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Harry was a lonely kid growing up, but as long as he could remember, he had a friend. A Friend no one, except for Harry, could see or hear. It was, as Harry later learned, an imaginary friend.
That was okay with Harry, since it meant Dudley couldn't chase his Friend away, or Aunt Petunia couldn't tell nasty and untrue rumors about Harry to his Friend, or Uncle Vernon couldn't forbid him from talking to his Friend.
Harry could always whisper to his Friend when locked in the cupboard, or when bored out of his mind doing chores, or even at school when no other kids wanted to play with him. He was never alone, and it was the most wonderful feeling.
His Friend belonged only to Harry and no one else.
Besides, his Friend felt the same, or so he told Harry. They were each other's and would remain best friends forever.
Harry wasn't sure if imaginary friends were supposed to have opinions, but he didn't mind it overmuch. Even when his Friend whined and pleaded and cried when Harry hurt Dudley that one time. He never did it again, if only to not disappoint his Friend again.
The same thing happened over and again, with school kids who bullied Harry, aunt Petunia when she swung a hot pan at him, Marge's nasty dog when it tried to bite him, and later Hogwarts students and professors, when they were especially annoying.
Harry wasn't always perfect. He slipped or didn't always listen to his Friend. It was always worse when he did it. His Friend would get quiet and sad, casting silent judgement on Harry. It was a very terrible feeling; one Harry didn't care to be exposed too often. So he strove to avoid it as much as possible.
His Friend really disliked violence or even being mean, to the point of tears. He always wanted them to help others and be friendly, but Harry wasn't that kind of person. He still tried. Tried to be nice and good to others. Tried to reign in his temper, and avoid confrontation, or getting revenge when others treated him particularly badly.
It was more important to Harry to keep his Friend than get gratification from revenge or hurting others.
His Friend was Harry's conscience. He was the one to feel guilt for them both, to steer them toward the right path, and to tell Harry how to be nice, helpful, and not selfish.
Harry, on the other hand, was the one to protect them from others. Keep thick skin against the hurtful words and unfairness of the world. It was Harry who would convince his Friend of their worth and place in the society and their bright future.
And for so long, it worked for them both. Harry liked having his Friend with him always, not being alone, and having someone who understood all of Harry. His Friend liked talking, sharing inside jokes with Harry, and being kept safe by Harry.
But then the Department of Mysteries happened, and everything Harry thought he knew about himself and his Friend was upended on its head.
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Voldemort's possession hurt like nothing Harry had ever felt before. Even Cruciatus curse paled in comparison with it. It was like sharp claws digging into Harry's head, his memories, and his feelings. It took Harry a moment to realize what was actually happening.
It was causing his Friend a lot of pain too. Pain that wasn't shared, but separate. It was like his Friend was being torn from Harry, or maybe Harry was being torn from his Friend.
In the end, this was what gave Harry the strength to fight back and push Voldemort from his mind.
Dumbledore would say it was love, which was such bullshit. There was no one to ever love Harry, maybe except for his parents, but that wasn't something Harry remembered. His Friend might be the closest to loving him, but Harry was unsure if he could count him. His Friend wasn't really real, after all.
So no, it wasn't love that Harry used against Voldemort. It was the fear of being alone again, of losing someone who was only ever his. Harry was so terrified of it that not even Voldemort's malevolent presence could contend against it.
It was only when Harry surfaced from his mind and found himself face down on the Atrium's floor that he really understood.
Memories buried deep, lost until this very moment surfaced. A life before life. Snatches of it, broken and incomplete, but all that just felt right. They were undoubtedly Harry's.
Or should he say, Voldemort's, and before him, Tom Riddle's.
With memories came a clarity of mind, and a word surfaced.
Horcrux. Harry was Horcrux. Not merely a Horcrux but the Horcrux itself. One, Voldemort never meant to make. One, hidden and unknown to everyone all this time. One, with another presence in its vessel.
This was when he understood. He was never the Harry Potter. He was merely possessing the body of Harry Potter and claiming his identity for himself. The original was right there in his head.
'N-no…' his Friend whimpered quietly, so, so terribly afraid.
His Friend, the original Harry Potter really, was never afraid of him before. Not truly. He had always felt safe cradled in his mind and carried around and owned by him. Now, he was considered a threat to his Friend's continued existence.
Voldemort started laughing. It was cold and high and a terrible thing. It reverberated through Atrium and caused goose pimples to break out on his skin.
He painstakingly climbed to his knees and faced the other man, his other self. Voldemort was staring at him, his face split in a wide, terrible grin. He knew, deep in his bones, that his other self was soo pleased with himself. Victorious even.
For Voldemort knew now too. He saw it all, dug it all up, and gifted him with this buried knowledge. It was only to his advantage, really. For they were separated, and he had been lost until now, but they were still one soul. Not one of them would ever hurt the other, for it would be like hurting himself. And they were never a masochist.
~I will come for you, my own~ Voldemort hissed at him, a sound that sent shivers up his spine. It was a promise and a threat all rolled into one. It wasn't unpleasant at all.
With that, his other half of the soul turned on his heel and Disapparated from the Ministry of Magic.
'No, this can't be…' his Friend let out another denial. He could feel the way his Friend was curling in on himself, as if trying to get away from him.
He would never allow that. His Friend was still his. He didn't belong even to other parts of his soul. They were tied so closely together, two souls in one body. The fact it was him, not his Friend, who had control of the body proved it; his Friend was only ever his.
Once, his Friend might have been the Harry Potter, but after so long, he no longer was. Now that name also belonged to him, just like his Friend's body and very soul. He would never let go. He would forever keep his Friend with him, safe and far away from any other influence. In time his Friend would understand.
Harry climbed to his feet when Dumbledore approached. He was on the other side of the Atrium from Voldemort, trying to protect Harry from him. From his own soul.
"Harry, my boy, are you alright?" The Headmaster's face was lined with tension and genuine worry for Harry's well-being. If only he knew, he would undoubtedly turn his wand on Harry.
Fragmented memories of an angry and selfish boy surfaced. Genial smiles, burning wardrobes, constant suspicion, and being derided and refused his dream.
There was absolutely no reason to enlighten Dumbledore to the fact that Harry was most assuredly not 'his boy' and never really was.
"Yes," said Harry, surprisingly truthful for once. He was more than fine, after all. "Yeah, I'm fine, Headmaster."
Dumbledore peered at him curiously, and Harry fought not to tense at the close examination. Could he tell Harry was not who he was claiming to be? Before the old man could draw any conclusions, there was a flare from the direction of Floos and a veritable army of people appeared. Aurors, Ministry workers, a few Wizengamot members, and even the Minister himself.
Dumbledore moved to intercept them and probably make his excuses. It didn't concern Harry at all. The Headmaster would take the blame, ever the sacrificial fool. And then, even if Harry got into trouble, his other half of the soul would come for him.
He would be just fine. After all, they just won the war, even if Dumbledore didn't yet know he lost. And if Harry used his cards right, he would never find out.
His Friend went terribly quiet in his mind, in shock and horror at what Harry planned to do. That was alright; he would grow to accept the change in time. He had indulged his Friend all these years, but there was a limit to how far Harry would compromise his plans and ambitions. After all, the Hat had it right; he was nothing but Slytherin at heart. Playing heroic Gryffindor these past few years didn't change that fact.
Harry fought to stop the grin from splitting his face. This was possibly the best gift he had ever received, in this or even previous lives. He would use it to its full potential.
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