Chapter Text
—
Narcissa walks through the door to the infirmary beside Voldemort's office a few moments after they arrived at the manor, and Harry feels sick with embarrassment at the sight of her. He doesn't quite understand why, but with every person who learns what had happened to him, he feels more and more like he wants to bury himself under the floorboards.
“My lord, you called for me?” Narcissa asks. Her eyes flicker to Harry, showing slight surprise at seeing him.
She must have known I tried to leave , Harry thinks.
“Yes I did,” Voldemort responds “I would like you to examine my husband for me. I’ve learned he was dealing with a medical issue a week or so ago, and I would like for you to make sure it didn't have any adverse effects.”
Narcissa doesn't look very surprised at learning Harry was ill. She must have had her own theories on why Harry had left when he did when, from the outside, nothing about his treatment had changed.
“May I know what the issue was?” She asks.
It's not directed at Harry, which confuses him for a moment before he realises why It's not his choice what she learns here, Voldemorts in control of him, in control of what people know about him, in control of what treatment Narcissa can give him
He decides what happens to him, he has for months now.
Voldemort doesn't look at Harry as he responds to Narcissa, “Harry suffered a miscarriage due to repeated exposure to Dark curses, though I think specifically a bludgeoning curse to the stomach is to blame.”
Harry's stomach drops slightly at his frank words, but he can't help himself but to peer at Narcissa, looking for her reaction. She had a face clear of emotion before Voldemort spoke, but it changes when he mentions the miscarriage. Harry can't make sense of it; maybe it's guilt? Certainly shock, if nothing else.
But Narcissa is nothing if not professional, and she clears her face quickly.
“May I ask for specifics? How far along was Mr. Potter when it happened, and did anything particularly alarming happen during the miscarriage itself?”
Voldemort seems to realise that he doesn't have an answer to those questions himself, and turns to Harry, “Would you like to answer Narcissa questions, Harry?”
He doesn't, but he knows Voldemort won't stop prying until he can assure himself that Harry is well, so he nods and tries to remember.
“I think I was three months along?” Harry says, “There was only really one time I could have- uh, gotten pregnant, so I must have been three months along. I don't know what you would think is alarming though, I don't really know what a ‘normal’ one would be like.”
“Why don't you describe it how you remember it, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa says, “and I can discern if anything was out of ordinary.”
“Alright, sure. Um… I was fine when I woke up that morning. I hadn't been getting enough rest for the past few months I think, so I was really tired the whole day, and it got worse during- it . But I don't think it actually started, until-”
Harry's eyes dart to Voldemorts, wondering if he's allowed to say names, or if Voldemort has decided to keep the specifics a secret. Voldemort catches his look, but all he does is place his hand on Harry's lower back, and motion for him to continue.
“Until Alecto hit me with a bludgeoning curse. She was aiming for my ribs, but I couldn't dodge it all the way so it hit me in the stomach. I started getting these waves of pain, and I got super nauseous, I even ended up throwing up, but ‘cuz of-” Again, Harry pauses, but this time because he doesn't want to talk about what happened with Amycus. He shakes his head before continuing, “I had to run down the hallway to my room, and the pain kept getting worse. Every step felt like it should have knocked me over.”
He feels shaky, Harry realies. He hadn't thought the memory of it would bother him, it hadn’t while he’d been gone, but as he tries to order the events in his mind, he feels more and more distressed. But he powers through anyways. Hopefully, if he can say it all now, neither of them will ask him to talk about it again.
‘Eventually it did,” Harry says, “I ended up on the floor, and I didn’t realise until Weezy pointed it out, but I was bleeding a lot. I didn't know I was pregnant when it was happening, so I couldn't figure out what to do. I thought maybe it was a period or something, but there was way too much blood for that. I don't really remember much after that thought, just the pain, but I woke up about a day later.”
Harry sees Narcissa face harden when she hears that he went unconscious, and she swishs her wand beside herself to summon a parchment and quill to - presumably - record his words.
He shouldn't mention how Weezy had helped him, Harry thinks. It's clear Voldemort already knew what had happened, but just in case he doesn't know that part yet, Harry doesn't want to get her in trouble.
Besides, Harry thinks he might owe her his life. If she hadn't been willing to help him, Harry probably would have bled out on the floor.
“Had the bleeding stopped when you woke up?” Voldemorts interjects.
“Uh, yeah mostly, but- sometimes I’ll find little dots of blood in my underpants or my bed sheets. And a few days ago I had these, like, really painful cramps for a few hours, and more blood than usual came out.”
It had been distressing. He had briefly thought that Weezy hadn’t healed him completely and he would bleed out in the hotel's grimy bathroom, but it stopped fairly quickly. When he cleaned up the mess it made after, what he found made him think that it was just whatever was left of the pregnancy - whatever was left of the baby - finally coming out of him.
“Are you still experiencing spotting now?” Narcissa asks, “And are you still experiencing pain in your abdomen?”
“A little bit? I didn't have any spotting last night, but I did yesterday. And the cramps have mostly stopped, I just feel a little- tender.”
“And do you still feel ill in other ways? Tiredness, nausea?”
“I’ve actually been feeling a bit better than I have for a while. I’m still tired a lot, but I used to be nauseous all the time, and it stopped after the- …after it happened.”
Narcissas summoned notepad and quill stops writing, but they stay floating nearby as she moves forward towards Harry.
“Thank you, Mr. Potter, for sharing that with me.” She makes eye contact with him as she says it, before she turns and looks at Voldemort, “Unless you have any other information you think I should be aware of, I would like to move forward with examining Mr. Potter.”
Voldemort seems almost lost in thought, but he still nods and motions for her to proceed. Narcissa apparently didn’t need much prompting, as she tells Harry to lay back on the cot and holds her wand above his stomach quickly.
His position on the cot means Voldemort's hand is removed from his back, and he misses the warmth it brought him almost immediately.
The parchment beside her starts writing again when Narcisssa casts her spells, and he waits to see if that night is going to cause him any more trouble.
Several minutes pass, and most of the spells Narcissa casts are ones that he recognises, but they react differently then when she had cast them before. She places the tip of her wand over Harry's stomach, casting the spell from before to look at his uterus, which glows a gold colour - and though it flickers for a moment as it had the last time, it comes back strong, and writing appears on the parchment beside Narcissa.
It grows long as she holds the spell, much longer than when she had first examined his body's oddities, until eventually she stops her spell, and she reaches over to the parchment and reads what had been written.
Voldemort, who had been standing quietly on the other side of the cot as Narcissa had worked, duplicates the parchment, and floats the copy into his hands. Narcissa seems like she wants to object but instead holds her tongue, and they both go over the results in silence.
Voldemort must finish reading first as he summons a quill and starts marking the parchment with quick strokes. Narcissa finishes reading a moment after him, and turns to Voldemort.
“Did you know about this?” She asks, voice tight.
