lomonaaeren

Chapter Fifty-Nine.

Title: His Twenty-Eighth Life (60/?)
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters. I am writing this story for fun and not profit.
Pairing: Eventual Harry Potter/Voldemort; mentions of others, including canon pairings, in the background, and past Harry/others
Rating: R (more for violence than sex)
Content Notes: violence, torture, gore, manipulation, angst, Master of Death Harry Potter, reincarnation, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempts
Summary: Harry Potter has been reborn again and again into new bodies as the Master of Death, some of them not human, none of them exactly like his old one—but he has always helped to defeat Voldemort in each new world. Now he’s Harry Potter again, but his slightly older brother is the target of the prophecy, and Harry assumes his role is going to be to support Jonathan in his defeat of Voldemort. At least, that’s what he thinks until Voldemort comes that Halloween night, discovers what Harry is, and kidnaps him. The story of a long fight between Voldemort’s sadism and Harry’s generosity.
Author’s Notes: This is going to be a very long fic, exploring some fairly dark character interactions. While the heart of the story is Harry’s relationship with Voldemort, that’s going to change only slowly and over time, and there will be plenty of concentration on other characters, too. Also, please take the tags/content notes seriously.

Thank you again for all the reviews!

Chapter Sixty—Holding On

Harry watched as Voldemort’s eyes slowly opened. He’d slept for a long time after the reabsorption of the last Horcrux, and Harry wasn’t entirely sure what would happen when he woke. He had shouted words in the last few moments, hissed them, and otherwise sounded as though he was going mad.

But the gaze that fixed on him was clearer than Harry had expected, clearer than it had been for a long time. As for saner… there was still too much reverence for him in that gaze, but Harry could accept that now. It was what Voldemort needed to heal.

And Harry wouldn’t be surprised if the reverence left Voldemort as he got more used to having a complete soul again.

“I am mortal,” Voldemort whispered.

Harry nodded. “I know. But I’m going to give you something that will help protect you.” He held out his hand, and the Resurrection Stone sparkled into being on his palm. Voldemort, on a bed Harry had Transfigured out of leaves and roots, started back from it and nearly fell off the other side. Harry bit his lip, hard. He didn’t think Voldemort would appreciate laughter right now.

“The Stone seems to have power over deceptions and spirits, not the living,” Voldemort said slowly. His eyes traveled back and forth between Harry and the Stone as though wondering whether there was a trap here.

“I know, but that’s only the traditional sort of power it has.” Harry shrugged when Voldemort stared at him. “I can invest it with others. Right now, I’ve told it to block any fatal curse that tries to hit you.”

“Fatal. And where does the line get drawn for the Stone?”

“It means a curse that would have killed you. Believe me, the Stone is very good at judging when death is drawing near.”

“So—no others. I will still suffer pain. I still will know what it’s like to fear death.” But Voldemort was reaching towards the Resurrection Stone even as he spoke.

Harry watched as the Stone settled into his palm. He was sure that only he, and possibly the other Deathly Hallows, saw the thin line of wavering blue smoke that went up like a signal when Voldemort took it. “I think that would always be true, no matter what protection I gave you.”

Voldemort shot him a sharp glance as he studied the symbol of the Deathly Hallows on the Stone. “Why?”

“Because fear of death is so much a part of your nature. There’s nothing I could give you that would block it entirely.”

Voldemort was still for a moment, staring at the Stone, and probably staring past that to things he didn’t want to tell Harry about. Harry waited patiently until he felt like speaking again. When he did, it was in a whisper. “And you say that without judgment. Without contempt.”

Harry hesitated one moment. “Because I’ve seen so many people in my lives who feared it. It would be stupid of me to despise them for it, just because I know that I would be reborn. I don’t know anything about what kind of afterlife they go on to any more than anyone else does.”

Voldemort turned to him with a motion like a coiling snake that again almost made him fall off the mattress Harry had Transfigured. “Do not lie to me. I know when you are doing it, Master of Death. Legilimency gives me that much of a weapon even against you.”

Harry had to smile, though he knew it was sad. He had made a mistake trying to get that much past Voldemort. “All right, so I did despise your incarnations in other worlds for fearing death so much. Horcruxes, and some of the other things they did, are so beyond the pale for me that it was disgusting.”

“But you do not despise me for it.”

Harry shook his head. “Like I said, it’s part of your nature. And I’ve…done things that don’t give me the right to despise anyone.”

“Will you tell me about them?”

Harry nodded slowly. “Although seventeen hundred years of sins are a bit much right now. I’m going to have a house-elf bring you some food, and then we can talk. But I think you should go back to your Death Eaters soon. They’ll get restless without you.”

*

And even when you promise to be honest with me, you deflect.

But Voldemort found himself clinging to the distraction of Harry’s words, to avoid the fear that squatted like a great black toad in a corner of his mind. He did say, “How can you summon a house-elf out here?”

“I got to know your house-elves’ names and personalities during the time when I was your prisoner,” Harry said, turning his head a little to the side and squinting. “And the elves your followers lent you sometimes. They didn’t really come near me because they were scared of me, but I knew them.”

