His Son Part II
-December 8, 1991-
Once, only a few months after Voldemort had brought his son home, Little One had fallen from the oak tree in his bedroom. He had been working on some paperwork when he heard a startled scream and loud thump. He recalled the way his heart had dropped to his stomach and the way he raced into the room, his eyes wide with terror. The noise was the first sound Little One had made since Voldemort brought him home.
Voldemort could remember the way his palms had sweat as he burst into Little One’s bedroom, his eyes darting around expecting some enemy trying to kill his precious child, only to fall on Little One’s crying figure under the large oak tree. With no sign of imminent danger, Voldemort had carefully walked up to his crying toddler and scooped him up in his arms, and pressed kisses to his face until he stopped crying.
He could remember with perfect clarity, the way Little One had whined and buried his face in Voldemort’s shoulder, and softly spoke to him for the first time since he became an inferius.
“Fell Papa,” he had whispered into his robes. “Pretty lights.”
Little One, ever the curious child, had climbed up the giant oak tree to look at the floating lights Voldemort had spelled on to it. He must have lost his grip or something because he fell through the branches and landed hard on his arm. The bone had snapped, but Little One wasn't crying from the pain---his pain receptors didn’t work the same way they did when he was alive. He still felt things, obviously, but the pain of breaking his arm would have felt like getting a scrape on the knee to him---he was crying from the shock of falling.
Voldemort, on the other hand, felt the adrenaline crashing in his body when he realized that his son was in no real danger. He could recall the way his hands had trembled slightly as he healed Little One’s bones.
That was the second time Voldemort had failed to protect his precious treasure. The first being the incident in which the muggle killed his son, the second being a wake-up call. Voldemort could remember the way he had cradled Little One’s body in his arms for the rest of the day, paying no mind to the way his arms ached after a few hours.
Voldemort vowed that day, holding his child tight in his arms, that he would always protect Little One from the dangers that awaited him, even if those dangers were from Little One himself.
Voldemort could remember the way he felt that day in perfect clarity because that’s exactly how he feels right now.
Voldemort couldn’t breathe as he stared at Larry the duck. The duckling was sitting on the desk in front of him, his disfigured beak opening and closing with loud quacks as he undoubtedly called for Little One.
Voldemort couldn’t breathe right, and he sucked in more and more air, and though he could feel the air filling his lungs, he felt like he was drowning.
What was this feeling? What was it? Voldemort clawed at the desk as he struggled to pull in more air. Why wasn’t he breathing?
“You are breathing, My Dear,” came a soft, agonized whisper. Voldemort grit his teeth, refusing to look at the being who was sitting by the fireplace. Voldemort had lit it when he stormed into his office, his body wracked with shivers from the cold. Despite the roaring flame, though, Voldemort just couldn’t seem to get warm. “You are breathing, you’re just in shock.”
“I am not in shock,” Voldemort snarled, slamming his fists onto the desk and startling the duckling. Voldemort let out a sharp breath of air and dragged his fingers through his hair before he tenderly scooped the duckling---his son’s little duckling---into his hands. “I am not in shock,” he repeated softly. “I am focusing. I need to bring him back quickly.”
“My Dear---”
“If you aren’t going to help me then please, feel free to leave,” Voldemort snapped, finally turning to face Death, only for a soft gasp to escape him.
Death’s host looked like… well, death. He had deep black, purple bruises under his eyes as he stared at Voldemort with an agonized, empty expression. He looked utterly defeated as he leaned against the brick of the fireplace, curled up on the floor with his knees hugged to his chest. “I am not going to leave you alone,” he said softly, but determined.
Voldemort composed himself. “I am not alone,” he said pointedly. “In a few hours, once I figure out the right ritual, I will have my son with me.”
Voldemort couldn’t stand to see the look on Death’s face when he said this, so he quickly turned his gaze to the duckling in his hands. Larry was curled up in the center of his palm, his face poking out and looking at Voldemort with hopeful eyes. “Larry is getting impatient,” Voldemort said with no bite. “If I don’t bring Little One home soon, I fear for my rugs. The last thing I need is his mangy flea-bag ruining my furniture.”
Despite his words, Voldemort made no move to put Larry down. It was strange. Ever since Little One found the malformed duckling and adopted him, Voldemort felt nothing but disdain for the thing. Larry took up a lot of the attention that Little One once reserved for him, and he had plotted countless ways to get rid of the thing without upsetting him.
