The Guardian's Task
-November 30, 1991-
“I can’t believe they expect us to stay awake in that class,” Theo complained loudly as he walked through the halls of Hogwarts. Beside him, Draco marched with a similar expression on his face. “I mean, seriously! People don’t even call it ‘Magical History’ anymore! People just refer to it as ‘Naptime’.”
Draco chuckled. “Binns is ancient. I wonder, do you think he was this dull when he was alive?”
“Probably,” Blaise chimed in, knocking shoulders with Draco. “I asked Mama about him, and she said he was dead while she was in school.”
“No one knows how old he really is,” Pansy explained, placing a marker in her book. “I heard he just died in the teacher’s lounge, got up and went to class---didn’t even realize that he was a ghost.”
“Do you think he knows he’s dead?” Theo asked, a slow grin sliding onto his face.
“I hope so,” Blaise said with a frown. “Could you imagine the shock he’d go through if someone told him he was dead?”
“Maybe he’d finally go to the ‘Great Beyond’.” Draco said, a mocking tone filling his voice as he quoted the headmaster.
Theo snorted and shook his head. Draco and the rest of his friends laughed along with him as they walked to the Great Hall for dinner. As they sat down for the feast, Draco couldn’t help but think about how fantastic life had been recently.
Little One was doing much better according to his mother, who swore up and down that Little One was smiling and handing out flowers again. It made him feel better, and the nightmares of finding Little One laying in his own blood were finally going away. School was easy and Draco was having no trouble keeping up. Not to mention, his friends were getting along great, and Draco was getting closer and closer to Theo.
It felt like nothing could ruin his day.
So of course something came along to ruin it, because it was Draco’s own fault for jinxing it.
It started as he was getting ready for bed. The dorms seemed unnaturally cold that night, and as Draco was changing into his pajamas, his skin broke out into uncomfortable goose flesh. He shivered as he crawled under the covers of his bed.
As he closed his eyes and fell asleep, he could’ve sworn he saw something flash through his room.
He instantly recognized the blank nothingness of his dream, and he shivered. It was the same nothingness, the only difference was that this time, the nothingness wasn’t dark. It was impossibly bright. This was the nothingness he was trapped in during the Sahamian ritual. He looked around, his gray eyes squinting as they tried to find the mysterious being that Draco knew was there.
His breath comes out in a sharp mist, and Draco feels the cold smother him. “Where are you?” Draco asked, his teeth chattering. “Why am I here?”
He can feel the presence now, that overwhelming feeling of power. It brushes up against his back and sends shivers down his spine. When it speaks, Draco hears hundreds of voices overlap on top of it. The voice sets him on edge and causes him to grit his teeth.
“Hello Guardian.” it says.
“Why do you call me that? Who are you?” Draco demanded, spinning around in the hopes of seeing the mysterious being, only to be greeted with more nothingness.
“Your task has been set, young Guardian,” it told him. “I bid you fulfill it.”
“I don’t know what that means!” Draco cried. “What are you talking about? What are you?”
“Your task has been set,” it repeats, and Draco is struck with the urge to pull his hair out. It was so frustrating to talk in circles with the being. He didn’t know what was going on, and it was driving him crazy. “Protect the Master.”
“Who is the Master?” Draco asked. “What’s going on?”
“Protect the Master from the fatal harm that seeks him,” the being said. “You will feel it when it happens. Do what you must.”
“Why do you keep seeking me out? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Draco insisted. “Who is this Master?”
“Hurry, young Guardian,” it said, and the urgency in it’s tone filled Draco with anxious dread. “Protect the Master, your brother in arms prays for you.”
“Who are you?” Draco cried.
“Your task has been set,” it told him, the voice softer now. “Protect the Master. Your time is running out.”
“What---”
Draco sat up in his bed, a harsh gasp escaping his lips as he shivered. He looked around his room, his eyes wide as they searched for the being that haunted him. He saw nothing but his sleeping dorm mates. His bed curtains gently swayed to the nonexistent breeze.
