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Chapter Text

His heart pounds in his chest as he stares straight into the face of someone he’d never thought he’d witness again.

Tom Riddle, as he was in the diary all those years ago, though more grown, stands a few feet away from him — the battle right behind him — and the floos.

He clenches his fingers tightly around his wand. This is Voldemort. He doesn’t know what the monster did to get rid of the snake-like visage he had just last year, but it changes nothing.

He breaks his gaze away, heart rushing to harrowing heights, mouth dry, and hands clammy. He briefly registers Bellatrix Lestrange’s bow of reverence and uttering of awe and submission.

His scar hurts.

“Harry Potter.” Voldemort hisses, a smirk curves his strangely full lips.

Harry swallows around the dryness in his throat, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes from the pounding headache. He now has no clue if it’s because of his scar, or because of the overwhelming power radiating from Voldemort.

A door slams open, resounding through and breaking the silence that had settled after the utterance of his name. He flinches, but doesn’t turn to see who entered, though Voldemort looks.

“Tom, it was a mistake to come here tonight.” Dumbledore’s voice says, sounding disappointed.

Voldemort’s smirk turns into a grim smile, his red eyes hardening. “No. It wasn’t.”

Voldemort’s not even raising his wand, as if he wants to have a conversation, as if he has something devastating to reveal that will hurt more than a duel.

A hand encloses his shoulder and he’s pushed behind Dumbledore, Voldemort leaving his view with the action.

“The prophecy is destroyed, you will never hear it.” Dumbledore states. Harry blinks up at the back of his head, a feeling of dread building up in his body; in his soul.

Bellatrix has already fled the room.

“… I don’t need it anymore.” Voldemort declares softly, as if he is whispering it into Harry’s ear, as if the statement is for him and him only.

A crack.

A hard grip takes his upper arm, aggressively pulling him off his feet into a solid chest. Dumbledore whips around, wand raised to cast, but he falters.

Voldemort holds Harry in front of him like a human shield, having to bend unnaturally to hide the vulnerable parts of his body.

“I only need the boy.” Voldemort’s tone is excited now, loud and giddy.

“What do you—“ Dumbledore is cut off, the words catching in his throat at Voldemort’s next words. Harry feels a tear slide down his cheek.

“He’s mine. We will be wed!” Voldemort yells, grabbing Harry’s bony wrist, waving it about. “We will marry and I will destroy the Light.”

Harry desperately tries to stop himself from shaking, from collapsing to the floor, but it is futile. His legs give out from under him, the only reason being for his still standing is Voldemort’s tight grip on his wrist, now terribly sore.

“No.” He whispers, repeats it multiple times, before his voice reaches a crescendo, denial echoing for all to hear, yet he knows it falls onto the deaf.

“Please, no! Kill me, just kill me!” He begs, chest heaving from his sobs. This has to be a cruel joke, a sick and twisted joke meant to only hurt. Voldemort could not mean it.

He shivers as Voldemort leans closer, breath hot on his ear, but skin cold to the touch. “You feel it in your soul, Harry. Our connection.”

“I feel nothing!” He screams, breaking from Voldemort’s grasp, brandishing his wand. He cuts it through the air like the particles are solid, ‘diffindo’ flying out of his mouth.

He aims it at the horrible, lying mouth, wanting to cut the tongue that spoke those disgusting words. It’s easily deflected by a shimmering shield.

Harry turns to Dumbledore, who is standing with a look of horror. “Professor, please! Please, I don’t want to marry him, don’t let him!”

He flinches once more, wand almost slips from his fingers when Voldemort laughs. The sound is rich and beautiful, but it sets you on edge. It sounds so normal, but it comes from something that should never be able to laugh.

“Oh, my dearest Harry. The decision has already been made.”

Before anything can be done about it, he’s squeezed through a painful tube, stomach lurching. He lands on his hands and knees.

He takes a deep breath in, out, in, out. Blood crescents mar his palms. He vomits, and then lets out a guttural scream.

Then he collapses, brain shut off and eyes clamped shut, face first into his spit and stomach acid.

And he dreams of his mum.

Chapter Text

‘Harry, oh, my sweet boy’

‘My brave, brave boy.’

Softness envelopes him, sweet and sugary. He can taste it in his mouth, feel it on his skin, smell it in his nostrils, hear it in his ears.

He cannot see it. He sees nothing, a void, all that comes to him is nice whispers and praise.

