Chapter Text
“You are a lie, you are my illness, you are a phantom.”
― Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
Voldemort stood in his quarters, watching twilight settle its cloak over the Hogwarts grounds. His reflection was a ghost in the glass. A ghost with hellfire eyes.
“I don’t know where he is! Nobody does!”
The memory of Mundungus Fletcher’s petrified voice reverberated through Voldemort’s mind. The dirty thief had been snatched up earlier that day, but he was a waste of a prisoner. Two seconds with the man had told Voldemort that. Fletcher was useless. He knew nothing.
Where are you, Harry?
Two months since the battle of Hogwarts. Two months since the dregs of the Order had scuttled under leaves like cockroaches. Two months since he had claimed victory of Britain. Two months since Potter had vanished without a trace.
Spells ricocheting in close proximity was never a good idea. Voldemort still did not know what had hit the boy. With the blast of a bomb, a crater the size of a house had appeared right on the spot where he had been standing. Only his wand remained. At first, everyone assumed Potter had been blown to pieces — Voldemort included — but upon closer inspection, Voldemort had sensed the subtle threads of teleportation vibrating in the air. It was not Apparition that sizzled against his skin, but something different. Something even Voldemort had never come into contact with. The magic felt almost … inside out.
“He’s done a runner!” Fletcher had babbled, crouched and shaking on the floor, unable to meet Voldemort’s blistering gaze.
In the window’s reflection, Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, frustration growing. Harry Potter did not run away. He was not a coward, regardless of what his Death Eaters jeered, regardless of the lies he had the Daily Prophet spin. He wanted — needed — Potter dead. The more time that passed without his head mounted to his wall meant a greater risk the Order would gain influence again, spreading their whispers of hope, infecting weak hearts.
“He survived the Killing Curse. Twice. Only a Dark wizard could do that.”
Even in his own ranks, doubt festered. Voldemort heard their quiet musings: what if Harry Potter was a stronger wizard than they’d assumed; what if he was stronger than their master? Were they at this very moment wondering if they should seek the boy out, not because their Lord ordered them to, but because they wished to gather around an even greater force?
“Why did the Dark Lord go after the boy in the first place?” he imagined them saying. “To snuff out a rival, that’s why.”
The anger lashed out without warning. The window cracked as his magic surged. Armchairs tumbled, tables skidded, papers scattered. With a flat, cold glare, Voldemort extracted his wand from his robes. A gentle wave and the room righted itself, crystal decanters piecing themselves back together like jigsaw puzzles, books zooming to their proper places, candles reigniting.
Fear and intimidation could only go so far. Like it or not, Harry Potter’s death was the key to his security. All he had to do was find him.
Of course, he could already be dead …
Voldemort closed his eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. He detested thinking of the boy. He detested that Potter still took up precious space in his mind. He was victorious in every regard — Hogwarts, the Ministry, Britain — and yet Harry Potter defied him.
xXx
Harry was not having a good day, but then again he hadn’t had a good day since he’d appeared here. Days in the Drift were one of three types: terrible, worse, and why-did-I-bother. He inched along his current branch, reaching out for another nut to work loose. Today made sixty-one days in the Drift; sixty-one days since he’d appeared knee-deep in snow; sixty-one days of sleeping on a frozen, cave floor; sixty-one days of scavenging for dead Hoppers to gut and cook; sixty-one days of chalky, bitter nuts.
Sixty-one days. Were sixty-two worth it?
Stop it, Harry ordered himself harshly. Don’t think like that.
But what was the point? He’d given up expecting to find a way out of the Drift. He’d given up expecting someone — Hermione, Ron, McGonagall — to rescue him. So why was he still bothering? Why not … let go?
Harry looked down through the branches. The Black Tree was at least thirty feet tall, as high as the goal posts on the Quidditch pitch and he was in the top most branches. A drop from this height would certainly break bone. Would it crack open his skull? Would it snap his spine, his neck, if he landed right? Would death be instant?
Catching up with his thoughts, Harry shivered, instinctively grabbing hold of the branch beneath him with a stronger grip. To even consider … to seriously contemplate suicide … Don’t you give up now. Don’t you dare.
