Epilogue
Two years later
Traffic in London is as horrible as ever, inevitably causing even someone harping on punctuality like Voldemort to be late every now and then. Harry stands and waits at the sidewalk for a good few minutes, casually flipping his phone open and close – an second-hand old model, as the newly popular smartphones are far too expensive for something that will break down on him in a couple of months. That he has money does not mean that Harry wants to throw it at large corporations without care.
''Harry? Sorry- Harry, is it you?''
Blinking into the sunlight at the disturbance when he catches on that someone is speaking to him – in the blur of the crowd, he doesn't usually react when his name is called due to it being so commonplace – he sees a woman rush towards him. In each of her hands is a smaller one as she tugs two children along. It takes only a second to register her face before it clicks.
''Hermione-'' he breathlessly replies. ''I- wow. Hadn't expected… What are you doing here?''
She lets go of one of the kids to give him a very awkward hug before stepping back and placing a hand on the girl's shoulder in typical fashion of a parent who doesn't want their child to get lost in a bustling street. ''My parents live around the block, we were just on our way there. They wanted to watch– Oh, Harry, these are Rose and Hugo. Rosie, Hugo, this is Harry. Harry Potter, whom dad and I told you so much about.''
''Nice to meet you,'' the girl mumbles with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort, remembering after a few seconds to stick her hand out. A bit baffled, he takes it, then looks at the boy (Merlin, a carbon-copy of Ron's children's pictures that Mrs Weasley loved showing Harry during warm holidays, to his best friends' dismay) who tries to hide between Hermione's back.
''Same to you,'' he replies, still out of his depth but not wanting to be rude to the kids. He's not really sure how to act around anyone younger than twenty, but figures that basic politeness and holding back on swearing are probably good ways to start. ''Mione, sorry for being a bit... err… unresponsive. It's been so long, I honestly don't know what to say. I mean, it's my fault that it has been so long, and now-''
She interrupts him with a shaky laugh that lights up her eyes. ''You haven't changed a bit,'' she fondly comments. ''This is a lovely surprise. Harry, we all understood your reasons for leaving, but it'd be nice if-''
The blaring of a familiar horn drowns out her words as a shiny black car pulls up. It's not the same as last year, a larger and sleeker convertible. In contrast to Harry, Voldemort has no qualms lining the pockets of billionaire companies. His motto is 'Steal it back'.
''Get in, darling, we're late. What's the use of a car that can go three hundred miles an hour when peasants block it with their rush hour?''
''Still salty about your petitioning for extra lanes for high-end cars being met with disdain?'' Harry jests.
''The London councils will listen after a good round of Cru…'' Voldemort trails off and ignores the honking of the car behind them (technically the curb where the man told Harry to wait is neither a parking nor a stopping zone) in favour of taking off his sunglasses. Glamoured eyes calculatingly take in the people Harry is with. ''Miss Granger. Or is it Mrs Weasley now? Pardon me, I don't tend to keep up much with news in certain areas of our country.''
''Neither, it's Mrs Granger,'' Hermione corrects, eyebrows knitting. ''Excuse me, have we met?''
''Never in person, as far as I can recall.'' It's a twisted truth, though Harry supposes one can argue about whether being part of the crowd that battled Voldemort at Hogwarts technically counts as 'meeting'. ''If you wish to catch up with Harry, you may get in as well. He has the tendency to run off and block all contact.''
''Hey,'' Harry weakly protests. ''Last time was absolutely your fault, and two whole years ago no less.'' So had the first time been, but he couldn't exactly say that without instantly making Hermione suspicious.
''Ah, I do not mean to intrude,'' his friend stammered. ''You mentioned being late.''
''Merely according to his own schedule,'' Harry clarifies. ''We don't actually have anything planned for the day, but Salazar forbid he misses the start of today's episode of 'A Touch of Frost'. Not as if we could record it. Or watch the repeat broadcast,'' he teases, leaning on the now opened car door.
''Only those who can't afford the luxury of time are forced to resort to such methods,'' Voldemort responds, thankfully with a hint of amusement. Gods, he's such a snob, Harry fondly thinks. ''Now, don't dally much longer, or I'll leave you to drive while I apparate home instead. Are you coming or not, Mrs Granger? Naturally, your children are more than welcome.'' Harry finds that a strange addition, for what else would the alternative have been? Leaving them on their own?
Hermione does not have to debate for long, giving a gracious smile. ''Thank you for the invitation, it's very generous of you to adjust your plans for us. I'll send my parents a text that something came up, I'm sure they'll understand.''
