A Change of Heart

Chapter Ten

Voldemort clenched his fists and hit the wall in frustration. He had no idea what made him go to Little Whinging. He just had wanted to see the boy, was almost compelled by something inside him, and he'd gone. Just in time to see Harry drive off two Dementors with his Patronus. A corporeal Patronus.
Voldemort had been stunned. Stunned at seeing the Dementors there. How could someone have sent the Dementors to a muggle inhabited area? As far as he knew, the ministry still controlled the Dementors. Which meant someone in the ministry had done this. Someone in the ministry had wanted to harm Harry.
He stopped short at that. When had the boy become Harry?
And there was the magic Harry had performed. A Patronus! Most fully trained wizards would not have known how to conjure a Patronus; nor did many know that only a Patronus could save them from a Dementor. Voldemort was less shocked that the boy actually knew how to summon a Patronus. He could only imagine the necessity that might have forced Harry to learn how to counter a Dementor. He remembered what Wormtail had told him about the boy's third year at Hogwarts. There had been Dementors all around the school. No doubt, Harry felt that he needed to learn to deal with them.
Wise decision, as it turned out. And that Patronus was quite substantial too. Then, that squib smelling of cats had rushed in, and Harry was struggling to keep his wand ready and to carry his cousin. Voldemort just had to step in.
He sighed. He did not know what possessed him to ask Harry for help. And what help was he expecting? It was not as if Harry was in a position to undo what had happened to him. If he was honest, he would have to admit it was only a pretext to prolong the conversation.
Unhealthily obsessed with Harry was right, except that he did not wish to kill him anymore. But he did not know what he wanted either. He only knew he had to see the boy.
Bad idea, thought he. He'd found the boy, found the place where he was staying. And he knew he would never be able to go within a block of his house if his intention was to harm Harry. He had to admire Dumbledore. The old fool had managed to adapt a little known spell and to weave an enchantment that could not be broken.
But he no longer wished to harm Harry. So, technically he should be able to approach the boy. If, that is, he'd read the spell's parameters right. He shrugged. He was never going to know unless he tried.
He apparated silently and directly into Harry's bedroom. He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction that his reading of the spell was correct. Voldemort could feel the strength of the magic inside the house. He shuddered. Had he come here to harm the boy, it would have destroyed him, all his horcruxes notwithstanding, being ripped from his body was not am experience he was keen to repeat. It was not really an enjoyable one.
He was brought out of his reverie by the sound of Harry moaning.
"Cedric... don't kill Cedric!"
Cedric? Voldemort remembered the boy who'd been with Harry the night he'd appeared in the graveyard. The boy he'd killed. Voldemort felt a twinge. And it shocked him. That had never, ever, happened to him.
Harry was tossing and turning, moaning. He was also sweating. Voldemort felt chilled. He had caused this. He was responsible for this. And this time, he felt more than a twinge.
He moved to the bed, climbing onto it and held the boy. Harry clutched to him in his sleep, "Don't let him kill Cedric!"
Voldemort held Harry, not knowing what to do. Harry mumbled Cedric's name again and was still, his breath evening; the nightmare had passed. Voldemort used his robe to wipe Harry's face. He did not want to use magic since it might get Harry into further trouble. After all, he was an underage wizard.
Holding Harry in his arms, Voldemort looked around the room. It was a small room and it was quite evident that this was not a place Harry belonged to. There were no personal mementos, nothing that stamped Harry's personality. Harry's belongings were strewn haphazardly around the room, but Voldemort could already see that none of those would be there once the school term started. His arms tightened around the sleeping boy almost unconsciously. Harry had lived in this house, probably in this room, for fourteen years. And yet, there was nothing here that marked this place as home.
Nothing except the magic that Dumbledore had put here to protect him.