Chapter Text
Then:
Harry Potter laid dead on a muggle street. A flash of bright green light, like the aurora borealis coming to earth, had hit him on the ribs, and for a shuddering moment Lord Voldemort felt himself adrift, untethered. He had staggered as he saw the body fall in slow motion from a curse that was not his own. The spell had broken the moment Harry Potter hit the floor.
He stared at his followers and saw his most loyal, Bellatrix, with her wand extended forward, trembling. Their eyes met and she dropped it. He himself was trembling as well. He could almost picture how his bones cracked due to the heat of an all encompassing rage that settled within him. He whipped his wand ahead, intent on a cruciatus, but from the twisted snarl of his mouth all that spilled out was:
“Avada Kedavra!”
Nearly blinded by the curse's glare, Voldemort almost did not see Rodolphus pushing his wife out of the way and taking the curse to the chest, collapsing a few meters away from Harry Potter.
Harry Potter who was dead, so easily, so fast.
A surge of power came from outside the hastily implemented wards his followers had aroused, pushing, pushing, until they cracked. Albus Dumbledore had arrived.
Lord Voldemort apparated away, not caring if his followers had the chance to escape themselves.
He found himself standing on Thomas Riddle’s grave, the name he shed long ago staring up at him. His father's grave remained the same as it had almost two years ago when he got his body back, the earth wet, the stone cracked, uncared for, forgotten.
Harry Potter was dead.
He could almost see the boy trembling, immobilized by the statue, green eyes wide open, just like they had been that fateful night in Godric’s Hollow. Back then, the child had cried for his mother, snot and tears until he gazed upon Lord Voldemort and quieted.
Voldemort felt hollow. This couldn’t be the end, not like this. After all this time, all that suffering and humiliation, for the boy to be dead by someone else’s hand? Just like that?
The memory of their second meeting was foggy, weakened as he was— Voldemort only had brief lapses of consciousness while hiding under Quirrel’s turban. But he remembered Harry’s voice, loud and unafraid as he called him a liar.
‘The boy… dead? By someone else’s hand.’
No mother to save him, nobody begged for him this time.
‘Was this grief?’ he wondered, ‘Not for the boy— of course not,— but for having someone else steal his kill for him. No, not grief, ire.’
It was a cold feeling, the one running through his veins, very much like the sea— frigid and painful with sand and salt.
In his periphery, he saw the lights of Little Hangleton, a beacon. Lord Voldemort was angry and there was little in the world that could quell his anger.
He glided towards the sound of the unaware muggles, like the wraith he once was. Like death sent by an unloving, merciless God. A muggle’s God, to kill every first born unprotected by the smear of a lamb's blood on their door’s lintel.
Voldemort stood in the middle of a street. The muggles stopped and stared at him, then deviated their gazes, uncomfortable but not scared. Lord Voldemort smiled, a savage twist of lips. He raised his arm and from his wand, a giant basilisk made of fire came to life.
Screams ensued.
It was not enough . The smell of burning plastic, wood and flesh. The beautiful light caressing the thick smoke above were not enough.
He wondered how his Nysa was doing, asleep in the Chamber all alone- his inheritance. Nagini was safe at Malfoy manor, and a couple of miles away his ring was hidden under rotting floorboards, safe as well.
Then he feels it. A gaping maw inside his mind, like a wound tearing itself open, emotions in lieu of blood spurting out. The foreign feeling of confusion, relief, and mild embarrassment intertwined flooded him, filled him. It was hot and overwhelming. Alive .
The boy was alive.
The first night, after he was given a bill of good health from Madam Pomfrey, Harry immediately locked himself in the sixth year’s room in Gryffindor tower. His things were already there, and so was Hedwig. Despite being alone, he slept with his bed's courtain's magically closed shut. After every interview with Dumbledore he did the same thing. As if a lock, conjured or not, could ever deter a wizard. Even so, he felt too exposed without it.
He also had an unfounded fear of sleepwalking out of the tower, something he'd never worried about before.
What he should have been afraid of was the possibility that he would affect his friends the same way he had affected the Dursleys, but no one seemed to notice anything amiss with Harry. Not Remus during his solemn five minute visits, nor Ron and Hermione the few times Harry allowed them to see him, too scared that they would sense something. No one recoiled at his presence or shifted awkwardly— as if his time with the Dursleys had been nothing but a dream.
Harry sat on the edge of Ron's bed, —elbows on knees, hidding his face between his palms, breathing in deep.
