Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and associates own these characters.
Author's Notes: This is my first Voldemort/Tom Riddle x Harry. I've only recently got into the pairing, but I really love it :3 I hope you enjoy it! I'm working two chaptered stories and possible a chaptered lv/hp fic, along with a few oneshots xo


'It was weird' Harry thought absently. Getting comfort from the self acclaimed Dark Lord, the same Dark Lord who many of the greatest wizard's and witches feared and hid from, the same Dark Lord who had killed his parents and filled his sleep with horror. And yet, with his new dark brown hair and eyebrows and nose, Voldemort didn't seem that scary, not when he sat on dusty ground, robes getting spoiled and murmuring soothing nonsense into Harry's hair and the squeeze of arms, one wrapped around Harry's waist, the other around his shoulder. When everyone had either died, or turned their backs on Harry, he was the one to pick up the pieces, offer the comfort, and the soothing tingle in his spine and at the back of his head, hidden in the depths before spreading to his lightning bolt scar in a pleasant tickle.

Always been there.

Always Tom.


Harry had been at Riddle Manor for 3 Months –91 Days, 2184 Hours- before it happened. 91 Days of heated glances, and soft touches. 2184 Hours of flushes and blushes, that left Harry feeling like a young school girl. Of warm chuckles that followed him, ringing in his ears as he left the room, willing down his blush and the warmth that curled in his abdomen. 3 Months before Voldemort reached his limit and leant over the chess board, -where he was trying, and failing to teach Harry chess- used his thumb to pull Harry's abused bottom lip from where he had been chewing on it and crashed his lips to Harry's, pent up desire and longing fulling it. 3 Months indeed.


Slightly calloused hands fluttered down the spine before trailing back up and repeating, muscle shifted under skin as the body squirmed and a head turned, but eyes didn't open or wake. Voldemort, Tom Riddle, shifted until he was laying, slighting hovering over the body next to him, beneath him, before placing soft butterfly kisses to a bony shoulder blade, 'Still too thin.' His mind supplied, a quiet sigh passing through his lips, another soft kiss, this time on Harry's cheek, before he lay to sleep.


The pain was unbearable. His throat was raw from screaming, his limbs twitched every other second, his back bowed as another scream tore past his lips. Harry could briefly hear voices, hurried and harsh words, a difference to the soft, almost hesitant hands that tried to sooth him. Something wet and cold was placed on his forehead, the burn that was rising starting to ebb. Something cool and round pressed against his lips, a potion, his mind supplied. The pain started to ease away, leaving him panting for breath while his muscles still twitched and his head throbbed. He blearily opened his eyes, he could see distorted shapes through his cracked glasses, another potion passed to the hands soothing him, he followed the arm, Snape, of course, before red eyes filled with concern blocked his pained vision. Tom.


Fenrir Greyback had found Remus Lupin 6 months after Harry had joined Voldemort. A pull in his gut, day's before the full moon had taken him to a forest, a few miles from Riddle Manor. Remus had been attacked and was barley alive, if not for Greyback -who had recognized him as someone who he had bitten- hadn't found him, he would have been dead in less than an hour. Potion's had been given, and he'd been left to rest, Harry rarely leaving his side, having thought the man who had been the last of his true family, had been killed almost a year before. When Remus awoke, Harry was at his side in an instant, offering him potions and chocolate, Harry didn't miss the switch of positions from his third year, when the Dementors had attacked the Hogwarts Express.


Death was everywhere. The Ministry bribed, threatened or killed anyone who defied them. Rebel groups where destroyed, their deaths blamed on Voldemort and his followers. Harry was branded a 'capture on site', harm but do not kill. It sickened Harry, that people he once cared for, and fought for, now wanted his head, his power to kill a man, branded as a monster when they themselves where not much better. Killing innocent people, destroying families, all in the name of the 'Greater Good', leaving death in their wake. If not for the manor, where death stopped at the door, wards keeping out the war, where laughter and family filled it's place, Harry was sure he would have gone mad by now.


Harry became more touchy, over the weeks, as war grew closer, almost thrumming at the wards and buzzing in the air, filling it with stiff moments of tension. It was like he felt the need to reassure himself that Tom -he'd stopped calling him Voldemort months ago in his head- was still there, real and warm by his side, in the manor and in their bed. Harry knew the final battle was coming, he always knew it had to, just never like this, never him and Tom and the Death Eaters against the Ministry. He often found himself pushing his chair closer to Tom's at the dinner table, or playing with his fingers in meetings, sliding impossibly closer as they lay in bed a night. Harry thought, that although Tom didn't say anything, he didn't push him away either, that he needed the touches just as much as Harry did.


It had been 2 years since Harry had joined the 'Dark Side'. 18 Months since Remus had been found and had been brought into their ranks, giving information he had gathered since he had gone missing. 1 year since the Ministry had put a price on Harry's head. It was late afternoon, when several Death Eaters ran into the manor, they had found a weakness, though it was more like they had found the person who would bring the ministry down. Percy Weasley, the ministers right hand man. Harry had learnt to block out the screams since being at the manor, and for Percy he could not feel even slightly sorry for what he was going through. They had finally found their way to end it all.


The wind howled against the manor. Trees cracked and broke, leaves sailed and whipped through the air. Loose pebbles and stones skipped across the ground, some hitting the outer walls. It was almost as if the weather shadowed the emotions of the wizarding world. Frantic and brutal. The Ministry, frantic, the loss of the second in command, the brains, had left them weak and broken, fighting to gain and keep control over the civilians. The Death Eaters, brutal in their practice, teaching and learning new spells, preparing to fight and win. And still the wind blew and crashed and whistled, spraying rain harshly against skin, wrecking weak buildings, delaying the inevitable.


