Warning Signs Read Desolation

Disclaimer: I solemnly swear I do not own the published masterpiece of Harry Potter. I also do not write and publish this story to earn any sort of profit. I simply do it because I need to.

Claimer: I do, however, own and take full responsibility for this twisted story.

Chapter One

In front of him, jet black flames licked at the doorframe, casting a dark shadow over whatever lay within the next room. Trying not to think too much about it, taking a leap of faith, Harry tipped the small vial into his open mouth and swallowed. Just as Hermione had described it, a cold feeling seeped through his body, as if his insides were slowly turning into ice. He breathed in; he breathed out, and then took a quick step through the flames and into the last room.

Immediately, his eyes started to roam around the circular room, searching for Snape's lurking form amidst the heavy stone pillars that stood surrounding the middle of the room like a band of tree trunks. But what they found wasn't Professor Snape.

"You!" Harry couldn't help but gasp, staring straight at Professor Quirrell, who in turn stood staring straight into the Mirror of Erised with a deep frown on his face. When he heard Harry's gasp, his head turned slowly towards him, and he was met with a pair of deep red eyes that were glinting with thoughtfulness.

"Me," Quirrell confirmed in a low voice, stretching his mouth into a crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "How kind of you to join me, Harry. Please," he said calmly, stretching his hand out in a beckoning gesture, "come here."

Unsure of what to do, not familiar with his professor's demeanour at all, Harry started to back away. "But I thought – Snape –"

A staggering force slowly wrapped itself around him, halting his retreating movement at first and then reversing it, propelling him forwards instead. To his great dismay, he soon stood close enough to Quirrell to get a whiff of the funny smell that seemed to come from the heavy, purple turban on his head. "Now," his professor said calmly, as if nothing at all was amiss, "tell me what you see, Harry."

With slight panic, Harry realised before it happened what he would see in the mirror, but it was too late. His deep desire to find the Philosopher's Stone before Quirrell got his hands on it betrayed him, and he had to watch as his reflection became animated. A heavy load landed in his left jeans pocket and he settled on the furious resolve not to look down at it, whatever it took.

Deep red eyes, just like those of his darkest nightmares, were studying his reflection from over his shoulder. "Well?" Quirrell, who most likely wasn't actually Quirrell at all, intoned quietly.

Harry swallowed to moisten his impossibly dry throat and resolved to lie. "I see my family," he invented, trying to sound convincing. "They're standing behind me, alive."

Slowly, a mocking smile spread Quirrell's mouth wide, and his horrible laugh rang colder than the potion Harry had drunk to land himself in this situation. "Good try, but I'm afraid our little game is over," Quirrell said cruelly and flipped him around with one claw-like hand clutching onto his jaw.

For one moment, all Harry knew were those dark red eyes boring into his own with cruel intent, the next, everything turned into excruciating pain. But it was over just as quickly as it had started, and when Harry's eyesight cleared he could see that Quirrell had leapt away from him and now stood studying his left hand with horrified wonder. It looked burnt; raw, red and shiny.

With quick movements, weaving his wand over the hand in fluid movements, Quirrell started to chant. Before Harry's disbelieving eyes, the skin knitted itself together, lightening the colour of the hand until it looked just as it had before. Harry then realised with horrifying clarity that this man was invincible and that he was a fool to think that mere luck would save him again.

He started to run for the exit, but didn't make it very far until his limbs completely froze on the spot, mid-leap. As he fell painfully on his side, he felt with great dismay how the stone slipped out of his pocket, along with his wand, and saw in the corner of his eye how they zoomed across the room and straight into the open palm of Quirrell's now completely restored left hand.

"Thank you, Harry, for helping me in this. I could never have done it without you," Quirrell spoke softly in a mocking voice that made Harry grind his teeth together at the unfairness of it all. "I must admit, you are ... full of surprises," he continued in a soft murmur, staring at him in a sort of hungry way that gave Harry chills of terror. "I am sorry that I am taking such liberties with you, Harry, but it appears that I still have need of you."

