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Chapter Text

Six months later.

He waved his wand, making words appear, glowing orange and floating in the air before the two girls. With another spell (adapted from the new bookmark he had asked Voldemort for, and been granted, one that read written text out loud in Harry’s voice) the words were spoken aloud in a voice like the young wizard’s, only slightly more echoing, like a ghost’s.

“Lucy, Miriam – remind your mum and dad about Friday, okay?”

“’Kay, Mr Potter!”

Miriam, the older sister, only nodded and waved, while Lucy hugged him goodbye the way she always did, arms around his neck and hands still slightly sticky from the fruit she’d had at snack time earlier. Harry felt something waist-high zip past him, ruffling his robes.

“Oi, Mattie! No running!”

He barked it in Parseltongue, but the boy only grinned at him, yelling over his shoulder as he ran,

“Sorry Mr Potter! I gotta ‘urry, but I won’t tomo’ow! Pommise!”

That boy. Harry shook his head, but he was smiling, hugging Lucy back and then waving the girls goodbye.

He swore some of them had started to understand Parseltongue.

At that age – five to ten, from starting school until they left for Hogwarts – the kids really soaked up languages like little inquisitive sponges. 

It’d serve Voldemort right if I somehow managed to accidentally teach a whole generation of half-blood kids how to understand Salazar Slytherin’s gift.

A few of his students had even begun to hiss occasional words back at him, in the clumsy way of children, and it warmed his heart every time.

It was a true pain in the arse, not being able to speak when you were supposed to teach a bunch of kids how to read, write, and calculate, as well as some History, Geography, and other useful subjects. Gym and crafts were easier. In those subjects, Harry just showed them what to do, and they copied him.

Being prevented from speaking English was annoying, even though he understood everything – but with the bookmark and his notebook, and the spell to write glowing words in the air, Harry worked around it.

He knew Voldemort could probably restore his vocal cords (the man was a magical genius, whatever else he was) but also that the Dark Lord likely never would.

The older wizard was paranoid about Harry accidentally blurting out information – not that he had anyone to talk to except the kids, and he knew they would get Obliviated or even killed if he told them anything off-bounds.

He also knew that not being able to talk would make it that much more difficult for Harry to evade him, should he ever manage to get out.

And Voldemort immensely enjoyed the fact that Harry could only talk freely to him.

The git, Harry thought fondly.

There were two other teachers at the school, and they spoke to the students. Harry used his bookmark, and wrote words in the air with his wand, and had taught them a few hand signals.

Stop, sit down, come closer, speak up, be quiet…that sort of thing. He didn’t know real sign language, nor did he know anyone who spoke it, but the hand signals helped.

Voldemort had informed Harry that if he tried to share any sensitive information with the children, they would be roughly and thoroughly Obliviated and then expelled – or killed, if they learnt of his Horcruxes.

Harry’s teacher colleagues were both loyalists, relatives of Death Eaters from families that had long supported the Dark Lord. 

He was allowed his wand during school hours because with so many underage witches and wizards in one room, accidental magic happened on a near-daily basis, and he needed to be able to keep the students safe.

But his masked, mute Death Eater guard stayed outside the door (even waited outside if he had to use the loo), and he knew Voldemort checked his wand before each of the lessons he gave Harry.

Those lessons never covered anything he could use to fight or escape, but Harry was now much better at finicky things like Transfiguration and Charms, and had learnt many small spells he’d never heard of but suspected the Dark Lord had either picked up during his travels or invented.

These days, Harry even knew something about ritual magic, blood magic, and runes, just from listening to Voldemort speak.

He really was a great teacher.

It seemed like Voldemort knew everything. He could even make Astronomy and History of Magic sound interesting, which was lucky because Harry wanted to introduce his grade-schoolers to those subjects, and he was absolute shit at them.

Maybe he could show the kids some Herbology as well? So they wouldn’t be too overwhelmed once they got to Hogwarts.

But none of the biting plants.

Could he get permission to have a Niffler visit the class sometime? They were cute, and not venomous or anything…

The school ‘gym’ was a courtyard in the middle of the school building, a walled-in garden for games and Herbology that was a bit small, but did have some training brooms for children.

