The Weight of the Ring On His Finger

by DobbyRocksSocks

Summary:

“What’s it like being married to the new Minister, Harry?” Lavender asked, almost as soon as they’d made it back to the common room.

Harry stared at her, and then snorted, shaking his head. “The same as it was before I married him, with less attempted murder.”

“It feels like we’re just rolling over and letting him win,” Harry said quietly, as he folded the cravat just the way Hermione had shown him the night before. He pushed it up to his neck, and then fiddled with the rouche of the material for a moment, until it settled correctly. “Giving into his demands, like he even has a right to make them.” 

Across the room, Dumbledore sat in an uncomfortable chair, watching his barely seventeen year old charge ready himself to get married. He looked sad, regretful, and every single year of his age. 

“It will prevent countless deaths,” he said, for what felt like the hundredth time over the past few weeks. “And allow the Wizarding world to begin the healing process it so desperately needs.” 

“He’s going to be the Minister for sodding Magic. How much healing do you really think people can do, with him at the helm?” Harry asked, as he pulled his outer-robe over the shirt, waistcoat and black trousers he was dressed in. 

“He will be watched extremely closely, Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “And do not forget the contract that you are about to sign. It will hold him accountable to Lady Magic herself, and should he breach it, she will be swift and merciless in her judgement of him.” 

Harry grumbled wordlessly under his breath. Dumbledore’s words weren’t new to him, and though he knew his headmaster was correct, it didn’t mean he liked it. 

He distracted himself as best he could, trying to spell his hair into something even remotely controlled. It failed, as it always did, and he sighed heavily. He’d grown it out over the last few months, and it was slightly more manageable with a little bit of weight to pull it down, but he was quite sure that his hair was magic resistant. 

It was the only explanation for the constant, untameable mess on top of his skull. 

Eventually, he turned to Dumbledore and attempted a smile, though he doubted it read as sincere. “I suppose it’s time to go and sign my life over to the devil, no?” 

Dumbledore pushed himself up onto creaky legs, and offered his arm. Harry tucked his own into it, as was traditional, and they began the walk from the room Harry had been getting ready in, to the Great Hall, where the ceremony would take place. 

“You look very grown up, Harry. More than I ever could have imagined, when you first entered Hogwarts.” 

Harry snorted. He still remembered his first night in the castle vividly; the magic of the place, the ceiling, the ghosts, the portraits, the hat. It had been the best—and weirdest—night he had ever had, and even to this day, the memory was one of his fondest. 

“I never would have dreamed then that I’d be getting married in the Great Hall before I’d even graduated,” he admitted, softly. “Had I known then, I suspect that I may have run away, screaming all the way back to Surrey.” 

Dumbledore chuckled and shook his head. “Even at eleven, you had an inordinate amount of bravery, Harry. You’d have faced it head on, even then.” 

Harry wasn’t so sure about that, especially not had he been told exactly who he was being espoused too. 

The double doors opened at their approach, and Harry could hear soft music playing inside. It was such a production for what was, in essence, an utter farce of a wedding. 

They didn’t love each other—they didn’t even like each other; they’d actively been trying to murder each other since Harry was just a baby—and the fact that it was an actual wedding didn’t sit well with Harry. 

He’d pushed for a simple signing of the contract in the Headmaster’s office, but his husband-to-be wouldn’t hear of it. 

He wanted a full bonding ceremony, with all of the trappings. Harry could have argued further, but it hadn’t seemed worth it in the grand scheme of things. Voldemort—Thomas Gaunt now, apparently—wasn’t likely to give in, and Harry had better things to worry about then whether he’d be signing the contract in private, or in front of a hall full of people. 

So he’d caved. 

He was completely regretting that decision now. 

As Dumbledore walked him down the middle of the hall, along a makeshift aisle, Harry caught the eyes of the people he loved most in the world. The Weasleys were sitting in the front row, representing Harry’s family, with Hermione and Ron sitting dead centre, the best seats in the house. 

Neville, Luna, and his other dorm-mates were sitting close behind them, on the same row as Professor McGonagall, Remus, Tonks and Kingsley. 

Harry tried his hardest not to look at the other side of the hall, where the guests ranged from the Malfoys to the Lestranges, to the Ministry Lackey’s who were already falling at Voldemort’s feet. 

Part of the deal had been that those marked as Death Eaters would get a fresh slate along with Voldemort. Vastly unfair, but a means to an end. They would have to follow the law, and behave themselves, or they would be subject to the punishment that they should already be facing. 

The Ministry workers—some of which Harry recognised, and a lot that he didn’t—sat behind the ‘preferred’ guests, and Harry paid them no attention. His life wasn’t something to be paraded, though of course, that wasn’t for lack of trying by many of the people sitting in the seats. 

Harry and Dumbledore reached the head of the aisle, and Dumbledore squeezed Harry’s hand before he offered it to Voldemort, who would always be Voldemort, despite his new name, and his new, more human, appearance. 

He was dressed in similar clothes to Harry, the colours matching perfectly, though the style was a little less contemporary than Harry’s. 

A little more traditional. 

Harry met his eyes, a clash of emerald green and ruby red, and then looked away as the official clapped his hands together twice. 

He paid little attention to the ceremony. Harry didn’t want to listen to words about love and comfort and togetherness when he was doing this only to end the war. He didn’t want to hear someone preaching that marriages of convenience often changed into marriages of love and happiness, because he knew that there was no chance of that happening for himself and Voldemort. 

Instead, he glanced around the hall. The decorations were beautiful. Subtle for the most part, which he was glad for. They matched the chosen wedding colours—deep forest green, and burnt gold—but they weren’t garish like he’d half feared that they would be. 

Harry was brought back to the moment by a pinching squeeze on his hand, and he looked at the officiant to realise that they were about to start repeating their vows. 

Harry had memorised his words, but he dutifully waited until he was prompted by the official, flatly repeating the lines, word perfect, with no feeling. 

A quick glance at Voldemort proved that he’d noticed. His eyes flashed dangerously. Harry didn’t particularly care if he was angering his almost-husband. As soon as the bond between them was finalised, there would be nothing he could do to Harry that wouldn’t lead to his own magic being destroyed. 

When they finished speaking their vows, a bright magic flashed between them, sealing their fates. When Harry’s eyes cleared from the momentary blinding light, it was to see matching gold bands wrapped around their fingers. 

It was done. He was married. 

They were married. 

… 

The reception, Harry quickly realised, was none other than a way for Voldemort to both gloat and network, preparing himself for taking over the Ministry of Magic in just two short weeks. 

It would undoubtedly not be a smooth transition; while most people were happy that the war was over, and supported the marriage because of it, there were members from both sides that were unhappy with the compromise. 

An hour or so after they’d entered the hall, people finally stopped congratulating him, and Harry was able to take his seat. The wedding table was relatively small. Only he and Voldemort, Dumbledore and Lucius were seated there. 

In front of them, the rest of the guests were taking their seats at the larger, circle tables, that were meant to fit twelve. 

Harry dearly wished he could have joined the Weasley’s, who were sitting on the closest table to him, on his side of the hall. 

Returning a smile to Hermione, who was watching him worriedly, Harry picked up the menu that was laid beside his plate and tapped the chicken dish with his wand. Beside him, Voldemort made his own selection, allowing the rest of the room to follow suit. 

Turning pointedly away from his husband, Harry spoke in low tones to the Headmaster, choosing safe subjects, such as the new year at Hogwarts, what his classes would entail, and the syllabus for the NEWT coursework. 

When the food appeared, Harry shared his opinions on his dish with Dumbledore, rather than Voldemort. He even traded thumbs-up and smiles with the Weasleys, despite Voldemort clearing his throat a few times, pointedly trying to get his attention during the meal. 

As far as Harry was concerned, he’d agreed to marry the man. He hadn’t agreed to be nice to him, and he certainly had no desire to converse with him over the succulence of the chicken, nor the sharpness of the wine. 

When the food was finished, the plates were cleared from the tables, and the wine glasses had been refilled, Harry noticed that the band were setting up in the back of the hall. 

He grimaced at the sight of them, not because he didn’t like them or their music, but because he had no wish to touch Voldemort, let alone dance with him. 

Still, he knew that he had to follow the traditions, and when the first dance was announced, he stood up from his seat and dutifully followed his husband out into the middle of the hall, where a dance-floor had been set into the floor. 

His back stiff, and his shoulders tensed, Harry put one hand on Voldemort’s shoulder, and placed his other in the offered hand. He kept his gaze firmly over the taller man’s shoulder as he was led in a simple waltz around the floor. 

“You look rather splendid, today, Harry,” Voldemort murmured, his voice oddly smooth and seductive. 

Harry snorted. 

“You don’t believe me?” 

“I don’t believe that the marriage vows require us to have a conversation, Voldemort,” Harry replied, his tone quiet. “The dance is almost over.” 

