Chapter Text
When Voldemort first hears of the prophecy, he thinks it's a load of malarkey.
Nonetheless, he still goes over to the Potter residency, because he's a paranoid thanatophobic who enjoys curbstomping small babies whenever the chance arises.
What? He hates children. You would too, if you grew up in an orphanage full of them. Dreadful little beasts.
It is pathetically easy to disarm and murder the Potter heir, and he even considers sparing the mudblood girl, if only to appease one of his more dedicated followers. He ends up doing away with her regardless.
Her endless wails and cries of Not Harry! and Kill me instead! were truly getting on his last nerves.
Fine, Voldemort thinks rather cruelly, if you so desire to join your husband in the afterlife, then far be it for me to deny you.
She's asking for it, really.
So with a flick of his wand, and selective choice of words, a flash of green hits her square in the chest and she stops her incessant screeching.
Surprisingly, the baby is strangely quiet, something unusual for a child that age is prone to do. Especially since its parents had just been murdered.
Voldemort almost considers simply Avada-ing the little thing without any preamble, but decides to indulge in his dramatics just this once.
He peers into the crib, and freezes.
It isn't anything special really. Just a mop of dark hair, the typical hairless body of a babe, and...
And a pair of Avada-green colored eyes.
They shine like jewels, and seem to whisper sickly promises of a painful death, if harm is to befall the strange little creature wearing them.
And then it hits Voldemort.
This is dark magic. Dark, dark magic.
Only idiots or desperate idiots would attempt magic like this. Magic so strong it could repel even the seemingly unstoppable Killing Curse.
At the cost of your own life, of course.
"That foolish girl..." He curses under his breath. Her own stupidity had almost costed him his life!
Well, one of his lives.
But whatever shall he do now? He can't kill the blasted thing, unless he wants to sacrifice his own life in the process. And even then, he isn't sure if it would be entirely successful.
With a start, Voldemort realizes that he's been pacing across the room like an absolute plebeian. Like any ordinary wizard would, if their mind were in disarray.
He curls his lip. Pathetic.
Lord Voldemort does not pace like an untrained whelp, nor with indecision. He is on another plane of existence from regular, ordinary wizards. From the rest of the pathetic mortals wasting away on this planet.
Perhaps he should use his hands? It is a rather muggle way to do about things, but he's running out of options here.
And then it hits Voldemort (again).
Why not just take the child as his own?
He stops to really think about the implications of this admittedly rather spontaneous idea.
My God. The Dark Lord feels his brows raise in revelation. I'm a genius.
With the solution to his problem solved, he steps closer to the crib once more, peering down at the baby's chubby face.
"Grm...gah."
The baby drools over its own chin. Idiotic child.
With minor consternation, he carefully wraps his arms around the little thing, still disturbingly calm in a situation like this, lifting the Potter boy closer to his face.
"I'll have you know I've just killed your parents," he drawls drolly, "and that you live, only because I have deemed it so." And because of your mother's sacrifice and questionable knowledge of the Dark Arts, Voldemort doesn't add. Not that the dreaded thing can understand him anyways.
The baby only gurgles softly in response.
Then, without any reason or prompting, the horrifying little creature reaches out a pudgy hand to grab his nose.
"Gahm," the child makes a sound of excitement as it continues to reach at his face.
"Stop," Voldemort utters dangerously, but the baby either has zero preservation skills, or is mentally challenged, because it continues to grab at every available surface of his face.
With a tsk, the Dark Lord uses one hand to gather the child's flailing appendages, the other now grabbing onto the lapel of its pyjamas to hold it upright. He can't imagine either of them look particularly dignified at the moment.
And then, just as he thinks the situation can't get any worse, the baby unhinges its jaws and closes them over his thumb, faster than he can even blink.
It peers at him innocently, continuing to suckle his finger like this is perfectly normal behavior for a one year old baby to be doing, after the brutal murder of one's parents.
"Foolish boy," Voldemort hisses, yet makes no move to get the unruly child off of him. "Unhand...Get off me!"
Crack!
The Dark Lord freezes in place, arms outstretched, with the little devil-child hanging limply by the scruff of its neck, its gummy mouth still sucking his thumb without any signs of stopping.
"M-My Lord."
