Chapter Text
“So, yeah… that’s everything Voldemort said about it,” Harry concluded, offering a smile that felt more like a grimace. Hermione stared back as if Harry had just assigned her an essay that was due in twenty minutes on a topic she’d never heard of, and she was forbidden from visiting the library while she wrote. Ron was nearly as pallid as he had been that day in second year where he was coughing up slugs.
“You’re certain this is true?” Hermione asked. Harry gave a helpless shrug.
“I know he’s certain it will happen. And I know I’m gonna help him.”
“Harry—”
“I have to.”
“He isn’t threatening you with anything, is he?” Ron asked, mulish.
“No. It’s just—helping him is the right thing to do. Especially after all he’s done to help me out,” Harry said.
“I suppose. But wouldn’t his current actions be more akin to making up for his own past wrongs? He still killed your parents, and Cedric Diggory, and he’s hurt many other people too. By his own admission, he was trying to murder you for years. You don’t owe him your assistance,” Hermione said.
“Maybe it’s about that for him, but it isn’t for me. Whatever bad shit he’s done, he hasn’t done that to me yet. All I get is him trying to do good by me, in his weird fucked up way,” Harry explained. “I’m not gonna hold things he potentially might have done against him when he’s out here doing stuff that actually matters.”
Hermione gave a thoughtful nod.
“Fuck,” Ron muttered.
“Language,” Hermione said, slapping his arm. Ron rolled his eyes.
“Four people… really? Just four?” Ron asked.
“That’s what he said. He’s got scars too, bites and scratches all over, up his face and neck. He didn’t give many details, but my theory is he was mauled by his own servants turned zombies.”
Ron was a little green.
“A rapidly lethal blood-borne contaminant transmitted through bites and fluid contact is consistent with the types of gifts he’s been sending you, the mask especially,” Hermione mused, though she still looked sceptical.
“The wards over Hogwarts, there’s no way it would…” Ron trailed off, before letting out a groan. “The Shrieking Shack.”
“Yeah, that’s the trouble with secret passageways; they’re secret, so no one thinks to ward them,” Harry said. “Look, guys, it’s okay if it’s unbelievable to you. If I didn’t have this—” Harry tapped his scar, “—I probably wouldn’t believe either. But Enigma believes this is important, and because of that he’s opposed to other Voldemort, and really invested in ruining his more violent plans, along with keeping me and my loved ones safe. That matters.”
Ron and Hermione both nodded, and Harry smiled.
“Plus, I don’t think it’s a terrible idea really to try to build some kind of sanctuary, just in case,” Harry added. “Even if it turns out he’s gone round the bend and invented the whole thing, it would be a useful thing to have. It’s a much more philanthropic way for him to direct his energies, at least.”
“That’s true,” Hermione said. Ron just snorted.
“You guys are with me on this, right?” Harry dared ask.
Ron and Hermione both grew serious, exchanging another look.
“Harry…”
“Mate, if you run out on us again, I will incarcerous you and throw you into the Blast-Ended Skrewt pen while you’re covered in minced beef.”
Harry made a face, glancing at Hermione. She nodded.
“I’ll cast the Furnunculus curse,” she added. “And then I’ll tell Dobby you have Dragon pox, that you’re not in your right mind, and you’ll need to be kept in bed for your own safety, no matter what you tell him.”
Harry winced.
“I was just trying to keep you both safe,” Harry mumbled. “After what happened to Arthur—I mean, this isn’t your fight—”
“Like hell it isn’t!” Ron growled.
“Harry, you’re our friend!” Hermione cried. “Even if that wasn’t enough, You-Know-Who poses a threat to all of us. If there’s to be an apocalypse, that does too. We want to help. You need to let us, and trust that we mean what we say.”
“What she said,” Ron added. “Harry, whatever you choose, we’ll be beside you. All the way. That’s what friends do.”
Harry’s heart was in his throat, his eyes suddenly damp.
“Thanks, guys,” he croaked.
When the Winter Break ended and all the other students came back, Harry was so busy catching up with Dean and Seamus, and hearing about the New Year’s Quidditch Game that Katie Bell had gone to with her family (the Harpies vs the Falcons!) that he entirely forgot to look for Cho. She cornered him the next day, dragging him to some empty classroom during a free period.
“Harry, I missed you,” Cho said, smiling coyly. “Did you miss me?”