''Oh, he only changed my plans,'' Harry mutters. Voldemort won't be stopped from diligently watching his shows like the grumpy old man he is, deep down.
Only when they all got into the car, Hermione's kids wide-eyed like the expensive vehicle is as fascinating as a rollercoaster ride, does Harry suddenly realise that having his Muggleborn friend and her family in the back seat of the Dark Lord who'd razed the country to get rid of 'her kind' might not actually be the best idea in the world. Nervously, he glances over at said Dark Lord, who merely puts his sunglasses back on and speeds off as much as traffic will allow.
When he sees Hermione gripping onto her seatbelt in sudden panic, it also dawns on him that not everyone is used to Voldemort's way of driving, which includes much tailgating, swerving and curb-jumping to overtake other cars from the wrong side. His friend bites her tongue, clearly not wishing to lecture Harry's companion on this first day of meeting.
''You missed the turn,'' he points out with a frown.
''Last time I checked, your entire hallway was filled with empty wine and whisky bottles that you couldn't be bothered to vanish yet. Hardly a place to invite guests to, dear. We're heading to my place. It also saves us about ten minutes as it's closer.'' Harry feels his cheeks flush at the very true accusation and pointedly does not look in the rear-view mirror anymore as he doesn't wish to catch the disappointed expression that is sure to colour Hermione's face.
''Your place is hardly more appropriate since your latest hobby,'' Harry mutters, almost blushing when thinking of the artwork Voldemort has taken to commissioning – just over half of those are nudes, a couple of which feature one or both of them in compromising positions.
''Head inside first to cover my risqué pieces of art to your satisfaction, then. I'll generously give you three minutes.''
Quite a bit of awkwardness later, Harry opens the door to the other four, having conjured sheets over more paintings than he cares to remember. Thankfully it's just pictures, the shape of which gives nothing away. Obscuring statues might have been more difficult, but Voldemort does not wish to 'uselessly fill space' and only allows furniture that can technically be used. No matter how uncomfortable some of the designer pieces truly are.
''There's an awesome view over the city,'' he tells the kids to melt a bit of the ice as they look around the black and white apartment. Overall, the place is very much like the first time he set foot in it, though there are a few spots of colour here and there that Harry introduced over the years, like a spare perch for Hedwig or a violently pink cocktail shaker he got Voldemort as a joke and which felt like a waste to throw away after. Dramatically, he waves his wand to open the shutters and doors, grinning as Hugo and Rose make excited sounds.
''Mum, can we go outside? Please?''
''There's shields around it that prevent them from falling,'' he reassures Hermione, who eyes the low balustrade. Truthfully, the shields were put up to prevent Harry from flying up here again if Voldemort wants to have his peace for a bit, but they will also work to keep little kids from plummeting into the depths. ''Besides, you can still watch them through the doors.''
''Oh alright. Better to catch up if they're busying themselves, I suppose,'' she decides. ''Off you go,'' she tells her children.
''I'm afraid we don't have pumpkin juice, but I can offer plenty of other drinks.''
''Also without alcohol in this house,'' Voldemort smirks, ''Tea? Coffee?''
''So…' Hermione starts when folding her hands over a cup of steaming tea. ''How has life been, Harry?''
He takes a moment to answer. Rose and Hugo are still leaning over the balustrade as far as they can go without falling, whereas Voldemort has retreated to the corner, surprisingly mindful enough to put on headphones as he watches Inspector Frost (just as old and grumpy as Voldemort, which is why his husband can probably relate) crack the next case on television. Harry is not much of a fan of crime series, getting flashbacks at seeing dead bodies and solving crime mystery hunts like that. Far too similar to Horcrux hunting.
''I'm… much better,'' he truthfully says. ''I regretted leaving many times and was then too stubborn to reverse my decision, but especially the past few years have been good for me.'' Absentmindedly, he plays with the ring on his finger. ''We're married,'' he clarifies with a rueful smile as Hermione follows the movement and her eyes flicker over to Voldemort with burning curiosity. ''He might be, err, not the most upstanding citizen as you probably figured from his driving style, but honestly, when was I ever?'' he chuckles. ''Met a few years ago and I've been healing much faster since. Actually enjoying life, you know. How about you?'' he nods to the kids. ''Started a family, I see?''
''Juggling work and family life is tough sometimes, but until they go to Hogwarts, Ron stays home so that I can focus on my career. Now we have a competent Minister for Magic, I actually work in the Ministry, Department of Magical Law Enforcement.''
