Vampirism would never be Voldemort’s preferred form of existence, but needs must.
It’s unfortunate that the Ministry seized his body for examination instead of burying him – or even putting his corpse on display, he merits at least that much. But alas, when his back-up plan finally kicks in (well, the horcruxes were his initial back-up plan, but hardly the only one. One can never be too careful when it comes to ensuring one’s continued survival), he’s on an examination table surrounded by Aurors and Unspeakables. Not ideal for making his escape, especially when he’s weak and disoriented.
He manages to latch onto the nearest mage and drink enough of their blood to mount a defence and get to the exit, but being a vampire is different enough that he’s taken down before he makes it more than two steps through the door. How humiliating.
So now, here he is, tucked somewhere in the bowels of the Ministry with guards posted just out of sight, interrogated frequently on such matters as who his Death Eaters are, the extent of his crimes, what he knows (far more than these dunderheads can comprehend), and on and on. He gives them nothing, unless it doesn’t matter anymore and will just frustrate them to know. Then he provides more detail than they would ever want. Their methods of information extraction are laughable, anyway.
They only try to starve him to death once. After he rips through the wards and bars containing him and drains one of his guards dry, they don’t try it again. Now, they bring him some kind of blood in pouches once every few days. It sustains him, but that’s about all that can be said for it. He doesn’t feel hungry, per se, but too long without blood makes a headache pound behind his eyes and worsens his already irascible nature.
He’s certain he could escape this cell if he wanted to, but it’s taking him far longer to adapt to being a vampire than he had expected. His magic functions differently, his senses are heightened and inconsistent, and he’s unsure what his reaction to sunlight will be. (Or even regular indoor lighting – it’s kept quite dim in this corridor.) He’s willing to be patient and make his move when the time is right.
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
It’s during one of the Minister’s occasional visits – as though he has any respect for the position and will give up his secrets more easily – that he appreciates his intensified sense of smell for the first time.
(His guards could stand to brush up on their cleaning charms. They don’t appreciate it when he shares this knowledge with them.)
It’s enticing, the fragrance, and strong enough that it almost feels visible, wafting down the corridor from the open door. He feels himself drawn to the scent, only stopping when he hits the bars. It takes a fair bit of self-control to resist pulling them apart and pursuing the delicious smell. “Who walked by just now?”
“That isn’t of any concern to you,” Shacklebolt says flatly.
One of the Aurors snaps, “We’re asking the que–”
“Bring them here,” Voldemort commands. “Or we’ll find out exactly how well these new wards will hold up against me.”
His ability to enthral the Aurors guarding him might be limited by the amulets they wear, but the fact that it still affects them at all seems to terrify them more. One looks to the Minister, hands shaking; he races off once he gets the nod.
Shacklebolt attempts to stare him down, which would be more impressive if he’d been able to do it before Voldemort had his metaphorical wings clipped. Once he realises Voldemort has no intention of engaging in a childish staring contest, the other man chats quietly with the remaining guards.
The Auror returns, looking pale and pinched. “Er, Minister Shacklebolt…”
“Who is it?”
The Auror slides his eyes over to Voldemort before returning to meet the Minister’s gaze and shaking his head.
The look is telling. He makes an educated guess and calls out, “Harry Potter.”
After a brief pause, the tense, angry silence is shattered by the thud of footsteps rapidly approaching before the boy skids to a stop before Voldemort’s cell, panting for breath and looking horrified and enraged by what he finds.
“What the hell is he doing here–”
“Harry, wait–”
“He’s alive?!”
“Let’s go talk about this–”
“Hello again, Harry Potter,” Voldemort cuts in. “So kind of you to finally visit me.”
“How in Merlin’s name did you survive?” Potter shouts, sounding a touch hysterical.
“Come closer and I’ll tell you.” A rather transparent ploy, but the scent of the boy’s blood has his head reeling. And, well, Potter has never needed a sophisticated touch to lure him in.
Shacklebolt snarls at him and quickly raises the silencing barrier that prevents him from being heard beyond the walls of his cell. What a pity.
He says, “I’ll see you soon,” ensuring his mouth moves deliberately enough for the message to get through even if it can’t be heard. Potter’s brows furrow at him, eyes aflame, before he follows the Minister down the corridor, irately demanding to know everything.
No matter. If Shacklebolt thinks Potter won’t find a way back here, he doesn’t know the boy at all.
(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)
It takes four days before Potter skulks out of the shadows around Voldemort’s cell.
