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Harry receives the dreaded letter at midnight, as soon as he turns seventeen. Ron opens the window, and the Ministry owl flies inside, lands at the foot of Harry’s bed.
When Harry doesn’t immediately take it, it pecks him.
“Alright, alright!” he says, and retrieves the letter. The owl flies right back out.
“I...I’ll go grab some of the cookies Mum made,” Ron says, hesitant.
Harry almost tells him to stay. He has a terrible feeling about this entire thing. Ron was scared, too, when he received his letter, and Harry sat with him until he opened it. But, of course, his soul-match was Hermione. He didn’t have much to worry about.
Harry....
Whoever his soulmate is, it will be easily accessible information. Their name will no doubt reach Voldemort’s ears within days.
I have to open it, so I can warn whoever it is, fast.
Selfishly, he hopes it is someone he already knows, someone already fighting against Voldemort, so it won’t be purely Harry’s fault when the maniac will start hunting them down.
Surely, they will hate Harry- soulmates or not, who would want to be put in this position?
The door closes, and Harry is startled out of his thoughts. When he looks up, Ron is gone, offering him privacy.
But he knows everyone is awake, downstairs, waiting for the news.
Alright. Harry breathes in, opens the letter. He pulls out the parchment nestled inside it.
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
For an odd second, Harry is not even surprised. Of course, that passes immediately, and then Harry feels relief, because...well, he didn’t just condemn someone to death.
And then his mind starts working again and he feels nauseated. He jumps up from his bed, drops the note.
This must be some sick, sick joke. Surely-
A bad prank.
Not many people know his name. And those that do, wouldn’t joke about it.
Harry snatches the envelope from the bed, inspects it- yeah, it has the Ministry seal and everything.
His palms are clammy with sweat. He feels like screaming. His heart thunders inside his chest, pumping adrenaline in his bloodstream, as if readying him for a fight.
Harry would rather a fight. He would.
He had so many nightmares about that night in the graveyard, but he’d gladly go back, right now, and duel Voldemort.
That Voldemort, when Harry didn’t know-
No, impossible. He can’t be my fucking soulmate.
He points his wand at the note on the floor and sets it on fire.
For a few moments, he watches it burn, but then the carpet starts burning too, and he immediately puts the fire out.
Absurdly, he hopes Mrs Weasley won’t be mad at him for the charred hole now left in the carpet.
He puts the wand back in his pocket, but it encounters resistance- minimal, but there’s something there, it makes a noise.
Harry thrusts his hand into his pocket, curls his fingers around a piece of parchment-
Tom Marvolo Riddle.
He rips it to shreds.
But immediately after, it appears whole again, in his other pocket.
(-)
They decide it’s best Harry doesn’t tell anyone else.
He can barely meet Ron and Hermione’s eyes, feels ashamed, wonders what on earth they must think of him now that apparently his soulmate is fucking Voldemort. What does that say about Harry?
It’s supposed to be perfect matches. What does it say about Harry that something as infallible as magic decided he’d be a perfect companion for Voldemort?
“How do we hide this from the others?” Ron asks. “They’re all waiting to hear who it is, the Order is prepared to protect them, Remus said they already had a mission to extract the person from wherever they are and bring them here. You can’t - they’ll demand to see the note.”
“Easy, we’ll show them the note,” Harry says, feeling a little bit better, now that Hermione still holds his arm, and Ron is still there.
They never fail to surprise him, these two. Ever since their first year, when they never thought twice following Harry down the trap door to this day, to this moment, when they remain by his side even with this.
“Not like they’ll know who Tom Marvolo Riddle is. I won’t tell them he’s Voldemort.”
With them by his side, Harry makes his way down the stairs, shows the note to the others, and has to stay there and watch them trying to figure out who this person is, and how to ‘save’ them.
Harry has never been more grateful for Dumbledore’s tendency of keeping secrets.
And then he meets Ginny’s eyes across the room, and she looks absolutely terrified.
Shit.
She, too, knows that name.
Harry shakes his head at her, imploringly.
“We have to find out who he is, and where he is, before Voldemort finds him,” Remus says, pacing around the living room. “He’ll no doubt find out the information in a matter of days!”
Only then it strikes Harry that no, Voldemort won’t find out in a matter of days.
Voldemort already found out, because a match has been found for him, so he must have received the envelope at the same time Harry did.
And then he imagines it, sees it vividly, Voldemort in some dark, creepy room, opening a letter and seeing ‘Harry Potter’ on the parchment.
He tries to imagine Voldemort’s expression and-
“Harry?” someone asks. Probably Mrs Weasley.
“Harry, you alright?” Remus.
“Why is he laughing?” Fred inquires.
Harry can’t stop laughing for a minute straight- it’s not funny, it’s not, but he can’t stop. And no matter how horrible this night is going for him, surely, Voldemort’s isn’t going much better, either, learning his soulmate is the boy who killed him.
(-)
“How can we be soulmates, when he doesn’t even have a soul?” Harry asks Hermione, a month later, in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.
“Clearly, he has one,” Hermione says, slowly. “Just...hacked.”
“Will it even work, though, with his soul fucked up like that?” Ron enquires. “Will they even have Symptoms?”
Harry feels nothing so far. Some people, like Ron and Hermione, the moment the match is made start experiencing symptoms of the bond immediately.
The moment Ron received his match, Hermione’s name appeared on his chest, and Ron’s name appeared on hers.
For others, it’s different things.
Harry checked his body more closely than he ever did in his life, but no name is there, he doesn’t feel anything different. Well, he feels...colder, more tired than usual, but he’s on the run, on a wild hunt for Horcruxes Probably that’s why he feels worse than usual.
“Don’t touch him. I hope he won’t find us, but if he does, do not touch him!” Hermione told him, hours after he received the match, as the others were still trying to figure out who Tom Riddle is. “Lots of bonds stars showing Symptoms on first touch after the match is made.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that would be a problem.” Voldemort always wanted to kill Harry, obviously, but now he must want it more than ever. He’ll probably send a killing curse at Harry the moment he spots him, and he’ll skip his usual monologues for once.
(-)
First night in the tent, as Ron groans and suffer, skin still mending after the horrendous experience with Splinching, Hermione at his side, Harry sits guard outside, and obsesses over how Voldemort took the news.
Well, badly, obviously. The very next day after Harry’s birthday, everyone in the Department of Soulmate Registry was murdered. Harry has no illusion that was a direct consequence of Voldemort being really pissed off about the match. Not that it’s the workers fault, they only register these things, but things like logic never stopped Voldemort in a rage.
No, Harry wonders how it felt to -
Voldemort is what? Fifty-four years older than Harry?
He most likely gave up long ago on getting a match. Most people don’t wait that long; sure, there are some age gaps, there are soulmates with ten years between them, Harry even heard of twenty, rare as that was, but more than half a century? Unheard of!
Shocked as Harry was- you weren’t really even that shocked, a voice whispers, remembering that first second he saw the name and something in his head went ‘yeah’- at least he was expecting a letter than night, thought it was a big possibility he had a match that was already of age, and he’ll receive a name.
