Work Text:
Sometimes, Harry thinks, he is so concerned with remembering that Tom is a man that he forgets he is a monster.
Of course, who wants to be in love with a monster? Harry has always thought of himself as a good person, and good people don’t fall in love with monsters. They don’t sit at their sides, they don’t sleep in their beds — they don’t stop fighting — and Harry does all of those for Tom, so if Harry is still a good person, then his husband must not be a monster.
He hopes he’s still a good person. It’s been a while since he’s really needed to think about it. It’s been a while since he's really needed to think about anything at all.
It’s a Saturday today, which means that Tom’s alarm doesn’t go off until nine. Harry wakes up at quarter to nine to the warm sensation of sun streaming through the windows and dancing across his face. Tom is still asleep in bed next to him, face relaxed in sleep, and Harry leans across to trace the arch of his cupid’s bow with one finger, touch featherlight. A smile pulls at his lips, a lazy, intimate thing that only Tom could ever pull from him. Tom continues to sleep. His breath tickles Harry’s finger as he keeps tracing his lips.
Their bedroom is warm around him. The sheets are soft, silky against his skin. Through the high windows, Harry can see the forest outside, and far below it the remains of the village that he still thinks of as Little Hangleton; it’s a training ground for important Death Eaters now. He can’t see anyone in the village this morning, but come night time, he might be able to peek out the window and catch a glimpse of brilliantly coloured curses flying around in the dark. It almost makes him miss having his own wand.
Tom’s alarm rings out, breaking the peaceful, timeless silence, and the man himself yawns, rocking up and out of bed immediately. That’s something Harry has always admired about his husband; his punctuality. He won’t lie around in bed unless Harry tempts him into it.
His body leaves a warm imprint on the sheets, and Harry rolls into that space, chasing that lingering moment of warmth. He can’t even help it — it’s a habit he’s developed over numerous lazy mornings — but Tom smirks like he did the first time Harry said he loved him back. Actions speak louder than words, after all.
He watches Tom get dressed with lidded eyes. As Tom goes to take off his sleep shirt, Harry sits up in bed, letting the sheets fall to his waist. Tom turns and sees his naked torso, marked up with bites and bruises from last night’s activities, and though his eyes darken with hunger, his husband just quirks an eyebrow and keeps getting dressed. Harry pouts and snuggles back under the sheets.
“Stay inside today, darling,” Tom says, placing a quick kiss on the crown of his head. “Greyback and his ilk have free reign over the forest today, and some of the prisoners will be released for them to… play with. I wouldn’t stray too close to the trees if I were you.”
“I didn’t want to know that,” laughs Harry.
“Just a warning,” Tom jokes back, before fastening his robes and sweeping out the door. He pokes his head back in with a smile. “Feel free to come downstairs in your own time, darling; breakfast will be another few minutes. Relax.”
Almost unwittingly, Harry feels himself sink back down into the sheets. Tom smirks and ducks back out of the room.
He remains in bed for a few more minutes, curled up like a cat in the silken sheets. His mind is fuzzy and hazy in the way it always is after a night of fabulous sex and a good sleep. Nevertheless, the thought of whatever delicacies the elves have cooked up for breakfast entices him downstairs.
He dresses in something floaty and sheer that he knows will tempt his husband; a cream top with fabric so silky that it feels like air on his skin, and loose linen pants. He takes his sweet time walking down to the dining hall; the sun is beaming through the windows and it warms his skin quite pleasantly. He stops and chats with a few of the guards, who greet him respectfully and seem happy enough to make banal small talk about the weather and the opulent summer gardens they can see outside the windows. They wouldn't dare be disrespectful anyway.
When he enters the dining hall, the table is adorned with a veritable cornucopia of summer fruits and freshly baked pastries. His husband is talking to one of his men at the other end of the room, so as Harry walks down to see what’s going on, he snags a bowl of pomegranate seeds. Spooning them up to his mouth, the flesh splits easily under his teeth as he chews. Sweet, syrupy juice runs down his chin. He hopes Tom licks it off; that would be a lovely start to breakfast.
