These steep woods and lofty cliffs - Rimeme - Harry Potter (2024)

Chapter 1: Runaway

Chapter Text

Harry is sitting idly on the Hogwarts Express thinking about Sirius, trying not to think about Sirius, when he makes the decision to leave.

It’s not a world-altering revelation.

Really, it’s not even the first time the thought has occurred to him.

The violent conclusion to the Triwizard Tournament had brought him near the brink exactly one year ago, tempting him with fleeting fantasies of what it might be like to just… let go.

But he’d pushed through it then. Squashed it down and locked it away in that shameful corner of his mind that housed all the other cowardly thoughts unbefitting the Boy-Who-Lived.

Voldemort was back, for crying out loud. He couldn’t just—run off when life got a little hard.

And Cedric—Cedric wasn’t his fault—it wasn’t—he knows that now, but he’d owed it to him at least to see it all through to the end.

So life had gone on.

But this—

This is different.

Because the cold, hard, irrefutable truth of the matter is that he’d gotten Sirius killed.

At the time, he’d thought himself brave. Loyal. Untouchable. To fly boldly in the face of untold perils to come to the rescue of a loved one.

Truthfully, more than anything else, he’d been reckless.

Senselessly and childishly so.

And there wouldn’t ever be coming back from that.

He is—and always had been—a conduit for disaster that can’t be stopped. A plague that would just keep spreading, breeding chaos and destruction and death without ever even trying to, leaving behind the inevitable wake of injured, maimed, and buried.

So forsaking his friends and the world he’d been born to save—well, that’s not cowardly at all.

That’s just common sense.

Objectively, it’s not a great idea. Not the theoretical running away that keeps everyone safe—that’s a no-brainer. More the actual running away that involves a minor ambling about in some unfamiliar place without adult supervision.

Still. It’s definitely not the worst idea he’s ever had. The perfect storm of equal parts idiocy and insanity resulting in the catastrophic sh*t show at the Department of Mysteries would likely hold that title for a long time to come.

And yes, most of his ideas aren’t great, if history is any indication, but they do generally tend to work out one way or another (bless his Potter Luck), so he doesn’t let himself worry too much and opts instead to focus on the desired result.

And the more he lets himself think about it—what a life without magic, without Voldemort, without this constant looming expectation to perform at the whims of the wizarding world might be like—he feels little more than relief and an itch to get going already.

He thinks back to his eleventh birthday on that miserable hut-on-the-rock and Hagrid with his first birthday cake ever and Harry – yer a wizard and how happy he’d been to finally belong somewhere in the world, and—and he thinks that he would take it back.

He would take it all back.

He wouldn’t be a wizard. He would attend St. Brutus’s and embrace his incurable criminalness. Endure the Dursleys’ indifference and the hostility of his peers as he always had. Learn how to eke out a life all on his own—as a banker or an actuary or something just as mundane.

At least that way, no one would have died on his account.

---

Without Hermione’s attention to detail or Ron’s strategic mindset, Harry’s planning efforts quickly stall out. And what should be yards of parchment dedicated to drafts of detailed tactics or to a catalog of liabilities and contingencies is reduced to a modest row of bullet points.

It’s fine.

He has a general idea of what he thinks he’s going to do, and a mostly coherent outline of the how. Harry Potter has achieved his greatest successes up against the ropes and improvising for dear life, and it probably (hopefully) wouldn’t be any different here.

So within his first week back with the Dursleys, he has himself weaving in and out of Muggle London and Diagon Alley, methodically crossing off the list of things he’ll need for his departure. Staying out of sight as he prepares is a matter made trivial with generous use of his Invisibility Cloak, and he wonders why he hadn’t thought to wander out like this before.

Even the passport, which predictably, is the most difficult to procure, Harry comes by easily enough through the services of a dodgy bloke in Lambeth.

And sooner than he’d expected, he’s bidding a teary farewell to Hedwig who carries a brief explanation for Ron and Hermione, and scrawling out a terse note for the Dursleys, too, lest they alert Dumbledore in a panic.

He leaves with one of Dudley’s old backpacks filled with cash, clothes, colored contact lenses, the doctored passport that reads Jason Evans (James Evans might have been a bit too obvious), and a copy of Guide to Advanced Occlumency. The cosmetics that cover up his scars, he shoves into his back pocket.

After some deliberation, he leaves his wand and Cloak behind.

---

Arizona is a dreadful place.

Harry regrets his lack of forethought (Hermione would have prepared better, he’s certain) as the sun scorches above, radiating an oppressive heat heretofore unknown to man. But the city’s name had drawn him in. Phoenix. It had to be fate, right? The Order. Fawkes. Rebirth.

Someplace suitable for new beginnings.

In the end, the appalling climate turns out to be only a minor inconvenience since he passes his first few weeks in America indoors, holed up in an air-conditioned motel room. He thinks he makes progress on his Occlumency (though he can’t be sure without Snape there to viciously cast Legilimens at him), and he picks up as much as he can about the new world he lives in from the copious amount of television he watches, at times finding that the disparity between Britain and the US can be just as jarring as that between magical and Muggle. He practices his American accent. Manufactures possible backgrounds for Jason Evans. Does everything he can do to not come off so poor-missing-English-boy.

The hours in front of the TV screen eventually pay off when he comes across a newscast about these barmy folk that live in the woods ‘off-the-grid’, who have decided that the concept of government-issued identification is a shameful, unacceptable threat to one’s sovereignty. Whatever that means.

Harry can’t quite find the logic in it himself, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s a perfectly reasonable, almost tailor-made backdrop to Jason Evans’s mysterious presence in Phoenix.

It’s just as well since there are reps from something called the Department of Family and Protective Services descending on his hideout a few days later. They ask him all manners of questions ranging from the whereabouts of his parents (dead) or his guardians (dunno) to what he’s doing here (ran away) and so on.

To the best of his creative ability, he paints the picture of a neglected ward of an overbearing aunt and uncle with unattainable, almost-religious standards for normalness.

For good measure, he makes overt references to withheld meals and the basem*nt with the lock on the outside. By the clenched looks on the reps’ faces, he seems to get the most mileage out of his gratuitous use of the word freak.

It’s a concoction of mostly half-truths and only a few blatant fictions. An interesting exercise in its own way, Harry supposes. He hadn’t realized how storybook-tragic his life was until he’d laid it out from start to finish.

The Family people eat it up, and Harry wonders if maybe Umbridge had had a point about him and his penchant for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter.

It serves him well, either way: later that afternoon, he finds himself checked out of the motel and moved into the home of the Kendalls, his new foster family.

---

During his state-mandated counseling sessions, Dr. Kessen throws around words like ‘post-traumatic stress’ and ‘self-care’ and ‘mental hygiene’ while maintaining an unnatural amount of eye contact. Harry mostly nods along, half-regretting the brainwashed-abused-runaway façade he’d cultivated in Jason Evans (parallels to Harry Potter’s own upbringing aside).

Though when it comes down to it, he rather appreciates the advantages won through his ostensibly troubled past. His foster parents and teachers give him a wide berth when it comes to his aloof behavior, which amounts these days to a quiet, friendless existence.

He knows better now.

The Kendalls are nice enough, at least, and unfazed by the distance he keeps. But they don’t smother him, either. It’s all very ordinary and acceptably routine, to a degree where the Dursleys might even have approved.

High school (secondary school, a voice corrects in his head), too, is uneventful. It isn’t quite like what he’s seen depicted on television—and Harry is, indeed, a veritable expert on all things American culture by now. While there are the cheerleaders in their revealing uniforms and the druggies, a tad too obvious with the persistent redness in their eyes and the football (not football-football, but American football) games that the Kendalls make him attend sometimes, there’s no evidence of any of the adolescent posturing he’s used to seeing play out in dramatic fashion.

For the most part, Harry keeps his head down, and without Dudley Dursley or Draco Malfoy to call attention to him, he passes through the hallways and classrooms mostly invisible.

And just like that, the end of his first school year in America comes to an end. Without fanfare. Without incident. Without some death-dealing, life-defining affair that has him waking up in a hospital bed a week later.

It’s wildly eerie but wholly welcome that the only event of note throughout his entire high school career is that he sprains his ankle in gym the fall of senior year. Compared to the near-fatal encounters with Voldemort, Death Eaters, and a litany of dangerous magical creatures year on year, it’s a drop in the bucket.

Anyone else might have found the banality of Jason Evans’s life unbearably dull (Harry wonders what Ron and Hermione might say), but he relishes it all the more. There’s no fawning hero-worship or horribly biased professors or giant venomous snakes or anything else so patently outrageous. Sure, his missing magic is a constant itch under the skin, and sure, he’d probably go to some questionable lengths to hold his wand again. But that’s a price he’s already paid. And life goes on.

College is more of the same.

As these chapters of his new life open and close, Harry tries not to think about the ones that came before. The magical ones.

It’s easy not to, admittedly. He hasn’t—to his knowledge—encountered any wizards or witches so far in Phoenix, and the news headlines are unexpectedly bereft of any suspiciously noteworthy events in Britain.

He tries not to think about what that could mean. Had the Order managed to defeat Voldemort after all? Or was Voldemort just biding his time?

That’s not to say crazy things aren’t happening on this side of the pond—though Harry can’t be sure if that’s due to magical fanaticism or just regular fanaticism. In any case, suicidal lunatics crash airplanes into buildings, and literal war is declared. But he’s studied enough history about Muggles by now to know that they’re quite competent and resourceful and creative when it comes to inflicting horrors upon one another… so it’s probably not Voldemort-related.

And if he feels a phantom ache in his scar every now and then, he ignores it. Psychosomatic, he remembers Dr. Kessen explaining. It’s all in your head, Potter.

---

Any British expat in the US would attest to the many culture shocks that accompany a new life in America.

There’s the awful, dishwatery tea, for one. And for another, the enormous portion sizes.

For Harry, the most salient of them all had been the country’s infatuation—obsession—with firearms. It was apparently a part of the national genetic makeup—to exercise one’s God-given authority to arm oneself with guns and rifles and muskets and more to defend against imminent coups and apocalyptic riots and what-have-yous.

He becomes desensitized to it quickly enough, numbed by the ceaseless displays of violence in the media and by just how common it is for residents of Arizona to open-carry. The fact that it takes eight years for him to see one fired live is nothing short of a miracle. With his track record, he’d almost expected to have been shot down in an alley for dead before he graduated high school.

But it doesn’t happen in an alley. It happens, of all places, at the post office.

He’s standing in line, complaining to himself about how slowly it seems to be moving, when he hears the yelling start. It’s coming from somewhere behind the counter and Harry, along with everyone else, tries to ignore the scene politely, though years of constant vigilance have his frayed magic pulled taut like a tripwire, begging to be set off at any threat that makes itself known.

And then the shots ring out. Then chaos. Then screaming and panicking and running and flailing all around him, but Harry—Harry has only a moment to think, oh sh*t, before the wire trips and his magic sets itself loose.

It happens in the blink of an eye—the gunman crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, his gun vanishing into thin air, and Harry—Harry isn’t doing anything, but his magic—it’s like it’s hijacked a direct hookup to his subconscious and wrestled all control from him.

And this—this is what’s been missing from his life all these years. The desolate crater in his chest throbbing torturously, so hungry and desperate for a reassuring touch—to be washed away clean by the gentle current of magic sweeping through.

His magic hums in delight, the moment stretching on for what seems like days, and there’s a euphoric drag in his breath as he revels in the exhilarating high of finally surrendering the reins.

Then it’s over—as soon as it began—and reality sets in.

He did magic. In front of Muggles. Muggles saw him do magic.

One last unbidden wave of magic discharges from him. Then—black.

---

He comes to, feeling like that time he had mono a couple of years ago. He’s not in the post office anymore, that much is evident fast enough. It’s a room, sterile and white, not unlike a hospital room—it’s just missing the beeping equipment.

Very much like a hospital room, he amends when a man enters the room in a brilliant orange robe with a floating parchment and quill trailing after him.

“Ah, Mr. Evans, you’re awake! How are you feeling?”

Harry ignores the question and asks instead, “Where am I?”

“St. Joseph’s. We admitted you about five hours ago for acute magical exertion. Nothing too serious. We’ll discharge you this evening after we run some tests.” The doctor—healer?—makes a few notes on the parchment. “I’m Mediwizard Perkins, by the way.” Perkins offers out his hand, which Harry accepts out of habit.

He checks his mental shields for comfort. What if someone saw his scar? What if Voldemort tracked him here? What if—

He’s still spiraling when another man enters the room. Not medical staff—he’s wearing Muggle clothes, for one thing, though his wand holster is openly visible at the cuff of his wrist.

Auror, possibly?

If only Binns had ever deigned to cover any material beyond the Goblin Rebellions circa a million years ago, Harry might have a better idea of what to expect from American magical legal proceedings.

His imagination runs wild for a moment, rendering an image of himself languishing in a dank prison cell guarded by dementors.

The vision recedes with the precise cadence of the maybe-Auror’s voice: “Department of No-Maj Misinformation, Chris Bell, Service ID one-oh-two-dash-X-T, may I have a moment with Mr. Evans?” He casually flashes a badge and directs a small grin at Perkins.

As the Mediwizard leaves, Bell steps toward the bed Harry is sitting up on. The grin on his face widens into a full-on smile. “Jason Evans?”

“Er—yes, hello,” Harry answers. And since he’s utterly incapable of basic human interaction, adds, “How are you?”

Bell chuckles. “Just fine, thanks. You gave us all a bit of a shock, how are you feeling?” He kind of reminds Harry of his old basketball coach—they both have that salt-and-pepper hair and dimples that make them approachable.

“A little sore, but the doc said I could go home today.” Harry forces nonchalance into his voice, as if he weren’t careening off a cliff edge into something he’d been avoiding all his adult life.

“Right. I’ve got some questions for you before you leave. What do you—”

“Shouldn’t I have a lawyer for this?” And I don’t know, an adult? Harry might not understand how it’s done in magical America, but he’s sat through enough re-runs of Law and Order to know how their Muggles run the show.

Bell chuckles again, a bit more put-on this time. “You’re not being detained or anything, we just—”

“I know what my rights are, I don’t have to answer any questions,” Harry interrupts, channeling all the snide reticence of the archetypical bratty-but-with-a-heart-of-gold person of interest.

Bell’s eyebrows crease like how Coach Montag’s would when the team ran a bad play. “That’s fine—you don’t have to talk, just listen:

“You live in a world that we call the No-Maj world—that’s short for non-magical. I live in the wizarding world, where we use all kinds of magic—spells, curses, potions, stuff you’ve probably seen in movies. This hospital is a magical hospital, by the way.

“Now, the No-Majes don’t know about wizards—that’s what we call ourselves—and we keep it that way through the International Statute of Secrecy. That’s mostly what my job is, the Department of No-Maj Misinformation, we cover up potential threats to the Statute, like what happened today with you at the post office. Your magic manifested under duress in front of No-Maj witnesses.”

Harry gives Bell credit. It’s a hell of a lot more articulate than the scant exposition Hagrid had offered years ago. Yer parents’ world, he’d called it then.

Bell goes on to recount the events Harry is mostly familiar with already: he’d magically incapacitated the gunman, vanished (that means you made it disappear) the weapon, and healed all the wounded. All the magical activity in No-Maj vicinity had triggered an alert at his department, and his team had come in for clean-up duty.

“But you were already passed out by then,” Bell concludes. “Which is to be expected. That was a lot of magic to cast for a first-timer, especially without a wand.” It’s a little awkward. He almost sounds like a father congratulating his kid for a job well done.

Harry waits a moment, considering his options. So they hadn’t seen his scar—or if they had, they hadn’t recognized the significance. To Bell, Jason Evans was just a no-name Muggleborn making contact with the wizarding world for the first time.

Which, in that case—

“So it’s like a cult?”

Bell chokes on a breath and coughs. “Ah, not a cult. A secret society of wizards and witches and magical Beings that live and use magic in all aspects of our lives.”

Even knowing what Harry already knows, it sounds super cultish. He tells Bell so who just rolls his eyes.

“Look, I’ll show you,” he says, drawing his wand. “No worries, I’m just going to cast some basic spells.” Then he conjures a rock, which he transfigures into a cup, which he fills with an Aguamenti, which he freezes with a Glacius. Then he vanishes the cup and holds out his hands in a ta-da pose. “So, what d’you think?”

Another pause. “So you’re like David Blaine then,” Harry deadpans.

Bell chokes again, this time sputtering wetly as he fights down the coughs. “No-o... I mean—kind of?” he flounders, rubbing at his face with both hands. “It’s—okay look, Dave is… complicated. Yes, I’m like David Blaine in that David Blaine is also a wizard, but I’m also not like David Blaine in that I’m not a No-Maj magician—illusionist—artist, whatever he’s calling himself these days. Does that make sense?”

The contrarian in Harry naturally breaks through to the surface, and he can’t quite conceal the disappointment in his voice as he asks, “Are you calling David Blaine a fraud?” Harry had watched in rapt wonder as the man buried himself alive, boggling at all the magic Muggles could be capable of, even having been born without any.

“Dave’s been on our department’s radar for a while… but since he doesn’t ever technically violate the Statute, there’s not much we can do about it. He’s a good showman, for sure,” Bell says with a grin. “But yes, David Blaine is a wizard. I am, too. And so are you, Jason—you’re a wizard.”

Hearing it at twenty-four is a lot different than hearing it at eleven, but his heart cracks open a little bit, just the same.

Bell continues carefully, “Do you remember a time you ever made something happen that you couldn’t explain? Wizarding children are especially prone to accidental magic.”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers. “My therapist says I have a lot of repressed memories due to childhood trauma.” This usually does the trick in shutting up anyone digging into his past, and Bell’s answering grimace is thoroughly predictable.

“I’m sorry to hear that. It makes sense, I guess—how you’ve grown up not knowing this whole time.” He pauses, brows pinched. “Look, I know this seems like a huge deal, but nothing has to change. You can keep living the life you’re living and no one’s going to come knocking down your door. But if you’re interested, my brother runs a federal agency that’s looking for wizards with your kind of background. He’ll put you up for training and accelerated classes to bring you up to speed. With your magic, you should catch up fast.” Bell holds out a business card, looking hopeful.

“Okay,” Harry says, taking the card in hand. Bell makes a surprised face, and if Harry is honest, he’s a bit surprised himself. But he’s so tired of hiding his magic away like some shameful burden when it’s as much a part of him as his arms and legs. When he’s just a shell of a person most days, raw and hollow inside after living in the dark for so long.

And he wants.

He wants to feel the wood of a wand in his hand, to feel the warm threads of magic coil from his chest out through his fingertips, to feel that rightness as a spell snaps to completion.

Bell’s exhibition earlier had only teased at it, offering a tiny but profound taste of the inaccessible and the unforgotten. Home. Belonging.

“Just tell Rob that I sent you,” Bell says.

Harry peers at the simple cardstock that reads Robert Bell, Deputy Director – Magical-non-Magical Operations, Central Intelligence Agency. There’s a phone number and email address underneath.

“The CIA?” Harry breathes.

“Pretty cool, right?” As Harry pockets the card, Bell adds softly, “Your magic saved a lot of lives today. You’ll be able to do a lot more of that working with them.”

And—there aren’t any words for it, really—what Harry feels about that.

Bell fills the silence, “Now, there’s usually fines associated with these kinds of incidents, but this is a bit of a special case, so we’re waiving it—oh, I almost forgot.” He pulls some crinkled pamphlets from his pockets and spells them smooth. “Just some literature on the wizarding world. Most of it’s geared to parents of No-Maj-Borns—that’s what we call wizards with non-magical parents—but it should help put things into perspective a bit.”

Harry glances at the glossy covers, among which read Welcome to the Magical World of Magic and Let’s Get Magical. “Thanks,” he says.

With his hand on the door, Bell glances back at Harry and says, “Good luck, Jason. Hope I’ll be seeing you.”

Harry takes a deep breath as the door shuts behind him, and for a long minute, he simply absorbs—how after years of a magicless life as Jason Evans, it had taken just thirty seconds for him to be lured back in by some extraordinary chance occurrence.

He’d just run out of stamps.

The rest of his stay at the hospital is less eventful.

As nurses—or the magical equivalent of—flit in and out of his room to check his vitals every hour, he scans through the new reading material, which provides a useful primer on the proper terminology for all things magical in America (Dragots instead of Galleons, Quodpot instead of Quidditch, Magical Congress instead of Ministry of Magic).

It feels a little like experiencing Diagon Alley for the first time; even the sight of the most innocuous things—a bin of silver unicorn horns or a display of solid gold cauldrons, or at present, a rundown of the American electoral system—rousing a strange and electric thrill that makes him crave just a little more.

When he gets home later that evening, there’s no mention of the shooting in the news. Just the usual drivel—that new healthy thing actually causes cancer, the animal shelter downtown needs more volunteers, some kid came in second at the national spelling bee. But nothing to tip off the bloody violence that had transpired mere hours ago.

Oh, the wonders of magic.

Harry succeeds in ignoring the draw of it a whole week before giving in and sending Robert Bell an email expressing his interest in whatever it is that he does.

It’s been eight years, after all. Voldemort—if he’s still around, even—won’t just show up on his doorstep if he starts using magic again.

Harry couldn’t possibly be that important.

Bell replies back the same day with an address and appointment time.

---

Harry’s first thought as he sits across Robert Bell in his office is that he’d certainly gotten the better end of the deal when it came to the Bell gene pool. The deputy director resembles a slightly older John Stamos, and Harry’s own honey-dyed split ends crinkle in envy at Bell’s artfully arranged raven hair.

“Jason Evans,” Harry opens, hand outstretched. Bell’s answering grasp is firm and only a little ominous.

“Robert Bell. I go by Rob. It’s nice to meet you, Jason. I’ve heard a lot about you from Chris.” Rob flashes him the same friendly smile he’d received from his brother at St. Joseph’s.

“Er—yeah, about that. He didn’t give me a lot go to on. What do you do, exactly?”

“I lead Magical-non-Magical Operations for the CIA,” Rob says, somewhat chagrined by the mouthful. “My division investigates and neutralizes threats that are both magical and non-magical in nature, hence the name.”

So many questions race through Harry’s mind. Rob must have heard them all before because his answers seem almost scripted.

“Isn’t the CIA part of the No-Maj government?”

“Yes. Our division is highly classified per some key provisions in the Statute of Secrecy.”

“So you’re wizards? Working for No-Majes?”

“Essentially. I have a dotted-line to the head of the DMLE—that’s the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. But they aren’t too vested in monitoring No-Maj criminal activities… Sort of like a ‘sounds like a you problem’ kind of thing.”

“What kind of cases do you guys work on?”

“Drug trafficking, human trafficking, terrorism, election tampering, media manipulation, market manipulation, industrial espionage… Basically, think about how a wizard could use magic to exploit No-Majes at a large scale. All that falls under our jurisdiction.”

Well. It checks out. Harry had had his own share of daydreams of how easy it would be to cheat his way through Muggle life with a little bit of magic.

“And what am I doing here? Is this a job interview?”

“It’s more of a recruitment pitch.” Rob smiles. “You’re a great candidate for an opening we have in ops—I was hoping you’d give the CIA a consideration.”

Harry stares at the wall behind Rob, dazedly telling himself that there’s no way that this guy could know about his past bouts against dragons and dark lords. “I don’t even know any magic,” he waffles.

Rob leans back in his chair, still smiling. “You don’t have to worry about that. We’ll cover everything you need to know in training.”

What? “Er—is this for real? You guys just take any rando off the street and give them a job?”

Rob silently mouths ‘rando’ to himself before responding, “I’ll have you know that the hiring process here is extremely competitive. And for your information, I read about what you can do in Chris’s incident report. There’s a lot of potential here.” He holds out his palms toward Harry like he’s some kind of washer and dryer combo on the Price is Right.

At fifteen, he’d faced expulsion from school and the confiscation of his wand while he endured the austere scrutiny of fifty-plus Wizengamot members and increasingly inane questions about his unauthorized use of magic. In the American magical job market a near-decade later, the same offense apparently passed as a net positive.

“But that was all an accident,” Harry argues. “I don’t even own a wand!”

“That’s part of it,” Rob concedes readily. “Wandless casting is a key qualification for the role, and you certainly have the aptitude for it. And you’re already ahead of the curve on No-Maj ethnology.”

“Well, yeah—I am a No-Maj, practically. How would that even work?” Harry is suddenly reminded of that awful space movie where they trained oil drillers to be astronauts rather than the other way around.

Here Rob goes into an in-depth description of the magical CIA’s training regimen for initiates—courses in offensive and defensive spellwork, hand-to-hand combat, warding and de-warding, magical and non-magical reconnaissance, and a hundred other things that Harry, in another universe, might have tackled in Auror training.

“And you’re not a No-Maj,” Rob finishes. Thankfully, he goes on before Harry can counter with a willful am too, “I’ve been doing this for a long time. You’d be a good fit.”

Harry isn’t an idiot. Well, not enough of one at least that he can’t tell when he’s being buttered up for something. He’s spent way too much time in the company of Gilderoy Lockhart and Cornelius Fudge to know better.

Even still, it’s difficult to tamp down his excitement at the prospect of magical employment. For the CIA, no less.

“So what do you say? Are you in?” Rob prompts, having caught on.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’m in.”

Chapter 2: Homecoming

Chapter Text

4 years later

“Come on, come on, come on, come on.”

Harry crouches down in front of the device and wills it—rather pointlessly—to hurry up.

His presence hasn’t been detected yet, but it’s only a matter of time, what with the glut of magical and non-magical security Hobbsen has rigged here. The paranoid son of a bitch.

Harry would very much like to just loft an Alohom*ora at the damn thing and call it a day, but Rob might actually follow through on his threat to assign him to desk duty if he ignores standard operating procedures. Again.

So for the time being, he defers to protocol.

The latch to the safe eventually clicks open, and Harry makes a mental note to himself to hang by R&D when he gets back to have some choice words with Brian (Ryan?) about his department’s shoddy, near-unusable equipment.

Opportunities for improvement, as the HR guy would say.

Harry wipes off the sweat on his hands on his pants before dismantling the safe-cracker and reaching inside.

Then all he registers is pain, white-hot and blinding.

It had taken him a tortuous half-hour to disable the defensive measures surrounding the safe, but, in his impatience, he’d neglected to anticipate them on the inside as well.

Well. If Hobbsen hadn’t known he was here before, he definitely does now.

Harry blocks out the pain as best as he can, tearing down the remaining wards in short order, the trembling in his wand-hand aside, more by force than precision like he’s been trained. It’s clumsy as all hell, but maintaining cover just got way downgraded in priority in favor of moving up the timetable and getting himself out of here.

Papers, magical objects, gems, junk—all of it gets dumped unceremoniously into his bag, though Harry pauses for a brief moment when he senses a familiar, unwelcome shiver of magic emanating from one of the artifacts.

So it’s going to be that kind of day.

Putting away the Portkey he’d been prepping for activation, he pulls out his cellphone instead and dials the only number saved in it. Bag slung over a shoulder and phone cradled along the other, he runs out of the room and down a dim hallway. When the call connects, he whisper-yells: “Evans—requesting extraction—authorization one-five-seven-sierra-bravo-sierra.”

“Acknowledged. Routing the rendezvous coordinates to you now. ETA fifteen minutes.”

Harry pulls the phone away from his ear to squint at the screen. Perfect.

The path to the extraction point will take him clear across hostile grounds, which will undoubtedly be swarming with a laughable number of hired goons on patrol. Not to mention all the booby traps that might disintegrate his organs or strip his skin clean off if he’s not careful.

He clutches the strap of his bag tighter, wondering if the take is even worth it. The magic-nullifying enchantments make it too risky for him to cast spells in its vicinity, and Apparition or Portkeying would certainly trigger whatever fail-safes have been built in.

But they’ve been after Hobbsen for months, and they so badly need this win if they’re even going to have a shot at taking him down.

Harry takes in a bracing breath and looks down at his watch.

Thirteen minutes.

He runs.

---

It could have been worse.

His entire right arm still prickles from the lingering curse damage, and the bird tattoo disguising the messy red scrawl of I must not tell lies on his hand twitches occasionally. And higher up, on his shoulder, there’s a bullet wound mending rapidly as the healer finishes up.

He almost regrets the lack of more lasting injuries. They might have exempted him from the looming paperwork (a doozy of a post-op report he’s not looking forward to at all, considering the utter train wreck accompanying the payout), since Rob’s the type of slave driver that seldom grants extensions or freebies, even to those having recently being shot.

“All right, you’re all set. Give it a few days, and check in with me on Monday so I can refresh the sterilization charms.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Harry says as he gets to his feet.

Battling exhaustion, he walks out of Medical and down the poorly-lit corridors toward his cube. It’s late Friday afternoon, and most of the office has already cleared out for the weekend, so at least there aren’t any of the vets around to rag on him for fumbling something so simple. Come Monday, Harry fully expects a printout of Rookie’s Dos and Don’ts displayed prominently on his desk.

Whatever. For now, all he wants is to go home and eat way too much Chinese take-out and let Ina Garten’s dulcet tones transport him away to the Hamptons.

But his hopes for a relaxing evening in are dashed when his phone pings with a message from Rob to come see him ASAP. He grumbles as he arrives at his desk, grabbing the bag on his chair and shoving in papers he has every intent to but assuredly will not look at over the weekend, and wonders if could get away with messaging back that he’s already out of the office.

Probably not.

He heads down the hall toward the lone open office door and enters with a light knock.

“Jason!” Rob greets, looking up from his desk. “How are you holding up? I heard you got shot.” He disapproves, obviously, but Harry knows that he can’t care that much, considering the outcome.

“I’m fine. Was just a graze, anyway,” he lies. The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, leaving behind an impressive pair of entry and exit wounds.

“Right,” Rob snorts knowingly. “Good work anyway. Intel’s going to have a field day next week sorting through the evidence.”

Harry preens at the praise.

His weird dad-boss relationship with Rob is sort of an ongoing joke among his peers, but he can’t help his compulsion to please the man that gave magic back to him. It’s why he doesn’t automatically balk at the next words coming out of Rob’s mouth.

“New assignment for Monday. Need you to prep this weekend, sorry.” Rob hands him a manila folder and doesn’t look sorry at all.

“Um—I literally just got off one, I still have to debrief and catch up on paperwork and—and also, I got shot?” Harry tries, as the last surviving threads of a quiet weekend in binging the Food Network slip through his fingers.

“You can debrief with me now. I’ll have Jimmy take care of your paperwork. And you said it was just a graze.” Rob punctuates each sentence with an ascending count of his fingers. “And,” he adds, “it’s a P0.”

Harry leans forward in his seat, forgetting his fatigue. “sh*t, really?” He has mostly P2s and P3s under his belt, with the one P1 that he’d blown—quite literally—in dynamite fashion. Being tapped for a P0, especially with his limited tenure, is a Big Deal. “You should have just led with that,” he says, smiling. “What is it?”

“Security detail. No-Maj POTUS.”

“Undercover? Secret Service?” Whenever No-Maj VIPs requested magical protection, Rob would ordinarily relegate the job to one of the newbies. Harry’s pretty fresh, too, all things considered, but he hasn’t been rented out as a babysitter in a while.

Rob nods. Then in a low voice, he says, “Shut the door. What I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.”

---

When Harry first joined the CIA, he hadn’t had a lot to go on aside from what he’d seen in movies and television. So predictably, he’d awaited intrigue and conspiracies and epic adventures rife with double-crossers and triple-crossers, deep-state secrets, and walking away from explosions without looking back.

That last one did happen his fourth or fifth assignment on the job, but as for the rest of it, he’s been holding his breath.

But this…

Despite the nature of his profession (and media portrayals thereof), Harry hasn’t ever worried about being laid out in a ditch somewhere with a double-tap to the back of the head under ‘mysterious circ*mstances’.

Now—he isn’t quite sure.

“You can’t be serious,” Harry said, incredulous.

“That’s the op, agent,” Rob said. He rarely ever spoke to him in his Deputy Director voice, and Harry straightened up in his seat reflexively.

“What—dangling the president out as bait on foreign soil?” This was some JFK – Noriega – Iran-Contra level bullsh*t.

Rob shook his head. “Don’t be naive. We’ll have more than adequate security measures in place. And the DMLE is coming in for this one.”

“Well, they’d better,” Harry muttered. For their own damn unsub? They should be sending in the cavalry. He continued nervously, “And what happens if we bungle it? I’d rather not be implicated in treason, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Don’t worry about that. We have contingencies in place,” Rob assured. He seemed altogether unperturbed about the whole thing, as if it were just another day at the office. Although, Harry didn’t keep tabs on what any of the other operatives worked on, so maybe this was routine after all. “He’s a lame duck anyway, no one’s going to care,” Rob joked.

Harry didn’t completely disagree. He himself had jumped on the Change We Can Believe In bandwagon during the election cycle. “Yeah, but,” he started. Then thought better of it and asked instead, “What contingencies?”

“Need-to-know only,” Rob said predictably. “Everything you need is in the mission briefings. And please. Don’t just skim like you usually do.”

“Yeah, whatever. Where am I going, by the way?”

“London.”

---

Harry falls asleep on the couch still in his work clothes with loose papers crinkling underneath him. In his dreams, he sees flashes of green spellfire and hears a familiar cackling in the distance.

He wakes with a gasp, clutching his scar. The twinge he feels is imagined, he’s certain, but he’s still unsettled about the dreams he hasn’t dreamed in years.

London.

Strangely enough, his work with the CIA had yet to take him back home. Or maybe not strange at all, considering the British Ministry’s robust, near-militant policy against No-Maj-associated magic use. In fact, the Ministry over recent years had adopted extremely segregationist leanings when it came to wizard-No-Maj relations.

Through Harry’s edification as a trainee, he’d memorized condensed synopses of political histories and current events of most wizarding countries, and though he’d paid keen attention to the unit on Britain in particular, he’d learned little beyond the scope of general domestic and foreign affairs.

Moreover, his extracurricular efforts to seek out any information that might recount the triumph or demise of one Lord Voldemort had come up empty.

The chronicles of the Dark Lord ended inexplicably at the same time that Harry Potter’s did—on October 31, 1981. Voldemort never resurrected in any of the accounts Harry had combed through, and in them, he himself was a mere footnote, the notably sole witness to the disappearance of the most powerful wizard of the present era.

None of it had made any sense.

The Ministry had officially recognized the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—it was the headline of one of the last Prophet articles Harry had read before leaving. But the rest of the world, it seemed, had forgotten all about it.

Adding to his confusion then had been Dumbledore. Harry had found out through a Chocolate Frog card, of all things, that his old headmaster had passed away at the end of what would have been his sixth year. Natural causes, the profile had read.

There hadn’t even been any suspicions of foul play when Harry looked into it. Just an old man, beloved by many, dying peacefully in his sleep and leaving behind a celebrated legacy of innumerable accomplishments.

Obviously, something had happened in the intervening years of his absence, but—

But none of that was Jason Evans’s problem. And he’d known better then than to get sucked back into the black hole of all the messy baggage with Harry Potter’s name on it. So he’d stopped digging into newspaper clippings. Asking roundabout questions in class. Or simply wondering about all the hows and whys and what-the-f*cks of the addled events of decades past.

In the present, he forces it all back down again.

What good would any answers do him now anyway?

Instead, he rubs the sleep out of his eyes and studies his mission dossier, familiarizing himself with all the key players. Of which, Voldemort isn’t one. He doesn’t even exist, and—as far as Harry is concerned, this is just another job.

---

He reports into Langley at six a.m. as scheduled where he’s outfitted in a plain black suit and miscellaneous Secret Service equipment. It’s full-on No-Maj mode, so he trades in the protective enchantments woven into his clothing for Kevlar and his assorted magical gear for a sidearm. His wand, he secures in a hidden pocket.

He pauses in front of the mirror to appraise himself.

Would anyone recognize him?

His light-brown hair is orderly and thin (an unfortunate consequence of repeat dye-jobs), and his fringe covers the professional-grade prosthetic Permanently Stuck to his scar. And after so many years under the Arizona sun, his skin is tanned golden, with little of the paleness of a mostly indoor upbringing remaining.

The most startling difference is in his eyes. Staring back at him now are murky brown—a far cry from the vibrant green of before. It’s difficult to remember what they used to look like on him, but he can still picture them on his mother with vivid clarity.

Her eyes are just like mine, he remembers thinking, seeing her for the first time in the Mirror of Erised.

What would he see now if he stood in front of it again?

He shakes off the thought before he’s overcome by sentiments best forgotten, and the image of his mother and the what-ifs of another life fade quickly as he takes his place with the rest of the security detail during shift change.

---

As it turns out, Secret Service work is tremendously dull.

P0 or not, there’s a lot of standing around, waiting, and more standing around. If Harry thought that he’d had his fill of boredom on overnight surveillance missions, he finds that there was plenty more to go around. The pre-flight security check alone goes on for hours, during which he has little more to do than count the stitches on his suit jacket.

And the flight itself isn’t much of an improvement.

He’s never been a fan of No-Maj flying, and even the cachet of Air Force One does little to change his mind. As always, the dry cabin air scratches his throat, and the popping in his ears is more bothersome than usual. Adding to his discomfort is knowing that there’s this vague threat out there that might charge in at any time from who-knows-where.

The predicament evokes an image of a disguised Gary Oldman storming the co*ckpit, and for lack of anything else better to do, Harry passes the rest of the flight recounting the entire plot of the movie to himself. By the time the plane finally makes its descent, he’s gotten to the part where Harrison Ford is grappling with the other guy for the last parachute.

Harry is one of the first to disembark, and he runs through the cursory sweeps for possible threats, for possible signs of threats, still turning up nothing. And it may be that the staleness of this op so far is catching, but stepping on British soil, breathing in its air for the first time in over a decade feels—empty.

He’d expected gravity. Some conspicuous marker—skywriting or a bolt of lightning or something—to denote: I’m back. But he’s just one of a dozen faceless suits on the tarmac who no one takes notice of any more than the rest.

The prodigal son returns, a voice drawls in his head.

It sounds like Snape.

---

Their itinerary for London is full, though Harry supposes that’s only typical for someone at the very top of the political food chain. This evening is dinner with the royal family, followed the next day by trade discussions with the British government. Their third and final day in London is likely to be the most eventful, at least for Harry, since that morning will be a conference involving both the wizarding and No-Maj heads of state of the two countries.

The evening at Buckingham Palace passes by without incident. Same, too, the day after, spent with the Prime Minister and various cabinet ministers, mostly addressing some problem with the cheese quotas and-or tariffs.

All the while, the ‘threat’ declines to make itself known.

And Harry knows that that’s the best possible outcome—to be able to go home without ever having to draw his wand and to avoid the potential for an international disaster altogether.

Even still, he’d much rather just get it over with.

---

The American delegations are already waiting in the conference room when their British counterparts join them. Harry stands along the south wall and runs through a mental tally as the Brits pile in.

Prime Minister Brown. His PA. The Foreign Secretary—obvious hairpiece. Bodyguards one, two, and three, all packing… Glocks. Minister for Magic Greengrass. His Undersecretary—

Harry holds his breath, and the edges of his vision go dark, blurring his view of everything in the room but him.

Voldemort. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

It’s a much older version of the teenager he battled in the Chamber of Secrets—with shallow lines around the eyes and some graying around the temples. But it’s the same dangerously handsome face with sharp cheekbones that could grace a magazine cover. The same envious body—broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and legs that go on for days. Thomas Gaunt, his brain finally supplies when it finishes rebooting. Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic.

Right then, Harry can almost smell the foul stench of the Chamber, and he unconsciously places a hand over his arm where the basilisk’s fang had pierced clean through the skin. The light throb in the scar on his head, he might be inventing like he always does, but it’s difficult to tell.

What—what was going on?

Harry watches Gaunt—Voldemort—out of the corner of his eye, half-expecting, almost willing him to cast a Morsmordre into the air—or lob a Cruciatus at the American that keeps interrupting. But he’s only just listening intently—politely—as the current speaker drones on about something Harry had lost the thread of long ago.

There’s no question about it. He was up to something.

But what would he even have to gain from playing it straight when he could simply Imperio the masses with impunity?

Thomas Gaunt. Harry remembers seeing the name in passing, some mid-level official associated with Thicknesse’s administration from years ago. How long had he been just—lurking, unknown to the world, manipulating Ministry affairs from the shadows?

At least that somewhat explains the Brits’ recent veer into increasingly austere legislation when it came to wizarding-Muggle relations.

Though it doesn’t explain much else.

Like what it means for Harry.

He’d washed his hands of all matters Voldemort and the Boy-Who-Lived more than a decade ago. So what if Voldemort is still alive, incognito, pulling lord-knows-what kinds of strings at the nucleus of magical politics?

Does it actually change anything for him?

It shouldn’t. Harry knows it shouldn’t.

Yet—

Everything’s different now.

It’d been so easy to plead ignorance when it was all thousands of miles away across the ocean, not standing in front of him, all—disappointed-like and judge-y, like some ghost of Prophecy past, pointing out all the ways Harry had f*cked up his life.

It’d be easier, still, to continue to plead ignorance.

He has a good life now. Everything he could have hoped for and so much more than what he’d imagined of the future as a nervous runaway. He has magic back. A steady income and growing nest egg for an eventual down payment on a house. He’s tied for first in his fantasy Quodpot league.

Could he give that all up to take up the mantle again?

For now, Harry reinforces his mind with the strongest Occlumency shields he can muster and feigns disinterest. Funnily enough, he does find the topic at hand quite fascinating once he catches up to the conversation—something about bringing the US in as a signatory to new amendments to the International Statute of Secrecy. He distantly remembers learning about these changes—increased restrictions on wizarding-No-Maj relations being brokered by the British Ministry, go figure, and their European neighbors several years ago.

He’s wondering about what this might mean for his job, where his employer is decidedly No-Maj, and pondering other career options in the eventuality of a lay-off—when it happens.

One of the unassuming British Aurors stands and procures something from his robes—a sphere, the size of a Remembrall, but not as solid, kind of wispy, kind of like—

sh*t.

One of the Americans is fast enough to arc a Stupefy his way, but it’s too late. The Orb is already discharging.

Harry draws his wand as quickly he ever has and casts a Protego, willing his magic to envelop the object even as it expands.

“Evacuate the building!” he hears someone yell as he strains to hold the shield whole. The heads of state all carry emergency Portkeys, so they pop away in an instant along with most of their retinues.

“Jones, take the right wing, Franley, you have the left, I’ve got the stragglers,” one of the remaining British Aurors barks out. “You,” he turns toward Harry, “can you give us five minutes?”

Harry nods, though it’s rather dubious whether he’d be able to last the next thirty seconds, let alone a whole five minutes. But the Aurors are gone before he can think to re-negotiate.

It doesn’t much matter, really. He loses himself to what seems like hours of pushing his magic miles beyond his limits, and his shield only just bears the mounting pressure, stretched paper-thin like poorly-rolled pizza dough that won’t quite hold the toppings properly.

He’s fairly certain this is how he dies. His last thoughts about pizza, of all things.

“What is the nature of this device?”

Harry exerts enough effort to turn his head toward the inquiring voice. The maybe-Dark Lord meets his gaze with curious eyes, unflustered.

Hell, he’ll take whatever help he can get.

“Enchanted seafoam—u-unicorn horn powder—mandrake extract—simulates a—sh*t—a Kemm-Singh bond—gray particles and magical c-core,” Harry stutters out, barely recalling last summer’s lengthy seminar on the new tech—Death Orbs—that were making the rounds in the underworld lately.

“Hn.” Voldemort approaches the Orb, wand in hand, and begins to cast.

“What are you—”

Harry doesn’t manage to finish his sentence because suddenly the weight is gone, and he’s too busy catching himself from falling over. The Orb is receding to its original size and soon lies dormant on the floor.

“Wh—what? What did you do?” Possible disarming techniques for Death Orbs had been theorized, but for obvious reasons, no one had had the opportunity to test them in the field.

Until now.

“I identified the primary reaction sequence and neutralized it,” Voldemort says casually, as if he were recounting something everyday—like how to operate a dishwasher.

Any gnawing doubts Harry might have had about the true identity of Thomas Gaunt fly out the window. Despite how prosaic the explanation, it’s a hefty, near-inconceivable feat of magical control and sheer power to do what he’s just described.

He suppresses the urge to gush and opts for basic social norms instead. “Jason Evans, Magical-non-Magical CIA.” He holds out his hand.

Voldemort smiles and grasps it in a polite shake. His skin is soft and his grip, firm and lingering. Harry would blush at the attention if it weren’t so blatantly creepy.

“Thomas Gaunt, Undersecretary to the Minister. A pleasure to formally meet your acquaintance, Mr. Evans, albeit under rather troubling circ*mstances.”

It could be that Harry’s somehow been transported to Bizarro World, and it’s a totally normal thing for this dimension’s version of Voldemort to touch him, smile at him, regard him with warmth and charm and affection. And maybe they’d both go for some takeaway after.

Harry files the theory away next to stroke-induced-coma-dream.

Suddenly overwhelmed by the need to get away from—all this, he ambles toward the door. “I—uh—I have to call this in,” he says, enormously thankful that he doesn’t trip over his feet. He stops himself as he remembers, gesturing toward the stunned Auror on the floor. “Can you keep an eye on the perp?”

“Certainly.”

Swaying slightly from magical exhaustion, Harry almost makes it out of the room before Voldemort speaks again.

“It was most fortunate that the device malfunctioned prior to detonation. These radicals prove themselves more incompetent by the day.” The smile on his face is knowing and mean.

“What—but… Oh. Yeah. Sure,” Harry manages, mind whirling as another puzzle piece clicks into place. He adds Voldemort-is-Palpatine-in-real-life to his growing list of working theories.

He debriefs with Rob over the phone on his way out of the building, relaying an account that corroborates Voldemort’s modifications to the story—a defective Death Orb failing to detonate as intended. Rob seems strangely interested in the mechanism that could have caused the defect and inquires about the Orb’s present whereabouts. Harry figures the Brits will collect it for evidence and tells him so.

No doubt that Voldemort would already be making the necessary arrangements.

Harry isn’t sure exactly why he lies to Rob. He trusts him, certainly, and whatever he ends up deciding to do with Voldemort would doubtlessly progress more smoothly with CIA resources at his disposal.

On the other hand, he can’t help but feel like this is his problem. His prophesied nemesis. And bringing in a government entity, a foreign one at that, seems like a recipe for a diplomatic catastrophe.

He eyes the throng of government workers across the street and approaches the British Aurors that had led the evacuation.

“It was a dud,” he opens, and the Aurors relax their shoulders in relief.

“And Jenkins?” the lead Auror asks.

“Still stunned in the conference room. I left him with the Undersecretary,” Harry says, deducing Jenkins to be the assailant.

“And who are you, again?”

“Jason Evans, Magical-non-Magical CIA,” Harry says again. “I’m part of the No-Maj president’s security detail.”

