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Chapter Text

The three Unforgivable Curses were classified as such because they worked differently than other dark curses. There was dark and then there was Dark. As soul magic, the Unforgivables fell into the latter category.

This wasn’t common knowledge, unfortunately.  Awareness of the distinctions in magical classification had fallen out of public consciousness over half a century ago, when the Ministry of Magic decided to simplify said classifications for bureaucratic purposes. It was more straightforward to penalize all dark magic, without having to attend to the grades of dark on a case-by-case basis. The ministry processing department was overworked and understaffed enough that such simplifications were very welcome.

Perhaps if more people had remembered that the Killing Curse wasn’t the same as any other dark curse they wouldn’t have been surprised by Harry Potter when he returned to the wizarding world.

As it was, nobody – not even the vaunted Albus Dumbledore, who really should have known better – was prepared.

Voldemort’s killing curse left a scar on Harry Potter beyond the visible mark on his forehead. The scar marred his very magic, right through to his soul, though young Harry wouldn’t come to know this for many years. All Harry knew was that he had a fascination with decay and, eventually, an ability to call Death forth with his hands.

It took Harry some time to figure out the specifics of his Gift. Harry had always loved autumn, when all the natural life around him began to die, and he reveled in the bleak, barren winter when the grass turned brown and the fields were empty and the remains of once living plants began to rot under the chill of frost.

It wasn’t until Harry was six years old and put to work in his aunt’s garden that he realized he could hasten the effects of the season. He was pulling weeds from around the rose bush, thinking idly that the flowers would be so much prettier as withered husks, when before his eyes they started to fade, drying and shriveling in a beautiful transformation.

Harry was delighted. His aunt, less so.

He was no longer sent to work in the garden after that.

It wasn’t until much later that Harry realized he could apply his Gift to living creatures as well as plants. By now Harry had near perfected the art of killing growing things. He made a habit of picking blooms in the peak of their life and draining them, bringing them into his cupboard and turning the cramped space into a veritable blackhouse of gorgeous withered and rotting plants. He fell asleep every night surrounded by the sight and smell of death and dreamed sweet dreams.

Harry was seven and a half when he applied his Gift to Dudley and his friends. It was an accident – at first. Dudley’s gang, as was his wont, was Harry Hunting after school. Despite Harry’s best efforts, they’d cornered him in the park near Privet Drive; there was no escape. Dudley’s little minions held Harry’s arms behind his back to keep him still.

Harry was very afraid. He’d gotten quite good at running away, and it had been over a month since Dudley and his gang had caught him. Dudley was enraged by this fact, and promised Harry that he was due to collect all the beatings he’d avoided – the threat delivered in significantly smaller words, of course. Harry absorbed the first several punches and kicks without too much difficulty, but as the beating continued he started to panic.

Without consciously calling on it, his Gift responded. Piers and Malcolm dropped his arms, falling to the ground unconscious, drained of energy. Dudley backed away from Harry quickly, turning tail and running to his mummy and daddy to complain about the freak being freakish.

Harry earned a week in his cupboard for that. But the experience had given Harry new ideas, and after 28 hours locked away his desperation spawned creativity. If he could drain flowers and people, what else could he do? His cupboard walls and door were made of wood, and wood was a living thing. Harry pressed his hand to the door frame and thought very hard. His Gift responded. The wood aged immediately, warping and shrinking and eventually turning to dust. The door fell right out of the crumpled frame, and Harry happily skipped to the kitchen for a snack.

Of course, the noise of the falling cupboard door woke the Dursleys, who were not at all pleased to see Harry’s new trick. The Dursleys had always known that Harry was freakish, and not just the regular kind of freakish that had plagued Petunia’s sister and her no good friends. No, Harry was extra freakish. His eyes were unnaturally bright and the air around him always felt cold. They had always been a little bit afraid of Harry, and they’d hoped to stomp the freak right out of him with enough discipline.

It seemed they hadn’t disciplined him enough. Vernon decided to ameliorate the issue right then and there, grabbing Harry by the scruff of the neck and dragging him into the living room. Vernon began to beat him savagely.

Harry, still tender from the beating Dudley had given him earlier that day, reacted instinctively to this new threat. He shifted from his place on the floor, wrapping himself around Vernon’s leg, and pulling with his Gift.

Vernon gasped, staggering backward and eventually collapsing. He aged before their eyes, skin and hair going pallid and gray, wrinkles forming, hair and nails lengthening as if years had passed in seconds. Petunia screamed. Harry held on until he passed out, young body unable to handle the surplus of energy he’d stolen from Vernon and taken into himself.

Harry woke in an unfamiliar place, feeling healthy and well rested, as if he’d slept through the night in a warm feather bed. He learned eventually that the Dursley’s had left him with social services. Harry wasn’t too upset by this. He hadn’t liked living with the Dursley’s anyway.

He was placed with one foster home, and then another, and another. Harry didn’t much like any of them either, and for some reason – though Harry was a very polite little boy and made sure never to cause any trouble – none of his foster parents seemed to like him. He was unnerving, they said. Creepy. He brought a chill with him wherever he went, and he appeared to see things that weren’t there. Worst of all, his eyes seemed to glow, and to stare right into your very soul, leaving you cold in a way no number of layered blankets could combat.

Harry was bounced around and around from home to home until he decided that the Dursleys were better than the constant moving, and decided to go back. He stole some money from his latest foster family and took several trains and buses, arriving on the doorstep of Number 4 a little over a year after he’d left.

The Dursley’s were not happy to see him. Harry didn’t much care. He humbly requested use of Dudley’s second bedroom – which was full of broken and dead things and thus suited Harry perfectly – and promised not to drain any of them if they promised not to bother Harry.

They coexisted peacefully after that. Well, Harry was peaceful. The Dursleys were afraid, and tended to flee any room Harry entered. Vernon and Petunia had learned their lesson well, and Harry only had to remind Dudley once. If he gave Dudley periodic reminders without prompting after that, well, little boys need to find fun somewhere.

Harry spent his last few years before Hogwarts in relative quiet, thankful that his Gift allowed him such an excellent living arrangement.

Harry was surprised and delighted to receive a letter informing him that he was a Wizard. How lovely! It took some trial and error but Harry eventually discovered he could send a reply via one of the owls hanging around Private Drive. He politely requested information on where to find the school supplies listed in the letter, and a few days later a giant of a man appeared to take him shopping.

Harry was quite enamored with the shopping center. Diagon Alley was teaming with life, which, though not Harry’s preference, was quite a sight. He supposed not all wizards had his Gift, for surely if they did the shopping street would be full of lovely dead things instead. Was Harry unique amongst wizards, then, too?

Harry caught a whiff of Death down a side street and veered toward it immediately, only for Hagrid to catch his arm and hold him back. “Best not go there, Harry. That’s Knockturn Alley. Only Dark witches and wizards go there,” Hagrid explained.

Harry got the sense that he was not supposed to want to go where Dark witches and wizards went, and so followed Hagrid meekly to a pub where he eventually got the story of his apparent fame out of the giant man. A Dark Lord had tried to kill him as a baby! How wonderful. So far it had only been Harry killing things – no people, yet – and here he learned the tables had turned!

“Is that common, in the wizarding world? Killing people?” Harry asked, eyes bright.

“Merlin, no!” Hagrid responded, horrified. “You-Know-Who was Dark as they come. Good folks don’t do any killing, and that’s most of the wizarding world, best believe.”

Harry hid his disappointment. Perhaps the wizarding world wasn’t as wonderful as he’d thought, but it still seemed a sight more interesting than the muggle world.

Hagrid returned Harry to Private Drive with a wink and a promise to see him on September 1^st. Harry returned to Diagon Alley the next day on his own, following the delicious feel of Death to Knockturn Alley. He spent the day exploring, buying trinkets and books and other things he didn’t strictly need but could afford now that he had an entire vault full of gold.

Harry arrived at Hogwarts pleased as punch and only became happier when he learned the castle was filled with ghosts. Delicious! The castle’s very aura welcomed him. It was old, old enough to have shadows of death everywhere he turned, though the stone itself still thrummed with life.

He had a lovely conversation with a sentient – though not alive and certainly not dead – hat. It asked him what he wanted most, and cackled when Harry said he most wanted to learn more about Death and his Gift. Harry was promptly sorted into Ravenclaw.

Harry spent blissful months exploring the castle and the Forbidden Forest, which was filled with Death too. He excelled in the classes he found interesting enough to pay attention to, coasted in the classes he didn’t care about, and did horribly in Herbology, which required Harry to keep magical plants alive – something he couldn’t do, as roots shriveled and leaves decayed as soon as he got his hands on them.

He didn’t make any friends, his reputation as ‘creepy’ following him to Hogwarts. His dorm mates avoided him and the rest of the Ravenclaws – and the school at large, really – looked at him like a curious and alarming specimen. And this was before Harry learned that he could drain his peers in lieu of sleeping, taking small bits of their life force to supplement his energy levels. Harry was slightly miffed that the student body had collectively decided to avoid him before he’d even used his Gift against any of them. It was most displeasing and reminded him of his experiences in muggle school.

More distressing than the avoidance of his peers was the fact that most of the ghosts didn’t like him either. He tried again and again to get them to chat with him so he could enjoy their marvelous Deathly aura. Ravenclaw’s house ghost, the Grey Lady, avoided him ardently, which Harry thought most unfair, though the Bloody Baron usually deigned to speak with Harry when he could be found.

The ghosts’ avoidance didn’t overly trouble Harry, however, because he had an unrivaled source of fascination to keep him busy when he wanted to socialize: Professor Quirrell. Harry had never felt magic like Professor Quirrell’s. It was more than delicious. It was enchanting. Harry wanted to collect it in his hands and drink it down, spread it on the floor and roll around in it, wrap himself in it like a cloak and take it everywhere.

Harry took to following the Professor around whenever he could, coming to class early and staying late and showing up at his office on weekends. Quirrell went from flustered to annoyed to suspicious over the course of a few months, but Harry didn’t let it bother him. 

“Potter,” Quirrell said sternly when Harry followed him back to his quarters after breakfast on the first day of Christmas break. As usual, Quirrell’s characteristic stutter had disappeared as soon as they were alone. “You cannot be in my private rooms.”

“Would you like tea, Professor?” Harry asked, blithely ignoring the man’s protests and slipping into the room.

“Potter!”

“Yes, Professor?”

Quirrell sighed heavily. Had Harry finally broken his resistance? “Why do you insist on shadowing me? Surely you have better things to do. I certainly do.”

“Oh, don’t let me keep you from your business, Professor. I’ll be quiet. You won’t even know I’m here.” Harry took a moment to enjoy the dead, dried tea leaves as he transferred them into a pot, fixing the tea and bringing it over to the table where Quirrell was already sitting.

“Potter,” he repeated, with a stern look, though he took a teacup without hesitation.

Harry sighed. To his credit, it was only slightly dreamy. “You’re just so nice to be around.”

Quirrell raised a brow. “You are a child. You cannot find my company so stimulating.” Which was true – Quirrell often refused to acknowledge him, or else tried to get Harry to go away, neither of which were particularly entertaining.

“It’s your magic, Professor. Surely you know how delicious it is,” Harry said earnestly.

Quirrell’s eyes widened minutely and his brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve never felt anything like it,” Harry said. This time his sigh was nothing but dreamy. “It’s like you’ve got two types on magic. And one is perfectly fine, if a bit boring, but the other one …” Harry closed his eyes and inhaled. “Oh, it’s just so lovely. It tastes like Death.”

Quirrell made a strangled noise.

“I read once about a pair of twins. One ate the other in utero. Did you eat your twin, sir? Perhaps that’s how you have two types of magic?”

Quirrell jolted as if hit, and winced. “Excuse me,” he said, before fleeing to his bedroom and shutting the door.

Harry relaxed on the sofa, drinking his tea. He had nowhere to be today, with only vague plans to return to the Forbidden Forest and try to find out more about the invisible creatures who smelled like Death. What he wouldn’t give to figure out how to see them. Unfortunately, he’d have to actually sleep over the holiday. Usually, he stayed up most of the night reading and working on his various projects, and surreptitiously drained his roommates of energy to get him through the day, but they had all gone home. Harry would have to recharge the old-fashioned way.

Quirrell returned, walking stiffly to the chair across from Harry and pining him with a stern look. “Potter. What do you know about Lord Voldemort?”

Harry perked up. “Well, he was a Dark Lord and his followers ate death. Do you know how they did that? I thought eating death was a rare Gift, but perhaps he taught them how to? I wonder if –”

“Focus, Potter. The Dark Lord. What do you know.”

“Not much else. He tried to kill me when I was a baby, of course. I wish I remembered it. What do you think the killing curse feels like?”

Quirrell gave him an indecipherable look and ignored the question. “You don’t know anything else? Dumbledore hasn’t said anything?”

“Dumbledore? The Headmaster?” Harry asked with raised brows then scrunched his nose. “I’ve never spoken to him. And I hope I never had to. His magic tastes awful.” Harry could taste it all the way across the Great Hall, an aura so sickly sweet it made him want to gag.

Quirrell released a shaky breath and nodded, seemingly to himself. “Very well,” he said, and raised trembling hands to his turban. He began to unwrap it, and with every twist of cloth the taste of Death grew stronger and stronger.

Harry moved toward him instinctively, drawn as if pulled by a winch. By the time Quirrell’s head was bare and Harry could see a disfigured face on the back of his skull, Harry was inches away. “Oh,” he breathed. “Hello. Are you Professor Quirrell’s twin? You’re so much stronger than him. How did he manage to eat you?”

The face released a breathy, wheezing noise – a laugh? – and answered. “I am not his twin. He is my host and faithful servant. I am Lord Voldemort.”

Harry gasped. “Oh, how wonderful to meet you! Will you kill me again?” He thought he’d quite like to experience that. As far back as he could remember no one had ever killed him, not even a little bit, even though he was constantly slowly killing people. Well, he supposed his Uncle and cousin had perhaps been trying to kill him, but he hadn’t much liked that, probably because they did it the muggle way. He was sure being killed by Voldemort’s magic would feel delightful.

“I do not see why I should, at present,” Voldemort said.

“Oh,” Harry said, disappointed. “Alright then. What are you doing at Hogwarts?”

“I seek an object that has been hidden within Hogwarts’ walls: the Philosopher’s Stone.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Once I obtain it, I will use it to create the Elixir of Life.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Of Life? Why would you want that?”

“Oh, Childe of Death. I understand your disdain, but it is necessary to procure a corporeal form for my spirit to attach to.”

“But you taste so wonderfully of Death. Adding Life to that would be … gross.”

Voldemort let out another high, wheezing laugh. “Fret not, Childe. My aura will not be sullied for long. Now tell me, Harry Potter. How did you come to drip Death’s magic like the darkest necromancers of old?”

Harry shrugged, still basking in Voldemort’s aura. “I dunno. I’ve always been like this, for as long as I can remember.”

Voldemort hummed, and one of Quirrell’s hands stretched backward to run a knuckle over Harry’s scar. He shivered at the touch. “Fascinating. Have you killed?”

“Animals, yes, but no humans,” Harry said, somewhat embarrassed to admit it, especially to someone like Voldemort who had surely killed hundreds, if not thousands. “I’ve only drained, but not to death.”

“If you join me, I will feed you death enough to glut yourself.”

Harry’s eyes, always shining a bright Avada Kedavra green, seemed to glow. “Really?” he asked, breathlessly. “I’d love that.” Harry inhaled the scent of Voldemort’s deathly magic and smiled.

Unfortunately, that conversation heralded the end of Harry’s relationship with Voldemort for a good long time. A few days later, Harry took his recent Christmas gift – a mysterious invisibility cloak that reeked of Death – and joined Voldemort on his quest for the stone. Voldemort followed the stone’s aura to an unused classroom, and Harry helped him acquire it. It was the work of minutes: Harry looked into the ornate mirror, felt the awful stone pull at his pocket, and handed it over to Voldemort immediately, wiping his hands on his robes to rid himself of the feel of Life magic.

Quirrell disappeared the same day.

Harry received a message via owl two weeks later. Voldemort thanked him for his help and acknowledged his debt to Harry, promising to be in touch in the future.

Pleased as Harry was that Voldemort was well, he couldn’t help but sigh in disappointment. Hogwarts was brighter without the Dark Lord’s Deathly presence. How unfortunate.

The rest of first year passed without incident. He dreamed of Voldemort sometime, hazy visions of the Dark Lord first in Quirrell’s body, then in another. Second year was equally boring, with only a brief spot of excitement in November. Harry bumped into a first year Gryffindor outside of the Great Hall and sensed the delicious presence of Death on her. Harry took to following her immediately, determined to identify the source of the scent. He hadn’t tasted anything so scrumptious since Voldemort had departed last year.

Harry quickly deduced the magic was coming from her bookbag, and a few days later summoned it away from her whilst she was distracted in the library. He stole a thin, black leather-bound book that positively dripped Death, and returned her bag to her, the little girl none the wiser.  

Harry hurried to his dormitory, ecstatic. He placed privacy wards on his bed and pulled the book out of his pocket, inhaling deeply in pleasure. He flipped the book open, only to see it was empty except for a note indicating it belonged to Tom Riddle.

Harry desperately wanted to meet this Tom Riddle, but he couldn’t find him anywhere. The only record he could find of any Tom Riddle was from 50 years ago, a Slytherin student who had been Head Boy. If Harry ever managed to track Tom Riddle down, would he taste as deliciously Dark as his long lost diary? Harry fantasized about it often.

He slept with the book under his pillow, tucking it into his robes and bringing it with him everywhere he went.

Eventually it wasn’t enough. Harry had spent the entirety of a lazy Sunday morning in bed, reveling in the taste and feel of Tom Riddle’s empty diary. His mind was growing hazy with pleasure, and he was acting on instinct, burying his face in the pages and rubbing the smooth cover over his naked chest. He wanted – he wanted – he didn’t know what he wanted. More. To be closer. He wanted to absorb this book, to take the magic inside of him and never let it go. Delirious and desperate, he started to pull with his Gift, and before he knew it he’d taken the Death magic inside of him, leaving the book a null, empty shell.

The sensation was beyond words, especially for a pre-pubescent boy who didn’t know much at all about pleasure. The feel of the magic settling inside him was enough to blank his mind for hours. He lay in his bed, writhing and moaning and falling in and out of consciousness. By the time he gathered his wits about him it was dinner, and he was shaky and weak and covered in sweat. He stumbled down to the Great Hall, still disoriented and overwhelmed and so, so satisfied.

When he staggered to an empty seat at the Ravenclaw table, he didn’t notice the other students scrambling to avoid him, sensing instinctually that they did not want to be around Harry Potter right now, even more so than usual.

He carried that sense of satisfaction inside of himself for weeks, until he got used to the sensation. Until the magic started to tentatively rebel.

It wasn’t a problem, per se, but it was distracting. The Death magic would lie still and placid for days, sometimes weeks, before rearing its head and trying to escape. Trying to leave Harry. It roiled inside of him, hot and twisting, and Harry had to focus all of his Gift to get it to still. The struggle wasn’t unpleasant. Sometimes it was too pleasant, and Harry would be overwhelmed by the hazy pleasure of grappling with the delicious magic.

Harry eventually became aware, part way through his third year, that if he wanted to keep this magic he was going to have to do something drastic.

His epiphany was sponsored by the Dementors guarding Hogwarts. Harry met them on the train, and immediately fell in love. Fortunately, the dementors seemed just as enchanted with Harry. He spent much of his free time that year walking amongst them, enjoying their lovely Deathly auras, despite the way that their presence pulled and tugged on the magic Harry had stolen from Tom Riddle’s book.

It took him an embarrassingly long time to put it together, but eventually he realized the magic he’d taken from the book was likely part of a soul, and that’s why it responded to the dementors. How fascinating. Harry halted his current nightly project – a combined art and magical theory project that involved attempting to piece together the skeleton of a cat he’d found in the dungeons and reanimate it – and instead scoured the library for an explanation of soul pieces. He couldn’t find anything.

Harry’s examination of the soul he’d stolen led him to become better acquainted with his own. It turned out that the stolen soul bore a remarkable similarity to his own soul. In fact, a small portion of his soul was near identical to the one he’d taken from the book! Harry didn’t much understand it, but he enjoyed smooshing the two – three? – souls bound within his body together, feeling the varying shades of Death magic press together.

But eventually all good things end, and when Harry’s dementor friends caught and kissed an escaped convict named Sirius Black – and didn’t that make them happy – they eventually left Hogwarts. Harry missed them.

To Harry’s great surprise, Sirius Black turned out to be his godfather, and with his passing a few weeks after being kissed Harry inherited the Black estate. He didn’t get the news until he was back at the Dursley’s, but after a quick trip to Gringotts he found he’d inherited not just a handful of swollen bank accounts, but also various properties.

Harry left the Dursleys without fanfare, choosing to keep them alive just in case he needed them for something, since technically they were his legal guardians until he turned of age. Perhaps he’d kill them on his 17^th birthday, as a little treat to himself. It was so nice to have things to look forward to.

He moved into the Black’s London property, a sprawling townhouse that reeked of dark and Death and decay. He spent a blissfully happy summer there. The house had enough ambient magic he could practice his wand work without worrying about being surveilled by the ministry, and the collection of dark books and artifacts kept him entertained all summer.

Not to mention the aging and batty house elf, Kreacher, took a shine to Harry immediately, and Harry was coddled and spoiled rotten all summer. He’d never experienced such fussing before, and he had to say, he quite liked it. A painting of a previous Black matriarch, Walburga, similarly kept Harry company. She had some dreadful things to say about his clothing and the state of his hair when they first met, but after Harry dispatched Kreacher to hire a tailor and Harry became much more presentable, they got along splendidly.

Harry would capture birds and rodents from the park across the house, or sometimes a transient muggle, and demonstrate his Gift for Walburga. She’d clap and coo and tell Harry he was just the most darling boy she’d ever seen, and a true credit to the house of Black.

Harry returned to Hogwarts for this fourth year, his Gift stronger than ever, entirely unaware that he’d soon be reunited with the man of his dreams.

Chapter Text

With the dementors back to Azkaban Harry was prepared to spend fourth year alone and bored, only kept company by periodic dreams of the Dark Lord that made him miss Voldemort more. To Harry’s delighted surprise, Voldemort sent him a friend.

The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor stopped Harry after class. The grizzled old man was an auror, and the whispered rumours about how much Professor Moody hated Dark wizards were voracious enough to penetrate even Harry’s bubble of anti-social obliviousness. Harry was prepared to pay the man exactly as much attention as he paid his other professors – which is to say, far less than they would like – but changed his mind the moment he caught a whiff of his magic. Harry made a beeline to the front of the classroom, sitting at a desk directly in front of where the professor stood.

Harry blinked at Moody curiously. Moody looked back. The thump of a heavy book bag meeting a table resounded from the back of the room, breaking their stare, and Moody glowered at the collected students. The expression looked at home on his scarred face.

Harry spent the entire lecture prodding at Moody’s magic. It was exceptionally rude behaviour, but Harry couldn’t stop himself. What an interesting contradiction. A famously anti-Dark wizard with little tendrils of Dark emanating from his aura like soft feathers.

Moody held him back after class. “Come to my office, tonight at 8,” he demanded, gruffly. Harry was rather famous for forgetting to attend the detentions he earned on occasion, but this was one meeting Harry would not forget.

“You’re a Dark wizard,” Harry said without preamble, perching lightly on the uncomfortable chair in front of Moody’s desk.

The old wizard’s eyebrows had been largely burned off and were almost indistinguishable amidst the scarring on his face, but he raised them nonetheless. He didn’t deny it. “You can sense that?”

“I can taste it,” Harry said. “It tastes very nice.”

Moody leveled him with a long look before speaking. “My Lord told me you might be able to.”

Harry straightened with a gasp. “Voldemort!?”

Moody bared his teeth in what was likely supposed to be a smile. “He sends his regards.”

Harry felt faint.

“I’m here on his orders. Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament and I will be making sure that you compete.”

“He sent you here just for me?” So much effort, for little old Harry? His entire soul ascended in happiness.

“Well, no,” Barty said. Harry’s soul plummeted back to earth. “I’m here to gather information on the foreign representatives. The school will be crawling with Ministry officials from Britain, France, and the Baltics.”

Harry manfully refrained from pouting. “Well I suppose it was still nice of him to think of me.”

Moody gave him an inscrutable look. “Nice. Right.”

“What’s this about me competing, though?”

“The Dark Lord has determined to grant you a boon, in thanks for your previous assistance. I will arrange, on his behalf, to have you chosen as a Champion.”

“Oh, that’s very thoughtful, really, I’m ever so much obliged, but no thank you.”

Moody looked stumped. “I … don’t think that’s an option?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Dark Lord has determined you will compete. And so you will compete.”

Harry frowned. “Well that can’t be right. He didn’t even ask me, and really, the tournament sounds like more bother than it’s worth. I would have to put most of my side projects on hold, you know, and that just won’t do.” And not just because the tournament would take up much of his free time, but also because he’d come under greater scrutiny as a champion, and Harry’s side projects were decidedly not legal.

He was currently attempting to redirect energy. He could easily absorb life force that he drained with his Gift, but transferring energy from one source to another with himself acting as a conduit was harder than it looked. He’d killed more birds, rodents, and small mammals than he could count in his attempts. Just last week he’d tried to drain one owl and transfer the energy to a second, and both had somehow exploded. It was very messy. Owl blood tasted atrocious. He told Moody so, but Moody didn’t seem swayed.

“My Lord is arranging this as a favour to you. As a boon. You can’t … not accept it.”

“That Voldemort thought of me is favour enough. I need nothing else.” Harry thought even Walburga would be impressed with that bit of social nicety.

Moody stared at Harry for a long moment before visibly deciding to switch tracks. “He expects you to win, and when you win you’ll be rewarded with a meeting.”

Harry’s heart fluttered in his chest. “Well why didn’t you say so! I look forward to competing.”

Moody snorted. “Aye, I’ll bet you do.”

“Say, did Voldemort happen to say anything else about me?” Harry asked, with all the casualness he could muster. Had Voldemort missed him as much as he’d missed Voldemort? Surely not. Voldemort was a very busy and important Dark Lord. Surely he had better things to do than think about little boys like Harry. Except, well, he had arranged to have Harry compete in the tournament, so maybe – perhaps if Harry was very lucky –

Moody’s skin rippled and shifted and his magic pulsed. With a thunk – Moody’s wooden leg falling to the ground – and a clink – Moody’s glass eye bouncing on the table – Mad Eye Moody transformed before Harry’s eyes into a much younger man, pale with straw blonde hair and with none of the scars Moody had been disfigured by moments ago.

Harry clapped politely. What an impressive transformation.

“Oh bugger,” Moody said. “Forgot to take the potion.”

“… May I ask?”

Moody barked a laugh. “Barty Crouch Jr., at your service.”

Harry squinted. “So you’re … not Mad Eye Moody?”

“Only when I drink this potion,” Crouch said, wiggling a flask before taking a swig of it. He rippled again and transformed. He popped his wooden leg back in, rubbed the glass eye clean on his coat and pushed it into his empty socket, and smiled at Harry.

“I suppose that explains the Dark aura,” Harry said, though it really didn’t explain anything else.

Harry and Barty Crouch Jr. – just Barty, by mid-November – got along splendidly. Harry felt, for the first time in his life, that he truly had a friend. Barty was funny and clever and he had an awful sense of humour that Harry loved. He taught Harry heaps of delicious spells and dark rituals, and his magic felt very, very nice. Plus, Barty told him more about Voldemort and only teased him a little bit for his infatuation, and Harry loved him for that alone.

The night of the third task Barty helped him press his nicest dueling robes – Harry really wasn’t very good at household charms – and tie his long hair back. Years ago Harry had realized hair was dead cells, and ever since had worn it long, delighting in the thought of death brushing his neck, shoulders, and arms.