‘Who’s mummy’s baby? Is it you?’ Is it him?

‘My precious boy, my baby, my baby.’ Who is saying these to him?

He doesn’t deserve such tender words. 

That night comes slamming into his mind, violent and brutal, clawing away at the calming wool and making way for rough sand.

The Department of Mysteries. The prophecy, declared useless in the end. Sirius Black, his godfather, dead. Killed. Murdered. By Bellatrix.

No, it was by him. He murdered Sirius.

That thought is roughly shoved away by another. Voldemort, shown in his glory days again, face hauntingly and devastatingly handsome, wrong if you stare too hard.

Voldemort wants to marry him. He will marry him. Fate favours Lord Voldemort.

Fate.

Favours.

Lord.

Voldemort.

—

He bites awake, a gasp caught mid-way down his throat. Hands enfold his cheeks, and he closes his eyes around his blurry vision, momentarily drifting back to the warmness of his dream. Of his mum’s voice, he now realises.

A mass causes the mattress he rests on to dip, startling him. He pulls away from the soothing touch, blood running cold when he opens his eyes to the fuzzy image of Voldemort.

Only a moment later, Voldemort slides his glasses on his face.

“Harry…” Voldemort breathes, the sibilant tones of parseltongue making it almost impossible to hear, but it is a blaring alarm in Harry’s ears.

So it wasn’t a dream. Everything that happened… Last night? How long was he sleeping anyway? He groans, rubbing at his sleep sprinkled eyes.

It must be a nightmare. He still has to be dreaming. He aggressively grips the edges of the covers and pulls them over his head, blocking the light and Voldemort from his view. He shuts his eyes tightly, falling to his side with his knees tucked under his chin.

Not real, not real, not real. Voldemort did not kidnap him, Sirius did not die, Voldemort did not declare his intent to marry him. It must be the stress from his O.W.L’s. He will wake up in the Gryffindor dorms, get dressed, and enjoy a fulfilling breakfast with his friends in the Great Hall.

He is in Hogwarts, not whatever this place is. His sheets are red, not black. Voldemort is not placing his hand on his side through the covers. Voldemort is not dragging his hand slowly up his curled form. And Voldemort most certainly is not pulling the covers away from his face.

“Harry…” Voldemort says again, this time in English. Harry squeezes his eyes shut as if they have been glued together. “Look at me. Look at your Fiance.”

Fire surges in his gut, venom begging to spill from his mouth. He allows it. “Go away! We aren’t getting married, and I won’t ever look at you!” He grits out, teeth clenched so hard he might break a tooth. He ignores the fact that he’s already looking at Voldemort.

Those sinful, fibbing lips twist into a smile, blood moon eyes gleaming. “Oh, my Harry… So full of life, so much hatred.” Hands inch closer, gripping his hair, roughly pulling his head back to expose his neck. Harry hisses against the pain, eyes clenching together again.

Hot breath commands in his ear, “Open your eyes.” He furrows his brows, but he obeys, the tugging and tingling in his scalp winning over his pride. Rubies stare back at him, deep and dark.

Voldemort’s face is full of hunger, a pit forms in his stomach. Voldemort advances, sniffing the divot of his neck, deeply. Harry shivers, and the hands in his scalp pull his head back even more. “So beautiful for me, so beautiful, my Harry.” Voldemort mumbles, before licking a long strip from his collarbone to his jawline.

Harry flinches, he attempts to pull away, but the hands in his curls stop the movement. “Go away!” He yells once more, bringing his hands up to hit Voldemort’s chest. The hands in his hair retreat, finding a new place around his wrists, halting his punches.

His breath hitches, he opens his eyes from where they had closed somewhere between Voldemort sniffing him, and now. He eyes the fists clamped around his wrists. Pale and large. A sharp contrast to his thin and tanned ones.

A chuckle comes from above and his attention is forced to Voldemort’s face. A look of pure amusement meets him, causing goosebumps to run up and down his arms. “What are you laughing for?” He spits with venom.

“Oh, Harry…” Voldemort’s mouth twists a simile of a smile, the sight makes Harry want to hide under those black sheets again. “You can fight and deny all you want, but you know deep down you belong to Lord Voldemort.”

Harry’s face contorts in offense and shock. “Huh? How the fuck do I belong to you?!”

