Chapter Twelve

"Enter," beckoned Voldemort when the knock sounded.

He was faced away from the door, eyes fixed on the embers softly glowing the fireplace, as he rolled the fabric of the Invisibility Cloak between his thumb and index finger. Another trophy claimed from the boy's corpse. Or a stolen possession, soon to be reclaimed by his deathless enemy?

Voldemort had banished the thought in time for Draco the stumble into the office and fall into a bow. "My Lord," said Draco, "thank you for seeing me on such short notice..."

"Your meeting, was it anything to do with the Order of the Phoenix?" asked Voldemort.

"Er, no, my Lord – at least I don't think so. What I mean to say is -"

"Face me," Voldemort ordered. He was growing weary of Draco's blathering. Honestly, sometimes it was too easy to tell that he and Lucius were related.

Slowly but dutifully, Draco made his way around the office so that he faced the Dark Lord. He fell once more into a kneel, respectfully averting his eyes – or fearfully. Voldemort intended to find out which it was. "Look at me."

Draco did, and the next moment, Voldemort was in his head.

Organized as ever, Draco had left memories of the night in question laid out for Voldemort, unwrapped and labeled, accompanied by notes of his own interpretation of events. Voldemort inspected these closely: arriving at the Black Hat, the cocoa with (Voldemort thought to himself) far too many marshmallows, and the one who had summoned Draco in the first place...

A child?

A toddler, barely over a year old, speaking fluently and – this delighted Voldemort – practicing legilimency.

Voldemort retreated out of Draco's mind, leaving the young man to kneel and sweat on the office floor, exhausted from the excursion.

"Most interesting," hummed Voldemort, still thumbing the Invisibility Cloak. "And you brought the child to me, for me to do with as I see fit?"

"I would have brought him to the Ministry to be dealt with along with the other mudbloods," said Draco, "but I thought you might be particularly interested in him, my Lord."

"Excellent work, Draco," Voldemort said. "Take me to him. I'd like to figure out once and for all what plans this strange child was so eager to include you in."

Draco nodded, a little green in the face, and said, "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort rose, and allowed Draco to lead him downstairs to the parlor – completely sealed with magic – where Orion Fowl lay unconscious. Draco drew his wand from his robes and murmured a few spells to unlock the room, and stood aside so that Voldemort could enter.

Sprawled on the daybed, slick with sweat and clad in poorly-transfigured robes that stank of bile, lay Orion Fowl. Voldemort took three sure-footed steps towards the child, studying his face. He certainly had the look of a pure-blooded child – pale, with clever features and dark hair. Maybe he was like Voldemort himself, who had magical roots but grew up believing he was a mudblood.

Not that it mattered. It was entirely likely that the boy would be dead within the hour, depending on who he really was and what plans he had.

Voldemort considered briefly how best to wake Orion up, and settled on good old-fashioned Aguementi.

"Motherfuck-" sputtered Orion as he was blasted in the face with water. He rolled off of the daybed, flailing and covering his face with his arms.

Voldemort lifted the spell, suppressing a grin, and placed his wand back his sleeve. "A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fowl," Voldemort started. "I hear you're quite the character."

-O-

Harry wasn't sure what was going on at first. One moment, he was throwing up on Draco's shoes in the Black Hat, the next he was being blasted in the face with water, and now an eerily familiar voice was going on about how strange and quirky a fellow he was...

Harry's brain finally caught up with his senses and his entire body went cold.

Voldemort.

He was sitting at the feet of Lord Voldemort, wandless and disoriented and completely unrecognizable.

"Fuck," Harry said, mostly to himself, but more importantly in the middle of Voldemort's sentence.

"-and so Draco came to me and – what was that?" Voldemort paused his monologue long enough to give Harry a curious, almost perplexed look.

Harry realized that he'd cut Voldemort off, and what he had cut him off to say. "Shit, I mean – nothing, please carry on," Harry stumbled. "Don't let me stop you, I haven't got anywhere to be."

How the hell am I supposed to kill him without a wand? Maybe he could ask Voldemort's skull to explode.