“Call me Tom,” Voldemort requested, tone softening to match Harry’s. “It’s the name that I intend to live with, now that it will mean something.” 

Harry met the bright red eyes that were set in the annoyingly handsome face, and shook his head. “You can get a new face, a new job, even a new name, but you’ll always be Voldemort. The past doesn’t get erased, just because you may wish it to be.” 

“No,” Voldemort agreed. “But then, when my past is what led me here, why would I want to change it, or erase it?” 

Green eyes burned coldly, and Harry stepped back from Voldemort as the last note of the music sounded. “Perhaps because in the past, you murdered my parents.” Harry bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for the dance.” 

Walking off the dancefloor, Harry didn’t bother returning to his seat at the four-top table. Instead, he found his place in the middle of the Weasley family, and he let their warmth settle him. Husband or no, this was his real family. 

“Are you okay?” Hermione asked, slipping her hand into his, and squeezing it tightly.  

Ron’s arm fell over his shoulders like it belonged there, a strength for Harry to lean on, when he didn’t have enough of his own. 

“I will be,” he replied to Hermione, closing his eyes. “The school year starts in just a few weeks, right?” 

She nodded, biting her lip. He hated that she was worried about him; she was always worried about him. He didn’t want to give her even more reasons to worry about him. 

“Come and dance with me, dear,” Molly requested, holding her hand out for him to take. He smiled and bowed to her, happy to lead her onto the dancefloor, as it slowly filled with others. 

He spun her out, and she laughed, shaking her head at him as they began to dance. 

“No matter who your husband is, you will always be a Weasley at heart, Harry,” she told him warmly. “And you will always be welcome in our home; with, or without him at your side.” 

“I can’t imagine that I’ll ever really want to bring him to the Burrow,” Harry replied, smirking slightly at the thought of it. 

Just the idea of Voldemort sitting with the Weasleys, a knitted sweater covering his chest, a cup of tea in a chipped mug in his hand, was enough to make Harry laugh out loud. 

She grinned at him, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. 

“Stranger things have happened, dear,” she told him, her grin softening to a motherly smile. 

“None are coming to mind,” he admitted, glancing at the ring on his hand. “I always thought that I’d be happy to see a ring there, you know? Now it’s just an obligation. A weight that I don’t want.” 

“You can remove it,” she murmured. “Even in a bonding, Harry,  you don’t have to wear a physical representation. The ring can be stored in a jewellery box, or in your vault at Gringotts.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose. Despite his dislike of the ring, he was hesitant to take it off. Perhaps, in a few days, once the newness of the bond had worn off slightly, he would feel better about removing it. 

Hugging Molly tightly, he whispered his gratitude in her ear before handing her off to her waiting husband. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Ron asked, when he returned to his friends. “Nobody said that you had to stay here after the first dance was finished.” 

Harry nodded. “I don’t think you’ve ever had a better idea in your whole entire life, mate. “

… 

The few weeks between the wedding and the start of Hogwarts were busy for Harry, but he was grateful for the distractions. 

When he’d come of age, Gringotts had been the first at his door, followed swiftly by the Wizengamot, given that two inactive seats had fallen into his control when his seventeenth birthday arrived. 

Since he couldn’t actually take the seats himself until he turned twenty-one, he’d requested that the Headmaster take care of them along with his own. He knew that, even if the two of them didn’t agree, he could trust Dumbledore to at least listen to him. 

Even though he wasn’t in charge of his seats, he did have to keep up with the minutes from the meetings, and also ensure that Dumbledore was, in fact, letting Harry’s opinions be heard despite his absence. 

The business with Gringotts was ongoing, given he was the heir to two noble houses, but much of that had been shelved until the following summer, when he didn’t have his last year of school—and his NEWTs—to worry about. 

Harry had checked on the current investments and had been happy enough to let them be. The Goblins knew way more about finances than he did, and his accounts were proof of that. He’d written a will, leaving everything to Ron, Hermione, Neville and Luna, should anything happen to him. 

Call him paranoid, but he’d be damned before Voldemort would gain anything from Harry's death. 

He’d stayed at the Burrow for the remaining time before school started, helping Molly cook, flying with the other boys, and complaining about the summer homework with Ron while Hermione watched on, rolling her eyes but giving them that fond smile that she saved just for the two of them. 

Voldemort has offered for Harry to spend the remainder of the summer with him—an offer which Harry had abruptly refused. Even when he was finished with Hogwarts for good, he had no intention of living with his husband. 

Nothing in the contract said that he must, and Harry was quite looking forward to the freedom he would be gaining once he’d achieved his NEWTs. He wanted to travel beyond his sheltered existence, and learn about other wizarding cultures. 

He wanted to see how America was different from Japan, how France differed from Africa, how New Zealand differed from Portugal. He wanted to go to Egypt, to see the Pyramids that Bill had told him about. He wanted to visit the dragon reserve in Romania. He wanted to see the world. 

And that was exactly what he intended to do. 

The bond between him and Voldemort required them to ‘check in’ periodically, as it were, but that wouldn’t be too much of a hardship. Harry would want to return to England to see his friends, after all, and all it really did was simplify his schedule. 

And, even if romance would never be on the cards for Harry, he was determined that he could still have a fulfilling and happy life. He just had one more year at Hogwarts to deal with, and then he was free. 

At least this year, it was unlikely that anyone would be trying to kill him. 

Then again, there was still a new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor to find, so he couldn’t quite count out an assassination attempt just yet, could he? 

… 

“I wasn’t expecting Malfoy to be Head Boy,” Hermione said, softly, tapping her fingers on the table as they waited for the Sorting to begin. Her own badge—the least surprising Head Girl in Hogwarts History—was gleaming on her chest, reflected by the one on Harry’s, declaring him the Quidditch Captain. 

Ron’s Prefect badge was shining too, and Harry had been impressed with the maturity his best friend had shown when he hadn’t sulked about not getting the Head Boy badge when their Hogwarts letters had arrived mid-summer. 

Shrugging in reply to Hermione’s statement, Harry replied, “He’s always been up there with you with his marks for most classes, I suppose. More so than any of the other male prefects, anyway.” 

“Yeah, but his attitude isn’t exactly what you’d look for in someone of authority, is it?” Ron commented, glancing over Hermione’s shoulder towards the Slytherin table. 

“We’ve had our own spots of trouble though,” Hermione pointed out. 

Harry could only agree. None of their years at Hogwarts had been easy, for a variety of reasons, after all, and if one was to look at any of their records, they’d be peppered with outlandish adventures and rule breaking, even if, most of the time, it had been for a good reason. 

He was saved from saying as much by the double doors swinging open. Professor McGonagall, in her favoured green robes and with her hair up in its usual bun, led the first years down the centre of the hall. 

“Do you remember being that small?” Ron asked, as he watched them line up. “I swear we were never that small.” 

“You might not have been, you lanky git,” Harry replied, laughing when Ron bumped their shoulders together. 

They quietened down to listen to the Hat’s song—a welcome return to the easiness of their own sorting, rather than the warnings of the last few years—and cheered along with their housemates when they welcomed the newest students to Gryffindor. 

“He wasn’t there when we came in, was he?” Ron asked, and Harry looked at him, then followed his gaze to the staff table, where a man sat close to the end, sandwiched between Hagrid and Professor Vector. 

He was vaguely familiar, but it took Harry a moment to place his face. 

“That’s Lestrange,” he murmured, frowning slightly. “The younger one. Rabastan?” 

Hermione glanced at the man and then back at Harry, nodding her head. “That’s him. He was at the wedding.” Her gaze fell to the ring that still adorned Harry’s finger. “Seems an… odd choice for a professor, even for the Headmaster.”

Ron snorted. “We always knew the man was barmy, but hiring a Death Eater to work in a place full of impressionable kids? That’s a little bit more than odd, Hermione.” 

“Snape’s been here for sixteen years, or so,” Harry pointed out. 

Ron and Hermione both stared at him for a moment, and then Ron said, “I’m not sure who’s argument you agree with, mate. That’s a point in favour for both. Snape is a Death Eater, yes, but he’s also the worst professor on the staff.” 

“He’s not the worst,” Hermione hedged, though even she looked a little uncertain. 

“Name someone worse,” Ron demanded, grinning, clearly seeing the win. 

“Lockhart,” Harry said, immediately. “Umbridge. Quirrell. Do you want me to keep going?” 

“Defence teachers aren’t the norm, mate,” Ron grumbled. 

“Lestrange is the new Defence teacher though,” Harry pointed out, smirking. “I don’t know. One of the clauses in the contract was in favour of the Death Eaters getting a fair chance in society, so… maybe this is Dumbledore trying to uphold that, while still keeping an eye on him.” 

“I thought, maybe, that the Defence teacher would at least not be trying to kill us this year,” Ron whined, and Hermione and Harry both laughed softly. 

