Warnings: Alternate Universe - Canon (aka HARRY IS NOT THE BWL, NEVILLE IS), DADAprof!Harry, Sane-ish!LV, Dark vs Light, Happy Ending tho, Morality, established relationship
Pairing: LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter)
Summary: Harry doesn't need the Potter family Invisibility Cloak to be invisible. With an unblemished forehead, he fades into the background—utterly ordinary.
Voldemort begs to differ.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter series - J.K. Rowling
Hot puffs of breath fan out across his neck like a tsunami, gliding along his skin to spill out along the dip of his jaw. There's a vice-like grip on his shoulder, pinning him down and pressing him deeper into the mattress—deeper into this, whatever this is, and Harry's sure he wants it as much as he knows he shouldn't.
He wants to gorge himself on this ecstasy; wants to drown and die because he'd die a happy man if that were the case. His lower body is scorching hot and liquid lava is swirling at the base of his belly. He's half sure it'll burn him alive from the inside out. He hopes it'll happen soon—there's nothing left of him to give past his life, but Voldemort won't take any less than that.
"Harry," the Dark Lord hisses, parseltongue a garble that he can't understand. The only reason why he knows it's his name in the first place is through repeated encounter. It's one of his habits—the Dark Lord's—to slip in and out of the timeless snake language while he himself hangs on the border between lust and muddled thought.
It's really, really adorable. Harry wishes it wasn't—it would make things a lot easier, but being in love with the Dark Lord made it so nothing was ever easy. Nothing worthwhile would ever be easy with Voldemort, and that really, really sucked—
"Oh!"
Quite literally.
"Lovely, lovely Harry—how I adore you…so much, I want to break you so much, see you fall apart in my hands at the end of my wand you'll be the death of me, Harry—"
Voldemort weaves in and out of English and parseltongue, a mix of high, slow hisses and harsh vowels. It's too hard to understand, and Harry has maybe a quarter of the brain power he usually does right now so he doesn't even bother. If he really thinks about it, his lover probably isn't aware of what he's saying either.
It's cute. Really cute. And sometimes, it makes him just want to—
Want to—
Kiss. Touch. Taste. Love. It makes him want to hold him, wants to be held by him, wants to press fleeting affection and cuddles to his side by the light of the fireplace for hours. Harry just wants to be—to exist without reason, to love without worry, to smile with reckless abandon and to stay by Voldemort's side.
He wants to spend the afternoon lounging in the library, sprawled across the Dark Lord's lap or on an adjacent arm chair, casually discussing something or other or maybe even in silence. He wants to hold hands, feel the difference in their temperatures and sizes but hold hands regardless because the pressure is comforting.
He wants to share breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Wants to argue and laugh and breathe. Harry wants to fight, protect, spar and then collapse on the ground with a familiar satisfying ache that goes all the way to his bones. He wants to part ways and walk out the door, go about his day and then come back through that same door knowing he'll be coming back home to Voldemort. Harry wants to do a lot of things.
And that's wrong. A few hours later, someone will die at the hands of the Dark Lord and here he is enjoying those hands. Harry wishes he won't have to choose. Wishes he knew what to do. Wishes Voldemort wouldn't make this so hard.
It makes him want to cry. He does anyway, though for an entirely different reason.
"Um…Professor?"
"Yes, Mr. Finnigan?" Harry looks up from his work, parchment papers stacked on neat piles atop his desk. There's a red ink well a bit out of the way so he doesn't accidentally knock it over, though it's close enough for easy access, and the cup of tea he's been drinking has long since cooled from his negligence. He'll warm it up with a quick charm later.
His student, a fourth year Hufflepuff, opens his mouth to ask his question but then pauses, an odd look eclipsing his face. Then Finnigan flushes bright red and mumbles something indiscernible.
"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."
"I asked…um…are you okay, Professor?"
"I believe so, yes."
"Well, you've got a—uh—a—" the boy tries to gesture with his hands but fails miserably. "There's a…um…a mark. On your neck."
Immediately, Harry's left hand flies up to slap the skin there. Finnigan winces at the sound.
"Other side," the badger squeaks.
Calmly, Harry lowers his left hand and brings up his right to cover the skin there. He tries to smile with as much dignity as possible. "Thank you, Mr. Finnigan. Now, is there anything that you need?"
"Uh…Nope that'llbeallthanksprofessorbye!"
In all his meager years of teaching, Harry has never seen a student run out of his office that fast.
"Are you mad? Albus!"
"We have no other option, Minerva. Tom gathers more Death Eaters every day. What else can we do?"
"And your solution is to use Hogwarts as a stronghold? Albus, it's not even summer yet! There are students in the Castle! You want to put them in the line of fire?"
In an uncharacteristic display, the Headmaster of Hogwarts slams his hand on the table. All the staff goes still. Harry wants to close his eyes and hide in a corner somewhere.
"All students," Dumbledore says, volume quiet but voice loud in each and every ear, "are my children. They are my own. Nothing grieves me more than making this decision, Minerva. You know that."
"It's my fault," Neville says, hands clenched in his lap. His two friends Hermione and Ron sit on either side of him, both shooting him a concerned look. They are tempted to shake their heads, but as his gaze is directed toward neither of them, it would be a hopeless venture. "It's my fault. If I wasn't here, then…"
"Nonsense," Flitwick says, voice high though firm. Hearing him speak makes all the professors look toward him like a beacon in the night, a tall tower of strength despite his small stature. "Graduate you may be, you are still and will always be a Hogwarts student. Hogwarts protects her own, especially those seeking sanctuary."
"Filius is correct, my boy. Either way, I believe Tom would set his eyes on this school. He has always been obsessed with it—and my presence here does not deter him in the least. No, perhaps his goal has been me all along. He has always had a bone to pick with me, and I have done him no favors over the years." Dumbledore sighs.
"Albus!" many of the staff speak up in opposition to his words.