Harry tried his best to flee as he saw Quirrell move towards him, wand pointed straight at his face, but the full body-bind curse held him firmly locked in place. "I hope you won't think ill of me for the crudeness of what I am forced to do now, Harry, but time is not on our side and I don't seem to be able to touch you without harming us both."

Harry steeled himself for death, hoping for it to be swift and painless, as a spell zoomed towards him from the tip of his professor's wand. As it hit him, he was engulfed by a stark feeling of disorientation, and when he came to, the room had become impossibly bigger. He could feel his fuzzy paws pressed up uncomfortably against the slim bars of a crude cage and looked up to see a horrifyingly huge hand clutching at the handle on top of it.

He watched with huge eyes as Quirrell made a sweeping wand movement, effectively banishing both the black and the purple flame from hindering their exit, before lifting off the ground and zooming through the air in a way that Harry could only describe as flying. Room after room rushed past them, and soon, they were up the trap door, past the second floor corridor and through a large window that helpfully opened up for them just as they were about to crash into it.

As they flew across the school grounds with aim at the great, hog-guarded gates, Harry felt his long ears flap in the whistling night air and wondered to himself what would become of him now. He didn't have much time to think on it, however, before they were outside of the school grounds and onto solid ground again. Harry got one last look at the grand castle where he had finally found a home before his entire being was squished together and turned inside-out in a way that wasn't painful per se, but which made him want to throw up.

He managed to hold it in, as it turned out, when they appeared at the porch of a very old and very run-down building. The dust-grey door swung open for them, admitting their entrance into the old dilapidated mansion. The first room was a dark entrance hall with a high ceiling from which a chandelier filled to the rim with cobweb hung. To the right was a heavy, wooden staircase, leading up to what looked like a balustrade on the first floor, and to the left was a open door way that opened up into what looked like a reception room.

There was a sudden tap on the top of the cage, and Harry felt his muscles relax as the full body-bind curse was lifted and he could move freely again. He was still locked in the cage though, and he was still a rabbit.

"I apologise for the poor accommodations, Harry," Quirrell said, sounding absurdly cheerful, "but I am afraid it will be necessary for a time. Do not worry yourself, though, I will make sure you are being appropriately cared for."

Five days later, Harry was still a rabbit.

He was currently lodged in a small cottage a little bit away from the mansion, which was in much better shape and inhabited by an old muggle man. This house could even be described as cosy, in a way, and despite being held captive against his will by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Harry had to begrudgingly admit that he was indeed being appropriately cared for – in the lights of being a small critter, that was. His cage had been enlarged to some extent, enabling him to move around a bit, and he had constant access to fresh vegetables, which suited his new sense of taste just fine.

The Muggle left much to be desired, however, as he had turned out to be a grumpy old man with no patience for either children or small animals. Harry was thankfully left alone for most part, but others weren't as lucky. One night, a couple of kids from the nearby village had tried to sneak into the mansion for a bit of fun. But the old man had chased them off with dark threats to their lives that had reached Harry's sound sensitive ears inside of the cottage. Ever since that occurrence, the man had taken to mutter under his breath about the rudeness of kids and what should be done to them – ideas which made it hard for a small rabbit to sleep during the nights.

Thankfully, Harry was mostly left to his own devices since his caretaker took great pleasure in maintaining the mansion's grand garden during the day, apparently refusing to abandon his former position as gardener even though nobody lived in the mansion any more. He had also been completely abandoned by Professor Quirrell it seemed since he hadn't seen a glimpse of him ever since coming to this place. He couldn't help but wonder, of course, what would happen to him now. The lonesome nature of his captivity allowed for a lot of contemplation, but whatever way his thoughts started out, he would always end up at the same conclusion – that he was going to be killed at the hands of the man who murdered his parents.

Mulling over these dark thoughts, he was a bit startled when his peace was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the Muggle. He was more startled still when the man stepped up to his cage, opened it up and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. As he was hoisted into the air, he did his best to struggle free, but was only clutched in a tighter grip against the Muggle's chest and then unceremoniously carted off towards the dark mansion where his nemesis dwelled. They didn't head into the house, however, but around it, and then over a hill towards a dark forest where the skeletal form of an old church and its graveyard could be seen.

