Chapter 7 – Light

'Voldemort is back.'

Three simple words, a truth that long since dried on the piece of parchment Harry has been wanting to compose a letter around for the past two weeks. They deserve to know – his friends, the wizarding world in general… It is the responsible thing to do, isn't it? Surely, after not believing Harry and being proven wrong once before, there will not be yet another backlash from within the Ministry of Magic about spreading panic?

He has thoroughly scrubbed the Dark Lord's touch from his body by now and not caught another glimpse of the man on the streets he now dares walk again. For better or worse, the visit and revelation have been a wake-up call that gave Harry resolve rather than made him crumble further. The heartache hadn't been real. The idea he'd missed, of someone who actually cared for him as a person and enjoyed Harry's company until he'd messed up, had never existed.

And yet… as had been the case for most of his chaotic teenage years, the Dark Lord is on his mind. Not literally, this time: nothing will cause his scar to flare up or restore the mental link they once shared. Harry is rid of the burden the man's soul had been.

That doesn't mean he is entirely rid of Voldemort himself. The dreams that now plague Harry can't be chalked up to manipulative magic after properly learning Occlumency. More than once, he catches himself lingering on recent memories. It is a struggle to recall the horrors of the past this man wrought upon them all, when all Harry wants to do is feel persistent lips against his own one more time.

While Voldemort did not see the plans to make Harry fully dependent through, he stayed long enough to instil the familiar craving of addiction.

Moreover, there are so many remaining questions… Is Voldemort in contact with any of his Death Eaters and if not, how did he resurrect? Is the way he looked when visiting Harry a disguise, or is that skin shed to reveal a more familiar, monstrous form as soon as he slinks into the shadows? To what extent has Voldemort gained emotions if he is capable of empathy now and what does that mean?

Above all, the question that occupies Harry most is whether this excursion into the Muggle world was merely part of the spun lies or whether Voldemort actually plans on staying here to revel in clothes, sports cars and cigarettes. It feels ridiculous, but the implications if the answer to that last question is yes… if Voldemort is fully done with the wizarding world…

Is it wise, then, to stir up trouble that will undoubtedly cut through the quiet happiness the ones he loves have been able to bask in since the end of the war? Can Harry bear to see Ron's and Hermione's faces after so many years, knowing it is the information he'll deliver to their doorstep that will wipe away their smiles?

Another Horcrux hunt, another battle… as if they'd not survived enough.

The ringing of the doorbell, shrill and insistent, jerks Harry from his musings. The delivery woman he opens the door to barely says a word as she shoves a heavy cardboard box into his arms and skips down the steps to continue with her rounds, oblivious to the storm raging in Harry's head.

Again?

The first box, which arrived exactly seven days ago, still stands in the hallway next to Harry's trainers, barely opened. There'd been no card, but the mixture of packaged expensive snacks, sobering potions and healthy greens (the pungent smell of which is starting to get unbearable now they've partially rotten away since Harry prefers to ignore the box's existence altogether), can only have been sent by one person. Harry imagined that first package to have either been a last, cruel mocking gesture or a very messed up apology.

Using his wand as a Stanley knife by casting a slicing hex, Harry carefully unveils what appears to be a copy of the other one. Unusual fruits and veggies he never cared to buy – dragon fruit, pomegranates and Romanesco – are circled by packages of macadamias, high-end Ecuadorian chocolate and neatly labelled flasks of potions he knows very well. This time, some heavier detoxification ones and sleeping potions have been added.

Once again, no note, but wedged right in the middle is a single red rose.

Okay.

What.

Whether apology or joke – one box would have sufficed for those purposes. A second one just seems like Voldemort is sending him care packages. Harry curses aloud. The letter he's been debating over flutters to the floor, forgotten as he storms around the house like a whirlwind, trying to grab everything a scorned Harry Potter might need to confront his enemy/lover.