But Voldemort mustn’t have even expected it.
Harry wonders if he found a way to get rid of the fucking parchment. Harry can’t. He burned his, ripped it apart, asked Kreacher to destroy it, he threw it in the toilet and flushed it, he did everything he could think of, and the note immediately appears again.
Hermione did say it’s impossible to destroy until the match has been accomplished, which could mean anything from touching each other, to just talking.
But Voldemort is supposed to be a genius. Did he find a way to get rid of the note?
He really must be shocked. Half a century, and then, out of nowhere he learns he’s matched with his mortal enemy. No one could have seen that coming.
(-)
The snake is attacking, and he is here- he is here- and that’s it, Harry will die in Bathilda’s house-
And then Voldemort is really there, in the room with Harry. Their eyes meet, but then Harry is falling out of the window, Hermione’s fingers close around him, and then they’re gone.
(-)
“You know,” Hermione says, in the oppressive, terrible silence that has fallen over their tent, that has been there since Ron left, and only grew worse after Christmas, after he lost his wand, after he read that book about Dumbledore.
Turns out, Grindelwald was his soulmate.
“Matches are made as soon as the youngest person in a bond is born,” Hermione goes on. “The Department of Soulmate Registry was only created to make sure that person is protected until they come off age. Before it was made there have been some crazy people in the past- you know, those lunatics that found out their match were born and they tried to get to them. One even stole a baby- anyway, the Department is there to make sure the match isn’t realised before both partners are of age. Our names appear in the Registry and a charm is placed on them, similar with the charms placed on wands, like the Trace? Even if we are to meet our matches before we are of age, no symptoms will appear because of that charm. Obviously, Ron and I -” her voice breaks, her eyes tear up.
Harry feels so guilty. He feels responsible for breaking up soulmates. He can’t imagine how Ron left her. He can’t imagine how Hermione didn’t go with him.
Well, obviously, not all matches can be perfect, just look at yours. Look at Dumbledore’s.
“We touched loads of time, and I turned seventeen first, but I received no letter. Not until Ron turned seventeen, and the Registry released the charm, and sent the notes. After that, you saw- as soon as he touched me-” she breaks off, grabs a napkin, dabs at her eyes.
“My point is,” she continues, after a few seconds. “The match is made when we are born.”
“I know this already, Hermione,” he reminds her, and he’s glad his voice came out normal, that he didn’t snap at her as he’s prone to do these days. “What are you trying to say?”
“That while the match registers as soon as the youngest one is born, it was already there, in a way. It must start with the oldest, even if it finalises with the youngest. So- you-” She sighs. “Whatever was intended for you, whatever magic thought would be perfect for you...it’s not who he is now, after he tore apart his soul. If I make a bunch of Horcruxes tomorrow, I obviously won’t be quite the same, will I? Certainly not. But I would still be Ron’s match. Only he now gets a bad version of me. You didn’t get what you were supposed to get, is what I mean. You were supposed to get another person, but he changed. It doesn’t say anything about you, this match. It doesn’t mean you’re like him, like what he became. You- you weren’t meant to get your parents murderer,” she says, softly, and how does she know that fact tortures him so much, on top of everything else? That Harry wonders, so many times, if he must be wretched inside, to be a soulmate to the man that murdered his parents. “You were meant to get someone else. It happened before- people that suffered some trauma, people that changed, certainly nothing as extreme as You-Know-Who, but sometimes life just ruins people, and it’s not fair, not for that person, and not for their soulmate, that were supposed to -”
Harry hugs her, holds her to his chest, fiercely. He always loved her- he can’t remember when he started loving her, but certainly must have been sometimes during their first year? In any case, he can’t remember a time he didn’t love her and Ron. But now, now he loves her more than ever. “Thank you,” he whispers in her hair. “I’m sorry I’ve been a prick about the wand-”
“No, it’s not your fault-”
“Thank you,” he repeats. “For...everything, really.”
(-)
Ron comes back just in time to save Harry.
When he thrusts the sword into the locket, Harry throws up, falls to the ground, and a searing pain rips through his chest.
He faints.
When he wakes up, Hermione theorises it could be a Symptom. “My grandparents had that,” Ron says, with a nod. “They’d feel when the other was hurt.”
“Oh.” And then- “I felt off since my birthday,” he confesses. “I thought it was just- you know...everything. But I feel -”
“Yes?”
“Colder, I guess,” Harry tries to explain. “Almost constant headaches. Odd aches, here and there.”
“It could still be the stress, obviously,” Hermione says. “God knows you’ve been through a lot- but yes, it could be a Symptom, too.”
Harry insists to stand guard, to let Ron and Hermione reunite in peace. He touches his neck, where he has bruises from the chain; he wonders if Voldemort felt that, if he was sat somewhere- where would he sit? Where is he? What does he do with his free time?- and out of nowhere he felt his neck being squeezed.
(-)
“He’s here, I think he’s here!” Hermione yells, and Harry shouldn’t have time to think on why it’s Hermione that knows, but he has time, because all the spells sent his way....just miss him.
Bellatrix seems confused, but only for a moment. After her first spell misses Harry, with no effort on Harry’s part, she moves onto Dobby, who was trying so hard to bring them all together.
“Run, Harry, run!” Hermione keeps screaming! “He’s here!”
His friends are scattered around Malfoy’s living room, Olivander and Luna in one corner, Ron and Dean in another, Dobby in the centre; Hermione is the closest to him.
Ron’s eyes meet his. Save her, they say.
And Harry will try to save them all, but he needs to think, he needs a moment, and Hermione is closest to him. He grabs her by the arm, tries to run to the other room, see if there’s anything there to help.
Draco lets them run right past him, doesn’t do anything, and Harry gets through a door, as fast as possible, Hermione after him, turns to the right and smashes into something solid. Strangely, the collision feels...good? A burst of contentment runs through him.
What the fuck?
He staggers back into Hermione, and she falls behind her, surprised. Harry looks up, and-
There he is.
They are very close, seeing how they just smashed into each other, and Harry hadn’t been so close to Voldemort in a long time.
He’s still absurdly tall, but Harry is no longer fourteen, no longer a child, so he doesn’t have to look that high up to meet those eyes.
Time stops; the screams in the background disappear, the manor itself seems to shrink.
For a second, only Voldemort’s eyes exist. He’s wearing a hood, as he’s prone to, so all Harry sees it’s those eyes, framed by a hood, like two twin fires burning in the dark.
Hermione says something, and Harry is back to himself, he’s aiming his stolen wand -
Voldemort is faster.
Harry sees a flash of that bone-white wand, and then nothing.
(-)
He’s surprised he wakes up. He really did believe Voldemort learned his lesson, finally, and would kill Harry on sight.
Everyone keeps saying how smart this man is, but he’s sure acting stupid at least when it comes to killing me.
At least there was no monologue this time, first. Small mercies.
“Harry?”
