Chapter Text
Harry can't exactly ask Madame Pince for help finding books about soul magic. He's pretty sure it counts as dark magic no matter who you ask. But he does make time on Monday afternoon to visit the Room of Requirement, and asks the Room for any books about souls.
The selection is limited, which he'd expected. There is one extremely cursed book which he avoids for now, a couple yellowing muggle books that look religious in nature, and two slim volumes that are more promising, which he takes to a table to read.
The first is an old journal, which might once have been white but is now sort of grey. It is labeled by hand with the words "Soul Magics," and filled with cramped hand-written notes. None of it looks especially evil when he flips through. He catches mention of the Fidelius Charm, even. Definitely worth a closer look.
The other book is titled "Magic Most Evile," which strikes Harry as oddly familiar. After a moment of thought, he remembers. This is the book Tom Riddle used, to find out how to make horcruxes. Harry hadn't ever read it last time, but he'd known of it. Hermione had, he remembers. She'd looked a bit sick afterwards.
Harry takes a steadying breath. He really doesn't want to read this book, he realizes. He knows the basics- that creating a horcrux involves murdering someone, that taking one back involves remorse. He isn't sure what more he will find in this book, but he knows the details are likely just as horrific as the generalities.
Harry wars with himself for a long moment. Reading this book might give him answers, yes. But he's certain it will also intensify his horror and self-loathing. He isn't sure he's ready for that.
He puts it back on the shelf. It will be there later, if he decides to read it. He puts Soul Magics in his bag, and leaves the Room.
He finds Dumbledore in the hallway, examining the tapestry on the opposite wall. At the sound of the door closing behind Harry, he turns.
"Professor," Harry says, trying to hide his unease behind politeness. He wants to bolt away, but feels strangely pinned in place by Dumbledore's gaze.
"Ah, Harry. How strange to run into you here."
The door the the Room disappeared as soon as Harry exited, of course. And he'd been careful to make sure it was hidden while he looked for his books. Perhaps Dumbledore hadn't seen it at all.
"Sometimes there's a secret passage here," Harry says vaguely. "Er, I'd better get going. I needed to stop by the kitchens."
It is a pathetic excuse, so he isn't surprised that Dumbledore dismisses it without a comment.
"You have the afternoon free, do you not? Allow me to walk with you. I was hoping to have a chat with you."
Harry's panic is really unhelpful right now. His heart is pounding in his ears. There isn't even a reason to be afraid of Dumbledore. For all that he'd had a cruel plan last time, he'd never directly tried to hurt Harry.
He wonders if that would change, if Dumbledore had seen what books Harry was looking at just now. If he spotted the locket horcrux and knew what it was.
Harry deliberately takes a path towards more populated parts of the castle.
"I was wondering how you're finding Hogwarts," Dumbledore says warmly. "How are you enjoying your classes? Is Slytherin treating you well?
Harry nods jerkily. "Slytherin is great. Ron and Draco are good friends. I haven't been to a lot of classes yet, though. Because of the testing I had to do, and some family concerns after that."
"I see," Dumbledore says.
Rosemary emerges from Harry's pocket. "You stink of fear, hatchling."
Dumbledore goes still at Harry's side, falling behind a step or two.
Rosemary climbs Harry's arm to get a better view.
"This is Rosemary," Harry says to Dumbledore, barely slowing his pace. "She's my familiar."
"You carry a snake with you around the castle?" Dumbledore asks, taking a few quick steps to catch up with Harry but no longer walking closely by his side. And while Harry is glad for the distance, the reason for it is stupid. Dumbledore must know Harry is a parselmouth by now. Harry hasn't exactly made a secret of it.
"Yes," Harry says, unable to keep some irritation from seeping into his voice. "Dromeda said she'd told the school. Rosemary has to stay with me for medical reasons. I can't even take flying classes, because she's scared to go on a broom and I can't leave her on the ground."
Dumbledore is not as good an occlumens as Snape, apparently, because Harry can taste his distrust, his unease at Harry having a snake for a familiar.
"I'm going to bite you," Rosemary informs Harry.
