AFFELAYE SERIES /

Saltkin

The long overdue third story in the fem!Harry/Voldemort series. Maybe if it sees the light of day I'll find the motivation to finish it one of these days.

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BOOK I

A young girl with vivid hair stands as an unwavering form in front of long, billowing patterns of mist. She has a small suitcase and a snow white owl, but it is her sunblown hair that captivates him the most. He decides there is no harm in making a few friends before he even gets on the train.

"You're a first year too?" He greets, cockily, sauntering over.

She turns indifferent but brilliant eyes towards him. "Yes," she replies, and there is nothing he can pick up from her tone.

"Malfoy," he sticks his hand out. "Draco, Malfoy."

"A Malfoy?" She raises a brow. He smiles smugly at her, pleased and prideful.

"That's right." He smirks, arrogantly.

She gives him a long, contemplative look. It intimidates him, for a reason he cannot discern. It makes him think of darkness.

She shakes his hand. "Harry Potter."

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Draco kicks his feet out, stretching along the bench, content and comfortable in their compartment. Harry sits across from him; her burning hair lights with fire as the scenery speckles by. He likes her already, if only because she is so pleasing to look at.

The girl doesn't talk much, but Draco likes that too. She is a refreshing reprieve from Pansy's clutches. Pansy herself is seated next to Harry, looking put out and annoyed with the other girl's presence. Pansy doesn't like to share power, and she likes threats even less. Harry doesn't appear to want either of those, but she seems to dislike her anyway.

To that end, Harry doesn't appear to want anything.

Two bumbling figures amble into their compartment; Pansy heaves a sigh, Harry gives a cursory glance, and Draco sits up.

"Crabbe, Goyle," he waves them in. "Harry, this is Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle. Boys, this is Harry Potter."

It is testimony to their inherent stupidity that neither of them connect the name to the infamous baby who felled the dark lord. They mumble out vague noises of greeting, before plopping themselves next to Draco, and summarily begin to devour what could have been a small castle of candy.

"So, Potter," he casts a glance towards the quiet girl. "What house do you think you'll be in?"

Pansy rolls her eyes, speaking up before Harry can answer, "How is she supposed to know? Know one knows where they'll end up until the sorting, Draco."

"That's not true," he snipes in return. "My family has been in Slytherin for generations—I don't doubt I'll end up there myself."

"There's no guarantee with that," Harry speaks up, to his surprise.

"Why's that?" He frowns at her. He doesn't like it much when people question him, even if it is Harry Potter.

"Well, look at Sirius Black. His whole family was in Slytherin for generations, but he managed to wind up in Gryffindor." She points out.

Draco pauses. She is quite correct. "Well I…" He supposes it's okay for her to be right, if she can always provide such succinct explanations. "Whatever." He turns up his nose. "I know for sure I'll be in Slytherin."

Harry hums. "By that logic, I'll be in Gryffindor."

He blanches at the very thought.

Pansy gives her a long look. "You really think so?" She appraises the girl in front of them. Draco shares her sentiment—though Harry doesn't say much, she doesn't seem very Gryffindor-like. She doesn't really remind him of any house, really. Ravenclaw maybe. Then again, he hasn't known her for very long, so he doesn't have much to go on.

Harry shrugs. "I guess we'll just have to wait and find out, huh?"

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Most of the Great Hall is unprepared to see a striking but small young girl with a glorious gauntlet of fiery hair make her way to the sorting hat when the name, "Harriet Potter" was called.

Severus finds himself very exasperated to be one of those people. He turns an accusing glance towards their esteemed Headmaster: Dumbledore does not look back. Would it have killed the man to at least warn him? But he is wholly fixated on the Sorting in front of them. Dumbledore is not alone—as all the whispers run about in the wake of Harry's introduction, all eyes have turned to stare at her unerringly. Severus can't blame him.

He, like everyone else in this room, had thought Harry Potter was a boy. Harry is a boy's name, after all. The Newspapers always referred to him as a boy; he's called 'the boy who lived'. Except he's not actually a boy at all. It's not Harry Potter, at all, but Harriet.

He had expected a mirror image of his most hated adversary during his school days. He had expected James Potter returning in the flesh, sauntering towards the stool as he laughs with his mates, sitting proudly underneath the hat before it shouts out the house of red and gold, to the cheers and applause of the whole hall. He had expected to find that hatred would come easily to him; that he would despise this boy as much as his father.

This is even worse.

Severus would have thought she would look like Lily, and she does. He supposes that it was inevitable; if he assumed Harry Potter as a boy to be the spitting image of James Potter, than why wouldn't Harry Potter as a girl bear uncanny likeliness to Lily Evans? Academically, she shares many features with her late mother. The golden, sunfire hair, striking green eyes. But Lily's were always vibrant with life and avidity; Harry's are virescent and unnerving. He can remember a young first year Lily Evan with perfect clarity; each and every flyaway surrounding her face like a brilliant halo, her beaming, beautiful smile. There was an inner radiance to her, as if even her skin glowed with her pure and honest heart. Her daughter does not have any flyaways to speak of; her hair is tamed to perfection, her eyes are shrewd and thoughtful, and her lips are formed into an impassive frown.

For all intent purposes, she should look just like Lily. But she does not.

The Hall is silent as Harry situates herself on the stool. As the seconds linger, it is as silent as a tomb; like the breathless anticipation before the curtains are drawn, before the actors take the stage.

And then the hat says, "Slytherin."

And all hell breaks loose.

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Having Harry Potter in his house wasn't as bad as he had assumed it would be, if only because it is so easy to overlook her presence. Well, as long as you weren't actually looking at her that is; she is a very striking creature. It is difficult not to give her your whole, conclusive attention whenever she is in sight. But otherwise, she is a calm, collected and quiet young girl. She has a way of hiding herself when she does not want to be seen. Reserved, but not quite cold.

Not at all what Severus had expected.

Not at all like James Potter. Or Lily, for that matter.

He's no idea where her capricious, unflappable state of repose comes from. Certainly not either of her parents. James was a horrible, evil little gremlin; Lily was a bright burst of sunshine, completely uncontainable. Harry is neither of those, but Severus doesn't think this is a bad thing. It is strange, yes, but not unwelcome.

But you wouldn't be able to tell that from Dumbledore's expression.

"Quiet, you say?"

Severus stirs his tea idly, not looking up. "Yes. A wondrous reprieve." He drawls.

