Warning: this fic contains dark themes, including child abuse, torture, gaslighting and death.

Assignment #6

History of Magic: write about a wizard being trapped. Extra prompt: (song) Shattered by Trading Yesterday

Writing Club

Creepypasta Task 2: write about a child having hallucinations

Showtime 3: (setting) Graveyard

Themed List: Cauldron

Count Your Buttons

(word) Tested

Gobstones

Brown Stone – Fear, Accuracy – 8. (genre) Horror, Power – 16. (colour) Ivory, Technique – 2. (word) Frost

shattered dreams and broken pathways

The smoke cleared, and a creature began rising from the cauldron, bones growing and skin stretching in a grotesque manner. Harry had hoped, begged, prayed for it to die, but instead it had thrived. Limbs elongated into arms and legs, and the head emerged from the body, eyes red as blood blinked open, and a mouth framed by perfect pink lips gasped its first breath. Slender fingers brushed along the man's brow, down a strong nose and across high cheek bones, then up to tug lightly at the mess of hair upon his head. Standing before Harry was a striking picture of an older Tom Riddle, perhaps thirty or forty years of age. He smoothed a hand along his cheek, and the faint scruff that had grown disappeared, and Voldemort's hair neatened itself. He stretched, seemingly unashamed of his nakedness.

"Robe me," he murmured, and Wormtail shuffled forward, offering a dark robe that Voldemort wrapped around himself. He extended one hand and Wormtail bowed over it, placing in it a wand that was dark against Voldemort's pale fingers. A silent spell later, Voldemort's plain black robe transformed into something elegant and sophisticated; an emerald green tunic wrapped tightly at the waist by a leather sash, and smart black trousers. Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron, a pleased quirk to his lips.

"My lord," Wormtail snivelled, and extended his wounded arm. Red eyes narrowed. With a flash of green light Wormtail fell to the ground, eyes blank. He was dead. Harry couldn't hold back his gasp of horror.

"Once a traitor, always a traitor," Voldemort hissed. With three neat flicks of his wand Wormtail was dismembered. "Dinner… Nagini."

The large snake hissed in delight and lunged forward, unhinging her mouth. Harry stared in terror as she swallowed Wormtail's arm whole.

"That's disgusting! You're a monster!" Harry cried, and recoiled as Voldemort focused upon him.

"Harry Potter… the boy who lived… you are full of surprises," Voldemort murmured. "How did you come to speak the fair language of the snakes?"

Harry clamped his mouth shut and glared at Voldemort defiantly. Voldemort raised a brow and then narrowed his eyes.

Suddenly pain split his skull and memories flashed before his gaze, memories of speaking parseltongue, of freeing the boa from the zoo, of hearing the basilisk, of Dumbledore informing him that Voldemort had left a piece of himself behind the night he'd tried to murder him. Voldemort staggered back, and then a wide grin spread across his face and he began to laugh, an eerie sound that echoed around the graveyard. Harry shook with fear, then began wriggling in his bonds, only to hiss as he put pressure on his injured leg.

"What a fool he is," Voldemort muttered to himself. He then looked back at Harry, his gaze contemplative. He raised his wand.

Harry tensed. "Go on then," he spat. "Murder a defenceless child, like the coward you are."

Voldemort merely smirked. He pointed his wand first at Harry's ankle, and chanted a spell. Harry could literally feel the bone regrowing, the flesh mending. He tested it cautiously, and found it to be entirely healed. Then Voldemort tapped Harry's arm, and the gash that Wormtail had created sealed up.

"I apologise for Wormtail's poor behaviour… he was rather enthusiastic, I'm afraid. At least you no longer have anything to fear from him," Voldemort said. Harry glanced at the half-devoured body, and the snake curled up beside it. He felt nauseous at the thought of it, but it was better than thinking about why Voldemort was being, well, nice.

Voldemort brushed a finger down Harry's face, and Harry grit his teeth in order not to shout at the strange sensation. It was no longer painful, but somehow electric, like they were part of a completed circuit. Voldemort smiled, and Harry shivered.

