Amortentia

The living room of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, buzzed with tension. The Order of the Phoenix had gathered to discuss their next steps against Voldemort, and as usual, the mood was somber and filled with unease. The room was packed, every member of the Order present: Moody, Tonks, Remus, Kingsley, Sirius, Mundungus, McGonagall, Molly, Arthur, and, of course, Harry, Hermione, and Ron.

Sirius stood near the fireplace, his face pale but determined. "We need something more. Defensive spells and wards won’t be enough. We’re running out of time."

Moody growled in agreement, his magical eye swiveling. "We need to hit him where it hurts, strike before he does."

Arthur added, "But how do we even get close to him? He’s always surrounded by Death Eaters, and he’s not one to lower his guard."

"Perhaps an infiltration," Kingsley suggested calmly, his deep voice carrying authority. "We’ve been gathering intelligence, but nothing can penetrate that inner circle."

The room fell silent as they weighed the options. Hermione chewed on her lip nervously, while Ron shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. Harry, seated on the arm of a chair, felt a familiar anger bubbling beneath his skin. They had been through countless meetings like this, and still, nothing seemed to change. Voldemort always felt like an untouchable force, no matter what strategies they tried.

Suddenly, Moody’s growl broke the silence again. "There is… another way. A risky one. But it could be the turning point we need."

Everyone turned to him, curiosity and caution in their eyes.

"Amortentia," Moody said flatly.

The word dropped like a stone into still water. Harry blinked, his heart racing. He knew about the powerful love potion, but why was Moody bringing it up now?

"Amortentia?" Sirius frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean, Moody?"

Moody’s face was as hard as ever, but his magical eye flickered toward Harry. "We use it on You-Know-Who."

The reaction was immediate. Molly gasped, Tonks shook her head, and Harry felt a sinking dread in his stomach.

"You can't be serious!" Hermione exclaimed, her voice high-pitched with disbelief. "That’s… that’s incredibly dangerous! And unethical!"

"We're at war, Granger," Moody snapped. "Dangerous doesn’t mean wrong. If we can make him vulnerable, make him think he’s in love with Potter—" he gestured roughly toward Harry, "—we’ll have an advantage. Severus can slip it into his tea or food."

Harry’s stomach churned. "No. Absolutely not," he said firmly. "You’re talking about using me as bait. Using Amortentia to manipulate him into… into…"

"Into caring for you," Moody said bluntly. "And if he’s distracted, if he believes that—"

"I don’t care!" Harry stood up, his hands shaking with anger. "This isn’t some school crush! This is Voldemort we’re talking about! You want to make him obsessed with me? You have no idea what that might do!"

Moody's expression didn’t change. "We know it’s dangerous, Potter. But every other plan has failed. This could be the one thing that catches him off guard."

"It could also blow up in our faces," McGonagall interjected, her voice stern. "Love potions are unpredictable. There are countless variables—"

"We’re running out of options!" Moody barked back. "Potter, you have to understand—this could give us a way in. Think about it. If Voldemort falls for you, he’ll drop his defenses. He’ll be vulnerable."

Harry felt like the world was spinning. He had faced death so many times, been through so much, but this? This felt like a betrayal. "I’m not going to trick him into loving me," Harry whispered, the weight of their expectations crushing him. "This isn’t a game."

The room was silent for a moment. Remus placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder, his eyes filled with concern. "Harry’s right. This is dangerous in ways we can’t even fully understand."

Sirius, too, looked deeply uncomfortable. "Moody, this is a step too far."

But Moody wasn’t swayed. "Sometimes, in war, we have to make hard choices. Potter, you’re the key to this. If you don’t want to do it, fine. But think about it. We’ve tried everything else."

Harry shook his head. "You’re asking me to let Voldemort—" his voice broke, "—love me?"

"Yes," Moody said coldly. "If it gives us the chance to end him."

Later that night, Harry sat alone in the dusty attic of Grimmauld Place. The meeting had left him feeling hollow, and his mind raced with the weight of what had been discussed. How had his life come to this? He stared out of the tiny window, watching the stars through a thin layer of grime. Every breath felt heavy, like a stone sitting on his chest.

Why was it always him? The chosen one. The pawn. The sacrifice.

