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Harry feels strange this morning. (There's a faint, tart taste on his tongue.) They'd gone out for drinks last night at their usual Muggle pub—Wizarding ones were too risky these days, but he hadn't had enough for a hangover. It's nothing like a hangover, anyway.
He's not sure when it started. His memories from the end of the night are oddly hazy.
The war has been going on now for years. All of Voldemort's Horcruxes are destroyed, but he's dug his heels in and fought harder. They've all lived in hiding, wondering how long they have until the next battle costs too much, until Harry dies or Voldemort dies or they all die.
So, it's not unusual for Harry to feel out of sorts on any given morning. The connection between himself and Voldemort is as strong as ever, and even with the rudimentary Occluency (or something like Occlumency) Harry's managed to employ, things leak through. Rage. A lot of rage. Impatience. Not much maniacal happiness these days; Voldemort's people are no better off. They'd held the Ministry at one point, but such things don't matter much when there aren't many people over which to rule.
He feels strange, Harry realizes, because thinking of Voldemort is not…unpleasant. He's almost choked up with fondness, even. He feels—
This is wrong. Harry doesn’t know what it is. It's strong, like a shot of fire whiskey on a cold night, like fresh-baked treacle tart, like flying, like how he had once felt about Ginny…
Oh.
He ignores it rather successfully for the rest of the day. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Tonks, and the rest all ask if something is the matter. "The usual," he tells them, and they understand.
*
"You've done this to me," Voldemort snarls. "It's past time I killed you, Harry."
"What are you talking about? I haven't done anything to you." It's a dream. Voldemort must be furious indeed (although it isn't mere fury Harry can sense from him) for them to be able to speak.
"This! All I can think about is you, and how well you've grown, and how no other has defied me as many times as you have." Voldemort bares his sharp teeth, his pallid cheeks flushed a faint, endearing pink.
The worst part for Harry is that these sentiments mirror his own.
"This is just a dream," Harry says at last. It could have been a second later, or half a moment earlier. Time moves as it will in dreams.
Voldemort shakes his head. "This manner of meeting is, yes. The rest, I think, is more." There's no pain for Harry as they grasp hands, then tentatively explore each other’s mouths with their tongues, each other’s chests and hips and other things with their fingers.
"It's a dream," Harry repeats. Voldemort nods, and then all hesitancy is gone.
Harry cannot remember specifics in the morning, except that he wakes up feeling as comfortable and warm and satisfied as he ever recalls.
But this is Voldemort.
Harry writes a letter to arrange a time and place.
Voldemort responds immediately, the tawny owl Harry used ruffled and annoyed. He agrees, so emphatically that he's torn a hole in the parchment which seems to have broken the quill, after which he seems to have switched to engraving by wand, which leaves the parchment in tatters. Harry gets the gist of it: I hate you, Potter. I must kill you. I eagerly await the day.
"What? Are you mad? You could die!" Hermione pleads as he tells them. Strangely, he feels less of that unbearable affection for Voldemort tonight. Maybe this is a bad idea, after all. He could put it off longer.
"I have to do it sometime," Harry says, pushing aside his misgivings.
"I don't want to keep living like this," Ginny says. "Harry, you need to do whatever you think is best, but there has to be another way…" She knows there really isn't, though. It's why they broke up. His guilt over knowing he would die, her impatience with him, and well, Tonks. Tonks is better for her.
"Let's go to Ab's," Ron suggests. "One last night. No better time to risk it."
It's a somber night, and the bar is unusually crowded. Everyone wears masks or hoods. Ab gives Harry free drinks, tells him to kick the bastard's arse, and "then come back and tell this old man some good war stories". It sounds pretty good to Harry.
(But then Voldemort, who he...loves, will be dead.)
"Have another drink?" It's a hooded figure Harry doesn't know. "For luck."
Don't take drinks from strangers, ever. Harry does it anyway. Whatever the drink is smells wonderful, better than anything he's ever had.
He almost remembers drinking it last night…
It tastes almost like cherry, but tart, and strong, and not a bit cloying.
(He is going to duel Voldemort tomorrow, the one he loves.)
*
"Prepared to die, Potter?" Voldemort stalks around Harry Potter. He doesn't bother with a greeting.
"I am," Harry replies. "Are you?"
Voldemort stops, tilts his head. "You are too pure, Harry Potter. You will not kill me."
The crowd is small; few would brave coming to an event like this. It's not what most have the hearts to witness. A hooded figure, standing near the back, can appreciate that. No one's here to gawk.
Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort bow to each other, their expressions intent. Then they raise their wands, and battle is joined.
This is not how it was supposed to go. They love each other. They should have put their enmity aside, become allies to usher in a peaceful, healing future. Yet here are spells flying, and the hooded figure dares not intervene.
Their wands connect briefly (ah, yes, that rarest of phenomena), a beam of golden light stretching between them. They both frown at this; they aren't frowns of impatience, but wistfulness, the hooded figure assumes. They wrench their wands apart and continue dueling.
(So quickly that the hooded figure doubts they've seen it, Voldemort takes out a second one and stows the yew away. He brandishes it too fast for them to get a closer look. Harry doesn't notice.)
The first Killing Curse meets its mark, and Harry Potter falls.
No, this is wrong. This is very, very wrong.
Voldemort lowers his wand, crouches, and reaches out to brush Harry's hair away from his lightning-bolt scar. The hooded figure sees him whisper something but cannot understand. Harry's friends in the small audience are pressing forward, crying out in dismay.
"Harry! Harry! No!"
And yet suddenly, Harry sits up. Voldemort leaps back, his expression warring between shock and relief.
Harry, however, has no such qualms. "We were given Amortentia," he says, getting laboriously to his feet. "All of this… You don't really feel it. It's a lie."
Voldemort shakes his head. "You're alive. How are you alive? How is it that you do not die?"
Harry smiles, rueful. "I've got a better relationship with death than you do, I'd say." He eyes Voldemort's discarded wand, which is gnarled with age. "You don't believe me, do you, about the Amortentia?"
"No one would dare give Lord Voldemort Amortentia, therefore this…love…is true." Voldemort raises his wand again. Harry does the same. "But if I let you live, you would be a weakness, and so I shall kill you again and again until you die."
They cast simultaneously, Harry a Disarming Charm, Voldemort a Killing Curse. Their spells collide in a shower of golden sparks, but instead of the connection as with the previous time, Voldemort's curse bounces back at him, his wand sailing from his hand and into Harry's, and he falls to the ground.
And now it is Harry's turn to crouch by a corpse. The cries of dismay have turned to cheers. The hooded figure joins in, but no, this is not what they had in mind, either.
Harry takes the yew wand out of Voldemort's pocket, cradles it, whispers something the hooded figure can read: "But why did you use it at all when you had the Elder Wand?" and closes Voldemort's eyes, which are wide in shock. The hooded figure moves closer. He is not so frightening in death. There is no rage left in him.
Harry's head comes up, and he seems to spot the hooded figure for the first time. "You," he says. "You did this to us."
"The war needed to end, else all of Wizarding Britain would have died. We would have preferred it end with marriage vows, but this is acceptable."
"Go to hell," Harry says. "You had no right."
"Everything we do is unspeakable," the hooded figure replies. "It's as simple as that."
Harry's friends embrace him, some of them crying. The war is over. They do not have to live in fear anymore.
But the hooded figure walks away. This is not for them to celebrate. There is always more to do.