Chapter Text
A raw fury that could flatten a mountain overtook Voldemort as he stared at the empty spot where his soul stood mere moments ago. The rage, the ire, accelerated his heart rate; his blood pressure rose sharply in an attempt to deliver oxygen to his muscles more quickly. His body was as if preparing for battle, for it knew nothing mattered more than to bring back his husband from the hands of the vile scoundrels who had dared to abduct him.
There was a spy amongst his men who lowered the defences and permitted the Order to Apparate in and take Harry. Voldemort's fury-streaked gaze prowled over the incompetent fools scurrying about and straining to regain their wits. These gormless twats wouldn't know an ounce of wit if it jumped up and bit them on the nose.
The Cruciatus Curse spilled from the tip of his wand and saw off the unfortunate wretch who stood in his path as he rushed to check for any residual magic and locate the Apparition point. When he found absolutely bugger-all left behind, another of his servants found themselves flat on their back, screaming and wailing as they sampled their lord's fury.
"Find him," he screamed. "Bring my consort back to me if you value the privilege of keeping your heads on your necks."
Like billowing smoke, his most loyal servants instantly Apparated, while others scrambled to hide from his sight. His wedding altar devolved into chaos, the guests screaming and running in all directions. Utterly pathetic!
"My Lord," Malfoy whined, hurrying to his side like a lost lamb looking for its teat. "I shall take care of postponing the dinner, unless you have another task for me."
His eyes snapped to his most disappointing acolyte, exerting immense restraint not to toss him about like a second-hand rag doll. Malfoy either had too much cheek or the tact and shrewdness of a greased weasel. He perhaps fancied himself above the others, who felt the lashes of his magic on their backs, and assumed the Dark Lord wouldn't pinch his airways with a flick of his fingers.
"Have you misplaced your brain, Lucius, when you woke up this morning?" he sneered, raising his wand to hex the imbecile, but a loud screech diverted his attention from the blond fool to the old hag he had dragged here to perform the Slytherin matrimonial ritual. The whole place was lost to clamour and chaos, so she must have had quite the pair of lungs to pierce through the utter cacophony and racket.
"I can see... I can see," she was screaming, going about and snatching the perplexed guests' arms as if they made objections to her claims, and she needed to prove herself. "He healed me... I could tell that the little, pretty speaker had a magic of strange kind, magic touched by death..."
Voldemort strode to her and grabbed her. When the old woman looked at him, her white eyes were no longer muddy and empty. There were brown irises staring back at him. He gasped, shocked, because there was no magic in the world that could heal the damage in her eyes.
"What do you mean, Madam Sayre?" he asked, maintaining the facade of politeness to get the information he needed.
"You have chosen someone with magic older than time," she murmured. "His magic is not the normal kind; it's strong and wrapped in death—death as its servant, conquered and pliant."
The old bat must have sensed the Horcrux. Voldemort let go of her and cupped his own face in frustration. He needed to go looking for Harry before Dumbledore tried to fill Harry's head with nonsense. The old man was good at it.
"His magic healed me," the woman repeated in awe.
Harry's magic was pure. It bathed the piece of Voldemort's soul wedged inside him with soothing relief, so perhaps that same magic also healed the darkness in this woman's sight. Just another confirmation that the Dark Lord was destined to wed his equal, his soul, his Horcrux. He was magic's gift, but the gift had been stolen from him and he needed to retrieve Harry.
A frisson of fear passed through him when he imagined Dumbledore hurting Harry in an attempt to end him. He had to clench his teeth not to lose control of his magic and temper. Something raw and unfiltered by the years of discipline he had subjected himself to made an appearance on his face. The poise and the composure he had learnt to project in his youth he had carried with him like a chip on his shoulder. He despised that he had to put on a facade and be someone else that he wasn't, and, at the same time, he despised being himself even more.
But this sudden slip made him rage even harder.
There was no comfort in allowing others to glimpse into the mangled little boy that lived inside him, that craved that touch of warmth and comfort he had never received. And the one that his darling soul gave him was taken from him.
"You," he turned to the old woman. "Your sight was taken from you in a sacrificial act, wasn't it? You sacrificed your eyes to have the sight. Do you still have it?"