So much had been decided for him without his consent. The prophecy, the battles, the losses... His parents, Cedric, Sirius... Everyone he had ever cared about seemed to be swallowed by this never-ending war. And now, they wanted to use him again. To make him the object of Voldemort’s obsession.

It made him sick.

A creak from the doorway broke the silence. Harry turned to see Remus standing there, his kind face framed by the moonlight filtering through the window.

"Mind if I join you?" Remus asked softly.

Harry shrugged, wiping his face quickly. "Sure."

Remus sat down beside Harry on the old wooden floor, the silence between them stretching. For a moment, they just listened to the soft creaks of the house and the distant murmurs of the others downstairs. Remus didn’t press for words, and Harry appreciated that. They had always had a quiet understanding—both of them touched by loss, by battles fought and still to come.

"You’ve been through a lot, Harry," Remus said gently, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, thoughtful, as though he had been choosing his words carefully. "More than anyone your age should have to bear."

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he kept his gaze fixed on the window. "It never seems to end, does it?"

Remus sighed, his tired eyes gazing at the same stars. "No, it doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry all of it alone."

A bitter laugh escaped Harry’s lips. "It feels like I do."

"You’re not alone," Remus said, his voice firm but compassionate. "You have Sirius. You have us. And we care about what happens to you, not just as a weapon or a strategy, but as Harry."

Harry nodded, though it felt like Remus’s words only scratched the surface of the storm inside him. "I don’t want to be used like that. They’re asking me to… to do something that feels so wrong."

Remus’s expression softened even more, and he placed a gentle hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Moody’s suggestion is extreme. And you have every right to refuse. This war has taken so much from you already. You shouldn’t have to give more than you’re willing to."

Harry looked down at his hands, clenching them tightly into fists. "But what if it works?" he whispered. "What if this is the only way to stop him? I’m scared… scared of what this could mean for me, for all of us."

"It’s natural to be scared," Remus said softly. "But fear doesn’t have to control your choices. You need to do what feels right to you, Harry. Not what anyone else expects."

They sat in silence for a moment longer, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. Harry appreciated Remus’s calm presence, the way he offered comfort without pushing. He had always been like that—steady, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

"It’s just… I never asked for any of this," Harry said, his voice breaking slightly. "Being the Chosen One, fighting Voldemort, losing people I care about… I didn’t ask for any of it."

"I know," Remus murmured. "None of us did. But you’re not defined by what others expect of you. You’re more than the prophecy, more than the boy who lived. You’re Harry. And whatever choice you make, we’ll stand by you."

Harry looked up at Remus, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. It helped, even if just a little. "Thanks, Remus. That means a lot."

Remus smiled gently, though the weariness in his eyes betrayed his own struggles. "We’re all in this together, Harry. Don’t forget that."

At Malfoy Manor, the dark corridors echoed with a heavy silence. Severus Snape moved swiftly through the halls, his black cloak billowing behind him. His heart raced, though his expression remained unreadable. The task he had been given felt like a death sentence, yet it was one he had agreed to. There was no room for failure.

As he entered the kitchen, the dim light flickered above the long wooden table. A house-elf bustled about, preparing the usual evening tea for the Dark Lord. Severus’s hand slipped into his robes, fingers brushing the small vial of Amortentia. The potion swirled inside, its iridescent colors shifting hypnotically.

His mind raced with the risk. Voldemort was no fool. The slightest hint of deception, and Snape knew he would be dead before he could utter a word of explanation. But the Order had decided. This was the plan, and he had to follow through.

He approached the small tea tray, his movements deliberate. The house-elf, too focused on its task, didn’t notice as Severus poured a few drops of the potion into the steaming teacup meant for Voldemort. It mixed seamlessly, vanishing into the liquid as if it had never been there.

His heart pounded in his chest. Every second felt like an eternity.

As the elf finished arranging the tray, Severus gave a curt nod. "Take it to the Dark Lord," he instructed, his voice even, betraying none of the tension that coiled within him.

The house-elf bowed deeply before hurrying off, carrying the tray down the hall. Severus watched it go, feeling a cold sweat on the back of his neck. He had done it. Now, all he could do was wait.

