voldemort be the last person that kissed
him.

(-)

He wakes up with a headache and fuzzy memories of snogging that girl. He forgot her name;
in fact, he’s not sure he ever knew it.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face with freezing water, the way Grimmauld likes to
serve it.

He attempts to make himself coffee, and when he fails, he pours a generous amount of
firewhsikey in the concoction.

He’d really like a cup of tea-

No. No tea.

He won’t go to the library, either. That was Voldemort’s domain, so he avoids it, like he
avoids his room.

So Harry writes his daily letter to Delphini in the kitchen, as he sips his ‘coffee’.

He’ll never stop writing.

(-)

He finally agrees to see Ginny when she sends him two Howlers in one day.

One wakes Harry up from a nap, and for a second he thinks it’s Mrs Weasley, the voice
sounds very alike, until he hears what she’s saying.

They meet in a muggle park close to Grimmauld; they used to go there, back when they were
together, in the first months after the war.

Ginny looks good- she always does. She cut her hair, it’s just below her ears now, but
otherwise she’s the same Ginny he knows and loves.

“I like it,” Harry says, nodding at her hair.

She offers him a strained smile.

“What is it?” He stands beside her, on the bench.

“I saw the photograph. From your wedding.”

Christ. “Ginny, I didn’t invite anyone, not even Ron and Hermi-” Harry starts, exasperated.
Neville wrote he wanted to be there. Luna and Parvati. He imagines so many others, but he
throws away most of his letters.

“He looks like Tom,” Ginny says sharply, and Harry can feel colour draining from him.

Her eyes, also brown, but so different from Voldemort's, watch him closely.

“Exactly like Tom. Older, yes, but- Harry-”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

How did Voldemort not think of this?

Of course he didn’t. He doesn’t remember- he wasn’t the one that met Ginny, but an
impression of his soul. Sure, Harry told him it happened, way back when he was imprisoned,
but since he didn’t experience it himself, it must have slipped his mind.

Harry is very grateful Voldemort forgot.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispers and next he knows, she’s hugging him. It’s awkward, the position
unfavourable for a hug, but she holds him tightly. “This is so unhealthy for you. From all the
people in the world,” she mutters. “And you had to find one that resembles him so closely.”

Harry breathes a little easier. Of course she doesn’t think it’s actually Voldemort.

Ginny says Harry should have talked to her, that she would have understood he’s still
struggling. She says she should have seen it sooner, and she’s sorry she wasn’t there for him.

Harry stops her. “Don’t be daft. You were always there.”

She was there when he woke up from a nightmare, in those first few months. And he was
there when she would wake up from her own nightmares. Someone, she’d scream Tom’s
name, just before Harry woke her.

“I never knew-” she whispers. “That you thought of him…that way.”

“I didn’t, either. Until- I met -ah- my husband.” Gods but it sounds so wrong. Harry should
find out his fake name, so he never has to say ‘husband’ again. “Don’t tell anyone, please.
Don’t tell Ron-”

Ginny promises she won’t. “Ron already doesn’t like him,” she says, smiling again, even if a
little shakily. “Says he’s a bit of a prick.”

(-)
It was nice pretending to be Sirius. It gave Harry a few hours of freedom. So he does it
again.

This time, he goes to a muggle club, where the music is even louder, the light almost
nonexistent.

He imagines he is his godfather and approaches a girl. It’s…easy.

Harry can’t believe his luck. The first girl he strikes a conversation with, and she seems to
like him back, amazingly. Must be the leather jacket.

Harry claims he’s a mechanic, when she asks him what he does for a living. He says he’s
from Liverpool, and he’s only in London for a few days, that he’s sleeping on a friend’s
couch.

She notices the damn ring, and Harry claims his wife died in an accident, not that long ago.

“Normally, I’d say that’s a bullshit lie,” she says, outside the club, sharing a cigarette between
them. “But I can see you’re in pain.”

Maybe it’s because she pities him, maybe she’s just that drunk- who knows why, but she
invites him to her flat.

The sex is awkward. It’s not her fault; she’s good looking and kind, sweet, but she’s not what
Harry wants.

Harry can’t come.

(-)

Maybe it’s because she was a girl, Harry thinks, a couple of nights after that. She wasn’t what
he wanted, she didn’t bring him any satisfaction, but Harry refuses to consider it was because
he wants Voldemort. That is just unbearable.

Maybe he just wants a man, is all.

Muggles are so weird about sexuality. Harry knows that if he propositions the wrong man, it
might as well just come to blows.

And lately Harry is channelling Sirius a little too well, because he feels volatile. When Harry
isn’t passed out on a couch, when he doesn’t feel empty and lost, he feels like he’s about to
snap and do something regrettable. He doesn’t trust himself, what he might do if a muggle
were to get violent with him. He doesn’t want to find out.
How am I supposed to recognise the ones who wouldn’t mind a bloke, from the ones that
mind? he wonders, playing with the zipper of his jacket, looking around the club.

(-)

He makes an effort to train. He charms a dummy and spends hours cursing it.

He tries to read, when he’s not so drunk that his vision sways.

“But what’s the point, really,” he asks out loud. He’ll never be able to match Voldemort. The
man is so old; he’s such a nerd, too. He read more books in the two years he’s been at
Grimmauld than Harry read in his entire life.

There’s no catching up with him. Maybe there is some truth to what blood purists insists.
Maybe certain people are simply born with more magic than others. Not on account of blood
purity, obviously, but just some random genes that pop up in some individuals.

“There’s no point,” Harry tells the dummy. “Just no point to it.”

And the dark magic- Harry glances at the books, uncertain. Such a dangerous path. He’s
getting angrier and angrier as days pass. He almost assaulted a muggle in line at the groceries
store.

Could be the booze, sure. But what if it is the dark magic Harry stated practicing?

It feels dangerous; his anger is so oppressive, so all consuming Harry feels like he’s standing
on a precipice and just one tiny step will throw him over the edge.

Harry shoves aside the dark magic books. He won’t go down that path. Especially since it’s
worthless. There’s no catching up with Voldemort.

Even so, he still trains, here and there. No dark spells, just normal curses. There is no point to
it, but at least it gives him something to do, a way to release all that energy.

And even at the hight of his anger, even when he imagines Voldemort’s face on that dummy-

Harry misses the duels they had; he misses it terribly. How hard it was, how thrilling.

How patient Voldemort was when he explained a strategy or another. He never mocked Harry
when he made a mistake- or ten mistakes. And in those very rare occasions that Harry did
very well, in those moments when one of his spells almost hit Voldemort-

he’d display an approving manner.

“Not bad,” he’d say, and Harry’s heart would float. He’d be exhausted, muscles aching,
sweaty, but he’d feel so proud of himself, delight spreading through his nerves.
It hurts. He hates himself that he still thinks of those times; that his stupid brain doesn’t get
the message it was all a lie.

(-)

He has dinner with the Weasleys, at their flat. It’s nice, as long as he ignores what they are
doing to Ron.

But it’s easy to ignore it. Ron is exactly Ron, he isn’t any different. Just much happier than
he’d been in a long while.

He even makes Harry laugh, truly laugh, for the first time in what feels like a year.

It has been almost a year, Harry realises, shocked. Almost a year since Voldemort got out of
the Oath.

“Is the new hose ready, yet?” Ron asks.

“Not yet.”

But how long will that excuse last? February is upon them, but he won’t be able to use the
same excuse in May, surely?

What is Voldemort’s plan? How does he expect Harry to keep up this farce-

He doesn’t want to think of Voldemort. He does his best to avoid it.

(-)

He finds a man. Or rather, a man finds him, in one of the clubs Harry keeps going to at night.

He isn’t Harry’s type- too muscular and not very tall, but he’ll do. Whatever. He’s a man, it is
all that matters.

His name is Will.

“I’m Sirius,” Harry says, accepting a drink.

“You don’t hear that name every day,” Will says, and he sits very close to Harry.

The sex is just as unsatisfactory as with that girl. Even worse- Harry feels vulnerable,
threatened, when he finds himself under the bloke. Uncomfortable.
He has trouble maintaining his erection, but he persists. Harry doesn’t want to give up.

Harry leaves early in the morning, hating himself with a passion.

He feels dirty, cheap and incredibly empty.

Maybe it was just the wrong guy, he thinks.

Plenty of others out there. And there must be someone out there that can-

That will be as good as-

There must be someone out there.

(-)

Harry goes to Diagon Alley daily, under the Cloak. Just to check.

Nothing is happening.

“What is he doing, exactly?” Harry asks Hermione, mid-February.

He’d invited her to Grimmauld. It’s the first time they are alone.

“Climbing the ranks,” Hermione says, peering around the cold, dirty kitchen. Her eyes stop
on the many empty bottles all around the room.

“But what is he doing, really?”

Hermione looks somewhere around Harry’s nose, avoiding meeting his gaze.

“Organising that Department. It was such a mess before he-” she gulps. "I suppose he’s
charming the right people, making important friends. Every politician does that- it’s nothing
weird. Yet.” She hesitates. “He still helps me with my- projects.”

“Christ, Hermione, you can’t still believe that-”

“What do you want me to do, Harry?” she snaps, strangled. “He’s free, he’s there- might as
well get something good out of it. He made Malfoy speak up in the Wizengamot for the
school we’re opening- you don’t even know how much trouble I had with it! But it’s there,
we’re getting the first students in April, and that’s something good. I’m not an idiot, alright? I
am aware of the danger, I’m always on the lookout for signs that something’s off- but there’s
nothing so far. And God knows, if he hadn’t killed his boss yet, he must really be committed
to giving this a chance. I’d kill his boss, the man is that obnoxious.”

Harry doesn’t want to argue with her. It serves no purpose.

It’s been a year since Voldemort got free, and from all the newspapers, from all his stalking
around Diagon and Knockturn, even a handful of other magical villages, nothing terrible
seems to be happening.

Only one disappearance reported in the prophet, some two months before, but the man’s
family said he has a habit to wonder off.

It could be Voldemort related, could not be- Harry isn’t sure.

Hermione clearly relaxed a little. It’s obvious.

Harry hasn’t relaxed, per se- but it’s just impossible to live under constant high alert. He
either got used to the panic, or he doesn’t feel it so acutely.

It’s not like he can do anything about it, anyway.

But he keeps stalking magical places, daily, he keeps reading the newspapers.

He keeps drinking, and at night, he goes out.

(-)

Some muggles are bothered by his wedding ring. Some aren’t.

Will told Harry about bars for ‘people like us’, so now Harry only goes to those places.

He never leaves alone. He isn’t sure if these men aren’t that picky, or what’s wrong with
them, but he sometimes has multiple men fighting for his attention.

“You’re gorgeous,” Harry’s new conquest says, as they stumble into bed. A middle-aged
man, with a few streaks of grey in his dark hair. Tall. Athletic.

Harry already forgot his name.

“You’re blind,” he answers.

The man had glasses in the bar, but he’s removed them now.

Harry removes his own, placing them on a nightstand.

He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. He never had to ask, with-

Even when he’s drunk enough that he has no shame, even when Harry asks them to go
harder, it’s not the same.

It’s not right.

(-)

“Are you channelling Sirius now?” Andromeda demands when Harry parks his new
motorbike in front of her house, to Teddy’s delight.

“I LOVE IT!” Teddy says, already touching every piece of metal. “Nana, can he take me for
a ride-“

“Sirius wasn’t the only man to own a bike,” Harry huffs, annoyed, even if she’s right.

Perhaps exactly because she’s right.

She rolls her eyes. “Sure. But you’re wearing his leather jacket, too. And is that a pack of
cigarettes I see pocking from your pocket? Aren’t you a little old for teenage rebellion
phase?”

Harry was busy being hunted down by a mass murderer when he was a teenager. He’s been
busy trying to contain that mass murderer in his young adult years.

It’s the first time he has time to have a rebellious phase.

“Nana, please! I want to take a ride.”

“Do you know how to drive that thing?” Andromeda asks, giving the bike doubtful looks.

It’s Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “I made it here, haven’t I?”

“Just around the block,” she relents, and Teddy hops on behind Harry, laughing.

(-)

Voldemort has access to Harry’s vault, the goblins calmly inform him.

He’s already having a bad day, having shown his face in public for the first time since the
wedding. He’d had to sign five autographs, and that was only on the bank’s front steps.

He had to come to Gringotts, the money in his bag run out after he bought the bike.

And now he’s finding out that ‘the other Mr Potter’ received a key to Harry’s vault.

“And you just gave it to him?” Harry demands, angry. Is this revenge because I broke in their
stupid bank?
“Yes. He is your husband, by law. He is a Potter. Therefore, he is entitled to a key.”

But, apparently, Voldemort is not taking any money out. His wages come into Harry’s vault,
each month, and Voldemort only takes that out, from what Harry reads from the parchments
the goblin hands him.

He’s taking over every single aspect of Harry’s life.

(-)

Harry goes to see Molly in the first days of spring. She’s home alone, and it’s so odd to see
the Burrow empty.

But it would be. Arthur is at work, and all their kids moved out, except George. But George is
at the store, when Harry comes.

The first thing she does is complain about how thin he’s gotten. Before he knows it, he’s at
the chipped, old table, mountains of food shoved in his face.

Harry eats- he has to- and it’s the first time he can taste the food. He makes a surprised noise-

It’s good. It’s- filling.

Harry expected she’d complain that he hasn’t been to see her in so long; that she wasn’t
invited to the wedding.

But Molly doesn’t, she just gushes over him, makes him eat until his trousers are getting very
tight around his mid section.

“Are you alright?” she asks, when he’s finally allowed to leave the table.

They’ve moved to the couch, and she holds his hand between hers. Harry doesn’t remember
so many wrinkles on those hands. They look frailer than when he was a kid.

But when he looks up, even if there are even more lines on her face, she doesn’t look frail.
She looks ready to listen to whatever Harry has to say.

“Yeah,” Harry whispers, and he’s suddenly on the verge of tears.

No. No crying. You promised. Harry had not cried since the day Voldemort killed Kingsley,
since Hermione hugged him.

And he won’t cry again. He won’t give Voldemort that power. It’s insignificant, really. He
gave Voldemort too much power, but at least this is something Harry can control.

Molly sighs. “I’m an old woman, Harry-”

“No,” he argues. “You’re not old, Molly-”

“I raised six boys. I know the look of a man with his heart broken.”

Harry shakes his head. “No, it’s not-”

“Marriage is hard, Harry. You young ones don’t think about that. But it is. It can be
frustrating, it can be painful, it is a lot of work.”

“You make it seem so effortlessly,” Harry says. His marriage is a joke, a scam, but he’s
surprised to hear her speak that way.

She smiles. “You never want to air your dirty laundry in public. And especially not in front of
the children. But there is no perfect marriage out there, you hear me? You should know that-
Ron and Hermione still fight like cats and dogs, don’t they?”

If only that would be Harry’s problem. Fighting. He wishes so hard he’d have a normal
family, with all that comes with it. That he’d have a normal husband, and a normal argument
about dirty dishes, and he’s sit here and tell Molly all about it.

As it is, Harry doesn’t say anything.

“Let me get you a tea-”

“Coffee,” Harry says. “Please.”

She brings him a cup, some minutes later. Along with cake, of course. Harry can’t eat another
bite, but the coffee taste good.

Like love and care. Only Molly could make coffee taste good. Only a mother.

“It’s not him,” Harry says. “It’s my- Delphini. Sirius’s daughter. I let her down and now she
won’t talk to me. I tried to be a parent, and I failed.”

All his letters return unopened, every single day.

She laughs. “Oh, Harry, if marriage is hard- that’s nothing compared to children. I saw the
girl in that Prophet picture. She looks like-” Her face darkens, a shadow falls over her eyes.
The hand holding Harry’s shakes.

“Molly,” Harry says, gently, squeezing her fingers.

She shakes her head, and she tries to smile. She fails. “She looks like Sirius. Like a Black.
My mother was a Black. They have difficult tempers.”

“It’s not her fault. It’s me. I- I failed her. I tried to be a father, but I- I put myself first,” he
whispers.

Molly looks at him carefully. “Sometimes, putting yourself first is needed to be a good
parent. If you lose yourself, there’s no one there to look after the children, Harry. She’s with
the Malfoys, no? I remember Lucius got custody?”

“Yes, but- we shared it. Unofficially, she used to spend more time with me. Before- before I
got married.”

“Well.” Molly takes a sip of her own coffee. “She’s in no danger. Malfoys are many things,
especially that man- but Narcissa is a good mother. And Blacks look after each other. So I am
sure the girl has all she needs. You aren’t concerned about that, are you?”

“No. I- I know she’s taken care of. It’s just that- she won’t speak to me. I promised her I-” he
promised her he’ll never leave her. “I broke a promise and…she won’t talk to me.”

“Give her time. Children sometimes need time. Write to her-”

“She won’t even read-”

“Keep writing. It will show her you love her. That you care for her. And when she’s ready,
she’ll know you are there. I wrote to Percy every day, when he- you know. Back then.”

When Percy abandoned them. When he refused to acknowledge his family. Harry judged him
so harshly, but now he’s done far worse things. He’d made Voldemort a Potter.

“The letters always returned unopened, but I wanted him to know I’ll be there when he wants
me at his side.”

(-)

Harry comes back to the Burrow every other Sunday, accompanies Ron and Hermione for a
big lunch.

All the family comes, as is their tradition.

And it’s the only time where Harry actually feels at peace, when he’s surrounded by
Weasleys.

The kids play around, Victorie, the oldest, taking care of Hugo and Percy’s daughter, who are
the youngest.

Harry loves those days; he would only like it more if Percy didn’t use them as an opportunity
to tell Harry how incredible his ‘husband’ is.

“Why don’t you ever bring him over, Harry?” Arthur always ask. “We’d love to meet him. I
only glimpsed him in passing at the Ministry.”
“He works a lot.” Harry mumbles.

“He does,” Hermione backs him up. “Even Sunday he’s at the Ministry.”

Harry thinks she’s just lying to explain Voldemort’s absence but-

“Yes, everyone knows he’s very hardworking,” Percy says, half in love. “In fact, I’ll go over
after we’re done eating.”

Ron sniggers. “Go ahead, Perce. I’d bet he’ll love some company.”

Harry shakes his head, a little panicked, because Ron doesn’t understand. It’s not funny to
irritate Voldemort. Percy could end up killed.

“It’s fine,” Hermione whispers in Harry’s ear, when she sees his panic. “He cursed his office
door to never allow Percy inside. Most of us do.”

“I love your boots, Harry,” Charlie says, distracting them. He always come to Sunday lunch,
even if Portkeys from Romania are expensive. But since Fred- none of the Weasley children
miss a Sunday meal, if they can help it. “Where did you get them? Haven’t seen a model like
that in ages.” Charlie is dressed in leather, too, to Molly’s eternal displeasure.

Only then, at the table, when Harry is ashamed to say these are Sirius’ boots, he realises how
odd it is to walk around in his dead godfather’s clothes.

(-)

This new guy is into something called BDSM. Harry isn’t entirely sure what that means, but
he goes along with it. It sounds intriguing.

He gives Harry a safe word, which is baffling, but Harry nods, and repeats it back to him.

It is interesting, and it’s even hot when Harry closes his eyes and imagines another man
doing those things to him- it only lasts a second, however. Harry opens his eyes, remains
firmly in the present, and even if it’s something new, even if it has the potential to be great,
it’s just not.

It’s not what he wants.

The only thing Harry gets out of it is having another human so close by, the warmth of a body
against his own, to combat the chilliness, the emptiness in Grimmauld.

He liked a little pain when he was with Voldemort. It always came with pleasure.

With this bloke, it just hurts. But an aching body is still preferable to other things. Physical
pain distracts him from the agony he feels inside, when he’s not too drunk to think.
He leaves when the other falls asleep. Harry quietly sneaks out, feeling as bad as when he
arrived. Worse, even, because he sobered up slightly.

The sun is up, tentatively, those first shy rays of the morning making his eyes hurt.

He Apparates home, and he decides he’ll have another drink, just enough to numb him, so he
can hopefully get some rest.

He finds Voldemort in the kitchen.

Harry freezes in the doorway, his instincts going haywire, mind blank.

He’s in Sirius’ chair, drinking Harry’s coffee, and that’s just fucking great, now he can’t even
drink coffee anymore, and he’s just learned how to properly make it somewhat enjoyable-

Harry reaches for his wand, only he can’t find it in the right pocket of his jacket, where he
usually keeps it.

It’s not in the left one, either.

He stumbles, patting himself, and he’s so very aware how stupid he must look, as Voldemort
watches on in amusement.

Did I lose it at the club? Did it slip out in that man’s apartment?

Sirius put too many damn zippers on the jacket. He finally finds it in one of his inner
pockets.

It’s useless, of course. If Voldemort wanted to do something, he would have done it in the
past minute, while Harry was busy acting like a moron.

But he just needs his wand in his hand, no matter how useless it is.

Harry’s still drunk, even if seeing Voldemort there went a long way in sobering him up.

But he’s not completely himself, he’s still in his Sirius mind set- rash and looking for trouble,
so he finds it easier to snap at Voldemort.

“What are you doing here?”

Voldemort has never looked so comfortable in Grimmauld before. It is the first thought to
strike Harry, the first thought he can form through his stupor.

He just seems at ease in a way he’s never been before, back when he was trapped in it.

Now it feels like Harry is trapped in there with him.

He doesn’t want Voldemort there. Harry is afraid of him, and he can’t quite grasp how he
wasn’t, just a year ago.

Harry is far more afraid that if he looks long enough, he’ll start missing him.
He’s dressed in a muggle suit that is somehow more imposing than Malfoy’s intricate robes.

“There is a Ministry event coming up,” he says, and Harry suppresses a shiver at the sound of
his voice. “We have to attend.”

Harry blinks at him. “You came to invite me to a party?”

Voldemort is not pleased by Harry’s sarcastic tone.

“It is not an invitation,” he says, softly.

“Got it. You came to order me to a party.”

Voldemort puts the cup down; he stands.

Harry takes a step back, heart pounding in his chest. He grips his wand tighter.

“You have an astonishing talent to lie to yourself when you want to. Why not employ that
now, Harry? Make it easier for yourself.”

“I’m done with delusions,” Harry spits.

“A pity,” Voldemort answers. “Fifth of June. Eight o’clock.”

“You can’t be serious,” Harry says, strangled. “I don’t want to go to a fucking-“

“Neither do I. Yet we will attend.”

“Why go if you don’t want to?” After all, no one is forcing Voldemort into anything.

“I could revert back to my usual methods of grabbing power, if you prefer. It would certainly
be far more satisfying killing all these people. Yet you are adverse to the idea, are you not?
So we will attend. I suggest you take a cheerfulness potion before, however. You need to look
happy.”

“And if I refuse?” Harry forces the words out, because he can’t envision himself attending a
party with Voldemort.

“That would be ill advised,” Voldemort says simply.

It hurts to look at him. Harry can’t stand him, can’t stand that Voldemort got what he wanted,
can’t stand living with the fear of waking up one morning to read about mass murders all
around Wizarding Britain.

He can’t stand something utterly sick inside him looks at Voldemort and misses him.

He turns, walks away hurriedly, wanting to be out of his presence, to escape-

He’s grabbed by his shoulder, just as he almost made it out of the kitchen.
Even through the thick leather jacket, Harry feels those fingers as if they were touching his
soul.

“Let me go,” he demands, trying to keep his voice in check.

Voldemort turns him around; Harry struggles, but it’s a short battle.

Voldemort’s inhumanly strong; his entire being is made up by magic. Harry could be seven
feet tall and two hundred pounds, and he’d still lose.

Voldemort crowds him against a tall kitchen cabinet.

Harry refuses to look up, staring at the crisp white shirt instead.

“Just let me go. You got everything you wanted, you don’t need me. Leave me alone, let me
live whatever is left of my life.”

It’s unbearable enough to live as it is, but being paraded at Ministry functions, having to
pretend they’re a couple- Harry can’t do it, he can’t even be in Voldemort’s presence when
they’re alone in private.

“Why do you ask for something you know I won’t give you?” he asks mildly. His long
fingers trace Harry’s jaw. “Do you like to be reminded of my power over you?”

Harry is drunk, he’s hurt and he’s fucking sick, disgusting, wrong to still react to Voldemort’s
body.

He grows hot, weak with Voldemort pressed against him like that.

“Let me go,” Harry repeats and he manages to get some fury in his voice, alongside the clear
desperation.

The fury is not just for Voldemort, though.

He starts to struggle, pushing, shoving, but Voldemort is unmovable. All Harry manages to
do is twist up new knots of desire in his gut. In a deeply buried part of him, all he wants is
Voldemort.

It kills him that touching this monster makes him feel whole.

“You want to anger me,” Voldemort continues. “You want me to take the choice away from
you. To force you.” The words are soft, tender as a bruise. “Is that what you desire? Do you
want me to break you?”

It’s better if you’re broken. If you can’t chose. It was better when he was in Malfoy Manor
and he couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t do anything.

Harry doesn’t know what the hell he wants.

Voldemort steps away. “I will come to collect you, come June fifth. And I better find you
here, Harry. Dressed up and ready. If not…I will still find you. Wherever you think to hide on
this Earth, I will find you. I could have kept you in a cellar down in Malfoy Manor, only
allowed up under the Imperius when I need you to make an appearance. I am being generous
by allowing you…” his lips curl in distaste and he gestures at Harry’s clothes, and then to the
kitchen. “…this. Do not test me. You will do what I ask,” he says. Firm, iron statement.
There’s no doubting him.

“Why don't you just kill me?”

Voldemort could agree to Harry’s death- he could become a widower, he could have a tragic
love story the public would eat up. He’d still have the Potter name, and Harry’s stupid glory
will follow him in his career, but Harry could be free. And if Voldemort agrees to it, then
Molly needn’t die-

“I am killing you,” Voldemort answers, softly.

Harry closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Voldemort’s gone.

(-)

“Have you seen Delphini?” Harry asks, half under the bike, trying to fix a stubborn charm
he’d placed on the engine.

Teddy nods, lying beside Harry, face smeared with oil. “I’ve seen her a couple of times. I
don’t understand why Nana won’t take me to the Manor as often as she used to. I’m very
upset with her. No one will tell me what’s going on.”

“I know it’s hard,” Harry says. “But you have to understand your nana is only thinking of
your well being.”

“But it’s Malfoy Manor! It’s practically my second home. I don’t understand! Delphini looks
so sad, too. She-” Teddy bites his lips. “She doesn’t want to talk about you at all. She
threatened to curse me if I say your name. And now she is allowed to use her wand, even
without any supervision. Nana still won’t give me a wand! It’s not fair!”

It hurts tremendously to hear Delphini won’t speak of him. It frightens him that she can use
her wand on her own.

It was only Harry that insisted she never does, unless he or Voldemort were around.

She could hurt herself, she could have an accident-

Narcissa surely keeps an eye on her. The elves, at least.

“Do you know if they give my letters to Delphini? “Harry asks Andromeda, when Teddy is
asleep.

“Narcissa says she refuses to read them,” Andromeda confirms what Harry knew already, in
his heart. “She’s a stubborn little thing; takes after her mother.”

“She takes after her father, too,” Harry whispers. He wishes it wasn’t so, he didn’t want to
admit it, like he didn’t want to admit many things, but he can’t deny the truth anymore.

“No. She doesn’t.” It’s Andromeda’s turn to be in denial.

Harry sighs. “But she’s alright, yes? She’s healthy?”

“She’s taken care of. I only go there, when I know for sure Voldemort won’t be around. So I
don’t know how he treats her, but Narcissa says she seems at ease in his presence.”

“She adores him,” Harry says, playing with his glasses, absentmindedly.

“Takes after her mother,” Andromeda repeats.

“Can’t you bring her here?” Harry asks.

Maybe Harry could visit, if Delphini was in Andromeda’s house. If he could only see her,
explain to her-

“No. He won’t allow Delphini out, unless she’s with Lucius. I suspect he imagines that if I
have both Delphini and Teddy alone, I might try to flee with them. Or that you might try to
take them, and I’d let you.”

“I wouldn’t,” Harry says. “He’d find us anywhere.”

She nods. “We all know that. He probably doesn’t want the complications that would come
with someone trying to run away with his daughter. He won’t be able to keep his civilised,
easy going pretence if we force him to hunt us down.”

(-)

“He took Rabastan Lestrange out of Azkaban,” Hermione says, looking tired.

Harry doesn’t even react. She caught him drunk. He pours himself a new glass of expensive
wine he’d found in the cellar.

What does it matter that there’s another Death Eater on the loose? Compared to Voldemort, it
really means nothing.

“In return, I got him to agree to help me get more funding for the schools for muggleborns.”
Harry snorts.

She bristles. “It’s not like he needed my permission, Harry! Proudfoot helped facilitate it, and
I couldn’t have stopped him, as you know. But Voldemort said to ask something in
compensation, so we can all get something-”

“God, stop.”

“Don’t look at me like that!” Hermione says, face red, eyes wet. “I’m making the most of it.
Lestrange would have been out anyway, and we would have gained nothing-”

Harry tunes her out, staring at the bottom of his glass.

The next morning he reads in the papers that Rabastan Lestrange died in prison.

“Since he was the last member of the English Lestrange Family Branch, one of his French
cousins is rumoured to be arriving shortly to inherit the vast fortunes in the Lestrange vault.”

A week after that, they publish the picture of the French cousin on the steps of Gringotts, and
it’s Rabastan Lestrange, Harry is almost certain.

Granted, he’d never seen the man clean and put together, beard and hair trimmed neatly, but
it is him.

He goes to ask Hermione, who confirms it. She’s in a hurry, early in the morning, preparing
to go to work, hands filled with suitcases and papers.

Her tired eyes trail over the hickey on Harry’s throat, over his even messier than usual hair,
the wrinkled shirt; he’d spent the night with a muggle, came to Grimmauld, saw the Prophet
and headed straight to Hermione, without showering or changing first.

“You are aware Voldemort knows you’re… he knows.”

“How would he know?” Harry refuses to feel embarrassed over his muggles. He meets her
gaze, calmly.

“The wedding rings. Standard charm. They’ll flare up when the loyalty promise is broken.”

Harry looks at his ring, in a distant kind of discomfort.

“What do you mean, flare up-“

“Well, thankfully I never felt it, but it’s supposed to hurt. Burn your finger. So if he did the
charms right, and I don’t see how he would mess them up, he’d feel that every time you…
ahm…break the promise.”

“Huh.” So that is what the standard charms were meant to do.

(-)

He wasn’t even in the mood to go out, but he did, only because of what Hermione told him
about the ring.

Harry gets a twisted sense of satisfaction as he lies under a bloke named Mike.

Over his shoulder, Harry lifts his arm and looks at the wedding ring.

He hopes it hurts.

He wouldn’t care, a voice whispers in Harry’s head. He doesn’t care. And that hurts Harry.

But at least Voldemort will be in physical discomfort from the ring. Hermione said it will
burn.

