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Voldemort's long fingers drifted over Harry's still form with a reverence that bordered on worship. The war was over. His enemy was dead. His equal was dead.
And yet, victory tasted strangely hollow.
Harry lay upon silken sheets, dark lashes resting against pale cheeks as though he merely slept. His unruly hair fanned across the pillow in familiar disarray, untouched by death's cold hand. In his arms rested a bouquet of flowers, delicate petals gathered against his chest like an offering.
Like a bride.
Like something precious being given away.
Mine, Voldemort thought.
Always mine.
He traced the line of Harry's jaw with the back of his fingers, committing every contour to memory. The stubborn curve of his mouth. The softness of lips that would never speak his name again. The scar that had tied their fates together long before either of them understood what they had become to one another.
An enemy.
A rival.
A mirror.
The only soul in existence capable of standing beside him.
The only soul worthy of him.
Death had stolen the fire from Harry's emerald eyes, but it had not diminished his beauty. If anything, it had made him untouchable, preserved forever in perfect stillness.
Voldemort leaned closer.
"Did you truly think death would free you from me?" he murmured.
His hand slipped into Harry's hair, smoothing back the unruly strands with surprising tenderness.
"You belong to me even now."
The words echoed through the silent chamber.
Others would call it madness.
Possession.
Obsession.
Perhaps it was all three.
But Voldemort had never learned how to let go of what was his.
And Harry Potter had always been his.
Not in life, where they had spent years tearing pieces from one another.
But now.
Now there would be no more running. No more defiance. No more impossible escapes.
Harry would remain beside him forever, cradled in death as carefully as one might cradle a beloved treasure.
Voldemort brushed his thumb across Harry's lower lip and felt an ache settle deep within the hollow place victory should have filled.
He had won.
The world was his.
Yet the only thing he wished to see open its eyes again was the boy he had killed with his own hands.