Dumbledore does not share his sentiment. His brow is furrowed with deep thought. "Has she made any friends?" He presses onwards.

Severus pauses. "I'm afraid I don't pay much attention to her social life," he apologizes, sarcastic.

"Ah, yes, I suppose you wouldn't." Dumbledore sighs.

Severus throws him a searching look. "She certainly does not have enemies," he observes at length, watching the headmaster carefully. "Even among the other houses—even Gryffindor. Though I am not sure if I could call any of them her friends."

"And how is she, personally?" He returns Severus' gaze with a conflicted look.

"Well, she is perhaps the least annoying of her insipid classmates; perhaps the smartest, as well."

And isn't that the truth. He'd attempted to call her out on her first day of Potions, but it had entirely backfired. She answered each and every one of his questions with a vatic indifference, even the ones that some of his NEWT students wouldn't have been able to. She is well read, and a dab hand at Potions, though she shows no specific interest in the subject above the rest of her classes—of which she is equally as gifted in. Flitwick doesn't shut up about her.

"Yes, perhaps." Dumbledore agrees softly. "I've spoken to Minerva, Filius and Pemona… they have all said the same."

Severus pauses. "I'm afraid I do not see the issue in this," he confesses at length. "She is a brilliant student. Shouldn't you be applauding this fact?"

"Oh, I am." He returns, without an ounce of persuasiveness. "She appears to be quite brilliant indeed. Very bright and promising; very quiet, reserved, and removed from her peers. A young first-year of great prowess, sorted into Slytherin…" He cuts off his rambling with a shake of his head and a wan smile. "I thank you for your time, Severus. I know how thin it can be during these first few weeks of term."

He nods, taking this as a dismissal.

"Oh, and Severus?" He calls.

The Potion's Master pauses. "Yes?"

"Keep an eye on her, would you?"

But this was a foregone conclusion.

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Severus was not lying about her brilliance; it is unquestionable and unparalleled, even by the Granger girl. However there doesn't appear to be any ill will between the two competing witches vying for the spot at the head of the class, if only because Harry doesn't appear all that interested in that title.

She still doesn't hold as much fascination or interest in things as her peers, but she has started to make friends. The Granger girl, and unfathomably, Draco Malfoy.

His first year Slytherins and Gryffindors are brewing a particularly complicated potion today—which he knew from the start to be a horrible idea—and the two of them are attempting to pull Harry in opposite directions.

Harry finally snaps her textbook shut, turning to the both of them. "Why don't we take turns?" She proposes. "Since I partnered with Hermione in Charms, I'll be your Potions partner today, Draco. How is that?"

"Sufficient, I suppose." He sneers. "Though I don't see why you have to hang around that filthy mudblood."

Granger's face, predictably, goes very pale, and her eyes grow very wide. They glisten with unshed tears as she pivots smartly on her foot, darting across the classroom. Harry spares the blonde Slytherin a baleful glance. "Was that necessary?" She frowns.

Draco guffaws. "Harry, she's a mudblood—and a Gryffindor, to top it off. You can't be consorting with the likes of her."

"Why not?"

"B—Because she's a mudblood!" Draco sputters, as if this is the obvious conclusion.

"So?" Harry challenges, as she pulls out their potions ingredients. She turns to Draco before he can retort, her gaze level and—perhaps even a bit fiery. "She is a gifted witch nonetheless. She will be famous and powerful one day, and power is the only thing that matters."

The blond splutters about ineffectually, before eventually turning back to their cauldron, pouting mutinously. The two don't speak on the topic again, but it proves rather curious for Severus. She is no staunch defender of the muggleborns and muggles, as he would have expected from Lily's daughter. Lily herself was a muggle-born after all, and would never take that kind of talk. But, for all their cosmetic similarities, Harry is not Lily. She doesn't appear to share her peer's compunctions on the subject, but she also isn't jumping to their defense. Even more curious: her response. Power is the only thing that matters.

She isn't wrong—but it is strange all the same to hear such a statement from such a surprising tenant.

So, Severus did not lie to Dumbledore about his observations on her wit and her disposition.

But he may have omitted some things.

The frame that is too small even for an eleven year old girl; the way her eyes are so bright they almost drown out the paleness to her hollow cheeks, the cheekbones that are too sharp, the way her uniform drowns her until she is sinking in the fabric. How she sits in the dining hall, surrounded by her boisterous peers, in total silence, stirring her food around and mechanically forcing herself to eat; a method that means it is not an indulgence to her, but a method of survival. She has shrewd and unnerving eyes, the kind made by circumstance. A circumstance he knows very well, intimately well.

He should tell Dumbledore this. They are starving her, or she is starving herself; she hates people, human touch, and maybe even herself. She has no reason to live, but no reason to die.

No.

That's not true.

There is a reason in there, somewhere. There is something that keeps her dragging herself to class everyday, something that makes her study hard, makes her eat and sleep and brush her hair in the morning. He doesn't know what it is, but it is there, and it is the only thing that stops him from going to the Headmaster. Because he remembers being in her shoes, and he can only imagine how furious he would be if someone had hauled him to the Headmaster, how he would feel caged and watched and weary and at the end of it all he would either riot against them or riot against himself and it would only make it all the worse.

So she is fine, for now. She does not live the gilded life he would have imagined from the spawn of James Potter, but all the same she has not let it drag her down yet. And for that she has his respect, concern, and hesitation.

He won't go to the Headmaster. Not yet.

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Lucius' raises one fine, blond brow, looking down upon his son.

"For the holidays, you say?" He repeats, curious.

Draco nods fearfully, looking up at him with beseeching, wary eyes. As governor he had been paying a long overdue visit to the school, and had happened across his son. He had assumed his young progeny would bombard him with tales about his first few months at the school—that happened, but it was not nearly as boring as he had assumed it would be.

Because Draco's school year was not as boring as he had assumed it would be.

Harry Potter had been sorted into Slytherin. Though it had been months, the school was still in uproar about that. Even more surprising; Draco tells him that she is at the top of their class, that she is brilliant in all their subjects—that she can talk to snakes. That one is a secret, he says, and Harry told him not to tell anyone.

But this has all piqued his interested, and has made him more amenable to the idea his son is propositioning.

"Are you sure Miss Potter doesn't have other arrangements?"

Draco pulls a disgusted face. "She's made to live with Muggles, father. The worst of their kind! They sound horrible—they keep her locked in a cupboard under the stairs! They're utterly deplorable, father, she can't go back!"

