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Chapter Text

Sorting

“Hmm. Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. Impressive talent and a nice thirst to prove yourself, but your desire to protect yourself may be strongest…”

Not Slytherin, not Slytherin, not Slytherin, Harry thought as hard as she could.

“Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be great, you know. It’s all here in your head. Self-preservation is a Slytherin trait. And Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness; no doubt about that.”

Self-preservation is why I can’t be in Slytherin, she thought at the hat. Hagrid had made it clear to her that Slytherin was where the Dark wizards went. There were probably lots of people there who would hate her for being the Girl-Who-Lived. McGonagall had said that their House would be like their family. She’d lived her whole life with a family who hated her, and she didn’t want to that here too.

“Hmm. Well, I suppose if you’re sure. In that case, it had better be GRYFFINDOR!”

Voldemort

“Now… why don’t you give me that Stone in your pocket?”

Harry gasped and stumbled away from Quirrell. From the… creature on the back of his head.

“Don’t be foolish, child,” Voldemort’s face said chidingly. “Do you think there is nothing that Lord Voldemort can offer you?”

Harry frowned at him distrustfully. “You want to kill me.”

“I have no quarrel with you, Harry, unless you intend to fight me.”

“But you killed my parents. And you want to kill muggleborns like Hermione.” Harry knew these things. Everyone had been saying that since she got into the magical world. Even people like Malfoy, and he must know since his father had followed Voldemort – everyone said so.

“The only magicals that I wish to kill are those who oppose me. All magical blood is precious, Harry. Think of yourself rather than the rest of the world for a moment. What is it that you most desire?”

Harry’s chin trembled with the threat of tears as she looked at him, then glanced at the mirror, but she clenched her jaw and refused to let a single tear fall. “I want my parents back!” she spat at him.

He seemed to consider her for a moment before speaking, “I cannot bring them back. No one can. But I could give you a safe place to spend your summers if you would like.”

Harry pulled in a sharp gasp at the offer. Because she knew why she saw her parents in the mirror. They represented safety. And maybe love, but she didn't properly understand what that was. Her parents had been real people, but not ones that she'd known. In her own mind, they were just a fantasy. But a safe place to spend her summers... That was what really mattered. It was why she saw her parents in the mirror. Because if they were alive, she’d never have to go back to the Dursleys.

“With that Stone, I will regain my body, and once I am restored, I will take you to safety. I will provide it every summer.”

“All I have to do is give you the Stone?” she frowned.

“The Stone and your oath that you will never again oppose me.”

“And you’ll promise to never hurt me?” she asked.

“Hurt has many definitions, Harry, and is too easily done without intent, but I will promise to never kill you.”

It was damnably tempting, but she wasn’t sure that she could trust it. Especially if he wouldn’t promise not to hurt her. “But you’ll never…” she hesitated to say it, but it was too important. “You’ll never touch me?” When he just stared at her, she reluctantly added, “Inappropriately, I mean.”

Realization came to his eyes and his face hardened, but he nodded, “You’ve my word.”

Slowly, Harry reached into her pocket and drew out the Stone. She looked at the bright red surface with a deep frown and wondered if this made her a terrible person.

Then she remembered the way Vernon’s eyes had begun to linger on her the last few months before she went to Hogwarts. She couldn’t go back there.

She lifted her hand in offering.

Aftermath

Harry opened her eyes and blinked against the blurry light. She couldn’t still be down in that room. It was much darker down there.

Voldemort had taken the Stone from her, and then told her that he was going to stun her so that Dumbledore would not suspect that she had helped him.

She looked around until she identified the spindly form of her glasses on the bedside table, and she reached for them. She fixed them onto her face with relief. She was in the hospital wing, she thought.

“Good afternoon, Harry.”

Harry started in surprise and turned to see Dumbledore reclined quite comfortably in a big purple armchair next to her bed.

“Er… hi,” she said, disoriented by the time of day he’d indicated. She squinted at the windows, but she couldn’t remember which direction they faced, so the angle of the sun didn’t make anything clearer. “Afternoon?” Last she knew, it was the middle of the night. And she’d just woken up to daylight, so it felt like it should be morning.

“Oh, yes. You’ve been asleep nearly three days, my dear.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Three days?!” What on Earth had Voldemort used to stun her?

“Do you remember what happened, my girl?”

Harry looked down at her lap and tried to figure out what to say to avoid telling him what she’d done. She began by explaining how they’d deduced that the Stone was in danger and gone down after it.

“He made me get the Stone out of the mirror,” she told her knees. “I don’t know why it ended up in my pocket.”

“Ah, well, that is one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something. You see, only one who wanted to find the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it. Otherwise they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes.  But now, I suspect that you will be happy to know that Voldemort did not succeed in acquiring the Stone.”

“He didn’t?” Harry asked, shocked.

“No, indeed. You see, no sooner had I reached London than it became clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived before Quirrell could escape the gauntlet. I’m afraid that I distracted him and Fluffy woke up at a very unfortunate moment.”

Harry winced at the mental image and looked down at her lap again, doing her best to conceal her crushing disappointment. “Oh. That’s good.”

“Not to fear, my girl. He did not get away.”

She nodded at her lap and searched for something to say to keep him from wondering why she didn’t look happier. “But, I mean, Voldemort, he’s going to try other ways of coming back, isn’t he? He’s not gone for good, right?”

“No, Harry. He has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share… not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die. He shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless, Harry, while you may have only delayed his return to power, it will merely take someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time. And if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power.”

Harry nodded again, keeping her eyes on her lap. She could hope, at least, that he could come back. She wouldn’t try to stop him next time. Not if there was a way he’d still help her. “Sir,” she ventured after a moment. “I wanted to know… I mean, if you know the answer. I don’t understand why Voldemort wanted to kill me in the first place. I mean… I was just a baby. What could I have done to him?”

“Alas, my girl, this is an answer I cannot give you. Not today. Not now.”

“But you know,” Harry deduced.

“I do. And you will know, one day, as well. Put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older… I know you hate to hear this… when you are ready, you will know.”

Harry was pretty damn sure that she was ready now, but she knew better than to argue with that tone from an adult. It was the tone that said she was too young to understand and could only understand by growing up. An argument impossible for her to win.

“Then, can you tell me about Snape-“

“Professor Snape, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry agreed. “Quirrell said that he hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?”

“Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr. Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.”

Harry listened to Dumbledore explain that Snape hated her father because James Potter had saved his life once, putting Snape in his debt. And that he’d taken it upon himself to protect Harry because he wanted to even the score so he could go on hating a dead man in peace.

It sounded a little strange to Harry, but Snape hating her because he’d hated a man that she couldn’t even remember didn’t make much sense to her either. Sometimes, she thought all adults were barmy.

“Enough of morose topics, now, Harry,” Dumbledore said lightly. “I suggest you make a start on these sweets!”

Thankfully, Dumbledore didn’t stay much longer. Harry was in no mood to joke about sweets. She was bitterly angry about Voldemort having been stopped. It was ironic considering how hard she’d fought this year to try to stop him herself, but that was when she thought that he meant to kill her and Hermione. But if he was willing to give her a safe place to live… Well, that was more than any adult had ever done for her.

She knew that it was selfish. He still definitely wasn’t a good person and people would probably get hurt and even killed when he came back, but… But she was terrified of going back to the Dursleys. She was so afraid of what Vernon might do this summer.

And now it didn’t matter that Voldemort would have helped her because Dumbledore had stopped him. And now she would have to go back.

Summer

“Girl!”

Harry startled and rushed from where she’d been finishing up the after-breakfast cleanup in the kitchen. Her uncle was seated on the sofa in front of the telly, as he usually was at this time on a Saturday.

“There’s dust under the telly,” he pointed to the sliver of space between the cabinet on which the telly sat and the floor. “Clean it.”

Harry didn’t hesitate to run and fetch the duster. Her uncle was not a patient man. She set to work at once, getting down on her hands and knees in front of the cabinet, then tipping her face down by the floor so that she could see what she was doing.

When she was finished, she went to stand, but Vernon stopped her with a sharp, “You call that clean, girl! Do it again!”

She looked back at him in surprise and immediately felt cold sweep through her body at the look on his face. She knew at once that this had nothing to do with any dust. She imagined how she must look bent over on her hands and knees on the floor and she her whole face grew impossibly hot. Instinctively, her eyes darted to her uncle’s lap, where she found a visible bulge in his pants.

“Now, girl!” he snapped.

Blinking back tears, Harry mechanically bent back in front of the telly and began to swipe uselessly at the no longer dusty floor. Her whole body was stiff, and her hands trembled. Tears fell steadily from her eyes as her uncle kept her there for what felt like an age.

When she was finally released to finish cleaning the kitchen, she curled up in a ball on the floor and sobbed silently into her knees for a long time before she could manage to force herself back to her chores before her aunt returned.

Chapter Text

Year Two--The Chamber of Secrets

“Young Ginny adores you, Harry,” Tom said with a mean smirk. “She wants so badly to be your best friend. To be just like you. She idolizes you.” The smirk twisted into a glare. “For your defeat of Lord Voldemort.”

“Tom, I was a baby,” Harry argued. “Maybe it was accidental magic or maybe it was something my parents set up or something my mum did. I don’t know, but I didn’t do it on purpose!”

Tom pursed his lips as he studied her. “Are you suggesting that you don’t desire my defeat, Potter?”

“Look, I tried to help you! Or your elder self! He was trying to steal the philosopher’s stone last year and I helped him to get it! It’s not my fault that Dumbledore stopped him before he could get away!”

“If that’s true, Potter, then turn around and leave.”

Harry faltered at that. She turned to look at Ginny where she was lying terribly pale and terribly still.

“No?” he asked mockingly.

“Why do you have to kill her?” Harry whispered, unable to take her eyes away from Ginny.

“She’s a means to an end,” he said dismissively.

“No!” Harry snapped, turning to glare at him. “She’s an eleven-year-old girl! Can’t you use someone else?”

“Were you not listening, Potter?” he sneered at her. “This isn’t a simple process. It took months to get a hold on her soul.”

Harry’s eyes fell on Ginny again and, to her shame, Harry considered doing as Tom said. She gave real thought to just leaving Ginny to die so that she wouldn’t ever have to see her Vernon again. But… “I can’t let you kill her,” Harry said eventually. It would probably cost her life, but that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. At least if she died, she wouldn’t have to go back to Vernon ever again.

“I’m somehow not surprised,” Tom shook his head, then he turned and moved to the statue. “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four!”

What followed was a mad sprint to stay alive that ended with a massive fang in her arm. She screamed as she wrenched it free. Tears rolled down her face as she lay limply, her body wracked with pain. She waited to die.

And then Fawkes landed next to her and cried into the wound.

Harry gasped as the pain burned away and energy began to flood her limbs once more. She sat up and took the broken fang in one hand and the diary in the other. She held the fang threateningly over the diary. “I don’t want to kill you, Tom, but I bet this could do it, right?”

And he tried to laugh it off, but she could see the fear in his eyes. In the tense lines of his body.

“Leave Ginny alone and go back into the diary, and I won’t harm you,” she threatened.

Tom laughed bitterly, “What’s to stop you giving the diary to Dumbledore?”

“I had a deal with the elder part of you. I’m not ready to give up on it. I figure having access to this diary might just sweeten the deal for me.”

He glared at her a long moment, then he just faded away.

The diary seemed to grow subtly heavier in her hand even as her wand fell to the floor.

Mildly shocked that that had worked, Harry dropped the diary and the fang in carefully different directions, then rushed to Ginny’s side. She slapped lightly at her cheeks and the girl began to come around.

“What… Harry?” Ginny asked in bewilderment as she looked around. “What… happened?”

“Tom tried to kill you,” Harry said quietly.

Ginny seemed to wilt a little even as her eyes locked on the diary. “Oh.”

“I convinced him to leave you alone in exchange for not stabbing him with that fang,” Harry explained.

“What are you going to do with him?” Ginny whispered.

Harry shrugged. “Leave him down here. I don’t reckon he can hurt anyone if he’s locked down here all alone. We’ll just tell Dumbledore that I stabbed it with the fang, yeah?”

Ginny nodded and Harry helped her to climb shakily to her feet. “Why don’t you?” Ginny whispered, her eyes locked on the diary.

Harry hesitated a moment, then took a gamble. “Do you really want to kill him?” After all that Tom had told her about his experience with Ginny, she was pretty sure that the girl loved him.

Slowly, Ginny shook her head, dropping her gaze in shame.

“Me neither,” Harry reassured, gripping her shoulder. “So we’ll just pretend, right?”

Ginny looked up at her, her expression uncertain. Then she gave another nod.

“Come on. Everyone’s worried about you.” Harry wrapped an arm around Ginny and helped her back toward the pipe up to the school.

Summer

Harry flinched, then froze when she felt her uncle’s large hands settle on her waist while she was trying to dust the top shelves. Petunia and Dudley were gone again and Harry felt terror flood through her limbs. “Uncle Vernon?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ll hold you steady while you reach all the way up there,” his hot breath blew across her ear as she felt his body press against her. “Keep working,” he commanded as his hands slid down her waist to her hips, his fingers just brushing at the edges of her groin.

