Reunion
-October 31 1980-
Godric Hollow
Voldemort stared down at the child, his eyes wide with wonder. It was a small thing, shaggy black hair and tiny body wrapped in a red onesie displaying the words ‘Daddy’s Boy’ in gold lettering. The child looked up at Voldemort with the greenest eyes he’d ever seen. They truly were the color of the bright killing curse that Voldemort was so fond of. Beautiful…
The child stared at him, and Voldemort prepared himself for the god-awful screeching that infants were known for, and was surprised when instead, the child giggled. It was a tinkling sound, almost like soft bells. It was full of wonder and joy---so contrasting to the grim situation the child was in the middle of.
It had been quite a long time since Lord Voldemort had heard such a joyful laugh in his presence. His followers---Voldemort used such a term lightly, as they were more akin to mindless sheep then they were actual comrades---never made such a noise near him. The closest they could come to would be the pathetic, fearful whimpering.
It was refreshing and only further cemented the thought that this baby, Harry James Potter, was perfect for him.
The obsession (As Nagini claimed it was) had started only four months prior. He’d been given a report from his most loyal, Severus Snape, of a prophecy foretelling his destruction. Voldemort, of course, had been hesitant to accept such a thing. After all, how could something as weak as a baby defeat him, the Great Lord Voldemort?
But, being the thorough and attentive Lord he was, Voldemort followed up on the claims. The only two families that fell under the prophecies' limitations were the Longbottoms and the Potters.
The Longbottoms were a long-standing Pure-Blood family, notoriously light in all conceivable ways. Voldemort had sent his spies to see what the child looked like, and Voldemort had scoffed at the memory. Tiny, chubby, completely inattentive to the world around him. No, Neville Longbottom was not his equal and could not defeat him.
The Potters, on the other hand, showed some promise. While they too, were a Pure-Blood family, James Potter had married and conceived a child with a Mudblood, producing a Half-Blood heir---much like himself.
Voldemort had dismissed the small similarity between himself and the Potter heir, but when the spy he sent to look at the child returned, everything changed.
The Potter child was perfect in every way.
The similarities between himself and the child were plentiful and so, so incredible. The child had a similar facial structure to a young Tom Riddle, and his emerald eyes were so bright and full of life! Curious about everything around it. Voldemort was sure that Harry Potter could pass off as the child of Tom Riddle.
The child of Tom Riddle…
Suddenly the idea seemed very pleasing. It reminded Voldemort of his lonely days in the Orphanage, oh so many years ago, where the young Tom Riddle had curled in on himself and pleaded for a family. For someone to love and call his own. So that Tom Riddle might never be alone.
As he had grown older, Tom Riddle turned up his nose at the idea, hardened by the many lonely years. He became cold, ruthless and powerful---everything that a young Tom Riddle had wanted to become.
Yes, Lord Voldemort had succeeded in granting and becoming everything the young Tom Riddle had ever dreamed of… All except one. He had never managed to fill the gaping void in Tom Riddle’s chest. (Voldemort would not call it love, for that would be too Dumbledore.)
Both Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort had no family to call their own. No one to cherish and protect, and no one to stay with for the rest of their immortal days.
What was the saying? Immortality is very lonely with no one to share it with.
And so the obsession with Harry Potter---soon to be Harry Slytherin , son of the great Lord Voldemort---began.
Voldemort had made the necessary arrangements for Harry to be brought home with him. He was just preparing to move when he found out that the Potters had been put under a fidelius. He had raged for days---no Death Eater escaped his wrath.
Likewise, when his spy had come forth and given him the Potters address, he had rejoiced. (As much as the great Lord Voldemort could rejoice.)
Now finally, finally, after all this time, Voldemort would have his child.
“Hello, Little One,” Voldemort cooed, lowering his wand into it’s holster. His baby looked up at him and giggled once more---paying no mind to his dead mother sprawled out on the floor. “I’ve missed you…”
Voldemort stepped quickly to the crib where his son sat, and moved to lift his baby. Finally, after all this time, Voldemort would be complete. His forbidden dream of having a family of his own would finally be realized.
“Step away from the boy, Tom.”
Blinding fury.
