Chapter 26: of Gifts and Hallows
Throwing himself at Voldemort had felt far too natural. Sure, they'd kissed before and yes, Harry knew where he very consciously allowed this to lead to. It was another matter altogether to actually impatiently shrug his own robes off and try to get as much skin-on-skin contact as possible first chance he got. All the more embarrassing was that he'd clearly been more into it than his Intended had been. As soon as Voldemort had received enough contact to combat the negative effects of their having been apart, the older man had been reserved, not allowing their kissing and groping to escalate as far as Harry would have liked in the heat of the moment.
Upon waking, he manages to keep it together as long as Voldemort is there, thank Merlin, but as soon as the man has left, Harry muffles a scream into his pillow.
It isn't the intimacy itself that is embarrassing by per se. Rusty though he may be, he and Ginny had been together for a couple of years and certainly done more than kissing. Ginny, however, had never pointed a wand at his face and uttered the Killing curse. When coming to the decision over the Easter Holidays to accept a romantic future with Voldemort, Harry imagined it would go slow. That there would be many hurdles to cross and that quite a bit more than a few pushes would be needed to become comfortable sharing a bed – with a man for the first time, with Voldemort of all people.
All that hesitance melted away like a glacier during a heatwave last night, chunks of ice crashing down around him when lips captured his own and strong fingers caught his waist. Harry barely remembers all he said and did, lost to an endless stream of wanting more.
Harry is infinitely grateful that Voldemort didn't poke fun at him for acting like a horny teenager. It's a miracle that his Intended wants to meet again this very evening. He'll cling to that hope, furiously vowing to preserve his dignity next time.
His mind isn't very helpful, rotating through vivid impressions of their shared passion. Voldemort's tongue dragging over his chest, firm hands on his arse, lying nude under the sheets and Harry grinding his hot loins directly against-
His pillow suffers from another scream.
''Morning,'' Hermione greets when he slinks into the kitchen much later. She doesn't look up from the newspaper, making a funny sight with the paper all the way unfolded, almost too large for her to properly hold. ''Good to see you here and alive. I'd already gotten used to having a brother. Would be horrible to become an only child so soon again.''
Gratefully accepting the light mood, Harry takes the chair next to hers and smiles. ''Are you sure? Sirius has some wicked artefacts and plentiful books in that vault of his, imagine you becoming the sole inheritor.''
The girl sniffs haughtily, although the tremble of her lips speaks of a barely repressed grin. ''I'll get everything out of that vault that I desire, Mr Potter-Black, for you wouldn't dare deprive your apprentice of any useful tomes.''
''Dividing my assets already?'' Sirius loudly exclaims upon walking in. ''Just you wait, I'll outlive you both out of pure spite.''
''Good luck with that, the running theory between myself and Voldemort is that I'm already immortal,'' Harry casually remarks while grabbing one of the slices of toast Kreacher had plated up in the middle of the table. When Sirius only barks out a laugh, likely having taken it as a joke, Harry doesn't correct that assumption, though his sister shoots him a side-way glance and mouths 'really'? Giving her a most innocent smile and a half-shrug, Hermione returns to reading the Prophet, eyebrows raised higher than before. Perhaps she's gotten so used to his impossibilities by now that even immortality can't faze her.
Bustling about the kitchen to grab food too unholy for Kreacher to prepare, Sirius says: ''I'm not sure why you were worried about Harry's life anyways. Isn't the whole thing he's famous for that You-Know-Who couldn't kill him? Having an argument won't change that. Besides…'' he hesitates for a second too long, the box of self-popping choco pops in Sirius' hand the only source of noise in the kitchen.
''Besides what?'' Harry asks.
Grimacing, the man dumps about half of the box in a large salad bowl and drowns the exploding cereal in pumpkin yoghurt and an aggressive dash of cinnamon. After all these years, Harry has never figured out where the Wizarding World's obsession with pumpkin flavour stems from. Juice and pasties are where he draws the line. Anything beyond that is just excessive.
''Let's just say that the very last thing I'd ever expected to experience would be hearing the passionate speech of a resurrected tyrannical killer about how you bring light into his life.''
Harry spontaneously grows red, simultaneously wishing he hadn't asked and pleased to hear this snippet of Voldemort's mysterious conversation with his godfathers. After resolving yesterday's argument and the successive snogging, he'd not had much of a chance to ask for details. ''Err… yeah, he seems to be very much into this chosen-by-magic-soul-bond thing,'' Harry awkwardly mumbles, trying to find ways how to change the subject without adding instant tension and gloom. Speaking of soul mates… ''Where is Sev today?''
''Hogwarts. And before you get paranoid, Sev wants to sort out his thoughts with some 'relaxing, undisturbed potion brewing' as he is wont to do, there are no plans on the table about running to Dumbledore.''
He's glad for the addition, for even though Dumbledore getting involved won't be devastatingly dangerous, the Headmaster can certainly throw some thorns into his path if informed. ''I see… I wanted to ask Severus if he has some ageing potions in stock, Voldemort invited me to dinner today and I feel a bit strange looking like this now he's seen how I'm supposed to look.''
Truth be told, his main motivation to get his hands on the potions is because Voldemort made clear that the chances of exploring their newfound physical intimacy are zero without one, and last night definitely awakened some long-lost desires. Not that he'll ever admit this to be the real reason to Sirius' face.
His godfather seems to struggle to formulate an answer, a range of emotions flashing across his face before Sirius settles on light concern and replies: ''What I said about evil lairs still stands.''
