Chapter Thirteen (Voldemort Interlude)

Voldemort had a headache, and he was one hundred and twenty-four percent certain that it was all Potter's fault. The Dark Lord was not in a particularly good mood, which was probably why his useless minions had all suddenly had Things To Do the moment he had hissed and clapped a hand to his forehead in the middle of Avery's report on the progress of his current Break My Worthless Followers Out of Azkaban plan.

The fact that he'd begun handing out crucios like candy only a few moments afterward had absolutely no relevance at all, he was certain. Sharing was caring, after all (he'd learned that particular lesson in the orphanage, and if he'd interpreted it in a slightly different way than the Matron had intended, well that wasn't his fault at all, now was it?)—if Lord Voldemort had to be in pain, then so did his servants.

Voldemort was not an idiot, despite how he might come across to the less-informed members of Dumbledore's little Phoenix Club, and he could appreciate the irony of the fact it was Potter giving him a headache for once, but that didn't mean he had to like it. In fact, he disliked this development so much that he'd actually killed Wormtail on accident. The fat little rodent had been sniveling the closest to his chair when his headache had struck, and had therefore borne the brunt of his Lord's aggravation before Voldemort had gotten ahold of himself again. In Voldemort's defense, only an extremely magically weak wizard could have had their heart explode under the Cruciatus like that, and he'd obviously severely overestimated Wormtail's strength as a wizard (this was not very flattering to the late Pettigrew, seeing as how Voldemort had previously compared his power levels to that of the recently-defecated dung of a sickly kneazle).

Now that he was alone—spineless cowards, the lot of them—Voldemort could put his Occlumency to use and go back over the rather bizarre sensations he'd experienced in the moments before his link to Potter had been abruptly and brutally severed.

As he reviewed his memory of the event, a frown pulled at his lipless mouth. The feelings he was getting over the link felt different than the ones he'd received from the brat the previous year. Normally the emotions were muted, as if he were feeling them through a rather thick pane of frosted glass—he had surmised that this was because the feelings did not originally belong to him, and thus he was receiving them secondhand. But the ones he'd gotten before the headache… those were particularly vivid. In fact, if he didn't know any better he'd have thought they were actually his emotions, simply broadcasted from Potter's head for some unknown reason.

Normally the Dark Lord would simply dismiss such a preposterous possibility out of hand, but the emotions he'd received had been so very different from anything he'd ever gotten out of the brat before, and were eerily similar to how he remembered feeling in the seconds before the rebounded killing curse had connected with his chest all those years ago.

Potter had been afraid before, of course—Voldemort had felt the boy's fear, his panic, and it was nothing like the soul-deep terror that had spiked across his consciousness moments before the link was broken. The sheer horror that had burned through Voldemort in those few seconds was almost unnatural; it simply could not be possible for a human being to feel terrified on such a deep level without there being a serious reason for it. And the brat had been perfectly fine before that, if not a little startled and wary. There had been nothing, absolutely nothing, that warranted such a spike of sharp fear.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair he'd sat in as he thought, furrowing his brow. Mentally detaching himself from his emotions, Voldemort observed the memory clinically.

Observation: the emotion was unconnected to anything the Potter brat was conscious to witness, but unconscious minds do not project emotions. The emotion had been clearer and more vivid than any previous emotions passed along the link.

Hypothesis: the emotion did not belong to Potter, both because Potter had not been conscious to feel it and because it did not feel like anything received from Potter in the past.

Question: who then did the emotion belong to, since the only mind connected to his was Potter's?

Voldemort stilled, red eyes widening a fraction. He knew, logically, that his link to Potter had something to do with his failed killing curse on the boy, and was therefore tied to that blasted scar on his head. But, perhaps somewhat foolishly, he had never really looked into why such a connection existed in the first place. He had simply discovered that he could send the boy visions through it and feel the brat's emotions, and had promptly taken advantage of the opportunity without so much as researching why he could do those things in the first place.

The boy's scar—on the few occasions the two had come into physical contact—had always looked red and raw, as if he'd just received it despite it having been there since the brat was an infant. Naturally such a thing should have healed by now; the fact that it hadn't was an obvious hint that it was a Curse Scar, and someone—Dumbledore—should have noticed and investigated it. No one just leaves dark magic in the scar of a fifteen month old infant without trying to heal it first, which begged the question: why had no one removed the magic in the boy's scar?