Harry is face down on a hard surface, but at the sound of Ron’s voice he hurries to get up. And finds himself in Malfoy’s dungeon again.
“Fuck,” he grunts, looking out of the bars at Ron, jailed across a small hallway. In the cell beside Ron’s, there’s Hermione. “Fuck! What happened? Where’s Luna and-”
“Here,” Luna’s voice comes from somewhere, but Harry can’t see her. He supposes she’s in the cell beside him. “I’m here with Dean.”
“Everyone in one piece?” he asks.
“Yes,” Dean answers.
“Dobby? Olivander?”
“It was over really fast once he came in,” Ron says. He looks alright- a few cuts and bruises, but he looks- well, he’s alive and doesn’t seem to be in pain. “Dobby managed to leave with Olivander, though.”
There are two masked Death Eaters at the end of the hallway; they don’t anything, but they’re there. Listening.
Harry watches attentively, tries to find any weak points in the cells, tries to think about a way to escape. At least Dobby and Ollivander got away. Maybe they’ll tell others-
No, that’s not good. Harry is quite sure Voldemort is in the building, and that he won’t be leaving any time soon. It wouldn’t be a good idea for anyone to come trying to save them.
“How does she look?” Ron asks, voice a whisper, looking at Harry.
Ron can’t see Hermione, jailed in the cell next to him.
“I’m fine, Ron!” she says, but she doesn’t look that well. She’s shaking, curled around herself, holding her stomach. She was tortured by that crazy bitch, and Harry can’t do anything to help her.
“Did he do anything to you?” Harry asks.
Hermione shakes her head. “No. He put you to sleep, tied me up and went to the main room.”
“How did you know he was here?” Harry asks, as quietly as he can, eying the Death Eaters. But they’re quiet and the masks don’t show any expression. “You knew before the rest of us.”
Which is odd. Usually Harry is the one that knows what Voldemort is up to, at least vaguely.
“Lestrange’s and Malfoy’s curses weren’t hitting you, even when you had your back to them,” she whispers. “That’s...it’s a very, very rare Symptom.”
“A what?” Dean asks, shocked.
Well, what’s the point in hiding it anymore, really?
“I never heard of it,” Harry says.
“It’s very rare,” Ron says, too. “One can’t be harmed by spells in the presence of their...you know.”
In the presence of their soulmate.
Harry blinks. He feels the urge to laugh again. That’s ...ironic, considering his and Voldemort’s situation.
“It’s not supposed to be that potent,” Hermione adds. “Even when it shows up, it was said to protect against minor magical inconveniences. But Lestrange was throwing very powerful spells at you, and none connected.”
Harry knows that Symptoms are rumoured to be as powerful as the people in the bond. No wonder this would be powerful, what with Voldemort involved.
Can I at least use this to my advantage? he wonders. The bond is a fucking curse, it is, but maybe- if Harry can’t be hurt....
Voldemort benefits from it as well, though.
Well, not like any spells were hitting him anyway, Harry thinks, bitterly.
Harry wants to keep talking, keep asking question, anything to distract himself from the fact that he’s locked up, that his friends are locked up, and Voldemort is near by.
It makes his stomach flutter with anticipation and dread.
But he doesn’t want to talk too much, not with the Death Eaters there, watching, listening.
They all focus on Hermione, trying to keep her distracted from her pain, Luna hums a song, Ron whispers words of encouragement, and eventually Hermione falls into a fitful sleep, and they all fall silent. She needs rest, as much as she can get in these conditions.
Maybe once she feels better, she can figure out a plan.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed, when the door at the far end of the hallway opens. The Death Eaters drop to their knees, and Harry stands, thinks ‘this is it’.
Indeed, Voldemort strolls inside.
There was silence before, but now, somehow, it feels even worse, like the silence gained malevolence.
Voldemort stops in front of Harry’s cell, facing him fully.
Harry’s heart hammers in his chest. One would think Harry got used to staring death in the eyes, but he didn’t.
He doesn’t think anyone really gets used to that.
For what feels like forever, Voldemort doesn’t say or do anything, stands there, and his head is tilted to the left, slightly, almost childlike in his curiosity, appraising Harry, as if this is the first time they see each other.
It’s not, but it’s the first time they really take the time to do it, isn’t it? Usually their encounters are more...dynamic than this.
He has his hood up, still, most of his face obscured, and Harry tries to recreate it from memory, from what he saw in the cemetery, the only time Voldemort was without his robe. But it had only been for a few seconds before Wormtail dressed him, and Harry was so terrified, he can’t even remember details.
He vaguely acknowledges Wormtail is dead now, but he really doesn’t care at the moment.
And then the bars to his cells move apart.
“Follow,” Voldemort says, voice soft, low, but no mistaking the word for the order that it is.
Yeah, good luck with that, Harry thinks, tilting his chin up, defiant.
He’s not in the business of following orders, especially from this man; he never was, and he’s not about to start.
When Harry doesn’t obey, Voldemort reminds him why this time it’s different from all their other encounters.
The bars slam back in place, and Voldemort moves away, opens Hermione’s cell instead.
“NO!” Harry yells. “No!
Ron starts yelling too, and Hermione wakes up, just in time for Voldemort to grab her, lift her up easily, as if she weights nothing.
She struggles, confused, as she’s dragged down the corridor.
“NO!”
“Let her go!” Ron roars.
“Stop!” Harry calls after him. “STOP! I’ll come, I will! STOP!”
Voldemort stops. Those eyes find Harry’s.
“I’ll come, alright! Just let her go!”
Voldemort moves again, throws Hermione back into her cell, and Harry’s opens again.
“One last chance, then,” Voldemort says, and starts walking away.
Harry goes after him, even if Ron and Hermione now yell his name.
But what choice does he have?
Up the stairs, into the Manor proper, Harry goes.
Voldemort doesn’t hurry, but he’s fast, anyway, even if it doesn’t seem intentional. Harry’s heart beats so strongly, he feels dizzy.
He looks around him, trying to think, to find a solution, to escape.
But no, no, he can’t think like that now, he isn’t alone, his friends will pay for everything he does.
It’s so hard to stop his mind from noticing doors, and weapons lying around.
Even harder, when they walk past Death Eaters that drop to their knees, heads bent low, and
Harry could just jump one, take a wand-
And then what?
If he was alone, he could just take a wand, run, plan as he goes, find a way, as he always did.
But he’s not, and even if his luck strikes again and manages a miraculous escape from Voldemort’s clutches, his friends won’t be so lucky.
He forces himself to just walk, follow after Voldemort, ignore every impulse to do anything.
It’s even harder when they pass Bellatrix, who kneels, but doesn’t bow her head, smiles at Voldemort as he goes by, and then, unlike the others, quickly gets up before Harry can get to her, and she smirks at him.
Harry wants to punch her, wants to smash her head in.
She killed Sirius, she tortured Hermione, and now she’s smirking at him-
Just follow him.
It’s one of the hardest things he did in a while, walking past her, presenting his back to her, but he has to do it.
