Chapter 25: Hearth and Home

AN: at long last, a different POV than Harry's ;)

Where would he be this morning, had the bluff been called out? What if he would have been unable to convince Harry to reveal that most guarded secret as payment for keeping peace?

It is an interesting thought exercise. Lord Voldemort prefers to spend his first thoughts in the morning on the 'what if's' to keep a sharp mind and prepare for a manifold of scenarios – always ending up feeling validated by having chosen the correct path, the one to ultimately lead to success. Yesterday was no different, when he wagered that his Intended put as much worth in their bond as he does.

The lie of leaving, should Harry not abide by his terms, had blackened Voldemort's silver tongue. It had been worth it when a soothing, most delicious kiss had polished the taint away.

Your kiss was a thing of beauty.

This proclamation about their first true act of romance had been entirely honest. It came as quite the pleasant shock that it hardly measured up to their second. They'd been alone for one, and it showed in how Harry allowed passion to bloom. There had been an edge of desperation in every twitch of lean muscles as Harry's nude body had pressed up against Voldemort's, as well as a curious eagerness when open-mouthed kisses made Harry surrender his tongue to the mercy of sharp teeth.

His Intended confessed to not having had any partners since the teenage years of his last life and it showed, but this inexperience is charming rather than annoying. Closing his eyes, Voldemort revels in the memory of how responsive the young man had been to his every touch, keen sounds egging him on to explore further.

He had not, having realised quickly that the seduction had happened in the first place as a distraction, for the other to take his mind off heavier themes. As enjoyable as it was to finally have his Intended in bed with him, Voldemort refuses to be exploited for stress-relief.

Magic sanctioned their connection and he won't dishonour that by their first time being a quick shag in Harry's 'childhood bedroom' to release pent-up frustration. That would be all sorts of wrong.

Not that he'd entirely withheld last night… His hand tingles when recalling how firm the muscles of Harry's arse had felt when grabbing a handful of it, and his mouth floods with saliva at the thought of getting more than the brief nip of a peaked, tan bud he'd permitted himself when mapping out Harry's chest with his lips. The eager gasp it had earned…

Voldemort groans quietly, willing his mind to drift to less tempting territory when arousal starts to wake his body.

Before deciding on a dry topic to muse about, there is no longer a need to find one, for when he shifts slightly and tightens his grip on the warm, sleeping body in his arms, his mind instantly provides: 'too small, too soft, too smooth' at screeching volume.

With a mixture of dismay and relief, Voldemort opens his eyes and gazes down at the peaceful face of Harry Potter, which distinctly lacks facial hair and scars besides the source of his fame. It is much easier to get a hold and withdraw when his Intended wears a shell not yet marked by the hardships of life.

Voldemort does not wish to be rude – he recognises that Harry's is an adult in mind with all the experience of one, which is why he'll not be patronising about either Harry's chosen trajectory in this life or unnecessarily shield him from adult topics – but there are boundaries he's not comfortable crossing. Nor is he even able to cross them when feeling not the slightest urge to touch his soulmate with sexual intent while Harry parades around like a child. That this is the man's current 'real' body matters not. He thanks his new patron saint Giulia Tofana, the inventor of the ageing potion (along with a long line of poisons, but that is beside the point) and makes a mental note to brew more than the one vial he'd given Harry as a courting gift.

As he gets up, cleans himself with a few charms and puts on his robes, he ponders on the potion. Was the effect shown yesterday an unexpected quirk of his own adapted formula? Or will any ageing potion make Harry's body imitate the one from his old world by taking his previous looks into account? If so, what will happen if Harry takes a potion to age beyond the point at which he'd travelled back? Do the scars remain, or will the potion's magic work as usual and only use the genetic information of the current body instead of added memories? It is worth an experiment…

''Vol-mort?'' comes a mumble from the bed, a small hand searching the spot he'd just vacated. ''Are you okay?''

''Quite,'' he curtly responds, still partially busy making mental notes on the delicate art of brewing. When his gaze flicks over to the bed, those are wiped from his mind. Wrong body or not, the stunning emerald eyes that are so very piercing even seconds after waking have him rooted to the spot. They are shockingly old in comparison to the rest of Harry. Being an expert in soul magic, he is well-aware of why.

Eyes being a window to the soul is not a mere expression. Some particularly painful rituals had taught that lesson all too well, pieces of tattered soul forcing their way out through Voldemort's eyes with blinding pain before they could be contained in their vessels.

He sees it now, Harry's own trapped soul that is filled with anguish, hatred and darkness that the Dark Lord only ever saw in the face of one other child: himself.