(-)

Harry actually considers drinking a cheerfulness potion for a second before he decides
against it.

He ignores the robe Voldemort sent him for the party. Fuck him.

Instead, Harry puts on an old one he finds between Sirius’ clothes. He’s gotten good at
detailed transfiguration, and he charms it to his measurements.

Voldemort doesn’t comment on it, when he knocks at the door, at eight o’clock sharp.

Harry doesn’t look at his face, just stares straight ahead and does his best not to react when
Voldemort’s fingers curl around his shoulder and they twist into the air.

(-)

They’re blinded by photographs as soon as they step foot inside the room.

Or at least Harry is blinded, the bright flashes reminding him of curses, as always, making
him itch for his wand, making him want to duck for cover-

Voldemort’s hand is hard on Harry’s back. It guides Harry forward, past the journalists that
yell his name.
So many people in one room, and they all turn to stare at Harry. He’s never attended a
Ministry event. Ever. Not even to get his own Order of Merlin. He had Kreacher receive it in
his name, at Hermione’s suggestion.

‘It will show how much respect you have for elves. It will help me with my projects.’

It didn’t help her with her projects. Voldemort helped her.

And there she is, in a pretty dress. Ron, at her side, looks uncomfortable in his suit, pulling at
his bowtie.

There’s a moment when Harry turns left to go to them, just as Voldemort turns right to go to
Malfoy.

Well, fuck him, Harry thinks and continues on his path.

Before he can blink, Voldemort is back at his side.

“Hullo,” Ron mutters, nodding at Voldemort, before giving Harry a one arm hug. “Let’s get
drunk,” he whispers.

Voldemort exchanges a few words with Hermione, and then, after the photographers take
more pictures of all of them together, he leaves for Malfoy.

Harry breathes easier.

“The one good thing to come out of your marriage is that now you will find out how it is to
be with a politician that drags you to these awful parties. I won’t have to be stuck here on my
own-“

“Ron!” Hermione whispers, pinching his ribs.

“Sorry,” Ron says, sheepish. “I didn’t mean it was the only good thing, Harry. It was a joke-“

“It’s fine,” Harry assures him.

Ron nods, his eyes on Voldemort. “Why am I not surprised he’s cozying up with Malfoy? I
bet he would have been a Slytherin if he’d went to Hogwarts.”

“Ron!” Hermione hisses again.

“Sorry, sorry.”

(-)

Voldemort comes to stand by Harry’s side from time to time, to the delight of everyone there.
They all stare at them, gossiping behind their glasses.

Ron is getting drunker and drunker, thankfully, so he doesn’t notice Harry’s stiffness
whenever Voldemort joins them.

“I told you to take a cheerfulness potion,” he says, bent over Harry.

“And I told you I don’t want to be here!” Harry whispers back.

“Mr Potter,” a man calls, and Voldemort straightens his back, steps away from Harry’s space.

“Yes?” They both answer at the same time.

Harry doesn’t recognise him. Well on the older side, short, with a tight robe that threatens to
rip apart over his stomach.

The man finds the brief confusion hilarious, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I meant you,”
he tells Voldemort.

Harry is incredibly upset to hear this monster addressed as Mr Potter.

Voldemort must be upset, too; perhaps because Harry disobeyed him and didn’t take the
potion, perhaps because of something else entirely, but he doesn’t have a fake smile for the
man.

“What?” His voice is frosty.

(-)

Hours later, Ron is wasted, dozing off in a chair.

Harry is exhausted. Everyone wanted to come to him, just to shake his hand, get a picture.
Those damn journalists are everywhere, like flies.

Voldemort is on the other side of the room, surrounded by snobbish looking men, Malfoy
chief amongst them.

Harry knows of some of them, members of the Wizengamot, some departments heads, even a
couple of Aurors. And Percy.

How does he do it? Harry wonders, watching Voldemort speak, and all those around him
listening, fascinated.

They already seem to be under his thumb, fooled by whatever mask he’s wearing.

He doesn’t smile often, but he does smile. He shook some hands, too, clinked his glass
politely in some toast or another.
Quite a number of women are glancing at him every other minute, playing with their hair.

If only they knew….

But then again, Harry knew. He was perfectly aware who he was talking to, what kind of
monster he brought to his house, and he fell for it, anyway.

Another strange man is coming in Harry’s direction, and Harry can’t take it anymore.

Especially now that Ron is not awake enough to run interference. He looks around for
Hermione, but she’s in what looks like a heated argument with a very old wizard.

Harry sneaks out on a grand balcony, unbuttoning his robe.

The night is chilly, but Harry welcomes it after the stifling atmosphere from inside.

He walks to the edge of the balcony, looking over the rails.

They’re high up, on the third floor of an ancient building.

But not high enough to be lethal, a voice whispers in his head, disappointed.

It’s a voice that keeps noticing things like this. How sharp a knife is, how steep of a drop
falling over a bridge would be, how a potion glinted so temptingly when he went to
Knockturn Alley, in his weekly inspection of magical places, looking for clues that something
nefarious is going on.

It scares Harry. He shakes his head and steps away from the edge, a chill in his bones that has
nothing to do with the weather.

The flash of a camera startles him and he turns to be faced with Rita.

You would have been better off jumping, the voice says.

“Haven’t you taken enough pictures?” Harry snarls at her.

“A great many of them.” Rita smiles, pulling her parchment and obnoxious green quill out of
her purse. “But I’d like a small interview to go with them. The public will want to know how
you’ve been doing! No one has seen you in a while. Tell me, Harry, how is married life?”

“Fuck off,” Harry spits.

The quill starts scribbling, furiously.

Rita looks unfazed.

“What made you finally attend a public event? Is it so you can help your husband’s career?
How did you two meet?”

“Listen, you horrid hag-“

“Are you planning on returning to Quidditch or-” She flinches, hand over her heart.
“Goodness, Mr Potter, you startled me!” She squeals, when Voldemort appears so suddenly at
her side, it’s like he Apparated there. “I was just asking Harry how-“

“Harry?” Voldemort looms over her, staring down with fiery brown eyes.

For a second, they spark red.

Harry despises Rita with a passion, but she’s seconds away from a terrible fate.

He goes closer to them.

“I wonder what emboldens you to take such liberties. What gave you the impression you
could be so familiar?” Voldemort asks.

“I’ve known him since he was a wee lad,” Rita says, holding her ground. “Why, I was the
first person to get an interview from him, years ago-“

“Let’s just go,” Harry says, now at Voldemort’s side. “She’s not worth it.”

Voldemort ignores him, focused on his prey.

“You will never write a word about him again,” he says, voice filled with confidence.

Even Rita gauges there’s something very dangerous about him. She takes a step back, but she
is stubborn.

“And why is that?”

“Don’t,” Harry whispers, when Voldemort opens his mouth.

Don’t threaten to kill her. Don’t kill her. “Please.” The word taste like bile in his mouth, but
he remembers that moment in Malfoy’s office, when Harry begged and Voldemort seemed
willing to listen.

“If you print one word about him, you’ll have the chance to write an exclusive article of how
life is in Azkaban,” Voldemort says, after a brief pause.

“Excuse me-“

“I hear conditions are much better now. You can interview the other prisoners, unsupervised.
In fact, most of them are probably just dying for a chance to have you alone.”

“What are you-“

“I know what you did under the Thickness regime,” Voldemort says.

All the colour seeps out of Rita, horror written on her every feature.

“I-“ her voice shakes. “I don’t know what you’re talking-“

“Getting forgetful in your old age? Is you mind deteriorating as fast as your body?”
Voldemort lets his eyes wonder over her, full of disgust. “No matter. Smith still remembers
all your little exchanges.”

“Who?” she asks, but she’s trembling like a leaf.

“Do not make an enemy out of me,” Voldemort says, softly. “You wouldn’t like the
outcome.”

Rita stares at him, wide eyed, her quill frozen in the air.

“If you behave, you can have exclusive interviews from me, as long as you don’t embellish.
We could have a lucrative deal. Win-win. But you will never print Harry’s name again. Now
get out of my sight.”

Rita scurries away, snatching her quill and parchment out of the air with shaking hands.

“What did she do?” Harry asks, in the silence left behind her. “Under Thicken-”

“Nothing important,” Voldemort cuts over him. “I told you she did her best to distance herself
from the regime, but she still collaborated. Enough to get her in trouble if the good people
from the Ministry were to find out.”

Harry still counts Rita survival of the encounter as a win. In a shameful part of himself, he
feels a little- he feels as if Voldemort did something to help him. Rita’s articles always
managed to ruin Harry’s day, whenever he’d chance upon them.

He did it because he remembers you blackmailed her into writing the truth in your fifth year.
He only did it because Rita, as awful as she is, was Harry’s only contact to the press. He
made sure you won’t ever get to share the truth to the world, if you’d ever feel inclined to do
so.

“Does Delphini know I’m sending her letters?” Harry asks, to change the subject. To remind
himself of the damage Voldemort did to their - not family, they were never a family.

The damage he did to Delphini and Harry.

“Yes.” Voldemort’s face is impassive.

“They always return unread,” Harry says, stupidly.

“Are you surprised?” Before Harry can answer, he continues. “After all, she knows how loyal
you are; she is aware you won’t leave anyone behind. Except her.”

“That’s not-“ Harry almost says that’s not fair, but he remembers who he’s talking to. “I
didn’t leave her. I am trying to talk to her. Daily. I’ll never stop.”

“Don’t concern yourself over her,” Voldemort says, heading for the door. Just before he opens
it, he looks at Harry over his shoulder. “Though you might want to be on your guard, when
she turns seventeen. After all, I didn’t take too kindly to my father abandoning me.”
(-)

If before Harry used to have nightmares of violence, blood and mass destruction, the dreams
shift as they head into July.

Sometimes, trapped in that state between sleep and awareness, Harry stretches across the bed,
hoping to find Voldemort.

He wakes up properly when there’s no one to be found, and he feels so empty, he wonders
what’s the point in getting out of bed anymore?

But he does get up. He brushes his teeth, showers and makes himself something to eat.

I really should move out of this house, he thinks, every morning as he eats in silence,
watching Voldemort’s empty chair.

When did it become his instead of Sirius’?

(-)

Midas returns and Harry sighs, preparing to take yet another unread letter and put it in the
drawer he keeps all the letters he sent to Delphini.

Just in case she’ll want to read them, eventually.

Only when he takes it from Midas, his heart leaps in his chest.

“To Harry,” it says, in Delphini’s nice calligraphy.

He tears the envelope in record time.

“Father says he’s certain you won’t kidnap me and leave the country,” she writes. “So I can
see you without supervision. Tinsy will Apparate me to Grimmauld tomorrow at twelve.

Delphini.”

In his joy, Harry sits on an ashtray.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” He looks around and the house is a mess. So many dishes gathered up on the
counters and in the sink. Goblets and ashtrays everywhere. Food packages, empty bottles,
dust, bread crumbs.
Delphini can’t see this.

Harry gets to work.

Even after several hours, it doesn’t look much improved. He could really use Kreacher right
then.

If Hermione would know you thought that, she’d have you hanged.

But it’s just so hopeless. He’s so tired.

At about four in the morning, he realises he needs to do his laundry, too.

(-)

The house is….well…better. Cleaner, for sure, but it’s still gloomy.

“Can’t you be nice? Delphini is coming!” Harry spits at the walls.

It’s freezing, too. As usual, the fireplaces are temperamental. Harry never knows when one of
them decides it doesn’t like fire and won’t provide one, no matter how many times he tries to
light one.

He remembers the useless Order cleaning he’d been subjected to before his fifth year at
Hogwarts.

Only now, after truly understanding the house obeys and responds to its master, and only its
master, does Harry realise it was Sirius that kept it gloomy and unwelcoming.

Sirius didn’t want to be inside it, he was miserable, and the house acted accordingly, no
matter how many times Molly had them cleaning. Voldemort’s extraordinary magic did
subdue the house slightly, at least he stabilised the heat and he was allowed to change some
things around- or maybe the house just seemed warmer with him around, and in reality
nothing much changed- but now that he thinks about it, it truly did become brighter
eventually, after Delphini moved it. Probably around the time Voldemort made her take
ownership of the place.

Everything was just so much better. Almost a different house entirely to the one he’s standing
in.

It’s fine. Harry will take her out. Should be warmer outside, really. Maybe to the park, so they
could talk.

He gets nauseous. He tried to stay focused on putting the house to order, without thinking
about what he’ll actually say to Delphini.
What can he say, really?

There’s no excuse- rather, he has many explanations, but none will be good enough for
abandoning a child that feared abandonment most of all.

Harry is still pissed at Sirius for dying, and the man had no choice in the matter.

Harry wasn’t even dead. He’d been hiding. Running.

He’d said many things in the letters, especially after he realised she won’t read them.

It was easy to write, drunk and without her brown eyes there to look at him with judgement.

(-)

At twelve on the dot, he’s posted himself in the hallway, in his cleanest, newest clothes.

He’s trembling and the wonky heating system has nothing to do with it.

POP.

The air gets stuck in his throat.

Is it possible she grew in the eight months they’ve been apart?

She’s dressed splendidly; there’s nothing on her that could pass for muggle, in any way.

Her dress, her opened robe, the way colours move on them in a slow pattern…it is all very
magical.

She looks exactly like Voldemort- for a second, Harry can only see him, because her beautiful
face is blank, and that stillness somehow erases any features she inherited from her mother.

But then her lips wobble a little, her eye twitches, and she looks like Delphini again.

Harry drops to his knees and hugs her fiercely, crushes her against him, perhaps too tightly,
but he just can’t help himself.

She’s stiff at first, unyielding, but Harry just hugs her tighter, and eventually she hugs him
back, melts into him.

He hears himself speaking; he hears ‘I’m so sorry’, he hears ‘I missed you’ he hears
mutterings so incoherent even he doesn’t know what he meant to say.

“Harry,” she says, and her voice-

Did she always sound so perfect?

“Harry, I can’t breathe.”

Harry lets her go, but only enough to give her air. He draws back, holding her hands, now
adorned with rings and bracelets, but he remains on the floor. She’s taller than him this way,
if only by a bit.

“Delphini,” he says, but he doesn’t know what to follow it with. He touches her face,
carefully, but she doesn’t push him away, lets him wipe a few stray tears from the corner of
her eyes.

Tears Harry caused.

“You need to shave,” she says, touching back and fuck, Harry knew he forgot to do
something. “And cut your hair.”

He tries to smile- actually, he does smile. Her presence makes it easier to do so.

“I will,” he promises. “Sorry. I just forgot.”

She nods. She smiles back. And then she looks away.

“Gods, but it’s dreadful here.” She blows air out and it condenses around her face. “It’s
freezing!”

“Yeah, I know. I- let’s go somewhere- ah, warm.” But where? She’s not dressed to see
muggles, that’s for sure.

It’s a statement, he thinks. She came in an armour.

“No.” She shakes her head. “Let’s go to the library, and light a fire.”

Oh no. No. He can’t go to the library. That’s outside his limits, deeply haunted by
Voldemort’s memory.

“Agh, well, it’s- I don’t go there often.” At all. “It will be dusty. We can try the kitchen, but
it’s even colder there.”

Delphini watches him with her intelligent eyes; she’s not using Legilimecy, and even if she
would, Harry would be able to defend against her, but she knows, anyway. Something like
understanding shines on her face, and she nods.

“We’ll light a fire in the kitchen, then. I know how to do that now.” She smiles, sheepishly.
“Well, I shouldn’t know, but I do. In theory. I never tried it, but I read the incantations.”

Harry doesn’t want to hear that; he thought she was safe at Malfoy Manor, but if she’s
learning how to light fires behind their backs-

She pulls at his hands, and he stands.

In the minutes it takes them to arrive in the kitchen, the house is already warmer.
The candles don’t flicker on the walls. There’s more of them lit than when he left the kitchen.

Delphini still goes to the fireplace, and she takes out her wand from a place Harry can’t see.
The robe doesn’t seem to have pockets, but there it is, in her hand.

And then he recognises the wand. He will never forget it, for as long as he lives.

The wand that killed Sirius, black and curbed-

“Where did you get that?” he asks.

“Where do you think?” She doesn’t look at him. “Father gave it to me. He had Hermione
retrieve it from the D.M.L.E’s archives.”

She points it at the fireplace. “Let me focus.”

You really shouldn’t let her start fires.

But how could he dare tell her what to do, after he abandoned her? After she somehow found
it in her heart to accept to see him again?

“Incendio!” she whispers softly, but with a determined expression.

Merry flames roar to life in the fireplace.

She gives a little happy, childish yelp, and she turns to him, delighted.

“It worked!” she says. “I knew I could do it!”

Harry swallows. “Don’t-“

“Oh, shut up.” Her wand disappears back into the mystery place it came from. “Of course I
won’t try to do it on my own, without someone there to make sure I won’t burn to a crisp if it
goes wrong. Haven’t done it so far, have I?”

It’s really warm now, and the fire can’t be responsible, it only just started.

It’s the house, responding to her wishes. She takes off her robe and throws it on a chair.

Her dress is so beautiful, but so grown up. It’s white, with subdued purple flames playing at
the hems of it, but it has a collar, for Merlin’s sake, and puffy sleeves that close perfectly
above her elbows.

She sits.

“I have Coke,” Harry says, tentatively. He’d run to Tesco and bought a pack. And her
favourite snacks, and-

“Pumpkin juice?” she asks.

“No.”
“Tea, then.”

Fuck.

“I don’t have tea. Are you sure you don’t want Coke?”

She searches his eyes. “You don’t have tea?” She sighs when he doesn’t answer. “Water,
then.”

That, too, is a statement. Rejecting Coke, wearing the over the top magical dress-

Harry gives her water, gets a glass for himself, too, resisting the temptation to grab the
whiskey he’d hidden in the cupboards.

(-)

Half an hour. It takes half an hour of awkward, stilted conversation, and then Delphini makes
a face, and pushes her water away.

“Fine, give me Coke,” she says, sounding both resigned and excited.

Harry grins at her, and it gets much better after that, like she’d brought down a wall.

He brings her the sweets, too, and she expertly, savagely tears into the packaging, nothing
ladylike about it.

She moans when she pops in the mini Mars bar in her mouth. “Gods, I missed muggle
sweets!” She takes another. “Andromeda tried to tempt me with them, but I resisted. I should
have known I can’t resist you.”

Delphini probably tried to reject everything muggle, the way Harry rejects tea and toast.

It has nothing to do with the food items, but what they represent.

Harry tries to explain himself, on several occasions, but she cuts over him every time. She
won’t let him, and finally, when he tries it again, she raises a hand.

“I understand,” she says. “I was furious, and I refused to accept it, but Lucius insisted to
speak about it, even after I prohibited everyone to mention your name. He pointed out Draco
left Scorpius behind, too, for a little while, so he can sort himself out. He said that he’d have
taken Scorpius with him, but Lucius didn’t let him. He said you’d have taken me with you,
too, but father wouldn’t have allowed it.”

She tells Harry abut her lessons, about magical places Malfoy took her to visit, about children
she met. She talks fast, excited, and he soaks it all up, over cans of Coke and many coloured
sweets. Harry actually enjoys them, eats as much as she does.
She doesn’t mention Voldemort, not until Harry notices a mark on her forearm. A dent of
sorts, that she didn’t have before.

“What happened there?”

She looks. “Oh, that.” She rubs at it, and then looks back to Harry. “I almost died!” she says,
eyes wild. “It was terrible.”

“What?” Harry chokes on a candy.

She nods, fervently. “I had dragon pox!” She sounds entirely proud of it.

Harry almost faints. He feels his knees growing weak, and if he’d been standing, he’d have
fallen.

“It was terrible,” she repeats, but she’s smiling, dreamily.

“What-when?”

“Last month! I only just recovered a couple of weeks ago. But I’m left with this. Oh, and
this-“ She throws her perfectly arranged hair back, and she tilts her head to show Harry a
mark under her ear, and a fainter one on her jaw. “I scratched these before father tied my
arms to the headboard-“

“WHAT?”

She shrugs. “I wish he’d done it sooner, so I wouldn’t have any mark at all. The pustules
itched so bad, Harry! So bad. He told me not to scratch at them because they’ll scar, but I
couldn’t help myself. I had a fever, anyway, so I wasn’t really aware of what I was doing. I
only remember some parts vaguely.”

She had dragon pox, an illness that sometimes kills children and the elderly, and he hadn’t
known.

She was in pain, ill, and Harry was off to Muggle clubs, fucking strangers.

“Oh, don’t look so upset,” she says, but she looks satisfied that he’s horrified. “I’m fine.” She
pauses, and then she adds, accusatory. “I’m fine, now.”

“God, Delphini. I- “ He should have been there. Dragon pox is awful. She needed him. She’d
have needed him to constantly dress her pustules, rub them with a special concoction, cool
her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I wish someone would have told me. I can’t believe they didn’t!”

If someone would have, Harry would have been there. Nothing would have mattered
anymore. He’s filled with adrenaline now, ready to tear down mountains, and she’s fine. He
would have went to Malfoy Manor willingly, with no thought-

“I asked for you,” she says. She bites her lip. “I forbade them to mention your name, to even
speak of you in my presence. I was very angry with you. I refused to think of you. But when I
fell ill, I wanted you there. I told father to call you.”
Harrys’s jaws clench. That motherfucker, punishing his daughter just so he can…what, hurt
Harry?

I’m going to kill him.

“But he said we’d only expose you to the pox; that you didn’t have it as a child, since
muggles raised you, and you’d fall ill, too. With your weaker constitution, who knows what
would-“

“I’m not weak. I wouldn’t have cared!”

As if Voldemort cared about Harry’s health.

“You have to fight to stay alive,” Delphi says, with an air of wisdom. “There were moments
when ….well, I had to cling to life. Father said you’d just give in and die on us if we
provided you with any excuse to check out.”

How could he say that to her, as she was ill, and she was asking for Harry?

Just unimaginable.

He was right, a voice whisperes.

“Anyway, I didn’t need you after all. Father took care of me.” Her smile is so brilliant it
hurts. “He stood at my bedside for ten days, Harry! He didn’t move. He read me stories, and
then he made up stories for me. He didn’t even sleep. Every time I woke up, he was awake.
He even fed me! Well, he had to. At first I was still tied up to the bed, and then after the
itchiness improved, I was too weak to eat on my own. It was lovely,” she declares. “He didn’t
want me to die.”

“Oh, Delphini.” Harry goes to sit by her. He hugs her.

To be happy she was sick, just because she could have Voldemort show interest in her…

“He got sick, too,” she whispers in his shirt. “He didn’t have it as a kid, either, so he got it
from me. He tried to hide it. But he can’t fool me. Still, he refused to sleep. I told him he had
to, that’s he’s ancient, and dragon pox is more dangerous for old people.” She giggles. “He
got upset and told me he’ll punish me for my impudence when I got better. But he hadn’t. He
probably forgot.”

Harry can’t imagine it. He can’t imagine Voldemort caring for someone ill, trapped in a room
for days, having to watch over Delphini non-stop.

He just can’t see it.

But he clearly did. Delphini draws back, and she picks another candy to chew on.

“And when I wasn’t contagious anymore, Lucius bought me what he swears is the biggest,
most expensive doll house in Europe. It’s gorgeous! He and Narcissa are still doing anything
I want, even if I am completely recovered. I’m going to milk it for as long as I can!” She
smirks. “Last night, I pretended I got a fainting spell at dinner and asked Lucius to carry me
to my room. I’m going to do it again tomorrow, I think.”

“Delphini-“ Harry says, but he stops there. Teddy is the same, when he gets a scratch. It’s
normal child behaviour, to take advantage of situations like these.

He thinks so, at least.

“Anyway, in those long days, I realised I want to see you again. Family is most important.
And you never stopped writing. You love me, even if you ran away.”

“I didn’t run from you. I would have loved to see you, every day. For you to come with me. I
just- I couldn’t-”

“I know.”

When she has to go back, she lets Harry know she’ll be coming over the next day, in more
suitable clothes, and he better find a nice movie to take her to.

Harry is ecstatic to hear it.

He hugs her too tightly again, and struggles to let her go, but he keeps telling himself she’s
coming over tomorrow.

She wants to see him.

But you won’t be able to drink if you have to take her to the movies.

The thought makes him realise he is possibly developing a bit of a problem.

Harry spends the night throwing away all the alcohol in the house.

It’s difficult, but he won’t disappoint Delphini again.

It’s not easy, but now he has her back, so he needs nothing else.

(-)

Everything seems better after that. The only issues is that Harry only gets to see Delphini
every other weekend. He wants to see her daily. He wants her to live with him, but he thinks
he should wait a bit to run that idea by her.

“I spend the week at Malfoy Manor, so I can attend my lessons. In the weekends I go home,”
she says.

Home. She means she spends the weekends in Voldemort’s new house.
Which she calls home.

“But now I’ll have to split them between you,” she says, reproachful.

So every other weekend it is. She arrives on Friday nights and departs on Sunday evenings.

Grimmauld acts and feels like a house when she’s there, and then immediately goes back to
its usual shenanigans once she steps out the door.

When she sleeps there, Harry just sits on the armchair beside her bed and watches her,
content.

When she’s not there, he does his best to stay busy, so he won’t drink.

He often offers to babysit Rose and Hugo when Hermione and Ron are at work.

He visits Teddy daily, to the point Andromeda just assumes he’ll be over for lunch and
dinner, and the plate is set up for him before Harry even shows up.

He goes running for hours.

Anything to keep his mind and body occupied.

When he opens the newspapers and sees an article about ‘Mr Potter’, Harry goes out and
buys a punching bag he’d seen in a muggle sport store.

He hangs it in the room where they used to duel, and hits it until he falls on the floor,
exhausted.

He finds himself doing it almost nightly.

(-)

“Look!” Delphini says, shoving the newspaper under his nose. “Their Seeker moved to
Australia! They need a Seeker, Harry!”

Indeed, the Cannons need a new Seeker.

“I’m sure they already found one by this hour,” he says, slowly, putting the newspaper away.

“You’re Harry Potter,” Delphini says, dismissive. “They’ll want you over everyone else-“

“Delphini, that’s not- it’s not nice to steal a position from someone just because I am
famous.”
She makes a face. “I didn’t mean that Harry Potter. Father said you’re the best Seeker-“
Harry’s stomach does a back flip. “Of course, he has no idea about Quidditch, but even
Lucius agreed you fly very well. I meant the team will want Harry Potter, the greatest Seeker,
over anyone else.”

“I…I’m not the greatest,” he says, anxious. Though, he thinks- he thinks he is rather the best.
At least at this. Maybe he’s arrogant, but if there’s one thing Harry knows he could do with
his eyes closed…

It would be terrible, though, wouldn’t it? To find something to do, something that he enjoys
so much, while the rest of the world is fucked.

It’s not fucked. They’re all doing alright. Or, at least, as they used to be. Nothing changed.

Yet. But it will, as soon as Voldemort grows bored with playing politics. And in any case,
Hermione’s life is terrible. She is aware of the truth and she’s overworked and who knows
what Voldemort has her doing.

Proudfoot, too, most likely lives in constant terror, and then Harry, the cause of all this,
getting to fly- It just isn’t fair.

“Oh, come on!” Delphini smiles, encouragingly. “Please, Harry, go to a tryout at least. I never
saw you fly professionally; I never saw a proper Quidditch match at all. Please!”

Just a tryout, then. For her.

Yeah, even if Harry gets the position, well, he’ll just say he won’t take it.

Just a tryout, for Delphini, who won’t give up, hounds him the entire day, until he sends a
letter to schedule one.

(-)

It’s on a Wednesday, but Malfoy shows up at the pitch, holding Delphini’s hand.

She waves at Harry, and he waves back as she climbs on the stands.

He knows all the other players from when he’d played for the Puddlemere United.

As always, Quidditch is another world entirely. No one there wants to talk of the war, or his
wedding. Just like the first time Harry allowed himself to join a team, they only talk about
Quidditch, with a brief question on whether he found it harder to fly on the dragon from the
Triwizard Tournament task, or the one he stole from Gringotts.

And then he’s in the air, and everything goes away.

His problems, Voldemort, his guilt- none are as fast as his broom. They don’t catch up with
him up there.

The only thing that matters is the snitch.

(-)

“Congratulation, mate!” Ron says, cracking open a champagne bottle.

“Boo, you joined the enemy!” Ginny says, throwing a napkin at him.

But she’s smiling. Yannis shakes his hand.

“Maybe with you there the Canons can finally win a match.” George winks at him and then
darts out of the way when Ron tries to swat him over the head.

Harry clinks his glass with the others, but then puts it down without drinking, forces himself
to grab his cup of coffee, instead.

It’s not even that bad, really. Molly makes great coffee.

And great cakes.

“Make way, make way!” she yells, bringing over a monstrosity of a cake, in the Cannon
colours.

“Merlin, how many times did I beg you to make one like this for me when I was a kid, and I
never got it, but of course Harry does,” Ron mutters, and everyone laughs at him.

Harry hadn’t felt this good in a long time. And Percy isn’t there to ruin it by gushing over
Voldemort’s work ethic or whatever nonsense.

(-)

His finger grows warm, out of nowhere. Harry looks at his hand, to find the cause of-

Oh.

The rings burn when the vows are broken.

It doesn’t exactly burn, nor is it especially painful. It’s just uncomfortable.

Harry tries to ignore it, but it’s physically impossible to do so.

He has an absurd pang of jealousy when it really sinks in that Voldemort is fucking someone
at that very moment.

It’s closely followed by worry. Who is the poor soul to get involved with him? Do they know
how dangerous he is?

Harry is concerned about them; he truly is. But he’s also upset. Irrationally upset with a
faceless stranger.

He can’t do anything, frozen at the kitchen table, staring at the ring.

He just can’t properly process it; for some reason, he finds it hard to believe Voldemort is
having sex. At that very moment.

Who would he even-

Oh, God.

An image of Andromeda pops into his head and it’s-

No. Impossible.

Firstly, he doesn’t want to imagine Andromeda naked; she’s like a strict aunt to him and
beside that, she is a good-looking woman, but she’s getting on in age. Would Voldemort
really find someone older attractive?

She looks like Bellatrix. And Voldemort is far older- he might not look it, but for him
Andromeda wouldn’t seem old the way she does for Harry.

Stop. God, it’s not your problem.

Only it is. If Andromeda is fucking Voldemort, that’s just-

Now Harry feels betrayed by both of them. And if he knows it’s absurd to feel betrayed by
Voldemort, he still feels it would be valid to be upset with Andromeda in this scenario.

It’s also silly that he randomly decided it’s her. Without any proof.

Maybe Voldemort would find her attractive, but how in the world would she find him
attractive? She seems to despise him.

He’s not sleeping with Andromeda! Stop!

Harry is pacing before he knows it. Five minutes pass, even if it felt like hours.

And then ten minutes.

He knows from experience that Voldemort has stamina. He knows this could even take an
hour, and Harry just barely got through ten minutes.
(-)

The light is open in the bedroom. Andromeda’s bedroom.

