Author's Note: I guess I should give you guys some warnings. This story will have MPreg, but hopefully in a way you haven't seen before and hopefully a bit believable. This is a slash story, I am labeling it Harrymort for now but I haven't decided if it's more Harrymort or Tomarry. This will be part of a multiverse series I'm working on but mostly, this is just for entertainment. I have a tendency to judge my own writing so harshly that I lose my muse, but with this I'm writing purely for the joy of writing. Sorry in advance if it's awful or cliche. Anyways, I hope you enjoy.

DOGWOOD

If there was one thing Petunia Dursley was most proud of most people would assume it was her son. Harry Potter knew his aunt better than most. Despite her outward charm of a suburban housewife; Petunia was a nosey, intolerant, and domineering woman. Harry's aunt was fanatical when it came to the appearance of perfection to her neighbors and expected excellence when it came to the long list of chores she assigned her nephew. The most important of which was the care of the Hydrangeas.

Harry hated working in the garden at Private Drive so much that even Herbology in the greenhouses of Hogwarts had become a detested subject. With no reprieve from the scorching sun, the unwanted leers of neighboring housewives, and only water from the garden hose to drink – Harry was left with nothing but rage churning in his stomach as he dug, fertilized, and weeded. The long hours of yardwork left his hands blistered and his back burnt from the sun when it was just too hot to wear Dudley's second-hand clothes that were six sizes too big.

But Harry worked hard despite how much he hated gardening because at least it was something to focus on. He would rather have the rage in gut as his companion than to be left alone with the dreams of Voldemort. Even when Harry was awake in Dudley's second bedroom the images flashed vividly in his mind. At night, the images were worse. Harry would see through Voldemort's eyes as the monster weaved magic Harry had never even dreamed of.

If only Voldemort was out causing murder and mayhem, Harry thought as he took his wrath out on a small section of spikey looking weeds at the back of the flower patch. It would be so much easier to deal with the horror of a monster than to fight his own monsters. But since the death of the muggle caretaker who had ignorantly wandered into the house Voldemort had claimed at the beginning of summer there had been no other deaths.

Harry had been left with his own roiling emotions – jealousy and rage. He watched as Voldemort worked spells and rituals by night and festered in his envy by day as he was forced to slave away the muggle way with the ghostly echo of Voldemort's power reverberating inside of him. The magic that was being wielded in his dreams as Voldemort began to fortify his house left Harry aching to do magic of his own.

He missed the feel of his wand in his hand and the warmth it always brought to him. Harry ached to feel the thrum of a spell as his magic coursed through him. Without his wand, Harry felt disconnected from the world he truly belonged in and there had been no word from Professor Dumbledore about when Harry could leave Private Drive and visit the Burrow.

With no end in sight the days at Private Drive were long, strenuous, and depressing. Each day there was some laborious task for him to do while his stomach growled ferociously with only hose water to try and deceive his aching body. Harry knew he needed more sustenance than the little the Dursley's allowed him, but he couldn't risk the wrath of his Uncle Vernon by sneaking food during the day – and at night Harry's door was locked with seven different bolts.

All of that could have been tolerable if Harry had only had someone to talk to. As it were, his letter to his friends and Sirius Black might as well have gone unanswered. His questions about news of Voldemort in the public had been ignored by Ron and Hermione – Sirius had responded but only to say that Harry should forget about Voldemort. Their letters only gave enough away that Harry knew they were all together, happy and fed, whilst he was left with muggles – starved and slaved.

At that moment, Harry wasn't sure who he despised more – Voldemort or Dumbledore.

Throwing the last of the weeds into the bin, Harry fell back onto the green grass of the Dursley's back yard with a relieved sigh. He was done for the day and could relax in the shade beneath the oak tree as the sun set – perhaps even take a nap when the chances of slipping into Voldemort's mind were fewer. He should have known better, Harry Potter had the worst luck imaginable.

"Boy," Petunia called loudly from the back door in the kitchen, "I'm taking Dudley and Piers to the movies, are you done yet?"

Knowing better than to admit that he was, Harry lied. "Not yet, a few more hours – Uncle Vernon asked me to clean out the shed, something about a hornet's nest inside."