It's the first time Harry has heard one of Voldemort's followers speak to him in something akin to anger.
“Not until after Harry had already left the Manor.” Voldemort says back in clipped tones. A warning pointed at Narcissa for daring to question him out of turn, but also a peek into how bothered he is by everything that happened. Narcissa turns to Harry, apparently deciding it's better if she directs her comments and questions to him right now.
“We knew already that your body was malnourished, and we had been treating the long term effects of that with potions, but because of the pregnancy, your magic started to do something called Auto Graviditatis. It's a phenomenon where a pregnant person's magic thinks the fetus isn't getting enough support from their body, and decides to supplement it with their magic.”
Narcissa looks back at her parchment for a moment before she continues, softening her voice from the tone she had used with Voldemort.
“In most cases this would be fine. Magical cores are quite suited to supporting pregnancies, it's why you almost never hear of a magic user losing one unexpectedly. But given the neglect you faced as a child, your magic was already expanding its effort to keep you healthy. It wasn't capable of doing both at once. That's most likely why you were as tired as you were, the magic that was keeping you functioning was being syphoned away, and given the result of my scans, if you had stayed pregnant for even a month longer, there could have been severe consequences for you and your magical core.”
Narcissa rubs her eyes with her hands, seeming exhausted and unhappy with the results on the parchment in front of her.
“And given the drain Dark curses can have on a magical core,” She continues, “it’s left you in a very precarious position. I’m honestly surprised all you felt during this was tiredness and nausea, you should have - by all accounts - fallen into a coma. I imagine you must have a very strong magical core to have been able to wether all this.”
“I guess…” Harry doesn't know about his core being particularly strong, he's never felt like that was true, but he can't think of another reason for him not being as ill as she says he should have been.
“Well,” She starts, clearly formulating a plan in her head, “I'll need to update the treatments you're on, but all this shouldn't be too much of an issue for you moving forward. If I could discuss this with Severus,” She directs at Voldemort. “then we could get much more specific with the potions he will be taking to deal with this.”
Voldemort's face sours, “You may work with Severus, but do not discuss why Harry has been ill, just have him brew the potions you require. If he tries to object, tell him he is free to direct his complaints to me.” He gains an odd smile on his face, one that makes Harry shiver.
Narcissa nods her assent, before she quickly begins reviewing her parchment. “Do you need anything else from me, my Lord?”
“No, you may leave. But make sure to have the new treatments ready as soon as possible.”
Narcissa bows slightly, peering at Harry one last time before she turns and leaves the room.
Voldemort is still standing with the parchment in his hands, jotting down something Harry can't see. He still hasn't looked at Harry, and he wonders if he's mad at him.
Yet despite the thought, Harry can't bring himself to care about that right now. He tried to play it cool when Voldemort had found him in his hotel room. After all, he hadn't thought he would actually be able to stay hidden from Voldemort for very long, not when he refused to ask his friends for help in getting away from him more permanently.
But to find Voldemort standing there when he had thought he would have at least a week more to prepare before being forced back to the manor had created a sickening jolt of dread to appear in his stomach.
When Voldemort had first said that they couldn't change the contract, there had been a brief moment where he knew he wouldn't let himself go back, that he would do anything but let himself be dragged back to that place. He had been glad his wand was tucked into the back of his towel - he had started carrying it with him again after leaving the manor - but he still isn't sure if he would have aimed it at Voldemort, or himself.
He dreads that at any moment Voldemort will change his mind - that his promise that they could add an addendum to the contract was a lie - and instead Harry will have to stay in his wing with no choice about what happens to him, forced to suffer through whatevers done to him and be left with the regret from not stopping it when he had the chance.
Its sapping him of all his energy, this worry, this dread. He doesn't know what he'll do if it doesn't leave him soon. He needs his wits about him if he wants to try to convince Voldeort to keep to his promise, but at the moment, he can barely see his hands through his blurry vision.
Harry jolts slightly when Voldemort makes a quick movement with his hand to vanish the parchment he held. He ducks his head, unsure how to predict his mood. Despite having stayed in the manor for three months, he still doesn't know anything about how his husband will treat him, all his original ideas proven wrong quite thoroughly.
All Voldemort does though, is move himself until he's standing in front of Harry.
“I will not retract what I have promised you,” Voldemort starts, “but you will do what I ask of you while you stay at the nest.” His voice is cold, bordering on anger. Yet it's stifled in a way that - through the cloud of dread - makes Harry believe it's not directed at him.
Harry nods in agreement, but keeps silent otherwise, unable to get out even a simple murmur of agreement.
“You will follow whatever treatment I approve for you,” His husband continues, “you will take all potions given to you, and submit to any examinations I request. I am aware you have done so without fuss in the past, but your placement in an apartment is reliant on your cooperation with what I decide for you.” Voldemort's eyebrow raises, a questions and request hidden in it, asking him if he'll do what he's told.
Harry nods again, but his words feel even farther from him than before.
“You will not use the fact you're in an apartment to contact your friends; you will only be allowed contact with people I pre-approve.” Voldemort continues, “You will not be confined to the apartment as such , but it will be up to the discretion of Barty whether an outing is appropriate and safe for you. Although, I will always reserve the right to reject it if I so wish.”
Voldemort's words come to a sudden halt after his last sentence, though Harry doesn't know why. He’d been listening to his new rules, which admittedly weren't that different then his old ones, but he couldn't bring himself to look up at Voldemort while he was speaking them.
He sees Voldemort reach a hand until it's under his chin, gripping it lightly and tilting it until they're facing each other. Still, Harry can't look in his eyes.
He's remembering something from a long time ago. Uncle Vernon had locked Harry outside for the night, something he had thought was an unexpected blessing at the time given that he'd usually be locked in the cupboard instead.
But the night outside had been cold, and by the time Vernon had opened the door the next morning, Harry hadn't been able to move. He thinks he’d passed out, the chill feeling sunken into his bones, robbing him of his energy.
He remembers yelling, and a shriek that he thinks was from his aunt, before someone had dragged him inside and placed him in the bath, clothes and all.
It burned, it felt like he got cored out by how hot it felt. And it was loud, so very loud, until the water rose above his head, and then it was quiet, muffled by the liquid flowing into his ears, and then his eyes, and then his nose. He didn't even have the energy to understand that he was drowning at the time.
That belated realisation leaves him lying awake some nights, the idea that he might have died just a handful of years before he would have finally been able to leave that place, even if he had to go back every summer.
He woke up in his cupboard. Vernon had stuck a broom in, poking his leg to see if he got a reaction. When he'd seen Harry's eyes were open, that he was looking at him, he’d dragged him out and started yelling about ‘ How dare he do something like that!? What would the neighbours have thought if they'd seen him outside acting like a corpse on their front porch! ’.
He’d been stuck in his cupboard for days after, and his Uncle would glow a bright red every time he saw him, but his aunt had acted weird after. She would give him tea whenever she made some for Dudley, something she had never done before as she didn't like to ‘ waste perfectly good food on him ’, though she stopped making it for him a month or so later.