Perfectly aware he’s acting crazy but unable to stop himself, Harry stalks around the house,
quietly.

You’ve completely lost your mind.

He had, but he needs to make sure. He reaches the side of the house he’s interested in and he
stands on his toes, heart slamming against his ribs, bracing himself for what he might see-

The bedroom is empty.

He feels relief, and he slumps on the wall-

“What in the world are you doing?”

Harry jumps, hitting his head on the window still. He turns and there Andromeda is, dressed
in a house robe, hair braided loosely, her reading glasses on her nose.

“Oh.” Harry whispers. “I-mhn-I-”

“You do remember I have really expensive wards around my hose, do you? They are charmed
to allow you in but that doesn’t mean they won’t alert me when you are around my house.”

Harry didn’t think, only needed to make sure.

“What are you doing here, Harry?” She looks stern and serious, and as intimidating as ever.
There is no good excuse. At least if she had found him at Teddy’s window, he could have said
he had a nightmare and wanted to check on Teddy-

“My ring is burning,” he says.

She blinks at him- once, twice.

She sighs and takes off her glasses.

“Come along.”

(-)

“And you care, because...?” she asks, handing Harry a hot chocolate and sitting on the
armchair facing him.
He sips, slowly. It’s actually delicious. Harry’s so happy he can enjoy things lately. Some
foods, some drinks.

“I realise he somehow fooled you, while you were locked up together in Grimmauld. But you
care now? After the fiasco at Malfoy Manor?”

“No!” Harry protests. “I’m just worried. About what he’s up to!”

He feels relieved that it wasn’t Andromeda. The ring is still warm, and it’s distracting.
Images keep popping up in his head with Voldemort fucking into someone-

But it’s better than it’s been minutes before. More bearable.

“And why did you come to-wait!” She frowns, and then her face lights up in shock as she
puts it together. “You did not- tell me you did not think it was me!”

Harry thinks he’s about to be cursed, and he rightfully deserves it- he braces himself for at
least a very strong telling off-

She throws back her head and laughs.

She laughs and laughs, and laughs. Harry has never seen her laugh like that, reserved as she
is. She smiled, at best, at Teddy and Delphini, she smirked at Malfoy or made a derisive,
amused noise-

But now she’s laughing for real.

“Merlin, Potter, I’m a grown woman, not a traumatised child. I would rather boil alive.”

Harry takes offence. “You don’t know how charming he can be,” he says. “It’s not just me.
Even your sister fell for his -”

“My sister was a traumatised child when she met him, just like you.”

Oh. Whenever Harry thinks of Bellatrix, he can only see the unhinged, fierce warrior he
remembers.

She smiles, and it resembles a smirk this time. “The fact that she was violent, cruel and
magically gifted does not mean she was stable. She was vulnerable, as you were, and he took
advantage. I am not vulnerable. And I do know he can be charming. He was the picture of a
perfect gentleman when we talked; when he was keeping me captive in the Manor. But I saw
right through his bullshit.”

“He cared for her,” Harry says. “It wasn’t just bullshit.”

“I know he did. Narcissa always told me,” she explains, when Harry gives her a questioning
look. “And I guessed it, when I was left alone during the first war. I knew it was at her
behest.” A mournful expression falls over her features, as it often does when she speaks of
Bellatrix. “Besides, no one- not even a cold-hearted monster- could resist Bella, if she put her
mind to it. Especially when she was young.”
Harry drinks his hot chocolate in silence. When his ring goes cold again, he feels relief.

“I’m sorry for bothering you -“

Andromeda waves it away. She gives Harry a piercing look. “I know you won’t listen; I can
imagine it’s a terrible situation to be in. But wouldn’t it be easier to give in?”

Harry snorts.

“He won. It’s obvious. There’s nothing you can do about it. He’s calm for now, or so it seems,
but he’s Voldemort. Wouldn’t it be better if you were close to him? Have access to his plans,
an inkling of what’s coming? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer type of thing?
Especially since clearly you want to be at his side.“

“No,” Harry interrupts her. “I really don’t want to be this side,” he whispers. There are
moments, right when he wakes up, or right before he falls asleep, when his mind is sluggish
and disorientated. He misses Voldemort, then. Maybe when he used to get very drunk, too.
But the rest of the time…"I hate him. My skin crawls when I have to see him.”

She tilts her head to the side. “He is charming; if you let him, he’ll make you forget about all
of that.”

Voldemort would; if given the chance, Harry knows how easy it would be for him to fuck
with Harry’s head.

“I won’t go down that route again. It led to this. I won’t live in lies anymore.”

“My skin crawled when I first sat with Lucius at the same table, shortly after the war. It was
painful for me to see Narcissa, who knew Bella was hunting for my family, and she did
nothing to stop her. Do you think it was easy, Harry?”

“No,” he whispers. “I always wondered how… how you did it.”

“I was alone, with a baby. I wanted family, I wanted security. And the Malfoy’s were that. I
know who Lucius is, oh how I know it. I know he’s the type of man to don a mask and torture
muggles at a Quidditch game. He’s the type of man to hurt children if they are in his way.
He’s a cold-blooded killer. But how does that help me? I wanted family, I needed money, and
he came with it. So I allowed him to be the gentleman he can be; I allowed his smiles to
charm me again, the way he did when I was younger. I chose that. I chose to enjoy his
company, instead of remembering who he was every single time I saw him. It’s easier for me;
easier for Teddy. And Voldemort- granted, I was…hot headed that first night, after what I
went through with the Shadows. My Black blood is to blame. But after that, I went into
survival mood. I live- Teddy lives- at his mercy now. So when he asked to see me, several
times while I was a prisoner there, I had tea with him. He pretended to be reasonable and I
pretend to believe it, so we could discuss civilly. I could have spent those months in the
Manor in horror, in hate for Lucius, because he is the one that put me and Teddy in danger, to
save his own skin. But where would that have gotten me? To despair? So I had dinner with
Lucius every night. I will never forget what he did. I will never trust him, but I can generally
ignore who he is, and actually enjoy my time in his presence. He and Voldemort have my
niece- I have to be in contact with them for the rest of my life. Why not make the best of it?
Why torture myself? I count myself lucky that they chose to pretend to be charming and
friendly, and we all make it easier on each other this way. Narcissa also pretends Voldemort
didn’t tell her all those painful things that night, that he didn’t terrorise her son for an entire
year. Lucius pretends it hadn’t happened. He ignores the possibility of it happening again.
I’m sure he doesn’t forget it, not really, but he has to serve Voldemort, so it’s just easier to not
think of what could go wrong every single time they are together. It’s a sure way to go mad.”

“I wish I could be like you, but-“

She snorts. “Yes, yes. We are terrible Slytherins with no morals-“

“No- Andromeda, I don’t- no. Not you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m sure Hermione found a way to deal with Voldemort, too. They work
together. I have no idea what understanding they reached, but the girl is forced to see him
daily. Do you think Hermione stews in hatred for Voldemort every day? Or do you think she
maybe allows herself to see the best parts of him? Do you think she wants to be reminded
every second he’s the dark lord, when they sit together and go over legislation? No, of course
not. Impossible. I assure you, she dissociated, just like the rest of us. And she is a good girl,
isn’t she? Not a cunning, old, calculating snake like Narcissa, Lucius, and myself. Let him
put you at ease, Harry. Let him show you the best parts of him- be aware of the rest, of
course, never trust him, but simply ignore that aspect in your day-to-day interactions.”

“Why do you care?” Harry asks, suspicious. It’s odd for Andromeda to basically tell him to
make up with Voldemort.

She gives him a look. “He has Delphini. Narcissa watches over her on the weekdays, but
some weekends Delphi is all alone with him, in a house no one knows where to find. And,
Merlin forgive me, Narcissa wouldn’t be able to do anything, even if Voldemort were to
mistreat Delphini under her nose. Of course I want you at her side. You’d die for her.”

So very practical. All these people are so practical.

(-)

He hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks. Even after he won his first Quidditch match, Harry
went out with his team, and somehow stayed away from drinks, even if they were at a pub.

But since his ring got warm, since his talk with Andromeda…

Days pass and Harry keeps waiting for his ring to burn again. It’s awful.

Delphini isn’t there to distract him, he doesn’t have Quidditch practice, and his boxing bag
doesn’t help, because every time Harry punches it, his fingers hurt, and he worries it’s
actually the ring, flaring up.
He drinks. Once he starts, he can’t stop.

Did Voldemort sleep with someone knowing how it would affect Harry? Did he do it out of
revenge for Harry sleeping with all those muggles?

Did he do it just because Harry’s life was getting better? He just got Delphini back, he started
playing Quidditch again- maybe Voldemort didn’t like that and he wanted to ruin it.

Somehow, those are the scenarios Harry prefers. Because they imply Voldemort has some
sort of interest in Harry.

The worst scenario is that Voldemort fucked someone simply because he wanted to. That
after all this time, he found someone he liked, someone special, and that’s the only reason.

He once told Harry he never had much interest in sex until he met Bellatrix. And like the
idiot he was, Harry felt good, because they were having loads of sex back then, and Harry
thought it meant something, that it mattered. That he must be special to Voldemort, too, if the
only other person Voldemort wanted in his bed had been his beloved Bellatrix.

But now Harry knows Voldemort did not give a damn about him, was just pretending to like
Harry, and it’s unbearable to imagine he maybe found someone he does like.

Fear grasps at his heart. The more he drinks, he can imagine a stranger that replaces Harry.
That will play family, with Voldemort and Delphini.

Delphini will forget about Harry, too. She’ll have two parents living together, most likely two
parents that get along. Certainly this new person isn’t boring and held down by morals, like
Harry is. Voldemort would choose someone like Bellatrix, someone that idolises him, agrees
with him, wants to follow him.

He goes into Voldemort’s old room, for the first time since he moved back to Grimmauld.
Their room.

Harry’s so drunk he almost didn’t make it up the stairs.

The bed is unmade, just how Harry left it on that fateful morning.

It’s all too easy to remember the last night they spent in it. How different the sex has been,
unhurried, almost loving, only for Voldemort to have Harry killed the next day.

How could he do that? A part of Harry still wonders, even knowing how cruel Voldemort is.

But how could he spend the night with Harry, hold him, kiss him, fuck him slowly, all the
while knowing what awaited Harry in a matter of hours?

It’s just so painful.

Harry sits on the bed, on Voldemort’s side, and tries to breathe through the ache in his chest.

As he struggles, he sees Bellatrix’ picture on the nightstand.

 “He left you behind, too,” Harry slurs at her.

Maybe there is another picture of her in Voldemort’s new house, but he doubts it very much.

She smiles at him, that tantalising little smirk. She’s young, beautiful, without a wedding
ring, maybe fresh out of Hogwarts. She smiles like she knows a secret he doesn’t, like the
entire world is at her feet.

Would you have still taken the mark if you’d known what fate lies in front of you? Did
Bellatrix ever regretted meeting Voldemort, as she was wasting away in Azkaban? Or did she
stretch in her cell, half asleep, reaching out on her small bed, hoping to find him beside her?

Is it that impossible to forget Voldemort? To stop wanting him? That even fourteen years in
Azkaban, with Dementors all around, haven’t lessened her longing for him?

What hope does Harry have?

He grabs her picture and throws it across the room. It smashes against a wall and the glass
shatters.

But her picture remains on the floor, shards all over it. She’s still smiling, as unbothered by
violence as Voldemort is.

Why can’t I be like that? Why can’t Harry stop caring about what’s good or bad, about
strangers he has never met? About the corrupt, fickle wizarding Britain?

In that state, Harry wished he could stop caring. It would be so easy, then. He could have
what he wants.

But what makes you think he’ll want you back, even if you suddenly decided to abandon your
morals?

Because he’s drunk, because he allows himself to feel the pain, Harry breaks his promise and
starts crying, curling up in the bed that he thinks still smells of Voldemort, somehow.

There goes his rule about crying. And he’d had such a good track record.

Chapter End Notes

This was supposed to be the last chapter, but, once again, it got way too big. I decided to
cut it here, it's already a monster of a chapter. The good part is that I already wrote about
half of the next, so it shouldn't take very long to finish it.
I know this one doesn't have much Voldemort in it, but Harry needed some times on his
own, I think.
Thank you for being here, and please take a moment to share your thoughts in a
comment, if you find the time.
 Chapter 25
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“I’m starving!” Delphini throws away her coat as soon as she enters the kitchen, before
collapsing into a chair and immediately attacking the plate Harry just put down.

“I’m surprised Narcissa didn’t feed you,” Harry says. Delphini never comes hungry from
Malfoy Manor.

It’s why Harry only made dinner for one, knowing Delphi usually doesn’t want to eat when
she arrives to stay with him, every other Friday.

Delphini’s devouring it.

She’s…wet. And dirty.

“What- why are you wet?”

“Mud fight,” Delphini speaks, her mouth full.

He thinks to laugh. Mud fight. It rained the entire week, but he’d never seen mud at Malfoy
Manor. And even if there was, Delphini tries her best to act like a lady when she’s there.

“Narcissa allowed you to walk like that through her house?”

“Wasn’t at Malfoy Manor,” Delphini says, swallowing.

“No?” Harry is confused. Was she with Voldemort? Did he allow her to get so dirty?
Somehow that’s even less likely than Naricssa authorising mud fights.

She shakes her head. “I was at Rabastan’s.”

Harry chokes on air.

“He’s amazing! I love him. Though his name is Regis now, I have to remember that. He’s
pretending to be his own French cousin.” She giggles, grabbing another chicken wing.

When Harry recovers enough to interrogate her, he finds out she was alone with Lestrange,
for two days straight, at his Manor.

Alone. With a violent mass-murderer.

One that is not her father, that is.

“Oh, calm down. It took loads of supervised visits to convince Cissa to let me go to
Rabastan’s house. He recovered in Malfoy Manor, when he got out of Azkaban, and-”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Delphini narrows her eyes. “We weren’t speaking at that time. Because you left me there.”

The guilt creeps up- she’s manipulating you. Don’t fall for it. “You could have told me since
you accepted to talk to me again.”

Delphini shrugs. “Must have slipped my mind. Anyway, I wasn’t supposed to be alone with
him. Andromeda came with me, but she had a a colossal fight with Rabastan during our first
dinner there.” She stares at Harry, eyes wide. “It was awesome! Harry, I’ve never seen
anything like that! Wow, what a duel.”

Harry’s out of the room, and through the fireplace before she finishes her sentence.

(-)

He’s so enraged, he doesn’t even feel anything when he steps foot inside the house he was
kept prisoner. He doesn’t even consider it.

Voldemort is not at Malfoy Manor, so Harry screams at Narcissa instead. But he can’t scream
for long, because when she learns her sister left Delphini alone, she, too, gets very upset.

Somehow they both end up ambushing Malfoy as he unsuspectingly arrives home from the
Ministry.

“How is this my fault?” Malfoy asks his wife once he gets the gist of what’s happened.

“I told you to ask…him to keep Delphini away from Rabastan!”

Malfoy sighs, heading for a sofa. “And I did. I expressed your-our concerns over the matter,
but my lord decided they are unfounded.” He shrugs. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

Narcissa’ eyes spark. “Speak to Rabastan, then. Ask him not to receive Delphini-”

Malfoy snorts. “Darling, there are far more chances the dark lord would listen to me than
Rabastan would.”

“Where’s Voldemort?” Harry demands. “I’m going to put an end to this!”

His stomach flutters when he imagines he’ll have to speak to him, but this is important.

“Out of the country.”

“What?” Harry frowns. “Why?”

Malfoy looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Because he’s one of the senior members of the
International Cooperation Department?“
“Senior?” Harry asks, exasperated. “He’s only been working there for a year, for fuck’s
sake!”

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t swear in front of my wife,” Malfoy hisses.

Is he for real? His wife saw people tortured, but she’d wilt like a precious flower if she hears
a swear word?

“It is a relatively minor position in the grand scheme of things. But of course he rose fast.
With his intelligence, charisma, money and with that name…what did you expect?”

Harry isn’t sure what he’d expected. Slaughter. Mass murder. Diagon Alley in flames. He did
not expect Voldemort to actually go through with the working at the ministry plan. He just
can’t envision it. Does he go on lunch break with his colleagues, Harry wonders,
momentarily distracted. Did he buy them Beltane gifts?

He shakes his head. Irrelevant.

“Rabastan wouldn’t hurt Delphini,” Malfoys says. “There’s no need to-”

Narcissa interrupts him. “He’s not all there. He’s only been out of Azkaban for some
months-”

Malfoy dismisses her. “He’s on potions. And he’d had treatment while in Azkaban, due to the
mudbl-” he coughs. “Due to Mrs Weasley’s demands prisoners are treated humanely. He’s
almost back to his former self.”

That does not reassure Harry.

Narcissa seems just as reluctant. “He was never very sane to begin with.”

“He won’t hurt her.” Malfoy is adamant.

“Maybe he won’t kill her or cause her pain,” Harry says. “That doesn’t make him safe to be
around. It’s one thing for her to be around you-”

After all, Malfoy, for all his many faults, is very measured. Civil, as he put it, long ago. He’d
never talk of murder or torture in front of children. The worst he can teach Delphini is that
women should behave in a certain way.

That, and blood supremacy, but Delphini never bought into that, and Malfoy never pushed the
matter.

“But come on! Lestrange could show her or tell her- he got into a duel with Andromeda! A
duel! With Delphini right there! She could have been hurt by mistake! She shouldn’t even see
that sort of thing.”

Malfoy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Then why don’t you both go and yap at Andromeda
and leave me alone? Elf! My drink!”
“Forget it!” Harry snarls, when Tinsy pops over with a tray. ”Delphini is not leaving my sight
until Voldemort-” Narcissa flinches visibly. Malfoy’s jaw goes tense. “-returns. I’ll have a
word with him.”

So he keeps Delphini with him, at Grimmauld, even when Monday rolls around.

“I’ll miss my classes,” she says, at breakfast, but she doesn’t look too bothered by it.

“It’s only until your father returns from his trip,” Harry says.

Twice he tries to get hold of Andromeda, but he doesn’t find her home.

(-)

Harry spends the following nights tossing and turning in his bed. Maybe Voldemort isn’t
away with work. Maybe he’s away with someone. With that person he took to bed.

He can’t sleep, very aware of his wedding ring. It stays cold, but Harry keeps waiting for it to
warm up.

Voldemort returns on Thursday. The Malfoys must have informed him that Harry is keeping
Delphini hostage, because they wake up that morning to find Voldemort waiting in the
kitchen.

Delphini lets go of Harry’s hand, and she quickly goes to her father. She hugs him, even if
he’s still seated, her longer and longer arms going around his neck.

Voldemort seems a tad more receptive to this display of affection than he used to be, back
when she first hugged him, years before, when Hermione met Delphini for the first time. He
doesn’t tense, his jaw doesn’t clench; he mostly looks resigned to it and waits for it to be
over.

Harry takes the opportunity to get his heartbeat under control, to get over the panic of having
Voldemort so close. He needs to keep it together. It’s important for Delphini’s safety.

“I don’t want her around Lestrange!” Harry says, determined, when Delphini finally lets go
of Voldemort.

Harry is ready for a fight, if need be.

In fact, he’s surprised at how ready he is. It is a big departure from the apathy he’d felt lately.

He won’t back down.

“Harry!” Delphini complains.

Voldemort studies him carefully. “Impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible for the mighty dark lord,” Harry hisses at him, mocking.

“I want to see him!” Delphini says, and she turns to face Harry. “You can’t stop me! He’s
Rody’s brother! I love him!”

“You barely know him!” Harry counters.

“He’s family! He’s my uncle-”

“Rodolphus wasn’t your father!” Harry spits back. “So Lestrange is definitely not your
damned uncle! He’s a dangerous, unhinged psychopath-”

“He isn’t! He’s nice!” Her eyes get that glint, the one that Voldemort used to call the Black
glint. And Harry has to agree. He’d seen it often enough in Andromeda’s eyes. He’d seen it in
Sirius’.

“He’s not nice. He’s a murderer! He spent half his life locked up with Dementors-”

“Shut up! You don’t even know him! He said he never spoke to you-”

“Of course he didn’t! He was busy trying to kill me or my friends-”

“She won’t see him on her own.”

Delphini and Harry stop and turn to Voldemort when he speaks. Delphini looks mutinous.

Harry is… conflicted. On one side, he feels victorious, because Voldemort saw reason and
he’s siding with Harry.

On the other, Harry doesn’t want Voldemort siding with him. He doesn’t want to be in
agreement with him. He wants nothing to do with him.

“That’s not good enough,” he says. “I don’t trust Andromeda to supervise them- she left
Delphi there- and Narcissa doesn’t look of much help, either, in case Lestrange loses his
mind.” He squares his shoulders. “If she must see him, then you have to be there.”

“I work ten hours a day. I won’t spend my free time babysitting a grown man.”

It’s such an absurd thing to hear the dark lord say that Harry is thrown off.

“Do they at least pay you well?” he asks, because - really. Voldemort is working. For the
Ministry. Ten hours a day.

A brief smile tugs at Voldemort’s lips and Harry’s stomach flutters-

Stop. Remember who he is. Don’t go down that route again.

“Of course they don’t.”

For a second, Harry forgets why they’re all there. He forgets Delphini, scowling at her
father’s side.

He shakes his head to get rid of any confusion.

“At least Malfoy, then,” he says. “She can see Lestrange if Malfoy is there.”

“Lucius is working as well. A hard concept for you to grasp, surely, but we don’t have the
leisure to-”

“Then she won’t see Lestrange!”

Distantly, Harry is aware he has no power to decide these things. He has no say over what
Delphini does. Voldemort is her father, and legally she is Malfoy’s charge. But Harry acts like
he does have a say, tries to speak with confidence.

“Harrrry!” Delphini whines. “Father, don’t listen to him.”

Voldemort looks between them.

“Lucius will be there,” he says, after some seconds, to Harry’s somewhat relief.

He’d prefer Delphini never sees Lestrange at all. He’d wish she never met him. But that’s
done with, and now she insists she loves Lestrange, and he knows the best he can do in this
case is try to make sure she’s at least safe.

Delphini instantly protests how unfair it is, how they don’t understand. She even squeezes out
a few tears, but those never impressed Voldemort and Harry holds his ground.

“Fine,” Harry agrees.

Voldemort stands and heads to the door. He hovers around there for another minute, looking
at Harry, as if he’s expecting something else.

Harry can’t fathom what.

“Do you want to come with me, or do you want to stay here?” Voldemort finally asks
Delphini.

“Of course I don’t want to stay here,” Delphini hiccups, pathetically walking to Voldemort
and grabbing his hand. “Harry is mean.”

“I’m mean?” Harry calls after their retreating backs.

Harry is mean? Then what is Lestrange?

(-)
“Surprise!” a chorus of voices rises up to meet Hermione as she comes home from work.

It’s her birthday and Ron organised a surprise party. His entire family and what’s left of
Dumbledore’s Army are crowded in their flat.

They had to wait two hours, because Hermione arrived late from work.

She flinches in the doorway, drops her bag and her wand is drawn, all in a matter of seconds,
her eyes wild with fear-

Harry’s heart sinks.

“Oh,” she says, blinking, putting the wand away and trying to smile. “Oh, you scared me.”

Ron hugs her, holding Hugo. Rose hugs her leg. “Happy birthday, mummy! I still love you,
even if you’re old now!”

Everyone laughs. “Ron’s daughter, indeed,” Neville mutters at Harry’s side.

“Mummy isn’t old,” Ron says, grinning. “She’s very young, and very smart, and the most
beautiful girl in the world.”

Hermione smiles at him, and this time it looks sincere. She softens, and then she hugs
everybody that lines up to wish her a ‘Happy Birthday’.

Harry goes last. Their eyes meet, though she never holds his gaze long these days.

He hugs her. Tightly. “Happy Birthday!” he whispers in her year. “It’s a lucky day for
humanity, really. We’re all very lucky to have you.”

“Oh, Harry,” she whispers back, clinging to him hard.

It’s a pleasant night. Harry is reassured to see his friends all healthy and happy.

Seamus smiles at him from the corner of a room, Dean at his side.

Luna brought a man along, Rolf something, and they both look very happy.

Parvati look better than ever, beautiful and at ease, gossiping with Padma, as she once did
with Lavender.

And Ginny is pregnant. She hasn’t announced it yet, but she refuses to drink anything- and
she was always rowdy at parties before; she spends more time with Hugo, watching him
tenderly. Harry knows her all too well. He knows she’s pregnant and for a second he feels a
pang of jealousy- a second of imagining that could have been his child; that in another world,
he’d be there beside her, happy and carefree, eagerly waiting for their first child. But then the
second is gone, and he is glad for her, either way. He goes to sit by her, and he gives her a one
armed hug.

“What’s that for?” she asks, smiling.

He shrugs. “You happy?” he asks her.

Her smile gets wider. “Yeah. I am.” She bites her lip. “Maybe we can get together sometime
this week? For a cup of tea? I have something to tell you, before I tell others.”

Harry nods. “Sure.”

He gives her another hug, and then Rose comes to him, climbing into his lap, asking if he can
help her open a can of soda she stole when her mother wasn’t looking.

(-)

“You outdid yourself, mate!” his captain pats Harry’s back, in the locker room.

They’re all tired and sweaty, some of them bruised. But they won.

The Cannons are on a winning streak since Harry joined them, to Ron’s delight, who always
had hope his favourite team will eventually be great again.

Six games in, and Harry always gets the snitch.

The owner of the team comes in, shakes their hands and congratulates them.

“Oh, Harry, there’s someone outside that wants an autograph. If you could, please.”

Harry sighs. Must be someone important to get access to the locker room. The owner always
does that, brings in rich sponsors or politicians that want Harry to sing autographs. They
aren’t even Quidditch fans, usually. Just someone that wants a picture signed by Harry.

But he can’t say ‘no’ to the owner so Harry plasters a smile on his face and agrees, going
outside.

Draco Malfoy is there. Harry blinks, shocked. Delphini is at his side, and it must have
somehow fallen onto Draco to escort Delphini to Harry’s games. It’s usually Malfoy Sr that
brings her.

“You were brilliant!” she says, cheeks red, voice horse from all the yelling and cheering she
did. Harry could hear her all the way up in the air, during the entire match.

He should have known Malfoy wasn’t there, because he’d have never allowed her act as
such.

“Potter,” Draco nods, stiffly.

“Malfoy,” Harry nods back.

“You’ve met Scorpius,” Draco says, and he reaches behind him and pulls Scorpius from his
hiding place.

The boy looks up at him, eyes wide.

“A few times. Hello, Scorpius,” Harry says, kindly. The boy did some growing up, it seems,
taller than he was when Harry glimpsed him.

Scorpius blushes and darts back behind his father.

“Don’t be shy,” Draco coaxes him, gently, and then he looks back at Harry. “You’re his
favourite player,” he explains, and he does sound a bit bitter.

Harry tries not to smirk. He’s not twelve anymore.

“He’d like an autograph.”

Harry hates autographs when it’s war related. But when it’s for Quidditch, when it’s for kids
that only care about his flying skills…well he quite enjoys that.

He crouches down, and this time Scorpius smiles at him, uncertain, when Draco convinces
him to stop hiding.

“Hi,” the boy whispers.

Harry extends a hand, and Scorpius shakes it, his tiny fingers getting lost in Harry’s hand.

“You liked the game?”

“Loads!” Scorpius nods. “I want to play Quidditch one day, too!” he confesses.

Yeah, I bet your grandad has other plans for you. “Oh, yeah?”

Scorpius nods again. “Seeker. I already have a broom!”

Harry imagines he has the best toy broom, and the best toy snitch.

He signs the picture Scorpius hands him. “You know, your father is a good Seeker, too.”

Scorpius grins. “I know!” He takes the picture back. “Thank you, sir!”

Harry winks at him and stands up.

“Thank you, Potter,” Draco drawls. It’s still not as impressive and obnoxious as his father’s
drawl, but he’s getting there. “Good game, by the way. Bet Weasley is happy. You’re the only
hope the Cannons had.”

Harry laughs. “My teammates are skilled players,” he says.

Draco wrinkles his nose. “If you say so. Well, we have to head home. Come on, Delphini.”
She hugs Harry. “See you Friday!” she whispers in his chest. “You were awesome out there,
Harry!”

“Thanks, love. Your cheering made all the difference.”

She laughs and goes after Draco and Scorpius.

“Daddy, you must play really well if Harry Potter says so!”

Harry can hear Draco’s groan from ten feet away.

(-)

“I’m really sorry I haven’t been around to see you, Hagrid,” Harry says, after he feels like he
can breathe again, once Hagrid lets him go and his ribs don’t threaten to tear right through his
organs.

He’s invited Hagrid to Grimmauld. He still can’t stand to go to Hogwarts.

“No matter,” Hagrid says, wiping his tears. “It was expected you’d need some time. After
everything.”

Harry gives him a pint of beer, and sits beside him.

“Was like that after the first war, too, it was.” Hagrid nods to himself. “It took some people
longer to go back to normal than others.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, uncomfortable. “Anyway, I really missed you.”

Hagrid puts the pint down and draws Harry in another bone crushing hug. “Missed you, too,”
he says, and Harry feels a huge tear drop on his head.

Hagrid doesn’t bring up what Harry feared he would, the reason he had avoided Hagrid as
much as he could. He doesn’t speak about what happened in the forest. He doesn’t ask how it
was possible for Harry to survive a Killing Curse.

They speak of their common friends, Hagrid tells him about his animals, and Harry brings up
Abraxan horses. He finally can match Hagrid in knowledge about a magical creature, after
spending so much time in Malfoy Manor.

“How is Hogwarts?” Harry asks, eventually. “It- it looks alright?”

Is it fixed? Hermione said it is. Everyone says it’s like nothing happened to the castle, but in a
way, that seems as bad as if there was proof something did happen.
“As always,” Hagrid says. “And it’s great to see all the kids around, laughing and getting into
mischief.” He runs a hand through his wild hair. Some strands of grey are scattered through
it, Harry notices. “McGonagall is stricter than-” he sniffs. Dumbledore. “She’s stricter, and
lucky no Weasley is currently in attendance, ha! And the new Potion Professor has better
control over the Slytherin than Slughorn, so-”

“Wait, what?” Harry asks. “Where is Slughorn?”

“Oh, you don’t know! Well, I suppose you wouldn’t, would you? He left Hogwarts. Just like
that. No one knows where he is. He left a note that he’s going away and that was that.”

Harry has a terrible feeling. A weight settles in his stomach.

Slughorn. He’d forgotten about Slughorn.

“When was- when?”

“Oh, last year. During the winter hols. It was actually- see, I remember- when I read about
your wedding! And wasn’t that a surprise? I went to the castle to speak to the other teachers,
and he wasn’t there at lunch. He didn’t show up for dinner. That’s when they found the letter
in his chambers.”

Harry feels cold.