Maybe it was time to get back on solid ground. Harry made sure his sack was secure on his shoulders before slowly beginning his descent. The Black Tree’s bark was unnaturally smooth and slippery. A red oil-like liquid pooled in crooks and if he wasn’t careful and kept his feet clear of those particular pockets he really would have a nasty fall. Such a very thing happened on day two, falling ten feet and spraining his ankle so severely, he’d been cooped up inside the cave for a week. It was lucky he’d found the cave when he’d arrived. If he hadn’t … well, he wouldn’t have had to worry about day sixty-two, that was for sure. He wouldn’t have had to worry about any of it.
xXx
Voldemort rarely slumbered. Like food, his body did not require what a normal human did. He could go weeks, months even, without sustenance or sleep, but when he did allow himself to slip into unconsciousness, rarely did he dream and what a strange dream this was.
He stood in a land of white. It looked a great deal like the Arctic. Thick snow covered everything, blinding in the sunlight. It was a barren, empty landscape with not even a tree to break the monotony. A furious wind whipped, kicking up snow, but it did not bother Voldemort, his robes not even shifting. He did not notice the cold either, but he knew that if he did, it would be vicious. The sort of frigidness that peeled skin from bone.
It looked like the Arctic and yet it wasn’t. Voldemort did not quite understand how he was sure of this, but he was. This place was not on Earth. There was something unsettling about it. Something that he’d felt before, but could not place. And greater still, a tugging pulled at him. There was something here. Something that he knew. It was almost as if he’d lost something and only now remembered the fact. But what could he have possibly lost? Struggling to think of what it could be, he noticed a structure up ahead. It was obvious why his eyes had glossed over it initially. In the blizzard, it was nearly invisible, as it was made entirely of glass.
Voldemort moved toward it, his feet not leaving a mark in the snow. He stepped up before the building. It was a giant, glass dome. He placed his hand upon what looked like a handle-less door only for his fingers to slip straight through. Curiosity rising, Voldemort stepped forward and walked through the glass.
At once, the tugging intensified. What he sought was here. Stepping over a scattering of bones and weaving around strange, misshapen statues of hulking figures, Voldemort meandered through the dome. It put him in mind of a beehive, all circular passages and arched entryways. Everything was glass and a strange white metal. A heavy silence hung inside the place, as if the air itself held its breath. Voldemort watched the blizzard rage as he traveled down a see-through corridor. He met no one. Following that gentle tug, he moved onward, that whisper in the back of his mind urging him to turn right, continue straight, left now, and left again.
He entered what was clearly the hive’s heart, a cavernous room that was even larger than the Great Hall at Hogwarts. A monstrous tree took up the center, its branches reaching all the way to the ceiling. Voldemort had never seen the like. It looked diseased, the bark blackened and weeping a red liquid, the leaves brittle and gray. Ringing the circular room were arched entrances. All roads led here.
A creature suddenly darted across the room from one of the side corridors, diving around the giant tree’s trunk and out of sight. It moved so quickly, Voldemort did not get a good look.
Just as his interest in this peculiar place began to fade, the lower branches shifted and a figure dropped to the ground. He staggered upon the landing and what looked like small coconuts fell from a sack on his back. They hit the metal floor with sharp pings.
Though his back was to Voldemort, he knew who it was. He would recognize that mess of black hair anywhere.
Potter.
xXx
Harry misjudged the distance from the ground and stumbled; some of the nuts from his sack tumbled out. Cursing, he stooped, gathering them back up. The headache that had welcomed him that morning throbbed worse than ever.
You.
Harry jerked in alarm from the accusatory voice that sounded clear as a bell inside his head. He spun around, the sack falling from his hand, more nuts rolling free. Had it finally happened? Had he finally gone insane and was now hearing voices?
The Tree Room was empty, but Harry still cleared his throat, daring to hope …
“Hello?”
He’d been alone for so long. Sixty-one days with no one. Harry kept count, scratching a line on the cave wall each morning; a tally that he still wasn’t sure was wise. He moved away from the tree, feeling suddenly that he was being watched.
“Is anyone here?”
A shimmer to the left caught his notice. It was very difficult to make out, but it had form. Harry narrowed his eyes, trying to see it more clearly, but it was impossible. He took another hesitant step forward, but the sound of claws scraping against metal made him whip around. A Hopper snatched up his sack of nuts in its jaws.
“Drop it!” Harry yelled, but the Hopper scampered, bounding away with the sack.
Bodiless voices. Strange shimmers. They vanished from his mind as Harry charged after the kangaroo rat. He barreled out of the room and down a hall. He turned a sharp corner.
