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Theron Ignatius Potter-Gaunt fits perfectly into the crook of an arm, all soft, pudgy weight and warm, milky breath. He is made, it seems, to be held.
His cheeks are round with baby fat, plush enough to dimple when he smiles—which he does often, and without hesitation. His soulful eyes, startlingly green and full of stars, sit bright against a face that is otherwise unmistakably Voldemort’s in miniature. They follow movement with quiet, unwavering intensity—curious, observant—as though the world has already proven itself worthy of his attention in ways adults simply cannot comprehend.
People tend to pause when they see him for the first time.
There is always that flicker—recognition, confusion, then something sharper, closer to unease—before it smooths itself over into polite delight. Wariness never lingers for long. Not when the baby in question beams up at them, reaching out with uncoordinated enthusiasm, as though strangers exist solely to yield before the power of his cuteness.
“Rooney,” Amaris often calls him, tapping his nose with solemn importance as they play at a grand tea party, she the queen of the court and everyone else her loyal subjects (Theron’s tea, of course, discreetly replaced with milk).
Voldemort always grimaces in distaste whenever he hears the awful nickname.
Salem, for his part, insists that it is perfectly sensible, even as he busies himself with harmless crayons, carefully painting his little brother’s nails in a riot of mismatched colors.
“Rooney” gurgles in response, thoroughly pleased with both the name and himself.
He is all of five months old, and entirely fearless. Voldemort despairs; there is a very real likelihood the boy will be sorted into Gryffindor when Hogwarts comes calling.
For now, however, he’s still an unsorted baby—albeit an incredibly demanding one. Theron does not wait to be picked up; he summons.
Small hands would stretch outward, fingers opening and closing with mounting impatience until someone complies. And once he has caught hold of something tangible—fabric, hair, a finger—he refuses to release it, his grip surprisingly strong for something so small and soft.
And, for reasons known only to himself, His Majesty the Emperor has chosen Voldemort to be his person.
It becomes apparent early.
The moment Voldemort steps into a room, Theron stills—then twists, searching, his entire body leaning toward him with startling, single-minded purpose. If he is not immediately collected, there will undoubtedly be a sharp, indignant cry, escalating with alarming speed. No one else will do.
It is… quite overwhelming, to be perfectly honest.
For a time, Voldemort develops an unfortunate increase in workload.
Papers require urgent attention, you see. Meetings also stretch longer than necessary. Entire afternoons vanish into pressing matters that, upon closer inspection, are neither pressing nor particularly necessary at all.
This strategy endures for precisely three days before meeting a swift and unceremonious end.
On the morning of the fourth, Harry appears like a vengeful boggart in his hiding place—his study, in truth—expression drawn tight, an unhappy baby in his tired arms. There is no preamble.
Theron is deposited promptly—unceremoniously—into Voldemort’s awkward arms, a warm, wriggling weight that settles with alarming inevitability.
“Your son,” Harry declares, and leaves.
The door shuts with quiet finality.
A brief, suspended silence follows, during which both father and son continue to stare at it.
Then Theron lets out a small, outraged sound, fists bunching stubbornly in Voldemort’s robes as though lodging a formal complaint about past abandonments. He cranes his head back, eyes wide and accusing, every inch the wronged victim—
—and then, just as suddenly, he settles.
One plump, rosy cheek nuzzles against his father’s chest, a pleased little hum vibrating through him like a purring kitten, soft and content, as though this outcome had been inevitable from the start.
As though he had already won, and now merely basking in the quiet certainty of his rightful victory.
Voldemort stares down at the small creature, expression perfectly impassive. Shameful though it may be to admit, the Dark Lord has absolutely no idea what to do henceforth; he is, woefully, out of his depth.
It had been his suggestion to have another child, yes, but the thought had begun and ended with the image of Harry—pregnant, glowing, unmistakably his. He had been rather taken with the sight after the omega’s first pregnancy.
Only now does he concede, perhaps somewhat belatedly, that he had failed to consider the inevitable consequence of pregnancy.
The baby.
Who is staring up at him, all innocent and unrepentant, eyes too bright and wide. Amaris and Salem’s eyes are their own shades of green, but Theron’s are unmistakably Harry’s; it is, unfortunately, rather charming, and this tiny creature certainly knows how to work his advantages.
Lord Voldemort sighs in defeat.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Things improve—slowly, and not without hardships.
Voldemort finds himself adapting with the efficiency of long habit, if not with any particular willingness. With the assistance of the house-elves, any… unseemly disasters are avoided.
Salem and Amaris might initiate contact, offering affection with mischievous generosity—
—but Theron simply demands it.
A whimper here, soft and pitiful. A hitch in his breath there, carefully measured.
It escalates with remarkable precision—never quite loud enough to be intolerable, never enough to justify refusal, but always sufficient to suggest some grave and personal injustice.
Voldemort has narrowed his eyes at him more than once, faintly suspicious that the display is intentional.
(Unfortunately, Legilimency is not an acceptable method of obtaining proof. Harry has made that abundantly clear.
“All babies are like that,” he’d said. “He just wants your attention.”)
Attention it is, then. Time with Theron becomes less avoidable, and more… constant, after.
Unlike the twins, who at five years old are already capable of entertaining themselves with quiet schemes and contained chaos, the littlest member of their family prefers a far simpler approach: to remain firmly attached to any progenitors in sight who would spare their arms.
The little barnacle has developed a preference for proximity that borders on absolute tyranny. Whether this is typical of all babies or simply one of Theron's more peculiar qualities, he cannot say.
Left in a bassinet or bed or a poor house-elf’s arms, the infant lasts mere minutes before stirring awake, lower lip trembling in a manner that suggests profound tragedy—and that Voldemort is, without question, the vilest villain in existence for daring to set him down.
The Dark Lord is forced to learn. Quickly.
More often than not, Harry will find him at his desk, quill moving steadily across parchment, one arm occupied.
Theron rests there, perfectly content, cheek squished against his chest, mouth parted softly in sleep. Occasionally, a tiny hand remains fisted in his robes—just in case.
It is beyond troublesome, but at least the child is easy to manage, thank Salazar for small mercies.
After all, a minor victory is still a victory when it comes to parenthood.