Finally, Voldemort disappears inside a room, and when Harry steps through the doorway after him, the door closes behind him.
“Sit.”
It’s a bedroom. Harry didn’t expect a bedroom. There’s the king size bed further away, but Voldemort is standing by a desk, on the other side of the room.
There are two chairs, and Harry guesses which one Voldemort means for him to sit in.
He doesn’t want to sit, he doesn’t want to do what Voldemort orders, it’s against his very being-
He has to think of his friends. He sits.
And Voldemort sits as well, behind the desk.
Only then, does Harry look at what is on the desk.
Fuck, we’re so fucked.
His eyes fall on the locket, first, the sword lying next to it.
Everything is there, everything they had in Hermione’s bag, but Harry can’t look away from the locket and the sword.
“I do not know if it is something you know about me,” Voldemort says, and Harry’s eyes snap to his mostly hidden face, “but I am the most accomplished Legilimens in the world. Lord Voldemort always knows when he’s being lied to. So.”
Harry breathes in, can’t help but to meet that red gaze.
“You will keep eye contact, and you will tell me everything you know about Horcruxes. You will not lie. If you attempt it, if I detect a lie, then I shall call for your mudblood to be brought up here. She would not enjoy it; I hear Bella already interrogated her, but I promise you, that was child’s play to what I will do to her. Go on.”
Harry was so focused on the threats against Hermione, that it takes some seconds to register the order to start speaking.
What do I do?
But it’s clear Voldemort already knows Harry knows about Horcruxes, what with the locket laying broken on the desk.
“I destroyed the diary years ago,” he says, trying to buy himself time, to think. Voldemort already knows about the diary being destroyed, after all.
“How?”
“With a basilisk fang.”
“Go on,” Voldemort says again.
With what? What can he say? What does Voldemort know already-
“You didn’t know it was a Horcrux, Dumbledore told you. Tell me about that. Tell me how he, or you, found the locket.”
“He found out from a man named Burke,” Harry says, hoping this Burke man is dead already. “I don’t know how he got it, but he had a memory of Burke saying he bought the locket from a homeless girl. And Dumbledore- I don’t know how, but he found the cave because he knew you were there when you were young.”
He doesn’t say the locket in the cave was a fake; to spare Kreacher, and Mundungus, and all the Order members that were in Grimmauld. Voldemort would probably murder everyone that he thinks went into contact with the locket. So Harry doesn’t mention it, but that’s not a lie, so seems he’ll get away with it.
“And how did you destroy it?”
“With the sword.”
Voldemort blinks, for the first time since they started this. For a second, the already dark room goes darker as those eyes close, but then they’re open again. “With the sword? You destroyed it with the sword?”
“Yes.”
Voldemort makes a soft sound, a sibilant one. “What did I say about lying?”
What? “I didn’t lie! I destroyed it with the sword-”
Oh.
Oh, shit.
He thinks Voldemort smiles. It's impossible to tell, with the damn hood, but the little Harry can see, the way his eyes crinkle, slightly….
“You weren’t the one to destroy it.”
Harry, again, doesn’t speak.
“I am a merciful lord, and you’ve behaved so far, so we’ll let his one slide. But you only get one free. Do not lie again, or there will be consequences. Tell me about the ring.”
Oh, thank God. They are moving on.
Apparently he went back to check on all of his Horcruxes, saw the ring missing.
“Dumbledore destroyed it. I don’t know how he did it, or when. He already had it in his office, when he told me about Horcruxes.”
“And what else did he tell you?”
Harry tries to say as little as possible, but Voldemort asks ‘do you know how many there are’ and Harry says ‘yes’.
“Do you know what they are?”
“Nagini, Helga’s cup, and - I don’t know the last one.”
“How did Dumbledore found out about the cup?”
And now Harry has to tell him about Hepzibah memory, too.
“Who else knows about the Horcruxes? Who else did you tell?”
Harry shuts up. And this time, this time he can tell Voldemort rolls his eyes.
“Besides your two sidekicks. Does anyone else know?”
“No. And Dumbledore didn’t tell anyone else, either. He didn’t want people to know. It’s just me.”
“And your two friends.”
No, Harry wants to say, but that would be the second lie Voldemort will catch him with, and clearly he already knows Ron and Hermione know, what with the locket being in Hermione’s bag.
Voldemort stands. He picks something from the desk, circles around it to stand in front of Harry.
“What is this?” He opens his palm.
“A snitch.”
“And what does it do?”
“It’s for Quidditch. You have to catch it-”
“Don’t get smart with me. What does this snitch do? I did read Dumbledore’s will. I know he left it to you. Why?”
“I have no idea,” Harry says, and he’s very happy he hadn’t figured it out so far. Whatever Dumbledore meant with it, at least it won’t end up in Voldemort’s hands.
Voldemort must realise Harry is telling the truth, but his eyes narrow, either way. “He left it to you. He wouldn’t do it without an ulterior motive.”
“He knows I love Quidditch,” Harry spits. “Perhaps he just wanted me to have something nice.”
“We both know he did not care about what you like.”
And wow, that hurts. It really hurts.
“I don’t know what it means, alright?” Harry snaps. “I didn’t figure it out.”
Voldemort goes to sit behind the desk again.
“My lord?” Bellatrix appears, in the next moment. “You called for me?”
“Do you like Quidditch, Bella?”
She blinks, surprised. “I- well, I enjoyed watching Rod play, from time to time. Why?”
“Dumbledore left Potter a snitch,” he says, showing her the snitch. “I wonder what it signifies. Knowing Dumbledore, this is no simple snitch.”
She blinks again. She walks confidently to Voldemort’s side, takes the snitch from his palm, examines it for a minute or so.“Maybe he was just going senile, my lord.?”
A soft laugh.
“I’m sorry. I’m not an expert in Quidditch. I can’t imagine what this does.”
“You may leave.”
“Rabastan was a Seeker,” she adds. “He played professionally for some years. Should I send him to you?”
“Do that.”
She bows, fucks off.
It all feels a bit surreal. Harry’s heart calmed, somewhat, but that’s unusual. This is unusual, just sitting with Voldemort, talking.
They don’t usually talk, that’s for sure.
And now he knows I know about his greatest secret. The only weapon, the only hope we had to defeat him, gone.
Voldemort will be very careful with his Horcruxes from now on.
You’re dead, anyway, Harry tries to consoles himself. It doesn’t matter he found out, you are probably never going to leave this manor, so it hardly matters what he knows anymore.
“Can you kill me?” Harry blurts out. “I mean, with the- you know.” What with them being soulmates.
But Harry can’t make himself say that word to this man.
“Evidently, since you keep breathing despite all my previous attempts, it appears I cannot kill you.”
No, that’s not-
Because of the charms in the Registry, them being soulmates shouldn’t have mattered, before Harry turned seventeen. Voldemort didn’t fail to kill him because of the bond, but because of Harry’s mother, who sacrificed herself for him.
