The Little One with Green Eyes

50: Fate's Chosen

-December 8, 1991-
Voldemort couldn't let Little One go, would never let his son go again if he had anything to say about it. He held Little One in a suffocating hold, the heavy weight in his arms reminding Voldemort that his baby was, in fact, alive. His fingers trembled as they carded through Little One's filthy hair, and every few seconds, Voldemort would press kisses to his face, his head, his arms, anywhere he could, constantly reassuring himself of Little One's safety.

"How is this possible?" he found himself asking, his magic instinctively searching for the tether that locked Little One and himself together. "I can't feel him..."

He looked up to see Grindelwald still standing in the entrance hall, a peculiar expression on his face. "You really care about him, don't you?" he asked, almost in awe.

Voldemort scowled. "He's my son," he said coldly, regaining his composure. He slowly stood, his arms still wrapped around Little One in a death-like grip. Little One nuzzled into the divot of Voldemort's collar, and the gesture filled him with warmth. It was a familiar feeling, something that Little One did whenever he was feeling stressed out or tired. It was something Voldemort never thought he'd feel again. "He's my son," he repeated. "Of course I care about him. I love him."

Grindelwald nodded curtly. "'M sorry about what he did."

Voldemort's lips pursed. "Doesn't matter," he replied coolly. "He's dead now."

If Grindelwald was surprised, he didn't show it. Voldemort had heard the rumors in his youth about the failed Dark Lord and Albus Dumbledore. There was no weight to the rumors, and nothing had ever been proven, so Voldemort had always dismissed them as nothing more than senseless gossip. However, looking at the small glint of grief in Grindelwald's eyes, Voldemort wondered if the rumors were true, and Dumbledore and Grindelwald really had been involved.

Grindelwald shuddered. "Why's it so cold here?"

"That would be me," Death said, still staring at Voldemort and Little One in awe. Though Grindelwald couldn't see or hear Death, he shivered anyway. "How can this be?" he whispered, slowly stepping towards them. "He... he was gone... I couldn't find his presence anywhere."

"I can't feel the tether," Voldemort said, addressing both men. "I thought he... I thought the fire..."

"You were the one who made him, right?" Grindelwald asked. Voldemort nodded silently. "He's really well-made. You are quite powerful, I suppose that's expected, though, being the great Lord Voldemort."

Voldemort bristled at the tone. "Explain what you're doing with my son and Draco Malfoy," he demanded. "Now."

Grindelwald glanced down at the unconscious boy. "Oh, is that who this is?" he asked. "I was wondering about that."

"Tell me what happened," Voldemort said tersely. "They need to go to the hospital wing. You have until we reach there to explain everything."

"Very well," Grindelwald said with a sigh. "Albus brought Harry to my prison cell four days ago. He was raving, he was, talking about defeating you and returning peace. Harry was devolving quickly, though. I tried to help him but I had magic-canceling cuffs on---"

"His name is Little One," Voldemort snapped. "Do call him that."

"Little One, then," Grindelwald said, his face scrunching up with distaste. "When was he supposed to be revitalized?"

"I try to perform the ritual on the Solstice each year," Voldemort said. "The stress and prolonged absence from my magical signature triggered his devolution."