Walk the Shadows

What the hell kind of answer was that? Harry stared at Voldemort some more, ignoring the ache in his temple, and considered the last time they'd met. Voldemort had been anything but polite then. He'd possessed Harry, tried to kill him for the umpteenth time. He'd been ruthless and cold and cruel. Harry reminded himself that nothing had changed, that this was the same man who'd killed his parents, who'd caused Cedric to die, and Sirius . . .

In the end, he sighed and looked away rather than respond. He was too tired for this. A low, breathy chuckle made him shiver, but he did not look at Voldemort again, just tucked his quilt more snuggly around his legs. A moment later, the dark wizard had settled into the other chair and crossed one leg over the other, as if just stopping by for a friendly, casual chat between two old friends.

'I want you to tell me, young Harry,' he began in that soft, sibilant voice, 'how much you know about the night your parents died.'

TBC

*Chapter 5*: Chapter 5

Walk the Shadows -- Chapter 5

By jharad17

A/N at end

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I make no money from this. The characters belong to J. K. Rowling. I only borrow them for a brief while.

'I want you to tell me, young Harry,' he began in that soft, sibilant voice, 'how much you know about the night your parents died.'

Harry's head snapped up, wide green eyes met Voldemort's red ones. A sudden rage swept through him. His hands trembled with it. He buried them in the quilts draped over his legs as he tried to form coherent thought. He dared speak of that night? NOW? Here, of all places?

Gaze never leaving the pale, snake-like face, Harry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. 'Why do you have to ask?' His voice rose, and he forced it back to some semblance of civility. He was in Voldemort's territory, here on his sufferance, and he needed to keep that in mind. 'You were there.'

'As were you. Despite this, neither of us knows the full truth.' Voldemort tilted his head as if he were a snake and Harry a fretful bird. 'We spoke somewhat about that night, on the occasion of my rebirthing, you recall.'

As if he could forget! Cedric's blank, dead eyes, the Cruciatus, his mother advising him on how best to escape, once her ghost had been freed from Voldemort's wand by the Priori Incantatem. He recalled some of what Voldemort had said that night, about the protection his mother had given him by dying, but he would not admit it, not to this man.

'I was a bit busy,' Harry said instead. 'Screaming, I think. What with the Cruciatus and all.'

Voldemort waved the statement away with his hand. 'That was later, to prove a point.' His gaze appraised Harry shrewdly. 'I gave you your first taste, did I not?'

'What?'

'It was your first time, yes? In the throes of that Unforgiving embrace.'

Harry couldn't help it. He was so disgusted he snorted a laugh. Then he shook his head. Was Voldemort trying to get a rise out of him? Perhaps trying to see how controlled Harry's uncontrolled magic was under stress? In a tight voice, he said, 'Yes.'

'Then I am impressed. Many wizards older that you, or more sure of their own courage, would have succumbed to the first wave of agony. After the second, I certainly did not expect you to rise again. And for that to be your first time. . . .'

'Yeah, well, I'm good at handling pain.' He'd had loads of experience, even, or especially after starting at Hogwarts. It seemed like every year he got mangled somehow, by possessed DADA teachers or basilisks or Dementors or Quidditch.

Voldemort gave him a searching look, then his gaze sought the fire in the hearth, and he stared at it for quite some while. 'Let me ask you then, the night your parents died--'

'The night you killed them,' Harry pointed out.

'As you like. Do you know why you were left in, what is it called? Little Whinging?'

'Yeah. Blood wards. Like you said.'

Voldemort nodded. 'But ones not used to best effect, if those whose blood bound the wards to protect you, relinquish their hold.'

'By leaving me, you mean, leaving me alone when they fled. Isn't that what you're getting at?' Harry's hands curled into fists, and his chest felt tight, like he had not enough skin to cover his ribs, making the rest stretch and pull.

A long pause, then, 'Do you like your relatives, Potter?'

Harry frowned. What the hell was this anyway? 'Why do you want to know? Never mind. I don't care. It doesn't matter anyway, as I'm never going back there.'

Voldemort made some kind of non-committal noise, and the red, snake-eyed gaze found his again. Harry flinched involuntarily. He had the pain of their connection through the scar fairly well under control, but sometimes the intensity of it was enough to overcome his blockade.

Head starting to pound again, Harry glared. 'Why are you here?'

'In this room, or in the world?'