She forced herself to keep working, terrified of what he was doing. Terrified of what he would do if she tried to refuse. It felt like a game now. Like he was trying to see what he could get away with. If she refused to play along, would be give up the pretense and just take?

He pressed against her back more firmly and her stomach lurched as she felt something hard press against her lower back. She was horribly sure that she knew what it was. Her hands shook so badly that she could barely keep dusting, but she wasn’t sure if he even noticed. His hands slid slowly up her sides until his fingers brushed the underside of her breasts.

Her breath hitched, but she tried to keep it even, afraid of what he would do if she started crying.

The pressure on her back let up, then pressed in again. Harder. And again. Rhythmically. His hands slid down again.

She bit her lip until it bled as she struggled to hold in her sobs.

It seemed to last forever. At first, he moved her a little down the shelf so that she could keep cleaning, but then he seemed to give up the pretense and he just kept touching her and pressing against her back until the sound of tires in the driveway caused him to pull away from her.

Harry just stood there trembling as she heard him close himself into the bathroom. Then the front door opened, and Petunia screeched at her for not being done with the dusting yet.

She forced herself to keep her head down and her hysterics contained until she’d finished her chores and she was able to flee the house. She ran away from the house until the stitch in her side brought her to her knees, then she curled in on herself and sobbed until she vomited.

Though she hated herself a little bit for thinking of it, in that moment, she wished that Ginny was dead and she was safe.

Year Three – Sirius

Buckbeak landed on the roof of the tower and Harry and Hermione slid off at once, leaving Sirius alone on the hippogriff.

“Sirius, you’d better get going,” Hermione said fretfully. “They’ll find you gone any moment.”

“How can I ever thank-“

“Can I still spend the summer with you?” Harry rushed out hopefully.

Sirius hesitated at that. “I’d love nothing more, Prongslet, but… I don’t think it’s going to be possible. I’ll have to go on the run after this…”

Harry felt her heart fall into her feet, “But… I don’t care! I’ll go with you! It’ll be- It’ll be like an adventure!” she tried to win him over by using the phrasing that always worked to get Ron to do stupid things.

“Harry, he needs to go!” Hermione urged, looking around nervously.

“Tell me I can stay with you!” Harry begged.

“I don’t think it’s going to work, kiddo,” Sirius said sadly. “But I’ll write to you, okay? I promise!”

And then he was urging Buckbeak back into the air and Harry watched after him in mounting horror. She’d thought…

When she’d learned that he didn’t want to kill her, she’d dared to hope. And he’d asked her to live with him. He’d seemed excited about it. She’d been stupid enough to believe that it would happen. That she wouldn’t need Voldemort. That she wouldn’t have to go back this summer.

But Sirius didn’t want her now. She’d be too much of a hassle to keep around, so he didn’t want her. So she’d have to go back to Vernon again.

Her stomach rolled at the memories of the last summer.

“Harry!”

Harry blinked wet eyes at her friend.

“We’ve got exactly ten minutes to get back down to the hospital wing without anybody seeing us – before Dumbledore locks the door-“

“Okay,” Harry managed to croak out. “Let’s go.”

And as she’d become far too accustomed to doing, Harry locked up her fears and her pain deep inside of her so that she could continue to function as they ran back to the hospital wing and managed to slip inside just before Dumbledore locked the door.

It wasn’t until she was closed behind her bed curtains and a silencing ward that night that she let the pain and the fear come out. Then she buried her face in her pillow and cried until her head was pounding. When she ran out of tears, she just turned onto her back and stared blankly at the canopy over her head.

She was once more trapped in an impossible situation. She couldn’t go back to the Dursleys again. She couldn’t deal with what more Vernon might do this summer. She also had no choice but to do exactly that.

Apathy and fatalism began to creep back into her as her utter helplessness settled on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. She’d dared to let herself hope for something better and all she’d gotten was another ugly scar on her heart.

Voldemort, she reflected, was the only one who’d ever tried to help her. Really tried, and not just made noises in that direction. At least as far as she could judge. And it was completely fucked up because he’d killed her parents and so many other people and when he came back, he’d probably kill a lot more. And yet she couldn’t hate him because he was the only one who’d offered to help and not gone back on it. Not by any fault of his own, at least.

But Pettigrew had gotten free, and Trelawney’s prophecy said that he would go to his master. She doubted that he could bring Voldemort back in time for this summer, but maybe next.

She tried not to think about having to make it through another summer. She’d have to survive it again. She didn’t have any other choice.

Summer

Harry finished rinsing her hair as quickly as she could. She was only allowed one shower a week and she always got in trouble if she took more than five minutes. She turned the water off before Vernon could pound on the bathroom door, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she pushed open the shower curtain to reach for a towel.

She froze with a gasp when she realized that she wasn’t alone in the bathroom. Vernon was standing with his back against the door, staring right at her.

Harry flinched back behind the protection of the curtain. “Uncle Vernon?” her voice trembled.

“Get out of there, girl!” he barked.

Harry flinched again and choked off a whimper in fear and dread, but she didn’t dare to hesitate longer. She reached for the towel, trying to ignore the feeling of Vernon’s eyes on her. She tried to cover herself with the towel as she stepped out of the tub, but Vernon reached out and pulled it away, baring her to his eyes.

She cringed. “Please, Uncle Vernon,” she whispered, trying to tug the towel back.

“Dry off,” he commanded as he let go of the towel.

Hesitantly, Harry began to dry herself. Her whole body was trembling as she wiped briskly at her body, trying to dry herself as fast as she could. When she was dry, she held the towel in front of herself and timidly asked, “May I get dressed, uncle?”

Vernon stared at her with repulsive hunger in his eyes. “Your hair’s still wet,” he pointed out. “Better dry it.”

Harry tried to squeeze the towel around her wet locks without baring herself, but Vernon wasn’t satisfied.

“Bend over and dry it properly,” he commanded.

Harry’s chin trembled, but she hesitated only a moment before doing as she was told. She cried out briefly when his large, fat hands pawed at her, turning her so that she was facing away from him.

“Better bend over further,” he said, his voice rough.

What followed was very much what she’d been fearing for years. While she was bent over facing away from him, she heard him open his belt and she began to cry uncontrollably.

When her uncle finally left, she was bent over the side of the bathtub, hurting in ways she’d never before imagined.

After a long moment, she crawled back into the tub and turned the water on again, desperate to wash away all traces of him. She didn’t dare to remain there for long, but she scrubbed herself raw as quickly as she could. Then she dressed herself and slunk away back to Dudley’s second bedroom. She closed the door and sunk down to the floor in front of it, leaning against the wood in a useless attempt to make sure it stayed closed.

She curled her face into her knees and just breathed. She didn’t cry anymore. She felt too numb to cry. Instead, she said a prayer that Voldemort would come back this year and that he would save her. He was the only one that Harry dared to hope for salvation from at this point, and she’d give almost anything to be rescued from this nightmare. She bitterly, bitterly regretted stopping Tom in her second year. Ginny’s life seemed a small price to pay to have never had this happen.

Chapter Text

Year Four--The Weasleys at Privet Drive

Harry stared in disbelief as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron stumbled out of the fireplace at Number 4 Privet Drive. The long unused and boarded up fireplace. Soot was everywhere, being tracked around the white carpeting. Broken boards were scattered everywhere. The electric fireplace was flung clear across the room.

Amazingly, things actually got worse from there. Fred and George went upstairs to get Harry’s trunk and Mr. Weasley began exclaiming over everything electrical in the room. He might not have noticed that he’d just destroyed the living room. But then, he’d probably never tried to scrub soot out of carpeting without magic. Maybe he really had no idea that he’d done anything that might upset a muggle.

Then Fred and George came back and “accidentally” dropped a bunch of candy right in front of Dudley, who of course ate a piece. His tongue suddenly grew a foot long and swelled so that he choked on it. Petunia began trying to tear it from his mouth.

Harry watched it all with the numb detachment that she’d been feeling ever since the first time that Vernon had… Her mind shied away from even thinking a label for it.

She found herself wondering what would happen if Petunia managed to tear out his tongue. Would he choke to death on his own blood before Mr. Weasley could do anything about it? Or what if Vernon kept Mr. Weasley from reversing the charm? Would his tongue grow large enough to suffocate him?

She kind of hoped that Dudley would die. If only because she knew that there was no greater way to hurt Vernon Dursley than for his pride and joy to die.

Eventually Mr. Weasley ushered them all through the floo so that he could try to sort things out without all the drama.

As Harry took one last look at the chaos going on in the Dursley house, she made a decision. She was going to figure out how to brew poison this year. And if they sent her back to this house again next summer, she was going to kill all three of them. And maybe they’d send her to Azkaban for it. She found that she no longer cared.

When Mr. Weasley joined them at the Burrow, he began scolding his sons for what they’d done. “It isn’t funny!” he shouted at them. “That sort of behavior seriously undermines wizard-muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of muggles and my own sons-“

Harry mostly stopped listening as it really occurred to her just what he was saying. This was a man who devoted himself to trying to make wizards be nice to muggles. Was there anyone campaigning to make muggles be nice to wizards? Especially ones too young to use magic out of school? Like her? If so, she’d never heard of it.

For the first time, Harry felt a niggling of doubt that the Light were the “good guys” in this political divide. She’d been secretly hoping for Voldemort’s return since he’d promised to help her in her first year, but she’d always done so with the understanding that she was being selfish. That she should want the Dark Lord dead for the good of the world. But now she had to wonder. Because maybe just not killing and torturing people didn’t give you the moral high ground when you pushed politics that led to even more people getting hurt. Innocent people. Like kids.

She no longer really feared that Voldemort would come back and start killing people again. Because what if those people dying was a good thing? She’d always liked Mr. Weasley, but he’d just yelled at his sons for hurting the Dursleys. He didn’t care what the Dursleys did to her.

So maybe the world would be a better place if he was dead.

Fourth Champion

Harry had been spending half of every night in the restricted section of the library under her invisibility cloak all term so far, so it really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when she fell asleep. She’d only meant to put her head down on the tables to rest for a moment while waiting for the Triwizard nonsense to be over so that she could eat dinner.

She woke to a kick in the shin and near fell off the bench in her startlement. She lifted her head to glare at whomever had kicked her, but immediately grew wary as she realized that the Great Hall was uncommonly silent. A look around confirmed that everyone – teachers included – seemed to be staring at her.

“Harry Potter!” Dumbledore called.

“What?” she asked, bewildered by what she’d missed.

“Your name came out of the goblet,” Hermione hissed at her from across the table.

Harry blinked at her in blank incomprehension for a long moment.

“Harry! Up here, if you please!” Dumbledore’s stern voice snapped her out of her shock.

“But I didn’t put my name in!” she hissed at Hermione.

“Just go!” Hermione urged, gesturing sharply toward where Dumbledore was waiting.

Feeling nauseous, Harry rose from the bench and began the trek toward the front of the room. She rubbed at her eyes as she walked and hoped that this was somehow a bad dream. Please let me still be asleep.

She stopped in front of Dumbledore, not sure what was going to happen now.

“Well… Through the door, Harry,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Viktor Krum, Cedric Diggory, and Fleur Delacour were grouped around the fire in the side room when Harry entered.

She looked at the three of them in confusion. Why was Cedric here? She wished that she hadn’t fallen asleep so she’d know what was going on at least a little bit.

“What is it?” Delacour asked. “Do they want us back in the hall?”

Harry shook her head. She didn’t think that she could explain when she didn’t even really understand herself. She’d thought, when Hermione said that her name had come from the goblet, that she’d somehow been chosen as Hogwarts’ champion. But if that was the case, what was Diggory doing here? He was a much more logical choice for the Hogwarts champion, anyway.

Thankfully, she wasn’t facing their stares for too long before being followed into the room by Ludo Bagman, who unfortunately grabbed her by the arm and tugged her further into the room.

“Extraordinary!” he was muttering. “Absolutely extraordinary! Gentlemen, lady, may I introduce – incredible though it may seem – the fourth Triwizard champion?”

Harry yanked her arm free, stumbling away from the man and looking around in shock. “What?” she demanded, rubbing at her arm. He hadn’t gripped her painfully, but she did not like it when people touched her when she wasn’t prepared for it. She’d not liked it before, but she didn’t tend to handle it well since last summer.

“There’s obviously been a mistake,” Delacour cut in when Harry couldn’t think of a follow up to her succinct question. “She is too young to compete.”

“Yes!” Harry pointed at her in agreement. “Also, how can there be four champions?” Why was this happening? It did feel like a nightmare, but she was beginning to fear that it really wasn’t.

As Bagman stumbled through an explanation as to why Harry had to compete despite being too young – apparently, that was a new rule that the goblet didn’t actually care about – the door opened again, this time admitting Dumbledore followed closely by Mr. Crouch, Professor Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, McGonagall, and Snape.

Delacour immediately complained to Madame Maxime about Harry’s entry in the tournament and Harry smarted a little at the “little girl” comment, but she didn’t say anything as she also wanted an explanation. Maxime just turned the question on Dumbledore, which Karkaroff seconded. When he didn’t respond immediately, they went on arguing and issuing complaints that mostly sounded valid. Hogwarts really shouldn’t be allowed two champions. She really shouldn’t be able to compete when she was underage.

