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Chapter Text

Evil things should not be beautiful, Harry thinks angrily, as he dodges several brightly coloured jets of light. Gold, purple, navy all dance around him as he dodges and returns red, silver, and light blue in turn.

Then Harry sees Voldemort’s ugly mug, and all is right in the world once more.

“I don’t see why you are smiling at me, Harry Potter,” Voldemort frowns.

“It’s because you’re ugly,” Harry replies, and perhaps that was not the best thing to say to an already incensed dark lord, because Voldemort is chasing him now. Harry makes like the road runner and with a quiet “meep!” begins to run, leading Voldemort on a merry chase around the Department of Mysteries.

They duel through the Division of Love Magic, then Soul Magic, and it is in the Division of Temporal Magic that Harry knocks into an aggressively violet potion in a cauldron. Potion contents stream down his hair, neck, and back, soaking him. It feels cold, and wet, and Harry feels distinctly off-kilter, as though he has a middle ear infection, and falls to his hands and knees. Of course potions would be his undoing. Snape will probably throw a party.

Luckily, Harry passes out then, with no more Snape-ish nightmares to plague him.

***

Voldemort races to the site of the potions carnage, eager to see Harry Potter felled, and instead, stops to stare.

“Rodolphus,” Voldemort says, not taking his eyes off of the boy on the floor, “do you know why I love magic?”

Rodolphus, who had caught up with his lord, looks equally surprised by the scene. “No, my lord,” he replies.

Voldemort smiles at the now very tiny, six year old Harry Potter on the floor. “Because it’s such fun.”

***

Voldemort does not get the prophecy that night, but he does get a tiny, sleepy, Harry Potter, dozing with his head against the dark lord’s shoulder while Voldemort displays his prize to Dumbledore and his precious Order, taunting them.

“Look at your failure, Dumbledore!” Voldemort crows. “Look upon my prize, and- eck!” His victory speech is cut short, because Sirius Black has thrown himself at them, and quite nearly got Voldemort with a skin-stripper curse. Honestly, that spell shouldn’t be allowed, Voldemort thinks, as he duels the madman.

“Harry! No!” a bushy haired girl cries, and she too starts throwing spells at Voldemort, and why are there literal children fighting him? This is ridiculous. Then an alarmingly ginger boy throws a literal brain at Voldemort, and he simply can’t take it anymore, this is just beyond the pale.

Voldemort releases a powerful shockwave that knocks everyone back, and he flings himself into the Ministry floo, disappearing with his prize.

***

“He’s still sleeping,” Rodolphus Lestrange observes the sleeping Harry Potter. “Do children usually sleep so much?”

“I think it is due to the effects of the potion,” Voldemort grumbled, picking remnants of brain matter off of his robes. Ugh. “He will wake soon, and when he does-“ Voldemort stops. What will he do?

While the dark lord ponders appropriately dark thoughts, Harry Potter sleeps on.

***

When Harry wakes, it is to the sight of a beautiful woman. He startles, and the woman jumps as well. She then looks at him carefully, as though he will explode, or worse yet, cry.

When he does neither, she reaches towards him, her movements deliberately slow. “Hello,” she says softly. “Hello there.”

Harry just blinks. The woman is nice, and while he doesn’t know exactly where he is, or who she is, she is being nice to him, which is enough of a rarity that Harry smiles feebly back. “H- hello.”

The woman looks shocked for a second, before plastering the smile back onto her face. “Mr. Potter,” she says gently, “do you know where you are?” When Harry shakes his head, she goes on. “You are at Malfoy Manor,” she says, looking for any recognition in his eyes. “You were hurt, and fell down. We brought you here.” She sees neither horror nor understanding, and rises gracefully.

“I am going to fetch someone to see you,” she says softly. “They were waiting for you to wake.”

Harry looks resignedly back at her, and it is a jarring expression to see on a child. “Is it my aunt and uncle?” he asks quietly. “Are they very cross?”

Narcissa swallows, understanding. “No. No, it is not they. It is someone else.” She finds that she is unable to look at the thin, pained child any longer, and leaves. She dares not think what will become of him once the dark lord arrives.

***

“He has awoken, then?”

The dark lord is pleased, Narcissa can feel it. He is probably plotting various tortures to inflict upon the boy.

“He is, my lord,” she says, and quickly adds, “He spoke, and knows not of where he is, and who we are. He has regressed fully, my lord,” she says, and hopes that it is enough.

Voldemort is suitably stymied, but does not speak his thoughts. Instead, he bids Narcissa to leave, his mind racing. Fate has thrown a curveball at him, and this has caused a rare opportunity to come his way. Far be it for Voldemort to not grab kairos as it passes by.

Making up his mind, Voldemort draws his wand, and conjures a mirror.

***

It gives Voldemort great joy to see Rodolphus Lestrange trip over his own feet when He stalks past the man.

It’s amazing the effect a nose and some hair will have on people.

***

“Harry Potter.”

Harry looks over at the tall man by the door in trepidation. The man is, in Harry’s six year old mind, very pretty, with dark hair, burning eyes, and a very straight nose. He is very, very pale, a bit like Dracula.

“H- hello,” Harry says quietly. He doesn't know how the man knows him. Perhaps he is a doctor?

The man stalks forward, all fluid grace. He stares at Harry, with eyes that Harry can now tell are very, very red. Perhaps he is Dracula after all.

“Do you know who I am, Harry Potter?” the man asks, and is surprised when Harry nods.

“Yes,” Harry says, his voice sure. “You’re Dracula.”

That was definitely not what Voldemort was expecting to hear. For a moment, he is taken aback. “I am not he,” Voldemort says instead. “Dracula was the ancestor of all vampires, and he has been dead for a while now. He was killed by a wizard, you know. Van Helsing.”

Harry frowns. To anyone else, it would be adorable. “Magic isn’t real,” he says, making Voldemort’s bowel twist angrily. “Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon say so. They say that when I do weird things, it’s because I’m just a freak.”

Voldemort makes a note to murder the aforementioned muggles. He must remember to pencil in a reminder in his calendar. In response, Voldemort reveals his wand, and conjures a series of tiny sparrows that flutter around Harry’s head before disappearing in a sparkle of glitter.

Harry looks genuinely astounded and awed, of the smile is anything to go by. It makes Voldemort slightly envious, recalling his own first introduction to magic, which involved a burning wardrobe.

Ah. He must also remember to curse Albus Dumbledore when he has time.

“You have magic as well,” Voldemort tells the boy. “You are a wizard, Harry.”

Harry goggles rather sweetly, amplifying his bug-eyes behind his glasses. “No I’m not. I’m just Harry.”

“You are both a wizard and a Harry,” Voldemort replies, eliciting a giggle from the boy. On a whim, the dark lord then holds his wand out. “Here, give it a swish. I give you permission.”

Harry looks uncertain, but does as he is bid. He squeals as a small snake shoots out of the end, landing on the blankets, wriggling frantically.

Voldemort sighs at the small grass snake, nothing so majestic as his own Nagini, but definitely just as dramatic. Voldemort wandlessly banishes the snake to return from whence it came, and looks at Harry, who is now looking slightly worried.

“Will the snake be alright?” Harry asks quietly. “It was very scared.”

Voldemort blinks. Of course, the boy is a fellow parselmouth. “It will be fine. Snakes are, as a species, dramatic. My own snake routinely declares that she will ‘simply perish from hunger’ if I don’t give her at least five mice for breakfast.”

Harry giggles, a not altogether unpleasant sound. “I didn’t know that talking to snakes was magic,” he divulges. “I hear them all the time - they’re all over the park near the Dursley’s house. I just thought that I was hearing other people, because Aunt Petunia-“

“Pray do not speak of that odious woman,” Voldemort says sternly. “Aunt Petunia indeed. Wretched, awful muggle-“

“What’s a muggle?”

“A non-magical person,” Voldemort says. “They are cruel, and filthy. They fear what they don’t know, and they persecute - hurt - wizards. We are hidden from them, living our lives as dirty secrets,” he spits, noting the child’s eyes widen. “We are superior, though, Harry,” Voldemort says lowly, “you must know that. We have powers beyond their wildest dreams, and they would use us, and hurt us.”

Harry blinks rapidly, processing the information. It was true of the Dursleys - cruel, mean people who belittled Harry at every turn. There are others though, like the postman, and the cashier lady at the Tesco’s who always slips Harry a sweet when Aunt Petunia dragged him along to carry the groceries. Mrs. Mills, his kindergarten teacher, had also been nice to him, allowing him to stay behind during recess to draw and avoid Dudley in the yard.

“Not everyone is mean,” Harry says with the certainty of a child. “Mrs. Mills was my teacher and she was always nice, and didn’t make me go out with Dudley. And Miss Clara from Tesco’s always gives me a toffee when Aunt Petunia makes me carry the bags, and Mister Adebayo the postman always says hello to me. So not everyone is bad,” Harry reasons. “But the Dursleys were mean to me, and they told the Polkisses to be mean to me too. And Aunt Marge is awful, she’s the worst.”

Voldemort quietly files all the names of the ‘awful’ people away for extermination down the line. It appeared that the Dursley clan would be going extinct very soon.

What a shame.

“You are a small and innocent child,” Voldemort says slowly, so as not to upset Harry. After all, there was a bigger plan afoot. “You will see the wisdom of my words as you grow. Today has been a long day, you should sleep. I shall see you tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Harry nods. “Goodnight, er, sir.”

Voldemort stops at the address, and then nods in return. “Sleep well, child.”

***

The next morning started with a tizzy when Harry was not found in bed. This launched a manhunt through the manor, until Anthus Carrow found him asleep in the cupboard, with a pillow and a blanket.

When asked why he was in the cupboard, Harry replied that the vampire-man told him to go to sleep, and he always sleeps in the cupboard.

Voldemort is perfectly calm when he tells Harry that the room he woke up in was his own, and that he shall never again sleep in a cupboard. When Harry smiles at him, it makes Voldemort want to punch something very, very hard.

***

Voldemort really underestimated the effect of having a nose and a full head of hair again.

This is highlighted when Jonaquin Avery pinches his bum from behind, calls him ‘doll’, and tells him something lewd about a unicorn horn. He subsequently dissolves in a puddle of horror and shame when Voldemort yells at him for engaging in cad-like behaviour with his lord, you are lucky I don’t crucio you on the spot.

***

It gives Voldemort great joy to have the usually unflappable Severus Snape walk past, do a double take, and walk into a wall when he sees the now banging dark lord.

It’s even better when Harry waddles past, small and sweet, and Severus chokes on a scone.

***

Voldemort is a bit glad that Bellatrix is dead. He doesn’t fancy thinking about what form her obsession would take now that he has regrown his nose and hair.

She was a bit too loud for his tastes anyway, and Rodolphus is happy to have the bed to himself, so all’s well that ends well.

***

The dark lord is very surprised to walk into the kitchen at six in the morning and finds Harry making an omelette. This is made even more surreal by the fact that he is standing on a footstool to reach the stove. The house elves are in a tizzy, and are practically begging Voldemort to do something.

And to think that all he wanted was a cup of tea.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Voldemort asks quietly, so as not to startle the child. Harry jumps nonetheless, and looks around to the dark lord.

“I- I was making breakfast. I always have to make breakfast, and I have to help with dinner,” the boy explains.

Time to expedite the Dursley Extinction. “Child.” Voldemort swallows his anger, and instead of going on, lifts Harry off of the stool and takes the spatula from him. The house elves cheer.

“Sir?” Harry asks softly. “Did- did you not like my eggs?”

Voldemort looks at the admittedly fine omelette in the pan, and flips it himself, before adding some cheese and transferring it to a plate.

Several house elves faint.

As Voldemort eats the omelette, he contemplates the boy before him. “You will not,” the dark lord decides, “cook. That is not to say that the omelette is not good, but it is not necessary. See how the house elves cry when you interfere with their work? Neither will you sleep in the cupboard. It is unseemly.”

Harry nods along to all of these points. “Yessir.”

“You will instead invest yourself in your education by learning your letters and by doing maths.”

“I can read, sir,” Harry said, surprising Voldemort. “And I can do sums as well. I went to school. I got a B in language and an A- in maths. Aunt Petunia wasn’t happy that I scored higher than Dudley.”

“What,” Voldemort says, “is a Dudley?”

“My cousin. He’s big, and mean, and all pink, like an evil balloon.” Then, “Are you my papa?”

Voldemort chokes as a bit of egg goes down the wrong way. It takes several minutes for him to recover while Harry patiently waits. “What- why would you ask me that?”

Harry looks contemplatively up at him. “Dunno. Only, we kind of have the same hair, and you’re being nice to me. So I thought that you rescued me from the Dursleys and now we are going to live together and do magic.”

“I must sit,” Voldemort says, and conjures an armchair in the middle of the kitchen, alarming several elves at the change of decor. After several minutes, he speaks again. “I am not your father. Your parents passed away when you were a babe.”

“Oh,” Harry mutters. “So Aunt Petunia was right about the car crash.”

Voldemort cannot take much more absurdity this day. “Car crash, egads. Your parents were soldiers - active combatants in a war. They died protecting you, if that is any solace.”

Harry blinks, then blinks again. He looks around, before shakily asking, “Can I sit too?”

A more affectionate man would have taken the child into his lap and held him close. As it is, Voldemort just conjures another, tinier armchair for Harry to collapse into. “Take your time,” the dark lord offers. “Gather your thoughts, and then ask your questions.”

Harry does so, and after a while asks, “If you’re not my papa, then who are you?”

The thought of finally being able to execute his grand plan that he cooked up just last night makes Voldemort tingle with glee. Ah, but what an opportunity he has! “I,” Voldemort says archly, “am your Master. I rescued you, and have decided you take you under my wing. I shall train you in the magical arts, and when the time comes, you shall be by my side to enact my plans.”

Voldemort’s stomach jiggles with pleasure at the thought of the shockwaves that will rock the wizarding world when he emerges with Harry Potter by his side, as his own. He cannot wait to see Dumbledore’s oblong face drop in dismay and horror.

Harry seems to make peace with this very quickly. Goodness, but he is a very adaptable child. “You’re my teacher, then,” he says, then smiles. “You’re a very nice teacher, sir, like Mrs. Mills.”

Perhaps when he takes over the world, he will spare this Mrs. Mills, Voldemort thinks. After all, the future is rife with possibilities.

Chapter Text

Narcissa Malfoy is quietly glad to see the child appear again, albeit at the dark lord’s side. He is dressed in a manner similar to the dark lord himself, in dark robes and tiny boots, and is carrying a small bag of parchment and quills.

“I’m going to school!” Harry smiles toothily at everyone.

“You are going with Mrs. Malfoy to the conservatory to study maths and magical theory,” Voldemort corrected the child, not looking up from his morning tea. “Narcissa, I trust you have prepared the boy’s lessons?”

Narcissa bows to the dark lord. “I have, my lord. I remember the time when I taught Draco, and have his old educational toys and activities still, in the attic. I have brought them out for young Mr. Potter.”

“Good,” Voldemort grunts. “It is imperative that his existence remains a secret, but it will not do to have the child go uneducated - not if he is to play a larger role in our affairs in the future,” he says ominously.

***

Voldemort checks in with Narcissa and Harry at around noon, and finds the boy chattering happily to the woman, sitting on her lap and showing her his sums.

He has, somehow, changed his robes as well, now wearing a pale blue set to match Narcissa. There is a tiny sprig of baby’s breath flowers in his hair, and ink stains on his fingers.

Voldemort thinks of saying something, but settles on just waving when Harry spots him and waves at him with both hands.

***

Draco Malfoy comes home for the summer and does an elaborate bow-curtsy combo in front of the dark lord, apologizing for his father’s failures and vowing to be better in his stead.

Voldemort asks wryly if he can kill Albus Dumbledore, and Draco splutters spectacularly. Honestly, in his day, youngsters were more down to murder, not so shirking and snivelling as this.

Still, Voldemort is cognizant of the boy’s mother being one of Harry’s caregivers, and does not push Draco, instead having him act as a spy within Hogwarts.

It’s better than nothing.

***

Draco sees Harry on his mother’s lap, as she hums quietly, smoothing the boy’s hair as he reads from the story of Babbity Rabbity. Draco resigns himself to having the sibling he never wanted.

Harry, in his imagination, thinks that the pale, beautiful, Draco is a magical fairy, and follows him around the house, politely applauding him whenever he does magic.

Draco thinks that he could rather get used to this.

***

In the afternoons when Narcissa is at lunch, Harry squirrels away to go and sit Voldemort, who always receives him with a proper little, “Ah, Harry. Good day to you.”

Harry bows every time, like Auntie Cissa taught him to, and says, “Good day to you, sir.” He then goes and sits next to Voldemort and reads improving children’s books with him, while the dark lord reads Latin treatises on the nature of blood magic or something just as sinister, and plots on how to use said sinister magic against his foes.

In the quieter moments, the dark lord wonders if he has managed to achieve domestic bliss, before quickly dismissing the idea as ridiculous.

(He has).

***

Severus reports back to Voldemort that Sirius Black has gone fully mad and enacted a blood spell as vengeance, so that should they ever meet, he will burn the dark lord’s hands off for daring to touch Harry.

On the one hand, it is an incredibly dark spell. On the other hand, his mother’s portrait has never been prouder.

One Remus Lupin has set aside his vow of vegetarianism and has instead taken an oath to eat the dark lord should they ever meet.

Voldemort wonders how exactly they are supposed to be the Light Side.

***

With Severus feeding intel back to the Order, it is not long before they act. Rather, one Hermione Granger acts.

Voldemort receives an owl at breakfast, with a letter addressed to him with a neat, small hand.

Voldemort,

I am Hermione Granger, writing on behalf of myself and one Ronald Weasley. We have been made aware that Harry is with you, and has regressed to a child.

It has come to our attention that you are raising Harry to be your minion, which galls and appalls me. Harry in any form is a good, pure-hearted boy, and you shall not corrupt him.

While I may not be able to find my friend right now, know that I have taken part in Sirius’ blood spell, and will avenge Harry when the time comes. In the meantime, you are to treat him properly, and if you are cruel to him, I shall rend you limb from limb.

I urge you to reply to this letter posthaste, confirming Harry’s safety. This is, coincidently, his owl, Hedwig. Use your own evil bird. We demand pictures as proof of life, or we will continue to send you mail with crudely drawn pictures of yourself in the nude.

Yours,

Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley

***

Hermione and Ron held true to their threats when every day for five days, the dark lord received images of himself drawn with increasingly smaller penises and laid out in various positions.

Finally, the dark lord had had enough, and made the painful decision to talk to Atticus Lestrange, Rodolphus’ uncle and Voldemort’s old classmate who had tripped and fallen into being a death eater. Atticus only attended meetings when he remembered to, being otherwise too busy being a seer and divining things from entrails. Voldemort hadn’t even branded Atticus because the man could never participate in duels or raids, he didn’t remember to eat half the time.

Seers, as a rule, were creepy and strange people. Still, needs must.

“What ho, Atticus,” Voldemort grumbled, stepping into the man’s house, dodging several crystal balls. “Have you still got that camera of yours?” Voldemort stepped deeper into Atticus’ house, only to finally see the man divining once again, this time with chicken entrails. He is also in the nude, because reasons.

“Voldemort,” Atticus hums. “I foresaw your arrival.”

“And yet, you did not bother with clothes.”

“It is bothersome to have layers of the mundane between the seer and the natural forces of this world,” Atticus replies dreamily. “I kept the camera on the kitchen counter for you, in anticipation of your arrival.”

“Thanks ever so,” Voldemort mutters, gathering up his prize. He leaves quickly, without bothering to tell Atticus to attend the next death eater meeting. In truth, Voldemort really does not want him to.

***

Voldemort sneaks a picture of Harry when the child is practicing his writing, and goes to pen a letter to the teenage menaces.

Granger and Weasley,

I am assuming that you were the ones who tried to duel me and threw a brain at me, respectively. Know that I know your faces and have marked you both for death at my own hand.

Also, how dare you send such crude pictures, knowing full well that there is a small child in the house, what if he had seen it? Was there any particular need to add shading to the drawings?

Here is a picture of Potter. He is well, as you can see, and is practicing his handwriting.

Stop writing to me.

Sincerely,

The Dark Lord

Hopefully, that would be enough to stem the flow of tiny penises in his mail.

***

Voldemort still wondered what to do about Potter’s owl, which had decided to roost in his study of all places, pointedly fouling the desk, making eye contact every time it did so.

Ultimately, Voldemort gives in and gives Harry the owl, and is hugged by a joyous six year old. It is a most beguiling feeling, and Voldemort does not have time to react before the owl flaps off to sit on Harry’s head, nuzzling her beak into her boy’s hair affectionately.

Rodolphus, who had somehow gotten hold of the camera, manages to get a picture of the hug, and leaves it on Voldemort’s desk for him to find.

Voldemort thinks that it is very kind of him not to crucio the man for his impudence. He keeps the picture in his favourite book, Dark Arts Moste Foul.

***

Lord Voldemort is not best pleased to receive another letter from the teenage terrors.

Dear Voldemort,

We didn’t actually expect you to reply, so thank you for that. It went a long way to see that Harry was safe. Why was he practicing his handwriting? Are you actually educating him?

I can send along improving books that I used in my childhood (Hermione).

I have some comics of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle (Ron).

We would like to arrange to meet Harry, if that is possible. I know that you are probably drowning in incredulity at the thought of a muggleborn and a blood traitor anywhere near you, but we are not only Harry’s friends, but his family, and we miss him.

We promise not to bring Sirius.

We’ve also included a drawing of you for old time’s sake. It is clothed.

Best,

Ron and Hermione (and Dean Thomas, artist).

***

Voldemort is actually impressed at the artwork, and has it framed. He will make this Dean Thomas his official portrait artist when he has conquered Britain.

***

Harry was now comfortable enough to lean into Voldemort’s side during their lunchtime reading sessions.

Voldemort thought that it was very nice of himself to allow the incursion.

***

Hermione Granger sends Voldemort a book on child psychology, with a bookmark on the chapter highlighting the importance of socialization on the developing child’s psyche.

There is a note attached that reads, “Socialization with non-death eaters is important”.

Voldemort sends back a note that says, “It’s funnier to see Harry talking to Severus.”

Hermione sends him another book.

***

Dear Voldemort,

I notice you haven’t gotten back to us about the meeting. That’s alright, we figured you would need time to reconcile the idea with your evilness.

Is Harry eating properly? He isn’t used to a lot of food, especially at that age - we found out that his relatives didn’t used to feed him. Don’t give him anything that’s too heavy. He always starts out the year by eating light, and has to build up to it. He does have a fondness for treacle tart though.

Hermione and Ron

***

Voldemort sets the letter on fire with the power of his mind. Rabastan, who is nearby, catches on fire too, but manages to put it out.

