Tomarry / Harrymort One Shots

Fairytale Twisted

Someone tried to assassinate me today." Voldemort hissed as he walked into their bedroom.

"He was a rebel so eager to please Dumbledore that he cast the killing curse at me in the middle of the day in front of a bunch of ministry officials nevermind the aurors nearby."

Harry hummed absentmindedly, turning another page of the Daily Prophet he was reading. He didn't even look up.

"Are you not going to defend the assassin?" Voldemort asks, inclining his head slightly to the side, observing Harry curiously.

Harry found himself sighing tiredly, brows pinched together in exasperation. He silently put the newspaper on the side table and looked directly into the burning inferno which were the eyes of his husband.

"What," he asked "is there for me to defend?"

Harry straightened in his armchair, smoothed down his robe as he uncrossed his legs. "Whoever that assassin was, he clearly had no wise bone in his body. To attack you like that is incredibly foolish of him if not hilariously absurd." He shook his head in irritation, huffing at that absurd event.

"I shall defend those who I believe undeserving of your wrath. But I will not defend those who are unthinkably foolish as to do this."

"My venomous little snake." Voldemort hissed happily, red eyes crinkling with joy and humor. "It excites me when you do not act as a martyr of those rebels." He walked towards Harry, crouching down and holding Harry's face in his long bony hands, placing a chaste kiss on the lips.

Harry accepted the kiss with practiced motion, smiling as he leaned into the warm hand of Voldemort's palm. As reptile as Voldemort may look with his slitted nostrils and scaled skin, his hands are humanly warm.

"I never chose to be their martyr. All I wanted was to be me. Harry. Just that. Nothing more." Harry whispered, eyes distant as he reminisced the past four years. How everything came to this, his marriage to Voldemort and Voldemort's somewhat peaceful conquest of Magical Britain.

Harry was nineteen in tattered robes and ripped trousers when Dumbledore told him that Voldemort had offered a peace negotiation. He played right into Voldemort's hand unknowingly.

But he didn't feel resentful, no. Not then and especially not now.

"I have you, right Voldemort?" Harry asked almost jokingly if not for a faint tremor in his voice. It's quite hard to control one's emotions when remembering what could have been if one had chosen something different.

Everything would have changed. But he wouldn't have this.

This, whatever this is, is something he had not expected when he became the sacrificial lamb of Magical Britain, sealing his life away to the murderer of his parents.

He had not expected the domesticity and familiarity with Voldemort. He had not expected peaceful banters that didn't end with spell light flashing their house bright. He had not expected the obsession and protectiveness of Voldemort who, from what he had observed, could be such a mother hen at times.

He had not expected the way Voldemort would calm down his anger at the sound of Harry's voice. He had not expected simple meals Voldemort prepared on his birthday, on their anniversary or on any day Harry craved home cooked meals.

He had not expected the twisted and weird sense of humor Voldemort had. He had not expected his own joy at seeing Voldemort unguarded. He had not expected the fondness he felt for Voldemort.

Harry did not expect this. Harry did not want to give this up.

Voldemort winded his arms around Harry's frame, caging him in them. Harry didn't break away, winding his own arms around Voldemort as they sat in silence.

"You always have me, Harry. For eternity."