But - maybe if Voldemort thinks the bond is the reason, maybe that’s a good thing, if his ego can be soothed that he finally found a reason for why Harry keeps escaping him. Maybe he won’t try it again, and there’s hope.
“My lord?” a male voice calls, from behind the door. “Bella sent me.”
“Come in.”
A man walks inside; Harry vaguely recognises him from the Ministry and from the wanted posters.
Voldemort beacons him closer, hands him the snitch, too. “This one is special. I need to know in what manner.”
Lestrange turns it over in his hand, a pensive look on his wasted face. But his eyes are clear, focused, and Harry is used to useless, incompetent Death Eaters, but this one might be more like his sister-in-law than the other ones, because the first thing he says, the first fucking thing he says is, “ there is nothing special about it, my lord. It is a normal snitch. However, perhaps it would be useful for you to know snitches have flesh memory. A snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. It is the only way I can think of that a snitch can be used to carry a message for the Seeker who caught it, and that Seeker alone.”
Voldemort stands, triumphant, takes the snitch back from Lestrange, comes by Harry’s side, once more.
“Your hand,” he demands.
Harry extends his right hand. Voldemort places the snitch in it, but, of course, nothing happens.
“Rabastan?”
Now Lestrange is there, too, watching, with a frown. “How did you catch the snitch, Potter?”
When Harry doesn’t answer, enraged that this man is apparently brighter than most of his brethren, Voldemort says, ‘bring the mudblood here, Rabastan.”
“With my mouth, alright?” Harry snaps. “I caught it with my mouth.”
Lestrange whistles. “Impressive catch,” he says.
Is he fucking serious?
But then Voldemort is placing the snitch on his lips, and as soon as contact is made-
It buzzes, and the words appear on it.
“I open at the close,” Voldemort reads.
“I don’t think that has anything to do with Quidditch, my lord.”
“Yes, I don’t think it does. Leave.”
“My lord!” Lestrange bows, exists as quickly as he arrived.
Voldemort places the snitch back on the desk.
“I didn’t lie,” Harry speaks into the sudden stretching silence, when Voldemort just sits there, quietly staring at the snitch. “I really don’t know what ‘I open at the close’ means.” Do you? he almost asks, but thankfully contains himself.
Voldemort ignores him, his long, pale fingers now wrap around ‘The tales of Beedle the bard’.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
And he said he read Dumbledore’s will already. So he knows Dumbledore left this for Hermione, he knows it can’t be just a random fairytale book a girl just happened to carry with her.
Maybe it’s not real. Maybe it really is just a story, and Dumbledore had yet another reason to leave the book to Hermione
Harry just heard the story, as Hermione read it to them in Luna’s home, shortly before they were caught. It was only a day- two?- ago, but it feels like a lifetime. But he knows it’s true- he understands, sitting here, that Dumbledore intended to lead Harry to these so called Deathly Hallows, to – he’s not sure why. As a weapon against Voldemort, surely?
Time passes; Harry is aware of every second blending into the next. He’s scared, he knows how fucked they are, and yet, something inside him feels settled, as it has never felt before. The soulmate shit, no doubt.
How, how can he be my soulmate? How is life so cruel? He studies Voldemort, for what feels like a long time. He sits on that throne like chair, and all Harry can clearly distinguish are those red eyes.
Eyes that move from the book of fairytales, to the snitch, and back again. Harry can almost see the cogs turning behind that gaze, and it’s frightening, it is.
Dumbledore and Slughorn and really everyone always went on what a genius this lunatic is, but that hasn’t been Harry’s experience, so far. All Harry ever saw was rage and blood-thirst. Yet as they sit in silence, as those eyes keep moving between the book and the snitch. Harry thinks-
I make him smarter. Voldemort was already smart, already powerful, but the presence of his soulmate will only enhance those traits. Magic designed them to make each other more. Better. Stronger.
And then Voldemort reaches over, and his fingers close around the Invisibility Cloak, bundled on the end of the desk.
His eyes shine with understanding, with terrifying triumph and awe. With his other hand, he reaches inside his robe and pulls out a wand-
Not his wand. No. Dumbledore’s wand.
Harry’s breath hitches. There’s only one reason Voldemort would take that wand.
It’s the Elder Wand! His mind screams at him, suddenly understanding. And my cloak is the Invisibility Cloak.
So then, that means- that means the Resurrection Stone is in Dumbledore’s snitch. But Harry can’t open it, doesn’t know what the message means.
Will Voldemort figure it out as fast as he figured out the rest? Did Harry just hand him not only himself, his greatest enemy finally in chains, but also the Deathly Hallows, a weapon he wasn’t even looking for?
Voldemort stands, lets go of the cloak, and he reaches inside his robe again, pulls out another wand. Still not his own.
Harry’s wand.
Harry jerks in his seat, every instinct wanting him to tackle Voldemort to the ground, at the disgusting sight of seeing his beloved wand in that monster’s hand.
Broken. His broken wand.
Voldemort lays it on the desk, and finally pulls out his own wand, the familiar pale white one. He sets that, too, near Harry’s broken one.
He stares at them. And then, he asks-
“Can you understand me?”
What? What does he mean?
“Answer me!”
“Yes,” Harry says.
That red gaze looks up from the wands, shocked, fixed on Harry. He walks closer, around the desk, and Harry should behave, he should think of Hermione, but he can’t just sit there, he stands before his mind can even catch up with his actions.
He refuses to sit there with Voldemort looming over him.
He looms, regardless, taller than he has any right to be, but at least Harry is standing, too.
He doesn’t flinch when Voldemort reaches for him. Harry is not afraid of him. Especially since he’s reaching with his bare hand, not with a wand.
His fingers go to Harry’s scar. It’s not the first time Voldemort touched him there, but unlike that night in the graveyard, now it feels-
It feels good. And Harry fears that feeling more than he ever feared Voldemort himself.
“So Dumbledore sent you after my Horcruxes, on a mission to destroy them,” he whispers, tone so soft, but the words reaching Harry’s very soul, feels like. “I wonder if he told you the truth. If he really told you about all of them.”
“What truth?” Harry’s disconcerted to hear his voice coming out almost as soft as Voldemort’s.
“You shouldn’t understand me,” Voldemort goes on.
What is he on about?
“But you do. Of course you do. I should have seen it sooner.”
“What?”
Voldemort steps back. “You’re my Horcrux,” he says, and he sounds different now, sterner, colder.
Because he’s speaking in English, it strikes Harry. He spoke in Parseltongue before.
And then the words hit him.
It finally makes sense why Harry speaks Parseltongue. “He transferred some of his power to you that night,” Dumbledore said, long ago, and Harry never questioned it again.
Like with the soul-match letter, Harry is not even surprised for a second. Perhaps he knew, deep inside, already.
Quickly, a lot of things make sense.
“Oh,” it’s all Harry can manage out loud.
“Will you follow his orders as faithfully now, that you know the truth? Will you sacrifice yourself, to kill a part of me? Another part of me?”