A tiny whimper can be heard from the greasy rat of a man, as he takes in the bodies of his former friends.
Voldemort definitely doesn't do something as graceless as heaving an exasperated sigh. Certainly not.
He turns around with irritation burning in his eyes, the baby boy still hanging off his arms like the parasite it is, still suckling his thumb.
"What is it Wormtail," he demands, irately.
Voldemort can very clearly see the way his cowardly servant swallows nervously, his oily skin even more shiny with sweat.
"Y-Yes my Lord," he stammers. "I simply wanted to uh, em. Check up on y-your well being." His eyes dart around the room anxiously, looking anywhere else besides his master's scrutinizing gaze, as well as the very obviously alive Potter hanging off his arm. "As y-you've been gone for quite some time, my Lord. W-We were all w-worried." Ah. So he was forced to check up on him by his more...overzealous followers.
His servant fidgets in place, so clearly uncomfortable that Voldemort wants to punish him just for that alone.
He refrains, but only barely.
"And tell me...Wormtail." Voldemort relishes in the flinch this inspires from the insipid man, despite the no doubt unflattering image he makes with the annoyance still dangling off his side.
"Did you truly think me incapable of dealing with one measly,"
He takes a step forward, eliciting another flinch.
"Puny,"
Another step, another wince.
"Worthless,"
Voldemort smiles far too widely to be comforting.
"Defenseless,"
Pettigrew whimpers.
"Little babe?"
Voldemort is now less than a step away from his follower, watching as the weakling shrinks into himself. As if that doesn't make him want to hurt the man even more.
Pettigrew very wisely does not look at the baby still in the Dark Lord's grasp. Miraculously, the incomprehensible thing has had yet to make a sound throughout this entire exchange.
"Grm, grrr...rah!"
He spoke too soon.
An awkward silence soon follows the boy's admittedly rather comedically timed interruption.
"Well," Voldemort says placidly, "you've seen me alive and well, Wormtail."
He feels his oppressive magic fill the room alongside his rapidly rising temper.
"So get out."
His pathetic excuse for a follower does not need to be told twice. With a deafening crack! the trembling man Disapparates someplace that does not have a ticked off Dark Lord and the possibly dead (dying?) infant of his closest friends.
He scoffs, Weakling.
It's truly a testament to his unshakable iron will that he hasn't offed the pitiful man. Yet.
"Gah," the baby makes a wet noise around its thumb. Right. He still has another far more pressing annoyance to deal with.
Watching as the putrid creature stares right back at him, Voldemort hums in consideration.
Without warning, the Dark Lord lets the baby fall out of his now slackened grasp, witnessing with bated breath as the prophesied child heads straight towards the cold, hard floor.
It bounces right back up.
Being the little demon that it is, it lets out a delighted shriek at him as its magic protects the baby's head and other vulnerable body parts from being severely damaged, bouncing up and down the floor.
The boy keeps staring at him with those sickly Avada-green eyes, giggling loudly.
"Gahah," it says, again.
With a grievous sigh, Voldemort reluctantly grabs the child again, trying his best to maneuver any potential appendages away from the horrible thing's mouth.
"It was worth a shot," he grumbles.
Voldemort realizes a few mistakes he makes, only after he's already made them.
One, he Disapparates with the baby on him.
Two, he doesn't warn his followers of his impulsive plan.
Three, he wore his favorite robes on this conquest, and is now regretting it quite a lot, because the ghastly child has retched sick all over them, right in front of his shell-shocked followers.
Total silence ensues.
Then, someone--and Voldemort will find out who it is later, and punish them for it, severely--coughs awkwardly, before quickly clearing their throat.
That seems to knock at least one of his few more competent followers into action, however, as a haughty, stoic voice breaks the tension that had been expeditiously growing.
"My Lord, are you..." the fairly assertive voice trails off, slightly less confident now, and--yes, that mildly condescending drawl, the slight cowardice...he's quite sure that this is Lucius speaking--continues. "Do you require...any assistance?"
Voldemort would normally appreciate the obvious kowtowing from a rich pureblood like Malfoy, truly he would, but as he is, he's just been through a series of losses, thanks to his prophesied enemy, and proceeded to suffer an even more humiliating defeat by the very same adversary, right in front of his followers.
To add insult to injury, the dreadful babe belches, before smacking its lips together noisily.
