Chapter Text
Friday, the twenty-ninth of January.
On this day, Tom officially wished for the sweet release of the oblivion. If immortality meant an eternity enduring his current state, perhaps immortality wasn’t the wisest of goals.
All in jest, of course.
However… he couldn’t escape this. He couldn’t ignore this. It was as if he’d woken some slumbering beast from its sleep and its hunger overshadowed all common sense and restraint. Tom cursed his stupidity—cursed his weakness. He should’ve turned the damn water to cold; he shouldn’t have given into the shameful urge. You’re pathetic, so weak to give into the call of your mortal body.
And now he was paying the price for it.
Give something an inch and it’ll take a thousand leagues.
How did anyone get anything done? How the hell was Tom supposed to concentrate when his body felt as if it were on fire, a raging inferno, every minute of the day? These fires tingled beneath his flesh with heightened sensation, like an itch that was out of reach. A mere breeze felt like a caress. Even the feel of his clothes on his skin ignited unsolicited arousal.
Dear mother of Merlin and Salazar, Tom was going to lose his goddamn mind.
This was no longer a mere ‘passing inconvenience;’ this was a monumental problem. It was happening multiple times a day, like a lamp had been lit and wouldn’t shut off. Turn it off! He’d never wanted to sever a limb from his body more than he did right now. It was driving him insane! Tom lived in a constant state of uptight vigilance, waiting for the next moment when his body would betray him in public where he’d have to scramble to hide the evidence.
Tom blamed Harry for this.
His fault—all his fault.
This would’ve never happened; Tom swore it. How dare Harry exist! His smile, his power, his bright eyes, the rush of his magic—fuck! He could barely look at the other boy without heat flooding his body and butterflies coming to life in his stomach. Salazar forbid Harry open his mouth and say something exceptionally mundane—those butterflies would cremate from the flames of that heat, their ashes dropping with the sudden weight of coals to burn embers in his groin.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. He sat in his seat in Charms class with his bag in his lap and prayed nothing would happen.
“Are you all right, Tom?” asked Harry, ducking low to peer at Tom in the eyes. His wild, messy hair hung the air, his head sideways.
The heat roared to life.
“I’m fine,” hissed Tom.
“Are you sure—”
Tom flinched. Harry’s hand pressed against his forehead. Harry left it there, frowning slightly. It was soft, warm, pleasant—oh, god, Tom hated it. When Harry drew away, the weight from Tom’s bag in his lap ached. His forehead tingled and mourned the loss of Harry’s touch.
“You do feel a bit flushed. Do you need to see the healer?”
“No.”
“But—”
“Leave it,” snapped Tom.
Harry eyed him for a long moment. “You’re acting strangely. You angry with me?”
A burst of irrational fear rushed through Tom. He shoved it down. What was there to be afraid of? Nothing. It was just these godforsaken hormones. At this rate, they were going to cause him an aneurism.
“I am not angry with you,” said Tom, forcing his tone to be softer and hoping Harry would back off. “Just leave it. I’m fine.”
“Okay, if you’re sure,” whispered Harry. He sat down next to Tom, pulling out his textbook, ink, quill, and parchment paper. He set his bag aside onto the floor.
Tom came to the terrifying conclusion that it would look very weird if he left his bag in his lap. If he moved it and Harry glanced his way, there would be no hiding the slight tent in his trousers. Tom’s mouth went dry. Would it be better to be weird or be seen? There was no excuse for it now. Tom had no reasonable explanation for it.
‘Bad things happened to boys who cavorted with other boys.’
Tom rubbed his eyes, pained. The drunken Mrs. Cole had always had much to say about homosexuality, as had the priest who had tried to exorcise the ‘demons’ out of Tom. They’d try to pray to their deity in the hopes to drive it out of Tom. Their solution had been to splash burning ‘holy water’ on his back while they ignored his screams. His sins? He’d befriended a garden snake, which the priest killed in front of him, and he’d allowed another boy to hug him.
Maybe they’d been right about—
Tom gritted his teeth. No. No. Enough of that rubbish. Muggles were foolish. Muggles were cruel. They hated what they didn’t understand; they hated those who did not act or looked like them. Their little beliefs had no bearing on reality and their views on morality had no concept in truth. There was nothing wrong with Alphard or Quintus—or himself, for that matter.
But he still didn’t want it.
He didn’t need this.