A modicum of sense only kicks in when already standing in front of the skyscraper of which the highest floor houses the Dark Lord. Announcing his presence via doorbell would be a bit… obvious. Not to mention that if this gets bloody, he'd rather not have any Muggle witnesses. Even with an invisibility cloak, systematically opening doors won't look great if it gets caught on camera and there always a chance that Harry's face gets recorded anyways if Voldemort decides to instantly chuck him out and keep the cloak as a souvenir. He needs to go at this with a semblance of a plan.

At least he brought his Firebolt. Flying invisible might not be ideal, but if he is careful, Harry should be able to get in unnoticed. Besides, Voldemort might not be home – if this even is his actual home and the man hasn't pulled a Slughorn by moving into some absent rich person's flat – in which case flying around to see whether breaking in is worth possibly getting caught sounds like a good idea. Brilliant idea. Best one he's had in years, really, Harry sarcastically tells himself when failing to come up with anything less direct than confronting Voldemort on the man's own turf.

He hasn't survived so long due to negativity however, which means Harry wraps the cloak tightly around himself and the Firebolt before he can change his mind, taking off the first moment he stops thinking about the horrible turns this could take.

The cloak, only partially see-through, makes it difficult to enjoy the view this time, so Harry concentrates on speed, shooting upwards. As tall as the building seems from either pavement or balcony, the distance is easily crossed in mere seconds. The struggle to jump off the broom takes longer: the shutters are open this time and as Harry does not wish a dismembered arm or leg to be spotted mid-air, let alone a full broom, keeping the invisibility cloak in place is essential as he untangles himself.

Harry inhales deeply to calm down and lowers the Firebolt to the ground before removing the cloak from it. Hopefully, it won't be visible behind the strip of window frame. Next, he attempts to peer through the glass, a difficult feat with the bright winter sun reflecting off it. The one day he could have done with overcast weather… Never one to be discouraged easily, Harry manages to use his own shadow to see into the penthouse, both relieved and disappointed to find the living area devoid of Dark Lords. He is about to debate setting up camp here to see if that will change, when spotting a strip of yellow light near the back, where he recalls the windowless bedroom to be.

For good measure, he casts the counter spell to the caterwauling charm on the door, then whispers an Alohomora. The lock clicks, double doors sliding open silently…

Avoiding the pieces of impersonal furniture Voldemort bought solely to satisfy his newfound hedonistic urges, Harry is well on his way to cross the spacious area between the balcony and bedroom, when a far-too-familiar groaning freezes him in his tracks. His heart lurches violently, uglily. The winded, short grunts he loved to coax from his stranger cannot belong to anyone else.

Has this all been a setup too? Part of a more elaborate plan, the boxes a lure to wedge the knife deeper by practically inviting him to walk in on Voldemort having sex with another?

Not that it should be effective, Harry mentally scolds. The knowledge that the one he was tricked into sleeping with is the very same vile murderer who destroyed hundreds of lives should be enough to feel absolutely repulsed. Surely, that was the origin of this anger: repulsion, plus a dash of second-hand fury for the next person Voldemort tries to fool with his handsome face and dashing smile.

Shaking all limbs awake, he sneaks closer, ignoring another string of gut-wrenching noises and the subsequent stinging in his chest. Harry prepares to fire two stunners, pushes open the door-

There is only one body. One gorgeously sculpted body, glistening with sweat as it arches off the bed.

Harry has to clamp a hand in front of his mouth to stifle a moan as his eyes greedily rove across taut muscles, curling toes and a perfectly chiselled jaw that hangs slack in ecstasy. Long, pale fingers deftly work the straining erection like an instrument, tracing veins and closing around the base almost frantically as he shudders. Harry's throat is instantly parched, recognising the move as one of Voldemort's favourite methods to delay Harry's orgasms. More sinful panting follows that makes it far too easy to forget why he broke in.