Harry holds his hand up shakily to let her do it, keeping an eye on Dumbledore to make sure he doesn't overreact.
Rosemary's magic does its work quickly, taking the shake from Harry's hands and enough panic from his mind that he can think again.
"Rosemary helps me with panic attacks so I don't have to have calming draughts all the time," Harry tells Dumbledore. "I get anxious around adults I don't know well. So if you need to meet with me for some reason, I'd really prefer that we schedule a meeting ahead of time, with Professor Snape or one of my guardians present."
"Is that really necessary?" Dumbledore asks, sounding puzzled but tasting disappointed and uneasy. "I only wanted to check up on you."
Harry is having trouble keeping hold of his magic, which is reaching out wildly, ready to do something, anything, to keep him safe. Rosemary is working hard to keep him from outright panicking, but under that he's also furious and hurt. One emotion or another will be causing a bout of accidental magic if he doesn't get away soon. It's just a matter of which one and how quickly.
"Well, you certainly didn't care about me for the last ten years," Harry grits out. "So I'm not sure what's changed, except that you don't have Mrs. Figg spying on me anymore."
Dumbledore's dismay and shock are obvious. "My boy-"
The stones of the walls around them rumble ominously with Harry's spike in irritation, bits of loose grit falling from between the stones of the ceiling. Harry bolts before Dumbledore says more. He's going to collapse the hallway down on himself if he stays. He needs to put distance between him and Dumbledore, now, before he says anything more.
Harry really doesn't like being called "boy."
The bell announcing the end of the class period goes off as he runs around a corner, and students flood into the corridor from various classes. There are a couple of shrieks when he comes close to running into some older Ravenclaw girls- they're clearly afraid of Rosemary- but Harry just continues on without even an apology.
He runs until he finds somewhere quiet on what he thinks is the fourth floor, and sits down heavily in an alcove behind a suit of armor to catch his breath.
"You're scared of that man," Rosemary says. "The bright and slippery one."
"Yes," Harry admits, suppressing a shudder at her description of Dumbledore's unpleasant magic. "Scared of him, and angry at him as well."
Hare sits there for a while, gradually calming down. Just when he is about to stand up, he hears footsteps, and presses himself deeper in his hiding spot instead. The approaching person isn't someone he recognizes by the taste of their magic, though- and it is truly a taste, rather than some other sensation. He'd remember magic like that, bittersweet with a hint of smoke. It's nice, but he really doesn't want to deal with anyone right now.
Harry risks a peek at the hallway, but whoever it is must be just around a corner, or in a nearby room, because he can't spot anyone.
He sits back in his alcove with an irritated (but nearly silent) huff. Whoever it is, he'll wait them out. It's not like he has somewhere to be. His friends will be in their flying lessons by now, and Harry can't do those.
But the taste-smell doesn't fade after several minutes. Just when Harry is about to risk it anyway, he hears a door open and close nearby, and goes still and quiet again.
The footsteps grow louder, and just as the figure passes the armor Harry is hiding behind, it pauses, backlit against the light of a nearby window.
Quirrell, Harry realizes from the silhouette of his turban. Hastily, Harry tries to pull his magic in, because if Voldemort can taste-smell Harry's magic the way Harry can taste-smell what must be Voldemort's magic, that's probably not good.
But Harry is still somewhat off-balance from his encounter with Dumbledore, and reeling his magic back in is slow even in his calmest moods. He still hasn't managed it when Quirrell steps closer and casts a lumos into Harry's hiding place.
"Mr. Potter," Quirrell says. "You've found yourself a strange place to enjoy your afternoon. One might think you were hiding from someone."
Harry blinks stupidly. He should probably stand up, but between Rosemary's efforts to help him calm down and the bittersweet magic- Voldemort's magic- which is a little overwhelming this close, he cannot seem to organize himself to do anything as coordinated as standing.
"I was hiding," he blurts instead, like an idiot. "Er, sort of." He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Merlin, of all the times to start babbling things he doesn't mean to, this is a terrible one. He cannot let his guard down. Not now, not with his mortal enemy in front of him, wand drawn.
