Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Another Life ❯ Goosey, Goosey, Gander ( Chapter 19 )

Warnings: Yaoi/Slash, Angst, DARK themes, Backstabbing, Incest, Yuri/Fem-slash, and other various nastiness. Hard R rating.


Disclaimer: Ain't mine.

Chapter 19


Goosey, Goosey, Gander

Voldemort felt oddly nervous. It wasn't the same kind of nervousness that had prevailed over the dinners he'd shared with the boy, but more of a dread within the pit of his stomach. The changes going through his mental state troubled him immensely, but feeling such a keen fear for the first time in decades brought an uneasy nausea. It was so quiet that his own breathing sounded far too loud.

Harry appeared to feel none of this and stared at him with determined and cold green eyes. Apparently, having the upper hand (as small as it might have been) sat well with the boy. Voldemort felt oddly proud of that.

"Do you still plan to commit muggle genocide?" Harry asked without preamble. Voldemort blinked a little but said nothing. "I have already said I would kill you were the answer to that question yes. I have no qualms about doing so."

Somehow, hearing those cold words from the mouth of his son chilled the Dark Lord to the bone.

"I won't allow for any more senseless killing."

Voldemort couldn't help but see Lillian in Harry's determined expression. It was that resemblance that forced him to answer truthfully. "I do believe muggles to be inferior."

"That isn't what I asked," Harry snapped.

"What do you expect from me, Harry?" Voldemort asked quietly and there was a little surprise in those green eyes. "My hate of muggles will not diminish simply because I have lost the drive to kill you. The two ideas are not linked."

"Will you continue killing them?" the boy ground out and sounded quite irritated.

"If it serves my purpose, I will do anything."

"What's your purpose?"

Voldemort opened his mouth and then found he had nothing concrete to say. For years, he had worked on the single idea of total supremacy over both muggles and wizards alike, a purification of the world for the betterment of all with himself as leader. But now, the ideas weren't as clear anymore. He didn't know what had changed, but something very fundamental had and now everything was confused and unsure.

Anger filled Harry's gaze as he stood from his chair. "Do you mean to tell me that this whole thing, the killing, the pain, the suffering, that it was all done on some sick whim?!"

There was no answer and that only seemed to enrage the boy further.

"I can't believe this! You petty bastard!" Harry roared. "You're ludicrous! I thought that if there was a plan then there had to be some kind of sane thinking behind it, twisted as it might be, and then I find...I find this instead... I never imagined one could feel cheated by their enemy."

He sat down hard and stared at his own hands, stunned. "You're a bloody idiot. Why hasn't someone killed you yet?"

"They've tried," Voldemort murmured absently. He rested back into his chair and sighed softly. "Harry, a lot of things have changed in the last few weeks. Things I thought were sure and right have now become muddled in such ways that I can't be sure what to think. It isn't that I never had a purpose. I think, instead, that it has begun to change and I haven't quite figured out what it's changing to."

Harry lifted his eyes and glared at him. "Well that's all well and good for you."

Voldemort had nothing else to say so they fell into silence. It lasted a long while, Harry staring at his hands and Voldemort watching him do so. The fire crackled and sparked beside them and cast an odd light on the boy that made him look older somehow.

"My father was hero," Harry said suddenly without looking up. Voldemort felt an unpleasant tightening in his chest because he knew who the boy was talking about. "He was a good man and did what was right, even when it meant putting himself in danger. He fought you with everything he had. He died trying to save me and Mum. People say I look like him, that I act like him, but if that were true, one of us would be dead right now."

Harry looked at him and those familiar eyes shone with uncertainty, fear, and that strong will that made Voldemort's chest tighten even more.

"I wish I could be more like him," Harry said softly. "If I were, this wouldn't confuse me. I would kill you and not be affected. I would go back to Dumbledore and be welcomed with open arms. I would be the hero I'm suppose to be. But I'm not like him. I'm scared and confused and nothing like him at all. Why can't I kill you?"

"Why can't I?" Voldemort echoed just as gently. Harry said nothing as he stood and pulled out his wand. He lifted it, aimed between Voldemort's eyes, and tried to summon up the will to kill this man, kill the monster that had murdered his parents and hurt countless others. His hand shook pathetically but he couldn't... couldn't cast. Shame burned within him, but he couldn't do it when he had even the slightest doubt in Voldemort's evil. The man had killed hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions, and Harry couldn't summon up the sureness to end his existence.

"I want you to die!" Harry whispered fervently and hated the way his voice shook. Voldemort sighed softly.

"Not yet," he murmured. "Not until we both are sure I deserve to die by your hand."

The wand was lowered. Harry stared at him numbly. "You do."

"If you were sure of it, I would be dead, Harry."

He knew it was true but he didn't want to believe that. It hurt less.