The memory of it keeps replaying in his mind, her odd behaviour, that even now doesn't quite make sense to him.They’d done much worse to him while he lived there, what does a little cold weather matter. But still, the similarities niggle at the back of his head. Even if Voldemort is kind to him now - promising to give him the things he wanted, removing the people that hurt him - who's to say that it won’t go back to how it was before.
“Harry,” Voldemort says, his voice the softest he's ever heard it, “are you alright?”
it’s an act he's putting on, he thinks, something to convince Harry to cooperate with him, but it's better than the alternative, him just taking what he wants from him. And Harrys always been good at ignoring the hard parts of life. Maybe if he lets Voldemort think he actually believes him, he’ll be nice to him for longer
“Sorry,” Harry finally says, the words grating against his lips, “I’m fine, I just- It's been a lot today.” His eyes still want to look anywhere but at Voldemort, but they flicker to the bridge of his nose as he speaks, “I understand what you want from me, I won't take advantage of the fact I’m not at the manor, I promise.”
Voldeort hesitates for a moment, seeming to consider what he should say before he decides to finish laying out his rules, his hand still holding Harry's chin, ”...In addition to what I have already laid out for you, I also intend to continue with our Tuesday dinners. I’ll decide at a later date whether I'll bring you here for them or not, but I expect you to be ready for whatever I decide.”
Harry nods again, and barely gets out a quiet “yes sir,” but Voldemort grimaces in response. Harrys too tired to guess what he did wrong, and he expects to be admonished for whatever it was, but Voldemort just stays quiet.
They sit in the ensuing silence for a moment before Voldeort shifts in response to something Harry can't see.
“Barty’s cleared the apartment.” He says, “If you’d like, I can take you there now.”
The words are phrased like a question, but the tone implies that Voldemort wants to do so now, so Harry nods. Voldemort's hand moves to Harry's waist, nudging him till he steps off the cot, then wrapping his arm securely around Harry and apparates them away.
It makes Harry nauseous, just like the last apparition had, but he toughs it out. He knows there's no use complaining about something so unimportant.
When the nausea clears, Harry can see that they landed inside a building, in front of an empty wall. Harry's confused for a moment, before Voldemort leans his head down to whisper in Harry's ear, and says “Alibon Street, Bayswater, The Nest .”
It's under a ward like the fidelius charm, Harry realises. The words Voldemort said reveals the door that was concealed in front of them, but he knows he’d been able to understand what they had said earlier when they talked about it, making him wonder what exactly the difference is.
It's very ornate, the door, with carvings along the ridges of it filled with snakes and skulls alike. Voldemort reaches out his hand and opens it, a movement that strikes Harry as more normal than anything he had seen from him before.
The door opens with a soft click, and Voldemort steps through first. Harry goes to follow, but his husband holds up a hand in a silent motion for him to stop. He reaches for Harry's hand, and he feels a prick in his finger that he remembers from when Weezy had keyed him to the ward stones.
Voldemort doesn't do anything with it immediately though, as he pauses for a moment until Barty comes down the hall inside the room, walking towards them. He waits until Bartys just inside the door and stands beside Harry before he turns down the hall and disappears from view.
It's awkward, the silence that reigns between them. Barty doesn't try to fill it, and Harry isn't sure how he's supposed to act towards him now that he's his bodyguard, the title making him feel weird.
Even at the height of danger after Voldemort got resurrected, no one had thought he needed protection like that, and Harry doesn't understand why he would decide he’d need one now. Though, he guesses it's more of a Jailer situation than anything else.
The time they spend standing at the door drags, making Harry wonder what exactly Voldemort is doing inside, before he reappears at the end of the hall, his face clear of any clue Harry could use to guess.
“You have free access to all rooms inside the apartment,” Voldemort says, “and the amenities available inside are much like the wing at Malfoy manor, but the key difference is that,” he nods in Bartys direction, “If he decides to allow it, you can leave the apartment, only if your accompanied by him, and explore the area.”
Harry's looks at Barty again. He knew already that he would be responsible for deciding if he could leave or not, but the reminder makes him look at him through a different lens.
What will his decision be like , Harry wonders.
“Given that I’m unsure of the length of time that you will be staying here,” Voldemort continues, “I won't arrange for any lessons to take place while you're here, but I will still expect you to fill your time with worthwhile ventures instead of wasting it on idle nonsense.” Voldemort steps outside the door so that he's standing beside Harry, and his hand twitches as if he meant to hold it out but decides not to. “Barty can give you a tour, but I must be off. Certain revelations have led to me being more busy than usual, and this has eaten much of my time already.”
He sends a small nod to Barty, and apparates away.
Harry's so distracted by how fast his husband left, how easily he left him after he was gone for so long, that he's taken off guard when Barty speaks.
“Get inside, the wards’ll only activate once your in here.”
Harry jolts, but steps inside quickly, unwilling to disobey an order from his new jailer so soon. The door shuts behind him, and a gold web of colour grows across it and onto the walls, before settling into cobwebs he wouldn't have noticed unless he saw them appear, and Harry knows that more than just the unknown version of the fidelius is active on the apartment.
—
The silence that reigns in the apartment is silted. Barty had brought food for them to eat from some restaurant nearby, but despite them sitting together while they eat it, they haven’t talked to each other.
The way Voldemort had left so quickly bothers Harry, but he doesn't know why. He thinks he should be relieved that he was left alone after running like he had, but he’d expected something more, some expression of anger, some declaration of intent, something to explain why he’d been treating Harry the way he had.
Instead what he got was something almost like an apology; he’ll never see the carrows again, he’s - theoretically - allowed outside, and he was taken to get treated for any harm the miscarriage might have caused.
It bothers him, all of it does, and it bothers him even more that all he can do is wait until he can see him again to ask, but given his own track record, he doesn't know if he actually will, even if he is given the chance.
He tries to refocus. There's no use thinking about it now, there's over a week till Tuesday, so instead he tries to look around the room they're eating in while they're both occupied.
It's a nice place, Harry is surprised to realise as he looks around. Not like the Manor, and yet not like the Burrow either. There's windows that let light in, though they're all covered by curtains, and Harry wonders if he can open them.
The floors are made of a well worn wood that he thinks might extend to the rest of the apartment, and the table their eating is sturdy but old looking. All the furniture looks old, even the cabinets and appliances Harry can see in the kitchen adjacent to where they’re sitting.
“It's a nice place right?” Barty asks, startling Harry out of his observations.
“Huh?” Harry says dumbly.
Bartys eyes crease with slight amusement, and he speaks through a bite of food, “The apartment, it's nice right? Most of our hideouts aren't, they're usually a place you wouldn’t be too happy to have to stay in, but this ones nice.”