Striding back towards the bed, he catches Harry's chin and nudges it upwards to peer into the breathtaking eyes of his Intended. There is light, too. An edge of softness that only appears when meeting the gazes of those the man holds affection for. Triumph rears its head when this tenderness appears so easily under Voldemort's studying gaze.

''I could fix your eyesight so you no longer have to hide behind glasses,'' he offers with a mutter, carefully wording it in a way to make it seem as if the favour would be for Harry, not for Voldemort himself.

''I thought that wasn't possible,'' the other frowns, turning his head away to wandlessly summon his glasses from the top of the dresser and shoving them onto his nose. Voldemort does not outwardly react to it other than letting his hand drop, as much as he wishes to rip the frames off and shatter the lenses.

''Anything is possible. I will make it so.''

It's an entirely honest statement. If no potion or spell has been found for an effect that he desires, he will create one. That is how the Dark Lord has approached magic ever since the first sliver of it escaped the palm of his hand and strangled a bully half to death. A shame he'd had no iron control over magic back then, for the received beating would, in Voldemort's eyes, only have been worth it if he'd have succeeded in killing the filthy Muggle who'd taunted him.

''In that case, I rather take you up on the offer to get rid of the Trace first as it's impractical to only travel between warded places until I am legally of age. During my last trip to Knockturn and Diagon Alley, I was far too vulnerable. It was admittedly short-sighted of me to decline initially, when I'd already decided not to stay at Hogwarts for that long.'' A faint dusting of red appears on Harry's cheeks as he admits fault.

Voldemort can understand to a degree, sharing the other's strong dislike of owing favours or being dependent. However, it is out of place between them.

''We are essentially an extension of each other, magic-wise,'' he lectures, carefully perching at the edge of the bed. ''Our power is strengthened by proximity and attachment. As you allow me to reach greater heights, it is only fair I maximise your abilities in return. Pulling a few strings to allow you free access to your magic is the least I can do. Which is why, naturally, I set to break your Trace the moment my faithful follower informed me you had retrieved the Philosopher's Stone and left Hogwarts.''

Harry perks up at that, eyes widening in such a way that even the thick glass cannot conceal their brightness. ''You did? That's… wow, that's incredibly thoughtful of you. Thank you!'' In an attempt to convey his gratitude in a different way, likely having gotten too used and comfortable yesterday, the man leans in, clearly aiming for Voldemort's lips.

''Not like this,''' he sternly denies, grabbing a firm hold on the back of Harry's head to keep it still. Before his Intended can react in either embarrassment or scorn, he leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to the lightning-bolt scar. ''No more than this,'' he establishes his boundary in words at last.

Harry tilts his head, calculating gaze meeting his own before giving a miniscule nod. ''That's fine. Good, actually, even if frustrating at the same time.'' The sigh he releases after is full of said frustration.

Instead of pulling away, however, Harry lifts a hand to trace the lightning-shape that marks the side of Voldemort's neck. It feels more intimate than anything they'd done last night, in a decidedly different way. Connections of the soul are pure and ageless, else they would not appear on babes.

''May I still kiss you here?'' Harry quietly asks.

In answer, the Dark Lord turns his head to display the mark more prominently, giving better access for a warm mouth to scorch the skin. Deep content seeps into the mark and travels down to settle in his chest, filling the remaining cold holes that the absence of his soulmate had created in the past months.

It feels so right. He has finally surfaced from the depths of the endless, icy ocean that is life after relentlessly swimming for decades to conquer it. He'll plunge into it again, such is the inevitability of life, but Voldemort imagines sitting on a dark beach, granted a brief respite with a relieving fire to warm his hands at.

The moment Lord Voldemort had laid eyes on the soul mark that had appeared in the mirror after waiting for fifty-three long years, he'd vowed to treat this gift with the respect it deserves. He did not blame magic for its belatedness, unlike so many fools who lamented lost time and age gaps. Having made himself immortal at sixteen, Voldemort expected it would take the birth of a second extraordinary mage to weave his match. Extraordinariness is, as the name suggests, hard to come by.

Yet despite his resolve to accept this bond regardless of who was tied to the other end of it – trusting magic in a way he never did or would trust other aspects of fate – Voldemort never dared hope it would feel like this.

Like a home that even Hogwarts could not replace.

''Voldemort? Are you really okay?''

''I should return to my manor.'' In the light of the revelation he'd had seconds ago, calling his house 'home' feels off.

