The Malfoys were, as expected, waiting for the Dark Lord to arrive before beginning their meal. Harry took note of Luna, who was sitting genteelly at Draco's right, though despite her addition the table was mostly empty. Harry sat beside Voldemort, naturally, at one end of the table; everyone else was clustered at the far end, where Lucius sat at the foot.
The conversation was free of politics this time. Actually, Harry and Tom didn't talk at all. Harry stared down at his pasta and almost wished Runcorn was there opposite him for at least then it wouldn't be so quiet. And then, too, Harry would know that any irritation the Dark Lord was exhibiting was directed at the tall Death Eater and wasn't because of their earlier discussion.
He tried to pay attention to what Draco was saying to Luna. It seemed interesting, if her laughs were anything to go by. He felt a wild surge of envy at their easy normality. He knew it was his own emotion he felt, for never would Voldemort covet anything so mediocre as such banal courtship. Still, Harry wondered how long it would be before Draco was holding a blond baby on his lap. Sure, Luna was only just of age, or so he assumed. Even Harry's mother, as young as she'd been when she'd gotten married and had him, had a good few years on her. Luna still hadn't written her NEWTs.
But then, neither had he. Harry paused over his dinner, his fork twirling absently round and round a strand of spaghetti. Why was she being tutored, he wondered, and he wasn't?
Was it because until recently he'd not been much more than a pet? But even now that he was more than that, Tom hadn't brought the topic up. Harry had books to read in his free time, but they were all fiction. And Harry had the world's most brilliant wizard as a spouse, but Tom never tutored him in anything beyond recommending reading material. Mostly, he listened to Harry prattle on about this and that, all with an indulgent smile. Or he just shagged Harry into the mattress. After a long day of running the country he'd fought so hard for, he wasn't likely to want to play professor, too.
If Harry was honest with himself, though, he didn't care greatly about his missing education. He'd not really thought much beyond Hogwarts. There'd been his idea about being an Auror, but he saw that now as his being streamed into a battle he'd never really thought he'd win but had felt pressured to fight. Harry wasn't Dumbledore's boy soldier anymore. No more did he wish to be Voldemort's.
Besides, Voldemort wouldn't have stood for it. Harry was sidelined.
A family, though. That was something he'd never stop wanting. He had it now, he supposed (as surprising as that was). But was it complete? He'd never seen family as just him and one other person. To him, it had always meant children.
First, his mother and father and him. But he didn't much remember that.
Then the Dursleys, who were perfectly dysfunctional and his model for what not to be.
The Weasleys had shown him what love of family could mean. Of course, Harry wouldn't have needed so many kids. Two or three was more than enough. It was strange to think that if Molly and Arthur stuck with that number, that the twins and Ron and Ginny would never have been born.
They were all dead now anyway, so perhaps it didn't matter.
Harry took a pause in these macabre thoughts to look around the table and noticed that everyone else was done their main course and were waiting for him to finish before they started on dessert.
Well, not Voldemort. He was watching Harry think, apparently. He'd set his knife and fork together neatly on the plate, indicating he was done, though it looked as if he'd not made a dent in his supper. Harry knew by now that Voldemort ate far less than most people, but he normally ate more than this.
Harry set his own fork down and wiped his mouth on a serviette. His own appetite was a little off, too. He doubted he'd manage more than a bite of dessert.
Unless it was treacle tart.
Of course it was treacle tart. Harry couldn't leave that alone, on principle.
When he'd finished, Harry leaned back in his chair. He gratefully accepted a cup of tea from Narcissa and listened in as the Malfoys (and a Malfoy-to-be) talked amongst themselves. In a lull in their conversation, Draco cleared his voice. "My Lord," he began once he had everyone's attention. "I will be writing my pre-entry exams in two weeks time. They run four days straight, Monday through Thursday."
Voldemort inclined his head in acknowledgement. "You will find a suitable escort for Harry the duration." It was not a request.
"Yes, my Lord," Draco agreed, quickly. "And after that, assuming my results are adequate—"
"Of course they will be," Narcissa interrupted, reaching across the table to press her hand to his. "After all your hard work."