"Brbrbrb," the baby blows a raspberry, sending more spittle across his robes.
Another awkward cough.
He waves his yew wordlessly, vanishing the sick that had been coating his robes, and the child's smacking lips. Vanishing it doesn't get rid of the smell, however, and there's still a faint acrid scent of baby vomit that surrounds him.
No one moves or speaks.
Miraculously, Voldemort doesn't do something drastic, like kill the majority of his followers to save himself from this mortifying situation. No, no. Of course not.
"Leave immediately," the Dark Lord says softly, but as quiet as the room has been, it carries across loudly enough. "You all have five seconds. Four. Three..."
It would be funny, if not for the extenuating circumstances, how quickly everyone bolts for the fireplace or the nearest opulent set of doors. After all, only he and the Malfoys can Apparate and Disapparate in the manor.
Speaking of the Malfoys, however...
Voldemort snaps his fingers, before pointing at his feet. "Lucius. Come."
Said wizard has frozen in place, wand mid-motion, and feet tensed in preparation to Disapparate.
Voldemort narrows his eyes, and his self-preserving follower speedily moves into position, prostrating himself on the floor, before kissing each of his toes.
Out of faint amusement and sick curiosity, he lets the man continue to kiss his feet, but recoils as Malfoy suddenly introduces tongue. Sure, Voldemort can respect a man's desperate will to live, but thanatophobic as he is, even he wouldn't suck on the toes of a man who is known to walk barefoot, magical or not.
"Alright, that's enough," the Dark Lord orders, and Lucius, aware of his Lord's temperamental ire, swiftly obeys. "Stand up. And while you're at it, take that silly mask off. You look ridiculous."
Lucius promptly discards the mask, revealing his disheveled hair and glistening forehead. His facial expression is devoid of any obvious emotions, but Voldemort can see the subtle lines in his face that just screams tension.
The Dark Lord opens his mouth to speak, and is instead interrupted by the devil-child hanging off his side.
"Geh geh."
The entire right side of Lucius' face spasms, before smoothing out. It almost looks like the man is trying to hold back a sneeze.
Right. Just when I keep forgetting about the little bugger. Why does this baby have such dramatically timed cues.
"I have a task for you, faithful servant of mine," he says gravely, as the baby boy keeps giggling to itself, clearly amused by the Dark Lord's suffering. He ignores it. "It involves the prophesied child."
Lucius still looks like he's either about to pass out or burst out into hysterical laughter, which simply cannot stand. Voldemort glares daggers at the wizard, wand hand twitching, and Malfoy quickly composes his face again.
"As I was saying," Voldemort clears his throat. "That wretched mudblood girl, she conducted a dark, ancient, blood ritual, at the cost of her own life, to--in simple terms--make her baby invulnerable to anyone who wishes it harm. Since I cannot possibly kill it myself, I've decided that I shall raise it instead, and teach it--no, train it to not lift a wand against me. I would require your...expertise, in such a foreign field."
Lucius, who looked to have been following along the whole time, now looks rather puzzled. "But...and my Lord, forgive my impudence, but, couldn't you simply lock the child away, where it can't escape, and leave it to..." The man swallows thickly, his face taking on a sickly sheen of grey. He manages to steel himself. "Let it starve to death?"
The Dark Lord is so repulsed by the idea, he hisses out a series of expletives in parseltongue. Lucius looks quite frightened.
Good, he thinks. He should be, for spewing such utterly idiotic drivel.
"Are you insane?" demands Voldemort, who is the crystal clear delineation of a sane man. "Starve it? This is my prophesied enemy you are speaking of. How dare you even suggest such a paltry, worthless method of extermination. Completely unbecoming of my archnemesis."
Voldemort readily chooses to ignore how he had tried to kill the child earlier by dropping it on its head.
As if to argue exactly this point, the babe makes a whining sort of noise, bumping its head into his sternum. Frankly, though, he feels as though he's put up with quite enough of the Potter boy's nonsense.
"Silence," Voldemort orders with a low hiss--which is clearly a mistake, since the monstrous baby has previously been shown to be defective, and never listens to what he says.
Immediately--and without warning--the child starts crying, for absolutely no good reason. Nasty howling, eardrum-piercing sobs and hysterics, and Voldemort is left reeling from the whiplash of it all.
