A Graveyard Reunion

-June 25, 1995-
Riddle Manor

Harry couldn’t breathe, as his face was crushed into the chest of the Dark Lord. It had happened in the blink of an eye; one second he was standing in front of Voldemort’s enraged face and the next the Dark Lord had lunged forward and tugged Harry with an impossibly strong grip and wrapped his arms possessively around his shoulders.

“WHERE DID YOU GO?!” he snarled, his hands digging into Harry’s shoulder painfully. “YOU LEFT!”

“I… W-We just left to get groceries…” Harry stuttered, his words coming out muffled against Voldemort’s robes. “We weren’t gone f-for very long!”

“Barty!” Voldemort hissed, either ignoring Harry’s words or not hearing them. His tone was murderous, and Harry trembled against Voldemort’s hold. “Explain. Now.”

“Little Lord wished to cook, My Lord,” Barty said, and Harry was amazed at his steady tone. Wasn’t he afraid? Harry was terrified! “I took him into town to get the necessary ingredients.”

“How dare you take my son without my permission!” Voldemort seethed. “Crucio!”

Harry let out a startled gasp when Barty’s agonized screams filled the remains of the entryway. Harry began to struggle, pushing against the constricting arms in an attempt to get to Barty. Even though he was a death eater, Barty didn’t deserve to be punished this way. Voldemort’s grip on him tightened impossibly, and Harry felt the breath leave his lungs at the tightness.

“P-Please---” Harry gasped, and Voldemort finally lifted the curse, pulling back so that he could look at Harry.

“You are my son,” Voldemort cried, his red eyes manic. Harry shivered, uncomfortable with the possessive attention. “You can’t leave me! You’re my family! I won’t be alone!”

“Y-You said I could leave,” Harry argued, internally saddened by the Dark Lord’s words. Harry could relate to the Dark Lord, Harry knew the biting sting of loneliness all too well. The knowledge that the dangerous Dark Lord Voldemort simply wanted a family made Harry’s chest clench with sympathy. Even still, Harry had a strong sense of self-preservation, and Harry wasn’t sure if staying here was the best idea. If he did that to his loyal followers when they upset him, what would he do to Harry? “You said I wouldn’t be a prisoner!”

Awareness crept into Voldemort’s eyes then, and Harry watched as realization shot across his face before it was replaced with careful affection. “Of course, precious,” Voldemort said softly. “You are not a prisoner here. This is your home.”

Harry decided that telling his unstable captor that this place was not his home was a bad idea, so he just nodded silently. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, hoping that by submitting to the dangerous man, Barty would be spared further punishment. “I should have asked about the rules before you left. It was my fault.”

That seemed to be the correct thing to say because Voldemort’s gaze softened further. “Oh dear, no, this wasn’t your fault,” he said, finally releasing his death-like grip on Harry’s shoulder in favor of running his hand through Harry’s inky black hair. “Barty should have known better than to let you leave without telling me.”

“I apologize, My Lord,” Barty chimed in, having managed to stand up again, albeit shakily. “It will not happen again.”

“Indeed it will not.” Voldemort agreed, his eyes cold and dangerous again. “I am very displeased with you, Barty.”

“I made him do it!” Harry cut in, drawing the attention back to himself. “I… I tricked him! So it really wasn’t his fault!”

“You tricked him?” Voldemort asked, raising an eyebrow as an amused grin stretched across his lips. “However so?”

“Um… I just… I told him he had to,” Harry said, fumbling for a response. He didn’t want to tell the Dark Lord that he threatened to frame Barty for injury, as the Dark Lord was already angry enough. “Because I… I’m your… your son?”

Any sign of Voldemort’s previous anger was completely wiped away with Harry’s answer. A bright, blinding smile rested on Voldemort’s face as Harry was once again pulled forward into a tight hug. “Yes, you are, dear,” Voldemort agreed. “My son. Mine.”

Harry hesitantly brought his hands up to wrap around the Dark Lord, and Voldemort’s grip on him tightened in response. After a long moment, Voldemort pulled away and pressed a kiss to Harry’s forehead. Harry flushed at the unexpected affection and shifted slightly.

“Now then,” Voldemort said, wrapping one arm around Harry’s shoulder, keeping him close. “You wanted to cook?”

“Oh! Yeah, I, um, I like cooking,” Harry said, his eyes darting towards the forgotten bags of groceries on the floor. “So I wanted to get some stuff. You know, to make lunch.”