“Dumbledore!” he hissed, his eyes flashing crimson, as he saw the old man who stood between him and his son.
“You’ve killed his parents,” Dumbledore said, his eyes holding sadness and pity. “Why have you doomed a child to be an orphan? Why would you doom him to be just like you?”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “You dare---”
“Step away from Harry Potter, Tom.” Dumbledore said louder, as Voldemort had been subtly shifting closer to his child as they spoke.
“Leave now, Dumbledore,” Voldemort snapped. “And I won’t kill you. Leave now. I won’t ask again.”
Dumbledore shook his head and raised his wand higher, the gleam of the Elder Wand reflected onto the floor, illuminating the broken glass that littered the ground. “I won’t let you kill the boy.” he said firmly.
“So be it.” Voldemort snarled, having no intention of informing his enemy that the child in question would not be harmed. Would never be harmed if Voldemort had a say in it. (Which he did.).
And thus the fight commenced.
Voldemort fought harder than he ever had before. The threat of losing his baby was more than enough to encourage him. It was clear to Dumbledore that Voldemort would not stop until he was either dead, or away.
The pair danced around the room, spells flying every which way, bouncing off of walls and being absorbed by their targets. Voldemort was slowly winning, his determination to have his family was boosting his magic and making him stronger.
And that was when everything went wrong.
In a mere instance, Voldemort felt---for the first time in nearly fifty years---pure terror. A killing curse that he had fired at Dumbledore had bounced off his shield and moved towards it’s new target.
His son.
“NOOO---” Voldemort let out a horrified cry as he reached for the baby, but it was too late. Just as the green light hit his son, a bright white light encompassed the room with a loud bang and everything disappeared.
When the light faded, Voldemort was gone.
-June 24 1995-
Little Hangleton
“Robe me.”
The command was harsh and direct, and Voldemort sneered as the quivering idiot that had resurrected him, fumbled to clothe him. When Voldemort was suitably clothed, he turned to look at his son, still tied up against the grave.
Voldemort felt a flash of wonder and affection at the child. Harry had grown to be a beautiful young man, and Voldemort had never been more proud to see what a fine young man his son had become. His affection, however, quickly melted to rage as he continued to look.
His son was bound by the statue, and his beautiful emerald eyes did not contain the joy and curiosity that Voldemort had so dearly missed. Instead they were wide with terror and an age-old weariness that Voldemort had never wanted his little one to hold.
He was skinny, very much so. Abnormally so. Voldemort narrowed his eyes as they traveled up and down the tiny frame of his child. He was not only very thin for his age, he was also incredibly small. As though he did not have the proper nourishment growing up. Voldemort’s eyes flared with rage at the thought, causing his child to flinch away from him.
This only made him angrier. His child was flinching away from him! Him, who would never hurt him. Him, who would do whatever it took to protect his child from the dangers of the world. His child should never be afraid of him.
His eyes continued to appraise his bound son, only stopping once more at the sight of a gruesome cut on his forearm, still sluggishly bleeding. While Voldemort had been enraged at the sight of the bruises and scratches littering his precious’s body, he had conceded that they were from the tournament---a necessary evil in order for him to be resurrected and take back what was rightfully his. However this cut was not from the tournament. It was far too clean and deep.
His son had been cut by a knife.
“Wormtail!” Voldemort hissed, snapping his serpentine head back to look at the terrified idiot.
“Y-Yes My Lord?” Wormtail sputtered out, still clutching his arm stump where his hand used to sit. Voldemort had intended to heal him after the ritual, but now, seeing the state of his child, he was less inclined to do so.
“Did I not say a tiny prick?” he demanded. Wormtail’s rat-like face drew up in confusion.
“Y-You did, My Lord.” he said, managing to respond through the pained sobs and whimpers that escaped his lips.
“Then tell me why there is a cut on my child’s arm!” Voldemort snarled. Wormtail whimpered at his master’s anger, and so too, did the teenager bound to the grave. Voldemort quickly looked back at his child to ensure that he was still alive and there, before he returned his gaze to his useless servant.
“My… M-My Lord I… please… it..” Wormtail stuttered out, his attention increasingly waning as the pain of his severed hand became too much.