Voldemort looks down at the ugly little creature. He warns, "Stop."
The baby does in fact, not stop.
In fact, the child's cries only grow louder, and more anguished, as if Voldemort is the one at fault. And sure, he did kill its parents right in front of it, and did in fact try to kill it multiple times, and kidnapped it, and threatened to do it bodily harm, and...
Hm.
Yes, he can see how he might be at fault now.
Voldemort glares at the putrid thing, still bawling its puffy, otherworldly Avada-green eyes out. How does one go about comforting a distraught child, again?
"Calm yourself," Voldemort says, grabbing the baby's chin with his wand hand, and tilting its chubby face to look at him, Avada-green to a deep, crimson red. "I swear I will not try any murder attempts for at least the next twenty-four or so hours. You have no reason to be upset."
The baby weeps harder.
Feeling the bubbling dregs of rage rise up, he forces the evil little cretin onto his dumbfounded follower, who nearly drops the horrid thing.
"Just. Calm it down." Voldemort catches his breath that he hadn't even realized he was losing. He breathes in deeply. "Make it stop crying."
Lucius makes an incomprehensible amount of humiliating, cooing sounds, rocking the baby in a repetitive motion that he remembers seeing the caretakers at his old orphanage do to the babes, and any of the younger kids who could still fit in their arms.
Just as Voldemort thinks the baby will calm down, it starts crying again, even louder than before.
"Why isn't it calm, Lucius," Voldemort says, very calmly.
"I-I'm trying, my Lord. But the baby doesn't seem to--ow! Blasted--" Lucius is interrupted from trying to save his own skin as usual, when the child grabs onto a particularly thick strand of his blond locks, and tugs.
Then, just like that, the baby smiles, and giggles, tugging even harder on Malfoy's poor hair, as the man squawks in pain.
Hm.
Despite himself, the Dark Lord quirks the side of his mouth in amusement.
Maybe the Potter boy isn't so horrible after all.
Voldemort announces his plan to his inner circle, and Severus comes up with an even more ingenious idea.
"Why not allow one of us to continuously try to kill the babe?" he suggests. "You can raise it as your own, and still attempt to end its life." The Potion Master's thin lips twitch in what could pass for a facsimile of a smirk, but his eyes are hollow. "Kill two birds with one stone."
"What a delightfully diabolical plan, Severus." Voldemort nods approvingly. Truly, his most competent follower. Loyal, trustworthy Severus. "I shall give you the honors of fulfilling this role, my most dutiful servant."
Severus bares hideous teeth in mockery of a grin. "I was hoping for it, my Lord."
With that settled, Voldemort checks in on his prophesied enemy, content with watching the magical baby monitor at his side for the rest of the meeting. For whatever reason, he can't seem to take his eyes off of it.
The months pass, and as Severus concocts a disturbingly creative array of murder attempts, none of which work, Voldemort takes care of the child mostly without outside interference.
The baby's first word is, "Dada." How in Merlin's name the baby learned that one though, is a mystery. He certainly hadn't been trying to teach the baby that word.
Voldemort ignores the peculiar flutter in his chest as the baby mumbles nonsensically and calls him dada, dada, dada, all day long, and decides to postpone all his plans later that afternoon, to spend more time...observing the little creature.
Yes, merely observing its behavior. That's all.
Years pass, and it is on one inconspicuous day that the Dark Lord realizes he may have compromised himself, emotionally.
The boy is now four years old, learning how to speak, and like an arrow shot through Voldemort's heart, says very clearly, "I love you, daddy."
The Dark Lord subtly checks for irregular heart palpitations, to see if he's at risk for a heart attack or stroke. Surely it's not normal for his chest to feel like this, right?
The boy, so sweet, so innocent, gives him a toothy smile, Avada-green eyes crinkling at the edges, looking for all intents and purposes a literal angel. Harry says again, "I love you." Though truthfully, it sounds more like, I lub yew.
Mouth dry, he simply responds, "I see."
Internally, however, he's debating whether he should kill whoever taught his s--his prophesied enemy those debilitating words, or reward them.
He decides sparing them should be reward enough, as the boy keeps repeating the words to him the rest of the week, causing him immense chest pains every single time. It is both a blessing and a curse.
