Chapter Text
The bedroom door whooshes shut behind them and Harry suddenly finds himself flooded with fear - no. That’s not quite right. Nerves, it’s nerves. What if it doesn’t live up? What if he’s no good in bed? What if it hurts? Worst case scenarios zip through his head in rapid succession.
“I can feel you . . . thinking,” Voldemort murmurs. He glances at Harry out of the corner of his eye, circling. It’s reminiscent of the first time they came to the manor, Harry standing unsure and Voldemort taking a turn about the room in the most predatory manner possible. Except this time, Harry’s exactly where he means to be. Where he wants to be. And honestly the intimidation thing is kind of working for him, putting him back in territory where he knows what to do. He squares his shoulders. “Then make me stop.”
Voldemort’s head snaps towards him. “Why don’t you undress then, sweet boy.” He draws a finger along the line of Harry’s jaw softly then drops it.
Harry finds himself a little bashful, even though he’s slept in only his pants a couple times before. It’s different being watched. Sweater first, then t-shirt. The room feels strangely chilly and he can feel himself break out in gooseflesh. He hurries to undo and whip off his trousers, but takes his time with his pants, not wanting to tease, not having even nearly the confidence required to do it. But in sudden awareness of the momentous occasion, this final peeled-back layer of vulnerability. His clothes are in a lumpy pile on the floor, toes sinking into plush carpet, and Harry’s bare. He glances up shyly.
As if he were waiting for the cue, Voldemort takes Harry gently by the throat, surely feeling his pulse thundering there. He holds Harry in place that way, mouth pressing against Harry’s and immediately comforting him. This is familiar territory by now. Kissing is easy, kissing is great.
It’s just that last time, Harry was the one running the show. It was entirely his idea to blow his husband, his own initiative, his own act. This . . . in this, Harry knows he wants no power. And he’s pretty sure Voldemort knows that, too. And if he’s to get what he wants, it’s basically going to be a trust fall. He knows they haven’t been married long. Soulmates for only a few months. That’s not much time to adapt to the transition from mortal enemies to . . . well, lovers. But that’s already what they are, Harry reminds himself. This is just another step along that road.
His palm is pleasant on the delicate skin of Harry’s neck, fingers long enough to nearly reach around to the back. Harry’s adam's apple bobs a little as he realizes the vulnerability of his position and he can feel it move against the man’s hand. It’s a strange turn on for sure, but here they are. Tongue delving into Harry’s mouth, Voldemort seems to curl closer, holding him at the small of his back. The skin there jumps, Harry a great ball of nerves but excited. Every touch seems magnified, symbolic, laden with meaning. Fingers brush softly, stimulating, hair-raising in the best way. Harry’s scalp is prickling in anticipation of further pleasure. He feels primed for it. Ready. Ready now.
He pulls back from the kiss, enough to catch his husband’s attention and dart his eyes over to the bed meaningfully. Still unable to voice it.
Voldemort’s hand drifts lower in response, an index finger tracing a gentle slow circle over the curve of Harry’s arsecheek. Blood pools in opposite directions, shooting towards his face and pelvic region at the same time. It’s enough to make his head spin, just a single insinuative touch. He fights for composure, something he doesn’t expect to keep up all night. Hoping not too. But he’ll hold on as long as he can and take it as a badge of honor. The hand on his throat squeezes softly, loving almost. Harry’s eyelashes flutter.
His husband watches, rapt. Very few have likely survived this level of attention from him, of any kind.
“Kneel on the bed.” A shudder works its way through him, that certain quality back in Voldemort’s voice. Harry wants to bottle it by the gallon and chug it, glut himself on it.
The hand on his throat drops, trailing a soft caress down his front with the backs of the nails. They skip and skid over the carved skin of his soulmark. Harry’s helpless against another full-body shudder, lip wobbling. He’s nearly distressed at this degree of wanting, needing to be touched.
He steps away to walk forward and crawl onto the bed. It stands tall, at hip height. So when he kneels and Voldemort is quick to pull him backwards to rest against his chest, Harry’s head rests against his shoulder. He’d thought Voldemort would wait, taunt him a little, test his reactions and let anticipation mount. Waltz about the room, make him stew in his nerves. Not so. A palm swipes down Harry’s chest and abdomen proprietarily. He can feel the chest behind him rise and fall with a sigh. Something about this feels almost careful. Or maybe reckless.
Perhaps Harry’s not the only eager one.
Voldemort’s been waiting a long time.
A single finger trails lower, down the cradle of his hips to trace a barely-there line along his cock in early flush. Harry sucks in a breath at the feeling, practically a happy hiss. They both watch his hand move slowly. Voldemort runs fingers over his bollocks as well, making Harry’s chest heave. He trails lower still, until Harry can feel him stroking dryly at his hole. It makes his heart stutter and hearing Voldemort’s voice in his ear really doesn’t help. “This is where you want me, isn’t it Harry?”
Nodding weakly is all he feels capable of, words run dry as the touch at the join of his body. Perhaps this is the little test he’d been expecting, made to wait and sit still while the man effectively pokes and prods at the most intimate areas a person can have. Voldemort applies a little more pressure and for a moment Harry worries he’s going to do it dry, but then relaxes. He wouldn’t do that.
He can almost imagine he’s feeling Voldemort’s pleasure at the loosening of his posture and tension. Harry spreads his knees wider, as wide as he can while kneeling up on the bed.
With a gesture, Voldemort commands the nightstand open and bids a bottle of oil into his grasp. Once again, Harry is glad they aren’t on opposite sides anymore, or at least facing each other down at wandpoint. He’s married a very powerful wizard.
Popping the cork, the hand fondling him retracts to receive a generous coat of oil. Harry eyes the glistening moisture dazedly, unable to believe he’s actually about to get what he wants. And also strangely jealous. He wants those fingers in three places at once. And unless Voldemort spontaneously grows a third arm, it looks like that won’t be on the agenda for the evening. “Don’t worry, Harry,” Voldemort whispers into his ear, the literal devil on his shoulder. His hand dips back below sight and into intense, delicate tactile sensation. Harry can feel the slick skin bypass his balls to probe at his hole again. He moans a little, feeling himself flutter. “I know you like fingers in your mouth.” The pads of his free fingers float up Harry’s body to linger at the corner of his parted mouth and it’s a struggle not to dip his head to try and fetch them inside, a battle he both loses and wins. “I know you like me inside.” Here, his finger down below presses in and Harry’s heart stutters. It’s really happening.
And Harry knows he’s supposed to be weirded out by the sensation, to have to adapt and ease into it. But he does want him inside, however he can get him. So he sucks on what’s in his mouth, hopes desperately, impossibly for Voldemort to reach down into his throat and choke him that way. And he lifts and shoves down on the finger breaching him, moving it deeper. Not by much, but enough to be symbolic of his intent.