They made way over the hill and through the graveyard, coming to an opening in the middle of it where a huge cauldron stood, steaming of billowing smoke and sending off sparks into the air. Quirrell's hunched form stood stirring with a huge wooden ladle, and his eyes were back to the dusty brown colour Harry was used to. The Muggle stopped right next to the cauldron, and immediately Quirrell flicked his wand this way and that, and in a flurry of motion, Harry felt his form change back into that of an eleven-year-old boy. Before he could attempt anything though, vicelike hands clamped down on his upper arms, preventing his immediate escape.

With quick movements, Quirrell picked out a small leather pouch from one of his robe pockets, took a pinch of the red dust inside it and sprinkled it into the cauldron. The liquid inside instantly turned from opaque to blood red.

"N-n-now, m-m-master," Quirrell stuttered, and flickered his eyes around wildly as a sort of shadow slipped out from behind a big yew tree and into the bubbling surface that was now alight with so many sparks it looked like the liquid might have been made out of rubies. A hiss sounded from the concoction just as Quirrell raised his wand and closed his eyes.

"B-bone of the father, unknowingly g-g-given, you will renew your s-son!"

The surface of the grave to Harry's right cracked. Horrified, he watched as a fine trickle of dust rose into the air at Quirrell's command, and fell softly into the cauldron. The ruby surface of the water broke and hissed; it sent sparks in all directions, and turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue.

And now Quirrell was whimpering. He pulled a long, thin, shining silver dagger from inside his robes. His voice broke into petrified, stuttering sobs. "F-f-flesh – o-o-of the s-servant – w-willingly given – you w-w-will – revive – your m-m-master."

He stretched his left hand out in front of him – the hand that had been scorched and healed five days ago. He gripped the dagger very tightly in his right hand, and swung it upwards.

Harry realised what Quirrell was about to do a second before it happened – and closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but he could not block out the scream that pierced the night, that went through Harry as though he had been stabbed with the dagger too. He heard something fall to the ground, heard Quirrell's anguished panting, then a sickening splash, as something was dropped into the cauldron. Harry couldn't bear to look ... but the potion had turned a burning red. The light of it shone through Harry's eyelids.

Quirrell was gasping and moaning with agony. Not until Harry felt Quirrell's anguished breath on his face did he realise that he was right in front of him. "B-blood of th-th-the enemy ... f-f-forcefully taken ... you w-will ... resurrect your f-foe."

Harry struggled furiously in the Muggle's grip, but could do nothing to prevent it. His eyes opened wide as he felt the sharp point of the silver dagger penetrate the crook of his right arm, and he screamed in pain as his blood flowed out and into a glass phial that Quirrell pressed to the cut with his shaking right hand.

Once he was done, Quirrell staggered back to the cauldron and poured the blood inside. The liquid within turned, instantly, a blinding white. Quirrell, his job done, dropped to his knees beside the cauldron, then slumped sideways and lay on the ground, cradling the bleeding stump of his arm, gasping and sobbing.

The cauldron had stopped emitting sparks and a surge of white steam had instead started billowing out of it, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Quirrell or the cauldron or anything but vapour hanging in the air. But then, from the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.

"Robe me," said the cold voice from behind the steam calmly, and Quirrell, sobbing and moaning, still cradling his mutilated arm, scrambled to pick up the black robes from the ground, got to his feat, reached up, and pulled them one-handed over his master's head.

The tall, dark-haired man stepped out of the cauldron, and started examining his new body. His long, pale fingers caressed his own chest, his arms, his haggard but handsome face, and ran through his thick, wavy hair; the red eyes, whose pupils were slits, like a cat's, gleamed still more brightly against the paleness of his skin. He held up his hands, and flexed the fingers, his expression rapt and exultant, before dipping his left one into a deep robe pocked and drew out a wand. He caressed it gently, too; and then he raised it, and pointed it at Quirrell, who watched his every movement with wide eyes.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort said quietly.

"Oh, m-master ... th-thank you, master ..." Quirrell stuttered in great relief, extending the bleeding stump. Voldemort examined it quickly and then turned to look straight at the Muggle who was still standing stoically, holding Harry fast.