Before he could give that the old college try, Voldemort was leaning over him, one brow quirked as he studied him. The snakelike eyes startled Harry and froze him in place – a Pavlovian response if ever there was one. If I only had a wand, Harry thought, I could curse him right now and end all of it.

"Draco has memories of your skill with legilimency. Admittedly, you're technique could use some work," Voldemort said. His voice made Harry shudder – it was lower, more composed than Harry had heard it before, and it made his blood run cold. "Perhaps I could give you a demonstration? You seem eager to learn..."

The pain of Voldemort trying to force himself into Harry's mind wasn't as bad as the constant aching and searing of his scar, but it certainly came close. Harry only had a split-second to act, to calm his mind and set up a brick wall – or at least a barricade.

He set traps and barriers up between his innermost thoughts and the Dark Lord: a pitfall there, a false entrance here, a barbed wire fence between them. All in all, it was rudimentary, and needed finesse, but before long, Voldemort retreated.

Harry rolled over on the floor, his head pounding and his stomach rolling. The only sound was the hastened roll of blood pumping through his ears, and Voldemort's steady chuckle.

"Fascinating," Voldemort said at length. "Absolutely marvelous. Who are you, boy? You're certainly no ordinary child."

"Fuck off," Harry said through gritted teeth, still clutching his head in a futile attempt to nurse his worsening headache. Kill him – kill him – Merlin, anyone, anything, just make him dead.

Before Harry could muster the focus or the magic to make his request a reality, Voldemort crouched by him and took him roughly by the face. "Who is your family, Orion Fowl? You have a rather Avery look to you, though you might grow to look more of a Black. Please. I must know where you come from," said Voldemort.

"Nowhere – no magic," Harry managed. "Let go-"

Voldemort did, and Harry collapsed to the ground. "Draco," said the Dark Lord, and Draco bowed his way into the parlor, "feed the child and get him some fresh robes. And give him a room. See to it that he doesn't leave it, either."

"Yes, my Lord," Draco said, though Voldemort didn't stick around to hear it. He was already on his way out of the room, robes billowing.

-O-

No magic.

It was ridiculous to think that a mere child capable of legilimency and occlumency both would come from a family of muggles – and to be so articulate (and so foul-mouthed to boot) was inconceivable.

No, Orion Fowl was something special. Something new. Something dangerous.

Voldemort grinned openly. Danger was something he was well-acquainted with, and had infinite uses for if carefully cultivated. And children were ripe for cultivation.

But was it worth it? Would the boy even cooperate? Being able to resist Voldemort's attempts to traverse his mind implied he could fend off the Imperius as well.

All the more reason to keep him! Such power cannot be allowed to wander off and turn against me, thought Voldemort. He swung the library doors open with a flourish, and snapped his fingers to slam them behind him. When he'd appropriated Riddle Manor from his father so many years ago, the library had been filled – obviously – with books of the muggle variety. Scientific journals, classic stories, myths, dictionaries, all leather-bound and first-edition and all of that riffraff. Voldemort had little use for them, and saw to it that most were destroyed with the rest of Tom Riddle Sr.'s possessions. Now, the library was packed with Voldemort's own collection. Bound in skin and stitched with hair, the darkest arts recorded in blood within tomes as old as sin. Potions and poisons, curses, hexes, and spells all too terrible for most to even conceive of were recorded within – from frantic scrawling in the margins of less offensive texts, to terrors dutifully and scientifically recorded for the purpose of being recreated by future generations.

Voldemort had the most complete library of long-dead, forbidden magic in the world.

And yet, he rarely spent time perusing the shelves anymore. Perhaps because he'd been unwilling to come to terms with the death of his horcruxes, Voldemort had not contemplated the deeper and more dastardly complexities of magic in a while.

But now, with Orion Fowl in his clutches...

Voldemort found the book he was looking for quickly, as it was one kept on the shelf by his desk, where he kept all of his most frequent and favorite reference. It was the same book he'd first read about horcruxes in, and it mentioned other forms of immortality as well.