''A manor,'' Harry grins with a teasing edge to it. ''Sirius wasn't far off with a castle, then. Please tell me you didn't get a Malfoy-sized place to house all your followers or something like that. I live in a pretty narrow terraced house and it is easily suited for four people plus a bunch of guests.''

''By effectively having six floors,'' Voldemort reminds him, unimpressed by the comparison. ''And even so, the Blacks have had to make use of the manors of other families for duels, balls and to store their riding animals. Phineas Nigellus Black may have covered up this bad investment by claiming superiority over those forced to open their homes to the Black family for any occasion, but I prefer the practicality of not having to outsource my potion laboratory or garden.''

''Not to mention the dungeons?''

''That, too,'' he replies before a sudden, befuddled look on Harry's face indicates the later had been said in jest. ''It is for you that I specifically built in dungeons in the first place,'' Voldemort speaks in all seriousness. ''To rid the world of Muggles without the involvement of magic being noticed, I am researching various ways to kill them. Live subjects for these experiments are a must.''

Any trace of mirth disappears from his Intended's face, then. ''I see. I hadn't considered that. Can you show me this prison of yours? It's hardly fair of me to turn my head away and let you do the dirty work.''

''It is noble work,'' Voldemort touchily corrects, taking great pride in what he does. The implication that killing Muggles is unsavoury does not sit well with him. For even if the rest of humanity is bothered by misguided morality, Harry and he both know this is crucial. Expectantly, he waits for the other to amend the wording.

With a nod, Harry concedes. ''You're right. I only meant it as a figure of speech. So, will you?''

''When you can devote your attention fully to me and our common goal, I shall gladly show you every detail of the catastrophes I have designed to wipe out Mugglekind. So, not until you have retrieved that last artefact you are hunting. If my information is correct, you did not retrieve all the Hallows as planned.''

Quirinus had given detailed reports of Harry's exit from the castle and all other relevant information the man was aware of. A Sirius-Black-imposter had turned up at the Ministry and travelled to Hogwarts with Dumbledore on the very same day the Stone had been stolen and Lockhart claimed to have defeated the Basilisk, only to disappear soon after. As nothing was reported missing from the Ministry after the incident and the impostor had been accompanied by Aurors and the Headmaster of Hogwarts since approaching the lift in the Atrium, it seemed Harry hadn't had the chance to snag what he'd come for.

''I didn't,'' Harry grumbles, nose scrunching. ''Still working on how to tackle my next attempt. At least I have far more avenues now the Trace is gone, so thank you again.''

Ah, a perfect opening. Smoothly, he suggests: ''We can discuss it over dinner this evening, as well as all other topics we should discuss in detail still. Most prominently, every single difference between your previous world and this one, that you know of. I need to determine which memories of yours are reliable enough to concretely use for taking future actions. Not our end-goal, of course, but whom to trust, what to use…''

''I doubt my godfathers will invite you to another dinner anytime soon.''

Voldemort has seen quite enough of Harry's family for the foreseeable future as well. Aware of how close his Intended is to them, he refrains from remarking upon this. ''You need not admire my dungeons and their prisoners on your way to the dining room, darling.'' Effortlessly, he summons a pair of clean socks from the dressing drawers and points his wand at it, channelling will and intent. ''Portus,'' he casts, visualising the exact position of the stars in the sky at the designated time Harry should arrive. ''Wear these today. You'll be whisked away to my manor at half past seven to take supper with me. We can resume our talk then.''

Rising from the bed, Voldemort decides he wasted away enough of the morning. There is a long day with a full schedule ahead as always. Now the Deterioration has been negated by spending time with his soul mate, it would be foolish not to make use of his restored, vibrant magic and sharp mind by resuming his deadly experiments with a clear head.

Harry takes the socks with an air of hesitation. ''Will we be alone? Or has there been a hushed-up Azkaban break-out since your return that didn't make the news and is the house full of Death Eaters now?''

''I prefer to work in peace,'' he reassures. ''Moreover, I was counting on your knowledge of 'who stuck by me and who betrayed me' as you once put it before deciding to reveal myself to any possible traitors. As such, I've only called a single follower to my side, as per your advice during our conversations at Hogwarts. I am offering him lodging, but Barty shan't interrupt our dinner.'' It had certainly come as a pleasant surprise to find that Barty Crouch Jnr had managed to escape Azkaban and instead been captured by his holier-than-thou hypocritical father. All things considered, this revelation had been quite the gamble on Harry's part, for if a single detail had been different about this… Which did bring him to the next point: ''Although with your knowledge being of an altered world where even an upstanding Professor such as Severus Snape joined my ranks, I am admittedly sceptical about the value of hearing what my followers did in a different universe.''