"Hold out your arm," Voldemort commanded again, and the Muggle did as told, and didn't utter a sound as Voldemort made a cutting motion with his wand and the hand unceremoniously fell off by the wrist. "Pick it up," Voldemort then commanded, and Quirrell hastily complied, holding it up to his stump as if he wished to fasten it there to replace his own.

Apparently, that was what Voldemort was aiming to do, Harry realised with great disgust, as the Dark Lord started chanting and weaving his wand back and forth over the hand and stump, slowly knitting them together. But that was not all, Harry soon realised, because the longer Voldemort chanted, the more the hand started to look like Quirrell's real hand. Once he fell silent, it looked exactly like Quirrell's other hand and only a thin, red scar around the wrist was left as proof of what had transpired.

Flexing his fingers experimentally, turning the hand this way and that, Quirrell looked stunned with relief and gratitude as he fell down on the ground the kiss the hem of Voldemort's robes. "My Lord," he whispered reverently. "M-master ... it is beautiful ... th-thank you ... thank you ..."

"Let it be known that Lord Voldemort always rewards his faithful servants," Voldemort announced coldly, and then turned to look at the Muggle again with a thin smile on his palely pink lips. "You can let go of Harry now, Mr Bryce."

Harry felt how the Muggle took a step back from him, setting him free, but a quick glance from Voldemort's blood red eyes made him think better of trying to escape.

"Thank you, Mr Bryce, for your service," Voldemort said with a smile that looked almost kind. Then, he levelled his wand on the Muggle and said, in a clear voice, "Avada Kedavra!"

Harry didn't react fast enough to close his eyes before he saw a sharp green light that hit the Muggle man straight in the chest, but then he did and thankfully didn't have to see the rest. As he heard the dull thud of the body hitting ground, he could feel tears, not of sadness, but of fear, start travelling down his cheeks. Would he be next? Was it time?

"Quirrell," said Voldemort quietly a few paces away, "put Mr Bryce to bed. Make it seem like he died in his sleep, and the Muggles will not suspect a thing. Leave no trace behind; not one drop of blood."

"Yes, m-master," Quirrell replied and then hurried to transport the corpse back to the cottage, judging by the sounds of it. Since he was completely focused on what happened to Mr Bryce, Harry was startled badly when a cold hand laid itself against the right side of his face, running its thumb across his cheek to wipe away his tears.

"Is it my turn now?" Harry whispered thickly. He could feel the hand leave his face and run down to his elbow, holding it firmly in a grip that made new pain sparkle alive. Harry's eyes snapped open just as Voldemort began chanting again, making his weaving wand movement, effectively healing the wound in the crook of the arm until no trace was left of it.

"There," Voldemort said, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Harry shook his head, wide-eyed, not sure how to reply to that. Voldemort didn't seem to need an answer though, but only took his arm in a firmer grip and pulled him closer. "Hold on tight," he instructed, "we're past due leaving this place, I am afraid. Dumbledore has already started sniffing around these parts for you. It won't take him much longer to find this place."

And with that, Voldemort twisted them around and Harry felt, once again, how his whole body was squished together as if he was travelling through a tight rubber tube, before landing in some completely different place. Gone were the sombre tombstones and open grass fields, replaced by cold stone cliffs next to a foaming, billowing sea reaching out towards the rose gold setting sun. Along the cliff edge ran a slim country road on which the only colour except a dull slate grey were the small clusters of little blue flowers that peaked up here and there. The road travelled upwards towards the highest point of the cliff edge, where an ancient-looking stone fortress stood, almost blending in with the surroundings.

"Where are we?" Harry wondered in a small voice, feeling how the success rate of his grand scheme of escape was diminishing by the second.

"Far up north," Voldemort answered while letting go of Harry's arm, instead opting to scan his surroundings for possible threats. Finding none, he smiled and turned back his attention to his young charge. "And just as I remembered it; perfectly isolated. It is located quite close to Azkaban, so not very many opt for settling down on these islands – not even ignorant Muggles."

