Dredged memories
October 31st 1981
Thunder stormed through the sky, its rampant outrage mirroring Voldemort’s own. He often no longer felt emotion, and when he did it was always the same anger; loud and booming and deeply personal, an itch he would never rid himself of.
His footsteps were muffled by the weather as he approached the Potter’s front door. He would not knock, because by this point manners were a feeble affair, and he had waited too long for this moment to be cowed by the ugly wards surrounding the house, or the thick oak of the door.
The door crashed as he entered, groaning as it swung on its hinges. The rain was muffled now, drowned out by the shouts from inside.
“--Harry and go!” Were the last words James Potter said as he turned from shouting up the stairwell to face Voldemort. His brown eyes widened marginally in the split second between the bright green light of death and its revered touch. It caressed his body, gravity bringing it careening to the ground. Potter’s gaze turned dull, a ghost of breath leaving his parted lips. His wand skittered along the floor and out of his limp grasp.
The shadows danced on the walls of the cottage, laughing. Voldemort brushed his hand off on his cloak, for it had only been a twist of his wrist to cast the curse, he wasted no time in stepping over the limp body and continuing his path up the stairs.
He stormed through the house, robes billowing out behind him. There was a flicker of light at the end of the dark hallway, leading to a bedroom he had never seen but knew intimately. Voldemort trailed his hand along the wall, the ticking of time crowed in victory, but he did not feel victorious, not yet.
The house was lulled into a sense of calm. Voldemort heard the muffled whispers that escaped the room at the end of the hall as he drew near, pale fingers emerging to probe at the barrier between him and what lay ahead.
Lily Potter was crouched by a crib, her sniffling incessant. She would not stop cooing at the infant lying in a wooden cot in the centre of the room. It painted a tragic picture, a suffering family in the middle of the war– no doubt she already knew her husband was dead. All Voldemort felt was derision.
He sneered, and the creak of a floorboard gave him away. She rose abruptly, turning to face him. Tear tracks ran down her face, vibrant red hair matted in their sticky residue. Lily Potter’s heaving breaths were the only sound that filled the room.
Unlike her husband, she did not speak, yet determination filled her gaze. Voldemort felt a spark of admiration for the short woman, and an uncanny sense of recognition. He refused to meet her gaze head on, knowing the destruction it would bring. He ended her life there and then, a small gasp and a thump on the floor was the only thing that marked her death.
Of course, Voldemort was not apprehensive, although he wanted to be. A few short strides and he was beside the cot, peering down into it. The babe inside wailed. He picked him up and cradled him, as he was sure James Potter had done only a few hours before.
The child looked up at him through long dark lashes. Everything was there: golden brown skin, glossy jet black hair and those eyes, he would recognise those eyes anywhere. Emerald green, the green of the killing curse before it had even been bestowed. Voldemort’s skeletal fingers delicately brushed the boy's hair away from his forehead. A small hand was clenched in his robe, snot ran down into the curve of the baby’s mouth at each hiccup he sounded.
Voldemort bowed his head down towards the babe, and he quieted. The dark lord spoke, tone hushed so only the two of them could hear.
The only word anyone outside the two of them could pick up was a murmured “–Potter.”
He slowly lowered the infant back into his crib, stepping back stonily. Voldemort took one last long look at Harry Potter, drew his wand, and cast the spell.
“Avada Kedavra–!”
May 2nd 1998
17 years later .
Harry’s exhaustion was bone deep. After a year on the run he was done. It was there and then, no matter the outcome. He’d already returned from the dead, and didn’t the situation explain itself when he knew he had more pressing matters to deal with before he even considered that mind fuck.
The entrance of Hogwarts was desolate, everyone there zombie-like. There was no life around them, only the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant caw of a crow could be heard.
Voldemort faced Harry head on, a secret glint to his scarlet eyes, which could only be described as evil. Malfoy’s wand was heavy in his grip, and he yearned for the familiar weight of his own. His head pounded, every nerve in his body humming in anticipation. Hermione’s soft cries rang out behind him.
The Dark Lord opened his mouth and the sky darkened, a low rumbling emitting from it. It was as if he was pulling his magic from the core of the universe, tunnelling it down into the wand outstretched in front of him. Harry braced, searching the faces around him, each of them pale and sickly, no matter the cause they fought for. The air crackled as Harry raised his hand, the tension thick enough to slice as Bellatrix’s cackles rang out around them.
Voldemort erupted. “Avada, Kedav–!”
Harry jerked into action, screamed; “Expelliarmus!”
The spells collided, red and green. Tension coiled up Harry’s arm, enough to make him cry out. A deranged joy filled Voldemort’s face as he twisted his wrist, forcing Harry to flex his hand.
Every sense he experienced overwhelmed him, it was as if he was burning alive, sweltering above the heat of a fire, his ears rang and his jaw spasmed from the clench of his teeth. It was getting to be too much when suddenly the thrumming in his head quieted, his muscles relaxed and everything faded into white noise. It was as if he’d been submerged under water, but he was floating back up to the top, and quickly. Harry knew he had to get this over with.
He studied Voldemort, examined the way his magic worked as it pulsed between them. It was rapidly gaining on him, devouring the red hue of Harry’s Expelliarmus. He pushed forward, focussing his magic and pulling at his core. It was then Harry realised that the sweltering heat around them was caused by him, his vision wavering from the temperature, and yet he was consumed by a deep chill.
