Perfect Places

Alas! Alas! Time eats away our lives,

And the hidden Enemy who gnaws at our hearts

Grows by drawing strength from the blood we lose!

The flowers of Evil, Baudelaire

~*~

*

*

There is life and there is death.

Some say that the latter is not necessarily a synonym for closure. Death, they say, as if they knew of what they were speaking about, is merely a form of life that we do not understand, is not more fearsome than the cradle.

Death, they continue, strong of an assurance that is supposed to give the illusion of wisdom, is nothing without the fear it engages. That it is the fear of this death which pushes the man to meet it, that it is only by accepting to understand nothing of it that one is freed from its influence.

Death, Dumbledore says –  said  – will always reach those who flee from it. Death, he says, and a name hovers in his eyes, cannot be stolen.

Vol de mort  knows this, and disagrees.

Death, he thinks, is nothing but a challenge to be conquered. Death is intrinsic to every being, to every of life’s prized possessions, and he overcame this condition. Death is nothing but a passing thought for those who are not  alive .

Death, in the end, can not take something that is not there.

And so, he survives.

~*~

Voldemort wakes up and thinks that he has not slept for decades. 

It had not been voluntarily at first; a consequence of a realization; the understanding that every scrap of knowledge involved sacrifice. This was one of the first lessons he had learned: that every decision came with a transaction. Trade, he had thought, came as easily to a man as his primary instincts.

Thus, he had traded. Hours of sleep for knowledge, the observation of the growing gap between him and those who slipped between their sheets; indifferent to the lost opportunities; privileging their immediate comfort to the long-term one.

He opens his eyes, then, and the sight that greets him is not one that he would have expected.

“Hello,” Harry Potter says. “You have been sleeping for a very long time.”

Voldemort is too surprised to think about being angry. He stares at the boy, which has grown into not a boy at all, and wonders if it is a vision. Never before had they been so precise, so vivid, but the alternative is not one that he cares to think about.

He pushes the sheet away, and stands.

Potter does not blink at all. In fact, he stays where he is sitting, on an old armchair that sinks under him. He has nothing in his hands, nothing that could justify his presence here. He merely continues to bear Voldemort’s glare, his eyes surprisingly empty of their infamous fire.

Voldemort’s thoughts go back to what he knows, to what is logical. There was the battle, he thinks, and the duel. This, he remembers vividly. There was the boy, talking about his Horcruxes and remorse. He remembers having wanted to laugh.

Remorse of all things. He doesn’t understand the feeling, and people did not change. They did not change during their teenage years, and they certainly did not when well in their seventies.

And then, he thinks, then, he had died.

Except he had not. The realization fills him with something that claws its way through his chest, through what is left of his soul. It would be akin to joy perhaps, if its definition transcended human understanding. It is something other than mirth, than delight, it is something raw, something that eats through his memories and tears them apart.

Voldemort forgets for a second that Harry Potter is staring at him. He laughs, loud and clear, and it is only after that he remembers the presence of the boy.

Had he been captured? he asks himself, and his gaze lowers to his wrists. He can still feel the magic in his veins. They did not place any kind of magic inhibitor. He is affronted, that they believe taking his wand is enough to subdue him.

“The Order did not make you a prisoner,” Harry Potter says, and retrieves something from his pocket. “Your magic is not inhibited.”

It is Voldemort’s wand, and he feels a flare of anger at the sight; white-hot fury at the idea of the Potter boy manipulating what is his. His left-hand jolt; and the wand flies from between Potter’s fingers to his own.

The wand is cold, as always; but there is a certain heat under his fingers, one that speaks of choice and appartenance.

“And why is that, boy?” Voldemort finally asks. His voice is soft, but few are deceived by its tone. Anger is most vicious when glacial, not burning. “Do you believe yourself, for some foolish reason that escapes me, safe from my wrath?”

He wants to cast it; he feels the spell whispering in his ear. He could, very easily. Something stops him, nonetheless. He is curious; perhaps more than angry; and a dead boy will not bring him any answer.

“I don’t think anyone is,” Potter counters. He still is strangely empty, and Voldemort does not need to wonder to know it is the result of the battle. Death affects those who kneel under her yoke in many ways. “This is not about will but capacity. You cannot harm me, here.”

Voldemort grits his teeth, and the killing spell hits Potter in the chest.

He does not like being restricted.

But Potter laughs, and Voldemort’s eyes widen.

“How can it be…” he whispers, and three other killing spells find their way to Potter.

Potter who still laughs; incredulously; as Voldemort had laughed in the past: condescendingly amused by the ignorance displayed in front of him. “You cannot harm me here, or cast any spell at me,” Potter says; and he shrugs. It is casual and plebeian. Voldemort hates it. “The rest, you can. Just me… Your magic doesn’t affect me. Mine doesn’t affect you either.”

“And how did you find out,” Voldemort grits out. “Would the Boy-who-lived be darker than the interests he claims to serve? What kind of spells have you tried to cast on Lord Voldemort?”

Potter is unashamed to answer. “The Cruciatius,” he says; and there it is- something that flashes in his eyes. “When I arrived here first; woke up and explored the house... only to find you sleeping. I was angry; so much so; the kind of anger I had never felt before. You killed so many of them that day, and you were sleeping.”

Voldemort says nothing, because he is deeply amused by how Potter’s features distort as he speaks. Once again, he is proven right. Dumbledore might preach a vision of kindness, but he and his followers are easily prone to disregard it when they feel it justified.

“Then, I tried Incarcerate,” Potter continues. “I didn’t want you to be roaming free in the house. But it didn’t work. I thought it was me and my magic, but it worked on the chair. It just didn’t work on you. Nothing worked on you after that.”

Voldemort narrows his eyes, and with a flick of his wrist; the armchair is transfigured into a snake. It hisses at him; just long enough for his lips to thin and another gesture to send the snake back to the state of furniture.

“You see?” Potter says; unperturbed by the scene. “It seems that we are trapped here; unable to harm each other. Another of fate’s jokes, I suppose.”

“Trapped?” Voldemort repeats.

