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Chapter Text

Harry collapsed onto his doormat, shaking and bleeding. His torso was pouring blood as he dragged himself to the cache of concentrated healing potions he kept hidden behind his dragon hide boots and necked back three of them. 

Gasping, he closed his eyes and waited for the miracle of magic to stitch his flesh back together. 

Bugger. 

Another failed attempt. 

Each time he worked out where McNair was hiding, the man’s traps always caught him. He almost hadn’t made it home this time. 

Bowing his head, he exhaled a long breath.

Useless. 

All these years and he still couldn’t beat the man. Robards was going to be so disappointed.  

Gingerly getting to his feet, he slid up the wall to steady himself while the vertigo took his sight. 

Bed.  

He could eat tomorrow morning. Shower, piss. 

Fuck. 

He looked down. His doormat was mostly clean and soft enough. He let his legs unlock and bring him back to the floor. Laying down, he closed his eyes and was almost lost to unconsciousness when he heard his Floo whoosh to life. 

Instantly on his feet, he rushed into the shadowed dining room, heart thundering. His knees hit the hearthrug and he accepted the call. 

“Potter,” Robards said, a confused frown on his face. “Where did you go? Stevens saw you Disapparate before the team was dismissed. If he hadn’t, they’d still be out there looking for you.”

Harry clenched his fists. The strangling guilt for abandoning his team hit home solidly. 

“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Robards paused and then his eyes softened fondly. 

“No need for that. You did well. Next time, you’ll have him.”

Next time and next time and there had already been over twenty next times.

Robards’s keen eyes were scrutinising his form. Harry tried to seem relaxed. 

“Were you injured?”

“No, sir,” he answered at once. 

The man’s eyes swept his saturated robes. 

“There’s blood—”

“His. Not mine. I got him with a Sectumsempra.”

Robards nodded in approval.

“Have you written your report yet? I need those in immediately. We have to figure out what went wrong and I’m counting on you to get everyone organised again.”

Harry felt himself stiffen, I can’t—

“Yes, sir.”

“Go take a shower and then I’ll see you back at Headquarters.”

Harry heard the words, but they made no sense. 

See you back at Headquarters. See you back. 

No, I need to sleep—

He inclined his head once. 

Robards cut the connection. 

~*~

“Harry?” Selena asked, sounding astonished and touching his arm as he dazedly walked past her. He failed to control his flinch. “What are you doing here? I saw McNair take you down last night. You were screaming—”

“Shh,” Harry said urgently, grabbing her hand and pulling her into his office. 

He shut the door. 

“Why?” Her expression fell. “You didn’t tell Robards you were hurt again. Why, Harry?”

“Leave it, Selena. It doesn’t matter. Anyways, I’m fine. See?”

He pulled up his shirt to show her his unblemished skin. She put her hand gently onto his stomach, spreading out her fingers. His breath caught. Stepping closer, she looked into his eyes.

“You almost died.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, wanting to drop his shirt, but worried he would offend her. “Besides, I’m Harry Potter.” His voice held a bitterness no one ever picked up on. “If I can defeat the Dark Lord, then I think I can handle McNair.”

He tried for a grin. 

Sure, you handled him so well a couple of hours ago. You’re worthless, useless— 

“Harry,” Selena said, her voice dropping breathily, her nails lightly flexing to scratch his skin—

A cursory, single knock on his door sounded and then it swung open.

“Harry?” 

Hermione. He tried not to let his relief show. 

Selena dropped her hand and stepped back. Harry gratefully let his shirt fall. More exhausted than ever, he plastered a smile onto his face. 

“You look terrible,” Hermione said, ignoring Selena’s greeting. 

Harry grimaced and backed up towards his desk. 

“What are you doing here?” Hermione asked, suspicious. “I thought you were working last night.”

“I just came in to finish some paperwork,” Harry sighed.

“He almost caught McNair again,” Selena said, a hint of pride in her voice, which hit him like a blow.

Almost. 

You’re a failure. You can’t even do the one job you’re supposed to be good at. 

“Can we talk, Harry?” Hermione asked, and he looked up to see her giving Selena a pointed look. 

“Can I come by tonight?” Selena asked as she walked to the door. 

Harry’s blank gaze got caught on her swaying hips. 

Sleep. Jesus fucking christ, I need to—

“Sure,” he replied. 

She smiled at him and shut the door. Hermione crossed her arms, her gigantic pregnant belly making the gesture look comical. 

“She’s just using you.”

Harry exhaled and moved to sit in the chair behind his desk. 

“I know.”

“Then why do you let her?”

He rolled his favourite quill between his fingers, thinking about Marius, Selena’s brother. He had apparently been in fourth year during the Battle of Hogwarts and had sneaked back to fight when he shouldn’t have. His small, brave body had been crushed under the rubble because Harry had taken too long to do his job. 

“What can I help you with, Hermione?” he asked wearily, trying to resit rubbing his eyes.

No one liked to see him tired. He glanced up and caught an annoyed look on her face. 

“I wanted to talk about something that’s causing a bit of a stir in my department, but I can see you’re not up for a discussion right now.”

Harry marshalled himself and sat up straighter. 

“What is it?”

“Don't worry about it.” 

“Just tell me, Hermione,” he persisted, feeling a strange sense of foreboding. 

She was Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, so it wasn’t often their departments worked together. 

She sat down opposite him and dropped a report onto his desk. He glanced at it, but his pulsing headache barred him from reading it.

“What does it say?”

She picked up the parchment and looked it over, but he knew she probably already had it memorised.

“There have been thirty-two Muggles killed in a small town in Scotland.”

Harry drew his head back in shock.

“Why haven't I heard of this?”

Hermione tapped the parchment idly. 

"Because the coroner's reports consistently say there's no question as to the cause of death. Snake bites. Snake venom.”

What the hell?

“I’ve sent a dozen people,” Hermione went on. “I’ve even gone myself and we can’t find anything.”

Weird, to be sure. But not really my problem. 

“Isn’t that more of an animal control issue?” he asked. “It doesn’t sound magical.”

Hermione put the papers back down neatly and then drew her wand. She cast multiple privacy wards. Harry tensed, sitting straighter. 

“Is your office secure, Harry?”

“Yeah, of course. What’s this about?”

Hermione looked apprehensive. 

“Do you recall the memory you showed us of Tom Riddle asking about splitting his soul seven times?”

Harry’s whole body jolted at that name. 

The fuck?

He hadn’t heard it in ages. Nine years had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He gave a jerky nod in reply.

“As far as he knew,” Hermione continued, “Tom Riddle only created six Horcruxes. He never knew about you.”

“Dumbledore said…” Harry muttered slowly, thinking he understood where she was going with this, “that he wanted a seven part soul, not seven Horcruxes.”

Hermione nodded. 

“And we believed him. It made sense. But Harry.”

Hermione got up and came around the desk to sit down upon it. She took Harry’s limp hands in hers. 

“What if he was wrong? What if Voldemort wanted seven Horcruxes? What if we didn’t destroy them all?”

“His body—”

“There was a body at Godric’s Hollow too. That doesn’t mean he’s truly gone.”

Not gone— You failed, you fucking failed again—

Harry pulled back from her and stood. 

“This is quite a leap, Hermione. Why do you think a snake killing people has anything to do with… with him? The thing could just be rabid or another Dark wizard is controlling it.”

“You’ve caught almost every remaining Death Eater,” she said wryly. “There aren’t many dangerous people left.”

“So it’s gotta be the Dark Lord back for another go, then?” he joked, hoping to disperse some of the strangling tension with sarcasm, but her face didn’t crack. 

She was worried. She believed this. 

With a sigh, she pushed off from his desk and returned to her chair. 

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” she admitted. “Ron is sick of me talking about it. I just… something's not right." 

She was gazing down at the parchment, her mind seemingly far away. 

“Thirty-two deaths,” she whispered. “Cove Bay has a population of eight thousand.” 

“Yeah, but—”

She looked up. 

“Did I mention it’s an adder? The killer snake. They’re tiny and usually not dangerous unless they can get enough venom in. Or if you’re old or sick, but these Muggles weren’t. So why are so many dying?”

An adder? He couldn’t imagine Voldemort so small. 

“I know it sounds crazy, but I just feel like something isn’t right.” She shrugged, a hint of embarrassment entering her tone. “Ron insisted I ask you for help.”

“Why me? It’s not like I speak Parseltongue anymore.”

“No, but you are rather the leading expert on Voldemort.”

Voldemort. 

A surge of murderous rage erupted inside of him, but he beat it down. Not here, not now. 

Not yet. 

He blew out a breath and returned to his chair. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

Hermione hesitated. 

“You’re always busy, Harry. I’ve tried. You work seven days a week and when you’re not… Well, you aren’t exactly alone at Grimmauld very often, are you?”

Harry’s eyes darted away for a moment, but then he dragged them back. He took a deep breath.

“What do you need me to do?”

Her eyes shined with gratitude and relief. 

~*~

Hermione, as always, had a plan. 

He went over it in his head as he traipsed along the coast in his Invisibility Cloak a few days after their talk.

She had assumed that, once Voldemort saw him, he would stop possessing the snake and become a vapour again, unable to be contained. Voldemort’s unique potion made of unicorn blood and Nagini’s venom had transferred his soul into the scaly infant’s body, but obviously Voldemort had told no one of his methodology for that so it was not an option here.

Instead, Hermione had recommended he stick with a simpler solution: Petrificus Totalus.

Feel for the snake. Trap it before it could escape. The man could not do much magic while possessing a foreign body and would therefore be stuck. She said to scoop him up and head back. Then, all they had to do was figure out what his last Horcrux was, destroy it, and finally kill him for good.

All of this, of course, hinged on this ambitious little snake actually being the Dark Lord Voldemort. 

Harry snorted. 

With my bloody luck, she’ll be right. 

Nausea churned his stomach whenever his imagination began to construct what it would mean if he had actually failed at doing the one thing the wizarding world had asked of him. His prophesied purpose. 

I’d be a fraud. 

Harry slowed his steps. Between his work and his… partners, he never really left himself any time to think. He needed to be useful. People depended on him and he had learned that the crushing weight of their disappointment was not something he could manage. 

But if this snake actually ended up being Voldemort… 

He would have failed everyone. 

His parents. Fred. Sirius. Mad-Eye. Anyone who had died for him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone who followed him now.

It would all be a lie. 

His whole life. All of him. 

He’d only gotten the Auror job because he was famous. Everyone who smiled at him, or talked to him, or slept with him did so because he was Harry Potter. It was obvious. He was short and scrawny, he wore Muggle glasses still, and he was the least charming or charismatic person around. 

He owed everything he had to being Harry Potter. And he owed it to everyone to be worthy of their devotion.

Which will disappear if Voldemort is actually still alive. 

Good. I don’t deserve anyone’s devotion. I get people killed, I—

He closed his eyes, willing himself to focus. Be stronger. Get yourself under control. You have a job to do.

Shaking his head to clear it, he opened his eyes.

Buck up.

He took a heavy step forward and then resumed his search.

Hermione was counting on him to find this snake. Everyone else had been unable to and so they had called in the Chosen One. 

And Harry Potter never failed. 

~*~

What he was about to attempt was perhaps reckless, but Hermione hadn’t been wrong to call him the Voldemort expert. After five hours of searching, his exhaustion was becoming too overpowering to ignore. 

Yet he couldn’t return with nothing, so he took a gamble. 

Harry knew that Voldemort was a master of the long game. He had existed for eleven years as a wraith knowing that one day a servant would return to him and give him aid. He had endured months of Wormtail’s cringing assistance to orchestrate an elaborate plan to regain a body. He had painstakingly acquired fitting objects to house his soul and hidden them because he had known eventually someone would succeed in killing his body. 

He had proven he could wait patiently to achieve his goals.

And yet, no amount of planning had ever held up against the man’s obsession with Harry. 

After months of manoeuvring to avoid going into the Ministry during Harry’s fifth year, he had thrown it all away when Harry had shown up. The Dark Lord had recklessly revealed his existence, drawn there by Harry’s unprotected presence, almost as if he couldn’t keep away. He had lost countless opportunities to allow one of his many followers to kill Harry because of his unerring determination to be the one to do it. Even the Horcrux Tom Riddle couldn’t resist him. The teen had wanted Ginny’s soul to get his body back and free his basilisk— until he had met Harry. Then, his plans had shifted. 

Killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me any more, Tom Riddle had said. For many months now, my new target has been— you.

An obsession. 

If there was a way to lure Lord Voldemort out of hiding, it was the presence of Harry Potter.

Especially if he thinks I’m weakened.  

He conjured a knife and cut into the skin on his left forearm. 

Come and get me.

“Voldemort!” Harry shouted, pulling off his Cloak and holding out his arm as enticement to the hungry reptile the Dark Lord was supposedly possessing. 

He felt foolish, but his instincts seldom led him astray. He meandered towards a grassy bank, alert to any signs of movement. 

“It’s Harry Potter!” he called, peering under a gap beneath a rocky arch. “Come and get me! I’m wounded!”

His feet took him further inland. The grass here was tall, making his visibility limited as adders were easily camouflaged.

“Voldemort!”

He shook his arm, letting droplets fall. 

“Tom!”

That would piss him off. 

A sudden sound had him freezing. Although he could no longer speak it, he was very familiar with the insidious hiss of Parseltongue.

The grass to his left rustled. Harry only had time to turn his head before he felt the muscular press of a tiny, twisting body against his leg and then the sharp sting of teeth sinking into his bloody hand. The snake’s smooth, cool skin curled around his forearm and then released him to puncture closer to the knife cut. The persistent bugger's bites hurt, but Harry's victorious euphoria was stronger. 

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. 

The chances had to be minuscule that he’d selected the correct area. Cove Bay was small, but so were adders. And Harry hadn’t felt anything. There had been no traces of Dark Magic. And yet he somehow innately recognised the little villain that clung on tightly as Harry gripped it at the base of its head. 

“Got you,” he muttered, and then cast his spell. 

~*~

He would fire-call Hermione soon. 

He would. His fingers just tingled with the need for some privacy with his spoils first. 

Harry tossed the snake onto his kitchen table. The dull thud it made reminded him viscerally of the sound this man’s dead body had made when it hit the ground at Hogwarts. 

Mundane and human.

Lord Voldemort. 

As a fucking snake. This was too ridiculous to be real. 

He peered down at the pathetic creature. Its sleek scales had dark brown and cream-coloured diamonds in a checkered pattern. The body was small and lithe, about the length of his arm. Frozen with its jaws distended in mid-attack, the creature looked absurd. 

Vulnerable. 

“You are so fucked,” he laughed quietly, rubbing a hand down his own mouth. 

Lord Voldemort, at his mercy. Sure, he couldn’t die yet, but all Harry really needed to know was if he could suffer. 

Because Harry wanted him to— oh, how he yearned for it. 

Unable to stop himself, he lifted that cold body off of the table. He gazed into the coppery-red eyes for any hint of fear, and maybe there was a shadow of it. Maybe Lord Voldemort knew how close he was to death for the first time in eighty-one years. 

“I don’t know if you can understand me as a snake,” Harry said, the fingers on his other hand absently stroking the glossy scales. “I hope you can.”

A sudden image of Snape, bleeding out pointlessly on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, overtook his vision. Snape had been killed by a snake.

His fingers tensed around that hard, still body. It would be so easy to crush it. To snap the hundreds of rib bones and burst it like a balloon. 

For Snape. 

For everyone this monster had ever hurt. 

It was with immense restraint that he stayed the impulse. 

Postponed it.  

Although he somehow knew this was Lord Voldemort, until his instincts could be confirmed, he didn’t want to kill an innocent creature. 

“I have to collect some ingredients now,” he told the snake, enjoying how much it looked like a toy. “I have a potion to make.”

~*~

It occurred to him that giving Lord Voldemort back his body might not be a wise decision. However, Hermione wasn’t the only one who could make a plan. She had wanted to keep the Dark Lord as a snake, but how were they supposed to figure out what his Horcrux was if they couldn’t… persuade him to talk? 

Voldemort needed to be able to speak. 

To scream.

He stifled the wild anticipation that flared up inside of him whenever he pictured seeing that familiar form once again. That tall, imposing body. Those blazing red eyes. 

The potion was almost complete. It steamed and bubbled as he remembered it doing. He had Hermione’s book, Secrets of the Darkest Art, and his own memory to thank for his ability to recreate it. 

But he had decided to make a cruel alteration. 

Setting the huge stone cauldron to simmer, he approached the snake still Immobilised on the table. 

“Ready for a swim?”

Again, once he had the pitiful thing in his hands, his muscles ached to squeeze, to feel the creature dripping between his fingers. 

That can wait. Be patient. 

Harry carried the snake to the stone cauldron and then unceremoniously chucked it in. The surface of the water hissed and he waited to hear its body softly thump against the bottom. 

This time, he didn’t want it to drown. 

Too easy. 

He moved to the last ingredient on his work bench. There had not been much of it left in the man’s grave. If this failed, Voldemort likely wouldn’t get another chance at a body. 

Lifting the fine powder into his hands, he sprinkled it over the sparkling liquid inside. 

“Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.”

The contents churned, hissing aggressively, and then turned a vivid, poisonous-looking blue. 

Perfect. 

And here was the moment where a servant would sacrifice their flesh to strengthen and revive, but Harry intended to deny him that. He would build this body from nothing but hate: that of the father and of the enemy. 

The book hadn’t gone into detail about the outcome of such an omission, but Harry had read between the lines. And that fate for the Dark Lord, with his chosen Ministerial motto for his reign of terror, would be delicious irony. 

He picked up a sharp knife and cut along his palm, his mind pulled helplessly into a memory of the last time he had participated in this ritual.

But this time, he was in control. He was choosing to bring the man back so he could carve some remorse from his flesh. He cleared his throat.

“Blood of the enemy, eagerly given, you will corrupt your foe.”

Ignoring his nausea, he brought his hand over the bubbling cauldron and let a few drops of blood fall. The liquid immediately turned a blinding, piercing white. Harry brought up a hand to shield his eyes. 

Yet he was ready this time. 

When the surge of bright steam billowed out to indicate the ritual had been a success, he moved forward, wand pointing directly at where a tall body was slowly unfurling.

“Hello, Tom.”

Through the thick mist he saw that flat face turn towards him. Harry hit him with a powerful Petrificus and watched him fall. 

Chapter Text

His Floo burst to green. 

Harry spun to face it, his entire being still consumed by what he had done—

No! Not now! Give me this!

But his needs would have to wait. 

He stumbled to the hearth and opened the connection. 

“Did you find him?” Hermione asked, in lieu of a greeting. 

She peered past him, igniting his terror, but then he remembered that the cauldron and the body—

Merlin, the fucking body of the Dark Lord Voldemort—

It was out of sight. And Harry had a part to play if he intended to follow through with what he had begun. 

He lowered his eyes. 

“No. I searched for hours.”

He glanced up to see Hermione’s disappointed face. 

“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “I… okay. I just really thought you’d be able to find him.”

Harry shrugged. 

“Yeah. Me too.”

Hermione gave him a weak smile. 

“If I asked you to, would you go back again when you have a chance? For me?”

Harry hesitated.

“I know it seems insane,” she went on, “but I know there’s something there. I still think it’s him, but if it’s not… You’re an Auror. The best one, Harry. And I know you can solve this.”

Do my work for me, Harry. Save the day, like you’re supposed to.

He buried those feelings. This was Hermione. She loved him and he owed her so much. And besides, this was his mess to clean up. It wasn't her fault Harry had failed. A knot of unease formed in his stomach.

Thirty-two more lives I’ve cost...

“I’ll do my best,” he replied automatically. “But I really didn’t feel anything while out there.”

Shit!

His distraction was making him clumsy. There would be no more snake attacks now that he’d captured Voldemort. She would be suspicious. She may even think he was lying to her. He had to feed her something. 

“Although,” he began, grasping blindly, “I did find a snake nailed to a tree. Looked like an adder.”

Nailed there, like Morfin Gaunt had nailed that poor snake to his door all those years ago.

She frowned. 

“You did?”

Harry nodded. 

“Maybe someone from the village caught it and… left it there like that to show everyone it was safe now.”

Hermione looked unconvinced. 

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I guess I’ll go have a look. Take the body in for study.”

Her face relaxed a bit, clinical curiosity glinting in her eyes. 

“Actually, if it was possessed, I should be able to tell with a spell I found in Crafting and Controlling Creatures Dark.”

Harry watched her excited distraction impatiently. 

“Maybe that snake is the one. And I can examine it for signs of Dark Magic.”

Harry nodded encouragingly, trying to hurry this along. 

“Sounds good,” he replied shortly. 

She looked back at him. Fuck, too harsh. 

“Alright, Harry. Thanks for checking. Maybe have a look again if you get a chance, just in case? I’ll keep you updated.” 

Harry smiled, his teeth aching from clenching them together to stave off his impulse to return to his task. 

Hermione touched his arm.

“Get some sleep.”

“Will do.”

She disappeared and his Floo went dark. 

~*~

Harry stood still for long moments, eyes closed. Poised on the precipice of ruin. 

If he did this, if he let himself slide down this muddy, perilous slope, there would be no crawling out from it. It felt like this choice of whether or not to go back, wand in hand, and confront Lord Voldemort again, would remake the fabric of his life. 

Now that the moment was here, he could no longer lie to himself. 

If he turned around, he would not be handing the Dark Lord over. 

The man was his.  

And he would rectify the mistake he had made in failing to kill him all those years ago. 

But not until I’m done with him. 

He turned.

Walked the dozen steps back towards the cauldron and looked down upon the frail, naked form of his enemy sprawled out on his kitchen floor. 

Lord Voldemort.

Skeletal and pale. Sinister. Pathetic. 

At my mercy.

He had watched this man die. Stood over his body, feeling… relief. 

He had been glad to have finally achieved his purpose, but without it he had been lost. He still was. A child raised for sacrifice wasn’t meant to grow up. He was a mistake. An oversight. 

His eyes ran over the familiar landscape of the Dark Lord’s alien face. It should shock him more than it did that Voldemort was still alive, but really, when had logic or fairness ever been applied to his life? 

Despite his disbelief, seeing the man who had caused him so much fear and heartache laying naked on his floor was immensely satisfying. He felt the hairs on his arms raise, heat flooding his face, when he realised those inhuman red eyes were locked onto him. 

“I’m going to give you back your voice, Tom,” Harry whispered, and felt giddy when the man’s nostrils flared with fury. “But it’s a luxury I'm gifting you. It can be taken away if you piss me off.”

The man just continued to stare at him, yet what else could he even do? Harry controlled him totally. He pointed his wand at the supine form and gloried at the flinch he earned in those eyes.

He flicked his wrist and granted the monster his attention.  

“Your audacity astounds me,” that high, cold voice whispered in dangerous tones. 

Harry laughed, feeling good, feeling powerful. Merlin, it had been nine years since he had last heard the man speak.

“Your being alive astounds me!” Harry returned, with a weak chuckle. 

The Dark Lord’s intense glare held him. 

“Release me.”

Harry shifted his lips to the side. 

“Mmm. No.” 

He slid back onto the tabletop and continued to look down upon the other man. 

“No, I don’t think I will. Why would I? Did you think this was a rescue?”

Voldemort’s scorching gaze pierced into him.

“What else would it be. You have given me back my body.”

“It wasn’t—” Harry spluttered, indignant. “I didn’t do it for you! I had to make sure. I didn’t want to hurt an innocent snake.”

Voldemort paused, studying him. 

“You mean to attempt to hurt me, then, Harry Potter?”

“Yes,” Harry answered at once.

Voldemort hummed. 

“You will not.”

Harry made a choking sound, dropping his jaw slightly in astonishment. 

“Are you seriously goading me? Are you fucking insane? Do you know how much you’re at my mercy right now?”

Voldemort's gaze slid indifferently away from him, scrutinising the room.

“You have chosen to converse. Brought me into your home.” Voldemort returned his focus to Harry, giving him an almost pitying look. “You will not hurt me.”

Harry laughed. 

“Oh, you don’t think so, eh?”

“Of course not. And yet, you brought me here for a reason. Why?”

“You think I would allow you to be free?”

“Permit me to rephrase. Why am I in your home and not in Azkaban?”

Harry grinned. 

“I wanted you first.”

Voldemort had the gall to look bored. 

“Of course. To hurt me.”

His tone was heavy with disdain. Harry stepped forward and leaned down into his space. 

“Yes, you vile fucker. To hurt you. You deserve it.”

The man tilted his head. 

“You will not.”

Harry pulled back in outrage. His wand was suddenly in his hand, heavy and trembling. 

The former Dark Lord looked impassively back at him, a single hairless eyebrow raised in challenge. 

Harry’s muscles tensed.

“Crucio!”

The immobilised, skeletal body trembled and shook for a few beats of Harry’s rapid heart and then stilled. No. He looked down at his wand in betrayal. 

The motherfucker had the nerve to laugh raggedly. 

“Pathetic.” He sounded breathless, but scathing. “You are a weak, pitiable thing. Are you still in denial regarding your capabilities, Harry Potter?”

Harry slid off from the table and grabbed the fucker by both sides of his sharp jaw, yanking his inflexible torso off of the floor.

“I want you dead,” he hissed, bringing his face right down, almost pressing his forehead against the smooth, white skin of his nemesis. 

Voldemort’s expression remained frustratingly unconcerned.

“And yet, I live.”

“That’s not my fucking fault! I killed you! Why are you still alive?”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows as if to shrug.

“You made another Horcrux, didn’t you?” he said, releasing the man back onto the floor roughly in disgust. “Cut up your ravaged soul even more. I know you did.”

Those thin, disgusting lips turned up in amusement. 

“Perhaps you feel as if you can perceive my past actions, Harry Potter. As if I was your favourite subject at Hogwarts.” 

Voldemort paused, his eyes sliding down from Harry’s face to explore his body. 

“I too, have watched you. Studied you. Your adoring fans may think you are exacting and dangerous, but I know you, Harry Potter.”

That intense stare returned to lock onto his eyes. 

“You had an unprecedented opportunity to attempt my demise on our last meeting and yet, you balked. Against the most powerful wizard alive, you used a pitiful Disarming Spell.”

“Which worked!” Harry interrupted vehemently.  

“Because of chance,” Voldemort countered coldly. “You could have fought me with any spell, but you chose that one. Harry Potter, you are no killer. You did not execute any of my Death Eaters you managed to capture—”

“They’re dead, I assure you.”

“But not by your hand. You are weak. You are a hero. A noble servant that buckles under the weight of their adoration and expectations.”

Harry bristled. 

Buckles. I do not buckle, you self-important twat. 

“You will not hurt me,” Voldemort concluded with too much damn confidence. “But if you are willing to continue to help me, I can promise you anything you desire.”

“Help you?” Harry whispered, trying to catch up. Did he seriously just say that? “Help you?” 

He laughed. 

“Why would I—”

“You want to find Walden.”

Harry stopped laughing. 

I do want that. 

“Even as a wraith,” the man went on, “I was able to read. And the Chosen One's life and exploits remains a popular topic in the press.”

Don't I know it. 

“Okay fine. We're looking for Walden. But now I have you. You’re a better catch.”

“Obviously. Yet you cannot tell the Ministry that you are playing host to the great Lord Voldemort or your failure will be exposed. Everyone worships you for vanquishing me… and yet here I am. Alive.”

Harry clenched his teeth against the pain that lashed him at that truth. 

“You failed,” Voldemort’s pitiless voice pronounced. “But the salivating masses need not know. I can give you Walden and your unfinished list may yet be completed. Your noble work could be laid to rest.”

And then I’d be done. No more obligations or guilt or strangling, pulsating pressure to do more, do everything— 

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort went on, Harry’s name twisting into something wrong, something… seductive on that tongue. “Supreme Victor over all that is Dark. I can give you that. Only I can.”

“I don’t want that,” Harry muttered. “I hate that. I just want…”

“What do you want, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked, and as Harry gazed into his rapt red eyes, suddenly his options were limitless. 

It felt so indecent to consider his own needs. Dangerous. He couldn’t think about himself until all his work was finally done. 

“I can give it to you,” that voice continued. “Anything you desire.”

“Why would you?” he asked breathlessly.

“I require further assistance. Access to my library. To my wand. You do not have to free me just yet, that can wait. I will ask so little of you in exchange for all you desire.”

Harry knew exactly why the man wanted those things. It was difficult to suppress his cruel delight.

Woke to discover something vital missing, you fucker? 

“All I want is to find your last Horcrux and finish you for good,” Harry replied, some sense of himself returning. “There’s nothing you can offer me that would distract me from that. So, unless you plan on divulging that secret, you can fuck right off with the rest of it.”

Harry hit him with another immobilising spell and walked out. 

~*~

It was like fighting one of George’s Patented Daydream Charms. 

He was in the middle of conducting a meeting. Fielding questions about possible hiding locations of McNair, but every mention of capture conjured images of Voldemort rigid on his kitchen floor; every hopeful wish of victory he heard, soured when he remembered what a failure he actually was. 

Voldemort was alive.

Naked. Likely starving and liable to die of thirst. 

No. 

His reply to a colleague abruptly halted as he realised how careful he had to be not to kill the man just yet. It was imperative to keep him locked in that body. Which meant he would be forced to provide the monster with nourishment. 

Doesn’t have to taste good. 

“How soon can we expect the Lestrange’s Gringotts account to be released to us?” someone asked. 

He imagined feeding the Dark Lord rotten meat. Grass. The contents of one of Rose’s nappies. 

“Mr Potter? Can you confirm that date?”

The bastard had lived off snake venom for months. What else could he be made to exist on?

“The thirtieth,” Harry absently replied. “But that won’t matter until the Wizengamot agrees to change the law to allow it. Gringotts has their own rules, so we need Kingsley and the Wizengamot’s approval to actually put hands on the money.”

“You talk to them, then, Mr Potter. They all love you. They’ll do anything you say.”

Would Voldemort? What would it take to get him to find McNair for me? 

Everyone had a breaking point. He just had to find out where Voldemort’s was. 

~*~

There was a knock on his office door. Harry looked up from his paperwork, trying not to let his irritation show. 

Two hours and then I’m free.

“Hey, Harry?” 

One of his least competent colleagues, Winston, peered around the doorframe with a huge grin. 

“I noticed you didn’t take a lunch break today, so I bought you a sandwich.”

He held it up hopefully. Harry jumped to his feet, rounding his desk awkwardly.

“Winston, wow, that’s really thoughtful of you.” 

He took the plate and smiled, though his empty stomach tightened at the thought of food. 

He’s going to want to watch you eat it. You’ll have to just do it, you’ve managed it before. It’s rude to refuse food—

“Thanks,” he said. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” Winston interrupted him brightly, crossing his arms. “But I admit I have a bit of an ulterior motive.”

Course you do. 

“I’m still working on the Jacobs case. You know, the one I asked you about a few weeks ago?”

Where you convinced me to corner his lunatic father and then claimed all the credit for yourself? Yeah, sure. 

“You were a big help,” the other man continued. “Robards was really happy. I was wondering if you were free for me to pick your brain again this evening? You’re much better than I am at planning things.”

Harry kept his smile in place while he figured out how to respond. 

Voldemort was in his home. 

Although the wards he had placed around his house were extensive, and the Dark Lord was hardly in any position to break them, Harry wasn’t an idiot. Voldemort was not to be underestimated. 

He drew his mind away from picturing that long, lean frame exposed and vulnerable, and forced it back to the man before him. 

Winston was a Muggleborn and his mother and younger sister had both been injured by a bridge explosion in the summer of Harry’s sixth year. The year he had pissed around worrying about Ginny and Quidditch and any damn thing but learning how to fight. 

“My treat,” the other man offered with a smile, and Harry hitched his own up higher to cover the twist he felt whenever he was obliged to be in debt to someone. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied, lamenting not being quick enough with an acceptable reason to decline. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

“Perfect,” Winston enthused. “Come by my place around eight.”

Harry felt a stab of trepidation. 

“Oh. I thought you meant the Leaky.”

Winston winked. 

“I had a lot of fun last time. We’ll go over the case, but who says we can’t mix work with a little bit of pleasure?”

The other man tapped the doorframe and began to retreat. 

“See you at eight, Harry! You bring the wine.”

The door closed and Harry took a few frozen moments to figure out what the hell he had just agreed to. He exhaled a long breath, then quietly tipped the sandwich into his rubbish bin. 

~*~

It felt good, of course it did. 

He clenched his fingers around the man’s ample waist, muffling Winston’s irritating moans in the man’s grey pillows. Sex could be alright, so long as he remembered to be gentle. 

Always gentle. 

Harry Potter was chivalrous and respectful. Though he might be bisexual, he was not a deviant. He certainly didn’t toss off to imagining putting fucking poncing Draco Malfoy onto his knees and fucking his ferret face until the man was gurgling and gasping, tears and discharge spilling out of him, while Harry made him pay for all the shit he’d put Harry through at Hogwarts, for sinking so low as to follow a deranged murderer and get his bloody tattoo—

Oh, no. 

Not Harry Potter. 

He slid his hand around Winston’s thick middle and grabbed hold of his rigid cock. Might as well finish this up as quickly as possible.

Voldemort was waiting. 

Fuck. 

Harry’s mind was immediately seized by images of another laid out under him instead, his long spine curving reluctantly as Harry drove into his dry body. The man would scream and try to push him off, maybe he would curse Harry ineffectually— tears may even gather on his sparse lashes— and Harry would lick them off, fucking into him undaunted, watching as the Dark Lord fell apart underneath him—

“Harry!” a strange voice cried, startling him abruptly out of his thoughts. 

He blinked and realised that Winston was panting, looking pained.

“Oh shit,” Harry swore, and pulled out carefully. “Are you alright?”

Winston smiled, his red face sweaty. Harry looked down and saw the wet patch the man’s come had made on the grey sheets. 

“You got a little… inspired there, eh?” the other man teased with a chuckle, and then he suddenly reached out to touch Harry’s lingering erection. “Let me—”

“Woah,” Harry said, accidentally slapping the man’s hand away. 

Winston looked confused and offended. 

“Sorry,” Harry hurried to say. “I just… I’m okay. I don’t need anything.”

“But I want you to have it,” the other man replied, reaching out again and casting a quick Scourgify on Harry’s bits. “Imagine what people’ll say when they find out I was so selfish.”

Merlin, will this end up in the Prophet, too? 

“Don’t be daft, it’s no big deal,” Harry said, trying to act at ease. 

He stood, looking around for his trousers, but a hand on his shoulder pulled him back onto the bed. He sat down hard and turned to see Winston slide off the mattress and kneel before him. 

“Let me take care of the Chosen One.”

Harry winced and shook his head. 

“I’m fine. I just want to go home.”

Winston smirked.

“Yeah, right. Lay back, Harry. I’ll make you feel so good.”

Harry contemplated shoving him off, standing up and just Apparating away. But he was probably making too big a deal out of this. It would be rude to make a scene. Ridiculous. Who said no to a blow job?

So he tried to relax back onto his elbows and ignore how intrusive and alarming Winston’s tongue felt. He hated how long it always took him to come when someone was forcing him to. 

He closed his eyes, letting his mind drift back onto Voldemort and what he would like to be doing to the demon.

When he finally managed to come, it was to the startling image of himself on his back, legs pressed to his chest, and a high, cold voice hissing, Harry Potter. 

Chapter Text

His shower was scorching. 

Upon returning home, he'd first checked that the naked body was still upon his kitchen floor, and then he had fled upstairs into his loo. 

He had needed some space to think. 

It’s about retribution. I just want to watch him suffer. 

But even his own thoughts wouldn’t let him hide. 

He wasn’t suffering much during that end bit—

Harry slammed his palm down onto the shower tiles, powerless, as that fucking image swallowed him up like a Pensieve memory and threw him onto his back, on his bed, with the Dark Lord ripping him open. With a strangled groan he felt his traitorous hand latch onto his suddenly aching cock and begin furiously pumping. 

“Fuck,” he moaned, pressing his face against the cool tiles as he pictured Lord Voldemort degrading him, punishing him for his failure. You are worthless, he would say, as only he would, as he was the only one who would tell him the truth, that no one else had the courage to say— You failed.

And he would make Harry pay for it, make him bleed and cry and beg, fucking into him until he couldn’t breathe, making his world narrow down and quiet until all the voices disappeared—

Harry gasped, his orgasm seizing him, and his eyes snapped open. He watched his come get tangled in the shower’s spray and then disappear down the drain. His legs trembled as he watched, mind reeling.

He’d come twice in less than an hour. That was more than the whole of last week combined. 

The shame crept in slowly as he dried himself. 

Opening the door as silently as he could, he tiptoed into his bedroom, refusing to think about whether Voldemort had overheard him or not. He adeptly denied his guilt while extinguishing the lights and falling into his bed without first conjuring his prisoner some basic sustenance. 

Tomorrow.

He needed time to get control of these horrifying thoughts before he could face the man. 

I can give it to you, a memory of Voldemort’s insidious voice whispered into his ear. Anything you desire.

Harry snorted. 

I bet he’d race to narrow the options if he knew what I’ve been thinking. 

~*~

He lifted the spoon to those thin lips, looking away at the last moment so he wouldn’t get caught staring. He paused for a second, until he felt the metal dip with the weight of that devious tongue, and then plunged the spoon back into the liquid. 

His guilty conscience meant that Voldemort’s first Harry Potter-cooked meal wasn’t as horrible as he had originally planned. The man needed calories if Harry wanted him to stay alive, so it was mashed potatoes and butter, watered down and served cold. 

He’d had to remove the Immobilising curse for a few moments before he’d been able to feed the man. Otherwise, the bastard would have choked, laying down as he'd been, and Harry wasn't done with him yet. 

That long, skeletal body was now propped up against the wall in the kitchen.

Perhaps most shockingly, Voldemort had allowed Harry to guide him once he’d been temporarily freed. He hadn’t tried to fight or flee; he’d simply followed Harry’s directions slowly. Very clearly demonstrating to Harry that he was choosing to move, choosing to be cooperative. As if to impress upon Harry that he was still in control. 

That there was a choice. 

Which, there obviously wasn’t. Harry could make him do just about anything he wanted. 

He lifted the spoon again, his mind glorying in the possibilities. 

Voldemort in chains, thick metal bands with barbs on the inside against his skin, wrapped two inches thick on his wrists, his neck, his skinny ankles. Voldemort kneeling before him, mouth cursed to remain open wide, saliva dripping down his bare chest as Harry stepped closer, slapping his face to hear the satisfying crack punctuate the air before he thrust his leaking cock deeply into—

“You are trembling,” that sodding voice whispered, and Harry dropped the spoon to the floor with a clatter. 

“Bugger,” Harry cursed, pulling back and setting the half-empty bowl onto the table with shaking hands. 

He stood to leave. I can’t do this right now. He was on field duty today, checking out another of McNair’s potential hiding spots. He needed to focus. 

“I can give you what you seek.”

Harry turned. 

If only he knew…

Voldemort’s eyes were rapt on his face. Harry pulled up all his Auror training and forced himself to look unaffected. 

“We’re close,” Harry said. “I don’t need you.”

“Liar.”

Harry’s breath caught. 

That’s right. Call me on my bullshit. 

“Says you,” he replied, shaking off his reluctant desire. “You were a snake for nine years. What the hell do you think you can contribute here?”

“He wears my Mark.”

Merlin. 

I’d forgotten that.  

That tattoo would compel McNair to Apparate or suffer immense pain. He had also heard it could act as a kind of tracking spell. Could Voldemort control it with no magic?

But he didn’t technically need the other man’s cooperation to try. 

“I can make you help me,” Harry pointed out quietly. 

Voldemort held his gaze and it was difficult not to look away. 

“Your delusions are fascinating.”

Harry bristled. It pissed him off that the blighter wouldn’t shut up about how noble he thought Harry to be. He had no fucking clue. 

“I want him found,” Harry replied firmly. “I forgot about your Dark Marks.”

Harry bent back down, getting right into the man’s face. 

“You’re going to help me,” he told him. “I can make you.”

Voldemort’s mouth curved dangerously. 

“This insistence is precious. Surely that was not a threat.”

“It was a fact,” Harry countered. 

“Then you are familiar with the complicated magic that activates it, are you?”

“You press a Mark and it Summons them.”

“And whose Mark shall I press? You have eliminated all of my Death Eaters.”

“Malfoy. I could bring you Malfoy.”

Only the barest of pauses revealed the man’s rapid pivoting.

