Chapter 10
It’s been two days of research, and Harry was worried.
Voldemort had been acting strange.
For starters, the older man had been taking him everywhere, never letting him get out of sight, always by his side, his arms or lap. Harry had asked, through Legilimency, if everything was alright. Voldemort always responded with a troubled look before nodding and continuing whatever he was doing. It was becoming unsettling.
Second of all, the man had been staring a lot at Harry, studying him in a way that made Harry uncomfortable. Voldemort had also been searching for books that, even Harry knew, had nothing to do with their current issues. They weren’t focused on the ritual or the magic binding him to the cat form. Instead, they seemed to be tangential topics—ancient rituals, forbidden magics, and tomes about dark transformations. It didn’t make sense.
Harry was still trapped in this cat body, his form contorted and struggling against the magic within him. His magical core, as Voldemort had told him, was "confused, but still alright." Harry’s cat form was scared and terrified, its instincts in overdrive, while his human consciousness fought for control. The disorientation was maddening. He was fighting against the curse, against the magic that refused to loosen its hold on him.
The rune, the Animos Rune, had been incomplete. He hadn’t chanted the words that were supposed to complete the ritual. He hadn’t even realized how important those words were until it was too late.
In short, Harry cursed himself silently. He was an idiot for not doing the ritual properly.
Huffing out an exasperated sigh, Harry curled up on the carpet floor, his tail twitching in annoyance. The fire crackled before him, casting warm, flickering light across the room, but it did little to ease the tension in his body. Voldemort sat just behind him, his back to Harry, hunched over a massive tome. The Dark Lord’s long fingers danced across the ancient pages, searching for something that might fix this.
Harry, however, wasn’t convinced that there was anything that could fix it. He had been trapped in this feline form for far too long, and the uncertainty of whether he would ever be free haunted him.
But then, there had been a small victory—though a fragile one.
A few hours ago, Harry had managed to have a conversation with Draco.
It hadn’t been easy. Draco could barely speak, as Harry was a cat, and cats cannot speak Their exchange had been limited to simple yes-or-no questions, a struggle for both of them. But it was something. Draco had recognized Harry’s magical signature, albeit hesitantly, and Harry had confirmed, in his own way, that it was him.
It was the first real communication he had in what felt like forever.
FLASHBACK
Harry sat on the edge of the library table, feeling the weight of the moment. Draco had been standing across from him, eyes narrowed, confusion still clouding his gaze. The silence between them was thick, but Harry couldn’t help but sense that Draco was trying. Trying to remember, trying to piece together everything that had been stolen from him. Even with the cleansing ritual done, Harry understood it was a lot to take in.
"Is it really you, Potter?" Draco’s voice was low, barely above a whisper.
Harry let out a small, frustrated mew, his tail flicking behind him. He wanted to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he did the only thing he could—he nodded slightly.
Draco studied him carefully. "This... this is insane." His voice was thick with disbelief. "How? How are you like this?"
Harry knew that if he told Draco what happened, he wouldn't hear the end of it. Draco would use it to bully him that git… But, his friend had the right. Once he regains his human form, he will also be explaining what happened to Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna and sirius.. after making sure they are also completely cleansed as well.
He nudged his head toward Draco’s hand, where the book—the same book he had stolen—was resting. The one with the answers. The one that had led him down this path.
Draco’s eyes followed the gesture, and something flickered in his expression. "You want me to take it, don’t you?"
Harry’s tail swished, and he shook his head, more insistently this time.No you idiot, open it!
But Draco just looked at him, the same confusion and fear clouding his features. “Do you want me to.. open it?”
Harry gave a soft, desperate meow, his eyes wide as he met Draco’s gaze.
"Alright," Draco muttered, his voice tinged with hesitation. "But only because you’re—"
Before Draco could finish, Harry let out a small, low growl, edging closer to the book.
Draco blinked in surprise, clearly unsure of how to interpret the cat's behavior. "Fine," he finally said. "stubborn as always ." He reached for the book, flipping it open to the page where the symbols seemed to call out to Harry.
The pages were worn, the text faint from centuries of being handled,and when Draco read the words in the page Harry had directed him ot, he busted out laughing.
Harry had attached him and scratched his hand.
END FLASHBACK
Harry shook his head as he curled up further on the carpet, trying to push the memory away. It was a small step, but not enough. Not nearly enough to escape the suffocating bonds that held him.
The flickering flames cast shadows against the walls, and Harry’s golden eyes slowly turned toward Voldemort, who had not moved from his spot at the desk. The Dark Lord was still absorbed in his research, but there was a shift in his demeanor—a quiet tension that hadn’t been there before.
Harry could feel it, a change in the air around them. The Dark Lord was on the verge of something, and Harry didn’t know if he was ready for it. If he could ever be ready.
Voldemort’s voice broke the silence, soft but laced with something Harry couldn’t place.
“You’ve been patient, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, his eyes never leaving the page. “But we can’t keep running from this. You need to know the truth. We both do.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Voldemort didn’t look at him as he spoke, but Harry could feel the weight of those words pressing down on him.