"No…I am by no means perfect. In the past I have made many mistakes. My goal has always been to right my wrongs by looking to the future…perhaps that was wrong. Regardless, the facts remain. Hogwarts is both the most dangerous and the safest place to be. We must prepare for war." Then, Dumbledore turns his eyes toward the end of the long table. "I believe, Professor Potter, it is of utmost importance that your focus in the classroom switch to defensive spells and dueling in particular. It is unfortunate, but…"
"I understand," Harry says. He barely feels himself mouthing the words. "In fact, we've already begun. The seventh years have been progressing very well in advanced shields and counter-curses, and I've been teaching them how to use the spells they've learned in other classes offensively as well. I moved the Shield Charm lesson to encompass all years."
Dumbledore claps his hands and smiles in obvious relief. "Splendid. One step ahead, I see—but you've always been a wonderful student. It is no surprise that you are now a wonderful professor, my boy."
Harry stiffens, but nods his head in acceptance anyway. It comes off a bit jerky, but no one notices with everything else going on.
He isn't sure whether or not Dumbledore is lying. True, his grades were always kept up, but he certainly never came off as the best in the class like the studious Hermione Granger, or the wealthy purebloods with previous tutoring like Draco Malfoy. In fact, Harry usually kept to the back of the class—silent unless called on, well-spoken but concise. There was no reason to be anything otherwise.
Hogwarts has been his escape, after all. He doesn't deserve to ask for more than that.
And now…
He doesn't know what the Dark Lord is planning. Voldemort never tells him anything about his current plans—the man likes to talk of the future, likes to talk of what he wants to change, of what will be once the world is his. But he doesn't talk about how he'll get there. Maybe it's because he's wary of his lover in the end—or maybe it's because he cares and wants to save Harry the heartache.
He doesn't know. So he doesn't say a word, but it makes his fingers twitch in indecision.
Hogwarts has been his sanctuary for a very long time. But it has been Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the man he loves who has been his home.
"Ask."
Harry starts. The book on wards—written in ancient Greek, mind—he'd been trying to plow through for the last week slips off his lap. Well, it doesn't really matter anyway. He's been on the same page for the last half an hour.
"Ask what?"
Voldemort stares. The slant of his eyes is half-lidded and unamused. Most would be intimidated by the red that peeks out, but Harry knows there is no force behind them. The Dark Lord is neither impatient nor angry at the moment.
"You are…concerned."
Harry bites his lip. He doesn't want to be the one who breaks their mutually silent agreement. Dumbledore has never been a name mentioned in their conversations, and though he sometimes briefly speaks of work at Hogwarts, he doesn't go into many details about the other professors—out of fear, out of respect, out of fatigue, he doesn't know. He just doesn't.
"I am," he breathes out.
Voldemort stands. He's been reading reports—of what, Harry doesn't know, but most likely some raid or project or other—since morning, but Harry isn't bothered. He keeps his distance by sitting in an out-of-the-way corner, far enough that he could not read any of the papers strewn out on the Dark Lord's desk. Still, as it is the weekend and he does want to relax in the presence of his lover, he chooses Voldemort's study instead of the proper library connected to it.
He doesn't want to monopolize Voldemort when he's so clearly busy. Harry understands there's a lot of work to be done, though he doesn't know what work exactly, it's pretty obvious that leading a war is time consuming. That's fine. If he asks for attention, he'll certainly get it, but Harry doesn't need it as much as Voldemort needs to work, so he settles for resting in a proximity that will still give the Dark Lord the necessary privacy.
As his lover hadn't said anything in opposition, Harry thought it would be fine. Maybe he's actually a distraction though…?
"Tell me."
"Am I distracting you?"
Voldemort's flat stare is enough of a reprimand. No changing the subject or lying to get out of this, it seems.
"It isn't really a…problem—no, well, I guess it is a problem," Harry says, more to himself than the Dark Lord he's decided not to look at. "But I don't feel comfortable talking about it. It's—"
"If you say it's fine, I will curse you."
"How kind of you," he quips before he can stop himself. He still refuses to look at Voldemort though, so instead Harry bends over and picks up his book. A quick check shows that the protection charms he'd placed around the old thing paid off—no damage whatsoever.
But the Dark Lord still calls for his attention. "Your thoughts, though I cannot read them, carry your unease across the room," he says, gliding over to stand beside him. "It disturbs me that you are not well. Ask."
"How are you so sure that it's a question?" Harry challenges.
"I am not. However, there is bound to be a question involved that you feel I can answer, else you would not dodge my gaze so."
Harry scowls, looking up just to prove the Dark Lord wrong. It's a trap he lets himself fall for, if only because he's warmed by the fact that Voldemort cares. Sometimes—specific instances, mind; in general Harry is very aware that he is well-cared for—it's hard to tell.
"It's about…school," Harry admits. Something stops him from saying 'Hogwarts' as if it's a proper noun too close to the problem. He watches for any shift in the Dark Lord's expression, but there are none. "So, I guess I do have a question, but that doesn't mean I want the answer to it. You know what I mean?"
Voldemort considers him. If he lets the subject drop, Harry is all for letting it drop on his side as well. If he decides to continue, though…well, it's hard to say what will happen. Then, as if he'd caught something, the Dark Lord's expression hardens and twists into an angry glare.
"Do you think I would harm you?"
Harry huffs. "That, coming from the man who just said he'd curse me?" Even before finishing his answer, he can see how his joke relaxes his lover. "No, I'm aware you won't hurt me. Give me some credit, won't you?"
"This includes letting harm from an external force befall you," Voldemort states.
It is Harry's turn to consider him. "Yes," he finally says, "I know that, too. Well, if by 'harm' you mean 'serious or fatal injury'—"
"Yes."
"Then yes," Harry says, voice firm and confident. "I trust you with that."
"But nothing else?" his lover presses.
"Well, that depends. I trust you with a lot of things, just like you trust me with a lot of things, too."