Voldemort knows from the moment he enters the corridor, even if he can’t see the boy getting closer. Wild, black hair and a lumpy jumper emerge from under an invisibility cloak directly in front of his cell, just inside the sound barrier. Clever boy.
“Come now, you’re not afraid of me, are you?” he taunts. “I’m no danger to you from in here. You can step closer.”
A vampire’s power of suggestion works just as well as the Imperius does against Potter. He’d expected it, but the boy’s mental resilience remains irritating.
“Did you seriously think that would work?” Potter says incredulously.
“I have so little entertainment, I’m not in a position to be picky,” he mockingly laments. “In any case, congratulations. You’ve exceeded my admittedly low expectations of you.”
“Tosser,” the boy mutters, before demanding, “What are you doing here?”
He raises a judgemental, nonexistent eyebrow. “Well, when the Ministry offered me room and board in perpetuity for the low cost of my freedom and privacy, how could I refuse?”
If looks could kill, Potter might actually have a chance at putting him in the ground permanently. “You know that’s not what I was asking,” he snaps. “How are you here, alive?”
Voldemort observes the boy for a moment. Deep bruises under his eyes, still too skinny – no one at home to notice if he goes missing.
“I propose a trade,” he says, moving ever so slowly closer towards the bars. “I have something you want, and you have something I want. Surely we can come to a mutually satisfying agreement.”
“What could I possibly want from you?” Potter grits.
“Isn’t it obvious? Your curiosity, Harry Potter, would put the proverbial cat to shame. You have questions.” Voldemort reaches out and wraps a hand around one of the bars. “And I have answers, if you’re willing to barter for them.”
Potter considers this, looking torn. Voldemort is confident the boy's need to know will win out. And he's correct.
“What do you want?”
“Something that I am certain will answer at least one of your questions. Come closer and you’ll find out.”
That nets him an unimpressed look. “I’m not stupid, you know,” Potter says.
“No, you aren’t, but you are rather gullible at times,” he replies with a grin.
“You are such a prick,” the boy says, almost wonderingly. “Fine. How are you alive? I saw you die. I checked your pulse, even.”
“You want to know how I am alive,” he says mysteriously. “How do you know that I am?”
Potter gives him a flat look. “Well, the whole walking and talking thing kind of gave it away.”
“Animate and alive are two different things,” he corrects.
“You pedantic–” the boy begins cursing, before pausing and considering the words more closely. Voldemort smiles and ensures his fangs are visible. “You’re a vampire,” Potter concludes quietly.
“Thirty points to Gryffindor,” Voldemort mocks.
Potter is still staring at him, and he can almost see the dots connecting in the other’s mind. “What you want is the answer… You want my blood?!”
“Oh, well done, Harry Potter. We’ll make a scholar of you yet.”
“Absolutely not,” Potter says firmly. “You really must think I’m stupid, if you think I’d let you bite me.”
“Where’s your sense of fairness? I’ve answered some of your questions, but you won’t keep up your end of the bargain?”
“You want to kill me!”
“Not anymore,” he maybe-lies. He’s fairly certain the prophecy lost its relevance once he died at Hogwarts. If so, he’s not particularly fussed about what happens to the boy now.
Potter shouts, indignantly, “Like I’d believe that!”
And, well, he can’t blame Potter for his scepticism. He has spent the better part of eighteen years repeatedly attempting to kill the boy. But that’s neither here nor there.
“You made a trade with me,” he reminds the boy. “It’s hardly my fault that you failed to clarify the terms of the deal beforehand.”
“Fucking…” Potter tugs on his hair, looking frustrated. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to kill me.”
Voldemort gives him an indulgent look. “I swear.”
“I can’t believe this…” the boy mutters. “How…?”
“Give me your hand.” He’s close; he’s so close…
Looking like he’d rather be anywhere else and giving Voldemort a warning look, Potter slowly slides his left hand between the bars. Voldemort pulls the boy’s wrist towards his mouth, ignoring the wary glare boring into the side of his head, and bites down.
Finally.
He feels like he’s been starving for years – a feeling made all the more intolerable by the complete lack of hunger he’s felt since his bodily resurrection. Slaking his thirst for the first time is revelatory – if he’ll experience this transcendent feeling each time he drinks, he finally understands why vampires accept the troublesome aspects of their nature.
He drinks deep, revelling in the euphoria coursing through his veins. On the periphery of his awareness, he can hear the boy making noise, but the wards will prevent the sounds from escaping. He feels Potter’s other hand pushing at his shoulder, his face, and wonders whether he should kill the boy here and now.