“And expose your failure? Do you think he would keep your secret?” 

“You could make him.”

“Certainly, I could. But we have not yet negotiated our terms.”

Terms. Why was the man acting so polite? Was it manipulation? 

Of course it is. This is Tom Riddle, the man who convinced the whole school that he was a model student. They made him Head Boy! Gave him an award for killing a girl and pinning it on Hagrid.

“I could give you Walden,” Voldemort went on, “without relying on anyone else. Ask it of me.”

His voice had changed. So had his expression. Harry liked the way it made him feel. 

“Ask me,” that dark voice repeated, a hint of command to it. 

Fuck.

“What would you want if I did?” Harry replied softly, refusing to let his gaze fall to study the man’s naked body. 

“My wand. I know the Ministry purloined it. Bring it to me.”

Harry considered this. Now would be an excellent moment to laugh in the man’s face at his predicament. He couldn’t possibly believe Harry would willingly grant him his weapon if he had his magic, but Harry could act dumb and Voldemort may just assume he was. 

…But is it possible I could be wrong? Maybe he somehow managed to regain his magic? 

No way— no bleeding way that Lord Voldemort with access to any of his powers would still be here. Getting spoon-fed by Harry Potter. Suffering the indignity of sleeping on the hardwood floor. 

Naked. 

I should probably move him somewhere. 

He sighed. Later. Right now, he had to figure out if Voldemort could get him McNair without his magic.

“Help me,” Harry murmured. 

He watched as Voldemort’s eyes flashed with wild emotion. 

“Beg me.”

Harry’s fingers clenched into fists.

Like bloody hell.

He wasn’t that desperate for help just yet.

“Whatever,” Harry scoffed, rising from his haunches. “I don’t need—”

“It is a simple word, Potter. And I will give you Walden.”

Harry paused, crossing his arms. 

“I thought you wanted your wand?”

Voldemort inclined his head. 

“I do. You have already agreed to that. I am merely asking for your request for my assistance to be delivered politely.”

Harry hated how damn reasonable he sounded. 

“By begging?” he mocked.

“A simple please will suffice.”

Harry groaned, turning away to walk over to the counter and grab a drink. He poured a wide measure of Firewhisky, necked it all back, and then blew out a breath.

“Please,” he muttered, hating the man. 

Silence and then, “Louder. And perhaps a complete sentence this time.”

Harry slammed his glass down onto the wood and marched back into the man’s space. 

“Please,” he growled. “Help me.”

Voldemort stared at Harry with a ravenous, excited look in those snake-like red eyes. He hummed lowly. 

“As you wish, Harry Potter. Bring me my wand and I will do as you ask.”

Harry nodded once, spun on his heel and got the hell out of the house. 

~*~

The sight of the pale wood was enough to abort his hearing.

The boy was still talking, likely congratulating himself on his ability to have obtained it, but Voldemort ignored him effortlessly. 

My wand. 

It would revive him. It must. There were no other explanations for his deficiency. 

His fatal vulnerability. 

Unthinkable. 

His wand would reawaken what was dormant. 

The fool stepped closer. Immobilised as he was, Voldemort could move nothing but his fingers and his face, but it would suffice. 

Words were spoken, yet he dismissed them as that treasured wood was lowered into his palm. He gripped it. 

His breath caught—

No.

He clutched the yew tighter—

Unresponsive. 

Empty. 

Gone. 

His heartbeat thundered in his ears. 

Gone. 

Gone. 

I will kill them all. 

A searing shriek was torn from his throat. 

Potter knelt beside him, touching his skin with his impudent hands, but Voldemort was erupting, every nerve on fire as the agony of cognisance flooded him— my magic, it cannot be, it is impossible—

Unbearable.

No. 

He drew in a deep breath, suppressing his fury.

Lord Voldemort would prevail. He must. 

This was simply temporary. There was a solution. If it was not already awaiting him then he would create one as he had always done. He was the omnipotent Lord Voldemort and nothing was forbidden to him, nothing was insurmountable. 

A single, trespassing finger belonging to the boy dared to touch the hand holding his wand and immediately, a demand for carnage reared up so devastating that, had he had access to his powers, he would have reduced Potter to liquid. 

He reeled it in with a formidable effort.

“Desist,” his ragged voice warned.

He slid his gaze murderously to the child, imbuing it with the violence he yearned to unleash. Potter’s expression looked too close to pity for him to stomach and so he shifted his eyes away again. 

“I wasn’t trying to take your wand back,” the imbecile lied, his fingers disappearing.

Voldemort allowed himself a moment to breathe.

His rage would not aid him currently. He must orient himself strictly around what he wanted, which was his freedom. Once at liberty, he could focus on the task of unveiling his magic, but for now, he must placate the child. 

If his magic would not respond to his wand, he would be unable to Summon anyone. The boy must not know this. He needed another route.

He could hear Potter backing away, then there was the slide of a chair as a body collapsed into it. 

All the while, inside of his own chest a traitorous, churning, ravenous terror was spiralling around the impossibility of his reality. 

Gone. 

It cannot be. 

No.

He denied himself any further reaction. Potter must not know. 

Surely he already does. 

Yet the infant was a fool. Blind, as always, to facts. 

It was time for damage control. 

“The force of the surge of my magic startled me,” Voldemort said, looking over at Potter’s vapid face and daring him to challenge this assertion. 

“Your…?”

Voldemort nodded. 

“I require rest.”

The child seemed flabbergasted. He stared for a few moments and then shook his head. Voldemort’s patience was sliver-thin, but he maintained a calm exterior. 

“Yeah,” his nemesis said witlessly. “Okay. Umm.”

Voldemort’s fingers upon his wand were at risk of shattering the wood. 

“I guess I should move you into bed.” The child’s eyes grew wide. “Not my bed. Another one. That— that sounded— Merlin.”

A deep flush overtook Potter’s face. The boy looked away.

Fascinating. 

But unequivocally impossible. 

“Just to get you off the floor,” Potter muttered. “Fuck it.”

Voldemort was suddenly lifted into the air with a spell and carried blasphemously up two sets of stairs. It was only by imagining Potter being suffocated, ripped apart, humiliated at his hands, that he effectively denied the horrified scream that sliced up his throat. 

~*~

Perhaps the boy was crueller than he had originally believed. 

Voldemort looked down at the pile of muddy strawberry stems that had been delivered with a gloating smirk an hour ago by the impudent child. 

No matter. He did not require much sustenance. He had learned early in his life to never depend on food. To inure himself to the clawing pangs of starvation. 

He walked, in threadbare robes, to the window of his new prison and looked out. The glass had been charmed to be unbreakable, as he had learned the previous day. It would seem that the boy had stripped the room of any means of escape, including suicide. 

A useless precaution. 

Possessing snakes had been tedious. He did not wish to return to that life, and obviously, he had no intention of murdering himself. 

Potter had not made as careful a study of him as Lord Voldemort had made of the boy. 

Unimportant. 

He needed—

His door banged open. 

Potter stood with his arms crossed, glaring at him. 

“Malfoy will be here this afternoon.”

Voldemort froze. 

The heir or his worthless father? The craven brat could be made to serve, the father—

“I expect you to behave.”

Voldemort’s gaze snapped to Potter, furious— that he dares to speak to me thus, as if I am a recalcitrant child— 

“Do you understand? Since you failed to bring me McNair on your own, I’ll let you get some help from your lackey, but you will be respectful to me.”

Ignoring the boy’s audacity, he focused on the ideas that swarmed his mind, the ways to use this. He could threaten the scion and force him to order Walden to liberate him, could take Potter hostage and allow Walden to bring that information back to the Ministry, negotiate—

“You are not to say a word to him,” the fiend interrupted and Voldemort felt his lip curl. “I can Imperio you to obey if I want to, but I won’t need to. Do you know why? Because if you try anything I’ll humiliate you in front of your former servant. Want to be thrown over my lap and have your arse spanked?”

A sharp intake of breath escaped his throat. 

Impossible. 

The boy would never—

“I’ll do it,” Potter promised, his voice a menacing whisper. “I’ll hold you down by your skinny neck and redden your tender skin while you cry. Good luck intimidating Lucius Malfoy while your twenty-seven-year-old nemesis paddles your bottom.”

They stared at each other. 

Without access to his innate Legilemency, he could not be certain about the veracity of any statement, but he knew Harry Potter. The boy’s eyes were hard, merciless, and there was a glimmer of satisfaction in them. 

The boy would do as he said. 

It was clear now that the elapsed years had changed Potter somehow. There was something warped in his gaze, something that had been misaligned.

And that possibility instantly diverted him.

Could he be further distorted? How much damage had Dumbledore and the war wrought? Was it possible, dare he contemplate, that the boy could have the capacity to serve him?

“You will try and activate his Mark,” Potter went on as Voldemort’s imagination advanced rapaciously. “Summon McNair or locate him. Whatever it is you do. Lucius Malfoy owes me his worthless life. He’ll submit.”

He momentarily set aside his unfurling machinations for Potter so he could contemplate this new opportunity.

Lucius. It was unfortunate that it was not the progeny. His servant had betrayed him in the end and might not be as useful. 

The boy stepped closer, straightening his back to stare brazenly into his eyes. 

“Remember,” Potter warned, “if you can’t do this, you’re of no use to me. We go back to my original plan of you being my plaything.”

The idea was ludicrous— and yet, in that gaze, there was a blazing tenacity, a goading hope to be defied that gave Voldemort pause. 

He wanted to see what the boy's retribution would look like. 

"This is your chance to show me you have some value,” Potter said, each word pulling him in a different direction. 

Resist the idiot, or find out how far he would go?

As Potter walked away, he veered slightly off course to trod on the pitiful meal of dirty chaff, before the door slammed shut again. 

~*~

“Mr Potter, I see you are well.”

A murderous fury arose in Voldemort at hearing Lucius’s deceitful voice, but it could not be slaked, Disillusioned and Immobilised as he was. The man sounded predictably haughty, yet there was sincere deference in his tone, which Voldemort despised. 

Regardless, the traitor would serve him today whether he wanted to or not. Voldemort had prepared for this meeting and would relay a message to the man unbeknownst to his arrogant host. 

The boy stepped back from the entranceway and Voldemort finally caught sight of his servant. He looked much the same, dressed impeccably and carrying his ridiculous snake cane. 

“C’mon in,” Potter said, turning his back foolishly on his Death Eater and walking away. “Can I get you a drink?” 

Voldemort watched Lucius shake his head. 

“I don’t have much time to spare, unfortunately. The Wizengamot is meeting today at four.”

Potter seemed to ignore this, coming into the dining room where Voldemort was and seating himself at the head of the table. The boy crossed an ankle over his knee and leaned back, regarding the elder male heavily. 

Lucius frowned.

“I admit to some surprise when I received your letter,” Lucius remarked, entering the room and standing by the other end of the long table. “May I ask what I can do for you?”

“Yeah,” Potter said, a dangerous smile on his face. “I need your arm.”

The blonde man’s frown deepened until the obvious shock of understanding hit him and he took a step back. Gripped his left forearm. 

“Yup,” the boy laughed. “That one.”

“Whatever for?”

Potter grinned. 

“There’s no point in asking. I’m going to Obliviate you anyways. But yes, that’s why.”

Voldemort found himself enjoying this. Perhaps he had been wrong about the boy. 

Lucius looked furious, his wand suddenly in his hand. 

“That’s illegal.”

Potter shrugged. 

Shrugged. 

“So was hunting me and my friends at the Department of Mysteries. Or trying to kill me dozens of times. Or working for a violent madman to get some scraps of his glory.”

Careful, Potter. 

“I really don’t care how you feel about my conduct,” Potter remarked, lifting his eyebrows at Lucius’s weapon.

That cursed holly wand was nowhere in sight when Potter shouted, “Imperio!”

Voldemort watched the boy wandlessly employ an Unforgivable to seat one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight on his backside in a chair like a child. 

“Might as well get this over with,” Potter muttered, and then turned to where Voldemort was hidden. “Remember what I said. Don’t fuck up your chance.”

Magic lapped at his skin, releasing him and he tried not to get caught up in the euphoria of feeling it upon him again. 

“Get to work.”

Voldemort pushed aside his irritation at being given an order and instead focused on what was important. He must surmise if he could still control his followers this way. 

When he reached the seated blonde he stopped, his heart crashing against his ribs. 

“My wand,” he demanded, and Potter stepped towards him and placed it into his hand. 

Nothing. 

It was like holding a useless stick a child might play with. 

My magic. 

His throat cramped and his legs began to tremble. 

No. 

Lord Voldemort will not succumb to failure. 

This means nothing—

There was nothing—

I will reclaim it—

It was gone—

“Hey,” a voice said firmly at his side, but he was falling and failing and—

“Tom!” Potter shouted, gripping his arm tightly. 

Voldemort’s eyes flashed open and he met his enemy’s gaze at close range. 

He saw fierce determination juxtaposed against a steady calm. He allowed himself to mirror it as his heartbeat slowed. 

“Just do your best,” the boy whispered, and then released him. 

Voldemort took a deep breath. His fingers adjusted on the pale, familiar, cherished wood. 

“Lift your left arm and show us your Dark Mark,” Potter demanded. 

Lucius bared his tattoo, resting his elbow on the table, his face relaxed. 

Voldemort pointed the yew at the centre of the skull and began the intricate series of spells to commandeer it. 

He felt nothing. 

Nothing. 

His magic was— it would not—

He slammed his eyes closed and a sound was ripped from his throat. He turned rapidly away and blindly walked until he was pressed against the mantelpiece, his breathing out of his control. 

He was exceptional and omnipotent and victorious and formidable and that would never change, it was simply his magic—

His magic—

His legs unlocked and collapsed him onto his knees. He hit the hearthrug and gripped it, his fingers sinking into the wool.

My magic.

Without it, I— If I do not have it, I—

I will devolve into Tom Riddle. 

Powerless, commonplace, vulnerable—

“Alright,” he heard a voice mutter, “that didn’t work.”

Potter.

Voldemort rapidly composed himself, clenching his fists at his sides.

“Are we done here, then?” the boy asked.

Sudden panic surged up in him— he would not have another opportunity for this— and he quickly stood, storming to Lucius and grabbing him by the lapels. 

“What— no!” Potter shouted, but it was too late. 

Voldemort had already discreetly tucked the message into his servant’s clothes, while mimicking an attempt at strangulation. The boy pulled Voldemort back and then shoved him to the ground. 

“What the fuck, Tom?” Harry spat, turning to glare at him as he frantically inspected Lucius. “What did I tell you would happen if you tried anything?”

He quickly met the boy’s eyes, not daring to entertain the possibility. Potter growled then Obliviated Lucius, who blinked and took a deep breath.

“You’re lucky I have to wipe your failure from his mind,” the boy muttered ominously, “or I would’ve had you over my knee so bleeding fast.”

He was bluffing. 

It was preposterous. No one would dare. 

Potter sent Lucius back home, complacent and smiling, and then came to stand over where Voldemort was still sitting on the floor. He felt fingers reach up and tilt his head back. 

“Let's get you back to your room,” the boy said softly, touching his face. “Unfortunately, I've got to return to work. But don't worry. I'll be thinking about what you did while I'm gone. It'll give me some time to figure out how I'm going to remind you to obey your Master.”

This time, when Potter insolently deposited him back into his chamber, he was left with a feeling of anticipation.

Chapter Text

Potter had not returned to him all night.

Voldemort had spent the hours that they were apart, awake, his mind caught on his strange curiosity regarding the boy’s potential. He wanted to see it, to use it for himself.

He wondered whether Potter had ever given in to his darker impulses— and what they would be if he did. 

It was doubtful the boy had let himself explore Dark magic. Voldemort envisioned teaching him, guiding him. He could introduce him to the seductive depths that magic possessed; the enticing darkness that his Hogwarts education had hidden from him. Dumbledore had wanted him to fight the most powerful Dark Lord of any age, and yet the fool had given him no tools to do so. He had sent his champion into battle alone and with no training. 

The things I could show the boy.

Voldemort had remained sitting on the edge of his bed as the moon had made its way across the sky, his mind churning through possibilities. As the pale light outside of his prison window began to brighten, however, his mood had shifted. 

Cold reality came with the dawn.

His magic was gone.

His birthright.

He remembered what Tom Riddle had been forced to endure before he had learned that he was better. His magic had saved him from a meaningless life of banality; of poverty and susceptibility. Of being just another man amidst billions. 

His fascination with Potter was irrelevant juxtaposed against that horror.

Until he could determine why he was bereft, he would be… not vulnerable, for he could never be thus. He was immortal and indomitable. Yet, for him now, there existed constraints upon him where there never had been. He knew what he wanted, but he must placate the child to achieve it. 

The boy was holding him captive, attempting to threaten him and employ his juvenile dominance over the great Lord Voldemort. He may even be the reason for his separation from his magic. 

The boy wanted to humiliate him. Had dared to call him by that Muggle's name. Starved him. Threatened him.

Lord Voldemort would allow it no longer. 

With the skills honed over decades of sovereignty, he would re-focus and concentrate on what mattered: himself. On his vengeance. His refusal to even feign acceptance of illegitimate authority over his eminence. Lord Voldemort bowed for no one. 

Not even Harry Potter. 

~*~

Harry hoped the man was nervous. 

He took a leisurely shower the next morning, enjoying a pleasant wank while he envisioned Voldemort's discomfort. Sauntering into the kitchen, he made himself a slice of toast and even managed to eat a few bites of it. He got dressed unhurriedly; brushed his teeth. 

When he finally ran out of tasks to do, he made his way to the man's room and opened the door without knocking. 

Voldemort was seated on his bed— Harry’s bed— gazing down at his hands. Those red, freaky eyes looked up slowly to eventually take in Harry leaning against the doorframe.

Harry smirked and threw the potato skins onto the floor, watching Voldemort’s expression pinch. Harry disgusted the man.

Good. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so pathetic,” Harry mused. “You can’t even remember how to use your own Mark. You failed at bringing me McNair.”

He crossed his arms.

“So far, I’ve done everything I said I would,” Harry pointed out, “and yet, you haven’t delivered on even one of your promises.” 

He shook his head slowly, exaggerating his disappointment. 

“I’m pretty underwhelmed. I thought Lord Voldemort was supposed to be impressive? Powerful. But you can’t even find one man— who you have a magically binding connection to.”

Voldemort’s enraged expression was turned down to face his clenched fingers. It was unnerving to have him so silent. Lord Voldemort seldom resisted an opportunity to monologue….

Like I’m doing right now. Huh.

Harry pushed that aside. 

“Makes me think that you don’t deserve to be called Master,” he taunted, his mind still caught on that intriguing word. “After all, I’ve caught every person deranged enough to believe you deserved it. You’re no one’s Master now.” 

Harry saw the man’s shoulders haunching. 

“But me? I lead a whole team of powerful Aurors. I have captured the former Dark Lord and feed him scraps off my floor.”

Harry walked into the room, savouring the tension he felt as he moved closer to the furious man. He walked right up to the bed and stood in front of the Dark Lord Voldemort.

“Look at me,” he commanded. 

Voldemort did not move. 

“Do it, or I’ll make you.”

Still nothing. 

“Imperio!”

Harry pushed words into the other man’s head— Look up, Look at your Master, and when those murderous, alien eyes connected with his own, he gasped. 

Holy fucking shit— it worked.

The surge of unwanted arousal that went through him at that moment almost took his vision. Voldemort continued to stare at him, his scorching gaze promising death in a hundred agonising ways—

But it was a joke. 

A sodding impossibility. The man had no magic. He was useless. 

“If you can’t bring me McNair,” Harry said, forcing his mind back to the purpose of his visit, “then you’re going to have to concede to call me Master.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into a vicious sneer. 

“You cannot be so foolish,” Voldemort whispered. 

Harry laughed. 

“Why not? I can control you completely. I can make you say whatever I want, make you do whatever I please.”

“Then it will not be I who is speaking,” Voldemort countered, his expression disdainful. “My servants called me Master because I surpass the pinnacle of magical knowledge. I deserve that title.”

“They called you that because you tortured them!”

“And that, among countless other feats, made them recognise my power and superiority. Use me as a parrot if that is what you desire, but I will never call you that in earnest.”

Harry pointed his wand at the seated man again. 

“I can make you.”

Voldemort looked up at him scornfully. 

“How like a child you still are. That is not true power, Potter. You can use magic to move my body and repeat words, but you will never master anyone until you give them a reason to want to serve you.”

Harry saw it then— Voldemort at the height of his reign, untouchable, terrifying, and he could see why some people had been drawn to that. 

Voldemort’s hand suddenly shot out and plucked his wand from him. Harry made to grab it back, but Voldemort’s fingers closed tightly around his throat, that larger body manoeuvring him until he sat docilely in the Dark Lord’s lap, back to chest. 

Harry’s pulse crashed against those cold, long fingers, and he stared straight ahead, waiting. He was in no real danger as his magic could incapacitate the other man, but this knowledge did not make him feel any safer. 

“You must know,” Voldemort said softly into his ear, the fingers of his other hand gently stroking Harry’s skin, “that I can never be truly controlled. Neither Grindelwald nor Dumbledore, two adequately powerful wizards, were ever successful in making me submit. You, Harry Potter, have no chance. But I do look forward to hearing you call me Master.”

The older man shoved him off his lap and Harry turned to see him caressing his wand almost indecently.

“Give that back,” Harry whispered, standing back up, his inconvenient erection awkwardly pressing against his trousers as he moved.  

Voldemort hummed. 

“Make me.”

Harry felt his face become warm. Sodding arrogant toerag. 

Make him, he says. Well, if I do, he’ll say it’s weak because I had to use magic. He wants me to make him want to give it back, which is just bollocks. Why would he want to give it back to me?

An idea struck him. 

To get something. An exchange. 

“Give it back…” Harry attempted, “and I’ll give you a proper meal.”

Voldemort’s lips curled in clear derisive amusement. 

“A trade will not make me respect you, Potter, though I will not refuse it.”

“Fine. What will, then?”

“Show me why serving you would benefit me. Why you deserve to have my attention.”

He thought, then, about what he would do to prove himself. How he could demonstrate his value, and it took a few minutes for him to realise that he was being manipulated. Why should he have to prove anything? 

He was the one in control. The only one with magic. 

“Nice try, old man.”

He was good enough with wandless incantations to make his point. And it would be fun to use the same spell that felled the bastard nine years ago against him again.  

“Why should I bother trying to impress a prisoner?" Harry asked. “Expelliarmus!”

~*~

Harry placed the cup of herbal tea down onto Hermione’s desk; a token of apology. 

He was feeling good, feeling cocky, which for him, usually meant that he was keen to do something reckless.

He wanted to see his friends and Lord Voldemort was not going to stop him.

“Harry!” she said, turning, a bright smile on her face. “What brings you by?” She picked up the teacup and smelled it. “Mmm raspberry leaf. You know how to please a pregnant lady. Thank you.”

Harry plopped down onto a small pile of parchment on her desk. She sent him an exasperated look, but didn’t shove him off. 

“I just miss you,” he replied honestly. “Are you free tonight?”

Her smile grew. 

“Yes! Can I bring Ron?”

He nodded, trying not to grin as he imagined how Voldemort would feel about entertaining guests this evening. He wasn't planning anything specific, he just wanted to see his friends... and maybe it was a little bit thrilling that Lord Voldemort would be there, too. It'd be funny to make him endure listening to Hermione complaining about her changing body. 

“We’ll have Molly watch Rose,” Hermione continued, and Harry startled, then forced himself to stay present. “Oh Harry, I’m so excited! It’s been so long!”

Guilt plunged into his stomach. It had been a long time. He’d been such a bad friend. They often tried to include him— well, as much as they could with their own lives, but he always felt like an intruder.

Hermione nudged his leg, a wry smile curling her lips. 

“No hot dates this evening?”

Harry blew out a sardonic breath. 

We'll be going on a bit of a double date tonight, 'Mione. 

“Not for a while, actually,” he said instead. “I’m really focused on finally getting my hands on McNair.”

Or, I’m struggling at home, trying to figure out if I want to dominate my prisoner or kneel for him. 

Hermione took a sip of tea. 

“Well, we can talk about that this evening, then.”

Harry stood up and hugged her quickly from behind. 

“Can't wait.”

~*~

“I still don’t understand why you want to live here, mate,” Ron muttered, peering around the gloomy, dusty dinning room of Grimmauld Place. 

Harry smiled, his eyes sliding to where he held Lord Voldemort Disillusioned and Immobilised by the wall. His grin grew wider, hoping that the Dark Lord caught him sneaking glances.

“I like it. It suits me.”

He looked back at Ron to see him grimacing. 

“Dirty and smelly? I sure hope not.”

Harry laughed. He turned to place his hand over Hermione’s on the table. 

“How’re you feeling?”

She snuck a fond glance at Ron, who was leaning back in his chair and stretching. 

“I’m okay. Ready for this part to be over with. I can’t wait to meet him.”

Harry smiled. 

“I bet. Any names picked out?”

“Well, we’re not telling anyone,” Ron said with mock solemnity, “but you don’t count, godfather that you are.” He grinned. “His name is Hugo.”

Hugo Weasley. I like it. 

“Good choice, mate.”

Hermione squeezed his hand. 

“Now tell us what’s happening with you.”

“Yeah, why the sudden life of celibacy?”

Harry risked another look at where Voldemort was. 

“I’m just busy at work. I’ve been really struggling with how to find McNair.”

He hated admitting weaknesses. He was Harry Potter; he wasn’t supposed to have any. 

Hermione tapped her fingers on the table. 

“I was thinking about that after you’d left today,” she said. “What you need is a way to get him to come to you.”

Sure. And maybe a way to get him to arrest himself, too. 

“Yeah, but why would he?”

“Well, perhaps if he thought you were someone else.” At Harry’s likely confused expression, she shrugged, smiling. “All this business with the snake at work—”

Ron groaned loudly and thumped his head onto the table. Hermione shot him an amused glare. 

“Be quiet, you. It got me thinking about Voldemort— shut up, Ron!— and how terrified everyone always was of him. Then I thought about McNair and how cunning he is and it made me wonder what kind of person it would take to make a man like McNair follow him.”

Harry fought the urge to glance at Voldemort again. 

Merlin, I bet the wanker has a hard-on hearing this nonsense. 

“I wonder,” Hermione went on, “if you could convince McNair that Voldemort was back. Then command him to meet you somewhere and ambush him. Would that work? What do you think?”

I think that’s a damn good possibility, considering I have the man in question at my disposal. 

“I mean, it could work,” Harry hedged, not wanting to seem too keen. “Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

Ron interrupted and pulled Harry into a conversation about Quidditch— more of an argument really. Harry participated, but his attention was focused more on this new opportunity and how he was going to get Voldemort to cooperate. 

~*~

“No,” Voldemort said, pulling himself away from his window and striding past the sullen child. 

Potter had the audacity to laugh. 

“No? You don’t get to say no. Not only do you owe me, because you promised to help me capture McNair, but I can also just make you.”

Voldemort sneered. 

“Pathetic.”

The boy crossed his arms.

“Fine. I’ll take back your wand. And move you somewhere more appropriate for what we’ll be doing from now on. Like the dungeon.”

Voldemort scoffed. 

“This house does not have a dungeon, Potter.”

“How would you know? It belonged to a messed up family.”

“It belonged to the Blacks and I have been inside of it before.”

Potter’s face showed wonder. 

“You have? Why?”

That treacherous child invited me here to court his family. I only ever received one servant from this manor. Though, another of the House of Black gave me her unconditional devotion and that made up for Regulus’s failure. 

Bella. 

He did not enjoy thinking of her. The loss still incensed him. 

He would collect his payment from that blood traitor soon.

...Or perhaps, he would take it from her progeny instead.

“Look,” Potter said, sounding tired and Voldemort turned to face him. “I just need you to write a note. He’ll know your writing, I’m sure. Tell him something only you would know.”

Potter hesitated and then shifted his eyes away. 

“Please.”

Something warm and powerful pulsed in his abdomen at hearing the boy beg without prompting. 

“I can do this for you,” Voldemort confirmed. “I have access to his Gringotts account and can place a note into it by owl.”

Potter’s eyes widened in shock for a moment as he scoured Voldemort’s face. 

“Why would you have access to his account?”

Voldemort held his gaze, enjoying the attention.

“Affluence never interested me. It was not the kind of power I wanted and thus, I never sought to accumulate it. My Death Eaters offered their funds to me for my purposes.”

Potter snorted. 

“Offered. Sure.”

Voldemort lifted an eyebrow and the boy grinned. 

“But okay, whatever. I mean, I’d have to borrow an owl first, but that should be easy.”

Voldemort frowned. 

“You do not own one?”

Potter seemed to draw into himself, his gaze hardening. 

“I did,” he replied, his voice thick with hatred. “Your Death Eaters killed her.”

Voldemort raised his eyebrows. When? It was surprising that his servants had landed a kill so close to the boy and not brought news to him, hoping for praise. 

“Anyway,” Potter went on, his voice curt. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Do not thank me yet,” he warned. “You will give me something in return.”

“In return? You do realise we already agreed on terms, right? Your wand and my… asking nicely, for you to get me McNair. Well, I fulfilled mine, but you—”

“I will write the note presently. Walden will come, I will command it. There will be no more complications.”

The boy’s expression calmed. He shifted back until he was leaning against the wall, obviously trying to appear nonchalant. 

“What do you want, then.”

Voldemort thought fast. What more could he ask for? He wanted his magic above all else, but he did not trust the boy enough to confess his deficit. He needed his freedom, but it was too soon for Potter to agree to that. He wanted… to break the boy. Teach him to release the ruthlessness he was holding back, test how far he could push the Chosen One. 

Yes. 

“I want you to kill Walden.”

Potter’s face went slack. 

“What?”

The idea was building momentum in his mind as he pictured it. 

“You will do it alone. Deliver his body to the Ministry and tell them that he resisted arrest. When he arrives, Harry Potter, you will get him to kneel and then I want you to take a moment to witness it. Experience how it feels to stand above him.”

The boy’s expression betrayed his fear. Of himself, of his power. 

“But… why?” Potter rasped. “What does it matter? Why would you want that?”

Voldemort took a step closer. A predator drawn to the boy’s vulnerability.

“I want you to feel it,” he whispered, his gaze consuming Potter’s unease. “That power. It is not a weakness to take what you deserve. To use your fame and your respected position in the Ministry to stand above.”

Potter closed his eyes, clearly struggling with taking what he was owed.

Voldemort’s hands reached out without conscious thought and his fingers pinned the boy’s wrists to the wall by his side. Potter’s eyes flew open, but he did not attempt to break free. 

He relaxed. 

“Kill him for me,” Voldemort breathed, leaning down into the boy’s space and closing the distance between them. 

Those delicate eyelids fluttered shut and then shot open again, an unfamiliar look of anxiety on his normally courageous face. The boy shook his hands, trying to dislodge the grip. Voldemort considered resisting, pressing his weight harder and using his height advantage, but decided to release him. Step back. 

Potter’s eyes were unfocused, his hands clenching and unclenching. He tilted his head to meet Voldemort’s gaze and that action of baring his throat spiked Voldemort’s blood with adrenaline. 

He wanted to rip into the smooth, unblemished skin. He wanted it under him, to feel the pulse gradually speed up beneath his fingers, deliciously responsive to his touch. 

“Let me think about it,” the boy whispered and Voldemort reluctantly dragged his eyes away while committing to memory the exact shape of the boy’s laryngeal prominence, the enticing colour of the flush that spread up from under his shirt.

Voldemort gave a slight nod and Harry returned it. Without another word, the boy fled. 

~*~ 

That night, as he was readying for sleep, a sheaf of parchment and a quill were slipped under his door. He stood to pick them up and noticed a note attached to the front. 

Write the message. I’ll do it. 

Voldemort crushed the paper in his fist and smiled. 

~*~

It was disconcerting to look down and see his wand in Voldemort’s hands. 

Equally bizarre to be so tall. To feel the cool night air touch the skin of his scalp so easily. And his eyesight was amazing, even taking into account that this body did not need glasses. 

And yeah, okay. It was pretty fucking epic to be able to reach down and touch Voldemort’s junk. After he’d taken the Polyjuice and made sure all of his wards were active before he'd left, he had taken a few moments to undo his robes and inspect this body. 

The man was skinny, sure. Weirdly hairless and too lean and tall to be normal. But his tiny nipples were shockingly human, a stark pink against that white, unnatural skin. And when he daringly pinched them, they were so sensitive he’d had to bite back a moan.  

Did Voldemort feel that way when he did it— did he do it? Would he feel that if Harry did it to him? 

And then— the man’s cock. Which, of course, had been fully erect and uncomfortable since he’d gotten over the horrible taste of the potion. 

It was long to match his body; thin, but covered in appealing, ropey veins. The colour was normal, healthy and flushed, and Harry had not been able to resist stroking it, seeing Voldemort’s long fingers wrapped around his impressive length, although he’d had to give it up pretty fast to stop himself from coming. 

But— fuck. Thinking about that now, about how it would be possible to go home and privately see what Lord Voldemort looked like in front of a mirror, touching his own cock and coming— 

Merlin. Having access to this was dangerous. 

Being Voldemort was exciting.

Or, would be if he wasn’t here to kill someone. 

Well, that’s a sobering thought. 

Harry drew in a deep, bracing breath. 

You can do it. Sure, it’ll rip apart your soul, but at this point, your soul is pretty fucked anyways. 

And besides, this was his purpose. Everyone was counting on him to protect them. 

Are you really going to keep them at risk so you can safeguard your juvenile ethics?

It was just— he had never killed.

Not during the war and not in his line of duty as an Auror. He had not even been able to use the Killing Curse on Voldemort, a man who deserved it more than any other. 

He didn’t want to be responsible for ending someone’s life. He knew there were bad people, McNair was certainly one of them. But who was he to make that final decision? It was too heavy of a burden, impossible to take back. 

Almost killing Malfoy with Sectumsempra had been as close as he’d gotten and that had been horrible. He still felt sick when the bloody memories slunk into his mind before bed. 

He wasn’t a killer. 

But this wasn’t about him. 

People were counting on him to keep them safe. He had a career and friends and all of that would disappear if he couldn’t do for them what they needed. He was responsible for so many deaths—

Snape. Lupin. Dumbledore. Fred. Cedric. Every single person who had died while he was pissing around in school, not learning what he needed to so that he could face Voldemort. Every Muggle that was killed to incite Harry into action, every student— child— that died for him during the Battle of Hogwarts— they all deserved more than his cowardice. 

He had much to repay, much to apologise for. 

It was true, he couldn’t bring back the dead, but he could beg forgiveness by getting his shit together now. By doing the work he should have been doing since he’d learned what his function was at eleven. 

It was—

The loud crack of Apparition shocked him out of his thoughts. 

McNair fell to his knees at once when he saw Harry.

“Master,” the Death Eater breathed.

Harry stared. 

That word.

The docility of this dangerous man; this villain who had ripped through Harry’s ribs and almost crushed his lungs. Who’d thrown some kind of powder into his face that had blinded him for three days. 

He had beaten Harry every single time they’d fought. 

And yet here he was— kneeling. Completely vulnerable and acquiescent. All because he thought Harry was someone else. Someone worth kneeling for. 

It was hard to ignore the rush he felt. Yet he knew he had to act. 

Don’t drag this out. It will only make it worse and you might even fuck it up and watch McNair escape again. 

There wouldn’t be another chance like this. 

Long seconds passed. He felt paralysed by his indecision. 

McNair lifted his head fractionally to look up at Harry in confusion. 

Fuck! Don’t bollocks this up!

Harry raised his wand— say it, say the curse, you owe them, do your fucking job you useless, spineless, pathetic coward, do it now— now! 

NOW!

“Avada Kedavra,” he choked out.

A green light shot from his wand, but instead of the bright, electric current he was familiar with, it was feeble. Dull.

Failure.

It hit McNair straight in his chest and the man fell back, his body crashing onto the pavement, unmoving. 

Harry stood frozen.

Had it worked? 

He approached the body slowly, terrified by what he would find. His hands were shaking so badly that he pocketed his wand. It wouldn’t be much use to him anyways. 

He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse. 

Thank Merlin.

It was there. Steady. He must have just knocked the man out. 

The memory of Bellatrix’s scathing voice mocked him. 

You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain— to enjoy it— righteous anger won’t hurt me for long.

And he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, not really. 

But he had to. He'd told Voldemort he would do this.

You could lie. He would never know. 

Harry sat back and stared at the unconscious man. 

How long did he have here until McNair awoke and this chance disappeared?

Lie to him. He lies to you all the time. 

But Harry was better than that. He kept his word. If he began to lower his standards simply because Voldemort behaved badly, then he would be an even bigger fraud. 

Just finish this. Get it done and fall apart at home. 

Yeah, great. With an audience of the Dark Lord who would be only too keen to praise you. 

Harry closed his eyes. 

Enough. 

He took out his wand again and pressed it against the defenceless body on the ground. A high, cold voice suddenly brought him back to his fourth year and that graveyard. 

And now you face me, like a man… straight backed and proud, the way your father died…

Voldemort had offered his enemy a more dignified death than Harry was. A fairer fight. Hell, a fight at all. Harry was killing an unconscious man whom he’d only caught by tricking him. 

In a fair fight, he had lost against McNair every single time. 

A shifting under his wand alerted him that his time was up. The man was beginning to stir. 

Harry took a deep breath, loathing himself. 

I’m so sorry, Hermione.

“Avada Kedavra!”

Chapter Text

He Apparated home from the Ministry that night and promptly puked all over the floor. 

Just like them, I’m just like him, oh gods, oh Merlin—

Harry could still feel McNair’s heavy body in his arms, how unnaturally the limbs had hung, muscles tense from the curse, his blank, brown eyes wide open. He could still hear Robards congratulating him at the impromptu celebration they’d had before Harry had retched when Kingsley had come by to ask him to recount his tale yet again. 

Harry was panting, kneeling next to his pile of sick, trying to quiet the words in his head that were screaming— you killed someone, you added another life to the endless list of people that have died because of you— but this time, you’re actually repulsive enough to have murdered them yourself. That last piece of humanity is gone, and if killing makes you evil, then what are you now? What are you, you freak? You’re a murderer, an incurably criminal boy, just like Vernon had always said you were, dangerous and unlovable, tainted and unwanted—

“Open the door, Potter.”

Voldemort’s distant, commanding voice cut through his hysteria and Harry looked up, peering to the top of the stairs through his discharge-smudged glasses. 

Open the door. 

An order. 

He liked those. They meant he didn’t have to think. 

He wiped his mouth and crawled up to the room Voldemort was using. Stopping hesitantly outside, he pulled himself to standing and listened. He couldn’t hear anything behind the door.

Walk away. Just keep going until you get to your own room and then—

“Now, Potter.”

Harry obeyed before he’d given it any thought, releasing the spell locking the man inside. Without pausing, he pushed the door open and then froze.

Lord Voldemort was standing right in front of him, his body seeming to take up the entire doorframe, his intense eyes staring down at Harry darkly.

“You succeeded,” Voldemort acknowledged, unmoving while Harry was caught waiting for whatever verdict the Dark Lord bestowed upon him. 

“You took a life.”

A single sob wrenched out of him and he closed his eyes. Tight fingers curled around his neck, keeping him on his feet. He let that larger body take some of his weight. 

“Your first kill,” Voldemort said lowly. “And you did it for me.”

Harry’s hands reached out to grip onto the man’s robes, trying to hide in the material at his chest. 

“They will exalt you,” the Dark Lord whispered, so close to his ear. “Deify you. Yet you and I both know that you do not deserve that. We know you are a murderer. We know that you have disappointed everyone who believed in your goodness.”

The hand at his throat walked him back into the hallway until he hit the wall. Voldemort let go of him and Harry had to lock his knees to keep himself from sliding down the plaster. 

He’d never wanted to kill, had tried for so many years to be above that, to do his job without being responsible for any more deaths. He’d killed enough people with his inaction, with his incompetence, he didn’t want— 

“You are a failure,” Voldemort said, and Harry took that as his ruling. 

It was true. He knew it. He had failed. Hermione would be so disappointed with him if she ever found out what he’d done, how cowardly, how unnecessary— 

“I can take away your guilt for tonight, Potter.”

Harry opened his eyes to search that inhuman face, trying to understand. 

“I can give you what you need.”

What I need. 

What do I need?

“How?” he asked, his voice no louder than a puff of air. 