And so goes the rest of his afternoon, debriefing again and again with all the parties of interest that demand to know just what the hell happened. He talks to Rob once more after, who instructs him to remain in London for now in case the Ministry has more questions for him.

So he settles into his hotel room, orders room service, and tries—unsuccessfully—to erase the last eight hours from his mind. He falls asleep to the TV in the background and dreams about brewing a potion out of basilisk venom and unicorn blood.

---

He rouses abruptly to a door swinging open. Instantly gripping the wand under his pillow, he deflects the incoming Expelliarmus and the Stupefy that follows. There are offensive spells on the tip of his tongue when the Lumos of one of the trespassers reveals the vivid crimson of British Auror robes.

Harry tosses his wand aside on the bed and raises his arms over his head. “What’s going on?” He doesn’t panic—he’s done nothing wrong—but a half dozen wands pointed at him put him a little on edge.

“Jason Evans. You’re under arrest for the murder of Edgar Jenkins,” the Auror in front recites while another binds his wrists behind his back. The Auror is saying something else—about defense and evidence and solicitors, but the blare of MURDER OF reverberates in his head and drowns out everything else. Within a blink, he’s Portkeyed away to a cell, where his brain finally catches up.

“I didn’t do anything—you have the wrong guy—hey!” Harry yells uselessly.

As the Aurors leave, he wonders if Sirius had felt the same baffled desperation when they took him away.

---

“I didn’t f*cking do it!”

The room is cramped, almost claustrophobic with all the stale air and tense energy. It’s filled with too many people who have too many questions, and no matter Harry’s persistent efforts to assert his innocence, his interrogators seem to have their minds made up already.

“There are memos we found in your flat that say otherwise,” the oddly familiar British Auror—Bones, he thinks—reminds him for the third or fourth time.

And hadn’t that been a punch to the gut, learning that there’s evidence against him. Evidence planted against him.

And ten times worse, that there’s just one person, besides himself, with the kind of sweeping access to everything Jason Evans—including his apartment that might as well be under Fidelius for all its airtight security.

f*cking—

Rob had set him up.

And now, there are charges of terrorism, attempted murder, and whatever they decided on how he’d coerced Jenkins to be his fall-guy littering his rap sheet.

“How does that even make any sense?” he protests. Again. “I’m the one that stopped it from going off in the first place.”

“So you claim,” an Auror scoffs. Franley, Harry thinks.

“What—what the f*ck? Seriously?! You were there!” His voice cracks at the end, pitchy and hysterical, and he wonders if this particular brand of farcical is the norm or the exception to standard Ministry interrogations. “Give me Veritaserum if you want. My answer’s not going to change.”

Some of the Aurors snort.

Well. It’s worth a try.

“Look,” Bones says, “you’re facing a lengthy sentence as it is. We can discuss getting it reduced if you start talking.”

Even without all the training under his belt in optimizing interrogation outcomes, Harry would know enough from the movies he’s seen that that kind of deal never works out for anyone involved.

Plus, a few years shaved off of forever would still amount to forever.

“I’ll talk to Gaunt,” he responds instead, fully expecting to be rebuffed again. The Undersecretary is a very busy man, they’d said the first time. You think he has time for nutters like you? the time after that.

But his luck is finally turning around, it seems, because they actually appear to be considering it this time. They’ve got to be just as frustrated as he is, talking in circles, holed up in a too-crowded space, definitely in violation of the fire code and reeking of sweat and testosterone.

Bones sends off a Patronus—a sparrow—and Harry relaxes an inch.

It’s one of the cruelest, most bizarre things to happen to him (and he’s had more than anyone’s fair share of those)—to cling to Voldemort, of all people, as a lifeline, and he has to wonder at how the painstakingly woven threads of his present existence had become so thoroughly, so quickly unraveled.

Where had he gone wrong?

“Great, thanks,” he says, refusing to dwell on the hundred things outside his control. “Nice Patronus, by the way.”

Forge a connection with your captors, get them to like you, he remembers from the lecture on the protocol for capture. A lot of it doesn’t quite apply to this scenario—there’s a distinct lack of ‘injurious physical contact’, for one—but it can’t hurt to make nice with the people who are just two beats shy from dropping him off at Azkaban.

It works. Bones eases off, the constant scowl on her face loosening into a mild frown instead. “Thanks,” she says. “A good friend taught it to me.”

Then he realizes why the Auror had seemed so familiar. Susan Bones. She’d been at Hogwarts with him. He’d taught her the Patronus Charm—in the Room of Requirement along with the rest of Dumbledore’s Army.

He nearly laughs out loud at the irony.

How could this be his life?

He makes a few more stilted attempts at friendly conversation, galvanized by the new discovery, but Susan isn’t as receptive. They pass the remaining minutes preceding the Undersecretary’s arrival in silence.

---

Voldemort enters, exuding what might be described as grace, if grace could be so severe and intense.

What do the rest of the room think about him? Harry wonders. Do they know how powerful he is? How dangerous? How violently sad*stic? Voldemort meets his eyes then, and Harry quickly braces his mental shields, possibly too late, as Voldemort’s lips twitch just barely in response.

“Tell them I didn’t do it,” Harry says before anyone else can get a word in.

Voldemort smiles, kind and winsome, and Harry thinks that he’s never hated him more.

“Auror Bones, if I might have a few minutes alone with Mr. Evans?” he asks, with a reserved politeness that the Dark Lord of a decade past had never possessed.

“I’m sorry, Undersecretary Gaunt,” Susan says. “It’s against department regulations.”

“Please, Susan—I’d consider it a personal favor.” The smile he flashes her way is disarming, and Harry makes himself look away before he absolutely loses it.

A pause. Then: “I can give you ten minutes,” she concedes. As the Aurors leave, she reinforces the bindings that restrain his magic. “Keep your wand out,” she instructs Voldemort. “He’s considered extremely dangerous.”

Well, that’s something, at least.

After the room clears out, Voldemort takes the seat across from him and laces his fingers over the table. “Now, then. What did you want to discuss?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know just exactly why he’s been asked here.

“Are you for—” Harry doesn’t yell, but he stops himself and starts again, more quietly, “You have to tell them it wasn’t a malfunction—tell them I held it together until you shut it off.”

Voldemort seems to mull this over and hums indifferently. If Harry’s hands weren’t bound behind him, he thinks he might have jumped across the table to wring his neck.

“Unfortunately, the situation is rather… delicate for anything of the sort,” he says eventually.

And just what the f*ck is that supposed to mean?

Harry buries his rage and frustration underneath the rest of his rage and frustration and grits out, “It was my boss. Deputy Director Robert Bell. He set it all up. Bring him in and see whose story holds up.” He swallows, sounding more confident than he feels. Rob would have shored up all the weak points and blind spots Harry wouldn’t have ever even thought of in a million years.

There’s an interminable stretch of silence then which he has to break for the sake of his sanity. The stuffy air of the room and the lack of sleep weigh more heavily on him than ever as he asks quietly, “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Based on your performance yesterday, I find it highly unlikely that you are the responsible party,” Voldemort responds, and the pressure behind Harry’s eyes ebbs for a moment—then balloons up again, more crushing than before, when he remembers who he’s talking to.

“A proposition then,” Voldemort decides. Somehow, the way he articulates ‘proposition’ is both inviting and sinister. In a flash of pure lunacy, Harry wonders if it’ll be something sexual.

“Let’s hear it then. See if you can’t do better than multiple life sentences in Azkaban.”

Voldemort leans back in his chair and smiles. “I will apprehend your Robert Bell and clear the charges leveled against you. In return, you will accept a position in the British Ministry, reporting directly to me.”

It’s—not what he’d expected. Though, he hadn’t really expected much of anything.

“You want me to defect?” It’s not completely unheard of—even Rob recruited the odd foreign agent from time to time.

“Yes,” Voldemort says.

“And what would the job entail?” Harry isn’t in a position to negotiate, but there are still hard lines he won’t ever cross, especially when considering who his prospective employer is and what Harry knows he’s capable of.

“Nothing you’re not already well-practiced in, I’m sure. Rounding up wrong-doers, recovering stolen assets, things of that nature,” Voldemort answers placidly.

“I won’t kill anyone,” Harry blurts. “Or torture or anything outright banned by the Geneva Conventions.”

At that, Voldemort has the nerve to appear affronted. “Mr. Evans! What kind of barbaric despot do you take me for?” It’s as sincere as anyone can sound, and Harry just about gags. “I am amenable to your terms, of course.”

And—that’s. That’s that.

He has Harry swear to a Wizard’s Pledge. It’s not as legally binding as a contract or as magically prohibitive as a Vow, but it’ll hold Harry to his side of the bargain and secure his commitment to the spirit of the agreement.

Working for Voldemort can be to Harry’s advantage. This is what he tells himself as the threads of the Pledge magic encapsulate them both, binding his future, yet again, to the Dark Lord.

Well, it’s as good a cover as any that would be arranged for him by Intel, providing him with all the pretext he needs to crack into the mysterious circ*mstances surrounding Thomas Gaunt’s rise to power.

When Voldemort leaves, Harry lets himself unwind, forcing the stiffness of muscles to loosen.

After all, he’s going home.

Chapter 3: Transition

Chapter Text

Harry spends the next nine days in Ministry custody.

The same portly guard drops off his meals each day, barely acknowledging Harry’s presence. Any attempt at conversation is promptly shot down, as are all of his requests to speak with the Undersecretary.

In the meantime, Harry tries not to think about what might be happening outside the cell walls, about what the future, short or long term, might have in store for him. There are too many variables, too many unknowns to fathom.

Too many possibilities out of countless more that end in total disaster.

He tries not to think about Rob. Or betrayal. Or the hundreds of whys.

The man had been—not kind, necessarily, but encouraging, to a great degree. An instrumental catalyst to all of Harry’s successes and accomplishments in magical adulthood.

In many ways, Rob had reminded him of Professor Lupin, with all his practical sensibility that translated so well into mentoring someone like Harry, and they’d established an easy rapport that went far beyond the professional regard of workplace acquaintances.

But apparently, none of that had played a factor in Rob’s designs to—what, assassinate four eminent political figures?—while abandoning Harry to the ensuing slaughter.

It’s nauseating and wretched and painful. It’s—it’s better not to linger over it.

At least if there’s something Harry knows how to do and how to do well, it’s compartmentalizing.

So instead, he passes the time between meals meditating, wandering the hallways of his memory palace.

It’s been years, but the castle that materializes around him—stone by stone, turret by turret—is somehow more familiar to him than anyplace else he’s lived since. Sketching out a path along an imagined Marauder’s Map in his hand, he walks the entire length of the school and remembers.

The rumbling of the staircases, the indignant screech of Mrs. Norris, the dampness of the dungeons, the crisp midnight air of the Astronomy Tower. It surrounds him, outside and in, blanketing him in a powerful wave of nostalgia he hasn’t felt in years.

The students bustle from classroom to classroom, the fabric of their school robes swishing gently, the animated chatter of weekend plans at Hogsmeade and who-kissed-whos filling the halls.

They look so young.

Harry wonders if Hermione ever got any traction with SPEW. If Ron ever got to celebrate the rise of the Cannons to the top of the League rankings. If Fred and George ever bought out Zonko’s in Hogsmeade. If Malfoy ever grew out of name-dropping his father in every conversation. Though that probably hinged a lot on whether Lucius was still incarcerated or not.

As Harry ventures further and further into the less-traversed depths of his mind, he wonders about what his life could have been, too.

---

He’s asleep when Voldemort finally arrives.

He wakes, naturally, the Dark Lord’s stifling and overwhelming presence palpable even through slumber. His scar itches—like too much sweat accumulating under the prosthetic or like Voldemort standing ten feet away from him.

Probably both.

It must be late in the day from what his internal clock is telling him, but Voldemort’s robes are still immaculately pressed, and his hair is still elegantly styled, not a strand out of place. Suddenly self-conscious about the state of his own dirtied clothes and the griminess of his skin, Harry tugs at the hem of his shirt to at least smooth out the wrinkles as he stands.

“I see you’ve settled in nicely,” Voldemort says, half-mocking.

“I’ve had worse,” Harry replies. The nights he’s spent in condemned buildings and rodent-infested safe houses during past assignments don’t quite hold a candle to a cushy Ministry cell like this one. Although, with his extensive catalog of charges, he’d expected something a little more Gitmo-y.

Which reminds him.

“So?” he prompts.

“So,” Voldemort echoes flatly. There’s a prolonged pause as he eyes Harry with a thin smile and an undercurrent of self-important smugness.

Harry hates him a little bit more.

But the moment passes, and Voldemort continues, “At present, Mr. Bell is in custody awaiting trial.” He heaves a pleased sigh and gently claps his hands together. “Consequently, your charges have been dismissed. You are free to go.”

As soon as the words are spoken, the dampening wards come down, and the oppressive weight of magical inhibition dissipates. Harry stretches his arms over his head on his tiptoes, reveling in the pins-and-needles trickle of magic beginning to flow through him again.

“I’m giving you two weeks to settle your affairs in McLean. You will return to London by the first of next month, and we will discuss my expectations for you then,” Voldemort says as Harry follows him out of holding.

And it’s not that he’s forgotten about it or anything, but it still catches him by surprise. There’s something about the brightness of the Ministry hallways and the restored magic in his veins that make his bargain with the Devil seem so much more real than when he’d made it.

He tries to brush off the unease. Voldemort’s expectations could mean a lot of things. Like— proper Ministry dress code or whether he should holster his wand to his wrist or to his thigh. It might be that they don’t have anything to do with his prospective role in ethically dubious undertakings. Which, on that note—

“Can I see him?” Harry asks, discomfort mounting.

“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” Voldemort answers. “Mr. Bell is being held under maximum security. No unauthorized persons permitted.”

“Please. I need to understand what happened.” Harry sounds pathetic and whiny, even to himself, but he can’t quite find it in himself to care. He wants—he needs answers from Rob, and if it means having to beg Voldemort for the privilege, well—he could very well spend the rest of the evening on his knees.

“My apologies, but it is out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do,” Voldemort prevaricates, as if there were any authority higher than himself.

Harry—doesn’t understand. It’s like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together, and the only pieces he has available are the ones that have fallen underneath the table.

What does Voldemort have to lose if Harry talks to Rob? What’s he keeping from him?

The questions are still rattling around in his head in a repeating loop of what-ifs and maybes when they reach their destination.

They enter what appears to be an evidence room of sorts, with neatly labeled multi-colored bins lined against and on top of one another along the wall. Voldemort pulls a blue container from the top of one stack and sets it gingerly in front of Harry.

“Your personal effects,” he says, gesturing to his wand, sidearm, still in its holster, and travel bag shrunk down from its original size.

Harry reaches for the wand first.

Ivy, ten inches, coral core. A most unorthodox combination, the wandmaker had said.

It had been made custom after Harry failed to find a complementary match in the wake of dozens of wands that had either fizzled pathetically or erupted explosively. It doesn’t suit him quite as well as his holly wand had, but it’s still usable. Loyal. He gives it a light swish, basking in the warm wash of magic that ripples throughout his body, before casting a self-targeted Scourgify to melt away the accumulated layers of dirt and sweat.

Equipping his holster and double-checking the safety on the gun next, Harry glances back up at Voldemort as he thinks through the logistics of the job change. “You wouldn’t happen to know who they put in charge after Rob, would you?” he asks.

“The Magical-non-Magical Operations Division of the CIA has been dissolved, and its existence has been expunged from all Muggle records,” Voldemort comments blithely. “How industrious of you to have acquired another position so promptly.” His lips quirk up, taunting.

“Oh, don’t act like you’re doing me any favors,” Harry snaps. “I’ll be slaving away in the mines in no time, knowing you.” The words tumble out of his mouth in classic Harry Potter fashion before he can think twice about them. Or just the once, even.

“And what is it that you know about me, Mr. Evans?” His voice is a few pitches lower than before, and his russet eyes are intently focused on Harry’s own.

“Er—you just seem that type, you know? With that taskmaster sort of vibe,” Harry hedges. He makes a whipping motion with his arm, accompanied by the appropriate sound effect.

Voldemort smiles. It’s what Harry’s already filed away as the all-purpose Undersecretary smile, seemingly designed to mollify and subdue. For Harry, it has the opposite effect.

“How did you arrive at that impression? I do endeavor to treat my subordinates with utmost respect and appreciation,” Voldemort counters. As if he didn’t literally mete out Crucios like candy for poor performance.

Suppressing the snort at that causes Harry to cough. “Right, sorry. I didn’t mean any offense.”

“It is no problem,” Voldemort says easily. “You’ve been through a trying ordeal. I’m certain you will have your wits about you after some rest.”

Harry, who has never expressed any kind of optimism over the years for the general condition of his wits, declines to comment.

“This will take you to the Portkey Office in D.C,” Voldemort explains, handing him a gold pen. “You may also use it for your return journey to the Ministry. The activation phrase is valor.”

The pen weighs heavy in his hands as Harry mumbles, “Um, all right. Thank you. By the way—for everything.”

He thinks he’ll hate himself later for thanking the man who killed his parents. But in the present, as surreal and utterly devoid of anything reliably real as it is, he folds back on himself and thinks about nothing.

“You could be great, Mr. Evans,” he hears. “It would have been a tremendous loss to have you waste away your remaining years in Azkaban.”

Terrible but great rings in his mind as the Portkey whisks him away.

---

He Apparates directly to his apartment from the Portkey Office.

It’s not quite the same cluttered mess from two weeks prior—someone (or multiple someones) has definitely been by since he left, likely to rummage around for ‘evidence’. His belongings have been shifted around haphazardly, like the stack of DVDs sitting tellingly on the kitchen counter rather than inside of the TV console or the half-filled coffee mug positioned on a new spot on the table, drawing yet another ring of crusty brown onto the surface.

He settles into the couch, delighting in the familiar comfort and exiling the memory of that too-firm, odd-smelling Ministry mattress to a deep corner of his mind.

A deep breath. Then another. Then five more.

Okay. One thing at a time.

The phone he digs out from his bag is dead, and it’s a long minute after plugging it into the charger that it chimes on. He opens the contact list.

It’s… a little sad, he thinks, scrolling over the same few names over and over. Maybe he should have participated in more after-work happy hours.

His thumb hovers over a name for a drawn-out moment before dialing, and within a few seconds, there’s a tinny “Jason! Hi!” greeting him from the other end.

“Hey, Jimmy. Sorry for calling so late—I was wondering if you have the paperwork for Stockholm? Rob said he’d put you on it.” Light and breezy.

Jimmy takes a moment to respond, a shade timid, “Uh—haven’t you heard?”

Of course, he had. “Heard what?”

“The DNI shut us down last week. Um. Permanently.” Last week? It’s quicker than he’d thought.

“What—what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

“No one knows, really. Seth thinks it’s because President Hewitt just passed those new Secrecy measures… you know, the ones everyone’s calling Rappaport two-point-oh?”

Harry doesn’t know. He barely has a grasp on the context.

The eponymous American law had been repealed long before his time, allowing for less restricted interactions between the No-Maj and wizarding communities after a few hundreds of years of extreme isolation.

He’d had no idea that the new amendments were so prohibitive.

“Yeah, sure,” he lies, reminding himself to pick up a newspaper more often. “What did Rob say? Is he going to work for the MACUSA, then?”

“Uh—no one’s really heard from Rob. Nothing other than the division-wide e-mail about our positions being eliminated—I guess you missed that. Everyone thinks he’s off working on something super top secret.”

“Oh,” Harry says dumbly, distracted by the implications.

There’s a lull in the conversation then.

They’ve never been particularly close—he and Jimmy. The only reason Harry even has his number is due to an unfortunate Christmas season when the two had been ‘volunteered’ to plan the department holiday party together. And then Jimmy had drunkenly hit on him at said party, making for an awkward post-holiday return to office for everyone involved.

“Want to get a drink—?”

“Well, I’ll let you go,” Harry says at the same time.

“Okay, cool, see you around.”

Not likely. “Take care,” Harry says, hanging up right after.

He tosses the phone carelessly on the table with a little too much force that it ends up falling off and sliding across the floor instead. One of these days, he’d have his questions answered in a way that didn’t just lead to more questions.

So. No one knew about Rob’s involvement in the attack. Or that there had even been an attack. At least, officially. And despite the chaos of the meeting at 10 Downing Street, the Americans had signed on to the Statute amendments anyway. Harry boggles at the maneuverings Voldemort must have masterminded to keep the truth concealed.

It feels like he’s staring down a Magic Eye poster, forcibly, futilely willing the hidden picture to come to light. The last time he’d felt like this, he’d at least had Hermione and her unrepentant love affair with everything library-related to do all the heavy lifting.

But that kind of thing had always been—still is—well outside the range of his expertise.

He’s a soldier, first and foremost. A recipient of orders and briefs and dossiers that tell him exactly what to do and where to do them. Solving riddles, disentangling mysteries—they hadn’t taught him much of that at the Farm at all.

Even so, he’s never felt more incompetent or more impotent in dealing with his own problems.

He sighs, uselessly rubbing away the onset of a migraine.

And international politics aside, there’s the whole other matter of Voldemort. For that, Harry is at a loss for a place to even begin.

The fact that the events and aftermath of the Department of Mysteries have apparently been erased from history?

Or that Voldemort has been impersonating a ministry official for the past how many years—and still is—and no one seems to know his true identity?

Or that he’s likely orchestrating a wizard-No-Maj segregation movement at a global scale—for reasons unknown?

Or that Harry’s caught his interest, and is now under a Pledge obligation to carry out his (possibly evil) bidding?

He lingers on that last one.

At the time, he’d convinced himself that it was an opportunity he shouldn’t pass up—not that he’d had much of an option to. It was a win-win: a mostly-literal get-out-of-jail-free card and a chance to get to the bottom of everything.

Keeping your enemies closer and all that. It’s more or less a part of his job description.

On that note, Harry tries to recall his days in training and, more specifically, what his instructors had imparted on intel-gathering.

The easiest was bribery—palming a few bills here and there went a long way in getting what you needed, especially from lower-level grunts and contractors. It isn’t applicable in this case, of course, and Harry feels sorry for the hapless fool who tries to buy off Voldemort—or worse, Bellatrix Lestrange—with a briefcase full of cash.

More common was blackmail or threats—useful for those that didn’t come with a ready price tag (at least, one affordable on Uncle Sam’s dime) and for those that had something to lose. Harry knows a lot of secrets about Thomas Gaunt, certainly, but nothing he has concrete proof of. And even if he did, he isn’t sure it would be a wise move at all to engage Voldemort so directly. Calling his bluff might be worth it just to see the look on his face, but Harry would be revealing his own hand in the process.

Personally off-limits was torture—something he had never employed and never planned to, enough said about that.

And an approach he had tried once—and never again—was the infamous honey pot. He’d been made within minutes, all his awkwardness and lack of subtlety giving him away before he could even utter the first words of, ‘did it hurt, when you fell from heaven?’

The extraction team had been called in while he did his best to stall, and Rob never talked about it again. Unlike Harry’s co-workers, who would pounce on any opening to bring it up and tease him mercilessly for his lack of game.

But how would one even seduce a dark lord?

Objectively, Thomas Gaunt is an attractive man. Though, in a wholly sexually-ambiguous, unattainable, Bishop-the-android-from-Aliens sort of way.

Does Voldemort have sex?

Harry simulates the mental equivalent of slamming a book shut at that, refusing to entertain the idea any further.

In any case, it’s not like he has to sleep with him. He just needs to get close, foster familiarity, earn his trust, and exert the entire arsenal of his spy-honed wiles to reveal his deep, dark secrets. All while not getting caught.

And that introduces another disturbing thought.

What would happen if Voldemort found him out?

Would he strike him down with a Killing Curse on the spot? Torture him indefinitely? Chain him to the dungeons?

Or what if—

It’s hard to even think about.

What if he already knows?

And what, Voldemort’s just toying with him? Winding him up to watch him go, squirming and tripping over himself as he stumbles through whatever spurious obstacles Voldemort throws in his way?

Surely not.

Harry knows that his Occlumency is best-in-class—there’s a f*cking certificate collecting dust in a drawer somewhere to prove it. He’s pretty confident—like, at least eighty percent or so—that even Voldemort, Big Bad Legilimens-extraordinaire, would be hard-pressed to read him past his shields.

But you’ve always had that connection to him, a voice whispers in his head.

So, yeah, Harry had dreamed about Voldemort for years on end, about his followers, about his snake, as his snake, even. He’d been possessed by him, and on top of all that, he’d unwillingly participated in a dark ritual resulting in his blood now flowing through Voldemort’s veins.

Could his Occlumency compensate for all of that?

He has the chilling realization that he has no way of knowing.

---

In the end, Harry does what he does best.

He kicks the can down the road and leaves the problem for future-Harry to kick even farther down the road later.

For now, all present-Harry has to worry about are the basics: get close and don’t get caught. No need to get bogged down in the details.

That’s not to say he squanders his last few weeks as a free man completely. He all but camps out in a corner of the Magical Library of Congress, poring over books and journals on the contemporary history of Magical Britain. When he runs out of materials on that, he moves on to those on Europe.

He learns a lot of things.

Like how five years ago, Hogwarts abolished its acceptance criteria for admission, inviting any and all British magical children of age to attend the institution, regardless of their financial, social, or family background.

Like how three years ago, Hermione, as deputy head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, authored a Wizengamot bill that revolutionized the creature classification system to improve the legal standings of historically marginalized magical communities.

Like how two years ago, the English National Quidditch Team clinched their first World Cup Championship since the inception of the tournament, with team Captain Oliver Wood at the helm.

Harry celebrates the successes of his old friends and the unequivocally brighter and happier future of Magical Britain, emphatically turning a blind eye to what Voldemort and his scheming might have had to do with any of it.

---

The Portkey takes him straight to the Ministry lobby.

The morning crowd has dispersed by now, and Harry follows the few stragglers hurrying to the lifts, selecting Level One – Minister for Magic and Support Staff, for himself once he boards. By the time the lift reaches his stop, the other riders have all gotten off, and he steps onto the hallway of Level One alone.

It’s nothing like what he’d seen on Level Two when the Ministry had hauled him in for his trial.

There’s no clutter. No crowds.

It’s like a museum after hours—quiet and pristine and expensive.

The purple carpets are so thick and luxurious that Harry almost feels bad for walking across them in the shoes he’s wearing. And even the air, despite being stories below ground, tastes fresh and rich, and he wonders what it would take to replicate the effect in his apartment.

A few solid mahogany doors down, he comes across the placard engraved with an elegant gold script—Thomas Gaunt – Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. He takes a breath and a couple more for good measure, then knocks.

A muffled “Come in” in response beckons him into the most lavish office he’s ever been in.

A smooth sea of creamy marble beneath his feet. Floor-to-ceiling windows with an artificial view of the London skyline. Art, which Harry’s uncultured palate can only describe as boring, hanging off the walls. Voldemort himself is sat behind the largest desk Harry’s ever seen, pen in hand, darting agilely across the scattered papers underneath. He’s speaking quietly to a blond man standing unnaturally straight beside him when he looks up. And there’s that smile again.

“Mr. Evans, how prompt. Please, sit down.” He gestures to a set of plush chairs opposite his desk. “Tea?”

“Coffee, if you have it,” Harry says, having been made a convert long ago. He sits gingerly on the edge of the seat as Voldemort stands to retrieve his beverage.

From somewhere across the room behind him, Harry hears, “Set up a meeting with the Belgians next week, and proof these before then.” Utmost respect and appreciation, my ass.

“Yes, Undersecretary Gaunt,” a familiar tenor responds. Harry turns his head to identify the voice, and—it’s Draco Malfoy, stepping toward the desk to collect whatever needs proofing.

In his mind’s eye, all the characters from his past had always remained… enduringly constant. A mental Polaroid as Harry last remembered them. Dark Lords were Dark Lords. Children were children. But as he takes in the sight of this Malfoy, he has to remind himself that it’s not 1996 anymore.

The years have been good to Malfoy, Harry is annoyed to admit. His nose and chin have finally shed their pointiness, and he’s grown even taller, standing at about even with Voldemort’s towering height. What must be custom-tailored robes stretch flatteringly across his figure, and Harry refuses to feel inadequate in his own striped button-down and worn slacks from Men’s Wearhouse.

He offers Malfoy a small smile and hopefully a look that says, bosses, am I right?

Malfoy responds with a faint nod and leaves the room, papers tucked carefully under his arm.

“My apologies, it has been a rather frenzied morning,” Voldemort says, setting down a steaming mug in front of him. “Cream or sugar?”

“This is fine, thank you.” Harry lifts the cup by the handle, cradling it with his other hand to savor the warmth. His mind naturally gravitates to cycling through all the known toxins that can maintain their efficacy suspended in as high-temperature a medium as hot coffee.

Though, statistically, according to the CIA, at least, poison is a woman’s weapon.

Harry takes a small sip.

“Now then, shall we get down to business?” Voldemort slides across a sheaf of papers. “Your first assignment. A conventional retrieval, nothing that should strain your abilities, to be completed in two weeks’ time. Abercrombie on Level Two will assist you in procuring any equipment you require. Questions or concerns pertaining to this or to any other assignment, you can address directly to me.”

With that, Voldemort reaches across the desk to place a Spell-phone in front of him.

Harry takes it in hand and flicks on the display, noting that the Undersecretary’s name and number have already been programmed in.

“All assignments, including this one, are to be considered highly-classified,” Voldemort continues, gesturing to the papers between them. “You are not to share the nature of your work with anyone lacking the proper clearance.” All industry standard, Harry knows.

“And do note that your assignments are not sanctioned by the British Ministry, and we will deny any and all state involvement in the event that you are compromised.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. Black ops. He wouldn’t be wearing kid gloves here.

“Who has proper clearance?” he asks, wondering if he’ll be working with anyone he knows.

“Myself and anyone I personally authorize.”

Well. “So… If I wanted to talk through the ops parameters…?”

“Then you contact me directly, as I stated earlier.” It’s polite enough, but all Harry hears is a passive-aggressiveness he’s observed most often in variations of ‘as per my previous e-mail’ across intra-office comms.

“Yeah—but. You’re like, pretty important,” Harry argues anyway. “I’m not just going to call you up with a bunch of questions all the time.” For the moment, he forgets that maximizing face-time with Voldemort is part of his master two-point plan to uncover his secrets.

“Indeed, Mr. Evans, I am ‘like, pretty important’,” Voldemort derides, “but rest assured, the Ministry has a vested interest in your success, and as such, I am quite inclined to avail myself to attend to your needs.” His tone is more suggestive than firm, and Harry feels sick at how his brain chooses to interpret what attending to his needs could entail.

“Erm, okay—cool. I guess,” he says, looking away.

“Now then, I believe Audrey is awaiting you on Level Eight with some new-hire paperwork.” Voldemort pushes his seat back to stand and extends his hand. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Evans.”

It’s Harry’s third time touching Voldemort as Jason Evans, after the initial handshake and the Pledge ceremony, and he wonders at what point he’ll lose count. The heat and smoothness of his skin are no less jarring this time around, and it makes him consider maybe trying to pass himself off as a germaphobe to avoid reliving the experience.

“Thanks. Looking forward to working with you,” he replies because that’s something people say.

---

When he shuts the door behind him, he’s instantly accosted by Malfoy, who seems to have been waiting for him in the hall.

“Who are you?” Malfoy demands, and Harry nearly smiles at the familiar upturn of his nose.

“Jason Evans, today’s my first day,” he says, genial as can be, holding out his hand. It hovers for an uncomfortable moment, an eerie mirror image to how they’d met on the Hogwarts Express, with Malfoy’s hand outstretched instead.

Harry almost exhales audibly as Malfoy takes his hand and gives it a perfunctory shake. “Draco Malfoy, Junior Assistant to the Minister,” he says. Not a half-beat later, he goes on with narrowed eyes, “What do you do? I wasn’t aware of any open positions.”

Trust him to be the same nosy bastard he’d always been.

“I—” Harry begins. Then blanks. His go-to reply has always been something generic, like ‘I work for the government,’ but it doesn’t quite pass muster here in the Ministry. “I’m a consultant,” he blurts. A consultant? Whatever the f*ck for?

“A consultant?” Malfoy asks. “For what?”

“I’m assisting the Undersecretary on some matters with the Americans,” Harry produces deftly, instincts finally pulling through.

“Oh. I suppose that makes sense with the recent developments. Is this your first time in Britain, then?” Knowing that Harry isn’t an imminent threat to his job security is apparently all that’s needed to switch Malfoy’s gears from hostile to amiable.

“Yeah,” Harry responds as they head toward the lifts. Then he goes fishing: “Hey listen, what can you tell me about Gaunt?” A calculated pause. “I don’t know if it’s a British thing—no offense—but he seems kind of… intense? Have you worked with him long?”

“The Undersecretary is a brilliant and highly capable man. It is a privilege to work under such genius and vision.” Malfoy might be reciting lines out of a brochure (possibly one featuring a snake and skull logo on the front), but it’s hard to tell. Harry has the urge to point out that Gaunt isn’t standing behind him, if that’s what Malfoy’s worried about.

They board the lift when it stops at their floor, and Harry watches as Malfoy selects Level Five – Department of International Magical Cooperation before punching in Level Eight – Atrium for himself.

“Cool,” he says eventually. “I mean—yeah, it’s obvious he’s super smart, I’m just a little nervous, you know? New job and all.”

Malfoy makes a face Harry has never seen on him before. It looks—soft. “Don’t worry about that, mate. The Undersecretary knows what he’s doing. If he hired you, it’s because you deserve to be here.”

Harry blinks, and after a beat, makes himself smile at the same person who had manufactured and distributed POTTER STINKS badges to the entire school.

And while it’s not like he can just press play on a life he put on pause twelve years ago and expect everything to be the same, all he can picture as Malfoy exits the lift first with a cordial “Good luck”, is an infinitely younger, hateful face spitting ‘Mudblood’ at Hermione.

But Harry thinks back to how overcharged and sensitive he himself had been about everything that last year. Always getting into screaming matches with any warm body that would listen—and he’d grown out of that quickly enough. What’s to say Malfoy hadn’t done the same?

Childhood biases aside, Harry congratulates himself on having successfully navigated an encounter with his past without incident. When he reaches the office door marked AUDREY WEASLEY – MINISTRY RESOURCES, he braces himself to do it all over again.

---

By lunchtime, Harry is exhausted. His eyes are crossed from the endless Ministry handbooks and onboarding materials Audrey had made him read, and his hand is cramped from signing his initials to clause after clause in the employee agreement. Never mind that he’d waken up at three a.m. to accommodate for the time difference.

He trudges toward the cafeteria, his fatigue and hunger winning out against his anxiety about more unsolicited confrontations with his past. So Malfoy’s a (mostly) well-adjusted adult. And Percy’s married to his HR rep.

It’s only a little bit weird. Kind of like looking at animals from behind a glass wall. He knows them in theory—in memory—but he doesn’t actually know them at all.

As he spoons runny soup into his mouth, he lets himself wonder.

Would he still be here, eating the same green soup for lunch if he hadn’t left? He might be a Senior Auror by now, having climbed up the ranks from Trainee. Maybe he’d be sitting next to Susan and those other Aurors who broke into his hotel room to arrest him, and they might chat about the latest developments in their cases or who’s hosting the next game night.

It’s a fun fantasy that lasts him through lunch, even knowing that the greatest likelihood had always been that he would be dead.

Most of the rest of the day is spent in his small office on Level Two, reading and re-reading the assignment he’d received that morning. As Voldemort had claimed, it’s a run-of-the-mill grab-and-go. Harry should be able to wrap it up by the weekend.

Late afternoon, he meets Abercrombie, the armory clerk. All he has to do is flash his newly acquired name badge to receive the Magi-Grenades, Nullifying Dust, and Probity Probe he likes to have on hand any time he’s out in the field.

Abercrombie is friendly and helpful despite a general shyness, and provides Harry with a catalog of standard department inventory and a list of by-request items he already has clearance for. Apparently, a benefit of his new gig is a carte blanche for mission equipment, and Harry privately rejoices over a future devoid of requisition forms in triplicate.

---

His new apartment is equipped with some magical amenities like Wizard Space and a connection to the Floo Network, but it’s still in a No-Maj—Muggle neighborhood. This means that that evening, as he relaxes on the couch, hunched over a bowl of cereal, he can indulge in one of his more preferred activities—shutting off his brain and consuming high-quality bad television in excess.

He doesn’t think about his first day—first real day—back in Britain at all, which had been rather anti-climactic, if he’s being honest.

He doesn’t think about how his heart had leaped at any glimpse of a bushy brown mane, at any flash of bright red hair. He doesn’t think about how he had frozen for the briefest moment at a shout of “Harry!” directed not at himself, but at another Ministry employee, presumably also named Harry.

He doesn’t think about disappointment. About longing. About coming home to one that hardly feels like one at all.

He falls asleep, eventually, to the drone of the narrator recounting Number 119 of 1000 Ways to Die.

Chapter 4: Reunion

Chapter Text

Voldemort is suitably pleased by Harry’s performance on the first assignment—the ‘acquisition’ of a bank ledger, of all things—and the resulting graciousness in his mood provides Harry with an encouraging nudge to put his Plan into motion.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.” Voldemort rests his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands together. His eyes are trained with a singular focus on Harry, and the attention is almost unnerving enough to give him cold feet.

He swallows past it and says, “How did you decide to get into politics?” It’s a perfectly normal question posed in a perfectly normal way, and he maintains a perfectly normal amount of eye contact, bravely resisting the urge to look down at his lap.

The blank expression on Voldemort’s face reveals nothing, and Harry amends quickly, “I mean, your magic—it’s—it’s a lot—what you did before—with the Orb, I don’t know anyone who could do something like that.” He pauses, giving his awe an extra moment to land. “What are you doing behind a desk at the Ministry?”

Voldemort sips his tea and leans forward in his seat before he responds in a measured voice, “I have a very specific vision when it comes to the future of wizardkind. One that is prosperous, thriving, and glorious, and I cannot achieve those outcomes with magical prowess alone. Far more applicable and meaningful are ideas. Discourse. The conviction to see one’s efforts through to their ends. I chose politics simply for the fact that it is where I can exert the proper influence and wield the necessary means to secure the desired results.”

It reads like a campaign speech, each word, impassioned and deliberate, pouring out with practiced ease, but there’s also a depth in his tone, an ineffable something that seems to draw the oxygen right out of the room and has Harry almost nodding along to the melody.

No wonder Voldemort had amassed such a fanatic base of followers.

Harry does his best to appear unaffected, scratching idly at the side of his face. “That’s one way of looking at it,” he muses. Then because he can’t help himself, he adds, “I suppose all Albus Dumbledore did was run a school for thirty years, and he was the most powerful wizard of his time.”

Voldemort acknowledges his remark with a dismissive “Indeed,” and his left brow twitches just barely. Harry mentally high-fives himself and prods a bit more. “Did you know him? In-person, I mean. You must have, if you went to Hogwarts—didn’t you?”

“I did not have the privilege of being acquainted with Albus Dumbledore personally, though by most accounts, he was an accomplished and formidable wizard,” Voldemort notes drily, taking another sip of his tea.

“Oh. That’s too bad. I heard he was a great man,” Harry says, mostly because it’s true. “I don’t get it, though—when someone has all that power, you’d think they’d aim for more.”

“What greater aim is there than the salvation of our people?” Voldemort challenges. Harry’s pretty sure they’re not talking about Dumbledore anymore. “Even with all the magic in the world, a single individual cannot simply command the masses to do as they will. A movement is born not from the designs of one man, but from society’s common desire to evolve and to become more.”

He sounds entirely too much like a character in a movie. Who talks like that in real life?

“And what is it you think we need saving from?” Harry asks. “Muggles?”

“Not quite,” Voldemort says, smiling politely at Harry’s confusion. “The unsavory truth is that we need saving from ourselves.” He pauses, as if for dramatic effect, leveling a pointed gaze, and for a moment, it feels like he’s staring straight into his soul. “Over time, wizards have become complacent, stagnant in our growth as a people, lacking the drive to strive for more.” He draws out his Spell-phone from his pocket. “This device, for instance. Have you ever wondered about its origins?”

“Not really? Though, I assume that a wizard got the idea from Muggles,” Harry answers—it was right there in the name.

Voldemort nods. “Indeed. A Ministry employee constructed the first magical prototypes from existing Muggle models in a bid to improve his department’s efficiency. The Ministry, of course, recognized its commercial potential, and made the arrangements to manufacture them at scale. Suffice to say, it has been a most lucrative enterprise.

“All that aside, consider for how long wizards have been content to settle for a centuries-old status quo—floating parchment memos, owls and the accompanying excrement, Patronuses, which most grown wizards have yet to master. Compare that to Muggles, whose rates of innovation and advancement only continue to accelerate.”

“But what does any of that have to do with—” Harry is interrupted by a rap at the door. All the new Secrecy measures, he finishes in his head.

“My apologies, I have a prior engagement,” Voldemort says, rising from his chair. “Here is your next assignment. We will debrief again in two weeks.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry grips the envelope and walks away in a numb daze, brushing past Malfoy entering the office.

“Oh, and Mr. Evans?” Voldemort calls from his desk as Harry moves to shut the door behind him. “Do let me know if you would like to continue our discussion. I always appreciate an opportunity to recruit a supporter to our cause.”

At that, Harry can only nod, uncertain of what would even come out of his mouth if he opens it. He closes the door quietly and rests his back against it with eyes shut.

The dull echoes of salvation of our people and supporter to our cause ring oddly in his ears as he wills his stomach to untwist.

---

He doesn’t have time to dwell on these new insights into Voldemort.

His next assignment is a search-and-rescue. And while he’s usually pretty good at those, the target radius for this one puts him a little bit against the clock.

Last known whereabouts: Hungary, the dossier reads. And Harry knows enough from prior experience that he has his work cut out for him when the intel can’t be bothered to go into more detail than an entire country for a mark’s Point Last Seen.

So he brushes up on his translation spells, packs up the essentials, and makes the few Apparition hops to Budapest later that afternoon.

The primary objective is to locate and extract an individual named Prince. An alias, obviously, though Harry is secretly holding out for an encounter with the famous artist formerly known as such.

He performs the routine scrying spells (which turn up nothing) and some more obscure long-distance detection rituals he’s picked up over the years (which just indicate a barely-discernible east), as he gently hums I just want your extra time to himself.

He’s too tired for anything else after exhausting the full range of locating magic he knows, so he checks into a hotel and climbs into the bed still in his shoes. He settles on what appears to be the Hungarian knock-off of America’s Next Top Model on TV, but neither his magical fatigue nor the stream of gorgeous, half-naked women on the screen can distract him from being pulled back into his earlier conversation with Voldemort.

Had he been telling the truth?

Saving wizards from themselves? It was like—like he viewed himself as some kind of magical messiah, some benevolent icon who would deliver his people from ruin.

Which, somehow, didn’t involve blood purity or Muggle genocide or any of the gospel truths that the Dark Lord had one point evangelized with indiscriminate (or markedly discriminate) violence.

On the surface of Voldemort’s public political ideology, there’s actually very little Harry doesn’t agree with. Sure, wizards have devised potions to regrow bones and invented magical artifacts to travel back in time and engineered countless other nature-defying feats. But in some respects, the lack of magical innovation is frankly bizarre.

Like, why do wizards still prefer quills and ink over ballpoint pens? Why is Floo travel still so persistently terrible? And how is it that the radio is the sole form of live wizarding media?

So maybe Voldemort does have a point.

Harry feels slightly queasy at the idea of sitting in the same camp as Voldemort on anything, but it’s not like he’s painting anti-Muggle rhetoric onto posters or making donations to whatever the magical (and British) equivalent of the Westboro Baptist Church is.

But what is he doing, exactly?

Or better yet, what’s Voldemort doing? What’s his endgame?

Surely, it’s something a little more nuanced (and a lot more villainous) than underwriting magi-tech developments or expanding social safety nets or the many other things the current administration seems to have a hand in.

But nothing quite lines up.

Harry buries his head under the pillows and settles on not thinking about it until he has more to think about.

---

Public Apparition points are scarce east of the capital, so the next several days are a grueling marathon of driving, pausing to refresh his spells, driving, and so on. The landscape rolling past is idyllic and vividly lush, but Harry is too preoccupied with his increasingly pressing timetable to appreciate it.

It’s not until the ninth day that he picks up on something substantial near the Ukrainian border—a heavily warded area, approximately a fifty-yard radius of open field covered in wildflowers about knee-high. The ambient magic tickles the stubble under his nose as he approaches the magical boundary. It’s well-fortified, but not impassable.

Under cover of Disillusionment, he identifies the point farthest from the locus of the wards and cracks open a tear, just wide enough for him to slip through.

When he steps across, the air ripples. At the center of the vacant plot of land is now a two-story building. Its façade of crumbling brown brick and cracked windows seems to urge him to stay away, and Harry stretches out his magic to sense for security measures, revealing a few generic Repelling Charms and some magical mines farther in—annoying, but nothing he can’t handle.

He detects only one magical signature, so at least he won’t have to fight his way through.

With practiced stealth, he enters the building, magic honed to react to any sudden stimuli.

The interior resembles an abandoned office space, mostly bare, with the exception of some dusty knocked-over chairs and scattered papers. He refreshes the tracking spell and follows the tendrils of its magic to their destination, a room at the end of the hall on the second floor. He nudges open the door with a cautious bump of his shoulder and enters.

It’s not Prince.

Prince (Love Symbol-Prince) would have been less of a surprise. Harry can’t believe this is the kind of sh*t that happens to him, though he supposes that he should be used to it by now.

It’s Snape, looking up at Harry’s arrival from where he sits on the floor, chained against the wall.

He looks terrible. Not terrible like he has greasy hair and a too-large nose and sickly, pasty skin (though all of that is still true)—terrible like he has blood drying on his face, a purpling bruise over his right eye, and an arm that’s hanging in a kind of awkward and definitely painful way. Broken ribs, too, if the shallowness of his breaths is any indication.

“Back for more?” Snape croaks.

“They said it would rain tomorrow,” Harry prompts, ignoring him. He’s here to get a job done, and bumbling through an unexpected reunion with an old professor can wait until later.

“It’s been a wet summer,” Snape responds readily, eyes sharpening in an instant.

“The package?” Harry asks, moving on to the next of his priorities. As he unfastens the locking mechanisms holding Snape in place, he shudders at how the straining friction of the manacles has peeled off the outer layers of Snape’s skin, leaving an angry red canvas behind.

“Not here, but secure.” Snape tries to stand once the chains are removed but topples as soon as he puts any weight on his legs. Harry catches him easily.

He continues down his mental checklist: “Your wand?”

“Snapped.” Snape sneers—ah, there it is—but softens when Harry immediately hands him his spare. Snape grunts in appreciation and casts a weak cleaning charm on himself.

“Where is everyone?” Harry asks as they make their way slowly down the stairs.

“Away,” Snape rasps. “They won’t return until morning.”