The enchanted nappies clean themselves, vanishing any waste as soon as it appears, sparing everyone involved the more unpleasant realities of infancy. And for everything else—feeding him a pre-prepared bottle, bathing him, settling him back to sleep—Theron is, quite miraculously, an angel.
Whenever he can, Harry nurses the baby, as he once did the twins. But other duties sometimes call him away, and then it is Voldemort who takes up the bottles instead.
With only one child this time, Harry has more than enough milk to spare—and Theron is ever greedy for his mother’s sweetness.
Voldemort understands the small, insistent fussing when the infant demands more, even when he cannot quite finish the second bottle. The milk is… exquisite, unlike any other dairy—rich with something ineffably unique and inexplicably addictive.
No wonder the little glutton’s so chubby.
The feeding ritual is surprisingly simple, requiring little more than holding a bottle at the correct angle. Theron drinks with alarming enthusiasm, finishing quickly, then blinking up at him with bright-eyed satisfaction, expecting praise. A cloth appears; Voldemort wipes his messy little mouth with mechanical precision, all the while feigning rapt attention as the infant babbles on in cheerful nonsense—and he has, evidently, much to say. To this, his father offers the occasional, indulgent “I see,” or “is that so,” which only works to prompt another bright burst of excited ‘chatter’.
Bath time is marginally more chaotic; Theron discovers early on that water can be kicked, and thereafter devotes himself to the activity with tireless enthusiasm, sending water flying over everything within range, including Voldemort—especially Voldemort.
Fortunately, the matter can be remedied with a simple drying charm; otherwise, the Dark Lord might well have gone mad after the sheer number of times his progeny has left him drenched, hair and robes dripping alike.
Harry, of course, finds this endlessly amusing.
“The twins weren’t this easy, you know,” he remarks slyly one evening, watching from the doorway as Voldemort attempts to towel-dry a squirming, freshly apple-scented Theron (drying charms make the little tyke irritated for some unknowable reason). “They were positively rowdy—and there were two of them.”
Voldemort is unsure how to respond. He does not think Harry is bitter, but what he says does not sound entirely like teasing, either. Should he apologize? It seems the sort of thing one says in situations like this. Whether it would improve Harry's mood or worsen it, he cannot quite tell; socializing on a deeper level confuses him greatly.
In truth, he remembers very little of the twins at this age. During the first two years of their lives, his presence amounted to little more than the occasional glance at their sleeping faces, and Harry had understood his nature well enough not to chastise him for being an absent father. There had been other priorities then—a new reign to stabilize, a society to reshape. Harry had handled most of—no, all of the work regarding the twins, and done so admirably well; the two children had turned out wonderful under the careful attention of their emotionally present and loving mother.
This time is… different.
Despite himself, Voldemort is present.
He and Harry are, more or less, equally involved—a fact that remains utterly astonishing even till this day. More often than not, he is the one holding the child, adjusting his grip without thought, accommodating the small, persistent, clinging weight that presses so insistently against him.
Theron, the little tyrant, refuses to have it any other way.
He has never liked children, as a rule. That, at least, remains unchanged—the noise, the mess, the ceaseless trouble; he remembers the orphanage far too well for anything else.
And yet—
He looks down as Theron shifts minutely in his arms, cooing softly in sleep, tiny fingers brushing against Voldemort’s wrist.
He does not put him down.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Today, Theron spends the entire day with his father, as he does twice a week.
After breakfast, the twins vanish through the Floo in a blur of excited chatter and mismatched shoelaces, laughter trailing behind them like fleeting fairy dust; they’re eager to go play with their friends and redheaded cousins at school.
The house, once full, settles into a quieter rhythm in their wake—softer, slower, touched by the absence of small chaos.
Harry lingers only a moment longer.
Just enough to press a quick kiss into Theron’s temple, another to Voldemort’s cheek—brief, warm, easy. He murmurs something low and soft against the infant’s temple, words meant only for him, before straightening, already half-turned toward the door. There is a folder tucked beneath his arm, parchment thick with notes—names, cases, quiet burdens waiting to be sorted.
“Don’t let him charm you into anything ridiculous,” Harry says, though his eyes are fond, betraying him.
Theron, head cradled securely against Voldemort’s shoulder, only blinks at him with wide, guileless eyes—
—and promptly drools all over the fingers he’s been contentedly sucking on.
Were Voldemort a lesser man, he might have averted his gaze, self-conscious of how much the omega now knows.
All available evidence suggests he has yielded to this small, tyrannical creature far too many times—whether it be handing over yet another bottle of milk, or allowing himself to be coaxed, somehow, into lying on the floor amidst a scatter of toys, a captive audience to nonsensical babbling and soft, triumphant coos.
Logically, there shouldn’t be that many interesting things about such a small infant who can’t even speak or crawl properly, yet Voldemort has lost track of how much time he’s spent just… watching the tiny creature play.
He would never confess to such indulgences, though, not even under Crucio.
The door closes behind Harry.
Silence returns—gentle, unhurried—broken only by the faint rustle of robes and the quiet, satisfied huff of a baby settling more comfortably upon what is, quite clearly, his rightful throne.
After the twins began primary school and Harry found himself with more time on his hands, he decided to take up charity work.
It is a structured program—measured, reasonable, appropriately altruistic—where those in need may submit their pressing problems, which are then screened for authenticity before being passed along to the higher-ups. An experimental effort, at its core. A way to ease the public into something unfamiliar. A display of benevolence under Lord Voldemort’s reign.
And who better to front it than the Boy Who Lived?
Better, too, that such work rests with someone who truly cares for those he helps, rather than some pompous pureblood who would tolerate the task only to appease their master.
Still, Harry has always had a tendency to act with his heart before his head when confronted with suffering, and so he is not left as the program’s sole authority.
Others are appointed alongside him—cooler minds, sharper edges, meant to temper instinct with practicality. Harry dislikes working with them; that much is obvious. But he concedes their necessity, if only for the perspective they provide.
Today is another day the omega is claimed by such work. He is good for the job, and in turn, it is good for him—his darling wife is the peculiar sort who needs to save people to feel alive, as Miss Granger once so aptly described it: a raging savior complex.
Nothing to complain about there, though, for it was that very impulse that had driven the self-sacrificing, endearing little war bride straight into the Dark Lord's waiting arms, once upon a time.