Harry didn't know what Azkaban was, but he didn't feel inclined to ask about it either. All he wanted was to be back at Hogwarts, seated for dinner in the Great Hall, or perhaps out on the Quidditch pitch, or in the Gryffindor common room, playing chess with Ron. Instead, he was stuck on a far-off island with the darkest and most evil wizard of all time, who not only tortured and killed people, but also stole their body parts as gifts to his loyal servants. Harry was completely weirded out by the entire situation, and a bit queasy from teleporting (or whatever it was) as well as witnessing a cold-blooded murder.

Still, as Voldemort started walking towards the fortress, heeding him no mind whatsoever, Harry felt he had no other choice but to follow suit. After all, it was getting cold, he was tired and where would he go? He was on an uninhabited island with no boats or cars, and he still hadn't gotten his wand back. So, he resolved to just tag along for now and plan a sweet escape for a later time.

The both of them made it up to the front gate of the fortress just as a slow, ice-cold trickle had started to fall, obscuring the beautiful sunset from view just as it disappeared under the horizon. Just like at the old dilapidated mansion, the door, or double-doors in this case, fell open for them on their own volition. Suddenly recalling how the window at Hogwarts had done the same thing during Voldemort's flight, Harry was filled with curiosity. What sort of magic made a house animated without the use of either wand or incantation? He wasn't going to ask, of course, but he found it curious.

Inside, the entrance hall was dark and dingy, and no chandelier hung from this ceiling. There was a lot of open space, and the floor, walls and even the staircase was cast in the same slate grey stone that seemed to make up the entire island. Apart from a rusted old armour standing propped up in one corner of the room, the entire fortress seemed completely bare. There were no curtains, no paintings or rugs, chairs or tables; no warmth, really.

Voldemort seemed to be looking for something, however, and as he took the grand staircase up a level, Harry followed him without a word. There, he went straight through an open doorway and into a room that had, lo and behold, a very dusty green sofa standing in front of a completely cold, but grand, fireplace.

Doing a couple of sweeping motions and then flicking upwards with his wand, Voldemort successfully gathered all the dust and lifted it up off the sofa before banishing it completely. "Sit," he instructed, pointing his wand at one of the grand, grimy windows, which immediately flew open, letting in the cold ocean air. A moment later a thick log flew into the room, landing at Voldemort's naked feet, before jumping straight into the fireplace after another quick flick of the wand. The window closed itself as Voldemort stepped away from it towards the fireplace, where he spelled the log dry and then proceeded to set fire to it.

Instant warmth and light filled the room, making some of Harry's anxieties go away, being replaced by other ones almost instantly. What would happen to him now? What was Voldemort planning, and why hadn't he killed Harry yet?

"I must say," Voldemort said calmly whilst sitting down in the other end of the sofa, effectively startling Harry out of his dire musings, "you must be the most patient boy of your age. No escape attempts? No threats on my life? I admit to being a bit disappointed."

Flushing bright scarlet, Harry jumped off his seat. "What do you expect me to do?" he questioned hotly. "Swim back to Hogwarts? Fly? I don't even have a wand."

"So you're smarter than you look, I see. Well, at least that is reassuring," Voldemort replied easily, flashing him a cold smile that made Harry's anger boil up his throat.

"What the hell!" he shouted, beyond angry, beyond frightened; bordering on madness. "I'm not the one who uses my magic for evil – for murder – for forcing people into dark rituals – making them cut off their own hands –"

"No, and you're not an adult wizard who has to care for himself, because nobody else will," Voldemort stated calmly. "You're not in a position where you have to make hard decisions to protect yourself and the ones who are important to you."

"You're not protecting people," Harry protested. "You're bloody killing them!"

"I protected myself from dying," Voldemort replied challengingly, "and I protected Quirrell from bleeding out or living the rest of his life without a hand."

"By stealing somebody else's hand!" Harry shouted, breathing heavily in pure outrage.

"He didn't need it anymore," Voldemort said, smiling ever so slightly.

"Because you killed him!" Harry retaliated, pointing an accusing finger at Voldemort. As he did so, the Dark Lord's demeanour completely changed and became ice cold as he arose from the sofa as well.

"He would have died anyway," Voldemort said, dangerously quietly, but Harry was too far gone now to stop shouting.

