"So, there's no one left on Primrose Isle?"
"Don't think so. Perhaps some of the slaves who made a run for it. Navy sent a ship to take anyone else left to Kingston. And that crazy bastard of a governor burned his own house down in a fit of anger. They had to shoot him in the end."
"Yes, I heard he tried to attack the officers who came to fetch him. Went into a frenzy and had to be put down."
"Aye, he's dead."
Good.
Over his cup of beer, Voldemort watched Harry in the murky lantern light. Their table was tucked away in the corner, and Voldemort sat with his back to the narrow room and one hand on his new cutlass. Harry kept his eyes intently on the men, who were two tables away with an empty one in between.
"Oy, Smitty!"
One of the men called, drawling after what was likely quite a bit of ale or rum,
"You was there, wasn't you? Primrose Isle?"
"Aye,"
Smitty answered in a low rumble,
"Good riddance to it. Even before the hurricane, it was destroyed by bloody incompetence."
The serving girl came to take Voldemort and Harry's plates… empty now but for chicken bones… and refilled their cups. Voldemort took a gulp and wiped his mouth free of any froth, still surprised to find his face clean-shaven. His hair was getting longer, and no one had recognized him. Of course, he kept his head down when they ventured out in Port Royal.
"Did the governor really burn down 'is own house?"
Smitty laughed harshly,
"He did. With his daughter and her babe inside and all. Fortunately her husband got them out."
Harry's knuckles were white on the handle of his cup, and he let out a shaky breath. Would this Smitty recognize Harry if he happened to look over? Few people on Primrose Isle would have seen him since he'd been recovering in bed.
Voldemort debated whether it would be better to stay put or to leave and possibly draw attention to themselves. Harry took a sip of his beer, Adam's apple bobbing, and Voldemort did as well. They'd stay for the moment.
"Wasn't there some business with his son and the pirate? A kidnapping and ransom?"
Voldemort's breath stuttered. One of the men answered,
"Heard Captain Voldemort killed the whelp."
"No, no."
This was Smitty,
"The boy was injured, but he helped the pirate escape from the island before Dumbledore could execute him. That's what led to the fire. The governor was so enraged he lost his faculties completely. He knew the end of the colony was upon him, and I suppose he decided to destroy what was left rather than accept defeat."
"So, where's Captain Voldemort now? His ship was sunk, wasn't it?"
"I heard they were able to salvage it. It just might sail again. Talk of taking it up the coast toward the Cape."
"So, he's alive?"
"Oh yes. You know Jones, from the Madeline? He saw Captain Voldemort in Nassau gathering a crew."
"I wonder if the boy's still with him?"
"Well, I heard…"
Another few men stumbled over to the next table, and the chatter became an impenetrable din. Voldemort sipped from his cup and watched Harry,
"I'm sorry."
Harry sighed and sipped his beer,
"I suppose I should be, but as long as Luna and her baby are safe with Neville to care for them, that's all that matters. Neville may be penniless, but he's strong and brave. A good man. I can only assume Ginny and her father also escaped. I hope so."
"Ah, your betrothed. You haven't spoken of her."
Ridiculously, a kernel of jealousy expanded in Voldemort's gut,
"What was she like?"
A smile tugged at Harry's lips, as if he could see right into him,
"Very pleasant. Steadfast. Would have made an excellent wife and mother. I'm sure her future will be bright with a husband more suited for her. And away from that doomed colony. It's a shame Dumbledore bungled it so completely. Tried to bend it to his will instead of using its natural strengths."
"I'm sure there's some biblical parable about a river's flow advising against that very thing."
He laughed softly,
"I'm sure there is."
"Any regrets?"
Harry met his eyes directly, steady and clear and honest,
"The life I've chosen isn't designed for regret. Even if it were… no."
Beneath the table, he hooked his foot behind Voldemort's calf, the leather of their new, unadorned boots rubbing together.
"Shall we retire to our chamber?"
Voldemort asked.
The inn was on the outskirts of town. Port Royal had been decimated by an earthquake some fifteen or twenty years earlier, and more recently, by fire. But it remained a pirate haven, a squalid sprawl of commerce and vice, huts and tents by the water and some buildings crowding narrow streets.
Their room was barely bigger than the bed, but the door locked and they'd been left alone for weeks. It was heaven.
"A swim first,"
Harry said.
He frowned,
"It's getting late. You've had a long day and…"
"And I'm ready for a swim. You know the surgeon said I'm healed."
On his feet, he shimmied out from the table,
"I'll make you a concession and walk to the stream instead of running. Unless you want to race?"
Grumbling, Voldemort pushed back his chair,
"We'll walk."
The stream in the swath of forest outside Port Royal was just deep enough that Voldemort had to tread water instead of stand. Their clothes were left in a pile on shore. In the night breeze with stars standing guard, the cool water was wonderful.
Harry swam literal circles around Voldemort, his strokes long and smooth, clearly delighting in flexing his muscles,
"I shall never take being whole and healthy for granted again,"
he proclaimed, kicking water into Voldemort's face, apparently by accident since he didn't laugh or gloat.
Voldemort didn't answer as he wiped the water from his eyes, and another wave of it broke over him as Harry surged in close, his hand on Voldemort's shoulder as he asked,
"What's the matter?"
Voldemort blinked at him,
"I'm not crying. You keep splashing me!"
"Oh! Sorry."
Of course, he took that opportunity to scoop water directly into Voldemort's face, then darted out of reach with a laugh that turned into a shriek as Voldemort caught his foot.
It devolved from there.
When they returned to shore, out of breath and still tussling half-heartedly, Harry wrapped his arms around Voldemort's neck,
"Take me. I know you want to."
"Of course, I want to. But…"
"No buts."
He took Voldemort's hand and pressed it over his belly,
"See? Still intact. Doesn't hurt at all, I promise. Come on."
On tiptoes, he whispered in Voldemort's ear,
"It's been so long since I had your cock."
Voldemort traced the two-inch scar with his fingers. In the light of day, it was pink now instead of red, and it would continue to fade until it was a silvery-white band. It was hard to believe such a small mark could be all that was left of so much damage.
He took a deep breath, releasing the knot of fear in his chest,
"You tire of my hands? My mouth?"
he teased.
"Never."
Harry took Voldemort's prick in hand and stroked, blood rushing to it,
"But I miss this. Don't you long to bury it inside me? So very deep, where no other man has been?"
Grunting, Voldemort cupped Harry's arse with his other hand,
"Where no other man shall ever be."
"Ah, but if you don't take me for fear of hurting me, perhaps I'll have to get someone who will."
Harry bit his lip, a teasing light in his emerald eyes,
"Do you think I'll find a volunteer?"
With a growl, Voldemort crushed their mouths together. He was about to tumble Harry to the grassy bank when children's voices rang out, approaching along the stream.
He and Harry groaned and parted, tugging on their clothes and boots over wet skin. Voldemort grumbled,
"Shouldn't they be in their damned bed?"
"As should we."
Harry's eyes twinkled,
"I'll see you there."
Before Voldemort could stop him, Harry raced off into the night, and all he could do was follow.