Voldemort killed him. Of course he did; Slughorn would have recognised Voldemort for who
he is.

He didn’t bother with Hagrid, because Hagrid is…Hagrid, Harry suspects. He was a child
when he knew Tom, he was very young, and he never found out what happened to Tom
Riddle. But Slughorn was a teacher, a close teacher to Tom, and he definitely knew what
became of his most brilliant student.

“Speaking of your marriage. Where is your husband, Harry? I’d like to meet him, you know.
“

Harry tries to speak, but his mouth is dry. He wets his lips and tries to control his voice. “He’s
preparing a new house,” he says, automatic, what he’s been telling anyone for almost a year.
Ron is starting to get suspicious.

Hagrid keeps talking, but Harry can’t focus anymore. He feels desperate. Hopeless.

A man died. Voldemort isn’t just a Ministry worker, he didn’t abandon his monstrous ways.
He’s out there killing people.

No, no, a voice whispers, tempting. It was just one man. Just Slughorn. He had to, so his
cover won’t be ruined.

Harry recoils from his own thoughts. ‘Just Slughorn.’ As if Slughorn doesn’t matter.
It’s just that a part of him- the part that calmed down and enjoys Quidditch and Delphini, the
part that tries to put itself together, doesn’t want to revert back to the panic. To the terrible,
oppressive guilt.

And it can’t be just Slughorn. Who knows how many others knew of Voldemort, would have
recognised him. Old people, that Harry doesn’t know of. People that now must be dead, so no
one can speak up.

(-)

Harry wakes up from a hangover, feeling like shit. He slipped, again. He drank. And then he
remembers why he did to begin with.

His heart hurts.

Trying not to slip into the dark hole that he’d just climbed out of, Harry looks through his
mail. There are three letters from Dudley.

Muggle letters sent for wizards, go first through the muggle post, before a squib collects them
and sorts them out. It takes time. A slow process. Enough time that apparently Dudley wrote
three letters in a row.

He hadn’t heard from his cousin in some years, ever since Harry wrote back that he forgives
him.

(-)

The neighborhood is nice. Suburban. It creeps Harry out, makes him shiver looking at all
those identical houses, with the grass trimmed the same exact way, identical fences all
around.

It’s a mistake, his mind whispers.

But the letters seemed urgent. And Harry wants to take his mind off Slughorn.

He squares his shoulders and marches to the front door. He knocks.

A young woman, around his age, opens it, a minute later. She’s pretty, Harry thinks, shocked.

She’s also confused. “Ah, yes?” she says.

“I’m Harry,” he says, eyeing her curiously. “I was supposed to-“

“Oh!” Her face lights up. “Oh. Harry.” She smiles, and she looks kind, and it only throws
Harry off more. “Of course. Sorry. You just look so young.”

Harry smiles back, uncertain. Uncomfortable. It’s starting to be a bit noticeable, as they all
grow older. Not in the wizarding world, not yet. Wizards age slower than muggles.

But in the muggle world- there are some subtle differences between him and the other
twenty-six-year olds.

“Please, come in!” She steps aside, and Harry breathes deeply, and goes inside.

The mess puts him at ease. It’s not really messy, but it’s not the perfect order he didn’t even
know he was afraid to find. It looks like a normal house, with shoes scattered around the
door, with some keys thrown carelessly on a small table in the entry way.

Nothing like the house Harry grew up in, where everything had to be in perfect place at all
times.

“Harry is here!” she calls, loudly, and then, lowering her voice, she speaks to Harry. “He’s
been so nervous since you wrote back. He didn’t think you’d show up.”

She has a slight accent. Harry thinks one of the eastern-europeans ones. He can’t imagine
Vernon’s reaction to his son marrying an immigrant.

“Oh, my name is Ana,” she says, extending a hand, and Harry takes it. “Nice to finally meet
you.”

And then a door opens and-

Fuck.

Dudley certainly looks older than Harry. He’s massive, but in a healthy way, all muscle, no
fat.

The fact that he could probably bench press Harry, doesn’t make him comfortable, reminds
him of many times in their childhood Dudley took advantage of his strength to beat Harry up.

“Harry,” Dudley says. “Oh, God.”

He swallows, and his eyes are wide, incredulous, searching Harry’s face.

Dudley looks good. He looks tired, but he looks good.

And then, there he is, hiding behind one of Dudley’s massive legs, peeking around it.

Antoni Dursley, Dudley had wrote in the letter. Antoni Harry Dursley.

But Dudley did not mention- he didn’t mention the eyes. Harry’s eyes. Bright green.

Harry feels a little faint, staring at him.

He looks nothing like any of the Durselys. He bears some resemblance to Ana, and then there
are the eyes- the eyes, that must have come from - Harry isn’t sure who.

Who was it that passed on green eyes to mum? Grandfather or grandmother?

But if parents are a foreign concept to him, grandparents are just unthinkable.

Whoever it was, had passed something else to Lily, Harry, and now Antoni.

Besides the eyes, they have something else in common.

Probably. At least Dudley seems to think so.

“This is my son,” Dudley says, coaxing the boy from behind him. “Tony, this is Harry. I told
you about cousin Harry.”

(-)

“So, what do you think?” Dudley asks, nervously, holding his son in his lap.

They’re alone in the living room, Dudley’s wife leaving them to get reacquainted.

“I-” Harry stumbles. “He- well. He’s-” Harry is very distracted by those green eyes staring at
him. “He’s adorable.”

Dudley blinks at him. “Thanks, but- what do you think? Is he…you know.”

“I don’t know,” Harry says, confused. “I”ve only been here for five minutes.”

“But shouldn’t you be able to tell immediately?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Harry snaps a little. “We can’t just recognise a wizard-” Dudley
flinches at the word. Even in his letters, he never once mentioned ‘magic’. He spoke about
strange incidence, about concern, about ‘he might be like you’, but not magic. “-just by
looking at one.”

“So what do I do, then?” Dudely looks scared. He grasps his son tightly, but Harry can see
it’s with love.

“Well, we just have to wait. I don’t know,” Harry finishes, lamely. “He probably has magic-”
and there it is, another flinch. “If he does the things you mentioned.”

“Yesterday,” Dudely whispers. “I took him to the park, and he was kicking a ball- Harry, he
sent it over the trees. And I might wish he’s a super athlete or something, but he’s four. He-
that’s not possible. And mum said he …floated.”

“Oh, God,” Harry whispers, horrified. “Aunt Petunia saw?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

An uncomfortable silence. “We’re not talking right now,” Dudley says, stiffly, and clutches at
Tony, bringing him close to his chest.

“Daddy!” Tony smiles up at him.

“What does your wife think? Did you tell her? About me, about what you suspect-”

Dudley shakes his head. “No. I know I’m not supposed to. Hestia said to never tell people
about you lot.”

Hestia. Hestia- Oh, right. Hestia Jones. She lived with the Dursleys, in a secret location,
during the year Harry was on the Horcrux hunt, to protect them from Voldemort.

“I told Ana you work for M16, and I can’t talk much about you. But she notices something’s
wrong with Tony-”

“There’s nothing wrong!” Harry hisses.

“No, sorry! No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Dudley looks pained. He looks at his son,
concerned. “I mean, she noticed these little things, and I don’t know what to say.”

“You can tell her about me. And about what you suspect of Tony. It’s not that strict- you can
tell family. You and your parents knew, after all.”

“So we just wait?” Dudley asks.

“Tell you what. I’ll ask around, if there’s a way to tell for sure, ok?”

“Ok,” Dudley agrees. His hand shakes. “Ok.”

(-)

He’s waiting outside a Ministry room, where Hermione’s secretary said he’ll find her. He’s
been pacing around, up and down the hallway.

The doors open.

“Harry!” a witch Harry had never seen in his life says, smiling from ear to ear.

“Mr Potter!” another says, more respectfully, but just as excited.

“Harry Potter? Where?” Another voice floats from further away, behind the first people to
exist the room.
Harry’s already shaking someone’s hand; there are three hands extended towards him, and the
first person will not let him go. Someone else is desperately looking for a parchment for
Harry to sign.

Somehow, even with all these people surrounding him, Harry’s eyes instantly find Voldemort,
when he walks through the doors. And then he sees Hermione at his side, her head barely
reaching his elbow.

“Found one!” The voice pulls Harry’s attention back to his situation, and the wizard wants to
give Harry the parchment and the quill, but Harry’s hand is still held captive.

He knew it was a bad idea to come to the Ministry, but he needs to talk to Hermione, ask her
if there’s a way to tell if his small cousin has magic.

Harry is still in shock. About the eyes, more than the magic. About both, really.

He thinks, shamefully, that he’s a little excited. Pathetically, he wants it to be true, so he can-
so maybe he can have family around. Blood family.

He wants to know so badly, he came to the Ministry, even knowing he’ll be ambushed. But
he somehow didn’t consider he might run into Voldemort there.

His mind still refuses to associate Voldemort with work and Ministry.

But there he is. He’s spotted Harry, too. Not difficult, with the scene around him.

“Harry!” Hermione says, surprised. She makes her way to him. “Excuse me, do you mind?
This is ridiculous, honestly.”

She shoulders her way through a resistant crowd.

And yet the crowd parts, a second later, when Voldemort comes behind Hermione.

“Smith, don’t you have a job to do?” he snaps at someone, who immediately drops the
parchment and quill he was holding and hurries away.

Voldemort reaches Harry first. Harry glowers at him.

“I apologise,” he says, smoothly, a charming smile on his face. “The meeting took longer
than expected. I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.”

Harry opens his mouth in confusion, but he doesn’t have the chance to speak.

“Robinson, I’m going to lunch with my husband. Clear my schedule.”

“Yes, Mr Potter,” a witch that was trailing after him says. Voldemort hands her a stack of
parchments.

And then he grabs Harry’s arm and drags him along. Hermione looks helplessly after them.
Harry has no choice but to follow him, weary not to make a scandal in the Ministry.

They go to an Apparition spot; in a second, they’re spat out in Diagon Alley.

“What are you doing?” Harry whispers, strangled.

“I’m taking you to lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harry hisses.

“Why else would you come to the Ministry, if not to visit me?” Voldemort asks. What he
means, is what excuse could they offer to the press, if Harry was seen at the Ministry, but not
with his ‘husband’.

“To talk with my best friend?” Harry suggests, sarcastic, but he shuts up when they are
spotted.

People stare, some point, others try to approach them, but Voldemort marches on with
purpose. He has a hard look on his face that apparently is enough to discourage anyone to try
harder to get hold of Harry.

They enter a fancy restaurant, one that opened rather recently. Voldemort quickly charms the
waitress, and she leads them to a private booth.

And then silence.

Voldemort stares at him, and Harry stares back, fully reminded of Slughorn.

“What were you doing there?” Voldemort finally asks.

“You killed Slughorn,” Harry says through gritted teeth.

Voldemort doesn’t deny it. He simply continues staring at Harry. “I asked you a question.”

The waitress is back, with their menus. Voldemort’s eyes glint, dangerously and Harry thinks
it’s best to keep him calm.

“I wanted to talk to Hermione,” he says, as calmly as he can.

Voldemort orders, for both of them, and the woman is safely out of the way.

“You’re not really going to make me eat, are you?” Harry demands.

“What about?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” Harry says.

“I doubt that.”

Harry snorts. “The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

“It must have been important to make you step into a crowded place, instead of going to her
house.”

Harry shrugs. He’s angry- furious- about Slughorn, but he’s also in public, with many
innocents around. Pissing off Voldemort with potential victims around is not something Harry
wants to risk.

He sits there, stiff as a board. He says nothing, and Voldemort is equally silent.

The food comes, and yes, apparently Harry is actually expected to eat. He tries his best, and
manages a few bites.

Voldemort has no such issues, eating with no concern in the world.

(-)

Harry only realises he’d slept with this man before, when they arrive at his house and he
recognises his astrology related -well, everything.

That’s how he picked Harry up, the first time. He heard at the bar his name was ‘Sirius’ and
he attempted to woo Harry with his knowledge of the stars.

Not that Harry needed much wooing, but the guy had no way of knowing that.

“I’m happy I ran into you again. You left last time before I woke up,” he says, offering Harry
a drink.

He had quite enough to drink, but he takes it, anyway.

“Yeah. Sorry about that,” Harry slurs.

“I would have loved to cook you breakfast, or take you out to eat.”

He looks like a good man. Like a wonderful man. He’s handsome, he seems intelligent, has a
very nice flat. He seems kind.

Harry can’t remember his name.

He puts music on, at a low volume, and attempts to talk to Harry, to ‘get to know him better’,
but Harry isn’t there for that.

He’s there because Voldemort killed Slughorn and he has no way of fighting back.

Besides, how can this good man get to know Harry, when he thinks he’s talking to Sirius?

So Harry goes over and straddles him. He grabs the man by his short hair and kisses him
roughly.
“God, you’re absolutely gorgeous,” he whispers, when he takes Harry’s T-shirt off. “Have
you been working out?”

Harry’s been running a lot, trying to keep away from alcohol. And then there’s Quiddicth
practice, thrice a week.

“Mhm,” he answers, and kisses him again, to shut him up.

They move it to the bedroom. Someone put a lot of work into the ceiling. Harry remembers
staring up at the artfully reproduced stars, with spotlights scattered around to highlight them.

He wasn’t hard the last time- Harry rarely got hard with his muggles, and he never came, but
he’s hard now.

He thinks it’s the anger that’s making his blood boil, demanding action- any kind of action-
still coursing through his body after the lunch Voldemort forced them into, just hours before.

He wonders if Voldemort’s ring is already flaring up, if it reacts to kissing, or if it needs more
than that.

It’s still relatively early. Eight o’clock or around. If he’s lucky, Voldemort is still at work.
Hermione says he works late, just like her.

He tries to imagine the expression on Voldemort’s face- well, no. Voldemort wouldn’t allow
his face to betray anything, if he’d be surrounded by people.

But he must have a reaction, right? Even if tiny, even if it’s just annoyance. Voldemort must
feel something.

He closes his eyes and imagines Voldemort is furious. It’s easy to imagine him like that, after
all.

Eyes shining with anger, jaw tense, looming over Harry.

“You want to anger me. You want me to take the choice away from you. To force you. Is that
what you desire? Do you want me to break you?”

Harry struggled against him, in Grimmauld’s kitchen. He’d like to struggle now, too.

He opens his eyes, garbs the muggle’s shoulder, hard. “Can you tie me up?” he asks, voice
rough.

He gets a dazzling, if surprised smile. “We can do whatever you want,” he answers, softly.

“Do you like to be reminded of my power over you?”

Harry swallows. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

The muggle gets of him, and starts looking through his drawers.
Harry’s skin is burning. He closes his eyes again, breathing erratically. He hadn’t been this
hard since what feels like forever.

He hadn’t been this hard since the last night he spent with Voldemort. But that was a nice
night. Tender. Sweet, almost. Fake.

Harry doesn’t want to think of that.

It’s easier to imagine a pissed off Voldemort, one that shows his true intentions, to hurt Harry.
One that doesn’t lie and pretend he has any gentleness inside him.

“It’s all I could find,” a voice says, and Harry opens his eyes again, to see the muggle
climbing back over him, holding two ties. “I’ve been in the navy, though. I can make a good
knot.”

Harry nods and allows first his right hand to be held up and tied against the headboard, and
then the left.

“Oh, you like this,” the muggle observes, when Harry’s prick twitches, leaking precum.

Voldemort never tied him up. He never needed to.

Harry can break out of those expertly made knots with a snap of his fingers. He can throw the
muggle across the room with only a wrist gesture. It’s not the same.

Harry isn’t truly restrained. Not as he was with Voldemort, who never needed anything more
than his voice to tell Harry to keep still. That restrained him more than any muggle
contraption.

But, at least, Harry does feel marginally constrained. He tries to move his hands, tugs at the
ropes, testing, and they hold. As long as Harry doesn’t use his magic, they’ll serve well
enough.

The muggle says something no doubt meant to be reassuring, that Harry only needs to ask,
and he’ll release him immediately.

Harry tunes him out, closing his eyes again.

He falls to his knees, anxious and aroused. It’s the third- or is it the fourth time- he’s doing
this with Voldemort.

Who recently got his wand back. Who stands there, powerful and unyielding, looks down at
Harry with steadfast eyes.

You shouldn’t do this. He tricked you. You should take him back to the Ministry.

But that voice has little power as Harry kneels. The turmoil inside him is chased away by
Voldemort’s sureness, the confidence exuding from him.
“This is what you are,” Voldemort says. Calm, so calm. He’s always calm and collected, and
some of Harry’s chaotic emotions are soothed in his presence. “Just as my nature strives to
rule, you nature strives for this.”

Harry’s finger are numb and clumsy as he tries to open Voldemort’s belt. They tremble.

“Shall I help you, Harry?”

Harry nods mindlessly, but regrets it almost instantly. This is Voldemort, a weak voice tries to
scream inside his head. His gifts are barbed. They cut. You can’t trust him.

But it’s too late.

He hears the belt hissing as it’s pulled from the loops, the rustle of clothes as Voldemort gets
himself free.

Strong fingers press against Harry’s jaw, prying his mouth open. Voldemort threads his other
hand through Harry’s hair, guides him forward until he can feel the tip of the his cock
pressing against his lower lip.

His cock is thick, big - Harry feels the strain in his jaw, when Voldemort fucks inside his
mouth, the way it brings the sting of tears to his eyes. Harry loves it, craves it, wants to
swallow him down even though he’s too inexperienced to manage more than a tentative press
of his tongue against the underside of Voldemort’s cock.

When Voldemort pushes deeper and tests his gag reflex Harry tries to cough, to flinch back,
but Voldemort is holding him still -

“You did ask me to help, Harry,” he says, amused, when Harry struggles against the hold.

Harry can’t fight it, can’t control the way he moans helplessly around a mouthful of fat cock,
can’t stop wanting it. The world fades away, and all that remains is Voldemort and Harry’s
hunger for him.

“Fuck, Sirius,” the muggle says, and Harry is drawn out of his memories and back into the
nicely furnished bedroom, with the beautiful ceiling and the good man kneeling between
Harry’s knees.

Harry breathes hard, his heart pumping rapidly. He came, he realises, seeing the proof of it on
his stomach. He came with his cock untouched, with just two fingers in his arse.

Will he fuck someone now, in retaliation? Harry wonders, as the muggle climbs over him,
whispering sweet nonsense in his ear.

He watches the fake stars, and tries to picture the type of person Voldemort would chose to
take to bed.

(-)
Harry stays home, hits his boxing bag, writes letters to Delphini and tries to read his comics.
He even cooks himself a couple of healthy meals, the ones his Captain suggested.

He waits for the ring to warm up, and it doesn’t happen. Which only makes it worse,
somehow, because then it means that when it happened last time, Voldemort didn’t do it as
payback to Harry’s actions, he only did it because he genuinely found someone attractive.

Stop trying to understand his actions. It’s useless. You will never know what he truly thinks,
what he feels. If he can even feel something.

(-)

“Let’s win this game!” the Captain says, and everyone shouts in agreement, excited.

Even Harry.

But, right before he leaves the locker room-

“Harry, I hope you won’t get nervous because your husband is here to watch you, yeah?”

“What?”

He gets a pat on the back and then it’s time to go to the pitch.

It’s an important game, against an Irish team. Harry can’t possibly find Voldemort in that big
crowd, especially since he won’t be one to stand down below, with the mere mortals. He must
be in one of the boxes high above.

Great. Just fucking great. Does he have to ruin this for me, too?

This is the retaliation, Harry thinks.

The Captains shake hands and then Harry’s up in the air-

He calms down.

That’s the beauty of Quidditch. Harry can concentrate on it, can ignore even Voldemort.

Fuck him, he thinks, exhilarated, eyes only trying to glimpse the Snitch, determinedly not
sparing any attention to the top boxes.

(-)
The other Seeker commits a terrible fault, elbowing Harry in the face.

The crowd erupts in protest, but the referee mustn’t have been paying attention, because she
doesn’t stop the game.

Good, Harry thinks. A kick in the face is nothing for him, doesn’t even make him flinch,
really. Harry’s gaining speed, despite the other’s best attempts to stop him, despite the blood
flowing down his face.

The momentum almost knocks them both off their brooms, but Harry holds on.

And there’s the Snitch-

If you let go of the broom, you’ll blow off it, a cautious, tiny voice warns, but Harry ignores it.

He lets go, the wind whooshes past his ears-

He closes his fingers around the Snitch. He falls off his broom, but he somehow catches
himself, grabbing the tail end, at the last moment.

The crowd is wild down below, shouts and cheers, and somehow, Harry gets back on his
broom, one handed and all.

When they land, a brawl follows. Harry isn’t sure who started- maybe he started it- but
they’re all arguing with the other team. He wipes the blood off his face, and then, with the
hand still holding the snitch, punches the other Seeker, sending him to the ground.

“There, how do you like it now?” he shouts, right as the referee gets between them.

(-)

The team’s Healer fixes Harry’s nose, back in the locker room.

“Huh,” the woman says, when Harry doesn’t even blink as his nose snaps back into place.
“You must have broken many bones in your childhood. This usually gets a reaction out of
people.”

Harry snorts. More blood comes out of his nose.

“Right,” she says, blushing slightly, eyes falling on his scar. “Forgot who I was talking to for
a second.”

It’s the nicest thing anyone has told him in a while, inside the wizarding word. Harry grins at
her. “Thanks!” he says, to her confusion. She can’t possible understand how much it means to
him that a magical person, outside Quidditch, can actually treat him like a regular human
being, if only for a moment.

His joy fades when he leaves the locker room, still in his uniform, and sees Voldemort there.

But it’s alright. Delphini is at his side, and seeing her always makes Harry happy.

“Gods, I loved it when you pummelled that arsehole!” she says, clapping her hands. “It was
beautiful! Even more exciting than the game!”

Harry sighs.

“Excellent values you’re teaching her,” Voldemort says.

The nerve on him, really.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry hisses. “God forbid she witnesses violence.”

Delphini stands between them. “Don’t fight,” she whispers. “Don’t ruin it for me.”

Harry does his best to take his eyes off Voldemort. “In any case,” he says, “I shouldn’t have
done that.”

She rolls her eyes. “He hit you first! And that stupid referee is blind or I don’t know what’s
wrong with her-”

“Even so, I was wrong. Violence is never the answer.”

“Only if you’re not using enough,” Delphini says, brightly.

Harry glares at Voldemort. “Seriously?” he barks.

But it appears Voldemort is not at fault for this.

“Rabastan wisdom?” Voldemort asks Delphini.

She shakes her head. “No. I heard it from Jason.”

“Jason?” Voldemort looks confused.

“Teddy’s muggle neighbour.”

Ha! Harry feels victorious. He knows who Jason is. Teddy doesn’t want to play with him
anymore, but Delphini always likes to visit Andromeda’s neighbour when she goes over. ‘See
the muggles in their natural habitat,’ she says.

Delphini nods. “If violence doesn’t solve your problem, you’re not using enough of it,” she
quotes. “It’s from a muggle game. War of something. Boring boy stuff.”

“You can have her,” Voldemort interrupts Delphini. “If you want her. Of course, I imagine
you might prefer to celebrate with your team-”
“No,” Harry says. “No. I’d rather stay with Delphini.” He’s pleasantly surprised. This is
Voldemort’s weekend, but now Harry gets her. He grins at her.

She grins back.

Voldemort leaves.

Harry allows Delphini and his teammates to convince him to go with them to a pub and take
her along.

Harry toasts with them, but he doesn’t touch the whiskey. He drinks pumpkin juice.

Delphini seems to be having a great time, seated between them. She is her father’s daughter;
she has incredible charisma. In no time, she charms all of Harry’s team mates.

They go home when the others start getting drunk. They pick up pizza, McDonald’s and
Chinese food on their way, and then spend the evening talking and eating, right on the living
room floor.

(-)

He sees Voldemort again, very soon after that.

Harry gets a letter from him, saying they are expected to visit Hermione’s muggleborn
school.

Apparently, it will improve the school’s reputation if Harry is seen there. No doubt it must
help Voldemort’s as well.

It’s not like Harry can refuse, in any case.

There’s no dress code specified in the letter, so he goes all Muggle. It’s appropriate, he thinks.
After all, this is about including muggle-born.

He puts on a leather jacket- one he went and bought for himself. Sirius’ is safely away in the
closet. Harry hadn’t worn that in a while.

When Voldemort comes to collect him, he’s wearing a suit, no robe in sight. It’s perfectly cut,
probably tailor made, and Harry looks away, to Delphini, that is also dressed in a muggle
passing pink dress.

She’s excited to join them, it’s clear to see.

It might be dubbed Hermione’s school, but Hermione isn’t there. Of course she isn’t, when
she works crazy hours at the Ministry.
The teachers are all young; Harry even recognises some of them from when they went to
school together.

There aren’t many children. They are all eleven-year-olds, because they can only attend once
they received the Hogwarts letter, as they wait for the new year to start.

It’s clear they were told Harry is Very Important; they’re terribly polite, giving him
scrutinising looks, but at least none of them get as excited as wizard raised children are when
meeting him.

Voldemort pays them no mind, which relaxes Harry immensely. He hadn’t liked the idea of
Voldemort and kids in the same place. But Voldemort speaks with the teachers, about the
classes and what not, and then he speaks to the press, keeping Rita away from Harry.

Delphini and Harry talk to the children, though Delphini is at her most possessive, clinging to
Harry’s hand through the entire hour they spend there.

“I want to eat at my favourite restaurant,” she says, when Voldemort comes beside them,
telling them it’s time to leave.

“I can take you,” Harry says. “If that’s alright,” he adds, resentful, looking at Voldemort’s
shoulder, trying not to meet his eyes.

“No. I want to eat with both of you.”

Harry’s stomach is all in knots. “Delphini,” he says, softly, but doesn’t know how to
continue. Not with Voldemort there- who could say something; he could say ‘no’ and put an
end to it. Yet he remains silent.

“That’s what I want,” Delphini insists. When Harry opens his mouth, she goes on, a glint in
her eyes. “You abandoned me, Harry. You owe me. If you don’t agree, then I’ll get upset
again. I want to have dinner with you and father once a week.”

Harry knows Delphini will hold his actions in those dark months over his head for as long as
he’s alive. That she’ll use it anytime she wants something from him.

Yet even knowing it, even realising he’s being manipulated, he can’t refuse.

Not now. Maybe later, when it’s just him and Delphini in Grimmauld, where he can try to
explain, in a gentle way, how painful it is to spend time around her father.

He thought she understood. She’s been so careful not to talk of Voldemort too much, not
insisting they go to the library, that remains firmly shut, because Harry can’t bear to go inside
it.

She understands, Harry thinks. She does.

It’s just that she apparently decided she doesn’t care anymore. She wants to eat with both of
them, and nothing else matters.
“Alright,” he says, tensing all over.

“Fabulous!”

(-)

Harry doesn’t look at Voldemort for the duration of the meal. He doesn’t eat, just gets a glass
of water.

He talks to Delphini, stiffly. She tries to steer the conversations in ways that will have
Voldemort and Harry interacting, but thankfully Voldemort doesn’t indulge her and she lets
the matter rest, eventually.

(-)

“I really can’t find any way in which one could tell if your cousin is a wizard or not, before
the Quill writes his name at Hogwarts,” Hermione says, when Harry comes over to babysit
the kids. “I looked everywhere, and nothing.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Anyway, thanks for looking.”

“He probably is a wizard, from everything you told me.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, probably. But- I mean, I would like - his family would like to know for
sure.”

If Tony is magical, Harry would like to take him to Diagon. That’s a pleasant fantasy.

And then there is the nightmare version of it; the one in which Voldemort eventually finds out
Harry now has real family connected to the wizarding world.

Someone else to use to threaten Harry into submission.

And there’s Delphini- she won’t like it. She’s still jealous of Teddy; she likes him, he’s dear
to her, but Harry has to always make sure not to talk too much about him, or buy him gifts
that are better than the gifts he gives her.

Introducing a boy that shares Harry’s blood, his eyes- it won’t go well.

(-)
Harry gets drunk again on Halloween night. It was always a bad night, but it coincides with a
lunch at the Burrow- Ginny is starting to show, and Harry once again is reminded that he
could have been there beside her, that he could have had a family, a normal family. That he
wouldn’t be there pathetically wishing Dudley’s son was a wizard.

This time, he doesn’t go around Muggle London. No. With Dudley in mind, with Aunt
Petunia in mind, with Halloween-

Harry goes to visit his parents’ graves.

He hadn’t been there since Voldemort was still captive inside the Ministry.

Rain drizzles unhurriedly as Harry makes his ways to the gravestones.

He buys himself some time, by cleaning them, ripping off weeds by hand. The way his aunt
taught him, he thinks with a snort.

He arranges the flowers he brought, and then there’s nothing else to do but look at the
headstones.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here in a while,” he says, uncomfortable. “It’s just that….” he trails
off, not knowing what to add. What he could possibly use as an excuse.

They’re dead. They can’t hear you, a voice says, viciously. A voice he knows very well; a
voice he dreams of and despises. They’re strangers to you.

Harry shakes his head to dispel it.

He wishes Sirius would have a grave. It would be easier talking to him. Immediately, he feels
ashamed he thought of that, right above his parents’ decaying bodies. His parents, that gave
their lives for him.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says again. “I know it’s unforgivable. You probably hate me now. I hate
myself, too, if it helps. I wish none of this would have happened. I wish I wouldn’t-” he
swallows. “I wish I wouldn’t still love him,” he says, and it’s horrible to finally admit that a
part of him still wants Voldemort, but it’s also freeing to say it out loud. He can’t say it to
anyone else, but he can say it here, with no one to judge him. They surely judge him from the
afterlife, but Harry can’t see it, can he?

His dreams are awful; it’s not just missing Voldemort’s body in his bed, the closeness and
heat of it. If it were just sex he missed, it would have been more tolerable.

But he dreams of silly things, of sunny days spent outside, of Voldemort smiling. Well, in his
dreams, it’s always Tom. Harry calls him Tom, and it’s Tom that Harry wants to make happy,
but Tom is Voldemort. They are inseparable; the same person, no matter how much Harry
wished they were different.

Tom was just as rotten and evil as Voldemort.

Harry dreams of family, of Christmas spent with Delphini and Voldemort.

She’ll leave for Hogwarts in less than a year, and Harry missed her childhood, he’s missing
more of it every day, and then she’ll be off, and he’ll have nothing once more.

“She’s very special,” Harry tells the headstones. “I love her very much, and she loves me
back.”

She’s possessive in her love, jealous and demanding, but it is love.

“I think I’ll just have to focus on her, you know? I failed at everything else, I couldn’t save
them, but I still have a chance with her. I mean, she spent so long alone with the Malfoys and
with him, but she’s still-” He shrugs. “She’s still Delphini.”

It’s as if she’s resistant to influence from outside. She spent time with Harry, too, she loves
Harry, but he can’t influence her.

Yet her father can’t either, Harry feels.