Harry's scowl at being left out of decisions affecting him quirked into a smile. As much as he liked Narcissa, what she'd just said—her tone, her intonation—reminded him so much of Aunt Petunia coddling Dudley. He half-expected Lucius to replicate Vernon's cajoling half-insult to anyone who'd think so little of his boy to even think of passing him over.
But Draco wasn't finished, and he wasn't paying any attention to his parents. "The Mind Healer programme runs for eighteen months, starting January fourth."
Harry looked over at Tom just as the man narrowed his eyes. "Is this your way of asking me something, Draco?" he questioned dangerously.
Draco paled but didn't back down. "If you will recall, my Lord, I brought this up with you more than three months ago, shortly after my NEWT scores arrived."
"I recall giving you well-earned praise. I do not remember giving you leave to abandon your post to pursue an unnecessary Mastery."
Harry had blanked at first. All he had heard was that Draco wouldn't be available anymore. Now, though, what Tom said flooded his ears. All his insecurity and his conclusions from after his birthday came rearing back. "I am not an assignment," he said, glaring at Voldemort.
"That's not what I meant," came Tom's tight response.
Harry rather thought it sounded like that was exactly what Tom had meant, but he decided it wasn't worth the argument. He knew Voldemort was already on edge after their uncomfortable discussion in their rooms, and he didn't really want to make the Dark Lord more upset. "So long as you remember what you agreed to last night."
For a moment, it looked as thought Voldemort was going to begrudgingly agree. But then his mouth twisted slyly. "That was in conjunction with your care," Voldemort said, slipping into Parseltongue. At the other end of the table, the Malfoys all looked nervous at the switch. They had good reason to be, for the Dark Lord was looking for a loophole to be able to painfully reprimand the Malfoy heir. "And Draco is voluntarily choosing to cease being your 'minion,'"
"He's not really my minion. He's my friend, and he won't stop being that even if he does get accepted into this programme," Harry argued. His heart wasn't in it, though. He didn't want Draco to head off to do this thing. This Mastery. Between his training and his courting Luna, he wouldn't have much time for Harry anymore.
Voldemort tilted his head. "I suppose this could be thought of as part of your care. Considering your past, you no doubt could use the services of a well-trained Mind Healer."
Harry grimaced. "Ugh…that would be…" Awful. It would be awful. He'd hated it when Draco had played therapist in early August. Still, it had been beneficial in the end: Draco had taken Dudley away; Dudley had been the needed witness to Bellatrix's duplicity. "I suppose he can 'help me', if he does well in his course," he hedged.
"He'd better, if he wishes to keep both of his hands." In English. Of course.
Harry turned to his friend, who seemed on the verge of taking a fit. "You mentioned Mind Healing before," he began, "but you never said anything about taking a Mastery in the subject." He tried not to let it come out as an accusation.
It took Draco a moment, but at last he found his voice. Sitting up a little straighter in his chair, he said, "I've talked about it quite a few times. Just last week I showed you the course syllabus. You told me it sounded interesting."
"Actually, he said it sounded all right, so long as you didn't use him as a Puffskein," Luna put in brightly.
Harry remembered the conversation now, but only insofar as how he'd been pleased with himself for remembering the Wizarding idiom. Regardless, he now said, "And that still stands. At any rate, I will keep my fingers crossed for you."
Draco only blinked at him in confusion, and all Harry's pride at not using Muggle sayings was tossed out all at once. But again Luna saved the day by crossing all her fingers, even her pinkies, and saying, "I will too."
Draco smiled bemusedly at Luna, then turned to Harry. "Thanks," he said, seemingly having got the message. "I'll make sure we can still spend time together. Masteries are, by their nature, intense, but I'll make the time to see you plenty."
Harry smiled. He knew Draco would try. But no one ever got an 'A' for 'Effort', not even in the Wizarding World where an 'A' was a fairly unremarkable grade.
They were lingering now, and the conversation was becoming more and more strained. Lucius finally took his leave, taking his wife with him. Luna was beginning to flag. The previous night had been long for all of them. Harry was amazed they were all still awake.