Rooted to the spot, Harry loses one inner battle after the next in rapid succession, enraptured by the image Voldemort presents: twisting on top of silk sheets, curls splayed across the pillow like a dark halo. Sinful. Flawless.

Harry tries to subtly adjust the front of his suddenly far too tight jeans, biting his lip when finding it damp.

''Harry.''

Ceasing to breathe altogether, Harry is sure to have been discovered, brain frantically racing to find a plausible explanation for his staring. Voldemort is not looking his way though, opening his eyes only to feverishly gaze at the ceiling.

''Harry.'' One hand digs into the mattress as if trying to anchor Voldemort while the other strokes faster, coaxing a few drops out of a blushing tip.

Self-restraint and self-respect both fly out of the window. It is too hard to rhyme the enemy he'd known and the charming stranger who sent flowers and is now gasping Harry's name on the brink of climax, thinking to be alone in the confines of his private bedroom.

He feels no guilt when dropping the cloak, a firm mantra in his head that Voldemort used him for sex too. The widening of ruby eyes as the other notices his presence is rewarding. The twitching of that perfect straining hard-on in reaction to Harry quickly straddling Voldemort's lap and using the moment of surprise to pin the man's arms into place even more so.

''Not a word,'' Harry growls in warning as he almost rips his thick pullover off in haste and frees his loins from those damned restrictive jeans.

Shockingly, the half-expected scathing retort doesn't come, Voldemort too busy hungrily staring with piercing eyes and a hint of a flush on high cheekbones. Able to gauge exactly how close his stranger is, Harry wastes little time, knowing what he wants and how to get it. Naked apart from the trousers pooling at his ankles, Harry grabs the warm, slick cock and impatiently lines it up with his arse, holding it firmly as he forces the blunt head past his rim. Aroused as they both are, it slips in easily, heat engulfing Harry as he spears himself and desperately pushes it in deeper.

''You take me so well, Harry. I didn't even need to work you open…''

''S-shut up,'' he chokes, too busy enjoying himself. He lets go of the man's wrists to press his hands flat against Voldemort's chest instead, using the improved position to start moving, whining needily at the sensation of the thick member sliding in and out. ''If- if you want me to- forgive you- in any capacity-'' he pants in between thrusts, supressing a sob when Voldemort grabs his hips to enthusiastically up the pace, ''You'll kiss me when you cum.''

''Kiss you?'' comes a murmur that sounds half baffled, half far too gone to truly care.

Harry holds back from grabbing a fistful of black curls, not wishing to push his luck too far. ''Yes. Kiss me,'' he demands.

No sooner has Harry confirmed his craving, fingers curl around his nape and draw him in. Warm lips against his, an inquiring tongue slipping in to taste, arms locking them both in a tight embrace… The tenderness is a stark contrast to the powerful shivers that wrack their bodies as he is filled with gushing seed. Voldemort rides out the orgasm with irregular thrusts, each one warmer and wetter than the previous one as he fucks into his own cum.

Black silk is stained with specks and streaks of white when they finally part, a pool forming below Harry where drops leak out no matter how much he attempts to keep it all in. It feels lovely, even better than releasing himself into Voldemort's skilled hands.

''Why did you send me those parcels?'' he inquires when the other does not move to speak, uncharacteristically slinging an arm over Harry's chest and burying his nose into damp hair instead. It is far more surprising than being thrown out would have been, or being threatened with death.

''To serve their purpose.''

''Intentionally vagueing won't stop me from nagging you for more specific answers, you realise. What purpose?''

''One I might tell you after we've had a few other overdue conversations.''

Harry closes his eyes, defeated. The answer has not been denied, he reasons. Only delayed. That, he can live with. Moreover, Voldemort is right about needing to talk. If Harry would have seriously sought to avoid addressing more severe matters, he should have employed more control, not jumped the gorgeous man like a horny teenager. Harry blames it on having nothing more meaningful than a handful of one-night stands in the past ten years, making him starve for the first relationship-esque affection that was provided without even needing to ask.