It was the perfect time to get rid of the beast, once and for all. All he had to do was tell Little One that the duckling perished in the fire that Dumbledore had set on his room. Little One would be distraught for a little while, of course, but Voldemort would comfort his child and win even more affection from his precious toddler in the process. It was a foolproof plan.
So, why then, did Voldemort hesitate?
Why was he clutching at the duckling he once despised, the duckling that his son adored, so tightly? Why was he clinging to the duckling, terrified to set it down, afraid that something would happen to it before Little One came home?
Voldemort hadn’t even realized he was staring at Larry for a long time until Death spoke, “Darling? Are you alright? Is something wrong with the duck?”
Voldemort snapped his head up to meet Death’s grieving eyes. “No,” he said suddenly, forcing himself with great reluctance, to set Larry back on the desk. “It’s just… well, Little One will be happy to see Larry in perfect health when he returns.”
Death heaved out a sigh and stood, slowly walking over to Voldemort. “W-What are you doing?” Voldemort asked, taking a step back when Death’s hand reached out to cup his cheek. “We don’t have time for this, right now! We need to research a ritual to bring Little One back---”
“Stop this.” Death ordered, bracing Voldemort’s face so that he could stare into Voldemort’s eyes. “You need to stop this. He’s gone---”
“No, he’s not!” Voldemort snapped, slipping out of Death’s hands. “He’s not. He’s not, okay! You’re giving up! I refuse to!”
“Dear, he’s not coming back,” Death said softly, leaning against the wall as he watched Voldemort rush about, searching through different books for answers. “You must know that. He’s gone.”
“He’s not!” Voldemort snarled, slamming a book shut. “Stop this! Why are you saying that?! Don’t you want him to come back?!”
“Of course I do!” Death cried. “But it doesn’t work like that! You know---”
“No, I don’t know!” Voldemort exclaimed, throwing his hands up into the air. “I don’t know for sure! That’s why I have to do this! I love him and I’m not just going to accept what you say just because you said it!”
“Please, listen to me,” Death said softly, stepping towards him. “Little One is gone, now. You need to stop this and just grieve.”
“Do what you want,” Voldemort scoffed, crossing the room to pick up Larry and a few books. “While you sit here doing nothing, I’m going to go bring our son back.”
Voldemort marched out of his office seething, his footsteps echoing across the harsh black bricks of his castle. Larry quietly chirped in his hand, and Voldemort paid him no mind. If Death refused to help, then fine, Voldemort didn’t need him anyway.
Voldemort ended up in his ritual room, a room that he has used only once since he moved into the castle. It was behind his meeting hall, a circular room with a slightly smaller circular platform sunken into the floor, five steps leading from the raised circle to the small circle.
This was where rituals would be performed, and an open hole in the ceiling allowed natural light to flow in. The hole was often used in rituals that required the night sky, moon, sun, or specific precipitation.
Voldemort gently placed Larry on the ground, far away enough from the ritual circle, and stepped into the platform. He sat in the center of the circle and pulled out the ritual book he used to bring Little One back the first time.
He had all the necessary ingredients to perform the ritual again, save for the light of the full moon. Voldemort blew out a harsh breath of air through his grit teeth and threw the book to the ground in a fit of rage.
“Damn it all,” Voldemort cursed, burying his face in his hands. “Damn it all.”
A slight scuffle made Voldemort raise his head. He was surprised to see Death standing at the threshold, a grim look on his face. “What are you doing here?” Voldemort snapped, stretching out to reach the book. “Come to mock me again?”
“I’m here to help,” Death said softly, causing Voldemort to look at him with suspicion.
“Why?”
“Because it’s what you need,” was Death’s response. “I don’t believe it will work but… But I am willing to help you if it means you can grieve.”
“Well it doesn’t matter anyway,” Voldemort said, choosing to ignore Death’s skepticism. “The moon---”
“I will alter the path of the moon for a short while,” Death said, making Voldemort snap his head up in shock.
“You can do that?!”
“Not permanently, and not in the entire sky,” Death said. “To alter it in such a way would border dangerously into Time’s and my Dear Sister’s territory. I can, however, alter the night sky in an isolated area for a few hours. I can ensure that the full moon’s light shines down upon you long enough to perform the ritual.”