Oh, thank fuck that Voldemort hadn't finished his sentence earlier about Crucioing the Muggle London councils. Although most sensible people would brush it off as a joke, he doubted Hermione would see the humour in it. Besides, if Voldemort got annoyed enough to actually do so, he'd be a prime suspect. Good thing too that Muggle and Magical Law Enforcement was still strictly separated, otherwise they'd have received quite some tickets for reckless driving today.
''Did you really stick to the Muggle world for all those years?'' she asks. ''Did you relinquish magic?''
''Salazar, no,'' he winces. ''I could never give up on magic. It's just that this side of town grants me much more anonymity and a stress-free life. I haven't completely stayed away, going to Diagon Alley or St Mungo's when necessary. Can hardly get owl treats around here, you know. However, to not stir up a fuss, I never stay long and only ever in disguise. Didn't bother with a subscription to the Daily Prophet either, that would just be a constant lure to pull me back.''
Another frown. ''Why Salazar? That's the second time.''
He helplessly chuckles. ''Ah, he-'' he points a thumb into Voldemort's direction, ''Rightfully pointed out that shouting 'Merlin' among Muggles is a bit too obvious, as dear old Merlin is a known mythical figure here. Salazar on the other hand, not so much. Then, it was just a matter of picking up his habits to fill the gap. Typical Slytherin. Please don't tell Ron I got together with a Slytherin, at least not as a conversation starter. I don't want him to get a heart attack.''
''Was he at Hogwarts with us?'' she muses, more to herself than to Harry as a critical gaze trails over Voldemort's form. The man looks as he usually does: Pristine, clad in expensive leather and silk that would border on gaudy had it been worn by anyone else, and sipping from a glass of deep red wine. ''Can't be more than a couple of years older than us, right?''
''Looks can be very deceiving when it comes to magic,'' Harry grins. Voldemort hadn't bothered with glamouring his hair to sport grey streaks, today.
''Muuum? We're thirsty.''
The length of attention span of children – or lack thereof - is astonishing. Harry can stand at the balcony for hours, looking at all the details of the city. Yet Rose and Hugo are already heading back inside, socks slipping on the polished hardwood floor. He forgot to ask how old they are and really doesn't have anything to guess their age by. They can walk by themselves and talk in coherent words – at least Rose - but that doesn't tell him all that much.
Wordlessly, Hermione pulls Hugo on her lap and conjures two glasses, filling them with water with another flick of her wand. The kids look a bit disappointed, but as much as Harry wants to offer them juice or fizzy drinks, neither he nor Voldemort ever buys anything of the sort. The closest he has to fizzy pop is apple cider, and Harry doesn't think he needs to go out on a wild limb to guess that Hermione won't allow them to drink alcoholic beverages.
While it is nice catching up a bit, it also feels very strange. Hermione and Ron's lives have passed him by and now one of his best friends is suddenly sitting in front of him with two kids, talking about working in the Ministry of all places. Surreal. That Voldemort sits in the corner nearby isn't helping.
''What's under there?'' Rose suddenly asks, boldly pointing at the nearest sheet-covered painting.
''Art, like the other paintings you see on the walls but- scary art,'' he decides, figuring they'll only grow more curious if he explains it's for adults only.
That was the wrong answer nonetheless, for the girl only proudly states: ''I love scary things! Uncle George always shows me scary stuff! Like Lee's giant tarantulas!''
''Uncle George and I will have another word about that,'' Hermione darkly mutters. ''Harry, I assume you don't have any toys or books for them, here?'' she hesitates. ''Would love to talk more but well… I doubt reminiscing about our lives will capture their attention for long.''
Scrambling to find something for children to do in this place, he blurts out: ''Err, does charcoal painting work? We've got loads of parchment and charcoal. I can transfigurate the coal to have different colours, too.'' That said materials are primarily used by Voldemort for highly questionable rituals to draw in power and more than once have left fiery trails on Harry's sweating body, he leaves unsaid. ''They don't need to worry about making a mess either, I'm apt with cleaning charms.''
''Thanks, that'd be great,'' she smiles in return, relieved when Harry gets up to find the drawing materials, which are stowed away in a drawer in the bedroom with an expansion charm on it. He takes care to spell the charcoal into a rainbow of colours before handing it over to the children, who get to it right away. While Rose starts drawing random colours, Hugo looks at one of the still exposed paintings on the wall – one of Harry's favourites, a stylised scene of a castle on a rock as seen from a lakeshore that always reminds of Hogwarts – and carefully picks out similar colours to draw with.
