A/N:

no heavy tw for this chapter other than harry does get triggered by something that happens, but nothing comes of it, so the end result is fine.


"A dance, Harry?"

Harry's heart leapt into his throat. "I don't dance," he said thickly. It didn't seem like a good idea, what with all of the people around them, watching.

"It's a wedding," said Theodore, gazing down with warmth. "No one's going to judge your dancing skills."

Harry huffed a laugh. "You're bold, you know that?"

Theodore grinned. "What's life without a bit of thrill? Come," he added, holding his hand out. "Our Lord is dancing with the lovely bride. He could hardly fault me for keeping his lonely assistant company."

Oh, but he could, which was exactly what Harry was worried about. "I don't think we should," Harry said. "I'll just end up stepping on your feet."

"Come," Theodore repeated, curling his fingers up in invitation. "I promise you won't regret it."

"How many drinks have you had?" Harry asked, but the teasing tone he'd tried to implement fell flat to his own ears. Promises like that… they couldn't hold.

Theodore edged closer, still reaching for Harry's hand. "Only two. I'm very sober, Harry. I know what I'm asking."

Harry cast his gaze to where Astoria Greengrass was currently situated in the Dark Lord's arms. Perhaps he should have taken Narcissa's offer to dance, because at least dancing with her would have been safe.

Dancing with Theodore, no matter how appealing it was, would be a mistake. Harry still didn't understand why Theodore continued to try, despite the danger their continued association posed.

You intrigue him, the Dark Lord had said.

But hadn't Theodore said the same thing about Voldemort? That Harry was 'interesting'? Harry saw things and did things differently because of how he'd been raised, because he was a Gryffindor, because he had morals.

Theodore saw him as a person. Harry was fairly sure of that. And Voldemort—Voldemort saw him as a trophy, a Horcrux, a lab rat to toy with. Voldemort had not taken action yet, despite knowing that Harry and Theodore had grown close, but that would not necessarily last.

So this was risky, but it was something Harry wanted to do, because he did like Theodore. And if this had been any other situation, Harry might have been extremely flattered at being asked to dance. Only this was not just any situation, and although Theodore seemed to accept the risk he was taking, Harry was unsure if he wanted to make that leap.

"We're just friends," Harry said.

"We are," Theodore said, somber. "But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves."

Harry's insides gave a horrid lurch at that, because what Theodore was offering—just friendship, no strings attached—was too good to be true given the nightmare of the past few months.

"Harry," said Theodore, eyes pleading. "Just one dance?"

"One dance," Harry said, relenting, already cursing his own weakness. "That's it."

Theodore pulled Harry to his feet and swept them onto the dance floor, where the lights glittered overhead, and Harry could forget his troubles for the time it took for the current song to play to its end.


Much later, once Harry and the Dark Lord had returned to the manor, they retired in the study. It was now close to midnight, and Harry was drained. They settled into the armchairs by the empty fireplace, as was their habit to do.

It was unerringly domestic, Harry thought distractedly. That they had chairs they sat in, places they spent time together in.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Voldemort asked. His voice was quiet, but it sounded very clear in the silence of the room.

"Yeah," Harry said. "It was nice."

"There are other events you could attend, if you wished. Ministry galas."

Harry didn't answer right away. Did he want to attend other events? Was there a benefit for him to do so? Harry didn't care for mingling, and he was only acquainted with a few people in the Dark Lord's inner circle. To attend a public event would invite a lot of exposure that Harry wasn't sure he was ready for.

But Harry was expected to show enthusiasm, and he also needed time for his own ideas to come together.

"That… might be nice," he allowed. "I think I wouldn't mind giving it a go."

Voldemort only hummed in response. He was in a good mood, perhaps, if he wasn't making snarky comments. A good mood was safer than a darker, more dangerous one, so it would be in Harry's best interests to leave it be.

"What did you think of the wedding?" Harry asked. "I know it was less traditional than the usual ones. Narcissa and Astoria got into, um, fights over it."

Narcissa had spoken of arguments plenty of times, and Harry had lent her a sympathetic ear, but it had still been surprising to him that they'd forgone tradition almost completely. He hadn't thought that Narcissa could lose arguments, but that appeared to have been the case.

Voldemort exhaled, his posture relaxing further yet. "It was better than most. The young couple has taste, the same of which cannot be said for many of their peers."

Harry nodded as though he had the experience of having attended many weddings in the past. Most ceremonies conducted by the Order had been functional rather than celebratory, and so Harry had grown used to bearing witness only to the simple vows people had written for each other.