Voldemort laughs. Really does, warmth infused and god it’s a crying shame Harry can’t see it happen. But he can imagine. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes, non-lips curved around straight teeth, cheeks pulled higher at the motion. He feels it echo out of his husband’s chest into his, and that’s enough, it has to be. Tears prick strangely at the corner of his eyes. This is everything he ever wanted. Not really everything everything, but in the important ways that he thought his dream was taken from him, this moment renders that fear false. Warm tracks of tears wend their sudden way down his cheeks. A very soft sob hitches in his chest, fingers muffling everything and keeping him safe and full. Then they leave. Harry’s chin is jerked up and to the side. Everything about Voldemort’s face reads, ‘What?’ He hadn’t been expecting this, when he’s probably predicted everything else Harry’s reactions have had to offer. From the very beginning, perhaps. A strangely pleasing thought - to be understood and yet still able to surprise. That honestly just makes him more emotional. Someone gets him, has him.
“I’m just - “ Harry stops and then has to start again, broken up a little by another hitching breath. “I’m happy. Sorry.” Voldemort’s expression begins to reconfigure itself to something actually rather fond.
“Don’t apologize.” He thumbs Harry’s tears away only for them to be replaced with more spilling down. Even this is just more proof of it - his dream is alive. And here.
It’s just . . . hard to separate himself from that, steel himself against it. And while he would normally want to, to maintain composure and/or please Voldemort, right now it doesn’t feel worth it. No, he wants to be free, wholly himself, no longer questioning his thoughts or reactions or anything. So he lets himself cry and Voldemort lets him, too.
Perhaps he should be embarrassed to be crying in a sexual situation, but instead he feels safe. Able to.
Voldemort doesn’t seem bothered, so he won’t be either. He’s stroking Harry’s cheek, in fact. The lamps bathe them both in buttery yellow lighting, rendering everything soft-edged. Everything feels soft-edged, too.
“Eager boy . . . “
“I know, I’m sorry,” and Harry doesn’t even mean this apology, he just doesn’t know how else to communicate acknowledgement. “I just - I’m ready. And I - “
He doesn’t know how to finish, either.
Tipping his chin with a clean hand, Voldemort wipes more tears away and Harry has the sudden thought that if the fucking is as good as he hopes it’ll be, the gesture will be pointless because there’ll just be more tears. He smiles a little smile at the thought, feeling sweet rather than devious. Harry can feel the curve of his lips, feels alluring with it, feels more confident with it. He tilts his head and glances up at his husband through his lashes.
A mouth smothers over his own and Harry opens wide to accommodate the tongue in his mouth, the ardor of the movement. Palms smooth down and up his torso. He feels electrified by the skin on his own. The free contact. The roving feeling of pleasure circulating through his blood and singing. Lit from within, he lets himself make whatever noise he wants and if it manifests as a loud, longing moan, well. So be it.
There’s a slick hand passing back over his cock, brushing gently past. Fingers prod at his hole again and Harry spreads his thighs even wider on the bed to make himself as available as possible.
One slips inside and again, it’s an unusual feeling but he rides it out by trying to ride it. He bounces on his heels to drive it deeper, with success. He inhales sharply through his nose at the strange feeling and bounces again on instinct. Voldemort strokes his finger in and out, pressing at the insides of an area Harry has paid tremendously little attention to in the past. Suddenly, it finds itself center stage. His husband pulls away long enough to shush him and it’s only then he realizes he’s been making little noises, sounding somewhere between wanting and upset. Voldemort’s mouth on his own distracts him enough not to let him get too self conscious. Excitement and nerves ignite and flash through his system. And if this is just fingers, just one, Harry can only hope and pray that penetration is enough to put him out of his mind entirely.
Voldemort squeezes another finger slowly inside. Harry’s still working hard not to bounce on his heels to get more, take more, just so they can keep kissing. So when Voldemort pulls back again, his body takes that as a carte blanche to pump up and down on the fingers as hard as it can without dislodging them entirely. The slick, filthy sounds that makes in the absence of any other audible sounds in the room, or indeed, perhaps many square miles, lights Harry’s ears afire. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to, not for anything. Voldemort’s fingers begin to curl down and down until they hit on something - something white hot and searing that flashes behind Harry’s eyes. He can hear himself shout. His hips falter but the fingers don’t let up and arc cleverly upwards again, and hit on it unerringly. Harry makes a low punched-out noise like a wounded animal. He doesn’t even sound like a person anymore, at least not a coherent one.
“Oh Harry . . . “ Voldemort murmurs in his ear, fingers still moving slickly in and out, the noise of it loud in the stillness of the bedroom. “You’d let me do just about anything to you right now, wouldn’t you?”
Harry nods mindlessly, then shakes his head to shake off the dazed confusion. Voldemort chuckles at him again, a rumble that reverberates from one chest to the other. A hand slides slyly down Harry’s front, to tangle in his pubic hair. Curled fingers knock into that spot again Harry hadn’t even known existed before tonight. It’s like knocking on the door to a different dimension, he swears he can feel something amazing on the other side of it, like spying light under a door.
Hand traveling upwards, Voldemort strokes lovingly at his throat, pushing until Harry’s head is rested back on his shoulder and fingers are curling around as far as they go. He squeezes softly.
Harry’s blood buzzes with excitement. “H-harder.” His own voice jolts him back into awareness of his position, of his own vulnerability. He expects Voldemort to get angry, remind him who’s calling the shots or dole out some embarrassing punishment. But he’s wrong yet again.
“As you wish,” Voldemort whispers sibilant and strange. His hand tightens on Harry’s throat, twice as hard just like the fingers down below pump in harder, pressing in on the walls. Harry’s never been so hard in his life, for all that he can’t seem to fully feel his body. Extremities seem far away. He can’t remember the last time he used his hands, hanging limply at his side.
“Please,” is all he can say. ”P-please.” And perhaps it’s pathetic of him to beg for scraps like this, but it doesn’t feel like begging and this certainly doesn’t feel like scraps. He imagines for but a moment what this scene would look like to an outside observer and then firmly blocks the thought out. Voldemort squeezes again and holds for several seconds longer, until Harry’s toes are twitching and the tip of his nose grows strangely warm with absence of oxygen and he can’t quite think at all anymore. It’s like a reverse panic attack. This is quite possibly the best he’s ever felt.
He pants on the come down as the hold loosens, lungs dragging in as much air as they can hold at a time. Fingers punch at his internal hotspot again and all his voice box can muster is a rough wheeze. His body twitches with it.
Voldemort hums behind him, a noise that, were Harry less insensate, would be infuriatingly composed. He clutches Harry’s throat tight again, giving him less recovery time. Fingers race in and out of Harry’s hole, well and truly fucking him now, and when seven seconds go by, eight, nine, Harry nearly comes. He feels himself right there on that ledge, teetering on one side and then just balancing out on the other. His throat is released. He sucks in air as quickly as he can, body taking the steering wheel and demanding relief. The curled fingers slow and Harry prepares for them to exit, for him to be allowed to cool down and be taken.
Then they ram back inside and knock hard on that holy place again, harder than all the times before. Voldemort chokes him in earnest. Harry can’t get a sip of air, not until he comes. He knows this, knows this without being told, and the unspoken communication almost more than the dominance of it has him tumbling head over feet over that ledge. His mouth rounds on a silent, voiceless, breathless scream. His vision grows white and unfamiliar and the door parts for a brief, unbelievable moment.