And jerked to a stop so fast, his arms wind milled.
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The Hopper had fled to the Bath. Stopping beside the sunken pool in the chamber’s center, its hairy snout rummaged inside the sack, crunching up the nuts Harry had spent the day painstakingly collecting. It was dangerous to climb that tree, the bark slick with seeping oil, the nuts attached so firmly to the branches it took ten minutes to pry each off and then another ten to break open their hard shells.
He could go back. There was still enough light left to gather a few.
Perhaps it was the terrible headache raging like a power drill between his temples. Perhaps it was the fear that he was finally slipping into madness. Perhaps it was just his hot-tempered, recklessness, but Harry gritted his teeth.
Go slow. One step at a time. You can do this.
Harry had given everything in the Drift a name, not that it mattered as he was the only person on the entire godforsaken planet. He inched forward, taking great care not to brush against any of the statues dotting the room. Steam from the sunken hot spring swirled upward, fogging his glasses.
Why here? Why did they have to be in the Bath?
xXx
Voldemort was shell shocked. He was dreaming of Potter?
Potter?
At least the boy did not look well, far thinner than Voldemort had ever seen him, even more so than when he had faced him in the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort followed him as he ran from the room, down a looping side corridor, racing after that strange creature that looked like a miniature kangaroo. He found him in a room filled with steam. The chamber housed a large pool of water and ringing around it were more of the misshapen statues Voldemort had passed earlier. It was as if someone who had never seen a human before had been given the task to create one. Their limbs were disjointed and twisted, only three thick, sharp-nailed fingers to each hand, their jaws far too large for their heads.
Potter was slowly inching around them, weaving his way under and over their stretched out arms with the delicate precision of a burglar navigating trip wires.
“What are you doing?”
Like before, Potter’s head whipped around. His eyes darted about the room.
“Who said that?”
“I did. Can you not see me, boy?”
Potter’s eyes were huge.
“No,” he whispered. “Where are you?”
Was this a dream? Voldemort began to grow suspicious. Dreams were never so vivid in color or detail. In dreams the mind was never so conscious, so analytical. Voldemort could actually smell the air. His slit nostrils widened, noticing for the first time the tingle that teased the senses. It was the same as the magic that had hummed in the Great Hall moments after Potter disappeared.
What if this was not a dream? What if this was real?
“To your left,” Voldemort replied, watching as Potter’s eyes searched and finally landed upon him. No recollection crossed Potter’s face. Voldemort was invisible to him. A smile spread across his lip-less mouth. How delicious.
“Look,” said Potter tensely. “I’d love to chat, but this isn’t the best time.”
Voldemort drew his wand and rolled it between his fingers. Now that he was more aware of it, the hum in the air was like the buzz of a bee. He had found him, after months of searching. How he had managed to astral project to the boy was a mystery he would contemplate later. For now —
Voldemort pointed his wand at the boy. A single curse and the blight known as Harry Potter would plague him no more.
“He survived the Killing curse. Twice.”
“Not even the Dark Lord’s done that.”
As the boy stared at his midriff, Voldemort gritted his teeth. It did him no good to kill Potter without witnesses, just as he knew it would do him no good to simply dump his dead body at his followers’ feet. As repugnant, as insulting as it was, Harry Potter had planted doubts and Voldemort needed to burn them to the ground.
He put his wand away.
“And why is now not a good time?” he asked, referring to the boy’s earlier statement.
“Because these statues aren’t statues,” Potter said. He had not moved an inch since they’d begun talking, still in the midst of swirling steam and sculptures. “They’re only sleeping and if you touch one —”
Potter cut off. A second later, Voldemort understood why. One of those round nuts rolled out of the bag the rat had stolen. It leapt after it. Its tail brushed against a statue’s foot.
The statue moved faster than the blink of an eye, pouncing upon the rat, stabbing it with a taloned hand. The animal shrieked. A hind leg was pinned to the floor; the statue’s sharp, stubby fingers nailed it in place. Blood oozed.
The statue was frozen again, immobile and crouched, staring with unblinking eyes at the struggling, squealing rat.
Amazed, Voldemort moved to the right to get a better look.
“Whatever you do, don’t touch a statue!” Potter ordered, looking ill. The boy cast the rat a sympathetic look before carefully kneeling down and scooping up his bag. Seeming to hold his breath, he carefully made his way back through the maze of limbs.