He silently agrees, just as deeply disturbed at the idea of any magical child being abused in such a way at the hands of filthy muggles.

"Very well." He concedes at length, much to Draco's apparent excitement. "She may join us for the holidays."

He has to admit, he is curious to meet the 'girl-who-lived'—as she is now correctly referred to as. It still boggled him that the papers could possibly get that wrong. Harry Potter has been known as the boy who lived for so long that it is very hard to wrap his head around the idea of her being a girl. He imagines a boyish, unruly figure that looks exactly like James Potter. Still, this is the infant child who felled the greatest dark wizard to ever live. But not only for that; it appears she may be a fascinating study in and of herself.

"Thank you, father!" Draco beams at him. "I'll ask her right away!"

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He had been right.

Harry Potter is not at all what she seems.

Narcissa is utterly enamored—she is not wrong to be. Harriet Potter is everything he wouldn't expect; reserved, polite, and absurdly beautiful. She has very striking, vermillion hair, but other than that bore know resemblance to either of her parents. She is still a child, but it is obvious to see that she will be a heart breaker soon enough. If not for her looks than for her sharp intelligence. She does look rather familiar though, but he cannot place from where. His wife could not be happier to have such a lovely young lady as a house guest. Any other girl than Pansy, at any rate. He would not be entirely surprised if she was already conniving schemes to matchmake the two together.

Draco fortunately, is far too young to notice any of this. He is equally as enamored with Harry Potter, but as young children are with their new shiny toy. He drags her about the grounds to ride the Pegasus, pet the Peacocks, play Quidditch in the sprawling grounds.

In these instances, she seems not unlike all the other children; she enjoys flying, she loves animals, and does not seem to mind all the mud. They keep each other entertained for the duration of their vacation, a fact which Lucius is eternally grateful for. Draco can be very tiring when he is bored, and he had assumed he would have to provide his son with ample reading material to keep him at bay. Harry does a very good job.

He almost forgets about her, actually.

Aside from dinners, he does not see much of her. She is a starkly quiet presence at the dinner table, pushing her food around. She and Draco are always out in the sprawling lawns, up to something. Or they are having tea with Narcissa, or they are in the library, or playing Wizarding Chess. She does not have much to say, but is always very insightful with her answers. Insightful—but vague. She is an absurdly difficult child to read. And he is sure now that it is not shyness that keeps her expression so inscrutable.

His curiosity is only piqued when Christmas day arrives, and he receives a gift from her.

She gives Draco new Seeker gloves—the boy is quite ecstatic—and a lovely brooch that Narcissa is utterly charmed by. And to him…

Lucius looks down at the book, his blood running cold.

Where did she find this?

The Dark Lord had only ever deigned to give Lucius two books during his reign. One, Lucius still has in his possession. It was a blank leatherbound diary of sorts; inconspicuous, if at least in appearance. But the book radiated dark magic, so he knew that it was more than it seemed, even if his Lord had forbid him to ask questions on it. The other was not a gift, merely a book loaned to him for a time or two—an esteemed honor, perhaps the highest the Dark Lord could ever have given him. It was a book written by the man himself—a tome of infinite knowledge, some lost to the world for centuries. This book had also been deeply imbued with a tangible evil, though outwardly it was just as unremarkable.

Lucius does not know what happened to it once the Dark Lord fell. He had assumed it had been destroyed, or lost to whatever depths the Dark Lord may have hidden it in, never to be found again.

And yet, here it is.

His face grows pale as all the color drains from his skin, and his breath goes cold. It is the same. The words, the pages, the spells and incantations and rituals are all familiar to him. It could be the same book, if only it wasn't written in the decorative script of a young girl.

"Father? What is that? What did she get you?" Draco shakes him out of his silent terror, blinking at him curiously.

He snaps the book shut, not wanting to let Draco see such things. "A book," he says, only somewhat steady. "One I had thought was lost."

His eyes are almost unwillingly drawn to her, as if her presence is inescapable. Those luminous eyes peer at him with indifference. In the winter light they flicker red, briefly, before she blinks and smiles. "Oh, these things have a way of coming back sometimes."

"Coming back," he repeats, slowly. His eyes grow wide.

"Well, they can't be gone forever."

"What can't?" Draco cuts in, bounding towards her. "What are you talking about?"

She holds his gaze for some time, before her attention returns to his son. "Books, silly. They're never really gone, you know."

"I guess," he returns noncommittally, looking confused.

He scrutinizes her deeply, wishing he could find a way to pull her away from his son, to unravel her words in earnest. What did she mean? She could not truly be speaking of books, could she? And yet… how could she possibly have this in her possession? How could she have this knowledge?

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Lucius does not get the chance to speak to the girl again. She has a way of making herself scarce when she does not want to be found, even in his own house. He does not need to read this book—he had read it enough times when it was first loaned to him to memorize it front to back. There was a reason that girl gave him this book, and it was not for a leisurely afternoon of light reading.

It was a message.

From his master.

For who else could it be? A cryptic message, relayed to him by the girl, as she spoke about ends and beginnings, and the return. The return of the Dark Lord.

He accompanies them back to the castle, under the pretense of both governor and Draco's father. No one bats an eyelash, except perhaps for Dumbledore, but he ignores him in favor of his longtime acquaintance. Severus seems only minutely surprised to see him.

"Lucius," he greets, with one brow raised. He is in the middle of reorganizing his potions ingredients, and he shuts the drawer delicately to give him his full attention.

"Potter," he begins without preamble, in no mood for cordiality. "You are her Head of House, no?"

Severus blinks, sparing him a sweeping, searching glance. "I am." He says, dry as a bone, as if this should be obvious.

"What do you know of her?"

His eyes narrow. "Why all the questions about Potter, Lucius? What interest do you have in her?"

He debates what he wants to tell the man. He does not think Severus truly denounced his old ways, but it is impossible to tell with the man. He could very well be working with Dumbledore now—or he could be biding his time, waiting for the return for the Dark Lord. He does not know if he wishes to come to him with his suspicions.

"She is very intelligent girl," he settles for. "I cannot imagine the spawn of James Potter possessing even an ounce of her wit."

"The wonders of the gene pool," Severus agrees, drily. "Yes, she is quite intelligent. And, to my great fortune, nothing like her father. Is that it?"

"There is something to her, Severus," he warns, elusively. "Something I do not understand."

