Lucky
Harrymort + Lucky
“Is it not beautiful, Harry?” Harry swallowed thickly, ignoring the way Voldemort’s body pressed so closely to his back. It was scalding—a warmth that settled uncomfortably into the muscles of his back. It wasn’t a heat that burned, consumed, and charred the delicate flesh underneath layers of his robes.
But Harry certainly wished it hurt.
Since his captivity, it always came as a surprise that Voldemort’s touch no longer hurt him. That the madness in the man’s touch was no longer pure agony, but this strange discomfiting tingle of awareness. It drove him mad to notice the minute movements of the Dark Lord—to drown in the thick power of his magic and its jarring familiarity.
It shouldn’t feel this way, but it did. Always did.
He hated it.
“Beautiful? You’ve burned everything to the ground.” Harry whispered, ignoring the way Voldemort’s fingers settled into his shoulders, the spider-like digits chasing away the chill of the night air.
Harry didn’t want the contact—the intimacy of the moment. But he was rooted in place, his eyes riveted by the destruction of his old childhood home.
Not that Number 4 Privet drive had been much of a home to begin with.
It lay abandoned—no longer ordinary, but a mere shadow of its former glory. Harry had not anticipated being taken here—he had expected that Voldemort would wish to show him Hogwarts, the place that Harry had truly called his home. Hell, he had expected to be taken to the Weasleys’ old abode, but not this.
This was unexpected, and in his shock, he did absolutely nothing when Voldemort nudged him by the shoulders to move. There was no sliver of space between their bodies—Voldemort’s own skeletal shape smoothed over his own as Harry was forced to walk over the blackened lawn.
It looked as if the place had been burned to the ground—as if someone had cast a Fiendfyre and allowed the beast to take its fill of the quaint little home. And it definitely had to be the case. Who else but a dark wizard would come into his old home and tear it apart? It was a symbol of death, of the casting away of the world as Harry once knew it. It was the beginning of something new, and horrifying.
In that moment, Harry was very grateful the Dursleys had come away unscathed. They had been abusive, and he hated them for all the years of misery they had heaped over him, but he could never wish this sort of pain for them. Never this death.
They didn’t want the world Harry brought along with him when he was abandoned of their doorstep. He couldn’t necessarily blame them for it. There was a dark wizard hunting him, licking the air for a taste of his blood and sweat. And Harry had been heaped onto their shoulders to carry with them the burden of Harry’s destiny. He was their grim reaper, the sole reason they would be targeted in the first place.
It was absolutely horrid, quite sick to be thrown back into the place. But Harry could not look away as Voldemort guided him over the lawn and into the front porch of the home. The door completely blasted off its hinges.
Harry was punched by the smell of ashes. Overwhelmed by the power of destruction.
There was sick anticipation building in his gut, a sense of horror. Harry did not know what it was he was going to find in there—what Voldemort intended to show him. All he knew was that it definitely was not going to be pleasant. There was hardly anything pleasant about the monster walking too closely behind him.
He stifled his shivers when Voldemort’s fingers kneaded at his shoulders then, seemingly unable to stop touching Harry. Harry wanted desperately to step out of his orbit—to remove himself completely from the cloying warmth in the man’s fingers. But he was helplessly bound to him, the notion of being under unimaginable pain if he broke the contact the only thing keeping his defiance in check.
It should have relieved Harry that Voldemort’s touch was no longer a source of pain. And at first, it was. He had been glad that Voldemort’s touch no longer made Harry want to scratch at the skin of his forehead for relief—that his scar no longer pulsed with rabid agony and hate. Though now, he wished he could return to a simpler time.
A time where a moment apart from Voldemort did not subject him to the very same agony the monster’s touch had once given him. Harry needed Voldemort’s touch like an addict needed his fix—or he’d be screaming for days on end.
He hated what his life had become in a span of months.
“But is there not beauty in destruction?” Voldemort’s voice made something feral settle in Harry’s gut, an angry voice that wanted to savage and buck the man’s fingers from his body. A darkness that tempted him to turn in Voldemort’s hold and just hurt him.
But he squelched the violent thought as soon as it came, horrified that the thought of beating Voldemort to death crossed his mind at all. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was, Harry had seen endless bouts of violence at the hands of this monster since his capture months before. But he could not help how unsettled the thought made him.
“Honestly, no.” Harry denied after a few moments of silence, shoving aside his concerns to step through the doorway and into the depilated living room. It was silly of him to think the room would look as it once had. He should have known from the state of the house from outside that it would be just as horrid inside. But there was no avoiding the shock that overtook him at the sight of black everywhere, ashes collected on the ground.
The stuffing from the couches was all over the floor, the once pristine surfaces of the bookshelves and the sitting table splintered and rough.
