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Interlude	By : Ravenheart Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort Views: 4486 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from this story and no copyright infringement is intended

Chapter List
- 1-Interlude
- 1
A/N: Posted for the Dark Lord's birthday!
December 31^st! I'm a bit late, but I'm sure I will be
forgiven.

Tittle:
Interlude

Beta:
Dani

Pairing:
Harry Potter/Lord Voldemort

Summary:
A moment in time in the life of two people. An interlude in the
middle of the night

Warning:
Slash, mentions of character death.

Disclaimer:
Not mine.

Interlude

I
chose to belong to him; to Voldemort, to Tom, to Master Riddle
—whatever they called him, I’m his. It was natural of us,
our relationship; it has always been unusual (explosive, intense) and
I've come to like it, cherish it. It was natural for us,
beyond the normal for others - unusual, freakish if we consider how
normal people would act.

But
we've never been normal, have we, my Lord?

The
day I first came to the castle was just a bit unusual. It was during
one of the battles. Dark versus Light, Right versus Wrong. We were
fighting, duelling for our ideals and, due to a mistake, I was
captured. I was thrown into the dungeons at first and left there for
two days before He came - only him, no second in command; Malfoy,
Lestrange, Snape or Carrows.

He
taunted me, said I was dead to the world; I said that, even if he had
spread news of my death, the Light's beliefs would keep my work
going. One moment we were fighting again (though with words this time
around) and the other we were making love, there's no other word for
it, it was slow, careful tangle of limbs, and his kisses! It was
completely different from a simple fuck, one-night stands I was used
to; that, however, I was not, being the bottom, being with a
man. Right there in the dungeons; he was the one to ask for my
virginity and I gave in.

I
hope you understand, my Lord, that you're the only man I'll ever lay
down with.

Later,
He took me to his bed and, again, I gave myself completely. We still
hated each other; we fought, we argued and we cursed each other to
hell and beyond, and we made love . . . Until it came the day when
that hate turned into something else. I guessed at the time that it
might have been longing, born from loneliness perhaps, but our
dynamics changed, we argued and we made love still, but there was no
fight. Well, no serious fight at least.

Instead,
there was this hunger, there was need, there was an overwhelming
desire and I fell deeper into Him than I ever thought possible. I've
had relationships before, but none as intense - none that I cherished
as much as I did cherish him. It shouldn't be possible; he was the
Dark Lord, he was evil and a murderer, but I had (I still have
actually) this hunger for him - to be near, to be consumed, devoured
. . . to be his and only his.

It
was him that changed us that final time. I still had my own room back
then and he walked in (without permission, without asking or
knocking) and he was furious. I think he might even have
attempted to Crucio me, which just goes to show how angry My
Lord was.

Instead,
he just grabbed me and pinned me down and snarled to me about how he
hated to be made a fool of and whoever had dared to touch me in a
sexual way would meet his wrath, because Dark Lords do not share. I
still have no idea what possessed me to say what I did, but I told
him that he would have to commit suicide then, because the only one
touching me was him.

Needless
to say, I've never slept alone since that day.

x

Harry
Potter woke up to the freezing air around him, the blankets covering
only his legs; His side of bed was unmade, cold and empty. It wasn't
the first time this had happened and Harry was certain it wouldn't be
the last.

Harry
was a jealous lover, had always been a jealous lover in fact - oddly
enough, it was part of the reason Voldemort and him got along so
well, since the Dark Lord was the exact same way. He was always
jealous of his possessions, and Harry was well aware that, on the
night he gave his Lord his virginity, he had become one of the Dark
Lord's possessions.

Rubbing
his arms to try and get them to a normal, non-freezing temperature,
Harry looked around the dark room. He reached for his glasses,
putting them on while getting out of bed, worry and jealousy gnawing
at him. If his Lord was with someone else, he wanted to see it with
his own eyes. His sock-clad feet met the cold stone
ground and Harry couldn't help the shiver that ran up his spine.
He moved slowly towards the sitting room, opening the door without
making a sound.

Harry
found it bathed in a sort of greyish light. There was no noise, but
someone was clearly in the room. He hoped it was his Lord and not one
of His things. Harry might like the Dark Lord, but he still
couldn't stand his Death Eaters.

'I
guess 'like' might be a bit of an understatement.'

Harry
found Him sitting on the floor, his back against the expensive couch,
staring at the usually blank wall. Only now, it wasn't blank. There
was . . . something . . . there. He stared at the black-and-white
moving picture for a moment, before giggling. The man on the screen
was eating pasta with a dash of serpentine paper. It was obviously a
silent film from the start of the century.

