Summary:

Lord Voldemort always congratulated himself to be the most logical being he ever met in his whole life. He always found an answer to everything. A clear cut solution for a mathematical mind. And yet, he stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom what to do. [TIME TRAVEL]

Part I - The question: What to do? Voldemort put the Taboo in place. Harry caused the death of Dudley thinking he was attacked by Death Eaters. Vernon beated Harry with a baseball bat. Harry wished for Voldemort to be there so he could be finally killed. The Taboo bring Voldemort to Privet Drive. Voldemort stood there, a bloodied Harry Potter lying unconscious at his feet. For the first time in his life, the Dark lord felt utterly lost. He couldn't fathom what to do.

Part II - The answers: what he found: convinced that Harry cursed him to affect his health and his - genius - brain, Voldemort searched through Harry's memories for the curse used. He didn't find any curse but discovered that Harry is completely broken by the pressure and the fear. He also stumbled across the memories of the Horcruxes hunting of 6th year and realized that the BWL know how to kill him. Out of anger, he wanted to kill him, but hearing the teen begging, he could not bring himself to do it and fled.

A Logical Mind

PART II bis - The Solution

What he did.

Anger took over panic. This insolent brat had destroyed his horcruxes. He had the power to make him mortal again. He had the knowledge of his horcruxes. He should die painfully. For the second time of the evening, Voldemort pointed his wand on the boy, ready to speak the two fatal words.

"I... I beg you... Kill me..."

The supplication resonated in the room and in the Dark Lord's ear. Huge green eyes were imploring him to put an end to the suffering. He took a deep breath, but the words never came.

Voldemort could feel something cold moving his guts.

The snake was awake.

"Voldemort... I beg you... Kill me... please..."

As an answer to the plea, the Dark Lord did the only thing he could think of.

He fled.

In the silent despair of a cold room, Harry felt his world collapse on him.

The nightmare was not finished. He was still alive, prisoner of Voldemort.

Harry screamed. He screamed until his voice was horse. When his throat was not able to produce any more sound, Harry began to cry.

Why had the Dark Lord not killed him? He had been at his mercy, he had begged for death. For years, Voldemort had plagued his dreams with vows of painful murder, description of endless torture. A lot of blood, a lot of pain, and a smile ripped out of his face. It may have been only nightmares and not actual visions, but Harry was certain that Voldemort had similar fantasies.

Harry had been sure that Voldemort would kill him on sight after seeing him completely broken by his uncle. What fun is there in torturing someone who had already lost everything? But no, the Dark Lord had shown mercy. He even healed him. Why? Was it an odd plot, somewhere between the lines of heal your enemy to better torture him later? Harry was not sure he wanted to know. Even if there was a plan to all this nonsense, it would not last. Harry had been deprived of his slumber by the frantic search of Voldemort in his mind. He had witnessed the rage slowly building in the Dark Lord, and the raw fear he radiated.

How well could a man obsessed by immortality take the new that his greatest enemies knew the way to his downfall? Harry shivered. He was the captive of an angry, murderous Dark Lord. Torture awaited him, then a slow, horrible death. He was doomed.

Strangely enough, Harry noted, he was not paralyzed by fear. Instead of being frightened, the Boy Who Lived felt empty, detached from the nightmare that was his emotions. His mind was clear. Under the blows of Vernon, Harry already accepted that death would free him of the living hell that was the prison of his life. Fear, grief, guilt, everything would go away.

Harry welcomed death. He just had to find a way to avoid torture.

Voldemort stormed through his study, the inhumane screams from the boy reverberating in his wake.

He let himself fall in his chair and took his bald head in his hands. Now was not the moment to let whatever curse the boy used on him rule his action. He had to sort this mess rationally. Ignoring the moving snake in his guts, the Dark Lord inspired deeply, released his breath through his lipless mouth, and let his cold logic take over the storm that was raging inside him.

Two of his horcruxes had been destroyed. From the memories he saw, only Dumbledore, the brat, and to a certain extent Slughorn, were aware of the existence of his horcruxes. With Dumbledore dead, the risk was less important. Slughorn was not an immediate threat either. The potion man had been too much of a coward to share his memory with the boy. Without the felix felicis potion, he would have carried the secret of Tom Jedusor's morbid interest in his afterlife.

What disrupted Voldemort was his reaction to the boy. After discovering the treacherous memories, he had been ready to strike, to kill the boy once for all. How many times did he dream of that cherished moment when he would finally be able to change the petulant brat in a small decaying corpse? But no, once again, the brat escaped his fate. Voldemort had not been able to utter the two fatal words. The boy's plea made him mute.

His brain was facing the truth: he had not been able to kill the brat. He felt exposed, vulnerable. Closing his eyes, the Dark Lord could see the two brilliant green orbs. In the distance, he could hear the boy's soft whimpers. The animal in his guts was dancing again.

