A Christmas Ball in the times of War
Summary: The war is over, yet the fight still lives on. Rebellions place their hopes and dreams to their fallen hero, Harry Potter. Only he's not dead. And not really on their side. He's actually planning a Christmas Ball for his lover, the Dark Lord Voldemort. Slash.
Warnings: Slash, mentioning of violence, Voldemort and Harry acting OOC and perhaps some other stuff.
Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter nor do I make any money on this.
Minus 33 degrees Celsius outside where I live! Not cold enough so that it hurts to breathe outside, but ain't exactly warm either. So a little fic to warm me up, I hope you enjoy! Merry Christmas everyone!
War was a constant. It was a necessity. There could be no world without a war, somewhere, sometime. Just because it's a magical world it doesn't mean it's any different. Muggles had their reasons for war, as did wizards and witches. It could be money. It could be oil. For something one side thought was right. Like little children who fight over whose toy it is. They fight for control. They fight to be the one on top. All wars were about that, more or less.
This particular war in the Wizarding World has no real beginning and no end in sight. All that is known is that it'd been going on for generations. Since the great times of Albus Dumbledore and his army. The man was still an inspiration, someone youngsters hoped to surpass, to the degree they might end the war.
It was Light against the Dark with one clear difference from the war's beginning; it was not the Light who ruled the Wizarding World. It was the Dark who had long since won, after the tragic death of the Light's hero and hope, Harry Potter. But people's hopes never dwindled, and they kept on fighting in his name.
As for the Harry Potter mentioned above… well, he didn't exactly care for that. All that mattered for him in that very instant was what he was going to serve as drinks at the start of his annual Christmas Ball at Slytherin Manor.
Did I mention he wasn't dead? Oh, the rest of the Light world certainly thought him dead. After all, that had been Voldemort's plan.
Perhaps we should take it from the start.
The exact year had been lost to history, but everyone in the Light knew of Harry Potter. He was heroic. He was kind. He was the very symbol of their lawful, good magic. He and Albus Dumbledore fought the evil Voldemort, the Lord of Shadow and Death (the Light's name for him, but said Lord doesn't mention that he does like the sound of it) for years and years, never losing hope that they would win one day. Hope is the last thing that leaves you apparently.
It didn't help Harry when he was captured. Hope has the side-effect of blowing your ego up too much, and quickly deflate you into nothing should you actually try you could get out of an impossible situation. Which he more or less had ended up in.
There were only so many ways you could entertain yourself in a cell, chained to the wall, and usually left alone most of the days. At first, Harry had been hopeful. We all would be. We'd get into a wee bit of trouble, and we think someone will save us. Well, that doesn't really happen when you're the hero. They all expect that you'll blast through the chains, the magically locked doors, the guarded dungeons and of course kill a Dark Lord on your way out so you can make it back for tea.
Harry didn't make it back for tea. Not that it was that what worried him when he was there in that cell, awaiting some sort of horrible, painful fate. Or would they just forget about him and he would slowly starve to death?
Of course a war continues even without its hero. People expected Harry Potter to show up with a smile and a spell, always being the one they could trust.
That's about that time when Voldemort first Crucioed Harry. He had suffered through that and more though, so Voldemort pulled his nails out from his fingers instead. That one hurt more than Crucio. Harry screamed at the end.
Before it all was over though, he had screamed many times more. His throat was raw and scratchy from it, and his whole body shuddered in pain. He was desperate for anything to stop it. He didn't sign up to be a hero, he certainly didn't sign up to be someone Voldemort tortured slowly to death.
It wasn't long after that that Voldemort put him down on a chair, wounds cleaned, Harry's head stuffed with the lulling effects of pain reliever, and perhaps a bit of a calming potion, and the Dark Lord began to talk. Harry insists even to this day he was manipulated, at some degree. Voldemort keeps telling him he didn't mind, and of course Harry would have to agree to that.
So the outside world wasn't his concern, and hadn't been for a long time. Some days he even forgot to dress, or even leave the bed. There were a lot of decisions that could be made whilst he still lay snuggled down amongst the covers. Voldemort called that unfair. Harry said he had always been the smarter out of the two.