He turned and swiftly left Malfoy Manor, his heart still racing as he Apparated back to Grimmauld Place. The moment his feet touched the ground in front of the old house, he exhaled sharply. But the tension wouldn’t leave him.

Inside, the Order waited, their faces expectant as Severus entered the kitchen.

"It’s done," Severus said, his voice low. "The Amortentia has been delivered."

In his private study at Malfoy Manor, Voldemort sat in an ornate chair, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows across his sharp features. His appearance had shifted in recent months; no longer the ghastly, serpentine figure, he now resembled the man he had once been in his mid-twenties. Handsome, tall, with sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes that missed nothing.

A steaming cup of tea rested before him on the desk, the house-elf who delivered it long gone. In his other hand, the Daily Prophet was clutched loosely, his attention not fully on the words. His thoughts drifted to Harry Potter, the boy who had been such a thorn in his side, and now… now perhaps something more.

Voldemort placed the newspaper down and reached for the teacup, his fingers curling around the handle. Slowly, he brought the cup to his lips, the fragrant steam rising—

Two days had passed since Severus delivered the Amortentia-laced tea, and the Order of the Phoenix had been waiting for any sign of Voldemort’s reaction. In the dimly lit kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the group sat, tension thick in the air. Moody, Tonks, Remus, Kingsley, Sirius, Harry, Hermione, and Ron surrounded the table, each contemplating the risks they had taken.

Severus had returned from Malfoy Manor earlier that morning, his face paler than usual, his dark eyes tired. He had reported that the tea had been served, but the effects weren’t immediate.

"We need to be ready," Moody said gruffly, breaking the silence. "If it worked, we’ll need to move quickly. If it didn’t…"

Harry sat at the far end of the table, silent and tense. His mind was racing, his thoughts going over the endless possibilities, each one worse than the last. What if Voldemort didn’t drink it? What if it didn’t work? What if—

"It’ll work," Sirius said, his voice firm, cutting through Harry’s spiraling thoughts. He gave Harry a reassuring look from across the table. "You’re stronger than you think, Harry."

Harry tried to nod, though his stomach still twisted with nerves.

Just then, Severus stood from his chair, clearing his throat. "I’ve received word." The room went silent. "Voldemort has summoned me. He wishes to meet with Potter. Tomorrow."

A murmur spread through the room. Harry’s chest tightened.

"Are we sure it’s the potion?" Kingsley asked, always cautious. "It could be a trap."

"It could be," Severus admitted, "but it aligns with the plan. He will be expecting Harry tomorrow."

Muggle London bustled around him, but Harry felt as though the world had narrowed to just him and the empty chair across the café table. His heart raced. He hadn’t slept the night before, his mind consumed with what this meeting could mean.

He glanced at the clock on the café wall—noon. Voldemort would be here any moment. Harry’s hands shook slightly as he fidgeted with his cup, replaying every warning the Order had given him, every reason this meeting was a dangerous gamble.

The door to the café opened, and the soft murmur of the room hushed for a moment. Voldemort—Tom Riddle—stepped inside, his presence commanding even in the casual atmosphere of Muggle London. He looked every bit the dashing, handsome figure he had once been—tall, lean, with sharp, elegant features and eyes that burned with intensity.

He moved through the café with an eerie grace, and when his gaze landed on Harry, there was something unreadable in his expression. He took the seat across from Harry, his every movement deliberate.

For a moment, they sat in silence. Harry could feel the weight of Voldemort’s eyes on him, examining him, measuring him.

"You came," Voldemort said smoothly, his voice low, almost amused.

Harry nodded, his throat dry. "You asked for me."

Voldemort’s gaze lingered on Harry’s face, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. "Indeed. I find myself… drawn to you, Harry."

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest. He could feel his face heating up under the Dark Lord’s intense scrutiny. Was it the potion working? Or something else entirely?

"Why?" Harry asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Voldemort’s smile deepened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "There are many things I want from you, Harry. But for now, I’ll start with something simple."

From within his cloak, Voldemort pulled out a rolled-up parchment. He laid it carefully on the table, unfolding it with a practiced hand. Harry’s breath caught when he saw what it was—a marriage contract.

The café around them continued its mundane hum, but to Harry, it felt like the entire world had gone still. His mind raced, weighing every possible consequence of signing that contract. He had expected some sort of proposal, but seeing it in writing, laid before him so casually, made the reality hit like a punch to the gut.