Which, typically, really meant he ought to blame himself.

Grabbing his wand, Harry cleans the sheets and his hands, taking note that the other remains entirely relaxed, as if no threat emits from the holly wand that had been his demise a decade ago. Smug bastard.

''A drink?'' Voldemort drawls. His irises are russet again, Harry notes, unsure whether to be pleased about that detail or not.

''This body…'' he wavers, stalling his own answer for now. ''Is it real?''

''After all these years, you know abysmally little of magic, don't you?'' Voldemort sighs. Before any indignant protesting can be uttered, he continues: ''There are only three methods to disguise one's body to look like a different person: glamours, Polyjuice and human transfiguration. I do hope that McGonagall was thorough enough in her teachings to explain how transfiguration only works for specific body modifications and would make it difficult to look this different, considering the body you were familiar with. Glamours are an illusion, you'd have certainly felt if I were actually taller than I am now, and Polyjuice would give me the body of someone else, having far too many drawbacks in the long run when taking over someone else's life. It would involve acting accordingly and moving in that person's social circles.''

''I wasn't asking for a lecture.''

''You did have need for one. The body I crafted for myself during the resurrection you witnessed was meant to strike fear into the hearts of my traitorous followers and enemies alike. Hardly worth of serving my current ideal lifestyle. For what unavoidable influence of the splitting of my soul remains regarding my looks, a few localised glamours suffice.''

At Harry's inquiring look, those last glamours are dropped. Skin turns several shades paler, bordering on unhealthily waxy. Eyes flare crimson again – though without slitted pupils – and grey streaks in otherwise black hair disappear. So, Voldemort fakes ageing in order to appear normal? Little else changes indeed, which makes sense if the other can specifically create the way he looks. Harry always simply assumed the terrifyingly inhuman body had fully been a result of excessive dark magic and Voldemort whittling down his soul till only a shred remained.

''I might need that drink now,'' he mutters.

This is going to be a long night.

''Haven't seen you in here for a while,'' Gordon remarks as Harry sits down and orders his usual.

''Lots to do. You know- life.'' Insofar one can call moping around for weeks and spending another few in anxiety, debating whether to reveal the Dark Lord's return 'life'.

He grabs the offered glass and swirls the amber liquid around, needing it more to have somewhere to put his hands than he needs a burn down his throat. A fluttering whirls up in his stomach when the seat next to him is taken, stopping the instant Harry looks to his right in anticipation only to find it is one of the younger regulars he's never spoken to before (the guy is Malfoy-blond, enough of an instant turn-off).

''This seat is taken,'' he points out.

The guy haughtily smirks. Malfoy vibes too, even worse. ''I heard you never let anyone talk you up for years… but that one guy a few months ago tried and succeeded for a bit so… why not give me a chance too? Is only fair.''

A loud slam of a hand on the counter makes them both jump, and over the blond's shoulder, fierce eyes meet his own, turning Harry's limbs into jelly within seconds. How did he-

''He is taken too,'' Voldemort snarls. ''Scram it, boy.'' With a disdainful look, fake-Malfoy does as told, slinking off to his usual spot under quiet jeers of older men. Voldemort wastes little time claiming both the seat and Harry's lips. Their talks, which lasted into the wee hours of morning, haven't changed the odd feelings constricting his chest. Not guilt exactly, but a sense of betraying himself, nonetheless.

''I sent you another package this morning. Make sure you don't let this one rot away. Your hallway smelled awful when I brought you home and I do not appreciate my gifts going to waste.''

''I did go out to buy groceries myself these past weeks, I'll have you know. I can take care of myself.''

''Carrots and 16-pence 'garden gang' apples,'' the other sneers. It is hardly surprising to find that Voldemort knows the exact brand of apples Harry buys on the regular. ''Out of the two of us, you are the one who won't have to work a day in your life even if you were to buy golden cauldrons every day. I need to instil a sense of taste in you.''

