Chapter Text
Refuge
Voldemort felt the wards vibrating around his Manor, telling him someone was behind them, wanting to get in. He lowered the quill to his desk and glanced at the window, frowning. He wasn't waiting for anyone, and his followers knew better than to visit without an invitation, so it had to be someone else. The question was, who would be brave enough? Who would know where he was? Were they looking for him?
There were only two options: to wait until the visitor left or go to meet them, and Voldemort knew what he would choose. He stood up gracefully and apparated away to the borders of his grounds.
He had to blink a few times until his mind believed the sight in front of him was true.
"Harry Potter," he hissed, the voice coming out of his mouth naturally. "To what do I owe this honour?" His wand was already in his hand, pointing at the boy standing in front of him.
"I'm tired of fighting," Potter hissed back, and the shivers ran through Voldemort's back when he listened to his dear language from someone else's lips. It was almost a good enough reason not to kill the boy.
"You… are tired of fighting?" Voldemort repeated when he realised what the boy had said. He thought back and realised Potter had turned seventeen just a week ago. He had disappeared from Voldemort once again that night. How could he be tired of fighting? The war wasn't in front of them yet; it was still coming and would take a few weeks until it would start properly.
"Yes. I don't want to fight anymore. I surrender."
Voldemort could just stare at the boy, who was looking at him, with his lovely eyes glistening behind his glasses. Brushing his fingers against his wand, he contemplated his options. He could still kill the boy, but it wasn't as fun when he wouldn't fight him. Voldemort wanted to have a proper duel, to get some challenge Potter had proved to give him. He could just kidnap him, imprison him in the dungeons and use him as a toy, maybe train him like a pet.
But it didn't sound as exciting an idea as he would have thought.
"What do you want from me, then? Why are you here?" he asked. He surprised himself with wanting to hear Potter's reply genuinely, not just for the sake of small talk. Potter grimaced and took a step forward, his left leg shaking under his weight.
"Can I ask for a more comfortable place to talk? Not that it isn't nice to spend time outside for once, breathing some air, but I'm not even inside of your wards. My leg is still bleeding. I can feel the blood dripping down my calf, and I've lost quite a lot of blood," Potter said, daring to ask something. Voldemort squinted, studying Potter's appearance. He was wearing a ripped T-shirt and black jeans. He was pale, that was true enough, but the reason could have been anything.
A surprising rage filled his chest. Someone had hurt Potter. Made him bleed. Potter was his to hurt, to torture, to kill. No one else, and if he learned one of his Death Eaters had hurt him, they would regret their actions. He had told clearly that Potter was to bring to him unharmed.
"Where is your wand?" Voldemort asked after a while when he couldn't find any signs of it.
"I don't know. Someone took it and didn't give it back," Potter told him and shrugged, like it was a normal thing. Voldemort gripped his wand tighter, the thought alone making his chest ache, and he was prominent with the wandless magic. Potter, not so much. He contemplated for a moment longer before nodding and made an opening to the wards, just wide enough for Potter to step in.
Potter barely got inside the border before his leg gave up. Voldemort reached to him, catching him before his knees hit the ground and pulled the boy against his chest. It… gave him weird feelings. Something akin to… ownership. He decided it right then and there. He would make Potter his, no matter the costs. He would heal the boy and build trust between them, he would give the boy enough care and comfort for him to not want to leave Voldemort's side. He was an orphan like Voldemort, had been raised in a house where he was hated. Voldemort knew how to exploit it, what Potter would need.
Care. Comfort. Affection. Touch.
Voldemort lifted Potter into his arms without an effort, his body way too light for his age and height. The boy yelped and tried to kick him once, only once, before settling against his chest, pressing his head to his shoulder.
Potter stank, the smell of grime, blood and ground clinging to his person from head to toe, but it wasn't Voldemort's highest priority. Now that he was touching Potter, he could feel the stickiness of his leg where the blood had soaked through the fabric.
"What happened to you?" he hissed, more to himself than anything else.
"Dumbledore happened," Potter groaned, and Voldemort inhaled sharply.
"Dumbledore is dead," he reminded. He was sure that the boy had seen his body in the ground under the Astronomy Tower after that night. Potter chuckled, and it sounded more like he wheezed something wet out of his lungs. Voldemort glanced down and noticed a thin line of blood in the corner of Potter's mouth. He swallowed, the harsh understanding spreading into his body. Potter was dying. He would die without a healer.
Voldemort wanted to apparate upstairs, but he couldn't take the risk of hurting the boy more, so he had to settle for the parlour where he could call Narcissa in. He lowered the boy gently to the couch, Potter's eyes fluttering open before closing down again.
"Why haven't you killed me yet?" he asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Voldemort kneeled in front of the fireplace, not wanting to answer. He didn't know it even by himself, and Potter seemed to be mostly out of it, his life hanging on a thread or two. If someone else managed to kill him, Voldemort would hunt them down.