Voldemort sighs but succumbs, allowing himself to be dragged into what will no doubt be a lengthy conversation—about feelings. "But not everything."
"It goes both ways, so I don't see a problem with it," Harry quickly follows up. "I don't hold it against you. In fact, it's kind of expected that it can't be about everything. I don't doubt you, and I don't plan on doing so at any point in the upcoming future."
"You are quick to reassure me, but I believe we were discussing your problem."
"Were we?" Harry challenges again. "I mean, I don't mind if we don't—"
"What would you prefer?"
That makes Harry stop. Voldemort is patient in accommodating him, hand moving to idly run through his hair. The touch is reassuring, just like he's sure his lover had intended it to be.
"I don't know," Harry says after awhile. He closes his book. "I…I guess I'm worried, is all. And I'm not sure if it'll pass."
His hands are shaking. He only notices when Voldemort sighs and takes a seat beside him, tugging him to his side to rest his head upon his shoulder. Something inside of him curls, and Harry realizes he is absurdly thankful for his lover, despite the fact that said man is the cause of many of his problems.
"I found you," the Dark Lord says, "a diamond in the rough. You were mine to mold at will. Do you feel molded, Harry? Artificial?"
'Artificial'—such a funny word coming from the Dark Lord, for whatever the reason. Harry struggles to formulate some sort of reply. There are a lot of things he wants to say, a billion more things he doesn't, and ten times more that he won't.
"I was a rock before you found me," Harry says, dry and genuine, "And I still am now. Nothing much has changed."
Voldemort probably knows this more than anyone. "But I found you," he says, "Invisible as you were; a faded flower on chipping paint. And I will find you again if need be."
"What if I don't want to be found?"
The hand in his hair tightens almost painfully so. Still, Harry doesn't flinch.
It is worth noting that Voldemort doesn't reply. They just sit there, letting the subject drop into the icy river of their silence.
Neville is a good person. That, of course, is not the problem, but it doesn't help things either.
While he certainly doesn't consider the boy a friend—they aren't close enough for that—he is far from an enemy. They'd gone to Hogwarts in the same year, were sorted in the same House, had classes together and ate at the same table. That's supposed to mean something, Harry's sure. And his head tells him it does.
They're both parentless. From that, there's some type of unspoken bond between them. Once, Harry found Neville crying in the shower, late at night. He didn't say anything then, didn't say anything later, hasn't said anything now, but when the boy got out, wet with no tears left to cry on the anniversary of his parents' deaths, Harry was there with a towel and a warm glass of milk.
Neville hadn't said anything about Harry's nightmares, either. They shared a dorm with the rest of the Gryffindor boys their year, but it was only Neville—probably awake from his own nightmares—who had seen Harry leap up and flee to the bathroom, pale and drenched in sweat, after one of the really bad nights. And when Harry fell asleep beside the fireplace in the Common Room needing that light and that warmth to rest, it was Neville that woke him up in the morning before the others and got him back to bed so rumors wouldn't start.
Neville is a good person. Harry bears no grudge against him.
…Does Voldemort?
There is, he supposed, some reason to. Neville had been involved in the Dark Lord's 'death'—as much of a death as it could've been—disappearing for a good thirteen years. According to the Daily Prophet, Neville is the Boy-Who-Lived—the only person to have ever survived the Killing Curse—and has been hailed (since he was eleven) the Savior of the Wizarding World. It stood to reason that Voldemort would consider him an enemy.
However, an enemy isn't truly the same thing as an adversary. If anything, Dumbledore is Voldemort's opponent in the war, though there's no doubt in Harry's mind that Neville is, has been, and will be involved in many future conflicts. His old schoolmate is too deep in; knowing the Dark Lord as he does, Harry knows that's enough to paint a target on Neville's back.
That said, Harry isn't anywhere near okay with this knowledge. What would he do, he wonders, if he was put into a situation where he has to choose? And it's not a hypothetical situation with no ground either; despite the proclaimed intentions of the Dark Lord, Harry is, in all likelihood, going to get caught up in this someway, somehow. That being in the confrontation between Lord Voldemort and Neville Longbottom is more likely to happen than not.
In that respect, he supposes Voldemort does have a bit of a soft spot for him. He hasn't tried to use him to get into Hogwarts, hasn't tried to exploit Harry's personal morals into setting a trap, hasn't done a lot of things he could've. All Voldemort has done is desire his company, really. It's almost too considerate to believe—
…Has it simply not come to pass yet?
Maybe he was a trump card to be played in desperate times. Maybe his role just hasn't been needed yet; maybe Voldemort is planning to use him in this war—as a spy, a hostage, a weapon, a…
It's possible. Harry won't delude himself about his lover—the Dark Lord is deadly serious about this war, and he certainly wouldn't let such a thing as feelings stop him from getting an advantage. That's also one of the reasons why he's refrained from starting those topics in the first place; he doesn't like the idea of being used, doesn't like the idea of being manipulated, and doubly doesn't like the idea that he isn't aware of it happening.
Harry needs control. With someone as controlling as the Dark Lord, it's harder than it sounds—if it sounded easy at all, that is.
Going for the long con, Harry thinks. Possible. Very possible.
It's hard to accept how quickly the switch can be flicked—Voldemort can go from his lover to his enemy in a blink of an eye, or even be both really. Sometimes he really misses the old days when he didn't have to worry about Dark Lords and relationships—when all he thought about were his grades and getting stronger and more capable and being safe. In control. When the worst thing in his life was still the Dursleys and he was terribly, horribly alone.
When he still lived in the cupboard under the stairs instead of the Dark Lord bedroom. Those were certainly simpler days.
…This is ridiculous.
His mind is split in two. One half is worrying about all of the war business, the other half is in love with the Dark Lord and cooing over his inclination towards ruthless scheming.
Fine, I'll admit it. His single-mindedness brings a rather fetching shade to his eyes, and—Harry exhales through his nose. There, he's said it! No more!