Then Snape cut in with a filthy glare at her, “It’s no one’s fault but Potter, Karkaroff. Don’t go blaming Dumbledore for Potter’s determination to break rules. She has been crossing lines ever since she arrived here-“

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore cut him off without any actual censure. Of fucking course. Then he turned his blue eyes on Harry, and they looked terribly cold at the moment without any hint of his usual amused twinkle. “Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” he asked calmly.

“No,” Harry said firmly, fighting back the stupid urge to cry. She wasn’t sad so much as angry and embarrassed and confused, but the mix of emotions was trying to make her tear up anyway.

“Did you ask an older student to put it in the Goblet of Fire for you?” he pressed.

“No!” she nearly shouted. “I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to do this! Please, just let me go!” And to her shame, a single tear fell down her cheek. She swiped it away as quickly as she could.

“Ah, but of course she is lying!” Madam Maxime cried, even as Snape looked away from her. Harry wasn’t sure if he was maybe slightly sorry for making her cry or just disgusted with her for the weakness.

As the argument went on, Harry looked at her shoes and did her best to just wait it out. She did the same when Petunia went on a rant about how Harry was ruining all of their lives or when Dudley and his friends managed to corner her, or when Vernon… No, best not to even think about that. If she ever saw him again, he’d be dead before he could lay one fat finger on her. That was a mantra that had been keeping her sane ever since she’d escaped to the Burrow this summer.

Eventually, Moody stumped in and explained his theory that someone had entered Harry’s name in the goblet in hopes that she’d get killed in the tournament, which sounded depressingly plausible.

As it was decided that everyone who was picked would have to compete, even if that did give Hogwarts an unfair advantage, Harry silently despaired at the reality of her life. She didn’t know why she had to live with the Dursleys. Why she had to be loved and hated for something that happened before she could even remember. Why people kept trying to kill her. Why more people didn’t seem to care that people kept trying to kill her.

She just wished that she wasn’t Harry Potter. Why couldn’t she have been anyone else? Anyone at all.

When they were finally released, she left alongside Cedric, who waited until they were alone to ask her how she’d managed to fool the goblet. She just stared at him in disbelief until he began to shift uncomfortably, then stormed off toward Gryffindor tower.

In the common room, they were throwing a party in her honor. They all believed that she’d cheated and they wanted to celebrate her for it. For getting into a tournament that might kill her. She managed to push her way up to her dorm, where she found Hermione looking like someone had killed her dog.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so sorry!” she said, hugging her tight.

Harry accepted the hug and tried not to start crying. When she was released, she moved over to her bed and sat down, burying her face in her hands. “How did this happen?” she complained.

“They’re really going to make you compete?” Hermione asked sadly.

Harry nodded. “They said the cup is magically binding. No choice. No one believed that I didn’t put my name in.”

“Even Dumbledore?” Hermione asked after a moment of silence.

Harry huffed a bitter laugh into her hands. Leave it to Hermione to believe Harry until it was suggested that maybe Dumbledore didn’t. “I don’t know,” she admitted, sniffling against the tears that were coming whether she liked it or not. “He didn’t really say.” He’d asked her, but he’d not actually said if he believed her, she didn’t think.

“Oh, Harry…” Hermione sounded so sad. “It’s… Harry, Ron wouldn’t believe that you didn’t put your name in. He kept saying that he couldn’t believe you didn’t show him how to do it. He was really mad.”

And that was the final straw. Harry succumbed to her tears, burying her face in her pillow to keep them silent as she’d learned at a young age.

The bed soon dipped under Hermione’s weight, and then there was a hand rubbing her back, but Harry hardly paid it any attention. She was so tired.

She’d been spending every night in the library since the start of term researching poisons. Vernon wasn’t ever going to touch her again. She did still hope that Voldemort would come back and save her. She’d been having strange dreams about him that she could never quite remember in the morning, but she hoped it meant that he was coming back.

She hoped, but she could no longer believe that it would happen. She’d been disappointed too many times to get her hopes up.

So she was trying to find the right poison. Ideally, something that would be discreet enough that no one would ever learn that she’d done it. She would like to avoid getting caught if possible, but fear of that wouldn’t stop her. She’d found several possibilities so far, but she wanted to find the best one. Something relatively quick, but also extremely painful would be the ideal. She wanted them to die in agony, knowing that she was at fault, but unable to do anything about it.

Once she’d settled on the poison, she needed time to gather the ingredients and then to brew it before the coming summer. She had no idea how difficult it might be to get some of the ingredients, and some of the poisons had long brew times. And she might need several tries to get it right. She wasn’t a great potion brewer.

At this particular moment though, it was hard to care about anything. She was just so tired.

Chapter Text

The Third Task

“Both of us.”

“What?”

“We’ll take it at the same time. We’ll tie for it.”

Cedric stared at her. “You… You’re sure?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, “You’re the real Hogwarts champion anyway, Cedric.”

“You deserve it, though. No matter how your name got picked, you still got here first.”

“You helped me with the egg, didn’t you? Come on, we both got here together.” She wished he’d just take it and leave her here, but she’d rather tie than outright win. It would give people someone else to look at.

For a moment, Cedric looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then his face split in a grin. “You’re on. Come here.”

So they counted to three and both grasped the cup.

Instantly, Harry felt a jerk behind her navel that yanked her feet off the ground. She recognized the pull of a portkey, which she hadn’t expected, but she didn’t fight it as it pulled them away.

They landed hard and Harry’s injured leg gave way beneath her. The cup fell from her hand, and she looked around uncertainly. They were not outside of the maze.

Well, they weren’t in the maze anymore, but they certainly weren’t on Hogwarts grounds either. “Where are we?” she asked.

Cedric just shook his head as he helped Harry back to her feet.

They were in a dark cemetery and the mountains that surrounded Hogwarts were nowhere in sight, suggesting that they were a long way off now.

Cedric suggested they draw their wands, and Harry was happy to do so. This didn’t feel right.

“Someone’s coming,” Cedric said suddenly.

Harry followed his gaze to see a figure approaching them through the darkness. He was rather short with a hood obscuring his face and a bundle of something in his arms. As he drew nearer, Harry thought that the bundle might be a baby.

And then Harry felt her scar begin to tingle in the way that it did when she had dreams about Voldemort, and she gasped in shock.

“Stun the spare,” came a high, cold voice, and then the figure revealed a wand in one hand as he quickly slashed it toward them. There was a flash of red light and Cedric collapsed.

Harry raised her wand and took a couple of stumbling steps back.

“Let me speak to her.”

Harry’s breath caught at the familiar words in the familiar voice.

And just like in her first year, cloth was pulled away to reveal Lord Voldemort in another non-human form. Though this time at least he seemed to occupy a body of his own, it was a tiny, wrinkled, very ugly baby-like thing that the man was holding in his arms.

“Good evening, Harry,” he greeted. His voice and eyes were very much as she remembered, at least.

“Lord Voldemort,” she said nervously. Her heart was racing. This was everything that she’d been hoping for all year, but she wasn’t entirely sure that their deal from her first year was going to hold. Maybe he’d decided to kill her by now?

“When last we spoke, you helped me and I agreed to help you in return,” Voldemort said. “Regrettably, I was prevented from following through on that deal. Today, I would like to make another one. I need to acquire a proper body if I am to help you, Harry. Will you assist me in doing so?”

Harry’s breath caught as she remembered when Tom Riddle had tried to use Ginny to get himself a real body. She glanced nervously at Cedric. “What do you want me to do?” She already knew that she wouldn’t save Cedric if his life was the cost, but she hoped it wouldn’t be.

“I only need a small amount of your blood,” Voldemort reassured. “It is important that it is willingly given as it will affect the ritual. Will you consent?”

“And then you’ll make sure I never have to go back to the Dursleys?” she had to make sure.

“My word on it.”

She eyed him uncertainly for a moment, but it wasn’t like she had another option. As satisfying as it would be to murder the Dursleys, she didn’t actually want to spend the rest of her life in Azkaban. And the circumstantial evidence alone might be enough for them to convict her, even if the poison really was untraceable.

“Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll help you.”

The unsettling baby-thing smiled broadly at that, revealing rows of sharp teeth. “Your feelings toward the success of the ritual when the blood is drawn will matter a great deal toward its success, Harry, so concentrate on your desire for it to work.”

She nodded.

The figure holding Voldemort revealed himself then and Harry tensed at seeing that it was Pettigrew, though she supposed that she shouldn’t be so surprised. There had been a prophecy that said he would be the one to restore his master, after all.

Pettigrew began conducting the ritual. When he dropped Voldemort into the cauldron, Harry gasped and took an aborted step forward, but surely he must know what he was doing. Still, she found herself clenching her wand tightly as she watched him suspiciously, waiting for any sign that he was going to betray Voldemort. She wasn’t going to lose out on this chance at the last second. Not again.

When Pettigrew came to take her blood, she gave him her left arm and held her wand on him with her right. He ignored it entirely, which was kind of insulting, really, but she tried to keep her focus on wanting the ritual to succeed as Voldemort had told her to do. She thought of how badly she needed to get away from the Dursleys. How Voldemort was her only hope. She didn’t think she’d ever wanted something so much in her life.

He added her blood and a bone taken from a grave right there in the cemetery, then he cut off his entire hand and she gasped again at the ghastly sight. She was terribly grateful that Voldemort hadn’t asked that of her because she probably would have done it. A hand was a large price to pay, but it would be worth it to never see Vernon again.

Harry was forced to put away her wand in order to staunch the frankly alarming amount of blood coming from the cut on her arm. Blood trickled between her fingers while Pettigrew wrapped a cloth around the stump of his arm and whimpered his way through the rest of the ritual.

Then the cauldron began emitting a great billow of steam. She squinted against the sudden cloud and then she saw a slim figure standing amidst it.

“Robe me,” said a voice that was somewhat lower and more noticeably masculine than his disembodied form, but had the same smooth drawl that she’d come to expect.

Pettigrew, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up some black robes from the ground and cover Voldemort’s new form.

Voldemort, now clad in the long black robes, stepped out of the cauldron and met Harry’s eyes. He ran a hand through dark, wet hair, and a broad smile slowly turned up his full lips. His eyes were as bloody red as she’d always known them, but he otherwise looked very much like Tom Riddle, albeit older. Maybe in his late twenties?

He looked away from her and took a moment to examine his own body. Slipping a hand into one of the robe pockets, he drew out a pale wand, which he waved in front of him and a stand mirror bloomed out of the ground like a flower growing in fast forward. He looked into the mirror and his smile grew once more. Then, with a dismissive flick of his wand, the mirror shattered into a million pieces, all of which seemed to dissolve into nothing before they could land.

Harry flinched a little at the exploding mirror, but nothing came near her. Her movement seemed to draw Voldemort’s eyes to her again though, and he approached her.

She straightened and met his eyes as bravely as she could. Now she would find out if he would honor his word or just kill her. She didn’t want to die, but it honestly didn’t sound that bad compared to going back to the Dursleys.

“I am pleased to finally meet you in person, Harry Potter,” he said.

“I helped you,” she said gravely. “Will you help me, now?”

“I said that I would,” he dipped his head, then reached out his empty hand and touched the top of her head.

She flinched a little, but he didn’t pay it any mind. He ran his hand lightly over her hair and smiled at her in a way that felt nothing like Vernon’s looks or touches.

“You impressed me, Harry. Your fervent desire to see me restored has impacted how well it has worked. Lord Voldemort rewards those who help him.” And he waved his wand at her left arm, which instantly healed the cut Pettigrew had left there. He then added another wave toward her leg, which stopped stinging and painlessly supported her weight.

“Master,” Pettigrew begged from where he’d collapsed on the ground in agony. “Master, please. Please, you promised.”

Voldemort turned to look at him for a long moment. “Your devotion was less impressive, Wormtail.” He let that comment hang for a long moment and Pettigrew whimpered in fear, then he added, “but you did help me. Come here.”

Pettigrew dragged himself off the ground and extended his shaking stump toward Voldemort, who cast a much more complicated spell than the one he’d used to heal Harry. A streak of molten silver seemed to form in the air behind Voldemort’s wand stroke. It hung in the air formlessly for a moment, then it shaped itself into a gleaming replica of a human hand, which attached itself to Pettigrew’s bleeding wrist.

Pettigrew stopped sobbing at once, breathing heavy and ragged as he examined his new hand in disbelief. He moved the fingers experimentally, then used them to pick up a twig from the ground and crush it into powder.

“My lord,” he whispered reverently. “Master… it is beautiful… thank you. Thank you.”

“May your loyalty never waver again, Wormtail,” Voldemort said in the tone of a threat.

Harry felt terribly overwhelmed as she watched the proceedings. Lord Voldemort seemed to be a man of his word, as she’d thought in her first year. She wouldn’t have to go back to the Dursleys. It finally, properly sank in that she was truly saved.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she sank to the ground at Voldemort’s feet.

There was a moment of silence, and then a warm hand rested gently on her head again.

