A/N: if you recall the tw at the start of the story, you should know what's coming.
Over seven years had passed since that night in the study, and hope of finding answers had deteriorated with each season that passed. Harry and Voldemort had prolonged Nagini's life, sacrificing the lives of other magical familiars to keep her own magic alive. Only eventually that, too, had failed, her body rejecting the foreign magical energy, her immune system failing further.
Harry had guided Voldemort as best he could, only the Dark Lord's stubbornness rivalled Harry's own in this; Voldemort possessed a fear so visceral, so deeply rooted that Harry doubted even the passage of another seven years would put any dent into it. The fervor, the denial, the conviction that there was nothing made unconquerable while magic existed—Lord Voldemort bowed to no one, and death was no different.
Though he and Voldemort never spoke of the number, Harry estimated his own lifespan would last at least three centuries, if not more. Three hundred years together while they continued to seek a solution. Somehow, the assignment of this certainty—three centuries—calmed Harry in a way that the concept of eternity had never managed.
Since that night in the study, they had not spoken of Harry's impending fate, and they had not spoken of the prophecy. The avoidance of the problem was obvious. Pushing the topic of conversation would not be received well, Harry was sure.
So Harry sought other ways of providing reassurance; kind words, casual touches. Reminders meant to ground Voldemort to the present rather than the future. Reminders that life was worth focusing on, not death.
But death was hard to ignore when it traced their footsteps, a sullen, impatient creature snapping at their heels wherever they tread.
As the possible turned to the inevitable, Voldemort grew sullen and irritable, his demeanour worsening alongside Nagini's health. Harry kept them all inside the house as much as he could towards the end, knowing that time they spent around others would be time that Voldemort would use to close himself off further.
Nagini and Harry were curled up on the floor of the study, next to the fireplace. Harry had just finished a visit into his Pensieve, and he did not feel like talking. Nagini was coiled around his arms and shoulders underneath the cloak he was wearing, her presence like a comforting hug.
In the fireplace, the flames danced, flickering and sparking. Brilliant and blazing with life, reflecting off of Nagini's scales.
Harry now spent a lot of time carrying her around. She was too weak to move much on her own. Even her prey was hand-delivered to her, much to her embarrassment and irritation. But Harry took care to be gentle, to maintain eye contact, to reassure her that he wanted to help and it was no trouble.
Nagini did not fear death. She mostly worried over Voldemort. Harry did not attempt to dissuade her from it, because he felt her concerns were valid. The two of them knew that Voldemort was ill-equipped to handle her passing, regardless of how accepting she was of it.
Whenever he was alone, Harry alternated between fretting and panicking. He ran through all the possible scenarios, but he knew he could never foresee and plan for all of them. Nagini's death would change everything; he could not guess what Voldemort's reaction would be.
But they had weathered years of this balancing act—an exercise in restraint and patience for the both of them. Harry had to hope that his efforts would be enough, that Voldemort would be receptive to the support Harry had done his best to provide.
"Ssoon," Nagini said, her head nudging lightly against Harry's chest. She had once said the subtle vibrations of his heartbeats were soothing.
Harry did not ask her what she meant; he already knew. He placed a hand on the top of her head, stroking softly. Soon.
When Nagini died, in the comfort of her master's arms, watched over by Harry and Voldemort both, her eyes had slid shut, her body free of tremours. Peace at last.
Then the unexpected—the soul piece inside of her, now free, had reversed course, fusing back to the whole it had originally come from. Harry recalled, in the agonizing grief of the moment following, how Horcruxes could remerge with their host: remorse of the highest degree, pain that you had to really feel.
There was no flash of light, no fancy magical afterglow. Only the fading of the dark, inky specter that had passed into the Dark Lord's chest.
Voldemort had cradled Nagini, ominously silent. Then he had handed her gently to Harry, and then he had vanished.