Voldemort smiled, but it wasn’t kind. Harry felt his stomach muscles tighten in anticipation.

“Remove your belt.”

My belt?

Harry hesitated. Is Voldemort about to fuck me? 

He didn’t know how he felt about that. Having sex wouldn’t make him feel better, wouldn’t help him breathe or lessen the crushing guilt and remorse he felt— why should I still be alive when better people died? Why did Fred have to be killed and not me, why didn’t that wall collapse on me, it was my job to die, not his—

“Your belt, Potter.”

Harry started, his gaze snapping to Voldemort who looked expectant. 

With faltering fingers, he slowly pushed aside his robes and began to undo the buckle. His heart was fluttering, adrenaline pumping through him—

What does this mean, what’s he going to do?

When he finally held the length of it in his fist, Voldemort reached out his hand silently. Harry uncertainly placed it onto the man’s open palm.

“Remove your robes and your shirt.”

Harry did, unfastening them both without magic, working through each button as if in a daze. 

I’m getting naked with Lord Voldemort. I’m baring myself to the monster that—

“Kneel.”

Harry almsot gasped. 

Kneel? 

No way, no fucking way, that’s too far— but he felt his legs bend obediently and he sunk to the floor. Voldemort hummed in approval and Harry’s eyes shot up to catch the look on his face. 

“Very good.”

Voldemort folded the belt as he took a step closer. Those long fingers trailed across Harry’s shoulder as the man circled him. 

“I am going to beat you with this now,” Voldemort calmly informed him.  

Terror erupted inside of him, but also, a staggering, bewildering relief.

“You will take it for as long as I deem necessary,” the other man went on from his position at Harry’s back. “And you will apologise after every hit. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded his head, still reeling, still trying to catch up with what—

There was an abrupt whistle of air and then a meaty thwack against the skin over his shoulder blades before the pain ignited. Harry sucked in a quick breath, his eyes wide open, absolutely stunned. 

“What do you say, Potter?”

Harry tried swallowing to unstick his throat. 

“Sorry,” he rasped. 

“For what?”

“For…” Harry stopped, trying to put how he felt into words. “For living.”

“That is right. You— a murderer— are alive when so many of your worthier friends are dead.”

That horrible whoosh of air and then another solid strike against his back. Harry bit his cheek to keep in the shout that wanted to break free.

“Your words, Potter.”

Harry stuttered a breath. 

“I’m sorry.”

Voldemort hummed again. 

“Why are you sorry?”

“For failing.”

“Whom did you fail?”

Voldemort struck him with the belt again and Harry closed his eyes against the pain. 

“Everyone!” he shouted, bending forwards to take a moment to breathe. 

“Yes. You failed everyone. Everyone but me, Potter. I never expected you to save anyone. I know who you are. Sit up.”

Harry did. The belt cracked brutally against his spine and he cried out. Again, and Harry bit into his tongue, tasting blood. 

“Your words now.”

Another strike. 

“I’m sorry!” Harry yelled, his hands sneaking back to protect himself. 

Voldemort paused. 

“Do you deserve this?”

“Yes,” Harry said, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. 

“Then remove your hands.”

“I can’t, please. It hurts.”

Harry heard movement and opened his eyes to see the Dark Lord crouching in front of him. 

“Do you need me to help you take this?”

“Yes,” Harry replied at once, grateful for his understanding. 

“Beg me.”

Harry groaned.

“Please. I can’t take it. I’m a fucking coward. I can’t handle the pain.”

Voldemort inclined his head once and then walked unhurriedly down the stairs to the front door. For a moment, Harry was certain Voldemort would somehow break through his wards and stroll right through the door, but the man simply picked up a boot and climbed back up to him. He began unlacing it leisurely as he got closer.

Harry watched him, his mind completely blank, his gaze riveted on the Dark Lord. 

Once within reach, he knelt behind Harry and began to tie his wrists together. He then attached those to the laces on the shoes Harry was already wearing. It was tight and the material bit into his skin, but it was grounding. He needed this help to manage the pain of repentance. 

“Thank me,” Voldemort commanded, standing again.

Harry nodded. 

“Thank you.”

The belt slashed into his skin, this time cracking against his arms too. Harry cried out, bowing forward again, tears leaking from his eyes. 

“Words.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry hissed, pressing his face to the floor.

“You should be. You are not the Golden Boy they all see. You are lying to them, but I can correct the balance. Up.”

Harry used his forehead to push himself back into a sitting position. 

“Please,” Harry begged, not knowing what he was asking for.

A jolt of fire struck him brutally and he sobbed. 

“When I am done, you will have earned your respite. You will apologise no more this evening. I will have your guilt.”

A vicious stripe burned across his lower back, taking his breath away with the immense force of impact. He gasped, failing to pull in air, but then another lash slammed into him and he collapsed onto his face, discharge dripping from his nose and mouth. 

“Are you unable to rise?”

Harry nodded, trying to catch his breath. Voldemort moved closer, then struck him with that horrible belt again, and Harry began to cry in earnest.

“I’m sorry!” he screamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” 

He squeezed his eyes shut against the images of all the death he was responsible for, panting rapidly on the floor, feeling dizzy and stripped bare and— 

“I shouldn’t have lived,” he admitted, quiet and broken. “I know that. I know I wasn’t supposed to. I know, and I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I tried to do it right, I did, I promise, but…”

He gasped in air, unable to breathe through his nose anymore. 

“But you failed,” Voldemort finished for him, and there was no judgement in his tone— it was simply a fact. “You lived and now you continue to take lives.”

Harry nodded, knowing it was true, knowing that he was useless and worthless and other, seperate from normal people who deserved futures and families and love—

“I am going to strike you five more times,” Voldemort stated, and Harry’s body shook harder than ever— five. Five was too many, too much, he could already feel the blood on his back— “When I am done, you will thank me and then you will have paid for your failures for tonight. Do not disappoint me, Harry.”

Harry! He called me—

That ruthless, agonising belt tore into him and he screamed, kept screaming for the final four and then it was over. 

Harry fell sideways, unable to stay upright, and then almost blacked out from the pain of having his wounds touch the dirty floor. 

An ungentle hand stroked down his spine and Harry keened, trying to get away, but it was no use. He was still tied and besides, all his energy was ebbing away. He stayed still, curled into an awkward ball, and let the Dark Lord drag his fingers through the bloody welts he had created.

“You did so well, Harry Potter. What do you say for my assistance?”

Say? What could he say, he didn’t even know what was happening. 

“Thank your Master,” Voldemort prompted him. 

Harry swallowed, his mind wiped clean. 

“Thank you, Master.”

Those cool digits swiftly clenched and nails bit into his flesh. He hissed, and yet his body relaxed further, giving everything up. 

“I have your guilt now,” Voldemort whispered as he continued to stroke Harry’s back. “It is mine and I will put you to sleep virtuous and unashamed.”

Hands spread out over his back almost possessively. Harry let them, accepting the touch, welcoming it.  

Some time later, Harry was untied and hauled to his feet. He went with it, his mind completely silent. 

The Dark Lord half-carried him into Harry’s own bedroom, laying him down onto his bed gently and removing the rest of his clothes. Harry laid there, unresponsive, as Voldemort pulled off his shoes, his sweaty trousers, then his pants. 

When Voldemort manoeuvred his naked body to lay under the sheets on his stomach, Harry passively let him. He was aware of the pain and yet he was somehow blissfully floating. An observer, not a participant. 

The hands stopped and Harry’s eyes closed, his state of utter stupor almost… peaceful. In a detached way. 

Suddenly, a warm, wet cloth was placed onto his throbbing back and he moaned, burying his face in his pillow. 

“Please,” he begged, just wanting to sleep. 

“Quiet,” Voldemort softly chided him. “Take a little more for me.”

Harry closed his eyes and let the Dark Lord clean his back more carefully than he would have expected. He couldn’t stop the contented sighs that sneaked out, nor that he fell asleep before it was done. 

~*~

Voldemort surveyed his work, sitting back and taking in the boy’s raised and abused skin. 

This had been more successful than he had planned. Potter took to self-flagellation eagerly, and Voldemort had learned that the damaged child actually believed he was at fault simply for having survived the war.

It was incomprehensible. 

Yet he would use it. The boy had given him a perfect method to insert himself into his life and corrupt him. To make the desperate martyr depend on him for managing his guilt. 

This would suit him admirably. Yet he must be careful.

Seeing the boy’s pupils dilate, his expression cracked open and vulnerable… begging to be hurt…

Voldemort had always been drawn to others' weaknesses. And with Potter, knowing that the boy was powerful and dauntless, yet desperate to yield to him alone, fed the imperative in him to dominate. 

He wanted this powerful man to bow to him. 

He wanted to take Potter apart and build him to be reliant upon him alone, to seek his approval and guidance.

To desire to serve him. 

Yes. There was much here to work with. 

The boy had eliminated all of his followers, therefore Voldemort would mould him into his most formidable servant in recompense. 

Killing Potter would no longer satisfy him. Not when he could control him. Obviously he would eliminate the brat if necessary, but it would also be prudent to use him to safely navigate his research and efforts to regain his magic. Potter’s reach was wide and Voldemort would take advantage of it. 

He lifted his hand reluctantly from the boy’s ravaged back, his fingers tacky with blood, and then stood. 

He had work to do this evening. 

Stepping away from the bed, he tore his gaze from his nemesis and forced it onto the boy’s desk. Not having access to his magic was supremely frustrating as it necessitated manual labour. He rifled through the parchment there, scanning it, trying to find anything pertinent to his loss of magic. To his escape. 

Nothing. He swept from the room, walking swiftly down the stairs to the front door. He placed his hands upon the wood, searching for the feel of magic, trying to determine what enchantments kept him caged. 

He sensed a deep, penetrating ward, possibly a Fedelius Charm, though who would the child trust this secret to? Surely if he had told his blundering friends about the great Lord Voldemort’s continued survival, they would have descended on this house immediately. 

No, it was not a Fidelius, but another ward, thrumming and potent. 

A familiar murderous rage swept over him. It was intolerable that he was kept thus, imprisoned without his magic, in the home of his enemy. It was critical that he discover a means of escape, rip through these wards somehow—

And yet, there were other ways to steal his freedom. 

Harry Potter. 

The boy would offer it to him soon enough. Voldemort was accomplished at getting people to do as he commanded and Potter was desperate to please him. It would not take long for him to have his prophesied vanquisher serve him.

~*~

Harry awoke in the morning to the sensation of tenderness on his back. 

That motherfucker.

Last night, he had jolted awake in the dark to find his back painfully stuck to his covers, the wounds there closing with the sheet attached. Gasping, he’d had to heal himself without being able to see what he was doing. 

Fully awake now, he cautiously reached over his shoulder and touched the skin there. It was warm but the welts were gone— at least, he couldn’t feel them. 

Harry was furious. 

Without stopping to use the loo or brush his teeth, he hastily donned a bathrobe and then tore down the hall. Fuming, he threw open the bastard’s door. 

“You took advantage of me,” he spat, in lieu of a greeting, his voice sounding dangerous even to his own ears. 

Voldemort looked back at him from his position by the window, raising a single, hairless eyebrow. 

“Did I,” Voldemort said in a bored tone. “If I recall, you begged me for it.”

Harry snarled and stormed over to the man, hating his sanctimonious face. 

“You made me do it and then you… manipulated me. How dare you touch me like that? Did you think I wouldn’t make you pay for it? Did you think I’d forget?”

“I thought it would assuage your guilt, which it did. I have done you a service.”

“You made me call you Master!” Harry shouted, loathing that the man had succeeded where he had failed. “You had no right to use me like that!”

Voldemort turned fully and regarded him. Harry lowered the finger he had been pointing at the man, his body shaking with indignation. 

“You were flailing with panic,” the Dark Lord said bluntly. “I could hear it. When I was finished with you, you slept well, did you not?”

“I slept with my back ripped open. You could have killed me.”

Voldemort’s eyes darkened. 

“I retained my freedom last night after I tucked you safely into bed. If I had wanted you dead, Potter, you would be.”

“Oh, I’m sure you tried, Tom. You’re still here because I’ve trapped you. But you’re not going anywhere unless I put a pretty little leash on you.”

Voldemort took a step towards him, fury blazing in his gaze. 

“I helped you last night.”

“You beat me last night!”

“Deny that it felt good to have someone see how weak you are,” Voldemort dared him, coming closer still. “Tell me that it was not a relief to be allowed to fall apart. To not be perfect.” 

Harry opened his mouth, but no words leapt to his defence. Voldemort smirked. 

“Tell me that it was not bliss to call me Master. To have someone else take control.”

The other man lightly pressed his hand to Harry’s chest and steered him backwards until he hit the wall. 

“Out there, for other people, Harry Potter is a paragon of virtue. Strong…”

Voldemort brought a hand up and gently closed Harry’s mouth with the tip of his finger. 

“…resilient…”

The man leaned down and inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent. 

“…flawless and good.”

Voldemort took hold of his shoulders and slowly turned him until his face was pressed up against the wall. Nimble hands undid the tie at his waist and tenderly pushed the bathrobe from his shoulders. Voldemort released a low hum and then his cool fingers began to lightly trace what was left of the marks he had made. 

“But here, with me, you can be who you are,” the man said, leaning down again and pressing his nostril slits to Harry’s nape. 

Harry held his breath, tensed to flee, yet he couldn’t move. 

“A fraud. You can fail and I will remove your guilt by taking it from your flesh.”

A single sharp nail slowly dragged down the skin of his back and Harry’s legs gave out. 

Voldemort let him fall. 

Harry watched from the floor as the other man turned and walked unhurriedly out of the room. 

“Do not be late for work now, Potter,” Voldemort said as he disappeared around the doorframe. “Your colleagues and admirers will want to celebrate the now perfect record of the Vanquisher of Lord Voldemort and His Death Eaters. Though, I prefer your old name.”

Harry lowered his head, cradling it in his arms as he tried to grasp what had just happened.  

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort drawled from somewhere in the house, “the Boy Who Lived.”

Chapter Text

When Harry arrived late at the Ministry, a new nameplate was on the outside of his office door. Jessica Mallory. He stared at it, confused. 

Maybe it’s because they don’t employ murderers. Maybe they know what you did, how vile you are. Maybe they were just using you until you fulfilled your duty to rid the world of evil and now you’re no longer necessary. 

Superflous. 

The remnants of a decommissioned weapon. 

“Mr Potter!” 

Harry turned quickly and saw Robards smiling at him. 

“Sir, I’m sorry I’m late—”

“Not to worry, you had a busy day yesterday. Are you feeling better?”

Harry rubbed his head. 

“Yeah, I’m grand.” He pointed towards his office vaguely. “But I seem to have missed something.”

Robards laughed genially and clapped him on the shoulder. Harry flinched, the muscles still sensitive, but his boss didn’t seem to notice. 

“I’m glad I found you. Follow me.”

Harry let the older man pull him across the room to where a group of people were gathered by Robards’s office. 

“He’s coming!” someone whispered loudly, and all heads turned towards Robards and himself. 

Harry stopped. 

“What’s happening.”

The other man beamed at him and dragged him towards the crowd of clapping people. 

“Congratulations, Harry!” he heard Selena shout to him, and he found her face in the group. 

“What for?” Harry mouthed, but she just smiled and gestured to Robards’s office.

Harry turned and read the big banner over his boss’s door: Congratulations Harry Potter, Head of the Auror Office.

Harry spun to face Robards. 

“I don’t understand.”

His boss— former boss?— smiled at him. 

“It’s a promotion. We want to thank you for your service, for all you’ve done for the wizarding world.”

The voices of the crowd had grown silent and everyone was listening to Robards speak. 

“It’s my pleasure to offer you the post of Head Auror as I retire.”

“You’re retiring?” Harry interrupted.

The other man nodded. 

“I’ve been wanting to for years, but it just never felt right with the threat of You Know Who and his mad lot. So I hung on, but now I’m glad to pass the responsibility onto your capable shoulders. Maybe I should have done this sooner, even. You do most of the work around here anyways, I just get the credit.”

Many people in the audience laughed. 

“So what do you say? Fancy leading this mangy lot? It’s not as glamorous as it seems, but I can’t think of anyone I’d feel better leaving the fate of our world to. After all, that pressure is old hat for you, isn’t it?”

More laughter. 

“But seriously, you’re the best Auror we’ve ever had. I’ve never seen someone work as hard as you do, or be so willing to go into dangerous situations. You have a knack for apprehending the worst criminals and you’re always eager to help others. You’ve even managed to bring us every remaining Death Eater so that now our world is safer than it has been in almost a hundred years!”

People in the crowd cheered loudly at that and Harry tried not to flinch. 

Robards paused to beam at him and then someone in the crowd said, “Aren’t you going to mention He Who Must Not Be Named, sir?”

Robards laughed and then gripped Harry's shoulder painfully.

“I didn’t forget! We all know Harry defeated the insanely powerful Lord Voldemort,”— Harry saw almost every person wince— “and we are forever grateful for his bravery. No Dark wizard is a match for this man!”

Many in the crowd cheered again. Robards clapped him on the back before releasing him.

“So— can I stop talking?” Robards asked. “Will you accept so we can crack open the bottle of Ogden’s at last?”

“What? Oh.” Harry looked out at the expectant faces, knowing he had to reply. “Yeah. Yes, I’ll… I’d be honoured.”

“That’s my boy!” Robards cheered and shook his hand before disappearing into the crowd. 

“Harry!” Winston said, coming over and grinning at him. “Hey, congrats, that’s excellent news. And, well, it’s gotta be good for my career that I’m shagging the boss.”

Harry’s eyes widened. 

“Winston— Jesus, keep it down,” Harry said, wanting to flee, but not feeling confident enough to venture into the boss’s— his— office yet. 

Someone passed him a glass of amber liquid and he necked it back. 

Another colleague, Ben put a hand on his shoulder as he clinked their glasses together. 

“Good on ya, mate,” Ben said, his hand lingering on Harry’s sore skin. “I heard about what happened. Must’ve been a brutal duel. Wish I’d seen it.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, lifting his empty glass to his lips, hoping to disengage Ben’s intrusive touch with the movement, but the man just stepped closer and gripped him tighter. 

“Listen,” Ben said, lowering his voice, “I was wondering if you wanted to grab a drink after work today? My treat. Let me congratulate the new boss properly.”

He winked, grinning slyly, and Harry’s stomach clenched uncomfortably. 

“Er,” Harry said, not wanting to offend his new subordinate on his first day. “I mean, maybe not today, but soon, yeah. I’d like that.”

Ben groaned and was about to say something else when a familiar voice spoke from behind him. 

“Mr Potter,” Lucius Malfoy said, and Harry turned to see him standing there as impeccably dressed as always, a slight sneer on his face for Ben who removed his hand slowly. “Can we speak privately?”

“Of course,” Harry said, giving Ben a tight smile and then walking towards his new office. 

The nameplate on the door read Harry Potter, Head Auror. 

You kill someone and you get promoted— that’s the life of Harry Potter. Built on the bodies of the dead. 

“It would seem that congratulations are in order,” Malfoy said smoothly, as Harry shut the door behind him.

“Yeah, it just happened.”

Harry moved awkwardly behind Robards’s desk, wishing that his first time sitting in this chair was not with an audience, and specifically, not with this audience. 

“A wise choice.”

Harry shot him a disbelieving smirk. 

“Come on, you don’t have to pretend to like me. There’s no one around.”

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably. 

“It is not pretending, Mr Potter. I owe you my freedom. My life. The lives of my wife and child.”

Harry sighed. 

“Look, I really don’t want to do this right now. Is there a reason you’re here?”

The blonde man pressed his lips together, obviously not appreciating the lack of etiquette. 

“Indeed there is. Would you permit me to place a Silencing Charm around your office while we speak?”

Harry was certain he knew why, so he nodded his head. The bastard must be having trouble reconciling his memories of their last meeting. 

The ward went up and Harry waited. 

“I deliberated at length as to whether or not I should enlighten you with this information,” Malfoy said, sounding hesitant. 

The man paused and Harry gestured to a chair. Malfoy inclined his head and sat across from him. 

“I decided it is more prudent to speak.”

“So speak already,” Harry replied, losing patience with the man who had tried to kill him on numerous occasions. 

Malfoy gave him a warning look, but nodded his head. 

“I found a very disturbing note written in the Dark Lord’s blood tucked into my robes when I returned from your house after our last meeting.”

“What?” he spat, seething at the bastard’s audacity. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Malfoy raised his eyebrows. 

“So you did not know about this. I had wondered.”

“What did it say?”

Malfoy reached into his pocket and pulled out a ripped corner of what looked like the sheet in Voldemort’s room. Harry took it and read the message that was far neater than it had a right to be considering it was written in the man’s blood on linen. 

I live. 

Come to me at Grimmauld. Do not kill Potter.

Remember what I know. 

“Bloody hell,” he cursed, fisting the note tightly. “Of course. The fucking prat. Wait—”

He held up the material. 

“How do you know that he sent this?”

Malfoy gave him a condescending look. 

“Magic, Potter. It’s his blood, after all.”

Ah yes. 

He read the note again. 

“What does that last bit mean?” Harry asked. “Remember what I know?”

Malfoy grimaced delicately and tapped his fingers on the desk. 

“He… could bring new charges against my family and I that would almost certainly send us back to Azkaban.”

“New charges. What new charges?”

Malfoy glared at him. 

“It was a war, Potter. We were acting on orders.”

Harry scoffed, almost laughing. 

“Right. You forget that I actually saw you acting on orders and you were right gleeful about it. You loved what he made you do, don’t deny it. Don’t just blame him.”

“I am trying,” Malfoy said with what was clearly a valiant attempt at mastering his temper, “to honour the leniency you fought to provide for us, by coming to you with this. He lives? Is this correct?”

Harry rubbed his forehead, trying to think. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Malfoy’s sternly. “I’m serious. I’ll need a Vow. This can’t get out.”

“Why not merely Obliviate me again?” the man asked snidely.

Harry sighed. 

“That was a waste of time anyways. I was trying to find McNair.”

“And you believed I would know something? I have not seen that man in years. My family have worked hard to seperate ourselves from filth.”

Harry ignored him, rapidly going through options. 

“We need to make a Vow. Actually, Malfoy, wouldn’t you be happier not knowing these things? I can just Obliviate you again.”

“The Dark Lord is alive and you think I would prefer to be ignorant of that? Why have you kept this a secret? Why is he not in Azkaban?”

Harry stood, dropping the note onto his desk. He needed to think.

“That doesn’t matter. What about… What was it they used for the Triwizard Tournament? I forget what it was called. A… guarantee of some kind? An agreement?”

“The Tournament uses a binding magical contract.”

“Great. Yes, one of those. Let’s make one to keep this between us.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. 

“It would have to be written down with our names. If that parchment is found, I will be sent back to Azkaban with you. I want no part in this scheme, whatever it is you are foolishly attempting.”

“Too late for that now,” Harry dismissed with a shrug. “He brought you in. I can’t just let you leave with this information and no guarantee you’ll keep it to yourself.”

“I can keep a secret, Potter.”

Harry snorted. 

“Yeah, sorry, but your word means shit to me.”

“I owe you a life debt,” Malfoy said through clenched teeth. “If you ask me to keep this secret, I can fulfil that debt by keeping it.”

“But you don’t have to. I’d rather be sure. No offence— or, actually, yeah, take that offence.”

Malfoy blew out a frustrated breath. Harry continued to pace. 

This could work. Malfoy won’t be able to tell anyone about Voldemort and I won’t have to rely on a Memory Charm again, which could be broken. 

He paused. 

“We don’t have someone to bind us with the Vow, so we can’t do that anyway,” Harry mused, considering the potential problems. “Also— do you even know how to write up one of these magical contract bollocks?”

Malfoy closed his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Yes.”

Harry grinned. 

“Alright then. Let’s do that.”

The blonde sat up straighter and then regarded Harry levelly. 

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing, Potter. My ability to keep a secret is not the biggest issue here. I don’t want to know what you are engaging in with the Dark Lord, but whatever it is, it must stop. You may think that you are in control, but you are not. He is. He always is. He will be manipulating the situation without you even knowing. He can get anyone to do anything. I am a pure-blood and I am ashamed to say that I served that lunatic half-blood for over twenty years.”

Harry raised his chin.

“Maybe I’m just stronger than you.”

Malfoy’s expression of derisive boredom was not appreciated. 

“You’re not. You are simply naïve, as I once was. He makes you promises, offers you things, and then he has collected you. Once you’re in his orbit, Potter, you can never leave.”

Harry stared at the older man, but saw only his own interactions with Voldemort. The deals they had made, the ever increasing range the man took up in his house without permission, the way Harry kept folding for him…

“You see it,” Malfoy remarked quietly, and Harry met his understanding gaze. “He’s using you. This message?” Malfoy tapped the piece of blood-soaked material. “This is dangerous. Whatever he’s doing with you, that is not all he is doing.”

Fuck. 

“Give him to the Ministry,” Malfoy insisted. “Or kill him. That would, of course, be preferable.”

“I can’t,” Harry whispered, then he looked up at Malfoy, one of Voldemort’s inner circle Death Eaters, and had an idea. “Do you know of any objects he was hiding or caring for during your time with him? Did he give you or anyone else anything similar to that diary?”

Malfoy exhaled a long breath, looking tired. 

“Another Horcrux,” the man muttered. “I had wondered.”

Harry nodded. 

“Yeah, I think so, but I have no idea. He won’t tell me.”

“Shocking.”

Harry laughed. It was strange, but Malfoy suddenly felt like a… comrade. Like an ally. It was refreshing to be with someone else who understood Voldemort. Well, as much as anyone could. 

That’s because you’re a Death Eater now.

He pushed that thought aside, but with it, went Harry’s sense of a shared purpose.

“Alright,” he said wearily. “Let’s make this contract so I can get back to work.”

But Malfoy didn’t move. His considering gaze held him for long moments. 

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Potter,” he finally said, quietly but with steel, “because I promise you that the Dark Lord does. His obsession with you was always unnatural, always a concern, and now he is living in your home.”

“I can handle—”

“Listen to me,” Malfoy interrupted impatiently. “You are in danger. He spoke often about wanting to corrupt you, wanting to take his time. Some of his more… elaborate plans involving you did not focus on your death.”

“What are you saying?” Harry asked uncomfortably. “His note says he wants out.”

Malfoy pushed the missive back towards him. 

“He commands that I not kill you. You are keeping the Dark Lord prisoner, and yet the eighth word he writes— in his own blood, where every letter is precious— in a note asking for help, is to ensure that I do not touch you. Just as before. We were forbidden to harm you.”

Merlin, that makes it sound… 

Harry killed that thought. 

Whatever Harry’s messed up libido was doing to him, there was no fucking way that the Dark bloody Lord Voldemort harboured anything other than an egotistical desire to prove his mastery over his prophesied vanquisher.  

“I suspect,” Malfoy went on, never knowing when to shut his damn mouth, “that the Dark Lord is not terribly upset about landing a place in your home, Mr Potter. Do not be a fool and allow him to control you. He has been waiting a long time to do so.”

That’s what he’s doing now. He made me kill someone and then beg for his forgiveness! He got me to kneel. Call him Master. He’s turning me into a Death Eater.

Harry stood. 

“Tell me what you need for this contract. I’m done here.”

~*~

When Harry got home, he was shaking with rage. 

He found the bastard in the drawing room, sitting on his sofa and reading one of his books. 

“What are you doing out of your room?” Harry demanded harshly. 

Voldemort didn’t even look up. Instead, he calmly turned a page. 

“This is called reading, Potter.”

Harry growled. 

“I didn’t give you permission to touch my things. Or to leave your room. Or to fucking sass me.”

Voldemort continued to ignore him, so Harry strode up to him and slapped the book out of his hands. 

Oh, shit.

Harry paused, waiting to see what the Dark Lord would do.

Voldemort’s gaze slowly slid from the book on the floor over to Harry’s body, taking him in from his work shoes all the way up, before piercing him with a dangerous intensity. 

Harry felt that attention go straight into his blood, but he forced himself to concentrate. 

“You are a prisoner, Tom,” Harry said, trying to inject some venom into his tone. “My prisoner. You belong to me and I get to set the rules here.”

“Is that so.”

Harry laughed. 

“Yeah. It is so. And do you know what one of the top fucking rules is? Not to deliver messages in your blood to your old lackeys behind my sodding back!”

The bastard didn’t even flinch. 

“So he received my message, then.”

Harry released an incredulous cough. 

“Yeah. He did. But you don’t seem to be getting mine. So allow me to demonstrate.”

Harry pulled out his wand. Ah, there’s the flinch.

“Crawl to me.”

Voldemort leaned back more comfortably against Harry’s sofa cushions. 

“You are going to have to make me, Potter.”

“You don’t think I will?”

“I look forward to seeing if you do.”

Harry bared his teeth. 

“Imperio!”

Crawl on your hands and knees to me, you bastard. 

Harry watched in awe as Lord Voldemort paused only for a moment and then smoothly slid to his knees. Those long fingers hit the grimy wooden floor, a strangely appealing contrast of white on dark brown, before that huge body began to prowl towards him. Harry was ashamed to feel his cock growing hard at the sight. 

Merlin, he looks damn good on his knees…

When the Dark Lord reached him, Harry backhanded him swiftly across the face. 

Although he was the infamous, omnipotent Dark Lord Voldemort, he still fell sideways at the blow like the skinny old man that he was. 

Harry laughed, enjoying himself tremendously.

Voldemort stayed where he fell, though he slowly brought his gaze back to him. Harry had expected to see hatred there and so he frowned at the satisfied smile he encountered instead. 

“What,” Harry demanded. “Not hard enough to knock some respect into you?”

Harry froze. You’re beginning to sound an awful lot like Uncle Vernon.

“Quite the opposite, in fact,” Voldemort replied, wiping at the corner of his mouth where Harry saw a smear of red. 

The opposite? Harry snorted. I guess that old saying is true, then, that bullies respect violence. 

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Whatever, Tom. I need to make something crystal clear for you. You are not getting rescued. Do you understand? Say it.”

Voldemort raised an amused eyebrow, still on his arse on Harry’s floor. 

“Imperio!”

Say, “I am not getting rescued,” say it, damn you. 

“I am not getting rescued,” Voldemort intoned.

Fuck, that high, cold voice obeying his commands did surprising things to his body. He was fully erect now, straining against his trousers. 

You could make him suck you off. 

The sudden realisation staggered him.

You could. No one would know. You could shove your cock deep down the throat of the man that has been trying to kill you since you were a baby. Who made you watch him kill Cedric. Who ruined your life. 

Now it’s your turn. Make him take it. 

Harry stared at Voldemort, fighting with the diminishing voice that sounded like Hermione, cautioning him against that action. 

“That’s right,” Harry said, pulling his thoughts away from that temptation with extreme effort. “No one is coming to help you. I killed every one of your followers except for Lucius Malfoy— and do you know what he advised me to do today? Kill you. He wants you dead. He told me he and his family don’t work with filth anymore.”

Harry laughed cruelly. 

“He also called you a lunatic half-blood.”

Those freaky red eyes darkened. 

“Did he.”

Harry smiled. 

“He sure did. So you’re all alone, Tom. Stop trying to bully people into helping you.”

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, but his voice remained calm. 

“I did not inherit my Death Eaters, Potter. I earned them myself. I built them up. Do you truly believe I will struggle to seduce new people to my cause?”

Harry laughed again, amazed at the man’s audacity.

“Well, unless you’re seducing that chair,” Harry pointed to one of the old, dusty armchairs, “or that bloody painting,” he gestured to a nearby canvas, “then your options are pretty limited.”

“Perhaps I am less interested in quantity than quality right now.”

“Right. I assume you mean me?”

Voldemort continued to just stare at him. 

“Well, let’s get another thing straight then, while we’re at it. You are my servant, not the other way around. You need to learn your place.”

Harry reached down and fisted a hand in the man’s robes, hauling him back onto his knees.

There. I like that view better. 

“Now," Harry said, "I don’t know what made you think you can walk about my home and touch my things, but you can’t. So let’s take you back to your room, shall we?”

Harry walked past him and made for the hallway. He didn’t hear footsteps behind him. When he turned, Voldemort was still on his knees, not looking at him. 

“That means you follow me, Tom.”

The man was in profile and Harry saw the corner of his mouth curl upwards.

“Do I have to make you do everything?” Harry asked quietly. 

Voldemort’s face shifted minutely so that he could meet Harry’s gaze. 

“It would seem so. At least, until you give me a reason to obey you on my own.”

Don’t take the bait. Don’t. Ignore it, he’s—

“What would make you obey me yourself?” Harry asked, hating his damn curiosity. 

That mouth curved to a fuller grin. One that made his heart stutter, his instincts wary. 

“Lay out your rules,” Voldemort said. “Then enforce them. Show me why I should listen. Otherwise, I have no motive to comply.”

Harry crossed his arms, thinking. What does that mean, enforce my rules? That sounds like… like he wants me to punish him. 

What the fuck?

Why would he want that?

“You would like me to follow you,” Voldemort continued when Harry remained silent for too long. “To take me somewhere I do not wish to be. Why should I?”

Harry frowned. 

“Because I’ll just make you if you don’t.”

Voldemort hinted at an elegant shrug. 

“So make me. But then you will prove that you have as much control of me as you do a piece of furniture.”

Voldemort shifted, turning fully to face him.

“It is not power to do the work yourself, Potter.”

Harry watched in awe as Voldemort placed his two hands slowly down onto the floor.  

“You need to make me follow you, crawling, as you are clearly so fond of seeing me do, because if I do not, something unpleasant will occur. You could begin with humiliation, or threats, though I admit, I am more fond of the faster route.”

Harry could say nothing, his heart thundering in his chest, drinking in the Dark Lord on his hands and knees, piercing him with his upturned gaze.

“Violence,” Voldemort confirmed quietly, in a dark, enthralling tone.

Harry stumbled away a few steps until his back was pressed against the wall. He was panting, trying to catch his breath. 

“You want… Why? Why are you telling me to… hurt you?”

Voldemort minutely raised his hairless eyebrows and straightened up, sitting on his heels once more. Still kneeling, though. Those thin lips pursed, as if to say I’ve explained all I can.

Harry stared at him. 

He wants me to hurt him to make him obey. But… that’s what he does, people like him. I don’t want to hurt anyone. 

But then a darker voice, an insidious, shameful one, countered that lie—

Yes you do. 

Harry closed his eyes, fighting not to shake his head against that truth, that damn persistent nagging— 

You’ve wanted to hurt him since the moment you learned he was still alive. He deserves it, he’s a monster. And now he’s giving you permission! He’s trying to convince you to do it. Why are you fighting this?

“Your position at work commands respect, does it not?”

Harry’s eyes flew open, his face snapping to the other man in alarm. 

“You want me to hurt my subordinates?”

“Subordinates,” Voldemort repeated, sounding thoughtful. “Then you have been promoted. That is wonderful news. Congratulations.”

His tone was mocking.

“Merlin, just don’t…”

“But you misunderstand me, Potter. At work, you will only be respected if you have rules. Boundaries. I have read the tabloids detailing how you interact with your colleagues. With your, then, boss. You let them walk all over you. You give them everything and do it with a sycophantic smile.”

Harry swallowed past the pain in his throat. 

“I… owe them. After what I did… what I failed to do….”

He remembered sleeping in classes, half-arsing assignments, focusing on Quidditch, of all the useless skills to be honing… 

He remembered Cedric, dying because Harry didn’t know shit about Portkeys or how to recognise one. He’d never learned how to fly like Voldemort to get the hell out of that graveyard. Or how to fight. He took those duelling lessons as a joke in second year and never followed up with requesting independent training in the area everyone was depending on him to be a master at. 

You killed them all because you’re lazy and weak and stupid and—

“They do not respect you,” Voldemort went on, and Harry startled. “No one does.”

Harry took a deep breath, trying to stay present. 

They all died, but it should have been you, you’re the one who was supposed to, you let everyone else die in your place, failure, coward—

“Make them listen to you, Potter. Make me.”

Harry looked over at him. 

Make them. Make him. 

His mind was clumsily organising. 

“You want me… to make rules. And then follow through. With punishments.”

Voldemort nodded. 

“Start small. How are you planning to get me into my room?”

Harry gazed blankly at Voldemort’s inhuman nose, those two tiny slashes in his face. Alien. Other. 

“Get up and follow me,” Harry began quietly, “or I’ll remove your robe.”

Voldemort smiled condescendingly.

“I feel no shame regarding my body, Potter. Nakedness does not scare me.”

Harry felt a flicker of irritation at that. Course he doesn’t, the arrogant tosser. Prolly thinks his creepy form is the ideal. 

“Fine,” Harry said, pushing off from the wall and glaring at his nemesis. “Get up and get back to your room, or I’ll hit you with my belt.”

Voldemort’s eyes blazed, but not in anger or fear.

He looked excited. 

“I do not believe you, Harry Potter. You will have to show me.”

Harry’s fists clenched. Slowly, he undid his belt, dragging it leisurely through each loop, and then held it out in one hand. 

He paused, caught in the Dark Lord’s taunting, red gaze.

“Last chance,” Harry whispered.

Voldemort simply raised a single, hairless eyebrow.

Harry stepped forward. 

Voldemort’s expression changed to one of wild anticipation. 

It took five steps to reach the kneeling man and in all that time, he did not lose his resolve. 

The mad fucker wants me to prove it? Why the hell would I hold back? It’s what I want to do anyways. 

Harry had a sudden vision of Voldemort’s face wide with fear and his stomach tightened in arousal. 

Make him, he says. Great. I’ll bloody well make him.

“Pull your robes down,” Harry demanded, his voice emotionless. “I want to see your back.”

Voldemort hummed. 

“No.”

Harry straightened his spine, his heartbeat speeding up. 

“No?”

Voldemort looked him dead in the eye. 

“No.”

Harry felt his lips curl. 

He bent down quickly and slapped the man in the face, right across his smug lips. It didn’t knock him back this time, but only because a long arm swung out behind to catch himself.

Voldemort pulled his face back and Harry marvelled at the red handprint he could see blooming on the man’s pale skin. 

That’s my handprint. I put that there. 

“Pathetic,” Voldemort whispered, his eyes boring into Harry’s, daring him to go farther, do more—

Harry kicked the man hard in the chest, watching the bald head slam against the floor. He followed, kneeling over the supine form and punched him directly over one of his open eyes. 

It felt good. 

He felt powerful. 

He did it again, this time over those unnatural nostrils. There wasn’t far for the body under him to go with the impact, so it was a more solid hit, smarting his knuckles. 

Harry saw the blood leak out from both nose slits and it fascinated him. 

He stared.

The body under him moved and Harry looked up to see that one of the man’s eyes was swelling rapidly, the skin split over his brow bone.

You hurt him. 

You actually hurt him. 

That’s all you can do is hurt people, you’re broken and a freak and no one is safe around you—

But then Voldemort’s tongue slid out, languidly swiping at the small river of blood on his lips and chin. Harry met his gaze in shock and saw damning approval there.

“Well well, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said darkly. 

Harry sprang to his feet, stumbling back in horror, Lucius Malfoy’s voice screaming in his head—

He will be manipulating the situation without you even knowing. He can get anyone to do anything. 

He spoke often about wanting to corrupt you. 

“No,” Harry rasped, staring down at his bloody prisoner on his back at his feet, with deep bruises blooming on his face and a knowing smile on his dripping lips. 

Harry staggered backwards and then ran, down the stairs and right out the front door. 

Chapter Text

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed when she opened the door and he collapsed into her home. “What happened? Ron!” 

Harry lay panting at her feet, loathing himself, disgusted at what he was becoming, what—

Loud footsteps slammed on the ground and then Ron appeared, holding a screaming Rose, a look of horror on his face. 

“Harry?” he said, sounding scared, kneeling down and grabbing Harry’s chin to force him to meet his gaze. “What happened?”

Ron pulled out his wand from his pocket with the hand not holding the flailing child, and hit him with a diagnostic spell that made numbers and symbols appear in the air.

Hermione’s trembling hands touched his neck, digging under his jaw. 

“I’m fine,” Harry said weakly, squeezing his eyes closed and then opening them as normally as he could. 

He pushed himself up and meant to stand, but Hermione put a firm hand on his chest, stopping him. 

“Just wait,” she insisted. “Ron, go put Rose down, I’ll stay with Harry.”

