Chapter Text
Lord Voldemort met the gaze of the babe in the crib. It was sitting, clutching the wooden bars, green eyes staring solemnly at the face of he who would bring its death.
"Goodbye, Harry Potter," Lord Voldemort rasped as he turned his wand on his prophezised downfall. A chuckle escaped him in anticipation.
A rush of green, a brighter shade of the same hue as the boy's eyes. Euphoria of power and darkness pumped through the Dark Lord's veins. The curse hit the babe in the forehead, above the right eyebrow. Oddly, it split the skin into the pattern of the wand movement that lesser wixen needed to cast the curse. Usually, there was no physical mark.
The child's eyes seemed to absorb the Killing Curse, glowing with its deathly green power. Baffled, and honestly fascinated, Voldemort stared. He knew enough about magic to know this was, or should be, impossible. He should be looking at a cooling corpse. Instead, the boy blinked, still alive, still meeting Voldemort's inquisitive gaze in silence.
Greed stirred behind the Dark Lord's ribs. What he wouldn't do to extract that amazing power! But fear protested, said to try again, and to crush the child's skull if the curse still didn't work. It was too dangerous to let live.
The magical pressure of the spell remained, despite it having hit its target. In fact, the pressure was growing-
The whole child glowed green. Then, magic exploded from it, passing through Lord Voldemort and dragging his soul out of his body in its wake. He watched, numb with shock, as his body disintegrated completely before it hit the ground, leaving nothing but his black cloak to pool on the floor and his white yew wand to clatter down next to it. For a moment, he hung suspended in the air, a bodyless soul. How strange, he thought, he usually just snapped right back into his body when his soul was dislodged by the Killing Curse, so why had his body disintegrated this time? And why did it look like Harry Potter was staring right at his soul? It shouldn't be possib-
Then, agony. Then, splintering. Then, Killing Curse eyes rushing closer. Then, darkness and void, and, oddly, warmth and heartbeat and magic so Black, it swamped him.
The Dark Lord drifted for a long time, never fully conscious, never fully under. He caught odd glimpses of sensations. Cold. Fear. Pain. Longing. Apples and hunger. Sweat. Loneliness. A full diaper, stinking and stinging. A slap to the face for daring to utter 'mummy'. From there, the sensations got more complex, clusters of smell-taste-feeling-hearing-doing...
It took a long time before Lord Voldemort's sluggish, addled mind could piece together his situation. He was somehow... tethered. Bound to Harry Potter, the child he'd cast the killing curse at. Why was the boy still alive? Why was Voldemort suspended in a void, experiencing flashes of a childhood that mirrored his own in the worst possible way?
Years went by without answers. Years of misery for both of them. Voldemort tried to use his magic. To explore his prison. To at least control which of the child's experiences he felt and which he'd rather skip. He couldn't.
Something snarling and vicious barred him from doing anything. For some reason, it reminded him of Harry's red headed mother when she'd physically blocked him from reaching the boy's crib. She'd been begging, but her green eyes held a viciousness as wild and feral as this magic. A bloodward? What psychopath would rip out a Dark Lord's consciousness, stuff it inside a child and ward it from leaving? Surely, this situation wasn't any better for Harry than it was for Voldemort.
Harsh hands and harsh words. Harry Potter lived in a harsh world. And Voldemort was forced to experience the same in jumbled, nonsensical, intermittent sensations. When his mind had lucid moments, he wondered what was going on. He wondered about himself and increasingly, he found himself wondering about his little vanquisher. Why was Harry Potter, a child, an heir to a magical House, being treated this way? Why was he surrounded by muggles?
Much later, something changed. The rotten, ugly horror festering within the boy was drained out of him, just in time, in Voldemort's opinion. He was starting to get uncomfortable sharing space with the nearly fully formed obscurus. The next flash Voldemort got was of Harry holding hands with a dementor, feeling affection for it of all things. Feeling warm, despite the cold bite all death magic usually had. It was a fascinating thing to witness and gave Voldemort something new to mull over.
