To hold something in one's Hand, Something of great destiny and of potential, Voldemort will keep his palms open; wait for it to fall into place, for the moment it slithers into the bars of his fingers: he is a Cage, a vessel.

Enviable.

Mine.

Voldemort drinks in the child curled on his thighs, a scrawny thing, as though a naked birch-tree curled against a winter wind. White and half-hallow, and Voldemort holds the child close and imagines he fills the empty spaces in his small bones, the ice that makes the tree defiant.

"Harry, my Harry," he murmurs, closes his eyes into the boy's temple, briefly remembers the feeling of eyelashes as dark curls brush his cheeks."Are you really so obstinate that I cannot leave you in the care of one of my Faithful while I must travel? Must you run away from them even upon my order?"

Harry feigns sleep, a shuttering breath into the folds of his Lord's glossy robe, but Voldemort feels the clench of a fist on his chest. A small hand seeks out his own, and Voldemort willingly folds his knuckles around him, feels nail-beds bite into his palms.

"You are meek today."

At last, a wriggling, and his child peeks up at his Master's clad collar bones until just a pale forehead and pinched eyebrows are visible. Voldemort raises a hand, brushes Harry's long curls from his face so the way to his eyes is unobstructed. They have always been luminous, an unspeakable verdant, and they are so sweet when they swim with anxious tears.

"I don't like any of them," he confesses into Voldemort's sternum, and the words crawl into the gaps of Voldemort's rib cage, a strangling ivy, untamed and perfect. "I just- I..."

It appears Harry's four year old countenance has exhausted his ability to further express himself, for his returns to hiding in the folds of Voldemort's robe, his inky hair blending with the black of the material, and so blending Harry to him. They are often One, more than Two, Harry slipping beyond all barrier to press his atoms alongside the Dark Lord's, not-one pace behind him, swallowed up in the billow of Voldemort's stride and cloak. Many overlook his Harry until he has crawled up into his lap, looking as an apparition.

"You Apparated," Voldemort says, stroking Harry's back and reclining in the cushioned chair. Harry forgets his trepidation and squints up at him.

"What is that?"

"You wished to Be elsewhere and so you Are."

"I Am?" he breathes.

"We Are," Voldemort corrects, and brushes a youthful cheek. Harry seems to sense that he is not in trouble for abandoning his watchman, for Voldemort never punishes him for Magic, and to Apparate at such an age with no Where in mind, only Who, Voldemort has only praise. "How did it feel?"

Harry smiles, his eyes still dewy but mischievous, brings his small hands up, curled into balls and splays his fingers into the air. "Like a pop."

The Lord hums, the noise echoing balefully in the dark chamber of his apothecary. There is a single candle glowing in the corner, and the light reflects off of them like the face of the moon reflects the sun, cool and compelling. They sink like oil into the shadows, and Harry pulls himself closer; not out of fear for the darkness, but for comfort, as he understands well Voldemort's place within it, and so his own place in turn.

"Like I was a snake," Harry expounds further, excited, "slithering through a tunnel. Am I a Snake?"

Voldemort grins, hisses deep in his throat, pulling up from the essence of his vocal cords My Snake, encased in man's flesh, how I wish to garner you in scales. Harry giggles, eyes wide, the sound of his Lord's True Tongue one of wonder. His small fingers reach up to touch Voldemort's mouth and Voldemort hisses simply for the child's reaction. There is a whisper of forked tongue to the tips of Harry's fingers, and he laughs and laughs.

"Where is Carrow?" he asks, a return to the voice of English, the blood of Englishman but traces in his serpent's face. "You will have her in hysterics over your disappearance."

Harry's smile does not falter, but he shakes his head. "Nagini ate ate ate her."

Voldemort coos, a high tsk sound that rattles in his chest, and brings Harry to rest against his heart. "I will need a new following at this rate, My Harry. You so easily offer Nagini anyone for dinner when you cannot devour them yourself."

"I don't need to be left behind," Harry says, arms reaching around his Lord's neck. Voldemort considers this, the various trips into forests uncharted, into lands of beasts mostly forgotten by his lessers, voyages for Magics unknown, sees Harry amongst the poisons and glittering teeth...

My Harry is built to be on my side of Inhumanity.

"Perhaps not."

"They want to take me away from you."

"No pity to the Fool who should try," Voldemort says to the dark room, petting his child, his Dear Snake in human skin.