Voldemort paged through it, eyes rapidly scanning the pages for the section he was interested in. He found it and cackled aloud.

It was a throwaway line, really. He doubted the author actually intended for it to be understood as a way to prolong life, but it was a rather poignant message nonetheless.

Use of such magic isn't advised, it read, as there is very little reason not to keep one's soul intact.

Voldemort couldn't agree with the book more. There was no reason to continue splitting his soul into sickly, delicate fragments – not when the whole of it could be moved instead.

-O-

Draco had put more wards and enchantments on the room than Harry had ever even thought possible. Apparition wards, locking and anti-breaking charms, he'd even scribbled runes around the perimeter of the room to disallow the use of magic – and that was barely scratching the surface. Harry was effectively reduced to an incredibly furious toddler while locked in his lavishly-furnished prison.

He glared out the window at the sunrise, trying to stay angry so that he didn't panic. He should have known better than to trust Draco. Leave it to the snake to throw him under the bus the minute things got even a little sticky.

The door handle jostled and Harry leaped out of his skin, reaching for the wand he didn't have.

Harry's moment of surprise turned to hate when Draco entered the room. "Sleep well?" he asked, dry as a desert.

"I don't sleep," Harry insisted. It was a lie, actually. After staying up well passed midnight out of spite, his toddler physiology caught up to him and he fell into a deep, restful sleep. Even his headache had gone away in the night, though he was sure it would be back the minute anyone tried to pry into his mind. As such, he'd spent every waking moment fortifying his brain. He couldn't let Voldemort discover his true identity.

Instead of contesting Harry's claim, Draco tossed a set of robes onto the bed. "He wants to see you," Draco said. "I'd suggest you put those on – you look ridiculous in those things, not to mention you puked all over them."

Harry was offended on behalf of his transfigured robes. Even though he'd have liked to toss insults back and forth with Draco, Harry knew he couldn't possibly hope to keep Voldemort waiting. "Well?" snapped Harry.

Draco cocked an eyebrow.

"A little privacy, please? Creep," Harry said with a sneer.

Draco rolled his eyes. "There's a washroom through that door. Don't keep him waiting, though," was all Draco said. He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry grimaced as locks clunked into place and spells whizzed into effect. Still trapped – though hopefully not for long. Harry set to tidying himself up, washing his face and brushing the taste of bile out of his mouth before saying farewell to his transfigured robes, and putting on the new ones. At first, he'd thought they were too big, but – and Harry was somewhat embarrassed to have forgotten this – magic was a thing. They expanded and warped around his body to fit him perfectly.

Harry would have been amazed, but he had a feeling it was just a few quick charms – a cheap way to avoid having to buy tailored robes, the wizard equivalent of "made in China."

Nonetheless, he'd spent enough time on his appearance. It was time to see what on earth Voldemort planned to do with him.

Draco let him out of the room, and began guiding him through the halls to Voldemort.

They passed through the main hall and into another, smaller wing of the house, then through a set of french doors the lead to a large, closed patio.

Harry would have liked to take a moment and admire the scenery: the intricate tiling, the tall glass panes and stained accents, not to mention the excess of plant life and greenery. The patio overlooked what could only be Voldemort's own potion garden, which didn't even include all of the flora and fauna potted within the glass.

However, at the center of it all, standing out like a severed leg in a candy shop, was a small wrought-iron tea table at which the Dark Lord himself was seated.

He really does wear black all the time, doesn't he? Harry thought. Indeed, in the midst of the colorful flora and the pink cast of the early morning sun, Voldemort still wore his typical silky, pitch-black robes. It would have been funny, if Harry hadn't wanted him dead so badly.

"My Lord," Draco said with a bow.

"Rise and leave us, Draco. Orion and I have important matters to discuss," Voldemort said with finality.

Draco backed out of the room, still bowing just a bit, but threw Harry a dirty – almost curious – look on his way out the door.

