Work Text:
A tempus charm shows that it is half past two in the morning, and Voldemort has only just managed to free himself from the tedium of the ministry. If someone had warned him a decade ago that ruling over Wizarding Britain would be more paperwork than flare, he would have burned the entire country to ashes rather than take it over. Alas, here he is, the very put upon dictator of a nation.
After an arduous day of subjecting himself to the endless sycophantic whining of his followers, there is only one thing that Voldemort wishes to do and that is to make his way to his personal chambers, pull back the covers of his richly appointed bed, and curl himself around the warmth of his dearest, sleeping horcrux.
Let it be known that Lord Voldemort himself does not require the regenerative properties of sleep. Sleep is for the weak, sheeplike mortals who have not delved into the vast depths of magic as far as he. However, he believes that suffering through the insipid masses for twelve straight hours entitles him to a little indulgence .
What Voldemort does not want to be doing is investigating intruders in his manor at- he casts another quick tempus- quarter to three in the morning. Of course, Lord Voldemort’s wards are the most impeccably crafted in all of the British Isles, and thus an intruder is an impossibility. An errant and incredibly stupid minion is much more likely. In which case, Voldemort may be able to fit in a spot of the cruciatus before he seeks out his beautiful soul.
As his bare feet glide over the carpet, which he appropriated from some grubby pureblood or another, his trusted yew wand slips into his hand. He strokes the wood as he mentally catalogues other curses that he could introduce this intruder to. Lord Voldemort is responsible for creating so many spells, and there are those that he has not yet had the occasion to test. Perhaps, the nightmare paralysis curse or the rib retracting jinx…
He finally reaches the entrance to the kitchen, and with a flick of his wand, opens the doors silently as to not alert his prey. The sight that greets him stills him in the doorway. Lord Voldemort is not plebeian enough to say that his jaw dropped. That being said, he is momentarily arrested by the sight of one Harry Potter hanging upside down from his broomstick while consuming a frankly large pint of what appears to be rocky road ice cream.
If that is not enough for Voldemort to process, Harry has also managed to leave the door to the infernal muggle refrigerator hanging wide open. The very same blasted device that he had insisted that Voldemort install after they wed ten long years ago. The Dark Lord watches mist seep from the ice box into the kitchen a moment longer before slamming the door closed with a wandless charm.
The bang of the door elicits a startled chirp from his little lion. The small sound causes a strange tightening sensation in Voldemort’s chest. Still dangling precariously by his knees, Harry swings around on his broom to face the noise.
“Vee, you’re home!”
The boy drifts closer and proffers a spoon of the melting sugary concoction. Voldemort eyes it dubiously.
“Want some?” Wide emerald eyes blink at him from behind glasses that hang slightly askew. Voldemort raises a hand to fix the slipping eyewear, brushing along Harry’s cheek and into his curls as he does so.
“I think not.”
He drags his eyes up from Harry’s face to the oversized shirt he wears- one of the Dark Lord’s own, he notes with satisfaction. The garment is slowly losing its fight against gravity and allowing Voldemort a glimpse of tan skin near his hip. A grumbling noise drags his attention back down. Harry is wearing a put out expression, but his cheeks are flushed with heat. Slowly the broom rises into the air so that Harry is level with Voldemort’s considerable height.
“You don’t have to stare.” His darling mumbles.
“Oh,” he says, lifting a hairless eyebrow. “Would you rather that Lord Voldemort touched instead?”
Harry’s eyes widen comically, his blush deepens, and then Voldemort suddenly finds himself with a spoonful of rocky road shoved into his mouth. Sugary sweetness floods over his palette. He banishes the offending object, and drags a forked tongue along his lips to clean the remainder of the sticky mess away. All the while, he pins Harry with his stare.
“Remind me why I put up with you, pet?”
Harry breaks out in a cheery smile that brings that tight sensation in Voldemort’s chest back full force, and then his soul is pressing his lips against Voldemort’s. He allows Harry to guide the kiss, and grants him entrance when he licks into his mouth. Lord Voldemort, as it turns out, was wrong; he does have a taste for sweet things. He brings his hand up to pull Harry closer, but the infuriating boy pulls away first.
His brave little Gryffindor hums as he dips a finger into the ice cream pint, seemingly not bothered at all by the lack of spoon. Voldemort watches Harry suck the ice cream clean from his finger, and then go back for more. When Harry offers his finger, Voldemort doesn’t hesitate to take the slender digit into his mouth.
“Vee,” he sing-songs, “they don’t call me your prophecized downfall for nothing.”
Voldemort cannot respond to the insolent menace as said menace’s finger is now stroking the inside of his mouth gently. Harry has the audacity to laugh. Voldemort ensnares him with a heated glare. Clearly, his “prophecized downfall” is not distracted enough. Voldemort will have to fix that.