“Moody was one of the best we had,” Hermione said, as the Sorting drew to a close. “And he turned out to be a Death Eater. It’s not like he doesn’t know the subject, right?” 

Ron blinked. “We’re doomed.” 

… 

“What’s it like being married to the new Minister, Harry?” Lavender asked, almost as soon as they’d made it back to the common room. 

Harry stared at her, and then snorted, shaking his head. “The same as it was before I married him, with less attempted murder.” 

She blinked, and then her cheeks flushed brightly. Harry sighed, and followed Ron up the stairs to the dorm. As seventh years, they were up in the highest part of the tower. 

“It’s like they’ve all forgotten that he’s still Voldemort,” Harry said, grimacing as he sat down heavily on his bed. “He gets a nose, and suddenly they all believe he’s human and approachable? Pretty sure that’s not how any of that works.” 

Ron chuckled. “I think that most people feel safe because of the contract. It was printed in full in the Prophet, you know? They know he can’t do anything.” 

“Right, sure, because him being a politician is loads better. There isn’t a good politician in existence, mate, and none of the rest of them are Dark Lords,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes. “The world is full of sheep. It’s actually scary how little people will think for themselves.” 

“We want the end of the war,” Ron pointed out. 

“I know,” Harry agreed, running a hand through his hair. “I do know that. I just… I guess I wish that people would remember that I married a Dark Lord, and not just the Minister for Magic. It’s not a fucking fairytale.” 

“I know, mate. Ignore them. It’s not much different from any other year, really, is it? You know that your real friends will just accept it and move right along.” 

Harry smiled slightly. “Thanks, Ron.” 

“Any time.” 

… 

If being asked about his marriage in the common room had been weird, then what happened the day after was just downright strange. Harry, Ron and Hermione had enjoyed a quiet breakfast, joined halfway through by Neville and Ginny, and Professor McGonagall had given out their schedules like usual. 

Harry had smiled at her when she’d paused to give his shoulder a brief squeeze, feeling a rush of affection for his Head of House. 

He glanced over his schedule, focusing mostly on his first day. He only had three classes, though they were all doubles; Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions. 

Ron groaned dramatically beside him. “Double Potions? Why would they torture us like that, especially on the first day back? It’s cruel and inhuman!” 

“The potions that we’ll be learning are a lot harder, and probably take way longer to make,” Hermione pointed out. “That’s why the double classes are necessary, Ron. Besides, it’s hardly torture. ” 

“Double Potions with Snape is absolutely torture, how dare you,” Ron replied, shaking his head at her. “That’s disgusting.” 

Harry snorted, putting his schedule into his bag. He followed Hermione towards the dungeons, Ron in perfect step beside him, though his complaining continued until they hit the bottom step into the dungeons. 

They were the first to arrive outside of the classroom, and Harry leant against the wall, half listening to Hermione ponder on the potion they could possibly be starting out with. They weren’t alone for long, as the other students began to join them outside of the door, waiting for the class to begin. 

It was a little strange. Usually, outside of the Potions classroom was the perfect spot for a little verbal—mostly—sparring with the Slytherins. Malfoy in particular. 

Instead of the obligatory snide remark, though, Malfoy nodded respectfully to Harry, and leant against the opposite wall to where Harry was, waiting peacefully for Snape to let them into the classroom. 

Not a single one of them said a word. 

It was decidedly odd. 

Thankfully, the slightly strained silence didn’t last for too long. Harry was saved from Ron putting his foot in his mouth by the heavy door swinging open to reveal Snape. 

He followed his classmates into the room and took his usual seat on the second row, sandwiched between his best friends. 

“I’m hopeful that you’ve all completed the summer homework, and, as such, will have enough of an understanding of the potion that we’re working on today that you won’t blow up the castle. Given that it’s your last year here at the school—though Merlin forbid that you’re all going to be let loose on the unsuspecting public in less than a year's time—you’ll be working on your potions alone.” 

Snape leant forwards on his desk, both of his hands flat on the mahogany wood. “Over the next month, you’re all going to be making an attempt to create the Draught of Living Death. I have no illusions that you’ll be successful, but I expect decent attempts.” He glanced around, his eyes resting on each student for a split second. “From all of you.” 

Harry had, in fact, done his summer homework, and given his attempt to fill his time, he’d actually studied for it properly. He had a vague idea of the steps necessary for the Draught, and he knew that it was the most complicated potion that they’d ever been given in the Potions classroom. 

He pushed his glasses up his nose and pulled his book from his bag, along with the ingredient tray that he’d had refilled at Slug and Jiggers while shopping for his school supplies. He’d have to take some of the rarer ingredients from the student storeroom, but he had all of the basics. 

He flicked through the book to find the page he needed, and then glanced up at Snape, waiting for his instructions. He was surprised to find the man was already looking at him, though he looked away only seconds after their eyes met. 

He’d had a strange expression on his face, almost apologetic, if Harry had to guess, though why he’d be apologetic Harry had no idea. It didn’t really make much sense, and Harry decided he must have read the man’s expression wrong. 

Who knew what went on in the bad-tempered man’s mind anyway. 

He listened to the brief lecture Snape gave them about the making of the potion, and then followed his classmates to the store cupboard, to collect the ingredients that he didn’t already have. 

The Slytherins—Professor included—left him alone, and for the first time in Snape’s classroom, Harry actually enjoyed himself. He thought that, just maybe, his last year at Hogwarts would be good after all. 

… 

“Potter, stay for a moment.” 

Harry closed his eyes for a second, and then nodded his head at Professor Lestrange before he returned to packing his bag up. Their first Defence lesson with him had been rather simple. A little boring even. 

Harry could see the necessity of it though, particularly with the varied issues with the post in previous years. They’d done a written test, covering subjects from creatures to defensive spells and curses, and everything in between. Their following lesson would be a practical one, in which they would be tested again, on everything that they should know. 

He wasn’t worried about it. Defence Against the Dark Arts had always been his easiest subject, and he hadn’t struggled on a single question on the written exam. He had no doubt that he would be capable of casting whatever was asked of him in the next lesson, either. 

Being asked to stay after made Harry slightly nervous though. It was likely a build up from past Professors, but nothing good had ever come from a Defence Professor taking an interest in Harry. 

Not to mention the fact that this man had actually tried to kill Harry before, or had at least been party to it. 

Ron and Hermione cast him matching worried glances as the other students filed from the classroom, and Harry knew that they would be waiting for him outside. He wouldn’t be surprised if they were going to try to listen in, just in case. 

He waited by his desk until the room was empty, and then tilted his head slightly in the Professor’s direction, waiting to see what the man wanted. 

“The Minister has asked me to pass this along to you,” Lestrange said, offering Harry a heavily embossed envelope. 

Harry accepted it, and flipped it over in his fingers. The writing—just Harry’s name—was written in green ink, the perfectly looping calligraphy in an effortlessly straight line. 

Harry slid the envelope into his pocket, and asked, “Is that all, sir?” 

“When… if you choose to reply to him, you can give me the letter and I’ll ensure he receives it.” 

Harry nodded one. He wasn’t at all surprised that Voldemort didn’t trust the owl post, especially at Hogwarts. Swinging his bag onto his back, he offered a tight smile and turned away. 

“Potter.” 

“Turning back, he asked, “yes, sir?” 

Lestrange stared at him for a moment, and then shook his head, sighing slightly. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll see you during our next class.” 

Harry stared at him for a few seconds, mildly curious despite himself, and then shrugged and left the classroom to join his friends. 

… 

The letter, when Harry finally opened it after dinner, was unexpected. There didn’t seem to be much of a point to it at all, beyond pleasantries. There were questions about Harry’s health, and about his first few days back at the school, and a query about his summer. 

There were a few tidbits about the Ministry of Magic, but nothing particularly important. 

It was all just a bit… anticlimactic. 

He showed the letter to Ron and Hermione after reading it for himself a couple of times, to see if they could see any details that he might have missed the point of. Ron had merely shrugged at it, not seeing anything different than Harry had. 

Hermione had rolled her eyes at the pair of them. 

“You’re married. There’s a certain image that I assume he’ll be wanting to produce, and connecting with his spouse, even via letters, will be a part of that.” 

“So… this is pureblood bullshit?” Harry surmised, wrinkling his nose slightly as he accepted the parchment back from Hermione. “I don’t need to reply to it?” 

“You should,” she replied after a moment. “To prove that you’re serious about the marriage contract, if for no other reason.” 

“But—” 

“It’s up to you, and it probably won’t make much of a difference in the long run,” she added, smiling slightly at him as she interrupted him. “But it would look… better if you did.” 

Harry nodded, musing over how he was supposed to answer the letter. He didn’t particularly want to exchange pleasantries—or anything else, for that matter—with his husband in all honesty, but he could see her reasoning, and he agreed that he should. 