Ron nodded uneasily. He gave Harry a searching look, like he wanted to say something, but then carried the still-screaming Rose obediently back down the hall. 

Hermione helped him slowly to his feet and then deposited him on the sofa. Harry leaned back, grateful, and closed his eyes. 

He felt the cushions shift as Hermione sat down beside him. 

“Are you hurt?” she asked. 

Harry shook his head, unable to make eye contact. 

You’re pathetic. Invading your friends’ house, interrupting their lives to fall apart on their doorstep, weak and incompetent. They don’t have time for you anymore, Potter. They have their own family, their own lives that have nothing to do with you. You have no one, no one to love you— who would? Worthless failure that you are, you—

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked, touching his arm gently and Harry almost sobbed. 

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he whispered brokenly, and then Hermione was pulling him towards her, holding him tightly as he cried, stroking his hair and his back, murmuring soft words to him and keeping him together.

“You made the right choice,” she said firmly, kissing him fiercely on the forehead. "We can help you. Just tell us what happened and we’ll solve it together.”

Harry slammed his eyes closed. 

They can’t help— they can’t know. You’re in this alone, Potter, alone because it’s your job to fix your fuck up. Voldemort is still alive and that’s your fault. He’s got a body now and that’s on you. You’re being manipulated by the world’s most powerful and persuasive Dark wizard and you have no one to blame but yourself. 

Hermione gently pushed back on his shoulders so she could look at his face. Harry bowed his head, ashamed. Her soft fingers carded through his hair soothingly, like he was a child, a pet. 

“Tell me,” she said again. 

“I can’t,” he pleaded. 

She wiped at his cheeks, trying to dry them. 

“C’mon, Harry. You can trust me.”

Harry squeezed his tongue between his molars. 

Fuck.

He was an asshole. By not telling her, he was hurting her and she didn’t deserve that. Even if he harboured… significant resentment towards his two best friends for pairing up and leaving him out to start a new life together, he shouldn’t punish them for it. That’s just what people did. Well, people that weren’t him. 

It fucking hurt, but that was life. And now he was being ridiculous. Surely he could tell her something. He thought about his options. 

Voldemort is alive. 

No. She wouldn’t be able to keep that secret. 

I need help. 

But with what? What could she actually do? 

“Am I a bad person?” he whispered, feeling hot tears fall down his cheeks again. 

“Oh, Harry, of course not, no!” Hermione gathered him into another hug, tucking his head against her shoulder. “Not even a little bit. What makes you even ask that?”

He inhaled the scent of her hair, trying to let it comfort him instead of making him feel panic because he didn’t have the right to hold her anymore. 

“Do you hate me?” he forced out, barely audibly. 

“What? Why would I hate you?”

“For… for living,” he breathed against her skin, becoming boneless and defeated. 

“Oh Harry, no,” Hermione said thickly, and Harry could tell she was crying too. “Don’t even think that. No one hates you for living, I am grateful everyday that you made it out alive. You’re the strongest person I know.”

Not strong— weak. Weak and worthless and superfluous…

“You’re sleeping here tonight, Harry. I hate that you’re all alone in that creepy old house. It’s not right. You need to be with people.”

Voldemort. 

Harry couldn’t stay the whole night. Not while hosting the Darkest wizard of all time at his house—

Darkest Squib.

The man was harmless now. 

I’m more dangerous than the Dark Lord.

“It’s not an imposition,” Hermione went on, pulling back to smile at him. “We love you. I know you hate accepting help, but we’re your friends.”

Harry was shaking his head. 

“No, Hermione, I can’t. Not tonight. But… thanks.”

“Oh, Harry, you’re impossible, you know. I hate seeing you like this.”

Harry wiped at his face in embarrassment. 

Stop crying, you're making her uncomfortable. Harry Potter is not supposed to fall apart.

Except for him.

He lets you. He doesn't care that you're weak. 

“I’m fine,” Harry lied. “Really.”

When he looked up, she had just finished rolling her eyes.

“Sure you are.”

He was about to argue, but she cut him off.  

“Look, I’m not letting you leave like this. Ron will want to talk to you, anyway. Stay until midnight, at least. We can chat, like old times. I mean,” she gestured unnecessarily at her gigantic belly, “I can’t drink right now, but you and Ron still can. He’ll be happy to have someone to have a pint with.”

Harry smiled wearily. That actually sounded nice. When he nodded, Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand. 

“Let me tell you about what Ron did last week at Charlie’s birthday party.”

Harry let her talk, her words enough to make him feel almost normal again. Almost human. 

~*~

“Lonely,” Harry scoffed to himself. “I’m not lonely.”

He pushed open the door to the pub, stumbling inside. It was late, but he was drunk anyways, might as well see who else wasn’t lonely tonight. 

Anything rather than go home. 

Harry got to the bar and ordered his drink, then turned to survey the crowd. Decent group. Young. Loud. 

“I like your clothes,” a woman shouted suddenly beside him, and Harry jumped. 

“Merlin, you almost made me piss myself,” he reprimanded her, annoyed she'd managed to catch him off guard. 

She laughed in an appealing way. Harry squinted to see if she’d do. 

“Merlin, eh? That’s a new one.” She held out her hand. “I’m Nancy.”

He shook it. 

“Harry.” He gestured to her drink. “Fancy another?”

~*~

Harry liked breasts. 

He was an arse man generally, but some women just had knockers that— like these. Plump and bouncy and you could just fist a bunch of the fat and jiggle them around a bit. See em wiggle. 

“Boobies,” Harry mumbled, and leaned down to bury his face in their majesty. 

Nandy or Nellie or whoever the blast she was called slapped his arse as he pounded into her. He stopped to stare. 

“Do that again,” he demanded, holding still.

She laughed and complied. Harry groaned, leaning forward, his cock sinking deeper into her. 

“Again,” he said, and she did, right over the same spot. 

“That’s the bleeding ticket,” he rasped and began to pick up his pace again. 

~*~

Harry Apparated home and promptly puked. 

Second time this week.  

It was something about the hook behind his navel that always churned his stomach. 

He laid there, the world spinning, his mouth open and panting, and waited to find the energy to get up. He needed water and a piss and then bed. 

Footsteps. 

He lifted his head to see Lord fucking Voldemort walking down his stairs. In his bleeding home. He had no idea what the bastard’s expression was because everything was blurry anyways. 

“Ugh, no, not you,” Harry whinged, and then thumped his head back onto the floor. 

He heard a derisive snort. 

“Your conduct continues to amaze me, Potter.”

“No, you,” Harry shot back. 

Ha. Egg meet face.

“So,” Voldemort kept talking, the prat, “am I to infer that, after our entertaining interlude, you went and got yourself inebriated?”

Harry closed his eyes. 

“Yup. Had to. You’re no good for me.”

Voldemort hummed in disagreement. 

“I would argue that I am very good for you.”

“Nope,” Harry said, popping his lips on the p sound. 

He liked the way his jaw opened wide when he did that, so he made a few more of the popping noises with his mouth. 

“I should let you sleep there for what you did to me earlier,” Voldemort mused, and Harry could tell he had moved closer. 

“I should let you sleep there,” Harry said, turning it around on him so fast. 

“Where were you?” Voldemort asked, suddenly right next to him. 

Harry jolted back, startled, and then landed in his sick. 

“Ew… gross,” he moaned. 

He hated the look of spew; the feel of it on his skin was even worse. He retched. 

“You reek of alcohol and sex, Potter,” Voldemort said, his voice sounding weird. “The former does not surprise me, but the latter… anyone I know?”

“Mind your own ruddy business,” Harry said, organising his limbs so he could stand. “Ugh. Scorgify!”

He loved magic. One word and his mess was gone. If only the same worked on…

He turned to the Dark Lord, his wand raised. Those red eyes narrowed, but otherwise, the man did not react. 

“Scorgify!” Harry said, but, alas, the repulsive man did not disappear like his sick had. 

“Dang,” Harry lamented. “Bed time.”

He pushed himself to standing and then dragged his feet past Voldemort and up the stairs, one step at a time. When he got to his room, he face-planted right into bed and it was bliss. 

I love my bed. I’m like a little, comfy bear. I’m going to sleep so hard… 

“Sweet dreams, Potter,” he heard from the doorway. 

“Go shag a donkey,” he mumbled cleverly.

Without waiting for a response, he buried his head into his pillow and thought no more.

~*~

Voldemort stood watching the idiot’s back rise and fall for long moments. 

How trusting. 

How infinitely foolish for him to believe that he was safe with Lord Voldemort. He spared a few seconds to marvel at that. 

Potter had slid into unconsciousness fearlessly while in the presence of his enemy, even going so far as to present him with his unprotected back. 

Voldemort stared at it. 

Vulnerability always enticed him, especially in those not prone to it. Harry Potter was no weakling. Yet neither was he a coward. This show of insolent disregard was almost… impressive. 

Though perhaps it was commonplace for the boy. After all, he was returning home after passing time in another’s bed.

Irrelevant. 

Focus. 

He closed his eyes, unintentionally sending a jolt of pain through his cracked brow bone. Hissing, he cradled it, loathing his deplorable state of fragility without his magic. It was unthinkable that such minor inconveniences should affect him. 

Dropping his hand, he opened his eyes and began to rifle through the boy’s robes— manually, of all the indignancies to be borne— for anything of use. 

He found a small piece of material and pulled it out. His note to Lucius. The boy had kept it. 

Interesting.

Searching further he found another soft ball of fabric and drew it out. It was red and appeared delicate. Unfolding the lace, he held it up to aid with identification. 

It appeared to be… knickers. Of the type Muggle women were partial to. They seemed to not be freshly laundered. 

But why—?

Voldemort spun and strode from the room. 

He retired to his own chamber, closing the door and returning to the window. He looked out into the deserted square and succeeded in keeping his frothing thoughts subdued. 

So there was nothing useful to be acquired this evening. Yet that was no matter. If not tonight, then soon. 

He forced his facial muscles to relax because the strain of his sneer was irritating his wounded nostrils. He could feel blood meander down his chin as the skin had obviously broken open again. 

Whose infernal underclothes did Potter deem worthy to steal? 

No. 

It did not matter. Whatever Potter did in his leisure time was of no concern. What mattered was Voldemort’s research. His stratagems. 

The boy’s state of distraction would be useful. It meant more time unobserved. Further capacity for experimentation.

And if Potter wanted to have carnal relations with lesser creatures—

Abruptly, his mind was seized. 

He saw Potter, on his back, legs bent and spread wide, his head tilted up to expose that lovely carotid artery. He was pleading, his eyes leaking tears, but his fingers grasped tightly to Voldemort’s shoulders— 

It was him taking the boy—

And suddenly that was all he wanted. 

Potter, under him, writhing and begging and his. The boy should not be collecting intimate garments from troglodytes, but warming his bed, giving him his body, his time and attention. 

He steadied himself on the windowsill, resting his forehead against the cool glass to clear his mind. 

This would not do.

A distracted Potter would result in more freedom, but it would also endanger his capacity to influence the boy. He needed Potter’s focus on him. It was from him alone that the boy should seek validation and aid.

The boy was his.  

Voldemort was already moulding him into a suitable puppet for his machinations regarding his own dormant powers. To do this successfully, he must continue to teach the boy to inspire obedience through fear. This education was vital and would bring him the ability to wield Potter’s followers himself and to employ the boy as his far-reaching mouthpiece. 

The Chosen One, as his prophet. 

His proxy. 

Satisfied, Lord Voldemort turned from the window and walked to his bed. Images of Potter’s dalliances this evening began to swarm him, but he denied them. They were immaterial, for they would never reoccur.

He slowly removed his robes and readied for bed. The last task before laying down was to carefully unclench his throbbing fist and tuck the treacherous scarlet material under his mattress. 

You are mine, Harry Potter. In this, as in all things. 

~*~

Harry woke up, groaning. 

He gingerly rolled out of bed, his dry mouth a revolting flavour, and hastened to his loo. After a piss, a glass of water, and a thorough tooth brushing, he felt almost human again. 

Almost human. 

Fuck bugger. 

Voldemort. 

He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes. 

Harry’d made an arse of himself again last night. Merlin, he vaguely remembered the man guessing he’d gotten laid. 

How does he even know what that smells like? Has he ever…?

Of course he had. The man was in his eighties, after all. And Tom Riddle had certainly been attractive. 

Fucking gorgeous. 

So much so that even Harry had been taken in. He had always been mortified by his memories of perving that boy’s arse as he was led through Hogwarts by the diary Horcrux. 

That thought brought him abruptly back to reality. 

A grown up Tom Riddle was actually in his house. Evil, twisted, and abused by none other than himself. 

Looks like you both grew up to be monsters.  

He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The lightening bolt scar still stood out starkly on his forehead. The sight of it always made him cringe. It reminded him of his duties, of his failures. He was Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

And he had taken a man into his home and beaten him. A defenceless Squib. Had smiled while doing it. 

Gotten aroused. 

Had struck the man more than once. 

Harry looked away, closing his eyes. 

This has gotten out of control. Tell Hermione. Bring him to Azkaban. Ask for help! You have to ask for help.

But that was the thing he was worst at. 

Harry Potter provided the help, he didn’t ask for it. Besides, Voldemort was harmless now. If Harry couldn’t handle one Squib, then he didn’t deserve his role as Head Auror. 

You don’t. You don’t deserve it. Your job is to keep people safe and all you do is hurt them, kill them, it should have been you—

Harry pulled away, opening his eyes and spelling the shower to start. The water was scalding and he purposefully denied himself his morning wank, his self-loathing at a pinnacle. 

While dressing in his Auror robes, he was glad for the excuse not to linger in the house today. Though, he still had to face the man now. Go downstairs and see what fresh hell Voldemort had in store for him. Accept his disdain and his anger. 

Harry knew he should eat to soak up some of the leftover alcohol, but he could tell it was going to be one of those days where he carefully managed his food intake. He didn’t know why he did it. Hermione would gently remind him to eat if it went on too long, she always did, but sometimes the hunger pains were almost comforting. Nostalgic. They reminded him of the Harry Potter before he became the Boy Who Lived. The scrawny pariah with the bad haircut and the billowing clothes, whose biggest fear had been his relatives forgetting to unlock his cupboard and feed him.

Ah, happier times. 

It would be a relief now to hide away in that closet with his growling stomach. To think that such trivial complaints like not getting birthdays and Ripper the bulldog holding him hostage up a tree in the snow had once haunted him. He would exchange them gladly for his current, debilitating nightmares of lifeless faces and screams of agony from friends he was always just too late to save.  

When he eventually forced himself out of his room, he was prepared to don his public persona. The one that acted unruffled and brave even when he wanted to cower. 

He walked determinedly downstairs towards the kitchen for some tea. He wasn’t about to let the bastard scare him anymore than he already did. 

So what? I hit him. He wanted me to. He basically made me do it.

Harry stomped down the stairs, uncaring if he woke the other man, unafraid of his censure. 

Victim-blaming now, huh? Every day, you sound more and more like your dear uncle. He’d be so proud. 

Harry stopped. 

Voldemort was turning him into the Dursleys. Making him—

You make your own choices. You chose to bring him home. To give him back his body. To hurt him. You have no one to blame but yourself. 

Harry sat down hard, thinking of Hermione and how she had trusted Harry to help her; how Harry had taken that trust and given it to Lord Voldemort, returning him to his body and—

“Your breakfast is getting cold.”

Harry startled, twisting to see Lord Voldemort emerging from the stairs at the end of the hall that led down to the kitchen. 

“What?” Harry asked stupidly.

Voldemort cast him a sardonic look. 

“Breakfast. The inaugural meal of the day.”

“You made me breakfast,” Harry repeated tonelessly, completely lost.

Voldemort sighed. 

“Yes, Potter.” He paused. “I can see why they promoted you. It was unquestionably for your brilliance and not merely for your name.”

Harry rubbed his eyes. 

“I’m not hungry, but…” 

What— thanks? It was obviously poisoned or pissed in.

Harry frowned, catching up.

“You’ve been in my kitchen,” he said slowly, feeling his legs straighten and bring him up to standing. “You touched my food.”

Voldemort leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow.

“I told you to stay in your room,” Harry reminded him, his foot dropping down onto the next stair heavily. 

Voldemort’s eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment, that same fucked-up glimmer of excitement dancing in them whenever he sensed danger. 

“It must have slipped my mind,” Voldemort replied evenly. 

Harry took another step down towards the man. 

“You just don’t get it,” he whispered, finally dismounting, his eyes never leaving those blazing red ones. “You’re my prisoner.”

“So you say,” Voldemort retorted. 

Harry’s fists balled and he yearned to smash them into that pompous face, but then he forced himself to calm. 

“You won’t trick me into hurting you again, Tom. But I will get you to listen to me. Imperio!”

Harry led Voldemort back up the stairs and shoved open the door to the bastard’s room. Fingers tingling, he gestured for the older man to lay on the bed and watched in awe as that lithe frame obeyed. 

Lord Voldemort reclined onto his back and then stared up at him, every muscle in his body tensed in ineffectual protest. 

Harry felt his cock harden, blood thundering, compelling him on. 

“Lift your arms above your head.”

When Voldemort didn’t move, Harry recast the Imperius Curse to make him. 

Those thin, delicate wrists crossed against the headboard and Harry felt his legs take him closer, drawn to the enticing display. 

“Incarcerous!” Harry incanted and saw black ropes encircle Lord Voldemort’s arms, securing them to the wood. 

“Perfect,” Harry breathed. “You can stay here today while I’m at work. Think about whether you’d rather listen to me and keep your dignity, or the reverse and get used to being tied to shit.”

As he strode to the door, that high, cold voice halted him. 

“You are punishing me for preparing you breakfast.”

Harry spun to face him, furious indignation rising up in him.

“I am punishing you for breaking my rules! Like you wanted me to do!”

“I had assumed that the fractured bone you gave me for daring to read was my punishment for the crime of movement.”

Harry refused to let the guilt crush him. Voldemort deserved it. He’d asked for it, even. 

“But you did it again!” Harry argued. “You can’t just keep leaving this room!”

Harry was panting. This was already spiralling out of his control. He knew he sounded deranged. He hated that Voldemort was so bleeding skilled at irritating him. 

He closed his eyes, trying to get back on track. Voldemort was now safely in his room. Harry had to work. How else was he to get the bastard to stay?

“How about this, then?” he said slowly, opening his eyes to take in the man on his back. Don’t get distracted. You’re not vile enough to sexually assault a tied up man. “I’ll give you free rein of my house.”

Voldemort’s head shifted and he looked intrigued.

“In return,” Harry went on, “you tell me where your Horcrux is.”

Immediately the man’s expression closed off. 

Harry shrugged, already having a solution to this. Now that McNair was caught, his main focus would have to be finding the last shard of the man’s soul.

“I can just use Veritaserum if you won’t,” Harry warned him. 

Voldemort made a disparaging sound. 

“You cannot think a simple truth-telling potion would cause me to betray myself.”

Harry cocked an eyebrow.

More lies? With no magic, could he resist it?

“In addition,” Voldemort pressed on, “why would I divulge the secret to my immortality for any price, never mind for the insulting boon of a larger prison?”

Fair point. Harry pocketed his wand. 

“I’ll bring some Veritaserum back with me to test your statement tonight,” Harry said, permitting himself one last look at that splayed body. 

“Allow me to proffer an alternative,” Voldemort said, and Harry’s eyes snapped up to study him. 

“What else could you give me?” Harry asked. “You’re bankrupt.”

Voldemort’s calculating gaze held his intently.

“You want me.”

Harry scrunched up his face in disdain. 

“I already have you, Tom.”

Voldemort’s eyes flared a burning crimson. 

“Not the way you so obviously desire, Harry Potter,” he continued, his voice lowering, and Harry froze in disbelief. “I have seen the way your gaze lingers upon me. The way you yearn to bend for me.”

Harry held his breath, mortified by this exposure and yet thrumming with anticipation. 

“I offer myself,” the Dark Lord stated, confident and incredibly alluring. “In exchange, you will bring me into a Pensieve to show me the ritual you undertook to return my body. You will then detail any alterations you made.”

Harry heard the words, but his mind was still reeling from Voldemort’s extraordinary proposition. 

I offer myself.

Jesus, the Dark Lord as a prize. Does he know what I would do with him? 

Harry pictured stripping the man naked, climbing onto the bed with him, and straddling that powerful body. He would hold him down and lick a wet trail over that thin chest, tasting those tiny nipples, scraping his teeth along that long, pale throat and then feed the man his tongue. 

Merlin. 

Harry could fuck him. 

His gaze slowly returned to the waiting Dark Lord and when their eyes met, an overwhelming rush of hunger struck him. 

This man could be his. To do with as he pleased. 

“Do we have a deal?” Voldemort inquired, all smug and certain. 

Harry blinked. A deal. 

Fuck yeah, we do. 

But before he could voice his agreement, reason interrupted his excitement. The terms. What were the terms again? 

One compliant, naked Dark Lord in exchange for the secret to the man’s lack of magic. 

Bloody fucking hell. 

He couldn’t do it. As much as he wanted to, it was irresponsible. Once Voldemort knew what he’d done, it wouldn’t be long until he figured out how to get his magic back… or manipulated Harry into returning it to him.

Harry tried for a smirk, but his frustrated, throbbing body couldn’t manage more than a pained grimace as he replied.

“Why, Tom? Is something wrong with your new form?”

Harry watched the subtle tensing of the Dark Lord’s muscles. The slight inhale. The rigidly blank expression. 

They never spoke about the secret they both knew. Was Voldemort stupid enough to think Harry wasn’t aware? Because if Voldemort knew, then surely his price would be to return his magic. Or, at the very least, to tell him why it was missing.

You want me. You want me. 

The egotistical prick’s words continued to echo in his brain. Harry leaned down, bringing his face close to the other man’s.

“And just so we’re clear, I don’t want you, you sick fuck,” Harry spat— lying. “All I want is to find your last Horcrux and then kill you.”

Harry pulled away, taking a step back from the bed. Voldemort looked jarringly uncomfortable as he stared up at Harry, his hands tied securely to the headboard. His body bared and helpless. 

Harry was caught, memorising that image.

“You’re wrong about leadership, by the way,” Harry whispered, his eyes contemplating the man’s dry lips. “I don’t care how I get you to obey, so long as you do. If I have to tie you to the bed every day to keep you in your room, I will.”

A whiff of guilt, of caution, blew over him as he stood above the former Dark Lord, but he pushed it aside. It did feel good to control people. Especially someone usually so impossible to command.  

“It doesn’t make me weak,” Harry muttered. “Either way, you’re doing what I want. And you won’t be around long enough for me to care to train you.”

Harry dragged his gaze away, turning his back on his enemy. 

“Have a good day, Tom,” Harry said, before he closed the door and went off to work. 

Chapter Text

He’d forgotten. 

How had he forgotten? 

After a whirlwind of interviews and press photos, he’d been pushed onto a stage and made to give a speech that he ought to have been rehearsing for weeks. 

It was Harry Potter Day.

And he was hungover and still wearing robes that smelled vaguely of puke. 

“Mr Potter,” someone said, touching his back. “Would you mind answering a few questions for me?” 

Harry looked over dazedly and saw a woman he did not recognise. He’d been on his way to his office. He felt lightheaded, likely from a risky combination of nerves and a complete lack of food and water. 

“Of course,” he replied with a smile. “Can it just wait a moment so I can grab a quick drink?”

The woman’s face became anxious. 

“It’ll be fast, I promise. I have to get this out before two!”

Harry nodded, pushing down his panic at the very real possibility of himself fainting when he ignored his body’s needs. 

“Thank you so much,” the woman said, and immediately pulled out a notepad. “First of all, great speech, but I noticed you didn’t mention all of the deceased heroes by name. This is a deviation from your norm. Why make that change?”

Harry stared at her, stricken.

She thinks you don’t know them, that you haven’t committed to memory every single person whom you killed during the war. She thinks you’re unaware of your price, of your culpability—

“I… couldn’t bear to say their names today,” Harry replied tonelessly. 

The woman gave him an odd look. 

“How come?”

Harry felt his facial muscles tightening.

“How… come?” he whispered, almost breathless with astonishment. “How come?”

“Harry, mate, there you are!”

Harry looked over and saw Ron running towards him. 

“Do you mind if I steal the hero of the day for a moment?” Ron asked the woman, and then grabbed Harry’s elbow and yanked. 

Harry felt his legs catch him as he stumbled after his friend. 

“Thanks!” Ron shouted behind him, as he dragged Harry along. “Merlin’s pants, you look like a wreck. Have you eaten?”

Harry shook his head. Ron snorted. 

“Course not. C’mon. Let’s get you taken care of.”

Numbly, he allowed Ron to lead him somewhere with a door that shut. He was guided into a chair and then a plate was pressed into his hands. 

“Chips with loads of salt. Your favourite.”

“No,” Harry resisted, trying to push the food away. “I—”

“You’ll eat,” Ron said firmly, taking the plate from him and placing it back onto his lap, “or you’ll get me in trouble with my wife.”

Harry looked up to see Ron smirking. His smile fell when he took in Harry’s face. 

“C’mon mate,” he said gently. “I know it’s hard. Just eat a few.”

Harry looked away, ashamed his eyes had somehow become watery. 

He was terrible at letting people take care of him. It felt wrong. It felt like another failure. This was Harry Potter Day, a day to commemorate the people who had died for him, who’d paid his price during the Battle of Hogwarts, and here he was, hiding away. Crying. Taking care of his own needs. 

Worthless. After all the pain you caused, you’re going to let others mourn without you. It’s your job to hear their stories, see their sadness. To apologise until they believe you, until the hatred and blame in their eyes lessens. You have to take their pain until they feel a sliver of relief and you accept your due. You’re a failure, pathetic—

Strong arms gripped him and then drew him into a tight embrace. Harry let his head fall onto those broad shoulders, let his face bury into his best friend’s robes. 

“Wanna piss off?” Ron whispered into his hair. “You don’t look so well.”

Harry squeezed his eyes closed, his breath hitching. 

Get it together. These people need you, they—

“Harry, you’re shaking,” Ron said, pulling back to look at him, but Harry kept his eyes closed, ashamed, apologetic— “Alright, enough of this.”

Ron lifted him by the underarms and pulled him to his feet.

“Let’s get you home.”

The relief of someone taking charge had Harry all the way to the door before he remembered why Ron could not escort him back to Grimmauld. 

Lord Voldemort was tied to a bed, those thin arms pulled up, his delicate wrists crossed submissively—

Harry caught himself on the doorjamb. 

“I’m fine!” he blurted out, turning to face his friend. “I don’t need to leave yet.”

Ron gave him an exasperatedly skeptical look. 

“Sure,” he said. “And the crying was happy tears, right?”

Harry shook his head. 

“I just got overwhelmed. I’ll… eat something. That’ll make me feel better.”

Ron frowned suspiciously. 

“You’ll eat?”

Harry nodded, feeling bad for lying to him. 

“Yeah. Then I’ll head back out and do a few more interviews. Give it another hour or so.”

“Fuck em, Harry,” Ron said firmly. “You’ve done enough. Just go home.”

Harry grimaced. 

“I’m fine. Really. I’ll just stay a bit longer then head out. Promise.”

Ron glared at him, his blue eyes searching Harry’s face. 

“It’s your call,” he said grimly, and then backed up to keep him company.

“Actually,” Harry added in desperation, “would you mind grabbing me a glass of water?”

Ron snorted, but moved back towards the door. 

“Wish you would just drink conjured water like the rest of us.”

Harry forced a smile. 

“It tastes weird.”

Ron laughed. 

“Be right back,” he said, and then left. 

Harry waited, holding his breath for long moments in the sudden silence of the room. When Ron didn't poke his head back in immediately, Harry released a heavy breath. 

He needed some alone time to think about his options. 

Fuck. Who was he kidding? He didn’t have a choice. 

He had to stay. They needed him and it was his job to be available. It was the very least he could do after what he had cost. 

Barely seconds later, the door flew back open, but it wasn’t Ron standing there. A young man gasped when he saw Harry and dropped the parchment he’d been holding.

“Mr Potter, sir!” he cried, executing a rather deep bow and then reaching down to collect his papers. “What good luck! I— would you mind terribly? My fiancée is a huge fan of yours. She fought with you ten years ago and I know she would be flying over the moon if I got her an autograph of yours.”

The man shifted his papers and reached into the pocket of his robes, pulling out a quill. 

“If you could just write a short message. Maybe say something about your experiences on that day. What it was like to kill He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Harry felt his legs tremble. 

Nothing much, just your innermost thoughts. Cut yourself open and spill onto this page your heartbreak and humiliation so I can have proof that we met, that you—

“Here’s the program,” the man interrupted, thrusting a pamphlet into his hands. 

Harry looked down at it and saw his own face beaming up at him, looking much more handsome and put-together than the one that stared blankly back at him in the mirror every morning. Over his head were the words, Harry Potter Day! then below it, 10th Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts.

Harry flipped it over quickly. 

“Anywhere is fine,” the man said, handing Harry the quill. “Just say something meaningful. She really loves you.”

Harry blinked, his mind wiped clean. Something meaningful—

What about, “Sorry for killing all your friends”? Or “How the fuck can you love me if we’ve never even met?”

“Right,” Harry muttered and scratched out something trite, something about working together, but it was the best he could do. 

When he handed it back, the man read it and then squished his lips to the side. 

“Oh.” He turned it over. “You didn’t even sign your name.”

“Oops, sorry.” He scribbled it underneath his message and then handed it back. “I really have to go, sorry again.”

Harry sidled past him and strode down the hall.  

He’d forgotten it had been ten years. No way could he leave early now. Not today, not without accumulating more guilt than he could manage. It helped him to shift the pain of others onto himself, where it belonged. 

The hallway opened up into a room packed with people. When they saw him they began to walk towards him, some smiling, others looking upset. 

Although his instinctual response was terror and a screaming aversion to their unwanted touch, he forced himself to greet them. He owed them his attention and his body and would surrender them both for as long as he was needed. 

~*~

It was well after two in the morning when Harry finally Apparated home. 

He was exhausted. Without the need to hitch up his smile or clench his fists to keep from howling, his muscles liquified.

Stumbling downstairs to the kitchen, he necked back two glasses of water and then slid to the floor. He closed his eyes. 

“You are home late.”

Harry jumped to his feet, wand in hand and ready to battle. That voice, that sodding high, cold susurration always sent him right back to his adolescence. Back to desperation and panic.

“What are you—How—?”

Harry took a moment to collect himself, his gaze sweeping the man before him. 

“You’re free,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. 

He glanced down at Voldemort’s hands and saw bloody gashes in his wrists, the skin saturated with red. It looked like he’d clawed himself loose.  

His eyes returned to the Dark Lord. The man was studying him with some amusement. 

“Surely you did not believe you were the first person to attempt to restrain me with rope.”

“But—” you have no magic, he had been about to say, though luckily he’d caught himself just in time. 

Something in Voldemort’s gaze sharpened, but he couldn’t muster the energy to care what had caused it to. 

His aching body believed the danger to be done and so his muscles began to tremble with fatigue once more. He leaned heavily against the countertop and felt his legs slide slowly out from underneath him until he had returned to the floor. 

“I don’t even care right now,” Harry muttered, closing his eyes. “I’ll deal with you in the morning. Piss off.”

In the silence, Harry let his mind drift, hoping it would carry him to sleep, but instead he saw Garret Mables asking him for the twentieth time why no one had informed him about the Acromantula that lived in the Forbidden Forest before his mother had been devoured by one of them; or Mrs Brown who told him she wanted to push through prejudiced legislation to cull all werewolves after her daughter’s fatal attack; or Mr Diggory, who still insisted on torturing him with talking about Cedric’s death every chance he got. 

It all came to the same thing: if he’d gotten his shit together sooner, if he’d put in any work at all instead of arsing about, then none of these tragedies would have happened. 

Your fault, it’s all down to you, their Saviour, their only hope and you fucked it up, you—

“Would you like to give some of that to me, Harry Potter?”

Harry looked up to see Lord Voldemort standing over him, his gaze dark and hungry. 

Give it to me, give it to me— the words swirled around him and he didn’t know what they meant. He didn’t want to make a choice or come to a decision because that meant responsibility and they all knew what Harry Potter had done with that, he’d fucked it all up, he’d—

“Heal my wrists.”

Harry looked up and got caught in that red stare for long moments. 

An order. He liked those. What had it been for? The man’s pupils were large, hidden half under his high cheekbones. Somehow, the weird, flat, alien face was still handsome. Tom Riddle was gone, but the starkly white skeleton man’s air of danger was incredibly compelling. 

“My wrists, Potter,” Voldemort reminded him, his voice low, extending the injuries closer to Harry. “Heal them.”

Harry’s hand moved to his robes and pulled out his wand. Without thought, he mended the wounds, and even managed to clean them. Once the skin looked flawless and pale again, he returned his wand and looked up, waiting for further instructions. 

“Good boy.”

Harry cringed. Voldemort’s finger tipped up his chin. 

“You dislike that term,” Voldemort observed. 

Harry turned away, feeling awkward for his own reaction. 

“My uncle…” he muttered. 

He couldn’t go on, it was too pathetic. 

“Your uncle praised you similarly?” Voldemort ventured, and Harry snorted. 

“Yeah, that would be a first.” 

“What then?” Voldemort persisted. 

Harry shook his head, but Voldemort grabbed his chin securely. 

“When I ask you a question, you answer. Why does that term bother you?”

Harry didn’t talk about this— never talked about his time with the Dursleys. He wanted to slink away, but Voldemort held his face firmly. 

“My uncle,” he began, not knowing how to explain that embarrassing conditioned response. “He… he never called me by my name. No one there did. I was always just boy.”

Harry looked up at Voldemort to see the man scrutinising him intently.

“I was told you were treated well at your relatives'.”

Harry laughed out loud at that. 

“That’s a good one. Did Snape tell you that?” He laughed again at Voldemort’s bewildered expression. “Well, sorry to contradict your information, but I was treated like a slave. They starved me and smacked me around. Made me work myself sick. I was an unwelcome burden. My uncle said I was useless. Worthless. Tainted. A freak—”

“Enough,” Voldemort interjected and Harry shut his mouth, realising he’d said those words aloud.

The Dark Lord walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and seated himself regally. Harry could not take his eyes away. 

“Your uncle is a Muggle, Harry. You should know better than to listen to his braying.”

Harry’s gaze roamed the man’s long legs, his posture so frustratingly arrogant no matter what Harry did to him.

“Come.”

Harry searched that face, noting the crimson eyes that narrowed when Harry hesitated. 

“Crawl to me,” Voldemort commanded. “I will take your pain and then send you to bed.”

Harry could crawl. He could do that to receive a restful sleep. Last time he’d agreed to this, he’d slept blissfully.

He shifted and moved awkwardly across the dirty tiles. It felt wrong to be doing this, crawling for this man, but Harry just wanted to sleep. He didn’t want to think anymore. It was weak, but who cared if he was weak before this man? No one would know. It was safe to fall apart here. 

Voldemort hummed in approval and Harry hated the jolt of pride he felt at that, but whatever. Fuck it. So what if he got off on Voldemort praising him? No one had to know. 

“I think I would like to see you bow for me,” Voldemort mused, spreading his legs to make space for Harry between them. “Forehead to the floor, Potter.”

As his body moved into position, he became aware that he was exposing his neck to his enemy. Leaving himself wide open for anything. He wouldn’t even be able to keep the man in his sights. 

The implications and dangers of this screamed caution into his ears, but then Voldemort’s bare foot nudged his shoulder and he instantly bent, sinking down and pressing his face to the cool floor. 

He closed his eyes. 

Fear and shock slammed against him, but he just took a deep breath and settled in further. Let his mind blank. 

I am bowing to Lord Voldemort. 

A fact with no emotions. 

He let his thoughts quiet, relaxing his muscles. 

A warm, heavy weight suddenly appeared against his spine, pressing him further down. 

Lord Voldemort's legs are on my back. 

The image of what the two of them probably looked like popped into his mind: Harry, curled into a ball with Lord Voldemort’s legs upon his back, using him as a footrest. 

Harry let the picture go without judgement. 

He felt small. Like he was invisible, or perhaps he was just there with the simple purpose of lifting up someone’s legs.

And footstools didn’t have prophesied responsibilities. 

He could do this mundane task. So long as he stayed still and didn’t disrupt the man, he could do something right. He closed his eyes and concentrated on that, on pleasing the Dark Lord. 

“How readily you obey me, Harry Potter,” Voldemort said softly, and a creaking sound alerted him that the man was moving. 

Not yet! I don’t want to come back, don’t make me, please—

Fingers sunk into his hair and began gently stroking his skin. He froze, unsure if he could trust it, but when no action was taken to force him up, Harry closed his eyes again, accidentally letting out a low moan of relief. 

“You like this,” Voldemort whispered, his fingers meandering over Harry’s scalp. 

Harry knew he was expected to answer, but found he didn’t want to speak out loud in this position. 

Footstools didn’t talk. 

Instead, he pushed his head against the hand in his hair. The action made him feel like a kitten and that was a hilarious image, but he just let it go. So what? It felt good. And no one would know. 

A soft chuckle met his ears and that almost snapped him right out of his daze— the Dark Lord laughing? Was he mocking him? Was Harry doing something embarrassing?

The other man must have sensed his unease because he made a shushing sound. 

“None of that, Potter. I am enjoying your responses.”

Harry felt a contented smile cross his lips. He laid his head back down and let himself sink into this. It felt natural, like a puzzle piece was finally locking into place. 

“It would seem that you are eager to please,” Voldemort remarked. “Would you like to serve me further?”

Harry was slow to take in the meaning of that. He ran it through his mind a couple of times and then opened his eyes. Voldemort continued before Harry could get lost.

“I require something from you. No need to speak, I merely seek your thoughts. Give me the memory of when you returned me to my body. Do this, and you shall be rewarded. You will have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude.”

Yes.

Harry clenched and released his fingers. 

I want that. 

“Good, very good,” Voldemort said, and Harry felt the man shift. 

His head was lifted off the floor by the hand in his hair. It hurt, but everything was strangely muted. The cool lip of a potion bottle pressed against his cheek, just under his glasses. 

“Focus,” Voldemort instructed him, his fingers tightening. “Think of the ritual and give me the—”

A sudden sharp knocking sound echoed down the stairs to where they were in the kitchen. Harry gasped and it was like being slapped awake. He made to push himself up, but the firm legs on his back did not recede. Instead, they increased the pressure upon him. 

“Stay, Potter,” Voldemort hissed. 

Harry nodded, trying to relax back, but then another series of bangs on his door came crashing down the stairs. He pressed his hands to the ground, ready to stand.

“Do not move—”

Voldemort grabbed him by the front of his robes, pulling him up and forward. Closer. Harry’s eyes flew wide, shocked to stillness at seeing the Dark Lord’s furious face so close. 

“Mr Potter!” a muffled, distant voice cried, and the spell was broken. 

Someone needed him. 

Harry struggled to get free, trying to weaken Voldemort’s hold. 

“You will ignore it, Potter,” Voldemort commanded fiercely. “It is the middle of the night. What business could—”

“It doesn’t matter!” Harry shouted, shoving the man’s chest to no avail. “They need help!”

“And why from you? Why must you do this?”

Harry was so thrown by the question that he stopped struggling. He looked up at the man in confusion. 

“Because it’s my job,” he replied, stating that obvious fact as if to a child. 

Voldemort’s gaze darkened. 

“You owe them nothing, Potter. They owe you, you imbecile.”

Harry shook his head desperately. 

“No. No, I—”

“It is suicide you are chasing.”

Harry’s lips parted. 

No defence came to him, because there was none. 

“Do not think I do not see it,” Voldemort whispered dangerously. “You offer yourself to these carrion birds so that they will pick you clean.”

Voldemort bent down, his fingers releasing Harry’s robes to sink back into his hair, but this time his hold was punishing.

“It is a waste. You—”

“Please,” that distant voice begged, and Harry sucked in a gasp. 

He yanked his head away and felt his skin tear where Voldemort had hung on. But it was enough. He broke free and ran up the stairs, his heart slamming against his ribs.

You couldn’t even manage to do a footstool’s job properly. Failure, fuck up—

He pulled the door open. 

~*~

Voldemort watched the boy run upstairs. Towards the worthless, disposable disruption and away from him. 

It should not be thus. 

The boy was his. 

Insatiably curious, he followed. 

“…moments, I promise,” a voice he did not recognise said imploringly. 