Draco stood and gave Voldemort a bow. "You mentioned a replacement escort for during my examination week. If all goes well, someone more long-term will be required. Might I suggest Theodore Nott? He is one your newer recruits. He and Harry got along quite well at the party yesterday."
Harry made a face. Sure, Theo was okay, but he hated being left out of any discussion relating to himself. He was tempted to veto the other Slytherin boy on principle.
Voldemort beat him to it. "I am well acquainted with his family, seeing as the Notts have been in my service for three generations now. I appreciate the suggestion, Draco, but I already have someone in mind."
Already? That was quick, given that Draco had only told Voldemort about this a few minutes ago. Judging from Draco's face, he must have thought so, too. He practically squeaked out, "Excellent. Ah, good night, my Lord. Er, my Lord Consort."
Luna gave a small bow as well. She smiled tiredly, though fondly, at him. "Goodnight Harry."
Harry waited all of three seconds for them to get out of hearing range, then turned on Tom. "You already have a new 'minion' picked out for me? Who is it?"
Voldemort sipped his tea. It must have been stone cold by then; even posturing as he was, Tom couldn't help but grimace at it. It must have been passed the point of a warming charm, for he vanished it, cup and saucer and all. "I was thinking about your Mudblood's request, if you must know. Ronald Weasley would make a fine companion for you. After he's been rehabilitated and has taken the appropriate vows, that is."
"Ron? That's your bright idea?" Harry pushed his chair back and stretched his legs out defiantly. "We've been over this. I don't want him restored."
But Voldemort wasn't done arguing his point. "He's the perfect choice. He's a Pureblood and he's loyal to you—"
"Not anymore," Harry seethed.
"You haven't given him a chance to prove otherwise. Also, you've spent so much energy into making sure your Mudblood is safe. But what of her happiness?"
Harry scoffed. "Lord Voldemort cares about a Mudblood's happiness now?"
"Lord Voldemort cares deeply for all his subjects," Tom said smoothly. "As does his consort." He stood and stepped forward to loom over Harry.
Harry tilted his head back to look up at him. Voldemort looked quite intimidating, staring down at him like that. The connection was cold between them, and Tom's red-slit eyes didn't give away his thoughts. Harry began to worry that he'd pushed too far over dinner, been too combative. Not so long ago, he'd been the definition of obedience. Harry's deference had been the staple in their interactions.
Tom held out a hand for Harry to take. Harry just stared at it, as though it were a trap. Tom sighed. "I'm tired, Harry. Not all of us slept all day. I wish to retire for the evening."
Reluctantly, Harry took hold of Voldemort's hand. The man didn't even wait for Harry to stand; he Apparated them away just like that. Harry, who'd still been seated, crashed to the rug when they materialized in their bedroom.
Harry, sprawled gracelessly at Tom's feet, glared upwards. "I know you're cross with me, but a few feet to the right so I'd have been sitting on the bed was too hard?"
Voldemort broke into a serpentine grin. "Forgive me, darling. As I said, I'm tired." He extended his hand one more time, this time to help Harry up. "I swear that wasn't deliberate. I'm not punishing you for your terrible disrespect."
"Of course you aren't," Harry deadpanned. But all at once, it was all he could think about. So far, Voldemort had been agreeable with the change in their relationship. Harry worried his lip, wondering if he should bring it up. He didn't want to push the line too far, only for Tom to feel compelled to put him back in his place, Harry's body trembling on the floor after a sustained encounter with the Cruciatus Curse.
There was also the remnants of their last conversation in this room making itself known—'Not all look on me as you do, as though I were something worth wanting.' Harry wasn't Gryffindor enough to bring that back up.
Harry decided to wait for the right opportunity to talk about just how far Tom would allow him to go. The man had made him his consort, so surely he wouldn't want some snivelling weakling taking the place at his side. Harry wished he had a book to guide him. Feeling his way along blind like this was a fool's errand, and he was done with those.