***

Voldemort watches Harry as the boy picks at his food, and feels a deep anger and hunger that he has not felt since he was a boy during the war.

Narcissa frets quietly, and keeps giving Harry blended drinks and nutrient potions, but Voldemort suspects that the damage has been done in his early years.

That night, Number Four, Privet Drive, goes up in flames, and Voldemort drinks to his victory.

***

Only no, Voldemort doesn’t really like whiskey. He goes down to the kitchen and gets some lemonade instead.

***

Severus is in the middle of delivering his report during the death eater meeting when Narcissa bursts in. “My lord, you’re here! But Harry said that he was going to your room.”

Voldemort blinks and thinks that women as a whole are terribly dramatic. “Then he can wait in my room. Honestly, I don’t keep state secrets in there, just a bed and- Nagini!”

In a flash, Voldemort leaps over the table, jumps several chairs and phases through walls in a panic. Nagini does not know about Harry, and the boy will be easy prey-

Voldemort bursts into the room, dreading what he will find, only to see Hasry sitting next to his gigantic snake, petting her head as she hisses stories about her greatest hunts to him.

Harry asks.

.

At that moment, Voldemort is so relieved that he strides over and plucks Harry up, ignoring Nagini’s hiss of and places him on the bed.

“That was reckless of you child,” Voldemort scolds, “approaching a strange snake like that! If you would not approach a strange person, then you certainly do not with a snake! Is that clear?”

Harry looks surprised and chastened, and there are tears forming in his eyes as he nods. “S- sorry sir,” he whispers.

Voldemort is not used to feeling like this, but he isn’t given much chance to process his emotions on account of Nagini tackling him to get her new hatchling back.

***

Voldemort says for the tenth time that night. Harry negates this argument by laying his cheek on top of Nagini’s head.

Nagini cries.

Voldemort pointed out tiredly.

Voldemort gives up then, and Nagini goes back to telling Harry about how to find the juiciest hares for maximum taste.

Chapter Text

Snake forays aside, Harry is a remarkably well behaved child - quiet, disciplined, and keeps giving Voldemort food.

“You do not need to give me food,” Voldemort says one day, when Harry gives him some berries. “You do not need to buy my affection. I already maintain that you are a personable child.”

Harry spends the rest of the day glowing like a lightbulb.

***

“Sir?”

Voldemort looks up from the spell he is crafting. He is getting used to looking below navel high now, what with Harry being so small. “Yes, child?”

“Sir, I heard Uncle Lu saying that you’d nabbed me, and I wanted to know if it was true,” Harry said. “But I don’t hate it here! I think you’re nice, and Aunt Cissa is sweet to me, and Draco is pretty too.”

“Uncle Lu,” Voldemort says slowly, making a point to crucio the man, “has a big mouth. I will not do you the disservice of lying to you, Harry. I did, in fact, nab you. There was an accident, wherein you lost your memories, and regressed in age.”

“What’s regressed?”

Voldemort blinks. “Sit. This will take a while.”

***

“So I’m actually fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“And my friends have been bothering you?”

“Endlessly.”

“They… they miss me?”

“I should say so, yes.”

“And I have a crazy godfather?”

“In fairness, his entire bloodline is crazy.”

“And there’s an old man you don’t like.”

“Intensely.”

Harry thought about these facts, and then came to a decision. “Can I go to sleep? Only, my head is hurting now.”

“You may- not here!” Voldemort cries, but Harry had curled into a ball and fallen asleep on the sofa. Seeing her chance, Nagini slugs over and drapes herself over Harry. In the end, Voldemort is forced to leave the room, because Nagini keeps stretching out and encroaching on the sofa.

***

Voldemort is not anticipating Harry’s reaction. He’s not.

The dark lord is fresh off crucio-ing some hapless death eaters,as well as some victims, and is presiding over an evening meeting when Harry comes waddling through. Everyone stops to stare as he approaches the dark lord, and tugs on his sleeve.

“Auntie Cissa says I have to go to sleep now.”

“It is a reasonable hour,” Voldemort agrees.

Harry tugs on Voldemort’s sleeve again, and gestures for him to bend. Lord Voldemort is inflexible, and does not bend to others. Instead he picks Harry up balancing his feet on his knees, and is eminently surprised when Harry gives him a kiss on his cheek, and jumps off with a cheerful “goodnight!”

“Oh I say,” Voldemort mutters, before recovering. “Goodnight, child.” He turns back to the stunned death eaters, and raises his eyebrow archly. “Surely you are familiar with the affections of children? Or have I accumulated a following of the most unloved people in Britain?”

There is a flurry of movement and muttering to bow respectfully and declare unworthiness in the eyes of their Lord, to which Voldemort has to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

At least something here can keep his life interesting.

***

Hermione and Ron pace the playground in anticipation. At the early hour, it is deserted, and Voldemort has specifically spelled this muggle play area to repel all others save for themselves.

“Where is that ugly prick,” Ron mutters agitatedly. He’s brought along his old Martin Miggs comics for Harry, as well as his old teddy - the very one his awful brothers had turned into a spider.

Not to be outdone, Hermione had brought with her several junior mathematics books, colouring books, and art supplies. “Ronald! He could be nearby! If you scupper our chances of seeing Harry, I’ll rip your teeth out one by one!”

“You are more vicious than I gave you credit for,” a smooth voice comes from behind them. Ron and Hermione turn to see the now banging looking dark lord, and really, life is not fair, evil people should look like fish or birds. Instead, Voldemort has seen fit to regrow his nose and hair, and now looks like a refined gentleman in his long coat, trousers, and scarf, because fashion.

“Harry!” Hermione breathes, and Harry peers out fully from behind Voldemort’s legs and smiles heartbreakingly, his cheeks dimpling. Hermione abandons all caution and runs to him, pushing the dark lord out of the way to hug Harry, who is grinning like a tiny lizard, for he is loved and cherished by all.

Voldemort stumbles into Ron, and they end up holding each other in a pose reminiscent of a tango, or a rumba. It is unpleasant for all involved.

“Harry, are you alright? Oh, we’ve been so worried!” Hermione smiled through her tears. “Is that man treating you alright?”

Harry nods. “Uh huh. Mister Mort-“

“What?”

“My name has a taboo,” Voldemort explained. “I would rather not bother with the hassle. Mister Mort is easier for Harry, at any rate.”

“Mister Mort says that he nabbed me, and that I was actually fifteen, and that you were my best friends ever, and that you keep bugging him with letters with stuff for me, so I know that you love me lots, so I love you lots too-“

“He has excellent lung capacity,” Voldemort comments.

“He played seeker,” Ron says. “Do you let him fly, or play quidditch?”

“Quidditch! Don’t be ridiculous, as though any child under my care will indulge in such foolishness-“

“Oi! It’s not foolishness, it’s a sport with a long history of-“

“-the earthly point of such an activity, it provides no substance nor import to society-“

“-a noble tradition where men and women squish their nads on sticks in order to experience the thrill of competition and adrenaline-!”

Harry giggled. “Mr. Mort is arguing,” he points out to Hermione. “He doesn’t like quidditch, or brooms. Whenever we go anywhere, he likes to walk, even when it’s raining.”

“Where do you go?” Hermione asked, keeping her voice light.

“Loads of places! We go mushroom picking in the woods, and hare hunting for Nagini because she’s elderly and complains about her old bones, and we go to get scones from the bakery in the village because Mr. Mort says the Malfoy elves butcher the scones.”

Hermione looked deeply emotional and hugged Harry again. “I’m so glad you’re happy, Harry,” she whispers. “You deserve it. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

“Thanks, you too,” Harry smiles.

“Why is she so emotional, is this a womanly issue?” Voldemort asks.

“I reckon so,” Ron replies sagely. “Hey Hermione, give over, I want to squish Harry.”

Harry squeals happily as Ron proceeds to throw him up in ot the air and catch him, before regaling him with stories about Fred and George’s antics, Ginny’s shenanigans in dating, and Sirius’ blood magic to kill Voldemort.

“Is Black really doing blood magic?” Voldemort asks Hermione.

“Yes,” she mutters. “He’s very intent on getting Harry back, killing you, and de-masculating Lucius Malfoy, in that order.”

“Oh egads.”

When it came time for breakfast, Ron pulls out a packet of corned beef sandwiches, which Harry absolutely falls in love with. “Want one?” Ron offers Voldemort, who looks suitably horrified.

When they leave, Harry is several comics and colouring books richer, and he loves that at some point in his life, he made friends who loved him very much, and continue to do so.

“You might not be the Harry we knew,” Hermione had smiled wetly, “but you’re still our Harry, and we will always love you, so, so much.”

Taking Harry away from his friends had been a tearful process, with several promises of seeing them again to the tearful child. Voldemort was then faced with the conundrum of crying teenaged girl, and when did he sign up for this again?

Still, the dark lord counted it as an overall success, as Harry chattered to him all the way home about how awesome he was for arranging the meeting.

And to think that Voldemort had survived the angry muggleborn without breaking into hives.

***

It struck Voldemort that with his new nose and his luscious hair, he was essentially unrecognizable as a dark lord. This put him in the unique position of being able to go out and about without having people running away with him.

To this end, Voldemort requisitioned Jonaquin Avery as his faux-beau and makes him go around with him to tea cafés and dark arts shoppes and introduce him as one Thomas Gaunt, Lord Gaunt, fromerly Riddle, recently returned from doing research in Costa Rica, surely you remember old Tom, he was head boy from our year.

Honestly, Voldemort thought it was a pretty genius move.

Avery, now betrothed to the most notorious dark lord of the age, firmly disagreed.

***

Of course, Thomas Gaunt would run into a seething Albus Dumbledore in Flourish and Blotts. “Tom.”

“Headmaster,” Tom says, with a thousand watt smile. “How lovely to see you. You remember my fiancé, Jonaquin Avery?”

“Lord Avery,” Dumbledore says, turning to Jonaquin, who has been cringing since two weeks. “I had heard that you had managed to woo Tom Riddle out of seclusion.”

“That’s me, Master of Romance,” Avery flinches. “I’d been pining after Tom since our fifth year, and was too much of a coward to do anything about it,” he recites, falling back on the backstory that the dark lord gave him.

“He even bought me a ring,” Voldemort says, and displays the shimmering emerald ring that Harry had picked out for him at a jewellery shop on the High Street, because they looked like his own eyes, and it would be as though Harry would be with him always.

The subtle messaging is not lost on Dumbledore, who looks seconds away from committing murder. Instead, he opts to step in closer, as though examine the ring. “Enough games,” he mutters, his power crackling around him, “where is Harry?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Tom murmurs back delightedly. “He was most keen on the ring, you know. He picked it himself, because he says that it will be as though we will be together, always.”

“You are so far fallen so as to manipulate the affections of an innocent child, whose love you are undeserving of,” Albus seethes. “Harry, even in his state, is more than the man you will ever be, Tom, and he will find a way to break your hold over him.”

“Hold? What hold? Oh! You mean the way he holds my hand when we go berry picking? Or when he puts his little arms around my neck when he gives me a kiss goodnight?”

Voldemort is revelling in the shade of red that Dumbledore turns, but ultimately backs away. “Come Jonaquin, I recall that my young child has requested that I be home for tea today, as he is going to read me the story of the Giggling Grindylow. Headmaster, a pleasure, I’m sure,” he says archly, and drags Avery off.

“I won’t lie, that was pretty amazing,” Avery admits.

“Your awe and praise is noted,” Voldemort replies. “You did well to keep your cool, Avery. Come, I shall buy you your favourite strawberry tart as a reward.”

“You remembered that I like strawberries?”

“Avery, we slept in adjacent beds for seven years, I know most things about you, including that you kept a sock to sin into in the mornings.”

“Argh, I’d forgotten that, trust you to remember, my lord, with your impeccable memory.”

“Sometimes, a photographic memory is a curse,” Tom mutters, as they veer off to get Avery’s promised pastry.

***

Voldemort returns to find Narcissa decorating Harry’s hair with little flowers, and pointedly does not say anything.

He does, however, compliment Harry when the boy runs to him later on for tea time.

Chapter Text

Voldemort meets his match with the dragon pox. It’s not fatal for children - quite the opposite - only giving them tiny purple dots and a fever high enough to make them uncomfortable.

“It will pass, sweetling,” Narcissa soothes the teary Harry. “You must be brave.”

“But it itches so bad, Aunt Cissa,” Harry whimpers. “I’ll try real hard to not itch though.”

Voldemort, who never had dragon pox, but rather had the lesser chicken pox, knows just what to do, and plunks Harry into a bucket of oatmeal. “There, just what Mother Mort recommends for itchy little boys,” he says, gratified when Harry’s discomfort fades.

Rabastan walks past to see a child marinating in a bucket of oatmeal and the dark lord sitting in a nearby armchair, levitating more oatmeal onto the child, and is suitably horrified. “My lord, I love you, but even I must draw the line at cannibalism!” Rabastan declares heatedly.

Voldemort looks up in shock, because Rabastan is actually quite soft spoken, and this is the first time he has heard the man speak quite so loudly, and to him as well.

“I… love you too? Harry has dragon pox, oatmeal baths soothe the itch. I am not about to eat my own ward, Rabastan,” Voldemort replies bemusedly.

Rabastan spends the rest of the day hiding, but Voldemort is surprisingly alright with people who want to defend his kid.

***

Hermione and Ron panic when they hear through their letters that Harry is poorly, and essentially bombard Voldemort with mail consisting of calamine lotion, fever potions, paracetamol, and bubble bath solution.

Voldemort decides on the jasmine scented bubble bath for Harry, because it is a dignified and calming scent - nothing so common as rose, or lavender.

Harry is entranced by the bubbles and suds, and for a while, forgets that he is itchy.

***

The dragon pox is finally waning, and the purple dots on Harry’s face are fading. He is still tiny, and tired, and holds Voldemort’s hand when he drifts off to sleep. For his part, Voldemort is alright with being fashionably late to death eater meetings.

It is nine ‘o clock before Harry’s fever is broken enough for the dark lord to be able to leave. As he walks out, Voldemort bids Harry his customary, “Goodnight, child.”

Harry, sleepy and not completely coherent, mumbles a faint, “night night, papa,” and thereby wrecks Voldemort’s life and mental balance, and causes him to trip over air and smack into the wall outside the door.

Luckily, he is only seen by Atticus Lestrange, who had chosen this day to bring himself out of seclusion and into the wider world.

“I foresaw a great injury befall you, Voldemort,” Atticus says cryptically. “My predictions are never wrong.”

Voldemort clicks his nose back into place and glares at his old classmate. “Any other predictions about me that you would like to share, now that we’re here?”

“Death circles Lord Voldemort,” Atticus breathed, his eyes glazing over, “and never will he rise again, his place taken by a gentler soul.”

Voldemort blinked, thinking of his many, many horcruxes. “I’m not going to die, Atticus. I think I’ve proved that.”

“Death will claim you, Voldemort,” Atticus hummed, vibrating with psychic energy, “and you will go willingly, finally embracing Death as an old friend.” With that, Atticus flopped over, having overextended himself. “M’tired.”

“So I gathered,” Voldemort said dryly, hefting Atticus onto his back, like a sack of beets. “Come on, then. We’re having a death eater meeting.”

“Are you? Have fun, then…”

“You are a death eater too, Atticus.”

“Am I? We’d better go then, or Voldemort can get a bit crabby, you know.”

***

Atticus falls asleep during the meeting, and Voldemort can’t even be mad at him.

He does have to stop Nagini from eating him, though.

***

Harry calls Voldemort some iteration of papa in his more absent minded moments. As he goes to sleep, there is a “night night, papa”, or a “bye papa” when Harry goes for his lessons with Narcissa.

Voldemort corrects him with less frequency each time.

***

Draco Malfoy is in the impossible situation of balancing a tiny Potter on his knee while the child asks him about Hogwarts. It is surreal, to speak about his favourite places, professors, and classes while threading tiny daisies through Potter’s hair. Something about those jewel green bug-eyes are irresistible.

Draco is in the middle of telling Harry about transfiguration when the dark lord walks in, dripping with somebody else’s blood. “Papa!” Harry cries, upset. “You’re hurt!”

There’s pindrop silence that follows, and one does not need to be a legilimens in order to figure out the meaning behind the popping, red, eyes Narcissa is using on him. “It’s not my blood,” Voldemort settles on saying, and vanishes it. “See? I’m fine.”

“I am sure, however, that the dark lord would like a bath,” Narcissa says pointedly, because the man is dripping on her carpet.

“I’ll draw one, I know how,” Harry says, jumping off of Draco’s lap and running over to Voldemort. “I’ll even use the jasmine bubbles that you like, and I’ll tell you all about Hogwarts - we can go together, papa!”

“I’ve already been to school. I did quite well,” Voldemort says, and is ushered into the bath to be regaled by Harry’s questions.

***

“Can I not have privacy?” is a constant refrain in Voldemort’s life. He is sat in the bath, with Harry sitting on the edge, asking him about Hogwarts.

“You have a childe,” Atticus Lestrange replies, floating in. “You have essentially forfeited your right to privacy. Hello small childe.”

Harry giggles at Atticus’ strange, ancient pronunciation of words. “Uncle Atty!”

“Whose blood was it, Voldemort?” Atticus asks, as Voldemort hurriedly rearranges the bubbles to cover his modesty. “I foresaw a great hunt.”

“A few werewolves,” Voldemort mutters. “I was looking for an artefact in Norway.”

“Did you find it? Validate me, please.”

“Yes,” Voldemort sniffed. “Can I please bathe in peace?”

“Certainly,” Atticus allowed. “Come, childe, I shall show you the ancient art of haruspicy-“

“No! You are not showing your entrails and gibblets to the six year old- stop!”

That was how Atticus was accosted by a nude, wet, and unnecessarily loud dark lord while Harry covered his eyes with his hands and giggled in the corner, because papa was yelling at Uncle Atty who had zoned out again.

***

It's not that Jonaquin Avery is entirely opposed to being engaged. No, he is simply opposed to being engaged to Lord Voldemort, his Lord, and wasn't that something HR would think very odd?

“An engagement party, my lord?”

“Thomas Gaunt’s - formerly Tom Riddle's - formal reintroduction to society,” Voldemort replies, “after spending decades doing research into the nature of runic defensive magic in South America.”

“You would need proof of said research, my lord.”

“I have published, Avery.”

When, Avery thinks hysterically, and eventually finds extremely nerdy papers on unspeakably boring topics penned and published by one Thomas Gaunt, né Riddle, who came into the Gaunt title when his unfortunate uncle kicked it in Azkaban.

Harry giggles when Avery whines, and Voldemort puts Narcissa in charge of planning the event.

***

The event is a midnight party, and Harry has bid everyone farewell, with a very sweet “have fun at your old person party, papa!” for Voldemort, who merely thanks him and then glares at everyone who may dare to mention the form of address.

Harry had lost interest in the party when he realized that there would be no balloons, and lots of The Alcohol instead. papa said The Alcohol was Bad, and therefore, Harry stayed far away from it.

Avery actively wants to die when the dark lord holds his hand, and is thinking whether poison or drowning would be less painful when he is steered onto the dance floor.

At some point, Voldemort raises an arch eyebrow at him, and Avery plucks up his courage to kiss the darkest lord of the age. In fairness, it’s not a bad kiss. It would have been better if Avery was not thinking of his own painful demise if he bollocksed it up.

***

Much of Voldemort’s time is spent trying to stop Atticus Lestrange from telling people about the various horrific fates about to befall them. Eventually, he sends Atticus back to look after Harry and play cards with Rodolphus and Rabastan, who are probably bored at home on account of being escaped convicts.

***

Minerva McGonagall is at the party, which is essentially a class reunion of sorts. She wastes no time in approaching Voldemort, casting a muffliato, and asking him where Harry is.

“Why Minnie, I am sure I have no idea-“

“Oh, drop it, ye slippery eel, I know ye have my bairn. If you’ve hurt him, I’ll throw ye into the loch for Nessie’s brunch!”

“He’s fine, good lord,” Voldemort replies, slightly taken aback at the Scottish threats. “Just yesterday, he read to me about the latest adventures of Martin Miggs the Mad Muggle.”

Minerva’s expression turns disbelieving. “How did ye get your hands on those?”

“The Weasley boy sent them to me.”

“Ah. So that’s why Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley have been sending care packages out. They have seemed more at ease of late.”

“I wish they would send less,” Voldemort says. “I can take care of the boy, you know. He is six, they don’t have many needs.”

“Sirius Black will be very cross when he finds out.”

“Ooh, will you tell him that Harry calls me papa? I thought it a bit strange, but Narcissa keeps glaring at me when I try to correct the child, so I have resigned myself to it.”

“Thomas Gaunt, you are being deliberately cruel now!”

“Well, yes, that comes with the job, you know.”

“I shall be having words with Ms Granger and Mr Weasley for carrying on with an evil cad such as yourself! Good wishes to you and your betrothed!” Minerva cried, and swept away, leaving a rather confused pair behind.

***

Dear Voldemort,

This is Ron, Hermione is having a breakdown because McGonagall screamed her top off at us for communicating with you and not telling anyone.

Any road, we’re glad to hear that Harry’s recovered fully. In the mood for another date? We’ll spring for snacks.

Ron (and Hermione)

P.S. - Congrats on the engagement, I guess? Are you really engaged? Also, do we call you Thomas, or Lord Gaunt now?

***

Weasley,

If I had a breakdown every time Minerva screamed her top off (and I do not appreciate that imagery), I would be a permanent resident of the Janus Thickey ward.

Harry and I are amenable to a meeting (do not call it a date). I am not allowing children to pay my way, don’t be ridiculous. I am an independently wealthy adult.

I shall meet you and Granger at Piccadilly Circus on July 31st, in time for Harry’s birthday, at 3pm. Ask Granger how to get there, she will know. I will not risk Harry being seen in the wizarding world.

Regards,

Lord Voldemort

***

Harry had forgotten his birthday on account of the Dursleys never celebrating it. Voldemort broke his juice glass when he heard.

“Thank you papa!” Harry squealed when Voldemort wordlessly gave him a My First Potions Starter Kit.

“Happy birthday. This present will help improve your mind. Severus says that the next time around you enroll at Hogwarts, he hopes that you might be better at potions.”

Harry is delighted and spends the day leading up to their trip to see Ron and Hermione either on Voldemort’s lap, helping Nagini shed her skin, or helping Atticus with his divination by bringing him increasing amounts of tea and entrails.

At three ‘o clock, Voldemort apparates them into Piccadilly, where they are met by the teen terrors. There are many hugs and kissies (none initiated or received by Voldemort). Harry, ever thoughtful, gives Hermione hand picked flowers and Ron a small, squished sculpture of his own face made from magical clay. This prompts tears and more hugs, while Voldemort dashes around to avoid the niceness and moisture.