But he digresses.
Voldemort himself does not go to the Ministry today. His office there has seen remarkably little of him since Theron came into their lives.
Instead, Lucius bears the unenviable, arduous duty of sifting through the endless paperwork, selecting and passing along to his Lord only those few matters deemed truly worthy of attention—and suffering the consequences should anything of importance later surface that he failed to catch.
In short, a glorified secretary; retribution, certainly, for that long and illustrious history of incompetence beginning with the diary.
His study at home more than suffices: high windows letting in generous light, pale gold spilling across dark wood and stone so the baby might get his fill of sunlight. Shelves lining the walls, filled with old, whispering tomes. A desk wide enough to accommodate both business and inconvenience.
The inconvenience currently has a fist tangled fast in his robes, clinging with all the tenacity of a baby koala.
Theron dozes after his morning bottle, blissfully milk-drunk, breath warm and even, cheek pressed against Voldemort’s chest. One tiny hand remains stubbornly clenched, as though he fears that loosening his grip might grant his father the chance to slip away.
Voldemort adjusts his hold once, then leaves him as he is, using his other hand to sign some documents. Theron is, more often than not, a perfect little angel as long as you hold him close.
For an hour or two, it works.
Then the child stirs.
There is no warning; only a sudden shift—a wriggle—and then a quiet but decisive protest against stillness. Theron squirms with intent, twisting in Voldemort’s grasp, small sounds of dissatisfaction building in the back of his throat. His fingers tug insistently at fabric, at hair, at anything within reach, as though the world itself has become intolerable in just a few seconds upon his waking.
Voldemort pauses mid-sentence.
With a soft exhale, he rises, robes whispering against the floor as he crosses the room with careful movements, wary of further irritating the fearsome creature in his arms. In the corner, beneath the wide, sunlit windows, the playpen awaits—lined with a large fur rug so the little menace will not hurt himself, scattered with toys both mundane and enchanted.
The whale is already there.
It sits among other animal friends, impossible to miss—absurdly large, a blue and white creature that dwarfs everything around it, easily thrice Theron’s size. When touched, it gives a soft, musical trill—a low, echoing note, like something distant and deep.
A real whale’s song.
Theron sees it immediately, his entire face lighting up—irritation vanishes as though it had never existed, replaced by pure, unfiltered delight. He leans forward with sudden urgency, fingers opening and closing in eager anticipation, a small, breathless sound escaping him.
“Yes,” Voldemort says dryly. “Your creature.”
He lowers him into the pen.
The moment Theron’s hands and feet meet the rug, he pitches forward with surprising determination, latching onto the whale’s fin with both hands. The plush answers with a gentle warble, soft and welcoming, and Theron responds with a delighted squeal, pressing his face into it as though greeting his best friend.
Amaris had begged Harry to buy it during an outing to a Muggle aquarium last year, and later insisted it be animated—but her interest had faded quickly, as children’s interests often do.
And so, the creature had been passed down, proudly adopted and claimed by Theron.
It is named Blueberry.
By a unanimous vote of mother and all children.
Voldemort watches baby and whale for a moment, quietly marveling at Harry's foresight. The omega had instructed him to enlist Blueberry's services should Theron wake in a foul mood. Apparently his grasp of infant behavior borders on the prophetic.
Theron is already babbling—soft, continuous nonsense spilling from him as though he is recounting some grand and intricate adventure, one of great importance, meant only for his oversized companion. His hands pat and clutch, his voice rises and falls, utterly absorbed.
With one last glance—just to ensure the baby is properly settled—Voldemort turns back to his desk and resumes where he left off, the quiet sounds of his writing underscored by Theron’s soft coos and babbles from the other side of the room.
Every now and then, Voldemort’s gaze drifts back: to the sight of his tiny son, cheeks round and rosy, chattering tirelessly to his enormous plush whale.
Well, at least one of them is having fun.
Voldemort gets lost in work for a while as he is wont to do, only to realize Theron’s soft babbling has gone quiet for a few minutes—too quiet, in fact—so when the Dark Lord finally looks up from his desk, he finds the infant sitting stubbornly upright in the pen, glaring (as much as a baby can glare, hindered by enormous eyes and generous baby fat) at the barrier in front of him.
The baby presses one tiny palm against the wooden rail, then another, giving it a determined, experimental shake. The playpen rattles faintly, but remains unyielding. Theron’s face scrunches up in frustration, and he makes an indignant noise, pounding his little fists like an imprisoned prince demanding release. Apparently, an hour in the playpen is all he can tolerate before his plush companions lose their charm.
Voldemort leans back in his chair and watches his valiant efforts, one elegant brow arching, a low, amused hum slipping past his lips. “So, you’ve decided your confinement is unjust, little one?”
Theron looks up at the sound of his father’s voice, green eyes bright and hopeful. He immediately reaches both arms out through the slats, making grabby hands and cooing insistently. Voldemort chuckles—he can’t help it—and walks over, though not in any hurry.
“Do you plan to break out by force?” he enquires with quiet curiosity, crouching down beside the rails and tracing a long finger along the baby’s soft hand. Theron seizes it at once, chubby fingers curling tightly around his prize with surprising determination, rather like a baby octopus trying to drag unsuspecting prey into the depths.
The boy coos louder this time, babbling something unintelligible but unmistakably demanding.
Voldemort’s sigh is low and theatrically appreciative. “So fierce,” he murmurs, reaching to unlatch the pen. “Very well, little prisoner. I shall grant you parole.”
The moment the gate swings open, Theron lunges forward—if such a wobbly crawl can be called that—straight into his father’s waiting arms. Voldemort lifts him effortlessly, lips brushing the baby’s forehead as Theron cuddles against his front, cooing triumphantly.
“You’re hopelessly spoiled,” Voldemort remarks dryly, stroking the baby’s back. “I can’t imagine where you get that from.”
Theron responds by patting his father’s cheek with one tiny hand, giggling delightedly.
Voldemort returns to his desk with the child secure on one arm, the added weight having become so familiar that he scarcely notices it anymore. He sits, about to reach for his quill again—
—but not before pinching one of Theron’s apple red cheeks with practiced nonchalance. They do look terribly chubby and inviting.
