Chapter Text
Curled in his bed, Harry Potter wrapped his arms over his knees, squeezing his eyes tightly shut against pain and fear, his emotions surging out of control. He’d already sent a wind whipping around the smallest bedroom in number four once, he didn’t need to do it again and risk waking his relatives.
It was his first night back at the Dursleys at the end of his fifth year, after the mess at the Ministry and an extended Hospital Wing stay to try and deal with the after-effects of being held under the cruciatus curse by Voldemort. Vernon had not taken kindly to Harry’s weakness, calling at him to move faster even as he stumbled carrying his trunk from the car.
He’d been weak ever since that night, in pain from the curse that Madam Pomfrey had said would fade over time as long as he kept taking his potions.
Angry at being threatened by Mad-Eye at the station, Uncle Vernon had taken his trunk, bag and wand and thrown them in the cupboard under the stairs. Harry only thanked his own foresight that he’d left Hedwig at Hogwarts where she would be safe after the disaster that had been last summer - he doubted the Dursleys would ever forgive him for Dudley’s near-miss - but he had not expected his escorts to be stupid enough to openly threaten his uncle.
No doubt he would be paying for that for some time.
His potions were still in the cupboard under the stairs. He’d tried to speak to Aunt Petunia about it when she passed food through the catflap in the door that evening, a cold tin of soup, but she had ignored him entirely.
He hadn’t eaten fast enough, still slurping up the last of the soup when Uncle Vernon’s heavy footsteps approached, creaking down the hall. “Boy, just because we are forced to keep you in this house does not mean it is a hotel! You will recieve your summer chores list from Petunia in the morning. You’d better have it all done by September or you won’t be leaving to go back to that school . Your godfather’s dead, now. Nobody coming to get you, so you’ll have to rely on my own goodwill. ” He’d spat it in disgust from Harry’s doorway as the teenager tried not to react beyond a small, polite nod.
And then his Uncle had approached him and Harry realised the man had been drinking something strong since they had arrived back. From the smell coming from his breath, he was heavily drunk, and that was never good.
Hours later, Harry was trying not to sob as the summer moon rose in the sky. He ached all over, not only from the nerve spasms but from his Uncle’s fists and boots. The man had been angry tonight, worsened by his drinks, and Harry had no way of protecting himself. He was scrawny and still weak from his torture, and Vernon was a full-grown man three times his size.
No, Harry had no way of fighting his Uncle.
He winced and bit into his thumb as a particularly harsh throb seemed to burn through his body. It was only getting worse. He needed his potions, but he couldn’t get to them, they were behind two seperate locked doors and a flight of stairs.
He couldn’t stand this. The thought of another summer of his Uncle hurting him whenever he wished, locked in his bedroom and held hostage, not allowed access to his friends or even his homework, was too much.
And Sirius was dead.
Sirius was dead, and there was nothing left for him here. He couldn’t bring himself to even move to close his curtains, moonlight shining on his face through the fuzzy outline of his window. Harry didn’t even know where his glasses had gone.
Sirius was gone, and Harry was still here and all of his life was suffering and if anyone found out he’d cast the crucio then he’d be put in Azkaban just like Sirius had been, around Dementors for the rest of his life. He couldn’t stand the thought, he could not deal with the concept.
His head ached, and all he could do was think.
Think about death.
Would it be so bad, really? Screw the prophecy, Harry was never going to defeat Voldemort. He was a scrawny teenager who couldn’t even fight off his muggle relatives and always used Expelliarmus as his first spell in combat.
Death.
It wouldn’t be so bad, probably. He wondered if it would hurt to die. He wondered if Sirius had hurt when he’d fallen into the veil. The spell that had struck his godfather had been some sort of red light, it hadn’t been anything Harry recognised, but the shock on Sirius’s face had been real, so the spell hadn’t killed him. The fall into the veil had killed him.
Harry sighed, which turned into a quiet whimper of pain. Everything hurt and he wished it would end.