Tom Riddle was supposed to be above such things—such human fallacies. But now… he’d been brought low. He’d been forced to face his fragile human body to whatever whims it deemed fit to inflict upon him. He was no longer the master over himself if his cock decided it wanted to get a ‘bone on’ at any moment of the day.
But he would be master of himself yet again, no matter what it took. He wouldn’t give into its whims again. Once was enough. Once had been one time too many. He’d endure this until it passed. His body would return to normal, he was sure of it.
Tom pulled out his ink, quill, and parchment. He pushed his bag flat on his lap, doubling checking it covered the small tent in his trousers. It was finally beginning to settle down, but he wasn’t about to take any chances.
Harry glanced at the bag, before lifting his chin to look at Tom. His heart stuttered. Thump. Thump. Thump. It pounded in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears. Don’t ask.
But Harry didn’t say anything and looked back towards the front of the class, where Fortinbras had begun giving the lesson.
Tom let out a low sigh.
It was going to be a very long day.
If he couldn’t focus in class, Tom threw himself into a different project: patronus forms. At the risk of embarrassing himself, he dragged Harry along to the library with the insistence of finding some answers. Thankfully, with his brain wholly focused on the topic and trying to understand why a patronus would change forms, his body didn’t have the space to react to every little word and gesture from Harry.
Thank Salazar for small mercies.
“Is this really necessary?” asked Harry, closing the book he’d been flipping through and switching to a new one. “We don’t have to figure out the answer.”
Tom scoffed. “Aren’t you curious? Has your patronus ever changed form before?”
“No,” muttered Harry.
“So, something has changed. Did you use a different memory or feeling?”
Harry turned his head away and avoided Tom’s gaze. “Not particularly, no,” he said lightly. Tom paused, noting something odd in his tone. Tension rolled off Harry’s shoulders and the color deepened in his ears.
“Perhaps, one’s patronus changes form as they mature,” said Tom, watching for any shift in Harry’s body language.
“Perhaps.”
He’s hiding something again. Must everything be a mysterious secret with him? Even this?
“Your patronus was a stag. Did you know the significance of its form?”
The stiffness in Harry’s body softened. He nodded. “My father. He was an animagus and a stag was his form.”
Interesting. So, a patronus took the form of what held emotional significance to its castor. Would that mean something else has overtaken emotional significance in Harry’s life?
Tom’s first thought went to the Scamanders. Newt and Tina had slipped into both of their lives and, much to Tom’s reluctance to admit, they held some place there. Newt and Tina were getting oddly affectionate with them, too. Though Christmas had been a lot to handle, he’d rather enjoyed it. Perhaps, the experience had been more significant to Harry. But Tom wouldn’t have attributed a magpie to either Newt or Tina, especially if the form was meant to represent someone important.
“I wonder what the significance of a magpie is,” said Tom, keeping his tone light and innocent. Harry stiffened up once more.
He knows why.
Harry shrugged and let out an awkward laugh. “Who knows?”
Tom reached out and grabbed him by the chin. Harry jolted. Tom tugged at his face, forcing Harry to look at him. Harry met his gaze, expression grim, lips thinned, and those eyes pleaded with him once more—pleaded with Tom to not ask.
“You’re so quick to keep secrets,” murmured Tom.
What are you hiding? How deep does it go? Why do you hold yourself back from me?
Harry’s breath stuttered. “Tom—”
“Is it really so bad that you can’t tell me?” whispered Tom.
“It’s not bad—I swear—”
“But you won’t tell me why it changed.”
“It’s…” Harry sucked in his breath, his gaze dropping. “It’s personal.”
Tom instantly let him go. He frowned at the twisting, churning feeling in his stomach. “Oh?”
“A patronus form is personal, but when it changes form… that’s even more personal and…”
“Very well,” said Tom, tone clipped, closing the book in front of himself. Discomfort coiled in his gut. An odd, irrational need for distance from Harry crept inside his heart. “I suppose this has been a colossal waste of time.”
The urge to be alone overwhelmed his senses. He abruptly stood.
“Perhaps, we ought to study separately.”
He made to leave, but a hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist. Tom halted, hating how he didn’t dislike it, hating how much he wouldn’t mind it if Harry held him for longer, and slowly turned back to look at him.
“When you can cast a fully corporal patronus,” said Harry, a serious light in his eyes. “I’ll tell you why mine changed.”
