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Harry couldn't explain what exactly made him take the trunk. Of all the things he could've brought back from his parents' vault, their weddings clothes were a strange choice even to him.
The main Potter vault is full of heirlooms and knickknacks Harry's afraid to touch lest they crumble — treasures befitting a long-historied pureblood house, he thinks wryly. Must be why they don't suit him. His parents' vault, attached to the main by a door with their initials, is homely by comparison. The sparseness of the items therein speaks to how short the time they had to accumulate and store their treasures, and makes Harry value the few things all the more.
He'd gone through their school books, reading any little notes he could find in the margins.
(His father had written 'Lily Potter' or 'Lily Evans-Potter' an embarrassing number of times; his mother had a talent for silly doodles.)
His father's broom was also in the vault — the broom he'd used for most of his years on the Gryffindor quidditch team. Harry thinks he'd like to take it out and give it a spin. At some point.
And then there's the trunk. He'd brought that home and hidden it away in the attic so no one else would find it. It feels… private, in a way.
Now he's home alone for the first time since he squirreled it up here, and he's as ready as he thinks he'll ever be to go through it.
It's... complicated, emotionally, for him to hold the clothes he's seen in his parents' wedding photographs — the ones in the album Hagrid gave, well-thumbed and so dear even years later. He feels hyperaware of his breathing, his fingertips, the quality of the silence in the attic.
Harry takes his father's marriage robes out first.
Heavy, draping black fabric with dark crimson trim along the wide sleeves, collar, and open front, and a stag embroidered in the same deep red colour across the back. Harry swings it around his shoulders and slips his arms through the sleeves over his worn jeans and t-shirt.
It feels, oddly, like a hug — the heft of the garment, the warmth, the physical connection with a father he doesn't remember except through the words of other people. It's long on him at the hem and sleeves, and the line of the shoulder juts out a couple centimetres beyond his own.
It puts into context, in a tangible way that he can understand, his father's body. A little taller than Harry, a little broader, though not by much. James Potter feels real in a different way suddenly. Harry's jaw tenses at the confusing tangle of emotions this realisation brings. He smooths his hands down the front of the robes and breathes through it.
Transfiguring a nearby stray board into a standing mirror, he stares at his reflection. It feels a bit like he's his father's photo come to life, but it also serves to highlight the differences.
Harry can't count how many times he's been told he looks exactly like his father, aside from his mother's eyes. While it was initially comforting to a child who'd never known who and where he came from to have that desperately desired link, it got decidedly old when it was the first (and often only) thing anyone who knew his parents would say.
Over the years, with age and greater knowledge of who his parents were and what they looked like (and a less fraught relationship with his reflection), he could be more discerning. He can say that his nose and face shape are his mother's, his ears and cheekbones are his father's, and some features might come from somewhere else in the family tree entirely.
He is a combination of both of his parents, and he's also his own person entirely, and he finds it all a comfort. He carries his parents with him always, but that's not all he is.
Turning back and forth causes the robe to sway and twist around him satisfyingly. He's not much for fashion, but even he can admit he looks rather dapper. Perhaps, if the right occasion comes along, he'll wear these robes. Maybe. Harry'd like to think his father would be alright with that.
He indulges in wearing the robes for a few more minutes before he folds them up as he found them. Holding them to his chest, he catches a faint hint of cologne that must have been preserved by the storage charms. Harry presses his nose to the fabric. This is what his father smelled like.
He gently tucks them back in the trunk. Then, carefully, he draws out his mother's wedding dress.
The delicate white gown seems to flow and spread endlessly, despite the crispness of the pleats. It seems almost like the tunics worn by the figures in the Greek and Roman mythology books he'd flip through in the primary school library when he could convince the librarian to let him stay inside during break time.
Harry thinks he's seen this dress on a starlet in a black-and-white movie Petunia would put on and sigh at when Vernon and Dudley were out and she'd gotten a little too deep into the cooking sherry.
He only hesitates a moment before he decides to try it on.
