Chapter 21: The last Grain in the Hourglass

Harry is only too happy to let Kreacher unpack the rest of the suitcases once he's taken the most important one that contained Hera up to his bedroom and let her hide under his duvet. Once back downstairs, he curls up on his favourite spot in the living room, pulling his feet up on the sofa. ''Never thought a holiday could be so tiring,'' he grins. ''I'm knackered. Need another week of rest now to recover.''

''You've got the rest of summer,'' Sirius calls out from the hallway.

Hermione answers for him, smiling wryly. ''More like a day, didn't Professor Snape have another full schedule planned?''

They'll have to see what will become of that. This three-week holiday already threw Voldemort's plans into disarray. Harry shivers lightly, unsure if he'd imagined hearing the hissing of his name amidst rainstorms pattering on the leaves of a thousand trees in the jungle they'd explored. He must have. His Intended is a tad obsessive, but if Voldemort followed them halfway across the world, he'd surely have shown himself, not hidden amongst shadows. What did hearing phantom voices say about Harry's own sanity, though?

''Anyways,'' his friend continues when receiving no reply, pulling Harry's attention back to the very dry, warm house he calls home. ''I'm going to help Kreacher, he can't be expected to do everything on his own!''

''No-one's forcing him to.'' The old Elf is so devoted that not a single member of the Black family is ever left wanting, needs met before orders can be given. At times it's like having an especially enthusiastic kid around. The difference between the Kreacher Harry had once known is perhaps the greatest of all. The Elf appears twenty years younger.

Harry scoots a bit further to the side when Sirius joins him with a few bottles of ice-cold soft drinks. A Muggle brand. Too tired for inner fights between the aversion for Muggle goods and thirst, he gratefully accepts one. It does not combat the summer heat as well as a cooling charm might have, but Harry takes care not to show any magic outside of school in the presence of his godfathers. Sirius might not mind, Severus will if he gets wind of it – unavoidable if the other knows, for Sirius is not particularly good in keeping secrets from Sev.

''Glad to be home again? Or itching for the next adventure?'' his godfather asks, pulling Harry into his arms. He protests only mildly about the sweaty shirt his face is smothered in, secretly happy they are so close.

As much as Harry would like to go on another trip to a faraway country, time is quickly running out. He has an invitation to pen, one that'll take a couple of days before he can expect a response. ''There's plenty of time left still,'' he avoidantly lies. ''I'd prefer to lounge around for a bit and meet up with some friends this week if that's okay. Or did Severus make any reservations?'' That would, of course, complicate matters and call for some reimbursements.

''I did not,'' his other godfather announces, striding in, clad from head to toe in his usual black garments. Severus is possibly the only person Harry knows who does not have a different winter and summer wardrobe.

Or maybe he does, he's never seen Voldemort in anything but a plain black robe in either of two lifetimes.

While Harry – with a painfully constricted stomach – is busy trying to finalise plans that he knows won't happen, the doorbell rings, the noise vaguely registering as a background buzz during the talk. ''Oh, I'll get that,'' Sirius mutters. ''Sent an owl to Reggie shortly after leaving Brazil to announce we'd be home soon. That must be him.'' Right, the holidays had finally eased Hermione's anxiety about speaking to Regulus enough to agree he visit as soon as they'd be back.

In the mood to just write a letter to his Intended and take a nap, Harry isn't overjoyed at the prospect of entertaining guests. Unfortunately, he is aware that the world does not revolve around him. As it's important that Hermione and Regulus finally sit down for a talk, it's understandable that his uncle has been invited to show up as soon as possible. Regulus even declined a work project just to be in Britain for a bit to take care of family matters.

Oddly, no familiar sound of loud greetings or attempts from his uncle to evade Sirius' usual bear hugs can be heard. Instead, there's the slamming of a door and raised voices.

Harry's heart jumps into his throat as he recognises one in particular.

''I will remind you of my Immunity, Black.'' The commanding tone borders on aggressive. There's a growl at the edges that has Harry a little bit weak in the knees.

''I don't give a flying fuck about Ministry regulations-''

''You work for the Ministry. It's also less a regulation than a constitutional right.''

