Disclaimer: Nothing in the Harry Potter universe is mine. I wish it was.

AN: OMG, I finally managed another chapter!

I know it took a while, I don't even want to look when I posted the last one. But you know - life in all its glorious chaos. I am beyond grateful for all your patience.

A huge thank you to all of you who are still interested in this little story of mine and to everyone who favoured, followed and reviewed.
I am reading and appreciating every review and I wish I could answer to each and every one of them, promise, but alas I am only human and therefore that is not the case.

I hope wherever you are, you and your loved ones are healthy and safe. Don't let the Muggles get to you.

This is unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are my own.

Have fun reading.

On with the story.


Chapter 21: His son

Marvolo stared at the pale face of the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, his son.

His son.

He was alone in the hospital room; Severus went to talk with Dumbledore in hope to get him agree to move the boy to the castle. Slowly he traced the tip of his finger down the boy's cheek, felt the soft skin under his fingertip, the same as he had done after his resurrection.

The boy did not stir, did not cry out in pain. The only movement was the up and down of his chest.

The same, but also utterly different. Everything was different now. He was different now. More himself as he had been in a long, long time.

And he had a son now.

This was his son now. A fact, he – one of the most brilliant wizards – had problems to get his head wrapped around. The thought to have children never had crossed his mind. He had planned to be immortal, had done everything to reach that goal, so a successor hadn't been needed, would never be needed. Not as long as he had at least one Horcrux left. And in the moment, he still had two, one of them completely unexpected but nevertheless precious.

Perhaps even more because of what – who – carried it.

His gaze found the famous scar peaking out under that unruly mob of hair.

Marvolo had a son now, a son who also was his horcrux. This boy was his, undeniably and thoroughly his. A living, breathing and human Horcrux. As intelligent as Nagini was, she still was only a snake. But this… how unexpected, how fascinating.

His thumb slowly stroked over the raised skin of scar, which felt surprisingly warm under his skin, warmer than the surrounding tissue. The bond at the back of his mind drummed reassuringly, recognizing him. As weak, thin and a little frayed as it was, it was still there, was still warm, was still tethered to the boy in front of him. A few days ago, it had been a fascinating concept, that the boy was caring a piece of his soul. Fascinating in an abstract way.

Had his soul piece changed, was influenced by the whole and pure soul it had attached itself to? Had this small piece of Tom Riddle, of Lord Voldemort, influenced the soul of Harry Potter?

They had coexisted in the same body for around fourteen years.

Nagini showed changes in her behaviour and intelligence after he had made her a Horcrux. But she had been a normal snake before.

But the boy, was an Horcrux with his own wizard soul, with his own magic. It had aroused his scholarly interest. But now - being confronted with the reality of it, seeing the boy, feeling the scar under his thumb, changed it to something more.

It made him feel alive in a way he hadn't for so long.

The familiar desire to take, to possess, to hide sparked in him and something else, something unfamiliar. Clenching his fists Marvolo suppressed the urge to take the boy and hide him where no one would ever be able to find him.

This was the Boy Who Lived, he couldn't just kidnap him.

Would it even be kidnapping as he was the legal guardian of the boy now?

Taking a deep breath Marvolo looked at the boy again. His son. He wasn't sure how often he had to remind himself of the fact to get used to it.

He had a son.

A son, who he had tried to kill on several occasions, whose parents he had killed. A son who had been neglected, abused, belittled, manipulated and had been lied to by most of the adults in his life. A son, who had tried to take his own life.

Marvolo was sure, even if he had been used to having divers and complex emotions again, he still wouldn't be able to decipher what he was actual feeling now. There was this mass of emotions in him, shifting to fast to settle on one, blending into each other.

There was the possessiveness of something or someone he considered irrevocable his. That wasn't something new, he always had been possessive of not only his material things but also his friends, his followers and especially Nagini, his companion and Horcrux. But the boy, his son, he never had felt so fiercely possessive as when he looked at him.

In parts he was horrified… and afraid, to find himself in the role of a father. He never had a role model, wasn't sure what was expected of him, was afraid that he would make everything worse, was afraid to even feel fear again.

