Harry should not have survived.
He had seen the Fiendfyre and felt the flames' heat. But even beyond that, he certainly should not have survived a few tons of brick and whatever else that fell on his head. And yet, he was vaguely aware that he was alive.
The plan all along had been that he would be alive. And that Tom would be there when all was said and done. Tom would remain when and if Harry managed to destroy Voldemort and all his other horcruxes along with him.
It had been a relatively simple plan. Tom was still intricately tied to Voldemort. There was no Tom without Voldemort. Making a horcrux required some truly heinous acts, but commandeering the life of one was strangely simple.
Voldemort wouldn't be able to survive the Fiendfyre. It would consume him whole. But even as the fire destroyed him and all the horcruxes around it, the souls themselves wouldn't be killed. Tom had theorized there was somewhere beyond. He didn't know what or how temporary it was, but he thought it might exist. And he could use that. Pull that energy through the tie he shared with Voldemort into himself before it went beyond. All that would be left of Voldemort and the other horcruxes, including the one in Harry, was a life force, enough to make Tom into something human. Voldemort would be destroyed, and Tom would come out the other side as a real boy.
Or so they thought.
Harry had teased Tom about it briefly in the nights leading up to his journey to Malfoy Manor. He compared Tom to Pinocchio when he couldn't sleep, thinking about the million ways their plan could go wrong. Tom didn't take too kindly to the comparison. Especially considering Pinocchio was initially made of wood, and they were about to cleanse everything with fire.
Harry knew very little of Fiendfyre when Tom brought it up months before when they were planning. Tom explained that it was a type of enchanted, magical fire that almost nothing could put out. Water didn't even work to snuff out the flames. But suffocating it would.
"Almost everything relies on oxygen," Tom had explained. "Even Fiendfyre. Magic isn't the fuel; it's the ignition source. Without oxygen, the fire will die."
Harry had argued that there was nothing to cut off the oxygen, that the fire would rage without a check.
"Not exactly," Tom had answered. "I doubt you will be going anywhere that isn't within the complete control of my other self. Somewhere that will heavily warded."
"I don't see how that helps."
Tom rolled his eyes. "Education these days." He muttered to himself. "He's trying to remain undetected until he is ready. Those wards will be strong enough to hide even him from the detection of the Ministry and the Order. The Fiendfyre will destroy everything, including the wards. But wards of that strength will collapse inward before dissolving. They will take everything with them when they come down, including the oxygen. There won't be anything left."
"Except us, right?" Harry had asked, wanting the confirmation.
"If we do this right."
"I don't really understand," Harry said after a minute. "I sorta get how you will live. Other planes of existence and energy never being destroyed and all that," Tom rolled his eyes at Harry's oversimplification but didn't bother to correct him. "But how will I live?"
"Fiendfyre rarely destroys the caster if you keep control."
"And how do I keep control?" Harry asked.
"You just do. You don't have another choice."
Harry was confident he should not have survived.
Coming back to reality was a slow process.
It felt similar to when Harry had fallen from his broom years before. Reality had slipped away as quickly then as it had when the Fiendfyre consumed them all. But coming back was slow, like climbing up through a pile of mud when the earth was pulling you in the other direction. He felt vaguely like he had been hit on the head and probably had when the whole of the manor collapsed on top of him. He remembered head injuries from his childhood when Dudley would push him a little too hard when they were little kids and then a little too on purpose when they grew older.
Harry remembered all too well the feeling of his head rattling, something within him knocking back and forth when his head collided with the ground or a fist. It felt like that now.
The smell of smoke was the first real thing to filter into his senses again, beyond the sensation in his head. The flames had roared when they erupted from his wand. But as his hearing slowly returned, he couldn't hear that same roar. Or even the faint crackle like the fire in the common room. The fire was out just as Tom told him it would be.
He did hear what sounded like something hard shifting above him. The rubble, Harry thought. He was surprised that even rubble survived. He was under the impression that almost everything would be vaporized between the fire and wards.
Harry forced himself to take a deep breath as he returned to consciousness. The air tasted like acid on his tongue, and it felt like the fire still raged, though only now it was in his lungs.
He coughed as he opened his eyes, blearily taking in the dark surroundings.
The manor had indeed crashed down on his head. Only tiny slivers of light filtered through the cracks, but even those weren't enough to fully illuminate the area.
Harry thought he should at least be able to feel the weight of the rubble above him. But he felt nothing. Breathing through the smoke, while challenging, wasn't like inhaling when the wind was knocked out of him. There was no resistance to the action of his lungs expanding and deflating.
Harry's vision was fuzzy around the edges as he blinked in the darkness. The smoke likely didn't help whatever had happened to his head. He knew he needed to crawl upwards, to get through the rubble to fresh air. He only hoped his friends would arrive quickly enough to help him.
And then he had to find Tom.
If their plan worked, Tom would be buried under the rubble with Harry. Harry thought finding Tom from where he was would be nearly impossible. He had to get out and look that way.
Harry forced his head to move, trying to will his body into cooperating enough to get him out. He was able to move his head without any resistance; nothing stopped him from shifting where he was. And that was immediately strange to him. He should have been buried under at least a little rubble; something should have been there to make his movements more difficult.
But there was nothing. It was like waking up in the Hospital Wing. Slow but unimpeded.
He gradually became aware that he was lying on his back, his head on the ground. Or whatever remained of it. But there was nothing above him. No rubble, no Hospital Wing blanket. Nothing. Just air.
His limbs moved sluggishly as he pulled his arm up, finding nothing to stop him from his movements.
Harry blinked rapidly, letting his arm flop back onto the ground beside him.
Above him, he could make out the faint outline of rubble. Of split bricks and some splintered wood. But it wasn't touching him at all. In fact, it was nowhere near him. It was like it was pressed into something above him, hovering in the air, but he could not touch it. Nor was it able to touch him.