They play with Harry and allow him to buy them ice cream (with Voldemort’s money), and he is very proud of himself for managing a financial transaction.

The dark lord is mildly put out at having to eat ice cream and make nice with a mudblood and a blood traitor, even though he actually appreciates them loving Harry unconditionally. Such things are good for his future heir’s mental stability, or so he has read.

“Why is there an angry dog staring at us?” Harry asks suddenly, pointing at a hulking black dog absolutely wishing death upon Voldemort.

“Oh my god, Sirius!” Hermione squeaks in horror, and Voldemort groans into his hands.

“Mate, just… don’t start blasting, alright?” Ron tells Voldemort. “I’ll talk to him, get him around.” With that Ron gets up and approaches the dog, while Voldemort turns to Harry.

“Did he just call me ‘mate’? Not even Avery calls me that, and we’re supposed to be engaged.”

Harry giggles happily, and goes into transports of delight when Ron brings the dog over to their table. “Hi doggy!” Harry squeaks, and is rewarded as the dog bumps him affectionately with its snout, and transforms into a man, who practically crumbles in front of him.

“Oh, Harry!” Sirius gasps, and there is so much emotion in those words that everyone in a fifty mile radius feels it.

Except Voldemort.

“Do you rather mind?” Voldemort asks archly. “One does not snuggle another’s child thusly.”

This leads to a raging argument about whose child Harry is, with no input from Harry. Hermione and Ron lie to passers by that Sirius and Voldemort are splitting up and that they are having a very contentious time negotiating Harry’s custody, and that they were the other children, but were in boarding school.

Several old ladies commented on how sweet the three siblings were, and gave Harry the obligatory butterscotch that lived in their handbags.

After ten minutes of feuding, both men sat down to simmer, while Ron and Hermione explained to Harry about who Sirius was, and why he was yelling at Voldemort.

“Child, do you recall that I told you that you had been nabbed, and had a previous life?” Voldemort asked.

“Yes,” Harry nodded.

“Well, this belligerent fellow was your godfather.”

“Is! I am his godfather, in the present tense! Harry is the apple of my eye, my very heartbeat! You are a cad for stealing him away and brainwashing him-“

“I did not brainwash him, I literally told him not to call me ‘papa’, and he persisted,” Voldemort cut in. “If anything, he brainwashed me.”

“Oh Harry, I love you so much, I missed you terribly,” Sirius whispered, picking Harry up and snuggling him. “Will you come home?”

“To visit?” Harry asked innocently. “Papa, could we visit Uncle Siri and Ron and Hermione? I can make them the cookies that Aunt Cissa likes.”

Sirius bit down on his disbelief at ‘Aunt Cissa’ and settled for giving Harry another kissy. “Harry belongs with me, he always has!” Sirius hissed.

“Harry,” Voldemort said, “would be distraught at being parted from me and Nagini.”

Harry gasped. “I can’t go away! I have to take care of Nagini! She says that she has old bones that hurt when it rains, and that she needs to teach me how to find the juiciest rabbits. Besides, papa forgets to eat lunch, and I have to give him berries.”

“You’ve got to eat, mate, you’re pretty lean already,” Ron said sagely, pointing at Voldemort with ice cream on his spoon, making the dark lord want to cry.

“He’s doing it again, he’s calling me ‘mate’ again,” Voldemort whinged.

Hermione smacked Ron and stared at both men. “Sirius, you know that taking Harry back to Dumbledore is not tenable. He was just sitting on this whole prophecy nonsense for years, when we could have done something if he’d not assumed and thought he knew best! And Voldemort, Harry has other people who love him - would you stop choking, you love him, just admit it - and it’s not right to keep him from Sirius.”

“How dare you insinuate that I - I would lo- lov-“ Voldemort stuttered, only to be interrupted by Harry, smiling guilelessly at him.

“I love you too, papa,” he says innocently, and shattered the dark lord in one fell swoop. Was this truly the end of Voldemort? Sirius hoped it was.

It took Voldemort several minutes to recover, allowing Harry to fill the time by gossiping about Snape, or uncle Sev, to Sirius and Ron.

“-and then uncle Sev yelled at uncle Atty for stepping into the moongem flowers that he was collecting for the ana’s-the-asia potion-“

“Anesthesia, darling,” Hermione smiled.

“-yeah, the anesthesia! But uncle Atty just told him that he had gone a very strange colour, and went all dizzy, and told uncle Sev that he should watch out for a red haired man, and then uncle Sev threw a snail at him.”

Everyone looked at Ron, who looked offended. “If you’ll recall, I have a ginormous family, most of them who are red haired men! Snape might have to watch out for dad, or Charlie, or Percy for that matter! Hey, you alright, Voldemort?”

Everyone refocuses on Voldemort, who is still staring at Harry like he was the most beguiling thing in the known universe. “Harry.”

“Yes?”

“You realize that I am an objectively bad person.”

Harry stares for a bit before saying, “But you’re nice to me.”

“You know that I essentially nabbed you.”

“Yes, you told me, and then you yelled lots at Uncle Lu for talking about it.”

“I have killed many, many people. Your… your parents.”

Harry blinked at this, then nodded. “I thought about that,” he said, “and I think that I love them very much, because you said once that they were soldiers and very brave, and died to save me. Then later, you picked me up and saved me, and also love me. Uncle Atty says that we can hold a see-once to talk to them, and I can tell them that you take care of me and that I still love them.”

“A séance,” Voldemort said woodenly. “Atticus has been chatty of late, hasn’t he,” the dark lord grumbled, bowing to the logic of the newly seven year old.

“He says things weirdly. Like how he says ‘childe’ and ‘evile’.”

“He does have strange pronunciation.”

“Well!” Hermione says decisively, “Now that we have determined how Harry feels, we can get on with his custody. I propose joint custody between Sirius and Voldemort.”

“Black is a Dumbledore toady, and I for one, am strongly against any Dumbledore exposure,” Voldemort says.

“I’m not thrilled by him either, you know,” Sirius says loudly. “He let me languish in Azkaban without a trial, and he was one of the people that signed off on it! Then he left Harry with those dastardly muggles, who are even today living their lives-“

“Er.”

Sirius stops, and stares at his nemesis. “You killed them, didn’t you.”

“I have read that one mustn’t discuss such things near children,” Voldemort replies lightly.

“Oh give over, my papa used to talk about poisoning Honorius Smith at the dinner table,” Sirius snorts.

“Uncle Sev talks about poison too,” Harry tells Ron and Hermione. “He says that Longbutt may poison himself yet.”

“Longbottom?” Ron asks. “Did he say anything about an antidote?”

“No.”

“Merlin, but he’s a rank slimeball.”

“Ron!” Hermione hisses.

“What! He is!”

Meanwhile, Sirius is staring balefully at Voldemort. “You killed people, for Harry’s sake.”

“Well, it wasn’t a big ask. I was glad to do it.”

“Could you do me a solid and snuff Peter out too?”

“I’ll do you one better,” Voldemort smiles. “I’ll leave him, wandless, near the whomping willow. That way, people can see him, and you can do it in public. Clear your name, and whatnot.”

Sirius blinks. “That’s… kind of you.”

“It’s not for you,” Voldemort frowns, and gestures at Harry. “He clearly likes you. Attested to by the fact that he is even now sitting on your lap and feeding you ice cream.”

“Nmm hmm,” Sirius hums through a mouthful of cold ice cream. Then, using his cold lips to his advantage, he smacks a chilly kiss to Harry’s cheek, making the boy squeal.

“I’ll offer you weekends, supervised,” Voldemort says.

“Weekdays, and you can hang out with me.”

“Harry has lessons on weekdays. Weekends, and you come to Malfoy Manor.”

“Malfoy Manor! My gallbladder has spontaneously combusted! Jackdaw House, weekends.”

“Isn’t that Alphard’s old house?”

“That’s right. It’s nice, on the countryside and everything. There’s a lake with tiny frogs that Harry can catch.”

“Reasonable,” Voldemort acquiesces, and Hermione beams at them for putting aside their differences for Harry’s sake. “Weekends, starting at ten in the morning on Saturdays, and ending at midnight on Sundays.”

The men shake on it, and Sirius ruins the moment by remarking that Voldemort’s hands are warm. “I didn’t expect that.”

“And why not?”

“Thought you were part lizard or something.”

“Snake. Part snake. One is a noble crest bearer of my House and wielder of its own wild magics, and the other is a house pest.”

“My pup is no slimy snake, he’s a unicorn,” Sirius smiles down at Harry, even as the dark lord seethes.

“Can I be a bunny?” Harry asks.

“No,” both men say in unison, and then glare at each other for daring to agree with the other.

It’s not harmony, but it’s something.

***

Voldemort stuns Peter Pettigrew and drops him in front of The Hog’s Head, just as Sirius Black apparates in.

Several hundred people are witness to the resulting massacre, Pettigrew’s shrill confessions, and pleas for mercy.

Unfortunately for Peter, they fall on deaf ears.

***

Sirius is cleared, and is given an eye-watering amount of money and assets form the Ministry as recompense for his unlawful imprisonment.

Sirius wastes no time in vacating Grimmauld Place, telling Dumbledore to suck his enormous cock, you sanctimonious prick, and moving into Jackdaw House with Remus, who comes along just so that someone can cook balanced meals.

Kreacher comes too, but no one can figure out why.

***

Before leaving, Sirius asks his mum’s portrait to scream bloody murder at anyone and everyone, especially Dumbledore, whenever they come in.

Eventually, the Order just meets at the Burrow.

***

The first weekend visit happens, and Remus has kittens because no one told him anything.

He calms down when Harry sits on his lap and tells him about his maths lessons.

***

Watching Harry wade into the pond every Saturday afternoon to catch small frogs gives Voldemort a strange feeling that he chalks up to indigestion.

Ron calls this denial. Voldemort calls Ron a fool, and then goes inside to bother Remus into making him tea.

***

Sirius dies a little every time Harry calls Voldemort “Papa”.

Voldemort tells him that he is being ridiculous, and bothers Atticus until the man comes over to hold a séance.

Atticus comes over with the materials necessary for a bonfire, sacrificial elements for the dead, and also no clothes. Voldemort is used to this, but Sirius has a coughing fit while Harry hands Atticus a large leaf and some string to use as a mini loincloth.

The leaf is not big enough.

Avery, who has been requisitioned to carry the ritual materials, has developed an inferiority complex.

“I hope that my lord has no such great expectations of me,” Avery cringes.

Voldemort blinks. “It matters not. I can assure you that you will be more than fulfilled.”

Translation: Did you honestly think I would let you be on top?

Meanwhile, Atticus had set up the bonfire, and spelled his leaf to be fireproof, for good measure. “Gather around, I am commencing the séance,” he calls, as Sirius, Harry, Voldemort, Ron and Hermione, and for some reason, Avery all gather in a loose circle.

As though puppeted by an external force, Atticus' head is wrenched backwards, and his eyes roll back in his head. Avery tamps down on a horrified squeak as Atticus speaks in a booming voice, so unlike his own absent-minded hum. “I summon unto me the spirits of James Fleamont Potter, and Lily Rose Evans. You are summoned by your blood, your beloved, and your bane! Show us a sign, spirits!”

In response, the bonfire rages upwards, and the resulting smoke turns white. “I feel a male presence,” Atticus breathes. “He is centering on the childe. He is loving, and also screaming, for some reason.”

“James screamed a lot,” Sirius chokes. “He never had volume control. Oh, Jaime!”

“Papa?” Harry asks querulously, from where he is held by Voldemort.

“The spirit of James Potter is still screaming,” Atticus informs them. “If I have to guess, he is probably yelling at you, old thing,” he says to Voldemort.

“Clearly I am not harming the boy, why is he screaming,” Voldemort grumbles. “Oh for the love of Merlin,” he sighs, and kisses Harry’s cheek. “There. Proof that I mean no harm. Stop screaming, Potter.”

“The spirit of James Potter is silent,” Atticus relates to the group. “I sense another presence, female.”

“M- mama?” Harry whispers. “Hi mama.”

“The spirit of Lily Evans weeps,” Atticus growls, “she weeps for her son in the hands of her end!”

“Salazar save me,” Voldemort groans, and picks Harry up to kiss him again. “Hear me, James Potter and Lily Evans! I, taking accountability of my previous actions, do hereby take under my care your son. I pledge to raise him as well as I would a child of mine own blood, share with him my bread, my coffers, and my time for as long as I shall live, which is for a very long time indeed.”

“You have confused the spirits,” Atticus declares. “They are now discussing amongst themselves.”

“Even if they do not give me their blessing, I’m still keeping the child,” Voldemort grumbles, not letting go of Harry’s hand.

“I’m keeping you too, papa,” Harry sings, and hugs Voldemort’s leg, which makes him go an odd fuschia colour.

Atticus ruins the moment by having the wind dislodge his leaf, making Ron jump in front of Hermione to protect her sensibilities. “Hermione, noooo!”

“Ronald, it’s alright. It’s just a penis, nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Ron rounds on his friend. “Oh ho! And whose penis have you seen? Was it Krum’s? I bet it was, the slag, I knew he was no good-“

“It was Fred’s, actually-“

It was only acceptable at this point for Ron to dissolve into incoherent babbling, which he did with gusto. Hermione, a clever girl, is able to put together the words “how”, “when” and “freckled”, to which she replies, “Honestly, it was over the summer, I accidentally walked into the bathroom when the door was unlocked. And no, it was not freckled, Ron, good grief.”

Luckily, Ron’s subsequent screeching is drowned out by the raging fire. “The spirits are asking for who else would speak for their son's safety,” Atticus called.

“Jaime old bean, it's Sirius and Remus, mate,” Sirius yells into the bonfire. “We've got joint custody with the other bloke. Harry's a beautiful kid, he's just perfect.”

“The spirits are pleased,” Atticus confirms.

“We're Ron and Hermione,” Ron says into the fire. “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Potter. We're Harry's friends, and pseudo-siblings, I guess.”

“The spirits are approving of you,” Atticus hums. They all turn then to look at Avery, who looks rather put out by everything.

“Go on then, introduce yourself,” Voldemort hisses.

“Oh, er. I'm Jonaquin Avery. I'm engaged to Lord Voldemort,” he flinches. “I guess I do odd jobs for him. Your kid is cute, good job with that,” he finishes weakly.

Just then, the bonfire roars, shooting upwards, before dying out. With it, Atticus collapses, right into Sirius’ arms. “Argh.”

“The spirits,” Atticus whispers shakily, “they approve. They bid their son well, and give him their love. Know that their eyes follow you still, young Harry, and that they are with you in every joy, every sorrow. Blessed are you, childe…” Petering off, Atticus faints gracelessly, the leaf doing little to hide his own blessing.

“Papa!” Harry cries, “Uncle Atty’s fallen over!”

Sighing heavily, Voldemort takes off his cloak to wrap around Atticus’ prone form, then levitates him indoors, where they all gather over tea and scones, because Kreacher will make them submit to manners.

“Does it give you peace of mind, child, to have heard from your parents?” Voldemort asks quietly, balancing Harry on his knee.

Harry nods. “I liked hearing that mama and papa love me still. But papa, we mustn’t do it again, I don’t like that Uncle Atty got hurt,” he says with worried eyes travelling to a still unconscious Atticus.

“It’s very kind of you to think about Atticus,” Sirius smiles. “You’ve got a good heart, Harry.”

Harry smiles, then turns to Voldemort. “Papa?”

“Hm?”

Harry hesitates. “What would you have done if mama and papa didn’t like you taking me?”

Voldemort blinks. “Life, child, is for the living, and I know that you would be happy with me. I would have taken you anyway, and done away with anyone who would have denied me.”

“Creep,” Sirius grouches, even as Harry unleashes a mega-watt smile at his evil papa, who would never, ever, give up on him.

In Harry’s mind, he knows that he is loved by his tetchy, evil, father.

Chapter Text

The school year starts up again, and Harry is forced to bid a tearful goodbye to Draco. Voldemort, who relished going to school to escape the orphanage, does not understand the cause for tears.

“Bye bye Draco,” Harry says quietly, his hand still holding Draco’s. For his part, Draco does not know what to do when confronted with such pure goodness directed towards him. “I’ll miss you lots.”

“Goodbye Harry,” Draco says gently, and feels like a cad when fat tears drip from the boy’s eyes. This is amplified with dread, because the dark lord is looking a hot second away from cursing Draco into a slug. “But you mustn’t cry! I will be back for Yule in a few months!”

“P- promise?” Harry gulps, and oh lord, the dark lord is unsheathing his wand. “You won’t l- leave?”

“What? No! No, of course not,” Draco hurriedly soothes the child. “I will even bring you gifts from Hogsmeade.”

“I don’t want gifts,” Harry says quietly, reaching over from Voldemort’s arms to put his small arms around Draco’s neck. “I just want you.”

At this point, Narcissa is unable to control herself, and a single tear escapes her. “Oh, pardon, how unacceptable of me,” she murmurs, and is surprised when Voldemort bands her a hanky. “M- my lord?”

“A handkerchief,” Voldemort elaborates, “for your expulsions.”

“Oh!” Narcissa gasps, and runs off to powder her nose. Voldemort is very happy to not have to contend with the minds of women.

“Harry, we must let Draco go now,” he says to his child. “Draco, I trust you will write?” Translation: write to Harry, or I will boil your toes in molasses.

“Certainly,” Draco says with the ease of someone who has already given the matter thought. This pleases Voldemort, who nods and ceremoniously boots Draco out the door.

“Come, child,” Voldemort says, turning around, “let us go and bother your godfather and his common-law spouse. You may even make the biscuits that you are so fond of.”

“Papa, are Uncle Siri and Uncle Remus married?” Harry asks, starry eyed.

“No. I don’t think that they even know that they have established an ersatz homosexual marriage. Not everyone is as in touch with their emotions as we are.”

***

Yule is a festive occasion that Voldemort actively tries to hide away from, to little success. He has already found Harry’s gift for him - a little handmade book that Harry has made to relate his original story of The Hungry, Hungry, Basilisk, starring his friend, the Friendly Hippogriff.

He has, to Voldemort’s surprise, gotten most of the details about basilisks correct - something that Nagini takes credit for.

Nagini goes on in this vein for some time, until Voldemort concedes and comes up with a potion to ease her shedding process each month.

Narcissa is rather full on with the celebrations, and can be found humming and decorating Harry’s hair with a little wreath, while he braids little mistletoe berries into her long, golden hair.

Voldemort quickly wears a hat.

The situation is not much better at Black’s residence, where the man has made a small fortune from supplying eggnog to his village pub. The muggles don’t know about the mild cheering charm, and it makes everyone rather chirpy afterwards.

Black has made a non-alcoholic eggnog for Harry and Voldemort, who is strangely touched by this gesture.

Ron and Hermione are also there, which confuses the dark lord. “Do you not have your own families? Why are you always here?”

Hermione looks up and explains, “My parents actually have a holiday house in the village. It’s not far for me to travel.”

“But they are sanguine about your spending time in Black and Lupin’s house? In my day, a girl would never come to a gent’s house without a chaperone,” Voldemort says.

“Well, in your day, women wouldn’t be able to show ankle, mate,” Ron says. “Things have changed.”

“Precisely how old do you think I am?” Voldemort seethes, as Harry giggles and tumbles into Lupin’s arms. “I was born in 1926, not the Tudor times.”

“Well Sirius and Remus met mum and papa, and assured them that they would ‘care for me like a daughter’,” Hermione explains. “I think my parents think that they are helping two men who are longing for a child of their own.”

Sirius pauses and frowns. “I have a child. Harry,” he says, pointing at the boy helping to stir a vat of eggnog.

“Yes, but it’s easier letting them assume than explaining that you and Remus are not actually pining for a child to complete your family unit.”

“Remus, what is this bushy haired girl talking about,” Sirius asks, and deliberately fluffs Hermione’s hair even more. “Ha. I used to use that charm on Lily in third year. Made her hair frizz like the dickens. She pushed me into the lake when she found out that it was me.”

“Suitably vicious,” Voldemort opines.

“Uncle Siri, I got you and Uncle Remus gifts!” Harry cried. “Aunt Cissa taught me how to crochet, and I made scarves. Uncle Remus has blue, and you get green, because Aunt Cissa says it’s your favourite colours-“

Sirius has to bite back a screech because Narcissa knows full well that he hates green, and associates it with Snape. However, he smiles now, because Harry has learned how to crochet, his pup is so talented.

“Aunt Cissa says that these skills will help me make a suitable match once I’m older,” Harry prattled on. “I don’t know what that means, is she talking about quidditch matches?”

“I think your Aunt Cissa really wanted a daughter,” Voldemort mutters. “And you don’t need to marry anyone you don’t like, or at all, preferably.”

“Oh lord, you’re one of those,” Remus realizes.

“Those?”

“One of those fathers who’ll chase all of his child’s suitors away,” Remus smiles. “Because no one can be good enough.”

“Who d’you want to marry, pup-pup?” Sirius asks jokingly, and also because he could see the vein in Voldemort’s skull throbbing.

“I’m going to get older, and then I’ll marry Draco, he’s got nice hair and he always helps me put flowers in my hair, even though Uncle Lu says that it’s not proper,” Harry replies easily, as he grates cinnamon into the eggnog, unknowingly causing both Ron and Voldemort equal amounts of emotional damage.

The pair settle on sitting beside each other, drinking eggnog, and looking mournfully into the distance, until Voldemort realizes that Ron is a minor and takes his boozy nog away.

***

Lord Voldemort finds that he is more frequently having to step into the shoes of Thomas Gaunt to fulfill his duties in the Wizengamot, drafting legislation, and political maneuvering. Not to mention claiming the Gaunt lands, which are now a barren wasteland, acres wide.

“I have a lot of land,” Voldemort muses aloud.

“You can plant berries, papa,” Harry suggests. “Tons and tons of berries!”

“Huh.”

***

“Granger.”

“Hello, Voldemort. Oh, nice ring.”

Voldemort smiles at the compliment towards the Peverell ring on his finger. After all, one cannot leave one’s horcruxes around once they have demolished their ancestral shack. “Thank you. I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

“Oh?” Hermione asks, hesitantly. “Would this involve killing, bloodletting, haruspicy, or inferi?”

“No, daft thing. Could you look up the price of imported raspberries and blackberries in the UK, specifically for wizarding Britain?”

“Alright…” Hermione says slowly. “What for?”

“Price gouging.”

***

Gaunt’s Berry Farm has acres of fresh berries, which seemed to grow practically overnight. Voldemort makes Harry Chief Berry Inspector, and every Friday, he takes Harry down to the farm to watch his child pick ripe berries.

The rest, of course, fly into baskets that Voldemort sells to pad his own pockets, and is set aside for a growing trust fund for Harry.

It is a beautiful sight, to see his ancestral lands come alive once more, and his child beaming up at him with a basket full of berries. The oodles of money are nice too.