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It is something no one understands, at that.

Hermione frowns as she scurries down the hallways, looking for her red headed friend. Harry is her only friend, and the only company she cares to keep. Everyone likes Harry, this is true, but no one really knows what to make of her. Sometimes she is just like any ordinary girl—she has a penchant for hair ribbons, pretty earrings and fashion—and at other times her wit and sharp tongue are deeply unnerving. This is what Hermione likes about her, though. She is clever and smart, but has no trouble holding a conversation on boy bands or hair styles.

Hermione finds the young Slytherin out in the courtyard, following the murmur of voices.

To her surprise, Harry is alone. She is curled in an alcove, one leg dangling listlessly to expose black knee high socks and sneakers that are most definitely not standard uniform. She has a cloak over her school vest, huddled in it as the wind dusts snow across her shoulders. What on earth is she doing out here in the cold?

Hermione nears when she sees a textbook in Harry's lap.

"Does it really work like that?" Harry is asking, under her breath. There is a pause as she flips the page. "No way, you can't be serious. How would that make any sense?"

Another pause. Harry snorts. "Now you're definitely pulling my leg."

"Harry?"

The girl literally jumps. Hermione is equally as startled. She has never seen Harry so startled before; the girl is almost impossible to surprise. "Hermione," she replies, after a beat, snapping her book shut.

"Are you studying?" Hermione walks even closer, moving in for a better look. It is a Rune textbook—one far above their level. "What is that?"

"I—yeah. I was studying. I um, talk to myself, when I get really into it."

"Me too," Hermione agrees.

She does. But… Hermione spares the girl a sidelong glance. Hermione talks to herself too—but it did not seem as if Harry was talking to herself. It almost sounded like… a conversation. But that was ridiculous. There was no one else out here in this snowy courtyard.

On the subject of the weather, Hermione tugs her scarf closer. "Well, I was looking for you to see if you wanted to come to the library with me."

"Sure, I'd love to," Harry jumps off the ledge, shoving her book back into her bag. "Let me get some stuff from the common room though? I think I left my Herbology book there."

Hermione trails after her, watching her friend closely.

She's not sure what it is about Harry, but she feels as if there is far more to her friend than a lovely face and quick wit.

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Harry receives a very strange present for Christmas. It is wrapped in nondescript paper, with an equally nondescript note attached to it.

"Who is it from?" Draco asks eagerly, looking over her shoulder.

They returned from Holidays to find lots of gifts from their friends and others waiting for them in their common room. Harry had scurried off with her stupid mudblood friend, but had returned later in the evening. The girl shrugged, playing idly with the label.

"It doesn't say," she replies, placing the card to the side with little interest.

She slices the wrapping open, staring down at the bundle in her arms. "What is it?" Draco scoots closer. Her expression is one of vague recognition.

"Something that belonged to my father," she answers, distant, one hand trailing down the soft material.

"Oh." Draco deflates. Well that was rather anticlimactic. "So an heirloom?"

"A cloak." She confirms.

Clothing. Wonderful. As if Harry hadn't gotten enough of that this Christmas. It seemed to be the present in vogue for all the girls their year. Daphne, Tracey, Harry and a begrudging Pansy all traded gifts that were all just varying articles of clothing. Draco didn't get it. How many hats, scarves, and gloves did a girl really need? Apparently quite a few.

The boy is summarily uninterested. "Well, if that's all, I think I'll go to bed." He drawls, in a tone that suggests he wants for her to ask him to stay.

To his deep annoyance, Harry only nods absently. "Sure, alright. G'night."

"Yeah, night." He pivots smartly, making for the boys dormitories.

Harry is stirred from her reverie, glancing away from the cloak to the room around her. The Slytherin common room is quiet and devoid of life—the light of the lake drapes mercurial patterns across the sparkling tile; shifting shapes that drift across her in silence, particles of emerald and somber blue.

Finally she stands, unfurling the cloak with a flourish, revealing its shimmering glory to the empty room.

"An invisibility cloak, you say?" She murmurs to herself, inspecting it in the sea glass light. "Why do you think he gave it to me?"

She twirls it around in her hand, inspecting all the fine, embroidered details. It has been kept in mint condition, that's for sure. The young girl smiles at no one. "Well, you did say Dumbledore never does anything without a reason."

Harry stills then, cloak dangling in her hands as her brows furrow and a forlorn expression crosses her face. Finally she sighs, shaking the cloak out before wrapping it around her shoulders.

"I suppose I shouldn't disappoint him, then." She sighs deeply, before she disappears from sight.

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A little girl stands still and solemn before an ornate, gilded mirror. It dwarfs her completely, a blinding structure of form and clean geometry erupting behind her. Her cinerous hair abstracts her face; the shape of her shoulders reveal nothing.

"Out of bed after hours, my dear girl?"

Harry does not turn around for a beat. The fabric falls from her fingertips like silver water, slithering to the floor. She faces him then, looking sheepish. "I didn't see you there, professor." There is something uneasy to her tone. But this is to be expected. She is a first year caught out of bed after hours. Why would she not be? And yet, it does not ring true to him.

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," agrees Dumbledore, smiling. "So I see you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"I didn't know it was called that, sir."

"Do you know what it does?"

She shakes her head. "Well, it doesn't show the truth." Harry smiles. It is so pretty a thing, Dumbledore takes a moment to wonder if it is truly as false as he believes.

"Yes, although to be fair mirrors rarely do."

Harry laughs. "They have a way of being far too flattering or far too cruel." She nods.

"What does it show you, Harry?"

Harry returns her attention to the mirror. Her eyes glow; magnetic and shapeless all at once. "My parents." She says, at length.

After another beat she turns it around. "What does it show you, Professor?"

He watches her deeply. There is a certain sadness to her eyes, one he is painfully familiar with. "I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

"Socks?" Harry repeats, incredulous.

Well, the answer was only fair.

"One can never have enough socks," said Dumbledore. "Another Christmas

has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

After all, how could she expect him to tell the truth when she did not?

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… /

Harry has not eaten in four days. She is not counting.

The dust motes keep her company; she draws pattern in them, cutting into the floorboard. She wonders what's beneath it. Spiders? But there are so many spiders in here already. They are her friends. She hasn't quite gotten around to naming them yet; not like she has with the rats. Algernon and Charles. Sometimes they stay with her, whisper secrets, fairy tales. But they are rats, and come and go as they please through a tiny little doorway at the bottom of Harry's (cot) bed. She has attempted many times to shrink herself and follow them. None have worked thus far.