The images were too much for him. This was the place he had lived in for a majority of his life—he half expected his Aunt and Uncle to come barreling through the open doorway of the kitchen at the other side to berate him for the mess he’d made of their house.
But Harry doubted he would ever see their faces again though. Alive, that is.
Another beat of silence passed before Harry, uncomfortable with the heavy silence and the direction his thoughts had gone, chose to speak again. Despising the fact that all he had was Voldemort to speak to.
“Is there a particular reason we are here? I didn’t take you for the nostalgic type.” Harry murmured, skin prickling with unease when Voldemort’s chest began to vibrate with laughter. In that precise second, Harry wished he could look at Voldemort’s face and pinpoint just what the man’s intentions were.
It wouldn’t necessarily yield him much, but it would at least feel like he was somewhat closer to understanding just how the man’s mind worked. He had once believed that Voldemort was a raving madman, the horcruxes taking with him all thought and reason. Harry, however, discovered that there was still some sliver of lucidity left in there.
A crying voice that, instead of begging for blood and violence, turned the cogs in Voldemort’s brain. It was shrewd, the way the man seemed to conduct himself. He may have resembled a monster, but there was still some humanity in there. And it made Voldemort all the more terrifying.
“There is something I wish to show you.” Voldemort did not say anything else, and Harry huffed angrily when Voldemort nudged him forward again, pushing him past the destroyed living room and up the stairs.
It did not look sturdy or safe, but Harry did not bother to voice his concerns. If he fell to his death, it would be significantly more preferable than the life he was already living. His best friends were dead, the light leaving their eyes the last thing he managed to see before he was snatched away by the Dark Lord.
It was foolish of him to think that they could hide him away from Voldemort when he had overtaken the Ministry. He had lost Hedwig in that endeavor, and it came as no surprise when he had lost his best friends not shortly after that. The memory tainted all pleasant thoughts he had of his friends—the vision of Voldemort’s eyes gleaming with pleasure as he killed them one that starred endlessly in his nightmares. And he had seen it all, helpless and unable to prevent the toxic green from snuffing out their lives.
The Light had fallen easily after that, their mission to destroy horcruxes halted permanently once Snape was killed in the Battle. Voldemort was at the height of his power and there was little that could be done to stop him now.
So it did not make sense that he was taken back here to Number 4 Privet Drive when his relatives, before Voldemort had captured him, had been ushered away from their home. There was nothing here but memories. What could Voldemort hope to accomplish with this?
“But there is nothing here?” Harry continued to move despite his confusion. Voldemort had yet to answer when they had finally arrived to the top, the hall looking just as charred as the living room had. The picture frames that the Dursleys had keep were no longer hung against the walls, the only sign that they had been there at all; the small holes in the wall several inches above his head.
Voldemort continued to push him through the hall, and Harry let him, resigned to the man’s manhandling. He had stopped fighting this particular action earlier in his captivity—it never quite ended well.
They did not stop until Harry was standing in front of a familiar door, the wood pristine and untouched by the black that ate away at the few other doors he had passed. It should have been his first clue that the real reason for their visit lied in Harry’s old bedroom, but before his suspicion could really register, the door bust open with the force of Voldemort’s magic.
Harry’s blood ran cold at the sight in front of him.
The Dursleys laid gagged and bound in his old bedroom, their fearful eyes focused solely on where Harry stood frozen at the entrance.
“W-what?” Harry swallowed hard, his breathing coming faster when Voldemort pushed him further into the room and closed the door behind him. The click of the lock incredibly loud to his ears, like gun-shots going off in the heavy silence of the room. The Dursleys did not whimper or cry out despite the desire Harry could see their eyes to do so—desperation warping their faces into something that bordered on inhuman.
He could see Vernon’s forehead damp with sweat, his eyes bright with moisture Harry could not mistake for anything else, but tears. Vernon, the man that had instilled such fear in Harry as a young boy, looked so frail in that moment that Harry was repulsed.
Harry did not bother to turn his gaze away from Vernon’s fearful face, he doubted he could keep himself from wilting like some flower if he saw the same look of terror in Dudley and Petunia’s eyes. He knew they would both look just as pitiful and afraid as Vernon. Who wouldn’t? Had Harry been in their shoes, he’d likely be terrified himself.
“A gift.” Voldemort whispered into his ear, and Harry recoiled from the contact. However, Harry did not move far, Voldemort was still holding rather tightly onto his shoulders. He took in a shuddering breath to silence the screaming in the back of his mind, convinced that if he were to open his mouth, he’d voice the screams in his head.
It took Harry several seconds to gather himself.