Harry relaxes as the talk continues, the questions bubbling up with more and more ease. Hermione does far more talking than he does, as Harry has little to report despite more than a decade having passed. Instead, he's increasingly curious about how everyone else he once was close to is doing. Their talking only being interrupted by the children's surprisingly quiet whispering and scratching of charcoal, he gets a hint of nostalgia about study times in the library with Hermione. It's as if there's a bubble surrounding them that pulls him back into fond memories of their student time at Hogwarts. It wasn't an easier life by any means, what with every year bringing new scares and monsters, be it Basilisks or Umbridge. Still, a part of Harry misses walking those halls and learning about new magic. Even the past adventures are nicer to look back on than they were to be in the middle of.
It's only when the television is shut off with a decisive click, that Harry realises just how much time has passed. Those episodes go one and a half hours on average – has it truly been that long?
In the same moment that Voldemort wordlessly claims the spot next to Harry, possessive fingers curling around his knee instantly, does Harry realise that only one child is still lying on her belly on the floor, drawing quietly. ''Hey- where's Hugo?'' he questions in alarm. The balcony is empty, too.
''He just said he'd go find more paintings to copy,'' Hermione explains, gesturing at the stack of already finished drawings. The top one is a very impressive version of a close-up of Harry's eyes, a copy of one of Voldemort's most recently commissioned pieces that hangs near the television. The boy has talent in spades, that's for sure. ''You told him he could as long as he doesn't touch the ones with sheets.''
Oh, he vaguely recalls mumbling that in automatic response to the question that was asked while he was intently listening to Hermione's story of how the Auror department recently cooperated with the International Confederation of Wizards to catch uprising dark mages who'd been poaching parts of rare magical animals and smuggling the goods both ways across the Channel.
''He's in the bedroom,'' Voldemort calmly points out after letting his gaze drift across the apartment.
''There shouldn't be anything for him to copy in there,'' Harry says, trying to sound neutral. Voldemort made a Point by hanging only a series of suggestive artwork in there, which Harry had definitely all covered up just in case.
''Ah… there might be one,'' his husband corrects, sounding more curious than anything else. As Voldemort is not being very helpful or forthcoming, Harry throws him a look and gets to his feet, noticing that the others follow on his heels – Hermione a tad nervous and Voldemort lingering in the way he sometimes clings without touching. Hovering like one does with a fork over a particularly delicious meal when not yet having decided where to start.
Hugo sits on the floor, only a few pieces of charcoal in front of him. With the parchment being upside down, Harry can't see very well what he's drawing, only that Hugo is using a lot of white and pinkish brown. Confused, he looks at the patch of wall that the boy is staring intensely at. Hermione now too, hand for some reason clamped over her mouth. The look in her eyes is worrying. Filled with fear. Disgust.
''Why are you guys all looking at a blank wall?'' he asks in frustration, wondering what is going on.
''Oh, it's not blank, darling,'' Voldemort comments, the edge of his words sharp like a curved dagger, undertone a rumbling amusement that screams of secrets and danger Harry should stay far away from. ''There's merely a very specific notice-me-not-charm on it. It only works on you to increase the charm's strength through focus. Well, I suppose I should show you as well, now everyone else has had the pleasure to see.'' He draws his wand (Harry just now realises that his husband only cast wandless magic since arriving in the apartment and realises why when Hermione pales further at the sight of the infamous yew).
A canvas reveals itself, one in the same colours as little Hugo has just been meticulously copying. The compromising pose that goes far further than merely suggestive isn't the worst part. Neither is the sheer size, the painting covering every inch above the low set of drawers to the ceiling and stretching across the entire wall until the door – although that certainly doesn't help. For there, almost life-size, dominating Harry bound in ropes of black silk, is Lord Voldemort from another lifetime.
Freezing up, only Harry's eyes can move, roving over the skull-like face, slitted eyes, every pronounced vertebra of the arching spine and – are those two cocks going up Harry's arse? That latter fact is so absurd that he sways back into reality.
The only saving grace, really, is that the painting isn't animated.
''You can't be serious,'' Harry hoarsely rasps. ''This has hung on our bedroom wall? For how long? Who the fuck did you pay to paint this?'' Realising they're not alone and what a huge error this entire situation truly is, he quickly kneels down at Hugo's side and extracts the parchment from the boy, who protests having the toys taken away, likely having no idea what he's even seeing or drawing. The parchment is promptly vanished. Hermione does not react, neither moving towards her child nor pointing a wand at either of them.