Harry has not eaten in four days, which isn't the longest, but isn't the shortest, and is surely long enough to explain her hallucinations. And though it has been four days since the last time food touched her mouth, she cannot remember the last time she had a full meal, like the ones the Dursley's eat three times a day. A loaf of bread here, a handful of turnips there. The garden provides a lot of things to eat, but only if she is banished out there.

A lot of things happen during this long, dark spell.

Her mind wanders in and out of the ether. She contemplates reason and life, and comes up short on both of those. Shadows and speckles of light shiver above her, they make patterns, sometimes, but not today. Has it really only been two days? Surely longer.

Maybe eternity has come and gone, and they will find her here; bones, spiders, and two mice, Algernon and Charles.

Maybe she will die in here.

Maybe she already has.

"You foolish child, you are not dead."

Her heart—if she still has one—skips a beat.

"Yet."

Harry's eyes flutter open. The shadows and light have begun their choreographed dance. Her mind hurts. Her everything hurts. Her lungs hurt—they want to stop. She doesn't see any reason to make them keep going. Her eyes close again.

"But you will be very soon, if you don't manage to get up."

Harry says nothing. Harry never says anything—it is as if her voice is a whisper of air particles, of light, of intangible matter. It is meaningless to say anything.

"Are you listening to me, girl? Get up!"

But it appears the voice in her head will not allow her to stay silent. In fact, it appears to be genuinely invested in Harry. This has never happened to her before; it is so odd.

"Get up right now, or I will be forced to attempt to take over your body, and I can assure you it will not be a pleasant event for either of us."

Harry swallows—tries to swallow. Her mouth is empty. Just like the rest of her. Finally she sucks in a long, painful breath of air. It burns all the way down.

She sits up slowly, swimming. What little light slowly fades away as she blacks out for a bit. It takes some time before the world stops swimming around her, or she stops swimming around the world. Longer for the brightly colored spots to disappear, leaving the ambiguous darkness of the cupboard. At least she managed to sit up.

"Good," says the voice. "Now move to the door."

Why?

It's locked. It's locked three times over, and deadbolted at the top for good measure.

"Ignorant little girl—what are locks in the face of magic?"

Magic?

"You're going to listen to me very closely, Harriet Potter," the voice demands, slowly, but with great and grave determination. "And do exactly as I say."

Why?

"Because I want you to live."

/

"Harry," Hermione starts quietly, leaning over her Herbology assignment—a very spiteful black tentacle plant—to turn to her companion.

"Hmm?" Harry replies, absent, taming her own tentacle plant with dexterous aplomb.

"Do you think Dumbledore is hiding something? On the third floor?" On their way to class the both of them had gotten caught in the unending tragedy that is the staircase traffic. They tried a thousand times to get to the first floor, but never quite managed it. Finally they had gotten stranded on the landing to the third floor, and Filch had come up to them almost immediately, threatening to deduct house points for even daring to step on the ground there.

"Dumbledore is always hiding something," Harry replies, which is a very odd thing to say.

"What do you mean?"

Harry stills, pausing. She looks up with a sheepish smile. "Well I just—he's the Headmaster, isn't he? I'm sure there's lots he doesn't tell us."

"I suppose that's true," Hermione allows. "But in our own school? Isn't that a bit odd?"

"I don't think it has anything to do with the students," Harry returns, vaguely. "So I don't think we should get all that into it."

"I think your plant is trying to eat you, Granger," a nasty voice calls from behind them.

Hermione jumps, before squeaking and pulling the thing away from her. Draco laughs. "Even Longbottom got his plant to work—this might make you worst in the class, you know?"

Hermione scowls darkly at him. Harry sighs. "In Neville's defense, he's very good at Herbology." She says, diplomatically. "I don't think any of us are better than him, Hermione."

She bristles anyway, sparing Malfoy a cruel glance. "You're not exactly a plant tamer yourself." She says smugly.

Draco blinks, before whirling around. His plant has fallen off the table, and is flailing about. He curses and dives for it as Hermione watches on with a triumphant look. Her face turns pensive for a moment as she frowns. "Oh, he better not kill that…" She says, worried. "Sprout'll throw a fit—you can only get those in the Forbidden Forest, you know."

Without warning, the tangled mess springs out of Draco's grabbing hands, tumbles towards them, and latches onto both Harry and Hermione with a death grip. Hermione shrieks in terror and drops her own pot, plant tumbling off the table into the dirt, where it joins its brethren, clinging to their legs for dear life. Hermione screeches this time, flailing her leg impotently to no avail; Harry stares down with a surprised and consternated expression.

Sprout hauls her way out of the immobile crowd, looking furious. "Granger! Malfoy! Potter! What did I tell you about handling these octoplants? They are priceless!"

"Then why did you give them to first years?" Draco gripes underneath his breath.

"Detention, all of you!" She continues, utterly livid. "And clean that up!"

Hermione looks as if her judgment day sentence has just come down over her head. Draco is up in arms, sputtering indignantly—even if this is entirely his fault—and Harry is simply incredibly put upon.

.

.

.

"I want Fang," Draco blurts, immediately, taking one look at the dog's elongated canine teeth and deciding he wanted those nearby him at all times.

Hagrid's brow twitches. "Fine, yeh little coward…" He grumbles, before turning to the girls also serving detention.

One is an aggrieved and distraught brunette with bushy hair, wrangling her hands in her lap. The other is a sullen and moody and painfully familiar Slytherin with bright vermillion hair. "Is that alright with you two?"

"And Harry comes with me," Draco adds, insistent.

Hermione stands up swiftly. "What—

"It's fine." Harry stands up as well, intervening with a quick efficiency that speaks of much experience. "We'll be fine, Hermione. You just stay with Hagrid, okay?"

Hermione does not look very convinced, but nods anyway.

Harry finds herself briefly amused with Draco's attempt to be arrogant and unafraid, as well as his unmitigated terror at being alone. The result is a Draco that is both blustery and skittish, jumping at sounds before brushing them off as meaningless. Harry lets him talk as he likes, figuring it must be giving him some kind of assurance. Fang plods along beside them, nose to the ground. The resonant and dying evening filters its way through the branches, stars caught in the naked eves. In the dark pines the wind disentangles itself; the chill is enough for her to wrap her arms around herself.