“Thank you,” Harry gasped out, realizing that she’d clenched her fists into his robes, but unable to remove her hands. And then she started to cry. Great, wracking sobs of relief. Part of her was horrified. Surely Voldemort would be furious about her blubbering all over him, but she couldn’t quite stop. And, somehow, he didn’t seem to get angry. His hand remained gentle on her head as she completely lost it.

Eventually, she felt the tingle of a spell soak through her hair, and she began to calm very quickly. A calming spell, she thought, as the overwhelmed emotions began to settle.

When she’d managed to stop crying, she wiped a sleeve over her face and looked cautiously up at the Dark Lord. He didn’t look angry. Rather, he was watching her curiously.

“What did they do to you, child?” he asked gently.

Harry’s chin trembled at the memories, but she was able to firm it this time.

“Answer me,” Voldemort said firmly when she said nothing.

She ground her teeth, and a single tear tumbled down her cheek before she was able to say, “He raped me,” aloud for the first time.

“Your uncle,” Voldemort reasoned.

She nodded.

“I see,” he said with what sounded like regret. “We can make him pay for it,” he offered. “Would you like that?”

“Yes,” she said fervently, because that was a step further than she’d ever dared to hope. She’d thought that she would get away or she would get even. Voldemort was offering her both.

“Lord Voldemort keeps his promises,” he said softly. Then, more briskly, he added, “But there is much that we must do first.” And he offered her a hand.

She took it without thought. For all the horrors that this man had committed in his life, for all that he’d murdered her own parents, Harry felt in that moment that she’d never trusted anyone more. He had truly saved her. The relief was painfully overwhelming even after his calming spell.

When Harry was standing once more, Voldemort turned to consider where Cedric remained unconscious on the ground. “A friend of yours, Potter?” he inquired.

She shook her head, “Not really. We helped each other through the tournament though.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Let us send him back, then.” He lowered himself to one knee next to Cedric and tipped the boy’s face toward him. He touched his wand to the boy’s head and cast, “Obliviate.” Then he rose and waved his wand at where the Triwizard Cup lay forgotten on the ground. It zipped through the air to land on Cedric’s chest and then both the cup and Cedric vanished.

“Thank you for not hurting him,” Harry said quietly. She wasn’t sure how much she liked Cedric — he had accused her for cheating, after all — but she’d convinced him to take the cup with her. If he’d died, she would have felt guilty.

Voldemort smiled mostly with his eyes and lightly touched her head again. She thought maybe it was meant to be a comforting or even fond gesture, but she had never experienced such a thing, so it was hard to judge. Then he turned to face the manor house that stood over the cemetery. “Come, Harry. Let me show you to your new home. It needs a bit of cleaning, but that’s easily enough done now that I am restored.”

Harry eagerly accompanied him to the manor house. It didn’t look generally run down, but it was incredibly dusty. As though it had been kept up until somewhat recently.

She remembered the first dream she’d had in which Voldemort had killed a muggle who wandered into the house. He’d probably been the caretaker. She felt a stab of guilt at helping Voldemort when she knew that he was the kind of person that would kill someone just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But then she remembered that he’d not killed Cedric. He’d told her in first year that he valued magical blood. She supposed that was the difference.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She hated the Dursleys, but she didn’t think that all muggles were like that just because her relatives were. People were just people, she was pretty sure. Good and bad were individual traits. Maybe they were influenced by culture but not race or species or whatever the difference between muggles and magicals was.

Inside the manor, Voldemort led her to a bedroom on the second floor. “This will be your room, Harry. It’s a bit dusty, but it will have to do for tonight. I need to set up better wards on the property, but I will see you at breakfast.”

She nodded, a little surprised at the abrupt dismissal, though she shouldn’t be. Of course he’d just got his body back. He probably had a lot of things that he needed to do right away.

“Can I use my wand here?” she asked as she stepped into the bedroom.

“Within the manor, yes,” Voldemort agreed. Then he closed the door, leaving her alone in the room.

She wondered if it was locked, but she decided that she wouldn’t check. She didn’t want to rock the boat. Not so immediately after getting into it. She needed to better understand her situation before she tried pushing any boundaries. For now, it appeared that she was getting everything that she wanted. She wouldn’t go back to the Dursleys. Absolutely everything else was negotiable as far as she was concerned.

She explored the bedroom, which was set up like a guest room or something. There was a huge walk-in wardrobe, she discovered, which was empty, as were the bookshelves. There was a large attached bathroom with a huge bathtub and a separate shower. There were huge, fluffy towels folded on a shelf. They looked dusty like everything else, but when she moved the top one, the second one wasn’t too bad.

She wanted a shower, but… She bit her lip and glanced at the door. She trusted Voldemort. Really she did. But this was a new place. And Pettigrew had followed them into the house, hadn’t he? With that in mind, she pushed the little bench that was probably meant for changing shoes or something up against the door. It probably wouldn’t slow down a full grown man even without magic, but it would make enough noise to warn her that someone was coming in.

Satisfied that it was as good as it would get, Harry placed her wand on a little shelf in the shower that probably wouldn’t get too wet, then tested the water in the shower. It heated up with no trouble, so she stripped off her dirty clothes and climbed into the shower gratefully. She did try to keep herself facing the door anyway – and she didn’t linger – but it was nice to be clean.

When she was finished bathing, she cast a simple charm to get her clothes at least a little cleaner, then put them back on. The cleaning charm helped a little bit with the dusty blankets on the bed, and she happily climbed into the incredibly comfortable bed and closed her eyes.

She couldn’t believe how much her life had changed in one day. She’d woken this morning uncertain whether she would survive the task, and becoming increasingly fatalistic about her future post-Dursley murder. She hadn’t really expected to get away with it.

Now she was just feeling so incredibly grateful for the way the night had gone. She’d been rescued. Lord Voldemort had come back and saved her as she’d hoped for so long. Her conscience didn’t even twinge at her happiness. Not when he’d sent Cedric back alive. It seemed obvious that Lord Voldemort wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. Not completely.

Chapter Text

Opportunity

Harry woke in the morning feeling disoriented by her surroundings, but it came back to her quickly. Voldemort had finally returned, and he’d kept his promise. Her heart felt light enough to float away, and she just lay in the big bed and basked in the feeling of relief and freedom.

She would never have to see Vernon Dursley again.

Except, no… She remembered what Voldemort had said about vengeance. About making Vernon pay for what he’d done. The idea sent a thrill through her. To see Vernon again with Voldemort at her side. To be allowed to curse him.

Whatever Moody said about her class not being able to cast the Unforgivables, she was willing to bet that she could manage it with an incentive like Vernon Dursley at hand.

She closed her eyes and pictured it. The fat bastard screaming and writhing in unimaginable pain. Of Imperiusing him into shoving his prick into a bowl of broken glass. Maybe forcing him to stand helplessly and watch while she stabbed Dudley and Petunia repeatedly. Then letting him go so that he could be completely useless at saving them…

She bared her teeth in a mean smile as she opened her eyes. Intellectually, she knew that the mere idea of those things should horrify her. And any of them probably would have horrified her a couple of years ago. But she wasn’t a little kid anymore. Vernon had made sure of that. He’d broken her.

She wanted to return the favor.

She finally pulled herself out of bed then. Voldemort had said that she would join him for breakfast, and she rather doubted that he was an exceptionally patient man. She’d be best served to be ready when he came to get her.

There was no comb in the bathroom, so she settled for finger-coming her hair and putting her shoes back on. Honestly, nothing short of a bottle of Sleek-eezy was going to make her hair look actually good. She also cast a wrinkle-removing charm that Hermione had taught her in third year, since she’d slept in her clothes.

Then she looked around the room uncertainly. There didn’t appear to be a clock, so she cast a tempus. It was a bit after seven, so breakfast would probably be soon. She didn’t want to go wandering around the manor on her own, so she figured she’d just have to kill some time.

Among the windows that ran one wall, there was a glass door leading to a balcony. She stepped through into the slightly chilly morning air. It was damp this morning, with fog hanging about the hills in the distance.

Her window didn’t look out over the cemetery, but rather a beautiful view of gently rolling pastureland interspersed with small stands of trees and little houses. Roads cut through it periodically, populated by sporadic cars.

This was a muggle area, she realized. And a muggle manor, even, she thought, glancing back inside at the electric light fixtures. Growing up in the muggle world, her brain had ignored the muggle furnishings. Clearly this house had been appropriated from muggles. She wondered if they’d gone the same way as the caretaker or if it had been only the caretaker before Voldemort took the manor for his own.

There was a soft knock on her bedroom door before it opened, and Harry turned around to find Pettigrew watching her warily.

“The Dark Lord wishes for you to join him for breakfast,” he said.

“Where?” she asked, stepping back inside and closing the balcony door behind her.

“I’ll show you,” he nodded for her to follow.

She did so, keeping more than an arm-length from the traitor.

Am I a traitor now as well? She didn’t feel like a traitor. She’d been born on one side of the war, perhaps, but it wasn’t as though she’d ever signed on to their cause. Everyone had just assumed that she was on their side because of who her parents had been and because Voldemort had been defeated while trying to kill her when she was a baby. Admittedly, she’d been careful not to betray the fact that they might be wrong about her, but doing anything else would have been mad.

No, she decided. She wasn’t a traitor. She’d chosen a different side from her parents, but that didn’t make her a traitor. If anything, her parents’ friends and Dumbledore had betrayed her by leaving her in that house.

Which meant that she wasn’t a hypocrite for hating Pettigrew for being a traitor. She appreciated the fact that he’d helped Voldemort to come back so that she could get away from the Dursleys, but she didn’t think she’d ever forgive him for turning her parents over to Voldemort. Even with the situation that she was in, she’d never serve Ron and Hermione up to Voldemort. In fact, she planned to do what she could to help them in the future, even if only by begging mercy from the Dark Lord.

Pettigrew opened a door and motioned for her to enter.

She did so cautiously and found herself in a breakfast room of some kind with a table that had chairs for six but was only set for two. Voldemort was sitting at the head of the table. She glanced back nervously, wondering why Pettigrew had brought her here when the table didn’t have a place for her. Had he lied? But all she saw when she looked back was the door closing in her face, Pettigrew still on the outside.

She frowned at it briefly, then looked at Voldemort again.

“Wormtail will not be joining us,” he said, motioning toward the empty place. “Please, sit.”

Relieved that she wouldn’t have to spend more time around Pettigrew, Harry stepped forward and drew out the chair at the only other place setting, then froze when she saw a truly massive snake coiled under the table where her feet would need to go. “Er…” she started uncertainly.

Voldemort looked at her with a curiously raised eyebrow, then looked down at the table. “Nagini, are you frightening our guest?”

“No, master,” the snake replied. “I am just here. If she is frightened, it is not my doing.”

Voldemort smirked ever so slightly.

“I’m more cautious than frightened,” Harry defended herself.

Both Voldemort and Nagini stilled and stared at her, so apparently they hadn’t known she was a parselmouth. Nagini, slithered up onto the chair quite suddenly. Harry took half a step back, but the snake seemed to just want a better look at her. “Master’s guest is a speaker?” she asked.

“How could you be a parselmouth?” Voldemort asked, with a concerning degree of intensity.

“Er…” Harry said awkwardly. “Dumbledore said it’s because you left some of your magic in me the night you tried to kill me.”

Voldemort pushed back his chair and rose somewhat suddenly, and Harry took another half step back when he drew his wand, but he didn’t cast immediately. “That is not how magic works,” he informed her. “If it was, magical gifts would be much more common. The only known way to transfer a magical gift is via blood adoption, a practice that has been illegal in Britain for centuries. And it was never a guarantee that any gift would actually pass on to an adopted individual. The only other possibility…”

His eyes went distant as he trailed off, his brow furrowed in thought. Then he focused on her again and his wand flicked at her face.

Harry flinched, but the spell that hit her didn’t hurt. It didn’t seem to do anything at all, but then Voldemort began muttering quietly in a language that she didn’t recognize, and it took her a moment to realize that it was a spell or a chant of some kind, and then a bright golden light bloomed just above her eye. She squinted against it and tried to make out Voldemort’s expression. He looked… maybe troubled? His face was mostly blank, so it was hard for her to discern the subtle variations.

"Sit. Eat," Voldemort said suddenly, startling her. The light of the spell faded and vanished.

Nagini moved out of the way, and Harry sat cautiously, not sure what his spell had told him and what it would mean for her. She didn't have much appetite, but she'd learned to eat despite that at a young age. The food was still hot despite however long it must have been sitting on the plates.

Voldemort returned to his seat as well, and the meal passed in silence. Nagini draped herself over Voldemort's lap and occasionally gave content hisses, but no conversation was made. Voldemort’s expression had settled into contemplative and remained thus throughout the meal.

When he placed his napkin on his plate, he finally spoke. "I have promised you a safe place to pass your summers, but this is not a promise that I can easily keep should you return to Hogwarts in the fall. Dumbledore would have many questions as to your whereabouts and he would undoubtedly take precautions to avoid another such disappearance.”