But he’s not so lost in bloodlust that he forgets how disappointing the Auror was when he’d drank from her. The taste of her blood was barely different from the blood bags they give him. Perhaps, much like the scent of his blood is rare, the intoxicating taste of Potter’s blood is equally uncommon. He can survive with the blood of others, but…
Existence is so much more enjoyable with little luxuries to break up the monotony.
So he stops before the boy’s blood levels fall dangerously low. Potter will even be able to walk out of here, if a little unsteadily. If this becomes a regular thing (and he hopes it will, until he makes his escape and can steal the boy away to feed on as he pleases), he’ll have to recommend Potter bring blood replenishers.
He floats back down to earth slowly, enjoying the warm, effervescent feeling filling his body and mind. When he opens his eyes again, he sees he’s not the only one affected.
Potter is leaning heavily against the bars, left arm limply hanging from Voldemort’s grasp, and panting like he can’t catch his breath. His face is flushed – though the unflushed sections of skin are decidedly paler than usual – and his body keeps twitching. Perhaps he’d taken too much blood. Or the boy is having an adverse reaction.
Voldemort licks the bite wound to help speed the healing – can’t have his portable meal bleeding out, after all. As his tongue slides across the boy’s wrist, Potter whimpers. Needily.
Hmm.
That recontextualizes the boy’s other physical cues.
“Why Harry, did you enjoy that?” he asks, exhaling an unnecessary breath over the damp flesh of Potter’s wrist. A low, soft moan and a glassy-eyed glare are his only response.
This could be entertaining.
He passes Potter’s hand back through the bars and watches the boy straighten up on wobbly legs.
“May I offer some assistance–”
“No!” Potter gasps, pushing away from the bars, though his hand remains firmly gripped around one to hold himself up.
“Very well. I appear to have taken more than was fair for the questions you asked, and you’re in no state to ask any more at the moment,” Voldemort says smugly. “I’ll be sure to answer a few extra queries for you next time in exchange.”
“Next time,” Potter says, a slight rasp to his voice. From the frown on his face he means it to come out angrily, but the breathiness makes it sound more like a promise.
Voldemort reaches through the bars to take the boy’s invisibility cloak from his pocket and fasten it around his neck, pulling the hood up as he says, “Yes, next time. Until then, Harry Potter.”
Potter lingers outside his cell for a minute, likely gathering himself for the walk back, before Voldemort hears his slightly unsteady steps moving away.
He starts to think of all the avenues this opens to him – and all the fun he can have while he waits for the opportune moment to leave here.
The first thing Jayce is aware of is the inconfoundable feeling of Viktor. Next to him, around him, intertwined atom for atom.
Anything else would be secondary.
When the rest of reality coalesces back into something his brain can process and quantify, his senses come back online like circuits, lighting up one by one and instantaneously.
Touch, hearing, sight, smell. Viktor, solid in his arms, still wrapped in the soft blanket Jayce had draped over his new body, his arms around Jayce's shoulders, hands clenched in the fabric of his coat. Viktor, breathing quick and quiet next to his ear. Viktor, the pale curve of one mole-dotted shoulder peeking from his covering, and his hair gleaming under sunlight, long and fading into that pale color, like sweetmilk poured into coffee. Viktor, clutched so close in his hands, Jayce can taste the faint ozone crackle of the Arcane lingering on his skin.
Viktor, his honey eyes looking at Jayce, wide, disbelieving, alive.
"Jayce," he says, in his soft voice. The slight stretch of the 'A', cradled tenderly. The silky softness of the 'C', sibilant, always - somehow - sensual, even when Viktor was calling his name for the fourth time from across the lab at three in the morning.
Jayce has Viktor in his arms and they are alive.
"It worked," Jayce whispers, and his hands are already cradling Viktor's face. A laugh bursts out of him from some place he thought had been buried in a gulch forgotten by the apocalypse. "IT WORKED!"
He ignores the jolt of pain his knee sends shooting up his spine as he goes jumping up to his feet, fists raised and a howl of incredulous, manic triumph shouted up to the clear skies overhead. He remembers the first prototype for the Hexgates, the hellish trial phases, and he remembers the day they got an apple from one side of the room to the other. Jayce had screeched and jumped and paced, babbling like a maniac while Viktor stood, silent and awestruck, holding the apple in his palms like it had just been placed there by the hand of a god. When Jayce finally collapsed onto the floor, half laughing, half crying, Viktor had wheeled his stool over, flicked open his little pocket knife, and wordlessly split the fruit in two, handing half over to Jayce. He'd been certain he could taste the magic they had harnessed. That day pales in comparison to this moment.