Soft.
Excessively so.
Theron freezes.
His expression shifts—delight warring with annoyance, tiny brows knitting as if deeply offended by the indignity yet pleased by the contact. One hand comes up to pat at his own cheek, as though confirming its continued existence.
He appears deep in baby thoughts, whatever they may be; already a philosopher, it seems.
Voldemort gives him an amused glance before resuming work.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
(His are hands that take what they want, yet nothing he has ever possessed compares to the impossible softness of a babe's skin.
Had Harry Potter been this soft when the Dark Lord came to kill him that fateful night? He had never touched the child directly.
Maybe he should have.
Would the flesh under his skin be as soft? Tender enough to satisfy a monster’s hunger?)
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
Late afternoon finds them outside, meandering along the winding paths of the garden, where the light has softened into something warm and sluggish, settling over leaves and stone in orange gold.
Voldemort does not hold any particular fondness for plants. To him, they are either useful or irrelevant, and most fall neatly into one of those two categories.
Harry, however, has taken to garden work with a quiet sort of devotion, tending to it in his spare hours with surprising patience. He claims it is peaceful—that it allows his hands to move through familiar motions without the burden of thought, that there is comfort in repetition, in coaxing something small into growth.
The results speak for themselves; the garden thrives verdantly beneath his care.
There is no rigid symmetry here, no carefully curated arrangement meant to impress visiting eyes. Instead, the space feels lived in and warm, shaped by purpose that comes from the heart rather than presentation.
Flowers bloom in quiet abundance, not for aesthetics but for the life force they bring, their presence vital and strong, untouched by ornamental pretenses. Beds of medicinal plants grow thick and healthy, some mundane, others carrying a faint hum of magic beneath their leaves. A section is devoted entirely to culinary herbs—basil, thyme, rosemary and the like—interspersed with other aromatic plants and spice-bearing varieties, their distinct scents mingling softly in the air whenever the wind passes through.
Farther out, fruit trees stand in easy proximity, yet spaced just enough that they may breathe—Harry’s words—their branches sturdy, open, and inviting. The twins favor them greatly, often climbing high into their limbs whenever they play outside, much to the distress of the poor house-elves, perching among the leaves as though they are high elves and not human children, laughter spilling like church bells into the open air.
It is, in every sense, a practical garden; not at all the kind that adorns old manors with rare blooms and exotic creatures, but one that exists to sustain, to grow.
Harry does indeed possess a great gift for gardening.
And, Voldemort concedes, the garden serves just as well in another capacity: a most suitable distraction for all their children.
Theron, currently nestled in the crook of his arm, has been rather disagreeable since waking from his latest nap of the day. His rosebud mouth is drawn into a stubborn, mutinous pout, and he squirms with soft, intermittent protests, as though the world has personally offended him in some mysterious, significant way.
Voldemort had, at first, regarded these bouts of irritability with mild confusion, finding little logic in them, but Harry—the resident expert in all matters domestic—had dismissed it easily.
Theron, he had said, is a very easy baby.
He simply does not enjoy waking up.
Voldemort had considered this, briefly, and found it difficult to argue with. A great many adults share the same disposition, including himself.
Still, the small, disgruntled creature in his arms suggests that such understanding does little to mitigate the experience.
Ordinarily, the twins would have taken it upon themselves to entertain their baby brother upon returning from school, eager to include the infant in whatever mischief currently occupies their minds. Today, however, they had secured permission to visit Severus under the pretense of studying potions—a claim Voldemort treats with the skepticism it deserves. At five years old, Salem and Amaris are already the most incorrigible troublemakers he knows, surpassed perhaps only by the infamous Weasley twins.
As such, anything they create is, at best, unpredictable and, at worst, mildly explosive. “Study,” in their case, is an imprecise term.
Very imprecise.
Still, with Severus present, there is some reassurance that their more hazardous impulses will be curtailed before they escalate beyond control.
With his work largely concluded for the day and Theron growing increasingly restless within the confines of the study, Voldemort determines that a change of environment will be beneficial.
For both of them.
There is only so much paperwork one can endure—especially when it serves only to catalogue problems and the many ways in which the incompetent masses have failed to solve them. The Dark Lord finds himself almost nostalgic for those halcyon days when the Cruciatus could be employed as a most effective form of… encouragement and therapeutic release.
But that is a meditation for a different hour.
Better hurry now, as Theron has begun clutching and gnawing at his own feet, growing increasingly agitated with the endeavor. He has been awfully fascinated by them of late. Voldemort gently pries the poor little things from his eager maw.
For the past month, Harry has taken to giving the infant small “tours” of the manor, carrying him from room to room while explaining the function of everything they pass, as though the child understands each word.
He would guide Theron’s tiny hands to touch and explore—the cool, smooth surface of a mirror; the fluffy softness of their house cat’s belly fur; the rough, ridged bark of a tree. The baby seems to delight in these little excursions, his face brightening with each new sensation, his attention caught and held by the sheer novelty of it all. The motion itself soothes him as well, the steady rhythm of being carried easing whatever restless energy lingers in his small body.
Voldemort does not plan to coddle him the same way, with baby-talk and kisses and praises for every gummy smile. Harry had insisted that all the talking and interaction would help Theron pick up sounds and speech more easily, but the mere thought of carrying on a one-sided monologue strikes him as tedious.
Still, he supposes the principle is sound. It would hardly hurt to emulate some of Harry’s nursery wisdom.
He rises from his desk, one hand lifting in a dismissive gesture that sends parchment aligning itself into orderly stacks, quills settling neatly into place. A few heavy tomes slide back onto their proper shelves with quiet precision, restoring a semblance of order to the room.
Theron stirs at the mere prospect of being taken outside; all that sleep has, evidently, restored him in full.
His arm, he notes distantly, has grown rather stiff from holding the child for hours on end—a minor inconvenience, though not an unexpected one.
It may not be obvious at a glance—Voldemort’s height and build dwarf the infant with ease—but Theron is by no means a small baby. He is soft but solid, all rounded limbs and surprising weight; and in Harry’s arms, the contrast is all the more apparent.