Aunt Petunia's already thin lips pursed into a nonexistent line but the thought of Harry suffering the stings of hornets kept her placated. "Stay out of the house until I return - and don't you dare disturb the neighbors."

Harry knew better than to tell his aunt that he wouldn't have even thought about it because he knew they'd report it back to Petunia straight away. Instead he nodded and waved as he pulled himself up off the soft grass and made his way to the shed in pretense. The sound of the sliding glass door closing made Harry stop and he didn't move until he heard the car starting.

Aunt Petunia probably hadn't even made it to the end of the street before Harry was standing in front of the refrigerator, combing the shelves for food that wouldn't be missed. He ate greedily and barely tasted anything as he scarfed food down. An old banana that had developed a black spot, a sleeve of saltines hidden in the back, a few bites of cold take out, and as much milk to wash it down as he could take.

Harry had been sneaking food like this whenever he could for so long that he knew all the tricks of sneaking food under Petunia's watchful eye. He filled the milk back up with a bit of water and tossed the banana out of the window and into the garden where he could bury it later, and he hid the empty plastic sleeve the crackers had come in inside a box in the trash. He never got too greedy because Harry knew that Petunia wouldn't hesitate to bring down her husband's wrath for stealing.

Even so, Harry helped himself to the pantry and went rummaging for anything he could hide away in a loose floorboard under his bed. He found a few apples, some canned fruit with a tab on the lid for easy opening, and even a few oranges that wouldn't be missed. Harry's arms were full as he made his way to his bedroom with a racing heart. He knew logically that he wouldn't be caught but his adrenaline wouldn't calm until he had safely closed the bedroom door behind him.

Once Harry opened his door he dropped everything he was holding. The food went rolling and sliding across the floor. He gaped as he watched an orange roll across the floor and collide with an arm splayed across the floor. For a moment Harry could do nothing but stare at the figure lying on his bedroom floor in befuddlement because he was lying on his floor.

Feeling stupid, Harry touched the door to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. His hand didn't go through as a ghost would have, it landed firmly against the wood. But then that meant that there was someone who looked exactly like Harry lying on his floor. Cautiously, Harry stepped forward and his eyes widened as he took in the differences between himself and the Harry on the floor.

The variances were astounding. Whoever was on his floor looked like Harry but their stomach was protruding as if there was a basketball under their robes, or as if they were very, very pregnant. Harry dropped to his knees and began searching through the unconscious person's pockets but stopped short when he saw their hands. Harry's stomach flipped around as he saw that the stranger's hands were black. Not dark, Harry realized, but as if someone had dipped his hands in inky black paint.

What had happened? Who was this? Harry was almost too afraid to touch the unconscious person on his floor as he wondered who on earth it could be. Had someone used a Polyjuice Potion? He knew that the Polyjuice sometimes came with horrible side effects if the potion was contaminated by viscera, or animal DNA, or if the user was pregnant as this person so obviously was. But Polyjuice didn't explain the inky black color that Harry could now see extended clear up to the throat, chest, and even slowly working its way in tendrils to the face. Harry tried shaking a clothed piece of the cursed stranger but had to rip his hand away just in time as one of the afflicted ones tried to grab him.

Dull, glassy emerald eyes met bright, lively ones and Harry stumbled backwards onto his arse in surprise. "Who are you?" He asked the injured stranger on his floor with wide eyes. "Why do you look like me?"

Harry was expecting the person to be either a Death Eater or perhaps someone Professor Dumbledore had sent. But he wasn't prepared for the wheezing reply he got. "I am you," the injured Harry said as he struggled to pull himself up so that he could rest against the bed. "Or at least a version of you."

The response made Harry's head swim as he tried to grasp what he was being told. "You can't be me – I'm me!" But this only made the injured and very pregnant Harry wheeze out a laugh before he groaned in pain. "What happened to you?"

The stranger-Harry coughed, and he was alarmed to find that black spittle appeared on the stranger's emerald outer robe. For a second all the stranger could do was cough and hack up black goo painfully, when he could breathe again he rolled his head to the side to face Harry. "I've – I've been cursed." Harry could hear the strangers breathes crackling in his lungs.