“Why would they be frightened of you?” Voldemort knew that house-elves were timid things, flinching at the mere hint of punishment from their masters, but it seemed odd for them to fear one of the kindest beings they would have encountered.

“They can see something when they look at me. I don’t know exactly what it is. But it frightens them. Yes, that one should do. Frumpy!”

There was a sharp pop, and a house-elf standing absolutely motionless appeared in the center of the clearing. It was breathing hard, and staring at Harry with eyes so wide that Voldemort thought he could see all the way into the back of its mind. He grimaced. That was an unpleasant sensation.

“Master,” the elf breathed, and nothing else. It wore a thick white towel with a green blob in the center of it. Voldemort could not recall whose elf it was, although he knew he had seen it around the manor before.

He realized a moment later that that was the only time he had ever heard an elf speak the word “Master” without some kind of name after it. But Harry was already talking and probably wouldn’t want to pause to discuss that revelation.

“Can you bring us a breakfast with some beef broth mixed with blood and some fresh eggs? Scrambled, please. And a glass of milk.”

“Beef broth?” Voldemort asked with all the scorn he could muster. “I am not an invalid, Potter.”

“It’s what you need right now,” Harry said, giving him a critical look. “Although the Dark magic that lingers in your body means that you need the blood in it, too. And the milk contains nutrients that you’ll need.”

“And the eggs? Do you have some extraordinary Healer’s purpose for them as well?”

“Hm? No. I just like eggs.”

The elf was looking back and forth between them as if it had no idea what purpose it was supposed to serve, but then Harry nodded to it, and it squeaked and vanished. Voldemort saw its ears trembling before it did. He had never seen a house-elf be that still in the midst of its fear. He shook his head.

“What?” Harry asked, leaning back on one elbow. He wore the harmless child’s body again, without even a trace of the luminescent power Voldemort had seen around him during his own confrontation with the Horcruxes. He knew that he could retain the memory of those shining green eyes until the end of his li—his existence, and he would, but he preferred to see the reality in front of him.

“You speak and act as a normal human being even though you’re anything but.”

“Centuries of practice. I didn’t reveal who I really was in most worlds, remember.”

“And centuries of fear,” Voldemort said, and watched in delight as Harry’s eyes darkened. Yes, there was a normal human expression of anger there, in some ways, but there was something much deeper and warier, too, and it rippled through Harry’s body in visible tendrils.

“What do you mean?”

“Centuries of fear that revealing what you are would drive humans away from you.” Voldemort leaned towards him. “I’m mortal now, but I’m not human. You acknowledged that yourself with the blood in the beef broth. No one is better-positioned to understand you and help you explore all aspects of your unique nature.”

“I can explore them well enough.” Harry’s body was starting to glow at the outer extremities, where perhaps he was paying less attention.

“And you can explore them better with a partner.” Voldemort lowered his voice a little. “What are you afraid of, Master of Death?”

“I’m not afraid of anything!”

“It sounds to me as if you are.”

The food appearing made Harry turn away as if he assumed that Voldemort would let the conversation drop. Voldemort did take and drink some of the bowl of blood-infused beef broth, while watching Harry under his eyelids. He was frowning, and eating his eggs with more force than was necessary.

“This is about you, not me,” Harry said finally as he finished eating. “I don’t want you to feel as though you need to spend time coaxing me to explore my nature, or whatever it is that you have in mind. And you’re mortal in many ways, so of course you have trouble understanding what I’m like.”

Voldemort felt an odd sensation in his throat. He actually wondered if he was about to vomit the food that the house-elf had brought, and opened his mouth.

Instead, it came out as laughter. Harry stared at him, hands glowing and turning insubstantial again, the way they hadn’t been while he held his fork.

“I do understand you,” Voldemort said. “And it is too late to assume the position of immortal hovering above the poor world. You are fully involved in this, Harry, and you are even offering me a new position of immortality. I still think that you’re afraid of something.”

Harry blew out his breath and turned material again. “I’m really not. I just don’t want to go—exploring. I want to stay in this world and live in it. It’s enough of a new experience for me, with the people around me knowing who I am and the conglomeration of ghosts to talk to.”

“And can you willingly lose that experience when you age?”

“I am not staying immortal with you in this one world!”

Voldemort nodded. He would step back from the subject, although he would never truly give up pushing. “Then perhaps you can tell me what will happen after this. You expect me to resume the position of Lord Voldemort as if I had never left it? And what happens when I must negotiate peace under a different face than the one that already appeared in the papers? Some of the small-minded Ministry fools will find that disconcerting.”

“Your face can look different, and you can come up with any number of lies for it,” Harry said, with a blithe disinterest that Voldemort found insulting. “And you can use the same lies on the Death Eaters. But what’s important is that I’ll protect you from the ills of mortality until you can use the method of immortality I mentioned, and the Death Eaters should be ready for peace.”

“Why would I not be able to pursue the method of immortality at once?”

Harry hesitated for the first time. “Because it requires you to have a certain mental stance and view of life, and I don’t think you have that yet.”

“You never mentioned this before.”