Harry does his best to avoid jostling Snape too much on their way out, but he still hears him expel a painful gasp every now and then. He briefly considers using Mobilicorpus to speed things up, but decides against it, guessing how Snape might respond to that kind of indignity.

When they reach the edge of the wards, Harry splits the tear he made earlier wider to accommodate the span of both their bodies.

“Can you Apparate?” Harry is asking mostly out of courtesy. He’s still half-carrying Snape, after all—he can barely stand on his own.

“Not at the moment,” Snape says, looking annoyed at the admission.

“I can Side-Along you to Budapest. We can spend the night there while I patch you up a bit. I’m not a Healer, but I passed the basics in training,” Harry says. Tactically, it’s a sound move, though he’s still half-expecting Snape to resist, to insist on moving forward with the mission.

Instead, Snape surprises him with a gruff “Acceptable,” and Harry wonders if Snape would be as obliging if he knew it was Harry Potter calling the shots.

---

Diagnostic spells reveal three broken ribs, a liver laceration, and a dislocated shoulder. Snape is also suffering from dehydration and malnutrition, not to mention the vast array of gashes and bruises scattered indiscriminately across his body.

“We can try to get some food in you later,” Harry says, helping Snape peel off his bloodied robes and sitting him on the bed. Somewhere in a distant crevice of his mind, Harry’s fifteen-year-old self is gagging at the sight of Snape’s pale chest and naked legs, singing I-see-London-I-see-France. Well, it’s not anything he hasn’t seen before.

Harry goes through the motions, methodically pressing potion after potion against Snape’s lips until he’s properly hydrated and nourished, eyes cloudy from the high of the soporifics. Following that are a series of gentle Tergeos to remove the accumulated dirt and blood from the skin while Harry weighs where he should begin.

“I’m going to pop your shoulder back in,” he decides. “You ready?”

At Snape’s nod, Harry grips his wrist with his left hand and the bicep with his right. He performs the requisite rotating movements until he feels the joint snap into place. Snape exhales sharply at the sensation but doesn’t otherwise protest.

Then Harry sees it.

The odious composite of snake and bone, appearing especially obscene against the contrast of Snape’s alabaster skin. Harry is almost touching it from where he still holds Snape’s arm.

How could he have forgotten?

He was there when Snape had admitted as much at the end of Fourth Year, trying to get into Fudge’s thick skull that Voldemort was back, no matter how deep in denial the Ministry might be.

But somehow, seeing the Dark Mark on flesh up close is an entirely new experience, and the logical statement of Snape = Death Eater only now sinks in as Harry eyes the brand with full focus.

He stares at it for far too long for it not to be rude, and when he looks back up at Snape’s face, he meets dark defiant eyes glaring at him, as if daring him to take a picture, it’ll last longer.

“I thought it would have gone away. After He died, I mean,” Harry offers, not at all equipped for a conversation about Voldemort and Death Eaters. Especially not when he doesn’t even know what it is that he’s supposed to know.

“That’s not how magic works,” Snape huffs. “What kind of rubbish are they teaching you at Ilvermorny these days?”

“I was home-schooled.” Harry smiles and motions Snape to lie on his back. “Ribs next.”

And just like that, the moment passes and the tension dissipates. And Harry files away yet another puzzle piece he can’t make heads or tails of. Is Snape here at the behest of Voldemort or Gaunt? Or neither? On whose behalf had Snape been subjected to torture?

Dumbledore had trusted Snape, Harry is ninety-nine percent certain. He wouldn’t have endured the painful shame of their Occlumency lessons otherwise. But would Snape’s loyalty to the headmaster persist through his death? And what would a Death Eater spy even have left to do in a world where the Dark Lord didn’t exist?

And these days, Death Eaters are an extinct breed, as far as Harry can tell. One of the first things he’d done upon his return to Britain was scouring back issues of the Prophet to ascertain the current whereabouts of Voldemort’s known followers, like Malfoy Sr. who worked in the private sector—magical finance—and Nott Sr. who ran his own mail-order apothecary. The Lestranges and the rest of the Death Eaters who had been broken out of Azkaban were again imprisoned, apparently having been apprehended somewhere in Germany after several months on the run.

And the Order—well, there had never been much public information about them, to begin with.

“Who are you, anyway?” Snape slurs as Harry aims his wand at one of the broken ribs.

“Jason. Jason Evans,” Harry answers. He doesn’t miss how Snape’s eyes flash at his last name. Hopefully, he’s too drugged out to make the connection. “I just started a few weeks ago.”

“Hn.”

“And you? Do you go by Prince?”

“Severus Snape.” Se-ver-us. Harry rolls the syllables around in his head, reminding himself that Professor couldn’t ever have been the man’s first name. Lacking the courage to say it out loud, he asks instead,

“So how long have you been working for Gaunt?” He keeps his tone casual. Dark Lord or not, gossiping about your boss with your co-workers is a socially acceptable thing to do on any occasion.

Snape seems to mull it over. Then: “Almost thirty years.”

“What?” Harry’s confusion is genuine, having anticipated a deflection or an outright lie in answer. “He doesn’t look a day over forty-five,” he points out lightly, even as his skin vibrates at the implications.

Snape giggles. “The Undersecretary has a rather storied past,” he drawls with a suggestive undercurrent. “You ought to ask him about it some time.”

And there it was.

At last, some validation that Harry hadn’t just dreamed the whole thing—that Voldemort is alive and not lying six feet under like the refitted media would have everyone believe.

“What do you mean?” he presses, but Snape is already asleep.

He remains unconscious through the remaining two ribs and the litany of Episkeys Harry casts on the lingering injuries. At that moment, Snape appears at ease, serene and untroubled, a wholly different man than the spiteful professor who had peered into his most private thoughts and mocked them mercilessly.

Harry thinks about how miserable Snape’s life must have been, decades at the whims of two masters, lacking any agency to live for himself.

He thinks about whether Snape, too, ever considered running away from it all.

---

By morning, Snape looks worlds improved, stripped of dirt and blood, and bruises fading. He’s much more the looming bat Harry is used to—had been used to—his impending silhouette restored to its full height, and annoyed scowl permanently etched on his face. Acts like it, too, snorting derisively at Harry’s apparent lack of table manners at breakfast.

Once they finish eating and make the adequate preparations, Snape Side-Alongs him to a dense woods. Tall oaks and birches block out most of the sun, drawing scattered shadows along the forest floor.

They walk the first few hundred yards quietly with Harry considering the viable ways he could invite Snape into a conversation. A conversation about Voldemort, if he’s feeling particularly ambitious. But the daylight and Snape’s soberness are ample deterrents for now. He’s been tight-lipped all morning, declining to answer any of Harry’s questions about their assignment, and there’s no indication that Snape even remembers their exchange from the previous evening.

Harry is about to broach the topic of Quidditch to at least assuage his mounting boredom when he senses the disturbance. Snape notices it at the same time, and they draw their wands within seconds of each other.

“Friends of yours?” Harry asks, co*cking his head toward the source of the threat.

Snape’s answering glower is standard-issue. He leads them more carefully, more briskly now through the maze of trees, while Harry keeps constant eyes on their six, on the alert for any movement headed their way. It’s the only reason he’s able to deflect the incoming curse—one that expels the intended target’s entrails, from the looks of it. He drapes a Protego around Snape and himself and signals for a regroup.

“Any idea what we’re dealing with?” Harry whispers. His blood buzzes under the skin with the familiar crackle of adrenaline in anticipation of the approaching battle. This—this is something he’s good at.

“There should be seven of them. They were… well-acquainted with advanced offensive magic from what I observed,” Snape says, eyes darkening. “Do not underestimate them.”

Harry nods and fires off a sweeping Finite around them, canceling the Disillusionment of their surrounding assailants—there are seven of them, true to Snape’s word.

The next few minutes are a frenzied chaos of hexes and curses, the dodged and deflected spellfire cutting down tree limbs and scattering multi-colored flames across the forest floor. Being outnumbered as they are means that Harry has his hands full with reinforcing his shields and repelling the spells that come their way, but he takes every opening, every lull in the fight to chuck the occasional stun and disarm.

It’s not enough.

These guys aren’t just low-level lackeys. They know what they’re doing, and Harry, despite all his refined dueling finesse and magical brawn, is struggling to keep up against the relentless barrage. But Snape picks up the slack, taking advantage of Harry’s established defenses to ease off on his own. He goes on the offensive, firing off spells Harry’s never even heard of before.

It gets easier, working together this way, and soon enough, their attackers fall to the ground one by one, and the moments between each successful Stun grow shorter and shorter.

The quiet following the last thump of an unconscious body hitting the ground is surreal. Harry is acutely aware of his breathing and the all-encompassing rush of endorphins as the remnant spellfire permeates the air, covering the atmosphere with an oppressive layer of ozone and static.

When his heart rate finally begins to slow, Harry looks to Snape—he’s leaning against the trunk of a tree, a wide gash across his forehead and his entire weight on one leg. Harry is startled at how relieved he feels to find him mostly unharmed. It’s a wild irony to all those times at Hogwarts when he had wished the man to just drop dead.

“You good?”

Snape nods, pointing his wand at his limp leg and muttering an incantation. When he can walk again, he approaches one of the unconscious wizards, producing Auror-grade bindings from his pockets. Where did he even get those?

“What are you doing?” Harry asks needlessly. Snape’s response is a condescending sneer that plainly conveys, What does it look like?

Harry can’t think fast enough. These are Voldemort’s enemies, that much is clear—and logically, wouldn’t that make them Harry’s allies?

Or maybe it’s not clear at all. They could be Gaunt’s enemies, and it’s possible that the two aren’t exactly interchangeable. Surely, members of the Order wouldn’t subject a prisoner to torture and starvation like they had to Snape, would they?

Harry barely has another moment to ruminate on the possibilities before Snape has gathered all the bodies in a heap and is activating a proximity Portkey, likely destined for some Ministry gulag.

“Shall we move on?” Snape asks, dusting the dirt off his fingers and walking away before even bothering to hear Harry’s answer.

Harry follows on auto-pilot, refusing to acknowledge the fact that he just carted off a bunch of (potentially criminal) wizards to meet whatever violent ends the Dark Lord has in store for them.

---

They continue down the same path as before, stopping at a small copse of firs, and if Harry centers his magic just the right way, he can sense the imposing wards that conceal whatever it is they’re supposed to retrieve. Snape disables them with a complex sequence of charms work, revealing a rectangular black container the size of a Muggle briefcase.

“What is it?” Harry asks.

“That’s privileged information,” Snape replies as he crouches down to pick it up.

Harry’s insides suddenly fill with cold dread, naturally drawn to the worst possible conclusion—that he’s an accessory to Voldemort’s Dark Agenda (whatever that could be), fetching secret, coveted artifacts that could be used to commit who knows what kinds of atrocities.

The incantation comes out of his mouth before he even thinks it.

“Expelliarmus!” His spare wand flies back into his hand as Snape is thrown roughly against a tree trunk.

“What is the meaning of this?” Snape snarls, eyes flashing in outrage.

“Tell me what it is,” Harry demands, touching the point of his wand to Snape’s throat.

This had escalated quickly.

Snape smiles cruelly and calls his bluff: “No.”

There’s an awkward pause then—where Harry pretends to consider what spells to use to torture Snape for information, and where Snape stares him down, cool and silent, already knowing that Harry completely lacks the resolve to do anything of the sort.

Harry blinks first, running a hand through his hair and holstering his wands. “Look,” he sighs. “I might be new, but even I can see that Gaunt is kind of unhinged. So I just want to make sure I’m not handing him nuclear codes or anything like that.” At Snape’s unaffected expression, he adds, “Or I could just take it with me and try to figure things out on my own.”

“Your concerns, as noble as they may be, are unfounded,” Snape admits bitterly, glaring. “It’s a Veil Key.”

“A Veil what now?”

“Typical illiterate meathead,” Snape grumbles, crossing his arms, looking ever the disgruntled professor. “There are seven Veils across the world—where two dimensions, magical and Muggle, exist in the same physical space. Diagon Alley, for one. A Veil Key can manipulate the nature of those dimensions, making them visible or invisible by the will of whoever holds the Key.”

“And those guys that attacked us—they wanted what with it, exactly?” Harry asks, already knowing the answer. He might be slow, but the picture practically drew itself.

“The absolute and irrevocable exposure of the wizarding world, what else,” Snape responds.

“And Gaunt—what, he wants it for safekeeping or something?”

“The Undersecretary is not especially forthcoming about his motives, and if I can offer you some advice, it would be exceedingly unwise to inquire after them.” Snape pauses. “In fact, I would recommend that you seek alternative arrangements for employment if your sense of morality is so inflexible. Gaunt’s methods can be somewhat… exacting for initiates like yourself.”

And hell, isn’t that just stating the obvious.

“Um. Noted. I guess.” Harry hands back the wand, plastering his best aw-shucks smile on his face. “Er. Sorry—I’m the shoot first, ask questions later type—you know?” And he does regret it, he finds, even more so when he realizes that he’d essentially stabbed him in the back with a spell that the man himself had taught him.

Snape snorts, unconvinced, but snatches back the wand, regardless. “I trust that this terminates our arrangement? I will return this to you once I have acquired a suitable replacement,” he assures, waving the wand gently.

“Sure. And—it was nice working with you, Severus,” Harry says because—well, when would he ever have the chance to say that again out loud?

Snape Disapparates first, and Harry takes a moment to himself.

It’s—a lot to process.

What had he gotten himself into?

---

When he makes the trek back down to Level One to debrief, he’s fully prepared to continue the discussion from two weeks ago. At the forefront of his mind is a list of questions, possible follow-ups to those questions, and so on. He won’t let Voldemort derail the conversation with delusional rhetoric and circular diatribes—he’s looking for cold, hard facts this time.

But when he enters his office, Voldemort is absent. There’s just Malfoy, reviewing some documents on the larger conference table to the side of the room.

“The Undersecretary had to step out for an emergency. He left this for you.” Malfoy slides a manila folder across the table toward him without looking up from his paperwork.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?” Harry’s been keyed up since Hungary, and it’s like—blue balls, and not the sexy kind, to have to wait even longer to have the conversation he’d practiced at length in front of a mirror. He snaps up the folder and pulls out its contents, welcoming any distraction from the frustration.

“No. Sorry, mate—”

And Malfoy’s going on about something else or other, but Harry can’t hear anything with all the blood roaring in his ears. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard, just to make sure he’s not dreaming.

But when he opens his eyes, it’s still there: on the very first page, slightly crinkled from the force of his grip, the grainy image of his fifteen-year-old self staring back at him.

And underneath, the words, Harry Potter – conspirator, seditionist, and enemy of the state.

Chapter 5: Doktor

Chapter Text

The rules that govern the nature of Pledge obligations are that there are no rules.

Vows, on the other hand, are simple. There are words and clauses that expressly dictate the stipulations to be met, the conditions to be abided by, and the stakes to be gained or lost. It’s actually against the law in most countries to conceive a Vow without the proper witnesses and the accompanying paperwork. Otherwise, there’d be a lot more wizards ending up in Monkey Paw type situations where even the most slightly vague verbiage would result in dubious technicalities and gotchas that went against the original nature of the agreement. Kind of like that episode of the X-Files with the genie where Mulder wished for world peace and everyone on earth disappeared.

Pledges, though—pledges seem to have a self-awareness all their own. They don’t obey the letter, but rather the intent and spirit and will of those involved, and there’s no flag lodged in the ground marked clearly, here and no farther.

This means that while Harry can maintain a high degree of autonomy in how he carries out his assignments and even in how much he can push back on some of their parameters, it also means that he can’t just pack up and leave, either, at least not until the Pledge has deemed itself fulfilled (whatever that entailed).

Well. He could.

If he really wanted to, he supposes—it’s not like he’d die or lose his magic or anything else so horribly irreversible—but there’s just the matter of this persistent compulsion to uphold his end of the bargain, to remain true to the words he uttered when he pledged himself to Voldemort. If he even thinks about it, thinks about thinking about it—quitting and running off—he can start to feel that itch under his skin creeping up as if to reprove and chide, don’t you dare. If he does dare, the itch turns into a discomfort, all-encompassing like that feeling you get right before coming down with the flu.

So this whole thing, where apparently he’s on the hunt for himself? He can’t quite discern where the imaginary boundaries of the Pledge magic are drawn—the only things that he is certain of are that he can’t just ignore it and hope for the best, and that he can’t just quit the job altogether, either. That nagging pressure is always there, urging him to get on with it and just do it.

It’s nauseating, how irreparably he’s tied himself to Voldemort, as if he needed any more magic tangled between them.

The silver lining to all of this is that Voldemort brokered the deal with Jason Evans, not Harry Potter. As such, the magic doesn’t actually compel Harry to simply turn himself in, despite the explicit instructions laid out in the new assignment.

So all he needs to do is to figure out that delicate balance between doing his job and ‘doing his job’.

---

It’s not the end of the world.

The dossier on Harry Potter is ninety-eight percent bullsh*t, of course. But it turns out that Voldemort isn’t even looking for Harry Potter, not in the ways that matter anyway—he’s looking for someone taller, for one.

In fact, the only things that Harry has in common with his doppelganger are that they both have black hair and a scar on their heads (though neither of those characteristics has been accurate about the real Harry Potter for over a decade). And apart from the photo on the cover page—Harry in his Gryffindor Quidditch uniform, of all things—the ‘pictures’ of him aren’t pictures of him at all. They could very well just be any dark-haired stand-in, always from the back or in profile.

And as far as his alleged ‘activities’ are concerned, they’re actually rather tame. He’d very nearly fallen apart at reading the designation enemy of the state the first time, but the fake-Potter seems to deal mostly in bribing British Ministry politicians and in manipulating state policies. As if Harry himself would ever possess the right kind—any kind—of administrative savvy for chess games in that arena.

He doesn’t try to meet with Voldemort again, as much as he wants to shake the man by the shoulders, jerk him around vigorously until the answers to all his burning questions slosh over the brim. He’s half-tempted to march into his office, to get up in his smug, handsome face about just how absurd this assignment is, and how there’s no way he could think that the mark in the file is actually Harry Potter. Surely he’d be a bit more engaged if he did, instead of dispatching some budget spy he barely knows.

But there’s zero chance that Harry would be able to hold himself together, not have everything written plainly on his face as he tries to carry on a conversation about himself in the third person. So he stays put.

And instead, he runs through his pre-go checklist—arranging his Portkeys, requisitioning all he needs and more from Abercrombie, shrinking and packing up the essentials, and so on. He reads and re-reads the briefing materials, the parts that look useful anyway. He’ll go through the motions, at least—turn up this ‘Harry Potter’ and put him away like he’s meant to.

There’s just the small snag of Snape never having returned his spare wand. Conveniently, Harry is still attuned to his magical signature from the weeks he’d spend chasing after it, so it’s relatively effortless to track him down. It’s kind of (mostly) an invasion of privacy, though Harry rationalizes it with the fact that he’s not exactly teeming with other options, the most straightforward (and incidentally, the most unsuitable) of which is to ask Voldemort.

Plus, you don’t just borrow a man’s wand and put off giving it back.

His guilt is quickly supplanted by nervous excitement when the location spell pings in the vicinity of an Unplottable section of Scotland, and for a moment, Harry forgets about everything—about Voldemort, about Pledges, about ludicrous, outrageous assignments—because he gets to go home.

---

Stepping into the Great Hall of Hogwarts is as breathtaking and enchanting as the first time. It’s nothing like the pristine crispness of the Ministry or the genteel hospitality of bustling London. Instead, there’s warmth, affection, understanding, and as if the ambient magic were animate, it seems to embrace and welcome him with a personal touch. Harry is in awe of how familiar everything is even after all these years, from the colorful house banners flying high to the timeless floating candles littering the air.

It’s several weeks prior to the beginning of term, so the halls are devoid of any students. Harry passes through Disillusioned, regardless, since he’s fairly certain he’s not supposed to be here. It’s reminiscent of the countless times he roamed these same corridors beneath his Invisibility Cloak, skirting past Filch and on-duty prefects unnoticed.

Near the dungeons (where else), he finds Snape in what he assumes is his office, hunched over the desk. His oily hair dangles precariously over the papers, and Harry idly wonders if they ever leave grease stains. He knocks on the open door, forcing a cheerful and half-apologetic smile onto his face as Snape raises his head and scowls.

“Evans. How did you get in here?” His voice is stiff and withdrawn, as if they hadn’t slept in the same room or saved each other’s necks from certain death just a few days ago. Ass.

Harry doesn’t actually know the answer to Snape’s question. Either the security at Hogwarts is supremely lax or the castle itself is sentient after all, permitting an old friend to pass through unhindered. He side-steps the subject completely and says, “I came to get my wand back.” It comes out just as stilted and cold as Snape’s earlier greeting, so Harry quickly tacks on, “Uh—not like I thought you were going to keep it or anything, I just—I’m going out of the country, and I need it back.”

Snape’s eyes narrow like they used to when he was convinced that a student was lying to him. “I’ve been unable to obtain a suitable replacement as yet, and I’ve commissioned a custom make, which should be ready in a few days,” Snape says, a shade contrite.

It’s a bizarre thing, being on the receiving end of this sort of conversation with Snape—where Harry is the one that gets to judge how admissible the wrongdoer’s excuses are. But as much as he enjoys the view atop his high horse, he mostly just feels bad for putting that kind of pressure on Snape.

“It can wait, sorry. I didn’t mean to push.” Like Harry would ever be so heartless to render the man defenseless.

“Very well. I appreciate your flexibility on the matter.” Snape stands from his desk and strides forward to walk him out. When Harry remains unmoving, he prompts, “Was there something else?”

Harry doesn’t know what possesses him to do it, but who else could he ask? And Snape owes him anyway.

“What can you tell me about Harry Potter?”

Harry is expecting the trademark sneer and some variation of ‘snot-nosed brat’ or ‘impudent miscreant’. But Snape is as stony as ever, and Harry fills with envy at the man’s impeccable poker face.

“Why do you ask?” His voice is toneless, but there’s still a wary curiosity to his question. And when Harry senses a faint brush of Legilimency nudging subtly at his shields, he pretends not to notice it.

“I’m supposed to find him—but the Intel is mostly just ghost stories, and you seem the type to be in the know, so...” Harry shrugs.

“Uncovering Potter’s whereabouts is an exercise in futility,” Snape comments disdainfully. “It’s highly unlikely that the Undersecretary expects you to succeed where far more capable wizards have failed.”

Harry isn’t offended by that in the slightest—he doesn’t doubt that Voldemort would have sought him out personally at some point. “Have you looked for him?” Harry brightens at the image of Snape in his thick black robes, pitifully enduring the blazing heat of the Arizona sun.

“Indeed. The boy may as well be dead from what we can find of him.”

Harry does take insult at ‘boy’—he’s almost thirty, for Christ’s sake.

“Well, that’s helpful.” His tone is sarcastic, but his sentiment is genuine—at least he knows now that the dossier’s Harry Potter—the foreign political machinator—isn’t public knowledge. He motions to leave, unwilling to press his luck. “You can owl the wand here,” Harry says, scrawling out his address on a spare piece of parchment on Snape’s desk. He flashes Snape a friendly smile, handing him back his quill, and steps toward the door.

“Evans.” The address is quiet, almost hesitant. When Harry turns to face him, Snape’s eyes are hard and focused even from the distance. “I fully expect you to fail in your endeavor. But in the highly improbable event that you do succeed in locating Potter… Do not bring him back.” His voice is a steel edge, and Harry almost feels like a student again, small and powerless and at the mercy of the big, bad professor.

“Er—why not?”

Snape sits back down, lacing his fingers in front of his chin, but his face still reveals nothing. When he finally speaks, he sounds rawer than Harry has ever heard him. “I do not know under what circ*mstances you came to be in the Undersecretary’s employ, but I do know that whatever he has planned for Potter, it would most assuredly offend your… delicate sensibilities.”

Wait.

What?

Was Snape looking out for him? After all this time?

Harry is reminded of how the professor had fended off Quirrell’s hex on his broom—while literally on fire—and how he’d planted himself squarely between Harry and a bloodthirsty werewolf during the full moon. He tries to suppress that familiar swell of resentment toward his younger self—where would he be now if he’d actually given their Occlumency lessons a chance?

“I’ll—I’ll keep that in mind,” Harry says, not daring to speak further. He leaves, wondering if Snape shares those same regrets.

---

Harry begins his search in Moldova, where Alina is her usual gregarious self, gossiping over the latest happenings across the globe—a gang war in South America, some power struggle in the US, the current medal count at the Olympics, and so on. Over coffee, he lets her prattle on, knowing from prior experience that her prices become much more affordable after she’s had the chance to unload. It’s not a hardship, by any means—her chirpy delivery is easily preferable to the drabness of the news.

As Harry reaches the bottom of his second cup, he gets down to business. “I’m looking for a man with a scar on his head. Dark hair, about six-one, six-two.” The description isn’t much to go on, but Alina blanches all the same. Her poker face is even worse than Harry’s.

“They call him the Doctor,” she begins, swallowing audibly. “His territory extends through most of the Eastern Bloc.”

“By territory, you mean?” Harry asks.

“Potions-running, mostly. No-Maj drugs, too. Some say he even has Putin on his payroll.”

Christ. How could the Intel have been so off? And what, Harry’s supposed to take this guy down by himself? “Why haven’t I heard about him?” Considering that rap sheet, the CIA should have already been moving against him.

“Oh, most don’t believe that he exists.” She smiles guilelessly. “Babayka—a ghost… I only know because I’m good at my job.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Saint Petersburg,” she responds readily, and Harry can’t tell whether he’s relieved or disappointed. He was half-hoping for a dead-end so he’d have an excuse to ditch the whole thing.

“All right, last question,” Harry declares with a grin. “Why do they call him the Doctor?” There’s usually (always) a macabre, near-mythical origin story for every moniker that starts with ‘The’.

Alina makes a face, somewhere between a smile and a wince, and stands to pour herself another cup of coffee. “He... experiments. Engineers new weapons, invents new drugs, things like that. Be careful with him, motănel.” She looks like she might say something else but shakes her head. “More coffee?”

Harry has one more cup before he leaves, letting the conversation turn back to lighthearted topics like how stale the Quodpot season is this year. By the time he’s kissing Alina on the cheek goodbye, he’s charged up on caffeine and excited—he’s not after some fat cat bureaucrat, but a fabled mob boss. And as much as he detests the fact that he’s beholden to Voldemort, he still appreciates any opportunity to thrill in the chase, to ride the highs of putting bad men behind bars.

It’s some kind of a discount raison d'etre—if he can’t vanquish the Dark Lord, he might as well do some good in the world.

---

Saint Petersburg this time of year is marvelous, with the temperature hovering around the high 60s even as the sun shines directly overhead. Harry walks along the Nevsky Prospect, delighting in the light breeze, the blue skies, and the charming architecture. It’s nothing like the last time he was here, under cover of darkness and perpetual sleet in below-freezing weather, being pursued at wandpoint by some unknowns of ill-repute.

That evening, he gets to work—he’s familiar enough with Russian organized crime (both Muggle and magical) to know which clubs and bars to patronize for a chance at additional leads on his mark. He greases the right palms and asks the right questions in a casually vague way, inquiring after the gentleman that runs things around here. By the end of the week, Harry has amassed enough information to track the Doctor to a private card game in the sublevels of the Club DUMA.

Harry sneaks in, bitterly bemoaning the lack of his Invisibility Cloak for about the thousandth time. He puts one of the waiters to sleep, tying him up in a service closet, Crabbe-and-Goyle style. Transfiguring his clothes and Glamouring his face to match is a tried-and-true gimmick he’s employed many times before—people never seem to suspect the help.

The room hosting the gathering is gaudy and pretentious, and an out-of-place chandelier hangs from above, as large as the one Harry has seen suspended in the Buckingham Palace ballroom. The players underneath are spread across an oblong table lined with blood-red felt, smoking cigars and drinking their fill with pretty young things on their laps, who titter flirtatiously.

The Doctor stands out—it’s impossible for him not to with how he exudes confidence and a don’t-f*ck-with-me vibe. And of course, there’s the prominent scar on his head, and Harry can understand the confusion now. The Doctor’s is more or less lightning-bolt-shaped (though it’s more similar to that Spanish squiggly symbol), but the skin is raised like an actual scar, unlike his own which is more of a discoloration. Even so, that’s pretty much all they have in common. The Doctor is a big man, for one thing—jacked and oversized, like some kind of Terminator, while Harry takes more after Sarah Connor—lean and athletic but lacking any muscle mass and horsepower.

Harry mimics the motions of the other waitstaff in the room, dutifully ferrying drinks and finger foods from the bar to the increasingly boisterous and inebriated attendees. For the most part, he stands at ease in the periphery, anticipating the next snap of the fingers beckoning his presence.

It’s supposed to be a quick in-and-out, and if it were up to him, the mission would have been over an hour ago by artlessly shoving one of his Portkeys onto the man. But the instructions were clear—he needs to root out a paper trail—ledgers, correspondences, invoices, and what-elses to expose the Doctor’s—Harry Potter’s—associates and allies. To that end, Harry sweats out the song and dance, waiting for an opening to tag his mark so he can tail him home and plan the next phase accordingly.

Finally, the barman signals him to deliver a co*cktail to the Doctor. Harry drops off the glass, carefully choreographing his movements to brush against the Doctor inconspicuously to deploy the tracker. But before he can walk away, the Doctor grabs his arm, and the reflexes honed by his training barely prevent him from startling.

“Stay here a moment,” the Doctor murmurs. Even through the mild distortion of the translation spell, the words bear gravity and a hint of threat.

Harry cycles through Plans B through D as he stands awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He’s making minor revisions to Plan C when the hand finally concludes, the Doctor taking the pot with three of a kind—a clutch jack on the river rounding out his pocket pair. He sweeps the winnings to his side of the table, chuckling to himself softly. “You’re good luck, pretty thing. Won’t you sit with me a while?”

Harry freezes.

f*cking hell, it’s the failed honeypot all over again.

“Don’t be so shy,” the Doctor coaxes. “Come here.” He pats his thigh, the implication clear. Harry urges himself to get a grip, it’s a f*cking job, and gracelessly situates himself on the Doctor’s lap, who drapes a large hand over his waist, squeezing possessively.

Throughout the rest of the night, there are filthy, lewd things being whispered into his ear, and Harry doubles down on the virginal, nervous boy act, demurring prudishly and speaking as little as possible. The translation spell is receiving-only, and his Russian is passable at best, so he answers the Doctor’s indecent questions with hushed das and nyets.

Internally, he adapts his plans for the rest of the evening to accommodate for the ridiculous turn of events. He’s long since had the tracking magic in place, though by now, with the Doctor all but mounting him right there at the table, Harry has a more than sufficient handle on his magical signature that he probably won’t even need it.

Frankly, with the way things are progressing, it’s a fair bet that the Doctor will take him home anyway.

It’s past midnight by the time the game empties out, and Harry’s body aches in weird places after sitting so long at an irregular angle. He’s mentally gearing himself up for whatever acts of debauchery will surely follow when he feels a stinging prick at his neck. His eyes begin to droop immediately, his last conscious thought an incongruous hope that this would at least get him out of the sex.

---

He comes to, naked and bound on a chair, and blinks his eyes in rapid succession, staving off the vertigo making the room spin.

f*ck.

Sitrep first.

The cuffs are the magic-restraining kind, though they’re Muggle in make. At least luck is on his side—he won’t need magic to get out of those.

It’s damp, and the air is stale. No windows. No lights except for a dim bulb that flickers every now and then over his head. Basem*nt, maybe?

“Good evening.” The Doctor’s greeting comes from behind him, emotionless. “Or it will be, depending on how our conversation proceeds.” He saunters forward to face Harry and kneels, sizing him up eye-to-eye. Harry’s instinct is to spit on him, but that would just be counterproductive, so he reels it in. “Now, who sent you?”

Harry keeps his mouth shut, looking past the Doctor’s face.

It’s not that he possesses an ounce of loyalty to Voldemort, nor is it that he wants to play at movie hero, enduring unspeakable pain and torment for the pride of Queen and Country.

It’s purely survival.

The first thing they teach cadets in the ‘Resistance’ portion of SERE training is to determine your leverage—a rather work-appropriate way to say ‘figure out why haven’t killed you yet’. In some cases, it would be because they’re holding you ransom for some bigger payoff. But in most, here included, it would be because you have information they want.

So Harry retreats to the safe place in his mind, bracing himself to withstand the oncoming rain of Crucios or whatever else might suit his torturer’s fancy.

The Doctor clicks his tongue in displeasure at Harry’s silence, though he can’t have expected him to respond any other way. “You know,” he starts, standing up, “when Alina mentioned you were coming, I expected more… She spoke very highly of you.”

Christ. Of course, she would sell him out, that’s her f*cking business model.

The Doctor pulls out a vial from his jacket pocket. “Granted, your mastery of Occlumency is most impressive,” he remarks, spelling Harry’s mouth open. “No matter.” He splashes a drop of black liquid onto his tongue.

Harry is drowning.

Rationally, he knows that he isn’t. He’s still locked in that basem*nt, sitting on that chair with his hands cuffed behind him.

But it feels real. The water filling his lungs, the burning in his nasal cavity, the literal choking to death. He’s felt this once before—years ago, for ‘training purposes’. It was firmly within the top three of the most distressing events of his life, which was saying something since his early life was a half-filled bingo board of various childhood traumas.

It seems to go on forever, the wet tightness of his breath and the sheer, unadulterated terror of not knowing when the next reprieve of air will come. But as abruptly it began, it ends. Harry feels like he should be wheezing and spluttering, but the desperate need for oxygen has vanished. It’s as if the last few minutes never happened.

The Doctor is smiling at him cruelly.

“What, they make potions for waterboarding now? Afraid of getting wet?” Reverting to cheek is an old comfort. Harry doesn’t want to think about what it’s going to be like when the Doctor dumps that entire vial down his throat.

The Doctor’s smile stretches impossibly wider. “Waterboarding? Crude…but effective, I suppose. No-Majes can be so innovative when it comes to these things, don’t you think?”

“What the f*ck did you give me?”

“A potion of my own invention,” the Doctor answers, holding out the small glass, and up close, the blackness of the potion appears impossibly dark. “It imitates the experience most likely to drive the imbiber to… compliance.”

Harry snorts. “What—like some kind of Boggart-in-liquid-form for torture?” Theoretically, it was an original (insane) feat of potions-making; practically, it was absolutely gratuitous—why bother, when a prolonged Crucio would do the job just as well?

Although, to be fair, he’d take the searing white-hot knives of the Torture Curse over simulated drowning any day of the week.

“How perceptive of you!” the Doctor lauds. “It’s the first known application of Boggart essence in a potion.” As triumphant as he sounds over his accomplishment, Harry can’t imagine that it’s the kind of success that would be celebrated in the Potioneer’s Digest.

And Harry genuinely could not care less, but presses forward regardless—as long as the guy kept monologuing, that horrifying potion would come nowhere near his mouth. “Wow. How did you even come by it?”

“I’m a man of means, dear one,” he replies, smiling that creepy smile again. He and Voldemort should enter a contest. “And now that you’ve had a taste of what’s in store, shall we revisit the matter of your employer?”

Well, it’s now or never. Harry stays silent and fidgets with the handcuffs, testing their give one last time.

“Very well.” The Doctor eyes him disapprovingly and waves his wand to force Harry’s mouth open again. And as he approaches, Harry makes his move, positioning the thumb of his left hand just so and yanking hard.

There’s the intense flare of pain of joints severing and ligaments ripping apart, but it’s the last thing on his mind. Arms free, cuffs still dangling pathetically from his right wrist, he strikes at the Doctor’s nose with the heel of his palm, following up immediately with a knee to the groin.

He’s naked with half his magic still bound, of course, he’s going to fight dirty.

The Doctor recovers quickly, but not before Harry can wrench the wand from his hand and lob it clear across the room. The Doctor’s face contorts with fury as he begins to retaliate, throwing enraged punches that might straight up kill him if they landed.

The attacks grow more frantic and uncoordinated with Harry’s continued evasion until finally—there—he jabs forward with both hands, fingers held together like a bird’s beak, right into the Doctor’s eyes. In the ensuing recoil, Harry maneuvers himself behind the Doctor and wraps his arms around his neck in a chokehold. Now, he’s done this a hundred times before during sparring sessions, but he’s never held it long enough for the person to actually fall unconscious. It’s not supposed to take more than a few seconds with the correct form, but it still feels like minutes before the Doctor finally collapses.

The post-fight adrenaline rush is a high to savor, so Harry waits a moment, breathing hard, still sitting on the floor with the Doctor’s motionless body lying half on top of him. Then he reminds himself that despite his victory, he’s still naked, unarmed, and trapped in an unknown hostile location, so he gets back to work.

---

The Doctor’s wand is a poor complement to Harry’s magic, and it feels like trying to drink a milkshake through a coffee stirrer with how much effort it takes to channel even basic spells. It takes two attempts to remove the handcuffs and double that to repair the damage at the base of his thumb. When he fails for the third time to transfigure clothes that fit from the now mangled pieces of the Doctor’s suit, he resolves to dedicate more time to broadening his range of wandless when he gets out of here. Meanwhile, he dresses himself in a shirt too tight and too long and pants that are a bit loose.

The door opens as he’s attempting to shrink the Doctor’s belt to fit his waist.

“Doktor, vot—”

For a near-comical moment, he and the goon eye each other, and Harry can imagine that the scene paints a fairly obvious picture—the half-naked mob boss lying unconscious with a broken nose, black potion and broken glass making a mess of the floor, and Harry gripping a wand that definitely doesn’t belong to him.

They move at the same time—luckily, Harry doesn’t need that useless wand for this part.

“Stupefy!”

Harry is fast, but not fast enough. In the second that it takes for the red streak of magic to reach its target, his opponent has already drawn his gun and fired two rounds before falling to the ground.

When Harry looks down at his chest, twin pools of blood are already coalescing into one misshapen blob that's continuing to grow. A rather gruesome sight, probably Top Ten worthy, but he isn’t fazed. Even if it feels like someone's had a decent go at him with a sledgehammer.

Getting shot at on the job isn’t a frequent occurrence, but not so uncommon that he’s not already versed (and well-practiced) in the magical first aid protocol that should follow. After he pulls the stunned body into the room and wards the door, properly this time, he waves his palm over his bloody front to vanish the slugs inside—but nothing happens.

“Evanesco,” he tries—taking care to mime the wand movement with his hand. And still—nothing.

All right, the bullets are enchanted—that’s new. Then he remembers—'He... experiments. Engineers new weapons and things like that.' And what, this was a sample of his arsenal for wizard-culling?

Harry can’t spare the attention to dwell on the political implications. And despite the bullets still buried inside, he casts the spell to cauterize the holes in his chest instead to staunch the bleeding at least. But again—nothing.

So he resorts to what he probably should have done right after incapacitating his captor, mission objectives be damned.

Destination.

Determination.

Deliberation.

And he crashes forcefully into a magical brick wall.

At any other time, he’d simply punch his way out through the anti-Apparition Wards, but at any other time, he'd have a proper wand in hand to do it with.

But as limited as his options are, he plain refuses to die like this, bleeding out pathetically in the basem*nt of some Russian mob headquarters at the hands of a no-name flunky.

So as to what comes next, it's an easy decision.

And he reaches, deep into the depths of his mind to a place he doesn’t ever let himself visit and—

“Your parents appointed me your guardian. If anything happened to them...

I'll understand, of course, if you want to stay with your aunt and uncle, but... well... think about it.

Once my name's cleared... if you wanted a... a different home...”

In the blink of an eye, his most precious memories of Sirius flash by. The smiles, the laughs, the companionship, all underscored by the undeniable certainty that everything would turn all right in the end.

He drives all of it—the joy, the love, the hope—to the forefront of his mind and centers his magic with a singular intent.

Just like riding a bike, he thinks, as the magic pools in his hands for a spell he can't remember last casting.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The Patronus is as awe-inspiring as the first time he saw it, and its warm silver glow is calming and invigorating, even as he barely clings to consciousness from the blood loss.

The last thing he sees before his eyes close is the retreating hind legs of the stag as it gallops away.

Chapter 6: Interlude

Chapter Text

The boy was exquisite.

Though a boy no longer, certainly. In the flesh, Harry Potter transcended Voldemort’s distant memories of the fractious, defiant child. Gone was the meekness and impotence of youth, and in their place, a depth of undiluted power and limitless potential.

Potter had become an extraordinary wizard… one he could truly deem his equal.

How fantastical it was, a chance encounter after so many years of unsubstantiated rumors and baseless sightings, of hunting across oceans and continents and employing the darkest, most esoteric seeking rituals he had mastered.

And failing.

Voldemort had eventually suspended those efforts, the only logical outcome being that the boy was already dead, rotting away in some unknown corner of the world.

Then Potter had returned of his own volition, so readily, so pliantly, so alive, had settled into Conference Room C like he was merely one of the rank and file. As if he would not be told apart with a single glance, as if Voldemort would not immediately recognize those sanguine lips, those minutely arched eyebrows, those delicate, breakable cheekbones that had haunted his dreams for countless nights.

Potter had taken some measure to conceal the scar on his forehead, and he had also altered the colors of his eyes and hair. But was he so naïve to presume that those superficial disguises would suffice in deceiving a man as discerning as the Dark Lord?

Although, Voldemort did acknowledge that whoever had instructed him in Occlumency had done so admirably, and he reflected on which American Master Potter could have persuaded to train him and how. Severus had been adamant that the boy’s ineptitude for the mind arts was unprecedented, but it was clear that he had been demonstrably misinformed.

It was all rather meaningless, of course. The boy had the convenient tendency to advertise his every thought in excruciating detail on his face.

Despite the unforeseen addition to the list of attendees, he had resigned to move forward as Bell had arranged. Voldemort had made his own incidental adjustments, naturally, though none pertinent to Potter. Inadvertent reunion or not, the Boy-Who-Lived had been a foregone conclusion by that point, a trifling loose end to be cinched up. He would amount to just one more unfortunate casualty of the unspeakably tragic attack on the UK-US trade summit.

It should have been an especially productive proceeding, amplifying the chaos of the ongoing Muggle conflict and disposing of his fated foe, all in one fell swoop.

Then Potter had brandished his magic.

And it had been glorious. Resplendent and immense.

Devastating.

Voldemort had wanted it. To grasp it in his hands and behold its brilliance, to crush and suffocate it until the light flickered and dimmed to nothing.

So he had recalibrated, deactivating the weapon. In hindsight, he regretted addressing it so promptly and wondered for how much longer Potter could have held it at bay.

And it was as if magic itself had coordinated the entire sequence of events to Voldemort’s favor, to bring Harry Potter to knees at his feet and to ensure that he, the Dark Lord, for all intents and purposes, owned him. Bell had responded in a painfully predictable manner, throwing his agent to the wolves to bury his own involvement, and poor, helpless Potter had had no remaining recourse but to entreat Voldemort for aid.

And what a delicious venture that had been, to witness the magic of the Pledge seal to completion.

Potter was so biddable, endearingly almost, perhaps still attempting to reconcile with the fact that he had all but accepted the Dark Lord’s Mark, while juggling a persona that would never be able to divine Thomas Gaunt’s true status. The intrigue reminded him of those old-English plays he had read during his time at the orphanage, where the protagonist was always assuming some false identity and sowing all kinds of mayhem.

It was fanciful, but a welcome diversion, nonetheless, especially considering how poorly the negotiations with the Benelux were progressing.

Still, setting the boy’s hopeless deficiencies in subterfuge aside, he was altogether a capable operative, stepping comfortably into the vacancy that Smith had left when he had irritatingly gotten himself killed on assignment. Even Severus with his imposing standards had been complimentary, grudgingly praising Potter’s unwavering dueling prowess and keen tracking sense.

When Voldemort had secured the Pledge from him, it had been with the intent to keep the boy within reach, at least until he could formulate the ideal approach to bringing Potter, not Evans, to heel. But it came to be that Voldemort could very well make good use out of him in the meantime.

---

Voldemort passed on Novikoff’s file to Potter on a whim, recalling that the two shared a choice physical attribute. The cover page had been doctored by Voldemort himself, who made a production of appropriating Potter’s name and photo, and emphasizing the severity of his supposed offenses. And as far as the rest of the briefing was concerned, he applied generous omissions.

It was juvenile, hardly becoming of the de facto ruler of the wizarding world to partake in such frivolous antics, but there was something irresistibly gratifying about unsettling Potter, pushing and prodding at him, winding him up to a constant state of confusion and panic. As a child, he had been similarly captivated by the senseless thrashing of insects after he had plucked off their wings and legs.

And beholding Potter’s reaction through the Malfoy heir’s eyes was a consummate delight. The unfettered horror on his face, the near-catatonic state of him. Voldemort was disappointed to not be able to drink it in in-person, but a large part of him had wanted to prolong the ruse, to keep Potter on that teetering edge of what-if and dread. And Voldemort had been confident that with him there, Potter would simply have given himself and their whole game away.

Voldemort expected him to fret and anguish over the next several days to ultimately break, to storm into his office and demand an explanation, wild and impassioned. To which Voldemort would affect an innocent ignorance and indulge in whatever floundering account Potter had constructed.

As it were, Potter still had that knack to surprise, to deviate from common conventions almost carelessly, as if without forethought.

So Voldemort didn’t hear from Potter for the next week.

No matter. The bounds of the Pledge would keep him in check one way or another.

And soon, the overall affair faded into insignificance as his attentions turned to Brazil where matters had escalated.

---

The stag came early morning with daybreak still hours away.

Voldemort barely registered the annoyance that typically accompanied another’s demonstration of the Patronus Charm. Because it was Potter’s Patronus, the very one that Voldemort had viewed in the memories of others over the years. But instead of the usual dazzling silver, it was a lusterless gray, growing fainter as it recounted its scantly audible message.

What disaster had the boy wrought now? And mired in what dire straits to implore the Dark Lord, above anyone else, for help?

Voldemort considered that it could all be a plot conceived by Potter to lure him into a trap, and he thrilled at the possibility. If the boy desired to cross wands, Voldemort would receive the challenge eagerly.

So he abandoned the draft of legislation he had been emending and departed the Ministry, following the waning trail of the Patronus’s magic.

As he soared through the air at breakneck speed, he soon understood why the stag had appeared so unsightly. Had the whelp ever cracked open a book on the basics of magical theory? Patronuses were meant to travel across short distances, a linear stretch of approximately five hundred kilometers at maximum. Yet the boy had managed to relay the stag clear across Europe.

It should have rankled him that Potter would so casually defy the constraints of a spell Voldemort had yet to even master, but could he honestly expect less from his prophesied equal?

The magical tracks ended at Novikoff’s base of operations, and Voldemort was impressed and galled at the same time by Potter’s resourcefulness. How had he discovered his whereabouts, so promptly, too, with that absolutely preposterous excuse for a briefing?

The wards fortifying the edifice were a complex matrix of defensive and offensive spellwork, an insurmountable undertaking, without question, for most wizards to breach. For Voldemort, it was child’s play.