That won't do. Yesterday, when they had clearly been on the verge of another argument, the worries about Harry being whisked away out of sight and reach had been understandable. Today, less so.
''He is my soul mate. Even if you would not yet be aware of how old I truly am, I'd be of a legal age to decide whether I wish to spend time with him, or where for that matter. Your say over that disappeared the day I received my wand. I'm having dinner with him tonight, Siri. At his place.''
''The address?'' Sirius exasperatedly asks, holding out his open hand and wiggling the tips of his fingers as if Harry is supposed to hand over a slip of paper.
''Don't know, I have a Portkey,'' he honestly confesses, ignoring the disbelieving stare.
''That he is your soul mate does not mean he'll automatically have your best interest in mind, Harry. Do you know how many cases we see in the Auror Department of domestic issues? Of possessive partners who believe their bond gives some holy entitlement? Even if you trust him on some level, I have seen too much to do the same. You-Know-Who could keep you imprisoned there, cut off from us. You do realise that regardless of our conversation last night, most of the facts I know about your dear soul mate is an endless list of crimes? We're talking homicide, mind-control, terrorism, torture!''
''Yes,'' Harry simply answers, giving the other a level-headed stare. ''I'd wager I know his crimes better than you do, Sirius. During my last life, I've been possessed by him, put under the Cruciatus curse by him, been killed by him. Nevertheless, I always came out on top. If it helps, I can shake off the Imperius curse and should he dare imprison me, I'll tear down any ward designed to trap me and apparate the fuck out of there. I have given this some more thought than 'I'm sure he's too smitten to hurt me', okay?''
Sirius works his throat, opening and closing his mouth a few times before taking a spoonful of his mushy pumpkin and chocolate mix.
''Harry is far more violent than Voldemort is,'' Hermione cheerfully states, flipping a page. ''I feel sorry for the man, he has no idea what hurricane he's letting into his house.''
Breakfast is spent in utter silence after that. Unfortunately, this means that Harry does not receive a helpful answer about how to get another ageing potion. It also provides far too much time to once again mull over how wonderful and normal it had felt to kiss Lord Voldemort.
The rest of the morning and afternoon isn't spent any more productively. Severus stays away and Sirius does his utmost not to address any other heavy topics. To stay sane until the Portkey will activate, Harry fills his sister in on most of yesterday night's discussions that she'd missed. The hours fly by as he answers any little question she has, from what Harry expects to find when shown Voldemort's 'experiments' to whether the man had been considerate enough to ask about food allergies for dinner (Mages aren't susceptible to allergies,' Harry reminds her, at which she remarks that it would have been courteous nonetheless.)
When the clock strikes seven in the evening and Hermione joins Sirius for their own supper, Harry prepares all that he wishes to bring along and picks out one of the better sets of robes that he owns. With the Black family still being regarded as belonging to the top of society no matter Sirius' feelings on this, he has quite a few to pick from. In the end, Harry settles on a linen summer robe that is primarily dark green with black and gold stitched accents. It's elegant enough for the occasion yet simple enough in cut to be enlarged without messing up the integrity of the robes, should his hopes of Voldemort being able to grant Harry a few more minutes of his adult body be fulfilled.
Waiting in anticipation with a satchel of necessities hanging at his belt and Hera curled around his forearm, Harry wears the floor of his bedroom down until the very last second. At last, a pull behind his navel and a sickening feeling later, wind tousles his hair.
Voldemort's manor is less evil-castle-on-the-moors and more aristocratic-extravagance-in-the-countryside, which is its own genre of horror in Harry's opinion. He doesn't have pleasant memories of either Malfoy or Riddle manor, so to suddenly stand in front of a similarly imposing house makes goosebumps rise in a way tall black spires and gargoyles could never achieve. Another reason to be intensely grateful for his godfather's acceptance, for he is not going to give up his room in Grimmauld place Number 12 to move in here.
Having arrived on the middle of a straight path leading up to the house, he crosses the remaining distance with trepidation. The double front doors with silver snake motifs on the wooden panelling (because of course Voldemort can't be normal about his ancestry) open silently as he approaches. Harry wonders whether he's been keyed in somehow, or if his being a Horcrux is a factor.
Or- he thinks when Hera interrupts their own conversation to hiss a greeting at the snake motifs in passing -the doors recognise Parseltongue.
The Dark Lord would be the type to imitate Slytherin's Chamber, even if he's clearly more confident than the old Founder if anything said in Parsel is recognised by the door instead of a specific command to open. Then again, Harry only picked 'Open' for the entrances to the Chamber because it had made sense. Perhaps there too, any phrase would have done the trick.
It would make more sense as Ron had tried to open it by imitating what Harry had said literally five years prior. Ron's memory was good when it counted, but probably not that good. It would be hilarious if his friend would have accidentally hissed an insult at the sink to make it open. From the only time Harry had made an attempt to learn another language (French, to connect more with Fleur and her family as they became so close to the Weasleys after she married Bill) Harry knows well that one is always a dangerous slip of a syllable away from disaster. Coup de Foudre, not foutre, Fleur had once scolded while breaking into hysterical, scandalised giggles. What had become of her? Had she survived?
A tiny, forked tongue flicks at his cheeks and the corners of his eyes to lap up unwanted, traitorous stray tears. Taking a deep breath, he hisses a quick thank you at Hera, who's travelled up his arm to balance on his shoulder.