He really, really wanted it to end.
And who knew, maybe it would end soon. His Uncle’s heavy drinking could easily lead to him hurting Harry too badly. Maybe he could even goad the man into it, make him hit Harry in such a way that the dark would take him and he could be with Sirius and his parents.
That sounded so nice .
There was an echo of pain in his stomach, the impression of a boot to the organs, and the Dark Lord Voldemort shifted in his armchair. Nagini hissed in displeasure at the disruption, and looked up at him questioningly.
“It’s nothing, my dear,” He reassured her, but it was not nothing.
Ever since he had possessed Potter, he’d begun to feel the boy’s pain like it was his own. He had no idea if it was reciprocal, but it presented a great challenge considering he still wished to kill him.
Today was the first day back from Hogwarts, he had heard from Severus last night (Of course Gryffindor had won the house cup yet again due to blatant favouritism.), and the man’s biting wit had at least helped him to relax before releasing him to drink himself into oblivion, as was Snape’s habit on the first night of the summer.
So why was Potter so injured, so soon after term had ended? He had heard nothing from either of his Order spies, so Dumbledore had had nothing to do with it. Severus had always told him that Potter was spoiled at home and lived a life of luxury, so surely this was simply an accident the boy had gotten into.
(He overlooked the fact that this was violence. Not accidental. He was not considering that right now.)
A few minor aches from the post-cruciatus spasms were expected. The faint and persistent impression of being kicked in the ribs and stomach was not. Was Potter in some sort of trouble? Who would hurt him like that? He was meant to be ‘safe’ at his home, with the muggles. Number 4 Privet Drive.
He felt a pinch upon his thumb and sighed. The boy was biting himself, likely against the pain. At least no marks were appearing on his body, but it just made him picture the bruises forming on the teenager instead. And he didn’t like what he imagined.
Surely the boy was not being abused. Dumbledore would never allow it. And his spies always said that the boy was fine, even spoiled with his relatives.
Voldemort had not tried to access the link between their minds since possessing the boy, not wanting to risk making the already-irritating pain-sharing worse, but if this didn’t stop in the next few days, he would. He’d never been known for his patience.
No, if this did not stop in three days, he would set aside his morning and delve down the link between them once more. Find out what on earth the Potter boy was doing that was causing this pain.
He was struck with a sudden idea as Nagini began to nag for him to let her up on his shoulders.
“Nagini, we share a mind link, though it is different to Potter’s and mine,” He began slowly, gesturing to give her permission to climb him. “Have you ever felt pain from me, as if it is your pain?”
Nagini crawled up him, her heavy coils a comforting weight against his shoulders. When her head was level with his ears, she began to speak. “My Marvolo, what are you not telling me?”
“Nagi.” The nickname did the trick, and the maledictus huffed.
“Upon the night of your resurrection, there was pain. Nothing since, though. Tell me, Marvolo, what is happening?”
His mouth curved into a small smile, though most would not think of it as comforting. “Do not worry, my dear. I’m quite alright. I have been feeling echoes of the boy’s pain for weeks, ever since I possessed him that day in the ministry of magic. Nothing I have tried blocks it, even when Occlumency easily stops the emotional bleed-over.”
“You are in pain, my Marvolo?” Of course that was what she would concentrate on (the worrywart that she was). “I will eat the boy, then you will feel no more of his pain! He will be dead.”
“I am hesitant to try that right now, Nagi. I would not wish to harm myself in hurting him. It has happened before.”
Nagini had been with Voldemort a long time, through his rise, fall and his rise once more. She knew him better than anyone else, and she held his soul besides. She was his most precious - and only - friend. “What else is there?” She knew he was holding his thoughts back. Not for the first time, he half-heartedly regretted making her a horcrux. Her ability to prod at his mind and emotional state had definitely made their conversations more pointed.