"You cannot be serious," Harry muttered, staring down at the parchment. His hand twitched toward it, almost involuntarily.

"Quite serious," Voldemort replied, watching Harry’s every move with unnerving intensity. "We could be very powerful together, Harry. Think about it."

Harry’s hand shook as he picked up the quill Voldemort placed before him. The weight of the entire Order’s hopes rested on his shoulders, but his heart pounded in his ears, drowning out his thoughts.

Before he could make a decision, the door to the café slammed open. Hermione and Ron rushed inside, wands drawn, eyes wide with panic.

"Harry!" Hermione yelled. "Get away from him!"

In an instant, Voldemort stood, his expression darkening. His hand reached for his wand, but Harry leaped between them before Voldemort could cast a spell.

With a flash, they Disapparated, leaving behind the crowded café and the dark promise Voldemort had laid on the table.

The night was heavy in the air as Harry, Ron, and Hermione found themselves in another secluded part of London. The rush of the escape still thrummed in their veins, but Harry’s mind was elsewhere. He hadn’t signed the contract. Yet.

Hermione paced in front of Harry, clearly shaken. "Harry, are you alright? That was insane!"

Ron nodded vigorously. "Yeah, mate, he was this close to blasting us all to bits!"

But Harry shook his head, a deep frown on his face. "No… no, he wouldn’t have. He wanted something else. He wasn’t going to kill us."

"How can you be sure?" Hermione asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Harry didn’t answer immediately, his thoughts drifting back to the meeting, to the way Voldemort had looked at him. "Because I don’t think he’s under the potion’s influence," he finally said, his voice quiet but steady.

Hermione and Ron stared at him, shocked.

"What?" Hermione breathed.

Harry’s hand clenched at his side. "He knew. I think… I think he knew all along."

Flash back:

Back at Malfoy Manor, Voldemort sat in his study once more, a slow, dangerous smile curving his lips. He looked down at the teacup on his desk, still untouched.

Amortentia.

He had recognized the scent the moment the cup had been placed before him. The sweet, intoxicating smell of Harry Potter, mixed into the tea like a hidden secret. He hadn’t needed to drink it to understand the ploy, to know what they had tried to do.

But he had played along. He had let them believe they had succeeded.

After all, the game had just begun.

Back at Grimmauld Place, Harry sat in the familiar kitchen with Ron and Hermione, his mind reeling from everything that had just happened. The flickering light of the candles cast long shadows over the walls, making the room feel even more oppressive than usual.

Hermione broke the silence first. "Harry, if Voldemort knows about the potion, that means—"

"I know," Harry interrupted, his voice strained. He stared down at the wooden table, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "He’s been playing along this whole time."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Blimey, mate. That’s… what does it even mean? Is he going to come after you now, knowing what the Order did?"

Harry didn’t have an answer for that. Voldemort’s intentions felt murky, like he was always one step ahead, even when they thought they had outsmarted him. The Dark Lord had summoned him, not out of love or infatuation, but to further manipulate the situation.

"That contract…" Harry began, his voice trailing off as his thoughts spiraled. "Why would he even bring that up if he didn’t actually care?"

Hermione shook her head, her eyes wide with concern. "Maybe it’s a power play. He knows how important you are to the war effort. If he can tie you to him through that contract, he might be able to control you."

"But why didn’t he just use the potion?" Ron added. "If he knew, why not kill us there and then? Why pretend?"

"Because Voldemort doesn’t just want power," Harry muttered. "He wants control. Over me. Over everything. He’s playing the long game."

Hermione crossed her arms tightly, her brow furrowed in thought. "The Order needs to know about this. If the Amortentia didn’t work, we’re back to square one, and Voldemort is probably two steps ahead."

Harry sighed. "Yeah, they need to know. But we can’t act rashly. Whatever Voldemort’s planning, we have to stay ahead of him."

Ron nodded, though his face still held a flicker of doubt. "Just… be careful, Harry. This is Voldemort we’re talking about. You’ve already got his attention more than any of us. Don’t do anything mad."

Harry let out a bitter chuckle. "When have I ever done anything sensible?"