The boy did not respond and Voldemort yearned for his camouflage spells and Legilemency. He took two steps closer, careful not to be seen. 

“It’s late,” Potter replied, sounding nervous, which would only make the visitor hungrier. “Now is not a great time, but—”

“We saw you running away.”

Voldemort did not like the stranger’s accusatory tone. Harry Potter had never run away from danger in his life. 

The silence was maddening. Voldemort quietly crept back down into the kitchen and selected a large silver spoon. When he had reached the top of the stairs again, he used the convex side of the metal to peer around the corner. 

Potter was standing with his back to Voldemort and another person was facing him. A young woman, perhaps a decade or so older than the boy. 

She stepped closer to Potter and he stepped back. 

Fool.

“There were explosions everywhere,” the woman said, daring to take yet another step forwards and Voldemort burned to feel Dark magic fly from his fingertips, “and we needed you. I saw you flee into the forest. The giants— they were… They…”

The woman trailed off, choking on her ridiculous sobs and Potter moved towards her, perhaps to offer her undeserved coddling. 

“Here,” the boy said, backing up and opening the door wider. “Come in. Just—”

He looked behind himself and towards the stairs where Voldemort stood concealed. 

“Stay here, in the foyer.” 

The boy conjured a chair and the woman fell into it, still heaving and gasping obscenely. 

“Can I get you some water?” Potter quietly asked, standing awkwardly at her side. “Or—”

“You can get me my sister back!” the woman shouted.

People yelling always made Voldemort lean away in distaste, but he watched as Potter leaned in. Going towards the censure. Towards the threat. It perplexed him. Voldemort was no coward, yet neither would he place himself in danger unnecessarily.

“I’m sorry,” Potter whispered, and his broken tone made Voldemort scrutinise his face.

The boy trusted too easily. This could be a lie. Her performance had earned her special treatment from the Chosen One and he was accepting her words as fact with no evidence.

“I…” Potter began, tears on his face, “I am so very sorry I couldn’t save her. I know it’s not enough, it’s—”

“You didn’t even try,” she interrupted, and Voldemort’s fingers clenched. “I saw you run away into the forest. We were calling out to you for help. She was… she was trampled to death by your giants. She stayed behind to protect you and you ran away.”

Potter was nodding at the lies. They had not been the boy’s giants. The girl had not stayed behind for Potter. She had stayed behind for a naïve, idealistic yearning. She had stayed for herself. 

“She was— she,” the fool stammered, and Potter’s legs buckled. 

Voldemort watched him kneel, holding on to the arm of the chair, but Potter’s eyes stayed riveted on the woman’s face. Ensuring that he bared his chest for every hit. 

Voldemort was done observing. 

If the boy would not put an end to this, then Lord Voldemort would. 

He released the spoon, rounding the corner into their sights, but before his presence could be detected, the fiend had pulled out her wand and shot a spell at Potter directly into his bewildered face. 

Voldemort reached instinctively for his magic as he strode towards the beast who still had not looked up to see him. Potter fell back, unresponsive, his body thudding on the wood heavily. 

The contemptible woman raised her wand again and dishonourably hit the unconscious boy with another Dark curse. 

Voldemort bared his teeth. 

The cadaver finally saw him. Her eyes grew huge and she began to recede, but Voldemort simply followed. 

As if she could escape him. 

“No,” she denied in obvious horror, collapsing against the closed door, her wand useless at her side. “But you’re… You’re—”

Her terror pleased him, invigorated him. He would enjoy this. 

“The Dark Lord Voldemort,” he confirmed, close enough to touch at last. 

“Please,” she sobbed, her body pressing futilely against the wallpaper in a pathetic attempt to disappear. 

He had always enjoyed begging. 

Regarding her for a moment, he let himself savour this unexpected opportunity. Her snivelling was irritating, but he allowed his mind to wander onto what this situation had unlocked. 

Potter could be dead. 

Voldemort had recognised both curses and one, at least, had the potential to kill outright; the other would kill in days if left unlifted. 

If the wards placed upon this manor were tied to the boy alone, then his death would break them and Voldemort would be free. 

He felt his expression shift with excitement. The look must not have been comforting because the woman began to beg again through her craven tears. 

He finally granted her his full attention. 

Some familiar actions, he did not require magic to accomplish. Killing was one of his many proficiencies. Although he preferred the entertainment of psychological trauma to precede it, his current needs limited his options. 

Reaching forward, he simply pressed hard against the throbbing arteries in her neck, cutting off both blood and oxygen to her brain. She struggled, of course, but her need was less than his, and her fear made her weak. 

When her body became limp, he followed it to the ground, continuing his hold just to make sure. Extra caution and preparedness had always served him well. 

At last, she was quiet. He stood and took in his triumph over the woman. Even without his magic, he was far superior. She had managed to incapacitate and perhaps even kill the Boy Who Lived, and yet Lord Voldemort had exterminated her effortlessly. 

Victory suited him. 

He would have more of it. 

Turning, he went to the boy and crouched down. Those penetrating eyes were closed, his face slack and open, but his body was twitching slightly. 

That would be the Boiling Curse. It would be searing his skin intolerably right now, and the only reason his body remained impassive was due to the advanced Paralysis Curse he had also been struck with. The twitching was involuntary because the boy would have no present ability to control his movements. 

Excellent. 

He stood. 

It was true, he could ameliorate the boy’s condition. Maybe even save his life. He looked down on the spasming body. 

But killing him would be wiser. With the boy gone, the prophecy would be broken at last. 

Lord Voldemort would be indomitable. 

With the boy dead, the ward’s on this manor would fall and he would be free. He could create a way to bring back his magic and then pay an overdue visit to Lucius. The traitor would die both for being the only remaining person with knowledge of his return and also to atone for his disrespectful words. 

His gaze remained rapt on Potter’s flickering eyelids. Unfathomably, the spectacle was not pleasant to watch. It created a discomfort. A pull that jarred with his retreating momentum. His victory. 

He forced himself to turn away and strode to the door. Closing his eyes, he placed his hands upon the wood and felt for the wards. They were there, pulsing with energy, ancient and strong. 

Lowering his arms, he glanced behind himself to check the boy’s status. The skin on those cheeks trembled, the fingers jolting at random.

Still alive. 

Lord Voldemort leaned his back against the wall, his fingers weaved in front of himself, and waited for the boy to perish.

Chapter Text

For five days he waited. 

Three days without water would kill a normal man. 

But Potter, it would seem, was anomalous. He should have expected nothing less from the Golden Boy. 

It was baffling. Troubling. It was unlikely that Potter’s magic was sustaining him and yet there was no other explanation apart from the boy’s famous obstinacy. 

The brat refused to capitulate. 

Voldemort’s vigil had been tedious and his patience had run dry. 

If the boy would not succumb to the curses raging through him, then Voldemort would simply expedite the process. He had hoped to leave behind a body that had died from the intruder’s curses, but he refused to waste any more time on this.

He knelt beside the boy’s twitching frame. This close, he could hear delicate whimpers emanating from those lips. Determined not to be distracted, he decisively pinched the clammy nose with his thumb and used his palm to cover the boy’s mouth. 

Invasive doubts pestered him as he touched Potter. He was unaccustomed to hesitation. Killing the boy was the right move though and thus, he persevered. 

There was no reaction for several seconds and then those verdant eyes snapped open and Potter dropped his jaw to gasp in air. The sudden change was startling and Voldemort pulled back. 

Potter’s eyes were wide and agonised. He released a ragged scream and began to pant. 

“Help,” the boy rasped, his eyes bloodshot, but that dehydrated body could produce no tears. “P… Please…”

End of life begging never affected him. It could be amusing or satisfying, but it had never had the ability to move him. 

Potter’s unnatural feebleness did. This boy had walked to his own death fearlessly. Had stood against Lord Voldemort confidently at the age of eleven. 

Watching Potter suffer like this reminded him too much of his own mortality. His own suffering.

He yearned for his magic, for with it Potter’s death could have been swift and effortless. Impersonal.

“Please… kill me,” the boy croaked and Voldemort stepped back in shock. 

Potter was begging… to die. Not to live. He was begging to be killed. 

His mind struggled to comprehend that.

“Please,” the boy whispered again and then fell into unconsciousness once more. 

Voldemort drew away further. 

For a moment, he had believed that his own demise was playing out for him in Potter, but now he realised that he would never be able to understand the boy. 

He glanced towards the front door and the cache of potions he could see tucked away amidst Potter’s footwear. He had already gone through the stash in his previous searches of the house and knew there resided an elixir that could shock a freshly deceased wizard’s heart back to life. The boy's occupation must render him infirm regularly for him to require some of the potions he hoarded.

He looked back at the boy.

Perhaps this was the best solution. He could kill Potter, take the wards down, resuscitate him, and then leave him for his friends to find.

This had already taken too long. The boy's two companions had come daily to bang on the door and it would likely be at any moment that one of them lost patience and managed to rip through the heavy defences. It could be done; the idiots had simply so far been too polite to force entry.

Once they grew more concerned, however, they would come, finding Lord Voldemort infuriatingly vulnerable. 

Yet with this opportunity, he would be long gone when they finally broke in. 

Resolved, he strode back to the boy and cut off his breath. He watched as Potter tried to gasp around his palm, unable to move more than the reflexive responses to save his life, but they were insufficient.

The boy’s chest shook with its last ineffectual attempt at breathing and then stilled. 

Lord Voldemort stared down at the Chosen One’s lifeless body. 

I have won. 

He waited for the thrill of that to enliven him; his own superiority, his now unrestricted might—

Yet all he felt was a kind of disoriented panic. 

A need to complete his task quickly so he could recover the boy. 

He stood and pivoted towards the door. Placing his hands upon it, he felt rejoiced at its weakened state. There were gaps, tears he could effortlessly unravel, but when he reached out to begin, an endless, ghostly void was all he encountered. 

No. 

There was a way out, yet he could not grasp it. 

In denial, he redoubled his efforts, his nails sinking into the old wood of the door, closing his eyes to focus on his abilities, his puissance, his —

But it was gone. 

He was simply a man scrabbling against a prison wall. 

His eyes flew open. 

Never. 

I am more, I am the pinnacle, I am the Dark Lord Voldemort and nothing can withstand my determination. 

It was insignificant. This path was blocked, yet there were others. 

Others that required the boy. 

Turning, his eyes fell upon the disturbingly still body. A lick of fear touched him, but he banished it. Striding forward he retrieved the phial of Elixir and forced it past the boy’s lax, cooling lips. 

He waited. 

Seconds piled up and he began to question whether he had made an error. Had it been too long? Were the curses Harry had been suffering under too strong to let him reawaken? What if—

A tight gasp startled him. 

Harry Potter’s eyes blinked open and seized him. 

A distressed relief weakened his legs and pulled him down. He knelt on the floor at the boy’s side, taking in his rapidly rising and falling chest. The flush that suffused his priorly pale face. 

Alive.

He allowed himself a moment to collect his disordered mind. Looking down, he noticed that his fingers were lightly touching the warm skin of the boy’s neck. He frowned, not knowing when he had placed them there. 

He stared at the pulse he could see flickering under the twitching skin. Potter would be in tremendous pain still and it was no longer advantageous. Now, it worked against him. 

If Lord Voldemort could not walk free without the boy’s assistance, then he must commit himself to acquiring it by any means. 

~*~

Harry blinked his eyes open. 

Ugh, too bright. He groaned and closed them again. He felt groggy, almost like he was sick. Hungover. 

What the fuck?

He tried to sit up and that’s when he realised he couldn’t move. 

All at once, it was crucial he escape, run, flee, who’s got me, where am I—?

“Calm down,” a familiar voice quietly commanded, and Harry instantly shut up. 

Fuck. 

He couldn’t move, his glasses were gone, he felt drugged, and Lord fucking Voldemort was sitting at his bedside. 

“Where am I?” he asked, trying to gather his composure. 

There was a long pause and Harry began to imagine all of the horrible options— the graveyard, Riddle Manor—

“Your home.”

Home?

Harry squinted around himself, trying to keep down the panic at not being able to lift his head. The blurry shapes began to coalesce and he recognised his bedroom. He brought his gaze back to the shadow by his side. 

“My glasses?” he inquired.

Voldemort’s outline shook his head.

“They will not help you.”

Well that was cryptic as fuck. Great.  

“What happened?” Harry asked. 

“What do you remember?”

He thought about it. 

“A woman.” 

He frowned, seeing her crying and he remembered feeling helpless in the face of her grief and accusations. 

“Did you know her?” Voldemort asked. 

Harry tried to shake his head, but another shock of terror seized him when he could not. 

“No,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “I think she said her… sister?” 

He looked up at Voldemort for confirmation, but he couldn’t make out the man’s expression. Whatever. That was what he recalled. 

“Her sister got… crushed by a giant. She—”

“I know what she said, Potter,” the other man cut in, sounding irritated. “I do not wish to hear her sentimentalism again.”

Harry snorted. Course not, fucking prat. 

So. The woman had blamed him and then—

“She attacked me,” Harry said, suddenly remembering the searing agony.

It was a strange relief that she'd been responsible for his condition and not the Dark Lord. She'd hit Harry with a curse and then he’d blacked out…

…which would have left her alone with Lord Voldemort. 

“Where is she?” he croaked, though he supposed he already knew the answer.

There was a pause and Harry pictured the Dark Lord smirking. 

“I have collected her teeth and larger bones from the fireplace and intend to grind them with a mortar and pestle now that you have—”

“You killed her?” Harry interrupted weakly, feeling immediately dizzy. 

Oh god, my fault, my fault. She’s dead because she confronted me for her sister’s murder. I killed them both, I’ve—

“She tried to murder you, Potter,” Voldemort replied heavily. “She attacked an unarmed man.”

“Because I killed her sister!” Harry shouted, his blurry eyesight beginning to twinkle with lights. 

What the fuck didn’t the man understand? The poor woman had just wanted some justice, some acknowledgment for what had been taken from her. 

“Calm down,” Voldemort said firmly. “You will only exhaust yourself. You are still recovering.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to comply. Merlin, it was so unfair. She had just been trying to get some retribution. 

“She’s dead,” he muttered, unable to block out that fact. 

Dead because Harry had not protected her sister. Because Harry had brought Lord Voldemort into his home and could not control him. 

And then something else occurred to him.

“You… you burned her body in the hearth?” He looked over at the unmoving shape, anger and anxiety twisting within him. “I’m the Head fucking Auror. You can’t just dispose of bodies in my sodding dining room!”

“I used the kitchen fireplace.”

Harry choked out an incredulous laugh. 

“That’s not the bloody point, is it? You can’t—”

“You are becoming hysterical,” Voldemort interjected, and Harry wanted to strike him. 

He saw the man’s shape stand and then walk towards the door. 

“I will return once you have gotten control of yourself,” Voldemort said, and then a desperate sense of urgency, of terror and need abruptly overtook Harry. 

“I thought that was your fucking job!” he threw out— and then froze. 

Voldemort had stopped walking. Harry couldn’t tell what his expression was, but his silence was charged. 

Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? Like this isn’t bad enough.

“Never mind,” Harry said quietly, wishing he could disappear. “That’s not what I—”

“You want me to take control, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asked, and his tone clenched Harry’s stomach. 

The man moved closer. 

“I saved your life,” Voldemort reminded him. “I disposed of her body. Gave you healing potions. Kept you fed and hydrated.”

He had reached the bed. Harry looked up into that pale face and could see the red eyes boring into him. 

“I am already in control.”

“I can’t move,” Harry whispered in a small voice, looking away. 

Voldemort hummed. 

“I am aware.” 

Fingers reached down and tilted up Harry’s face so they could look at each other again.

“I will handle that, too,” Voldemort promised, and Harry almost moaned at the very real weight that was instantly lifted from him. 

Those fingers began to gently caress his throat. 

“I will ask so little of you in return, Harry Potter. For now, accept that the woman is dead, with gratitude.”

Indignation rose up in him, but then the hand at his throat tightened swiftly to cut off his breath. 

“Say, Yes Master,” Voldemort commanded. 

Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. How was he supposed to say anything? The man was going to kill him after all and—

The fingers released him. Gasping, his eyes watering embarrassingly, he nodded. Voldemort continued to wait in silence. 

“Yes, Master,” Harry recited. 

Voldemort released a satisfied hum and then wiped away a tear on Harry’s face. 

“That pleases me. Now, you will go back to sleep while I dispose of the woman’s remains. When you wake, you will eat and then rest some more. Both curses are still rampant within you, their effects are merely muted with potions.”

“What?” Harry gasped, fear gripping him. 

A large hand was clapped over his mouth and nose, pressing down and blocking his breath. He wanted to flail and scream, but all he could do was plead with his eyes for mercy, for air—

The hand disappeared and Harry pulled in oxygen fiercely. 

“I am in control, Potter,” Voldemort growled. “I grant you breath and life and will break the curses upon you. Be patient.”

“But you have no magic,” Harry helplessly pleaded— and then his eyes snapped up in terror to Voldemort’s blurry face. 

“Ah,” the Dark Lord exhaled, sounding disappointedly resigned.

Harry could only stare. Voldemort straightened, the tips of his fingers sharply tapping Harry’s face twice before slipping away. 

“We will have much to discuss when you wake. Sleep well, Harry Potter.” 

And then the Dark Lord swept from his room and shut the door, trapping him alone inside. 

~*~

The boy was at fault.

There was no other explanation. Voldemort’s intuition had been correct all along and he was sure that the ritual to get his body back had been botched. 

Or, had this been the intended result?

Had the boy cursed him to revive this way? Without the power that was owed to him, without his birthright?

No matter. The secret was out and the boy would pay for his negligence. 

He pushed off from the wall where he had rested after leaving Potter’s side. He was angry at being duped, yet he was free now to question the boy openly about it, which calmed him. 

As he walked down the stairs towards the kitchen, the front door banged ominously once again. 

“Harry!” that same voice shouted, and Voldemort paused, listening. “Open this door! Right now!”

“We’re not going away, mate,” another voice threatened. “We know you’re upset, but we just want to know you’re okay. Please.”

There was a silence and then the pounding recommenced. 

“Harry, you’re being ridiculous!” The woman again. “I’m getting induced tomorrow and if you don’t come to see him, I’ll never forgive you!”

“Don’t say that,” the male voice chastened. 

Voldemort grew weary of the inanity and continued down the stairs. He would have to send a letter from Potter reassuring his lackeys today. He would tell them that the boy had contracted dragon pox. 

“Well, he should know, Ron!” the woman said loudly, as Voldemort rounded the banister and walked away towards the stairs to the kitchen. “It’s his fault that Hugo is late! All this stress! My body doesn’t feel safe giving birth.”

“Come on, Hermione, let’s just go. Goodnight, Harry. Sorry if you heard any of this. We both love you.”

If the nonsense had continued after that, Voldemort was blissfully unaware of it. He took down a pot and began making Potter soup. 

~*~

“So, how long will my store of potions last anyways?”

Voldemort put the bowl down onto the boy’s bedside table and leaned back in his chair. He regarded the young man, taking in his twitching skin and complete vulnerability.

“Your stock is impressive,” Voldemort replied, weaving his fingers together and resting them upon his lap. “With that and your inexhaustible luck, you should manage for awhile.”

“But not forever,” the boy countered irritatingly. Potter had the audacity to glare at him, holding his gaze almost like a reprimand. “You need to take me to St Mungo’s.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, letting the silence grow heavy with his displeasure. 

“Give me the memory of my resurrection, Harry Potter,” Voldemort demanded. 

Potter closed his eyes briefly. 

“No.”

Voldemort felt a thrill go through him at that word. He enjoyed when people attempted to deny him. 

“I am keeping you alive,” he reminded the boy dangerously. “You are at my mercy. Refuse me anything I ask for and I will simply remove your access to oxygen.”

This generous warning somehow made Potter laugh. It was a strange action to witness on a body that could only move basic facial muscles. 

“I’m not you, Tom,” the impertinent child asserted, his scathing tone bringing Voldemort’s attention right back. “I’m not afraid to die. Besides, it’s obvious you can’t kill me, or you would've done so already. You need me alive.”

Voldemort leaned forward, reaching out unthinkingly for his powers that were agonisingly absent. 

“I want you dead.”

Harry raised his eyebrows nonchalantly. 

“If I die, you’re trapped. I know the wards on this house and you can’t get out without me. Well, not powerless as you are. Wanna starve to death?”

Voldemort growled and grabbed the boy by his throat. Potter’s eyes burned into him and Voldemort refused to acknowledge the knowing smirk that was there. 

The truth of the boy’s statements were galling. He could make no move against him until he had reclaimed his freedom and his magic. And to achieve both, he needed the boy’s cooperation. 

Or, perhaps…?

“You are right,” Voldemort stated, letting the boy’s body fall heavily back onto the bed. 

Potter’s expression changed to one of incredulity, which was amusing. 

“I’m right?” Potter parroted. “Right about what?”

“That without access to my magic, I require assistance to break free from here.”

The boy nodded slowly. 

“Exactly. You need me alive.”

Voldemort shook his head minutely and allowed the child to grasp the danger that was looming. 

“No, Harry Potter. I require assistance, but it need not be from you. For example, were you aware that your friends visit each day to persuade you to come out?”

Voldemort savoured the boy’s paling, comprehending face.

“The woman is pregnant, or so she says,” he continued. “I wonder if her body will instinctually deliver the infant as I kill her, or whether it will—”

“No,” Potter interrupted, his face suddenly animated with fury. 

Voldemort devoured his energy greedily, taking in the flushed colour of his cheeks and his murderous eyes. 

“Don’t you fucking touch her, or I’ll—”

“Lay docilely in your bed and watch?” Voldemort cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because that it all you are capable of doing at the moment.”

His gaze lowered to take in the boy’s limp, helpless body. How strange that Potter’s speech and expression could be so impassioned and yet, all his other parts remained unmoving. Fascinating. 

“I have simply to wait,” he went on, bringing his gaze back to those ferocious green eyes. “They will grow impatient and break in eventually. Perhaps they will save their daring rescue for when they introduce you to their offspring?”

“No, you fucking bastard, what’s wrong with you? Why do you have such a hard-on for killing babies?”

Voldemort graciously allowed the disrespect. 

“It is in your power to prevent,” he reminded the boy lightly, placing a hand absently upon Potter’s heaving chest. 

The material was damp with perspiration and he could feel the erratic heartbeat thundering to protect. 

“Fuck!” Potter shouted, drawn out and anguished, his eyes closing and tears sliding into his hair. “Fucking hell! Alright.” 

The boy was panting and Voldemort watched as he licked his lips. His hands twitched upon the warm body. 

“Do you hear me?” Potter growled, his gaze flashing open, enticing Voldemort to meet it. “Leave them the fuck alone and you can have your sodding memory, okay? Do I have your word— but fuck!” The boy laughed, closing his eyes again. “You could just be lying! Why the fuck should I trust you? If they… If they do break in, if they do that, will you…What will you do?”

Voldemort considered his response. 

“Hide,” he decided, and then hardened his tone. “And if you attempt anything foolish like casting Fiendfyre on this manor or never returning so that I perish inside, remember, Harry Potter, that I am immortal.”

He let that threat hang for moments, allowing the boy to understand what was at stake. 

“I am proficient at killing while possessing others as a wraith and I will find your little friends and their precious progeny and I will make them suffer for your betrayal.”

Potter’s eyelids fluttered closed and tears continued to drip down through his dark lashes. Voldemort watched them, becoming absorbed in their progress. He studied the boy’s pain, watching it play out in his features. Potter’s concern seemed genuine and that was something Voldemort would never understand. The boy would risk his own life, throw away his only power over Lord Voldemort, all for a promise of safety for his friends. 

He already knew this weakness of his enemy’s, of course, yet watching it evolve in person was strangely compelling. 

When Voldemort drew his attention back to the boy’s eyes, he realised that he was being likewise studied.

“I won’t sabotage this, I swear,” the boy whispered. “Please. I want to trust you. Can I trust you?”

What a question. Of course not. Trust was not a commodity shared between them. It had to be earned and so far the boy had lied and robbed him of his birthright. 

“If you’re angry,” the child went on, “take it out on me. You’re… you’re going to be angry. You’re going to be pissed. But I need you to promise you won’t hurt anyone else to get back at me.”

“You know I will not make that promise, Harry Potter.”

“Well, just for this memory, then. You have to swear that you direct your… your rage and… murderous intent at me. Just me. Please.”

That word again. He did so enjoy hearing the boy beg. 

“I almost do not even require this memory anymore. These confessions are enough to confirm what I had already suspected. Nevertheless, I do not trust you, therefore you will give it to me and then we shall discuss how I will vent my murderous intent, as you so wisely phrased it.”

Voldemort reached over with the hand not touching Potter and grabbed his water glass. Tilting it, he spilled the contents carelessly onto the floor and then held the empty glass against the boy’s cheek. 

“Give me that memory, Potter. Now.”

~*~

The mist swarmed him, blocking the view of his own naked body emerging from a cauldron, and then his feet abruptly hit the carpet in the boy’s godfather’s chambers once more. 

Voldemort slumped onto the dusty bed, releasing his held breath. 

The flesh of a servant. 

It was as he feared. 

Potter had built this body without that integral piece and his current predicament could not be alleviated without it. Yet the boy had captured and killed all of his servants, even his familiar, Nagini. With no one he could term as his servant, he was without any other possible ingredients.

His Inner Circle had been obliterated, all except for Lucius. It was unlikely, unfortunately, that the traitor would qualify as his anymore after the man had abandoned him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Not even the man’s unmarked, deceitful wife would suffice as she had lied to him regarding the boy’s mortality after they had both been knocked unconscious in the Forest. 

He had no one. 

Without a servant to willingly sacrifice a part of themselves to revive him, he would remain cut off from his powers. 

No. 

This was a setback, certainly, but Lord Voldemort would not be thwarted so easily. Once he took his freedom, he would find another servant and use them—

Voldemort’s eyes flashed open. 

Why search further, when the obvious solution was at hand? Paralysed and at his mercy. 

Potter. 

It would not take much to pull the boy into his thrall and then he would demand significant recompense for the deficit he had been given. The boy would fix this or Lord Voldemort would slaughter each person he cared about. Everyone he talked to or looked at. 

He would slaughter every human on the planet if that was what it took to command his magic once more. 

These thoughts calmed him. He had the boy isolated. Dependent upon him and vulnerable to simple threats against his friends. To his dexterous persuasion. 

He would have his power back, soon. And he would enjoy breaking the child further while he accomplished it. 

Satisfied, he strode downstairs to the boy’s bedroom. 

“You will return my magic, Potter,” he demanded upon passing over the threshold. 

The boy looked up at him, his face wary.

“I can’t,” he responded quietly. “Not like this. I need to be able to cast spells in the ritual. There’s a potion I have to brew again and I can’t do it like this.”

“You still have access to your magic,” Voldemort countered. “I have noticed you vanishing the contents of your bladder and bowels.”

“Jesus,” Harry replied, his face flushing. “Fine, yes. I can do simple spells, but nothing at the level needed to redo the ritual. Also, are you even sure it can be done this way? It’s supposed to grant a body, which you already have, in case you didn’t realise. What if it makes another?”

Idiot. 

“It requires a physical manifestation of myself to grow from. My living, human body, you will agree, counts as that. The ritual will do as I wish it to and so will you, Harry Potter.”

“I can’t,” the boy continued to insist. “Not yet. Take me to St Mungo’s so they can—”

“I will break the curses. I have already told you.”

“Yeah well, it’s been who knows how long,” the boy said testily, his voice raising, “and I’m still stuck like this so—”

“Patience,” he commanded, and then paused, with a smile. “Unless you would prefer me to acquaint myself with your dear friends?”

Potter spluttered in anger. Voldemort moved closer, his body drawn to the display. Seeing the boy riled affected him in a most peculiar fashion. 

“You fucking wanker!” Potter shouted, his lips pulling back and displaying his teeth in an intriguing manner. “I swear to sodding Godric Gryffindor that if you even look at them, I’ll fuck you up so badly even your Horcruxes won’t be able to save you. I’ll—”

The boy continued for some time, but Voldemort tuned out his words. Instead, he feasted on the blazing hatred in those flashing eyes. The heaving chest that brought life to that unnaturally still form. 

Voldemort’s legs carried him to the bed and he sat down, reaching out and placing his hand upon Potter’s warm upper thigh. The muscles underneath his palm remained lax, yet the action halted the boy’s tirade. 

He glanced up and saw a look of naked shock on Potter’s face. 

That rapt attention… the feel of the boy’s blood thrumming through his veins… 

It was a captivating sight. 

A compulsion, an unfamiliar one, abruptly diverted him. 

Kiss him.

He pictured it, then, leaning down and pressing his lips against those open ones, grabbing the boy’s jaw and forcing his way inside. How would he taste? Would he fight it? 

And what if he was invited to go further? 

What if the boy welcomed him, begged him to—

“Stop that,” Potter snapped, his voice jerking him out of his rampant thoughts. 

Voldemort’s fingers flexed against that firm thigh and the boy’s breath hitched. The quiet, pained sound almost pulled him right back into his imagination. 

“You said you wouldn’t hurt them if I gave you that memory,” Potter reminded him, steering them back to their conversation and obliging him to abandon his pleasant musings. 

“And so it shall be,” he confirmed. “Yet, do not persist with nagging me to surrender you to others. I will take care of you. We are building trust, after all, are we not?”

Potter blew out a breath that may have been a wry laugh. 

“Sure,” he muttered. “I’ve just got to learn to trust my enemy. Easy.”

Voldemort smirked. 

“Easier than dying, I have heard.”

The boy outright laughed at that. 

“You know,” Potter mused, after a time, meeting his eyes directly, “if you actually get your magic back, I’ll have to fight you again, right? I can’t just let you go. I won’t.”

Perhaps not yet, not as they were. But the boy would never harm someone he cared for. 

“Let us worry about that when we are there, Harry Potter,” he replied, his fingers relaxing to gently stroke that strong leg. “For now, rest. I will watch over you.”

Potter looked up at him, unsure and fearful, yet it was a critical victory when the boy slowly lowered his eyelids and allowed himself to fall into the susceptibility of sleep. 

Chapter Text

It was not, after all, so challenging to break the curses. He knew how, had known since the first moment he had recognised their effects. 

Yet he was reluctant to relinquish his hold over the boy. The burning curse had been easily calmed, requiring only a few spells that Potter could perform wandlessly, and three potions he already had. 

Ridding the boy of it had earned Voldemort a look of gratitude and even a whispered, Thanks, that had clenched Voldemort’s stomach curiously and continued to do so whenever he recalled it. 

The paralysis curse was also simple for him, though he was not yet ready to lose the pleasure of witnessing Potter vulnerable.

It had been three days and together, they had written a letter to the boy’s friends, assuring them that all was well, Potter was merely convalescing at home with dragon pox. Their reply had come swiftly, bringing news that the second child had been born. 

Potter had cried when he had read that. Voldemort had stood uncomfortably by at first, wondering how to hasten the boy out of that mood, until he decided to try touching him again. He had placed his hand upon one sturdy shoulder and Potter’s reaction had been instantaneous.

More crying. But also surprise, a gentle variety. And afterwards, the boy had smiled directly at him. Locking his eyes and striking him with his unreserved gratitude. 

“I don’t know how you can stand to touch my hair,” Potter muttered suddenly, jolting him out of his reveries. 

He had thought the boy had been sleeping. Glancing down, he studied his long fingers that were currently tangled in the boy’s black locks. He cleared his throat. 

“And why is that?” he inquired, as levelly as he could. 

Potter shot him an amused glare. 

“Well, maybe because I haven’t bathed for almost a fortnight?” 

The boy’s tone was mockingly imbecilic. Sarcastic. 

“I have seen you perform refreshening charms, Harry Potter.”

The boy made a disparaging sound. 

“They’re not the same. Not by a long shot. I can smell myself, you realise, and I smell like I’m rotting. I don’t know how you can stand it.”

That scent, the slightly acrid, thick smell of the boy’s perspiration, the undiluted essence of his skin was pungent, yes. But rotting? Repellent? 

Absolutely not. 

Voldemort recommenced the movement of his fingers through the boy’s greasy hair. 

“It does not concern me,” he replied honestly. “However, if it makes you uncomfortable, I can offer you my help in getting clean.”

“Without magic?” the boy asked with an eyebrow raised. “How’re you going to manage that? Gonna bathe me?”

It was thrown out as a jocular challenge, but Voldemort simply inclined his head. 

“If you like.”

~*~

Being touched by Lord Voldemort was unlike anything else. 

And the man did it all the time. Little touches. To Harry’s hands, or his face… Lingering sometimes. Uncomfortable, but then also… not. 

Yet it should be. Harry should be calling him out. It was too familiar, too intimate. 

At least, it was for him. Every time he felt those cool fingers against his unresponsive skin, his attention was instantly seized.

He’s a monster. 

Harry was forced to remind himself of this quite often. Usually when those digits on his skin began to awaken his cock, which somehow didn’t stay flaccid like the rest of him and hardened anyways. 

He’s dangerous.

Well, not so much anymore. Not as a Squib. 

He killed my parents. 

This was undeniable. Who got hard for their parent’s murderer? 

No. I’m still fighting him. I just need to find out where his last Horcrux is and then I’ll kill him. 

He had to stop responding to the man’s touch. 

… which was almost impossible when he was being bathed fully naked by the Dark Lord’s hand. 

Fuck. 

Voldemort’s long fingers expertly massaged his scalp, lathering the shampoo into his hair. Harry’s eyes were resolutely closed. He refused to acknowledge what was actually happening. 

No fucking way is the Dark Lord Voldemort kneeling on my bathroom floor and attending to me, like some horror story, erotic slave boy. 

“Prepare yourself,” that ominously close voice breathed on his neck, erupting his skin in goosebumps. “I am going to submerge your head.”

Harry held his breath as steady hands gently guided him underwater. He tried not to panic this time— He needs me alive, he’ll let me up any second now, it’s gotta be rinsed already, let me up, let me up, oh gods, he’s trying to kill me! Fuck, he’s going to—

And then he was pulled out, gasping and panting. Grateful to be saved.

He heard something like a dark chuckle from Voldemort as he looked up at the man in terror. 

“Such melodrama,” the Dark Lord lightly mocked, and Harry would have taken offence, but he was occupied being amazed that he was still alive. 

Calming down, he let the warmth of the water soothe his body. Not moving all day made his muscles ache for some reason and the water felt good. More than that. It was relaxing. 

He closed his eyes again. The Dark Lord’s fingers were resting on Harry’s stomach, and they would be almost innocent, if not for the way they were stroking his skin. It was too measured to be unplanned. And yet… he couldn’t bring himself to ask the man to stop. 

It felt good. He felt cared for, which was a bizarre concept considering the situation. 

“Why're you doing this?” Harry murmured, wanting to tense up, but unable. 

Instead, he took a deep breath and submitted himself to his helplessness. He was at the Dark Lord’s mercy and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. And really, if the man killed him, it would be a blessing. 

“I am doing many things,” Voldemort replied, his touches continuing on unimpeded. “To what specifically are you referring?”

Harry felt weightless in the water. Almost dead. Unencumbered. There was a deeply satisfying relief to being so useless right now. Even if he wanted to fight, he couldn’t. 

“Bathing me,” Harry answered in a small voice. “Helping me.”

One of Voldemort’s hands slid slowly from his belly to meander up his chest. Harry held his breath, but it wasn’t fear that gripped him. 

“I told you I would take care of you,” Voldemort said, his fingers gliding wetly out of the water and up his throat. “Does that disturb you?”

Harry tried not to let those digits distract him as they caressed his neck, sometimes using pressure to obstruct his breathing and other times softly smoothing along his tendons, tracing the lines of his jaw. 

“Yes,” Harry whispered. 

“Why?”

Harry swallowed, his eyes still closed resolutely. 

“Because I like it,” Harry confessed, unable to hold that damning truth back. 

He was a traitor. It was a betrayal to allow the Dark Lord to touch him like this, to—

“As do I,” Voldemort said in his ear, and gently bit down on Harry’s cartilage. 

Harry gasped, his eyes flashing open in shock— did the Dark Lord— he bit me! 

What the fuck?

“Tell me why you will not allow yourself to like it,” Voldemort asked, and Harry felt the hand on his stomach move lower. 

“Because I hate you,” Harry rasped, his brain focused on the touch moving down and down and down—

Voldemort hummed. 

“That is not why. Try again.”

Harry was panting, caught between desperation for those fingers to make contact with his aching cock and the blinding fear that that would indeed occur. 

“Why, Harry?”

Fuck— Harry? Merlin fucking christ, is he— did he just—?

Sharp nails raked through the hair at his groin, scratching the skin and making his cock throb with need. 

“Tell me, or I stop.”

Yes— stop. That was good, he needed to stop. 

Harry slammed his eyes closed. 

“You’re evil!” he shouted, frustrated that his body was so lax when adrenaline was screaming through his veins. “You’re a murderer!”

Voldemort’s long fingers wrapped punishingly around his cock and Harry yelled, somehow managing to knock his head against the tub. His eyes flew open, and his brain shut down. 

Fuck— fuck— fuck! 

“There is more,” Voldemort whispered, his face coming around to lean on Harry’s shoulder, allowing himself a clear view of his hand on Harry’s straining erection. “Tell me what you are hiding.”

Thoughts swirled nonsensically through his head— wrong, so wrong— traitor— Merlin, this is bliss— fight him— take it, lay back and give him what he wants—

“Please,” Harry moaned, not wanting to think, needing Voldemort to make him. 

“Not quite yet, Harry,” Voldemort chided him, his fingers stroking him lightly, not enough, it was torture— “Answer me, and I promise to take care of you.”

Answer? He didn’t even remember the question. 

“Please,” he repeated, trying to thrust his hips up into Voldemort’s fist, but he was unable to move. 

Another patronising chuckle. 

“This helplessness suits you, Harry Potter.”

The man’s other hand slid down to his chest and began tugging at the hair around Harry’s nipples. He groaned— and his hips managed to somehow tilt forward, as if seeking friction. 

They both paused to stare. 

“You truly are irrepressible, Harry,” Voldemort said roughly, sounding oddly pleased. “I wonder if you would be capable of breaking this curse even without my assistance.”

“Please,” Harry begged, not giving two shits about that right now. 

I just wanna come, fuck, Merlin’s fucking tits, just—

“Move your goddamn hand, you bastard!” Harry pleaded, frustrated tears leaking from his eyes. 

“I will,” Voldemort promised, that grip tightening perfectly until it relaxed once more. “Tell me first why you so vehemently fight something that you want.”

Harry bit his tongue until it bled, but it wasn’t enough to keep his words inside. 

“Because I can’t have it!” he shouted, his fingers curling into weak fists. “I’m… I’ve killed too many. And yet somehow, I’m their Saviour. I have to be brave and strong and bleeding perfect! I’d never be allowed this. I’ll never been allowed to… be who I am.”

“And who are you?” Voldemort asked quietly, his fingers beginning to slowly wank him. 

Harry laughed raggedly. 

“I’m pathetic. I’m weak. All I fucking want is to not matter. To not be responsible for everything.”

Harry felt his throat tightening despite the bliss of what was being done to his cock. 

“Go on,” Voldemort encouraged him. 

Harry tried to articulate how he felt. 

“I’ve always taken charge because— fuck, this feels amazing.”

“Concentrate, Harry, or I will stop.”

Harry groaned, thumping his heavy head against the porcelain. 

“People need me to be strong. But ever since I was a kid… gods, I’m so fucking close.”

The nails on Voldemort’s other hand sunk into his skin and Harry hissed in pain, his cock throbbing with need. 

“Focus.”

Harry swallowed and took a deep breath. 

“I’m built the other way. I… I want someone to take control. I… I’m not a hero.”

“You are, Harry. You can be both a hero and a submissive.”

A submissive? Was that what he was? 

“I can show you,” Voldemort offered enticingly. 

The hand around his cock tightened cruelly and Harry gasped, his legs twitching up to protect himself. 

“To the masses,” the Dark Lord said, his fist moving faster up and down, “you are the Chosen One and you must show them strength. They only respect strength, Harry.”

Harry’s mind was flailing. It felt so good, this touch, this mercy, and yet it was Lord Voldemort giving it to him. Surely he should be saying no— you can’t say no, you’re paralysed. He’s in complete control of everything, your cock, your orgasm, your very life—

“But for me,” Voldemort went on, as Harry fought against his desire, “you will kneel. In private, where your true nature emerges, the Chosen One will disappear.”