The Dark Lord was gone for hours, leaving Harry to pace the empty manor, his chest tight and his head throbbing. Where had Voldemort gone; what was he doing? What toll had remorse taken on the man who claimed to despise love?
When Voldemort at last returned, he was filthy, smeared with the thick of it, covered with mud and grime, and Harry couldn't bring himself to question it, to ask what had happened. He feared the worst, but he did not want it confirmed.
Once Voldemort's robes were cleaned and the mess was gone, the Dark Lord hesitated. They were in the study, only an arm's length away from each other. His shoulders were hunched over, and he appeared more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen him.
Harry stepped forward, folding Voldemort into a careful embrace. The fresh scent of the Cleaning Charms wafted from the heavy fabric, reminding Harry of the forest during springtime.
Voldemort's chin settled atop Harry's head like it belonged there. Then his voice said, in a deep, steady tone, "Not you," and his hand cupped the back of Harry's neck like a lifeline.
Harry could not repeat the words back in good conscience, could not make the promise that he would stay alive forever. So he settled for holding tighter, clutching, hoping that this would bring some comfort to the mourning man in his arms.
They travelled to Albania, skirting the international Apparition laws and breaking several local ones. It was one of Nagini's favourite places: a spot in the woods where she had enjoyed the lush greenery and the gorgeous mountain ranges full of interesting prey.
Voldemort constructed a grand tomb. White marble for the base and a glass cover pressed with dried flowers. In death, she would be preserved as she had not managed in life.
Harry said a few words while Voldemort stood in silence beside him. His brief speech was delivered in Parseltongue; the dead language that only the three of them understood. A language that would someday die if Harry passed on.
"Do you want to say anything?" Harry asked, once he felt it suitable to do so.
Voldemort breathed a soft sigh, the sound hardly audible over the quiet rustle of their surroundings. "No," he said. The slant of his mouth was not exactly a frown, but Harry felt he knew what it meant.
"I miss her," Harry said. "It's okay to miss her."
A noise of assent answered him. Eyes fixed straight ahead, Harry placed his hand on the crook of the Dark Lord's arm, applying gentle pressure.
For some time now, Harry had wondered if Voldemort believed in the afterlife. Harry had dithered over whether to ask, then decided it was unlikely he would receive a serious answer. Whatever Voldemort truly thought about death, he was in no hurry to share. Harry could only surmise that Voldemort believed that death was the certain, inevitable end, because there was no other explanation for the man's behaviour.
But death didn't have to be the end of everything, Harry thought. Even if there was no next great adventure, there were parts of life that could last beyond death. Memories of friendship. Memories of love.
"I put memories of her into my Pensieve," said Harry. "Maybe you could do the same thing with yours."
Voldemort shifted, his body turning in Harry's general direction. Even now, his posture was proud. Unbroken by grief, unfazed by death.
Harry wanted to tell him it was just the two of them here, that it was a safe place and there was no need to hide anymore, only he didn't know how to phrase it.
Voldemort's hand rose, drifting up through the cool forest air and coming to a rest in the space next to the left side of Harry's face. The hand paused there, uncertain, and then Harry felt the pad of the thumb rest lightly against his cheek. The thumb was followed by the palm, which was solid and warm compared to the austere atmosphere.
Harry exhaled quietly. His skin felt feverish where they were touching. But he held still. Their eyes locked, and Harry was greeted by the usual sensations of comfort he associated from being connected, however peripherally, to the Dark Lord's mind.
Voldemort had always been a cornerstone in his life. He was the villain that Harry had been destined to give his life to defeat. And now… now Harry rarely spent a day without Voldemort by his side.
But Voldemort's life had been also shaped by Harry's presence for the past decade—nearly a decade, at any rate—to a startling degree. They were no longer the same people.
Harry had made compromises upon compromises, whittling away at himself, folding into the space that Voldemort had provided for him. But there were pieces of the person his parents had raised that lived on, and empathy remained the loudest fragment.