No, he was Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of the century. A Dark Lord, so dark that he would not even feel the shadow of a doubt when killing, nor regret when torturing. He should kill a few meaningless preys, and then, he would come back, kill the brat once for all, and make another horcrux out of his death. That was the logical thing to do.

A slow maniac smile bloomed on his snake like face. He released his head, and stood, tall and proud. He would not let the brat mess with his sanity. Like always, the sight of blood and the music of screams would appease him.

Full of confidence, he threw some powder in the fireplace.

" Malfoy Manor! "

His voice resonated in the study like swords clashing against each other.

Charity Burbage was the proud Muggle Studies teacher of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. From the earliest age, she had been fascinated by the muggles and how they were living - quite well in her opinion - without any magic. So when her application for the job had been accepted, she had hugged her mom tightly, thanking her for her never ending support. Little did she know that she would one day curse her own luck.

It all started by this weird feeling. Like if someone was following her. She dismissed it. Then came the letters. The threats were vague in the beginning but got bolder every passing day. Charity did not stop to teach nor to publish her opinions of the muggles in the Daily Prophet. If she was to be paranoid, who else would try to defend the muggles in this time of need? Now however, she had another opinion on the matter. What was an article against her own life? Not much, really.

Tears began to fall on her cheeks as she, once again, let her eyes map the tiny cell she was in. A door made of rusty bars. Uneven walls covered with mould. Far left lied something looking like a skull. She was afraid, terrified even. Why would the Death Eaters keep her alive? Was it to make an example out of her, a known muggle lover?

A low hiss could be heard and the door cracked open. Lord Voldemort was standing in the door frame, his snake like face distorted by a soft smile.

"Miss Burbage." The Dark Lord hissed dangerously, raising his wand. "How... convenient."

Charity fainted.

A cold chuckle escaped the Dark Lord lipless mouth. The sweetness of the fear he inspired was almost overpowering the cold and moving feeling in his gut. Wand raised, he relished in the cherished feeling a few more seconds. But he knew he was not there to cause fear, regardless of the his fondness. He came to spread death. Reluctantly, he whispered the lethal curse.

"Avada Kedavra."

Nothing happened. No green light, no dead body. Charity Burbage was still alive, however unconscious. Voldemort was not pleased. He had been able to master the killing curse since the first time he cast it, on his father, as a sixteen year old teenager. How could he fail now?

"Avada Kedavra!" he said, more intently.

Still nothing.

"Avada Kedavra! AVADA KEDAVRA!" He shouted.

In the tiny cell covered with mould, no green lights flashed.

Breathing heavily, the Dark Lord leaned on the door frame. The snake in his guts was restless. Voldemort could feel a sour taste invading his mouth. He slumped against the door a bit more. The greatest dark wizard of the century feeling physically ill at the idea of killing, unable to perform the tiny act of magic needed... Unable to kill, unable to defend himself... Never before did he feel so vulnerable, so frail.

Slowly, he exited the cell, leaving the unconscious teacher behind. He would go back to Little Hangleton. He would be safe there, with no one to witness his vulnerability. He was no fool: was he to show a weakness in front of them, he knew his Death Eater would not disregard the opportunity to overthrow him. He would find a way to regain his usual cold self there, hidden from the world.

He would kill again.

Back in his study, Voldemort methodically poured himself a glass of firewhisky. He slumped in his chair and took large sips out of his glass. The hot liquid in his throat was oddly reassuring, clouding the insidious uneasiness. It seemed to calm the cold animal in his guts too. He poured himself another glass, his eyes lost in the midst of the fire roaring in the fireplace.

A huge, deadly snake entered the room,

"Massster" she hissed.

"My faithful Nagini" Voldemort greeted her and extended a hand to pet the snake's head.

"Massster.. the boy's room... It ssmells like blood."

Voldemort sprung from his chair and run to the room.

His glass of firewhisky was left on the desk, forgotten.

The room was still and dark. A soft breath could be heard. If not for the overpowering smell of blood, Voldemort could swear the boy was sleeping. A weird sensation engulfed him. Was it... worry? Dismissing that thought, the Dark Lord summoned a light at the tip of his wand.

Harry Potter was lying on the bed, in front of him. His face was as white as the sheets, if not for the blood stains around his mouth. He was holding his hands close to his bloodied chest. One of his wrist, the one held closer to his body, was teared apart. Blood was spilling from the open wound. The sheets surrounding the boy were becoming a deep shade of red at an alarming rate. It took a few seconds for the Dark Lord to process what he was witnessing.

The boy had bitten his wrist in a desperate attempt to die. He was trying to kill himself.

The cold, moving feeling was back, stronger than ever. Voldemort hurried at the side of the boy and started to mutter incantations after incantations, in the vain hope to retain the fleeting life.