What is with this nonsense? His stomach fills with disgust and contempt, twisting and swirling, causing him to tightly wrap his arms around his torso.

“It’s funny.” Voldemort begins, looking up as if in thought. “I wonder if Dumbledore knows, just as I do, what you truly are.” Red eyes land on him, swifting up and down. Harry pulls the sheets further up.

What he truly is? What does Voldemort mean by that? “Huh…?” He says eloquently.

A shit-eating grin forms on Voldemort’s lips, eyes gleaming with victory, as if Harry’s reaction was exactly what he wanted.

“My Harry, do you recall the diary you destroyed in your second year?” The tone these words are soaked in sounds sweet to his ears, almost loving, but they aren’t. They are a sticky honey trap. He can hear the warning underneath it.

Hesitantly, he nods. He does remember the diary, which he knows hasn’t moved from Dumbledore’s desk drawer since the very moment it was placed there, though he has no clue why it’s being brought up now.

Actually, how had Voldemort found out about that? Did Lucius Malfoy tell him? Oh, that would’ve been a sight to see. Harry holds back a snicker at his imagination of Voldemort going ballistic and punishing the Malfoy Lord like crazy.

He comes back to himself when Voldemort continues speaking. “Do you have any idea how that ‘memory’ of me got into the diary?”

Harry blinks, stumped. No, he doesn’t actually know. But, again, why is this relevant? Voldemort smirks at the confused expression on his face. “Well, it came to be after a ritual I performed. A ritual where one places a piece of their soul in an object to assure their immortality.”

The diary… held a piece of Voldemort’s soul?! “What– That– Who would make a ritual like that?!” Who would ever want to be immortal? That sounds torturous. He could never imagine being immortal, having to live with the Dursley’s for the rest of his life. Or more pressingly, Voldemort for the rest of his life.

Voldemort shakes his head ruefully. “I know not who created it, only that it works, as I have used it many a times.” Harry baulks at that information. Multiple times?! “Do you want to know what the ritual entails?” Voldemort asks, leaning impossibly closer.

“No.” He doesn’t want to know what the ritual entails, thanks. He’d rather be out of this garishly decorated room, away from Voldemort, and safe in Hogwarts. Of course, Voldemort respects no one's wishes because he speaks anyway.

“You need to have a sacrifice, someone to be the transmitter between your soul and the object of your choosing.” Voldemort pauses, letting the information sink in before continuing. “You have to want it, to really focus on the cracking of your soul as it reacts to the murder you committed, then push it through the body towards the object.”

“Okay, and?”

Voldemort chuckles, before patting him on the head. “Oh, sweet thing. I thought I was being very transparent.”

Harry furrows his brows, thinking over the information a little closer. Kill someone, focus on your soul, and push it through. Nope, he still doesn’t get it.

“I will be merciful then.” Voldemort sighs, fixing his gaze on the green wallpaper. “The night I killed your parents,” Harry stiffens. “I killed your mother, and I focused on my soul when I realised the Killing curse backfired on me, and her body pushed a piece of my soul towards you.”

“What…?” Harry feels his stomach twist, stomach acid and bile threatening to make their way up and out his mouth.

How? How could this be? He held a piece of Voldemort’s soul. “Is that why you want to marry me?” He questions, and he fears the answer. 

He shuts his eyes in anticipation, hands clenched into the sheets. Hands cup his face. He gasps, and opens his eyes, and is met with Voldemort gazing at him in a simulation of a loving way.

He clenches fists tighter into the sheets, skin prickling and burning at Voldemort’s touch — he wouldn’t be shocked if he broke out in hives right this second.

Fury bubbles up inside him, beginning to overflow. “That’s— That is so stupid!” He grits out, smacking those pale and gross and annoying hands away from him.

Voldemort’s face twists into one of annoyance, and ill-contained mirth, but he doesn’t care. He needs to leave, right now.

He stands, pushing the sheets off him with haste. He stumbles, legs threatening to fail him, but he forces them to work.

He rushes to the first door he sees, but before he can even think to go for the handle, a shock bursts through him.

It rushes through his veins, making him hyperaware of every nerve ending that exists in his body, his mouth tastes of iron and his head is left reeling.

“Let me out!” He storms over to Voldemort, grabbing the Dark Lord’s robe by the collar, anger written into every line of his face.

“Once I’m sure you won’t attempt to escape the Manor, then you can leave this room. Do not worry, a house elf will bring your meals, and I shall visit every moment I can.” Voldemort explains, as if anything he says will amend everything.