“What are they?” Voldemort asked, studying the statues with fascination.
Potter sucked in his stomach as he slipped past the final one. The moment he was free of them, he released a shaky breath.
“I don’t know what they are. I call them Heart Eaters,” he explained. “That’s what they do if they get hold of you.” The boy turned to him and asked bluntly, “Are you human?”
“Of course I’m human,” said Voldemort.
Delight spread over Potter’s face. “Are you a wizard? Can you make yourself visible — this would be a lot easier if you were.”
“No.”
Potter’s grin faltered. “No, you’re not a wizard or no, you can’t be visible?”
“My body is not present. Only my spirit is.” And as he said this, Voldemort wondered if he could in fact perform magic whilst in this form.
Potter’s smile vanished completely.
“Oh. That’s …”
“Astral projection.”
“Right.” Potter nodded, seeming to be finding this news difficult to process. “So you’re … not really here.”
“That is what I said.” How had he been bested by this imbecile?
“I guess that means you don’t need to worry about your heart getting eaten. Lucky you,” said Potter, attempting humor, but too much bitterness seeped through. “I’m Harry.”
“I know who you are.”
Potter stared at Voldemort — or more accurately — stared at Voldemort’s chest, and then he was closing the distance between them, his eyes suddenly feverish.
“You really are a wizard? The war? What happened?”
Voldemort studied the wide-eyed boy, thinking quickly. Could he Apparate without a body? Could his spirit even touch Potter? Could he bring him back with him?
He needed Potter at Hogwarts. He needed his blood spilled all over the Great Hall. He reached out his hand and grasped the boy’s shoulder. The fingers that had slipped through the door took form against him; his shoulder was warm and solid. Potter flinched at the touch, not expecting it. With a grin of victory, Voldemort squeezed, his long, thin fingers digging in. He pulled forth the magic to send them both away —
Voldemort felt the tug of Apparition, but nothing happened. The spell nullified and dissipated in the air. Grimacing, he let his hand fall. This was going to be trickier than he’d thought.
The boy was staring at where Voldemort had gripped his shoulder, as if transfixed.
“The war is over.”
Potter’s eyes darted back to him. “Voldemort?”
Voldemort hesitated for a half second before making his decision.
“The Dark Lord is gone.”
Potter took a staggered step back. And then a smile unlike any other spread wide over the boy’s face. The exultant joy made Voldemort’s stomach turn. Fearing he might change his mind and murder him after all, he asked, “Where are we?”
“I call it the Drift,” said Potter, his delight at the news of his enemy’s downfall turning him giddy and short of breath. “I don’t actually know where we are, though I’m pretty sure it’s on a different planet. This dome. It’s a spaceship.”
Had Potter gone insane?
Potter’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “You don’t believe me. I’ll show you!” And with far too much enthusiasm, he raced down the corridor, pausing only long enough to urge Voldemort on with an energetic, “Follow me!”
xXx
A part of Harry still hadn’t written off losing his mind as a possible reason for this unexpected development, but the hand that had gripped his shoulder, squeezing it with reassurance … that had to have been real. So what if it didn’t make sense. Ghosts and spirits and phantoms could not touch, not like that, but Harry didn’t care. It had been a hand. A human hand with fingers and a thumb. There was a person — a wizard — with him. After two months, he wasn’t alone.
Leading his companion down a different glass corridor, Harry shot another glance over his shoulder, reassuring himself that he was still following. For the first time he fully appreciated how it must have driven Ron and Hermione mad when he’d hidden under the Cloak.
He couldn’t see the man, not really, his form nothing more than a faint shimmer that shifted as he moved. It was the only way Harry could think to describe it: a slight disturbance in the air, like heat rays rising off hot pavement in the summer. Even the stranger’s voice was odd, bypassing Harry’s ears and sounding in his mind, full and vibrant, deep as a cello. It reminded Harry of someone he’d heard before, but couldn’t place.
“Down here,” said Harry, turning right and rushing down a set of stairs.
The war was over. Voldemort was gone. It had all been worth it, after all. If Harry still possessed a wand, he would have created the most powerful Patronus known to man.
“See,” said Harry, entering the control room and waving his arm with a flourish. “Spaceship. The ten year-old me would have died.”