Voldemort sneered. “Crucio.” Voldemort felt a part of his rage dissipate at the agonized screams of his follower. When he finally lifted it, Wormtail twitched on the ground, small whimpers escaping his blood stained lips.
With that dealt with, Voldemort finally turned to focus on his most precious. Voldemort delighted in the knowledge that finally, after all these years, he would have his son. Before, when he was nothing but a parasite on Quirrel’s head, he’d been unable to embrace his son without damaging his vessel.
Now, however…
“I can touch you now…” he whispered, drifting closer to his bound child, delicately trailing his fingers down the side of his face.
His little one struggled against the binds, turning his face so that he might escape Voldemort’s touch. And Voldemort just couldn’t have that.
“Calm yourself, my child,” he cooed in a soothing tone. “You’re safe now.”
“Yeah right!” his son scoffed. It was the first time that Voldemort had heard his voice in almost three years, and it made him giddy. “You just… You just killed Cedric!”
Voldemort frowned. “Cedric…?”
His son’s emerald eyes widened in horrified disbelief. “Yeah! Cedric! Cedric Diggory! The teenager you just murdered!”
“I did not kill him, little one,” Voldemort said, a frown growing on his face as he took in his child’s angry tone. “Wormtail did. And he has suffered. Was it not enough?”
“He killed him under your orders!” he cried. “And… and… you…”
Voldemort sighed, resigning himself to face his precious grievance against him. Hopefully this would not take long, as Voldemort was not sure how much time they had left. “I what, precious?”
He could see the confusion working its way into his son’s eyes. That was good. Confusion was far more acceptable to fear, and horror. “You… You killed my mum and dad,” his son said. Voldemort felt a flash of jealous, and possessive rage wash through him as his son called another man his dad. “And… you’re trying to kill me…” his son continued.
Voldemort forced himself to calm down, choosing instead to focus on the second part of his son’s response. “I would never try to kill you, little one.” he said with a shake of his head. “I will never hurt you.”
“I… I don’t understand…” his precious one said, confusion fully taking over his expression, not a trace of fear to be seen. Good…
“You are my son.” Voldemort said triumphantly. He expected relief to shine through his child’s Avada eyes, but instead the confusion morphed back into horror.
“W-What?!” his son cried out. Voldemort frowned in confusion. Why was he so upset? “What are you talking about?! I’m not… You’re not… You’re… This is crazy!”
“Calm down, little one,” Voldemort soothed. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” And it was true, his son was bound to injure himself if he kept struggling against the rough stone. If anything, this command made him struggle harder.
“Let me go! Let me go!” his son cried out, fighting hard against the restraint that held him in place. Voldemort winced as the back of his son’s head cracked against the stone grave.
“That’s enough!” Voldemort hissed, and his son froze in place, his eyes wide with fear. “You will cease this at once.”
It was silent for a moment, and Voldemort felt a small pang of regret course through him. He’d been doing---well, not well persay, but his son hadn’t been afraid of him. Now, however, those green eyes that Voldemort had missed were once again filled with terror.
“Look what you’ve gone and done,” Voldemort chastised gently. He reached his hand towards his son, ignoring the flinch his child gave at the approach, and gently felt the back of his head. A small trickle of blood matted his hair together from the injury he received via the stone grave. “You’ve gone and hurt yourself, dear one. That is not allowed.”
Emerald eyes watched with shock as Voldemort whispered a healing incantation. All of the cuts, bruises and scratches healed, leaving his child perfectly healthy and in no pain. Voldemort smiled sweetly at the sight of his most precious.
“There,” he said. “I’m going to release you now. Are you going to fight, or can I trust you, little one?”
“I… I won’t fight…” his son said softly, his wide eyes never leaving Voldemort’s face. Voldemort smiled a little wider at that, and waved his hands. The statue moved away, dropping it’s hold on his child.
Voldemort acted quickly, grabbing his son before he could fall to the ground. “There,” he said with a glimmer in his crimson eyes. “All better. Are you ready to come home, precious?”
The emerald eyes widened in realization, and the pliant body that Voldemort had been cuddling without complaint, suddenly began to struggle. Voldemort mourned it’s loss, and tightened his grip on his son.