“Do I look ok?” Harry asked, nervously examining himself in the mirror. His skin was pale and his eyes were bright and his robes were neat and presentable. He looked his age, a fact Harry lamented bitterly. Harry didn’t know how old Voldemort was, but he must be old. Perhaps hundreds of years old. At least 50, surely, to have amassed such power in the 70s? He’d probably find Harry much more attractive if he had grey hair and wrinkles. Harry briefly considered an aging charm, but discarded the thought. He’d surely stuff it up. Perhaps he could use his Gift to drain himself halfway to death? He’d never tried to take his own life force before, and the idea opened up intriguing possibilities.

“I don’t think the Dark Lord is going to care what you look like,” Barty said. He meant it to be reassuring, but the thought just made Harry feel worse. He wanted the Dark Lord to care about him in every way.

Harry sighed and tried not to let the thought distract him as he entered the maze. He moved through it quickly, using spells here and there on creatures and obstacles, and using his Gift to bring down the hedges whenever he came to a dead end. Voldemort expected him to win, and Harry wasn’t going to let him down.

Harry reached the centre of the maze without too much trouble, pleased to see he was the first one there. He grabbed the cup without hesitation, only to feel a sudden lurch behind his navel and land with a sickening swirl in a dark graveyard.

The graveyard was lovely, perfectly saturated in Death and decay. Even lovelier was the sight of a tall, pale man standing in the middle of a circle of cloaked and hooded followers. It could be none other than Lord Voldemort, resplendent in black robes and an aura of darkness and Death.

Harry gasped, moving toward Voldemort as if in a trance. The stolen soul in Harry’s chest lurched, as if trying to escape, and Harry finally understood why. The Death magic he’d swallowed from the diary matched the Dark Lord perfectly. He’d had a piece of Voldemort inside him this entire time and he hadn’t known it! Harry was so pleased he felt faint.

“Harry Potter-Black,” Voldemort said, his voice high and cold and beautiful. His followers moved aside to let Harry into the circle. Harry didn’t notice, focused as he was on Voldemort.

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry said, dreamily. “I have a gift for you.” He moved closer and closer, steps so light he appeared to be floating, ethereal with pale skin and glowing eyes. Voldemort’s followers were enraptured by the sight of the young necromancer approaching their lord.

Voldemort said nothing, placid expression giving way to intrigue as Harry moved closer and closer. When Harry was only a foot away, much closer than anyone had dared to get to Voldemort in years, Voldemort made to push him away, perhaps even to punish him for taking liberties – but then Voldemort sensed it. His magic – his soul? – struggling to escape the boy and return to him. Voldemort stilled. What was happening?

Harry himself was delirious, completely enchanted by the magic moving inside him and the Dark Lord’s aura in front of him. He had to get closer. He had to merge them, had to let the soul inside him go where it wanted. He would kiss the Dark Lord, let the soul flow from his chest, through his lips, and into Voldemort.

It would be his first kiss. Harry had never dared to dream about kissing Voldemort before, but now that he knew he was going to he felt a trembling sense of anticipation. He was ready. He would return the Dark Lord’s soul, let him sweep him off his feet, feel the Dark Lord’s lips claim his own.

He stepped fearlessly into Voldemort’s space, compelled by magic older than either of them, and stood on his toes, pressing his plush pink lips to Voldemort’s thin, pale ones.

They stood, frozen for a long moment as Voldemort’s soul surged out of Harry and into Voldemort. Voldemort staggered back, clutching a hand to his chest and breathing heavily.

Harry let his heels sink to the ground. Was that it? A wave of crushing disappointment flowed over him, thick enough to drown. Voldemort hadn’t even kissed him back. Were all kisses like that? That was awful. Did Voldemort not want to kiss him?

Harry was so busy reeling in misery he didn’t even pay attention as Voldemort straightened up, looking at his hands as if they were foreign to him. The Death Eater around them started to whisper.

“You –”  Voldemort began, his voice snapping Harry’s focus back to him. He looked different. Minutes ago he had been inhumanly pale and skeletal. Now he was simply deathly pale, and though his features recalled a snake, he looked human, more or less. He had eyebrows and hair again, at any rate, even if his nose was too flat with slitted nostrils and some patches of pale skin looked vaguely scale-like. There was still something otherworldly about him – was it the red eyes? His aura of Death? – but he looked almost like a man. A snake-like man. A very handsome snake-like man. A man so handsome Harry blushed to look at him.

“My Lord, are you well? What has this whelp done to you?” A woman cried out from behind Harry.

“Silence!” Voldemort ordered.

The whispers from the spectators ceased, though a new voice joined them. A large snake slithered up to Voldemort, circling around his feet. “What has happened?” the snake asked.

“The boy has Returned my Soul to me,” Voldemort answered, not breaking eye contact with Harry.

Harry blushed and lowered his eyes. “Oh, it was no problem really.”

Voldemort tensed and leaned into Harry’s space. “You Speak parsletongue?” he asked, urgently.

“Erm – no?”

“How?” Voldemort demanded.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said, embarrassed. So much for making a good impression! Voldemort had barely even looked at his fancy robes and he hadn’t kissed him back and now Harry was going to look like an idiot in front of him!

“Await our return!” Voldemort snapped, presumably to his followers, before grasping Harry by his upper arm and relocating them to a dimly lit study. Harry knew about apparition, but had never experienced it before. He couldn’t say he liked it.

Voldemort released his arm and he staggered, catching his feet in time to aim for a plush chair and collapse into it.

Voldemort stood where he’d landed, gaze pinned to Harry. He was so tall. And handsome. Harry wished he’d sit down beside him.

“You are full of Surprises, Harry Potter-Black.”

Harry demurred politely, pushing the thick fall of his black hair over his shoulder in a way that he hoped was becoming.

“Tell me first how you came to be in Possession of my Soul.”

“Which part of your soul?”

Voldemort was too collected to rear back in surprise, but his slitted nostrils flared and his eyes widened and Harry knew he was shocked. Harry explained as quickly as he could, starting with the diary and ending with his discovery of the small bit of soul Harry had already carried with him, the one he’d kept with him despite returning Voldemort’s soul-bit from the diary. It was entwined with Harry’s own soul, and while Harry was certain he could separate them with a bit of work, he desperately did not want to. He hoped Voldemort didn’t ask for it back.

Voldemort’s gaze was distant by the end of Harry’s explanation, his brilliant mind clearly working overtime to process the implications. He sank gracefully into the seat beside Harry.

Harry tried not to preen at the proximity. He studied Voldemort shamelessly as the man thought, content to stare in silence the rest of the night. Sitting so close, Voldemort’s magic seemed to flicker and pulse, reaching out to Harry’s in teasing touches. It was hypnotic, and Harry was lulled into a daze.

Voldemort really was so handsome. His hair looked so soft, and his eyes were so red. Harry wanted to touch his sharp cheekbones, bite his defined jaw. He looked otherworldly, not quite natural, like a powerful creature who escaped the uncanny valley.

Harry unconsciously let out a dreamy sigh, and the noise drew Voldemort’s attention. He snapped his gaze to Harry. Harry sat up quickly in his chair and tried to look less lustful.

“You have Undone one of my horcruxes and Become another. Neither feat should be possible.” Harry liked the way Voldemort spoke. He gave such weight to his words that every statement was a pronouncement. He was so authoritative. So captivating. So powerful.

“What’s a horcrux?” Harry asked politely, instead of the other question he really wanted to ask, which was ‘may I lick you?’.

Voldemort explained, and Harry sighed dreamily again. Soul magic. How lovely.

“Your Possession of my Soul must be what is enabling you to Speak parsletongue. The language of snakes,” Voldemort elaborated at Harry’s blank look.

“Oh, no, I’m afraid I don’t know that language,” Harry said, demurred, embarrassed to admit deficiency. “I only know English.”

“I assure you, you do,” Voldemort said, beautiful thin lips curling into a smirk. “You’re Speaking it now.”

Surely not, Harry thought, trying to convince his brain to pay attention to this puzzle instead of how long and pale Voldemort’s neck was, and was that a patch of scales over his carotid artery? He wondered what it felt like. He desperately wanted to press his tongue to the little patch and –

Voldemort laughed. The sound was beautiful, cold and sharp and perfect. It sent a chill down Harry’s spine. “You must be a Gift from Mother Magic herself,” Voldemort said, red eyes gleaming as he assessed Harry in clear approval.

Harry barely managed to refrain from doing anything embarrassing in response, like throwing himself to the ground and humping Voldemort’s leg.

“Now come. I intend to Introduce you to my Followers tonight, and I will not be waylaid longer. Assuming you have no more Surprises for me?”

“I don’t,” Harry said breathlessly, overcome by Voldemort’s tone. The way he said Surprises, like Harry was a marvel for having surprised him at all, was enough to make Harry lightheaded.

He was fairly sure he was telling the truth, that he had no surprises left, but perhaps not. He wasn’t positive he’d manage to refrain from throwing himself into Voldemort’s arms and trying to kiss him again. That would surely be a surprise, and – judging by Voldemort’s lackluster reaction to their first kiss – an unwelcome one. The thought alone was enough to encourage Harry to get a hold of himself.

Voldemort apparated them back to the graveyard, his followers still in their designated spots, waiting patiently. Harry listened with rapt attention as Voldemort introduced him. “For two years you have wondered how I regained this corporeal Form. In an act of Symmetry bestowed as a Blessing by Mother Magic, Harry Potter-Black was the one to aid me in my Resurrection, an opposite and equally powerful Act counterbalancing his earlier Destruction of my body.” Several Death Eaters gasped in surprise.

Voldemort continued, a mesmerizing – if slightly verbose – speech about the future he would build and how with Harry Potter, supposed Child of the Light but steeped in Death, on his side he would bring Magic to Heights never seen before. Harry listened, eyes fluttering, lips parted, feeling the air zip with electricity with every word Voldemort spoke, every Pronouncement sending a zing of magic up Harry’s spine.

“Naturally, your Priority for the next three years will be your Education,” Voldemort said, directly to Harry. He phrased it as if it might be a question, but Voldemort didn’t have a voice for questions. It was another Pronouncement, and Harry found himself nodding in fervent agreement despite the fact he hardly cared a whit about his classes.

Voldemort looked Harry directly in the eye. Harry shivered all over.  “You have done well building on your Legacy as the Boy Who Lived by winning the Triwizard Tournament. By the time you graduate you will have solidified a Name for yourself. When you reach your magical majority I will be pleased to discuss your Alignment with my Cause.”

“Ok,” Harry breathed out. Harry very much wanted to be aligned with Voldemort – er, his cause – and if Voldemort had asked he would have discussed it that very moment. He suspected he was looking at Voldemort quite dopily, but he couldn’t seem to control his face.

The firm line of Voldemort’s mouth softened. Harry chose to interpret it as a smile. “Return to Hogwarts now. The portkey will take you to the castle gates. You will pretend that you were transported to the outskirts of Hogsmeade, and the hour you spent here you will say you spent walking back to Hogwarts. You have done Well, Harry.”

Harry’s face was definitely doing something silly now, but who could blame him. Voldemort had said his name! Had said he did well – and not just well, Well! “Ok,” Harry repeated.

He summoned the cup. “Bye,” he said, stupidly, giving an even stupider little wave, and the portkey whooshed him away.

Harry spent most of the summer in a daze. Kreacher, sensing he was despondent, coddled him more than ever. Even Walburga’s portrait, usually an exacting task master coaching him in etiquette, whether Harry wanted her to or not, took it easy on him, a sure sign Harry looked as pathetic as he felt.

He missed the soul piece he’d given back to Voldemort. He was lonely without it, and the sense of isolation wasn’t helped by the fact that he didn’t know when he’d see Voldemort next. Would he have to wait until he graduated? Harry didn’t know if he could wait three whole years, not now that he knew what Voldemort at his full power felt like. And smelled like. And looked life. And even sounded like.

Harry and Barty regularly exchanged letters, chatting about this and that, and Barty occasionally came over for tea. Harry lounged in a parlor at Grimmauld Place, rereading Barty’s most recent missive and idly missing the Dark Lord when a brilliant idea struck him.

Even if he couldn’t see Voldemort any time soon, he could write. It would only be polite, after all, to thank Voldemort for hosting him at his recent gathering. He’d had a dream or two of Voldemort since the graveyard, and while Harry was pleased to have confirmation that the man was doing well, he was worried Voldemort would forget all about him.

Harry spent days penning the perfect missive.

Dear Lord Voldemort, he wrote.

Thank you for hosting me at your most recent gathering. It was very kind of you to introduce me to your followers, and to let them know of my humble contribution in helping you regain a corporeal form.

I also appreciate the opportunity you gave me with the Triwizard Tournament. I especially value the opportunity to meet Barty, as he has become a very good friend. He did an excellent job fulfilling your orders.

I saw in a dream last week that you are reaching out to several European vampire clans, and I hope your negotiations for cooperation go well.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter-Black

This draft – the eighth – would have to be good enough. He thought he sounded very mature, and not at all like a teenager with a crush. He’d decided to leave out an apology for the kiss – if Voldemort was going to ignore it, Harry would as well, and the only thing Harry was really sorry about was that Voldemort hadn’t kissed him back! – and leave in his praise of Barty. Hopefully it would help Barty out. He wasn’t brave enough to ask a question, as that implied a demand for return correspondence and he’d never presume to order around the Dark Lord, but he hoped his implied query about the vampires would solicit a response.

Before sending the letter to Voldemort, Harry found the most perfect rose in the garden and drained it. He blushed at his own daring as he attached the dead flower to the owl’s leg, but he hoped Voldemort liked it.

Harry spent days on edge waiting for a reply, trying – and failing – to quell his expectations. A week passed and he’d just given up hope when an unfamiliar owl arrived, bearing a small package. The owl squawked as Harry forcefully liberated its burden.

It contained a letter on thick parchment, and a thin book. Harry was so excited to read the letter his hands were shaking, but who could blame him – Voldemort had written to him!

Harry Potter-Black, the letter read.

Lord Voldemort is a generous Lord to those who serve him well, and you gave me a great boon in aiding my capture of the Stone. At our first meeting I promised you Death enough to glut yourself. I have not forgotten my promise, and will fulfill it in due time.  

Negotiations with the vampires are going exceedingly well, but I must know: you say that you saw these negotiations in a dream. Do you have the Gift of Sight as well, Childe of Death?

Sincerely,

Lord Voldemort

Harry sighed dreamily, bringing the letter to his face and inhaling deeply. He could faintly sense Voldemort’s aura of Death. It was so lovely Harry accidentally lost control of himself, and the couch under him withered and frayed, the silk threads aging decades in moments. Harry ignored the destruction. Kreacher would mend it later, or they’d buy a new one.

Harry turned to the book. It was a thin volume on soul magic. Harry flipped through it excitedly. This tome was old and must be very rare, considering how illegal the contents were. He laughed giddily. Voldemort had given him a gift! Was this in return for the rose Harry had sent? Harry hardly dared to hope so.

Harry devoured the book in one evening, and reread it twice as he worked on his return letter. Now that he knew Voldemort was willing to correspond, he had to make sure his letter was perfect so that Voldemort would answer once again.

Harry wrote back, explaining that he wasn’t a seer but that he sometimes had visions of Voldemort while he slept and theorizing that it resulted from the magical connection formed through Harry’s scar (he didn’t dare pen the word horcrux on something so insecure as a letter). Harry thanked him for the book and wrote a few of his thoughts on the contents, even daring to ask for Voldemort’s opinion on a theoretical question.

Harry killed another flower and sent it with his letter. He waited with bated breath for a response.

And waited.

And waited.

Weeks passed, the end of summer approaching, and Harry sunk into misery. He was so foolish to expect the Dark Lord to have interest in corresponding with a mere boy. He confided his disappointment in Barty, and Barty assured him the Dark Lord was really very busy and Harry shouldn’t take it personally. An impossibility, of course, but Barty was very sweet to say so.

To distract himself Harry took to plumbing the depths of Grimmauld Place in search of new treasures – for his own curiosity, of course, not in hopes that he’d have a suitable gift to send to the Dark Lord should he deign to respond to Harry’s latest letter, since clearly the flowers weren’t cutting it. This was his second summer living at Grimmauld Place and there were whole rooms he’d never entered. He found much junk, which he instructed Kreacher to get rid of, and a few items interesting enough to encourage him to keep looking.

Harry’s perseverance was rewarded beyond his wildest expectations the day he sorted through a cabinet of curios in an unused parlor and found another one of Voldemort’s horcrux’s. As soon as he opened the magic suppressing glass doors of the cabinet the soul piece called to him.

Harry gasped, drawn to the horcrux irresistibly. It was a locket, heavy and old and made unbelievably beautiful by the taste of Death emanating from it. Harry drew the locket up to his face, rubbing his smooth cheek against it and breathing deeply, mouth open, trying to get as close to the Dark magic as possible.

Harry lost himself in the sensation for several heady minutes, and when his mind cleared enough to realize he was flat on his back in the drawing room, locket pressed to the sensitive skin of his neck and half-hard cock tenting his day robes, he blushed. How embarrassing.

He slipped the chain over his neck and tried to think. How – and why? – did part of Voldemort’s soul end up shuffled away with silly trinkets in the Black family home? Surely if Voldemort had entrusted a soul piece to one of the dearly departed Blacks they would have put it in a well-guarded place of honour? Did this mean they’d acquired the piece without knowing what it was?

There was only one way to tell. Harry penned another letter to Voldemort.

Dear Lord Voldemort,

Apologies for bothering you again, but I’ve come across another item of yours, of the same type as the one I returned on our last meeting. It is a locket adorned with Slytherin family markings. I found it in my home, the Black family’s London townhouse, unsecured and unguarded.

If the treasure is meant to be here, please advise and I will be sure to add appropriate protections to it.

If the treasure is not meant to be here, please let me know how I may securely return it to you.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter-Black

Harry waffled for a long moment on whether to include a flower, but ultimately decided against it. He folded up the letter and wrote ‘URGENT’ on the outside, hoping that Voldemort wouldn’t be so irritated by Harry writing him a second letter, when Voldemort hadn’t even answered the previous, that he refused to read it.

Now 15 years old and much wiser in the ways of pleasure, Harry retreated to bed, determined to enjoy as much time with the locket as he could, given he was fairly sure Voldemort would want it back right away. Harry slipped off his day robe, a light silken thing in dark blue, letting the fabric pool on the floor as he floated toward the bed, steps light with eager anticipation. The locket pulsed warmly against his chest.

His cock was mostly hard by the time he settled himself against his pillows. His left hand clenched around the locket, and he brought it up to his lips. He trailed his other hand down his chest to curl around his prick, stroking and teasing the tip, most of his attention on the sensation of Voldemort’s horcrux against his skin. He idly conjured a fist full of lube – like many teenagers, he’d grown proficient in the spell, and magically strong as he was he no longer needed a wand – and slathered it over his cock.

Harry was half out of his head with pleasure, touching and teasing himself, licking the locket and pressing open mouthed kisses against it. He writhed on the bed, his magic flickering and reaching out for Voldemort’s, his entire body squirming with pleasure.

He wanted more, more of that heady feeling, more of Voldemort’s magic, more pleasure. He didn’t just want to taste it, he wanted to consume it entirely, and to be consumed in turn. He wanted to do what he’d done before, to take the soul inside him, only – only not, because once it had settled within the pleasure had diminished.

But he wanted, oh how he wanted. He was growing feverish, pale skin pinking, sweat coating his slender form. If he couldn’t eat the soul as he had done last time, maybe he could take it inside him another way. He opened his mouth, pushing the locket in, but it was too big. He couldn’t unhinge his jaw enough. He whined, a plaintive moan at being denied this further intimacy.

But there was another way he could take the locket inside of himself, wasn’t there. The hand on his cock stilled, before drifting lower, prodding at his virgin hole. He’d never … but he could, couldn’t he? People did such things all the time, or so he’d heard.

He conjured more lube and pressed one dripping finger into his hole. It felt … odd. Full. He pressed further, and when the feeling didn’t change he added another finger, gasping at the sting of the stretch. He moved the locket back up to his open mouth, stilling his probing fingers and breathing in magic until his head started to spin again and suddenly the stretch of his hole felt good. He started to move his fingers, small presses at first and then smoother thrusts, and before he knew it he was panting and writhing.

He wanted the locket inside him. But he couldn’t, could he? The thought of shoving the locket up his virgin arse was enough to have his hole clenching around his fingers and his cock twitching, and the fantasy of it, of the smooth metal stretching him open and the feel of Voldemort’s magic deep inside him was enough to have him arching up off the bed, legs twitching and come spurting up over his chest.

Harry lay panting for long minutes, until his wrist started to ache from the awkward angle. He gingerly pulled his fingers out and tried to stop his head from spinning. He was too wrung out with pleasure to be truly mortified, but he was idly thankful he’d come when he did. He imagined returning Voldemort’s horcrux to him, knowing he’d shoved it up his own arse.

The thought was so impossible he couldn’t even guess at Voldemort’s reaction. He’d be livid, probably. Certainly disgusted. He might even want to take back the horcrux Harry had been gifted as a baby and had been safeguarding ever since. Harry couldn’t believe how far he’d let his control lapse, and he vowed not to treat Voldemort’s soul as a sex object again.

He’d behave himself and take off the locket before masturbating, like a proper, respectful wizard.

Harry kept his promise for a whole two hours. It could have been worse though: he managed not to shove any of the locket inside himself, mouth included. Surely this was progress.

Somewhere between Harry’s third and fourth orgasm he realized that he was floating a few inches off the bed. He was rutting against the locket, his poor prick already chaffed from rubbing against the locket’s ornate fillagree, lost in a fantasy of humping Voldemort’s thigh, with the Dark Lord’s red eyes trained on him, his hands in his hair, telling Harry he had done Well, when a particularly desperate thrust of his hips canted his arse back far enough to brush the bed linens. The touch of soft fabric against his overheated skin shocked him. He hadn’t realized he was floating before, that every inch of him had lost contact with the bed. Harry paused for a moment, hands gripped tight around the locket and his cock, and thought, ‘huh, that’s new,’ followed immediately by ‘I wonder if Voldemort would be impressed?’

That set off a new round of fantasies that kept Harry busy until dinner. Harry stopped floating after he came – for the fourth time – and therefore he forgot to wonder about it any further.

That night Harry was enjoying a cup of herbal tea, sprawled on the couch in his favourite sitting room. He was vaguely achy in sensitive places after having wanked vigorously through much of the afternoon and evening. He was enjoying the warmth of a crackling fire on his bare legs and idly toying with the carcass of a doxy, the locket lying heavy and warm against his chest.

Kreacher appeared in the room with a pop. “Young master is being instructing Kreacher to deliver him all letters as soon as they arrive, even if it is being past the proper hour for wizards to be writing,” Kreacher said, handing Harry a thick envelope, motions slow with obvious disapproval.

Harry snatched the parchment from Kreacher’s hands and tore it open, careful not to touch the feather quill sitting in the envelope on the assumption it was a portkey. Harry skimmed the letter eagerly. It was short.

Bring the locket to me at once, it read, and Harry, without giving a moment’s thought to propriety, hastened to comply. He tipped the feather out of the envelope and was transported.

Having been sitting down when the portkey took him, Harry landed on his arse with a bruising thump. It took a moment for the disorientation to fade, and by the time the room stopped spinning Voldemort was looming over him, looking taller than ever from Harry’s place on the floor.

“Harry Potter-Black,” he said.

Voldemort’s magic was a warm, pulsing counter to the cool of the room. The hair on Harry’s legs stood on end from the pleasure of the contrasting sensations, and it was then that Harry realized he was wearing nothing but a short, silken nightgown he’d appropriated as his own from a chest of old clothes in the attic. It might have once been women’s wear, but Harry didn’t care. He liked the feel of the fabric on his skin. The sleeves were long and billowing and the neckline plunged down to the centre of his chest. Most scandalous, perhaps, was the short hemline, made even shorter by Harry’s sprawled position on the ground. The entirety of his creamy thighs were on display and if it rode up any more Voldemort would have a full view of his unmentionables.

Harry blushed and jumped to his feet with an embarrassing ‘meep’. “Lord Voldemort!” he hurried to say, standing stupidly in front of the Dark Lord for a moment before realizing what Voldemort must be waiting for. Harry removed the locket from around his neck and passed it over with a pang of reluctance.

Voldemort grasped the chain quickly, turning the necklace over and over in his hands as he studied it. Harry watched him in silence.

“This was in the Black’s London House?” Voldemort asked after several long minutes.

“Yes, and not even somewhere protected. I take it that it shouldn’t have been there?” Harry dared to ask.

“No,” Voldemort said, clenching the locket in one fist and tearing his eyes away from it to look at Harry. “You have done Well to Return it to me, though it bodes Ill that you were able to find it there in the first place. It seems my horcruxes are not as Safe as I’d thought them to be.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say to that, though privately he agreed. It seemed an ill omen that he’d already stumbled upon two – three if he counted himself – without even trying.

“Will you absorb it, or hide it again?”

“I have not decided, though absorbing it is said to be very Difficult.” Voldemort paused and his gaze on Harry seemed to grow more intense. “Though you managed it with little Difficulty.”

“I’d be happy to help return it to you, if that’s what you desire,” Harry said. And oh, he would be, because he’d get to take the soul inside of himself and then kiss it into Voldemort! He was pleased he’d already come so many times that day that his poor cock was too abused to get hard again, or he’d surely be embarrassing himself in front of Voldemort at this very moment.

Not that Voldemort would notice. He hadn’t even looked at Harry’s scandalously bare chest or legs! His lack of sexual interest was enough to make Harry weep, though at least the Dark Lord realized how useful Harry could be to him in other regards, with his Gift.

“Thank you, Childe,” Voldemort said, turning from Harry and moving toward his desk. For the first time Harry paid attention to the room they were in. It was a large study, ornately decorated with dark wood and intricate paneling on the walls not covered with books. “It appears you were ready for bed, and I have kept you late enough.”

Was he judging Harry’s nightgown? How mortifying. “Yes, well, I’ll just floo home, shall I?”

Voldemort withdrew his wand and did something complicated with runes, presumably adjusting the wards to let Harry leave. He walked Harry to the roaring fire across the room, taking an ornate pot of floo power from the mantel and offering it to Harry.

Just as Harry was about to grab a handful, Voldemort spoke. “I am hosting a Meeting for all of my Death Eaters at the end of the month. Would you like to attend?”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. “Oh, yes, more than anything.”

Voldemort nodded. “I will instruct Barty to escort you. You shall need to disguise your face, as your Allegiance will be kept Secret from all but my most Faithful for some time still.”

“Okay,” Harry said, not bothering to keep the beaming smile from his face. He inhaled one last time, clinging to Voldemort’s delicious taste, before stepping into the fire. “Bye,” he said stupidly, before sending himself to Grimmauld Place.

Much as he missed the locket immediately, he had something else to look forward to. He’d been invited to a meeting! He’d see Voldemort again before summer was over. Kreacher fussed, worried over Harry’s sudden departure – “Master should not be leaving the house so late, especially in such clothing. It is most improper. Mistress would be shamed to know her heir is parading around looking like a tramp.” – and ushering him into bed. Harry complied docilely, and dreamed sweet dreams of Death and magic.

Chapter Text

The meeting was held on August 31, the night before Harry’s return to Hogwarts for his fifth year. Barty came over for dinner beforehand, eying Harry’s sophisticated dress robes with approval but laughing at Harry’s bubbly anticipation.

“It’ll be a fun meeting, I’ll give you that. We usually operate in small groups on different projects, and he’s only called us in for a general meeting a few times. The last ones were …” Barty seemed at a loss for words for a moment. “… Heady. He brings us together and reminds us of our shared purpose, our larger goals, and the beauty of magic. The ritual performed at the last one, Harry… you would have loved it.”

Harry couldn’t wait. He was so excited he barely ate, much to Kreacher’s displeasure. Harry affixed a glamour to his face, one that blurred his features beyond recognition, and drew his hood up. Barty apparated them to the gates of Malfoy Manor, and Harry floated up the long driveway, all the way to the ball room filled with milling bodies.

