Chapter Text
Harry broke from the priori incantatum, sprinting for the cup while the spell ghosts swarmed Voldemort—
Green light struck the tree ahead of him—
Harry leapt aside, kicking off a gravestone to bolt for a gap between the Death Eaters—
“Potter!”
Shit, were the ghosts gone already!?
A hand caught Harry’s sleeve—Harry twisted, aiming a stunner right between their eyes—
The grave beside him exploded—
Harry kept running—
“Catch him, you imbeciles!”
Pivot, leap over a gravestone, run in the opposite direction of wherever that voice was—
A wall of fire roared to life ahead of him. Harry didn’t waste breath swearing, instead ducking behind a grave while he scanned the surroundings for any place to hide, any way back to the Cup—Merlin he missed his Invisibility Cloak, if he got out of this he was never stepping outside his bed without it—
That direction looked dark and quiet.
Harry whispered a disillusionment charm, and began darting from grave to grave, trying to keep them all between him and the Death Eaters, freezing whenever any got too close. He couldn’t see Voldemort from here. Was that good? Was Voldemort near the Cup?
“Wily little fucker’s probably escaped already.”
Harry froze.
“The boy can’t apparate, you idiot. Just patrol the boundaries of the graveyard and drive him back towards our Lord,” said the other Death Eater. He sounded like Lucius Malfoy.
Harry swallowed, waiting for the sounds of their departing footsteps before sneaking onward.
So leaving the graveyard wasn’t an option—not that Harry was exactly fond of the idea of leading a bunch of murderous muggle-haters into a muggle village. The Cup really was the only option, wasn’t it? If it worked at all. What if the magic was already spent? A portkey only meant to go one way? What if he grabbed it and Voldemort was there, laughing, before he cast the Avada—
It was the only option. It had to work.
Although, Harry didn’t need to get that close to it, did he?
None of the Death Eaters were that close right now. Voldemort wasn’t in sight—
“Accio Triwizard Cup,” Harry whispered, shivering as he felt the magic rush through him. Any second now—
Instinct threw him aside.
The gravestone beside him exploded, the scent of hot stone and magic in the air—
“Do you really think that would fool me, Harry?” Voldemort sneered, shadows falling away, staring right through the disillusionment at Harry—
The Cup was behind his shoulder, being devoured by snakes made of fire.
“Stupefy!” Harry cried, aiming wild, just hoping for an opening to run—
Magic splashed across his calf, his skin boiling—Harry screamed, barely registering the new agony as his ankle snapped, the ground jumping up to slam into his chest—Voldemort’s laughter from only a few steps behind—
Blinking back tears, Harry clawed at the grass, dragging himself further—
No Cup.
No apparation.
No way out.
No way to win.
Harry was going to die tonight. He was going to die, and Voldemort was bound to make every last moment torturous and then he’d go after Harry’s friends and no one even knew Voldemort was back and Cedric was dead and it was Harry’s fault, and he couldn’t even bring Cedric’s body back safe—
Harry was still breathing. Still had a chance.
Maybe he could goad Voldemort into murdering him quickly? Maybe if he really really tried, he could make the Killing Curse work and Voldemort would end up dead? He needed help. Why was it always Harry facing these things alone? Didn’t anyone at the tournament realise something was wrong? Dumbledore? McGonagall? Fuck, Harry would even take Snape!
“Look at you, crawling through the mud like a worm… this is the so-called Saviour of the Wizarding World? Pathetic.”
Just turn and face him. Turn back and smirk. Mock. Call him Tom Riddle. Something. Anything! Make him mad.
Harry’s body didn’t listen, rabbit heart running for cover—he swallowed a sob. If he could just get to the gate, maybe—why was it always Harry saving others and never anyone here to save him? Why was he always alone? Someone, anyone—
“You might have died like a wizard, an equal,” Voldemort said softly. “Goodbye, Harry—”
Harry’s hand landed on a leather boot. He tensed, staring up past the duelling robes to white scaled hands and red eyes—
Voldemort watched him, his brow furrowed in confused disbelief—
“What is this!?” came a hiss from behind Harry—Voldemort as well—but Harry was staring at him—
Voldemort’s gaze flicked to the man at Harry’s back like he was contemplating swatting a particularly loathesome fly.