It only got stranger from there. And Voldemort only got more intrigued by his little vanquisher. The moment he saw the cloak suspended in thin air and felt the potent death magic from it, felt the answering note in Harry's own magic, he knew what the boy was. What a terrible mistake Lord Voldemort had made that Samhain night.
Harry Potter was a deathmage. A natural born conduit of death magic. And he was powerful. So very powerful...
Lord Voldemort knew then that he would have his work cut out for him, because he was greedy and he was possessive and he'd already gotten attached - he was bloody bound to this child, of course that would leave a lasting impression... In any case, Voldemort would do everything in his considerable power to turn Harry over to his side. His little deathmage. His vessel, for now.
He just needed to find a way past the snarling web of bloodmagic keeping him trapped.
Things happened quickly after that. Not for Voldemort, who was no closer to escaping the wards that imprisoned him, but for Harry. His dementor had killed his wretched muggle family to save him and turned into a valraven, which was a delightful discovery since Voldemort hadn't known dementors could do that. As a well educated Dark Lord he'd rather thought he knew everything there was to know about dementors, but apparently he didn't. He had a feeling he would learn a lot from the flashes he got of Harry's amazing life.
It was frustrating to have no control. To have no access to peruse Harry's memories or to spy through his senses at will. Voldemort's mind was still sluggish, so piecing together what disjointed clues he got for the next few weeks took much concentrated effort. Eventually, he thought he had a pretty good grasp on his vessel's situation.
Harry was living with his father's two friends, the ones who hadn't betrayed him to Voldemort. Harry was learning necromancy from a portrait. A bad idea in Voldemort's opinion. So much could go wrong and without a competent mentor or at least a full magical education behind him, Harry wouldn't have anyone to help him undo his mistakes. And he would make mistakes. He was a child with an untamed magical power that put most adult wixen to shame.
Case in point, the bunny. The pathetic undead creature Harry almost drained himself to death to create. The ritual to tether the soul the boy had stolen by accident, summoned from who knew where, was visited by Death itself, further proving that Harry was unnaturally powerful and had no way of controlling his own magic. Death changed the bunny into a pookie. Death also poked a hole in the feral wards around Voldemort, giving him a bit of breathing space for the first time in years.
Lord Voldemort wasted no time snaking tendrils of his magic through the hole, finding Harry's senses and connecting to them. The relief almost melted him. To feel, and to feel fully and completely, was salvation itself. He could bask in it forever. That was, if something else hadn't drawn his attention. Something shocking. Something impossible. Something that gave Lord Voldemort his worst identity crisis to date.
Harry Potter and the pookie spoke together in parseltongue. The pookie's voice was familiar. Now that Voldemort thought about it, so was its eye colour and what little he could feel of its magic.
It took months for the implication to sink in. Then months again to accept it. By the time Nagini showed up, he'd passed through the worst of it, as determined and ambitious as before.
He was a horcrux. A sentient piece of soul accidentally splintered from the main soul that Samhain night. Harry was his philactery. Somehow, Harry had summoned the main soul by accident and stuffed it into a bunny, which Death had turned into a pookie, which Harry saw as his pet and friend.
No matter. Voldemort would find a way out. He'd absorb or usurp the main soul. He'd be the Dark Lord again. He'd negate the prophecy and keep Harry by his side, forever.
Slowly, Voldemort worked the hole in the wards open more and more. Slowly, he sank his tendrils into Harry's mind and magic and soul. He learned everything he could about his dear little deathmage, disjointed as it was. He drank the boy's magic like the sweetest nectar and felt his own mental faculties sharpen the more intricately he wove himself into Harry. He felt his own soul settle, strenghten, belong, the moment he twined himself into Harry's soul.
To be whole was a wonder. Whole with another. For the moment, until Voldemort found a way out, it was an acceptable recompense. Once he escaped, he decided that he would find a way to feel like this even when he and Harry no longer shared one body. If no magic existed for this, Lord Voldemort would invent it.
