Chapter Text
December 1997
If I survive this, Harry thinks somewhat uncharitably, as he shivers beneath blankets that are far too thin, I am never going camping again.
Well… perhaps that’s a little too harsh—for being on the run as Undesirable Number One is far from a romp in the woods. As Harry thinks back on the summer preceding his fourth year at Hogwarts, he remembers sharing the tent with the Weasleys outside the Quidditch World Cup with more fondness than he regards this particular situation.
He pushes those thoughts away. He doesn’t want to think about the Weasleys right now—not when the absence of familiar snoring leaves a hollow, aching space inside his ribs. That wound is still too raw. He and Hermione have been making due on their own, but he doesn’t have to be wearing Slytherin’s locket around his neck for those thoughts to weigh heavily on his mind.
As they do—and as he does—now.
The locket’s chain creates a soft whirr as Harry holds the pendant between his fingers, sliding it back and forth along its tether. He doesn’t want to take it off, but there’s something about wearing it that’s disconcerting; it’s warmer than it should be for a lump of gold that isn’t even tucked inside his shirt. And (he’s thought it before, and thinks it again now), it… feels alive, somehow. Like a tiny heartbeat, as he closes it in the palm of his hand. Its serpentine S of inlaid emeralds presses against the creases in his skin: heart, head, fate, and life lines.
Trelawney would probably find some way to predict his death from it. Harry muffles a dark snicker at the thought; at the rate he’s going with this horcrux hunt, she’s probably not wrong.
He sobers at that. Then, he sits up.
Harry knows this restlessness; knows he won’t be able to sleep while it’s haunting him. Hermione’s many enchantments protect them well enough, so there’s really no need to keep watch, but maybe a walk would do him some good. If nothing else, being outside the tent might actually remind his body to appreciate the warmth their mismatched blankets provide. Harry pulls on his trainers over two pairs of socks, and a tatty old jacket over his age-worn jumper. He pats down his pants pocket to ensure his wand is tucked inside—even through the denim, he can feel the reassuring weight of his holly wand. In the other, he feels the folded shape of the invisibility cloak. Inside his shirt, slung around his neck, is his mokeskin pouch. And, as Harry zips the jacket up, he tucks the locket out of sight.
Slytherin’s locket; Tom Riddle’s horcrux.
He would do well not to forget.
He spares a glance down at Hermione, but from the way she’s hunkered in, he can barely see the slightly-blurred shape of her dark, frizzy hair. His lips quirk in a slight smile that doesn’t quite reach his heart, given the weight around his neck—Harry takes a blanket from his bedroll and sweeps it over her. He’ll steal it back when he returns.
For now, he’ll soothe this pacing creature inside his mind by walking it off, himself.
Harry ducks out of the tent and seals it, setting off to explore the little island in the middle of the Scottish loch as the falling snow fills in his footprints behind him.
December 1961
The old hinges creak upon his entry to what was once a handsome home; the door swings shut and settles with a click of solemn finality. Broad, bony hands pluck at brass buttons until they’re all undone. He sweeps the heavy, black cloak from his shoulders and hangs it on a hook beside the entryway; brushes snowflakes from his hair as he passes down the hall. As he passes the old mirror, his reflection is a wraith in the corner of his eye dressed in dark tones, slacks and a pressed shirt. The only thought he spares is that the glass could use a good dusting.
He, too, may have once been called handsome—not that his looks have entirely left him. Instead, there is a certain air of something… off-putting. Wrong, almost. Yes, his hair is still dark and thick and possesses a certain curl that is reminiscent of the figures in the aged portraits on the walls; the set of his shoulders is strong, and his bone structure is fine. However, he knows there is a certain… falseness, now, to the way he looks. It bothered him, once. But the benefits far outweigh the drawbacks.
Perhaps he should have reconsidered meeting with Albus Dumbledore so soon after creating his fifth horcrux—the process is taxing on the body at best, disfiguring at worst. He looked more like a monster in the shape of a man a month ago than he does now. The whites of his eyes no longer seem bloody; the waxy pallor to his skin has somewhat cleared as his soul’s shattered edges have finally dulled. Perhaps it would have helped, but he’s no fool.