“Imposter!” the original Voldemort snarled “How dare you seek to imitate—”
New Voldemort snapped out a curse, faster than Harry thought possible—original Voldemort had the countercurse ready, but apparently new Voldemort anticipated that too, casting three quick spells as he darted aside, and suddenly the air was full of smoke and noise.
Harry swallowed, backing away as best he could while keeping his eyes on the duel. It really was two Voldemorts! The original in dark robes and barefoot, the new one in duelling leathers, both casting faster than Harry could speak, seemingly determined to murder each other. The original seemed especially pissed off, snarling insults and threats. New Voldemort didn’t bother with words beyond spells. The contempt in his gaze was more than enough.
By sheer dumb luck, it seemed their duelling was leading them further away from Harry’s location. If only he could still run.
Harry glared at his ankle, currently flopped at an unnatural angle, trying to recall any spell he knew that might help. His mind was frustratingly blank.
Maybe if Harry caught one of the Death Eaters he could threaten them into apparating him back to Hogsmeade? Or maybe, if Harry could get to the street, he could call The Knight Bus—
Voldemort grabbed Harry’s arm, kneeling by his side—
Harry gasped, aiming his wand at his face—this was the new one, the Voldemort dressed in duelling robes—he glanced at Harry’s wand, apparently unintimidated, but he didn’t curse back, didn’t snarl mocking or superior words—he met Harry’s gaze, the smallest hint of a smile in one corner of his lips at Harry’s hesitation—
The world around them disappeared. Quite literally.
Everything went black, and the air was gone, and there was this awful pressure like Harry was being squeezed through some rubber tube, he felt himself shriek but couldn’t hear a thing—
The world returned.
Harry’s stomach lurched. He barely caught himself against the ground before his meagre dinner forced itself back out. Hard wood floors, Harry noted, not mud and grass.
Quiet too. No spells being cast, no jeering Death Eaters, no roar of the tournament audience or growling beasts. Just distant traffic, muffled music, talking from down the street, city noise.
Harry sat back, aiming his wand at Voldemort.
Voldemort was sitting on the floor across from Harry, his back against the far wall. He didn’t say a word, just watched Harry, frowning slightly.
“Where are we?” Harry snapped, when it became apparent Voldemort had no intentions of talking.
“North London. One of my properties,” Voldemort murmured. “He will not think to search here for several more hours, at least.”
Harry bit his lip, wishing he could wash out his mouth. He didn’t dare look away from Voldemort again, but it was clear at a glance this place was tiny. A bed in one corner, a sink in the other, a small table with a single chair. The air smelt of dust.
“What are you going to do to me?” Harry asked.
Voldemort tilted his head, still frowning. His gaze dropped to Harry’s arm, then his ankle.
“Do you have any other injuries?”
“Why? Want to add some more?”
That earned a mild glare, and then he flinched like Harry had stung him, averting his eyes. Voldemort sighed, slumping back against the wall as he turned to face the grimy window. He looked exhausted.
Harry risked a glance at the door—three locks including a deadbolt, all of them badly rusted—how long had this place been abandoned—
Voldemort still wasn’t watching him. Harry shifted, getting his good leg beneath him. If he could stun Voldemort, break the locks—
“There are wards too,” Voldemort muttered.
Harry tensed. Voldemort was still turned away, his eyes shut now, like he didn’t even see Harry as a threat—
“You are not keyed into these wards yet. If you try to break the lock they’ll shock you. You cannot pass through unless I allow it.”
“Is that it, then? I’m to be your prisoner?”
Voldemort snorted.
“Wouldn’t that be simple…”
Harry glared, glancing at the lock again, and then the window. There had to be some way out. Maybe Stupefy Voldemort—he was acting so weird, it might even work—and drag him to the door, use his blood to unlock it—was that how wards worked? Blood-based wards existed, right? The Hermione in Harry’s head was cheerfully reciting ward theory now; unfortunately her words were scrambled nonsense in Harry’s memory. Maybe it would work? Voldemort was the kind of man who’d use blood in his wards.
Voldemort was watching him again, that little smile tugging at his lips.
Harry sprang to his feet, aiming a stunner—
Voldemort was already gone, lunging aside as he cast—
Magical ropes twisted around Harry’s body, binding him fast—
Harry shrieked, trying to cast again, but Voldemort had grabbed him, wrenching Harry’s wand away, holding him upright as Harry’s bad ankle gave out—
Voldemort grinned, laughter dancing through his gaze.
