Chapter Text
The rolling hills of the Cheviots spread out before him covered in a lush green blanket, thriving after months of plentiful rain. He stood apart from the abundance, his posture rigid as the rock underneath his feet. Dark formal robes bore down upon his shoulders, heavy and unfamiliar, but he did not bend to the weight. White shapes clustered along the slopes of the hills; long-haired goats grazing—peaceful, unhurried, blissfully unaware of what watched from above.
The catastrophic cock-up at the Department of Mysteries had destroyed his carefully laid plans, but like a snake shedding its skin, Voldemort swore to reinvent himself again.
It galled to wear the botanical symbols of the Gaunt family on his sleeves. As if he were equal to his pathetic relations who had squandered their gifts until they were nothing but squibs pretending at any true magic, but it was a necessary part to play.
Behind him the crack of apparition signified Narcissa Malfoy’s return.
“They have arrived, my Lord.”
He was not the only one embracing adaptation. Narcissa had usurped her husband's position as Voldemort’s primary advisor and had proven to be tenfold as competent. Albeit largely motivated by fear for her son—a feeble boy who'd crumpled at the first feel of his Cruciatus.
She waited with her hands folded on top of her own set of formal robes, her expression perfectly placid. If all went according to plan, Lucius would be released from Azkaban by the end of the day, but Voldemort had no interest in allowing the imbecile back into a position of power.
“And my intended?” His lips pressed into a cold smile.
The catalyst of his failure and transformation; exponentially more important and far-reaching than mere shifts in status of his followers was, as always, Harry Potter.
The boy of prophecy, his fated vanquisher, the-boy-who-lived to be his Horcrux.
The shock he’d felt when possessing Potter at the Ministry had been blinding—paralysing. It had cost him precious time; unable to capture the unwitting brat or even to disapparate before the Aurors arrived, revealing his return to the public. The rage that followed had reduced parts of Malfoy Manor to smoking ruins.
“Everything seems to be in order.” A slight scrunch of Narcissa’s eyebrows was the only sign that showed concern. “His witnesses are Headmaster Dumbledore and Minister Scrimgeour.”
“Another political choice.” It was diametrically opposed to what he’d expect from the hothead who ran to the Ministry on a half-arsed vision with a gaggle of his underaged friends. The same had been true for their marriage contract negotiations—centring politics. Any personal demands had been an afterthought at best, or entirely absent from negotiations, like Harry himself.
He turned away from the view below and beckoned Narcissa to follow. It was time to meet his soon-to-be-husband at the altar.
With a crack they appeared at the bottom of a hill where the indistinguishable din of a crowd greeted them; a great many wixen had come to witness the bonding that promised to unite magical Britain. A smirk pulled at his lips. Clusters of spectators were spread over the plains and rocks surrounding the hill, their robes swaying in the wind.
Between them, nine Aurors struggled to maintain a protective ward. One of them caught sight of him and cried out in fear, her face ashen against the burgundy of the Aurors robes. The ward fluttered, its edges fraying like an old scarf in the wind.
The Ministry’s finest at work.
“Quite a turnout, my Lord.” Yaxley, his second witness, bowed in greeting. Voldemort ignored him, intent on searching for Harry Potter. He hadn’t laid eyes on his intended since he’d left him gasping and bleeding on the floor of the Atrium.
His gaze narrowed into a glare when instead he found Dumbledore, wearing an atrocious orange ensemble, and chatting amiably with the Minister for Magic as if he weren't selling out his underage charge for the greater good. His palm itched to draw his wand and add a spray of bright arterial blood to the outfit. He turned away, soothed by the knowledge his plans to assassinate Dumbledore were delayed, not cancelled.
Menhirs covered in vines and weathered down by millennia of wind and rain formed a half circle—a path up and down the hill. At the top stood the officiant, hidden under bulky robes waiting by an ancient well.
The ambient magic of the stones exuded a faint but insistent call, like a moth fluttering against his skin. He trailed his fingertips over the surface of the rock, feeling it hum and simmer almost, but not quite, alive. His own magic responded eagerly, harmonizing with the intricate web connecting the standing stones, the well, and all nearby.
Power slept there, in old forgotten magic.
At a sign from the officiant, the crowd behind them quieted. It was time.
Voldemort started up the hill, wind whistling sharply in his ears and tousling his long hair. Between the standing stones he caught tantalizing glimpses of Potter's form walking in parallel on the opposite side. Voldemort’s stride lengthened, his lips twisting into a tight smile.
On the final stretch their robes thrashed in the wind, Potter’s curls a riot around his head.
They came to a stop facing each other by the ancient well. Dark brown stains ran down the edges; reminders of hundreds, if not thousands, of blood sacrifices the wixen of old had performed there.
Voldemort tilted his head. Did Potter feel the power of the nexus simmer beneath their feet, did it clutch at his being, begging to be heard? If he did, he gave no indication; his posture stiff and his face averted.
Voldemort had expected, at the very least, a defiant glare. Tears of defeat, perhaps. Instead even the connection that stretched between them whenever they were in close proximity was muted, as if he'd taken a strong calming draught.
The officiant, face hidden under a deep hood, opened their arms in welcome, revealing spindly wrists covered in runic markings.
The individual parts of the ceremony blurred together while Voldemort stared down at the crown of Potter’s head, an uneasy awareness crawling up his spine. Potter remained stiff and unaffected, and it gnawed at Voldemort's satisfaction.
When it was time for the blood letting, Potter lifted his head, eyes blank, to offer the officiant his hand. They cut into his flesh and dark blood pooled in his palm while the scent of iron filled the air between them. Voldemort welcomed the taste on his tongue.
Beneath their feet the thrumming of magic intensified; eager for blood. They clasped their hands together, blood dripping down their palms and falling to the hungry earth. The hedgewitch's elation spiked the air around them as they twisted the bonding chords around their clasped hands in four tight loops.
With each loop of the chords the standing stones reverberated and the whispered harmony of the holy site sang. And yet—Harry Potter showed no discernible reaction. With a glare, Voldemort clenched their clasped hands harshly, squeezing fat drops of their mixed blood out of their wounds.
Not even a flinch.
Not even a blink.
The ceremony finished with a shared drink from a wooden quaich. Harry drank first, facing the distant crowd of onlookers and their witnesses below. Voldemort took the cup and sipped the water, wondering if someone had poisoned the well.
He felt the bond to his now-husband settle inside of him; an unsettling pressure but he was satisfied nonetheless. Now they were tied together fourfold; by prophecy, by soul, by blood, and by magic—for life.
No one would take his Horcrux from him.