He’d agreed to the marriage, and all that the marriage would entail, hadn’t he?” 

He set the letter aside, and pulled out his homework instead. The irony that he’d rather spend time doing his school work than penning a letter to the man he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with wasn’t lost on him, but he decided that for right now, he didn’t actually care. 

In the future, he would probably have to care about certain things, but for now, his future was a year away, and he had a Charms essay that he had to write. 

… 

The school year was uneventful in the best possible way. Harry could scarcely believe that Christmas was almost upon them, and not a single thing had gone wrong so far. He was doing well in his classes, and, now that they were in their last year, even the written work was interesting enough that he wasn’t as bored with the coursework as he usually was. 

With no Voldemort to worry about—at least as far as random attacks were concerned—Harry, for the first time during his time in the Wizarding world, was just a normal student. 

Well. As normal as he possibly could be, anyway. 

Speaking of his husband, though, the two of them had a semi-regular correspondence set up that was… well, truly, it was quite boring. Brief letters about general well being and studies, or Ministry events, were exchanged twice a month like clock work, and Harry had just worked it into his schedule along with everything else. 

Should this be all that married life entailed, Harry thought that it wouldn’t be difficult to live with it indefinitely. As it was, he knew that he would be forced to interact with Voldemort on a far more regular basis post his graduation in June. 

Since there were still six months of peace before that, Harry was determined to enjoy every single day of it. 

Though they’d considered returning to the Burrow for Christmas, Harry, Ron and Hermione had ultimately decided to spend their final Christmas as students in the castle. Molly hadn’t been best pleased about their decision, but it seemed that Arthur had reminded her that they had done the same thing during their own last year, and so, she’d accepted that her ‘children’ wouldn’t be coming home for Christmas. 

And she’d absolutely included Harry and Hermione in that ‘children’. 

Voldemort had also asked, in one of his letters, if Harry would like to visit with him over the Christmas holidays. Harry had declined—politely, of course—but cited that they would see each other at the Ministry’s New Year’s Eve ball. They were due a visit anyway, and Harry was expected to attend, both as the Minister’s husband, and as heir to two houses. 

He’d never been so happy when Neville had gotten a similar letter in the post, though his had come with an order to attend from his Grandmother, so while Harry technically had a choice, poor Neville very much did not. 

The accident-prone man had beamed when Harry held up his own invitation to show him from a few seats down the breakfast table, and Harry had returned the smile. At least he wouldn’t be completely alone and out of his depth with the elite members of society expected to attend the ball. 

Unsurprisingly, there were quite a few invitations delivered to both the Slytherin and Ravenclaw tables. Many of those from pureblood families who would eventually inherit their own Wizengamot seats were all expected to attend the ball as well. 

The first week of the winter break passed by in a rush of homework—it may be a holiday, but they were in their seventh year and the workload was fierce—snowball fights, and hot chocolate. 

Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, took a day out of the castle to go shopping, and while getting presents for the people he loved was quite easy, Harry had stalled on what he was supposed to buy for his husband. 

So he did what he always did when he got stuck on something; he asked Hermione. 

“ Hypothetically , what would you get for your husband whom you genuinely cannot stand, and who is the current Minister for Magic, and is also a past Dark Lord that spent almost seventeen years  trying to kill you dead?” 

She blinked at him, and then shook her head. “I have no idea.” 

Harry huffed. “That was exactly zero help, thanks for that.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

Surprisingly, it was Ron who came up with the idea for a decent enough gift. 

“Get him some of that fancy-pants personalised stationery from Scrivenshafts,” he suggested, shrugging. “All the purebloods use it, and he’s in politics. I’m sure that he's probably got loads of letters to write.” 

And so, Harry bought a—shockingly expensive, for what it was—personalised stationery set, and had Voldemort’s new name—Thomas Gaunt—added to it. He supposed that it was appropriate, and if it wasn’t, well, at least he’d tried. 

… 

Christmas morning brought an early start, mostly due to the way Ron bounced on Harry’s bed until he got up, belying his seventeen years by acting like a five year old on a sugar high. The arsehole. 

Hermione joined them in the common room, and they settled into the comfortable chair by the fire that they’d always favoured, summoning the presents from the pile they’d made in the middle, rather than moving from beneath the blankets they’d all draped around themselves. 

They were of age, lazy, and it was far too early in the morning for necessary movement. Harry didn’t think the adults in their lives would approve, but he also didn’t really care. 

Harry smiled as he pulled on the traditional knitted sweater from Mrs Weasley, and helped himself to a piece of the fudge that she’d sent alone with it, while Ron and Hermione pulled on their own jumpers. 

The three of them exchanged presents between them, thanking one another as they did so. Each of them had a few presents from other people, and then Harry noticed one that looked a little different to the rest. 

It had clearly been magically wrapped—nobody could get such perfect corners by hand—and it had a green and silver bow wrapped around it. 

Do you think it’s from, uh, your husband?” Ron asked, stumbling a little over the title. 

Harry snorted. “You can just call him Voldemort… or Tom, if you prefer, I suppose. And I guess it must be. I don’t know anyone else who would choose colours like that who would be sending me gifts.” 

He cast a detection charm on it, much to his friends amusement, and then opened it carefully. Inside the box, he found a beautifully made travelling cloak, and when he pulled it out to inspect it closer, he saw the crests of his—and Voldemort’s—houses on it. 

Potter and Black were on the left, Gaunt and Slytherin on the right. The cloak itself was a deep grey, and the stitching was a rather striking shade of maroon. It was a lovely cloak, but not one that Harry would have thought to choose for himself to wear. He’d always thought that cloaks with house emblems on them were a little pretentious. 

“You should wear that to the New Year ball, Harry,” Hermione pointed out. “Not only will if satisfy him to see you wearing it, but it will remind the older purebloods of the power that you’ve inherited, and the power that you’ll wield when you get to twenty-one.” 

Harry sighed, but nodded. He couldn’t deny the sense in her words, but it didn’t mean that he had to like it. Putting the cloak carefully back into the box it had arrived in, he put it aside. He wasn’t going to let thoughts of his husband or the approaching ball ruin his Christmas. 

Not when it was the last one that he’d spend in the castle, at least for the foreseeable future. 

“Looking good, Nev,” Harry said, grinning over at his friend as the two of them got ready for the ball. The rest of their dorm-mates were already down at the feast, and Harry couldn’t but wish that he was down there with them, instead of preparing for a night of pomp and awfulness. 

“You too, Harry,” Neville replied, a little shyly, as he straightened out his bowtie. “Are you ready to go?” 

Harry checked himself in the mirror one last time, and then nodded his head decisively. “As I’ll ever be. Let’s go.” 

The two of them made their way to the Headmaster’s office, chatting quietly about the new term, and Hermione’s impressive—and mildly terrifying—study schedules that she’d made for them all to follow. 

The Headmaster was waiting for them when they arrived, and he smiled welcomingly at them before he ushered them towards the fire, to travel through the floo before him. 

They waited for him at the other end, partially to be polite, but also because it was the first time going to a Ministry Formal for both of them, and they weren’t completely sure where they were supposed to go. 

Dumbledore, in sweeping robes of silver and purple, led them to a large ballroom. Harry glanced around as they entered a step behind the older man. There was a lot of gold, he noticed, both in the decorations and the place settings. The tables were beautifully laid out, though Harry was mildly concerned about the sheer amount of cutlery. 

Why on earth would one person need five forks?  

It seemed like a rather excessive amount of washing up, and just for a moment, he thanked his lucky stars that, while Petunia tried to be ‘upper class’ when enjoying her dinner parties, she’d never tried to emulate anything like this. 

Almost immediately, Harry noticed his husband in the crowd. Mostly because he was looking directly at Harry, having clearly been watching for his entrance. Harry nodded at him in greeting, before he turned to Neville. 

“Shall we go and find our seats?” 

“The elves will lead us, Harry,” Dumbledore explained in a soft voice. 

Sure enough, not even a few seconds later, two elves, dressed in the oddest looking tuxedo tunics Harry had ever seen, popped up in front of them. 

One of them, the smaller of the two, gestured for Neville to follow him, walking off to the right. Harry could just see Lady Longbottom in a seat by a large window. 

“If youses will follow me,” the second elf said, waving his hands at Harry and Dumbledore. They were led to the same table. 

Unsurprisingly, it was a table that Harry had no particular wish to be sitting at; the table that was already occupied by his husband. 

Harry was seated beside Voldemort, directly across from Dumbledore. 

“Harry,” his husband murmured softly. “It’s good to see you.” 

Harry just nodded, unable to honestly return the sentiment, but not wanted to lie. Instead, he thanked him for the cloak that had been taken from him at the door. 

“I appreciated the stationary,” Voldemort replied in turn. “It was quite thoughtful.” 