“Harry?”
came the deep voice from the floor, and Harry looked down into
crimson eyes staring at him.

“What
are you watching?” Harry asked, getting closer.

“A
silent film, from 1931.” There was no obvious change in the
man's face but, to Harry, He seemed to smile. “Come here
beloved,” the Dark Lord said, holding his hand out to the
petite young man before him.

Grinning
at the invitation, Harry quickly walked up to him, sock-clad feet
making a dull thump-thump-thump noise as he stepped up to his Master.
While the man on the screen continued to eat the pasta, Harry sat
between his Master's legs, his small frame surrounded easily by
Voldemort’s arms, and leaned against a thin chest.

Voldemort
just guided Harry onto his lap, his hands resting on Harry’s
hips, fingers idly caressing the white skin beneath the shirt as
their eyes returned to the screen.

The
man on the screen was now watching the couples celebrate what was,
obviously, New Year's, they danced before him with their dates, and
the man suddenly got up, dragging another man's date to dance with
him, spinning them round and around the room like a mad carousel
while the woman's date fumed. Harry couldn't help but snigger at the
scene.

Voldemort
smiled, placing a kiss on Harry’s head as The Tramp was thrown
out of the door by a butler, on the orders of a currently sober
millionaire. Harry gasped as he finally recognised the man. It was...
Harry had never watched one of his films!

“Shh,
Harry-pet,” the Dark Lord chastised, “no talking during
the film.”

“But
it's -”

“I
know,” the Dark Lord whispered, placing a finger on Harry’s
lips. “But it's still a film, so no talking, pet.”

Harry
nodded and they watched The Tramp falling in love with the blind
Flower Girl, then going to prison because of the Alcoholic
Millionaire, only to find the Flower Girl again in the end. For an
hour and a half, Harry simply watched, delighted, snuggled against
his Master.

'Can
you see now?'

'Yes,
I can see now.'*

His
head leaning on Voldemort’s shoulder, Harry stared at the
ending screen, the cursive Fin that appeared, and sighed as
the wall returned to its usual blank state.

“I
didn't know you knew about silent films,” Harry whispered after
the end, his earlier feeling of abandonment completely forgotten as
his Master caressed him. Whenever they were near each other, they
were always touching - a caress of fingertips, a hand covering
another hand, gripping the other's knee, twirling a strand of hair, a
brush of hands, a pinkie finger holding another pinkie finger.

“There's
much you don't know yet, pet. You'll learn, of course; we’ll
have forever to learn everything about each other.” The Dark
Lord shrugged, his fingers moving up from Harry’s hips, to his
torso and settling over his stomach, right under his breastbone, his
right thumb caressing the skin.

“True
. . . but I have questions now, if you don't mind that is . . .”
Harry trailed off, his own hand settling on his Master's right knee.
Voldemort’s silence was all Harry needed to start his inquiry.

“Which
film was that?”

“That
one . . . It's called City Lights, aired at the end of February,
1931. Before you ask, I was four years old.”

“And
you remembered it? As far as I know, we can hold memories only after
we're five or six years old.”

“They
showed it at the orphanage when I was ten, one of the only good
memories I actually have of that place.” The Dark Lord
shrugged.

“But
why were you watching it now?”

“Insomnia.
You know I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes; this was
just one of those times.”

“Oh,”
Harry sighed in relief, staring at the floor, his hand gripping the
Dark Lord's flannel trousers until his knuckles were white. “I
thought... I thought you—”

“You
thought I was with someone else.” The Dark Lord sighed,
pinching the bridge of his nose to try and head off a migraine.

'My
darling, you can be so obtuse sometimes.'

“I
know you wouldn't, but sometimes I can't help but think—”

“Harry,
pet, what do I think of traitors?” Voldemort interrupted him,
watching Harry as a myriad of emotions bloomed on Harry's face.

Harry
gulped loudly, still staring at the floor, his grip on his Lord's
flannel pants tightening as his heart skipped a beat. “You
despise them, you loath them . . . you . . . you don't think they're
worthy of their lives,” he stuttered.

Harry
could still remember Severus's mangled body, thrown onto the floor as
his Lord let him choke in his own blood, before crushing his
windpipe, stomping down on it, when Severus was near death. And Harry
would never, ever forget Draco Malfoy, who begged the Dark Lord for
his life only to be handled over to the Death Eaters for a swift
death.