Madam Sayre stared at him in horror as she realised that Voldemort knew, and then after a moment of silence, nodded.
"I do," she said. "You want to find him? I am afraid he's hidden with magic, and I cannot glance inside where he is. I can tell you where I can't see, though."
It must have been the Fidelius Charm. He was taken to a place hidden with the spell. He nodded at her. She closed her eyes, and as soon as she went to search, Voldemort tore into her mind.
ㅤ
ㅤ
He stood in front of the unassuming building. Muggles passed by, staring at him wide-eyed but with interest. The air was damp, and the light breeze had tousled his hair. He looked young, and these vile creatures were eyeing him with interest as if he would ever lower himself to mate with animals. The only one to ever experience the privilege of sharing his bed would be his magic-chosen bride.
He lifted his wand and cast a smashing spell. He knew that the spell wouldn't reach the part of the building where Dumbledore was holding Harry, but that would surely attract the old codger's attention. The bolt of blue light left the tip of his wand and flew towards the townhouses on the same row. The spell reached the outer walls and exploded as soon as it made contact. Dust rose, particles and gusts of smoke from the burning wood of the windows and furniture. Terrified Muggles hurried out of their houses.
Voldemort didn't stop.
Spell after spell, he kept hitting the houses, blasting them into smithereens. Flames blazed and ate up the insides of the collapsed structures, but he didn't stop. He wouldn't stop until Dumbledore brought him his consort. The sirens of Muggle police and fire and rescue services blared in the distance, growing louder as they approached.
Voldemort didn't intend to spare anyone, and the longer Dumbledore kept playing this cowardly game with him, the more damage he was willing to cause. One of the ambulances steering its way towards him was hurled back with the flick of his wand. It flew across the traffic and fell upside down, blocking the rest of the cars from reaching him.
"Harry," he whispered, trying to connect to Harry via the connection they shared, but there was something blocking him, forcing him back—something strong like a tidal wave.
The honking, sirens, and the cars clashing into one another interrupted his concentration. He cast a muffling charm and tried Legilimency.
"Darling," he murmured. "Where are you?"
He was quite certain Harry was being kept here, but he couldn't reach him. He paused and checked his surroundings. Some of the Muggles had managed to free themselves from their cars and were heading his way. A stream of bright green light left his wand, and they all stopped in their tracks before dropping down. He could call his servants to clean the place of these filthy creatures, but he didn't want to reroute anyone in case they were actually on Harry's trail. He was certain Harry was here, but he didn't want to risk the folly of arrogance and lose his chance at finding his darling soul.
He raised his wand, but before he could cast any curses, the colours around him leached and elongated, like a clutch of rubber bands wound tight around a spanner. His vision blurred, and then everything went gray, objects getting further away and his body squeezing and narrowing into a tunnel. He was pulled into it by a soft, comforting stretch of magic, and then, an instant later, he was standing in a room.
He glanced around in shock; the yellowed net curtains clung to the sash windows like cobwebs. In the centre of the room there was a gateleg table draped with a dusty crocheted doily, where a chipped tea service and a rusted kettle were set, steam spiralling from the spout. The scent of tea lingered in the air as Dumbledore sat stony-faced, his eyes fixed upon Voldemort over the rim of a porcelain cup. His companion at the table quickly spun around and smiled at him.
"Tom," he exclaimed. "I was already thinking you'd forgotten about me."
Dumbledore's concern quickly morphed into an expression of utter apprehension as he sprang to his feet and pointed his wand at Voldemort. Before the old man could even flick his fingers and mutter a spell, a bolt of light from Voldemort's wand flew his way. But instead of reaching him and tearing him apart, the spell extinguished like a matchstick kissed by a summer breeze.
He stared in confusion. Confusion turned into a sense of self-loathing when he realised that the old man must have known magic capable of stopping his attacks without so much as hurling a spell his way. He squinted his eyes in anger and proceeded to cast another spell.
"Tom," Harry's sweet voice stopped him in his tracks. "What are you doing?"