''I made it,'' Voldemort says, evidently satisfied with himself. ''For our last anniversary. I did plan on showing it to you eventually.''
''I would not have appreciated seeing this no matter how much time passed,'' Harry snaps back. It does nothing to deter his husband's impossibly smug pride. ''The past is in the past. We agreed – mutually – that this is our only life now. If you had such a craving to draw this insane and violent version of yourself with me, fine, but you knew I'd never agree to have it in our bedroom!''
''Mum?''
Hermione does shoot into action now, at the sound of her daughter's voice. ''Rose- no!'' she warns, whirling around. She grabs Hugo from the floor and stalks towards the door, intent on not letting her other child see the depraved mural. Well, that or keeping Rose away from Voldemort, who all but shouted out his identity before Harry said anything damning.
''Obliviate.'' Harry ducks in reflex at the incantation, but it isn't aimed at him, hitting Hermione's back instead. Upon turning a furious gaze at his husband, Voldemort merely makes an annoyed sound. ''Department of Magical Law Enforcement, dear. Come now.''
Hermione stands dazed for a moment, Rose looking up at her mother in worry and shooting wary glances at the both of them. The youngest doesn't seem to care much, going back over to the other drawings and spreading the stack out on the floor to admire his own pictures. ''Not the kids,'' Harry warns. ''You have no idea what it could do to their minds.'' Voldemort points his eye skywards, though complies. Hopefully Rose isn't old enough yet to remember much anyways. Or if she is, that she is too young to be taken seriously by adults.
''Oh, got a bit light-headed there,'' Harry's friend mutters in confusion a few seconds later. ''What was I-?''
''My apologies,'' Voldemort smoothly says, taking her elbow and guiding Hermione back to the chair she'd been sitting in. ''We must have mixed up the tea with some… ah… other herbs, if you catch my drift. We have a few satchels for divinatory purposes from the Centaurs. Here, this will help.'' He presses a glass in Hermione's hand, which Harry is pretty sure just contains water, as there has been no tea mix-up.
''Do those not contain such plants and funghi as Psilocybin, Cannabis Sativa and Salvia Divinorum?'' she grills, awake enough to shoot disapproving looks again. ''All illegal in Britain?''
''In Muggle Britain,'' Voldemort sharply smiles. ''Which should not fall under your jurisdiction, nor are you legally obligated to inform Muggle authorities. In fact, those are encouraged to act as independently as possible under Section F, Article 38 of the Muggle Protection Act to avoid our legal system condescendingly overtaking theirs, are they not?''
''I don't think Harry mentioned what you do for a living, Mr…?''
''Potter.'' Voldemort's smile grows. ''I took Harry's last name upon marriage.'' One more way in which the man erased his original past of Tom Riddle. Harry had hoped his second and third past had been erased too in all but name (wishing to still be called 'Voldemort' by Harry, in private). The painting just now wiped some of that hope off the table. ''I'm into trade, Mrs Granger. Living as we do, I find it essential to be acutely aware of both Magical and Muggle law to avoid getting into trouble.''
All adults in the room hear the true meaning of 'avoid getting caught', after their eventful drive and the admittance of possessing drugs.
''Although it was wonderful to catch up to you, Harry…''
He already knows how the sentence ends before it does.
''…it's probably time for us to go now.''
''Right. Of course.'' Hopefully, his face doesn't show the grimace he imagines.
They call a taxi – very reasonable – and leave after his friend promises to write now she has his address. Both addresses, as Hermione makes him give her that of his own house as well. Though glad for the prospect of receiving letters, it also clearly establishes that further personal meetings are not in the cards for the time being.
One would think that three people - two of which small children - clearing out of the apartment would make it feel emptier all of a sudden, yet Voldemort's presence is as always so encompassing that no void has a chance to grow. Hands and teeth are on Harry in an instant, a nose brushing the sensitive parts of his neck as his shirt is magically removed.
''I'm still mad at you,'' he weakly protests.
''Shock is not the same as anger,'' Voldemort claims, tilting Harry's head in a better angle to kiss. ''You're not good enough of a liar to sell me that anger was all you felt when seeing my creation.''
How frustrating, wanting to deny something he cannot. ''Is it a fantasy you've had for longer?'' he asks instead, raising his hand only to bury it in Voldemort's hair to keep lips pressed firmly to the crook of his neck. Only when receiving a confirmative hum, does he release his husband again.