His childhood was an odd mix of public and private living. Harry had been permitted to attend Hogwarts for all seven years of schooling, but following the end of his education he'd been mostly in isolation, working with the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry had once hoped to join the Aurors as a spy, like his father, but those hopes had been dashed shortly after his seventeenth birthday. His parents had died, and all that Harry had been left with was an overwhelming desire to see Voldemort's empire topple to the ground.

If his parents were to see him now... Harry wondered what they would think of what had become of him.

"What do you think of the couple?" Harry asked, just to distract himself. "Are they a good match? I don't know much about the Greengrass family, but the two of them seem really happy together."

"I do not make a point of heeding the idle gossip of my followers," Voldemort mused. "So I cannot say for certain whether it is a love match. Given Lucius and Narcissa's original disapproval, I would assume it was."

Voldemort had to be in a good mood if he was entertaining the meaningless topic of Draco Malfoy's love life. So Harry felt safe in pressing the topic further to ascertain more of the information he was curious about.

"So do you? Think it's love."

"An interesting question. I do recall a certain mentor of yours touted the power of such an ideal, did he not?"

"And look where it landed me," Harry answered the Dark Lord's leading question, unimpressed.

Voldemort laughed. "You do amuse me, Harry." Then he stretched, rolling his neck and shoulders. "To answer your question, it may be, it may not. You are not as young as those hormonal teenagers ensconced inside broom closets at Hogwarts, but you are still young enough, and rather inexperienced. I have no doubt that the marriage we witnessed today will last. Whether they last out of love or obligation is another matter entirely. People are fickle; minds will change. Love is not eternal."

"But you are. And… and I am."

"We are." The tone of contentment was back. "Which is why I let your little infatuation with Theodore Nott pass, because it will pass, and you will remain mine above all others."

"It's not an infatuation," Harry said, irritated. Not a moment after he spoke, he regretted letting the denial slip out, because the Dark Lord had just promised mercy, and here Harry was, fucking it up.

But Voldemort only smiled. "Oh? Is it love, then?"

"No," Harry said, quieter now. "We're just friends."

Voldemort withdrew his wand, and Harry twitched at the sight of it, pale, bone white in the darkness. "Do not worry. I have said I would let it stand, have I not? Your behaviour has improved, and I am a man of my word—you may continue your little… association, if that is what you wish. But see to it that it goes no further than that."

Harry kept quiet as the Dark Lord lit the fireplace with his magic, as embers sparked into flames, filling the study with a faint orange glow.

"Am I really that interesting?" Harry asked, once the fire was going strong and the room had warmed by a few degrees.

A derisive noise escaped Voldemort's throat. "What must it be like to find yourself so boring that the mere idea of someone's interest sends your self-esteem into hysterics?"

"I don't," Harry said, heat rising in his face as he sat up, incensed. "I'm not in hysterics. It just doesn't make sense in this scenario, that's all."

Voldemort sat up a bit, his face falling into a mild frown. "I would choose your words carefully from here," Voldemort warned. "What is it, exactly, about this scenario that you imagine diminishes your worth?"

"It's just…" Harry trailed off, unsure why Voldemort was suddenly threatening him. He tried to think of a neutral way to phrase his thoughts that wouldn't be offensive. "I'm not really, um, free to be in a relationship? At the moment. Or ever, really. Because, like I said, we're going to be around forever. Which means that it won't—it won't last."

Though Harry had always known this, being forced to say it aloud made his hands tremble where they rested on his knees.

What did any of this matter when the only cornerstone for the rest of Harry's life would be the Dark Lord? He had told himself this many times, but the implications had been blotted out by fear and denial.

Everyone he knew would someday die.

Though he couldn't quite imagine it yet, he was sure that eventually it would sink in. He would be alone.

Voldemort shifted back, pensiveness stealing over his face like a veil. Harry's answer must have been what he had wanted to hear.

Harry swallowed. "What do you think it will be like? Living forever." He sounded plaintive, like a child, but he was—he was afraid, and in this there was only one person he could turn to for answers.

"I imagine it feels much like living day to day already does," Voldemort said.

Harry thought back to those early days spent in the padded room. The weeks he had resided in there now blurred together into one singular, agonizing memory. Despair warring with anger, anguish slamming up against the monotony of another endless period of time spent staring at the blank walls.

"But won't that get boring?" Harry asked.

Voldemort peered at him, seeming curious. "How could you ever tire of living, Harry, when the world has so much to offer us?"

Harry didn't think it had much to offer him at the moment. "What do you enjoy about the world, then?" Harry asked. "Other than… being the Minister for Magic."