"No shit," Harry deadpanned, "We need to get you to a Healer."

"No," the injured Harry cried out before breaking into a fit of wheezing, "They can't help me. I don't want them to help me."

"I don't understand," Harry cried in frustration as his injured look alike kept shaking his head back and forth. If he didn't know any better he'd say the injured Harry had been in some kind of duel or fight. Now that he was looking he could see the spell residue where he had been hit. "Why do you look like me and what's going on?"

The injured Harry grabbed Harry's shirt with a surprisingly strong grip. "They killed him," he croaked and Harry was dumbfounded to see tears in his eyes. For a moment the world stopped and his heart dropped into the floor – were they talking about Professor Dumbledore? "They killed Tom –" It was almost too much to bear for the injured Harry because he seemed to lose all his strength and his hand fell to the baby bump.

"What – you mean Voldemort?" Harry couldn't believe his ears. Had Professor Dumbledore found a way to kill Voldemort? Wouldn't he have felt it? It had to have been just today – he had just slipped into Voldemort's mind the night before. Could Voldemort really be dead? Why had no one come to tell him?

"I can't –" the injured Harry let his head roll back and his face crumpled in pain. "I can't live without him."

"B-but it's Voldemort," Harry cried in alarm, "Are you a Death Eater?" Already on his arse, Harry tried to scramble backwards but the injured Harry caught the leg of his jeans and held on with a grip of steel.

Dull emerald eyes pierced Harry with an unexpected sharpness. "Listen," he rasped so seriously that Harry had no choice but to listen even though he was beginning to think that this doppelganger was a Death Eater who had come for revenge. "Tom…is our…bonded."

"Bonded?" Harry didn't like the sound of that but he really didn't like how the doppelganger kept saying 'our' and 'we'.

"The soul piece…in our scars…we are bonded…" Harry's stomach sank as he eyed the other Harry's forehead. There was a lightning bolt scar – just like his own – and those could not be faked. His – their – scars were cursed. Professor Dumbledore had told him no magic could remove it and Hermione had even theorized that even Polyjuice couldn't replicate it. But what did being bonded mean?

"I – I don't have much time," the injured Harry pulled Harry even closer. "Our baby, you have to take it – you have to raise our child. I can't leave it an orphan…please…"

The request brought Harry up short. He tried to decline – tried to tell this doppelganger that he was still in school. He couldn't possibly take care of a child when he was loped into mortal danger every year. But his mouth had gone dry and the words were stuck in his throat. "Are you really me? You aren't Polyjuiced or glamoured?"

"I'm…Harry James Potter-Riddle…the Dark Lord's consort…" The injured Harry let go of Harry and reached into the pocket of his robes. He pulled out a photograph and stared at it with tears in his eyes for a moment before handing it over. Harry and Voldemort were dancing. It looked as if the picture had been taken without their knowledge because the two were so blissfully wrapped up in each other's gaze.

Harry's chest began to seize as he watched Voldemort dip Harry back, exposing the rotund belly. Harry's delighted smile was blindingly happy. He had never seen himself look so content. The doppelganger really was Harry… "I – I only had enough power for one trip…please…I can't leave until I know our child's safe with his father."

Father. Harry had never even considered the possibility of becoming a father. He definitely didn't know that men could get pregnant in the magical world or that he was gay…hell he definitely had never thought it possible to even say a nice word to Voldemort – let alone dance with the man. But none of that really mattered. In another world he had chosen Voldemort, granted it must be a backwards world where all things evil were good, but that didn't mean anything here on this world. It was still half of Harry. He could raise the child here by himself. He could have an actual family to love. He and this little baby from an alternate universe.

"I have so many questions –" Harry gasped as the other Harry put his blackened hand to his stomach and began to chant so faintly that Harry couldn't hear more than his crackling breaths. There wasn't much time left, he realized, as the black curse was beginning to envelope his other self's chin and forehead.

No, it wasn't just slowly moving. As the magic in the air picked up and blew the letters on his desk around Harry realized that the inky blackness was feeding off the magic. It was devouring the other Harry as he used the last bit of his life to chant.

There was a flash of bright, white light and everything went dark.