Part II
1989
For the last two years, a second war had occupied Voldemort from properly looking after his ward.
Since he’d been trying to take over the ministry while simultaneously fighting Dumbledore and his minions, he had to gain legal custody of one Harry James Potter as discreetly as possible, considering that the boy was legally reported dead. Voldemort had hired a goblin to settle the matter privately.
He’d left the boy in the care of a house-elf in an old premises, previously known as the Riddle Mansion that had the Fidelius Charm guarding it along with the entire abandoned (formally muggle occupied) neighborhood. He could not risk letting the boy grow among the Magical World, but now that Voldemort had at last defeated Dumbledore in a duel, he could slowly introduce his ward to the Magical Community.
As the Secret Keeper, he had the luxury of apparating in and out of the mansion with ease. He usually visited once a week or twice a month during the night to check on the boy, where he would be sound asleep so Voldemort wouldn’t have to deal with him, he was an extremely busy wizard after all. Unless when it came to the boy’s birthday, then Voldemort would have to make an appearance for an hour or two to not have the boy lose touch of human interactions.
He’d ordered the elf to force the boy to read the books of the Magical Culture along with other subjects such as Latin, History of Magic, and even a few classical fairy tales for the sake of uplifting the child’s boredom.
Now that he could safely introduce his ward to the real world, he would have to spend a lot more time with the child.
Once he apparated into the boy’s house with a load CRACK to better announce his presence, he heard the sound of tiny steps hurrying toward him.
“Wait! Master Harry is to not leave this room until he completes his assignment as the Dark lord orders!”
“TOM!” Harry launched himself onto the Dark lord, beaming.
Voldemort glared at the elf cowering near the door. It was supposed to teach the boy how to behave himself. He could not allow such behavior in front of his followers.
“Calm yourself, child!” Voldemort said sternly to the nine-year-old hugging him.
Harry was startled by the harsh tone. He staggered away immediately. “Sorry, mister.” He pouted. “I just miss you so much.”
Voldemort sighed. It would not do to have the boy be afraid of him. He needed Harry to understand that there were some types of behavior that were strictly prohibited in the company of others that weren’t useless house-elves. “It’s alright, child.” He patted the bird nest that was the infamous Potter hair.
Harry smiled shily at the contact, but then his eyebrows came together when he saw the shivering house-elf. With a tiny gasp, he stared wide eyed at Voldemort as he pleaded. “Wait, it’s not my birthday. You only visit me when it’s my birthday. You can’t kill Tixy yet, you can’t! I just had her!”
Voldemort rolled his eyes.
He’d known from the start that the boy was soft. It was why Voldemort wanted to gradually coax him out of that weak habit. So when he discovered how easily Harry got attached to the first house-elf, Voldemort decided to use the boy’s birthday as an opportunity to behead the current elf before replacing it with another (it was not unusual for noble pure-blooded families to have a collection of heads to the elves that served said family. After all, it was considered an honor for the elf to have their head hung on the tapestry of the House they serve.) He had told Harry that he’d get a new elf on every birthday until he stopped getting attached to something as inferior as a bleeding house-elf!
“I haven’t abandoned my important work to come here and murder the elf, Harry.” Voldemort said apathetically. “Though with the way you’re already on first name basis despite having it for less than a month, perhaps I should gift you an early Christman present?”
“But I don’t like this present, Tom!” Harry stomped his foot. Gone was his coy nature and came the lion cub that had been hiding all this time. “Presents are supposed to be fun! This. Is. Not. Fun!”
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. Despite knowing what he’s capable of, the boy chose to defy him for a cause he believed in (no matter how foolish.) It was impressive. There was no question that the boy would grow to be as brave as his parents were. Luckily for Harry, he would not become as foolish. Not when Voldemort had the power to shape his little mind the way he deemed right. “Now, now, it was only a suggestion, no need to get defensive, Harry.” He waved a hand dismissively “I have come here because I want you to accompany me to Bulgaria.”
Harry was taken aback, torn between excitement and suspicion. “We’re going to travel?”
He nodded. “I have business to attend to at the Durmstrang Institute. Since I haven’t left the country in the past two years because of the war—”
“What war?”
“You needn’t worry about the boring details, child, and refrain from interrupting. It’s rude.”
“Sorry.”
“As I was saying, it is my duty as your legal guardian to ensure your safety at all times and to raise you properly. Now that the opposing side of the war had finally been defeated, I can have you be by my side more often.” He could not relax until he knew his horcrux was safe. The past two years had been difficult with how distant he had to be, but no more to that.