Exhaustion hit him as he prepared for bed. Funny how such small rituals as brushing one's teeth could signal the mind to start shutting down. He yawned deeply as he shucked his robes—he couldn't be bothered to slip his night ones on in their stead. The cool sheets felt heavenly against his tired limbs. He snuggled down the bed, pulling the coverlet round his head.
Tom pushed him to his own side of the sheets. "You're as bad as Nagini. There's a reason she sleeps on the floor. I will put up with a lot from you, darling, but hogging the bed isn't an option."
"Is that a threat?" Harry said. He turned and spooned against the Dark Lord. He hoped Tom didn't see it as an invitation, as he was far too tired for another round. Still, it was so comfortable pressed up against him. He smiled, sleepily, as an arm draped lazily over his waist, drawing him closer. Tom, apparently, had found the energy to get into his own sleep robes, or more likely he'd just magicked them on. Whatever, Harry thought with a yawn.
Gentle fingers brushed through Harry's hair, followed by the slightest press of lips to the back of his head. "A threat?" Voldemort mused softly. "Of course not. Sweet dreams, my Harry."
...
Harry was a bed hog. He woke, blinking blearily up at the ceiling, his whole body stretched out. The bed was huge, but even so he had managed to take up the majority of it. Tom was curled on his side, right at the edge. It was good thing he had decided to slip on robes, as Harry had wrapped the blankets all round himself, leaving none for his sleep-mate. At least the room was warm. Again with diligent house-elves tending the fire throughout the night.
Harry managed to free himself from the tangle of sheets and carefully spread the blankets over Voldemort. This way, at least he could pretend he wasn't a complete blanket bandit, and hopefully Tom would think he'd slept on the very edge of the bed on his own accord. Harry decided that he would experiment with sticking charms or ask Flippy to magic the hem of the sheet to the bottom of the bed. Otherwise he imagined Tom wouldn't sleep so peacefully, especially in the dead of winter. Harry rather suspected that the snake-like elements he had absorbed into himself would make him particularly vulnerable to a chill.
He tiptoed into the bathroom. The candles around the room responded to his presence, flickering to life, and the bath began filling at once, warm and steaming. His slipped in as soon as the tub was full, then stretched out, humming lowly as he relaxed. He must have pulled quite a few muscles flying; his shoulders and thighs were an aching mess. He hadn't felt so strained since first year, when Oliver Wood had kept him training for unreasonably long hours. It had been a very long flight to the coast, Harry reflected, and he hadn't flown in ages. As he massaged the knots from his lower back, he wondered if the flight potion Tom had used caused such discomforts. Tom hadn't complained, but then the man was remarkably stoic. He decided he'd surprise his husband with a morning massage, just in case.
And if the massage turned into something more intimate? That would be fine, too.
But dawn was a long way off. Harry had slept through half the day, and despite the sleepless Halloween night, Harry knew his mental exhaustion had long since fled. Harry slumped in the water. As his aches began to lessen, Harry reflected on the last few days. A consort. He was Lord Voldemort's consort. Of all the things…
He shook his head, grinning. And what a way to tell him. Harry had noticed that Voldemort, as much as he loved a good speech, was remarkably taciturn with certain things. Harry supposed Tom was uncomfortable with sentimentality—not that his new status had anything to do with that, Harry admonished himself. This was purely political. It had to be.
Still, it was funny to think of all the times when Voldemort had been at a loss for words. The man was excellent at explaining the most complex of magics when he was in the mood, yet he was unable to sit down and tell Harry just what being his consort meant. It made no sense to him. Why had he had to work it out himself, with Luna being the one to finally let him know he was married to Britain's Magical ruler?
Harry knew from the bits of Muggle English history he'd managed to pick up in primary school—when he hadn't been dodging Dudley's kicking legs beneath his desk—that marriages were often made to forge alliances. A union between the Dark Lord and the Boy Who Lived?
In this new world, it was clearly meant to be.
But still, if that was all it was, why didn't Tom just come out and say that. A simple: "Hey, Harry. I got us hitched the other day so that everyone would realize that you support my policies."
