Warnings: Unhealthy relationship, like hella, implied dub/non-con, love potions
Pairing: LV/HP (Voldemort/Harry Potter)
Summary: "Is it wrong," Harry asked, "that I still love him?"
"Humans are strange creatures," Death replied.
The cryptic answer was ignored. "Because I do," Harry said before he could stop himself. "I do. He's a horrid, horrid man, and love potions are the vilest things ever to be created, but I'm not under its control anymore, am I?"
"In death, you are free."
He scoffed. "Free from everything but him, you mean."
In another life, Voldemort won the war, and his ultimate prize was none other than Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. But all lives come to an end, and now free from his captor, the Master of Death must make a choice: to save a broken soul, or to punish a man who has done more evil than good.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter series - J.K. Rowling
Harry remembered very little, but all the same very vividly. It was like the stitching of a dream—he could see the threading if he looked close enough, but if he tried to remember how it was made, he wouldn't have a clue. As long as he didn't actively think about it, then he remembered, but the instance his mind's eye turned its gaze to them, the memories were gone.
It was frustrating—all the same, he accepted it as fact. Magic had its own set of laws, and apparently one of them was to make love potion induced memories feel surreal. Well, not that he could blame that particular rule. If it wasn't for the distance he felt between himself and the Harry of those memories, he'd need more than a few therapy sessions to fix his head. He knew what happened, was under no illusions of what he had done and what was done to him, but it was sectioned off so that he could not completely relate to that self of his during that time.
It upset him just about as much as it relieved him. And wasn't that some fine contradiction?
It relieved him because he could put it all behind, theoretically. That Harry Potter was a false mask; it wasn't him, and that part of his life was over now anyway. His actions had not been his own. His mind hadn't been safe or stable or his—it had been captured, kidnapped, wrestled away from his own conceptions of privacy.
And that violation was under no circumstances okay. He valued his privacy like a dragon and its hoard—reason? What reason did he need? Everyone had a right to privacy, to themselves, to have individual thought and autonomy uncorrupted by the hand of another. Love potions took that right and violated it six ways 'til Tuesday. Why Tuesdays? Tuesdays were the worst. It only served to climax on Tuesdays.
So it relieved him that he could clearly say, "that wasn't me" and be done with it. He could wipe his hands clean and move on. The reason it upset him was because he wasn't sure he wanted to move on—to leave the past as the past and ignore that ever happened; ignore the fact that he had ever been in an intimate, romantic relationship with the Dark Lord Voldemort, also known as Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Life, Harry thought, was the cruelest in the most unexpected ways.
Maybe that was why he preferred Death. Death, the being, was still water on a thin platter of air. They were nothingness and at the same time, an undeniable existence. Harry didn't understand it much himself, but there was something about Death that soothed his soul. After the whirlwind that his life had been, it was like coming home to an arm chair, a mug of hot chocolate, and three cats to snuggle.
There was no way he was going to tell Death that, of course—just because they were unnervingly calm didn't mean he wasn't going to feel embarrassed as hell. Still, even without words, perhaps Death already knew how he felt. They were above mortal comprehension, really. It wouldn't surprise Harry if they didn't even need conversation. Maybe the only reason they spoke was to entertain him or something. Who knew, really.
He had been dead for a decent while. Or at least, he had been dead long enough to carefully analyze and reconcile his past life with his new knowledge—get used to being himself again. It was strange, reviewing his memories of that time. If he thought too hard they slipped away between his fingers, but he knew they were there in his mind, knocking at the door to his heart.
He wondered if he could connect that Harry to the Harry before that—the Harry that had two best friends named Ron and Hermione, who loved to hate Draco Malfoy, who couldn't stand the venom that spewed from his Potions Professor's mouth. That Harry thought home must be something like the Burrow, and his most favorite thing on Earth—feeling the wind in his hair and face and mouth as he flew around the Quidditch pitch—was closely tied with a plate of treacle tart.
That Harry was the Harry he knew best, but it was also the past Harry. He could no longer be that boy who didn't know the difference between defiance and sass—the Harry he was now knew which fork was the salad fork, which fork he could only use for pastries, which spoon was for soup and which one was for dessert. Irrelevant it may sound—especially because he didn't consider himself a snob—it mattered, because when Harry looked back he saw himself and thought, "I wish I could do it over again. Do it better."
Was he—was he better? It was a question he asked over and over again, the defining statement to a public speech. He wanted a conclusion when all he had was data and shaky analysis. It sounded like a botched school assignment, and maybe that was something he wished he did a little better, too. School. Education. Learning, and homework and classmates and fun.
