Chapter Text
Harry sits on the roof of Number 12 Grimmauld Place as the first flakes of snow fall.
His body is numb from the cold, his mind numb from much more.
Inside, the Weasleys are still celebrating Arthur’s safe return. Sirius is no doubt moping in a dark corner over his and Harry’s most recent fight, probably with a bottle to ease the sting. Hopefully, Remus is with him, trying to pry it out of his hands.
Harry is 15 years old, he has fresh scars on his hand in his own writing, he’s had a headache for weeks, and an anger boiling under his skin for much longer than that.
But mostly he is tired, so deeply, painfully tired. Exhausted in a way that stringing a sentence together takes more effort than it’s worth.
He looks down, he reckons it’s about 5 stories, enough to work if he’s lucky, if he doesn’t try to land on his feet or brace on his arms, if his magic doesn’t fight to keep him alive.
He stands up on shaky legs, checks his old watch, a cast-off of Dudley’s from his dinosaur phase- the clock itself situated in a T-Rex’s sharp-toothed mouth- he’s always loved it.
It’s almost midnight, almost 1996, and Harry is sure he doesn’t want to see a new year.
He shuffles forward until his shoes are over the gutters, the old roof creaking ominously under him. Maybe they’ll think it’s an accident, briefly flits through his mind. Maybe that will comfort them. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, other than that it’s taking up too much energy and standing here is hard enough. The pressure behind his scar is mounting, turning into a violent, scorching heat. Voldemort must not like New Year's either.
It’s such a relief that he won’t have to feel that prickling pain ever again. He crosses his arms tight around himself so he won’t be tempted to stop his fall, then thinks better of it altogether and turns around. He’ll fall backwards, better that way, more chance of fatal impact if he can swing it. Plus, it’ll be nice to go looking at the night sky, rather than the cracked pavement. He feels his heels cross over the edge.
The ache in his scar reaches a level he’s never felt before, like a blood quill cutting into his very brain. He wonders what Voldemort is writing on it, if it’ll be readable when his skull is cracked open and his grey matter splattered on the street.
He starts leaning backwards, arms crossed, eyes up, like the most fucked up trust exercise. But he’s sure the cement will catch him.
He pushes off and for one glorious moment he’s weightless, the sky is alight with snowflakes, and he’s finally, finally at peace.
The next moment, he’s caught under the neck and knees in a bridal carry that is far too brutal. Before he can even understand what’s happening, he’s being sucked through a too small tube that threatens to collapse his lungs.
And then it’s still, he can breathe, though he’s still in a death grip. When he looks up now, it’s not the night sky he sees but blood red eyes.
“Would you mind telling me,” Voldemort asks in barely restrained fury, “what in the seven circles of hell you were doing?”
Harry blinks up at him, utterly perplexed and suddenly deeply amused. He throws his head back and laughs, rough, bitter, a sound long unused. “Your job for you, of course. Thought I’d finish what you started in the graveyard.”
Voldemort’s grip on him tightens, and his scar pulses with it. He tucks Harry tighter against his chest, the angle causing a crick in his neck.
“Your death is mine, Harry Potter. You do not get to take it away from me.”
Harry sighs deeply, exhausted all over again, his body so heavy even though Voldemort is bearing all of his weight. Can’t he get to choose one thing for himself?
“Well then, I guess you’ve gotten your wish. Happy birthday, Tom."
Voldemort stares at him for a long, long moment, his face blank even as the pain in Harry's scar is replaced with a low-level buzzing that feels, of all things, like utter confusion.
“Happy New Year, Harry Potter. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”