Chapter 1
'Thoughts'
‘Internal speech’
August 1995
Harriet’s POV
Harriet staggered as she walked, swaying so much she nearly fell over. Her balance was shot, and the chaffed and raw skin on her wrists and ankles protested her movements. Her vision was greying, and she knew she didn't have much time. Unconsciousness would take her soon.
She had Apparated as soon as she could, thinking of somewhere safe, somewhere she would be able to rest and recover. Her magic, her very soul, took her here. A manor of some sort, from what Harriet could see through the pouring rain and her foggy glasses. The long walkway to the door was steep and gravelled, unforgiving against her exhaustion. But she knew, just as surely as she knew her own name, that she would be safe here. Some part of her soul called out to this place, to whomever may be within. Nearly delirious with pain and whatever potions had been forced into her, Harriet could only think of making it to the door.
She stumbled and slipped on the gravel, taking longer than she should have to trudge her way up to the door. At some point, she registered that she passed through strong wards. They let her pass easily, which was unusual, but she was too far gone to ponder over this. The wards seemed to welcome her, enveloping her in achingly familiar magic, whose origin she could not place. All she knew was that this magic felt safe, and she was more eager than before to get to the door and hopefully meet the manor's owner.
Harriet made the last few steps to the door, sighing in relief. She thankfully hadn't fainted yet, but she knew he would soon. She could feel her thoughts and movements slowing, but she fought the pull of unconsciousness. She needed to see who was inside the manor, who or what was her sanctuary. She raised a shaking hand to the door, and it swung open before she could even made contact with the wood.
All the breath in Harriet’s lungs was punched out of her. Another wave of adrenaline surged through her veins, but it was not enough to counteract her already fragile state. Harriet gazed up, wide-eyed, at the looming form of one Thea Merope Riddle. She looked to be in her 30's and seemed to be as shocked as Harriet was. Her striking face twisted into an enraged snarl before she seemed to really look at Harriet. Harriet saw her eye her wrists and the bruise she knew had bloomed across her jaw. The darkened skin under her eyes, her split lip. Harriet hadn't been able to see herself before she escaped, but she knew she didn't make for a pretty sight.
Feeling fainter by the second, Harriet gathered all her Gryffindor courage and looked her in the eye. Before she could even open her mouth to speak, she could feel the tell tale press of Legilimency, a faint pressure behind her eyes. She gasped, the night's memories flashing before her eyes. A strange man stunning her outside of Grimmauld Place; the scent of mildew and the feeling of humid air sticking to her skin; a deranged, low ranking follower of the Dark Lord, wanting to kill Harriet Lily Potter for himself; stealing her wand back from the man after kicking him in the temple hard enough to feel it crack, to make her captor crumple to the ground, his body too still, too still, too--; hoping and praying for somewhere safe before she Apparated out of the dank room she had spent days trapped in-
Harriet gasped as the Dark Lord's mind withdrew from hers. She felt even fainter than before, and her knees buckled before she weakly caught herself on the doorway. "Please, h-help... I didn't know where else to go..." she breathed, before she fell forward into the Dark Lord, unconsciousness finally claiming her.
Merope’s POV
Merope was at a loss for words. Here she was, in the most fortified home in all of Britain, and Harriet Lily Potter managed to not only find it, but also waltz her way through the considerable wards that surrounded it like they were nothing. To say she was baffled (angered, frustrated, impressed) was putting it lightly. How one even found a manor under the Fidelius Charm without the Secret was beyond her. She had put an extensive amount of magic into warding the manor, exhausting her new body multiple times during the months it took to complete. Yet, here was her nemesis, disregarding it all like it was mere child's play.