Laying down in bed later that night, which the boy has begun to share with him in later months, he stares at the foul little beast sleeping peacefully, curled up as close as he possibly can into Voldemort's side.
Unbeknownst to the oblivious child, the Dark Lord has an actual mid-life crisis.
Fuck. I may have grown attached to this thing.
It's a few days after this, that Severus contacts him via owl, asking when he'll deliver the boy to him for his follower's murder attempt of the week.
Voldemort incinerates both the letter and the bird to a crisp in his rage.
He calls for his dutiful follower using the mark, and Severus, like the loyal, trustworthy servant he is, immediately accepts the summons.
"Your services shall no longer be needed," Voldemort begins, but Severus has a pinched look on his face, and he realizes how that may have come across without further explanation. "No, not--" he huffs in a mix of both irritation and amusement. "Just regarding the boy, Severus. I'm not relieving you of Death Eater status anytime soon."
For whatever reason, though, Severus' pinched expression doesn't abate in the slightest. "My Lord, do you mean to tell me you will delegate this task to another?" Almost imperceptibly, the Potion Master's tone grows frantic, "Forgive me for saying this, but I believe you will find no one else will have made as much progress as I. Do you believe any of your other followers as competent as me?"
Voldemort stares blankly at the man's strange outburst. What on Earth was that? "No, Severus. I believe you to be one of, if not my most competent." He raises an inquisitive brow. "Why, I wonder, is the reason for this more emotional display than usual?..."
And as if it never even happened, Severus' face blanks completely, erasing any disturbance that may have been there previously. "I apologize, my Lord. I wasn't thinking properly. Please forgive my impudence."
Voldemort tilts his head, not unlike a snake would. "Well. To tell the truth, I wasn't planning on replacing you with anyone else. If that's what you were worried about."
Now, it's the other man's turn to stare blankly at him. "So you...are disbanding the plan entirely?"
Voldemort feels like he's being dissected by the Potion Master's cold, beady gaze. Being judged. "Yes. I've decided to focus on other important matters, rather than obsessing over this one regard."
"That is..." Severus' eyes go half-lidded. "Quite self-abnegating of you."
"Indeed." For whatever reason, Voldemort feels as though he's missing something here. Something important.
"Curious," is all Severus has left to say to that. "But I must get going. I left my potions halfway through the cooking process, and they'll likely be overdone if I'm a moment too late."
His most dutiful follower leaves without so much as a backwards glance, yet Voldemort still feels like he's being watched.
One day, feeling benevolent and in a good mood thanks to his killing of a few aurors out in the field, Voldemort implements a system in which the boy may have one birthday wish per year. Anything at all that the boy could possibly imagine, so long as it is within Voldemort's capabilities to provide him.
This turns out to be a grave error on his part, not that he realizes it yet.
"Daddy," Harry says, still young enough to call him by such a childish title. Not that Voldemort minds. "Are you a man?"
Voldemort, who had been reading some old tome he'd gotten for free in the open streets of Knockturn Alley, looks up from the mind-numbingly boring book, not minding a quick distraction. "Yes," he says, mildly amused despite himself. "Why?"
"Oh." The child narrows his eyes in deep thought, looking quite distraught for a six year old. "But I don't think I'm attracted to men."
Voldemort stares at his sweet, chaste child, who doesn't seem to even comprehend what he just said. There are a lot of things to unpack here. He asks in a deceptively soft tone of voice, "Where did you hear such a thing, Harry?"
Harry hums. "Some older boys from school."
Voldemort smiles at the easy, honest answer. Still young enough that he doesn't even consider lying to be a possibility. "We're moving you to another school."
Harry frowns, grumbling under his breath, but doesn't outright argue with him. Voldemort smiles wider, at the lack of any sign of a tantrum from his innocent child.
He goes back to his decrepit book, letting the boy continue to play with whatever array of toys he was playing with previously, as he plans the murder of several children in his mind.
How dare they try to corrupt his precious angel.
On Harry's eight birthday, the boy is strangely somber and looks nervous about something. Voldemort wonders who he needs to kill this time.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks, none-too-gently. "Is someone bullying you? Is it..." He wrinkles his nose in distaste. "Is it...a crush?"
Harry blushes down to the roots of his hair, which seems answer enough.
