#ao3 is Insanely-Yours96

[awyeahitssam]

“He can’t have come back in time,” Harry said. “There’s no way you would stop trying to kill me, no way for us to end up raising a kid together. No way you would ever miss me.”

In retrospect, fighting the Dark Lord in the Time Chamber had been a poor idea.

Their spells clashed in the middle. Sparks flew every which way, and then the room was cast into gold by priori incantatem.

Like the last time it had happened, Harry's hand had seized around his wand—he met red eyes through the blast—Voldemort's mouth was curled in a snarl—Harry's scar burned—they ended the connection in time, Voldemort’s wand snapping left as Harry’s followed to the right. 

A clock splintered and shattered under the residual energy. There was a sudden loud sound, like they were rushing through a wind tunnel, and then, between them on the floor, where the clock had shattered, appeared a young boy.

He wobbled on his legs for a moment before falling with an ‘oof’ of surprise. His eyes found Voldemort immediately and widened. He held out his arms to the Dark Lord and whined out, “Papa.”

Voldemort stayed frozen in place, red eyes wide.

Harry lowered his wand immediately, taking stock of the situation as quickly as he could. Voldemort’s eyes flickered to him, catching the movement. His expression had quickly reverted to neutral, but Harry could feel a blend of suspicion and surprise that mirrored his own. Voldemort seemed as at a loss as Harry was—didn’t seem to know the child who reached out and called him ‘papa.’

Voldemort wouldn’t hurt the boy, would he? Harry swallowed around the thought. He’d been perfectly willing to kill Harry when he was even younger.

Harry took a step forward.

“Cease,” the Dark Lord warned, voice high and cold as ever. “This ploy is sickening.” 

Ploy? Voldemort thought this was a trap of Harry’s—or, more likely, Dumbledore’s—devising? It was a child—and from his sheer discomfort, from his confusion, Harry knew that this was not a trap on Voldemort’s part. Although the man had lured him to the Department of Mysteries with false visions—if he could control the connection… 

“Up,” the little boy insisted, waving his arms a bit. “Up, papa!” 

Something in Harry ached. The young boy’s confusion and frustration at Voldemort ignoring his request to be held was obvious. Red eyes were narrowed, the mind behind them surely spinning as Harry’s did. Wasn’t Voldemort meant to be brilliant? He had probably already calculated and discarded dozens of scenarios—in the meanwhile, the boy was beginning to sniffle in a way that promised tears. 

“I have nothing to do with this,” Harry insisted, tone carefully even. He didn’t want to distress the child by fighting with his—perceived, because surely not—father in front of him. “We are making a mess in a room full of time turners. Maybe—” 

Maybe what? They had somehow pulled a boy from the future with their carelessness? A future where the Dark Lord had a wife, had a son? The back of his head was a mess of curls as dark as Tom Riddle’s hair had once been, but Harry could make out little else.

As if sensing his thoughts, (or far more likely, having heard Harry’s voice and realized there was somebody else in the room all along,) the boy turned. He was fair skinned with baby fat clinging to his face and a shirt that said “Slythergriff!” in enchanted text that shifted between green and gold. There was no mistaking his eyes, however. They were what caught him out. The same eyes Harry saw every day in the mirror. His mother’s eyes. 

They lit up on his in joy, a blinding grin spreading across the child's face. “Daddy!” 

He ran forward and threw himself into Harry’s arms, obviously no longer content to wait on Voldemort. Harry bent down automatically, catching the boy and lifting. He was perhaps fifteen kilograms, heavy enough that Harry’s arms strained a bit. 

“Papa said you're still gone,” the child blabbered excitedly, squirming until he was comfortable. He leaned back to meet Harry’s eyes, and would’ve fallen if not for Harry’s hand moving to his back to steady him, the other braced under his butt. “For ‘nother two days!”

“Did he?” Harry asked, feeling rather faint. “I—got back early.”

Harry saw Voldemort move out of the corner of his eyes and immediately tensed. His wand shot from the floor to his hand. Voldemort sneered at him, and Harry noticed that his yew wand had vanished from sight. 

“Where were you a moment ago, child?” the Dark Lord demanded. The boy looked back at him, his upset at Voldemort’s harsh manner of speaking obvious.