Slowly his spell pushed back, eating away at small chunks of green that emitted from Voldemort's wand. Enraptured by his gaining victory between the clashing spells as he was, he looked up to gauge his opponent.
Voldemort was already studying him, as if he hadn’t looked away from Harry once. Instantly Harry was taken aback as he noticed a flickering on the monster’s snow white skin. It was changing back and forth readily, switching between a young man and the creature he knew. Except he knew the young man; this young man he had seen before. But Harry refused to look too closely, lest he lose his concentration– let him not fall into another unseen trap.
But the shift kept happening, and Voldemort himself refused to look away from him. Harry had never been one to put reason before passion, so he met his gaze head on, refusing to back down.
It seemed to go on for a millenia, them standing there, and time slowed further when The Dark Lord blinked, opening his eyes to reveal something softer, something which should not have been able to exist on his face. Before Harry could think about it he gave one last push, taking advantage of the brief moment, and his red spell split the green in half, slaying Voldemort where he stood.
It’s a brief lapse in time, where he can see everyone start to move, to celebrate. But Harry’s still underwater, drowning. He had known that boy, had seen him as a vision from a book, trapped with a basilisk at his side. Someone with raven coloured hair and cunning mauve-taupe eyes. What Harry doesn’t understand is that he knows him much more intimately than that, or will know.
In that moment, after vanquishing The Dark Lord, something fundamental changes. And not for the better.
May 1st 1999
1 year and 1 day later.
It was cloudy outside, he noticed through a slit of a window at the top corner of the basement. At least he assumed he was in a basement, it was certainly dingy enough, and the smell had instantly soured his already dark mood.
Harry’s head was pounding, blood pooling on the ground at a steady, echoing drip from the gash there. He’d required it when his kidnappers had chucked him into the room by the scruff of his robe collar, hands tied and sack over his head. As soon as they’d slammed the door behind him the sack was gone, replaced by a knock to the head. His instincts screamed at him to heal it, but what excuse would he have for the wandless magic? Leave it be and let his kidnappers think him weak until he could properly assess what was going on.
His legs were numb, he had an itch on his chin that he couldn’t reach, and he cursed the whole world for the normal life he didn’t have. He sat there for however long, cold and uncomfortable with his bound arms, mind jumping between possible escape plans and a boneheavy need to rest, when the door at the top of the stairs opened. Light ate away at the staircase in a smooth arc, Harry had to squint against its harshness as it reached reflection on his face.
A man stood at the top of the staircase, alone. Slowly, he approaches, moving down the stairs menacingly with timed, thundering steps. A cloak absorbed him, shielding his face and build. He looked to be around 6 foot, Harry guessed.
The cloaked man towered in front of Harry, who thought that this would be a pathetic way to die, considering previous odds he’d faced.
“Hello, Potter.” Yes, this was definitely how The Boy Who Lived came to be The Boy Who Died.
Harry stared up at him, head lulling to one side. If he did happen to make it out of this, the aurors would not be seeing his face again. See, this was not the first time Harry had been kidnapped on a job. The first time had been a novice’s error, he’d had reports of cult movement in the form of sacrifice, which turned out to be him. Ron had creased at the stomach with laughter while Harry eyed up the fire slowly crawling toward him. The second time was a little more simple; knock over the head, awaken to a shrine of yourself. Then came the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh time. The eighth happened to be a fan who wanted a photo, but why body bind him and lock him at the top of the tallest castle in Wales, Harry didn’t know.
So for all his dramatics, Harry was quite familiar with this now, however there was something especially eerie about the man looming above him.
“Drink.” A potion bottle dangled in front of him, hung between two slim fingers.
Harry stared at it in silence, recoiling when the masked man waved the bottle around, a drop escaping to sluggishly drip onto the floor.
“Why the fuck would I ever drink that?” The liquid was thick and black with a slight tint to it, caught in the streak of light that cut through the darkness, illuminating dust motes.
“Because, Potter,” the name was derisive, as if it didn’t want to leave the man's mouth, but so familiar Harry assumed it was known through his celebrity. “You’ve come back from the dead before, I’m sure you can do it again.”
Harry jerked back. “Who told you that?”
“A reliable source”
“Couldn’t have been that reliable.” Harry muttered bitterly.
The potion had started to mix with his blood, a dark swirling portal An amused huff of laughter caused Harry to crane his neck up, trying to peer under the hood. He saw nothing but darkness, all-consuming.
The man stayed quiet.
“So I’ll die if I drink it?”
A head tilt, considering. “Try it out and see.”
And something about that posh, taunting voice riled Harry up enough to do something well and truly stupid. He snatched the potion out of the figure's hand, the rope around his wrists instantly uncoiling as he moved. The smell was putrid as he necked the liquid, eye contact– or the one sided version of it– never ceasing as he drank.
Instantly he regretted his choice. How easily had he fallen for all of it, when nothing in the situation made sense. Yet while the seconds trickled by, each scrambled thought fell away, as if he were trying to mould something out of the dust in the air, or the thinning concoction on the floor which trailed off in each direction.
Harry’s vision blackened, and he heard. “See you soon, Potter.” as an echo far away, tried to cling onto it.
Then he was falling, unable to scrape his way back up.