As if in a trance, Harry gets to his feet – ignoring Severus calling out in worry – to peek around the corner into the corridor. Somewhere within those few paces, the glamour on his hand is dropped. The last grain of sand has run through the throat of the metaphorical hourglass. If a confrontation is unavoidable, Harry rather be straightforward about it.

Lord Voldemort is wearing yet another face, one with deep azure eyes and dark hair that reaches mid-waist. Perhaps he disguised himself in order to get a millisecond more reaction time to stop the door Sirius obviously attempted to throw into his face, or perhaps to not alert the Muggles outside of anything being amiss. The scene their shouting is making isn't helping with the attention part. On second thought, Harry wonders how Sirius recognised the Dark Lord in this disguise… A question for later.

''Siri,'' Harry intervenes.

He'd like to inspect the damage on the poor door that's creaking in its hinges between two forceful hands that each demand it bends in the other direction. He'd also like to gauge his godfather's expression when being caught trying to kick Harry's soul mate out – possibly not very remorseful yet as Sirius does not know how aware Harry is of the exact identity of his Intended.

What he would like to look at has no bearing on where his eyes automatically shift to. To whom they're glued.

He swallows heavily. ''Come in,'' Harry whispers, well aware his voice is not steady enough to speak any louder. It's a miracle he is heard through the argument at all. Yet Voldemort instantly stills, looking straight at him over Sirius' shoulder.

''Harry,'' the Dark Lord speaks. Something in Harry's chest tightens just a bit further when realising this one word came out as no more than a rasp either.

Giving up on keeping Voldemort out entirely, Sirius changes tactics and backs up a little bit to firmly step between them. Confusion about Harry's reaction can't stop protective instincts, it seems, which does nothing for Harry's worry about his godfather's safety. As the Dark Lord strides forwards into the house and the door closes with a last pitiful croak, Sirius says, troubled: ''Pup, this man is-''

To avoid bloodshed, Harry does not take his sweet time talking Sirius into moving aside. Instead, he ducks underneath a wildly gesturing arm to rush to his Intended. ''You're ill,'' he concludes, inspecting those strangely blue eyes that swim with the same madness Voldemort had displayed over the Easter Holidays.

''Not ill,'' the man denies through clenched teeth. ''Merely affected.''

''Come.'' Tentatively, Harry reaches out until fingertips graze rough knuckles. No glamours then, those would feel different. Not Polyjuice either, as Voldemort decidedly kept his own voice. Harry suspects a potion of Voldemort's own creation.

At the first skin contact, the other's hand reflexively catches his own, tightens painfully. Harry easily allows it, glad to make a difference as Voldemort looms over him, breathing slow but far heavier than he would if not in pain.

Holding up his one free hand, Voldemort makes a gesture to stop before he can be dragged further into the house. Now they're at last in close vicinity and skin contact has been established to speed up the process of stabilisation, it seems the man is already – if excruciatingly slowly - regaining his wits. It hasn't nearly been long enough to counter the effects of course, even the duration of an entire Quidditch game had not sufficed to mend the damage done over months, but the unpleasantly frantic feel that has the hairs on the back of Harry's neck raise is calming down.

''One moment,'' the other mutters, meeting Harry's gaze as their intertwined hands are lifted. Voldemort stares straight into his heart as dry lips meet the exposed soul mark. It feels as if the kiss burns Harry away layer by layer until exposing the centre of his being.

He should really get a hold of himself.

A large hand landing brusquely on Harry's shoulder to pull him away effectively draws him back into the real world. He thinks of protesting again, but Sirius' face shows he's this close to exploding. ''Living room,'' he grounds out. ''Now.'' The expression resembles the same level of fury he'd once shown when an elusive serial killer had danced around the Aurors for over a year, resulting in fourteen deaths before they'd discovered the murderer had been hiding among their own ranks, a fellow Auror who had been falsifying evidence to avoid Azkaban.

''What is going on?'' Severus demands to know. He sits a tad stiffer than before. A second armchair and a steaming set of four teacups have mysteriously appeared on the coffee table during the scarce minutes they spent in the entryway. Gaze drifting further over Severus shoulder, Harry notices some empty potion vials on the dresser to the wall right behind his godfather which decidedly weren't there before.

Joy. Two overprotective parents.