Draco gently rubbed his arms, hoping to heat up his chilled body and get rid of the borderline painful goose flesh. He waited until his heart no longer felt like it was trying to escape his chest to lay back down on his bed.
That was the second time he was visited by the mysterious being, however this time, the being spoke to him. His eyebrows furrowed as he thought, shifting onto his side and snuggling closer to his pillow. What did the being mean?
Why did it keep calling him a guardian? And who was this supposed ‘Master’? It was all so confusing. The being mentioned he had a brother in arms, but as far as Draco knew, he was an only child. The only person he considered to be a brother was Little One, but there was no way he was in danger. The Dark Lord was even more protective of the child than before after the recent kidnapping.
Draco slowly succumbed to sleep, his mind repeating the being’s strange words over and over again until he knew nothing but blissful oblivion.
On the table next to him, the flowers his mother sent him via Little One bloomed under the pale moonlight.
Voldemort stared at his half-drank glass of firewhiskey, a frown set deep into his face. It had been two days since Voldemort had seen the irritating being that had squeezed his way into his routine. Death, his mind supplied. His hands clenched, and Voldemort quickly brought the glass up to his mouth for the numbing burn.
The being was Death. And apparently, his child was the entity’s master. As disturbing as the thought was---the idea that his precious little child, so innocent and accepting, could be the sole Master of Death himself---it didn’t set him on edge nearly as much as the other revelation did.
According to Death, Voldemort was created for him as well, albeit in a different way. Voldemort could still remember the way the being had stepped so close to him. Could still feel the heat of the being’s hand as it brushed across his cheekbone, in an almost loving gesture. Could still remember the words the being spoke, so close that he could feel his breath tickling his lips.
Could still remember the tender look in his eyes as Death spoke, “You were created to be my companion.”
Voldemort slammed back another drink, blaming his flushed face on the drink coursing through him.
How dare the being come into his home and mess everything up. Who cares if he was a divine entity? Voldemort was a bloody Dark Lord and he was doing just fine before he showed up. He didn’t need Death coming here and changing everything.
Voldemort grit his teeth as he stood, ignoring the slight dizziness. He may have had more to drink than he had in a while, but Voldemort was still sober enough to pace. As he moved back and forth through his study, his eyes kept drifting to places where the being usually resided. Not in the hopes that he would be there, mind, but because Voldemort didn’t want to be surprised should Death show up.
Voldemort forced a harsh breath through his nose as he leaned against the wall. Everything in the room reminded him of Death, and it was beginning to be counterproductive. Unbidden, an image of Death sprawled out on the armchair came to mind. The being was so childish sometimes, that Voldemort would have a hard time connecting him to Death, the all-powerful entity.
It all seemed so unrealistic. How could a divine being lower itself to mortals? Had it been Voldemort, he would’ve scoffed at the idea of being in a relationship with someone so far beneath him.
Not that he had much experience with relationships in the first place. It wasn’t that Voldemort was untouched---he had had plenty of sex, as he knew exactly how to use his looks to get what he needed. But it was just that. A transaction. Voldemort had never felt an ounce of romantic inklings to anyone. To be honest, Voldemort always thought of such a thing as disgusting.
Love was such a weakness to hold, and no matter what anyone said, Voldemort held no interest in it. The only love that Voldemort allowed to bloom was the parental love he felt for his son. Voldemort could freely admit that the love he felt for Little One was a weakness, one that had been taken advantage of before, but Voldemort didn’t particularly care.
At first, the love he felt for Little One was purely planned. That was back when he was alive, and it served a purpose. Voldemort needed an heir, and adopting an abused magical child would gain him popularity with the light side, who would see him as something other than a monster. It would also allow him to have a magical heir without sinking low enough to pursue a relationship with anyone.
It was a win-win situation.
