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The blood on his hands was still warm and tacky, the slowly cooling body in front of him staring sightlessly up at the sky, and a garish red slash across the throat bleeding red onto the stone below, but all he could think was not him, never him. Then, like a shock to his system, warm hands land gently on his shoulders and Harry turns, green meeting red and a choked sob escaping his throat as he's pulled into a warm, comforting embrace.
Soft, hoarse, like he'd been screaming and just didn't know it, Harry buries his face in Voldemort's chest and whispers. "I couldn't-... I couldn't let you die..."
Surprising only those who had never seen this side of him, Voldemort gently soothes the teen in his arms and tightens his hold, snake like features oddly soft as he stares down at the trembling form huddled against his chest. "Shhh... It's alright. I know. It's fine, I'm safe, and you protected me. Everything is alright."
Harry shudders again, eyes wide with the horrific memory of seeing, not the acid green of the Avada Kadavra, but a blade made from magic, much like a larger Diffindo slicing toward Voldemort's unprotected back. He still didn't know how he'd managed to not only block the curse, but rebound it, but the proof was staring up, sightless, at the sky, twinkling blue forever dimmed by an act of instinct and panic.
"Come, Harry, let's get you cleaned up and comfortable, hmm?" Turning his red gaze toward Severus, Voldemort's voice grows colder and flat, a hint of anger well hidden in his eyes as he stares down the stunned traitor. "Lestrange, take care of the traitor, then take care of the bodies. I expect my meeting room to be cleaned up by the time I return."
Rabastan, as the eldest, bows and turns a sadistic grin on Severus, waiting for his lord and little lord to leave the room before snapping to action, the screams echoing from the stone chamber making Harry both shudder, and feel vindictively pleased.
By the time they reach the master's suite in Slytherin Manor, Harry's shaking has slowed and the adrenaline crash has left him feeling sleepy, so as they slip inside, Voldemort forgoes the bath, settling on as gentle a Scourgify as he can, then helps the teen out of his ruined robes and into a pair of fresh, muggle pajamas. It doesn't take long for Harry to begin drifting off, but the second he moves to leave, a hand reaches out to grab his sleeve and he turns an indulgent look down on the sleepy Potter.
"Stay? Just until I fall asleep?"
"Alright, but only until then. I have more business to attend to now that Albus is dead and the traitor flushed out. Would you like some Dreamless Sleep? Or do you think you can handle any nightmares by yourself?" He asks, settling back onto the bed and brushing the fingers of one spindly hand over Harry's unmarked forehead, glad yet again that he hadn't followed the words of a traitor and tried to kill him when Harry was just a baby.
The prophecy, the one the old fool had thought would provoke him into a blind rage, had only made him curious. He'd realized right away that the Potter heir was the one spoken of, as there was too much pointing to him rather than Longbottom, and when he went hunting for the actual thing, heard in its entirety, he decided to do a bit of spying of his own. Of course, Albus had decided he hadn't acted quickly enough and had taken matters into his own hands, leaving Harry orphaned, with a curse scar on his forehead, and for Voldemort to secretly spirit him away from his loving relatives.
The scar had been easy enough to remove, healed completely since it was so freshly inflicted, and since Albus had never gone to check on Harry, despite claiming to have his best interests at heart, the deception had been easy to maintain, especially when all he had to do was have the boy's location magically masked, then have the useless muggles Imperiused to think everything was normal for when Hagrid came personally to deliver his acceptance letter. It had been ridiculously easy, enough that he knew Albus must have gone senile, and it had led him to having the only thing approaching true family he'd ever had. Harry Potter, prophesied to be his equal, the only capable of killing him, had become close, as close as Voldemort ever allowed anyone, and while they weren't lovers, they were still partners, equals, so alike but so different that it kept things interesting.
"I think I can handle them on my own... Just-... Don't tease me if I suddenly bolt into the room in a panic when I wake up if you're not there?"
Harry's soft voice breaks him out of his thoughts and Voldemort smiles, a tiny movement of his lips but a smile nonetheless, then brushes his fingers once more over the blemish free skin of the teen's forehead. "Of course. Now go to sleep, little snake." He murmurs, using an endearment he hadn't used since the boy was eleven and receiving a small, sleepy smile in return.
Eighteen and you're still my little snake, Harry...
With a subtle sigh, Voldemort leans against the headboard of the bed, Harry's head resting in his lap, and allows himself a moment of peace. Albus, the main opposition to the changes he wished to bring about, was finally dead, Severus had been outed and disposed of, Harry's disappearance had led to the "Light" slowly crumbling as they believed him dead, and more and more wixen were flocking to him now that the chickens had stopped squawking and saying they were his. With Rita's help, bought with the blackmail of her animagus form and a threat to feed her to Nagini if she didn't cooperate, he'd used the year between Harry graduating and the attack on his manor very well indeed, ferreting out secrets and truths and blaring them from the newspapers under oath, that way no one could claim he was lying.
Soon, the thought passes through his mind. Soon, and the wizarding world will heal. Soon, they'll realize this is for the best.
He only hoped they didn't continue to fight him on things like complete separation from muggles. It was rather annoying continuously breaking out statistics.