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The day is sunny, perfect, golden rays warming his skin as he walks on the shore, crystal clear water lapping at his ankles.
Delphini laughs a little further away, throwing her head back, her black curls shining under the sun.
She’s taller than ever- every year she comes back from Hogwarts taller, prouder.
She’s still, and always will be, his little girl, but now, walking besides her father, she reaches his shoulder.
Voldemort smiles, no doubt something he said at fault for Delphini’s laugher.
Under the full glare of the sun, even he looks softer. Though, of course, in his case, it’s not the star above them that shines so brightly upon him, but Delphini- he’s always softer around Delphi.
He’s beautiful, his body all hard planes, perfect hair, no trace of the monster from before. His brown eyes, warm, and filled with intelligence, move to Harry, and Hary feels himself smiling back, content.
But then a shadows falls over them, clouds gathering, The water isn’t lapping at his ankles anymore, but at his face, going over his jaw.
Harry tries to scream- a warning for Delphini, panic building in his heart, overwhelming.
Something is wrong, he knows.
He can’t see Voldemort anymore. Delphini calls for him, and when she turns, she’s still Harry’s little girl, she is, but every time she comes back from Hogwarts, she looks more and more like her mother, too.
‘Run’, he wants to say, but when he opens his mouth, the ocean rushes inside, filling his lungs, and Harry struggles, fights-
He wakes, struggling still, trashing. It was only a nightmare, but he still can’t breathe, even awake, something blocking his airways.
Long, strong fingers. Harry’s hands are already clawing at them, trying to remove them, but they don’t budge.
Voldemort takes shape above him, made of shadows, blurry, because Harry doesn’t have his glasses.
There’s nothing beautiful about him, all predatory, no sun to shine upon him. A creature of the night.
Even without his glasses, Harry can clearly see his eyes. Brown, like in his dream, but they’re filled with a rage so hot they almost burn red.
Harry can’t breathe, strength leaving him- though it was never worth too much, was it?
His strength means nothing, compared to magic, and Harry was always doomed to fail his attempts to remove the fingers around his throat.
Voldemort is staring into Harry’s eyes- wet now, Harry knows- and he wonders-
Is that all Voldemort sees? Green eyes, filled with tears, staring up at him in fear? The same eyes from so many years ago?
Harry is older, so much bigger, but right then he feels like the toddler Voldemort is no doubt remembering.
Helpless.
Perhaps this year Voldemort will finally finish the job.
When Harry brought him from the Ministry, and many Halloweens after that, Voldemort hid on this doomed day that brought them together, interwind their destinies.
He hid, and Harry wondered why. Hoped it was remorse.
He found out a few years back, that it wasn’t remorse. Voldemort is always so angry on Halloween. On this day, he is exactly the rage filled monster of the past; he cannot hide it, cannot play Minister, cannot stop himself from hating Harry.
Last year, Harry woke up with the infamous pale yew wand pressing under his jaw. The year before that, when Voldemort was buttering his bread in the morning and Harry came into the kitchen, his elegant fingers curled around the knife with purpose, his tall body sprang from the seat, advancing fast and Harry thought ‘this is it’.
But, at the last moment, Voldemort walked past him, dropped the knife in the sink and Apparated away.
This year it seems he bypassed any weapon entirely. No wand, no knife, just cold, strong fingers wrapped around Harry’s throat.
He needs no weapon- he is a weapon, every cell in his body ready to inflict terrible violence.
Harry can only wait. He lets his hands drop, lets go of Voldemort’s invincible wrist.
Close your eyes, his instincts scream at him. It’s Harry’s eyes that trigger the worst of the rage, he knows.
Harry never pondered much on what that night meant for Voldemort; reasonably, for the first two decades of his life, he only saw it as a reminder of his murdered parents. It’s a sad day, always was, since he found out at eleven of its significance, but, just that. Sad. Harry cannot remember it. He doesn’t know if it hurt, if he was afraid, if his small mind understood what his eyes were seeing, his mother collapsing to the floor. If maybe he thought she went to sleep, or that it was all a game- a blinding green light and - nothing.
He can’t remember.