This day, this particular day near the Christmas ball Harry held in honour of Voldemort, Harry lay in bed, half-dressed, thinking. The manor was being decorated by the house-elves, all loved dearly by Harry which according to Voldemort was a clear sign of his insanity. Harry told him to fuck off and added Voldemort didn't mind the great Harry Potter a little insane. This, of course, Voldemort had to agree to.
"Which one?" Harry finally asked out loud. He liked to talk to himself. There were so many great answers in his brain, and when no answer came, at least it wouldn't be embarrassing.
"Still can't decide, my dear?" a deep, purring voice came from the doorway.
"Fuck off, love," Harry replied and twisted his head to the side. "Blood?"
"Whatever are you talking about?"
"I don't know," the man said confidently and sat up. He held out his arms to Voldemort and continued, "Hug me. I think better when you hug me."
Voldemort complied, caressing his love's naked thighs while Harry drummed his fingers on the Dark Lord's back.
"Not blood," he said finally. "Gets lumpy."
"As I asked, what are you talking about?"
"Pre-drinks for the ball. What should we have?"
"Why not blood?"
"Because it gets lumpy and that's disgusting," Harry said and scrunched his nose.
"We can get fresh blood."
"But it would taste weird with the small… food things the elves have done."
"Ah, you are absolutely right. Blood won't do any good. Firewhiskey?"
"In the tall glasses I decided on? You've even madder than me!" Harry exclaimed, and kissed Voldemort. "But it'd be boring with wine or champagne…"
"Perhaps champagne with a touch of blood," Voldemort said as he pushed Harry down onto the bed, spreading his love's legs.
"Are we going to have sex?" Harry asked, alarmed. "Because I'm supposed to be with the elves in an hour, and I'd rather not stink."
"Don't worry, I'll make it a quick one. You can't wear that little clothes near me, you know how I get."
"Horny and unstoppable," Harry giggled. "Shouldn't you be killing rebels?"
"Soon, love," Voldemort said as he hefted a leg up on his shoulder and kissed the pale skin. "But first, let me please you…"
In all honesty, Harry didn't know what year it was. He knew the months well enough, because Voldemort told him when he failed to notice if it was leaves or snow falling outside the window. But he never bothered to learn the years.
He knew it had been enough for Draco to be long since dead and buried, although there was a portrait of him in the manor that Harry talked to a lot. Same with the friends he had left when he turned to the dark, which only consisted of Luna and the Weasley twins. They had all also passed away, with their own portraits hanging near Draco's so Harry could talk with them all.
But he didn't know if it was their children, or grandchildren, or even later generations that he spent time with now. They never bothered to tell him either. They were descendents of his friends, which was enough for him.
Now he kicked at the air whilst Voldemort got dressed.
"I'll get a bath ready for you," the Dark Lord said. "Do with the champagne as pre-drinks; we can break out the heavier liquor later."
"I'll see if I can't bring home some fresh blood just for you and your strange ideas," Voldemort said and kissed him. "Now, is everything else in order? The food, the account of people, the entertainment?"
"Yeah, as long as you don't get someone killed today," Harry replied and hugged Voldemort tightly. "Don't do that; you'll mess up my plans."
"I'll do my best."
"But you can kill the rebels. I don't mind you killing them."
"In that area, I will do even better," Voldemort said with a grin. "But they are fighting in your name. In your honour. Yet you let them die so easily."
"I don't even know them!" Harry complained. "Why are they using my name anyway?!"
"Because you are their hope. Their reason for fighting."
"That's stupid," the man said and looked at Voldemort. "I mean, I don't even really remember why I fought for the Light. I guess that was just the natural role, as Dumbledore wouldn't have let me become evil."
"And here you are, my little evil thing," the Dark Lord said and nuzzled his nose against Harry's. "Bath, dress, then go make sure everything is in order. Okay? And put on something nice so I have a better reason to ogle you tonight."
"You don't have to have a reason. And I can't go round naked."
"I know, but I like your body in good clothes. The red and black one perhaps?"
Harry swung his legs in the air as he thought about it. "Maybe," he allowed. "Bath?"
"In a moment, love."
"Why can't I go out fighting with you today?"
"Because you're planning the ball," Voldemort reminded. "Any other time, you know you're welcome to join me."
"It's funny how they never see it's me," the former Boy-Who-Lived said with a smile. "I don't even try to hide."
"You laugh too much to be kind," Voldemort said. "And wearing one of your grins, anyone would seem deranged, and as you know, they have no such things as 'insanity' in their ranks."