"Harry?"
Harry looks up.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah—yeah, I'm good, Neville. You?"
Neville pauses before taking a seat beside him on the bench. "To tell you the truth? I feel like hippogriff shit right now."
For what it's worth, Harry laughs. "I don't blame you. I think everyone's feeling pretty bad right now."
"Not you, apparently," Neville accuses, though the small grin on his face says he's joking too. "You're the only good one of us."
Taken out of context, it would've made Harry flinch with how wrong it was. However, because his companion didn't mean it that way and he isn't supposed to take it that way, Harry doesn't. It's a close thing though. To hide his anxiety, he stuffs a fist into his pants pocket.
"Hardly," he says. "Did you want to talk about something?"
Neville is the one to flinch—or at least shift away. His leg bounces a bit, impatient or scared Harry doesn't know, doesn't want to think about it.
"You know, I've always admired you," Neville confesses.
"Huh. I'm not much, though."
"You don't look like much," his fellow Gryffindor corrects, but then quickly amends, "I mean, no offense or anything—"
Harry cracks a grin, more like a sideways bearing of teeth. "Yeah, I get it."
"…Yeah. Well, I mean, you don't look like much, but you really are…a lot, I guess?"
"Alright, this time I'm not following."
Neville shrugs—hunched over and shoulders tight, looking for all his worth a mixture of embarrassed and apologetic. "I was jealous of you in first year. You were so…normal. Like you were okay, nothing was wrong, and you just pushed past everything. I thought, you know, for awhile that nothing could ever shake you up. And then, well…"
"Nightmares did a fine job of proving you wrong, huh?"
Neville bit his lip. "Yeah," he murmurs, "yeah. Those did the job. And then I thought we were alike, but then you just pushed right past again and managed to, well, somehow look okay. And then that was when I started admiring you. I was…" Neville pauses. "I don't know. I guess I just wanted to tell you that you're a good bloke, Harry. And I'm really glad you're here. We never really got to know each other very well, but…I'm glad you're here. You're real dependable, you know? During a time where finding that is hard."
Harry just wants to curl up and die. Instead, he reaches over, pats his lover's enemy on the shoulder, and smiles. "You're doing a pretty good job yourself," Harry says. "I couldn't imagine myself being where you are now—between a rock and a hard place, that. But you're doing a pretty good job. I couldn't have done better if I tried."
Neville's shoulders sag. "Even when I have no idea what the Hell I'm doing?"
"Especially because you don't know what you're doing," Harry confirms. "There's a lot of people trying to tell you what to do—a lot of people who want to help, who will help you as long as you ask. But in the end, what you do is up to you. Whether it's to run away, to hide, to surrender, to stand, to fight, to keep holding on until the storm's over—it's been all up to you, and I say you've done a pretty good job of it. Just follow what you believe in, because at the end of the day, that's all you'll have."
He could've said a million different things—could've tried to tell Neville to run away and forget this business, convince everyone to surrender to the Dark Lord so he won't have to see them all die in battle—blood splattered across the castle walls, bodies bent and broken and smashed. Harry thinks about Voldemort, thinks about him both as the man he loves and the Dark Lord currently wrecking havoc in the Wizarding World, thinks and thinks and thinks and comes up with nothing.
Voldemort is his own person. Harry is his own person, too. The ownership they have over each other is conditional, mutual, and utterly fragile. It's still there, even now as he might be encouraging his lover's enemy to fight, but that's okay.
He can't control whether or not he loves the Dark Lord. What he can control is the actions he takes because of it. And this time…well this time, he'll just let it slide. It would be wrong of him to try and take advantage of his fellow lion now of all times.
Neville breathes out. Harry thinks they could really use some firewhiskey right about now.
"Thanks, Harry."
"No problem."
When Harry was little, he used to spend his school hours in the library. Break and lunch, he'd curl up in a corner next to one of the windows in the back, settle in with a book, and forget his hunger. The librarian was a strict woman who wouldn't allow any horsing around near her books—none of the bullies could loom over him there.
She didn't notice him either, hidden among the dusty bookshelves that smelled of that peculiar old paper smell. Harry liked to read fantastical stories; the mythical tales that spun of magic and friends and hope. They were everything he was devoid of—everything he was banned from. So, in the library was the only place he could perform his tiny act of rebellion against the Dursleys.
His preference for libraries stems from these years. Harry personally likes the tall bookshelves—the type that go all the way up to the ceiling, or at least near that height. They never fail to make him feel safe and secure in his seclusion, a tiny niche in the world just for him. Now when his reading is comprised mostly of academia—research and manuals and magic theory—he still enjoys these moments, though they're a lot less carefree.
However, that doesn't mean Harry doesn't appreciate the outside, either. Like right now.
He curls his toes, feeling the wet sand beneath and between and over his feet. It feels funny, not bad just funny, and then the tide comes in all the way up to his ankles, covering them in sea foam. The air is fresh and salty, a scent that he tries not to breathe in too much, but the cold wind is a million times better and makes him walk out further along the beach.
It's not a sunny day. Harry doesn't understand it much himself, but the cold is a good cold and his numb bare torso is also, in its own way, a good sign. He can see seagulls out in the distance, hear them too, blots and squiggles of white along the grey backdrop of clouds. There's no one else but him and Voldemort here.
He walks down further until the water level is up to his knees, wetting the bottom of his shorts.
Seaweed drifts in with the tide again, brushing against his legs and everything under. They feel weird too, but he still manages to untangle them without making too much of a fool of himself. The water bites, the air cuts, the smell invades; Harry is at peace. It's nice here—occasionally.
But they're not here for pleasure. Harry turns around, immediately spotting his lover. It's impossible not to—Voldemort is black against the white sand, the only human on the beach, and his eyes are trained intently on Harry. Harry stares right back.
There's a shell beneath his foot. It's not sharp, but it's uncomfortable enough to make him shift his feet.
The Dark Lord beckons. Harry goes.