Potter nods. “We can’t leave the house. I tried everything I could, from destroying it manually by blasting spells at it.” He scratches his nose, and finally seems to have a flicker of shame on his features. “Even Fiendfyre. We are trapped here.”

Voldemort firmly doubts it. He has suspicions about who would want to do such a thing; who would profit from the destruction of Potter and him by locking them out of the world. He is not surprised that Potter’s abilities did not lead him to success; he already knows that the boy’s survival comes from his own mistakes, not Potter’s skills.

He is painfully common, in that regard, and it infuriates Voldemort that the prophesized bearer of his demise is a child with no particular talent. It is paranoia, he realizes that, that is the founder of the boy’s reputation. Voldemort’s paranoia, precisely, to have given importance to something he should have disregarded.

“What do you remember,” he says, not asking. His own mind is achingly blank, and it makes anger bubble under his skin. Never before had his brain betrayed him in such a manner. “Who brought us here.”

Potter laughs again. “Well, death,” he says.

Voldemort’s lips thin.

“I do not care today for your usual indifference towards your fate,” he warns. “I may not be able to harm you here, boy, but all situations are temporary. Who brought us here.”

Potter’s eyes flash with anger. He clenches his jaw; and for a second, Voldemort sees the superposed image of a black-eyed boy he had killed long ago.

“We can not get out of the house,” Potter finally says. “You are welcome to try, though. I will be in the kitchen making tea.”

And with that, he turns on his heels and disappears into the corridor.

~*~

Voldemort screams his fury.

Nothing is working. He tried the darkest curses of his book; tried what foreign wizards and witches had taught him, making him the last bearer of such knowledge; tried what he had spent years learning and practising.

In a fit of fury; he had thrown a table at the windows. He had used his bare fists, had whispered curses that spoke of gangrene and necrosis, had screamed spells that wished destruction and freedom, but nothing had worked.

They are trapped, Harry Potter said; with a resignation that spoke of numerous tries. They could not escape.

Voldemort grits his teeth, and locks himself in his room.

Under, he can hear Potter making tea.

~*~

Voldemort does not see Potter for a very long time. He has no need for eating, nor sleeping and so he writes. He writes every spell he can think of; he writes rituals that can be tried there, he writes curses that would make the House of Black blemish.

He writes, and writes, until he can feel nothing else but the quill under his fingers.

Sometimes, he hears Potter moving around.

It never fades, his desire to kill the boy. He thinks that it never will, and he prefers to stay recluse in his rooms than see him. It is torture enough to know him so close, alive, and not being able to do anything to him.

He tried the muggle way, the first night. It had been very easy to enter Potter’s rooms; and he had torn through the wards as if they were butter. It was foolish, he had thought, for Potter to believe that such a constraint would be enough to make him abdicate.

Potter seemed to have forgotten that Voldemort recognized the worth magic possessed; but that he was not dependent on it. Long had been the days at the orphanage where he had been forced to rely on other assets. Words, Voldemort had found, could be as sharp as any killing curse.

But of course, he had thought that night, no need for them when knives were so easily available.

He had taken one from the kitchen, the sharper from the lot, and had entered Potter’s room. The boy had been sleeping, carelessly so, and Voldemort had silently tightened his grip on the knife.

He had taken a second to observe the boy’s sleeping form, remembering another night, years and years ago, where he had rested the same gaze on Harry Potter. His jaw had clenched, and with a swift movement, he had sliced Harry Potter’s throat.

Harry Potter had jolted; no sign of blood on his flesh, and had enclosed his fingers around Voldemort’s wrist. “Useless,” he had breathed, his eyes wide and his fingers going to his throat. “It’s instantly healed. They thought about everything.”

Potter’s skin had burned his own; so unused to touch; and he had pulled his wrist out of the grip.

“Would you mind trying this during the day instead?” Potter had asked, his voice rough with sleep and rubbing two fists against his eyelids. “We have nothing else to do and I’d like to sleep.”

Voldemort had snarled at him and stormed off to his rooms.

He still desires to do so. It is personal now, he thinks. It had begun with a tinge of respect, the one he gives to each of his enemies. Voldemort is old enough to recognize the difference between his political opponents and those whose demise he personally seeks.

He has no respect for Harry Potter, now. The boy is nothing but a child of luck; protected by some far greater than he is. For all his Gryffindors' talks about friendship and love, Voldemort has seen the truth behind it, the leverage that these words provide.

It is hypocrisy, in the end, but one that had served Dumbledore well. It is amusing to see the similarities that Dumbledore shares with his former lover. Another testimony of the man’s sanctimony. Grindelwald too had been keen on recruiting by charming his followers; speaking about friendship and equality; yet ever the puppeteer behind their every move.

Voldemort hides behind no such mask. On the contrary, the image he serves his Death Eaters is the image of the truth. He is merciless; he is powerful; he is almighty.

Gods were not meant to be loved, but feared, and he had proved again and again that he is more than a man.

~*~

He joins Harry Potter in the dining room exactly fifty-seven days after having woken up.

Potter blinks at his sight and laughs. “I almost began to believe that I was living with a ghost,” he says. “Or a particularly vicious cat. I saw empty teacups in the kitchen, heard noises of parchments being scribbled on; and even saw a silhouette in the night a week ago.”

It infuriates him, that Potter finds the ability to joke and not to fight against their situation. Yet he says nothing, motioning for two cups of tea to find their way to the kitchen table. He glances at it, then frowns.

It is quite certain that this is the same table Lucius has. He is not in the habit to notice the furniture, but this particular one, he is sure to recognize it. He remembers Bella scratching her nails to it; laughing as Lucius silently screeched, his fondness for his wood almost overcoming his fear of Voldemort.

His eyes trail on the table, and sure enough, there are those marks a few centimetres away from Potter’s seat.

“Where are we,” he asks after a few seconds.

“I told you everything I knew,” Potter says, taking an appreciative sip of his tea. “I don’t know exactly what is this house.”

“Surely you must possess some thoughts about it.” His voice is measured; strained after two months of not saying a word. “You have been here for longer than me.”