He’s going to kill me? That thought didn’t even worry him. If that was what was required of him…

“Instead, you will simply be boy.” 

Harry’s whole being shrivelled internally at that term, his muscle memory locking him in fear. Immediately, his cock began losing interest in the situation. 

Boy, tidy up the damn kitchen, if you wanna eat— Stay in your cupboard, boy, we have guests coming— What did you say, boy? You want a beating?

“No,” Harry rasped. 

“Yes,” Voldemort countered firmly, his words overlapping Harry’s, his hand pumping Harry’s cock vigorously, refusing to let his erection fade. “You will be boy, and I will take that name back from your repulsive relatives.”

Harry was shaking his head, fighting the horrifying juxtaposition of arousal against memories of abuse at his uncle’s hands. 

“That is right, boy,” Voldemort whispered in his ear, sucking Harry’s earlobe into his mouth and scraping his teeth sharply against the skin. “Be good for me. Ignore your distress and give me what I want. That is your purpose. It is not for you to question my will or fight me.”

The fingers stroking him were forcing his cock to remain interested, but his mind was being poisoned with lonely birthdays and starvation and ducking to avoid strikes to his face and—

“Submit,” Voldemort hissed seductively into his ear, and Harry’s mouth dropped open, his legs beginning to tremble. 

Fuck, I’m so fucking close, oh gods, oh fuck— Voldemort is going to make me come! What the fuck?

“Look at you, writhing in your bathwater,” Voldemort teased darkly.

Harry’s face turned, burrowing into the Dark Lord’s neck. He was hiding from the staggering guilt that came with this pleasure. 

“You are still resisting,” Voldemort observed, a hint of disappointment coming into his tone. “I will count to three, and if you do not manage to submit to me in that time, you will not come. I will leave you aching and desperate, boy, and I will enjoy watching you suffer.”

Harry felt dry lips press against his forehead, over his scar, as the Dark Lord opened his mouth to speak. 

“One.”

But that was as far as he got.

Harry surrendered, giving everything up, and his body curled in relief, that merciless hand continuing to pump him as wave after wave of pleasure seized his body. He was locked into that helpless bliss, yet through it all, what really awed him was the feeling of being held. 

Of being taken care of. 

This was a new sensation for him. He hadn't done anything for the other man, hadn't earned his own release— and yet there it was, delivered by his enemy. Lord Voldemort could have lopped off his cock, or taken him to the edge and then taunted him, denying him his orgasm, but instead, he'd seen to Harry's needs. 

Only Harry's needs. 

When at last he'd caught his breath, he became aware that his hand was somehow wrapped loosely around the man’s punishing wrist. The fact that he had been able to move it at all was astounding, but the shock was dulled by the surreality of Voldemort’s nimble fingers gently stroking his now-sensitive cock. The touch was almost absentminded. Comforting, despite Harry’s physical discomfort. 

“You did so well, Harry.”

The words confused him, but he was still too overwhelmed to fight them. 

Lord Voldemort had made him come. 

Without asking for a damn thing for himself.  

And that unexpected fact continued to haunt him long after his bathwater had been drained. 

~*~

When he woke up the next morning, Voldemort was gone, doing whatever it was that Dark Lords did in their spare time. When they weren’t nursing their enemies back to life. 

Or giving them mind-fucking-obliterating orgasms. 

Napping? Wanking?

Fuck. Does he wank? 

Does he wank about me?

Harry groaned and rolled over very slowly. His mobility was coming back more and more each day. He could do basic movements now, but nothing as complicated as lifting a fork to his mouth or walking to the loo.

Hell, he couldn’t even wank at all, unless the Dark Lord gave him a hand— ha!

Fuck. What a goddamn mess. 

It was time to get back on track. He needed to recover so he could talk to Ron and Hermione. He had to figure out a way to brainstorm with them about possible Horcrux items without giving the game away. 

Hey guys— so, no big deal, but let’s just randomly go over some important places and valuables of the absolutely dead Lord Voldemort who definitely did not create another Horcrux, or—  

Fuck. Was there only one more? Maybe he’d made fifty extras, the paranoid git.

Bollocks. 

“What need have you to look so tortured, Harry Potter?” Voldemort suddenly said, and Harry turned onto his back quickly to see the Dark Lord standing in the doorway. 

Harry hastened to organise his composure. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he pretended to consider, heaping on the sarcasm. “Maybe because I’m being held captive by a madman?”

Voldemort’s smile was vicious. 

“It would seem you and I are in similar situations, then.”

Harry snorted. 

“Bastard.”

“Indeed,” Voldemort replied, pushing off from the doorframe and walking into the room. 

Harry tried to act unaffected, breathing evenly despite his quickening heartbeat. 

“I would like to propose an experiment—”

“No,” Harry cut him off firmly, as he was not an idiot. 

Voldemort raised his hairless eyebrows. 

“It is intriguing how thoroughly you have dropped your Gryffindor facade for me now.”

Harry bristled. 

“It’s not that. It’s just I don’t trust you.”

The Dark Lord inclined his head and then sat himself on the edge of Harry's bed, near his hip. 

“Let us work on that, then. What would help facilitate our mutual faith-building?”

It took immense effort to drag his arms up his body so he could hug them against his chest. 

What a fucking question. Nothing? 

That worked. 

“Nothing.”

“Come now, Harry. Have we really made no progress?” He tilted his head, studying Harry. “Perhaps you still fear me,” he mused. 

No fucking kidding.

“Allow me to assuage your anxiety,” the Dark Lord said, settling in more comfortably. “Ask me anything you would like to know. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Why?” Harry challenged, caught on that lie. “You want me dead. You… you’ve spent my entire life trying to kill me and those I care about. Why the fuck would I trust you now? How can you say I have nothing to fear from you?”

Voldemort lowered his eyelids, minutely shaking his head. 

“And we return to this.”

The Dark Lord reached out and laid his cool hand on the blanket over Harry’s stomach. The intimacy of his touch was always unnerving. 

“I do not wish you dead, Harry Potter.”

“Why not?” Harry said, refusing to back down. “Since when?”

Voldemort shrugged elegantly. 

“I do not make a habit of killing those who are useful to me.”

Harry outright laughed. 

“Sure you don’t. What about Snape?” 

Voldemort’s gaze darkened. His nails pressed against Harry as a warning. 

“So what makes me different?” Harry pushed. 

The other man opened his mouth to respond, but Harry interjected. A thought had just occurred to him and he wanted some damn answers. 

“Lucius Malfoy said I was in danger from you.”

Those red eyes flashed with fury and Harry was caught staring into them for long moments until the Dark Lord calmed. Trying to disperse some of his adrenaline, he looked down at where Voldemort’s hand rested. 

“He…” Harry continued carefully, “implied. That your plans for me were more complicated than just to kill me.”

Obsessed. He’d said you were obsessed. 

“What were your plans for me?”

Voldemort’s face became inscrutable, closed. 

“It was complicated,” he said, giving nothing away. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna need more than that if you want me to trust you. Why was it complicated?” 

Voldemort shifted to stand, but Harry’s hand shot out and grabbed the man’s thin wrist. They both froze, looking down at the point of contact. 

“Just tell me,” Harry whispered. “Please.”

Voldemort’s eyes scoured his face and Harry tried not to flinch. He hoped his sincerity came through. 

After many long moments, Voldemort sighed and lowered himself back onto the bed. He shifted their grip so instead, Voldemort was holding onto Harry’s fingers, studying each one. 

“I suppose, ever since I heard that prophecy…” Voldemort began, his gaze still on their hands. 

He stopped, clearly struggling to articulate his thoughts. Harry watched him, eager for whatever he was going to hear. 

“It was delivered to me at a…susceptible time in my life,” Voldemort said, a slight frown marring his brow. “I was at my zenith. I was the most powerful force on the planet, had an obedient following of influential figures, the Ministry was crumbling as they scrambled to defend against me… And then I heard that prophecy.”

Voldemort’s thin lips slowly pinched into a wry smirk. 

“I am not normally so prepared to entertain fortune-telling. Though I admit, I had found the fact that a prophecy had been made about me a clear indication that I was destined for greatness.”

Harry imagined it: Voldemort, flushed from his victories during the first war, arrogant and egotistical, suddenly receiving more evidence that he was important. 

“Yeah,” Harry said, not quite understanding, “but the prophecy said you were going to be defeated.”

The Dark Lord’s smile grew patronising. 

“It said that you would have the power to defeat me,” Voldemort quoted. “That is not defeat. Being able to is not success, as we are currently witnessing.”

Harry snorted, taking that as a good point. 

“So then, you believed the prophecy?”

Voldemort’s expression became contemplative.

“In this instance, and under these specific conditions, yes, I listened. And what I heard intrigued me.”

The Dark Lord’s fingers tightened on Harry’s.

“It said that I would mark you as my equal.” 

The man looked up, his expression opening in confused wonder.

“My equal,” the Dark Lord emphasised, and that blatant arrogance almost made Harry laugh. “That was something I had thought impossible. An equal to me? To Lord Voldemort? Absurd.”

Harry wanted to be offended by the man’s incredulity, but if he was being honest, it had been impossible that anyone could be Voldemort’s equal, never mind himself— an orphan schoolboy at the time, who regularly got beaten up by his Muggle relatives. 

“And then I tried to eliminate you…”

He trailed off and Harry watched his eyes shift as his mind obviously replayed the events. 

“I had not taken the prophecy seriously enough. You revealed yourself to be my equal, even as a baby.”

Voldemort fixed him with a stern stare. 

“Twice now, you have sent me into the agony of wraithhood.”

Harry looked away, feeling mildly guilty. 

“To be fair,” he muttered, “both times it was your own spell that got you.”

Voldemort was silent and it was disconcerting. Harry glanced back up and saw the shadow of a smile on those thin lips. 

“Even as a child,” Voldemort continued, his eyes faraway, “you were impressive. You… concerned me. I can admit to that. At eleven, you proved yourself unafraid of death. Which to me, is incomprehensible.”

Voldemort looked away, his gaze drawing to the window.

“A child,” he mused quietly. “Not even of age. Not formidable in school. Not worldly nor trained in combat, nor as hungry for glory as I was.”

The man’s face turned back to Harry and his blazing red eyes were disconcerting in their intensity. 

“My equal.”

Harry was trapped for long moments, caught in that stare and what it promised. It drew him in, and suddenly Harry wanted to be the man’s equal. He wanted to prove himself worthy of that astonishing title. 

“I found myself considering,” Voldemort breathed, and Harry marvelled at how handsome the man actually was, if you just focused on his expressive eyes, “for the first time, the possibility that I could have a peer.”

A peer. I could be that. 

“You intrigued me,” Voldemort said, a single finger coming up to trace the side of Harry’s face. “You still do.”

Harry was leaning forward, somehow almost propped up onto his elbows to get closer to the other man. He wanted… he wanted—

No.  

This was the Dark Lord. Not a fucking romantic prospect.

Lay the fuck down, before you snog him and then have to kill yourself. 

“So,” Harry said, forcing himself to push aside his horrifying feelings, “your plan was to… recruit me?”

Voldemort's lips curled dryly. 

“I did ask, you will remember. On our first proper meeting. That would certainly have eliminated the danger you posed.” 

Harry remembered. 

Don’t be a fool, that creepy, parasitic face had snarled. Better save your own life and join me.

How fucked up would that have been if he had answered, yes?

When he glanced over at Voldemort, the man was shaking his head. 

“But, no. I knew what I had to do. You were a danger to my life— as preposterous as that seemed, and thus, you had to be eliminated.”

That’s so cold.

“But you didn’t want to,” Harry ventured. 

Voldemort’s expression was clinical. 

“It was unfortunate, but necessary. My curiosity did not outweigh my ambition.”

Harry scoffed. Course not. People are disposable to you. 

“So then, what was your plan for me?”

The Dark Lord gave him a considering look. 

“I suppose… I did not have one,” he replied. “I wanted the threat you posed eliminated, and yet a part of me always resisted it.” A smirk pulled at the man’s lips. “This used to irritate Lucius and Rodolphus, though they tried to conceal it from me. They both implored me to kill you themselves, but I knew it had to be me. You would die by no hand but mine.”

How romantic.  

Harry shook himself. No. It wasn’t supposed to be romantic anyways. 

He glanced up to see amusement dancing in those creepy eyes. 

“Does this ameliorate your distrust?” he asked, with what had to be sarcasm. “May I proceed with my proposition for an experiment?”

Harry studied the man.

So you want to kill me, but you don’t. Sure, that clears it right up. 

“I don’t trust you for shit,” he replied, refusing to return the man’s widening grin. “Though I guess it can’t hurt to hear you out.”

Voldemort nodded, his face sobering. 

“I believe that I can shock you out of your current predicament.”

Shock? That didn’t sound good. 

“Let me guess, with a Crucio?” Harry asked, and then remembered. “Or, no, I suppose not. More like a thorough beating. Maybe strangulation? Yeah,” Harry laughed. “No thanks.”

Voldemort did not look amused. 

“As enjoyable as I would find that, no. That was not my suggestion. You have made surprising progress weakening the curse upon you and I suspect that with enough motivation, if your body avidly wants to become animate, then you can shatter the curse.”

Harry thought about that. He really did not want to find out what kind of motivation Voldemort would give him that was so horrible that he shattered a deadly curse. 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So, I let you do unspeakable things to me and then I’ll get back my full mobility?”

“Something like that, yes.”

Harry blew out a breath.

“This shock. That’s pretty vague. What will you do?”

Voldemort grinned ferally.

“Divulging that would counteract the shock.”

“So I’m just supposed to trust you,” Harry deadpanned. 

“Hence our delightful conversation.”

Harry wanted to strike the man for being so infuriating.

“I still don’t know why it has to be you that heals me,” Harry argued. “If you’d have let me go to St Mungo’s, I could be better already.”

Voldemort’s expression darkened. 

“I told you. I will take care of you.”

“But it’s been ages! People are bound to be suspicious of my absence and—”

“So then allow me to go forward with my experiment.”

Harry growled, frustrated and angry. But really, what the fuck did it matter? What more could be done to him at this point? 

“Fine,” Harry spat, glaring at the Dark Lord. “Do your fucking experiment if you think it will help. Just… if you’re going to kill me, don’t mangle my body too much for my friends to find.”

Harry closed his eyes and surrendered himself to his enemy’s ominous ministrations. 

Chapter Text

Lord Voldemort looked down at Harry Potter, reposed and waiting upon the bed beside him. 

The boy’s face was flushed in delicious displeasure, his brows lowered, his whole being suffused with his unconquerable spirit. 

It was an image that he found he quite enjoyed. He intended to savour what was about to occur.

Over the last few days, he had contemplated this endeavour. It was true that he could give the boy the correct combination of potions and Potter would be rehabilitated immediately. 

But the boy had robbed him of his magic. Had restored him to his body without the vital essence that made him rise above all others. Potter had cursed him to exist aching. Deprived. Hungry.

Lord Voldemort had no intention of granting his tormentor mercy when he had been shown none. The boy had stated that he had wanted him to suffer. And although Voldemort needed his assistance to return to his former glory, he meant to make the boy pay for his audacity. 

Reaching out, he gently placed his hand down on Potter’s chest, earning him a vigorous flinch. 

Perfect. 

“Good boy,” Voldemort said lowly, enjoying the way Potter’s skin trembled at that word. “Now, this experiment has two facets.”

He reached into his robes and pulled out a knife and a length of white material. The boy’s eyes grew wide. Smiling, he set the blade down by his thigh and reached around to tie the material around Potter’s head. 

Taking his sight. 

“Hey— wait,” the boy said, sounding worried. 

“Knowing you as I do,” Voldemort interrupted, “I am aware that simple threats of violence or death will not suffice. But pain is a potent motivator, and therefore it will be a component in this.”

“You said you wanted me to trust you,” Potter objected, his shoulders minutely struggling, but not enough to break the curse. 

“And I do,” Voldemort replied. “You agreed to this, remember? I will not harm you permanently.”

Voldemort lifted the knife and brought it to rest flat against the exposed clavicle. The boy froze. 

“Focus on breaking free. If I hurt you, you are letting me.”

Voldemort shifted the knife to press the point against his skin, right in the centre of his trapezius. 

“Wait—” Potter breathed. 

“Deep breath, now.”

Voldemort sunk the blade into the tender muscle and the boy screamed. 

That sound. 

It thrilled him. Hearing Potter howl in pain ignited his attention. He pulled out the knife and marvelled at the blood that poured forth. 

“What the fuck!?” Potter shouted, startling him, the boy’s muscles trembling in their desperation to flee. “You stabbed me! What—”

Voldemort slid the blade firmly down the boy’s sternum, parting both the material and Potter’s skin at the same time. 

The boy shrieked, his hands coming up to lightly wrap around Voldemort’s wrist where he held the weapon. 

“That is not enough, Potter,” Voldemort chastised, pushing the weak hold off of him. “Do better. Stop me.”

“I’m trying,” the boy cried, “I told you, I can’t break free! Your experiment didn’t work!”

“It is working. Step two is coming. Stop me before I have to move onto it.”

“I can’t!” 

Voldemort stabbed the short blade through the boy’s limp palm. Potter screamed, his other hand reaching up to punch Voldemort effectively in the arm. He let go of the blade and watched as Potter yanked it out, dropping it onto the covers. 

“Fuck!” Potter bellowed in fury, dragging out the word until he had no breath, his voice cracking pathetically at the end. 

Voldemort stared, absorbing everything. The boy was beautiful in his suffering. 

“That was impressive,” Voldemort admitted, after a time. “But it is not enough on its own.”

“Ouch! Fucking fuck, my sodding hand! What the fuck, Voldemort?”

Ah…. 

Voldemort took a deep breath. 

His true name. 

It would seem that pain removed the boy’s insolence. 

Yet it would not break him from the curse and he was out of time in keeping the Chosen One to himself. Any day now, Potter’s door would burst open, spilling friends and coworkers into their space, and Voldemort’s machinations would come to an abrupt end. 

He must take what he was able, while he was able. 

Pulling off the boy’s blindfold, he marvelled at the tears that wet the thick eyelashes. Those huge, black pupils dilating fast as light was delivered to his eyes once again. 

Potter looked delectable with his face swollen and flushed from involuntary tears. 

Voldemort was caught.

“Is your plan to let me bleed to death?” Potter asked snidely, jolting him from his contemplation.

“Your magic will not allow these minor wounds to kill you.”

The discrepancy between them with that was galling. 

Potter scoffed. 

“What’s next, then?”

Voldemort cocked his head in amazed disbelief. Did the boy fear nothing? 

“The next step,” Voldemort began, “relies on how much your friends value you.”

Potter sucked in a breath. 

“What do you mean— what about my friends?”

“I left them a note before I came up to visit you. Passed it under the door. This is the time they usually come to attack your home demanding entrance.”

“A note? Why would you—”

“I told them you were in danger and required help.”

Potter’s mouth opened in understanding. In terror. 

Yes. 

“You… Merlin, you want me to break free to protect them from you?”

Voldemort shook his head. 

“Not at all. I would prefer to kill them. But this leaves me in the happy position to triumph either way. If you break free, you can get your mobility back and I will no longer have to wait on you. Conversely, if you fail this experiment, I have an opportunity to eliminate two interfering annoyances.”

“No,” Potter denied, and this time, his voice was neither pleading nor weak. 

It was commanding. 

Exciting. 

“Then stop me,” Voldemort challenged, watching those small fists clench. 

“I’ll get my mobility back eventually,” Potter threatened, “and I’ll kill you a hundred different ways if you even look at them.”

Something dark and satisfied curled in his stomach. The danger the boy presented delighted him. It was a novelty to be affected by someone. 

“Yet that will not bring them back,” Voldemort dismissed, shrugging. “I will kill them right in front of you unless you prove to me that you are worthy of my time.”

Voldemort rose from the bed, turning his back on Potter. 

“If you want to save them,” he said lightly, “stand up and stop me.” 

“I swear to god—”

“That is hardly compelling. I expect better.” He paused at the doorframe and turned back to smirk. “I must go and greet your friends now.”

With that, he left the room and began to walk down the stairs. 

There was a kind of keening sound, a bitter growl, and then heavy feet made contact with the floor. 

Voldemort turned, anticipation racing up his spine. 

Come and get me, Harry Potter. 

When he saw the figure emerge at the top of the stairs, the boy’s rage palpable, his magic crackling, Voldemort felt the strangest sensation of pride. 

If they were equals, then the victory was shared. 

“Are they actually coming?” Potter inquired quietly, his tone both a promise and a warning. 

“Yes,” he lied, wanting to feel the man’s anger on his skin. 

Wanting to taste it. 

“I’ll let them take you, then,” Potter said, but Voldemort smiled. 

“Lies.”

The boy took a step down towards him. 

“You doubt me, after what you’ve just done to me?” Potter asked, sounding insultingly incredulous. “After you stabbed me repeatedly while I couldn’t move?”

Voldemort’s gaze dropped to the boy’s chest and was dismayed to see that he had already healed his wounds. 

“If they show,” Potter reiterated, “I’ll give you to them and then never see you again.”

His stomach clenched at that. 

“If they don’t show, and this was a ruse, I just may regret what I’m about to do to you.”

Voldemort took a step up the stairs. 

“And what will you do to me, Harry Potter?”

The boy's face finally broke into a grin. 

“I’m going to make you scream.”

~*~

Harry’s newly obedient muscles tingled with the need to put hands on the Dark Lord. 

He moved swiftly down to where the man stood waiting and then shoved him hard in the chest. He watched as Voldemort flew backwards and then landed with a crash on the bottom steps, making a soft gasping sound. 

Harry followed, coming to stand above the crumpled Lord Voldemort as he struggled to sit up. 

“Are they coming?” Harry whispered. 

Voldemort shifted until he was sitting normally, though he did so with care. 

“Yes,” the bastard replied, his expression creepily eager. 

“I’ll let them take you,” he threatened, and he meant it. 

If the fucker wanted to invite a Ministry worker over, then he’d have to accept the consequences. Harry wasn’t going to interfere to fix the man’s cock-up. Harry’d have to figure out how to explain to Hermione why Voldemort was here when he told her he couldn’t find the man, but he’d wing it. Say something about needing vengeance, or trying to get the Horcrux location out of him. 

Which was true. It just wasn’t the whole truth. 

A small part of him was disappointed that his time with the Dark Lord was about to end. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. But it was out of his hands. 

And if they took the man away and tortured him for real, that was on no one but Voldemort. He’d set this up. It wasn’t Harry’s fault.

“They’ll expect you to look tortured if you’ve been in my house,” Harry mused, and he watched the Dark Lord smile. 

“Certainly.”

Harry paused, disconcerted. 

“Why aren’t you fighting me?”

Voldemort leaned back on his palms, seeming to make himself more comfortable on the floor.

“I find myself fascinated by your reactions.”

“Why?”

“You are my equal, Harry Potter. What will you do with that?”

Those words sent a wash of shame over Harry. If he was Lord Voldemort’s equal, did that make them alike? Did it make Harry as Dark as the monster who was smirking up at him, goading him on?

“I don’t want to impress you,” Harry said scathingly. “You revolt me.”

If anything, Voldemort’s grin grew wider. 

“Lies,” he hissed quietly. “I am your purpose.”

Harry almost choked. 

“What?”

“You need Lord Voldemort alive because without him, you will be lost. We are the same, Harry Potter. We are destined for war and greatness. We were never meant to have a normal life.”

“You’re wrong. I want a normal life. You’re what’s holding me back from moving on!”

“Is that so?” Voldemort challenged in a doubtful tone. “Were you happy and fulfilled before you found me? Hmm? Did you have a pretty wife, two grubby children, and a garden to tend to?”

Harry looked away. I could have. 

Movement caught his attention and he turned to see Lord Voldemort rising from the floor.

“Or were you unsatisfied?” the Dark Lord asked, standing over him, his gaze penetrating. “Empty, without me. Lost.”

I’m just broken. It’s nothing to do with you. I’m just an oversight.

“You cannot lie to Lord Voldemort.”

Harry felt the fog lift from his brain as rage took over. 

“I’m not,” Harry spat, glaring up at the man. “I’m lying to Tom Riddle. A Squib. A lowly human.” 

Voldemort took a step forward, closing the distance between them. 

“Even still, you fear my name, boy.” 

Harry flinched and then almost growled in fury. Fuck off, Vernon.

“You call me by that Muggle name,” Voldemort went on, and those cold fingers made contact with Harry’s cheek, softly touching his skin, “to avoid the terror my true name evokes.” 

Harry pushed the man’s hand away so he could concentrate. 

“Terror?” he scoffed. “You’re a joke. A nobody. I’m the only one that remembers you. Your little Death Eaters are all dead.” 

“And yet, you cannot let me go.” 

Harry bared his teeth.

“You need to be punished.” 

Voldemort shrugged elegantly. 

“So why not drop me off at the Ministry? You cannot kill me, but surely you can let me be someone else’s problem.” 

“You’re mine, Voldemort,” Harry snarled. 

The Dark Lord closed his eyes and hummed in deep satisfaction. 

“I see that you do remember my name.”

Fuming, Harry nonverbally Summoned his wand from his bedroom and they both watched it arrive. Harry pointed it right at the bastard’s chest. 

He was hoping to see fear light in those creepy eyes, but instead there was an almost pitying amusement. 

“Striking me down will not resolve your attraction to me.”

Surprise tightened Harry’s fingers on his wand. 

The fuck it won’t. 

“Yield to it, Harry Potter. Yield to me.”

Never. 

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hit the man with a Petrificus before the bastard could say anymore. 

Once that intimidating body hit the ground, Harry stood over him, his wand still aimed directly at his heart. 

“I hate you,” Harry growled, leaning down to get into the man’s face. “But I’m too fucking exhausted to deal with you right now.”

He pulled back, pocketing his wand.

“If Ron and Hermione show up, they can have you. If not—”

He walked away, silently casting Nox. 

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

And he climbed up the stairs, intending to fall right back into bed and sleep until his head cleared. 

~*~

He was having trouble concentrating at work the next day. Everyone was so very understanding of his absence, asking him how he was and chiding him for being back so soon. 

But he was still fuming. 

The fucker had lied. 

Harry had firecalled Hermione before falling asleep last night and she hadn’t had any idea why he was asking about notes. 

It had been a ruse. 

And it had worked. 

But that wasn’t the point. Voldemort had stabbed him. Lied to him. 

And I am not fucking attracted to the madman. 

He couldn’t help how his body responded. It wasn’t desire, but merely proximity to a person he couldn’t have. A person who was compelling, and energising, and okay, fine, a person who scared him a little. 

A person who sees me.  

That I’m broken. And weak. 

And yet Voldemort didn’t care. He could be a mess and there was no judgement. No expectations. 

I am your purpose.

But it wasn’t true. His purpose? That was ludicrous. 

We are the same.

He scoffed. Not fucking likely. 

“Hey Harry.”

He spun, the parchment he’d been holding falling back onto his desk. 

“Hi Selena,” Harry replied, willing away his fucking constant erection. 

She came into his office and shut the door behind her. Claustrophobia began to compress his ribs. 

He pushed it aside and stood. 

“Everything okay?” he asked. 

She nodded, and then came forward, sitting on the edge of his desk. Too close to him.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” she said, reaching out and stroking his crossed arms. 

“Yeah, I’m doing grand, thanks.”

Merlin, he hated this. The touching. He didn’t want to offend her so he obviously wasn’t going to call her out, but he’d love to know what it was about him that made everyone so keen to put hands on him. 

Tell her you’ve got a meeting. 

“Look, I’m sorry, but I’ve—”

Selena swung her legs around to straddle his hips. 

“I've missed you,” she whispered, leaning back comfortably. 

Harry’s gaze helplessly took the bait and he gave her a once-over. She really was hot. And he knew her arse was even better. 

“Are you busy tonight?” she asked, wrapping her ankles around his knees and pulling him closer. 

He went with it, not knowing what else to do. 

“I can come over. Make you feel better.”

Harry looked down, taking in her spread legs and enticing smile. It would be good, sure. But it wasn’t what he wanted. 

Not anymore. 

“I’m your boss now, Selena,” he replied gently. “We really shouldn’t do this anymore.”

She frowned. 

“What about Winston? He said you two were still meeting up.”

Harry cocked his head in confusion, but thought about it. 

“No, we’re not. I haven’t—”

—Had sex for ages? Classy. Also, a lie. Are you forgetting about those long fingers making you come in your bathwater?

“You can just say you don’t want to, Harry,” Selena complained, as if that were actually true, as if anyone ever listened when he said no. 

She pushed his chest and he stumbled back a few paces. Standing, she made her way towards the door. 

“Wait,” he said, needing to fix this. 

He thought about who their audience at Grimmauld would be and what a terrible idea this was. But she deserved better than this treatment from him. 

And he’d be damned if he let Voldemort believe that he wanted him. 

You think I fancy you, you bastard? Let me show you how very wrong you are. 

“I’d love it if you came over,” Harry told her, already getting excited thinking about Voldemort watching. “If you’ll still have me?”

She smiled and nodded, and Harry stared at her arse the whole time she walked away. 

~*~

The sound of the front door crashing open startled him out of his brooding. He was furious with the boy. To have left him thus for so long and with no consideration for his bodily needs. 

He would take his displeasure out on the boy’s flesh. 

When the footsteps reached him, he glanced up to see that the brat looked pleased with himself. 

“I have a guest coming over soon, Tom,” he said, and Voldemort considered that. 

A guest?

Let it be the boy’s minions. 

Lord Voldemort would punish Potter by taking them apart. 

“I can’t wait for you to watch this,” the boy enthused nonsensically, almost leering at him. 

Clearly, he thought that whatever was to follow would be torture. Voldemort wanted to scoff. As if anything the boy could dream up would trouble him. 

“Oh, wait,” Potter said, “I should make you more comfortable first.” 

And without any other warning, his bladder and bowels were emptied. Voldemort seethed. He despised that spell. The boy could easily have waited while Voldemort used the facilities. 

“Right, now let’s set you up so you have a good vantage point for later.” 

The boy’s wand was pointed at him and then the child dared to cast a spell that floated him up the stairs. 

He was released into an armchair by the fireplace in the boy’s room. The chair was lifted with magic and dropped to be facing the empty bed. 

A twist of unease clenched his abdomen. 

Ah. 

Potter’s face suddenly swooped into his peripheral. He was grinning. 

“Enjoy the show.”

Potter disappeared from his view, presumably exiting out the door. 

The following hour passed slowly. 

He spent the time devising methods to make the boy suffer. It kept his mind from predicting what Potter had planned. 

When the boy stumbled into view, his half-naked body was wrapped around a woman’s. They were kissing and Potter’s lips were turned up in apparent glee despite his preoccupation.

That grin is for me. He knows Lord Voldemort is watching. 

Potter laid the harlot onto his mattress and knelt between her legs. A sharp jolt of possessiveness seized him. The fiend grabbed the boy by the hair at his nape and pulled him down into another passionate kiss. 

Voldemort looked away, knowing that this was intended to infuriate him and he refused to be manipulated. 

The boy was his. They both knew it. All that remained was to affirm his claim, and he would see to that as soon as this desperate performance was over. It was juvenile—

Potter moaned and Voldemort’s thoughts abruptly ceased. 

His gaze flashed to the bed and he saw the tramp with her filthy mouth around Potter’s cock. He watched the disgusting woman slurping around her prize and Voldemort’s eyes slid up the boy’s body to find that green stare riveted to right where Voldemort was Disillusioned. 

And the boy was smirking. 

Rage exploded inside of him. He imagined Potter screaming in pain, begging for mercy, while Voldemort ignored it all as he took his vengeance upon the child for daring to taunt him thus. 

Gazes still locked, Potter spoke. 

“I can’t wait to fuck you.” 

Voldemort viciously strangled the spark of lust at that pronouncement. He yearned to be able to move so he could slaughter the trespassing woman and rip Potter apart. 

“I’m going to strip you bare,” Potter said lowly, seductively, and Voldemort met his eyes, daring him to keep going. “Gonna lick a trail down your neck,” the boy’s finger touched the woman’s skin, demonstrating, “… down your sexy back,” that digit continued to draw down the naked spine, “…and then…”

Voldemort watched Potter grasp a handful of the slut’s adipose arse and then swirl a finger around the puckered edge of her entrance enticingly. 

Murder surged up in him. He wanted to snap that appendage, grab hold of either side of of the woman's buttocks and tear them down the centre, making her—

“Steady on, babe,” the harlot said, laughing, and swatted Potter’s hand away. “That’s not on the menu tonight, sorry.”

The endearment rankled. Potter rolled them over, breaking eye contact, and settled between her thighs. At this angle, Voldemort couldn’t see their faces, just their bodies from near their feet. 

“What is on the menu, then?” the boy asked, his head dipping down and, judging by her shriek, he had bitten her. 

“What’s gotten into you?” she giggled, planting her impudent hand on Potter’s arse cheek with a firm smack. 

Potter froze, his head actually turning to stare at Voldemort. 

Tell her to leave. You belong to me. 

Instead, the boy reached underneath her shoulders and half dragged her to the bottom of the bed, giving Voldemort a clearer view.   

“I want to fuck you now,” Potter rasped, but his eyes spoke to Voldemort instead of his trollop, his expression wild and churning with chaos. 

“Yes,” she answered, when it should have been Voldemort saying No, take your place, spread your legs—

Potter lined up his cock and then thrust inside. 

Voldemort looked away.

If it hurt, it was because she was taking what was his. It tasted of betrayal and this game was not at all enjoyable for him. His fury was muted now, and there was an uncomfortable ache that constricted his breathing. 

He did not like this. 

The sounds, the scents of their coupling. He did not know if Potter was staring at where he was immobilised, taunting him, tempting him, but it did not matter. Even though this show had been for him, he would watch it no longer. 

When the woman moaned her pleasure, the sickening sounds of copulation ceased. He looked up to see Potter pulling his fingers away from her genitals, and he was surprised to see that the boy was still hard. 

The woman was not pleased at that.

“You didn’t come?” she asked, reaching out and grabbing his erection indelicately. 

Potter gently pulled her hand away and laced their fingers. He kissed her knuckles. 

“I’m too tired,” he said, rubbing his eyes theatrically. “You were amazing, though. Thanks for that.”

Voldemort could not see her reaction because her back was to him. Potter stood and began dressing. 

“So that’s it?” she asked, sounding irritated.

He made you come, whore. Get out of my bed.

“I’m still not fully recovered from the dragon pox,” Potter argued, a small, apologetic smile lighting his face. 

The woman made a derisive sound and then stood quickly, backing the half-dressed Potter up against the wall. 

Voldemort’s wrath hit a pinnacle. 

This was too much. Was he about to be forced to witness the boy’s reputation for being bled dry? 

“Let me help you,” the fiend whispered, pushing herself indecently against him. 

Potter’s hands were plastered uselessly, palm down on the wall behind him. 

“I’m tired,” he muttered, but the cretin thrust her tongue into his mouth, reaching down to assault the boy through his trousers.

I will butcher you.

Potter turned his face to the side, breaking the kiss. 

“No, Selena, I just want to go to bed.”

The cunt ignored him and continued her molestation. 

Being cursed motionless was agonising. It would be so simple to massacre the beast, and yet he could do nothing but watch. 

“Shh,” she said, her claws inside of his pants, violating the boy before Voldemort’s eyes. 

Potter looked harried. His face was suffused with a kind of panicked grief that seared Voldemort’s arteries. The need for carnage pounded through his veins and he reached out furiously to seize his magic, but to no avail.

Potter was being sexually assaulted before his eyes, and he could do nothing. 

It infuriated him to see that the boy’s hands were not even being restrained. Yes, he was pinned to the wall, but he was not fighting her. Potter could have broken free, yet instead he was allowing this rat to violate him. 

Could it be that this performance was for Voldemort’s benefit? Had they planned it out in advance? Perhaps to attempt to manipulate him?

Voldemort studied the boy’s face again. His eyes were closed, squeezed shut, and his lips were drawn into his mouth and clamped between his teeth. The woman was mouthing his neck and murmuring encouragements to him, but every word seemed to make the boy shrink further. 

This was not an act. 

It was abuse, and Potter was letting it happen. 

After many long, repugnant minutes, the boy succumbed to his body’s reflexes and shuddered in orgasm. The woman stepped back and Potter slid down the wall to the floor. 

The bitch chuckled. 

“Weak legs after you come, eh?”

Piercing, screaming rage almost took his vision. 

I will weaken your legs, cunt, so that you never walk again. Glance over. Notice me. 

Potter made a sound of agreement and then took a deep breath. He stood. 

“I should probably see you out,” he said, righting his clothing. 

The boy was not making eye contact with either of them. 

“Okay,” the cockroach replied happily, and then they departed together down the stairs. 

Voldemort waited impatiently for the boy to return. 

This was unacceptable. 

Harry was the wizarding world’s saviour and yet they treated him abhorrently, like a trained dog that should be grateful for scraps of food. They granted him power, knowing the boy would not utilise it, but then cited that power to justify his exploitation. 

He would not sit idly by and witness this again. No one would touch the boy. If Potter refused to protect himself, then Lord Voldemort would have to do it for him. 

Chapter Text

Harry closed the door behind Selena and then leaned against it with a sigh. 

Fuck. 

That had not gone as he’d planned. 

He’d meant to put on a show, demonstrating how much he didn’t need Voldemort and to maybe make the man a bit jealous, if that was even possible. Instead, he’d just proven how inadequate he was. How pathetic. Voldemort wouldn’t understand.

But he didn’t have the luxury of time to sulk. It was late and he was exhausted. 

Better get it over with. 

He climbed the stairs with heavy feet.

When he entered his room, he released the man from the immobility curse and made him visible once more. 

Lord Voldemort stood from the chair and scrutinised him with obvious disappointment. Before he could dive into his lecture, though, Harry cut him off. 

“Bet you thought that was fucking hilarious.”

Voldemort’s face tightened with anger. 

“She sexually assaulted you.”

Harry flinched, and then laughed uncomfortably. 

“Wow. That’s a bit much.”

He looked away, walking to the window. The sun had set and the courtyard outside was peaceful and still. 

“Anyways,” Harry said, “I’m going to head to bed—”

“Why did you allow her to do that to you?”

Harry glanced over to see that Voldemort’s rage had only grown. 

“Jeez. Calm down. She didn’t do anything.”

“She sexually assaulted you.”

Harry pushed off from the wall and walked towards the door, so very done with this conversation. He had no idea where he was headed, he just needed to get away from the man’s judgement. 

“Stop saying that,” he grumbled. “Just let it—”

“Harry,” Voldemort said, and grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop and forcing him to face the Dark Lord. “Do not run from this. She assaulted you. You said no and she ignored you. Why did you let her force you?”

Harry tried to rip his arm free, but those sharp fingers just dug into his skin. 

“Answer me.”

“I am,” Harry spat. “You’re overreacting. I could have stopped her if I really didn’t want it.”

Voldemort let go of his arm and grabbed him by the face, pulling him closer.

“You said no.”

Harry stared into those red eyes at close range. Fuck, but the man was intense. 

“If you could have stopped her,” Voldemort asked, unrelenting, “why did you not?”

Harry tried to think, hoping the man’s Legilemency didn’t work without magic. 

“Because I wanted it.”

The pressure of those big hands grew, squeezing his face. 

“Lies. Tell me why.”

Harry began to feel his mind slowly receding, making room for a kind of blissful emptiness. 

“She wanted it,” he said instead. 

That was true, he could say that. 

“But you did not,” the other man pressed. 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“No. Not that last bit.”

Voldemort released his face and Harry almost cried out at the feeling of loss, of panic, but before he could, those hands were pushing him down to the floor, making him kneel. Once he was in position, the hands left him and he looked up to see Lord Voldemort looming over him. 

“You allowed yourself to be used. You gave to another what belongs to me. This will not happen again. Do you understand?”

Harry stared up at him, willing to promise anything to ensure that Voldemort didn’t stop. Because here it was again, this blissful obedience. It was almost like being drugged, except that there was no panic. Just calm. A contented, fulfilled relief. 

“Yes,” Harry whispered, and Voldemort’s eyes grew sharp again. 

“Yes, what?” the man queried, and Harry was pleased that he knew the answer to that. 

“Yes, Master.”

Voldemort’s face softened and a swell of pride rushed up in Harry. The Dark Lord reached down and touched his face. Harry closed his eyes, pressing against the soft caress.  