“Uh,” Harry said. Truthfully, Harry hadn’t really thought about her much at all , but he was pretty sure if he said that, she’d do something like cry, or maybe slap him and storm off. “Sure. For sure. I noticed you were gone.”
She giggled, stepping closer and placing her hands on his shoulders, suddenly far too close and far too pretty and Harry locked his legs so he wouldn’t run away. His cheeks felt red.
“It was just so boring, spending Christmas at home with my family. Mum always wants us to sing the same old carols together, and Dad makes us wear these awful ugly jumpers, and then at dinner Auntie spends so long going on and on about her plum trees, and makes us taste this year’s jams. I wish I could have spent it here, with you, instead.”
“Oh, well, actually I visited the Weasleys. Um. On Christmas,” Harry said instead of pointing out that her Christmas actually sounded rather nice. “So that probably wouldn’t have worked out.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Cho smiled again and kissed him.
At least she wasn’t crying this time.
Occlumency was awful.
The only instruction Snape bothered to give was for Harry to “clear his mind”, whatever the fuck that meant, and then Snape would stare into Harry’s eyes and hammer nails right through his pupils, before rifling around in Harry’s head with as much delicacy as Petunia trying to locate a supposedly stolen chocolate within Harry’s cupboard, except that instead of searching for ill-gotten sweets, what Snape was seeking were Harry’s most mortifying memories. Wanker.
Harry endured the assault for several minutes before he finally got a reprieve, and that was less because Snape had relented, and more that Harry had collapsed and broken eye contact.
“A dismal attempt, Potter.”
Harry fought to catch his breath, resisting the urge to lay his cheek against the cool stone floor. He flicked a glare up at Snape, who was clearly holding back a smirk.
“My time is not unlimited, Potter. If you are incapable of continuing, we’ll end the lesson here for tonight,” Snape said.
“Fuck you,” Harry spat, shoving himself back to his feet.
“Ten points from Gryffindor for foul language,” Snape said. Harry could barely hear him over the way the colours were singing. “Now. Clear your mind.”
During the fifth round, Snape found Harry’s memory of Voldemort saving him from dementors, and soon after, all the rest of Harry’s memories of Voldemort despite how hard Harry scrambled to protect them.
Once Harry regained awareness of his body (currently sprawled on the floor yet again) he found Snape watching him with a cool expression. Harry attempted to glare back. Snape was unmoved.
“Potter… you are aware that the reason you have been instructed to waste my already limited time with these pointless lessons in keeping a well-ordered mind is because the Dark Lord is a master of the Mind Arts, are you not?”
Harry scoffed, looking away.
“Let me guess; I can’t trust Voldemort?”
“The Dark Lord is incapable of genuine empathy and compassion, as well as being a rather persuasive orator who used his gift for rhetoric primarily to manipulate the lives around him for his own sadistic entertainment. Trust him? You are a fawn caught in the coils of a basilisk, believing that because he knows how to appeal to your arrogant, glory-seeking nature and validates your desire to prove yourself a hero that he doesn’t still view you as food.”
“Yeah, well, I killed the last basilisk I met,” Harry muttered.
Snape was silent as Harry slowly pushed himself upright again, leaning hard on a nearby table. His skull felt like it had been cracked in two, and someone had jabbed a spoon through the gap to scramble his brains, but other than that he was fine. When Harry looked up, Snape was already watching him with an unreadable expression.
“I’m ready,” Harry said.
Snape blinked.
“Our lesson is over for tonight. Go to your dorm, Potter.”
“What!?”
“Have you become deaf or are you simply slow-witted?”
“We barely did anything!”
“Return here at the same time next week,” Snape said, returning to his desk. “Leave. Now.”
Harry sneered at Snape’s back, then grabbed his bag and left.
Snape saw our meetings during my Occlumency class, including our last one. I’m sorry, Harry wrote. The words melted away. Just as Harry was about to close the diary and put it away, new script appeared.
I am already well aware of your abysmal mental defences, Harry. If I had intended it to be secret, I would have placed a block on your memories.
Rude.
Improve your Occlumency and I shall have no need to be.
Harry huffed, hiding a smile.
You’re an Occlumens, right? Any suggestions a little more helpful than “clear your mind”?
Oh, many. But I shall have to advise you on how to defend your mind some other time. There is an urgent errand I must attend to tonight, and I am due to leave in a moment.
Oh? Anything interesting?
I am certain you shall learn all about it in tomorrow’s paper, at the latest.
Voldemort did not write anything further, no matter how much Harry enquired. Eventually he sighed, put the diary aside, and went to bed.