"Why are we here?" And why did you tell me to get dressed for swimming when you're not?
"To collect something of mine—something I no longer need."
"Huh?" Harry blinks, but doesn't receive more of an answer than that. Still, Harry follows. Eventually they reach the end of the beach, cut off by a large jagged cliff. Voldemort motions and they move over the rocks to get around it. There's an inlet that can't be reached through walking.
"We swim from here."
"You've got robes on."
Voldemort looks at him, amused. "Yes."
"You told me to wear shorts."
"Yes."
Harry wrinkles his nose. "Why?"
"I desired to see you topless," his lover answers, absolutely shameless. There's a sly look in those red eyes that never fails to make Harry flush at their intensity.
"It's cold!" he complains. "Heating charms don't work very well in this weather."
"I'll warm you up later," is the promised answer. Harry has no more complaints after that.
Without any more delay, they slip beneath the waves. It's still cold—Harry shivers—but not cold enough to make him forget to cast a bubblehead charm. Voldemort has already done so, and when Harry turns to look at his lover, he freezes at the sight of him.
Beneath the waves, where this is no up or down or left or right, Voldemort is beautiful. His black robes blow with the current like tendrils of darkness, all locks of hair and seducing hands. Harry instinctively reaches out. He can't stop himself. It is impossible not to touch when he can, and before he knows it he has Voldemort's head cradled in his palms, letting their lips touch.
It is a brief kiss; a kiss of admiration and nothing more—a kiss of worship and devotion. There is something holy to Harry of this unholy creature, of the monster of a man that is the Dark Lord. Perhaps, he muses, it is the lens of love he looks through. Here, Voldemort is the farthest thing away from bloodthirsty murderer—he is calm, subtle, playful and possessing of some otherworldly grace. The water warps around him, curling as if it too wants to remain in his presence as Harry does.
He can feel Voldemort's long bony fingers find their way to his bare back, can feel the finger pads press against his spine. In return, he winds his own arms about the Dark Lord's neck, feeling the hairless scaled scalp before pressing another quick kiss to his jaw. Harry works his way around, showering Voldemort in affection for some reason unknown other than that he wants to.
The feel of warm fabric touching his bare skin makes him shudder. It's completely unfair—Voldemort gets heating charms!—and part of Harry is sure that this is the Dark Lord's master plan, making Harry throw himself at him just to get a bit warmer. When his lover smiles smug under his lips, Harry knows he's probably right.
The flow of water winds around them both, mirroring the motion of their entwined auras. He can't help but laze under the feel of it—it's like coming home all over again. Voldemort presses his cheek against Harry's, a small sign of affection that makes his heart beat just that bit louder in his chest, and then the Dark Lord's arms wind completely around his waist and Harry melts.
"Such a kitten," Voldemort murmurs, voice warbled by the obstruction of his charm.
"It's because you like to spoil me so much," Harry says in return. They should definitely go swimming more often.
As if sensing his thoughts, Voldemort chuckles. "As much as I appreciate your affection, there are things we must do. Come, Harry."
They part reluctantly and continue on. Eventually they reach a hidden cave opening and surface. It actually belongs to a larger cave that seems to be layered thick with protective magic. No wonder they couldn't apparate—the anti-apparation ward is only one of many lines of defense. Voldemort rises completely dry.
Also unfair. Harry wrinkles his nose before drying himself with a wandless flick of the wrist.
"Where are we?" Harry asks.
"A place I have not been to in a very long time. Stay close to me, and don't touch anything."
There's only one reason for that warning. Harry shudders and immediately falls in place right behind the Dark Lord. He only peeks around when Voldemort stops. There's another lake in the cave, and in front of them is a small wooden rowboat.
"What's that?"
"Don't touch it."
Harry frowns. It's a small bottle with brown liquid in it. "Well I know that much," he mutters. "Did you…make it?"
Voldemort spares him a glance. "A long time ago," he says. Then he lifts his hand and utters a few words that Harry recognizes as a summoning chant.
The water ripples. Then, something rises—well, a lot of somethings. It takes a moment to recognize them, but when he does, Harry flinches back even as the Dark Lord stands still. They're inferi—an army of them, at least. While it's not unexpected for the Dark Lord to know and have created them in the past, the last place Harry would've ever thought to be their containment vessel is a lake in the middle of nowhere.
Unless…
"They're guarding something," Harry realizes.
Voldemort nods. He then raises his wand and begins a series of complex motions. While Harry can't completely identify everything—the Dark Lord is one of the quickest spell casters he knows of—he can guesstimate enough that it's a process to dismantle or deactivate some of the protections.
"Come," Voldemort says. He steps onto the wooden boat, rocking it lightly as he stands instead of sits. Harry follows despite his doubts.
The inferi watch them both, soundless and unblinking.
They head for a small island in the middle of the lake. When they reach it, Voldemort immediately reels back and hisses a series of curses that Harry doesn't understand. The abrupt rage that had so quickly taken him over was a bit of a shock—there's something gold and shiny there, but the Dark Lord hasn't picked it up—but not anything Harry doesn't know how to handle.
He moves, places a hand on his lover's arm and waits for him to recognize his touch.
"It's gone," Voldemort says, in English this time. "It's gone. Who—?!"
A note is inside the locket. Another name is hissed, but it is entirely unfamiliar to Harry's ears.
Voldemort turns his gaze toward the inferi. He commands something, but they do not move.
"Not there," he mutters again. "Not here. Dumbledore will know. Well, no matter…"
"Voldemort?"
The Dark Lord looks down at him. "It is fine. I have no need for it any longer. A ritual will return what has been lost to me."
Harry frowns. "What has been lost?"
He reaches out then, brushing cold fingers against Harry's soft cheek. The skin gives way to the small amount of pressure, and just like that, the Dark Lord's rage is gone.
"I thought it would make a good gift," Voldemort says. "The heart and soul should be a pair, after all."
