VIII.

Harry can't think of that day without wanting to die.

When the war had ended, when Harry had walked to his death, nothing happened as it should've. Nothing went to plan.

He's still not sure how he found out.

But all of a sudden, Harry couldn't be killed. All of a sudden, Harry was precious, was needed, was wanted .

Has his life always been forfeit? Never his own, no matter how much he grows up, ready to handle the burden of making his own choices, molding himself into the person he wants to be?

First the Boy-Who-Lived, then the Heir, then the hero, then the liar. Then the horcrux.

Then the prize.

The contract had been written with the help of Dumbledore's portrait, Voldemort scanning each detail with keen eyes, as Harry sat to the side, awaiting his sentence.

What a sentence it was.

Voldemort's, until Harry's death. His toy, his pet, his, in every sense of the word.

Harry wouldn't be dying, now. Not with all that had happened since.

The only thing Harry truly owned of himself––not his soul, not his mind, not his body––but his heart. Ah, his heart. It had still been entirely his.

And like the idiot he was, like the fool… Harry had given it to Voldemort, anyway.

The first few years had been brutal. He had been beaten, manipulated, starved, tortured… raped.

He had been a toy, in every possible sense of the word.

But the only one, the only one allowed to touch Harry, to lay hands on him––ah, that was Voldemort.

His master; his maker, almost, if one accounted for the inextricable ways he had shaped Harry's being with his actions; shaped Harry's circumstances with one spell on his tongue.

Their story, the tale of the dreaded years…

Well. It's a long one.

But that's for another time.

The brutality turned to true affection on Harry's nineteenth birthday.

That night, the Order had appeared. That night, the Order had ended.

Harry still remembers it; he'd been seated to Voldemort's left, dressed in white (Voldemort liked the innocent look on him) at the front of the ballroom, sitting falsely above in an ornate chair. Voldemort, as high and mighty as he was, had already slipped away from the room, to "take care of other business."

Harry knew better than to ask questions.

He'd snorted to himself, then, because he'd seen Bellatrix's face light up at the sight of Harry's empty side, of Voldemort's departure from Harry.

Everyone had known the ways their master liked to hurt Harry, and Bellatrix had always struggled between hating the methods and admiring the skill of it.

The reason the thought had amused him so, was because at the time he'd seen her, he'd thought, Well, at least I don't have to worry he's unfaithful , because truly, if Voldemort was going to bed anyone, it'd be someone like her.

Someone like Harry.

By then, even the depressing and twisted nature of his own sense of humor had ceased fazing him.

And then, all of Harry's amusement disappeared when Kingsley popped into existence at his shoulder.

"Harry, we've come to save you."

He'd hardly gotten a sentence out before the screams started.

Because there, just there, on the edge of the ballroom… The Dark Lord had appeared, too.

The blood of that night never left Harry's robes, so saturated in it were they.

One never knows what they have until they're close to losing it, like a bird, unseen and unheard in the night.

And never again, never, did Voldemort hurt Harry.

Harry lays in bed frequently, thinking of the moments of his life.

He hates Voldemort, he really does, and if he could go back, he'd die on that day when this lunacy started. He really would.

But maybe… Maybe, there are worse things than what he has now.

The journey was hell, but the end… The end is the closest Harry will ever get to heaven.

"Precious, what is wrong?"

Harry rolls over, burrowing into Voldemort's heat. He had been a blazing furnace against his back, soothing the hole left in Harry's chest, but Harry likes it better this way. Likes it better when his face is pressed to the crook of the other man's neck.

The man is, funnily enough, only warm when he is close to Harry. When their hands brush by coincidence, he feels like ice.

It is just one of the many details Harry has collected about this man.

"A lot of things," Harry says, sighing. One of Voldemort's hands rests under his head as he lays on his side, the other smoothing over Harry's naked hip.

Voldemort nods slowly, acknowledging. As the years have passed, he has been forced to reconcile himself with the things he has done to Harry, with the times when Harry is so full of anger and grief and loss that he can't speak.

Harry knows Voldemort doesn't regret what he did to get them to the point of being together, but the damage he did after… Well, Harry likes to think that, though shame is not something well known to the man, it is not a complete mystery.

"Which one?" the man asks into the silence, placing his hand to the small of Harry's back, drawing him closer.

"My chest hurts, just a little," Harry says. It's not the whole truth––years of trauma have nothing on the slight, itching emptiness scratching at his ribs––but it is part of it. It is not a lie.

"I am sorry, my love," Voldemort says, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry's temple. Over the years, Harry has taught him the art of apologizing. "But still… You know it is necessary."

Harry nods. He does know, because Harry's immortality is absolutely non negotiable to Voldemort. To Harry, it's an altogether different matter, but Harry does not own himself, anyway.

Voldemort's hand trails his spine, nape to dip to back again. Voldemort, too, relishes in this closeness, because just as the piece of Voldemort's soul in Harry's body calls to Voldemort, so too does the part of Harry's soul in Voldemort call to Harry.

Harry looks up, and Voldemort looks back, his eyes blood-red, half-lidded, lazy. He is relaxed, sleep-sweet and soft.

Harry hates how first his understanding for this man had morphed into hatred, and that hatred had morphed into a love so strong it stings every sensible part of him.

"I love you," Harry says, looking keenly into those eyes, so that Voldemort may see the sincerity in them. Harry knows that Voldemort does not believe him, some of the time; Harry doesn't mind the shame he knows the other man feels. It is entirely deserved, and Harry's love isn't, but Voldemort has both anyway, despite it all.

Voldemort's face is expressionless, though there is an intent light to his eyes that tells Harry he is listening. Maybe not believing, but definitely comprehending.

Voldemort leans down, his eyelids falling, before he hesitates, warm breath brushing Harry's lips.

They had only kissed once, before Harry had fallen, from grace and in love. Voldemort had not hesitated, then; no, then, he had taken all that he wanted, whether Harry said no or not.

Now, he always hesitates. Never sure of his greeting.

It makes Harry smile, pleased.

Because before––before, Voldemort had been obsessed.

Now, though, despite not saying the words, Harry knows it has changed into adoration. Sheer, utter, mad love.

Now, instead of this one-sided control, Harry has just as much say, maybe more, into what they will and won't do.

Harry grins, tiny and free, unrestrained.

Now, he has the power.

And he leans in, accepting the kiss for what it is: an apology, for all things said and unsaid.

For all the things that shouldn't have been done, but led to this perfect moment.

And in that moment, even when Harry thinks of that day, thinks of all that has happened, Harry doesn't want to die.

No, Harry Potter wants to fly , with Voldemort as his wings, even if he is the one that chained them in the first place.