''I never separated my past the way you did,'' Voldemort speaks, lightly trailing Harry's face with the pads of his fingers. ''This new body of mine… was a necessity to live here as I pleased. To fool others, you included. I'd have kept my old one if I could, which showed my power on the surface. I did not change. It is at times frustrating that I had to shed the form I preferred to clad my soul in. Being able to bed you like that has fuelled my dreams often… As I knew you would never agree, I merely commemorated that dream on canvas.''
''Agree to what, exactly…?'' Harry hesitates, the hairs on his neck raising. ''No method of changing your body would realistically get you your old one back. You explained to me yourself why the way you look now could not be anything but a true body. Even the most extensive glamours wouldn't be able to make you taller – it'd be an illusion.''
Merlin, are they really talking about this? Why can Harry not stop talking about this? Why does Voldemort's gaze intensify so, red irises positively glowing?
''I left a body behind…'' Voldemort mutters. ''A body that no-one dared burn in fear I would find a way to escape from the ashes. As if when they could no longer see my corpse, I'd become a threat again. Little did they know, of course, that my soul already escaped.''
''You visited it,'' Harry chokes out. ''And-''
''-took a piece,'' Voldemort finishes. ''I always had quick fingers… Polyjuice generally does not work on the dead but of course this was my own body…'' Fingers dig into Harry's skin for a second, persistently, until Voldemort abruptly turns away with a bitter chuckle. ''Of course, I did not suggest anything of the sort to you. You're still far too sensitive about our past. I chose a less confrontational method to quell my fantasies. I would, however, hate to remove said masterpiece.''
Harry really looks at his husband, at the way the sun perfectly encapsules his silhouette through the open balcony doors and glass walls. Tries to overcome the dissociation Harry himself put in place as protection. His husband is Voldemort… not a new version or a lost Horcrux who cannot be blamed for any of the committed atrocities. The exact same man he saw rise from the graveyard. Saner and with new ideals certainly, but a pretty new face does not erase the age-old obsessive glint in those blood-red eyes that he's fled from so many times as a teenager.
It is a truth Harry ran from with the same vigour as he drowned his grief. He dumped their history over his shoulder and simply expected Voldemort to need the same illusion of a fresh start in order to be happy together.
''Once,'' he states, the word barely more than a rasp. ''You may use Polyjuice once. In return, that painting will never see more than the walls of your cellar.''
That very evening, Harry thinks multiple times that he should regret this decision. When a pale ghost of the past descends upon his body and paralyses him with fear. When teeth and nails so sharp they are closer to monstrous than human leave thin trails of blood. When slitted eyes meet Harry's own with the same intensity they had before a Killing curse rushed across the battlefield.
And yet the way Voldemort moves is soothingly familiar. Even bony and gaunt, these are hands that know his body's needs. Far more than that, they are hands he's left his tears in more than once, found comfort in. A lipless mouth meets his in needy kisses Harry cannot help but deepen as he finally opens his body up and wills it to relax to allow his husband entry. He is filled further than ever before, two thick lengths sliding inside only after several attempts. It is cold and harsh and everything else Harry deep down knows to be an intrinsic part of the man he chose to forgive. Allowing a smidge of guiltless joy, he enthusiastically participates, chasing away every last shred of fear when the face that haunted many a nightmare is painted with blissful satisfaction.
In the end, he does not regret a single second.
When the hour has passed and Harry curls up in warmer arms, he distantly wonders about the strange turns his life has taken.
''You have to move away from my chest if I am to store my painting in a deep dark corner,'' Voldemort comments, hands soothingly running through messy hair.
Right, the painting… which Harry covered up before they had sex in the same room.
''You can do so later,'' he drowsily replies. ''Dear… how much of that Polyjuice do you still have left?''
AN: Voldemort's driving style may have been inspired by Crowley from Good Omens haha. I figure they would get along, just vibing together.
I hadn't originally planned this epilogue, but somewhere on the way the idea stuck of having Hermione in Voldemort's penthouse and yeah, this is what came of that ^^ Just a little peek into their lives. (And they better hope that Rose indeed isn't taken seriously, for I have a feeling that she won't forget.)
Anyways, this is the end, the rest is left up to the imagination :)
Thanks for reading 3
If you want to read some more smut, I also uploaded the last chapter of my Siren story "Call of the Deep" this week, where Harry gets seduced by a lovely monster.