They walked for nearly half an hour, deeper and deeper into the forest, until the path became almost impossible to follow because the trees were so thick. Something wet squelches underneath Harry's sneaker, and she looks down with wide eyes. It is difficult to discern in the dim lighting of the oil lamp, but she is fairly sure it is blood. She spares Draco another glance—he is still blathering along, eyes just as wide and twitchy. Should she tell him?

"Draco—" She starts, slowly.

He pauses abruptly. "Y—Yeah?"

"Let's head back."

"What for?" He cries, indignantly. "We haven't even found any of those stupid plants yet!"

"Forget the plants," Harry replies hastily. Her eyes dart towards the tree behind him. Harry thought the blood seemed to be getting thicker. There were splashes on the roots of a tree, as though some poor creature had been thrashing around in pain close by. Harry could see a clearing ahead, through the tangled branches of an ancient oak. "We shouldn't wander too far."

Fang gave a low, unhappy whine.

They both stopped; Harry threw out an arm to keep Draco from barreling in front of her.

Draco's breath hitches. "What… what is that?"

Harry's expression darkens, and she grabs a hold of her wand. Something bright white was gleaming upon the ground, pearly-white strands like a pool of angel feathers. She had never seen something so pure and beautiful—but she was not looking at the slaughtered unicorn.

"Draco…"

It's not long before the blonde's gaze also leaves the slain unicorn to the visible form of an inky black mass rising from behind its body, the silvery blood drenched across its front.

Draco let out a horrible scream, just as Fang bolted away from them. Harry tugs on his arm, but the blonde was immobilized with fear. The monster got to its feet, swiftly drawing forward as Draco screamed louder.

Harry did not spare a moment of thought, drawing her wand. "Incendio!" she shouts, pointing towards the ground. A line of fire drew between them, exploding in the dark forest like a blinding sun.

Harry could hear the stomping of feet nearby, but did not pay it any head, near dragging Draco away. The blonde finally pulled himself out of his terror, and sprinted away with her, as fast as they could push their legs. The light of her curtain of fire dwindled the farther they ran from it, shadows growing once again in the absence of light. Branches cut against her cheeks and arms, but she couldn't feel them; footsteps were nearing them—catching up to them. Many of them.

They both scream again as a looming figure blocks their view, skidding to a halt. Harry drew her wand up again, but stops herself just in time.

She blinks in surprise when the domineering outline of a centaur becomes visible in the wintry moonlight.

The centaur gazes down at her with astoundingly blue eyes. No, not at her. At her scar. "Harriet Potter," he intones, with no small amount of surprise.

Harry nods slowly, her head darting back to the maw of darkness behind them, before returning to the centaur.

"You are safe now," he says, quietly, his own gaze trailing out into the shadows. "But still deep in the forest. You must get back to Hagrid."

He scrutinizes her with a pernicious glance. "You did very well out there, Miss Potter. Very clever to use fire—it may attract the more sinister creatures of the forest, but it was also how we found you."

She nods again. "Thanks." She replies, toneless.

His hooves stamp the ground impatiently. "This way," he nods with his head, and walks them back towards the edge of the forest.

Harry nods, moving to follow him. She hesitates, however, her gaze returning back to the depths of the forest for a long, lingering moment.

"Miss Potter?" The centaur inquires.

Harry shakes herself out of her reverie, her eyes drifting out of the shadows. "Sorry. Just… thought I saw something."

"There are many creatures that roam the forest at night," the centaur intones ominously. "All of them are cause for concern."

Draco plods along beside them, sending furtive glances behind them every couple seconds. He is so close to her that they are shoulder to shoulder, and she has a feeling that he would be grabbing her arm if anything else jumped out at them.

.

.

.

… /

No one has ever wanted her to live before.

No one has ever wanted her, at all. There are many people who would be ambivalent towards the matter; the teachers at school, the neighbors, the clerk at the corner store. And then there are the Dursley's. She can only imagine how ecstatic Aunt Petunia's face would be when they open the cupboard to see her dead.

Harry frowns.

Not too ecstatic—she would not be pleased at having to clean up the mess.

But then there is Tom, who promises her the world and more.

Tom is her imaginary friend, and at six it is perfectly acceptable to have one of those. He is cunning and clever and has little patience to spare, and often gets annoyed when she can't keep up with what he's saying. The first time he yelled at her for being so slow and stupid she started to cry and couldn't stop, and he was so terrified of the tears he told her it wasn't really her fault. She was very sharp for her age, but it was a tender age nonetheless. Tom was not six. He wasn't even close to six. Harry asked him how old he was but he wouldn't say; old enough. Old enough to know things about the world, old enough to teach her all his secrets. Old enough to promise her the world.

He needs her, you see.

No one has ever needed her before, either.

He is on a quest to get his body back, because he cannot stay her imaginary friend forever. Harry would like that very much, but it was clear that Tom would not. Tom had plans and things to do, he told her all about them, but they were abstract concepts too difficult for her to understand. He promised her she would understand, one day. But in the meantime, she needed to keep herself alive, for him.

Harry didn't have very many reasons to live, but she also didn't have very many reasons to die, and living for a little while longer to help Tom seemed like reason enough to stay.

.

.

.

"We cannot leave him there."

I know.

"We need to do something."

I know.

We need a plan.

I know!

Harry clutches her head in her hands. It pounds against her fingertips. Her scar burns. Her head hurts. But all of it is proof that she is still alive. Still breathing, still necessary. She cannot die yet, there is a boy in her head who needs to live again.

A man, thank you, the voice snipes back.

Fine. There is a man in her head, and a man out there in the forest, and both of them need to live, and it is, for some inexplicable reason, solely up to Harriet to figure out a way to make that happen. Harry did not see much of him, but what she could see was a terrifying, sorry sight. A life sustained by Unicorn's blood was a cursed, abhorrent life. At least that's what Tom said, and she was inclined to believe him.

"You don't need to figure out anything," Tom insists. "I already know how to go about the resurrection; the problem is getting to that stage in the first place."

"What's your grand plan then?"

"The philospher's stone." He says, with finality.

"The thing you said is underneath the school?"

"Yes, precisely. It is already here. And Dumbledore is expecting me to steal it."

Harry's hands fly off her face in silent incredulity. "If he knows we're going to steal it, then why would we steal it?"

"He knows I am going to attempt to steal it. And he knows I will fail. Why else would he bring that damned mirror in here? But he cannot foresee you, Harriet. I cannot retrieve the stone myself, you see. But you can."

