The tingling sensation faded. There was an agonizing moment where nothing happened, and Harry feared he’d failed.
No, don’t do that, don’t shut me out, don’t—
He appeared flourishing of black and dazzling gold.
Not behind him, not in some ominous corner where he might pretend to be stealthy. Voldemort materialized directly in front of the door of Harry’s room, and Harry could sum up his expression and aura both in a single word:
Baffled.
Or maybe bamboozled would have been more appropriate, or flabbergasted, or something even more ridiculous. Harry had never seen Voldemort look so utterly confused; he probably never had. Harry might have found it funny if he weren’t so worked up with nerves, so tightly wound with the feelings he’d conjured up so quickly.
But he didn’t need to panic anymore. He came.
Harry crossed the room in two long strides, and for perhaps the first time ever, Voldemort was the one taking an uncertain step back in response. But Harry was fast, and before the Dark Lord could likely wrap his head around what was happening, Harry was upon him.
“Thank you,” he breathed. Harry placed both hands on his face, looked straight into his widened, red eyes, and kissed him.
Softly, slowly. Harry had never initiated a kiss like that before, and he was not disappointed in the results. After another heartbeat where Voldemort’s body went rigid, where his magic too seemed to come to a stunned standstill, he crumbled.
Voldemort’s lips parted and he pulled Harry closer, and if he was still confused—how could he not be?—he seemed entirely intent to pretend otherwise. Harry’s arms wound around his neck and relief, waves of it, washed over him.
He came. He came, he’s here.
And his magic. Voldemort’s magic warmed in a gorgeous way, a rosy hue that eclipsed nearly all the black, dancing with the sparks of gold and yes, Harry could not deny it now that the word had been thrown in his face—blooming with love.
He loves me. Even if he doesn’t know it.
Harry’s tongue slid against his and that rosy hue intensified; he felt lightheaded himself. His fingers trailed up Voldemort’s neck, twining into his hair, and…
It was damp. Harry pulled back.
“Why…?”
Now that he looked properly, Harry could see a few things he’d not noticed upon his arrival. Voldemort’s hair was wet. And–he was wearing black, he was always wearing black, but… he was wearing silky pants that were definitely suited for lounging at home, not practicing evil, dark magic or doing other nefarious, probably political, Dark Lord things. And he did have his usual dark robe on over that, but…
No shirt underneath.
As though he’d just rushed to get dressed before heeding Harry’s desperate, yearning summons from Malfoy Manor at half past midnight.
“I—were you… were you… in the shower?”
It was the obvious conclusion, strange though it was, and it was confirmed when Voldemort, to Harry’s utmost surprise… blushed.