"YOU LIE!"

A horrible pain rushed through Harry's head, originating in his scar and travelling through his nerves all over his body. It felt like being on fire, and he felt more than heard himself scream out in agony. And then, it was over, just as suddenly as it had come.

Vision clearing, Harry found himself back on the sofa, Voldemort standing by the fireplace, watching him closely.

"He would have died anyway," the Dark Lord repeated in an excessively slow voice. "Muggle brains aren't designed to be heavily manipulated by magic. He would have suffered severe brain damage once the Imperious Curse was lifted and he would have died anyway."

"So you mixed with his brain?" Harry questioned angrily, but quietly this time, fearing more abuse.

"Yes, I had use of him. His fate was sealed ever since he saw us arrive at Riddle House. My only options were to either take him by force or kill him. And as I said, I had use of him."

"You could have just let him go," Harry contradicted, glaring at the Dark Lord.

"No, it is illegal for wizards to let Muggles wander off after they've witnessed magic. They could endanger the survival of the wizarding population," Voldemort explained, still studying him intently.

"So you could have just made him forget! You didn't have to kill him!" Harry said, feeling his temper rise again.

"Normally yes, but I was not in a position where I could afford to leave any trace behind," Voldemort declared pointedly, his eyes sending a silent warning for Harry to check his temper. "Like I said, I was protecting myself. And I was protecting you, Harry."

And just like that, Harry lost control of himself again. "What!? You evil git! Do you think I'm stupid?" he shouted, standing up from his seat again. "You were not protecting me!"

"SIT DOWN," Voldemort commanded in a deadly tone, startling Harry so badly that he did as told without thinking twice about it. "I am losing patience with you, Harry. I will not have you questioning me again. I have no reason to lie to you at this point so pay attention," he hissed viciously, his red eyes flashing dangerously. "As you might recall, I was forced to invade your brain once it was apparent you were hiding the Philosopher's Stone from me, and what I did find was not only the answer to my question but something far more interesting than that."

Voldemort fell silent all of a sudden, falling back into his calm persona, staring out of the window for a few moments as if thinking to himself.

"Haven't you thought it curious ... the circumstances of how you received that scar? Have you not wondered how it is that a one-year-old toddler could best Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard of all time? How it is that I died and you survived?"

"Of course I have," Harry answered after a long silence had made it clear that Voldemort expected him to reply. "I figure it was just luck."

"Just luck," Voldemort scoffed with disdain, falling silent and studying his wand for another short moment, during which Harry sat squirming in his seat, wondering where this was going. "I have contemplated this for the past few days – ever since learning of your ... condition."

"What condition?" Harry asked worriedly.

"All in due time," Voldemort replied mysteriously and started pacing the room behind the sofa, so that Harry had to turn around in his seat to look at him. "How much has Dumbledore told you about me?"

Startled at the sudden question, Harry stuttered a reply without thinking. "I-I, nothing – I mean, Hagrid has told me some things, but I wouldn't say it's a lot –"

"Rubeus Hagrid?" Harry nodded uncertainly, gaining himself a scoff from Voldemort. "That oaf doesn't know anything of importance."

"Hagrid's not an oaf!" Harry protested at once, but didn't press the issue after another nasty glare from the Dark Lord's cat-like eyes.

"Since you have no previous knowledge, we will settle for the simplified explanation for the moment," Voldemort declared, as if he was doing Harry a big favour. "As you perchance have noticed, I am immortal. I do not die as others do when their bodies are destroyed. I survive."

Harry swallowed deeply, feeling a tremor of fear at that notion, but not finding it surprising after all he had seen transpire so far.

"On the night of my vanquishing, it was my intention to rid myself of a great foe while strengthening myself in the process."

"A great foe? Do you mean my father?" Harry asked venomously, glaring daggers at his parents' murderer.

"Not your father," Voldemort disagreed, completely ignoring Harry's spikiness. "You."

"Me?" Harry asked in wonder, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to emit raw hatred.

"I had reason to believe that you, Harry, would be the bane of my existence – my greatest nemesis whom would have the power to actually kill me."