Barty led him to the centre of the room, to a circle of people that must be Voldemort’s most faithful. Many of them wore no disguise, not that Harry recognized their faces anyway. He thought a few of the men and one of the women looked vaguely familiar. After a moment he recalled some kerfuffle in the papers last year about a breakout from Azkaban prison. Harry thought that some of these people must be the liberated convicts. Voldemort certainly had been busy, Harry thought, before idly wondering how his dementor friends were doing.

When Voldemort entered the room all sound ceased, and Harry was swept up in the aura of Death and Dark emanating from Voldemort as he glided through the crowd up to an ornate throne. It took a moment for Harry to realize that everyone else had fallen into a bow, and Harry was just about to follow suit when they all stood up as Voldemort sat.

Voldemort began to speak, and Harry let himself float, mentally and physically. Voldemort was a grand orator, voice naturally suited to ensorcelling a room. He spoke of various and sundry things Harry cared about not at all, boring politics and policies and plans they were going to enact, changes to laws and structures. Death Eaters cheered now and then, and Harry wondered if they actually cared about the politics Voldemort was pontificating about, or if they, like Harry, were merely ensnared by his beautiful magic.

Voldemort’s speech ended to thunderous applause, and then the fun began. A muggle, bound and chained, appeared before them, and Voldemort began a ritual. Harry had a front row seat. He trembled with anticipation.

The ritual was a simple thing, common as far as illegal dark magic went, meant to strengthen one’s connection to the Dark, but the sheer number of wixen participating elevated the ritual into something breathtaking. Voices swelled throughout the room, a hundred witches and wizards chanting together, and the air grew thick and hazy with power.

Harry let his glamour fall, unwilling to have anything between himself and the ritual magic. His pulse was pounding in his ears, his heart racing, and he screamed along with the rest, throwing his hands out toward the sacrificial muggle just as the ritual reached its crescendo and Voldemort whipped his wand forward. “Avada Kedavra!” The muggle fell dead and the Dark magic swirling through the room spiked.

Harry lost time for a moment, overcome with sensation, his magic swirling and pulsing and so, so alive in the face of Death. He came to his senses on his knees, his body shaking and breath coming in open mouthed pants. Barty helped him up, a broad smile splitting his face. He was out of breath too.

“Told you it would be good.”

Harry could only nod, leaning on his friend’s arm to support his shaky legs. His eyes were drawn back to the dead body, as if transfixed. Around him, the crowd began to disperse, many leaving and some of the higher-ranking personnel mingling. The body was lying right in front of him. A few short steps, and he could touch it.

He floated toward the body, Barty trailing after him. He knelt, rolling the muggle onto his back so that he could see his slack face. His eyes were open, unseeing and blank. Harry was struck by the fanciful notion that if he looked hard enough he could fall into the muggles eyes and follow him into the afterlife. How extraordinary.

Harry was so entranced he didn’t even notice Voldemort’s approach.

“Did you enjoy yourself, Childe of Death?”

Harry lurched to his feet, body swaying toward Voldemort unconsciously. “Very much so. Thank you for inviting me.” Harry’s magic flickered and lashed, eager to bound toward Voldemort’s aura. He made a perfunctory attempt to hold it back, but quickly gave up and relaxed his hold, letting his magic crash into Voldemort’s. It was rude, certainly, and far too forward, but on a night like this, with Death in the air and magic teaming through the room, Harry couldn’t bring himself to care. He shuddered at the sensation of their magic meeting, closing his eyes for a long moment in pleasure.

“I see the Ritual had great Effect on you.” Voldemort sounded amused.

Harry opened his eyes at the comment. He didn’t know what that meant, but he had more important questions to ask. “Do you have plans for the body? If not, may I have it?”

Voldemort smiled, a twist of his lips just enough to reveal strong white teeth and the hint of two sharp fangs. Harry idly wondered if they’d cut his lips until they bled if they kissed.

“You dare to ask our Lord for such a gift? You, who are not even marked?” A woman said, striding up to them. Barty had been hanging back, but moved forward, to Harry’s elbow, as she approached.

“Bella,” Voldemort said, voice reproving. “Our dear Guest is well within his rights to make such a Request.” Bella took the censure, but not gracefully. She scowled, and didn’t leave. “Tell me, Childe, what do you plan to do with the body?”

“Um,” Harry said, mind still moving slowly from the aftereffects of the ritual. Why didn’t anyone else seem to be as affected as him? “I don’t know really. I’ve been working on reanimating, and, you know, controlling corpses, but I’ve never tried it with a human.”

Voldemort stepped back and waved his hand gracefully at the body, invitation to try it now clear.

The woman – Bella, apparently – scoffed. “Aren’t you just an ickle little baby? What would you know of necromancy?” Harry realized with a start he hadn’t put his glamour back on, if she could tell his age.

“Go on,” Barty said, nudging Harry with his shoulder.

Harry ignored Bella, corralled his scrambled brain, and set to work. Voldemort was watching. He had to make this good. He was more used to working with skeletons than anything else, so he decided to start there. He vanished the corpse’s clothes and carefully flayed the body, putting the skin in a neat pile at his feet.

Unnoticed by Harry, the crowd around him had grown. They were absolutely silent.

Harry cast a spell to exsanguinate the corpse, collecting the blood in a few vials he removed from his pocket and enlarged. He was just about to start removing the organs when he realized how rude he was being.

“Does anyone want any of this?” he asked politely, finally looking away from the corpse to the faces watching him. Very few people met his eyes.

“No thanks,” Barty said.

“I am already well Supplied,” Voldemort said.

No one else answered. He removed most of the organs, placing them with the discarded skin, but decided to keep the heart. He fished around in his pockets but found no further containers. Drat.

“Barty, could you conjure me a box for the heart, please?”

Barty snorted, amused. “Really?”

Harry flushed, embarrassed. “We don’t learn conjuration until sixth year.”

“And desecrating and reanimating a corpse is well beyond the Hogwarts curriculum but you seem to be doing quite well with that,” Barty teased, but conjured the box without complaint.

“It’s not like I’m wasting my free time studying transfiguration, of all things,” Harry muttered, floating the heart into the box and turning his attention back to the corpse. A few quick spells and the body was cleaned right down to a pristine skeleton, beautiful white bones looking luminous in the light of the candles.

Now it was show time. Harry flicked a glance at Voldemort, who was watching him placidly, face a mask of polite interest but gaze intense.

Harry knelt smoothly, took the skeleton’s hand in his, closed his eyes, and immersed himself in his Gift. He pushed. He pulled. He tweaked. He let the power rushing through him from the ritual flow out of his body and into the skeleton and, with a final focused thought, he stood.

“Ok,” he said, nervous. He cleared his throat. “What do you think?”

The skeleton rose, first sitting and then getting to its knees, and finally its feet. There were loud gasps and some swearing from the audience. With a thought Harry directed the body to begin walking, and Bella shrieked a high, delighted giggle, clapping her hands.

Harry peeked another look at Voldemort. He looked smug and pleased and it was all because of Harry. He felt a burst of joy and with a bit of effort the skeleton was dancing, bones clicking on the stone floor.

Voldemort turned to Harry, red gaze smoldering with approval. The look took Harry’s breath away. “Most impressive, Harry.”

Harry beamed, heart soaring, power rushing through his veins for long moments as the skeleton danced faster and faster, until all of a sudden Harry felt drained. He directed the skeleton back to the floor, recalling his Gift, and blinking spots away from his eyes. The watching crowd applauded, though many had pale faces and avoided looking at the skeleton, now nestled amongst its own entrails on the floor. The crowd dispersed.

He was catching his breath when two men approached the Dark Lord. “My Lord,” the taller man said. He looked vaguely familiar, and it was only when Harry turned to look at the shorter man that he recognized them.

The shorter one was a boy, and his pale and pointed face looked mighty familiar. Malfoy. Dragon Malfoy? Drago? No, Draco. Draco was his classmate, and the taller man with a striking resemblance must be his father.

“My son wishes to thank you for this evening. It was his first ritual since being marked, and he enjoyed it immensely.”

Draco looked far from joyful. He was pale and trembling, gaze skittering away from the Dark Lord, from Harry, and from the body – and its discarded guts – on the floor. Harry felt a moment of disdainful pity for the weak stomached boy, until Malfoy Sr.’s words registered.

Marked.

Draco had been marked. He had been given the dark mark? He was welcomed into Voldemort’s fold? A sickening wave of jealousy swept over Harry, so powerful he could barely breathe.

Voldemort had said Harry must finish his schooling before he could join, but he’d accepted Draco already. Why? What did Draco have that Harry didn’t?

Harry felt weak from reanimating his first human body and the misery brought on by his jealousy was enough to take him out at the knees. He and Barty excused themselves and Barty took Harry home.

Harry manfully refrained from whining until they were in the privacy of Grimmauld Place. “It’s not fair!” he wailed, flopping face first onto the nearest couch. “I can offer so much more than stupid, useless Dragon Malfoy. He could barely even look at the body without vomiting! Why would Voldemort accept him before me?”

“Only you would be jealous of some little brat over a simple mark after you just wandlessly and wordlessly reanimated a corpse well enough to make it dance,” Barty said, amused.

Harry was not in the mood to be teased.

“Little Draco’s marking was a punishment, not an honour.”

“What?” Harry said, confused enough to turn his head toward Barty. “But being marked is an honour.”

“Well, yes, but it’s also a risk. None of Voldemort’s highly sensitive agents bear a mark, in case it is discovered, and he always waits until magical maturity so as not to stunt the growth of the recipient by adhering his own magic to their core. The fact that he marked Draco so young … well, it shows disdain for what he can offer in the future. It’s an insult to the Malfoy line.”

“What did Draco do to deserve that?”

“Not Draco. His father. Lucius failed the Dark Lord somehow. I don’t know the details, but earlier this summer the Dark Lord made his displeasure clear. Lucius is just lucky his ministry contacts are useful enough that Voldemort didn’t kill him.”

Harry’s pout had turned into a thoughtful frown. Perhaps it was alright Voldemort hadn’t marked him, then. And at least he’d been impressed by Harry’s Gift. “Will you stay the night? I’ll miss you while I’m at Hogwarts.”

Barty stayed, and accompanied Harry to Platform 9 ¾ the next morning. Harry drank in his familiar dark magic, and released him reluctantly, stepping onto the train with a sigh. Fifth year was sure to be tedious without Barty or his Dementor friends.

Harry’s pessimistic assumption was quickly proven wrong.

The train ride was relaxing. Harry left the door to his otherwise empty compartment unlocked, but for some reason no one wanted to sit with him – perhaps because Harry’s roiling aura hadn’t calmed since the excitement last night.

Immediately after disembarking, Harry got the answer to a long unanswered question.

He approached the horseless carriages only to discover they were no longer horseless. He stared, enraptured, at the beautiful beasts, stroking their long necks and caressing their leathery wings. These were the invisible creatures he’d found in the forest his first year. He was admiring their dark eyes and sharp teeth when a soft voice spoke to him.

“You can see them too.”  Harry turned to see a blonde girl in Ravenclaw robes.

“They’re so lovely. Do you know what they are?”

“Thestrals.  Only those who have seen death can see them.” She came up beside Harry, stroking the deathly creature fondly.

“How marvelous.”

They retreated into the carriage together. “Who are you?”

“My name is Luna. You’re Harry.”

“I am,” Harry said with a smile. Her magic didn’t taste very good - quite bland - but he was immediately taken with Luna anyhow. She’d been suitably adoring of the thestrals, and she was calmer around Harry than any of their peers.

“I think we’re going to be good friends,” Luna said. Harry hoped she was right.

Two weeks into the school year Harry received a summons from Dumbledore. Harry couldn’t resist scowling as he read the letter, and had worked himself into a furious grump by the time the appointment arrived the next day.

Dumbledore’s office was as foul as Harry expected, perhaps even worse given the awful bird perched behind his desk. The entire space was suffused with Light, the bird emanating it even more than Dumbledore. His skin felt itchy and his gag reflex was begging to go off from the awful smell.

Harry fixed an obviously false, but still polite, smile on his face when Dumbledore invited him to sit.

“Thank you for indulging my request to see you, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore’s eyes were twinkling at him. How appalling.

“It’s Potter-Black, actually, Headmaster.”

“Ah, yes. I’d heard about your Godfather’s unfortunate passing.”

Harry held the bland smile affixed to his face. He assumed he wasn’t here to make small talk and he had no interest in stringing this meeting out longer than needed.

“Did you enjoy your summer, Harry?”

Harry suppressed a scowl at the uninvited use of his given name. “Very much so, thank you. Is there a reason you’re asking?”

“Mere curiosity. I was concerned that some of the recent political trouble might have caught you unawares. I’m glad to hear it hasn’t.”

“Whatever do you mean, Headmaster?” Harry asked, knowing full well what Dumbledore meant.

“Are you aware that Lord Voldemort has returned?”

Harry attempted a look of shock. He doubted it was very convincing. “I’d not read anything about that in the paper.” That at least was true, though perhaps only because Harry never read the paper. He was fairly sure, though, that the press hadn’t gotten wind of Voldemort’s return. Harry vaguely recalled that Voldemort wasn’t planning to go public for another year or two. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, I’m afraid.” 

Harry wondered how he knew. A spy? Or could he just sense how happy the Dark magic had become?

“This must be very distressing news for you, Harry, but rest assured you’re not alone.”

Harry was so far from distressed at Voldemort’s return that he could barely trace Dumbledore’s train of thought. “Distressing. Right. Because of … the time he tried to kill me?”

Dumbledore nodded gravely.

“Oh, that’s alright. I don’t take it personally. I’m sure he’s killed lots of people,” Harry said.

Dumbledore looked stumped for a moment before rallying. “It was not mere happenstance that Voldemort attacked you that evening, Harry, and I am certain that he will try to attack you again.”

How interesting. “And why is that, Headmaster?”

“There is a prophesy,” he pronounced gravely.

Harry waited. Dumbledore said nothing else. “Yes, and? What about it?”

“It foretells that you will defeat Voldemort.”

Harry blinked a few times in rapid succession, dumbfounded. “I beg your pardon?”

Dumbledore stared at Harry, blue eyes searching, face folded into deep frown lines. Harry didn’t know what to do with his face, so he settled for looking politely confused and not like he was gagging on the taste of Light whilst trying not to laugh at the very idea he’d even oppose someone as delightfully Deathly as Voldemort.

Dumbledore must have seen what he was looking for, because he showed Harry a memory from a pensieve.

Harry listened raptly to the silly looking woman as she prophecised. When it was over Harry clapped politely.

Dumbledore looked at Harry gravely, evidently expecting a further reaction.

“That was a very nice prophesy, Professor, but I don’t see why Voldemort would want to kill me because of it?”

Dumbledore explained how the prophesy fit Harry, about his parents’ defiance and his birth date, and how the power the Dark Lord knows not is the final hope of the Light. Dumbledore’s aura flickered as he spoke, responding to his passion. It was nauseating.

Unfortunately for Harry, he already knew Voldemort wouldn’t kill him again – not that he could share that information. Instead, he prevaricated. “Ah, yes, well, I’m only 15, you see. I don’t want anything to do with a war. I’m sure Voldemort will understand that and leave me alone.”

People often looked at Harry like he was insane, but the expression on Dumbledore’s face after than comment was one for the books. “I’m afraid it won’t be so easy as that. Voldemort has already determined to listen to the prophecy. He will come after you, and when he does, you must fight. You are the only one who can defeat him.”

The only kind of fighting Harry wanted to do against Voldemort was wrestling in bed, or maybe a nice duel as foreplay. Maybe Harry would lose on purpose and Voldemort would demand that Harry service him as penalty – or maybe, he’d lose for real, Voldemort overpowering him, his mighty magic bearing down on Harry until he couldn’t breathe, immobilizing Harry and stripping his clothes off and – wait, even better, Harry would win, and Voldemort would finally see that Harry was worthy of him and he’d let Harry take him, Harry pressing into his body and thrusting and grinding until Voldemort screamed in pleasure, his magic flaring, and –

But Harry couldn’t think about that here, in front of Dumbledore. He demurred. “I really don’t think this is my problem. I don’t want to be involved.”

Dumbledore frowned more deeply now. “Harry, my boy. Voldemort has risen again and the wizarding world is on the brink of terror. Surely this concerns you.”

“Not really,” Harry said. Not at all, more like it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to say that to Dumbledore.

Harry wasn’t the best at social cues, but even he could tell Dumbledore was dismayed. Oh well. That was also not Harry’s problem.

Dumbledore dismissed him a few minutes later after failing to elicit any interest from Harry in engaging with his activist group, and spewing some vague parting nonsense about the Power of Love.

Harry walked straight out of Dumbledore’s office, through the castle, and into the forest. He summoned a bird, killing it with his Gift and reveling in the taste of Death after so long marinating in the Light. He brought the bird carcass to the thestrals, watched them feast on it, and slowly unclenched, surrounded by beautiful, pure Death.

The rest of the term passed as Harry expected. He and Luna took to walking through the grounds together, admiring the decay that came with the changing seasons. Luna had only a passing interest in Harry’s death magic, and Harry had even less interest in the odd, fantastical living creatures she so loved. Regardless, they enjoyed each other’s company.

Harry found out about the tendency Luna’s things had to go missing shortly before All Hallows’ Eve. Harry floated up to Luna’s dormitory while she was at the library and had a chat with her roommates.

Luna’s things stopped going missing after that.

If Luna’s year mates ended up in the hospital with strange symptoms ranging from energy loss to hair loss to lack of appetite, all cumulating in a state of fatigue so powerful they struggled to get through the day, well – no one could pin anything on Harry, and most Ravenclaws knew well enough not to try.

“Your floating trick is very neat. Could you teach me to do that?” Luna asked.

Harry pondered the question. He’d started floating accidentally and it had taken a while to figure out how to do it on purpose. He wasn’t sure he could explain the process, but for Luna he tried. “Well, do you think you could learn to channel Death through yourself to such an extent that your tether to the living world weakens and you can divorce your corporeal form from earth’s gravitational pull?”

“No,” Luna answered placidly.

“Then I’m afraid I can’t teach you.”

“Perhaps some other time.”

In early December Harry received a letter. This wasn’t unusual; Harry had exchanged several letters with Barty through the term, and occasionally received mail from the bank or his solicitors. But the fearsome black owl winging its way to Harry was one he hadn’t seen in months and hadn’t dared hope to see again. Harry took the letter, raising it to his face and inhaling the heady scent of Voldemort’s lingering magic. He raced back to his room.

He’d skip Herbology. Professor Sprout would likely be glad for his absence - fewer dead plants.

Harry opened the envelope and found a gilded invitation along with a short letter.  The invitation was for a Yule celebration, held at Malfoy Manor. The letter was a personalized missive from the Dark Lord.

Dear Harry Potter-Black,  

I hope the start of your fifth year has proceeded appropriately.

I trust you will be able to attend the Yule celebration the enclosed invitation refers to.

I cordially invite you to join me for a meal prior to the celebration, at 7pm.

Sincerely,

Lord Voldemort

Harry was glad he skipped class because he was so overcome with delight at receiving a personal invitation to dinner from the Dark Lord that his head remained lost in the clouds for hours.

He roused himself enough to attend his afternoon potions class, though he accidentally turned all of the fresh potion ingredients in the supply cupboard to ash. Snape’s glower and harshly assigned detention wasn’t enough to dim his good mood, and the fact that Snape flinched when he got too close to Harry’s wildly flickering aura more than made up for it.

Harry spent the weeks until Yule preparing an appropriate gift for Voldemort. It wasn’t easy. Harry had enough money that cost wasn’t an issue, but Voldemort had plenty of wealthy followers and likely money of his own. Harry wanted to get him something no one else could provide, something that would show him Harry was unique (and valuable and likeable and kissable, though those last two might be asking too much). 

While visiting his thestral friends Harry was struck with inspiration. One of the mares had a still birth. The corpse of the dead foal was left in the forest. Harry was honestly surprised the rest of the heard hadn’t eaten it.

He took the corpse and spent weeks reanimating it. It was difficult to make the animation permanent. The beautiful skeleton would frolic and scamper for days, singing with Harry’s Gift, but slowly the enchantments would fade.

Yule was approaching and Harry was getting desperate. He could not give Voldemort a skeleton with weak enchantments! The skeleton itself was beautiful, of course, still radiating the soothing Death magic that clung to living thestrals, but a simple skeleton wasn’t an appropriate gift for a Dark Lord.

Harry grew so panicked as Yule approached and he failed to find a solution that he briefly considered using animation charms instead of his innate Death magic. Fortunately, he had an epiphany before he sunk so low.

Harry’s usual methods weren’t sufficient to keep the magic going, and so he needed to escalate, imbuing the bones with more power. Harry painted the skeleton in a trifecta of blood; Harry’s own, blood of a living thestral, and blood of a thestral’s prey. He let the skeleton marinate in the blood for three days before reanimating it with his Gift.

He could tell it had worked immediately. His magic had sunk into the skeleton as deeply as its own innate animal magic. This pleased Harry greatly, and not just because it meant his animation would last. It also meant Voldemort would be able to taste Harry’s magic every time he came close to the skeleton. He hoped Voldemort would like it; the gift and Harry’s magic both.

Chapter Text

Harry wore a set of resplendent robes, dark purple with silver accents, to the Malfoy’s Yule celebration. Walburga said the colour was very complimentary to his skin tone, and Harry felt quite handsome and grown up. Harry asked Barty if he had been invited to dine with Voldemort as well. He hadn’t, and the fact made him more nervous. How small was this dinner party going to be if even Barty wasn’t invited?

Voldemort had sent a portkey via owl earlier in the day. At preciously seven it whisked Harry and his gift away. He managed a more graceful landing than the last time Voldemort had retrieved him, but not by much. Voldemort extended a hand to steady him. He took it gratefully and thrilled at the little zing! of magic that touching Voldemort elicited. His skin was dry and cool to the touch. How many had experienced the pleasure of feeling Voldemort’s skin before? Harry wanted to track them all down and eat the flesh from their bones, so that he could absorb what they felt.

“Happy Yule, Lord Voldemort,” Harry said, dazed.

“When we are in close company, you may call me Voldemort,” the Dark Lord said.

Harry looked around. He immediately felt faint. There was no one else in the room, and the table was set for two. He was going to have a private dinner with the Dark Lord on Yule, the most important day of the year for the Dark. This was, functionally if not literally, a date.

The intimacy was overwhelming. This was the best day of Harry’s life.

“Oh,” Harry managed faintly as he sat, trying for calm. “Certainly. Voldemort.” Harry often forgot to use the appropriate honorifics for the Dark Lord, so this wasn’t that great a change in practice, but it was the symbolism of the whole thing! He had to bite his lip to repress a terribly inappropriate beaming smile.

“Happy Yule to you as well. And what is this?” Voldemort asked, gesturing to the thestral skeleton.

“It’s a Yule gift I made for you. With my Gift. To thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

Voldemort hummed, and levitated the skeleton to him gently, stroking the wing bones and hovering his hands over it. “Exceptional. And you’ve managed a Permanent Necromantic Animation,” Voldemort said, setting it on the ground and watching it amble away.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, playing at modesty. It was damn impressive necromancy and he knew it. So did Voldemort. 

“Tell me the process by which you animated the skeleton,” Voldemort demanded with the mild tone of one used to getting exactly what he wanted without protest.

Harry did, downplaying his initial panic that he wouldn’t be able to manage a permanent charm. Voldemort looked increasingly intrigued as he listened to Harry explain the blood work.

“A trifold necromantic incantation. I cannot say I’ve seen it done before,” Voldemort said. Harry got the sense he was very impressed but was trying not to show it

“There was no incantation. I simply imposed my will, the magic of my Gift magnified by the trifold materials,” Harry explained.

Voldemort watched him through lidded eyes for a moment, blinking slowly. He looked speculative, like a snake deciding whether to strike. Harry felt trapped by his gaze, like prey. He rather liked the feeling.

“And how were you able to utilize the magical properties of the trifold materials without incanting? Their magical potential should have remained latent,” Voldemort asked.

Harry thought as he sipped his soup. He barely tasted the first course, entranced as he was by Voldemort’s interest in his magical process. “Perhaps I did incant, or at least a version of it. I gather that the purpose of incantation is to incite a magical reaction, precipitated by an infusion of will made possible through a verbal or physical instigation? Or both, for the magically weak." Voldemort nodded. "My process is more intuitive and less structured than is typical, but the effect is the same.”

Voldemort asked a few follow up questions, explaining some of the magical theory Harry had yet to learn, and before Harry knew it their last course appeared on the table with a quiet 'pop'. They ate slowly, attention on their conversation, until Voldemort put his utensils down and pushed his plate away. “I desire to Witness your Gift in action, at a future date,” Voldemort said.

“Would you like to see now?” Harry offered eagerly.

Voldemort’s mouth quirked. “I fear we lack some of the necessary utensils. A dead body, for instance.”

“I meant here,” Harry said, gesturing to his head.

Voldemort’s brows raised minutely before he stared into Harry’s eyes and pushed. Harry opened up to him eagerly, pressing the memory to the forefront. He could feel Voldemort inside of him. Though it lacked the degree of intimacy Harry had experienced when consuming the horcruxes, it was still exquisite – he could feel Voldemort’s consciousness pressed against his, and a faint taste of his magic inside of him. It was enough to leave Harry shifting restlessly in his robes, skin flushed and stomach jittery.

Voldemort watched the memory and then retreated. Harry had to take a deep, steadying breath before he could meet Voldemort’s gaze again. “Your process is … Primal,” Voldemort said. It could have been an insult, but Voldemort looked too intrigued, too approving to mean it that way.

“Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse. Harry dearly, desperately wanted to show him primal – but now wasn’t the time.

The dessert course arrived then, and Voldemort leaned back, a neutral expression falling over his face. “I fear that we have been too distracted by our shared Interest in necromancy, and have failed to discuss the topic I invited you here to address.”

Harry considered apologizing for form's sake, discarded the idea. He wasn’t sorry at all.

“It is time to speak about your Future on the Dark Side,” Voldemort pronounced.

A shiver of anticipation ran up Harry’s spine. “What about it?”

“You were but a child when you agreed to Ally yourself with me. At the time, your demands were simple. As a near adult, I trust you now realize the Power your particular Position holds. I want to ensure your Support going forward.”

“Ok,” Harry said, and his confusion made him sound unsure where he wasn’t. “You have it? My support, I mean.”

“As simple as that?”

Harry did not understand the issue. “Yes?”

“Yet you sound unsure. I would come to an Agreement that leaves no room for uncertainty.”

Harry waited. Voldemort did not elaborate. “I don’t really know what’s happening right now,” Harry admitted, feeling his age and hating it.

Voldemort set his cutlery down, leaning back in his chair and fixing Harry with an intense look. Harry straightened in his seat reflexively, clasping his own hands in his lap and squeezing tightly. The Dark Lord’s gaze carried a weight, and Harry felt warm under it.

“The entirety of the Wizarding World expected you to be a bastion of Light. Your familial history would indicate a strong, near certain, predisposition toward Light magic, and since November 1, 1981 you have been an Icon of Light propaganda as the so called Defeater of the Dark Lord.

“And yet, you drip Death with every part of your being. I don’t recall ever having met a Darker wizard, and certainly not one so young. A Natural Necromancer. It’s unheard of. From the moment I Sensed you I knew you were one of Us. That you Belonged to the Dark.”

Harry nodded and tried to refrain from preening. He belonged with Voldemort. Voldemort himself had Pronounced it so.

“And so you see my Predicament.”

Harry did not. He looked at Voldemort blankly.

Voldemort huffed softly, leaning forward and placing his elbows on the table, and elaborated. “You hold immense political Power by virtue of your Name and past deeds alone. Should you choose to Oppose me, whether as a leader of the Light, or another voice for the Dark, you could cause trouble for me. Nothing I could not overcome, of course. But an irritant I would rather not face, if we can come to a satisfactory Arrangement to prevent discord between us in advance. The Dark would benefit from an Alliance between us.”