“So. . . I get to leave the house?” The boy sounded hopeful.
Voldemort paused. On second thought, wouldn’t it appear suspicious to have the boy with him at all times? It was what led members of the Order to kill Nagini in the first place. Not that they knew she was a horcrux.
Sure he won the war and took over the British Ministry of Magic and was slowly expanding his empire to neighboring countries, but that did not mean that there wouldn’t be any rebels, such as the remaining members of the Order—no matter how few—and people who’d seek vengeance for those who died while fighting against him. Not to mention his own Death Eaters. Voldemort did not need to deal with another Regulus Black Situation.
“I’ll tell you what,” He lowered himself to be the same level as his nine-year-old. “how about I put a trace on you?”
“But don’t the ministry already have a trace on underaged wizards and witches?” Harry tilted his little head.
“They do. But it can be tampered with, and it disappears once you become of age. The trace I’m talking about is mostly used on registered werewolves, so the ministry is always informed of their whereabouts.”
Harry looked unsure. Voldemort entered his ward’s mind seamlessly to know what words the boy wanted to hear in order to comply.
“I’ll be the one to cast the spell, Harry, and it is not a ministry matter, so only I will be informed of your every movement.”
The boy’s mind eased, but Voldemort could still see the one question flouting inside his ward’s head: Why?
“I have told you once before that I grew up in a muggle orphanage that was similar to your relative’s house.”
Harry looked at him empathetically. Voldemort would hate being looked at in such a way if it weren’t coming from Harry.
“The muggles. They hurt us because they do not understand us. They would not hesitate to erase us from existence if given the chance. I have worked hard for decades to make the life for people like us better, Harry.” Voldemort feigned a sad sigh. “Yet, after everything I’ve done for the sake of our people, there are still some who oppose me. They would try to overthrow the power I have accumulated. Try to destroy the empire I’m building so things may go back to the way they were. Back to when wizards and witches are forced to hide who they are. For children such as yourself to be punished for something you have no control over.”
“That’s awful.” Harry whispered.
“It is.” Voldemort said gravely. “Those people who are against my rule. They are called Blood Traitors and Mudbloods. I worry that they would attempt to kill you just to upset me. That is why I need to know of your whereabouts always, to protect you.”
He stroked the boy’s hair to seal the deal. Children respond positively to physical affection.
“Do you understand, Harry?”
“I understand, sir.”
“Please, call me Tom. . . only when it’s the two of us.”
It hadn’t occurred to him before Harry that he hated his real name for more than what it stood for. It was in the way others said it too, he realized. In the orphanage, it was said like he was an abnormal abomination. In the earlier years at Hogwarts, it felt like a constant reminder that he would never be good enough in his peers’ eyes, even though he knew that he was better than them.
The way Harry would say his given name was just different. He made it sound like Tom was his world.
To children, a parental figure is their world.
Voldemort thought it was nice. He didn’t even shy away from thinking of the irony of him killing Harry’s real parents. If it meant he’d get the boy to himself, then he’d turn back time and murder them again without remorse.
He told himself it was because of the bit of his soul residing in Harry’s scar. . . but he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He cleared his throat. “When we’re around my followers, you will refer to me as your lord.”
There, he thought, if he were to treat his ward like a little Death Eater in the making, then it would prevent the boy from getting the wrong idea and he’d refrain from future attempts of doing something absurd, like hugging the Dark lord in the middle of a meeting. Honestly!
Harry scrunched his noise and giggled, thinking that Voldemort was joking.
He was not joking.
But he also found that he didn’t mind that he made the boy laugh. There’re worst sounds, he thought.
“When we arrive at Durmstrang, you’ll watch the way my followers work and take notes. You may ask them as many questions as you like.” That’s because he’d already warned his followers of sensitive topics not to breach when speaking with the Dark lord’s secret ward. They were free to censor the story of James and Lily Potter. Voldemort didn’t like lying to his boy, but he had no problem having his followers do it for him. “But most importantly, remember to behave yourself. Do I make myself clear?”
Harry nodded enthusiastically.
“We’ve lost five of our folks.” Andie’s sixteen-year-old daughter proclaimed after barging into Hogshead, where a few members of the Resistance were gathered (there were very limited places where they could speak their minds freely without being reported to the ministry, and Aberforth Dumbledore’s place was one of the safest places to choose from.)
“Nymphadora!” Andromeda Tonks said, aghast. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
“I’ll do you one better, how did she get here?” Andie’s husband said. “Didn’t we drop you off at Hogwarts just a couple days ago?”