"Lies. They're all insane to fight you."
"Well, you fought back in the beginning too."
"Yes, and I'm insane."
Harry sat up, naked and open yet Voldemort knew better.
Oh, such bitter fights they had had in the beginning. First when Harry was still Light, pure and through. His screams. Voldemort's screams. Their spells and magic clashing together, grinding bone to bone in fist-fights.
Even after they had stopped fighting, and Voldemort had told Harry his side of the story they hadn't stopped arguing. Harry, whilst being a little crazy, still had a strong will. They clashed over decisions, over discussions, even over chess games. Often it came to blows, and Harry was a dirty cheater. He was the only one who even managed to bruise Voldemort.
The Dark Lord remembered the night they changed from strange friends to lovers. It had been a fight like all others. A chess game that didn't go Harry's way, and on top of that he hadn't been allowed to go fighting the Light. They had rolled around on the floor, Harry biting skin and cloth, nails scratching and clawing, until Voldemort finally brutally claimed his lips.
They hadn't even made it to the bed the first time. Harry screamed about rug burns and they fought through the night, sometimes making love and other times just trying to beat the shit out of the other.
So yes, the Dark Lord knew better than to attack just because Harry sat so openly and inviting. Instead he stepped closer with confidence, but still slow enough for Harry to adjust, and they kissed slowly. Voldemort stroke Harry's naked chest, flicking at the nipples. Harry bit his lip.
"Nope," he said. "Can't go teasing me when I can't go killing someone. I'll wear the tightest clothes I can find and torture you with that throughout the night. Maybe someone would like to dance with me… they all get so flustered when I dance with them…"
"Don't you dare," Voldemort growled. "I'll spank that little arse of yours until it bleeds should you do that again."
"What again?" Harry challenged, and suddenly had the tip of his wand against Voldemort's throat. He was very fast with it, no matter of where he had placed it last it found its way to his hand in a matter of seconds. They were both grinning now. "You mean last year? But that boy was so eager…"
"You hid your face behind a glamour."
"Yes, and he managed to strip me down naked before you found us," Harry purred. "What would you have done had he claimed me?"
"Slaughtered him," Voldemort growled. "And then torn you apart."
Harry shushed him. "You sure about that? You sure you hadn't wanted to see me helpless beneath someone else, crying out for you?"
The Dark Lord blushed, and Harry laughed. The tension dissipated and Voldemort bit his earlobe as Harry threw the wand aside.
"The bath," he reminded.
"And your fight."
"Bloody hell, I'd rather fight you right now. You got me hard and bothered."
Harry confirmed that himself with his grabby hands, and laughed as the Dark Lord moaned quietly. "A quickie then," he said, falling back on the bed and pulling Voldemort on top of him. "And then you go and get me blood while I make sure everything's perfect at home."
The Dark had reigned over the magical world for many years now. All under the rule of the seemingly immortal Dark Lord (Lord of Shadow and Death, but Dark Lord was much easier and faster to say).
It wasn't that Harry didn't understand that he was old; it was just that he didn't care. Sometimes he didn't show his face for so long that when he started coming with Voldemort, few recognized him. Some had even thought him to be an enemy (which Voldemort was quick to remind them that he wasn't).
Age didn't matter for him or Voldemort. Allies that were well-liked were mourned of course, such as Draco and Luna and Fred and George, but Harry knew when he died, because all things die, he will meet them again. So he knew he would see them, that death wasn't the end. It probably was just like a beginning.
The manor which they lived in was the Slytherin Manor after Voldemort had spent some time repairing it and hunting down Salazar Slytherin's old relics. Some had disappeared when no one lived in the great manor, but Voldemort prided himself at finding most of them, putting them back in their home.
Some things sparked when you touched them though. That was the first warning of 'this item has a considerable amount of black magic, don't be an idiot and touch it again'. Some never learned though, and Harry had watched several people getting burnt to death by the magical items. He could touch them, but that was just a Dark Lord's lover-thing he supposed. He didn't mind watching the others die. They were idiots if they did it a second time anyway.
Now he danced down the corridors, bathed and dressed in the evening's robes. He neatly avoided the cleaning elves, made sure to call out a 'Good work' to them. Sure, it always made them drop their cleaning supplies in shock, but Harry knew they were happy.