Harry touched down on a dismal rocky island surrounded by black seas, his servants quick to follow. Ahead loomed Azkaban. Already shadows were peeling away from the salt-worn walls, creeping closer and sending a chill through his blood. Harry sneered, aiming his wand at the dementors. They were unintimidated.
“We had a deal,” he said, as the horrid whistling of falling bombs accompanied by a yowling siren sounded across his mind. The dementors hesitated only a moment, before drifting closer in a distinctly threatening manner. He bared his teeth at them, strategising which to burn first—as fierce as fiendfyre was, it was not an instant immolation, and any one of the seventeen dementors he counted would be able to take advantage of his focus to attack while he cast—
“My lord,” murmured one servant, hiding at his back, the coward—
Bombers were flying overhead—
The dementor’s corpse-like hands reaching for him—
The brilliant silver light of a patronus leapt past him, striking the dementor, and suddenly the whole horde was screeching, fleeing for the shadows. He sighed, savouring the sounds of crashing waves and muttering servants for one moment, before turning to castigate whichever of these imbeciles could cast a patronus but hadn’t seen fit to inform him—
Voldemort hissed. The impostor!
His double smirked, striding through the gaggle of Death Eaters as if they were no more than smoke. The patronus returned to his side, a large silvery snake with a strong resemblance to Nagini. The Death Eaters were glancing between them both in terrified confusion.
“Once again, you seek to sabotage me,” he snarled, shifting into a duelling stance. “This time, I shall eliminate you.”
“Peace, my other self,” the impostor said. “For tonight, at least, I would assist you in your mission.”
Voldemort sneered, but the impostor didn’t raise his wand. The patronus was now coiled across his shoulders, and watching the closest dementors like Nagini would a rat.
“I have no need of you,” Voldemort said, gesturing to his servants. The Death Eaters bowed frantically, before running to the main entrance of the fortress. Seconds later, the sounds of spellfire filled the air as they presumably fought the guards. Or perhaps cast futilely at an approaching dementor. Voldemort didn’t care to look.
“No need, it is true. You shall achieve your goal of freeing your loyalists tonight regardless of my intervention,” the impostor said. “But is it not a more efficacious approach to take advantage of my offer? And will it not inspire more terrified awe among the public to wake tomorrow and find that half of this prison is freed?”
“What advantage do you gain by my acceptance?”
“Your efforts here tonight align well with my own plans.”
Voldemort narrowed his eyes, Slowly he lowered his wand.
“Very well. Accompany me to Bellatrix’s cell,” he said, turning on one heel. The impostor fell into step at his side, directing the patronus to fly ahead of them, chasing away any bolder dementor. Unfortunately, it was a rather beautiful thing.
“Fiendfyre would have been perfectly sufficient,” he felt the need to add.
“Perhaps for one dementor, maybe even a pair, if you strike quickly and aggressively. But it is of little use if you are at the centre of a horde,” the impostor muttered.
“I am not so unskilled that I would ever allow myself to become surrounded by enemies,” Voldemort scoffed.
“Superior skill and power can only do so much when you are severely outnumbered, even if each individual enemy would be easily destroyed,” his other self mused, a strange and haunted expression across his features. “It is a lesson you would do well to learn, my younger self.”
“You are not me.”
“Unfortunately, I am.”
“Your spellcraft proves your falsehood,” Voldemort sneered.
“Are you referring to this?” his double said, smirking. The snake patronus looped around his wrist before attacking another nearby dementor. “There’s no need to be jealous, Tom. I am certain you will be able to cast it one day—”
Voldemort lunged for him, aiming claws at his throat. His double dodged back with a soft laugh. Voldemort glowered after him, and fantasied about wringing his pale neck.
“You are not my future self, impostor. Once I discover your true identity, you shall be forced to endure a torment worse than anything you could possibly imagine,” Voldemort muttered.
“As I am you, there is nothing you could imagine that I could not. I would go so far as to claim the reverse; there are a number of horrors that you are too blinkered to consider,” the impostor said.
Voldemort glared, then flicked out a curse that destroyed a large section of wall. The impostor sent his patronus down the hall to chase away the shadows. Slowly, four prisoners crept free of the damaged cells, only to fall back in terror and awe at the sight of Voldemort. As they should.
“Congratulations. Today you are liberated,” Voldemort drawled. “Make your way towards the entrance if you wish to leave this island.”
They walked past the prisoners, deeper into the prison.