The day after the ill-fated meeting in Muggle London, Voldemort stood in front of a grand fireplace in Malfoy Manor, his figure illuminated by the dancing flames. His eyes glinted in the low light, his thoughts once again consumed with Harry Potter.

It had taken him a matter of moments to realize the potion’s scent as he lifted the teacup to his lips—Amortentia, mingled with the unmistakable fragrance of Harry. It was almost laughable how amateurish the attempt had been. They thought they could control him, bend his will to their cause through a love potion?

Voldemort smirked, his gaze flickering with dark amusement.

He hadn’t needed the potion. What the Order of the Phoenix had failed to realize was that Harry was already under his skin, embedded deeply within his mind. It was no potion that drew him to the boy, no artificial charm that made him consider the possibilities that lay in binding the boy to him in a more permanent way.

Harry was powerful, more powerful than anyone gave him credit for. And Voldemort had recognized that strength long ago. The marriage contract had been a tactical move, yes, but there was more to it than that. There was something about Harry, something about the way he stood against him time and time again, that intrigued the Dark Lord in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

He turned, his long robes sweeping across the floor, as a knock sounded at the door. The familiar figure of Severus Snape entered, his head bowed in deference, though his eyes were sharp and alert.

"You summoned me, my Lord?" Snape asked, his voice as smooth as ever.

Voldemort didn’t immediately reply. He let the silence stretch, savoring the tension in the air. Then, with a flick of his wand, the doors behind Snape slammed shut.

"You failed," Voldemort said softly, his voice like silk hiding a blade.

Snape’s face betrayed nothing, though his posture stiffened ever so slightly. "My Lord?"

Voldemort’s smile widened, but it was a cold, dangerous thing. "The potion, Severus. Amortentia, wasn’t it? Laced in the tea you so generously provided."

There was no need to ask how Voldemort knew. Snape had always been aware of the risks, but hearing it spoken aloud made his heart sink.

"My Lord," Snape began, his voice steady despite the situation. "It was an Order initiative. A means to—"

"Crucio."

Voldemort’s wand flicked lazily, and Snape crumpled to the floor, his body writhing in pain as the curse hit him with merciless precision. The agony was all-consuming, and though Snape didn’t scream, his face contorted with the effort of remaining silent.

After what felt like an eternity, Voldemort released him, the curse lifting with another casual wave of his wand.

"Do not think me foolish, Severus," Voldemort said, his tone light as though he were discussing the weather. "I knew the moment I smelled that vile concoction. But I allowed it. I played your little game because I was curious. Curious to see how far they would go."

Snape, gasping for breath, slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. "And now, my Lord?"

Voldemort’s smile returned, more serpentine than ever. "Now… we continue with my plan."

He turned, gesturing to the table where the marriage contract lay, untouched. "You will inform the Order that I still expect Potter. Tell them that he has agreed to the terms."

Snape hesitated for the briefest moment, but he knew better than to question further. With a curt nod, he rose shakily to his feet. "As you wish, my Lord."

"Good," Voldemort purred. "And Severus?"

Snape paused at the door.

"Do not fail me again."

Back at Grimmauld Place, Snape’s arrival was met with tension and anticipation. The Order gathered once again in the kitchen, the atmosphere thick with worry. Harry, sitting between Ron and Hermione, felt the weight of the room pressing down on him. He hadn’t told anyone yet about his growing suspicion that Voldemort was fully aware of the plan.

Snape’s expression was grim as he entered, his usual sneer replaced by something far more calculating.

"He knows," Snape said without preamble, his eyes sweeping across the room. "Voldemort is aware of the Amortentia plot. He didn’t drink the tea."

A collective silence fell over the group. Harry’s heart sank.

"But…" Hermione started, her voice trembling. "But what does that mean? What’s his next move?"

Snape’s eyes landed on Harry, and for a moment, something unreadable passed between them. "He still wants to meet with Potter. He… expects an agreement."

Harry’s throat tightened. "A marriage contract."

Snape nodded. "Exactly. He believes you’ve accepted."

The weight of Snape’s words lingered heavily in the room, a palpable silence that seemed to press down on everyone. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound as the members of the Order digested what had just been said. Harry's thoughts raced, tangled with confusion, anger, and a strange, unsettling fear.