***

“Granger.”

“Yes, Voldemort?”

“Do me a favour?”

“…okay?”

“Find me a competent accountant who is rather good at keeping their work private, and is in no way related to Lucius Malfoy.”

***

“Hermione said that you needed an accountant.”

“I did not know that you did accounts, Lupin.”

“Oh heavens. I’ve been investing and managing Sirius’ fortune since he was in Azkaban, so that when Harry came of age, he could inherit it.”

“Wait, we’re rich? Moony, what the hell! Then why do we eat pigeons that you catch for lunch, instead of just buying chicken?”

“There is nothing to be ashamed of in living off the land, Sirius.”

“Your dietary habits aside, can you handle a business account, Lupin?”

“Oh sure, let’s see here- oh my, how on earth did you come into so much money?”

“Price gouging,” Voldemort says proudly.

***

The paperwork for his business is quickly becoming rather much. Voldemort quickly decides that he needs to delegate.

“Weasley.”

“Yes?”

“How would you like to make some money?”

“Say more…” Ron says cautiously.

“I need a business manager that is not related to Lucius Malfoy.”

“Say less,” Ron breathes euphorically.

“You’d need to liaise with accounting, and find opportunities to grow the business’ exports, as well as handle local distribution.”

“Sweet, I can do that.”

“You can hire some underlings, too. I’ll allow two.”

“Do you have any objections working with a muggleborn and a Lovegood?”

“The muggleborn is Granger, I’m assuming,” Voldemort says, “and I didn’t think that there were any Lovegoods left after Santandus Lovegood got himself eaten by a feral gnome colony in Germany.”

“Naw, he had a son, old Xeno Lovegood. Luna’s his daughter, and she travels a lot, has loads of contacts.”

“Santandus Lovegood procreated? Good grief.”

“But yeah, I’ll run your business. Let’s talk salary.”

***

“Ron and I are not going to be full time employees until we graduate, we still need to focus on our studies, and we have NEWTs next year,” Hermione says, as Ron looks upset next to her.

“You’re raining on my parade, woman,” Voldemort growls at Hermione.

“Either it’s part time for now, or you’ll have to go through Lucius Malfoy.”

“…part time it is.”

***

“Papa, would you like to have some berry jam with your toast? I made it myself,” Harry says, beaming up at the dark lord. There is a gooey little smudge on his nose, and Voldmort licks his finger and wipes off.

“Thank you, I shall,” he says, and finds that he enjoys the sweet and tart flavour of the home made jam.

“He likes it!” Harry calls to the house elves in the kitchens, who cheer and applaud themselves.

“Perhaps a little more lemon,” Voldemort calls to the elves, who blink happily and waggle their ears at him sweetly.

Voldemort thinks that his conquest of wizarding Britain wasn’t meant to make everyone so happy, but he’ll take it as a win.

***

“Hi!”

Avery looks up from his newspaper, and then down to where Harry is sitting next to him on the sofa. “Hello,” he replies, a smile coming unbidden to his lips at the boy’s dimpled grin.

“Aunt Cissa says that you’re marrying papa,” Harry gabbled. “Does that mean that you’re also going to be my papa?”

Avery’s brain short circuits as he contemplates his future. “I… I suppose,” he hazards, and is briefly blinded by Harry’s grin. “If your papa lets me. He is rather the possessive sort.”

***

“Harry asked me if I was going to be his papa once we are married.”

“I am his papa,” Voldemort glares at Avery, and yup, he totally called it. “You can be his unfortunate looking mother or something.”

***

To really drive the point home, Voldemort places two pictures on Harry’s bedside table - one of the Potters, who look up at him questioningly before seeing Harry and waving happily - and another of himself with Avery, the latter of whom is looking dubiously at Voldemort.

There is also a small picture of Sirius and Remus in the sock drawer, which Harry giggles at and then puts next to Voldemort’s.

Harry is thrilled by the pictures and tells Sirius, who looks strangely at Voldemort before wordlessly handing him another cup of tea.

***

“What on earth is a Wheezy?”

“Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” Ron corrects him. “I made a deal with my brothers, they own the shop. For every purchase of a Pygmy Puff, you can buy a jar of Gaunt Jam at half price. Puffskeins eat Berries anyway, so they’re marketing it as pet food for half the cost. It’s making us good money, and your old stock is clearing out.”

Voldemort is suitably impressed and pats himself on the back for making good hiring decisions, while Hermione has to pat Ron’s for him.

Chapter Text

Voldemort has been living a blessed life, by all accounts. It is justified, then, that his fall will be all the harder when it comes.

“Time for bed,” Voldemort murmurs to Harry, who has recently taken to cuddling with his arm.

“Okay,” Harry says, and tumbles from the sofa. Honestly, Voldemort is an objectively bad person - how on earth did he manage to end up with the sweetest, most personable child? “Goodnight papa.” Harry looks up expectantly at Voldemort, who belatedly realizes that he has yet to give his son a kissy. The goodnight kiss is delivered, and Harry beams. “Thanks papa. Can Tom have one too?”

Voldemort’s carefully laid house of cards falls with a crash that can only be heard by himself. “T- Tom?”

“Tom’s my friend,” Harry explains. “He lives with me, here,” Harry points to his own heart. “He is a bit lonely and sad, I think, so I try and make sure that he gets Nice things as well.”

No no no no no-

Unable to speak, Voldemort gives Harry another kiss before descending into a silent mental breakdown before slowly coming to the realisation that maybe, just maybe, he is in too deep.

***

“So.” Voldemort has to physically stop himself from groaning as he slumps into the armchair at the Black-Lupin house as Sirius looks disapprovingly at him over tea. “What you’re saying is, you were into some dark shit. Then a bit of your soul broke off and popped into Harry, and now that it’s nearby you a lot, it’s making itself known.”

“Succinct as ever, Black,” Voldemort murmurs over his teacup.

“So my baby boy is being possessed by… you.”

“A younger version of myself, yes,” Voldemort mutters sourly. “The soul, I believe, is growing with Harry. The more magic he is around, the more it ought to make itself known. And when he is with, well, me-“

“Yes, yes, you are the big cheese,” Sirius acknowledges glibly, before pointing at Voldemort sternly with the sugar spoon. “What on earth were you doing mucking around with soul magic? A porlock could have told you that it was a bad idea. Now look, you’ve done gone ripped up your soul like a toffee wrapper.”

Voldemort groaned aloud and slumped. Over the window frame, he could see Lupin showing Harry how to bribe the gnomes back into their corner of the yard. He was strangely proud that his son carried a part of his own soul, but Voldemort recognised that that was mainly the vain megalomaniac aspect of his personality. Soul bits were not healthy for children.

Nagini had more or less confirmed this when he had asked her the previous night, hiss-screaming at him about interfering soul bits and consent. She had then slithered off to coil around Harry protectively and had given Voldemort the stink eye for the rest of the night.

“Clearly, you’re enough of a changed man to fess up and look out for Harry now,” Sirius goes on, “so we’ll obviously help. What’s your idea, then? Find some way to get your soul bit out of Harry?”

“There are prescribed methods to destroy the piece if soul,” Vodemort grits out, “but those come with hazards.”

“You’re probably overthinking things. How do you destroy the soul bit?”

“Basilisk venom and fiendfyre are the most accesible.” Upon seeing Sirius’ alarm, Voldemort sighs. “You see why these methods do not appeal to me.”

“Yeah, no,” Sirius agrees. “Is there any other way?”

“One,” Voldemort hazards. “Regret. But the horcrux is sentient, and I would need to talk it down. I would need to legilimize Harry, and then attack the horcrux from within.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Sirius hummed. “What will you need?”

“Anchors,” Voldemort says. “A runic circle - blood drawn, preferably - to strengthen me, and anchors to pull me back to this world. I will also need to strengthen my own soul first.”

Voldemort did not go into detail about how he would accomplish the latter, and to his credit, Sirius does not ask. Instead, he asks, “Do the anchors need to be sentient?”

“Magic is greatest when channeled willfully,” Voldemort nods. “Magical peoples, beings, and beasts all channel and use magic wilfully, lending to their power. Wizards and witches are strong, and their magic is varied, making them powerful anchors. The strongest would be beasts the likes of dragons, in terms of pure, raw, power. Alas, the last true Dragonborn died out with Circe’s line, leaving us unable to communicate with them.”

Sirius blinks at the deluge of knowledge. “Huh. I’d forgotten about that lore. You sound like my old man, he used to tell us about all of the old folklore.”

“Orion always did enjoy history,” Voldemort recalls. “He would always preside over Yule at the old manor, and we children always appreciated the stories. He even did the voices.”

“You were at school with my dad?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I was at school with Cygnus. Orion was far older than us. People thought it strange that he was invested in me.”

“He was?”

“He rather approved of the Heir of Slytherin,” Voldemort smiles evilly. “He wanted to revive the bloodline, I think. He pushed for Cygnus to court me, but he was madly in love with Druella Rosier. Shows what romantic love is good for - they ended up spawning Bellatrix.”

Sirius spends several minutes in shock at a potential life in some universe wherein Voldemort never rose, and was instead probably Sirius’ favourite uncle. He has to take several fortifying sips of tea, and is still a bit shaken when he says, “Right. Back to the anchors - who were you thinking of?”

“Well. You,” Voldemort says, and raises an eyebrow when Sirius looks askance. “Come now, you are a prodigious wizard, surely your own magical strength is not unknown to you. The Black Bloodline is a strong one. Atticus, definitely, he will need to preside, at any rate. Granger can be the third - it is good to have a woman’s protection for these rotuals. As for a fourth…”

“I have one, but you won’t like it,” Sirius murmured.

“Don’t say Dumbledore-“

“Dumbledore.”

“-egads, certainly not, have you lost your puny mind!” Voldemort hisses, as Sirius smiles at his vehemence. “No. Think of someone else.”

“Avery?”

Here, Voldemort hesitates. “I… I cannot be sure. Not of his loyalty, but of his ability.”

“You’re marrying him,” Sirius points out.

“Avery is my oldest friend,” Voldemort shrugs, “ever since we first sat together on the train. He got stuck in the luggage room, and I had to pick the lock.” Voldemort pauses, caught up in his reminiscences. “When he found out my actual last name, he spent ages trying to trace it to Wizarding ancestry for me. We eventually figured out that I am descended through the maternal line.”

“What is your actual last name, then?” Sirius asks, and smiles impishly when Voldemort recoils. “Oh, go on, you’ve already shown your hand as a mushy papa, and I know you’re not pureblood. No one cares, I hope you realize. Most people follow you because you’re an overpowered traditionalist. What was your name, then?”

“Riddle,” Voldemort bites out, and watches Sirius goggle at him.

“You- you gave up a surname like Riddle, for Voldemort? Mate, you really sold yourself short,” Sirius shakes his head in wonderment.

“Excuse me?”

“You could have been the Dark Lord Riddle. The Enigmatic Lord of the Shadows… Riddle. And you went for some awful French tidbit. Shame, that,” Sirius tsks, and Voldemort seethes. “And now you’re Gaunt! That’s a fantastic name for a dark lord! You had such a bevy of good, solid, English names, and you went with some bad French. Alas!”

“I can’t believe you,” Voldemort hisses, as Harry and Remus walk back in.

“Papa!” Harry beams, and immediately soothes the fire of annoyance in Voldemort’s heart. “Papa, Uncle Remus and I gathered some veggies for lasagna tonight! I saw the pasta - they’re like squares! I couldn’t believe it!”

Voldemort smiles at his son’s innocent wonder and joy in the small things in life. “Square pasta,” he repeats, “what will they think of next?”

Sirius fills Remus in on the plan to find a third anchor for Harry’s ritual over dinner, while Kreacher pointedly glares at everyone and takes Harry upstairs to run him a bath before bedtime.

“Come, little Herakles,” Kreacher says, using the “better and more noble name” that he came up with for Harry, “we is be using the nice rose bubble bath if you is bathing nicely.”

“Okay!” Harry cheers and allows Kreacher to lead him upstairs by the hand.

Sirius watches with a frown, and wonders aloud, “I wonder why Kreacher is being nice to Harry.”

“Maybe it’s because Harry is small and nice to him, and brings him colourful balls of yarn to make himself socks?” Remus hazards.

“Naw, old stick insect is probably up to something.”

“Oh honestly,” Remus sighs, and turns to Voldemort. “Can we tlk about the unspeakably evil acts you committed, and your idea to summon a bit of your soul out of Harry? That actually makes sense.”

Voldemort groans at the reminder of his past, now coming to haunt him. “I just need a third anchor for the ritual - someone strong magically, and not-“

“Dumbledore?”

Voldemort stops to glare at a gently smiling Remus. “No.”

“Well, can you think of anyone else?”

Here, Voldemort falls silent, his fingers running along the slim handle of his fork. Eventually, the dark lord’s prodigious intellect shines through, and his face splits into a dark, satisfied smile.

“Severus.”

“Veto,” Sirius replies promptly.

For his part, Voldemort simply raises an eyebrow. “I will only entertain your thoughts if you can back them up with logic.”

“Easy. He’s a slimeball and a greasy slug, and I refuse to have him around Harry.”

“Harry is already around him,” Voldemort replies. “he squeezes out flobberworm jelly for his potions. Severus says that he rather likes this new iteration of Harry.”

Sirius makes a little moue with his lips and pouts seductively, but only succeeds in Voldemort scooting away from him. “What is he doing, make it stop,” the dark lord orders.

“Sirius, that never works,” Remus sighs. “Honestly.”

Sirius un-moued his lips and frowned. “Still. It’s the principle of the thing,” he says.

“I know better, and am smarter than you,” Voldemort says stoutly.

“Not smart enough to know that one shouldn’t shred their soul like fish flakes!” Sirius cries. “Really, there’s a reason children’s stories don't end with, ‘and he lived happily ever after once he had torn up his inner divinity and conscience, the end’.”

“There are no such stories,” Voldemort refutes. “I should know - Harry insists on reading bedtime stories to Nagini, and I vet the books myself.”

“Oh come on,” Sirius scoffs. “Dolores Dirigible and her Separated Soul? She turns to dust and is scattered across the seven seas because she went on a horcrux spree?” Sirius looks around at an aghast dark lord and Remus. “What, really? Just me? My old man loved reading me and Reg that story.”

“This explains so much about you,” Voldemort murmurs, and lapses into thought, before coming to a firm decision. “Still, my initial thought is solid - Severus will be the third anchor in the ritual.”

With that, Voldemort takes a definitive sip of his tea, and dares someone to refute his logic. As is typical, no one does.

***

“I should be honoured to assist in the ritual, my lord,” Snape says deferentially, when he is informed about his role by Voldemort.

“Stop judging me, Severus,” the dark lord sighs. “I have been told by numerous sources that I mucked up.”

“I would never dare to condescend to my lord,” Snape says simply, and continues to judge him quietly. “How does my lord intend to remove the soul from within the child?”

“Regret, mostly,” Voldemort says. “One pf the only sure fire ways to end a horcrux. And believe me, I am feeling it by the cart load right now. I just got back from talking to Black, and the man was actually making sense about it all.”

“I regret that my lord had to subject himself to such an odious presence,” Snape oozes. “Shall I prepare a cup of tea for my lord, to soothe his sensibilities?”

“Oh, go on then,” Voldemort says, never one to turn down tea. Besides, he needs it tonight.

***

“I had foreseen this-“

“Oh, shut up, Atticus.”

***

Avery was rather upset when Voldemort told him what was going to happen. “Didn’t anybody tell you the story of Dolores Dirigible and her Separated Soul?”

“For god’s sake,” Voldemort sighs.

***

Narcissa won’t stop crying, sniffling and holding onto Harry on the day of the ritual. “Be safe, my sweetling.”

“Don’t cry, Auntie Cissa, it’s only a little procedure,” Harry whispers. “Papa says that I’ll be right as rain soon, and be a healthy boy forever.”

“Let’s go, son,” Voldemort says, reaching one hand out for Harry, the other being occupied with shielding others from Atticus’ lack of clothing in a very particular area. “Atticus, why did you take your clothes off here? We’re doing the ritual at Black’s house!”

Severus tries ineffectually to use his cloak to shield Atticus’ pendulous manhood from the public eye, but is scared off when the thing swishes aggressively in his direction.

“I don’t like being cloaked in elements of the mundane world,” Atticus hums, swaying back and forth, his appendages swaying with him. Giving up on shielding his modesty, Vildemort took his hand away, revealing all, and subsequently had to catch a fainting Narcissa.

Upon arriving at Sirius’ house, Voldemort greeting Sirius with a glib, “You may wish to send your cousin a fruit basket, she just fainted upon seeing Atticus in the nude.”

“I would too,” Sirius said, admiring Atticus’ blessings. “Hello, Atticus. Do you want to set up the ritual in the basement? I cleared a space for it.”

“Very well then,” Atticus hums vaguely.

“Hurry up so that Hermione can uncover her eyes, yeah?” Ron asks, his hands clamped firmly over Hermione’s eyes.

“Honestly Ron, it’s just a penis,” Hermione huffs. “It’s not as though the twins aren’t nudists-“

“What!”

“You live with them, how do you not know this?”

“Papa, how come Ron and Hermione are here?” Harry asks cheerfully. “Don’t they have school?”

“Ah, we took leave for the weekend to look after you, mate,” Ron smiles at Harry. “I made loads of corned beef sandwiches, ‘cause I know that you like them. I also smuggled some treacle tart out of the kitchens-“

“Ron, Harry should be on plain foods till Monday, I am going to make him porridge and as a treat, granola,” Hermione lectures.

“Very reasonable,” Voldemort agrees. “When I was ill as a child, all I got was gruel. Didn’t even get seconds.”

“Papa! That’s awful!” Harry cries, because he is an empathetic and good hearted child. “When we get home, I will make you all the jam sandwiches!”

Ah! What a loving child he had! The dark lord smiles, and squeezes Harry’s hand with gentle pressure. “Not if I feed you first.”

“It’ll never stop being weird, seeing him being nice,” Sirius murmurs.

“Hell, it’s weird seeing him with a nose,” Ron comments, then whisks Harry up into his own arms, stealing him away from his doting papa. “C’mon Haz, the quicker we get this done with, the sooner you’ll get better, then we can trounce Malfoy at quidditch.”

“Auntie Cissa says that I’m too small to go on a broom by myself-“

“Too right,” Voldemort mutters.

“-but Uncle Avery takes me with him, he ties me to his stomach and lets me sit in front!”

Voldemort’s mood sours immediately, because Harry had been having illicit flying sessions. He looks at Snape, who bows his head apologetically. “It is my eternal regret, my lord, that I could not sway the child from broom-jockeying to a more noble art, such as potions. Avery used his wiles and smiles to win the child’s affections, for he is a sly cad with powers of charisma unknown to me.”

“You mean that he smiles at people?” Sirius asks. “Go on, Snippy, give it a go- oh egads, I regret everything, stop doing that - Remus, protect me!”

Voldemort enjoys Harry’s tinkling little laugh, because Uncle Sev is doing his I’m-going-to-use-your-blood-in-a-potion smile, and he is scaring people that he doesn’t like.

There is no time to bask in sentimentality, however, as Sirius is soon giving Harry some lovely chocolate milk dosed with sleeping potion to help him fall asleep for the ritual. Sirius does not let go the entire time Harry is drinking and chatting to everyone, and holds Harry in his lap, occasionally pressing a kiss to his tiny head.

It hurts Voldemort’s twisty little heart to see Harry snuggle into Sirius’ arms and fall asleep, breaths coming in little huffs. “He is asleep, it is time,” Voldemort says quietly, running his hand through his son’s untameable hair.

Sirius is crying quietly, and this sets Granger off, but the girl is made of stern stuff, Voldemort discovers, as she follows Atticus to set up the ritual circle. Lupin is quiet, pensive, as is Snape, who is looking at Voldemort. “My lord, are you sure…?”

Voldemort sighs. “Don’t doubt me now, Severus. He is my child. I cannot be weak.”

“No,” Severus agrees quietly, “you cannot.”

They troupe into the back yard, where Hermione has put Harry down in a nest of blankets and pillows, along with the little satin spread that Narcissa gave him that Harry is adorably attached to. Voldemort enters the ritual circle, and nods to the people outside. “Activate the wards,” he says quietly to Granger.

As one, Hermione, Sirius, Severus, and Atticus all slit their palms and drop their blood to the floor to activate the runes. By the light of their magic, Voldemort leans over Harry, and brushes aside his hair. He sees the scar marring his child’s face, and for the first time, speaks. “I regret it.”

The scar thrums with magic, and engulf the Dark Lord, who fights back with his legilimency. He will not be overcome this day - not when his child’s life is on the line.

Then, in a flash of light, Voldemort is victorious, as his consciousness invades the horcrux, and the man drops to the floor beside his son, waging the next stage of the battle in a new, mental plane.

***

Harry’s mindscape, rather adorably, is Voldemort’s study in Malfoy Manor. The dark lord does not have to look far before he sees Harry, and what can only be the horcrux.

“Hi papa!” Harry beams, looking up. The horcrux, which Voldemort was not prepared to see, is an equally small Tom Riddle. “Papa, this is my friend, Tom, and I’m reading Martin Miggs to him.”

The horcrux looks knowingly at Voldemort, but does nothing to antagonize him or Harry. Instead, it says, “Harry was starting the story about when Martin flew in a plane.”

Voldemort nods, and looks over at his sweet son. “Harry, do you think that I can speak to Tom for a second? You may continue to read quietly.”

Harry, ever the happy plum, nods and smiles. “Tom, maybe papa is going to take you in too! We can be together forever!”

The horcrux smiles back, but doubtfully, even as he exits the room with Voldemort. As soon as the door shuts, the horcrux kicks Voldemort. “That was uncalled for,” Voldemort grunts, as he dodges the next kick.

“I’m- not- leaving- Harry-!” Tom hisses, still trying to kick the dark lord, and good grief, had he been this feisty as a child?

Eventually, Voldemort managed to hold the horcrux-child, and looked him in the eye. “You are an aberration,” he said flatly.

“I know you are, but what am I?”

Good lord. “Your presence is hurting him.”

“No! You’re hurting him, you hurt him before!” Tom shrieks, waves of power radiating from him, sending a draft of air up and around Voldemort’s robes. “I’m protecting him, I always have! He’s mine, he’s mine!”

Voldemort watches the child from his past scream, and in an unprecedented move, bends to be at eye level with him. “I know,” he says quietly. “You’re right.” The little horcrux stopped crying and instead quietened to little sobs. “I understand. But little one, you know that I am also right. If you come with me, we will still protect Harry. He is our boy, after all.”

“B- but I won’t see him again, as me,” Tom whimpers. “I’ll be… gone.”

“No, little one, we will be together,” Voldemort says. “The three of us.”