Was that so hard?
And now, judging from what they'd discussed before supper, Tom didn't even think Harry was truly attracted to him, that it was his Horcrux nature that made him want Voldemort so. Thinking back, Voldemort had said much the same thing a month before when Harry had said he loved him. Harry clenched his fists under the water. He'd been too surprised by the accusation—for that was what it was, he saw now—to feel angry.
He was angry now. The Dark Lord had placed so much faith in his magical prowess and had seemingly neglected the other important parts of his self-esteem. Alone now, though, Harry had to admit that he understood where Tom was coming from. Harry had never thought much of himself, and he was pretty average-looking (lightning-bolt scars notwithstanding). Tom had started off life looking like some kind of classical god. It was actually unfair how fuckingly good-looking Tom Marvolo Riddle had been in his youth. And then to lose it all, to replace that human perfection with—
With something else.
Harry could, intellectually, remember how he'd found Voldemort repulsive. He could not match up his feelings with those memories. It wasn't the Horcrux. How could it be? He'd carried a piece of Tom's soul from infancy, and it was only this past half-year that the man had dredged up feelings of anything but horror and hatred in him.
It was difficult for Harry to pinpoint exactly when his feelings had first shifted. Obviously sometime before Midsummer. Harry closed his eyes and went through his memories, starting from when he'd told Voldemort that he was an unknown Horcrux. He'd seen the Dark Lord as little more than a monster waiting for him in the night, a demon he had to appease with gifts. When had that monster become his beloved?
He remembered the terror of waking in that cell, his eyes useless, his words bound. He'd kissed Tom's bare feet, and the action had set off shivers of disgust through his very being. Fear and disgust. That was what he felt for Tom then, with the barest memory of how lovely the man had been as a boy.
There had been his Initiation, when—
When he'd made more oaths than he could hope to remember. Harry rubbed at his forehead, wincing as suds dripped into his eyes. What had he vowed?
He couldn't fucking remember. Only one vow stood out in his mind, the one where he granted access to his magic to the Dark Lord, and he could only remember that because of when he'd been stuck on the standing stone after his first disastrous try at Quidditch with Draco. His ankle wouldn't heal, not without Voldemort's leave. The oath had seen to that.
What else had it done?
The Initiation was hazy in his mind. He'd entered in with Nagini, had walked—terrified—to the dais and knelt before the Dark Lord's throne. There'd been candles, and then a lot of promises in Parseltongue. Then there'd been a sacrifice—Petunia.
Oh, it had been so good watching her die. The fear in her eyes before Nagini struck was perhaps the most perfect thing he'd known up until—
Harry frowned. He'd always disliked his aunt. No, that wasn't quite right. He could remember adoring her once, long long ago, back when he'd still thought she might love him back. But abuse took its toll, and his affection for her had died in the face of her neglect
But he'd never wanted her dead. Not until…
Those oaths.
It was definitely those Parseltongue oaths. Something inside him had shifted that night. Harry stared as his left arm. Voldemort had Marked him before he'd taken all those vows, taking sadistic pleasure at dominating the Chosen One so thoroughly. But though the brand had burned like Hades' hellhounds had ripped into his flesh, there hadn't been the same natural devotion as there was after the ritual Initiation. Harry had been frightened into submission, terrified at being locked away somewhere and forgotten. After the Initiation, though, Tom's darkness and his will had sifted through to him. He'd become an extension of the Dark Lord almost.
Harry leaned his head back on the edge of the bath and watched the candle flames flicker. He remembered the long nights in the cell, holding fast to Nagini, his new sister. Her presence had been so comforting, and he'd quickly learnt to enjoy her company.
More than enjoy. He'd quickly learned to love her. They both shared a small part of the Dark Lord's soul, of course, and each found warmth in the familiarity that brought to the other. But there was more to their connection than that alone, though that was itself substantial. Had her affection for her Master bled into Harry?
And then there was his jealousy of Bellatrix. Harry still had to bite back a curse when he remembered the terrible witch and how he'd had to share Tom with her for so long. Tom had called him a jealous creature, and he'd been right. Even up until a few days ago, he'd been worried he'd have to share Voldemort with someone new.