Distracting himself by looking around, he finds the hallway isn't any more promising than the entrance doors had been. Banners with the Dark Mark are quite on-the-nose and the many snake patterns don't help. Considering that Voldemort had managed to replace the gaudy Fountain of Magical Brethren by an art piece that was even tackier during his short reign of Britain, Harry perhaps shouldn't have expected differently.
Although in retrospect, he could appreciate the huge obsidian statue of a witch and wizard sitting on thrones of suffering Muggles more than he'd done before Magical Britain had been overrun.
''Exactly on time,'' a smooth voice cuts through his musings.
Whipping around to face the tall figure that fills the door frame, Harry is momentarily lost for words. Voldemort has gone to great lengths to prove that his wardrobe contains more than black robes, for deep burgundy fabric is elaborately draped around the man's thin frame in a way reminiscent of ancient roman senator statues. It looks stunning. Otherworldly, a word that Harry would commonly use only with great irony, but which seems fitting here.
At least Voldemort shows a sense of style in this regard. If he'd appeared in robes of green and silver with a brooch shaped like a basilisk, Harry might have headed back to Grimmauld right away.
Grappling for words biting enough to cover up the embarrassment of having been left tongue-tied for a moment, Harry finally scoffs: ''Bit hard not to be when you're literally the one who created my Portkey. Any tardiness would have been entirely your own fault for mucking up the charm.''
''As proven by your impeccable timing, I don't 'muck up' spells, dear.''
Harry is this close to playfully snap back with an 'except the killing curse' but catches and contains the remark just in time. Due to their arguments, Harry has found they are not yet familiar enough that he can predict exactly what will start another. Deliberately pointing out sore topics, certainly ones that deal with death or critique of Voldemort's abilities or both surely count as stupid provocation.
''You might want to use some of those perfect magical skills to redecorate,'' he thus opts to say as he approaches the man, pointing a thumb at the banners. ''Doesn't branding your followers with the Dark Mark scream 'evil overlord' enough without hanging reminders everywhere in your home?''
By the small smile he receives, Voldemort is not offended in the least. Good. ''It is not for my followers that I display my mark here, nor for myself. The Muggles I bring through those doors must be sufficiently intimidated. It is the only room they see before being brought to their very last residence. I assure you that the domestic quarters will be more to your liking.''
They'll see about that. Any further snarky comment about it gets stuck in his throat when Voldemort brings a hand to his cheek and wipes away a tear on the side Hera couldn't reach.
''What is wrong?''
''Nothing,'' he says too fast, then swallows under the scrutinising stare he receives. Dropping his gaze does not help Harry's awkwardness in the slightest, for doing so makes it fall on the protruding edge of Voldemort's sharp collarbone where red robes fall away, far too tantalising. Inhaling deeply (mistake number three when standing this close, the smell is reminiscent of last night), Harry replies: ''Just a memory that hit in the wrong moment, don't worry about it. Hera already cheered me up.''
''Is that so… I made a fine choice in sending you this protector. Hello again, little one~ Voldemort mutters, carefully plucking the serpent from Harry's shoulder so her gleaming, dark body curls around his thin hand instead. With a wave, the blindfold disappears, big yellow eyes staring up at the man. Harry nervously twitches, holding himself back from intervening as he realises that of course, the one who has gifted Hera to him knows what he is doing.
''You can protect yourself from her gaze?'' he mutters, wondering if there's a spell he can learn to apply it to his loved ones. He'd much prefer if Hermione could handle Hera without risking being petrified.
''I bonded with one of her siblings. Manasa's venom protects me.''
Not very useful for Hermione then, shame.
''Can't imagine Nagini is pleased with the competition,'' Harry grins, thinking of the demanding serpent he took care of at Hogwarts for a while before the Christmas holidays.
A smile that looks far too gentle graces Voldemort's face. ''On the contrary, Nagini is a very sociable creature and I do not always have the time to entertain her. She and Manasa make quite the fetching pair, tongues equally lashing. Besides, Nagini has different grudges to concentrate on. She was devastated when informed that she would not become the host of my soul. Refused to speak to me until I diverted the blame to you.'' When Harry opens his mouth in protest, the smile sharpens until it looks far more familiar. ''You are the one who convinced me not to split my soul one more time.''
''To protect your state of mind!''
Voldemort hums noncommittally and holds the hand around which Hera has coiled over Harry's head. Unsurprisingly, she slithers into his hair instantly, weaving herself into unruly black strands while hissing contentedly.
''How fetching, having a serpent for a crown…''
The comment and the manner in which Hera encircles his head like a glittering, scaly circlet reminds Harry of the royal gift he prepared for his Dark Lord. His hand wanders to the satchel, subconsciously giving it a squeeze to feel the shape of the object. Should he present it now…?
''Follow me,'' Voldemort decides for him, turning around to stride away. Perhaps for the better, hastily pressing a gift into his Intended's hands while lingering in a doorway isn't good manners. For all their inconvenient meetings in Quidditch stands and Quirrell's office, Harry wants to make a good impression the first time they are truly alone. Which of course does not help the fluttering in his stomach.
The dining room he is led to does not live up to the earlier promise, giving Harry flashbacks of the Slytherin common room. In fact, many pieces of artwork and furniture seem to be an exact replica, from displayed animal skeletons and black chairs to floor-length windows that have been enchanted to look into a lake. The Black Lake specifically, Harry realises when a Grindylow zips past and disappears into softly waving strands of pondweed.