And slams shut. His taught body falls completely limp and into Voldemort’s hold like a puppet with its strings cut. He pants raggedly without concern for the world around him. He feels himself being tugged and turned and rearranged and has little care for it. Sparks of white still dance faintly in his vision and take time to clear entirely.
He’s gazing at the ceiling, he realizes, then Voldemort’s face comes into view. Harry reaches for him, curling arms around his bare shoulders. It’s different, all-skin, and wonderful. He drags him down to rest front to front. The body above is still cooler than it should be and it’s heaven on his overheated self. He presses an unabashed kiss to the side of his husband’s head. Harry sighs in happiness. He’s not entirely sure he’s ever heard himself ever make quite that sound before. The subtle movement of Voldemort’s shoulders suggests more quiet laughter and isn’t it the strangest thing? This is the most he’s ever heard him laugh and it’s in bed. Harry feels like he’s unlocked a higher level in a video game or something. It’s okay if he’s laughing at Harry rather than with; anything to keep this feeling going.
Harry moans happily as their bodies rub together. Voldemort gets a hand on his spent cock, the flesh there crying out in protest from oversensitivity. He moans again anyway, liking it. His body’s past being able to tense in pleasure, too lax from orgasm outside the occasional twitch every time it remembers what it felt like to be completely dominated by someone else’s whim. He tilts his head and searches for Voldemort’s mouth hungrily until he finds it and seizes his opportunity to kiss the living daylights out of him with both hands. This time, it’s his tongue prowling about, his jaw working with the force of his kiss. His legs wrap themselves around the hips above, arms wound around the man’s shoulders, well and truly hanging off of him like a spidermonkey. Their lips part, a strand of saliva webbing between their mouths, and Harry’s panting in ardor, thrilling in everything, basking in finally, finally getting the reward for all his patience. Or about to be, anyway. Something primal is awakening in him, something animal. He rubs upwards into Voldemort’s hand, feeling raw and stripped of inhibition. The night is far from over, if Harry has anything to say about it. So when Voldemort sits up, Harry nearly shouts in protest. Any - any amount of distance is intolerable. “Shhh sweet boy,” Voldemort says and manipulates Harry’s body to turn over until he’s flat on the mattress, Harry complying in spite of his instincts. He pulls Harry back and up onto his knees, face down and buried in the thick bedding.
Even as turned on and wild as he is, Harry still finds it in himself to be a bit embarrassed by the sheer exposure of the position, Voldemort pulling his legs wide again. He can feel lubricant cool around his hole. A fine-boned hand smooths down his spine to press his shoulders even deeper into the mattress. “You’ll be good for me, won’t you Harry?” Voldemort murmurs intimately. Harry feels himself being watched, skin pricking with it.
“I - always.”
Breath drawn through the nose is audible in the quiet of the manor. Harry reaches a hand back blindly to grasp for Voldemort’s hip, guide him closer, have something to hold. “I’ll always be good for you,” Harry repeats, voice muffled somewhat by the duvet, actually grateful not to have to look Voldemort in the eye as he says it. He means it, too much.
With a sudden yank of the hips, Voldemort drags him roughly closer, back on to his cock where it presses blunt and warm against Harry’s backside. He shoves Harry back down into the bedding again, by the shoulders.
Harry gasps in anticipation, a whine sitting somewhere high in his throat. Please please please please please - Somewhere along the line, he thinks he starts vocalizing the thought.
The head presses in, slow and sure and not stopping, not for a moment, not until it’s slid all the way home. Harry wants to howl.
He pants and groans with the foreign stretch but his body is already craving more, someway somehow, even when edging into very uncomfortable territory. Pulling forward and pushing back on it, Harry’s hips and voice act fully without him, emitting a high pitched fucked-out sound.
Voldemort doesn’t still him, no, instead he withdraws and fucks back inside with a slam. The sound Harry makes could be used against him in a court of law. He’s already drooling into the bedcovers, open-mouthed and panting. “H-har - “ is all he manages to get out between gasping breaths before Voldemort is slamming in and out, railing their bodies together as hard Harry could ever really ask for.
He’s shaking. The noises coming out of his mouth are wholly unfamiliar and it’s equally strange to hear his husband’s hurried, labored breath from exertion. Like the world gone sideways.
Cock moves deep inside him. A hand lands on the back of his neck and squeezes. Harry melts a little into the mattress at the comfort of it. Relaxing his muscles this way allows Voldemort to slide that much deeper and Harry wails at the touch of his cock to what is rapidly becoming clear is the most sensitive spot on his body. Voldemort hammers at it mercilessly, until Harry is yelping on every thrust. Balls slap at him roughly with every slide home and something about that is just so filthy it turns him on even more. Fuck me, he prays. Fuck me harder. I don’t want to think anymore.
His own cock feels fairly ready to fall off from being overburdened with repurposed blood yet again. He feels so good it almost stops being pleasant and starts being something else. Something wholly other. Foreign. The hand on his neck slides up to fist in the back of his hair and press the side of his face as far into the mattress as it will go. Something about it is, Harry feels, supposed to be degrading, subjugatory, but instead he just feels exhilarated.
The thrusts are getting rougher still and Harry can only be glad of being thoroughly fingered in advance to ease adjustment. And as the rough treatment sends him deeper and deeper below, he can only be glad of the air in his lungs, the cock inside him, the blood sizzling in his veins like liquid lava. The world narrows down to those things, the physical, the visceral, the undeniable here and now. Soft, sturdy fabric against his cheek, growing wetter with drool. Glasses digging into the side of his nose and temple where they both forgot to take them off. Slick, slapping noises as he’s fucked with near ferocity. Cool night air singeing his scorching skin. Heady human smells blooming from the act of sex. Directly in his line of sight, the side table with its vase of flowers sits vigil against the wall, as mundane as can be in this impossible moment, almost proving the reality of what’s happening in its mundanity. He can hardly believe in a world where everything is normal and he gets to have this.
Throat beginning to feel raw from whining and moaning and panting, Harry’s helpless to stop it. He keens on another brutal thrust, sweat sliding down his body as it shakes and trembles. He can barely stay on his knees. The hand in his hair grips tighter.
Voldemort grinds circles into him and it almost feels like a reward, the pleasure punishing. Heat sits in the base of Harry’s spine, leeching slowly upward.
The cock rutting into him becomes the only thing Harry cares about, thinks about, wants. He claws at the duvet like a wild animal. Another hand on his throat would be nice.
Instead, a hand jerks down to his front and grasps his desperately leaking cock in a cruel grip. Harry shouts brokenly, nearly a sob. “I - “
Pumping up and down and up and down, Harry feels his head spinning and the light in his eyes grow warm-toned, and the heat at the base of his spine surges suddenly to grip at his whole body. He shrieks, coming on Voldemort’s cock as he pounds away at him and spilling come absolutely everywhere. This time his eyes are wide open as he stares at the wall in disbelief, claws futilely at the bedcover, cries. Kaleidoscope vision dazes and entrances him, body slowly sinking into a deeper relaxation than he previously thought possible. That is, until it becomes clear Voldemort intends to fuck him to completion, to satisfaction, to kingdom come.
