Speaking in Tongues

Harry.

Whispers echoed in the back of his head. Like the creak of an old wooden door, like the screeching halt of a train at its destination, the voices spoke to him.

Endlessly, they promised him wonders beyond his imagination. Far beyond the four walls around him, its walls weighed down by different fabrics to protect him from harming himself...or so they said. A safe place, where the monsters lurking in the four corners of his mind could not find him. It had looked more like an asylum than a bedroom, if anything.

A gilded prison made solely for you.

All this hogwash about safety was a load of bollocks. Empty promises that the voices in his head fed him to keep him pacified. As if the voices somehow knew that anything short of excellent for Voldemort’s guest would result in punishment. It was silly that voices could fear something like that. They weren’t real, and never would be.

“Harry?” An unknown male murmured, the faux sympathy enough to make Harry’s lip curl. “Dr. Riddle would like to see you.”

Dr. Riddle. The name was wrong, all of it was wrong . His name was Voldemort. Greatest Dark Wizard to ever pass through Hogwarts’ halls.

“Come on, my hand is right in front of you. All you have to do is reach for it.”

Harry did no such thing. He didn’t want to touch him or anyone in his cell.

So when a calloused hand clasped onto his forearm and lifted him to his feet, he didn’t flinch. This was standard protocol. Ever since he’d been blinded by Voldemort,he was not his own. He couldn’t move without a guide to lead him to the loo or to his own bed. He spent his days sitting in the same seat as any other, wishing for death to come for him or for his friends to rescue him from this nightmare.

They said that Hogwarts wasn’t real. They said that magic and spells, and everyone that he had known were all in his head.

Bullshite.

Voldemort was real. The fact that he could not see, eyes no longer his when he’d called Voldemort a disgusting beast many months into his capture, was evidence enough. Harry didn’t regret his words nor being blinded. At the time, and even now, it had been worth it, the satisfaction of knowing that the Voldemort was vain even when he’d disfigured himself…

Harry had laughed even through the pain, even when his eyes had been pulled straight from his sockets weeks ago.

And these bastards now wanted to pretend that his suffering had all been made up?

Never.

“Come on, let’s go. Let’s not keep Dr. Riddle waiting.”

Harry grunted, nearly tripping over his numb feet, before he quickly oriented himself. The stranger huffed an exasperated breath before gently pulling him along an unknown path to Voldemort, the ground beneath him melting from soft padding to harsh concrete within moments.

It was unsurprising. Harry hardly remembered the number of times he’d been dragged away from his own room and to the Dark Lord. There was no doubt that it was bordering a hundred, Voldemort’s incessant desire to gloat far exceeded his annoyance when Harry did not react as he liked.

After all, Harry was no longer any fun. He could not scream. His vocal chords had become so damaged that he couldn’t speak complete sentences. All he was capable of were grunts and monosyllabic words.

“Remember to behave yourself. We don’t want to have to sedate you again.”

Harry ignored the male’s words, lost in thought.

Before his captivity, Harry had been whole. He could still see, could still speak , and now, he was nothing but an invalid that relied upon the monster’s followers to care for himself. The voices in his head manifesting into physical beings that chided and commanded him to obey, even when Harry was certain that he shouldn’t. It was the same story, the same monotonous routine

Be a good boy, Harry dear, and you won’t feel a thing. Yes, Harry, that’s it, let me bathe you so that you could look presentable. It’s not real, Harry, none of it ever was. We’re here to help you, to cure you.

On and on the voices went, touching him and manipulating him. A live doll for Voldemort’s own personal entertainment. It was...awful. A fate more terrible than anyone could ever imagine.

To have to doubt every thought in his head...Harry wondered if Voldemort wanted him to go insane. If, maybe, Voldemort wanted him to break first before killing him?

But even still, none of the horrors he’d faced since his stay in this bloody place could compare to the knowledge that he could never wield magic again. Not in the way he used to. His voice was lost, a garbled mess on most days. It wouldn’t nearly be as horrible if he was capable of non-verbal magic, but he wasn’t. He wasn’t as proficient as the Dark Lord was.

This knowledge had hurt in many ways, even if he had no wand to wield magic anyway. Voldemort had snapped Draco’s wand, so even if he could speak, he had nothing. He was blind and mute. It was a miracle, truly, that he wasn’t deaf. Made completely helpless within Voldemort’s grasp.

...Then again, Voldemort would never permit Harry to be cut himself off entirely. The monster required that Harry listen to him. It was not nearly as enjoyable to torture him, or to kill the friends he captured, without Harry being able to listen to each cry or snap of their bones.

Pathetic, pathetic man.

Always telling him to listen because it was for his own good . That he was only there to help him. Sure, he was there to help him straight into his grave.

“Dr. Riddle.”