“Time is a social construction” Potter begins, and Voldemort narrows his eyes.

“Now is not the time for philosophy. Speak clearly.”

Potter puts away his cup of tea, and sighs. There are lines barring his face; far too much for a boy who has just reached adulthood, and for the first time Voldemort wonders if there is something that he did not understand.

Slowly, he raises his gaze to meet Potter’s. “How old are you,” he asks.

There is a smile on Potter’s face, one that speaks of pain and regret. “Twenty-three,” he says.

Voldemort feels as if he had been drained of his blood.

His next question is soft but wears the coldness of a thousand winters. “How long have I been sleeping.”

Harry Potter tilts his head to the side, and his gaze is devoid of the fury that had inhabited him for so long. “Five years when I arrived. I don’t know how long I have been there before you woke. Hell, perhaps a week, perhaps ten.”

“Something happened to you,” Voldemort then says. “You did not come here after the battle.”

“No, I did not,” Harry Potter says and his features twist, in that ugliness provoked by sinful feelings. “Life went without you, you know. We died, and we rebuilt. Some Death Eaters were sent to Azkaban. Some died. Others bought their way out. You can easily know which ones.”

Lucius, Voldemort thinks, not without disgust. “The Lestrange,” he asks, because if there was some that had been gifted his attention, it was his three most faithful.

“Bellatrix died; you know that. Rabastan Lestrange was in hiding when I arrived there. His brother was sent to Azkaban.”

Rodolphus, who had spent years there; who upon his escape had spent numerous nights screaming about nightmares only Azkaban could bring. It stirs something in Voldemort, something that he leaves unnamed, and his lips thin. There never was resentment in the Lestrange's hearts; for the years wasted in a prison hidden from the world.

He will take him there, Voldemort thinks. For his devotion, he will take Rodolphus to Azkaban and kill each of his jailers. Not all the dementors; for he needs them; but he will make an example out of them. He will ask for their leader, and he will destroy it.

Harry Potter catches something in his eyes and laughs. His laugh is free and frequent. “Careful,” he says, his voice bearing traces of his mirth. “One would think you care about them.”

Voldemort thinks about it, refusing to cede to anger. He is always angry when facing Harry Potter; but he now knows better than to succumb to it. He taps his fingers on the wooden table.

Caring is a polysemic word, he thinks. It had as many significations as they were people in the word, for each gave his own to it. It is twisted, more often than not, by those who wish for their intentions to fall into its box rather than that of obsession’s. It is, contrarily to what it might suggest, not a word for others but for oneself. It gives a sanctimonious worth to it, one that has no other objectives but to alleviate one’s conscience.

He does not care. He recognizes the value of faithful followers, and wish for them to remain in a state healthy enough to fight in his name.

“Tell me what happened.” He does not ask.

Harry Potter sighs, again. He glances at Voldemort as if measuring the pro and cons; before abdicating and retrieving his wand. When Voldemort’s eyes follow the gesture, he shrugs and adds: “This needs cake.”

Potter makes a movement, and a plate appears in front of him. “The house functions differently,” he says. “There is no transfiguration laws here. Perhaps no laws at all.”

The thought intrigues him, but Potter does not dwell on his words. Instead, Voldemort sees him plunge a fork in something utterly indecent. He says nothing. After a bite or three; Potter pushes the plate away from him, and begin to speak.

And speak.

                   And speak.

                                               And speak.

And speak.

~*~

At day, Voldemort thinks about the words Potter had spoken. He thinks about the utter uselessness of his efforts, about decades of war being thrown away by a boy who resigns himself to fate’s whims. He thinks about Kingsley as a Minister, his Death Eaters chased around the seven continents, he thinks about his name being forgotten, and his possessions sold in Borgin and Burkes.

At night, he raises his wand and screams curses at the windows, at the door. He cuts himself and draws blood rituals on the floor; he sits between candles and breathes; his eyes riveted on what will become his way out.

At day, Voldemort begins to get accustomed to Potter’s presence. They do not talk; merely exchange a few words every two or three days.

At night, he thinks about closing his fingers around Potter’s throat and seeing the flesh turn purple.

~*~

They scream at each other one day; because Potter’s glazed indifference begins to fade with each passing day, because Voldemort’s fury does not recede but bubbles under the surface.

“I NEVER ASKED FOR THIS!” Potter screams. “I WAS A CHILD! I NEVER WANTED TO BE THE ONE TO OPPOSE YOU! DO YOU THINK THIS IS WHAT I WANTED? DO YOU THINK I DREAMED OF BEING THE DARK LORD'S OPPONENT? I DREAMED OF MY PARENTS I DREAMED OF A LIFE THAT YOU ROBBED FROM ME BECAUSE OF A PROPHECY THAT SPEAKS NONSENSE!”

Voldemort screams curses. He screams words of Parseltongue that Potter does not understand anymore, he screams words dripping of venom and heated fury.

“YOU HAD A CHOICE!” Potter shrieks. His cheeks are red, and his eyes promise death. It is a sight; Voldemort thinks in the midst of his fury; one that reminds him of Bellatrix during battle. “YOU COULD HAVE LET THE THING ROT AS IT DESERVED! YOU HAD ALREADY SOMEONE FACING YOU, HOW COULD HAVE AN INFANT STOOD AGAINST YOU?”

“You understand nothing of war!” Voldemort shrieks back. A dozen Cruciatus hit Potter in the chest, to no avail, and it only infuriates him more. The wooden table explodes; and spikes of wood jolt towards the walls. “You speak of a time you can not comprehend! The parody of war Dumbledore gave you is nothing compared to the reality of it! Threats need to be taken care of!”

“I UNDERSTAND NOTHING OF IT? I UNDERSTAND NOTHING OF IT? YOU WERE THE ONE WHO PUT ME IN YOUR WAR! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO DECIDED TO MAKE ME YOUR ENEMY! DO YOU THINK I WOULD HAVE GONE AFTER YOU AT ELEVEN OTHERWISE? I WOULD NOT! YOU ATTACKED ME AT HOGWARTS, YOU ATTACKED ME IN THE GRAVEYARD, YOU ATTACKED ME IN GODRICS HOLLOW, YOU ATTACKED ME IN THE MALFOY MANOR!”