His husband’s face is a little pinched when he gets down to the other end of the hall. His forehead has those terrible stress lines that Harry likes to smooth away with kisses, and he’s clenching his jaw hard. He leans over to kiss Harry — lips pulling upwards into a faint smirk when he notices the cloying taste on his tongue — but he doesn’t stop his conversation and his expression immediately returns to serious. The attendant reporting stumbles over his words, and that’s when Harry knows that something might actually be wrong. His husband’s men are only nervous around him when Tom is being overly possessive or when the rebels do something particularly bad.
“Is everything alright, love?” Harry questions. Tom sighs, waving the attendant away. The man scrambles out of the hall, and Harry turns to his husband with a frown. “That looked serious.”
“Two rebels tried to break into the Manor early this morning,” Tom explains, and Harry can’t conceal his shocked gasp, “They were captured, of course, but they managed to kill four men before they were contained.”
That’s a fair explanation, but Harry can tell that his husband is keeping something from him. “And?”
Tom sighs, head turning away, and Harry reaches up to tenderly turn his chin back. He places a soft kiss on Tom’s lips; his husband kisses him back ravishingly, humming in appreciation of the sweet pomegranate juice. It’s a nice distraction, but after a few seconds Harry pulls back and looks into Tom’s eyes beseechingly.
“What else?” Harry prompts, voice hushed to a whisper. Tom sighs once more.
“They’re on the most wanted list,” Tom says finally, eyes apologetic, “I’ve got to go deal with them right now.”
Harry sighs. His head turns, chases the scent of fresh bread wafting down from the end of the table, and evidently Tom notices, because he nudges Harry in the ribs. “If you come with me, maybe I won’t spend as long… with–” he artfully avoids using the word ‘tortured’, knowing Harry doesn’t like it –“our new guests, and you’ll get your breakfast faster.”
“Fine,” Harry acquiesces, shaking his head fondly and setting his bowl down for later. “Make it quick, then.”
It’s like they’re discussing Tom going down to the shops for a pint of milk, not the torture and probable execution of people that Harry likely fought alongside. Harry tries not to let it bother him. He doesn't like to think about Tom’s ‘day job’.
Tom wiggles his wedding ring off his finger, and with it his glamours fall away to reveal the scaly, deformed thing that he really is. Harry suppresses a shudder, knowing that Tom wouldn’t like to see it. No matter how many years they’ve spent together, he’ll never be used to seeing Tom morph into Voldemort.
“Well, come on, then.” Voldemort gestures out the door. His voice is different in this form; higher, more sibilant, almost two-toned with a strange grating quality echoing beneath his words. Harry nods in agreement, and together they walk down out of the hall and down the corridor towards Voldemort’s throne room.
Tom hesitates at the grand double doors, and Harry reaches over to squeeze his hand in solidarity. Voldemort doesn’t hesitate; who exactly have they captured?
The doors are shoved open by a blast of pure magic — an intimidation tactic that Voldemort likes — and together they sweep inside. The throne room is nearly icy with cold. The ornate tapestries on the wall tremble as the doors ricochet against the wall. At the front of the room is a large raised dias, a few steps leading up to two silver thrones. Kneeling at the base of the dias, bound tightly in ropes, are two people Harry could recognise anywhere. One lanky man, orange hair stained red with blood. One smaller woman, hair lank and greasy, who is already working at her bonds.
Weasley and Granger are here.
Weasley and Granger have been captured here.
Ron and Hermione Weasley and Granger are going to die here.
Harry tastes bile very faintly in the back of his throat.
Voldemort leads him right between the two prisoners, up the dias, and to their thrones. The instant they see Voldemort, the rebels begin to shout, but they seem shocked almost to silence when they see Harry following behind. Harry feels their eyes piercing him, first with shock, then horror at its heels. Harry goes to sit on his throne, but Voldemort gestures to the ground next to his feet, and Harry obediently folds himself down into a kneel, mirroring the rebels on the floor.
“Harry!” Granger cries. Harry flinches at the noise. “Harry, what are you doing?”
Weasley doesn’t say anything, but his face is rapidly turning redder with emotion. His eyes dart between Harry and Voldemort like he’s trying to figure out what this position means.