Then came Herpo the Foul. Then Harry tried to force the manifested soul piece back into its vessel. Then, Harry's aggravating and pathological guilt complex welled up at the worst moment, disrupting the ritual. Herpo went the way of all untethered souls that had been warped by black magic and became an evil spirit. Harry completed the ritual, and since it was designed for horcruxes and Herpo's was gone, Lord Voldemort became the recipient instead.
It felt similar to apparition, being squeezed out through the hole in the blood-scented wards. It felt like belonging when Voldemort's soul was slotted into Harry's, fitted inside it somehow through magic's will and the power of bullshit that seemed to be at rule whenever events had anything to do with Harry. The boy was obviously favoured by Death and Fate and Magic, Voldemort thought, fond, as the horcrux binding ritual partially merged the two of them together.
Marvolo, he decided, noticing he felt younger now, submerged as he was in Harry's soul. He would call himself Marvolo. The main soul could keep the name Voldemort until Marvolo successfully took its place. And he would take its place. Now that his soul was bonded permanently to Harry's, he would feel this wonderfully whole and complete even as he regained his own body. Which would be difficult, seeing as he had little to no autonomy.
Not matter. Harry would help him. Harry was a good boy with a big heart and would no doubt be willing to use his death magic to resurrect the extra bit of soul that got accidentally stuck inside him. That was just the kind of person he was.
Now, if only Marvolo could figure out a consistent way to communicate with Harry, that would be perfect.
•《¤》•
Harry threw himself back into his studies with a singleminded focus. He read, summarized, memorized, analyzed and wrote essays until his brain and eyes felt swollen. He got Granny Ee to quiz him multiple times a day on everything he'd ever learned. Granny was very happy with his sudden studiousness. So was Mordy, who spent every moment with Harry, learning alongside him and even filling in the gaps with more modern knowledge he gleaned from his former owner.
Granny Ee was fascinated when Harry finally got Mordy to confess to her about his past.
"A magical serpent! Those are wonderful familiars for necromancers," she said dreamily. "Do you know what type of magical serpent you were?"
Mordy, who was perched on Harry's study desk, stuck his chin and his two little tails straight up in the air and said haughtily: § I was the perfect snake for mistress. I was massive and venomous! I was swift as the winds and strong as a mountain, and glid through the air more elegantly than any bird. My scales were the prettiest and the sturdiest! My father was a horned serpent and my mother a lindwyrm, so my mistress called me a wyrm serpent. I had my father's gemstone and his horns and my mother's pearlescent scales and her poisonous breath. I was a flying death! The perfect predator! §
Harry struggled to translate Mordy's self-praise fast enough for the little pookie's liking. It wasn't easy to listen to parseltongue and then speak the same thing in english. Of course, Mordy insisted that they needed to practice parseltongue more when Harry complained that switching languages quickly was hard and confusing.
§ You may not be a natural parselmouth, § said Mordy, § so you cannot use parselmagic, but having a magically protected language to plot and scheme and communicate in? That will be invaluable in the future. Snakes are nature's perfect spies and magical snakes moreso. Just think, my little deathmage, if there should be someone wishing to attack your mutt or your wolf, and your snakes caught wind of it beforehand, so you could turn the attack into a trap for your enemies. §
It sounded very smart, and Harry told Mordy exactly that, which caused the bunny-like little fluffball to puff up, red eyes glittering with pride.
§ I am a genius, you know, § Mordy declared.
Harry patted his first undead creation on the head. § Yes Mordy. I know. You tell me every day. §
"Did he tell you anything interesting?" asked Granny Ee, fascinated as always with Harry's parseltongue abilities. "Oh, I wish I had inherited my father's parselmouth ability," she sighed wistfully. She pretended not to notice how Harry and Mordy both snapped to attention at her statement, but Harry saw the edges of her lips twitch upward. Granny Ee loved attention almost as much as Mordy, Nagini and Sirius did. "But, alas, neither I nor any of my Potter descendants have inherited the language. Did you know it was created by Herpo the Foul?"