Voldemort couldn't rip his eyes away from the boy who was lying on the bed, his skin paler than he had ever seen it. Narcissa was walking around him, from one side of the bed to the other, her wand moving over him in patterns. He had moved Potter upstairs after Narcissa had requested it and, for some reason, settled him on his bed in the master bedroom. Narcissa hadn't said anything, even though she had glanced at Voldemort with a knowing glint in her eyes.
"He is a miracle. Anyone else would have died by now, but not him. He will survive," Narcissa said at last. Something relaxed in Voldemort's chest, like someone had held his heart on tightly and only now let it free.
"Good. What will he need in the meantime? How can I help him?" Voldemort asked, feeling vulnerable all of a sudden.
"I leave you potions for him for the next three days, but I will return then. He might be unconscious at least until tomorrow, but no need to worry if he doesn't wake up even then. He has a lot of blood to replace, and I've healed his lungs and other organs as well as magic can do that; the rest will have to do with time," Narcissa explained, tucking her wand back into her sleeve. Voldemort nodded, still staring at the boy. "He needs rest, but I believe he will wake up in horror. He didn't tell you much, but the events before he came here must have been traumatic. I know your… plans for him, my Lord. I just ask for you to let him rest and heal before doing anything else."
"I take care of him," Voldemort murmured and ripped his eyes finally away to look at Narcissa. "Leave the potions on top of the dresser with the instructions. I will take care of them." He turned back to Potter, listening to the rustle of fabric while Narcissa unpacked his bag. He fisted his hands, forcing himself to stay in place until Narcissa left. He didn't want to reveal that his plans had changed, that he felt something about the boy.
The door closed after her, but Voldemort didn't move. He ground his teeth together, the pain behind his temples becoming stronger. The connection between him and the boy was still something he didn't understand fully, but he was sure that he had Potter to thank for his headache. His visit close to the Death was surely something that would pulse through their connection, even through Voldemort's Occlumency.
He knew the moment Narcissa flooed out of his Manor, his wards snapping in place again, and he moved before he had time to think. He stopped by the bed, his knees touching the side of the mattress. His fingers twitched. He wanted to feel the boy against himself. He just… wanted. He had never felt the same, and it didn't help his confusion at all.
Giving up to an almost compulsion-like feeling, tugging, in his core, he sat carefully on the bed and brushed Potter's forehead with his index finger. It was damp from sweat and cold to the touch, even against Voldemort's naturally cool skin. He moved his finger on Potter's skin, brushing over his eyes and following the bridge of his nose to the tip before dropping to his lips. He followed the line of his chin, admired the way his cheekbones showed through the skin. He lifted the dark curls from Potter's forehead and looked at the famous scar. He remembered how it had hurt Potter when he had touched it in the graveyard, but something like curiosity made him brush it. Somehow, he knew it wouldn't hurt, not anymore.
The pleasure hit Voldemort. He had never felt anything like that, something akin to orgasm, and he wanted more. He craved more. He wanted to cradle the boy against his chest, to have their skins touching all the time. He wanted to rest his lips against Harry's forehead, to feel the steady pulse against them. He did just that, pressing his lips to it and breathing in. He opened his mouth and touched the scar with the tip of his tongue, tasting the skin around it. There was… something he didn't know how to name. Something familiar. It tugged something on the back of his mind.
"Master," Nagini hissed suddenly, leaving her place in the dark corner of the room and climbing to the bed. Her nose touched Voldemort's hand, and everything just clicked into place.
Harry Potter was his Horcrux.
His amazing and resilient human Horcrux, the first of his kind, something impossible. It explained so much. It was the reason for their connection, and it was the reason for Potter's pain when he touched the boy. Because of it, Potter was still alive because almost nothing could kill Horcrux. Gratitude flooded him. He was grateful Potter — no, Harry — had come to him, that he hadn't managed to kill the boy before.
He would make sure Harry stayed alive, no matter what. He was unique, his equal. A laugh bubbled out of him. He had truly made the Prophecy happen by making the boy his Horcrux. After thinking about it for a moment, his lips still pressed against the scar, he realised that it was probably also the power the Dark Lord knows not.
"Master, why is a human in your nest?" Nagini asked when Voldemort hadn't responded to her greeting earlier. Voldemort sighed and pulled back, not wanting to disturb Harry's peaceful rest.
"He is my Horcrux, the same as you. He is hurt. He will be healed and protected here," Voldemort told her, refusing to take his hand away from Harry. The more he thought about it, the more sure he was he would never let the boy out of his sight. Nagini tasted the air, her head hovering over Harry's thigh.
"He smells blood, but I can get a whiff of you underneath," she decided, lowering her head to Harry's leg.