He can't deny that it is more tasteful than the hallway, even if it isn't Harry's personal style. Voldemort clearly feels at ease here, posture relaxing and red eyes lazily blinking as his gaze drifts to the underwater view. Surrounding himself with reminders of his House's common room must bring back pleasant memories in the same way entering Gryffindor Tower had flooded Harry's mind with endorphins each time. Nostalgia is hard to beat.
Determined not to make faces at the creepy skulls or the lake creatures that had once tried their hardest to drown him, Harry focuses solely on Voldemort as they take their seats at a square table that is surrounded by a mere four chairs and looks far too small for the rest of the room. It is a far cry from the visions he's had of Voldemort's meetings at Malfoy manor, sitting at the head of a long, lavish dining table with all Death Eaters presents. Harry much prefers this, the closeness at which they sit lending a glimmer of intimacy to the otherwise impersonal dining room.
''Before we begin, I have brought something…'' he hastily starts before Voldemort can once more take the lead. With trembling fingers, he struggles to undo the strings of his satchel and withdraws the crown that has been carefully wrapped in the best fabric he owns: a cashmere scarf Madam Malkins gifted 'sweet darling Mister Potter' the very first time he'd visited the shop at age five. Throwing it away had felt like a waste, so he'd kept it to secure Voldemort's wand in once Harry had been too old to drag plush animals around. As it had sat empty since the yew wand had been returned to its owner, it felt fitting to temporarily use it to wrap up another item he planned to give his Intended.
He deposits the bundle in Voldemort's already open, waiting hands. ''This is for you. I, errr, didn't know about courting gifts when getting this for you but… If you want to consider it such, I've nothing against that.''
As soon as the awkward words escape his mouth, Harry wishes to shovel them back in with both hands. Why couldn't he just adapt and say it'd been a courting gift all along? Why is he like this with romance?
Voldemort does not comment on the unarticulated mess of stumbled and wholly unnecessary explanation. Instead, he focuses on peeling away the emerald fabric (brings out your bright eyes, Madam Malkins had cooed), long fingers just as cool and firm as the marble band they graze when the crown is revealed.
''Mages don't have kings, darling,'' his Intended comments - always the know-it-all - even as he turns the crown over, brushing the stone with habitual greed. A cat's way of staking claim by rubbing its head against something is nothing compared to how the pads of Lord Voldemort's fingers stamp their mark on all he touches. Harry can still feel his own skin burning, littered with invisible fingerprints from last night.
Boldy, he asks: ''I want you to rule our world. Can I not crown you as our first?''
And so what if he is sucking up? It's both the truth and may be a way to get those hands on Harry again instead of unfeeling stone that cannot appreciate it.
The glint that turns scarlet eyes into a set of perfect rubies is a promising sign of the compliment hitting its mark.
''In that case… Would you do the honours, Harry? We'll make a fetching pair, both crowned as we are.''
At the reminder, he gingerly touches his own: Hera, who is still buried in his hair.
Harry tries to keep traitorous hands steady as he carefully takes the offered crown, heart beating faster when his own fingers inevitably brush against Voldemort's. His gaze is held intently all the way as he lifts this sign of sovereignty, this price he's won by beating another king at its own game, and coronates the Dark Lord in their own private ceremony.
There's more privacy than ceremonial bells and whistles, but Harry is quite certain they both prefer it this way.
''My Lord,'' he whispers, entirely unironic for once.
''My love.''
It's good that the crown is already firmly sat on the man's head, for Harry would surely have dropped and shattered the thing if not. Voldemort merely looks amused at the shock that must be painted all across Harry's face.
''Come now, I have made my intentions perfectly clear over the past months. You at last decided to fully stand with me and extended me your full trust, so I do not see why we should dance around it. As you surrendered yourself to me last night when I spoke of our relationship…''
The endearments suddenly make a whole lot more sense than being a means to catch Harry off guard.
''I- I just hadn't expected…'' he stammers, hurriedly sitting back down. Should he return Voldemort's confession? Can he, when he can make heads nor tails of the storm of complicated feelings the Dark Lord evokes each time they are in the same room? ''I did not know your stance on love, exactly,'' Harry admits, diverting from his own emotions to explain his reaction to Voldemort's frankness.
His eyes drift to the underwater scenery rather than linger on his Intended's face. It is difficult enough to sort out his own feelings without trying to read Voldemort's expression, a difficult feat on the best of times due to the inhuman features the man has crafted for himself.
''The old you, the other you, considered love to be a disgusting weakness. Because of that, even when you made clear you were pursuing me, I didn't allow myself to get my hopes up for you developing deeper feelings than caring about our bond and being physically-''
''I sound far superior to this other version of myself,'' Voldemort interjects, voice dripping with amusement. Sharp nails catch Harry's chin and nudge it until they face each other again, the hint of a sting where claws press into skin enough of a motivation not to resist.
With a weak laugh, Harry admits: ''As much as this is sure to inflate your ego further, I'm starting to believe so, too.''
''Tell me more about him over dinner,'' the Dark Lord requests, leaning back in his chair. An array of mouth-watering dishes appear at a single clap of slim hands. Meat and fruit are heavily featured, Harry notices, already eyeing the crispy roast and charred apricots. Exactly the food he favours… did Voldemort pay such close attention to what Harry loaded onto his plate during the feast Kreacher had cooked up yesterday? If so, that is very flattering.
''You must have an excellent and happy elf,'' he remarks upon digging into the fine selection and finding each bite to be heavenly. ''My compliments to the cook.''