Voldemort heaved out a sigh and reached up to run his hand along her scales, feeling the mighty strength underneath. She was all muscle, all twelve feet five inches of her, and a magnificent serpent, though he knew she always missed her human form. “It bothers me how much pain he is in. His…” Voldemort hesitated, not quite ready to put his speculation into words. “Something is wrong with the boy saviour, and yet I have heard nothing about it from my Order spies. By all accounts he is happily back with his muggle family, and yet…”
“Something is wrong,” She finished his thought. “Maybe your spies are not looking closely enough, maybe nothing is as it seems. Maybe I should eat the boy and end his apparent misery.”
He had not considered that. Perhaps his spies were incompetent. Yes… that might be it. Perhaps the boy had simply gone out of the house and had met an interesting character.
Which meant, considering the boy’s consistent lack of self-preservation, that it was likely to happen again. No, that would not do. “Maybe we will have to kill him sooner rather than later.” He said with another sigh.
It had only gotten worse. By the second day, Harry was sure he’d sprained at least two muscles due to the increasing spasms and he was banned from leaving the house, his aunt having seen him having an attack and deciding he was “too freaky to have the neighbors see”. Since then, he’d been exiled to his bedroom except to clean the house and cook dinner.
Still not allowed access to his potions, of course. She was worried he would steal something freaky from his trunk. Merlin forbid he try to do his homework .
It was a nice respite until his Uncle returned home, ate dinner, and then ordered Harry to return to his bedroom. The following hour was even more unpleasant, leaving him with what felt like cracked ribs, a swollen jaw and a dislocated shoulder he had to pop back into its pocket by himself before falling into bed, exhausted. He didn’t have the energy to cough, though he could taste the blood in his mouth from his split lip.
He had no idea where his glasses had gone.
He hated this, he hated this so much. Harry wondered if he could wish himself away like in that film Petunia had watched once during the day. Maybe the goblin king took teenagers as well as children.
He squeezed his eyes shut, the only movement he had any energy left to make, and tried to hold in the sobs he could feel bubbling up in his chest. The curtains were still open, and the moonlight had just begun to shine past the bars that had been reattached.
He wondered if Azkaban would be much worse than this. At least in Azkaban the prisoners weren’t forced to do chores between torture sessions.
By the third day, Harry could not stand. No food since the soup on the first day, and only a few sips of water when he’d been able to grab them left him dangerously weak. Dizziness made the room spin, and he couldn’t keep himself upright to sit, let alone stand up. His aunt found him collapsed on the floor in his bedroom and kicked him a few times, her sharp shoes digging into his ribs and once into his cheek, until he pushed himself back up onto his bed.
She didn’t bother to tell him to do any chores, just leaving a cup of water on his bedside table with a disgusted expression on her face. Harry could barely see her through his haze of pain and dizziness.
He was so thirsty and hungry, in so much pain…
What would happen if he just… didn’t drink the water?
What would happen if his Uncle came home to the messy house, the dinner uncooked, Harry laying about upstairs?
Harry didn’t even have the energy to be scared. Instead, he felt the vague stirrings of hope. He wanted this to end.
He wondered if the Order were watching him, like they had been last year. No letters had arrived, though his bedroom window stood open as far as it could be against the bars and had since the first night. If they were watching him they knew everything. All of this. They knew what his Uncle regularly did to him, how his aunt worked him like a slave and how his cousin bullied him relentlessly, and not one of those people had even tried to help him. They might have even heard his quiet, pained noises in the evening after dinner, if they were listening.
Or maybe they had gone to Dumbledore and the man had told them that it was all their imagination and that he was perfectly happy here.
Lupin. The Weasleys. None of them had taken the time to speak to him on the platform, just to stand around looking out-of-place while Moody threatened his uncle with Harry cringing under the man’s ever-angrier eyes.
Did any of them even care about Harry? Just Harry, not their precious prophesied saviour?
Who knew, really.
