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The thing is, true love is all well and good while it lasts, but when it’s time to leave your autocratic despot sorcerer lover, it’s not quite as easy as sending a breakup missive.
Harry dawdles, admittedly.
The countdown is quiet at first. It is ignored with a look, a touch, a kiss, waved away in favor of leaning into Voldemort’s side. Six years is long enough for Harry to know the tenor of his lover’s moods. When to please him, when to annoy him. He does quite like annoying him, now in ways quite different than he once used to, back when they were enemies on a battlefield.
Months pass, and Harry still thinks about it, in those hours when it’s dark and quiet, and it feels as though the entire castle has vanished, and only they have remained. The clock chimes more urgently with each passing month. The more Harry thinks about simply staying, the louder it chimes, until it starts to drown out those thoughts.
As the commander of the castle’s knights, Harry receives missives of tasks to be done, approved by Voldemort during his court sessions. The previous holder of this role had preferred to stay within the castle, to indulge in politics; Harry often goes with his men.
He starts leaving the castle more often, sometimes alone, on tasks that could perhaps be done easily without him. Voldemort looks at him in askance a few times, but doesn’t ask, and Harry doesn’t explain.
In spring, a hydra falls to the ground before him, days of battle completed with a thump.
The village witch, whose daughter had fallen to the hydra weeks ago, thanks him with a shower of silver sparks.
“What is this?” Harry asks.
“A guarantee,” she tells him. “That soon, you will find your heart’s desire.”
“I’ve found him already,” Harry tells her.
But she only smiles. “It wouldn’t work, had that been true.”
And maybe she’s right, Harry thinks as he collects the hydra’s venom for the castle’s physician. Maybe they’re both right. The Harry of six years ago was a different man, with a different heart’s desire. Harry’s nostalgic to think of him, this young man, war-weary, grown up in a civil war that doesn’t end until he bends his knee. Until he kisses Voldemort’s hand, and more than that. Until Voldemort puts the prophecy of his doom to rest, as his reign cannot end by Harry’s hand if Harry’s reign and his are the same.
Ensorcelled, his friends called him, but Harry joined him eyes wide open, and the civil war came to an end. The mirror that proclaimed the prophecy cracked into millions of pieces that very day.
There’s still spots of fighting between the old factions, the occasional brawl in a tavern, but nothing on the level of six years ago.
Harry’s still that young man who wanted peace, just as in some ways, he’s still that angry teenager, and that child whose parents died in a senseless struggle.
It’s only that, well.
It’s been six years. He’s come into himself. He’s had time to think.
A few of his men, injured in the battle against the hydra, hear of the witch’s spell. News arrives to Voldemort almost before Harry himself does.
Voldemort’s caress is with his magic, and the expression he makes when he cannot find the spell has Harry feeling so fond. That grumpy look.
“I don’t trust it, but I can’t find a trace of it,” Voldemort eventually says, and his caress becomes more physical than magical. “You’ll come to me if you feel ill.”
“I’m fine,” Harry tells him, amused. “More than fine. I’ve been told I’ll come across my heart’s desire any day now.”
“What is it that you desire?”
Harry kisses him in answer. He takes his time about it, tracing his lover’s lips, his shoulders, his chest. They fall into bed together almost without thought.
After, Harry is awake, and so is Voldemort. Harry finds his hand, holds it. This is the life he’s made. He’s happy with it, in most ways. But it’s not his heart’s desire, is it?
Voldemort’s grip tightens, then deliberately loosens. “You will come to me,” he says again. “You will tell me.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Find the words.”
Harry’s gaze rests on their hands. He doesn’t manage to say it, not really, not now. The matter had been brought up a few times over the years. Voldemort has been firm in his opinions. That’s what happens when you start something with the immortal sorcerer who took the Hogwarts throne from the former royal family, who ruled for decades in spite of the prophecy that proclaimed his future demise, who accepted Harry’s white flag and forged a different path together with Harry.
It’s only that, well, immortal sorcerer despots are a bit set in their ways. No interest in lineage struggles, Voldemort had once told him, as he closed the matter despite Harry’s arguments. No need for inheritance issues when there is no one to inherit. No fuss, no mess.
And in the six years since Harry joined him, he’s realized that he wants that fuss in his life. The mess, the joy of it.
A week later, Harry takes his leave of the castle. It’s the coward’s way out, but in all honesty, Harry’s not sure if Voldemort would actually let him leave. He decides not to test it.
Within a day, the first missive arrives. Traveling all day on his fastest horse, Harry is out of range of Voldemort’s detection spells, but one can never be out of range of the crack of thunder above Harry’s head and the voice that appears out of nothing.
His lover is charming, at first. He speaks of Harry perhaps having gotten lost on the road. He tries to coax Harry to say something in return — one uttered word in reply, and Voldemort would be able to pinpoint him again. Harry is silent. Voldemort worries of Harry’s health, of the emptiness of their chambers. Eventually, he mentions a worry of Harry’s men, and how they fare without him, but the subtext does not become text.
Harry wonders at how much of his hair Voldemort must have collected in the past, to send such missives every day. Each missive burns a strand of hair, but Voldemort shows no sign of stopping.
Neither does Harry. He crosses the border two weeks and three horses into his journey. From there, it’s only a few days until he reaches one of the small villages that sprung up six years ago, when those who refused to live with Harry’s decision left the kingdom.
Voldemort’s missive is particularly agitated that night. The manipulations continue, more florid this time.
I told you to come to me, Voldemort says, and Harry wants to say, I did. I came to you thrice. We argued each time. I’m all out of arguments.