Tom quirked an eyebrow. “Is that a test?”
“And a challenge.”
“I accept. I’ll have it done by the end of the week.”
Harry snorted. “All right, then.”
A vein in Tom’s temple twitched at the lack of confidence in his abilities.
Unfortunately, by the end of the week, Tom hadn’t been able to fulfill his end of the challenge; only mist escaped the tip of his wand.
His disappointment and frustration was palpable during February’s Knights’ meeting on the seventh, but no one dared breach the topic.
He returned to the dream world.
It’d been awhile since Harry had dreamed of Voldemort. The endless, expansive blue sky above was speckled with fluffy white clouds that drifted by in the pleasant breeze. The grassy field spread out all around them towards the horizon. Harry sat at the same circular table as before, where he was poured a cup of tea and presented with a variety of biscuits.
The man sitting across from Harry looked ill.
Voldemort didn’t pay him mind at first, taking long sips of his tea with an air of nobility. His skin, though already pale, seemed almost bloodless now. The skin was stretched further across his bones with only a pitiful amount of muscle left in his body. His hair was mostly grey now and some wrinkles had settled into his features. He looked… fragile.
“You’re staring.”
“Uh… sorry about that.”
Voldemort set his cup down on the saucer. Harry noted the trembling in his hands, how the cup rattled slightly against the saucer. Why had he changed so much since the last time they’d spoken with each other?
“What’s wrong?” asked Harry. “There’s something off about you.”
The man shook his head. “There is nothing wrong.”
“I’m not stupid. I know you’re lying. Are you sick? Do you need help? What can I—”
“Peace, boy,” whispered Voldemort, lifting a hand. It trembled in midair. “Let yourself enjoy a dream without working yourself up into a frenzy.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look well.”
“I am unwell.”
“What?!” Harry bolted up out of his chair. The table rattled dangerously. Voldemort rolled his eyes. “What d’you mean?”
“Salazar, boy, must you always make such a racket?” said Voldemort with a huff. “Sit down. I’m fine. I am merely… under the weather.”
But Voldemort looked away out at the empty horizon with a closed expression. Harry slowly sat back down and watched him carefully. Why was Voldemort lying about this?
“You’re a horcrux,” whispered Harry. “You’re not supposed to be sick.”
“It was an unusual circumstance that brought me to full awareness,” said Voldemort. “I am tired. Maintaining consciousness has grown difficult for me.”
There was a bittersweetness, yet a fondness within those red eyes. It was disconcerting to see this man, Voldemort of all people, appear so frail, so like an old man. Voldemort picked up his tea and took another sip with a tremor in his hands. A surge of fear flooded through Harry. Another lie. The man’s lips quirked.
“Calm yourself. You shouldn’t worry for your mortal enemy.”
“You’re not my enemy,” said Harry softly.
Voldemort inclined his head. “As you wish.”
“No, really, you’re not my enemy.”
“I know,” whispered Voldemort. “I am well aware.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Voldemort lifted an eyebrow. “My, so demanding, aren’t we?”
“Don’t dodge the question.”
“What do you foresee in your future, Harry?” asked Voldemort, setting his cup down and folding his hands into his lap, out of sight—and completely dodging the question. The bastard. “In ten years from now, you will be around twenty-seven to twenty-eight years old. What do you expect your life to be?”
“Uh…”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. He had never thought that far into the future. It always seemed too out of reach, such an impossible amount of time. He’d barely gotten over the idea that he could make it to adulthood. His time at Hogwarts had been living on the edge of life and death for every single year of his adolescence. Harry had expected to die. He had died.
But now?
Ten years from now… he’d long be graduated. The invitation to be flatmates with Tom this summer might change over time, so he had no idea where he’d live in ten years. He’d have to have some kind of job, unless he managed to become the Headmaster of Hogwarts by that time. But he couldn’t say his thoughts out loud. Harry shrugged and looked down at the still liquid of his tea.
“No, I want you to think about it,” said Voldemort. “Your purpose here—what is it?”
“You know what it is,” muttered Harry, heat flooding his cheeks.
“Tell me.”
“I’m not gonna say it out loud—you’re just trying to embarrass me, aren’t—”
“Harry,” snapped Voldemort. “Say it.”
He looked away from the man, unable to bear the way those red eyes bore into his soul. Harry swallowed. “I’m here for Tom,” he whispered. “I’m here to… show him love.”