Even Mordy shook his head, slitted pupils wide and greedy and trained predatorily on the portrait.
Harry found it adorable. His little pookie treated knowledge the same as prey and sometimes even forewent food in favour of reading. Mordy had been getting better at landing on the bookcases in the library without scratching the antique wood, and he was an expert now in using just enough of his sharp claws to grab hold of the old books and fly them down to a study table without puncturing the ageing leather. And he could use a singe claw to part and turn the pages. It was amazing to watch such a small animal read faster than Harry ever could. And Mordy remembered everything he ever read.
Harry was a little bit jealous of that. Mordy promised to teach Harry how to do it too, but only after Harry finished step six on The Path Of Death. Harry had completed the fifth step when he did his first soul ritual, which was an amazing achievement for such a young wizardling, according to Granny Ee and Padfoot and Moony. Granny Dori and Grandpa Monty were super stoked as well. With everything that happened with Herpo, Harry had forgotten how proud everyone was of him. How proud Harry had been of himself... before...
Thankfully, Granny Ee's interesting lecture helped redirect Harry's thoughts.
"According to a journal I was allowed to read at Slytherin Keep as a young girl, back when the last Lord Slytherin was still living there, Herpo the Foul had captured the last Naga and did terrible experiments on her. His final experiment was necromantic in nature, a ritual designed by Herpo and performed by the only apprentice he ever taught, the deathmage Mortifer Peverell. The ritual imbued Mortifer with the Naga's parselmagic and, at the same time, transformed the Naga's body into the first basilisk. As this was only possible due to Death accepting the last Naga, the very last member of a powerful magical species, as payment for the ritual, both the parselmagic found in Mortifer's descendants and the basilisks now able to be created in our world are touched by Death. This is why basilisk venom is the deadliest of all venoms and why its eyes can kill when you meet its gaze. This is why parseltongue boosts the power of necromancy and our Peverell death magic. This is also why Light wixen are instinctually repelled by parseltongue, because the magic invoked by every sound in the language is Black magic."
Harry gaped. Death had helped Herpo create parseltongue? The very language that allowed him to speak to his pets? The guilt he'd carried like a rock in his stomach since the failed horcrux ritual grew heavier at the discovery. Harry had... The man he owed so much... Oh, what had he done?
Granny Ee had a wistful expression on her face. She didn't seem to have noticed Harry's distress at all. "As a deathmage myself, I always felt strangely comforted when I listened to dearest papa chant in parseltongue. It felt to me like an embrace from father Death." She sighed, looking sadly at Harry and Mordy. "As a portrait, I can hear the sibillant elegance of the language, but I don't feel the magical undercurrent anymore. Treasure it while you can, Harry, Mordy."
Harry and his pookie both nodded, wide eyed.
§ Why does every descendant of Salazar Slytherin inherit parseltongue while the Potters don't inherit it at all? § asked Mordy, fascinated.
Harry translated quickly, also curious about the answer.
Granny Ee nodded approvingly. She loved fostering curiosity in her students. She was the type of teacher who preferred it when her students asked intelligent questions more than when they gave correct answers, and Harry loved that about her, because he didn't feel nearly as nervous or useless in her lessons as he'd always felt in primary school in the muggle world.
"That is because Salazar Slytherin was a genius on par with Herpo the Foul," said Granny Ee.
Mordy preened at that answer. Harry pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Mordy was the world's biggest Slytherin fanboy, he'd discovered. The pookie had already threatened to disown Harry if he didn't get sorted into Slytherin at Hogwarts. Harry didn't quite know how to feel about that, but he was confident his pookie wouldn't actually disown him and would instead sulk and sneer for weeks on end if Harry sorted Ravenclaw instead. And if he got sorted into either Gryffindor or Huffelpuff? Well, Mordy might never forgive him, but he wouldn't leave. Harry wasn't sure why he was so certain about that, but he was.