“You don’t have to do that, precious,” Voldemort said softly. “We have House Elves for that.”

“I know! I like doing it!” Harry exclaimed. Did all wizards rely on their House elves? What would happen if their House Elves left? Harry grinned at the thought of Draco Malfoy trying to cook his own meal.

“Very well,” Voldemort conceded. “I would love to have a home-cooked meal made by my son.”

“Great! I’ll just get started then!” Harry said, moving to grab the groceries on the ground. Harry felt Voldemort’s grip on his shoulder tighten for a moment before he let go, obviously fighting with himself over letting Harry leave his side.

Taking pity on the unstable man, Harry rushed over to the bags, shooting a hesitant smile at Barty’s still-trembling figure, and bent down to lift the bags. The bags weren’t heavy at all, and Harry had no trouble carrying them into the grand kitchen.

Voldemort and Barty followed behind him, and Harry knew he was going to have two awkward watchers as he made lunch. The thought made him nervous, as he never really liked people hovering over him while he worked. It made him uncomfortable.

Harry pulled out the ingredients and set them on the counter before going over to the sink so he could wash his hands. As he pulled up his sleeves, Voldemort let out a choked gasp and suddenly Harry was once again boxed in.

“Who did this?!” he demanded, his words practically coming out on a hiss. Harry looked at him in confusion before his gaze traveled down to the handprint bruises on his wrist where Barty had held on during their conversation with the muggle woman.

Shoot.

“Barty!” Voldemort snarled, whirling around to look at the man. “When did this happen? Who did it?”

“I---”

“I did it!” Harry cried, quickly interjecting the death eater before he could dig his own grave. “I was just nervous… I didn’t realize I was holding myself so tight…”

Voldemort frowned. “You expect me to believe you did this to yourself?” he demanded, shaking the offending arm. “This handprint is too large for your tiny hands. Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not!” Harry lied, his gaze darting away from Voldemort’s. “I-I do that sometimes… When I’m anxious…”

“Harry…” Voldemort said quietly, his tone stern. “Do not lie to me. I will give you one chance to tell me who did this or I will get angry.”

Harry felt his insides freeze at the mention of Voldemort getting angry. Harry had seen what the man was like when he was angry, and he couldn’t help but shiver at the thought. Would Voldemort use magic to punish him? Would he use the torture curse on him as he had on Barty? “I… I….” Harry glanced at Barty out of the corner of his eyes and he saw the man nod, resigned to his fate.

The sight made Harry angry. He scowled at Voldemort, yanking his wrist out of Voldemort’s grasp. “I told you it was me!” he cried. “Why don’t you believe me!”

“Because it is a lie!” Voldemort answered, equally angry. He stepped forward and Harry instinctually flinched away from him. The motion made Voldemort pause, his eyes narrowing at Harry’s angry but shivering form. “I will not hurt you, precious, I promised. I just want the truth.”

“You won’t hurt me but you’ll hurt Barty?” Harry asked, scoffing at the question.

“That’s different,” Voldemort said with a frown. “Barty is my follower, you are my son.”

“It’s not different!” Harry cried. “He’s a person just like I am! Hurting people is despicable!”

The silence that followed was tense. Harry, hunched in on himself defensibly stood a few feet away from Voldemort’s outstretched hand. Voldemort’s brows were drawn in with confusion as he tried to figure out what to say. Barty sat at the table, his eyes darting back and forth between Harry and the Dark Lord.

Finally, Voldemort spoke, “I hurt people, Harry,” he said softly. “But not you. Never you.”

“Why?” Harry asked, his hands clenched into fists. “Because I’m your son---”

“Yes.”

“---I’m just a kid whose parents you killed,” Harry snapped. Voldemort’s eyes widened impossibly big, and to the left of him, Barty let out a quiet gasp. “You killed my parents because you wanted to play family. You say you won’t hurt me but I don’t believe you. What happens when you decide you’re tired of me? Will you kill me then? Send me to heaven with my mom and dad---”

“Don’t finisssh that sssentence!” Voldemort hissed, slipping into parseltongue. “I will never kill you. I will never hurt you becaussse you are my ssson. Not Jamesss Potter’sss!”