Jealousy was a bitter thing, Tom realised. It wrapped in his stomach, and rose until it squeezed his lungs and made his heart beat faster, louder until it thrummed in his ears. His breath caught until he almost couldn't breath. They had a war to fight, he had an army to prepare -to lead- and a ministry to take down, but in that moment all he could feel and see was jealousy and how he, it, hung off of what his his. His breath caught at how Harry's attention was fully on the person, he couldn't think of the name, just that if he came anywhere near, he would find himself under crucio. The bitter feeling continued to rise, never could he remember feeling so much emotion, hate and anger, yes, but this, the tight ball of fear that had curled and hid itself neatly away until now, fear. Fear that Harry would realise how much better he deserved, how much better he could have, instead of he, Dark Lord Voldemort, a bitter and angry man, who was only now realising love and it's benefits. Only when Harry turned his head away from the person who kept on talking and flirting, a bored and aggravated look on his face, until his eyes caught red ones, a look of relief passing over it, as he walked towards Tom, could he breath normally, and let the ball of jealousy leave.


Harry had a hand fetish. Though it was more of a Dark Lord hand fetish. He was fascinated by how they held a wand, a sure and tight grip, while his wrist was loose enough to preform complicated charms and spells easily. Harry often found himself staring when Tom's, long and thin -but not bony- fingers curled around his knife and fork, or when they lifted a goblet to his lips, or when they rubbed red sauce from his mouth. Harry loved when they twined with his own in a sure grip, he had never thought that Voldemort would be one to hold hands be he sure wasn't complaining. But Harry loved them the most when they gripped and curled and bruised, his hips, as one long fingered hand curled around his length and twisted just right, when they came together, and when they threaded through his hair in their sated aftermath and as Harry slept.


There was blood everywhere. Blood of the enemies and blood of their own. It mixed into the grass and ran through the rain onto the ground. It soaked into their robes and shoes, and stained their skin. It changed from dark brown lit with pink in the moonlight to glistening red, in the dawning sun, only to go back to brown as it dried. It had been caused by their wands, more bloodshed then they had imagined possible. Though they had won, and as the sun shone brighter and the rain let up, they could finally breathe their first free breaths, and look to the future with hope.


Harry wore dark green robes, his slacks were black and shirt white. A red flower pinned to his chest pocket.

"To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness,"


" And in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part."

Tom wore dark red robes, black slacks and shirt white. A charmed green flower pinned to his chest pocket.


They were branded hero's by many, and feared by some. The ones who still fought for the now dead minister where killed or sent to Azkaban, fed off of by hungry Dementors. Some asked for redemption, only a few were granted, others were left to angry Death Eaters who had pleased their Lords. The Order of the Phoenix had been destroyed, many had been killed or had fled, leaving others to fight in their places, only to return when the wizarding world was deemed safe, begging for forgiveness from their Boy-Who-Lived, telling him to have courage to kill the Dark Lord, to end it all and give them back their world. Turned away and shunned by the person who they had done the same too. Left to fend for themselves in a world which despised them.


Fear gripped at his stomach and made his chest tight. A small part of Tom's mind told him that the symptoms were somewhat like jealousy, except worse. A hundred times worse. It made his legs and knees weak, and his eyes sting. It made him clench his fingers and gnaw his bottom lip until it bled. When weak green eyes met his, only then did he allow himself to cry the first tears that he could ever remember shedding. Dear Merlin, fear, he wasn't leaving Harry unprotected ever again.


A simple smile, a quick flash of teeth, a quirk of lips. His breath caught and quickened, a fluttering in his stomach. No matter how many times he saw that smile, it never failed to amaze him. He'd seen so much, and fought so hard, killed when he shouldn't of had too and had his family and childhood destroyed, partly by himself. And yet, he still smiled and laughed and loved. His husband, his bonded, his heart.


He had never thought of himself as innocent, he'd never had innocence. His parents had been killed and he'd been tarnished with dark magic. Thrust into the wizarding world, built to fight for something he wasn't sure of, something he didn't know of. Made to hate people he had only heard about, or met in dreadful circumstance. Fed lies and stories to make him kill a supposed monster, told to fight for the ones he loved, but did not love him. Pushed into battle, and bloodshed, forced to learn for the future, the same future they told he would not see, his innocence and love for the 'greater good'. But with people, the same people who he had been taught to kill, he learnt to create a world where children could keep hold of their innocence where he had lost his own. Where you were not shunned for being a magical creature, or for your blood, nor for the magic you practised, only the reasons for which you did it, the intent. Where you were allowed to love and to grow for yourself.


The war had been won and the wizarding world rebuilt to their liking. Their fight was complete, they were free to start living the lives they never had had the chance to before. To listen and live, to feel and learn, to love.


They lay wrapped around each other, legs tangled tightly, arms wrapped around, hands stroking hair and skin. It had been 2 years since the war had ended -24 months, 730 days-. Tom pointed out different stars and constellations under the moonlit sky as Harry's head rested on his chest. "Sirius, the dog star." They had fought and argued since the war ended. "Orion, the hunter." They had given each other silent treatment. "Furud, bright single one." They had loved and laughed and become stronger together. And as the moon glittered across the sky and left silver shadows across trees and grass which was bright green in the daylight, as they kissed and rolled until Harry was under Tom, they knew-

Always be there.

Always Tom. Always Harry.