“At least you can say now that you tried,” Voldemort said, brushing a lock of hair from Harry’s scar.
“Skip the torture and just kill me already!” Harry snapped.
“You’re not going to die today!” Voldemort snapped back, fiercely enough Harry forgot how to speak. There was something wild in his eyes, frantic, his grip on Harry’s arms suddenly tight enough to bruise.
Voldemort looked away first. Wordlessly, and with surprising strength, he carried Harry to sit on the bed, and then fetched a glass from the shelf above the sink. Harry took the opportunity to try and wriggle out of the magical ropes, but they just hugged him even more snugly.
When Voldemort pressed the glass of water to Harry’s lips, he sipped enough to wash out his mouth, then spat at his captor.
Voldemort blinked, before a laugh escaped him, and for a moment he was staring right through Harry.
“You were always fond of making things difficult, weren’t you?” Voldemort said with a strange wistfulness, cleaning himself off with an absentminded charm before kneeling at Harry’s feet. “You should wear better-made shoes. You can afford them.”
“My shoes are fine,” Harry muttered.
Voldemort tapped Harry’s bad ankle, murmuring some spell. Harry bit his lip as the agony flared, and then with a pop it shifted back into place, leaving just a dull ache. Another spell, and that too was gone, replaced by a delightful cooling numbness.
Next, Voldemort reached for Harry’s wrist. The ropes parted like snakes, allowing him access to pull back the sleeve—Harry hissed, the fabric sticking to the bloody wound. Voldemort paused, his thumb rubbing across Harry’s hand in a way that might have been meant as reassurance if it was coming from anyone else, and in this case probably indicated that Harry was in some kind of bizarre dream, or maybe that he’d gone mad. Voldemort murmured something, and magic sank beneath Harry’s skin, quickly stitching the flesh back together. More of that pleasant cooling numbness followed.
“Why are you doing all this?” Harry asked quietly.
Voldemort looked up, frowning again like he was surprised Harry would even ask, and then that desolate exhaustion returned. He bowed his head, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders shaking, gripping Harry’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
After a few moments, he let out a shuddering breath, then looked at Harry again, a bitter smile across his lips.
“It doesn’t matter,” Voldemort said, standing. “Do you have any other injuries?”
Slowly, Harry shook his head.
Voldemort pulled Harry to his feet, taking a firm hold of Harry’s arms.
“Try to relax this time. It will help,” he said.
And then the world around them disappeared once more, replaced with darkness, squeezing, no air, no warmth—
Harry’s knees buckled when they hit the ground, stomach lurching again, but this time Voldemort kept him upright.
They were in the hedge maze, the tournament—the crowd noise just around the corner—
Voldemort hissed something and the spell binding Harry dissolved. He spun to face Voldemort—
Who was holding Harry’s wand out, the handle extended to Harry.
“The graveyard was in Little Hangleton. If they act fast, an Order member or Auror can retrieve Diggory’s body for you.”
Harry reached for his wand.
Voldemort grabbed his hand, closing Harry’s fist around the wood as he stepped near.
“Don’t let Moody drag you anywhere alone. He’s a Death Eater,” Voldemort added, before releasing Harry and disappearing with a loud crack.
Harry gaped after him, and moments later Dumbledore and the other teachers were there, asking if Harry was alright and why he didn’t send up sparks.
“Voldemort is back,” Harry managed to say, staring at his hand. “The Cup—a portkey. He killed Cedric.”
Dumbledore stepped forward, holding Harry’s shoulders.
“Is that true, Harry? Are you certain?” he asked grimly. Harry nodded.
Dumbledore let out a deep sigh, and turning to the other teachers, began to give orders.
Harry kept staring at his hand.
Not one moment of skin contact with the new Voldemort had caused him any pain.
“I don’t think Dumbledore believes me,” Harry said, kicking at a pebble. It bounced over a branch, clacked a few times on some other rocks, then landed with a satisfying sploosh in the lake.
“You were under a lot of stress. It would be easy to misremember what actually happened,” Hermione said. “A second You-Know-Who showing up to help you does seem rather unlikely, you have to admit.”
“I guess…” Harry said with a grimace. “It still happened though.”
“I believe you, mate,” Ron said firmly, puffing out his chest.
“Thanks, mate,” Harry grinned at him. He was pretty sure Ron actually thought it was all hogwash, but he appreciated the support anyway.