Harry loved teaching them the basics of flying, even when they could only lift about six feet off the ground.

With all these freedoms, he occasionally thought about trying to come up with an escape plan, but…if Voldemort recaptured him, he would lose everything.

The kids, the school. His wand. Cassie, his cuddly, mischievous little cat.

Maybe…maybe he’d lose Voldemort holding him close, telling him he was good.

Maybe he’d be completely alone.

And Voldemort would find him, he had no illusions about that. Harry had no allies left that he could contact, a blood rune on his chest that he couldn’t get rid of, and nowhere to run. Even if he somehow managed to leave the country…the Dark Lord would find him. Find him, and take away all the good things in his life.

So the young man didn’t know if he would still run, even if presented with the chance.

If one day, years from now, something happened and he saw a chance to escape –

He honestly didn’t know if he would take it.

But right now, this was his life, and he didn’t hate it. Many days (maybe even most days) he felt…content.

Yes, he still had moments of despair, of anger at Voldemort and disgust at himself. Yet most days…

Harry was at peace.

You live in a cage, the voice that sounded like Hermione said in the back of his mind sometimes. And then another (one that sounded uncomfortably like Voldemort) tended to retort,

Most people live their entire lives in cages of their own design. What marks the difference between that and living in one constructed for you? At least you did not lock yourself in.

Harry never forgot that he wasn’t free. That was impossible. But he…he was happy, a lot of the time. And he didn’t want to feel guilty about it anymore, because who would that help?

It would only make him feel worse.

Therefore, he was determined to enjoy what he could in his life, and to do what he could for others, and to try not to worry.

It wasn’t mainly a school for Muggleborns, sadly.

Instead, it was mostly for the children of Muggleborns that had been allowed to keep their kids, poor half-bloods that couldn’t afford to a have one parent stay home, and children of ‘reformed’ blood traitors.

Rich families had tutors for their kids and poor pure-bloods were now so premiered in society that they too would soon be able to hire private tutors. And the Muggleborns probably went to Muggle schools until they started showing signs of accidental magic and were taken away by force, their parents killed or forced to forget their existence.

Harry thought about them often, even though he knew there was nothing he could do. He had to focus on the ones he could give his love and attention to, the ones in his care.

He had his own class that he saw each day, children from ages five to ten in mixed age groups with the siblings together instead of separated, so that they could feel safer.

That had been Harry’s idea.

He read magical and muggle fairy tales to them as they had their snack break in the mornings, the five-year-olds rushing to cuddle in around him and climb onto his lap, two on each side, tucked in under his arms.

Maybe they were a bit too big for it, no longer toddlers…but Harry liked it. It gave him a warm fuzzy feeling, like Christmas at the Burrow, but without the stab of pain accompanying those old memories.

Harry liked that his students were affectionate in the way young kids were when they trusted someone, and he liked having his arms around a bunch of them, sitting in the midst of the whole group while he let the new juniper-wood bookmark read aloud in his voice.

The classrooms were arranged around a courtyard with a glass ceiling across the top of it, full of magical plants and little tables the kids could take their packed lunches at, as well as a small grassy field they could zoom around on their practice brooms during gym class.

The younger students ended their classes a bit earlier and were let out to play or rest while the older kids received more advanced lessons.

Outside (beyond the lawn and garden, among the flowerbeds) there was a shaded pavilion with wicker furniture topped with fluffy cushions. Sofas, arm chairs, hammocks, and little hanging cocoons the children could nap in if they were tired or wanted to be alone.

That had been Harry’s idea too.

Parents were barred from entering the school, and the children were checked each day as they arrived and left. Harry was not allowed outside his classroom and the courtyard. There were locked doors, guards, and layered wards between him and freedom.

For your protection, Voldemort told him.

But at least he got to come here each day and teach, play with the kids, hear them shriek and bicker, and hug them when they cried.

He got to dig in the dirt and run around after the child-sized broomsticks. And he got to put their drawings up on the wall beside his desk and use his wand to make tea or shoot sparks to catch his students’ attention.

It was…more than Harry had thought he’d have, for a long time.

It was sunshine. It was children’s laughter.

It was a life.