Merope shifted the girl in her arms, having decided to carry her further into Slytherin Manor. She had no idea exactly what was wrong with Harriet, and felt the oddest need to help her. Something deep in her withered and shattered soul begged her to aid the girl. Therefore, Merope refused to use any unnecessary magic on her, afraid to cause further harm as she did not know what potions or magic were forced upon her. Instead, she carried Harriet the muggle way, noting that she weighed less than she should for a young lady her age. Her body was small, and she looked waifish and underfed. Lean, wiry muscles lined her frame, borne of survival and necessity. She could feel each rib through her tattered shirt, could count them under her touch. Something was not right. Why did the Saviour of the Light look like one of the children that could've been found in any orphanage across Britain? Neglected, mistreated, starving... Merope knew the signs, having seen them in the mirror every day of her childhood.
A spike of fury rose, unwelcome and confusing. Why was she angered on behalf of Potter of all people? Her steps faltered, her hurried pace pausing at the thought. This was not supposed to be happening. Potter was her prophesied enemy, the one with the ability to bring about her downfall. She shouldn't be rushing to heal her. Merope couldn’t allow some unknown force to just influence her like this. Merope glanced down at the limp girl in her arms, and felt that same soul-deep pull to aid her once again. She closed her eyes for a moment, focusing on the sensation, a dawning horror overtaking her mind as she realised what this could possibly mean. No, no, no, no-
She recognised this feeling. Felt it whenever Nagini entered the room, whenever she was in close proximity to the horcruxes she had collected. She knew what this aching in her soul was. Harriet Potter was a horcrux—her horcrux.
Merope's eyes snapped open once more and she set her course to her private quarters. She would not have her horcrux in any part of the manor but its most protected rooms. How hadn't she realised this sooner? She quickly thought back to previous encounters with Harriet and realised that her complete and utter insanity had concealed the truth the last time she had seen the girl. Since their last encounter, she had used a ritual to absorb the errant shard of her soul that had escaped the destroyed diary horcrux (and hadn't Lucius paid dearly for his mistake?). Merope's fragmented soul was no longer eating her own magic and mind to sustain itself. This had the unforeseen advantage of restoring her sanity. Harriet had merely wrecked the diary itself while the actual shard of her soul survived, as usually was the case with Horcruxes. If Merope had to guess, the reason that she could now feel Harriet so acutely was due to the fact that she held most of her soul, and mind, once again.
As she neared her personal rooms, Merope couldn't help the dread she felt fill her at the fact that if Harriet hadn't found her way here, she never would've known that she was her horcrux. She would've been dead set on killing a piece of her very own soul. Revulsion filled her and she mindlessly clutched the unconscious girl closer to her chest, as if to protect her from that hypothetical future.
Merope strode into her chambers and set her horcrux down on top of the sheets. The spacious room filled with warmth as a fire roared to life in the fireplace. Beams of moonlight fell through the gauzy curtains to alight on the twitching form of the girl. The rain continued to pour outside, lending itself to a soothing symphony of sound. A film of sweat was present on Harriet’s skin, and she let out a quiet whine as Merope's hands left her. Merope cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed as she watched Harriet subconsciously lean towards her. It seemed that her little horcrux was desperate to connect. A grin overtook her face, hand coming up to comb through Harriet's unruly shoulder length black hair as her mind started racing over how to use this to her advantage. How could she use their connection to lure her little horcrux to willingly stand by her side? She could not leave Harriet to Dumbledore's scheming, not when it was entirely possible that Dumbledore knew of their… unique connection. Albus would surely see that her girl died before the war was won.
Eyeing Harriet's wounds once again, Merope pulled out her wand and quickly cast a diagnostic charm on the girl. It was a charm that not only recorded her current injuries and any magic that was affecting Harriet, but also listed her entire medical history. Rage once more flooded Merope's mind when she saw the signs of prolonged starvation, the multiple broken bones and sprained ligaments, and the magical injuries she had sustained. Basilisk venom, phoenix tears… she'd hear rumours that Harriet had been the one to slay Slytherin's basilisk, but this all but proved the outrageous claim. Merope took several deep breaths in, emotions flying through her as she thought of all her horcrux had been put through. Harriet should've been by her side, protected and cherished as the precious creature she was. Harriet never would've been made to suffer if Merope had known what she was. She would've prevented this. Never let it be said that Lord Voldemort didn't take good care of what was hers.