Delphini is Delphini, she’s herself; unbendable, unnameable. She can absorb knowledge, she
can act like a lady, to amuse herself and please Narcissa, she has no choice but to do
whatever her father asks of her, but deep down Delphini doesn’t let herself influenced. No
matter how much vitriol she hears against muggles, from the Malfoy, most surely from
Voldemort, too, she has her own opinion of them, and she really isn’t hateful.

“She hated muggles when she came to live with me, but that was only because she never met
one.” She hated Harry, because Rodolphus taught her to, but that was only because she never
met Harry. “I will make sure she gets to meet and experiences everything for herself, so she
can form her own opinions. I want to expose her to good things, kind things, and hope she’ll
make the right choices.”

But if she doesn’t….Harry won’t turn his back on her. “I mean, isn’t that what a parent is
supposed to be? Someone who loves unconditionally, no matter what the kid ends up
doing?”

He sounds hopeful. He tries to believe his parents would still love him, even if he made bad
choices.

“Anyway. I will come more often, I promise. And ah, mum-” he feels so strange calling
someone mum, because he never did. It’s odd. But he can’t call her Lily, either. “Ah, well,
aunt Petunia’s grandson might be like us. If he is, I’ll look after him. I’ll bring him here,
eventually. I’ll tell him about you. He has our eyes.”

The rain is picking up speed. “I’ll be on my way now. Yeah. Uh. Thank you. For everything.
And I’m sorry.”

On his way out, in his drunken state, thinking about family, Harry goes up the same road he
once took with Hermione.
Memories of Bathilda’s house, of Nagini, of the horror he felt, indescribable, when the snake
broke out of her body.

He swallows and keeps walking, until he reaches the place where he was born in.

He touches the fence, and he sees all the messages people left for him, homages to his
parents.

But then he looks up and

There’s no house.

Harry stares ahead, but the house is gone. In it’s stead, the entire plot is filled with flowers.

Delphiniums, Harry recognises them, because Delphini showed him the flowers that share her
name.

(-)

“Did you go to Godric’s Hallow?” Harry asks as soon as they sit in the muggle restaurant.

Delphini is surprised, looking between them with interest, because Harry never talks with
Voldemort if he can help it.

This is their third dinner, and so far Harry managed not to say one one word to Voldemort.

“Yes.”

Of course, Harry imagined it had to be him already, but hearing the confirmation still pisses
him off.

“Why?” Harry snarls. “Why did you- the house! Why? Maybe I wanted to see it. I never saw
it!“

Voldemort shrugs. “You had many years to do so, if you so desired. It was not much to see. A
ruin. Everything inside had been taken away by the adoring people, as souvenirs.

He opens the menu, as if the conversation is over.

“What’s Godric’s Hallow?” Delphini asks.

“You had no right!“ Harry rips the menu out of his hands. Delphini inhales, sharply.
Voldemort looks up, and if Harry wouldn’t be so angry, he’d had flinched back from the
spark inside them. “Why would a house bother you?“

“What’s Godric’s Hallow?” Delphini asks, louder.

“This is why,” Voldemort responds, voice hitting the lowest register possible. He nods at
Delphini. “She’d have gone there, eventually.”

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

He turns to look at Delphini’s curious face. She would have gone there. She will go, he
realises. She’s like her father, obsessive, needs to lean everything about the things she cares
about. One day, she’ll want to learn and find everything she can about her father; the house
where he died would have been visited.

“Answer me,” she demands. “What’s Godric’s Hallow?”

Harry calms. He, too, does not want Delphini to see ruins and pain and death.

Instead, when she goes, she’ll see a field of flowers.

Voldemort takes the menu back.

“It is a half muggle, half-magical village,” Harry answers, softly. “It’s where my parents’
house used to be.”

“Oh,” she whispers, and after a second of silence, she changes the subject, talking about her
lessons.

(-)

The Riddle Manor is gone, too.

Harry goes to Little Hangleton to check; to see if Voldemort just had a grudge against the
house in Godric’s Hallow.

A muggle tells Harry that the land was bought and the house razed to the ground, but Harry
sees the slight confusion in her eyes, and he recognises the effects of a Confundus spell.

It’s supposed to be extraordinarily difficult to cast a spell on an entire village, but Voldemort
is extraordinary.

Either way, but whatever means, the Riddle Manor is no more.

Harry has never been to the Gaunt shack before, but he knows it was supposed to be around,
and it isn’t.

With trembling hands, he goes to the graveyard, fighting flashbacks from that terrible night.
The Riddle graves are missing and Harry quickly leaves that place.

Voldemort truly is destroying anything unsavoury from his past.

For Delphini, he said, and…

Harry really wants to believe that.

(-)

“My own Gringotts vault, mate!” Ron says, happy. “Finally! I’m taking you and your
husband to dinner.“

“What?” Harry asks, confused. About the dinner, and about Gringotts.

“He talked to the goblins,” Hermione says. “And they finally relented and will allow Ron and
I to have a vault. They lifted the ban.”

Right. Gringotts prohibited Ron and Hermione from ever stepping foot inside the bank after
the war. ’Thieves’ they called them.

“So I owe him a very nice dinner.“

“No, Ron, really. I told you, I’ll make it up to him at work,” Hermione says. And then she
mutters. “Already did enough for him.”

“Nonsense.” Ron waves it away.

“He’s very busy,“ Harry tries, but Ron won’t hear it.

“I get he’s antisocial, but this has to end. I need to get to know him better anyway, and you
keep postponing it. I’m going to write to him right now.”

And off he goes.

Harry tries to stop him-

“Let it go,” Hermione says, quietly, taking Harry by the elbow.

“What? You want him to have dinner with Vol-“

“He won’t harm Ron, Harry. How can you think he would, after everything? He needs you
and he needs me. Ron is safe. We made sure of it.”

She sighs. She looks so tired.

“How did he manage with the goblins?” After all, Voldemort’s alter ego is becoming quite
the important politician, but goblins don’t care about that.

Goblins didn’t care Ron and Hermione were war heroes. They didn’t care Harry was Harry
Potter when he tried to convince them to allow Ron and Hermione a vault.
They threw Kingsley out when he talked to them.

They shouldn’t care about a new-comer.

“He didn’t, actually. Don’t tell Ron, but… he made Malfoy and Lestrange do it. Malfoy’s
vault is the largest in Europe. And now he’s the custodian of the Black Vault, too, until
Delphini comes of age, since he’s her legal guardian. Then there is Lestrange’s
fortune….between them, if they pull their gold out, they’ll crash our economy and goblins
will lose all power. So they had no choice but to accept this demand from their richest
customers.”

“Ah.” Harry doesn’t know what to say.

“I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know it was happening. He just came into my office the
other day and told me he fixed mine and Ron’s issues with the goblins. Trust me, Harry.
Please!” She looks so tortured. “I wouldn’t ask for something so trivial-“

“I know. I-“ Harry swallows. He hugs her. “I know, Hermione. I- I’m actually happy- you
deserve a vault. You deserve to have anything other witches and wizards have. More, really.”

After everything Hermione did… gave her youth to save a nation, goblins amongst them,
building her career trying to help those that are forgotten and pushed aside; keeping Harry
and Ron alive during the war...

When he lets her go, she offers him a shaky smile.

(-)

Harry takes a cheerfulness potion and a calming draught before the dinner.

Without them, Ron would catch on that Harry is terrified of Voldemort.

They got away with it at the Ministry party, because it was natural for Harry to be stiff at
such an event, what with his aversion to large public gatherings.

Because Voldemort spent most of the night away chatting with other politicians.

But now, at a dinner table, just the four of them… Harry can’t be tense, he can’t flinch at the
sound of Voldemort’s voice.

The potions take effect instantly, and everything looks so much better.

His shoulder relax, and he hadn’t realised how much pain he was in, how knotted together the
muscles on his back were, until he finally loosens up.

“Oh, wow,” Harry says, delighted with how nice he’s feeling.
Even when he opens the door and he sees Voldemort-

The discomfort is there, the warning in his brain, but Harry finds it easier to stomach him.

“Hi!” he says, and Voldemort raises an eyebrow.

“Cheerfulness potion?” he asks.

“Yep,” Harry nods.

“Good choice.”

Harry nods again. Even the surrounding buildings look more beautiful, when he closes the
door to Grimmauld behind him.

They Apparate away to a small restaurant in Diagon Alley.

(-)

It’s really so easy to ignore Voldemort. Harry pretends he’s actually Harry’s husband, a tad
weird and hard-working, ambitious politician.

“You shouldn’t,” Voldemort whispers in his ear, when Harry orders firewhsikey.

Oh, shit. Right. Harry’s not supposed to drink.

“It’s alright, it’s just one night,” he whispers back, as Ron talks with the waiter about a steak.

Harry does his best not to drink, and he really doesn’t. It’s very rare that he slips, and then he
can just quit again. One night won’t mean anything-

“I meant you shouldn’t mix alcohol with the elixir,” Voldemort says.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry insists.

He’s more than fine.

He gets drunk after only a few sips; the whiskey enhanced by the potions.

Hermione frowns, and nerd that she is, she must realise Harry is on something else, but Ron
is oblivious to it, just mocks Harry for lack of resistance.

They have a good time. Harry laughs a lot. The cheerfulness potion earns its name.
Everything is just cheery.

Ron’s jokes, which are always funny, are now even funnier.
After the meal, that tasted delicious, Voldemort tries to dissuade Harry from getting his fourth
glass of firewhsikey, but Harry shushes him.

“Let the lad relax,” Ron jumps to his defence, watching Voldemort carefully. “You look like
you could use some drinks, too,” he mutters.

It makes Harry laugh. But then everything made him laugh that night.

By the end of it, Ron still doesn’t like Voldemort, even if Voldemort is his charming self.

Harry can just tell, by the way Ron looks at Voldemort, but how polite he is.

It makes Harry laugh even more, because genius Voldemort fools politicians, and teachers,
and rich old men, but he can’t fool Ron.

“You’re amazing,” Harry says, when they stand to go, arm slung over Ron’s neck. “The best,
Ron. The fucking best. I love you! ”

Ron, a bit drunk himself, pats him on the back. “Thanks, mate. Love you, too.”

Voldemort and Hermione break them apart, and Harry isn’t even disgusted by the fact that
Voldemort is grabbing his arm. It’s actually quite nice.

He knows it’s the potion at fault, combined with the firewhsikey, but he just doesn’t care.

He doesn’t scream or throw a fit when Voldemort walks inside Grimmauld with Harry, half
carries him up the stairs, and shoves him on the couch.

Harry could use some sleep. He thinks, for once, he won’t have any nightmares.

He closes his eyes and sighs in comfort.

(-)

He wakes up with the worst hangover he’s ever had, and he had quite a lot of those. His head
is killing him.

He grumpily makes his way to the kitchen, where Midas awaits with the Prophet.

Of course we made the first page.

In the picture, Harry truly looks like he’s having the time of his life, laughing loudly, bent
over the table, closer to Ron, who’s also laughing.

Voldemort and Hermione talk on the other side.

They look like regular friends, enjoying a night out, like the Prophet suggests.
Harry wonders, briefly, if he could live his entire life on cheerfulness and calming potions.

For the first time since Dumbledore died, he had a few hours where he had no worries at all.
Nothing. Just bliss.

Is that how normal people feel? Ones that aren’t in pretend marriages with dark lords? Ones
that weren’t prophesied to be the Chosen One?

(-)

Just days later, he receives a curt note from Voldemort, inquiring if Harry is available to take
Delphini, or if he should drop her to Malfoy’s.

It’s a Saturday evening. One of Voldemort’s Saturdays.

“I’m available,” Harry quickly scribbles back, curious about what happened.

(-)

Voldemort drops Delphini off.

She’s standoffish and shoots up the stairs as soon as they arrive, without saying goodbye to
her father. Voldemort’s jaw ticks in annoyance. He glares after her.

They were clearly in a fight.

“I think it’s good. That you’re-ah-“ he says quietly, uncertain when Voldemort gives him his
full attention. “I went to Little Hangleton. And- well. It’s good. For Delphini, I mean.”

Why are you speaking to him? something screams in Harry’s head.

“Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother,” Voldemort says, turning his eyes to burn a hole
through the walls, after Delphini, clearly still peeved over whatever they argued about.

Because you care for her, Harry thinks.

“You fought?” Harry asks.

Voldemort makes a derisive noise. “She has the Black temper. And she’s spoiled; it’s yours
and the Malfoys’ fault.”

Harry can’t argue with that. Delphini can be very sweet, but when she’s in a mood…she
doesn’t really like to hear ‘no’.
“She’ll get over whatever it is in no time,” he says, because that’s also true with Delphini.
Especially when concerning Voldemort.

“She better,” Voldemort says, then turns to Harry again. “There’s one more place I need to fix
before she stumbles on it.”

“Oh?”

“You should come along.”

Harry’s stomach turns upside down.

“Why?” he asks, suspicious.

“Will you come?” Voldemort ignores Harry’s question.

Of course I won’t come. I won’t go anywhere with you, if I don’t absolutely have to.

But if it’s for Delphini…

You hate him, remember?

Yet he asked. He didn’t order Harry, which is new.

Exactly. He orders you into all your activities. And now that you actually can say ‘no’, you’re
going to say ‘yes’?

“Why do I have to come?” he insists.

Voldemort gives him an inquisitive look. “You don’t have to. I am satisfied with your
cooperation so far. It is enough for my goals. This isn’t necessary. It’s just about how much
you want to be involved.” A short break. “In Delphini’s life.”

“I… what?”

Voldemort shrugs. “Your choice. Write to me, when you decide. Don’t take too long.” He
places his hand on the doorknob, turning it before Harry can say anything else. “She’s not
allowed anything fun this weekend.”And with that final line, he’s out of Grimmauld.

(-)

Delphini refuses to tell him why they fought.

“Well, then, if you don’t tell me, I’ll have to assume you did something wrong, too, and I
won’t take you to the movies.”
From what Harry remembers from their time together, Voldemort only punished Delphini
when she misbehaved. It was never without cause.

“Fine,” Delphini spits at him, crossing her arms. “No matter. I’ll ask Lucius to take me to the
movies on Monday.”

Harry laughs. “Good luck with that.”

“You do know he owns a cinema, right? And a mall, and like a few ‘major franchises’,
whatever those are. Some fancy hotels, too.”

“What? But he hates muggles!“

Delphini rolls her eyes. “How do you think he’s so rich, really? The Magical community
hardly has as many opportunities to gain fortunes as opposed to the muggle world.”

“But he was always against any interaction-“

“Obviously. He wants to be the only one to take advantage of them. He doesn’t want
competition. He has a few educated squibs that take care of his muggle business, invest or
whatever. Lucius doesn’t have to step foot in muggle London often.”

She laughs at his expression, her anger fading.

She takes her bag and searches around in it, until she pulls a square piece of something
metallic looking-

“This is called a card. He said that if I’m ever lost or find myself in London, I can pay with it,
everywhere I go.”

Fucking Malfoy.

(-)

Harry hadn’t slept with anyone since the astrology guy, so Voldemort hadn’t showed up at
any of his Quidditch matches, after that.

Malfoy or Draco usually bring Delphini, or if it’s on Harry’s weekend, he has Ron watch over
her. Ron never missed a single match.

But this one will be tricky. Molly, even if she’s no fan of the game, decided she wants to see
Harry fly.

Once, she says. After all, in Ginny’s entire career, Molly only saw her fly once, as well.
“Why don’t you miss this one?” Harry asks Delphini, a couple of days before the game. “It
will be boring, their Seeker is a beginner. I’ll end it in no time-”

“Miss your game?” she looks shocked. “No. Never. I’ll miss enough when I go to school.”

Harry doesn’t want to think about the rapidly passing months. Soon, she’ll go away, and what
will he do with himself if he doesn’t have the promise to see her or have her over at least two
times a month?

Old Harry would have insisted she doesn’t come, would have tried to lie about the reason.

Or maybe old Harry would tell her the truth, and beg her to stay home.

New Harry knows better than that. So he drops the subject.

Instead, he goes to Malfoy Manor. He’s anxious when he Apparates at the gates. He thought
being back in the place where he was a prisoner, where he spent the absolute worst months of
his life, would be terrible.

It’s not nice, but it’s not as awful as he believed. In a way, Malfoy Manor just feels familiar.

Still, he asks Narcissa, who receives Harry in one of the living rooms, to call Malfoy down.

He’s not yet ready- probably will never be- to step foot in the dreadful office.

“I’ll make sure they don’t meet,” Malfoys says, after listening to Harry’s concerns. “Delphini
won’t even see Weasley. We had a near miss on Diagon some months ago,” he says. “But I
successfully distracted her until Weasley and her brood of grandchildren passed us by.”

On the day of the game, when Harry takes flight, he looks in the top box, and Malfoy brought
reinforcements. Narcissa is there, for the first time ever. There’s Draco, and Scorpius. There’s
Teddy, who sometimes comes with Andromeda, other times comes with Draco. And there are
two other boys and one girl that Harry recognises vaguely from the playdates they had.

Delphini is in the middle, surrounded on all sides.

Ron, Molly and Rose are on the opposite side of the stadium.

Alright. End it fast.

He does. In fact, turns out he hit a new record for the fastest ever caught Snitch. Everyone is
very excited about it; Harry only feels relief.

(-)

It’s just about how much you want to be involved in Delphini’s life.
Well, with a line like that, how can Harry say no, really? He thought about it for weeks,
laying awake at night. He wants to be involved. He wants to be there for her, always.

And Voldemort said they’re just fixing things. Shouldn’t be that horrible.

“I really hope you can pull your head out of your arse and do something nice for my
birthday,” Delphini says at their weekly, torturous dinner they have together with Voldemort.

The first one in December.

“Yeah,” Harry says, darting a glance at Voldemort. “Yeah, I- yeah.”

“Good.” Delphini smiles.

“And don’t say ‘arse’,” Harry adds, distracted.

Delphini ignores him. “Father, may I have your crab leg?” She eyes his plate.

“No.”

“Seriously?” Harry can’t quite believe it. What’s wrong with this man?

What isn’t?

“I’m hardly starving her,” Voldemort says, unbothered. “She has her own food.”

“Here, take what you want,” Harry says, pushing his plate towards her.

Delphini smiles at him. “You can have what you want from mine,” she says.

It’s how she likes it, how they usually eat, when it’s just the two of them. They get loads of
food, and they mix it and pick of each other plates.

It’s how she ate with Rodolphus, beside campfires, scavenging food from muggle stores and
adding it to whatever Lestrange hunted.

For Delphini, sharing food is not about actual food. It’s a proof of love, a comfort.

She eats Harry’s dessert, too, when it comes. “Narcissa doesn’t let me eat sweets anymore.
Only fruits for desert,” she tells Harry. “She says I need to be careful with my figure.”

“You’re eleven!” Harry says, outraged. “Not even yet eleven! And you’re thin as a rail!”

She shrugs. “I know. But she says that if I plan to stay this way, I need to stop eating so much
sugar.”

“I’ll have a talk with her,” Harry assures her. This is absurd.

“It’s alright.” Delphini grins. “Lucius always slips me some chocolate when he comes from
work. And I have plenty of sweets at home.”
Home. She always says Voldemort’s house is home, even if she only spends two weekends a
month there.

She says Rabastan gives her sweets, too, when she sees him. Harry grips his knife harder. He
hates hearing about him.

He’d had a fight with Andromeda, who allows Teddy to be there at the Manor when Malfoy
is home to supervise visits from Lestrange. Of course, Teddy has no idea who the man is. He
thinks he’s ‘Regis’.

“What is he up to, anyway?” Harry asks Voldemort. "Why did you take him out?”

Not that he expects a honest answer. Who knows what awful missions he’s giving to
Lestrange?

“Because no one deserves to be shut in that horrid place,” Delphini says, heated. “Mama was
there. Rody, too,” she adds, as if they don’t know.

But she never misses an opportunity to bring those two up in a conversation.

“He’s a loyal man,” Voldemort says. “I reward those loyal to me.”

Harry rolls his eyes so hard, it’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.

Delphini looks between them, calculating.

“Father basically raised Rabastan- I mean, Regis. I heard all about it.”

“You did?” Harry asks, surprised.

“No,” Voldemort answers. “There was a big age gap between the brothers. His mother fled
Lestrange Manor when Rodolphus invited me to stay with him, after Hogwarts. Rabastan was
a baby, and he was there. That doesn’t mean I raised him, Delphini.”

“He remembers you around since forever, he says.”

“I was there,” Voldemort repeats. “And so was he.”

Wow. Harry is no fan of Lestrange, but he feels a stab of pity for the criminal. He can’t
imagine it, being a baby, then a toddler, wanting affection, having been abandoned by his
mother, and only having eighteen-nineteen year old Voldemort and Rodolphus around.

The man had no chance, really.

Delphini doesn’t let it go. “He says Rodolphus had no patience with him and that he punished
him often, but that you’d be less scary to be around.”

Voldemort sighs. “I mostly ignored him.”

“I can’t imagine Rody being mean. Maybe Ra-Regis is remembering wrong. Rody was the
best. He was very patient.”

Voldemort laughs, but he doesn’t comment.

Harry is forced to once again consider the long, long life Voldemort lived before Harry was
even born.

It’s not fair. To Harry, Voldemort was- and continues to be- the biggest, most important thing
in his life. Harry always lived in his shadow, his destiny decided by Voldemort’s choices.

But for Voldemort, Harry is only a small part of his life.

“We can do that thing you wanted,” Harry says, when they prepare to leave the restaurant.

“What thing?” Delphini asks.

“Monday?” Harry asks.

“Monday night,” Voldemort agrees.

“Why does it have to be at night?” Harry would prefer daylight. Not that Voldemort is less
dangerous under the sun, but night just makes everything worse.

“Because I work during the day,” Voldemort reminds him.

Right. He’s working. Harry still has problems believing it, even if he saw Voldemort at the
Ministry with his own eyes.

The weekends are impossible, since either one or the other has Delphini, so there it is.
Monday night.

“What thing?” Delphini asks Harry, when they go to Grimmauld. “You’re going somewhere
with father?”

“Yes.”

“Where? Can I come?”

“No. And I don’t know where. He was vague about it, as usual.”

Delphini bites her lip, discarding her robe, throwing it on the couch.

Harry knows she’s much more careful with her clothes in Malfoy Manor.

“Is he forcing you?” she asks.

“No,” Harry answers, though really, Voldemort basically threatened him into compliance,
what with that line about Harry wanting or not wanting to be part of Delphini’s life. “You’re
the one forcing me to have dinner with him once a week,” he reminds her.
She waves it away. “Yes, but I’m there. He can’t hurt you with me there. I won’t let him.”

She sounds fierce.

And this is why, amongst many other reasons, Harry knows he can’t ever fight against
Voldemort, even if the opportunity would arise; Delphini would get caught up in the middle.

“Delphini.” Harry takes her in his arms, kisses the top of her head. “I don’t need you to
defend me, you know? You shouldn’t get between us. No matter what happens.”

“I told him I won’t ever forgive him if anything happens to you.”

“Don’t speak to him that way,” Harry draws back, to look at her face. “Please, don’t ever say
anything that could remotely be taken as a threat.”

“He likes me. I think so, at least. He didn’t want me to die, when I had dragon pox,” she
whispers, eyes softening. “He took care of me, Harry, even if it must have been very boring
to him. He lets me stay with him during the weekend and cooks for me.”

Voldemort does seem more open with Delphini. Less stiff than he used to be.

“It doesn’t mean much,” Harry tells her, gently. “He loved your mother, but he always put
himself first. He always will. He liked Lestrange, I think, but he very casually exchanged his
life for his freedom. I’m sorry, love, it’s who he is.”

“I’m not Rodolphus. And I’m not mama. I’m different. I’m his, in a way no one else was.”

(-)

“No!” Harry says as soon as their feet touch solid ground. “No, I’m not going there.”

Hogwarts looms in the distance. Harry takes out his wand and tries to Apparate away.

But Voldemort has a firm grip on Harry’s elbow and the Apparition just won’t work.

This has never happened to Harry. He heard of splinching if one Apparates with someone
unwillingly holding on, he’d heard of many things, but not this.

Harry tries again. He feels the pull, but he just won’t go.

Voldemort isn’t even holding a wand, isn’t doing anything, just griping Harry.

“How the fuck do you do that?” Harry snarls at him.

“Magic,” Voldemort drawls.

Harry wants to punch that smug look on his face. But he’s too afraid to get properly angry.
“Listen, I can’t,” he insists, when Voldemort drags him on the path from Hogsmeade to
Hogwarts. “Especially not with you!”

Not only had Harry refused to step food on Hogwarts grounds since the war, but now there’s
an air of extra panic, because Voldemort shouldn’t be anywhere near it, either.

“What do you want to- why- no!”

“I don’t have any nefarious intentions, Harry. Calm down.”

“Calm down?” Harry hisses at him. “Calm down?”

The last time they were both there, dozens died. Children. Hogwarts was left in ruins.

Fred. Tonks. Remus. Lavender. Colin.

Harry shakes his head to dispel those images.

Sleeping with Voldemort was a betrayal to all of those that lost their lives. Loving him, even
a bigger one.

But returning with him at Hogwarts, side by side, as husbands, is a betrayal far too great to
even contemplate.

Voldemort stops. He puts his other hand on Harry’s shoulder and looks down at him with an
indecipherable expression.

“Hogwarts was our home,” he says, softly. Something in Harry’s heart twists, painfully. “It
was not exactly safe for either of us, but it was always home. A way to escape the muggles. I
won’t allow the last memory I have of it to be-“ He stops. Breathes in. “To be what I made it.
I know you lost your friends that day; you lost your life. I, too, lost Bella here. I lost my life.
But that is in the past.”

Harry shakes his head. “You can’t just- how can you just leave something like that in the
past? It doesn’t work like that. It’s not a falling out with a friend, or a lost gamble, or- it’s-
you can’t just leave that day in the past and move forward. It’s too- You can’t.”

“I can,” Voldemort says.

“Well, you’re you. You don’t give a shit about anyone!”

“I lost Bella here,” he repeats, forcefully.

Harry falls silent. He can’t accuse Voldemort of not caring about Bellatrix. He can’t even
explain to Voldemort that whatever love he had for that woman, it’s not the type of love other
people experience. If Voldemort can simply leave Bellatrix in the past, bury his guilt with her,
then he mustn’t have properly loved her.

“It’s not just me,” Voldemort goes on. “Everyone else is putting the war behind them.
McGonagall teaches here, so does Flitwick-“
“They didn’t cause it,” Harry whispers. “They weren’t responsible, like we were.”

“They are teachers that had to see their students die. They were responsible for all their
students.”

Harry opens his mouth but nothing comes out.

“Ronald lost his brother here, but he still comes to visit, doesn’t he? He is moving on. Now, I
never met your little dead friends, but I knew Bella. She wouldn’t want me to grieve. Do you
think your parents, your friends, your godfather- do you think they’d want you to suffer your
entire life? They gave their lives so you can live. They gave their lives so the magical
community can go on. And they are all moving on. They’re healing. You aren’t.”

“Because I know we didn’t win the war that day!” Harry screams at him. “If they’d know
Lord Voldemort is working in the Ministry, that Rabastan Lestrange is enjoying his wealth
and his freedom, they wouldn’t be as willing to go forward!”

Voldemort stays silent for a minute. Harry’s breathing grows more erratic in that silence,
desperation clawing at his chest.

“From what I understand, they all participated in rebuilding the school. Even Lucius, from
afar. He gave them gold. But there’s one part of Hogwarts no one else can fix.” He lets Harry
go. “I’m going. If you don’t want to join me, I won’t force you.”

And then he walks away, towards Hogwarts and Harry panics, heart hammering against his
ribs. He doesn’t want to go. Not alone, and certainly not with Voldemort. It’s too painful.

But the school is filled with students. He can’t just allow Voldemort to roam around it. Who
knows what he’ll do if a child breaks curfew and meets him in the hallway?

Feeling like he’ll throw up any second, Harry hurries after him.

When they pass under the Astronomy tower, Harry does throw up. He kneels on the ground
and heaves. He feels like there is no air coming to his lungs.

“I didn’t do that,” Voldemort says, calmly. He snaps his fingers, and a leaf turns into a goblet.
Voldemort snaps his fingers again filling it with water. “It was a joke at Draco’s expense. I
never, in a million years, would have imagined a child could bring Dumbledore down. And I
was right. He didn’t.” Voldemort looks up at the tower. “That was all Dumbledore. He
planned it. He was dying already, because he was foolish enough to touch my ring without
checking for curses. He died on his terms. He chose it. Or do you really think Draco Malfoy
took Dumbledore by surprise in that tower and disarmed him?”

“Dumbledore was injured,” Harry croaks.

“Dumbledore was Dumbledore. He could have been in a coma and Draco would have had no
chance against him. Or those four morons that joined him.” He snorts. “The Carrows, Yaxley
and Greyback….truly, Harry. He didn’t need a wand to deal with them. He could have
blinked them out of existence. Dumbledore chose to die that day. He could have stood up, got
his wand back in a second, head down and destroy all my Death Eaters, and save his precious
students. But he saw the perfect opportunity for Snape to kill him, and he took it. What’s a
few injured or dead students compared to the greater good, after all? What’s traumatising you
for life compared to the chance of firmly establishing Snape as my right-hand man, so he
could have the chance to stab me in the back at some point?”

Harry takes the glass. He gulps it down, and when Voldemort refills it, he drinks again.

Strangely, he feels a little better when he stands up. He’s still trembling, but Voldemort is sort
of right. No one brought down Dumbledore. Voldemort did not have that power.

“I can imagine why you’d feel guilt over the children that died here, but you don’t need to
feel responsible for Dumbledore. You were but a blip in his over one hundred years on this
earth.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “Yeah.”

He shakes his head and they move along.

(-)

The Chamber is a disaster. It’s flooded, enormous stones blocking their path.

The smell is horrific when they finally arrive in the main chamber.

“How did you come down the pipe when you first came down here?” Harry mutters, nervous
and still dizzy.

They glided smoothly just now, nothing like when Harry came with Ron and Lockhart.

“Not as gracefully,” Voldemort says, a small smirk pulling at his lips.

Because he’s hysteric, Harry laughs. Actually laughs, because he remembers how proper,
how perfect Tom Riddle was. To imagine that boy falling ungracefully down a pipe….it
makes him laugh.

Some of the pillars are broken- there are pieces of Salazar missing.

“It’s so weird,” Harry says, with a shudder, watching that stone face. “I- I was here, with the
basilisk. With you.”

Tom Riddle stood right there, with that vicious smile of his, watched as Harry fought for his
life.

“You were never here with me,” Voldemort corrects, looking around. “You were here with an
extremely dark artefact that recreated a boy out of a memory.”
He does most of the work. Harry helps, but-

Really, he’s not needed. Voldemort is far better with spells.

It does take a long time. Getting rid of the water, drying everything. Getting rid of the smell.