"Come," he said, and the ropes holding Harry up vanished. Harry stumbled, caught by surprise. Voldemort steadied him and Harry recoiled, and ended up sprawled upon the floor. He was then offered a hand, but Harry pushed himself to his feet and began backing away, trembling with fear. He had to escape, or fight back, but he was unarmed and exposed.

Voldemort eyed him with exasperation, and sighed. A flash of red light flew toward Harry, and then everything went dark.

Harry woke up slowly, and felt around for his glasses. They were on the pillow next to him and Harry shoved them on his face, squinting at the sharpened scenery. He wasn't in the hospital wing, that was for sure. A dark blue canopy hung above him, held up by mahogany bedposts. He stretched, then sat bolt upright. The Third Task! Cedric! Voldemort! He scrambled out of the bed and found himself dressed in tartan pyjamas. The room he was in had ivory wallpaper but was bare other than the bed, a desk and a chair. There wasn't even a door.

He'd been captured by Voldemort! But he wasn't dead, at least, not yet. Surely someone would find him. Perhaps Dumbledore, or Sirius… he at least knew Ron and Hermione would never give up searching for him. He just had to survive until they could arrive, or maybe even find his own way out.

Harry paced the room, feeling all the walls for secret passageways, stupid as it seemed. He tried picking up a chair to throw at the wall, but it refused to move, and the same with the desk and the bed. His hands eventually became raw and bloody from trying to break apart the furniture, and he was tired, and hungry, and most of all, thirsty.

Harry sat on the bed and curled his legs up, hugging his knees. He closed his eyes, trying to go over what had happened in the graveyard. What had Voldemort seen that had made him not want to kill Harry? Was is just the fact that Harry could speak to snakes? Had Voldemort somehow seen his memories and knew that Harry had taken some of his power? Did he want it back?

As he thought about the graveyard Harry couldn't rid himself of the image of Cedric's sightless eyes. A tear tricked down his cheek and he wiped it away angrily. He'd have time to mourn for Cedric later, once he'd escaped, once Voldemort was gone, or dead, or bodiless again.

Harry didn't know how much time had passed, but he was beginning to desperately need a drink. He had a pounding headache and was feeling light headed, both of which he remembered from his early days at the Dursleys when they'd withheld food or water when he'd misbehaved. He was beginning to drift, to lose track of time, but he guessed that it must have been at least a day since he'd been kidnapped, maybe more. Was Voldemort planning for him to die of thirst?

He pulled the bedcovers around him, and drew patterns on them. He spelt out his friends' names, and some of the runes Hermione harped on about, then different Quidditch manoeuvres. He swayed in and out of consciousness.

A hand on his shoulder startled him into alertness. Voldemort stood over him. Harry flinched, scrambling out of bed and to the other side of the room. Voldemort took a step back and sat at the desk chair, an impassive look upon his face.

In Voldemort's hand was a glass of water. Harry stared at it, then back at Voldemort.

"Would you like some water, Harry?" Voldemort asked, his voice soft.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Is that a trick question?" he rasped. Voldemort didn't reply. Harry inched forward around the bed, then finally snatched the glass from Voldemort's hand. He perched on the edge of the bed, clasping his prize.

"Say thank you."

Harry swallowed his pride. "Thank you," he muttered, and sipped the water. He eventually finished it and placed the glass on the desk, ignoring the shaking of his hand.

"Would you like another?" Voldemort asked. Harry stared, wondering what game he was playing.

"Yes," he eventually replied. Voldemort raised an expectant brow. "Yes please," Harry amended. Voldemort nodded in approval.

"Very well. But first I would like to talk, and I would like for you to listen. Do you think you can do that?"

"It's not as if I've got any choice," Harry snarked. Voldemort pursed his lips.

"Politeness costs us nothing, Harry. As your elder, I expect you to refer to me as 'sir', and treat me with respect. Now, will you listen?"