Voldemort does remember. He died that night, his first death. Harry wonders if it’s like lovers- you never forget your first, people say.
Indeed, it is. Harry’s first death, in the Forest, affected him worse than the second.
Voldemort blames Harry for it. The rest of the year, he’s a rational being, he’s an incredibly successful politician- ‘the youngest, most popular, most efficient Minister England ever had’, the Prophet called him; he’s a decent father, even a decent friend to Hermione; he is a good husband. Harry is always shocked, how good he is. He looks around him, at other marriages, problems couples have, and he cannot relate. When some of his friends complain to him about their spouses, Harry has nothing to share. If one ignores their history, Voldemort makes for an incredible husband, gives Harry no room to complain. Voldemort himself never complains, never yells, never cheats- there are no fights over dishes, or dinner, or infidelity, or about Harry’s chaotic Quidditch schedule. They never fight about Delphini, he never undermines Harry’s authority in front of her, in the rare cases Harry decides to be stern with her over an incident at school.
All that disappears on Halloween. No thought behind his rage. Year-round Voldemort knows Harry is not to blame for what happened then. But this Voldemort doesn’t.
Perhaps, next time Hermione, Ron, Neville, Luna, Ginny or even Andromeda complain about their spouses, perhaps Harry should say ‘mine is perfect, really, except for wanting to kill me on every Halloween’.
Perhaps Harry should say that. But perhaps he won’t get to do it.
He looks into those eyes and only sees death. He’s dizzy, his already bad vision now filled with dark spots, a weakness going through his limbs.
It’s fine.
Harry stopped wanting to die- he has a good life, he enjoys most of it, but if he were to die…he doesn’t mind that, either.
Better he kills me now than make me live forever at his side, make me bury Ron, Hermione, their children. Teddy.
Delphini.
Much better if he dies right now, in his bed. If he slips away quietly, and wakes up in Kings Cross. This time, he will take the train.
Air rushes in, and his body gulps it eagerly, even if Harry’s mind isn’t as desperate for it.
But the air goes in, the fingers are gone, and only then is the pain acknowledged, all around his neck.
His chest hurts too, a throbbing pain, his lungs unhappy.
Harry coughs, wheezing, sitting up blindly, one hand on his chest, the other fumbling around, trying to locate his eyeglasses.
Even when he finds them, it takes a moment to put them on, his body wrecked by coughs, his upper body bent forward.
When he finally has his sight back, he blinks, his bedroom comes alive around him.
His beloved bedroom, where he feels safe, and satiated, and happy. His lovely house, on a cliff by the sea.
His home.
Voldemort, though he is the main reason this beautiful house is a home, a true one, in a way even Hogwarts never was, is gone.
Harry is half on the floor now, back supported against the bed, and he spends some more minutes coughing, trying to regulate his heartbeat.
He is calm, but his body has often different needs than his mind, so Harry is gentle with it, patient, waits it out until he feels good enough to stand.
He goes to the bathroom, not even needing to light the candles on the wall, knowing where the potions are.
Harry has lots of accidents in practice or in games, or in the many sports he enjoys. Voldemort always keeps the bottom drawer of the bathroom cabinet stoked with healing potions. Superior ones, brewed by himself.
Harry gulps one down, his throat protesting something fierce, hurting badly, almost closing up again.
But down it goes and in mere seconds his lungs and chest stop hurting, his throat feels better.
He finds the ointment Voldemort made, that he massages into Harry’s shoulders and back after a rough game, turning him into a relaxed, happy puddle.
It doesn’t feel as good when Harry massages it around his neck. He winces, but soon the poultice works its magic, and Harry stumbles back to the bedroom, takes out his glasses, places them on the nightstand.
He snuggles under the blanket, cold. He’s never cold, or hot. Voldemort makes sure the house is at a perfect temperature, at all times. He charms the fireplaces in winter, he places cooling charms on the walls in the summer.
Understandably, this night he forgot to start a fire.
Harry could do it, but-
A part of him wonders if he still can. If he could live without Voldemort, who takes care of Harry’s every need. If Harry still remembers how to even function, how to exist without him.