Lately, the omega has found himself unable to hold him for long stretches of time, an unfortunate truth all three of them lament. Theron fusses at the loss of his mother’s arms (his disdain for the baby carriage is abundantly clear), Harry bears the limitation with visible reluctance, and Voldemort, by necessity, resigns himself to compensating for those lost hours with his own.
The child, in typical tyrant fashion, cares nothing for his father’s predicament.
Sighing, Voldemort shifts him from one arm to the other, then summons a house-elf and requests suitable clothing for the child’s excursion outdoors. The creature returns at once with a light bunting suit, which Voldemort accepts with a brief, faintly curious glance—just long enough to register the small, unmistakable detail attached to the hood.
Ears.
Bunny ears, to be precise.
He pauses—if only for a second.
This is undoubtedly Harry’s doing; wizarding garments rarely indulge in such… decorative absurdities. It must have come from some Muggle establishment.
It has not escaped his notice that Harry takes great delight in dressing their youngest child in an assortment of whimsical outfits. The omega seems to derive no small amount of satisfaction from playing stylist to his husband's chubby, undeniably more adorable miniature.
The alpha spends a few moments offering silent sympathies to Theron's future teenage self. This does not, however, deter him.
Blissfully unaware of the indignity of bunny ears, Theron allows himself to be dressed without protest, his chubby limbs moving obligingly as the soft fabric is adjusted around him. The hood is drawn up, the ears falling to either side of his head, and he blinks up at Voldemort with the same open, untroubled expression as before, sucking merrily on his own fist, entirely unaware of the effect.
A faint whirring sound stirs the air nearby, drawing the attention of both father and child.
A golden Snitch drifts closer, its delicate wings beating in a soft, steady hum as it hovers for a moment, angled toward them with quiet intent. The enchantments woven into it shimmer faintly, capturing the scene in silent observation before it darts away again.
Harry’s work, once more. Created with Hermione Granger-Weasley’s enthusiastic assistance.
Several of them roam the manor at any given time, collecting fragments of memory—moments deemed worthy of keeping. Every month or so, Harry would gather them, compiling their recordings into albums of moving photographs, though some stretch long enough to resemble the so-called Muggle “videos” more than anything traditionally magical.
An entire shelf in Voldemort’s study has since been claimed for the storage of such albums.
Wisely, he has not objected.
Once the child is properly bundled, Voldemort adjusts him in his arms, ensuring his hold is secure, and turns toward the door. He descends the stairs unhurriedly before passing through the doors of the kitchen suite.
They open onto the veranda, and beyond that, the garden.
He does not hurry along the paths—and because he does not hurry, Theron is given ample time to notice everything.
At the first burst of color—a cluster of peonies in full bloom, their petals layered thick and soft in a shade of pale pink that seems almost luminous—Voldemort slows, stooping slightly to let the baby explore as he pleases. Theron’s fingers press into a blossom with clumsy curiosity, and the petals yield at once beneath his touch. He startles at the sensation, drawing back for a brief moment before reaching again, slower this time, a pleased, bubbling gurgle escaping him as he pats at the bloom enthusiastically, testing its softness.
They move on only when his attention begins to wander, though even then his gaze lingers, reluctant to part from the vibrant flowers.
A little further along, a ladybug rests upon a broad green leaf, its bright red shell stark against the deep green. Voldemort pauses once more, angling the child so he may see it clearly. Theron stills at once, his entire world narrowing to that tiny creature, eyes wide and unblinking as it shifts minutely beneath his gaze. His fingers twitch with the urge to grasp, but Voldemort does not permit it, keeping him just out of reach while allowing him to observe.
“It can bite you,” he murmurs to the child, though Theron hums in soft disagreement, wholly unconvinced.
They continue the journey.
Not far from there, something catches the light along the path—a rounded pebble, though not quite ordinary, its surface glinting faintly in shades of blue and violet. With a small motion of his fingers, Voldemort lifts it, levitating the find into Theron’s waiting hand. The baby curls his tiny fingers around it immediately, bringing it closer, studying it intensely, as though the small stone holds some secret of the universe.
By the time they reach the decorative bridge, Theron has forgotten the pretty stone entirely, letting it fall from his grasp.
The soft rush of water draws a bright, delighted sound from his throat, and Voldemort, after a moment’s consideration, steps to the crest of the bridge and inclines just enough for the child to see. The stream runs clear beneath them, its surface catching the light in fractured glimmers, and within it small shapes stir—frogs, half-hidden along the edges, surfacing in slow, watchful movements. Theron leans forward in response, his entire body tilting with intent, fingers flexing as though he might reach straight into the water and seize one if only he were allowed.
Voldemort steadies him without comment, his hold firm and unyielding.
“Maybe when you’re a little older,” he promises.
From beyond the bridge, the air carries to them a distinct sound—light and delicate, a cascade of silver notes that sing and dance upon the breeze. The wind chimes Harry had hung among the fruit trees sway gently, their music floating through the garden in soft, irregular patterns.
Voldemort remembers, unbidden, the making of them—the kitchen given over to chaos, the floor strewn with seashells and bits of colored glass, beads rolling into corners while the twins chattered over one another with boundless enthusiasm. Harry had sat in the middle of it all, sleeves rolled, beautiful in the way he patiently guided their hands to tie the strings and charms just so.
The finished chimes are uneven, mismatched—and yet undeniably unique, each one carrying its own voice. Mother and children had been beyond proud that day.
Theron catches the soft melody at once, turning toward it as though drawn by an unseen force, his attention claimed by both movement and sound. His eyes settle quickly upon a single charm—a small blue dolphin of glass, translucent and bright, spinning merrily as it catches the light with every passing breeze. Voldemort steps closer, attuned to the child’s interest.
Without comment, he takes Theron’s hand again and guides it toward the charm. The glass is cool and smooth beneath his hand, and Theron gasps softly in delight, trying to wrap his questing fingers around it to no avail. The dolphin spins wildly in response, the chimes answering with a brighter cascade of sound, and the baby lets out a breathless, startled noise, utterly enchanted by the way light fractures across its surface.
They remain there until his excitement settles, until the sounds soften once more into something gentle and distant.
Then Voldemort steps away from the path.
The garden gives way gradually to something less cultivated, the careful arrangement of herbs and trees thinning into a quiet, untamed stretch of woodland. Red maples rise in abundance, their leaves fully turned with the season, and the shift is immediate, almost overwhelming in its intensity.