Harry barely managed to repress a snort, because the gift had been Ron’s idea, and according to Hermione, Ron had the equivalent to a teaspoon when it came to matters of the heart. 

Thoughtful indeed. 

“You’re welcome. I wasn’t really sure what to get you, to be honest,” he admitted instead. 

“I was… surprised to receive anything at all,” Voldemort replied, his tone a little hesitant. “And I wouldn’t have thought any worse of you, had you not sent anything.” 

It was on the tip of Harry’s tongue to tell his husband that he didn’t really give a toss what he thought, but again, he repressed it. The very last thing he needed to do at his first society ball was to cause a scene by arguing with his husband. 

Of course, the likelihood of that happening had risen exponentially since he’d been seated. 

Instead of replying, Harry turned his attention to the others at the table. He grinned brightly at Kingsley, and nodded his head at Rabastan, who’d surprisingly turned out to be a rather able professor. He exchanged a smile with Amelia Bones, and she’d winked at him across the table from her seat beside the Headmaster. 

He didn’t know the last two men at the table, but he couldn’t help but wonder if the people there had been added to the table as a way to keep Harry comfortable. 

Fortunately, the Headmaster seemed to realise that Harry hadn’t been introduced to all of their dining companions. 

“Harry, this is Lord Greengrass,” he said, gesturing to a rather portly, balding man, who gave him an affable smile, “and Lord Macmillan. Both of their oldest children are in your year at Hogwarts.” 

Harry nodded. While he’d never personally interacted with Daphne Greengrass, he knew who she was, and he, of course, knew Ernie, though there had been times when he was younger that he had  wished he didn’t. 

“Pleasure to meet you both,” he said, instead of voicing as much, and they returned the words politely. 

As the conversations at the table started up again, Harry kept quiet and listened. It didn’t take him long to realise that they were discussing Muggleborns, and their integration into the Magical World—or lack thereof. 

Voldemort was proposing bringing them into the world the very moment they showed signs of accidental magic, but unsurprisingly, he was talking extremes; taking the children from their Muggle families by force, and making the Muggles forget that the children ever existed. 

It was drastic and unnecessary in Harry’s opinion, and Amelia was rather heatedly pushing back with much the same view. 

“What do you think, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, where there was a slight lull of the others' voices. Feeling the full force of seven pairs of eyes on him—all belonging to those with a vastly larger amount of experience than his own—Harry took a deep breath. 

“I think that earlier integration into the world is a good idea; I had no idea magic even existed until I was eleven, and had barely had time to get my head around it before I was taken to Hogwarts. I don’t think that snatching them from their families is necessary in every case though,” he added, wrinkling his nose slightly in distaste. 

“Some families,” he continued, glancing at Voldemort, “likely more than half of them, would be supportive of their kids having magic, even if they were scared about what it meant. I’ve always thought that there should be some kind of magical primary school, somewhere for Muggleborns and Muggle-raised to learn the basics, like prepping ingredients for potions, or the difference between a spell and a charm, or even a rudimentary history of magic.” 

Dumbledore, Amelia and Kingsley were all smiling at him. Lord Greengrass and Rabastan both looked thoughtful, and Voldemort was watching him with an oddly pleased gleam in his eyes. 

Only Lord Macmillan seemed to dislike Harry’s idea. 

“And where would you expect to get funding for such an outlandish venture?” he asked, his tone snotty. 

“I believe that the Ministry could find the funding,” Harry replied, quietly. “Especially since I believe that a lot of people would be happy to offer donations to such a project. I, personally, would be happy to help with it.” 

“As would I,” Kingsley said, nodding his head. 

“And I,” Lord Greengrass agreed. “It’s an interesting idea, Mr Potter. Perhaps it’s a good thing that the young blood is getting ready to inject new ideas into our society.” 

Before Macmillan could say anything else, the first course was served. Harry blinked when he saw the lack of food on the plates. There were, perhaps, four mouthfuls at best. 

He subtly checked to see what cutlery everyone was picking up before he followed suit. He wasn’t sure what it was that he was eating, but the explosion of flavour on his tongue made it so that he didn’t actually care. It was lovely. Light and refreshing, and somehow enough. 

When he had finished eating, Harry took the time to glance around at the other tables. He could see a lot of familiar faces, and he grinned when he spotted Oliver Wood, the man already waiting to catch his eye, and wave. 

Oliver was sitting beside Percy Weasley, and Harry was reminded that Percy was Voldemort’s undersecretary. 

Or, at least, he presumed he still held that position. In all honesty, he hadn’t personally spoken to the man since the end of his fourth year, though Percy had apparently made up with his parents some time after Harry’s wedding. 

Ron and Ginny, Harry knew, were still feeling rather unforgiving about their brother’s actions, and had yet to speak to him. 

The conversation around Harry’s table moved onto lighter subjects soon after, and Harry continued to try and remain in the background. He answered when he was called upon, but otherwise, he kept quiet. 

It wasn’t so much that he felt uncomfortable being heard, as that he wasn’t yet entirely sure of his footing in the political world yet, and it wouldn’t do to unintentionally offend someone. 

Blood feuds were no joke. 

After seven courses—yes, seven, it was utterly ridiculous—the tables were cleared, and elves appeared holding serving trays, filled with glasses of champagne. 

When offered a glass, Harry refused politely, instead asking for a glass of water. 

He’d only had alcohol a couple of times, and he knew that it wouldn’t be a good idea to be anything less than in complete control of himself in a room filled with people who would be his peers in just a few short years. Not to mention his husband. 

Getting drunk around Voldemort sounded like an absolutely terrible idea. Harry could only imagine the things he’d say with lowered inhibitions, and none of them would go over well. 

Even if Voldemort couldn’t actually do anything to harm Harry, causing such a scene would be dreadful for the peace of the Wizarding World. 

One good thing about the end of the meal was that people could once again move freely around the room. As soon as it was socially acceptable, Harry excused himself from the table and went to find Neville, who seemed quite eager to get away from his Grandmother. They were quickly joined by Oliver, who hugged Harry tightly in greeting. 

“Seems like it’s been forever, mate,” he said, stepping back. “How’ve you been?” 

“Good,” Harry replied, smiling a little. “Busy, you know? NEWTs, Quidditch, and all of this,” he waved his hand towards the room in explanation. “It’s been an interesting year.” 

“How are the team doing? I heard you won your first match of the year?” Oliver asked, and Harry grinned, because of course that was what Oliver was interested in. 

“We’re doing well,” Harry replied. “I’m preparing them more for next year, when Ron and I leave. There’s a cracking flyer in third year, so I’m prepping him to take over the seeker spot when I leave.” 

Oliver nodded approvingly. “Good, good. Keep that run going, that’s what I like to hear. I’ll try and get up to the castle for the last match of the season, if I can.” 

They continued chatting on the edge of the dancefloor as the music started. Slowly, people were stepping onto the dancefloor in pairs, swaying to the music the band played. Harry smiled when he saw Dumbledore dancing with Lady Longbottom, and he pointed it out to Neville. 

Neville snorted. “She said that she wanted to talk to him about the curriculum, I’m not surprised she’s already managed to corner him.” 

Laughing, Harry didn’t realise that his husband had approached until he was right behind him. It was Oliver’s expression that clued him in. 

“Would you care to dance with me, Harry?” 

He really wouldn’t, but Harry knew that he couldn’t say no, unless he wanted the whispers to follow them for the rest of the evening. Sighing, he handed his half full glass of water to Neville. 

“I’ll be right back,” he promised his friends, before he followed his husband onto the dancefloor. 

They stood in much the same position as they had at their wedding, and Harry didn’t feel any more relaxed this time as he had then. 

“You did well at the table. Despite the rumours I’ve heard about you not wishing to have anything to do with politics, I believe that you’d be very good at it,” Voldemort murmured. 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I… don’t believe it’s in the cards for me, certainly not full time, though I realise that I’ll have to take my seats when I turn twenty one.” 

“Have you given any thought to what you plan to do when you leave Hogwarts in the summer, Harry?” 

“I want to travel,” Harry admitted. “I’ve never seen anything of the world, and I want to rectify that. Beyond that, I haven’t decided on what career I want to pursue when I’m ready to settle down.” 

“There’s no rush to make a decision,” Voldemort replied. “Being who I am, I have more than enough to support both of us—” 

“I don’t need your money,” Harry interrupted, his tone flat. “Or your support. I have plenty of my own.” 

“Come now, Harry. You’ll be living with me once your final year at Hogwarts is done, surely? For propriety’s sake, if nothing else?” 

“I don’t plan to be in the country long enough to require a home while I’m here, at least for a while,” Harry replied shortly. “I’ll come home enough to satisfy the bond, and see my friends, but that aside… we may be married, Voldemort, but that doesn’t mean that I have to live the charade every day of my life.” 