Harry stared up at the ceiling and thought about how he was sorry about leaving Hedwig, but nobody else, not really.
They had left him first.
Voldemort was irritated. Another two days, another two sets of injuries on Potter, and the same miserable beatings in the evening. He was glad that he felt only an impression of the pain, and not the full effects. Likely the boy was in agony.
He paced before Nagini in his study, indecisive. While he had said he would wait, it was tempting to open his mind to the boy and delve in, find out what was going on. Lord Voldemort’s thirst for knowledge was powerful, and the boy had begun to intrigue him. He’d spoken to Severus and his other spy, a younger witch called Nymphadora Tonks - niece to Bellatrix Lestrange, of all people - and they had been unable to provide any further information about the Potter boy. Apparently he hadn’t been seen outside his home since the first day, but beyond that their sensing spells had informed them he was inside.
That was all he had.
None of the order had been casting more than a body count on the house. Nobody was monitoring Potter’s health, despite the fact that he was on a potions regimen from what Voldemort recalled. It seemed short-sighted of them.
Was it true, then? Were the muggles abusing the boy?
He hated how angry it made him. How similar he was to his prophesied nemesis, left behind and forgotten with muggles each summer, muggles that hurt him .
“Nagi-,” he began, and stopped. Was he actually feeling something beyond hatred for the boy?
“Is this about the Potter again?” She asked groggily from her position sprawled near the fireplace. It was her favourite spot, barring Voldemort’s shoulders. “My Marvolo, you worry too much.”
“I do not!” He retorted, angered, but suddenly stopped as he felt the unmistakable pain once more. “A second time, really?” He muttered, moving to sit. Alone in the Slytherin estate with just Nagini for company, displaying some weakness was acceptable. “I am going to open the connection, please occlude yourself for the sake of your sanity.”
It was impulsive of him, perhaps. But he could not bear the thought of this happening again, and again, and again- how long had the boy dealt with this? How had nobody seen it? He was already half-believing it, seeing signs in his memories of the boy’s defiant, reckless actions. A disregard for his own life.
They both knew what he would find at this point, but he still did not wish to believe it.
Because it would mean that the boy who was his nemesis was nothing more than he had been as a child. Just trying to survive the torture as Dumbledore looked the other way. And Voldemort did not know if he could kill a boy like that, not when that sort of treatment made one so very open to the dark side. It had worked with Snape. He was already getting excited at the mere prospect, when another flare of pain went through his body.
Hissing quietly, he closed his eyes and began to carefully open the occlumency shielding between his mind and Potter’s.
Overwhelmed, exhausted, let this end, please let this end let this end- he pulled back, finding his heart rate accelerated.
“Well?” Nagini had climbed onto his lap. He had not even noticed. “Marvolo.”
Of all the crimes that had been committed against his person, the worst thing that had ever happened to Voldemort was an exorcism when he was six years old, and he had magicked himself away before they had touched him, let alone held him down.
He still did not like to remember it, but…
This, was worse. “He’s-” he didn’t even know how to say it. How does one say it?
“I was right. I wish I was not.” he said finally, running his hand down Nagini’s spine.
Powerless. Utterly powerless. And giving up, too.
He’d been begging for it to end.
The connection was still half-open. Voldemort could dive back in at any time. He didn’t want to, he didn’t dare, not when he was this affected already. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort, not some weak, pitiful child.
He closed his eyes and breathed, letting himself slip into a meditative state as he began to rebuild his occlumency shields. They were shaken from his moment of… emotion. He would be fine. Potter would be… a problem for tomorrow. For now, he simply wished to distract himself. Perhaps Severus was free.
And then something heavy and final slammed into Potter’s head and his world exploded into agony.
This…
This…
Blackness.
“Marvolo!”
Let it be over, let it be over, please…
He did not dare open his eyes.
He wanted it to be done- he wanted it to be over - he wanted to be dead - he hoped he was not dead.
Please let it end.