He Apparated into a small room, and his senses immediately filled with the familiar stench of blood. Potter lay pale and lifeless in a pool of it, ostensibly his own, with Novikoff and another figure prone unconscious nearby.

At the sight, Voldemort felt a strange sensation, an unpleasant thrum deep within his abdomen. He was surprised by the absence of anger. Instead, there was just a gnawing sense of discomfort.

Novikoff had been a useful pawn in the grand scheme of things. Trust Potter to knock the pieces of his chessboard into disarray.

Preliminary diagnostics revealed no magical damage; Potter simply had lost too much blood. How pitiable, for the Boy Wonder to be felled by such mannerless means. His magic was sustaining him just enough to compensate for the otherwise fatal injury.

Voldemort cast a Stasis Charm on him, summoned the remaining bodies in the room, and Disapparated.

---

The blame laid soundly with Novikoff.

Voldemort had tolerated the eccentric’s chosen recreational activities and had even admired some of his more inspired creations.

But this?

This was inexcusable. Shameful. Repulsive.

He wanted to raze Novikoff’s compound to the ground. To obliterate any and all evidence of the brazen transgression to wizardkind.

But a power void of Novikoff’s magnitude needed to be addressed with careful attention and precision, not with more pandemonium. So to clean up the mess, he dispatched Antonin, who had been harboring a yen to return to his Motherland.

Meanwhile, Potter recuperated in a guest room of the Gaunt Estate where Voldemort assigned Cloppy to monitor him. Those loathsome bullets had wreaked havoc on Potter’s magic, having been lodged so near his core, and Voldemort would not entrust this sensitive and precious matter to any of the unqualified dullards at St. Mungo’s.

And it was oddly soothing to have Potter within his grasp, so accessible, in his home. On more than a few occasions, Voldemort relieved the house-elf of his duty, shouldering the task of nursing after Potter himself. It was beneath him, surely, to be Scourgifying the sheets and maintaining the boy’s body free of bedsores, but Voldemort felt an inexplicably profound protectiveness over Potter, which only heightened when he brushed his fingertips against where that renowned scar should be.

The first time, Voldemort had withdrawn instantly, wrong-footed and dumbstruck by the curious sensation. It had been… nice. Intimately gentle and pleasantly warm.

Familiar almost.

It was natural, he surmised, to sense a type of affinity for the remnants of his own magic, but it was unlike anything he had experienced before. Even Nagini, a living product of soul magic, had not evoked a response quite so pronounced. Perhaps there was something about the patchwork of magic woven between them: the prophecy, the rebounded Killing Curse, the resurrection ritual, the Pledge, they all could have forged a connection wholly unique unto itself.

And that connection... it made Voldemort want to own Potter, to rip deep into his flesh and carve his name into the white of his bones, to possess him so thoroughly that the boy would know nothing, sense nothing, crave nothing, but Voldemort’s dominion over him.

For the time being, he contented himself with those fleeting touches, basking in the tender glow of Potter’s magic.

And he planned.

Potter slept on, unaware and untroubled.

Chapter 7: Convalescence

Chapter Text

Harry was flying.

It was nothing like the fast pace of riding on a broom—exhilarating and adrenaline-inducing and a little bit dangerous. Instead, the air was calming, hypnotizing, almost as if the pull of gravity didn’t exist—it felt like satin, gliding over his skin in a magical caress, carrying none of the resistance or roughness it usually did.

How did he get here?

Where was here, even?

He couldn’t quite find it in himself to care for the answers when all he could feel was comfort. Cozy and tender. Weightless.

It felt safe.

Was he dreaming?

Was he dead?

He should have been alarmed by the prospect, but he felt at peace, caught in an unending loop of serenity and warmth.

Death isn’t so bad, he decided.

So he floated on in a haze of bliss, wishing he could stay like this forever.

---

He wakes to inhuman brown eyes as large as his fists peering down at him intently, unblinking.

“Wha—” Harry’s voice is hoarse and scratches painfully as he speaks, catching in his throat where a small animal might have died in it. The inside of his mouth certainly tastes like it.

“Master’s guest is awake!” the house-elf cries excitedly, inching closer to Harry until there are mere centimeters between their faces.

“Where am I?” It’s difficult to appraise his surroundings from this vantage point, what with the house-elf’s floppy ears monopolizing most of his field of vision, but he doesn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that it isn’t a hospital room. He attempts to sit up, but his arms are weak and boneless, buckling helplessly at the borne weight.

The house-elf disregards his question and strain, vanishing with a loud crack, and Harry has a passing moment to take in the room—spacious, well-furnished, fancy—before there’s another resounding pop. The house-elf is carrying an armful of potions vials of assorted colors and sizes, which he diligently arranges on the nightstand, muttering indistinctly to himself.

“Er—excuse me?” When the house-elf pauses to look in his direction, Harry repeats himself from before, “Where am I?”

“This is the Master’s residence,” the house-elf says, handing him a bright-red potion.

Harry accepts the vial and rolls his eyes, immediately regretting the action with the agony that follows. He groans, rubbing away the discomfort with one hand and uncorking the potion with the other. The harsh, metallic tang that fills his nostrils is unmistakable—Blood Replenishment Potion. Blood.

Blood.

It all comes back to him like a highlight reel—the thoroughly ill-advised pursuit of the Doctor—his capture and subsequent torture—being shot at with some kind of magic-resistant bullets—sending off his Patronus as an SOS to Voldemort, of all people.

He might as well have mailed along his birth certificate—the real one that has Harry James Potter printed across the top.

But he’s not dead (he’s fairly certain). Nor is he locked up in a dungeon. But Voldemort isn’t a fool—no doubt he’s aware of Harry’s true identity by now. Then what the f*ck was this all about? Fattening him up before the slaughter?

“Master’s guest must drink the potion,” the house-elf prompts. Harry has been holding onto the vial so tightly that the liquid is almost warm when he gulps it down.

“Your Master—would that happen be Thomas Gaunt?” His intuition tells him he already knows the answer to that question, and surely, with impeccable timing, Voldemort is walking into the room before the house-elf can reply.

It’s an eerie déjà vu to their reunion at 10 Downing Street a few months ago—Voldemort’s all-consuming presence charging the room with a discomfiting and precarious tension, and Harry—well, Harry’s just there, failing to understand anything that’s going on and barely clinging to sanity.

“Mr. Evans, what a relief to see you up and about!” Voldemort approaches the bed, flashing Harry a wide smile, less fake than he’s ever seen it.

“Undersecretary Gaunt.” Harry attempts to return the smile but it’s probably just coming off nervous and stiff.

What the hell was going on?

“Where am I?” he asks instead, feeling like a broken record. There couldn’t be a worse time to engage the Dark Lord—not in this condition where his brain felt like the egg from those anti-drug commercials.

“My estate. You sustained grievous injuries on your most recent assignment and have been convalescing here for the past twelve days.”

“No hospital?” What’s Voldemort playing at, putting him up in his own house?

“The circ*mstances of your illness were unfit to be shared with the staff at St. Mungo’s, and this was the best alternative,” Voldemort explains.

“You got me out?”

“Indeed, though the credit for your rescue lies with yourself.” Voldemort picks up a potion and passes it to Harry. “Your Patronus traversed a distance far exceeding the charm’s customary reach. Granted, by the time it arrived, it had been reduced to an amorphous wisp, and the message itself was near-unintelligible.”

“Oh.” Harry probably shouldn’t have overlooked the unit on Patronuses during training—not like I’ll be able to use it anyway, he’d figured.

Well, at least that clarified the lack of whips and chains.

Harry sniffs the offered potion—a restorative, this time. He swallows it, though the rejuvenating boost to his mood is redundant to the one already afforded by the consolation that he’s still maintained his cover in spite of everything.

“If I may ask, what shape does your Patronus take?”

It’s a fair question, all things considered, but Harry clenches reflexively, nonetheless. “A hare,” he responds, a beat too slow, after mentally reviewing the various Patronus forms of the DA and selecting the most innocuous one.

“Interesting,” Voldemort remarks, though his tone suggests anything but. “I admit, that particular spell is one that never came into my own skill set despite my efforts. You must demonstrate yours sometime for me.”

“Sure,” Harry lies with a blasé coolness, forcing down the mounting uneasiness he feels. And eager to change the subject, he inquires after the remaining gaps in his memory. “Did you get him by the way?—Potter, I mean.” For a split second, Harry thinks he’s caught a glimpse of the corners of Voldemort’s mouth twitching upwards, but it’s gone within a blink. Harry adds visual hallucinations to his growing list of post-coma ailments.

“Ah, yes… for the most part.” At least he had enough respect to not lie outright. “There were some complications that I did not foresee, but none of grave consequence.”

Harry almost snorts at his choice of words, considering the end result.

‘Grave’. Sure.

“Oh, like what?” This part of the act comes instinctively to him—inquisitive and meddlesome are his default settings, after all.

“Nothing that concerns you,” Voldemort declares with finality. “The assignment is terminated, and when you have recovered, I will charge you with a new one.”

Harry bristles. There’s no way Voldemort is getting off that easy.

“Now wait a minute,” he starts, raising his voice, undeterred by the persisting tenderness in his throat. “Your sh*t Intel got me into this mess in the first place, you can’t honestly expect me to keep working for you after you almost got me killed!”

Voldemort eyes him pointedly, and his mouth curls into a vicious smile. “Mr. Evans. Did I, or did I not instruct you to come to me in the event that you develop any concerns regarding your work? Frankly, I am still having difficulty comprehending the train of thought you must have followed to continue pursuing the mission objectives even after the limitations of the briefing must have become apparent.”

Well.

That’s all one hundred percent true. Rob would undoubtedly have benched him for such a stunt. At Harry’s annoyed silence, Voldemort carries on with his rebuke, “I accept full responsibility for the inadequate intelligence provided, but it was unwise, not to mention quite reckless, for you to flout protocol in that way.”

And just like that, Harry’s indignant outrage is replaced by a muted shame, and he can’t think of anything he can say without sounding like a petulant child.

“You performed remarkably, given the circ*mstances. Let’s perhaps dispense with the heroism next time, hm?”

The patronizing words are grating to Harry’s ears and pride, and his supine position on the bed with Voldemort looming over him only affirms the imbalance of power between them.

He makes himself get over it. As humiliating as it is, any outcome that doesn’t have him languishing in a cell (or dead) is a win in his book.

“You didn’t happen to come across my wand, did you?” Harry asks, refusing to linger on the admonishment. In answer, Voldemort raises his right brow a millimeter and dips a hand into his front pocket to draw out a familiar object, its coppery brown a reassuring sight. The hum of magic Harry feels as he grasps it is energizing, and he vows (as he always does during these reunions) to never lose it again.

“Thank you,” Harry says, as sincere as he’s ever been in Voldemort’s presence.

“The wand is an interesting make. What is its core?”

“Coral.”

f*cking Christ. Could their conversations revolve around some safe topics for once?

“Curious.”

Harry fights not to laugh. What it was about that specific description for wands that made it so popular? “Anyway,” he says, steering their dialogue away from the current subject for about the tenth time, “when do you think I’ll be well enough to leave?” If it were up to him (he has the nagging suspicion that it isn’t), he’d Apparate straight out of there, even if he’s unable to stand, let alone sit up on his own.

God, he really needed to make some friends.

Out of courtesy, he makes sure to add, “I hate to impose like this—I bet you’re super busy.”

“On the present trajectory, I anticipate a full recovery within the week,” Voldemort says, handing Harry a teal-colored potion. “And do not trouble yourself with any qualms about your stay here. Cloppy and I are more than happy to see to your needs while you recuperate.”

Harry blinks in confusion, and for an offbeat moment, he envisions Voldemort arm-in-arm with this faceless woman—Cloppy—how does a dark lord even dupe someone into marrying him? Harry endures a stab of irritation at that, the image chafing. He couldn’t even recall the last time he went on a date, and here was Voldemort, rubbing it in his face.

“Yes! Very happy to serve Master’s guest!” the house-elf, standing (forgotten all this time) at the other end of the bed, chirps earnestly.

Oh. Right.

Harry wonders if he’ll remember any of this interaction, as fried as his mind seems to be.

“Uh—thanks, I guess,” he offers, unstopping the vial in his hand. The scent this time is unfamiliar. “What is this?”

“A magical restorative. It should aid in repairing the damage to your core,” Voldemort answers, an edge of veiled wrath coating his words.

“Er—about that…” Harry says, not quite knowing how to begin. But before he’s able to assemble a coherent sentence, Voldemort interrupts him.

“There is no need for you to concern yourself, Mr. Evans. Rest assured, I have personally seen to the matter.”

Even after the deranged sh*t that the Doctor put him through—was going to put him through—Harry can’t help but sympathize with any individual unlucky enough to be at Voldemort’s ruthless mercy.

“Now, please finish your potion. You still have a few remaining.”

And Harry would rather flip off a Hippogriff and deal with the aftermath than drink potions he can’t identify, especially when it’s Voldemort that’s providing them. But Jason Evans has scarce reason to decline—just as little as Voldemort does for poisoning him.

So Harry drinks the potion and those still untouched on the nightstand in quick succession.

After the last one—a simple Pain Relieving Draught, Harry notes—the induced drowsiness begets a heaviness in his eyes. Suppressing a yawn, he says, “Undersecretary Gaunt, I—”

“Please. Call me Tom. You are a guest in my home—let us forego the formalities.” The request is benign enough, but Harry is plagued by the memory of Ginny’s deathly cold body lying on the floor of the Chamber, and Riddle watching on callously, taunting him.

The inflamed rant of my filthy Muggle father’s name echoes in Harry’s ears.

“Er—sure. Tom.”

At one point, Tom had been his friend—a confidant, a patient sounding board for all of his twelve-year-old troubles. Now, the name on his tongue tastes like betrayal, acrid and profane and all kinds of wrong. “Uh—you should call me Jason, then,” Harry adds, regarding Voldemort’s answering grin with uncertainty.

“Well, Jason, I’m afraid I have some pressing affairs to attend to. In the meantime, I will entrust you to Cloppy’s excellent care.” Voldemort levels a small nod at the house-elf, who proceeds to collect all the empty potions vials littering the nightstand.

“Um—” Their recent exchange has Harry thrown, and he’s unable to remember what he’d intended to say before. “Never mind,” he sighs.

“Very well.” Voldemort walks toward the door, lingering a moment before he turns and says, “Rest at ease. You’re safe now.”

And it might be the co*cktail of potions he just ingested, but at that, Harry expels a laugh, painful and honest.

---

The next several days pass by in a daze, his potions regimen blurring the divide between dreaming and consciousness. Harry drifts along timelessly in an artificial stupor, mystified by the visions constructed by his subconscious and disturbed by how real they seem.

It feels real, for instance, when Voldemort appears in his room, occasionally wearing his snake-like visage.

When he just stares from above, red eyes gleaming, gazing directly into his soul.

When he touches him, lightly grazing the scar on his head, sparking an ache of something.

And when he slips under the sheets with him, embracing him from behind, fond and affectionate—an irreverent caricature of lovers in bed.

Harry doesn’t know what these dreams are supposed to signify, and though he recalls Dr. Kessen explaining that dreams don’t actually mean anything—something about electrical impulses in the brain and activity in the limbic system and a bunch of other things Harry had tuned out—he still can’t shake the disquiet and agitation that intensify with each unnatural not-quite nightmare.

Fortunately, by the fourth day, he has weaned from most of the potions, and his mind feels clear for the first time in what feels like ages. He’s also regained enough strength to stand, and by later that afternoon, enough mobility to walk.

He hasn’t seen Voldemort since that first time he woke up, and he wonders if it might be rude to just leave. As he’s drafting the contents of a thank-you-and-goodbye note in his head, Cloppy pops into the room, relaying an invitation to dinner and dropping off a garment bag.

Inside is a set of smart, expensive-looking dress robes in emerald green, adorned with luminous silver clasps and ornately embroidered hems. And gorgeous dragon-hide—authentic dragon-hide—boots that look just his size.

It’s disorienting—like he’s navigating a never-ending funhouse where every turn is some expectation-defying horror-scape.

But he hasn’t lost track of why he got tangled up with the Dark Lord in the first place, and if Voldemort wants to do his job for him, Harry won’t be one to complain.

Dinner, after all he’s been through, should be a cakewalk—he can doll himself up, talk at length about inane this-and-thats, and behave in a manner thoroughly befitting a house guest slash work subordinate.

And he’ll finally make some progress on uncovering the pieces that make up Voldemort’s master plan.

---

The house—or manor? mansion? palatial fortress?—takes after its owner: stately and refined, with a subdued extravagance that settles almost uncomfortably on Harry’s senses. The walls are a papery eggshell, covered sporadically by elegant portraits and antique sconces, and the vaulted ceiling generates what would be an uplifting openness if not for the stifling and frigid quality in the air that permeates the space.

Harry can’t help but gawk at how normal everything is—even for the Dark Lord. No iron maidens propped up against any niches or anything so excessive to speak of. But there’s still a foreboding sense of unwelcomeness that haunts the halls, and Harry feels as though he’s being watched the entire time.

Cloppy methodically leads him through the maze of stairs and corridors, and as they reach the ground floor, Harry can make out the muffled sounds of chatter, laughter, and clinking glasses.

“Master’s guest will enjoy his evening,” the house-elf orders—or requests—Harry isn’t quite sure which, and vanishes. At the entrance of a lavish drawing room, Harry pauses, taking in the sight.

It’s a party.

There are a few dozen witches and wizards dressed in the same affluent style as Harry, drinking and mingling and by all accounts, enjoying themselves.

Voldemort is easy to spot from the crowd, a magnetic blaze of charisma the masses can’t help but gravitate toward. He’s holding a wine glass in one hand and gesturing politely with the other as he recounts whatever tale his sycophants are heartily eating up.

Harry is still staring, feeling idiotic and out of place in the outlandish clothes, surrounded by people he doesn’t know, when Voldemort meets his eyes and smiles. He appears to excuse himself from his thralls and strides toward Harry, who’s still rooted firmly at the threshold.

“Good evening, Jason,” Voldemort greets, gripping Harry lightly on the shoulder. “I see celebrations are in order. Congratulations on your recovery.”

f*ck if Harry knew the rules to whatever games Voldemort wanted to play, but he’s never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Thank you, I’m feeling a lot better. And what’s the occasion?” Harry asks, motioning toward the festivities. “It was kind of you to invite me, though I admit it was rather unexpected.” He infuses his words with a transparent undercurrent of ‘what the hell am I doing here?’

“I do apologize for the last-minute gaffe, but the alternative was to withhold the invitation altogether, which I judged to be the less forgivable option, as you are already a guest in my home.” Voldemort sips his drink. “And to answer your question, it is merely a gathering of old friends and acquaintances. I aim to host one every month.”

It would be so on Harry Potter’s brand to stumble into a Death Eater meeting.

“Then please, don’t let me keep you.”

Voldemort smiles and touches his hand to Harry’s shoulder again. “Do enjoy yourself. Dinner will be served shortly.” He walks away, joining a group of wizards who eagerly engage him in conversation.

Harry forces himself to enter the fray as well, repressing his inner wallflower, and takes in the scene with a keener eye than before.

In attendance are actually a number of people that Harry recognizes—Malfoy is here, along with his father, looking ever the well-to-do lord, chatting quietly with some elderly gentlemen at the bar. And in a corner of the room by the hearth, the Minister for Magic and some younger, attractive witches that look vaguely familiar are laughing at what is evidently an exceptionally funny story.

Harry plucks a champagne glass from a tray nearby, feeling like a fourteen-year-old again—awkwardly hovering along the edges of the dance floor at the Yule Ball and thinking that no one would really miss him if he left.

But he’s here to get a job done.

So he curbs the anxiety—internalizes it like he’s been trained to—and buckles down, steeling himself for an evening of rubbing elbows with the Malfoys.

“I haven’t seen you at one of these before,” a jovial voice intones from his left as Harry is about to head for the bar.

It’s a wizard about his age, with wavy dark hair and a friendly face, and Harry smiles gratefully for any excuse to avoid kissing the ass of a man who, by all rights, ought to be rotting in prison. “Oh—yeah—hi.”

“An American? You must be the new consultant Draco mentioned,” the man says, nodding in Malfoy’s direction. “I’m Adrian. Adrian Pucey.” He extends his hand, which Harry receives readily.

By now, encountering someone from his past isn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as it used to be. Even so, it’s still a bit jarring, putting a name he knows to a face he doesn’t.

“Jason Evans. Nice to meet you.” Pucey had always been a decent guy—an honorable Slytherin, if there ever was one, at least on the Quidditch pitch anyway. “And how do you know the host?” Harry tries and fails to think up any socially acceptable rationale for hiking up Pucey’s right sleeve to check for the Dark Mark.

“My family and I are long-time supporters of his and the Minister’s campaign.” Which wasn’t damning by any means—Harry actually happened to agree with most Ministry stances these days. “And you? How did you end up here from all the way across the pond?”

“Ah—you might say the Undersecretary made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” Harry half-jokes, and Pucey grins in response.

“He’s certainly one to put you in a corner. Last year—” Pucey is interrupted by the ping of the dinner bell. “Hey—do you want to sit together?”

“That’d be great,” Harry answers, warmed, the moment oddly reminiscent of his first time on the Hogwarts Express, when Ron had asked to sit with him.

---

Dinner is an altogether okay affair.

Pucey—Adrian, he comes to correct in his head—turns out to be a great meal companion to Harry’s introvert, comfortably carrying the bulk of their conversations.

He even graciously looks the other way when Harry struggles with the elaborate array of silverware he doesn’t know how to use.

“Say, Evans, what do you think about this business with the Yanks?” the wizard sitting diagonally from Harry asks. Fawley—he recollects Adrian introducing him as.

The topic at hand involves an ongoing scandal within the MACUSA—something substantial that’s driving a schism in the ruling party. Harry only knows enough to follow along from Alina’s soapbox, so he repeats what he remembers of her reflections, practically verbatim.

“I think the conservatives are in dire need of some young blood. They’ve been running on the same outdated platform for the past decade, and the economy is suffering for it. The dissenters have mostly the right idea, but there’s only so much they can do without the proper financial backing.”

Fawley frowns at his response. “What do you mean? The markets have been bullish for the past two quarters, not to mention the unemployment rate at an all-time low.” This much is true, Harry knows. Even as the Muggles grapple with an economic crisis of their own making, the magical exchanges are doing just fine.

“But the state of the market is hardly indicative of the financial confidence of the general public,” Harry argues. “And the unemployment rate isn’t much to tout when wage growth hasn’t kept up in the slightest.”

Fawley’s frown only grows more contemptuous. Maybe Harry shouldn’t be talking about politics over dinner.

A soft chuckle comes from the head of the table where Voldemort is sat, and Harry is awed by the sight. He probably practices in front of a mirror, if how normal it looks is any indication.

“Jason draws the shrewdest observations,” Voldemort says, spearing a piece of lamb with his fork. “You can see why I hired him.”

Harry smiles as one would when receiving praise from his boss, while Fawley grumbles quietly and returns to his meal.

The dinner continues on uneventfully after that, dessert and tea being served some conversations later.

---

By the end of the evening, a cloud of disappointment and frustration hangs over Harry.

He had hoped for new insights into Thomas Gaunt—any clues that might hint at Voldemort’s endgame. Instead, he’s coming away with the worthless knowledge of who just purchased a new villa in the Canary Islands and which attending couples have marital problems.

On the bright side, he’s acquired a new friend in Adrian, who strikes Harry as by far the least inbred and most down-to-earth of the bunch.

“So are you free next Saturday? The Magpies are playing the Tornadoes,” Adrian says as they stand from their seats and get ready to leave.

“Yeah, that’d—”

“I’m afraid Jason will be otherwise occupied then,” Voldemort interjects, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. His voice is uncommonly stern, lacking its usual charm.

“Perhaps the next game then, I think it’s against the Cannons?—I’ve got season tickets,” Adrian amends.

Before Harry can agree, Voldemort is answering for him again, regarding Adrian with sharp eyes. “Regrettably, Jason is coming up on a rather chaotic time at work, and his duties must take precedence over any leisure activities.”

“Of course,” Adrian replies. To Harry, he says, “Just let me know if you can catch a break.” But before Harry can ask after his contact information, Adrian is already stepping into the Floo. Voldemort stands to the side, punchably smug.

Jesus. Was Harry not allowed to make friends with his friends?

“‘A chaotic time at work?’” Harry quotes. “I wasn’t aware there was such a thing in my trade.”

Voldemort smirks. “But Jason. I do expect you to comport yourself with more prudence and attentiveness for the next assignments, given the substandard conclusion of the last one.”

“That—” Harry stops himself, exerting a herculean effort to not rise to the bait. “Do you have one for me, then?” he asks instead, resigned.

“I will on Monday. Please come by my office in the morning,” Voldemort responds. Then in a pitch lower, he says, “I hope the evening was to your taste. My guests were quite taken with you.”

“Oh, really,” Harry huffs.

“Well, you certainly made an impression on me,” Voldemort says, fingering one of the shiny fastenings on Harry’s borrowed robes. “It’s a marvel how well-fitted garments can elevate one’s… esthetic.”

That combination of words has never been uttered in any of the workplace sexual harassment trainings Harry has attended, but he’s positive that this applies. He takes a small step backward, only now registering the heavy silence in the room.

He and Voldemort are alone.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Harry announces, needlessly loud. “Er—and for everything else, too—but I think I’m good to go now.” He eyes the Floo powder on the mantle wistfully, wishing he could just leave.

“I rather insist that you remain here one more night. You have been ambulant for only a few hours, and there’s no need to hazard any risk to your recovery,” Voldemort says, stepping forward and closing the gap between them.

Harry should get a dog or something—a ficus, maybe—so he can have a ready excuse to get out of these ridiculous situations.

“You’re probably right,” he eventually concedes. “I’ll just go home in the morning.”

“Wonderful.” Voldemort thankfully eases off after that and walks across the room. “Would you care for a nightcap?” he asks with his back to him, the faint pouring of a drink filling the empty room.

“I’d better not. I had quite a bit at dinner,” Harry lies. Then backtracks—maybe the evening doesn’t have to be a total wash. A drink is a good pretense to stick around, to go head-to-head for a chance to peek behind the curtain. “Actually, I could do with a bit of cutting loose.”

He accepts a crystal tumbler, the amber liquid inside sloshing gently, and settles onto the divan across Voldemort. “So you seem to have a lot of friends in high places,” Harry opens. The CEO of Nimbus Co., the president of the wizarding branch of Credit Suisse, and the Deputy French Minister had been just a few of those in attendance.

“Oh?” Voldemort learns forward, and with how Harry is perched on the edge of his seat, their knees are almost touching. “It is a tiresome necessity, I suppose, in my line of work.”

The dialogue flows freely from there, the alcohol in Harry’s veins fueling a boldness and moxie true to his Gryffindor nature.

But Voldemort is employing some kind of conversational voodoo, where all of Harry’s questions are repelled with polite nonanswers, and instead, Harry spends the majority of their time together giving accounts of aspects of his own life, including his half-fabricated childhood and first magical experiences.

“But it grew back overnight, exactly like how it was. My aunt was furious, but she didn’t try cutting it again after that,” Harry finishes, setting his empty glass onto a side table.

Voldemort smiles, lazy and almost menacing, like the Cheshire Cat. “You are eminently fascinating, Jason Evans.”

Harry, suddenly very conscious of the close distance between them, looks down. He is admiring the artisan craftsmanship of his boots and wondering if Voldemort will let him keep them when he is startled by a stroke of warmth against his chin.

He gazes up, following the soft nudge of Voldemort’s fingers.

“Fate itself must have brought you to me,” Voldemort murmurs quietly, as if to himself.

“You believe in fate?” Harry asks, heart pounding.

Voldemort is still touching him.

“Oh, one might say that I have had a rather… tumultuous relationship with fate.” And Harry is so fixated on unraveling the depths of that statement that he almost misses it when Voldemort leans in and presses his lips to Harry’s.

It’s chaste. Like a greeting between close friends. Innocent.

Yet it ignites something in Harry—an itch, an ache, a flame—and it’s impossible to tell whether his screaming instincts are urging him to flee to the ends of the earth or to fall on his knees and beg for more. But before he can properly process anything, Voldemort makes the decision for him.

“It’s late. Please join me for breakfast before you leave.” Voldemort stands. “Sleep well.”

Harry’s chin, where Voldemort was grasping it, feels raw in the open air.

“You, too.” His voice sounds foreign to his ears—a hollow echo, as if he were inside of a long tunnel. He remains sitting, frozen in place, goggling dumbly at Voldemort’s receding back.

What the f*ck just happened?

Chapter 8: Revelations

Chapter Text

“So why aren’t you minister?” Harry asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

Something’s changed since Saint Petersburg, and it’s a thing they do now—chatting politely about odds and ends after Harry’s debriefs.

There’s nothing salacious, of course, though admittedly, the first time Voldemort had requested that he stay back, Harry’s mind had flashed instantly to office sex—Oval Office style.

But the kiss from weeks ago had modified their dynamic. Harry just isn’t quite sure how.

“What gives you the impression that it is a matter of choice?” Voldemort asks.

“Come on, Tom. A man like you?—I bet every facet of your life has been carved out to your exact specifications.” Harry had picked up quickly that the most efficient way to navigate a conversation with Voldemort was to feed into the man’s voracious ego.

And sure enough, Voldemort is projecting an air of self-satisfaction as he responds, “I have found my current position to fit my needs… nicely. The ministerial seat, as prestigious it may be, is much too exposed to the limelight and too sensitive to the fickle fancies of the masses.”

“So you just pull the strings from the shadows instead,” Harry retorts.

Voldemort laughs, and it’s still surreal, despite how many times Harry has heard it by now. The vibrant baritone is pleasing to the ears, a far cry from the Dark Lord’s caustic cackling he’s subjected to in his nightmares.

“Were it so simple. The political machine is a complex organism with many moving parts.”

“Sure. But in that case, you’d be the brain, right?”

“I suppose,” Voldemort concedes with a small grin.

Harry can’t help the quirk of his own lips, and it’s moments like this that he feels himself at a loss. What is he doing, trading banter and smiles with the monster that made an utter ruin of his life?

But even Harry isn’t immune to the allure of Thomas Gaunt. To the seductive charm of his discourse, to the rich resonance of his voice, to the cursed, hateful, unearthly handsomeness of his face. It’s all a mirage, Harry knows—how could he forget—yet he still finds himself rushing after it like a lost man in a desert.

It’s maddening. To such an extent that at times, he fantasizes about coming clean—flaunting the scar on his head, maybe shouting something campy like ‘the jig is up!’ or ‘yippee-ki-yay motherf*cker!’ At least then, he’d get the true Lord Voldemort in all his murderous, unhinged glory.

At least then, he’d know precisely what he’s up against.

But Thomas Gaunt is a different class of opponent altogether, and sitting on the only copy of the manual to the game they’re playing. Harry can only guess at what the rules, the legal moves, or the win conditions might be.

The contradiction between the two personas gives Harry whiplash, and a traitorous thought creeps up every now and then—maybe Gaunt isn’t Voldemort, at least not in the ways that count.

But the rebuttal of that’s what he wants you to think is emphatic.

A light brush on the cheek pulls Harry out of his introspections.

This is a thing now, too—where Voldemort touches him—in ways that definitely cross the boundaries of a strictly professional, boss-underling relationship.

At first, Harry had attributed the warm buzz of their contact to nerves, but it’s undeniable now that there’s something more, something compelling about his touch—each caress against his skin, each stroke of his hair.

And Harry wants to hate it. Should hate it. But he’s a moth to a flame. Or better, a fly to manure.

The draw is inescapable. Inevitable.

He was sick. Well and truly sick.

Maybe if he told Audrey about it, she could put a stop to it.

“What are you thinking about?” Voldemort asks.

Harry takes the hand on his face into his, resting them both on the table, still touching. Voldemort seems to appreciate the gesture. “I was wondering about what your long-term plans were,” Harry lies, ignoring the heat under his skin. Smiling, he adds, “No doubt you’ve already drawn out a detailed blueprint for what the next thirty years have in store for Thomas Gaunt and Magical Britain.” What’s rattling around in that psycho head of yours?

“Oh, just more of the same,” Voldemort drawls indifferently, pulling his hand away to take a sip of his tea. “‘Progress and Prosperity’ for wizardkind. Accessible, affordable primary education. Sensible regulations for hazardous potions ingredients.”

And it was sh*t like that that gave Harry pause, a rise of uncertainty that demanded, just who the f*ck are you?

“And yourself? What is to become of Jason Evans once his Pledge obligations are fulfilled?”

The deflection is typical, and Harry had yet to discover a suitable counter.

“I’m not sure. Go back stateside, maybe,” he says, curious to see how Voldemort would respond.

In truth, Harry’s magical resume is pretty much nonexistent, what with the clandestine nature of his current and previous roles. No education or pedigree to speak of, either.

And despite his misgivings about Gaunt, he needs to stay close—Voldemort is up to something, Harry is sure of it—and he would make his true intentions known, sooner or later.

So Harry will just have to figure something out.

“Well,” Voldemort says, placing his hand over Harry’s on the table and looking directly at him. It’s almost other-worldly—the way his eyes bore into his—and Harry ends up staring at the man’s hairline instead. “Needless to say, you are welcome to retain your current position if you wish. Your continued employment with the Ministry would certainly be a boon to Britain.”

Harry laughs. “Are you sure about that?”

His assignments post-Doctor have amounted to mostly grunt work, and if Harry weren’t around to do it, any Ministry intern—or trained monkey—would suffice.

“What ever do you mean?”

It that how he wants to play it? “Never mind,” Harry says, dismissive.

Frankly, he might prefer it this way. In spite of the drudgery, it’s a lot easier on his emotional well-being to be the Dark Lord’s errand boy than his fixer.

And no matter what kind of plans Voldemort has to conquer nations or enslave humanity or whatever, Harry isn’t contributing to it right then and there with the odd surveillance details he’s being assigned.

---

The Minister barges into the office some time later, ranting on about some complication with the French, and Harry seizes the opportunity to leave with a hasty goodbye.

He boards the lift alone, breathing deep.

Adjusting to a reality away from the heart-racing dread-intensity-thrill of Voldemort’s proximity is always a graceless, draining transition, and Harry readily submits to the mental exhaustion that overtakes him.

A welcome distraction comes in the form of a familiar figure getting on at Level Two.

“Auror Bones!” Harry greets Susan with a wide smile, spirits lifting. He hasn’t seen her since his stint in lock-up months ago, but she should know that there aren’t any hard feelings—at the end of the day, she was just doing her job.

Plus, she’s an old friend.

But she just has a hardened look on her face. “I’m sorry, have we met?” she asks with a slight bite.

“It’s me—” Harry is about to clarify—maybe she doesn’t recognize him wearing actual clothes rather than the sleepwear he’d been interrogated in—but his instincts stop him. “Jason Evans,” he finishes, almost stumbling over the name. “I appreciated your work on the Prosser case.”

He didn’t, truthfully, but it had been all over the papers. The perp had kidnapped and killed two more kids before the authorities had been able to track him down.

“Oh. Yes.” Susan acknowledges him with a grim nod. “Nice to meet you.”

And that’s that, and they continue the rest of the journey to the Atrium in awkward silence.

At any other time, Harry would lament yet another lost chance at friendship, but the disappointment is overshadowed by the outline of an idea—a plan—taking shape in his mind. He ignores the nagging voice of reason on his shoulder, rendering mute its cries of you better not.

Susan is a bitter reminder of the suspicious circ*mstances of his return to Britain, and Harry is long overdue for some answers.

So he lets curiosity triumph over self-preservation. Just this one time.

Harry loiters along the vast corridors of the Ministry lobby, waiting impatiently for the lunch rush to commence. As the Atrium grows reasonably crowded with hungry Ministry employees, he makes his way down to Records.

It’s empty, as expected, and there’s a ‘Be back in 28’ memo floating above the counter.

Harry makes quick work of the wards sealing off the backroom, pleasantly surprised by the embarrassing vulnerabilities in the security. He enters, wondering how he might let the DMLE know without incriminating himself.

Greeting him inside are rows and rows of filing cabinets, stretching across what must be a space that could contain multiple football fields.

Well. He’s not a wizard for nothing.

“Accio Robert Bell’s file.”

Nothing.

Not a squeak of a drawer opening, nor a flutter of papers swishing about. Maybe the Ministry did have a handle on its safeguards.

“Accio Jason Evans’s file,” he tries instead. And there—a clang and a rustle in the distance—a thin red folder flying directly toward him.

Harry opens it to an unflattering mugshot of himself—bewilderment and anxiety written plainly on his face. He reads everything, and as short as the contents are, takes the time to read it again. Susan’s loopy script graces the bottom, signing off on the entire thing.

Weirdly—inexplicably—the information is as it should be. No signs that it’s been manipulated or falsified in any way: Jason Evans was arrested based on circ*mstantial evidence suggesting that he had orchestrated an attack on the British Muggle government. But lacking a confession or a smoking gun, he was released within the time limit prescribed by the Ministry’s criminal justice code of practice.

But the attack wasn’t public knowledge—Harry had scoured even the most sensational, degrading tabloids to make sure of it. Why would Voldemort leave something like this lying around for anyone to see, especially after presumably going to the trouble of Obliviating the involved parties?

If someone like Susan were to come across it, it would raise a million red flags, starting with the most glaring one that asked the question, ‘why don’t I remember this?’

Then Harry has a chilling thought. A cold wash of realization like finding out that it’s been a basilisk in the pipes the whole time.

He stuffs the file in the nearest cabinet, uncaring of where it came from—if his suspicions are correct, it wouldn’t matter either way.

When he exits, the scraggly 28 of the floating memo has been reduced to 12. He hurries to the lifts at a near-jog anyway, galvanized by the prospect of finally uncovering some answers.

---

The Magical Library of London is filled with mastery-level students, hard at work at the start of the new term. On any other day, Harry might fall into a miserable spiral of that could have been me, but his attention is single-minded in its resolve.

He takes the stairs two at a time to the second floor where the periodicals are, and the rows of heaping piles of newspapers seem to almost taunt him.

Why hadn’t he thought to check before?

The last time was here, he had left in a flurry of frustration, incensed at having to read about Lucius Malfoy’s recent, ‘most charitable’ donations to the Children’s Ward at St. Mungo’s.

He wasn’t pissed about the kids, obviously—they probably needed all the help they could get—but it was offensive—foul—Malfoy being hailed as some kind of benevolent philanthropist when all he deserved was a good, old-fashioned stoning in the town square.

Harry flips through the stacks of papers.

1999—

1998—

1997—

And finally—1996.

Harry exhales, forceful and abrupt. There it was—just out in the open for anyone to happen upon—

The Sunday Prophet – June 23^rd, 1996

HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED RETURNS

Harry skims the article, scrolling thoughtlessly from top to bottom, every word ringing familiarly in his mind.

It’s all here.

He hastily combs through the issues that follow, which continue the same narrative—the revolt of the dementors of Azkaban, guides on personal safety and defense, pundits weighing in with their expert opinions.

And then they just stop a few months in. Almost as if there were a media blackout on the subject.

Harry goes back to the first article, grasping it firmly and getting up from his seat. He’s shaking as he approaches the first person he sees—a middle-aged witch with her hair in a tight bun that reminds him of McGonagall.

“Do you remember this?” Harry asks, pointing at the headline. His nerves thrum, not knowing what kind of response he’s even expecting.

The witch smiles. “Oh, yes. My children and I had the best day.”

Jesus, lady. What the f*ck.

“I’m sorry?”

“We went, of course. How could we miss it? My youngest ate so much he ended up getting sick.”

“What?”

She looks at him then, smile fading. “Are you all right, dear?”

“I’m so sorry, I’ve misplaced my glasses. Could you tell me what it says?”

“Florean Fortescue’s Celebrates 50^th Anniversary—Announces Five New Flavors,” she recites slowly. “They gave out free samples the entire day.”

Harry looks down at the newspaper in his hands, blinking once—twice—inspecting it carefully to verify that the text hadn’t somehow manifested into something else.

But the inky boldface of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named remains.

Harry thanks the woman and repeats the process with several other wizards, mostly to the same end.

I didn’t much care for the mint chocolate chip, but everything else was really good.

Ugh. Fortescue’s is so overrated. Auntie Azora’s is where it’s at.

I’m lactose intolerant.

Harry sits down at an empty table, numb. Time seems to have slowed to a crawl, and he feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience, deadened to everything but the faraway beat of the grandfather clock along the south wall.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He lays his head on the tabletop, letting the cold of the wood ground him.

What kind of magic could do something like this?

What else had Voldemort made the world forget?

Harry shivers, doubting his own recollections of past events.

What was real?

But he hasn’t forgotten the events of the Department of Mysteries. Or what came thereafter. Why wasn’t he affected? How could he—and only he—read what had been originally printed?

What would Snape see?

The next few hours spent in the depths of the library’s mind arts section bear few results. Mostly a throbbing headache, trying to make sense of research Harry doesn’t possess the proper foundations to contextualize.

But he understands enough to ascertain that there’s nothing like this recorded in any of the publications—a kind of complex Repelling Ward, by his estimation, that protects information, instead of something physical, altering a person’s perceptions and memories along the way.

Harry sighs.

It’s progress, at least.

That’s what he tells himself anyway. When really, it’s just one step forward and ten gigantic steps back.

---

Harry changes tack from there.

He finally has a lead, a new insight into how Thomas Gaunt came to be—and with it, more questions to answer.

He just needs to get closer.

And so far, he and Voldemort have been dancing around it—whatever it was—like some farce of a Victorian-era courtship, composed of maidenly touches above the waist and heavily veiled innuendos that might just be Harry’s imagination running rampant.

He is making headway, but at a snail’s pace. And he’s always been the impatient sort.

So he lets himself be seduced.

The first time Harry makes himself lean into Voldemort’s touch, the Dark Lord seems surprised, if for a millisecond. Harry savors it—it’s not a reaction he can often garner from him, if at all.

He doesn’t catch him off-guard again—not even when Harry dares to initiate the contact himself, reaching out to take hold of Voldemort’s hand in greeting.

In the meantime, Harry presses on with the increasingly less demanding tasks Voldemort assigns him. By this point, Harry is convinced that they don’t serve any purpose at all—it’s all just busy work invented to stand as pretexts for him to spend time in Voldemort’s presence.

It’s a flagrant abuse of a manager’s position of power over their subordinate. Not that Harry has any plans to file a complaint to HR about it.

So it continues like that, the touches growing more frequent and beginning to carry a hint of something more. And Harry worries that he might have bitten off more than he could chew this time, as he voluntarily sails toward the lure of the siren’s song—losing himself to the uncanny wholeness Voldemort seems to provoke in him with his touch.

During their sessions, Dr. Kessen had droned on and on about the lasting damage that touch deprivation in childhood could have. Maybe he’d had a point—this could just all be a by-product of his atypical psychology.

Like any of that matters, anyway.

Harry has a plan.

It doesn’t take long for Voldemort to make the next move, a month exactly, since Harry ratcheted up his game.

“Would you like to accompany me to the Fall Ministry Gala this Saturday?”

Harry demurs, mostly because it’s what Voldemort expects. “Er—I’m not sure… I wouldn’t want to embarrass you or anything.”

And Voldemort’s response, like Harry’s, has already been scripted: “Nonsense.”

“But I don’t even have anything to wear,” Harry complains half-heartedly.

“As if I would permit you to dress yourself,” Voldemort teases. “Your garments are an affront to civilized society. I would set your wardrobe aflame if I could.”

Harry smiles, unbidden, forgetting who he’s dealing with. That seemed to be happening a lot lately. “Well, fine then. Um—not the wardrobe, obviously—the gala.”

He banishes the butterflies in his stomach that begin to flutter at Voldemort’s answering smile.

He has a plan.

---

The robes that arrive in the post are even more pretentious than what he wore to Voldemort’s maybe-Death Eater party. They’re emerald green again, with embellishments of silver finery. At least the boots are the same as before.

He frowns at himself in the mirror. Dressed like this, he looks like he belongs in a stock photo—generic-posh-pure-blood—the light-haired version. It wouldn’t surprise him if that was just Voldemort’s type.

He pulls himself away, Apparating before he can chicken out and play hooky instead.

Voldemort is in the Atrium already, speaking to an older witch Harry doesn’t recognize. He stops a few feet away, not wanting to intrude. Even so, he can’t help but overhear—

“—must be done about this, I won’t stand for it,” the witch is demanding.

“And I assure you, Madam Selwyn, the Ministry has the matter in hand.” Voldemort is using his politician voice—the one that everyone, witches, in particular, melt like butter for. Madam Selwyn, it appears, is no exception.

“Yes, well, I expect results—not more promises. Good evening, Undersecretary Gaunt.”

She leaves with a small curtsey, which Voldemort returns with a gentlemanly bow of his own. Harry should probably learn how to do that at some point. “What was all that about?”

“Oh, nothing of import. It is astounding, the kind of vapid problems wizards of means can invent.” Then Voldemort is looking at him. Appraising him. “You look splendid,” he breathes, pulling Harry close and bestowing a kiss on the cheek.

“Er—thank you. You, too.” And he knows that he’s gotten himself into this, but he can’t help but feel that doubt creeping in again, mocking—do you know what you’re doing?

He squashes it. It’s all part of the plan.

Voldemort extends his arm, crooked at the elbow. “Now. Shall we?”

“Let’s do it.” Harry smiles, locking his arm with Voldemort’s.

---

There’s apparently a certain cachet to being on the arm of one Undersecretary Thomas Gaunt, and Harry can sense the lingering gazes on him, envious and resentful. The witches and wizards Voldemort introduces him to are sure to comment on it as well.

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the Undersecretary attend a function with a companion. You must be someone special,” the matron in a puffy puce gown warbles.

Harry looks to Voldemort, bashful and meek. This has been his default setting tonight—shyly deferring to Voldemort to pilot them through uncomfortable conversations with people Harry has never met before. It’s a good arrangement: Voldemort gets to hear himself talk, and Harry doesn’t have to endure the crippling social anxiety he usually feels at gatherings like this.

“Quite so. Jason is one of a kind.” Voldemort takes Harry’s hand in his.

The words nauseate Harry, even as he indulges in the addictive sensation of skin on skin.

The witch coos. “Young love! I remember when Chester and I…”

Harry bites his lower lip, suppressing a laugh. Could there be a more ill-suited way to describe his faked dalliance with a dark lord old enough to be his grandfather? He tunes her out, plastering a smile on his face and nodding politely once in a while.

And it’s a gala. So he and Voldemort dance.

“Er—remember what I said about embarrassing you?” Harry acknowledges his nerves for the first time that evening as Voldemort leads him out onto the dance floor.

“Do not fret. Just follow me.” Voldemort pulls Harry close by the waist with one hand positioned at the small of his back, and the other grasping Harry’s left. Then he steps forward, their chests nearly touching.

Harry almost forgets how to breathe.