Hermione was the first to break the silence, her voice trembling but resolute. "What do we do now? We can't let Harry go through with this. There must be another way."

Molly Weasley, standing by the kitchen sink with her arms crossed, shook her head. "No, no, we won’t allow it. He’s a boy—he shouldn’t be forced into anything like this. Not with that monster!"

Harry, however, remained silent, staring at the worn wooden table in front of him. His mind was spinning, trying to piece together Voldemort’s motives, trying to understand why he hadn’t retaliated, why he hadn’t simply killed him on the spot when he had the chance. The idea that Voldemort would want him—him—for anything other than death felt ludicrous, and yet the marriage contract had been laid out so casually, as though it had always been part of Voldemort's plan.

Arthur Weasley finally spoke up, his tone firm but anxious. "This isn’t something we can take lightly. If Voldemort believes Harry is agreeing to this, he’s expecting a response. The danger grows every second we delay. We need to figure out our next move—"

"We need to refuse," Sirius interrupted, his voice sharp and decisive from the corner where he had been leaning against the wall. His grey eyes, usually filled with mischief, were dark with concern now. "There’s no way in hell we’re sending Harry into Voldemort’s grasp like this. I won’t allow it."

"And what if refusing him means retaliation?" Kingsley’s deep, steady voice filled the room. "If Voldemort believes Harry’s agreed, then suddenly retracting that agreement could make him more dangerous, more unpredictable. We can’t risk angering him without preparing for the consequences."

Sirius pushed himself off the wall, his jaw clenched. "So, what? You’re saying we let him go through with it? Hand him over to that psychopath because it’s safer?"

"No one’s saying that," Remus interjected calmly, stepping in before the argument could escalate. His hand briefly touched Sirius’s arm in a gesture of reassurance, though the tension in his own posture was unmistakable. "We’re trying to assess the situation from all angles. Sirius, no one here is going to let Harry get hurt. But we need to consider what Voldemort’s endgame is."

Harry’s voice, soft but determined, cut through the brewing tension. "It doesn’t matter what his endgame is. The fact is, I’m involved whether I like it or not. You can’t protect me from this."

Every eye in the room turned to him. Hermione and Ron exchanged worried glances, and even Snape’s cold gaze lingered on him for a moment longer than usual.

"I know what you all think," Harry continued, his hands tightening into fists on the table. "That I’m too young, that this is dangerous, but none of this is new to me. Voldemort’s been after me my entire life. If he wants to play this game, then maybe… maybe we have to play along. For now."

"Harry, you can’t mean that!" Molly gasped, horrified. "You can’t seriously be considering—"

"I don’t want to do this," Harry said, his voice cracking slightly, though he quickly composed himself. "But if refusing means putting everyone else in danger, then maybe it’s the only choice I have. I won’t let anyone else die because of me."

Ron slammed his fist on the table, his face red with frustration. "There has to be another way, mate. There’s always another way. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself like this!"

"Ron, I don’t want to!" Harry snapped, the emotional toll of the situation making his voice rise. "But what if this is the only way to end it? What if this gets us closer to stopping him once and for all?"

Silence fell again. Harry could see the conflict in everyone’s eyes—Sirius looked ready to argue more, Remus was watching him carefully, and Hermione was biting her lip, her mind no doubt racing to think of alternative plans. Snape, however, remained eerily quiet, his expression unreadable.

Finally, it was McGonagall who spoke, her voice full of quiet authority. "We mustn’t rush into decisions based on fear or desperation. If Voldemort knows about the potion and still wants this contract, it means he has his reasons. Whatever those reasons are, they’re likely more complicated than we realize."

"Exactly," Hermione said, her face lighting up slightly as though she had latched onto a thought. "Voldemort isn’t one to act impulsively. If he’s offering this—if he’s expecting Harry to go through with it—then there has to be more to the story. We need to understand his motives before we can decide anything."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Moody grumbled, his magical eye swiveling toward Hermione. "We can’t exactly waltz into Voldemort’s headquarters and ask him his intentions."

Hermione hesitated, her brow furrowed. "No, but we could gather more information. There must be something in the historical records, something about magical contracts like this. If Voldemort believes it will benefit him, there’s a precedent somewhere. We just need to find it."