“Whatever education you believe yourself to possess in the field of pain and suffering, impostor, my experience far exceeds your own,” Voldemort said.
“And far more of it than you would like was at the hands of others,” said the impostor.
“I was never so weak!” Voldemort hissed. The impostor grimaced as if Voldemort had done something distasteful. Voldemort bared his teeth.
“There do exist people who would hear the details of our early history and sympathise rather than weaponise it,” the impostor said.
“You know nothing of my past!”
“I know what happened in that cave by the sea.”
Voldemort scoffed, striding forward.
“You are too ambitious, impostor. Any other memory and I might have considered the possibility that you knew something, had acquired some stolen memory, but that event? The only two witnesses to it both went insane in the aftermath, and have long since died.”
“Ah, but there was a third person present who to this day and beyond it has kept his faculties intact. And just like him, I remember every detail.”
Voldemort shot him a venomous look.
“We are not the same person.”
“Then how did I learn that on that day, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop nearly succeeded in drowning us?”
Voldemort stopped breathing, ice running down his spine. The patronus of Nagini danced around them both.
“Conjecture. A wild stab in the dark,” Voldemort said.
“They laughed while they did it, pushing our head under the water. It was all a funny joke to them, making the weird devil child cough and splutter and gag for air. Until that last time. The seconds dragged on and on, and they didn’t let us up. It became clear they would not—not in time. Not before we would take that final gasp and breathe in water. That was when our magic flared, throwing them against the walls of the cave. We very nearly lacked the strength to drag ourself free of that pool. But in the aftermath… we made it so they could never act against us again.”
Voldemort was frozen, staring. His mirror image did not look triumphant or at all smug as he recited those events, nor did he look particularly vengeful or furious. All Voldemort could read from him was exhaustion.
“It was not the worst thing that has happened to us, nor the most painful,” his double continued. “We have had many close calls with death, before and since. But it was that memory that haunted our nightmares for years afterwards. And it was the first thought to cross our mind when we learnt of the existence of Horcruxes.”
Voldemort found he was fiddling with his wand. He stepped back, aiming at his other self’s heart.
“Whatever you returned here to steal, I would destroy you before I’d ever part from it,” Voldemort declared.
“I have no interest in your followers, your belongings, or your position,” his double said, bored. The Nagini patronus was draped across his shoulders. Voldemort couldn’t look away from it.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Riddle,” he sneered. “Whatever weakness you suffer from that ruined your victory, I am not similarly afflicted—”
“So you accept the premise that we are one person!”
“…I acknowledge it is a possibility.”
“In all honesty, whether or not you believe that is immaterial to me,” his other self said, dismissing it with a gesture.
“Then why attempt to prove it?”
“Because, if you would curb your more aggressive impulses and treat me with some measure of respect, we could be useful to each other,” his other self said. “I fear that my continued defence of Harry Potter from you may have led you to the wrong conclusion, so let me be clear; I hold no objection to your ambition. Only the wasteful method you chose to follow in pursuit of it. Wizarding blood is not so plentiful that spilling it is without consequence.”
“True,” Voldemort conceded. “However, I have no use for any wizard who refuses to show me the deference I am owed.”
“Not even yourself?” his other self said, easily deflecting the hex Voldemort aimed at his face. “It serves my purposes that you would become leader of this world, unopposed. As long as you do not kill any greater number than what is strictly necessary—those wizards that would prove an untenable obstacle—I will feel no need to interfere in your efforts.”
“An adequate proposal. Here is my alternative; you shall give me Harry Potter, and I shall allow you to keep your life.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Harry has to live,” his other self said, as if it was an instrumental truth of the world.
“Potter must die! His continued existence is offensive—an anomaly that must be corrected!”
“Your obsession with killing him will only ever lead you to self-sabotage, when you could instead devote your time to more productive and rewarding pursuits.”
“As long as he lives, Dumbledore will use him as a rallying point for my enemies!” Voldemort hissed. “Potter has to die! You will not interfere again!”
“I would gift Dumbledore a locket, a ring, a diadem, a goblet, and Nagini herself, before I ever allow you to leave so much as a scratch on Harry’s hand.”
Voldemort bristled, aiming a deadly curse at his double, who dodged it with frustrating ease.
“Saboteur!”
“Protecting my interests,” his double countered.
“I loathe you.”
“I am utterly indifferent to how you regard me. Now, if I recall correctly, Bellatrix was housed on this level.”
