Chapter 9
Voldemort studied Harry carefully, his crimson gaze unwavering. Harry, perched on the velvet cushion, was doing his best to hold his focus, his green eyes flicking nervously between the ancient tome and the Dark Lord. His tail twitched, an instinctive reaction to the rising tension in the air.
Voldemort had made it clear that Harry’s current predicament was not going to be an easy fix. But Harry couldn’t stop the flutter of hope that blossomed in his chest. If anyone could help him, it was Voldemort, that man has been alive for fifty years., damn hes old old….
The Dark Lord glanced back down at the book, his fingers tracing the old, worn pages. Harry tilted his head slightly, watching with silent curiosity, his whiskers twitching.
Voldemort's lips parted, and he began to speak, his voice soft yet steady. "It seems that you’ve bound yourself to this magic in a way that cannot be easily undone." He glanced at Harry, his eyes sharp with a hint of amusement. "Ancient magic, especially runes like these, are unpredictable. You didn’t consider the consequences."
Harry could feel a sense of unease pooling in his stomach, his fur bristling at the implications of the words. He wasn’t sure how to feel about the situation, but he knew he didn’t like the idea of being stuck in this form permanently.
What an idiot i was, trying something i didnt fully understand.. oh what would Mione tell me. Harry James Potter you absolute idiot!Yup sounds about right..
Voldemort set the book down gently, his expression dedicated. Then, with a tilt of his head, he raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. There was something in the way he looked at him—calm, steady, but with an underlying intensity.
Harry didn’t have the words to question him, but the silent query was evident in his gaze. What happens now?
Voldemort appeared to understand the question without Harry needing to vocalize it. His crimson gaze softened for a fraction of a second—just enough for Harry to catch it. "We will find a way. Your magic must remember your human form. With how long youve been in this form, theres a small possibility you are staying like this permanently. Same as an animagus form, you would lose your human senses and your animalistic ways will soon form and stay permanent.”
Harry flicked his tail in agitation, but there was a glimmer of trust that flickered within him. He wasn’t sure why, but he trusted Voldemort. Despite the prophecy, the manipulations, the dangers—they were tangled in something deeper now. A strange bond.
The Dark Lord stood, and Harry instinctively sat up straighter, his body tense as he watched him move. Voldemort’s presence seemed to fill the room, commanding attention with every step he took. He turned, reaching for another book from the shelf, this one bound in dark leather.
As he opened it, the sound of parchment rustling filled the silence between them. Harry was growing impatient, but he did his best to remain still, trying to understand what Voldemort was planning. He couldn't help but feel the strange hum of magic in the air, as if something was just on the edge of comprehension.
Voldemort turned the page and scanned it quickly before glancing back at Harry. "We need to begin the process of reestablishing your connection to your human form. There are rituals—ancient ones—that may help to break the bond with the magic that holds you in this form."
Harry felt a spark of hope. He had no idea what these rituals involved, but if it meant he could transform back, he would follow Voldemort’s lead.
He padded over to the edge of the table, his paws light against the stone floor, and nudged at the corner of the book. It was a silent gesture, but Voldemort’s sharp eyes caught it instantly.
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but his face turned serious in an instant. This was a serious moment. "Impatient, are we?" he murmured, his voice rich with small amusement. He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Patience, Harry. You will not like the ritual, but it is the only way."
Harry blinked, confused. What did he mean by that?
Voldemort must have seen the uncertainty in his eyes, because he sighed softly. "It will involve both of us," he explained. "A merging of our magic, just for a moment. But it will not be easy for either of us. I've got to search through your core, see where the problem lies.”
Harry sat back on his haunches, his tail flicking again as the implications of the words sank in. He had no way of knowing what this meant for their connection. But a strange, inexplicable feeling pulsed at the edge of his consciousness, something he had felt before—the hum of magic, the faint tug between them.
Voldemort’s gaze softened slightly as he watched Harry’s reaction. "It will work. But be prepared. The bond between us is... complicated. I've ought to look into it deeply,,”
Harry huffed softly and gave an impatient nod.
"Now," Voldemort said, standing once more, "We begin."
Harry stood up, his body tensed, ready for whatever came next. The air around them seemed to crackle with tension, with promise. Voldemort’s hand extended toward him, fingers poised, something harry had noticed since his stay. Voldemort was truly human.. wonder how much damage Dumbledore had made. Who is Tom Marvolo Riddle?
But as Voldemort placed his palm on Harry’s head, there was no force, no harshness in the touch. Instead, there was warmth. And as that warmth spread through Harry’s body, the familiar hum of their magic intertwined once more.
A strange sense of familiarity washed over Harry. He could feel Voldemort’s power—his very soul—drawing closer, mingling with his own. It was unlike anything Harry had ever felt before, a connection far deeper than he could have imagined. Their destinies were tied together in ways neither of them could fully understand.
The ritual had begun.
And as Voldemort whispered incantations in a language Harry didn’t recognize, he felt a shift—a subtle shift within him. Something was stirring, and he wasn’t sure if it was fear or hope.
Maybe it was both.
Voldemort closed his eyes, his magic unfurling like a winter storm, gliding over the delicate form of the small feline curled in his lap. The cat—Harry—was still, his body trembling faintly beneath the weight of power pressing in around him. Voldemort’s magic, cold and precise as a blade of frost, slid like mist through the fur, slipping beneath the skin, sinking deeper, searching.
And there it was—Harry’s magic. A wildfire, untamed and raging beneath the surface. It licked and lashed against Voldemort’s own like a living thing, resisting, burning. It was heat, pure and raw, coiling in golden waves, flickering like the sun itself had been trapped within this fragile form. There was no control, no boundaries, only power that had never known a leash, a star that had never been tethered to a sky.
Voldemort inhaled sharply. It was intoxicating. It was uncontained brilliance, a tempest of flame twisting and curling, seeking something—yearning for something. But it was wrong.
It was wrong.
This fire was not meant to be shaped into the form of a cat. It struggled, confused, its very essence remembering something different, something more. It burned as though trying to melt away the form that caged it.
Human.
The word was there, deep beneath the inferno, half-forgotten. The magic knew, even if the body did not.
Voldemort delved deeper, his ice threading through the heat, subduing it, forcing it to still. The cold did not smother, but rather directed—ice taming fire, guiding it, shaping it. His magic wove through the wild storm of Harry’s essence, unraveling the twisted strings, searching for the flaw, the wrongness that kept this body from remembering what it was.
And then—
Something else.
Something small.
Something dark.
A presence curled at Harry’s forehead. Right where his scar should be. Nestled in the fire like a parasite. It was not of the fire, not wild and golden, but a deep, coiling black. It pulsed with familiarity, a whisper of something Voldemort had not felt in years, something lost but never truly gone.
The ice of his magic recoiled.
No.
He knew what it was before he even reached for it.
It was his.
A sliver of himself, buried deep in the boy’s very essence, wrapped around his soul like a serpent coiled in sleep.
Harry was a Horcrux.
His horcrux. That wasa piece of his soul