Harry feels very cold all of a sudden. Numb. Lost. Betrayed, but that’s only for a second. He felt more betrayed by Dumbledore for hiding the Grindelwald part about his life, than for this.
That’s why he let me tell Hermione and Ron about Horcruxes. Because he knew I had to die, eventually, and he hoped they would be able to somehow finish off a horcrux-less Voldemort.
Only Harry didn’t find all the Horcruxes. There’s the one he has no idea what it is, there’s Helga’s cup he never found. There’s Nagini.
And Ron and Hermione are prisoners.
“Yes,” Harry says, defiant, holding his head high. Harry made peace with death long before, after all. He was never meant to live long. He was always the Chosen One, a weapon to bring down the dark lord. He won’t fear it.
He allows himself a fool’s hope, that while he’s up here with a distracted Voldemort, maybe Hermione and Ron can pull off another miracle and escape. That they’ll finish off the other Horcruxes, and that they’ll never have to learn Harry himself was one.
“Can you even do it?” he meant to sound taunting, but he just sounds curious. “What with the…” bond. But he can’t acknowledge their match out loud, even now that he knows he is literally carrying a piece of Voldemort’s soul inside him.
Soulmates indeed.
“Let’s test it out, shall we?” Voldemort asks, and Dumbledore’s wand is back between those pale, long fingers.
They had felt warm on his skin, seconds earlier, yet they look so cold now.
“Will you stay put for me, Harry?” the way he says his name, it’s so- Harry won’t think of it. “Or will you run around, make me chase you, as you did in the graveyard?”
“I won’t run,” Harry assures him. Harry is a survivor, he did so much to survive, but- he hates Voldemort more than he wants to guard his own life. If he dies, a piece of Voldemort dies with him.
“Then let us fix this mistake I made all those years ago.”
Voldemort must also hate Harry more than he cherishes his own life, with how willing he is to get rid of the Horcrux inside Harry.
The thought makes him ...sad.
Stupid soul-bond.
Voldemort raises his wand, and Harry closes his eyes, not because he fears dying, but- it’s just hard, isn’t it, standing there, doing nothing? It’s unlike him, it’s against all his instincts, and he’s afraid he’ll doge if he sees it coming, that he won’t help himself.
I’ll finally see my parents. I’ll see Sirius again, he thinks. I can rest. Voldemort won’t be able to hurt me anymore, to kill my loved ones. It will be over. It should be painless.
He’s ready. He is.
His eyes fly open when he feels something cold touch his lips.
Voldemort is too close again, and then Harry hears a soft ‘pop’ and he looks down, at Voldemort’s hand, and in his palm, the Snitch is finally opened.
I open at the close.
Voldemort’s ring is inside it. The Resurrection Stone, as he suspected.
“It appears Dumbledore rewarded this dog-like , mindless loyalty of yours,” Voldemort says, and he’s walking away again, wand no longer in sight.
Harry’s breath, that came calmly only seconds ago when he prepared himself for death, now comes quickly, as if he ran a marathon.
He expected to die, and it seems it won’t happen anymore.
Of course it wouldn’t, you fool. No matter how much he hates you, he would never harm a piece of himself. He only wanted you to open the snitch for him.
And how on earth did he figure that stupid message in like half an hour, when Harry had sat with the snitch for almost a year?!
“He meant for you to unite the Hallows, it seems. He knew you’ll sacrifice yourself, he meant to trick me into killing you- destroying myself- and then for the Hallows to bring you back to life.”
All Harry’s brief misgivings with his headmaster melt away, and a rush of warmth rushes through him.
“He almost outsmarted me, that old goat.”
“He was smarter than you,” Harry spits out. “He was better than you in all ways.”
Rage shines in those eyes, but then is quickly replaced with mirth. “And yet, here we are. He made me Master of Death, and I didn’t even know what the Deathly Hallows are until a few hours ago.”
Harry’s jaw twitches. But then, he remembers-
“I am Master of Death, too, then. Because we are soulmates.” There. He said it.
“Oh, Harry.” Again, his name, said like that-
Harry shivers.
“We’re so much more than that. I admit I wasn’t best pleased with this soulmate nonsense, quite the inconvenience, isn’t it? But you are, quite literally, my soul. Now, that, is worth something. What beautiful irony...the boy that was meant to destroy me is guarding me from death. Poetic, really, though I am not one inclined to poetry. I find it rather boring.”
“What will you do to me, then?” Harry asks, still adjusting. Still in shock. Still not quite wrapping his head around the fact that not only will he not die that night, but possibly he won’t die for a very long time.
Will he protect me the way he did his other Horcruxes? Cage me in a remote cave? Give me to one of his followers? Keep me at his side, like Nagini?
“While I never enjoyed poetry, that doesn't mean I couldn’t appreciate a great romance, here and there. Rome and Juliet, Anna Karenina, Pride and Prejudice- have you read them, Harry?”
What? Harry has whiplash from being threatened with death to now- whatever this is.
“No, of course you haven’t. No matter, we’ll rectify that- can’t have my soulmate uneducated, can I? It would reflect poorly on me. As a rule, however, from my understanding, grand gestures are expected in a romance, are they not?”
Harry opens his mouth to tell him to stop using that word, that it’s absurd, but Voldemort now waves the Elder wand again, and then-
Harry’s breath hitches again. It lodges in his throat.
Voldemort picks up the holy wand from the desk. Repaired. Whole. In a way, it feels as if a part of Harry it’s now fixed. How he mourned for his wand, how he refused to part with the broken pieces, even if Hermione told him there was no way to fix it.
Voldemort advances towards him again. His hood lowers, on it’s own, and-
He’s striking. Otherworldly. He’s inhuman, yet is he, really? When Harry carries a piece of Voldemort’s humanity inside his forehead?
“Here, my Horcrux,” Voldemort says, and now Harry can see the smile, the slow upturn of his lips, the way his very white skin stretches over sharp, proud bones, in such a contrast with his black robe, and the red eyes.
He holds out Harry’s wand, handle first.
Harry blinks at it, really shocked. He takes it, and to hold his wand again is like that first breath of air he took when Ron saved him from the frozen lake.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, distant, very focused on his wand, unbelieving he’s holding it again.
“My soulmate, then?” that soft voice turns slightly mocking.
“No.”
“Then what shall I call you?”
“Don’t call me anything,” Harry demands, wand held between them, still, tip pointed at Voldemort’s chest.
But what use? Even if Harry manages to cast fast enough that a wizard of Voldemort’s experience won’t be able to avoid it…
Would it work, being soulmates?
“Just Harry, then,” Voldemort goes on. “I think you enjoy that, don’t you?”
Harry does enjoy the sound of his name in that cruel mouth. It’s not his fault, it’s the fucking bond. “As much as you enjoy Tom,” he spits out.
But Voldemort’s sinister’s smile only turns wider. “Do not forget I have your friends down in the dungeon, Harry.”
Right.
“Is that in those novels you mentioned, too? Blackmail someone with their friends?”