Nagini might leave. She wasn't Harry's. She was just with him until she found her real master. Neffel and Mordy were Harry's familiars. Sirius and Remus were Harry's adults, and he had a feeling that Aunty Andy and maybe even her husband and daughter too were going to be Harry's too. And the portraits were his of course, his ancestors and his supporters and Granny Ee was his necromancy teacher, but not his master because she wasn't alive and couldn't take on apprentices. And Neville was his first ever human friend.
Harry had so many people and creatures now, and he knew as well as he knew anything, that Mordy would always be his, no matter what. It was a good feeling. It helped Harry when the guilt threatened to drown him.
"The Slytherins always claimed that Salazar had been gifted unprecedented mastery over parselmagic somewhere on the Path, for impressing Death with his cunning and cleverness. And so, he was made the Snake Lord," explained Granny Ee.
§ Snake Lord, § echoed Mordy, almost salivating.
Harry agreed, it sounded cool. Kinda like a superhero name. Or a supervillain name? Either way, it was cool.
'Amazing,' agreed a silky baritone from so close by, it almost felt like it came from inside Harry's own head.
Harry yelped and looked around wildly.
"Harry dear?" asked Granny Ee, concerned.
"Who was speaking?" asked Harry. There was no one around. "Pads? Issat you? Is this a prank? Hello?"
Mordy had turned completely around and stared at Harry with narrowed eyes. § Is it the evil spirit? § he hissed, muscles tense. § Is it trying to possess you? § Mordy dug his claws into the desk and huddled down, as if he intended to leap at Herpo's evil spirit and physically wrestle it into submission.
The pookie's protectiveness warmed Harry's heart, although he really needed to sit down with his familiar and explain to him that survival instincts were a thing. It worried Harry how impulsive Mordy could be. What if he got hurt while trying to save Harry? That would be awful!
A velvety chuckle surrounded Harry from all sides, yet nobody was there but Harry, Mordy and Granny Ee and none of them sounded like that. Granny Ee sounded old and wise. Mordy sounded hissy and squeaky and kinda high pitched, a bit raspy sometimes too. Harry just sounded like a boy. But that voice, whatever it was, sounded like a cartoon villain, one of those you loved to hear monologue because they sounded really cool, but at the same time you hated them for being mean to the main characters.
Another chuckle. '-ery goo- ... -glad you-' The sound wavered as the voice was speaking, cutting out like a bad connection. It didn't sound like anything Harry had learned about spirits or ghosts, so it probably wasn't that. Harry didn't feel any pain or odd twitches either, so he most likely wasn't being possessed. So what could the voice be? And why was it talking to Harry?
Granny Ee had no clue, which was worrying. "Write everything down in your warded journal," she suggested. "It will be good practice for magical experiments later in your life and it could also help us figure out what is going on. Write what you hear, what it sounds like, when you hear it, where you are and what you're doing when the voice says something. If you hear it again, that is."
Harry nodded. That sounded sensible. "I've memorized the Necromancer's Code," he said, allowing a little bit of pride to shine through. "So my notes will be extra secure now."
The code was super complex and hard, but Mordy had spent all of yesterday and the day before that teaching Harry shortcuts to memorize it. And all that work had to happen after Harry had to go through an initiation to even be able to read the code or anything about the code at all without getting a headache. He had to make a vow to Death and sacrifice a drop of blood on an old book called a grimoire, and then he had to spend an hour straight reading the grimoire without even understanding anything while his head pounded awfully. Only after all of that could he finally learn the code and without Mordy, Harry was sure he never could have done it, because the Necromamcer's Code was really complicated.