To be in love with him… to hope he’ll fall in love with me.
Voldemort nodded. “And what do you think will happen once you’ve shown him this love?”
Harry glanced up.
“Is it over? You think you’ll go your separate ways? Do you truly expect to be living alone in ten years, in a dodgy flat somewhere in London, working a low paying job every day where you collapse into bed every night, the covers thin and cold. Your bed empty?”
Oh. He’d never thought of that.
“If there is anything that I know of my younger self,” said Voldemort softly. “It is that once I know what you are to me, I will never let you go. Tom will always be at your side. He’ll want to live together with you—he’s already suggested it. He didn’t suggest it lightly and he will never rescind the offer. You are noticing signs of this from him, are you not?”
The heat grew hotter in his cheeks, rising to his ears. Harry broke eye contact, embarrassed.
That sounded so strangely like a life, a fully realized life of his own with another person. He wouldn’t be alone. He wouldn’t be shoved into a cupboard under the stairs, hated and forgotten. He wouldn’t be locked in a small room with bars on his windows and a dog flap in his door. He wouldn’t be on the run, living in a tent and worrying about his next meal. There’d be no quest. There’d be no dangerous adventures. There’d be no Dark Lords to worry about.
There would be stability.
What would life with Tom be like? Would it be any different than it was now? What kind of place would they have together? Would a life with Tom still have the pleasant, quiet moments of everyday life? Would they cook together, do chores together, decorate their space together—would they be like a real couple?
Was it even possible?
Maybe so. Tom was showing some signs, especially after Harry had felt what had been unmistakably a stiffy—of all things. But that could’ve been a one off thing. Yet… at times, Tom was rather affectionate with Harry. But Tom had been so vehemently against anything sexual, Harry hadn’t really thought about it since. Was Tom changing?
“Did you ever… feel…” Harry trailed off, unable to say it. When Voldemort raised an eyebrow, Harry continued, face burning in shame, “You know, uh… feel…”
“Did I ever feel sexual attraction to another being?” said Voldemort with a light smirk on his lips. Harry nodded. Voldemort’s expression dimmed. “No. I felt nothing.”
“Never?” whispered Harry.
“In my lifetime, never,” said Voldemort. He gave Harry a fond smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The light flickered with suppressed regret. “It is a good sign Tom is showing some feelings for you.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harry, not sure why he felt the need to say it.
Voldemort shook his head. “This is a good thing. You will not apologize for the wrong decisions I made in my life. Horcruxes were not kind to my body, mind, and soul. Dark magic took things from me. Perhaps, my life would’ve been different if I hadn’t. Nevertheless, you need to start thinking of what you want your life to be like in the future and how it fits with Tom. Think on it.”
“I… don’t know,” whispered Harry. “It’s a little hard.”
“Well, you’ll likely be partners by that age. Married, perhaps, since that’s what some people are want to do—though, it’s still illegal in the muggle world for two men to be married, so I suggest a magical bonding ceremony instead.”
Fuck. What—how—I—
Harry hid his face, warm as an oven, in his hands.
“Did you not think that far ahead?”
“Shut up.”
Voldemort snorted. He lifted his tea to his lips. “Or what? I am nothing but a fading dream. No, you need to face this.”
“Shut the fuck up, please.”
“What else does marriage entail?”
Harry wanted to scream.
“Well?”
Don’t you dare make me say it.
“Oh, but I am—”
“I don’t even know if he’s on the same page as me!” cried Harry, glaring up at Voldemort and wishing he’d stop pushing this topic. “Does he really like me that way? How the fuck am I supposed to know? Just because he gets a stiffy once—” Voldemort choked on his tea, red splotches blooming on his cheeks. “—that doesn’t mean he’s interested in me like that and I don’t know how he’d react to any—to any romantic affection or whatever. I can’t just force a, uh… a—”
“Force a kiss, you mean?”
Harry groaned and hid again.
Voldemort chuckled, the sound rich and gentle. “You’re so innocent.”
Heated indignation rose inside Harry’s chest. And you’re not?
“It is not an insult. It is not a bad thing and Tom isn’t so different from you. So, answer the question: what does marriage entail?”
For fuck’s sake.