The song ended, and Harry took a step back. He wasn’t fast enough to stop Voldemort from gripping his hand, albeit gently. He lifted it to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. 

“Interesting that you’re still wearing your wedding ring, Harry,” he murmured, before he dropped the hand and turned away, leaving Harry alone in the middle of the dancefloor. 

The bastard. 

The gold ring on Harry’s finger tingled lightly, as if it knew exactly what Harry was thinking about his husband. 

… 

The start of the new term was a welcome distraction for Harry, and he threw himself back into his work with a renewed vigour. The conversation with Voldemort had unsettled him a little, and he utterly despised the idea of having to rely on the older man for anything. 

Despite knowing he had his own fortune hiding away in the lower vaults of Gringotts back, Harry was determined that he would achieve the best NEWTs he was capable of, so that he had all of the options available to him when the time came for him to choose a career. 

He wanted something that he loved, that would allow him to support himself easily for the rest of his life. 

The classes were harder, a mixture of new material and old that the Professors were piling on, trying to get them ready for the quickly approaching exams. 

Their homework had doubled, and evenings that they had once spent relaxing were not being spent passing books amongst them in the library. 

Quills were being snapped, ink jars overturned, and Harry didn’t think he’d heard his friends swear as much as he did in the run up to the Easter break. 

Even Hermione had been known to mutter outrageous obscenities under her breath when piles of books teetered over, or on one memorable occasion, when Ron’s chair gave way beneath him when he was leaning back on two legs, and his flailing caused her to make an actual mistake on her work. 

The horror. 

If Harry had thought that the Easter break would be a welcome reprieve, he was sorely mistaken. The sheer amount of work left the seventh years with almost no time to relax at all. It was a race to finish, but finish well, and Harry glared at the younger years who’d remained in the castle for the holiday, having fun and being loud. 

Harry barely had time to eat during the holiday, so when Voldemort asked him if he’d like to join him for a weekend at his home, even if Harry had wanted to, it would have been an easy no. 

Thankfully, he at least had a reason to send back when he declined the offer. 

As they entered their final term as students, Hermione lost her entire mind. She’d already been stressed before Easter, but after, she’d gone off the deep end. She wasn’t the only one, of course, but she was certainly the worst. 

She seemed to have completely forgotten the necessity for sleep and food in favour of studying, and it was all Ron and Harry could do to make sure that she didn’t collapse from either exhaustion or dehydration. 

While there were pushing food at her, and threatening to dose her with Dreamless Sleep, to make her get some rest—they wouldn’t, of course, but Harry wasn’t above making empty threats if it got results—she was pushing studying at them even harder than before, and somehow, it seemed to balance out. 

At least to a point. 

With so much happening, the days quickly turned into weeks, and before Harry knew it, they were approaching the summer, and with it, the final Quidditch game of the year—his last ever as a Gryffindor. 

He was looking forward to the game, but it felt a little bittersweet. He could only hope to win, and leave behind a legacy that he was proud of. One that didn’t involve the darkness that had shadowed his steps since he’d entered the castle almost seven years ago. 

The morning of the last match dawned, and Harry was one of the first people in the Great Hall. He took a seat at the end of the table, and smiled when a single cup of coffee appeared in front of him. He knocked on the table and whispered his thanks, knowing that the elves would hear him. 

He wasn’t surprised to see Malfoy enter the Hall only a few minutes later. He looked far less put-together than he usually did, and Harry imagined that they were feeling a similar combination of adrenaline, nerves, and absolute terror. 

Harry nodded to him when their eyes met across the Great Hall, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Malfoy nodded back as he took a seat at the Slytherin table . Harry kept his eyes on his coffee as he mentally ran through the tactics that he’d been drilling into his team for the last few months for a final time. 

He had a niggling feeling that he’d forgotten something, but he knew that was likely just a side effect of the nerves that were bubbling in his veins. The team were as prepared as he could possibly make them, and if they lost today, he knew that he’d still be proud of each and every one of them. 

… but he really wanted a win. 

Especially today. 

Ron found him there a little while later, appearing almost simultaneously with the food arriving on the table. 

“Alright, mate?” he asked, as he sat down facing Harry, his back to the rest of the hall. 

Harry knew that it was a tactical seat choice. He was making sure that nobody could psyche him out before the game. While Harry preferred to see what was going on, Ron really didn’t. 

“I’m good. Ready to get out onto the pitch,” Harry replied, as they served themselves. 

While Ron aimed at his usual sausage and eggs, Harry helped himself to a bowl of oatmeal. 

Hermione joined them, along with the rest of the house trickling in, and for the first time in months, even she didn’t have a book propped up on a milk jug in front of her. There was a red and gold scarf already wrapped securely around her neck, and Harry grinned at her. 

A space was left around them for the rest of the team to join them—which they did, pale, jittery, but looking determined—and Harry smiled at each of them. 

He’d give them a pep talk in the changing rooms, but honestly, he knew in his heart that they were ready, despite their nerves. They had the talent on their side, and that was all they truly needed. 

C’mon,” he said, when they’d all finished eating. “Let’s go and warm up, and check the conditions.” 

His team stood up as one, and left the hall to a deafening cheer. 

They had a Quidditch game to win. 

… 

Harry stretched forwards, as far as he could go, pushing his broom to go fasterfasterfaster and finally, he fisted his hand around the tiny, flying golden ball. Its wings fluttered against his palm in protest, but he had a strong grip on it, and he raised it into the air as he slowed, circling over the pitch as it was announced that he’d caught the snitch; that they’d won the game. 

It was chaos for a while, the dull roar of the crowd in his ears as his team huddled around him, cheering, chanting, their jubilation loud and clear for all to hear. 

They lowered to the ground as one, separating only to climb off their brooms. The professors spilled onto the pitch from the stands, along with those who’d come to watch the match, and Harry grinned when he saw Oliver amongst them. 

“You did it, Harry! I know you would! Go Gryffindor!” 

Harry laughed at his excitement. Despite the years since he’d left, Oliver was still, deep down, the Gryffindor Keeper at heart. 

Dumbledore was the first professor to reach him, and he clasped his shoulder with an aged hand, squeezing gently. 

“Congratulations, Harry!” 

Harry smiled up at him and nodded, and then looked through the crowd until he saw the flash of blonde that he was looking for. He ducked away from his own teammates to approach the Slytherin team. 

Most of them glared at him, but Harry paid them no mind. His eyes were only on his counterpart on the field; the Captain and Seeker. 

“Good game, well flew, Malfoy,” he said, holding out his hand to Draco. 

Malfoy stared at him calculatingly for a moment, and then nodded his head, shaking the offered hand. “Well flew, Potter. Congratulations.” 

They shared a small smile, and then Harry turned away, intending to go back to his team. He’d almost reached them when he was intercepted by an unexpected sight. 

His husband, wearing a Gryffindor scarf. 

He blinked, and then blinked again to be sure that he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Voldemort, clearly having seen the look on his face, smirked. 

“Congratulations, Harry,” he said, when he reached his side. “You flew exceptionally well.” 

“You’re… wearing my colours,” Harry pointed out, a little dumbly. 

“You’re my husband,” Voldemort replied, his smirk softening slightly. “Husband trumps house loyalty, I believe.” 

“You, uh.” Harry paused, not really sure what he was supposed to say. He could see people all around the pitch watching them with undisguised curiosity. “You came to, uh, well. Thanks?” 

Voldemort chuckled, clearly amused by Harry’s ineptitude with the English language. “I believe that I mentioned that I would be here, Harry. It was… enjoyable, to watch you in the air like that.” 

“Right. I, uh. I should get back to the team. Captain, you know?” 

“Of course. I simply wanted to congratulate you on a well played match. I’ll be here for your Graduation.” 

“You don’t have—” 

“Harry. I’ll be here. You are my husband. ” 

“Right. Well. I… I guess I’ll see you then.” 

… 

“I just don’t understand why he’s doing it,” Harry said, later that night, when the party in the common room had finally died down. 

“For appearances’ sake?” Ron suggested. “He’s the Minister now, isn’t he? He has to be seen to be behaving in a certain way, and one of those ways is showing support for his spouse’s achievements.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose. “I mean, I guess, but he always just seems… almost happy to be there? It’s weird.” 

“He was the one who pushed for a real wedding, over a simple contract signing,” Hermione said slowly, looking up from the book she’d been studying. “He’s been the one to reach out at every available opportunity. I think… I think that maybe he's hoping that one day, the marriage will be for more than just the sake of the Wizarding World.” 

Harry blinked. “You think he… wants to be married? To me? For real? I think you’ve been studying a bit too much, Hermione, you’ve broken your logic.” 

Ron snorted, as Hermione rolled her eyes. 