"Do not hurt him," Voldemort commanded, an irrational fear making his hair — albeit non-existent — stand on end. Nagini hissed her agreement, moving on the bed until she was curled partly over Harry's hip. Voldemort huffed with amusement. It seemed that Nagini would take protecting Harry as her main duty if he read the situation and the emotions leaking from her right.
Voldemort lay down, pressing his ear against Harry's chest and listening to his heart beating steadily. He was sure he could sleep peacefully for a few hours without fear of Harry waking up.
It took two days before Harry opened his eyes. Voldemort had hovered close to him the whole time, even cancelling a meeting he had planned with his inner circle. Nagini hadn't let Harry out of her eyes since the moment she had seen him. Voldemort had conjured a rabbit for her to the bedroom when she had started to crumble about hunger.
When Harry's eyes fluttered open, showing the colour of Voldemort's favourite curse, he had been reading a report. The charms he had set to alarm him when Harry awoke, snapped his attention from the parchment on his hands, and he was by the bed faster than he could've said Nagini. Harry looked up for a moment, like staring at the distance before he started to trash.
"Nagini, move!" Voldemort commanded quickly. Harry was probably afraid of her weight on him and wanted it gone. When Nagini didn't move fast enough, Voldemort cast her away, not listening to her angry shouts. His mind was full of Harry Harry Harry Harry Harry, and his hands shook when he sat on the bed. His hands hovered awkwardly close to Harry's face before he got his nerves under control and settled them on his cheeks. "Harry, calm down," he ordered. He didn't want the boy to get hurt if he moved too harshly.
"W-what? Where am I?" Harry stuttered, his eyes still moving wildly around the room. Glasses! Voldemort wanted to hit himself. The boy saw barely anything; of course, he would be confused and scared. He reached out with one hand and summoned Harry's glasses he had settled on one of the shelves, and when they flew to him, pushed them carefully on Harry's face. It was such a shame they hid his eyes, his best feature.
"You are in my Manor but do not fear, I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured, trying to be as soft as possible while he knew Harry might not even remember coming there. True to his thoughts, Harry sat up and scrambled back so fast that Voldemort couldn't follow, and he mourned the loss of touch.
"H-how?" Harry asked, looking around. Voldemort was at a loss. He didn't know how to ease Harry's panic and suspicion. He had had two days to think through everything while Harry… he had been sleeping.
"What is the last thing you remember?" he asked slowly. He had been thinking a lot about what had happened before Harry had arrived, and not knowing it made him restless.
"I was — in this place, and the Minister came to visit," Harry recounted slowly, eyeing Voldemort. He pulled his hands to his lap and played with the hems of his sleeves. "What?" he asked, looking down and frowning at his clothes. Voldemort wanted to sigh in frustration, but he wanted Harry to start trusting him. He couldn't show it.
"You've been unconscious for two days, and I didn't want you to spend that time in bloody clothes. It is a pyjama," he explained, summoning patience from somewhere. "Do you remember anything about the Minister's visit or afterwards?" Harry frowned, and Voldemort could do nothing else but wait.
"He came about Dumbledore's will as he had left something for me and my friends. There was also a letter, for —," Harry cut out, lifting his eyes finally back to Voldemort. His eyes were full of distrust, and Voldemort understood it. He truly did. He just didn't know how to make it easier.
"Whatever you will say in this discussion, I will not use it against you — or anyone else, for that matter," Voldemort promised. He wasn't happy about it, per se, because it also meant he couldn't use the information obtained at that moment to kill anyone who hurt Harry, but if it made it easier to say anything, he was ready to give that promise. "You know, you came here by yourself, in your own accord. At the moment, my main priority is to heal you, not hunt down anyone." It was almost comical how Harry's eyes widened before he swallowed, his throat moving under the tender skin.
"O-okay," he stammered and bowed his head. Voldemort fought against the want to grip Harry's chin and keep him looking at him. He couldn't do anything that harsh, not yet, at least. "The letter was for the Order. Dumbledore had written about — about our connection and what is the reason, explaining… a lot of things. Before they got to the end of the letter, as I'm sure Dumbledore didn't want them to do anything right now, a few of them attacked me." Harry breathed shakily, his shoulders trembling slightly, and Voldemort realised to his horror that the boy was crying. What did people do when someone was crying? He didn't know. He had never had friends, only followers, and he didn't comfort his followers. They weren't on his responsibility, but Harry was.
"Thank you for telling me," Voldemort said, mustering every ounce of sincerity into his voice he could find from his body. He didn't know how he could survive the next few weeks when he tried to get Harry to trust him, but he had to try. "Do you remember coming here?" Harry pulled his knees to his chest, hugging his legs while rocking back and forth. Voldemort wanted to take him to his arms, to comfort him, to give him someone to lean on, but he was sure it wouldn't be welcome — at least not yet.