"While such a job is not wholly fulfilling on its own, there are aspects that I find myself savouring," Voldemort said. "As I have mentioned, I do intend to elevate our society. This will be accomplished through continuous research, pushing the boundaries of magic, expanding our awareness of the world we live in. And in addition to this, the recruitment of others to our cause."

Harry couldn't help the minor distaste he felt at this statement, and it must have shown on his face because Voldemort continued, tone sharpening—

"You've been highly privileged with your work at the Ministry, Harry. Did I not promise you future projects of interest? Do you not find your work enjoyable?"

"I'm—I'm grateful," Harry stuttered out. "I just, um, you know, wish we could use other methods. To recruit people."

Voldemort stood up. Harry's nerves screamed in response, but he kept his feet planted on the floor and stiffened his hands to prevent them from shaking.

But the Dark Lord only swept towards the door, opening it. "Come," he said, and Harry thought it sounded less demanding than usual, so he got up with haste and went to follow.


Harry trailed behind as they went through the manor towards the left wing. Voldemort was not exhibiting any of the signs Harry had come to associate with anger or irritation, but that didn't mean he was safe. Harry could imagine an endless number of things that could put the Dark Lord in a good mood but would still horrify Harry to no end.

It was only as they approached the end of the hallway that Harry finally connected a reason to the increasing sense of unease that was creeping all over his skin.

"No," Harry said. Hysteria was now truly threatening to consume him, despite Voldemort's earlier taunting. "Please, I'm sorry —don't—"

"Quiet," said Voldemort. "You are safe. You will keep your current room. I am not displeased with you."

Harry shut his mouth and watched as Voldemort unlocked the door that led downstairs, where the prisoner cells were located. To where Harry's cell was located.

They descended, the torches on the walls lighting up as they went. The walls were closing in on them as they walked, heightening Harry's anxiety further. He had never liked enclosed spaces much, and his time in captivity had only served to worsen that phobia.

Harry forced himself to speak. "Where are we going?"

They hit the bottom of the stairs and continued onwards. "To prove a point," Voldemort said.

At the end of the hallway, the familiar entrance materialized into the wall. Harry could see the white walls within, the clean, cushioned padding. His breathing grew louder and louder, roaring in his ears, making him dizzy, and he had to blink multiple times to clear his vision.

Voldemort lit his wand and gazed dispassionately into the room. They were meters away from the door, but the room was close enough that Harry's stomach threatened to lose the meal he'd eaten only hours earlier at the wedding.

"It may interest you to know," Voldemort began, "that before you came into my care, this room was used as a torture chamber for insurgents."

Harry wouldn't have called it interesting, and it didn't make him feel better either, so he said nothing. He would wait to see what would happen.

The yew wand twirled in Voldemort's hand. "I have little need of it anymore, wouldn't you say?"

"I—I guess?"

"Are you familiar with Fiendfyre?" Voldemort's tone, still conversational, was at odds with the open room before them.

"Yes," Harry said, confused.

And then Voldemort's wand light died. Only it was instantly replaced by the blinding blaze of fire erupting from the tip—a molten stream that burst into an assortment of chimeras and dragons and hippogriffs that charged forwards, melting the walls and the floor around them.

Harry's face broke out into sweat just from the sheer amount of heat that was emitting from the fire, the Fiendfyre, and he noted that the Dark Lord was unfazed by all this, that even the drain of such powerful dark magic failed to disturb the shroud of calmness draped over him.

Not a second later the spell ended, the fire cutting out as cleanly as it had begun. Smoke poured out of the open entrance, which Voldemort sealed with another careless gesture of his wand.

What now? Harry wasn't sure what to make of this. The room was gone. He was free of it. Though another room could be created just as easily, Voldemort had brought him here to prove a point, as he had said. So there would be no more padded rooms. That was the message Voldemort was sending.

Voldemort stowed his wand away and glanced over at Harry to discern a reaction.

"Does this reassure you?" he asked.

It did. It absolutely did. Harry gazed up, meeting those crimson eyes with his own. He had gone back and forth—having it, not having it—but now, looking at the charred outline of the door in the wall, inhaling the smoky refuse of the ruined prison cell, Harry thought he finally had something to hope for.


A/N:

i now feel fully confident in saying that we are now headed directly towards the last big plot point. this chapter marks the final major shift in their relationship that will slide all the way until the end.

have you now guessed what harry is going to try to do? maybe think back on what voldemort originally wanted out of this arrangement...

next up: serious time skips. if i don't use at least one major time skip please call me out on it lmao

anyways, you are all great readers, and i'd love to hear what you think of this chapter!