As Harry emerged from the Floo in Voldemort’s private study, he stopped to greet Cassie, now a sleek adolescent cat, pitch black and long-limbed, claws just as sharp as always, eyes just as bright.

Whoever said cats weren’t affectionate clearly hadn’t met her. Most days she ran up to weave around his ankles as soon as he got home, get a scratch underneath her chin, and then she disappeared again.

Whenever Voldemort didn’t come to bed, staying up late with his documents and diplomatic dinners, she slept on the pillow next to Harry, fluffy and warm and cuddly as anything.

When the Dark Lord had first adjusted the wards so that they let her through as they did Nagini, Harry had been worried she’d get herself into trouble. But the other man had informed him that House Elves had magic that allowed them to keep track of the pets and young children in a household, in order to keep them safe from harm.

Harry was still a bit wary of Nagini – he figured he might always be – but no longer afraid. They even had brief, casual conversations now and then.

He is not to be harmed, Voldemort had hissed to her while Harry listened, seated nearby. Never, unless he attacks you. If anyone threatens him, destroy them.

Cassie had been frightened of the twelve-foot serpent at first, hiding on top of bookshelves to peer down at her, fluffy fur standing on end.

However, soon enough she was testing Nagini’s patience by pouncing on her tail or sitting on her back, and recently Harry sometimes found them sleeping in a pile in a window seat, in front of the fire, or on the warm stones by the heated spring.

And now, as the twelve-foot snake (feared by all of Wizarding Britain) slithered in through the door, a flash of black dropped from above onto her back, claws out.

Nagini whipped around to hiss, huge venomous fangs on display, jaws wide enough to swallow the smaller animal whole – and the young cat hissed back, spine arched and black fur on end, before nimbly leaping up onto a high bookshelf out of reach.

The giant serpent sent Harry a disgruntled glare he interpreted as your familiar is an annoying little shitstain, before slithering over to her master.

But later he found her soaking in the heat from the fireplace, Cassie curled up asleep on top of her coils, and he shook his head in bemusement.

For Christmas, Voldemort had given him a new door, attached to their wing.

Said wing contained quite a few rooms at this point, and the Dark Lord was free to come and go from it but Harry wasn’t – he had to be escorted to a fireplace in a separate room each morning, one connected via Floo to the school and nowhere else.

The new door opened up onto a beautiful, walled-in garden in the Old English style, overgrown like something out of a storybook. Lush and crowded, suffused with the scent of climbing roses and honeysuckle. Empty of humans, but containing small animals, a bubbling brook, and wide-open blue skies to fly in.

The garden didn’t exist in the real word. Not anymore, if it ever had. Voldemort had created some sort of pocket space for it, cut off from the rest of the world and impossible to find or breach except via this one door.

Only Harry, the Dark Lord, Cassie, and Nagini knew it existed.

The young man liked to go there to destress, float along in the sky or chase a golden snitch, read through his files in the sunshine instead of in his cosy little study.

Voldemort would summon him when it was time for dinner, a spell carrying his voice over to Harry’s ears.

Then they would eat together.

The days at school were short, the kids there from eight thirty till two, Harry staying until three to clean up (using his wand, which was why he liked to do it himself) and do some paperwork.

At home, in the rooms he shared with Voldemort (inside a vast magical mansion the Dark Lord had probably killed someone for and then enchanted and expanded, but which Harry had only seen a section of) he looked through a couple of appeals for mercy in his study.

He could only handle a few of those per day; they were too depressing.

But he never declined a single one, always looking for a solution, something within his power to offer the applicants. He knew they were all pre-approved by Lord Voldemort or one of his cronies, but they were still coming from real people that needed help, people that had turned to Harry as their last resort.

He did his best for them, using whatever concessions the Dark Lord let him dole out, and begging for more when he could.

And even if Voldemort only allowed him to teach because it made Harry happy (and gave his administration good publicity in the form of revolting headlines like Our Lord’s Chosen One Teaching Under-Privileged Children! and Unity in Our Community! Harry Potter and the Dark Lord’s Mercy for Mudbloods and Other Lesser Beings) Harry would still do his best for the kids in his care.

Harry was allowed the Daily Prophet now, though he didn’t know why he bothered to read it since they only printed rubbish and Death Eater-approved propaganda.