He throws the blanket away, annoyed at having to get up again. He finds the sleeping potions in the dresser- for a second, he worries they won’t be there- Harry so rarely has nightmares or sleepless nights, so maybe-
But no, there they are. Potions to make him sleep, potions to keep the dreams away. Harry is sure they are recently brewed, too, even if it’s been - how long has it been since Harry needed one of these?
A year, or just about.
But Voldemort would have made fresh batches anyway, just in case Harry needs one.
He drinks it, goes back to bed, and is asleep in seconds.
(-)
Once more, he wakes with Voldemort on top of him, but this time he can breathe. He blinks, sluggish, limbs heavy.
The room is still dark, with the tiniest hint of light; the sun must rise soon enough.
Voldemort is still angry, made more of shadows than flesh, but some sanity returned to his eyes.
Such beautiful eyes. They avoid looking at Harry’s.
He reaches up, cups Voldemort’s face, just to feel it, to feel flesh there- human. He’s human, not shadow.
Yet he was a shadow, a wraith, for so long, wasn’t he? After that first Halloween.
It’s always so easy for Harry to forget what a shit life Voldemort led. The orphanage, the travels, the wraith decade, the torture at the Ministry- the only respite he got were two wars between all of that.
It is easy to forget it, when now he has it all.
Voldemort closes the inches between them, his mouth hot, hungry, cruel, capturing Harry’s pliant one.
Harry wondered, a year ago, if Voldemort will fuck him one Halloween, instead of attempting to kill him- though, no. There’s no actual attempt to kill Harry. No doubt, he’d be dead if Voldemort truly wanted it.
Either way, Harry speculated, but never expected he’d get a fucking and a - whatever that was- in the same day.
As always, his body responds fast under Voldemort’s touch. Harry wants him so much, all the time.
His life is good, better than most, far better than what he’d thought he’d get; Harry enjoys many things, he can laugh, he can cry, he surrounds himself with people he loves and love him back. Even so, he only feels alive, truly alive, with Voldemort. Who snatches Harry’s hand away from his face, shoves it roughly away.
He bites Harry’s lower lip, hard enough for a metallic taste to stain Harry’s tongue.
He rips Harry’s pyjama apart, all violence, nothing calculated or measured about it.
Harry is used to rough sex- he loves it- as much as the regular kind. But Voldemort is always in control of himself, even when he’s at his roughest. When there is pain, rare enough, Harry not only likes it, but knows there’s no danger of hurting worse, more than he wants or can take, that Voldemort understands better than he does what his limits are, what he desires.
Now, danger is in the air they share, almost a tangible thing. There’s something still very much unstable in those beautiful, predatory eyes.
Harry doesn’t fear. Nothing scares him these days. Harry can’t remember fear, can’t remember its grip on his heart and mind. He reached his limit in Malfoy Manor, years ago. And whatever traces of terror survived the Manor, died in Grimmauld.
Voldemort still fears dying; he fears weakness, being powerless. Harry killed him, made him weak and powerless, exiled in Albania. It’s why he hates Harry today.
Voldemort isn’t the only one irrational on Halloween; Harry once felt sad and guilty on this day, for his parents’ sacrifice. But that’s long lost to him, so he replaced the guilt for their deaths with guilt for Voldemort’s.
Hermione once spoke of that, held a speech about survivor guilt, for all those left alive after the Battle of Hogwarts.
At least Harry is not the only one afflicted with it.
Harry survived, and Voldemort didn’t, so Harry can’t hold his anger against him.
He intends to be good for him, to give him whatever he wants, whatever he needs.
He never quite got out of the habit he developed when he took Voldemort out of the Ministry, all those years ago.
Harry still desperately wants to make Voldemort happy.
He doesn’t approve of anything Voldemort does to make himself ‘happy’- the Minister position, his plots with Lucius and Lestrange, even whatever he’s cooking up with Hermione. Harry doesn’t like those things, because they aren’t good for others, even if he so far saw no evidence of victims. Harry stopped bothering with it, he never interferes, but he disapproves. Silently.