“Oh,” He mumbles, “yeah, it's nice.” Harry fiddles with his food as he speaks. He’d eaten more of it than he thought he would, but despite the plate being only half eaten, he doesn’t think he can stomach anymore.
Barty must notice, as he puts his food down and motions for Harry to stand with him, “Come, I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping. One of the things that makes this place so nice is that it actually has bedrooms. Usually we get stuck sleeping on the floor in the same cramped room, but you’ll have your own.”
Harrys not sure if he's supposed to respond, but what he's alluding to makes him curious. “Why- uh, why would you have to stay here? I thought all the Death Eaters got pardoned when my husband signed the contract with the Ministry?”
They turn the corner and come up to a white door, and Barty stops in front of it, “We were, but we still have tasks that take us away from home, or- into the city as it were. It's better if we leave as little of a trace of what we do as possible.”
“I thought you guys weren't working against the Ministry anymore?”
“Who says what we do is against the Ministry?” Barty says with a wink.
They both linger at the door for a moment longer, before Harry asks, “Should you be telling me all this?”
Barty raises an eyebrow at him, an odd mix of amusement and pity on his face, “Well, you're not going to tell anyone else about this, are you?”
It makes Harry want to hide, so he grabs the door and opens it as he says a quiet, “No sir, I'm not.” and shuts it behind himself.
He waits a moment to see if he can hear Bartys footsteps, and only once he hears him start to move down the hallway does he turn and face his new room. The balcony is the first thing he notices, the light that its letting in, and the fact that its doors are cracked open. He walks up to them before he can process anything else, and he swings them open fully.
There's a garden outside. It's a few floors down from him, maybe four, but it's right there. He can see people walking around, despite the fact that he can tell that the sun is starting to set. There's even a chair on the balcony. He could probably sit out there and read if he wanted.
He's not sure if he likes it. He’d hated the area he was allowed outside at the manor, how skillfully it tried to hide his status as a prisoner, and how this is a bit too similar to that to be entirely comfortable. Still, Harrys always enjoyed people watching, so he might come out here.
He leaves the doors open as he returns to his room, unwilling to close himself off from the outside despite how much it feels like a trick.
The bed he sees is nice, taking up most of the space, and there's a small cupboard tucked into the corner. There's no desk like there had been at the manor, and no attached bathroom, but Harry doesn't mind. He’s never felt very comfortable having access to stuff like that.
He pulls his trunk off his wrist and unshrinks it, placing it at the foot of his bed. He doesn't think there's any use in hiding it, Voldemort had clearly seen where he’d put it, so why not leave it out.
There's not even anything to unpack, he has exactly what he had when he got married in the first place, so all he does is sit down on his bed and look at the sky through the open balcony doors.
At least he’ll have this to look at if Barty never lets him out of here.
— February 3rd, 1999 —
The kitchens empty, Harry's come to realise. Barty hadn't ordered food because he was lazy, he did it because there was nothing to eat in the apartment.
Its left him uncertain about what to do. He hadn't needed to cook at all in the last few months, but he's good at it, if he says so himself, and he’d been hoping to do something that would help him get into Bartys good graces. But, again, there's not even anything to cook with.
It distressed him enough that he misses the footsteps that come up to the entry way for the kitchen.
“Urgh, right. I’d forgotten there wasn't anything here.” Barty says, causing Harry to jolt and turn around.
He's unkempt in a way that suggests he came here right after waking up, and his hand is dragging down his face. He leans against the doorframe, eyeing Harry as if he's deciding something.
“Well, obviously nothings in the apartment,” Barty says, “I could go and bring something back, but I’ve been eating take out for over a week now and I’d like to eat something homemade for a change.” He stops, as if waiting for a response.
Harry doesn't think he could swing being allowed out this early, even if Barty does mean to let him out at all, so he tries to stick to his first plan.
“Oh, well” Harry says, “I can cook, if you’d like? I can make something out of almost anything, but, uh, not nothing.”
“Yeah, that'll be good,” Barty replies, “the Dark Lord decided not to send us a house elf - something about security concerns - so we’ll have to fend for ourselves in that regard. I’ll go and grab some bread or something.”
He's still eyeing Harry, so he nods in response, “Yeah sure, some eggs and butter would be good too, and stuff for tea if you can find it.”
Barty tilts his head at his response, almost as if he's waiting for Harry to say something else, but he couldn't begin to guess as to what. After a few moments of silence, he pushes himself away from the door frame and says, “You’ll come with me. If you're gonna cook, you’ll know what you need better than I will. We’ll head out in a few minutes.”
—
“Where are we going?” Harry asks. They’ve only just stepped out the doors of the apartment building, but he already feels overwhelmed with the amount of people outside.
“There's a grocery about five minutes down the street,” Barty says, squinting in the sunlight, “it won’t have everything we want, but it’ll have the stuff we need for the next few days.” His eyes shift towards Harry, “And I want to wait a while before I take you further from the apartment.”
“Oh- um, okay.” He says, shuffling his feet.
Barty’s still looking at him, he has been since they exited the nest. He isn't sure what he's searching for, but he’s been doing his best to not seem too eager to be outside, not wanting to ruin this before it's even really started.
“Come on then, it's this way.” Barty says, motioning for Harry to walk in front of him.
The grocery really isn't that far, it only takes a few minutes before their standing on its front stoop, and as they go to step inside, Harry can just about make out the side of their apartment building. There's a ding as the door opens, a bell above it signalling their entrance.
It reminds him of going to the shops for the Dursleys, it was always a highlight of his week. One of the cashiers would give him a candy bar from behind the counter sometimes, it was how he tried one for the first time.
The person behind the counter doesn't resemble that cashier at all. It's an older woman, darker skinned than anyone who'd ever lived in Surrey, but she smiles when she sees him, so he smiles back as he walks towards their produce section.
He grabs what they need, briefly looking back at Barty to see him standing by the door, waiting for him to be done, so he hurries a bit to make sure he has everything. Barty said it had what they would need for a few days, so he tries to get enough to last them somewhere around that long.
The tea bags are by the counter, so he grabs them once he's put everything down to be scanned. It's only then that he realises he doesn't have any money, but Bartys already moved towards him and pulled out a wad of muggle money, handing some of it to the woman behind the counter.
She goes to figure out their change once everythings been bagged, but Barty just winks at her and tells her to keep it. She blushes, a flustered smile on her face, and Harry idly wonders if Bartys ever killed a muggle before.
When they leave the grocer, there's more people on the street than there had been earlier, and the roar of the cars on the road makes Harry walk faster, until Barty grabs his arm and tells him to slow down in a stern voice.
It burns at him, this reminder that Bartys his jailer after he’d been so charming. He expects to feel sick, to feel the pit of his stomach open like it had when he discovered the wards around the gardens, but it doesn't have a chance to form. A car honks its horn beside them, startling Harry enough to lose his grasp on one of the bags, and Barty catches it before it hits the ground.