His moan sounds more like a long cry. He wants Voldemort’s cock in him forever, and he wants it out yesterday. The thrusts gather speed and strength, to the point where Harry’s almost sure he can’t take anymore, then Voldemort comes with a rough shout, something victorious in the sound. Harry finds he doesn’t mind.
Cock still moves in him until it can’t anymore. He can feel - fluid gushing down his thigh and shudders. Voldemort relinquishes the deathgrip on his hair to smooth down his spine again. Harry settles back into his skin with it, basking in the relaxed set of his bones. At long last, his mind is quiet. He closes his eyes and slumps until fallen fully flat.
Small sounds fill the room. Feet padding on the carpet. The faucet running in the bathroom. The slight tilt of the bed as his husband leaves and returns gently rocks his limp body.
Harry can feel himself being wiped clean, too totaled to blush or even blink at the action.
Arms resting by his head where they’d braced him during sex, he watches his fingers softly twitch. He’s glitching, radio static in his head. He’s still open-mouthed as his breathing calms and quiets, duvet wet under his cheek. Harry’s too tired to even move away from the many, many wet spots on the bed. Hands run their course over his back, just simple touch then kneading the muscle a little. Even that fails to stir him. Voldemort turns him over. Harry puts in zero effort.
Slitting his eyes open, he passively observes his husband wiping the come and sweat and saliva off his body. The pillowy washcloth swipes gently at his cheek and Harry only has the faintest glimmer of a wondering why Voldemort doesn’t just cast a scourgify instead of putting in all this effort. But the thought is far away, and nothing approaching a worry or an irritation. Lips press to his face, a thumb thumbing over his eyebrow. His glasses are lifted from his face and set on the nightstand. The lamp clicks off. Voldemort covers him like a blanket, then covers them with a blanket for real. Cocooned inside, Harry slides into deep sleep almost immediately. It’s a tragedy he can’t stay here, bask here, live here, but he’s so tired he doesn’t even register the transition, let alone go down fighting. He only knows he’s cradled close, warm, safe.
Dawn lights the room in a soft bluish glow. An early night in spells an early morning out.
Harry can hardly believe the injustice of ever having to leave this bed, but there’s time yet. He can’t tell if Voldemort’s asleep or awake or somewhere in that twilight land in between, and doesn’t care. They’re breathing together, sharing heat together. That’s all he needs to know.
Neither dreams nor nightmares touched him last night - the thoughtlessness had been long lasting. He turns his cheek into the pillow, grinning to himself. Finally. Finally.
Apparently awake enough to move limbs with intention, Voldemort brushes a palm along Harry’s torso. They’d moved quite a bit in their sleep, tangled tight. Fingers touch at his throat and from this angle, Harry can spy the slight tilt of Voldemort’s mouth. It’s enough to get him grinning again, hiding his face back in the pillow. His husband threads through his hair, combing what must surely be some wild tangles. They lay there in the gathering light of day, blue fading into brighter tones until daylight reigns supreme. The view outside promises beautiful weather, the clouds all blown away.
Eventually Harry groans, resistant to any change to his current situation but body growing inevitably restless after a certain duration of wakefulness. Voldemort squeezes the back of his neck in comfort. Harry sighs huffily, then does it again. Only then is he willing and able to push himself upright and climb out of bed.
This brings the soreness of his ass and more importantly lower back into stark relief and he takes a moment to recalibrate. He’d expected something like this and in truth it’s part of his hesitation to part with the lovely little situation in bed.
Making his careful way over to the en suite bathroom, Harry revels in the cool air on his bare skin. He snaps the lights on and gasps and gapes at his reflection staring right back at him looking startled out of his wits. Deep, dark purple bruises in the clear shape of a palm and fingers sit stark on the thin skin of his throat. Harry is helpless against coming closer to the mirror to get a better look. Broken and offended blood vessels reaped their revenge against last night’s activities, no doubt about it. The damage is higher than even a high collar or turtleneck or scarf could hope to hide. He’s alarmed by that, he is, but not . . . wholly displeased. Another shocking discovery in itself. Last night happened and the evidence is right there, painted on his skin like watercolor. He reaches to touch, then hesitates, nearly afraid of smearing it. A hell of a souvenir.
Reluctantly, he drags himself away from the mirror to take care of himself. He showers off, hosing down any remaining residue from the night before. There’s a souvenir he’d rather do without. The shower and the shock of the bruising and memories of it all invigorate him. It’s impossible to wipe off this slow sloppy smile that plasters itself across his face.
He sweeps back into bed with a little bounce, applying himself to Voldemort’s bare body with alacrity. Still a bit damp from the shower, but he gets no complaints. The wizard wraps an arm around Harry and speaks without opening his eyes. “Admiring your bruises?” Fingers trail delicately down his throat.
Harry blushes brilliantly when he thought himself rather past all that. In truth, he’d expected to be disappointed in feeling different in any significant way after having sex. That this was a misconception and trite little thing people talk about but doesn’t actually happen. In this case, however, he’s noticing feeling different indeed. Like a bright ball of energy is in his gut, feeling excited and anticipatory. He hides his face in Voldemort’s neck and tells the truth, says, “Yes.”
Voldemort hums, a deep vibration from below. Harry cuddles closer.
Basking in the warmth of the bed, he thinks of all the terms of affection Voldemort’s used on him. My dear, my sweet, my soulmate. My, my, my. Mine. Boy somehow implies ownership, too. Possession. It’s all true. All of it. He doesn’t have to hope, not anymore. He has it already, what he wants.
It’s torture, leaving bed. But eventually they must. Voldemort’s not a man given to idle activity and Harry himself easily grows bored.
He’d insist on a repeat performance of last night, but can feel his body protest at the thought - it’s only just learning how to adapt to this sort of thing. Harry watches Voldemort dress, smiling even at that simple act. He gets to watch the armor come on. He hands the man his wand, fetching it over from the nightstand, and Voldemort accepts it with a kiss. It’s so strange to feel this lit up inside from simple things, and yet these days is it really that strange at all? In the bathroom, Harry watches in the mirror as the medicinal cream Voldemort smooths onto his throat quickly puts the hand-shaped bruising into fade. The stark purple shades into green, to yellow, to gone. He finds himself sorry to see them go and is long past being bewildered by it, perhaps more quietly baffled and curious. The cream has a distinctive sort of smell and stings the nostrils a little. Harry just wonders how Voldemort thought to have it on hand. They leave an old and fading love bite over the collarbone undisturbed, by unspoken mutual preference. Christ, this nonverbal communication is nearly erotic to him.
