“Harry, I am involved in power games everyday. I don’t need to bring them to my bed. And I don’t desire them either.”
“I am not eighteen, Harry. I don’t correlate aspects of power, masculinity and dominance to sex anymore.”
“I didn’t have the chance to discover what you liked,” Voldemort said. “I didn't know if you hated the thought of sexual contact. I thought about your cock. I wondered what it would be like, if I took you in my hands, in my mouth, in me. Then I rid myself of fantasies, or strived to, because I realized that you did not welcome sexual intimacy in the little I knew of you.”
Harry had thought of sex a great deal on his travels. He had thought about sex, and about his past, about why he was so cold to the thought of physical intimacy.
“I don’t think I am functional, sexually,” Harry told him gently, not wanting to disappoint him, and yet wanting to be honest.
Voldemort blinked, and looked at him askance. Oh, he had not expected Harry to be broken sexually. He had only thought that it was a matter of time, perhaps.
Trying to find the right words, Harry said, “I don’t think I want to have sex.”
“What do you mean?” Voldemort asked. “We had sex, more than once.”
Harry thought of Voldemort splayed open on his sheets, surrendered to passion, and of how much joy the sight had brought him.
“Is it enough?” Harry asked, worried. “Don’t you need more?”
He knew what men did with men. Voldemort had not shown much evidence of abstinence or sexual dysfunction. He must surely want all of what was possible at some point.
“Whatever you wish to give me. Have I asked you for more?”
“No, but I thought you were being patient, and waiting for more.”
“I don’t know what you mean by more,” Voldemort told him acerbically. “I came to you, only knowing of sex and power. Whatever else I know of this, you showed me.”
“I am talking of sex,” Harry clarified, and placed his hand between Voldemort’s legs in emphasis. Voldemort parted his legs in invitation and let Harry explore at will.
“You have little drive or desire to wank. I don’t care. You find me erotic, whatever that means to you. I find you erotic. Your touches, your kisses, your gaze, your voice. Whatever are you concerned about?”
Harry was not concerned about anything then. He leaned forward, over Voldemort, and cupped his head, and kissed him many times across his face, across his cheeks and brow.
“Good, I want to hear only my name, if you must speak at all,” Harry said fiercely, thinking of magic and castles, thinking of love and fate, thinking of the travels that had brought them here, of one following his grief and another following his heart.
“Take off your clothes. Your air-conditioning is still as good as it was. You will be warm. Take off your clothes. For me.”
And then he looked. Let the pilgrims believe what they wanted about the reincarnation of a saint who had written the greatest epic of their world. Harry knew the truth. He knew the truth of the man splayed underneath him, he knew of the truth of them.
Voldemort’s hands were in his hair, in his beard, tangled in his chest hair, and skittishly jumping across his skin in an undirected, uncoordinated manner.
“I find you beautiful,” Harry confessed, as Voldemort sunk into his touches as gracefully as he once had. “I find you a miracle hewn of magic and love.” He traced the contours of Voldemort’s body, finding it spare and thin, and yet supple and strong in form. “You once called me an eldritch creature. What am I to make of you then? I watched you born of blood and bones and flesh. I watched you rise from that lake having crafted my staff out of your wand.”
“You understood,” Voldemort whispered then, looking across Harry at the staff of yew.
It had taken Harry many months to understand. He had figured it out finally. It truly had been that lake. It had been Avalon. As the Lady had come out with Excalibur, Voldemort had come out with the staff of yew. Great magic came out of great sacrifices, and he had given up his wand.
“It was trivial,” Voldemort said. “I did not need a wand.”
It was not trivial, Harry knew. He had seen Riddle’s face in Ollivander’s shop. He had seen Voldemort cradling his wand as if he was welcoming a long-lost child, during that night of the cauldron.
“Shut up,” Harry told him. “All I want to hear, if you must speak at all, is my name.”
Voldemort lapsed into silence then, until it was broken by soft gasps and groans, as he surrendered to Harry’s care.
“If I had my way, I would have you like this, everyday.”
Voldemort was too far gone in his passion to react to Harry’s words, but react he did to Harry’s fierce kiss, crashing into Harry’s arms with his name spoken twice.
“You have your way,” Voldemort said, as they lay there on the yak furs, smelling of sweat and semen. Harry had been rubbing the sticky fluids firmly onto Voldemort’s skin, as silly as any juvenile lover could be.
Oh, then Harry remembered. Embarrassed, he shook his head.
“You do have your way, whenever you choose to,” Voldemort said sleepily. “And I prefer it so. We can return to your castle. Thy kingdom cometh, thy will be done.”