Chapter 18
"Are you going to execute me?" Harry asked.
They sat in Voldemort's quarters. Well, Voldemort sat, fragile and recovering, in an armchair. Harry lay on his stomach on the deep green bedspread waiting for his wounds to finish knitting together and healing.
It had been years since the last time Harry had been in Tom's bedroom, but despite the time that had passed and the Dark Lord's engagement, his wing seemed unchanged.
Tom's quarters were a surprisingly warm, cosy set of rooms, for all of their expense and elegance. It reminded Harry a lot of the Slytherin common room, with the black leather chesterfield and the four poster bed.
But everything else seemed different, broken irreparably.
Voldemort had chosen him and it felt like the sweetest poison in the world, because he knew Voldemort hated it. Hated that anyone could have that much power over him. Killed everyone in the room so no one would ever find out how much he cared.
And the truce was shattered.
"What did the mudblood mean, when she said that history was never supposed to be like this? And how long have you known about my Horcruxes?"
Harry's jaw clenched, and he considered his options. Wondered if it really mattered now, anyway.
"Do you remember I asked you if you believe in alternate universes?" he asked.
Voldemort stayed silent. Harry took that as him remembering, and continued.
"Hermione…" his throat tightened choking as her vacant eyes flashed through his head. For a moment, he couldn't breathe, let alone speak. "Hermione, Ron...many of the Order members I have recently discovered, are from an alternate timeline. Were." Harry swallowed but the lump didn't leave. "I am too."
Voldemort stayed silent still, as Harry told him everything. About the prophecy, and the Boy Who Lived, and the fight at Malfoy Manor that sent them exploding back in time. About de-aging him, erasing his memories so he wasn't compromised by what he knew of the future, of how he'd once wanted to see if Tom Riddle could be saved.
Harry looked up, throat raw from talking, when Voldemort made no response even when he finished relating all that he'd learned, and how he learned it, and even what his plan had been to kill Voldemort during the final duel in the tournament.
"And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives," Voldemort said, quietly. "I suppose it is fitting that you are the only one who can kill me. I apologize that you never felt like you could tell me this before."
Harry had never thought of it like that, but it was the last comment that Harry would never have expected to hear from the Dark Wizard. He shrugged, not knowing how to respond.
"It is irrelevant to me," he said, finally. "As you said, there is no point thinking on alternate universes. This is the universe that matters. We made our decisions, we made our graves, we can go lay in them with everyone else. I don't care about fate either, you know I don't. And you didn't answer my question."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't let anyone else execute you."
But that wasn't quite an answer either.
"You slaughtered them." Harry's voice cracked - he couldn't close his eyes without seeing that confusing mess of carnage behind his eyelids, hear the screams, smell the stench of blood in his nostrils.
"I did."
"I asked you not to, I begged you not to."
"I begged you to leave," Voldemort returned, to that, coldly.
"As if I could have ever left you there to get tortured by them any more than you could watch them do that to me."
Harry almost wanted to laugh; winced instead as the last cut closed. He sat up properly, still not looking over at Voldemort as he examined himself. He wasn't sure he could bear to look at Voldemort ever again. At Tom. Funny how his mind still tried to separate them, when all he could see now was that they would always be the same. Never one without the other.
Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort.
He still remembered when he came up with that name.
"So," Harry said. "You can't forgive the fact you sacrificed everything for me, and I can't forgive the fact you killed them because of me. That's where we stand, right?"
"I told you the heart was a cruel thing." Tom shifted forward, grimacing with the movement. The mattress dipped, and they sat side by side with the moonlight spilling like liquid silver through the window.
Harry sighed softly and leaned into Tom's chest without hesitation, closing his eyes. "I honestly thought we'd said our goodbyes already, that it was over. That we could have ended things on a good note." Because that last night, by the lake, had been the best of nights hadn't it? A night where Lord Voldemort and Harry Potter didn't exist, just Tom and Harry. They'd made a strange peace then.
This wasn't peace anymore.
"You truly are my last Horcrux, aren't you." Voldemort didn't say it like a question.
Every other witness in that room was dead, but he'd heard Voldemort renounce blood purity. Renounce his kingdom. Which meant it wasn't voided and he could still use it. As if Voldemort would ever allow that.
"Can't let me die, can't let me live," Harry said. "Pretty much the same as we've always been, so don't act like it makes the slightest bit of difference. You can't keep me prisoner, definitely not for any extended period of time. I can't let you go back to treating muggleborns and muggles like second class citizens, or worse."
If he killed Voldemort, he had to die too. Even if he didn't do it himself as one last sacrifice, Abraxas Malfoy would likely hunt him for the rest of his life.
And if Voldemort killed him, he lost his immortality. Maybe he'd find another way, with time, but Harry would never give him that time. They both knew that if it went to a fight that Harry was far more likely to win at most, or do lasting damage at least.
Harry would die. Voldemort would follow shortly from his wounds because Harry couldn't afford to let him live and continue his work.
Mutually assured destruction.
"We could leave," Tom murmured, wrapping an arm around his back.