Hermione frowned at them both.
“Well, fine. How would there even be a second You-Know-Who, anyway?”
“Time travel,” Harry and Ron said together.
“Yes, but why!? And how? Time turners only go back so many days. And what could possibly have happened in the next few weeks that would inspire You-Know-Who to travel back and save Harry? It doesn’t make any sense!” Hermione cried, crossing her arms.
“I dunno, maybe he’s crazy,” Ron said.
“Or maybe he has some new scheme and he needs Harry alive to complete it,” Hermione said.
“I got the impression he only needed me alive for the resurrection,” Harry chimed in.
“Well! Then why would he travel back and save you from himself!?”
“Because he’s crazy! He probably wants to torture Harry again or something.”
“You mean, to psychologically torment Harry? To play with our perceptions? Make us doubt our own conclusions?”
“…sure, yeah.”
“Harry, what do you think?”
Harry shrugged.
“Sure, he’d definitely try to mess with our heads, but I don’t think saving me from his other self and healing my wounds is how he’d do it,” Harry said. “He’d be more like, making someone choose between which of their friends gets Avada’d and which gets Crucioed.”
Hermione nodded, looking thoughtful.
“It is a little eccentric,” she said. “Of course, the other possibility is it was someone under Polyjuice Potion.”
Harry rolled his eyes.
“And get hair from where, Hermione?”
“It doesn’t need to be hair—”
“I watched the entire time, he went from weird fucked-up little baby thing to tall naked snake man eager to murder me. I can say with absolute certainty that no one was stealing any of his blood, scales, or non-existent hairs in that time.”
Hermione frowned, tapping her fingers against her arm.
Ron gave Harry an odd look.
“What?”
“You never mentioned he was naked before.”
“I mean… does it matter? He put on a robe right after and then he tried to kill me,” Harry said, his cheeks a little pink.
“I know!” Hermione said before Ron could respond. “What if someone in Polyjuice as You-Know-Who used a time turner to save you?”
“Of course!” Ron exclaimed.
“Why be Voldemort, then?” Harry asked.
“A distraction, maybe? You said You-Know-Who became agitated when he saw his other self.”
“It was like when a cat sees its own reflection and puffs up,” Harry agreed.
“Well there you go!”
Harry shrugged, frowning out across the lake.
It had definitely been another Voldemort, not anyone in Polyjuice—watching them duel for even a few moments was proof enough of that—but Harry wasn’t convinced it was time travel either. At least not time travel from the next few weeks. Hermione was right—what would be the point? Voldemort had already gotten what he wanted from keeping Harry alive.
The Voldemort that had helped him had felt different. Tense, but in a fragile sort of way. There was no glee or sadistic delight in his actions, no grandstanding in his speech. He was just… flat. Empty. Harry didn’t think that kind of change could happen in a few weeks.
But what other options were there? Alternative universes? Android robot clones? Another Tom Riddle diary that had somehow regained a full body?
“We’ll just have to be on alert these next few weeks for anything bizarre or dangerous,” Hermione said decisively.
Harry agreed.
Nothing particularly bizarre or dangerous happened during the last few weeks of term.
Moody had run off the night of the tournament when Harry refused to spend a moment alone with him. Examining his lodgings, the real Moody was discovered imprisoned in Fake Moody’s trunk. No one knew the Fake’s true identity.
The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students left Hogwarts. Krum promised to write to Hermione. Fleur gave Harry a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and an invitation to visit her family over the summer. Ron tried his best not to look too sour.
Cedric Diggory was missing. The Aurors had scoured the graveyard in Little Hangleton for days—even a cursory examination confirmed that there had been an intense magical battle on the site, which matched Harry’s story well enough, but there was no sign of Cedric, alive or dead. No evidence that any Death Eaters had been present either.
In the following days, the Daily Prophet ran article after article, speculating on just what had happened during the final trial of the Triwizard Tournament. Somehow they all managed to hint that Harry had abducted Cedric and tried to murder him for the prize, but Cedric had survived the attempt and was now in hiding. Harry stopped reading them after that.
One June morning, Harry received a parcel. There was no letter attached, no hint that it might be from Sirius or Remus. Hermione cast every curse-detection charm she knew, and even convinced Harry to have McGonagall check over it when none of those charms showed up anything. But there was no curse or hex. No enchantment. Not even some deadly potion or substance.