Harry Potter pants. His fingers grip at his wand, and Voldemort knows that at this moment; nobility of soul or not, it would be a green flash that would have left his wand.

“I was not the one to target you,” Harry Potter says, his voice rougher after screaming. His eyes are wide, and he shakes his head. “I was not the one who sought your death. I was a child, and I wanted to live as a child. It is not the prophecy that was your demise, but merely yourself, Tom.”                       

At the name, Voldemort shrieks.

The whole room explodes; each of the teacup, the wooden cabinets, even the iron chairs. The shards pass without touching them and lodge themselves in the wall.

He raises a hand; to strangle Potter, for his words to die on his lips, the last bearer of the forbidden knowledge; of the despised name, but Potter stays firm on the ground.

“You can’t! You can’t!” Potter laughs, and it sounds more like a wail. “I can’t! You can’t! We are trapped here with each other, and we can’t do anything to the other!”

They stand facing each other; their eyes riveted on their counterparts.

“You can’t,” Harry Potter repeats, desperately. “You can’t.”

And it feels as if he is saying I can’t.

~*~

When Harry Potter goes into the kitchen the next day, it seems as if the scene had been a dream. Voldemort had taken care of repairing every trace of their screaming match; waving his wand until everything is back to its place.

He sits on one of the iron chairs, and there is an untouched piece of cake next to him.

He had given thoughts to Potter’s screaming words; once his fury had receded to its usual state. Rampant, on the verge of exploding, but still tightly under control. He knows now that the prophecy had been a mistake. He had given too much faith in fate, when he alone was the master of his destiny.

He will not apologize; for he has no reason nor wish to do so, but Voldemort is not a foolish man and reluctantly knows that he needs Harry Potter to get out of this house. He has been thinking about this since he has woken up.

What more vicious, than to require for Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter to collaborate. A surreal thought; one that would provoke incredulity and condescending mirth. He is not one for collaboration, nor one for forgiveness; and it would require both to overcome his hatred for Harry Potter.

He needs to win the boy’s trust, Voldemort thinks. He had known how to, once; in another life. He had wielded words like a knight brandishes his blade; for the tongue was mightier than both the pen and the sword. He would need to use this skill once again; the one he had disregarded when he had gained sufficient power.

It should come easily, he thinks. He is not in the habit to forget knowledge; let alone a skill as overused as charm. The looks are a hindrance, he knows; but nothing that a boy craving sweetness can not overcome.

He knows Potter. He knows the deep desire of the boy for praise, to see in others what he wishes to see. He would be suspicious at first; then would stop doubting it. As all those who comfort themselves with certitude in their beliefs, refusing to think otherwise; Potter would be elated to have been right. He would think himself better; for having seen what others could not; and Voldemort would be only too pleased to sustain this idea.

“You manifested cake,” Harry Potter slowly says as he enters. His eyes go to the cake; something that needed merely two seconds to exist. “Is it… Is it for me?”

“Strawberry cake,” he specifies. He supposes a boy raised without fresh fruit would find them appealing. Voldemort had. “Yes. I do not eat.”

“I’m not really hungry either,” Potter says; and at the sight of Voldemort’s thinning lips, he hurries to add. “I mean, I don’t really feel hunger here. I eat because I can; and if I need to be honest, because of some, uh, memories.”

He glances at Voldemort, to gauge his reaction. It matters not; for he knows the boy’s mind. He had seen it in its entirety when possessing him, and know of his rough childhood. He does not pity him, nor does find any compassion for the boy. It is still delicately soft and pleasing compared to an orphanage during the 40s.

“Eat,” he says.

Potter licks his lips. “You know poison doesn’t work either, right?”

Voldemort’s jaw twitches. “I did not poison it, boy.”

“I guess I will find out,” Potter mumbles; then reaches for the plate. It obliges him to sit two seats away from Voldemort, when he had taken the habit of putting a safe distance of seven seats between them.

A useless precaution. Voldemort can not harm him, and no distance is safe enough regarding psychological damage. He wonders if he could break the boy, or if the magic in place would restore his mind.

Minds are a tricky thing.

Home of the perception of oneself and others, of the conscious thought. Creator of the emotions that animated the body; and of the decisions that guided it. So effortlessly shattered, so hardly repairable.

“It’s good,” Potter says, a bit reluctantly so. Then, quietly. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“This is hardly a matter of thanks,” he says, because Potter is amusingly tensed. “I needed at most three seconds to create it.”

Potter smiles. It is different from his earlier smiles; empty and painful. “You know what they say,” he jokes. “It’s the intention that counts.”

Voldemort is not sure that it is wise to apply such a saying to them. Nonetheless, he inclines his head towards Potter; because he needs him to be amenable to a new dynamic. He will push his desire for Potter’s death in the back of his mind; act on it when the door – or windows – will shatter.

“I have no fondness for such sugary things,” he then says; knowing very well that men like Potter crave admissions of humanity. It is not a lie, per se, for he has no fondness for anything edible; but he remembers a time where an orphan boy would cherish a stolen candy, and it still feels like a distortion of the truth. “It annihilates every other savour.”

Harry Potter tenses- then, pushes the plate and shakes his head. “Nonsense,” he says; his eyes wide with incredulous disagreement. “It’s the combination of all the sugary, uh, things that makes it better.”

“Things,” Voldemort slowly repeats. “Things.”

Potter fans his hand. “You caught my drift. It is heaven” he insists. “The cream combined with the acidity of the fruit? Perfection.”

One glance at the indecent thing informs Voldemort that this is very far from his vision of heaven. He pinches his lips; and raises a hairless eyebrow. “Tastes obviously differ from one palate to another.”

“Then tell me,” Potter asks. “What is your vision of a culinary paradise?”