At least there was the Quidditch section. He cheered for the Chudley Cannons, on Ron’s behalf. (At first, he had seen the ghost of eleven-year-old Hermione’s bucktooth smile in every single one of his few Muggleborn students, but that faded as he got to know them as individuals.)

Voldemort would have never allowed him to teach at Hogwarts, with its ancient magic, dangerous sprawling grounds, and large faculty and student population.

However, at the small primary school the Dark Lord could monitor, ward, and post guards around, Harry was allowed free rein of his classroom.

The children’s parents were never allowed inside, and the Muggleborn parents were registered, wandless, bound by vows of loyalty and servitude, and would live forever as third-class citizens.

In Voldemort’s society, children with Muggle parents were all registered and taken away when they started showing signs of accidental magic. Marrying or ‘fraternising with’ Muggles was outlawed for everyone, and Muggleborns were treated as servants, but –

As Voldemort had said, the children of two Muggleborns still had two magical parents, and were now considered half-bloods, legally.

And since the children of two half-bloods were still considered half-bloods, pure-blood families maintained their superior status (the way Voldemort had promised them in return for their allegiance and support), but Muggleborns could hope for a better life for their children.

Harry hated it, but he…he had to pick his battles.

He had to focus on doing what he could, rather than throw his energy away on pointless battles. If he could help one family in Court, or one kid in school, then that’s what he would do.

Maybe one day he would be able to do more, but…this was what he could do now. Harry would never stop hoping, but he was practical, and worked with what he had.

He kept arguing with Voldemort, whenever they had their discussions.

The Daily Prophet still loved to write about him, but recently they had adopted a very specific angle.

Whenever the paper mentioned Lord Voldemort, they featured black-and-white photograph of him looking distant and imposing, dressed in his black, unadorned robes, talked of as ‘stern but fair’, the enlightened despot bringing peace and stability to the magical community.

But when Harry was mentioned…they made him out as some sort of angel. Sweet and distant, among the clouds.  

They printed pictures of him teaching, surrounded by a bunch of ‘poor unfortunate Mudblood children’, and never any of the pictures of him glaring and flipping them the bird when he caught them watching from afar, supervised by his bodyguards.

They liked to talk about the ‘mercy’ he gave the ‘undeserving’ in Court, and how he was a mild, tempering influence on their stern but fair Lord – bullshit, in other words.

What a load of crap. But he had no say in it.

Voldemort seemed to enjoy letting people believe there was a chance for mercy, one last avenue of appeal, so that they would become less likely to rebel against his system.

He allowed Harry to help a few people that he considered unimportant: families with kids, orphans, or the elderly – but he ruled with an iron fist, with absolute control, with widespread fear and disappearances, no matter what he tried to give shine of.

It felt as Harry could help so few –

I can give you people to save.

– but even if he could escape, how would he wage a war? With what army? Voldemort would find him and capture him again.

Now he had students to think of and he loved them all, even if it was sometimes tough and exhausting to be a teacher.

He often told them he was proud of them. He told them that they were wonderful, and that they deserved everything others might one day tell them they didn’t. Here, in his classroom, they didn’t have to be quiet and invisible the way Harry was once told to be.

They could be loud. They could play.

Harry told them stories, hugged them, taught them what he knew, and let them run wild.

He poured all his love and affection onto them, as if they were his own. Often he returned home exhausted and with robes covered in grass stains or sticky little handprints.

And when he came home, there Voldemort was, sitting at his antique monolith of a desk, frowning at a stack of reports or moving his quill elegantly over some new law or missive.

Harry went to him with an eagerness that bordered on relief, sliding into his lap with one leg on either side of him in a gesture that had become so familiar to both of them, achingly trusting and intimate, and curled up against his chest, face tucked into his neck.

Lord Voldemort gave a pleased hum, one arm wrapping around his waist, holding him securely in place as the scratching of his quill continued without pause.

The Dark Lord was never in the mood for conversation while he worked, but that suited Harry just fine after a day full of children’s chatter and shrieking (both delighted and outraged, when one pair of friends had experienced a brief but intense falling out during recess).

He closed his eyes, sighing contentedly.

Whilst not in the mood for talking, Voldemort was in the mood for keeping him close – he always was. He liked having Harry safe in his arms, and content to be there.