The wizard entered after him, looking around. Or at least, Harry imagined he looked around, taking in the strange knobs and colored panels. It was difficult to explain, but he felt that he sensed the stranger’s feelings almost as he had with Voldemort. Waves of dubiousness radiated from the shimmering figure.
It is a peculiar place, I give you that, but why assume it is a —
Harry picked up the space helmet that rested on the ground, its glass visor cracked. Harry couldn’t keep the smirk from his face. “Spaceship.”
So it is, the wizard admitted.
“Unfortunately, it’s broken,” said Harry, putting the helmet back. “I’ve pushed everything in here and nothing happens. You don’t happen to know how to fix a spaceship?”
No.
“Can’t blame a guy for asking,” Harry sighed.
He knew it was most likely due to his long stretch of isolation, but Harry felt an unshakable connection with this stranger. The wizard felt familiar in ways that were impossible, as if he’d always known him. As if he’d stumbled upon a long lost friend.
“So what’s your name?” Harry asked.
Guess.
Harry blinked. “Guess? Your name?”
Amusement that wasn’t Harry’s tickled inside him.
Yes.
“How am I supposed to do that?”
You can have as many tries as you like.
“Thanks,” said Harry dryly, half wondering if he’d actually been joined by Fred’s ghost. “I’ll work on that, but we should be getting on. I’ve got a cave. There’s enough room in there for both of us.”
A cave?
“Yeah,” said Harry. “We can’t stay here in the Dome –”
Dome?
“That’s what I call the ship. We can’t stay here at night because that’s when the Heart Eaters — those statues — move about and believe me, you don’t want to be wandering around in the dark with those things on the loose.”
But I am not here, said the wizard.
“Yeah, but still —”
No, Harry. I am not here. I am currently asleep in my chambers. My spirit has projected itself to this place.
“But I can touch you,” Harry argued. “I can touch you, which means you must be here.” The words left him in a rush and only when they were out in the open did it dawn on him how badly he needed this to be true. It was horrible to wish for someone else to be trapped in this wasteland — no one should be trapped here — but Harry needed it.
It is a peculiarity that I will investigate, but the fact remains that I am little more than a phantom. When I wake, so too shall I leave.
Harry felt as if a hand had reached inside his chest and scooped out his insides.
“Oh.”
But I have not woken yet.
And just like that, Harry felt himself inflate, filling with light and warmth. Without warning, tears pricked his eyes. He blinked them quickly away.
Grinning, he said, “The cave’s outside. There’s a blizzard going on. You sure you won’t be bothered —”
I will not. Lead the way.
xXx
“Are you the only one present?” Voldemort asked as Potter led him back through the Dome’s intricate corridors. Each looked exactly the same. He was impressed by how deftly the boy navigated through it, returning them back to the Dome’s entrance.
“Yeah.”
“But the bones …”
“They’re mainly Hoppers,” said Potter, picking up a heavy winter coat from the floor that Voldemort had not noticed when he’d entered. “They’re all over the place but they mostly live in the ventilation shafts. I think other people have ended up here before me, though. Some bones are bigger. Some skeletons don’t look remotely human. I found something that looked like a dolphin’s skull but five times too big. This coat, for instance, I found in the cave.”
The coat was too large for him, nearly swallowing him up. It could have belonged to Hagrid. He looked even younger than seventeen as he buttoned it all the way up to his chin and flipped up the hood. As if he was bracing himself, Potter opened the door and though the wind barreled inside, shooting snow ten feet into the hall, melting instantly on the white-metal floor, Voldemort felt nothing. Potter however lowered his head against the gale and plowed forward. Walking sedately beside him, Voldemort watched the boy struggle, his feet sinking deep in the snow.
They crossed a barren field, frozen and flat. The sinking sun threw Potter’s shadow long and thin. Voldemort’s shadow was nonexistent. As they continued onward, seemingly toward nothing, Voldemort began to wonder if the boy actually knew where he was going when, without warning, Potter stopped.
“Here!” he shouted over the furious wind.
Potter dropped to his knees and scraped snow from a large, flat rock. He pushed it aside, revealing a hole wide enough for a grown man. He dropped down inside it and Voldemort followed, drifting downward with the delicateness of a feather.
“Give me a minute,” Potter mumbled in the dark.
Voldemort’s eyes quickly adjusted to the gloom, his sight as well suited to the dark as a cat’s. He watched Potter shuffle about the cave, and a moment later, light bloomed into life. Lanterns rested on rocks and outcroppings in the walls. Soon, the cave was illuminated enough to easily see.