''This man claims to be You-Know-Who,'' Sirius sourly states. From the corner of his eyes, Harry sees a wand has been drawn. To not provoke anything they'd regret, Harry guides Voldemort to the newly appeared chair and whispers 'Don't drink the tea' in his soul mate's ear as quietly as possible.

''More specifically-'' the Dark Lord coldly speaks up, at last looking away from Harry long enough to throw Sirius a reproachful glare, ''I announced, as civil protocol demands, that I am-'' Sirius' loud shushing hiss does not deter the other from finishing: ''-Lord Voldemort, soul mate to Harry Potter, here with the explicit intention of visiting my Intended. Law decrees such a request be not denied.''

''Law also decrees murderers be imprisoned for life,'' comes the hateful answer.

''Pad!'' Severus warns, eyes widening ever so slightly as they hush over Harry.

Guilt crosses Sirius' face as the man realises he may have said too much or gone too far. If Harry weren't busy clutching onto Voldemort's hand for dear life, he'd have tried to bury his face in them. This is a mess. He can't even be mad at Voldemort for not announcing this visit. Harry was the one dragged abroad for weeks with one even past the official start of the holidays when they'd planned to meet, adding seven whole days to the man's torment. It is more than generous that his Intended has decided to brush away blame in favour of seeing each other as fast as possible.

''You are truly him? This is not some elaborate hoax?'' Severus interrogates. Nails dig dangerously in the upholstery of his armchair. It seems to be a bad day for innocent inanimate objects. What else in the house will serve as collateral today?

''There are possibly…'' Harry uncomfortably coughs, ''A few things I need to announce.''

''Not yet,'' Voldemort demands. Against Harry's advice, he leans forward to pick up a teacup, swirling the liquid around for a bit. ''Venenum Revelio,'' he murmurs as he blows on it, steam swirling up and changing colours that are studied intently. ''Veritaserum Concido. Confundum Concido, Fatigatiserum Concido.'' Voldemort doesn't even bother using his wand to counter potions that Harry knows so far only exist antidotes to in a corresponding liquid form.

A self-satisfied smile tugs at the corners of the Dark Lord's lips as he raises the cup. A second one rises from the table and hovers in front of Harry until he takes it. ''Cheers, darling.''

''You're not making this easier,'' he grounds out, very much avoiding his godfathers' perplexed stares.

''I came here to see you, not them,'' Voldemort counters, tugging more harshly on Harry's hand. Shockingly, he effortlessly admits: ''Explanations won't be productive until I am of sound mind. And yours won't make sense to them without my additions unless you wish to start from the very beginning and spend hours talking. At least one of your godfathers does not appear to possess the attention span for such a tale.''

''You're absolutely impossible.''

Harry realises too late how much fondness bled through those few words. Clearing his throat, he asks his godfathers: ''Is it futile to ask you to leave us for a bit?''

That the instant, unanimous answer is a resounding 'Yes' was expected. Well, he tried. If any of his actions from this point make them uncomfortable, that's a them problem. Keeping in mind that they are still expecting a second guest soon, whom Harry doesn't wish to get caught up in the fray, he must do something about Voldemort's state quickly. As his Intended pointed out several months ago, there's one thing that works fast.

Swallowing his pride, Harry puts the tea down and carefully perches himself on the left armrest of the chair, one hand still clutching Voldemort's while he gingerly presses the other to a cool cheek, taking care to put the entire flat of his palm against skin.

Although none of the topics he wishes to discuss with Voldemort at present will make much sense to his godfathers, Harry can't stand the heavy silence, and small talk about the weather isn't really his thing.

''An impressive disguise, although with you obviously being able to versatilely adapt it, I admit I'm a bit wounded that your mark isn't visible,'' he bluntly states, hand trailing lower to briefly stroke where he knows the lightning bolt to be hidden. He revels in the shiver it evokes. Just a tad.

~More~ Voldemort hisses, closing his eyes. When they open again, blue is decidedly streaked with red. ~I need your magic.~

''Your wandless display of self-crafted antidote spells suggested otherwise,'' he answers with a scoff, ignoring the two sucked-in breaths.

~Harry…~

~I'm not comfortable literally cuddling up with you with my parents present.~

~You're forty-five years old, your guardians should not have such influence over your actions,~ the other snaps, showing impatience for the first time.