Harry thought of what he hadn’t let himself think since he woke up in Remus’ arms. Not then. Not in Dumbledore’s presence. Not alone in the infirmary as he tossed and turned. Not any night since he had started sleeping in the tower, always strangling the realization before it had the chance to breathe. Then the dam broke. The truth peeked from behind the curtains and Harry shuddered.
He died, didn’t he?
He died and saw Sirius waiting for him.
Harry grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and pulled hard . “Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck!”
Sirius had been there at the station, and he might not have been alone. Harry hadn't taken the time to explore— maybe there had been more people milling around. Maybe his dad had been there, his mum.
Merlin, what if his mum was there? Waiting, waiting . They could see each other. Harry could see her. It could be easy— it would be so easy. Harry had to— he had to just… just… die.
Harry laughed sharply, it felt like a cough. It made him want to reach into his mouth and rip out his own throat.
‘Oh, Voldemort would fucking love that wouldn't he?’ Harry giggled hysterically.
Tom was so pissed. Had been for days, fuming, seething. Harry had felt phantom pains of a jaw clenched too tight. He was snappish, and Harry was too. He’d been a right arse to Madam Pomfrey the few times she fussed over him, but it was hard not to.
Tom was scared. He was scared and it was so funny. Despite the anger that always accompanied Voldemort’s fear, Harry couldn't help but find amusement in it. Their connection —their bond— despite still being objectively horrible , had been a source of bitter (and shameful) entertainment.
Did Voldemort feel like this the past year? During Harry’s continuous breakdowns, had Voldemort chuckled to himself? Had he shaken his head and continued doing whatever he was doing, aware of Harry sniveling on the floor?
It was strange, this new ease. Harry didn’t have to reach for it anymore. It echoed in the back of his head, background noise to his every thought. It was just there. He could ignore it until he thought of it. It was like breathing, unaware of it… until he wasn’t.
And it didn’t hurt, it didn't hurt at all.
Harry reached out under his shirt, and traced the skin above his ribs. No scar to speak of, no proof of his death.
He opened his eyes and saw Hedwig peering at him by his feet, warily. Harry grimaced a smile and tried to pet her.
She bit him.
Harry cursed and pulled his hand away, finger bleeding. She must be done with his bullshit, Harry hadn’t made it easy for her this summer.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I’m a right mess aren't I?
She hooted softly and Harry took it as a ‘And what’s new?’
He cracked his neck, blew his nose on the hem of his shirt and looked around. The beds had been made neatly, the moonlight bright enough to cause the darkest of shadows.
Suddenly the emptiness felt oppressing,
Lead pooled down his stomach and Harry turned quickly towards his owl.
“How do you feel about midnight tea, huh?”
She looked away as if saying ‘Whatever.’
Harry smiled, for real this time.
"Stop sassing me."
Hagrid received them without question— didn't even point out the late hour, he just let Hedwig perch on his coat rack and offered Harry some tissues when he heard Harry sniff.
Hagrid motioned for him to take a seat and made tea with an uncharacteristic and grave manner, it was scalded and too sweet, but Harry didn’t mind. Food had tasted like ash for almost a month now, so he drank as if he enjoyed it, trying to muster a smile out of Hagrid, who sat opposite of him. The hearth was between them. It reminded Harry of that first interrogation he had with Dumbledore not too long ago. Unlike then, though, Harry didn’t feel numb. No—
He felt like he had been skinned alive.
Harry took another long gulp from his tea and broke the silence.
“Vernon hit Aunt Petunia,” he whisper-blurted, and suddenly felt eleven years old, then eight years old. Then five and at preschool, mumbling about his room under the stairs and feeling like a liar, even though he knew he wasn't lying. Harry didn't know why that was the first thing to come out of his mouth. In comparison to the other things that happened that night, it was inconsequential, but for some reason it felt like some dirty secret he shouldn't talk about. But not as dirty as his other secrets.
“Dursley?” asked Hagrid, incredulous, “didn’ seem like the type.”
“He isn’t.”
No, it had been Harry’s fault.
“It scared yer, didn't it,” Hagrid said kindly, “That why yer left the house?”
“What?”
Hagrid’s eyes were soft, Harry could tell how the half-giant tried to make himself smaller, even if he couldn't get much smaller than that (sitting as he was) for Harry’s comfort. As if he could ever be afraid of Hagrid.
“Yer aunt said yer ran away.” Hagrid either didn’t hear or ignored Harry’s scoff. “Wouldn’t tell us why though, seemed real nervous to me. I told Dumbledore she was hidin’ something,” he harrumphed and reclined back. “I knew yer wouldn't just up and run. Yer aren’t stupid.”
Harry wanted to correct him, wanted to tell him the truth, but he remained quiet. He clutched the mug tightly.