Putting on his mother's wedding dress is more involved than his father's marriage robes. For one, he has to shuck his shirt and trousers before he can shimmy into the silky gown. For another, the closures are a series of fiddly little buttons that require him to bend and contort himself in awkward ways to reach them.
(He's seen the women in his life navigate these ridiculous things before and he's never had more respect for their patience, nor resentment for whoever decided that they were integral to fancy clothing.)
Once he finally has the dress on and settled somewhat, Harry peers down at himself. It's different from his father's robes, obviously — less enveloping and cosy, more clinging and cool. But it gives the same sense of physical connection. His shoulders are just a smidge broader than the dress was made to accommodate, and he has no hips for the skirt to drape around, but the waistline sits comfortably and the dress still skims the floor where it slightly trailed along the ground on his mother. It fits reasonably well in the chest, he notes with some amusement.
He adjusts the fluttery overlap of the sleeves and the high neckline, delaying the moment he looks in the mirror but not really certain why. Inhaling slowly, he raises his eyes to meet his reflection's.
He doesn't suddenly look like Lily Evans-Potter — not that he'd really expected to. He looks like Harry in a white gown. The surprise is how much he likes how that looks, how much it suits him. The dress makes his legs look miles long while emphasising his narrow waist and the breadth of his shoulders. It's elegant but not overly feminine or ornamented. If Harry were given to wearing gowns, he thinks this is exactly the type he'd want.
Funny to think he shares his mother's taste in fancy dresses.
Feeling a little self-conscious, Harry does a quick twirl. The hem of the skirt lifts with the motion, flaring out and closing tight around him along the pleat lines when he stops, before rotating back in the opposite direction to flare again. It's unexpectedly exhilarating. He understands why Luna twirls more than usual when she wears long dresses.
He's fixated on his reflection when he hears a sharp intake of breath behind him. Harry's eyes dart up to meet Voldemort's in the mirror, catching the other man's intense gaze and heavy swallow as he stares at Harry.
His mouth is suddenly desert-dry and he struggles to unstick his tongue. "You're home."
Voldemort makes a vague sound of acknowledgement, oratorical ability apparently lost to the sight of Harry in a wedding dress.
Harry doesn't know how to react. It feels practically sacrilegious for Voldemort to witness this moment of communing with some of the few physical remnants of his parents.
They've come so far in understanding each other, but that's not nearly the same as forgiveness, and Harry is not so in love to forget this man is the reason his parents are dead.
His shoulders are stiff as Voldemort's long-fingered hands skim over them. One slides down his arm to rest against his waist, the other drifts down his front to settle over his breastbone. Neither one exerts much pressure, which is the only reason Harry hasn't pushed them away.
Bit by bit, as they stand together in the loaded but unbroken silence, Harry feels the tension slowly, slowly recede. Voldemort must be able to feel it, or his patience has run out, as he crowds up against Harry's back, the arm on Harry's waist moving to wrap around and pull Harry further into the press of Voldemort's body.
"Oh, how you taunt me," Voldemort hisses into the back of Harry's head, face buried in his wild locks.
"You weren't supposed to see," Harry says, voice tight.
The other man scoffs. "To deny me such a sight would be even more cruel." He drops his face to the side of Harry's neck, biting kisses along Harry's throat while his eyes rove up and down Harry's figure in the mirror.
"Nope, that's too much," Harry says firmly. "We're not doing anything while I'm wearing this."
Voldemort grumbles into Harry's skin but ceases his assault and stands up straight. Harry watches his gaze turns shrewd in the reflection.
"Can I take this as you considering my… offer?"
'Offer.' Because it wasn't quite a marriage proposal Voldemort had given him, but it was certainly the other man testing the waters to see how Harry would receive a proposal.
Harry's throat clicks as he swallows. "I—"
(Maybe Harry could explain what inspired him to take the trunk with him, after all.)
"Er… yeah, I s'pose you can," he finishes, voice rough and hushed.
Voldemort's hands tighten momentarily against Harry, and his eyes burn in the mirror. His response is barely a whisper, but Harry can hear all the hunger and satisfaction in the sentiment all the same.
"Excellent."