''Thank you, I don't employ elves. Spells take care of the dust, and cooking is a fine way of honing potion and alchemy skills without wasting expensive ingredients for the sake of practise.''
The comment makes Harry pause, once more grateful to be discovering new, positive sides to this man. ''I'd thought that one more opportunity to have another being at your beck, call, and mercy would appeal to you.''
''Redundant when half of the British noble houses bears the weight of my mark. How could I take pleasure in dressing an elf in rags after witnessing Lestranges and Malfoys crawl in the dirt, staining their robes to beg for my favour?'' Voldemort wickedly smirks, the silvery dancing light from the windows making his teeth blink dangerously.
''Perhaps you do not differ so from your other self in all aspects.''
As Voldemort motions for him to elaborate, Harry chews thoughtfully on plump prunes and pork, savouring the taste before the tale that is to be told can chase away his hearty appetite. It starts with the first time they'd met face-to-face, staring each other down in front of the mirror of Erised, Voldemort one moment offering Harry a place at his side and then, upon rejection, swiftly ordering Quirrell to murder a terrified child. Speaking of it is strange, those memories so distant that it feels as if all this happened to a different person. In a way, Harry supposes that is true. He has 'caught up' by now, lived a few months longer in his second life than when the event he speaks of happened in his first. As if he has surpassed a loop, truly tricked time and must pay with his memories now… The head of the snake is eating its own tail.
It is much easier to recall events that happened only a few years later. The graveyard, the Department of Mysteries, the encounter in the night's sky above London with seven Harry Potters... Harry recounts every little detail and difference he can think of, from the state of Voldemort's mind to the obsessive bloodthirst with which Harry had been chased. Halfway through the story, when having thrown in that the wording of the Prophecy had been different, Voldemort asks Harry to keep a list of the most notable changes they speak of. He complies, hoping that the other will be able to decipher the chicken scratch that has not improved in the slightest over the course of decades.
Wishing to add to the list without forgetting anything, Harry starts jumping back and forth whenever he thinks of another possibly important snippet of information. He only vaguely glossed over Wormtail's involvement when speaking of Voldemort's resurrection for example, and thus retraces his thoughts back to Third year, when Sirius and Remus had ultimately uncovered the traitor. Summarising his first life in a single conversation is more difficult than Harry thought it would be, as he keeps swerving off when something else he forgot to mention digs its way out of muddled memories. Because of the sheer amount that needs to be relayed, he attempts to stay as close as possible to events that directly involved Voldemort or his Horcruxes, skipping past much that had happened at Hogwarts itself save for the parts where Death Eaters had shown up in his name.
As the evening progresses and they move onto dessert, the realisation of just how much has already been changed either by fate or by Harry's doing, dawns. Are any of his experiences truly useful by this point…? He feels a bit foolish when recounting how Ron, Hermione, and he had discovered and destroyed the Locket Horcrux, when he can name a handful of reasons for why this will never come to be in this life. He's neither friends with Ron, nor is the Locket in an unsafe location, nor can the Sword of Gryffindor kill a Horcrux in its current state. That thought makes him jump towards another string of conversation once jotting 'Gryffindor's sword does not contain the properties of Basilisk venom' down on the list.
''Do you actually want me to return them to you?'' Harry asks in between two bacon-wrapped dates once he's elaborated on how exactly he slayed the basilisk and stabbed the diary. ''The Horcruxes, I mean. I thought you'd like to personally ensure their safety and half expected them to be gone after Halloween, yet you've not asked about them once.'' Although he's particularly grateful for still having such easy access to the ring containing the Resurrection Stone, it's nonetheless odd that the Dark Lord never even made an attempt to remove these items from Harry's possession.
Voldemort taps long nails on the table as he considers how to answer. ''How to put this… You made clear that the defences I gave my soul were inadequate to keep them safe. You found the hiding spots and broke through the protective measures I had placed around most of my Horcruxes within a couple of years. Today, you have once more painted clearly that my methods were too… predictable. Therefore, I am even less inclined to take them off your hands. Dumbledore unfortunately knows more of my past than I anticipated if he's gathered – or will gather – the same memories as he showed you in your last life. I will be moving the Horcruxes you have not yet found to a different location soon just in case, but shall entrust you with the rest of my soul.''
''Ah… I'm thankful for your confidence, but I can't guarantee they're any safer with me,'' he blurts out. ''They're kind of stowed away in my school trunk for lack of a better spot.''
The horrified look he receives in return would be comical if Harry wasn't acutely aware of Voldemort's spell repertoire covering most awful curses.
''A school trunk,'' the man repeats faintly. ''My soul is being kept in an ordinary bag.'' Pale, thin lips press together and Voldemort exhales slowly through the thin slits of his reptilian nose. The movement is quite fascinating.
''Not ordinary, it's my bag,'' he quips in hopes of diffusing some tension. ''I've also covered them in every single obscuring and shielding charm I know of.''
It's not enough to shield himself from Voldemort's displeased glare, but at least no curses have started flying. To deescalate the situation further, Harry suggests: ''If you don't think that is enough, I do have some other places I can hide them in, now I can move around freely.''
''I implore you to do so. Merlin, you're terribly frustrating at times.''
Harry cannot help but grin at that, remembering all the times he irritated his teachers at Hogwarts. ''I know. All of those who demonise you should know that you're a saint for dealing with me.'' When Voldemort points his eyes skyward in answer, Harry allows himself to relax.