Hermione and Ron are pleased to see him, which does wonders for the last lingering strands of guilt for joining Voldemort. It’s the first time he’s seen them in six years; they weren’t happy to return to peacetime inside Voldemort’s kingdom, while Harry hasn’t been willing to leave Voldemort for long. Who knows what one’s despot lover is likely to do when left unattended? And besides, Harry’s fond of him, too fond by far. It was never a chore to love him.
While not on Voldemort’s level, Hermione has some magic within her. She looks him over once Harry has settled in.
“Ah, there it is,” Hermione murmurs, her fingers clenching as if to tug.
“Voldemort himself couldn’t find it.”
“He’s not worked as a midwife.”
“Am I—?”
“Not yet. The potential awoke within you, but it hasn’t been activated.”
Relief wars with something sadder.
He wouldn’t have liked to force his lover’s choice.
Or maybe he would have. Harry could be selfish, too.
“What are you going to do now, Harry?” she asks, her fingers losing the touch of magic.
“He’s not allowed to cross the border. The wards are too strong to cross without a ward-breaker, and he doesn’t want all-out war. It hasn’t been long enough since the last war.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t know,” Harry admits, which is all the answer he has to give. It must be good enough, because Hermione doesn’t press him further.
His heart’s desire is no small thing, not a decision to be entered into lightly. But the very fact that he can, that it’s possible, warms him to the soul. Even as Voldemort’s absence leaves him wanting. His bed is empty. Harry’s not used to it; this isn’t a camp in the woods, on hard earth, in search of a beast dragging villagers away. If there’s a bed, then Voldemort should be in it.
The land itself is different here, the people, too. Harry’s not sure he’ll stay, but neither does he know where to go. In the meantime, his old friends are good company, and their two children are delighted to have a new uncle. They’ve only heard stories of Harry Potter, the man who did two things wrong and one thing right, or maybe the other way around, depending on who’s telling the story.
The missives stop for a while, then continue at twice the previous pace.
I would have given you leave to see them, Voldemort tells him, his voice sibilant. A month. Two. Perhaps three. Were they your heart’s desire? These traitors, deserters?
“No,” Harry says for the very first time, secure in the knowledge that Voldemort’s spies have no doubt already found his location.
Voldemort pauses. The crackle of thunder is almost lovely. “Harry,” he says, and it’s an arrow straight to his heart.
Ah, fuck.
Maybe he does regret it. “Voldemort.”
For all that Voldemort has spoken a lot these past few months, he is quiet now.
Harry finds it in himself to speak. “I loved you first when I was twenty-one. Had this spell found me then, it would have led me right to you, but it’s different now. Peacetime has brought me growth. You’ve brought me joy. I know my own mind. And I do love you — of course I do. That part hasn’t changed. But I learned these past years that I could love another. That I want to love another.”
A spot of humor in Voldemort’s voice despite everything: “Your affection for Severus has grown, I see. I grant you leave to love him.”
“I’d rather hang,” Harry tells him in reply. He wishes he could see Voldemort’s face. Voldemort’s voice isn’t enough. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” A pause. “Have you already…?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Were you jealous?” Harry can’t help but ask.
“I am relieved. Assassination is a costly process. Your lover would have needed to be killed subtly, so as not to arouse a war.”
Harry huffs, desperately fond, just as he knows he probably shouldn’t be. But despite Voldemort’s jealousy, the matter remains. “I haven’t changed my mind. I won’t, likely. It didn’t seem fitting to argue with you again — had there been room for change in your mind, I would have found it, before.”
“I hadn’t realized I would need to make room,” Voldemort replies.
“I left so that your hand wouldn’t be forced,” Harry tries to explain. “I was trying to respect your choice!”
“Harry.” The name cuts through the block of emotion in Harry’s throat. He’s heard his name so many times from Voldemort: on the battlefield, at court, in bed. He’s heard it in every tone that Voldemort has available to him. “Understand this: when I told you I would have you, that I cared less for war and prophecy and the opinions of my advisers than I did for your presence next to me, I did not mean a paltry six years. You will be returning. We will be having a child, and I will adjust, just as I adjusted to removing Lucius from my castle when he did not care to understand the length of your stay.”
“You can’t just decide this,” Harry says, weakly. “You have to want it.”
“I will want it,” Voldemort tells him, and his voice is firm. “I will… study up on the matter. No doubt there are uses for children. Sorcery assistants, and such.” There’s a certain satisfaction in his tone when he says, “I have never lost a battle. I will not be losing this one, even if it is against myself.”
“Not against me?” Harry asks.
“Our battles are long over. Come home.”
And what is there to do but say yes?
Harry closes his eyes as the rumble of thunder fades. He recalls those strange first days, when in the midst of peace talks that everyone knew would fail, he came upon that evil immortal sorcerer he’d only known on the battlefield, and he’d struck up a conversation with him. Until one day turned to months, the peace talks taking oddly long, and when words turned to touch and back again and back again. He’d made his choice then; he can’t unmake it. He doesn’t want to, in truth. There is no heart’s desire if Voldemort isn’t right there next to him.
In the morning, over breakfast, Harry says, “I’m going back.”
“Thought you might,” Ron replies, passing the eggs. “All settled now?”
“It’s starting to be. Did you expect it?”
“Much as I hate him, that man is obsessed with you. There weren’t too many ways this would end.”
And maybe there weren’t. Harry’s happy for his journey anyway, as he hugs Ron and Hermione and the kids, and he sets off for the border. The way back takes longer, now that he isn’t forcing his horse close to its limits.
It’s midday when Harry returns to the castle. He passes a group of servants, who have begun working on a nursery, and he passes many people in line for an audience with their king. Harry ignores them all as he makes his way up to the throne. The kiss he presses against Voldemort’s lips isn’t particularly meant for polite company, but Voldemort doesn’t seem to mind.
“I missed you,” Harry tells him, in lieu of an apology. And Voldemort kisses him again.