Honestly, he agreed with Mordy, parseltongue was the superior magically protected language. Harry just knew how to speak without having memorize anything. Maybe he could learn a written version of that for his notes instead? But then all parselmouths could read it, even the non-necromancers, and that was bad... And Harry had gone through all that trouble for the code already. He'd memorized enough of it to make simple notes, but he'd need years of practice to encrypt entire sentences and experiments without relying on the grimoire. And honestly, Harry was only confident that he could use the code because he knew Mordy would be with him, reminding and correcting him the whole time.
Granny Ee beamed. "Well done, deary," she said. "You're a real prodigy. You should be proud of yourself."
Harry ducked his head to hide his blush beneath his wild, black fringe. He didn't tell granny how he was cheating by using Mordy's help. It felt good to be praised. He'd never been good at anything in the muggle world. But now, Harry was a deathmage and he was good at necromancy, and Mordy had said horcruxes were for adults to deal with and even Granny Ee had reluctantly agreed, eventually. So maybe, Harry was still good at necromancy even though he'd messed up the horcrux ritual?
In any case, Granny Ee didn't seem at all concerned with the evil spirit Harry had created. "All budding necromancers create evil spirits," she'd said. "I myself made dozens at least before I got the hang of it," she'd added dismissively at Harry's disbelieving pout. "Don't worry about that, child. It gives the lifemages something to do other than holding hands and singing to the flowers."
That was the first time Harry had heard anything about lifemages. Granny Ee didn't seem to like them though, and Mordy didn't seem interested in hearing anything about them, because it was at this point that he'd changed the subject and made Harry translate for him.
It left Harry a bit confused. The guilt gnawed at him day and night. Mordy wanted Harry to study harder to avoid making more horrible mistakes like that. Granny Ee seemed not to care at all. Sirius and Remus seemed angry, but not at Harry, and he hadn't heard anything from the elves since he failed to complete the last task of his punishment. He was sure they were super disappointed in him. He sure was disappointed in himself, no matter what anyone else said. But he was also proud of his progress at the same time.
It was all so confusing. Harry didn't like to think about it. So a mysterious voice only Harry could hear was actually a welcome distraction. It was a mystery, and Harry wouldn't rest until he figured it out!
'Indeed,' agreed the voice.
To Harry, it sounded like a challenge.
•《¤》•
Marvolo could hardly believe his own eyes or ears, or whatever magic allowed his soul to perceive whatever Harry perceived. Today was the first day he'd been able to watch his little vessel interact with the main part of Lord Voldemort's soul for more than a few minutes at a time. What he'd seen was disturbing.
Lord Voldemort had somehow become a simpleton. Oh, he was a brilliant teacher, evident by the occasions Marvolo had spyed his main part helping Harry with his assignments, but whenever the pookie wasn't discussing magical theory, he reverted to a spoiled pet with a childish personality, total lack of impulse control and worst of all, he was as whiny as a Malfoy!
The Dark Lord Voldemort had somehow achieved what the orphan Tom Riddle never had: Being an actual child. This Voldemort could genuinely be called a brat rather than a demon spawn, which was bewildering. It wasn't right. Nothing was right! Why was Lord Voldemort acting so... Marvolo grimaced. Silly. He hadn't been silly even when he was an actual toddler. He'd creeped out the staff at Wool's even as an infant. How was his adult self so genuinely endearing? So petulant? Had he somehow fused with Nagini, the dolt?
Even Harry was worried. Imagine that, Lord Voldemort, the Slytherin supreme and undisputed king of self preservation, was now reckless enough to worry the most danger-prone child to ever live. Had the blithering imbecile hit his head? Had his mind been scrambled when his soul was bound to its new pookie shell?
Marvolo had to hurry up and put the main soul out of its misery. It had gone insane, clearly. It was in the entire Voldemort soul collective's best interest if Marvolo, the oldest sane piece, were to take over as the new main part. Regardless, this wasn't a democracy any more than any other part of Voldemort's life, so he wouldn't be asking any of the other horcruxes for their permission. They would just have to accept his leadership once he'd wrested it away from the fluffball fool.