Harry nodded again. “Right.”

“And so, Harry Potter-Black, I ask you: what do you Want?”

Harry blinked. His mind blanked. He desperately tried to think of anything he wanted other than to feel Voldemort’s forked tongue against his skin. He failed and tried to stall for time. “Like … in general?”

“From me. From the Wizarding World. For your future. What are your Goals? Your political Aims? You seek Power: how do you aim to achieve it?”

Sweet Circe, this was worse than the career planning meeting he’d had with Professor Flitwick earlier in the year. Flitwick at least hadn’t cared much about his goals and was frankly too unnerved by Harry to question anything he said, but Voldemort appeared to care quite a lot.

And more than that, Harry cared what Voldemort thought! How does one tell a Dark Lord bent on domination that he actually doesn’t care at all about politics, ruling, or living people in general?

As Harry frantically tried to come up with something appropriate to say, he took a moment to mourn his lost social skills. As a youth he’d been excellent at bullshitting, talking his way out of trouble, and figuring out what people wanted to hear from him. He’d had to be, to survive the Dursleys. But after he’d harnessed his Gift he hadn’t had to cater to others, had been able to do precisely what he wanted, and what skill he had withered and died on the vine. Harry had never mourned a death before. It felt odd.

“You believe I will not like what you have to say,” Voldemort said after a long silence. “Is it really so terrible?”

Harry sighed and braced himself. No point lying, he supposed. Even if he still had the talent for it, Voldemort would find out eventually. “I don’t particularly care about the living.”

Voldemort nodded, as if that explained everything. “And so you seek to show the world Death.”

“Um, not really. I mean, I seek Death for myself, yeah, but not… I don’t really care about what other people are doing. I’m not really interested in politics. Ruling. Any of that. I just want to explore my Gift.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “If your Goals are so humble, why Align yourself with Lord Voldemort?”

“Are you kidding? Your magic is –” Harry blurted out before catching himself. He racked his brain for something normal and not horny to say. “Um, nice. It’s very nice.” That wasn’t too revealing, right?

Voldemort studied him intently. “You mean to say that you have no preferences regarding Future Directions of the wizarding world. No preferences regarding the treatment of creatures, mudbloods, and muggles. No Aspirations regarding Liberation of the Dark. No Political Objectives at all. Your willingness to Ally with me is strictly based on interpersonal preference.”

Harry blushed and tried not to squirm, mortified. Voldemort must be so unimpressed. Why hadn’t he just lied? “It’s not like I have no opinions. The persecution of Dark magic needs to end, as does the oppression of Dark Creatures. But, well …” Harry trailed off and scratched his head, lost for words that wouldn’t make him sound worse than he already did.

“You wish to be Uninvolved in the political Conquest and eventual Takeover of Wizarding Britain.”

“I mean, I’ll do what I have to, but I’m not particularly looking forward to it,” Harry corrected. “There are other things I’d prefer to spend my time on.”

Voldemort sat back and steepled his long fingers together, moving them in front of this chin. His dark hair reflected the firelight and his eyes were shadowed as he sat back and thought.

“Not what you were expecting?” Harry asked miserably, stomach in his boots.

“No, it certainly was not. I had not thought to Hope you would be so Obliging.” He sounded pleased.

Wait, was he pleased?

“Would you be willing to make occasional Appearances at my side, to demonstrate your Support? Perhaps give periodic Demonstrations of your necromantic Abilities? Show the public your Allegiance to myself, and to the Dark, in general? Use your Wizengamot seats to vote in my Favour, or loan them in trust to someone who will vote on your behalf?” Voldemort asked.

“I can do that.” As long as Voldemort wasn’t expecting Harry to socialize on a regular basis, that is.

“And you are willing to Pledge your Support to me? To my Cause? Regardless of the political Action I take?”

Harry nodded. “Yes.”

“And you would be willing to take my Mark?”

Harry bit back his instinctual reaction – an eager yes – and thought about the question. “What would that entail?” Admittedly, Harry very much wanted the mark for horny purposes, but if it meant Voldemort could order him into something awful, like a ministerial position where Harry would be expected to do office work or deal with the public, it wouldn’t be worth it. “And, what’s in it for me?” Harry realized with a pang of embarrassment that he was truly awful at negotiating, considering he hadn’t even thought to ask that question until now.

Voldemort smiled, seemingly amused at how long it had taken Harry to get to that part of the negotiation. “What do you Want from me?”

Well that was a loaded question. Harry wondered if he had the clout to negotiate a marriage contract out of Voldemort before dismissing it as wishful thinking. He took the safer route. “You promised me Death, once.”

“And I will Give it to you. Is that what you Want? The opportunity to develop your Abilities? Guidance, perhaps? Resources? Power, not political or financial, but magical?”

“Umm, wow, yeah, that’s –” Harry cut off his stuttering. Walburga would never let him hear the end of it if she knew how unsophisticated he sounded. “Do I have to decide right away?”

“There is some time still before you reach your magical maturity. Any Agreement we make will wait until then. We can continue to discuss this for the next year and a half.”

“Right, good,” Harry said, relieved, and changed the subject before Voldemort could ask him more questions that revealed his idiocy. “There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. Dumbledore told me about a prophesy.”

Voldemort leaned forward, hands clenching into fists. “Did he share it with you?”

“Yeah. He said you knew the first part, that it was the reason you attacked me when I was a baby.”

“Share it with me. Tell me the prophesy,” Voldemort demanded. His magic swelled with the intensity of his request.

Harry shivered and recited it from memory.

Voldemort looked thoughtful, gaze going distant. When he didn’t speak, Harry ventured his opinion. “Did you know he knows you’re back? I told him I didn’t want to be involved but he said you’d try to kill me anyway, and then he tried to convince me something about the power of Love? It all sounded a bit rubbish to me, but I thought you’d like to know.”

The corner of Voldemort’s lips quirked. He smiled and began to laugh. He sounded terrifying and looked insane. Harry watched in awe. “Rubbish indeed,” Voldemort said with a ghastly serpentine grin stretched across his inhuman face.

Harry sighed, besotted, and before he could stop himself he asked hopefully, “Are you sure you won’t kill me? Even a little?”

“You are much more use to me alive, Childe of Death.”

Harry sighed. “Ok, but if you change your mind, could I request either the killing curse or overloading my body with magic until I explode?” Harry had fantasized more than once about both options, but lately had been particularly taken with the idea of the later. It would be an exquisitely intimate way to die, suffused with Voldemort’s magic until his mortal form couldn’t take it anymore. The very thought was enough to raise his temperature.

Voldemort looked at him steadily. “I will take that under consideration.” He watched Harry for a moment more. “Are you ... seeking Death?”

“Not really.” Harry quite looked forward to dying someday. He thought he’d enjoy it very much, but there was always the chance that he wouldn’t appreciate Death the same way once he was dead, and so he wouldn’t rush to it until he’d done all he wanted to do whilst living – just in case.

Voldemort nodded and stood, extending a hand toward Harry. “Come, Harry. It is time to attend the ceremony.”

Harry rose and floated toward Voldemort. He placed his hand in Voldemort’s, anticipating the erotic shock of skin against skin. A shock rang through him as their palms met, something more than just the satisfaction of touch. Harry gasped. “What is that?” he asked, grasping Voldemort’s hand in both of his and turning it over. It was a ring, an ancient thing with a large black stone with simple engravings: a circle within a triangle, bisected by a straight line.

“This ring is a family Heirloom of my Ancestors, the Gaunts.”

Harry was enchanted. “It feels like Death. It’s so beautiful.”

Voldemort said nothing, taking the compliment as his due. He apparated them – along with Harry’s animated thestral gift – to the Malfoy’s ball. They separated quickly, Voldemort’s attention monopolized by myriad followers, hangers-on, and potential allies. Harry drifted through the rest of the ball, floating – literally and metaphorically – with happiness.

Barty sidled up to him near the drinks table. “Dinner went that well?” he asked with a grin.

“He held my hand to apparate me here,” Harry said with a sigh, a glazed look in his eye.

“Sweet Circe, kid.”

“He liked my gift so much he brought it to the ceremony with him.”

Barty’s eyebrows rose. He looked thoughtful. “Well I’ll be damned.”

Harry smiled. “I think the ceremony is starting soon. Let’s grab a good spot. I want a front row seat for the sacrifice.”

The rest of Harry’s fifth year passed quickly. Voldemort didn’t write again, but Harry was able to drown his sorrows in his burgeoning necromantic abilities. Now that he’d figured out he could use blood to augment his powers, possibilities piled up and Harry’s control of his Gift improved in leaps and bounds. Voldemort had sent him a few books on the foundational theories of ritual and blood magic that they’d discussed over dinner, and they were immensely helpful.

Despite accidentally missing his astronomy OWL exam, and utterly failing the practical portion of his herbology exam, Harry did well on his OWLs and returned to the Black townhouse for summer break full of hope.

His hope waned as weeks went by and Voldemort did not contact him. Apparently, the older Harry got the less sympathy is pining earned from those around him, a fact Harry did not appreciate.

“Yes, yes, I understand you want the Dark Lord, but you cannot have the Dark Lord and as heir to the House of Black you must give thought to courting eligible candidates. You’re 16 now, and most proper young wizards begin courting at 17, or soon thereafter. 20, at the absolute latest.”

Harry pouted at her miserably.

“You don’t have to get married so young, of course, but contracts must be negotiated and these things take time! It is important to start early, or else how will you secure the future of the House of Black?”

Harry thought briefly about rotting the fibers of Walburga’s portrait, just so she’d stop pestering him.  

Barty similarly took a tough love approach. “That’s it. I’m putting a moratorium on personal questions about the Dark Lord,” he said, after the fifth time Harry asked him what Voldemort was wearing the last time Barty saw him. “It used to be cute, but now it’s just getting pathetic.”

“It was always pathetic,” Harry said, arm flung over his eyes as he lay sprawled on the couch in a miserable, dramatic heap. “I’ve never had a chance.”

“He’s the Dark Lord. No one has a chance. I mean, I don’t think he really … does that. To be honest, I’m surprised you do.”

“Do what?”

“You know, the whole romance and sex stuff. Just seems a little … lively for you.”

Harry raised his brows. “Contrary to popular belief, I am alive, you know.”

“Yes, but you hate Life, and don’t you know what sex leads to?” Barty teased.

Harry scoffed. “Only if you’re doing it wrong.”

Barty spluttered out a laugh. “What?”

“I can guarantee if Voldemort and I ever had sex there is zero possibility we’d make a life from it.”

Barty smirked at Harry. “You know with the right potions regime and transfiguration spells men can carry a baby, right?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously I know that. I did stay awake through sex-ed.”

“So it’s just that you don’t want to,” Barty clarified.

“Of course not. Imagine growing a life. That would be revolting.” Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought. “And then you’re stuck with a baby. What would I do with one of those?”

“Does Walburga know you plan to let house Black die with you?”

“Shh!!!” Harry said, flapping his hands at Barty, who laughed and pretended to run into the hall to tell Walburga himself. Harry launched himself at Barty’s back to prevent such a horror, and the two fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, laughing.

Harry didn’t think about how out of his league Voldemort was for the rest of the day.

Two weeks before the summer holiday finished, Harry received the letter he’d been waiting on all break.

Voldemort had extended an invitation to meet.

Harry was so excited he was unbearable until the portkey whisked him away. He arrived in Voldemort’s study properly dressed in his most flattering robes, and he managed to keep his feet, for the first time ever. Tragically, Voldemort was not impressed by these feats.

“Harry Potter-Black,” Voldemort greeted him, standing near the fireplace next to a man Harry didn’t know.

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry returned. Voldemort looked beautiful as always. His skin was deathly pale, and the light from the fire cast deep shadows over his angular cheekbones, highlighting his lack of nose. Harry took in the sight, scanning from the thick fall of Voldemort’s dark hair down to his pale, bare feet.

Harry’s mind stuttered to a halt at the sight. Voldemort wasn’t wearing shoes. Voldemort never wore shoes. Harry knew this. He had seen Voldemort’s feet before, but somehow he’d never seen them. How had he failed to realize how erotic the partial nudity was? Voldemort’s feet were bare! Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away.

They were so pale. And hairless. The toes were long, and delicate, the toenails trimmed neatly and faintly blue. Did that mean his feet were cold? Would he like it if Harry warmed them? Would they – sweet Circe, would Voldemort ever let Harry touch them? What if Voldemort let Harry massage them, digging his thumbs into the arches and relieving tension. What if – Mother Magic, what if he let Harry lick the skin? Maybe – maybe suck on his toes? People liked that, right? What if –

“Harry, this is Unspeakable Greengrass. Gareth, this is Heir Potter-Black,” Voldemort’s introduction broke Harry out of his wildly spinning fantasy, and Harry managed to look away from Voldemort’s naked, vulnerable, beautiful feet to Greengrass’ face.

Greengrass had a muted aura, with hints of darkness creeping through it. Fairly boring, but pleasant enough. They shook hands. “The Dark Lord has requested that I show you something within the Department of Mysteries.”

Harry looked at Voldemort, brows raised in question. “I believe you will Enjoy the experience. You might even find it Educational,” Voldemort said.

Harry beamed. Voldemort was invested in his education! They were going on a field trip together! If Harry ignored Greengrass’ presence he could pretend it was a date!

Voldemort held out the pot of floo powder, and Greengrass stepped through to the Ministry of Magic. Harry prepared to throw his handful in when Voldemort spoke. “Until we meet again.”

Harry paused on the threshold. “You’re not coming?” He couldn’t keep the crashing desolation out of his voice. So much for his pseudo-date. They’d barely spent two minutes together and now Voldemort was sending him off. Did Voldemort not miss him? Did he not enjoy Harry’s company? How could he think highly enough of Harry to organize whatever this trip to the ministry was, but not want to spend time with Harry himself?

“I have other work to Attend to,” Voldemort said.

Harry looked down so that Voldemort couldn’t see the despair on his face. Unfortunately, that put Voldemort’s feet back in Harry’s eye line, and knowing he wouldn’t be able to see them again for months and months and months didn’t make Harry feel any better.

Harry cleared his throat and tried to master himself. “Right. Well, I appreciate you arranging this for me. Very thoughtful. I’m most obliged.”

Voldemort merely nodded and stepped back. Harry shot him one last, longing glance and stepped through.

Greengrass swept him through to the Department of Mysteries without a word. Harry was too depressed to ask any questions, until they passed through several long hallways and a few rotating doors to enter a large room that smelled divine.

The taste of Death was thick in the air, heady and powerful, beckoning Harry forward with warm welcome. It tasted good enough to wipe all thoughts of Voldemort out of Harry’s head, something he wouldn’t have thought possible until this very moment.

“It’s called the Veil,” Greengrass said. Harry barely heard him. Greengrass kept talking, but his words were a dull whisper in Harry’s ears, eclipsed entirely by the sweet whispers coming from the archway that stood in the middle of the chamber.

Harry floated down the stairs toward the Veil, entranced. The closer he got the louder the whispers grew, and the more ardently they beckoned him closer. “Come,” they said. “Join us. You belong here.”

And Harry did. He could feel it. He’d never felt something so warm, so welcoming, so right. Harry reached the dais, floating up and over the lip, moving inexorably closer to the place he belonged.

“Stop there, Potter-Black, that’s close enough,” Greengrass warned, voice stern.

Harry didn’t even hear him.

“Potter-Black!”

Harry was a foot away from the Veil now. While the tattered fabric had been gently wavering before, the closer Harry got the more agitated the movement grew. Harry reached out a hand toward the now billowing Veil. He could sense its excitement, and Harry’s racing pulse echoed the feeling.

“No! Stop! Don’t touch –”

But it was too late. Harry grasped the Veil and walked through the archway.

For a long moment, all Harry knew was darkness. He couldn’t see or hear or feel anything, suspended in a cocoon of nothing. Slowly, his senses returned. The familiar scent of Death reached him first, soothing Harry’s momentary anxiety.

Feeling was next. A warm breeze seemed to caress Harry, gently ruffling his hair and smoothing over his skin. Was he naked?

Then the whispers returned. ‘Welcome,’ they said. ‘We’ve been waiting for you. We missed you. We’re so glad to meet you. We love you.’

Harry’s heart swelled. He didn’t know where he was – the land of Death? The other side? Hell? Heaven? Purgatory? – but he knew this was exactly where he wanted to be. Harry had never felt so at home.

‘You belong with us,’ the whispers said, and Harry nodded in agreement.

But then he heard another voice. It was angry, and yelling, the polar opposite to the sweet voices. ‘Crucio!’ the new voice yelled, and then, ‘how could you Fail me like this? You should never have allowed him so near the veil! You will pay for this Failure with your life.’

Harry stilled instinctively. He knew that voice. There was only one being in all of creation who could make Pronouncements like that. It was Voldemort.

Voldemort. Harry knew Voldemort. He missed Voldemort. He wanted to be closer to him, always, forever.

Harry turned around, following Voldemort’s voice. He still couldn’t see, but if he concentrated very hard he could feel Voldemort’s familiar magic. Harry clung to it.

The whispers didn’t like that. “No,” they said. “Stay!”

“Did I not tell you Potter-Black was of paramount Importance to our cause? Crucio!”

But Voldemort was angry. He was upset that Harry had gone through the Veil, and he was torturing Greengrass for letting it happen. Harry felt a burst of warmth. Voldemort cared about him.

Harry pulled harder on Voldemort’s presence.

“Stay!” the whispers said. “Stay stay stay stay.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “I need to go. But I’ll be back. I’ll miss you.”

“Staystaystaystaystaystay.”

But Harry couldn’t. With a pull and a pop Harry stepped through the other side of the Veil, Greengrass’ screams finally reaching Harry’s ears. Disoriented and dizzy, Harry stumbled around the archway. Voldemort was towering over Greengrass, who was convulsing on the ground, Voldemort’s magic billowing out in waves, shaking the entire chamber.

Harry was enchanted. “Lord Voldemort,” he said, or tried to. His mouth felt numb, his tongue thick and clumsy. Still, it was enough to capture Voldemort’s attention.

“Harry,” he said, dismissing Greengrass’ twitching form and rushing to Harry’s side. Harry stared up at him, swaying slightly. The world was spinning, and there appeared to be two Voldemort’s. Imagine that. Harry would be so lucky to have two of the Dark Lord. Maybe one would like Harry back. “Is the horcrux intact? Are you injured?”

Harry smiled dopily, taking a moment to parse Voldemort’s words. His ears were ringing. “I’m great,” Harry said. He was very tired though. He let his eyes close, just for a moment.

“And the horcrux?” Voldemort asked urgently, shaking Harry’s shoulders.

“Oh,” Harry said. His knees buckled and he sunk slowly to the ground, Voldemort controlling his fall and kneeling with him. “I would never let anything happen to your soul piece. I love it so much.”

“Wake up. Harry, stay awake!”

Harry blinked slowly up at Voldemort.

“You must be sure, Harry. Check. Check my horcrux.”

“’kay,” Harry said, closing his eyes again to concentrate. He delved inside himself, searching for the familiar, faint sense of Voldemort’s soul shard. It was there, nestled snugly amidst Harry’s soul, safe and sound, though both souls were vibrating at an unusual frequency, as if agitated. “It’s ok. It’s still there, with mine. It’s safe.”

Voldemort exhaled deeply through his slitted nostrils, closing his eyes. He was so pretty, even when he was upset. Maybe especially when he was upset, his magic roiling and writhing and suffusing everything around him with a Dark and Deathly power.

Harry wanted to reassure him more, but he slipped into sleep between one languid blink and the next.

Harry woke to sunlight. He was in a large bed in an unfamiliar room, swaddled cozily under several heavy blankets.

“Mister Potter-Black is awake! Blinky be telling Master right away!” Harry barely had time to blink at the house elf in confusion before she popped away.

Harry struggled for a moment to recall how he’d gotten here. He wracked his sluggish brain and managed to drag up a memory of Voldemort’s bare feet. He paused for a moment, savoring the image, before moving on. Greengrass screaming, Voldemort yelling, the comforting feel of Death surrounding him. Harry closed his eyes and sank back into the bedding.

A sharp ‘crack’ announced Voldemort’s arrival. Harry had been expecting it, but his heart still started to race in excitement. “Harry Potter-Black,” Voldemort greeted him, voice cold and serious.

“Lord Voldemort,” Harry returned. He snuck a glance down. Voldemort’s toes peeked out of the hem of his long black robe. Harry looked away quickly, lest Voldemort catch his lustful gaze.

“Are you Well?”

Harry took a moment to evaluate himself before answering. He even lifted the blankets to glance at his body in a visual assessment. He was naked. His heart started to pound. Had Voldemort undressed him? Had they – had Voldemort – sweet Circe, had they had sex while he was asleep? Harry dearly hoped so, though he’d be wroth to have missed Voldemort’s touch due to something as trivial as unconsciousness.

“Your clothes seem to have been left in the Veil,” Voldemort said, tracking Harry’s gaze.

Harry bravely ignored the disappointment trickling down his sternum. As if he’d be so lucky as to have Voldemort fondle him while he was sleeping. Still, it didn’t explain why Voldemort hadn’t clothed him before putting him to bed. Perhaps – did he like the view? In case he did, Harry sat up, shuffling back to lean on the headboard, and let the blankets fall to his chest. The cool air pebbled his exposed nipples immediately, and he shivered.

Voldemort glanced at Harry’s chest perfunctorily, as if checking fro wounds, before returning his gaze to Harry’s face. Harry wanted to weep but manfully refrained.

“I see. Well, I feel great, actually. I slept very well. And your horcrux is safe,” Harry said, reassuringly. He vowed not to think about how much of Voldemort’s fear and rage had been due to losing Harry versus losing his horcrux. Harry suspected he would very much dislike the outcome.

Voldemort relaxed minutely, a slight softening of his shoulders. “I had not anticipated how strongly the Veil would React to you. Greengrass has been suitably punished for his failure to ensure your safety,” Voldemort said, as if in apology.

Harry paused. Should he tell Voldemort that entering the Veil had been entirely his own fault, and Greengrass couldn’t have stopped him no matter how hard he’d tried? Harry suspected Voldemort would be displeased by that information, and so strategically let Greengrass take the fall.

“Did you kill him?” Harry asked instead.

Voldemort nodded. “Would you like to see his body?”

“Oh yes,” Harry breathed. “Very much.” Harry stood, only recalling once his bare feet hit the floor that he was naked. Voldemort merely waved a hand at a wardrobe, commanding a plain black robe over to Harry, who slipped the robe over his head and followed Voldemort out of the room.

He surreptitiously sniffed at the robe as they walked. Was it Voldemort’s? It didn’t smell like him, and it fit Harry rather well, so it likely wasn’t. How disappointing. Harry lost himself in the fantasy of wearing Voldemort’s clothes for a long moment, only coming back to himself when his ears caught the soft slap of Voldemort’s bare feet on the stone floor.

The floor was cold, and so Harry had instinctively started floating an inch or two off the ground. Once he realized both he and Voldemort were barefoot he willed himself down and listened in pleasure to the sound of their matching steps reverberating softly off the walls. How domestic. How romantic.

Voldemort led them through a cavernous entrance hall and into a great room, the door slamming open automatically at this approach. Harry gasped in delight as soon as they walked inside.

There was blood everywhere.

Greengrass had been eviscerated. He was floating near the ceiling in the middle of the hall, his guts trailing out of the open wound his stomach had become. A pool of blood decorated the floor beneath him, though it seemed he’d been dead long enough for the blood to stop dripping out.

“How wonderful,” Harry said, voice husky with pleasure.

Voldemort took the compliment as his due, though Harry thought he looked a bit pleased.

Harry circled the floating corpse slowly. Greengrass’ magic has entirely dispersed by now, and Voldemort hadn’t used the corpse in a ritual, so there was only the faint trace of Death left in the air. Subtle as it was, it was pleasurable enough to send a tickle over Harry’s entire body.

Harry floated several feet off the ground to get closer to Greengrass’ corpse. He was studying the gaping cavern of Greengrass’ torso, admiring the colour the drying entrails were turning, and how nicely it contrasted with the white of the visible bones. Harry thought he might redecorate his bedroom in this colour scheme. Kreacher would likely be happy for a new project.

“None before you have escaped the Veil after crossing through. It was assumed to be a pathway to the Other side. Tell me, Childe of Death: how did you Return to the world of the Living?”

Harry returned to the ground when Voldemort spoke. “I don’t know how. Well, I know how, but not why it worked. I was conversing with the voices – they were so lovely. I miss them already – but then I heard your voice from the other side, and I followed it back. It was fairly easy, all things considered.”

“It should not have been Possible for you to return at all, much less with souls intact.”

Harry shrugged.

“I am beginning to suspect you are not entirely of this World, Harry Potter-Black.” The look Voldemort leveled at him sent a thrill up Harry’s spine. It was hot and intense. He was interested. Finally! Harry preened.

Voldemort continued. “I am placing a great deal of Trust in you.”

Harry and Voldemort were standing side by side, looking up at Greengrass, but at this statement Harry turned fully to look at Voldemort.

“My horcruxes are Precious to me above all else. None alive, save for you and I, know of their existence, and my other horcruxes have been hidden with every precaution available.”

Harry’s eyes bugged out at the words. He tried to keep his composure, but the word “precious” was reverberating in his head. Precious. The horcruxes were Precious to Voldemort, and Harry was a horcrux, so Harry was Precious to Voldemort! He wanted to scream.

“Tell me, Harry Potter-Black. Can you keep my soul Safe?”

“Yes,” Harry said instinctively, his surety suffusing his answer. “I can. I will. What happened with the Veil – it won’t happen again. I’ll be more careful.” He felt ashamed by his actions. He’d only been thinking of himself and how much he wanted to meet Death. What if he’d stayed dead? Voldemort’s soul would have died too. Harry had been so selfish.

“If you would prefer to return my soul to me as you did with the previous –”

“No!” Harry shouted. Pleasant as it’d be to get to kiss the Dark Lord again, he’d lived with this shard of Voldemort’s soul his whole life. He couldn’t imagine being without it. It was unthinkable.

Voldemort scrutinized him closely. Harry tried to look very serious and also powerful, like the kind of young wizard who could protect a soul better than anything else.

“I admit I like the thought of my horcrux staying with you. I believe it was a powerful Act of Magic herself that made it possible, and I would hate to spurn her Gift. However, should it become necessary – should you feel you cannot protect my soul sufficiently – you Will tell me.”

Harry nodded frantically. Voldemort seemed appeased. Harry made his escape from the manor house before Voldemort could change his mind and take the horcrux back.

Kreacher went ballistic when Harry returned, demanding to know where he’d been overnight, and had he been sullying the name of the House of Black? Harry ignored him.

Precious.

Voldemort’s horcruxes were precious to him; ergo, Harry was precious to him. He sat in a drawing room sipping a cup of tea and watching the lovely deluge of rain through the window. The grim weather matched Harry’s effervescent mood perfectly.

Harry couldn’t believe he’d been ignoring the leverage being Voldemort’s horcrux gave him. He thought Voldemort had only been so nice to him because he owed a debt from Harry’s assistance with the Philosopher’s Stone. That was likely a large factor, but the horcrux connection couldn’t be overlooked.

Why, from a certain point of view Harry was part of Voldemort himself, and so even if Voldemort didn’t want to have sex with Harry, surely he’d want to have sex with himself? Harry was fairly certain everyone wanted to have sex with Voldemort, and that must include Voldemort too.

His thoughts raced.

Precious. He was precious! Maybe not for anything innately related to Harry, but it was no matter. Even if it was the horcrux that Voldemort cared for, the horcrux was part of him. There was carry over. It was an in. It was a start. And combined with the fact that Voldemort was intrigued by whatever kind of not-quite-human being Harry was… he could do something with this.

He prodded the horcrux inside him and beamed.

Chapter Text

Snape held Harry back after the first Defence Against the Dark Arts class of the term. He idly wondered why Snape was teaching DADA instead of potions this year, but he didn’t care enough to ask.