For a moment, Harry didn’t say anything. The tension in his chest slowly eased and the awkwardness he felt around the topic faded away. “I guess… does that mean I’d be…” Harry trailed off and grimaced at being so tasteless to say ‘have sex with Tom’ to Voldemort. Fuck, kill me now. “Uh, it means that I’d be… uh… intimate with him, I suppose. Fuck, why am I even saying this to you?” Harry rubbed a hand over his face, sighing.
“Intimate is a good word,” whispered Voldemort. “Because it’s much more than physical; it is emotional. He will always value your emotional connection over the physical one. Right now, I suspect he’s overwhelmed, perhaps resentful of going through hormonal changes that he’s never experienced before. Being subject to the whims of a mortal frame can be aggravating.”
Harry looked down at his tea, growing pensive. Tom had been exceptionally cranky the past couple of days, snapping everyone’s heads off for the smallest of things. Harry had also noticed Tom, flushed with pink cheeks and a furious expression, would leave to be alone more often than before. Also, it’d been really unusual of Tom, who’d been fidgeting, to leave his bag on his lap in class—oh… oh…
Harry’s eyes widened.
Voldemort let out a polite cough. “Caught on, have you?”
“Fucking hell,” whispered Harry.
“Mmm.” It was said with a slow nod.
“And it never happened before?”
“Never,” said Voldemort; he looked away. “As I’ve said, I never felt a draw to anyone and I rarely experienced the growing pains of puberty. Thus, I never wasted a thought on it nor spent any time devoted to such things. I never experienced the wild, uncontrollable urges my peers did. Instead, I devoted my time to the study of magic, to finding immortality, and creating horcruxes in objects of great significance. However, by my third horcrux, I’d lost the ability to feel any positive emotions, like the simple pleasures of a good meal.”
Harry’s heart broke.
“I have watched you both these past months,” whispered Voldemort. “I can scarcely believe it, but the Tom Riddle before you is a far cry to the one who grew into I, Lord Voldemort. If you left Hogwarts tomorrow, Tom would follow you.”
Harry sucked in his breath. “So… it wasn’t a fluke?” he whispered. “When he—when I, uh… That day in the snow?”
“It was not a fluke, Harry,” said Voldemort with uncharacteristic gentleness. “And I anticipate you will become even closer in the near future.”
“Really?” whispered Harry.
His voice was vulnerable, hopeful—a prayer for that connection.
Fuck. Why is being in love so painful?
“Yes. You’ve done well, Harry.”
“Not really,” said Harry with a snort. “I’ve just kind of… floundered around these past five months.”
Voldemort frowned. “Don’t underestimate your power. You have challenged him at every turn, yet your heart is boundless in its forgiveness and compassion. Your power is both matched and unmatched in him.”
Harry’s breath caught in his throat.
“You have taught him more than just friendship and forgiveness that evening after your duel. You have shown him what peace is; you’ve shown him the value of companions over followers; you have shown him the enjoyments of being young, of having childlike fun; you have shown him the safety in adult mentorship, when they are sincere; you have shown him perseverance and how to care for someone else even when it’s not in your favor to do so. You’ve shown him strength in tears, in kindness, and in touch.”
Tears streamed down Harry’s cheeks.
“It has been your example that has changed Tom,” whispered Voldemort. “Just as I have not been immune to your influence, neither is Tom.” A grimace twisted his features. “I must admit that I agree with Dumbledore - as much as it pains me - but love, your love, wields greater power than you know.”
Harry hid his face in his hands. Fuck. Oh, fuck, that was a lot to take in. Fuck. Of all the people to say something so… But he really had done nothing all this time. He hadn’t been trying to teach Tom anything. He’d just… been himself.
A memory, clear and gentle, lifted in his mind. Harry let out a laughing sob. “Mum did tell me to let this happen naturally,” he said, brushing a tear away with his hand.
“Harry Potter,” murmured Voldemort with reverence. “Being yourself is your greatest weapon against Tom Riddle and your greatest gift to him.”
Frozen, Harry sat there in an overwhelming state of shock. He couldn’t move, couldn’t look up—didn’t dare look into those eyes. It was too surreal, being told such complimentary things and so eloquently from Voldemort. A part of Harry believed if he looked up, Voldemort would sneer at him and take it all back.
But he was far more terrified to see Voldemort’s sincerity.
The realization that Harry himself was good enough to change the heart of another struck him hard. He hadn’t needed to change to fit in with the Slytherins. He hadn’t needed to become someone he wasn’t to win Tom over. Just Harry had been enough. Not Harry Potter, not The-Boy-Who-Lived. Just Harry.