Whatever he said to Hagrid, Dumbledore would know.
“Yeah…,” Harry mumbled, “yeah, it scared me.”
Dumbledore couldn’t know. He would realize something was wrong with Harry — had been wrong, and that it had to do with Voldemort. He’d deem him dangerous, he’d keep him out of things like he did last year. He’d look at him like he was a ticking bomb, and then so would McGonagall, and so would Hagrid, and Remus, and every single member of the Order.
The way his thoughts rushed through his mind didn’t feel normal; too frantic, too paranoic.
He sat back and took another sip, eyes on his lap, keeping his face in check.
There was something about that night that was niggling at him, something he didn’t think about with the same stubborn refusal he gave to the realization of his own death.
The facts were:
One, the wards had fallen a couple of minutes after Harry left the house.
Two, the wards were supposed to hold as long as Harry found a home in the Number Four of Privet Drive. Or so had said Dumbledore.
Three, Harry had never considered Privet Drive his home—, so the logic behind the wards had to be something different.
In conclusion, the ward’s effectiveness didn’t depend on Harry .
The wards would hold as long as Harry had a place to return to. And Harry was allowed to return to Privet Drive on the Dursley’s sufferance.
Harry stood abruptly, “I gotta go. Goodnight.”
Harry didn't hear Hagrid’s questions, the surprised worry in his voice as he walked after Harry and stood by the doorframe, watching as he left. To Harry there was nothing louder than his own hurried steps on the grass.
Harry headed towards the castle, thought better of it, and turned towards the lake.
The facts were that all this time, his life had been in the Dursleys’ hands. And they wanted him out, they’ve wanted him out for long but they never took that final step. They sneered and snapped at him, but he always had somewhere to sleep while under their roof. They pulled his ears and hair and smacked the back of his head, but they never beat him like they so obviously wanted to. They starved him as a punishment, yet never enough for him to pass out from hunger. They threatened to send him to an orphanage, to give him away to whoever asked for him, to “forget” about him at the park. But they never did, never even locked him out.
Until they did.
And the blood wards fell.
Harry felt as if he was underwater, felt the struggle that came the second that gillyweed loses its effectiveness and your lungs start to burn, darkness creeping from the corners of your vision, and cold seeps from skin to blood.
But they didn't fall immediately. No . Harry had walked, had reached the streets, had even the time to release Hedwig. Vernon had kicked him out, locked the door, and the wards had remained strong.
Until they didn't .
They weren’t just any type of wards though , Harry mused. They were blood wards; dependent on his closest blood relative.
So…
Had Aunt Petunia stared at the door after it closed? Had she twisted her hands on that frilly apron of hers, her mouth pinched. Did she hesitate? Did she touch the door handle softly with trembling fingers— maybe she even grabbed Vernon’s elbow, gently, with a protest at the tip of her tongue? And then…
…and then, instead of voicing it, did she guide Vernon to the living room, sit him and Dudley in front of the TV, return to the kitchen, lean against the counters with a sigh of relief?
Did she?
And he shouldn’t care, he shouldn’t. He hated her, hated them . And yet -
Harry reached the lake as his heart tried to burst out of his chest, cracking his ribcage. Breaking, breaking.
Somewhere far away, Lord Voldemort felt his eyes burn in a way they hadn’t in a long time. Out of his control, his magic lashed out, breaking windows and cups. Wine spilled all over the table. His death eaters pushed their chairs away hastily and kneeled, trembling.
Lord Voldemort shouted and the table broke in two. A moment later, he apparated away, leaving behind confused wizards and a ruined dinner.
Dumbledore invited Harry to his office the evening of the next day. And the days that came after. Harry mulishly sat in front of him, eyes steady on the tip of Dumbledore’s nose, answering question after question.
“Do you remember what spell hit you?”
“No, sir.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine, sir.”
“I've heard you have trouble sleeping.”
“I’ve always had trouble sleeping.”
And so on.
(Besides the insomnia, his body didn't feel half as heavy as it had done days prior the attack. He felt centered, present, inside his skin in a way he never had before.)
One evening Dumbledore studied him closely before asking.
“Would you like to meet Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger? they are but a floo call away.”
Harry swallowed.
“No, thank you, sir.”
Harry did want to see them, desperately so, but he felt that if he gave the Headmaster even an inch in any direction, he’d take a mile.
This new instinct to mistrust Dumbledore surely didn't belong to him, right?
And it didn’t matter if he missed them, the school year would start soon anyways.
Dumbledore looked at him sadly, and Harry squirmed in discomfort.