Of course, obviously someone just had, which was the only explanation he could think of for the severing of their link. But it had taken them fifteen years to do so? No. Something else was going on here, and Voldemort was determined to find out what.

:Master?: Nagini's concerned voice called, and Voldemort glanced over at his familiar, feeling the reassuring presence of his horcrux stored within her. :You feel distressed, Master.:

Yes, that had been a pleasantly unexpected side-effect of turning Nagini into his horcrux. Not only did it increase her lifespan to match his own immortality, but it had given them the ability to sense each other's emotions; this had proven especially useful when he sent her on missions, allowing him to keep an eye on her without having to be present.

Fortunately the emotions were blunted, since feeling the pure emotions of a snake would be highly distract—

Wait.

Voldemort froze in his chair, eyes wide with shocked comprehension. No. No it couldn't be. His mind raced as he connected all the clues he'd previously missed, and horror dawned as the picture finally became clear.

He'd made the boy his horcrux. That was why he could feel the brat's emotions, and why he could influence the boy's mind in such a significant way. It also explained why the scar had never healed, and why no one had removed the magic in it yet. The only way to remove a horcrux from a living container was to destroy it, and obviously no one was going to go and kill the Boy-Who-Lived just to remove a…

…no, that wasn't quite accurate. Dumbledore most certainly would have killed the boy if it rid Lord Voldemort of one of his horcruxes. The old man might be rather mad, but he was also sharp enough to have recognized the horcrux in the boy for what it was. Dear Merlin, this meant Dumbledore knew about his horcruxes! He'd known about them for years!

But, surely he would have felt something if the old man had destroyed the others? He'd certainly felt something this time, when someone had obviously destroyed his unintentional horcrux inside the Potter boy.

Voldemort paused, mind clearing of its panic, as he considered this. If his horcrux had been destroyed, didn't that mean someone had killed the brat? Briefly he felt a surge of irritation—the boy was his to kill!—before tentative triumph replaced it. Was it over, then? Was the boy prophesized to defeat him dead without him having to lift a finger? He supposed the loss of one of his horcruxes was an acceptable price for the death of Potter. He'd have to find out who'd killed the boy and reward them. After he tortured them a little first, of course; he'd made it very clear to his Death Eaters that Potter's death belonged to him.

He had just allowed himself a small smile of success when his wards flared, announcing the arrival of his Potions Master and spy, Severus. His smile sharpened; obviously Severus had come with news about the brat—hopefully it was to tell him the boy was dead and the Order was in disarray. His good mood had been restored, and he was feeling generous enough to not crucio Severus for arriving unannounced like this.

He waited and watched as his spy swooped into the room and fell to his knees in front of his chair, prostrating himself as he waited for permission to speak. Such a good dog, his Severus. If only the rest of Voldemort's worthless followers shared his loyalty.

"You have news, Severus?" the Dark Lord enquired, unable to completely mask his contentment. This was, after all, a good day.

Severus raised his head, fixing his black eyes on a spot somewhere over Voldemort's left shoulder. His spy never did make eye contact with him, but he did it so obviously that Voldemort knew it was out of respect rather than fear over having his thoughts read. "Yes my Lord," came the prompt, emotionless reply. "Dumbledore has performed the ritual I mentioned a month ago and summoned a 'hero' from another dimension."

Voldemort frowned. He'd been sure the old man wouldn't go through with it. Voldemort had researched that very ritual in his youth, and been dissatisfied with the possible results. Sure it was meant to summon a being of great power which matched a series of pre-set conditions, but there was no clause of obedience or even a binding that prevented the creature from immediately turning on its summoner. No, Voldemort would not have performed such a dangerous ritual, and he could barely comprehend that the old man had been foolish enough to do so.

Maybe he'd gotten especially lucky, and the old fool was dead as well?

"And who did he summon, Severus? Did he succeed in his venture to find a hero to vanquish me?" Voldemort could not entirely hide the humor he felt at such a concept. It amused him that Dumbledore had obviously had as much confidence in the Potter brat's odds of success as the Dark Lord himself.

