Death Never Stopped Me Before

|Chapter 9|

Voldemort was frozen, his crimson eyes wide as they stared uncomprehendingly at the letter sitting on the pillow. It was impossible... How could Harry have left a letter? This cottage was a secret! He stepped forward cautiously, his eyes darting around to see if it was a trap or something. He was half expecting someone to jump out at him from behind the shadows.

His fingers trembled as they touched the letter, the rough parchment scratching gently against his fingertip. He lifted it, his yes hungrily taking in the letter that his dead lover had left for him. He brought it up to his face, taking in a deep inhale that brought tears to his eyes.

It still smelled like him.

He slowly sank to the floor as his knees gave out underneath him. He rested his back against the bed frame, slowly hugging his knees to his chest as he stared at the letter. The pose he was in was so uncouth, something that he'd never do in front of someone, but that didn't matter did it? Voldemort was alone here, trapped with his loneliness in the remains of his dream.

It took Voldemort a frighteningly long time to gain the courage to open the letter. He wanted to see what Harry had to say for himself—what Harry could say that would possibly justify running away from him. Hunting down pieces of himself. He wanted to know... But he was terrified to read the letter and discover that Harry had never loved him.

(The thought had plagued Voldemort for a very long time, only cemented when Harry ran from him and began his Horcrux hunt.)

Voldemort sucked in a deep breath and shakily breathed out before he flipped the letter over, the red wax seal staring up at him. The wax and seal was one Voldemort recognized, it was a gift for Harry that Voldemort had planned to give him after the war. It had just been sitting in Voldemort's office collecting dust. When did Harry write this? When did he have the time?

Voldemort broke the seal carefully, hesitant to rip the precious letter. As he unfolded the parchment, more of Harry's unique scent wafted up to him, torturing him with it's comfort and familiarity, a scent that Voldemort might never smell again.

His fingers traced the dried ink on the letter, not reading it, just feeling the indents in the parchment where Harry's quill had dug in hard enough to leave impressions. He smiled sadly when he saw small blobs of ink on the parchment. Harry never learned how to properly write with a quill, and it showed.

Taking another steadying breath, Voldemort let his eyes travel to the top of the letter and began to read.

My Tom,

I'm afraid I don't really know what to say here. I've been sitting at the kitchen table for almost twenty minutes trying to figure out what to say to you. There is so much I need to tell you, so much you need to know. So much you deserve to know. I don't know where to start.

I suppose I'll start with an apology. Tom, my love, I'm sorry for running. I was angry, and hurt but mostly I was afraid.

Voldemort's breath hitched when he read that, the idea that Harry was afraid of him made his stomach churn. Tears were steadily pooling in his eyes, making his vision blurry, but Voldemort was so sick of crying, he wiped them away before they had the chance to fall.

I was afraid, but not of you. I was afraid for you. I suppose I should explain. Do you recall Dumbledore giving me those private lessons? We got into a fight about it, and it ended with us making love for the first time. I told you about the lessons, but I didn't tell you everything.

The truth is, Dumbledore told me about your Horcruxes. By the time you read this, I imagine you already know that I've been hunting all your Horcruxes down and destroying them. You're probably very angry with me, probably hurt, but you must know the reason why I am doing this. It's not what you think.