“No. No, no, no! I’m not staying in this room, or this manor. And I’m not marrying you! I don’t care if I have a piece of your soul — I’d rather you just kill me and place it in something else.” He rants, voice becoming quicker and harsher with every word. He’s left panting by the end of it.

“You stupid boy!” Voldemort sneers, gripping Harry’s own collar, making for a silly scene should anyone walk in on them. “I cannot. My soul merged with yours, and if I ever tried to pry them apart, my soul would die.”

“Well, you have others don’t you?” He scoffs, brows furrowed and lips pulled into a deep frown.

Voldemort’s sneer disappears, making way for a sleazy look. His hands release Harry’s collar, drifting down to his chest, then to his hips. Squeezing. Harry flinches, his own hands leaving Voldemort’s collar. “Move your hands!” He hisses.

His demand is ignored. Voldemort rests his head on Harry’s chest. “I don’t want to kill you, you know? You’re my chosen one. Prophesised for me.” Harry shakes his head. He’s making zero sense.

“Why say this now? All my life, all my life, you have been trying to kill me. And suddenly when I am revealed to hold your soul, you change your direction?!”

“You were mine to kill, and now you are mine to wed. I will protect you, Harry, from any who try to harm you.” Voldemort whispers, lifting his head to Harry’s ear. Shivers wrack through Harry’s body, warm breath blanketing his ear.

“What about yourself?” Voldemort couldn’t be serious.

“…”  hands remove from his hips, finally. He backs up, placing distance between himself and Voldemort.

Blood eyes that have seen twins of its colour spilt many times burrow into his soul, the accompanying face blank, devoid of emotion.

When Voldemort speaks, it's hollow, yet full of warning. “Don’t give me a reason to.” And with that, Voldemort leaves out the door, the shocks completely ignoring him.

The door slams shut, and he can feel in the air a ward being put into place. He sighs, rubs his eyes with the palm of his eyes profusely, before collapsing onto the floor.

‘Please.’ He begs internally, too frightened to show his weakness externally. ‘Someone save me.’

Chapter Text

A tentative hand shakes him awake. Head reeling, he opens his eyes. Who woke him? He looks down, and sees he fell asleep on the carpet, then he looks up and sees a house elf, trembling.

The smell of food hits his nose, and he remembers what Voldemort said before. His eyes drift to a delicious spread of bacon, eggs, toast, and beans.

“Thank you.” He murmurs to the house elf, a small smile on his face.

The house elf squeaks at the thanks, but nods nevertheless. “Yous is most welcome, Master Harry.”

Harry stands, bones aching from having slept on the floor. He stretches and walks over to a table he hadn’t noticed before, but holds his breakfast.

He sits, and takes a small bite of the buttered toast. He sets it back down and sees the house elf is still there.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

The house elf fidgets with its clothing, a clean black pillowcase, wide eyes staring up at him. “Poppy.” The house elf answers.

He nods. “Are you the one assigned to me?”

Poppy begins to swell with pride, small chest enlarging. “Yes! Poppy does her work very well, so Master Dark Lord let her take on this honourable task.”

“Honourable…” He echoes, feeling quite put out. He looks back at his breakfast, finding that he isn’t hungry anymore.

Pushing the plate away, just the sight making him feel ill, he turns his attention back onto Poppy. “Is… Where’s Voldemort?”

“Master Dark Lord is holding his meetings.” Poppy informs, her huge eyes drifting to the plate Harry just pushed away. “Yous must eat more, Master Harry.” She stresses, popping away, before appearing again on the only other chair at the table.

She grabs the fork in her hand, stabs at a piece of bacon, dips it in the beans, before bringing it to his face. “Here.”

An unwilling grin spreads across his face, amusement and fondness stirring in him. Poppy frowns, and waves the fork incessantly in his face. Not wanting her to get upset, he leans in and takes a bite, chewing loudly and obnoxiously to show he won’t spit it out.

Satisfied, Poppy places the fork in his hand, popping down from the chair.

After taking a few more bites, Harry places the fork down. “Uh, Poppy?”

“Yes, Master Harry, sir?” Poppy tilts her head, looking up with her big eyes.

Harry clears his throat awkwardly, his question caught in his throat. “Do you– Uhm, know when Voldemort will be back?” If it’s going to be a while, he’ll have time to prepare for another interaction.