“Why?” It was the first thing he thought to ask. The rest of his thoughts were vague and hazy, a stream of consciousness that hardly made any sense to him. The only thing that really stood out for him was his burning need to know why they were even here in the first place. The Order had been careful to hide them away—to pack their meager things and send them off. They should not have been in Britain at all, it was the entire purpose of carting them away.
How had Voldemort managed to find them?
“These muggles denied you your birth right, did they not? Hid from you the true reason for being thrust into their care.” Harry did not speak as he listened, ripping his gaze away from the Dursleys to stare out through the cracked window at the end of his old bedroom. He could see the stars and the sky outside—the darkness swirling there similar to the magic coiling and licking at his skin.
Voldemort’s magic reminded Harry of the night sky, or was it the other way around?
“You and I are very much alike.” Harry shuddered when Voldemort nudged him further into the room until he was standing over the shrinking forms of the Dursleys. He had never seen them look so small, always accustomed to them standing above him.
There was no satisfaction in seeing them in such a way—how could there be? He understood their fears, having lived them for months now in Voldemort’s care. There was plenty for the Dursleys to fear about wizards—they could tear their pitiful world apart with just the flick of their wrists. They could destroy identities, create new ones, with the simple sip of a potion or the whisper of an incantation.
There was so much for the Dursleys to fear—even if Harry when he was still a child, could do none of those things. Or wanted to, for that matter.
He was no Voldemort. Let the man think they were alike.
Voldemort was wrong. Nothing would make Harry think otherwise.
“We are nothing alike.” Harry seethed, his eyes hot with anger when the man had the audacity to laugh at him. Harry’s back vibrated from the force of it, a reminder again of just how close Voldemort stood behind him.
“On the contrary, Harry. We are very much alike. Did you not resent every second you were back in the care of your…family? Did you not wish to return to Hogwarts, a world that accepted you, where its walls gave your pitiful life purpose?” Harry swallowed, but shook his head in denial.
It was true, but that was where the similarities ended. Harry had not sought to crush the world beneath his feet—he did not desire to control and to kill all those that questioned his authority. Harry had only wanted to belong. Harry had been happy simply being surrounded by the resplendence of his dormitory. To sit at the table with his friends surrounding him as he ate and listened to the adventures of his fellow Gryffindors.
He didn’t want more. He was content with what he had because he had come from nothing.
To imply that he and Voldemort were the same was absolutely mad.
“You can hide from yourself, Harry, but you can never hide from me. Lord Voldemort knows all.” And then Voldemort released his grip on Harry, shoving him completely away.
Shock was the only discernable emotion in his mind before the scar at his forehead exploded with pain. It knocked the wind from his lungs—killed all thoughts of denying Voldemort’s ridiculous words before he had the chance of speaking them.
And then he was screaming, pressing his hands into his forehead in hopes that it would somehow abate the agony that he was feeling. It felt as if there was a blade cutting away at the skin, pressing and pressing until it dug into his skull. He tried to scramble back to Voldemort, to renew the contact that kept him perfectly safe from this pain, but right as he was inches from touching him, an invisible barrier manifested and prevented him from reaching him.
He cried out in dismay, biting back the tears of agony that wanted to trickle down his cheeks. But he refused to cry—the last time he had cried was when his friends had been brutally taken from him. He absolutely refused to cry again, not in front of Voldemort’s smug face or in front of the still terrified eyes of the Dursleys.
He didn’t understand why the man had released him—what did the man bloody want from him? He could hardly keep himself upright from the pain, curling into himself as he released another pained cry when the pain seemed to spread from his scar and further into his skull.
Merlin, I am going to lose my bloody mind.
“You have a choice. A simple one.” But Harry had no clue what it was the man was asking. He struggled to lift himself from his bent position to look Voldemort in the eyes. To discern from the swirl of ruby just what it was the man wanted.
“G-get to the bloody point.” Harry managed to choke out, his voice hoarse from his continuous shrieks. He was proud that he had managed to get even those simple words out through the misery.
Voldemort did not speak for what felt like an eternity, and Harry was desperate to end the pain. He scratched at the invisible wall in hopes that it would fall through his sheer determination alone, but he might as well had been trying to penetrate steel.
Harry was preparing to speak again, but Voldemort chose that very instant to interrupt. Harry was not sure if he should feel relieved or disgusted with himself at how desperately he wanted to hear it.
It seemed the torture was truly corroding the little sanity Harry managed to hold on to.
“Their lives or your sanity. I did not bring them here for you to simply gawk, I had expected you would feel overjoyed at having your tormentors brought before you.” If Harry had not already been screaming, he definitely would have screamed then in absolute horror. The only real tormentor in this room was Voldemort—the Dursleys’ abuse paled considerably from the suffering he had already undergone and would face in the very immediate future.