Somewhere along the way, though, Voldemort grew to genuinely care for the child. For the first time in his life, Tom Riddle the Orphan and the Dark Lord Voldemort had the one thing they craved: a family. Voldemort could freely admit that he was a possessive person, a habit born from the harsh days of the orphanage where he learned to hold on to everything precious to him, lest it be taken from him. So when he finally had a family, his possessiveness took hold, and Voldemort refused to lose Harry Potter, soon to be Hadrian Salazar Gaunt-Slytherin.
That’s why, when Voldemort arrived that horrid day to see his son dead at the hands of those monstrous muggles, he performed the ritual that would ensure his son stayed with him forever. After all, immortality was boring when one was alone. As long as Voldemort supplied Little One with magic, his child would stay frozen forever, with the added bonus of having a tether attached to his magical core. While he wasn’t able to track Little One with it, the tether allowed Voldemort to gauge how much magic Little One currently had, and if he was ever killed, Voldemort would instantly know as the tether would detach.
Voldemort was content with his son to cure his loneliness. He had no need for any partner as his son was always there for him. He doubted he was even capable of holding a successful relationship. There were too many things that would go wrong. He was far too possessive and controlling, and he didn’t know how to show affection.
Perhaps that was why Voldemort was so unsettled by the being’s statement. There was not a single person alive who had not questioned their purpose, the reason why they were born. He had often wondered if the reason he was born was to fix Magical Britain. To find out that his sole purpose was not to rule Britain as he thought, but to be the companion to an immortal entity was quite jarring.
He didn’t even know what being Death’s companion entailed. He could infer, however, from the clinginess and overly tactile movements, that being wished it to be something more romantic than platonic.
Voldemort didn’t know where to begin with that.
Voldemort sighed, looking down at his now empty glass of firewhiskey mournfully. Voldemort wasn’t even sure he wanted to be the being’s companion. Did he even have a choice? Death seemed very sure that Voldemort would pick him, but Voldemort wasn’t sure if he liked the thought of being a companion to Death.
A memory of waking up in Death’s arms flashed into his mind, and Voldemort fought back a smile. The feeling of security and comfort he felt when he awoke that morning was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. Voldemort wouldn’t mind that happening again, however, that didn’t mean he wanted a relationship. He could freely admit he was touch starved---had been since he was a child. Any form of comforting physical affection was overly pleasant to him, but that didn’t mean anything.
It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the being’s company, either. Actually, Voldemort found the being’s presence to be something of a comfort. After he got over the annoyance, Death was actually quite helpful when it came to research, and he provided quite a bit of entertainment, especially during boring meetings.
He… He actually….
Voldemort clenched his fists and stood up suddenly, shaking the half-finished thought from his head. He refused to admit that he actually enjoyed Death’s friendship. Voldemort was the Dark Lord, ruler of the Magical Republic of the British Isles. He was above something as plebeian as friendship. He sneered just thinking about it.
He wandlessly tidied up his office, sending his empty glass to the kitchens where the house-elves would clean it. When he was finished, he silently made his way to his bedroom, opening the door and breathing in deeply. He quickly went through his nightly rituals and got ready for bed.
He was in the process of putting on his nightshirt when the door to his room opened. He whipped his head back to the door instantly, and the rush of contradicting emotions that he felt when he saw Little One standing at his threshold made his head spin.
“Sleep wif’ Papa?” Little One asked in a hushed whisper, his head tilted adorably to the side. Whenever he did that, Voldemort was reminded of a puppy. Voldemort smiled fondly at his child and nodded, flipping the covers back so that the toddler could climb into his bed.
He frowned, however, when he caught sight of a stowaway. “Darling,” Voldemort chastised softly. “Larry has his own bed.” And he did, Voldemort had transfigured it himself, so there was no reason the duckling should be nestled in his son’s arms as he tried to climb into bed one-handed.