“The Dark Lord has instructed me to teach you to duel,” Snape said without preamble, disdainful sneer on his face.

“Oh. Are you a Death Eater then?”

Snape’s sneer took on new levels of aggression. Harry was impressed. “I will train you every Thursday evening, at 8 o’clock. If your peers ask, you are to tell them you are receiving remedial instruction in herbology.”

“With you? That doesn’t make any sense,” Harry said, amused. Snape glowered, but Harry continued before he could reply. “Not that it matters. My peers aren’t in the business of questioning me.” For his own amusement, Harry let out a pulse of his most Deathly magic, neatly illustrating his point.

Snape flinched.

Harry smiled pleasantly. “Is that all, Professor?”

Snape released him and Harry floated away. He didn’t relish the thought of spending any more time than he had to with Snape. The man’s aura was Dark and should have been pleasant, but it was soured and bitter and Harry hated the taste. Regardless, he’d attend the sessions. Harry had come too close to losing Voldemort’s horcrux once, and he knew that was why Voldemort wanted him to learn to fight. Harry would comply. It was worth the effort to make sure Voldemort didn’t ask for the soul-shard back.

The term progressed smoothly. His lessons with Snape were an irritation, taking time away from experiments Harry was working on that he actually cared about, but his duelling progress was satisfactory. He was fairly proficient, when he managed to pay attention for the entire length of the duel. Truthfully, Harry was not well versed in focusing on things he found boring, and after a time duelling became fairly dull. Why bother with all these fancy spells back and forth when he could drain the life out of someone with a thought?

As term progressed Harry attended most of his classes, all of his duelling lessons with Snape, and experimented with his Gift. He noticed Dumbledore’s magic had changed, a beautiful rot entering his aura and growing and growing as winter arrived. It was emanating from Dumbledore’s hand, and it smelled like Death. It was really quite lovely, and managed to temper Dumbledore’s sickly Light aura to such an extent that standing in close proximity to the Headmaster barely made Harry feel nauseated at all. How marvellous!

The end of term crept closer, and Harry received another invitation to dine with Voldemort over Yule. He hoped desperately it’d be another private dinner – a pseudo date – but it was an invitation for lunch. Harry prepared himself to have to share Voldemort’s attention.

A week before the Christmas break began, Harry and Luna were out with the thestrals. Harry, as he so often did, was thinking about Voldemort. He knew the Dark Lord was intrigued by Harry, but how did he turn that into romance? Harry was far from an expert, and he needed help.

“Luna,” Harry asked, letting the herd of Deathly creatures snuffle his blood-covered hands. “What do you know about love?”

“Quite a bit, I think. I love my father very much, after all.”

Perfect. Harry had an expert right in front of him. “How do I go about making someone love me?”

Luna peered at Harry curiously, blinking her big blue eyes and ignoring the thestral snuffling at her hair. “Is this about the Dark Lord?”

Harry gaped. “How did you know!? I thought you said you didn’t have the Gift of prophesy?”

“I don’t,” Luna laughed. “It’s just that all of your homework is covered in little hearts that say ‘Voldie + Harry’ and you’re always talking about how handsome he is, and how delicious his magic tastes.”

Was he really so obvious?

“And at the start of the school year you were telling me about his feet and, I’m sorry to tell you this, Harry, but you got an erection.”

Harry squeaked.

“And then last year when –”

“Yes, yes, it’s about Voldemort,” Harry interrupted. What was this feeling? Was he … embarrassed? Surely not. No one could blame him for desiring Voldemort! The man was captivating. Regardless, he’d never felt this way before – sort of squirmy and hot and like he didn’t want anyone to look at him. He couldn’t say he liked it. “How do I make him fall in love with me?”

Luna frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure. My father has loved me since I was born. But I suppose you don’t want Voldemort to love you like a father.”

“I want him to be the kind of in love with me where he wants to marry me and have sex with me and share his magic with me,” Harry clarified.

“Right. So not like a father, then.”

Harry shrugged. She was the expert here.

“I’m not familiar with that kind of love, but I think you need to do some romantic things. Have you given him gifts, and told him how much you admire him?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. Maybe you should tell him outright how you feel?”

Harry paled. “Absolutely not! He might send me away!”

Luna frowned. “My, this is complicated. Perhaps you could physically seduce him? Wear something pretty and flattering?”

“I once spoke with him while wearing a tiny little nightrobe, and he didn’t look at my legs or my cleavage once,” Harry said miserably.

Luna patted his arm sympathetically, leaving a smear of blood on his robes. “Oh dear. And you’re so pretty! Well, perhaps he isn’t that interested in physical beauty. What if you demonstrate to him that you’d be a wonderful husband?”

Harry nodded slowly. “That might work. But how? He’s so powerful and smart and independent, he doesn’t need a husband. I know he’s interested in my Gift, but I don’t know how to make that interest romantic.”

“I think you’ll just have to be patient, Harry. Once he gets to know you I’m sure he’ll fall right in love.”

Harry wasn’t so sure, but he didn’t know what else to do. “I’ll tell you how our meeting over Christmas goes. Maybe we can come up with something then.”

Harry neatly combed his long hair and wore his nicest robes – a shimmering black that made his pale skin look even more ghostly – to Voldemort’s luncheon. He was filled with such nervous anticipation he actually walked to the dining room, his slippered feet caressing the ground as he followed the little house elf through the manor. The door opened with a creak and Harry walked through, heart immediately dropping to his stomach. They were in the same room Voldemort had vivisected Greengrass in. His corpse was long gone, replaced with a large table filled with Death Eaters.

“Young Master Potter-Black’s seat be here,” the elf squeaked, and Harry tried not to mope as he sat. He was in the middle of the table – not even close enough to touch Voldemort! – seated between Barty and a witch he didn’t know.

Harry smiled weakly at Barty when he said hello, and he let a little bit of his most Deathly magic leak out in an attempt to make himself feel better. The lovely spinach salad in front of him started to rot, and some of the glasses nearby grew frosted crystals. It was petty, perhaps, but it didn’t help his mood. He snuck a glance at Voldemort to see if he’d noticed.

He hadn’t. Voldemort was beautiful and regal and untouchable as always, bald head shining in the candlelight, ensconced in conversation with the old man sitting beside him. It seemed like he hadn’t even noticed Harry’s arrival. How devastating! He must have done another ritual, because his features looked less human than they had for the last few years. He was back to the skeletal, snake-like appearance he'd had before Harry returned the first horcrux to him. He looked amazing - inhuman and Deathly. The very sight of him made Harry ache.

Harry ignored the conversation swirling around him – something about the French ministry and currency exchange? – and stabbed his near raw meat viciously as he ate. What was the point of coming to a luncheon like this? He didn’t care about anyone at this table, save Voldemort – who he couldn’t even talk to because he was seated so far away – and Barty, who he had plans to see tomorrow anyway!  

Harry was so consumed with his sulk that he didn’t notice that conversation had ceased until Barty nudged him with his elbow. “Pardon?” Harry asked, finally looking up.

“Bellatrix was asking after your dueling training with Severus,” Barty said.

“Oh.” He looked down the table to see Bellatrix, sitting at Voldemort’s right hand, staring at him, manic eyes gleaming. “It’s fine. Thank you for asking,” he added begrudgingly.

“Fine!? The little necromancer is getting training from one of Our Lord’s inner circle, someone Our Lord trained himself, and all you have to say is that it’s fine?”

Harry shrugged, and tried not to be offended that Voldemort had personally trained Snape but wouldn’t personally train Harry. He failed, obviously, and his mood grew more sour.

“The insult!” Bellatrix shrieked. “I demand you duel me immediately!”

Harry cocked his head and watched Bellatrix with curiosity. She looked like she was about to start breathing fire. How odd. “No thank you. I don’t much feel like dueling.”

Bellatrix screamed. “My Lord! This insult cannot slide!”

“There is no Insult, Bellatrix,” Voldemort said, cold eyes examining Harry’s miserable slump and Bellatrix’s insane energy in turn. “But I Desire to see a demonstration of what Harry Potter-Black has learned. You will Duel,” he pronounced.

Harry sighed heavily. At least Voldemort was paying attention to him now. Everyone trooped out of the hall into a dueling chamber, Bellatrix striding at the front of the line like the herald of some demonic procession.

Harry and Bellatrix took their places on either end of the raised platform. They bowed. The duel began.

Bellatrix was a madwoman and she dueled like it. Harry had thought dueling Snape was tough – its not like the man took it easy on him – but Bellatrix was another level, not necessarily in skill but certainly in viciousness. She clearly had no compunction about hurting Harry, judging by the entrail expelling curse that narrowly missed his head.

Harry cast and parried and dodged and shielded and cast some more. He was completely focused on the duel, putting in a level of effort he rarely managed whilst facing off against Snape, and he did quite admirably – for a sixteen-year-old. Alas, Bellatrix had decades of experience on him, and it showed.

After long, dizzying minutes of fast and furious dueling, the air growing saturated with powerful, dark magic, a cutting curse dug into Harry’s thigh, followed quickly by a blinding spell. Harry threw up a strong shield, but – blinded as he was – he couldn’t tune his defences to Bellatrix’s next attack. He tried to counter the blinding curse whilst holding the shield, but he wasn’t strong enough. He felt the shield waver, deflecting darker and darker curses, and he knew it would collapse any moment.

“I yield,” Harry announced loudly.

Bellatrix cackled. “There is no yielding ickle baby Potter!”

Harry frowned. “What, is this a duel to the death?”

“It is not,” Voldemort called.

“You will live to feel my curses, and regret the disrespect you have shown!”

Harry scowled. “I’d really rather just forfeit now. You win.”

But Bellatrix didn’t stop. Another curse hit his shield, exploding it, and Bellatrix cackled. “Crucio!” she shrieked, and then all Harry knew was pain.

It may have lasted for a second or an eternity, but as soon as the curse lifted Harry knew he could not allow this duel to continue. Still blinded, and now shaky, he raised his hand in Bellatrix’s general direction and pulled with his Gift.

Bellatrix’s cackle turned into a scream. Still, Harry pulled, focusing his magic here and using finesse there, until finally his leg healed and his vision returned and the tremors from the crucio dissipated.

He stood and swept his hands briskly over his robes, swiping out the creases. He frowned down at the gash over his leg, where the cutting curse had healed. His skin was covered in drying blood though the wound underneath was healed, and the score in the fabric was ugly and stained.

“These were my favourite robes,” Harry said petulantly to the room at large, uncaring that he was pouting like a child. This sort of thing was why he didn’t like dueling! He scowled at Bellatrix.

She was crumpled on the dueling platform, two men Harry didn’t know hovering over her. “What did you do to my wife?” one man demanded. His voice was loud, but high and shaky with fear more than anger.

Harry shrugged, attention on his robes. What was the repairing spell again? “I tried to stop the duel. It’s not my fault she wanted to keep going.”

The men propped Bellatrix into a sitting position. She looked awful. She had aged decades, her previously smooth, glowing skin now wrinkled and spotted with age, her beautiful dark curls now grey and scraggly. Worst of all was her wand hand. It was a rotted husk, withered and decayed. As ugly as her hand was, it was in better shape than Bellatrix’s wand, now a pile of ash on the platform.

The room was silent other than Bellatrix’s miserable moans and the two men’s frantic healing and diagnostic spells, and Harry’s muttered charms. The gash in the fabric stubbornly refused to mend.

“I don’t recognize this! Is it a curse? What did you do to her?” the man demanded again.

Voldemort rose from the throne he had conjured near the middle of the platform and strode to Bellatrix, stopping a foot away from her and peering down at her moaning and shaking form with interest.

“Harry,” he called, motioning Harry over. Harry floated closer. Finally, some attention! “What have you done to my best duelist?”

“I drained her. With my Gift,” Harry said casually, though internally he was quite proud of what he’d done. He eyed Voldemort’s expression for clues – was he impressed?

“You have destroyed her wand and her wand hand. Tell me, Harry, how is my best duelist supposed to duel without a wand hand?”

Harry scowled. “She’s the one who wanted to duel!”

Voldemort inclined his head but his hairless brow crinkled and the corners of his lips turned down. Harry could tell he was displeased. Ugh! As if it was his fault! This day was the worst. Voldemort waved his wand over Bellatrix, casting diagnostic spells of his own.

It wasn’t fair! Why should Voldemort care so much about stupid Bellatrix when Harry was right here, doing amazing magic! He wanted to scream and stomp his foot, but that would hardly convince Voldemort that Harry was a suitable husband. He had to be mature. Ugh!

“I can reverse it,” Harry offered, begrudgingly. “Not the wand, but her hand at least. And I can probably give her back a decade or two of life, if you can spare enough bodies.”

Voldemort turned to face Harry, his attention leaving Bellatrix completely. Harry was grimly pleased. “You require bodies?”

“Live ones,” Harry specified.

“How many?”

Harry considered. “It’ll be a one-to-one trade if they’re magical, but if they’re muggles … probably three? Maybe four.”

“Go to the dungeons and select the appropriate bodies,” Voldemort demanded of the room at large, eyes not leaving Harry. A crack of apparition sounded. Harry and Voldemort stared at each other in silence, gazes caught. Voldemort’s eyes were so red. His lack of nose really accentuated them. Harry could stare at him forever. Bellatrix’s whimpers and moans were the only sound in the room. It was so romantic.

Another crack broke the silence, and Harry tore his eyes away from Voldemort to see that Barty had acquired four muggles. He dropped their unconscious forms on the dueling platform near Bellatrix.

Voldemort swept his hand magnanimously over the bodies, inviting Harry to begin. Harry knelt between Bellatrix and the bodies, putting one hand on Bellatrix and another on one of the muggles, a teenage girl. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and tried not to think about how Voldemort was watching. This was the perfect chance to impress him. He focused and let his Gift flare.

He pulled Life from the muggle and felt it flow into him, leaving nothing but Death in its wake. He pushed Life into Bellatrix, directing it to her rotting hand. It was hard work, and finicky, but Harry pulled and he pushed and slowly, the withered, rotted flesh became putrefied and then merely bloated. The muggle girl died, and Harry, without opening his eyes, reached for the next muggle. He pulled and pulled and pulled on the muggle’s life force and pushed it into Bellatrix. Her stiff and bloated hand reversed into fresh skin, fully alive again.

Harry exhaled and opened his eyes. Everyone was staring at him, but he only looked at Voldemort. “Do you want me to give her back the years I took?”

“If you can,” Voldemort said, voice neutral.

Harry took it as a challenge. He didn’t appreciate the lack of faith. He closed his eyes again and pulled. He drained what was left of the second muggle’s life force quickly, and moved onto the third, pulling and pulling and pulling, and pushing the life into Bellatrix. When the third muggle died he opened his eyes and looked at Bellatrix.

She had lost consciousness at some point, but her slack face looked younger and more beautiful than he’d ever seen it. Oops. “I think I overshot by a few years,” he said, with a giggle. He looked up at Voldemort and the movement of his head made him dizzy. The room was spinning and the lights were very bright. He closed his eyes again and swayed where he sat, reaching for the final muggle and draining some life into himself until he felt more steady.

The assembled Death Eaters were silent. Voldemort stared at Bellatrix, face blank but eyes intense, before he turned slowly to look at Harry. If he had eyebrows they surely would have been raised. Harry couldn’t look away.

“What the fuck, Harry?” Barty said, breaking the silence and tension in one go. “Since when can you heal?”

“Heal!?” Harry said, offended. “I never!”

“Well what do you call that?” Barty asked, gesturing at Bellatrix.

“Reverse killing,” Harry said, like it was obvious. Because it was.

Barty snorted, like Harry had told a funny joke. “Reverse killing? I’m pretty sure the opposite of killing is just healing.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Maybe, if you’re using light magic, but I’m just transferring energy from one source to another. Exchanging Death.”

“So you stole the muggles’ life force and gave it to Bellatrix?”

Harry nodded.

“You gave her too much, I reckon. She looks 15 years younger.”

“I doubt it’ll stay. The extra life force, I mean. She doesn’t have the capacity to keep it. I reckon it’ll fade out and she’ll be left at equilibrium, her natural age.”

Barty smiled. “Shame. I was hoping you could give me some life every now and then. Keep me young forever.”

“I would if I could,” Harry said earnestly, looking up at Barty from his place on the ground. “But so far I’ve only been able to keep the energy within myself.”

Barty paused, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally speaking. “You – so you can drain life force to manipulate your own life force.”

“Of course. That’s how I manage never sleeping, you know,” he said teasingly. He still felt a little giddy from absorbing the extra energy.

“Harry. Does this mean – are you functionally immortal?”

Harry frowned. “I suppose. I mean, there’s no reason for me to die of old age if I don’t want to, since I can easily keep myself young.”

Barty stared at him. Harry looked at Voldemort, who was also staring at him, gaze new levels of hot and intense. It was enough to make Harry blush and look away, only to realize the rest of the room was staring at him too.

He looked back to Barty. “Not that I’d do that, of course. Who would want to live forever? I already dream of joining Death. I miss the Veil so much.”

Voldemort glided forward, bare toes brushing against the fabric of Harry’s robes, pooled around his outstretched legs. Harry dragged his gaze up from Voldemort’s long, pale toes to the hand he’d stuck out in offer. Harry grasped it, holding back a gasp as his magic sung at the touch. Voldemort helped lever him to his feet wordlessly, standing strong as an anchor as Harry swayed, dizzy from the elevation change after sitting for so long.

“Come. You require Rest. You may retire in a private bedchamber,” Voldemort commanded, leading Harry out of the room, past the silent, staring Death Eaters.

Harry stepped over Bellatrix’s still form without a glance, eyes fixed on Voldemort’s handsome, skeletal profile. He didn’t really need rest, of course, having drained the muggle enough to restore his energy level, but like hell was he going to tell that to Voldemort and lose his attention.

Voldemort deposited Harry in the same room he’d slept in after travelling through the Veil. Harry undressed and collapsed into the soft bed, certain that he’d spend several hours replaying the look on Voldemort’s face after he’d seen Harry reverse kill instead of sleeping, but within a few minutes Harry drifted into a dreamless sleep.

When Harry awoke hours later it was dark. His robes had been cleaned and mended and Harry was about to put them back on before he realized he needed to bathe. He’d worked up quite a sweat dueling, and he still had dried blood crusted on his skin. He entered the attached bathroom and took a leisurely soak, trying to recall the name of the house elf he’d met. He couldn’t remember for the Death of him, so he resigned himself to wandering the halls looking for Voldemort.

It ended up being very easy. All he had to do was focus on Voldemort’s soul and let that guide him through the manor. Harry felt a bit silly for not thinking of it immediately, but he was entering Voldemort’s study within moments and had better things to think about.  

“Harry,” Voldemort said, looking up from the parchment he’d been writing on as soon as Harry appeared in the doorway. He looked so stately and imposing, sitting tall and proud at his ornate desk, king of his little kingdom.

“Hello Voldemort,” Harry said, a little breathily, floating into the room and settling into a chair in front of the desk. He paused as his bum hit the seat. “May I sit here?”

Voldemort’s lips twitched, revealing a sharp canine tooth. “I believe you’re supposed to ask permission prior to sitting.”

Harry blushed. Mother magic, he was such an idiot! “I’m sorry, Lord Voldemort, I –”

Voldemort waved his hand dismissively and Harry bit off the rest of his words. “Are you recovered from your earlier Exertions?”

Harry nodded eagerly, happy to move on from his faux-pas. “Oh, yes, entirely. I drained the muggle enough to recover my energies, anyway, and after resting for a while I’m quite restored.”

Voldemort said nothing, merely watching Harry with a steady, level gaze. Harry tried not to squirm under the attention, pleased and discomfited in almost equal measure, pleasure naturally winning out. “You do not Delight in dueling,” Voldemort said. It was not a question.

Harry considered his options. “While I naturally am most appreciative of the opportunity you’ve provided me to learn from Professor Snape,” Harry began, hedging as best he could. “And Professor Snape is an excellent mentor – well, he’s an excellent dueller. He’s actually rather terrible at teaching – and of course I understand the importance of being able to duel well –”

Voldemort began to look amused.

Harry was running out of ways to equivocate. He sighed. “Yeah, I don’t really like it. It’s a bit boring.”

“It seems the skill is somewhat superfluous given your Ability to destroy wands with your Gift,” Voldemort allowed. “You may cease your lessons with Severus, if you wish.”

“Really?” Harry said, perking up. “That’s great. Not that I don’t appreciate it! It’s just – well. Erm.” Harry coughed delicately and hoped Voldemort didn’t ask for clarification. He also hoped his face didn’t catch on fire with the force of his blush. Why was he like this!? Voldemort would never consider him husband material at this rate!

“You slept for some time. It is now evening. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat and he snapped his eyes up to meet Voldemort’s. Dinner? The two of them!? Like a date!?! “Oh, yes,” Harry said breathily. “I’d like nothing more.”

Voldemort smiled, thin lips curving into a predatory bow. Harry shivered. Was this really happening?

“Excellent. I’ve made reservations for the two of us at Le Trumilou, the finest French restaurant in Wizarding Britain.”

Harry’s heart sunk and his shoulders slumped. They were going out for dinner? Voldemort didn’t want to spend time with him privately?

“Ordinarily, one must make reservations months in advance, but naturally I was able to procure a table with little notice,” Voldemort continued, standing and gesturing Harry toward the floo. “Le Trumilou is perhaps my Favourite establishment. I believe you’ll quite like it.”

Harry nodded, trying to hide his misery. He should have expected this. Of course Voldemort merely wanted to eat at his favourite restaurant. Harry’s presence was irrelevant. He’d been foolish to hope for a private dinner. He hadn’t earned a date yet!

Harry’s displeasure lessened the moment they stepped through the floo. The restaurant was lovely, all brass furnishings and warm wood, dim lighting and small tables covered in pristine white tablecloths. A maître-de led them to a private table at the back. Harry was pleased to see that even if they weren’t having a real private dinner for two, at least they would be alone as it was possible to be in public. If Harry could ignore the other diners, he could pretend this was a real date!

As Harry reached his seat Voldemort materialized behind him, smoothly pulling out the chair and looking at Harry expectantly. Harry paused. Was Voldemort --? Surely not.

But he was, Harry realized with a sinking stomach. Voldemort had pulled out Harry’s chair to help him sit, as if Harry was an infant who couldn’t manage this most simple task on his own. He wanted to protest – he could seat himself just fine! He was a capable young man! But the maître de was watching and as informal as Harry was with Voldemort it wouldn’t do to start cursing the Dark Lord – especially since Voldemort would surely take that as proof that Harry really was still an impetuous child.

Harry sat in his chair and let Voldemort push it in. He tried his hardest not to cry. What did he have to do to make Voldemort look at him as an adult? He’d defeated Bellatrix this afternoon and demonstrated incredible magic and Voldemort still wasn’t showing interest! Harry felt so foolish, bitterness rising up in his chest as he recalled the moment in Voldemort’s study when he’d thought Voldemort was asking him on a dinner date. Here they were, in a fancy French restaurant, Voldemort helping him into his chair like an invalid or a child. It was as far from a romantic date as one could get.

It was enough to make Harry weep.

“Is the restaurant to your satisfaction?” Voldemort asked after he’d taken his seat and ordered a bottle of wine for the two of them to share.

Harry mustered a smile. “Yes. It looks lovely. I’m excited to see why it is your favourite.”

Voldemort looked pleased. The flame from the little candle on the table reflected in his eyes. It was hypnotizing.

“Tell me about the ability you demonstrated today. Reverse Killing.”

Harry complied, walking Voldemort through how he’d discovered the ability a few months ago as they ate escargot and fois gras appetizers.

When the mains appeared, Harry changed the subject. “What have you been up to since the summer?”

“I’ve introduced new regulations in the ministry governing creature rights and adjusted restrictions on the sale of enchanted items classified as grey-neutral to dark-leaning,” Voldemort said slowly before pausing, a sly look crossing his face. “But I suspect you don’t care about that.”

“Oh, no, that sounds great,” Harry said, trying to sound sincere. “Would you like to tell me more?”

Voldemort’s lips twitched. “I’ve also gotten in contact with a Sorceress from Albania I knew in my youth. She has expertise in Reanimation via moon-based enchantments.”

Harry straightened in genuine interest. “Reanimation?”

Voldemort smiled, small and smug. “I thought that might Interest you.”

They spoke about reanimation in one form or another for the rest of the meal, topics ranging from academic – magical rituals and theories, cutting edge experiments and possibilities -- to the ridiculous.

“If you could choose one being to reanimate, any creature or person, what would it be?” Harry asked.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes in thought for a long moment. “Typhon.”

Harry wracked his brain. “The giant half snake man-creature thing?”

Voldemort nodded.

“What would you do with it? Erm, him? It?”

“Him, I believe. I’d keep him as a pet, of sorts. A status symbol, but a weapon any time I Require mass destruction. He’d be Beautiful to behold in action.”

Harry nodded, impressed. “I was going to say I’d reanimate Morgana to have tea and talk magic with, but I think yours sounds better.”

They lingered over dessert. As disappointed as Harry was that Voldemort had taken him out in public, this was shaping up to be a lovely evening. He enjoyed any private time he could get with the Dark Lord, even if it wasn’t a date.

He dragged his feet as they walked to the floo. He didn’t want the night to end! “Thank you for taking me to dinner,” Harry said sweetly, looking up at Voldemort as they halted in front of the fireplace.

“Thank you for accompanying me. I trust the remainder of your sixth year will be Prosperous.”

Harry smiled. “I’m sure it will. And good luck to you with the vampire negotiations.” Harry paused. “Is their magic as Deathly as I assume it is?”

Voldemort nodded. “I imagine you will enjoy the Taste of it.”

“I do hope I’ll get a chance to meet one soon.”

“Negotiations should be Finalized by your summer holidays. I will Arrange something for you then.”

Harry beamed. “That’s so thoughtful! Thank you!”

Voldemort’s eyes gleamed. He took one of Harry’s hands in his, bending forward and bringing it to his lips. He brushed a cold, dry kiss over his knuckles. Harry’s breath caught in his throat and his knees went weak. “Until then, Harry Potter-Black.”

Harry said something, probably. A noise left his mouth at any rate, and it might have been words. If he was lucky it was an actual farewell, but Harry was too dazed to think much about it. He stumbled through the floo, face on fire, belly turning somersaults, and collapsed on the rug in front of the fireplace.

“Young Master is being coming back much later than he said!” Kreacher scolded.

Harry didn’t even hear. Voldemort had kissed him! His hand had felt Voldemort’s lips! Sure, it was some old person, chaste, unsexy kiss – but it was a kiss! No one had ever kissed Harry before! Unlike the pseudo-kiss in the graveyard when Harry returned Voldemort's soul to him, Voldemort had not only participated in this kiss, he'd initiated!

He wondered what it meant. Clearly it wasn’t romantic. Harry didn’t know anything about kissing or romance, but even he knew lovers kissed on the lips. Maybe this was a thing fathers did? It would match Voldemort pulling out his chair like he was a child. He'd have to ask Luna.

He floated off to bed, high on elation and determination. He hadn’t gotten the date he wanted, but Voldemort had shown interest in him and care for him. It was a start.

Chapter Text

Luna frowned at Harry thoughtfully, the cold January breeze tugging at her long blonde hair. “I have heard that taking someone out for dinner can be romantic.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked. “That doesn’t sound right. Why would you want to be around other people when you’re with someone you’re romantically interested in?” Or in general. Harry didn’t see the appeal of restaurants – sometimes the other patrons’ magic was gross enough to put him off his food.

“The girls in my dorm are always taking about how badly they want the boys to take them to Madam Pudifoot’s on a Hogsmeade weekend.”

“Do they mean it in a romantic way, though? Perhaps they simply don’t want to have to pay for their tea.”

Luna nodded. “You’re probably right.” She heaved a heavy sigh and patted Harry’s shoulder commiseratingly. Harry patted the thestral he was stroking, turning it into a little chain of affection. “I’m so sorry he isn’t interested in you yet, Harry. But it must be a good sign that he invited you for a private dinner, even if it wasn’t a date."