The horcrux continues to gulp wetly, but eventually starts to nod. “I- I want…”

“Go on,” Voldemort whispers. “Ask me.”

“I want to say goodbye.”

They enter the study once more, and watch Harry, fast asleep by the fire. He had bookmarked the page for Tom to pick up where he had left off. “He loves us so much,” Tom murmurs.

“Yes,” Voldemort agrees. “He does.” After a beat, he turns to his childhood self. “I am sorry, child. For everything.”

Tom nods, mature beyond his years, even as tears continue to fall from his eyes. “I know,” he replied. Then, “I forgive you.”

A flash, untold pain, and then… darkness.

***

“Papa?”

Voldemort opens his tired eyes to the welcome sight of his son smiling down at him. “Papa, you’re awake! Uncle Siri said that you hit your head when you were doing the ritual. He said the ritual worked, and I’m okay now, and we can be together and happy forever now!”

Harry lays down beside Voldemort and hugs him around the middle. This was the moment the others chose to interrupt by walking into the room, Avery leading the pack.

“Hello, my domestic goddess,” Voldemort grumps at his fiancé, who puts down a tray of tea and soup and looked hesitantly at him. Voldemort raises a questioning eyebrow at the dithering man, who slowly leans forward, creating an unspeakable soupy tension in the air, before placing the world’s most awkward kiss up in the dark lord’s face.

“I’m glad that you’re alright, m’lord,” Avery mumbles, as Harry giggles merrily at his intensely awkward parental figures.

“Ye gods, Avery,” Voldemort mumbles through a spoonful of soup. Ooh, tomato. “You act as though we haven’t showered together for seven years and shared soap.”

Avery smiles slightly tremulously, and is swatted out of the way by Sirius, making his way over to Harry. “Pup! Are you alright?”

Voldemort cedes Harry to Sirius and only then realizes that Atticus was sleeping next to him and being tended to by Hermione. “Good lord, Atticus, why are you in bed with me?”

“He lost too much blood,” Hermione explains. “He kind of just flopped over as the ritual was finishing, he held on until you were both out of the woods.”

“Thank you Atticus,” Voldemort nods to his friend, “I am touched.” Then, “Atticus, are you clothed?”

“No,” Atticus admits, and then rolls over so that he is mooning the dark lord.

Really, he completely deserves the scream-fest that follows.

Chapter Text

In the aftermath of the ritual, life goes back to normal. Only, Voldemort cannot seem to shake a feeling of dread every time he looks at Harry, who continues to be small, and pure, and good.

“My lord frets overmuch,” Narcissa says softly as he pours him tea one evening. “Harry is a darling child, and he will love you, no matter what.”

“A comfort though that is,” Voldemort muses, “I still think that the ritual has caused something to come loose. The wheels are moving, and I am discomfited that I know not where they are leading me.”

Narcissa cocks her head slightly, and then smiles. “This is the life of every parent, my lord,” she replies. “We rarely wish to see our children grow up and apart from us, but we take solace in that our children carry us in their hearts, if we have done our job right.”

Her words, surprisingly, are soothing to the dark lord as he watches Harry help Nagini scrub her scales and oil her shiny new exterior, but they are a small mercy.

***

“Of course things are different, old man, you got a honking horcrux out of him and pieced a bit of your soul back together,” Sirius says, when Voldemort confides in him.

“It could just be that with more of your soul, you are feeling emotions more strongly,” Hermione suggests, and honestly, Voldemort shouldn’t be as surprised as he is when she says something smart. He really ought to work on shedding that 1940’s misogyny.

“Perhaps,” he concedes, and makes a mental note to offer Hermione a job when she graduates. Can’t have brains like that going to Dumbledore, or worse yet, the Ministry.

Voldemort watches Harry help Remus in the kitchen, while Avery, who has probably never been in a kitchen before, flounders beside them. It is an endearing sight, not least because Harry has to teach Avery how to knead dough with his tiny hands holding Avery’s larger ones.

***

It only strikes Voldemort later in the night that Avery is the son of a baker, and knows perfectly well how to knead dough. It is therefore with a warm feeling in his stomach that the dark lord rises, and silently walks across the deserted halls of Malfoy Manor.

***

“M- m’lord? Wha- it’s gone one thirty in the morning, is everything alright? Oh Circe, is it Harr-“

“Shut up, Avery,” Voldemort says gently, and they don’t say anything for a long time afterwards.

***

The next morning, the elves have thoughtfully placed a cushion on Voldemort’s chair.

Equally thoughtful, Voldmeort removes it and places it on Avery’s chair, for those truly in need of it.

***

Atticus is looking at Voldemort.

At least, Voldemort thinks that Atticus is looking at him. One can never tell with Atticus. He is rendered correct when Atticus scares everyone in a fifty mile radius by bursting into rapturous prophecy.

“The Dark Lord falls into the embrace of Death, accepting his demise and looking to the past to redeem his future-!”

“Oh shut up, Atticus.”

***

The dark lord, Voldemort realizes, is not being quite so dark lord-y these days, what with his time being split between being the world’s best papa, and being Lord Thomas Gaunt, the hot, wild, banging revolutionary member of the hereditary Wizengamot.

“My lord, the werewolves will get antsy about the lack of raids,” Lucius frets like a wet cabbage. Honestly, it turns his stomach.

“Hmm,” Voldemort hums, not looking up from his paperwork, “I know.”

“Does… does my lord seek to do anything about it?”

“I already have,” Voldemort says distractedly, and reaches over the desk into the drawer, to toss a very ugly skull at Lucius, who squeals whilst catching it.

“Is this- Greyback!?”

“Astute as ever, Lucius. Honestly man, stop flailing, no one liked him, and I did the world a favour.”

“But- but the wolves!”

“They’ll find another leader.”

And they had - specifically converging on Remus’ house where he kept a perpetual kettle going on the boil for tea now. The wolves thought that their Leader collaring the Lord Black as his obedient mate was a real hoot. This misconception was not helped by Sirius walking around the house shirtless with only several jewels adorning his chest.

“Sirius why.”

“Because I was born for the theatre, Moony, and I am playing the role of my life!”

“They think that you are my submissive mate, Sirius.”

“Yeah, it’s fun being a kept man.”

“Sigh.”

***

“Papa, you have mail from the Wizengammut.”

“Wizengamot,” Voldemort murmurs, but takes the correspondence from Harry’s small hands. “Did you take Nagini for a walk?”

“Yup, she taught me to hunt squirrels!”

Voldemort nods, and then pauses. “Open your mouth.”

Harry giggles and opens his mouth. “Papa! I didn’t eat any!”

“Thank heavens. I cannot stand a repeat of the mouse incident,” Voldemort shudders. “Why are your robes grass-stained?”

“Nagini thought it was very rude of me to be bipedal when she wasn’t, so I squiggled beside her.”

“Slithered,” Voldemort corrects, and glares at his unrepentant snake-mother-friend-figure, who unhinges her jaw in a mocking smile.

“Oh my poppet,” Narcissa clucks, picking Harry up, “you need a bath now!”

Harry tucks his head under Narcissa’s chin and smiles in that winning way of his. “Okay, Aunt Cissa. I can draw my own bath, you don;t have to worry. I used to do the baths and clean the washrooms at the Durs- oh, only, papa does not like me talking about them,” Harry whispers as the teacup in Voldemort’s hand melts with the heat of his fury.

Being more restrained in her emotions, Narcissa just frowns. “Indeed not, your papa is justified in his reaction. Come now, up you go, and you can come down for morning tea to say goodbye to your papa before he goes to work.”

Voldemort watches as Harry waddles away with a house elf chasing him, lest he do anymore housework as he is so wont to. “You are enjoying this, far more than Lucius, at any rate,” he says to Narcissa, who has sat down for her breakfast.

Narcissa looks up at him, surprised. “It is my pleasure to host you and your child, my lord,” she says softly. “I do not have the same compunctions as Lucius with Harry and yourself - all I see is a small child and his father trying to make the world work for their circumstances. Happily, your vision for the world and mine are quite similar.”

Voldemort sips at his tea and ponders what he wants his world to look like, and finds that he is happy with it as it is.

***

“Harry? Are you done in the bath?”

“I’m done, papa,” Harry calls, and opens the door to reveal himself wrapped up like a burrito in an oversized towel. It is so sweet a sight that Voldemort cannot help but smile. “I drew a fresh bath for Uncle Atty, because he became messy.”

“This is true,” a muddy Atticus mumbles, waddling in, wrapped in his own towel.

“Atticus, what in Merlin’s name happened?”

“Uncle Atty was outside in the morning, looking for pink hydrangeas for his scrying, and he tripped over Nagini,” Harry giggles. He pads over to Atticus, now under a layer of bubbles, and hands him a little dragon toy. “Here Uncle Atty, you can have this for your bath.”

“Thank you, childe,” Atticus bubbles mysteriously, sinking underneath the bubbles.

“This is the third time this week I had to see Atticus’ buttocks,” Voldemort laments, as he whisks Harry away. “I am seriously considering therapy.”

“What’s therapy, papa?”

“When someone talks at you and makes you feel better.”

Harry reaches up and holds his father’s hand. “You can always talk to me, papa, and I’ll make you jam sandwiches to make you feel better.”

“My lovely son and heir, already career-minded,” Voldemort smiles, in denial that Harry was just a sugarplum masquerading as a child. “You may sit with me anytime you want.”

This is, after all, the one person the dark lord would always have time for.

***

The removal of the horcrux was doing wonders for Harry’s development. Voldemort observed that at long last, Harry was able to keep down the food he was given, and had lost his unhealthy pallor. He remained, however, a very tiny child.

This also meant that Harry’s magical prowess was now free to come to the fore, without the weight of the horcurx’s magic sapping his energy reserves in order to stay hidden within his soul. Voldemort was therefore rather pleasantly surprised to see that he was performing more wild magic, in his own sweet way.

“Those golden flowers are very nice,” Voldemort remarks at the vase on his study desk. “Good eye, Narcissa.”

“That was Harry, my lord,” Narcissa hums happily. “He has been turning various objects different colours all week.”

“Has he?” Voldemort is thrilled. He is even more thrilled when Harry sneezes and inadvertently turns Snape’s hair blonde.

***

Curiously, it is Harry’s growing magic that sounds the alarm bells in Voldemort’s keen and analytical mind. While colour-changing charms are commonplace, the rippling waves of wild magic emanating from his body are decidedly not.

Has Harry’s magic grown stronger after the horcrux was removed? Voldemort’s ideas are justified when there is a crash and a shriek that has the dark lord racing outside, only to see Harry sitting in the middle of a crashed chandelier, sobbing and gasping for breath, while Avery clears the crystal shards around him.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry please don't hate me aunt cissa I’m sorry-“

Narcissa strides forward and decisively pick a wild eyed and panicking Harry up. “Hush chicklet, hush,” she croons. “This is hardly the first chandelier to be destroyed. It was an accident! When Draco caused it to fall, he was playing quidditch indoors, and ignoring my warnings!”

Harry hiccups sadly, and tears continue to spill down his face. “I didn’t mean it,” he whispers fearfully. “It just happened, I promise. It was just my freakiness-“

The dark lord has heard enough at this point, and takes Harry into his own strong hold. “None of that talk, or do you want to dishonour my killing of those horrid Dursley monstrosities?”

“N- no papa,” Harry sniffs.

“Then we shall have no more tears,” Voldemort says, and directs his wand at the chandelier. “Reparo.” The shards reassemble and fly back up to their usual spot on the ceiling. Narcissa notes that the dark lord has offhandedly transformed some of the crystals into diamonds, because he is Like That.

“You have cuts on your hands,” Voldemort notes worriedly, looking at Harry’s hands. “Harry, what happened?”

Harry sniffles sadly, but speaks. “I- I was sittin’ on the sofa and then I got a bad headache. I wanted to go to bed so I got up, but everything went hot and dark, and then- and then there was a loud crack and I looked up and the chan- chandelier was falling and I was so scared, papa-!”

“I cast a shield charm overhead,” Avery interrupts quietly, and by god, Avery is going to get Saviour Sex tonight. “The cuts on his hand could be from when he fell and touched the shards on the floor.”

Voldemort looks at his tiny, clammy, shivering son. He recognized the signs of magical exhaustion, and tucks him close. “Harry, it was wild magic,” he says as gently as he can. “This was not your fault.”

“B- but it never happened before,” Harry murmurs sadly. “I can usually make the headaches better, but I messed up and now-“

“Harry, you have had these headaches before?” Narcissa asks, horrified. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I- I didn’t want to make anyone worry,” Harry whispers, fat tears dripping from his cheeks. “The last time, I was at Uncle Siri’s house, and Uncle Remus was all poorly and cut up real bad, and I just had a headache, and he looked so bad and I was scared for him and didn’t want to be a bother,” he says in a rush, and Voldemort has never wanted to hit something more. Where was Dumbledore when you needed a target?

Nevertheless, this warrants more research and thought.

***

“Given Harry’s unfortunate magical outbursts, I think it might be best if I moved with him to Ri- I mean, Gaunt Manor.”

This idea is quickly abandoned when Narcissa Makes Her Opinions Known, and rather forcefully at that.

***

The house elves corner Voldemort after tea and sit him down before gently telling him that He Knows Nothing, and Why Would You Take The Babe Away, and Haven’t We Done Enough For You and Proven Our Love For Him?

***

“I have a house too, you know,” Avery says loudly one evening while everyone is ganging up on Voldemort, “and they are *my* step-son to-be, and *my* affianced, respectively. By all rights, they should live with me.”

The house elves burst into tears as one, and Narcissa throws a vase at Avery’s head.

***

Sirius decides to join the kerfuffle by descending on Malfoy Manor as Lord Black, decked out in furs and dripping in jewels, his moustache tips waxed into perfect little swirls that make Harry giggle endlessly, in spite of his headache.

“As Lord Black, I outrank all of you,” he declares, “and Harry and his unfairly hot dad should come and live with me!”

“How did you get into my house!” Lucius shrieks.

“Cissa let me in, I bribed her with a necklace,” Sirius replies haughtily.

It is then revealed that Lucius keeps a knife in his cane, as he attacks Sirius with it. It is also revealed that for a Light Wizard, Sirius knows a mind-boggling amount of dark curses - some that even Voldemort takes interest in.

***

“Atticus, why is it that I found my son sleeping in the hydrangea bush at midnight?”

“Oh, I sent him out to gather flowers with midnight dew for my scrying ritual. Look, he got me 10ml of dew, I am a rich man.”

“Atticus, it is past midnight, children are supposed to sleep early!”

“But however will I encourage the next generation of diviners if the childe is held to the rules of the mundane world! Sleep is for those blinded by the trappings of the physical world-“

“Oh shut up, Atticus,” Voldemort seethes, watching the man dance away with his dew drops.

***

“Please don’t go,” Rodolphus says quietly one evening. Voldemort stares at the broken man, paying for his sins with a lifetime of his own unique brand of dementor-induced suffering. “Yours is the only family I will ever know.”

***

“Are we moving, papa?”

“No.”

***

In the kerfuffle of deciding whether or not to move house (they don’t, in the end), Harry’s headaches and wild magic only get worse.

It hurts Voldemort to see his son massaging his tiny temples and apologizing for creating odd wild magic. These incidents included turning Snape’s robes blue, conjuring a pineapple with womanly legs, accidently starting a fire in the garden, turning his own hair into leaves, and on one memorable occasion, summoned an eldritch shadow beast, after which Harry was so scared that he had to sleep between Voldemort and Avery for two nights.

This is not to say that only Voldemort was worried for his son. No, there was also Sirius, Remus, Ron, and Hermione.

Ron’s methods of help tend more toward the culinary. “Mum says that you’re best off with some good chicken soup when you’re off colour,” he says as he stirs a pot and ladles some into a bowl for Harry. “Salt to taste, Haz, eat up.”

“Thank you,” Harry says quietly, and proceeds to be an absolute angel by feeding Voldemort a spoon first. “Papa, eat.”

Voldemort wants to cry, but is too manly and dark to do so. Sirius has no such compunctions, and bursts into tears and smothers Harry with kisses and hugs that has the boy giggling incredulously.

Hermione’s fervour for research kicks into high gear, which Voldemort is equally grateful for. Suddenly, the dark lord’s desk is filled with notes of Hermione’s tidy handwriting on topics ranging from repressed magic, time magic, wild magic in children, and everything tangentially related to it.

At one point, Voldemort decides that he can’t possibly be caring for a child, running a business, being a Wizengamot Lord, and a secret Dark Lord and floos Hermione into his office to organize all of the mounds of research they have put together.

It is a nice reprieve from the stress when Draco walks in with some reports, sees Hermione, and faints.

***

“You really don’t mind that I’m in your house?” Hermione asks Narcissa, who is gliding around gracefully, doing various feminine activities.

“Your work is aiding the dark lord in terms of both his greater plans and maintaining his sanity,” Narcissa says evenly. “Therefore, you are an asset.”

“It doesn’t bother you that he isn’t pushing his dark lord agenda quite so much anymore?”

“I do not care for dark magic for the sake of being dark,” Narcissa hums. “I care that he is a staunch protector of wizard-kind and our traditions. That he does this as Lord Gaunt or The Dark Lord matters little to me.”

“That is… very expedient of you,” Hermione observes, somewhat warily.

“Yes, I know,” Narcissa smiles. “Now, has anyone told you that you would go much further with a bit of lipstick?”

***

“I have a theory,” Voldemort announces himself as he walks into Sirius’ house, where Hermione has taken to staying. Of course, Ron is there too, obediently putting parchment into binders while Hermione tries valiantly to drown herself in paper.

“Good,” Ron says stoutly, and reaches into the walled fortress of parchment to extract Hermione. “Let’s hear it. Hermione’s been spending too much time researching, and she’s moved into the boys dorm because she filled her own bed with books and stuff. If I hear Seamus whinge about not being able to sleep in the nude anymore one more time, I’ll hex his googlies.”

“Tea first, then theories,” Remus says stoutly. “Hermione can go and freshen up in the meantime. Sirius, get a comb, won’t you, and some detangling potion?”

Voldemort resigns himself to sipping on his tea while watching Sirius try and detangle Hermione’s hair and comb through it, only for the hair to try and attack him in turn.

“I did not know that her hair was sentient,” Voldemort remarks. “It is quite reminiscent of the charm on Medusa’s hair. Is she Greek at all?”

“Dunno, but I think her father’s mum was Jamaican. Right, Hermione?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, and then squealed as Sirius tugged at her hair. “Ow, Sirius!”

“Sorry love,” Sirius muttered, “but by Circe, I have never dealt with sentient hair before. Lavender shampoo to calm the locks, that’s the way to go.”

Eventually, Hermione was restored to some semblance of human girl, and Voldemort was able to expound on his theory. “From all the swottiness that Granger keeps sending me, I have come to the conclusion that Harry’s magics are evolving faster than his physical body, presumably due to the effects of the de-aging potion.”

“By Jove, that makes sense, thank Merlin you’re such a nerd,” Sirius cries, slapping his thigh enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” Voldemort mutters bitterly. “Cad.”

“So what do we do then?” Ron asks, ever the man of action. “We can’t suppress magic in a kid, that’s how you make an obscurus, every daft egg knows that.”

“Well yes,” Voldemort echoes, and can’t help but be impressed by Ron’s knowledge of obscure things, as is everyone else. “The way forward, therefore, is to help his body and mind catch up with his magic, lest his own magic do him an injury.”

Sirius hiccups emotionally, because his Harry is going to come back, but also from sadness because this is the version of Harry that he had missed out on for thirteen years. “I… is it best for him?”

“I see no other choice,” Voldemort replied, “and I have considered every possibility. Harry’s safety lies in helping him regain his true form and mental faculties.”

“How do you plan to do this?” Remus asked. “This kind of thing has to be a gradual change, or it will shock his system.”

“That’s right, so that’s a ritual out. I think that I have come up with a suitable potion,” Voldemort said, handing out his work.

“This is fiendishly difficult,” Hermione said. “Are you sure you can do this? I mean, I know you are very accomplished but you are mainly a spellcaster-“

“I don’t need to do this,” Voldemort grinned. “I have a potions master.”

***

“My lord presents me with a challenge,” Snape said, scanning the dark lord’s potion.

“Will it have the desired effect?” Voldemort asked.

“A slow aging potion, intended to reverse a de-aging one,” Snape murmured. “This recipe looks to be in order. It will work, yes.”

“Then I bid you to make the potion, Severus,” Voldemort said. “I recall that the potion that you presented for your Mastery had several similar components, especially the impact of brewing during the dark of the moon.”

Severus lips twitched upwards at the happy memories of sitting alone for days on end with a bubbling cauldron. “A most blessed period of time in my life.”

“Will you be able to do it, Severus? There can be no mistakes,” Voldemort said dangerously.

In the face of mortal peril, Severus glowed as Apollo had stood when facing down Porphyrion, his majesty and virtue blinding the unworthy eyes of his onlookers. “My lord,” he breathed, “I do not make mistakes.

“I make miracles.”

***

After that fateful conversation began Harry’s potions regimen. Being a good boy, Harry took his awful potion when his papa directed him to do so after meals.

“It tastes like socks,” Harry says matter-of-factly, “but papa says its to make me healthy, and he’s very clever, so I listen to him.”

“If only the rest of Wizarding Britain would say so,” Voldemort hums happily.

“I am sure that there are other places in the world where wizards would embrace your ideas, my lord,” Mulciber said obsequiously. “The world is your oyster! Japan, Brazil, India-“

“Mulciber no,” Voldemort says, horrified. “Just… no. Have you not read about colonialism?”

“What?”

“Muggle Britain had colonised India,” Voldemort explains slowly. “They would not embrace me. In fact, I am fairly sure that they would try and kill me harder than Dumbledore.”

“When was this?” Mulciber asks vacantly.

“Egads,” Voldemort says in quiet horror. “Harry, I insist that you read your world history textbook before bed.”

“Okay papa,” Harry replies cheerfully, and waddles off to be the best son ever.

Voldemort then goes and floos Remus to have an intellectual conversation, because that is totally something that they do.

***

The potion does not have a tangible effect on Harry, and in the following months, he remains small, and good, and pure. While part of Voldemort is glad to see his tiny son gamboling around cheerfully with Nagini, part of him also despairs to see the same boy experiencing headaches and bursts of violent magic that make him scared and fall silent as though he expects a punishment to soon follow.

“Why- isn’t- it- working!” Voldemort snarls out between firing off curses at Severus.

“My lord, the potion was made perfectly!” Severus cries, between dancing between evil looking spells that he dearly hopes don't land. “I can attest to this! I tested it myself!”

“On what?”

“I smuggled away Longbottom’s toad and tested it on the animal after subjecting it to a de-aging potion first! It worked fine, I swear, my lord!”

