Title: Complications of an Overdose
Summary: Voldemort is not scared of dying, but he is terrified of Death. The entity does not understand love, but it understands addiction and patience and forever. (Written because Voldemort deserves someone… nice to spend eternity with.)
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The battlefield seems to go silent when Voldemort first realises exactly what this boy has done. There are still screams and cracking and crunching of the castle and corpses, but none of it reaches Voldemort through the fog that blankets his mind.
All he can think about is his destroyed Horcruxes.
"No," Voldemort breaths out. "No, oh God, please."
The Potter's mouth opens and closes in rapid succession, completely thrown off by Voldemort's sudden plea.
A wash of the darkest energy anyone has ever felt comes over the entirety of Hogwarts. The sky darkens even without clouds and magic itself splutters out. The wards fall and the curses disperse mid-air.
Everyone looks to Voldemort, expecting -hoping- that he's the cause.
Voldemort's hands are shaking, the elder wand unresponsive in his desperate grip. His eyes are filled with panic and his breath comes too quickly. The energy is weighing him down and muffling his senses, just to make it harder for him to run.
A sharp gasp leaves him when fingers press lightly against his spine. A bubble of something warm grows in his chest, spreading out to his limbs and distorting him. When it leaves, he's whole again, the pieces returned.
A young Tom Marvolo Riddle stands in the courtyard of a broken Hogwarts, terrified out of his mind.
The fingers stroke up his spine and then a large, cold palm rests on the back of his neck. He hears Bellatrix scream in anger from a distant place and then the woman is moving, charging the strange man who stands behind her Lord.
She crumples mid-stride and hits the ground hard, skidding along the broken stonework from the momentum before coming to a stop and lying still. The people behind her are caught in the wave of silent destruction and, wizard or witch, dark or light, they drop like someone cut their puppet strings.
Voldemort clasps a hand over his mouth to stop any noise from leaving. It doesn't really matter if he starts sobbing now, but his pride emerges at the strangest of times. His other hand, still clutching tight to the elder wand, rises to his chest for some approximation of comfort – for a lie.
The thing pretending to be a man steps forward and encircles Voldemort's waist lovingly.
And people start running away, all thoughts of defending Hogwarts gone, all ideals and beliefs and concepts of dark or light or war are just gone as the all-consuming fear hits them and sends them into a spiral of run.
It slams into Voldemort as well, that fear, but he's lived with it for most of his life. Ever since that first Horcrux, when he caught the attention of something so much worse than Voldemort could ever be.
So instead of struggling hopelessly, his mind calmly lists each and every choice he has at this very moment, and then calculates the millions of results. Voldemort's intelligence let's him see, very clearly, how his actions will bring about certain reactions and consequences.
He mentally climbs down the branching options, picking the best chance for his survival at each intersection, and ends up in Hell.
That's fine. Voldemort can handle a little heat, so long as he doesn't end up as this man's pet.
He takes a calming breath and forcefully relaxes his body. He tries to drop the wand but it clings and branches of elder wood grow into a shackle around his wrist. When he turns, the entity lets him, an amused quirk to the being's lips.
Voldemort places his hands on the other's man chest to get some room between them and raises and eyebrow. "That was a little dramatic, wasn't it?" Voldemort asks, a condescending tone to his question. If he plays softly, the entity won't believe him. Voldemort is not anything close to soft.
"Only the best for my love," Death replies, a voice like honey but eyes like the darkness of a black hole.
Everyone is gone now, only the wind to watch Voldemort's suicide.
"Love?" Voldemort murmurs, vicious. "What do we know of love? What do you think love is like? Does it fill the emptiness inside you?"
"I am not empty," the being replies, short and clipped as the arms around Voldemort tighten. A blank smile. "I am full with thoughts of you."
"Well you have me now," Voldemort says. "And how long did that take you; a short nap, a blink of an eye? How fun was the chase - I hope you managed to entertain yourself for a while?"
The being frowns but let's Voldemort push out of its arms because the mortal is not going anywhere.
"What's the plan now?" Voldemort continues, backing up a few paces so he didn't have to tip his head back to look the creature in the eye. "I'm not going to run – I can't. No one's going to save me and I don't have Horcruxes anymore."
Voldemort isn't lying about being outmatched. In fact he's being painfully truthful because right now, he's trapped. The only thing he can do is talk - so talk he does.
Voldemort throws his arms wide, the elder wood slowly creeping up his forearm. "This is it, this is the finish line. I'll admit, it was an exhilarating ride, I became a fucking Dark Lord just to get away from you. But are you content? Do you still want me?"
"Of course, I want you," the man says, a hollow current underneath his words because the being has already lost interest now that it realises the truth of Voldemort's words. It has no need to fake fascination and it'll probably just vanish when it grows bored.
"No, you don't," Voldemort chuckles, genuinely amused, because he's winning. He let's his arms fall and smirks. "You love a challenge, something that can actually defy your immense power. I became immortal, admittedly for a shorter time than I'd hoped, but it's still rebellion in your eyes, isn't it?"
The thing of blankness is still. "I own you. I have you, mind, body and soul. The only the reason you could run is because I let you. I am all endings, I am everything that ever was and everything that will ever be. There is no denying my will."
"Don't play stupid," Voldemort hisses, gleeful now. "You know what I mean. All the fun is gone, isn't it? Why bother keeping me now? I'm boring, I'm predictable. I'm mortal."
But the creature smirks. "You still fight."
Voldemort freezes. "I just told you, I can't-"
"Yet you manage anyway," the man says in sudden realisation, delight causing shadows and wicked things to flash across his expression. "You don't stop. You won't stop, even when I finally have you with me."
Voldemort backs away when the entity steps forward, his arms out in front as if to physically push the other man away. "No, no – I won't resist. This is my end, this is me giving up - giving you my everything."
"Then why are you still trying to run? Why are you trying to talk your way out of this?"
Voldemort pauses and his mind races. "Because you'll get bored, and I don't think I can handle that," he says, anger clouding his voice, as genuine as he can possibly make it. "You're not the only obsessive one here. I need to have all of you."
"Then have me," the man murmurs and he's in front of Voldemort before the Dark Lord can move.
So Voldemort leans forward, because a physical display of affection means more than words - means he's completely given up. He's perfectly willing to hide his disgust in exchange for his freedom, it's such a simple decision to make.
But the entity stops, pulls back and disappears. So mercurial, changing interest almost too fast.
Voldemort is left standing in the middle of a battlefield as the elder wood on his arm just crumbles to dust. The sky lightens and the aura of darkness disperses, blown away by the wind while magic comes back to life, flaring brightly. He covers his face with both hands, so relieved.
Then reality hits.
He needs a Horcrux.
Voldemort casts out his magic and finds a huddle of three people just inside the doors of Hogwarts, it's Potter (because it's always Potter) and his two friends. Then he's apparating in the next moment with the intent to kill.
A suffocating power envelopes Voldemort, even through apparition, and wrenches him away. The last thing he sees is Potter reaching out as if to try and save him.
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A/N: Well… not going to lie; I've written worse.