Note:
I’ve made Harry’s mind impervious to Legilimency because it is not, technically, from this time, and the timeline is protecting its secrets by keeping Harry’s mind hidden. Basically, it’s a result of time travel, not of Harry suddenly becoming a master Occlumens.
In this version of events, Voldemort murdered all the Gaunts, who were the last living Parselmouths aside from himself. No other Parselmouths exist.
Also, Harry decides to call on his Slytherin side to come up with something vaguely resembling a strategy, even though he’s still a dumbass Gryffindor who can’t stop sassing Voldemort to save his own life. Like. Literally to save his own life. Sigh.
Enjoy!
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On the eve of his thirty-seventh birthday, Voldemort received an unexpected gift.
He had just returned to Britain after journeying across the world, absorbing magical knowledge from wherever it could be found. Now, more powerful than ever, he envisioned returning to his country a conqueror. Caesar returning to Rome.
But before he reclaimed his throne—and his Death Eaters—he had to unpack. One couldn’t very well unpack some of the most dangerous Dark artefacts known to man in front of lackeys undeserving of the honour… and even more undeserving of one’s trust.
Voldemort didn’t feel much like Caesar here, amongst rotting fabric and cobwebs as thick as knotted wool, but this old corpse of a house would have to do for now. Voldemort was, despite his fearsome reputation, an expert at making do. His years at the orphanage had made him so. He would unpack, rest, prepare, and then publicly announce his return when it was most advantageous to him. It wasn’t like he was in a hurry. He had all the time in the world.
He was immortal, after all.
However, scarcely had Voldemort un-shrunk his belongings before a wind whipped violently through Riddle Manor, and produced, out of nowhere, a boy.
The boy landed on the dusty floor with a muffled, “Ouch!”
It should have been impossible. Voldemort had keyed the wards to let none pass but himself, and the strongest blood magic kept all but his blood-kin at bay. Not that he had any blood-kin. That was the point. He’d killed them all.
Nobody but Voldemort should have been able to Apparate in here. Or use a Portkey, for that matter. Mere space could not be traversed into his home… but time could. And Voldemort had felt, in that sudden wind, the brush of temporal magic. It was some of the most ancient magic there was. Ancient, but unstable.
Voldemort was no fool. His wand was out and stringing the boy up before he could so much as move. That the strings of the magical net were formed of snakes—real, live, writhing snakes—should have had the boy shrieking and shrinking away from them, but all the boy shouted was, “Shit, fuck, let go!”
And the snakes let go.
Voldemort stared.
And stared.
And realised, with a slow, shattering sort of shock, that he had just heard Parseltongue.
More staring revealed that the intruder had a mop of dark hair, similar to Voldemort’s but more untidy, a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, and a truly vicious glare. A glare that met Voldemort’s only to skitter away, but not before revealing that behind the glare was a well-guarded mind. Voldemort’s wordless Legilimens slid off the boy’s mind like oil, unable to find a grip. A partial body-bind held the trespasser’s physical form in place, but his mental form was ineffable, shapeless, concealed as if behind a wall of fog.
“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.
“You are my son,” Voldemort declared. “Of course you belong to me. Your every cell, your every fibre, your every heartbeat. You are mine in flesh and blood and soul. You are mine in magic. And you will not deny me.”
“I—you—what?” Harry gawked at him like Voldemort had lost his mind. He didn’t say anything for so long that Voldemort began to suspect that Harry had at last submitted to him.
But no, Harry hadn’t. Whatever confusion had overcome him fled, followed by a downright Slytherin narrowing of his eyes. So he was about to offer terms. Voldemort knew that expression. “I need to return to my own time,” Harry stated, “and that’ll be in your interests, too. Your future self… needs me to be there. With him. It’s practically destiny. Written in the stars.” He raised his chin defiantly. “So you will find a way to send me back. But until then, you may look after me, and I will… I will tolerate being your ward.”
Tolerate the blessing of being Voldemort’s heir, as though it was something unwanted? “Are you not proud to be mine?”
“No.” Harry grimaced. “I loathe you. You… You killed my mother.”
Ah. So that was it. An understandable resentment, but too tied to sentimentality. He’d have to train it out of the boy. “You may grieve all you want, child, but do not pass up this opportunity to be taught by the greatest wizard alive. My future self may have failed to instruct you properly, but I will not.”
“You mean, instruct me in murdering Muggleborns?” Harry snorted. “No, thanks.”
Voldemort reared back. “You are pro-Muggle.” How? How could his own offspring talk like that? Think like that?
Harry met his eyes fearlessly. “Yeah. And you’re an arsehole. So what’s new?”
A flash of rage burned through Voldemort like a flash of lightning, and before he knew it, the boy was on the ground, twitching, clawing at himself under the effects of a Cruciatus. He did not scream.