The Dark Lord allowed Nagini to drape over his shoulders when she pleased and he enjoyed having Harry close to him, resting near him.

Though he might not admit it…being close made Harry happy too.

Absentmindedly, Voldemort petted the teenager’s back, thighs, hair…and Harry pretended that it was only the Dark Lord that liked it, but –

He did too. He liked the connection, the casual touching, the being held and caressed.

No one had ever held him, caressed him, not like this. And he was an adult and didn’t need it, maybe, but –

Harry bit his lower lip.

He liked it. Nobody had to know how much.

Lord Voldemort petted him with proprietary fondness, and he held him the way Harry had once seen Tom Riddle hold Helga Hufflepuff’s cup in a memory – cradled in his expert fingers like a treasure, infinitely valuable and precious, unique.

On his lap, Harry might doze until Voldemort put his quill down and roused him for supper.

Or he might shift away after a while and visit his serene garden, play with Cassie, or retire to his small cosy study to read a book or Ministry scrolls in preparation of his next Court Day.

Or, occasionally, Harry might ask the older wizard to read aloud.

The first time he had been embarrassed, and Voldemort amused. Yet he had indulged Harry, no doubt pleased that the youth liked his voice and longed to listen to it.

Some documents he never read aloud and others were so full of legalese, acronyms, and other technical terms that Harry had no idea what they were about, but it was still pleasant to sit there, surrounded by warmth, safety, and that silky voice, which he could feel the vibrations of in the throat he had his face tucked in against.

Most days they’d get up for supper, and Harry would quietly stretch and feed Cassie, settle at the little intimate dinner table the set with a silent, invisible display of magic, and chat with Voldemort as they ate.

They talked about this and that – things Harry had come across reading, or his day, or whatever else was on his mind. Rarely heavy subjects, but sometimes they would argue about policy, leaving Harry flustered and upset.

The talking (amicably, without arguing) had come very slowly, Voldemort coaxing the younger man to speak, and Harry at first suspicious and wary.

But it was really nice to talk to someone freely, talk to someone other than his kids or the other two teachers.

His guards never spoke to him and at court the people he tried to help thanked him the way someone thanked a saint or something. Harry hated that they thanked him, when he could do so little.

(When he should have saved them all, but had failed – no. Don't think about that.)

Yet he could help some Muggleborns see their children again, could provide job interviews and internships, could pardon minor crimes, overturn unfair convictions.

It wasn’t much – it was the people Voldemort didn’t care about, the ordinary, helpless people – but if Harry could make a few people’s lives better, then he would.

Other days…like today…

Voldemort didn’t rouse him or shift him off his lap.

Instead, he stood as he was, Harry held to him, and walked them over to the sofa, supper appearing on a side table as the Dark Lord sank down onto the cushions, turning Harry around so that his back was to the taller man’s chest as the youth blinked, still a bit out of it.

“Put your hands behind your back,” Lord Voldemort hissed into his ear, low and intimate, and Harry shivered, obeying.

Folding the younger wizard’s forearms into the small of his back, the Dark Lord murmured a sticking charm, holding Harry against him, his legs dangling on the outside of Voldemort’s knees, spread wide.

He ate casually, feeding Harry bites from his own plate. When he lifted a piece with his fingers, Harry brushed his tongue over the pads of them, licking the oil there, and Voldemort’s arm around him tightened, lips brushing his throat.

The Dark Lord sometimes liked to feed him, wash him, dress and undress him with a flick of his wrist, or with his own clever hands. He liked to care for him, own him – and Harry…Harry did not mind.

Yes, it should feel creepy, maybe, but – no one had ever fed him by hand, bringing morsels to his lips like couples in love did.

No one had washed him, dressed him, taken care of him. He’d been neglected and forced to watch his cousin being loved and pampered while he had to cook, garden, and clean.

So maybe it was creepy, but it felt good, and to hell with it –

Harry would just enjoy this feeling instead of worrying about it.

He was done with guilt.

When he finished feeding him, Voldemort pushed two fingers into his mouth for Harry to suck, to lick clean, and ran his other hand down the younger man’s chest, Harry’s robes melting away slowly under his touch, pausing to grope him as he pleased.

