A Story of Mortality

Chapter 12

Voldemort was reluctant to admit that he was grateful to have been able to spend more time with Potter. Meeting up to discuss tactic and involvement in Sweden felt almost like it had been for their own civil war. It was, of course, far better than then, however, as it was very rare that it did not end in some form of sexual satisfaction; he had lost count of the number of humiliating sexual defeats he had suffered at the hands (and mouth) of Lord Potter, but it was likely the same number of victories he had won, so he supposed it could be a lot worse. Still, there came a point where exclusively diplomatic and sexual encounters were not enough. Voldemort had not known what it was that he wanted, only that he wanted it, and so he had merely pushed his frustration into further attempts at sexual dominance. It was Potter who had finally been able to put it into words.

"We should go on dates," the man had exclaimed one evening, mid-sex.

It had taken Voldemort a moment to process exactly what Potter had said, and he was completely taken aback. Dateswere something he associated with teenagers, simpering over their crushes and fussing about trivial relationships. Voldemort was in his 50s, Potter in his 60s, and though neither of them necessarily looked that old, thanks to Voldemort's horcruxes and Potter's vain use of youth preservation rituals, they were still in no position to go on dates.

"You're mad," Voldemort had stated. "You're not even middle-aged and you've lost your mind."

Potter's eyes shined with mirth, but he had stuck with the idea.

He was not entirely sure what he had imagined a date with Potter, a date between two Dark Lords would be like, but it was apparent that he had set his expectations far too low, as always was the case with Lord Potter. Potter had not meant a date in the traditional sense, which Voldemort was incredibly relieved by, though he could have corrected Voldemort on it earlier. He merely meant... an outing.

"An adventure!" Potter had called it, looking around 40 years younger as he spoke.

Voldemort also had not been expecting to be taken up on his agreement to explore the mountains of Norway with Potter, from a conversation on a balcony that seemed like a lifetime ago. But in all honesty, he was quite excited for the trip; he had been in politics for so long, he had almost forgotten the excitement of exploring the unexplored, discovering the mysteries of magic, pushing the limits of his mind, magic, and body to see the beauty of the world in its rawist form, away from the intervention of humanity. He had set aside a month for the expedition, hoping desperately that his government would not mess up too badly while he was gone, and was finally ready to set off. They had spent about three months meeting and discussing where exactly they would go, what equipment they would need, researching the area to have some idea of what to expect, which was not much; it was a largely unexplored area, which made it all the more exciting. They both decided that it would be wise to take journals so that they could document their experiences, and later be able to publish it if they wished. Voldemort was not sure if he wanted to publish what they found, rather liking the idea of being one of the only people to know, but he was also very tempted by the idea of people knowing his successes.

Their starting point was at the base of the largest mountain that could be seen from Potter's Norway base. They were each carrying large bags with the feather-light charm, containing the basic supplies, such as tents, food, and even magically enhanced muggle climbing equipment if they needed it. First, though, they were waiting for the sun to set. It was Potter's idea, again, to start out in the dark, in the hopes of encountering some more interesting magical creatures, and Voldemort was happy to follow this plan.

Potter was sprawled out on the grass, basking in the orange of the sunset, while Voldemort was perched more regally on a large rock. He looked the other man over, admiring the shadows of his face, eyes closed, and the way the wind brushed his messy hair over his forehead.