Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

A/N: Harry Birthday, Harry. This is not a birthday fic, however.

The Eye of the Storm

The oak double door flew open without warning, and the wrath of winter rushed into the manor house unbidden, startling Yaxley and Dolohov out of their wits. Wands were raised and were swiftly withdrawn. In a flurry of snow Lord Voldemort stormed into the entrance hall, his black cloak billowing in his wake like a living thing. Fearful of the Dark Lord's fury, the two unfortunate Death Eaters moved out of the way in haste and bowed.

Sparing a cool glance at his servants, Voldemort climbed the marble staircase, passed by another nervous-looking servant, and stalked down the carpeted corridor. The snow clinging to his cloak had barely melted when he arrived at a certain door at the end of the wing. With his wand he tapped on the door three times, and the locks slid open with a clink. Not bothering to knock, he pushed the door open and went inside.

Furnished in the style of early Victorian, the room did not resemble the prison cell it was meant to represent. The walls were covered in grey damask wallpaper, where hundreds of black lilies were forever in bloom. Golden flame danced ever so slightly in the fireplace, lending a shade of warmth to this otherwise dreary room. Four porcelain figurines—a stag, a doe, a dog and a wolf—stood on the marble mantelpiece like miniature guardians; they had been broken and repaired more than once. Three latticed windows, framed by deep red velvet curtains, looked out to a field of white and the frozen woods beyond.

Curled up on the wine red chesterfield sofa, Harry Potter did not look up from the leather-bound book he was reading. Clad in an oversized jumper and a pair of faded jeans, he seemed at ease with his predicament and with his captor's presence—or was it resignation? His anger all but evaporated, the Dark Lord smiled and took off his cloak, which he tossed without ceremony onto a nearby chair.

"How is my saviour doing today?" Voldemort asked mildly. The query went unanswered. "You look a little pale. Have you been eating enough?" He ran his fingers through Harry's dark hair, savouring the familiar texture and the equally familiar reaction from his stubborn captive. "I took the liberty of sending Ginny Weasley a wedding present on your behalf. Ah, but she goes by a different surname now, doesn't she?"

Squalls howled and rattled the windows, demanding to be let inside. Fire crackled, imaginary twigs snapping one after another. A finger stroked the edge of the pages before turning the page. There was no answer, no retort, no incoherent murmur under one's breath, not even a vague sound of acknowledgement.

"Sulking still, my saviour?" Voldemort wondered aloud, his cold, spidery fingers tilting Harry's chin upwards until those brilliant green eyes met his gaze. There was a flicker of annoyance within the verdant depths. Satisfied, Voldemort leant down and pressed a light kiss upon Harry's brow, taking care to avoid the scar that marked this spirited young man as his.

"The bride looked quite lovely in her wedding dress." Voldemort sat down on the sofa, his body touching Harry's legs. In spite of the withering look on his face, Harry moved over to accommodate the man who enjoyed invading his personal space and making him squirm. "So did the groom in his black dress robe, as a matter of fact. He looked delicious. I can see why you wanted him."

Snapping his book shut, Harry cast his gaze upon Voldemort, whose bloodless lips twisted into a sardonic smile, and whose crimson eyes contemplated him with a hint of condescension. "It's not going to work, Tom," Harry said, unperturbed. "I know all your tricks."

"Yes, you and I know each other too well."

With his finger Voldemort traced the scar on Harry's brow, his nail grazing the skin that could not be healed: down, backwards, down. When Harry flinched, Voldemort withdrew for a beat or two before gliding his finger downwards to the livid bruise on Harry's cheek. "I hear you incapacitated Mulciber," he whispered, his voice almost like a hiss.

"You mean I kicked him where it hurt most." There was no humour in Harry's voice, and his expression darkened, a prelude to a tempest that would not materialise in front of the man named Tom Riddle. "He was trying to take something I wasn't willing to give."

Voldemort laughed, a cold, unpleasant laugh like the sound of shattering glass. In the dungeons where winter chill seeped through every stone and every iron bar, the Death Eater who had laid his hands on the Dark Lord's possession had paid dearly for his transgression, and he would continue to pay till the end of his life.