Yet he’d give Voldemort all he has to make him happy. He doesn’t have much to give, not things Voldemort appreciates anyway. But he has his body, and Voldemort always seems to find pleasure and satisfaction in it.
And it’s not such a selfless endeavour. Harry always gets pleasure from this, too, unimaginable pleasure, yet now it’s more thrilling than usual, because there’s something so raw about Voldemort.
Anger, hate. Yes. But honest.
Harry gets to receive something honest, fully so. Voldemort doesn’t have to pretend, to compromise, hold himself back, smile at Harry when he’d like to hit him, instead.
He knows Voldemort would like to make him suffer every time Harry leaves his clothes in disorder, all over their house, ruins Voldemort’s obsessive need for order. He sees Voldemort’s jaw twitching when he discovers a stain under a mug of tea Harry left in the library, perilously close to some book or another. But Voldemort simply cleans the mess, without complaining, without throwing a Cruciatus at Harry, like he no doubt desires.
He shoves Harry’s legs apart, with no patience, settles properly between them, not making eye contact.
“Do you want me to close my eyes?” Harry asks him; the words are whispered, but they are loud in the silence, and Harry almost flinches from his own voice.
The same fingers that strangled him, now dig into Harry’s hip. “I want you to shut up.” Even the way he speaks is different. Nothing refined about it, no charisma to make it sweet, to draw in the clueless. It’s closer to an animal’s growl than a respected Minister.
He’s usually careful with his clothes, but now he roughs up his own trousers, pulling himself free.
Harry braces himself, expects Voldemort to fuck him like that, with no preparation.
A part of him wants it, craves it.
Magic washes over them, raw and crackling, so different from the elegant caress Voldemort’s magic usually is.
Harry remembers this type, from the war- Voldemort’s indomitable spells, the suffocating power behind them, the way they seemed to suck in all the air around, aggressive and filled with rage.
He’s sure it’s a terrible spell, it must be, but no- it’s just lube, coating Voldemort’s fingers.
He lifts Harry’s hip, and then he shoves two fingers inside him.
Harry would whine, but Voldemort told him to shut up. So he bites his lip, arches his back, and takes it.
His cock throbs with want, blinding pleasure to acompany the burn, the violence of the penetration.
Voldemort doesn’t give Harry time to adjust to the intrusion, fingers going deep, and fast, punishing.
Harry is cursed- has cursed himself- to always find the non existent good in Voldemort. Right now, he chooses to focus on the fact that, no matter how rough he is, he still prepared Harry.
It makes something in Harry’s chest settle, soften with love.
He’d like to see his eyes, he wants Voldemort to skim around his head, to feel Harry’s love, but he’s still refusing to make eye contact, his gaze firmly between Harry’s legs.
He keeps his clothes on- parted robe, perfect shirt, trousers on. Somehow his cock looks even bigger like that, the only flesh on display.
He takes out his fingers as fast as he shoved them in, and Harry almost hisses, before reminding himself he’s being good, and he’s supposed to shut up.
A part of Harry always wants to be punished, but how can it be a punishment if Harry wants it so much? How can it be a punishment when Harry’s heart swells with need, when his cock twitches with want, every time Voldemort fucks him, be it rough or slow, or even sweet, on rare occasions?
It does hurt, a sharper pain than he’s accustomed to, when Voldemort’s cock pushes inside him, insistent, in a hurry.
It’s like being strangled, in a way- his airways are free, but Harry’s breath catches in his throat, nonetheless. He grips the sheets, digs his fingers in, his eyes close, but he keeps himself still, pliant.
Voldemort covers him completely now, all around Harry, inside Harry.
Unlike him, Voldemort breathes, harshly, over the sensitive skin of Harry’s neck.
After a few more seconds, Harry starts breathing again, too, but it’s not enough air.
Voldemort fucks him hard, and deep, knocking the breath out of Harry with every thrust.
It’s so good, Harry feels half mad with it. It’s real, and that makes it incredible.
He forgets himself, closing his arms around Voldemort’s shoulders, wanting him closer, wanting-
“Don’t touch me,” Voldemort snarls.