But he was also in awe… that magic made this happen. And a little bit smug. Magic had decided that he was worth being the father of this boy.

And he was – proud seemed like the appropriate definition – proud of another human being. This boy had endured so much, had lived through so much, had stood tall and proud and spitting defiance into his face, when other – older and more experienced - wizards had cowered. And this boy – Harry – was now his son. Even if he still would have been his enemy, Marvolo was aware that Harry Potter had managed what nobody had done before him, apart from Dumbledore, and with Dumbledore he had a long history. But Harry was only fifteen and he had made Marvolo see him, not only as a small obstacle.

He had made Marvolo acknowledge him.

How fitting. If deities existed, Fate certainly was having a laugh now.

But what should he do now? Even with all his brilliance and experience he was completely overwhelmed by the situation. If Potter ever would wake up – and that was uncertain at this moment – he wouldn't be happy with Marvolo and Severus as his guardians, let alone them being his official fathers by blood and magic.

And how laughable that magic made two wizards, who had no positive experience with father figures, who had turned cruel and volatile because of what they lived through, the fathers of such a child.

He would need a lot of help and therapy, mentally and physically. They would need a lot of help to even attempt to help the teenager.

What did Marvolo even know about caring for a child, a teenager and especially about someone like Potter? Neglected, abused… made to fight a war in which children shouldn't have a place.

That it was in huge parts Marvolo's fault – insanity or not – of that he was well aware.

But others - older and wiser wizards – who were responsible for this boy, this astonishing boy, should have done something. Should have looked after him.

How had nobody seen it?

Riffling through the memories of the boy from Severus, he had to acknowledge that, yes, the signs had been there. But Potter – Harry – had been very good in hiding them. Easy to overlook if you weren't actually searching for them. Marvolo knew what to look for, knew the tale tell habits children developed who had to watch out for their own wellbeing. Needed to know them, because it had taken him years to unlearn them himself. He had recognized the signs in more than one of his fellow schoolmates and more than one of his Death Eaters. He had recognized them in Severus, even if the man seemed to have lost the most obvious habits as an adult.

All children, magical children, that the wizarding world, the ministry and with it the oh-so-great Albus Dumbledore had overlooked and let down. Another magical child that had suffered because of those sentimental fools who believed in the love of blood related family, who believed that everyone saw children as something precious.

How foolish.

Granted, most magical families did, especially in the pureblood families where children got rarer and rarer. But even in those families – especially in the old pureblood families - children were also believed to be better seen than heard. In those families, children had to behave a certain way, had to show accidental magic in a certain way, be sorted in a certain house, chose a certain career and be satisfied with the spouse chosen for them.

Archaic.

Oh no, they didn't beat or starve their children. But abuse wasn't always physical, didn't need to be physical to do a lot of damage. A lot of these pureblood children were emotionally neglected, and the ones who had suffered physical abuse… well not all curses and jinxes left bruises or visible proof.

Just the thought made a very familiar emotion stir in him.

Red tinted his field of vision and Marvolo gritting his teeth to reign the growing anger in.

No child should have to endure so much, no child should ever know what it was to be struck, what it means to be hungry, have the feeling that they were less. Marvolo would have hated it regardless of which child, but that this was now his child, somehow made it worse. He wouldn't have thought that it would make a difference, but it did. It made something in him coil and burn, ready to leap out of him, to make Harry's tormenter suffer as he had suffered. The deep pool of rage and hate and taste for violence that he always had, and that the time as a wraith and the insanity only had increased, awoke.

His hands trembled. Ready to take his wand and let the blood of his enemies – and his child's enemies – rain down and fill rivers. Oh – how he wanted to rip through the wards of St Mungo's and apparate to those Muggles, to teach them what pain and terror was, to have them trembling before him. He wanted to turn them inside out, wanted to bring their worst nightmares into the daylight and let them live them every second of their remaining days.

But he knew he couldn't just kill them or torment them into insanity or turn them into pigs to make sausages out of them. Harry wouldn't like that, that much he already knew about Potter, this boy that was now under his care.