Harry still wore the heavy golden plug, and now he clenched around it, aching, wanting.

By now, he was flushed down to his chest, both of them hard from the tease of waiting, feeding and being fed, sitting close, close, bodies pressed together, the younger man squirming and aroused.

Finally, the Dark Lord finished teasing and savouring him, Harry whining but knowing it was no use, that Voldemort would take all the time he pleased regardless –

At last he allowed Harry to lower himself onto his cock, playing with his chest and nipples, kissing up his neck as he grabbed the younger wizard’s hair and hips, fucked up into him from behind.

Harry gasped and arched, searching for the right angle, unable to touch himself.

Eventually, he pleaded,

“Closer, closer please –!”

And felt pleasure from the link to Lord Voldemort amplifying his own as the man turned him around and kissed him, removed the golden ring around his shaft and let him rut against his stomach while he thrust up into him until Harry saw stars, crying out.

Spilling and shaking and tightening around him the other wizard grabbed his hips hard enough to leave fingerprint-shaped bruises and shoved him down hard onto his cock, hips stuttering and teeth digging into Harry’s shoulder as he gave a low, drawn-out groan.

Harry panted against him, letting out a faint whimper, feeling his hole flutter and clench around the thick cock buried deep inside him, as close as he had ever been to anyone.

His arms came unstuck and he wound them around Voldemort’s neck, clinging to him as the older man kissed him languidly, still buried deep inside.

He could cast a cleaning charm, but usually the Dark Lord preferred to wipe him down, carry him into the bath or shower.

The bond between them hummed with satisfaction as Harry gave himself over to these ministrations, relaxed, trusting his lover with his body.

It felt very nice to have gentle, firm hands running over his body, when Voldemort was so often cruel or demanding, expecting Harry to bend to his will, to obey.

This felt like caring.

It felt like devotion returned, his own sacrifices acknowledged, if only after sex, briefly and silently.

Lord Voldemort ran his hands over Harry in the warm water and the youth signed contentedly, limp and relaxed. He eased the heavy gold plug back inside and Harry barely grumbled.

The young man used to wonder why Voldemort, who saw himself as above everyone else, would ever deign to do something like rub down Harry’s muscles. But then he realised that the Dark Lord viewed him as a piece of himself, a precious piece to look after.

He enjoyed Harry helpless in his arms, dependant of him. Or willingly trusting him, needing him.

And Harry felt safe and treasured, even though he knew who’s hands he was in.

Voldemort had hurt and terrorised him, but –

Not for a while. Not since he said he wouldn’t, anymore. Not since he took Harry from the dungeons.

He was a terrible person, but he was the only person Harry had left, and the teen couldn’t resist him.

Harry felt safe and cared for. He felt treasured when Voldemort kept him by his side, held him close…

Or when he rested his head in the Dark Lord’s lap in the evenings as the older wizard read a book or worked (he never really stopped working, Harry had learnt), or when Harry fell asleep next to him, no longer alone.

Safe.

Harry felt himself being lifted out of the steaming water and dried with a charm that tickled, feeling a welcome gush of cool air surround him before something warm and fluffy wrapped itself around his body.

He must have been tucked into bed, but he couldn’t remember it.

It was not long after that, that Harry looked up at Lord Voldemort and felt a pang to his chest.

An aching, a sharp sweet feeling that reminded him of –

Cassie, so soft and tiny in his hands, the children throwing their arms around him in a group hug, Hermione in her lecture mode, frizzy hair everywhere, Ron laughing so hard pumpkin juice sprayed out of his nose –

Sirius falling through the veil –

Rearing back, reeling, he tripped and fell, nearly cracking his tailbone on the floor before catching himself on his elbows with his Seeker reflexes.

Harry barely felt the pain of the impact, as he realised something that maybe he should have known for a while but hadn’t.  A knowledge that struck as lightning from a clear sky, and hit him just as hard.

His vision blurred, tears filling his eyes, spilling over to slide silently down his cheeks, and he knew exactly why.

No, no. No…

“Harry?”

Voldemort peered down at him, brows drawing together, gaze sharpening. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry croaked, stricken.

No, no…

Getting to his feet stiffly, he made for the bathroom.

