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It's remarkable how the seasons took on new meanings now that Harry is twenty-seven and has a very different outlook on life.
In the past, spring had been a season of chaos. Harry often joked that trouble was kind enough to wait for him to finish his education. He recalled the Philosopher's Stone, the reopening of the Chamber of Secrets, Peter Pettigrew's escape, the Triwizard Tournament, and the dark event in the Department of Mysteries. But now, spring marked the time when Dumbledore held his hand, dying in his lap and telling Harry –love was the answer, it was the season they publicly announced their peace treaty. It was a time for unity, symbolised by joining hands and learning new dances.
Summer, which had once meant long, hot days gardening in the sun, dealing with Mrs Figg's cats, missing Hogwarts, dodging his blood family and his lonely birthday, had transformed into spending time with his godchildren, nieces, and nephews, enjoying the Quidditch season, travelling the world, or house renovations.
Autumn, previously associated with tingling nerves on the first train ride back to school, new faces, and new challenges, had evolved into singing songs with the Weasleys, reminding Hermione of her age, training new duellists and Aurors in his program, and quiet days in the library studying magic together.
Winter had a special place in his heart. Winter meant warmth.
Winter was the season Harry first saw his parents in the mirror of Erised, the Golden trio’s first polyjuice hijinks (which would lead to many others), his introduction to the Mauraders Map, and his favourite holiday: Christmas. Most importantly, it was the season when he had met him. That encounter had changed everything, especially the course of the war.
Harry stood in his deep maroon outdoor robes, adorned with synthetic fox fur lining. In one hand, he held a bouquet of summer flowers preserved under stasis, along with bottles of rosemary and cinnamon tied to its centre. He had been preparing to leave but was captivated by the view outside his window.
His backyard was covered under a blanket of white.
Footsteps drew nearer, and a hand rested gently on his shoulder. "Are you ready?"
Harry turned, offering a small smile. "Yes, sorry," he said, motioning toward the window. "It snowed."
Voldemort hummed in agreement, showing no urgency. "Indeed," Harry could feel his towering form from behind, arms snaked around his waist, and his breath ghosted Harry’s ear.
"Beautiful."
***
December 24th 1997 was the first time Harry had ever visited the grave of his parents, and he’s kept the tradition over the years. Harry walked through the quiet graveyard of Godric's Hollow. His feet made soft crunches in the fresh snow as he made his way to his family’s grave.
As Harry approached, he cast a Notice-Me-Not charm around the area. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a small cloth, gently wiping away the snow on the tombstone. There was a spell that could clean it faster, but Harry wanted to feel their tombstones, touch the weight of it and be as near to them as he could.
Afterwards, Harry stood there for a moment, the cold winter air biting at his cheeks. He uncovered one mittened hand and placed it on the cold, stone surface, his fingers tracing the engraved names of his parents. In the beginning, he felt awkward, trying to ‘talk’ to them, but now it was cathartic, a way to remind him he was not alone. He told them the highlights of his year, especially about the new life he now spends with the man accompanying him.
Voldemort, standing nearby, was silent and respectful. He was here because Harry had asked him to be, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve to be. A part of Harry still ached, some days the guilt would return, and on darker days he wondered if his parents would ever forgive him for being in love with their murderer.
But years of misery have taught Harry that he has to permit himself to be happy. Harry promised himself to no longer be beholden by the past. Reconciliation, peace and healing was a longer harder road, but it must be done. He must focus on the here and now, what's best for the world, for him, and that is his life with the once Dark Lord, turned Crowned Head of Britain’s Wizarding World.
Harry tried not to focus on titles these days, to him Voldemort would always be his lover, his partner, his family.
Harry’s gaze shifted to the name beside his parents, "lost in body but never from memory," where Sirius Black's was enshrined. Harry’s biggest regret. Remus had tried to fill the role of a father, albeit a little late, but he had his own family and son to care for and their relationship was never as close as either of them wished to be.
For a brief moment, Sirius had been Harry's little ray of light in the darkness of his loveless childhood. Had been the promise of a family. His death had hardened Harry, made him a man, a child soldier for war. Learning of his brother’s sacrifice had made Harry wish desperately for more time with the man, for at least a chance to say, one last goodbye. His death had pained Harry more than the absence of his parents.
Alas, not all broken things can be remedied. Harry cleaned Sirius’s shrine and gently patted it.
“Merry Christmas, Sirius,” Harry whispered, a sniffle betraying him, Harry quickly rubbed his face with his hand, pretending to warm his cheeks.