It isn't often, but Harry does shop in Knockturn Alley. For a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, some things can only be gotten in less…reputable shops. Well, perhaps that's the wrong word—they've certainly a reputation alright...among the right crowd.
Death Eaters who have in the past escaped capture also roam about. It's practically their home—Harry's sure there's some sort of underground system that forms a support network for them, but what exactly it is he hasn't bothered to find out. Voldemort himself does not often go; when he leaves his manor, it's usually to go to another country.
The first time he'd been to Knockturn Alley was when he was twelve years old. The year prior, Professor McGonagall had come to the Dursleys to pick him up for school supplies shopping. When he was twelve, Harry went alone. This, of course, had the unfortunate consequence of getting lost easily—and get lost he did. He'd made a few too many wrong turns—and not enough right turns—before realizing he was in a completely different district.
That was, Knockturn Alley.
It was a bit of an experience, then. Not only was everything dark and scary, but it was also a lot less brighter than the rest of the Wizarding World seemed to be. There were no children dragging their parents into shops, no couples holding hands as they looked at the shop fronts, no vendors shouting out prices and sales. Knockturn Alley was quiet. Knockturn Alley was brisk. Knockturn Alley had been the exact opposite of what Harry had then associated with Wizarding Britain.
Unfortunately, Knockturn Alley was also a truth. Walking down the street, he saw the sort of people his relatives always shunned and sneered at—not magicals, but homeless. From the minute he entered this brand new world, Harry was implicitly taught that all purebloods were rich, snobby, and dark. But that was the farthest thing away from the truth.
Many purebloods had been rendered poor and homeless because of the war with Grindelwald. Many more had been displaced prior to that—too many diseases wrought by inbreeding had left many families living in poverty, and many more main lines extinct. It was, in fact, only the Sacred Twenty-Eight that retained much of the wealth and prestige. The other purebloods were forgotten in the face of that dominance.
Harry had not known how to differentiate between dark and light magicals when he was twelve—his own core was still too underdeveloped to have enough control over his aura. When he grew older, it was surprising how many homeless wizards and witches in Knockturn Alley were actually light. Some were halfbloods, some were purebloods, some were a darker shade, some were blindingly white. Barely any of them cared.
All they had left was Knockturn Alley. What did it matter if they were dark or light; what did blood matter when they had no wealth or future for their children, when they had no home, no place to go? Neither dark nor light would help them. The homeless drifted, all on their own.
In some respects, Harry used to be like them. He was able to move among them unnoticed and unhindered—perhaps because they sensed he too did not have any place to go; had not experienced any kindness in his life. He had been a kindred spirit with them—even his clothes, handed down from Dudley, appeared dirty and well-used in the dim lighting of the alleyways. Maybe that was why he hadn't been afraid of them.
Along one of the main streets in Knockturn Alley had been (and it was probably still there) an old divination booth ran by an equally old woman. Her hair was grey and and tangled, face wrinkled like cracks in stone, and her hands—callused and small—looked like slim gnarled branches of a hundred year old tree. Harry remembers her because she had been the only one to stare at him as he walked past—no one else had bat an eyelash.
He remembered her grunting something along the lines of, "Quite the slippery one, aren't you?"
"Huh?"
"Hmph. I mean you haven't got much color to you. For showing me something interesting, how about a fortune? No cost, from a true seer! You won't ever be so lucky in the future, brat!"
He'd stopped; his curiosity at that age had been unmatched.
"Someone will color you in one day—restore a bit of vibrancy to your shades. Oh, and no doubt about it—you'll be great when that happens. Great. You'll have colors other people don't have—colors that we need. But you can't color yourself in—that simply isn't done. Someone else will do it for you; mark my words! Someone else will fill you in. It doesn't take a prophecy to see that."
The Castle he's lived in for the best years of his life is crumbling all around him. Even the stone has seemed to lose its luster, turning grey and ashen like much of the debris is. Harry runs through the halls, down, down, down the moving staircase, rushing to the other set of stairs at the main entrance. He skips steps, jumps off banisters, lands on his feet and doesn't stop moving.
The Death Eaters were attacking, after all.
Most of the fighting is taking place outside. Some manage to invade the castle, enough for there to be significant signs of damage. From the sound outside, the fight is winding down now…and it isn't looking good for the Order of the Phoenix.
Harry himself has been fighting against the Death Eaters. Surprisingly enough—or maybe, he thinks grimly, not surprising at all—few have crossed his path. They don't look like they want to fight him, though some do and those fall to his wand with relative ease. He tries to help as many students as he can get to safety—he's a professor, after all—but now he's done all that he can, his focus turns to something else.
Namely, Voldemort.
It isn't hard to find the man. His aura is large and dark, looming and spicy and terrifying as it shifts and swirls in battle. Probably, from the feel of it…yes, Harry knows. Voldemort's fighting with Dumbledore.
And Dumbledore has lost.
Then, maybe Neville—but that thought too only serves to drive Harry to run faster. He has to get there, has to do something, has to—has to. Does it matter what? Maybe he'll know when he gets there. All he knows is that he needs to see him, the Dark Lord, the other part of the man he loves.
He hears Neville screaming before he can see him writhing on the floor, clearly under the effects of the Cruciatus curse. Well, it is one of Voldemort's favorite spells, as crude and uncreative as it is, it's efficient in its job. Dumbledore is on the floor a bit behind Neville, still alive but heavily wounded. Neville must've leapt in and saved him.
Neville, who was about to be murdered—
And damn it all; Harry can't just let it happen! He transfigures a chunk of loose rubble next to him, sending the metal shield flying to intercept the killing curse headed straight for Neville's prone body. It's caught Voldemort off guard just long enough for Harry to dash the remaining distance and position himself in front of his fellow Gryffindor.
"…Harry?" Neville croaks behind him.
Voldemort remains silent. He does, however, consider him—and his gaze is so unaffected that Harry just knows his appearance here has somehow been calculated. For what, Harry doesn't know, but he's here now out of his own free will.