Lord Voldemort knows damn well that Dumbledore never intended to hire him for the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. In truth, despite the bitter sting of rejection at being summarily and finally turned away from the only place he’s ever called home, he never had any intention of working under the old man’s watchful eyes.
And, yet.
The floor creaks beneath his feet as he follows the dull glow of the oil lights deeper into Riddle Manor. His brief return to Hogwarts a month ago allowed him the opportunity to place Ravenclaw’s diadem into the Room of Hidden Things, where it will surely never be found—but it was not the only one of Hogwarts’ hidden secrets he was anxious to revisit.
The drawing room was once a richly-furnished and comfortable haven. Since Lord Voldemort seized the house that was his by paternal legacy, willing or no, the furnishings have been cleared away; instead, an expansive study has taken its place. A desk is pushed up against one wall, the surface covered with antique texts and yellowed pages. A weathered, leatherbound book is perhaps the most unusual of the lot: the strokes within which are handwritten in a language that is not readable to anyone thinking to peer at it from over the reader’s shoulder—or, indeed, even when viewing the text directly.
Parseltongue is a fluency that’s his by birthright. So, too, is the book that he had foolishly left in Slytherin’s secret library when he graduated. He had thought, at seventeen, that he would continue to walk the halls of Hogwarts for many years; would have a hundred chances to return to the Chamber of Secrets, and the antechamber where Slytherin’s study resided.
It had taken another seventeen years to reclaim his inheritance. In his opinion, it’s not a moment too soon, if only for the prize that lies so promisingly in its pages:
...for nothing made more clear to me my noble purpose than the potion that follows herein. Blood of mine, be forewarned—the experience is not for the feeble, nor for the faint of heart. If you are willing to sacrifice all you hold dear, immeasurable knowledge and wisdom beyond belief are what you stand to gain.
What a promise to make to a man who holds nothing dear at all.
True, he has created five horcruxes, where even the most daring and accomplished of Dark wizards previously only managed one. Yes, he knows he is destined for greatness, and is willing to do anything to attain it. He is ruthless, he is cunning; he has the strong beginnings of an army at his back in the loyalty of his Death Eaters, who are willing to do anything, anything he says. There is no power quite like it.
Yet… immeasurable knowledge.
Lord Voldemort has always considered himself a scholar.
In the center of the room, a small brass cauldron simmers. It steams in wisps that look like clouds; it has no discernible scent, except that if he were to describe it in a word, the vapor carries the same smell of the outside—crisp and cold. He is not fool enough to inhale deeply, since Salazar Slytherin’s journal is woefully unclear on exactly what this potion does: only the ingredients required and the process to brew it, and how, exactly, to go about using it once the potion is complete.
If Slytherin’s warning had not been enough to dissuade the faint of heart, surely the ingredient list would have been.
...the distilled blood of a unicorn… powdered fang of a basilisk… a crystallized phoenix tear… a cross-section of fulgurite (whole)… the brain of a centaur… the All-Seeing Eye of a Seer…
That the potion must be brewed within a runic circle and finished beneath the full moon are the least of its requirements, which have finally come to fruition, and now…
He removes the potion from the heat, but does not yet remove it from the spell circle written in chalk upon the floor. Instead, he takes a wide and shallow bowl, not unlike that suited to a Pensieve, and sets it beside the cauldron. He pours the potion into it.
“Finally,” Lord Voldemort murmurs in satisfaction as he observes the nearly-finished product—a brew that is thin as water and that looks like liquid silver in the light, perfectly reflective as the surface of a mirror. All that remains: Voldemort takes a knife, the blade flashing as he punctures the pad of his index finger. After all, the potion only calls for three drops of blood from the user to bind it to him—no more, no less.
“Fatum ad invenium,” he murmurs as the blood hits the surface. One… two… “Fatum ligarum.”
…three.
He lifts the bowl; with barely a thought, the papers and books atop his desk leap into movement, righting themselves and stacking together neatly, leaving the surface free and clear for him to set it down in the puddle of moonlight that shines through the window. Fierce excitement makes a home in his chest—the incantation, too, seems straightforward enough.
My fate found, my fate bound.
To catch a glimpse of everything yet to come, the greatness he has yet to achieve…
Everything is a small price to pay for a man with nothing to lose.
