Chapter Text
“Harry Potter…” hissed Voldemort, and Harry trembled, horrified as his name emerged hatefully from that grotesque, inhuman maw.
“See what I have become?” the pale, reptilian face whispered, its slitted eyes burning. “Mere shadow and vapour… I have form only when I share another’s body… but once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own… Now… why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?”
Harry’s legs shook, and though he wanted more than anything to run away, he hesitated to step backwards, terrified that they’d give out beneath him entirely. As though the crimson gaze could read the thoughts of escape directly from Harry’s mind, the lipless mouth chuckled, the sound high and eerie. Then the monster spoke again.
“Don’t be a fool,” it derided, yet there was something almost amused in the tone despite the snarling face. “Better save your own life and join me… else you’ll meet the same end as your parents… They died begging me for mercy…”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted, suddenly furious. His parents were heroes, everyone said so. But the flash of anger froze in his veins as another round of hissing laughter echoed against stone walls.
“How touching…” mocked Voldemort, his high voice soft, yet compelling, demanding Harry listen. “I have not lied… Your mother needn’t have died… had she only joined me… but she refused… begged me for mercy… for you, her child… she was trying to protect you… Now give me the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprinted for the door, but the black fire from the previous trial still blocked it, and the icy effects of the potion he needed to travel through were long gone. He hesitated, and then, hearing Voldemort command Quirrell to seize him, decided to risk the flames. But he was too late. A tight hold circled his wrist, and there was an excruciating jab of needle-sharp pain in his head, right over his scar. He bit his tongue against the reflexive whimper and yanked his arm, surprised when the bruising hold loosened as Quirrell shrieked.
“Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!” sobbed the wizard, and to Harry’s shock, the skin was blistering before his eyes.
There was a pause of uncertainty while Harry and Quirrell stared at one another, both afraid, and then Voldemort, calm and collected, ordered Harry’s execution.
“Then kill him, you fool, and be done.”
Before Quirrell could cast a spell or make use of his larger frame, Harry jumped and caught him by the arm with one hand, shoving the other into the wizard’s face. The pain was blinding, like a red-hot poker had been stabbed straight through his brain, but it was worse for his would-be murderer. Quirrell screamed, his skin bubbling from pink to red to black as it reacted to Harry’s touch. Voldemort was yelling, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” and Quirrell was shrieking, and there were other voices in Harry’s head, crying his name.
The screams seemed to be getting louder and louder, overwhelming, or maybe merging with Voldemort’s high-pitched shouts. The pain in Harry’s head peaked — the world blurred, turning white — the voices cried — he felt a flash of searing heat flood the rest of his body, and then Quirrell’s arm was wrenched from his grip. Harry hit the floor, head cracking against the rough stone blocks, and then, thankfully, everything faded to black, taking the screaming and agony with it.
Harry floated gradually up to awareness. His thoughts were fuzzy, and his head was about to explode. It felt like someone had ripped open his scar, stuffed in too much cotton, and then stitched the two straining sides shut again. He cracked his eyes open, only enough to see overly bright lights and a glint of gold, before he slammed them shut again with a moan.
“Good afternoon, Harry,” greeted a familiar voice. Harry kept his eyes scrunched shut for a moment more before slowly opening them with a sigh. Albus Dumbledore was leaning, almost looming over him, smiling gleefully. “It’s good to see you awake, you gave us quite a scare,” he said in a cheerful voice, tone contradicting his words. Harry felt a spike of rage, quickly overcome by confusion as he stared at the headmaster, who towered over him.
“What happened, sir?” he whispered. “Where am I?”
“You’re in Hogwarts’ hospital wing. Madame Pomfrey has been overseeing your care since I discovered you tussling with Professor Quirrell in the secret dungeon under the third-floor corridor. I arrived just in time to pull the wizard off you and prevent him from stealing the Stone, though I must say you were doing quite well on your own!” The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eyes brightened, and Harry’s rage spiked again as his head throbbed.
“What happened between you and Quirrell is a complete secret, so, naturally, the whole school knows,” declared Dumbledore before he finally leaned back, sitting in a chair just to the right of Harry’s bed.
Harry took this as his cue to sit up. As he pushed up on his elbow, he saw Dumbledore point a wand at him and couldn’t help but recoil, eyes closing involuntarily. Charmed fabric pushed against his back, providing a cushion to lean against as he sat fully upright. Checking behind him, Harry saw that the spell had only enlarged the pillow. Before he could thank the man, or possibly apologise, Dumbledore gestured to the pile of sweets covering the nearby table.
