Heir Apparent By MonsieurClavier

Chapter 1

“And you are?” Voldemort asked politely.

“Your worst nightmare,” the boy snapped, followed by a half-hysterical, “I mean, you’re mine. It’s only fair.”

“Your name,” Voldemort pressed. He added the force of an Imperio to his words, but unsurprisingly, the boy did not submit. An Occlumens of such calibre would have no need to.

“Harry,” the vagrant murmured nonetheless, seeming confused. “What do you mean, my name…?” It was his turn to stare at Voldemort through the manor’s gloom, a gloom that only Voldemort, with his snake-like vision, could penetrate. To the boy, Voldemort must seem more shadow than person, so Voldemort obligingly lit a mild Lumos for the lad’s edification. Harry immediately paled. “Oh, Merlin. You’re not—you’re not—”

“I’m not what?”

The boy shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Would you like to know what year it is?”

Harry glanced up at him, alarmed.

“I can only deduce you are the result of a temporal accident. Using time travel beyond a few hours is not feasible, and impressive as your abilities are, I doubt they can overcome the laws of magic itself. Not unless magic saw fit to overcome them for you.” Keenly observing Harry’s reaction, he said, “It is 1963.”

Harry swayed in place, like he’d been struck. His eyes were wide and horrified. “Fuck me,” he whispered, rather inappropriately.

Voldemort’s nostrils flared in distaste. So his heir lacked the flawless Pureblood manners that should have been drilled into him. No matter. Voldemort would tutor him in etiquette, as his future self had clearly failed to do.

Because it was obvious that this ‘Harry’ was his son.

It all made sense. Here was a boy with immense innate power that bore a strange resemblance to Voldemort’s own magical signature—as though within him was a part of Voldemort himself—and he was a Parselmouth. Voldemort had murdered all the other Parselmouths when he’d disposed of the Gaunts, so the only way another Parselmouth could exist in the future was if Voldemort had sired him. Not to mention how impervious the boy’s mind was to Legilimency; Voldemort had only ever encountered one Occlumens as naturally gifted as that at such a young age, and it had been himself.

While Voldemort had always preferred magical self-perpetuation, it wasn’t out of the question that, sometime in the future, he would decide to further secure his legacy via an heir—a spare body so magically similar to his own that he could possess it permanently if required. An alternative solution to the Horcruxes, and more easily achievable, at that. A potential threat if the heir proved uncooperative, yes, but when had Voldemort ever balked at a challenge? Not to mention what a fascinating experiment it would be to see whether his power and greatness had been inherited by his son. Blood was the best conduit for magic, and this boy had inherited Voldemort’s blood.

So thinking, Voldemort cupped Harry’s chin and found himself pleased by the rich, deep, Slytherin green of Harry’s eyes. The child’s mother must have been well-chosen—before Voldemort killed her, that is. He would never suffer himself to have a wife; he assumed he must have killed the vessel of his heir as soon as said heir was birthed.

“You are mine,” Voldemort said gently, and smiled when Harry flinched. So the boy did know Voldemort, after all. He knew Voldemort was to be feared. “I will look after you, my own.”

“I don’t belong to you,” Harry spat, despite his fear. Oh, what a delight he was! He was no cowering, simpering sycophant, like Voldemort’s other followers; no, this child had a spine of steel. Not many could stand before Voldemort without quailing.