Voldemort straightens his back, cracking his joints, before settling more comfortably in his loveseat. "Let me tell you a valuable life lesson, Harry." He pats at the free space next to him, which the boy immediately takes as his own, looking at his father figure with wide eyes. "Love is a human instinct which serves the quote unquote, 'human' need for contributing to the survival of the species, through procreation, and the need to be a member of society, through friendships. You see, love is simply a social construct that society has manipulated to its own benefit..."
Three hours later, and the boy's Avada-green eyes have glazed over, head filled with thoughts of pure cynicism and anarchy.
"Do you understand?" Voldemort asks, ready to spiel on some anecdotes, and wax poetic to truly nail in the point, but Harry nods his head so hard, it's a wonder his neck hasn't broken from the strain.
"Good. Now, do you still have this silly crush of yours?" The boy pauses, but eventually nods his head, slower this time.
So obvious.
Voldemort decides to spare the child the no doubt trauma-inducing experience of the birds and the bees, with infections and diseases (and painful mortality, oh my!) thrown into the mix.
It's Valentine's Day, and the boy is giving him a little something for the occasion.
Be My Valentine?
Roses are red.
Pixies are blue
The stars shine bright
But not as bright as you!
I love you ♡
With lots and lots and lots of love, Harry
Voldemort feels a deep pang in his chest, and checks his pulse, as he is wont to do whenever he feels chest pain. One of these days, it'll actually be a stroke, and then who'll be laughing?
He breathes heavily through his nose. "It's...decent."
The boy beams.
Harry is nine, when he suddenly asks out of the blue, "Vee, would you go to Azkaban for me?"
Voldemort pauses in cooking their lunch, setting the magical stove on low heat, and taking off his apron. Something tells him that this might take a while. "What brought this up, Harry?"
The boy frowns, making his displeasure known. "That doesn't sound like a yes, to me."
Clever little thing.
The Dark Lord smiles magnanimously. "I don't make a habit of lying to you," he says, like the liar he is.
Harry scrunches his little button nose up, and Voldemort is momentarily taken aback by the sudden urge to bite it. "But you always lie to me. I can tell, 'cus you suck at lying, and I'm like a...a human lie dissector."
Too clever.
"Detector," Voldemort corrects, absent-mindedly.
"That's what I said," the little liar says, with a completely straight face. If the demon-child doesn't get sorted into Slytherin, he'll eat his own sock.
Feeling a little irritated now, Voldemort answers with a sour, "Maybe. It depends on what for."
Harry hums, deep in thought. "Killing someone?"
Voldemort scoffs. "If I'm sloppy enough to both get caught and leave a witness, then I deserve to be in Azkaban."
Harry hums again, a little louder, as if that will help him think more clearly. "An exchange? Like, what if I killed someone, and got caught, and left a witness, but then they said if you came to exchange yourself instead of me, they'd allow it?"
Voldemort snorts at the hypothetical scenario. "Who is 'they', again?"
"Dunno, ministry schmucks?" Harry says idly, startling a real laugh out of the older man. "So, would you?"
He doesn't even need to think about it. "Absolutely not." The boy squawks in offense. "Calm yourself, child. There would be no need to exchange anything, because I am me. Lord Voldemort. I would break you out, before you even set foot in that prison."
Harry makes a series of complicated facial expressions. Voldemort smirks. "What? Not the answer you wanted? But it's the truth."
"I'd go to Azkaban for you," the boy huffs, not even knowing what he's putting on the line.
"I'd like to think once you encounter a dementor, you'll change your mind. Knowing you, though, you probably won't," Voldemort grimaces. "But I seriously, sincerely hope you do."
Harry hums noncommittally, and Voldemort, suddenly plagued by visions of all the possible horrible scenarios involving dementors, decides that he should do something about them, before they come anywhere near his angel.
"Maybe I wouldn't go to Azkaban for you," Harry says, at last. And Voldemort thinks he's said his piece, but it gets worse. "Not unless it's for a veery special kind of bribe--"
"Do us both a favor and shut your mouth," he hisses.
Harry smiles innocently. "But then how would I receive my payment?"
On second thought, they can have him.
Be My Valentine
Roses are red
Pixies are blue
I want to kiss you (on the lips)
"Well, that's not even a rhyme, is it?"