Before Voldemort could come up with a proper lie, his soul rushed to his side and wrapped his hands around the Dark Lord's neck. He mechanically placed his hand on Harry's back and embraced him. Dumbledore didn't move to hex him, but he stared at him with horror and shock. Voldemort smirked. He had thought the old codger would either recover Harry's memories or fill his head with his poisonous ideas, but it seemed he hadn't managed to do anything of the sort.
He lowered his hand onto his Horcrux's delicate frame and pulled him closer, maintaining unwavering eye contact with his old professor. The horror etched on his face was enough to keep Voldemort warm for seven winters. He couldn't believe something so small would make the old man look like he had swallowed a bag of rusty nails. The glee he felt swelled his heart with immense satisfaction.
"Harry, get away from him," Dumbledore pleaded.
"Professor, I told you, you don't need to worry about anything," Harry said softly, turning his head to face the man. "Everything will be just alright."
"Harry, you don't understand," the old man tried to persuade him. "He's lied to you."
"I should kill you for abducting my husband from our wedding altar," Voldemort hissed, lifting his wand to strike, but Harry held his hand and stopped him.
"Tom, what are you doing?" he demanded, sounding annoyed. "Surely you're not going to fight Professor Dumbledore, are you? I understand that you're upset, and believe me, I was upset too, but aren't you overreacting? You should have invited him to our wedding."
Voldemort stared at his darling soul in confusion.
"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry said, turning to Dumbledore. "I think it's best if we end this here. My husband seems quite upset, and I don't blame him. Bringing me here all of a sudden in the middle of the wedding ceremony was a bit rude. Actually, we were about to go through the gifts, and I was sort of eager for that bit."
Harry's little strange speech didn't help to alleviate the confusion or the horror on the old man's face. In fact, Voldemort was quite certain it made things worse. He wasn't quite sure what Harry was saying either. He was sure the memories he had returned wouldn't have painted Dumbledore in a positive light, enough for him to assume the old man must have been invited to their wedding. But memories could be tricky. Whatever holes he had left in Harry's mind must have patched themselves to make Dumbledore an important person.
The noise coming from outside the door instantly attracted his attention. The other members of the Order must have come to the old codger's aid. He clenched his fingers around his wand with certain glee that he was about to be presented with the opportunity to obliterate all of these filthy cockroaches, but before they could break inside, he was pushed into the strange colourless tunnel, and then found himself once again in the gardens of Riddle Manor with Harry still in his arms.
"How did you..." he muttered, utterly taken aback by the unusual teleportation magic Harry had performed. Harry must have been the one bringing him inside the Order headquarters too.
"I've been practising my magic, Tom," Harry said with an earnest smile. "I can't believe it worked. I was so worried we would have to walk all the way back here. Actually, where is everyone?"
"Looking for you, darling," Voldemort said, glancing around the empty place. "I'll summon them right away if you want to have the wedding banquet."
ㅤ
ㅤ
His servants seemed relieved that his consort had been found and safely returned home, even though a few of them still nursed their aching limbs that had tasted the fire of his fury. They were hesitant to meet his eye and hid themselves in the farthest corners of the ballroom. Others danced, twirling and swirling on the dancefloor, vitric butterflies carrying tiny little candles dancing above them, as a rain of rose blooms fell, petals unfurling and turning into little sweets that Nagini was eager to collect into her little basket.
The dancers did their best to avoid her. She prowled around like an prickly little cat, ready to scratch and bite at the slightest provocation, and his darling soul watched on, cheering every time she picked up a new sweet. His servants knew better than to interfere; none dared earn Harry's displeasure.
The food was plentiful, as were the drinks, and some of his Death Eaters certainly had the appetite of wolves, even though he made sure none of those ugly beasts were in attendance. Despite that, these greedy wretches were eating as if they had been starving for three moons and more. He did not see Severus among the crowd. Perhaps he had gotten himself lost in search of Harry, although Voldemort was certain Severus used every opportunity to avoid spending time with his former student.
"My Lord," Lucius, the wimpy wuss, looked miserable, though he forced a smile with the desperate zeal of a spinster eyeing her younger sister's engagement ring. "Crouch told me you needed the thestral bone dagger for the... the night."