''Which can perhaps be remedied once they know that,'' he crabbily sighs. ''For now, I ask you to respect this boundary.''

A bit of tension lifts from the room when Voldemort slowly exhales and dips his head. ''You know I will respect all boundaries you set, dear.''

Harry can't stop a silly smile from plastering itself across his face and is glad his Intended is looking down instead of at him in that moment. ''I know,'' he affirms, thinking back on how Voldemort instantly accepted Harry's wishes during the Quidditch match as well. ''So, will you tell me how this disguise was crafted?'' he curiously asks. ''Never seen anything like it.''

Voldemort hums, pleased by the expressed interest. ''Diluted Polyjuice, mixed with just the right dose of a binding reagent. Diluted after completion, of course, else the original potion would be ruined beyond repair. The effects, as you can see, is that the bodies' outer layer is copied, yet the insides are not.'' That explains the voice, as well as Voldemort's true eye colour bleeding through. Unfortunately, it means the man cannot control whether the soul mark is displayed, as the visible component of it is tied directly to the skin. A quick glance over to Severus confirms that this part of the conversation certainly interests the Potion master. ''The amount of dilution gives both greater quantities of the potion, as well as higher flexibility with time. I took enough for about twenty minutes. Including my trip here, there are only a few left… unless you wish me to prolong the effects? I have a vial on hand.''

''No,'' Harry denies, a tad too quickly. He subconsciously leans closer, only noticing when Voldemort contently hums and places a hand on his thigh – which both prevents Harry from slipping down into his soul mate's lap and gives a little more contact, facilitating them both.

~Is it because of the mark?~ the other hisses.

~Partially, but also because this is not you. It's none of the versions of you that I have met.~

~Is there any version of me you prefer?~

Voldemort has asked varieties of this question before, hasn't he? A hint of awareness dawns that he'd missed the previous times. ~Are you… fishing for which of your faces I find most attractive…?~

The answering scowl would be attractive on any face. He receives no vocal reply.

''Shouldn't I be the one worrying about that? Being stuck in this?'' Harry amusingly asks, gesturing to his own face.

Voldemort's brow furrows at that. ''Your eyes were old enough when you spoke of murder for me to find you beautiful.''

Of bloody course, this is the one line he decides to say in English.

Whether it is shock that stalls Sirius' and Severus' outrage or the fact that Voldemort suddenly hisses and doubles over, Harry is too busy to debate over. ''Voldemort?'' he worriedly asks.

''Experimental potions-'' he answers with difficulty through clenched teeth ''-come with side-effects.'' Harry watches with horrified fascination as skin bubbles and pales by several shades. The unpleasant part of Polyjuice is usually the start, not the end. To give his Intended some space, he slides off the armrest, only staying close enough that his moving away isn't mistaken for revulsion. The same can't be said for his godfathers, even the usually so cool and collected Severus hastily shoving his chair back. The expressions of disgust do not wane when Lord Voldemort reveals himself, all spindly limbs and fiery eyes. Even amidst the transformation, the Dark Lord retains enough control to adapt his robes, which lengthen in every way to fit the much taller form.

Having last properly seen this body over half a year ago – their meeting under shadowy quidditch scaffolding hardly counts, and Voldemort had been wearing a hooded robe that day to boot – Harry takes his time drinking in the sight, the previously uttered question still very much on his mind. There had been a time when he'd considered only Tom Riddle handsome, before Voldemort ripped his soul apart. Yet it is exactly a torn-off piece of that soul that has bound their fates across time and space.

Without Harry's deep connection to this man, a connection of intertwined souls that existed before receiving his mark, he'd never have been able to make this journey.

Once Voldemort finds balance and expectantly locks gazes with Harry, he earnestly speaks: ~You are absolute perfection as you are right here and now. A vision of magic.~

Unable to restrain himself fully, Harry closes the distance, an embrace while standing upright feeling an appropriate amount of intimate as opposed to cuddling into Voldemort's lap. Spidery hands gratefully cup the back of his head as Harry rests it against the man's chest.