“Tokens from your friends and admirers,” the old wizard offered in explanation. “I believe your friends, Mr Fred and George Weasley, were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madame Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.”
“How long have I been in here?” Harry timidly asked as he stared at the massive quantities of packaged candy.
“Three days,” was the immediate answer, and Harry was relieved it hadn’t been longer. Three days wasn’t that much time to lose, but summer was almost here. He’d have to go back to the Dursleys soon, so he didn’t want to waste any of his time left in the magical world. “Mr Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have come round. They have been extremely worried.”
Harry thought he ought to care about that, but his head just kept throbbing, and it was hard to focus on anything. He glanced at the headmaster and felt yet another spike of rage. Determined to avoid whatever was causing this bewildering anger, Harry gazed down into his lap to avoid seeing Dumbledore’s face. Between the ache in his head and the surges of odd emotion, he really wished the old wizard would leave him alone for a bit so he could get his head on straight; however, the man did not seem inclined to listen to Harry’s silent plea for peace.
“What’s going to happen now?” he asked when the silence grew too awkward, keeping his voice low to avoid aggravating his headache further. “I mean with Vol… er… You-Know-Who? Is he go–”
“Call him Voldemort,” said Dumbledore, cutting Harry off mid-sentence. Since he’d been staring at the sweets, Harry was pretty sure the swell of irritation was all his, rather than whatever strange magic was making him angry when he looked at the man directly. “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry replied, trying to keep any annoyance out of his tone and ensure Dumbledore remained oblivious. “Er, what I’m asking is Voldemort’s going to try other ways of coming back, isn’t he? I mean, he hasn’t gone, has he?”
“No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share… not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies,” the old wizard sighed heavily, and waited until Harry looked at him to continue, peering sagely over his glasses. “Nevertheless, Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”
Forced to make eye contact during the speech, Harry had expected a wave of anger. Instead, he was smug. He felt exactly like he had the day he’d managed to sneak a whole package of biscuits into his cupboard without any of the Dursleys catching on. They’d gone stale within a week, but boy, oh boy, those sweets tasted amazing. Each bite was sweetened by his success in pulling one over on his relatives.
Harry nodded slowly when he realised Dumbledore was waiting for a response. He winced, the motion causing a twinge of pain to thrum from his forehead through his skull and down to his neck. Wondering if this strange reverse interrogation would continue for much longer, Harry cast about for another topic.
“Sir, there are some things I’d like to know, if you can tell me… things I want to know the truth about…” he trailed off without asking anything directly, wary of the number of questions he’d already risked in this discussion. (Freaks weren’t supposed to ask questions.)
“The truth,” the headmaster sighed and then paused melodramatically. It was hard to believe the feigned sadness sketched across the old face when bright blue eyes still gleamed happily. “It is a beautiful and terrible thing and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer any questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.”
The assurance of honesty was nice, though it wasn’t something Harry felt confident trusting fully. Everyone lied. Still, the approval in Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to imply that this was the direction he’d been waiting for the conversation to go, so that was good. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the pulsing ache in his head, he started asking questions.
“Well… Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me,” he began hesitantly, letting his eyes wander around the room to avoid the bright blue stare. “But why would he want to kill me in the first place?”
“Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day…” Dumbledore said the words ominously, but Harry refused to look at him. Anger and disbelief simmered within his chest, bubbling wildly like a pot of water left overlong on the stove, and he knew it’d only worsen if he saw twinkling eyes. “Put it from your mind for now, Harry.”
The headmaster stayed seated, waiting expectantly for more questions from Harry. What was the point of doing this now when his head was a throbbing mess if the man wasn’t even going to answer? Perhaps something that wasn’t about Voldemort would get a response.
“Why couldn’t Quirrell touch me? Was it some spell you put on me or the room?”
“Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin,” the old wizard said gravely. The choice of words made Harry shudder, a face blackened with burns flashing before his eyes. “Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.”
Throughout the man’s explanation, Harry’s head had started to pound harder and harder. By the end, it hurt so badly that his eyes had begun to water. Dumbledore finally looked away, turning his face towards the windowsill, which, thankfully, alleviated some of Harry’s pain.
Drying his eyes on the sheets, Harry narrowly avoided scoffing. Love Conquers All was a tale for young children. However, Dumbledore obviously wanted to pretend he was a naïve child. It wasn’t worth the hassle to disabuse the man of the notion, despite Harry being dissatisfied with the response he’d received. At least this time, there was an attempt to answer. He waited a moment to see if the headmaster would leave — he only continued to sit patiently next to Harry’s hospital bed while his gold spectacles glinted in the sunlight — and then asked another question.