Inside the parcel was a pair of beautiful dragonhide boots, the same colour as a Hungarian Horntail. Curse-resistant, bite-resistant, with good grip on the soles, and laced tall enough Harry would have a very hard time trying to break his ankle in them.
Hermione decided that they were probably a gift from a fan who had watched the First Task but was too shy to share their name.
Harry had other suspicions.
They were very comfortable to wear.
Only a few days into summer, the heatwave began. Harry tried his best to stay out of the house, away from the Dursleys. With Dudley forced to go on a diet, Petunia constantly nitpicking, and the heat, they were all terribly unpleasant to be around and likely to start a fight.
He still got copies of the Prophet, skimming the pages for any mention of a raid or disaster, but all it ever talked about was Dumbledore going senile and Pureblood gossip. Listening to the muggle news was a little more helpful. At least, there were reports about gas explosions and car bombs sometimes, and some of those were probably Death Eater raids. It was hard to tell though. The news never included the right details to be sure if it was magic.
Harry spent the days lurking in one corner of the football green, the grass yellowed and the mud dried brick-hard. The air was still and sticky, so no one ever came over to bother Harry. No one wanted to be outside if they didn’t have to be.
Maybe that made him too complacent.
Harry didn’t notice Dudley’s gang until they were already nearly on him, and then everything moved fast. Their jeering, mocking laughter like dark hoods and skull masks. Dudley going green at the sight of Harry’s wand, steeling himself to try something anyway so his friends didn’t turn on him. The sudden, unnatural, awful chill, dark miasma all around—
Some latent instinct told Dudley’s friends to bolt. The dementors ignored them, swooping closer—
“Wwwha’t’yre doin’ t’me?” Dudley mumbled, slumping on the floor.
“I’m not—they’re dementors! Monsters!” Harry snapped, tugging at dudley’s shoulder as they closed in. “Get up! You have to run!”
“I’dn’tsee ‘nythin’,” Dudley said. “Stop—please, I—”
Harry swore, aiming his wand at the closest dementor and trying his best to summon some kind of happy memory—Cedric collapsing in a flash of green light—a woman screaming—
The dementor had no face, no mouth, but Harry was certain it was smirking, skeletal hands extended to offer some perverse caress—
A basilisk of fire struck the dementor, fangs sinking deep.
It screeched, a heartstopping noise like nails across a chalkboard.
Harry swallowed, quickly scanning their surroundings—there! White scales, dark duelling robes—
Harry lurched, caught between the urge to bolt and Dudley’s dead weight as Voldemort melted out of the shadows, clearly directing the flames. The basilisk struck again, enveloping the dementor in its coils, the heat was searing Harry’s skin—
Voldemort watched with a sneer as the dementor finally fell silent, utterly consumed by flame. He barely spared Harry a glance, wand aimed at the remaining dementor, watching it like a cobra that had cornered a rat.
The dementor fled. The flame basilisk lunged for it, catching it in the air, and with another horrifying screech, it burned too.
Voldemort turned to Harry.
Harry kept his wand raised, standing between him and Dudley.
For a long moment, they watched each other, and then Voldemort averted his gaze.
“You can cast the Patronus, can you not?”
Harry managed a shaky nod.
Voldemort scoffed, glaring at the ash that had been the dementors.
His duelling robes looked worn in the daylight, repaired in a dozen different places and covered in dark stains Harry didn’t want to think about. There was a scar on his wand hand, a curved arc that looked like a bite.
“Truly your foolishness knows no bounds,” Voldemort sneered, striding closer until he loomed over Harry. “You have had several opportunities to flee, and yet still you linger. If my other self had been present, you might already be dead.”
“I’m lucky it’s you then, aren’t I?” Harry said, his voice remarkably steady considering the way his heart was thundering.
“Don’t assume that my actions in defending you are borne out of benevolence!” he spat. “Certainly do not assume that if you see me, it is not my double. Your hesitation will kill you! Why didn’t you run!?”
“I wasn’t going to leave Dudley to get eaten or killed!” Harry snapped, stepping forward. Voldemort bristled, before his eyes dropped to Dudley like he was seeing him for the first time.
“Imperio.”
Harry tensed, but the wave of artificial calm never arrived. He glanced at Dudley, who was now wearing a dazed and peaceful smile.
“Release him!” Harry ordered, his wand pointed at Voldemort’s heart. Voldemort raised a brow.