But it will not do to get too excited; Voldemort takes a breath and paces the perimeter of the room, extinguishing each oil lamp one at a time. A nonverbal Episkey seals over the cut on his finger; passable, though he has never excelled at healing spells. The smoke from blowing out the final candle curls inside the glass walls of its tiny prison, painting the space in a hazy gray. It goes unnoticed as the room is extinguished into night.
Voldemort holds his wand loosely between his fingers as he turns and surveys the bowl. The liquid inside does not ripple or whirl, and is instead calm and smooth as glass now that it has settled. It looks, for all intents and purposes, harmless and innocuous. But he knows poisons and potions of all sorts that can look harmless, and in reality, be anything but.
But this is the brew that his great ancestor attributed to realizing his noble purpose— and Lord Voldemort is second to none.
He crosses the room, the yew wand of his youth held in one hand, and the other steadies himself on the surface of the desk. He bends at the waist, and without hesitation, places his face into the potion, as one would when viewing a memory.
He descends.
Dark eyes open to darkness.
He feels no different at first. For a moment, he even dares to wonder if he did something wrong in the brewing process…
…but then he realizes he is not looking at darkness, but rather into the night sky, as snowflakes fall. They do not touch him; not quite. Instead, they strike some sort of barricade and melt away.
He turns his head, looking to the side; the perspective of his vision is strange, as though he lies on his back and is looking straight up. And when he looks, he sees…
…a rocky shore. Barren trees. Deep, undisturbed snow.
And he sees a boy.
There is something about him that draws the eye: and not only the strange coat the boy wears, shivering as though it’s not nearly enough to keep him comfortable. He is of a reasonable height, slender. He tromps through the snow and ice along an unforeseen path, or perhaps no path at all. He looks as though he is speaking, but if he is, Lord Voldemort cannot hear him. Cursing, potentially, from the pinched expression he wears on his face—angular, but less of a patrician bone structure, and more in the way of recent growth and not quite enough food.
Still, it is a look that he knows uncomfortably well.
The object of his attention stops walking, and Voldemort watches. Yet, his mind races. Why show him this at all? Was the potion not meant to help him perceive his own noble purpose, attain immeasurable knowledge? What good does it do to show him this boy—
With reflexes rival to his own, the boy whips around, wand drawn. A wizard, then. Lord Voldemort watches with renewed interest. A determined grimace twists his face, teeth set; but he falters when he sees no one behind him. His brows pull together in a frown, drawing the eye upward, and pulling attention to a lightning-shaped scar.
His eyes, though. Even in the moonlight, they are the most peculiar shade of green.
The boy’s wand lowers slightly when he sees no adversary; his shoulders hunch. He chews at one raw red lip, then jams his wand into his back pocket, and is reaching for his collar—
Fool, Lord Voldemort thinks absently, and his brows draw together.
—and draws out a chain, glimmering gold, and then fiddles with a pendant—
No, Voldemort realizes. Not a pendant.
A locket. The locket.
His horcrux.
How? How? How could this possibly be when he knows the enchantments he put his locket under—it is impenetrable, impossible to get to, and yet it is in the nervous, fidgeting hands of some unknown factor, a simple boy—his only comfort is that the locket at least seems to be unhurt, whole—
Perhaps it is a warning. Voldemort’s mind races as he reassesses, changes his plans—he’ll have to be more careful; collect the locket, collect the others at once. Perhaps hiding the shorn-off pieces of his soul was not as successful a plot as he thought it would be. No matter. He can readjust. He can emerge better on the other side of this, undefeated. That is, of course, the purpose of this entire endeavor. A warning well-heeded, then.
But perhaps this potion creates an in-between; some unknowable place neither here nor there. For as Lord Voldemort makes a quiet, angry sound, that can be the only rational explanation why, at that very moment, the boy’s attention shifts.
Their eyes meet.
For a moment, the boy is still as a rabbit, not even daring to breathe as he finds himself caught in a predator’s gaze. Don’t move, those little instincts seem to warn, draw no attention to yourself, and perhaps you won’t end up in the belly of the snake.
Voldemort has always been bigger than those instincts. He learned very early that in order to survive, one has to be the snake.
This boy, it seems, is not smart enough to heed nature’s warning. He approaches.