“How did I get the Stone out of the mirror?” This wasn’t a huge mystery. Harry knew it had something to do with him not wanting the Stone, or else it wouldn’t be much of a safeguard against thieves, but he was running out of ideas for questions.
“Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something,” joked Dumbledore as if Harry’s every encounter with the mirror hadn’t been traumatising, as if the brilliant idea hadn’t nearly led to Harry’s death. He wanted to roll his eyes, but again, resisted the urge. “You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone — find it, but not use it — would be able to get it. Otherwise, they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes… Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets.”
Finally.
The headmaster departed, leaving Harry’s pillow expanded and taking up a third of the mattress. He shoved it to the floor to make more space and rolled onto his side. Pillowing his head on his right arm, covering his face with the other as his legs curled up to his chest, Harry squeezed his eyes shut. Counting each throb of his head as if they were sheep, he drifted off. It wasn’t until later that he realised his glasses had been off for the entire conversation with Dumbledore, yet he’d been able to see everything in detail… How strange.
Voldemort was confused. And very, very angry. He had been moments away from getting the Philosopher’s Stone. There had only been one smaller-than-average eleven-year-old who barely knew how to cast a lumos in his way, and yet…
Here he was, trapped in said child’s mind. No Stone. No Elixir. No body. Harry Potter must have been dipped in Felix Felicis when he was born. There was no way a normal child could have achieved this without an astronomical amount of luck, particularly one lacking in talent or brains like Harry Potter.
The worst of it was that Voldemort didn’t understand what had happened! His loyal servant had reached for the boy, his hand wrapping around Potter’s thin wrist… then Quirrell was crying, screaming from pain as the wizard’s skin aggressively blistered just from the boy’s touch. He’d never heard of a protection spell that reacted like that to perceived danger.
The strangest part was that while Quirrell was in agony, Voldemort had felt only bliss. His frustrated thoughts disappeared, and his mind floated on a cloud of vague happiness. It was as if the boy had cast a powerful imperio at him, though he knew that was impossible. He’d managed to ignore the feeling for a while and had shouted at his host to kill Potter, certain that the boy’s death would counter the spell. But the pleasurable high had grown and grown until eventually his grip on Quirrell’s spirit had faltered.
His memories afterwards were distorted and out of order — no one had dared lock him away since he was a child! And why was he setting a python on this fat child…? — while his mindscape, which was typically naturally organised, was in shambles. That he’d also awoken to Dumbledore’s face had not been pleasant, although, surprisingly, the Potter child had felt similarly annoyed.
He’d listened in to the old goat’s conversation with his beloved Prophecy Child, but the fairy-tale tripe Dumbledore had pushed was useless. He couldn’t believe that the man’s explanation for the curse on Quirrell was that the child’s mommy dearest had loved him so much she’d charged Potter’s skin up like a lightning rod to discharge at anyone who touched him inappropriately. Argh, this whole situation was endlessly aggravating.
Thankfully, at least one valuable piece of knowledge had come from the discussion with Dumbledore. He was delighted to discover that the old fool had no clue Voldemort was possessing the Boy-Who-Lived, nor was the child aware he was playing host for the Dark Lord who had bestowed the title on him.
It was also entertaining to see how wary the young wizard was of the headmaster, even without his own external influence. They were apparently not as close as everyone assumed. Hopefully, that meant Voldemort wouldn’t have to deal with too many more interactions with the old goat before he determined how to rip himself out of Potter. Which that endeavour was, unfortunately, less straightforward than he’d thought.
Why was the boy so perfect as a host?
With Quirrell, it had taken massive amounts of magic and energy to hold his soul inside the body. This uneducated Gryffindor child had done it accidentally… and Voldemort had been unable to resist the pull to inhabit the boy. It was as though Potter’s magic had sunk hooks into his soul, yanking him inside, though without the usual pain such transitions inspired, everything blanketed by that artificial happiness.
Still, instead of obsessing over all the mysteries surrounding his latest encounter with the Prophecy Child, Voldemort should focus on fixing his own mind. The best use of his time stuck within Potter would be to sort through all these peculiar memories he’d somehow obtained and collect information. Then, afterwards, he could observe the boy to find the answers to his many questions. And once he was no longer disembodied, Voldemort would use his newfound knowledge to exploit Potter’s weaknesses and kill the child quickly.