Voldemort dismissed him, though Harry had asked for the meeting, and the boy left quickly. Voldemort stayed and started to think, for there were many things the conversation had made clear needed to be thought about.

----

Wormtail was not particularly surprised when the voices told him before anyone else about Lucius Malfoy's escape from Azkaban. The voices had an uncanny knack for knowing things. He was, however, surprised when Malfoy didn't come back to them. He simply disappeared and that was worrisome. Malfoy was a powerful wizard and a master manipulator. Still, the voices told him all was well, so Wormtail attempted to not think about it. He waited until reports left the ministry about the escape to inform his Lord, as he didn't want to bother him unnecessarily. The voices hadn't been wrong before, but one never knew.

He always felt such guilt over doubting them.

His Lord had been bothered by the news, more for Malfoy's disappearance than anything else. Wormtail was glad at least one person could worry guiltlessly over it. No order was given beyond a quiet search to be conducted, and that struck Wormtail as very odd. There was no anger in his Lord, no vehemence on bringing back Malfoy's head for deserting, as it seemed he'd done. No, the Dark Lord had been very calm and cold about it all. Uncharacteristically lacking hatred.

This did not sit well with Wormtail nor the voices that whispered to him in the night.

----

When Hermione tracked Harry down that evening, having gotten one of the house elves to direct her to his room, she couldn't help but notice the way he stood. Harry was in front of his window, looking out of the gardens as light dwindled into dark. His back was to her and her eyes trailed over his relatively thin but still somehow strong frame. He wouldn't ever be broad shouldered, but he was getting tall and slowly leaving behind the lankiness of childhood. His body was filling out, shifting ever so subtly into an adult's. Back straight, arms hanging relatively loosely, shoulders back, he seemed every bit the man she hadn't noticed.

Hermione wondered why she had never seen that before. With Ron, it was easy. She'd watched him grow and change, noting every difference with curiosity at first, then a growing appreciation. She was primarily homosexual, a secret she tried her hardest to keep, but she could still appreciate a strong body like Ron's. Harry, on the other hand, didn't have that. It wasn't that he had a particularly feminine frame, but he didn't exude the same raw masculinity of most boys she knew. Somehow, it was always tempered. After all, it had taken Hermione months apart to realize Harry wasn't a little boy anymore.

He finally turned and looked at her, the last rays of the sun casting an odd light on his green eyes. He was ragged, but healing. He strengthened with each day, she noticed, pulling back from that horrible depth of sadness and pain. His eyes hadn't quite regained the full fire yet, but it was there, waiting, building. His shaggy hair hid the scar completely and his eyes almost, but he hadn't made a move to cut it. It fit him, somehow. Different than the boy.

“Hermione,” he greeted and there was a hint of confusion at her presence. Hermione smiled a bit and went to stand next to him, glancing out.

“I thought we could talk,” she said. Harry didn't frown, precisely, but he didn't see all that happy at the prospect. “Harry, I want to know what happened. All of it. From beginning to end.”

“But it's not the end yet,” he murmured quietly. She sighed.

“I know. So tell me to now. I'll see the end myself.”

He hesitated, green eyes guarded, and then began telling the tale. It took hours. Harry hadn't realized he had so much to say or that so much had happened. His memory was fuzzy in areas and there were some parts he tried to skip over as much as possible. Hermione always knew when he was doing that but didn't catch him on it. He was having enough of a time.

When he finished, it was very late. Star light played on Harry's messy hair and glinted off Hermione's glasses. They hadn't turned the lights on when the sun failed, but did move to sit on the bed at some point.

Harry felt drained and strangely empty inside. His chest refused to unclench and a raw pain filled him, as if he'd torn the scab off a healing wound. Somehow, even with this, he felt better. Hermione wiped her wet cheeks, but Harry hadn't cried. He felt oddly distant from everything.

They sat in silence a while, then Hermione left. She sought out Ginny's bed and though the sleepy girl didn't quite understand, she still wrapped Hermione up in her warmth. They stayed that way through the rest of the night.

----

Lucius Malfoy was not a happy man. He stood within the sterile walls of the safe house, hands pressed upon the sink as he peered at his own reflection. He was clean now, but still so ruined. Stringy blond hair fell in coarse, uneven lengths. Pale eyes ringed in bruised violet. Face gaunt and skin sickly pale.

“I look like Snape after falling into a vat of bleaching potion,” he grumbled to the mirror. It didn't respond, as he'd threatened to smash it if it didn't stop prattling on at him. The thought of Snape turned Lucius's lips to a snarl. The traitor would die at his hands, he would make sure of that. Snape had turned from the true master and was therefore so more inferior than he'd ever realized. Of course, Snape didn't know the full truth, but Lucius wouldn't forgive him even that.