Voldemort pauses and watches Snape scurry away to hide behind the ficus plant. “It works,” he murmurs. “Then why is my child not reacting? His bursts of magic are approaching that of a full-grown wizard.”

“Perhaps it is simply the anomaly of Potter,” Snape grumbles.

Voldemort walks to the window and looks out to where Harry is doing his best to be like his Auntie Cissa and sew an intricate runic design onto a set of Voldemort’s robes. He recognizes it as a protection rune and has to wonder once more how he has been so blessed.

“I will figure something out, my lord,” Snape says softly, following his lord’s gaze. “I swear it.”

Voldemort looks at him curiously. “You don’t like him, Severus, you made no bones of that in the past.”

Snape takes a second before responding. “The child was prophesized to bring peace with his birth, and your demise. As I see it, the prophecy is complete. The Dark Lord I once served is no more, replaced by a man who is his better, only made so by the love of his child.”

It takes Voldemort several minutes to digest this news, and he comes to with Severus pushing a cup of tea into his hands. “You will not repeat this to anyone,” Voldemort says finally. “Egads. You are not supposed to be sentimental and insightful, Severus, you are meant to be a swot with the temperament of an unfixed cat.”

Snape smiles, looking rather like an evil parrot. “I learned at your knee, my lord,” he dumurrs.

“Stop trying to butter me up, I am already having a crisis,” Voldmeort mutters, sitting down on his favorite armchair. “I can’t believe that I have to tell Atticus that he was right.”

Snape knows better than to offer sympathies. Instead, he retreats gracefully, and hopes that the dark lord doesn’t end up killing Atticus.

***

“…”

“…”

“The dark lord’s passage to the Otherworld is nigh, and he embraces his end-!”

“Shut up, Atticus.”

Atticus only smiles vacantly at a sulky Voldemort, who is trying very hard to not melt into the sofa crease.

***

“Papa?”

Voldemort jolts awake in the middle of the night to see Harry at the foot of his bed. “Harry? What is it?” Voldemort croaks.

Wordlessly, Harry clambers into bed beside his father. “I don’t feel well,” he admits. “I’ve had a headache and I’ve been throwing up glitter since dinner.”

Voldemort blinks. His child is a unicorn, apparently. Still, it is better than regular emesis. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Harry admits softly, twisting the blankets adorably betwixt his fingers. “Uncle Atty was already giving you a headache.”

“Atticus doesn’t give me headaches, just gas,” Voldemort mutters, as he moves aside so that Harry can lay down next to him. “You must promise to tell me when you are unwell, Harry. I shan’t have any of this martyring behaviour.”

“Okay papa,” Harry smiles tiredly, and Voldemort’s tiny, twisty heart breaks. He puts it down to Atticus-induced heartburn. “Papa, where’s Uncle Avery?”

“Avery has a cold and is poorly, and he was thoughtful enough to sleep apart so he wouldn’t get me sick.”

“That’s nice,” Harry murmurs. “When you get married, what colours will your robes be, papa?”

“I will wear green, of course,” Voldemort hums, “the same as your bright eyes. Avery can wear whatever he wants.”

“What’s his favourite colour?”

“Blue,” Voldemort says, recalling the seven years Avery kept pinching his Ravenclaw brother’s scarves.

“Oh! Like Uncle Siri’s eyes!” Harry beams. “They’re so pretty, like silver mixed with blue, and so sparkly!”

“Your Uncle Sirius’ eyes are not a normal human colour, he is an inbred anomaly the likes of which should never procreate,” Voldemort frowns as Harry giggles. “Honestly, that man and his whole family are aberrations.”

Harry eventually falls asleep, with Voldemort recalling all of Sirius’ inbred traits and expounding on how repulsed he is at the thought of Sirius’ webbed toes.

***

Later the same night, the dark lord is awakened once again by his son - his now considerably larger son. “I think I hulked out of my clothes,” Harry whispers, shamefaced, and Voldemort gawks at his now teenaged child. It seems that Snape’s potion worked after all.

Harry is holding the blankets around him and blinking owlishly at his erstwhile nemesis, now turned doting father. Voldemort looks at his son - the sinewy, lean muscle born of quidditch, the faded scars across his body, and the bones too sharply visible through his skin. It makes Voldemort rage that no matter what, Harry will always carry the physical trauma of his past with him.

Silently, Voldemort slides out of bed and to his cupboard, returning with some boxers and a robe. “No headache?” he asks, as Harry struggles into the clothes.

“Hm? Ah, no. That was just until… now, I guess,” he says.

Voldemort nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “Good. Go back to sleep then - I am going to get myself some cocoa,” he says, and feels a knot in his chest detangle when Harry smiles at him shakily and slip back under the covers.

As he leaves, Voldemort picks up on a tired little “Goodnight, dad,” and it takes all of his strength of will to not burst into relieved tears there and then. He waits until he gets to Atticus’ room and then cries on him instead.

Chapter Text

Harry’s return to normalcy is greeted with mixed reactions, from Draco’s shocked “PO-ttah!” to Sirius’ howl of joy and tacking Harry to the floor, transforming into a dog, and licking his face.

He licks Voldemort’s face too, after which the dark lord borrows Narcissa’s exfoliating scrub while complaining about her “nasty, slobbering cousin licking my whole face!”.

Ron and Hermione break into Dumbledore’s office to floo in, and have their own emotional reunion. Voldemort still has not got used to the sight of the three of them sitting on the couch under a shared blanket, looking like some horrific amalgamate.

Contrary to everyone’s expectations, Harry takes to being Voldemort’s son with ease. “I remember everything,” he explains one night, smiling at his dad. “Why would I be angry at you after all that?”

“Oh,” Voldemort says, because emotion, and watches Nagini coil around Harry in her own version of a hug.

Narcissa is taking the loss of her small, angel baby hard. That is, until she walks into the dining room and sees Harry arranging the flower vase. After that, she picks up where she left off - that is, embroidery. “It is essential if you are to make a good match,” Narcissa hums during one of their sessions. Harry is just happy to nod along, and revel in the gentle feminine presence in his life.

Atticus, somehow, has not noticed anything amiss. The first morning after the change, he waddled down to breakfast, sat down next to Harry, and hummed an absent “Good morning, childe,” and proceeded to drain the teapot to use the leaves to divine with.

Avery is just a tad stymied by his step-son becoming a teenager overnight, but takes it like a lad, and offers to play proper quidditch with Harry, now that he does not have to hold back. “I was the Slytherin captain,” he reveals, “and seeker in my day. I was scouted to play for Wimbourne, but went into law instead.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Harry asks, awed, because he has not considered that someone apart from Hermione can be smart.

“Just corporate law,” Avery winces. “I handle Thomas’ - that is, your father’s - business interests, among other things.”

Harry’s lips quirk up in a smile. “You call him by his name?”

“Well. Yes? I bought him an engagement ring and we hold hands when we go out in public. I think it’s expected.” Avery does not mention that Thomas Voldemort Gaunt also diddles him on a regular basis, because no child wants to know that.

The best reaction to Harry's return is from Snape, who walks in, sees him, closes his eyes, exhales, and just walks back out. This could be because Sirius was there as well, but Snape usually does worse when it has to do with Sirius.

***

“Dad, can I go back to Hogwarts?”

“No.”

“Um. Can I ask why?”

“Dumbledore.”

“So I’m just going to… stay here? Forever?”

Voldemort puts down his book and looks pensive. “You raise a good point,” he concedes. “To the world at large, Harry Potter has been abducted by the dark lord, and is being held prisoner. The only way you can safely re-emerge is to do so very visibly, so that no questions are raised.”

“With a splash,” Harry nods, understanding that they cannot risk their new life and Voldemort’s cover. “How do we make it convincing that a sixteen year old could escape from the dark lord?”

“When I encounter problems that require drastic measures, I tend to seek out people whose minds work in similarly chaotic and dysfunctional ways.”

Which is how they end up at Sirius' house. Sirius' madness is countered by Hermione, who has become a paying guest.

“She's actually not,” Remus whispers to them. “I put all her rent into a savings account for when she graduates,” he says, glowing like a mother hen.

While they are there, Sirius comes up with The Plan To End All Plans. , as only he called it.

“So we need to get Harry back into the world, right? And keep our old man’s shiny new identity squeaky clean?”

“I cannot believe that you just called me your ‘old man’.” Voldemort remarks, horrified.

“Right-o! I have just the idea, listen up!”

After Sirius’ dramatic recounting of his plan, Voldemort leaned back in his chair and frowned, deep in thought. “Your idea is not without merit, Black. Honestly, I should not be so surprised after all this time.”

Harry beams at everyone, delighted at his family joining forces in his name, and thus diffuses the angry spiel that Sirius is about to belt out in his ear-splitting soprano.

***

And so it came to pass that a raggedy looking Harry Potter ran into the middle of Diagon Alley, chased by the very ugly dark lord. He made a brave stand in the middle of the street, and said several noble things.

The papers would report that Harry was joined by none other than Sirius Black, and the sizzling new Lord Gaunt, who Sirius Black hired as an operative against the dark lord. They did battle, and felled the dark lord - who was simply Avery wearing a large robe and bad makeup - when Lord Gaunt tragically spilt his own blood to protect Harry, causing the Dark Lord’s final curse to rebound (off of Sirius’ wandless portego) and hit the faux-Voldemort instead. The dark lord’s body vanished with a shriek, and he was felled forevermore.

Coincidentally, Avery vowed never to travel by portkey ever again, it made his tummy all floppy.

During the subsequent Order of Merlin ceremony, Harry took great pains to explain that he was being held captive by the dark lord, and that it took Sirius’ and Lord Gaunt’s combined efforts to help free him. Lord Gaunt had infiltrated the death eaters and had grown close to Harry, and so it was no wonder that he thought of Harry as his own child.

“Harry is very lovable,” Lord Gaunt insists, as he shows off his shiny new son to the world. It is no small wonder that I came to regard him as my own.”

“My new dad is brilliant,” Harry tells everyone. “He can do cool magic and Sirius says that it’s unfair that in spite of being so old, he still looks slamming.”

This statement is printed in several newspapers, and Lord Thomas Gaunt earns a new title as Most Smouldering Lord of the Hereditary Wizengamot. This does not help Sirius’ blood pressure, but everyone else is in consensus, so they ignore him.

***

Albus Dumbledore has never expected to be sat across from Lord Voldemort, discussing Harry Potter’s course choices.

“Of course, he will be discontinuing divination with that absolute honking waste of matter that you call a teacher,” Voldemort - now Thomas Gaunt - sniffs. Beside him, Harry smiles sheepishly.

“Uncle Atticus has been teaching me loads, sir,” Harry says. “He has me doing advanced haruspicy now. I actually divined that someone would experience a major financial upheaval. Mr. Malfoy got really scared, but it turned out that Uncle Avery just lost his wallet. It turns out that Malfoy’s owl was using it to pad her nest.”

Dumbledore blinks at the wholesome image of Harry and his evil. father cut as they sit together. “Harry,” he says quietly, “my dear boy, what are you doing? This man-“

“I know, sir,” Harry preempts Dumbledore’s emotional speech. “Trust me, I know. Whatever you’re going to say, I lived it. I lived with him, and watched him destroy pieces of himself for me. I held his hand when we went berry-picking. I felt him hold me the whole night when I had headaches and fevers because of the soul-bit. I watched him become friends with Sirius and Remus, and a mentor to Hermione. He tells her that her skirts are scandalous and they’re knee-length.”

“In my day,” Voldemort says, “a girl’s knees were only to be displayed in private, to one’s special companion - not bandied about like the village broomstick.”

“Hermione’s going to be mad that you likened her knees to the village broomstick,” Harry tells his father. “She’s going to give you another book about the cyclical nature of fashion trends and women’s rights.”

“I wish she would stop giving me books,” Voldemort sighs. “Why can’t she be like Weasley and give me food instead?”

“Ron’s a better cook,” Harry smiles, before turning to Dumbledore. “Did I mention that dad thinks that Ron is funny? He’ll deny it, but I’ve heard him snicker at Ron’s stories.”

“Lies and slander,” Voldemort grumbles, but subsides when Harry smiles fondly at him. Ah! The passage of time has made him a soft, wholesome, family man! No one else must know, Voldemort thinks, not knowing that at this point, everyone and their grandma’s portrait knows.

Dumbledore looks troubled, but does his academic duty and looks through Harry’s course choices. “Harry, you’ve dropped divination and enrolled for runes and the NEWT level? This is a highly challenging course-“

“Yeah, dad said that he would tutor me, and that “no son of his would take a daft course like divination from a dubiously sane hack when I have abducted Atticus and keep him in the second bedroom”.”

“It was so easy to abduct him,” Voldemort smiles. “I just dangled some tarot cards in his face and he followed me home.”

“How did Uncle Avery take to living with Uncle Atticus?” Harry asks.

“Avery knows the value of having a tactical seer amongst one’s court,” Voldemort grins, and totally misses the fact that Avery actually thinks that his husband is just taking care of their hapless best friend, because Lord Voldemort does not have best friends, merely allies, what are you smiling at Avery!

Besides, it is endlessly amusing to see Snape try to kill Atticus, only to fail because Atticus always foresees his plots.

Still not convinced by this wholesome family man, Dumbledore asks, “Harry is in Gryffindor - traditionally your House’s nemesis. Do you foresee any issue with that?”

“You know that school houses don’t really matter, right?” Voldemort says wryly. “Besides, its not as though Gryffindor and Slytherin were not regularly whacking their wands together in their twenties.”

“Dad!” Harry goggles. “How do you even know that?”

“Salazar Slytherin left mounds of records about his life down in the Chamber,” Voldemort reveals. “Most of it reads like softcore pornography, honestly. People didn’t have much to entertain themselves back in the day, you know.”

Harry bursts into giggles while the medieval portrait of Slytherin on the wall looks mortified. His embarrassment is not helped when Gryffindor bursts into his frame and makes an enthusiastic gesture that can only be taken one way.

“Sir,” Harry addresses Dumbledore, “I'm really alright. Things have changed, and I love my dad. He's evil, and tetchy, and keeps denying that he has friends, but he's mine. And I'm going to keep him.”

Voldemort chokes on air at thus Succinct summation of his character, while Dumbledore looks dubiously at Harry. “My boy,” he says gently, “are you absolutely sure about this?”

“Positive, sir,” Harry affirms stoutly, and Voldemort has to pinch himself under his robes to feel anything other than a fountain of love and pride and other soft things generally equated with Hufflepuffs.

Unable to change Harry’s mind, Albus lets the pair leave, only for Voldemort to run directly into Ron and Hermione, who had been trying to eavesdrop and had drawn up a study plan, respectively.

“We overheard that Harry was taking Ancient Runes now,” Hermione says enthusiastically. “As such, I have revised his study schedule.”

“Jolly good,” Voldemort says, looking it over, as Harry and Ron hug each other sympathetically at the travails they will go through on Hermione’s new schedule. Still, it is a future to look forward to.

***

Narcissa is none too happy to hear that Voldemort, Avery, Harry, and Atticus are moving away to Gaunt Manor. “Does my lord have to take Atticus as well?” she asks emotionally.

“Why on earth do you want to keep Atticus?” Voldemort asks.

“I like a full house,” she admits softly. “It reminds me of better days of my childhood.”

“I thought you have a sister.”

Narcissa looks at Voldemort, surprised. “I… not Bellatrix, my lord. Andromeda.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Voldemort recalls. “The healer with the changeling child.”

Naricssa quivers delicately. “I have not spoken to my sister in a long time,” she whispers. “She left us.”

“I saw her just the other day when we went to get Harry’s immunizations done. Do you know that he has not been immunized for anything? Not even the most basic illnesses? I have to take him again in a month-“

“Dad, I can go by myself,” Harry smiles, amused at his doting papa. “They’re just some potions.”

Voldemort, or should we say, Worrywart, chafes at this idea, but knows that Harry is correct. “Well. Fine. For the love of Merlin, Narcissa, if you’re going to be sad and mopey about losing family, then you should come to Sunday lunch more often. Black would love to have you, and you can meet your sister and her awful child.”

“You only say that because Tonks changed her nose to look like yours,” Harry grins. “It’s really a compliment.”

“She paired it with Weasley’s red hair, it was awful.”

“And Sirius’ eyes,” Harry reminds him happily, as Voldemort shudders.

“Those would be her normal eyes,” Narcissa says softly. “The Black eyes,” she says, blinking her own silvery-blue ones.

“Your eyes are lovely, mother,” Draco says sweetly. “If going to Black’s house and fraternizing with the enemy makes you happy, then I will support you.” At Harry’s questioning look, he adds, “I am obligated to say that - as Heir Malfoy, I am beholden to my father’s blood feuds, until I can take over and dissolve them.”

“Dad, do you have any feuds?” Harry asks dutifully, turning to Voldemort.

“Several,” Voldemort grins. “Dumbledore - Albus, that is, I have no issue with Aberforth, he was always nice to me. Minerva McGonagall, she called me an eel last week. Walburga Black - but everyone had a feud with her, including her own son. Any surviving Riddles - they’re just salty that I legally claimed the Baronet-“

“Baronet?” Draco asks quickly. “Is that not a muggle title?”

Voldemort blinks. “Yes. It’s just some hereditary title, I am apparently related to some minor muggle prince from way back when, who gave land holdings in Little Hangleton to anyone who helped him in some war or the other.”

“The Gaunts had lands too,” Harry recalls, thinking about the now blooming berry farm.

Voldemort hums. “Yes, the Gaunts were olden mages who helped said prince, and so grateful was he, that he gave them the fen in Hangleton. It was all swell till they started inbreeding.”

“So… you’re descended from royalty?” Harry asks, while Draco combusts.

“Well, yes. It was a long time ago, child, when wizards and muggles actually coexisted and cooperated. Practically Arthurian. It all went south around the dark ages.”

“Wow,” Harry says, enthralled. “You should teach history, dad, it's much more interesting when you talk about it.” Then, “Why is Draco purple?”

“What a unique shade,” Voldemort observes keenly. “Is it due to the royalty bit, Draco, or the coexisting bit?”

“Co- coex- muggle-!”

“A pity that Binns is not more useful,” Voldemort hums, then indulges in a spot of mischief. “Draco.”

“Y- yes m’lord?”

“My gardener is a muggle.”

Harry giggles as Draco falls apart completely, even as Narcissa looks dubious. “Is that wise, my lord, to keep one of them so close at hand? You may be discovered.”

“I was, the first time, and I killed him. Joel Burnham is new, but just as old and crotchety,” Voldemort recalls.

“Mr. Burnham already knows, I think,” Harry muses. “He said to me that ‘yer da is an odd fella’ with them poisonous plants and robes an’ such, but he pays well enough, an’ that’s what’s important - treating a man’s labour right’.”

“Was that your country accent?” Voldemort asks Harry in horror, as his son smiles impishly at him. “Good grief, never do that again, you must enunciate properly at all times, or you may as well be a Weasley.”

At this, Draco comes back to life and sparkles at his Lord And Saviour Of Wizarding Tradition And Whatnot, because nothing was more posh than slandering a Weasley. Draco then drags the dark lord into discussion about class and royalty and such, because not only is the Dark Lord a paragon of dark magic and a descendant of Slytherin, but is also related to Arthurian Royalty, and Draco is going to sop up all of that air of refinement and power.

Voldemort glares at his son, giggling at his plight, and forces himself to endure yet another generation of Malfoys.

***

“Avery, what are you doing?”

Avery and Harry look up from where they were looking at colour swatches. “We’re looking at colours for the wedding robes.”

Ah, yes. Robes. Robes for the wedding. Robes for the wedding that he was a part of. “Yes, of course.”

Avery looks tiredly fond of his fiancé. “I’m going with a dark blue outer robe and pale blue inner. Harry is thinking of a pale purp-“

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“He’s my son, and therefore part of my House. He will wear my colours, being shades of green, and- Malfoy why are you breathing heavily at me?”

“The t- tra- tradition!” Draco heaved gustily, practically clawing to salivate on the dark lord.

“Egads, let go of me-“

Meanwhile Harry is feeling overwhelmed because he is part of a House, with a father, and colours, and rules born of love and not cruelty and control. He is jarred out of this when Avery prods him worriedly and says, “By Jove, but you two have so many repressed feelings. We should do something about that.”

Harry then bursts into tears, because Avery said ‘we’ and not ‘you’, and spends the rest of the evening sitting between his two dads choosing wedding colours.

***

“Since Harry is a part of my House as well, he should incorporate my colours as well!”

Voldemort glares at Sirius. “Your colours are unsuitable for a wedding.”

“Black and gold,” Sirius says, “are elegant and regal. Harry can wear gold with green, and it will make A Statement.”

***

Ron is less than helpful in these matters.

“Don’t look at me, mate, Weasley colours are red and yellow. You’re just lucky you don’t have to wear Uncle Ethelred’s dress robes from the eighties.”

“That’s not too long ago,” Harry remarks.

“No mate, the 1780’s.”

***

“Weasley, you are not wearing that to my wedding,” Voldemort remarks in horror when he sees Ron during the robe fittings. “You are in my employ, and as such, will be clothed properly. Malkin, look at this - stop screaming, woman - can you do something at it? Don’t worry about the cost, just make it stop!”

Ron comes away from the experience with a grudging new respect for Voldemort’s paternal streak, and some new robes.

***

“Oh, I’m wearing navy and gold,” Hermione says with an uncharacteristic blush. “Lupin and Black, don’t you know.”

Harry beams like a lighthouse, because new godsister, heck yeah.

***

Atticus messes things up by bursting into prophecy at tea. “And yea, the House of Black shall see children of fiery, living, hair, bringing much fortune and joy unto this once bereft Great House!”

Sirius stares daggers at a stuttering Ron, while Hermione and Harry have to hold up Atticus, who has, in typical fashion, passed out.

***

“Black, have you appointed Granger as your heir?” Voldemort asks over tea. “Draco has been weeping on my sofa about tradition the whole day.

“Yeah, Moony suggested it, and Helen and Bob - her parents - were a bit weird about it, but once we assured them that we weren’t stealing their daughter, they cooled down.”

“Black, you are making a muggleborn girl with sentient hair the Heir to House Black,” Voldemort says slowly. “She will be Lady Black.”

“Didn’t think you were still on that, Vold,” Sirius frowned.

“First of all, ‘Vold’ is not my name. Second, you phenomenal fool, you are painting a massive target on the girl’s back! She is a muggleborn, she knows nothing of our traditions or politics- eck!”

Voldemort has to choke off his words because Sirius is hugging him, why is he hugging him, his arms are strong and sinewy and he is standing close enough that their pelvises are touching-

“Harry, save me!” Voldemort calls to his son, who just smiles and joins in the hug. Voldemort relaxes a little bit then, because Harry is close at hand, and that means that life is still good.