Voldemort has no answer to offer. He has lost every desire for food since the summer of his sixth year; the aftermath of the creation of a Horcrux. It had been terribly helpful; for no longer had he needed to steal to sustain himself. Potter awaits an answer nonetheless, so he thinks about Bellatrix's favourite meal.

“French braised beef tongue,” he says.

Potter frowns, and glances at his half-eaten cake. “I’d rather eat all the cakes in the world,” he slowly says, his voice bearing the disgust his features shows. “Although I am not surprised.”

“It goes very well with red wine,” Voldemort continues, remembering what Bellatrix had told him about the meal. “It is also very appreciated with pickles.”

Harry Potter makes a face. “Please forget I asked.”

Voldemort takes too much pleasure in the horror that creeps on Potter’s face to stop. “The tongue is very pink at the beginning of the recipe. Usually, it needs to stay the entire prior night in a pot filled with water to drain the blood.”

Harry Potter’s turns greenish, and he stops then. Not to spare details to the sensitive boy, but because at this point he had ceased listening to Bellatrix’s explanations and he is not sure about the following steps.

The boy finishes his cake and returns to his room, Voldemort’s gaze following him.

~*~

Voldemort decides to use patience and small steps.

He knew that the boy would not refuse to collaborate with him to escape, but he doesn’t care for forced hypocrisy nor for the hatred that still stirs Potter. It would be useless, for Voldemort believes that their jailers have imposed a constraint of honesty on their partnership.

He is no stranger to the concept of biding his time. He had done so during seven years, displaying a picture of perfection according to their biased beliefs.

He begins by inducing conversation, a few remarks that are supposed to anchor him to humanity’s level, shift Potter’s perception of him.

Potter is wary at first, a mistrust which contrasts violently with his impassivity of the first days.

It is strange, Voldemort thinks, and yet understandable that Potter’s will to live had been revived by his presence. It is mostly Gryffindorish pride, the vivid desire to stand tall in front of one’s enemies; for to bow down would be to admit the ineluctable hierarchy between them.

It leads them to a peculiar routine, one where they meet for meals and separate for the rest of the day. Voldemort does not give up; for defeat is akin to death in his mind; and every spared hour is used to find a way to escape. He stands for hours in front of the door; drawing rituals; and can sometimes meet Potter’s gaze.

Like he is currently doing.

“You never give up, don’t you?” Potter says; and there is an awe that Voldemort is certain the boy would have wanted to hide. “That’s not a very Slytherin feature.”

Voldemort laughs. It surprises him; more akin to a bark than the joyful laughs Potter constantly offers life. It is the first time that Voldemort had received such an insult. “Do you accuse me of failing to fulfill the duty I owe to the inheritance that flows in my blood?”

Potter shakes his head.

“Honestly,” he says, scratching his chin. A beard had begun to grow there, blurring even more the lines between youth and adulthood. “I don’t think there’s a more fitting house than this one. But people are not obliged to fall under only one, are they? You can share the features of the others too. You can also have the flaws of one house and its qualities and still be placed in another.”

Voldemort has to accord him this. More than once had he met missorted wizards and witches.

“Take Peter for example” Potter continues, and a grimace distorts his features for a second. Interesting. Voldemort had been quite annoyed to find the rat strangled to death. “He was not brave, nor reckless; and yet found himself in Gryffindor.”

“Wormtail valued courage in his peers,” Voldemort corrects. Many were the men who held in admiration a quality they were lacking. “He had found it to attract glory and praise, two pillars that were at the heart of his motivations.”

Potter scoffs. He visibly wants to elaborate on the subject but pinches his lips and says nothing.

Voldemort raises to his full height; from where he had been drawing a circle of Woodwork. It needed to stay untouched for three days and two nights, and he takes care to not disturb it as he stands up.

“I found something of interest in my room,” Potter suddenly blurts. It is raw and tainted with a tinge of shame, enough so to draw Voldemort’s interest. “I was bored, and I was playing with the mirror-”

He stops there, bringing a hand to their cheeks as if they had reddened (which they had not) and Voldemort says nothing. He cares not for any of the time-consuming hobbies Potter might have found to cheat boredom. Even less does he care about what might heat the boy’s cheeks.

Instead, he brushes his robes where they had touched the ground, and motions for Potter to lead the way.

“It could help us,” Potter hurries to explain. “That’s why I came to see you, perhaps you’ll know something about it-”

They got up the stairs, and Potter stops in front of his bedroom. He marks a pause; embarrassment written all over his face and Voldemort refrains a sigh. He doesn’t need to open the door to know that Potter had fallen to the golden rule of teenagers, those of rebellious chaos and utter disinterest for cleanliness.

Never mind that the boy is now twenty-three.

He vaguely remembers his twenty-three birthday. Voldemort had been in Thessaloniki, Greece, researching the works of roman emperors and ancient rituals that the modern Greeks believed to be of polysemous beliefs. The truth was far greater; for Greece had been for a long time the sacred land of magical creatures.

Lamias, Basilisks, Chimaeras, Gryffins; and so many more. It was there that he had found how to animate Inferis. Here that he, for the first time, had managed to make death bend to his desires.

The door opens, and he blinks; having being lost in his thoughts enough not to have noticed Potter overcoming his shame and pushing it.

The room is as Voldemort has thought it to be, a real depiction of teenage carefreeness.

He strides past the fallen clothes, the leftovers brought back from the kitchen, the half-drank cups of tea and reaches for the mirror. It looks like every mirror ought to look; with reflective glass and adequate width.

Voldemort turns to face Harry Potter and raises a hairless brow. “This mirror is of a distressing banality, Potter.”

Potter, who is in the midst of cleaning the carnage he lives in, stops. He has a dozen clothes buried inside his arms, and takes a step towards the bed to drop them on it, before taking place next to Voldemort.

The scene is familiar, Voldemort thinks; and his red gaze finds his mirrored counterpart. It reminds him of a young boy, anxious pain, and a stone. It reminds him of a despair he does not want to dwell on; a hope so fierce it had been burning- then fire; less metaphorical.

“Strange” Potter whispers, and his fingers graze the glass. He focuses on the mirror; eyebrows furrowed, and something strange appears.