"Live a quiet life by a lake somewhere. You would study obscure magics and invent things, and I would teach the locals and go flying." Harry smiled at the thought, but it was mirthless now. It didn't ache in a good way anymore, it just hurt.
"You would never be able to resist the urge to save the world."
"You would never be able to give up power forever and be forgotten, when you could build empires."
"We would hate the quiet life, wouldn't we?"
They glanced at each other, because it was a nice thought, a perfect fantasy. But nothing had changed and everything had changed.
Voldemort could never live with someone he'd give up everything for, he'd resent Harry the rest of his life for the sacrifice. And Harry couldn't live with all that had been done.
The kiss came hungry and desperate and fiercely possessive and he didn't know which one of them moved first - his fingers reeling Tom in close with a bruising grip, Tom's fist clutched tight in his hair in a surge of movement. It was no kiss for forever and days that didn't exist now, but a kiss for the seconds, for the stolen moments, for the years spent apart on separate sides wishing for nothing so much as to be together again.
Tom moaned quietly into his mouth, before biting down hard.
Harry shifted onto his lap, not wanting one inch of space between their bodies. Heat coiled in his belly.
Tom's hand cupped the back of his neck, nails raking into his skin as his hips ground up.
They breathed.
Someone knocked on the door.
Of course, they wouldn't simply be able to deal with matters privately and at their own pace after the hell of a day that had just happened.
Harry felt a headache throb to life.
Voldemort looked equally irritated, just for a flicker of a second, that someone dared come right to his private chambers.
"Yes?" the Dark Lord called out, rather coldly.
Abraxas opened the door seeming unbothered by the chill.
Harry barely kept his jaw clenching at the sight of the man - remembering all too well what Alphard had said about mercenaries. Despite the worst of the wounds being taken care of, he still ached.
Malfoy's gaze slid over him briefly, before landing on Voldemort. Spots of pink appeared on his pale cheeks at their position, at the fact Harry sprawled on the Dark Lord's bed like he owned it, and Malfoy spoke tightly."My lord, I have managed to gather up a few reporters. We have a lot of work to do after the disaster of the festival, it did rather a lot of damage to your public reputation as the rebels hoped. But it's not irreparable. There are also several reports and documents needing your attention and your signature."
In other words, duty called and time was up.
Voldemort glanced at him, rather noticeably considering his options. Or maybe it was only noticeable to Harry - funny, how the second they were shattered beyond recovery, that he could read Tom again, to understand perfectly where they stood with each other.
"You can go and take care of that if you like" Harry said with a grin, keeping his gaze on Tom. "I have some strings of my own to tie, don't I Brax?"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed.
"I wouldn't know," Malfoy said after beat. "But I assumed you had no interest in co-operating on a press conference regarding the defeat of the rebels and the resistance's surrender."
Now Harry looked at him - Abraxas' face had turned white, even as his expression remained perfectly composed.
Harry got slowly to his feet. "Actually, I love the thought of joining our esteemed lord on his press conference. Thank you so much for including me Malfoy, you've always been such a good friend."
Voldemort seized his arm, tight enough to bruise and Harry laughed.
"I'm afraid I have some matters to take care of first, Abraxas," Tom said. "I am certain you can handle affairs today, I asked not to be disturbed for a reason. You can leave now, thank you for keeping me informed."
Malfoy's fingers flexed, the tiniest tell that betrayed his desperation.
"Did you need something with me, Brax?" Harry asked in an innocent tone of voice.
Malfoy looked about to faint, but Harry didn't flinch. When Voldemort died, Abraxas Malfoy was likely next in line for the throne and if he wasn't, he after Lestrange's death, kept up this sickening system more than anyone. Wrapped it up into pretty, palatable words about magical pride and freedom of magical expression and self defence. "No," he said. "I merely wanted to ascertain for myself that you were both well on your way to recovery."
"No public execution?" Harry pressed. "The truce is broken. You can take a shot."
Malfoy didn't move. Of course he bloody didn't, the coward.
"My lord-"
"I'll take care of it," Tom's voice sharpened. "Of him."
Malfoy shifted again, apparently equally aware of the odds of mutually assured destruction as they were. And, for his perfect composure slipped with those odds, as he looked at Tom. "You can't be fucking serious."
Harry blinked, not quite having expected that from Abraxas's mouth.
"There has to be another way, my lord. He's outnumbered, he has no allies left -"
Maybe Abraxas had seen this coming from the start - not like this, but in some way - maybe that was why he'd always loathed the thought of Harry returning. He knew Tom almost as well as Harry did, knew Tom could never let anyone else kill him.
A self fulfilling prophecy.
Abraxas's eyes darkened, fixing on him, and his hand reached for his wand in a blur of movement.
Harry drew faster.
Abraxas Malfoy dropped dead.
Harry grabbed Tom's hand and apparated.
The first golden rays of light washed over the edges of the lake as they stood facing each other on the bank, wands drawn and ready, with the wind rustling gently through the wildflowers. Somewhere, in the distance, the birds sang.
"I wish I could have saved you."
They started to duel.