This was madness. Absolute madness.
“Is this not what you wanted? To have them on their knees before you? How disgustingly noble of you to deny that darkness in your soul.” Harry’s throat was frayed, mouth gaping open in silent screams because the agony did not stop, would not stop.
“My patience is not endless, Harry. If you do not decide within a reasonable time, I will simply kill them and leave you here with their rotting corpses.”
Harry was horrified, and guessing from the sudden shuffling sounds behind him, the Dursleys were just as terrified. Their deaths were a given, there was no sure way for Harry to get out of this without having to pay a hefty price.
So why did it matter that he had to choose? Why did Voldemort have to make him choose between himself and their lives when he was simply going to kill them anyway? Harry knew that the man was manipulative, an absolute sadist that reveled in the suffering of others. He had seen it when he punished his own followers so callously. He could hear it in the way Voldemort’s breath caught when Harry screamed and writhed under his torture curse.
The man was a monster. It was only fitting that he looked just as he was. Rotten to the core.
“You are fortunate, Harry. I do not give these opportunities so freely.”
Harry felt anything but fortunate. He felt rather unlucky, for that matter.
“F-fuck you.” Harry felt immense satisfaction when Voldemort’s lips quirked into a frown, the amusement in his eyes fading into rage. This, Harry was more than a bit familiar with. He could handle the Dark Lord when he was angry, when his magic was bursting with his desire to maim and hurt. It always left Harry in incredible pain, but it was a distraction.
The man was a raw nerve—easily tipped over the edge when prodded in just the right way. And Harry excelled at just hitting the man where it hurt. If the man was simply too angry, then it gave Harry all the opportunity to lead him away from his less than pleasant intentions to kill the Dursleys.
It could mean another day for them.
“Crucio.” All thought of saving the Dursleys fled Harry’s mind.
He was an open wound—his nerves set ablaze from the power of Voldemort’s curse and his own withdrawal from Voldemort’s touch. He felt like he was on fire, like his skin was blistering just as Number 4 Privet Drive had been burned.
He was screaming so loudly that he was shocked he still had throat left—that his voicebox had not exploded from the abuse.
He didn’t think it could get much worse—that his pain could somehow increase, but the longer Voldemort held him under it, it did. The pain was so intense that his mind blanked completely.
He needed it to stop. He wanted it to stop. He’d do anything to get it to stop.
Stopstopstopstop.
And then the spell was lifted, but there was still pain. So much pain, there was no relief to be found.
“Your choice, Harry? I could hold you under this curse all day. I could curse your disgusting muggle family too, if you wish. I have plenty of time now that the Wizarding world belongs to me.”
Harry was trembling from the aftershocks. He did not have the heart to look at the Dursleys that were sitting just a few feet behind him, but he did. He needed to. He hated himself for the decision he was going to make because he could not handle much more of this.
His mind felt like it was splitting apart.
“I-I don’t want to suffer anymore.” Harry choked the words out, fighting off another wave of agony that overwhelmed his senses. His cheeks felt damp, and it was at that precise second that Harry realized he’d been crying. It was selfish of him—so selfish in fact that he could not help the intense loathing he felt for himself and for Voldemort in that second.
He looked deeply into the faces of the Dursleys, switching between Vernon’s pale cheeks, Petunia’s wide eyes, and Dudley’s quivering lip.
Voldemort would not stop until Harry would give him what he wanted. He would torture his family into insanity if Harry continued to fight—
This show was not really for Harry, if Harry thought about it. It was for the Dursleys. It was meant to show them just what awaited them if Harry continued to fight. The Dursleys were the real target—who Voldemort wanted to sink his claws into. On Harry’s behalf.
Voldemort wanted revenge for hurting what was his. For doing what Tom Marvolo Riddle had himself faced in Wool’s Orphanage. It was almost comical how warped Voldemort’s generosity was—that this was no gift at all, but another method of breaking Harry’s already vulnerable mind.
It was incredibly fucked up—the way the man had pressed Harry between a rock and a hard place. His sanity for their lives, a painful death or a quick one at Harry’s behest.
He wanted to be violently ill.
“Avada Kedavra.” The room was bright with the sickening color of green, and Harry could do nothing else but cry from the weight of his choice and the pain. Always the pain of Voldemort’s absence on his skin.
He hated how badly he needed to touch Voldemort. How desperately he wished he would pull the invisible wall down so that he could feel relief.
He was trembling with the weight of his guilt.
“How lucky you are, Harry Potter. I take great care of those that belong to me. You will want for nothing.”
Harry continued to cry even when Voldemort crouched over his fallen form, his fingers gliding over his wet cheeks. Even when the pain stopped and all Harry could see was Voldemort’s smoldering red eyes.