Decorations had already covered the great hall and the room where the ball was to be held. The second floor West wing was prohibited for others, as that was Harry's and Voldemort's private place. Death Eaters and dark supporters knew better than to actually enter (for those who did, if they didn't have a damn good reason they would never see the light of day again). Harry had tortured some of the Light people who had managed to infiltrate, but it had been a while since. One year? Two? Maybe ten?
He didn't know, and didn't care. It was time for Christmas, and he couldn't give a shit about the rest of the world. As long as Voldemort was happy, the world could be whatever it wanted to be. Harry never bothered much with the world, not after it did its best to screw him over (no parents, bad relatives, even worse headmaster, and lots of drooling, annoying stalkers aka Light people). As long as Voldemort was there Harry could deal with it.
The house-elves managed to feed him some food, despite Harry's dislike for eating (thank you again, Mr and Mrs Dursley) and before long, Voldemort came back, bloody but grinning.
"No jumping me," he warned when Harry came closer. His heart melted a little at Harry's pout but he stood fast. "You're not getting those robes dirty."
"It's just blood," Harry argued. "Plus, it's black! No one will notice!"
"I will not have you dirty down your clothes like a child."
Harry whined but didn't throw himself at his lover. Instead he stood on his tip-toes and pecked Voldemort on the mouth. "If I can't hug, then you can't kiss."
"Oh, after I change and have cleaned myself up," Voldemort growled, "I'll grind you into the wall."
Such obvious sexual threats never worked on Harry anymore. It just made him grin like a madman and skip down the hall. At the beginning, he had stared and sputtered and run away, Voldemort chasing after him like a demented bat. Great fun. There were lots of crooks and small places to hide in at the Slytherin manor, even when it wasn't in its best shape. The Dark Lord had chased Harry around countless times, first when the younger of the two still was timid and later, when he was ferocious.
Voldemort took a quick bath, and whilst scrubbing his face clean of blood he did wonder just when Harry started to change. He hadn't tortured the boy too badly to break the mind when he started to manipulate the saviour's thoughts. He had been very gentle and kind (well, as kind as he could be without coming off as creepy) but had forgotten when Harry's returned his sexual taunts, building up the tension between the two before it finally snapped, one that simple (well, should have been simple) chess night. That night Voldemort remembered very clearly. After all, why would he want to forget the wild animal Harry Potter was in bed? Hard to imagine that first night that the young man had actually been a virgin.
It wasn't good to think of those things, as Voldemort seldom managed it without getting erect. Just the sheer memory of Harry on top of him, those green eyes dark with pleasure and that taunting, wide smile as he drove Voldemort to the brink of insanity with his dancing hips, was enough to bring the Dark Lord down with a moan.
Having regained himself, Voldemort sped down towards the hall to greet his guests, dressed in black and silver robes when a hand grabbed him. Harry, though still a bit short and rather thin, pushed him up against the wall.
"Hello, dear," he said.
"Harry, love, the guests…"
"They haven't started to arrive just yet. You made me very horny back there. Where's the grinding of me into the wall? Are you scared to be late?"
"It's the ball you arranged for me," Voldemort said. "Isn't it bad for us to be late for it?"
"Why?" Harry asked as he licked Voldemort's jaw. "It's our house, our rules. And I want you to do me now."
There was no use in denying Harry when he was in this state. Voldemort had tried once (really, it was a very important meeting) and got his arm twisted out of its socket in return, and Harry sulking for three weeks. He would not want to repeat that one again, thank you very much.
And he could give Harry this quickie against the wall, because honestly? Voldemort didn't mind doing it in the hall. Gave a sort of thrilling feeling. As he pulled them around, pushing Harry against the wall and lifting the slender legs up to his waist, the Dark Lord's tongue delved into Harry's mouth. The younger moaned loudly. He couldn't have sex and be quiet. Voldemort didn't care if anyone would hear them, he was way past public embarrassment. Harry had made sure of that some years ago with a very good blow-job just a hallway down from where some of the Death Eaters had gathered.
The guests started to arrive just as Voldemort fixed Harry's collar and smoothed down the long, black hair. Harry leaned into his side, ever docile when he got his will through, and the Dark Lord greeted them with his natural elegance.
"Oh," Harry said after a while. "I forgot to ask. Did you get the blood?"
Voldemort grinned. "Did you really think I would forget that for you, love? The house-elves are preparing it as we speak."