Harry nodded. He had been moping pathetically for weeks, the little pep talks he’d given himself that this was progress, even if it wasn’t really what he wanted, not sufficiently motivating to evaporate his dejection. “I just don’t know how to make him take me seriously. He says I don’t need to practice dueling with Snape anymore, which clearly means he was impressed by my ability to defend myself. But then he goes and pulls my chair out like I’m a child!

“And last week he sent me a rare manuscript on accessing the purgatorial plane and asked me to tell him my impressions, like he was giving me homework or something! I mean, obviously I was super excited to read the manuscript and it is fascinating material – completely wrong in several sections about how Death magic manifests in the Plane of the Living, but the theoretical implications about passing from Life to Death as a gradient are truly thought provoking – but the point stands!”

Luna chewed her lip. “Maybe you could show him you’re an eligible bachelor by dating someone else? So that way he sees that you’re mature enough for it and ready.”

“But if I date someone else, won’t that mean I’m not a bachelor anymore?”

“Well, I suppose so, but once you stop dating them you’ll be a bachelor again.”

Harry thought it over, and exhaled heavily, warmth breath clouding into a white fog in front of him. “That’s quite clever, actually, only I don’t like anyone else enough to date them. You and Barty are the only humans I like, aside from Voldemort, obviously. Unless – Luna, would you date me?”

“Oh, I’m so flattered you thought of me! And I really like you too, Harry! But no, I don’t want to date you,” she said serenely, beatific smile on her face.

“Drat,” Harry said. “Though I suppose that makes sense since I don’t want to date you either.”

“Perhaps Barty would be amenable?”

“I’ll ask him. Now, tell me about those gremlarks you found over the holiday.”

Barty was not amenable.

In fact, he seemed rather horrified that Harry was asking, though he took pains to explain to Harry that he was a nice young chap, only Barty wasn’t interested in dating at all, and he hoped Harry wouldn’t take it too hard and that their friendship would survive. He also remarked that this request was a bit surprising since last he’d heard Harry was quite taken with Voldemort.

Harry explained that he was still absolutely taken with Voldemort and his entire desire to date Barty was predicate on his desire to demonstrate to Voldemort that he was a romantic option.

Barty didn’t respond for two weeks, and his return letter was only a few lines: “I can’t decide whether that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, or the most genius. Either way, I don’t want to be involved since it will probably end in flames. Good luck!”

Harry was a bit disappointed in the response. He’d been hoping that his explanation would sway Barty to agree, but alas. He was back at square one.

Poorly as his plans to seduce Voldemort were developing, his newest passion project was coming along swimmingly, aided by the manuscript Voldemort had sent. He’d progressed far enough that he felt ready to pursue an experiment. Because Harry was a responsible horcrux-host now, he arranged to meet Voldemort first.

He’d requested a meeting, and once Voldemort agreed he floated through Hogwarts’ wards one foggy Sunday in late March to floo to Voldemort’s side. He took the damp and dreary weather as a good omen, and arrived at the meeting full of nervous anticipation, wearing his best casual robes.

He was escorted into Voldemort’s office by a meek house elf, though he didn’t need the guide. Voldemort’s magic was pulsating through the halls, strong enough to pull Harry like a tether to man himself.

“Harry Potter-Black,” Voldemort greeted, standing from his desk chair as Harry entered the room.

“Good afternoon, Voldemort,” Harry said sweetly, floating into the room. “Your magic is particularly lovely today. Did you kill someone this morning?”

 “How kind of you to say. Yes, I executed a wizard after breakfast. It’s my favourite way to start the day,” Voldemort said with a smile, the tips of his fangs flashing. Harry’s heart skipped a beat at the sight. “I don’t suppose you’ve had the chance to do similarly whilst at Hogwarts?”

“No. I haven’t killed anyone since Yule, when I drained those muggles to reverse-kill Bellatrix.” Harry perched on a chair in front of Voldemort’s desk. “I’ve even stopped draining my dormmates as often, you know. One of them was developing heart problems. They’ve been so useful to me over the years, it seemed improper to reward their aid with an unwanted Death.”

Voldemort nodded approvingly. “A wise Lord rewards his Faithful Servants for their Service.”

Harry didn’t really consider his dormmates his servants, but he wasn’t going to dispute Voldemort calling him wise.

“Your dormmates,” Voldemort continued. “Are any of them Suitable candidates for recruitment to our Cause?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “None of them have very interesting magic, so I assume not.”

“Are any of them from Good Families?”

“Um,” Harry floundered. He tried desperately to recall a single fact about any of his dormmates. “Well. One of them is named Furry Boot.”

Voldemort blinked slowly. “Furry Boot.”

“Yes. I think.”

“I do not believe Furry is a common wizarding name, yet the Boots are an old family.”

Ah bugger, maybe his name wasn’t Furry. Ferry? Berry? Terry? Harry tried to quell his rising blush. “Perhaps it’s a nickname? I think another one is a muggleborn. I confess I can’t recall anything about the other ones.”

Voldemort blinked slowly at him again. “You do not know the Names of your dormmates, whom you have lived beside for six years and whom you have drained of Lifeforce just as long.”

Harry lost the war against his blush. He could sense the heat emanating from his cheeks. “Surely that’s not so unusual,” he protested.

Voldemort’s lip quirked. “I knew the Name of every student at Hogwarts whilst I was there, and knew Incriminating Details of the personal lives of at least of quarter of them by the time I graduated.

Harry couldn’t keep a look of horror off his face. “Why on magic would you want to do that?”

“It was necessary Leverage to Control the student populace.”

“Seems unnecessarily complicated when you could have just –” Harry flared his Death magic in demonstration.

Voldemort’s lip quirked again. “While I certainly could have overpowered any of them magically, it wouldn’t have been Politically Tenable. I entered Hogwarts as a poor, Nameless mudblood, and though I had proven my Slytherin Ancestry as well as my Magical Superiority by the time I graduated, it behoved me to use more subtle means of Controlling wayward students. Blackmail is really quite Effective, you know.”

Harry didn’t know. “I’ve never thought about you at Hogwarts. I suppose I just assumed you’ve been Dark Lording since birth. Silly of me, really, but it’s hard to imagine you as anything else.”

“I do not encourage Consideration of my origins for most. In fact, what I have told you is little known, and I Trust it will stay between us.”

A bolt of victory flashed through Harry’s chest and he sat straighter. “Of course. Were you human, when you were at Hogwarts?”

“I was. I did not fully shed my Humanity until decades past my graduation.”

“Oh,” Harry said in surprise. “Was it the horcruxes? You looked frightfully human after I returned the first to you, but you’re much more inhuman now. Did you make another horcrux?”

Voldemort inclined his head and stared at Harry intently, like he was examining a bug under a magnifying charm. Harry’s magic started to wiggle and pulse under the scrutiny. After a moment Voldemort spoke. “The horcruxes started my journey beyond the Land of the Living, as my first step toward Immortality. However, it was various rituals that lead to my current appearance.”

Harry elected to ignore the bit about immortality, because as awful as the idea seemed to him, Voldemort appeared to feel strongly about it. “Oh, right. Well, the snakey-look suits you much better,” Harry said, not giving any indication that he thought Voldemort was the most attractive creature in the entire world and he regularly fantasized about impaling himself on Voldemort’s cock. Harry was acting so normal right now. He wanted to tell someone so they could congratulate him.

Voldemort inclined his head, taking the compliment as his due. “But you requested a Meeting for a Reason, I assume,” Voldemort said.

“Yes,” Harry said, straightening up and launching into an explanation. “… and so I’m fairly certain if I apply Thalemous’ principles of transubstantiation in conjunction with Eurodamicus’ conception of liquidity regarding the Life to Death continuum I’ll be able to travel to the Deathly plane and back again without the aid of the Vail. Isn’t that exciting?”

Voldemort did not look excited, but Harry didn’t let that deter him. Perhaps Voldemort was too caught up in reviewing the theoretical nuances to embrace the exciting possibilities of visiting Death.

“Anyhow, just in case it doesn’t work like I think it will I would like to temporarily remove your horcrux for safekeeping. I’ll take it back once I’ve returned to the Land of the Living, of course.”

Harry waited for praise, either directed at his brilliance (for figuring out how to safely die) or his thoughtfulness (for taking steps to keep Voldemort’s horcrux safe). Truthfully, he was hoping to be praised for both and had even practiced his modest face in the mirror.

He was not prepared for Voldemort’s eyes to narrow into displeased slits and his magic to fill the room in angry crackles. “Absolutely Not,” Voldemort pronounced.

Harry blinked rapidly, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“You may not pass into the Deathly Plane. I Forbid it.”

Harry was stumped. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had forbidden him to do anything. It was a novel experience, and he couldn’t say he liked it. Heat rose to his cheeks and his brow crinkled angrily, face muscles twisting into an expression he hadn’t worn in years. “I don’t believe you can forbid me to do anything.”

“The risk is too Great and the reward too little. Your experiment is too Risky to Allow.”

“The theoretical principles guiding this experiment are perfectly sound!”

Voldemort’s slotted nostrils flared. “Irrelevant! The lack of safeguards is irresponsible. What should happen if you pass into the Deathly Plane and can’t Return?”

Harry’s shoulders were too stiff to shrug, so he waved his hands dismissively. “Then I’ll stay in the Deathly Plane, and your horcrux will be safe here. There’s no downside!”

Voldemort’s magic spasmed, cracking a window and sending glass tinkling to the floor. “No downside!? Preposterous! Of all the reckless, outrageous — No. Absolutely not. I require your presence for my Future plans. You may not Endanger yourself so.”

Harry was so irate he couldn’t even be pleased Voldemort was relying on him. “I came here as a courtesy, not to ask your permission. I thought you might even like to be the one to send me to the Deathly Plane, but I suppose that was naive,” Harry huffed.

“I have already told you that I will not Kill you.”

“It wouldn’t be permanent!”

“You cannot know that!” Voldemort shouted, slamming his hands on the desk.

Harry leapt to his feet and stalked toward the fireplace, hurt and outrage swimming through his chest like poison.

“We are not Finished here!” Voldemort shouted after him, sending a red jet of crackling magic at Harry’s back.

Harry swatted the spell away without breaking stride. “I have nothing more to say to you if you’re going to be so unreasonable. So incurious! I thought better of you.” Harry grabbed a handful of floo powder and threw it into the flames, but before he could step into them Voldemort caught his wrist.

“Do not Attempt this,” he hissed, looming over Harry menacingly.

Harry tried to wrench his wrist away but Voldemort’s grip was bruising tight. Harry flared his Gift and rotted Voldemort’s hand until the Dark Lord jerked his arm back with a shout.

Harry stepped into the flame without a backward glance and whirled away, stomping back to Hogwarts as soon as he stepped through the pub’s fireplace. He made it all the way to the castle gates before his temper cooled enough for regret to seep in.

He huffed a heavy breath and turned around, stomping back to the pub and into the fireplace, stumbling through to Voldemort’s office with a magnificent pout on his face.

Voldemort stood from his chair as soon as Harry entered the room, but Harry raised his hand warningly before he could speak.

“I’m still mad at you!” Harry said. “But let me fix your hand.”

Voldemort glided out from behind the desk toward Harry, bare feet slipping soundlessly over the wooden floor.

Harry glanced down quickly before jerking his eyes away from Voldemort’s beautiful long toes, unwilling to let the arousing sight chip away at his righteous indignation. Voldemort placed his rotted hand in Harry’s, narrowed eyes fixed on Harry and magic still swirling in agitation.

Harry ignored the look and the magic, focusing on reversing the rot. He pushed and pulled and stopped only once Voldemort’s hand looked good as new and Harry’s resources were depleted, his own figure aged and magic weak.

“You have Harmed yourself to Heal me,” Voldemort said, newly fixed hand gripping Harry’s fingers tightly.

Harry scowled and ripped his hand away. “It’s not healing! And it’s not any of your concern.” And it wasn’t, really. Harry was depleted now but he merely had to sit in the Great Hall for an hour and drain unsuspecting students around him until he felt better again. “And unless you’re going to apologize for not believing in my experiment I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

He looked up at Voldemort challengingly, and not seeing an apology forthcoming he huffed angrily. “That’s what I thought.” He reached for the floo powder again and prepared to leave.

“Harry,” Voldemort interrupted before Harry could disappear. Harry stilled but didn’t turn to face him. “You have my Gratitude for seeing to my injury.”

“Yes, well. It’s not like I could just leave you like that,” Harry sniffed, walking through the floo before he said anything else, like “why don’t you trust me to experiment with Death?” or “please could I bite your little toe?”

This meeting with Voldemort had gone worse than Harry had imagined possible and he was most displeased. What he was not, however, was dissuaded from attempting his experiment. He’d just have to keep Voldemort in the dark until he returned from the Deathly Plane successfully.

Harry met with Barty a few weekends later, to drop off the temporarily relocated horcrux with strict instructions to deliver the parcel to Voldemort if Harry wasn’t back to collect it by Monday.

Barty looked at the box suspiciously. “What on magic is in here? I’ve never felt something so Dark.” Barty squinted at Harry suspiciously. “It’s not a courting gift, is it? I told you, I don’t want to be involved in your seduction.”

Harry smiled despite himself. “It’s not a courting gift. I’m mad at Voldemort right now. He doesn’t deserve a gift.”

Barty raised his brows. “Do I even want to know?”

“He doesn’t want me to die! He forbid it! Can you believe his nerve?”

Barty squinted at Harry and said dryly, “How dare he try to keep you alive.”

“Right!? As if he’s my father or something, trying to control my life.” He’d asked Luna a bit more about fathers and that sounded like the sort of thing they did. Harry had never been more pleased to be an orphan.

“And how did this come up in conversation?” Barty asked shrewdly.

“Oh. Did I not tell you? I’m going to kill myself.”

It took several minutes for Harry to get a word in edgewise to explain his experiment, Barty’s swearing louder and more verbose than Harry had ever heard previously.

Surprisingly, Barty also refused to kill Harry, so he settled for doing it the old fashioned way, closing himself off in a room in Grimauld Place with a cursed amulet after leaving the horcrux with Barty.

Harry’s experiment worked perfectly, as he knew it would. He spent several blissful hours in the Deathly Plane, conversing with the Voices and luxuriating in the wonderful stench of decay.

He returned to the Land of the Living disoriented, and not just because it was pitch dark outside when it had been mid-morning when he’d closed his eyes. It seemed time passed more slowly in other Planes.

Harry tried to rise from the bed but the effects of the cursed amulet hadn’t left his body despite the fact he’d managed to come back to life. How inconvenient. He’d have to keep that in mind when killing himself in the future. This was yet another reason the killing curse was the best option: it was the only way to die that left no physical damage to overcome.

Harry spent 90 fruitless seconds trying to reverse the curse damage on his own before giving it up as a bad job. He staggered out of bed and into the street, breaking into a neighbouring house and draining the elderly couple that lived there of Life in order to rid himself of the curse damage.

Feeling much better, he flooed over to Barty, immediately reabsorbed the horcrux, and reassured his friend that, yes, he had died, but he was feeling really quite excellent now. He then went back to Hogwarts and slept for 16 hours straight.

At the first opportunity he sent Voldemort a rather snotty letter, crowing about his success and bragging about what a lovely time he’d had in the Deathly Plane.

Voldemort did not respond.

Harry told himself he did not care, and Luna was too kind to point out that Harry’s sadness kept Ravenclaw tower freezing cold despite the arrival of a warm summer.

Voldemort invited Harry to attend his Summer Solstice Soiree, a few days before the end of term. Despite Harry’s lingering irritation and hurt, he didn’t even consider not attending. He ordered a new dress robe – silver and dark purple – and snuck out of the castle.

Voldemort’s manor was bustling with people, magic Dark and heady filling the air. Harry tried not to be impressed, but Voldemort had inferi serving drinks through the crowd and it was truly the most charming thing he’d ever seen. He immediately sensed Voldemort’s beautiful magic emanating from one end of the ballroom, and so headed in the opposite direction.

He was worried about what Voldemort would say to him – or, even worse, worried Voldemort was so mad at him he’d avoid Harry completely – and so Harry resolved to put off all interaction as long as possible. He found Barty and stuck to his side, making idle conversation and examining the passing inferi with interest.

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck began to prickle, and then stand on end. Voldemort was moving closer. Harry’s shoulders stiffened, and with great effort he refrained from turning to look.

“Nephew Necromancer!” a high voice called, followed by a cackle.

Barty grimaced before pasting on a smile. “Hello, Bellatrix.”

Harry turned to greet her, dismayed but not surprised to see Voldemort at her side. “Bellatrix. Aunt Bellatrix?” Harry swallowed with difficulty. “And Lord Voldemort. What a pleasure to see you both.”

“Yes, yes, Aunty Bellatrix to you, little necromancer nephew. I’ve got a new wand, see?” She pulled out a long wand, the wood rigid and pitch black. She waved it under Harry’s nose before jerking it back and clutching it to her chest. “But not for you to touch! I’ll forgive you once for ruining my wand, but not twice!” She said, a mad grin twitching on her face.

She looked manic and insane and utterly beautiful. Harry hoped he looked half that crazy when he smiled. “It’s a lovely wand,” he said, sending out a little tendril of his Gift to get a sense of it. “Is that thestral heart as a core?”

She cackled. “It is! It is! Such a clever necromancer you are, Heir to the House of Black!”

Harry smiled and made to reply, but Voldemort cut him off. “You are looking Well, Harry.”

Harry’s smile froze on his face, and he turned minutely to look Voldemort in the eye. “Thank you,” Harry said stiffly.

“No side effects from your adventures to the Deathly Plane, I see.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and he scowled. “None. As I told you there wouldn’t be.”

“Congratulations on a Successful experiment.”

“Thank you,” Harry repeated. “I believe –” A new scent caught his attention and he trailed to a halt mid-sentence, inhaling deeply and flaring his magic curiously. “What on magic is that?” Harry asked dazedly. “It’s the most glorious thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Harry walked away without a second thought, following the trail helplessly, not evening hearing the voices calling his name. He weaved through the crowd until he found the source of his fascination, a tall, pale man who tasted of Death.

“Who are you?” Harry asked, enraptured.

The man turned to Harry, neutral expression sliding into a smile upon seeing the beautiful face of the young man speaking to him. “My name is Vladimir,” he said, offering his hand to Harry. Harry placed his palm in his, shuddering when their skin met. “And you are?”

“I’m Harry.”

Vladimir brought Harry’s knuckles to his lips and brushed a cool, dry kiss against his skin. “A pleasure.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Harry demurred, floating inches above the ground in his ecstasy. “Your magic is so delicious. It called to me all the way across the Hall.”

Vladimir smiled. He still hadn’t released Harry’s hand. “Thank you. Have you never met a vampire before?”

“A vampire,” Harry repeated. “I suppose that explains why you taste of Death. You’re the first I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering.”

Vladimir’s smile turned lecherous, and he squeezed Harry’s fingers lightly. “I am delighted to be your first. Could I entice you to dance with me?”

“I would love to, but I’m afraid I don’t know how,” Harry said, dismayed to think his lack of knowledge might end their wonderous acquaintance prematurely.

“That is easily remedied, if you’ll allow me to show you?”

“Oh, please do,” Harry answered breathlessly, allowing Vladimir to sweep him onto the dance floor. It was mostly empty as the night had only just begun, and they had plenty of room to glide and twirl and few bodies to block the sight of their swaying figures from the curious and judgemental gazes of the other guests.

Harry didn’t feel the eyes on them, focused as he was on Vladimir. He coached Harry through a simple box step, which Harry mastered well enough to be getting on with. It helped that Harry stayed floating several inches off the ground, thus making stepping on toes impossible. Vladimir more or less moved Harry where he pleased, and Harry did his best to float lightly. It might not have been traditional dancing, but it was very fun.

After several songs, once Harry was familiar enough with the steps to dance and talk at the same time, Vladimir spoke. “It has been long centuries since I have met a natural necromancer, and I have never met one as strong as you.”

Harry preened. “Of, you’re too kind to say.”

“There is nothing kind about it,” Vladimir said, sending Harry into a fast spin before reeling him back into the cage of his arms. “Tell me, are you tied to England?”

“Well, I do have one year of school left.”

Vladimir smiled. “And after that? Have you, for example, a betrothed to keep you here?”

Harry’s gut flipped and he instinctively glanced toward Voldemort, whom he couldn’t lose track of if he tried. To Harry’s immense surprise, Voldemort was looking back at him and their eyes locked for several electric moments before Vladimir spun Harry again.

“Not officially,” Harry answered belatedly.

“Ah,” Vladimir said. “Your heart has been captured.”

Harry sighed heavily. “Yes.”

“And yet you do not sound happy about it. Tell me, how does a beautiful, powerful young necromancer have trouble in love?”

“He doesn’t like me back,” Harry said, neutrally as he could. “I think he sees me as a child.”

“Your beloved must be a fool, then, for I have lived for centuries and can easily see that you are an ideal mate.”

Harry smiled. “You’re sweet to say that. I wish he could see the same.”

Vladimir twirled Harry again, and then pulled him in close, until their faces were a mere breath apart. “Perhaps if your beloved does not realize the treasure he has in front of him you should look elsewhere. I would show you my Castle in Bavaria, where the forests crawl with dementors and the moat is filled with inferi.”

Harry sighed wistfully, far from unmoved by Vladimir’s romanticism but also far from swayed. “That sounds lovely, but I’m not ready to give up on him yet.”

Vladimir smiled, his fangs glinting seductively in the candlelight. “In that case, perhaps –”

“If I might cut in?” Voldemort asked. Harry froze, and Vladimir stepped back easily.

“We will continue this later,” Vladimir said, kissing Harry’s knuckles again before releasing his hand.

“I look forward to it,” Harry said, and meant it, even though his eyes were locked on Voldemort’s.

Voldemort swept Harry up into a dance, Harry floating along easily.

“I didn’t know you danced,” Harry said. He’d never seen Voldemort do so, at any of the parties he’d thrown before.

“I was not aware you did either.”

“I never have, before. Vladimir only just taught me how.”

“Vladimir,” Voldemort said, voice chilly and nostrils flaring. “It seems that you have become well Acquainted with the Count already.”

“He’s quite lovely,” Harry said, a shiver running up his spine at the delightful feel of Voldemort’s magic rubbing up against his own. “Is he one of the vampires you were negotiating with earlier in the year?”

“He is,” Voldemort said, in a tone that brooked no further questions. Since Harry didn’t really care about the negotiations, he had no further questions to ask anyway.

“I am aware that you are Angry with me for my response to your planned Experiment,” Voldemort said after a momentary silence.

Harry said nothing, but allowed his coldest Death magic to snap out and pinch Voldemort’s magic in response.

“And it seems my Concerns were for naught, as your Experiment succeeded brilliantly,” Voldemort continued placidly, spinning Harry into a dip that left him breathless.

Harry harumphed, and tried not to smile with enjoyment as Voldemort spun him again. “Is this an apology?”

Voldemort stayed silent for a long moment before answering. “Yes.”

Harry huffed a laugh. He didn’t know much about apologies, but this didn’t seem like a very good one. Still, it was more than he expected, and he softened immediately, smiling up at Voldemort to show his forgiveness.

Voldemort smiled back, thin lips peeling up and his fangs poking out.

Harry held in a besotted sigh at the sight, marshalling his thoughts with every ounce of fortitude he had. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t trust my experiment in the first place. I know I’m young, but I know what I’m going with Death magic.”

Voldemort frowned thoughtfully, fangs tucked away. “It is not a matter of Trust. Rather, it is a matter of Risk. Can you not understand why I would not wish for you to Die?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Not really.”

Voldemort huffed a soft laugh. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”

“Not that it matters, really. I don’t have to die permanently unless I want to.”

Voldemort’s arms tightened around Harry. “Yes,” he hissed. “And do you wish to?”

“What, die? Like, ever?”

“Do you wish to Die permanently?”

“Oh,” Harry said, taking a moment to think it over. “Eventually, I suppose, but not anytime soon. Once I get bored of Living, I suppose. But there’s no real rush, anyway, since I think I can stay dead as long as I like and still return, as long as I have a body to return to.”

Voldemort twirled Harry and brought him back into his arms, dancing several long measures in silence before speaking again. “I would ask that next time you travel to the Deathly Plane you leave your body under my care. I will ensure no harm comes to it.”

Harry flushed with pleasure. “Certainly.” He battled with himself for a moment before his mouth moved without his full permission. “Would you be willing to kill me next time?”

Voldemort shot Harry a chiding look, but before he could say no Harry kept speaking. “The killing curse really is the best option! Last time I used an amulet with a heart withering curse, and even though I lived through it I still had to fix the physical damage. The killing curse is really the only way to die that won’t leave damage I later need to fix.”

Voldemort huffed softly again, and his lips quirked. “It seems you’ll get your wish after all, then.”

Harry brightened, floating several inches higher so that he was eye level with Voldemort. “You’ll do it? Really?"

“Yes. I must say this is a novel experience. Usually people beg me not to kill them. You truly are one of a kind.”

Harry beamed. Voldemort was going to kill him! And then keep his corpse! The thought sent heat racing through his entire body. Such intimacy! He could scarcely believe Voldemort was allowing him the pleasure. He hoped he didn’t awaken from his Deathly journey with an erection. If he did maybe he could blame it on the magical journey through the Planes, rather than on his sexual response to Voldemort’s Death magic.

“Count Vladimir may be a powerful vampire, but he has no other magic to speak of. The Vampiric curse withers all innate magic,” Voldemort said.

Harry’s mind stuttered with conversational whiplash. It took him a moment to switch tracks from fantasies of Voldemort killing him to remember who Vladimir even was. “Oh, that’s … too bad?” Harry said on autopilot, before truly parsing what Voldemort had said. “Wait, why do you call it a curse? Surely vampirism is a gift. Did you not taste how wonderful his magic is?”

Voldemort scowled. “What magic there is,” he said snippily. “He could never hope to Achieve the Feats of Magic I have."

Harry had no idea how to respond to that. He hadn’t been aware it was a competition. Fortunately, the song ended and an old woman approached Voldemort for a dance.

“No, thank you. I do not dance,” Voldemort said, to Harry and the old woman’s confusion. Voldemort bowed to Harry and strode off the dance floor, supplicants immediately surrounding him.

Harry watched him go, releasing a lovelorn sigh. Vladimir popped up at Harry’s elbow, grabbing his hand and immediately spinning him into another dance.

“I did not realize your beloved was the Dark Lord,” Vladimir said, voice a hushed whisper next to Harry’s ear.

Harry felt his cheeks colour. “Is it that obvious?”

Vladimir smiled widely, eyes crinkling in the corners. “You make a lovely, Deathly pair.”

Harry beamed. “Thank you,” he said, and then because he could hardly contain his excitement, said, “Voldemort agreed to kill me!”

Vladimir paused a beat. “Congratulations?”

“Thank you! I’ve been trying to get him to agree for so long.” Harry bit his lip but he couldn’t contain his giddy pleasure. “I think this means he’s starting to like me. Like, like me like me. Like, romantically. And sexually.”

Vladimir looked bemused. “Perhaps courting protocols have changed since I was a youth.”

“When was that?”

“Roughly 400 years ago. Murder was certainly not how I wooed my paramours.”

Harry patted Vladimir’s arm consolingly. “Well, there’s no reason you can’t start seducing people with murder now.”

“I will take that under advisement.”

Harry and Vladimir danced the night away, and by the time the Ball ended they were friends in truth. Vladimir extended an open invitation to Harry, welcoming him to his Bavarian Castle at any time. Harry promised to visit over the summer.

He flooed back to Grimmauld Place on his own, minutes before the sun started to creep over the horizon, and collapsed into his bed, flush with the pleasure of success.