At his high school prom (which he’d only attended at the stubborn insistence of his foster parents), there had been a teacher chaperoning, prone to yelling, “Leave room for Jesus!” at any of the students dancing too closely. Harry wishes that Mrs. Hanco*ck were here now to offer the same guidance.

They dance—though Harry hears none of the music, nor does he even feel the floor beneath his feet. Voldemort’s presence—so, so close—is pervasive and immense and overwhelming in a way that shorts all of Harry’s circuits. They’re in a vacuum, it feels like—just the two of them, nothing else, not even an atmosphere—swaying and spinning in a timeless, unending loop.

Harry clings to reality by a worn thread.

It’s all part of the plan.

Thankfully, Voldemort’s social obligations cut the dancing short, and they pass the next several hours schmoozing campaign donors and political allies. Harry loses interest in the proceedings, opting to people-watch instead.

Then, an unmistakable head of bushy brown hair catches his eye.

Christ.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s seen in years.

He just stares for a while, taking her in. The brightest witch of her age. He’d always known that she’d be great—

“Should I be jealous?” The dulcet voice turns his head away from the view.

“Oh—no. I’m just a big fan of her work.”

“Then come. I will introduce you.”

And before Harry can think about whether he should decline, Voldemort is pulling him across the dance floor to the bar where Hermione is retrieving a drink.

“Undersecretary Gaunt, good evening!” She sounds exactly the same—the clipped and precise tones of her Queen’s English reminding Harry of being chastised and lectured a million and one times.

It’s Wing-gar-dium Levi-o-sa, make the ‘gar’ nice and long.

Haven’t you ever read Hogwarts, A History?

“Ms. Granger. A pleasure, as always.” Voldemort kisses her hand. “Jason here is a recent Ministry addition, consulting on American policy. He is an admirer of your work.”

Harry extends his hand. It’s about the twentieth time he’s making the gesture in the last two hours, but it’s actually meaningful this time. “Um—hi. Nice to meet you.”

Hermione receives his hand with a winning smile, and Harry wants to cry at the familiarity of it. “Welcome aboard. I hope the Undersecretary isn’t working you too hard.”

“Oh no, of course not,” Harry answers on auto-pilot. And there are so many things he wants to ask her—how she’s been, if she’s ever thought about him, what Ron was up to, if she even kept in touch with him…

He swallows it all down.

“Now, where is that charming husband of yours, I don’t believe I’ve seen him tonight,” Voldemort says. It’s absolutely infuriating that he knows more about her than Harry does—and he can’t help the sulking child in him that spits, she was my friend first.

“Our sitter canceled last minute, so Ron had to stay back to watch the kids.”

Harry routinely lost sight of how old he was. Most of the time, he still feels like an overgrown man-child, scraping by life having cereal for dinner and wearing dirty underwear inside-out on laundry day.

But here were his two best friends from childhood—married with kids in a brave new world where the Dark Lord wasn’t a dark lord.

He’s ecstatic for them. Truly. But there’s still a thin layer of misery coating the good news.

Would Harry Potter ever get his happy ending?

“What a shame. Do give him my best,” Voldemort says. And that should be the end of that, but Harry can’t help but ask.

“What does your husband do?”

“He runs Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with his brothers. I’m not sure if you’d have heard about it—it’s a joke shop in Diagon Alley.”

“Oh, yeah—I think I saw some ads about it in the paper.” I also bankrolled most of it, Harry adds in his head.

“Well, I can’t say that I one-hundred percent support the enterprise, having kids of my own, but you should come take a look sometime.” Hermione’s brows are furrowed, making that sort of loving-disappointed face Harry was so used to receiving back in the day. “Oh! Excuse me, gentlemen.” And she hurries off to accost an elderly wizard who appears to attempt to flee at her approach.

And Harry misses her. Missed missing her.

Voldemort seems to detect his melancholy and gently places an arm around his waist.

Everyone else was perfectly capable of leading valid, normal lives, it seemed. And here was Harry Potter, reduced to accepting comfort from the Dark Lord.

“Another dance?” Harry offers. He’s here for a job, after all—he can cry in his sleep later like every other grown man coping with a midlife crisis.

Voldemort smiles in answer and takes Harry’s hand in his.

And as Harry basks in the warmth of Voldemort’s embrace, he tells himself that he can stop anytime he wants to.

It’s all part of the plan.

---

When the gala ends, Voldemort invites Harry back to his home for coffee.

It’s an eventuality that Harry has thought through ahead of time, and he’s already determined that if push comes to shove, he’s completely willing to spread his legs for the Dark Lord.

A paltry sacrifice for the greater good, really.

Harry accepts, shy but eager—Voldemort always seems to like him like that.

They Floo into the same drawing room as before, though Harry only has a split second to take in the surroundings before Voldemort is kissing him, abandoning all pretense of ‘coffee’.

It’s nothing like the innocent peck of their first kiss.

The press of lips to his is firm, unrelenting, and then—f*ck—the press of tongue against his—it’s hot and wet and filthy, and Voldemort has to be using magic because there’s no way this can feel so good.

Voldemort pulls back just enough to speak. Their lips are still almost touching, and Harry can swear that he sees his eyes flash red. “May I take you to bed?”

And Harry isn’t a virgin (he was a bit of a slu*t in college, as young men just discovering their sexuality might be inclined to be). But he feels his face heating like it all the same. Not from nerves or anxiety or anything he should be feeling at the prospect of imminent sex with the Dark Lord—but from how hot it is.

From how much he wants it.

Harry is barely nodding his assent when Voldemort wraps his arms around him, Apparating him Side-Along to a luxurious bedroom. Then he’s on him again—kissing down his neck this time, sucking deep bruises into the skin, then loosening the upper clasps of his robes to do the same to the top of his sternum.

And Harry can only pant and gasp and remember to breathe at the sensations, clinging desperately to Voldemort’s shoulders as if his legs were about to give out at any moment.

Voldemort eventually crowds him toward the bed, laying him down gingerly when they reach it.

Harry trembles, and he refuses to dwell on why.

Voldemort withdraws a fraction to ask, “Are you all right?”

This close, illuminated by the soft golden glow of candlelight, Harry can only drink in the sight.

Voldemort really was handsome. Unfairly so.

“I’m fine,” Harry answers. He covers up the wavering in his voice by leaning up to catch Voldemort’s lips in his.

At that, Voldemort vanishes their clothes, and suddenly it’s skin against skin, here, there, and everywhere, and Harry feels like one enlarged nerve ending—each graze, each stroke, each brush against him dialing his sensitivity up to eleven, neurons firing like solar flares. It’s the buzz of their handholding amplified a thousandfold, and Harry loses himself completely to the euphoria, moaning and fighting for breath, constantly chasing after more.

And more.

---

The sex is intense.

Mind-blowing and electrifying and just, really f*cking good.

Maybe because it had been a while since Harry had slept with anyone. But still, he doesn’t remember a time where the sex seemed to transcend the physical plane—where the experience was so thoroughly all-encompassing.

Maybe it was magic.

They’re lying on their backs, shoulder to shoulder, breaths finally calming, and in the haze of the afterglow, Harry’s tongue is loose enough to brave asking, “Is it always like that?”

Voldemort turns to face him, confused. Harry is certain he’s never seen that expression on his face before. “Was that your first time?”

“No. Well, I guess you’re the first wizard—I was just wondering if the magic made it better or something.”

At that, Voldemort looks insufferably smug.

Really, Harry shouldn’t have said anything.

“Not unless you were engaging in a ritual of sex magic without my knowing. Or partook in potions of the amorous variety.” For the latter option, Voldemort affects a disapproving tone. “Or,” he adds mischievously, “you and I are just compatible.”

In the bedroom? Sure, Harry won’t be the one to deny it. So what if the Dark Lord was the best sex he’d ever had? It didn’t change anything.

It doesn’t.

It’s all part of the plan.

Chapter 9: Games

Chapter Text

Despite all of his initial ambitions, Harry—on some level—had hoped that their sleeping together might mark the end of their involvement. Voldemort seemed to fit that type anyway—an alpha male that relished more in the thrill of the hunt than in the boring stuff that came after.

But the charade had carried on with no signs of stopping. Or even slowing down.

Eventually, unavoidably, Harry scrounges up enough self-awareness to extricate himself from the delusion that he knows exactly what he’s doing and how.

The frightening and certain truth is that, per usual, he’s just flying by the seat of his pants—which, credit where credit is due, he pretty much has a master’s degree in—but he is mortified by his past self at not having exerted a bit more forethought, or perhaps even some restraint, considering how high the stakes are.

Maybe if he had, his life’s new status quo wouldn’t include nights of passionate, untamed sex with the Dark Lord.

Or sticking around for a fry-up the morning after.

It’s all appallingly normal, sitting in Voldemort’s breakfast nook, in a borrowed silk robe no less, as Cloppy deposits a second helping of bacon onto his plate.

And Harry can’t decide whether he’s more wary of the man across the table spreading marmalade on his toast or of the carafe of maple syrup (imported specially for him) resting inoffensively beside his plate.

Is this what the universe has in store for Harry Potter next? A cushy, want-for-nothing lifestyle on the arm of a dark lord-cum-politician? Like some kind of mob wife?

Harry patently ignores the voice in his head that suggests that it could always be worse.

Because, all in all, he has to admit that doesn’t mind the domesticity.

Because if given the choice, he’d much rather play house with Voldemort than confront him with their destructive histories.

“What are your plans for today?” Voldemort asks with a hint of a grimace as Harry inhales his bacon, two slices at a time.

“Not much,” Harry says with his mouth half-full. In reality, he’d been looking forward to going home—lounging in front of the TV and catching up on shows he’s missed. Or any other solo activity that would give his brain an opportunity to detox from the overpowering haze of Voldemort’s presence.

He needs to regroup. Before he loses all semblance of control over the situation.

“Then would you care to accompany me on an excursion to Manchester this afternoon?”

sh*t.

He should have answered honestly. Even if Voldemort tended to be a judgmental son of a bitch when it came to his favored pastimes. “Sure. What’s the occasion?”

“A surprise,” Voldemort responds with an air of mystique, and Harry rushes through a hundred different, completely plausible destinations in his mind—ranging from a sex club to a public execution.

He’s only partway ashamed to confess that at this point, he knows, with absolute certainty, which of those he would prefer.

“Can you at least tell me the dress code?”

Voldemort smiles. “Muggle. Business professional.”

---

They Apparate to a quiet street in an affluent suburb, the setting evoking memories of Privet Drive—rows and rows of identical, pristine houses—little boxes all the same.

As they approach Number 27, Harry marvels at the Muggles’ own magic—the perfect, tidy lines of colorful crocuses and tulips in the flowerbeds, the impeccably trimmed hedges along the edges of the lawn. And before he can press Voldemort on what they’re doing, why they’re here, the Dark Lord, in all his bespoke Muggle suit-wearing glory, is delivering three brisk knocks to the door.

It’s so… ordinary. Harry files the image away next to the ones he already has of Voldemort sleeping on his side and Voldemort putting on his pants (one leg at a time like everyone else).

A young couple answers the door within seconds, seemingly already awaiting their arrival.

“Mr. and Mrs. Campbell. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Yes, well. Please—come in,” Mr. Campbell grumbles, surly and stiff and clearly not pleased to see Voldemort again.

Muggle-baiting would hardly be in character for Thomas Gaunt, at least in sight of witnesses, so for now, Harry keeps his mouth shut and goes along for the ride.

Inside, the décor is as immaculate as the landscaping, and the atmosphere, as chill as the autumn air outside. Harry almost expects his Aunt Petunia to slink out from the kitchen any minute to inform the Campbells that he’s not allowed to touch anything.

Voldemort breaks the silence. “Have you made your decision?”

“We’ll do it,” Mr. Campbell says, still in that cool tone—though this time, there’s a small quiver to his voice.

Harry has half a mind to Petrify the Muggles right then, and pull Voldemort aside and demand some answers because whatever Mr. Campbell has just agreed to, he might have under duress.

A high-pitched cry from upstairs breaks his train of thought.

“Very well. Will you take us to her?”

He and Voldemort follow the Campbells up to the second floor, and Harry wonders about what bizarre circ*mstances could lead to the Dark Lord making a house-call—to a Muggle neighborhood, to boot. It seems… beneath him almost? Akin to a monarch cavorting with the village riffraff.

The Campbells lead them into a small bedroom at the end of the hall. Its walls are painted a pale yellow, and a checkered stencil of E-M-I-L-Y graces the space above the bed. A toddler—Emily, Harry supposes—is sitting on a neon-green mat in the middle of the room, red-faced and teary.

“What’s wrong, little one?” Voldemort murmurs, kneeling to face her.

One of these days, Harry was going to stop letting Voldemort’s antics knock him sideways. But it wouldn’t be today.

“Train broken,” Emily whines. And indeed, poor Thomas has run himself off the track and is whirring uselessly turned on its side. Voldemort sets it to rights. Not with magic, surprisingly, but with his hands, like any other Muggle parent might.

Speaking of whom, are merely observing from the sidelines, frigid and awkward.

“Now. How’s that?” Voldemort asks, and Emily responds with a toothy grin, pointing excitedly at the train again making its dutiful laps. Voldemort directs his next question to her parents. “Are you ready?”

The couple eye each other for a while, breaking their gazes only when Mrs. Campbell tilts her head down just barely. “We’re ready,” Mr. Campbell whispers.

Then Voldemort begins to chant. And the room rapidly fills with the swell of magic, dense and potent. Tangible almost.

It’s incredible.

By now, Harry has seen Voldemort cast spells on countless occasions—for mostly trivial tasks, like Apparating to and from the Ministry or summoning his belongings from across the room.

But this—this was magic. Wholesome and unadulterated.

Breathtaking.

It builds and builds, and Voldemort’s incantations intensify in an endless crescendo.

Emily begins to cry at the ominous unfamiliarity, but the adult Campbells only watch on in silent horror, frozen where they stand.

Mrs. Campbell breaks first, her tears tracing messy, mascara-tinged tracks down her face.

“Stop! Please—wait!”

Voldemort doesn’t stop—he doesn’t even seem to hear her, chanting ever louder.

And before Harry can take matters into his own hands—probably in the form of tackling Voldemort to the floor—it all stops, and the magic in the room dissipates.

Then quiet. Just the peppy tweets of songbirds near the window and the distant rumble of cars driving by.

Mrs. Campbell is no longer sobbing, and Emily is fast asleep.

“Among the houses my associate and I have inspected in this neighborhood, yours is by far the most well-maintained. I expect you to be able to garner a selling price considerably above market value,” Voldemort remarks, picking Emily up in a bridal carry. “Anything to add, Jason?”

Oh.

Harry might be an idiot, tried-and-tested, but even he can connect the dots when the picture is drawn right in front of him.

“Um—no. I think that about covers it,” he says absently, his mind fixating on all the possibilities—human experimentation? Asset grooming? Why all this effort—the same magic Voldemort had used to make the world forget him, Harry is sure—on a mere Muggle child?

The Campbells seem to be completely unconcerned about—or rather, unaware of—their sleeping child in a stranger’s arms as everyone makes their way back down the stairs.

“Good day,” Voldemort says before Apparating the three of them directly to the Ministry.

As soon as they land in the Atrium, Harry pulls away and goes for broke. And for once in this hellish reality, his reaction aligns in every respect to the hypothetical one of Jason Evans.

“What the f*ck was that? Did you just kidnap her?” His voice echoes through the halls, and a few witches turn their heads toward the ruckus.

“We should discuss this in my office. You must have a great number of questions,” Voldemort responds, polite but unforthcoming.

And Harry forces himself to reel in the thrum of magic peeking out from the tips of his fingers, reminding himself of what happened the last time he didn’t properly think things through.

They walk across the lobby, stopping in front of a blond wizard in a gray robe. The badge hanging from his waist reads Wren Inkwood, Office of Wizard Welfare.

“This is Emily Campbell,” Voldemort declares, passing her off. Inkwood simply nods and strides off toward the Floos with the child in his arms.

Harry stares on, magic rising to the surface again, his earlier resolve for patience already forgotten. Is this where he would make his stand against the Dark Lord?

It would be poetic—to battle it out in the Ministry Atrium, of all places.

Inkwood is about to enter the Floo when Harry draws his wand to stun him, but a tug at his elbow holds him back. “She is in excellent hands. You have my word.”

But did the word of a dark lord even mean anything?

Certainly not to Harry. But what about to Jason Evans?

Harry sighs and holsters his wand. Grudgingly, he enters the lifts with Voldemort, who spends the short journey down to Level One meticulously transfiguring his Muggle attire to his traditional Ministry ensemble.

Even at a time like this, Harry can’t help his mind straying to the fact that he much prefers him in the suit.

Just when he’d thought he’d reached the limits of his self-hatred.

As soon as the door to Voldemort’s office closes shut, Harry lays into him: “How many children have you taken? What do you do with them?”

Voldemort smiles. It’s not the first time it’s occurred to Harry to punch it clean off, but he can’t recall an instance when he’d felt the urge so saliently.

“You are quite quick to assume the worst of me.” Voldemort nudges Harry toward his usual seat. “Coffee?”

“No. And cut the bullsh*t.”

This was it.

A glimpse into the dark plots of Lord Voldemort—underneath all the distracting, gilded smokescreen of Thomas Gaunt. Nabbing children? In broad daylight? It’s a bit of a downgrade in terms of super-villainy, but Harry pounces on it regardless.

Voldemort sighs. “Emily Campbell is the sixth such child to come under the guardianship of the British Ministry.”

Six? That seemed impossibly low.

Voldemort continues, ignoring the confusion that must be apparent on Harry’s face. “I am uncertain how to proceed, as you appear to have drawn your own conclusions... horrifying as they are. But allow me to explain.”

Harry sags, and it’s as if someone took the wind out of his sails. By all rights, he should be the one with the upper hand, the one pressing the advantage. How does he end up in this same f*cking corner every single time with Voldemort—lost, confused, and saddled with the gnawing suspicion that he’s taken a wrong turn?

“Why did you even take me along?” he asks instead. His voice sounds defeated to his own ears.

Voldemort smiles again. He undoubtedly intends it to be kind and reassuring, but to Harry, it mostly comes off as self-important and condescending. “Did I ever tell you about how I grew up?”

“You know you haven’t,” Harry snaps. He himself had recounted numerous sanitized anecdotes from his life before Hogwarts. But Voldemort had never bothered to reciprocate.

Still, Harry knows more than enough from his own past of Tom Riddle—the self-appointed King and Heir of Slytherin—who had framed an innocent student for murder and killed his own father.

Voldemort leans forward in his seat, looking pensive. “It was unpleasant. Trying. Quite similar to your own upbringing, from what you have shared with me. I, too, lost my parents at a young age. And as there was no family willing to take me in, I grew up in an orphanage. A Muggle one, at that.

“It was run by a most disagreeable caretaker, who also happened to be a fervent follower of Muggle religion. So you can imagine what might have ensued when my magic manifested. No one understood, of course, and unfortunately for me, Muggles had crafted quite a few… creative means to banish their demons. For example, did you know that there are those that believe that a ritual drowning can purify the soul? These things, they tend to take their toll on young minds, and I, too, for a time, believed that there was something wrong with me. That I was somehow made wrong.

“A key focus of my political aspirations is a steadfast commitment to the care and safety of those unable to ensure their own. Having lived through the horrors myself, I cannot envisage a world where any magical child is discarded, left to languish in an environment where they are unwanted. Unvalued. Believed to be lesser.”

The constant whisper in his head of don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it, don’t fall for it is blaring at a near-yell now, but this hits too close to home.

And Harry remembers the disappointment on Tom Riddle’s face when his appeal to remain at Hogwarts over summer break had been denied—looking exactly like Harry had felt when Dumbledore had told him no for the same thing.

They really were two sides of the same coin. Equals, in so many ways.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, sincere and true.

The despair of living a life bereft of affection, compassion, love, of being so overtly painted as the other, of only ever being able to look in from the outside—it’s all painfully familiar.

How often had he wished for someone to take him from the exile of his cupboard—to a world where hugs and kisses weren’t scarce commodities, where birthday presents didn’t take the form of coat hangers, where his identity wasn’t callously cut down to ‘Boy’ or ‘You’?

Eventually, his wish had come true, and had exacted an immeasurable price. It was a miracle that he’d turned out as well-adjusted as he had.

On the other end of the spectrum was Voldemort, who had apparently coped with his own heartache by becoming a world-dominating psychopath.

“Emily’s parents… they were…?” Harry can’t even say the words out loud. “Because she was magical?”

He had misjudged everything. Of course, Gaunt wouldn’t just snatch a kid—not without a perfectly above-board rationale and the bureaucratic authorization to back him up.

“Welfare has been monitoring their household for several months, ever since the child’s first bout of accidental magic. They requested my intervention when the conditions… deteriorated.”

“And your part in all this is to, what? Swoop in with a super-strength Obliviate to make her family forget?”

Voldemort frowns. “That is a rather erroneous description of the process I developed. Memory charms, common and practical as they are, are also cumbersome and singular in their purpose. My magic targets knowledge itself—removing the existence of Emily Campbell in its entirety to the world at large, while simultaneously fabricating new memories and altering any contradictory experiences to fill in the gaps.”

Well.

On the whole, Harry had correctly interpreted the mechanics of the spell. He had just woefully underestimated its utility.

But he clings to hope.

Muggles still exist. And Gaunt still has his share of political opponents in the Wizengamot. So the spell has to have its limits.

It can’t hurt to ask.

“But that means you could make the world forget anything—you could AK me in the face right now and make it so that I never even existed.” The glare he receives in response might imply that Voldemort would do just that.

“Do you take me for a murderer?” It’s obviously rhetorical, but Harry still has to bite down on the emphatic yes on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he asks the next burning question on his mind.

“Why could I still remember her?” Why can I still remember you?

“The spell must overcome one’s innate mental defenses to successfully take effect. I did anticipate that you would be immune, considering the potency of your Occlumency.”

Harry almost laughs.

Isn’t that just the world’s biggest irony? In his bid to excise Voldemort’s presence from his mind, Harry had all but guaranteed its permanence.

God.

Would he still be here—the Dark Lord’s paramour—if he were just another one of the blissfully unaware?

It might be better, not knowing—like the Matrix—to live an ignorant, manufactured existence than to be embroiled in an interminable, unwinnable war.

He tracks back. Now was absolutely the wrong time for an existential crisis.

“Did Emily’s parents agree to this?” Harry—whose father had given his life in a desperate bid to buy time for his wife and child to escape, whose mother had given her life rather than just stepping aside as she was told—can’t quite grasp the premise that there might be those outright willing to abandon their own children.

Couldn’t he, though? Tom Riddle Sr. had done exactly that.

“Muggles, I have found, can be especially small-minded. Selfish. Intolerant. So terrified by the prospect of being outcast, being classified as different, that they would rather wipe the slate clean and start over. You were there as witness. They made the decision to proceed.”

And Harry knows without a doubt that the Dursleys would have leaped at the same chance.

“And if they chose not to? You wouldn’t force them?” He isn’t sure why he even bothers to ask. As if Voldemort would answer truthfully anyway.

“So to recap, thus far, I have been branded a kidnapper. A murderer. And now, some type of instigator?” The expression on his face is the perfect picture of affronted indignation. “While there are Ministry provisions that allow it to assume custody of a magical child, irrespective of parental consent, Emily Campbell did not fit those parameters.”

Harry sighs, wondering what kind of outcome Voldemort had envisioned for their outing. Perhaps he’d expected Harry to have fallen at his feet, in admiration of his power and grace and righteousness. Or maybe they were supposed to have bonded over their shared childhood traumas.

He voices the question aloud—a repeat of what he’d asked earlier. “Why did you even take me today?”

“I had assumed that you would find the experience gratifying.” Voldemort looks chagrined. Discouraged. “That you might appreciate the efforts the Ministry is undertaking to keep magical children from falling through the cracks.”

And Harry suddenly feels guilty, which was just eighty kinds of f*cked up, given their history. And not that he’s keeping score, a few good deeds can’t just erase a generation’s worth of tyrannical subjugation.

Could they?

Was it actually possible for Voldemort to have turned over a new leaf? To have grown a heart in his old age?

“I’m sorry,” Harry offers. “And you’re right—I do appreciate it. I wish there had been something like this when I was growing up.” Though I wouldn’t have needed it if it wasn’t for you. “It’s just—it’s just I’ve seen a lot of Muggles taken advantage of in my line of work. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Understandable,” Voldemort begins, “though I had presumed that by now, you and I had reached a phase in our... entanglement that you might afford me the benefit of the doubt.”

“I really am sorry. Is there any way I could make it up to you?” Harry only hopes that it won’t be some kinky sex thing.

“Now that you mention it…” Voldemort reaches into a drawer to pull out a file, laying it delicately on the desk in front of Harry. “With a little bit less daring this time, if you will.”

“An assignment? A real one?” Ever since sleeping together, Harry had more or less gone on sabbatical.

Voldemort nods.

“Um—are you sure you want to use your freebie to have me do my job?”

Voldemort takes Harry’s hand in his. “I have been awaiting an opportunity for us to return to normalcy—in a professional capacity. But I know that you have been enjoying your time away from work these last weeks.”

“Hey, that’s fine. I know where the line is between personal and professional,” Harry says. It sounds mostly believable.

Voldemort grips Harry’s hand a hair tighter. “In the meantime then, shall we adjourn?”

At Harry’s nod, Voldemort Apparates them both, directly from the office to his bedroom, clothes already vanished.

And as Harry loses himself to the expert ministrations of Voldemort’s lovely, talented hands, he can’t help but wonder what it says about the state of his mental health that he prefers f*cking to talking when it comes to Dark Lord.

Something unflattering, probably.

---

“Hiya, Jason! Haven’t seen you in a while!” Abercrombie beams at his approach, and Harry refuses to acknowledge the depressing fact that these days, his meager friend group seemed to consist entirely of Voldemort and the armory clerk.

Maybe Harry should have sent the Patronus to Abercrombie instead.

“Yeah—the workload’s been a little light lately,” Harry says, reaching into his pocket for a list of all the equipment that Voldemort had neglected to recoup from Saint Petersburg.

“Oh, is that right? Because rumor has it you and the Undersecretary have been going at it,” Abercrombie pauses, snatching the list from Harry’s hand and waggling his eyebrows tellingly, “hot and heavy.”

Harry can feel the heat spreading across his face. “What? Where did you hear that?” He knows that it doesn’t matter really, whether people know or not. Still, it’s weird, being known around the office as the guy sleeping around. With his boss—like some kind of ladder-climbing hussy.

“Oh, I didn’t need to hear about it—we all saw it at the Fall Gala.” Abercrombie makes it sound as if he’d walked in on the two of them, in flagrante, in the cloakroom. “Franley had a pool going on if you guys would start undressing each other on the dance floor.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“Hey, mate, love makes us do crazy things.” Abercrombie pats him lightly on the shoulder before ducking into the storeroom.

“It’s not—” love. Then what? He was just f*cking around—like some actual ladder-climbing hussy? “It’s new,” Harry mumbles eventually.

“Well, we’re all rooting for you,” Abercrombie half-shouts from the distance. When he returns, it’s with his arms full of gear that Harry will need for the new assignment. “Who knew? I didn’t even think the Undersecretary was capable. Like that Muggle machine—Roberts?”

“Robots,” Harry corrects absently. He’d thought the same at one point, hadn’t he?

“Yes, that. No one’s ever seen him with anyone. They say he turned down the American President’s daughter last year. And Leon Passel the year before that.”

Even if a calendar featuring the Australian National Quidditch Team wasn’t currently taped to his fridge, Harry would know from reputation alone that he didn’t hold a candle to Passel.

So what was Voldemort even doing with a pathetic nobody like him?

“He’s never been with anyone?”

Abercrombie seems to think about it, touching a finger to his chin. “Not that I remember. So take it easy, all right? You’re special—the one and only. And get this—Iris—that crotchety old hag in Mysteries—she’s been going around saying that the Undersecretary told her that you guys were meant to be.” He splays his hands in front of him and widens his eyes, mocking. “Destiny. Can you believe…”

And it’s like someone ringing the Tibetan singing bowl that he has stashed away somewhere in his closet, its peal resounding with a plain and perfect clarity, drowning out the rest of Abercrombie’s musings about his love life.

Like seeing the sun for the first time after being chained in that cave all these months, struggling to make sense of the moving shadows on the wall, utterly in vain.

Of course.

Of course, Voldemort knows who he is.

Harry barks out a laugh, harsh and hysterical.

Why in the hell else would he have taken such a keen interest in him?

“You all right, mate?” Abercrombie has finished packing up his things and is looking at him with concern.

“Fine. Just remembered that I forgot something.” Harry is having that out-of-body experience again, his voice echoing flatly. “Do you have any Sneakoscopes back there?”

---

Half a bottle of Firewhisky and most of an extra-cheese pizza later, Harry decides that this is a good thing.

Really, the only good thing—so by default, the best thing—since he embarked on this outrageous, half-witted campaign to uncover the Dark Lord’s dastardly schemes.

He had been right. Voldemort had turned over a new leaf—one, at least, that didn’t have Harry at the wrong end of the Cruciatus.

So what was Voldemort doing?

He downs another shot.

Had the Dark Lord’s brand of torture evolved beyond pain and brutality? To where he got his jollies from humiliation and degradation instead? From turning his victims upside down and inside out and stuffing them full of chaos and doubt and self-loathing until they were bursting at the seams?

He should have figured it out sooner.

It all makes so much sense now.

That ridiculous fool’s errand to track down ‘Harry Potter’.

Those fevered ‘dreams’ of Voldemort petting his scar.

The way he always strokes his hair right above it.

And that whole f*cking thing with the Campbells—what had been the point of that anyway? A perverse power play? A seduction? A simple display of braggadocio?

Whatever.

Things would be different now.

All this time, Voldemort had been operating under the assumption that Harry was unaware of his identity already being compromised.

Meaning now, as long as Voldemort doesn’t find out about this new development—about Harry knowing about Voldemort knowing, he—Harry—has the upper hand.

Right?

He downs another shot.

Finally. Whatever stupid game they’ve been playing, he can finally see the board more clearly.

And soon enough, he’d make Voldemort regret not taking any of the thousand chances he’s had so far to blast him with the Killing Curse.

“The game is afoot,” he slurs decisively to himself, mirthful and eager.

Then he laughs.

---

He wakes the next morning to a blistering hangover and an empty bottle of Firewhisky jabbing painfully into his armpit. There’s another bottle, quarter-full, on the edge of the coffee table and a greasy pizza box strewn open on the floor, a mess of uneaten crusts piled precariously off to one side.

The windows are defaced with illegible notes and incoherent diagrams where drunk Harry had apparently Beautiful Minded the solution to all his problems.

He squints at a particularly intricate and wholly incomprehensible flowchart while sipping his Pepper-Up.

Oh, well.

The excitement and exhilaration of the previous day’s discoveries have abated, and all that remains now, despite the balm of warm comfort provided by the potion, is a profound weariness that reaches all the way to his bones.

Just how much more could be heaped onto their house of cards until its inevitable collapse?

Harry sighs between swallows.

Over the years, there have been a number of occasions where he’s regretted leaving his Muggle existence behind. Giving in to the beckoning temptation of magic. Shrugging off any possibility that the tumult of his previous life would eventually seep through.

Granted, he doesn’t think he’s ever meant it. Mostly just half-hearted mercy-mes or sarcastic if-onlys, driven by some pathetic but temporary circ*mstance, like eating canned beans straight out of the tin while laying low, or being at the wrong end of a gun or a wand or a boot.

But if at this very moment, Harry had Hermione’s old Time-Turner in hand, he doubts that he would hesitate to flip over the hourglass again and again—however many times it’d take to rewind the clock back to St. Joseph’s, so he could stop his younger self from ever accepting Rob’s card in the first place.

He leans back on the couch, resting his head against the cushions, and with a wet laugh, he remembers the thrum of anticipation, the spark of energy of last night. And fueled by a copious volume of liquid courage, how he’d champed at the bit to enter the ring for another bout with Voldemort.

The cold light of day and potion-induced soberness are all that’s needed to rouse him from the pipe dream.

He’s so tired.

Tired of tripping over his feet and struggling to keep pace with a man who, at any given moment, is thinking at least twelve moves ahead. Tired of battling a phantom, a ghost that might not even exist. Tired of scraping by in a freakish alternate dimension with only the Dark Lord for company.

He’s tired of living a half-life on tenterhooks, waiting for the sword to fall. For fate to finally catch up to him.

He sighs again, tipping back the last of the potion and setting the vial on the table. He picks at a stitch of the couch upholstery that’s begun to fray.

If it hadn’t been clear before, it is now.

Abundantly so.

He had never stood a chance.

And while he’d pegged himself to be Voldemort’s equal, an adversary, a snake in the grass poised to strike, the Dark Lord had merely been humoring him—laughing himself sick, certainly—as Harry steered checkers pieces across what’s been a chessboard since the beginning.

He was a toy.

A pretty thing to be fiddled with—to be made to blush, stutter, squirm this way and that—to be taken apart piecemeal and put back together to its owner’s liking.

The only way for him to play the game had been to not have played at all.

He tugs at a loose thread, grounding himself in the pop-pop-pop of the unraveling seams.

How could he have been so arrogant?

When his opponent was Slytherin personified—a veritable genius—while Harry could barely pass a polygraph even after the requisite training? When his core competencies skewed almost exclusively toward skills that could only be valuable on the battlefield?

He’s learned a lot since he was fifteen, but apparently, this was a lesson that never quite took.

The last time he’d tried to pull one over the Dark Lord, he’d gotten his godfather killed and landed his closest friends in the Hospital Wing. He himself had only barely survived the encounter due to a timely intervention by the most powerful wizard of the modern era.

The spongey padding of the couch peeks through the new gap in the leather, and Harry pokes at it, waiting for the indent of his finger to disappear before bearing down again.

So what now?

Did he have it in himself to just give up? Let the chips fall where they may?

What was it that Dumbledore had said… that Harry cared too much—that he’d bleed to death with the pain of it?

He holds his face in his hands and sighs.

Just this one time… could he let it all go?

He ruminates on the last several months of his life, turning over his past interactions with Voldemort every which way in a fruitless bid to decipher the man’s hidden intentions toward him. Toward the rest of the world.

And there’s nothing.

‘Progress and Prosperity’, he’d vowed.

And maybe that’s all there ever was.

This monster—that had once tortured and murdered, razed and ravaged, driven so many families to ruin—that had gone so far as to attempt to slaughter a baby still in his crib—had, during Harry’s absence, become a champion for the marginalized and vulnerable. An engine for growth and innovation. A shining beacon to usher the wizarding world into the new millennium.

And somewhere, somehow, the zeal for Muggle extermination, for power beyond imagination, for complete dominion over all—it had been supplanted by an unyielding duty to the people and an earnest disposition to cultivate and nurture.

Harry had been holding his breath, counting on the other shoe dropping any moment now—only to become trapped in a holding pattern, caught in a state of suspended animation.

Had he had his wand drawn on windmills this entire time?

Vanishing the loose fibers in his hands, Harry mends the torn couch with a whispered Reparo .

He’s not giving up.

As if Harry Potter had ever learned how to do such a thing.

He’ll just… wait.

And in the meantime, maybe he’ll live his life—not how he’s meant to, but how he wants to.

Chapter 10: Freefall

Chapter Text

“sh*t!”

Harry stumbles over a stray rock, barely catching himself in time to avoid a mouth full of dirt. He’s twisted his ankle with the maneuver, he’s certain, but he can’t dwell on that now.

He has to keep moving.

So despite the bloody gash across his thigh that stings like hell, despite the relentless barbs of the chill wind, despite the burning in his throat and lungs and legs—and now, despite the shooting pain that accompanies each step forward—he keeps running.

At least this is something he’s good at.

A childhood fraught with Harry Hunting and years of professional experience in espionage have equipped him well to plow on under the radar.

He takes an odd comfort in the crunch of leaves beneath his feet and the telltale ache and pull in his calves as he barrels ahead in no precise direction. Just—away.

The snide voice taunting you can’t run forever, he buries deep, deep down.

And as much as he wants to wave the white flag, come out with his hands up, and beg on his knees for clemency, there’s too much at stake to give in now.

Not when he’s come so far.

He shivers. A little from the gusts of wind stabbing painfully into his skin—but mostly from the thoughts of what Voldemort might have in store for him when—if—he catches up to him.

Maybe if he can just hold out long enough, he might make his way out of this mess unscathed.

But he takes stock of himself—battered and bruised and bleeding, magic all but wrung dry, being ferreted out like game—and he knows better than to get his hopes up.

After all, that’s how he’d ended up here, at the precipice of a fate likely worse than death.

A few minutes more and he stops to catch his breath, taking cover behind a large oak. He presses the entire length of his body against it, willing it to swallow him whole.

Two counts in through the nose.

Four counts out through the mouth.

The respite from the wind is heaven, as fleeting as it is, and Harry fights against the urge to renew his long-faded Warming Charm. It’s just one of many luxuries his magic can’t afford right now.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, he pushes himself off of the tree trunk, wobbling only just slightly before breaking into a sprint again, leaping across rocky gullies and sparkling streams, zigzagging through the dense woods, farther and farther into the Albanian wilderness.

On any other occasion, he might have taken the time to appreciate the scenery—the vivid crimson of the leaves of the canopy glowing like embers under the sun, the sprightly pink and gold of the cosmos gleaming shyly among the dense undergrowth.

But his brain cells are hard enough at work as it is just to keep his feet moving, one in front of the other.

Left-right-left-right-left-right.

Within the next hundred yards, there’s spellfire whizzing past his shoulder, and even despite the lack of connection, the weight of the magic reverberates so forcefully that Harry can feel it in his teeth. It’s a cruel, needless reminder of the fact that he’s utterly outmatched.

Erecting a shoddy Protego around himself, he shakes it off and keeps running.

But sooner than he would have liked, the shield begins to wane in strength, and cracks and pockmarks emerge across its surface with increasing frequency.

He’s never pushed his magic to these kinds of limits, he’s almost sure—and at any moment now, he expects to keel over and fall into a week-long coma.

Truthfully, it wouldn’t be the worst outcome. Any length of unconsciousness might actually be preferable to the alternative.

He stops again when the throbbing in his ankle becomes impossible to ignore. It’s swollen, colored an angry purple, and he tears some fabric from his already mangled pants to wrap it. It’s a Band-Aid on a bullet wound—when what he really needs is a Healer-grade mending spell and a fistful of Tylenol.

Closing his eyes, he runs through the routine mental techniques to block out the pain.

He can’t go on like this. But at this point, he knows that it’s less a matter of what he can do than of what he has to do.

So he cancels his flagging shield, opting for a silencing charm instead to mask his breathing. Then he crouches down beside a fallen tree and weaves as delicate a Disillusionment he can with the magic he can squeeze from his reserves.

One last-ditch effort. An all-in gambit that would, in all likelihood, end in catastrophe.

Well. He’s made it out with worse odds before.

When Voldemort finally makes his presence known, Harry draws on every spare drop of magic still left in him.

And he strikes.

“Expelliarmus! Stupefy! Stupefy!”

Voldemort almost looks bored as he deftly deflects them all.

But Harry had prepared for that—he’d counted on it.

So while Voldemort’s attention is diverted by the barrage of his spells, Harry closes the gap between them, rushing forward like a crazed person and ramming into his target in a full-on football tackle.

For the next few minutes, they’re a tangle of limbs on the forest floor, rolling and tumbling in a flurry of skin and dead leaves and topsoil, and Harry, rendered Squib for the time being, pulls out every hand-to-hand trick in the book to come out on top.

When finally, it seems like he’s turning the tide, wrestling into a favorable position to snare Voldemort in a leg lock—it’s all over.

There’s a tip of a wand between his ribs and a knee pressing roughly into his sternum.

This was it, then.

Judgment Day.

“All right, all right, all right—Jesus Christ—mercy!”

The pressure on his chest lets up, as does the wand in his side.

“That was fun,” Voldemort declares, smug and sated. He hasn’t even broken a sweat.

Harry laughs, but as out of breath as he is, it comes out more like a wheeze. “I didn’t think you knew what that was.” He remains lying on the ground for the moment, regarding the man above him—as put-together as he always was, the only indications of the last several hours, a healthy flush to his cheeks and fetchingly windswept hair.

Meanwhile, Harry is positive that he himself has the look of a man who’d gone a few rounds with a Blast-Ended Skrewt. And lost.

“I do aim to surprise,” Voldemort says, leaning down for a kiss before Harry can think of a clever rejoinder.

Every kiss with Voldemort—the first, the second, the hundredth—is terrifying and irresistible and lovely and heart-stopping. And this time is no different, even when Harry is nursing a dozen injuries and half-delirious from oxygen deprivation.

But it doesn’t take long for the spark of electricity between them to thaw his frozen bones and numb every ache and pain, and Harry gives himself freely to the pleasure, the heat, the thrill of the familiar weight on top of him.

Voldemort is in one of his impatient moods and vanishes both of their clothes in a hurry before pressing hot, wet kisses down Harry’s throat and running possessive hands through the length of his naked body.

Harry has a split second to be a bit alarmed by how turned on the man seems to be after essentially beating him into submission (both magically and physically)—to the point of f*cking him right there into the ground—when his conscious thoughts are commandeered by an overload of sheer sensation, rapture, and excess of all manners and means.

---

“Oh my God. Best day ever,” Harry proclaims afterward, dirt and twigs still digging unpleasantly into his more sensitive areas. And while the things that come out of his mouth post-org*sm would (should) never be admissible in a court of law, he does make a concerted effort not to lie to himself these days.

It’s easier that way. Not fighting it. Letting himself be pulled into the gravity of Voldemort’s orbit.

And just enjoying the ride.

As for now, he catches his breath, lapping up the sun rays barely cutting through the treetops overhead.

“So you approve of the outing?”

Voldemort loves to ask questions he already knows the answers to. Dr. Kessen would probably say that he hadn’t gotten enough validation during his childhood.

“Yeah,” Harry says. “I haven’t been trounced like that since training at the Farm.”

“I admit, it went on for far longer than I had intended.” Voldemort glances down at his watch with a faint frown on his face. “We’ve missed our lunch reservations.”

At the mention of food, Harry’s stomach makes a pointed growl. “Can we get burgers?”

“Unfortunately, as of fifteen minutes ago, we have dinner plans,” Voldemort remarks, rising from the ground and spelling his own clothes (maddeningly unsullied and unwrinkled) back on. From his pockets, he retrieves a red potion which he holds out for Harry to take.

Of course, the bastard would have come prepared.

Harry downs the Healing Draught in a nervous gulp, getting on his feet when his ankle ceases to throb, and the wounds throughout his body start to close. He awkwardly pats down at the dirt sticking to his shirt. “Come on. Best two out of three?”

Voldemort flashes him a knowing look, and Harry sighs.

As with most of the hardships that befell him in life, he only had himself to blame.

“When is it?”

“Six. Cloppy will already have arranged suitable attire.”

“Can’t I just wear what I wore last time?”

Whatever Cloppy would have put together would indisputably be as green, as expensive, and as gratuitously sophisticated as any of his previous outfits.

But Voldemort makes the constipated expression often reserved for when Harry says something especially boorish. “Absolutely not.”

Only weeks ago, the primary source of Harry’s headaches and ulcers had been the disorientation and uncertainty surrounding mountains of unanswerable questions. That, and of course, the crippling shame and guilt of bedding a man responsible for murderous destruction of epic proportions.

In all practical terms, a trifling matter that Harry had learned to live with.

He’d had to—is what he tells himself—to keep himself from losing his mind and to survive in the half-hellscape-half-daydream that was his life.

So these days, the only overtly soul-crushing aspect of playing the part of Voldemort’s lover—partner—whatever—is the steady, unending line of social obligations that comes with having been inducted into the upper-crust of wizarding society as an honorary member.

Which translates to a charity ball for the underprivileged every weekend. Or if not that, a Ministry holiday celebration. Or if not that, a premiere for someone’s mostly terrible art.

The worst of them so far had been a wizarding polo match—played on flying horses, of all things—which, on paper, would have been right up Harry’s alley, if not for the decrepit and listless players that literally had made him mistake the game for a dressage exhibition.

So while Wizard’s Combat was fun enough all on its own merit, Harry had seized the opportunity to contend for his freedom.

“Want to make things a little more interesting?” The idea came to him as they took their stances.

“How do you mean?”

“In America, it’s tradition to put up stakes for Combat.” This much was actually true—Harry had the Muggle arrest records to prove it. “What do you say to a friendly wager?”

Voldemort smiled, playful and a little dangerous. Harry mirrored it.

“What are your terms?”

“Let’s say if you win, I RSVP to all the dinners, dances, dog shows you want. No questions asked. Through the New Year.” Before Voldemort could interrupt with his habitual ‘it was a fund-raiser for the Ministry’s new Spay/Neuter Alliance’, Harry continued. “And if I win, I don’t go to any of them.”

He anchored high, expecting Voldemort to negotiate him down to, at minimum, exempting the upcoming Solstice Ball and the Minister’s 60th birthday celebration from consideration. But his opponent simply extended his hand with a poised “I accept.”

He should have known then—with Voldemort’s all-too-ready acquiescence—that he’d erred spectacularly, waylaid by Harry Potter’s signature tunnel vision, helplessly blind to the shackles locking him in place.

“I never stood a chance, did I?”

Voldemort grins. “I have been known to be rather competitive.”

Harry laughs at the absurdity of the deadpan and the ridiculous sorry-not-sorry look on his face, and for a short spell, the agony of defeat melts away into the background.

---

Later that evening finds Harry in yet another pair of extravagant green robes, idling in yet another nameless rich person’s estate, and feigning interest in yet another drunken tirade lambasting Ministry ineptitude.

And as usual, Voldemort has all but abandoned him in favor of sweeping efficiently around the room to rub elbows with the wizarding world’s finest and brightest. Harry thinks that with a few decades’ practice, he might be able to emulate the free-flowing charm and magnetic personality. But for now, he relegates himself to mingling with the other misfit-types off to the side.

“Can you believe it?” the elderly wizard, whose name Harry had long forgotten, spits, bits of canape spraying messily from his mouth.

Harry shakes his head sympathetically with a couple of clicks of the tongue for good measure. Inwardly, he revises the tally of food crumbs he can count lodged in the wizard’s beard.

Eleven—twelve—thirteen.

“Centuries of tradition—in shambles!” The wizard drains his drink. “I ought to march into that madhouse myself and give those fools a piece of my mind.”

“Incompetents, the lot of them,” Harry encourages, taking a sip from his third—fourth?—glass of wine.

A warm hand wraps around his waist. “Who?”

Finally.

“Bagman and his gang of miscreants, who else,” the wizard grumbles.

“There are these dreadful new height requirements for Little League Quidditch, can you believe it?” Harry clarifies with what should be a disapproving tone. It’s clear that he’s missed the mark by miles when Voldemort eyes him reproachfully.