Looking at the more recent injuries, Merope noted that during the span of the last week Harriet had faced starvation, dehydration, and multiple minor physical injuries. Nothing serious enough to warrant a trip to St. Mungo's, yet what was more concerning was the potions Harriet had been fed. Experimental things, unstable and incomplete. The ingredients seemed to suggest that the purpose of this potion was to induce obedience and compliance. Whoever had captured her had clearly wanted a test subject. Perhaps their goal had not been to kill the Great Harriet Potter? But no, Harriet's memories showed the man clearly stating he planned to kill her, but he wanted to test a new potion he created for his… Lord-- ah, Harriet had been captured by one of her own followers. Merope thought back on Harriet's memories, trying to place the abductor. After a moments she recalled that yes, she knew who the man was, one Victor Travers. A weak pureblood with no real worth beyond his family name. Even his potion's skills were near abysmal if the experimental potion in Harriet's blood was an example of his work. Amateur mistakes that a true Potions Master such as Severus would never make. Travers would pay dearly for daring to hurt what belonged to Lord Voldemort. When the time was right, she would offer Travers to Harriet, a gift and revenge all wrapped in one.
"Winky!" Merope called. Barty Crouch Jr's elf was loyal to her master's son, and seeing as Merope had saved the man from the Dementor's Kiss just a month back, she was all too eager to serve her as well. She popped into the room, bowing low before looking up at the woman with adoration.
"What can I bes doing for Mistress?" She squeaked, rocking forward onto her toes.
"A purging potion, pain potion, and bruise salve. Tell Barty to start working on a batch of nutrient potions," Merope stated, turning back to Harriet.
Merope planned on waking the girl soon, as she was very interested to see how her horcrux would react to being near her when she wasn't delirious with pain and botched potions. Would she be angry? Terrified? Or would the pull of the horcrux within her make her compliant? Would she fight her, rage etched into her features? Merope found herself eager to see every little emotion flash across her horcrux's face, every little tell that could act as a window into her thoughts. What effects had the horcrux had on Harriet's original personality? Merope knew there was no way Harriet had escaped any influence. After all, Harriet had been keeping it safe for nearly her entire life. Whoever Harriet had been born as, whoever she was supposed to be, was now warped and tainted by the Black magic staining her soul. A beautiful corruption of innocence, the first of her kind. Now free from her previous insanity, Merope could truly appreciate the gift that the Fates had given her. Harriet was born through a feat of magic previously thought impossible, a creature created just for Merope. Harriet belonged to her, their souls demanded it.
As Merope idly healed the scrapes and rope burns that littered Harriet's body, the potions she requested appeared on the ornate bedside table nearest to the girl. She spelled them into Harriet's stomach, eyeing her as the twitching in Harriet's limbs subsided and her brow smooth from its previous furrow. The girl seemed to sigh, before relaxing into the silk sheets she laid upon. Her pain had been taken away and the purging potion ensured that the experimental potion's remnants and effects would be cleared from her bloodstream and mind within a few hours.
Merope turned to the fireplace and took a seat in the armchair before it. With a wave of her hand the tome she had been reading before Harriet appeared on her doorstep floated into her grasp. She eyed the girl one last time, eager to wake her but knowing patience was required in this delicate situation. The last thing she needed was to scare off her little horcrux before she even had the chance to coax Harriet into listening to her. If her suspicions were correct, which they always were, then the girl was lacking proper care and appreciation in her life. Well, if Merope were to fulfil that need... Harriet would most likely do anything to keep that care and affection. The poor thing was neglected by just about everyone in her life. She just needed a gentle touch before she caved beautifully. Merope would make sure of it.
'Yes,' she thought to herself, 'Harriet Potter would come willingly.' And if she had to manipulate the situation to make that so? She'd do so gladly.