“Scary, Papa.” Little One answered, explaining why Larry had to sleep with them. “Safe wif’ Papa.”
Voldemort just sighed. He could argue with his son about the reasons why a duckling should not be sleeping in his bed, but he was too tired. He was emotionally exhausted, and all he wanted to do was curl up with his son and sleep. If he had to suffer with a mangy duck to do it, he would.
As Little One settled into the sheets, Voldemort reached out to pull the pliant toddler closer to him. Little One just let out a happy sigh and nuzzled closer to his chest. Voldemort could feel when the Inferius dropped off to sleep, his breaths had evened out, and all of his muscles had relaxed fully into Voldemort’s hold.
Voldemort was still awake, an hour later, his mind refusing to shut off. Why had he reacted the way he did when he saw Little One? He felt a rush of relief at the sight of his son but disappointment sat heavily in his stomach. In the safety of the darkness, he could admit to himself that he was disappointed it wasn’t Death, but relieved at the same time.
Why did he feel like this?
Sure, it had been two days since he’d seen the entity, but Death was fond of dropping off into nowhere and leaving for days. Besides, Voldemort had been just fine before he showed up, so he was just fine while he was gone.
And yet…
Somehow, Death had managed to work his way into Voldemort’s routine, to the point where it was strange without him there. Voldemort almost felt off-kilter. He didn’t like it. Not one bit. Voldemort sighed and dropped his face into Little One’s inky curls, breathing in the scent of his son.
Voldemort… Voldemort supposed that maybe---just maybe---he missed him. Just a little bit. Without the snarky being’s comments, meetings were dull and seemed to drag on and on. His office and study felt ridiculously large without Death there to fill in the empty space. If he suppressed his pride and embarrassment, Voldemort could feel small tendrils of longing for the entity inside him.
Yes, Voldemort couldn’t really deny it anymore, he enjoyed Death’s friendship. It was refreshing to have someone want to be his friends with no ulterior motive. Sure, Death wanted something more, but he wasn’t using Voldemort for his power nor his status.
Voldemort had never had a true friend before. He was hated in the orphanage, ignored then feared and worshipped in Hogwarts, and the feeling continued into adulthood. But never, not once, had he had a true friendship with another soul. It was strange but in a good way. Voldemort didn’t want to lose it.
Perhaps that was why he was wary about Death’s intentions. Should he agree and the pair of them pursue a relationship, Voldemort would ruin it. He couldn’t control his possessive and controlling nature, and somehow, controlling your partners every move and flying into a jealous rage whenever they weren’t with you didn’t seem like a healthy relationship.
If he ruined the relationship, would he lose the friendship?
It all seemed so menial. Voldemort was above such childish insecurities, and yet here he was, mulling over it while he can’t sleep like a teenage girl. He was the Dark Lord for merlin’s sake! He could do whatever he wanted, have whatever he wanted. If he wanted Death’s friendship then he would have it.
If he wanted more…
Voldemort would allow Death to stay. Let their friendship grow, let Death grow closer to him. If Death wanted more that was his problem. Voldemort wanted Death’s friendship, nothing more. He wasn’t a coward. He wouldn’t allow himself to fall into a relationship with the being, not at the risk of his friendship. That was playing it smart, not safe.
With his decision finally made, Voldemort found himself falling asleep quickly. With the feeling of his son safely tucked in his arms, and the comforting warmth of his bed, Voldemort was asleep mere minutes later.
As he sleeps, the shadows converge into a figure, and Death stands over the sleeping pair, a fond smile spread across his face. He reaches out to card his fingers gently through his Master’s soft hair before lightly caressing his companion’s peaceful face.
“My family,” he whispers. “Mine.”
Voldemort shifts in his sleep and Death kisses his temple, settling the Dark Lord into a peaceful sleep. He sends one last look at the two most important people in his life slumbering peacefully and smiles before he disappears into nothing but a slight breeze by the closed window.