The pink haired girl shot her mother a nasty look. “I don’t like being called Nymphadora, you know that. And anyway, Hogwarts is in shambles! Do you know how many subjects we have in the Dark arts? Practically all of them! And I’ve a feeling that the aurors patrolling the school grounds are secretly Death Eaters.”
“The official Death Eaters wouldn’t be signed to guard a school they already have control over. The Dark lord has other uses for them.” Kingsley Shacklebolt said gloomily. “Though you are right to assume that everyone is, in the sense that they serve You-Know-Who, because that has become the reality of our world.”
“I hate our world. And I hate our government.” The Hufflepuff student seethed. At the heat of the moment, she jumped onto a table and started chanting: “Down with the Death Eaters! Down with the Dark lord!”
“Nymphadora, don’t you dare yell things like that! You’ll get yourself killed!” Her mother gaped at her, horrified. She looked at their surroundings fearfully, though there was no need to. Hogshead was guarded with silencing charms, so the people outside couldn’t hear them.
“I don’t care, mum! If no one dares to speak up, how do you expect others to follow? I’m helping the Resistance by gaining potential rebels!” She remained standing on the table with arms akimbo before Aberforth rushed her to get off.
“That is not your responsibility, love.” Her dad said pleadingly.
“It is. I want to help the Resistance in any way I can!” She said vehemently.
“What five?” Regulus spoke at last.
Everyone became quiet, waiting for the usually silent hooded figure to speak.
Unlike the rest of the Resistance members, the only former Death Eater that survived could not hide in plain sight. Regulus became a known enemy to Voldemort’s regime the moment he took a stand against him. He spoke in defiance to their current government, publicly, right after he’d escaped Azkaban.
He was a changed man to say the least, after all, no one who witnessed the dementor’s Kiss stayed the same, let alone see it performed on a loved one.
He could’ve done what most members of the Resistance did. To do what it took to survive while striking against Voldemort quietly. But the thing about Regulus Black, he was done pretending he was okay with following an amoral tyrant.
He had nothing to lose. His entire family was gone, so he was free to finally speak his mind and do what he believed was right without fearing the consequences. He had the luxury to do that, yes, but people like the Weasleys and Andromeda and Ted Tonks did not. They had to think of their children and the life they had, whereas Regulus did not have a life to return to.
“Who,” He looked at his cousin’s kid from under his hood. “are the five members we’ve lost?”
His cousin’s daughter surveyed him, then looked at her parents uncertainly. Her father nodded encouragingly, so she approached Regulus’ booth. “Charlie said that his uncles had gone to Durmstrang because they heard a rumor that You-Know-Who would be there sometime this week. They were planning to assassinate him, and they got three others to help them do it. Charlie and I overheard Carrow and Rowle talk this morning at breakfast. Carrow was boasting that her da caught the assassins before You-Know-Who got to Durmstrang. She said. . .” She swallowed a clear lump, preventing herself from crying. “She said her da killed one of the Prewett twins and two muggle borns.”
Someone gasped.
“And the other Prewett and the other accomplice? What have become of them?” Regulus asked calmly, though he, too, was filled with anxiety and dread.
“The Headmaster of Durmstrang is imprisoning them. And he’s one of the official Death Eaters—has the Mark and everything—there’s no telling how long they’ll hold. They might already be dead.”
Andromeda tsked. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Dora, I’m sure Charlie’s uncles are fine.” Even she sounded unsure.
“How is Charlie doing?” Ted asked his daughter.
“Not so good.” She looked at Regulus imploringly. “Will you go there? Will you go there and help them escape, if they’re still alive?”
Regulus nodded at Kingsly. “What say you?”
Kingsley arched an eyebrow at the former Death Eater.
“You’re not actually considering this, are you, Reg?” Andromeda pleaded.
“I like Giddy and Fab.” He answered simply. “They helped me in hiding when I needed it most.” They helped in a lot more ways. After the prison break, he had been in a very dark place. He’d had no reason to live at the time. He didn’t want to live. The twins disagreed though. Fabian told him that Sirius had sacrificed his soul for him and that he must honor that sacrifice (basically guilting Regulus to not go down the suicide road). “I owe them my life.”
“You do realize we’ll be issuing a rescue mission based on the intel of teenagers?” Kingsley said logically.
“I do.” Regulus answered resolutely, not leaving much space to be talked out of what he’d set his mind on. “It’ll be convenient for me to have all the help I can get, but I’ll still go without you if I have to.”