Voldemort resisted the urge to scream, stalking after him.
“If you truly are some future iteration of myself, then answer me this; what exactly would it take for the continued existence of that brat to ever hold any weight at all among my ambitions?”
His double paused, turning to him with a guarded expression. He checked for nearby eavesdroppers, then stepped closer, gesturing for Voldemort to approach. Voldemort raised an eyebrow but did, curiosity for a moment burning away any other consideration.
When his other spoke it was a quiet hiss in parseltongue, the secret language electrifying Voldemort’s skin.
“In seven years from the October just passed, you will witness the first days of the extinction of magic, and the world as we know it will end.”
Voldemort shivered, before he scoffed and stormed past.
“You have gone truly insane,” Voldemort spat.
“Again, I do not require that you believe me,” his future self said, falling into step by his side. “Simply refrain from your more violent and murderous impulses, and ignore Harry Potter’s continued existence, and we shall no longer come into conflict.”
“The explanation does not even begin to address the core of my query! Why should an apocalypse mean Potter deserves to live?”
“You mean you cannot figure even that much out without assistance?” his double smirked, dodging Voldemort’s next hex.
When they destroyed the walls of Bellatrix’s cell, she ran out a moment later, her mouth drawn in a snarl and grasping a piece of sharp rubble ready to use as a weapon. Upon sighting them both she froze, and then let out a joyous shriek, falling to her knees.
“My lord! You returned!”
“You recognise me, Bellatrix? Even now?” Voldemort said, stepping forward and reaching his hand to her. She took it, kissing his knuckles.
“Always, my lord, in whatever form you take. Your glorious nature shines through,” she crooned, her gaze drifting to his double. “My lord? I feel I might need some potion. I am seeing two of you.”
“Ignore him. He is irrelevant,” Voldemort said. Bellatrix grinned, nodding enthusiastically.
The return to the surface went faster. Bellatrix, despite her frailty, spent the entire walk expounding her faith in his return and that he would rescue true loyalists like herself. Voldemort let her words wash over her, choosing instead to observe his double. This supposedly future version of himself was watching Bellatrix with an expression both deeply indulgent and yearning, as if reunited with some dear friend long since estranged. The maudlin expression looked utterly bizarre on his features.
“Is she your patronus?” Voldemort muttered in parseltongue as they left the ruined prison, approaching the gathered Death Eaters and prisoners.
For the first time that night, his double appeared completely confounded.
“Her!? Bellatrix!?” His double laughed. Voldemort bristled. “No! Oh, no, or else you might have made some progress in casting it over the last decade during which you held corporeal form! No, not her…”
“What, then!?” Voldemort snapped.
“Now that would be telling.”
Voldemort snarled, and sent out a curse. His other evaded, leaping into the air to hover with some perfected version of the flight charm Voldemort had been sketching only last week. Voldemort felt nearly sick with his loathing, his magic surging, demanding he attack, tear this pathetic copy of himself into dogmeat—
“What use are you if not to speak on our future events and achievements!?”
“Oh Tom, I did not return to this time for your convenience.”
“Tell me the memory you used!”
His double laughed.
“You’re intelligent enough, how about you tell me? What thing do you think you might gain in the next seven years that you never had in the last sixty?”
Before he could reply, Harry woke with a gasp and a splitting headache. He groaned, and hid his face in his sheets.
Harry spent half the day in bed, unable to so much as stand without a wave of dizziness and the urge to puke. Ron and Hermione came to visit just after breakfast, confirming that there was an Azkaban breakout in the news that morning. Harry gave a weak grin, then woke up several hours later, sweaty and tucked beneath his sheets.
Around mid-afternoon, Harry suddenly remembered his chatting diary, and fumbling through his bag, pulled it free.
Hey, V? Fun as it is to watch you bait your Evil Twin into a fuming rage, is there any way you could avoid him in the future on days where I just practiced Occlumency? Between his anger and your satisfaction at messing with him, and Snape trying to break into my head all last night, I’ve got the worst migraine.
Harry threw the diary beside his pillow, groaning as he pulled the curtains back shut with a snap. Even now it wasn’t dark enough. His head throbbed.
Harry wasn’t sure how long it had been when he looked over again but there was something new written there. Harry squinted, his eyes refusing to focus on the cursive. As if anticipating Harry’s difficulty, new words were appearing below, written in print this time.
My apologies, Harry. Visit me tonight and I shall make it up to you.
Harry blinked, blushing.
Visit you?