“In some of them, yes,” Voldemort answers. “You may call me Master, Harry.”
Harry snorts. His gaze now moved to Voldemort’s neck. As ...unusual as his face, as white. Long. Very long. There are tendons standing out, on either side. It looks frail, like Harry could easily crush it between his hands, but it looks strong, too. Both at once.
“No? A pity. I assume you’d be equally unreceptive to ‘my lord’? Then my name will suffice. No need for formality between us, after all.”
And then, somehow, Voldemort is bending over him, Harry’s wand still between them, the tip now pressing into him, due to the very sudden, extreme closeness, and-
Harry’s brain shuts down.
The lips over his are as cold as the snitch has been. They press against Harry’s just as softly, just as briefly, yet it’s as if a great fire just burst inside Harry’s ribs.
“What are you doing?” Harry asks, stepping back.
“Completing the bond. Surely, even as uncultured as you are, you at least know one consummates a bond with physical intimacy. With sex, in case you don’t know what intimacy means.”
Harry blinks up at him.
He must have died in Malfoy’s living room, and now he’s in some sort of weird Hell. Or maybe he’s still in Malfoy’s dungeon and he’s having a bizarre nightmare.
“No,” he says, taking yet another step back, but Voldemort follows.
“No? They really don’t teach you anything at Hogwarts these days, do they?”
“I mean- I know how a bond is- I just. No. I won’t do it.”
Voldemort’s smile is there again. “I wasn’t asking for permission, Harry,” he says, amused. “Alas, if you don’t wish to participate, you may just lie back and I shall do all the work, as always. Though I dare say that would be less pleasant for you, and very out of character. You do seem very...hmmm… feisty, generally.”
Harry is feisty, so he curses Voldemort, because he’s backing Harry into the bed.
The soul-bound sucks. The curse, even if Harry’s wand is literally pressed into Voldemort’s chest, has no effect.
“But you cursed me in the hallway!” Harry says, outraged. “It worked for you!”
“I merely put you to sleep,” Voldemort says, advancing still, and now the back of Harry’s knees touch the bed. “However, it seems the bond won’t allow any spells cast with malice between us. Unfortunate, I admit. I will feel the need to curse you occasionally, I am sure, alas I will have to make do with cursing your little friends in your stead when you upset me.”
Fuck.
But that means- that means Voldemort doesn’t plan to kill Ron and Hermione anytime soon, if he means to use them to punish Harry.
And that will buy them time. They only need time to find a way to get out of this mess. Hermione needs to heal and put her great mind to work.
“You are upsetting me right now, Harry,” Voldemort warns, when Harry tries to duck aside, because there’s nowhere to go back anymore.
“Do you think punching you will work?” Harry asks, a little hysterical, a little curious. “I’d love breaking your nose, if only you would have one.”
Voldemort stops at that, allowing Harry some room to breathe. “Is that the issue, then? You’d be more receptive if my appearance would be boringly, plainly human? Tell me, Harry, did you have intimate dreams with a younger version of myself, the one that still had that muggle’s face?”
Harry feels his cheeks growing hot. He did have a crush on Tom Riddle, hadn’t he? At twelve. He was so innocent back then, he didn’t even realise it was a crush, didn’t understand why he was so willing to trust Tom.
“If that’s the matter, to make it easier for you, and skip this muggle violence you mention, I am generous enough to wear a glamour for an hour or so-”
“It’s not how you look!” Harry spits at him, still not quite believing he’s having this conversation with Voldemort. “It’s who you are.”
Voldemort shrugs. “Nothing I can do about that, I’m afraid. You’ll just have to get used to it.”
“You could try acting like a decent human! You could try stopping the war, the senseless killing-”
“Or you could abandon your pesky morals, learn to enjoy wielding power over those lesser than you.”
Harry can no more do that than Voldemort acting decent.
“Soulmates are often of opposing characters, did you know? Apparently magic likes balance and such nonsense. Your smart mudblood has her stupid ginger; impulsive Bella has calculated Rodolphus. Cowardly, repressed Dumbledore had brave, hedonistic Grindelwald. And I have you.”
Dumbledore and Grindelwald. Strangely, while just weeks ago the thought provoked rage and betrayal inside Harry, now it’s like a balm. Like permission.
Even Dumbledore fucked a dark lord.
If it would buy Harry time, if it would buy Ron and Hermione time…
It would make the bond stronger. And a complete bond would make Voldemort stronger, yes, but it would also make Harry stronger.
He’s not doing this because his skin tingled with pleasure when Voldemort touched him, he’s not doing this because something flutters in his chest when Voldemort says his name- no, no. He’s doing this strategically.
And he’d be doing it regardless- Voldemort did say he didn’t need consent, and Harry doesn’t doubt him.
He stops trying to get away, accepting it.
Only now that he’s not doing anything, he feels awkward. What is he supposed to do?
Fall on the bed, apparently, when Voldemort pushes him on it, in the next second. And then, with a wave of a pale, boney wrist, Harry’s clothes vanish.
Now he really feels awkward. And far more vulnerable than he ever felt around Voldemort before.
“Take your robe off,” Harry orders, even if his tone would point to it being a question. Not as if he wants to see Voldemort naked, he just figures he’d feel less exposed if they were both naked.
He was wrong. When Voldemort, with a raised brow, as hairless as the rest of him, discards his robe with an elegant gesture, Harry doesn’t feel better.
He feels worse.
Harry’s seen him naked before, in the graveyard, but he was too terrified back then to look at anything but his face, and Wormtail covered him swiftly.
Now, though, Harry’s eyes drag all over his body, against his will.
He truly is otherworldly. Too white, too thin, too tall. He’s a sinewy type of thin, nothing soft of giving about his flesh; long, lean muscle visible, not because they are defined, but because he’s malnourished.
Harry looks almost the same way these days, after so many months of living in a tent with little food available.
Harry should find him repulsive, but he’s too fascinated, looks at that strange body as if in a trance.
Deep down, what repulses him is that he wouldn’t prefer Voldemort to look ‘boringly, plainly human’.
He’s hairless, everywhere. That adds to the ethereal sight of him. It’s as if he’s one of those mannequins muggles keep in clothing store. Strange, human-like but not quite, and sort of perfect? Only this particular mannequin is animated by a malevolent entity, the only colour his red eyes, twin flames that pin Harry on that bed.
Even his cock is white. Harry gives up and allows himself to look at it. White, even the head, marble like, hairless, long.
At least there’s only one. Harry learned snakes get two of those, and he remembers thinking at the time about Voldemort- an intrusive, absurd thought that he dismissed as soon as it occurred to him.
He’s relieved to see the snake-like features are limited to his nose, or lack thereof, to his eyes.
He’s already hard, but Harry can’t say anything about it, since he, too, is hard.
Voldemort is cool to the touch, when he’s suddenly on top of Harry, but he warms up alarmingly fast in contact with Harry’s skin.
“Are you a virgin?”