Harry was a bit surprised by the topic, having expected more of a continuation of what had happened before the meal, but this was important enough to her that she was willing to ignore her curiosity about the spell Voldemort had cast. She was disheartened by his point because it made a lot of sense. How could she disappear all summer and explain it away when she went back? And how could she expect to do it again after fifth and sixth year? “Oh,” she said because it seemed like Voldemort was waiting for something. “Where will I go, then?” she had to ask. Would she just have to stay here in the manor until she turned seventeen? Voldemort had only offered her a place for the summers, though.

“Durmstrang would be an option,” Voldemort allowed. “Karkaroff would be delighted to take you as a favor to me, I’m sure. Dumbledore would likely track you down there, however, and cause problems trying to get you back.”

Harry slouched a little further in her seat. Fucking Dumbledore.

Voldemort studied her for a long moment before offering, “Another option would be to return to Hogwarts under a new identity, as a transfer from home schooling.”

Harry sat up a little at that idea. “I could really do that? You think I could fool everyone into thinking I was someone else? With like glamors?”

Voldemort shook his head, “No. Dumbledore would see through glamors and likely detect transfiguration as well. You would need to fully commit to changing your identity. Not just for the remainder of your education.”

Her brow furrowed as she considered it. She’d never be able to see her friends again. They’d basically think that she was dead. Then she realized that that’s probably exactly what Voldemort was planning. It would do his cause a lot of good if the Girl-Who-Lived was dead. The Light seemed to consider her something of a mascot, after all. Or perhaps Once and Future Savior^TM.

Ron and Hermione probably wouldn’t ever forgive her for taking Voldemort’s side, even if she never took an active role in the war. Just being here over the summers would likely be enough for them to cut her out of their lives. She loved them, but they were both very opinionated. Neither one would ever consider choosing a different side, but they’d never had a reason to. Ron had been born into it and Hermione had learned immediately on entering the magical world that the Dark hated her for her blood. And she was not the sort to question someone like Dumbledore or McGonagall.

Harry considered what it would mean for her future. A new identity. She’d never be the Girl-Who-Lived again. That was… incredibly enticing. Freedom from the fame and expectations of a world that cared nothing for her. That vilified her whenever she didn’t live up to the expectations that they’d constructed for her without ever having even met her.

“Who would I be?” she asked hoarsely, because the answer to that question would make a difference as well.

Voldemort didn’t answer until she looked up into his eyes. Then that tiny smirk touched his lips again and he said, “My daughter and heir.”

Harry blinked and blinked again. “Wait… What?” she demanded. “Why would you want me to be your daughter?!”

“I admit that I have some interest in an heir,” he said thoughtfully. “A child of my blood. I am less interested in involving a woman in the conception of a child. The early years of an heir’s life also seem a tedious burden to endure. By taking you as my child, I would avoid much of the hassle. And I already know that you are worthy of being my heir. You are brave and powerful, resilient and resourceful. I should hate to go through the whole process of conceiving and raising an heir only to find the child does not meet my standards.”

That did make sense, but it still blew her mind that he would want her. No one wanted her. Not her relatives, not Dumbledore, not Sirius…

“There is also…” and Harry forced herself to hold still as Voldemort stretched out his arm and ever so lightly brushed her fringe aside to reveal her scar. “We are connected in a way that I had not thought possible. It was not a piece of my magic that I gave you that night. Rather… it was a piece of my very soul.”

Harry’s mouth fell open and it took a long moment for her to remember how to breathe. Voldemort didn’t seem to mind as he reclaimed his hand and just watched her while she tried to figure out how to process what he’d told her. “Your soul? Is that… How is that even possible?”

“I won’t go into all of the details just now,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Suffice it to say that you already belong to me in a very real way. I find myself inclined to make that tie even stronger.”

“How?” Harry asked warily. Her heart was pounding. She knew that this revelation was huge, even if she didn’t yet fully understand what it meant.

“A blood adoption potion. It is illegal, but not overly difficult to prepare. It will entirely replace your paternal bloodline with my own. You would no longer be a Potter in any way except historically. You would lose the physical traits that come from your father and gain new ones from me. You would truly be my daughter.”

Harry’s breath caught as the implications tumbled through her mind. She would have a father. A living father. There was a small part of her that shied away from the idea of forsaking James Potter entirely. He had died for her, after all. Or for her and her mum. She did feel that that sacrifice deserved her respect, but…

But the idea of having a living father was intoxicating. And maybe Voldemort wouldn’t be Father of the Year, but he would be hers.

“What would you expect of me as your daughter?” she asked, because she had doubts about her ability to be a good daughter. And that was honestly easier to think about than the insubstantial figure of a father that was all she’d ever known.

“You would have responsibilities,” he said. “I would expect you to learn advanced magic. Rituals and dueling foremost. I would expect excellent marks in your schooling. You would show me respect, though I would be more willing to tolerate you expressing your opinion than anyone else. I would require that you do so in private, of course. In company, you would behave as my daughter and heir. My subordinate. You would never be a Death Eater, naturally. You would be far above them.

“I would not dictate whom you marry, though I will tell you whom you may not marry, if he is unworthy of my bloodline.” He considered briefly, then added, “I will choose extra lessons for you to take, and you will apply yourself to them. You will be expected to do as you are told. Your achievements and actions will reflect on me as my family, and thus I will expect much of you. I would not make the offer, however, if I did not believe you capable of living up to my expectations.”

Harry’s breath caught a little when he said “family”. Because he wasn’t offering to love her, but he was still offering to be her family. Their actions would reflect on each other. Because they really would be family. The blood adoption potion would ensure that they truly were family.

She wished that she was getting rid of her mother’s blood instead of her father’s though. James Potter’s family was dead and she didn’t know if any of them that had been horrible. Her mother’s family, however, had Petunia and Dudley in it. She’d love to lose that connection.

Still…Voldemort was offering her a real family and a real life in exchange for what had never been more than a dream. James Potter was not a man that she knew. He’d died for her, for which she would always respect him. Would he blame her for choosing a chance at a living family? And choosing it with his murderer?

She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure if she was capable of caring enough to say no to this. A few years ago, maybe. Not now.

“Can I think about it?” she finally asked, and her voice came out unfortunately small.

“Of course,” Voldemort allowed, “but not too long. Whatever course we choose to take, there will be many preparations before the end of the summer. We must settle on one soon. Take today to consider, and give me your answer at breakfast tomorrow.” And he rose from the table, the conversation apparently over.

“I will be occupied with the wards and various errands throughout the day. Until the wards are settled, do not leave the manor. Pettigrew will be the only other person in the manor until your identity is established in whatever manner we decide, so you may move about as you please within these walls.”

And he turned and swept out of the room.

Chapter Text

Choice

Harry took a little time to wander around the dusty, rundown old manor house, lost in thought all the while. She spent most of the day in her suite, standing on the balcony or lying in bed, contemplating the choice that she had been given.

She weighed the pros and the cons that she could think of until she was dizzy with them. She tried to imagine various scenarios and what they would be like depending on the choice that she made.

From what she could gather, her choices essentially were changing her identity via blood adoption to Voldemort or voluntarily being a prisoner in the manor until she turned seventeen, at which point she could rejoin the world as Harry Potter without worrying about Dumbledore trying to force her back to Vernon.

Becoming Voldemort’s daughter felt disloyal to her birth father in the extreme, but it would allow her to live a new life, free of the burden of being the Girl-Who-Lived. It would also make her forever subject to Voldemort. She wasn’t sure how much that would be true if she chose another option. He’d still saved her from Vernon, after all. She’d still chosen him over Dumbledore. Would he expect her to become a Death Eater eventually if she remained Harry Potter or if she wanted to try to change her identity to something else?

She obviously wouldn’t ever be able to be his enemy and try to fight against his regime. Not without totally betraying him, which she wasn’t very comfortable doing. Maybe that was wrong. She honestly didn’t know anymore. What she did know was that Voldemort had helped her more than anyone else since her parents had died for her. That was not something that she could imagine betraying.

And she didn’t think that that was new for her. She’d faced a basilisk in order to save Ron’s sister even though she hadn’t even really known Ginny. She’d taken Ron back even though he treated her like crap for a month after her name came out of the goblet. She was a loyal person. And Voldemort had more than earned her loyalty.

She knew that Voldemort wasn’t a “good” person — he wasn’t kind or generous or self-sacrificing — but she didn’t know if that made him evil. She honestly didn’t know what the rules were when it came to things like revolutionaries. Were they all evil if they killed people to bring about the revolution? If so, then didn’t that make all revolutions evil? But if not, then where was the line? Because Voldemort wasn’t just a serial killer or something. He killed people to try to bring about a new government, which she thought made it different.

Harry shook her head and moved back out to the balcony, boosting herself up to sit on the railing and dangle her legs over the edge. The railing was wide and she was only on the second floor anyway, so she wasn’t worried about falling.

She wasn’t honestly sure what Voldemort wanted from his new government except that he wanted to be in charge of it. She’d thought that he wanted to kill all muggleborns because Malfoy honestly made it sound like that, but Voldemort had told her that he valued all magical blood. And he’d even let Cedric live, when he really hadn’t had to. And yes, Cedric was a pureblood, but it wasn’t like he was anything special. Just the child of a pretty light family. A Hufflepuff, even.

She supposed that maybe she should ask him what his politics were. If she was going to be his daughter – if she was going to be expected to be his heir – then surely she’d be expected to at least not oppose him in that way.

And if she really hated some of his political aims, maybe she could try to convince him to temper them? To be more merciful to some people? He had said that he would listen to her opinions, not that he’d actually heed them, but it was still much more than she’d be able to do as his enemy or a random bystander.

This was all so confusing. She didn’t feel old enough and certainly not worldly enough to be making these kinds of decisions that would so impact not only the rest of her life, but possibly the lives of many other people as well.

Could she be the daughter that he wanted? That was another important question. What if she disappointed him? What would he do?

She didn’t think that he’d kill her. Not so long as she didn’t betray him. Just failing wouldn’t be enough, she didn’t think. He’d probably push her harder. Maybe he’d even want to do some kind of ritual to make her stronger or smarter or something. That didn’t seem terrible.

And it wasn’t like she was definitely going to fail. She could handle a lot of pain. She could work herself to exhaustion. She was more than capable of pushing herself to extremes to accomplish any goal.

So maybe she wouldn’t fail.

And she could be obedient. She’d learned to be with the Dursleys as a survival mechanism. She didn’t think that it would be so bad to act that way toward Voldemort. He’d earned her respect by rescuing her, after all.

And he was making her his heir, which seemed to convey a great deal of respect for her in return. And even if he really was immortal and would never die, “heir” still held a sort of weight that daughter didn’t. Even protégé didn’t compare.

And most importantly, she did not get the sense that he felt even the smallest amount of lust toward her. Nothing in his words, actions, or gaze felt at all like the way Vernon had been toward her since she was about nine or ten. She had no fear that he would try to hurt her in that way.

She was considerably less sure of Pettigrew in general, but the man had cut off his hand on command. She doubted that he would risk Voldemort’s wrath to harm her. He barely looked at her at all, which helped her to feel a little safer.

The rat in question arrived at her room twice that day to deliver a tray bearing lunch and supper for her. The first time, he explained that the Dark Lord had asked him to bring it to her. The second time, he’d said nothing as he handed it over. He seemed wary of her, which perhaps made sense. Voldemort had made it clear that she was much more favored than Pettigrew. Perhaps he was worried that she’d ask the Dark Lord to make his life more difficult or something.

She knew that he must be useful to Voldemort though. If nothing else, he could clearly be counted upon to sacrifice body parts in rituals. So she wouldn’t try to cause him trouble. Not unless he gave her reason to.

By the time she was on her way to breakfast the next day, Harry was confident in her decision, though she had thought of a couple of important questions.

“Good morning,” Voldemort greeted her with civility as she took her seat.

She returned the greeting quietly. Nagini did not seem to be present this morning.

“Have you reached a decision?” Voldemort questioned as they began eating.

Harry swallowed with some difficulty and nodded as she took a sip of her water. “Yes. I… I would like to take your offer. To be your daughter. But…” Beneath the table, she clenched her fist around her knee until it hurt, but it helped to center her a little. “I’m worried about what you’ll expect of me. Later, I mean. I don’t know if I want to hurt or kill people.”

Voldemort’s barely there expression looked maybe thoughtful in response to her statement. “I do not expect this war to be as bloody as the last. There are many more ways to victory than rampant bloodshed, after all. Given the size of the population of magical Britain, fewer deaths would be preferable.”

Harry was speechless for a moment before she indignantly blurted. “Well, what changed? Wasn’t that all true last time, too?” She couldn’t help it, because if he’d had this philosophy back then, then maybe her parents would have lived.

Voldemort lifted one eyebrow just a little as his lips thinned ever so slightly.

Harry’s breath caught as she got the sense that maybe she should have left that one alone.

Voldemort didn’t attack her though. He just nodded a little and responded. “Do not presume to question my actions in a situation that you cannot comprehend,” he said coldly.

Harry stared at him, but when it became apparent that he wanted a response, she dipped her chin in a single, sharp nod.