Why not? I can meet you at the Shrieking Shack and apparate us both to somewhere more palatable. There is another item I wish to gift you, so meeting you would be convenient.
I’m supposed to have detention with Umbridge tonight.
So you aren’t busy, excellent.
Harry snorted.
Sure. See you tonight. Also, it’s fine if Ron and Hermione come along too, right?
Unlike Harry’s other messages, there was no immediate response. Harry grimaced, staring at the ceiling as he breathed through the throbbing in his skull. Eventually when he checked again, there was new writing.
Very well. However, we shall have to remain at the Shrieking Shack. None of my warding is attuned to their signature.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Can’t you allow guests through? Like you did for me on the night of the Third Task?
There was no response for several seconds, and then Voldemort drew an unhappy face on the page. Harry stifled a laugh.
They just want to meet you to make sure you won’t murder me. You don’t need to invite them into your home yet.
Is your continued existence not proof enough of my good intentions?
I don’t know, maybe you’ll suddenly flip to murder mode next time you see me.
You do have a great capacity for annoying others, it is true.
Oh thanks a lot.
You are very welcome.
Harry laughed, then groaned as his head pounded. He closed his eyes, hiding his face against his pillow until the worst of it passed. He rolled his quill between his fingers, gazing at Voldemort's neat script as he pondered how to ask this next thing.
During the summer, you used fiendfyre, Harry wrote eventually. Voldemort didn't reply immediately.
I did, yes.
Were you just feeling particularly destructive that day?
Yes. I wanted them to burn. Though, admittedly... I do not believe I would have been successful casting a patronus at that time.
I'm sorry, Harry wrote, feeling suddenly foolish for questioning it at all. Of course last summer Voldemort would have been unable to cast, not with the apocalypse and the death of his friend so raw and recent. I'm glad you're doing a little better now. Can I help at all?
You already do.
Harry's cheeks grew warm. He bit his lip.
Well. If there's anything more specific, feel free to ask me, Harry wrote.
Thank you, Harry. I shall.
Harry grinned, hugging the diary to his chest. Evening couldn't come quick enough.
Ron and Hermione took no convincing at all to come along; the moment Harry mentioned he was sneaking out, they insisted on coming along. After dinner (which Harry decided to skip after the mere scent of roast chicken nearly made him hurl) they all crept out, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak and made their way to the Whomping Willow. Everything was fine until they tumbled between the roots and into the tunnel.
“Harry?”
“I’m fine, ‘mione,” Harry said tightly, his eyes screwed shut as he gripped his head and tried to breathe through the latest spike. “I probably shouldn’t do any more acrobatics tonight, though,” he added, trying to smile.
Ron grimaced, moving so Harry could lean against him. Harry squeezed his hand in thanks.
“You sure you want to go meet him when you’re in this state?” Ron asked.
“It’ll be fine,” Harry said. “Come on.”
The moon had risen by the time they got to the Shrieking Shack. The soft, silvery light painted the rubble and drifting dust into an eerie, dreamlike atmosphere. Harry led the way past moth-eaten armchairs and rotted carpets, following the familiar tingling chill in his scar. Against the background of his migraine, the sensation was oddly pleasant.
Voldemort was standing by an upstairs window, gazing out past broken shutters towards the distant silhouette of the castle. The moonlight gave his scales an ethereal glow, ruby-eyes glinting as he turned to face them, his tongue flicking serpentine across his lips before he smiled and revealed two very sharp fangs. Harry swallowed, staring at Voldemort’s mouth, and wondered if the way his heart was suddenly thundering and his face was blushing red were also due to the migraine or if some other weird illness had suddenly swept over him in the last few seconds—
Wait, fuck, Voldemort was speaking—
“—lvestris.”
“Enigma,” Harry managed, suddenly breathless and several steps closer. “Hi.”
Voldemort was watching him with secrets in his smirk. Harry felt like he’d just caught glimpse of the Snitch.
“Harry?”
Harry jolted, glancing back to his friends with a sheepish grin.
“Right. Guys, this is the other Voldemort, the one from the future,” Harry said. “Voldemort, I’m sure you’ve already met my friends.”
Hermione straightened up like she’d caught sight of an exam invigilator who’d given her a low mark that she’d since found the grounds to contest. Ron set his jaw and squared his shoulders, gripping his wand so tight his knuckles were white. Voldemort turned to them, his expression falling blank, though Harry could still feel the flash of what someone who wasn’t Voldemort might have labelled as nervousness. Harry hid a grin.