"Someone — someone told me to come here, to you. That you would take me out of the war if I just asked," Harry mumbled. "I'm not sure who. I didn't recognise the voice." Voldemort smirked, knowing exactly who he should thank for this miracle. He had known his other spy in the Order would be important sooner or later, especially with how Severus had kept some things away from him. He wanted to meet his spy, but it wasn't the right time yet. "But why am I still alive?"
"You came here after someone said I would protect you if you just asked, and still, you're asking why you're alive. I keep my word, and I have… obtained some information. I don't want to kill you; quite the opposite. I will make sure that you survive," Voldemort told him. He had a hunch that Harry knew about the Horcruxes, that the Order knew about them, but he didn't want to reveal them just yet to the boy. "You came to me, telling me that you are tired of fighting, and I let you in and healed you. Because I keep my word. I have promised it once, and even after all this time, I do not back down from that."
Harry nodded, and Voldemort noticed his knuckles were white from how tightly he gripped his legs. He wanted to pry those fingers open, to get the boy relaxed. Clearing his throat, he shook his head quickly and turned his attention to other things.
"Your next potion isn't due for another two hours. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want something?" he asked. It was only five in the morning, but it didn't matter. Voldemort only needed a few hours of sleep every other night, and Harry had just awoken after two days, so he could get anything he wanted at any time of the day. The air around them was awkward, and Voldemort wanted to get something done. After the resurrection ritual, he hadn’t felt hunger like a normal human being, his body resembling more of a snake than a human. It was enough if he ate something once a week, but he could make himself eat more often than that. And it was quite a good way to spend some time.
“I, uh, guess so,” Harry mumbled, his face hidden to his knees. Voldemort sighed, trying to think back to when he was a teenager, but it was decades, and he couldn’t even lie and tell himself he was the same as Harry. He probably was not, he was so different even from his own classmates, so there was no chance that he was anything like Harry.
“Tipsy!” he called, and the house elf appeared at the end of the bed, bowing deeply, his nose almost touching the floor.
“What can Tipsy do for Master?”
“This is Harry. You are to obey his word the same as mine, with a few exceptions I will go through with you later. Bring Harry a bowl of light soup and a glass of pumpkin juice,” Voldemort listed quickly. He was sure he could trust Harry not to use his house elves against him, not after he had been attacked by his own side and fled to Voldemort, seeking refuge from the one who had always wanted and tried to kill him.
“Very well, Master,” Tipsy accepted and disappeared, popping back in just a few minutes later with a steaming bowl and a big glass of juice.
“Thank you,” Voldemort said, taking them from the house elf and conjuring a tray for them in front of Harry. He settled everything down and lifted his eyes to Harry, who was looking at him with a shocked expression. “What?” he snapped, unable to soften his tone. He breathed deeply in and out, reminding himself that Harry was part of his soul. He was just a seventeen-year-old boy who had gone through something traumatic and was now under the roof of his mortal enemy — turned to only one who he could trust. He had to be patient.
“I — you were polite. To the house elf, I mean. And — and — you are giving me food. Real food.” Harry’s tone was wondering. It seemed that Voldemort had managed to surprise him completely.
“Yes. Why did you think I wouldn’t be?” Voldemort asked, frowning. Harry, with all of his Gryffindor brashness, seemed even more perplexed.
“I think I’m just confused,” Harry muttered, finally reaching out for the spoon when Voldemort nudged the tray closer to him. “Everything has changed since my birthday. I don’t know what’s true and what’s false.” His green eyes fastened to Voldemort, accusing him. “The Order of the Phoenix was supposed to help me, not fucking try to kill me because I have a fucking piece of your soul! You were supposed to kill me!” Harry stopped abruptly, gasping for air.
Voldemort opened his mouth and tasted the air with his tongue. It was full of electricity from Harry’s magic, full of power. He moved like in a trance, sliding closer to Harry until he was in his personal space because he wanted more. Harry’s magic and emotions were delicious, in a way he thought wasn’t possible — until Harry, that magnificent boy, his precious soul, proved him wrong.
“What are you doing?” Harry asked, flinching away from Voldemort. Voldemort snapped out of his mind, remembering himself, and he jumped up from the bed and walked to the end of the bed.
“I apologise. Please, eat. Nagini, keep an eye on Harry. Call me if something comes up, but I will be back in two hours. Harry, stay in bed. I will help you to the bath after I’ve given you the potion.” With that, he left his bedroom behind. It had to be the soul piece in Harry, pulling him closer and closer until he lost his mind. He had to figure out how to balance it.
He stopped on his way to the library. Harry had mentioned his soul, he knew. Voldemort wanted to turn around, to go to demand answers, but he couldn’t even consider stepping into the same room with the boy, not before he had gotten some control of himself.
Two hours. He had two hours to gather himself. He could demand answers then.