Then there’s the basilisk’s rotten corpse to deal with; the look of regret on Voldemort’s face
as he stares down at it.

“Can’t believe you took her out with a sword,” he says, giving Harry a nasty glare. “A fully
grown basilisk…with a sword! Ridiculous.”

“Can’t believe it, either,” Harry agrees.

He rubs his arm. He can feel the phantom pain of one of those sharp fangs penetrating his
skin.

And then the pillars are fixed, put back in place. Harry deals with minor inconveniences,
fixes small holes in the marble under his feet, as Voldemort completely transforms their
surroundings.

When they are done, Harry has never seen a room- any room, much less this one- as clean. It
sparkles.

It looks grandiose, sacred almost. Imposing, as it was meant to look, before a thousand years
passed over it.

Salazar is whole again, staring down at them.

“I hate how smug he looks,” Harry says, looking up at the marble face.

“He would be furious to learn one of his descendants married a muggle. He’d probably hate
my presence here. Not to mention yours." Voldemort raises an eyebrow at Harry. “Doesn’t
look so smug, now, does he?”

Yeah, that’s right, you old bastard. Your Heir is a half-blood. Your heirs. Because Delphini is
one, too. She likes muggles. Bet you’d hate that, too.

Indeed, Salazar doesn’t appear as imposing when Harry thinks like that.

They go into his mouth, where Harry has never been before.

Many skins shed by the basilisk are there. A vast room. Empty save for dirt.

Voldemort cleans that one, too, and only when it’s done, Harry sees the carvings on the walls
that depict four friends. Two men and two women, standing on thrones, one beside the other.

Seeing that, in a room Salazar built to hide his monster-

They were his friends, Harry thinks. Even after everything, Salazar chose to depict the other
three in his secret chamber, built solely on revenge.

Apparently, everyone in the Slytherin line has issues. None of them is to be taken at face
value, always a hidden depth to them.

When it’s as clean as the main hall, Voldemort conjures a grand desk, with a beautiful and
comfortable chair. Dark wood and green cushion.

“Maybe she’ll want space from the others,” Voldemort says, mostly to himself. “Somewhere
quiet to do her homework.”

It does things to Harry, to hear Voldemort think of Delphini. To do something nice for her,
something he didn’t have to do. Something that is not solely meant to keep her safe.

“Will you tell her where to find the Chamber?” Harry asks. His voice echoes in the room, just
as Voldemort creates a fireplace.

“I will tell her it exists, but I think she’ll enjoy it more if she finds it herself.”

He waves his wand again, and a soft, dark green carpet appears.

“I’m curious how long it will take her. If she’ll find it sooner than I did.”

“How would that make you feel?” Harry asks. “If she finds it sooner?”

Voldemort ponders over it for a few seconds. He casts a stasis spell on the entire room, so no
dust or grime will touch it.

“Proud,” he says, simply.

He understands what Delphini meant, when she told Harry she’s different, that she’s
Voldemort’s. He thought she meant his, as in his blood family.

But she didn’t mean that. She meant that she loves him, adores him, like no one else ever did.
Not even Bellatrix. This child loves her father in a pure, unconditional way, with no selfish
motivations. She loves him for who he is, or better said, despite of who he is. She doesn’t
want to change him, to steer him on a better path. She doesn’t want his power.

Even Voldemort can’t dismiss it. He recognises it; as the years passed, as he got to know her
better, Voldemort finally believes- maybe even profoundly understands- that this little slip of
a girl absolutely adores him, even if she knows everything about him.

Harry is lucky, he realises. He had -he has- people who love him. So many of them, he finally
realises, with surprise. He has the Weasleys, Teddy, Delphini, Hagrid. He had Sirius and his
parents, even if only for a little while. All those people that gave their lives for him. And he
had that since eleven.

Voldemort had no one to love him until Bellatrix. Not for who he actually was. And even
Bellatrix- well, it wasn’t completely selfless, was it? She loved him like a lover. She craved
him.

Harry- Merlin knows how conflicted he always was about whatever he felt for Voldemort.
Harry would choose Delphini over him. He’d choose Teddy, Hermione and Ron. Harry needs
to actively ignore many parts of Voldemort to bear standing in his presence.

But Delphini...

Harry is glad Voldemort has her, and he actually seems to appreciate her. No matter who he
is, Voldemort deserves to have someone to love him that way.

Because Harry spent eleven years without love, and that was terrible. No one should go
unloved.

And Voldemort loves Delphini, too, Harry thinks. He’s almost sure of it. The only person he
loves selflessly. He’ll never show it as others do, he’ll never be one to make big shows of
affection; maybe he will never say it. But it’s there, in the little gestures. In the way he speaks
to her- or of her. In the way he is trying to make sure she’ll find nothing horrible in the
Chamber of Secrets, or in Little Hangleton, or in Godric’s Hallow. She knows what happened
there; he doesn’t seek to hide it from her. He just wants to spare her of unnecessary ugly
sights.

He made her a desk, gave her a carpet and a fireplace, in case she gets overwhelmed by so
many students and would like to do her homework somewhere quiet.

Harry smiles. “What if she finds it before Christmas in her first year?”

Voldemort looks up at him. He frowns. “Proud,” he repeats. “And angry.” He comes closer.
“You won’t give her any clues. No cheating.”

Harry feels a grin stretching on his face. “Deal. But I’ll bet you she’ll find it before her fourth
year.”

“What are you willing to bet?” Voldemort asks.

Harry will be there. He’ll be there when Delphini starts school; when she comes home from
the holidays.

A sureness settles in his chest. He won’t miss any of it.

And Voldemort- looking at him, Harry knows he wants to be there for his daughter, too. He
believes that Voldemort wants her to have a normal Hogwarts experience, with no war
waging in the hallways, nor outside of them.

Don’t. Don’t hope again.

Hope is a dangerous thing. Very dangerous.

And yet-
Voldemort will do as he pleases; he did as he pleased and no horror had so far befell their
world since he got his freedom. And if Harry can believe he’ll keep his temper, at least
during Delphini’s schooling-

“Since you’re so good at home reparations- truly, you missed your calling, you’d get paid
fortunes as a designer-“

Voldemort narrows his eyes, but Harry goes on.

“Would you come to Grimmauld with Delphini next time she visits? I can’t make the heating
system work and one pipe is leaking, the entire wall of the dining room is wet.”

“I don’t need Delphini present,” Voldemort says, and he comes closer.

“But the house-“

“I don’t need Delphini to fix a pipe. That house is sentiment, but it’s not that smart, Harry,”
he insists.

Harry swallows. God, you’re such an idiot. Is this all it takes? A few hours at his side, him
showing some care for his daughter and you’re going to let yourself fall for his lies again?

It’s so useless to resist, though, another voice says, far more persuasive.

Andromeda’s advice rings in his ears.

‘Allow him to show you the best parts of him.’

Since he can’t stop Voldemort, as long as he’s not killing people or oppressing muggleborns-
isn’t is wiser to keep on civil terms with him?

“We’re done here?” Harry asks, stepping back, hesitating. “I think we are.”

Voldemort searches his face for some seconds-

“Yes. Just two more stops, and then I’ll let you go.”

(-)

He takes Harry to the clearing where he died.

See, this is why you can’t fall again, why you can’t be around him. He’s cruel, he’s-

He’s dangerous. Because Voldemort goes right past the place where Harry died, into the thick
forest from which Harry came out to face him-

“What-“ Harry whispers.

He performs a complicated spell. The entire area glows, the earth shakes-

And then it stops, abruptly.

Something zoomes through the air, and Harry’s Quidditch reflexes make him reach out-

He catches the Resurrection Stone.

“Cast it in the ocean, did you?” Voldemort asks, smug.

Harry told him, back in that cell in the Ministry, that he’d thrown the stone in the ocean.

But of course, Voldemort knows Harry.

Harry stares at the black stone, heart in his throat.

“You can keep it for a week. Speak to your dead if you want to, though I do not advise it.
Once the week is done, you will hand it over. It is mine, after all.”

Many years had passed since Harry used the stone. Since he stood in that very clearing and
asked his parents, Sirius and Remus, to stand at his side-

Harry extends his hand, palm up. “I don’t want it.”

Voldemort’s covered in shadows, half bathed in moonlight, like an ancient, handsome,

ruthless god.

He waves his hand and a golden band forms in the air- the stone flies out of Harry’s palm and
sets itself inside the gold.

Voldemort snatches the ring from the air and slips it on one of his long fingers.

“I don’t want to go there,” Harry says, resigned. He knows where they are headed as soon as
Voldemort starts walking through the trees.

“Then go home. Or wait here.”

But Harry follows, even if he doesn’t want it.

I need to see it. I need to be reminded of who he is. I almost just forgot, down in the Chamber.

In a matter of minutes, they’re at Dumbledore’s grave.

It still has cracks in it, from when Harry broke it apart, to place the broken elder wand inside
it, just days after the battle.

And now Voldemort will break it again-

Harry looks away when the noise pierces the night.

“You can look; he’s magically preserved.”

Harry knows. He’d seen the headmaster; he’s been full of rage, just having learned Voldemort
is still alive. He broke the wand and came to throw it back to Dumbledore, to make sure
Voldemort can’t have it.

He’d seen that old, wise face that seemed kind, even in death.

His rage abated, and only emptiness was left in its stead.

Harry doesn’t look at Dumbledore now, but he sees the two pieces of the Elder Wand float in
the air.

“I am the Master of Death,” Voldemort says. “I own the stone, you own the Cloak, but I own
you.”

Harry swallows. What’s one more power Voldemort has access to? It’s just overkill at this
point. Irrelevant.

“And I disarmed you so many times, Harry. The Elder Wand is mine.”

“I know.”

Harry naively hoped it can’t be fixed, but it gets fixed, right there in the air, under’s Harry’s
eyes.

The Master of Death has the power to repair it.

Voldemort doesn’t even touch it. The wand swirls in the air, sparks shoot out of it and then it
descends back into the tomb-

Harry does look, this time.

He can’t help it.

Dumbledore is as he always was. Serene. Powerful. Tall. His robes as colourful- some dust
settled over him, because Harry didn’t know how to properly seal the tomb-

The Elder wand slides between the hands rested on his chest.

Voldemort waves his hand and all the dust cleans off Dumbledore, leaving him pristine.

“I won,” he says, and he sounds-

Childish. It’s just childish.

It’s- this is Tom Riddle. It is not cold, emotionless Voldemort. Not the detached war lord.

This is Tom Riddle, the boy that always wanted to prove himself to Dumbledore. The boy
that always wanted to make Dumbledore acknowledge him.

“But you can keep the wand, old man. I do not need it.”
And then he seals the tomb perfectly.

Voldemort could have done terrible things to Dumbledore’s body, back when he first got the
wand, at the height of the second war, when he was a snakelike monster, full of rage.

But he hadn’t.

And he doesn’t do it now, either, leaving the wand with Dumbledore, cleaning his robes of
dust.

There are things that are sacred to him, Harry thinks. Lines he won’t cross. So few of them
and yet-

He respects the man that has been his enemy.

And there’s a sense of relief clinging to Voldemort when he looks back to Harry.

A closed chapter.

He fixed the last destroyed part of Hogwarts, and now he’s done with Dumbledore, for good.

And maybe- maybe if Dumbledore, the only constant in Voldemort’s life, the one who was
there to foil his every plan, to make Voldemort feel he had to resort to crazier and crazier
schemes, just to one up Dumbledore, just to force Dumbledore to recognise how powerful he
is-

Harry played a part he felt Dumbledore forced on him. It is not fair, his old teacher never
forced Harry to do anything at all- and yet Harry felt like he had to be the Chosen One.

Maybe Voldemort felt forced into a role that Dumbledore decided for him. It wasn’t the truth,
Dumbledore did not force Tom Riddle to do what he did, no more than he forced Harry, but
for orphaned, neglected children, for those that had nothing-

Harry doesn’t think Dumbledore really understood what influence he held; not over Harry,
and not over Tom.

He’d treated Harry affectionately, treated him as a prophesied hero. He’d been kind and
giving, and Harry did not want to disappoint him.

He had a drastically different approach with Tom Riddle.

And Tom Riddle was a child. A lonely, traumatised child, raised by muggles who told him
he’s a devil, just because he had magic. And then he met Dumbledore, who basically
confirmed what the muggles said, who reinforced with his attitude the belief Tom held that he
was evil, that there was something wrong with him.

But now Dumbledore’s gone. He’s been gone for a long time, yet Voldemort still suffered the
consequences of Dumbledore’s machinations to stop him from grabbing power. He still had
to see Dumbledore every time he died.
With Voldemort there, over his tomb, it feels like Dumbledore is truly gone.

Goodbye, Professor, Harry thinks. I hope you can finally rest in peace. I hope you can find
joy on the other side and stop paying attention to us. You’ve done your duty. You defeated two
dark lords. It’s enough. You’ve done enough. I forgive you, and I hope you forgive me, too.

Harry looks at the castle, and for the first time, he doesn’t associate it with Dumbledore.

Harry looks at it, and he doesn’t think of the war, of the dead.

The castle is Delphini’s future school, a place where she can learn, where she can hopefully
make friends. Where she can laugh and play, and become a brilliant witch.

Hogwarts is no longer the past.

It is the future.

“Since you don’t need Delphini’s assistance,” Harry says, heart calm and agitated at the same
time. “Can you come and fix that pipe?”

And doesn’t it feel sacrilegious to invite Voldemort home, over Dumbledore’s grave?

Tom Riddle was treated with distrust; suspicion. He had nothing, so he took everything.

Harry treated Voldemort with kindness. With love. Delphini trusts him blindly. She loves him
like only a child can love.

Harry was still stabbed in the back, because that is Voldemort; he wanted out and Harry was
in the way. And yet Harry is the only one to suffer. And he’s not dead. He’s not tortured.

No innocents lost their lives. Voldemort’s first answer upon his freedom was not mindless
violence.

I can never trust him fully; I must always be careful.

But maybe, just maybe, Voldemort working a desk job in the Ministry and fixing things he
broke shows that giving him a chance had a smidgeon of effect on him.

He killed those that tortured him in the Ministry, but he did no physical harm to Harry or
Hermione.

Even what happened to Ron- that was Hermione’s choice.

Voldemort smiles at him. “I wouldn’t want you to live with mould, Harry. That would be a
stupid way to die.”

(-)
It’s different, because this time they step into Grimmauld together, out of their own free will.

Voldemort is not there as a prisoner; he’s not there to threaten Harry into compliance.

Harry chose to invite him, and Voldemort chose to come.

He’s nervous, excited, terrified. But there’s no guilt. Harry is done with guilt, really. It serves
no purpose; it doesn’t help anyone.

The dead are dead, no matter if he feels guilty or not. Delphini’s alive, however. Harry
decided he’ll focus on her well being from now on. And her well being is tied with her
father.

He walks to the dining room, Voldemort behind him, and he points to the wet wall, carpet
filled with water.

“You really have a broken pipe.”

Harry turns to look at him. “You thought I lied about it?”

“I should have known you’d never lie, saint Potter and all that.”

What, you thought I asked you here to have sex, and lured you in with broken pipes?

Harry almost says it, but thankfully he doesn’t.

The pipe is fixed in a matter of minutes. The wall and carpet take seconds.

And then there’s silence.

It’s enough to have a civil relationship with him. You can offer him coffee, and you can
discuss Delphini. You can say you are willing to spend the holidays with him, just so she can
have both her fathers on Yule and her birthday.

Maybe he won’t want that, it occurs to Harry.

He’s been feeling all magnanimous, like a man that makes a sacrifice, but what if Voldemort
doesn’t want it?

Suddenly, Harry feels insecure. More insecure than ever.

Why had he assumed Voldemort would want that, anyway?

Well, he must. Right? He needs his happy family facade-

He can have it without having to suffer you. A date out in the open would satisfy the
journalists.

“My God,” Voldemort mutters, looking at Harry stewing in uncertainty. “It must be so
exhausting to be you.”
He’s not even using Legilimency. He just knows Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees.

Voldemort moves slowly. Harry has all the time in the world to step back, to say ‘no’.

And he can say ‘no’. Voldemort forced him and will force him to do many things, but not
this, Harry is certain.

In his fantasies, a twisted part of him wants Voldemort to force him, but those are fantasies. It
would be horrific if it were to happen in real life. He knows it won’t, though. Sometimes,
when they used to have sex, it could get rough, and Harry would struggle, but they both knew
he wanted it.

Harry doesn’t step back. He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t even flinch when Voldemort’s fingers
go around the back of Harry’s neck.

He shivers, instead.

Voldemort draws Harry closer until they’re touching.

He wishes it would happen faster; he wishes he wouldn’t have time to think.

Voldemort, however, clearly wants Harry to be very aware of what’s going on. He doesn’t
want to give Harry an excuse he can hide behind later, when he’ll surely regret this.

“Do you hate me?” Harry whispers, staring up at Voldemort.

Does Voldemort hate Harry so much that all he did was just so he can torture Harry, get his
revenge? Or was it just a bonus to his plans?

“No,” Voldemort says.

He could mean it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Just no way to tell with him.

He bends, oh so slowly, and kisses Harry.

It’s like coming home. Harry melts into the kiss, like a man dying of thirst finally having
water.

Everything fits in a way it never did with anyone else. Even with Ginny, whom he truly
loved.

All too soon, Voldemort draws back, lets go of him.

Harry blinks, dazed. Empty.

What, he’ll make me beg?

They did that, sometimes. Before. But surely Voldemort isn’t as cruel as to demand it now,
not after everything-
“Will you stop thinking?” he asks Harry, half exasperated, half amused.

Once again, it’s not Legilimency. His turmoil must be so obvious on his face.

“Follow me,” he says, and Harry does, because he’s a weak idiot.

Up the stairs, along the hallway, to Voldemort’s bedroom.

He opens the door, and the candles on the wall come alive, casting light and shadows all over.

Bellatrix’ picture is still on the floor, where Harry threw it in a fit of rage and pain, the frame
broken, glass covering her face.

Voldemort steps right over it, doesn’t spare it a glance.

What an arsehole, Harry thinks, even if a part of him is a bit gleeful. But that’s who he is;
Bellatrix is dead, she can no longer be of service to him, so he’ll step over her picture the way
he steps over everyone else. Harry, too, steps over it, behind Voldemort.

Magic sucks all the dust out of the room, freshens up the sheets.

“Did you come here to cry?” he asks. At least he isn’t smiling. At least he doesn’t sound
mocking.

“Only once,” Harry says, defiantly.

He’d only cried once since this entire ordeal happened.

“I see.” He takes off his robe, slowly.

Harry feels hot. Boiling.

Voldemort unbuttons his shirt. “So, instead of crying, you got drunk and slept with muggles.”

“How do you know they were muggles?” Harry refuses to feel ashamed- he’d done nothing
wrong- but he does feel a little uncomfortable. There’s something very predatory in the way
those fingers unhurriedly work open the buttons. One by one.

“I had Travers track you, from time to time.”

Harry’s eyes, that have been very focused on the now open shirt, snap back up to Voldemort’s
face.

“What?”

“To make sure you don’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere, what with your taste in men.”
Voldemort smirks. “I told you before; you attract the worst sort of attention.”

Maybe. Harry was too drunk to care, or to realise exactly whom he was leaving the bars with.
Some of the men were…a tad questionable, he supposes. Dangerous. Only not dangerous
enough. They were muggles, of no real threat to Harry. And a handful of them were actually
nice, like the astrology man.

Voldemort stalks towards him, steps measured.

He looks so good; Harry licks his lips. He has flashes of drunken, disrupted memories, of
really handsome men, of chiseled, perfect muscles, developed in those muggle gyms.

Voldemort isn’t like that; there are no bulging muscles, just a hardness to him that is
mouthwatering. Everything about him is firm, from the line of his wide, straight shoulders, to
the line of his hips, dipping low in his trousers.

And he’s so tall, so big. It’s more than just his body. There are men as tall as him out there;
rare enough, but they exist. Yet Voldemort seems more, his personality, his magic making
him larger than life.

And then there’s his perfectly combed hair, dark and put together- Harry knows the only time
it isn’t proper is when he’d just woken up, or when he lets Harry run his fingers through it.

Most of all, Harry missed his eyes. Beautiful, intelligent, dark and cruel. His gaze feels like a
physical thrill, touching Harry’s skin.

His long fingers tug at the neck of Harry’s sweater.

“Were the muggles satisfying, Harry?”

He can’t answer, eyes fixed on Voldemort’s mouth, on lips that opened to spew vitriol and
malice; it is unfair it gets to be so beautiful. It forms a smile now, mocking and entertained.

“I think not,” he says. “I think you closed your eyes and wished you were with me. You told
me some months ago that the world doesn’t revolve around me, and while that might be true-
for now- I know your world revolves around me. Always did, and always will.”

The smile is gone, and his eyes turn even darker.

“And now, after all your adventures, you can truly appreciate how much of a superior lover I
am.”

Unbelievable-

Harry doesn’t finish his thought, his exasperation cut short when Voldemort’s fingers pull
and, aided by magic, they rip Harry’s sweater clean in half.

“You’ve filled out,” Voldemort comments, his fingers now trailing on Harry’s sides, leaving
fire behind them. “You finally look like a man, and not a boy. There aren’t many advantages
to being married to an athlete, but this is one, I suppose.”

What remained of the sweater, clinging to Harry’s arms, disappears into thin air.
“As opposed to the many advantages to being married to a dark lord.” Harry tried to sound
sarcastic, but he just sounds strangled.

“There are many,” Voldemort says, fingers now working open Harry’s jeans. “If you play
nice, I can give you everything you want.”

You can’t. Voldemort can’t give Harry a nice, decent husband. He can’t give Harry peace, or a
happy, functional family. A loving marriage.

He will never love me, Harry tells himself. It hurts, but it is the truth, and in a way it is more
freeing than the hope he harboured before, living in fear to have it crushed.

There’s no hope to crush now.

Voldemort can’t hurt him anymore, because Harry won’t give him any weapon this time. No
hope to use against him, no delusion he is so desperate to protect that he’d turn a blind eye to
anything.

There’s only one thing- one thing that Harry wants to be real.

“You know I will do whatever you want,” Harry whispers. “Within reason,” he adds, at
Voldemort’s raised eyebrow. “You have my friends and Delphini hanging over my head. I
will do as you want, for them, Like I’ve been doing. You don’t need-” he gulps. “This.” He
gestures between them. “You don’t need it to convince me to-”

Something resembling softness graces those aristocratic features. Just for a fleeting moment,
before it’s replaced by a smile.

“I don’t need this,” Voldemort agrees. It is, in a way, what Harry wanted to hear. What he’s
been concerned about. But it still hurts. He’d like Voldemort to need this, as much as Harry
does. “But I want it.”

And Harry will settle for want; for real want, with nothing Voldemort standing to gain from it
besides pleasure. The pleasure of Harry’s body.

No ulterior motive. Harry wouldn’t be able to stand going through that again: wanting
Voldemort, craving sex with him, while doubting Voldemort really wants it back.

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Ok.”

Voldemort touches his face, fingers soft but firm on Harry’s jaw. He leans in for a kiss and
this time Harry has no misgivings about it.

Voldemort might not love, but he does have passion.

It feels natural to be in that bed again, a place that brought Harry so much enjoyment in the
past.

It’s not a stranger above him. It’s Voldemort, that knows Harry better than anyone else in the
world, that knows he’s not a pretend version of Sirius. Voldemort had seen every corner of
Harry’s mind, had seen him at his worst and at his best, and he still wants to fuck Harry, to
kiss him.

Voldemort destroyed Harry’s life, killed his parents, his friends, and it brings an endless
amount of despair to want him.

But Harry also destroyed Voldemort, hunted down pieces of his soul, did his best to kill him.
Harry made sure Voldemort’s daughter grew up an orphan. Harry’s side killed those closest to
Voldemort, like Bellatrix.

Of course, the reality is that Harry and the Order were in the right, were defending
themselves, but Voldemort will never see it that way, will he?

They harmed each other, and if Voldemort can let go of that and still find pleasure in Harry,
then why can’t Harry do the same?

He runs his fingers down Voldemort’s back, feeling all the strength there, under mostly
smooth skin. He can feel the rough patches of skin, too, the scars he got in the Ministry, but
Harry no longer feels guilty about that, no longer wishes he’d have gotten Voldemort out
faster, before he was tortured in that cell.

Voldemort is not someone to feel responsible over; not what happens to him, and not what he
chooses to do to others. The man is a force of nature. He’s indestructible, unstoppable,
impervious to damage of any kind.

Harry gives himself a pass, as he opens his legs, spreads them wide.

Dumbledore couldn’t stop Voldemort. Four Ministers, countless Aurors- all of them far
better, older wizards than Harry, couldn’t stop Voldemort. So it’s ridiculous anyone-
including himself- had expected Harry will. Unreasonable.

He relaxes around the long finger now stretching him open, soon asking for a second,
wanting more of Voldemort inside of him.

“Harry,” Voldemort says, voice low. “Your muggles might have needed directions, but I
don’t.”

That’s true. Voldemort doesn’t need anything, really, to make Harry burn with desire. Just
that it’s him, this powerful, resilient, dangerous man is enough.

No one fucks Harry like Voldemort does; or if someone like that exists somewhere in the
world, Harry doesn’t want them.

When Voldemort pushes inside him, it feels like it won’t fit, Harry’s body struggling to take
him; but of course it fits, and does so perfectly, like no other could.

Voldemort hisses above him, and Harry fancies he’s saying something in parseltongue,
something kind. Something nice.
Harry moans, pulling him closer, finding his lips and getting lost in them; he loves having
Voldemort’s tongue ravaging his mouth, while his cock fills him up.

He loves the connection between them, so many years stretched together, pain and suffering,
and fate. They shared a soul, they used to share a secret language, they even shared dreams,
back when their minds could connect from afar. They still share blood; even if a piece of
Voldemort’s soul is no longer in Harry, there must be traces of that presence left, and Harry’s
blood and magic were used to revive Voldemort, give him a new body, a new life.

They are both a tether to each other, keeping the other alive, making them immortal, and even
if Harry hates that thought, generally, it’s quite striking when they’re in bed together, joined
in more ways then one, joined like no other two people could be.

Harry doesn’t think of Tom at all, not even once. He never met Tom, not truly. He thinks of
him solely as Voldemort.

Who would Harry be, anyway, without him? Maybe he’d have had parents, maybe he’d have
been happy, but he would be someone else.

Maybe he wouldn’t even have Ron and Hermione; after all, they only became so close
because they almost died every year at Hogwarts, trying to stop Voldemort, in one way or
another.

Perhaps Voldemort was right, and he’d have ended up similar to Draco, spoiled beyond
belief, entitled and arrogant after growing up with James and Sirius.

He wouldn’t have Delphini. And that’s just unthinkable.

Harry is who he is- the good and the bad- because of Voldemort.

Harry comes embarrassingly fast, his cock trapped between their stomachs, his prostate
stimulated with every thrust.

Voldemort fucks him through it, making a pleased sound when Harry arches his back and
clenches around him.

But even when the aftershocks are gone, Harry stays hard. He pants against Voldemort’s
shoulder, in a haze of pleasure, his thighs aching around Voldemort’s hips.

He feels consumed with lust, and when Voldemort praises him, whispering in Harry's ear
‘you take me so well’ he’s almost driven mad with want.

(-)

Harry is sore, laying boneless on the bed, Voldemort’s come still warm on his thighs.
There’s come on his stomach, too, and under him, from when Voldemort turned him around
and fucked him hard into the mattress until Harry reached his second orgasm.

Harry waits for the guilt, for the self disgust to arrive, but it isn’t happening. He just feels
good. Tired, but good.

Voldemort is silent at his side, and Harry cranes his neck to look at him, but of no use. It’s not
like Voldemort wears his feelings- or lack thereof- on his face.

“Delphini was unhappy last year, on her birthday,” he says. “Because you weren’t there.”

“She wouldn’t answer my letters,” Harry says, though it’s like talking to walls, really. “She
sent back her gift-”

“I won’t have her miserable again this year.”

“I’ll be there,” Harry says. “Though I hope she won’t have it at Malfoy’s Manor, and if she
does, I hope at least Lestrange won’t be there.”

“He won’t,” Voldemort agrees. “He still has a….let’s call it a grudge against you. You won’t
see him until I am satisfied he won’t lose his temper in your presence.”

Harry snorts. “As if I’m afraid of Lestrange.”

“It’s for both your benefit that I am keeping you apart for now.”

Harry smiles. Well, at least Voldemort seems to think Harry is capable of holding his own
against Rabastan Lestrange.

“So, what? You think he won’t obey you if you tell him to leave me alone? Who disobeys the
dark lord, huh?”

Voldemort sighs. “Not all my Death Eaters were mindless cowards, you know? Some of
them were-are- very stubborn and strong willed. They followed me because they agreed with
me. But Rabastan doesn’t approve of you. He’ll get there, he just needs more….treatment,
after the dementors.”

“Why did you get him out?” Harry asks again. “Especially since you know you can’t control
him a hundred percent.”

“I can control him just fine, in most matters.” His eyes fall on Bellatrix’s picture on the floor.
“He is Rodolphus’ brother. And Rodolphus was my most loyal- he was my friend.”

Harry blinks at him. He swallows. Friend.

“If I had to call someone a friend, then he’d have been my friend. And he cared for Rabastan.
I won’t allow his brother to rot in Azkaban when I have the means to get him out.”

“Usually one doesn’t sleep with their friend’s wife,” Harry says, quietly. Even if, shockingly,
Voldemort referred to someone as a friend, it’s clear he doesn’t understand the meaning of
that word.

“I am not an ordinary man, and Rodolphus was no ordinary friend, either.”

It’s just hopeless, so Harry leaves it be. He’s very tired. He’s sleepy, and comfortable, even
with the drying come starting to itch.

“I’ll spend the night here,” Voldemort announces.

Harry doesn’t have the energy to shrug in an effort to simulate nonchalance. His eyes are
closed already, and he feels a spike of warmth when he hears Voldemort plans to sleep there.

(-)

“Just checking to see if you’re alive,” Delphini says, the next day, head poking from the
fireplace. “I couldn’t sleep at all thinking about you.”

Harry woke up alone and immediately started regretting everything. But he doesn’t have the
energy he had before to hate himself.

He didn’t feel good when he woke up in that bedroom, but he didn’t feel the way he had
those months after Malfoy Manor.

He went to the kitchen, and there it was. Toast and tea, preserved by charms.

Harry stared at them hatefully, but he instantly lightened up, warmth spreading through his
chest.

“I’m fine, Delphini,” Harry says. He very much wishes she wouldn’t worry about him. “He
wouldn’t kill me.”

“I know. I was mostly worried he’d upset you so much you’d do it yourself.”

Fuck. He’s a terrible, terrible father. He should have never broken down the way he did in
Malfoy Manor, allowing her to see him that way, allowing her to guess he was suicidal.