Lucius had no illusions over who he served. He'd been Dumbledore's dog for longer than he could remember, as had his father before him and so on. The Dark Lord was a pale comparison. Real power came from lying in the light with a smile on your face. He was rather proud to be the only one who really knew who and what Dumbledore was.

Fingers tightening on the porcelain, Lucius suddenly remembered a time not long ago when he had been strong enough to break such material easily in his fingers. Azkaban had weakened his body terribly and it would be months or longer before he gained the strength back.

That was Potter's fault.

His lip curled once more. Potter. Dumbledore still wanted to bring the brat back, but Lucius knew the boy was hopeless. He wanted to rip Harry Potter's head off with his bare hands. The stay in Azkaban, his physical weakness, the shame of being out thought by a child, all of it was Potter's fault. The boy would die and Lucius would make it last. Dumbledore could handle Voldemort; Potter was his.

Pushing away from the sink, Lucius forced himself to stop looking at the face he had to call his own. He left the bathroom and went to dress, as he was expecting his master to visit and wouldn't entertain the man naked.

----

Harry spent the next day thinking, keeping away from the other people of the manor as much as he could. He'd slept very little through the night after Hermione left and his dreams had been plagued with night terrors. Still, he felt an odd sense of peace now that he'd told someone the whole of his experience.

By noon, Harry realized there was a decision he had to make, but he didn't have enough information to make it. He'd weighed the actions of those around him, past and present, took in the rest that he knew, but there was a terrible lack for one person: the Dark Lord.

Before that summer, he could have easily made the decision. Too much had changed now. The main changes were in Voldemort himself, and it seemed even he didn't know the extent of them. The Dark Lord was confused and lost, something so strange for Harry to see.

He almost wished Voldemort was still trying to kill him. That would have been normal and Harry craved normalcy more now than ever before.

When it all became too much, Harry found his mind turning to Draco. It happened often now, since he'd `awakened'. He didn't quite know when their… Well, he didn't know what to call what was between them and trying to quantify it made his head hurt, but it had changed and he didn't know why. What he did know was that he needed Draco now and that terrified him.

Harry had only needed one person before him. Growing up the way he had, he'd unconsciously become as independent as he could. Even Hermione and Ron, his best friends, weren't needed for him to survive. He struggled on his own when he could manage and was reluctant to reach out to others. Even touch was something he rarely sought. Something as little as the brush of a hand upon his arm was alien and shied from.

The beginning of the summer marked Harry's first time needing someone. It had been Snape, the man who took him in when he was his weakest, nursed him to health, and then continued to care. Harry had been terrified when he was separated from Snape. Even his altered mental state at the time didn't disguise that. What scared Harry even more was the great relief he'd felt when he knew Snape was safe and with him and would not leave his side again. Harry didn't know how to deal with that. He was so scared these days.

And now, there was Draco. Cocky, sarcastic, headstrong Draco, who had all the personality traits of a Slytherin and the bullheadedness of a Gryffindor enough to put himself in danger. Draco would be the death of himself and Harry felt cold when he imagined it, which was more often than was healthy.

If Draco died…

Harry shut his eyes tightly, covering them with one hand.

If Draco died…

He knew it was inevitable. He knew that Snape was the same way. The man had already thrown his life on the line for him so many times and had said he'd do it again in a heartbeat. But Draco was different than Snape. Draco was...

If Draco died…

Harry found himself in Snape's rooms. The older man didn't seem surprised, nor did he ask about the sudden paleness of Harry's face. He was working on a new potion formula, some kind of improved healing draught, and ignored Harry, for he knew the boy would speak in his own good time. Harry sat on the edge of the bed with his legs drawn up under him and that book of nursery rhymes in his hands, though he wasn't reading the much loved words.

“Who is my enemy?” the boy asked after an hour or so of silence. Snape set down his quill and looked over at him.

“That is for you to decide.” Green eyes lifted and settled on his face. “Your enemy is someone who threatens you and yours.”

“Voldemort-” Harry paused and looked down again, thin fingers tracing over an illustration of a cat and an owl in a boat. “Voldemort stop trying to kill me.”

“Then, I suppose he is no longer your enemy.”

Such a strange notion, but Harry knew it to be true now. “The Death Eaters might still try.”

“Probably.”

“Then they're my enemies. Voldemort is their leader but he isn't.” Harry continued to lightly trace the picture, eyes following his fingers' progressions. “Professor, who is your enemy?”

Snape was quiet a moment, thinking about that seriously. He folded his hands and rested his head upon them, staying still after for a long while. Finally, he uttered out, “Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry looked at him but wasn't all that surprised. “Why?”

“Because he is a manipulative mastermind with an agenda reaching back before my own birth,” Snape replied quietly. “I don't trust that, nor do I trust his actions in the last few years. Dumbledore is a very powerful man and has done much good for our society, but even he is not above question and he has done some very questionable things.”