''If you followed my advice, I assume you found Crouch where I told you he was,'' Harry answers.

''I did. Still…''

The other shrugs, peeling away the sheets from his feet to put on the now enchanted socks. ''I'll tell you what I know and you can check how much of it is plausible based on your own information. That's what I did with Crouch, by the way. I kept tabs on Barty Crouch Snr and his House-Elf for years to see whether they occasionally brought an invisible person with them, which did happen on some sparse occasions. The Elf couldn't help but worriedly check on Barty Jnr every second whenever he did accompany them to events. The man may have put me in a deadly Tournament once on your behalf and tried to kill me after when you didn't succeed, so that didn't exactly warm me up to him, but he was undeniably a strong fighter and loyal to you to the very end. I've a feeling we're going to need him just as much as we need Quirrell because most of your other followers are either mad, far too bloodthirsty, or little cowards.''

Regrettably, the truth in his Intended's words cannot be denied. Those who denounced his name after the first war were only looking out for themselves and those who'd gone to Azkaban for over a decade were likely drooling in a corner by now, if they'd survived. With quick eradication of Muggles taking precedence over his prior plans such as openly overthrowing the Ministry or wreaking havoc, they had no use for impatient followers who wanted to spread terror with Muggle hunts and the release of dark creatures. Not to mention that blood prejudice among mages would be less than helpful.

''Promising,'' Voldemort sarcastically mutters under his breath, displeased at the description nonetheless.

Harry throws him a sympathetic smile and says: ''Hey, you'll have me at your side. Completely rational and stable, what more can you ask for?'' His Intended finally slips out of bed as well. Voldemort is glad that Harry pulls the bedsheets with him and drapes them such that it conceals his nudity. ''I also happen to come with the extension of one Hermione Granger, who might outsmart you one day and is indisputably loyal to me.''

''A child,'' he huffs. ''A first-year student at Hogwarts no less. Out of all rational and sane choices you've made, I am least impressed by your decision to reveal some of your secrets to a literal child.''

''All,'' Harry corrects with a mutter.

Narrowing his eyes, Voldemort does his utmost to suppress quickly rising fury. ''What was that?'' he hisses through his teeth.

Harry throws him a levelling stare and coolly repeats: ''All of them. Naturally, I've warned her against Legilimency, Veritaserum and other such methods used to draw out the truth from someone. She'll be starting Occlumency lessons soon, I've determined she has a good enough grasp on the necessary basics to succeed.''

It's a bitter pill to swallow that a twelve-year-old girl is trusted more than he is. The anger this calls forth, however, is easy to subdue when reminding himself of the long discussions he's had with Black and Snape when Harry was absent. Once Black had let all insults out of his system, what followed had been a rather productive conversation about their own experiences with soul bonds and what being a partner meant in their eyes. It was possibly the only reason why Voldemort's and Harry's talk last night hadn't devolved into more misunderstandings or a shouting match. Now, too, it helps to remember Snape's advice to empathise.

Harry had quite literally admitted that most of his steps are calculated based largely on experiences from his first life. He'd decided that, due to their 'shared' history, Voldemort was a risk. The other version of Granger, on the other hand, had stuck by Harry and proven her loyalty until the end. From that point of view, the choice in whom he'd shared his secrets with so far is logical.

Which isn't to say that Voldemort agrees or does not find it worrying that Harry so clearly displays the inability to properly separate his experiences. Would he have spilled his darkest thoughts to Granger regardless of the age at which they'd met? Would he have spoken of slaughter and time travel if he'd reconnected with the girl even if she'd been a mere toddler at the time?

That the answer to that is 'probably' is… something.

''I must go,'' he reiterates, looking once more in those large, green pools behind which lies a soul with possibly more damage than his own. A beautiful disaster. Voldemort looks forward to seeing what lies in store for the world when ruled by himself and Harry Potter. He always had an unhealthy curiosity for the morbid and strange, so it's unsurprising they complement each other so perfectly.

He wishes to immerse himself in the other, to never cease warming his hands on this roaring, unpredictable bonfire.

Taking Harry's right hand in his own, he brings the bright red soul mark to his lips, smiling against the skin when it evokes a stifled gasp.

''I'll be looking forward to dinner all day, darling. Do dress for the occasion, will you?''

Entirely smug, he leaves his dazed Intended behind.

Extraordinary, indeed.