Voldemort turned his full attention to Lucius. The blond disgrace had the sense to shuffle back under the cold, pointed stare of his master. Regaining his youthful, handsome visage had done the opposite of putting his pathetic followers at ease; if anything, they looked even more frightened. A smirk curled his lips as he tilted his head, watching Malfoy fidget like a fox in a hunter's trap.
"And," he drawled in an almost amused tone when Malfoy flinched, "have you managed to procure it, or should I just assume this is beyond your remit like most things?"
"No, My Lord," Lucius fell to his knees. "I have found a very special dagger made of thestral bone. For you, I shall serve with all my dedication and effort."
"Yes," he mocked. "You will. Perhaps you can help me test the sharpness of the dagger then. Can't have it being dull and hurting my little... husband."
Malfoy paled, the last vestiges of warmth draining from his features; his eyes distended, and his jaw slackened in a hollow gasp. Voldemort smirked, gleeful and satisfied. He extended his hand forward, looking at Malfoy expectantly.
"Well," he sneered, "are you waiting for a formal invitation, Lucius? The dagger."
Lucius's luscious, lustrous hair swayed in the air as he fumbled with his robes, searching for what Voldemort presumed was the dagger. He retrieved a black vitric case and presented it to him as though he was offering his firstborn.
Tired of Malfoy's moaning, Voldemort snatched the box out of his hand and shoved it inside his pocket as he spotted his darling soul making his way to him. His gait was so beautiful. Voldemort's precious Horcrux had the walk of angels and the spirit of pure strength. He radiated as if he was wrapped in a ball of Lumos.
"Darling," he said, getting up and shoving Malfoy aside. "Done with the sweets?"
"Nagini is still picking sweets," Harry smiled sweetly, allowing himself into the Dark Lord's arms. "She has such sharp eyes and catches most before they even manage to fall."
"Yes, she is quite the predator," Voldemort smirked, placing light, feathery kisses on his soul's forehead. With each brush of his lips, he felt lightness surround him, the ache of his splintered soul growing quiet as if lulled into a sweet slumber.
"Would you like to dance, Tom?" Harry asked, pulling back.
"Of course, darling," Voldemort replied, wrapping his hand around Harry's back and guiding him into the ballroom.
Nagini spotted them right away, the little snake, and immediately made an unhappy face at him. His familiar really loved testing his patience with her insolence.
"You look radiant," Voldemort told Harry.
"You look so hot, Tom," Harry smirked, then leaned closer to whisper, "can't wait for tonight."
The expression on Voldemort's face twisted into gleeful anticipation. His little Horcrux had no idea what awaited him. He was such an innocent ball of pure light, and yet, he seemed very much the hormonal brat that he should have been at his age. Voldemort was never a slave to the tawdry whims of carnal desire. He had always been above such simple things.
"Oh, Harry," he tutted with humour, "you seem quite eager. I hope you feel the same way when you enter our marital bed."
"Are you threatening me with a good time, Mr Riddle?" Harry snorted and swatted playfully his arm to the absolute pant-staining horror of his servants.
"The threat is not quite the word, my soul," Voldemort murmured, swooping him into his arms as the music engulfed them with its gentle waves.
ㅤ
ㅤ
"You want to eat him," Nagini accused, waving her itsy-bitsy fists at him.
The guests had already left. Some of his servants were still prowling around the manor, perhaps hoping to be dismissed. Harry was seeing them off, and Voldemort was getting impatient. He didn't want any pleasantries wasted on these miserable sods when he could have enjoyed his Horcrux's presence instead.
"That is none of your concern," he hissed.
"You can't eat him," Nagini demanded. "He is mine."
Voldemort glared at his snake and raised an incredulous eyebrow at her cheek. She had become very daring. Spoiled little brat! Harry had surely spread his bratty habits to his familiar, along with teaching her to communicate in human speech. It was still unbelievable that she could actually speak any words at all, but here she was—not only speaking, but accusing him of things she knew nothing about and being a little egoist, thinking her master's Horcrux belonged to her.
"Be a good girl, Nagini," he said, lowering his voice for extra measure. "That is if you want to remain a girl. I can always turn you into a giant snake, and then he won't baby you any longer. Harry is mine; my soul, my Horcrux, my bride, my husband, and it's his blood that runs in my veins. I tolerate your little attachment to him, but do not mistake my tolerance for permission, because if you dare to cross the line, I will punish you."