It shakes him for a moment, and he can tell that Barty notices, but he doesn't comment on it, only moving himself to stand between Harry and the road as they walk back to the apartment.
He hurries in as they step inside, and Barty lets him get a few steps ahead, so he's already sorting through what they bought before he places the bag he held on the counter. He only intends to make a simple breakfast - the kitchen only has a medium sized pan - so he can’t be too fancy, despite how much he wants to make a good impression.
It only takes a few minutes before he has a plate for Barty on the table, but he waits a few minutes before he sits, just silently observing Harry as he makes his own food.
Harry supposes he’ll have a lot of being watched to look forward to if the last hour is anything to go by, and his skin starts to prickle in response.
They eat in silence, and when they finish Harry goes to clean up both of their dishes, but Barty stops him.
“Don’t worry about that.” He says, with a smile on his face reminiscent of the one he used on the cashier, “You cooked, I’ll clean.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, I’m fine with cleaning up.”
“No, really, It's no problem. My mom made sure I knew to clean up the dishes when I didn't cook.” He still has the charming smile, and it almost makes him think about Amycus, how he always had that look of kindness on his face that never failed to put Harry on edge, but on Barty, it doesn’t, and he can't place why.
“Well-” Harry starts, intending to turn him down, but Bartys already grabbed their plates and brought them to the sink. It stymies Harry a bit, he’d never had to deal with someone offering to clean up for him, and with Barty ostensibly being in charge of him, he's not sure what to make of him not taking the chance to make him clean it up.
He idles at the table for a moment, staring at Bartys back, wondering what he should do, before he slowly backs out of the kitchen, deciding to leave him alone in case he’s failed some test by not insisting to do it himself when he’d first grabbed the dishes.
There's not really anywhere to go out of view that's not his room though. The living room is right beside the kitchen's entrance, and there's only a hallway that leads to the bath, the bedrooms, and the entrance. He can't decide if he likes the floor plan. With how close together everything is, there's nowhere to hide beside his room, but that also means that there's nowhere for Voldemort to have hidden anything either.
He can already tell that the ward stone for the apartment is in the room where Barty sleeps, and he hasn’t felt anything to suggest something else is there, so he feels a tad more in control of the space then he did in the manor.
He steps into the living room, surprised to see the high ceilings and bookshelves along the walls. There's a fireplace too, which Harry thinks might be a fire hazard, and a few chairs and sofas scattered around. It's a place Harry can actually see himself using - if he stays in the apartment for long. In the manor, everything had been segmented, every room having only one purpose, but given the size of the nest, everything has to be squished together. It reminds him of the Burrow, and that's what makes Harry decide he likes it.
He goes back to his room for a moment to grab one of the books his friend got for him - a simple childs fairytale that Ron had been astonished he and Hermione hadn’t known - and he brings it back to the living room to read.
He's grown to like the pictures more than the story itself, and he's flipping through its pages slowly when Barty comes in. Harry expects him to try something, though he doesn't know what, but all he does is light the fireplace with his wand and sit down to read on the other side of the small room.
It's not until an hour later, when Harrys reading a different book - one he found on the shelves - that Barty puts his own book down, turning towards him.
He's quiet for a moment, sizing him up just as he had before he asked Harry to leave the apartment with him, until he stands up and resettles on a chair closer to him.
“While I appreciate someone who's capable of cohabiting in silence,” Barty starts, a smile back on his face, “given the length of time we might be expected to stay here together, I feel like it’s probably important to establish our expectations.”
He starts to sweat, but he tries to keep his sudden anxiety off his face as he asks, “What type of expectations?”
A small chuckle, before he says, “Nothing as serious as your thinking. I won’t pretend to know what your experience with the Dark Lord has been like, it's different for everyone, but he took it upon himself to give me guidelines for how I should treat you, and I’ll admit that I find them a bit odd, given who you are.”
“Odd how?” He barely gets it out, his throat feeling almost closed.
A chuckle again, “Mostly that, given that I’d been tasked with keeping you safe for - possibly - the next few months, I expected more… restrictions for what you were allowed to do. But I was only instructed to use my personal discretion for whether an outing is appropriate, and to make sure that you don’t contact anyone.” He brings his hand up to his chin and scratches it,
“Given that you're our Lord's husband, I would have thought - with how much of a control freak he is - that he’d keep you on a shorter leash.”
Barty calling Voldemort a control freak makes Harry's jolt in his seat, yet his breath starts to come easier. Still, he hesitates as he says, “He did- Keep me on a shorter leash, that is. It just didn’t go well.” An understatement, but he doesn't want to tell Barty what happened, and mercifully, he doesn't ask.
“Well, it works out for me.” He says, leaning back in his chair, “If I had been told to keep you in the apartment at all times, that woulda turned into a nightmare quick. I hate being stuck in one place.” He shakes his head, as if trying to dislodge a memory. “And it’d be a shame to stay inside, there's a bunch of stuff to do nearby. Public Gardens, a mall a few blocks away, and theirs this library downtown, hidden from muggles of course, that I’ve been meaning to check out.”
It shocks Harry to hear Barty talk so casually about taking him out into the world after three months of being locked away, but somehow, despite wanting to go to the places he mentioned more than anything, he feels himself withdrawing into his seat.
Barty must notice though, as he takes a moment before continuing, “But, for now, let's just focus on settling in.” He gives Harry a small smile, one that feels like commiseration, almost like he understands why he pulled back even though Harry doesn't. “It's been a while since I’ve been set up in the nest, and there's a book here that I can't seem to find anywhere else that I’ve been wanting to read again.”
Barty rocks back in his seat before he stands up, walking over to book shelves, looking through it, and Harry takes the chance to flee to the kitchen. He intended to make lunch for them both, but he just leans over the sink for a few minutes, trying to catch his breath.
He doesn't understand why he even needs to. The talk with Barty was fine, nice , even. He got more information about what he’ll be like, that he wants to be out of the apartment as much as he does, yet the whole interaction has left him on the edge of panic.
He leans on the counter, trying to sort through his worry, trying to figure out where it came from, but despite gaining control of his breath a few minutes later, he's still not sure what caused it.
— February 7th, 1999 —
There's chicken cooking on the stove when the front door opens, and given that Harry knows Bartys reading in the living room - a habit he had noticed in the last few days, always reading when Harry's cooking - it makes his stomach drop, and he ducks behind the arch into the kitchen to stay out of sight of whoever it is.
His chest does something odd as he sees them, and again when he sees that despite his attempt, he's noticed beside the arch.
A small chuckle, “And why have you decided to hide, dear husband?” Voldemort says, an eyebrow cocked.
“I-” Harry starts, feeling embarrassment start to burn in his stomach, “I didn’t know that it was you coming inside.”
Voldemort hums, and gives him a look he doesn't understand, “Understandable, I would rather you attempt to protect yourself if you found it necessary, rather than leave yourself vulnerable to possible danger.”
“R- Right,” Harry mutters, confused.