"You didn't take from some old person, did you? Their blood taste dusty."
"Only in your imagination, but no, I didn't. A ripe young woman had to pay the price," Voldemort said and moved to hug his lover from behind. He bent down and continued in a whisper, "I know you have a fondness for pregnant women."
"She was pregnant?" Harry said. "Why was she fighting then?"
"Oh, some horrid pride and notion because apparently I slaughtered her beloved husband. As if I knew who it was. And I don't slaughter people in public so it was probably a descendant of Bellatrix's."
"Can't believe that woman actually managed to spawn a child in the end," the man muttered.
"And just as twisted," Voldemort muttered as he glanced over at the guests. He found what he was looking for within minutes.
Wild black mane, heavy eyelids over dark eyes. Bellatrix's descendant, a young woman this time, looked very much like her ancestor. And was just as mad.
"I wonder if it's in their blood to be mad," Harry wondered. "And what would that blood taste like?"
"Like any other I imagine."
Harry disagreed with a huff. The food started to appear on the tables. And next to the wines and whiskeys there was a bowl of dark red blood. Harry wanted to drink it only, but Voldemort mixed a glass of it with wine and presented it to his lover. Some vampires, ever discreet in the usual society, took the blood only and raised their glasses in honour to the pair.
"It's only you and the vampires who enjoy blood that much," Voldemort said. "How much have I corrupted that innocent soul of yours?"
"I don't think it's very innocent anymore," Harry mused as he drank. "Do I have to eat? The house-elves made me eat earlier."
"Now, now, love, I can't go ravish you later if you haven't built up your strength. I need you to eat."
"Will you ravish me later then?"
"It's one of my annually gifts for you," Voldemort said with a smile. "And tradition. And I would hate to break that particular tradition ever."
Harry grinned and sauntered off to the food table, coyly glancing back and making sure his robes showed his body perfectly. Voldemort blushed a little and glanced over the room. Due to their close display this year, no one made the mistake to ogle Harry too much. Some years they played, Harry concealing his face or something like that before wandering around pretending to be someone else than the Dark Lord's lover. The results were… amusing to say the least. The Dark Lord got possessive, and Harry had great fun seducing poor women and men, wound them around his fingers and almost always managing to have them undress him before Voldemort found them.
This year though, they hadn't made any such plans even if Harry teased Voldemort about it. It would be enough with the clothes tease, and the quickie from before, to ensure a night of great fun.
But now it was time for enjoying the ball. Harry liked Christmas, oddly enough. He cared little for the world, but always grew more interested when Christmas rolled around. He liked the decorations, all the sparkly, shining objects, and he liked the presents. Voldemort spoiled him, naturally. The Dark Lord doubted he could ever hold back when it came to Harry. And despite all of the long years they had lived, Harry never tired of their quiet celebration the day after the ball. It usually was just the two of them, after Harry's closest friends had passed away in peace, and Voldemort never grew tired of the calmness. His snake, Nagini, was still alive due to his soul-piece keeping her healthy and fresh but like Harry she didn't move around much around the new Death Eaters. She would be with them, and when Voldemort was busy, she would be with Harry. The two had a great relationship with each other, Harry reading aloud to the snake and Nagini indulging the man with playing chess that listened to the commands of Parseltongue.
She probably was in their room somewhere now, resting on the places Voldemort kept warm for her, or chasing down some poor animal Harry might have conjured. Her gift from them this year was a small child. Her parents were some bothersome rebellions, most likely descendents of that Ron and Hermione Weasley. Voldemort despised them. He liked the twins, Fred and George, well enough because they were friends with Harry but he just couldn't stand the rest of them. Especially Ginny, that little freak who thought she could be Harry's love. No such thing. Harry was his.
And yes, the girl had been dead for many years but her own descendents seemed just as dim and stupid as her, fighting in Harry Potter's name and not knowing Harry Potter couldn't care less of them.
Anyway, the girl. She was alive, last Voldemort checked, and would be released in the basement where Nagini could hunt to her heart's content. The girl would scream, no doubt. Voldemort knew he and Harry wouldn't be bothered by it. She was just some stupid little girl who already at her young age, eight, took up a wand and tried to defeat 'the great, evil darkness' (of course they were great, they did managed to defeat the Light despite being lower in numbers).