"Fuck off!" Harry growled, jumping to his feet. Voldemort also stood with a frown. Harry flinched back, and Voldemort sighed.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Voldemort said frostily. He then turned on one foot, and disappeared with a crack, taking the empty glass with him.

Harry touched his parched throat, barely soothed by the water he'd drunk, and retreated to the relative safety of the bed. He curled up like he used to in his cupboard, and dry sobbed into his arms.

Hours passed, and Harry began severely regretting his previous decisions. Was his pride worth his life? What would Hermione say if she knew that he was wasting his chance to survive?

Still, Voldemort did not return.

Harry's mind wandered. His heart raced like a rabbit in his chest and sometimes he imagined he could see it escape and jump about the room. Snakes danced before his eyes, and he imagined Snape was in the room with him.

"Foolish Potter, always getting himself into trouble! Should have left him in the muggle world!"

"You're right," Dumbledore agreed. No! Harry tried to cry, but found himself choking on his tongue instead.

A warm arm wrapped around him, and a wet cloth was placed on his lips. Harry sucked greedily, delighting in the cool liquid.

"It's okay, Harry. I've got you." He leaned into the strong body holding him up. "I'll protect you." He finally drifted off to a dreamless sleep.

When Harry awoke, his thirst was gone, and his headache was just a mild nuisance. He stiffened as he realised he had not imagined the person comforting him in his delirium. A strong arm was still around his waist, holding him steady as they leant against the headboard. A glass of water was conjured before him, and Harry refused to look up so as not to face reality. Instead he took the glass.

"Thank you… sir," he murmured, and cringed.

"You're welcome, Harry."

Harry took a sip of water, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the glass tightly.

"Are you hungry?"

"No sir," Harry whispered. He was ignored. A bowl of soup appeared before him on a tray, and as Harry breathed in the smell he found that it was slightly appetising. He placed the water aside, and took up the spoon.

"I presume Dumbledore has informed you of the Prophecy?" the voice asked. Harry's hand shook, and the spoon clanked against the bowl. He sipped a mouthful of soup, and found himself suddenly ravenous.

"No sir," he whispered.

There was a long pause.

"It seems Dumbledore has been keeping many secrets from you. Indeed, he has not even told you why I set out to kill you in the first place, and thus brought about the death of your parents."

Harry sipped his soup, and tilted his head. Despite it all, this was information that he craved.

"There was a prophecy given before you were born that spoke of a child with the power to defeat me… 'born as the seventh month dies, to those that have thrice defied me'. Both myself and Dumbledore were privy to this information…"

Harry's head was spinning. After everything he'd been through, why was Voldemort telling him this?

"You were a threat to me then... and I was scared, I have to admit. And my fear brought about the deaths of two mislead members of society, Lily and James Potter. I do not regret their deaths, but I do regret the life you lived without them."

Harry's soup had gone cold, but he couldn't eat any more of it. It was his fault his parents had died! If Harry had never been born, they might still be alive. And he'd asked Dumbledore, at the end of his first year, why, just why Voldemort had come after him. 'The truth is a beautiful and terrible thing, and therefore to be treated with great caution.'

Harry scoffed, and realised it had turned into a sob. He turned away from Voldemort's warm embrace and curled up.

He'd learnt from a young age how to cry quietly. Voldemort let him cry, resting just one hand on his shoulder, a constant reminder of his presence.

"Sleep now, Harry," Voldemort whispered. Harry closed his eyes and cried himself to sleep.

Voldemort didn't return for a long while after that, but twice each day a jug of water and a bowl of soup appeared in Harry's room. There was no window to measure the passage of time, but Harry could guess approximately from how hungry he was and how tired he became.

He couldn't stop himself from dwelling on the prophecy. He didn't want to vanquish Voldemort. He wanted to go back to Hogwarts, to play Quidditch, to talk to Hedwig and explore the grounds with his friends.

He wondered how Sirius was doing, living off rats and scrounging newspapers. He hoped someone would look out for him. But not Dumbledore, a traitorous part of his mind whispered. Dumbledore, who had let Sirius be imprisoned in the first place. Dumbledore, who had left Harry with the Dursleys and made him return every year. Dumbledore, who had overheard the prophecy that had ruined Harry's life, and not seen fit not to inform him.