Turning away from the tombstone, Harry took Voldemort's offered hand. His long fingers intertwined with Harry’s and a warm tingle fell through his arm and slowly covered every part of his body. Harry leaned his shoulder against Voldemort’s. Hand in hand, they embarked on their customary walk through Godric's Hollow.
On this day ten years ago, Harry had recklessly visited his parents, alone.
Voldemort was the one who found him as he was leaving his parents grave. They fought, almost to the death, spells and wands were useless (since their twin cores would not fight each other), so they brawled like heathens in the cold snow.
Harry gave as good as he got but he was finally pinned underneath the Dark Lord, hand around his throat. Time suspended, and strange magic buzzed between them. Later Voldemort admitted that was the first time he felt clarity.
Voldemort recognised Harry for what he was and instead of killing him, changed his plans and kidnapped him.
Harry not only had the locket around his neck, but the Diary he did not destroy in his robes.
They disappeared for nearly four months. Neither the Order of Phoenix nor Voldemrot’s Death Eaters knew of their whereabouts.
People still ask, and Harry isn’t sure how he’d ever correctly explain those months alone with Voldemort- tortuous, agony, falling in love.
They left as enemies but reemerged as allies.
And Voldemort, saved for the Horcrux in Harry, restitched his soul once again.
***
"Jolly, Dangy, Witcher Yule" played on the wireless, performed by the emerging band, the Stranger Siblings. Harry sang off-tune but merry along with the lyrics, poking and swiping his wand in the air. He wore a bright mint and pink apron proudly displaying 'Spelled your Meal with Love' in block colours on the front. Dobby popped in and out, trying to find fault to help. Despite the House Elf's protests, this year, Harry insisted on taking charge of the cooking and decorating for Christmas. Dobby had nearly suffered a mild heart attack when Harry suggested he should just relax for the holiday.
"But I am employed, sir. I only have a holiday of three hours on Christmas Day!"
Harry adored Dobby, but breaking old habits proved challenging. For almost a decade, Dobby had handled all the Christmas preparations, but not this year.
This year was the first Christmas, Voldemort agreed to stay home for. Harry had a hard time convincing the wizard who was partially attached to his work to take leave. Voldemort did not appreciate the holiday like Harry did. It’s a day Harry, we don’t even believe in religion. But it was Harry’s favourite holiday (and no his birthday did not count). After pleading for years, hoping there wasn’t some assassination attempt or another rebel uprising or stupid Death Eater blunders to distract him, Voldemort finally agreed that today they would be spending Christmas- together.
"I really want to do it this year, Dobby. You can handle all the non-Christmas-related tasks. Like we discussed," Harry tried to keep it from sounding like an order, but Dobby's ears folded back, and his eyes widened.
"Have Dobby's decorations not met your expectations, sir?"
Harry winced internally; Dobby did tend to go a bit overboard, especially with the tinsel and streamers. Voldemort had almost set them all on fire last year.
"No, that's not—"
"Is Dobby's cooking unsatisfactory, sir?" Dobby's lips quivered.
Harry panicked internally; Dobby's cooking was perfectly fine, except when he felt challenged by Kreacher and got carried away with seasonings and the number of dishes.
(Voldemort had only frowned in disdain when he woke up to a house filled to the brim with mince pies that one year.)
"Is it Dobby's gift wrapping?"
(They never spoke of the Christmas Wrapping Incident of 2002.)
"No, no, Dobby, everything you do is perfect, as always." Harry quickly assured him, distractedly. He opened the oven and used oven mittens to take it out. "I just want this Christmas to be different, I want to do things on my own. Can we stick with the plan, please?”
Dobby's ears drooped in disappointment, repeating mournfully, “Dobby is to do non-Christmas plans while Mr Harry and Voldemort sir prepare for Christmas.”
“Yes.”
Harry felt a twinge of guilt when he saw Dobby dragging his feet to leave the kitchen. He hoped Dobby would be happy when he got his gift later.
Harry placed the chicken on the kitchen counter and dabbed it with more butter and sugar to help make the outer shell crisp, it was a tip he got from a cooking book. Voldemort took him once to a fancy restaurant where they served chicken with crispy skin and he remembered seeing the older wizard’s browless eyes twitch. Harry knew he had to find the cook and learn the recipe!
Harry placed the roast back into the oven for another ten minutes. He was glad he had done his shopping the week before. Cooking was very time-consuming.