Voldemort’s magic reaches out to Harry, and he trembles slightly at the sensation. It’s both a question and an order; asking if he needs to leave, and telling him that he should not speak to the prisoners. Harry nods a little, letting a tiny part of his magic reach out and caress Voldemort’s in acquiescence. He is fine; why would he need to leave? Why would he speak to the prisoners anyway?
“Why have you broken into our home?” Voldemort asks calmly, ignoring Granger’s shouts. Harry smiles fondly at the phrasing. Yes, over the years, this really has become their home.
Weasley scoffs, struggling at his bonds. Harry avoids his gaze. “To rescue Harry!”
He doesn’t sound like he quite believes it. Ron was always the emotionally intelligent one; he’s probably already worked out the manner of Harry and Tom’s relationship. He certainly doesn’t sound like he likes it, though.
“And what made you think he needs rescuing?” questions Voldemort, smiling like a predator that’s pinpointed the weakest member of a pack of prey.
“Five years!” Granger cries, eyes flashing, “Five years he’s been at your mercy, and you think he doesn’t need to leave?”
Harry blinks in surprise. Has it really been that long? He's abstractly aware that it's true, but often he finds that the passage of time evades him; it slips through his fingers or stretches ‘five years’ into a floaty, incomprehensible haze that he doesn't bother to sort through. Minutes, years… it's been so long since he bothered to count.
“Why would he want to leave?” Voldemort laughs. It’s a grating sound, like claws on a chalkboard; nothing like the soft chuckles that Harry can pull out of him when they’re alone. He reaches over, hand settling on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry doesn’t intend to but he leans into the touch. Tom squeezes his shoulder once, then pulls at the neck of Harry’s top. The fabric spills down his shoulder like a waterfall, exposing the skin of his shoulder. There, quite prominent against his pale skin, is a purpling bite mark. Harry trembles in faint pleasure at the sensation of Voldemort’s finger pressing against the skin next to it. It aches in the pattern of his husband’s love, and so he is satisfied by the pain.
There’s a sharp inhale from both of the rebels on the floor, then a small sob from Hermione.
“Rapist!” snarls Weasley.
“Oh, that implies that he would not go to me willingly,” gloats Voldemort, tracing a long, bony finger over the bruise. Harry leans further into the touch, drawing an anguished noise from Weasley. “It has been a long, long time since my dear Harry has put up any kind of resistance. You assume that being at my mercy means pain, but man succumbs so much faster to pleasure.”
He removes his hand from Harry’s shoulder and takes his hand, lifting it up to the light. Harry just lets him move his limbs as he pleases, trusting that his husband is doing whatever is right. As his hand is tilted to face the two rebels, the golden band on his ring finger glitters in the warm light of the chandelier.
“Our one year anniversary is next Monday. I would invite you to the celebration, but I don’t think you’ll be able to attend.”
There’s broken sounds from both Weasley and Granger. They look like mirror images of each other; two people crumpled on the floor, expressions frozen in horror, eyes fixed on Harry’s hand. It is the exact same way they looked as they were rounded up after the Battle of Hogwarts; Harry will never forget the way their terror turned to fury and devastation as they saw Voldemort approach Harry’s bleeding body on the battlefield. Harry could not forget the way he forced his eyes to stay open to look at his two best friends for what he thought was the last time, despite utter exhaustion that plagued him. He has not forgotten the way that their faces twisted into blurry colours and then into nothingness as Voldemort apparated himself and Harry away from Hogwarts.
He used to think of those blurry faces all the time so that he’d have something to cling on to while he waited for help and resisted Voldemort. Help came five years too late; now when he thinks back to that time, all he thinks is how silly he was to ever think he needed to resist Tom.
Harry frowns, turning to Tom. His hand falls to his side again as he stands and leans towards his husband. “You’re going to kill them?”
“Oh, darling–” Granger makes a faint noise of absolute despair –“Why would I let them live? They’re rebels. They broke into our home and killed four of my men, Harry.”
“–But they’re– they were my friends,” Harry pleads. Even as he says it, he knows that the suggestion is hopeless. Anything Tom wants, he gets. If he wants Weasley and Granger dead, that is what they will be.