Sarcastically, his Intended drawls: ''Should you face Dumbledore again, tell him I'm considering a change of career. From Dark Lord to holy being, what a promotion to strive for. On the other hand, perhaps it is you who should apply for it.''
''Me?''
''You do cause miracles. I only apologised once in my entire life until yesterday.''
Right, their first argument. Maybe it's fair that one had been Voldemort's fault and one Harry's own.
''I'm not the first person you ever apologised to?'' he asks to distract from his guilt at being the cause of their second fight. It's hard to image what other scenario could lead to someone as proud as Voldemort admitting fault. Who else but the man's own soulmate had talked him into saying sorry?
With a hum, Voldemort admits: ''The first involved a dead rabbit, and though it wasn't entirely sincere, I was happy enough to smooth the situation over with an apology.''
There's only one rabbit incident Harry knows of. ''Billy's pet at Wool's?'' he hesitates, side-eying Voldemort. ''You were that happy about punishing another kid?''
The man blinks rapidly. ''Your thorough knowledge of my early childhood keeps being an unpleasant surprise. You're incorrect about my feelings, however. Revenge was sweet in the moment, but I could have chosen a different method than hanging his bunny from the rafters. No, I was happy that it was the breaking point for Mrs Cole. She quit on the spot. When her successor arrived and wished to clear the air about the sordid affair, I apologised.''
Harry frowns. That does not at all line up with his own knowledge. Mrs Cole had quit? Before Dumbledore had visited?
''Interesting. In the version that I know of, they never caught you as the culprit for the rabbit's death,'' he states, leaning forward with interest, quill at the ready though he does not add another line just yet.
''Is that so? I decided to see it as an opportunity: such a major change in staff meant an excellent chance to establish myself,'' the man explains, lightly shaking his head. ''Mrs Wrenn was new and mouldable still. I confessed to my deed in the same breath as I apologised for it and lamented about all the times Billy had bullied me. He'd been one of Mrs Cole's favourites and used that to gain leverage over the other children. It was easily provable: having a pet rabbit in the first place in an underfunded orphanage was a luxury no-one else had. That was the day my status changed for the better. My excellent grades and quiet nature made me one of her darlings. Mrs Wren did not believe in the nonsense of my doomed fate that Mrs Cole warned her of.''
''You sound almost fond of this new matron.''
''I was. A shame she succumbed to illness shortly after I finished Hogwarts.''
''And yet, she did not subvert your dislike for Muggles…?'' One of the main reasons why Voldemort had held such hatred for them had been due to the conditions in the orphanage, hadn't it been? Would one major positive connection not have shifted that opinion?
''I find it fascinating that you must ask me this when you know the main other detail of this story in form of Billy Stubb's rabbit,'' Voldemort remarks. Harry nods and vaguely gestures to the list he is compiling, scribbling down 'different matron at Wool's' as a new bullet point.
Voldemort reads and acknowledges it briefly before saying: ''I naturally did not grow fonder of Muggles when the new matron was a Squib. Had she been a Muggle, I doubt her views on me would have differed from Mrs Cole. It was exactly because Mrs Wrenn had been raised in a magical household that she did not share ridiculous superstitions of evil children and recognised quickly that I was a wizard. It is why she shielded me whenever I was excluded for being different. Naturally, as a law-abiding citizen, none of this was revealed to me until after I had received my Hogwarts acceptance letter from a certain nosy transfiguration teacher. Yet even prior to that revelation, I quickly felt that something was as different about her as about myself. This feeling being validated only increased my contempt for Muggles. The first person to treat me well was someone who knew magic – even if she could not use it herself.''
''Yet you advocated against Squibs the same as against Muggle-borns during the last war,'' Harry says, remembering well that Dumbledore had pitched the potential of recruiting Squibs for this exact reason during one of the Order meetings Harry had attended in his mother's arms.
The Dark Lord nods curtly, seeming unbothered. ''Both are marginalised groups that have divided our society in two fronts for literal millennia. I grew up among those who were opposed to both Squibs and Muggle-borns from the moment I was sorted into Slytherin. Fully resisting those beliefs would have been political suicide. You need not look further than your own godfather to find truth in this: Head of Slytherin House yet considered a pariah by most Slytherins of his own generation for daring to befriend Muggle-borns.''
''I can't see you bending to the will of others just to appease them,'' Harry scowls. ''You can wipe the floor with every single one of those snobs.''
A lovely chuckle caresses his ears. ''Sheer violence can only be exerted by those already on top, darling. I started from nothing. My power would have meant nothing without a following and that was easiest to attain by buttering up to the rich children in Slytherin who felt the rest of society had snubbed them. Even the exception to the rule that I tried to instil once I'd grasped a sliver of authority, of soul-bond relations being accepted as magic triumphs blood in my view, was ill-received by some. Of course, now I have no need for treading lightly to avoid stepping on fragile toes. I have enough influence not to be dependent on the political favour of others. Be at ease, your message was received loud and clear: from the point we start at currently, it is more than feasible to shift the misplaced supremacy of blood towards a far more accurate supremacy of magic. Which I realise you do not necessarily believe in either, but your beliefs matter not so long as you do not publicly contradict me.''
Harry hums quietly as he considers his Intended's words. Voldemort's previous stance on those of 'lesser blood' having been a political manoeuvre is the best-case-scenario in his opinion. While it does not erase the man's misdeeds against their own kind, it also won't lead to future strife due to ideological clashing. ''I won't. Personally, I really don't care whether we're better or not, but it suits my goal of uniting mages and turning them more specifically against Muggles. I've nothing to gain from refuting your claims.''