Anything more Voldemort was going to say is interrupted, as a loud sizzling sound comes from the stove, making Harry jump to make sure that nothings burned. He's fiddling with the element, making sure the chicken is still good, when Voldemort speaks from behind him.
“Are you cooking dinner tonight?” Voldemort asks, in an oddly flat tone of voice.
“Yes?” Harry says, peering back briefly as he tries to decide if he wants to take the rice out of the fridge yet to start putting together the stir fry he had been planning to make.
“Not Barty?”
“No, he- I like to cook, and if i'm being honest, he's not the best at it. He’ll have to clean this up though.” He says, motionging at the residue on the stove top from where the grease sizzled over.
“Hmm.”
The sound makes Harry jolt, “What? Should I not be cooking?” The thought makes his stomach drop a little bit. Despite most of his experience with it being forced, he’s started to enjoy making food for him and Barty. When he’s actually able to eat it when it's done, he's found it's a much more satisfying process.
Voldemort's head tilts, looking at Harry with the stare he had come to expect from Barty in the last few days, “If you enjoy it, then there's no reason to stop. I only meant to ensure that Barty had not decided to assign you this task without your desires in mind.”
“Oh- Well, then, thank you? It's- it's better if I cook, even if I didn’t enjoy it. He, uh,” Harry huffs out a small laugh, but it comes out a little hysterical, “He tried to make dinner a few days ago, and he ended up having to repair the wall behind the stove. I’m still not sure how he managed it.”
A small grin escapes his husband's lips, but he doesn't say anything, instead he looks around the room, walking until he can peer slightly into the living room where he must see Barty reading.
Harry has to turn away for a moment when the pan starts to sizzle again, and he sees Barty enter the kitchen out of the corner of his eye a moment later. Their heads duck together, and they speak something to each other that Harry can't hear despite how close they are to him. Eventually, Barty nods at Voldemort and goes down the hallway, and Harry hears the front door open again.
It makes Harry turn to Voldemort in something like alarm, but all his husband does is snap his fingers, and Weezy appears in the middle of the kitchen with a pop .
“You called for mes, my Lord?” Weezy says, her back to Harry.
“Take over making dinner, Weezy, I-”
“What?” Harry interrupts before he can stop himself, and he hears Weezy squeak in surprise, “I thought me making dinner was fine?”
“It is,” Voldemort says, calm despite the interruption, “but I would like to speak to you, and I’d rather not waste time waiting for you to be finished.” He raises an eyebrow expectantly, so Harry nods slightly and moves away from the stove, oddly reluctant to abandon it.
Weezy takes his place quickly, but her eyes are wide, and she stares at him as he follows Voldemort into the living room.
“What did you want to talk about?” Harry asks, as Voldemort splays himself on the sofa in front of the fireplace.
“I realised there was something I forgot to ask you about when we last spoke, and I need an answer before Tuesday.” He says, motioning for Harry to sit down beside him, which he does - gingerly - on the far side of the sofa.
Voldemort eyes him for a moment before he continues, “You had a miscarriage.” he states, and Harry jolts, blinking in surprise that it's been brought up so suddenly. “And I would like to make that information public.”
It takes a moment for the words to process, and when they do, Harry's stomach drops until it's sitting somewhere near his feet, “What?” He says in a choked whisper, barely able to get the words out.
Voldemort waits a moment, taking in Harry's reaction, “While I understand if you are reticent, I have certain… plans that revealing this would help with.”
He blinks for a moment, stunned, before his fear gets the better of him, “What plans could this possibly help with?!” He asks, voice getting sharp as desperation creeps in, “They’ll- They’ll all know what I am! that I’m not a real- that I have a-”
Voldemort interrupts him, “There is a well known history of powerful wizards falling pregnant when they lay with another. A lack of a penis between your legs will not be what people will suspect when they find out.”
Harry pauses, “Is that what you want?” He asks incredulously, anger seeping into his tone, “You want to convince people how powerful you are? They already know that, it's the reason this all happened in the first place!”
“What I want,” Voldemort says in a tone that promises… something, if Harry continues as he is, “Is sympathy.”
Harry reels back, “Sympathy? What possible use would you have for sympathy?”
“The use I have,” Voldemort says, leaning in, chasing Harry as he presses against the sofa, “is that people will have something to point to to prove I’m human behind the monster they all believed in for so long, something to allay their fears when they weigh the risks and benefits about working with me. And what better for that, than the loss of a child.”
Harry takes in the way Voldemort has pressed close to him, the hiss his words had come out in, and he tries to calm down from the sudden fear that had struck him at the idea that everyone would know what he was.
“So, you want people to- want to work with you?”
“I would like to give people something to soothe their doubts about my intentions, yes.” He rolls his head, and a quiet click comes from his neck as he leans back, “And as I understand that this could be distressing for you, I’m willing to offer something in exchange for your cooperation in this matter.”
At Harry's blank stare he continues, “If you let me publicise this - sharing that due to Dumbledore's failure to educate its students about the possibility of pregnancy in wizards, and the unfortunate betrayal we suffered from a handful of my followers, you suffered a miscarriage - I will arrange for you to spend six hours with your friends at the Burrow every Sunday for the foreseeable future.”
He blinks, taken aback, trying to find whatever trap is hidden in the offer, “Why would you do that?” He finally gets out, after a moment too long.
Voldemort gets a curious look in his eyes, “Why would I allow you to see your friends?”
“Why are you asking me at all.” He clarifies, voice flat, “You don't need me to agree, you can do anything you want. I wouldn't be able to stop you.”
“You don't want to see your friends?”
“I want to know why you're playing with me.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“What else would you be?”
“Offering you a deal.” Voldemort says, a grin stretching the edge of his lips, “I would like to avoid the scandal if you contradicted anything I shared to the press, and I would also like to avoid the isolation that made the miscarriage possible in the first place. Therefore, you may see your friends on Sunday.”
He waits for a moment, already knowing he’ll agree despite the fact he thinks it’ll get taken away once Voldemort talks to the press, yet unable to turn his nose up at the opportunity, “Then, alright. If- If I can see my friends, then I’ll go along with it.”
A pleased look emerges on his husband's face, and his words come out in a purr, “Good. I’ve already hashed out the specifics, and I’ll be having them published in the papers on Monday. I’ll go over the details more with you later,” He pauses for a moment, hesitation in his features, and Harry dreads whatever he’ll say next if its made even him apprehensive, “And I would also like to arrange so that - while you visit the Weasleys and your-” He pauses, visibility changing the word he was going to say, “ muggleborn friend - your godfather and Lupin will keep their distance.”
Silence for a moment, “Why?” Harry asks, confused.
“I have doubts about Black's ability to control himself in your presence, and after Lupin's failure as your teacher, I will not allow him near you until he has proven he can be relied upon.”
The request doesn't make sense to Harry, at least not with the reasoning Voldemort's providing. Yet, despite knowing he should protest the restriction, for some reason he finds himself relieved that whether he’ll see them or not has been taken out of his hands.