Tom reaches up and takes him by his chin, tilting his head and pulling him forward into a bruising kiss. It’s not affectionate at all; it’s a display of aggression, and based on the identical sounds of fury that the rebels make, it’s working. He still tastes very faintly of pomegranates.
“Forget about them,” Tom whispers against his lips, and the suggestion wriggles its fingers into Harry's mind and grasps it tight. He nods, mouth falling open into a slight pant.
Tom draws his wand from his pocket slowly, running his finger along the bumps in the wood. He levels it at Weasley and Granger, who begin to struggle anew. When Harry begins to turn his head towards the commotion on the floor, Voldemort grasps his chin again and turns it back towards him.
“Don’t look at them, look at me,” orders Tom. Harry stares hard at Voldemort’s scarlet pupils and tries to imagine them as glittering rubies. Like the Philosopher’s Stone; the first time he saw his husband in the flesh–
Voldemort flicks his wand and Weasley and Granger begin to scream. It’s a terrible, ugly sound, piercing straight through his skin and hitting parts of him he wasn’t aware could still feel pain. Harry swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
–Right, the Philosopher’s Stone. He’d gotten it out of the Mirror of Erised. He wonders what he’d see now if he looked into the Mirror–
Hermione lets out a terrible gurgling sound. He hears something splatter to the floor, wet and soft, like flesh. The sound is cut off from Harry’s ears by Voldemort chuckling very faintly.
–If he looked into the Mirror of Erised now, he thinks he’d see him and his husband in bed, just like this morning. It would be sunny, and they would be sleepy and warm, and everything would be fine–
Ron cries out, and there is the thump of a body falling forward. Harry buries his face in Voldemort’s shoulder. His eyes are wet with tears. It’s because of the sounds, not because he cares about the two rebels. He doesn’t care about them. He can’t.
“End them already, please,” Harry begs, and when Voldemort turns to him with a sharp inhale, he blinks fast in the way that Tom always says makes him look like a cute little mouse. “Please, darling, the sounds are disgusting, and they’re going to get bloodstains on the floor runner.”
One side of Voldemort’s mouth lifts up into a sharp smile. He lifts his hand and caresses Harry’s face. “Of course, darling. Anything you want.”
He twists his wand and there are identical cries of agony before Hermione’s body falls forward as well. There are no more screams after that; the silence festers.
Voldemort runs a hand through Harry’s hair, reaching down to the nape of his neck to play with the baby hairs there. Harry nuzzles further into his husband’s neck, tears pricking at his eyes still.
“Don’t fret, Harry,” Voldemort breathes, the words tumbling from his bloodless lips like pomegranate juice. Harry seeks them out, breath coming in little gasps, and Voldemort leans down to kiss him tenderly. “Let’s go back to bed, darling.”
Harry nods, removing himself from Voldemort’s neck. His husband lifts him like he weighs nothing, and carries him all the way down the stairs and out of the hall. Harry can smell the blood. He doesn’t look back; he was told not too. The scent clings to his robes anyway. They pass through the dining hall — that’s alright, Harry isn’t that hungry anyway — and reach the door to their chambers before Voldemort places him back on the ground. His husband procures his wedding ring and slips it on, and Harry gazes up at his face as Voldemort becomes Tom once again.
“Let me have you,” Tom says huskily. “Right here, right now.”
“The guards will hear,” Harry offers up as a token protest. Albert, the guard standing nearby, blushes a bright crimson and averts his eyes.
“Let them hear,” Tom growls, “They can hear, but they will never get to touch you like you let me touch you.”
Harry, who has spent the last four years endearing himself to Albert, rolls his eyes at the thought — this is going to undo so much progress in making his husband’s guards like him, damn it — but he doesn’t bother protesting past that. Anything Tom wants, he gets. Of course, Tom doesn’t actually take him right out in the hallway, and once they get into the bedroom, Harry can feel the prickle of magic on his skin as Tom activates the heaviest privacy charms they have, but it’s the thought that counts.