Frozen crystals cling to denim pants, the cut and color unfamiliar, but clearly soaked almost up to his knees. The shoes he wears are too caked in snow to discern style as the boy is drawn like a magnet to the rocky, ice-slick shore—
—Lord Voldemort, too, is drawn nearer. He does not know how, but he knows he steps forward, equal and opposite to the boy as he approaches. He has always been curious, he has always been desperate for answers denied to him, and in his adulthood, he has never denied himself anything, so why should he deny himself when he was promised immeasurable knowledge—
—the boy walks onto the surface that they both look through. Breath comes to him in gasping clouds that Lord Voldemort cannot hear, but he hears his own, not quite so labored, but labored all the same as the boy crouches low, fingers still curled possessively around the locket in his palm—
—he, himself steps forward one last time—
—and the boy reaches out with one shaking, wind-chapped hand, pulled mindlessly forward as though under the Imperius, but his eyes are clear and bright and Avada Kedavra green—
—and Lord Voldemort reaches back.
December ∞
For a moment, their fingers are separated by a sheet of ice as cold and clear as glass.
For a moment, the ticking clock of time itself is silent.
Then, it does as all glass and all silence eventually does.
It shatters.
Time resumes.
December 1997
There’s a flash like a strike of lightning. Harry has never heard of such a thing accompanying a snowstorm. There’s a crack, too—not thunder, but of ice as it fractures and he pitches headfirst into the frigid water.
What an idiot he must’ve been to walk out, not knowing if it was sturdy enough to hold him—but his heart had been racing, and the tiny metal heartbeat of the locket had been racing in time with his.
Because he’d seen—he thought he’d seen—
He’s tangled in his clothes, feeling heavy and weighed down, and at the same time, his body feels like it’s on fire from how cold he is; something around his neck gives a sharp jerk like it’s trying to get away, much in the way one’s wand flies out of their hand when hit with Expelliarmus, the way something moves without hesitation when called for by Accio. It yanks him forward, and Harry instinctively yanks back. His Seeker reflexes don’t let him give up on anything quite that easily, whether there’s an opponent nearby or not. This time, perhaps not.
Then he feels movement in the water near him.
His scar prickles, like the after-effects of an electric shock.
And Harry fights toward the surface with everything he’s got.
Once he gets his legs under him, he realizes the water isn’t deep, but that doesn’t seem to matter when every breath sears his lungs and he can’t stop his teeth from chattering. Still, his body is rushing with adrenaline; Harry claws his way back onto the ice, uncertain, at this moment, whether he can even feel his hands enough to know whether he’s cutting them open on the jagged pieces. It’s all just human instinct—he has no thoughts to spare for magic until he’s out of this bloody loch, the taste of brackish water clinging to his teeth.
He hauls himself onto the ice and rolls free of the fracture; for a second, Harry lies on his back and gasps at the sky, the snowflakes that land on his skin. He shudders just as quickly, overcome with the cold, and then—
Another gasp, perhaps even more ferocious than his. “What in the bloody, blazing seven hells— ?!”
Harry’s head whips toward the sound. Impossible, it’s impossible, he thinks desperately.
Though seen only in memories, incorporeal, intangible; even soaked to the bone, he knows that face. He’s heard that voice. And those eyes (though all too human) meet his and flash red in the moonlight, and he knows.
Harry Potter is known for two things in life: his foolhardy Gryffindor bravery, and his increasingly astounding ability to escape Voldemort. Some might even consider those things one in the same.
He’s not particularly known for his mind.
So he pays no thought as to why, exactly, Voldemort appears just as shocked as he is; why his (im)mortal enemy is submerged in a frozen-over loch that’s been charmed with every protection Hermione can think of; why there are no Death Eaters waiting in the wings to attack him; why his scar is not screaming with pain, as it often does whenever Voldemort is nearby; not even why Voldemort seems to have regained many of the youthful features he held in Dumbledore’s memories, up to and including his dark eyes, dark hair, and a nose that is rather well-suited to his face.
Harry Potter doesn’t know how or why he came to be in this predicament. Nor, at this moment, does he really care.
He thinks, Fuck.
Shortly followed by, We’re not ready.
Which leads to, I won’t let him hurt Hermione.
In short: Harry springs to his feet, places himself solidly on solid ground, and attacks.
This is not what Lord Voldemort expected of his evening.