“Stand. Follow and obey Harry until you step over the threshold of your residence,” Voldemort said, glaring at Harry. Dudley nodded, getting to his feet. “Go home, Harry.”
Still glowering, Harry swore, then grabbed Dudley’s arm, dragging him away from the park.
Voldemort remained behind, glaring after them until they were out of sight.
Later that night, the dark air warm and muggy, Harry rolled out of bed and crept to the window, peeking outside.
Voldemort was still there. Standing on the pavement across the road, he gazed at the Dursleys’ house, wearing an empty frown. He didn’t cast any spell. No Death Eaters appeared at his side.
Harry pulled the curtain shut and returned to bed, and for the first night that summer he slept without nightmares.
Over the next few days, Harry could barely go a few hours without catching sight of Voldemort, watching over him from afar, scanning their surroundings for threats. Harry had to wonder whether it had been going on all summer.
Voldemort never approached. Harry pretended not to see him.
When the Dursleys were invited to an awards night after winning the Best Garden category, Harry stole the invitations and checked them over for compulsion charms as best he could while unable to cast a spell. Apparently they were fine, and whoever had offered an award for Petunia’s sorry-looking rosebushes was just an idiot. Harry glared at Voldemort the next time he caught sight of him though, just in case. Voldemort seemed baffled, and his face twisted as if in some happier time he might even have smiled.
Mrs Figg grabbed Harry’s arm, jolting him from his glaring. When he glanced back, Voldemort was already gone.
“The Order will be by tonight,” she hissed, squeezing his arm meaningfully.
Harry blinked.
“Uh. Thanks?”
She smiled, brought a finger to her lips, then went on her way. Harry stared after her, idly wondering if The Order was some secret code to give to a pizza delivery man for free garlic bread.
Harry thought maybe she meant something else when he was woken up in the middle of the night by some burglars breaking in.
Clutching his wand, he crept out onto the landing. There were at least four people, thumping around and making such a ruckus Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbours called for the police. The dark shadows made their way to the stairs. Harry darted across the hall and hid in the doorway, aiming at the first shadow’s back.
“Now, which room was he in?” came a gruff voice. Harry tensed, a stunner on his lips—
“The smallest bedroom,” called a familiar voice. Harry gasped.
The shadow spun to face him with a snarl—Harry barely ducked away before the stunner hit the doorframe—
“Alastor!”
“Harry!?”
“That’s why you shouldn’t go sneaking up on people,” Madeye Moody growled. “Are you going to come out of there willingly, boy, or will we have to grab you?”
Harry bit his lip, eyeing the window. The drop wasn’t that far…
“Harry! Are you in there?” Remus called. “We’re here to escort you to the safehouse.”
Harry took a deep breath, leaning back around the doorway, wand first.
It did look like Remus Lupin, along with presumably the real Madeye Moody, a grinning witch with bright pink hair, and a darkskinned wizard who gave Harry a nod.
“A letter would have been nice,” Harry managed.
“And risk the enemy learning of our movements?” Moody scoffed. “Where’s your trunk, boy? We need to get moving.”
“Uh, right,” Harry said, ducking past them and into his room. Remus followed, offering to help, but Harry waved him off. It wasn’t like he had many belongings to begin with.
A few minutes later—far too many for Moody’s liking—they were all ready to fly. Harry glanced around the dark street, searching for any hint of white scales, but the man who’d been haunting him was nowhere to be seen.
Apparently, Dumbledore ran a little group called the Order of the Phoenix, who had originally formed during the war to combat Voldemort’s forces, and had reformed now that Harry had seen Voldemort resurrected. They were all meeting in a wretched townhouse owned by Sirius Black.
It also turned out that Mrs Figg was actually a squib, and longterm Order member. Who’d’ve guessed?
The best thing about the safehouse though was that the Weasleys and Hermione were here.
“We’re sorry we couldn’t send an owl to explain,” Hermione said, hugging him. “It was a security risk.”
“It’s fine,” Harry said, pulling on a tight smile. Would this be a good moment to bring up how the weird new Voldemort had been stalking him for days now, perhaps weeks?
Harry decided to just enjoy their reunion, and held his tongue.
The next day, the Order held a meeting. Dumbledore invited Harry to join them, to recount his experiences in the graveyard. He didn’t look at Harry once the entire time.