And somehow the approval of the boy before him meant something to him.

They would go the official way; he was – after all - a law-abiding citizen now. Even if it wouldn't quench his thirst for vengeance, his thirst for blood and violence and his enemies trembling before him.

But he would see them either thrown into Azkaban or into one of the harsher muggle prisons, he had heard what child abusers had to look forward to in those.

Taking a few deep breaths Marvolo calmed himself. Even if he and Severus didn't know what to do, they would take it, one day at the time. But for this Potter – Harry – needed to wake up.

"Everyone is waiting for you, Harry." He whispered to the boy in the bed, searching for the bond between them. "You friends, your self-made family. Even me. You are wanted here." Instead of just feeling the reassuring present of the bond, Marvolo followed it this time, sending a single thread of power along the link, trying to find something at the other end, another mind, awareness. "Everyone is hoping that you find your way back. Everyone believes that you will find your way back. You are stronger than you know."


Perfectly manicured fingers opened the seal of the last letter on her pile with a sigh. Finally, the last one for now. She loved and hated opening the post. Mails from adoring fans were wonderful to read, but more often than not she got scorching letters, full of critic and accusations.

The letters from solicitors were the worst.

Didn't they understand that what she was doing was practically an art? Didn't they understand how important it was that she fiddled a little with the actual facts in her stories?

Nobody wanted to read a boring story, so sometimes it needed a little bit of help and imagination to get it readable, excitable and saleable.

Shaking her perfect blond locks, she focused on the letter and began to read.

Her breath caught.

Rita

No, you don't warrant a Dear or something similar polite. We both know that we don't like each other. Perhaps I would even hate you if I still had hate to give.

So, why do I write you?

Simple, I have something for you. Perhaps it even may be the story of your life, who knows. But you will only get it under the same condition I have you the interview last year: not one untrue word, no embellishing, no quick-quote quills, no sensationalized tale.

Nothing but the truth.

The truth about what happened the night Voldemort killed my parents and why, the truth about what happened during my fourth year at Hogwarts, the truth about his resurrection. The truth about a lot more, everything I dare to present the Wizarding World at large, everything I feel they – you – should know and a lot of stuff I am sure that they don't want to know but need to know.

You will find a letter from me addressed to the Wizarding World, written on Truth and Oath parchment. Swear the oath, in exactly the wording it is written down, and the rest will be readable. Do with it what you want, print it word for word or write an article about it, doesn't matter to me, as long as it is the truth.

Harry Potter

With trembling fingers Rita Skeeter unfolded the stack of parchment attached to the letter and yes – it was Truth and Oath Parchment – she recognized it immediately. The top part contained a few sentences, the oath she had to swear, the rest seemingly empty.

The oath was straightforward but also a nasty piece of work.

I, Rita Skeeter, swear to publish nothing but the truth about the life and persona of Harry James Potter. I will not falsify any facts concerning the life and persona of Harry James Potter. I will not write or say one untrue word about anything detailing the life and persona of Harry James Potter. I swear on my ability to write and read. I swear on my Animagus form. I swear on my career as a journalist and author. I hereby swear on my magic. So, mote it be.

If she would write one untrue word, she would lose her ability to read and write and her Animagus form, as well as having to leave her career if she wanted to keep her magic. She read the oath again with grudging respect, not having thought that Potter had it in him. But it was more likely that his Little Miss Perfect had been the one to suggest and write the oath.

Nevertheless, she knew already that she had the story of the century in her hands. Even if she couldn't make it more enjoyable for her readers who wanted drama and tears.

But if she had learned one thing from her encounter with Potter last year, it was that sometimes it was worth it to go along with his and Little Miss Perfects demands and the truth. Her interview with Potter was a best-seller and the Prophet had bought it for a lot of money from the Quibbler.

She could feel it in her gut that this would be even better.

Despite her trembling fingers and the sheer excitement steeling her breath, she managed to hold her wand in a strong grip and swore the oath in a steady voice.


Draco Malfoy was on a mission.