“Weasley. Granger.”
“L-Lord V-Voldemort,” Hermione said. “N-nice to m-meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“V-Voldemort,” Ron managed to say around a strangled noise and a nod.
“I reckon you could call him Enigma if saying Voldemort gives you trouble,” Harry said, glancing between them. Voldemort narrowed his eyes at Harry, but nodded.
“No, I won’t avoid using his real name simply due to my own discomfort! That would be beyond rude!” Hermione snapped. Ron gaped at her, before steeling himself and nodding in agreement.
“What she said.”
“Do as you like. It is of little concern to me,” Voldemort said, before turning back to Harry. “Harry, you really do look awful.”
“Thanks,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. Immediately he winced as his migraine flared. Voldemort snorted, stepping forward to catch Harry’s hand. He extended his other to Ron and Hermione without looking away.
“You two as well, if you really must,” Voldemort said. “Harry?”
“Ready.”
Voldemort apparated them.
Harry hissed, the room spinning in dizzying colours while the floor heaved beneath his feet, but Voldemort caught him, holding him steady. Harry offered him a dazed grin.
When Harry felt he could stand, he glanced around. Hermione was on her hands and knees, clearly trying to hold back the urge to spew. Ron was leaning heavily against a wall, looking green.
“A little warning next time,” Ron muttered.
“Was the instruction to grasp my hand not enough?” Voldemort said innocently, before guiding Harry to sit at the table while Harry’s friends picked themselves up.
With a flick of his wand, Voldemort dimmed the lights, immediately relieving the pressure on Harry’s eyeballs. Next he conjured Harry a glass of some kind of juice and a plate of toast with slices of fried tomato. Harry blinked at them in bewilderment, then looked to Voldemort. Voldemort watched Harry back, raising his brows in challenge. Harry glared, and then sipped some of the drink. Immediately the ache behind his eyes retreated slightly.
“Is this some potion?” Harry asked, as Ron and Hermione joined him at the table.
“Coconut water,” Voldemort said. “In the next few years, I believe you’ll make the discovery that you’re rather prone to migraines, even without my assistance. Coconut water and tomato toast helped.”
Harry hid a smile. Voldemort kept moving around them in the semi-dark, searching up things in books and making notes, and utterly ignoring the way Ron and Hermione stared after him. Ron turned to Harry and mouthed “what the fuck?”. Harry shrugged, and ate his toast.
Voldemort’s space seemed much more organised this time, now Harry was looking. The books were all on neat shelves, and the papers were bundled. The only teacups were the ones set out on the table for guests. There was no mess, no dust, no clutter. Even Voldemort himself looked more put together, less tired. He moved around the room with a spring in his step.
“Feeling any better?” Voldemort asked lightly.
“Humility doesn’t suit you,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. Voldemort chuckled, returning to Harry’s side.
“Excellent. Now, not to ruin all that hard work, but this next thing may make your migraine return. Look into my eyes.”
“You want to Legilimise me?”
“Yes. I believe I can put a mental block in place that will save you from the worst of the side effects my other self might induce in you due to our mind bond.”
“That sounds great, actually.”
“Harry, is that wise?” Hermione piped up. She paled as Voldemort turned to her, but didn’t back down.
“You are correct, Granger,” Voldemort said. “It would be exceedingly foolish for Harry to trust me with his mind. I could use the opportunity to scramble Harry’s mind beyond all repair, or to install in his subconscious such nightmares that he’d never find sleep again.” He turned to Harry with an unapologetic smirk. “I won’t. But you cannot know that for sure.”
“Just say you’re daring me, like a normal person would,” Harry said, staring into his eyes.
“I’ve never once been accused of being normal and I won’t have you start that now,” Voldemort said, gently cradling Harry’s face. “You might feel a slight sting.”
Despite the warnings, Voldemort entering Harry’s mind felt nearly painless. And seconds later, it was over.
“Huh.”
“Any better?” Voldemort asked with a knowing smirk. Harry slapped his arm, ignoring Ron’s gasp. Voldemort grinned.
“So have you made any progress with this sanctuary idea?” Harry asked.
“Not as much as I would like,” Voldemort mused, wandering back to one bookshelf. This one appeared to be full of personal notebooks, the spines of each labelled in Voldemort’s delicate script. Voldemort removed one, flipping through it.
“Well, it has only been a few weeks,” Harry said.
Voldemort nodded.