After a few hours - or was it a few minutes? - The Dark Lord stopped his frantic spelling. The wrist was healed, however barred by a teeth shaped scar. The boy would be weak for a few days, consequence of the blood loss, but he would live. Voldemort sighed, turned his back on the boy, thinking about the glass full of firewhisky waiting for him in the study. As he was at the door step, he heard a small, hoarse voice.

"Why... Why did you save me?"

The Dark Lord left the room, without any answer. In the study, he sit down in his chair and took the glass to his lipless mouth.

Why indeed?

Voldemort did not know.

Harry was not sure how much time had passed since his arrival in Little Hangleton.

In the beginning, he had been afraid of torture. But it never came. Instead, when he tried to kill himself, Voldemort healed him and left, without a word. Harry was confused. He was left waiting for his painful downfall, wishing for death. The absence of human contact was slowly making him loose his sanity. As the days passed, Harry realized that maybe, physical torture had been replaced by another kind of torment: loneliness, helplessness. He was inescapably drowning in despair.

When Harry felt like he could not take it anymore, he tried to suffocate himself with the bed linen. However, the moment he felt out of air, Voldemort stormed in the room and released him from the deadly sheets of his own making. Harry asked why. Red eyes stared at him intently, but he got no answer. After making sure he was not injured, the Dark Lord left the boy, without any further word.

They settled in a very strange routine. Invariably, Harry, when despair was overpowering him, tried to off himself. Invariably, Voldemort would appear out of thin air to rescue him. The boy would ask him why he was being rescued, he would try to coax an answer out of the older one. Invariably, the Dark Lord would stay silent and leave. Once, Harry even tried to starve himself. But after two days, an house elf appeared along with his food and magically forced him to eat. Since then, an house elf was always attending to his meals. Harry did not complain much. Even if the house elf usually remained silent, he cherished the presence of another living being in his vicinity.

Harry knew he was being watched. Some kind of alarm had been set to alert Voldemort about his well-being. As his numerous failed attempts had proven, he could not kill himself. He could not save himself from the hell that was his own life. A miserable life, full of despair, terror and sorrow. He could not kill himself... But he could get killed. He just had to make the Dark Lord feel murderous. But how could he? Voldemort never graced him with his presence.

A loud pop interrupted his thoughts. A young house elf stand before him, a tray full of food in his hands. Harry took it absent-mindedly and began to eat under the watchful eyes of the elf. As he was chewing his peas, an idea struck Harry. The ghost of a smile played on his lips. Carefully, he sneaked the knife out of the tray.

"What are your orders, elf?" he asked.

"To make sure you eat, to make sure you don't kill yourself, Sir." the house Elf answered in a small voice.

Harry nodded. He had asked numerous time the same question, and invariably, the orders the elf had been given were the same. He continued to chew innocently. After a few more seconds he pushed the tray away.

"Harry Potter must eat, Sir." the house elf said.

But Harry did not care. Feeling bolder than ever he suddenly aimed the knife at his own chest, ready to stab.

"You will bring me to the Dark Lord, or I will kill myself."

Harry could see the panic in the elf eyes but he was inflexible. It was his last chance to finally be free from the hell of the living. He had to pay a visit to Voldemort. He had to anger him. He wanted to die. He had to get killed.

Suddenly, the elf snapped his fingers. In a loud pop, they were both gone.

It took a few days for Voldemort to solve the puzzle. A few days that felt more like never ending years. When the sun was up, the Dark Lord would indulge his drinking habit and calm both his anxiety and the snake living in his guts. However, at nights, the nightmares were vivid. The brat, lying dead, mocking him. His horcruxes, destroyed, mocking him. Terror, death. In the heart of the nights, he was nothing more than animal fear in a human shell, a snake in his guts, and a snake as a pet. The Dark Lord felt like slowly breaking.

His genius brain, slowed by the intake of alcohol, still found the reason for his strange vulnerability and his repeated life-saving interventions on the Boy Who Lived. To say that the Dark Lord was not happy with the answer would be an understatement, but he was relieved to finally have a logical explanations to this mess, even an unpleasant one.

By destroying his two first horcruxes, the brat and the old man had released part of his soul, part of his emotions that merged back with him. Voldemort remembered clearly which kind of emotions he logically left behind while creating the two horcruxes: remorse first, and then fear.

Oh, he had thought about it at great length before going through that order but it had been the most logical solution. He had to get rid of remorse first, as he had no room for it in his way to greatness and immortality. Feeling remorses would have condemned him to a world of pain, and to mortality. Remorses, that were now back in his soul.

Remorses, that were forming a cold, moving snake in his guts.