He lets his arm drop, goes back to gripping the sheet. He’s so hot- the room remains cold, but Harry burns; with pain, with pleasure, with the effort to stay quiet, keep his hands away from Voldemort.
He’ll let me hug him tomorrow. They just need to get through the day, and then everything will be normal, and Harry can hug him. Kiss him. Voldemort will look into his eyes again, without wanting to kill Harry.
Harry will get what he wants and needs again, as soon as November rolls around. He gets what he needs all year round; it’s only fair Voldemort gets one day for his own needs.
God, it’s so hard not to touch him.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.
If I am still alive by tomorrow, he rectifies, when Voldemort wraps his fingers around Harry’s neck again.
Everything is unclear after that, dream like, nightmare like. Lack of oxygen, then little of it, then none again. Harry keeps his eyes shut, not in an effort to spare Voldemort of the sight, but because it’s hard to open them again.
It feels like forever, like Harry will never get out of it, trapped in that state, where he’s only aware of air, or lack of it, when he can only focus on getting at least one breath- not enough- but enough to go on.
And then he feels the fingers on his scar; there’s no pain with it, or if there is, he can’t focus on it.
He’s very distantly aware his entire head hurts anyway, throbbing, pounding, but it’s not very important.
When he’s released, finally, for a second he wishes he was dead.
Still could happen; Voldemort hasn’t left yet, slumped over Harry.
Through it all, somehow, Harry’s hands remained on the bed, away from Voldemort, as instructed. There’s no magic involved.
Voldemort breathes hard, as if he’s the one that was strangled. He came, Harry can feel the proof inside him.
His mind freezes with shock, even if he’s gasping for air. Voldemort never came before Harry. Ever. In all these years.
The headache is blinding- briefly, Harry wonders if one can get brain damage from not getting enough oxygen. He wonders how long exactly one needs to be deprived of it to happen.
Voldemort gets off him, and Harry opens his eyes, but there’s not much difference with them closed or open.
He knows when he’s alone- he’s not sure how, but he just knows, a part of him aware at all times if Voldemort is in his proximity; he’s not, now.
He lifts his hands, to see if he’s able- he is. He touches his neck, his chest, taking stock of himself.
And then he finds the cooling come on his stomach; oh. Harry has no memory of it happening, of any kind of pleasure, but it evidently happened. It appears they didn’t break tradition, and Voldemort didn’t come before him.
Perhaps next year.
He extends his arm, and a second later, a vial of potion flies into his palm.
Harry’s gotten pretty good at wandless magic. Voldemort approves of it, gives Harry a small smile whenever Harry bypasses his wand, simply uses his will.
He falls asleep again.
When he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky- No, Harry thinks, immediately, and takes another potion.
He does the same when next he stumbles into consciousness.
How fucking long can one day be?
And then, on his next awakening, everything is dark. Harry is incredibly groggy after all those potions, but he checks, he waves his hand, casting a Tempus spell.
November first. A little over one in the morning.
He gets out of bed, puts his glasses on. He realises he’s naked, dried come sticking to his abdomen, between his legs. He opens the dresser, grabs whatever he finds first.
He only realises it’s one of Voldemort’s robes when he’s stumbling down the hallways, trying to walk and put the robe on at the same time.
He almost falls down the stairs, the house spinning around him, but his heart beats faster, because he sees light in the living room.
When Harry enters, he sees Voldemort’s back; he’s on the sofa, reading.
“Hey,” Harry says. Well. Harry makes a noise. His voice comes out all rough.
Voldemort’s head turns, and-
Their eyes meet. Nothing happens.
Something in Harry calms, settles. The temperature is perfect again, flames playing in the fireplace.
Harry takes another couple of steps and then collapses on the sofa. He scoots closer, closer, until he rests against Voldemort’s side. He doesn’t hug him yet, still a little frazzled, but Voldemort’s arm goes around his shoulders.
Harry smiles.
“Delphini wrote,” Voldemort says. “She mentioned she can’t wait to see you. I wonder if it crosses her mind to spend a Hogsmeade weekend with her classmates, and not with you.”
Harry’s smile gets bigger. “I told you we hang out with her friends, too.”