“Well, look at the evidence,” she said, a challenging glint in her eyes. “He’s asked you to dance twice, he wouldn’t agree to the simple signing of the contract, he wore your colours to the Quidditch game over showing his own house loyalty, despite being the heir to that house. He keeps inviting you to his home, to share holidays, to dinner and other events. He continually seeks you out whenever the two of you are in the same area, and when he looks at you… Harry, he’s not looking at you with murder in his eyes. Not anymore. It’s almost like he’s… sane. ” 

“That’s just scary,” Ron muttered. “A sane Dark Lord can’t be good for anyone.” 

“It’s not like he can do anything with malice now, Ron. Lady Magic will smite his ass if he tries,” Harry pointed out. “But, I mean… he’s basically got what he was always after anyway, hasn’t he? He’s the Minister for Magic, the most important person in government for the Magical world. He’s in charge of the country, albeit in a slightly less bloody way than he’d been aiming at before. So… maybe he is sane. I wonder what changed though.” 

“You could always ask him,” Hermione pointed out. “As far as I can tell, he’s been quite open to a relationship between the two of you, even if it’s not a usual marriage. He’s been cordial, pleasant even, to you since the wedding, hasn’t he?” 

Harry nodded, making a small noise of distaste. He has. It’s… unnerving. He murdered my parents, and countless other people. I don’t know if I’ll ever get past that to have any kind of a… relationship with him, let alone a marriage worth anything but the parchment it’s written on.” 

“I think that it will be a long life if you can’t learn to at least be… friendly with him. Friends, even. I think it’s worth you getting to know Thomas Gaunt. Maybe you’ll eventually be able to separate him from Voldemort.” 

Harry sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. How was he supposed to separate them when he knew they were one and the same? How was he supposed to get to know Thomas Gaunt when he knew that the man—regardless of his appearance—was the one who had killed his parents in cold blood. 

And, perhaps more importantly, did he even want to try? 

… 

The NEWTs were aptly named. Harry was exhausted . He packed his bag after his last exam and stretched luxuriously. They were finally done, and a strange sense of peace descended on him, as he realised that no matter what now, he’d done what he could do. 

It was over. 

He just has to wait to find out exactly how well—or not, as the case may be—he’d done. Thankfully, they didn’t have to wait quite as long for their NEWT results as they had for their OWLs. They’d get their results the night before the leaving feast, when they officially graduated Hogwarts. 

Given that that was less than a week away, Harry was looking forward to having a few days to relax. 

He flopped down beneath his favourite tree on the grounds with Ron and Hermione, enjoying the sunshine. They hadn’t spent much time outside lately, aside from during Quidditch practice, so he hadn’t really had much chance to enjoy the turn in the weather. 

“What did you think of question eleven-b?” Hermione asked, fretting at her bottom lip with her teeth. “I think I got the right—” 

“Nope,” Ron announced, shaking his head. “We’re not doing this. We did what we did, and we’ll get what we get. Hermione, it’s our last few days at Hogwarts. Don’t ruin it for yourself by stressing out over stupid questions on the exams. You can’t change anything now anyway.” 

Hermione stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “You’re right.” 

“And I mean—wait. I’m right? Really? You’re actually agreeing with me?” 

Harry laughed, and Hermione giggled, nudging at Ron with her shoulder. 

“Yes, you’re right. We should enjoy our last few days here.” 

Ron nodded. “Yes we should.” 

“So, have you decided what you’re going to do when we leave, Harry?” Hermione asked, stretching her legs out in front of her. 

“I’ll have to stick around for a few weeks,” Harry replied, shrugging lightly. “There are a few things that I need to deal with at the bank, and I need to tour the Potter properties to find which one I want to renovate, and then I’m going to head out to France.” 

“It’s going to be weird not having you around, mate,” Ron said, a discontented expression on his face. “I always thought that we’d get a place together when we left school, maybe go into Auror training together.” 

Harry sighed. “I thought that would be what we’d do as well,” he admitted. “For ages, I thought it was what I wanted, but I’m done with fighting, Ron. It’s just… too much, and honestly, with him as the Minister, I’ll never work for the Ministry.” 

“No,” Hermione agreed. “It’d be weird, being married to the head of the place you work at, even if you didn’t have to directly report to him. Have you given any thought to what career you want to pursue when you come home?” 

Harry shook his head. “Not really. There are a few that have caught my eye, but nothing concrete yet, and I don’t want to rush into anything.” 

She nodded. Hermione was all set with her plan to go into the Ministry. She was also going to be doing a law degree, taking evening classes so that she could work and study at the same time, and while it was a lot, Harry knew that she would be amazing. She was excited about it, which was the most important part. 

Ron was going into the Auror Academy, providing he got the NEWTs required, which Harry knew he would get. They’d both buckled down on Potions during their last year, and despite Snape still being a bit of a bastard at times, he hadn’t been half as bad as he had when they were younger. 

Hell, they’d even both managed to produce passable attempts at the Draught of Living Death. Nobody had managed to make it perfectly, not even Hermione, or Malfoy. 

Neville was doing an internship with a botanist, and Seamus was planning to go into Curse Breaking, while Dean was heading back out into the Muggle world to an art university.  

It seemed like everyone had a solid plan but Harry. 

Not that he was particularly worried about it. The whole point of not having a plan was the freedom it afforded him, after all. 

He closed his eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun, and smiled. No matter what came next, it would be by his choice, and that was worth a lot. 

Even the weight of the wedding ring on his finger. 

… 

“Congratulations, Harry,” Voldemort said, when graduation was over. The graduates and their families were milling around the lawn outside the Great Hall, and Harry had, of course, been joined by his husband. “The highest mark to ever be recorded for the Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT is quite the impressive accomplishment.” 

Harry smiled despite himself, because he was proud of that. He hadn’t been particularly worried about that exam, he’d known that he would score well on it, but to have beaten the record and set a new one… yeah, he was proud of himself for that. He was also very proud of what his friends had accomplished. 

Ron had passed everything he needed to pass to enter the Auror Training Academy, and Hermione had, of course, gotten straight Outstandings on every single exam she’d taken. 

Harry himself had done well across the board, with Exceeds Expectations and above on all of his exams. 

“Thank you,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. There was a slightly awkward pause, and then he asked, “How are you?” 

Voldemort chuckled softly. “Small talk? Is this what we’re doing now?”

“I suppose that I thought it was better than asking you if you’ve had anyone killed lately,” Harry retorted, looking away. 

“I apologise,” Voldemort replied, after a moment. His tone was a little stiff, but then, Harry supposed that he wasn’t used to apologising. “I realise that you’re making an effort. And I’m well. Busy at the Ministry, but then, it is what I asked for, no?” 

Harry nodded. “I guess it is. Is it living up to your expectations?” 

“There is more paperwork involved being the Minister than there ever was when I was a Dark Lord, but the challenge is welcome. Unfortunately, there is far more corruption than even I was aware of.” 

Harry arched his eyebrow slightly. “I didn’t think that that was possible. Didn’t you cause most of the corruption?” 

“You would think so,” Voldemort replied, smirking. “And yet, it turns out that Cornelius allowed all manner of things to go on when he was in office; and some of it, even I wouldn’t ever dream of doing or allowing.” 

Harry blinked. Huh. Well then. “Rather you than me.” 

Voldemort snorted. “Quite. Have you made any travel plans yet?” 

“I know that I’m heading to France first,” he commented. “But I’m not entirely sure of the timing right now. I have a meeting at Gringotts in a couple of days, so I guess I’ll try and figure it out after I’ve spoken with the Goblins.” 

Voldemort nodded. “Perhaps, before you leave, you would be willing to join me for dinner at my—our—home?” 

“I—” Harry cut himself off. He knew, logically, that when he did come home, it would be awfully strange for him to reside somewhere other than with his spouse. While he was absolutely intending on having a home of his own, he knew that he would have to live, at least part time, with his husband. He might as well see the place that he’d be living in, right? “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I’ll… owl you, when I have more of an idea of when I’ll have time?” 

Voldemort smiled, and it was so different to the smile Harry remembered, that Harry’s brain actually corrected itself to think of him as Tom. Harry stared for a moment, and then looked away, his cheeks heating up. “I’ll be waiting impatiently for your owl then, my dear. Until next time, husband.” 

Voldemort, as he had at the ball, captured Harry’s hand in his own and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it, before he turned to leave. 

Harry watched him go for a few seconds, and then shook his head. He had to find the Weasleys. Normalcy, that was what he needed. And, perhaps, someone to tell him that he wasn’t being a complete idiot. 

… 

The house was imposing. 

Voldemort had given him the option of flooing directly into the ‘travel room’, but Harry had declined the offer in favour of Apparating to the edge of the wards. He’d wanted to see the outside of the house, and the surrounding grounds. 

It was large, but he’d somewhat expected that. Why a single man needed such a large house, Harry had no idea, but then, what did he know about wealth? The Potters and Blacks had their own sizable homes as well, though Harry wasn’t much of a fan of those, either. 