What he did expect: a vision. An hour of his time eaten up, maybe two; at worst, he may have lost the night and woken up in the morning, irrevocably more informed in the comings and goings of the future than he is finding himself right now.
His eyes widen. A nonverbal spell launches him out of the water, and he lands lightly on his feet; he twirls out of the way of a well-timed and well-placed Stupefy, and does not dignify the cold with a shiver. His wand is still in his free hand, and he pulls the water from his clothes and hair and streams it into a whip, which he directs at one of the boy’s legs. Perhaps just being dry is not as effective as a warming charm, but it’ll do for now—but he grits his teeth as the boy dodges out of his grasp.
There’s no wariness in that gaze. Only hatred that’s strong enough to kill as the boy takes measured steps backward through the snow, soaked to the bone, and isn’t that interesting? He doesn’t falter, even as his teeth chatter.
Lord Voldemort finds himself… intrigued.
The locket seems to twitch against a slender chest. In the instant the boy’s eyes dart downward, Voldemort attacks again.
Intrigued, yes. But not intrigued enough to stop.
“Confringo!” his opponent yells, and Voldemort’s water whip evaporates into vapor. Clever—or good luck, perhaps. Those eyes narrow as he advances, and the dark-wood wand is pointed toward the ground. “Bombarda!”
It doesn’t have the desired effect; the boy is distracted, too focused on Voldemort rather than the true target of his spell. The snow, already loose and powdery, kicks up into a glittering cloud—but his way forward is otherwise unimpeded.
Stupefy! he commands silently; red light flashes by the boy’s face as he launches himself out of the way. The landing is far from graceful. And, Lord Voldemort notices, he is still soaking wet. In fact, pieces of that dark, disheveled hair are starting to freeze. Yet nothing slows down the rebuttal to his own advance. Petrificus totalus!
The boy dodges again. Voldemort has to acknowledge his opponent’s excellent reflexes as he scrambles back to his feet with haste; stumbles a bit as he backs up, sparing only the barest glance over his shoulder as he retreats toward the trees. He does not, Voldemort notices, dare to turn his back. At least in that, he has some sense.
And then—
“What’s wrong?” the boy taunts—or, rather, his voice is that of a young man. There’s a glint of something on his wrist; a battered watch that has seen better days. Voldemort reassesses these few clues. Seventeen, then. Likely turned this year. Skinny, though. Mouthy, too. “No killing curse tonight?”
Voldemort pauses for a fraction of a second. It’s not an accusation one would make of a stranger. To accuse one of hurling Unforgivables at the earliest opportunity is an especially bold assumption for one who attacked first. Those words imply familiarity. Familiar enough with Lord Voldemort to know that Avada Kedavra is an established resident in his magical repertoire.
Those eyes are the color of that very same curse. They know him.
His eyes narrow in return, and lock on the locket. How is the boy surviving the protective enchantments? How is he—
“Doesn’t matter, though,” he bites out past his chattering teeth. His gaze blazes with resolve. “I’ll fight ‘til the end. You won’t take me alive.”
…he knows, and expects to be known.
Lord Voldemort looks up, looks at the boy’s face. Really looks, but nothing about him is familiar. He’s no former classmate or passing acquaintance. No matter what situation he stepped into, he’s certain he would know anyone bold enough to speak to him this way.
In a world where every element bends to his whim, this boy is an unknown—if necessary, his half-life will be bright but short. Voldemort himself will see to that.
But more than anything, he does not want to snuff out that light. He wants to capture it. Study it. Collect it.
He wants his answers, and he will get them.
“Yes, I will,” he hisses back, and the boy goes pale; pale, but still fighting. His jaw sets, tense and seemingly prepared to do exactly as he says: go down fighting. Already, he has twice the spine of most adversaries Voldemort has gone toe-to-toe with, and there are not many of those who even stood long enough to make a stand. “And when I do, you’re going to tell me who gave you that trinket.”
“Who gave me—?” The boy chances a look down again, almost looking confused; he curses once, loudly, when Voldemort sends a Diffindo that goes wide, catches his outer arm instead of the chain around his neck. It slices through the sleeve like a razor-thin wire, more than enough to stain the fabric within seconds as his heart continues to pound. The boy touches his arm. When his fingers draw back bloody, though, his expression darkens to one of a terrible storm weighing heavily on the horizon. Whoever this young man is, Lord Voldemort knows he possesses the will to retaliate as swiftly and powerfully as the lightning scar that marks his brow: a natural disaster in motion, if only the right moment should strike. “No one gave it to me. I took it, you… ” he breathes, and trails off before he can find a word that is suitably heartfelt with hatred. When he finishes the thought, though, it’s not for lack of vehemence. “And we both know what it cost.”