She hissed at him and twirled about, the frills of her skirt swaying in the air like the tail of a peacock.
"You can't eat him," she insisted, this time sounding more timid. "He will be no more if you eat..."
"I have already told you that it is not that kind of hunger I harbour," he sighed, exasperated that he was even entertaining this little brat.
"If you mate with him, you can't bite him either," she hissed. "I've seen others eating their mates after mating. You can't."
"I am not a bloody snake," Voldemort shouted, losing his temper. "And I won't take mating advice from a little twerp. You continue with your insolence, and I shall ground you."
She crossed her arms and glared at him. No, Voldemort couldn't believe this brat's insolence! He had reluctantly taken up the mantle of fatherhood, and yet, this brat disrespected him despite everything the Dark Lord had done for her.
"Baby," Harry's voice interrupted their tense staring contest. "You look so tired. Look at your eyes. They've got sleepy-dust in them. Did you have fun today? Where's your basket of sweets?"
"I sleep with you, please," she slurred in her childlike voice, blinking at Harry. "Read story for Nagini."
"Hmm," Harry picked her up and twirled her in the air. "I'm sorry, sweetie, but you need to rest. You've been on your feet all day long. I promise I'll read you a story tomorrow, alright?"
Voldemort smirked, delighted. Nagini seemed conflicted but nodded at Harry before glancing at her master like a grumpy cat. There was a knock on the column, then Barty appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
"Well, then," Harry smiled and put the snake back down on the floor. "Mr Barty will take you home, sweetheart. He will stay with you today, and if you need anything, let him know."
She huffed unhappily but hugged Harry goodbye, then gave him a good measure of what she thought was a threatening stare before waddling down to Crouch, who was waiting for her.
Voldemort rolled his eyes; his impatience getting the better of him.
"She's such a cute little monster," Harry said cheerfully, watching her disappear with Barty behind the gates. "Do you think it's best if we stay here instead of going home? What if she has a nightmare?"
"She'll manage," Voldemort drawled, walking up to his precious Horcrux, licking his lips in anticipation. "Come here, darling. I shall have you all to myself. Finally."
Harry smirked but didn't move at all. His pretty eyelashes fluttered, and the light pouring from the overhead candlelights made him look even prettier and dreamier. They were the only ones left in Riddle Manor. Finally, after so many hours tolerating these wretches, Voldemort was rewarded with his husband's sole presence.
The very house where he had slain his loathsome Muggle father and grandparents would be purged of the stench of their filth, as he bound his soul to Harry's with the rites of ancient magic.
He reached Harry and pulled him close against himself. Harry was slender but had grown taller and healthier now. Voldemort liked it.
"You look so hot," Harry murmured into his ear, his lips grazing the corners of Voldemort's ears.
"Patience, my soul," Voldemort said, swooping Harry into his arms and picking him up abruptly. "You and I are going to have a very, very long night."
Harry's arms tightened around his neck, and Voldemort felt a surge of power—not the usual kind involving torture and pain, but the unsettling realisation that the boy trusted him for protection. It was an inconveniently foreign sensation; never before had he derived such unadulterated glee from something as trivial as another person's happiness. It was, though, probably unwise to think of Harry as another person. After all, the boy was an extension of the the Dark Lord himself, the living, breathing vessel of his own soul.
He had nearly lost his mind when Harry was snatched; the reminder made him stiffen his grip on him. He had managed to conjure all sorts of terrible scenarios in his head as he sought him, and it certainly wasn't because Harry was his Horcrux. After all, he did not feel similarly affected by his other Horcruxes. Harry was different. He was human, with magic that complemented his and amplified his power. And after today, there would certainly be no way to separate them. Voldemort would make sure of that.
The soft rugs muffled the sounds of his footsteps as he carried his bride to his bedchamber. Harry, as beautiful and elegant as he was in his robes, had an amused, cheeky expression on his face that Voldemort wanted to wipe off. He both loved his playfulness and felt an immense desire to punish him for it. His hand flitted to the dagger in his pocket.
Harry smiled at him, and Voldemort's lips curled into a smile in response.