“Delphini, I’m-” He bites his tongue, and meets her eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?
You don’t have to worry about that. I promised I would never leave you-'“

“Never leave me again,” she interrupts.

There’s no point in telling her he didn’t abandon her, that he sent letters, that it was she who
refused to speak to him.

They’ve been over it already.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he repeats. “I swear.”

Her gaze is so intense, in the same manner her father’s is, giving the impression she’s staring
right into his soul. But then her eyes shift and she sees the cup at his side.

“Is that tea?” she asks, excited, and now she looks like a normal child, grinning from ear to
ear. “You’re drinking tea?”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

He missed tea. It’s good. It’s comforting. It’s familiar and safe.

She lowers her voice. “Is he there?”

“No.”

“Did you sleep together?”

“Delphini!” Harry chokes on his own saliva. He feels his cheeks going red, and he’s so
embarrassed.

“Oh, gods! You did! That’s wonderful, Harry! Are you coming home now? When are you
moving in? If you’re there, I won’t have to stay at Malfoy Manor anymore, I can live there
full time and-”

“Delphini!” Harry can’t meet her eyes, still red as a tomato. “First of all, you can’t- like- you-
what do you even know about- you can’t say things like that!”

She laughs. “I know what happens between married couples, Harry.”

“Delphini!” He groans and changes the subject. “I’m not going to his house, alright? We just
- I mean, I’ll try to get along with him, and I’ll be there for your birthday. That’s enough for
now.”

A long suffering sigh. “I suppose,” she says. “You’ll move in eventually, I know you will.”

(-)

Harry has no idea how to act when they meet for their weekly dinner. Sleeping with
Voldemort should have changed things, and yet it doesn’t feel as if it did.

Delphini is unusually silent, playing with her food, looking between Voldemort and Harry, as
if expecting something.

Nothing happens. Voldemort is distracted, clearly, and at some point he actually takes out a
journal from -Harry doesn’t know from where. It just appears on the table, along with a
muggle pen.
He notes something down, fast.

Harry looks, because seeing this man keeping a diary isn’t very reassuring.

He understands nothing. It’s plain English, but it’s related to some laws, so it might as well
been written in German.

“I decided what I want for my birthday,” Delphini breaks the awkward silence, before she can
pick a dessert.

“Oh, good.” Harry smiles at her, glad for having something to focus on.

“I want to spend the day with you, home. With both of you.”

Hardly surprising, Harry thinks.

“I mean all twenty-four hours of it. From midnight to midnight,” she clarifies.

Voldemort doesn’t look up from his journal. “We won’t stay home the entire day; there’s
something I must attend to.”

“But it’s my birthday,” Delphini says, eyes narrowed, fingers curled on her napkin';
Voldemort looks up, meets her gazes, and Delphini slumps in her chair.

“Fine,” she says. But Harry will still stay with me, right Harry?”

“Well, if- I mean, if that’s alright….” Harry trails off.

“It is,” Voldemort confirms, returning to his notes.

(-)

Harry buys her books, limited editions of the fairytales she most enjoys, in special, beautiful
covers.

She gets her an enormous pink teddy bear that says ‘I love you’ when squeezed hard.

On the aisle with plush toys, a cute snake grabs his attention. He hadn’t known it was
possible to make a snake adorable, but this one has a lovable expression on its face, so Harry
buys it, too.

He hunts down the most complicated puzzle that was recommended to him by a shopkeeper.

“Oh, my!” the man that wraps it exclaims. “Whoever is getting this will spend months, if not
years on it.”

Harry grins. The man doesn’t know Delphini.

He buys her a silver goblin made bracelet, too. He knows the Malfoys will surely outclass
him in this department, and he doesn’t approve of Delphini wearing expensive jewellery so
young, but she does enjoy bracelets, so he gets one for her.

He also orders her a beautiful cake, with all the Disney Princess she likes made out of
frosting.

When the thought comes if maybe he should get Voldemort a gift, he dismisses it.

(-)

“What did you get her?” Harry asks Voldemort, who comes to collect Harry on the 30th of
December, in late afternoon.

He shrank all the other gifts, but he’s carefully balancing the cake. It is never a good idea to
shrink food.

“Nothing,” Voldemort answers. “She said she wants us to stay with her for her birthday. That
is the gift.”

Harry stares at him. “You can’t be serious!”

He gets a mysterious smile, but nothing else, and then they are Apparating away.

(-)

The house is beautiful.

It’s a bit larger than he would have imagined it, but nothing outrageous.

It has four bedrooms, a bright airy kitchen, a very comfortable looking living room, and the
biggest library Harry had ever seen outside of Hogwarts. Rows upon rows of books are
stacked on big, wooden shelves. Voldemort enchanted the ceiling to look like the one in
Hogwarts’ Great Hall.

Everything is made of wood; dark wood, mostly, from the furniture to the house itself.

But the best part is outside. The house is perched on a high hill, with a clear view of the sea
below.

And down on the beach, Harry can see the shapes of Quidditch goal posts.

It’s everything Harry could have imagined. More than he’d imagined, even.
He didn’t imagine the Quidditch posts.

When he spent nights thinking about Voldemort in his house, when he had fantasies they
were a regular family- even in the best of those fantasies Harry had not come up with
Quidditch posts.

There is plenty of space around the house- more than plenty- for a garden.

Delphini’s room is the only one that comes in colour. Pink and blue and purple, with toys
scattered around the many books she has there.

“Muggle books; father doesn’t want them in the library. Well, not these.” She giggles,
holding up one that has a man and a woman kissing on the cover. “He keeps muggle classic
downstairs, though.”

There are no pictures or paintings in the rest of the house, the walls white and spotless.

But two massive portraits of Bellatrix’ dominate Delphini’s walls. Thankfully, not sentient,
like some portraits in their world can be. Bellatrix moves slightly, but she doesn’t talk. She’s
young in one of them, in a Slytherin uniform, Head Girl badge gleaming on her robe. The
resemblance to Delphini is striking.

In the other portrait she’s in her wedding robes; Rodolphus is right beside her. They look
haughty, and cold, staring at Harry with narrowed eyes.

“Regis gave me this one; it was in the Lestrange Manor,” Delphini says, softly, touching her
mother’s painted hand.

(-)

She insists she is the one to set the table for dinner, so she disappears into the kitchen, locking
the door with magic.

“I thought she can’t use magic without supervision,” Harry says, standing in the living room,
beside an enormous leather sofa.

It’s very sparsely furnished; the windows are tall, almost from floor to ceiling. It’s…nice. A
bit cold, but it suits Voldemort.

“I’m sure Narcissa does her best to supervise her,” Voldemort answers. “But I trust she can
handle herself just fine.”

When she calls them in, there are candles on the table, and a vase filled with roses.

It is painfully clear she wanted to make it a romantic sort of dinner. Harry sighs. Voldemort
hides a smile.
Delphini pretends to not feel well five minutes after they sat down to eat. “I think I’ll go
upstairs and sleep. See you tomorrow!”

She darts out of the door, and then immediately back in. “Forgot something,” she mutters,
going into the pantry and returning with a bucket of ice, and a nice wine bottle stuck in it.
She places it on the table and then darts back out.

Voldemort picks up an ice cube, looking rather impressed. “Quite advanced charms,” he says.
“Though she needs to work on subtlety.”

The candles, now that Harry looks at them better, are heart-shaped.

“Where did she get these?” he asks, exasperated.

“I imagine she stole them from Malfoy Manor,” Voldemort answers, extinguishing a candle
and picking it up to examine the support. “Gold. Definitely Malfoy Manor.”

Just talk to him, a voice whispers in Harry’s head. You have to get used to him. He’ll be in
your life forever, or at least until Delphini comes off age. Just talk.

“Agh,” Harry says, playing with his food. “How’s work?”

“Unpleasant. Rather, the actual work is fine. The people, however….” Voldemort takes the
bottle from the bucket. “Wine?” he asks.

“Yes- no,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I -agh- I am trying not to drink.”

Voldemort fills two goblets, anyway, and one of them floats seamlessly to Harry’s side of the
table.

“You can’t blame your poor decisions on alcohol, Harry.”

Well, no, but- “It certainly didn’t help.”

“There’s a difference between a glass of wine and a bottle of vodka. Do not worry, Harry. I
won’t allow you to turn into a drunk.”

He takes a sip, and tries to eat, the silence heavy around them.

“Do you know of a way to test if a person is magical or not?” Harry eventually asks.
“Hermione says there isn’t, and I never heard of-”

“Of course there is,” Voldemort interrupts him. “Blood magic. Hermione would hardly look
into that branch, however.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. I wouldn’t, either.”

“Why do you ask?”

Harry puts down the knife and fork. It’s not like Voldemort won’t eventually find out,
especially if Tony is a wizard.

“My cousin’s son. We suspect he might be magical.”

“He is,” Voldemort says.

“What?”

“I told you Travers keeps an eye on you. He saw you visiting the muggles, rather frequently
lately. The boy floated a twig in the garden, while you were inside with his father.”

Harry knew. He knew Tony almost certainly has magic. He still feels a jolt of excitement.

He also knew Voldemort is spying on him, but that doesn’t stop the jolt of anger. “I don’t
appreciate-”

“I don’t care what you appreciate. As I said, you are prone to poor choices. I won’t allow you
to do something truly idiotic, so Travers will be there to make sure you won’t. I don’t see the
issue. He’s so discrete you never noticed him, and he won’t interfere with your activities,
unless it’s vital that he does.”

Harry tries to control himself. “If you want this-” he gestures between them. “- to work, you
can’t just make these decisions and expect me to be alright with them. It’s not ok.”

Voldemort watches him for a couple of seconds. “Fine,” he says, which takes the wind out of
Harry, who was preparing for a fight.

“Fine?” he asks.

“Sure.” Voldemort shrugs. “Travers won’t follow you around from now on.”

Harry blinks at him, suspicious. “Are you lying?”

“What do you want me to answer, Harry? No matter what I say, you won’t believe me.”

Impossible, Harry thinks. It’s impossible to have any kind of relationship with him.

Harry stays silent.

Shortly after, Voldemort leads him to a bedroom. He opens the door, and gestures for Harry
to go inside.

“Or you may come to my room,” he says, just as Harry walks by him, their shoulders
touching.

“No, thanks,” Harry spits, angry about Travers, angry that Voldemort can’t behave like a
normal man for five minutes. He slams the door behind him.

This room is cold, too, as the rest of the house, with the exception of Delphini’s bedroom.
It’s the grand furniture, the pure white walls, the lack of pictures or decorations.

Beautiful, yes. Elegant, yes. But so cold.

Just like Voldemort.

(-)

Delphini loves the gifts, as soon as she opens them after breakfast. Her genuine smiles, the
excitement in her voice, the way she keeps hugging the teddy bear over and over-

It reminds Harry why he’s subjecting himself to Voldemort for.

At mid day, Voldemort orders Delphini to grab her cloak. “You can join us, if you want,” he
tells Harry.

“But why? Where are we going? You said I can stay with Harry- it’s my birthday!” Delphini
reminds him, eyes sparkling.

He pulls out a Portkey. It’s a Ministry sanctioned portkey, and the triple red marks on it
indicate it’s an international one, from what Harry remembers from Hermione.

They go to Prague. Harry has never been outside of Great Britain before. He looks around,
instantly excited. About everything. The different architecture, the foreign language, the
different people.

They’re in the magical part of Prague, he can instantly tell. The fashion is a bit different from
back home, but unquestionably magical. Not to mention the stores. Granted, most seem to be
closed, due to the New Year, but Voldemort leads them through the street, until he stops in
front of an open shop. Harry can’t read the sign hanging above the door, but he doesn’t need
to.

He sees the wands inside.

Delphini sees them, too. “I have mama’s wand,” she says, fingers going in her pocket,
protective and possessive.

Harry hates that wand with all his being. He wants her to get a new one. He could hardly wait
for it. He’d planed it already, how he’ll take her to Diagon Alley, treat her to ice-cream and
then claim he has to speak with an old friend and lead her to Ollivanders-

That’s about how far he’s gotten into his planning, but still. He had a plan, and he wanted to
take Delphini to Diagon.

“Ollivanders is the best wand maker in-”

“In England,” Voldemort cuts him off.

“Well, we’re British,” Harry hisses. “Where’s your nationalism?”

Voldemort rolls his eyes. “He will recognise me, if he hadn’t already, from the newspapers. If
he hadn’t, it’s not wise to stroll into his shop. I did torture the man, you know.”

“Don’t say that in front of her,” Harry snaps at him, over Delphini’s head. He’s actually quite
surprised Ollivander isn’t dead, now that he thinks of it.

“In any case, there are much more accomplished wand makers in the world, and Lady
Brezina is one of them.”

Harry doesn’t know much about wand makers and who is more accomplished, but, at least,
this Lady Brezina is less creepy and less vague than Ollivander, he discovers minutes later,
when they enter the shop.

“I appreciate you opening the shop for me today,” Voldemort tells her, charming smile in
place.

“No bother,” she assures him, in an accented English.

They clearly know each other.

“I am flattered you’d consider my wands for your daughter, especially when you have that
boy Ollivander in England.”

At first, Harry only snorts at ‘boy’ aimed at Ollivander, who must be well over one hundred
years old.

And then it registers- ‘your daughter’.

He told her Delphini is his? But why? Voldemort is obsessed with his cover, with secrecy.

Why would he trust this old, tiny, hunched down woman with such a secret?

“Who is she?” Harry whispers, when the woman takes Delphini aside to talk to her.

She doesn’t measure Delphini’s arm, like Ollivander did to Harry.

Voldemort ignores him, going over to a shelf filled with wands, apparently studying them.

Harry goes to Delphini, sits beside her.

Cups of hot chocolate appear for them. The woman is soft-spoken. She looks looks wise, and
kind, and a bit like Dumbledore, like she has a hidden strength to her under all that white
hair.

She spends a lot of time just getting to know Delphini, asking her questions that Harry can’t
see having anything to do with wands.
Somehow she convinces Delphini to show her Bellatrix’ wand.

She takes it between wrinkled hands, eyes closed, fingers touching it all over the length of the
curbed wood, carefully. “Your mother was a powerful witch,” she says.

“She was,” Delphini says, though it wasn’t a question.

“Dragon heartstring. Walnut. Unyielding." She opens her eyes. “Yes, young lady, I think
unyielding would suit you, too.”

She stands with surprising agility for someone so old. When she returns, Voldemort comes
closer.

She places three boxes on the table, in front of Delphini.

“Close your eyes, child,” she instructs. “And hover your hand above them. You, young man,
give her some space. I don’t want any interference.”

Interference with what, exactly?

But Harry gets up, and moves to stand by Voldemort.

“You’ll feel a pull with the right one. Focus. Concentrate on your magic, and it will direct
you.”

“I feel a pull to all of them,” Delphini says, eyes closed and frowning, after some minutes.

“Keep going,” the woman whispers.

It takes many minutes. Maybe even half an hour, before Delphini opens her eyes, and points
to a box. “This one,” she says, sounding excited.

“Just as I thought,” the woman says to Voldemort.

They watch Delphini take the lid off. The second she touches the wand, shadows fall over the
shop. It is a bright day, but in a second, they’re standing in complete darkness.

“What the-” Harry says, uneasy, but before he finishes his sentence, the shadows clear as if
they’ve never been there.

“Yew and dragon heartstring. Unyielding. The yew is old, very old, but the dragon was a
young thing; fierce and untameable.” the woman says. “It will serve you very well, child.”

It’s a beautiful wand, a darker colour than her father’s, thinner, with strange patterns carved
over the handle.

For a second, a tender looks settles in Voldemort’s eyes.

Harry’s breath catches, looking at him displaying an emotion that isn’t anger or dark
amusement.
He looks….striking, like a different man entirely. It lasts but a second, and then he turns his
attention to the woman.

“How much do I owe you?”

“A gift, my lord,” she says.

My lord. Harry shivers.

Voldemort nods. “Thank you.”

“Did you see, father? I got yew, like you, and dragon heartstring like mama!” Delphini says,
excitedly, following her father to the door.

“You had no chance, Harry Potter,” the woman whispers to Harry, startling him. “Holly
stands for peace and goodwill.” She offers him a gentle, pitying smile. “Yew, however, is
poisonous; an omen for doom. But yew was also called the tree of the immortals. Drooping
branches of old yew trees can root and form new trunks where they touch the ground.
Because of it, in ancient cultures, the yew came to symbolise death and resurrection. Since
we wand makers keep track of such things, there had never been a yew wand matched with a
phoenix feather, that also quite literally represents immortality. When Ollivander announced
he was going to combine those two together, we called him foolish. We told him there will be
no man or woman capable to tame such a temperamental combination. And that if one will,
then the owner of that wand will live forever.” She laughs, eyes sparkling. “ For decades, that
wand rejected every single witch or wizard that tried it. Rumour is, it rejected the mighty
Albus Dumbledore, Ollivander’s close friend. So you can imagine our surprise when news
spread an eleven-year-old child subdued such a wand.”

“Don’t scare the boy, Lady Brezina,” Voldemort calls from the door.

“He’s all yours,” the woman says, and she gesture to Harry, indicating he should go.

(-)

Harry could have went to Grimmauld once he put Delphini to bed. Instead, he went down to
the living room and sat beside Voldemort.

“Why did you kill Slughorn?” he asks, scrutinising that hard face.

He allowed Ollivander to live, and that woman, so why not Slughorn?

“Come summer, when I have a few days off, I’ll take you to Spain. You can ask Slughorn
why he left.”

Harry stares at him.

“Of course, I am not him, but were I to throw a guess, I’d say he panicked when he saw my
face in the Daily Prophet and went into hiding.”

Harry wants to believe. He wants badly to believe it.

“He hides well, but not well enough. No one hides from me for long, Harry. I know where he
is. I always knew where he was, even in the war. I knew he knew about Horcruxes.”

Right. Now that he thinks about it, how come Voldemort hadn’t killed Slughorn, during the
first war, knowing what the man remembered of the Horcrux conversation they had? Harry
frowns. “Didn’t you- weren’t you worried he’d say something?”

“No. Slughorn would have never talked about it. He’s a Slytherin, he embodies self-
preservation. If you hadn’t tricked him, with the aid of a potent Liquid Luck potion, he’d
have never volunteered that information. Dumbledore couldn’t get it out of him.” Voldemort
smiles, satisfied about this particular fact. “I know he will never tell a soul that I am back,
alive, and married to the Chosen One. I wish he’d have stayed in place, however. He’s the
greatest Potion Master of the century; Delphini would have benefited from his tutelage, like I
did. He taught me all I know of potions.” A small pause. “He taught me many other things,
back when I was eleven, thrown into a world I knew nothing about. It wasn’t easy, that first
year at Hogwarts. Everyone despised me, no one wanted to give me a chance. Everyone but
him. I respect him. That is why he survived the wars, and that is why he isn’t dead now.”

He sounds truthful. But then again, Voldemort can sound truthful even when he isn’t.

“He fought you, at Hogwarts,” Harry whispers. Not that he wants to remind Voldemort of it,
but… well, it’s not like he forgot, is it?

Slughorn, McGonagall and Kingsley- the most experienced duellists they had left in the
Order, with Dumbledore, Snape, and so many others already dead. All ganged up on
Voldemort, but he so easily got rid of them, with a wave of his wand, when he saw Bellatrix
die.

He takes a long time to answer, looking at the too white walls. “What else was left for him to
do?” he asks, but it’s not a question for Harry, really, so he doesn’t answer. “I never-” another
short pause. “I never planned to attack Hogwarts. I cherish the castle, you know that. I always
did.”

“I know,” Harry says. That’s why he blames himself. If Harry hadn’t gone to Hogwarts that
night, Voldemort wouldn’t have attacked the school. Or if Harry would have just gave
himself in as soon as Voldemort arrived and gave them the ultimatum.

If he had, Remus and Dora would be alive. Fred, Colin, Lavender, so many others. If only
Harry would have given himself in, would have forgotten about the diadem-

After all, what good did it do to him that he destroyed it?

No, it did serve a purpose. If Harry wouldn’t have destroyed the Horcruxes first, then
Voldemort wouldn’t have ended up in the Ministry, with his soul intact.
Harry is certain having his soul back makes all the difference. Voldemort is evil, but he’s far
more stable. Voldemort can feel love for his daughter. He can at least try to take control in a
less brutal way.

‘I wasn’t thinking straight,’ he’d once yelled at Harry, more emotion on his face than usual,
long before, when Harry asked him why he did all those crazy things.

“I hope you realised what terrible mistakes the Horcruxes were. I hope you won’t ever think
of making another,” Harry whispers. “You’re immortal, anyway.”

Voldemort tilts his head, observing Harry. ”Only for as long as you are alive,” he points out.

Will he blackmail me with this? Threaten me into living, otherwise he’ll make a Horcrux and
risk becoming a full-blown monster again?

“We’re both immortal,” he continues.

Harry doesn’t want to think about it. It’s terrible. Unimaginable. “I can’t- Delphini. Teddy.
My best friends.” He sounds strangled. He just can’t fathom outliving them all. “Even if I
wouldn’t be around, come on! Who’d kill you? Who would best you in a duel? No one.
There’s no need for a Horcrux. You have to know this.”

Voldemort keeps observing him for longs moments.

“Of course I wouldn’t make another one,” he says, and Harry breathes easier.

“Good.” He nods. “That’s…good.”

“Who knows, Harry? If you’re a good boy, if you do as I tell you, I might eventually let you
die, long into the future. When I gain control over Britain. When I’ll have the time to look
into making a Philosopher Stone. If that obnoxious Frenchman could do it, I don’t see why I
can’t.”

Harry snorts. But something inside him eases. Maybe, eventually, Voldemort would let him
die. After all, at some point, there will be no one else left alive to keep over Harry’s head.

I won’t have to live forever. Eventually, I’ll be able to rest and see Sirius again.

“You should have told me you didn’t kill Slughorn when I first asked,” Harry says, biting his
lip.

“And you’d have believed me, no doubt,” Voldemort answers, eyebrow raised. “It wasn’t a
question. You stated it as a fact.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you lie non-stop. People have a hard time believing you.”

“When did I lie to you?” Voldemort asks.

Harry hates his brain, hates the proximity to Voldemort that doesn’t allow him to think
clearly. He knows Voldemort lied to him, on multiple occasions, he just can’t think of one lie
right then.

“A lesser man might take umbrage having someone like you around to constantly accuse
them of murder,” Voldemort says, amused. “You are lucky I do not allow other’s opinions
bother me.”

That’s not fair. Harry refuses to feel bad. There’s a reason why he always thinks the worst of
Voldemort. The man is a murderer, and a scoundrel and a-

A great kisser.

Harry hadn’t even seen him bending over until they’re already kissing.

“Delphini,” Harry whispers breathlessly, when he draws back to get some air. “She might
wake and come down-”

A pull at his stomach, that weird sensation of Apparition, and then he blinks and they are in
Voldemort’s room, on his bed.

Harry forgets about Slughorn and Horcruxes, and Voldemort’s creepy wand, apparently as
immortal as he is.

“Happy birthday,” Harry says, haltingly, some half an hour later, breathing hard.

Voldemort laughs, his glorious upper body propped against very comfortable pillows.

“I should go home,” Harry says, hesitating. He really doesn’t want to leave the bed. He’s
sore, and exhausted, and he’d like nothing better than fall asleep there, instead of empty
Grimmauld.

“Or you could sleep here. It would make Delphini happy.”

Harry stays.

(-)

It’s gradual. Harry spends more and more nights at the house by the sea as time passes.

It’s for Delphini. She’ll soon depart for Hogwarts, this is the last chance they’ve got to spend
so much time together.

If Harry is there, Voldemort doesn’t send her over to the Malfoys.

By March, Harry’s all moved in, he realises.

And then Voldemort goes over to sleep at Grimmauld from time to time.
It’s hurtful.

“I want space,” Voldemort explains, simply. It’s so easy for him to tell Harry and Delphini
that he needs a break from them once in a while.

“At least he’s honest,” Delphini says, patting Harry’s back when they’re alone in the garden.

He’s showing her how to plant, the muggle way, the way his aunt showed him, so long ago.

Harry snorts.

“It’s just the way he is, Harry. Sometimes I want space from Teddy and Scorpius, even if I
like them. You wouldn’t understand it, but it’s difficult to be so much smarter than those
around you,” she says, as tactful as her father. “I can’t even imagine how stupid and boring
we must appear to father.” She nods to herself. “And we are very emotional, too. He says I’m
clingy and that you’re nagging.”

“Fuck him. You’re not clingy.”

He swears freely around Delphini now. Just no point in censoring himself anymore, not when
Delphini was raised by Rodolphus and now regularly sees Regis at Malfoy Manor when she
goes over to see her aunts and cousins.

It’s Voldemort that chides both of them for foul language.

Harry alternates between sleeping in his own bedroom, or in Voldemort’s, depending on his
forever shifting feelings for the man.

But Harry feels better. He could almost be happy. It’s a tad frustrating. In a way, he has all he
ever wanted. And some days, when he doesn’t think, he truly is happy. But always,
Voldemort says something, does something, small enough, insignificant enough, and Harry
remembers he does not have everything he ever wanted. He remembers his handsome,
incredibly intelligent husband is a mass murderer that will never love Harry. That needs a
break from Harry, every other weekend.

Still, when Voldemort is at work, Harry plants his garden with Delphini. He brings Teddy
over, and they all play Quidditch by the beach.

The house is new, airy. It’s not stifling Grimmauld, there aren’t shadows at every corner, the
memory of Sirius suffering there. A weight lifts from his shoulders, a weight he never
realised he was carrying..

He remembers Ginny begging him to leave Grimmauld, to move in with her. But he refused,
so she broke up with him. He remembers his best friends inviting him to move in with them.
Hermione begging that at least he gets another house.

But Harry stayed in Grimmauld, like it was his penance. Because he didn’t think he deserved
to have peace.

The more time he spends away from that awful house, the better he sleeps.
Voldemort has strict rules about who is allowed to come to the house. Malfoy, Teddy, Ron
and Hermione are the only ones on his approved list.

Ron brings the kids over, when they first come to see the house, to Harry’s horror.

“I couldn’t come up with a reason why we shouldn’t bring them,” Hermione whispers in his
ear. “But it’s fine, Harry. Really. It is.”

And it is fine. It’s exactly like in his fantasies.

Hermione and Voldemort go to Voldemort’s office, after a tour of the house.

Ron and Harry stay on the beach, laughing and playing with the children.

Harry loves to see how patient Dephini is with Hugo, how both she and Teddy offer to take
Hugo on their brooms, and hold tightly to him.

He loves watching Delphini paint Rose’ fingernails, braiding her hair, sharing her dolls with
the younger girl.

When Harry goes on tour around the Great Britain with the Cannons, Delphini comes with
him. They have fun staying in muggle hotels, eating junk food to their hearts’ desire.

In May, Voldemort and Harry officially adopt Delphini from the Malfoys. She keeps the
Black name, but seems happy with the development, with the freedom to call Voldemort
father in public.

When Harry eventually tells her about Tony, Delphini doesn’t like it, like he suspected.

“I’ll only see him from time to time, yeah? He has parents, his own house, grandparents- it’s
just that he’s my blood, you know? I have a duty to look after him, help him and his parents
around our world. He’s the only connection I have with my mum.”

She softens at that, understanding. She, too, feels connected to her aunts and cousins because
they are people that connect her to Bellatrix.

Taking the Durselys to Diagon Alley is unbelievable. Ana is remarkably accepting of magic,
but when Harry tells her Delphini is his and his husband’s adoptive daughter, she judges.
Silently, but she does.

Dudley has a reaction, too, but he’s so determined to be accepting of everything, so grateful
to Harry and guilty about their childhood that he tries to take it in stride.

Harry doesn’t really care what they think. As long as they are polite, and as long as they are
kind to their son, he’s good to go.

And they do love Tony. Dudley has changed since his anger management classes, after he got
arrested at nineteen. After he met Ana. He became a better man, but he’s still not very smart,
so he struggles to understand everything that goes on around him. When he hears wizards
have sports, too, and it’s played on brooms, that Harry is a star athlete, he seems more at ease
with that.

He’s amazed to see how people come to Harry to shake his hand and ask for autographs.

“You’ll be well connected, Tony,” he tells his son, reminding Harry of uncle Vernon and his
rants about how important it is to have good connections.

Of course, everyone notices Tony’s eyes, and when Harry says he’s his cousin, Tony is
instantly welcomed everywhere, given free books and sweets.

“Once Delphini is at Hogwarts,” Voldemort says, one night, as they read in the garden. “You
may bring that boy here, only when I am at work. But never, never bring a muggle into my
house, understood?”

Harry nods, jaws clenched. He hates it when Voldemort gives orders like that.

But his life is good. Peaceful. Voldemort remains calm, dutifully working in the Ministry.

Even when his boss dies, as June comes around, Harry tells himself the man was old.

Hermione looks unconcerned about it, swears she’s sure Voldemort didn’t kill him, that the
man has been sick for years.

Part of Harry is certain she’s lying to him, but he chooses to blame that feeling on his
paranoia. He takes a cheerfulness potions and goes with Voldemort to the small party the
Ministry throws for his promotion as Head of the Department of International Magical
Cooperation.

“And who’s that?” Harry asks Hermione, in the crowded room, watching a woman
shadowing Voldemort around. She’s young and pretty. Vaguely familiar.

“Oh, Auror Doyle,” she says. “All Department Heads have an Auror escort. He specifically
asked for her.” She shrugs. “I looked into it, but I can’t find any connection to- well, you
know.”

To Voldemort, before the war; to the Death Eaters.

“She’s competent, but rather unremarkable. I spoke to her, and she seems like a decent human
being. I can’t figure out why he wanted her. Maybe he just considers her naive enough that he
can trick her easily.”

Harry frowns. “He can trick anyone, no matter how old and intelligent.”

It’s only when he goes closer, and the woman smiles at him, eyes honest, thanks him for his
efforts in the war, that Harry recognises her.

She used to guard Voldemort, back in the cell at the Ministry. But that was not written on any
record, so of course Hermione couldn’t find it.
“It’s an honour to be assigned to your husband,” she tells Harry, eyes never leaving
Voldemort, who is a little further away, talking to some old men. “I know I’m not as
experienced as my older colleagues, but I promise you I’d protect him with my life, Mr
Potter.”

She’s the one that got fired because she let him read the magazines, Harry thinks.

Voldemort confirms it when they are back home, in the living room. “She’s a terrible Auror.
Too soft for the job. She’d get herself killed out there, eventually.” He gives Harry an amused
look. “She reminds me of you, really. She’ll be better off trapped inside the Ministry. Even if
someone was daft enough to attack me, she wouldn’t be needed to fight them off.”

Kindness. The woman was kind to him, and Voldemort remembers it. Not only does he
remember it, but he payed it back.

He does react to kindness, in his own, small ways.

Why couldn’t you have been kind to him? Harry asks Dumbledore, who cannot answer.