"But, I was a baby," Harry said in great disbelief.

"Better to strike when your opponent is weak than when he is at full strength," Voldemort answered.

"That's bloody weird!" Harry objected. "Why would you think that a baby was your greatest enemy?"

"I might tell you some day, but it is not important right now," Voldemort claimed and finally settled back at the fireplace, enabling Harry to sit comfortably again. "What is of import is that for all my intentions, something went wrong that night. You see, your mother defended you very heatedly, Harry, and what I think happened when I killed her –"

"No, don't do that," Harry objected, feeling queasy, "don't tell me how you murdered my parents –"

"Be quiet," Voldemort hissed at him with great impatience, "this is far more important than your petty, hurt feelings. I did what I had to do, and I think I have already proven to you that when I say I had no other choice but to kill someone, you should trust me on that account. So pay attention; when I killed your mother, I think the nature of her death registered with my wand as the initiating of a ritual. So when I turned my wand onto you, it was loaded to the rim with your mother's death, and wasn't in any condition to perform any other spell. So when I tried to kill you, my wand tried to make you into a ..."

Curiously, Voldemort cut himself off right there and cleared his throat, instantly making Harry suspicious. What wasn't he telling him? Didn't he say he had no reason to lie to him at this point?

"It tried to strengthen my immortality," Voldemort opted for after a short pause. "So, I believe that my wand did two things at once, and therefore, on one hand, the spell I had intended to use malfunctioned, which is why the Killing Curse rebounded onto myself. While on the other hand, the wand's spell was successful and as a result, it curiously made you immortal."

"It made me ... immortal?" Harry breathed out in pure disbelief. That couldn't be right, could it?

"You see this curse is dependent on a death to be successful, so when the Killing Curse bounced off you and onto me, you actually committed an act of murder. At least, that's how Magic sees it. And as a result, a part of you latched onto me while at the same time, a part of me latched onto you, which made us linked to each other. You see, if I die, a part of you dies with me. And if you die, a part of me dies with you. And this is what is so important, Harry," Voldemort exclaimed, almost feverishly, sitting down next to him in the sofa, making explanatory gestures with his hands as he was speaking.

"You see, don't you? By hiding you I was keeping us both safe. By extracting you from Hogwarts I made sure I could protect you. By using your blood in the ritual I made sure I could touch you without inflicting harm on either of us. You see, if people knew what you are, how important you are, you would be in grave danger."

"This ... none of this makes any sense," Harry said, burying his head in his hands against a building head-ache. "I can't be immortal. I can't be connected to you. You tried to kill me!"

"When?" Voldemort asked patiently. "When you were little, yes, but that was before any of this happened."

"Yes, but ... There's just ... You must be lying to me. There's something you're not telling me, I just know it!"

"There are a great deal of things I am not telling you, Harry. That does not mean that the things I am telling you are lies," Voldemort responded.

"But that means you're choosing not to tell me some things that could make things appear in a different light," Harry argued, "and that's worse than lying. That's manipulative!"

"Who taught you that?" Voldemort asked, sounding impressed. "That's quite some insight for a boy your age."

"Hermione lectured me about this at one point," Harry admitted impatiently, "and she's right, isn't she?"

"Yes and no," Voldemort answered cryptically. "Holding matters of importance back in favour of things of less importance as a strategy to get your own will would be classified as manipulative, yes. However, when you're not telling someone the details of which the other doesn't need to hear at that moment or which are of no import and no interest, I would rather say it is a kindness."

Harry wasn't sure he understood all of that, but he didn't want to appear stupid and thus inferior to his kidnapper. "So you're saying that there are things you're not telling me ... to be kind?"

"Indeed," Voldemort said, and looked like he was about to go into an even deeper explanation when there was a timid knock on the doorframe. Turning around in his seat, Harry saw it was Quirrell who stood in the door opening, sopping wet and with a big basket of food in his arms.

"M-m-master," he said, bending down onto one knee, "I have c-c-completed the t-tasks I was given. Mr Bryce is b-b-back in his b-bed, looking to-to be in d-deep sleep. And there is n-n-no trace left of us at all."