He relaxed a little. “The nuances of a war are more complex than you can presently imagine,” he said with more patience. “Though it is true that I chose bloodier methods than was always necessary. I experimented with a great deal of magical rituals in my youth. And though most of them benefited me, there were some unforeseen side effects. My mind was… somewhat influenced. My natural sadism was exaggerated, and my patience was impeded.

“These side effects influenced my body. Once I found myself without a body, this instability went away.”

He looked at her with terribly cold red eyes and went on, “Do not mistake me, however. This will not be a victimless war. People will suffer and die, though not without good cause. There will be no mass slaughters. Children will be protected. There will be those who will fight to stop me, of course. Dumbledore and his people will undoubtedly be foremost among them.”

“Including my friends,” she said with a small voice.

“You mean Harry Potter’s friends,” he corrected her. “You must know that you will not retain these friends.”

“I know,” Harry nodded, “but that doesn’t mean that I want to see them hurt.”

“Even if they would kill you for the crime of being my daughter?”

Harry considered that. It was entirely plausible. Especially for Ron, who hated all Slytherins just for being Slytherins. Something that she so very nearly was. Still… “I do owe them something,” she reasoned. “For the years that they stood by me. I know that you won’t let them fight you without challenging them, but… Maybe you could be merciful to them?”

Voldemort’s eyes warmed the smallest amount. “The specific circumstances will need to be considered when the time comes, but I would be willing to consider leniency for the sake of your lingering loyalty.”

Harry’s heart soared at that news. It was proof that she could make a difference here and it solidified her decision. “Then I want to be your daughter,” she said confidently.

His eyes changed again. Still a little bit warm and also something darker as his lips quirked the smallest bit toward a smile.

“There was… one other thing,” she said cautiously.

His brow twitched up invitingly.

“I realized that I don’t really know what… I mean… What are your political goals? Apart from taking over the country. What would you do with it when you win?” She was frustrated by her inability to articulate her thoughts, but she was nervous about annoying him again so soon after the last time.

He looked thoughtful as he dipped his head in a small nod, “A reasonable question.” He leaned back and seemed to consider before he began. “The current regime has long been aimed toward pushing greater and greater integration with the muggle world. Their methods of governing, their social and cultural revolutions… These concepts have no place in the magical world.

“The magical world functions very differently, and it should. To begin, every citizen in the wizarding world carries a deadly weapon at all times, something that muggle Britain has long outlawed. Our government cannot take away our wands, but they have been systematically reducing our ability to effectively use them by heavily restricting the use and even the knowledge of most Dark Magic.”

“Then it wasn’t you who cursed the Defense post at Hogwarts? I thought I heard that.”

Voldemort tipped his head slightly in concession, “That is true, actually. It wasn’t one of my more rational decisions.”

Her brow rose at that admission.

“It is one of many things I will change when I am in control,” he went on briskly. “Magical rituals and religion are another area that has been severely curtailed. Our religion requires a number of rituals conducted throughout the year. Many of them require blood sacrifice, which our Ministry has outlawed.

“The collapse of our religion has led to weakening magic in our population.”

Harry’s eyes widened, “Why would people allow it if it was weakening us?”

“Because it is a slow process,” Voldemort said, his gaze distant. “It is not noticeable year by year, but rather decade by decade. Generation by generation. It is only when one looks at your generation compared to mine or mine to Dumbledore’s that the differences become clear. And that is a frightening thing to do, so most people choose not to look. It is easier to simply ignore it and pretend that it is not happening. Continuing to do so will destroy us, but they do not have the courage or the foresight to correct our course.

“Our world is in desperate need of clear and decisive leadership. The sort that I do not believe democracy is capable of providing.”

“So you’re not the bad guy,” Harry reasoned.

The hint of a smirk touched the corner of his lips. “I am not.” He was silent a moment before adding, “I lost my way for a time, I’m afraid, but I have found my way back now.”

“Is there…” Harry hesitated, struggling to know how to even ask. “I want to learn more about this. To understand what’s really wrong and how to fix it. Can you teach me?”

His eyes brightened in what she thought was probably a more authentic smile than anything his lips tended to produce. “Let us get your adoption completed first, my dear. And then, yes. I will teach you.”

Ashes and Fire

The rest of that day and most of the next passed in the same manner as the last. Voldemort was clearly very busy with all the things that were involved in coming back to life. On the morning of the third day, Harry woke to find her bedroom was sparkling clean and she suspected that Voldemort had gotten a house-elf, which was proven during breakfast when he called the elf to introduce her to Harry.

The elf’s name was Cinder. She was apparently a gift from a “dear friend”, which Harry suspected meant an Inner Circle Death Eater. The elf appeared young and quite enthusiastic, though thankfully not on Dobby’s level. She was also obviously amazing at her job. The food was delicious, and the house was entirely clean, not just Harry’s bedroom.

Harry did wonder who had been cooking before. Pettigrew? Or maybe Voldemort had done it himself? Or he’d ordered it from somewhere?

After breakfast, Voldemort disappeared again, and Harry sighed and went back to her bedroom. She spent a lot of time on her balcony, and she thought a lot on what her friends must be going through at Hogwarts with her having just vanished in the middle of the Third Task, never to be seen again. Cedric would have landed back at Hogwarts with no memory of what had happened to Harry. How much had Voldemort taken, she wondered. Did Cedric remember her convincing him to take the cup with her? Or did he think he’d just gotten to the cup first?

She found that she didn’t mind either way. She didn’t need any recognition for having won the tournament. Even if it would be posthumous recognition, she was fine with Cedric being considered the winner.

Soon enough, Harry suspected, everyone would learn that she’d been killed. There really was no reason to leave Harry Potter a hope in anyone’s mind if she really was never coming back.

Two hours after supper, there was a knock on her door a moment before it opened to reveal Voldemort.

Harry rose uncertainly.

“The potion is ready,” he explained, and produced a bottle of inky black liquid from a robe pocket.

Harry stared at it with trepidation. It was one thing to reason out that this was the best decision. It was something else to actually go through with it. Still, she wasn’t going to change her mind now. So she took a deep breath and nodded.

“Cinder,” Voldemort called.

The little elf popped in and immediately gave a deep bow.

Voldemort made a vague motion toward Harry and the elf snapped her fingers.

Harry flinched as she was suddenly dressed in a long nightgown, then she self-consciously curled her arms around her chest.

“This potion may change your height or build. You will be best served in less restrictive clothing,” Voldemort deigned to explain, even as he approached her and placed the potion on her bedside table. “Lie down on the bed,” he instructed. “This potion is reputed to be quite uncomfortable. You will be best served to sleep through as much of it as possible.”

She sat on the bed, trying to stay calm, and he produced a small jar.

“Before we alter your bloodline, I need some of your blood,” he explained, holding out a hand in expectation.

She swallowed, but gave him her wrist.

Without pause, Voldemort drew his wand over her wrist, and she hissed at the sudden pain as her blood literally gushed into the little jar. Thankfully, Voldemort was satisfied when it was full, and he healed her wrist with a wordless flick of his wand.

She drew her shaking hand back against her chest, feeling quite alarmed by the suddenness of a wound that could have killed her had he not felt inclined to heal it. She wouldn’t have been able to stop the bleeding before it killed her, she didn’t think. She didn’t know any healing spells. It was a terrifying reminder of just how helpless she really was. She continued to draw breath only on the strength of his mercy. And she trusted him, but that had still been unsettling.

Voldemort either didn’t notice her discomfiture or he chose to ignore it as he slipped the blood away and drew a smaller bottle of clear potion from his robes. He uncorked it and held it toward her.

“Drink this now.” He waited until she accepted it from his hand to explain, “It is a permanent aging potion. There are spells that can determine your exact age and date of birth. This potion will move your birthday back a little over seven months, further separating you from Harry Potter in even the most suspicious minds.”

Harry nodded and drank the potion down before she could think too much about it.

She cringed a little at the sharp flavor — like lemons and pepper — and then she shuddered as a general ache seemed to run through her bones. Her scalp, fingers, and toes gave a sudden, itching tingle as her hair, fingernails, and toenails abruptly grew.

It was an alarming feeling, but it passed within maybe half a minute and then she was left blinking at her incongruously long nails.

Cinder snapped her fingers and Harry sighed in relief as the extra length was clipped away from her fingers and toes and vanished almost simultaneously. Her hair wasn’t trimmed, and she had to brush her now much longer fringe back behind her ear.

“Longer hair worn in a different style will also help to separate you from Harry Potter,” Voldemort said.

Harry nodded, then accepted the black potion.

“This potion was intended for infants and toddlers,” Voldemort explained, “though it will work on anyone who is not yet seventeen. It does, however, tend to be considerably more jarring for teenagers. It will remove every gene that you have inherited from James Potter and replace them with mine.”

“I’ll lose my inheritance,” she realized suddenly. All that money in her vault would no longer be hers.

“You will gain a greater inheritance,” Voldemort said very firmly.

Harry looked at him and made herself nod. Having her own money had been a huge source of comfort to her since she’d learned of it. After growing up depending on people to even have enough to eat – and generally getting barely enough to survive – Harry had treasured that money as a way to look after herself. But in the end, it had been a pretty illusion. She’d been able to treat herself to a few more things when school shopping – when she was actually able to do her own shopping – but the money hadn’t helped to keep her safe from any of the things that tried to kill her at Hogwarts.

So she was trading a nice idea of independence for actual protection. It wasn’t a difficult decision.

She swallowed down the potion with a sense of deeply banked fear that combined nauseatingly with excitement. The potion tasted like ash and burned like fire all the way down. It settled into her stomach like a hot coal and she fell back on the bed, clutching her stomach and clenching her jaw.

It wasn’t quite pain, but it was something very near to it.

“Cinder will keep an eye on you and ensure that there are no complications,” Voldemort said as he rose from her bedside. He deftly plucked the glasses from her face and placed them on the bedside table. “I will see you at breakfast in the morning.”

Harry hardly noticed as he left the room. She wrapped her arms around her burning stomach and rolled onto her side. She squeezed her eyes shut and resigned herself to a miserable night.

Chapter Text

A New Life

Harry woke with a groan. She’d slept fitfully all night, her body wracked with aches and pains and a terrible heat that never quite burned, but left her feeling oddly hollowed out anyway.

She reached for her glasses automatically and slid them onto her face as she sat up. Her lethargy burned away in a surge of panic when she realized that she couldn’t see. Everything was incredibly blurry. Her eyes couldn’t have gotten worse! She’d been next to blind for most of her life – almost helpless without her glasses. The idea of her vision having gotten worse was terrifying.

She scrabbled at her face and yanked off the glasses, then froze as the world around her came into perfect, crisp clarity the likes of which she’d never known.

She stared at the glasses in her hand in numb wonder as the panic drained out of her. Her eyes hadn’t gotten worse. They’d gotten better.

She’d obviously gotten her terrible eyesight from James Potter.

She looked down at her hands and body in search of other things that had changed. Her eyes widened a little as she took in her breasts. They’d been next to non-existent before, disappearing easily beneath most of her clothes. She’d honestly never had a problem with that. With the way that Vernon looked at her, everything womanly about her had been dangerous. She was glad that she was never going back to Privet Drive now because her breasts had grown considerably. They weren’t huge, thankfully, but definitely impossible to miss. She’d never worn a bra, so she had no idea what size these might need. A bra hadn’t ever been something Petunia was going to get her and she hadn’t felt the need. She supposed that she probably would now.

She rose from the bed and moved toward the wardrobe where there was a tall mirror with which she could better examine herself. She felt a bit unsteady and the world just looked a little off. Not unlike the time Lavender had convinced her to try on her very tall-heeled shoes.

She was taller, Harry realized, though it was difficult to say how much. A few inches? She’d only been about five foot tall before and she’d been hoping that she’d get another inch, but she hadn’t expected more than that at almost fifteen years old.

She was fifteen now, she thought dazedly. Voldemort had said over seven months, which would put her birthday in like mid-December?

Then she stepped fully in front of the mirror and her breath caught in astonishment. The people who’d known her dad had not exaggerated when they’d told her that she looked like him, it seemed. Her face was entirely unrecognizable. Her brow was somewhat lower over her eyes. Her lips were fuller and more elegantly shaped. Her mouth was maybe a little wider. Her jaw was more angular and less square than it had been. Her chin was maybe the same. Her hairline was a little higher. Her eye shape might be close to the same as well. Her black hair had turned a dark, ashy brown. The impossible to tame curls had become elegant waves that formed ringlets in the last few inches. It was absurd that it looked so good. She’d just woken up and run a hand through it. Even her ears were closer to her head.

Only her eye color appeared entirely unchanged. They were the very same bright green that they had always been, though even with the familiar color and similar shape, they looked so different without glasses to frame them.

She took a step back and really took herself in and she could only shake her head in wonder. She’d been pretty all her life, she thought. It was why Vernon had become a problem, after all. She’d been pretty, but she’d never been beautiful. Not really.

She was now. She was stunning, really. The kind of face and body that would turn heads wherever she went.

She wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about that. On some level, it was satisfying – it was hard not to like feeling beautiful – but it was also intimidating. She would draw eyes. And at least some of them would not react well to rejection.