“Good boy,” Voldemort praised. 

That word jarred him, bringing with it a twinge of unease at what he was doing, but he pushed it aside. 

This felt right. Harry felt buoyant and grateful. It was satisfying to kneel here, but he knew it could be better. Without giving it any thought, he bowed forwards and pressed his face against Lord Voldemort’s feet. 

A soft hum came from above him and Harry smiled. 

Voldemort likes that. 

Hoping to hear more, Harry shifted so he could lay a presumptuous kiss on the man’s cool toes. 

Voldemort made another enticing sound and Harry moaned in response. 

He needed to see what the man’s face looked like. 

Pushing off with his palms on the floor, he sat up, but before he could glance at the man’s expression, his gaze got caught on a significant bulge that was almost level with Harry's face. 

Sweet fucking Merlin. 

He stared at it, his mind wiped clean of everything except for the overwhelming need to put his mouth over that impossibility. 

He could smell the man, musky and warm, and his saliva gathered in anticipation. Oh gods, he needed to feel that cock against his tongue, huge and powerful, resting heavily on his palate. Harry moaned again, his body burning with hunger, his own cock tingling and uncomfortable in his trousers. 

There was nothing else to do but reach up and touch it and so he did, his palms making contact with the fevered, solid shape. 

Voldemort hissed in pleasure and that was too damn much to handle. Harry groaned, his eyes closing as he leaned forwards and pressed his forehead against that warm hardness. Unable to help himself, he tilted his face and pressed his nose deeply into the straining material and breathed the man in. 

Oh fucking sodding fuck. 

He opened his lips, ready to mouth the damp robes—

—but hands suddenly pulled him off. They took him away from his spoils and he made a despairing sound as he opened his eyes. 

Lord Voldemort’s gaze burned into him, fierce and possessive. Harry almost choked, the violent need welling up in him to get that cock into his mouth was overpowering. He reached forward again, trying to push aside the material and grasp that delicious cock, but then long fingers locked onto his neck and shoved his face back onto the ground. 

Harry was panting, his eyes tearing up as he lay boneless on the floor. 

He doesn’t want you.

That thought was staggering, incredible, but what else could it be? Voldemort didn’t want him. He’s turning you down. 

Harry closed his eyes. 

“You asked me to take control, Harry,” Voldemort said, and Harry stopped breathing so he could hear him. “Part of being your Master is the responsibility of blocking you from making unwise choices.”

Unwise?

The Dark Lord thought that Harry sucking his cock was unwise? 

It’s because you’re worthless. You don’t even deserve this, to make Lord Voldemort happy. You’re made for ruin, for destruction and—

“I will fuck that pretty mouth of yours, Harry Potter.” 

Harry inhaled deeply, getting diverted at once, imagining it. Yes, please, let me get it in my mouth, I want—

“But not like this,” Voldemort insisted, and Harry groaned. “Not as an afterthought, following your assault.”

That word was ridiculous. 

It was wrong and attention-seeking. And anyways, he was a grown man. He didn’t—

“Say, I was sexually assaulted,” Voldemort commanded.

Harry shifted uncomfortably, but— it was an order. 

“I was sexually assaulted.”

Bloody whinger. Like you have it so hard, being the Chosen One. Poor Harry Potter, has to have an orgasm with attractive people sometimes when he doesn’t want to. What a tragic life. 

Voldemort hummed. 

“Tell me that it will not happen again.”

Harry swallowed. 

“It won’t happen again.”

Not at home, anyways. 

Voldemort bent and ran a hand through Harry’s hair, petting him. It felt nice.

“Good boy.”

Harry clenched his teeth, hunching his shoulders, waiting for Uncle Vernon to hit him with the pan Harry had cooked bacon in, splattering the sizzling grease all over his arm. 

“Now, go to your room and sleep,” Voldemort directed, stepping back. “And I would appreciate it if you remember this evening’s sequence of events when you awaken.”

Harry frowned, but nodded and then went to his room obediently.

~*~

As expected, Potter burst into his chamber just as he was rising from his bed the next day. 

“You fucking bastard,” the boy growled, stomping closer. “You did it again— stop doing that!”

Voldemort sighed, hoping to ignore the interruption and crossed the room to use the lavatory. Potter stormed in front of him and slammed the door closed, blocking him. 

“Answer me!” the child shouted, and Voldemort looked down at him in contempt. 

“Cease blaming me for what you want, Potter.”

“What I— what I want?” The boy was struggling to articulate the truth. “You’re the one that keeps making me!”

“You are a submissive, Harry Potter,” Voldemort reminded him. “That is not my doing.”

“Then— then you’re manipulating the situation! I can’t help it, and you’re taking advantage of me!”

Voldemort’s fury suddenly seized him. 

“I am giving you what you need, fool,” he hissed, shoving the boy’s shoulders against the wall. “I am demonstrably not taking advantage of you. In case you have forgotten, you offered your pretty mouth to me last night and I refused. That was not for my benefit, I assure you.”

Potter’s face flamed with colour, but he would not back down. 

“I only did that because you made me kneel,” the boy lied, still vibrating with anger. “You made me call you Master again!”

Voldemort hummed. 

“I did. As I said, I gave you what you wanted.”

“I don’t want you, you bastard!” Harry shouted, pushing his face forward so they were inches apart. 

Voldemort’s gaze idly dropped to the boy’s parted lips. He imagined taking them between his teeth, silencing him, tasting the boy at last and—

Potter reached up and grabbed hold of his shoulders. Before he could comprehend the action, the boy had gripped his face and crashed their mouths together. 

Shock hit him and he reared back, but Potter followed, holding him tighter and deepening the kiss. Voldemort’s hands were splayed wide, not touching the boy, unknowing what to do. 

He had not been kissed since his adolescence.

Not since he had become Lord Voldemort. 

Harry Potter was devouring him, uncaring that he was still motionless. Reeling. Somehow, his back hit a wall and Harry took the chance to trap him there, using his fingers to caress Voldemort’s chest and shoulders. 

Warmth spread through him, along with a paralysing confusion. He knew he should act, seize the opportunity, but he was overcome with the new sensations. 

Harry’s hands slid down his back, fisting the material at his hips and pulling him closer. He could feel the boy’s erection hot against his thigh and his own was pressed firmly into the boy’s abdomen. 

He could say nothing— do nothing, but try and catch up with what was happening. 

Harry Potter was kissing him. 

His awareness returned when the searing lips gradually slowed and then pulled back abruptly. Harry’s expression was wary.

“Oh shit,” he whispered, stepping back and releasing Voldemort completely. “I… I shouldn't have done that.”

The boy put a hand against his own mouth, as if hiding the evidence. 

“Oh fuck, what have I— I’m so sorry,” he rasped through his fingers. “Merlin, what have I done?”

Before Voldemort could decide how to respond, Potter had backed out of the room and fled from the house. 

~*~

Harry was staring at his sandwich, willing himself to take another bite. He was beginning to feel spacey and weak, which was his usual cue to eat something. But he just couldn’t manage it today.

C’mon, a few little bites and then you can bin it. 

Grimacing, he lifted the bread to his lips, but a sharp knock on his office door startled him and he put the heavy weight down. 

“Come in,” he called.

Lucius Malfoy gave him a cursory smile and entered, without being invited to. Arrogant twat. Harry raised his eyebrows.

“Forgive me for interrupting your lunch,” the man said, glancing down at Harry’s plate. 

Harry tensed. People looking at his food always made him uncomfortable. He felt guilty, like he was getting caught because growing up, he had needed to steal food and consume it in secret. Eating now felt like breaking a rule. He struggled not to be ready to flee from Uncle Vernon every time he brought food to his lips. 

He cleared his throat. 

“Right. Yeah, you are. Can I help you with something?”

Malfoy nodded and drew his wand to add further privacy wards to the room. 

“You know,” Harry chided the man with irritation, “it’s customary to ask the Head Auror before casting spells in his office.”

Malfoy had finished and pocketed his wand. 

“Your recent prolonged absence from work had me concerned,” the man said, completely ignoring Harry’s reprimand. 

Merlin, not more of this. 

“It wasn’t anything to do with him, he’s fine,” Harry reassured the man. “I had dragon pox.”

Malfoy gripped the head of his weird snake cane. 

“My father died of dragon pox, Potter.” The man’s face had become hard and intense. “You exhibit none of the expected symptoms. No greenish hue nor deep pockmarks from the lesions.”

Oh fuck, yeah, that’s right. I forgot. 

Harry leaned back and tried to seem relaxed. 

“I’m younger than he was. I just fought it well, I guess.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes further. 

“Or, you never had it.”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Malfoy, I—”

“Have you discovered his last Horcrux yet?”

Harry set his jaw, irritated by Malfoy’s persistence. 

“Look,” Harry said, setting his hands down on his desk decisively. “We’re not doing this. You and I are not partners or workmates or friends. I’m handling it. That should be enough.”

The older man’s lip curled in derision. 

“I don’t believe you’re capable of handling it.” 

Pushy fucker. I should ask Voldemort what he’s keeping secret for the git. That way I have something to hold over him in case he tries to interfere. 

“I don’t care what you think, Malfoy,” Harry said, standing so they could be on a more equal footing. “I am the Head Auror. This is none of your business.”

“My family is in danger,” Malfoy said with surprising venom. “It is my business.” 

Harry opened his mouth to interject, but before he could, the other man pressed on, taking a step closer. 

“I am relying on you to do what must be done, and what I am seeing instead is you growing haggard and suffering suspicious time at home under his terminal influence. You cannot handle the Dark Lord on your own, Potter.”

“Funny, that’s kind of what I’ve been doing since I was eleven.”

Malfoy sneered, but Harry held up a hand to forestall him. 

“This is my priority, I assure you.” Harry spoke calmly and tried to keep the annoyance off of his face. “I'm going to figure out what his last anchor is and then I will do what needs to be done.”

The uneasy reluctance at that thought now, was disconcerting.

“He needs to be at the Ministry,” Malfoy insisted firmly. 

Harry sighed. 

“Maybe. But I don’t think they’ll be able to work out his Horcrux.”

“So you do that, while they keep him secure. Why does he have to be at your home?”

Harry looked away, no excuses coming to him in time. 

“I’m not finished with him yet,” he confessed in a small voice. 

He has to pay for what he's done. Just like me. It’s personal. Why should the Ministry get to punish him when it was me he hurt? 

He looked up and Malfoy was scrutinising him closely. 

“While I understand the appeal of taking vengeance with your own wand,” the older man said with surprising gentleness, “he has been with you too long. He has already begun to manipulate you, I’m sure of it. It will not be long until he has convinced you to free him, or worse.”

“Worse?” Harry asked doubtfully. “What could be worse than freeing him?”

Malfoy shot him a mocking smile. 

“You are the great Boy Who Lived. If the Dark Lord could gain you as a follower, the scale of his destruction would decimate our world.”

Harry bristled at that. 

“I’m not his follower.”

I’m his submissive. 

Fuck. 

No. 

“Not yet,” Malfoy warned. “But it will not be long.”

Harry pulled out his wand and cancelled the wards on his office. 

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, infusing that word with disdain. He walked to the door and gestured to it. “But that’ll be all.”

Malfoy didn’t move. 

“I won’t wait forever,” the man threatened lowly, “nor will I put my faith in your resiliency. If you refuse to take action soon, I will intervene, even if it costs me my magic.”

Harry doubted that very much. The git was a coward, always had been. 

“You would lose your magic for this?” he asked skeptically. 

“For my family’s safety?” Malfoy replied with a confused expression. “In an instant.”

Harry scoffed. 

“Bit of an about-face from what you did to your son in school, isn’t it?”

Malfoy’s glare made his eyes almost slits. He stepped right up into Harry’s face. 

“Get your priorities straight, Potter,” he whispered roughly. “Fix this, or I will take you down with him.”

And without waiting for a reply, he strode from the office, his blonde hair fanning out behind him. 

~*~

He needed a drink. 

Merlin, this day couldn’t get any worse. But instead of the comfort of Ogden’s Old, he’d already agreed to go to Ron and Hermione’s place to meet Hugo. 

He liked kids, of course he did. Who didn’t? Well, other than Voldemort, the murdering bastard. But just because he liked them, didn’t mean he was looking forward to an evening of sore cheek muscles from smiling, or hearing all about Hermione’s blocked ducts and trouble getting a latch, like last time. 

“Uncle Harry!” Rose said excitedly when the door was opened, and she rushed forwards and hugged his legs. 

She was clingy the whole night, which made sense, considering all the attention that was directed at the new baby. Harry made sure to cuddle her, listening to all the books she had memorised and sitting next to her at dinner. 

When it was her bedtime, Harry got to read her two stories and then Ron took over, putting her down for sleep. 

Hermione smiled at him as Hugo nursed quietly. 

“You’re so good with kids,” she whispered, and Harry tried not to flinch. 

Everyone said that and it always made him uneasy. Sure, he could fake it well enough. He just did everything the opposite of what he’d gotten as a kid. He tried to listen and play with them, make them feel seen. He supposed kids were fine, but that didn’t mean he wanted his own. 

Fuck no.

Not with his penchant for getting people killed. Or what about if some nutter had a vendetta against Harry and decided to kill his kid? Or if Harry died while on duty as an Auror and left his child parentless— and then that poor kid was shipped off to the Dursleys as his only living relatives?

No way.

It was safer if he remained alone. If he never got close to anyone, then no one would be in danger. 

“Want me to head?” Harry asked, watching Hermione’s relaxed posture. 

Giving birth must be exhausting, what with all the feedings and nappy changes and other rubbish that came with babies. He ought to let them rest while the kids were. 

And I’ve gotta get home to my Dark Lord. 

“Of course not,” Hermione answered him, and he looked up, hoping he’d kept the grimace off his face. “We haven’t had a chance to talk for ages. You still haven’t told us how you caught dragon pox. I don’t know if you’re aware, but we tried to come by every day.”

“I know,” Harry replied, trying to navigate this mess. “I could hear you, but I was… pretty out of it.”

Hermione nodded. 

“Yeah, I’ve read all about dragon pox.” She smiled wryly. “Ron thought he’d caught it last year, the idiot. Would you believe it was jam?”

Harry laughed, and then quieted at Hermione’s stern look. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “Jam. The idiot.” Hermione’s gaze swept his body. “You look well. No lasting scars? Did you breathe smoke and everything?”

Harry regretted, again, letting Voldemort convince him of that lie. 

“Uh huh. But it really wasn’t that interesting. How's Hugo doing?”

Hermione looked down at the feeding baby, a small, tired smile on her face. 

“He’s wonderful. It’s only been a few days, but he’s already sleeping for four hours at a time. And Ron is taking great care of me.”

“Like I have a choice,” Ron said, suddenly leaning down to kiss Hermione’s hair and then coming around the sofa to sit next to Harry. “You’d have told all my brothers about that jam thing— which, in my defence, looked exactly like the marks from dragon pox and they were itchy!”

“Of course they were itchy, Ron, it was sticky jam drying on your skin!” Hermione said quietly, shooting Ron a fond grin, which he returned. 

It made Harry’s chest tighten. They loved each other. Like, really loved each other, til death do us part, and all that. 

Harry had never known that kind of love. 

“Harry was just saying that his symptoms of actual dragon pox weren’t that bad.”

Ron gave him a relieved smile. 

“That’s lucky, mate. When I had it, I was—”

“You’re such a berk,” Hermione laughed quietly, her leg coming out to lightly kick at Ron. 

Harry smiled, his cheeks beginning to ache. 

“So what’s it like now with two kids?” he asked, hoping to change the subject, but Ron made a groaning sound and Harry stopped talking. 

“No. No kid talk. We need to hear about life on the outside. How’s work going? How’s your dating life?”

Here we go. 

It would be so nice to actually have a reply to that question that wouldn’t force him to endure, Aww, you’ll find someone, or you’re still young, or how is the Harry Potter still single?

“Work’s fine. I’ve only just come back.”

“And your love life? Anyone new?”

Harry laughed awkwardly, looking away. 

“Leave him alone, Ron,” Hermione chastised in a low voice. “Harry, you’re looking a little thin. Is everything okay?”

“Geez, guys, I just got over dragon pox! How was I supposed to marry a bird and get fit in two days?”

Ron snorted. 

“I’d patent that potion.” Hermione shot him a glare and Ron quickly amended, “The second one! Not the first. You’re the best.”

Harry ratcheted up his smile, hoping that he could duck out soon.

Chapter Text

He’d waited until it was almost two in the morning before he had braved going home. 

Not because he was a coward— well, not only, at least. He’d waited because he’d been at the pub. 

And so had Andrew. 

And now I’m sore. 

He’d met Andrew in London and the other man had been open to getting drunk and fooling around, so that’s what they’d done. 

Until Andrew had told him that he only topped. 

Only. 

And it was late. And Harry was horny. He needed to get off and he wasn’t about to risk going home to Voldemort still all tingly and wanton.

And it wouldn’t have been his first time bottoming. When he was younger, once, a bigger Muggle bloke had insisted and since Harry had always wondered, he’d let him. And it had been good. 

Brilliant. 

Which was why he’d never done it again. 

He was a top, exclusively. Harry Potter couldn’t afford to risk someone humiliating him like that. He had to be strong, always. And bottoms were weak. 

But Andrew had only topped, so that was that. It had been too late to put the work into finding someone else, and it would just be one more time and then he’d be done with it. 

The problem had been, being the bottom meant he’d had his face smushed into the pillow. Andrew had been mostly quiet, which had left Harry’s imagination free to take over. 

While he had been getting pounded, his twisted mind had felt Voldemort’s big, spidery hands on his hips. His imposing body leaning over him, breathing on his neck. The experience had been shattering. 

And now it was all he wanted. 

Andrew hadn’t taken the edge off; he had reawakened his desire to be buggered. 

Which left him here, now. At two in the morning, scared to face the man he actually fancied. After he’d bleeding snogged him and then run off. 

Nothing for it. 

Harry turned the handle on his front door and crept into the house. The lights were out, which was a good sign. Merlin, it felt like he was sneaking around on a roommate or something. When had it come to this? Lord Voldemort was supposed to be his prisoner. 

Maybe Malfoy is right to be worried. 

Making his way up the stairs, he was relieved to hear that the house was silent. No Dark Lords creaking the floorboards or sharpening knives. 

At his bedroom door at last, he pushed it open, and then fell back against the wall. 

Lord Voldemort was sitting on his bed, resting leisurely against the headboard. 

“What are you doing?” Harry asked, meaning to sound angry, but instead his voice was strained. 

Voldemort tilted his head, almost as if the question confused him. He set aside the book he’d been reading and then gave Harry his full attention. 

“You left rather hastily this morning,” the Dark Lord said, and wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

“Get out of my bed.”

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. 

“After your amorous attack, I would have assumed that you would welcome my presence here.”

Harry pulled in a breath. So we’re jumping right into that, then. Wonderful. 

He studied the man in his bed and the longer he did, the warmer he became. Lord Voldemort looked good there. It wasn’t as jarring as he’d thought it would be. 

Not that he’d thought about it. 

Only perhaps every couple of minutes. 

And then he began to consider why Lord Voldemort was waiting up for him. In his bed. 

Merlin, is he in here because he wants to continue where we’d left off? Holy shit, is this actually going to happen? Fuck, I really shouldn’t have drank so much…

“You should be aware,” Voldemort said, drawing him back, and Harry’s gaze returned to scour that long, reposed body, “that my lack of reciprocation this morning was not for lack of interest. I must admit that you caught me off guard.”

Oh, I do not need to hear that right now, sodding hell. Fuck, does he feel this insane pull too? 

“Your spontaneous action earlier alerted me that we were perhaps ready to discuss our next moves.”

Holy shit. 

Was the man seriously going to make them talk about it first? Jesus, why couldn’t they just get into it without the discussion? 

Harry stared at the Dark Lord, anticipation tingling his skin. 

“I believe,” Voldemort said, as Harry’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, “that you will now be more amenable to discussing my previous offer of myself in exchange for assistance from you.”

Harry blinked. 

The fuck?

Oh god. 

He doesn’t actually want this. He’s using his body as a bargaining tool. 

Revulsion curdled through Harry. He knew how that felt. To have sex with someone when you didn’t really want to.

What a fucking idiot. 

Of course. Lord Voldemort was always just after serving himself. He had an agenda, which should have been obvious, and any hints of mutual attraction Harry had been picking up on, were clearly feigned. 

Harry had been used. 

Voldemort had been pretending to be attracted to him so he could lure him closer and then be in a position to barter for favours. 

What a fucking fool I am. 

“Are you even listening, Potter?” Harry heard Voldemort ask with irritation. 

He glanced up and caught the Dark Lord looking annoyed. 

It was never real.

I thought he understood me. I thought he could…

Enough. 

“Potter.”

“Yeah, I hear you. Stop badgering me.”

He took a deep breath. At least his erection had disappeared. All the sexual tension had blown away and he was left with a depressing resignation. 

What had he expected? This wasn’t for him. These feelings were not ones he deserved. 

“What do you say?” Voldemort asked again, and Harry looked up at him, feeling dead. 

Hollow. 

“No thanks,” Harry replied, suddenly desperately tired. 

He pushed off from the wall and began to walk to his bed. Voldemort didn’t want him, not really, and so being near him wouldn’t hurt anymore. He was just another person who wanted to use him. 

“I do not understand,” Voldemort said, watching Harry suspiciously as he came closer. “Your actions this morning—”

“I snogged you,” Harry interrupted, as he reached the bed. He looked down at the other man. “That was my mistake. I won’t make it again.”

Voldemort tilted his head, frowning. 

“You desire me,” Voldemort ventured slowly, as if trying to sort out what he knew to figure out what had gone wrong.

Harry shrugged. 

“So what?” He turned his back to Voldemort and sat down wearily. “I thought it was mutual. I thought that you…” 

…wanted to be my Master. 

Fuck, that hurt to think. But it was better this way anyways. He couldn’t risk something like that. 

“You know,” Harry went on, realising how skilfully he’d been played, “you should be proud. I haven’t felt drawn to someone like this… well, this will go straight to you head, but I never have. I thought… That doesn’t matter. You got me to want you and now there’s a price. It was all contrived. And I fell for it.” 

Harry laughed miserably. 

“So. Well done.”

There was silence as Harry laid down, his back turned to the Dark Lord who was still in his bed. But it didn’t matter. Harry wasn’t a monster. He wouldn’t touch the man again.

“That was not my intention.”

“It doesn’t matter. Please, just get out of my bed so I can sleep.”

There was no movement behind him.

“I do not have much else to offer currently,” Voldemort whispered. 

He still sounded confused. Harry squeezed his eyes shut. 

“I get it. It was a good move.” Harry swallowed thickly around the pain jamming his oesophagus. “Look, I know you want something from me, but can we talk in the morning? I just really need to sleep.”

He held his breath, waiting, and eventually the Dark Lord shifted and Harry felt his weight leave the bed. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or devastated. 

The man left without a word, but really, what more needed to be said? Harry had been a naïve idiot to think that the Dark Lord Voldemort could understand him. Or want him. It had been a ruse, and it would have to serve as a reminder about why he never did this. 

He was Harry Potter. If someone was kind or open to him, then it was an act to manipulate him. He was just a leftover weapon from the war that should never have made it through alive. 

This wasn’t for him. And it was time he fully accepted that. 

~*~

Voldemort walked slowly back to his chamber. 

Something had gone wrong, but he could not fathom what it had been. Potter had admitted he was attracted to him. Voldemort had seen the evidence. And yet the boy had denied him. 

Was it because of their past? 

He closed his bedroom door and leaned against it, thinking. 

That must be it. 

Their mutual animosity barred the boy from engaging sexually with him. Desire alone was not enough for Potter. 

Yet it would be no small task to erase memories of decades of violence between them. Potter would not be tricked into thinking that Voldemort had changed, which was comforting, because he had no intention of playing that part. 

This task was becoming more challenging. He had assumed that the boy would welcome this offer. And yet he had rejected it forcefully. 

He still fears me. 

Potter did not trust him yet. Voldemort had been premature with his suggestion of a trade between them and now he would have to rebuild what had been broken tonight. 

The boy wanted him. That was not the issue. 

Voldemort needed his magic returned to him. For that, he required Potter. And for Potter he must be patient. 

~*~

Harry had nowhere to go. 

He wanted space to get control of his feelings again, space to lick his wounds and chastise himself, but his home was no longer ideal for that. 

Voldemort was always there, lurking. They didn’t talk as often anymore. The man seemed less certain around him, almost like he was waiting for Harry to come to him. 

No point to that anymore. 

“Another?” the bartender asked, and Harry nodded without making eye contact. 

Why not? Work was quiet and it wasn’t like he had anyone to rush home to. 

Just Lord Voldemort. 

Harry was stuck. He knew he should be scrambling to discover the man’s last Horcrux, but something always came up before he could begin. 

He didn’t want to. 

Yet that wasn’t enough to give the man a pass considering all he’d done. Sure, he had no magic, but the Dark Lord knew why now, and he probably already had dozens of ways to get it back. Or plenty of people that had not been active Death Eaters, who would suffice to redo the ritual with. 

Then the Dark Lord would recommence his destruction and it would all be on Harry. Again. 

He was the Saviour. He must put the world first and do what needed to be done. Whether or not he wanted to. Voldemort—

“Is this seat taken?” 

Harry looked up to see a tall, bald man gesturing to the chair beside him. 

Fuck, he looks kinda like a non-creepy Voldemort.

Harry shook his head and looked away. Jesus, you’re pathetic. 

“It’s all yours,” Harry replied.

He tried to get back to what he’d been thinking about, but the man leaned in close and diverted his attention. 

“You’re Harry Potter.”

Harry looked up quickly. He was in a Muggle pub; he hadn’t expected to be recognised. 

The man smiled genially. 

“Relax, I’m not going to cause a scene. Although, I am a really big fan.”

Harry smiled awkwardly in return. Fuck my life, I should've just gone home. 

“Hey, can I ask you something?” the man inquired, placing his hand boldly on Harry’s arm. 

Harry raised his eyebrow, but nodded so as not to be impolite. 

“Are you circumcised?”

Harry almost choked— the fuck?

The man laughed. 

“Sorry if that’s too personal, I’ve just always wondered. I love reading about you in the gossip rags, and they certainly go into detail, but they’ve never explicitly said what you’ve got there.”

The man actually leaned back and stared pointedly at Harry’s crotch. It was blatant enough that Harry felt embarrassed and wanted to cover himself. 

“That’s really not—”

“It’s just, I know you were raised by Muggles and I’ve read all about what they do to young boys in their culture. It’s shocking, isn’t it? Lopping off a chunk of a baby’s cock without their consent?”

Harry had no idea how to respond. When did it become appropriate to start a conversation like this? 

The man was staring at him, so Harry would have to respond. He cleared his throat. 

“Look, I’m just here for a drink.”

The man nodded and called for the bartender with his order. Harry almost groaned. Now he was stuck.

“Anyways,” the man said, focused on Harry again, “back to my original question. Did those Muggles chop you too?” 

Harry opened his mouth, but had no words. The man squeezed his arm jocularly and laughed again. 

“Your face, mate!” The man pressed his forehead into Harry’s shoulder while he laughed. “Oh man, I can’t believe you’re here.” He sat up and smiled at Harry. “This is right by my place. Wanna come back with me?”

Jesus, did the bloke think he was off to a good start, here? What a sodding egotistical prick. 

Harry scrambled for a way to say no.

“Maybe you can relieve me of my burning curiosity,” the fucker purred. “I’ll relieve you, too.”

He had the gall to wink and Harry almost slapped him. 

That’s enough. Get the fuck out of here. 

He was just about to stand, when the man grabbed him by the back of his head and pulled him closer. 

“We totally should,” he whispered, his breath smelling rank with alcohol. “Wanna know why? People always say I look kinda like He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Harry froze, staring into the man’s face at close range. 

Fuck. 

He totally does. 

Nowhere near as attractive or compelling, and the man’s verbal ineptitudes were a complete turn off, but— fuck. If he could get the idiot to shut the fuck up for five minutes—

“I could be your Dark Lord of Cock tonight, Mr Potter!” the man shrieked quietly, and then put his head down on the bar, giggling. 

Fucking bollocks. 

No. 

This was a very bad idea. The man touching him was repulsive and this would only confuse his forbidden desire for the Dark Lord. 

…Though, he could always Obliviate the man afterwards. 

Fuck. 

If he couldn’t have what he wanted… 

“Alright,” Harry blurted out, and the man stopped laughing at once.

He looked up. 

“Really?” His shock was almost comical. “You’re serious?”

Harry nodded and then stood. 

“Let’s go.”

~*~

Harry turned off the lights in the man’s bedroom. 

The stranger was quiet now, almost like he couldn’t quite believe that Harry Potter was actually in his flat. He kept staring at him more openly than was socially acceptable, but Harry didn’t care. 

He was rather excited.  

What a great idea. It was perfect. He could get the Dark Lord out of his system with some role play and then do what needed to be done to save the world. 

“You have to be rough with me,” Harry instructed him tonelessly, wanting to get this correct now that he’d committed. 

He’d already decided to wipe the man’s memory afterwards, so he could say whatever he wanted. 

“Okay,” the man agreed, still standing motionless by the door. 

“Don’t ask for permission, just make me do what you want me to.”

A small smile was ghosting over the man’s face. 

“You sure?”

Oh, fuck yes. 

He nodded.

“And he would top you, right?” the man asked.

That gave him pause.

Harry was always the top. It was comfortable. Familiar. 

He looked over at the other man and tried to imagine that the stranger was Lord Voldemort instead. Staring at him hungrily. 

Desiring him without an agenda. Promising to take care of him. 

Making him kneel.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed. 

The man smirked.

“Anything else?”

Harry began to pull off his shirt, eager to begin. 

“Be mean to me.”

The man laughed.

“Of course. Can you imagine him being nice?”

I’ve seen him nice. He gives me what I need. 

“Treat me like…” Harry began, as his mind cautioned him that this was too far— “like a submissive.”

The man frowned.

“How’s that?”

Ah well.

“Never mind. Just start.”

The man walked towards him, unbuttoning his shirt. Harry forced his mind to ignore the unnatural human nose, the graceless gait. He tried to see sinister red eyes. 

“Potter,” the man said in a low voice, but Harry corrected him without thinking. 

“Call me boy.”

The man smiled darkly, reaching him and grabbing Harry by the shoulders. 

“Kiss me, boy.”

Harry cringed, hating everything about that. 

“Don’t,” Harry told him. “Forget about the boy thing.”

The man nodded and Harry tried to calm. To get into the headspace that Voldemort always took him to. Suddenly, lips were plastered onto his and a tongue was thrusting into his mouth, wet and insistent. 

It was gross, but Harry took it. There was some pleasure to be had, enduring unpleasant things for his Master’s enjoyment. 

Master. Should I call him that?

No. 

That term was for Voldemort alone. He wouldn’t sully it. This person didn’t deserve it. 

The kiss ended and Harry let the man drag him to the bed. He was flung back, and he wanted to sigh disappointedly at how much he was being manhandled. That wasn’t Voldemort’s style. He would issue commands and Harry would obey. That was better. 

This was weak.

The man pulled off Harry’s trousers and pants and then gripped his semi-hard cock tightly. 

“I’m He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Harry bit his cheek to stop the amused snort from bursting out. Jesus, this man had no idea how Voldemort talked. 

“I’ve won the war and now I’m going to fuck you, Potter,” the man said in a deep voice, so unlike his. 

His arse was grabbed and Harry closed his eyes, trying to imagine that cool skin touching him instead.

“My Death Eaters are gonna have a go with you when I’m done,” the man said, and that was just ridiculous. 

Like the Dark Lord would share. 

But he doesn’t want you at all. He wouldn’t care that you’re shagging someone else. 

Fuck. That hurt. 

“Do you think he would make you come?” the man asked, breaking character as he whispered the question to Harry. 

He has before. 

Harry shook his head. He didn’t like coming for other people anyways. With those who knew his identity, sex for him wasn’t about getting off. It was usually just about repaying a debt. It was a paltry offering to alleviate some of his guilt. 

“Yeah, that’s true,” the man agreed. “I bet he’d— of fuck. I mean—” The man’s face grew serious as he donned his Voldemort guise again. “You won’t be coming tonight, Potter. After I fuck you, I’m gonna kill you. So you’d better make it good for me.”

This was immensely unauthentic. 

Far from sating his desire, it was actually making him miss the Dark Lord more. He was realising the little things he appreciated about the man now that he was being so inexpertly portrayed. 

Like how his eyes spoke so much. There was a depth to him that burned in his red gaze; a wild energy that was loosely contained in the man’s controlled body. 

And his voice. 

It was high and alluring. So damn arrogant, so commanding. It had authority, even when the man was a prisoner. And it always affected Harry.

“I’m not gonna prepare you, Potter,” the man said, pulling him away from his thoughts. 

Harry felt fingers poking at his entrance and was unhappy that the man was being serious. This would hurt, and it wasn’t even for him. For Voldemort, he would take it, but for this nobody, it was hard to submit. 

When he felt the cock press against him, he laid still, allowing the man to breach him. It burned like hell and Harry buried his face in the pillows, wishing he hadn’t undertaken this farce. 

“Oh yeah,” the man groaned, grabbing his hips and pulling Harry deeper. “Circe's tits, I’m fucking the Boy Who Lived!”

Shut up. 

Voldemort wouldn't say that. He would be demeaning him. Telling him how worthless he was. Saying the words that no one else dared to. 

“Say I’m a failure,” Harry demanded.

“You’re a bleeding failure,” the man repeated in his low, wrong voice. 

“He wouldn’t—” Harry gasped, gritting his teeth. Fuck, getting buggered hurt. “He doesn’t talk like that.”

“Sorry,” the man said, and then grabbed a handful of Harry’s hair, yanking his head back. 

Better. 

“Take my cock, Potter,” the man said, and Harry tried to go with it— it was Voldemort fucking him, taking him, hurting him—

“Merlin, I’m gonna come soon,” the man moaned, and Harry bit into his tongue in bitter frustration. 

It was fucking useless. 

No amount of focus or imagination was going to make Harry believe that this man was Lord Voldemort. Harry’d been an idiot to think that anyone else could play that part. 

He gave up and just let the man— whose name he hadn’t even bothered to ask— fuck him until he finished. He laid there, defeated, as the man caught his breath. 

“Wait, you didn’t come?” 

Harry sat up gingerly, hating how delicate he felt after he was buggered. It was a far more intimate act. One that required trust and a relaxed body, and Harry struggled with both of those things. 

“Let me—”

Harry stood quickly to avoid the hands reaching for him. 

“I’m fine,” he assured the man. “Really.” 

He tried to imbue his tone with firm resolve, but the man obviously didn’t hear it. He laughed. 

“Oh come on, I have the Chosen One here and I’m not going to take care of him?”

The man stood and strode forward, his hands outstretched towards Harry’s flaccid cock.

For a moment, he almost just surrendered. 

It wouldn’t hurt him any further to let the man have a more satisfying experience. It was the least he could do considering he was going to Obliviate him anyways. 

But then he heard Voldemort’s forceful voice. 

You allowed yourself to be used. You gave to another what belongs to me. This will not happen again.

When the man reaching for him made contact with Harry’s genitals, Harry's magic lashed out. 

That’s not yours.

He watched the grasping fingers flinch and saw that the digits were now covered in burns. 

“What the hell?” the man shrieked, looking at Harry with open shock. 

He wanted to apologise, to beg forgiveness, but his back wouldn’t bend. He stared at the man levelly.

“Step the fuck away from me.”

Harry’s voice was emotionless. He didn’t recognise it.

The man stumbled back a few paces, his expression comically astounded. 

“Fuck, mate, a no would have done the job.”

Harry continued to watch him, every part of himself suddenly feeling ice-cold and in control. 

Powerful. 

He pulled out his wand and watched the other man wince, not even going for his own in defence. 

“You are nothing like Voldemort,” Harry told him, unable to hold in the words. “He's never had a problem making me come.”

When the man’s face fell in horror, Harry hit him with a thorough Obliviate and then left.

Chapter Text

“I’ve reported the woman you killed as dead.” 

Voldemort looked up from his book and scrutinised the boy. He was such a bleeding heart. 

“Whatever for?”

Harry glared at him. 

“Because she had a family. A mother, a nephew. They deserve to know.”

“And just how did you explain your knowledge of her condition?”

The boy looked away. 

“People believe me. I just told them that I found some of her remains and did the charms to identify her. No one ever questions me.”

Voldemort’s excitement stirred. Potter had such power and he did not even desire it. The boy could do anything at the Ministry and receive unconditional support. 

So shall I soon be able to. Potter will prove very useful. 

“If only they knew what you have done, Harry Potter,” Voldemort drawled and caught the way the boy’s shoulders dropped. 

These words relaxed him. The boy was an enthralling creature. 

“You are responsible for her death and that of her sister,” he continued, drinking in every involuntary twitch of the boy’s muscles. 

He watched those eyes close, Potter's breathing deepening.

Ah, so this was what the little hero was after. 

“You killed everyone that I struck down getting to you,” Voldemort ventured further, intrigued to test how much blame the boy would accept.

He stood unintentionally and walked towards the entrancing figure. 

“Friends. Family,” he added cruelly. “Innocents. People are counting on you to protect them and yet you bring nothing but death.”

Potter made a delicious pained sound, his eyes still squeezed shut. 

Voldemort could not resist. He reached out, lightly grasping the boy’s throat. Potter swallowed, and he was mesmerised watching that laryngeal prominence bob. He leaned down and inhaled the scent of his skin. 

“Are you still feeling guilty about that cunt of a woman, Harry?” he breathed into his ear. “Did your half-sincere confession to the Ministry conflict you more than if you had told the whole truth?”

Harry nodded heavily, a tear falling from his eye. 

Oh, he was perfect. 

“Would you like me to punish you for your part in her demise? Would that help?”

Harry’s throat made a most curious keening sound before it was strangled. The boy’s fists clenched. 

Voldemort stepped closer, crowding him against the wall. 

“Lord Voldemort asked you a question, Potter.”

The boy’s anxious eyes flew open and sought his. He looked lost and Voldemort felt himself hardening in response. Harry’s innocence, despite all he had been through, was sublime. 

And then, abruptly, the boy’s face changed. His eyes cleared and he shook his head. 

“No.”

Fury throbbed in his veins. 

“No?” he asked, his voice a deadly whisper. 

Potter took a staggering breath and placed a hand over Voldemort’s at his neck. 

“Please let me go.”

That was not something he was capable of doing. He had no intention of letting him go. Instead, he tightened his grip, bearing down upon the boy. 

“We can’t do this,” Potter rasped, struggling to break free. “You can’t touch me like this anymore. We have to go back to being enemies.”

Back to? So the boy no longer considered them that. Then why was he saying no? 

“Is that what you want?” he asked, knowing it was not. 

Yet he would not force him if the boy was unsure.

Harry closed his eyes, his expression pained. He stayed silent for long moments as Voldemort rapaciously studied his face. 

“It’s what I have to do,” he insisted, sounding like the words were his own unsuccessful mantra. 

“I do not wish to kill you, Harry,” Voldemort confessed, allowing some of his sincerity to colour his words. “We are not the same as we were. We cannot return to being enemies.”

The boy’s eyes flew wide, perhaps looking more tortured. He stared openly at Voldemort and then finally shook his head. 

“No. You… This isn’t what you want.” Voldemort narrowed his eyes. “And we shouldn’t complicate our roles anyways. I have to find your last Horcrux and you have to…” 

The boy glanced up at him, reluctantly curious. 

“Reclaim my magic,” Voldemort stated. 

Harry nodded. 

“Yeah. And I can’t let you do that.”

Let me? Oh, Harry. 

“I will get my magic back, Harry Potter. I am immortal. I have the time to be patient.”

He saw the boy’s face harden and the endearing challenge the boy thought he would bring to that certainty, made him smile. 

“As for your mission,” he continued lightly, “it is futile. Without my aid, you will never find it.”

Harry sighed.

“So it is a Horcrux,” the boy murmured in confirmation to himself. He looked up at Voldemort. “You know I’ll find it eventually.”

Voldemort smirked. 

“You will not.”

Harry scoffed. 

“So what, then? You want my assistance with your ritual and I want your Horcrux. We both won’t help each other, so are we at a stalemate?”

Voldemort released Potter and stepped back. 