Harry nods, letting out a quiet, “Okay.”
Voldemort tilts his head in response, “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he nods again, looking his husband in the eyes, “If you don’t want me to see them for a while, I won’t.”
Voldemort's eyes flare before he leans back on the sofa, rolling his neck again. His husband should be pleased, Harry thinks, but he just looks frustrated, yet, he doesn’t think it's because of him. Voldemort turns to look at the fireplace, so he follows suit, unsure what to do now that they're not talking, with no time limit on how long they’ll sit together like they have during dinner.
It's a few minutes later that Voldemort speaks again, still facing the fire, “How are you liking the apartment, Harry? Is it suiting you well?”
“Its- I like it? If that's what you mean.”
An amused chuckle, “Yes, Harry, that is what I mean.”
Silence again, but Harrys unwilling to let it sit this time, “I like my room.” he starts, “It has a balcony, and there's a garden next door, so I can sit in bed and look at it. It's- It’s nice.”
“You never seem interested in the garden at the manor.” Voldemort says, tilting his head.
He has to swallow the ball he feels lodged in his throat to speak, the thought of it suddenly making him upset, yet he feels compelled to tell him why, despite the fact he knows he shouldn't.
“I- I knew I couldn't leave.” He says, “That even though I could see the forest, I couldn’t get anywhere near it. It-” He stops briefly, before he lets out a quiet breath, “It felt bad to sit out there, knowing that I was- stuck .” He shakes his head, wanting to change the subject, and remembering what he was doing that last time he was in the gardens, “Anyways, how's Nagini? You didn't, uh, send her to me that last weekend, right?”
“I didn't,” He murmurs, “I kept her with me, you’re correct.” He’s quiet for a moment, leaving Harry wondering if this is something he wasn't supposed to ask about, until Voldemort speaks, startling him slightly, “I had intended to have her spend the weekend with you going forward, but something came up that required her to stay by my side. Though given what happened, she would have been more useful with you.” He says, a mirthless look in his eyes.
“Sorry...” Harry mutters, unsure what to make of his words.
“Don’t be, the mistakes that lead to that were mine alone.” He says, eyes locked on the fireplace. They glisten a little in the light, Harry notices, and the red gleam that tends to hide on the edges of his eyes is highlighted by it.
It's odd, and it makes Harry feel odd too. This whole discussion has been odd, and he still doesn't understand why Voldemort's acting like Harry has any say in all of this. It circles in his mind as they sit in silence, looking at the fire together.
It's broken when Harry speaks in a rush, nearly before he even finishes the thought, “Do you want to have sex with me.” He says, keeping his eyes on the fire, hoping to avoid having to see whatever reaction Voldemort will have to his words, unsure what he wants it to be.
Silence emanates from the other side of the couch like a fog, until, “Why are you asking.” He asks, voice flat.
He blinks, trying to find his voice and complete the thought even though he doesn't really understand why he asked, “I can’t- I can’t figure out why you're asking my permission for any of this, and I thought- I thought maybe you wanted-” He stops, voice caught in his throat.
“I have already said what I wanted from you in that regard Harry. That will only happen again when we are both agreeable to it.” His tone is smooth, and despite the contents of his words, they don't set Harry on edge like he thought they would, “Regardless, I do not believe it is in either of our best interest to pursue such a thing. After your experience this last month, I do not think you would handle something like that well, and I did not lie when I said I desired your cooperation with my plans.”
Harry's eyes linger on the flames for a moment before he drags them over to Voldemort, wondering if what makes him speak is bravery, or a desire for his own destruction, “We’re married though.”
“Yes,” An eyebrow raises, “we are.”
Voldemort's words from the Yule Ball echo in his mind, “Isn’t that expected of us then? Don’t you expect it?”
A vein appears on Voldemort's forehead, and it’s an odd enough sight that it almost makes a smile break out on Harry's lips, “It does not matter what others expect from our union. Our expectations are the only thing to take into account.”
A beat, before, “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I do not expect that from you. Not now.” Voldemort says through his clenched jaw.
“But you did.” Harry says, flexing his shoulders, trying to decide if he actually wants to bring up what's been plaguing him for the last months, “I don’t understand why-” He stops.
“Why I bedded you?” Voldemort prompts.
“Well, yes. But I mean, why- why did you never do it again? It happened once , and then you never-” He swallows the saliva that had pooled in his mouth, “you never asked for that from me again. I don't understand why you married me if that wasn’t something you wanted.”
Harry can see Voldemorts calculating look out of the corner of his darting eyes, and a quiet sigh emanates from him, "You are mine. Both in ways you don’t understand, and ways that I won’t explain. It was necessary that I kept you close to me, and I have never been one to deny myself pleasure. So, while I decided to indulge myself the first night, I knew you had not desired it the way I had, and that it would cause you stress to think I expected it from you going forward.”
“You- desired it?” He asks, confused, “But I’m- why would you want that from me?”
“Why would I not?”
“Cuz you’re-” He gestures vaguely, “you know, you , and I’m-” he helplessly shrugs his shoulders.
Voldemort's lips twitch like he wants to smile, but he suppresses it, “While I appreciate what I believe was meant to be a compliment, I must object to how you’ve referred to yourself. While you are younger than I tend to prefer a partner to be, you are still, nonetheless, attractive. Something that has been espoused in almost all articles published about you since the Triwizard Tournament.”
Harry rolls his eyes, “People say a lot of things about me in those.” He shakes his head in dismissal of the idea, “You could have anyone in your bed, people close to you who already believe in what you're doing, so why me?”
“I could have many in my bed, you're right. But I did not want them, I wanted you . You who had stood so resolutely against me for so long, you who thwarted my plans time and time again, and you, who is the only one to understand me like this .” He hisses, and Harry knows he's speaking in parseltongue.
Voldemort continues before he can collect his thoughts, “And when you stood before me on our wedding night, you proved my desire correct. You were wonderful, pliant and willing to be moved as I desired, yet not absent, not hiding away, terrified as others would have been.”
Harry flushes. Despite the fact he thinks Voldemort's words should make him uncomfortable, should make the pit of his stomach open, all he feels is a warmth bloom inside him.
“If you had been,” Voldemort continues, “I would have offered you the choice to be unconscious during it. I had no desire to crush you that first night Harry, only assure you understood where we stood with each other.” His eyes develop a cruel edge, yet his words stay soft, “Yet, if you had fought me, not out of fear but out of anger or disgust, I would have taken great pleasure in tying you to that bed and doing as I pleased, until you truly understood what I could do to you.”
Before he can respond, or sort out why his breath is hitching in fear, yet the warmth still lingers in his stomach, Weezy appears in the entrance to the living room, though she doesn't speak. Voldemort sees her, and he nods, dismissing her while he stands up from where he had been sitting close to Harry, apparently inching closer to him as they spoke.