Somewhere deep in the house, a clock strikes the hour and Harry is both unsurprised and a tad nervous when counting to ten. ''Sirius might actually try to organise a rescue party and comb the country if I stay away from home much longer,'' he sighs.
''You may move in here if you so desire,'' Voldemort easily offers, as if he is talking about deciding on where to have a picnic and not springing a massive leap towards moving their relationship forward by cohabiting on Harry.
Startled, he tries to stall time before having to confess how horribly uncomfortable the manor makes him. Carefully, Harry suggests: ''Let's revisit moving in together after, err, exploring this relationship for a bit longer than a single day, yeah?'' His heart pounds as he vocalises the status Voldemort already determined them to have.
At least he had a full day to come to terms with it, that's something…
It still feels strange, to look upon Voldemort and acknowledge that this regal, wonderful, terrifying wizard has pledged to be his. There are barely inches between where their hands rest on the table, yet Harry feels distance stretch out when eyeing the one he's crowned as his Lord today. He considers the past between them that only he remembers, the experiences he's suffered because of this man's actions, as well as because Voldemort died by Harry's hand.
He's dining with a ghost, uncertain about whether he dares serve up his own heart. If it were not for the marks on their skin, would the Dark Lord have ever regarded Harry as more than an enemy?
If, if. If magic would not meddle, if he'd not have travelled worlds, if he wouldn't have lived through multiple wars. But he has, he is here now. Meant to be, Voldemort had said, and this time the words reverberating through his mind do not send Harry into a panic.
He crosses the distance, both mental and physical, covering cold, spidery fingers with his own.
''I'm sure Sirius can wait for an hour more when magic itself declared this is where I need be. Let us proceed?''
One hour turns to three as the discussion continues, delving deeper into the lives of Voldemort's followers in Harry's previous lives. He speaks of the Malfoy's motivations that led to them fleeing as soon as they could, of the way those who'd escaped from Azkaban had acted and of Wormtail's ultimate betrayal and demise. He even recounts the stories of those who never became followers here: of Regulus' idealisation of Voldemort and following anger when the Dark Lord had left Kreacher to die, as well as of Snape being strung along by Dumbledore's ploys as he paid for the indifference over James Potter's and baby Harry's wellbeing for the rest of his rather sorry and bitter life.
Although even past midnight, Harry is sadly still restricted by his youthful body, he feels much closer to his Intended than yesterday. The evening progressed devoid of incidents or arguments, their talks spiralling upwards to greater heights when putting their heads together – metaphorically for today.
Harry shifts on the dining chair, legs uncomfortably cramping. Neither of them has been willing to risk moving further away from each other by relocating and Voldemort uses the excuse of occasionally making another refreshment appear on the table to keep him here. Harry is happy enough to take it, even when the prolonged seating on a hard wooden chair adds a toll on his body that the other doesn't seem to be plagued by. ''There's still the matter of my remaining secret,'' he broaches one of the last topics he does not wish to leave undiscussed. ''As well as how to move forward in retrieving the last of the Deathly Hallows, which is related. I'd like to hear your opinion on it.''
For how much Voldemort had insisted on letting this topic rest yesterday, he's startlingly quick to focus, previously relaxed posture growing rigid as he inclines his head and sends Harry a piercing stare. ''Do elaborate.''
''I may have skimped on some crucial details pertaining to the Hallows. What they are exactly, as well as why I wish to gather them.''
''Master of Death means more than you told me, after all?'' the other speculates.
Harry shakes his head in denial. ''Not as far as I know. However, I am also not entirely certain about that. The first time I touched one of the Hallows in this life – the Resurrection Stone – it gave off an odd sense of recognition. As if it were sentient and knew I had owned it before. I took note of that without assigning great significance to it then, for I'd searched for the Stone with the purpose of gathering Horcruxes, not Hallows.'' He carefully eyes Voldemort through his lashes. When there is no visible reaction, he continues: ''You were the previous owner of this Hallow, for you imbued it with your own soul, not knowing its true value besides it being a family heirloom. The stone set in the Peverell ring contains more power than you know.''
''Yet you were prepared to return the ring to me, had I asked?'' Voldemort questions, brow furrowing ever so slightly.
''Perhaps not instantly, or not with the stone still attached,'' Harry shrugs. ''But once my curiosity had been satisfied, sure. Your soul is more important than its vessel.''
The – entirely genuine – statement seems to ease some of the tension. Nevertheless, there's a hint of suspicion in his Intended's voice when he asks: ''A curiosity that was awakened when? You spoke of your intention to gather these artefacts on the day of my resurrection, when only having one in your possession. You must have assigned some significance to it, then.''
''Only when it became clear that the second one was within my grasp too, years after I secured the ring. You see, the second hallow - the invisibility cloak - was a family heirloom of mine, to be passed down to the oldest child. In my first life, Dumbledore had held onto it and gave it to me as a Christmas present during my very first year at Hogwarts. I was aware that he took the cloak for 'safekeeping' this time around as well. He promised my godfathers to return it when I would be old enough, yet with my childhood being so different, I wasn't certain of when that would be. Having been raised by my godfathers, I'd expected the cloak to be returned to me at some earlier point as I obviously already knew of magic. When Dumbledore did not hand it over for so long, I wasn't too sure he'd ever give it back. Even so, the closer that same Christmas drew, the more I began to believe that this was one of those events that just had to happen the same way as I remember. I decided I wanted to see whether the cloak would react the same way as the resurrection stone had. And sure enough, I did receive the cloak, in the exact same roll of wrapping paper as before; red and gold with a pattern of holly.''