Autumn has taken this stretch of forest whole.
The canopy burns overhead in deep, vivid shades of crimson, each leaf catching the light before letting it pass, so that the entire expanse seems to ripple with color whenever the wind stirs. The ground beneath is layered thick with fallen leaves, and they give a soft, brittle crunch underfoot as Voldemort walks without hurry, bare feet pressing into the earth, his dark robes trailing behind him like heavy brush strokes drawn across a river of red.
He does not wear shoes; has disliked them ever since he regained flesh and bone anew.
The earth is cool beneath his feet now, solid and grounding, the faint hum of ambient magic rising through it in ancient, steady currents. It is a sensation he has come to prefer—the quiet reassurance of contact, of weight and resistance, of ley lines slumbering in the fathomless depths—something that anchors him in a way he finds difficult to articulate. He remembers the strength of Gaia beneath the legs and scales of his half-dead shells—rotting and crumbling, blind, with no beating heart or working lungs, and yet still wretchedly alive, for a given value of the word.
There are still moments, fleeting yet persistent, when he half expects his hands to pass through whatever he touches, when the memory of being something less gnaws faintly at the edges of his perception.
Evidently, spending over a decade as a wraith has left quite the permanent mark on his psyche; not so noticeable, perhaps, as the masses would argue he had been… unbalanced long before that point.
A cleaning charm hums softly with each step, unobtrusive yet constant, ensuring no trace of dirt follows him back.
In his arms, Theron has gone quiet, utterly absorbed.
His head turns this way and that, eyes wide and bright as they reflect the endless red surrounding them, the earlier irritability forgotten entirely in the face of something so vast and beautiful. Every so often, a small sound escapes him, soft and awed.
They walk until the trees part.
There is a gazebo standing in wait, all pale marble and carved stone shaped into clean, elegant lines, rising with clean deliberation against a sea of red. Its perimeter forms a continuous ring of seating, framed by elegant white columns—an intentional structure, made for this very purpose: to sit within the season and let it unfold around you.
Voldemort steps inside and lowers himself onto one of the stone benches, turning just enough to keep the view open before them. The forest stretches outward in every direction, leaves whispering as they shift, the light filtering through in warm, fading gold.
Theron settles easily against him now, snug and warm and quietly enthralled. A soft coo escapes him now and then as his father’s hand absently traces slow circles along his back; he is, for the moment, entirely content.
With a small motion of Voldemort’s hand, the fallen leaves begin to dance.
They lift gently from the ground, caught in an unseen current, rising and drifting in slow, spiraling patterns through the open air of the gazebo. There is no force or sharpness to it—only a quiet flow, a controlled stirring that coaxes the fallen leaves into motion.
Theron watches, utterly spellbound.
A soft coo escapes him, followed by another, smaller still, as though answering some private curiosity of his own.
One adventurous leaf slips free of the colony and flutters downward, brushing lightly against the tip of his nose.
Theron sneezes.
The sound is impossibly small and precious, more a startled squeak than anything else, and he goes very still afterward, blinking in faint confusion—as though uncertain what has just occurred, or whether he himself was the cause of it.
Voldemort looks down at him, something unreadable yet faintly amused settling into his expression.
“Bless you, little menace,” he murmurs, brushing the stray leaf away with the lightest touch of his fingertip.
Above them, the light changes, slowly.
The sun sinks lower, and the sky follows, gold deepening into amber, then unfolding into richer hues of orange and violet, touched at the edges with soft, fading pink. The colors bleed into one another, lending the world an air of majestic, quiet mystery.
The red of the leaves answers in kind, darkening, deepening, as though the forest itself is settling into the coming night, holding its breath; it has many things to tell.
In the hush that follows, with the child warm and content in his arms and the world softly aflame around them, Voldemort remains where he is for the time being, simply watching.
•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•
It is there, in that moment, that Harry finds them; the bond has led him out here—it is literally impossible to hide from each other, with a connection as strong as theirs, enforced through bond, through soul, through blood.
He does not land at once, but hovers a short distance away upon his broom, drawn by the sight before him.
For a brief, unguarded instant, he simply watches.
The scene feels almost unreal, as though it belongs to a painting: the pale stone of the gazebo set against a forest of fire, the long, dark figure seated within it, robes as black as ink, and in his arms a small, bright thing of softness and warmth, nestled close and content. A most handsome man, holding a most adorable baby.
There had been a time when such an image would have seemed impossible.
If, years ago, someone had told him he would one day stand here—married and bonded to the Dark Lord—Harry would have hexed them where they stood. If they had gone further, insisting that this same Dark Lord would one day sit quietly with a baby clinging to him, tolerating it—worse, indulging it—he would have suggested, quite seriously, that they seek a mind healer; there must be some limit to insanity, after all.
And yet—
Here they are.
Now, each time he sees Voldemort with their children, something in his chest softens and overflows all at once, a quiet, aching fullness that feels too large to contain. Hope, and love, fragile and luminous, making his breath catch, as though his heart has grown too big for his ribs.
He drifts closer under Voldemort’s watchful gaze, the red of his eyes all the more vivid in this tableau.
The broom hovers beside the gazebo, and Harry leans down, one hand braced lightly on the handle as he dips just enough to press a soft kiss to Theron’s round forehead. The baby immediately breaks into bright, eager babbling, small hands lifting as though to greet him.
“Hello, baby. Did you behave for your father, hm?” Harry murmurs, voice slipping instinctively into that softer, lilting cadence he reserves for babies, the kind Voldemort finds utterly ridiculous. He rubs his cheek gently against the boy’s, smiling as Theron squeals in delight. “Of course you did—you’re the best baby. Who’s the best baby? Our little Rooney!”
Voldemort grimaces reflexively at the nickname and the silly baby-talk.
Theron, for his part, answers his mother with a flurry of excited coos and high, delighted sounds, as though determined to prove the claim true, his eyes bright with unmistakable expectation.
Praise me more!
Voldemort watches the exchange with a faint, vexed look.
“You are encouraging the little tyrant to continue his reign of terror,” he remarks dryly. “He is more barnacle than human child at this point.”