Kingsley shook his head, muttering, “Such recklessness. Just like your brother.”
Regulus raised his eyebrows.
“Count me in.” Kingsley said before turning to address the only teenager in the room. “By the way, how did you get here?”
Tonks’ parent peered at their daughter expectantly.
She smirked at them. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Everyone was curiously staring at Harry as though he was fascinating, and he didn’t understand why.
He did not like the way his guardian’s followers looked at him. It made him feel that he was an animal at a zoo for people to gawk at.
He bit his lip and clutched Tom’s forearm tighter. The only source of security he had.
Tom hadn’t bothered introducing Harry to his followers, even though they clearly wanted to be introduced.
Harry did as he was told and observed the way Tom’s ‘Death Eaters’ acted whenever they interacted with him since they set foot on Durmstrang. They aways referred to Tom as ‘my lord’ and speaking to him as though he was some sort of a king. Was he?
“My lord, I must insist you come see this privately.” A man said, eyeing Harry.
Tom reluctantly shook Harry’s hand away. “Don’t wander off too far.” He said in their secret snake language.
“Okay.” He answered quietly.
Tom stared at his face for a moment. It was the way he always did whenever Harry thought he could read his mind. “I want you to observe the way things work around here. You may not like some of the things you’ll see but I assure you, they are necessary measures.” He told Harry in English before addressing the single man that looked like he ran the place. “You don’t mind having my ward stroll around the dungeon here, do you?”
It sounded more like a command than a question.
“Of course not, my lord! Anything!” The man responded quickly as though he was afraid. Of what? Harry didn’t know for sure.
He thought of the first time he’d met Tom though. How he thought he had been the boogieman, to which Tom responded by saying that he was more dangerous than the boogieman. Harry didn’t believe it until he saw Tom behead his first real friend and hang his head on the tapestry before replacing him with another elf, that also became Harry’s friend until. . . not.
Would Tom behead his own followers like he did Harry’s friends?
Would he ever behead Harry?
Harry shook his head as though that could shake the absurd thought out of it. Tom wouldn’t hurt him. He was the first adult to believe Harry. He was the first person to care about him. So no, Tom would never hurt him, Harry knew that much.
But still. He knew that just because Tom was good to him didn’t make him a good person. But Harry couldn’t bring himself not to love his guardian.
But that came to the test when Harry accidentally wandered off toward what appeared to be the. . . cells?
What kind of school has cells? Did all magical schools have cells in them? Did Hogwarts? He made a mental note to ask Tom about it later—
Wait a minute.
Did he just hear someone gasping in pain in one of the cells? Harry was familiar with that kind of gasp all too well thanks to his previous guardians.
He hurried toward the one where someone—two people were breathing heavily inside.
Harry covered his mouth with his hands so he wouldn’t startle the very, very injured men. One of them had his eyes ripped out of his face! The empty places where eyes should be instead had two very dark, and very red holes. Harry didn’t even want to address the other wounds all over the man’s arms!
The other man didn’t look any better. He had many scars all across the exposed skin. His bare feet, his arms and all the way down to his torso. Though most of those scars looked rather old. But they were still very big compared to what Harry was used to seeing.
The man with the scars noticed Harry but didn’t say a thing. He blinked several times while muttering. “Do you reckon we start hallucinating after a period of extensive torture, Giddy?”
The other man leaning against the wall didn’t respond—albeit in that man’s defense, Harry thought he looked rather asleep. He couldn’t be sure though. The man—Giddy as the other called him—didn’t have eyes to rest while sleeping. Harry had a hard time directing his own eyes anywhere but the empty eye sockets.
“I reckon we do.” The man with the many scars answered himself, like he wasn’t really expecting a respond from his cellmate. “Or maybe it has something to do with my Lycanthropy. . . must be a bad moon approaching.” He laughed, but his eyes were sad as tears ran down his cheeks. “I really don’t want to eat you, Gideon. I somehow made it through my entire life without biting anyone. I’d like to die before that happens.”
“You’re a werewolf?” Harry asked in a small voice.
The man stopped his laugh-crying. He stared at Harry gaped mouth before sighing tiredly. “Great, now I’m hallucinating sounds too.”
“Er, if you’re talking about me. . . I’m real.”
“Are you?” The man snorted. “What are you then? Hmm? The ghost of James Potter’s younger self?”
“No.” Harry frowned. Why did a werewolf know his birth father’s name? “Mister, how do you know my dad’s name?”