The french doors closed behind him, and suddenly Harry was acutely aware that he was locked in a room – alone – with the most evil man he'd ever had the displeasure of dealing with. And with no way to kill him, either.

"Orion, please – have a seat," Voldemort said, all too pleasantly.

Harry hesitated just a moment too long, and the Dark Lord's eyes flashed. With barely a flick of his wand, Harry's body was sent barreling through the air towards the tea table. He landed on his rump a pace or two from the chair across from Voldemort. Seething, Harry picked himself up off the tile floor and hoisted his body into the seat.

"I'm so pleased you could join me this morning," began Voldemort, his chalky fingers drumming against each other. "Won't you have something to eat? A child needs to eat, after all." He gestured at the plate of scones on the table, encouraging Harry to indulge.

Harry grimaced openly. "What is this?" he asked.

Voldemort smiled widely – a sight that made Harry's stomach turn – and something vaguely resembling a chuckle escaped him. "This? This is what civilized people call breakfast, child. What, does your muggle family not feed you?"

Harry tried to move as far away from Voldemort as he could without actually leaving his seat. "I know what breakfast is, I mean – why aren't you killing me?" Harry asked plainly.

It didn't make sense, really. Voldemort was a killer. Harry had no idea what Voldemort thought Harry's plan was, but certainly he'd be able to figure out that they weren't on the same side. Didn't that mean that Voldemort should be trying to kill him? Why was no killing happening? Killing always happened.

"What, and so eager to die at such a young age?" Voldemort tutted disapprovingly. "I may just have to pay a visit to that muggle family of yours and teach them a thing or two..."

Harry's heart jumped in his chest, but he swallowed his panic just in time.

"Won't be necessary. I just want a straight answer – why am I still alive, and why are you trying to feed me? It's weird. Surely you can see how I would find this weird?" Harry said instead.

Voldemort smirked, and busied himself pouring two cups of tea from an obnoxiously yellow pot.

"Is that what you want, is it? A simple answer to a simple question?" Voldemort said. He pushed one cup of tea across the wrought-iron table, towards Harry. "How about this, then: you answer one of my questions, and I'll answer one of yours."

Harry glanced between the tea and Voldemort, suspicious. Poison? Truth serum? Cat piss?

Fuck it, if I die, I die. Harry lifted to cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. "Seems fair," he muttered under his breath.

Satisfied, Voldemort leaned back in his chair with his own – terribly poppy-colored – cup of tea. "I figured you'd come around. Now then, I'll start: are you truly from a muggle family? I find it hard to believe a child of your talents would come from a world without magic."

Steeling his nerves, and his mind, Harry answered, "Yes, I'm from a muggle family."

A moment passed where Harry didn't elaborate, and Voldemort's expression darkened a bit.

"Hey, simple question – simple answer," Harry snapped. "My turn: got any sugar? This has got to be the most bitter cup of tea I've ever had."

One of Voldemort's brows went up, but a bowl of sugar cubes appeared on the table and Harry wasted no time spooning several into his cup. He managed to get fifteen in his glass before Voldemort finally pushed the bowl out of his reach.

"How did you learn to practice complicated magic like legilimency, and of the magical world in general?" Voldemort asked.

"It started as dumb luck and just kind of escalated from there. Not surprising I learned quick – I'm a genius by muggle standards too, make no mistake. It isn't impossible. My brother's like this too, though not a wizard," Harry said. He immediately cursed himself – why did he have to mention Artemis? He'd thought it would dissipate Voldemort's suspicions about his own intelligence, but what if all he did was put the poor kid in danger?

Harry cleared his throat and gulped his tea, even though it was still too hot to taste. "Anyway, here's a question I have for you: what do you plan to do with me? Hopefully not play tea-party for the rest of forever. This is actually really uncomfortable."

Voldemort laughed, spooning a conservative amount of sugar into his tea and taking his time stirring it in. "What do I plan to do with you, Orion? Simple – I plan to keep you."

Harry's blood ran cold. "Keep me?" he parroted.