It made her want to study defensive magic all the more. That, at least, she was sure that Voldemort would approve of and help her with.

A pop behind her had her spinning around and nearly falling as she still wasn’t accustomed to her longer limbs. Thankfully, it was only Cinder, who bowed deeply to her.

“Apologies, Mistress! Master Dark Lord has asked Cinder to take Mistress’ measurements and purchase her new clothes.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed, pressing a hand to her chest where her heartbeat was beginning to slow once more. “Oh, of course.” She glanced down at the nightgown Cinder had put her in the night before. It did seem to be a bit shorter on her than it had been last night, though she’d not looked closely enough to say for certain how great the difference was. “Yes, go ahead.”

Cinder held up a roll of what was probably measuring tape, then snapped her fingers. The tape immediately flew to Harry and began measuring her height, her legs, her torso, and the girth of her legs, hips, waist, and chest. It also measured her feet and her hands and arms. Even her neck and her head.

When it was finished, Harry looked back at Cinder, who was making notes in a little book with a quill. Where she’d gotten the book and quill, Harry had no idea.

“How tall am I?” Harry wondered.

Cinder looked at her book and answered, “Mistress is five feet and four inches tall.”

Harry took that in with some amazement. She certainly wasn’t tall, but she’d managed to get to roughly average height, which was more than she’d ever thought she would manage. “Thank you,” she acknowledged.

Cinder blushed and bowed deeply. “Mistress is too kind to Cinder. Cinder is only doing her duty.” Then she went on before Harry could comment further. “Mistress is to be going to bathe. Cinder will be back with new robes before Mistress is finished.” Then she popped away.

Harry stared at the space she had been for a moment, then shrugged and glanced back at the mirror again. She wondered how long it would take to get used to thinking of this as her face. Years, probably, at least. It’s not like she spent that much time looking at her own face, after all.

She sketched a toothy grin at herself and then went a bit dumbfounded at how gorgeous it was. Merlin, it was strange to think such a thing of herself. She truly had an amazing smile. Her teeth were much straighter now than they had been, and she had a fetching dimple in one cheek. It made her smile look strangely sweet.

Apparently, Voldemort had all of the beautiful genes. She’d noticed that the version of him in the diary had been gorgeous, and of course he was very good-looking now as well, but she hadn’t quite understood what that would mean for her as his daughter.

After another moment of studying her face, Harry took the elf’s advice and went to the en suite for a shower.

The old bar of soap that had been in the bathroom as the only option for her hair and body the first couple of days had been replaced by a much fancier selection of bars in different colors and with different scents. Lemon and rose, she recognized. One smelled a bit like pine. The others she thought were maybe herbal, though she wasn’t sure which herbs. At the Dursleys, she’d mostly cooked with spice mixes.

Harry undressed and considered her body in the mirror. Her hips were a little wider, she thought. Her waist was a little slimmer. Definitely more of an hourglass shape. She’d always been closer to a rectangle before, slim but less womanly. She wasn’t sure how much of that was the new genes and how much was the added half a year of age. And her breasts… She could only stare at her naked breasts in the mirror and wonder at this being her own body. She felt like a stranger in her own flesh, and the womanly features filled her with a sort of creeping dread. What would other people think when they looked at her? What might they want to do to her? Would they get angry if she didn’t want them to?

She forced those thoughts to the back of her mind and mechanically moved through the motions of cleaning her body. She’d taken to locking the bathroom door with a spell since that first night. She knew that it wouldn’t hold against Voldemort and only maybe against Pettigrew, but it made her feel safer. When she was finished, she dried with the new towels that Cinder had probably purchased for the house, and was amazed as the water just wicked away from her body and hair, leaving her hardly damp in moments.

She moved to the vanity and brushed through her longer hair. The color was new and somewhat strange, though it was still quite dark, so it wasn’t a huge change. She could only marvel at the wonder that was her new hair. After a lifetime of fighting with the frizzy, impossible to tame curls, this was like a dream. She pulled the brush through her hair, and it was just sleek waves with the bottom of the strands curling together into orderly-looking ringlets with absolutely no effort on her part.

She felt a little bad for appreciating the changes, but the hair was marvelous and her eyesight was more than she’d ever dreamed to have. And the extra height didn’t hurt either.

Being Voldemort’s child was apparently like winning the genetic lottery.

She wrapped the large towel around her body and cautiously left the en suite to find that Cinder had been quite right in saying that she’d be back before Harry was finished, though she wasn’t sure what to make of the clothes she’d been provided.

It was… A dress. A fancy dress with lace and silk and like multiple flowing layers that would fall to her feet. It was made up of shades of black and gray with a light cloak that seemed to fasten directly to the dress. That was a darker black with an emerald lining.

Harry had never worn anything so fancy. Not even to the Yule ball.

As she ran her fingers over the buttery soft fabric, it occurred to her that this was probably going to become the norm for her. Voldemort, surely, would expect her to dress befitting the Dark Lord’s heiress. And that would certainly not be jeans and t-shirts, nor even ordinary slacks and blouses. Harry was, in a way, royalty now. Of a sort, at least. And probably more in fact when Voldemort managed to take control of magical Britain, which she suspected that he would eventually.

Deciding that that was something to worry about much later, Harry set about getting dressed. The outfit, thankfully, included underwear as her own were not fit to be worn at this point and she knew that she wasn’t ever getting her trunk back. The underwear were a wizarding style that was probably more similar to what women had worn a hundred years ago, but it fit as comfortably as anything thanks to magic.

There was no bra, but she soon realized that it wasn’t needed with this dress as support seemed to be built into it. She also liked how thick it was with the layers and the embroidery. Though it fit snug to her chest and stomach, she didn’t feel overly on display.

She got into the dress okay, but she ended up having to call for Cinder to help her when she realized that the laces down the back would need to be tightened and tied into place.

The dress went over her shoulders with a wide neckline and no sleeves, but the accompanying cape rested around her shoulders, fastened at her neck and covered her arms. The fabric of the cape hung nearly as long as the skirt and it was so light that it shifted and fluttered on the air around her as she moved.

Cinder then showed her the black stockings that pulled up above her knee and the nearly knee-high boots that laced up under the skirt. The soles were soft leather, but obviously imbued with magic as there was no way that that leather could cradle her feet so perfectly that she felt like she was walking on clouds.

She looked at the final product in the mirror with a strange sort of detachment. It didn’t feel like her reflection even though it mimicked her movements and expressions. The dress was, objectively, stunning. It didn’t feel like her sort of fashion, but then she didn’t look like herself, so maybe that didn’t matter.

She wasn’t herself anymore, she remembered. She wasn’t Harry Potter any longer. She was Voldemort’s daughter now.

She didn’t quite know how to feel about the reality staring back at her from the mirror, but thankfully, it was time for breakfast, which relieved her of the duty for the moment. She could turn her mind to more immediate things, such as greeting her new father.

With that in mind, she left her suite and made the by-now familiar trek to the breakfast room.

During the walk, she contemplated the idea that she would never get her trunk or the contents back. She wouldn’t miss most of it, but there were a few things. Her invisibility cloak for one. The Marauders’ map for another. Her photo album… But this was her life now. She had no choice but to put Harry Potter and her past behind her. It was worth it, she reminded herself.

She found Voldemort already seated at the table and he looked up when she entered. His eyes ran over her clinically and then his face took on another of those barely noticeable expressions. She thought this one looked smug, which probably made sense, she supposed. He’d switched James Potter’s DNA for his and she’d come out looking like this.

“Good morning, child,” he greeted with a mild gesture toward her usual seat.

“Good morning,” she returned, then took a bracing breath and added a wary, “Father.”

His eyes warmed more than she’d ever seen them at the term and his lips almost pulled into a proper smile. “We’ll have to change your eye color. That green is far too distinctive. It is a small change though - not enough magic for anyone to notice. You have a great deal of me in your face, so it would not be strange for your eyes to be from your mother, but they will still have to change.” He frowned at her consideringly. “Hazel, perhaps, or if you’d like to keep them green, a pale jade would be sufficiently different from this bright emerald.”

Harry nodded. She wasn’t surprised but she was a little dismayed at the idea of losing her mother’s eyes after losing her father entirely. “Jade, please,” she nodded. At least they’d still be green. And she shouldn’t think only of what she was losing. She’d just gained a whole parent, after all — a living one.

Voldemort nodded and drew his wand, flicking it lightly at her face.

She barely withheld a flinch, and she blinked a few times before a hand mirror was passed to her.

She held it up to her face and tried to be objective about it. Her first thought was that it looked better. Well, not better, but more right. Instead of seeing her own eyes looking out of a foreign face, she was looking at a stranger entirely.

With a mild grimace, she placed the mirror face-down on the table by her plate. “Thank you,” she nodded to Voldemort so that he wouldn’t think she was complaining. She wasn’t. It was just a lot to adjust to in such a short amount of time. She hoped that she’d feel better about it by September.

“I will teach you the spell to do it yourself. It will last for a few days, but should be recast every morning to be safe.”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly and tried to focus on eating as the food appeared on her plate.

“We will, of course, need to conceal your scar perfectly. Any indication of an irregularity in that particular spot would be far too damning. I shall look into the matter. I am certain that I can devise something before September.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Voldemort spoke again. “I had expected you to be taller,” he said with the hint of a frown. “Then again, the Potters were not short… Did you have enough to eat growing up?”

Harry felt blood rush to her cheeks and she ducked her head. “There was plenty of food,” she said truthfully, then added, “but they didn’t give me much of it.”

“Ah,” Voldemort’s voice came out glacially cold and Harry hunched a little over her food.

A moment later, there was the sound of a deep breath or perhaps a faint sigh. “You will need a great deal of tutelage before you return to Hogwarts if you are to pass as my daughter.” When Harry dared to glance up at him, he was studying her again. “What electives have you taken?”

“Care of Magical Creatures and Divination,” she said.

He frowned ever so slightly. “I see. When you return, you will take Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. If you wish to take a third elective, you may select whichever you prefer.”

“But I’ll be so far behind,” she couldn’t help but complain. “I’ll do terribly and that’ll reflect badly on you!”

“It would, indeed,” he said, “which is why you will study this summer and catch up.”

“Two years of lessons in two months?” she asked in astonishment.

He dipped his head in a slight nod, “Yes. I believe that you will find it within your abilities. The changes wrought by my blood will not all be outwardly apparent. Should we, however, find that you are not progressing quickly enough, there are potions and rituals that will assist you. Beginning today, I will give you material to study and we will discuss your understanding of it after dinner.”

Harry forced herself to nod though she suddenly felt incredibly intimidated by the prospect. She’d never had an adult who wanted her to do well in school before and it sounded like Voldemort was going to expect her to not only do well but to excel. She would do her best, of course. She just worried that her best may fall short of his expectations.

“You will also take lessons in the basics that proper purebloods learn before Hogwarts, including dance and deportment, etiquette, and diction.”

Harry nodded, privately wondering how she was meant to manage to learn two years of two subjects in one summer at all, much less amongst so many other lessons. It was stressing her out, but she didn’t see how she had any choice but to obey and hope that he would work with her if she proved incapable of meeting the standards he was setting.

“Now, you will, of course, need a new name,” Voldemort went on. “Your surname will be Slytherin, a name which is now yours by blood. Ideally, you will be sorted into the corresponding House when you return to Hogwarts.”

“The Hat wanted me in Slytherin the first time,” she admitted, “So I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”

“Did it?” he asked with deceptive intensity.

She nodded. “It was impressed by my tendency toward self preservation.”

Voldemort’s eyes warmed the smallest bit once more. “It said something similar to me.”

Her eyes widened at that admission, and she felt a surge of warmth at the idea that she’d had something in common with her new father even before they shared DNA.

“Now, as to your first name, I am inclined toward Athena if you have no objection.”

“Athena?” she asked. It seemed a little more grandiose than she’d like.

“Do you know the myth of Athena?” he inquired.

She shook her head. “She was Zeus’s daughter, right? That’s all I know.”

“She was a protector, goddess of war and wisdom. She was also the daughter of Zeus, born from his head, fully grown without ever having had a mother. I believe it is uniquely well suited to our situation.” And he seemed rather amused by his own cleverness, she thought.

Still, she didn’t have any specific objections to the name beyond that it was the name of a goddess, a namesake that she hardly felt she deserved.

Then again, she reminded herself, she was no longer Harry Potter. She was not merely pretty, but beautiful. She was not an unwanted orphan, but, in effect, a princess – or she would be when Voldemort controlled wizarding Britain. And she was of Voldemort’s blood, but she wasn’t just the kid he’d ended up with. He’d chosen her.

So maybe it would be okay.

“Athena Slytherin,” she tested it out. “Will I have a middle name?”

“Traditionally, it would be your mother or your grandmother’s name. Or possibly a feminization of my name or my father’s name,” he reasoned, then decided, “You cannot use your mother’s name for obvious reasons, and I unfortunately shared a name with my father. You will be better off without one.”

She nodded and decided to drop it without questioning him. Athena Thomasina Slytherin sounded odd anyway.

“What if I don’t remember to answer to it at school though?” she worried.

