Heir Apparent By MonsieurClavier

Chapter 2

Notes:
Gratuitously Hot Voldemort vs. Gratuitously Bi Harry. Fight!

say hello to lord “i have vaguely sexy dreams about my son” voldemort
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
Voldemort woke from an inchoate dream in which Harry was emerging from a lake, smiling. It was nighttime, and the lake reflected the stars perfectly. An obsidian mirror. It was only upon drawing closer that Voldemort realised that the lake of his dream was the Great Lake, and that its black water was in fact blood. Harry’s mouth was wet with it, as though he’d been drinking. His body was bare, like a nymph’s, pale against the dark expanse. He looked happy.

How curious, Voldemort thought drowsily as he awakened, that he should dream about the happiness of another. It had certainly never happened before.

Then again, he’d never had a son before.

And just like that, reality snapped into place. Utter clarity filled his mind, the sort of clarity that he had once had to meditate for hours to achieve while training himself in Occlumency. But he was no longer a fumbling adolescent with uncontrollable urges. He was Lord Voldemort, and he had an heir.

A strange sense of self-satisfaction blossomed within him. Having an heir was more than just a matter of vanity. Voldemort would never need an heir to legitimise him. His power was enough for that.

Still, now he had an heir, like proper Purebloods did. Now he belonged in a way he hadn’t before. No more was he Tom Riddle, the pitiful halfblood, orphaned and without a family. Now he was the lord of the Slytherin line, and he had a family. A son. Nobody would dare question who he had fathered his son on, or where he had hidden the child. Those details were irrelevant. Voldemort’s Death Eaters would bow before him, as always. Except that now, they would also bow before his son.

A slow, smug smile curled Voldemort’s mouth, although it likely wasn’t as lovely as Harry’s smile had been in the dream. It was odd to compare himself to another and find himself lacking, in any category. But the truth was the truth, and besides, there was something deeply gratifying about his son having admirable qualities. Not just gratifying—flattering. After all, every achievement of Harry’s was a credit to his father.

Voldemort swept aside his sheets and climbed out of bed. He didn’t bother slipping into a gown; he was clad in nothing but black silk sleep-trousers, and it was enough. Winter though it was—the windows were frosted against a backdrop of pure, sunlit snow—the house was pleasantly toasty, and the floor was warm beneath his unclad feet. There was no dust anymore, no evidence of disuse, and the tapestries and decorations all shone richly with colour and vibrancy. The mahogany panelling and marble flooring were positively radiant with cleanliness.

So the jittery old house-elf he had summoned from the abandoned Gaunt estate last night, to prepare his and Harry’s dinner and to clean Riddle Manor, had clearly done its job. Maybe even overdone it, given how gratefully the elf had blubbered at being pressed back into service.

The kitchen was occupied when Voldemort got there.

But not by the house-elf, no.

By Harry.

The boy must be an early riser indeed, to be up even before Voldemort, who rose earlier than most. It was a pleasing sight, having his own flesh and blood here, in his home, in his kitchen, making tea.

Wait. Making tea?

“What are you doing?” Voldemort asked sharply.

Harry whirled around, features already fixed in a rebellious scowl, only to go slack-jawed. The lidded wooden jar he’d been holding fell from his hand and thunked harmlessly onto the tiles.