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“Do you wish for the war to end?” Voldemort had asked.
“Do you wish for a peace treaty?” He had asked again.
When the terms were asked, the first thing said had driven a hole in Harry. “Give me Harry Potter as my consort, and you shall have your treaty.”
It had been magically binding. It had been magically binding, so how could Harry say no? Even if he could hardly accept that this was his fate, how could he say no?
So he allowed it. Allowed himself to be the political bride to end a war.
He tried to be happy. To at least cope. He really had. But how could you be happy with your parent’s killer? How could you be happy when you woke up from your nightmare, only to be greeted by the very same face, sleeping peacefully in your marriage bed.
No, Harry could not love that monster.
Voldemort didn’t expect to learn that he’d accidentally made a seventh horcux. But he had, and Harry Potter could no longer be an enemy.
He’d already admired Harry as an enemy. Enough so to give him back his wand and duel him, even when it risked, and indeed did give the boy a way to escape. Now he was neither boy nor enemy? Well, it was not love, but perhaps one day it could be.
The war dragged on, and Voldemort needed to protect his horcrux. Voldemort was greedy and selfish, even as he admired Harry. So he demanded his horcrux as a consort, and the war was over.
Even when he hated Voldemort, Harry was beautiful. It didn’t surprise him when he fell deeply and quickly for his new husband, his beloved consort.
And yet, no matter what Voldemort did to try and cheer his precious consort up, it always failed. His songbird, languishing in his cage. And yet Voldemort was greedy, and he thought that nothing could hurt more than letting his new love go.
He was wrong.
It could hurt so much worse. He loved Harry.
And Harry had made it clear he could never love him. It took one sentence to destroy Voldemort, as certainly as he had destroyed his consort all those years ago. One question.
“May I have amortentia, Husband?”
Harry had given up. Not only did he refuse to leave when Voldemort finally caved and opened the door to his cage, but he asked that same damning question every day.
“May I have amortentia, Husband?”
It was sheer agony, but Voldemort would deny his consort nothing. He brewed the potion himself, keyed it to himself, and hid his tears as his beautiful love drank.
Harry became a shell of himself, losing that defiant spark Voldemort loved so much. Sure, he was a devoted consort. But amortentia could not create love. And so every time he brewed a new dose, Voldemort shed tears knowing that he’d gotten what perhaps he deserved.
He had immortal life... such a long time to love. Such a long time to know his beloved Harry would never love him back. Just pretend. If even a single dose was mixed, the question that haunted his nightmares would fall from Harry’s lips.
“May I have amortentia, Husband?”
And now it was Voldemort who woke from his nightmares, only to be greeted by the same face, sleeping peacefully in their marriage bed.