Harry didn’t make a habit of overindulging at these things, but how could he not when the event was being held at a vineyard? He was just being polite. The wine being excellent was just an incidental bonus.

“Ah. I do recall some parents taking exception to the rate of injury,” Voldemort says. Harry would never understand how the man kept apprised of even the most trivial bits of Ministry news. “Of course, I’m happy to have a word about it with Ludovic if you like.”

“Yes—well. That would do. You’re a good man, Gaunt.”

And still harder to understand was how Voldemort could so expertly play people like instruments and turn even the most belligerent and unreasonable assholes to putty.

Like some kind of Horse Whisperer. But for people.

The mental image of a denim-clad Voldemort catches him off-guard, and Harry clears his throat in a noisy attempt to conceal his snicker.

“Of course, Mr. Flint.” Flint—how could that have slipped his mind? The teeth should have been a dead giveaway. To Harry, Voldemort utters the sexiest words a man can say during an evening out: “Are you ready to depart?”

Harry only barely restrains the reflexive ‘Dead-God-yes-please’, responding instead with an impassive nod.

They don’t actually leave for another half-hour—Voldemort has to make a final round of farewells and formally thank the hosts for the invitation. And while it’s a tedious ritual Harry is inured to by now, his head always feels like it might be a screw loose after all the incessant nodding.

Though he has to admit that this time around, with one last glass of wine, it’s markedly more tolerable than what he’s used to.

---

When they get home, Harry settles into his usual place by the fire with the latest issue of Seeker Weekly, which soon lies abandoned on the table when the letters keep blurring together.

Instead, he watches the man across from him attending to his own reading—some treatise or compendium on the uses of manticore blood or the latest Magi-Tech whatsits or the million other things Voldemort seems to dabble in.

He’s a handsome man—no doubt about it—possessing every bit of that conventionally knockout movie-star appeal. If Harry hadn’t encountered a comparable visage of the younger Riddle in the diary, he might have suspected that the man had sculpted his appearance from the ground-up, by calculated design.

But it is a Glamour, Harry is certain—the enraged red of his eyes and the pallid white of his skin are seared lastingly into his brain—and although there’s no known variation that offers near the level of consistency and longevity Voldemort has preserved, Harry wouldn’t ever dare to underestimate his capacity to effortlessly manipulate the confines of magic to accommodate his will.

And what must that be like? To hold so much power in your hands that you could just… do whatever you wanted?

As if Harry had posed the question aloud, Voldemort looks up then, meeting his eyes with a muted curiosity. “Finished already?”

Harry shakes his head. And before he can stop himself, he blurts, “Why do you bother?”

“Pardon?”

And Harry knows better than to go down this path. To poke at the hornet’s nest that’s so far been buzzing benignly beside him.

Oh, well.

“All the posturing. Making nice with these awful people you don’t like. Acting like you care about their problems.” Harry swallows, willing himself to shut up. Unsurprisingly, he soldiers on, propelled by wine-soaked inertia. “You—you could do anything. But you spend your time in the most mind-numbing way possible.”

Voldemort shuts his book and sets it carefully on the table. When he looks up, his face is perfectly neutral. “And what would you rather have me do? Topple some hundreds-year-old power structure? Upend the rule of law?”

“Of course not,” Harry answers quickly. And while only a short time ago, he might have bristled at the subtext, here, there’s only a weak echo of the usual anxiety. “It just seems unproductive, is all.”

“On the contrary. The pace at which society moves is not dictated by the agenda of Wizengamot sessions. Nor by superficial media trends and celebrity itineraries. In truth, progress is achieved through the grace of handshakes and conversations in the parlor rooms and skyboxes of those with the most means.” Voldemort sips his tea and moves to return to his reading.

It’s an out that Harry should take—without question. Do not pass Go. Do not collect 200 dollars.

Of course, it’s no shock to himself when he presses ahead.

“But don’t you ever just want to wave your wand and call it done?”

“By all means.”

When it becomes apparent that Voldemort won’t elaborate further, Harry persists, “So why don’t you?” When you were willing to do that and so much more before?

“You have a point. An Imperio here, an Obliviate there. Perhaps something more violent, if I were so inclined. It would all be exceedingly efficient. In the short term, at any rate.” He re-opens his book, turning the pages leisurely, and without looking back up, he finishes, “But unsustainable. As I told you before, I have a specific vision in mind. One that will not require my supervision in perpetuity.”

And although Harry still hasn’t quite puzzled out every detail behind Thomas Gaunt’s grand future for the wizarding world, he’d be a paranoid halfwit to claim that the magical population was in any way worse off with Voldemort at the helm.

That’s pretty much what kept him sane these days, wasn’t it?

Enrollment at Hogwarts at an all-time high, Wolfsbane available at low-cost for all werewolves, the decimation of the major illicit potions cartels across Europe—and everything else down the endless list of recent Ministry accomplishments.

And for all that Harry was well-acquainted with Voldemort’s consummate ability to verbalize exactly what his listeners wanted to hear (intimately so), he can’t help but take solace in the words that say, ‘I could. But I won’t.’

He sighs and picks his magazine back up.

---

As it turns out, Harry isn’t required to attend the Minister’s birthday party after all.

Voldemort had been weirdly incensed by his admission that he’d never had a proper vacation, having allowed his PTO to accrue uselessly during his time with the CIA, and he had whisked him off to the Alps for an inaugural getaway.

Alone in the mountains, they spend the days coasting down the pristine slopes, and the nights f*cking in the obscenely large bed in the master suite.

On the fourth day, Harry rouses to a satisfying soreness throughout his body and a soothing mass of warmth beside him. It’s not often that he beats Voldemort to waking, but he’s still asleep—preternaturally composed, measured. Even at rest.

Not for the first time, Harry wonders what it might be like to sink a blade into his heart. Or fire a gun at his head.

It’s morbid and insane and categorically unconscionable.

Still, it’s something he thinks about more often than he should—especially when it would just be so easy.

He would never do it, obviously. In all probability, not even with a gun to his own head.

And ethical quandaries aside, it’s more or less the honorable thing to do—to carry on with their tacit détente in their little fantasy world. Though that doesn’t necessarily stop the thought from worming its way into his mind every now and then.

As always, Harry snuffs out the lingering disquiet, the slight edge of restlessness telling him that he might be making a mistake.

Voldemort wakes, then, blinking slowly as his eyes adjust to the daylight.

“Happy Christmas,” he says, bits of sleep clinging to his voice.

Harry likes him best like this—soft and comfy—during that relaxed transition to consciousness, when he’s less Undersecretary Gaunt and more Tom—a man that gets eye boogers in the morning like everyone else. His stomach turns at the violent thoughts of earlier.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry answers, bending forward for an apologetic kiss.

When they pull apart, he closes his eyes, debating on whether he might go back to sleep for another few hours. He almost misses it when Voldemort summons an elegant package onto his lap.

“What’s this?”

“What does it look like?”

Harry suspected that Voldemort was physically incapable of rolling his eyes (possibly a shortcoming of his Glamour), never having seen the man make the gesture. But his tone of voice now was communicative enough to denote the sentiment regardless.

Harry unfastens the velvet bow, expecting something over-the-top and monstrously outrageous. Something he might roll his eyes at for its ridiculous pageantry. Like a Faberge Egg.

Definitely something diamond-encrusted.

He cautiously opens the box and—

“Oh.”

Of course, he’s wrong.

Because why wouldn’t Voldemort be as purposeful in his gift-giving as he was in everything else, even given his excessive tastes?

The cloak is gorgeous.

Green, blue, violet—iridescent, it seems like—the material shimmers like the surface of a lake under the sun. Harry tentatively picks it up, resisting the instinct to maybe wash his hands first.

It’s silken, supple, lightweight. Somehow warm and cool to the touch at the same time.

Harry looks up to steady brown eyes peering back at him.

“It’s harpy-craft,” Voldemort explains.

“Harpies aren’t real.” It’s a ridiculous response, given the circ*mstance, but he hopes that Voldemort will understand.

“They owed me a favor or two.”

“Thank you. It’s—it’s amazing.” Harry fingers the cloak reverently before placing it carefully back in the box. “You’ll have to tell me about them—the harpies. Just—give me a sec—I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t bother to Accio his own present, opting to take the time rummaging through his bags instead to quell the sudden surge of nerves. The untidy creases in the wrapping and clumped-up bits of Spellotape press embarrassing bruises into his ego.

Harry climbs back into the bed, gift in hand, rubbing absently at a corner that had torn through the paper.

“Er—I’m afraid it’s not as fancy as what you got me.”

Panic mounts as he watches nimble hands rip apart the wrapping.

He had agonized over this. Ever since the boughs of holly and potted poinsettias had begun to overrun the Ministry halls.

What would even be an appropriate first Christmas present for your boyfriend slash boss slash repeated attempted murderer?

It wasn’t as if Hallmark even made cards for that.

So Harry had consulted Abercrombie—who had recommended a deluxe quill set. A passable idea for most, but worthless for a man that exclusively used pens.

And Malfoy, inadvisably—who had offered up some rather indecent suggestions that did not ever bear repeating.

And his own past experiences—but somehow Harry doubted that Voldemort would be too pleased to receive an oversized jumper with a large T (or V?) emblazoned across the front.

Plus, there hadn’t been nearly sufficient time to teach himself how to knit.

In the end, he had recycled an old idea from his first holiday season with the Kendalls. Ann Landers had advised him then that for someone in his situation, it was the ideal gift—meaningful, but not too presumptuous, and evocative, but not too sentimental.

And the photographer that Harry had hired had done a wonderful job—capturing a number of serviceable candids for him to choose from.

The Harry in the photo has a wide smile on his face and snowflakes in his hair. He’s gazing fondly at the Voldemort in front of him, who, in turn, is grinning back with a patient indulgence. Frozen in time, each beholds the other as if there were no one else in the world.

Harry had taken his own mental picture of Voldemort then, committing the image to memory—a distinct reminder that he, too, was a man.

“What do you think?” Harry finally asks when the silence has stretched on to uncomfortable levels.

Maybe he should have just gone with the Chudley Cannons hat.

Voldemort is wearing an expression Harry has yet to catalog, but he thinks he can make out some subtle traces of those that he has. Confusion… gratitude… irritation… affection…

He finally peels his eyes away from the photo to look at Harry directly and say, “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

Well. He didn’t hate it at least. “And—look.”

Harry waves his hand over the frame, willing his magic to unfreeze the figures inside. Photo-Harry’s smile grows impossibly wider as he smashes a snowball onto Photo-Voldemort’s head, cackling silently then running away. The camera follows them for a while as Voldemort chases a frantic Harry until they both trip over each other and lay side by side in the snow.

Then the picture loops back around to start again from their smiling faces.

Voldemort watches it again as it plays anew—then a third—a fourth time—before he speaks.

“I will treasure it always.”

A bizarre thing about Voldemort was that the man seldom lied. Oh, he prevaricated. Equivocated. Pretended. Misdirected. But oddly enough, he rarely ever seemed to go so far as to air any blatant untruths.

So Harry smiles. As broadly as the Harry in the photo.

---

After the holiday, work gets busier for Harry.

Just as he returns from Dublin—addressing a minor hitch with the magical IRA, he’s sent back out, all the way to Nicaragua, for reconnaissance.

Not that he’s complaining. Harry enjoys the field—doing things with his hands—being useful. And not to mention, it’s infinitely better than what awaits him in London—stuffy dress robes and conversations with even stuffier people.

And ever since Saint Petersburg, Harry has gained a new appreciation for his job and makes more of an effort these days (though he’ll always maintain that the bulk, if not all, of the blame for that debacle laid with Voldemort). The prospect of displaying any mode of incompetence to Voldemort is strangely grating, so lately, he’s taken to running his ops by the book and sidestepping any unsanctioned shortcuts he might ordinarily exploit.

Which is why it’s all the more aggravating when during what should be a cut-and-dried de-warding, he registers the barrel of a gun against the back of his head.

“Suelta la varita. Manos arriba.”

He does as he’s told, wand clacking uselessly to the ground.

Too bad for the other guy that Harry can kick his ass just as well unarmed.

In a practiced motion, he flexes his magic to raise a shield around himself, then projects it outward to collide forcibly against his assailant. There’s a pained oof and the thud of a body hitting the concrete some feet away. Harry reinforces the shield (no need for a repeat occurrence of the last time someone pointed a gun at him) and approaches the man, wand in hand again.

Harry isn’t thinking much of it—an Obliviate and a mild Somnus, then he’ll finish off what’s left of the job for this site. After that, maybe dinner at that food stall with the fried plantains he’s been gorging on every day.

“Lumos.”

The soft light from the tip of his wand illuminates a familiar face.

For a moment, Harry forgets how to breathe.

“Rob?”

Chapter 11: Crossroads

Chapter Text

“Can I see him?” he’d asked then.

And Voldemort had refused, appealing to some nonexistent higher authority and spouting off a flimsy excuse about lacking the proper authorization.

Harry should have known better.

The story of his miserable, wretched life, really.

So great. More games. And now, with the added benefit of an additional player who he’d long thought out for the count.

Well. At least the ball was in his court this time.

Straightening his posture and squaring his shoulders, he raises his wand.

“Enervate.”

There’s a brief flash of confused panic on Rob’s face before it’s secured behind a wall of stoic unconcern.

Of course, a former deputy director of the CIA has been trained in the same interrogation resistance tactics as anyone else with half his security clearance, so the inscrutable expression comes as no surprise.

“We’ve got some catching up to do,” Harry says. It sounds cool as f*ck, though he hadn’t necessarily intended it to be. “And since you don’t seem all that excited to see me, I’ll go first.

“Last summer, you staged an attack on the British government, targeting not only the Minister of Magic and the Muggle Prime Minister, but also both of the American presidents. And when that failed, you threw me under the bus to cover your tracks.

“The next part is where it gets a bit fuzzy for me—but I’m thinking that based on the number of passports and foreign currencies you’re carrying around, as well as your… less-than presentable state of dress, that you’re a wanted man on the lam… How am I doing so far?”

Harry isn’t expecting a response. Least of all, a laugh—scornful and ugly.

“It’s almost comforting, how some things never change,” Rob says. Even when magic-bound and duct-taped to a chair, the man somehow exudes apathetic equanimity. "Jason Evans doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. It’s as inevitable as death and taxes and a buck-fifty hotdogs at Costco.”

Harry shrugs off the barb—he’s the one holding all the cards here, after all. “Care to play nice? Or should I just take you back to the Ministry with me?”

A small flicker of uncertainty. Bingo.

Emboldened, he forges on, “Now, you’re probably thinking—‘Evans, he’s a good guy. A bit slow in the head. It shouldn’t be that hard to take him for a ride.’ So let’s hear it.” Harry sits down in the chair in front of him and crosses his legs and recalls the specific wording from interrogation training. “‘Endear yourself to your captor.’”

Rob inhales audibly and clenches his jaw, looking put-off, as if he were the victim in all of this. “What do you want to know?”

“Why did you do it?” For a moment, Harry is back in his cell in the Ministry underground, brooding over the circ*mstances of his betrayal.

“Do what? You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The Orb, obviously,” Harry snaps. “What were you even trying to do?”

Rob co*cks his head. “It was supposed to delay the new changes to the Statute shutting us down.”

“What—” Harry scoffs. “And you thought mass murder was the way to go?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I told you that there were contingencies in place.” Rob leans back in his seat as much as his binds will allow.

“So you didn’t frame me for the attempted assassination of a bunch of political VIPs?”

“Oh—no—that was me. You really, really screwed things up and put me in a bit of a bind. But it looks like you were able to f*ck your way out of it, in any case—which, kudos on that, by the way—so… no hard feelings?” Rob says with a wink.

“Christ. You’re not even sorry, are you?” Harry asks, almost to himself.

“I’m not going to apologize for doing my job. Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good. Tough sh*t.”

f*cking hell, was the guy for real?

“The greater good? It sounds like you were just out to save your own skin.”

Rob mutters something unintelligible under his breath. Then a pause and a swallow. “What do you actually know about your employer? Not the sunshine and rainbows horsesh*t—creatures’ rights, criminal justice reform, whatever. I’m talking about their obsession with Secrecy.”

Even knowing how Rob would react, Harry responds with the official party line that Voldemort had fed him some time ago. “‘Now is the time to turn our focus inward’, something-something ‘a brighter wizarding future.’”

Rob chuckles. “Wow. You really don’t know. I’m not sure if that’s upsetting or reassuring.”

Harry grits his teeth. “And? Are you just going to gloat?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet. Seeing as how paranoid you always were.” A fond smile. “It’s a cover, obviously. So they can do whatever they want with the No-Majes without any oversight from people like me.”

“Where are you going with this?” Harry injects disinterest in his voice, all the while ignoring the unsettling thrum under his skin.

“Just that since before you were even recruited, we’ve been investigating the British Ministry for their manipulation of the course of No-Maj modern warfare.”

“What?” Harry asks, heart pounding.

“I'm talking about their hand in 9/11. The War on Terror. The entire dumpster fire laying waste to the Middle East,” Rob says, enunciating each word with perfect clarity.

“What—you think wizards are responsible for that?” He wants to brush it off, chalk it up to a desperate man’s desperate lies to buy time, to dig a way out. Only, this was exactly the kind of cloak-and-dagger bullsh*t that Voldemort would mastermind.

“Not just wizards—but a faction within the British Ministry. For the better part of a decade, they’ve been using magical means to sow discord—and war, eventually—among the No-Maj powerhouses.”

Whatever Harry’s face looks like then causes Rob to shake his head. “Considering who you’re in bed with, I wouldn’t expect you to believe me.”

Well. Of course, he wouldn’t just take Rob’s words at face value.

Luckily, there were ways around that.

Harry draws his wand. “Sorry about this.”

Rob stares at him, eyes wide with alarm. “What are you—”

“Legilimens!” Harry cries at the same time.

The tricky thing about Legilimency was that despite belonging to the same class of magic as Occlumency, the two actually had little in common. The latter was, at its core, discipline and control—something that could be (and had been, in Harry’s case) mastered through sheer force of will.

Legilimency, on the other hand, required subtlety. Nuance. Finesse. Precision. A hundred other things Harry had always been pathetically deficient in. So needless to say, his had never quite passed muster.

But that didn’t mean that he was altogether incapable—just that it was clumsy, clunky, and much too conspicuous to be of any use in a covert setting.

Thankfully, in this instance, discretion was hardly a requirement.

Speaking of which, Rob’s mental defenses are formidable, but not impenetrable. And while any accomplished Legilimens might seek out cracks or weaknesses to slip through, Harry merely braces his magic and unapologetically punches his way through the front door.

The memories come in warped waves—out of order, each bleeding through, one after the other—

Brian or Ryan from R&D: “It’s a modded Death Orb. We’re still testing it, but so far, no explosion, just a targeted incapacitation—”

The head of the DMLE: “…possibility of magical interference regarding last week’s attacks on the World Trade Center—”

One of the senior agents: “I’ve established contact. They don’t know much, but I think it could be our way in—”

A handwritten mission report: “…signs point toward the development of a number of anti-No-Maj provisions, including, but not limited to: biological agents, WMDs, measures for media exploitation, wide-scale mind control—”

Harry himself: “I don’t know what happened—it just kind of fizzled out after it started to go off. Can you imagine what—”

President Hewitt: “My apologies, Mr. Bell, but magical society is entering a new era of Secrecy. Not to worry, there will always be a place for you in the MACUSA—”

The DMLE head again: “We’ve triangulated the source to Britain, but there’s still a lot we don’t know—”

Then Harry is in one of the conference rooms at Langley, where a marginally younger Rob is poring over a whiteboard covered in taped-up headshots and blurry notes. And while there aren’t any strands of intersecting red yarn, there are arrows and circles in dry-erase to denote whatever patterns and relationships Rob had discerned.

Among the sea of faces, he recognizes Voldemort, Malfoy Jr., a blond that weirdly reminds him of Zacharias Smith, and a number of witches and wizards from the various parties he’d attended. And even through the distortion of the memory, it’s not difficult to make out the big, block letters of ‘LEADER?’ underneath Voldemort’s picture.

Then Harry is expelled from Rob’s mind, as abruptly as he’d bullied himself into it. He regains his bearings just barely in time to dodge the spew of vomit.

“Please. Never do that again,” Rob complains, face green.

Harry vanishes the mess and says the first thing on his mind: “Do you have any proof? So far, it’s all coming off a bit too ‘Jet-fuel-can’t-melt-steel-beams.’”

Rob snorts, tilting his head to the side as if to dispel the nausea. “The so-called Truthers are frankly quite deserving of their moniker. And to answer your question, we don’t have much to implicate your boyfriend yet, but we’re working on it.”

“How can you even be sure that you’re not just chasing after a Bogeyman?” It was a question he had asked himself not that long ago.

“When you’ve been in this line of work for as long as I have, you don’t just write off the coincidences as flukes. And I sure as hell didn’t imagine what happened at 10 Downing Street, even though every single person on earth conveniently seems to have forgotten about it.”

Well. No news there.

“So what’s your game then? What are you even doing here?”

Another snort. “Do you really expect me to answer that?”

Rob had always carried himself as if he were the smartest person in the room. And though it was undoubtedly true in this case, it mattered little, given the imbalance in their present circ*mstances.

Harry raises his wand again. “Well, if you’d rather try for round two...”

Rob stays silent for a beat but is driven to speak after pronounced jab into his mental shields from Harry. “I have some old Company folks I trust. That and a few men with the DMLE. We’re working on cobbling together some concrete evidence so we can bring the MACUSA in on everything. Otherwise, our priority right now is to even the odds. That’s what I’m here for—what you are, too, I imagine, considering who signs your paychecks.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Rumor has it that Sandoval has intel on a Veil Key.”

Coincidences—not flukes.

“Holy sh*t. That was you—in Hungary.”

Rob lifts his chin and narrows his eyes. “You? You botched an op that took months to arrange.”

“Yeah, well. Seeing that you nearly tortured a man to death, let’s call it even. Plus, I’m not sure that all-out war would be the right answer to whatever the Brits are planning.”

Rob looks as unimpressed as he always did when Harry spoke up during staff meetings when he wasn’t supposed to. “First, we don’t know what they have planned—that’s the problem—but you saw it yourself. It could very well be genocide. Second, haven’t you ever heard of mutually assured destruction? ‘Peace through strength’? Game theory? It’s all about leveling the playing field with an ace in the hole that keeps the other party from escalating.”

Harry laughs, all too aware of the fact that Voldemort would sooner scorch the earth and everyone and everything on it before letting anyone get the better of him.

Would he, though?

The past few months’ proceedings hadn’t all been for Harry’s benefit, he was sure. But what would Voldemort do when the other team ran out the clock?

Harry needs answers—ones he isn’t going to get from a man who, in many respects, knows even less than he does.

So he puts Rob to sleep with a heavy-duty Sleeping Charm, over which he layers on an even heavier-duty Petrification.

“Uh—Sorry about this,” Harry mumbles pointlessly. “I’ll—uh—I’ll be back later.”

Then he reinforces his wards around the make-shift safe house and Disapparates.

---

He sneaks in under Disillusionment just like last time, seriously worrying for the safety of the students if this is all it takes to infiltrate the school.

No wonder he’d almost died every year.

Despite the extra bodies in the corridors, he makes it down to the dungeons with little fuss, where he roams the halls until he comes across the right classroom.

There, he stands at the open door and waits.

It doesn’t take long. Within minutes, Snape looks up from his grading, spy senses apparently picking up on Harry’s presence even through the camouflage. The flash of bewilderment on his face is instantly replaced by an angry scowl.

“Class dismissed,” he barks, eyes still on Harry.

The students—first-years, by the looks of it—glance up from their books, dumbstruck.

“Now, you cretins!”

At that, the kids hasten to pack up their things, whispering harshly among themselves as they shuffle out the door.

Harry walks in as the last of the students is leaving, mumbling ‘greasy git’ to herself.

“This is a school, Evans. And your illiteracy should not preclude you from not knowing what that is,” Snape hisses, standing up and leaning forward with both hands on the desktop. “What are you doing here?”

Harry spells the door shut and takes a deep breath.

“I need to know everything you know about Voldemort.”

Snape’s demeanor shifts within the blink of an eye from annoyed displeasure to fury. “Do not say his name,” he snarls. Then a bit more calmly, as if remembering himself, “What would you like to know?”

“What’s he planning?”

“What do you mean? The Dark Lord has been dead for nearly thirty years.” Snape turns away and begins to erase the chalkboard.

“Please. Just. Just—don’t.” Harry sighs. “What’s he planning with the Muggles? What’s the payoff?”

Snape goes rigid, and the eraser hangs still in the air for a few seconds before he waves his wand, restoring it to its back-and-forth motion.

Silence.

“Do you even know everything he’s done? What he could do?” Harry pleads.

Snape finally turns toward him then, laughing bitterly. “Do not presume to lecture me on the Dark Lord’s misdeeds. You. Know. Nothing. Of the suffering that monster has wrought.”

Harry feels a sudden surge of sympathy for Snape, himself all too familiar with the hopeless frustration and loneliness that accompany a life in service to the Dark Lord. So quietly, he replies, “Then help me. Please. Tell me what you know.”

Snape’s response to that is to raise his left arm, and for an insane moment, Harry thinks that the man is hitting him up for a high-five. Then the sleeve falls to reveal the Mark. “You seem quite eager to put your faith in a man branded as such. What could you possibly be thinking, I wonder, when I could simply inform the Dark Lord of your treachery?”

There are so many ways to answer that question that Harry can’t help but reflect on why he hadn’t sought the man out sooner.

Dumbledore trusted you.

There isn’t anyone else I can ask.

I’m Harry Potter and Voldemort already knows who I am.

What he says out loud is: “Tell him whatever you want. Do you think I care?” He runs his fingers through his hair, surprised by his reticence to expose himself to the one man that should know—that deserved to know—the truth. “But don’t think I don’t know that you want him gone.”

For the next minute or five, they lock eyes in a charged staring contest—until finally, Snape breaks his gaze with a resigned exhale. Gesturing toward the door at the back of the room, he says, “Come on, then. I’m not having this conversation without a drink.”

Harry follows him through the office and into what appears to be Snape’s personal quarters. It’s dark, minimalistic, and every bit how he would have imagined the living space of a man as dour as Snape to look like. Harry settles into the couch, which is as stiff as its owner, and receives the scotch handed to him with a small nod.

“As I understand it, you and the Undersecretary have been getting on rather famously,” Snape opens, taking a seat on the settee to Harry’s left with his own drink in hand. “What brought about the sudden change of heart?”

Harry takes a sip from his glass. “An old associate of mine recently filled in some gaps.”

“Right,” Snape says, unconvinced.

Harry continues, “Look. I always knew there was something not right about him—there was just never anything conclusive to go on.”

“And now there is,” Snape says, more a statement than a question.

“And now there is,” Harry echoes. “But I don’t know everything. Like how a violent, murderous tyrant turns into a venerated politician who wages his wars from the shadows.”

“Yes, that was quite the unexpected turn.” Snape smiles, teeth more yellow than when Harry had seen them last. “Tell me, what do you know about the Dark Lord of back then? About his designs on the future?”

“What—pureblood supremacy? Muggle annihilation?”

“Those happened to be the means. Not the ends.” Snape takes a drink. “Whatever he would have told you is right. ‘Progress and Prosperity’, I think it was, for this current administration? The Dark Lord, believe it or not, has always had the wizarding world’s best interests at heart.”

Harry nearly chokes. “Best interests? He must have killed thousands during the war.”

“A price he was willing to pay, certainly, for the greater good.”

It was blasé. Cavalier, almost. As if the worth of the lives of Harry’s parents or of anyone else could be reduced to a line in someone’s ledger.

Snape wouldn’t understand, Harry supposes—the man probably hadn’t ever cared for another human being in his life.

“How does one achieve ‘Progress and Prosperity’ by subjugating half of mankind? And slaughtering the other half?” Harry asks instead, tamping down his anger.

Snape crosses his legs and eyes the glass in his hand. “The Dark Lord during that time was… unenlightened, shall we say? One-dimensional. He sought to rule, as you’re well-aware. To mold human existence to his vision by force. To drag civilization, kicking and screaming, into a new age of magical ascendency. In this, Muggles were a threat. At least—from his perspective, which, incidentally, was terribly skewed by the trauma of his upbringing.”

“And now—what—he’s seen the error of his ways? Cleaned up his act, has he?”

“More or less.” Another sip. “There are many facets to the Dark Lord’s intelligence, at the forefront of which are adaptability and ingenuity. When he returned, he thought better than to try the same thing twice. And Muggles—he saw potential in them when no one else did. Half the Ministry coffers these days are brimming with the profits from all the Muggle tech that they’ve repurposed. It’s revitalized the economy in ways we haven’t seen since racing brooms became available to the public.”

“Okay… That still doesn’t account for turning them against each other.”

“I’m getting there, aren’t I?” Snape scoots forward to top up his glass. Harry’s is still mostly full, so he shakes his head when Snape waves the bottle at him. “It’s more of a precautionary measure. They don’t take very well to magic, do you know?” He sounds uncommonly spiteful then, and Harry wonders if the man had had to grapple with his own brand of Dursleys in his life.

“An aversion to the unknown is hardly cause for war,” Harry argues.

“To you, perhaps. But the Dark Lord isn’t one to do anything by halves, now is he? He intended to keep their attention centered on themselves, to divert any interest in the unknown by inundating them with manufactured complications that often—unfortunately—happened to be violent in nature.”

“And what is he going to do next?” Harry asks, eager to peel back the layers he had yet to glimpse.

Snape drains his drink. “What do I look like—the Dark Lord’s mother?”

“I heard he might be developing weapons,” Harry presses. “Weapons meant for Muggles.”

“Oh. That.” Snape refills his glass once more. “Insurance, I’d reason. In the event that things really go to sh*t.”

Harry sets his drink on the table and stifles an incredulous laugh. “How can you be so—so—casual about all of this?”

And to his surprise, Snape doesn’t react with the fit of outrage or derisive condescension he’s expecting. His voice is neutral, almost mellow as he responds, “Don’t mistake my indifference for callousness. Or do, I don’t much care, one way or the other. When you’ve been in the Dark Lord’s company for as long as I have, you learn to pick your battles. And rest assured, those are few and far between.” He tips his head back against the seat cushion, appearing more tired than Harry feels. It was the look of a man who had been—still was, in a sense—at the center of a decades-long war.

Harry thumbs the rim of his glass before emptying it in one gulp. “So what’s the plan then? How do we beat him?”

Snape laughs, bright and open, face contorting awkwardly as if he’d never done it before. “There is no plan, you fool. The Dark Lord cannot be defeated.”

“Oh, please. Dark Lord or not, he bleeds red like the rest of us.” Harry had seen as much with his own eyes during their Combat in the woods.

“Is that so? Pray tell, how would you go about it? Besting the most powerful wizard in the world?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be all that hard for me, now would it? I’d probably just stab the man in his sleep,” Harry admits.

Snape opens his mouth, undoubtedly to make a scathing remark, so Harry cuts him off, “I haven’t really thought through it, okay?” Lie. “Aren’t you like a world-renowned Potions master? Couldn’t you just—whip up a potion to knock him out or something?”

“And then what?” Snape asks, smiling cruelly.

“I don’t know—lock him up somewhere? At least until we can put him to trial.” It’s ridiculous and fanciful to his own ears, like someone drunkenly pitching the plot of a made-for-TV-movie.

Snape just gawks at him for a good minute before tossing back the rest of his drink and pouring out the remainder of the bottle.

“I can’t just sit around and wait for World War 3 to break out,” Harry finally says.

“Too bad, so sad. Do let me know what kind of flowers you’d like for your funeral before you carry out your brilliant assassination plot.”

“Well, I have to do something, and—”

“Idiot—you cannot do anything,” Snape interrupts. “There’s only one person that can, and no one even knows where he is.”

Oh.

Of course.

And that’s what it always boiled down to, wasn’t it? The f*cking prophecy.

Though it still came as somewhat of a shock—Harry hadn’t pegged Snape to be the type that would take much stock in someone’s gluten allergy, let alone in a future Divined by a crackpot seer.

“Who?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“The hell it is, if they’re the only ones that can help.”

At any moment now, Snape will recite the prophecy in full—explain the destiny of a boy born to vanquish the Dark Lord. Then Harry will reveal himself to him as said boy, then the two will start planning Voldemort’s demise in earnest.

Instead, what he gets is: “Help?” Snape sneers. “All the boy needs to do is jump in front of a bus.”

“What?” He’s heard wrong, certainly.

“The boy. Must. Die. Shall I draw you a picture?” Snape knocks back the rest of his drink and stands. Harry grabs him by the arm to hold him in place.

“What do you mean? Why would anyone have to die?”

Snape pulls away with a rough jerk and escapes back into the kitchen. Harry follows, waiting on edge in silence as the man pulls out another bottle from the cabinet.

When finally: “That is a long, tiresome story. Suffice it to say that there are measures—born from the Darkest magic—that secure the Dark Lord’s immortality. Fail-safes, if you will. The boy is one of them.”

The bile Harry swallows down is sour and malty, but the taste is grounding—so he clings to it in desperation to maintain his hold on reality, even when every cell in his body seems to be disintegrating, crumbling to dust.

Then he remembers—‘the power he knows not’.

Surely, it couldn’t be referring to this?

“The Dark Lord doesn’t know, does he?” he asks, unsteady.

Snape sets his glass on the counter. “He does not. To my knowledge, the fail-safe was created unwittingly when the Killing Curse backfired.”

“The Boy-Who-Lived,” Harry croaks.

“Not completely unread, are you?” Snape sits down at the small dining table, leaning back, relaxed, as if he hadn’t just utterly shattered Harry’s worldview. “Harry Potter. Our Chosen Savior. Only, he didn’t quite the get job done properly the first time around, now did he?”

Well, how could he have? When apparently Voldemort had devised the means to live forever?

“You said fail-safes. Plural. The others—are they people, too?” Harry’s voice shakes nervously. Hopefully, Snape will just attribute it to the horrific nature of revelation.

“No. And most have already been accounted for and destroyed. Only the boy and the Dark Lord’s familiar remain.”

Harry thinks back to Fifth Year—gliding across the cold stone of the Ministry floors, rearing up to sink his fangs into Arthur Weasley—and parts of the bigger picture finally begin to come into focus in every unspeakably morbid detail.

And maybe that’s why he’d felt so drawn to Voldemort—Gaunt—in the first place. And why every touch had evoked wholeness. Fulfillment.

The streak of death-defying magic banding them together.

The bile rises up in his throat again. “The familiar?” he asks, turning his attention onto anything other than himself.

“Accessible enough, but it needs to be the last one. Otherwise, it would prematurely notify the Dark Lord of my intentions.”

“Harry Potter dies first, in other words.” The words taste like ash.

“Indeed.”

There’s a bout of silence, and they both sip their scotch without looking at each other.

Did he have it in himself to do it? To make the ultimate sacrifice?

“I can get you Harry Potter,” he says, quiet but firm.

“And I’m the Queen of England.”

Harry clenches his fists. “I went looking for him, remember? And I—I found him. I know where he is,” Harry whispers, looking down into his glass, unwilling to meet Snape’s eyes as he talked about himself in the third person.

“And you didn’t bring him in. You didn’t even tell the Dark Lord.” Snape sounds disbelieving—at the fact that Harry hadn’t apprehended ‘him’ or that he’d kept it secret from Voldemort or that he’d found ‘him’ to begin with, it’s difficult to tell.

“Of course not,” Harry says with a forced grin. “You told me not to, remember?”

Snape laughs that honest laugh again. “Right. What’s the plan, then? You go to Harry Potter—wherever he is—and smother him in his sleep?” It’s the same patronizing tone Snape had always used in class. “Pardon me, stabbing was more your style, wasn’t it?”

Harry runs a hand through his hair. “I’m sure if he knew about the whole situation, he would understand.”

And he would have understood. He does understand. After living the entire span of his life as the universe’s punching bag, how could he not?

“You don’t know him, Evans. The boy is inconsiderate and selfish and thinks nothing beyond what affects him and his own little world.”

For f*ck’s sake, he was going to be turning thirty in a couple of years. “You’re talking about someone you knew as a teenager, right?”

Snape sneers. “In my experience, arseholes don’t grow up. They just get taller.”

“Whatever,” Harry sighs. He wouldn’t need Snape for this part anyway. “I’ll—I’ll figure something out—just… Just…”

Snape looks at him then. Really looks at him. Then he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Please. Don’t overexert yourself. Wait—wait here.”

Snape is gone for a few minutes before returning with a small vial and setting it on the table.

“Show Potter this. Then perhaps—as you say—he will understand.”

“What is it?” Harry asks, turning it over in his hand.

“A memory from the mind of a man he trusts.” A grimace. “Trusted. It’s been keyed specifically to Potter’s magic, so even I am unaware of its contents. I’m meant to pass it along in an event such as this.”

Harry laughs. “What, you knew this would happen? Where you’d have to convince the Boy-Who-Lived to off himself?”

“No.” Snape picks his glass back up, frowning when he discovers that it’s empty. “Dumbledore did.”

Harry freezes. “He knew? About Harry Potter being…”

“To my knowledge, he only pieced it together around the time the boy ran off. Excellent timing, in my opinion,” Snape huffs. “Can you imagine that conversation? ‘Harry, my boy, to defeat the Dark Lord, you must die. Now here’s some hemlock, there’s a good lad.’”

His impression of the Headmaster is atrocious, and Harry can’t help but crack up, even in the face of fate’s biggest and baddest and most f*cked-up curve ball to date.

Snape takes in a shaky breath and continues in his own voice, “Let Potter decide himself, won’t you? He deserves at least that much.”

And all Harry has to say to that is: “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

---

At his apartment, he digs out the Porta-Pensieve from a box he still had yet to unpack from the move to London. He pours in the contents of Snape’s vial, and with a deep breath, he dips his face into the swirling liquid.

He falls and falls and falls through a black abyss, until he finally lands, uneven and on his knees, in the Headmaster’s office, where Dumbledore sits behind the desk, looking frail and sick and very, very old.

Harry sits across from him in his usual seat, taking a moment to peer at the phoenix perched gracefully by the windowsill.

“Hello, Harry.” It’s barely above a whisper, and the Headmaster winces slightly, as if it might hurt to talk.

“If you’re seeing this, it means that Severus has finally found you. And that he has divulged to you the disturbing secrets behind the Dark Lord’s immortality. I understand that you and he have never quite seen eye to eye, but it is my hope that you give credence to what he has to say.

“It is indeed true that on the night of Voldemort’s demise, the magic of the rebounding Killing Curse fractured his soul, a fragment of which then embedded itself in the scar on your head. I have been searching for ways to remove it without causing harm to the host, but progress has been slow.

“I’ve requested that Severus continue my research, though if this memory has been passed on to you, it is likely that he has also failed in that endeavor.”

There’s a long pause here, where Dumbledore coughs violently into a handkerchief.

“My boy, I am truly sorry that I couldn’t do more. I should have done so much more.”

At that moment, Dumbledore looks every bit the over-100-year-old man that he is. Exhausted beyond measure, and so, so fragile that a flap of the wings from Fawkes might just mow him down. The blue of his eyes, which at one point had twinkled with a playful luster, is washed-out and lifeless.

“I just hope that wherever you are, whomever you have become, that you’re happy, that you’ve lived a life worth living.”

Then Harry is falling up, through the same darkness of before—up and up and up until he’s sat back in his kitchen.

For a little while, he gazes blankly into Pensieve, watching the glowing threads of the memory swirl and dance in their enclosure. And he thinks on the absurdities of his existence.

A fragment of his soul, Dumbledore had said.

How could this be his life? Anyone’s life?

He stands and walks toward the cereal cabinet where he pauses a moment, staring into where the varnish has begun to strip off by the handle.

Eventually, he opens the cabinet and draws out the gun hidden in the empty Weetabix box.

He runs his fingers over the barrel.

Could he do it?

He presses the muzzle against his temple—just to see—and the rough of the metal scratches lightly at his skin.

It would be easy, he imagines.

Easier than catching a snitch in pouring rain. Than stealing from a dragon. Than toppling human trafficking rings.

Just send Snape an owl to let him know that the deed was done before pulling the trigger.

Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

He sets the gun back in the box, returning it to its place in the cabinet.

Then again, when had Harry Potter ever taken the easy way out?

---

He leaps over the hedges of Number 4 into a familiar backyard. The neat clusters of pansies and violas along the edges tip off the fact that the Dursleys are still here, and that his aunt has kept up with her gardening over the years.

He walks the length of the garden, stopping at the third magnolia tree from the right.

The last time he’d stood here, he hadn’t thought much about ever coming back. And certainly not in these circ*mstances.

He uses magic to dig up the earth where the tree root wraps around like a heart. It doesn’t take long to get to his objective—the glimmering, watery-fine weave of the Cloak is unmistakable even underneath all the dirt.

The bundle is light when he picks it up, and he unfolds it carefully to reveal the wand inside. He hesitates a moment, hand hovering just above it, overcome by an incongruous fear that it would reject him—that he had squandered its allegiance after so many years of abandonment.

He grasps it. Then warmth, comfort, a sense of belonging he hasn’t felt since his days at Hogwarts. He’d forgotten what it felt like—to hold a wand that was yours in your hand, a wand that had chosen you and not the other way around.

Harry breathes, sure-footed and unafraid for the first time in a long time.

Wrapping the Cloak around him, he Disapparates.

Chapter 12: Interlude II

Chapter Text

It had started as a game.

A passing fancy.

A frivolous leisure pursuit to dull the toilsome monotony of policymaking and social engagements.

What would it take to tip Harry Potter over the edge? To crack apart the veneer of American asset Jason Evans, to compel him to expose his true nature to the world at large?

To make him yield?

Admittedly, Voldemort’s opening gambit of deploying him on assignment, one ‘Harry Potter’ as its objective, had fallen somewhat short.

But no great loss ever came without some small gain.

Indeed, Voldemort took every delight in the other avenues forward that the initial lack of success had introduced, gleefully envisioning the shock, the horror, the enmity on Potter’s face as he would begin to intuit what the Dark Lord had planned for him next.

And while seduction (of the amorous variety) was an underutilized enterprise for Thomas Gaunt, for Tom Riddle, it had been a favored modus operandi, and over the years, he had indiscriminately employed his body, his charm, his allure to win over the rich and powerful to his side.

And certainly, who but Potter would serve as the ideal companion on a rollicking jaunt down memory lane?

When Voldemort kissed him, it was with the intent to provoke, with the expectation that the boy would startle, squeal, scamper off into the distance, tail tucked between his legs.

That Potter would respond to the Dark Lord’s affections with anything but consternation and disgust was unfathomable.

But the boy remained unperturbed. His sole response, to blink owlishly at the gesture that should have been repulsive to him. Grotesque.

And in a rare moment of confusion, Voldemort was forced to retreat.

Exactly where, when, how had he so vastly misapprehended the situation?

(Never mind that Potter, when outfitted in proper garments, likely for the first time in his life, had been enchanting. Irresistible. A modern-day Ganymede born to tempt gods and kings and dark lords alike. Lips touching his had sparked off a jolt, a frisson of pleasure unprecedented, and Voldemort had then desired little more than to plunder and to ravage that which had been on offer.)

In the end, he dismissed it as a chance occurrence. A snag in the strands of fate, which Potter was wont to beget on occasion.

The Dark Lord Voldemort was not prone to making mistakes, after all. Potter was merely proving to be an upstart nominally more tenacious, more unpredictable than he had anticipated.

---

Thus began a campaign of suggestive touches—gentle strokes of the hair, casual brushes against the skin—and clever double entendres (though in hindsight, they may have been too clever for Potter’s benefit) to shatter his resolve and to dissolve that vexatious illusion of disinterest the boy had so judiciously erected.

A push, a prod, a nudge here and there to drive the Chosen One closer and closer to the breaking point.

But for all that and more, Potter was altogether unfazed by the series of developments, allowing himself to be courted with little effort.

And to be bedded, with even less.

(Never mind that their coupling had been most satisfactory. Exhilarating. Rapturous. Voldemort had lapped up every gasp, every moan, every hitch in Potter’s breath, sating a feverish thirst, while at the same time, igniting an ardent yen for more. He had abandoned himself to his lust, lost to the heightened sensation of that strange, euphoric connection between them.)

Potter was issuing a message. Retrieving the gauntlet from where Voldemort had impulsively tossed it aside, as if to declare, ‘I accept your challenge.’

And he was a quality opponent, far exceeding Voldemort’s preliminary appraisal that had dismissed him as a blundering amateur. Perhaps that in itself had been a mode of subterfuge, a devious display of smoke and mirrors to disguise the hawk that lurked underneath.

Indeed, too late, did Voldemort ascertain that he had underestimated the boy, who submitted to the constant evolution of their dynamic with aplomb.

Even when Voldemort attempted to ambush him with the unveiling of the method through which the Dark Lord had rewritten history (a feat of magic nigh-unparalleled in strength and originality), Potter barely flinched.

He was… unshakable. Untamable.

---

It devolved into an obsession.

Voldemort became a thrall to it, impotent and useless, unfit to think about little else beyond Potter and his unwavering artifice.

It was plainly inconceivable that the reigning Dark Lord could be outmaneuvered by this… boy, and yet…

And yet, here they were, breathing life into impossibilities.

On the other hand, perhaps Potter did not deserve all the credit. Perhaps he had simply grown accustomed to the amenable guise of Thomas Gaunt. And bolder, too, perhaps, at the distinct lack of brutality and carnage he might have once associated with the Dark Lord.

And perhaps what the circ*mstances warranted was a reminder, a demonstration of the fearful weight of raw magic that dwelled dormant beneath the surface.

In light of this new insight, Voldemort diversified his approach.

While Potter may have held his own in their battle of wits, it would be beyond anyone’s capacity to go wand-to-wand with the Dark Lord and come away from the experience unbroken.

But even in this, Voldemort miscalculated.

In retrospect, he should have foreseen it. If not from the discernible patterns emerging from their games, from Potter’s confidence and cheek prior to the engagement.

The bout ought to have concluded within minutes, prompting Potter to slink back in terror, wide-eyed and trembling.

But he was good. Not only powerful (Voldemort had long since attested to this), but quick on his feet. Creative with his spell usage. And far more dexterous with a wand than what Severus had suggested with his understated praises.

Their exchange of spellfire grew more violent, less controlled by the second, and they danced expertly past each other’s casting, Potter more partial to dodging and ducking, and Voldemort himself, to counter-cursing and deflecting.

Felled trees, scorched earth, and ambient remnants of magic surrounded them, and all around, the forest was set alight in vibrant, smokeless flames.

Chaos.

And Voldemort thrived. Reveled and gloried in the swell of magic flowing between them.

It was the satiation of a craving unknown to him until now.

When had he last, if ever, pushed his magic to these limits?

Even Dumbledore had not set him afire like this.

