Intrinsic
When his scar burst with pain, the sting and the burn of it cut through him like a hot blade to butter.
He was screaming, his voice growing hoarse with his pain as he tried to fight off the croon of Voldemort’s voice in his head. Harry had never heard him so clearly—almost as if the man himself was whispering into Harry’s ear as he writhed and screamed on the broken ground.
His knees ached, but it was nothing compared to the pulsing pain in his scar. It was nothing like the force of monster’s will boring through him—quickly beating him down to submit, to give in.
But Harry did not give in; he refused to give in despite how badly he wanted the ache to stop.
“Give in, Harry.”
He heard the monster croon so softly, almost comfortingly into his mind. But Harry jerked his head to and fro, unwilling to allow the dark lord to consume his thoughts once more. Harry had managed to fight off the monster once in Fifth year when the dark lord had tried to possess him, but this was different.
This pain was an ache that bore deep in his soul—almost as if something inside Harry was reaching out for the dark lord. It was as if something inside Harry wanted to be held in to those spidery fingers, to settle itself in the bones of the monster in Harry’s mind, than sit any longer in Harry’s chest.
It was absurd how much Harry craved to give in. Harry was not just fighting the will of a monster, but fighting the desire inside him to just let go.
“Nothing will take you away from me. Now that I know.” The dark lord’s words sounded more of a promise than a threat, the gentleness of the monster’s tone so light that it reminded Harry of how muggle’s spoke to frightened animals. It eroded at Harry’s sanity, the contradictory nature between his own understanding of who Voldemort was and the Voldemort he was seeing now, almost unreal.
But he struggled then, feeling the way the scar started to weep tears of blood on his forehead. He could feel the droplets of it, can almost taste the bitter metallic flavor in the back of his throat as he continued to writhe and scream.
The pain neither abated nor grew worse. It was like static in the back of Harry’s eyelids.
Touching the locket had been a mistake, the shock of it somehow creating a more firm connection between Harry’s mind and Voldemort’s. The instant Harry had done it, Voldemort was in his mind before he could even think to alert his friends.
If Harry had not been screaming, he might have wondered where his friends even were; why they were not at his side comforting him through this pain as he valiantly fought Voldemort’s mind. But he was alone in the darkness, his back digging into the moist earth beneath it as he continued to fight for some semblance of control.
“They have abandoned you, Harry. I will always be at your side.” Voldemort seized on the direction Harry’s thoughts had taken, pushing into the seed of doubt that Harry tried to ignore.
No!
His friends would never abandon him if they knew he was in trouble. His friends could not have possibly expected to Harry to be thrown into danger so swiftly or suddenly. Harry knew that his friends had been scouting together for more supplies in the dead of night—they did not leave Harry alone because they wanted to, but simply as a precaution to protect the tent and the few things they had left.
It made sense. But Harry could not help his tears when he felt another powerful wave of agony wash through him, spreading from the scar and through him completely.
It felt like he was being ripped in two—his will to resist and the dark lord’s will that he give in forcing parts of him apart that Harry himself had never thought to.
“Your soul craves to be reunited with mine. Let go, Harry. You are only hurting yourself in your pitiful endeavor.” Voldemort spoke again, the voice even louder this time; the ghost of lips against his ear drawing from him both shivers of disgust and sparks of something he could not quite name.
Never¸ Harry had thought viciously. Mentally shoving the man away.
Harry could practically see Voldemort in his mind’s eye, the same blood hue to his irises burning with an emotion Harry could not name. Harry voice cracked when he screamed once more, the sound of it a hiss now as he continued to push, and push the man out.
Getoutgetoutgetout.
And then the pain stopped abruptly.
Harry was breathing harshly through his mouth, still seeing the powerful face of the monster that had sacrificed it all to defeat death; to revel in the ashes of a dying world and build it anew.
“Get out of my bloody mind!” Harry shouted and he saw the image of Voldemort begin to flicker, blinking in and out of existence. It was almost like the television back in the Dursley’s home during an awful rainstorm—watching the clear faces of the actor’s disappear and reappear in a manner of seconds.
“I am already in your mind, Harry Potter. You cannot eject what you have already allowed in.” The monster simply stated, no inflection to his words at all as he spoke. Harry hated it.
There was no way Harry could have let such a monster in.
“No, you do not belong here.” Harry shouted the words, slowly rising from the ground. His entire body ached, and he probably looked barmy shouting at a creature that was only in his head. But Harry took comfort in the power in his limbs even as he shook, and he took comfort in his voice, even if it was hoarse and sounded more a croak.
“You and I belong naturally together. You are mine.” Voldemort’s voice sounded faint, but Harry could still make out the words. “Are you so ignorant that you cannot feel the emptiness in your chest? That there is something essential crying out to be whole once more?”
Harry shook his head, feeling the familiar tugging in his chest. He squashed it down, never looking away from the intense red eyes that were boring into his own. His chest was too tight, the pressure against his ribs making it difficult to breathe as he tried to make sense of what Voldemort was even talking about.
Belong together? The man was absolutely mad!
“We do not belong together. I would rather die.” And Harry meant the words, even when his stomach churned at the prospect of being separated from the dark lord. “Get out of my head!”
And then Voldemort was gone.
But it did not relieve Harry in the least. Harry could still feel him in his mind like stain. He shuddered with disgust when he felt tears spring to his eyes, unsure of where they had come from but hating himself entirely for it.
He felt empty, so completely empty. Harry knew the monster was right—had known since the moment the man had possessed him once and given Harry a taste of something he could not name.
But he would be damned before he gave in to the part of him that longed for the dark lord. The part of him that desired to mix their identities until it was neither Harry Potter nor Voldemort, but something else entirely.
Harry fought down the wave of nausea that overcame him and headed back to the tent, ignoring the pleased hum in the back of his mind as he went.