The glass blurs, and Potter’s fingers go through it. Voldemort tilts his head to the side; curiosity replacing doubt, and watches as Potter’s arm disappears through the glass.

Then, Potter retrieves his arm and turns to face him; an elated satisfaction stretching his lips in a smile.

“You see?” he says, and there is triumph in his tone. Admitting his wrongs is a small price to pay, Voldemort thinks, if the boy lowers his guard for such a risible victory. “I wonder if this is a passage. Do you think we could go to the other side? That here is our exit door?”

Voldemort shakes his head, but his gaze is still fixed on the mirror.

“I doubt it,” he says. “They would not have dressed such intriguing protections only to hide the exit in a mirror. No, this must be something else.”

“But how could we know then?” Potter asks.

There is only one way, Voldemort thinks; and he pushes Potter towards the mirror. The boy stumbles, tries to grab the frame, only to fall headfirst into the mirror. Half of his body disappears through it; legs dangling out of the glass, and Voldemort takes a step backwards.

Half a second later, the boy stands up; emerging from the mirror.

“Why the hell would you do that!” he shouts; anger distorting his features. “We didn’t know what this thing was! I could have-”

Voldemort laughs and crosses his arms on his chest. “You could have what, boy? Died?”

Harry Potter’s anger seems to instantly recede. His lips thin; and he shakes his head, mumbling to himself.

“I can not kill you here” Voldemort adds; more to comfort the boy than it being the reason behind his act. He knows not of all the intricacies at place, here, the boy could very much have died. “I was right to believe so; you seem very much alive.”

“Perceptions can be deceitful,” Harry Potter says.

“Did you find our way out?”

Potter shakes his head. “No,” he continues, and there is disappointment in his voice. “It’s only an old library. Probably something the owners of this house wanted to hide. Must be all sort of dark spells that you fancy.”

Voldemort’s curiosity is immediately spiked. Perhaps there could he find some indication about the wards the house possesses.

Harry Potter does not miss his interest, and laughs. “Of course,” he says. “You would be more interested in old books than in the rest of the house.” His next words are barely above a whisper, destined to no other than himself. “You remind me of Hermione sometimes…”

Voldemort does not know who this Hermione is, but is quite certain that the comparison would not flatter him. Very rare are those who do, and he knows each of their names.

Instead, he takes a step towards the mirror.

“Come,” he says. “We might be able to find something of interest.”

Harry Potter makes a face, but does not protest. It is for the best; as Voldemort would not have accepted any other answer.

They disappear through the mirror at the same time, and when Voldemort raises his gaze, it is to find himself in the Lestrange Manor’s library.

He freezes, so still and unblinking that one could have thought him a statue of marble.

Potter, unaware of his surroundings, merely stretches and sighs. “See? Only an old library. If all your knowledge did not help us, I don’t think this will either.”

No breath escapes Voldemort’s lips.

How was it possible, he thinks, furiously so. He had seen it burn, during the first wizarding war, when the aurors had raided the Manor. He had seen the library being consumed, eaten by the fire; and none of the books had been salvageable, for it was Fiendfyre that had burned its way through the Manor and its history.

The Lestrange had been inconsolable for days.

Slowly, he takes a step towards the books. He gazes at their cover, ones so familiar, and wonders about the place Harry Potter and he are trapped into. He knows only of one way to do such a merit; one that takes time and energy; one that is not worth its difficulties.

It was high magic. One that would require a powerful Legilimens; one capable of piercing through the veils that clouded his mind, the protections he had erected. Not even Dumbledore had been capable of such a feat. But perhaps by administering potions to lower his natural barriers; taking advantage of his sleeping state...

Voldemort finds himself furious. His hands are shaking; a trembling fury that animates him and boils through his veins. He closes his eyes; and occludes; focusing on pushing away this all-too-familiar wrath.

Harry Potter is speaking, but he does not hear his words. Instead, he breathes, and thinks.

It would have been necessary to penetrate his mind and remove this memory, to magically recreate these books. This created a trace that could not be hidden. But for what purpose? Why recreate this library? Why hide it?

“-like Sirius’ room,” Harry Potter says. Voldemort opens an eye. It finds Potter’s green gaze, and he tries to listen to the nonsense the boy is blubbering. “I believe it is to create a sense of familiarity, of comfort.”

“Sirius?” Voldemort slowly asks.

The boy nods. “Yes, my room is exactly the same as Sirius Black, my godfather. The kitchen chairs, they were the same as in my uncle and aunt house.”

Voldemort breathes. Yes, of course. He understands now.

It is clever, he finds no fault in that. A side part of the mere-exposure effect. One of the deepest desires of the human conscience, this search in a hostile environment for familiar elements. A useful tool to create relief and soothe alertness, one that wishes itself deceptive.

By creating affection for familiar elements, their jailers most certainly hope to see them indulge in this false reassurance, lower their distrust for their environment.

“You know this library, don’t you?” Potter continues, with an insight that surprises him.

He stays silent for a second; enough to make a choice. “Yes,” he finally says. “I am quite familiar with this library.”

Potter does not ask from where. Against all odds, he is not stupid, and the connections are easily established. Instead, he turns his gaze towards the library. “I don’t know how long I've been there. At one point, I thought that I got mad,” he confesses, silently. “It’s strange, I know, but knowing that there was someone upstairs, even if it was you, I think it helped me stay sane.”

Voldemort does not know what Potter makes of his days. He thinks that he too would have become insane, was he not driven by his desire for freedom, and wonders about when Potter’s had deserted him.

“I wrote letters, at first,” Potter says. “Then, I tried to keep a diary.” He laughs. “It did not go well; I don’t have the best affinities with diaries, it seems.”

Voldemort’s lips twitch, but it is amusement not anger that thins them. “After that?”

“I slept,” Potter confesses. “I have trouble sleeping here. It seems as if I am exhausted and yet can not close my eyes. I tried to bake too, then to knit. And then you woke up.”

Voldemort lifts an eyebrow.

“You did not try to open the door?”