Harry goes to Hogsmeade every weekend Delphini goes. She wants it, he wants it, and her friends always want to hear stories of Harry’s Quidditch matches.
“Terrible,” Voldemort says. His magic is over Harry’s skin, soft, elegant. Warm and familiar.
Harry probably had marks on his neck, because that’s where he feels the magic settling. He’s sure they are gone, now.
“Can we go to bed?” he asks. He slept all day, but he abused the potions; he’s very sleepy.
And the brief look he had of Voldemort’s face-
Voldemort mustn’t have slept at all, dark circles under his eyes.
Voldemort Apparates them to bed, but when Harry tries to lie down-
“No.”
He gets up, holds a hand for Harry, helps him stand, too, and leads him to the bathroom.
He helps Harry into the bathtub, filling it with a wave of hand.
“We have faucets for a reason,” Harry jokes.
“Aesthetic reasons,” Voldemort jokes back.
The water does feel amazing. Harry relaxes, rests his head against the head support.
Voldemort sits on the edge, washes Harry, conjours a glass of water for him when he’s done.
When they go back to bed, the sheets are clean, new. Harry snuggles into Voldemort, as soon as they lie down.
He hugs him, fiercely. “Maybe one day you’ll come with me to Hogsmeade to see Delphi.”
“Remember when you didn’t want me near children? I miss those times.”
Harry laughs. “That was before I learned all children you meet instantly adore you.”
It’s ridiculous. Rose is in awe with Voldemort, starts speaking of books as soon as she sees him, as eager as Hermione to have someone intelligent to talk to.
After a bad fall from a broom, Hugo refused to get back on one, until Voldemort waved his hand over a broom and lied to him that it was now impossible to fall off it. Ron and Harry did that too, before him, but Hugo wasn’t impressed.
“He seems like he knows what he’s doing,” Hugo said, when Ron asked why he would trust him over them.
When Teddy ran away from home, after Lestrange told him Andromeda’s dear sister Bella was the same woman that killed his mum, when he felt betrayed and filled with an anger so hot, it had Sirius spelled all over it, it was Voldemort that convinced him to go back.
Of course, he did it because Teddy ran to their house, and while Voldemort didn’t say anything when Harry gave him their spare bedroom, he surely wasn’t too happy to share his house with a kid that wasn’t his.
He’s also the one teaching Teddy how to better control his shapeshifting skills.
Harry is sure Scorpius would adore him, too. Only Scorpius is never around Voldemort, Lucius makes sure of it. Even Draco is so very rarely there, and only at balls or Ministry functions where there are so many people around, Draco gets lost in the crowd easily.
Voldemort still refuses to meet Tony, but he’ll cave in, eventually.
“These aren’t children, Harry,” Voldemort says, turning Harry around, his arm going over his waist, holding Harry to his chest. “These are teenaged monsters. I get enough of that when Delphini is home, no need to expose myself to more of it.”
Harry snorts. “She’s not bad at all!” They’re lucky- Delphini shows none of the teenager rebellion Harry was warned about by other parents. She’s fourteen, turning fifteen in two months, and so far, nothing changed about her.
“Even if she was, she’s ours. The others aren’t, and I refuse to engage with her so-called friends.”
And this- this makes Harry melt. Radiate with happiness. Whenever Voldemort says Delphini is theirs, whenever they are all together- it’s perfect. Nothing can get better than that, nothing in the world could possibly make Harry happier.
“Besides, I’m the Minister. I can’t loiter around Hogsmeade, unlike other people, with silly ‘careers’.”
His voice drips with derision, and yet he comes to see about half of Harry’s games.
He seems to like it when Harry wins every single match.
“Fine. She’ll be home, soon enough, anyway. Christmas is right around the corner.”
Most people’s new year starts in January. Harry’s year starts on November first, filled with potential. Christmas is close, and with it comes Delphini; they decorate the house however they like, and Voldemort sneers at all that colour every day he comes home from work.
Their birthdays are right after.
And then Quiddich season starts in March, and it’s only a short time left until summer.
Harry places his hand over Voldemort’s, and he sinks more comfortably into the pillow.