"Hiding from whom?" Quirrell asks, face a picture of nervous concern.
Harry shrugs, looking away from Quirrell for a moment to brush a finger along Rosemary's head. It is more for his own comfort than hers, but she never seems to mind.
"You have a snake for a familiar?" Quirrell asks. "I'd heard rumors, but I'd never seen her myself."
Harry nods mutely, still not looking back. He feels strange. Sort of like when he'd first encountered Sirius, when the blood-adoption magic had hit him all at once and made him feel drunk and silly. Only, he'd already known and trusted Sirius, so that hadn't been bad. This feeling with Voldemort's magic is soothing, but it is all the more horrifying for how nice it is.
I should have known, he berates himself mentally. Because if the locket is comforting, of course Voldemort himself would have an even stronger effect.
"Is it true that you can speak with her?" Quirrell asks.
And, well, Harry isn't going to lie about that, not when he's been so open about it with everyone else already. With Dumbledore, even.
"Yes," he admits. "Her name is Rosemary."
He risks a look up, and finds Quirrell wearing a strangely fond expression. "Why that name?" Quirrell asks.
Harry hesitates, then decides it's not like he's giving up any new information if he is honest. "A few reasons. But mostly because her magic tastes herbal. And snakes identify each other by scent, so it seemed like a good name."
"Fascinating," Quirrell says. "Of course, you're aware that Parselmouths have a certain reputation in Britain."
"I know," Harry say. "But I think that reputation is stupid. I know I'm making my life harder right now by letting people know, but I think it'll be worth it in the long term. Just because one Parselmouth went crazy and killed a bunch of people, that doesn't mean we're all evil. One day people will realize that."
Quirrell's expression is unreadable, but Harry can taste Voldemort's anger at Harry's statement that he'd gone crazy. Voldemort isn't as good an occlumens as Snape, either, apparently. Before he can reply, Harry adds, "I mean, Ollivander said something about him doing 'great things' but mostly I just hear about him having killed and tortured a bunch of people. How awful he was. That's what people remember Voldemort for."
"You dare say the Dark Lord's name?" Quirrell says, voice trembling slightly in a more genuine way than Harry has heard before.
Harry should probably stop antagonizing Voldemort. His irrational feeling of safety combined with his anger is going to end with him being subjected to the cruciatus curse, probably.
Of course, that doesn't scare him either, right now. Fear just refuses to happen.
"There's no taboo on his name now," Harry points out. "So unless you think he's going to pop out of a shadow and attack me in the middle of Hogwarts, I think it's safe enough."
"You never know," Quirrell says warningly.
Harry shrugs, conceding the point. Since Voldemort is right in front of him. "Well, right now I'm more worried about Dumbledore than I am about anyone else. He doesn't like Rosemary, and I think he doesn't like that I'm in Slytherin or a Parselmouth, and he definitely doesn't like that I ran away from my muggle relatives this summer and ended up living with people who actually give a damn about me."
Harry's eyes are stinging a bit. He wipes at them furiously. He should not be blurting these things here. He should not be revealing weaknesses or letting his eyes tear up. He should be trying harder to shake this weird feeling of safety and trust, because he certainly can't trust Voldemort! Harry is supposed to be stronger than this. He's fought off the Imperius Curse before, has resisted possession, has ousted this very same Dark Lord from his mind. He's always had a strong will. He's always been able to fight off outside influences. Why is it so much harder right now?
"You were hiding from Dumbledore?" Quirrell asks, now completely baffled.
Harry nods stiffly. "He cornered me. I was going to explode something if I didn't get away from him. Running away and hiding until I'd cooled off seemed smarter than staying."
And with that, Quirrell laughs. "You are not at all what I expected, Harry Potter."
Harry stares for a moment. He's pretty sure that this conversation had been at least mostly with Voldemort. But that laugh, even from Quirrell's mouth, had sounded much too human to be the monster Harry is familiar with. Much too warm.
And then Quirrell offers Harry a hand up off the ground, and Harry is still too stunned to think about refusing it. He grabs hold and is hauled to his feet with surprising strength.