“Papa mad,” he whispered to Harry. “I was bad?”

Harry’s face twisted. ‘What did I do wrong?’ he had wondered at the same age, staring up at his Aunt and Uncle. ‘Why are they mad? Why do they hate me?’

Whatever the situation, he never wanted to hear this boy sound so desolate ever again. 

“No, darling, you weren’t bad.” The child relaxed instantly at Harry’s reassurance. His trust was obvious and heart-wrenching. “Your—papa is just confused. Can you remember where you were?”

“Yes,” he said, turning to face Voldemort more fully even as he snuggled back into Harry’s hold with a little sigh of happiness. “I was with Nipsy in kitchen. Being good, papa, promise.”

“I’m sure you were,” Harry soothed, before Voldemort could somehow make the situation worse. Red eyes were watching him closely, but Voldemort felt more intrigued than like he was about to rip Harry apart. “I feel like I’ve been gone for ages, little one. Can you remind me how old you are?” 

The boy beamed, not seeming upset in the least with his question. He held up his fingers quickly, the answer clearly practiced. “Four, daddy!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile back. “Very good,” he praised on automatic. “And what’s your full name again?” 

He giggled. “Daddy didn’t forget my name,” he said certainly. 

“Once learned, I could never forget it.” Harry said carefully. “Tell me anyway?” 

The boy huffed, “Practice meeting people ‘gain? ‘s boring.”

“People that meet you need to know your name,” Voldemort intoned, tone far less sharp than it had been.

“People always know, though. I don’t ever getta use what you teached me.”

“Taught you,” Harry corrected, as Voldemort took a deep breath. Harry’s scar was prickling, but there was no reprimand in Voldemort's voice when he replied, “There is never harm in practice.”

Looking a bit disheartened, the boy huffed, “‘Kay. I’m Micah Silas Gaunt Potter. Papa’s dictator—sorry, a dictator—and daddy’s dip… dipmad? Daddy makes the world better. And if ya take me ‘way, daddy can find us real quick and then you’d go ‘way forever.”

That sounded. Vaguely ominous. And odd, considering Harry had been labeled ‘daddy’. 

“What’s—that last part?”

Micah pouted. “I dunno, can’t ’member the word. It’s why you go ’way, so it’s dumb job.”

Harry hummed, brushing through the messy curls gently. “If I didn’t have to, I’m sure I would never leave you. But I’m more interested in my making people ‘go away forever’.”

“Oh. Papa said warn ev’rybody that you’d be really mad if they took me ‘gain. Cause when the mean woman stoled me, you made her go ‘way forever.”

Voldemort swept closer. Harry’s hand flexed around his wand. “And how did he do that, Micah?”

“You were there, papa, Daddy made green light for her ex-cution, ‘member?”

“Of course,” Voldemort said, eyes sticking on Harry. 

Micah craned his head to look at him. “Aren’t you gonna hug papa? He missed you lots too!”

Something in Harry twisted in revulsion at the idea of touching Voldemort, of hugging him, the man who had killed his family. “I… already gave him his hug, darling.”

“Oh.” Micah started wriggling. Harry helped him turn back around until he was clinging around his neck like a koala, careful to keep a hold on his wand. The boy settled with a yawn. “Missed you,” he muttered into Harry's neck, curling into him. “Papa’s bad at stories.”

If it was meant to be a whisper, it wasn’t a very good one. 

“I missed you too, darling,” Harry said, and then cast a silent sleeping spell. Something in him ached. He wanted this. Wanted family. He always had. He wasn’t even sixteen and yet he couldn’t wait—but he’d never have this. Especially not with Voldemort, who had taken his first family away. 

Harry's grip tightened protectively. He felt like he might cry. He took a deep breath and met red eyes. 

“Hurt him and I will break the prophecy,” Harry warned. 

“And why would you do that?”

Harry looked at the dark head of hair tucked under his chin. Why? “He has my mother's eyes.”

[awyeahitssam]

Hey! I was just wondering what your AO3 is (if you have one)? Sorry if you already said it somewhere, i couldn't find anything

It’s Insanely-Yours96. 🥰

UPDATE: Has been changed to awyeahitssam.