The werewolf’s expression turned blank. “What did you just say?” He neared the cell door, holding the bars as he searched Harry’s face. “Harry?” The man breathed his name. “But. . . you can’t be—you. . . you died two years ago—I—are you—is this real?”
“I suppose.” Harry’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. “You don’t look so well, mister.”
“No, but—If you’re alive then—then why are you here?!” He demanded, looking at Harry with a wild expression. “Are you—are you hurt?”
Was that man really asking Harry that question?
“Me? What about you, sir? You and—and your friend?”
“Caring for others in your small age. You really are your parents’ son, aren’t you.” The werewolf chuckled. “You even look like a mini-Prongs too with Lily’s eyes, except for the glasses though. . . that’s all James, really.”
Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t know why, but he liked hearing how similar he was to his birth parents, even though he knew he’d never be able to meet them. Tom rarely spoke of them, but he did once comment off handedly that he, Harry, would become very brave just like his parents.
Harry thought the brave thing to do would be to rescue the helpless werewolf and his blind friend. He knew that werewolves were inherently dangerous and monstrous from the books Tom made him read, but this werewolf was more human than a monster in Harry’s honest opinion. And besides, no one deserved to be locked in a cell in such condition. The gesture eerily reminded Harry of his cupboard, but he pushed the thought of his old prison away. The muggles can no longer hurt you, Harry. Tom had said that a long time ago. Harry took comfort in that.
“How can I help get you out?” Harry whispered.
“Well. . . if you’re real, then I guess fetching us a wand wouldn’t hurt now, would it?” The werewolf said absently.
Harry nodded determinedly and took off.
Years spent tip toeing in the Dursleys to sneak extra food had paid off it seemed. Harry, very sneakily, took a person’s wand from the halls as he hid in the shadows. He wasn’t sure how to use it. The most experience he had was watching Tom use his wand. Well, it didn’t matter, he thought. All he had to do was give it to the werewolf—could werewolves even use wands?—and let the two prisoners figure out the rest.
Regulus and Kingsley's mission to rescue the two captives didn’t go exactly as planned. But they still managed to save one of their people. And saving only one was better than no one at all by his standard.
Kingsley had arranged the portkey that would take them back to an abandoned building in England. He made sure to confound the guards and break the protective wards long enough for Regulus to enter the grounds of Durmstrang in detected.
When Regulus first saw the Prewett Twin exiting the premises before Regulus even got in, he noticed that he was leaning on a smaller figure for support, the sound of a howl broke from somewhere behind them in the institution. Regulus froze.
The full moon.
He did a quick recap in his mind. Greyback and his pack had last been sighted in the north six days ago, so unless there was a pack Regulus didn’t know of. . . or maybe even a lone wolf. . .
Lupin? Could it be?
“C’mon mister. I can’t carry you out on my own. You’ll have to walk yourself out of here.” Regulus could hear from a distance a child’s voice pleading the Twin (Gideon? Fabian?), who used the wand he had to shoot several spells over his shoulder.
“PREWETT!” Regulus shouted.
“REG?!” Prewett moved his head frantically. “IS THAT YOU, BLACK?”
The boy noticed Regulus and looked from him to Prewett and again, clearly contemplating his choices. In the end, the boy shouted at Regulus. “HE’S BLIND!” And pushed the man forward before scurrying back inside the institute, toward the place where the howls suddenly stopped.
Regulus didn’t waste any time despite his confusion. He took out his wand.
“Accio Prewett.”
He apparated them to where Kingsley awaited with the portkey.
“Did you just summon me like I’m some object, you sick bastard?”
So it was Gideon who survived. Regulus knew him to be the snarkier of the twins after all. Giving him a taste of his own medicine wouldn’t hurt. “I don’t mean to sound controversial, but can you not face me? You’re hard to look at.”
“At least you can look! I—”
“Gentlemen?” Kingsley said promptly.
The three of them held the portkey and let it transfer them back to the solid grounds in England.
When the three of them made it safely to the deserted building, Regulus had just realized their mistake.
“Who was that kid?” Regulus asked a very blind Gideon Prewett as he held him firmly to stop the ginger from stumbling any further.
“The Death Eaters called him the Dark Lord’s ward. I didn’t quite catch his name—he. . . he helped me escape. He tried to help Remus and I escape, but Remus, he—I didn’t know tonight was the full moon. He transformed—I heard him turn, his bones cracking and all. It distracted the Death Eaters and gave the boy time to help me escape.”
“So Remus is. . .” He didn’t know why he was asking. He knew the answer well enough.