“Harry has appraised you both of the impending catastrophe, yes?”
“Uh, yeah. Yes,” Ron said.
“He did,” Hermione confirmed.
“And you believe it will happen?”
“Well… it does sound a little outlandish,” Hermione said, averting her gaze.
“We’re sticking by Harry!” Ron said.
“Yes! Outlandish or otherwise!”
Voldemort looked vaguely approving, before passing the notebook over to Harry.
“I’ve designed a modification for anti-apparation wards that plugs up several holes I’ve taken advantage of in the past, directing any attempted apparation on-site to a designated holding room. It will be a good layer for the quarantine procedures around the Sanctuary.”
Harry looked at the note pages, scrawled in something that looked a little like maths but with more letters and bizarre geometric shapes in it.
“Looks… good?”
“I already have an idea for how to strengthen the anchor point, you needn’t worry about that,” Voldemort added, taking a seat by Harry’s side.
“Oh, uh. Cool.”
Reaching over, Voldemort flipped a few pages to a sketch of some kind of building.
“A preliminary design for the decontamination gates at the entrance, locking wards will be applied here, and here. Three doors on timers should be sufficient for isolating anyone infected who tries to enter, at which point fiendfyre should be enough to burn off the contaminated blood and flesh.”
“Right.”
“For the Sanctuary itself, I believe the best avenue would be to build it from scratch rather than take over some pre-existing site. It should be designed from the ground up to withstand the blood scourge.”
“That makes sense.”
“If the entire sanctuary is encircled by walls of this height, crafted from smooth stone joined in such a way as to provide no foothold, it should be effective at keeping out the infected. The Sanctuary itself shall consist of a central archival space along with living quarters to house several hundred people comfortably, and perhaps up to a few thousand if necessary. The goal would be for it to operate as a self-sustaining village of sorts, for at minimum a year. That should be enough time to endure the initial outbreak and begin reclaiming abandoned sites from beyond the walls. In ideal circumstances, there would be several of these sanctuaries scattered across Britain, but I believe we should focus on ensuring that the first is fully operational before stretching our resources further.”
Harry slowly closed his mouth.
“To be honest, this seems like a lot of progress to me,” Harry said.
“I admit, I did recycle some ideas,” Voldemort said.
Harry snorted.
“I’m not sure I can be much help with any of this,” Harry admitted, frowning at the equations and diagrams, before passing it to Hermione, who was doing an admirable job of acting like she wasn’t desperate to page through it. “I’m not sure I can even read half of it.”
“We weren’t partners for your knowledge of arithmancy and wardcrafting,” Voldemort said fondly, before his gaze flicked to Hermione. She was reading so intensely that Harry wasn’t sure she’d even heard Voldemort’s last words. Ron was reading alongside her when he suddenly slapped at the page.
“I know that one! Bill designed that array, except these parts—here, and here?—that’s his first draft, not the final version he used. I remember he was grumbling because that component would be more effective but the Ministry had banned use of it after some idiot witch blew herself up the previous month,” Ron said, looking up. “Was Bill one of—in the future, you—”
“Was Bill Weasley one of the survivors?” Voldemort asked. Ron swallowed, and nodded. “I do not believe that information will be of any use to you.”
“He’s my brother!”
“And I have neither the desire nor the inclination to spend an evening reassuring you over which of your relatives survived the opening salvo of an apocalypse!” Voldemort hissed, standing at his full height. “Within the year those numbers dwindled to nothing anyway! What does it matter if Bill Weasley lived a few weeks, for half a year, or died before you turned seventeen!?”
Ron looked ashen, shrinking into his chair like he’d just remembered who he was talking to. Hermione was trembling, aiming a fierce and fragile glare at Voldemort.
Harry reached out and caught Voldemort’s hand.
Voldemort gasped, his eyes falling shut. After a moment, he let out a slow breath, and sank back down to his seat. Harry smiled at him when he opened his eyes. Voldemort stared back, his mind a hollow ache.
“We should get back to Hogwarts, we’ve intruded on you long enough,” Harry said firmly. He pretended he couldn’t hear Ron sigh in relief. “Thanks for having us, and for the headache cures.”
“You are always welcome, Harry,” Voldemort said, rather pointedly. Harry resisted the urge to glance to Ron and Hermione. Voldemort smiled as if tracking Harry’s thoughts, then slid across a cloak pin shaped like a Golden Snitch, along with a note of portkey activation phrases. “For the ease of your travel.”
Harry grinned.