And it doesn't hurt. Harry's scar doesn't stab him with pain, and Quirrell isn't burned. Harry can feel his mum's magic flare warningly, but it settles without doing anything more, apparently sensing no threat.
The skin contact doesn't make Harry any more loopy than he already is, at least. That's lucky. Quirrell releases Harry's hand without incident.
"You're not what I expected, either," Harry admits, brow furrowed as he tries to work though what the hell is wrong with him.
Quirrell walks with him towards the Great Hall, since it is nearly dinnertime now. Harry ducks away towards the dungeons a few hallways away though, claiming he needs to put away some of his books and things but actually grabbing food from the kitchens.
"Mr. Potter should not be skipping meals," the house-elf he talks to frets. She is the same one he'd talked to last time in the kitchen, he thinks. He should learn her name.
"I'm not skipping a meal," Harry argues to her. "I'm just eating it somewhere else. Please?"
The elf gives him a long look. "Mipsy will bring food to Mr. Potter's room this time, but Mr. Potter must promise to eat well."
Harry nods. "I'll do my best. Thank you, Mipsy."
So Harry goes back to his room- empty, since Draco and Ron are in the Great Hall- and before long Mipsy pops in with his food.
Harry eats mechanically, mind feeling both full and oddly numb after the afternoon he's had. He pulls out the book he'd found earlier and reads the first page three times before he realizes he's absorbed nothing from it, then tucks it away at the bottom of his trunk with a sigh.
"What are you going to do about the dangerous one?" Rosemary asks, eventually. "The bitter one, who hides within your professor."
"I don't know," Harry admits. "He's the one who put part of his soul in me. He's dangerous, and mad, and evil. He killed my parents. But I can't kill him, because the bit of him inside of me will keep him alive as long as I'm alive. Which is forever, because I can't die."
Rosemary considers this for a moment. "If you cannot kill him, you must deal with him another way. Can he be reasoned with?"
Harry lets out a bitter laugh. "Once, maybe, when he was a hatchling. But he broke his soul apart when he was still young, and he's repeated that process a bunch of times. He's barely a person anymore. There isn't much left of him."
"Could he become a person again?" Rosemary asks.
Harry reaches for the locket around his neck. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know if he'd be willing to re-absorb pieces of himself."
Rosemary says, "Then either you must convince him to become a person again, you must make him one even without his permission, or you must subdue him so that he cannot harm you again."
Subduing him is the easiest of those options by far. But Harry has a nagging feeling it isn't a real solution. Because Voldemort is immortal (Harry had made him immortal), and Harry has a feeling that anything he does to keep Voldemort trapped or comatose will be less permanent than actual eternity.
Harry doesn't want to fight Voldemort over and over again for the rest of forever. It might come to that in the end, but he has to try something else first. Anything else.
"I don't know if I can convince him of anything," Harry muses. "But I guess I won't know either way, unless I try."
But to do that, Harry needs to make Voldemort sit down and listen. He needs some power over him. Something to make him afraid, because that's all Voldemort understands.
He needs to gather horcruxes, Harry realizes. Gather them, and threaten to destroy them unless Voldemort re-absorbs them. If he can get the idiot to absorb even one or two, he might be rational enough to be bargained with. Of course, even then, there is no guarantee that they can reach any sort of deal. Voldemort isn't just insane- he's evil, too. They have no goals in common.
But it is a chance, even if it's a slim one. And, well, Voldemort might not be able to empathize with the bits of soul he's abandoned, but Harry can. Even if this plan doesn't fix the problem of Voldemort himself, it will help them. Will make them stop hurting.
And if Harry hopes (selfishly, irrationally) that Voldemort can regain enough sanity to at least pretend to be a law-abiding citizen, someone who Harry can trust not to murder innocent people- someone who Harry can talk with and feel safe for actual reasons, instead of because a bit of Harry is Voldemort...
Well, no one else has to know how strongly Harry craves that connection now that he's gotten a taste of it, even though he knows how unlikely it is to work out.