“You will grow used to it,” Voldemort said, “but perhaps to begin with, I can employ a spell that will cause the sound of your name to ring a bit oddly in your mind when you hear it. It will fade within a few months if not renewed, but that should be enough to ensure it catches your attention.”

“Oh. Yeah, that would be great.” She sometimes forgot how much she loved everything that magic was capable of, and she wasn’t sure why.

They ate in silence for a minute before another thing occurred to her. “Will the Sorting Hat know who I really am?”

Voldemort inclined his head that small bit. “Yes. The Hat will see into your mind, but it is incapable of passing on the details of what it finds there. There are a number of families who would undoubtedly have refused to send their children to the school if they would be required to share family secrets to a sentient magical object capable of passing those secrets to anyone who got hold of it.”

She nodded, reassured.

The conversation died off again for a few minutes until Voldemort placed his napkin on his plate. “I will send Cinder with the first books that I would like you to study. Read the introduction and first four chapters of each before dinner tonight.”

“Yes, Father,” she said obediently, and watched his eyes brighten toward a smile again. She wondered if it was the obedience, the moniker, or the combination that pleased him. She watched him rise and take his leave from the breakfast room before standing. She took a breath and squared her shoulders. She honestly didn’t know if she was going to be capable of living up to her new father’s expectations of her, but if she failed, it would not be for lack of trying. She’d literally worked herself to the point of fainting for the Dursleys for the privilege of a small meal and minimal bruising. She’d push herself a lot further than that for what Voldemort was offering.

Chapter Text

Healer

The first couple of days as Athena Slytherin were spent mostly with studying. She read through everything that her new father asked her to read, taking diligent notes to ensure that it stuck in her mind, and then she spent any free time reading further. She’d never had any chance of impressing the Dursleys or making them like her at all, but she felt like she had a chance with Voldemort. She wasn’t going to prove a disappointment.

And it had been working. When she was able to report the progress that she’d made at supper each evening and pass Voldemort’s little quizzes, his eyes would warm and he would seem pleased with her. It was alarmingly addictive to get that response and it just made her want to push herself even further the next day. He’d even begun giving her a little more reading to do when he realized that she was doing more than he assigned.

Her endeavors were aided by the fact that she really did seem to be smarter. Her memory was much sharper and her ability to understand was considerably improved from anything she’d experienced before becoming Voldemort’s daughter.

She was getting better at thinking of herself as Athena as well. It was easy when every time she looked in the mirror, she saw someone who very much was not Harry Potter. Even her hands were more slender and delicate, her fingers longer.

On the last day of June, her afternoon studying was interrupted by a knock on her door. Pettigrew always waited for her to answer the door, but Voldemort always seemed to knock, wait a few seconds, and then just let himself in. Not that he came by often. As the door opened on it’s own, she wasn’t surprised to see Voldemort step into the room, though she did feel a spike of alarm to realize that he was followed by a man she’d never seen before.

She rose from her place at her desk uncertainly. Voldemort hadn’t mentioned anything about this over breakfast.

“This is Elias Wilkes,” Voldemort explained, “He is a healer.”

Harry — Athena — felt her breath catch at that. She didn’t feel ready for this. She didn’t have much experience with healers or doctors, but she was pretty sure that this was going to involve getting much closer to this stranger than she wanted to.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Slytherin,” the man greeted. He was on the short side for a man, with dark brown hair and brown eyes. He wasn’t fat, but on the softer side, and he was wearing nice-looking gray and brown robes.

“Hello,” Athena said cautiously, glancing at Voldemort uncertainly. Her eyes were charmed jade in color even though she’d not been expecting company. Voldemort had suggested that she get into the habit of casting the spell every morning to minimize the chances of her forgetting when she was at Hogwarts.

“I will begin by performing a very simple ritual to scan you for your complete health history,” the healer then explained. “It will take around ten or fifteen minutes. It is entirely non-invasive. All you need to do is lie down and remain as still as you can until it is finished.”

Harry hesitated and glanced at Voldemort again. “Will you stay the whole time?” she asked somewhat breathlessly.

One of his eyebrows rose the smallest amount in what might have been surprise, but then he dipped his chin in assent, “If you wish.”

“Please,” she said with a strained smile. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she was expected to be alone in the room with this strange man for any length of time. She’d probably endure, as she’d endured much worse, but she’d hate it.

“Then if you’ll have a seat on the bed,” the healer said politely. “Remove your boots and socks, please.”

Athena chose to step into the next room to remove her books and socks since the boots laced up pretty high and her socks even higher. When she was done, she returned — thankful to find Voldemort still there — and sat on the edge of the bed as ordered. The healer was fiddling with the large bag that he carried. It looked rather like the old-fashioned kind of bag that muggle doctors would take on house calls. At least, the version of it that she’d seen in muggle media.

When the healer looked at her again, he motioned for her to lie down. She nervously arranged herself on the bed, doing her best not to flinch when he came to stand over her.

“I promise that it will be completely painless,” he said reassuringly. “I’m just going to paint a few runes on your skin to guide the magic.”

Harry — Athena nodded nervously and locked her muscles tight as he leaned over her with a tiny paintbrush and began to paint first on her forehead, then on the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. Thankfully, that seemed to be all that he needed, for he sat back and began a musical chant in a low voice.

She flinched slightly as she felt it start, but she consciously prevented herself from moving further. The last thing that she wanted was to drag this out longer because she messed it up by moving.

There was nothing in particular to see, but she kept her eyes turned enough that she could see her father standing not too far behind the healer, observing the procedure. Knowing that he was there gave her an incredible amount of comfort. It still baffled her to think that she had a father. She had someone who could be present for her in moments like this. It wasn’t something that she’d ever had before. She had someone on her side against the world and that was… everything.

Thoughts on that kept her calm while the magic trickled through her body. The healer had told the truth in that it was not painful, but it wasn’t precisely comfortable, either. The foreign magic felt intrusive. Not dangerous or overly invasive, but just wrong. It didn’t belong and she didn’t like it.

When it finally trickled away, she almost melted in relief, immediately sitting up and scooting back to sit against the headboard.

The healer looked surprised, but then he gave her a friendly smile. He didn’t stop his chant quite yet. Instead, he flicked his wand toward a pile of parchment and ink began to fill the top page.

“I take it that you could feel the magic at work?” he questioned when the ritual seemed finished.

She nodded with some confusion. It had been so glaringly obvious that it was difficult to imagine anyone not being able to feel it.

“That’s not common,” he confided, “though I suppose it isn’t surprising. Such sensitivity is much more common in magically powerful individuals.”

Harry glanced briefly back up at Voldemort, whose lips twitched with evident pleasure. And of course he’d see her magical power as a personal achievement. Though given everything else that she’d gained by being his daughter, she supposed it wasn’t terribly inaccurate.

A small noise from the healer drew her attention back to him and she found him looking slightly pale as he scanned through the pages that the ritual had generated.

“What is her condition?” Voldemort demanded.

The man glanced up and offered him a strained smile. “There is nothing unusual or concerning in her first… fifteen months,” he said, studying the pages more closely. “Almost immediately from that point, however… The malnutrition begins right away and lasts until she’s eleven. There are recurrences each summer after.” He flipped through the pages, looking increasingly grim. He cleared his throat and went on, “More than a dozen broken bones that were not properly set. It appears that her magic did a lot of work in healing her, but it could only do so much.” He glanced up and met her eyes. “You suffer from chronic aches and pains, yes? Originating from the points of old injuries and elsewhere?”

She nodded warily. She’d not really thought about it before. The aches were something that she’d grown used to a very long time ago.

He nodded and looked back at the paper. “Multiple injuries to tendons and ligaments, especially in the arms and shoulders. Multiple dislocations of both shoulders.” He hesitated before going on, “And last summer…”

Athena flushed deeply and bit her lip harshly as she tensed for what she knew was coming.

“Vaginal tearing,” the healer said cautiously, casting a glance back at Voldemort.

Athena glanced up at Voldemort as well. Obviously the Dark Lord had known about what had happened — she’d told him, after all — but he still looked livid, which seemed to be making the healer extremely nervous. He seemed to think Voldemort was the sort of person to kill the messenger, which… Well, the fear seemed valid, though she didn’t honestly think that he would. Not in this instance, at least.

The healer nervously cleared his throat again, “Her growth has been stunted by the malnutrition as well.” He immediately continued with, “It is all treatable, of course. The bones will all need to be re-broken and properly set, but that can be done while she is unconscious. The rest can be fixed with a potion regimen. I’d like to start with a six month regimen and we can reassess this winter to see if she would benefit from more.”

“What about long term negative effects?” Voldemort asked coldly.

The healer hesitated briefly before admitting, “Minor aches and pains on rainy days wouldn’t be surprising for the rest of her life. And scarring is always somewhat tricky. There are a number of potion options for scarring on skin, but within the body is more complicated. Vaginal scarring can result in chronic pain, and… and in some cases can lead to infertility-“ He stopped talking abruptly as Voldemort’s enraged magic flashed through the room, causing some small objects to vibrate in place.

“There is another option,” the healer continued quickly. “It is… Well, it’s a Dark ritual. It could be used to transfer all of the damage to Miss Slytherin’s body to another person. It would completely fix her ailments almost instantly and it would be permanent. It is… obviously on the unorthodox side.”

Harry’s breath caught at the idea of being perfectly healthy, but at the expense of someone else. She had no idea how to deal with that. It was… not right, but… But her father was a Dark Lord. These kinds of things were probably to be expected.

“Does the recipient need to be magical?” Voldemort questioned thoughtfully and Harry knew at once that he’d already made up his mind.

While he and the healer discussed the particulars of the ritual, Harry stared at her hands folded in her lap and tried to wrap her conscience around this. She knew that she didn’t deserve to be healthy at the expense of someone else, but she also knew that very little in the world took into account what anyone deserved. As her father had once told her, there is only power and those too weak to seek it. That wasn’t how the world should be, maybe, but it was how the world actually worked. Those with power determined who got what. Still…

“Could it be someone who deserves it?” she asked quietly, not realizing that she’d interrupted until both men stopped and turned to look at her. She felt herself flush again, but tried to explain, “I mean, can you pick someone that you want to hurt anyway, instead of someone innocent?”

Voldemort’s brow rose in surprise, but then he seemed to think about it. Finally, he gave a faint nod and said, “I will consider it.”

Harry nodded to herself as the men went back to their discussion. She supposed that was the most she could hope for.

Ritual

The woman that Voldemort found for the ritual was, somewhat surprisingly, rather elderly. She was unconscious, laid out on a second small mat on the floor in the ritual room.

“A very Light-oriented member of the Wizengamot,” Voldemort explained when she stopped in surprise at the sight of her. “Her age won’t affect the ritual, but it will mean that she will be less likely to take note of new aches and pains. Also, the nature of prolonged malnutrition tends to lower life expectancy, meaning that this horrible woman will cease to be a problem all the sooner and her timely demise will be deemed natural causes. A win all around.” He looked incredibly pleased with himself. “Her heir is very young and evidently disinclined to politics, so it is likely she will leave the seat empty.”

Harry just nodded. She wasn’t overly upset about this turn of events. She’d rather this affect someone who didn’t have their whole life ahead of them, honestly, and she understood that there would be people who would die in the process of Voldemort taking over the country. She felt much better that there was a need for this woman’s death and she wasn’t just a convenient way to rid Harry of her health issues.

Athena, she reminded herself. Her name was Athena now.

This ritual turned out to be incredibly simple for her, at least. She just changed into the plain gown provided and laid down on the mat on the floor. Then she was given a dreamless sleeping potion so that she could sleep through it. Apparently, it wasn’t overly pleasant, but the sleeping potion wouldn’t negatively affect it.

Before taking the potion, she did meet her father’s eyes and ask, “You’ll stay the whole time, right?”

“Until you are left alone in your room when it is complete,” Voldemort said very firmly.

Athena nodded, reassured, and drank her potion.

*

She woke up in her own bed, alone in her room. She pushed herself into a seated position and marveled at the total lack of pain. Her shoulders, elbows, wrists, fingers… She felt slightly fatigued, but otherwise good.

There was a small pop and Cinder arrived in the room. She bowed deeply. “Master Lord was asking Cinder to be watching Miss. You is been sleeping for almost sixteen hours. Miss is to be bathing and then Cinder will be bringing her a light breakfast and a list of studying to be doing today.”

“Yes, thank you,” Athena replied, her attention focused on her hands. She flexed her fingers repeatedly, marveling at the complete lack of pain. She’d long learned to live with the pain. She didn’t honestly think about it often, but the lack of it was stark.

Cinder popped away and Athena closed her eyes tightly against the sting of tears. She’d been Voldemort’s daughter for mere days and her life had improved in so many ways. She knew that it wasn’t affection for her that drove his actions, but she didn’t mind that. He was taking care of her. He'd insisted on a ritual that she would have refused if she could, and it had helped her so much. It was the first time that she could remember when she'd been made to do something an adult thought was best for her and it had actually turned out to be best for her.

She swore to herself in that moment that she would return his care with loyalty. She would be the perfect daughter, and when she was an adult, she would defend him with her life if necessary.