As soon as the door closes, Tom presses Harry to the wall by his throat and shoulder. Comfortable in these walls, Harry allows a low noise to escape at the pressure on his skin. His mouth drops open in invitation, but Tom doesn’t lean forward and claim it. Instead, he steps back and trusts Harry to remain against the wall; his eyes rake up and down Harry’s form appreciatively. Suddenly, Harry feels almost naked in his floaty clothing. He shivers in anticipation.
“So pretty for me, darling, always so pretty,” he purrs, and Harry grins at the grit in his voice, “Did you dress up for me?”
“I want you,” Harry confesses, still smiling, “I thought, maybe, if I put on some nice clothes, I’d… well, get your attention a bit faster.”
Tom smirks, leaning forward “It worked.”
He leans forward, nipping at his bottom kip, and Harry whimpers quietly into his husband’s mouth.
“Naked, on the bed, darling.”
Harry scrambles to obey. The sheer clothes come off — like a snake shedding its skin — and he hurries to the bed, sitting back against the headboard. He watches hungrily as Tom slowly unbuttons his robes and shrugs them off his shoulders.
There’s a splatter of blood on the hem of Tom’s robes. Something in Harry’s stomach twists at the sight; he swallows thickly and averts his gaze. His husband, ever so perceptive of his every move, scoffs.
“Didn’t I tell you to forget them?” Tom scowls. Harry nods frantically, eyes wide, and Tom softens at the sight. “Oh, darling, I’m not mad at you, and you’re not mad at me. Let me have you, Harry, and all you’ll remember is me.”
Harry nods again, and that is all it takes for Tom to cross the room and crawl up the bed towards him. He moves languidly, like a predator approaching its prey. He reaches Harry and leans down to capture Harry’s mouth in a kiss. Harry allows himself to go slack, recalling Tom’s orders to “let me love you”; Tom always likes it when he completely surrenders control. His thoughts have begun to go fuzzy around the edges, thick and soupy like they always are when Tom takes over. It’s a feeling almost like vertigo; like he’s taken one wrong step and slipped right out of his body, leaving just a shell for his husband to move as he pleases. He shivers a little into the kiss at the thought, and Tom smiles, pushing his tongue in.
Harry lies there, slowly moving against Tom’s body, tongue heavy and lolling in his mouth. He doesn’t bother to push any more than Tom would like; Harry takes what he is giving him, and he is satisfied.
“Ah!–” he gasps as Tom begins to press open-mouthed kisses onto the skin behind his ear. Teeth scrape a faint line down the skin of his neck down to the spot underneath his jaw where he is always so sensitive.
The feeling of Tom on him, against him, all around him; it is all-consuming. The overwhelming sensation fills him to the brim and leaves him gasping for air, as if his lungs can’t intake any more air because they too are full of Tom. He feels so good it’s painful. His thoughts are mushy and fluid, like saline; love leaves his eyes in droplets.
“Tom!” Harry keens, trembling with overstimulation, and he can feel Tom’s lips stretching into a smile against his neck. He ducks his head a little out of embarrassment at the high whimpering sound and accidentally knocks his chin against Tom’s forehead; he’ll have to apologise later.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, forcing Harry’s head back so that he can suck a mark onto Harry’s throat. “All mine.”
Harry shivers, head knocking against the headboard as he feels his husband’s breath hovering over his carotid. “Yes– Yes, T-Tom!”
Tom pins his head back, and try as he might, Harry can’t move against it. Does he even want to move it? Why would he ever want to move it? He exists in some hazy state of pleasure, like he’s floating half out of his body. His world has narrowed to only the scrape of Tom’s teeth on his neck and the warmth thrumming through his body, so deep in pleasure that it’s almost agonising. His limbs are heavy and immovable; he’s melting into the bed, sluggish and gooey. He doesn’t even know if his eyes are open or closed, if he’s making any sounds, if he’s biting his lips or panting, mouth hanging open. Does he even exist, or is he just a figment of Tom’s imagination? It doesn’t matter.
“All mine,” Tom repeats, nipping at Harry’s throat once again. Harry exhales a shaky breath, eyes fluttering shut.
How could Tom be a monster, when he was so good at making Harry love him?
“A-all yours."