“Of course, I did” Potter protests. “First thing I tried. I tried and tried and tried, but at some point, I realized that I could waste my energy trying or…” He shrugs. “I don’t know. My will to open it, it faded. It was never really there. I think this house drains my emotions. Everything is blurred, less than before.”

It surprises him. He does not feel the same; or perhaps is he too accustomed to pushing his emotions away that them being drained would not be noticed. “Explain,” he says.

Potter swallows, and scratches his beard.

“I hate you,” he says, plainly. “I despise everything you stand for, and I once thought that I would have to kill you. Bloody hell, I tried to kill you. But I was not really angry, not like before. I just tried because I had to. Now… it wavers. Sometimes, when I don’t think about it, I feel as if my body, my brain they are numb.  You just… exist, and I don’t hate you as I should.”

Voldemort thinks about Potter; how he desires to see his green eyes close for the last time, how he would relish in the boy gurgling his last words, his throat crushed between his fingers, and thinks that he does not understand the boy.

It infuriates him, and surprises him, how the boy is free with his confessions. He wants to cast the Cruciatus, and ask Potter if he remembers who he is speaking to. He does not want to hear about Potter’s feelings, not when it stirs something in his stomach that he is certain to despise.

“You think this is the doing of the house,” Voldemort slowly says.

“I know it is,” Potter pleads. “It is not just you. I think about people that I’ve lost, my parents, Sirius, and I am not sad. Not as I was before; I am just… I don’t know!” His face is full of distress, and Voldemort thinks him very far from numb. “I feel so.. so detached sometimes! Look at us! We’re talking! We’re not trying to kill each other! We’ve been having conversations!”

“We can not kill each other,” Voldemort says, even more slowly.

“But when has such a thing stopped you?!” Potter is on the verge of shouting. “Don’t tell me that you’ve just accepted this, and you don’t think about killing me sometimes? You killed my parents, and we’re…. We’re…. We’re chatting over tea! We’re talking about your favourite things! I didn’t know you had favourite things except for murder and torture!”

Harry Potter’s outburst does not anger Voldemort at all. Perhaps it should, but he rather finds it desperate and terribly amusing. There is something of the sort in seeing the boy distress; jabbing an index at Lord Voldemort as if a single finger could hold him back.

He does not distress himself over such matters, for he knows how to play the long game. The boy will die in the end. Voldemort had waited many years for such a death, and it was merely a temporary hindrance to his plans for Potter’s future.

So, he smiles. It is not a nice smile, not with his scarred lips and the sharp fangs that it displays. But it is enough to take Potter aback and to close his mouth mid-diatribe.

“You are not the one I should have fought,” Voldemort lies. “You were a child thrown in the midst of a battle that did not concern you. It was a mistake that I did, one caused by Albus Dumbledore’s cowardness and my paranoia.”

Harry Potter opens his mouth, closes it. He seems stunned.

“I had to kill you,” Voldemort continues, in the soft tone of his. “For you were the one standing in my path. I did not wish to kill you.”

And with that, he takes a book from a shelf; and steps through the mirror. Behind him, Harry Potter has not followed him, and Voldemort aims for his rooms.

The boy would need at least the rest of the day to reflect on what he had said, he knows. And just as much, he knows that he has taken another step towards their freedom.

~*~

As expected, the boy does not appear until supper.

He does not walk into the kitchen, but carefully creeps into it, as if expecting Voldemort to have been decent enough to stay in his rooms. Unfortunately for Potter; Voldemort defies him to find a day where he had displayed such thoughtfulness.

Potter pinches his lips, but nonetheless sits at the Malfoy’s table. “I don’t understand you,” he finally blurts, as if the words were too burning to be held back. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I favour speaking the truth,” Voldemort lies.

Potter raises a dubious eyebrow. He must have seen Dumbledore’s memories, and Voldemort is suddenly reminded of the first word the boy had given him. LIAR, he had shouted. It seemed some habits did not change.

“I don’t want to speak about it now,” Potter says; and fans his hand for supper to apparate. His words are determined, an order, not a demand, and Voldemort finds himself very amused by the fact. “You confuse me too much.”

Voldemort smiles, and does not say that Potter is far from the only one to think so.

“Then which subjects do you favour?” he says instead.

Potter narrows his eyes. It is so very entertaining, Voldemort thinks, for the boy to have such a misplaced distrust. It is not Voldemort’s words that he should fear, but the state of mind that will slowly creep on him. How the cautiousness will fade.

“Quidditch,” the boy says, merely to infuriate him.

Voldemort is not one to admit ignorance in a subject, especially one he had been drowned in information about. Abraxas Malfoy had never been shy to share his passions. So, he bends forward, reaching for his fork and cocks his head to the side.

“Quidditch is a very broad subject,” he says. “Do you fancy a particular team, or merely wishes to discuss techniques?”

Potter pinches his lips. “Techniques,” he counters, and his eyes are full of daring. “What are your thoughts on the Dionysus dive?”

Voldemort’s smile does not fade from his features. “Reckless,” he says. “For a sport that is played on brooms, I do not understand the need to jump, and leave said broom. Now, most evidently, the answer differs if one knows how to fly without tools.”

Potter snorts.

“I’m sure you’re not one for a broom. Yeah, tools- you don’t need one. I saw you fly without it. Not everyone is graced by the same capacities.”

Potter does not even notice the hidden compliment he had given, and Voldemort’ smile gains a tinge of genuineness.  “It was not graced to me,” Voldemort corrects. “I learned it through work and consistency.”

“Sure,” Potter says. “You mean that if I try to jump out of the table, Peter pan-like, I’m not going to hit the floor and bruise both my dignity and my knees?”

The image would have its charm.

“At first” Voldemort agrees. “It is not only a matter of repeating I can fly and wishes,” he continues, and the horrified stupefaction in Potter’s eyes is worth quoting muggle works. “You could compare it to the animagi process, I suppose.”

“You saw Peter Pan?” Potter slowly asks.

Voldemort sighs.

“I was not born an adult,” he says. “As strange as it might seem.”

Potter’s eyes narrow once again.