Perhaps because of this, Voldemort had grown to care for him.
Voldemort did care. This Harry was certain of, had been certain of since that day he'd first taken ill in the manor. Harry's presence and opinions mattered to Voldemort, and Harry had used this to his own advantage, exercising what influence he had, persuading Voldemort to be indulgent and more compassionate.
This battle of wills had gone on for so long that their constant negotiations were habitual. Harry no longer hesitated when proposing bargains for the lives and well-being of others.
Ten years of Harry's life with the Dark Lord as his keeper, and at his current age, Harry was approximately one-tenth of the way to the end.
Where would they be in ten years from now? In twenty years? In fifty?
This was only going to get harder. Harry just had to hope that, before the end, he could convince Voldemort to accept the one thing he had always feared: death.
Because if Harry was to die, Voldemort would miss him, and that was a dangerous thing.
Harry's greatest fear was that Voldemort would ask him to make a Horcrux. But after some further reading, Harry had realized that to split his soul in such a way would destabilize his magical core entirely. He was already a Horcrux—a whole soul plus extra.
So the only way for Harry to create a Horcrux was if Voldemort removed his soul piece. Harry doubted that Voldemort would ever show a speck of remorse for the death of Albus Dumbledore.
Voldemort withdrew, his hand snapping backward, his manner once again perfunctory. "We will return to the manor now."
Harry blinked, but he did not protest. He only watched as the Dark Lord closed the wards surrounding the area, layering powerful spells together to mask the grave and its surroundings.
The threads of magic wove delicately around them, pulling the protections into place. Harry could recognize most of the spells now; he could even cast some of them himself. But he held his silence while Voldemort worked.
And then, when it was done, Voldemort offered his arm, which Harry took, and they Disapparated together.
The next morning, Voldemort acted as though everything was fine. Harry had to marvel at Voldemort's ability to repress his emotions and just go back to work—how could anyone function like that?
Harry hovered all day, waiting for the inevitable burst of the dam. Waiting for Voldemort to snap and go on a Crucio spree, or whatever else he did nowadays to let off steam when he thought Harry wasn't paying attention.
They spent time in the study reading, and they did not visit the laboratory. In fact, Voldemort was much calmer than Harry had expected. The demeanour of peace left Harry feeling suspicious.
Their meals, taken together, were quiet, and Voldemort asked after Narcissa's family, to which Harry responded to the best of his ability.
Astoria and Draco had a son now—a healthy boy named Scorpius. Harry had met the kid a few times; he looked like his father in miniature but was boisterous and cheerful like his mother.
Harry did not want any child to grow up without a mother. Not him, not Voldemort, and not this small boy who reminded him of his childhood rival. But blood curses were unique to the caster and victim both, and the curse that had afflicted the Greengrass family was powerful enough to span generations. It was a trial to even understand the curse, let alone find a way to undo it.
And though Harry would never say such things aloud, Voldemort was arguably the most brilliant mind in the nation; if he could not find answers, who else could? Inquiries had already been made abroad, and Harry knew that Astoria was being seen to by the best Healers in Europe, if not the world—he had drawn up the contracts himself. But despite the lack of progress, Harry refused to lose hope that a cure could be found.
After supper, they retired to one of the sitting rooms. There was a grand piano there, and a bookshelf full of fiction novels. In time, Harry had read through them all and begun to add his own to the collection. Books he had chosen for himself, and books that had been given to him.
Once settled, Voldemort read aloud from one of the many books they had recently acquired on myths involving death. It was a new obsession, a shot in the dark—a journey into the obscure and the unlikely. And there were many obscure myths about death; Voldemort could recite some of them even without the books at hand.
Harry didn't want an immortal life, but he also didn't want to leave Voldemort alone. That loneliness, Harry knew, would destroy everything he had worked so hard to achieve with their relationship. The man separated from the tyrant, the benevolence separated from the selfishness. Without Harry by his side, Voldemort would revert to his previous cruelty and indifference.