And then Tom with his stupid ring. Harry smiled, sleepily, at the memory of Luna misunderstanding what it was. Strange how she could see so many otherworldly things but make such a hilarious mistake. She was still so innocent.
Harry slumped lower so that the warm water could soak into his neck and help get those last kinks out. How had he managed to play seeker without a bath such as this? It was completely unfair, Harry decided as he relaxed more and more, that the prefects had their swimming-pool sized bath when the Quidditch players had to make do with showers. Well, and potions if anyone was so inclined to actually seek out Pomfrey when they weren't in dire need, but no one sensible would risk an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing unless bone was jutting through skin. Or they'd lost their bones altogether, Harry remembered with a muted snort.
"I regret missing your matches that year. I understand they were rather exciting." Harry started up, wincing as his not-quite relaxed muscles protested. "I do hope you weren't about to fall asleep in the bath, Harry."
Harry shook his head. "I couldn't sleep," he told Tom. "What are you doing out of bed?" He hoped Voldemort hadn't rolled over in his sleep and tumbled onto the floor, though in picturing it he couldn't help snicker.
Voldemort rolled his eyes, clearly having caught Harry's thoughts. "You were too loud." At Harry's befuddled expression, he explained, "Your thoughts, my dear."
Harry groaned. "You heard all that?"
Voldemort hummed his assent. "It woke me up."
"Sorry," Harry said, sheepishly. He wondered if Voldemort would actually want to talk about it all. Harry wasn't sure if he was really ready speak these realizations aloud.
"I'll join you." Tom slipped his robes off and slipped into the tub. He sighed as he submerged himself in the hot water. "That's better."
Neither spoke for a long time. Voldemort let his eyes close. Harry had almost thought he had fallen, hypocritically, asleep, when all at once the blood-red eyes flashed open to stare at him. "I'm going to take them off. Right away, as soon as we're dressed."
Harry straightened. "Take what off?"
Voldemort answered with narrowed eyes, his very gaze demanding that Harry try to work it out for himself. When Harry just shrugged back at him, Voldemort sighed loudly. "Those oaths, Harry. The ones you spoke at your Initiation."
"No."
"Excuse me." Tom leaned forward. "I do think I can do as I please."
Harry groaned. "I don't want you to take them off. If you do…"
"I need to know."
Harry looked to the window, where the frosted glass was reflecting the dancing candlelight. Anything to avoid looking at Tom. He didn't want his new husband to know his own doubts, though Tom hardly needed eye-contact to discern his thoughts through Legilimency.
"Harry," Tom said, pleadingly. "I need to know that what you're feeling for me isn't just a projection of my own will. You can understand that, can't you? Besides, those oaths were for my followers, and I don't want that for you anymore. Look at me."
Harry didn't, but only so he would know he had the power to disobey. "The theory is flawed, anyway," Harry told Tom flatly, only realizing for himself now that it was true as memories of Midsummer flooded him. Voldemort had been quite clear that night that he could never return Harry's love. "My feelings for you can't be something you forced on me. Think about it, Tom. You can't love. You wouldn't know what to even project."
Voldemort flinched at Harry's tone, just a bit. Watching from out the corner of his eye, Harry had almost missed it. But even so, the tall wizard wouldn't back down. "I still need to know. And then, if you wish it, we can replace those oaths with new ones. Wedding vows, proper ones this time."
That made Harry look at Voldemort at last. "But we're already married. It was a surprise elopement, remember? Even took one of the grooms by surprise."
"You deserve something more formal. I know your feel cheated." He pressed on before Harry had time to deny it: "And there's no need to worry. Our formal bonding will have no rituals, or at least nothing outside the norm."
Harry raised a brow. "No blood offerings or virgin sacrifices? You won't be summoning demons to officiate?"
Voldemort only smirked. "We'll go ring shopping as soon as the shops in Diagon Alley open. But first…"
"But first…?" Harry prompted after Voldemort's words trailed off.