Harry absent-mindedly wiped his hands on his apron while reading through his recipe book. He needed to adhere strictly to the timetable to ensure dinner was ready on time. They were already running late on lunch as it is.
Maybe he’ll do something simple for lunch, he has the rarebit and a few prime ribs already made. Was it weird to eat the same food for both lunch and dinner?
Harry decided lunch would be a later problem. He focused on preparing the dough, kneading it and then leaving it to rise under a warm cloth for an hour or two. Next, he arranged his cookie pans and mixtures (he did the fillings from scratch, but the boxed mixtures were just as good). His vegetables lay in the sink, causing Harry a moment of indecision: should he prepare the dessert filling as planned, or wash and chop the vegetables to bake since the chicken roast was nearly done?
He stepped left and right on the balls of his heels, scratching the back of his head.
Right then, Voldemort entered, giving him a cursory glance from head to toe. "You promised to call me if you needed help," he said, exasperated.
With a wave of his wand, the vegetables began peeling themselves, and plates flew overhead to set themselves on the table.
"You were busy with the decorations," But he was internally pleased, admittedly a little overwhelmed.
"Decorating a tree with tinsel hardly takes hours," Voldemort drawled.
"You're not supposed to use magic for everything," Harry muttered, pouting slightly. Voldemort was more adept at spellcasting, but this was meant to be a special occasion.
"If I had lied and said I did it all by hand, would it make a difference?" Voldemort questioned in that insufferable logical tone of his.
Harry rolled his eyes. Voldemort held his chin up and lightly tapped his head with a scourgify, Harry scrunched his nose, the spell always made his nose itch. "That's not the point."
Voldemort chuckled, swiping back a strand of hair behind his ear.
He wordlessly assisted Harry in organising the kitchen. Plates were flying, the dough shaped on the baking pan, cookies covered with icing, the fillings packed in their piping bags. Harry tried to work around all the magic happening.
“Did you really complete the decorations?”
“I did.”
“And the tree with the baubles?”
“Yes.”
“Even the presents?”
“Wrapped and placed under the tree,” Voldemort replied with an amused smile. "As requested."
The timer dinged and Harry hurried to put on his cooking mittens to open the oven, “I’m just saying you did it all so quickly with so little help.”
“Were you expecting me to dawdle?”
Harry’s cheeks reddened. His eyes trained on his beautiful roast. At least, he knows he did one thing right. Placing it at the centre of the dining table. “I thought we could do some stuff together,” he confessed in a small voice.
“Aren’t we?” Voldemort pointedly stared at the table filled with delicious food.
Harry forced a smile. “Sorry, I’m being difficult now, aren’t I? You’ve set up everything too. Thank you.” To hide his embarrassment he focused on sharpening the knives to cut into the pieces of meat to serve lunch.
Maybe it was the Horcrux link, but Voldemort had a way of knowing without Harry saying anything. Harry could feel his fingers tracing the back of his neck, then a kiss on his head. “We’ll decorate together, next time.”
Next time. Warm caramel melts at the centre of Harry’s chest, his lips upturn.
Harry set the final piece for their small Christmas lunch, not too much, they will have a big dinner later.
Voldemort still poured them both a generous serving of red wine, for us, he defended. Then he changed the track to a classical still Christmas-like tune.
As they settled down to eat, Harry took his seat beside Voldemort, their knees touched.
Voldemort’s brow does that thing that tells he’s enjoying his meal. Harry’s heart does a little dance of its own. Voldemort does not wax poetic words of love, what he feels for Harry is as evident as the clear white snow blanketing their backyard.
Next time, Harry vows, he’ll make more.
***
As the evening unfolded, Harry's friends began to arrive for their Christmas Eve dinner. The gathering was primarily Harry's circle: Ron, Hermione, Remus and Tonks, their children, the Weasleys, and friends from school. Harry’s family.
As the figurehead, they had the Christmas ball to attend tomorrow, filled with Voldemort’s circle and the bloody press. His friends have family of their own too, so it’s Christmas Eve that they have as their own time.
Voldemort pretends he put up with Harry’s friends on his request, but Harry knows he has grown fond of Luna. it’s hard not to, she’s an interesting person.
Harry greeted each of them with exuberant warmth, hugs, and joyful exclamations, Rose and Hugo asked for a double spin from their godfather. Teddy changed his hair black and Harry exchanged a bear hug with Remus.