Chapter Text

Harry was not beholden to a regular daily schedule, and thus he thought nothing of eating a leisurely breakfast in his silky little nightdress, long hair unbound and tumbling down his back, at 11 o’clock in the morning. Morning and afternoon were only vague concepts for Harry since he rarely slept. The previous night he’d drained a muggle of energy at the park across the road, taking enough to get him easily through the night and still feel refreshed in the morning. He then spent hours and hours in wonderous mediation, exploring his waking connection to the Deathly plane.

Kreacher popped into the dining room while Harry was chewing an overlarge mouthful of eggs. “Master is having a guest.”

“Who is it?” Harry asked around his half-masticated bounty.

“The Dark Lord is calling for the young master.”

Harry gasped, promptly inhaling half his food, and began coughing violently. Voldemort was here!? Harry’s elation immediately turned to dread – Voldemort never arrived without calling. Something must be wrong.

He sprinted into the receiving room, breakfast abandoned, Kreacher yelling something unintelligible behind him. Harry bounced off the door frame and staggered into the room, stumbling up to Voldemort’s tall, imposing form standing in front of the window.

“Voldemort!” Harry panted. “What’s wrong?”

Voldemort watched him steadily, silent for a moment as his eyes scanned Harry from head to toes. “What has you so Distressed?”

“Me? What? No, what’s wrong with you? Why are you here?”

Voldemort raised his hairless brows. “I have come to Call on you. I would like to invite you to visit my manor on Saturday.”

“That’s it? I mean, oh! That’s great! I thought…” He put a hand over his racing heart, which was finally starting to calm as he realized he’d misinterpreted. His fingers met bare skin and he looked down, realizing he was absolutely scandalously dressed. It was bad enough he was still in his bedclothes, but worse that he was in this particular nightdress, short and silky as it was, with a plunging neckline and delicate, lacy short sleeves. He’d found it in the same wardrobe he'd found his other nightdress in, which presumably belonged to a former daughter of the House of Black who was rather whorish.

Harry flushed and glanced up at Voldemort. Voldemort’s eyes were glued to his legs, red gaze hot and intense in a way Harry had never seen before and never wanted to stop seeing. “That is, you’ve never called on me before. I thought something must be wrong, perhaps with your horcruxes.”

“You’re concern speaks Well of you,” Voldemort said, finally dragging his eyes slowly up from Harry’s legs, pausing for a moment on Harry’s bare chest, before meeting his gaze.

Harry bit his lower lip as their eyes met. “Please forgive my attire,” Harry said breathlessly. “I was so concerned I didn’t stop for a moment to consider the impropriety.” Not that Harry cared about impropriety, but Voldemort might. And if he secretly hoped to draw a bit more attention to his skimpy outfit? Well, Harry wasn’t body shy, and he was starting to think that Voldemort might like his legs.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Voldemort said, still staring into Harry’s eyes.

Harry’s skin was prickling under the attention, heart racing in excitement, nipples pebbling tight and hard. “You wanted to invite me somewhere?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said, blinking rapidly and straightening. “I would be Pleased to host you at my manor on Saturday, for lunch.”

“I’d be delighted,” he agreed eagerly before asking sweetly, “Would you like some tea? It’s the least I can offer, since you came all the way here.”

“Alas, I have Business I must attend to,” Voldemort said lowly, sweeping his eyes over Harry’s bare skin once more.

Harry felt the look like a caress. He shivered and looked up through his lashes, pulling his long hair over one shoulder. “A shame. I look forward to Saturday, though.”

Voldemort smiled thinly, his fangs peeking out. Harry wanted to prick his finger against them to test their sharpness, run his tongue against them until it started to bleed and then share the sweet coppery liquid between them. “I look forward to it as well,” Voldemort answered, catching Harry’s hand in his and drawing it to his lips to brush a soft kiss over the knuckles.

Harry swooned.

“Until Saturday,” Voldemort said, stepping back and then spinning on the spot. He apparated silently, leaving Harry alone with his burbling joy.

He staggered back until he felt an armchair at his knees, and then collapsed. He looked down at his bare legs in awe. Surely Voldemort’s fascination with them meant something, right? Harry might not know much, but he knew that at least. Voldemort looked at Harry’s legs the way Harry looked at Voldemort’s feet, and fangs, and neck.

Voldemort wanted to fuck him.

Voldemort wanted to fuck him!

It was less than Harry wanted and more than he had feared he would get. He was endlessly grateful to the Black harlot who had left a trunk of scandalous nightclothes. He’d have to see if she had anything else he could wear. Then, he had to figure out how he could turn Voldemort’s interest into something tangible.

Harry scoured the attic and unearthed another trunk of clothing from the same owner, the late Marguerite Black. Unfortunately, the day robes didn’t suit him. His chest was too small to fill out the low-cut tops, which was a shame. The dresses were lovely, and he was particularly fond of a black lacy number with a silk-lined, boned bodice and long, flowing sleeves. He found a book in the Black library on human transfiguration and turned his flat chest into something a bit bigger, adjusting his new breasts and the dress’ top until it fit perfectly.

He examined himself in the mirror and exhaled a low, delighted sigh. He looked lovely with small breasts, the dress’ low cut bodice accentuating the gentle curves. He twirled in front of the mirror, enjoying the flare of the skirts, and jumped up and down to watch his little tits jiggle. Oh, how he enjoyed this ensemble! He wore it for the rest of the day, luxuriating in his new fashion, but ultimately decided not to wear it to Voldemort’s lunch. He didn’t know if Voldemort liked breasts, and he was at a delicate stage in his seduction. He couldn’t afford any errors.  

He decided to wear a short cloak and tight-fitting trousers that showed off his slim legs. The outfit looked great but felt odd. He hadn’t worn trousers since he’d lived with the Dursleys. He preferred traditional long wizard robes because they were much prettier as well as being more comfortable. Regardless, he could wear trousers for the sake of his seduction. It was a small price to pay if his plan actually worked.

He flooed to Voldemort’s at noon and managed to keep his balance coming out of the fireplace. Voldemort was waiting for him and immediately swept him off to tour the manor. Harry didn’t know why – he’d seen half the manor already during his various visits – but he didn’t object. As long as Voldemort was with him, paying him personal attention, he didn’t care what they did.

Voldemort showed him the library, pointing out many rare Death magic tomes, and the dungeons, currently empty but saturated with Death, before taking Harry outside to the gardens.

“I keep a garden of common potion ingredients growing year round,” Voldemort said, gesturing broadly at the myriad plants and herbs neatly organized in lush garden beds. Harry carefully kept his hands to himself. “But I imagine you will find this portion of the garden more interesting.”

Voldemort led him through a small wooden gate into a courtyard lined with riotous flowers in every colour. Harry, being far from proficient in herbology, took a moment to realize what he was seeing. “Lily of the Valley … oleander? … foxglove … belladonna. Is this a garden of poison?”

“I call it my Garden of Death. Admittedly, I rarely use the flowers here – there are other, far more Satisfying ways to kill someone than poisoning – but I find the atmosphere Soothing.”

Harry smiled. “It’s lovely!” Still a bit too lively for his tastes, but as far as growing things went he did feel some connection with these plants. He leaned in to smell a beautiful amaryllis, but as soon as his nose touched a petal the entire cluster withered and died, red turning grey, lush leaves drying and stiffening. Harry jerked back and flushed. “Oops. Growing things don’t tend to like me,” he explained apologetically.

“As is only Natural,” Voldemort said seriously. “Your Gift has elevated the Living, transmuting it into its final form.” He plucked one of the dead flowers and tucked it behind Harry’s ear, the stem nestling into his hair. “Beautiful.”

Harry flushed and beamed and floated a few inches off the ground. He couldn’t find a single thing to say but Voldemort didn’t seem to mind. They stared at each other for several long moments before a house elf arrived with a pop to inform them lunch was being served.

Voldemort escorted Harry to the dining hall, Harry floating in raptures beside him until they entered the room. His spirits sunk and his feet hit the ground when he saw four figures sitting at the table. It was not a private lunch. Did that mean the outing wasn’t a date? But Voldemort had given him a flower and called him beautiful – surely that meant something? Unless Voldemort only appreciated Harry’s beauty, and only wanted him for his body (and magic?). Perhaps he wasn’t interested in romance. Or worse – what if Voldemort had only meant the dead flower was beautiful, and not Harry?

He was so confused. He didn’t know what to think. He walked to the table and contained a dejected sigh when Voldemort once again pulled out his chair. At least this time Harry was sitting beside Voldemort, instead of halfway down the table.

“Hello nephew necromancer,” Bellatrix said from her seat across from Harry.

“Hello Aunt Bella.”

“Harry, you already know Bellatrix and her husband Rudolphus,” Voldemort said.

Harry did not know Rudolphus, but when he turned to look at the man he was smiling at Harry politely, as if they’d already met, so Harry just smiled and nodded.

“Beside you is Genevieve Bavoil, a leading expert in curse creation. She recently created the exsanguination curse – you may have heard of it?”

Harry hadn’t, but he thought it sounded very interesting, so he greeted her politely.

“And at the end of the table is Walden McNair, an executioner in the Ministry of Magic’s Creatures division.”

McNair’s greeting was more of a grunt, but Harry didn’t let that deter him. “Executioner? I didn’t know such a position existed!”

McNair said nothing.

“Who do you execute?” Harry asked politely, as their plates filled with food.

“Not who: what. I execute creatures, of all kinds,” McNair said with a low, growling voice. Harry was often oblivious to social cues, but he got the distant feeling that McNair didn’t want to talk to him.

“How wonderful!” he said to McNair, turning his attention to his meal to end the stilted conversation.

“I make sure creatures know their place – that they’re less than us. Some creatures get too uppity and forget.”

Harry turned his head slowly to look at McNair.

“Creatures like that vampire you were cavorting with at our Lord’s ball.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. The temperature in the room dropped. “I’m not sure I like your meaning.”

McNair’s scowl deepened, his eyes piercing Harry in an angry glare. “Those filthy creatures aren’t worth the dirt on a proper wixen’s boots, and if you don’t agree you’re a disgrace to our kind! And you danced with the worm!”

Harry scowled at McNair, magic crackling. “Surely, you must be joking. How can you possibly think so poorly of vampires when Vladimir’s magic is so lovely?”

“Lovely!? Vampires have no magic of their own! The creatures are parasites!” Spit flew from McNair’s mouth as he spoke.

Harry was truly angry now, heart and magic pulsing with affront. The only thing keeping him from lashing out was Voldemort’s presence, and Harry’s unwillingness to act more improper than he usually did in front of the Dark Lord he was trying to seduce. Still, as much as he wanted Voldemort, he couldn’t let such insult to his friend stand.

He narrowed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath before speaking coolly. “Unless you can’t sense his magic? That’s quite embarrassing, really. I wouldn’t admit that, if I were you. It wouldn’t do to advertise how magically weak you are.” Harry wasn’t well practiced at insults, but he thought he’d done a good job judging by McNair’s reaction.

McNair’s entire face turned red, right up to his hairline. “Insolent whelp!” He whipped out his wand and pointed it at Harry, snarling out a curse before his wand was even steadied.

Harry acted instinctively. He felt McNair’s magic gathering in his wand, focused on it, and pulled. McNair’s wand turned to ash. The room fell silent for one long, crystalline moment before half the table exploded.

McNair started shrieking like a tea kettle, inarticulate in his rage.

Bellatrix began to cackle.

Barty snorted in amusement and drank deeply from his glass of wine.

Voldemort took a delicate bite of his steak while watching the show, and Genevieve, the French curse creator, followed his lead. “The meat is very tender,” she said. “My compliments to you elf.”

“Thank you,” Voldemort replied.

After several long moments of wordless screaming McNair finally regained coherence. He grasped at the ash pile in front of him. “What have you done!?” he howled.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest, pleased and unrepentant. “Don’t draw your wand unless you’re ready to lose it, as the saying goes,” Harry said, looking at McNair disdainfully, and then paused. He turned to Barty and raised his brows. “That is a saying, right?”

“I think the saying is, ‘Don’t draw your wand unless you’re ready to use it.’”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “That can’t be it. Why would anyone draw their wand unless they intended to use it?”

“If you draw your wand to threaten someone you need to be prepared for an actual duel to start. It’s warning against starting a fight you never intended to participate in.”

“Oh,” Harry nodded. “That makes sense. Because dueling is so boring, be careful you don’t get stuck in one.”

Barty laughed. “No, because dueling is danger—”

“Enough of this nonsense!” McNair exploded, his yell loud enough to drown out Bellatrix’s ongoing laughter. “My Lord, this boy has destroyed my wand! I demand he be punished!”

Harry whipped his head around to look at Voldemort. Their eyes met, Voldemort’s gaze calm and cool, Harry’s intense and irritated. “He deserved it!” Harry said defensively. If Voldemort didn’t take his side he’d be so, so displeased. He scrunched up his pretty face in a warning scowl.

Voldemort turned to look at McNair. “Do not Draw your wand if you are not prepared to Lose it,” Voldemort said steadily.

Harry beamed at him.

“But My Lord!” McNair exploded. “This boy has –”

Voldemort raised his hand. McNair shut his mouth immediately, teeth clacking audibly. “You will also need to be Punished for Questioning my leadership.”

McNair paled. “I would never!”

“And yet you did. Were you not decrying the inferiority of a group I have sought an Alliance with? Were you not implying that vampires do not belong in Wixen society, after I personally invited Count Vladimir to attend my gathering? And did you not insult Mr. Potter-Black, whom you know is my guest of honour on this occasion?”

McNair was starting to sweat. He wet his lips and said hoarsely, “Forgive me my Lord, I did not mean to imply –”

“Crucio,” Voldemort said lazily, lidden eyes focused on McNair like a cat toying with a mouse. McNair’s screams echoed off the wall, and he fell from his chair, twitching and spasming on the floor. The scent of urine filled the air, a sour, acrid accompaniment to the fine meal. Voldemort lifted the curse, and waited for McNair’s screams to quiet to whimpers before speaking. “I believe you have outstayed your Welcome at this meal, McNair. Report to my office this evening for your Punishment.”

McNair bowed and scraped and staggered his way out of the room. Harry watched with pleasure.

“I agree, the steak is very tender,” Rodulphus said into the silence.

“Yeah, it’s great,” Barty said.

Harry took a bite and enjoyed how the rare, bloody meat melted on his tongue. He chewed and swallowed, all the while smiling at Voldemort. “So wonderful,” he breathed.

Voldemort smiled back.

After lunch, Voldemort escorted Harry to the floo.

“Thank you so much for having me,” Harry said.

“The Pleasure is all mine,” Voldemort replied, lips turning up at corners into an unnatural grin. He looked incredibly creepy and unbearably hot. Harry sighed dreamily. “Your 17^th birthday approaches, and with it, your Magical Majority.”

“Yes,” Harry breathed in agreement, blinking up at Voldemort with stars in his eyes.

“We must soon complete our negotiations about your place at my side. After your birthday, we will come to an agreement.”

Harry’s breath caught in his throat, the words at my side reverberating in his head and piercing his heart. At his side? At his side! Foolish hope welled up in Harry’s breast. Could it be? Could he negotiate a place beside Voldemort, not just as an ally, but as a lover? The words were ambiguous, but they gave Harry hope.

Harry gazed down at his cleavage, bouncing slightly to watch his temporary breasts jiggle, as he waited in the receiving lounge impatiently. Today was a very special day. It was Harry’s 17^th birthday, and he was hosting a dinner party to celebrate.

“Mr. Crouch is being here,” Kreacher rasped from the doorway. Harry’s eyes snapped up at the sound, and he flew into Barty’s open arms.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Barty said, squeezing Harry tightly.

“Thanks so much for coming!” Harry replied, voice muffled by Barty’s chest.

“The Dark Lord is being here,” Kreacher said a moment later.

Harry’s breath caught in is throat and he jerked out of Barty’s hold. “Hello Voldemort!”

“Harry,” Voldemort said, grasping Harry’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “Happy birthday. You look particularly radiant today.”

Harry beamed. “Oh, thank you! I drained my muggle aunt and uncle this morning as a present to myself, and the energy still hasn’t left me.” That was on purpose, of course. Harry liked the way the excess lifeforce made his green eyes glow and his skin shine luminously, and he thought he deserved to dress up a bit on his special day.

“Please, Voldemort, Barty, sit,” he said, gesturing at the sofas. Voldemort escorted him to a loveseat and sat down beside him. Barty gave Harry a surreptitious thumbs-up and Harry bit back a grin.

A moment after they sat, Kreacher reappeared. “Ms. Lovegood.”

Harry bounced up off the couch. “Luna!”

“Happy birthday, Harry!” Luna said as they threw their arms around each other.

“Thanks!”

“You look so beautiful! I love this dress! And have you always had breasts?” Luna said as the hug ended.

“No, I made them to match the dress,” Harry said, cupping his boobs with his hands to illustrate. “Do you like them?”

“They’re lovely!” Luna looked at Harry’s chest admiringly and reached out to squeeze one breast. As she gasped in delight, Barty and Voldemort each made an entirely undignified noise. Harry didn’t notice, caught up as he was in his conversation. “And an excellent transfiguration! They feel so real!”

“Do they?” Harry asked, well pleased. “I wasn’t sure if they were supposed to be so squishy, but when I made them firmer they didn’t bounce, which is a waste. Look,” Harry said, jumping up and down on his toes, his little tits jiggling and shaking atop the low-cup bodice with the movement.

Luna laughed with delight. “They’re crowning jewels to your lovely dress.”

Harry beamed. “I have a similar dress in yellow that would look wonderful on you! Would you like to wear it? We can match!”

Luna’s hand flew to her heart, covering the fuzzy pink and blue plaid cloak she was wearing. “Really?”

“Yes!” Harry answered eagerly, grabbing her hand and dragging her out of the room. He paused at the doorway. “Please excuse us for a moment,” he said to Barty and Voldemort, who were standing and staring at Harry and Luna. Voldemort’s wand was in his hand and his magic was flaring angrily, for some odd reason. “We will be right back.”

They sprinted up the stairs and Luna dressed quickly. Once they’d adjusted the dress – Luna was taller than Marguerite the Harlot had been – Luna looked wonderful, the yellow silk bringing out the lovely red colour of her radish earrings.

They hurried back down the stairs and found that the remaining guests had arrived in their absence. “Aunt Bella!” Harry said, stepping forward to hug the crazy witch.

“Happy birthday, nephew necromancer!” she said, before stepping back and looking at Harry admiringly. “And what a fine dress! Go on, give us a twirl.”

Harry laughed and spun in a circle, his long skirts and loose hair flying out. Bellatrix clapped in delight. “The beauty of House Black endures!”

Harry smiled bashfully. “I can only dream of being as beautiful as you.” Harry meant it – Bellatrix was gorgeous, her Dark magic and the insane glint in her eyes only making her lovelier.

He turned to his last guest. “Vlad! I’m so glad you could come!”

Vladimir stepped forward and bowed gracefully, clasping Harry’s hand in both of his and bringing it to his lips, sending Harry a playful wink as he did so. Harry beamed at him. “I would never miss the opportunity to bask in your Deathly presence, Harry. It has been far too long since I’ve felt your magic.”

Harry laughed and swatted Vladimir’s arm. “I visited you at your castle last week!”

“And I’ve missed you each day since then.”

Harry smiled and stepped back beside Luna, grasping her hand in his. “Now I believe you all know each other, but most of you don’t know Luna Lovegood.”

Bellatrix’s wild grin fell into a scowl as she focused her attention on the young witch. “A Light witch,” Bellatrix hissed.

“Yes, Luna is a Light witch and my dearest friend. If any harm should come to her I would be most displeased,” Harry said lightly, meeting Bellatrix’s eye and smiling as he continued. “So displeased I would have no choice but the punish the perpetrator most severely.”

Bellatrix nodded begrudgingly.

“Luna, this is my favourite Aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Luna curtsied politely. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lestrange.”

Bellatrix scowled but bowed in return.

“And this is my dear friend, Vlad. I’ve told you about him already.”

Vladimir swept into another graceful bow and kissed Luna’s hand. She giggled.

“And you remember Barty.”

“No?” Luna said with a thoughtful frown. “We’ve never met.”

“You met him when he was Professor Moody.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize they were the same person. Hello again, Professor Moody.”

Barty frowned. “I’m not actually Mad Eye Moody.”

“Well, not right now,” Harry allowed.

“No, I – I was impersonating him. Temporarily. Have you thought we were the same person this whole time?”

Harry shrugged, because he had, but he also hadn’t been too concerned about it. “Anyway! Luna, this is the Dark Lord Voldemort.”

Luna curtsied again. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Voldemort. Harry has told me so much about you!”

Harry’s neck creaked as he whipped his head toward Luna, eyes wide. She ignored him, smiling serenely at Voldemort.

“Ms. Lovegood,” Voldemort greeted stiffly in return. “All good things, I hope.”

Luna laughed airily. “Oh, certainly. You know Harry.”

Harry clapped his hands before Luna could say anything too incriminating. “Shall we adjourn to the dining room?”

Voldemort stalked up to Harry and offered his elbow. Harry took it and floated away, the others following.

“Harry said your castle is quite lovely. Do you have many nargles there?” Luna asked Vlad as he escorted her through the house.

Vlad pulled out Luna’s chair and began to answer, but Harry stopped paying attention when Voldemort pulled out a chair for him. Harry suppressed a sigh as he sat, watching in envy as Bellatrix and Barty sat unassisted. Even on his 17^th birthday Voldemort still thought him a child.

Kreacher served food and they all tucked in, conversation flowing easily despite the somewhat odd combination of guests.

Vladimir, who had an empty plate in front of him and a goblet full of blood, said, “Now tell me, Harry: you look even more beautiful than usual. Why do you glow?”

Harry swallowed and patted his lips with his napkin daintily. “I drained my aunt and uncle this morning, as a little birthday present to myself. Their lifeforce hasn’t left me yet.”

Bellatrix cackled. “As the filthy muggles deserve! Did they scream beautifully when you tortured them?”

“Tortured? I didn’t torture them.”

Bellatrix’s brows furrowed. “Why ever not?”

“ … why would I!? That’s so cruel!”

“But you killed them?”

“Well, yes, but Death is a gift!”

“I doubt the muggles saw it that way,” Barty interjected wryly.

“Only because they don’t understand.”

Bellatrix stared at Harry thoughtfully. “I don’t think I understand you, nephew necromancer.”

Harry reached across the table to pat her hand. “Most people don’t.”

They finished the meal and adjourned to a sitting room. To Harry’s delighted surprise, his friends had gifts for him.

Voldemort, sitting beside him on a loveseat, pressed a box into his hands. As soon as he broke open the wrapping the enchantments disguising the aura of the contents fell away, and the delicious scent of death floated into the room. Everyone except for Harry and Voldemort immediately began to shiver and shake in discomfort.

Harry recognized the scent immediately. He gasped in delight and fished out a black cowl, pressing the fabric to his nose eagerly. “This smells like dementor!”

Voldemort nodded, eyes smiling. “Very astute. I acquired the fabric from dementors guarding Azkaban. They send their Regards.”

“It’s so lovely,” Harry said dreamily.

Voldemort preened.

Vlad passed a small box over. It also emanated Death. Harry opened it curiously to reveal an ornate silver necklace, the pendant a large ruby the colour of fresh blood. “It’s beautiful,” he said, pressing his fingers against the ruby and shivering in pleasure when it sent a little pulse of Deathly warmth into him.

“It belonged to my sire. She wore it constantly through the 16^th century, a particularly bloody time in our history. She slaughtered thousands in what your people call the Vampire Wars. I believe the ruby has retained an impression of so much death.”

“It certainly has,” Harry said, finally tearing his eyes away from the gem to look at Vlad warmly. “It means so much to me that you’d part with such a personal treasure.”

Vladimir smiled back, fangs glinting in the firelight, handsome face lit up with his fond expression. “Newly acquainted we might be, but I have lived long enough to recognize the start of a meaningful relationship.”

Harry’s heart swelled with warmth, and he reached out to clasp Vladimir’s hand. Before they could make contact Voldemort surged up from the couch, advancing on Vladimir angrily. His magic roiled through the room, pulsing and angry and powerful.

“I will stand this Affront no longer!” Voldemort conjured a glove from thin air and threw it at Vladimir’s feet. “We will duel.”

Harry gasped in horror and rushed forward. “What? No!”

“I assure you that is not necessary,” Vladimir said calmly, a hint of amusement in his tone that made Voldemort even angrier.

“I will not be Challenged,” Voldemort said, somehow looming over Vladimir despite being the same height.

“You are not being challenged,” Vladimir said.

“No one is challenging anyone!” Harry said, trying and failing to insert himself between the taller creatures. “Voldemort, what is going on? I thought you liked Vlad! You’re the one who recruited him for your cause!”

“He is Useful as a Leader of the European clans, but I cannot allow this attempt to Usurp what is mine.”

“What!?”

Voldemort finally turned his scowl from Vladimir to Harry, red eyes burning in intensity. “He cannot Court you whilst I am Courting you.”

The air left the room and Harry’s knees went weak. “You’re courting me?” he asked dazedly, his voice coming from far away as his entire world shifted on its axis. He started to float, body untethering from the world.

Voldemort paused, scowl melting into a frown of confusion at Harry’s question. “Yes.”

“You’re courting me!?!” Harry’s blood was pounding in his ears and his entire body was starting to shake, fine tremors moving from head to toe.

Voldemort stepped back from Vlad and turned toward Harry. “I have been, though it appears I’ve been Unsuccessful if you did not realize it.”

Reality finally pierced Harry’s shock and his world exploded. “You’re courting me!!!” His magic burst from his body, dropping the temperature of the entire room and turning everything Harry was touching to ash. Fortunately, Harry was still floating several inches off the ground, and so the luxurious Persian carpet was safe. Unfortunately, Harry’s lovely dress took the brunt of the explosion, lace and silk decaying centuries in seconds, crumbling into nothing and falling to the floor at Harry’s feet.

Harry did not notice, and if he had, he would not have cared. He was being courted by Voldemort! Who cared about trivial nudity in the face of his wildest dreams coming true! Voldemort – and everyone else in the room – noticed immediately and cared very much.

Barty averted his eyes, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling, smiling broadly in the face of his friend’s obvious joy.

Bellatrix scanned Harry’s naked body from head to toe and nodded with approval. Her nephew certainly had a fine form. Very attractive.

Vlad’s gaze immediately turned lecherous. He had resigned himself to never having Harry intimately, and so would take this glimpse and treasure it.

Luna watched the spectacle unfolding in front of her with interest, mainly delighted to see her friend so pleased.

Voldemort felt the shock of suddenly seeing his intended’s naked form like a punch to the groin. He was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of so much pale skin, rendered speechless by Harry’s small, round breasts and dainty rose coloured nipples, by the soft cock nestled in a bed of sparse dark curls, and his long, gorgeous legs. Being the most powerful Dark Lord to ever exist he recovered quickly, sending a spell at the other occupants of the room without so much as blinking.

Barty sighed in resignation. Vlad sighed in disappointment.

Voldemort’s spell broke Harry out of his delirious trance. “Did you hurt them?” he asked with concern, eyeing Luna in particular.

“No. It is merely a blinding jinx.”

“Oh?” Harry asked, looking down at himself and finally noticing his nakedness. “Oh, my dress,” he said sadly. “It was my favourite. I even made these boobs to match it.”

Voldemort cleared his throat, eyes fixing on the aforementioned breasts hungrily. “Yes, I see that.”

“You blinded them? Do you – are you embarrassed by my body? Do you not like my breasts?” Harry asked, arms crossing in front of his tits as if to shield them from Voldemort’s disapproval.

“On the contrary, I Like them Very Much.”

Harry preened, dropping his arms and thrusting his chest forward, floating toward Voldemort slowly. “Thank you! But then why --?”

“If we are courting, your nude form should be for my eyes alone,” Voldemort said, said eyes roving from Harry’s pert breasts to the soft prick resting between his thighs, hands itching to reach out and touch.

Harry frowned in confusion but nodded anyway. It seemed a strange request, but if staying clothed around others was a condition of courting Voldemort, Harry could arrange that easily enough.