“Hardly. I need a servant to give me their flesh. It need not be you.”

“There’s no one else left.”

“Again, I am immortal. Eventually you will die and I will convince others to aid me easily enough.” 

The thought of the boy dead was not a pleasant one. Potter had been his focus for so long that it would be unnatural without him. 

“You’ll be in Azkaban,” the boy declared with amusing certainty. “I’ll take you there eventually.”

“So then it will be a guard or another inmate. As long as I have someone to speak to, I will acquire another servant.”

“You never got me,” Potter had the audacity to proclaim. 

Voldemort simply stared at the boy with a raised eyebrow until he flushed. 

“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying I’m not your servant.”

A vivid memory of Potter on his knees contradicted this avowal.

“The terms servant and submissive are almost interchangeable, Harry,” Voldemort drawled, reaching out to touch the boy again, but his hand was slapped away. 

“I am not your submissive!” Potter suddenly shouted. “You don’t want me! You— you’re selling your body to me as a way to get me to do shit for you! That’s sick. I don’t want that. I don’t need you to pretend to fancy me to earn my favour or my help or whatever it is you’re after.”

Potter pushed off from the wall and stared at him with defiance. 

“So yeah— this.” The boy gestured between them with his fingers. “This is not happening anymore.”

And before Voldemort could offer a rebuttal, Potter had stormed from the drawing room. 

~*~

Harry wasn’t mourning, exactly. 

It wasn’t like that. Yeah, fine, he felt bereft and disappointed, but it wasn’t like whatever they had been doing was feasible. 

He was the Dark Lord Voldemort. 

Harry had to kill him eventually. That was his purpose. Not the man himself. 

So yeah. He was sad, but he just needed a distraction. Or a reminder that that kind of connection wasn’t for him anyways. He had committed his life to serving the wizarding world and that was what he would concentrate on from now on. 

He plunked his teacup down onto his desk decisively and stood. 

No more brooding. Time to move on. 

He strode from his office and went to the Active Cases board in the main room. 

This looks much different now than it did when I first started ten years ago. 

Now, it was mostly thefts, some assaults. Minor things. 

“Mr Potter, I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

That’s what I’m here for.

“What can I do for you?” Harry asked his colleague, and he meant it. 

This was his purpose. 

“I just had a case come in about a woman Polyjuicing herself into her ex-husband’s new wife.”

Greta, the other Auror, stopped to smirk at him. Harry laughed. 

“I’m assuming she was found out?”

“Yup, the Polyjuice wore off after an hour as it’s intended— while they were still going at it.”

Harry raised his eyebrows and nodded. 

“That’s impressive stamina.”

Greta shot him a look. 

“If the rumours are true, Mr Potter, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Harry felt a swoop of shame in his stomach. Your subordinates think you’re a whore. Everyone knows you'll fuck anything that moves. Disgusting, desperate slag. 

“Right,” Harry said awkwardly. “Well, what can I help you with?” 

Greta began to detail the complexities of the crime, asking about precedence with calling it rape, and Harry was listening, he really was. But the mention of rape and swapping bodies and sex got him thinking. 

Polyjuice.

The man a few days ago had been so unsatisfying. But maybe if he could hire an actual sex worker who probably got asked this kind of thing all the time— then he could fuck the actual Dark Lord.

Well. Not the actual Dark Lord, but as close to him as he could get without taking advantage of the man. 

His trousers got tight the longer he thought about it. He had some Polyjuice in his potions stash at home. This would be easy. 

One last time, with the man’s real body, and he would get it out of his system. 

“What do you think, Mr Potter?” Greta asked, and Harry startled, supremely thankful for his loose robes. 

Focus now. Do your job and then tomorrow, you can play. 

~*~

The negotiations had finished. Harry was using Polyjuice too, because sex workers did not allow Obliviation afterwards. 

And I don’t want to burn any bridges in case I need to come back again. 

He looked like a random middle-aged Muggle and he had requested a male companion for the evening that way the poor person wouldn’t have to shift their genitals. 

When he’d explained what he wanted, the man hadn’t even flinched. He hadn’t asked how Harry had acquired the necessary DNA to successfully turn into Lord Voldemort either. 

Sex workers in the magical world must see some weird shit. If this didn’t shock them, what would? 

“Please follow me, Mr Daniels,” the man said, and then led him down a corridor in the large manor house they were in. 

He stopped outside of one of the doors and opened it for Harry. 

“You can wait inside. I’ll take the potion and then enter when you’re ready.”

Harry nodded, too excited to even speak. He walked into the room, shut the door, and then leaned against it, his heart pounding in anticipation. 

Fuck. 

He was about to see the Dark Lord naked. He could touch him and snog him and there wouldn’t be any prices. No obligations. No violent history between them. 

It would just be pleasure. 

Oh Merlin, yes, this is exactly what I need. 

Harry thought about stripping off, but he wanted to let the Dark Lord do it. Instead, he sat down on the bed and stared impatiently at the door, willing it to open. 

Holy shit. Lord Voldemort is about to walk into this room, wanting to fuck me. He’s going to—

There was a knock and then that fucking voice asked, “May I come in?”

Harry couldn’t speak, so he rushed to the door and pulled it open. 

Lord Voldemort was standing there, staring him down with those burning eyes. Adrenaline and overwhelming lust spiked through his body. 

“Good evening,” the man said, and walked past him into the room. 

Harry shut the door and then turned to see Lord Voldemort waiting by the bed. 

Jesus fuck. 

Those long fingers began to pull off the man’s robes and a moan escaped Harry’s lips. 

Oh gods, he’s naked under there, he’s— those are his nipples! Holy shit, he’s gorgeous. Scrawny and pale, but perfect, and that’s—

His cock was beautiful, just as he remembered. It was already erect and jutting forward obscenely; a delicious pink colour, and Harry moved on impulse, falling onto his knees and shuffling forwards. 

I’ve got to get it into my mouth, fuck, I’ve got to—

“Get on the bed,” that voice demanded and Harry looked up. 

Oh, bollocks. 

He hadn’t requested cock sucking and sex workers were notorious for keeping things strictly within the discussed parameters.

He swallowed his disappointment and the excess saliva that had accumulated, then did as he was told. 

That’s okay. The sex is going to be amazing. 

Harry sat himself on the bed and Lord Voldemort followed, covering him with his long body.

Fuck yes, this was better, this was incredible.

Voldemort licked along his throat and Harry moved his head to capture those lips, but the flat face dodged it and Harry almost swore. 

Fuck! He’d not even thought to add snogging to their negotiations. 

The man above him reached down and grabbed Harry’s straining cock, completely distracting him.

“Would you like to fuck me,” that high, cold voice asked, and Harry felt himself twitch in the man’s grip at that unthinkable question. “Or, would you prefer for me to take you?”

Harry had no idea. He hadn’t counted on having to choose. Yes, he’d selected both options in the questionnaire, but he had hoped it would just be done to him. 

He buried his face in that long, cool neck, his mind beginning to fixate on the discrepancies. 

Voldemort wouldn’t ask, he wouldn’t be so gentle—

“Just— fuck me, I guess.”

Voldemort began to undress him and Harry tried not to look into the man’s face. The crimson eyes were disconcertingly passive. Alert, but not engaged. 

The man began to prepare him and Harry didn’t know if that would be authentic or not. 

He’d never gotten to have sex with the real Lord Voldemort. 

A sudden unease sliced through him. He was going to do this for the first time, the only time, with a fake. He was touching the man intimately, yet it wasn’t really him. 

Panic began to rattle his nerves. He was going to allow himself to be penetrated again for a man that hadn’t earned his trust. A stranger wearing the face of someone he’d come to care for. 

Care for?

A hard cock pressed against his entrance and Harry tensed, instantly changing his mind. 

“Wait!” he shouted, pushing back against that towering body, which immediately receded.

Harry rolled off the bed, panting, but infinitely relieved that he hadn’t gone through with this. 

“I’m sorry to break character,” that familiar voice said gently, “but would you like to use your safe word?”

Harry nodded, his eyes clenched shut. 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Quidditch. I’m done.”

When he opened his eyes, the man’s expression was understanding. Harry looked away, refusing the take in any more of that body unconsensually. 

“Can I offer you anything else, or would you just like to end this session?”

“Sorry, just end it, I think. Thank you.”

The man quietly exited the room and Harry waited for the count of five and then collapsed back onto the bed. 

Merlin. 

What had he been thinking? This was ludicrous. He didn’t just want the man for his body. The appeal wasn’t about a collection of compelling parts. 

It was Voldemort himself. 

The way he made Harry feel. The blissful nothingness he allowed Harry to sink into. The way he challenged him, encouraged him. The danger he presented.

That couldn’t be replicated or acted out. 

He wanted Lord Voldemort. 

And if he couldn’t have him, then that would just have to be something else to numb with overwork. 

He sat up slowly, defeated, and began to dress. 

~*~

It was late when Harry finally arrived home. 

He had sought out a gay pub after leaving the brothel, wanting a drama-free handjob before bed, but strangely he had turned down all three of the men that had offered. 

Maybe I should become celibate. Give myself a chance to fast from the toxin that is Lord Voldemort. 

Harry snorted. 

Sweat him out. 

He laid his head on the back of the sofa in front of the crackling fire in the drawing room. The lights were off, the house was silent. He could just sit with himself and—

“A bottle of Polyjuice is missing,” Lord Voldemort abruptly said from directly beside him.

Harry jolted, springing up off the furniture in terror and backing away. 

Oh, fuck. 

He stared at the man, his pulse thundering in his skull. Voldemort looked even more menacing in the dark, with the flickering orange light from the fire casting sinister shadows on his face. 

“Combined with your trespass into my chamber this morning while I was feigning sleep,” Voldemort continued, and Harry could have cursed himself for assuming his earlier entry had been subtle, “I have one very curious conclusion, Harry Potter.”

The Dark Lord was studying him, his gaze sweeping Harry’s body.

“Do you know what it is?”

Harry shook his head. 

Let it be way off. Let him think I sold it, or used it to wank, or—

“You stole my body again today.”

Harry held his breath. 

Yup. But what did I do with it?

“Was it Auror business once more?” Voldemort inquired, taking a step towards him. 

Harry tried to keep his face neutral, but images of his evening, of Lord Voldemort stripping off before him, of that gorgeous cock jutting out enticingly—

“Or something else?” Voldemort went on, still coming closer, and Harry bit his cheek. “Something that would account for your heated blush and late return home?”

Harry swallowed around the tightness in his throat. 

“It was work,” he replied, trying to sound casual. “I’m sorry, I should have asked—”

“Lies.”

Harry’s fucked up body responded to that by trembling with arousal. 

Sweet Merlin, he will kill me if he finds out what I’ve done. 

“I wonder,” Voldemort continued, reaching him at last, “if it was you who donned my skin.” 

The Dark Lord’s fingers moved to Harry’s mouth and gently pressed against his lips, which opened immediately to let him in.

“Or, did you dare to give it to another? Ah,” Voldemort sighed, and Harry watched that gaze burn with smouldering fury. “Your body betrays you, Harry Potter.”

He wanted to deny it, but the fingers clogging his mouth did not recede. They went deeper. 

“You let someone else take my form.” The danger in those words made him want to flee, but also to drop to his knees. “Why. What—”

Understanding widened the man’s blazing eyes. His long digits plunged into the back of Harry’s throat, making him gag.

“Harry Potter,” he whispered, and it was like a chiding exhale while Harry struggled. “You hypocritical boy.”

How the fuck was the man reading so much from him? Harry was an Auror. He was trained to withstand questions without cracking, and yet the sodding Dark Lord was unravelling him effortlessly.

Voldemort gradually pulled his fingers out and wiped them slowly, messily, on Harry’s face. 

“You gave to another my body so that you could indulge without consequences. How foolish of you to believe that Lord Voldemort would not find out.”

The man’s anger had reached a pinnacle. Harry knew he should be afraid, and he was, but he was also caught, compelled by the man’s power even without his magic. 

“Was it satisfying?” the Dark Lord whispered perilously, no longer touching Harry. “Did your betrayal bring you pleasure?”

“No,” Harry assured him desperately.

“Of course not, boy. Counterfeit bodies will not slake your lust like the original would. That was your mistake.” 

Voldemort backed up a few paces and then leaned against the wall, studying him. 

“You gave yourself to the wrong person, Harry Potter.” 

I know.

But this wasn’t fair. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that they'd stopped. It was Voldemort’s. He was the one who was just pretending. 

“This is on you,” Harry retorted, pointing at the man.“You’re the one who wanted to make this into a transaction.”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed as he shook his head, pushing off from the wall. 

“No,” he hissed. “Do not change the subject. You fucked another man and pretended he was me.”

“Well, you don’t want it! I might as well give it to someone else.”

Voldemort growled viciously.

“Someone else who looked like me.” The man stalked forwards like a predator until he was inches away once again. “You want me.”

They stared at each other, both shaking with emotion. Voldemort bore down on him. 

“You can bed a hundred men with my face, boy, but it will never bring you what you seek.” 

“And what do I seek?” Harry challenged, intending to sound scathing, but it came out brittle. 

The man reached out and grabbed ahold of his hair, yanking it and tilting Harry’s head back so he was looking up helplessly at that livid, flat face. 

“Lord Voldemort,” the Dark Lord replied. “Above you. Where you and I both know he belongs.” 

“You don’t want that,” Harry whispered, refusing to submit to this and then be made a fool of again. “You’re just using me.”

Voldemort traced Harry’s cheek lightly. 

“You are mine to use.”

Harry closed his eyes. 

No. 

He would accept people using his body and his fame and whatever else they needed, but not his emotions. Not this. 

Reaching up, he placed his hand on Voldemort’s wrist where he was gripping Harry’s hair. Looking up into those simmering eyes, he spoke softly. 

“Let me go. Please. We can’t do this.”

“You need me, Harry,” Voldemort insisted quietly, but his wrath seemed to have dissipated. 

Those inhuman eyes held him for long moments. Eventually, Voldemort unlocked his grip and let Harry twist free.

Harry took a deep breath, his chest tight. 

He won’t even deny that it was a ruse. He doesn’t want you. 

“I’m sorry about… the Polyjuice,” Harry muttered, needing to take the blame on that.

He wasn’t innocent here. And he felt bad for using the man’s body that way. 

Sighing, he readied himself to go. When he looked up, Lord Voldemort was studying him. 

“You’re right, it was rubbish,” Harry confessed softly, though it hurt to say it with those intense eyes piercing him. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

Turning away, he made to walk out the door, but Voldemort stopped him with a hand on his arm. 

“Come to me, next time.”

Harry shook his head. 

“You know I can’t.” 

They stared at each other, the air charged with longing. 

Tell me you want me, say it’s not just an act.

But Voldemort remained silent. And so there was nothing more to do. 

“Goodnight,” Harry offered miserably. 

He left, and as he walked down the corridor to his room, he heard the Dark Lord’s resigned voice reply. 

“Goodnight, Harry.”

Chapter Text

Harry gnawed on his cuticle in his office, his mind elsewhere.

He had to deal with Voldemort. 

He knew this. It was time to admit that he was rapidly losing control of the situation. He’d wanted to get his vengeance, to make Voldemort suffer, but he’d failed. Just like the man had said he would. 

Now, he needed to figure out his next steps. 

Sighing, he picked up one of the many useless lists with rows and rows of possible locations for the man’s Horcruxes from his desk. Under it, he frowned when he saw the name Persephone Talbot on a report. His stomach clenched. It was a witness testimony he’d needed to pass off two days ago. Talbot, an old Muggle-born witch, had claimed she’d been attacked because of her blood status. She’d been sent to St Mungo’s. She had needed Harry to file these documents so she could get justice and Harry had failed her.  

He stood abruptly, needing to act. 

His state of distraction was unforgivable. He’d been given this promotion to help people, and yet lately he had spent the majority of his time at work trying to fix his new mistakes. 

And yes, fine. Work had been pretty quiet since killing McNair. It was all small shit. Squabbles. Petty thefts. Pure-bloods bitching about their hard lives. It seemed like everyone was taking a break and enjoying this new peace after decades of Voldemort’s devastating wars.

So Harry’s job was pretty much just to maintain that peace. 

But he didn’t know what to do with it. Since he’d been eleven years old, he had been thrown into war. His brain was so hyper focused on reacting to danger that he didn’t know how to rest. And then came the obvious fact that he didn’t deserve to rest. 

He had been the cause of all of their ruin and now—

Fuck.  

Now he had just made everything infinitely worse.

It had become difficult to talk to his colleagues that he knew had been affected by the war. Before, he could sate some of his crushing guilt by telling himself that at least he was working to fix his past mistakes. But now, he was struggling with his new ones. And those that would occur in the future due to his cockups. 

He was making things more dangerous, not less.

Harry dropped the quill he’d been holding and pulled his finger out of his mouth. The edges around the nail were bloody and ragged. He knew he could heal it and the sting would be gone, but he wouldn’t.

He deserved the pain. 

Why should he get to feel better when he hadn’t even managed to save Cedric, who’d been killed because Harry had encouraged him to touch that Portkey?

He had actually been the cause of that boy’s death. His arrogance. His shortsightedness. 

Harry closed his eyes. Fuck. He could feel his body shaking and it wasn’t just from not eating. He got like this when all of his failures began to pile up. 

And then that high, cold voice cut through his anxiety.

I can take away your guilt, Potter.

Oh fuck, that’s right. 

He could. 

That had felt so cathartic, laying all of his heavy remorse at the Dark Lord’s feet and accepting his deserved punishment for it. 

I need that. I fucking need that now.

Harry was walking to the door before he’d decided to.  

What’s the point of being the Head Auror if it didn’t come with perks like early departure?

He’d just turned the handle, when his responsibilities caught up with him. 

So, you’re going to leave your job protecting people to go cry at the Dark Lord Voldemort’s feet? Your need is more important than theirs?

Harry flinched. Let go of the knob.

He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes. 

No. He needed to calm the fuck down. It wasn’t like he could even go to Voldemort if he wanted to. The man was just another person trying to manipulate him. 

He turned and walked back to his desk. Sat back down. He had to get this over with. Find that Horcrux and just end it. 

The Dark Lord had said that Harry would never find it on his own, but he probably didn’t realise how much Dumbledore had told him. Harry may even know more about Voldemort’s family than the man himself did. 

Would he care to know that his mother had been miserable? That she had been trapped with two men who made her do all the domestic duties and verbally— and likely physically— abused her? 

Would he care? 

Was a person as warped as Voldemort, a man so repulsed by his humanity that he’d split his soul to stop himself from doing the one thing all humans were destined to do— would that man have empathy for his own mother?

Was he capable of it?

And if so, who else would it extend to? 

Voldemort seemed to have a strong reaction to sexual assault. Would he care that his own father had been raped? That his mother had been so desperate to get out of her dire circumstances that she’d kept Voldemort’s father prisoner with potions? 

Would he listen if Harry explained that it hadn’t been right that Voldemort had been raised without love in an orphanage?

Harry thought about how disappointed Voldemort must have been when he’d finally tracked down his uncle and grandfather and seen their ruin. Had he been secretly hoping that they would be people he could look up to? Family, after such a long wait, that would teach him and take him away from the orphanage he still had to return to each summer? 

And his own father. How had Voldemort felt meeting him? Had he spent his miserable childhood waiting for the man to come save him? There must have been countless Toms coming into Wool’s. Had Voldemort stood there, silently pleading for one of them to be his? 

Was this the true reason why Dumbledore had said that Voldemort hated his name? 

Because it reminded him that no one had come looking for him. 

No one had saved him. 

And then, when he’d entered his father’s house, so many years later, had a part of him yearned for acceptance? 

It must be so lonely to have absolutely no one. 

And sure, Dumbledore had always insisted that Voldemort preferred it that way, but how could he know that? Had the two of them ever talked about it? And even if so, would Voldemort have just said that he didn’t want friends or family to hide the truth that he simply didn’t trust anyone enough to have hope? He must have learned to protect himself after so many disappointments.

Harry couldn’t help but wonder what Voldemort might have become if things had been different. 

But they weren’t different.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had become Lord Voldemort, and now it was Harry’s destiny to finally end the man’s miserable existence. 

Harry Potter: destroyer of all. 

I really am more of an executioner than a saviour, but I guess that doesn’t sound as good. 

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed. 

He would be whatever they needed him to be, under any title. All he asked was that it would help him pay back his debt to the wizarding world before he was finally allowed to die. 

~*~

When Harry got home that evening, the delicious scent of tomato sauce with basil wafted up from the kitchen. Intrigued, Harry dropped his bag, shucked off his shoes, and headed down the stairs. 

What greeted him halted him instantly. 

Lord Voldemort was seated at the head of the table with two steaming plates of pasta set out. Harry’s dish was on Voldemort’s right. 

“Surely dinner cannot be that surprising,” that high voice drawled. 

Harry coughed out a laugh. 

“Made for me by Lord Voldemort?” Harry said in skeptical awe, still transfixed by the door. 

Voldemort hummed, an expression of deep satisfaction on his flat face.

“It pleases me to hear you address me properly at last.”

Ah, bollocks.

“You caught me off guard, that’s all,” Harry said, and then pointed at the unoccupied seat. “That for me?”

Voldemort gave him a weary stare. 

“Yes, imbecile.”

Harry smiled at the man’s dry tone and walked eagerly to the table. 

“I still can’t believe you made me dinner.” He looked up and shot the Dark Lord a suspicious glance. “You’re not really someone else Polyjuiced, are you?”

He’d had more than enough of that lately. 

The man’s glare was a stern reprimand. 

“Do not mention that potion to me, unless you wish to feel my wrath, Harry Potter.”

Fuck, yes. Bring it on.

He pulled out the chair beside his nemesis and sat. The food looked delicious, but his stomach tightened painfully when he picked up his fork to taste it. 

Bugger. 

He hadn’t eaten properly in weeks. His body was in no condition to handle such a rich meal. 

“This looks great,” he said, twirling the pasta on his cutlery, “but I’ve already had dinner, so I think I’ll—”

“You will eat with me until I deem you finished, Harry,” Voldemort informed him with indisputable authority. 

Harry looked up at him, feeling trapped. 

“I can’t. Really.”

“You will.”

Harry shook his head. 

“No. It’ll make me sick.”

“Starving yourself will make you sick.”

Harry inhaled a sharp breath. 

No one ever called him out like this. Hermione would gently encourage him to eat and Ron would make jokes, but mostly everyone just ignored it. 

“You will eat this food, Harry. I will make you.”

Fuck, how could this be heartwarming and arousing at the same time? What was wrong with him?

“If you refuse to see to your needs,” Voldemort warned him, “then I shall.”

This pronouncement settled something fundamental inside of him. There was a calming sense of powerlessness that he felt knowing this was out of his hands.

Lord Voldemort was taking control.

He didn’t want to eat, but it was profoundly fulfilling to capitulate for someone else. He couldn’t trust himself to do what was best for him. Could he trust the Dark Lord to do that?

“Pick up your fork again, Harry.”

Harry startled and automatically grabbed the utensil tightly in his fist. He looked up at Voldemort for help. 

He really didn’t want to. It felt good denying himself food. It made him feel liminal, existing half in the realm of the dead and half with the living. 

“Do I need to feed you?”

Harry stared at him. 

Yes. 

I need you to make me. 

But he couldn’t say that. It was weak and pathetic and he had to be strong. He was Harry Potter and Harry Potter never required help. He gave it. He was—

“Come, Harry.” 

Harry didn’t understand. Where? There wasn’t another seat at the head of the table. 

“Here,” Voldemort said casually, gesturing at his lap, like telling Harry Potter to perch on his legs was a completely normal and reasonable request.

“That was not a suggestion.”

Harry heard the danger in the man’s dark tone. It scared him, but also strangely centred him. 

Not a suggestion. A command. 

Harry stood, wanting to remove the frown on the man’s face and replace it with a pleased smile. Or, if not a smile exactly, at least have him look less pissed off. Voldemort shifted his chair back so there was room between himself and the table. Cautiously, Harry walked over and then hovered awkwardly by the man’s seated form. 

“Sit.”

Harry’s legs bent and he fell onto the Dark Lord’s thighs. 

Oh gods. 

He was sitting on the lap of the most powerful wizard alive. The man who had started two wars, killed hundreds of people. A man whose soul was in tatters, whose very name terrified every magical being in Britain. 

“Good boy,” the Dark Lord said, his hands coming around to pull Harry closer, so his back was leaning against Voldemort’s chest. 

Merlin, how can he still be this scary as a Squib? 

“Do not disappoint me.”

A fork with a small amount of spaghetti wrapped around the prongs lifted towards his mouth. A horrible, corrosive sensation of nausea overwhelmed him. He turned his face to the side and that incoming threat paused. 

“Open.”

Harry shook his head in helpless refusal. 

Voldemort dropped the fork and grabbed Harry by the shoulders, moving his body until Harry’s back was pressed against the edge of the table. Before he could decipher the expression on the man’s face, a sharp slap landed across his lips. 

Harry flinched and closed his eyes. 

Uncle Vernon was chasing him through the house. Harry raced to his cupboard and closed the door, desperate to hide. He hysterically contemplated willing the door to lock, like he’d been able to once before in a similar circumstance, but he knew Uncle Vernon would simply drag a chair and wait until Harry had to use the loo. Then his uncle would hit him until he pissed his pants. 

Uncle Vernon yanked the door fully open and leaned in towards where Harry was cowering by his cot. Luckily, his uncle was too large to fit into the small space. 

“You— stole from us, boy?” Uncle Vernon panted, pressing his massive hand against the wall above Harry, caging him in. “Dudley saw— you sodding. Eating a potato—”

“Come back to me, Harry,” a voice said, but it was too dangerous.

When Uncle Vernon got like this, Harry had to get small, as small as he could. If he got small enough, didn’t cry or beg, then Vernon never lasted long. 

“I am not your uncle, Harry. You are safe.”

Harry hugged his chest, curling his spine, getting even smaller. He shook his head. 

Safe? He’d never been safe in his life. 

Sometimes, if he—

His neck was suddenly seized, and he was pushed to the floor, his face against the tiles. 

Yes, good, get smaller. I’m too hard to reach down here.

He kept his eyes closed and waited. Either his uncle would begin to kick him or he’d have grown tired and left Harry to cry. 

The longer time dragged, the more he could be sure his uncle had gone. 

He felt his body begin to relax. It felt good here, on the ground. Where he belonged. No one usually hit him once he was laying flat, so it was okay. 

He took a deep breath and thought of nothing. 

After many long moments, he glanced up. Above him, he saw a man’s trouser-clad legs and almost gasped— but they weren’t elephantine like his uncle’s would be. They were long and lean, planted firmly on the ground. 

Peering up, he followed those legs to the knees and then past that to a pale, sinister face looming above him. 

Lord Voldemort. 

He brought his forehead back to the floor, waiting, poised for the fear to hit, but it never came. Here, at the Dark Lord’s feet, he felt safe. 

“Are you back with me, boy?”

That word almost shocked him right back to his uncle, but the voice wasn’t brusque and guttural like he’d expected. It was calm. Slightly higher than normal and it settled him. 

Harry nodded against the feet his head was resting on. This felt good. Almost like he could just disappear. 

He closed his eyes and abruptly fell into peaceful oblivion. 

~*~

This was certainly not how he had envisioned his evening proceeding. 

The boy was sleeping on his feet. After succumbing to a fit that had been triggered by Voldemort’s strike to his face. 

He knew Potter had been gripped by a memory, and he assumed it had been related to the boy’s detestable uncle. It infuriated him that the undeserving swine could affect Potter so thoroughly. 

His suffering belonged to the Dark Lord. If the boy was traumatised, it should be from his interactions with him. 

He must continue to work on the boy’s triggers. He would usurp them all and condition Potter to associate each one with Voldemort instead; with his unparalleled hold.

Unclenching his hands, he dragged his gaze from the unconscious form and studied their ignored, cooling dinner. After all his effort, Potter had not even taken a bite. 

And he needed it. The boy’s face had grown gaunt in a short span of time. He could not recall when he had last seen Potter eat. Voldemort was accustomed to neglecting his own nutritional requirements, but his body did not demand sustenance as often as a mortal’s would. 

It irritated him to have to coddle the boy when he was still furious over the boy’s betrayal.

Images of what Potter had engaged in with someone Polyjuiced to look like him chased Voldemort wherever he went. He saw the boy pretending that he was receiving Lord Voldemort’s attentions, when in reality, he had stooped so low as to permit a rat to don a mask and touch him. 

The depravity of his precious body being used by a worthless flesh sac was staggering. If he had retained access to his immense powers, he would never have had to bear such an indignity. 

The boy was a liar. He obviously desired Voldemort, but was too cowardly to admit it to himself. 

It was undeniable. Potter craved to be dominated by Lord Voldemort, therefore he would no longer tolerate the boy’s obligatory resistance. 

Commencing immediately. 

He looked down. This somnolence was just another example of his obstinacy. His rebellion to gain Voldemort's attention, his correction.

Voldemort had taken the time to cook Potter a meal. 

And he would eat it.

Kicking out his leg, he knocked the boy onto his side, shocking a gasp from those tempting lips. Potter looked up at him with guileless confusion, fear lighting his eyes enticingly. 

“I did not give you permission to use my feet as a pillow, Potter,” Voldemort intoned mercilessly, watching the boy draw back, pulling into himself. 

He carefully twirled the fallen fork into the pasta and held it out.

“I said you will eat, and you shall.”

Potter gaped at the food as if it were a weapon. His panic was tangible. 

They stared at each other for long moments while Voldemort contemplated his options. As compelling as the sight was, he would get nowhere with Potter in this heightened state of distress. 

He knew what the boy needed.

Voldemort sighed and dropped the utensil. It hit the plate with a resounding clink that made the boy flinch. 

“You are too wound up,” he observed, and pushed back his chair from the table. “Come. I will take your unease.”

Potter hesitated only for a moment and then pulled himself shakily to his feet. But he did not move closer.

“Tomorrow,” the boy pleaded, not making eye contact. “I’ll—”

“Today.” Voldemort pointed to the table top and Harry glanced up. “Now.”

The boy closed his eyes. 

“I want to trust you,” he whispered. “Can I?”

His immediate response was a resounding no, but then he paused. 

He truly did not wish the boy harm. Pain, yes. Punishment. But nothing lasting. Nothing irreversible. 

“You already do,” he replied. “Hands flat on the table. Bend for me.”

When Harry turned around, exposing his back and submitting to his wishes, Voldemort felt some of his power return to him. 

Not his magical prowess. That would come later. Instead, he remembered how much he had always enjoyed commanding others. Especially the pure-blood elite. Potter was not a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, yet his submission was far more gratifying.

Voldemort had always wanted it. 

He had thought the boy would require Dark curses or compulsion potions to achieve it, and yet here it was. 

Harry Potter’s submission. 

It had been waiting for him to claim all along. 

Avidly, he watched that smaller body tremble in anticipation. He had not decided what he wanted to do to the boy yet. 

The choice was his. 

“I want to see your skin,” Voldemort determined, leaning back in his chair. “Remove your shirt.”

Potter’s hands clenched on the wood, but he did not move them. 

“Please,” the boy breathed. “You said— my hands. On the table.”

Ah. He is after my complete control. 

“Good boy,” Voldemort praised, eager to oblige. “Hands up, then. Take off your shirt and lay it on your left side, on the table. Then return your hands to their position.”

Harry complied at once and Voldemort was treated to a vision of the boy’s diminished back. He took a moment to notice how slender and angular Potter’s body had become. The martyring fool had stopped taking care of himself.

He needed someone else to do it. 

Before the boy could bend over again, Voldemort had changed his mind. 

“Hands behind your head. Do not drop this stance, Harry.”

He let his voice darken dangerously. Standing, he caught the boy’s flinch at his sudden proximity. He had obviously expected to be struck, but Voldemort simply walked to the kitchen counter. He found what he was after, having long ago memorised the chaos of this room. 

When he reached Harry again, he placed his palm down gently on that tense back and felt it immediately jolt. The boy had been expecting pain. 

Perfect. 

“I am going to beat you with this, Harry.” 

He lightly slapped the rusted metal spatula onto Potter’s skin, which earned him a small inhale of breath. 

His stomach tightened in anticipation of the addictive sounds he would soon be pulling from the boy. The tears he would watch fall. The shameless begging. 

“When I am done, you will be allowed to rest briefly and then you will eat. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, maintaining his rigid stance. 

“This will hurt, Harry,” he warned him, not intending to hold back. The boy would pay for his indiscretions. “And then you will be wiped clean.”

The boy’s skin began to tremble. 

“Do you agree?” 

Harry nodded. 

“I will need your words. Will you submit to this? To me?”

The boy took a shaky, deep breath and then blew it out slowly. 

“Yes, Master.”

Voldemort hummed.

“What a good boy you are.”

The first strike was vicious, his arm so eager to see the boy’s skin redden. Potter cried out, but it was stifled quickly. 

Oh no, Harry Potter. There will be no hiding from Lord Voldemort.

He hit the boy again, enthralled by how he bowed forwards and then arched back, his muscles straining. 

Voldemort paused, savouring the moment. Physically wielding the weapon that impacted his victims was a novelty. Magic could be impersonal. 

But this. 

This was visceral. 

He was connected to Harry’s pain. He could not maintain his own composure while moving with the force of the blows. 

His arm flashed out eagerly and he struck the metal solidly against that smooth skin three times fast. Harry screamed, the sound reaching him deeply, affecting him. 

When he pulled the tool back, there was a smattering of blood. 

His heart rate instantly accelerated. 

Beautiful. 

Some were spurred on by soft sighs or trailing fingers. Voldemort’s attention had always been captured by unrestrained agony. 

There was no pretence to it. He was enthralled by how pain affected each person the same regardless of blood status, wealth, or any other arbitrary societal hierarchy.

Everyone screamed when they were being taken apart. 

And Voldemort greedily consumed every sound. 

Before he let the next strike slam down, he studied the boy’s protruding ribs and narrow waist. It did not suit him. 

“Have you been purposefully starving yourself, Harry?” 

The boy’s panting breaths halted for a moment. 

Voldemort hit him as hard as he could without his magic, his arm coming down solidly, making a meaty thwack sound that ignited another piercing scream from his captive. 

He waited to see if he would get a response. When none were forthcoming, he struck the boy two more times over his stuttering ribs. 

“Owowow jesus— fuck!” the boy shrieked, dancing away slightly, but then coming right back. “I’m sorry, Master. Please— ouch— fuck!”

Voldemort smiled at how easily that word came out now. It was natural. 

Factual.  

“Are you starving yourself on purpose?”

Harry’s fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He was silent for too long. 

Voldemort struck him brutally across the shoulder and back five times without reprieve. 

Harry yelled, his begging coming out in heaving sobs. 

“Answer me.”

“Yes!” the boy shouted, his head bowing forward— but his hands remained unerringly behind his head, even though this position exposed him critically.

Yet it was not enough. 

“Remove your trousers.”

Harry released a sob, his arms shaking uselessly as they came down. It was clear after a few minutes that those adrenaline-infused muscles were not going to cooperate. 

“Do you require assistance?”

Harry shook his head and continued to struggle with the same button. 

The boy was impossible. 

“It is not a failure to accept help from your Master, boy,” Voldemort calmly advised him. “It is my pleasure to provide you with it.”

Harry’s hands stilled on his trousers, but he did not relent. 

“Ask me to help you, Harry Potter.”

The boy redoubled his efforts. It would not do. 

He stepped forward and placed his hands atop the boy’s smaller, trembling ones. 

“Ask me.”

Harry still did not turn to face him. 

“Please,” Harry whispered, and that word was a victory, would always be when uttered from the lips of such a proud, obstinate boy. 

“Back in position,” he said with a small smile that Harry could not see. 

Those arms gingerly lifted and Harry linked his fingers behind his head. 

Voldemort undid the stubborn button and helped the boy out of his trousers. Harry stood there obediently, his back bloody and purple in many places and Voldemort knew this would not sate him. 

He needed more. He needed everything. 

“I want you naked,” he whispered into the boy’s ear, his hand coming around to grip the boy’s straining erection through his damp pants. “Remove these for me.”

Harry hesitated for the barest of moments and then bent to take off his last remaining shield. 

Chapter Text

The pain was overwhelming. 

His ribs ached and each time he took a deep breath, he had to stop until the needle-sharp stabs let him go. His skin was on fire and the action of holding his arms up strained his trembling, fatigued muscles. 

But with the pain, came the silence. 

The thought that if he did this right, took this well enough, then he could rest for a time. 

Free. 

Unburdened. 

At Voldemort’s command, Harry dazedly pulled off his last item of clothing and dropped it to the floor. 

He was naked. 

Beaten. Weak. 

“Stunning,” Lord Voldemort whispered from behind him, and Harry smiled. 

Stunning. 

“Climb onto the table, Harry.”

It hurt to move. Harry carefully manoeuvred himself onto the wood and then let those cool hands guide him to lie on his back. 

“It pleases me to see your discomfort, boy.”

Harry closed his eyes. Discomfort. Yes, he felt that. From his wounds, but also from his aching cock. He knew it was straining awkwardly and a twinge of embarrassment cleared some of the hazy clouds around his head.

Don’t make this about yourself. You’re disgusting. This is about punishment for all you’ve done, all you’ve failed to do. 

He brought a hand up to cover himself, trying to will away his erection, but the Dark Lord grabbed his wrist. 

“Do not hide from your Master. I want to see it.”

Harry felt his face heating. Merlin, he was ugly. He knew that. Scrawny and small. His uncle had always told him so. No one would ever want him. 

Oh gods, Voldemort is going to laugh at you, think you're disgusting. Perverted.  

He moved his other hand to shield his obscene display from the man’s eyes, but the Dark Lord growled and pinned both of Harry’s wrists to the table. 

“You are mine,” Voldemort hissed, leaning down into his face, his red eyes flashing. “Do not move.” 

That imposing body abruptly disappeared. Bewildered, Harry shifted to sit up when a sharp slap struck him on the face. 

Harry froze. 

“Be still.”

Harry waited, the numbing sting on his skin distracting him from his worry. 

Voldemort returned with a length of rope. He lifted Harry’s arms above his head while pain shot through him as the muscles in his back shifted. When it was done, Harry’s wrists were crossed and bound tightly. 

“I should not have to rely on rope, boy. My command is enough. My words are rope.”

Voldemort held his gaze until Harry wanted to cower and beg for forgiveness. Before he could decide if he was allowed to speak, Voldemort’s hand closed around his still-aching cock. 

“Now,” the Dark Lord said, squeezing him painfully. “This is uncomfortable, is it not?”

Harry held his breath. 

“I may grant you release.”

Oh fuck, please. 

Harry closed his eyes. It felt like he could do nothing, nothing at all to help himself. He was at the Dark Lord’s mercy, completely. 

“Beg me.”

Harry threw his head to the side. He hated begging, knew he wasn’t supposed to do it. He could do things himself, and asking for help made him too vulnerable. It meant he could be controlled, that he was indebted to someone. 

“You will beg, boy.”

Harry exhaled slowly. 

It’s okay. He said you were safe. 

“Please,” he rasped. 

Voldemort hummed enticingly. 

“You have not yet earned it.” 

Harry’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. 

The sadistic bastard.

Those punishing, delicious hands moved off of his cock, which slapped against his stomach when released. Harry groaned. 

“You will eat now,” Voldemort informed him. “And when I am satisfied, I may reward you.”

Harry waited miserably while Voldemort left to retrieve their plates. 

The Dark Lord ate first, putting his plate right next to where Harry was laying naked on the table top. He sat down, with Harry's hard cock almost at eye-level. It was mortifying and indecent— exciting. One of Voldemort's hands fed himself, and the other idly fiddled with Harry’s cock. The touch was absent and frustrating. He wasn’t trying to get Harry off, just torture him, keep his attention locked onto those teasing digits. 

When he was finished, Voldemort lifted a single noodle between his thumb and index finger and brought it to Harry’s closed lips. 

No. 

“Open,” that menacing voice demanded, and Harry didn’t know how to disobey. 

He caught the pasta before it could choke him and began to chew. Saliva welled up in his mouth— he felt nauseated, panicked, I can’t do it, I—

“Swallow, boy,” that voice ordered, and Harry’s throat relaxed. 

When he reflexively opened his mouth for more, Voldemort stroked his face before giving it to him. 

“What a well-trained pet you are.”

Pride flared up inside of him. He was doing something right.