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The warmth from the late July sun was a heavy weight against Harry's face, a burning brand that scorched along the arch of his cheekbone. The air in Viscount Nott's bedroom was stifling, hard to breathe, but that had been the case for years as the wizard's condition continued to deteriorate. The Viscount was barely more functional than an animated corpse by this point--but Harry knew the man clung to whatever strength he could so that Theo wouldn't be an orphan just yet.
Harry had been impressed by Thoros Nott at their first meeting; the years had done nothing to change that initial impression, only deepened the appreciation for the sharp mind held captive by the failing body.
Blinking too-green eyes, Harry eventually shifted his gaze away from the view of the grounds and settled his attention back on Viscount Nott. Raza stirred slightly, scales kissing the steady pulse at the base of Harry's throat: flex-and-release, a barely audible hissssss--a private conversation only one person in the room could comprehend.
"Why?" the fifteen year-old asked as he trailed a finger over the outermost edge of the betrothal contract. The magic embedded in parchment and ink sparked beneath his touch, the air growing temporarily heavier as the scent of thunderstorms, of ozone and summertime heat and power, flared and lingered and stayed.
Thoros' answering laughter was rasping and painful. "Because my son made a choice when he was eleven years old, Heir Potter, and he has spent every moment since reaffirming it. He will not leave your side."
Because my son gave away a heart he thought he did not have, and I will do everything in my power to ensure he survives it.
Harry's mouth flattened at the wording of Thoros' response, and the evergreen shade of his eyes brightened to a poisonous color as he picked up on the slightest flavor of the older man's thoughts. His finger paused, brushing still against the thorny promise of the contract's magic: his touch was surprisingly gentle, innate power carefully twining under and around and through the foreign magic--delicate, considering the feral brutality his own magic tended to adopt.
The silence lingered for a moment or two before Harry's attention shifted to the only person in the room who hadn't yet spoken:
Theo's gaze was as sharp as ever, eyes too-knowing, too-seeing (the one who held the most of Harry's secrets, buried in midnight silence and uncompromising loyalty) in his aristocratic face. Despite the fact that Harry hadn't been watching back, the teen knew Theo's attention hadn't wavered once during the conversation.
There was a starving, greedy sort of hunger in his eyes that sung to the quietest, most hidden parts of Harry's psyche: echoing and similar enough, but perhaps not as dark, perhaps not as voracious or encompassing or world-ending as the eldritch shiftings that resided within the teen with Killing Curse eyes.
"I don't feel emotions the same way that other people do," Harry murmured, reminding Theo of a fact the other boy was already fully aware of.
Theo's lips quirked into a small smirk at the warning, and he took a step away from his father's bed. "The best you can offer me is still more than you've ever given anyone else."
A reminder of First Year, when students left for the Yule holiday--
“I… like having you around,” Harry said. “I won’t lie and say I’ll miss you, but I will look forward to you coming back.”
On the railing, Theo’s knuckles turned white. “That’s all I’m getting, isn’t it.”
“It’s the best I can offer,” Harry said quietly. “More than I’ve ever given anyone else.”
Harry's head tilted to the side in silent agreement, an acknowledgement that he gave Theo more than others: an exception, the only one, the companion who stood by his side unflinchingly--who saw the broken parts of Harry and just moved closer still. The one who, over time, had slowly realized the extent of Harry's magical abilities, the cold, serpentine twists to his mind, the feral possessiveness that he felt towards his belongings and the teens he'd slowly collected around himself over the years.
"I want everything you have, everything you can ever give me. I'll always want more, if you're the one who's giving it," Theo continued and took yet another step closer, never once turning his gaze away from Harry's despite the concerned way that Thoros' fingers twitched towards his son. "I already told you that I wanted the right hand of the King. I want the guarantee that no one will ever try to take my place."
The chuckle that escaped Harry was barely audible, low enough to be more vibration than anything else. Once Theo was finally close enough, the winter-eyed teen reached out to curl his fingers tightly over the other's forearm, tugging insistently to bring Theo that much closer. "You had that spot from the very beginning; it wasn't anyone else's but yours."
"I want more," Theo repeated.
Harry offered Theo one of his crueler smiles, then, a bladed curve of his lips--sharp and cutting and as dangerous as winter's kiss--and tugged until there was less than a breath's distance between the both of them. "I never let go of the things that belong to me, Theo," the teen warned one last time. "You'll be mine, always."
Theo laughed, one that caused others to flinch away from him, and brought Harry's hand up to scrape his teeth over the pad of the teen's left ring finger. "Sign the damn contract already, Harry," he murmured.
He stared at Theo for a long, long moment, Avada Kedavra eyes glittering, and then Harry reached for the blood quill that had been placed off to the side, waiting for a potential signature from him.
Harry Potter scrawled elegantly over the bottom of the betrothal contract, and Theo possessively bit down on Harry's ring finger, smiling around the copper tang of blood that flooded his mouth.