Gideon nodded. “I heard someone shoat the killing curse before the howls stopped. I want to say at least he didn’t suffer, but how can I? He’s always been the most miserable during the full moon!” If he could generate tears, Regulus had no doubt they would be raining down his face.
“And. . . and the secret ward? What d’you reckon will happen to him?” Regulus asked. “The kid can’t be older than six, and he’s surrounded by hundreds of Death Eaters, including the Dark lord himself among them. And he basically worked against them. Do you think. . .?”
He didn’t want to imagine what horrible fate awaited the Dark lord’s alleged ward.
“I hope not.” Gideon swallowed. “Kid’s so damn pure. Should’ve taken him with us.”
Regulus nodded, then remembered that his company couldn’t see him, so he said mournfully. “We should’ve.”
Voldemort could not believe the chaos a nine-year-old could cause in the span of thirty minutes. And that’s saying something coming from someone that used to torture and kill animals when he was at that particular age.
Releasing the rebels that had tried to assassinate him? On the bleeding full moon while knowing that one of them happened to be a werewolf? (“I didn’t know it was the full moon, Tom!”)
Voldemort really didn’t want to hurt Harry, but the boy had to be punished somehow.
And so he spent the next several days thinking of the perfect punishment. If it were one of his Death Eaters causing such trouble, he would have left them in states worse than their two former captives were in, so Harry’s punishment needed to be just as severe but age appropriate at the same time. Voldemort came up with many ideas, but their only flaw was that they involved him hurting Harry. And he had given the boy his word that he wouldn’t do that.
Then Voldemort had it. The perfect punishment.
“Where are we going?” Harry asked aloofly one evening, having recovered from the state of anxiety where he expected to be punished at any given moment. But Voldemort had been kind enough for him to be led into a false sense of security.
“You’ll see.”
They reached a heavy door that Voldemort unlocked with an easy flick with the wand.
“I’ve a surprise for you.” He said sweetly down to his ward. “Say, have you any idea what a boggart is?”
Harry innocently shook his head. “No? What is it?”
“Why don’t you go in and find out yourself?”
Harry looked skeptical at first, but as always, he put too much trust in Voldemort. “Okay!” He entered the room eagerly.
Voldemort was going to miss that blind trust, but what could he say? The boy needed to learn his lesson so unsavory things wouldn’t be repeated in the future. He waited for Harry to be far into the room before locking him in.
As he walked down the hall, exactly eight seconds had passed before a load scream erupted from behind.
Voldemort had no interest in listening to the boy’s screams, which was. . . strange, because he usually relished punishing those who especially deserved it.
He returned after half an hour to find that the screams had stopped long ago. He unlocked the door and entered to find the boy passed out in front of it. There were traces of tears all over the boy’s puffy face. The tips of his fingers were bleeding, and sure enough, the other side of the door had tiny, bloody claw marks all over the lower half.
A couple feet away lay two dead bodies, one was his own and the other was the boy’s. He did not pay the boggart any mind and instead levitated the boy and took him to a sitting room, where he sat on a couch before gently laying the unconscious boy on his lap.
He stroked the boy’s soft hair until the first sign of consciousness returned on Harry’s face.
When he first opened his eyes, they watered up upon seeing Voldemort and the boy sat on his lap while burying his face to the Dark lord’s chest, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Hush, child. You’re alright.” He rubbed soothing circles on the boy’s back. The Dark lord was not typically a person who cared for physical contact, but such measures were essential to achieve a growing child’s favor.
“Y-y-you—you. . .” He snuffled, raising his head to look at Voldemort with accusing green eyes.
“Speak up, child. I what?”
“Y-you l-locked me.” He whispered.
“Harry,” Voldemort smiled down condescendingly. “you know when people do bad things, they deserve to be punished, don’t you? Now I’m sure you’ve done nothing wrong your entire life. But your first bad deed happened in Durmstrang, child. You caused injury to five of my followers and had a prisoner released in the prosses. Surely, I’m not being unreasonable in punishing you, am I, my dear Harry?” Using words of endearment could encourage regaining the child’s lost trust.
Harry blinked several times, his lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve been bad. I didn’t mean t-to disappoint you, Tom—I-I’m so, so sorry!”
“Shh, I know, child.” He continued to stroke the boy’s back until the occasional sniffling stopped. “You’re punishment is over. Therefore, you are forgiven.”
Harry stayed quiet for a long time that Voldemort thought the boy had drifted into sleep. But a response did come.
“Thank you.”