Poppy gets a stern expression on her face. “Did Master Dark Lord not tell you? He wants Master Harry to calls him, ‘Marvolo’.” Harry blanches, mind unsure if it should cringe, or be annoyed.

What kind of ridiculous fucking name is Marvolo? Voldemort is one thing, but Marvolo? Don’t mess him with that bullshit. Sadly, he can’t say that outloud, so he just nods, rephrasing his question. “Okay… When will… Marvolo be back?”

Poppy smiles and informs, “In two hours! Is yous finished with your breakfast?”

Harry looks back at the plate. He’s not finished, but he doesn’t think he can stomach anything more. He pushes it away as confirmation. Poppy then pops it away with a snap of her fingers, and Harry has to bite back a noise of awe. House elf magic is really something.

“I will draw Master Harry a bath now!” Poppy declares, and he flushes, waving his hands desperately.

“No, no, there’s no need for that.”

Poppy gives him a sceptical glance. “Master Harry has been asleep for days, he is needing a bath.”

He pauses. Lifts his armpit up to smell. And puts it down with his face red as a cherry. Maybe she is right. He sighs, standing up. “Alright, where is this bathroom?”

Poppy leads him over to a door he hadn’t noticed before that leads into the, frankly, overdressed bathroom. For Merlin’s sake, the bathtub is bigger than the Prefect's bathtub. You’d think Voldemort – or Marvolo – or Tom! – cares about him.

With a snap of her fingers, once again, the bathtub fills, bubbling up and emitting a floral scent that almost relaxes Harry. Almost, because he will never be caught dead voluntarily relaxing in his house.

Shedding his sweat stained clothes, he sinks into the water, aching muscles soothing instantly in the warm water. The perfect temperature. He lets out a deep sigh, content to ignore his problems for a little while.

He barely registers the crack of Poppy leaving, instead focusing on his thoughts. He has zero clue how he will survive being married to Voldemort, or if he’ll even survive to the wedding, but one thing he knows for sure is that he won’t give up hope.

No matter what Voldemort throws at him – abuse, manipulations, torture – he’ll endure. 

His mind drifts to happier things as he sinks into the water, a bone-deep pain dissipating. He thinks of Ron and Hermione, his best friends, and all the adventures they have had together. He thinks of the Weasley’s and how they treated him like another Weasley, and how everyone had tried their best to defend him.

He closes his eyes, mind shifting to images of Sirius…

Sirius, his funny, daring, kind, Godfather. His heart pangs, and he forces tears down. How he wishes he could’ve saved him somehow. He knows Sirius would’ve had a few colourful words for Voldemort if he had been in the atrium.

He curses that thought, disturbed. Why hadn’t Dumbledore attempted to help him more? All the headmaster had done was stand there perturbed, eyes bug-eyed wide. Harry highly doubts he would even be there if Dumbledore had thrown a well-placed stunner.

He supposes he shouldn’t place all the blame on Dumbledore though, it’s a good 95% Voldemort’s fault. He pettily promises to himself that he’ll only forgive Dumbledore if he is thinking up a plot to save him.

He opens his eyes, pouting. They are plotting to save him, right? He knows Ron and Hermione will definitely petition for them to save him immediately, but do they even know his location?

Heck, he doesn’t even know, he’s stuck in this room until Voldemort deems him not a flight risk. He huffs, anger suddenly building up. Who does Voldemort think he is?! Of course he would rather be anywhere but here, of course he will try to escape every second he can – but he can’t!

He bitterly thinks of that stupid ward around the door leading out of the bedroom.

Suddenly, his eyes start to feel heavy, drooping more and more. His anger leaves him, and instead a feeling of tiredness overtakes him, a yawn leaving him. He can afford to take a small nap, he’ll wake up before Voldemort comes.

With that thought, he closes his eyes, dreaming of drifting in a vast ocean. Free.

–

When he comes to wakefulness, he instantly registers another presence in the bathroom. More accurately, in the bathtub.

He snaps his eyes open, and sees Voldemort sitting across from him, naked. He flushes, eyes darting haphazardly around Voldemort form, desperately thankful the bubbles hadn’t left yet.

Voldemort smirks, leaning back against the rim of the bathtub. “Like what you see?”

Overwhelmed, Harry lets out a shrill scream that mixes with Voldemort’s cackles.