“Why didn’t you do that earlier?” Voldemort asked, crossing his arms defensibly over his chest.
“It is a tiring affair,” Death said, moving closer into the circle. “It would have taken too much time.”
“Fine,” Voldemort relented, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s one other problem. I don’t have his---” Voldemort choked. “---his body.”
“You have his bag,” Death said, procuring the side satchel that Voldemort created for Little One. “His soul would have latched onto the bag after being in contact with it for so long. It should have enough of his signature to perform the ritual on it.”
“That’s… I don’t think it works like that,” Voldemort said, shaking his head. Nevertheless, Voldemort reached out to take the bag.
“It will,” Death promised. “The ritual will work, but if he’s truly gone as I’ve said---”
“He’s not.” Voldemort said firmly.
“But if he is,” Death repeated, his gaze boring into Voldemort’s. “The ritual will not bring him back.”
Voldemort ignored him and cradled his son’s bag to his chest carefully. Using pure intention, Voldemort’s magic drew the runes needed for the ritual into the floor. Voldemort tenderly placed Little One’s bag into the center of the runes and looked at Death, silently telling him to change the sky.
Just as they did once before, shadows sprung up from the ground and converged over Death’s body. For a moment, the shadows covered everything in pitch black, before a white light shined down overhead. Voldemort looked up to see a sky full of stars, the full moon directly over the runes.
Voldemort didn’t waste any time, quickly firing off the chanting and poured his magic into the ritual, begging it to work.
Please, he whispered in his head as his mouth fired off chants. Please bring him back. Please.
Voldemort felt a large burst of magic escape him as the chanting faded to a close. There was a bright light, bright enough that Voldemort was forced to close his eyes. When he opened them again there was nothing but silence.
His eyes fell to the center of the circle where Little One should be standing.
He was met with heart-breaking emptiness.
“No,” Voldemort whispered, his crimson eyes watering as he stared at the empty stone. “No… I… Something must have gone wrong…”
“Darling…”
“No!” Voldemort cried. “No! It was the bag! It messed up the ritual somehow! I told you it wouldn’t work! I told you… I told…”
Death’s shadows faded as he walked towards Voldemort’s trembling figure. A harsh gasp tore its way out of Voldemort’s throat when Death embraced him. Death tugged Voldemort into his arms, slowly sinking to the floor. “He’s gone.” Death whispered.
The tears fell from Voldemort’s eyes, pooling at the ground. “No,” Voldemort whispered, shaking his head. “No, please. No, he’s not. Not him.”
“Little One’s soul is gone,” Death said gently. “There is nothing to call back.”
“Go to Purgatory!” Voldemort demanded. “You told me that Inferi’s souls go to Purgatory! Go back there and find him!”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Death said mournfully. “Those souls only enter limbo because the magical barrier has disintegrated. Little One’s barrier was still intact when he---”
“You’re telling me that… That Little One’s soul was… burned up---” Voldemort choked, fresh tears sliding down his face. “---it burned up with the Fiendfyre?”
“His soul was still locked inside his body,” Death said. “In destroying his body, his soul was destroyed as well. There is no way to bring him back because there is nothing left to return.”
Voldemort gagged, the image of his child burning up in the fire, crying for his Papa made Voldemort’s stomach churn. He sank to the floor and doubled over, pulling out of Death’s embrace. “No, no, no,” he repeated over and over again, his face slick with tears. “No, please no.”
“I’m so sorry,” Death’s voice cracks. “This was never supposed to happen. My Sister swore that my Master was safe. She swore---”
Voldemort didn’t want to hear anymore. The pain was pulling him under. Voldemort had never felt anything like this. It felt like the world was ending, like his body was breaking. His body trembled as emotions washed over him.
“My baby,” he wept, slamming his fists into the ground. He didn’t care that the hard stone was damaging his fists. The pain was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. “That was my baby! He was just a sweet, little baby! How could… How could anyone hurt him?! How…”
Voldemort sobbed into the ground, screaming at the universe for being so cruel. Was this karma? Was this punishment for everything he did? Was this what all those parents felt when he murdered their child in his war? No wonder they fought so hard to end him. This pain… it was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
He felt something soft bump against his fist, and he slowly raised his head to see Larry nudging him with his head. He let out a soft, inquisitive quack when Voldemort looked at him.