Do we? Lord Voldemort almost wants to demand. However, he is starting to think they both, indeed, might.
His temper gets the better of him at the thought; he’ll admit that. It’s not especially smart to show his cards when his adversary clearly knows he’s in possession of the upper hand. It’s dangerous to even allow him to know the degree of defeat. However, Voldemort has always lacked a bit of impulse control around his actions. One synapse that fires off-time from the others, a half-second too early; it finishes thoughts before they leave lips, jumps to conclusions before a sentence reaches its natural end.
“Who are you to know what it cost?” He lashes out with his wand, and the snow around the boy’s ankles solidifies into ice. He stalks forward, just as the boy topples over backward, unable to take a step in retreat, and his wand tumbles out of his hand. “Hm? Boy?” Voldemort taunts, and stands over him, kicks the wand away; feels his chest heave with breath that stings his lungs; shakes his head just once to get his fringe from his eyes. His lip curls in demanding derision, and he draws himself to his full height. His wand is held fast on his opponent, sprawled in the snow, the locket gleaming around his neck in all its golden glory. Another wave of fury threatens to rise up and consume him; he battles it down. Answers. He needs answers. Starting with this one. “Who are you?”
In this short time opposite his new foe, he has come to expect defiance.
What he doesn’t expect is the absolutely dumbfounded look he receives in return.
He waits a moment. Then a moment more. When it becomes clear that no answer is forthcoming, he grits his teeth; the boy yelps in pain as the magic responds to his ire, and the ice twists and tightens around his ankles. “It’s a simple enough question, is it not? Who are you? What is your name? How and where did you get that locket?”
“The locket?” The boy murmurs, as though dazed. He can barely tear his eyes away; of course, Voldemort can barely take his eyes off him, strange little impossibility that he is. Voldemort bends down, intent to snatch it from around the boy’s neck.
And then those eyes widen as though in realization. “The locket—!”
Wandless, wordless, the ice around his feet cracks and explodes.
It’s a split-second distraction, but it’s all the boy needs to launch himself in the direction of his wand and snatch it up; surprising enough that Voldemort shields his face with his hand, and feels the irritation prickle through his eyes, red creeping into his vision. His patience is running thin.
He takes aim. So does the boy.
“Imperio!”
“Sectumsempra!”
But the spells do not pass each other in midair as Voldemort expects; they collide, and the world ignites in gold.
Lord Voldemort has now possessed his yew wand for more than twice the number of years he lived without it. He knows its properties well; could pick it out blindfolded or in the dark from a host of others, by the feel of it in his hand alone.
It has never done anything like this.
The wood burns but does not burn, and shakes so severely that his bones seem to rattle, and yet it does not fly from his hand; in the middle of the golden thread that connects him to the boy glows a little golden light. From it, threads spawn. They create a dome above them, around them, that flickers and glimmers, lights up the barren trees, illuminates the snow on the ground, the flakes in the air, until they glow like lightning bugs.
He has never encountered anything like this. Never read of anything like this. What is this?
Who is he?
In that moment, the boy’s eyes are wide. Lord Voldemort sees realization. Recognition. True fear. Despair. For just a second, his eyes dart somewhere away—they follow the path the boy had taken, which disappears into the woods from a destination unknown.
Just for a second.
“No,” he whispers, and when Voldemort looks at him again, the boy is focused. And then his face twists with blazing determination. “It is you.”
And then he wrenches his wand away, and the thread breaks; the dome dispels into mist; the boy runs.
At him. Into him.
He is solid, unpleasantly wet, and freezing cold. But Lord Voldemort does not notice these things, for the boy seizes his bare wrist and the collar of his shirt, as though he means to grapple him down with his inferior size and strength.
Their skin sparks with sensation where it makes contact.
Perhaps it is the surprise of the motion that allows the boy to manage it—he swings them around in a short, sharp half-turn, and with a crack, they Disapparate.