But Potter was flagging. Voldemort could see it in his eyes—the panicked dread of a man who had taken on too much and had only just realized it—as his casting grew more distressed and harried.

In truth, Voldemort recognized the strain in his own magic, though by the incredulous dismay on Potter’s face, the guise of the Glamour must have hidden his fatigue from view.

One final frenzied Severing Charm from Potter hit its mark and cut straight through Voldemort’s shields, into the flesh of his shoulder, collapsing the mirage of the Glamour there where blood flowed freely from the gaping gash.

Voldemort retaliated, recklessly distending his magic to make Potter bleed in turn, who then saw no choice but to disengage and flee.

Meanwhile, Voldemort tarried, carefully repairing the injuries to his body and restoring the Glamour to its usual standard. The boy could do with a head start, and it would make for a more fulfilling hunt, just the same.

And to be sure, the chase was invigorating.

A near artistic production of the duality of their natures. Predator and prey. Master and slave. The Dark Lord Voldemort and the Boy-Who-Lived.

Voldemort cast aggressively in Potter’s approximate direction at sporadic intervals as pleasant reminders of exactly that, even as he conserved the rest of his overtaxed magic for the final battle to come.

It came as a surprise when Potter materialized, striking the first blow. Trust the boy to go on the offensive even when cornered, to brawl with the wildness of a man fighting for his life, magical or not. And Voldemort temporarily found himself on the back foot in the unorthodox terrain of close-range combat.

Of course, Potter could not hold his advantage for long, and soon enough, Voldemort felt the smooth length of his wand in the dirt where it had fallen in the melee. He grasped it with relish, turning it against Potter in an instant.

A hard-won victory that, in the end, was hardly a victory at all.

Because there was no trace of fright or alarm on Potter’s face. Instead, it radiated satisfaction. Joy.

(Never mind that the thrill of the hunt had driven Voldemort to debauch his quarry the moment of its surrender. He had eyed Potter, lying breathless underneath him, with greed and a rampant fervor to possess, to consume, to despoil, and without his knowing, it extinguished the ignominy of yet another failed venture. In those moments, he had been but another creature of the woods, overcome by the most primal of urges to claim that which he had deemed worthy through trial and ritual.)

The prophecy could not be refuted, it seemed.

Harry Potter. His preordained equal.

---

To Voldemort, the holiday season generally signified little more than a change in décor and default conversation topics.

But this year presented a true opportunity for merriment and cheer.

He forged the ring himself, a flawless, golden, bejeweled complement to the Gaunt family ring that he had hidden away long ago. Most assuredly, this would be where Potter would draw the line and concede defeat.

It all started out well enough and according to plan. Potter, brightened by the reprieve from the latest in the string of Ministry holiday dinners, took to the snow like an Abraxan to the skies, and to their bed, like a wench to court.

Through Christmas morning, the sequence of events unfolded just as Voldemort had arranged. Potter rightly effused and blushed at the gift that had been prepared for him in a fitting overture to the coup de grâce to follow later that evening.

But the boy had apparently journeyed to the chalet with his own holiday machinations in mind. An act of duplicity so artful, so staggering that it manifestly derailed Voldemort’s own.

The maw of oblivion bored into his soul. Taunting him. Paralyzing him.

Suffocating him.

For an eternal moment, Voldemort knew nothing—not the passage of time nor the breath in his throat—but the picture in his hands. A monument to failure. An incontrovertible affirmation that he had lost.

That it had been he who had been seduced all along.

Then Potter even dared to feign shyness and indecision as he rejoiced in his triumph, as Voldemort was obliged to relive the testament to his defeat, frame by despicable, disgraceful frame.

(Never mind that Voldemort had cherished it. That Potter’s smile within it had bred a sense of ease, a sense of quietude that could not be acquired from even the most obscure quarters of the world. He would last a few weeks of hiding it away, face down at the bottom of his filing cabinet, before yielding and depositing it on his desk in full view.)

How could it have come to this?

Potter was nothing. An ant. A worm. An insignificant speck of dust.

Voldemort refused to acknowledge it.

And instead, he sent the boy away.

---

Potter did not return within the schedule allotted by the assignment parameters.

But Voldemort was a busy man that possessed neither the patience nor the time to fret about a subordinate’s whereabouts, so he paid the truancy little mind.

Potter was, in every respect, a grown, capable wizard that should be able to dispatch any level of threats without difficulty.

Another week passed.

Then another.

And still, no Potter.

After the disaster with Novikoff, Voldemort had provided new, more robust extraction protocols. Certainly, Potter had not forgotten them already?

Impressions of Potter maimed, drowned, charred, mutilated crowded his thoughts, and Voldemort ignored the uncomfortable tightness in his chest.

Unthinkable.

But… Potter, despite all his power and proficiency, was not indestructible.

And more importantly, Potter was his.

So Voldemort shirked the looming deadlines for the new bills to be introduced in the spring Wizengamot session and altogether suspended the mountain of outstanding tasks to formally acquaint the new American Muggle President to the ways of the world he had inherited, and instead, he gave chase to Potter on the other end of the globe.

He discovered the surveillance magic within Sandoval’s offices conveniently enough, and from there, he tracked the magical residue to a dilapidated shack where traces of Potter’s defensive wards still lingered.

But no signs of the boy himself. Nor any indication of struggle.

A dead end.

It was a distasteful reminder of the disappointments of years past when he had been similarly stymied by the Boy-Who-Lived.

And as with those previous excursions, he returned to London empty-handed.

Undeterred, he ransacked Potter’s flat next.

He had never deigned to enter the domicile before, and for good reason, evidently.

It was a hovel fit for the homeless.

Unwashed dishes littered the sink, and dirty clothes were strewn about haphazardly across all of the furnishings. The dust on the floor had likely accumulated over a length of time longer than Potter’s absence.

It looked lived-in, and if not for the waning strength of the wards, he might have deduced that Potter had been lodging here all this time, absconding from work like some kind of vagrant.

Voldemort warily rifled through his belongings, magic honed to detect anything Concealed or Hidden.

But nothing.

At least until he reached the bedroom closet.

It was bare.

Immediately, Voldemort reached into his magic.

Then further down.

A bit deeper.

And desperately, deeper still.

But it was gone. The frayed remains of the tether that had bound Potter to him hung limply, severed from the other side.

Had this been the boy's plan all along? To bide time until he could liberate himself from the Pledge by force?

How had he accomplished such a feat?

What reason had he had to leave?

Where could he have gone?

When would he return?

Chapter 13: Lost

Chapter Text

Harry is sitting at the same corner table that he had occupied with Cho on their not-date date.

Distantly familiar pink frills and bows decorate the walls, and bare-bottomed cherubs rain heart-shaped confetti from overhead. The empty silence of the café rings oddly in his ears, and a comfortable numbness envelops him, pouring over him like honey.

He’s set adrift, suspended in a placid expanse of zero-gravity.

The view of the street outside is almost completely obscured by the fog on the window, and instead, Harry sees himself in the glass, appearing in a way he hasn’t in a long time—with bright green eyes behind round glasses, unruly black hair, and an ugly jagged scar peeking out from underneath.

He sips his coffee, drawing a sloppy line through the nose of his reflection before turning away.

Sitting across the table now is Voldemort, who, unlike Harry, is looking as impeccably groomed and Glamour-handsome as ever.

“Er. Hello,” Harry says, possessing just enough presence of mind to think that he should be alarmed. Yet, the concern is mostly muted, and in fact—more than anything—he’s simply drawn to the man’s inescapable pull that he had always been helpless to deny.

“Harry.”

Voldemort’s voice is its usual warm and cloying, and only belatedly does it occur to Harry that this is the first time he’s actually heard the man—anyone, really—speak his real name since he’d taken up the mantle of Jason Evans years ago.

He’s missed it, he realizes, as the spine-tingling satisfaction of being seen bubbles up inside of him.

Voldemort reaches out to cup his cheek, brushing a thumb against his chin in a practiced gesture, and Harry leans into it instinctively.

It feels real—more solid and present than the plushness of the chair he’s sitting on, than the smooth ceramic of the mug in his hand. And as always, that pervasive pulse of desire thrums just beneath the surface, somewhat muffled by the surreal ambiance.

“Where are you?”

It was an odd thing to ask someone sitting two feet away.

“I’m right here?” Harry half-answers.

Voldemort smiles, letting go of his face to grab Harry’s hand instead.

“Where are you, Harry?” he repeats.

Harry co*cks his head and waves his free hand in front of the other man before responding, “Tom, I’m right here.”

The grip on his hand tightens. It should be painful, Harry thinks, but all he perceives is a blunt pressure.

“Tell me where you are.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and slowly, the winsome façade of Thomas Gaunt begins to transform—like a holographic image materializing under a new catch of the light. Brown irises turn to red, fair skin grows ever paler to a bone-white, and the classic nose recedes to flatness, reptilian slits in its place.

Harry wakes with a sharp inhale, clutching his wand under the pillow.

The cursed visage of the Dark Lord flashes menacingly every time he closes his eyes, and Harry barely bothers to tell himself that it’s just his subconscious playing tricks on him.

The prickle in his scar—in the piece of Voldemort’s soul there—tells him everything he needs to know about what the dream could signify.

Raising the covers over his head, he pretends, just for the moment, that nothing else exists. That the full breadth of the universe is contained within this dark, cottony vacuum—where Harry is the sole occupant.

He breathes in and counts down from ten, making it to four before exhaling.

Per usual, doubt gnaws at him.

He’d been too rash in making the decision to leave, he’s certain—committing that classic Harry Potter blunder of rushing headfirst into uncharted territory without any consideration of the consequences.

Without any forethought to what he would do next.

He thinks himself a coward, no better than the craven fifteen-year-old who had likewise crumbled under the pressure of the latest hitch in the long line of life’s bizarre circ*mstances.

But how could he have stayed?

Taking into account the Dark Lord’s unrivaled intellect and Harry’s own shameful deficiencies in deception, it would just be a matter of time before the truth behind the connection between them was revealed.

And then what?

Be forced to surrender all semblance of agency and live out the rest of his life as the Dark Lord’s pet? Confined to the grounds of the Gaunt estate to pass the hours under glorified house arrest?

Or perhaps, even that would be a luxury, and Voldemort would simply resort to an extra-strength brew of Draught of Living Death and call it a day.

Still.

He could have tried.

He should have tried.

Because certainly, if there was a way to defeat Voldemort—some Kryptonian chink in the armor that Snape had failed to uncover—he wouldn’t find it here, holed up, alone, thousands of miles away.

Yet here he was, just the same. A runaway too faint of heart to commit to the task he’d literally been born to fulfill.

Harry sighs and kicks the duvet away.

During one of their more memorable sessions, Dr. Kessen had explained the process through which people tended to cope with loss. Harry had listened with rapt attention at the time, wondering how much longer it would be until he reached the Acceptance milestone for Sirius’s death.

And lately, he’d found himself again drowning in that rut of aimless despair, this time, resigned to the inevitability of his own mortality.

So in some ways, he welcomes the distraction.

There are worse things in the world than the Dark Lord invading your dreams every now and then, at any rate.

And maybe, Harry wouldn’t count himself out just yet.

---

To an extent, his life reverts to its pre-London norms: assuming a new alias and on-the-run, in a manner of sorts, constantly vigilant with his magic wired taut to defend himself against threats that might converge from anywhere at any time.

Then again, there’s something more freeing about his existence these days, and Harry has to wonder if men on death row feel the same unfettered lightness in their step as their day of reckoning approaches.

It’s a terribly unfair comparison, of course—quite unlike the incarcerated, Harry has a well of magic and a hefty bank account at his ready disposal. Not to mention, a convenient means to turn invisible at will.

So he roams the crowded streets of Akihabara carefree, sampling the garish luster of Tokyo nightlife with relish.

And he bikes the trek across the Camino de Santiago, soaking up the Iberian sun and tasting the salt of the sea the entire way.

And he swims through the depths of the Mariana Trench, befriending the hydras he encounters there for a proper tour of the edge of the world.

All the while, he meets with Rob (per the agreement that Harry had bargained in return for the man’s release) every other week to be briefed on any new developments on the matter of the so-called Ministry Conspiracy. On his own, he wades through more news media he’s ever consumed cumulatively in his life to stay up-to-date on the global political climate and on any noteworthy escalations that might incite the next large-scale conflict.

Harry had altogether declined to enter the spymaster’s employ again, unwilling to reconcile his conscience with the application of torture and abuse that Rob had no doubt been party to all this time in the name of ‘national security’.

Meanwhile, his dreams with Voldemort continue.

It’s the Gryffindor Common Room this time: Harry sits in the squashy red armchair near the fire and Voldemort stands by the window overlooking the Quidditch Pitch.

The outline of the Dark Lord’s presence here lingers awkwardly, as if someone had Photoshopped his likeness into the red and gold backdrop in a hurry.

“Hello, Harry,” Voldemort says, a perfect picture of refined decorum.

“Hi.”

“How are you today?”

“Good. And yourself?”

There’s something disarming about these dreams that erodes Harry’s inhibitions, and like last time, the words flow from his mouth by habit, and the stifling weight of the albatross around his neck fades into the distance.

“The same,” Voldemort replies, stepping away from the window. He approaches the hearth with his eyes on the House Cup that’s featured prominently on the mantelpiece. Fingering the engraving of the roaring lion disdainfully, he says, “It’s… quaint, I suppose. Homey.”

“Please—you don’t have to try so hard,” Harry smiles, leaning further back into his seat. “At least it’s comfortable. The chairs in the Slytherin Common Room are the worst.”

Voldemort settles into the sofa beside him. “And you would know,” he muses, disbelieving.

So naturally, Harry spends the next several dream-minutes recounting the events of his Second Year at Hogwarts—explaining how he and Ron had infiltrated the Snake Den under the guise of Polyjuice and how they had eventually uncovered the Chamber and the basilisk inside.

Voldemort listens attentively with an amused expression, likely finding the account as ridiculous as Harry does as he speaks it out loud.

“And then Fawkes poked its eyes out so I could stab it with the Sword,” Harry finishes, recalling the memory with fondness and awe, marveling at the impossible succession of lucky breaks that had allowed him to skirt death in the end.

“And where was your dear Headmaster during all this?” Voldemort asks, not at all won over by Harry’s valiance or battle-readiness.

It was just like him to deflect the focus of the narrative to its administrative aspects.

“Uhh—I don’t know? Maybe busy trying to keep the school from shutting down,” Harry says with a pointed look. “Anyway… the basilisk bit me right… here,” he turns his arm on its side to point at the raised round scar right above the elbow, “and it would have killed me, I’m sure, but you know, phoenix tears.”

Voldemort huffs a rare laugh. “Your life is ludicrous.”

“Hey, speak for yourself,” Harry quips back with a grin, thinking, you don’t know the half of it.

Voldemort smiles in response, pinning Harry in place with the charming sweetness of it.

Sunbeams begin to shine in through the windows, and Harry watches as the light illuminates the motes of dust hovering lazily throughout the room.

“Until next time then, darling.” Voldemort bends forward to deposit a chaste kiss on his cheek.

Harry wakes.

---

At the third of the touch bases he’d arranged with Rob, the relaxed rhythm of his life once again picks up speed.

“We need your help.”

“No thanks,” is Harry’s ready reply, though he’s a bit thrown by the request.

Rob sighs, putting his hands in his pockets. “You wouldn’t even be going into the field,” he coaxes.

Harry won’t deny that that piques his interest somewhat since his skillset is mostly limited to bashing and grabbing.

“What is it?” he asks, half-curious, half-already-regretting the question.

“Protection detail for a compromised British informant,” Rob answers.

A mole?

Harry quickly cycles through the roster of Ministry personnel in his head, wondering who it could be. Someone in the Auror Office, most likely, if they’d succeeded in evading even Harry’s detection all that time.

Out loud, he grumbles, “You’re calling me in for babysitting?”

“I understand that these things may be difficult for you to grasp, but it is a rather delicate matter that could have lasting repercussions on the diplomatic relations between the US and Britain if handled poorly,” Rob explains slowly.

“Or in other words, you screwed up and need someone on the outside to help with the clean-up,” Harry retorts, picking off a piece of lint from his shirt.

But as much as he would get a kick out of simply telling Rob to f*ck off, he can’t quite discount the fact that the gig might work out to his advantage.

The mole could have new intel on Voldemort, for one.

For another, they might be able to provide a fresh perspective on Rob’s progress on whatever he was working on.

“So are you in?” Rob asks, thoroughly unfazed by the dig at his competence. The question is laced with a note of smugness, as if he already knows the answer.

Still, Harry picks at the dirt underneath his fingernails and pretends to think about it before responding with a shrug, “Yeah, why not.”

“Excellent. Let’s go,” Rob says and shoves a baseball into his hand.

They land in a field overlooking rolling green hills, though Harry has barely a moment to appreciate the view before two additional bodies appear beside him—one of Rob’s men and the mole.

A very blond and very familiar mole.

And it just kept piling on.

“Hi Malfoy,” Harry sighs.

“Long time no see, Evans,” Malfoy replies with a raise of his eyebrows.

“You know this guy’s going to sell me out to Gaunt as soon as you turn your back, right?” Harry says, making no effort to mask the derision in his voice.

“Mr. Malfoy is magically obligated to refrain from taking any actions not directly sanctioned by myself or my direct reports,” Rob recites. Under his breath, he mutters, “You paranoid f*ck.”

Harry flashes him his middle finger. “How long?”

“A month at most,” Rob answers, checking his watch. “Is there anything else?”

Harry glances at Malfoy, who has the gall to look bored. “No, I think we’re good.”

“See you in two weeks, then.” And with that, Rob and the escort Disapparate, abandoning Harry and Malfoy to an awkward silence.

Their predicament reminds Harry of those daytime dramas that Mrs. Kendall used to watch. The villain’s former paramour and former aide going into hiding together in the midst of a global conspiracy.

Hopefully they wouldn’t come out the other end with Malfoy having fallen in love with him.

“So what brings you here?” Harry finally says with as obnoxious a grin as he can muster.

Malfoy’s sole response is a hostile glare, the spitting image of the schoolboy that used to stare him down from across the Great Hall.

Harry almost smiles at the strange constant in his life.

---

He learns the truth later after he’s settled Malfoy into the guest room of his condo and uncorked a bottle of vintage Firewhisky.

“I didn’t even know what I was getting into,” Malfoy begins, pouring out another glass for himself. “A harmless little thing, I thought—a bit of revenge on him for being such an incorrigible arse all the time.” He threads his fingers through his hair, unusually unkempt for someone so fastidious. “But this—I didn’t know—I just… I guess I was just tired of him pushing my father around.”

Harry’s eyes immediately dart to Malfoy’s right forearm, exposed and pale where the sleeves are neatly rolled up.

“I didn’t realize he and your father were close,” he says evenly.

“Oh, they go way back,” Malfoy says, crossing his arms. “I’ve asked Father about it, of course, but all he ever says is that Gaunt is a valued political ally. What a load of sh*t—he’s a goddamn snake is what he is.” He coughs. “No offense.”

Harry snorts into his drink. “None taken.”

“And you? Did they ask you to shag the secrets out of him or something?”

Weirdly enough, it’s a rather accurate summation of how his relationship with Voldemort had come to be. “Something like that, yeah.”

“And? Mission accomplished?”

Harry dodges the question, raising his hands in a ‘who-knows?’ gesture, not quite convinced of the answer himself.

“Well,” Malfoy sighs, stretching out his legs, “from the way the man’s been moping around, anyone would think you’d cleaned out his Gringotts account or something.”

Harry pauses mid-sip. “What do you mean?”

Malfoy grins. “Oh, just that our esteemed Undersecretary has been having a bit of a sulk since the untimely departure of his boy toy.”

Harry shrinks back on himself, refusing to feel guilty, though he can’t quite deny the fact that he had been the bad guy in the scenario.

“Er. Is he okay?”

“Well, he’s not off crying in the loos, if that’s what you’re asking. He was quite fit to throw me to the dungeons when he found me out, in any case.” Malfoy sets down his glass and laces his fingers together. “So spill. What’s he like in bed?”

Harry chokes on his drink, barely gasping out, “f*ck you,” through the alcohol burning his airways.

Malfoy cackles, head thrown back, and waits for Harry’s coughing to subside before asking, “Everyone says he’s either a sex god or a limp fish. So which is it?”

“Shut up,” Harry mumbles, lobbing a couch cushion Malfoy’s way, who simply responds with another raucous laugh.

When it becomes apparent that Harry isn’t the type to kiss and tell, Malfoy launches into a detailed chronicle of his own romantic conquests.

Harry ends up finishing off what’s remaining in the bottle to erase the images of Draco Malfoy in bed with about a fifth of their Hogwarts class.

---

The drawing room of Grimmauld Place is exactly as Harry remembers it. The thick layer of dust covering the carpets, the Doxy-infested curtains, the moth-eaten tapestries—it’s dirty and damp and pathetic, but Harry has missed it all the same.

Voldemort is standing in front of the family tree, running a hand over the bit of loose golden threads of the fraying A in ‘Ancient’ while Harry sits in what used to be Sirius’s customary seat by the bookcase.

“The Blacks have rather fallen into disrepair over the years, haven’t they,” Voldemort opens, taking several steps back from the wall for a better view.

Indeed, the abundance of charred holes marring the tapestry and the pitiful state of the room tell a graphic story of a once noble house reduced to rubble.

“And whose fault is that?” Harry asks, suddenly tired and in no mood to fight.

He tamps down that familiar swell of pain-regret-guilt creeping up on behalf of his godfather, who had somehow drawn a lot even worse than Harry’s.

“Who, me?” Voldemort posits, hand to chest.

“Oh, don’t even,” Harry scoffs. “You killed Regulus. Or had him killed. And you might as well have pushed Sirius into the Veil yourself.”

“Hn.” Voldemort strides across the room then, pausing in front of the fireplace. The flicker of the flames casts a dangerous gleam in his eyes that seems to intensify as he speaks, “The younger Black deserted of his own accord and met his end without any involvement from myself. And as I was not disposed to tracking down wayward youths at the time, I’m afraid that that is the extent of my knowledge on the subject.” He takes a few steps forward, crouching down in front of Harry when he reaches him. “And as for your dear godfather… well, surely, the blame lies with Bellatrix? Or Wormtail, perhaps?”

At the name, a rare stab of anger pierces through the deadened haze of the dream.

Harry forces it down, refusing to lay bare how even now, after years of defusing his grief and resentment to manageable levels, any thought of him overwhelms him with a tireless, bitter fury near impossible to quell.

“And what is the rat up to these days?” he asks, almost too nonchalant.

Voldemort rises to his feet and leans his body slightly against the arm of Harry’s chair. “Oh? Why do you ask?”

Harry grits his teeth. For once, could the man just not play their stupid games?

“You know why.”

Voldemort lets out a quiet hum of indifference. “Our slippery friend is managing my affairs in Asia.”

Harry takes a deep breath.

The night that he’d lost Sirius, he had screamed and yelled until his throat hurt, had torn apart Dumbledore’s office piecemeal under the influence of ruinous heartbreak and misery.

A maelstrom of emotion run ragged, rendered completely powerless. Worthless.

That same anguish boils over again now, bleeding into the rage already there in a familiar blend of chaotic desperation.

“He doesn’t deserve to live.” The defeated soberness of his voice is surprising even to him. “I mean—there’s you, of course… but it’s weird, isn’t it? You’re… you…” Harry trails off, nonsensical. “But Pettigrew—” He looks up into the ceiling, and his attention is momentarily drawn to the intricate pattern of the cobwebs encasing the crystal chandelier above. “He was their friend. They trusted him.”

Harry laughs, wet and hysterical, and shakes his head.

The next few minutes pass in silence as he drives back the tears he hasn’t cried since five Halloweens ago.

“You should have told me,” Voldemort says eventually, with the careful measure of someone recording their outgoing voicemail.

“What was there to tell?” A pause. “He betrayed my parents and got them killed. He framed my godfather and got him imprisoned. And he would have gotten me killed, too, if it weren’t for that absurd duel you insisted on,” Harry recites with an ascending count of his fingers.

“I am sorry.” The words are clumsy and stilted, as if being strung together in that order for the first time.

Harry snorts. “Yeah. Right.” The storm inside him quickly dulls to a worn irritation at having drudged up memories he’d long since buried. In Voldemort’s company, no less.

The rest of the dream proceeds in cautious silence, Harry, wallowing in subdued shame at his outburst, and Voldemort, merely observing.

He mouths a kiss against his hair when it’s time for them to leave.

---

Malfoy hardly ranks among the best roommates that Harry has had over the years, but he doesn’t rank among the worst, either.

In some ways, he’s an improvement to Ron and the rest of the Gryffindors from his year, whose morning routines had always been inexplicably, unbearably loud.

And he’s in every way superior to Chad, who had thrown parties in their dorm room frequently featuring campus-prohibited substances, almost resulting in Harry’s expulsion.

Most surprisingly, Malfoy exhibits little of the spoiled prejudice of a man who had been raised in the lap of magical luxury, accepting the modest Muggle amenities of the makeshift safe house with grace. Moreover, despite Harry’s insistence otherwise, he even maintains a particular standard of cleanliness for their shared living spaces.

Admittedly, it’s a rather welcome change from the persisting filth that Harry had grown accustomed to.

But other than that, he’s met with a dead end when it comes to intel-gathering. On the matter of Gaunt, Malfoy had had little to offer beyond petty gossip (a lot of which, to Harry’s chagrin, had painted him in an unflattering light). And it had become obvious rather quickly that he knew even less of Rob’s machinations that Harry did.

So mostly, they pass the time deferring to Malfoy’s awful taste in television, which so far favored Lifetime movies and reality TV shows.

And they fall into a routine.

Neither being the early-to-rise type, mornings are quiet and spent with Harry skimming through the handful of his daily news subscriptions and Malfoy generally joining him in the kitchen halfway through for a late breakfast.

Today is no different, and Harry picks up the Daily Prophet after finishing with the Times. In his periphery, he catches sight of Malfoy who’s begun to peel his grapes one at a time.

But the pattern breaks there as Harry reads the day’s headline:

‘Sirius Black, former Azkaban inmate and escapee, exonerated posthumously of all charges in light of new eyewitness accounts’

Harry races through the article, nearly tearing the pages as he absorbs every word with nervous anticipation.

“…Peter Pettigrew, who, for decades, had been confirmed as one of Black’s many victims, turned himself in last Friday and confessed to framing Black for twelve counts of murder and to faking his own death. Pettigrew gave the following statement to the press after his arrest: ‘I can offer no recompense for my sins beyond vindication for those I have wronged, comfort for those still suffering, and peace for those in mourning.’

Pettigrew currently faces life imprisonment, and his trial date is set for May—”

“What are you reading?” Malfoy asks over his shoulder.

Harry flips back to the front page and slides the paper toward him.

After a beat, Malfoy says, "Merlin, he broke into Hogwarts when I was there. They made us all sleep in the dining hall, like stable animals.”

Harry stifles a laugh. Of course, that’s what Malfoy would recollect about that evening.

“He’s actually my cousin, you know?” he continues. “Well. Second cousins.”

It was easy to forget sometimes that the British pureblood circle was one incestuous web spun on top of another. Harry remembers now, seeing the branch on the tapestry where a line of embroidery had linked Narcissa Black with Lucius Malfoy.

“Congratulations, I guess?” Harry says, mind elsewhere.

Vindication. Comfort. Peace.

There are only so many ways that he can interpret it.

An apology?

A gift?

A bribe?

Harry thumbs absently at the grainy photo depicting Pettigrew’s booking.

And he smiles.

---

Voldemort comes later that afternoon.

The wards around the condo melt away like spun sugar, and Harry spends all of the three seconds it takes for Voldemort to manifest in front of him stuck in a recurring loop of his fight and flight instincts vying for dominance.

“Harry,” Voldemort greets.

It’s different than their dreams.

The interaction isn’t muted by that misty buffer in the air between them. Here, the Dark Lord’s aura is thick and palpable, practically dripping with excess power.

“Hello,” Harry says. In his head, he reviews every plausible exit strategy, sparing a few thoughts for Malfoy who’s napping in his bedroom.

There was no way around it, Harry would just have to take him with.

“Did you get my gift?” Voldemort asks, diverting Harry’s attention. He’s eyeing that morning’s Prophet which lies tellingly on the kitchen counter.

“Is that what that was?”

If the Dark Lord were capable of pouting, Harry might identify the look on the man’s face as such.

“What else would it be?” Voldemort closes the distance between them and motions for Harry to sit down, following suit beside him.

“How should I know? How would I know anything about what goes on in there?” Harry asks, gesturing wildly at Voldemort’s head, who simply—maddeningly—smiles.

“Why Harry. You’ve known all of me. You’ve seen all of me.”

Harry averts his gaze then, but Voldemort is quick to grasp his face with both hands to force his eyes on him again.

It’s nothing like the sterile, superficial sensations of their dreamscape.

The touch is electric. Charged with the explosive energy of a supernova.

It seeps past skin, past flesh, and floods into heart, spirit, soul.

The moment goes on forever as Harry basks in the sheer fullness, the blackout rapture of Voldemort’s proximity.

This is where he belongs is the prevailing thought that ripples in dizzying waves throughout his being.

“Why did you leave?” Voldemort murmurs when minutes—hours?—must have passed.

With considerable effort, Harry pulls the hands away from his face.

“I was afraid,” he whispers.

I’m supposed to die. And I was afraid that you wouldn’t let me.

“How did you even find me?” His tongue is a heavy, alien thing in his mouth, and he barely avoids stumbling over the words.

Voldemort smirks, affecting that smug expression that Harry had grown to despise. In his stupor now, he finds it devastatingly endearing. “I am a man of many means, Harry. And information is but another mode of currency I happen to trade in.”

A record scratch screeches deafeningly in his mind.

And time stops.

Rob couldn’t be aware of his location—not when Harry’s concealment measures were strong enough to thwart the Dark Lord.

Which left—

‘Mr. Malfoy is magically obligated to refrain from taking any actions not directly sanctioned by myself or my direct reports.’

It had been the truth.

Rob was beholden to it through magic Harry had woven himself.

Which meant—

Harry had been careless.

“It’s a trap,” he breathes.

And as if that were the cue to signal the transition to the next scene, the room brightens with the activation of previously invisible runes etched into the floor, now discharging a glowing white light.

“What have you done?” Voldemort snarls, and his magic flares violently, angry and immense even through the barrier of the runic restraints.

Harry doesn’t answer.

What would he even have to say?

Voldemort fists the flimsy cotton of his t-shirt and hauls him up to his feet. “Tell me!” he roars.

And for once in his life, Harry just… gives in to the assault, reeling from shock, dazed by the increasing pressure of the magic saturating the atmosphere.

“I—”

He’s interrupted by thundering claps of Apparition. They come on top of each other, one right after the next like gunfire, until the small living room overflows with Suits already brandishing their wands. Harry’s gaze automatically goes to Rob, who is among the last to arrive. In his hands is a thin metal collar.

Harry turns back to meet Voldemort’s eyes that flash red—that flash betrayal.

The Dark Lord’s magic surges again—nothing like Harry has ever felt it before.

But Rob’s men are ready.

They cast in tandem.

And Harry—who had graduated with distinction from the CIA’s training program—who had held the record for highest mission clearance rate since his second year in the field—just stands rooted to the spot, a deer caught in headlights with its pants down.

He blinks once—twice—and the Dark Lord falls to the floor unconscious.

Rob steps forward to fasten the collar on the unmoving body.

The effect is instantaneous, and the room fills with the astonished gasps of a dozen grown men as the Glamour of Thomas Gaunt falls away to reveal the horrifying visage underneath.

Meanwhile, Harry barely registers the transformation, more preoccupied with the gaping void that echoes flatly across their connection.

It was Voldemort’s magic—carved out whole and bled dry, leaving behind an inconceivable barrenness, causing Harry’s magic to cry out in turn, pained and indignant.

Then he’s gone.

Cracks of Apparition sound out again in a rapid staccato as Rob’s men begin to leave, as quickly as they’d come.

“Wait!” Harry cries.

His voice rings hollow and lost in the empty room.

Chapter 14: Destiny

Chapter Text

There are times when Harry wonders if his life is even real.

Whether it’s floating tentacled brains chasing him down Ministry corridors or waking up to the heavy heat of a dark lord spooning him from behind or—

or his former boss slash mentor breaking into his already-broken-into Unplottable condo to arrest-abduct his other former boss slash dream-boyfriend—

it’s always the same surreal, almost metaphysical bewilderment that accompanies the question: How did these things keep happening to him?

He plops down onto the couch, still several degrees askew from being jostled by the sudden influx of visitors earlier, and out of the corner of his eye, he watches the front door half-expectantly, as if Ashton Kutcher might come barreling through—any second now—camera crew in tow, for the grand reveal.

If only.

Or perhaps more fitting would be a cadre of men in white coats, clipboards in hand, ready and eager to catalog the new class of insanity that Harry had apparently managed to discover.

Because the normal, sane response to all this should be to leap for joy, he’s certain. Or at the bare minimum, to simply appreciate the momentous occasion of the universe coming through for him for once, orchestrating a bizarre confluence of stars and planets just so to erase the sum total of his life’s problems in one staggering blow.

By all accounts, a cause for celebration.

But what greets him at the other end of the tunnel isn’t relief or elation or gratitude or any other human emotion remotely related to any of that.

Instead, he feels sick.

An oppressive nausea creeps up into his throat from his diaphragm like after a hard punch to the gut, and the image of Voldemort’s face—and the shock and disbelief washing over it—lingers at the forefront of his mind. It’s taunting and upsetting and entirely unfair.

Harry hadn’t even done anything wrong.

Rob had played him and Voldemort both—expertly assembling his chess pieces across the board for the kill shot unbeknownst to either of them.

But that doesn’t stop Harry from feeling guilty—of all things.

Christ.

What the f*ck was wrong with him?

The familiar weight of self-blame sinks uncomfortably at the pit of his stomach, and a barrage of what-ifs and why-nots sets off in an unrelenting rapid-fire in his head, painting more savory pictures of what might have been. What could have been.

He clicks on the TV, turning up the volume until the laugh track of the Friends rerun begins to hurt his ears. On screen, Rachel and Chandler are in the process of stealing a cheesecake off a neighbor’s doorstep—and see, this was the type of thing people should feel bad about, not whatever clusterf*ck had just transpired in his living room.

And besides, Voldemort had had it coming.

Over the obnoxious din of a commercial jingle, the echoes of kill the spare reverberate in his mind as plainly as they did over a decade ago, and Harry tells himself, spiteful and bitter: it’s what he deserves.

But there’s a pull in his chest. It drags like an anchor on a seabed, and it itches and aches and burns, vibrating restlessly, deep under his skin.

And the memories unravel, unbidden, from where Harry had so meticulously tucked them away—

The inviting smiles, the lazy kisses, the careful touches tinged with fondness; and as hard as he tries, he fails, for the hundredth time, to forget the man and remember the monster.

It makes his head hurt. Though that might just be the unnatural roar of the TV. He hits the power button on the remote and lies back on the couch with his head propped up against the armrest and hands covering his eyes.

What does he do now?

He chokes down a laugh, suddenly reminded of the letters W.W.J.D. stitched across the backpacks and bracelets and shoelaces of his high school classmates from years ago. f*cking Americans, he’d thought back then—as if a person couldn’t be left to judge right from wrong without some bearded moral barometer to hold their hand.

Yet here he is, just the same, desperate for some voice of authority to just tell him the answers—never mind that he’d made it to nearly all of thirty buying dolphin-safe tuna and contributing to public radio all on his own just fine.

He lets out an exasperated groan, willing himself to just get over it, Potter, to give into that streak of vengeance inside him that urges him to let go and embrace the wheels of karmic justice finally making their way around to collect the Dark Lord’s long-outstanding dues.

It shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks. It shouldn’t be hard at all.

‘There will be a time when we must choose between what is easy and what is right,’ he remembers Dumbledore saying once.

But the Headmaster had been wrong.

Not once in his life had Harry ever had to contend with such a dilemma. For him, what was right and what was easy had always been one and the same.

He sits up, head in his hands and elbows on his knees.

There’s no point in agonizing over it, really.

There never had been.

---

Harry stands in front of the Woolworth Building, neck craned toward the cloudy sky to admire its enormity. It’s a calming sight after twenty-four hours of frenzied Apparitions to every corner of the world and repeatedly coming up blank. Or maybe it’s just a consequence of his closeness to him—the familiar tug at his chest beckoning him forward—that settles the trembling in his hands.

He smooths the jagged edges of his magic and hurries into the building through the main entrance, resolve bolstered by the fact that the security hasn’t been updated since the last time he was here for a joint assignment with the American DMLE.

He’s lost a lot of time already on a wild goose chase to have ended up at what had been the most obvious option from the start, hindsight being 20/20. But he’s in his element now. Even without the additional cover provided by the Invisibility Cloak, it’s the type of op that Harry can run in his sleep—get in, secure the asset, get out—a practiced dance that falls back on some of the best parts of what make up Harry Potter: his magical acuity and spell prowess.

He follows the feeble threads of their connection down to the sublevels through rather poorly concealed stairways until he reaches the bottommost floor. The air here is stale and thick with the tell-tale residue of magical inhibitors, and he quickens his pace, pulling his Cloak tighter around him, as he rushes past scantly lit corridors at a near-jog.

His body might be running on half-adrenaline, half-caffeine, and zero sleep, but he can’t remember a time when he’d felt more purpose, like a salmon swimming upstream, driven forward by an inescapable biological imperative to go this way. There’s an unshakable rightness to each step that rattles his tired bones a little bit harder, digs into the hole in his chest a little bit deeper, and takes him a little bit closer to the ever brighter beacon calling out to him, almost... there…

When finally, a quarter-mile of endless hallways and a dozen twists and turns later, he’s here.

Habit and conditioning have him taking in the terrain with a trained eye—means of ingress, chokepoints, those kinds of things. Not that it’s necessary, by any means, the layout being as exposed as it is.

It’s a wide space, about the area of a basketball court and a half, at the center of which is a glass-faced concrete cell that resembles what they kept Hannibal Lecter in in Silence of the Lambs.

Voldemort lies on the floor inside, just as Harry had seen him last: Glamour-stripped and unconscious.

The shiny metal of the collar around his neck glints cruelly under the bright fluorescents.

From this distance, Harry can feel it so clearly that his jaws lock—the cords of magic, shorn clean in half, lying slack and useless like a severed limb.

‘I don’t know—lock him up somewhere? At least until we can put him to trial.’

The words he’d spoken to Snape mock him now with an irony the universe seems so fond of throwing his way, and the doubts from earlier sneak up again with renewed vigor, whispers of it’s for the best and you reap what you sow clamoring viciously against the churn of but it’s wrong and he doesn’t belong here.

This is what he’d wanted, isn’t it? The unkillable Dark Lord muzzled and leashed, hidden away from the rest of the world where he couldn’t hurt anyone.

And fate had so graciously delivered it to him on a silver platter just like that.

The soreness in his heart sharpens to a painful throbbing, like a fresh, multi-colored bruise bearing the weight of an invisible pressure growing heavier by the second. Harry rubs firmly at his chest as if he could massage away the discomfort like a knotted muscle, but it runs too deep to reach.

He knows—he’s always known—what he has to do, and there’s a wand in his hand and a Bombarda on his lips when he hears a clang of the door.

Rob enters, a veritable entourage behind him, with the resolute stride of a man in complete command of the room.

Case in point, Voldemort begins to stir then, turning on his side from his back and bending one leg at the knee.

Harry bites the inside of his cheek and grips his wand tight, reining in the magic that had gathered at the tip.

He should still be able to pull it off—he’s invisible, for f*ck’s sake, so just do it. But he suppresses the urge for now, reminding himself that the last time he’d treated life like a Nike ad, he’d ended up in bed with the Dark Lord.

So he waits.

And he watches.

Even with the drastic change in appearance, the sight is a familiar one: the way his eyes flutter as they adjust to the light, the way his hands squeeze into fists once, then twice, the way his body goes from relaxed to rigid in a millisecond as he gains awareness of his surroundings.

Then he’s standing. Looming, rather, fearsome and menacing.

Voldemort—Voldemort-Voldemort isn’t any taller than Thomas Gaunt-Voldemort had been, Harry is half-sure, but there’s something different about the way he carries himself in this form. Something ugly and hungry.

It takes Harry back to when he’d been forced to bow to death.

Voldemort has his gaze fixed on Rob—with enough hatred to fuel a wordless, wandless Killing Curse, Harry would wager—if not for the contraption around his neck.

Rob stares back, unmoved, an alpha asserting its dominance. He breaks the silence first with a terse, “Mr. Gaunt. Welcome.”

“Mr. Bell. A rather uncivilized way to greet a guest, I will admit,” Voldemort says, stepping close until he’s inches away from the glass. He’s remarkably stoic for someone who’s been kidnapped and de-magicked, but Harry wouldn’t have expected any less.

Rob chuckles softly. “You’re not a guest.”

Voldemort takes in the sparse eight by eight of his enclosure and the row of armed men behind Rob and nods. “The accommodations do speak for themselves,” he comments blithely, brushing the pads of his fingers against the metal at his throat. “The design is quite impressive. Were the MACUSA-issued cuffs inadequate?”

With a wave of his wand, Rob conjures a chair for himself and sits down in front of the glass. Another lazy flick and a second chair pops into existence on the other side. “Ninety-nine-point-nine-percent magical dampening. I don’t know how we’ve managed to survive this long with the standard ninety-eight.” He smiles, small and clinical, with flinty eyes that give away nothing but the obvious. “Inspiring, isn’t it?”

“I suppose that is one way to describe Novikoff’s work,” Voldemort responds. He crosses his legs as he sits down, exuding his usual grace and self-assurance.

Rob smiles again, a shade more genuine, more wicked than before. “I assume you recognize this, too, then?” He draws out a vial from his jacket pocket, holding it up to the light.

Harry’s breath catches at the sight of the swirling black liquid, lungs burning from the mere memory of it.

With a casual wand movement from Rob, the glass separating them disappears, and at the same time, Voldemort goes unnaturally still from the neck down. And just as the Doctor had with Harry, Rob spells open Voldemort’s mouth and spills a drop of the potion onto his tongue.

It’s weird being on the other side of this—a spectator to torture—while Voldemort, slack-jawed and artificially held upright by magic, weathers whatever unholy circles of hell the potion would deem fit for a dark lord.

Harry counts the seconds, and he imagines—hopes—that Voldemort, a human-shaped mass composed of equal parts dark magic and terror himself, more creature than man, might be immune to the potion’s effects.

Just shy of the ninety-second mark, his eyes reopen, frantic and wild.

Not so lucky, then.

“Let’s start with something easy,” Rob says, sitting back down. “Tell me about the modifications to your body.”

“There is little to tell,” Voldemort answers steadily. “An unfortunate accident in my youth during an ill-advised bid to become an Animagus. You’ve heard all the stories, I’m sure.”

Rob clicks his tongue, making the face he used to make when Harry would feed him some bullsh*t on the hows and whys behind yet another snub at standard operating procedures.

It establishes a pattern.

Another drop – another minute and a half of waiting – another question – another half-credible answer – another unsatisfied reaction from Rob – and on and on.

Each additional dose wears on Voldemort—a growing hardness in his eyes, a jawline clenched more often than not, responses that begin to lose their deference.

And Harry... Harry waits.

More than once he entertains the idea of just Apparating Voldemort out of there, no muss no fuss, but he stops himself, fully aware of the bona fide cavalry of a hunting party that awaits him if he does.

“What is the nature of your relationship with Jason Evans?” is the next question from Rob, and Harry can’t say he’s all that surprised.

He’d seen it coming, of course. Rob’s pretty much best-in-class at what he does, thorough and detail-oriented in a way that Harry had occasionally envied and almost always resented, and Rob wouldn’t ever be remiss in cleaning up after a loose end like Harry.

And if all that had been obvious to Harry, no doubt Voldemort has been anticipating it as well.

Which raises the uncomfortable question of: What kind of lies would he invent about him?

Harry knows better than most that it’s well within Voldemort’s capacity to somehow pin everything on Harry, to recount some convenient yet believable narrative that even Harry might find convincing.

Instead, what Voldemort opens with is: “There is no relationship.”

“Oh?”

Another drop. Harry counts down from ninety.

When Voldemort comes to, he clarifies through gritted teeth, “We were lovers. He disappeared after the New Year and did not return. I sought him out to reconcile.”

“He worked for you,” Rob says, indifferent to the personal dynamic between them.

“Yes. We came to an agreement—an employment contract with the Ministry in return for his release.” He pauses, casting a sharp glare at Rob. “You are acquainted with the depth of his skillset, are you not? No one in my position would begrudge my decision.”

Harry stifles a shiver at the words—the truth—pulse quickening and face heating.

After everything, why would he…?

It crashes into him—the battering tide of an indescribable something—and it strips him raw, cutting him down to flesh and bone.

It lays him bare, inside-out, at the feet of the universe.

He doesn’t wait to hear the inevitable follow-up—what kind of employment contract?—before surrendering the grasp on all the magic stirring impatiently at the tips of his fingers, unable to keep it at bay any longer.

It’s easier than he’d predicted. Effortless, almost.

Just figures that the one time he goes to the trouble of exercising caution—cowardice—it turns out to have been completely unnecessary.

Rob and his men go down like fish shot in a barrel, Harry’s Cloak and the element of surprise supplying an undue advantage, the numbers imbalance notwithstanding. In under a minute, Harry is Obliviating everyone for good measure before brute-forcing a tear in the wards and Apparating Voldemort out.

---

The instant his feet touch solid ground, Harry jumps away, putting a good distance between them before shrugging off his Cloak.

“Um. Hi,” he says, holstering his wand. Voldemort doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even look at him.

Instead, he’s taking in their new surroundings—the sleeper sofa in the middle of the room, the wallpaper that’s recently started to peel, the painting of a lighthouse hanging by the window. There’s no doubt that he’s running through a hundred different scenarios and conducting a cost-benefit analysis for each to inform his next course of action. It’s a stark contrast to Harry, who’s always taken a ready-fire-aim approach to these kinds of situations.

Maybe when the dust settles, he would ask Voldemort to teach him.

Silently, Voldemort walks the length of the room, pausing for a moment at the bookshelf to peer at the modest collection there, before carrying on with his inspection.

In the meantime, Harry purges their magical tracks and reinforces the wards around the safe house.

“I’m not working with him,” he blurts when he eventually runs out of security measures to shore up. “I wasn’t working with him. Not since before last summer. You knew that. I didn’t—I didn’t even know he was gunning for you. Well—okay—I kind of did, but I didn’t know it was going to go down like that, and I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it. And the potion—f*ck—” Why in God’s name was he still talking?

Voldemort fingers the strip of metal around his neck, and Harry flinches. “What were you afraid of?” he asks, tone and expression inscrutable.

There’s a beat where Harry’s mind blanks entirely before he remembers.

I’m supposed to die. And I was afraid that you wouldn’t let me.