''I'd hardly call you scamming Gringotts 'work' either,'' Harry retorts, as he's finally found the answer to how Voldemort is suddenly so exorbitantly rich to be an elaborate scheme involving the abuse of currency exchange rates.

''It is a simple matter of trade, Harry. How is it my fault that the value of Sickles is 57 times less than the value of the solid silver they're made of? And regardless of preventive measures against – ah, forgeries and such, silver still has a set melting point that is lower than industrial ovens can reach. It is also not my fault that there is no limit on exchanging Pounds for Sickles due to Ministry regulations about equal opportunities for the poor little…'' he tactfully trails off, apparently not quite ready to go into this argument with Harry. As if doing a sleight-of-hand trick, the other is suddenly holding a lit cigarette, making a pleased sound as he inhales deeply.

Harry merely shakes his head. Committing multi-level fraud by playing the wizarding and muggle laws against each other to live a cushy life is a million times better than ninety-nine percent of other crimes Voldemort has committed. Harry will take fraud over genocide any day. Besides, he isn't in a position to take the high road about bending and breaking the nonsensical laws of the Ministry of Magic. ''One would think you'd go for cigars or something posh,'' he comments instead, nodding at the cigarette.

Voldemort hums and takes another drag. ''I did try those as well, of course. There is something… worldly about these. Keeps me grounded firmly in life rather than above it. It's what I like about this bar you've picked too. A quaint change of pace.''

Harry scoffs, once again playing with the nearest coaster he finds. ''Are we really doing this?'' he suddenly, bluntly asks. ''Talk about your care packages and my taste in bars after- after yesterday?''

Voldemort turns to him and leans in again, tendrils of smoke lazily crossing the distance between their lips. The taste of ash mingles with the tar of whisky on Harry's tongue as he reflexively opens his mouth to suck it in.

''Would you feel better if we go on about fate and destiny, blood and revenge? You are the one who advised me to drop it, during our very first meeting on this side of the world. I've now advised you to do the same… We've circled around each other for almost thirty years now, Harry, and all it brought was death – my doing and fault, I freely admit. Consciously breaking the cycle seems to be the only way we can prevent more of it. Neither justice nor shame will change who we are and what we want.''

He wishes to believe that, truly. Wants it so badly that he drinks until dizzy again, folding his arms and resting burning cheeks on them after another hour. This is another life, Harry decides amidst the fog. A clean cut between the bloody battle of two war-torn orphans and the sticky wrestling of rich adults with too much time on their hands.

Harry no longer needs to protect anyone and Voldemort no longer wants to hurt anyone. That can be and will be enough.

It is once again Voldemort who has to haul his arse home and sober him up. Harry reluctantly finds that he no longer cares to be seen like this. Not by him.

''I've considered getting inked,'' the man comments during dinner, a dinner made solely by using exorbitant ingredients from the boxes after vanishing all unusable bits. What a way to be petty... Harry only took a single one of the items out before, placing the rose received yesterday in a vase of its own so it won't wilt so fast.

''Is that your next materialistic indulgence? Modifying yourself the Muggle way?''

''After literally crafting my own body from a handful of bone, it seems only fitting to decorate it with tasteful art as I see fit. Granted, I got the idea from your own tattoo. The constellation canis major, is it not?''

Harry carefully places a hand over his chest, as if he can feel the dots and lines beneath his shirt. All black, apart from the golden Dog Star across his heart. ''Yeah-'' he roughly wheezes out. ''Sirius-''

''I… understand.'' From the wondrous tone, Harry gathers that it isn't an empty placeholder the way standard condolences often are when unable to come up with anything personal to say. Voldemort is just as surprised at being able to, on a deeper level, understand Harry's grief. ''I will have an ode to Nagini,'' he confesses.