The Order were silent for several moments after Harry finished, trading grim looks and bemused headshakes.
“Albus, I’ve humoured you, but this is too much,” said an older man. “I’ll concede the Death Eaters are growing more active once more, but two You-Know-Whos? This is nonsense.”
“Of course there aren’t two Dark Lords,” Moody growled. “The boy’s melon’s rattled.”
“How else would I get back to Hogwarts?” Harry retorted. “The Cup was destroyed.”
“Perhaps one of the Death Eaters took pity and apparated you,” offered a wizard Harry thought was called Dedalus.
“Through Hogwarts’ anti-apparation wards?” Moody scoffed. “No, it was an emergency portkey.”
“Are there any other, more credible, witnesses?” asked a strict looking witch. Harry rolled his eyes, slumping against the wall. Dumbledore ignored him, and gave a slow nod.
“Severus was able to confirm that Lord Voldemort has indeed returned,” he said, gesturing to Snape. Wearing a sour expression, Snape rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a Dark Mark, black and writhing. “In the weeks since Harry’s experience, Severus has been summoned and has been able to confirm that Harry did indeed witness the return of Voldemort.”
“And why should we trust a word he says? He’s a Death Eater!” Mundungus Fletcher asked.
“Indeed he is. Severus is also loyal to the Order, and our mission, and has been providing me with information from within Voldemort’s movement since the war—”
The door swung open, and Voldemort stepped inside.
Harry dropped to the ground as chaos erupted, everyone shrieking while spells splashed against the wall—
A few seconds later, and things fell quiet. Throwing up a protego, Harry peeked across the room. All the Order members were stunned or petrified or otherwise bound, except for Dumbledore, who had his wand aimed directly at Voldemort.
Voldemort was wearing a sneer, aiming back.
“Oh, calm yourself, you idiot!” Voldemort snapped at the whimpering Mundungus. “If I had intended to kill you today, you’d already be dead.”
“Why are you here today, then, Tom?” Dumbledore asked. Voldemort glowered, and then like a compass finding north his gaze swung to Harry, that strange sadness overtaking his expression a moment. Harry raised his chin. Voldemort’s lips twitched, and he turned back to Dumbledore.
“The Black Townhouse, Dumbledore? Were you unable to find lodgings in an acromantula nest?”
“It served its purpose,” Dumbledore said, serene.
“Like the muggle property you left Harry to languish in, guarded only by the dreary anonymity of muggle suburbia, fragile blood wards, and a single squib? Which of these safeguards exactly was supposed to prevent him from coming under attack by rogue dementors? By Death Eaters? It is almost like you want the boy dead!” Voldemort snapped, his lips pulled back in a manic grin, his eyes burning so hot Harry thought that that fire basilisk might erupt from his chest.
“Harry will be relocated, of course. As will our base,” Dumbledore said. Voldemort nodded, darting another glance at Harry. “I admit, I am surprised by the direction you’ve taken our conversation. Would you care to elaborate on how you were able to enter the building?”
Voldemort scoffed.
“The same way as everyone else. The Secret Keeper told me the address.”
Dumbledore’s brows arched, a considering look crossing his face. Everyone who could still move shifted uneasily.
“I told you there was a second Voldemort,” Harry said.
Voldemort nearly seemed to smile at that, though he didn’t take his eyes off Dumbledore.
Slowly he backed his way to the door, offered Dumbledore one last glare, darted out of the room, spellfire following the moment he turned away.
Harry leapt out the door into the hallway—Sirius lunged after him, dragging him back as two more Order members ran past—
Voldemort was already by the front door, stepping out—he met Harry’s eyes with something like grim triumph, nodding as if he’d completed his side of some strange agreement—
And then he was gone.
The entire Order and all the Weasleys bustled out of Grimmauld place within the hour, relocating to a large house somewhere in Norfolk. The mood was grim and stressed, and Molly immediately claimed the kitchen, cooking frantically. The other Order members all gathered in the Dining Room. This time Harry was not invited to join them. The only person who seemed to be in a remotely good mood was Sirius, who spent the rest of the evening loudly proclaiming how much better this place was than his mother’s house.
That night, as Harry was changing, he found a small stoppered bottle full of golden shimmering potion in his pocket, as well as a handwritten note.
If ever circumstances seem dire, or you fear that you might die, drink a few drops for luck.
The note was unsigned.
Harry kept the little bottle with his wand.