“Your wand?” though Voldemort already knew the answer.
“Don’t have it,” said Potter. “I must have dropped it when I got blasted here.”
Yes, he had. The first to reach the sizzling crater, Voldemort had scooped it up. He’d toyed with snapping it in half, but instead, had locked it away in his quarters. It was not the holly that shared a core with his own, but a hawthorn. It had puzzled Voldemort. What could have happened to have caused Potter to exchange his with one that was clearly inferior? Then again, wands were temperamental. He himself had dispensed with using the Elder Wand, returning to his old and trusted Yew, when he was unable to wield it to his satisfaction.
Potter walked back to the cave’s entrance. Standing on a boulder, he reached upward and worked the flat stone back over the hole. At once, the raging wind dwindled down to a whistle.
“It’s not much,” said Potter, “but the Heart Eaters haven’t found it yet.” He sat cross-legged on the stone ground, pulling the sack off his back but keeping the coat on. Mist rose from his mouth. Opening the flap, he pulled out one of the round nuts, picked up a sharp rock and began to dig it into a grove in its shell.
“Why can the Heart Eaters only move freely at night?”
“I don’t know.” Grimacing, Potter pushed and twisted the rock’s point deeper into the grove. “The sunlight keeps them frozen. Or asleep. I’m not really sure which. But the fact is that even if you touch one, if the sun’s on it, it’ll freeze again.”
“Rather fortunate that the Dome is made of glass,” said Voldemort.
Potter smiled at him with ill-humor.
“And you have been here all this time?” Voldemort’s eyes traveled over the cave. Potter might have thought otherwise, but the space was tiny, barely enough room for two grown men to share comfortably. Along one stone wall were scratches. Voldemort moved toward it. His spirit must have created some disturbance in the air for Potter’s eyes looked up and followed him as he stepped up to the stretch of wall. Lines and slashes. Days counted.
“Yeah,” said Potter quietly. He dug more insistently into his nut. “Can you help me get back?” he asked abruptly.
Voldemort turned from the wall, taking Potter in. “There is no such spell that allows one to jump from planet to planet.”
“But a spell got me here. A spell got you here.”
“Both of which I would have said were impossible until now,” Voldemort stated.
“It happened during the battle,” said Potter. “Spells were going everywhere.”
“Which must have caused an unexpected reaction,” Voldemort agreed. “A rift or wormhole, so to speak. Repeating such a feat will be impossible.”
The giant coat Potter wore swallowed him up even more. He seemed to shrink in upon himself.
“However,” Voldemort continued, “magic sent you here and therefore magic, in theory, should return you.”
Behind his glasses, Potter’s eyes brightened. “You think so? You think you can figure something out?”
“It will take time.”
Potter’s thin throat constricted as he swallowed. He nodded quickly.
“I understand. But you’ll … you’ll try?”
“Oh, yes, Harry,” said Voldemort softly. “In that regard, I will do my utmost.”
A sudden distant shriek had Voldemort looking upward.
“What was that?”
“The Heart Eaters,” Potter breathed. “They’re awake.”
Voldemort strode to stand beneath the entrance, listening. There was nothing human in those sounds. Voldemort had heard all manner of screams and howls, but these … these voices were shredded. They were hunger and blood and madness. He wanted to see them.
Potter scrambled to his feet. “Don’t —”
But Voldemort had already ascended, floating upward through the flat stone and into blue light cast by twin moons. For limbs that were grotesquely arranged, the Heart Eaters moved surprisingly quick. There had been at least a dozen statues in the chamber with the sunken pool. Along with the ones he and Potter had passed in the corridors, Voldemort estimated there were possibly twenty in all. He crossed the frozen land to the Dome and spotted them through the glass, running with the intensity of a wolf pack on the scent of a rabbit. The Dome’s door burst open but they did not leave its shelter. They shrieked as the cold hit them and scurried back. They seemed incapable of holding still and, unable to run out into the freezing temperature, they instead ran through the Dome. Voldemort stepped through the glass exterior, entering the ship. In the moonlight, the gray of their skin turned them blue, save for one whose front was painted with fresh blood — the Heart Eater who’d snagged the Hopper. They darted past him, not noticing him, not sensing his heart as his heart was light years away.
They hunted someone else’s beating, pulsating organ.
They sought Potter.