With quick steps he manoeuvred between healers, mediwizards and witches, patients and visitors through the main area of St Mungos. Since his mother at told him that Harry had been found in time but was in a coma, he knew he had to see him with his own eyes. He didn't know why and what it would accomplish, but he had to. He hadn't managed to slip out of the manor without his mother noticing, but instead of preventing him from coming to the hospital, she had decided to accompany him.

As they made their way through the corridors of St Mungo's to the lifts, Draco had to admit that he, perhaps his mother had only come with him to amuse herself, because he had absolutely no idea where he had to go.

He was certainly that he couldn't just ask at the reception desk to see Harry Potter. They would never tell him. He knew, from what Mother had told, that Harry had been moved to a private room and the most likely place would be the fourth floor with the permanent residents.

Tapping his foot in frustration, Draco waited for the lift to reach the fourth floor. How slow could the lift even be and were these doors always that slow to open?

Finally, they stepped into the corridor of the fourth floor and Draco hesitated over wish way to go. A voice made him look to the left.

"Rest assured Severus, that we will prepare everything. The healers are talking with Poppy in this moment. There will be a private room made for him next to her office with everything that is needed, wards keyed to specific persons to watch over him and a house-elf will be appointed to him, just in case. We – I – will do everything that is in my power to help Harry. We all want him to wake up."

"Thank you, Albus." The tiredness in his godfather's voice was unmistakably and Draco made his way into the direction the voices had come from.

Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, turned around to leave, stopped shortly when he saw Draco and his mother but then nodded in greeting, passed them and disappeared into the lift. Severus was standing in the middle of the corridor, turning around when he heard their footsteps, looking startled when he recognized them.

"Draco, Narcissa." He looked tired and worn out, worried lines around his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Before his mother could say something, Draco stepped up to his godfather, looked him into the eyes and willed him to understand. "I want to see him."

Severus just regarded him silently for a few minutes, then sighed. "Very well." He turned around and gestured them to follow.

"How is he?" Draco asked as they walked in the direction of the more quiet and secure part of the hospital ward. Keeping strides next his godfather, he saw the exhaustion only visible by the lines around his eyes and saw the worry evident in his rigid body posture.

"Unchanged." Stopping in front a door Severus sighed. "Stable but still comatose. The healers theorize that his magic keeps him comatose so that he doesn't have to experience whatever is happening if he still would be in a hostile environment. He doesn't know he is safe and -" His gaze went to the still closed door, "it could even be that he doesn't want to wake up. He chose that course of action."

Draco followed his godfather's gaze, behind that door Harry was laying.

"The healers say that we should talk with him, there is the possibility that he is hearing us. Remind him that there are reasons for him to wake up. That people are waiting and missing him. That not everything that is awaiting him is bad. That what awaits him is worth living for."

Severus turned to look at Draco. "Therefore, whatever you will say in there, choose your words carefully. We will not tolerate petty schoolboy rivalry."

"I would never…. After everything…" Draco spluttered then stopped. "We?"

But before his godfather could answer the door opened and the Dark Lord stood in the frame. "Severus? What did Dumbledore say?" His gaze found Draco and his mother. "Narcissa." He inclined his head. "Young Mr Malfoy. What brings you here?"

"Draco wants to visit Harry." Severus answered, stepping into the room, nearly pushing the Dark Lord aside. "Albus said that they would prepare everything. Poppy is talking to the healers in this moment. There will be a room prepared for him. And yes, before you ask, we – and that includes you – will have access to him."

Draco held his breath, waiting for the punishment that normally would follow such a disrespectful behaviour and speech, but nothing came. He had heard from his mother that the Dark Lord wasn't insane anymore, but to see it with his own eyes made it real. He had believed her, but at the same time hadn't dared to hope.

As the Dark Lord made room for Narcissa to step into the hospital room Draco got a glimpse of a small body in a typical standard hospital bed and rushed forward. There he was. For a moment Draco couldn't breathe. For a moment he didn't recognize the boy before him.

The hair was as dark and unruly as ever, but the body was too still, too pale. Had he always been that small and thin? His arms were on top of the covers, the bony wrist heavily bandaged and Draco gulped. The reality of what had happened settling in.