A lesser man might have been enraged at the implication that a pet is similar to the loss of life of a human being. Having been in both the serpent's and Voldemort's mind, Harry is starkly aware of the bond they'd shared. Even in the depths of insanity, the Dark Lord had found a semblance of care in his black heart for his companion that extended beyond fearing for his own soul. Harry thus returns the sympathies, as he too, truly understands.

The following months bring foreseeable challenges. Important dates they both have very different memories of and feelings about bring strife – New Year's Eve, May the second, the eighteenth of June when Sirius fell through the Veil, bloody Halloween, whereas mentions of their past or people they'd both known can be difficult to navigate, but they manage without ever firing a single curse. Voldemort is not condescending about Harry favouring to start the day with hard liquor, and Harry gives no moral speeches about either past or present deeds.

The promise Voldemort gave in the dead of night during their long talk in the man's penthouse, that he will not kill again in favour of living, shines in Harry's mind whenever darker thoughts attempt to wiggle in doubt. Revenge, after all, had felt hollow long enough.

''You never told me,'' Harry mentions the day of their first anniversary, when Voldemort has another few overflowing packages with goods shipped to their doorstep. ''What purpose they were supposed to serve. Clearly, you'd not meant it as a mean-spirited prank, but two of them – plus a flower of all things – were unfitting for an apology.''

His partner eyes him strangely, then start chuckling with more mirth than he's ever displayed before.

''Oh Harry. My clueless darling. How high were the chances of walking in on me getting off to a daydream of you when entering my flat at a random point in time? The gifts were meant to start a chase. A chase that wouldn't even require me to move to catch you.''

Sputtering, Harry feels himself grow beet-red. ''You- you did-? You knew I was there?''

''You were silent enough that I, to my genuine surprise, didn't notice you'd already entered until dropping your cloak, but I had fully expected it to happen sometime that same day. I can't say it was very difficult to stay hard for hours on end when fuelled by all the memories of our… dates.''

The confession is entirely remorseless.

Indignant and more than a bit embarrassed, Harry squawks: ''You absolute manipulative bastard! Here I almost felt bad for taking advantage, and now you're telling me-'' With a growl, he strides over to Voldemort, roughly shoving his amused partner onto the couch. So, the start of their actual relationship had been just as much of a set-up as the first time he'd met his 'stranger'? He ought to be mad about the lies, reconsider everything.

All Harry is really mad about though, is that he can't keep letting Voldemort dictate their pace any longer.

''You will marry me within the month,'' Harry snarls, demands, infinitely pleased when actual shock colours Voldemort's face. ''If you don't, I'll drag you to Azkaban personally.''

They both know the threat to be empty, but it feels good to hold the reins for once.

His victory is stolen when Harry's control melts away by a wicked mouth nipping at every inch of exposed skin.

''I'll look into melting down a few Galleons for a ring,'' Voldemort promises, already undoing Harry's belt. ''Maybe enough to place another down here,'' he suggestively whispers, closing a hand around the base of Harry's traitorously hard shaft.

He allows it, dark clouds once again pushed away when concentrating on the here and now. Soon, the golden rays of sunlight will reflect from his finger.

He'll never feel empty again.

AN: There's still one more chapter to come, an epilogue of two years later where Harry runs into an old friend... ;)

Regarding Voldemort's money 'trade/scam': According to official info, 1 galleon is 5 GBP. As 17 sickles are one galleon, that makes 1 sickle worth 0,29 GBP. However, a SINGLE gram of solid silver can be sold for 0,62 GBP. Now, we don't know exactly how heavy a sickle is, but for comparison, silver dollars weigh almost 27grams each, bringing us to a whopping 16,74 GBP. As Sickles are additionally described in canon as rather sizeable coins, we can freely assume it is thus at the very least this expensive, if not moreso, making the metal the coin is made of worth about 57x more than their actual exchange value.

Thanks so much for all the support,
Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts ^^
xx GeMerope