“You didn’t sleep with her, did you?” Harry blurts out, the idea just coming to him.

“What?” Voldemort actually looks surprised for a moment.

Harry blushes.

Abort, abort, abort! a wiser part of him begs him, but he doesn’t listen.

“When the ring- when- I mean, who was it?”

Voldemort stands, taking off his outer robe. He gives Harry a scathing look.

“You left minutes after we signed the papers, you repeatedly asked me not to touch you ever
again, you fucked half of London, and now you dare to inquire about the one person I took to
bed?” Voldemort sneers at him. “I know you’re a hypocrite, Harry, but even for you that’s a
bit much, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t say it like that,” Harry snaps at him. “I was just curious, Christ!”

“Curious? What if I get curious? What if I want to know their names? Do you even know
their names?”

God, how Harry hates him.

“They were muggles!” he hisses.

A mocking smile. “What does that mean? Are you suggesting muggles are so beneath us they
don’t matter?”

Stay calm. “They were muggles, so there is no risk of us running into them, or them talking
to the Prophet and the information going out to the-”
“Now you care about our image?”

There’s no talking to him. It’s just impossible. Harry just wants to know if it was someone
magical, someone Harry can bump into. Maybe someone Harry knows already, shook their
hands, and he doesn’t want to- he’s not sure what he doesn’t want, exactly. Not to be a fool in
front of that person.

Voldemort goes to his office, but Harry follows after him. The office is adjacent to the library,
as grand and cold as anything else in the house.

Beside Delphini’s room. And Harry’s.

Not that Harry spends much time in his room, usually sleeping in Voldemort’s, but still, he
tried to make that one room his. Voldemort helped him unglue the picture of the Marauders
from Sirius’ old room, and Harry placed it on the walls in his room, here. He put up pictures
with him and Ron and Hermione, too. A couple with Teddy and Delphini. He made it warm
and cozy, and when he’s irritated with Voldemort, he likes to go there and calm down for a
few hours.

“I want to know it won’t happen again,” he says. He feels foolish, like he’s opening himself
up for more ridicule, for more pain, for an answer that will gut him.

Voldemort just looks at him, still as a statue. Harry feels more vulnerable with every second
spent in silence. And then Voldemort sits at his desk, takes hold of his quill and bends over
the parchments. “It won’t,” he says. “I need to finish this, if you are done with your tantrum.”

(-)

Harry stares at the open box in his lap. He blinks several times, but the image doesn’t change.
He isn’t imagining it.

It’s real.

The collar is made of supple black leather. Lord Voldemort is written in green, in a
penmanship Harry knows so well.

Harry can only stare at it, heart trapped in his throat, shock traveling through his system,
making him numb. His hands shake. He almost drops it.

This can’t be real, surely.

He did promise he’ll collar you-

“I decided to be merciful and spare you of the cuffs,” Voldemort says and Harry’s eyes are
finally ripped away from the collar. They fix on Voldemort.
“You can’t be serious,” Harry whispers. He’s lucky he’s sitting, because his knees feel
weak.“You-” Harry croaks out, but stops, unable to continue.

Voldemort looks at him with a slight smile on his face.

Harry turns back to the collar in his hands.

No, he keeps thinking. He can’t be serious about this.

I haven’t done anything wrong. Harry hadn’t screamed at him lately-or no more than usual, in
any case. He didn’t plot against him- he did nothing to deserve this.

Voldemort takes it from his hands and for a second, Harry feels relieved.

Until he realises Voldemort means to put it around his neck.

Harry stumbles out of the sofa, scrambling backwards.

He can’t expect me to wear this. Harry can’t- it would be humiliating. Unbearable. Harry
would rather jump off a bridge.

You still have that option, he calms himself. If he really expects you to wear this, you can
nod, accept it, anything to get out of his sight and then you can just jump from a cliff or-

Voldemort laughs, and it just hurts, because Harry, like an idiot, thought that they are past
this, past revenge, past-

It’s not his evil laugh, a tiny voice inside him whispers.

It’s amused, light. Though that means nothing; Voldemort often finds things funny that would
send Harry into panic attacks.

“Always ready to be the poor, abused martyr, aren’t you?” Voldemort asks. “Your lack of
faith in me wounds me, Harry,” he says, mocking. “And your stupidity never ceases to
surprise me.”

Harry frown. What does he mean?

He looks at the dreadful collar again.

A collar with my name on it. Harry is still in shock. It’s just not possible-

Wait.

Lord Voldemort. Harry can’t walk around with that name around his throat.

Voldemort surely must want to own Harry, publicly, but he already does. The wedding ring
around Harry’s finger is claim enough.

And Voldemort does not go by that name any longer.

People will just think Harry lost his damn mind, and that wouldn’t look good on Voldemort
and his career.

“Oh,” he breathes, relief washing over him. He doesn’t mean Harry to wear this. “God, you
have the worst jokes.”

Voldemort takes his wrist and pulls him back on the sofa. His long, elegant fingers play with
the leather.

“It’s not a joke,” he says. “Though it was amusing to see pure fear in those pretty eyes of
yours.”

Harry’s conflicted. Voldemort is so cheap with his compliments, he so rarely says something
nice, and now he did, but-

“It has to be a joke. I can’t wear that! What would people -”

“Only I would see you with it,” Voldemort says. He waves his hand, and the door to the
living room slams shut.

Delphini’s not home, but she sometimes pops in unexpectedly, out of the fireplace that’s only
connected to Malfoy Manor, hurrying home for a toy before flooding back to play with her
cousins.

“Oh.”

“I don’t have any occasions to see my name. No one says it. I-“ he tilts his head, regarding
Harry’s face. “I would like to see it. Around your neck.”

Must be hard, Harry thinks. Like losing his identity. Harry is one of the few to think of him as
Voldemort, but he never calls him that. Malfoy wouldn’t, nor his remaining Death Eaters.

For Delphini, he is ‘father’.

For the rest of the world, he’s the other Mr Potter.

Which is good. He should lose his identity. It would be wonderful for him to stop being
Voldemort.

But Harry long learned that he can’t decide on these matters; not on something so pivotal as
identity. Voldemort gets to choose who he wants to be, what his name is.

And he’s choosing to be Lord Voldemort only with his handful of Death Eaters.

And, apparently, with Harry. In bed.

“Ok,” Harry whispers. “I-ok. If it’s just us.”

Voldemort opens the heavy clasp on the collar. With his other hand, he pushes Harry’s short
but messy hair out of the way.
Now that he knows this isn’t meant to be a punishment at all, and it is only temporary,
between them, Harry actually feels a thrill when it locks around his neck.

(-)

They go on holiday in July. Just for five days, because Voldemort is busy. Harry isn’t exactly
free, either, he has a match as soon as they are set to return, but he’s Harry Potter, so no one
gets too upset that he misses practice right before an important match.

They go to Portugal.

Voldemort practically abandons them as soon as they arrive, only returning to the hotel in
time for dinner.

It’s fine. Harry is focused on Delphini, on the little time they have before she starts Hogwarts.

Voldemort wakes early the next morning, he has breakfast with Delphini as Harry sleeps in
and then he fucks off again, to places only known to himself.

Harry takes Delphini to the beach; they lounge under the blistering sun, eat exotic fruits, sip
refreshing drinks and play in the water.

They build sand castles and every child on the beach gathers around Harry as he builds
higher and higher.

“But how do you do it?” A german parent asks Harry, accent thick, tone frustrated when no
wave smashes Harry’s castle.

“Magic trick,” Harry say, smirking at Delphini, who smirks back.

“He’s an architect,” she says. “Quite famous.” She just likes to lie. Sometimes for no reason.
She amuses herself for almost half an hour, telling her audience of the buildings Harry builds
all throughout Great Britain.

“That’s nothing,” Voldemort tells Harry that night in bed, when Harry speaks of it. “This
morning, when I took her to breakfast, she told the waiter I’m an underwear model.”

“Oh, my god!” Harry bursts into a fit of laughter, forgetting to be worried about Delphini’s
lying habits. “Well,” he says, when he calms. “You totally could, you know?”

Voldemort rolls his eyes.

He doesn’t come to the beach with them, but on their second to last day, he takes them with
him to see some magical ruins.
They look dangerous, positively deadly, but Harry always loved adventure. He pulls out his
wand, and they head inside, curious. He isn’t concerned about Delphini. Not with Voldemort
right there.

They have a fantastic day.

(-)

“Kneel.”

Harry is naked, with only the leather strip around his throat. He usually likes to see
Voldemort naked, too, but there is also something very thrilling about having Voldemort
clothed, suit and robe and not a hair out of place, while Harry has nothing on.

He kneels.

Voldemort cups his face, fingers splayed over Harry’s cheek, his jaw. He looks down at Harry
with such intensity, with singled minded focus, and Harry loves that, loves these moments
when Voldemort only has eyes for him, when he’s only thinking about Harry.

Right now, they could be any two men, lost in each other. There’s nothing to stand between
them, no complications.

With his other hand, Voldemort parts his robes, opens his trousers and pulls himself free. He’s
already hard. He always is, when Harry is kneeling for him.

He guides Harry’s head to his cock, and the taste of him is so familiar to Harry, salt and
power.

“No,” Voldemort says, when Harry moves a hand to his own aching prick. “Hold your wrists
behind your back.”

Harry means to protest- he needs to touch himself- but before he can withdraw his head and
say so, Voldemort’s fingers tighten in his hair and he keeps Harry in place.

Harry’s arousal only spikes up, desire pooling low and scorching in his gut.

“Arms behind your back,” Voldemort repeats, but he lets go of Harry’s hair, freeing him. “Or
we stop.”

Harry breathes around his cock, and then he moves his arms behind him, grabs his left wrist
with his right hand.

“Good,” Voldemort says, and fuck, Harry almost comes anyway, just hearing it.
There are fingers in his hair again, guiding his head. Harry expects a rough face fucking, but
it’s the exact opposite. Voldemort takes his time, thrusting deep, but unhurried inside Harry’s
mouth.

He’ll prolong this, Harry knows. He’ll wank Harry, after, but he’ll keep him waiting for it.

It takes forever.

At some point, Harry doesn’t even feel the pain in his jaw, or the one in his knees. Or his left
hand, which he squeezes so hard with his right, he’s convinced he cut of circulation.

All his focus is on his cock, heavy between his legs, leaking precum- he’s so desperate to
come. He’d only need a couple of strokes-

He does his best not to thrust against empty air.

When Voldemort finally comes, Harry could cry. He is crying, he thinks. Tears of frustration
and from being forced with his mouth open for so long, running down his face.

But it doesn’t matter. He gets that rush, that satisfying feeling he always gets when Voldemort
comes.

Voldemort keeps him in place, fingers gently running through Harry’s hair, or wiping away
the tears on his cheeks, until he goes soft in Harry’s mouth.

He pulls Harry up, reaches behind him to separate the hands Harry forgot to relax.

His left wrist hurts like hell, that’s how tightly he held on to it. But Harry doesn’t care, all his
focus on his throbbing cock, bobbing between them, begging to be touched.

Voldemort leads him to the bed, makes Harry lie down on it. The sheets are chilling under his
burning skin. They could be soothing, but all Harry wants is release; he doesn’t want cool
sheets, doesn’t want comfort, he only wants Voldemort’s hand on him.

He looks up to see Voldemort take off his robe, hanging it neatly in his dressers.

Hurry up, just hurry up!

Every second feels like an eternity, before Voldemort is sitting on the edge on the bed, at
Harry’s side.

He takes’ Harry’s left wrist between his fingers, massages it gently.

Harry whines. He doesn’t care about his damn hand. Just make me come! But he knows better
than to tell Voldemort what to do.

Voldemort, who climbs over Harry, still in his perfectly pressed suit, belt back in place. If he
had to Apparte away to work at that exact moment, no one would be able to tell he just came
a minute before.
He bends and bites Harry’s collarbone lightly, kisses a trail to one of Harry’s nipples, and
then lower, and lower-

Harry arches his back, moaning so loudly that a bird that was perched on the window still
startles and flies away.

Voldemort isn’t one for kisses usually- oh, he devours Harry’s mouth, he sucks bruises on
Harry’s neck, but never like this, soft, lingering kisses.

“God,” Harry moans, and he sees how hard his legs are shaking, sprawled open on either side
of Voldemort.

“Don’t come,” Voldemort orders. “Not until I tell you.”

And then he bends his head and takes Harry in his mouth.

Harry brings a fist to his mouth, bites hard into it, so he won’t scream, so he won’t come, so
he won’t twist his fingers in Voldemort’ hair.

He can’t breathe. He’d thought of this, had many quick wanks in the shower imagining it,
right at the beginning of their relationship.

But he’d known- or at least he thought he knew- that Voldemort would never do it, that he’d
never lower himself to this.

It’s nothing like having Ginny do it, shy and unsure, delicate sucks and licks.

Nothing like the handful of muggles that tried to suck him off, while Harry was so drunk, he
could feel little else beside disgust and self loathing.

It’s… divine. Voldemort isn’t shy, there’s nothing tentative about it. He sucks Harry with as
much confidence he does anything else.

Where did he learn to suck cock like that? Harry wonders, through waves of pleasure.

Harry knows sex is about control for Voldemort. For both of them. Voldemort likes having it,
and Harry likes giving it up. He thought kneeling at someone’s feet with their cock in his
mouth was letting go of control. He’d been an idiot, clearly.

Granted, Voldemort isn’t kneeling, laid down between Harry’s legs, but he’s the one in
control, as he always is, even if he’s sucking Harry off.

“I -I can’t,” Harry begs, gripping the sheets tingly. He can’t not come. Just impossible.

It feels too good, and he’s already so close, had been close for a while.

“You can,” Voldemort says, letting go of Harry’s prick with an obscene pop. “Be good for
me,” he warns, a threat in each word, and then he goes back to it.
Harry closes his eyes, thinking that not seeing Voldemort lips stretched around him might
help tone his desire down. He was wrong; with his eyes closed, all the feelings in his cock are
amplified.

Harry’s hands find themselves in Voldemort’s hair on their own accord-

A second later, they fly away, slam into the headboard painfully, and get stuck there.

Harry arches his back so harshly it’s a wonder his spine doesn’t snap in two.

“Please,” he begs, desperate. “Please, let me come-“

It’s unbearable, in the most arousing of ways.

Voldemort, cruel god that he is, doesn’t listen. He does something with his tongue that makes
Harry’s mind white out, and he can’t hold on, he can’t-

“I’m going to-”

But then one long-fingered hand grips Harry at the base so brutally, the pain brings him back
from the peak.

Again, and again, and again.

Time means nothing. Harry trashes in the bed, his hands violently smashing into the
headboard, his hips kept in place by Voldemort’s hands, so Harry can’t thrust up, can’t do
anything but take this delicious torment,

His cheeks are wet with newly spilled tears, but Harry eventually lays motionless, sobbing
and moaning, his entire world reduced to the hot mouth around his prick, to the thought that
it’s Voldemort’s smart, cruel tongue that’s licking the underside of his cock, expertly.

Most intoxicating of all, is the knowledge he’s being good, he’s pleasing Voldemort, and that
makes him slip away into moments of calm, of bright happiness, brief respites from the
tortuous, painful pleasure and the denial of release.

“Please, please, please,” he hears himself begging, though it sounds like the voice belongs to
someone else. To someone free, even if tied to the bed and held down on it.

It’s an eternity before Voldemort lets him go, climbing back over Harry.

The charms on his wrists fade, and his hands fall to the bed. They hurt, they’re numb, needle
and pins sensations running through them, from shoulder to his pinky fingers.

Even so, they find the strength to wrap around Voldemort’s shoulders, cling to him like he’s a
lifeline.

“Tell me who you belong to,” Voldemort’s voice sounds rough, and it just makes Harry keen.
His lips are over Harry’s, and Harry can taste himself on them.
“To you,” Harry breathes out. “To you. Please-“

“Call me ‘my lord’. Beg for it.” Voldemort’s hand is between them, around Harry’s saliva
slicked cock, stroking it in a perfect way.

Don’t, a voice warns, but it’s so far away, it’s a voice and a reasoning that exists in the outside
world, the voice of the Chosen One, not the voice of Harry that belongs to Voldemort, that
wears the dark lord’s name around his neck.

Harry’s breath goes erratic then stops entirely, his hips moving frantically in time to
Voldemort’s strokes.

“Please,” he whispers, trying to lift his head, to shove his tongue in Voldemort’s mouth. “I
beg you, please.”

Voldemort picks up his pace, fingers gliding faster, more determined,

“My lord,” Harry whispers, and he feels Voldemort’s smile on his own lips.

“Come for me,” he gives the permission, and Harry finally lets go, pleasure pouring out of
him.

Sweet release. So sweet it’s almost painful, drains Harry of everything.

He’s twitching, shivering in its wake, barely coherent. His hands hurt, his thighs, where
Voldemort bit him savagely. His tongue and lip, where Harry bit almost through them, in an
effort not to come.

“You have no idea how enticing you are like this. When you let go,” Voldemort says, eyes
scanning Harry’s face.

He gathers Harry to his chest; it’s not new, Voldemort often throws an arm around Harry
when they sleep, but it’s’ not like that now, with Harry facing him, hiding and trembling in
his chest, and Voldemort holding him him in a tight embrace.

He’s hard, Harry realises, distantly. That never happened before, Voldemort getting hard so
soon after he just came.

“Do you want me to-“ Harry slurs the words, as if he’s drunk. He reaches between them,
uncoordinated and clumsy, dizzy almost.

“No.” Voldemort grabs his wrist, brings Harry's hand back up, traps it between their chests.

When Harry’s breathing slows, when exhaustion claims him, making it almost impossible to
keep his eyes open, he feels Voldemort’s finger at his neck, at the collar’s lock.

“Leave it,” Harry mutters, half asleep. “Just a little longer. Until I fall asleep. You can take it
off when I’m out.”
The weight of it is reassuring around his neck; it makes him feel wanted, like he’s a treasured
possession. Voldemort takes care of what belongs to him.

It’s a nice, tender feeling that has little to do with sex. “As you wish,” comes the answer,
somewhere above Harry’s head.

(-)

“We’re not sending her to war,” Voldemort says, amused, when Harry gets teary-eyed on the
last day of August, after he’s done helping Delphini pack her trunk.

An excessive trunk, gifted by the Malfoys, made of dragon leather, with the Black coat of
arms carved on it. No one tells Harry, but he realises there’s blood magic involved when he
can’t open it on his own. It’s probably made so only Delphini can open it.

Well, at least no one can steal from her or mess with her things. Harry tries to see the positive
side of blood magic, though there aren’t many positives sides to it. Still, he tries.

Voldemort looks unbothered by the entire thing. He keeps mentioning how quiet the house
will be.

Delphini is happy. Excited. It’s only Harry that’s moping around.

And yet, late into the night, he wakes with cold feet pressed into his calves.

“Please, I’m leaving tomorrow,” he hears Delphini begging.

“Just this once. Never again,” Voldemort says, voice low.

“Just this once, daddy,” Delphini agrees.

Sometimes she calls Harry ‘daddy’ or ‘dad’. But Voldemort was always just ‘father’. Until
now.

Harry gets teary-eyed again, snuggling closer to her, sandwiching Delphini between him and
Voldemort.

Delphini favours her father, and it’s perfectly alright. She slept many nights huddled into
Harry, but this-

She has the chance to fall asleep curled around her father, and Harry is happy for her. He’s
happy for himself, too, when Voldemort’s long arm comes around both Harry and Delphini.

(-)
“If you start crying, I’m never allowing you out in public again,” Voldemort warns, when
they step on the Platform.

People stare at them, but no one mobs them. Not with Voldemort there.

Narcissa and Andromeda wanted to come, but Voldemort forbade it. Harry is glad for it- this
is their moment. He doesn’t want to share it with anyone else.

Harry keeps his composure. He wants to climb into the train to help Delphini with the trunk,
to help her find a compartment-

“No.” Voldemort stops him. “This is her experience. Let her make it how she wants it.”

But Harry worries. What if no one wants to sit with her? He packed her a delicious lunch,
added both muggle and magical sweets in it, even two cans of coke. He hopes that maybe
she’ll make a new friend and she’ll share her food with them, as Ron did with Harry.

He gave her gold, too. Perhaps too much of it. Just in case she wants more food from the
trolley.

What if she makes no friends? Because of her name, because she’s a tad… strange. What if
she spends the entire train ride alone?

He wishes Teddy would go with her, only Teddy is a year younger.

“I’ll be fine, Harry,” Delphini says, though she looks a bit nervous. “I know a few people
from Malfoy Manor. Though I’d rather meet new people.”

“You’ll do great,” Harry tells her, hugging her tightly. “God, you’ll love it! I promise.”

“I better love it,” she mutters.

And then the steam rises from the train-

“I love you, Delphi,” Harry says, bending to kiss her forehead. “I’ll miss you, but you’ll see
how fast time will fly. You’ll be back home before you know it.”

She nods, biting her lip, clinging to Harry’s waist. When she unglues herself from Harry, she
stares up at Voldemort.

“Goodbye, father. I’ll see you at Yule.”

Voldemort gives her a stoic look. He says nothing, and Delphini sighs, turns away.

Voldemort grabs her shoulder. She turns back, expression raw and vulnerable.

“Pick the bed furthest from the window. The Giant Squid and some misbehaved mere people
like to scare students early in the morning.”
She grins at him. “I’ll scare them back,” she says and Voldemort smiles. A genuine smile,
one of the rare ones.

They watch her get on the train, one of the last to climb in.

She stays at the door, waving, until the train gathers speed and she’s out of sight.

(-)

Voldemort goes to work, and Harry isn’t sure what to do with himself. He goes to Teddy, only
no one is home.

Ron is visiting Charlie in Romania. Hermione is working. Harry doesn’t want to be alone, so
he pushes aside his distaste for the Malfoys and their Manor and heads over, looking for
Teddy.

Narcissa gives him an understanding look as she leads him to the garden. “It’s never easy to
let them go,” she mutters. “I cried for a week when I sent Draco to Hogwarts.”

“Harry!” Teddy comes to him, excited, abandoning a game he was playing with Scorpius.

“Harry Potter,” Scorpius says, eyes wide.

It cheers him up a bit, seeing Draco’s annoyed face when Scorpius timidly asks Harry if
maybe they can play some Quidditch.

Eventually, in his efforts to not think of Delphini on that train- possibly alone, or fighting
with someone or being rejected by her peers- Harry plays Quidditch with Malfoy.

Draco keeps his son on his broom, Teddy long has his own adult one, and they pass a Quaffle
around, to Scorpius’ delight.

He and Draco revert back to being twelve at some point, and they pull out a Snitch and
almost break their necks trying to catch it first, Narcissa shaking her head disapprovingly
from the ground.

“Ha!” Harry grins, victorious when he gets it.

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco snarls, but they calm down as soon as they land.

“I’ll be on the Quidditch team at Hogwarts,” Teddy announces, as an elf serves them
lemonade. “I can’t wait to go. I want to be in Slytherin with Delphini.”

“She’s not yet in Slytherin,” Harry reminds him, still holding on to some ill fated hope. “And
you certainly won’t be one.”
“I agree,” Draco said. “You have Gryffindor spelled over your forehead.”

“Regis says he’s certain I’ll be a Hufflepuff,” Teddy says, wolfing down a sandwich.

Harry knows eventually he’ll come face to face with Lestrange, and he’s not looking forward
to it.

(-)

He arrives home minutes before Voldemort, who usually comes from work much later.

But now he’s home early, and while he isn’t restless, exactly, he is somewhat tense.

He’s waiting for Delphini’s letter, Harry thinks, and he smiles to himself.

When it comes, carried by a beautiful black owl that Malfoy brought home from a trip to
South Africa, Harry feels faint. He opens it with trembling fingers, right there at the window,
with Voldemort suddenly at his back, reading over Harry’s head.

She’s in Slytherin, and Harry accepts it and promises to himself he’ll be supportive. He’ll go
to Diagon Alley tomorrow and buy her Slytherin themed scarves and badges and whatever
else kids these days like to adorn their robes with in a show of House loyalty.

“I thought it would at least suggest Ravenclaw, but no. It barely touched my head, and sent
me to Slytherin. My head of House said he’s surprised, since he went to school with cousin
Sirius, whom he thinks was my father. He said I look exactly like Sirius.”

She does; she takes after the Blacks to a great degree. Except the eyes, and the expressions on
her face when she gets pensive or angry. That’s all Voldemort.

She mentions a couple of kids she met on the train, waxes poetically about Hogwarts, and
describes the trip over the Black Lake in a very long paragraph.

She is an excellent storyteller; Harry can imagine it exactly, can relive his own memories.

“The humongous man that met us at the train station and got us over the lake said he’s a
good friend of yours, Harry. He’s the Care of Magical Creatures Professor, but suggested I
may simply call him Hagrid. He claimed he senses I’ll be a troublemaker like Sirius.

I’m waiting for everyone to go to bed, and then I’ll put on the Cloak and use the Marauder’s
Map to go to the Trophy Room and see your trophy, father.”

“You gave her the Cloak?” Voldemort asks, but he sounds more resigned than angry.

“It’s a Potter tradition,” Harry defends himself.

Should he write to Delphini and tell her not to break the rules? At least not on her very first
night?

But that would be very hypocritical of him. So he’ll write and tell her to be careful, very
careful. Remind her Hogwarts can sometimes be dangerous.

She ends the letter saying she misses them already, and that she loves them and please, ‘act
nice to each other’.

(-)

They walk on the beach one night, the sea nipping at their ankles.

Voldemort often likes to take long walks at night, under the stars; Harry used to see him in
the distance, out of Delphini’s window, when he was reading her a story for bedtime.

She probably won’t want me to read her stories anymore when she returns from Hogwarts.
She’s growing up so fast.

Voldemort says nothing when Harry comes after him and walks at his side.

Those dark eyes of his are fixed into the distance; Harry can almost see the wheels turning in
their depths, his great mind working, plotting, always up to something.

Harry has no chance of knowing- even guessing- what’s going on inside that head.

Voldemort never talks about work, or about his plans, and in a way, Harry is grateful, because
they never agree on anything, and some of his plans are sure to keep Harry up at night, so it’s
best if he doesn’t know. He can’t stop them, anyway.

Harry takes it one day at a time. He tries not to get lulled into a sense of false safety, reminds
himself Voldemort is still a terrible man, even if so far he hadn’t displayed much violence. He
tries very hard to never lose sight of who the man sleeping next to him is. But, for now, Harry
enjoys any peaceful day he gets.

On the days Voldemort wants to be alone and goes to Grimmauld, Harry has Teddy or Tony,
or both over. He invites Hermione and Ron, too. It is fulfilling. For so many years, Harry
didn’t imagine he’d have anything. But he has them; his best friends, their kids, his godson
and his cousin, that looks at Harry with Lily Potter’s eyes. It feels like a victory to have him.

He has Quidditch, and there’s talk that he’ll be asked to be part of Great Britain’s team
heading into the next World Cup.

As Voldemort gets more famous, people tend to leave Harry alone on the streets, give him
space. Slowly, but surely, Voldemort is gaining everyone’s interest. In fact, inside the
Ministry, when Harry is dragged to a function or another, it’s easy to see that the workers
there mostly see him as Voldemort’s husband, not Harry Potter, the Hero.

To Harry’s great amusement, a journalist referred to Voldemort as the ‘next Dumbledore,

unparalleled in magical skill and wit’.

He has Voldemort, too, when he isn’t working or having ‘alone time’ in Grimmauld. Not that
Harry could truly have him, not with so many lies between them, with their fundamentally
different approaches to life. With their history. But they enjoy nice dinners together, or at
least Harry does.

They enjoy walks on the beach, spent in silence, but at each other’s side. They enjoy the
letters Delphini sends home, read them together, and it’s the only time Harry can see softness
in Voldemort’s eyes.

And then there’s the sex. Whatever else lacks between them- trust, love, friendship- they
always had sex.

A powerful, steady presence at his back, in the dead of night. Harry still has nightmares, he
thinks he always will, but they aren’t as often as they used to be. And if he wakes up and
Voldemort is there, he calms, because if Voldemort is there, then that means he’s not
someplace else, causing unimaginable harm.

“Are you happy,” Harry asks, breaking the silence, pulling Voldemort from whatever
thoughts he was lost in.

“Happy?” Voldemort tastes the word, carefully, as if it’s a foreign concept. And it is foreign.
Even as miserable as Harry can get, if he allows himself to think too much, he still finds
happiness. In his friends, in the kids, in his career. Even in Voldemort. But
Voldemort…“What about?”

“In general,” Harry says.

A small frown. “Things are going according to plan,” he answers. “I’m content. For now.”

A year ago, Harry would have worried, would have asked what plan, would have been
desperate to know, he’d have tortured himself over it.

But he’s not that Harry anymore.

“Why don’t you kill me?”

“I am killing you.”

Whatever came out of Malfoy Manor, whatever survived the year they spent apart, what
survived the alcohol and misery and the cold nights spent alone in Grimmauld...well, this
Harry doesn’t ask what plan; he doesn’t worry about it.

He just enjoys ‘for now’ for however long it lasts.

 “Happy,” Voldemort repeats, making a sound that would qualify as a snort in anyone else. He
gives Harry an amused look. “No one asked me if I was happy before.”

Harry shrugs. “You’ve been surrounded by arseholes your entire life, so I am not surprised.”

Voldemort smiles, and really, it’s unfair he’s this handsome. It’s getting harder and harder to
believe he wore a snakelike face, long ago. He puts a hand over Harry’s shoulders, pulls him
closer to his side.

They walk back to their home.

Chapter End Notes

I can't believe it's over! I hope you will all enjoy it, or at least parts of it. It is not a
happy ending, not really, but, as I promised, it isn't a tragedy, either. Or maybe it is- I
guess we all have different standards for tragedy.

❤️
Thank you all for coming on this ride with me! Thank you for your support, for your
comments that kept me going in the many occasions I felt like quitting.

Every one of you helped me write this story, but I want to offer special thanks to
MaidenWychElm, who was always there for me to rant at, when it all got too much. And
to GothamGirl, Rainflowers, PrivateEyes and Math_and_Lunacy. Also, I want to
dedicate this story to Itsevanffs (Hope you like it and don't hate me!)

Not everything was answered here, but I hope the major issues had been resolved, as
much as they can be resolved. There will be a one shot coming, a sequel that will focus
on Delphini. Since it is only a one-shot, I might post it as a new chapter on this story, or
as a stand alone on my profile. We will see.

Also, I am sorry this chapter is 33k words; I assure you, I made many cuts, but this is
what came out.

❤️
Once again, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, and please share your opinions in
the comments

If you want to chat on tumblr-https://www.tumblr.com/blog/metalomagnetic

End Notes

Please, comment and review. Criticism is welcomed.

Works inspired by this one

Just Harry by Ellionne

Rot by itsevanffs

[FANART] 'Either must die at the hand of the other' Cover by duplicity

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