“I’ve left you much to think about, I believe,” His husband says, “so I’ll leave you with one final thing before I go.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring, one Harry recognises as the one he wore for so many months, that he had tossed aside when he ran, “While I understand you were stressed as you were leaving, it is important that you keep this on. It's unlike a normal wedding ring, formed from our vows as it is. If you had broken them while this was off your finger, the consequences would have been dire.”
“Oh,” Harry says, still trying to gather himself after Voldemort's words, and ashamed to have not known that about the ring he wore for so long.
He reaches a hand out to take it from him, but Voldemort grasps his hand instead and slides the ring on his finger for him, and for some reason, the sight of it transfixes him. As it passes his second knuckle - a light flaring around it just as it had when it initially formed - something he hadn’t noticed rattling around in his chest for the past two weeks, settles.
Voldemort raises his hand to his lip, kissing it lighty, making him flush again before he releases it, stepping back from him to turn to leave.
It makes Harry jolt, realising that their time is over, and that for some reason he doesn't want it to be, so he blurts the first thing he thinks of, a question he’s had since he overheard Voldemort in Malfoys office.
He fiddles with the ring on his finger as he asks in a rush, “Did you have sex with anyone else after we got married?”
Voldemort stops, and directs a confused stare at him, not understanding where the question came from.
“No, I did not.” He says, “Despite what our night together might have implied, I’m not one to partake in that specific pleasure often.” He pauses, “Why?”
“When I was-” He takes a breath, deciding to admit one final thing in this conversation, and hoping it will go as well as everything else seemed to, “When I was leaving the manor,” Voldemort's eyes alight with interest, but the confusion lingers, “I left through the floo in Malfoys office. I got in through the balcony doors, and you were in there, threatening him or something. You- you mentioned Draco, and it made me think that you wanted that from him, that you might have done it already.”
Voldemort's eyes go distant for a moment, like he’s trying to remember what he had said, before his eyes refocus, and he scoffs, “I can understand why what I said can be interpreted that way. In fact, I intended it too, but it was nothing more than an empty threat to make Lucius fall back in line, I assure you.”
“Oh.” Harry whispers, feeling oddly relieved.
“I will admit to being surprised to learn you were that close to me during your escape. I was dismayed when I realised that Naginis presence might have prevented it if I hadn’t kept her with me. Yet, it seems I could have if I simply turned around.” His words would stress Harry out if it wasn't for the self deprecating laugh he lets out afterwards.
“If you find yourself feeling like you need to leave again, Harry,” Voldemort continues, stepping close to him and putting a hand on his chin, grasping it lightly between his fingers, “I would ask that you approach me first, and explain what has caused you to think that. If it's anything like what happened with the Carrows, I assure you, I will handle it for you.”
Harry's breath hitches as a thumb touches his bottom lip briefly as it rubs at his chin, “I- I’ll try my best.”
Voldemort's eyes are amused as he drops his hand and steps back from him, “That's all that I ask.” He says, heading down the hallway to the entrance.
Harry stands where his husband left him until Barty returns, asking after dinner.
—
Later that night, Harry twirls his ring on his finger, looking out the balcony doors at the night sky, and thinks about the days he spent on his own after he ran.
He feels almost silly thinking about them now, knowing that if he’d brought any of what had been happening to his husband's attention, it all could have ended sooner. Yet, he can't regret the time on his own.
The nights on the streets had been terrifying. He hadn't slept until he’d been gone for two days, and even then it had been restless, his anxiety jolting him awake what felt like every few minutes. Every shadow convincing him that someone was right behind him, every echo down the alleys making him think someone was sending a curse his way.
But on the fourth night, he’d decided to risk staying at a muggle hotel - thanking Merlin he had his wand with him - and finally, he’d been able to barricade his doors and windows, and get a full night's sleep. It helped more than he thought it would, and he’d been able to think through what had happened for the first time.
Without the imminent terror at the threat of what he had thought Voldemort wanted from him - the pregnancies, the lies, what he would let his followers do to him - he’d realised that he would never be able to run away from him for long without outside help, yet he already knew he was unwilling to ask for it.
He’d agreed to the marriage to keep his friends safe, he won't put a target on their back now, not after everything. He’d run for as long as he could, and he’d stay far away from them.
He’d tried to figure out something else he could do, something he could leverage against Voldemort when he inevitably found him so that he wouldn't have to deal with Amycus again, or anyone his husband might send his way, but even before he started, he knew he’d never be able to think of anything. He’d never been someone who knew how to manipulate people, and Voldemort would see through anything like that if he tried.
He eventually decided that he’d ask that, when Voldemort found him, he’d tell him what he wanted, an agreement to never force Harry to get pregnant again - he’d thought about asking to never be forced to sleep with someone else, but he thought that would be pushing his luck and reduce Voldemort's odds of agreeing to anything at all.
He hadn’t let himself think of what he’d do if Voldemort refused, unwilling to confront it. He was no stranger to fighting Voldemort, or to the thought of taking his own life. It was an option that hadn’t crossed his mind since he realised what the marriage would actually entail; that his husband had only arranged lessons and would largely leave him alone, but beforehand, in the weeks preceding the ceremony, he had contemplated it, how he’d do it if his worst fears would be realised.
He hadn’t told anyone else. He knew that if they knew he was considering it they’d ignore his protests and smuggle him out of the country, and the last thing he’d wanted was for them to draw Voldemort's attention like that, not when all Voldemort had asked for in exchange for their safety was him.
Still, as he twists his ring, falling asleep, the stars shining behind his eyelids, he’s glad for the clarity the time alone had given him. He’d checked the papers religiously, searching through the trash near small magical business to find copies of the prophet and the Quibbler while he was gone, looking for any mention of him having run, but there was never anything about it. Only fake stories about how well his marriage had been going, clearly commonplace, commissioned by Voldemort.
He hadn’t been sure what to think of it, why Voldemort hadn't leveraged his attempt to break the contract to get something from the ministry, but it wasn’t until he had brought up the miscarriage that the reason had finally clicked.
He supposes he should have realised earlier. He’d been told why pretty explicitly, but he hadn’t believed him, being sure he was keeping the “real” reason hidden from him. That there had to be a more complicated reason for why Voldemort had spread the idea that their marriage was voluntary, why his speech at the wedding had been about unity instead of conquering like he thought it would be.
But the reason had been simple. He had indeed wanted unity - or some version of it- portrayed to the rest of the word, and if he had published that Harry had run, it would have ruined what he was trying to convince people of - which seemed to be working, if the Yule Ball and what the papers had been saying can be believed.
He doesn’t think he can leverage that at all, at least not without risking his chance to see his friends again. But it settles him a bit to know that he’s figures out at least a portion of what Voldemort wants from him, and this at least isn't an issue for him to give, especially since it means his husbands more likely to actually abide by the restrictions he had been given in the contract, if he wants to appear more like a person.