Voldemort breaks it, voices the tragedy of having to heal the bruises so soon, in his own mild way. “A lovely shade for you, a good contrast for the eyes,” he murmurs. Harry starts, realizing it’s the first time Voldemort’s mentioned them - it’s usually what people who met his mother lead with. Though, ‘met’ is a very mild choice of word. “It’s how we first tracked you, you know,” the man adds, sly. “You forgot to change your eyes at that little waystation in Suffolk - a British witch or wizard would know the shade anywhere.” Harry gulps and doesn’t say anything. He never knew he cut it that close, that they’d managed to track him so far. Thank god it all turned out the way it did.
And indeed, their eyes are steady on each other from opposite ends of the dining table. Harry’s not even sure what expression he’s making or how much of the breakfast on his plate actually makes it into his stomach. He only knows he’s happy and he doesn’t care how goofy it looks on his face. When Nagini slithers idly into the room with Hedwig perched on her spine, that really doesn’t help. Together in that pose, they look like nothing so much as the flag of Mexico. They’ve been keeping each other company even more lately, keeping his husband company, too. Harry doesn’t know how much of his work keeps him at home, but he’s always here by the time Harry ends his day.
And he’s going to be working all day no doubt, and Harry can’t possibly faff about on his knees next to him the whole time just out of sheer desire to be close. Even with all his objectively terrible decision making, he knows that’s not healthy, not sensible.
So it’s with great reluctance and self-discipline that he reels himself back from a lengthy, thorough kiss at the head of the table, ass nearly perched atop it. He wants to crawl into his husband’s lap and never leave. Pressing what he tells himself will be a final kiss to Voldemort’s lips, he’s helpless against two more. Harry strokes his cheek with a roving thumb and lets the last little bit of contact fuel him for today. He leaves wordlessly, letting his eyes do all the talking. Voldemort’s are similarly communicative, at least in Harry’s book. Harry can feel the side of his mouth lift in quiet farewell.
Apparating to Ollivander’s, Harry slips into the back of the shop amid bright daylight and a spotless sky.
“Ah, greetings Mr. Potter,” old Ollivander says distractedly from the workshop and leads him seamlessly into the tasks of the day. The apprenticeship seems to be coming along smoothly, no hiccups so far or significant roadblocks. It doesn’t hurt that the two of them get along rather well. Harry spends long, satisfying hours fusing wand cores to wood, practicing in an anticipation of the real thing. Ollivander takes over the process midway to ensure a usable final product so no ingredients are wasted.
At last, Harry pops his back as he stretches and lets out a content yawn. “Lunch time, I think,” he mentions to Ollivander, who hums in vague acknowledgement and waves him away.
Even that makes Harry smile. It’s with a pep in his step that he exits the front door and travels down Diagon Alley. Early afternoon light blazes overhead, warming the sun soaked streets. So carefree is Harry that it takes him several moments to realize he’s completely forgotten to notice-me-not himself, drawing many many eyes. And honestly, he’s nearly past caring - what’s the harm in it anyway? He exists, doesn’t he? Why shouldn’t he be able to take a damn stroll?
Well. Perhaps it might be best to ease into it a little more - presently he has no protection against bloodthirsty journalists, rabid fans, or the like. He draws his wand from under the sleeve of his jumper to cast the charm and that’s when disaster strikes.
Spellfire rains down on him in a bright white arc like lightning. It’s only years of having to defend life and limb from a very tender age that has Harry whipping out a protego shield in time.
Another burst of spell light jet towards him and he bodily dodges it. A Death Eater materializes near him casting defensive spells and snapping into a back-to-back position with Harry. He sees the other one ducked around the side of a building with a wand pressed to his forearm. People are screaming and running, spilled bags and things everywhere. It’s pandemonium. Harry’s got to be careful not to cast anything dangerous where it could accidentally hit a bystander.
Wizards in dark blue robes cluster around them in a rough circle, at least nine of them. Harry’s quick to Stupefy one, then try for number two. There’s a wizard in blue on a rooftop that the Death Eater at his back strikes with a nasty hex. Harry dodges whatever spells he’s never heard of before, not sure if his shield spells will work for them. The second Death Eater takes down one of the attacking wizards from behind and engages in a lengthy exchange of spellwork before being cut down by another.
A ploom of black mist diffuses in the middle of the street, accompanied by the loud unmistakeable crack of apparition. Voldemort appears from within, in full glory. Harry feels his heart nearly glow with relief.
Harry hears the Death Eater at his back collapse to the ground and whips around to guard himself where he’s now exposed to sudden threat. Rapid exchanges of curses pass back and forth, many Harry’s never heard of before. He just barely has the presence of mind to keep from dodging too much, lest something pass through to hit Voldemort instead. Harry spies an opening and disarms one of the wizards in blue with a well-placed expelliarmus. The circle around them is disbanding and moving into a less structured formation. Harry glances back at Voldemort in pride to see that he saw, and flashes him a wide smile, something wild and pure in it. He nearly wants to mime blowing on the tip of his wand like the smoking muzzle of a gun, he’s feeling that much adrenalin and giddiness raging through his veins. He hears very familiar words echo in his ears, a hoarse shout of AVADA KEDAVRA!, and doesn’t see the green spell light coming.
No. He only sees the fierce battle joy on Voldemort’s face turn into a mask of horror as if time itself has slowed. A hand reaches for him. Between the space of one heartbeat and the next, Harry stands tall and full of life, then the spell light hits him and he’s gone.
Harry’s eyes flutter open, hearing back online in a sudden rush of sensory overload. A raw inhuman scream is filling the open air mid-vocalization, something bone-chilling and not of this earth. The sound runs long, goes ragged, and breath surges into his chest like it’s suddenly remembered how to do it. He can see furious spellfire arc overhead, black and green and blue, fire and water and lightning. Tilting his head on the gritty cobblestone path takes all the energy he can muster as everything falls quiet.
Voldemort stands beside him. He’s hunched and heaving with breath and wand arm lifted. Something animal radiates from him. From his vantage point on the ground, Harry can only see collapsed wizards, blood on the street, no one left standing. The wand arm lifts higher. Voldemort is undeniably about to kill.
Lifting a weak hand, it’s all Harry can do to reach for the hem of Voldemort’s robes and tug lightly, barely there. Voldemort stills.
His fine head turns to gaze at Harry with something unnameable. Shock is there, certainly. Wonder, yes. But there’s something more, something else, and Harry intends to spend the rest of his long life discovering what. Voldemort bends and folds in towards Harry as if a natural, inevitable phenomenon. He reaches the ground slowly, radiating disbelief. Voldemort holds out a hand to touch Harry’s face but hesitates as if unsure it’s really there. A mirage.
Harry tilts his head a little more and the corner of his mouth quirks.
“How . . . ?”
The word is whispered, reverent. Voldemort’s eyes hold a worshipful light as if in the presence of god.
Energy’s coming back to Harry’s body, enough for him to lift a hand and cup Voldemort’s own, bring it into contact with Harry’s cheek. Harry’s lips curve on a small smile. A pained and mournful moan sounds off from beyond their little bubble.
Voldemort whips his wand around to cast a nonverbal curse that has the receiving party falling suddenly silent.