He was in the midst of organising the acquired memories when he noticed something quite odd. The stolen moments of Potter’s life weren’t exact duplicates of the ones retained in the boy’s mind. They were almost the same, and all the actions matched up, but on occasion, the emotions attached differed slightly. Voldemort’s version had more rage, while Potter’s version had more anxiety.
A strong surge of bashful joy buffeted his occlumency barriers, distracting Voldemort from his focused scrutiny on the puzzle. He aligned himself with his host, tuning in so he could see and hear alongside the boy. Harry Potter was at the end-of-year feast, and experiencing a peculiar mixture of dread, guilt, and delight. Potter’s current thoughts weren’t telling Voldemort what had happened, so he reeled in the boy’s recent memories to get some context.
Gryffindor had won the House Cup? Was that all? Oh, here was something. Dumbledore had granted Potter and his friends an exorbitant number of points for breaking multiple rules, putting themselves in mortal danger, and allowing him, the Dark Lord, access to the Stone and an opportunity to murder the Boy-Who-Lived. Potter felt guilty for “stealing” the House Cup from Slytherin at the last second, but was mostly basking in the positive attention for being the “hero”. The dread was related to his upcoming summer, apparently? It wasn’t very clear.
Voldemort wanted to scoff at the old goat’s overt manipulation. The mountain of points was both a reward for “fighting evil” and a way to endear himself to the child. It elevated Potter and his friends onto a pedestal and reinforced the divide between Gryffindors and Slytherins at the same time. With a few sentences, Dumbledore had inspired gratitude towards himself, isolated the boy from both admirers and adversaries, and reinforced Potter’s desire to be a hero.
It was quite a crude manipulation technique, but it’s not like an eleven-year-old Gryffindor would recognise it as such. There was no need for the man to be subtle.
Well, nothing Voldemort could do about it now… not that he was planning on doing anything about it. He was going to kill the boy. What did it matter if Dumbledore brainwashed Potter into taking up the mantle of the Light Saviour?
Then again… he would have all summer to influence the child. Perhaps, if there was time, Voldemort could also have some fun manipulating the brat. It wouldn’t do to let Dumbledore be the only influence in the child’s life.
Pulling back behind his shields again, Voldemort continued to work on his mindscape, viewing and chronologically organising the duplicate memories from his young host as he went. The more of Potter’s history that he saw, the more he understood why the boy dreaded returning to his relatives this summer.
In an odd parallel to himself, Potter had been briefly shown the amazing, magical world and was now to be forced back to the muggles, unfairly sentenced to withstand their cruelty every summer. If Voldemort had considered the boy’s home life before, he likely would have expected Potter to be spoiled, living with servants in some pureblood manor somewhere in the country. Instead, to see a similar childhood to his own… well, he was feeling an unusual amount of empathy for the boy.
Voldemort was ruminating on his similarities to Potter when he came across the boy’s memory of visiting the zoo for his cousin’s birthday. Shocked, he watched the child speak to the snake. Accidental magic had made the glass enclosure disappear, but setting the boa constrictor on the fat muggle youth? Understanding the snake’s farewell? That could only mean one thing. Harry Potter was a parselmouth.
What. The. Fuck.
Seriously. What the fuck!? That just wasn’t possible! Why, oh why were there so many fucking mysteries and inconsistencies with the child! It was so fucking aggravating!
Letting his temper rage through him until it burned itself out, Voldemort eventually calmed enough to have his epiphany. He dug through the earliest of the memories that he’d taken from his host. It was the night he had murdered the Potters and attacked the Prophecy Child, but… the memory began before he entered Harry Potter’s nursery. There he was killing James Potter — the incompetent prat hadn’t even had his wand on him before fruitlessly attacking — and the baby was nowhere in sight.
This memory could not belong to Harry Potter.
This had to be his memory, and suddenly, everything else made perfect sense. Harry was an ideal host for his soul. They had a mental connection before he’d touched the child, as evidenced by the headaches the boy experienced in Quirrell’s class. Harry was a parselmouth. Harry was almost a Slytherin. Hell, the boy’s magical capacity was similar to his own at this age, even if Harry lacked his control, ambition, and talent.
The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord — it was even in the fucking prophecy! It should be impossible, and yet…
Harry Potter was a horcrux.
Harry Potter was a human horcrux! Fuck! Harry Potter was his human Horcrux. Shit. Voldemort couldn’t kill the boy. He needed a new plan.