There was a little nod from the boy before a response came. “Dumbledore is also Voldemort's enemy.”

“That's correct.”

“Is that why you sent me to him?”

Snape's gaze flickered to the papers on the desk without his consent and he quickly refocused them on the boy. The hesitance was seen and acknowledged but Harry said nothing of it.

“I knew that Lupin and Black were being held here,” Snape began softly. “I also trusted Narcissa to treat you well. She's particular about guests. If there was anyone who could care for you, it was those three. However, I also knew the Dark Lord would not harm you.”

“How?”

There was knowledge in those black eyes, a knowledge that was heavy and biting, but Harry wanted it anyway. However, he knew quite well that Snape would keep it from him. They were all afraid of regression, Harry even more so, and whatever that knowledge was, it could be potentially damaging. Harry understood that, though a fire within him burned to know.

“I just did,” Snape said, his tone a little sharp. This was to be accepted and not questioned. Harry wanted to anyway, but he didn't. Not yet. Soon, though.

“Can I trust him?”

“That is also your decision,” Snape said quickly, sighing a little after. Harry looked down at the book, fingers still.

“You trust him. At least enough put me near him.” He didn't question the fact that Snape cared for his safety and Snape didn't deny it. “Remus and Sirius are wary of him, but they say he's been good to them. Narcissa is congenial with him.”

“And your friends?”

“They're wary, but they haven't been around him much. Not enough to know for sure.” Snape was rather proud of Harry's use of his own brain for the whole thing. The boy was smart, he knew, but he'd never really shown such before. Harry turned back to stare at him as he came to a decision. “I'll trust him for now. Until I can find out what Dumbledore is really after.”

“So you've lost trust in the Headmaster…”

“He kidnapped me. Or as good as. He left me with the muggles even after I told him what was going on. He's manipulated me for as long as I've known him and likely longer than that,” Harry said with a strange strength behind his voice. Snape was glad to hear it again. “I can't trust someone like that. He doesn't have my best interests in mind, only those of his plans, and he's never fully explained those.”

Snape nodded. “Very good analysis. What do you propose to do with it?”

“I'm not sure yet. I have to talk to Voldemort first.” Harry sighed a little, reaching up to tuck a little hair behind his ear. “Not that that's gone well before…”

“You have the initiative now,” Snape reminded him, “and a well thought out reason for talking. Perhaps it will go better this time.”

Harry nodded a little. “Yeah… but later. Is it okay if I stay here a while longer?”

“Just don't be loud and whiny,” Snape responded with a roll of his eyes, as if the question had been rather stupid. Harry smiled a little.

Hours later, after a quiet dinner with the entire household gathered, Harry sought out Voldemort.

“I have something to say,” he began. The Dark Lord nodded and they went to the study together, away from young, prying eyes. For a long few moments, they simply stood in front of each other before Harry found his strength again. “I want to know who you're fighting and why.”

Voldemort seemed a little surprised at that. He'd given the matter great thought before, once Harry left after their less than pleasant conversation. However, though he'd gotten a good deal of it straight, there was much still out of sorts.

“I fight Dumbledore,” the Dark Lord murmured, frowning softly. “My reasons are muddled and confused, but that is the one thing I'm sure about.”

Harry nodded a little, folding his arms over his chest. “I've decided that he's my enemy, at least for now. I need to corner him and make him tell me everything. Explain why he… why everything happened. I have to know.”

“I believe our causes are similar enough for a collaboration,” Voldemort said slowly, chancing it. The boy stared at him, his eyes guarded and untrusting. There was a long pause before he spoke.

“Forgive me if I don't shake your hand,” Harry said coolly as he gazed towards the Dark Lord. Voldemort nodded his head, accepting what he'd been offered.

Thus began the partnership of Harry Potter and the Dark Lord.

----

It happened in second year. He didn't find out until the Slytherin hierarchy suddenly changed. Where once the small, half-blood boy was left at the end of the table, to be pushed upon the floor or flung at the door, suddenly Tom was given a wide berth and respectful glances. There was no mention of his heritage ever again.

He wondered curiously what might have happened, but there was little knowing. Even the Head of House had no clear idea, except that it would have had to be big, but also extremely subtle. In the coming months, he watched as the distance was minimized and a hand picked few clambered for Tom's attention. He bore it all with a superior look, half amused and half accepting that this was his place. Even the upperclassmen treated him with respect.

The boy was very, very smart, he decided. He could have just looked at his class scores to know that, but it wasn't just book smarts he meant. Tom had the makings of a manipulative genius and he would guide him to that end as surely as possible.

Still, he wondered. How cruel could this young boy become? How far would he have to push to make him the tool he needed? Ponderings of an insane man, but they nagged at his attention as he continued to go about his duties.

The boy was perfect, but a diamond in the rough. He would guide the polishing, but it was ultimately up to Tom to become what he needed to be.