They mostly gave Voldemort a polite handshake or a stiff nod. Which after years, was an improvement. Teddy morphed his eyes to turn a little red.
There was delicious food, fine wine, crackers passed around, and jokes that sparked laughter. Upbeat music played, and everyone was a little loose thanks to Fred and George’s silly act. Voldemort was silent, sitting beside Harry observantly and not participating much, but Harry was grateful for it all the same. There were no tears or anger among his friends; they had moved past those emotions.
To Harry, this evening was already perfect.
“Alright, onto the next event!” Ron said with a bellow his cheeks tinged pink. His children giggled in unison at him. “Presents!”
***
Traditionally gift giving was Christmas Morning, but since everyone was already gathered, it would be done tonight. Harry had been preparing for this moment for nearly four months, he was pretty excited to give Voldemort his gift.
Voldemort wasn’t an easy man to give gifts to. When asked he’d unhelpfully say: just you, my Harry. Which wasn’t Christmassy in Harry’s opinion. Voldemort already had him, and they had great sex all the time.
No, he wanted to give something special.
Harry's gift was in a glassed box with holes on top. Voldemort slowly uncovered it.
"No one can replace Nagini," Harry said in Parseltongue. When Voldemort tried to take the Horcrux back Nagini didn't survive the ritual, which was why Harry’s Horcrux remained. “But a new companion as you work long hours in your study?”
Voldemort held out the black and blue python. It flickered its tongue. “You are my master?”
“It would seem so, what is your name?”
“Mara,”
Voldemort nodded in acknowledgement, his voice softened, "This is perfect, Harry." Letting the snake slither and explore on his arm.
“Can I touch it?” Teddy asked, the other children were wide-eyed too.
Remus winced but Voldemort extended his arm and Mara hissed towards Teddy, the children squealed in delight.
Harry's heart clenched in happiness. The children knew a different Voldemort and were unafraid. Untouched by war. Living in a better world.
Harry hoped Voldemort understood his silent appreciation. Voldemort chose to transform their bond into a soul bond, healing the Horcrux that connected them. The world hailed him as a hero for bringing them peace, but it was Voldemort who had to do the most work.
Everyone else’s gift was next. Most of them gave greeting cards or stationary to Voldemort. Ron and Hermione gifted him a dragon translator, while Neville presented him with beautiful seeds for his garden. Fred and George, ever the pranksters, gave him a pair of scaly socks. Dobby contributed a woolly cap (Dobby sobbed when he saw Harry give him a small elf-sized knitted bear).
At last, Voldemort announced, "My gift next," and abruptly left the room.
Everyone was a little confused Ron quipped, "Err... is it the gift of absence?"
Hermione swiftly elbowed him in the ribs, “He’s obviously getting Harry’s present now.”
When Voldemort returned no one, not even Harry expected him to return with a bundled blanket in his arm.
Harry stood up, his eyes zeroing in on the ‘gift’ in Voldemort’s arm.
He could hear gasps behind him.
“I…” Harry was lost for words.
“I have studied the Veil in the Department of Mysteries. It is, as we suspect, a portal for the spectres and spirits to pass through. They take a peak from their realm to ours. It was never meant to be a gateway for a full-bodied human–”
“It can’t be…” Remus said, stepping forward hesitatingly.
Voldemort was close enough that Harry could look properly at the tuft of black hair and silver eyes staring back at him.
“Deaged, no recovering his memories, I still had to perform a resurrection ritual for a new body, but still he’s–.” Voldemort handed over the baby into Harry’s arms.
“Sirius.” Harry swallowed thickly. The baby suckled his thumb.
Everyone else gathered around them, exclaiming in delight. Remus was outright sobbing. Harry’s vision was obscured with tears too, clutching his gift with so much joy, he thought he was spelled weightless. He sought Voldemort.
Separate from the huddled crowd, red eyes glowing with mirrored emotion.
***
“Nothing I do can ever bring them back,” Voldemort said, every night before their trip to Godric’s Hollow. It was as close to an apology as Harry would ever get.
“I know.”
It wasn’t perfect, but it was the opportunity to reconcile, to have closure. A new beginning.
It was enough.
Lying in bed, the half-moonlight filtered through their window. Voldemort spooned behind him, the heat of his body a remainder of their earlier activities, snaking his hand to rest on Harry's bare chest. Harry intertwined their fingers.
“I think it’s going to snow.”
Voldemort hummed. “So it is.”
A gentle kiss on Harry’s bare shoulder. Then a promise.
“You will be warm.”