Chapter Text
His kneecap was shattered, bone and sinew sticking out at an unnatural angle. The blood and matter soaked through the flimsy trousers he wore, sticking the fabric to the boy. There was so much blood he couldn’t tell if anything else was damaged but by the way he dragged himself through the Ministry halls the other leg must have sustained some injury as well. He was panting heavily, sweat slick on his skin painting him an unhealthy shade of white against the blood. Both wrists were fractured or worse, it was impossible to tell from this angle but Harry still clutched his wand, each flex of his fingers causing another gasped intake of air. However this was not what made him step closer.
If anything he should have been crowing with glee. Instead he found himself inching closer, the boys glasses were long gone and without them he knew everything would be a blur. He wanted Harry to see him, needed it for some inexplicable reason. He was being drawn to the boy, desperate to know why he hadn’t screamed during the onslaught. Not once had the child yelled in pain despite the severity of his wounds. He had dragged himself through the halls of the Ministry on a shattered knee with barely a whimper. It did not sit well with Voldemort. He remembered all too well the need to remain quiet no matter the torture. He had been a victim of it in the orphanage, making noise made him a target and he couldn’t help but feel pity for Harry that he too shared this experience. Once he was close enough for the boys myopic sight he expected him to quiver in fear and beg for his life. Instead harry whispered nearly too low to hear "Please kill me. Make the pain stop. Please."
Afterwards he will rationalize it as an effect of his horcrux being so close to his soul. But in that moment he couldn’t stop himself. His hand reached out of its own accord, dropping heavily on the boys nape and dragging the beaten body against his chest. The boy shivered in pain as fractured wrists scrambled at the fabric of Voldemort’s robes, broken fingers grasping for contact as heavy sobs shook his smaller frame. In a hushed voice he barely recognized as his own, Voldemort muttered "I’ll make the pain stop. Ill keep you safe" the instant those words left his mouth he felt his magic react. It washed through him and into Harry binding them somehow and he knew deep in his bones that he could never hurt this child. His Death Eaters rounded the corner and stilled at the sight before them but he ignored them all. Instead he carefully collected the boy's wand from his lax grip and apparated them away to his manor.
He was met with silent stares and utter confusion as he swept the boy into his arms and carried the sobbing wreck to his bedroom. Let the others think what they like he had more important matters to deal with. He was settling Harry onto the sheets, ignoring the blood splatters soaking into the fine cotton when a hesitant voice requested access to his room. It was the physician, Pembroke, a decrepit old man with an unhealthy interest in young girls. In short he was one of Voldemort’s least favourite people, unfortunately he was rather skilled and had a knack for curing the incurable. A silent nod had him rushing into the room, robes flapping behind him like something from a muggle cartoon, the Japanese ones.
A sharp look had the old man halting midstep and bowing so low his entire body creaked, “My Lord, are you injured? How may I assist you?”
Grudgingly Voldemort stepped away from the sleeping boy, just far enough that he could still hear the ragged breathing and tiny whimpers of pain as Harry lapsed into sleep, but not so close that he would give in to the urge to touch the younger man. “Harry is injured, I want him healed.”
Fearful and slightly dubious Pembroke unbent from the floor and stepped to Harry’s side, examining the boy with magic Voldemort knew not. Healing spells were never his forte. After several agonizing moments of oohing and huffing from the physician with no real improvement in Harry’s state, Voldemort lost all patience. “Well are you going to do something?!”
A grey pallor seemed to have settled on the doctor as he tried to put his results into words that would not get him killed. He could see him calculating behind those thick rimmed glasses, questioning his decision to come into this room at all. “If you do not tell me whatever is making you so nervous then I shall be forced to pull it from your mind myself. I assure you it would not be pleasant.”
Still hesitant, the man finally spoke, “My Lord, the boy is very injured but some skele-gro and a few choice spells should set him right again. However, there is another matter which concerns me. He is small, too small for his age and his bones are fragile. He will need to be put on nutrient potions immediately. There are also other injuries, ones which do not match any that you have. Well that is, they are older than they should be. I mean”
“You mean I did not cause them.”
“Yes my Lord. Some of them are very old and I imagine are from the muggle family he was placed with. There are old fractures which have never properly healed, I will need to re-break several bones to fix them. However, that is not what concerns me most. There is a spell, one which all physicians use whilst examining a patient. It determines their next of kin and is so automatic that I cast it on instinct rather than purpose.”
He was going to wring this windbags neck if he didn’t get to the point soon. “Are you being this long winded on purpose? Is this some new attempt at passive suicide I have never heard of?”
!
Fear flashed across Pembroke’s face as he stuttered out a denial, “NO! No my Lord. The spell, it named you as his kin! Obviously, I checked this against another spell and then another. When a family member, however distant, seeks protection from the head of their line, it creates a bond between the two. It is old magic, not often invoked as it holds only to the oldest, purest of bloodlines. As you are the Lord Slytherin, you are the head of your family. Harry must share your lineage. My Lord, you are unable to kill him, your magic will not allow him to come to harm. Deliberate or accidental it won’t matter, your magic will react and neutralize the threat. My Lord, Harry Potter now belongs to you.”
Something inside him revelled at this while another more rational part of his brain weighed the possible consequences of his actions. If Potter belonged to him then the war was won. His smile must have been wider than typical because it made Pembroke flinch back two paces before he recovered himself. “My Lord, Potter will feel an obligation to you. He will feel safe in your presence and content to remain there even if he doesn’t know why. The feeling, it will be mutual. You will want to protect him, keep him safe from harm. I do not know that this bond can be broken. I fear that any attempt to do so would not only strip you of your title but also your magic itself.”
Break it? Why would he break it? This was everything that he needed to win the war. Harry Potter, no Harrison Riddle Slytherin would stand by his side against the forces of light, together they would end this war.