"Yes, child. Though I may be persuaded to change that plan, depending on your answer to my next question," Voldemort said, "which is of course: what in Merlin's name did you plan on doing with Draco Malfoy's allegiance, but not my own?"

A chill overtook the room, and Harry had to try hard to suppress a shudder. He had to think fast – what could he say that would convince Voldemort not to kill him?

"What, didn't you read his mind?" Harry asked a bit more forcefully than he'd meant. He forced out a bark of laughter that he could only hope sounded natural. "I already said what I wanted with Draco Malfoy. I'm a filthy muggleborn, remember? I needed a fake family in order to become a part of magical society. Now I can't say I'm intimately familiar with the ins and outs of your regime, but it doesn't exactly seem to me that someone like myself would ever be going to Hogwarts or – and this is a big one – being allowed to exist while a fella like you is in charge."

Voldemort was leaning forward just a bit, and Harry had no idea if he even realized he was. Perhaps he was just glad Harry was finally providing him with a thorough answer.

"The idea was that I would become a part of this society, and eventually convert the masses to a less radical ideology so that other muggleborns could learn and practice magic safely," Harry finished. It wasn't even really a lie – Harry did want muggleborns to be safe. He just really intended to do that by killing Voldemort, instead of by any subtle means.

Nonetheless, the answer satisfied the Dark Lord. He finished his tea and set his gaudy cup back on the table, considering Harry.

"That is ambitious for a child. You are actually a child, aren't you? Your apparent youth isn't some trick of glamour or unfortunate, permanent condition, is it?" Voldemort wondered.

Harry bristled. "Hey, one question at a time – it's my turn now," Harry insisted. Before Voldemort got a chance to reprimand Harry for dodging the question, Harry barreled forward, "You know what I wanted with Draco Malfoy – spineless snitch – and I guess you can extrapolate how I feel about you and your ideology. Now I wanna know how that information effects your plan – are you gonna keep me? Or kill me?"

It seemed Voldemort was amused. "You don't beat around the bush, do you, Orion?"

"Firstly, that was literally the point of our little agreement, and secondly, my life is kind of at stake here, so excuse me."

"Very well," said Voldemort. "To answer your question, I think I'll be keeping you."

"You son of a – wait, what?" Harry said. "Keep me? Still? Why?"

Voldemort wiggled a finger at him. "Ah, ah, ah, Orion. One question at a time, remember?" Voldemort said smugly. "First, you answer mine. You are truly a normal boy, aren't you? You age the same as everyone else, and there is no curse or condition to prevent you from maturing?"

Harry bristled. "No, I'm totally normal, just smarter than everyone. Jeez. Alright, now tell me – why aren't you going to kill me?"

"Simple: because you're a child," Voldemort said plainly.

"Never stopped you before, has it?" Harry snapped.

This earned him a chilling laugh from Voldemort. "You aren't wrong. But allow me to elaborate: you may be repulsed by myself and my vision for the magical world now, but you are – how old again? A year?"

"A year and a half."

"You're a year old. Practically a baby. But so skilled already in magical arts... Frankly, I believe I can use you." Voldemort leaned forward in his chair, seemingly radiating cold. "I think I can change your mind, Orion. Most children your age don't even have the capacity for belief; I'm sure you will see all that I have to offer as you mature. And when you do, you will be an invaluable asset. As feared among wizards and witches as I, and perhaps even as powerful."

Voldemort stood as Harry sat frozen in his seat.

"The most skilled and respected wizards and witches in the world are among my Death Eaters – but none are worthy. In truth, they're all mediocre. As strong as they are, they lack true ambition," said Voldemort, almost as though to himself. "Yet despite your heritage – perhaps even because of it – I see that you seek to be something greater. The rest are pawns, but you... I can make use of you."

A chill ran up and down Harry's spine.

"Enjoy the rest of your breakfast, Orion. You will need your energy for the rest of the day," Voldemort said. "We have much to do."

-O-

Draco listened at the french doors with mounting horror as he realized that he had delivered what could very well be the next Dark Lord right into Voldemort's hands – all but gift-wrapped.