No man was an island. Voldemort might believe otherwise about himself, but he was as human at heart as everyone else was, and the human heart would always have a need for companionship.
Harry's suspicions of Voldemort's behaviour were confirmed when Ernie visited later that week. Ernie was very nervous and very much uninformed on why he had been summoned.
Voldemort dragged everyone into Harry's room, sat himself down in his usual armchair, and then ordered a full check-up. Of everything. Ernie was supposed to look Harry over for every single ailment or malady he had or could ever possibly have.
To refuse at this point would invite a lot of unwanted problems, so Harry grit his teeth and sat through a detailed consultation on his family's medical history, an exploration of his current health status, and a plethora of Healer-grade detection spells.
Ernie's results uncovered a lot of 'maybes' and a few 'probablys'. Nothing absolute, nothing concrete, but certainly enough to cause more unnecessary worry.
Harry was fairly sure he wasn't about to drop dead from spattergroit any time soon, even if he was particularly susceptible to it.
"Is that all?" Voldemort asked, once the report was done. "Nothing else?"
"Mr. Potter is in perfect health at the moment, my Lord," Ernie said. "I don't see any causes for concern. Was there… something in particular you wanted out of this appointment?"
Harry had been wondering that same thing. What was the point of all this? Was it so they could feel they'd made some progress?
"A professional assessment of his health," Voldemort answered.
Ernie stiffened, then offered in a hesitant tone, "I'd say Mr. Potter is in perfect health, my Lord. There is no reason to think he will not live a full, healthy life as many wizards of his power and status do. With the proper monitoring, we will be able to detect any inherited issues early and treat them."
The air became positively charged in the span of a few seconds, enough that even Ernie, who was not attuned to Voldemort in the way that Harry was, paled in response to the sudden change in their surroundings.
"Hey!" said Harry, injecting volume into his voice. "None of that. It won't change anything."
Voldemort sneered, his wand now raised, and Ernie let out an incoherent whimper of fear. "I do not tolerate incompetence."
"He's done nothing wrong," Harry said wearily. "Just let him go, please?"
Voldemort's arm dropped a few degrees, and Harry sucked in a slow breath—
The arm rose again in a flash, but before Harry could protest at all, Voldemort spoke:
"Stupefy. Obliviate."
Ernie stumbled backwards as though startled, then fell to the ground in a heap, limbs and robes askew.
"Good enough?" Voldemort asked, sarcasm dripping.
Harry eyed Ernie's unconscious, but still breathing, form. "Yeah," said Harry. "Good enough."
"I could still kill him." Voldemort stared down, the lines of his body radiating tension, anger, that urge to destroy that Harry recognized so easily.
Harry conveyed his disapproval with a flat look. "But you won't."
The yew wand in Voldemort's hand twirled between long fingers. "If you insist," said Voldemort eventually.
Harry rolled his eyes. "Just imagine how hard it would be for you to break in a new Healer," Harry told him. "Think of all that effort."
Voldemort scoffed, but he stowed his wand away. "You clean this up, then. I will be in my office," he said, and then he left, the door shutting loudly behind him.
Harry sighed, rubbing at his forehead. Not all problems could be solved by walking away from them in a dramatic huff.
Today hadn't been about getting a proper checkup. Harry was fairly sure about that. This outburst was borne of frustration and a need to place the blame—Ernie had just been the unfortunate scapegoat.
Eventually, Harry would force a proper conversation about the real issue. But for now, he'd have to approach the topic with care. Harry would lay the foundations for Voldemort's humanity, brick by brick, building upon those pillars of support that Harry had crafted, and he would have to hope that the structure would hold, even in his absence.
A/N:
i had the worst time in the world trying to write this chapter, so i don't really have anything to add other than i hope it isn't terrible sdjkgljkg
sorry nagini ;w;