Harry didn’t want to keep talking about this. The whole conversation left him feeling drained, and all he really wanted to do now was go upstairs and curl up on the bed Voldemort got him and go to sleep. He didn’t even want to cook anymore, he just wanted to be far away from Voldemort. “If I tell you the truth, swear to me you won’t hurt him.”

“I will not---”

“Swear it or I won’t speak to you ever again.” Harry demanded. Voldemort watched him for a few more seconds, trying to decide if Harry was serious. Whatever he saw in Harry’s expression must have convinced him, though, as he nodded.

“I swear I will not harm the person who bruised your wrist,” Voldemort said, a bright light and swell of magic accompanying Voldemort’s words. “Now, tell me who it was.”

“Barty was afraid of a muggle woman who approached us,” Harry said with a sigh. Voldemort’s furious gaze whipped around to Barty’s slouched figure. “He held my wrist too hard. It was an accident.”

“An accident.” Voldemort parroted, refusing to move his murderous glare from Barty. “He bruised you on accident?”

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. “And you can’t hurt him because you swore.”

A proud smile spread across Voldemort’s face and it made Harry sick. Somehow the affection the Dark Lord bestowed him with made him forget that man was a murderous pshychopath. A person who took pleasure in other people's pain and misery. “How manipulative, my dear. Well done.”

Harry was done. He just shook his head and turned around, walking towards the door. “Where are you going?!” Voldemort called, his voice tense.

“Upstairs,” Harry replied curtly. “I’m tired.”

“I thought you wanted to cook?” Voldemort asked, and Harry turned around to look at the confused man, his hand resting on the countertop. Harry just sighed.

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Where is my godson, Dumbledore?!” Sirius snarled, slamming his hands down on the table. Around him, the Order sat in tense silence. “Where did he go? You promised he would be safe and now he’s missing!”

“I understand you are upset,” Dumbledore said calmly. “But you must be patient. We are doing everything we can to find young Harry.”

“If you were doing everything you’d have found him by now!” Sirius snarled. “Instead we have a dead kid and a missing one! What the hell have you been doing?!”

“The death of Mr. Diggory was tragic and I assure you that we will find Harry before anything happens to him.” Dumbledore said, and Sirius fought the urge to tear his hair out at the vague response.

“Do you have any leads?” Remus asked, placing a calming hand on Sirius’ shoulder. “Any idea what might have happened?”

“I believe Voldemort has a hand in this,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius froze. “No, I am sure of it.”

“He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Are you sure?” Molly asked, a hand coming up to cover her mouth in horror. “But how do you know?”

“I have no proof yet,” Dumbledore said, and Sirius scoffed. “But I know it was him. Severus, has your mark changed at all?”

Snape rolled his eyes. “No, Headmaster,” he said with a bored voice. “Potter is probably hiding somewhere. You know how much he loves the attention.”

Sirius snarled as he lunged for Snape, hauling the slimy potions master up by the collar of his robes. “Harry is a wonderful boy who is missing! He could be dead for all we know, you slimy son of a---”

“That’s enough, Sirius,” Dumbledore called. “We do not know that for a fact. I, personally, have high hopes that Harry is perfectly fine. We must remain level-headed and stick together if we are to find him.”

Sirius’ fist tightened for a brief moment before he sighed, letting Snape drop carelessly before he returned to his chair. “If You-Know-Who is behind this, Harry is probably dead.” Sirius said tonelessly, his heart clenching at the thought.

“Don’t say that!” Molly cried, her face reddening. “Harry is such a strong boy! We are going to find him!”

“How?” Sirius asked.

“What about Harry’s owl?” Remus asked, and Sirius turned to face his lover curiously. “Hedwig. She’s still at Hogwarts, but when I checked on her she was restless. Maybe she could find him?”

“That… That could actually work,” Snape said with a sneer. “Surprisingly smart of you, Lupin.”

“So what, we just send Hedwig off? Tell her to find Harry?” Sirius asked. “How will that help us?”

“Use the space between your ears for once, Black, and think,” Snape snapped. “We place a tracking charm on Potter’s owl, tell her to find the damn brat and follow her!”

“Will it work?” Sirius asked, looking towards Dumbledore.

Dumbledore was silent for a moment before he smiled. “I believe it might, my dear boy,” he said. “I believe it just might.”

Sirius, for the first time since Harry’s disappearance, felt relief trickle through him. Don’t worry Harry, he thought, We’re coming for you!