***

As a result of not having caring parental figures for all of his life, Harry is thrilled to have a dad of his very own.

It is still a bit surreal, and he often has to reassure himself by touching Voldemort. He will sit close to his father on the sofa, and occasionally drop his head onto Voldemort’s unfairly toned shoulder. Voldemort also lets him fall asleep like that, which is, as Hermione coos, ‘adorable’.

Harry also likes to make sure that Voldemort has three solid meals a day, plus tea. Voldemort, whose early life had also seen deprivation, wants to murder everyone who denied Harry food in his life. Unfortunately, he has murdered them already.

***

Harry is new to the idea of extended family, and shows his great love for Sirius, Remus, Hermione, Atticus, Avery, and Narcissa by feeding them inordinate amounts of tea and cakes.

It comes to Voldemort’s attention that Harry is an excellent baker, and hires his own son to bake his wedding cake. “Vanilla buttercream with lemon cake,” Voldemort hums, when Harry asks him about flavours. “Can’t go wrong with Tradition.”

When Harry tells Avery, he smiles cryptically. “Thomas doesn’t like lemon,” he reveals. “He suggested it because I like it. Make him a chocolate cake with vanilla icing. He’ll have a nice surprise when it’s cut.”

Harry smiles, because his dads are being soft for each other, and they have the best relationship he’s seen since Sirius and Remus.

***

“Harry, I’m bringing Ron as my date for the wedding,” Hermione tells him, nodding to Ron.

“Because we’re dating for real, mate,” Ron adds proudly. “Thought we’d let you know.”

“Oh goody!” Harry smiles. “I beat Neville out in the pool! I knew Uncle Atticus’ divination lessons were useful!”

And that is how Harry ends up 30 galleons richer while Hermione is left to question her entire world-view.

***

Voldemort’s - or rather, Thomas Gaunt’s - wedding to his school sweetheart, is a surprisingly romantic affair.

Once again, Narcissa had taken control of decor and various aspects in Voldemort’s life, up to and including his clothes, the flowers, the centerpieces, Harry, and the banquet menu. She presides over the entire affair with aplomb, and several society ladies fawn over her.

Harry is Voldemort’s best man, of course. Atticus is the officiant, much to Voldemort’s horror. “Atticus, come down here, you’ll fall and get hurt,” Voldemort says, trying to guide Atticus away from the raised lectern.

“Ah, but Avery gave me these papers and told me to stand here,” Atticus says.

“I also told you to read the papers,” Avery frowns.

“I did.”

“I meant read them aloud, Atticus.”

“Oh, I see. Dearly beloved…” Atticus’ speech rambles through many sweet childhood reminisces that the three of them shared, the properties of moongem flowers, the superiority of chicken gibblets over rodent in haruspicy, and how he hoped that his childe would follow in his footsteps into divination.

By the end, Voldemort is resigned to having his life (barring the evil bits) be retold by Atticus. “I worry that Atticus thinks that we are in a triad relationship,” Voldemort whispers to Avery. “Notice how he calls Harry ‘his childe’.”

“Neither of us has slept with him though,” Avery whispers back.

“My god, why would you put that image in my mind, what did I ever do to deserve this,” Voldemort hissed back, before turning to his giggling son. “And why are you laughing, you are the childe - I mean, child - of my heart, my god, I am picking up his mannerisms, Avery, I am undone!”

“Do you, Thomas Marvolo Gaunt, take Jonaquin Theodosius Avery as your partner in marriage, to be bound in the eyes of Magic?”

“Yes,” Voldemort says, and good heavens, he needs eye-shades because Avery is beaming at him with the light of a thousand suns.

“Do you, Jonaquin Theodosius Avery-“

“Yes.”

“-take Thomas Marvolo-“

“Atticus we’ve said yes.”

“Oh,” Atticus says, and then puts the speech aside. “Then bring your hands together, so that I may bind them in the manner of our ancestors before us.” Atticus initiates the handfasting ritual, and uses a strip from one of Harry’s baby jammies to bind their hands, because Voldemort is the emotional sort, apparently.

“We now invoke the Magic to bless your union,” Atticus says, and shimmies out of his robes, even as people begin screaming in horror.

“Atticus!” Voldemort cries in dismay, as Harry casually picks a leaf from the bouquet and engorgios it, placing it over Atticus’ pendulous manhood with a sticking charm. He is quite used to Atticus’ nudity, as the man disrobes for every magical ritual.

As Atticus continues to remove his socks, Harry explains to the crowd. “The invocation of magic for any ritual is best done in the natural state,” he preaches. “Uncle Atty taught me while he was doing his divination rituals.”

“The childe has learned well from me,” Atticus smiles.

“Just… hurry it along then,” Voldemort grumbles, and strategically stands in front of him, so that Muriel Prewett is spared the sight of Atticus’ upper thighs.

Atticus performs the rest of the ritual in his usual sloth-like manner, and eventually concludes it by saying, “The handfasting is complete, and your union has been blessed by Magic itself! You may now seal your union to one another with the ceremonial consummation-“

“Not now, Atticus,” Voldemort growls, even as Atticus conjures a bucket of olive oil - extra virgin. “There is the wedding banquet yet.”

“Ah, yes, must get energy for proper consummation,” Atticus nods sagely. “Don’t eat too many carbs or beans though, they cause gas, and it could escape during the-“

“Do something!” Avery squeals, and Vodlemort obliges by putting a silencing charm on Atticus, upon which time there is peace once more.

***

Voldemort spends quite a great deal of time ensuring that no lecherous men dance with Harry - or Atticus - at the reception.

It therefore makes sense that Harry and Atticus are paired together. Harry doesn't mind, because he loves his vague Uncle Atty, and Atticus is always glad to spend time with his childe.

***

“Hallo Malfoy.”

“Evening, Pott-ah.”

“I think we're supposed to dance.”

“Can you? Dance, I mean. Only, I remember the Yule ball in fourth year, and Parvati Patil being very underwhelmed by you..”

“'Course I can, your mum taught me over the past month. She said that weddings are the best places to make good matches.”

Draco blinks. “I wonder if she realizes that you are, in fact, a bloke, and not the daughter she has always wanted.”

“Well don't tell her otherwise, it'll make her sad,” Harry says. Then, “Ooh, Weird Sisters, I like this song.”

“Well, come on then,” Draco sighs, and begins to dance with Harry out of Honour, but is secretly enjoying himself.

In the corner, Narcissa hides, smiling. She may just get her little angel child back after all. Next to her, Lucius dies a little bit, but he is soundly ignored.

***

“The wedding was a smashing success, good job everyone,” Voldemort beams, as the family and family-adjacents settle in his living room.

“It was good fun,” Sirius smiles. “When are you off for your honeymoon? I'll take Harry and Hermione back with me, and they can spend the night before I send them back to school.”

Voldemort blinks. “Honeymoon? We aren't having one,” he says, the same time as Avery says, “Ibiza.”

Voldemort looks at his spouse in confusion. “What? I thought we were going to Harry's parents evening at school tomorrow.”

“No we're not, I got someone to cover for us,” Avery smiles smugly. “We're going sunbathing in Ibiza.”

“I cannot believe that you set me up to have a good time,” Voldemort mutters. “The betrayal stings.”

“I booked the tickets!” Harry chimes in, glad to be part of the Get Dad To Unwind Initiative.

Voldemort looks resigned to having fun, and settles for putting a damper on the afterparty by making Harry and Hermione go to bed early.

***

“Avery.”

“Yes?”

Voldemort sits up from where he was lounging shirtless on his beach mat, on the sand shore of Ibiza. “Who exactly did you get to go to parents evening with Harry?”

Avery smiles, smug at his management skills. “Not to worry, dear. It's all taken care of.”

***

“What in Merlin’s name,” Minerva McGonagall breathes in horror. In front of her stands Harry Potter - not altogether unusual - flanked by the horrors that are Atticus Lestrange and Sirius Black. “Potter, you cannot be serious!”

“He isn’t, for I am Sirius!” Minerva is distinctly unamused by her one-time student’s god-awful puns, and instead focuses her ire on Atticus Lestrange, who stands for everything she reviles - that being a death eater and worse yet, a divination enthusiast.

“Potter, you cannot think that Atticus Lestrange, Lord of House Lestrange, can act as your parents’ proxy!”

Harry is surprised, and turns to Atticus, who has thus far been amusing himself by trying to read the tea leaves in Minerva’s discarded teacup on her desk. “Uncle Atticus, I didn’t know that you were Lord Lestrange. Why did you let dad kidnap you then?”

“Your father frets when I'm not around,” Atticus hums absently, as though he were not the object of Voldemort’s Fret Fests. “He does not do well without my calm and stabilizing presence.”

“You're incredible, Atticus,” Sirius beams. “Never stop being yourself. It brings me such joy.”

“Lord Lestrange need not be here,” Minerva insists, as she prys her teacup out of the man's hands. “He has his own family to attend to-”

“No I don't.”

“Then go and get one!”

“I have one right there,” Atticus insists, pointing at Harry. “I don't need another childe. They younger ones do naught but wee and poo and weep, I like this one.”

Harry sparkles joyously at being claimed as family by yet another person, and shines like gold, good and pure. Minerva throws up her hands and huffs. “Fine! Potter, sit! We will go over your courses and future aspirations.”

Harry perches between Atticus and Sirius, and proceeds to wreck Minerva’s remaining sanity by saying, “I think I want to be a teacher.”

The resulting shockwave floors Minerva to the point that she reaches for a ginger newt to revitalize herself. On the upper levels, Dumbledore’s arthritis flares up, and below in the dungeons, Snape trips over a first year and ends up face planting into a stray toad.

Meanwhile, Harry continues to sit, oblivious and sweet. Atticus also sits, but is simply oblivious.

***

“Dad, you’re back!” Harry beams, looking up from where he has been cutting fruits.

Voldemort smiles evilly as he is enveloped in a hug, content as a frog in a fly café. “Hello. How was your career consultation?”

“Swell, Professor McGongall cried. How was your honeymoon?”

“Equally swell. Behold, I have achieved a tan,” Voldemort said, showing off his bronzed skin. “Avery got sunburnt. Good thing that I anticipated his potato-like affinity to crisp up, and took some skin soothing potion.”

“Aw, you look so pink, pop,” Harry said gently to a wincing Avery.

“Worth it,” Avery mumbled. “I’d like a soak, actually.”

“Shall I run you a cold bath, then?” Harry asked. “I’ll do that, Uncle Atticus is in the kitchen making tea, why don’t you go in and I’ll call you when it’s set up.”

“Atticus! In the kitchen!” Both men startle and rush inside, only to see Atticus mixing some milk into his tea. Seeing the kitchen intact, both men heave a sigh of relief. “What ho, Atticus. How was parents night at Hogwarts?”

“It gave me much joy and merriment,” Atticus hums. “Harry wants to be a teacher.”

“Does he?” Voldemort murmurs. “Well, he has the right temperament for it. I wonder what he'd teach.”

“Defense, surely,” Avery says.

“Divination is always an option,” Atticus hums.

“I always thought that we do not have enough Dark Arts experts,” Voldemort ponders happily.

“He wants to teach kindergarten,” Hermione pipes up, scaring all three men. “Hello, mum sent me over with some sugar-free pudding. Honeymoon went well?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Voldemort replies. “What did you mean, Harry wants to teach kindergarten?”

Hermione plunks herself down beside Atticus, who immediately plucks some of her hair for a summoning ritual and smiles at his keratinaceous treasure. “Ouch!” Hermione squeaks, and glares at an unrepentant Atticus.

“Apologies. Hair from a maiden head is in short supply, and is integral in scrying rituals,” Atticus defends himself, then asks, “May I please have some pudding?”

“Well, alright,” Hermione grumbles, passing the dish over, “but only because mum thinks that you are cute and vague.”

“I am, that,” Atticus says happily, ladling some into his favourite pink bowl.

To save his own sanity, Voldemort turns to Hermione. “So. Kindergarten teacher?” he asks weakly.

“Oh, yes,” Hermione says through a mouthful of her own pudding, pilfered from Atticus’ bowl. “It’s when magic manifests in children, isn’t it? And, well,” she coughs delicately, “it didn’t go so well for Harry.”

The conversation comes to an abrupt end when Voldemort looks murderous and causes all of the glassware in the kitchen to explode.

***

“Sorry,” Voldemort mutters insincerely, as he clears away the glassware later, once he has calmed down.

Hermione looks unimpressed as Atticus combs through her hair to comb out the shards of glass embedded in it, no doubt harvesting some more hair for his obscure rituals. Really, she should have realized when he had danced toward her with the comb in hand. “Well. It’s not as though Ron and I haven’t entertained the same thoughts from time to time.”

“The nerve of those dead people,” Voldemort muttered sourly, putting the dishes back in the cabinet, “harassing my son.” At Hermione’s dubious glance, he rolls his eyes. “Yes, I am aware of the irony of me saying that.”

“Fred and George tried to rig a Filibuster’s Firework to the Dursley’s fireplace,” Hermione reveals. “Only, their mum confiscated their stash the day before.”

“Hm, arson,” Voldemort muses. “I wonder if they’d like to be death eaters.”

“I doubt it,” Hermione sniffs. “Although, you’d probably get on like, well, a house on fire.”

They spend some time guffawing, at which point Harry comes down and stares. “It’s always a bit disturbing when you two are laughing at the same thing,” he says, and turns to Avery. “Bath’s ready, pop.”

As Avery wiggles upstairs to the cool tub, Voldemort clears his throat. “So. Harry. Your friend tells me that you wish to be a teacher of kindergarteners.”

“Oh, yes,” Harry replies, surprised. “I just- I thought that it would really make a difference, you know,” he says, with a noticeable effort at glibness before giving up and turning to face Voldemort. “It’s just that - sometimes, I think, what if someone have told me about magic before Hogwarts. What if someone had come to tell you? We might have had such different lives.”

Better lives, went unsaid.

But what was unsaid would never be said, because Voldemort explodes the silverware this time witht he sheer force of his anger and rage on his child’s behalf.

***

Later, when Harry is visiting Draco to ostensibly do their career planning sheet together, but in reality to hold hands and smooch, he voices his thoughts again. He neglects to observe Snape in the far armchair, keenly listening to Harry’s observations about children being introduced to magic.

***

“It makes a difference,” Snape says quietly, when Harry goes to the kitchen. Wordlessly, he hands Harry a vial of silvery, glowing memories and disappears back into the shadows.

***

Later that evening, Voldemort finds Harry crying in front of a pensieve, with Ron and Hermione hugging him, as he relives the memory of his once young mother, so full of love, and life, and hope.

Voldemort can never look at Severus the same way, but it is with more respect, if only for how he gave up a bit of himself for his son.

***

He does blow through a wall later, though, because Petunia was in a memory, being horrid.

***

Chapter Text

Harry, Ron, and Hermione - also Draco - return for their seventh year at Hogwarts. Harry is excited, because he gets to have his parents on the platform this time, and he is always down for new experiences.

“Bye dad, bye pop,” Harry smiles, squeezing both his parents in a hug. “Oh, dad, Uncle Atty's wandering again-”

“Atticus come here,” Voldemort sighs, and resigns himself to tethering Atticus to himself with a magical rope. “Honestly. You can't keep stealing people's bits, it's not done.”

Atticus settles when Harry hugs him goodbye as well, though Voldemort is quick to steal his son back. “Remember, do not listen to Dumbledore.”

“Dad,” Harry says, amused, “he wants the best for us.”

“He wants the best for you. He wants me dead in a ditch.”

Harry cannot deny this, and settles for soothing his father's fears. “Alright, I won't listen to him when he's being weird about you. Don't worry, I'll write often as well.”

“See that you do,” Voldemort mutters. “No staying back for the holidays.”

“Nope! I'm coming home!”

Voldemort’s worry thaws at Harry's resplendent smile, and he turns to Hermione. “Harry may hug his godfather now. Switch.”

“Switch?” Hermione asks, even as Harry sails into Sirius and Remus' arms. “What, you want to hug me?”

“We can just stand in silence,” Voldemort offers, which is exactly what they do as they watch Sirius cry fat, emotional tears onto Harry.

“Be happy!” Sirius wails. “Find adventure, and food, and love-!”

Draco panics at this, because Potter doesn't need to find more love, surely, he has quite the monopoly on that. “Well he’s found the latter, thank you very much!” Draco blusters. “Potter, defend me!”

“Draco’s swell, Siri,” Harry smiled, as Sirius twitches unhappily.

Remus intervenes with his usual calm brand of logic. “Be safe,” he advises, “and study hard! You’re starting new subjects!”

Harry nods. “I’ll look at Hermione’s notes real closely!”

“I, too, have notes!” Draco stresses.

“Hermione colour codes hers for me.”

“Really?” Draco whirls around to ask, at which Hermione nods. Voldemort looks appreciatively at her and pats her fluffy head. Atticus, too, pats her head, and manages to filch some more hair for his nefarious rituals.

They eventually get on the train, and Harry hangs out of the window like a lemming. “Bye dad,” he says, kissing Voldemort’s prominent cheekbone. “Take care of yourself. Also pop and Uncle Atty.”

“I will - Avery, have you got eyes on Atticus?”

“He’s over there, talking to a Weasley and a Prewett.” Indeed, Atticus was talking to Molly and Arthur, the latter of whom was genuinely enjoying speaking to someone just as odd as he, while Molly was put out at Arthur’s' new friend.

By the time the train has departed, Atticus has secured an invite to Sunday lunch at the Weasley’s, and has made a friend.

The three of them go home, where Voldemort is accosted by Narcissa with a sterling silver tray filled with riches.

“Draco and Harry were holding hands on the train,” she says. “Please consider these artifacts as the first installment of our dowry unto your house.”

Voldemort blinks at Narcissa in confusion before saying, “I don’t want these,” he said simply. “I am told that such things are not done amongst friends.”

Narcissa then proceeds to have a strong emotional reaction before remembering that she is Posh and British, and suppressing her emotions till she has a spasm. Voldemort is not looking forward to explaining this to Lucius.

***

“Lucius, your wife had a spasm.”

“M- my lord? Narcissa? How-“

“She had several emotions at once.”

“Ah. Yes, I see.”

“She is staying over to sleep off the stunner.”

“Stunner?”

“I stunned her,” Voldemort explains slowly, “because she was having a spasm.”

Lucius has nothing left to say, and settles for bowing in the floo until his nose scrapes the scraps of kindling, leaving him looking like an evil dalmation.

***

Dear Harry,

I hope that you are well. This large manor is left lacking without the life and laughter that you bring and I often find myself windering what you are getting up to - studying, I hope.

I have taken to shrinking Nagini down to put her in my pocket and taking her on walks. The small muggle children think that she is cute, more fools they, but she is basking in the glory of being the village star.

Your ‘pop’ Avery is adjusting to living in plain sight of muggles, but is still scared of the local children. They like to chase him with their custard creams and ribena packets.

We often spend time with Black and Lupin, who live not far away, and we conspire on bills to bring before the Wizengamot. Black is surprisingly savvy, I am pleasantly surprised. I think that he has been speaking to his brother’s portrait - Regulus was always a conniving little squirrel.

You should know that Black is very excited to have a daughter - he thinks that with you and Granger, he has a matched set, and is getting the both of you matching robes. Thank me now, because I vetoed his choice of purple velvet robes with silver trim, and prevented the two of you from looking like some unfortunate aubergines. I instead pointed Black towards a nice dusty rose, which will suit your complexions better.

Atticus has been performing more séances, and the spirit of your messy haired father keeps popping in to interfere. I think that he and Atticus are fond of each other - I do not know if I ought to be horrified that they are friends. He is also a hit with the nearby muggle children - they have adopted them as their evil yet daft mascot, and he goes around with his army of childrene, as he would say.

In all of this insanity, I remain,

Your loving papa.

***

Dear dad,

I’m doing really well here in school! I hope that Uncle Atty’s keeping you and Pop on your toes. I can totally see him being a mascot, he is very sweet. I don’t think he knows that the kids are muggles, do you think that we ought to tell him?

I’m really glad that you and Pop are happy in the village, and are not bursting into hives at the presence of muggles. I’m very proud of your growth!

Hogwarts is fine, and my new runes class is cool. I think I like languages, I’m quite good at them, Hermione says. She makes me do a lot of review and it kind of makes me want to scream, but Ron gives great massages to alleviate the stress.

Draco says hello, and bowed. I think he respects and fears you in equal measure, just the way you like it.

Ron doesn’t fear you, he just thinks that you are posh and evil. Which is true, I suppose.

By the way, Professor Dumbledore keeps lurking and smoothing my head with a lot of emotion. Snape keeps messing it up to “restore balance to the universe” or something, and said that Potters “should not look refined, but rather like unkempt porcupines”.

All my love,

Harry.

***

Dear Harry,

It pleases me that you are settling back well. I told Atticus that his little army of tiny childrene are actually muggles, and he said that he knew, and further informed me that they like it when he divines things with tea and entrails.

I think he is breaking the statute of secrecy by teaching divination to muggle children, but Avery says just not to tell anyone. Apparently, the “village kook” is an acceptable cover story.

Atticus asks after you, by the way. I think he misses you, he keeps moping over the tea and says “my nephewe made it better”.

I am slightly horrified that Atticus thinks of me as his brother (younger, apparently).

When are your Yuletide holidays? Come home, it is lonely without you.

I remain,

Your loving father.

***

Dear dad,

I’m coming home in a week for the Yule Break! I can’t wait!

I bought you, Pop, and Uncle Atty gifts from Hogsmeade. Don’t tell Uncle Atty - I got him premium porlock entrails. I gathered them myself with Hagrid’s help.

Draco was hiding behind Grawp to avoid the butchering - Hagrid’s giant baby brother. Grawp thinks Draco is cute, and Draco is always up for positive affirmation.

I also bought Siri and Remus gifts, and so did Hermione, because she now has three dads and a mom. Apparently Mr. Granger is really getting on with Sirius and Remus. Remus particularly likes that the Grangers value dental hygiene.

Mrs. Granger met Kreacher, and introduced him to detergent and dettol. Grimmauld Place is really sparkly now, apparently.

She also wants to have a big family celebration for Yule, and is trying to get Hermione to agree to help with the turkey. Hermione volunteered Ron instead, so it’s bound to be good. Can we attend, dad?

Love you lots,

Harry.

***

Dear Harry,

Fine, I consent to being fed and watered by Weasley for Yule. Anything but Granger’s cooking.

Mrs. Granger - Helen - keeps sending sugar-free treats that perplex Avery. I quite enjoy them, as does Atticus, but Avery rejects them, on account of being a baker’s son. He was also scared of the electric whisk.

Come home, my child. I await your arrival with joy. Avery awaits your arrival to help him bake sugar loaded treats, and Atticus is just happy that you are coming home.

I remain,

Your loving father.