When he’d gone to look at his family properties, he’d come across a small cottage that he’d instantly fallen in love with. The gardens, front and back, needed work, and the house had a few repairs needed before it would be livable, but it hadn’t even taken Harry the full walk through to know that that was the house he was going to make his home. 

He’d left directions with the Goblins to have the work completed by the time he returned from France so that he could begin decorating it between trips, though he’d told them to leave the gardens alone. 

One thing that Harry had gained from his time being the Dursley’s slave was a love of gardening; particularly now that he could do it to his own preferences, rather than Petunia’s ‘perfection.’ 

Pushing the thoughts of his cottage from his mind, Harry focused on the house in front of him. The walk up was nice, lined each side with beautiful, exotic flowers, and Harry could see Quidditch hoops over the hedges that blocked most of the view of the back of the house. 

He approached the front door and walked up the few steps to it, and raised his hand to knock. The door opened before he could make contact, and Voldemort stood there to greet him. Harry couldn’t help but stare. 

Gone were the traditional robes that the man never seemed to be without. Gone was the perfectly coiffed hair. Voldemort looked… human. Normal. Like… Thomas Gaunt. 

It was very disconcerting. 

“Come on in,” Voldemort invited, and Harry stepped over the threshold, looking around the hallway. 

It was beautiful, even he could admit that much. The decor muted, but there was the odd touch of boldness that seemed to pop even more because of it. 

“I thought I could give you a tour of the house before dinner,” Voldemort suggested. 

Harry nodded silently, and he was led first up the stairs—a fancy, double set—lined with a burnt gold carpet runner. The floor upstairs was carpeted with a thick shag, comfortable beneath his feet as they were from room to room. 

Many of the rooms on the upper floor appeared to be guest rooms; they were nice, of course, but there was nothing personal about any of them. 

The rooms at the end of the hallway, which seemed to look out over the back of the house if the view through the large windows was any indication, were different. They were lived in, and it only took Harry a moment to realise that the bedroom he was standing in was Voldemort’s. 

Yikes. 

Voldemort had been giving a soft, running commentary as they walked, but Harry hadn’t been paying much attention to it. He preferred to size things up for himself, but he looked at Voldemort now, wondering why the man had brought him there. 

“Now that you’re inside the room, the wards have accepted you, and you'll always be able to enter,” he was saying quietly. “When you’re home, if you have need of anything, feel free to come and find me here. For anything.” 

Harry swallowed hard at the subtle implication, but nodded again. 

“Your room,” Voldemort said, leading the way back out of his own room and into the next. “For when you’re here. You can, of course, decorate it however you wish, but I thought that, perhaps, you would like this room the most. It looks out onto the Quidditch lawn, and there’s a balcony that you could simply fly from, if you wanted.” 

Harry couldn’t deny that it was a thoughtful touch. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered Voldemort to be; the man was more likely to kill someone that he was to help them, after all, and that was just his loyal followers, never mind the rest of the world. 

Like the rest of the house, the decor in the room was muted tones, but it was relaxing. Browns and creams coated the walls, while the large bed was hung with burgundy drapes and sheets. It was inviting, and a small part of Harry was thrilled that this room was for him. 

“The bathroom is through that door,” Voldemort pointed out, and Harry followed his gaze to a closed door at the other side of the room. He stepped deeper into the bedroom and opened the bathroom door, blinking when he saw what was waiting for him. 

The bath was the size of a small pool. In fact, Harry was quite sure that there were probably smaller swimming pools. He turned back to Voldemort. “It’s, uh. Well. It’s beautiful. All of it.” 

Voldemort seemed to be quite pleased as he led Harry back down the stairs. The lounge was large and comfortable, and there were two studies, one of which was Voldemorts, and the other, he said, was Harry’s, for whenever he made a decision on a career. Or, for whatever else he may wish to use it for. 

There was a large library too, one that Harry knew Hermione would commit, if not murder, then serious bodily harm, to be allowed access to. 

It all seemed like too much, and Harry couldn’t even begin to describe his relief when he followed Voldemort into a kitchen that seemed normal. 

Sure, it was larger than any Harry had seen bar Hogwarts, but there was a fridge—and Voldemort using Muggle appliances was weird, until Harry considered the fact that he literally grew up in the Muggle world—and a stove, and a breakfast bar with leather topped stools. 

Finally, a room that was familiar and comfortable. 

“I thought that we could eat here?” Voldemort offered, his tone still soft, like he was worried about scaring Harry away. “There’s little point in setting up the dining room for just the two of us, and I… Well, I suppose that I hoped you might see today as something of a test of normality here. If you want to use the dining room—” 

Harry thought about the room they’d passed between the living room and kitchen, with its formal place settings and the large candelabra, and he shook his head forcefully. Perching himself on one of the leather stools, he said, “Here is good. Thank you.” 

Voldemort nodded and sat down across from him, rather than beside him. It was a little odd, but again, Harry thought that perhaps the man was being thoughtful in not sitting too close to Harry when he was clearly uncomfortable whenever they were in close proximity. 

Harry chewed on his lip as Voldemort called for an elf—Hattie—to serve them. Harry was well dressed and she seemed happy, which was interesting, given the way Harry had seen Purebloods treating House-Elves in the past. 

Surprisingly, dinner turned out to be a quite simple affair; steak, thick, homestyle chips, and a variety of fresh vegetables. It smelled delicious. 

Harry chewed on a chip as he glanced around the kitchen, feeling a little awkward in the silence. 

“So, now that you’ve been to Gringotts, have you decided on a travel date?” Voldemort asked. 

“I, uh. Tomorrow, actually. I’m leaving tomorrow evening,” Harry said, after he’d swallowed his food. 

“Are you travelling magically or the Muggle way?” 

“By plane,” Harry replied. “Apart from flying, I don’t really love magical transportation. I can Apparate when I absolutely need to, but…” he shrugged. “If there’s an alternative, I’ll take it.” 

Voldemort nodded. “I personally don’t put much trust in Muggle means of transportation, but I suppose if anything were to happen, you would be able to Apparate yourself out of danger.” 

Harry chuckled, he couldn’t help himself. 

Both Arthur and Ron had said exactly the same thing, while Hermione had rolled her eyes behind them. 

“Where in France do you plan to visit first?” 

“I’m going to the South of France first,” Harry replied. “And I’ll be making a stop in Monaco, while I’m there.” 

“Do you have a hotel booked already?” 

“For the first couple of nights,” Harry said. “I didn’t want to lock myself into a certain location for too long at a time.” 

The talk of Harry’s travels carried them through the rest of dinner, and Harry found that he wasn’t quite so uncomfortable by the time they’d finished eating. They lingered over their drinks at the breakfast bar until Harry realised how late it was getting, and made notions of leaving. 

“You’re free to stay the night, if you’d like,” Voldemort offered, though there was a strange smile on his face that told Harry he knew that the offer would be refused. 

Instead, he walked Harry to the door and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his hand—it was becoming a familiar action—before Harry walked away. 

Harry Apparated back to the Burrow, as per his promise to Ron, and entered through the back door quietly. Ron was in the kitchen already, sitting at the table with his hand wrapped around a mug, and a large book open on the table in front of him. 

“That… is not something I ever expected to see,” Harry teased, smiling at his friend. “Do I need to check for Polyjuice?” 

Ron grimaced. “You should definitely be grateful that you didn’t go into the Auror Academy, mate,” he groused. “The book work is awful, and there’s so much of it.” 

Harry laughed, helping himself to coffee before he joined Ron at the kitchen table. “Need any help?” 

“Shouldn’t you be packing?” 

“Already done,” Harry replied, still smiling slightly. “I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.” 

“I should have deferred a year and come with you,” Ron lamented. “You’re going to have the best time.” 

Harry grinned. “Maybe, if you get a couple of weeks off, you can come out to wherever I am?” 

Ron nodded eagerly. “I will, definitely.” 

Harry leant back in his chair. “I’m gonna miss you, mate.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna miss you too, Harry.” 

… 

Having never been to an airport before, Harry made sure to arrive even earlier than he’d been told to. Thankfully, it wasn’t particularly difficult to get himself checked in, and, after looking around the shops for a while—and stopping off for a coffee—it seemed like no time at all before his flight was called. 

He made sure to take pictures—on a Muggle camera that Hermione had gifted him—of everything as he walked, fully intending to make as many memories as he could before he returned home to England. 

Every month or so, he would return for a few days to ‘assure the Wizarding public that he was still alive and well’, but aside from that, for the first time in his life, his time, his choices, were entirely his own. 

While his husband, his friends, and his responsibilities all waited for him back home, Harry finally had the chance to spread his wings and just be him for a while. 

Just Harry. 

He couldn’t wait to get started. 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Choices