The grief washed through him all over again at the sight. “I’m so sorry, beast,” Voldemort wept. “Little One’s gone now. He… He can’t watch over you anymore…” Larry only tilted his head. Voldemort was struck by the familiarity of the motion. Larry was tilting his head in the exact same way Little One would whenever he was confused. Voldemort sobbed and gently tugged Larry into his chest, cradling the duckling like he was Voldemort’s most precious treasure. And he was. Larry was all Voldemort had left of his most precious treasure, and that meant Voldemort would protect him. “Little One isn’t here anymore,” Voldemort whispered, his voice breaking. “But I’ll watch over you now. Won’t that be nice? We can put the past behind us and… and…”
Voldemort began to weep once more, the force of it causing Voldemort to lurch forward. The pain was debilitating. Even the pain of Horcruxes felt like nothing compared to this. This was death, Voldemort was sure of it. Voldemort was dying now.
Behind him, Death sobbed into his hands. Voldemort slowly turned around, only managing to muster up enough strength to collapse into his lap when the next round of sobs overtook him. Death bent over and buried his face in Voldemort’s hair. Voldemort could feel Death’s tears hit the back of his neck, but he didn’t mind, just as he hoped Death didn’t mind the way he was ruining his robes.
“W-What do I do now?” Voldemort asked. “What am I supposed to do now?”
Death didn’t have an answer, which was good because Voldemort wasn’t looking for one. There was truly no way of going on after this. How was Voldemort supposed to carry on living when his only child, the most precious treasure, the light of his life, was dead?
Where was the justice in that?
“I’m so sorry,” Death kept repeating. “So sorry.”
Voldemort didn’t want his apologies, though. All he wanted was his son back.
But he couldn’t have that, so instead, Voldemort laid there on the hard, stone ground, one hand carrying Larry, and the other gripping at Death’s robes with an iron grip, and wept. He stayed there for a very long time, Voldemort assumed. Long enough for his limbs to go numb, and a headache to form behind his eyes.
Long enough for a House Elf to pop in. With the familiar crack, Voldemort raised his head, dizzy from dehydration. The tears had stopped a short time ago, but Voldemort knew his eyes would not be dry for long. “I’m not hungry,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I don’t want any food. Leave me be.”
The House Elf let out an anxious squeak. “Mipsy be coming to inform Masters of a guest,” she said, wringing her hands together. “Mipsy be coming to say a Master Grindelwald is outside. He be looking for Master.”
Voldemort froze, his eyes wide. Beside him, Death let out a punched gasp. “W-What?” Voldemort asked, pushing himself off the ground. “What did you just say?”
“Master Grindelwald be looking for Master---” the House Elf repeated, but squeaked as Voldemort ran past her.
It wasn’t possible! Grindelwald should be dead, his ashes smoldering in the wreckage of the prison that had housed him and Little One. He could only faintly hear Death following behind him, but Voldemort didn’t look back.
If Grindelwald was here…
He skidded to a stop in front of the entrance hall, paying no mind to his disheveled, grief-stricken state, in favor of staring with disbelief at the man in front of him.
Standing in the open front door was none other than Grindelwald, covering in ash and soot. In his arms was an unconscious Draco Malfoy, equally as dirty. In his other arm was a blanket bundled. Voldemort’s mouth opened to say something, but before he got the chance, the blanket moved and a dirty head popped out.
“Papa!” Little One cried, his arms reaching out of the blanket to reach out towards Voldemort. His face dirty, covered in soot and black smudges. His shirt was gone, which was why he was covered in the blanket, and small stripes of clean skin lined his face, showing where the tears had cleaned through the grime.
Voldemort didn’t care about the grime or dirt as he ran towards him, tears falling from his eyes. He tore Little One out of Grindelwald’s hold, showing that Little One’s body was just as dirty as his face, and he was wearing nothing except his ruined pants. Voldemort pressed Little One into his body tightly as he fell to his knees and wept.
Voldemort breathed in his scent, noting that the smell of ash and fire was all over him, and pressed kisses all over his face when he could bear to remove it from his chest.
“Little One!” he sobbed. “My baby! My precious baby! You’re alive! My sweet son, oh thank Merlin! You’re alive! You’re alive!”