“The movie was in the cinema in 1953. You were an adult, then. Are you telling me that Tom Riddle made a pause during recruiting Death Eaters to go watch a movie for children?”

Voldemort clenches his jaw at the name. It takes a few seconds for him to finally say. “As surprising as the idea might be, Potter, movies are not the only entertainment support. The book was published in 1904.”

Harry Potter opens his mouth, closes it. “Ah.”

There is a silence, an ashamed one from Potter and Voldemort enjoys a few seconds of silence before the boy breaks it again.

“So you read muggle books?”

Voldemort puts away his fork and knife and sighs. “I was raised in a muggle orphanage, Potter.”

Potter blushes.

“Ah yes,” he says. “I forgot.”

How lucky was he to be able to, Voldemort thinks, for those memories were ingrained in his bones. Never would they allow him to fade, no matter how much he had tried to kill the boy Tom Riddle had once been.

“What was it like?” Potter blurts out after a little while. “The life in the 40s I mean.”

There’s an edge of cautiousness in the boy’s eyes, overcome nonetheless by his curiosity. Voldemort refrains from saying that there was an entire library in the boy’s room for him to search his fill, and looks at Potter.

The boy averts his gaze, and Voldemort is reminded of his appearance. It is a statement, he thinks, a metaphor for the Ouroboros and the circle of immortality, but one that does him a disservice. He knows charms had come in pair with lust; for sympathy was closely tied to attraction.

There was a reason the Malfoy had always gotten away with their crimes, money or not. The Parkinson might be richer, but it had not helped Theseus to get away from Azkaban.

“Poor, dirty, and not very accommodating for a wizard.”  Voldemort sharply says.

“I mean, like, the difference between now and then. The war.”

Voldemort stares at Potter, unblinking. “Tell me, Potter,” he says. “What do you believe it was like?”

Potter shrugs.

“I don’t know. People were posher than now; all dressed up. News of the war in the newspaper; uncertainty and chaos. You did not go to the war, though, nor did you have any relatives who went. It didn’t touch you, reach you. You’re a wizard.”

Voldemort breathes and his nose slits flare.

“It did not reach me?” he slowly repeats. He is not sure to have understood.

Potter gives him another shrug. It irritates Voldemort, this vulgar gesture that is supposed to replace words. They have been born with a tongue, and it is not to reverse to bestiality.

“Well you were in Hogwarts almost all the year, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t have any friends there.”

His anger flares again. It infuriates him, that Potter thinks himself in the right to suppose. He knows not of his life experiences, for Dumbledore’s memories had been passed through a rather biased filter. Potter believes himself the holder of Voldemort’s mind; of his memories; with an indolence that makes his fingers twitch on his wand.

“You know nothing” he hisses. Potter recoils; and Voldemort’s eyes flash a burning red. “It did reach me, boy; if by reach you mean hearing bombs fly above my head, seeing London burn, seeing death all around me; seeing illnesses that might have taken me away if I had not been Slytherin’s heir; starving because food was reserved for soldiers-”

Potter swallows and grips the arms of his chair. “Alright!” he blurts out. “It did reach you, it did!”

Voldemort closes his eyes, and wishes for nothing more but to pinch the edge of his nose. He takes a few seconds to make sure that he will not try to strangle the boy, and leans back in his seat.

“You should not take for granted every golden word Dumbledore had spoken in his life,” he murmurs. “If you believe this to be born out of my hatred for the old fool, then believe also in the faults that lay in humanity. Every human is bound by mistakes, and Dumbledore was not exempt from it.”

Potter raise a challenging eyebrow. “Even you?”

“I am not human,” Voldemort softly says. “But I am not exempt to the rule either. I made mistakes, Harry Potter, and your presence here is the manifestation of them all.”

Potter does not get angered. Instead, he laughs and raises his glass. “Then I’ll drink to your mistakes, Tom, for I quite favour my situation.”

Voldemort grits his teeth. “Do not say that name.”

Potter looks at him. “Why,” he says. This is not a question; not in the sense that it would have been with any other. It is a confrontation, and Voldemort loathes it.

“It is not up to your choice. The boy is dead.”

“He is not” Potter denies. “You can’t kill such a part of yourself, the one that feels, even if you desire very much for it to be true.”

Voldemort laughs. He laughs, for Potter knows not of what he speaks about. What can the boy bring for the subject? Which part of himself has he ever forsaken? His pureblood name? His desire for something he could not have? His love for a young girl?

He laughs, for Potter does not know of being a mudblood in Slytherin. He knows not of an anchor, a weight dragging towards banality and crass ignorance.

“This is not very funny,” Potter says. “I think it’s rather sad.”

But it is not, really, Voldemort thinks. It is terribly amusing, for Potter speaks as if he has dozen of lives behind his eyes, when he only wears the traces of those who had been forced to grow too fast.

Alas, he thinks, the boy marks a point, one very different than the one he had tried to pass.

Voldemort will never gain Harry Potter’s trust.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, just might.

~*~

It is not hard for him to find what he wishes.

It is never, in reality, for his desires are so close to his heart that he knows precisely what they are and how to achieve them.

Voldemort does not wish for his body to return to its natural state, nor can it. He is born of a ritual, one that has been forged in his bones and soul, and nothing could make the magic of it vanish.

However, he can conceal it.

The brewing is not particularly difficult; although nothing has ever been for him. Voldemort spends the seven days it requires locked in his rooms, and had heard more than once Harry Potter stop in front of his door; his hand raised as if to knock.

Never had he done so, but he has wished to, and the thought fills Voldemort with deep satisfaction.

He does not go away from the potion, not even for a single minute.

Instead, he stays and watches.

~*~

The glamour works in different steps.

The first dose disguises the most abhorrent features.

The nose.

The fingers.

The scales.

~*~

The second dose works deeper. The hair.

The fangs.

The eyes.

~*~

Then, the final third works underneath his skin.

The heat.

The bones.

The flesh.

~*~

Voldemort opens his eyes, and they are black.

The eyes are the window of the soul, and the soul is black, the soul is made of pain, sorrow, and deceit.