"So we let Voldemort—I mean you—try to steal the stone, but really, we're going to steal it?"

"Of course. But we must wait until the right moment, and prepare for the ritual."

"Ritual?" Harry sits up straighter. "What ritual?"

"The ritual to resurrect myself; to return me to my body." Tom snaps, as if this should be obvious.

Harry swallows a hard lump in her throat. "Oh." Her voice is thin.

Fortunately Tom does not notice. "Most of this plan hinges on being at the right place at the right time. We need to find the mirror before him. We need to be there when he attempts to take the stone."

"And then?"

Tom sighs. "The easiest solution would be to persuade him that it's in his best interest to use the stone and myself to return. But I can imagine that I would not be… particularly receptive to the girl I've tried to kill for the past eleven years or so."

"Right." Harry replies, toneless. "And what… what happens to you?"

"To me?" His voice is colored with surprise. "Well, I return to myself. My own body."

Harry says nothing, her gaze burning holes into the table in front of her, with so much determination it was a wonder it didn't crumble apart before her eyes. She says nothing, but Tom knows her better than that. He always has.

"Harry," And he is using that voice of his, the softer one, the one he uses when she has nightmares, when she feels alone, when she feels lost. It always gets to her, no matter how much she refuses to allow herself to get emotional. "What's wrong?"

Her throat closes up. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Harry," he repeats, gentle but a command nonetheless.

Her eyes open; they are dry and endless. "Nothing." She shakes her head, standing up. Her whole body protests, from sitting too long, and the running in the Forest, and the cuts on her arms hurt and that are bruises everywhere and she sat up too fast and now everything is spinning and—

"When was the last time you ate?" Tom asks, as bright spots bloom before her eyes.

"I don't know."

"You can't just forget to eat all the time," Tom reprimands. "Your health is important, and Merlin knows it's suffered enough as it is."

But will it be, after all this is over? Harry thinks, despondent. Of course Tom cares about her; if she's feeling alright, if she hasn't slept enough, if she's eating properly. His plan depends on her to be alive and well enough to execute it. Right now he is nothing but a voice in her head.

"Come on, let's got to the kitchens. I can show you the way."

Will Tom still care, once he no longer has use for her? According to him she will always be a horcrux, regardless if his conscious moves to a new body or not, so in that regard, she will always be of value to him. But will he still worry about her, and ask her if everything's okay, and listen to her when no one else will?

The fear eats at her from the inside out.

But she cannot bring herself to ask.

.

.

.

It is getting warmer now, and soon enough exams will be upon them. Draco does not need to study, he thinks. He's smart enough that he doesn't need to spend the weekends and evenings with his head in a book. Meanwhile Hermione has taken the opposite approach, deciding that any spare moment of time must be dedicated to the library.

Harry doesn't care. Tom knew all the answers anyway.

She spends her reprieve in solitude wandering the grounds, her mind so eerily silent. A silence so loud and so horrible she needs to break it, but finds she can't. What will she say? She has no more words, only fear. And Tom has never been one for holding light conversation.

She might not remark upon it, but he can sense it.

The fear, the unease. The longing.

He may not know what was causing it—Tom has never been one for emotions, either—but he knew Harry inside out.

She feels the end approaching; they both do.

Tom has reasoned out that the only logical time for the dark lord to attempt to take the stone would be at the end of the semester. But for now, all they can do is wait for the scrying spell laced on the door to the third corridor.

.

.

.

Quirrell is behind her, tied up and struggling. Quirrell—who would have thought he would be the one Lord Voldemort would pick to possess. Or maybe that's exactly the reason why he chose the man, for he was so unlikely a choice. At any rate he fell into their trap just as they had planned. Voldemort had expected Dumbledore's machinations, but not his own.

As it is, he is stunned that this could have happened.

Harriet Potter, once again the bane of his existence. How had she gotten down here? And where did she learn that curse? It was certainly not the sort of thing they taught at Hogwarts. He had expected—well, he didn't know what he expected. A child. A whiny, bratty child, identical to all the other whiny, bratty children. She is small enough, yes, and she has the face and eyes of a child. But a child could never manage this.

"Harriet Potter," he says, softly. Quirrell stops his struggling.

Harry's eyes flicker towards him. That alarming green. She is rummaging through a pack she had brought with her, sticking her arm up to her elbow in the thing, ferreting about. He hears glass, metal, and books, and a moment later she is unearthing an ink well and conjuring a knife with her other hand. He would be impressed if it was anyone else but her.

She does not reply to him, which angers him further.

"Release me, girl." He snarls, as Quirrell begins struggling anew. "And perhaps I'll let you live this once."

Harry shakes her head. "I can't do that."

Quirrell lunges for her, tied to the chair and all. She moves out of the way.

"This is a lot harder then I thought it would be…" She mutters, angrily. "I'm trying to help you, okay? But you're not making it easy."

"Help me?" Lord Voldemort repeats, incredulous. Quirrell continues to flail on the ground.

They are lifted off the flagged stone floor; a wandless levitation charm. The chair is righted up, and this time she uses a sticky charm on its feet for good measure. She has turned them around so that they are face to face. "How could you possibly be trying to help me?" He sneers.

She, again, does not answer him.

No, she is moving away, stepping into a ritual circle she has drawn on the ground. She holds a small glass vial aloft, pointing her wand at her temple as she whispers an incantation under her breath.

Whatever he was expecting from this event, it certainly wasn't this.

He had expected to have the stone by now; he expected adversaries; he expected traps and clever games to throw him off. He expected Dumbledore, or perhaps Snape. Harry Potter was an interesting twist, but even that wasn't all that much of a stretch.

But he never could have imagined this.

He watches in shock as a white mist leaves her skin, coalescing in the vial until it is opaque. As it overflows, it begins to take shape. Form, structure—familiar geometry. A human. A man.

Himself.

It is Lord Voldemort as he remembers himself to be, the night he went to the Potter's House to slaughter them all—not the form he has been reduced to, a mere parasite, living off another. He stands a ways taller than her, familiar broad shoulders, the deceptive face of an angel. The memory does not have eyes for his true self; he only has eyes for the girl.

"I hate goodbyes," she says, to the air. Her hand hangs listless in the space between them, before dropping to her side. Her expression is soft and solemn, as if it may drift off in the moon spill.

"It's not really goodbye," the form replies, perhaps a tad exasperated.