Before he could take more than a step, hands clenched around his elbows from behind.

“Tell me what is bothering you,” the Dark Lord commanded.

The youth’s breaths grew loud in his ears. “I don’t want to,” he whispered, his voice wobbly.

The taller wizard spun him around and Harry ducked his head, avoiding eye-contact.

“You promised to obey,” the man that held him reminded the teen silkily. “To never hide from me again.”

His grip tightened.

“I will not punish you for not wanting to tell me, but I will for refusing to do so. Now, speak.”

His voice was cold, eyes narrowed, as he stood there tall and imposing, and Harry wished to tear his hair out, to curl up and cry, to rage and run, because –

“I think I love you,” he told Lord Voldemort, voice cracking.

“I don’t want to, and I know you don’t care, but in my chest –”

Harry stopped to draw in a raspy, tremulous breath.

“My heart, it hurts…”

Voldemort stood frozen. He did not so much as blink – even the link between them seemed silent, still.

Harry tried to summon anger through the stupid, hopeless tears that wouldn’t stop falling, but felt only self-loathing.

This had to be a new low. How could he…? But he did. He couldn’t help it, he did, he did.

I do. I love him.

“It’s your fault,” he accused, shaking in the Dark Lord’s hold.

“You, you took away everything else, everyone I had, you made sure I only had you and you, you…” A pathetic, wounded noise escaped his throat.

Voldemort came unstuck just as a wave of unexpected satisfaction crashed over Harry, startling enough that he swayed.

“Oh Harry,” the older man purred with a shark-like smile.

“Are you trying to tell me I have stolen your heart? In that case, I might as well continue –”

And in one of his uncannily swift movements, he grabbed Harry’s chin and swooped down, stealing a kiss.

“You have pleased me, Harry,” Lord Voldemort told him, staring into his eyes, lips and inch from his. “I am so pleased with you.”

“Liar,” the young man breathed, staring back, still reeling. “You…you despise love.”

“Once, I did,” the Dark Lord allowed. “However, I have learnt from my mistakes –”

He caught sight of the look on Harry’s face and smirked.

“Oh, do curb that glare. I still think love a terrible weakness. I do not love. Yet it is an emotion which inspires loyalty, devotion, sacrifice… Unpredictable, volatile, and yet – powerful indeed. And now I have yours, my little love…”

Harry shuddered, but it was not from revulsion. It was from something he did not want to recognise or understand, could not hope to evade.

“…Don’t call me that,” he mumbled, unwilling to be swept under by the emotions that were threatening to drag him under, to engulf him entirely.

Held against Voldemort, he felt as if he were falling into an abyss, was lost in the darkness, the man holding him his only light. A beacon in the night, a false light hoping to lure him into perilous waters, break him open on sharp, beautiful, wild cliffs.

“You enjoy it.”

“…I, uh…no I don’t.”

“Yes.” He stroked up his back in a way that had become soothing somewhere down the line, that made Harry relax into his hold unconsciously, melting.

“You cannot lie to Lord Voldemort, Harry Potter. Have you not yet learnt that?”

Crimson eyes, burning.

“I’m obstinate,” Harry retorted gruffly, sniffling.

“Oh, I know. But I shall give you happiness, nevertheless. All you have to do is let me. Do not fight yourself… Your body, your soul knows that your true home lies with me and nowhere else. Cease holding yourself back, my love…

Harry felt his expression crack, and he tried to twist away. “Don’t – don’t call me –”

“My love? Ah, but Harry… I care about myself more than anyone, and you carry a piece of me. You, I care about more than any other human in this world. You are my treasure, immeasurably dear, and my devotion will never wane, never fade…

“Is that not better than love? Of equal worth to it, at the very least? I have kept you close, cared for you, given you pleasure…and won your obedience, dependence, and now love – if not yet loyalty.”

“Never loyalty,” the boy vowed vehemently, desperately, but the older man ignored him.

“I have spent most of my life despising those who wear their hearts upon their sleeves, place up upon a pedestal their fleeting, flighty attachments and their feelings of love…

“Still, perhaps…perhaps I was hasty in my judgement. I have lately seen clear evidence of the devotion it can inspire. Fear is useful, a strong motivator. Greed, likewise. Desire, envy, fury…and yet I suppose, love might have its place amongst them. It might have its value and its uses, like the others.”