He slowly lifted his head, a calm settling over him. He gave Voldemort a grateful smile. “Thank you,” Harry whispered. “Thank you.”
“I speak only truth,” said Voldemort with a light cough.
For a time, the two of them fell into companionable silence. A breeze fluttered by, gentle and warm, a pleasant refuge from the endless winter in the real world.
“The morning is near,” said Voldemort, drawing Harry’s attention. “Before you go, there is something else that has been on my mind.” The man’s lips thinned. “It has become clear to me that… Death might have withheld things or misled you when you were first given the choice to come to this time.”
“What?” said Harry, frowning. “What makes you think that?”
Voldemort sat back in his seat, legs crossing over each other. “Death told you the horcrux in your scar is part of the reason why you and Tom Riddle are soulmates.” Voldemort shook his head. “This is impossible. There is no possibility where horcruxes could form even a semblance of ‘soulmates.’ Zero possibilities.”
That… didn’t make sense. It wasn’t that Harry didn’t believe Voldemort, but if that was true, then… What would it mean if Death had lied to him? Death was a being with the power to send someone decades back in time. If Harry couldn’t have some trust in such a being… A chill slid down Harry’s back.
“I don’t understand… Why not?”
“In my travels, I didn’t learn much of the concept of ‘soulmates.’ However, I have heard of the legend of the ‘red thread of fate,’ which comes from Asian mythology. The red thread of fate is a belief that two souls are destined for each other. However, horcruxes are far too dark to create something so… light as soulmates, something as sacred as souls intertwined with each other.”
Voldemort leaned closer and reached out to Harry. He brushed the fringe from Harry’s forehead; he traced a thumb over the scar, staring down at it with serious eyes.
“There is no feasible way that this—” Voldemort tapped the scar lightly. “—forged us as soulmates. Yes, you house a sliver of my soul. But this isn’t the source.”
“You really think Death lied about us being soulmates, then?” whispered Harry.
Voldemort’s brow furrowed. He pulled away from Harry and sat back in his chair. “I don’t know what laws govern a primordial being such as Death. I do think there is validity to the concept of soulmates, especially between you and I, else why would he send you back to save me, rather than kill me. Soulmates could be true, but it couldn’t come from the horcrux. I would be cautious with Death. You don’t know what his true purpose is with you.”
“But he sent me back in time to save everyone, including you,” said Harry weakly. “He can’t be lying to me…” He sighed. He rubbed his face, pushing his glasses up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“I’m not saying he’s your enemy,” said Voldemort, putting up a hand. “But you’re one with the rash honesty of a Gryffindor. You’re learning, but you still lack the ability to see subtle manipulations. I’m saying don’t take what is said so easily at face value. Assume Death isn’t playing by the same laws as you or I. Death is as much as a Slytherin as I am.”
Harry sighed, shoving both his hands over his face and pushing his glasses up to his forehead. He groaned. “When he offered me a third choice,” he whispered behind his hands. “I didn’t think there’d be an angle behind it.”
“You don’t naturally think like a Slytherin. It’s understandable you didn’t think it all the way through before you agreed to it. It was the most Gryffindor choice of the three.”
“It wasn’t the wrong choice, right?” whispered Harry.
Voldemort inclined his head. “I believe you chose well. In just five short months, your presence has changed Tom Riddle’s heart. I doubt he could ever go down the same path I did, unless he creates a horcrux. The ritual always takes half of the soul. He will lose too much of himself.”
“He’ll be half a person…”
“Dark magic will always come at a price,” said Voldemort softly. Harry thought back to the blackened veins in Tom’s hands and the unnatural chill to his flesh. He couldn’t let Tom do that to himself again. “And the price dark magic took for the horcrux creation was great. I lost the ability to feel many emotions and simple pleasures in life, and I didn’t realize it until it was too late.”
Oh, the very idea of that terrified Harry. What would the first horcrux take from Tom? Would it take his gentleness? His kindness? His smiles? They were already too rare as it was. But to never see them again? They were too sacred to lose.
“This is why,” whispered Voldemort. “I could never believe that the sins I committed on the day I killed your parents would ever create a bond of soulmates.”
Harry sighed. “Why can’t my life ever be simple?”
“Drink your tea, Harry.”
The tea tasted bittersweet.