Potter – Harry, had actually done it. Went through with his plan and if the Dark Lord hadn't arrived when he had, they wouldn't visit Harry in the hospital. His mother had told him that Dumbledore and Harry's friends had been there, trying to get to him the same time Severus, his mother and the Dark Lord had arrived, but nobody beside the Dark Lord had been able to walk through the ward around the house.

If he hadn't provoked Severus to break into his mind, there would have been nobody who would have been able to get to Harry in time. They would have been too late.

Draco had seen Diggory's dead body after Harry had brought him back. But somehow, seeing his schoolmate laying here like this, was worse.

He nearly fell into the empty chair beside the bed, completely ignoring the presence of the adults in the room. Carefully, he took one of Harry's hands in his own. They felt warm but slack.

"What are you waiting for, Scarhead?" Draco watched for any sign that he had been heard. He was so used to getting a reaction out of Harry that the completely lack of it made him uneasy. It wasn't right, wasn't how it should be.

"It's time to wake up, Potter."


Nothing.

Peaceful.

….

He was floating.

There was no sensation at all. He didn't see anything, didn't hear anything.

Should he be able to?

It felt like he should. But the thought was like a bubble, not even fully formed before disappearing again.

There was nothing. Only him, floating in soft nothingness.

Where did the nothingness ended and where did he himself started?

He wasn't sure.

Was it important?

He drifted in the endless void, infrequently interrupted by thought bubbles, appearing and disappearing.

What was he?

Where was he?

There were no answers, and he didn't feel like he needed them. Why then where these bubbles interrupted his peaceful existence?

He let the bubbles come and go. They existed the same as him, there where part of void.

Soft.

Peaceful.

Floating.

…..

…..

…..

Something shifted, and the void wasn't full of nothing anymore. There was something, a fleeting pressure, reminded him that he was not nothing.

Reminding him that he was separate from the void around him.

But if he wasn't part of the void, what was he? And why was he here? Wherever here was.

What was his name?

Who was he?

Another bubble appeared, but it wasn't filled with a thought, and it didn't disappear like the others, instead it did burst filling the void with a voice and a word.

Harry

That was his name. He was sure. He had a name. He was Harry.

The void shifted again.

If he had a name, he was something… no not something but someone. But who was he?

And if he was someone, shouldn't there be more than the void around him.

He was sure something was missing.

Another bubble appeared, bringing again the same voice.

You are wanted here

Sparks lit up the nothingness. Filling the void surrounding him. And suddenly he knew, who he was.

His name was Harry Potter.

He knew that voice, knew that certain reactions and emotions were linked to it.

But he couldn't recall which ones. There were no emotions available. Wasn't even sure how he could hear the voice. But he knew that voice was important.

Did he hear it?

There still weren't any sensation. He couldn't feel his body. Did he even have one? How could he hear these voices if he didn't have a body, didn't have ears?

Where was he? What had happened?

Was it even important?

Even if he knew who he was and that he wasn't made of nothing, he still was here. And it was peaceful. The void, even filled with these strange bubbles and sparks was peaceful.

He felt like he was surrounded by clouds, soft and quiet. His thoughts were tranquil.

He felt safe and protected.

He wanted to never stop feeling like this.

He let himself drift away, floating again.

Another bubble.

Scarhead

That was a different voice. As familiar as the first one but linked to different emotions. Memories tried to surface but dissipated like fog into the void, leaving behind only impressions, small fragments of emotions.

It's time to wake up, Potter

Who was this to tell him what to do? Who was this to disturb him in his peaceful existence. Indignation made the void heavy around him. Where was this pressure coming from, what brought this heavy feeling? Something was separating him from the peaceful void.

Oh, that was his body. It felt heavy, restricting, painful.

That was not right.

He didn't want this.

He shouldn't feel this.

Wrong.

Everything was wrong.

He shied away from the heavy sensation if his body, longing for the peaceful feeling of floating in the void. Falling, he was falling.

He drifted, letting it happen.

Then… nothing again.


AN: Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.

First published: 23.10.2022