"That could take weeks, Hermione," Ron groaned, running a hand through his hair. "We don’t have that kind of time. Voldemort’s waiting for an answer."

"We'll make time," Sirius said sharply, stepping closer to the table, his eyes burning with intensity. "Because Harry's not doing this. I don't care what plans Voldemort has, we won't let him win like this."

Harry looked at Sirius, his godfather’s unwavering determination to protect him stirring a deep conflict in his chest. He wanted to believe there was another way, that they could outsmart Voldemort without having to resort to such dangerous choices. But part of him, the part that had faced Voldemort time and time again, knew the harsh truth.

"He's not going to stop," Harry said softly, staring at the table again. "No matter what we do, Voldemort won't stop until he's destroyed me, or…"

"Or what, Harry?" Remus asked quietly, his tone gentle but firm.

Harry swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "Or until he has me under his control."

A grim silence fell over the group again, the weight of Harry’s words settling heavily over them all. Remus exchanged a glance with Sirius, their silent communication speaking volumes, but neither of them dared to voice the fears Harry had laid bare.

Arthur Weasley sighed deeply, rubbing his face with one hand before speaking. "We need to come up with a strategy. We need to assume the worst, that Voldemort has some deeper plan we don't yet understand. But we also can't afford to lose sight of the bigger picture. Harry's right about one thing—this war isn't just about defeating Voldemort. It's about surviving long enough to do it."

Sirius let out a low growl of frustration, but he didn't argue. He simply dropped into a chair beside Harry, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder, a gesture of solidarity.

Finally, Kingsley spoke up again, his voice steady and authoritative. "Whatever we decide, we need to tread carefully. Voldemort isn’t the only threat we’re facing. We have enemies everywhere. And if they catch wind of this—of Harry being involved in some kind of contract with the Dark Lord—it could throw the entire wizarding world into chaos."

Molly nodded, though her face was still pale with worry. "We need to keep this within the Order. No one else can know, not even the Ministry. We don't know who we can trust outside of this room."

Harry clenched his fists again, feeling the enormity of the situation bearing down on him. Every decision they made felt like a trap, with Voldemort always lurking just beyond the next move, waiting to strike.

And in the pit of his stomach, Harry knew that whatever choice they made, it wouldn’t end here.

It was late afternoon when Harry stood at the edge of the small clearing in Muggle London, where he and Voldemort had agreed to meet for the second time. His heart pounded in his chest as he watched the Dark Lord approach with his usual air of control and menace, though something about the scene felt different now. They weren’t enemies in battle; they were two figures, soon to be bound by something that went beyond mere war.

Voldemort, dressed in sharp, dark robes, looked strangely out of place in the ordinary setting of a Muggle park. Yet his presence was undeniable, a commanding aura that seemed to make the air hum with tension. His features were handsome once more, his form restored to the young Tom Riddle who had once been a student at Hogwarts—charming, dangerous, and powerful.

"Potter," Voldemort greeted in his cold, silky voice, his eyes scanning Harry as though calculating every thought behind his green eyes.

Harry swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the contract in his pocket. He had agreed to this, and the Order had reluctantly stood behind his decision. It was the only way to stop the war. To bring peace. But that didn’t make this any easier.

"You came," Voldemort continued, stepping closer. "I wondered if you would."

Harry met his gaze, trying to steel himself. "I said I would. You said this would stop the war."

"It will," Voldemort replied smoothly, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "Our union will bring about peace, though I suspect it’s not the kind you envisioned."

Harry felt his stomach tighten but nodded. "Let’s just… get this over with."

They both sat at a small wrought-iron table, the marriage contract spread out between them. It was an ancient parchment, bound by old magical law, and Harry could feel the weight of it even before he took the quill in his hand.

"Do you understand what you’re agreeing to?" Voldemort asked, his voice deceptively calm. "This is not just a piece of paper, Potter. This binds us in ways beyond your comprehension. You will be mine—completely."

Harry’s hand trembled slightly, but he forced himself to hold the quill steady. He had thought about this over and over again, weighing every possible outcome. If signing this would stop the killing, if it would give him some semblance of control over his own future, then he would do it.

"Yes," Harry whispered, his voice barely audible.