Severus hesitated, drawing Voldemort's sharp and immediate attention. Severus Snape did not hesitate, not even when he bore bad news. "My Lord… I do not believe Dumbledore has summoned a wizard at all."

Voldemort carefully did not react outwardly to this news. He was not foolish enough to jump to the conclusion that Severus meant that Dumbledore had summoned a muggle—as amusing as that would be. Judging by his spy's hesitance, the Dark Lord would even go so far as to venture that Dumbledore had actually summoned something incredibly dangerous. Perhaps the old man had summoned up an Old God?

His index finger twitched imperceptibly, the only sign Voldemort allowed himself as a hint to the anxiety such a thought brought him. If the old man had just loosed an Old God on the world, Voldemort would resurrect the man's corpse himself just so he could kill him again for his idiocy.

"What did he summon then, Severus?" Voldemort asked casually, trying to hold onto the hope that the old man had simply summoned a vampire or something, and not a demon of the ancient world.

Severus took a breath. "It claims to be Death, my Lord. And I'm inclined to believe it."

Voldemort felt his magic spike in alarm. If Severus was inclined to believe something, odds were high that it was true. Merlin's balls! This was so much worse than a mere Old God. The old fool had summoned Death? Voldemort's fingers were white-knuckled where he gripped the arms of his chair. There was a reason he had named himself Flight from Death, and it wasn't just because that was all he could get out of an anagram of his original name. Death was his single greatest fear; it was the entire reason he'd made a horcrux when he was just sixteen, despite the numerous warnings and consequences to breaking one's soul before Magical Majority. If Death were truly walking the Earth…

"Severus, what of the Potter brat?" Voldemort asked, keeping his voice even and betraying none of his tumultuous thoughts. "Surely Dumbledore wouldn't keep his prized weapon in the same house as Death."

Severus seemed even more hesitant. Voldemort groaned internally. What was going to go wrong now? "Death seems to have taken an… interest in the brat, my Lord. It follows him constantly, and Potter is the only person in Headquarters which it will willingly touch."

Voldemort was very careful to keep his expression blank. Potter had been touched by Death? Well. That would certainly explain where his horcrux had gone. Death would have noticed it clinging to Potter and likely removed it immediately. Pity. This meant the brat was not only alive and unharmed, but he was also under the implicit protection of the one being that Voldemort honestly could not simply order killed.

He could feel his headache returning, this time completely of its own accord.

"Fortunately, my Lord," Severus began again, obviously having noticed some of Voldemort's returning bad mood despite his attempt to hide it, "the being seems to hold Dumbledore in complete contempt. It is likely Death will make no aggressive move towards you without Potter's input—as far as I've observed, Death appears entirely indifferent to humanity as a whole, with Potter as the sole exception."

Voldemort closed his eyes and would have pinched the bridge of his nose, had he had one. Instead, he rubbed his temples as he tried to stave off the migraine he could feel building. Excellent. So the reins of Death were in the hands of the one boy in Magical Britain who hated Voldemort more than anyone else alive.

Abruptly, Voldemort stood and dismissed his servant with a negligent wave of his hand, not even bothering to crucio his spy for coming to him with such horrible news. He walked swiftly towards his office, thoughts and plans being made and discarded with record speed.

The Dark Lord was justifiably arrogant, but not even he was delusional enough to think he had any sort of chance of somehow avoiding Death himself or that his horcruxes would be worth anything at all when faced with such an adversary. The news that Death had a grudge against Dumbledore was welcome, but the fact that the Potter boy had such control over the entity was very worrying.

The simple fact was that unless he could somehow convince Potter not to send his new attack dog after him, the Dark Lord would likely not live to see Yule.

So. All he had to do was talk the boy whose parents he had murdered in cold blood and who he had personally tortured and belittled mercilessly over the years into calling a truce. Voldemort sighed as he pulled a piece of parchment towards himself and inked a quill, not liking his odds.

Maybe he could gift the boy Bellatrix? She had killed the boy's godfather, after all.

Sighing again, Voldemort put the quill to parchment and began to write.