Harry was whisked away from his thoughts by the sound of the Death Eater’s cordial statement. It was all the warning Harry had before he was pushed into a soft seat. The backs of his knees smacked into a hard surface, and then he was failing back, arms flailing out to catch onto the armrests before he embarrassed himself.

Arsehole.

“Thank you, you may step outside.”

The sound of Voldemort’s voice raised all the hairs on the back of Harry’s neck. An irrepressible shudder crawling up his spine when the Death Eater that had accompanied him to Voldemort’s office— the study? The dining room? Harry didn’t know —quickly departed, the tone of the monster’s voice had left no room for disobedience.

There was the sound of rapid footsteps cutting across the room, the sound growing fainter and fainter with each passing second until finally, all fell into silence.

It was just him and Voldemort now. Harry did not let this fact unsettle him. They’d been alone a number of times before. There was nothing Voldemort could do to him that he hadn’t done to him already.

“Harry Potter...so glad that you could join me this evening.”

Harry snorted, slowly turning his head in the direction he had heard the man’s voice emanate from. Voldemort was somewhere ahead of him, perhaps a few feet, if Harry had to guess.

“Are you enjoying your newest accommodations?”

Harry did not move, made no indication that was even listening to the question. Voldemort knew well that he was blind and mute. There was nothing for him to enjoy.

“Any grievances you wish to mention?”

Harry’s lip curled with irritation. He had plenty. The first being that he was a bloody prisoner with no means of escaping. The fact that he heard voices in his head that made it difficult to think or even recall why he was even there in the first place. Of course, Voldemort knew all of this. Harry didn’t need to say it.

This was all for show. Small talk meant to needle at his brain, to drive him mad and entertain the bastard. It was all Voldemort ever did whenever he summoned Harry.

“Excellent.”

Harry grimaced, hoping that he didn’t look as exasperated as he felt. He wouldn’t give the monster the satisfaction. No, never again. Harry had made that mistake once before, and he’d paid the ultimate price.

That was the day Voldemort had taken his eyes.

There was little for the Dark Lord to take now, but Harry wasn’t stupid. He was expendable. A pet for Voldemort’s amusement until he finally lost his appeal and was swiftly executed. There was no reason for Voldemort to be keeping him alive. The war was won, and Harry was a simple trophy for him to hold over the heads of the few Order members still at large.

The fact that he wanted to pretend to be someone that he was not. A doctor in some muggle ward when it was obvious that he wasn’t, only added insult to injury.

“Harry…”

Clothes rustled, and Harry had a short moment to brace himself before two hands latched onto his shoulders. Heat melted through the thin shirt, and Harry’s heart raced in his chest, fully expecting pain as there always was when Voldemort touched him.

“How are you feeling this evening? It has come to my attention that you’ve been refusing to take your medication again.”

Harry grit his teeth, jaw locking when Voldemort’s hands began to massage his shoulders. He didn’t want the man to touch him, didn’t want to be in the same room as him, but if he tried to get up or do anything that seemed violent, they’d strap him down to the seat and continue their session anyway.  Harry had to be smart, he had to ignore Voldemort’s obvious desire to provoke him.

Still, it was humorous how Voldemort spoke to him despite Harry’s inability to respond. What did he want Harry to say? Did he expect him to tell him he was fine ? That he was perfectly alright sitting there with his warm hands on his shoulders, touching him?

No thanks.

Harry did not reply, choosing instead to remain still even when Voldemort laughed lowly behind him, fingers smoothing over his shoulders and poking inside the collar of his shirt.

“You know I cannot allow this, Harry. You’re behaving like a recalcitrant child.”

Harry scoffed, and Voldemort laughed harder behind his back, his grip tightening before gentling once more when Harry stiffened beneath him. The touches were harmless enough, but at any moment, they could become violent.

Those fingers could close around his windpipe and strangle him within an inch of his life. Squeeze and squeeze until he finally fell still, lips blue and eyes wide open in death. The man was unpredictable. One moment he’d be amused with Harry’s antics, and then another, he’d be cursing his very existence. There was simply no telling what went on in the bastard’s head.

“Now now, no need to be rude. We are only here to help you.”

Liar.

The fingers brushed lower on Harry’s shoulders, down to his collarbones to play with the low neckline of his shirt. Nails dragged along the fabric, the soft shift in the air enough to make Harry’s breaths come quicker than he’d wanted them to.

It was always this bloody touching. Helpless, unable to do anything at all because then he’d be tied down and Merlin , he couldn’t stand it when they did that. Voldemort had tortured him, taken his eyes and his dignity, but he couldn’t stand to lose his ability to move, he couldn’t stand to be alone with Voldemort when he—

“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s only you and me, just as it should be.”

Harry swallowed, fingers tightening on the armrests beneath him. It was exactly because they were alone that he should be afraid, that he was terrified, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge or reveal it.

