Work Text:
January 1996
The first time, he had woken up drenched in sweat and horrified. Ron had looked at him, worried, had tried to ask what happened, but Harry hadn’t uttered a single word. He trusted his friends blindly, but some things were better left unsaid; some secrets would never leave his lips, they would forever be mere images, branded behind his eyelids - inky black hair, a worshipful gaze, and that voice begging “My Lord”.
His relationship, if one could call it that, with Cho had dissolved like pale mist; he felt nothing more than a tinge of annoyance when he saw her laugh at Roger Davies’ jokes - there were other women after all, better, worthier, purer.
He recoiled, disgusted by the thought - but only in broad daylight. At night, something other than justice burned in his loins.
That part of himself - the snake slithering through his thoughts - was a constant presence. No matter how hard he tried to tell himself that his closeness with Voldemort was just a terrible, painful nuisance, the discomfort in his scar was nothing compared to the relief of knowing his anger wasn’t just his. That somewhere, those adoring eyes longed for him. Amid the deafening, throbbing, endless fury, there was also a strange sense of contentment - Harry hadn't felt this way in a long time, he had never felt this way, he was happier than he had been in fourteen years.
The woman - Bella - and the light behind her eyes would have repulsed him had he met her at any other time - but she bowed with a fervour he had never experienced and looked at him like the most miraculous sight in the world. Her devotion was intoxicating.
For a few moments, above her, the anger disappeared.
July 1996
Bellatrix Lestrange was the person he hated most in the world - Harry dreamt about her every night.
The fiasco at the Ministry left him full of rage and pain, the likes of which he had never experienced before, and they followed him everywhere. Before the sun dipped below the horizon, the memory of Sirius throbbed hot in his chest, a mixture of emotion, sadness and injustice - why, why had he killed him? - but when darkness fell, blind fury gripped his gut - how dare she? How dare she fail like that?
He was alone, outcast and misunderstood, now like before, by the Wizarding World, which hadn’t believed him, and by Dumbledore, who had abandoned him. Locked in his little room in Privet Drive, a prisoner in walls of stone and flesh, hounded by his own mind.
He might as well make the most of it, then - you really need to mean it, Potter! - and dive into the hatred; wrapping his large pale hands around her throat, choking her until she cried, gave him a fleeting comfort that melted away at dawn, when he awoke, alone again.
“I could kill you now.”
“My life is yours, my Lord. I am yours.”
It was hard for the beast inside not to be flattered by those passionate whispers - occasionally, after those words, he would kiss her on the lips. To tease her, of course, to revel in the sheer amusement of seeing her tears when he sent her away once more.
If he said it enough, he would believe it.
He hadn’t forgotten, but a part of him, that which least belonged to him, had forgiven Bellatrix in the end. He still sent for her, but he no longer hurt her: however unworthy of him, and utterly detestable, a sort of latent respect simmered within him for his favoured weapon, who was all fire and fury and lust for life. Any worthy companion of his could only be such - he couldn’t bear foolish tears hanging from dark lashes - a hard, shining woman, forged in fire, who only burnt for him.
May 2003
The scar had not pained him for five years now. All was well. Or at least, that was what he liked to tell himself.
The nightmares had grown sparser. It helped to have someone at his side who understood perfectly - Harry still woke up in the middle of the night, heart swollen with fury, and only had to take a few steps in the direction of the bathroom to catch sight of Ginny bent over the sink, hissing at the taps.
They never spoke of it in the morning; they smiled happily in their wedding photos: he was impeccable in his Muggle suit and she wore a dress of the purest white. They had done it on purpose, to be just Harry and Ginny, the exact opposite of the monsters they hadn’t yet braved.
Bellatrix Black and Lord Voldemort were cremated, their ashes buried together in an unmarked place to avoid turning their graves into a pilgrimage for lunatics; countless eyebrows were raised at that request from the Boy Who Lived; only Ginny understood.
Ginevra Weasley was a strong and confident woman - immaculate blood flowed through her veins, there was liquid fire where her soul should have been.
Harry loved his wife, truly loved her. He made it a point of honour: Dumbledore had always insisted that love was redemption, and Harry was going to be better than Voldemort, the monster who had ruined his life, the monster who had disappeared in the end, who had left him alone. Free, but empty.
Harry loved his wife, truly loved her, and she loved him too - little did it matter that when he held her close and took her, it was black hair he saw, little did it matter that he grasped her hips too violently, little did it matter that he was always on top.
Harry loved his wife, truly loved her - loved her strong nature, her hard, passionate gaze, her whimpers in the dark, her whispers of “Tom” they never acknowledged the next morning, uttered with the same devotion as those“my Lord”s he would never hear again.
He loved Bellatrix, truly loved her.