Chapter Text
It was over six months later, as the bright summer turned ripe and golden, as September First approached, that Voldemort kissed a line up the side of Albus’ throat, leaving tiny bruises below his new, high-collared formal robes (bought for the occasion because neither of them cared to restrain themselves long enough for the marks to fade), up behind his curtain of auburn hair, and murmured a story into his ear.
“Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…I came across a witch quite possessed by the tale of an unbeatable wand, searching far and wide for it.”
Dumbledore stiffened under his hands.
“Her story matched some of what I had read in your old letters, your letters to Grindelwald so many years ago…”
He smiled, flashing flawless too-sharp teeth as Dumbledore rounded on him.
“Except this witch was so very certain the Elder Wand was real that the trail she followed led to the wandmaker Gregorovitch, who had gone into hiding…”
The Dark Lord trailed a finger up the side of Albus’s throat, over the faint red and purple bruising.
“So I tracked him down. I was curious, I confess. I had never believed those tales of the Deathly Hallows that you once chased…but oh, how fate favours Lord Voldemort.”
He leaned even closer, lips brushing the shell of the headmaster’s ear.
“I already had the Resurrection Stone in my possession. I have it still, Albus… And you have the Elder Wand. Grindelwald took it from Gregorovitch, and you took it from Grindelwald when you defeated it.”
Voldemort hummed, voice thoughtful. But the tension in his body belied his nonchalant inflection.
“Not so unbeatable after all. That is Grindelwald’s wand you wield. The Elder Wand. The Deathstick.”
He watched Dumbledore eyes sharpening, instantly alert. Voldemort knew better than to underestimate him, yet he remained outwardly relaxed, sardonic, seductive.
During his travels abroad for over a decade, the Dark Lord had discovered the bloody trail of an unbeatable wand…read the story of the Deathly Hallows but discarded them until he noticed the symbol on the Gaunt Ring, his Horcrux…
“Do you covet the Resurrection Stone, Dumbledore?”
“You wish to trade with me, Stone for Wand?”
He always caught on so quickly.
“Sounds like a euphemism,” Lord Voldemort retorted. “Yes. Give me your wand.”
“And you would let me have the Resurrection Stone… Why?”
Dumbledore failed to respond to the jibe, perhaps too overwhelmed by the thought of apologising, of begging forgiveness from his family…
“I would let you put your ghosts and your past to rest. So that you can proceed, unencumbered, into the future – with me. By my side. Never looking back.”
His look darkened. “But you would have to swear to me to keep it safe. Swear a Vow. If Vow to never harm it in any way, to never let anyone else know of it, to guard it with all your might…then I will trade you, Stone for Wand. I know you are capable of protecting it. It is precious to me…I would entrust it to no other, not even for a short time…”
“Dear one.” His dark red eyelashes shone as he blinked away the wetness gathering there. Red and bright blue, such odd colours to see on a human face, in so much saturation.
The Dark Lord was still handsome, severe and imposing in his cruel beauty – but Albus looked otherworldly in that moment, a being from another world trapped among the humans, not so much fair as other. Separated by a veil from the rest of the rabble.
It seemed impossible in that moment that he could be touched, held, had.
Yet I have him.
And no one was as great of a potential threat to his Horcrux as Dumbledore. If he could get him to swear never to harm it, protect it, and in the same fell swoop gain that wand… It was a gamble. But he trusted this man more than he trusted, or had ever trusted, anyone else alive except himself.
“I would guard it with my life,” Albus said. “Both the ring…and your trust. If you choose to leave the path you’re on, to truly give me a chance to sway you…I will do everything in my power to make sure you never regret it.”
“We can gather up the Cloak at some later opportunity, for the complete set.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What shall I introduce you as?” Dumbledore asked as they finally left their quarters to hurry – except Voldemort was too dignified, and seemed to glide – down to the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast.
“‘Lord Voldemort’ is too notorious, surely…?”
The Dark Lord cast a smirk over his shoulder.
“‘Professor Slytherin’ has a nice ring to it. I am his Heir, after all. So it is only fitting.”
“You’re incorrigible. Truly.”
“Why, thank you, Headmaster.”
“And if someone makes a connection to the Chamber…?”
Voldemort’s smile widened. “Let them wonder. No one died, and there is no evidence of what may or may not have transpired. Let them whisper and try to prove it if they like – few will dare, and those few that do, shall fail.”
“Professor Marvolo Slytherin?”
“Yes, well. Marvolo is a name you were the first to address me by, at my Sorting all those years ago.”
He leaned closed to whisper into Dumbledore’s ear, nipping at the shell of it, hand snaking around his waist after a quick glance around to check that they were alone in the corridor.
All of the other teachers were already in their seats or out greeting the students.
“Now that my father is long dead, and the fury of my youth mostly laid to rest…perhaps I shall let you be the only one to call me ‘Mr Riddle’ occasionally, while I have you tied up and bent over your desk, pretending you are my teacher again…” he said, just to see Albus splutter.
While he would never actually allow anyone to use that unworthy name, after all this time he could finally say it without anger, use it to tease, full of so many more pleasant emotions. The past was… the past. He intended to enjoy his future, unencumbered by it. And he also intended to force his Albus to enjoy their future just as much, and no longer be trapped by his own past mistakes and regrets. Lord Voldemort would keep him occupied in the present.
“That will never –!”
Voldemort laughed, low and warm, and pulled him into his arms. Where he belonged.
At last. All mine.
“We shall see. I can be very persuasive.”
Where he would stay, indefinitely.
“And if neither one of us can convince the other, in the end?”
Voldemort knew he was talking about more than bedroom games. Dumbledore meant their bet, their wager and the potential Wizarding War that hung in the balance between them, staved off by their affection.
The two great, terrible men that they were, holding the future of their common world in their hands.
The Dark Lord smiled his most sinister smile, one known to make lesser men quake in terror, leaning forward to speak onto Albus’ lips, brushing them with his.
“Then I suppose we shall just have to keep trying forever.”