"Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Wizengamot has found you guilty of all charges."
Voldemort was chained to the chair in the Wizengamot courtroom, below his sneering, plum-robed triers and a gallery of every important wix in Europe.
They were all fools, fearless like the devil couldn't touch them. Break his wand and chain him, Voldemort would still melt and fuse them to the planet's crust. He was only waiting for the right moment.
Minister Shacklebolt continued: "Due to wartime amendments I have the right to deliver sentence immediately upon conviction. You are sentenced to be exec-"
"Excuse me, Minister," someone said from the gallery. "—but some rights have been… ignored," he finished awkwardly.
A familiar voice, one that Voldemort heard when he slept. One who sent him visions of a redhead girl. Harry Potter, in the undead flesh, descended from the gallery to stand beside Voldemort's chair. Their encounter in the forest had cleaved his scar anew, sliced down to his jaw. The eye was blinded, pale as jade.
"In wartime the accused's rights are—"
"No, I mean this," Harry said, presenting a scroll to the Minister.
Reading its contents, Shacklebolt looked at Harry, disapproving. "You're sure of this?"
Harry nodded. His blind eye was unmoving, resolute. Like facing death.
Shacklebolt sighed. "Note that Harry James Potter has made a spousal claim to Tom Riddle and applied for a Right to Fate. Adjourned."
Voldemort was remanded to his cell. Harry followed as his visitor.
"Are you a new man, Harry?" Voldemort asked casually. Once again, his wrists were chained to his chair. "So few understand how resurrection turns a man's compassion."
"No, that hasn't changed," Harry said. He rubbed the back of his head and his sophisticated, slicked-back hairstyle fell apart. "I've wanted people dead before, but not… I've never wanted..."
And it must be the truth, because the Spousal Right to Fate was a difficult thing to pursue. He had to have prepared a reasonable claim for a bonding—necessary so that the clause couldn't be abused. Once passed, the Wizengamot would appoint Harry with the responsibility of Voldemort's judgment and sentence, whether it be death or… unadvised freedom.
"So you have forced me into bondage to stay my execution," Voldemort said. "You used to be such a simple child, Chosen One."
Harry scoffed. "You'll get used to it. I still know you, though. I know you were going to blow everything up. Don't, by the way. If I wanted to tame a dragon I'd go to Romania."
So Harry chose to take accountability for him despite knowing his intentions. Maybe the boy was more like Voldemort's knights than he'd realized—devoted, but rogue. It made Voldemort thrill with anticipation. But then he remembered the redhead.
"Husband." He sneered it. "Know that regardless of how it came to be mine, I share nothing."
Harry traced his body with his eye. The other, blinded at death, was frozen—a jade stone laid on the forest floor forever. "I know."