“Almost.
It's not that they're unworthy of their lives, but, as far as I'm
concerned, if you want to follow something - if you made a decision
to go down a certain path - you should be prepared to go through with
it until the very end. If you betray that goal, then you better be
prepared for the consequences.” The Dark Lord shrugged, at the
same time his grip on Harry's body tightened in an unrelenting
caress, bringing him even closer.

“Those
are the rules I follow, my darling, why would I betray them? If I
chose to take you, to keep you, to cherish you, to . . .”
Voldemort stopped, leaning forward and breathing in Harry's scent,
placing a kiss on his head and then on a smooth cheek. “If I
chose to do that, why would I betray that choice? Why would I choose
something else? Choose someone else?”

“You're
a logical person,” Harry muttered, finally releasing his
Master's pants and glancing at those beloved crimson eyes, his heart
beating fast.

Voldemort
had never, ever called him 'my darling', was it possible that . . .?

“I
am; and you, my pet, are a very insecure griffin, thinking naughty
thoughts like that about your Master . . . Maybe I should punish you,
remind you who you belong to.” He paused for a moment,
thinking. “Actually, maybe I should remind you whom I
chose to belong to,” Voldemort whispered, nuzzling Harry's
cheek with his nose, even as he twisted them around, settling Harry
properly on his lap and kissing the skin right underneath his ear.

Harry's
eyes widened, looking at Voldemort with fearful hope. Would Tom
change their relationship yet again? Harry smiled at his Lord,
fingers caressing the thick, raven hair. Voldemort rose with Harry
still on his lap and headed for their bedroom, ignoring as Harry
gasped as silently as he could.

Harry
could do nothing but hold on, a silly smile lighting up his face as
he stared into his Master's eyes. They were soft, soft as the
midnight caresses he received sometimes, warm as ambers, and holding
an emotion Harry rarely saw in them.

Voldemort
didn't say anything as he walked inside, just shooting a flame to
light up the fireplace, bathing the bedroom in a dim orange light, as
he gently lay Harry down on the sheets, staring into Harry’s
eyes before claiming his lips.

“Such
tempting lips, pet . . .” Voldemort murmured into the kiss,
“red and beautiful like you.”

Harry
barely heard the strikes of the grandfather clock - it was 3am, the
31^st of December. Smiling into the kiss, and letting his
fingers caress his lover’s spine, Harry whispered, “Happy
Birthday, beloved.”

x

'Happy
Birthday,' that Harry had said it as if it was a normal occurrence is
what astonishes me. That he remembers it, when I've only said it in
passing a little over five months ago, is what makes my heart beat
faster. He remembered it.

I
once heard someone saying that if you love someone, you'll remember
the little details about them. That Harry actually remembers this
day, and that I can recall the details he doesn't even realize he
shares... I wonder what that says about us?

Admittedly
it's not a date that people usually remember, the birth date of the
Dark Lord, everyone – followers included – are too busy
perceiving this as New Year's Eve, soon another year will come,
another life will be upon us, the turn of the tide as the saying
goes. But the same things happens now, just as it happened all those
years ago.

No
one had bothered to remember little Tom Riddle's birthday then. And
no one bothers to remember the date now.

Well...
almost no one.

I
look at him, my Harry, laying beside me, completely exhausted after
our activities, and I can't help but be reminded of that time, long
ago, when I was around seven. Just like now, it was New Year's Eve.
My birthday. There was a star and I, foolish little thing I was, made
a wish.

'I
want someone that remembers.'

My
darling, my beloved, my heart. I fall asleep listening to his
breathing. Tomorrow will be another day, people will be busy with
their own parties. Fireworks, food, drinks, being awake until the
dawn of January. But we, my darling and I, will be busy with another
sort of celebration. Because he remembered it.

Soon
after falling asleep I wake up to the sound of sniffling, coming from
our window. As I open my eyes, it's not the castle that I see, but
the orphanage. I see the empty beds, the tread-bare blankets, the
walls – their corners mouldy because of the infiltration of
water and snow, peeling paint coming out of the ceiling. And I see
him, sitting on the window sill, trying to hold back tears as he
looked up to the dark sky.

Was
I really that pathetic, sniffling little brat once?

“'I
want someone that remembers.” I hear him whisper to the
nothingness before him. And just before the scene fades, as I know it
will, I reply to that plea.

“Someone
will remember, and he'll be dear to us, he'll become our world, and I
guarantee, you'll love him more than anything you will ever love,
more than your own magic.”

And
I fall back into natural sleep, safe in the knowledge that, as long
as my Harry and I are together, we'll never feel lonely again.

Huh,
when did I become such a sappy love-struck fool?

~fin~

-----

*Direct
quote from the end of the film.
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Interlude