Voldemort knew he was slowly breaking. Not only from exhaustion, no. He was literally falling apart, feeling this foreign sensation in his guts. He could not understand it anymore, it was too alien for him after living decades without it.

However, his cold and logic brain could analyze the facts: the snake tended to be more active in the vicinity of the boy. Somehow, the Dark Lord felt remorses at the sight of the broken boy that was Harry Potter.

The thought in itself was unsettling. But what upset Voldemort the most was that he had to find a way to ease the remorses. He had to, otherwise the snake would break his other horcruxes, making him mortal again. An insidious and familiar fear seized him. Mortal... He could not let that happen. Whatever was the cost.

And Voldemort did search for a way to get rid of his remorse. No dark magic was more powerful than the horcrux-making spell. Nothing else could cage the emotions. But to make an horcrux, he had to kill someone, and that was a problem. Each time he tried the killing curse since the attempt on Burbage, he utterly failed. No green light, not even a jolt of magic or a sparkle. Nothing. The foreign sensation, remorse, prevented him to mean the death of his victim. He could not make an horcruxe to get rid of the unwanted snake. His genius brain however was not defeated. Another way to get rid of this infuriating emotion existed: Voldemort had to find a way to ease the remorses.

In order to save his own life, the Dark Lord had to fix a broken Harry Potter.

How ironical fate was. Voldemort chuckled darkly. After years of careful planning and daydreaming for the ultimate downfall of the brat, he had to fix him. But even if he was not pleased with that fact, the Dark Lord was feeling more calm and confident. There was a solution - even it it was one he abhorred. That was better than breaking apart without any remedy, without knowing what was happening.

Voldemort set all his logic, all his genius brain to work on how to fix Harry Potter. At first, he stubbornly stuck to his physical well-being, saving his life more than once. But the snake was still there, growing with each failed suicide attempt. Unable to sleep, Voldemort sneaked often in the boy's room and immersed himself with caution in the teen's mind. Every time he was greeted by the memories storm. Harry Potter's mind was completely broken.

In an almost clinical way, Voldemort started to go through the memories. After witnessing the beating by the fat man - which he understood was the uncle - he focused on the dull memories. He wanted to go back to the source of the despair, to understand when the boy's defense started to collapse, when did he start to fall in this deep and heavy depression. What he discovered was enough to make him want to kill those infuriating muggles on sight. Years of abuse, starving, slavery. In comparison, the orphanage seemed like a soft prison, where he could use wandless magic to defend himself. The snake was moving, uneasy. When Voldemort stumbled on the memory of a ridiculously happy toddler with a goofy grin on his face, in the tight embrace of a redhead woman, a uncontrollable laugh escaped his lipless mouth.

The evidences laid in front of him, nagging him. Harry Potter had been fated to break the day he was put with his abusive, disgusting muggles relatives. Harry Potter would beg for death, because, at the very beginning, he, Lord Voldemort, killed his parents.

The snake was dancing more ferociously than ever before. The laugh died on Voldemort mouth as he began to feel an excruciating pain.

He had to fix this. Otherwise, death awaited him. He had to find a way, to go back, to prevent the death of the Potter's couple. In the wake of his action he would erase both his remorse, and the prophecy. The brat would not be marked as an equal. No scar, no prophecy. And he, Lord Voldemort, the greatest dark wizard of the century, would once again be free to rule. Yes, it was the perfect plan.

It was the logical thing to do.

Harry reappeared silently in the middle of a study, unable to believe in his luck.

Voldemort's back was facing him. He was singing a litany of spell in a low, soft voice. In a trance, he did not acknowledge the presence of the teen in the room. Fascinated by the waves of magic exuding from the tall body, Harry stared at the Dark Lord a long moment. Even if it was his original plan, he did not dare to interrupt the beautiful ritual unfolding in front of his eyes. It felt majestic, noble. Sacred even. Voldemort raised his hands singing louder. The magic was forming a colorful shield around his tall and dark figure. Slowly, the Dark Lord started to disappear.

Panic overcome Harry. He could not let the Dark Lord go away. Not now. Not when he was so close to get killed. Whatever ritual that was, he should mess it up, he should anger Voldemort. He should get killed. He wanted to get killed. It was his only chance.

Harry jumped in the colorful shield and clung to the black robes.

Magic engulfed him. He tightened his grip on the fabric. Everything went black; he was pressed very hard from all directions; he could not breath, there were iron bands tightening around his chest; his eyeballs were being forced back into his head; his ear-drums were being pushed deeper into his skull.

It stopped as suddenly as it began. The scenery around him had changed. He was now in a nursery.

"What the... Who are you?"

A female voice made him jump backwards. He turned around. A beautiful redhead woman was standing in front of him, wand raised, aiming at them.

In front of him stood Lily Potter.

Harry fainted.

End of Part II (bis) - The solution

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Still searching for a beta, btw.