When he turns back to Harry, Harry only shrugs lightly. He hasn’t got a clue. He won’t argue with the results - he’s grateful to be alive. Realization surges over Voldemort’s face, a cast of sudden knowledge clearly snapping through him. Whatever that realization might be, he doesn’t share it or even have time to.
Pops resound around them, contingents of red-robed aurors ripping into existence. They secure the scene with wands trained on the wizards littering the street. Some regard Harry and Voldemort with hesitance and fear. With fascination for the Dark Lord’s bared face. One breaks ranks and approaches and Harry recognizes suddenly that it’s Kingsley. He tries to climb to his feet to greet him only to be held down by a heavy hand on his chest. Voldemort quells him with a look.
“He needs St. Mungo’s,” he orders without greeting.
“Already on the way,” Kingsley assures as more pops of apparition fill the air. “Ah, here they are now. Over here!” he waves a hesitant cluster of mediwizards and witches over.
“What, ah, what seems to be the problem?” the bravest of them manages to ask intelligibly. Voldemort stands.
“Run every test you have on him. Leave nothing out.” It’s a command more than an answer, but nobody’s bold enough to challenge it. They snap to it. Harry’s floated onto a collapsible stretcher and he tries not to complain about it.
People are ducking their heads out of the shops and businesses, deeming the coast clear now that aurors and mediwizards have flooded the alley. Harry sees his hopes of having quietly survived the killing curse once again have been foiled in the way they look at him in awe and fear. He finds himself grateful when he’s zapped away to St. Mungo’s.
They float him into a private room and into a hospital bed reminiscent of those at the hospital wing at Hogwarts, but made of carved wood. It’s certainly cozier than a Muggle hospital room, that’s for sure. Harry’s made to lay in bed while all manner of tests, spells, and assessments are administered to him. Voldemort looms next to the bed, watching everything nearly unblinking. Spying the shake of the mediwizard and witches’ hands, Harry feels a bit guilty. It’s hardly optimal working conditions for them. And indeed he wonders when he and Voldemort became an ‘us’ and everyone else became a ‘them’.
Things get a bit embarrassing when he’s instructed to take off his shirt and caramel colored jumper. He has a sudden recollection that some might understandably have a reaction to his soulmark.
Reluctantly dragging the clothing over his head, Harry realizes he has more to be worried about still. They didn’t use the bruise cream on the love bite on his collarbone and even faded it stands out, obvious and difficult to miss. Harry averts his eyes from the cluster of mediwitches and wizards in the room. The soulmark is as livid and splashy as ever and Harry’s feeling suddenly insecure about it where lately he’s been feeling at peace. It’s hard not to cover it with a modest hand. There’s a pause in the air, collective intaken breath, then exhale as a witch comes closer to cast the next diagnostic. Her nose twitches, a thoughtful wrinkle forming in her brow. She sniffs the air even while casting. It takes a minute, but even so, recognition flashes in her eyes. She looks Harry’s torso over and then at his face carefully. The cream! The smell was so distinctive, clinging close to the skin. But there’s no way she’d recognize the smell . . . right?
The sad, worried look in her eye tells another story. Harry tries to smile at her in reassurance but he thinks it probably makes it worse. So embarrassing.
Diagnostic spells set his bones buzzing, make parts of his body selectively glow and his skin prick. St. Mungo’s staff are as good as their word and run what must conceivably be every test they have on him. It’s exhaustive but hardly exhausting; all Harry really has to do is sit there, lie down, move this limb or that, breathe normally and then deeply. They draw a little blood, a little saliva, and siphon off a little moisture from his eyes with a particularly delicately placed charm. The fluids are sent off to be processed in the potions and testing ward, to be mixed and tested and assessed. Harry’s really getting the star treatment.
Kingsley comes by with a couple of other aurors accompanying him and asks the mediwizards and witches for privacy to discuss an active case. Harry, it goes without saying, is very quick to whip his shirt and jumper back on and smooth them down nervously, hoping they didn’t see. “Are you well, Harry?” Kingsley asks gently, slowly coming closer in spite of the intimidating presence at this end of the room. Harry respects that, honestly. Beneath the veneer of cool professionalism, one of the aurors looks quietly ready to vomit from nerves and the other, about to piss himself. Voldemort’s just standing there, an inky form absorbing the light and gravity in the room just by nature, but then again that’s enough on its own.
“Yeah, I think all these tests are just a formality. You know,” he says and isn’t sure how exactly it is he was planning to finish that sentence. But Kingsley does know. He pulls out a recording quill and notepad. The quill scratches across the open page as they speak.
“We’re investigating today’s incident - I want you to tell me exactly what happened this morning and don’t leave any detail out, even if it seems inconsequential.”
Harry assents and starts - “Well, I left the wand shop where I’m apprenticed and - “
Kingsley cuts him off. “Further back please, from the start of the day. We think they may have been following you for some time and need all the information you can provide about how extensive their surveillance could be.”
“Right, okay,” Harry says and then steeps into a stark blush as he remembers how his day began. “Um, I woke up,” naked and well-fucked his brain supplies. “Took a shower,” to wash off all the lingering sweat and come after staring at my banged up body for a while. “Went back to bed for awhile,” lying next to my husband and cuddling shamelessly. “Then I had some breakfast and left for the day.”
“Where is your current residence?” Kingsley asks the question like it’s off a script, something he’s required to say. Standard procedure, perhaps.
“Um,” Harry glances at Voldemort, silent against the wall by the bed with arms folded and a frown of dissatisfaction, rolling his wand between his fingers. “Perhaps it’s best if I don’t say.”
“Very well,” Kingsley accepts calmly, to the apparent surprise of his subordinates. It’s a relief. “Have you noticed anything strange at home? Felt observed, noticed any suspicious changes or activity?”
“No.” As if anyone would know where to find the place. Though, Harry supposes there must be a record of sale somewhere.
“What happened after you left for the day?”
“I apparated directly to the backdoor of Ollivander’s and went inside. I didn’t notice anything strange then either,” he hurries to add, sensing the question coming.
“Alright, what then?”
“I worked for about four or so hours, really interesting stuff, fusing wand cores and wood - well, maybe that’s something to talk about another time,” Harry interrupts himself and laughs a little, scratching the back of his head and causing Kingsley to smile warmly at him. “I left for lunch at around 2 o’clock, I think. I forgot to cast a notice-me-not spell on myself again for the first time in a while, just slipped my mind,” because I was so well-fucked and happy I didn’t even think of it.
“No disillusionment? Or cloak of invisibility?”
“Seemed like overkill,” Harry shrugs helplessly. “Can’t live my whole life invisible.” Been there, done that.
“Alright Harry, what happened next? I want you to give us all the details you can.”
“Um, after a few moments I realized my mistake and pulled out my wand to cast something to hide me a little better, so I don’t have to talk to anyone or cause problems. That’s when the first spell came at me. It was white and - “ Harry recounts the attack in as much detail as he can.
“Someone cast a killing curse and then I got knocked out for a moment while the fighting continued. Voldemort,” here, the two accompanying aurors flinch at the open use of the name even while the Dark Lord himself is in the room. Harry could imagine some dark satisfaction at that in his husband. Or perhaps not. “Was the last one standing and then you all arrived to round everyone up.”
