Title: Dumbledore Wouldn’t Be Happy
Inspired by: This pic.
Spoilers for: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Not that you need spoiler warnings at this point.
Who Owns This: Not me. Please don’t sue.
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“Join me, Harry.”
The sibilant voice tempted, called. Harry refused. For now.
Voldemort and Harry looked at each other, and now Voldemort tilted his head a little to the side, considering the boy standing before him, and a singularly mirthless smile curled the lipless mouth. “Harry Potter,” he said very softly. His voice might have been part of the splitting fire. “The Boy Who Lived.”
Harry had enough.
“Stop calling me that!”
Fists. Rocks. Sticks. Even his shoes became a weapon, and what was it about wizards that they were never prepared for purely physical attack?
“Never call me that! Never!”
Harry learned Dark Lords had glass jaws.
Later, when Voldemort woke, he did not know where he was. The language slithering through the square sandstone window was Berber.
“You’re awake. Good.” Harry said, handing him a plate of food and a glass of water, both crudely made and asymmetrical.
After the food was thrown and cleaned up again, after the escape attempts and wandless, worthless battle against magic-dampening wards, Harry spoke.
“I’m keeping you. I’m teaching you. Tom Riddle is dead. For the first time, you’re really going to live as Voldemort – and like an infant, you’re going to learn.”
It would take years, Harry knew. That was okay. Neither can live while the other survives had more than one meaning. In a sense, they were both dead and reborn.
Dumbledore would never have approved.