''Harry-'' Sirius weakly says, the tone bordering on a frustrated whine. ''Can't you finally tell us what's going on? This man…. All of last year's challenges… Dumbledore said-''

Before Harry can think of an appropriate rebuffing – It's barely been minutes since he started his attempts to counter the Deterioration, it'd be unwise to stop so soon - a pitter-patter on the stairs distracts everyone but Voldemort, who is very busy dedicatedly clinging. For healing purposes, naturally.

''Don't come in!'' Sirius barks, moving towards the door. In vain, for they left it open and Hermione is silent and fast. By the time they heard her footsteps, the girl had already nearly reached the ground floor.

''Oh-'' she utters in surprise, slowly walking in as she takes in all of them, stare predictably lingering on Harry. Or well, the one so closely attached to him. ''Hi 'Zach','' she cheerily throws into the room, settling down on the sofa Sirius just vacated in his terror, and pours herself a cup of tea.

The Dark Lord is apparently a little less gone than Harry thought, grunting out a ''Hermione.'' The tightness of his grip does not lessen any.

''Zach?'' Sirius sharply asks, paling. Right... With enough clues and Sirius' experience with on-the-side detective work, Harry's godfather is pretty decent in figuring out scenarios that otherwise don't make much sense. ''You attended the Quidditch match with us? That- that was months ago!''

Fuck. Harry knows that face of Sirius as well. He's through scouting out the situation.

Harry looks up at Voldemort, who has at last completely relaxed. Peering a few long seconds at the silver lightning bolt painted on a slender neck, Harry slowly informs his Intended: ''This conversation cannot wait much longer. I realise you came for me, and to combat the Deterioration, but I owe answers to my family.''

Barely discernible lips twist into a sneer. ''As you wish.'' Surprisingly, he pulls away completely, clearly with great difficulty.

~I didn't mean you have to stop touching me,~ Harry worries. ~I know it helps.~

''I fully intend to resume close contact shortly. I merely need to search-'' Out of nowhere, a flask appears in skeletal hands. ''-the gift I brought you, which I imagine will be useful during this conversation.''

''Hand that over to me first,'' Severus demands, having recovered enough from his shock to cautiously approach Voldemort. Persistently, he holds out an open hand. ''I'll not have my godson accept potions before I have determined their purpose. Nor will I trust your word if you'd tell me.''

~Harry?~

''As I doubt you'd feed me anything harmful, let him check to ease his mind,'' Harry shrugs.

''He might misinterpret.''

Severus does his best impression of a pissed professor McGonagall, flaring nostrils and all. ''I have never in my life wrongly verified a potion!''

''I meant my intentions. As Black has already demonstrated to trample on the rights of soul mates, I want your word, Severus Snape, that should you find no harmful effects, you shall hand Harry this third courting gift regardless of your personal opinion.''

Courting gift? Wait… third courting gift?

With a venomous and distrustful glare, Severus examines the bottle, testing the way the liquid swirls, how it reacts to sound and various classification spells first, then removes the cork to carefully take a whiff. His expression when finished is worrying, though the vial is indeed handed to Harry. ''An Aging Potion,'' his godfather determines with no small amount of disgust. He's practically spitting. ''As a courting gift, you chose a potion that alters the body of your underage soul mate to the point of reaching maturity. I don't need to tell you how absolutely reprehensible that is.''

Ice floods Harry's veins, though not for the reason Severus probably wishes. He stares at the bottle in his hands, a lump forming in his throat. ''How many…?'' he whispers. ''How many years will the recommended amount of this age me?''

''I modified the formula,'' Voldemort softly explains. ''It is meant to be taken today and takes into effect once you drink more than half a standard sample vial. No matter the amount consumed past that, it will age you by exactly twenty-two years and nineteen days.''

Math was never his strongest point. Gut feeling, however, very much so. It helps that he knows how Voldemort ticks.

''Thirty-four,'' Harry croaks in sheer overwhelmed disbelief. ''The day I travelled back.''

AN: Voldemort doesn't do anything by halves, does he? :P I'm so excited to finally have reached the scenes where our fav ship is united again.

To clear up possible confusion: Severus and Sirius aren't entirely surprised by Voldemort showing up because Dumbledore warned them on the night of the Potter's deaths that Voldemort is likely still out there as he boasted about being immortal and because his wand+corpse were missing.

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xx GeMerope