He's protecting Neville out of his own free will.
He's standing against the Dark Lord Voldemort out of his own free will, and Merlin what has the world gone to that it's boiled down to this? He's Harry Potter, halfblood, nobody, and yet he's Harry Potter, lover of the Dark Lord, Hogwarts' DADA professor and somehow really bloody important right now. It's the last thing he wants, but there's nothing he can change. Nothing he wants to change.
"Stand aside, Harry."
Harry fixes his glare, stands his ground, juts out his chin and says, "No."
"Move."
"I won't."
"Harry," Neville calls, voice breaking from his previous screaming session, "It's not worth it. Move."
What part of this isn't worth it? For a second, Harry thinks Neville's gone mad—and it takes a hell of a lot of will power to stop himself from looking back at him—but then like a bolt of lightning, it hits him. This was how Neville's parents died. This was what he dreamed about, every night he had a nightmare for the last two decades.
The realization is sudden and moving, but Harry stays steadfast to his spot.
It's about time he takes his own advice, he thinks.
Voldemort slightly tilts his head to the side, a quirk Harry knows only pops up when the man is bemused by something. "I do not wish to hurt you," the Dark Lord says, slow and steady. "Move aside, Harry."
He can sense Dumbledore's eyes burning into his back, as well as Neville's desperate, confused, terrified state of mind. Harry pushes everything but Voldemort away and clenches his heart in his hand, pleading with it to stop beating so loudly.
Voldemort doesn't want to hurt him. Harry knows that. He doesn't want to hurt Voldemort either.
The answer is simple.
"I'm sorry, but I won't."
The Dark Lord nods, resigned. His wand is pointing directly at Harry's heart, calling it out on its frantic beating—the angry pulsation that gives all of Harry's thoughts away. He's sure. He's almost one hundred percent sure that's it. Harry grips his own wand in his hand and tries to stop thinking.
"Imperio."
Out of all the spells Voldemort could've cast, that is not on the list of Harry's expectations. The yellow-green light hits him in the chest, and a murky daze overcomes his mind. He feels at peace; utterly relaxed. What's wrong again? Was there ever anything wrong in the first place? Why is he even here? Maybe he should just go home…yes, home sounds nice.
Resting in a pile of fluffy blankets, fireplace lit and crackling, maybe even with a bowl of warm soup. That sounds like his sort of weekend. And then once Voldemort finishes with his work, he can join him.
"Be a good boy and move, Harry."
Be…good? Yes. He does want to be that. But something else tells Harry that he absolutely cannot move from his spot right now. If he does, something horrible will happen. He can't move.
He wants Voldemort to understand; wants to tell the man that he is not allowed to move right now. But his mouth is motionless, his tongue is too heavy to lift, and no sound ever makes it past his lips.
Don't you want to make him happy? Another voice whispers in his ear. It's enough to make Harry falter, because more than anything he wants his lover to be happy. He wants them both to be happy, but it's okay if Voldemort is happy first. Voldemort deserves all the happiness Harry can give him—so long, the man has been alone for so long; has known nothing of love that he even came to despise it!
Harry can't let that happen again—he can't let him lose faith in love again. If he does…Harry doesn't know if he can bear it. He loves the Voldemort that loves him, loves the Voldemort that feels and cares. If that part of Voldemort was erased…if all that was left was the cold, malignant killer…
Moving…is it really so bad? It can't be as bad as that, right?
Harry starts to lift his foot.
He wants to tell Voldemort that he loves him. His mouth opens, but unbidden, another phrase comes to mind instead.
"No."
The world explodes. Everything is clear again—so clear that his mind is even foggier for a second—and then—
"No," Harry repeats. It sounds right, so right that it makes his heart sing and his wand thrum in tune with his magic. "No!"
Voldemort steps back. He hasn't expected Harry to resist his Imperius Curse—but Harry is no stranger to surprising him in the first place. This time, though, is even more important than the others. Harry feels his confidence return and his will hold iron tight, closing his mind shut to all attacks.
They waste no time. They duel.
The Dark Lord is an extremely proficient duelist—there's no question about that. He minimizes unnecessary movements, flows from defense to offense and back again, casting speed fully integrated with his strategic mind. There are very few people in the world who can out-duel the Dark Lord.
Fortunately, Harry is well aware of the fact. He's also familiar with all the usual tactics his lover uses; the spells he gravitates to, the sort of mind games he likes to play. There are very few people in the world who can claim to know the Dark Lord as Harry does—in fact, there is but one—him. Harry wouldn't say he knows the Dark Lord better than he knows himself—it's not a smart claim to make against a master of the mind arts—but they are fairly close things.
Anyway, it isn't a matter of besting him in a duel. It's a matter of showing his resolve. Loving Voldemort and hating his regime are not two exclusive things. Harry is sure he can have them both—with the right maneuvering. The Dark Lord, too, can love Harry while desiring to crush his bones and mark him and see him too broken to fight back. This is their duality. It's the things they choose that matter most.
The reason he fights now is to give both Neville and Dumbledore time. Harry's mind is not only on his duel—which is a dangerous thing, to be so distracted—but plans are being made by the second, and they need a careful hand to nurture them. Voldemort will surely stand against him at every turn; try to block his way while advancing his own schemes. Harry knows his lover and so he knows what he'll do.
Voldemort knows him, too. It goes both ways.
Neville doesn't have his two friends beside him, which is practically unheard of. The only reason they aren't with him now is probably because they're off doing some important task, or Neville told them to leave and they ran to get reinforcements. They would never leave him, and Dumbledore always has a plan B, or C, or D. That's just how the old headmaster works.
That's what Harry's relying on now.
If things really look bad, he supposes he could blow up the castle. That would buy enough time for him to grab the two and apparate away. There are a few escape routes he can take even now, and he's sure that if he tries to leave, Voldemort will not stop him. The Dark Lord's main two targets are behind him, and Harry is simply in the way.