He spoiled his Gryffindor when he was a child. Later, he began to care for his inner snake—though it was true that it wasn't entirely by his own choice. Love potions did that to a person. And as steadfast as his denial was, there was no question about who his turmoil revolved around. It was always the same. Harry Potter would forever be haunted by Lord Voldemort.
He wished it was different. He wished he could pretend it never, ever happened—with time, maybe he could, but then he wished that he couldn't pretend. Voldemort was so, so, so important, even when Harry didn't want to say how or why.
The Dark Lord was cruel and impatient. He killed people for less than a loud insult or an untimely interruption. He rumbled like a thundercloud, storm brewing in the distance as his anger fumed larger than life. Volcanoes, at least, went dormant. Nothing was ever forgotten by the Dark Lord. His thoughts never wavered, the lava never cooled. A storm of sound and fury would cower before his thunderous rage.
Harry knew him like the back of his hand.
He knew other things, too, like the way his lips felt when he was in a particularly good mood. He knew the size of his hand and how it looked splayed across his stomach. He knew the way his teeth would bite, how they could draw blood quick when he wasn't careful. They were sharp, and oh how deep they could dig into his flesh…
It was all utterly confusing. How could he justify loving this man, who had only found love in the end because he sought it like the power that corrupted him? Voldemort hadn't only done horrible things to Harry; he'd done terrible, unspeakable things to others as well. The majority of Wizarding Britain could attest to that.
But there was always a 'but.' But. Voldemort was a terrible human being, but. Voldemort was an absolute jackass, but. Voldemort was the bane of his existence and Harry despised him more than he could ever hate Dolores Umbridge, but.
Was there such a thing as redemption for a man that had ruined thousands of lives? Who had killed and tortured and terrified, who saw no fault in trying to murder a baby not much older than one? Harry could explain the rationale behind Voldemort's insanity, but he couldn't justify it. Even when he was drugged by the man, the potion couldn't make him deny the atrocities committed. He had been aware of them, even as he warmed his bed.
Of course, that made it even worse.
He had no body for the potion to poison anymore. And yet, when he tried to still his thoughts and for once just rest, the memories crept in again. He thought about rare smiles, warm touches, the feeling of leaning back into a strong chest that would never fail to be there. He thought about the emotion powerful enough to make him throw himself in front of a Killing Curse, thought about the emotion that was powerful enough to shove him down and take the hit instead.
Life did so love fatal ironies, and what was more ironic than a man who died protecting the person he had wanted to kill most?
Well, it was also true that technically death had been relative then. The Dark Lord had more than one horcrux laying around, though it hadn't been an instantaneous revival. Harry remembered this time most, because there hadn't been anyone shoving a love potion down his throat and he'd still worked himself into the ground.
That was ironic too. Boy-Who-Lived, prophesied to kill his mortal enemy, trying to revive said enemy that died to save him. He succeeded, too, and then he was back to eating food laced with love potion. What made it worse was the look he had been given then, the look on Voldemort's face when he saw that of all people, it had been Harry Potter who had brought him back from the dead.
A very not drugged Harry Potter, in fact.
They hadn't spoken about it; all the way up until both of them kicked the bucket permanently, it hadn't been mentioned.
"Is it wrong," Harry asked, "that I still love him?"
Death, who had materialized just moments ago, did not move. That was good, because Harry didn't turn to look at him either. He didn't think he could look at anyone right now. He felt humiliated, embarrassed, anxious, distraught, mixed with a copious amount of doubt and self-hatred. That wasn't the end to the recipe of 'emotional garbage can Harry Potter,' but listing it all out would make it worse.
"Humans are strange creatures," Death replied.
The cryptic answer was ignored. "Because I do," Harry said before he could stop himself. "I do. He's a horrid, horrid man, and love potions are the vilest things ever to be created, but I'm not under its control anymore, am I?"
He knew he wasn't, but he asked in hopes that his companion might give him a negative answer. Really, he was such a terrible person—wanting someone to tell him he was not okay and decidedly traumatized, and that it wasn't real and it was probably Stockholm Syndrome, and he should really stop making it worse because above all else, Harry felt shame. He wanted someone to tell him all these things even as his heart rejected the idea completely.
"In death, you are free."
Right. Freedom. Hurrah. It was more like freedoom, because that summed up his thoughts right about now. Harry was doomed—just doomed, every little part of him from his heart to his soul. He chose not to say it that way because shaming himself in front of Death was not on his bucket list.
He scoffed instead. "Free from everything but him, you mean."