He wants to sprint a mile. He needs to scream, he wants to laugh, and cry, and he needs to make a plan to orient himself and find food and get Viktor some clothes, he's still only wearing that goddamm blanket-
"It worked! Viktor! Viktor, we did it, it worked!" He shouts, hands clasped around Viktor's cheeks again, and he smacks a kiss off Viktor's forehead because he can, because Viktor is here, and they're together and alive, they're alive, they're alive-
His body allows him a few more moments of frantic, unrestrained celebration, before it starts warning him, Alright Talis, you've had your fun, now lay down, you're about to pass out, because that sure is a head rush he's feeling isn't it?
He stumbles to the ground the same way his laughter trails off from a manic giggle to heaving gasps, giddiness fizzing in his chest, his head, his whole goddamn body, and he stares up at the clouds, floating unbothered overhead. They might as well be in a different universe. It's entirely possible that they are.
It doesn't matter. Especially not right now. Jayce forces himself to breathe, even as he can't stop smiling, arms splayed out over his head. There's a soft shuffling sound, bare feet trekking uncertainly through the soft grass. He raises his head from the grass, because he would recognize Viktor's gait anywhere. There's a moment, suspended from the rest of reality like a crystal hanging in a window, that Jayce swears he will preserve in his memory to his dying day. Of Viktor, of course, and the way he's looking down at Jayce in this moment.
Haloed by the sun, even more beautiful than when he had towered over every soul in creation, wreathed in magic and might - because this is Viktor, his Viktor, with his thin, uneven shoulders, and the slight crookedness to his nose from a fall as a little toddler, and moles everywhere, and untamable hair, and his beautiful golden eyes that can only be outshone by his beautiful golden heart, full of kindness and curiosity and ruthless drive to do good.
Had it seriously taken the apocalypse for Jayce to realize he loves this man above anything and everything?
It must be written quite plainly on his face, because Viktor's eyes widen as he realizes something, and takes a step forward, to-to what?
With that thought lancing his chest and lighting up his brain in bursts of color, he very nearly rockets to his feet, knee be damned, when Viktor's wide eyes go even wider as his knee buckles and the bubble bursts a little.
"Ngah!" he sputters, arms flailing, the blanket flapping a little as he instinctively reaches for a crutch that rudely neglected to materialize on the other side with them. But Jayce is already moving, arms outstretched. Viktor reaches back, and he is caught in broad hands that immediately pull him closer and squeeze him to Jayce's chest. They fall back onto the grass, Jayce giving a little oof! as Viktor's weight lands atop him.
For a second they're nose to nose, and Jayce looks up at Viktor with all the love in every atom in his body. Viktor looks back with the same love written plainly on his own face.
They don't say a word. They don't need to - Jayce tugs him close once more, presses his cheek to the top of Viktor's sun-warmed head, and Viktor listens to Jayce's heart thunder under his ear. He's lifted, ever so slightly, by Jayce's breathing, a gentle rocking that provides a steady countermeasure to his own rabbit-fast pulse. Jayce holds Viktor like he'll never let go again, and he might just not. Viktor tucks his head under Jacye's chin and he starts laughing as it hits him too.
That they're here, together - and no matter what's waiting for them beyond this meadow, beyond this moment - that will never change again.
Prompt: Harry doesn’t remember the first time he met Tom. To him, it was a normal day, one of the many where Harry has performed ordinary kindness for others - holding a door open, returning a lost item, covering the cost of someone’s food shop when it was declined. He does that stuff a lot.
But to Tom, that moment was like a bolt from the blue. No one did stuff like that for orphan Tom Riddle, delinquent Tom Riddle, problem teen. It was this moment that started his obsession with Harry and the beginnings of his tinkering in Harry’s life, though they didn’t officially meet until years later.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
“And I’m also quite sure you can’t have this information getting out, so I’ll cut you a deal.”
At that, Riddle froze, a funny expression forming on his face. With how close they stood, Harry bore witness to the exact moment that expression transformed into a small smirk, then a grin.
“You… will cut me a deal,” he spoke slowly, clearly amused more than threatened. Harry tried to ignore the way it made his hackles raise.
“How interesting. I suppose I’ll hear you out, and if your deal entertains me… I may entertain it.”
---
Someone's opened the Chamber of Secrets. Harry will do anything in his power to close it.
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