Be a good boy, Harry, and look at me. Yes, that’s it. Good. I want you to watch me as I take your eyes. I want to see my face reflected in your gaze. It is only fitting that the face of a monster be the final thing you look upon…

Harry squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, ignoring the phantom memory of the monster’s voice and the way his claws had felt burying into his sockets.

Breathe in, Harry. Don’t let him get to you, don’t let him play with your—

“You’re shaking, Harry. Are you cold? Here, let me warm you up.”

Harry trembled when Voldemort embraced him from behind, choking him with the smell of cologne and rainwater. The man was like a furnace, but still, Harry shook as if winter’s icy breath had rolled over his skin and settled deep inside his rib cage.

Then, came the same voices. They breathed into his mind, crawled through each wrinkle in his mind in the same way Voldemort’s breath fanned against his neck.

One. Two. Three. Breathe. Yes, that’s it. Scream for me one last time. I want to bottle up the sound and listen to it before bed, to take a piece of you with me when you’re slumbering away in your room.

A shudder rushed up his spine, and his fingernails cut into the armrests beneath him. His knuckles were white and stretched thin with the power of his grip, his fear and nausea washing through him in waves. If the monster did not let him go, if the monster did not stop talking into his head, Harry was going to lose it.

He was already dangling near the precipice, the righteous indignation in his bones gone now that Voldemort had eroded it. It’d only been minutes and already he’d been rendered into putty.

Turned into the scared little boy he had been when he’d first been captured. Converted into a frightened young man that he’d become after hours of being blind. Transformed into a bitter adult after he’d lost his voice, his screams mangling his voice box until his cries would no longer come.

“There. Isn’t this much nicer, Harry? See how much better this is when you comply? When you allow me to soothe your aches and erase all those unpleasant memories swimming through your mind?”

“N-n,” Harry tried to deny it, to tell him no, but the word would not come. There was no use. Frustrated tears welled at the corners of his eyes, but he did not let them fall. Oh, how he wished Voldemort had taken his tear ducts, too. Then, he wouldn’t look as pathetic as he felt.

“It is no easy feat to battle your demons, but with perseverance and proper treatment, we can certainly overcome them.”

No, Harry wanted to deny. There was nothing to overcome. The demon was real and was speaking to him at that moment. Poisoning his mind as he always did with his lies, insisting that Harry was crazy and that what he had experienced had only been some long-winded episode of dementia.

“Lord Voldemort is not real, but a physical manifestation of all of your fears and flaws. I don’t understand why you insist on holding onto this fiction, why you must fight so hard for a made-up entity that would never be.”

No. No. No. N—

“But it is alright, Harry.”

Voldemort’s arms tightened around him, and Harry felt a scream lodge itself in his throat. Terror curled low in his belly when Voldemort slowly retracted his hands from his body, dragging them along his sides until they stopped by his ears.

Harry’s blood ran cold when Voldemort’s nails played with the lobes for a moment before his palms cupped the flesh, immediately dampening the sounds surrounding him. They were the only thing he had left keeping him connected to the real world, the only thing left. Harry didn’t want his fingers anywhere near them.

“N-n,” Harry tried to scream, to beg, but the words went unheard.

Harry sucked in one shuddering breath, and then, all fell silent. Voldemort’s breaths and the faint whir of the air conditioner vibrating in the air dissipated like smoke. The rush of his blood flooding his ears, the hitch of his breaths flowing in and out of his throat, faded into nothing.

See no evil, a voice whispered in his head, and Harry screamed , or at least, his mind did. He couldn’t be certain if he did in the real world, not when everything had gone silent. His mouth parted, but there was no certainty that sound fell from his tongue.

Stop!

His body thrashed, convulsing in his seat before hands latched onto his wrists and yanked them down to the armrests. Harry struggled in vain, thick leather wrapping around his wrists and strapping him down to the chair.

No!

Speak no evil , the same voice washed over his thoughts and Harry fought against the straps restraining him, against the same hands pressed over his ears.

Hear no evil , Voldemort crooned, his hands pulling away from his ears to cup his cheeks, tears streaming down his skin in thick rivulets. A sharp point pushed into the inside of his arm, pumping him full of some strange liquid even as he struggled, cutting up his skin violently.

H-hurts.

The pain grounded him. It was the only real connection to the world around him, to the reality that his senses had been taken from him one by one. It ached, stung unbearably, but it was better than nothing. More bearable than the abyss swallowing him whole.

Harry wasn’t sure what about this entire situation was most terrifying.

Godric.

Harry hoped Voldemort would just kill him, that now that he had taken something more from him, he would cease these games. For once in his bloody life, Harry hoped that Voldemort would end the lies and at least confirm in that all of this was real . That, somehow, this all wasn’t just in his head.

Oh Harry, of course, this is all happening in your head. But what makes you think none of this is real?

The voice washed through him, heaviness settling deep into the marrow of his bones. Whatever it was that they pumped into him was taking effect, and Harry didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to sleep, no, not again .

He didn’t—

Silly little horcrux.