The Necromancer

Chapter 32

Harry carefully, very, very carefully, took stock of the situation. He was in Voldemort’s bed, his shirt was open, his trousers were half off with one leg bare and his head was pounding. Harry glanced at Voldemort again. “I don’t think we fucked, but my trousers are half off for some reason.”

Voldemort swallowed, his throat making a very dry sound, and then he lifted the covers and examined his own body. “My trousers are opened but still on. I agree that we probably didn’t have sex.”

“Good,” Harry said, letting his head drop back in his pillow. And then he realized how that sounded, so he quickly added, “When I fuck you I want to remember it.” Harry wasn’t a complete idiot. He had eyes and he could see how utterly attractive Voldemort was. Not just in the looks department, but more importantly in the magical department. There was something so deliciously raw and dark about the man and his magic that Harry felt drawn to without even realizing. And now that Harry knew Voldemort at least welcomed the idea of having sex with men the chances of them eventually fucking had just risen exponentially.

Voldemort couldn’t hold back a grin and released a burst of laughter, which quickly transformed into a pained groan.

Harry threw his arm over his own face and joined Voldemort in groaning in absolute misery. Not just his head was pounding, his whole fucking face was aching. “What sort of poison did you serve me last night?”

Voldemort had his eyes squeezed shut, face a picture of misery. “Guinness is a muggle beer, so I’m simply blaming this whole terrible hangover on the muggles.”

Snorting, Harry couldn’t hold back some laughter, which caused even his teeth to ache for some fucking reason. That is when Harry’s stomach made it known it wasn’t happy, either. “Ah, I feel so sick.”

“If you throw up in my bed I will curse you,” Voldemort said and he even managed to sound kind of menacing for a second or two before he groaned in absolute misery again. “Look what you have done to me.”

“What?”

“I used to be a Dark Lord,” Voldemort whispered, licking his dry lips a few times. “A respected, feared Dark Lord. People were literally too scared to even say my name. And now I’m reduced to a hungover fool who spent a whole night in a pub making merry and getting drunk with werewolves and muggleborns. It’s all your fault.”

Harry cracked up again and then quickly rolled onto his side, one arm curled around his stomach. “Stop…stop… Fuck, what do I call you? I keep calling you Voldemort in my head, but that’s just not right.”

Slowly letting his head drop to the side, Voldemort stared at him. “I go by Marvolo these days. You could try that.”

“Ugh. It’s too fucking long,” Harry muttered, face pressed against the pillow.

“How is that too long?” Voldemort demanded, expression briefly lighting up in outrage before crumbling in pain again. “It’s exactly one syllable longer than your name. Har-ry. Mar-vo-lo.”

“Yeah, all right,” Harry conceded. “Marvolo, do you wizards have something to fix this mess? In Santika we had a herbal brew that worked pretty well, but I don’t have any doses ready.”

“Dobby!” Voldemort called, voice cracking and he ended up coughing a few times while the eager house-elf appeared at the side of the bed. “Get us some hangover cures, quickly!”