His head swam as he sat up slowly, still staring at the space above him.
"Oh good, you're awake." A voice said off to Harry's side.
Harry's head whipped toward it, finding someone standing beside him off to his right. He looked like Thomas or Tom but slightly different. He was leaning against the remains of some pillar, his arm propped against it. He still had some of the same features as Tom and Thomas, his high cheekbones and dark curls. Though his hair was sprinkled with grey and his eyes were blood red, though strangely human, despite the color.
"What?" The man asked, his voice strangely velvet-like. "Not who you were expecting?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but his voice was stuck in his throat.
"I know," The man cooed. "You were expecting Tom." He clucked his tongue. "I must say, I do appreciate you bringing the remaining pieces of my soul back to me. I could not have done it without you."
The man moved closer, kneeling next to Harry and reaching for the locket hanging limply around his neck. He toyed with it in his long, piano-player fingers.
"Both pieces," His red eyes flicked toward Harry's forehead.
"You're-" Harry began.
"Tom?" The man supplied. "Thomas?" He quickly swung his leg over Harry's, settling over him and straddling him. "Perhaps you're thinking of the piece of me you've met briefly in your own mind."
Horror.
That feeling slowly began creeping into Harry's sluggish and overwhelmed mind.
"Don't worry," The man, Voldemort Harry was beginning to realize, said in the same cooing voice — a false comfort. "I am still Tom. And Thomas. And Voldemort. And every other version of me." Voldemort's hand reached for Harry's hair, slowly running his fingers through the wild strands.
"But-"
Voldemort clucked his tongue again. "I know," He said, false sympathy weaved through his voice. "You were expecting that you could win. That you would defeat the big bad and all your dreams would come true." Voldemort's hand suddenly tightened in his hair, pulling at the strands. "I am sorry to disappoint."
Voldemort pulled Harry's head back with a sharp tug, exposing his neck.
"I know you thought you would walk out of here a hero. But my dear Harry, you shouldn't have come here tonight." Voldemort leaned in, pressing his lips to Harry's neck. "I'm sure you're expecting a rescue, someone who will help you escape, who will save you." His lips pressed to Harry's thundering pulse. "No one is coming."
"What do you mean?" Harry finally managed. His hands were digging into the exposed soil next to him while he tried desperately not to react to the body above him.
"Did you really think I didn't know? Did you think I was so oblivious to your plan that I would let you in with open arms? Did you think your little plan would really save your friends' lives?"
Harry's head shot forward at that, ripping his hair from Voldemort's grasp.
"Aww," Voldemort cooed at his panic. "I'm sure you're little friends survived the night. But unfortunately, their luck will run out, quite literally. Given its origin from the Felix Felicis." Voldemort shifted his weight to press more firmly against Harry. "I admired your attempt to save Draco Malfoy's life. I thought it was quite cute, all things considered. But alas, that attempt was for naught. Neither the young Mister Malfoy nor Severus will have escaped the castle. Dear Bellatrix will have seen to that."
Harry's heart was hammering so loudly that he could barely hear or comprehend the words being spoken to him.
"Bella will forgive me in time. And if she doesn't, well, it's not exactly a high concern for me." Voldemort tilted his head slightly as if thinking. "Actually, it's not a concern at all."
"He's just a kid; you can't-" Harry began to protest.
"I can." Voldemort declared, his voice low but dangerous. "He was going to die anyway. His father failed so spectacularly with you. He'll know his failure cost him his son's life. He should have plenty of time to dwell on that in Azkaban. I'll retrieve Lucius in time for him and his wife to make a new heir."
Voldemort stood suddenly, dragging Harry with him. Harry's vision swam for a moment as he was forced upright. The world seemed to spin around him, and he was sure he swayed before a pair of arms wrapped around him, pulling his back against a firm chest.
As Harry's vision cleared, he could see the distinct outline of a huge snake.
Nagini.
Voldemort clucked his tongue. "A loss indeed. I will miss her." His grip tightened on Harry. "But alas, I have a new pet."
"I am not a pet," Harry snapped, finally forcing his limbs to move again. He struggled in Voldemort's grip, but the man was stronger than Harry thought, keeping him pinned against the body behind him.
"It's all right, Harry," Voldemort murmured against his ear. "I know that for now, you can't accept how you feel."
"How I feel?" Harry nearly screamed, thrashing in an unyielding grip. "I hate you! Let me go!"
"No, pet. You don't." Voldemort's vice-like grip slacked just slightly as he drew one hand up Harry's chest to grip his chin, forcing Harry's head toward him. "You can't accept that no matter what, no matter which version, you will always fall in love with me. You don't hate me, even if you believe you do. Tom, Thomas. It doesn't matter. You fell in love with me, and it haunts you."
Voldemort turned his face fully so their lips were just millimeters apart over Harry's shoulder.
"But alas, pet, my love, you and I will have eternity to come to terms with that. I am your weakness. You cannot resist. You fell for me, Harry. I am the one thing you can never destroy without destroying yourself in the process. To kill me," Voldemort paused, offering a slight huff. "Well, that would break you."
Voldemort's jaw jutted forward slightly, causing his nose to nudge against Harry's.
"But you will never have to worry, will you, pet?"
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the words Voldemort was saying were dawning on him more and more.
"Before we go," Voldemort began, his grip on Harry's chin becoming near bruising. "Tell me one thing, Harry."
Harry tried to pull away, but his arms were locked at his side and in Voldemort's grasp. He couldn't feel his wand in his hand or anywhere on him. Every kick of his legs only found air, never connecting with a body. He struggled helplessly in an iron grip.
"Do you dream of me often?"
Voldemort's lips descended on his then, and around him, the world went black.