***

In the afternoon of the 20th of December, Harry sailed out of the Hogwarts Express and straight into his father’s arms.

Or he would have, if Atticus had not walked in the way and gotten squished between father and son.

Chapter Text

The end of Harry’s seventh year also marks his entry into adulthood. “You are not moving out, don’t be ridiculous,” Voldemort sniffed ferociously over tea.

“Well, Ron and I were thinking-“

“Weasley can move here.”

“You just want to get him to cook for you,” Harry smiled knowingly.

“And if I do? I cannot subsist on Atticus’ version of food. The man thinks dandelions can be stewed!” Voldemort cried.

“Well, Hermione and I-“

“You are not living with a woman unrelated to you, it is most indecorous,” Avery muttered. “It would ruin her marriage prospects.”

“I think she’s going to marry Ron,” Harry said. “And they proposed that the three of us live together.”

“Are you three separated triplets? Are you all incapable of existing outside of a thirty meter radius of each other?” Voldemort demanded. At Harry’s cheerful grin, he threw up his hands. “Fine! But you will live between Black’s house and this house!”

“You mean, on the same block?” Harry asks, counting. “That would be between Jackdaw House and this place… so on the same block?”

“Yes.”

“The only place is the pink house across the street.”

“Precisely.”

“That grin makes you look super evil, dad.”

“Noted,” Voldemort says, but did not stop smiling.

***

Voldemort is an observant man. He sees a certain pointy Malfoy paying court to his son. This eventually leads to the traditional act of the man-trying-to-win-over-the-father.

Voldemort is having none of it.

“You are not to be a cad to my son.”

“Yes, my lord,” Draco says, and nearly does a wee, so scared is he.

“You are to support him unequivocally in his career aspirations.”

“Yes, my lord,” Draco grovels, though he has never had a career aspiration in his life.

“You are not to influence his decisions when he takes his family seats in the Wizengamot.”

“Yes, my lord.” Then, “Seats? Plural?”

“Potter and Slytherin, my seat,” Voldemort says slowly. “Eventually, he will take mine, because given time, I am liable to murder Muriel Prewett for being a loathesome bandicoot in human form. Not in the next fifty years, but in time.”

“Harry will… lead House Slytherin.”

“The irony is not lost on me. You will also not antagonize Harry’s friends in politics.”

“Weasley does not have a seat.”

“Weasley’s eldest brother will take the Prewett seat in time. You cannot bully him into anything, he is a formidable man and would turn you into a scarab beetle before squishing you underfoot. I am referring to Granger - the future Lady Black.”

Voldemort, true to evil form, takes a genteel sip of tea as he watches Draco writhe on the floor in pain at the prospect of Granger outclassing him in every way possible. Voldemort is just eager to see the obvious written into the history books.

***

Voldemort is even more nervous for Harry’s formal introduction to the Wizengamot than even Harry himself. Hours and hours of coaching on political alliances, new bills, laws, and etiquette have done little to quell the moths in Voldemort’s stomach fluttering as Harry takes his seat as Lord Potter.

Harry does a splendid job of it - he is composed, attentive, and follows Hermione’s notes, voting on the bills that come through in a manner that represents his Houses proudly.

Voldemort - Lord Thomas Gaunt of the Elder House of Slytherin in these hallowed halls - is beyond proud, and receives his son in the antechamber after the meeting with a smile and a proud handshake, as befits two lords of their stature.

Sirius ruins everything by bursting into tears and wrapping his godson in a wet hug, crying proudly the entire time, emerging from tears every so often to kiss Harry’s forehead.

***

If Lucius bows any lower, the man will crack his vertebrae, Voldemort is certain. “For Circe’s sake, man, get up,” he mutters. Honestly, it was one bill that Voldemort proposed - one that apparently held a lot of importance to Malfoy.

Across the way, several other Lords and Ladies from the traditional bloc smile at him as well for championing their cause in allowing more freedom to practice their ancient blood majicks.

Dumbledore had tried the time-honored “but think of the muggleborns! They may dabble in arts that they know not about and will invariably be drawn into the dark arts” excuse.

Voldemort’s counter to that was to turn to Hermione, sitting with Sirius in the Black seats, and ask, “Granger, have you, with your insatiable thirst for knowledge, ever participated in a blood ritual?”

“Yes, but that was with you yelling instructions at us,” Hermione had replied. “I would never do it on my own, I know better than that.”

“And did it, at any point, scare or scar you? Did dark forces take hold of you in any manner?”

“Well, no,” Hermione had replied unsurely, “unless you count as a dark force? You did hold my hand afterwards, because you said I was ‘a female of skinny proportions who is likely to faint daintily after shedding her blood’.”

“I am honoured to be considered a dark force,” Voldemort had beamed, his prowess with the dark arts known to all. “But no, I do not count. Can you tell the chamber what manner of ritual we performed?”

“It was a scrying ritual,” Hermione replied. “It had fallen out of use, but you needed it to find the location of your familial locket, which you used to build your power to, er, battle with the dark lord Voldemort to save Harry.”

Voldemort had beamed at the memory of his best lie, which everyone else took for fatherly love. The bill to practice blood magic with the supervision of a trained diviner had been passed, much to the jubilation of the traditionalists.

Harry, Lord Potter, had stunned everyone by voting with Voldemort. “It’s not because he’s my father,” Harry had explained to the reporters afterwards, “it’s because he made a good argument. Honestly, I disagree with him on plenty of stuff. I can love him and still see the merits of a good argument, you know.”

There never was a prouder papa than the dark lord that day.

***

Voldemort, doting and loving father that he is, is shadowing his son when Harry decides to put in an application to the Wizengamot to found a wizarding kindergarten for muggleborn children.

“We would teach arithmetic, language, and science alonside magic till they can start at Hogwarts,” Harry proposes to the gobsmacked Wizengamot. “It would do so much to ease the transition for muggleborn students, an dhelp them build a support network. As it stands, they are isolated in our community, and grow up with their abilities neglected, feared, and misunderstood.”

Harry’s voice trembles at the end, his own past flashing before his eyes. Voldemort is so incensed that he causes the Longbottom seat to melt with the sheer force of his rage.

There are several people who speak in favour of Harry’s bill, including Hermione, the Creevey brothers, Sirius, and surprisingly, Draco.

Lucius looks stunned as Draco stands, clears his pencil-like throat, and says, “There was a time in which I scorned those born outside of our community. I was, to put it lightly, a huge twat- oh, Muriel Prewett has fainted, ought someone see to her? No? Oh well. What was I saying?”

“You were a twat,” Hermione reminded him, not unkindly.

“Ah, yes. I was, that. I looked down upon the muggleborns for not being “magical-enough”, when truly, they had never had the opportunity to know our ways. Lord Potter’s bill of introducing magic to muggleborns and their families in an official capacity from thr beginning would only help integrate muggleborns into a history and culture that is foreign to them.”

“Ah! But are we then not alienating the muggleborns from their own culture?” Elphias Doge pipes up, and Voldemort nearly curses his testicles to lodge up his own orifices.

“Are we then willing to leave magical-presenting children to their own devices, to experience potentially traumatic displays of their power, with people, parents, who don’t know how to help them?” Harry countered. “Ignoring this issue does more harm, Mr. Doge.”

After a short recess, the Wizengamot was called back into session, and Voldemort abandoned all pretense of indifference and aloofness, and stood beside Harry at the Potter Seats. Harry smiled up at his father, betraying only a hint of nervousness. Voldemort’s heart twists at the sight, and he smiles back at Harry, before glaring at every single Wizengamot member who would dare vote against his son’s life’s ambition.

He glares the longest at Dumbledore, who merely smiles back, twinkling annoyingly at him, like a stray drop of wee on a toilet seat that is catching the light.

Voldemort tunes the chatter and the boys it until Dumbledore calls for order. “All in favor of Lord Potter’s bill for equal education?”

Voldemort’s heart jumps when he sees a practically unanimous raising of hands. Under the dias, Harry grips his tight in joy and disbelief. He meets his father's eyes and smiles, and in that moment, Voldemort knows that they are going to change the world.

****

Chapter Text

Voldemort takes every opportunity to tell people that, “Yes, my son is the founder of the first Preparatory School For Magical Children. I am very proud, of course- yes Atticus, you are proud too.”

Atticus just smiles sweetly and looks happy whenever Harry is mentioned, and Voldemort is not completely sure whether Atticus knows that he did not actually birth Harry himself.

“He does,” Avery confirms later, “he has a little photo frame in hos room of himself and Harrywith the words ‘Me and My Nephewe’ engraved on it.”

Being the founder of magical Britain’s first official elementary school means that Harry is very busy, and has to arrange for administration, teachers, and the various day to day tasks of running a school.

“Start small,” Voldemort advises gently, when Harry comes home one day and puddles on top of him. “A half day school on the weekend only. Start with the next batch of first years. Don’t overwhelm yourself.”

“But I can’t run this, I can’t teach history, and civics, and make it fun, dad,” Harry whispers. “I’m not like you.”

Voldemort blinks in surprise. “You think I am… a fun teacher?”

From the other armchair, Avery snorts in disbelief. “I don’t think half our year would have survived our OWLs or NEWTs if you hadn’t hosted mandatory tutorials after classes.”

“Oh! Dad, would you care to host a class or two? We can set up a monthly rotation, so you would only have one weekend a month! I- I could ask Mrs. Weasley, and Hemione, and Remus, and-“

Voldemort watches Harry excitedly flesh out his plans, while Avery nods along and offers gentle suggestions. They eventually come up with a plan for the four weekends per month - History, Culture, Magical Creatures, and Herbology - all things the children could really understand and participate in.

“Your papa could teach history,” Avery nudges Harry, who turns gleaming eyes onto Voldemort. “You’d have to find teachers for the rest, though.”

“That’s such a great idea? Oh, would you do it? Please, papa?” Harry asks delightedly.

And really, Voldemort is only so strong, and cannot deny his son when he asked so little of him.

***

Molly Weasley is delighted to be asked to teach Herbology, while Remus is pleasantly surprised to be asked to teach Magical Creatures. He vows to show up to classes in his coziest, most beige cardigan and corduroy trousers.

Harry recruits none other than Draco Malfoy to teach wizarding culture - with a vow to have his lesson plans checked over by Hermione for any dormant bigot undertones.

Eventually, they have only one problem left. As they stand in the one-room school in their first floor loft that was rented in Diagon Alley, Harry turns to his father. “Dad, what are we going to call this school?”

Voldemort blinks in surprise at being asked, and hesitates before replying, “I have actually given this some thought. I had thought it… indelicate to suggest it, though.”

Harry presses, and Voldemort caves. He has never seen his son smile so widely, and Voldemort’s heart is filled with the same pride and joy that his son is feeling at that moment.

***

“You would be proud,” Voldemort says quietly, his words lost to the wind, “to see him now. He is so smart, so kind, and so genuine. He is the blessing I did not deserve.”

The headstone of Lily Evans Potter is silent in front of Voldemort, who sighs and sits on the patch of grass in front, directly over her casket. “I wonder constantly, what it would be like if you had lived. If he would have been better off with your love.” He pauses, his gaze settling far away. “We will never know. I make him happy, I think, as he makes me.”

The wind continues to blow gently, rustling the blades of grass, running through Voldemort’s dark hair. “The school opens next month. Harry named the school today. We put up the signboard for the ‘Lily Potter Memorial School for Wizarding Education’.” Voldemort pauses, swallows past the strain in his throat. “He cried so much when we got home. He clung to me, and I told him that I loved him. I can only hope it is enough.”

“It is,” a voice sounds from behind Voldemort, and he is three curses in before he recognizes that it is Sirius. “Circe’s tits, would you calm down?” Sirius groans at him from where he is sprawled on the ground. “Which curses were those, I feel like an elephant went doggy style with me.”

“Don’t be crass,” Voldemort mutters, and heals Sirius with a wave of his wand. “A new coccyx-crusher curse,” he reveals. “I have been experimenting with Severus again.”

“Ugh, that git,” Sirius mutters sourly, crawling over to lie down, his head on Voldemort’s knee. “Oh, give over, my cock is crushed.”

“Coccyx, Black. Not your penis.”

“Feels like the same thing.”

“Your knowledge of anatomy is galling.”

Sirius hums tunelessly for a while, before speaking. “I didn’t know that you came here.”

“To my last, greatest nemesis,” Voldemort sighs. “Lily Evans. And to think, we now love the same boy enough to give our lives for him. Not that I can, though. What with the horcruxes.”

“Haven’t made any more of those, have you?” Sirius asked. “Nasty business.”

“No, I’ve learned my lesson,” Voldemort groaned.

“So… you come to hang out with Lily? No judgment from me, I come to see James all the time and talk to him. Sometimes, there’s this bumblebee that comes over, buzzes around my head, and bumps into my nose,” Sirius sighs. “It might be him, doming to tell me that he loves me.”

“Or,” Voldemort says slowly, “it could be the bee’s nest on the willow tree two rows away.”

Sirius frowned. “Killjoy. Anyway, I find it odd that you talk to Lily. As far as I know, only Atticus can actually commune with the dead.”

“I cannot speak to her in the way Atticus does, and annoys her. Astral Necromancy is a rare gift in the Lestrange family. Atticus is the last known practitioner in the British Isles. No one else wants any part of it due to the stigma surrounding death,” Voldemort explains. “It will be lost in this part of the world unless Atticus passes on his genes.”

“Atticus needs to sleep with someone?” Sirius asks. “Does he know how?”

“…I am not certain.”

Sirius barks out a laugh and in doing so, startles the bees flitting about. “Oh, damn. At least James’ spirit likes him.”

“Yes. Although, it is draining for Atticus to reach out. I… I worry for him,” Voldemort admitted. “But I am, after all, to blame for Harry not having his parents, and Atticus’ sojourns into the Beyond are Harry’s only connection to his parents.”

“He has you,” Sirius says quietly. “You’re his parent.”

“Hmm.”

“He loves you,” Sirius insists, even as Vildemort turns away. “No, listen to me, you gigantic pile of tubers, oh, that got your attention, didn’t it? Harry. Loves. You. He loves his mum and dad, and he loves you. It’s the same. They gave their lives for him, and you gave up your life for him.

“Where’s the dark lord now? Right, dead. You are, for all intents and purposes, Lord Thomas Gaunt, of the Elder House of Slytherin. You are the loving papa of Harry Potter, defender of wizarding tradition, husband to Jonaquin Avery, mentor to Weasleys and Grangers, and best friend of Sirius Black and Remus Lupin.”

Voldemort blinks in surprise at Sirius’ lecture. Then, “I’m your best friend?”

“Apart from Remus, yeah,” Sirius shrugs. “What, you’re surprised? You’re only over for tea every other day, talking to Remus about all kinds of swotty nonsense and giving me financial advice.”

Voldemort fell silent, pondering on Sirius’ words. “He killed me, then. Harry, that is. Killed the old Voldemort.”

“Yup,” Sirius says, popping the ‘p’. “And he loves you. Because you know him, and care about him, and secretly want to be the best damn papa in the world. It’s mutual, Vold.”

The two men let the silence hang between them. The sun was setting, bringing a crispness to the air and a magnificent red-gold gradient to the sky. Ironic, Voldemort thought wryly. Gryffindor colours.

“I cannot regret it. Not now,” Voldemort murmured. “Not with him.”

“Then don’t,” Sirius replied simply. “He’s happy. You’re happy. We’re happy. We can be sad for the past, and still live out our present.”

They fell silent again, and in time, stood to leave. Voldemort conjured a pretty bouquet of wildflowers and placed it on Lily Potter’s grave. Sirius did the same, conjuring a vine of tomatoes to drape over James’ headstone. “James loved tomatoes,” he said. “He would eat them like apples.”

“My god, Harry does that as well!” Voldemort realized, and looked down at James’ headstone, glinting cheekily in the light of the setting sun. “Potter you absurd persimmon, your genes prevail!”

Sirius laughed out loud as they walked away, his laughter echoing around the still graveyard, delighting the honeybees above.

****

The school takes up most of Harry's time. Voldemort is beyond proud whenever he sees Harry poring over lesson plans, creating admission lists, or making field trip plans.

The children adore him, and follow Harry around, talking to him, eating with him, and falling asleep on him. Student numbers grow, and so does staff, with Lovegood joining in the fracas as permanent staff. The children think she is cool, and nothing that Voldemort says will dissuade them.

It is no surprise, therefore, that Atticus is a big of a hit as he is with the children. They clamber over the couch and onto his lap when he speaks about divination, or shows children how to do palmistry, tasseomancy, or even haruspicy.

Atticus loves that his army of childrene is growing, and one fine day, decides to wreck Voldemort’s sanity by saying, “I should very much like to have my own childe.”

Harry is delighted at the prospect of a baby cousin. Snape, who was trying to take his tea, nearly downs in his teacup.

Later, Voldemort carefully asks Atticus whether he knows how he is going to make a child. “You will have to sleep with a woman, Atticus,” he explains, “and not just sleep. You will need to perform intercourse. At the very least, you need to ask a lady for permission to use her eggs and womb to greatest your child.”

Following this, Atticus shatters Hermione’s will to live by asking her if she wouldn't mind “loaning him some of her egges, and possibly renting out her wombe.”

“Not her, Atticus,” Voldemort groans, even as Ron tries to revive Hermione, who has fainted. “Surrogates should ideally have had a child before. Do you know of no other women?”

“I know Narcissa,” Atticus says brightly.

Narcissa and Lucius are stunned when Atticus asks them, but they do some quick maths, which can be represented in the following equation:

Lestrange sperm + (Black x Malfoy) egg = Continuation of Malfoy influence in the Sacred Twenty-Eight + Wizengamot Seats

Lucius and Narcissa tag team a squealing Atticus in bed, and the lady comes away pregnant, while Atticus runs to Voldemort to complain that Lucius was very rough with him. “I thought that intercourse was supposed to be the gentle coming together of two souls! Lucius turned into an angry Hippogriff! Now my Little Lestrange and my bum both hurt!”

“We'll get you a cushion and some hot soup,” Voldemort soothes him, as he throws a comforting blanket over Atticus, and sends Harry over to read books on dream interpretation to him.

***

Sirius is tickled pink when he hears of Atticus’ escapades, and his soon-to-be child(e).

“Cheers Atticus,” Sirius says, raising a toast to a beaming Atticus and a very swollen Narcissa. “Here’s to a happy and healthy baby. May they be just as vague and unintentionally cute as you.”

“Have you thought of names?” Remus asks.

“I rather like the name Cassandra,” Atticus hums happily.

“What if it’s a boy?”

“It’s not.”

Narcissa beams at the thought of having a tiny baby girl to dress up and be genteel with, and steals Harry away to plan the nursery and discuss colour palettes, crib designs, and other womanly things.

***

The birth of Cassandra Lestrange is, in short, traumatizing. For Voldemort, that is.

First, Narcissa’s water breaks as she is sitting next to Voldemort, and leaks onto his good robes and his shag carpeting. This is followed by the floo network being blocked, which leaves them no way to get to St Mungo’s, resulting in Voldemort’s home being surrendered for a home birth.

The only people present are, of course, Voldemort and Harry, because of course they are. Luckily, Voldemort has previously assisted at births, on account of growing up in an orphanage with many teenage girls in the forties coming and delivering in the back room.

Of course, nothing goes to plan, and the baby’s head gets stuck because its head is too big. Voldemort gags as he frees the child’s head, while Harry grips Narcissa’s hands for support.

Cassandra Harriet Lestrange is born at five past ten in the morning of August 5th, 1999. She is small, pink, and has Atticus’ spacey gaze. She also refused to cry, instead opting to stare and blink at Voldemort in the same manner that her father does.

“Here, she’s refusing to cry, you try,” Voldemort says, and hands her over to Narcissa, where Cassandra then lets out a small, “Ah,” and falls asleep. She wakes up breifly to do her first poo, which causes Voldemort to nearly faint, so rancid is it.

Eventually, the floo block is lifted, and what seems like the entirety of Britain tumbles into Voldemort’s home.

“Oh egads,” Voldemort grumbles, as he is put to work, making tea and scones for the guests. “I cannot believe that I have been relegated to pastry chef from dark lord.”

“You love it though,” Harry smiles impishly, putting another pot of tea on the hob. “You brought literal life into the world.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Voldemort grins. “My god, but I hope to never touch a labia again. Not even the sweetest perfumes of Arabia will cleanse these hands. Out, out damn placenta!”

Voldemort’s gripes of touching labia majora and minora are put to rest for good once he goes upstairs to the nursery, to see Atticus holding his child. Father and daughter are staring unblinkingly at each other, but with such tenderness that it causes Voldemort gas.

“She is very beautiful,” Atticus whispers, looking up at Voldemort. “I think that she has Narcissa’s colouration.”

“She has your eyes,” Harry smiles. “Congratulations, Uncle Atty.”

“Thank you, nephewe,” Atticus beams dottily, before holding Cassandra out to Voldemort. “Here you go, she is yours too.”

Voldemort receives his tiny package with some confusion. “Atticus, genetics do not work like that.”

“I know,” Atticus hums, “but bonds are forged through the heart, and the bond of godfather and godchild is on par with parents. After all, you choose each other.”

Voldemort has so many emotions that he carefully hands the baby to Harry before locking himself in the washroom and running himself a hot bath. Of course, Atticus comes in and continues to talk, because that man has never met a boundary that he did not understand.

***

Harry ends up temporarily moving back in to help with the baby, helping to set up Narcissa and her bags upon bags of items for her postpartum care.

“We can just floo to your house,” Voldemort points out to her. “You do not need all of this - is that a handbag rack?”

“It is to hold Cassandra’s bibs, my lord,” Narcissa lies, and does not even bother occluding.

Narcissa is not the only one who goes overboard for the baby. Harry is Suspect Number One when flower crowns and decorative onesies in red and gold start appearing in the house.

“Stop dressing her in Gryffindor colours, she is my godchild and is born of two Slytherins,” Voldemort says to his giggling son, and wandlessly changes the onesie to a Slytherin green.

Voldemort spends hours holding the baby as she sleeps, or in a move that mirrors her father, stares vacantly at him. She also, as Atticus is prone to do, follows Voldemort around everywhere, including the bathroom.

Harry delights in being a cousin/big brother, and is intolerably sweet with Cassandra. Even Draco loses some of his pointiness, softening as he watches Harry play with Cassandra, change her, and rock her to sleep.

Voldemort also delights in seeing his children - yes, the baby is his too, she lives under his roof, and Atticus is going nowhere in a hurry - so happy and at peace.

He is, however, totally going to smack Sirius when he sneaks up on him and goes, “~oooh domestic fulfillment oooh~” like a pesky ghost.

Still, seeing his family gamboling about his house, in his kitchen, his bedroom, and his bathroom, Voldemort cannot bring himself to regret a single thing.