Voldemort’s smile widened as he watched Harry press the tip of the quill to the parchment. The ink seemed to glow for a moment as Harry’s signature formed, binding the contract, binding them.

And just like that, it was done.

Voldemort stood, looking down at Harry with something close to satisfaction. "Welcome, Harry. Our lives are about to change."

Over the following days, the wizarding world was in chaos. No one could have expected the announcement that came only a week after the signing of the contract. Newspapers exploded with headlines, radio shows buzzed with frantic speculation, and the streets of Diagon Alley were filled with heated debates.

"Dark Lord Engaged to Harry Potter!" screamed the front page of the Daily Prophet.

The article detailed the sudden halt in the war, explaining that Voldemort had called for a ceasefire in light of his engagement to none other than "The Boy Who Lived." Reporters were quick to speculate—had Harry been coerced? What did this mean for the future of the wizarding world?

In the weeks that followed, the couple was the subject of endless interviews, though Harry remained mostly quiet. Voldemort, on the other hand, reveled in the attention, manipulating public opinion with his charm and calculated words.

Protests erupted across both the wizarding and Muggle worlds. Some rallied against the idea of Harry Potter being involved with the man who had terrorized the world for so long. Others—mainly those from families who had supported Voldemort—rejoiced in what they saw as the perfect union of power and influence.

One evening, Harry and Voldemort sat down for an exclusive interview with Rita Skeeter, who had never looked more delighted in her life.

"So, Harry," she began, her Quick-Quotes Quill flying across the parchment beside her, "what does it feel like to be engaged to the most feared wizard of our time? Some might say you’ve… turned your back on everything you stood for."

Harry stared at her, feeling a spark of anger. "I didn’t turn my back on anyone. This was the only way to stop the killing."

"Indeed," Voldemort interjected smoothly, placing a possessive hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Our union will ensure a peace that would never have been possible otherwise."

Skeeter’s eyes gleamed with excitement, already imagining the sensational headlines. "And what about your wedding? Surely it will be the event of the century!"

Voldemort smirked. "Rest assured, Rita, it will be unforgettable."

Years passed, and the world slowly grew accustomed to the strange reality of Harry Potter and Voldemort being together. The war had ended, and for the first time in Harry’s life, he knew peace. They lived in a quiet, remote manor by the sea—a place Voldemort had chosen for its isolation and beauty, far away from the eyes of the world.

Harry had never expected to find comfort here, but somehow, over time, the routine of their lives brought him a strange kind of solace. The manor was small but elegant, with whitewashed walls and large windows that let in the soft light of the sea. The sound of waves crashing against the shore became a constant background to their life together.

In the mornings, Voldemort would read while Harry walked along the beach, the salt air clearing his mind. They rarely spoke about their pasts, instead finding a new rhythm that had little to do with the war or the Dark Lord’s previous reign of terror.

It was during these quiet days that Harry realized something unsettling—he had fallen in love with Voldemort. It wasn’t sudden, but gradual, as if over the years, the hatred and fear had been replaced by a deep, complicated affection. Voldemort had changed, too, in his own way. He wasn’t the monster Harry had known during the war, though there was still darkness in him, an edge that could never fully disappear.

Their wedding had been small and private, attended by only a few trusted individuals. The ceremony had been short, but there was a strange intimacy to it, a sense that despite everything, this was right in its own twisted way.

Years Later

The years passed, and Harry found himself growing more comfortable in this life. Their relationship was built on an odd mix of power and vulnerability, but it worked for them. Voldemort had kept his promise—there had been no more war, no more senseless killing. In return, Harry had given him loyalty, and over time, love.

On a warm summer’s day, Harry sat on the porch of their beach house, watching the sunset over the horizon. Voldemort sat beside him, his gaze focused on the same scene, though his mind was likely far away, plotting and calculating as he always did.

"Do you ever regret it?" Harry asked quietly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

Voldemort turned to him, his expression unreadable. "Regret what?"

"Everything. The war, the way things turned out."

For a moment, Voldemort didn’t answer. Then, with a slight smile that was both genuine and unsettling, he replied, "No. We both got what we wanted in the end, didn’t we?"

Harry looked out at the ocean, the waves crashing gently against the shore. He supposed they had.

They had found their peace, in their own way, and despite everything, they were happy.