Harry came back with a plate for them, already knowing Voldemort's favourites, and they ate even as they sometimes talked to others, sometimes to each other. At times they were quiet, Harry sipping his mixed drink and Voldemort holding a normal glass of wine.
He didn't have to congratulate Harry of choosing the decorations so nicely, as the man probably already knew that. He never did anything twice in a row though, but from time to time a familiar piece showed up. This year it was in the living room, where they would probably spend most of their time tomorrow in. It was a single Christmas wreath, nothing particularly special about it with the exception of Luna's pale blonde hair woven into the branches. She had made it for them one year, and Harry made sure it was magically preserved. Voldemort had liked the touch of pale hair twisted with the dark branches. Plus Harry didn't like to show it to many people, and had probably put the living room as off limits when the manor filled up with Death Eaters, their families and dark supporters.
The Malfoys were there. Different faces and names, but the same pale beauty they all were. Voldemort did miss Lucius. The man had been witty with a perfectly fine dry humour. Draco was more childish, but he had always been more Harry's friend. If the Dark Lord was honest with himself, Lucius had probably been his friend. As Harry had his wall of his friends' portraits, Voldemort had his own. The Malfoy pair and Severus were the main ones. Severus, having long edged on both the Light and dark side, finally tipped over to the dark when he found out that Harry had been converted. After Dumbledore's death and Voldemort's winning of that particular war, he had been appointed headmaster of Hogwarts and had held the title until his death, almost a full hundred years later. Harry had been sad to see him go, as they had become much more comfortable with each other.
Voldemort did have a tendency to miss the potions master's sarcastic manner, and his calming voice. Severus' portrait had been painted when he was still young, the way Voldemort always wanted to remember him, and the Dark Lord did talk to him and Lucius several times a week. He didn't have many other portraits there, as he had only been comfortable with those two. He had gone to school almost the same time as Abraxas, but had never gotten to know the man whose health had been weak ever since Lucius was born. His portrait probably hung at Malfoy Manor, next to another portrait of the Malfoys, this time with Draco in it.
Harry's voice woke Voldemort up, and he smiled at his lover.
"Just old times," he replied. "Severus despised these balls."
"Yet he came to each one of them," Harry said and popped a piece of bone into his mouth. Voldemort heard it break between his teeth.
"Careful," he reprimanded. He knew it was useless to try make Harry stop; that would also make the man sulk dreadfully.
"I know, I know. Severus usually just spoke to us and Lucius."
"He was never a social man, was he?"
"I have a tendency to miss his voice," Harry said after a bit. "I mean, all the other professors at Hogwarts just awed at me. Even if he hated me in the start, he was the only one I really liked."
"You were just self-torturing yourself with that. Why did I even bother to do anything, when you seemed to screw yourself over perfectly fine on your own?"
"Dunno. You probably felt like it. Crucio still freaks me out."
"Sorry, love." Voldemort kissed his temple softly. "I overreacted at the time."
"I know." Harry licked another bone clean and put it down on the plate before cleaning his fingers. "It's time for the dancing. And no, there is no need for us to start."
"Thank Merlin," the Dark Lord muttered, "I hate doing that."
"Don't I know it."
The tables were moved over to the end of the room and music began to play as the lights dimmed a little. It wasn't long before pairs began dancing, and soon after that Harry and Voldemort moved into the crowd as well. Harry was never good at leading in dancing, and was perfectly alright with just going with the flow. Voldemort was a natural dancer, and had taught his lover well over the years. They moved smoothly amongst the others, some who stepped aside to let them through, others just staring. The two had often been told they were excellent dancers, and a pleasing sight to look at.
Usually these parties lasted well into the night, and this night was no different. Or rather, this early dawn was no different. It was almost six in the morning before Harry and Voldemort staggered into their bedroom. They didn't stagger because they were drunk. They staggered because Voldemort was busy kissing and undressing Harry to see where he was actually going.
"Shouldn't we… go to, you know, sleep?" Harry mumbled between kisses before his robes were off and Voldemort pushed him down on the bed.
"Nope. I only got to do you against a wall in the last few hours," Voldemort said. "It's tradition, no matter how late, or early, it is. So you be good and stay awake."
"When you're in me? How could I possibly go to sleep then?" Harry asked and licked his lips, grinning widely after that. "Don't you wish you should've done me in front of Hermione and Ron at least once before we killed them? I mean, they only got to see us snog."