“NO!” his child cried. “No! I’m not going anywhere with you! You’re crazy! You kill people! No! Let me go!”
“Now, now, dear one,” Voldemort said firmly. “You need to calm down. You’re going to work yourself up. Please, let’s go home.”
“I already have a home!” his son replied with a snap. “It’s not with you! You murdered my parents! Let me go!”
Voldemort’s eyes flashed. “Those people were not your parents!” he hissed. “I am your father. You are my son.”
“No I’m not!” his son cried vehemently, shaking his head. Voldemort sighed at his stubborn child.
“Why are you fighting, Harry?” Voldemort asked. His son stopped at the use of his first name. “Is there really somewhere else you’d rather go? Do you truly have another family?”
His son hesitated, his eyes flashing with that tell-tale sadness, and weariness that all abused children held. It made Voldemort enraged, but he controlled his emotions, not wanting to scare his son off when he was finally starting to get through to him.
“Y-Yes.” his son said, his eyes darting away from Voldemort’s for a quick second, missing the flash of triumph in Voldemort’s eyes and the victorious smirk that rested on his face for a brief second.
“Do you?” Voldemort pressed. “Tell me, little one, why are you so small? Did your so-called family feed you?”
His precious’s eyes widened for a brief second in surprise before they hardened. “Yes.” he said. Voldemort grinned. His precious was not a good liar.
“They did?” he asked. “And how do they feel about your magic? They’re proud aren’t they?”
Voldemort felt sorrow work it’s way through his heart as he watched his son fold in on himself. It was obvious now that whoever had been watching his son, did not love him nor care for him. (Not like Voldemort would.)
“Come dear one,” Voldemort said again. “Come home with me. You will be safe and happy and well-loved. Just as you should be.”
His son eyed him wearily, and Voldemort wanted to growl in frustration. His child was so suspicious! Instead, Voldemort only looked at him with a warm, gentle expression. “Will I be allowed to leave?” his son asked softly.
Victorious! Voldemort felt a happy grin work it’s way onto his face. “Of course, dearest,” he said. “You would need to be careful, though. I don’t want anything to harm you. You must ask for permission first, naturally, but I will not hold you prisoner.”
“What… what happens if I disobey?” his son asked wearily. Voldemort grinned.
“Then I’ll just have to punish you.” he said. Fear once again flashed in his son’s eyes, but Voldemort refused to let it stay there. He muttered a quick tickling jinx, and watched with glee as his son laughed loudly.
Voldemort drank in the joyful sound greedily. That sound had been dearly missed. Finally, though, Voldemort cancelled the spell. His son panted, sucking in deep breaths as he looked at Voldemort in shock.
Voldemort smiled. “I will never harm you, dear one. This I swear.”
His son stared at him for another long moment, and the graveyard was silent, and Voldemort waited patiently. Finally those emerald eyes looked down at the ground.
“If I want to…” he said softly. “If I want to leave… If I change my mind… Will you let me?”
Voldemort felt his immense possessiveness wash over him at the thought of his son, his family, leaving him. It made rage curl up inside his gut and the desire to curse something became overwhelming. But Voldemort knew that he had won.
“Of course, my child.” he said. “I promise, I will not hold you prisoner.”
And he wouldn’t. But he also wouldn’t let him leave. Voldemort would just have to make his son trust him. Voldemort would work to make his son love him and never want to leave him. After all, that’s what family did, right?
His son nodded once, very curtly. Voldemort grinned triumphantly and pulled his son in for a tight embrace. Finally, after all these years, his son would be coming home! Voldemort nuzzled his son’s hair and breathed in his child’s scent. Voldemort felt his joy triple when hesitant arms wrapped around his waist and his son hugged him back.
“Let’s go home, dear one.” he said softly, sending one final glance at the graveyard. Later, after his son was settled into Riddle Manor, after he’d been introduced to Nagini, Voldemort would return here to erase any evidence that he’d ever been there in the first place. He would kill Wormtail to tie up loose ends. Then he would return home where a family waited for him. But he would do all that later. For now, he just held his son tight and reveled in the feeling of wholeness he had never known.
“Let’s go home.”