Fucking hells. Harry doesn't answer. It’s none of Voldemort’s business.
His silence is answer enough, judging by Voldemort’s sigh.
“Then I suppose I really do need to do all the work.”
Harry realises he’s still holding his wand, he hadn’t let it go. Will he take it from me? But why give it to me in the first place, then?
He forces himself to let go of it, not like it can help him now, and he grabs Voldemort’s boney shoulders, and then twists them around, until Harry is on top of him.
Makes him feel better, like he’s putting up a fight.
Voldemort, for his part, goes easily, doesn’t make a fuss. Again, he looks up at Harry with a raised brow.
God, but his eyes are-
Harry shakes his head. Evil, he reminds himself. He has evil eyes, not beautiful!
“I’m not opposed to this,” he says, and he sounds different again, Harry thinks he switched to Parseltongue once more, but can’t be sure. “Eventually,” he adds, with a smirk. “But you wouldn’t know what to do with me right now, Harry.”
Fuck you, Harry thinks.
Maybe even literally.
He wants to strangle Voldemort, test to see which of his theories about that long neck was correct- if it’s very fragile, or very strong-, but what he does instead is bend down and lick one of those tendons sticking out.
He tastes like nothing. Harry doesn’t do much more thinking after that. He doesn’t know how they end up kissing, who started it, but he can’t miss it when Voldemort bites his lower lip.
Harry bites back.
Voldemort turns them around, and somehow Harry doesn’t notice he’s on his back for an unknowable amount of time, lost in those aggressive kisses, in the way their bodies drag over each other.
When he does notice, once again, he turns them over.
Back and forth they go, for what seems like a long time- too long- until Harry forgets about everything, about the world outside, about his need to win, and all he can focus on is his throbbing cock.
Only a little bit of anger manages to pierce through the lust when he finds himself on his back again, but by that point he doesn’t care anymore, it isn’t what angers him- it’s Voldemort, now kneeling between Harry’s parted legs, that reaches to the side and grabs Harry’s wand.
“Don’t touch it!” he snarls at him.
“What belongs to you, belongs to me, too,” Voldemort says, and it strikes Harry this is the first time he sounds ...not angry, exactly, but more aggressive than the almost polite way he spoke to Harry all night.
Harry wants to argue further, but then Voldemort summons lubricant, throws the wand on the mattress again, and Harry’s thoughts are derailed once more.
He never felt Voldemort’s soul inside him, but there’s no ignoring other parts of him going inside Harry.
First those long, infuriating fingers, eliciting sensations from Harry that he never experienced before, never knew were possible, and then that too-white cock.
Jesus Christ, Harry thinks, and it’s all he can think for some minutes, as he relearns how to breathe, how to accommodate the strange intrusion inside him.
Perhaps it would be easier if he were to close his eyes, but he can’t stop staring into Voldemort’s, who looks more animated than ever above him, the vertical slits of his eyes now blown wide, and it serves to remind Harry how Voldemort is different, more creature than man, yet it also serves to remind him he is, indeed, human, despite all the signs pointing differently.
Harry hadn’t even known he likes men- does he?- but when he comes, hard, it feels a thousand times better than it ever did before, when he’d mess around with Ginny, or simply on his own, in his bed, alone with his fantasies.
It’s not just physical, it’s not only his body that feels good, relaxed, but something else inside him settles entirely, a great rush of warmth and rightness envelopes him, the bond completed, at long last.
His brain starts working again only after Voldemort is done, climbing off Harry, lies down at his side.
The side with the wand, Harry thinks, and the fact he noticed that means he’s back to himself, and he no longer can ignore the reality of the situation, of whom, exactly, he just slept with.
He still feels good, but no longer overwhelmed by it.
“Will this get rid of that stupid parchment with your name on it?” he asks, in the sudden silence that fell between them.
“I hope so,” Voldemort says, and for some reason, the slight frustration in his tone makes Harry smile, because apparently Voldemort hadn’t found a way to get rid of the parchment, either.
Harry stands, gingerly, looks around for his clothes, but he can’t see them anywhere, Voldemort just vanished them, the arsehole. So Harry takes his robe- didn’t he just say what is Harry’s now belongs to him? That means what is his, belongs to Harry, too.
“I want to go back to my friends.”
Voldemort watches him from the bed, again with that slight head-tilt, as if appraising Harry.
“You won’t be leaving this bedroom until I decide you will act in a manner I approve of.”
“And how will you stop me? You can’t curse me-”
“No, but I can restrain you,” Voldemort says, and Harry’s wand is back between those long fingers.
Harry remembers what those fingers did to him a little bit ago, and he feels his skin turning red.
“I wouldn’t bind you out of malice, after all.” He smiles. “It would be for your own good. If it fails, I do have an army, Harry. They can’t curse you either, not while I am around, but surely they can restrain you the muggle way, if need be. Or, of course, I can always torment your little friends. Get back in bed.”
Harry just stares at him.
Voldemort sighs. “It needn’t all be punishment and blackmail, Harry. We can try a reward system, too. If you obey, I can have the mudblood healed, I can have her and the ginger imprisoned in a more comfortable room.”
Dumbledore got rid of Grindelwald, somehow, even if it’s supposed to be impossible to harm your soulmate, to keep away from them, once the bond had been completed.
But he did it. It took time, it took decades, but Dumbledore did it.
And so will I, Harry swears to himself.
But it won’t happen now. He needs to think, to plan, to see how he can turn this into his advantage. He needs his friends safe and at his side.
He needs to be smart.
“Luna and Dean, too,” he says, after some seconds, and he returns to the bed. Voldemort is still naked, and Harry does his best not to let it distract him.
“No. Perhaps they’ll get that privilege next time you behave. We’ll see.”
“And my wand? Is that -”
For the second time that night, Voldemort hands Harry his wand. “Have at it. Just remember that if you harm my Death Eaters, I will harm your friends.”
Harry’s jaws clench. “I didn’t think you care about what happens to them.”
Voldemort laughs. “I don’t, but wouldn’t do to let you loose on them. Not until you earn it, at least.” He’s the one that stands, and a new robe forms from thin air to cover him as he walks away. “Rest now. You are only human, after all. You look tired, too. And I have to further research these Deathly Hallows and how they can benefit me.”
“There’s no way I can rest in this place,” Harry spits at him.
Yet, hours later, after Voldemort summoned some masked Death Eater that brought Harry food and water, after Voldemort ordered Lestrange to move Ron and Hermione to Draco’s bedroom and see to their injuries, Harry does feel really tired.
He hadn’t eaten so well in a long time. He hadn’t rested on a comfortable bed in a while, too.
And Voldemort sits on his throne-like chair, with a mountain of books surrounding him, entirely focused on them with an intensity even Hermione hasn’t managed so far, entirely lost in whatever he’s reading.
The warmth, the rightness of the bond hasn’t left Harry.
It lulls him to sleep.
He drifts off planning how to kill Voldemort, and also thinking how it will feel when he will fuck Voldemort.
He has no dreams.