No. Voldemort could not—he would not torture his own spawn, undeserving though that spawn may be. He would not abandon it, either. He was better than the Gaunts. He always would be. And it sickened him, to see a part of himself, an extension of himself, in agony. It was unnatural. Unacceptable.
So Voldemort lifted the Cruciatus. Harry lay there briefly, panting, before slowly, tortuously getting up. He moved like a poorly-strung marionette, his features still contorted with pain. He shakily adjusted his glasses, which had been knocked askew. Tremors ran through his limbs, but he did not yield to them. He had pride, this one. That, at least, he had gotten from his father.
Harry finally stood, and met Voldemort’s eyes again. Untameable.
And abruptly replacing Voldemort’s rage was a surge of pure want. A want for what, he wasn’t sure, but it was there, and it was absolute. Perhaps it was a desire to possess, to own, which would be natural to feel for one’s son.
There was blood on the boy’s mouth, his lips bitten through, but Voldemort did not heal them. It pleased him, somehow, to have left a mark on his mark.
“Wow,” rasped Harry, as though holding in his screams had strained his vocal cords. “Still an arsehole. Good to know.”
Voldemort took a deep breath. “You will watch your words.”
“Or what? You’ll Crucio me again?”
Another deep breath. Patience. Patience. “I will not Crucio you again. Or torture you. For any reason.”
Harry regarded him with palpable disbelief. “Right. Because that’s so in-character for you.”
“Did my future self torture you?”
“Frequently,” said Harry, almost flippantly, and Voldemort’s anger spiked again, at the thought of his future counterpart already having hurt Harry, having claimed him, having seen that blood on his mouth. Again, unacceptable.
“Really.” Voldemort’s tone was flat. “And what had you done to deserve it?”
Exist, mostly. Future you despises me a lot for not following in your footsteps. For not hating Muggles. You’re a right twat about it, honestly.”
“Do not use that language with me, or—”
“Or what?” Harry repeated. “If the Cruciatus is off the table, what’s on it?”
You, stripped of your robes and bound face-down to the table’s four corners, counting the lashes of my whip. Or my hand. “There’s always corporal punishment.”
Harry looked vaguely ill. “Well, I’m not new to corporal punishment, I’ll have you know. You left me with the most awful Muggles—”
“I left you with Muggles?” Was Voldemort’s future self a lunatic?
“You probably hoped I’d grow to hate them like you did if you left me with Muggles who beat me, starved me, and locked me in a cupboard.”
“A cupboard.” That was worse than Wool’s. What had the great Lord Voldemort of the future been thinking, to abandon his own son to a fate worse than Wool’s? Then again, if he had continued to make Horcruxes for another decade or so, he may have lost what remained of his self-restraint. It was a disturbing thought.
Harry, meanwhile, was gaping at him. “You’re angry about that?”
“My own heir should not have been subjected to such indignities.”
“Tell that to future you. He loves putting me through indignities. It’s practically his life’s purpose.”
“My life’s purpose will always be to save the wizarding world from Muggle influence. Nothing else.” Voldemort sighed, attempting to calm his nerves, which felt jagged and sharp, like they’d been sawn off at their most sensitive points. If fatherhood was so emotionally exhausting, no wonder he’d dumped the child far away from him. But it had still been irresponsible. Lacking in foresight. Perhaps that was why Time herself had sent Harry back to him, to help repair the damage his older self had caused. To set Harry back on the right path. Voldemort’s path. “I will convert you to my cause.”
Harry tilted his head cockily. “I accept your challenge.”
“It’s not a challenge, you little—” Voldemort blinked. And studied Harry more closely. “How old are you? Fifteen?”
Harry glared. “Seventeen.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Starved as a child, remember? Besides, you don’t look your age, either. You’re, what, almost forty? But you don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment, you unnatural creep.”
Patience. Patience. Lesser insults had got people dismembered, but Voldemort could not dismember his own progeny. Even he had limits. He gestured at Harry to follow him. “Come. I will feed you, as your Muggle guardians should have done. And then I will find you a comfortable bed, not a cupboard.”
“Converting me isn’t that easy. You reckon that if you treat me better than the literal scum of the earth, that’ll make you a god in my eyes? Please.”
Being a god in Harry’s eyes certainly sounded appealing. But… “I’ll settle for being a father in your eyes.”
Harry laughed, a note of hysteria lacing his laughter. “Luke, I am your father,” he said nonsensically.
“What?”
Harry shrugged. “Muggle thing. You’d hate it.”
A vein throbbed in Voldemort’s temple. “Yes. I would.”
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Note:
Just as an additional note, Harry has travelled back in time from shortly before the Battle of Hogwarts, so he hasn’t had his final duel with Voldemort yet, and hasn’t found out that he himself is a Horcrux.