Indulge in the Season
The Minister for Magic's distain was obvious. It was in the way his upper-lip curled slightly at the sight of the tree. It was subtly expressed each time his red eyes narrowed at the twinkling lights or festive ornaments.
The only decoration he seemed to have any sort of tolerance for was the holly, and only for its magical properties and traditional use in Winter Solstice rituals.
Still, Harry could tell he was trying, and that meant more than anything.
"That thing is hideous," Voldemort's voice broke through his thoughts. Startled, Harry's head snapped up while his hands desperately shoved the half-wrapped present behind him.
"What?" he bleated, wondering for a moment if perhaps Voldemort had seen and disliked his gift.
Voldemort leveled him with an unimpressed look. Likely, he had seen the present, but he said nothing on the subject, gracefully ignoring Harry's blunder.
"That jumper," the older man clarified, voice positively dripping with distaste, "is hideous."
The familiar argument brought a smile to Harry's lips. Maybe once, it would have provoked indignation on Molly's behalf—she put a lot of work into her jumpers, after all—but now all he could grudge up was a fond sort of exasperation.
"I like it," Harry said, running calloused hands over the wooly red knitting. Voldemort's eyes tracked the movement, lighting hungrily.
"I'd like it better on the floor, along with the rest of your clothes," Voldemort retorted, crimson orbs gleaming wickedly as he prowled forward.
He was a striking imagine—fearsome, even. Face distorted and waxy from delving a tad too deep into the Dark Arts, expression ravenous— it was something from nightmares. A face Voldemort would never let others see, lest it ruin his reputation as the charming, charismatic Tom Riddle: the poor orphan who had painstakingly climbed his way to the top.
Intricate glamour charms concealed Voldemort's true face in public—his eye color, his unnatural complexion, his slightly warped features. He wasn't monstrous, but there was undoubtedly an inhuman quality to him—a quality that very likely would disturb the masses.
That Harry was among the few that got to see behind that mask sent a thrill of exhilaration through him. He felt privileged. Special.
As Voldemort kneeled to straddle his legs, Harry's breaths came out in shallow pants, goosebumps erupting on his arms. For anyone else in his situation, that would have been a reaction caused by fear. Not for Harry. All he felt was excitement and anticipation, accompanied by no small amount of arousal.
Because to Harry, Voldemort was beautiful, warped features and all.
When Voldemort leaned closer for a kiss, Harry met him halfway. It was chaste and sweet, but the cold hands creeping steadily under his jumper were not. Harry shivered.
"Happy Christmas, Voldemort," Harry whispered against the man's lips when they pulled apart, a warm happiness bubbling up in his chest.
Voldemort's upper-lip twitched, having barely refrained from curling; for all he was a master at poker faces, he seemed unable to fully maintain an air of nonchalance whenever presented with overtly muggle Christmas conditions.
"It's Yule, Harry. Honestly, must you indulge in that muggle nonsense?"
That comment was all Voldemort allowed himself, because for all he hated the insipid traditions and gaudy decorations, he enjoyed the delight it inspired in Harry.
Harry leaned back, smile playful and just the slightest bit coy, seeming about to respond, when the crackle of disturbed wrapping paper filled the air.
"Oh, crap," Harry cursed, emerald eyes widening in realization. He had nearly forgotten about the present!
Voldemort huffed, annoyed once more, as Harry suddenly shoved him off and began ushering him out of the room. Despite his grievances, particularly the untended bulge in his trousers, he complied.
The things he put up with for that boy.
A/n: So, this was actually a prompt/gift (for Sharde) originally posted on A03.
It's here now.