“Harry,” Kingsley calls gently. His eyes are soft. “Who did the killing curse hit? Where did the spell land?”
“Er . . . “ Harry trails off. “Not sure. I was kind of down for the count.”
It’s a blatant evasion. But also the truth. He hadn’t felt a thing. Somehow, he gets the feeling saying that would alarm people even more.
He died. Or rather, he didn’t. And he should be freaking out. Except he isn’t. In fact, it’s hardly seemed to change a thing -
The wedding vows.
He died. Or paused, anyway. Every clause was contingent on being married, and marriage was contingent on “until death do you part.”
Sweet mother of god.
“ - Harry?”
“I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Just been a crazy day.” His eyes dart to the side. Does Voldemort know? Does he realize? Is this where everything fucking falls apart?
Harry can’t even begin to imagine fighting him now. It would break him.
“I can imagine,” Kingsley replies, even as one of his coworkers snorts and then covers his mouth in horror.
“What do you think this was all about, Kingsley? Who were those wizards, what did they want?” Harry asks numbly, trying to play at acting normal.
Kingsley sighs heavily. “A few of them have certainly been talkative in the last couple of hours. Apparently there’s a band of united dark wizards and witches across Europe and parts of Asia that took exception to the Dark Lord’s pardoning. They believe he’ll rise to power here and then try to overtake more than just the UK. This was, in their minds, allegedly a preemptive move. Defensive.”
And beyond thinking oh good, sounds like some of them survived, all Harry can think of is the absolute fact that he cannot reply informatively to any of that. He can’t chance outing Voldemort’s plan for legal rise to power, or outing any details of the terms of the truce. And he’s still numb in the face of his catastrophic realization. So obediently, in deference to these facts, he stays silent. The auror who snorted’s eyebrows are climbing higher and higher on his face the longer the brief silence drags on.
“Why target me, though?” Harry asks at last. That’s the part he doesn’t get.
“Target one soulmate and you target the other. They were probably trying to draw him out and it certainly seems that it worked.” Kingsley glances in Voldemort’s direction, possibly curious if this will anger him. It doesn’t. It’s just true.
Just then, there’s a pounding at the door and every wizard in the room tenses, hands drawn to wands. Then a head of red hair peeks around the edge of the opening door and Weasleys pile into the room, Hermione and Professor McGonagall and Neville among them.
He’s quickly swarmed with the well-wishers where he’s still seated. “Is that everything?” he queries to Kingsley over the noise of his friends and family asking if he’s alright; Kingsley nods. “Just let us know if you notice any other unusual activity.”
“I’ll be sure to, thanks.” Harry turns to the faces collected around his completely unnecessary hospital bed. All he can think to say is “Hi.”
Flatteringly, McGonagall, Hermione, Neville, and the assorted Weasleys are bold enough with the need to see him that they seem to be doing all they can to pretend Voldemort isn’t there. Neville does look pale as a ghost though, edging into green, and the stutter’s back. Ron looks ready to faint. Mrs. Weasley calls Harry’s name and throws her arms around him in a tight hug. “We nearly lost you! I don’t know what we would have done with ourselves - Harry you are so important to us, so very important and - “
“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, that . . . really means a lot.” We nearly lost you. No. No they didn’t. In fact, has he ever been in mortal danger in his life, if a killing curse can’t even off him? Has all that fear in life or death situations been for nothing?
Someone’s saying something about him looking pale and is he sure he’s really alright, which is fair enough because - because -
His face feels numb, a light ringing in his ears.
He doesn’t turn to look at Voldemort, not once, terrified his eyes will give it all away. Does he realize he’s free to do whatever he wishes? That Harry feels utterly helpless to stop him? That they’re right back where they started, except now Harry is more powerless than ever, more weak to him than ever?
Harry fights off a panic attack easier than might be believed - he’s so out of it, he can’t quite muster the requisite panic. Everything they’ve built together is crumbling, right at the foundations.
But . . . Voldemort’s not attacking anyone. He’s not swooping out to murder the Minister and take his place. He’s not organizing his Death Eaters or hatching an evil plot. He’s not locking Harry in a dungeon and throwing away the key. Instead, he’s here. Right here.
Mrs. Weasley and Hermione are competing for air time while most of the men in the room still look trepidatious. McGonagall’s silent support is a balm. It takes a moment for Harry to gather the words to say, “I appreciate everyone coming, but I’m doing just fine,” with a placating hand gesture. “Actually, could I get a minute alone? I want to - to talk to all of you, there’s just something we need to discuss. It’ll only take a minute.”
And again, he has to marvel at ‘alone’ meaning ‘just me and my husband.’ Except . . . he’s not his husband. The marriage has dissolved. There’s no way it hasn’t, even if it was on a technicality.
Everyone reluctantly trundles out of the room, Ron last out the door eyeing Voldemort distrustfully as if Harry hasn’t spent the last several weeks living alone with him. It’s almost cute.
Harry buries his head in his hands for a moment, then tilts his head to peek up at Voldemort. Yes, he most certainly knows. He comes to curl a hand around the back of Harry’s head, righting its position. He thumbs at the corner of Harry’s mouth, reminiscent of that touch all that time ago, the one that launched a thousand ships in his soul.
His eyes nearly begin to water with relief. “Marry me,” he says.
“I had begun to believe you might never ask,” Voldemort answers.
“How did I survive it again?” Harry asks plainly.
“That’s a tale for another time - I have my suspicions. But I will consent to answer what questions you have, however not here.”
Harry nods simply at that, agreed upon the fact that their privacy may be more limited than they think.
“What about the terms?” he queries, cautious.
“We’ll need to make adjustments. I have stipulations to add and a few to remove, but on the whole the agreement we've had has been favorable. Hasn’t it, Harry?” Harry doesn’t even flush with it, is too focused on higher needs and machinations.
“I . . . I’m not ungrateful,” he says, looking up at Voldemort searchingly. Offeringly.
“No,” Voldemort confirms. “No, indeed you’re not.” Why aren’t you strong-arming me? Why aren’t you refusing an Unbreakable Vow? Why aren’t you fighting this? Why?
But: Remember these people are temporary. It is only you and I, Harry. Only you and I.
He must still be willing to bide his time. Harry doesn’t know what he’d do if Voldemort pushed back on reinstating the old agreements, but it would certainly obstruct a relationship; or at least, the type of relationship they’ve had so far. So Voldemort will in all likelihood shape the Vows to reflect temporary conditions on his ability to pursue power and wait, patient as a spider. And in the interminable stretch of eternity, that won’t prove to be very long at all. He’ll take it. Harry fists a hand in the front of Voldemort’s robes and pulls him down to his level. The press of lips is immediately passionate, searching, and when they part it feels like a punch to the gut, but Harry doesn’t feel right taking more, not here where privacy isn’t guaranteed and his friends and family are literally waiting in the wings and there’s life-altering business to be conducted.