What is he talking about…? Harry’s thoughts were a blur of confusion, the weight of his fear making his mind foggy.
Voldemort finally looked up, meeting Harry’s gaze with those cold, calculating eyes. There was a sharpness there, a clarity that Harry hadn’t seen before.
“You’re not just a prisoner of this form,” Voldemort said, his voice low and steady. “You’re something more, something I should have understood long ago.”
Harry froze, his pulse racing. A sense of fear tingle up his spine. Slowly he lifted himself onto his four legs, staring at Voldemort anxiously.
“You are a Horcrux, Harry. A Horcrux is a dark magical object that holds a fragment of a wizard's or witch's soul, granting them immortality as long as the Horcrux remains intact. To create one, the caster must commit murder, splintering their soul and binding a piece of it to an object with dark magic. The more Horcruxes a person creates, the more their soul becomes fractured, broken, irrevocably damaged... Theres another version of it, which is more effective.. cannibalism. However that is not the one i had done."
The words lingered in the air, thick with the weight of truth. And for the first time since his transformation, Harry felt the ground beneath him shatter, his world beginning to unravel.
Voldemort’s gaze shifted to the side, eyes uncertain, cautious, yet calculating. “I believe it was made on October 31st…” He paused, turning his eyes to the frozen kitten before him. His crimson eyes darkened to onyx, only to flicker back to their unsettling red. He continued, his voice a cold whisper. “When I murdered your parents…”
He had carried a piece of Voldemort inside him all his life. From the moment his parents were killed—by him. But could he truly hate Voldemort, now stripped of his monstrous persona and reduced to a man named Tom? Were they not both just pawns, manipulated by the same hands? Their lives, twisted and sculpted by a bitter, power-hungry old fool.
That’s all they were. Not people. But puppets. Puppets for a world that cared nothing for them. Tom Riddle, an orphan half-blood, beaten by the world, condemned by his own bloodline, buried under the weight of prejudice and hatred. A boy who had become a monster at the hands of a man who should have known better.
And Harry Potter, a made orphan, shaped by the same cruel hands that had created the monster. Hunted, used, abandoned in a family that cared not for him, abused, pushed aside—his hunger for love, for belonging, only outmatched by his need to survive. Hungry for affection, hungry to feel wanted, to feel special.
They were easy targets, both of them, to schemes of power and control. Set upon paths laid out before them, paths that led them toward peril, toward violence, toward ruin.
And yet, within him, that rage burned still. Uncontrolled. Unforgiving.
Anger toward Dumbledore for his manipulations, for twisting the threads of their lives. Anger toward his mother for not running away, toward his father for letting pride cloud his judgment. Anger toward Peter, that coward, who betrayed them all. Anger toward Voldemort, for hurting him—no matter the control, no matter the manipulation, it was still pain.
And yet the greatest anger was not toward them. No, the greatest anger was reserved for the one person who had never stood a chance: himself.
He was too weak. Too hungry for affection. Too broken, shattered by a world that never cared. A tool. A weapon. A symbol.
All he had ever wanted—was to be Harry. Just Harry.
Harry soon felt a pair of strong arms engulf him, lifting him from the ground. He hissed, scratched, bit, and yowled in response.
No! No, you bastard! Let me go! Let me go! Let me... let me go... please... Small sobs wracked Harry’s tiny, furry body. They were faint chirps and noises, but they still sounded so broken, so full of pain.
Voldemort stared guiltily down at Harry's trembling little form, his body racked with sobs. Harrys tears trailing down the soft fur. He brought the small kitten closer, nuzzling his nose into the warmth of Harry's fur, murmuring sweet nothings.
He knew those words were meaningless, that they would never fix the hurt or the fear, but something deep inside him tugged painfully at the sight of Harry crying. He imagined Harry crying in his human form—those bright, brilliant green eyes wide and glossy, his bottom lip trembling with unshed tears. His cheeks flushed in anger and sadness, and his wild hair, sticking out in every direction. His defiant posture, small and thin, yet radiating with power, with an energy Voldemort could never ignore.
As the image of Harry filled his mind, something sharp tugged in his chest—a bitter, sour feeling. It was how beautiful Harry would be, how he was already, even in this broken form.
He pulled Harry closer, gently stroking his fur. Sitting down in a comfortable chair nearby, Voldemort conjured a blanket, wrapping it around both of them, careful not to drop the small, fragile creature in his arms.
“I’m sorry, Harry... It’s okay... It’s okay... I’m here...” he whispered, once they had settled.
Harry’s sobs had quieted to soft sniffles, his little body still trembling but slowly regaining composure. He lifted his head and stared up at Voldemort’s solemn expression.
Red met green.
They held each other’s gaze for what seemed like hours.
Harry tilted his head to the side, exhausted. I don’t know... what to do...
Voldemort gazed at him for a long moment before a small, soft smile touched his lips. His fingers slid gently up and down Harry’s spine, comfortingly.
“We’ll figure it out...” he whispered, his voice soft but determined. “Together, my soul.”