''Charming. Since you are still on the Hallow's trail, I imagine its reaction to you was similar?''
''The exact same,'' Harry pensively sighs. ''Naturally, it only urged me on to solve this puzzle and there's only one way to do so. Claiming the Elder Wand has proven to be more difficult than I imagined, however, as my last plan did not bear fruit. The thing is, two important facts about this wand are as follows: its current owner is none other than Dumbledore himself, and the whole point of the Elder wand is that it is unbeatable in a duel.''
As expected, Voldemort's attention is caught to an even greater degree than before. ''Unbeatable?'' he quietly asks.
It is not a gentle quiet, reminding Harry most starkly of the pressing silence in a haunted house, of held breaths that all wait for that first creaking, that first shriek.
Taking a deep breath while reminding himself strongly that keeping secrets is going to backfire more than divulging dangerous information, he continues: ''I'm not aware of how the Elder Wand – which also goes by the names Deathstick or Wand of Destiny – was crafted, but it is undeniably the most powerful wand I have ever encountered. Used in a duel, it can quite literally not be bested when wielded by its owner. Even outside of battle, it is capable of great feats. For example, it enabled me to fix my old wand that'd been practically snapped in half and been declared unrepairable by Ollivander himself. As its reputation is well-earned, I will have to act smart to complete the set. I can't simply challenge Dumbledore to a duel to win it.''
Voldemort does not immediately react, a calculating glint in his eyes ''What is it?'' Harry snaps when the oppressing silence of a lurking predator finally gets under his skin.
''I could ask you to return my ring to me unblemished. I'm resourceful enough to trick Dumbledore out of the wand. As for that invisibility cloak… you owe me two more courting gifts, darling''
''No,'' Harry forces through gritted teeth at the outrageous request. How dare he. ''I've spent too much energy and time on this to have you ruin my chances of uncovering this mystery.''
A sneer shows off canines that are sharper than they should be. If Harry would not have encountered actual vampires, he might have confused Voldemort for one in this moment. ''You seem not to care for the title it would grant you,'' the man petulantly bites.
''You seem to care an awful lot all of a sudden.''
Voldemort rises from his seat, hands planted on the table as he looks Harry in the eye, obsession evident. ''Master of death, dear. An all-powerful wand. Possibly another method of immortality. You tempt me.''
Unblinkingly, he meets the crimson stare of his Intended. There's no use growing angry, of course he knew Voldemort would be tempted. The Dark Lord has an unfortunate habit of jumping at bait after hearing an incomplete story.
''From death it comes, to death it will return,'' he seriously states, challenging. ''The tale goes that these Hallows were created by Death itself and given to three brothers, whose lives were all claimed soon after. Do you truly wish to bear a sceptre without knowing its burden, when it might bring you under scrutiny of the one being you wish to avoid above all?''
''There is no such thing as Death.'' Voldemort snarls, though it lacks its usual fire. ''A tale like that holds no water.''
''You cannot know that for certain. None in my world believed in the existence of Magic, despite using magic in our daily lives. Yet here, so many believe there is an entity who actively watches over mages and forges soul bonds for us. Who is to say there is no entity of Death handing out artefacts from worlds beyond?''
A hiss escapes from thin lips, nails scratch into the marble inlay of the dining table. Harry's patience pays off: mere seconds later, the Dark Lord lowers himself into his seat, though the glowering does not diminish. ''Are you ready to bear an unknown burden imposed by Death, Harry?''
''Having unknown burdens thrown on me sounds like daily life,'' he dryly answers. ''Look, I am searching for an answer, not power. I don't know whether reuniting the Hallows gives any benefits beyond the abilities of the individual artefacts themselves. I owned them all once before and had nothing concrete happen. Granted, I did not physically unite them back then, which is mainly why I wish to see if there's a difference once I do, especially now I have felt this echo of recognition. There still might be nothing more to it. I'll take life as it comes. Or death for that matter.''
''You may not die.''
The whisper is so soft that Harry almost misses it. He might have, had Voldemort not tightly grabbed his hand in that same moment with unearthly force to empathise the words. The mark on the back of Harry's hand tingles pleasantly at the contact.
''Help me, then. Prove me wrong about the Hallows not being responsible for my many escapes from death,'' Harry challenges, only partially in jest. ''Ensure my immortality.'' Perhaps an underhanded way of enforcing Voldemort's cooperation with this, but Harry does not feel wicked when the tactic is so transparent. The Dark Lord has plenty of opportunity to refuse this glaringly obvious manipulation. He knows very well that Harry is not at all convinced about the supposed 'truth' behind becoming the Master of Death in his last life being responsible for his luck at cheating death.
Voldemort does not hesitate at all, Harry's hand still clenched in his as the Dark Lord brings it to his face and promises, with pale lips ghosting over the crimson soul mark: ''I shall. Now, tell me every detail of your last attempt to get the Elder wand so we can analyse what went wrong and how to improve upon your plan. I gather it involved Polyjuice, as I heard of another Sirius Black running around the Ministry?''
By the time they at last reluctantly head back towards the entrance hall side-by-side, Harry's head is brimming with ideas.
It seems he will be facing Dumbledore sooner rather than later.