Harry's smiles, but her eyes do not believe him. "But it won't be the same."

The apparition has nothing to say to that. He knows he can't make any promises he can't keep.

She will never stop being his horcrux. Nothing short of death could ever break their souls apart. But he won't be there—not really. Not how he has been, for her entire life.

Harry feels a sting in the back of her eyes, and berates herself for it. Now is not the time for tears. All the same they threaten to overtake her, a swell of regret and sorrow and longing. She doesn't want to let him go; her only friend, her sole companion when she had no one but herself, her teacher and her salvation and her downfall all wrapped up in the same person. He is the only thing she has ever known. How can she let him go? She can barely imagine a life without him.

And yet, was this not what they had been planning since the beginning?

Harry knew that Tom needed to return; she couldn't keep him to herself forever.

Her hands fly to her face, where she presses her palms into her eyes, bowing her head as if this could possibly hide her sorrow.

"Oh, Harry, don't…"

"I'm sorry." She chokes, rubbing vigorously at her eyes. "I'm sorry…"

She takes a shaky breath. When her hands pull away they are red rimmed, but full of only determination. "Right. We should carry on." She looks away, back to the stone, and the runes on the ground.

"Harry," he says, quietly, and this is all it takes to elicit her full attention.

She peers back at him, with a look that is both fragile and guarded. "What?"

"This isn't goodbye," he repeats.

"Yeah." She agrees, thickly.

His voice holds a conviction that snares at her foolish heart. Maybe he's right. Maybe it will not be as awful as she believes it will be. After all, didn't she dream of this moment? Of finally seeing Tom in the flesh, to feel his warm skin and the familiar voice tickling against her ear? He will no longer be just a memory in her mind, but a living, breathing person. Maybe he will wake up and look at her with the same fondness she can hear every night in his voice when he wishes her pleasant dreams.

Her hands are shaking as she holds the knife to her wrist. Blood pools down her fingers and drips onto the circle beneath her. She stares down at it, sightlessly, numb to everything, even the pain.

"Harry," her eyes involuntarily turn towards him.

She meets his gaze with spacious eyes. "What?" She returns, quiet and guarded. The blood continues; drip, drip, drip. It trickles and pools at her elbow, seeping into her clothes.

He searchers her deeply, warmth migrating towards deep longing. "What did you see?"

"In the mirror, what did you see?"

Must he ask this now? He had not spoke of the Mirror of Erised after she had left that somber and hollow room, thin-lipped and silent. He knew better than to ask. He knew her better—probably better than she even knew herself. He knew her so well, in fact, that he already knew the answer to this.

"You," she says, miserably.

This is not what she wants to say, but it is what he wants to hear. He smiles quietly at her. Her stupid heart constricts upon itself, her thoughts and feelings unable to hide in the face of that secret softness.

Harry turns away, moving back into the ritual circle. She knows exactly what to do; Tom had told her enough times that she could recite it in her sleep. There is almost enough blood now.

"What else? What else did you see?"

Harry spares him a long, frozen look of shuttered indifference. Why was he asking all this? To make it hurt more? He can be sadistic, yes, but he is never one to cause pain for no reason.

What did she see? She saw Tom, of course. Tom alive, and well, smiling at her, holding her close. She's always wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped in his arms. No one has ever shown her affection of any kind, and she has never wanted it. But with Tom, it would be okay. She wouldn't mind if Tom stood very close to her, until she could feel his warm breath in her hair, and his fingers on her skin. She would never want to be apart from him.

But she refuses to say any of that aloud.

And none of that will ever come true if Tom stays as he is now; a voice inside her head, a faded apparition that can only be corporeal for this one moment.

She has been silent for too long.

"Harry?"

She shakes her head of dreams and stupid desires, focusing in on what truly matters, what she is doing now.

"You've made your point." She replies, bitterly, not really replying at all. Yes, she saw him in the mirror. Yes, she wants him alive. But that fantasy is a lie; Tom would never hold her like that, even if he was alive. "Can we get on with this?"

If she had turned around, his expression might have been enough to make her give him a real answer. But she is otherwise occupied, wrapping up her wrist and moving towards the man still stuck in a chair. Lord Voldemort has remained very curiously silent. And he watches her with shrewd, crimson eyes. Tom's eyes, she realizes, with a pang of sadness.

"What are you going to do?" He narrows his eyes at her.

"I'm going to take you now," she replies, pulling the cork off a small glass vial. Like a memory glass for penseives. He can imagine what she will do with that.

He could, perhaps, attempt to get out of it. But he will admit her interactions with—with him, his horcrux, the part of him that he apparently left inside her—… her apparition have piqued his interest. He does not like the idea of indulging anyone, but his curiosity has him holding his tongue. She chants under her breath, and then he is being violently ripped out of Quirrell. The man shrieks, before losing conscious; it is not exactly painless for Voldemort either. It feels as if he is once again a formless wraith, stuck in the agony between life and death. Quirrell's body dissolves into ash and dust, just as he is sucked into the vial.

The pain becomes unbearable, as she carries him back to her ritual. There is the splash of her blood, and the searing, acidic burn of the Elixer of Life—and then nothing.

.

.

.

Harry leans against the cool stone of a marble pillar, the coolness a reprieve from the flush beneath her cheeks. Her gaze travels around the room listlessly, still unfocused from bloodloss.

It worked.

An overwhelming figure stood tall and taciturn and sad all at once in the middle of the room; the expression flickers, changing, like a voyage eternally in flight. His presence is so magnetic it seems to draw in every particle in the room, until a foreign energy dances upon her skin. Harry finds she does not know this man, still and straight, dressed in grey and bitter sounds, and a sad crest of abandoned thoughts.

"Tom," she starts, small and quiet.

There is one long, intimate moment of silence.

He spares her a long, sidelong glance. "I would prefer it if you did not call me that."

Harry watches his words from a long way off, crumpling in on herself, filled with drowned thoughts that lead her off into a silent sea. This is not the Tom she knows. Not anymore. He must be very far away, she thinks. Somewhere she cannot follow him to, if he is even there at all.

There is nothing left of him now, except perhaps some small remnant, in the diminutive spaces between his eyes and his savage, solitary soul.

"Right," she says, stiffly. "Sorry."

She had expected this.

This was Lord Voldemort. And she was his horcrux; prized and protected, a valued possession, but a pawn all the same.

There was nothing else to it.

/