“You—you know who I am.” It’s simultaneously the best and worst lie he’s ever told. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he says into his shoes.

There’s a stretch of silence. Then a cold press of a finger against his chin brings his gaze up, and for the first time in a long time, crimson eyes meet his.

Harry wants to look away. He wants to want to look away—but he can’t.

What was the saying—that eyes are the windows to the soul? Maybe there was a practical truth to it.

“You are always safe with me,” Voldemort promises. Then he brings his hand up to his throat again. “Though I suppose at this point, that is a foregone conclusion.”

Harry winces. “We’ll figure something out,” he says in a rush. “But I—I can’t just let you go. You know I can’t.”

Voldemort nods, as if he’d expected it. “Am I your prisoner, then?”

“It’s not like that,” Harry says, even though it is.

“And for how long? Are you to be my jailor until I perish?”

Until you perish? Harry hears instead.

He wonders if Voldemort possesses the kind of patience to wait out the remaining span of Harry’s life in captivity. It’s a bleak future that renders Harry as much a prisoner as Voldemort, but at least it would give him time.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, not quite knowing what he’s even apologizing for.

He thinks that mostly, he just feels sorry for himself, for the fact that they can’t just go back to how things used to be. Or rather, that there’s an irrepressible part of him that yearns for exactly that.

Some Chosen One he’d turned out to be.

Voldemort softens—or he seems to, at least—it’s harder to tell since the change to his appearance. “I know you are.”

Then there are arms around him, cool and smooth like marble, but not at all frigid or unfeeling. Harry melts into it, pressing his face into Voldemort’s neck and breathing deep. His scent—crisp and clean and faintly sweet—grounds him to the world, and all the messy, scattered bits of his unhinged life seem to fall into place, piece by ragged, worn piece.

He’s safe.

He’s whole.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, bringing his own arms around Voldemort and squeezing tight. He brushes his cheek apologetically against the cool metal he feels there.

“Shh,” Voldemort whispers into his hair. And they stand like that for a while, until the sun recedes into the horizon and the orange glow of the golden hour floods the room.

Voldemort pulls away first, and his eyes roam over Harry, studious, as if he’d forgotten what he looks like. Harry studies him in turn, ghosting his fingers over the traces of Thomas Gaunt and Tom Riddle he finds, unmistakable now that he’s looking up close. Then he leans in to kiss him.

It’s different. And it’s the same.

And it might be weird, it should be horrifying, locking lips with his literal nightmare come to life, but his body—his soul—knows better, and he gives in to the tender tingling along the skin that soon heightens to warm waves of pleasure that radiate down to his toes.

It’s nothing and everything he remembers.

Voldemort undresses him with the attentive reverence a groom might bestow his bride on their wedding night, showering him with silent praise and appreciation at each sliver of skin bared to his gaze.

He presses kisses, worshipful, grateful kisses, into his neck, along his shoulder blades, down his spine, leaving what’s sure to be a wake of pink bruises that will linger long after the night is over.

And he f*cks into him, unfaltering and eager, until Harry melts into a blissful heap of euphoria and endorphins, struck incapable of any higher thought other than the lone verdict that features prominently even through the haze of ecstasy: everything is going to be all right.

---

Harry wakes to a crater-sized hole in the wards and his wand missing.

And Voldemort gone.

He gives himself precisely twenty seconds to laugh, hysterical and unrestrained—at himself, at the situation, at the goddamn universe—before he gets to work.

Just like old times, he thinks, as he dresses in record time, forgoing a shower in favor of a few concentrated Scouring Charms that chafe his skin.

He finds his spare wand still braced in its holster and the Cloak spooled sloppily on the floor where he’d left it, and he puts both on quickly, wondering if Voldemort had intended for Harry to go after him.

In point of fact, his magical tracks are as conspicuous and unabashed as neon billboards along the Vegas strip, inlaid with a determined and angry urgency that doesn’t leave much to the imagination as to exactly where he’s gone and with what objective.

It’s a simple matter to follow the trail back to New York, and an even simpler one to slip in past the same cracks in the MACUSA wards Voldemort must have torn open. He lands in the same sublevels as before, amidst rubble and burning and fallen bodies.

Maybe he should have thought this through a little more.

But then there’s someone screaming in the distance, and Harry breaks out into a run toward it without a second thought, almost forgetting to erect a Bubble-Head Charm to fend off all the smoke.

The questions come later, mid-sprint, when his brain calms down enough to set his body on auto-pilot.

Voldemort wouldn’t declare war on the Americans, would he?

Would he have called his Death Eaters here?

The Ministry?

Had this been the endgame all along?

Was this the Dark Lord returning to the world stage?

They amass in his head, unending and unanswered, while he runs and runs and runs along a path of destruction and spent magic.

The screams are getting louder. That, or he’s getting closer. The air is constantly changing around him, growing heavier, more charged with magic—his magic—that Harry can almost taste it, tart and staticky, at the back of his throat when he swallows.

At last, he’s turning a corner, and it hits him like a brick wall—magic so thick he feels as though he’s wading through it.

They’re in an office. Or the remains of what used to be one, probably. Framed pictures litter the ground on beds of shattered glass and an upended desk rests along the far wall.

Rob lies on the floor, body twisted and bent as if possessed, twitching at irregular intervals as the curse courses through him. His mouth is agape, bloodied and foamy, as agonized shrieks pour out of it.

“Stop!” Harry yells, pulling his Cloak away. Rob doesn’t seem to register his presence, but Voldemort makes a vague motion with his hand, and the screams devolve into wet gurgles. He turns, and there’s an unfeigned smile on his face.

“Harry. You made it.” It’s the same warm welcome that any guest would have received at the parties Voldemort has hosted, but with Rob’s pained whimpers echoing in the background, it sounds more sinister than hospitable.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, thinking the same question to himself.

Could he fight?

Could he win?

“Attending to some unfinished business,” Voldemort responds before spinning back around. A second later, the vile red flash of the Cruciatus hits Rob in the chest.

The resulting scream is ear-splitting and hollow and almost inhuman, and as fast as his reflexes can manage, Harry has his wand drawn, yelling “Finite!” with all his magic and will behind it.

Rob mewls pitifully, curling in on himself, and Harry—Harry has never felt a more pronounced desire to be anywhere else.

“Please. Let’s just go,” he begs.

But there’s another streak of red spellfire. And more screams.

“Finite!” Harry shouts again. He slowly, carefully steps forward until he’s positioned himself in front of Rob and repeats, “Please.”

“He deserves it,” Voldemort says, wand—Harry’s wand—still raised. “Now stand aside.”

“He’s had enough,” Harry argues. “We should leave before someone comes.”

Voldemort laughs, indistinguishable from Harry’s nightmares, carrying an impending promise of so, so much more. “No one knows we’re here, Harry. Stand aside.”

“No,” Harry says, shaking his head. “I can’t let you do this.”

“And why ever not? You know what he did to me.”

“It’s nothing worse than what you’ve done to me!” Harry yells, hands in his hair. “And I still came for you!” His voice breaks at the end. Quietly, he adds, “So please… Let’s just go.”

Voldemort pauses—thank God—and looks at him, curious, confused, a hint rueful maybe. Then his eyes harden, and he speaks, steely and final: “This doesn’t concern you. Stand. Aside.”

Stand aside, you silly girl.

Harry does no such thing, of course.

Instead, he raises his wand.

He brushes his thumb past the still familiar groove in the grip and eyes the holly wand in Voldemort’s hand, holding onto hope, one last Hail Mary, that the laws of magic wouldn’t allow his own wand to turn against him, surely. That it would call a halt to the proceedings à la Priori Incantatem.

That hope disintegrates with the first offensive volley from Voldemort, powerful and true. Harry barely dodges it in time before countering with his own attempt to disarm.

Then the brunt of Voldemort’s power is bearing down on him, merciless and unyielding, and Harry gets lost in it, in the constant push and pull of magic inside him, between them, surrounding him all around. He moves purely on instinct and learned reflexes, holding his ground but not gaining any, either.

There’s none of the playful posturing of their Combat from months prior. Just magic, plain and simple—it’s fast, focused, and too soon, it’s too much.

He’s strong, he’s too strong, is the mantra that repeats with increasing hopelessness in his head, but the counterpoint of don’t give up beats fiercely in equal measure against it, and Harry dredges up every scrap of magic inside him to keep going.

“What do you even hope to accomplish?” Voldemort asks, as Harry catches his breath on the other side of a wall that had been blown through.

It’s a good question, one that Harry only finds the answer to when he sets his eyes on Rob lying broken among the debris.

This was Voldemort, past, present, or future—unchecked, inexorable, savage, ruthless—and whether it was Rob or Muggles or himself facing down the point of his wand, Harry couldn’t just stand by and watch.

"I won’t let you hurt anyone,” he replies through tired pants. He feels as small as he did in 1996 under the dim light of Dumbledore’s mangled office, but he’s committed, completely and unconditionally, to the call of destiny.

He hurls his magic forward, an all-in blitz of angry and desperate energy containing every ounce of will left in his body.

Voldemort’s answering onslaught connects head-on, a current of hot, red power, and Harry fights it off—he tries to fight it off—he can’t fight it off—

Through the rolling rumble of crackling magic, he hears, “You cannot win, Harry.”

But that just sets him off even more, and Harry levers everything he has—everything he is—against the crushing torrent poised to consume him whole.

A little harder.

Just a bit further.

A little bit more.

The pressure lets up. Gradually, like steam escaping through a loose valve. And slowly, it dissolves into weightlessness.

He imagines that this might be what it’s like in the void of space, and he rides out the sensation, drinking in the ethereal quality of the air until—

(he’s thought often about how he’d die. it’s an unavoidable exercise when you’re lucky enough to be born under the auspice of prophecy. he's been through his share of close calls and knows what it feels like by now. technically speaking, he’s already died three times, and every time, it’s been kind of like this, like going under at the dentist’s office, climbing higher and higher on a heady rush drug-induced unconsciousness until it feels like the dreams where you can fly.

the movies get it all sorts of wrong. there’s no ‘going toward the light’. no glowing ghosts of loved ones beckoning you onto the beyond. it’s a bit anti-climactic, really, that this is where it all ends—not on a moonlit rooftop or on a beach at sunset, but here, a mile below ground in a dingy basem*nt where he’d gone to bat for Rob, of all people.

it's the end of an era: harry potter’s well of luck finally run dry. and there’s no overtime miracle, no bout of second, third wind, no timely deus ex machina to bring him from the brink.

this is it.)

—until he feels nothing at all.

Chapter 15: Beyond

Chapter Text

It’s white.

Like. Really, really white.

Harry gets to his feet for a better vantage, but even standing, the horizon is just as invisible and boundless.

“Hello?”

There’s no answer forthcoming from the expanse (not that he’d expected one), and barring any other apparent option, he starts walking—in no specifiable direction. He’s naked, he notes idly, though as soon as the thought has occurred to him, robes and shoes materialize on his body as if some cosmic force had willed them there.

Being dead is pretty weird, it turns out.

Still, for what it’s worth, it’s a convenient distraction from having to dwell on the violent—and disturbing—circ*mstances of his being here. If there’s any truth to humanity’s extensive lore on the afterlife, he’d have the rest of eternity to brood and sulk to his heart’s content anyway.

He walks a hundred yards, a mile, a half-marathon—or he might just be walking in place—it’s impossible to tell in this dimension where the concepts of time and space seem more like afterthoughts in the periphery than axiomatic conventions.

But a short?—long?—time later, the atmosphere shifts, and within a blink, he’s approaching a familiar sight.

Harry snorts. It’s a bit heavy-handed as far as metaphors about passing on are concerned, but it might be that it’s all just a construct of his subconscious. Maybe someone more worldly could have managed to produce something less contrived.

At any rate, he strides toward the platform, wondering if it matters which train he boards.

When he notices a man on one of the benches, he hangs back.

“Um. Hello?”

The man stands and turns toward him then, wearing a face Harry has seen more often in memories than in real life.

“Hiya, Harry.”

It’s an image Harry had memorized long ago from his parents’ wedding photos: a blazing smile of even, white teeth and barely-there crinkles around the eyes, hair thick and wavy and lustrous, like it had been doctored for a shampoo commercial, and a healthy flush to his cheeks that makes him look alive—a thousand times more so than when he’d been a fugitive on the run.

Getting to witness it up close in person—well, it takes all the sting out of dying.

“Sirius!” Harry races toward him, nearly tripping over his feet, and Sirius laughs, meeting him halfway with his arms spread and seizes him in a fierce bear hug. It’s all Harry can do to squeeze back and keep breathing.

The lifetime’s worth of grief and rage, bottled up to the brim deep inside him, tips over and pours out in a messy stream of hot tears and wet gulping breaths.

“I’m sorry—I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

You did great, kid.

We’re so proud of you.

You were so brave.

From anyone else, the flurry of praises and reassurances might sound like meaningless platitudes, but from Sirius, it’s like ocean waves meeting molten lava, erasing away the still-fresh scars of a life half-stolen, fraught with ruin.

When Harry finally pulls away, there’s a damp patch on the curve of Sirius’s shoulder, and he wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands, feeling like fifteen again—hurt and confused and so f*cking lost—as if the last twelve years spent mourning had been one never-ending dream that he’s only just waking from.

As if time had stood still.

Then a roguish grin unfolds on Sirius’s face—God, does he look young like that—and Harry forgets, if for a moment, the combined wretchedness of their miserable, shortchanged lives.

“Come on,” Sirius says, returning to his spot on the bench and patting the space beside him.

Harry sits, then scoots closer just because he can, thighs touching.

“Moved on already, have we?” a voice drawls from his left, and Harry nearly jumps at the sight of Tom Riddle sprawled lazily across the rest of the bench.

“What are you doing here?” Harry blurts. He glances back at Sirius. “What’s he doing here?”

Sirius smiles, small and tight. Instead of answering the question, he says, “I’ll give you two a moment.” Then he just… fades out of existence.

Harry blinks a few times at the empty space that Sirius had occupied before looking back at Riddle—it is Riddle, he’s certain, lacking the laugh lines and greying hairs of Thomas Gaunt and appearing only a few years older than the schoolboy Harry had encountered in the diary. Although, in lieu of Slytherin robes, he’s dressed, bizarrely enough, in a Muggle suit.

“What are you doing here?” Harry repeats.

Riddle crosses his legs and clasps his hands neatly atop his knee. He meets Harry’s gaze, knowing and fond, intractable brown eyes reflecting back the shiny white of their surroundings.

A wash of understanding hits Harry then, cold and sudden, and his field of vision narrows to a single, microscopic point for an infinite moment before stretching back out again.

“You’re it,” he breathes. “You’re the piece of his soul.”

Riddle smiles and peers up at the sky. Or where there would be a sky if there was one in—wherever they are. “I hated it,” he declares quietly. Then, imperceptibly quieter, he amends, “I wanted to hate it.”

It’s five little words, but they cut through to Harry’s core with all the subtlety of a battering ram to the gut.

Discovering the origin—the true origin—of the scar on his head had evoked revulsion, panic, and loathsome, abject terror, and Harry recalls the days when he’d wanted to flay himself raw, if only to temper the persistent itch under his skin. When a stiff breeze in his direction might have shattered him to a million pieces and blown them all away to space.

He’d vilified it, feared it, wished it far, far away—the thing in his scar—

But once that initial shock had abated, it was mostly just going through the motions—without ever giving it a conscious thought.

He’d been so afraid of what he might discover if he had.

“Do you know where it goes?” he asks, co*cking his head toward the train in front of them.

Riddle makes an expression Harry has seen a hundred times on Gaunt—an odd mix of exasperated, soft, and aloof all at once—and he responds, very simply, “On.” He stands, putting his hands in his pants pockets as he faces the tracks, prim and pensive.

He looks like he belongs in a magazine.

“Thank you,” he says, still facing away from Harry.

It’s as earnest and real as Harry has ever heard out of any incarnation of Voldemort, which is how he knows—

“I can’t go with you,” he posits aloud.

Riddle turns, appearing almost indiscernible to the Voldemort that had ordered him to stand aside—that had wavered, for a fleeting moment, when Harry begged. Remorseful is the closest Harry can come to describing the man in front of him now, and it’s just as out of place as the last time—the only time—Harry had experienced it in person.

“You can go back, Harry,” Riddle explains.

Harry stands. “Go back where?”

“I think you know.” Riddle looks tired now, wrung out and a little dazed, as if he’s been awake for too long.

“But what about—” Harry stops himself, you, him, Voldemort, all on the tip of his tongue.

“Lord Voldemort is no more,” Riddle proclaims with his usual dramatic finish. “The prophecy has been fulfilled.”

Harry laughs nervously as he says, “What, just like that?”

And either must die at the hand of the other. He’d recited it to himself over and over. Ever since Dumbledore had revealed the prophecy’s contents to him in full.

Yet, as much as he’d obsessed over it, there had always been but one conceivable outcome.

And this—this was far from it.

“Can’t you stay?” he tries instead. A spark of dread catches fire in his veins and spreads throughout the entire length of his body while the faint drum of don’t go in his head beats louder and louder.

“No.” That it isn’t a matter of choice goes unsaid.

The universe’s unwillingness to spare him even an inch of good grace extended through death, it seemed.

But the bitterness dissipates as familiar arms envelop him, all-consuming and so, so warm, and he hears in his ear, “You… You are—remarkable, Harry Potter,” expelled in a tender breath. Riddle steps back and raises a hand to cup his cheek and thumbs at the dried tear tracks down his face, the other, moving to brush back the hair covering his scar. The pad of an index finger traces the jagged line, top to bottom, before drawing back as he turns away to board.

I wanted to hate it.

“Will I see you again?” Harry calls out.

Riddle pauses and cranes his head toward him with a wistful smile on his face. “I think so,” he says. Then he’s turning back and disappearing into the train.

Harry startles as a whistle sounds and the engines roar to life.

“He’s going to be fine,” Sirius tells him, appearing to his right soundlessly as if he’s been there the whole time.

“What’s it like, where he’s going?” Harry closes his eyes and rests his head on Sirius’s shoulder.

“Peaceful.”

Then there are the squeals and creaks of hydraulics as the train begins to move, and they both watch on, still and silent, until the last car recedes from view.

---

“So you’re going back?”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” To decline the offer seems tantamount to suicide.

Sirius shrugs, unconcerned. “You can do whatever you want.”

They sit together in comfortable silence as Harry weighs his options, feeling disjointed yet oddly calmed by the certain clarity of death.

He thinks about the crumbs of the life he left behind. The beat-up jumble of chaos and loss and—mostly, nothing. The legacy of his twenty-eight years on earth that, in the end, had amounted to little beyond a destiny prescribed by a prophecy just as old.

But he also thinks about freedom. About clean slates. About an existence unmoored by fate.

It might be nice. To renounce the constantly vigilant lifestyle, to break loose from all the existential angst and stress-induced acid-reflux.

To at last be set adrift in the world with no one but himself to answer to.

The prospect was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

So instead, he asks, “Mum and Dad—?”

“They’re here. Your grandparents, too.”

“And they’re okay?”

“Yeah, they’re okay. Happy.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “Can I just. Stay here a while? With you?”

“Whatever you want, Harry.”

So he stays.

There’s no forwards or backwards, as far as Harry can tell. He just sits on that bench with Sirius, and they catch up on twelve years—longer than that, really—of learning about one another in all the ways that stray far from their pathetic and tragically short shared history.

Harry tells Sirius about his life post-Hogwarts: the dull monotony of Muggle high school in America (what the hell is high school?), a misbegotten experiment with mushrooms in college (your dad and I tried to grow weed a few times), the handful of near-death encounters his first year out in the field (you got those instincts from your mum), the drunken celebration of his graduation from junior operative and the ensuing overnight stay in Muggle jail (like godfather like godson, eh?).

The mood dampens noticeably at that.

Sirius pulls Harry in a tiny bit closer with the arm already hanging across his shoulder while Harry teeters on that familiar knife’s edge, bracketed by guilt and anger to either side.

Then Sirius chirps, “Is it weird that I’d rather be kissed by a dementor than be strip-searched by one?”

The comment draws a surprised snort from Harry. Sirius follows suit, and for the next few minutes, the void of not-King’s Cross overflows with the sound of uncontrolled cackling and breathless gasping. When Harry finally manages to pull himself together, all it takes is a glimpse of the goofy grin on Sirius’s face to be set off again, and they keep going like that for a while, chaining fits of laughter until Harry’s cheeks hurt.

They settle down eventually (but not before they each have drawn some extremely questionable—and gross—conclusions concerning dementor anatomy), and Sirius recounts the highlights of his own life: Regulus and growing up together and later, drifting apart; his first years at Hogwarts and overcoming outdated familial expectations with the help of new friends; the mostly failed ventures at playing wingman to his best friend’s courtship of half the girls in their year; his own account of July 31^st, 1980 and becoming a godfather—room 207 in the post-natal ward at St. Mungo’s—and promptly being spat up on.

Harry soaks up every word as Sirius prattles on about anything and everything—raunchy anecdotes from school, outlandish Black family traditions, helpful tips on Animagus transformations (if you ever feel like giving it a go), awful-but-secretly-funny jokes skirting the bounds of political correctness—until he finally seems to run out of things to say and they lapse into silence again.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” Sirius tells him a long moment later. He pulls Harry’s head toward him to kiss the hairline at his temple. “I’m proud of you.”

This is what it feels like, Harry thinks, pressing closer. Acceptance, with a capital A.

He smiles to himself as a veil of cathartic bliss settles snugly over him, and he breathes deep, drawing in air that has never felt so bracing.

“It’s time,” Sirius says when they draw apart.

Harry blinks as their surroundings begin to dim. “Oh.”

“You’ll be fine.”

And Harry pictures him then, beaming face and all, swearing the same to his father the hundreds of times he would have needed the extra encouragement, and he carefully slots the image away to replace the bedraggled ones that had haunted him for a lifetime.

“I’ll see you,” Harry says.

The last thing he makes out as the darkness falls is the unmoving silhouette of his godfather with a hand raised to bid good-bye, and—it’s so much better than last time.

The memory of watching him disappear into the veil, always so vivid and within reach, has never felt more distant.

---

Harry wakes on his back to the scent of fresh earth and wet moss. There’s dirt under his fingernails and leaves in his hair. The pine needles digging into his butt crack he registers at the same time as his nakedness.

He squints as the sun shines down onto the clearing, severe and unmerciful and woefully indifferent to Harry Potter’s triumphant return to the land of the living.

It’s no homecoming parade, but better than most of the alternatives that cross his mind.

He casts a passable Cooling Charm and, with a little extra effort, manages to transfigure some discarded tree limbs into clothes that—mostly—fit. He’s mostly neglected the previous year’s resolution to expand his wandless repertoire (there had been more pressing sh*t on his mind, so sue him), so the full esthetic rounds out to something more resembling homeless-beach-bum than dark-lord-vanquisher.

Oh, well.

A notable marker of a post-prophecy existence, Harry finds, is a patent lack of f*cks to give.

So he overlooks how the artificial fabric irritates his skin and how the shoes are somehow less comfortable than going barefoot. Instead, he takes in the surroundings: the lush meadow, the dense tree line in the distance, the cloudless blue sky, the resounding drone of insect mating calls, the gentle wind carrying the mellow fragrance of wildflowers… it’s a multi-sensory postcard. Idyllic.

An otherwise impressive and fitting backdrop to the first day of the rest of his life, if not for the fact that it happens to be in the middle of nowhere.

Well. He’s not the Chosen One for nothing.

He centers his magic on a mental image of his London apartment, and—wand or no wand—he leaves the muggy wilderness behind.

---

‘Lord Voldemort is no more,’ Riddle had said.

Harry, whose track record at telling the difference between reality and dreams had never inspired a lot of confidence in anyone, least of all himself, sets out to verifying that claim as soon as he’s dressed in clothes that don’t scratch and equipped with an old spare wand.

He wants to attribute it to survival instinct or to a sense of duty, at the minimum—carrying out the due diligence that perhaps Dumbledore had shirked the first time around—to prove to the world or to himself, mostly, that: yes, the Dark Lord is dead, for real this time.

But more than that, there’s a void somewhere inside him, impossible to ignore, where a piece of himself has been clumsily cut away, and Harry has to—he has to know if this is how he’s meant to live out the rest of his life.

So he Apparates back to the sublevels underneath the Woolworth Building, a logical place to start as any, if vaguely morbid. Or it would have been, Harry thinks, as he’s met with deserted hallways with no signs of the destruction from before.

It feels like—and looks like—it’s been months since he’d walked these corridors last, and he might believe as much if it weren’t for the display on his phone setting him straight: barely twelve hours have passed since he made the same Apparition jump in his pursuit of Voldemort.

He retraces his steps back to the make-shift office where he’d discovered Voldemort and Rob, but even here, there’s nothing but bare concrete walls.

It’s hard to tell if he’s more relieved or disappointed at the sight—the former, certainly, at the distinct lack of dead bodies, either Rob’s or Voldemort’s, and as for the latter, that he’d once again wound up in that hatefully familiar headspace of questioning his grip on reality.

God.

Maybe none of this is real.

Maybe—he’s still locked away in the cupboard under the stairs, and this entire existence has been the imagined escapist fantasy of a boy driven to madness through prolonged isolation.

Or maybe he is dead. And he’s Bruce Willis with better hair, continuing to go about his day-to-day without realizing it.

Or maybe he’s a f*cking brain in a vat hooked up to a supercomputer, and his perception, reality, consciousness—all of it—are just simulated fabrications produced by electrical impulses zapping his neurons.

Harry punches the wall, immediately regretting it, and he wonders, as he blocks out the pain, if Dr. Kessen is still practicing—and what kind of experience he has in helping patients through post-traumatic psychotic breaks.

He takes a deep breath.

Whatever.

It’s fine, really.

What’s one more unanswered question in his life? Peanuts, in the grand scheme of things.

And nothing he isn’t over-qualified to work out himself given enough time.

Besides, Sirius had promised: He’d be fine.

---

Awaiting him at the gates this time is Professor McGonagall. Or rather, Headmistress McGonagall. Despite the years and the change in title, she looks exactly the same in timeless tartan robes and square-rimmed glasses, hair held back tight in an immaculate bun.

“May I help you?”

Christ. She sounds the same, too. Brisk. Stern.

For a second, Harry is a child again, gearing up for a caning after a reckless joyride spent chasing after Malfoy and a stolen Remembrall.

“I’m looking for Professor Snape?” Harry says, adult-like. This is a thing that adults say.

“And you are?”

“Jason Evans. I’m a friend of Severus’s.” Sometimes, the universe did look out for Harry: he doesn’t stumble over the name.

“Is he expecting you?”

“He’s not not expecting me?” he answers since that much is true. It’s not his first rodeo—trying to pull one over on her—but it’s no less nerve-wracking, even as a grown man, to meet her eye-to-eye. There’s some kind of old-lady voodoo going on there that inexplicably compels him to tuck in his shirt and confess all his sins.

Pursed lips and narrowed eyes are all he gets for a response, but he stands his ground, held at bay by the reproving tag line of anything you say can and will be used against you repeating ominously in his head.

McGonagall eventually cedes with a cross humph, unceremoniously opening the gates and beckoning Harry in, “Well, come along then.”

The and no funny business, Potter, he tacks on in his head.

She escorts him past the double doors, through the Great Hall, down the moving staircases, and finally, along the drab dungeon corridors. Since neither of them are the type prone to idle chatter, the journey passes by in silence.

At some point, it occurs to Harry to come clean to her. Remember me? he imagines himself teasing.

It had been a recurring fantasy once—reclaiming the life he’d fled—especially during those tiresome years without magic.

But for the moment, he can’t find it in himself to care one way or the other. There’s only so much his attention span is equipped to handle.

“Severus? You have a guest.”

Her voice lurches him back to reality where he’s stopped at the open door to Snape’s office.

The man in question is sat behind his desk, quill in hand, and when he looks up, the perennial scowl on his face fades into something slightly less threatening. Expectant, almost.

“Thank you, Minerva,” he nods. As she leaves, he spells the door shut and motions for Harry to sit in one of the chairs across from him. Before his butt even touches the seat, Snape snaps, “So?”

Harry meets Snape’s death glare head-on. It probably won’t turn him to stone.

“So?” Harry parrots back, arching his eyebrows, reflexively defiant.

For a long minute, Snape glowers at him, unblinking, and Harry counters with a shrug of his own and an unspoken meh, suppressing his conditioned fear of detentions and lost points.

You have no power here, he thinks insanely.

Snape breaks first, of course. “How did you do it?”

“Do what?” Harry asks. Even if Snape already seems to be riding the edge of a complete meltdown, Harry can’t help having lost the thread of the conversation before it even began.

Right on schedule, Snape’s chair clacks forcefully against the wall as he stands, palms lying flat on top of the desk. “Do what,” he snarls. A pause. Then he yanks up the sleeve of his left arm and holds it out at Harry accusingly, fist clenched tight.

Harry stares blankly at the pale strip of skin, Mark-free and wholly bare, to the deafening soundtrack of the heartbeat he can feel pulsing somewhere near his throat.

The prophecy has been fulfilled.

“He’s gone,” Harry whispers.

Snape—the bastard—uncaring or oblivious to Harry’s worldview tilting 180 degrees, says, “Yes—obviously. How did you do it?”

How did I do it?

I died.

Just like you said.

“I died,” he breathes. “I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Of all the—” Snape looks as though he’s a second from dragging Harry up by his collar and knocking him against the wall.

“I—” Harry cuts himself off, having started the sentence with nothing to say.

He makes the better of it and instead, he spells loose the prosthetic on his forehead and peels it off.

Are you really Harry Potter? he hears in his head.

Harry had put up with the question a thousand times—at Hogwarts, most of the shops in Diagon Alley, the Ministry of Magic, and on a rare occasion, Sainsbury’s, during an emergency grocery run for Aunt Petunia.

His reply had always started like this: brushing back the fringe covering his scar.

Snape’s eyes follow the motion keenly, as if to uncover some sleight of hand. Harry knows when Snape sees it—his expression falters, eyes wide and mouth open.

“He’s dead,” Snape says with the steadfast conviction of a sitting president denying having had sexual relations with that woman.

“Just—uh—temporarily,” Harry rebuts. “Long enough to count, I guess. If you’ve heard from Gringotts already.” A notice, more or less, that Harry had arranged in the event of his death—all to give Snape the green-light for the eventual follow-through.

Though evidently, it hadn’t been necessary.

“Show me,” Snape commands, prodding pointedly at his mental shields, and well—yeah, that makes sense.

So Harry envisions the fortress inside his mind housing all the dusty boxes labeled ‘Harry Potter stuff’—and he drains the moat, pokes holes in the ramparts, and dismantles the barricade at the gates.

And he lets himself be seen.

Snape is an unobtrusive presence as he navigates Harry’s memories quickly and efficiently and with a courtesy and restraint he’d never once demonstrated throughout their any of their Occlumency lessons.

Harry watches on as versions of his younger self live out the past decade.

Idling in front of his locker at Lowell Memorial High School.

Shaking hands with the dean as he receives his degree.

Re-learning magic, running endless training drills.

Meeting Voldemort as Thomas Gaunt, coming into his employ.

Being handed a dead man’s Pensieve memory.

Dueling the Dark Lord, dying for it.

Loitering in a colorless train station.

Choosing to come back.

Snape withdraws from his mind, and there’s a stretch of interminable, truly uncomfortable silence as he absorbs the information. Harry fiddles with a piece of loose fiber on his pants while he waits.

“You willed me part of your vault,” Snape eventually grits out as he sits back down. It catches Harry off-guard, mostly having expected to field questions about Voldemort.

“Um—yeah? Just… getting my ‘affairs in order’ and all that,” Harry mumbles.

Snape doesn’t have to know that it’d been a product of childish spite and gallows humor—a petty grab at the last word, or words, rather, expressly being, ‘f*ck you’—to get back at him for being so sh*tty to him at school.

It had seemed pretty funny at the time.

Harry clears his throat before asking, in the least elegant segue known to man, “How did that happen?” He casually gestures toward where the Mark should have been.

“I don’t know,” Snape answers stiffly. “I woke up, and it was gone.”

“But,” Harry starts, “Nagini—you said—”

“I know what I said, Potter. It’s possible that Dumbledore was mistaken.”

“Oh.”

More silence.

His scar itches.

“Your mother—” Snape pauses, lips pressed tight, and shakes his head. “What will you do now?”

Harry doesn’t press about his mum. He’d heard most of it from Sirius anyway in a series of stories more contrite and somber than the rest.

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. Then with a shameless grin, “Do you know anyone who’s hiring?”

Snape doesn’t share any employment prospects, but he does share his good Firewhisky.

And while at the end of the day, they aren’t, by any means, friends (despite what Harry might claim behind Snape’s back), there’s an awkward kind of fellowship between them, born out of the traumas shared as quasi-war-comrades and pawns of greater men.

Relics of a forgotten past.

It’s a comfort, not having to bear the burden alone.

---

He doesn’t actually mean to move into Voldemort’s house. But he thinks of Kreacher and the kind of messy ends likely to befall house-elves lacking proper households to manage.

So he stays.

Lying to himself had always come easy.

The creep-factor is, yes, admittedly high, squatting in a dead man’s home uninvited, particularly given his history with said dead man, but Cloppy makes for decent company most days and doesn’t give him sh*t when he has breakfast for dinner.

It’s only lonely sometimes, like when he turns around and expects to see Voldemort there, leaning against the bookcase, poring over the latest drafts of whatever new legislation is on the docket. Or when he corrals all the tomatoes on his plate off to one side since Voldemort likes them better than he does.

He’s gone, he tells himself every time he wakes up pawing at the empty side of the bed.

It’s fine, on the days the hole in his chest seems to ache more than usual.

And—

I miss him, a few times in an intoxicated stupor after too many glasses of fancy alcohol Harry doesn’t know how to pronounce.

It’s a different brand of grief than what he’s used to.

There’s a lot less guilt involved, for one. Less hurt, in some ways. More, in others. The finger-pointing and resentment usually reserved for himself, he directs at Voldemort. At Rob. At Malfoy. At whatever higher power had cursed his existence with all the bad good luck in the world.

That summer passes slowly.

Harry extends his win streak against Cloppy in chess to nineteen and catalogs the books in the library, just because. Which is how he learns about Horcruxes and the horrific process through which he had become one.

He steers clear of the books for a while after that.

Fall fares a little better.

They start a garden—mostly low-maintenance flowers and root veggies—and Harry comes to appreciate and later, resent, Cloppy’s versatility in the kitchen for turnip-based dishes.

He journals, but it’s boring when there’s no one writing back, so he stops after a few days.

And all the while, the blank space inside him remains blank, and he thinks on the days that are bleakest: I should have gotten on that train with him.

---

For old times’ sake, he returns to Switzerland for the winter.

It seems like eons ago—the Christmas that had actually felt like Christmas—learning how to ski, sitting by the fire with a glass of eggnog, exchanging presents.

Contemplating killing Voldemort in his sleep.

Life had seemed simpler then.

It hadn’t been, objectively, Harry knows; he wouldn’t belittle the hardships of his past self so flippantly. But that Harry had had a purpose. Problems to solve. That Harry had had a job.

Meanwhile, present Harry—layabout, recluse Harry—drifts. Aimless. Already half-dead.

On the outside, nothing has changed. A picture-perfect panorama of snowy ridges sparkling under the sun, a cool, crisp wind that that nips at the edges of his Warming Charm, and so much white, pristine and untouched, that he has to wonder if he’s dead again.

He shakes off the thought and enters the chalet through wards that still welcome him, into a lounge as lavish as everything else that had belonged to Thomas Gaunt.

A bear rug, magically enlarged, spread across the entire length of the floor. Paintings of famous ships and famous horses and famous fields hanging on the walls. A high-end couch resembling a torture device, even if it’s probably the most comfortable piece of furniture Harry has ever slept on.

And for no reason he can conceive beyond the above-average longevity of Voldemort’s magic, even a fire in the giant hearth, crackling gently in the background.

He makes his way toward the bedroom which is just as excessive. He’d said as much back then, eyeing the monstrously large bed for the first time, to which Voldemort had responded with the usual reference to Harry’s boorish upbringing.

The picture frame on the bedside table catches his attention like a red-inked circle on a spot-the-difference puzzle, and he sits on the bed as he takes it in hand, spelling it to move again.

What had Voldemort seen in it?

Enough, certainly, to warrant its display.

But had he seen the joy? The unfeigned ease of it all?

The love?

Harry can feel it now, the heady breath on his neck, the warm weight pinning him down, the heat cutting through the ice on his face and at his back, pressing into that spot carved out explicitly—exclusively—for him.

“Harry.”

Harry can hear it now, same as he’s heard a thousand times in his dreams.

An overture. A claim. A plea.

“Harry,” he hears again, and he looks up—to a mirage.

He presses his palms into eyes squeezed shut as he counts down from twenty.

But when he opens his eyes, he’s still there.

“Tom.”

Chapter 16: Epilogue

Chapter Text

At sixteen years old, Tom Riddle became Lord Voldemort.

It transpired in a girls’ washroom, not to the clamoring exaltation of devotees but to a hollow silence interspersed with drips from a leaky faucet and scrapes of basilisk scales against tile.

A shade underwhelming, all things considered, that the sole witnesses to the birth of his ascendancy had been but an ancient snake and a bloodied corpse.

No matter.

Over the years, he conquered death again, multiple times over, scattering the undying remnants of his soul throughout the most impassable corners of Europe. It dawned a new era, and thus, he cemented a legacy more than worthy of Salazar Slytherin.

Yet at present, none of that made a difference.

Potter lay on the ground, as lifeless and still as Myrtle Warren had all those years ago, and Voldemort, for all his mastery of the most obscure occult, lacked the ability to do a single thing about it.

He gripped the wand—his wand—tight in his hand until the wood began to creak, and he beheld the unfathomable.

The Boy-Who-Lived, felled at last.

The absence of his magic unsettled him, a score of magnitudes more so than the sight of his body. That once summery glow, fierce and vibrant and pure, doused to nothing but dust and ash.

It made him ill.

There was a crushing weight embedded in his chest that nearly knocked him to his knees, and he felt an urgent compulsion to pray, like he had so often during the years before magic.

But just like back then, there were no answers.

---

Voldemort had never mourned before.

He was acquainted well enough with the premise, though he had never quite gleaned the purpose for it.

It was a f*ckless thing to dwell on events past, lives lost. Even those years spent crawling along the dirt as a disembodied wraith exiled to an eternal state of non-existence—even then, he had not begrudged the series of decisions that had wrought his demise. To obsess over bygones was as counterproductive an activity as crying about it.

But as ever, Harry Potter proved himself the exception.

Irrepressible flickers of blinding smiles and lilting laughs drove him to frenzied madness and acute anguish in equal measure, and for a time, Voldemort wandered, insensate and directionless, haunted by the memory of a man that could not be erased.

Indeed, grief was something foreign and possibly imagined. But pain. Pain had been a companionable presence for as far as he could remember.

There were knives in his chest, jabbing indelicately into the flesh of his heart, and a vice within his abdomen, clamped down so tightly it was difficult to breathe.

And he wondered if perhaps Potter had fulfilled the prophecy after all.

Then he saw him.

Hale and whole and alive, Merlin, alive.

At that moment, he felt a sensation he had never known—something untainted and unqualified—and the chronic ache in his chest morphed into a weightless brilliance that set him ablaze from the inside out.

The power to vanquish the Dark Lord, indeed.

---

---

---

There were moments in his life with Harry when the phrase and they lived happily ever after unwittingly flashed in his thoughts, though more often than not, the reality was far from such. Their peaks were high, certainly, but their valleys were just as low.

Yet, even when Harry’s most obstinate collided with Tom’s most uncivil, he would not have traded it away for all the magic in the world.

They could not be two more different people, the discarded products of the cruel but divergent circ*mstances of their wayward youths, with generations between them, so it surprised him little that their opinions ran counter to each other more often than not, like on the topic of the growing Muggle population or their preferred dueling stances or Tom’s more… suspect research endeavors, to name a few.

On a rather notable occasion, they had rowed extensively (and loudly, on Harry’s part) about the acceptable length of time an article of underclothing could be worn before it required laundering. In the heat of it, Tom had pronounced him an uncouth swine, and Harry had spat back with lunatic control freak.

And then there was the current matter at hand:

“Come on, it’s just dinner,” Harry was saying. “I never ask you for anything.”

Tom looked up from his reading. “You ask me for things all the time. Why, just last night—”

An undignified noise somewhere between a squawk and a growl cut him off, and Harry protested, “That—that doesn’t count—shut up!”

As usual, the sight of the pinkish blush brought a smile to Tom’s lips. “I hardly see the need for the charade, regardless. Simply tell them the truth,” he said, returning to his book. He turned a page and prepared for the worn argument. It was needlessly complicated, as most ideas conceived by the Chosen One were wont to be, stemming from an abundance of impractical and unfounded altruism, or what Tom had come to classify as ‘Potter logic’.

A hand flipped the book closed with Tom’s fingers still between the pages. “Must we?” he sighed.

Harry sat down and nudged him with his shoulder. “If they know, they’re gonna want to give it all back. And then it’ll be this big thing, and maybe. Maybe, on some level, they’ll wish I hadn’t come back.”

“Harry,” Tom began, fully intending to dismiss the inanity of it all with a cutting aside somewhere in the vicinity of ‘who cares?’, but Harry continued,

“I only just want to get to know them again.”

The faint plaintiveness in his voice bothered Tom, if vaguely so, but it was the expression on his face, uncommonly somber and hesitant, that gave him pause. And per the norm whenever Harry Potter was concerned, Tom yielded, clear past sanity and reason.

Consequently, the end of the week found him answering the door to welcome the Granger-Weasleys into his home.

---

Weasley inhaled the roast as if his previous meals had consisted exclusively of war rations, and Tom wondered about what goings-on in the Gryffindor Boys’ Dormitory had cultivated such atrocious eating habits in its residents.

To distract himself from the spectacle, he remarked, “So I hear that you've resigned from your post at the Ministry, Ms. Granger.”

Harry looked up from his plate with wide eyes, a fork halfway to his mouth. “What? You did?”

“Oh, yes. It’s been almost a month now,” Granger answered between bites. “I'm pursuing a personal project.”

“I admit, the news took me by surprise. You were on the fast track to Department Head, as I recall,” Tom said.

“The Minister offered it to her when she gave her two weeks’,” Weasley declared, mouth half-full. Tom suppressed a flinch at a glimpse of half-chewed parsnips.

“What are you working on now then?” Harry asked. He was genuinely curious, it seemed, rather unlike when he would inquire after Tom’s late-night reading materials.

“Well.” Granger paused, a flush on her cheeks. “It’s called SPEW. The Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

And for the next half-hour, she rattled off an 11-point plan spanning the next eighteen months on how she would build the infrastructure required to sustain a population of free elves, which included components like subsidized fair pay arrangements, hotlines for reporting abuse, and administrative and legal support networks. Following that, there was the recounting of a separate, if not equally detailed, blueprint for public relations and donor engagement.

Two courses later, she finished, “I requested the funding for it at the Ministry I don’t know how many times, but they could never fit it into the budget.”

If Tom felt at all sorry for personally having denied those requests on more than one occasion, it was only on account of the fact that he’d been forced to listen at length to the end result.

“And I assume that you were able to secure those resources through private means, then?” he asked, ignoring his growing irritation at Harry who had been eyeing Granger adoringly as she spoke.

Her expression shuttered, and Weasley looked down at his tea. “We’re financing it ourselves, actually,” she said, and her excitement from before diminished. “We came by a rather sizable windfall recently, and. Well, we thought this might be a good way to put the Galleons to use.”

“That’s so great,” said Harry, who harbored about as much interest in social justice reform as he did in medieval stonemasonry.

Weasley apparently shared the same sentiment because he muttered, “I still think he would have liked my Quidditch idea better.”

Granger rolled her eyes at him while Tom and Harry pretended they didn’t understand the reference.

“More wine?” Tom offered.

Their guests both glanced at their watches and shook their heads.

“Rose and Hugo will have a fit if we’re not back for storytime,” Granger said, placing her napkin on the table. “One of these days, they’ll realize that the world won’t end if they happen to miss a night of Goodnight Moon.”

“Speak for yourself, woman.” Weasley pressed what remained of his tart into his mouth as he stood. “Don’t let the pantsuit fool you,” he said to Tom. “She’s a right sucker for them.”

Granger gave her husband a light shove and crowed, “Me? You’re the one that just has to tag along to all the birthday parties.”

“Yes, but that’s more to do with my love of cake than anything else,” Weasley grinned.

“And,” Granger persisted, “I’ve only ever maintained that it’s enough that they’re happy and healthy, and if bedtime rituals are what it takes, well–” She blushed and turned to Tom and Harry. “Thank you so much for dinner. As you can see, we’ve been a bit overdue for some adult interaction.”

“Any time,” Harry replied. “And you’ll owl me about how we can get involved with SPEW?”

Tom was annoyed, though oddly touched at being included, and smiled, only because Weasley was looking in his direction.

“Definitely. I’ll put the packet together this weekend. Thanks, Jason.”

A few waves and an awkward handshake later, their guests Disapparated.

---

“You ever think about how we ended up like this?”

Post-coitus, Harry tended to be chatty. Yet another dissimilarity between them, as org*sms only ever served Tom to lull him to sleep.

“Hm? What do you mean?” he asked, though he had a good idea.

“I mean,” Harry breathed into his chest, “it’s kinda f*cked up, don’t you think?”

Tom, who had devoted his entire existence to doing exactly as he pleased and when it pleased him, held himself to no such boundaries or judgments.

“No,” he responded, hoping that would be that. They didn’t talk about Before, which suited him just fine.

Erroneously, he had thought the same of Harry, who burrowed his face into the crook of Tom's neck and mumbled quietly, “It’s Halloween soon.”

Ah.

The glaring truth of the matter was that Tom had thought about it. Often.

How could someone who bore the burden of goodness so purposefully, who had survived a lifetime of grievances and loss, stand the mere sight of the man who had inflicted them?

“I’m sorry,” Tom said. Although he wasn’t. Without Godric’s Hollow and without every drop of blood he had spilled between then and now, he would never have had this.

“You’re not,” Harry scoffed, watery.

There was a stretch of silence then, and Tom wondered if Harry had fallen asleep. But before he himself could drift off, he heard, “It doesn’t matter, anyway.” Harry raised his head and looked at Tom eye-to-eye with a small smile on his face. “I don’t think they’d mind all that much, really.”

“Oh?” Tom, having crossed wands with the Potters on multiple, violent instances, rather disagreed.

Harry lay back down, pressing a cheek into Tom’s shoulder, and said, “Well, it’s like Hermione said, right? 'Happy and healthy'.” He wrapped an arm around Tom’s waist and exhaled a breath that warmed his skin. “And there’s not much to complain about that.”

Tom swallowed and ran a hand through Harry's hair. “No. I suppose there isn't.”

THE END