Maybe Marvolo could usurp the main part and leave the insane soul piece inside the pookie so it could continue being Harry's bratty little pet. The boy was fond of the creature. Extremely fond. It would be a shame for the little deathmage to lose his pet. An absolute shame.
Marvolo was a little jealous, to be honest. His counterpart got doted on endlessly while Marvolo was just starting to achieve complex thought processes again. His first attempt to speak to his Harry had been less than ideal. The boy barely heard a word he'd said.
At least Harry thought Marvolo's voice was cool while 'Mordy' sounded like a squeaky comic relief character on a children's program. Hah! Just further proof that Marvolo was the superior soul piece. He'd make sure to sound extra smooth and confident going forward. Make the boy want to listen to him. Even Marvolo wanted to listen to his own voice, endlessly, so it was only natural that Harry would like it.
Now, all Marvolo needed was to design a fun mystery for Harry to figure out, to lead him bit by bit to the truth. Marvolo didn't want to lie and pretend to be someone's pet, not like the main part had done. He wasn't sure if Harry was ready for the truth yet either. And lying would make Harry sad and angry when the boy found out the truth... Hm...
He'd need to scheme. That was difficult with a barely functioning mind. But Marvolo had time. He'd draw out the mystery until Harry was at Hogwarts and unlikely to talk to the strangers there about anything an odd voice in his head told him about. Marvolo would earn his Harry's trust. And then, they could work together to resurrect Lord Voldemort, the real Dark Lord, while the insane pookie ranted about whatever he was always ranting about, somewhere in a corner where he wouldn't get in the way.
Marvolo would become Lord Voldemort again the moment he became the main soul part. It was his Dark Lord title, after all. The pookie could remain Mordy, the murderous little horror bunny, forevermore. It fit the creature. By the Dark Mother, how insane was it that a part of Marvolo's own soul would ever fall so low that a cutesy name like Mordy would actually fit it?
Marvolo almost wished he had another of his horcruxes around to gossip with. What would the piece in the Diadem say if he knew how their main part was behaving? The Diadem was created during his war preparation phase, when Lord Voldemort commanded his largest forces of followers. He would surely be appalled! Or, how about Tom Riddle from the diary? The angsty teenager who could not imagine a world outside of Wool's and Hogwarts. Being anyone's pet, much less the pet of his own vanquisher, of a child, would surely be the proud prefect's worst nightmare!
Marvolo entertained himself with such thoughts while he gathered energy for his next peek into the outside world. He'd gone through so many phases in his life. The Locket would despair, having only just escaped the purgatory of customer service, only to end up as a pet. The Cup would rage, having been made in the first years of his journey around the world, having just tasted the ambrosia of true freedom. The Ring was made the day he murdered his deadbeat father and his snooty grandparents, which led to a few years during which he'd been fascinated with murder and had developed a bit of a serial killer tendency. What would the Ring horcrux say about a future as a coddled pet, as a magical creature that had to regularly fight Nagini and a valraven to get any mice at mealtime?
Marvolo snickered to himself. Ring would rebel, surely. He'd go on a massacre. Ah, and yet, Diadem would be the most entertaining, he decided, since Diadem was the first horcrux made after Lord Voldemort's Ascenscion to an actual Dark Lord. He was so proud then. So arrogant. He had yet to be punished by the gods for his hubris. He had yet to be deserted by the Dark Mother...
Marvolo sighed. Divine punishment was so damn boring. And he couldn't even read. Even his pookie counterpart could read! It was unfair. Being all alone inside a child's head was almost lonely. Wasn't this what loneliness felt like to those who experienced it? Or was it just boredom from not having any people around to play with and boss around? Dark Lords were rulers, not loners. That must be it. Marvolo was experiencing withdrawal symptoms without followers around to terrify, train and torture. Without enemies to destroy. Without the masses to twist into paranoid wrecks.
He wasn't lonely. He was just bored.
Marvolo decided to try again to contact Harry as soon as he had the strength for it.