Harry’s still wary of asking too many questions, for fear of prompting a change of mind. But he has so very many.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. It’s for him. It’s all for him. Voldemort thinks he’s worth it. It boggles the mind in a way it never has before. Now they both actually know what they’re getting. And he wants to have it again, every day, presumably for a good long time! Insanity. He’s alright to grant the man some looser terms on ways to gain power, but he’ll defer to the Order’s best judgment on what protections and caveats are needed to retool the agreement properly, safely. Harry’s got no clue how Voldemort planned to slip the rules they’d set before. But it says a lot that Voldemort immediately went back to his murderous ways the moment Harry was gone. He needs Harry to keep in check, none of this works without him. Harry calls the others back into the room and a few more familiar faces have joined. Tonks, Remus, Moody. They’re stiff, unusually reserved and wary. Moody’s severe frown could fell a man. And it’s only natural.
A wonder it is, that Voldemort would consent to so many enemies in one room with him alone. Then again, he’s a spectacularly confident man. And who’s to say how many Death Eaters are ringing St. Mungo’s outside.
“We had some things to discuss with the Order, if that’s alright,” Harry informs them all. “But um, thanks everyone for coming by,” he finishes a bit awkwardly. Strangely, that element of it seems to make Neville emotional, nerves and fright giving way to something heartfelt.
“I’m just glad you’re alright, Harry. I’ll let the others know you’re safe and okay, we’ve all been on pins and needles today. Take care, and see you soon.” He makes his way out and that leaves the Order and Voldemort, with Harry caught somewhere weird in the middle.
“We need to renegotiate the Vow,” Harry announces with no ceremony. There’s a tense silence, then Hermione’s eyes sprout tears and her breath catches.
“So it’s true . . . ? You - you really did survive the killing curse again?”
“Yeah.” She makes a raw noise, leans down to hug him carefully like she’s afraid he’ll break like fine china. He tugs her into a firmer hug then lets go. “So we need to re-do the ceremony and he’d like to make some adjustments. Small adjustments.”
It’s important to emphasize that to everyone, wan as they are. He has no idea what changes Voldemort wants to make, but they’ll need to be relatively minor for it to fly. Most Order members look shaken by Harry’s graze with death, or perhaps with nearly reigniting war. Moody just looks a dangerous combination of grim and pissed off.
“And what changes exactly are you thinkin’ to make?” he questions with grave suspicion, magic eye jerking and spinning wildly in the socket.
“This isn’t the best place to hash this out. Y’know, privacy and all that,” Harry fumbles in his reply, trying to follow Voldemort’s lead from before. “But we should meet as soon as possible. Tonight even. You can pick the place,” here Harry glances at Voldemort for approval and knows Moody would never risk walking into a potential trap if Voldemort chose where they’d meet. “We can meet as soon as my tests come back.” Harry has a sneaking feeling Voldemort wouldn’t allow them to leave St. Mungo’s without getting the results back so that every malady’s ruled out. “But this benefits everyone. We don’t have as much back and forth to bother with and now we know it’ll all be in, er, good faith. So, yeah.” That’s about the extent of the diplomacy he’s capable of, completely out of place in the role beyond failing to smooth over some of Ron and Hermione’s more prickly spats. McGonagall’s eyes shine with pride, even tinged with sadness as it is. It’s enough to have him sitting a little taller in his bed.
“We’ll need to get the Ministry involved, if the larger truce and pardonings are to hold,” Moody bites out.
“Very well.” Voldemort speaks at last, and multiple bodies in the room jump, startle. “Gather what representatives you may. What location do you suggest?” He still rolls his wand lightly between his fingers, opposite hand grasping the wandtip. Meditative or threatening, the world may never know.
As Moody identifies a discreet location outside Bristol, Harry wonders why they aren’t just meeting at the Ministry itself, then realizes that would probably cause a public panic. What other reason could they have for all gathering together than a dissolved agreement? Or something else equally terrifying, destabilizing. Not very secure either, and who knows what remaining members of that dark wizarding band might be lingering around, waiting for the next opportunity. He can spy Ron doing the same mental math.
Hermione and Lupin are still watching him with sharp, quiet sorrow and checking-over motions of the eye, as if to ensure he’s really alright. Fred and George are lounging at the back of the room, whispering together non-conspiratorially for once. Mr. Weasley has his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, either in calm or to hide their shaking.
The room is packed full of people Harry cares for and it doesn’t matter that there’s a canyon wide and deep enough between them to house an ancient river.
It doesn’t matter that there’s peace without amity, prosperity without sufficient sacrifice. It doesn’t. It’s all going to be alright.
-
The dusk air is cool and pleasant, the sky a faded palette of blues and whites. Tall strange stones encircle one another in the twilight moment, Stonehenge as majestic as ever.
It had taken less than a day and a half to finalize the new Vows, the Order eager to re-establish a former peace agreement and the Ministry in firm alignment with that view. Voldemort had been equanimitous, non-reactive to the point it only seemed to spike everyone’s anxiety higher. Firm in his stance, blank in his bearing. It is, Harry has come to realize, the confidence of a great snake in the presence of lesser predators it can’t be bothered to concern itself with. And it helped that every other person was walking on eggshells to avoid upsetting the delicate balance of peace. It’s like ever since Harry was taken off the chessboard, Voldemort’s been difficult to rile. Comfortable in the seat of his power. The heavy hand of prophecy lifted, or something like that. Once Harry was marked as an equal through the soulmark rather than the curse scar, enmity turned into avarice and Voldemort’s succeeded in having it, having him, even at personal cost.
It had felt so strange, so right, to sit by his side for the negotiations instead of across the table for once. So very difficult not to kneel down, put a hand on Voldemort’s leg, and just beg for him to concede every addendum. It wouldn’t have worked, it’s important Harry understand that, remember that - but the instinct in itself holds a power of its own.
Harry didn’t die yesterday, and yet he didn’t not from a technical standpoint. Voldemort’s yet to explain that part, all their free time consumed by peace planning.
But if Voldemort can be patient, so can Harry. All in due course.
Harry can see an officiant in Ministry red at the center of the stone circle, with people clustered at the opposite sides, half in all black and half in typical wizarding wear. The circle still has its protections against violent acts, which no one had the opportunity to explain to Harry before, increasing the odds of the first ceremony not ending in mass murder. It’s all just like before. But this time, Harry’s calm, he’s steadfast, he’s ready. Running away is the last thing on his mind.
They approach from the south on quiet feet, crunching in dried pale grass. Harry takes Voldemort’s hand and walks on.
Wind rustles the swaying grasses, a million blades brushing against a million million more. It calls to mind the infiniteness of the universe, the inviolability of nature; that even when things die or species end or volcanoes erupt, life surges onwards, unstoppable.
Harry and Voldemort walk to Stonehenge and will follow through on the promises they have made to one another. And after, they will wander the evening plains in search of only the satisfaction of uncomplicated exploration, of quiet company. They will wander and discover and build and destroy, onwards, unstoppable, until the moon sinks and the sun rises and burns out, until the universe tilts on its side and folds in on itself, and walk on further still.