"Good boy." Voldemort brushed his lips against Harry's cheek. "Why didn't you escape?"

Avoiding Voldemort's shrewd gaze, Harry turned towards the window and saw snow falling like ashes from the colourless sky. From the moment it was known that he was one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, his fate was sealed and his life forfeited. "You know why," he said quietly. "And I'm twenty years old. I'm not a boy anymore."

At those words the Dark Lord could not help but chuckle; he had long forgotten what it was like to be young. "You will always be a boy to me." With that he took out his yew wand and aimed at Harry's face; the young man in question barely twitched. "Are my other servants treating you well?" Voldemort asked as he cast a healing spell on Harry's bruised cheek.

"Yeah, they are all right." Harry gave the same answer as always. The spell had run its course, and the bruise faded until nothing of its existence remained. As if needing to confirm for himself, Harry gingerly touched the spot where the bruise had been before. "Thanks," he mumbled.

"I hate to see you get hurt. Unfortunately, my servants didn't guard you as well as they should have." A touch of frost had crept into Voldemort's voice. The tip of his wand lingered on Harry's healed cheek, pale wood on pallid skin. "Then again, you can be quite a handful sometimes."

Taking Voldemort's hand, Harry guided the tip of the wand to his throat. "You can kill me now and save yourself a lot of trouble."

His expression all but unreadable, Voldemort contemplated the young man who was his nemesis and his saviour. He had no doubt that Harry meant what he said. The irony that the one he had dreamt of killing for the longest time was now begging to be killed was not lost on him. The path he had paved for himself and his chosen nemesis had gone awry—and he could not be happier that it did.

"I won't kill you. You are too important to me. Besides, I've come to like you very much, Harry. Even if everyone you care about has betrayed you and abandoned you, you will always have me."

A flash of anguish appeared for a moment upon Harry's visage, but soon it gave way to simmering resentment. After letting go of Voldemort's hand, Harry said in a low whisper, "I will kill you someday."

"Why yes, I'm still waiting for that day to arrive." His lips twisted into a crooked smile, Voldemort put away his wand and took Harry's hand in his. He had missed this: the warmth, the conversation, the company. "If you haven't killed me by the end of next July, we will celebrate your birthday together."

The curve of Harry's lips became ever so wry. "Maybe I won't live to see my next birthday."

"You will, my saviour, you will." Voldemort leant forward and appeased Harry with a kiss or two, knowing it was neither reassurance nor comfort that his captive desired. "And I will prepare a birthday present for you. It's not everyday that my precious saviour turns twenty-one. What kind of cake do you like? Chocolate? Or—"

Warm lips silenced the rest of Voldemort's words, and a hand gripped his neck as if wanting to strangle him or draw him in. Both were likely possibilities. Letting out a chuckle, Voldemort yielded to his saviour's wish and returned the kiss.

"I don't want anything," Harry said after breaking off the kiss. "You know that."

"That's precisely why I want to celebrate with you. I have to thank your parents for bringing you into this world and for leading me to you." Drinking in the storm that was raging within those emerald eyes of Harry's, Voldemort smiled and caressed Harry's face. "There is nothing for you to worry about. You have me."

The agitation in Harry fell away like a veil, and to all appearances he had returned to his composed self. Nevertheless, Voldemort sensed a tangle of clashing emotions inside the young man. "I'm not worried." Harry paused. "I'm going to make tea. You want some?"

"Yes, I would like that."

As if nothing at all was amiss, Harry stood up and went to the mahogany cupboard, where his supply of tea was kept. While he was busy fiddling with the kettle and retrieving teacups, Voldemort watched on in leisure. The tea could very well be laced with poison, but he was none too mindful of the possibility. Be it in life or in death, Harry would not be able to escape from the binds he had placed upon him, the binds named companionship and affection.

Smiling a serpent's smile, the Dark Lord picked up the book his saviour had left behind on the sofa, flipped to the first page, and began to read.

Finis.

A/N: This was written while Erik Satie's Trois Gnossiennes were playing in the background. Thank you for reading.