He drew Harry in, inexorably, closer and closer until the teen’s entire vision was swallowed up by wine-red eyes, so warm, so fond, so triumphant.

“I have no desire to experience the emotion, but I can appreciate the devotion it inspires. I desire your devotion, my Harry. I covet each one of your emotions, however flighty; they ought all be directed at me, centred on your Lord and master…

“Powerful, indeed… And now I have your love. How you please me, Harry.”

The intensity of his powerful voice, his heady gaze, the dark magic Harry could almost taste in the air around Lord Voldemort lightened, and his tone took on an almost teasing lilt as he rubbed his thumb along the line of Harry’s jaw casually, grazing his hairline, his throat.

“I could have never imagined that infuriating little brat could have grown into such an appealing young man.”

Harry let out a startled, wet chuckle. “At least you weren’t thinking about this stuff back then.”

Voldemort grimaced. “Hardly.”

The he grew serious again, as abruptly as he had turned teasing.

“I do not love. And yet, my own…what I have to offer you is greater than love. What is that fleeting emotion, compared to my eternal devotion?

“What is that fickle, poorly defined concept compared to the lengths I have already gone to protect and cherish you, to win you and keep you by my side?

“My devotion shall never fade. It is limitless and eternal… It is focused on you, solely on you…

“You wish to be loved? Oh, my little Horcrux… You have no idea how I shall cherish you. What I shall give you is better than love.”

Harry failed to hide the way he flushed, even while his heart ached.

“I can’t love you, I…what would…my parents…” he said in a broken voice.

Wasn’t this worse than anything else? Worse even than sleeping with Voldemort, than failing to kill him…loving the man that had slaughtered Lily and James.

And he had no one else left to talk to about it, no one to seek comfort from, except for their murderer.

“I killed you parents,” the Dark Lord told him after a considering pause.

Harry flinched, glaring up at him.

“I killed them, and I cannot say what they would have thought of you, of this. I can only say that they are dead, and you are not. You are alive.”

His eyes burned into the younger man’s.

“And you must live.”

Oddly, the stark words calmed him. Voldemort had killed his own father – what did he know about Harry’s guilt and longing?

What did he know about the way the teenager had idolised James Potter and longed for Lily Potter’s arms around him?

But Voldemort’s words were still true.

Harry needed to live the life he had and not the one they might’ve wanted for him. He needed to be the person he was, and not the one he might’ve been, had they lived to raise him.

Lord Voldemort was a murderer and a despot, and he’d hurt Harry more than anyone else and showed him more care than anybody ever had, and the young man felt complete when they touched, his aching soul at rest.

He knew exactly who and what Voldemort was.

And somehow, Harry loved him anyway.

Tears stung his eyes again but he made no move to blink them away, ceasing his struggling. 

“Come and sit with me, Harry, or come to bed and rest. You may cry on my shoulder if you must, but this is no reason to grieve.”

Achingly tender, Lord Voldemort cradled his cheeks, brushing a kiss to his lips.

“You should love me, my soul. You are perfect, just like this. I will never let you go.”

And wrapped up in his arms under the covers later, Harry did cry. He cried because he couldn’t help loving, and it hurt.

Hoping hurt.

But after he cried…he felt lighter.

Voldemort pressed his lips to Harry’s scar, to his eyelids, his nose, his cheekbones, and the corners of his mouth, his thin lips tasting of salt as Harry kissed him back, drowning in him, swept up in him and comforted by him. His world. His rock. His only constant.

“You are mine, Harry Potter. Forever.”

For the first time, a knot inside Harry came loose. For the first time –

I believe you.

He wanted to let them both have what they wanted.

He wanted to let himself love, and feel loved.

Kissing him softly, the young man pressed closer and was received again into those arms, as he was each time, never denied, never rejected.

Was held close and dear, here, now, today.

Tonight, and tomorrow, and in the days to come.

In Voldemort’s arms Harry felt safe; he felt wanted. Pressed against his skin, their souls singing, he thought, home.

“And yes, my love…I am yours.”

And he felt happy.