"That is by your own choice."
"What part of this is my choice?" Harry shouted, feeling inexplicably wronged. "I don't choose to make myself miserable! I just am! It's all his fault!"
"Passing blame is a human coping mechanism," Death remarked. "If it helps your recovery, do continue."
"Why isn't my life normal?"
They took his complaints in stride. "Normalcy is a social construction."
Harry found no comfort in the objective view of his companion. He instead looked for relief elsewhere, freely leaning against Death's legs from where he sat behind him to find some physical comfort. They were tall—taller than the tallest human—at least two and a half meters, but their form was similar enough to a man's to be familiar.
"I just…" He struggled to find words to say. He knew he wanted to say something, but what it was contained too much of himself. It made him uncomfortable, and so his words fluttered away.
"You have a choice to make," Death said.
"It's going to be something terrible, isn't it," Harry stated more than asked. He brought his imagined corporeal form into a more solid state, raising his hands to rub at his eyes. This motion was familiar, too. "It's always something terrible. I want choices, you know, but not the choices the universe ever gives me."
Death plowed on as if he hadn't heard him. "Your title means as much as you would like it to mean. Regardless, it is independent of your choice—"
"Mostly."
"You know."
"Anyone with half a brain could guess," Harry said. "And I'm no Bart—Hermione, but I think I do well enough in these situations."
"Then I'll leave him to you."
Harry groaned. His previous troubles made this all the more distressing. He wondered if Death planned this, planned to tell him—remind him—when he was already agonizing over the mere thought of the man. "Can't you do it?"
"He is your responsibility."
It sounded odd. They weren't kin, didn't have any sort of blood connection—barring the Peverell brothers, but that was so far back Harry could argue it didn't count—and Voldemort was older than him. None of this spelt responsibility, which Harry believed he never dealt well with in the first place. If his mind wasn't already a disaster, this would be the icing on the cake.
"Since when?"
"Since you decided," Death said. Then, he vanished.
"I never decided anything!" Harry shouted. It wasn't so much for Death to hear but him. He needed to feel like he hadn't locked anything in yet, like he hadn't made a choice already and that Voldemort didn't mean enough—so much, so much—to make him do something, to make him choose. It wasn't fair.
Couldn't he have gotten a bit more time?
The train screeched to a stop. Harry reluctantly stood, making his way over and pulling out a ticket that had materialized from thin air. He knew he had it, so he did. Death was never wrong.
"'Can never catch a break around here," he grumbled to the blank train inspector. There was no force behind his words.
It felt like forever and a day before he arrived at his destination. One would expect it would feel more like a blink of an eye, but it wasn't. His thoughts kept him in a perpetual state of agony and distress—Harry even bet he would make quite the fetching damsel at the top of a tower, if it came to it. The image of his would-be knight was ignored and slammed in the closet of 'things to contemplate at the worst of times.'
When he finally did arrive, he rose with the same reluctance he had boarded with. That wouldn't change. It probably never would. He would always second guess himself, would always wonder, would always need someone there to remind him he was alright—his choice, that choice, that terribly important choice was his own. He could do as he liked.
The world wasn't resting on his shoulders anymore.
"Hi," Harry said, and immediately after cursed his awkwardness. He was not a lovesick school girl, no. He wasn't fourteen, this wasn't Cho Chang; he wasn't fifteen, this wasn't Ginny Weasley. Honestly, they'd done things some people would kinkshame him for and he trips up over a hello?
He supposed that was part of his life, too.
"Have you ever gone horcrux hunting before?" Merlin, he wished he never got off that train.
Naturally, the Dark Lord was unimpressed. "Is that your idea of a date, Potter?"
"You asking?" Harry gave him his best shit-eating grin. "I'll consider it after we find the rest of you. Get to the crux of the matter, and all that."
Voldemort turned on his heel and walked away. It was in the right direction at least, so Harry took it as a go and raced after. Maybe he'd figure out what he was doing along the way—that was what usually happened—and maybe it wouldn't be so hard pretending he didn't want to kiss him with all he had right now. Really. Easy as pie.
"This is technically supposed to be your punishment, you know," he blurted.
"I know."
"Don't you want to know why I'm here?"
Voldemort's eyes flickered over to him. Then, so quietly that Harry had to strain his ears, he said, "Punishment."
And damn it all if that didn't take his breath away.
"Right," Harry breathed. He didn't agree so much as parrot the word,
"Punishment."
I AM TRASH.
Sorry not sorry for puns
This is also a oneshot. Sorry for those who wanted more ;c
Sincerely,
R.R.