"Yes, that is very good, Quirrell," Voldemort praised in a cold voice, standing up and eyeing his servant up and down as he too arose. "But I can't help but wonder why you seem to have forgotten mid-way that you are a wizard and not a muggle brute who cannot shrink heavy loads into pocket size and keep rain from assaulting his body."

"I-I-I b-b-beg y-your p-p-pardon, m-master, I-I didn't th-th-think," Quirrell squeaked, stuttering worse than ever.

"No matter, Quirrell, it was merely meant as a question," Voldemort said with a small smirk that made Harry believe he enjoyed antagonising the other man on a quite personal level. "It is good that you have come, in fact. Can I count on you for another important mission, Quirrell?"

"Y-y-yes, naturally, m-m-master," Quirrell answered at once, looking eager to redeem himself after his small faux pas.

"Very good," Voldemort said, striding towards him slowly. "I need you to make sure Harry is properly fed, and then I need you to find him acceptable accommodation for the night. One of the bedrooms on the second floor should be passable."

"Oh ... O-o-of course, m-master, c-consider i-it d-done."

"Thank you, Quirrell. That is very good of you," Voldemort said, giving his servant a smile that actually looked genuine. That was, until the Dark Lord turned back to Harry, and the evil glint in his eyes came into view. "As I am sure you understand, our safety is of highest import at the moment, so I shall put up domed wards around the fortress, just in case."

"Do whatever you want," Harry replied, feeling a fair bit bolder now that it seemed Voldemort wouldn't be breathing down his neck for much longer.

"Oh, be assured, I always do," Voldemort replied smartly and turned to leave. Although, he stopped just at the top of the staircase, calling back to them as if with an afterthought. "Oh, and Quirrell? Please, make sure to remember this time that you in fact are a wizard. If the bed is dusty, clean it with magic, not by hand."

"Yes, m-m-master," Quirrell called back after a petrified pause. As the Dark Lord descended the staircase, Harry could swear he heard a chuckle travelling up to them through the open door.

Then, they were alone. Harry watched his old professor suspiciously as he visibly relaxed and wiped his forehead of perspiration. Apparently recalling that he was sopping wet, Quirrell pulled out his wand and traced it up and down his garments a couple of times until they were completely dry. As a finishing touch, he tapped the top of his turban until he deemed it dry enough for his liking.

"Are you all right, Potter?" he asked then with a quick glance over his shoulder as he bent down to pick up the basket of food from the floor.

"I'll live," Harry replied coldly, not feeling inclined to indulge his old professor when he so clearly was a wicked traitor.

"Good, good," Quirrell sighed with apparent relief as he carried the basked over to the sofa and sat himself down next to Harry on it. "Then he hasn't caused any more harm to you. That is good. Here, have some pie."

Too hungry to actually refuse food, Harry accepted the little, muffin-sized pie and waited patiently while Quirrell rapped it a couple of times with his wand to warm it up. Once he had started eating it, he didn't seem to be able to stop. He received two more pies after the first one, all of which he downed in record time. After that, Quirrell seemed to think better of giving him any more unless he made himself sick.

"Your stuttering is gone," Harry observed as the both of them were travelling up the grand staircase to the second floor in search for a nice bed for Harry to sleep in.

"What?" Quirrell said in surprise. "Oh, yes, well I didn't always stutter, mind. I find that the Dark Lord simply has that ... effect on me."

"But, you were always stuttering," Harry objected, "even when he wasn't there, remember? In school –"

"Oh, he was always there," Quirrell said, casting nervous looks around him as if frightened Voldemort was lurking in some shadow, spying on them. "Always. I made a mistake, with the Gringotts bank vault. So he decided to keep a closer look on me. Always after that ..."

"You don't seem very pleased," said Harry as they started travelling down the corridor, searching for a nice-looking room.

"Oh, oh, it isn't that!" Quirrell assured him. "I was just ... a bit overwhelmed. That is all – ah, well look here, this could work I'd wager?"

The room in question wasn't in the best of conditions, but Harry was far too tired to keep searching anyway, so he let Quirrell do his weak attempts at cleaning up the bed before diving into it, and then promptly fell asleep, just as he was.