Harry makes a soft, dismissive sound, brushing his fingers over Theron’s grasping hands. “Oh, hush, dear husband. Our little cherub cannot hear such harsh criticism,” he says lightly, smiling. “Besides, you spoil him more than I do.”
It is, inconveniently, true.
Harry usually enforces structure because it’s good for the children—meals taken properly, sleep kept to time, small disciplines that shape a healthy routine—but Voldemort is the one who yields when small faces turn pleading, when soft voices insist just once more. And Theron, the devilish cherub, with his relentless need for closeness, has wrapped himself around his father in ways both literal and otherwise.
Voldemort wisely does not argue.
Instead, he reaches for Harry, sliding an arm around his waist and drawing him closer with little regard for the precarious balance of broom and air.
“Hey—” Harry begins, startled, “I’m still—”
The rest is lost as Voldemort leans in and kisses him.
It is not a passionate thing, nor an overly restrained one—simply a press of lips at first, familiar and claiming, followed by softer nips and licks that linger just a moment longer than necessary, strangely chaste. They know the taste of each other by heart, yet they linger over it every time, as though savoring discoveries—each touch a new sentence in an endless novel, each kiss an old ship finding its way home.
Harry responds gladly to every caress inside his mouth, every nibble at his lip, as though they are two children playing, exchanging precious gifts. One hand slips into silky dark curls, fingers curling there as if they were never meant to rest anywhere else. He has never been good at denying Voldemort any kind of affection, physical or otherwise.
Between them, Theron squirms in discomfort.
Squished between their chests, he lets out a small, indignant coo, shifting in protest at being so thoroughly ignored. How dare his parents squish him and then play without him too? Preposterous!
They part.
Harry laughs softly under his breath, pressing one last, lingering kiss to Voldemort’s lips before glancing down, expression turning apologetic as he brushes a hand over the baby’s puffed-out cheek.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t mean to squish you.”
Voldemort, far less repentant, reaches out and presses a finger into the soft dimple of Theron’s cheek, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly. “Dramatic,” he mutters. “Tiny tyrants and their fragile sensibilities.”
Harry adjusts himself, shifting to sit sideways on the broom, leaning in so his head rests lightly against Voldemort’s shoulder. One hand finds Theron’s, small fingers curling instinctively around his as he absently strokes them.
“Sal and Mari aren’t back yet?” he asks.
“You know how they are when granted access to Severus’s domain, darling,” Voldemort replies, his tone softening as he dips his head to press his lips briefly to Harry’s temple. His free hand lifts to sweep the wind-tossed, endearingly messy strands from Harry's eyes, tucking them back with a languid sort of grace. “They will not return without at least ten new clever concoctions to bring home.”
Harry huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know. Don’t know how Snape puts up with them, honestly, with the way he used to treat us at Hogwarts.”
For reasons none can quite account for, the twins have taken an ardent liking to Snape, despite his usual dourness and cutting cynicism in their presence. Amaris, with all the gravity of a court lady, has pronounced him “a mysterious gentleman with hidden depths,” while Salem admires him far more plainly, enamored of his “wicked talent” in potions and already aspiring to emulate it.
And in return, he is astonishingly indulgent of them—by his own standards, at least—suffering their incursions into his laboratory with little more than a sharp word, and even permitting them to meddle among his ingredients when they inevitably impose themselves upon him.
The answer lingers between them before it is spoken.
Voldemort glances at him, something quieter settling in his gaze. “…You know why, Harry.”
Harry goes still for a moment, his gaze drifting outward to the forest, where the red leaves still continue their slow, endless movement.
“Yeah,” he says softly after a while. “I do.”
The twins carry pieces of many people—of him, of Voldemort—but there are traces in them that belong unmistakably to someone else. The curve of a sweet cheek, the shape of a bright, sparkling eye, a gentleness woven into their expressions that neither of them can claim.
The traces of Lily Evans.
Harry absently pokes at Theron's pudgy cheek, if only to give his hand something to do. They have a habit of growing restless whenever he doesn't know what to say. The subject of his parents has never been an easy one to broach, even after all these years, so he settles for something lighter.
"It's pretty strange isn’t it," he muses. "This one here looks just like a chubby, happy little version of you. I can't imagine you were ever like that."
And Voldemort hadn't been—chubby or happy, that is. He had been another sort of creature entirely.
"No, darling. He's more like you."
“No way. I was never demanding or clingy... or even happy. Back then, finding enough scraps from the table was the height of my happiness, actually.” It doesn't really hurt to admit it now—Voldemort already knows. Harry smiles helplessly at the baby. “This chubby little dictator has the entire household bent to his will.”
Theron giggles as though in agreement. Harry kisses his cheek, indulgent.
"Perhaps not in appearance or temperament..." the Dark Lord says after a pause, choosing his words with unusual care, "but in a more... human way, one could say. He has heart... just like the twins. Just like you."
It is rare for Voldemort to be uncertain of how to explain something. To him, a child's nature has always dictated far more than their appearance ever could.
The twins are bright and clever, disarmingly affectionate. Inquisitive little gremlins forever brimming with light and life, always poised on the edge of their next adventure.
As for Theron... the ridiculously spoiled creature possesses the most unreasonable expectation that whenever he stretches out his tiny arms, someone will immediately pick him up, coddle him, and love him. Awfully presumptuous, truly.
It is no secret that the long-dead Tom Riddle had been born lacking that indefinable something other humans possess. His emotional range is narrow, skewed—a thing piteously ill-formed from the very beginning. Perhaps it was the Amortentia, the Gaunt madness, or perhaps he is simply, intrinsically, wrong—a twisted tree stark amidst an otherwise perfect apple orchard.
Most likely, it is some combination of all three.
Whatever the cause, he has never mourned it or felt himself diminished by its absence.
And yet he finds himself... satisfied that all three of his children are normal, insofar as that word has any real meaning. They possess the full breadth of feeling that he himself has only ever glimpsed in echoes, most clearly through his bond with Harry—a bond that stands among the strongest fate and magic have ever forged.
Normal means they won't grow up feeling like strangers in a world full of people, nor struggle to belong in society. And if nothing else, perhaps they can at least be happy.