"Dad. You're missing the point. Also, that last part is in parentheses, so technically--"
"What point? That you lack rudimentary language comprehension?"
A long, aggrieved sigh. "Whatever."
During breakfast, a ten year old Harry sits down with his plate of eggs and sausage and says the most unbelievable thing Voldemort has ever heard in his life, "You know, Vee, normally I understand why incest shouldn't be a thing, but for those of the same sex, wouldn't most of the negative impacts of incest not matter? It's not like they can make a deformed baby if they can't conceive."
"I'm not your biological father," Voldemort blurts in a panic, hoping that that will somehow change the direction this conversation is surely heading.
Harry squints his eyes at him, before nodding his head slowly, looking fairly subdued and contemplative. He shovels a mouthful of breakfast into his mouth. "Mm. Makes sense, I s'pose."
Voldemort feels his shoulders relax and un-tense slightly, not even going to comment on the child's horrific dining etiquette, just as the boy swallows, and continues, "Lucky for me then, isn't it? Wasn't too keen on the incest bit, but now that I know we aren't related..." The boy smiles widely. "So, when are you going to give me my birthday wish kiss?"
Before Voldemort can clarify if he means a forehead kiss or a kiss on the cheek, Harry puckers his lips dramatically.
The Dark Lord wisely retreats from this situation by Disapparating to somewhere in the middle of France. Severus can feed the demon child while he's away, Voldemort won't be coming back until the brat's birthday wish changes.
My Valentine ♡
Roses are red
Pixies are blue
I'm using my hand
But thinking of you
"..."
When Voldemort arrives to the next inner circle meeting, he immediately crucios Bellatrix for teaching his ward to have such horrible, unchaste thoughts.
She laughs and screams in pain-pleasure, and eventually, Voldemort lowers his wand, because this seems less like a punishment and more of a reward.
"You're corrupting him," Voldemort accuses her, after the spasms of pain have mostly settled, and she can probably understand what he's saying. He laments, "Harry used to be so innocent."
She gurgles something sounding like an apology, as blood bubbles behind her lips.
Voldemort sniffs. "You are forgiven." He sighs. "Being a parent has mellowed me out, truly."
The Dark Lord casually steps over Bellatrix's trembling body, still foaming blood at the mouth.
Voldemort sweats, as he stands outside the door to Harry's (their) room.
It's not that he's nervous or anxious about confronting his sort-of pseudo-son about his recent...disturbing behavior, to say the least. After all, Lord Voldemort is above such human emotions. He's better than that. He's more--
Whatever, Voldemort uses his magic to turn the knob. Who knows what the boy might have done to it. He's been such a menace lately. Best to get this talk over and done with.
But just as the door opens, out comes Harry, with a wide-eyed look on his face, cheeks spread wide in a toothy grin. Ah, there's Voldemort's precious angel. "Dad! Vee! Look, look!"
Before Voldemort can even respond, an envelope with a very nostalgic engraving on it is shoved right up to his nose.
Mr H. Potter.
The Master Bedroom,
Riddle Manor,
Little Hangleton,
North Yorkshire.
Ah. The conversation can wait another time, then.
"Give me your hand." Voldemort extends his own in invitation, which the boy snatches up eagerly. "Don't leave my sight, understand?"
The child swiftly nods his head up and down. Voldemort sighs.
Milling about Diagon Alley, they enter store after store, gathering all of Harry's school supplies, and leaving gawking customers and vendors alike in their wake.
No one realizes that the boy by his side is none other than their beloved, prophesied hero-to-be (or has-been, more like, if Voldemort has any say in it), Harry Potter. All they see is the Dark Lord's ward, his protégé, his son. It would be a lie to say that he's displeased by this fact, so he won't.
Finally, they arrive at Ollivander's, to get the boy's wand.
Said boy is practically bouncing around everywhere in his excitement, tugging impatiently at Voldemort's iron-grip hand. "Is it time to get my wand now?"
The old man suddenly appears from behind his shop, a suspiciously familiar twinkle in his eyes, as he locks vision with Harry. "Ah, Mister Potter, I've been expecting--" Those eyes suddenly dart up to the Dark Lord's, and the man's words freeze in his throat. "Ahck."