"First we remove the Parseltongue oaths I forced you to take."
...
It was quicker than pulling off a plaster. There was no need for witnesses, though Voldemort did light a ring of white candles around himself. "It is a reversal and will bring back a purity of your mind." He ignored Harry's reflexive snort at these words. "You don't need to say anything this time."
Harry still didn't know if this was good idea. Actually, he was fairly certain it would prove disastrous. He didn't want to risk every good thing he had now for something so feeble as clarity. He didn't want to know if his happiness—and he was happy, goddammit!—was a lie. He asked Tom one last time if he was sure he wanted to do this, but the man wouldn't change his mind and only gestured for Harry to join him in the ritual circle
Harry stepped into the candle-lit circle, still damp from the bath, then knelt before the Dark Lord. This he hadn't done in a while, not in servility, but Tom had said they had to begin how the last oaths had ended. The candles flared, then each settled to a calm, barely wavering flicker of light.
A familiar, warm hand rested on Harry's head. Unlike when he had first come to Tom, there was no vindictive possessiveness radiating through. "It'll be okay, Harry," Voldemort said before shifting into Parseltongue: "This willing servant, Harry James Potter, has served me well. It is time to release him from his bonds. I release my hold on his magic—"
A spasm pulsed through Harry, hot and cold at once. He was grateful for Tom's steadying hand on his head, for without it he was sure he would have toppled sideways, knocking over the candles and destroying the circle.
"And on his person and on his life. No longer must he obey, no longer may I demand anything beyond what he is willing to give. He shall no longer call me Master, for he—alone—stands my equal." And here the hand on Harry's head shifted to his chin, gently prodding him up.
Not a demand, Harry knew. A request.
Harry rose to his feet, and something in his action made the candles gutter out, as if all their magic had been spent. Harry was still reeling in the waves of his will returning to him.
It was a lot…. Waves upon waves of…was this his magic?
His whole body felt alive, and he had to wonder…this couldn't be what he'd missed. Tom couldn't have taken all this from him, this vibrancy. That was…
Inexcusable.
But no, the waves of frenetic energy levelled to something he was familiar with, something he'd never lost. Harry looked up into worried red eyes.
Tom withdrew, backing out of the circle of lifeless candles, and watched Harry warily, silently.
"For a moment there…" Harry began, looking down at his hands, examining them, as if they were something foreign.
"Yes?" Tom's voice was hoarse.
But Harry was the silent one now. He was looking at Tom, watching his every move, his every mannerism. He watched as the other man's Adam apple sank and lifted again as he swallowed. He watched the man's always-so-steady wand hand waver, empty and anxious. He watched as slitted pupils constricted, though with the candles out they should have dilated to counter the dimmed light.
"For a moment," Harry finally repeated, "I thought I could feel my magic return to me, though—except for when my ankle wouldn't heal—I hadn't noticed it missing. It was overwhelming, and at first I thought maybe you'd taken it from me." He ignored the horrified look Tom gave him and ploughed on, "But now I feel the same. I was just feeling the oath releasing, that was all."
"You feel the same…" Tom echoed. He wasn't talking about Harry's magic.
Harry smiled brightly. "I do." And that was a wonder, really, given all that he'd done while bathed in Tom's will. But it was true.
"I still feel like home…" Tom trailed off.
"Yup." Harry popped the 'p'. "I still love you."
Tom still wasn't completely convinced. "And it's not the Horcrux?" he pressed.
"Trust me, that I'm sure of. Those oaths had me worried, but not this." He brushed the hair from his scar. "But you forgot to release some of the oaths."
"I didn't. You're free. I—"
Harry waved him quiet. "Your own oaths, I meant. Not all those Initiation oaths were directed to me. You vowed to protect me."
Tom sighed, relieved, then stepped in to again cup his hand under Harry's chin. He tugged gently upwards, meeting Harry's eyes. "I did not forget. I am not willing to remove my own oaths of protection from you. In fact, unless circumstances have changed your mind, we have new vows to make. Mutual vows."
"Marriage vows," Harry said, grinning.