Voldemort dragged the pants off, soon having his lover naked and eager underneath him. No matter how many years had passed, Harry looked no older than thirty, lean and body without scars or imperfections. Skin smooth and pale, hair long and no longer the rat nest it used to be. The lightning bolt scar was still there, faintly, and Voldemort chuckled at Harry's statement before bending down to kiss it. That scar was proof that Voldemort would always be inside of Harry, and that Harry was his Horcrux.
"I did grope you a little," Voldemort amended.
"You didn't fuck me," Harry growled. "You should've fucked me and made them watch. They were so pathetic, crying their eyes out and kept telling me I had to kill you. What utter, stupid nonsense. Come on, what are you waiting for?!" His hips bucked. "I'll go to sleep if you don't plan on taking action anytime soon."
The Dark Lord grabbed Harry's legs and brutally bent them towards the man's chest, putting tension onto the muscles. Harry only grinned, and reached up to seize Voldemort's head. As the Dark Lord let go of the legs and got into the kiss, Harry wrapped them around the narrow waist and squeezed hard. He didn't care for how long they would play. They weren't in a hurry. Christmas celebrations were still far from over.
Voldemort had closed the curtains but put a fire going since the cold seeped into the manor despite the spells. It was nearing noon, but they were just preparing to go to sleep.
Or well, the Dark Lord was. Harry had already passed out. Voldemort relished the hotness underneath the covers, and their sweaty bodies pressed close together. Harry's head rested heavily on Voldemort's shoulder, the deep green eyes closed and the chest moving in slow, deep breaths.
The Dark Lord watched the fire's light dance in the ceiling. Harry didn't know how many years had passed, but Voldemort knew. Almost 250 years had passed since they became lovers, since they started to fight together. That was a long time had he ruled alone. Harry said he wasn't a ruler, he was just Voldemort's boytoy (and proud of it too) but the Dark Lord often took advice from the man who once had been his enemy. Once, when he was a scrawny, scared boy. Even when they had been enemies, even as Voldemort had tortured Harry the Dark Lord had wanted something more.
Well, he got something more. Something much, much more. Harry was the type of person he had always looked for in his life. Slightly (or a lot) insane, but caring for those who mattered, a tough fighter (oh, the scratches from Harry's nails stung a bit now but hopefully the sheets wouldn't be too bloody when they woke up) and an incredible dueller. Harry was a graceful dancer in battle and in his care, wandless magic thrived. He still had a wand, but rarely needed it. He usually just whipped it out for effect.
Then again, blasting Avada Kedavra from the palms of his hands was pretty neat too. How many Christmas celebrations hadn't he and Voldemort destroyed for the Light? Voldemort liked attacking them then, disrupting the peace that normally came over everyone and ruffling everyone's feathers. It was enjoyable.
Some years Harry came with him, others he didn't. During the years he didn't, Voldemort always made sure to let him go with them on a New Years raid. This year they were going to ambush the Weasley clan, what was left of it.
But that wasn't until later. Now they would sleep, and then they would eat whatever the house-elves cooked up, and then he would sit and watch as Harry opened his gifts. Harry always got something to Voldemort too, even if he rarely left the protection of the wards alone. Sometimes it was a Muggle thing, more often than not an old dark magical relic. One time he had even managed to get a Basilisk egg. That Basilisk, a male, now resided in the Chamber of Secrets at Hogwarts, going out to feed on animals in the Forbidden Forest. Never students. Well, he did go up into the school sometimes, but always kept his eyes closed and nosed his way through. Students knew of the Basilisk. It was the symbol of the school. Voldemort loved to visit the Chamber now, and make sure his beloved pet and friend was alright.
He looked down at Harry, stroke away some of the hair. Harry Potter was a remarkable person, and enjoyable to spend eternity with. Even with his silly notions of drinking blood despite not being a vampire, and finding Muggle inventions hilarious.
Voldemort snuggled down with Harry, feeling very sentimental. But then again, one always does feel a bit sentimental during this winter celebration. He smiled. Harry might not remember how old they were, but he never forgot to make Christmas enjoyable for even the Dark Lord (and Lord of Shadow and Death, because really, it was just such a good name).
Yay, LVHP! I love writing them. And I hope you enjoyed reading it.
Until another time,