He floated closer and closer, stopping a mere foot in front of Voldemort and levitating higher until they were eye to eye. He reached out and clasped Voldemort’s cold hands in his. “You’ve really been courting me? I had no idea. I’m so delighted!”

Voldemort exhaled heavily through his slitted nostrils, finally dragging his eyes away from Harry’s body to look into his face. “I have been. I am Uncertain how you failed to notice, as I have been following all of the Proper procedures.”

“Have you? Like what?”

“I have been sending you courting gifts.”

Harry wracked his brain. “… the books? I thought you were trying to tutor me!”

Voldemort blinked slowly and did not comment. “I have been comporting myself chivalrously, escorting you whilst walking, pulling out your chair when dining together.”

Harry’s pale cheeks flushed pink. “That’s what the chair thing is about? I thought you were trying to be my father!” He cupped his hands to his face in dazed embarrassment.

“Certainly not,” Voldemort said. “There is also the matter of the dates I have taken you on.”

“Dates!?” Harry shrieked, starting to vibrate again. “We’ve been on dates!?”

“Several,” Voldemort said dryly. “The French restaurant was our first. Lunch at my manor was the most recent.”

“Oh,” Harry said, plush pink lips parting in surprise. He was starting to realize that he may be very, very stupid. “Oh! How wonderful! What happens next? I accept, of course. Your courtship, I mean. Do I have to court you back, or can we just get married?”

Barty snorted loudly. Voldemort sent a stinging hex his way without breaking Harry’s gaze.

Had that been a snort of judgement? Harry back peddled, worried he was mucking this up even more than he already had. “Unless you don’t want to get married? I don’t know much about marriage, or even care about it, really, but it seems like that’s what people do?”

“I greatly Desire to marry you.”

Harry swooned. “Ok,” he said stupidly, floating even closer, until he and Voldemort were sharing breath.

Harry placed his palms on Voldemort’s chest, Voldemort’s hands settling on Harry’s waist. The touch was electric. Voldemort’s cool touch on Harry’s bare skin sent a shiver up his spine and he gasped. Voldemort tugged him closer, until Harry’s pert breasts were crushed against his chest. At the feel of his hard, sensitive nipples scrapping against Voldemort’s fine cloak Harry let out a low moan.

The noise snapped whatever tentative built-up they’d been caught in. Voldemort crushed his thin lips against Harry’s plump ones, and Harry’s brain promptly melted out of his head. He threw his airs around Voldemort’s neck, trying to get closer, closer, and opened his mouth to deepen the kiss. The moment his tongue grazed Voldemort’s fangs – the fangs Harry had spent countless hours fantasizing about – Harry lost control once again. His magic flared and Voldemort’s robes disintegrated everywhere they were touching.

Harry barely noticed, so caught up in the pleasure of the kiss, the feel of Voldemort’s tongue dancing with his, the silky softness of Voldemort’s skull under his fingers, Voldemort’s strong hands gripping first his arse cheeks then rubbing, firm and slow, down the underside of his thigh. Harry twitched, throwing his head back and gasping for breath, hips thrusting against Voldemort’s naked stomach instinctively when Voldemort bit down on his neck. He let out a long, loud moan and moved his head to try to recapture Voldemort’s lips when a pointed cough disturbed them.

“Pardon me for interrupting, My Lord, Harry, but perhaps it’s time for the rest of us to take our leave,” Barty said.

Harry froze, still clinging to Voldemort like a limpet.

“Certainly,” Voldemort said. “Get out.”

“If you might be so kind as to cancel the blinding jinx? I’d quite like to be able to see again,” Barty said.

Voldemort exhaled heavily through his slitted nostrils. Harry could feel the gust of air on his cheek. It was so erotic. Voldemort tapped Harry’s thigh, and he took it as a request to relinquish his hold. Harry did so reluctantly, landing on the ground on shaky knees while Voldemort summoned his wand from the scraps of fabric his robes had dissolved into on the ground.

Harry took the momentary break in activities to appreciate the view. Voldemort was naked and more beautiful than Harry had ever imagined – and he had imagined quite a lot. He was pale and hairless, skin dotted with patches of scales, limbs long and corded with lean muscle, just as Harry had expected.

What Harry hadn’t expected was the absence of nipples and the hemipenis. The evidence of Voldemort’s inhumanity, his snakelike traits, sent Harry into raptures. His knees quaked and he wanted nothing more than to let them collapse, to bury himself face first into Voldemort’s smooth chest, to tongue the flat surface where nipples would be on an ordinary human, and then work his way down to Voldemort’s beautiful, semi-hard cocks.

His gaze stuttered to a stop there, and he barely noticed when Voldemort conjured robes to cover them. Voldemort’s cocks swayed as he moved. One was slightly longer than the other. Harry wondered if they were both equally sensitive, and how difficult it would be to make sure they both got sufficient attention. He’d have to get very good at multitasking.

Harry startled when a firm hand clasped his shoulder. “Happy birthday and congratulations. I’m sure I’ll hear all about it once you come up for air,” Barty said with a smile.

Harry beamed at him, catching him in a quick hug before he left, farewelling his other dear friends one after the other, eyeing Voldemort warily as he said goodbye the Vlad.

Once they were alone again Harry floated over to Voldemort. “Hi,” he said stupidly, face inches away from Voldemort, lips parted softly in hopes of another kiss.

“Harry Potter-Black,” Voldemort greeted lowly, reaching one finger out and brushing it gently over Harry’s cheek.

Harry flushed and looked down. It was an innocent touch, much more chaste than the kiss they’d just shared, but now that he knew the sentiment behind it – it was too much to bear! His heart felt like it would explode. What a wonderful way to die that would be.

He blinked down at the ground quickly, eyes creased with the force of his smile, when his eyes caught on Voldemort’s bare feet and his breath caught in his throat. Realization struck him like a lightning bolt. They were going to get married and they were almost certainly going to have sex and that meant – that meant –

“Can I touch your feet?” Harry blurted.

Voldemort paused a long moment before answering. “You may.”

This was the best day of his life. It was even better than dying.

Chapter Text

Harry had a problem.

A bedroom problem.

The problem wasn’t that their sex life was lacking. If anything, they had the opposite issue. The sex was so good Harry had little inclination to think about anything else, and he pestered Voldemort incessantly for it. Not that it really counted as pestering when Voldemort was as eager as Harry to touch and fuck, to kiss and caress, to revel in the meeting of their magic and skin and hearts.

It did create a few problems from Voldemort’s perspective, however. Voldemort was quite adamant about safeguarding Harry’s naked form from the eyes of others, but their penchant for fucking at every available opportunity meant that more than one hapless Death Eater had walked in on them at an inopportune moment. Well, inopportune for the Death Eater, who would inevitably face the consequences of daring to looking upon Harry’s naked flesh – anything from a swift obliviate to a few rounds of crucio (followed, of course, by an obliviate to steal the sight of Harry from their memory. The memory of the punishment was left as a warning). Harry didn’t give a rat’s arse who saw them but let Voldemort do as he wished. He was so handsome when he was angry, magic pulsing as he cursed his followers, red eyes flashing and fangs bared. As if Harry could do anything other than watch him dreamily.

No, the sex itself wasn’t the problem. They fucked standing and sitting and lying down, morning, afternoon, and night. In their beds and their bathrooms and on more than one occasion in the dungeons, taking advantage of the sensual traces of Death left lingering in such a Dark space of despair.

Harry sucked Voldemort’s cocks and put his fingers up his arse, rubbed his beautiful, pale feet and kissed the gleaming patches of scales scattered across his body. Voldemort – who it turned out thought Harry was quite the beautiful creature, even when he wasn’t using his Gift – worshipped Harry in turn, flicking his forked tongue over Harry’s perky pink nipples – wonderfully sensitive whether Harry had breasts at the moment or not – and delighting in fucking him up his tight arse.

Harry quite delighted in being fucked up the arse as well, but the tightness was rather an issue. Voldemort had two cocks and they came at the same time, which was rather a problem if only one of them was being touched. Voldemort never complained about it, but he had told Harry, after being asked, that it did feel better to come whilst they were both being stimulated. This was easy enough to manage on some occasions – sucking one cock whilst jerking off the other, for example – but rather hard to do whilst being penetrated.

Harry was quite determined to get both cocks inside his hole at once so that neither had to be left out. However, Voldemort’s cocks were thick and long and whilst in most cases that was a wonderful thing, it did make it rather difficult to fit them both inside at the same time. Harry could manage it, but only after significant work. It took heaps of stretching, more than one relaxing charm and quite a bit of lube infused with healing properties to prevent tearing. The effort was well worth it – when both cocks got inside him Harry always came so hard he felt like he had died, which was, of course, the best feeling in the world – but it wasn’t something that he could do often or on a whim.

He had experimented with keeping himself stretched wide but it simply wasn’t practical for the day to day, mainly for sanitary and ease of movement reasons. Being a loving partner and quite determined to provide the best sexual experience for Voldemort that he could, Harry was quite distraught by this.

It wasn’t until early December, three and a half weeks before their wedding, that Harry stumbled upon a solution.

Harry was revising his wedding vows. He’d been quite unfamiliar with the concept to begin with, having never been to a wedding in his life. He’d assumed the vows would be a magical promise of some sort, but had been told instead that it was more akin to a speech about how much you love your partner. Harry was delighted to hear this, as he loved to tell anyone who would listen about Voldemort’s greatness.

Harry had laboured over the vows for weeks before sharing his preliminary draft with Barty. His throat was dry by the time he finished reading it out. He took a sip of water to sooth his throat and looked at Barty eagerly for his thoughts.

Barty’s thoughts were quite distressing.

“You cannot read that at your wedding,” Barty said, voice firm, eyes wide and distant with what might have been a faint look of horror, or perhaps amusement. It was sometimes difficult to tell with Barty.

“Why not?” Harry asked with a frown. He’d thought the draft was really quite good, certainly better than the first 11 versions he’d produced. He had spent hours with a thesaurus to make sure his adjectives weren’t repetitive.

“Well, it was 27 minutes, to start with.”

“Oh, is that too long?”

Barty’s eyes were faintly bugging out of his head. “Yes.”

Harry turned his frown down to the parchment in his hands, flipping through the pages. “I suppose I could cut out the bit about the time we had sex in the graveyard on All Hallows Eve and raised inferi as we climaxed. It’s a good story but quite long.”

“Yeah, about that – you can’t talk about your sex life in your wedding vows.”

“What, really? Why not? I thought the vows were supposed to speak to the highlights of our relationship and the things I love about him?”

“It’s not – Harry. No. You can’t – no sex stuff.”

“But that’s half the speech!”

“Well it’s too long anyway, so that will help you cut it down.”

Harry looked at Barty, dismayed. “Can I at least keep in the bit about how lovely his feet are?”

Barty’s face spasmed before he pulled himself together. “You know what? Yes. You should definitely keep in the stuff about his feet. Maybe cut that section down to half a page though.”

So Harry was diligently revising his vows, blithely ignoring the piles of homework he had whilst sitting with Luna at the best table in the common room. Their wedding would be on the winter solstice, the most powerful day of the year for the Dark, and it was approaching quickly. He had to get this done.

“What’s a synonym for ravishing?” he asked, chewing on the end of his quill.

“You can’t just say beautiful or handsome?” Luna asked, putting her book down and looking at Harry.

“No, I’ve used those words too many times. I’ve also used gorgeous, enchanting, awe-inspiring, and sensual, before you suggest any of those.”

Luna dug into her satchel as she thought. “Striking?”

“Brilliant!” Harry said, dipping his quill in ink and starting to scribble away.

“I’ll be back in a moment. I need to change my tampon,” Luna said.

Focused on his work as he was, it took a moment for Luna’s words to land, and it was only because he was revising a section where he had previously talked about how full taking both of Voldemort’s cocks at once made him feel that he made the connection at all. Luna needed a tampon because she had a vagina, and you could put things inside a vagina. Harry didn’t have a vagina because he had bollocks. But if Harry did have a vagina on top of the arsehole he currently had …

Harry whizzed into the toilet after Luna, slamming open the doors and shouting, “Luna! You have a vagina!”

The toilet flushed and Luna exited the cubicle, barely sparing Harry a glance as she walked to the sink to wash her hands. “I do,” she agreed easily.

“And cocks can go in vaginas!”

“They can,” she confirmed. Harry had already known this, of course, but it was nice to hear from an expert that he was right.

“Great! I need one!”

“You’ll have to get your own,” Luna said. “I’m using mine.”

Harry’s speech was abandoned immediately, and he signed every transfiguration book focused on human anatomy out of the library. He spent the next day experimenting until he’d perfected the spell.

The magic itself wasn’t difficult, but it was hard to get the details right given he’d never seen a vagina in his life. One of the books he’d pilfered from the restricted section had drawings, and that was somewhat helpful, but they weren’t animated so he didn’t know how all the fleshy bits were supposed to looked when he moved. He raided his dormmates belongings until he found a stash of pornographic magazines in Furry Boot’s bedside table.

He learned a lot from these magazines. Not only were there many moving photos with close-up views of vaginas, there were also informative articles and stories. He learned that vagina wasn’t the term most often used. The magazines called them ‘pussy’ and ‘cunt’ and ‘snatch’ and ‘twat.’ Harry liked pussy and cunt quite a bit and thought he’d use those words from now on.

Study of the myriad photos revealed that every pussy looked a little bit different and so Harry had some decisions to make. How big did he want his clit to be? How puffy should the outside skin bits be, and how many frills did he want on the inner bits? What skin colour did he like best and how wide should he make the pussy opening? He experimented inside his closed bed curtains, mirror propped up to give him a close-up view of his new cunt, until he found the style he thought Voldemort would like best.

The magazines also informed him that it was very, very important for cunts to get wet. Harry had to prod around quite a bit to see if his new pussy was capable of this or if he’d have to find a new spell, but it turned out that a bit of prodding was all he needed to get some nice, clear slick oozing out of his hole.

After many long hours of work, Harry was almost certain he’d done it, but before he called it a good job he decided to consult an expert. He threw on a pair of long robes, opened his curtains, and went to find Luna.

“Did I do it right?”

Harry sat on Luna’s bed, robes hiked up to his hips, curtains closed around them.

Luna squinted, peering between Harry’s spread legs with focus. She lit her wand and held it close to get a better view. “It looks right to me. Does it all work properly?”

“What do you mean? Like, the reproductive bits? I didn’t do the uterus of anything like that since I don’t actually want a pregnancy. The monthly bleeding would be kind of cool though.”

“I mean the vaginal canal. Can you fit something inside it? And the clitoris, does it feel stimulation?”

“Yes and yes. I tested that already. I think the function is fine, I just wanted to double check the appearance. You never know if photos have been edited in a weird way or something.”

“It looks like you did a very good job, Harry,” Luna said with a smile, extinguishing her wand and patting him on the shin. “I think Voldemort will like it very much.”

Harry closed his legs and lowered his robes, sighing as he imagined Voldemort’s reaction to his new surprise. The transfiguration would likely fade by morning, but he would conjure his cunt again the day of their wedding, as a present. “I sure hope so,” he said, head already lost in dreams.

Harry spent the rest of the evening wanking leisurely in an attempt to get used to his new pussy before settling in to sleep. He was halfway to dream land when he startled back awake, a sudden realization sending a jolt of adrenaline through him. Fuck. He’d shown Luna his cunt. He’d shown Luna his half-naked body! He’d broken his promise to Voldemort!

Fear and guilt sent Harry’s stomach roiling and he fled Hogwarts with all haste, arriving at Voldemort’s manor in a whirlwind. It was night, but early still. If Harry knew his fiancé well – and he did – Voldemort would be in his study, likely finished with work for the night and perusing an interesting text or perhaps meeting with a minion who had recently earned his favour.

Harry rushed to the study, blasting the doors open with a flare of magic so he could enter the room without slowing down. He couldn’t fathom delaying his confession a moment longer, his distress eating him alive. What if Voldemort didn’t forgive him? No, that was unlikely. What if he made Voldemort sad? What if he hurt his feelings!? It didn’t bear thinking about!

“Voldemort!” he cried as he ran into the room, not sparing the man seated in front of Voldemort’s desk a glance. “I’m so sorry! I showed Luna my pussy and I didn’t mean to – well, I mean, I did, but not in a sexual way, I just wanted her to tell me if it looked right – but I still showed her and I am so, so sorry!”

Harry didn’t stop until he was pressed against the front of Voldemort’s desk, hips pressing into the dark wood and hands braced in front of him so that he leaned into Voldemort’s space. He was panting, agitation and the rush to the manor stealing his breath, and his luminous green eyes were liquid and large with distress.

Voldemort blinked at him slowly. “Leave us,” he said, and Harry’s breath caught for half a moment before reason caught up with him and he realized Voldemort was speaking to his minion.

“My Lord,” the minion murmured, probably bowing, and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

“I really am very sorry, Voldemort,” Harry said in a desperate rush as soon as they were alone. “I was just so excited about my transfiguration that I didn’t think about it as nudity, you know? I just wanted her to tell me if it looked right because she’s an expert and I’d never seen a pussy before so I needed confirmation, and –” Harry gasped in a deep breath and Voldemort took advantage of the momentary silence to speak.

“You have Created a pussy?”

Harry nodded frantically. “Yes, right, I should have started there. Yes, I transfigured my bits into a cunt, because this way I can take both your cocks at once much easier, only I wasn’t sure I got the transfiguration right so I showed Luna to check. She has a vagina, you know, so she knows what they look like,” Harry specified, in case Voldemort didn’t know what was going on under Luna’s robes. Harry hadn’t known until today, after all, when she’d specified that she needed a tampon, and she had been Harry’s best friend for years.

“I would like to See it,” Voldemort said, pushing his chair back and gesturing at the desk in front of him.

Harry scurried around the desk, stomach still tight with nerves, and perched himself on the table. He hadn’t bothered to put pants on before leaving the castle, so it was an easy matter of scooting back, propping his heels on the desk and spreading his legs, and rucking his robes up. His bare cunt was on display within moments.

Voldemort stared at it, transfixed.

Harry lasted less than a minute, hands wringing in the fabric clenched in his fists. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Voldemort said, gaze not wavering. It wasn’t mere agreement. It was a Pronouncement.

Something deep inside Harry’s new cunt clenched at the heat in Voldemort’s gaze. It promised very good things. But before he could explore that, he had to know – “And do you forgive me? I really am so very sorry.”

“You will remove the memory from her mind and you Will Not do such a thing again.” Voldemort’s chair floated forward an inch, and he reached his hands out to grip Harry’s ankles where they framed his hips, his eyes not moving an inch.

Harry nodded frantically, and then – realizing Voldemort was too busy looking at his pussy to see – said aloud, “Yes, yes, of course.”

The tension filling Harry’s body melted away at Voldemort’s easy forgiveness and he began to grow warm, a familiar excitement tightening his belly. Voldemort’s thumbs were rubbing circles on Harry’s protruding ankle bone, and the close proximity of those clever, long fingered hands to his bare cunt sent his mind spinning. He clenched down, using new muscles deep inside, and the movement must have shown on the outside because Voldemort exhaled heavily and his lust-filled gaze grew even hotter.

“Your cunt is growing wet.”

“Uh huh,” Harry said. He could feel it, slick escaping his opening and sliding over whatever those inner frills were called, trickling over the fat outer lips of his pussy and even sliding down to tickle his arsehole. “Apparently that’s supposed to happen, when I’m aroused.”

Voldemort smiled, a thin, predatory thing, his fangs flashing in the candlelight. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You are formally invited to do so now,” Harry said, voice a bit too breathless to make the words sound teasing, instead coming out as a genuine, hopeful invitation.

Voldemort’s eyes finally flickered away from Harry’s cunt to meet his eyes, amusement in his gaze, before he looked back down. His right hand left Harry’s ankle and he stroked one long finger lightly over Harry’s folds. “An excellent transfiguration, my treasure,” he said.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat, as it always did when Voldemort complimented him, and his stomach flipped in eager anticipation. “Oh, thank you! I tried to pick features you’d like.”

Voldemort hummed, stroking a finger over Harry’s pussy again, stopping to rest the pad of his pointer finger gently over Harry’s new clit. “And you have done so, very Well.” He pressed down harder, moving his fingertip in a gentle circle, and Harry gasped.

“Oh, wow,” he said, or he thought he did. It was rather hard to focus on words when Voldemort was doing that. It felt a thousand times better than it had when he’d touched his clit himself.

Voldemort released his hold on Harry’s other ankle and slowly slid one long, elegant finger inside Harry’s passage, his other hand continuing to rub Harry’s clit slowly, steadily, oh so deliciously. At the first press of Voldemort’s fingers inside of him, Harry gave a low, loud moan and his arms, planted behind him to prop him up, began to tremble.

“Oh, that feels so lovely,” Harry breathed, eyes fixated on Voldemort’s hands where they played his new body parts like a fiddle.

The intensity of the sensations was shocking. Harry didn’t know if it felt so overwhelming simply because it was new, or if his clit really was that much more sensitive than his prick. Certainly fondling his bollocks never felt as good as a few fingers up his new cunt did. Harry liked getting his balls played with as much as the next person, but it never felt good enough to make him come, whereas Harry felt close to the edge after only a few thrusts of Voldemort’s clever digits inside of him.

His breathing grew ragged and his Gift started to lash and flare. The only reason everything Harry was touching didn’t begin to rot was because he and Voldemort had covered nearly every inch of their belongings in impervious charms. Harry’s clothing and the desk were safe, but the parchment under Harry’s right palm withered to dust after Voldemort pressed his fingers deep inside and crooked them just so – not that either of them noticed, distracted as they were.

Voldemort began thrusting in earnest and the slick, wet sound of his fingers dragging in and out of Harry’s dripping cunt was so erotically filthy Harry could hardly bear it. Voldemort rubbed with one hand and thrust with the other and Harry’s knees quaked and his stomach jumped until – after such a short amount of time someone other than Harry might have been embarrassed – Harry came with a shout, back bowing and hips spasming and magic flaring.

Voldemort slowed his movements but didn’t stop until Harry ceased twitching. He drew his fingers out of Harry’s pussy slowly, savouring the moment. They both watched in awe, eyes fixed on Harry’s lewdly displayed cunt for several long, silent moments. It kept moving. Harry’s inner muscles were spasming. He could feel it inside, and see it on the outside, his cunt pulsing periodically, his clit twitching. It was mesmerizing. The juices he’d produced shone in the flickering candlelight, adding a beautiful glow to the sight of his swollen, pink pussy.

“We have to try your cock now,” Harry said, finally tearing his eyes away from his cunt to look up at Voldemort. The thought of finally getting both Voldemort’s cocks inside of him with ease was enough to send his stomach flipping, tightening his guts and – delightfully – making his pussy visibly clench again.

Voldemort hummed, low in his throat, and grabbed Harry’s shin with one hand. He apparated them with a pop, so skilfully that Harry landed safely sitting on the edge of the bed with Voldemort standing before him, just as they’d been in the study. With a flick of his wrist their clothes were gone.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat as it always did at the sight of Voldemort’s inhuman body. His reptilian chest, absent nipples and belly button, and beautiful long cocks jutting out from his pale, hairless groin was the most beautiful sight Harry had ever seen.

Voldemort wasted no time. He pressed a finger to the entrance of Harry’s arsehole, filling his passage with lube, and then replaced the touch with the head of one of his cocks. He pushed in slowly but steadily, breaching the tight ring and pushing deeper and deeper. Harry hadn’t visited Voldemort in three days, having chosen to stay at Hogwarts overnight for most of the week, and finally being filled again felt like coming home. He relished the stretch and slight burn, thoughts scattering as he was overwhelmed with pleasure. Voldemort pulled back after bottoming out, leaving the head of his cock encased in Harry’s arse, and placed his other cock at the entrance of Harry’s pussy.

They both stared for one long moment, Harry on his back at the edge of the bed but propped up on his elbows, Voldemort still standing. Harry was breathless with anticipation. Voldemort grabbed Harry under the knees, took a deep breath, and pushed inside.

Harry saw stars and started coming immediately, his cunt spasming and hips jerking wildly. Being a healthy young near-human wixen, Harry was perfectly capable of coming multiple times in one evening, but not like this. It felt like the earlier fingering in the library had merely primed Harry’s pussy for more pleasure, and instead of being overwhelmed with sensitivity after a recent orgasm, his pussy was greedily ready for more.

He came at the first thrust, and he wasn’t sure he stopped coming at all. He felt so deliciously full, the easy slide of one cock into his pussy contrasting so beautifully with the tighter fit of the other cock in his arse. He didn’t have the focus to tell for sure, but he thought he might even be able to feel the two cocks rubbing against each other inside him, the thin wall between arse and cunt stimulated by the dual slide of twin pricks.

The world fell away until all that was left was his own pleasure and Voldemort’s beautiful skeletal form over top of him, red eyes glowing, fangs bared, ghostly pale skin glowing in the candlelight. Their magic met in a wild dance, heightening Harry’s pleasure even more. Wordless cries escaped his throat, high moans and low grunts, and all he could do was hold on as Voldemort pounded into him.

“Long have I known you were made for me,” Voldemort hissed above him as he continued to fuck into Harry’s tight holes. “A gift from Mother Magic to reward my greatness. But now you have reshaped yourself for me, made yourself anew, created a cunt to be home to my cocks.” Harry nodded and agreed, not quite taking in what Voldemort was saying but understanding that Voldemort was saying Harry belong with him, to him, and that Harry would always agree with.

“My beautiful treasure, now with another beautiful hole, made to take me and only me.”

Harry moaned and came again – or was it still? – hands scrabbling over the bedsheets and reaching out to catch Voldemort’s wrists.

“I will fill you so deeply that even when your pussy disappears you will not be able to rid your insides of traces of me.”

“Hnnng,” Harry said, or something like it.

Voldemort continued to talk and to thrust and to drive Harry to the brink of madness with pleasure. Harry continued to come, and didn’t stop even after Voldemort pressed deep inside, fucking his cocks as far into Harry’s body as possible as he came, both cocks spurting their seed. Harry’s hips thrust unconsciously as his cunt continued to clench in the aftershocks of orgasm – or was it orgasm still? – and Voldemort stayed pressed deep inside, giving Harry something to clench down around as they both recovered.

“My treasure,” Voldemort repeated, voice dark and possessive and worshipful.

“Hi,” Harry said stupidly, too well fucked to marshal any thoughts more complicated.

Voldemort pulled out and they both watched his come leak out of Harry’s reddened, well fucked holes. The sight sent Harry’s pussy spasming again, pushing out another trickle of seed.

“Wow,” he said, impressed with himself.

“Indeed,” Voldemort said.

He lay down on the bed and Harry crawled on top of him. “So you like it?”

“Very Much,” Voldemort said.

“I stuffed it up though. It was supposed to be a wedding present.”

“I am Pleased to have been gifted your cunt early.”

Harry pressed a smile into Voldemort’s cold neck. “Good.” He giggled then, for no real reason, except that he was happy.

“I have a wedding present for you as well,” Voldemort said, gliding his claw-like nails gently over Harry’s back and sending a delightful shiver up his spine.

“Oh?”

“I’m not sure I should give it to you now, however.”

“But I gave you your present!”

“After showing your nude form to another.”

“That was an accident! And you already forgive me!”

“Hmm.”

“Please?” Harry turned his head up and batted his lashes, the green glow of his eyes that everyone else found eerie the final push needed to convince Voldemort. He never could say no to Harry when he looked at him like that.

“Very well,” Voldemort said, summoning his wand to his hand and leaning over Harry. The tip of his wand started to glow, a bright, unnatural green not seen anywhere in nature other than in Harry’s eyes.

His breath caught in his throat in anticipation. He knew that colour. Could it be? Would Voldemort finally say those words, the most beautiful, romantic words known to wixenkind, the words Harry had been longing to hear fall from Voldemort’s lips for years?

Voldemort placed his wand to Harry’s chest, looked into his eyes, and said – love suffusing every syllable – “Avada Kedavra.”

Harry died, killed by his lover, the happiest creature in the world.