What had Dumbledore ever done for Harry?

A toilet had appeared when Harry had begun to eat and drink enough to pass waste. But even that was driving him insane, another bland addition to the dull room. He was beginning to go stir crazy. Part of him even hoped Voldemort would return, if only for someone to talk to.

Harry had been pacing the room when pain erupted suddenly from his scar. Harry collapsed to his knees with a scream, clasping his hands to his forehead.

He was in a dark and dingy cave, an eerie green light flickering about him as he held conjured light in one hand. In the other sat a locket – but it was the wrong one! Regulus had betrayed him! He glanced at his hand where sat the ring, thankfully intact. He already knew Lucius had lost the diary, and for that he would be thoroughly punished. The diadem should be safe, and the cup doubly so, but he was beginning to regret placing them out of his reach. Perhaps it was time to meet with his followers once more…

Harry gasped, sucking in deep breaths of air. It had been a vision where he'd seen through Voldemort's eyes… thought Voldemort's thoughts.

There was a loud crack! Voldemort appeared before him. He looked down with a frown.

"Up you get now," he murmured, pulling Harry to his feet. Harry couldn't find it within himself to protest. It was absurdly nice to find someone looking out for him. Voldemort tucked him under the covers, and then placed a bar of Cadbury's chocolate on his bed.

"I'm sorry you've had to wait so long for me to return," Voldemort said. "You've been very good." Harry shuddered at the praise. His gaze settled on the strange ring Voldemort was wearing.

"What is that?" he asked before he could stop himself.

"A family heirloom," Voldemort informed him with a faint smile. Harry averted his gaze.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered. "Please will you let me go?" There was a long pause, then Voldemort sighed.

"Harry," Voldemort said, taking one of Harry's hand and settling between Voldemort's own. They were warm, almost comforting. "It wouldn't be safe for me to let you go."

"Why?" Harry begged.

"Look at me, Harry. If I tell you this, you must promise to tell no one." Harry nodded, gazing into Voldemort's scarlet eyes. "Have you ever wondered how I survived that fateful night?"

"Yes." Oh, how Harry had wondered and wished he had not.

"I have found a way of securing my immortality. I created an object, and stored a piece of myself in there, so that if my body ever died, I would still remain."

"The diary," Harry realised.

"Just so. On October 1981, I accidentally created another object as I was torn apart by the backfired killing curse." Voldemort's grip tightened on Harry's hand.

"Have you ever wondered why you can speak to snakes, Harry?"

Harry closed his eyes. Of course he had. He'd even asked Dumbledore… and gotten an answer.

"Me. I'm keeping you alive," he said, his voice trembling.

"Yes."

"Dumbledore knows…" Harry said, and bit back a sob. Why hadn't Dumbledore ever informed him of that?

"Dumbledore knows. And I suspect he creates circumstances that set us against each other, in the hope that I would kill you, so that he would not have to do it himself." Harry flinched. He wanted to refuse that knowledge, refute the idea, throw it away. It was vile!

"No," he cried. "No!"

Voldemort pulled him close, hugging him. Harry stiffened, then relaxed. Voldemort wouldn't try to kill him. Not if Harry was keeping him from dying. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what for.

"It's okay Harry," Voldemort replied, stroking his hair. "It'll be okay. You've got me now."

When Harry woke again somehow the night before seemed like a fever dream, if not for the chocolate bar sitting innocuously upon his desk.

He gulped, and looked away from it. Eating it would seem like giving in, accepting Voldemort, while betraying Dumbledore.

He felt as if he was at a crossroads, and both paths were undefined. He had never been more uncertain of his future, not even as a young child.

With a trembling hand, Harry reached out, and took the chocolate. He ate it, even as tears streamed down his face. He hoped that, whatever the future held, Ron and Hermione would be able to forgive him.

Word count: 3047