Tomarry / Harrymort One Shots

Home Or Lack Thereof

Lord Voldemort caresses Harry's cheek, softly, gently as if he was made of fragile porcelain. But this creature before him was not so easily breakable. Of all the living beings in this world, Voldemort believes that he is the only one to truly know about how resilient this boy truly is. After all, he had tried hard enough to bend this impossible creature to his will and failed countless times. 

Voldemort is but, a beastly creature, harsh and rough even at his gentlest moments.

Is that not the truth after all? He surely is a beastly creature, isn't he? A hateful, immoral, cruel creature who is so so pathetic.

Harry leans into his palm, chasing after the warmth of that pale hand, burrowing half of his face into it. He hums in content as he feels the warm sensation he has always felt when Voldemort touches him.

It must be love. Harry thinks as he smiles happily at his lover's rare display of affection. He has always felt that warm tingling sensation in his head whenever he comes into contact with Voldemort.

And he has read enough books to know that the deep yarning feeling he has in his heart for Voldemort cannot be anything other than love. The books portray love as something so warm and nice and he feels exactly so. Addictive and warm and at the same time exciting.

And they are lovers, aren't they? Had been for years and will be forever. Therefore that tingling he feels in his head must be the indication of said love.

If one can feel love in his heart, one could also feel it in his forehead, right? Such is a funny logic but a sensible one.

"When will you return? You were gone for such a long time the last time you had to go out." Harry asks, eyes still closed contently. Right now, he rather feels like a cat, basking in the warm sunlight and pleased with all he has. A smug cat that got too much cream, he would make.

"In no time at all." Voldemort murmurs, his red eyes still focused on the impossible man in front of him. His precious impossible man that defies everything Voldemort believes in. He moves his hand to the back of Harry's neck and pulls him against his chest. "And we'll be home, creature impossible."

Harry looks up into those crimson eyes, confusion evident in his own. "Home, my darling? Aren't we already home?" He asks, oblivious to the storm raging inside that deepest part of his beloved's mind. He looks around clueless, eyes roaming over the lavish furniture and expensive furniture of their house. 

Voldemort has no words to answer that loaded question. He scratches Harry's scalp as he gets lost in his own tornado of thoughts. Where is his home? Britain? Or France? Neither is home to the both of them. But if you consider their birthplace a home in a cruelly twisted sort of way, then Britain would come the closest to a form of home to them. Even then will they ever be home? Does he deserve a home?

No. Certainly not. Not after what he had put his beloved through.

A Home is where the Heart is. He has no heart, but what it would surely resemble has long been given up willingly to Harry.

"Are we moving!? After your return from wherever you're going?" Harry asks excitedly when he comes back to his senses, look of wonder and pure excitement on his face. A glance at him takes Voldemort back to the world, finally out of his own head.

"To where? Lyon is somewhat boring now that we've stayed here for quite a long time. Are we going back to Paris, dear?" Voldemort smiles softly at his lover's enthusiasm. His Harry is ever so enthusiastic to experience new things, always so energetic in his excitement. He looks so alluring and heartwarming, tempting Voldemort to never let him go.

But Harry is not really free, isn't he? Voldemort has never let him go since the day he got his filthy hands on this brave brave little Gryffindor. He had so much potential to fly the highest of skies yet he's chained at feet, unable to move at all.

The worst thing is the fact that Harry does not even realize his very own prisoner status. He is blind to the chains binding him to Voldemort. He doesn't see past the beautiful lies Voldemort painted to make him stay, nor try to escape from his captivity for he doesn't remember.

He doesn't remember his past.

Voldemort feels something twisting in his stomach and decides to bury that matter deep in his mind, totally ignoring it for a time being. He'll deal with it when it comes. But it still lingers in his mind that he feels bitterness in his heart.

Does he have one? Probably not.

He gently pushes Harry away to step away from the embrace and shakes his head at Harry's unanswered question.

"I believe we'll be returning to Britain, my soul. It's been a long time since we went back there. We should visit it sometimes, shouldn't we?"

Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise at that. They had left Britain so many years ago and haven't gone back since.

"Hmm-hmm. Sounds fantastic." Harry nods in agreement. He slides his arms around Voldemort, hugging him from behind as he presses his face into the dark silk of the robe inhaling the sweet and sharp scent of his lover.

"And we should build a house there, don't you think? Nothing so fancy, of course. Those bloody purebloods would never know what it'd be like to live in anything other than their gaudy mansions. Just a cottage for two of us. That's more than enough."  Harry mumbles as he hugs Voldemort tighter.

Voldemort wishes to tease him for badmouthing the mansions when he's literally living in one but chooses to ignore the thought as Harry would love to live in a cottage if he were not stuck with Voldemort, following him wherever he goes.

Harry was still talking. "And a garden, darling! We have one in Belgium so another one in Britain wouldn't hurt, right?" At that, Voldemort genuinely smiles. They do have a nice cottage in Belgium and Harry is unnaturally fond of its backyard where Voldemort had made a greenhouse for flowers and herbs.

Harry is allergic to a specific type of rare herb in that greenhouse and would sneeze whenever it's in his vicinity. So Voldemort had to move that herb from there. That cottage certainly does hold a lot of Voldemort and Harry's fondest and dare he say happiest memories together.

"Whatever you wish my dear. You wish for a garden, be there a garden. I shall grant whatever you crave." Voldemort turns and pulls him around to face him and kisses him passionately worries and unease bleeding away from his posture. There only remains undeniable fondness for the impossible creature who is in his arms, safe and sound and happy.

Harry laughs joyously into the kiss as he deepens it, arms curling around Voldemort's waist. After a moment, he breaks the kiss and pulls Voldemort towards the dining hall

"I had asked Franco to make crepes for dinner, my dear. His crepes are the best! Let me tell you.... "