“I didn’t think there was a real possibility that you would get this far.” Harry looked up at him, and his eyes had turned thick with stars again. “I’m sorry for doubting you like that. You deserve to be believed.”’

“And I deserve to be told the truth.” Voldemort felt his mouth draw up into a snarl, and struggled to get it back under control. Hot, petty irritation was rearing up inside him. In the old days, only rage had done this to him.

Or had his petty irritation seemed like rage when he had Horcruxes still, because he was so dedicated to imagining all his emotions important?

Voldemort averted his eyes and said, “I want you to be honest from now on. If something is an obstacle in my path, tell me. If I tell you that I am uncertain about something, help me figure out a solution.”

“All right,” Harry said, in a soothing voice that Voldemort wished he didn’t find so soothing. “Would you like to begin with the situation concerning your new face and the Ministry? I was flippant about you needing to lie. I can help you come up with the lie.”

Voldemort stared in silence at the immortal being who had somehow retained a human heart, and wanted to shake his head. Only Harry would take that the wrong way, as well, and Voldemort was tired of arguments intervening between them. “Please help me,” he said.

Harry smiled at him. Voldemort settled back on the Transfigured mattress with barely a sigh. He wanted the immortal part of Harry more, but he wanted the kindness as well, and without that kindness directed at him, he would not have come this far.

To being Voldemort, instead of Lord Voldemort.

But Voldemort or not, he was not drinking the milk.

*

“I believe that I have the pleasure of making the acquaintance of Matron Augusta Longbottom?”

Augusta studied the man walking towards her. He had a handsome face, she supposed, but that was nothing to her; what mattered more was the expression of determination on his face, and the way he held his hand out to her. Hands stained with the blood of thousands looked no different from clean ones, a circumstance Augusta had noted before, but still deplored.

“The ‘Matron’ is flattery,” she said, and took his hand. “You know that that title is reserved for mediwitches.”

“I did not, actually.” The man nodded a little, and let go of her hand after a moment. Neither too long nor too short for politeness, Augusta thought, grudgingly pleased. “Will you sit with me? I hope that I will have the company of reasonable people, and there look to be few of them here.”

That, Augusta had to admit, was true, and added honesty to the list of the virtues of the former Lord Voldemort. They were in the Wizengamot’s central meeting room, a huge, sparkling place that always looked to Augusta as if it had been carved out of the inside of an enormous crystal—badly. There were rippling runs of color everywhere in the walls that reflected dazzling bursts of light, and the benches were also crystal, or at least crystalline, which meant slick, cold, and hard.

And everyone else involved was milling around like Crup puppies in the presence of a Nundu. Augusta sniffed as she sat down.

“What makes you so different from them?” asked Voldemort. Augusta was finding it easier to think of him as that the more time passed. In the end, he was the one who had asked for this meeting and offered to negotiate peace. That already made him wiser than Albus. His name shouldn’t matter as much as his politics. “Why are you willing to accept me?”

“I’m willing to negotiate with you. That’s not the same as accepting you.”

Voldemort gave her a quick smile that startled Augusta with how human it was. “Understood. But why are you? Simply because I have made the offer?”

“That helped. But mostly because I realized that my efforts against you were accomplishing nothing, and neither were the efforts of the man who supposedly knew the most about you and how to defeat you.”

“Ah.” Voldemort seemed to move further away from her without standing. “You are speaking of Albus Dumbledore, I collect.”

“Of course I am. But lately, the man’s lost his mind, and I don’t care how powerful and brilliant he was in the past if he can’t find his way out of a dark room now. And I don’t believe that someone as violent as you always were would be able to hold a mask for this long and not just break back into violence again if he was dissembling.”

Voldemort looked at her thoughtfully. “You heard of the experiment I conducted that reversed some of the transformations I had imposed on myself and also restored some of my sanity?”

“I did. And may I say that I don’t believe a word of it. That was the kind of lie that will work with these idiots,” and Augusta nodded at the leaderless rabble around them. “If you expect me to believe it, then I think I’ll get up and find someone else to sit with after all.”

For a moment, Voldemort coiled, and Augusta saw his eyes. There was a depth of anger in them that she hadn’t expected. But she stared back, because his rage was also human, and she didn’t believe that he was going to draw his wand and slaughter them all, either.

He did manage to beat back the emotion, and stared at her thoughtfully. “I think you will be a most valuable ally to have, Madam Longbottom.”

“Always. If you make it worth my while.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to believe that you’re talking about money.”

“No. Show me that you can be a good leader, and that you’re here for an honest purpose, and I might believe there’s worth in Dark wizards yet.”

Voldemort gave her a thin smile, and then they turned towards the front of the room as the call for order came in the form of a bell ringing a thin, tinny note. They should have replaced that bell a long time ago, Augusta thought.

As the Mediator’s eyes fell on them sitting together, the woman looked as if she would faint. Augusta hoped she would bounce her head off the crystal floor if she did. They could use a new Mediator.

But she didn’t, and she declared the presence of Lord Voldemort in a quavering voice that made it clear she would have preferred to use “You-Know-Who,” and the negotiations began.