He plans to keep being in the way, if this is what his plan needs.
On the other side of the room, he notices Hermione and Ron sneaking about behind the rubble. He knows he has to buy them time and make sure Voldemort doesn't notice—the only way to do this is to get closer until they're practically melee range. Harry is adequate with a sword—nowhere near the Dark Lord's skill, though he can hold his own against multiple enemies—but adequate won't cut it.
He's far better with hand-to-hand combat.
This decision made, Harry switches to wandless as he gets close. Magic swirls inside his fists and legs, concentrating his energy while advertising his next move. Voldemort's grin grows blood thirsty as they engage in a whole new clash of powers.
When the Dark Lord's expression shifts, he knows he's bought enough time.
The next spell is thrown behind his back at Hermione and Ron, who have secured Dumbledore and Neville. Harry intercepts it with a spell of his own before turning on the defensive. It's clear that Voldemort is frustrated when his curses grow progressively vicious.
As they retreat, something very curious happens.
The Dark Lord levels his wand, locks eyes with him, and a green light begins to glow. He's aiming for him—and Harry can't dodge because then it'll hit Neville.
The last thing he thinks of before the green lights hits him is Voldemort's hot breath against his neck, whispering in that half-English half-parseltongue code-switch, "Harry—want to break you my heart rip you to shreds stay here I won't let you leave—the whole world give it to me my heart for you—anything—"
He wakes up in the Hospital Wing, battle over with Neville and Dumbledore at his bedside.
Apparently Voldemort had called for a retreat, leaving Hogwarts in shambles and the Order battered, but alive.
Harry figures that he's the only one who's realized the truth—that the spell he'd been hit with hadn't been the Killing Curse; that Voldemort never could've cast the Killing Curse at him in the first place. The Cruciatus, probably. The Imperius, definitely. But the Killing Curse? No—no; Voldemort values his own skin too much for that, because if Harry dies…if Harry dies—
No one would know what Voldemort would do—not even the man himself. And frankly, neither Voldemort nor Harry want to find out what will happen. Grief is a vicious, horrid thing after all, and if his lover is capable of love, then he is also capable of hatred and regret. Fearing this, there would never be enough intent to be able to cast it.
If the Dark Lord points his wand at Harry, the only spell he'd be physically unable to cast is the Killing Curse.
"Twin Lights of the Wizarding World: The Other Prophecy Child" is tomorrow's headline.
"Neville, how badly do you want to change the world?"
"…You got a plan?"
"Maybe, yeah."
The next time he sees Voldemort, the Dark Lord, the man he loves the man who loves him in person is years later. Nineteen years later.
Many things have changed in nineteen years' time. It's not a lot compared to a wizard's average life expectancy, but it's still a significant chunk.
Things still aren't perfect, and he doubts they'll ever be, but it just makes Harry work that bit harder. Even though he hates the attention and the news and the fame, it's all necessary because these are also the people he fights for. The dark wizards who have no home, huddled along the alleyways of Knockturn Alley, as well as the light wizards seeking a bright future for their family.
All walks of life, all sorts of magic, it's nothing to Harry. All that matters is their equality. In the past, he couldn't imagine ever being this "Leader of the New Age of Magic" as the Daily Prophet so wonderfully titled him as, but here he is now.
In a lot of ways, it's thanks to the Dark Lord—hailed enemy of the Wizarding World. And isn't that the most ironic twist, because without the Dark Lord, perhaps his vision would still be painted in black and white, and he wouldn't be able to see the vibrant colors lying underneath—the hidden beauty of all peoples and creatures.
It is because he loved a man who was neither black nor white nor grey, saw a man who was not nice but could be incomparably kind, who hated but also loved, who treasured him even as they stood on opposing sides of the battlefield. It is because he loved such a man that Harry learned how to love everyone else as well. People aren't all too different from each other, after all.
So, it is the last place Harry expects to see Voldemort that is, of course, where he sees him: in the Minister's office—well, his office as of today, he supposes—sitting behind the Minister's—his—desk.
Harry walks into his new office expecting to see a stack of fresh paperwork and maybe a congratulatory treacle tart courtesy of Neville. Instead, his estranged lover is sitting in his chair completely at ease.
He doesn't pull out his wand. Harry doesn't call for aurors either. He just stands there, squinting, blinking, wondering if this is real.
"Voldemort…?"
The Dark Lord smiles—more of a bearing of fangs than a smile. Harry thinks—and has always thought—that the look is quite dashing; all white teeth against white skin, delight reflected in both the pulse of his magic and the way he sits back, lounging content like a big cat. "Well done, Harry."
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So it was the long con after all, Harry muses.
"I did your paperwork for you," Voldemort says casually. "I wanted our reunion to be unbothered by such things." It comes out sounding rather domestic; Harry's not sure if that was his lover's intention or not, but it works like a charm because he finds himself smiling, too.
There is something very wrong with the Dark Lord doing the Minister for Magic's paperwork. The amount of things that could go wrong with it is numerous, but he doesn't worry about any of them. They're technically on the same side, anyway—because Voldemort knows the only one who'll negotiate with him is Harry.
It goes both ways, too.
"Huh," Harry replies, "Thanks. I'll pay you back and do yours sometime."
"I'll hold you to that."
IN WHICH VOLDEMORT PRETTY MUCH PULLS A LELOUCH.
...Or, in which I pretty much try to attack some of the most common tropes in the LV/HP fandom. Did I do well, guys?! Haha
Well, anyway, this fic was pretty fun to write. I planned for it to be shorter (I actually had to cut scenes too), but it ended up being ~10k anyway. Woooops.
Harry is around 25-27 when the fic starts. At the end of it, he's +19 years-a really young Minister tbh? Well the WW loves him anyway so it's okay. I imagine having two BWLs on the same political side makes it a lot easier to campaign ^_~
Drop me a message if you like!
Sincerely,
R.R.