"Hello, old man," he purrs, dangerously. He can hear Harry making fun of him, swooning exaggeratedly in the background, but he ignores it. Actually, in all honesty, it might not even be exaggerated, and he's not sure if that's better or worse than his pseudo-son simply bullying him proper. "I'm looking to get my son his wand." He puts an emphasis on the son part, and watches with sadistic amusement how fast Ollivander's face pales.
"And future husband," Harry adds, quietly. Voldemort narrows his eyes. Truly, the urge to backhand his child has never been as strong as this moment, but he holds back through sheer mental fortitude.
He makes eye contact with the boy, and says in his mind, Please, for the love of God, shut the fuck up.
The boy, of course, laughs out loud, finding this extremely humorous. Now, normally Voldemort wouldn't mind, as he likes Harry's laugh, but the boisterous cackling is unfortunately drawing everyone's attention.
"Well then?" Voldemort scoffs, now less amused by the old man's stunned reaction. "Find the boy his wand, already."
That seems to snap the man out of it, as he murmurs heatedly to himself, bringing out an array of different measuring tools.
Once the measuring is complete, they go through wand after wand, until eventually, they land on an unusual combination: phoenix feather and holly.
"Curious, how curious..." Ollivander says, as Harry no doubt completely ignores what the older man is saying to him, entirely enamored with his new wand. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. It so happens that the phoenix whose tailfeather resides in your wand gave another feather...just one other. It is curious that you should be destined for this wand when its brother's owner is apparently...your guardian."
Interesting, says one part of Voldemort's brain. Dangerous, hisses the more logical part. He ignores them both, in favor of taking Harry's hand back in his own, dragging them out of that peculiar shop, and to the next.
He always found that mysterious old codger suspicious, knowing far more than he shows.
Voldemort can still feel Ollivander's gaze on them, as they continue walking.
When the time comes, they arrive at the train station with no additional fuss.
People stare, they whisper, but they do not approach. Voldemort basks in the attention, like a plant to the sun.
Harry, on the other hand, looks more or less about to retch sick.
Voldemort smiles at the nostalgia that brings, of their first interaction.
"You'll be fine, Harry." Voldemort is moderately surprised he even had it in him to reassure someone, and judging by Harry's dumbstruck expression, he feels the same way. "No one will touch you. No one will talk badly of you. And if they do, then owl me, and they'll regret it."
Harry scowls. "I can fend for myself, you know. I'm not a kid anymore."
Voldemort raises an eyebrow. "Sure. But if you can't, then owl me." He takes a moment to think of what else needs to be said. "Actually, just owl me anyway." He narrows his eyes. "You'd better not ignore my letters, or I really will siege the old castle and take you back, Order members and ancient rune protections be damned."
Harry rolls his eyes, as if Voldemort isn't being one hundred percent serious.
"Alright." Suddenly, for whatever reason, he feels like he has a lump in his throat. "Go on now."
The boy nods, also looking rather forlorn. "Bye, Vee." A student nearby wearing Hufflepuff robes does a double take at the words, and then the Dark Lord himself, before squeaking in alarm, and, without a doubt, runs off to find their parents. Harry looks at him with watery eyes, only highlighting the sickly Avada-green in them. "Love you."
Voldemort swallows around the lump in his throat. "I know."
The boy, before Voldemort can react, wraps his arms around Voldemort's body, embracing him for a second or two, before letting go and heading for the nearest carriage, struggling to drag his luggage behind him.
Voldemort watches him go, walking to the nearest fireplace, to floo to his next location; the Hogwarts Staffroom.
Before he actually floos there, however, he peers into the nearest reflective surface, pointing his borrowed alder wand at his face, and transfiguring it to suit his purposes.
"Hello, everyone." He smiles, before grimacing to himself. "No, no. That's not right, now is it?"
Steeling himself, he thinks of the weak, starving man locked away in a magical box, provided by one of his more overzealous followers, inconspicuous, stuttering Quirinus Quirrell.
He smiles timidly, before saying, "H-Hello, ev-ev-everyone. I-I'm hon-honored to b-be here."
Brilliant.
He grabs a handful of floo powder, before stuttering out, "H-Hogwarts' Staffroom!"
Green fire, so eerily similar in color to his boy's eyes, erupts around him, before whooshing him to castle grounds.