They are already happy—all three of them, with smiles bright as the sun and hearts as pure as freshly fallen snow. They know nothing of loss, or war, or pain.
Someone else may struggle to decipher his words, but Harry Potter has always possessed an uncanny talent for understanding him.
"So what you're saying is..." Harry begins slowly, "you're glad the children weren't born psychos?" The like you is obvious and thus does not need saying.
Voldemort resists the urge to glare, though only just. Instead, he answers Harry's sheepish smile with a stern stare.
"I would not have phrased it quite so crudely."
Crude, but not entirely inaccurate.
Sometimes, when his thoughts grow uncharacteristically maudlin, when the slow weight of passing years begins to make itself known, he thinks it something very close to a miracle—that the goodness in Harry Potter has tempered his existence so profoundly that their children should emerge so... whole. That they possess that elusive quality he does not, the absence of which once led Dumbledore to so readily pronounce him a monster.
Harry exhales slowly and leans in, burying his face into the curve of Voldemort’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him. His lips press there, hesitant at first, and then the words come slowly, quiet and unguarded, as though they have been waiting to be said.
“There’s something I read once,” he murmurs, voice low and soft; brittle. “In a Muggle book, I think. Or maybe Hermione told me—I don’t remember. They said… when you start to associate a loved one with pain, with suffering, that’s when a relationship is over.”
He lifts his head slightly, gentle emerald meeting curious ruby.
“But I’ve always associated you with pain,” he admits, without flinching. “From the first time I heard your name at eleven. All the years after that.”
His hand rises, fingers brushing lightly along Voldemort’s face, tracing from the corner of his eye down to his cheekbone, then to his sculpted jaw.
“But I think… maybe we started at the bottom,” he says, softer still, voice slightly breaking. “And if that’s the case, then the only direction left is up.”
His fingers trail down the pulse in Voldemort’s neck before coming to rest lightly on his shoulder. In his father’s arm, Theron shifts curiously, as though sensing that something serious is unfolding.
“And I believe it,” Harry finishes as if sharing a great, tiny secret. “Whenever I see you with the little ones—with us—I believe we’re going up.”
For a long moment, no words find Voldemort.
The first thought that surfaces is this: How brave, this Savior.
… I wouldn’t believe me.
And then,
Do you know I still dream of tightening my hands around your throat while I sleep next to you, darling?
That every day I must leash the demons in my head lest they emerge to hold the children?
He wants to fling those questions at Harry, and see how he would answer. Would he still keep faith? Or would those brilliant eyes dim with disappointment?
He has always been woefully inadequate when it comes to giving voice to matters of the heart, and yet it would be a lie to claim Harry's quiet confession leaves him untouched.
The words settle somewhere unnameable, stirring something he cannot quite grasp. He does not know what he feels—only what he wants to do: to draw Harry into his arms, to smooth away the sheen of those unshed tears, to press his mouth against that soft, pensive curve and kiss the melancholy from it.
And beneath it all, the ever-churning desire to pluck out those beautiful eyes so they might only look at him remains.
The urge to break Harry's legs so he can never run away. To take his voice so he can never again utter such heartfelt, poisonous confessions.
He never acts on those impulses.
But they are always there.
Always present, whispering like hungry ghosts at midnight.
He has hurt many, many people. Never—not once—has he ever felt the urge to offer comfort. Not out of guilt; guilt has never been an emotion he entertains.
With Harry, it is something else entirely—something far more intolerable. The thought of seeing guilt reflected back at him in those green eyes. Guilt for loving him. For choosing him. For daring to build a future with something the world would call a monster.
And they would not be wrong.
He is a man who wants, with equal sincerity, to hurt the mother of his children and to comfort him in the very same breath.
He tugs Harry from the broom with little care for grace and pulls him flush against his chest, one arm tight around him, holding him there as though even a second’s distance might see him vanish. His mouth finds Harry’s temple, the faint dampness at the corner of his eyes, his cheek—touches pressed without rhythm or pattern, but with unmistakable intent.
Only then does it strike him, faint and unwelcome, how utterly lacking he is in this—how little he understands what he is doing or how it ought to be done.
And yet—
Harry doesn’t ridicule him for his lacking; he always knows what Voldemort is not saying.
He always understands.
His arms rise to wind around Voldemort’s neck, holding on just as tightly, his body settling into the hold as though it were the most natural place in the world. They’re aligning puzzle pieces, poison and antidote, Eve and the first sin. He presses his ear against the alpha’s chest, listening, anchoring himself there, and they remain like that for a long moment—held together in quiet stillness, saying nothing, needing nothing said.
There is something in it that is… overwhelming.
To simply stand, to hold, to feel the other there—existing, whole and real.
Voldemort had not known that something so simple as an embrace could feel so intimate, so quietly jarring—even after everything, even after three children and all that binds them.
If they have many moments, this is still one to remember.
But alas, perfect moments are not meant to last, it seems.
Little Theron, thoroughly unimpressed with being so ignored for the second time that day, chooses that moment to protest.
A soft whimper breaks the silence, rising quickly into something more insistent, his bright green eyes shining with unmistakable accusation.
Both parents look down at once.
“Oh—that's his hungry face,” Harry says immediately, straightening out of Voldemort's hold as every trace of softness gives way to instinctive maternal certainty.
He refuses to meet Voldemort's eyes afterward, ears and cheeks tinged pink as his gaze wanders elsewhere.
Voldemort considers the baby’s expression—faintly disgruntled, vaguely offended—and finds little to indicate his supposed hunger, but he accepts the assessment without argument.
The Dark Lord is feeling strangely charitable, so he allows Harry his embarrassment for now. The rosy bloom across his cheeks is satisfaction enough.
Anything else could wait until they’re alone. They have all the time in the world.
“It has been some time since his last feeding,” he acquiesces absentmindedly, shifting the baby more securely in his hold. His arm has gone numb again.
Glancing towards the path leading home, he finds the last rays of sunlight still lingering between the trees.
“Come, love,” he says. “There is still light enough to enjoy a walk back.”
Harry nods, falling easily into step beside him, broom in one hand.
They walk through the maples in comfortable silence.
Voldemort holds the child with one arm, and with the other he reaches for Harry’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they leave the gazebo behind and follow the path back through the burning red of the forest, the evening settling softly around them.