Disclaimer: I do not own "Harry Potter" or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter XIV: Distraught

He didn't know when he fell asleep. Sometime after the Lestranges, covered in blood, cried out in ecstasy. Sometime after Darren's body grew cold and grey. After the blood inside the stiff body became tacky, and Harry's sobs became weak. Only then did he fall into an emotionally exhausted sleep.

As he slept, he relived the terrifying hour of the boy's death. He saw the fear in the boy's brown eyes as the curses fell upon him. He saw the boy's terror as spiders began crawling out of his nose. He remembered the boy's screams as splintery rods were jabbed into him.

The boy. He had to think of Darren as 'the boy'. He had to stay emotionally detached. It was the only way that witnessing such a traumatic event could ever be bearable.

Even so, he felt like a traitor. He had been called 'the boy' his whole life, not realising until he got into primary school that other children were routinely called by their names. And what service did 'the boy' do Darren's memory? Harry was the last person, save the Lestranges, to see him alive. He could at least honour him by using his name. But on the other hand, would he want to be remembered like that, as he was when he died?

It was a tough dilemma. One that a fifteen-year-old boy should never have been faced with. But Harry had long ago realised that his reality was far different than most.

"Such confliction." Someone stirred Harry with his voice. "It's quite unhealthy for pets to be stressed so. I would like my Kitten with me for years to come."

Voldemort. Harry opened his eyes. He was back in Voldemort's quarters, lying on the ottoman. He was warm, comfortable, clean, and away from the Lestranges.

Most importantly, Voldemort was back, standing beside the ottoman. Beside Harry.

A sob escaped Harry's throat. He threw his arms around Voldemort's waist, burying his face in his robes. "You're back!" He choked. "You're back!"

Voldemort's hand cupped the back of Harry's head. "What's wrong? Did you have a bad time?"

Terrible, but Harry couldn't say. He was crying too hard to breathe, let alone speak.

Voldemort had left him with the Lestranges. Had he known what they were going to do? Had he considered it? He couldn't have intentionally put Harry in that position.

But he had to have known. He had been the one to first mention the extra gift for the Lestranges – what had the gift been, exactly? A witness? Surely, he could not have realised how terrible it would be.

"Hush now, Kitten. You're fine."

Those words only made Harry cry harder. No one called him 'Kitten' but Voldemort. He had not been called Kitten in so long. Darren's body had hung in front of the clock, so Harry had lost track of how long he had been at the Lestranges'.

"You left me!" Harry continued to sob.

"Had I known Kitten would be so traumatised, I mightn't have." Voldemort never admitted to being wrong. It was infuriating. "I was only gone overnight."

Harry jerked away from Voldemort, looking up at him. "Only overnight?"

"Less than twenty-four hours." Voldemort thumbed away the streaks of tears on Harry's face. "What made the experience so bad? The Lestranges were under strict orders not to touch you."

They didn't have to touch him to hurt him, didn't Voldemort know that? "He was a boy! Just my age!" He reburied his face in Voldemort's robes. He wished Voldemort could comfort him like his friends could have, but he didn't think he could. Any motion of comforting from Voldemort felt awkward, like Voldemort didn't really have too much experience with comforting.

But at least he tried.

"He was thirteen." Voldemort continued to pat Harry's head.

"That makes it worse!" Harry was fifteen, practically grown. Someone who was only thirteen was much worse.

Voldemort chuckled. "You are still very young, Kitten."

Fifteen was not young in human years. In kitty years, it was ancient. But he didn't dare argue the point further with Voldemort, who was quite obviously reading his mind.

"You let them kill him." Harry didn't think he could cry anymore.

"He was already destined to die. He was a Muggle." Voldemort explained. "The way he died last night was far less painful than the alternative."

Harry couldn't see how. Twenty-five minutes of the Cruciatus had to be preferable over what Bellatrix Lestrange did to him with the ice. "How?"

"Trust me." Voldemort's eyes indicated that he would divulge nothing further.

Apparently, Harry did have some tears left. "But he was just a boy!"

Voldemort looked at Harry a long time before continuing. "Are you saying it would have been less cruel of me to give them a grown man, with a wife and children?"

Harry was at a loss for words. To kill someone with family and kids was worse than killing someone without them, but to picture what had happened the night before and to say it was a lesser evil was unthinkable.

"I thought so." Voldemort lifted Harry and placed him in the bed, on the brown bedspread. It often occurred to Harry to wonder how Voldemort could lift him, as he had such skinny arms, but now it was not a pressing matter.

Voldemort sat at the head of the bed, legs outstretched. He beckoned Harry over to him, so Harry crawled over and lay in his lap.

"I did not think the killing would affect you so." Voldemort threaded his fingers through Harry's hair. "My Kitten has witnessed many events in the past that did not jar it so."

Harry kept his fists full of Voldemort's robes, just in case. "That's different."

Voldemort's fingers stilled. "How so?"

Harry didn't know how to explain. True, he had not cried the last couple of times in the Dark Room, but being unable to see had helped. It didn't mean he thought torturing people was right or okay – he was just used to it.

But Darren hadn't been just another person. He had known him, kind of. To Harry, he had a name, a family, a past, unlike all of those people tortured in the dark meeting room. It was so much more personal.

"I see," Voldemort responded to Harry's thoughts. He continued scratching Harry's head.

"Where'd you go?" From his position, he couldn't see Voldemort's expression, which wasn't good. He wouldn't be able to tell his mood.

But Voldemort didn't seem angry. "Did I not tell Kitten that was personal?" He moved on to scratching Harry's back just as Harry's head began to feel sore.

"Yes, Master did. Won't tell anyone, though. Lips are zipped."

Voldemort stopped scratching. As much as Harry fidgeted, trying to get him to continue, he wouldn't.

"Zippers are Muggle contraptions."

It was just a saying. Harry hadn't meant any harm. Voldemort could get so touchy, so suddenly, over the smallest things. "Um... sorry? Buttoned lips?"

Voldemort relaxed and resumed scratching. "I hardly need any more risks. The less people I inform of certain things, the better."

What could Voldemort do that was such a big secret? He told the Death Eaters his terrible plans so that they could put them into action, and as far as his personal life went... well, wasn't Harry, his kitten, his personal life?

Not necessarily. He spends a lot more time alone, out of these rooms, than here. He can't be setting up evil plans the whole time. He's got to have some sort of life. Obviously, Voldemort could not just walk into a pub and get his groove on, but he had to do something besides planning evil, being evil, and spending time with Harry.

Harry pressed his lips tightly together. Of course Voldemort's life didn't revolve around him. He was supposed to be glad it didn't. But he wasn't. Who was Voldemort spending quality time with when he wasn't working?

"Not just anyone," Harry said. "Kitten isn't just anyone. If Master says not to tell, won't tell. Who does it have to tell?"

Voldemort's nails scratched lightly in small circles on Harry's lower back. "It is not something you want to hear of."

That's what he was afraid of. "Try Kitten."

"If witnessing the killing of a mere Muggle child affected you so, I am not inclined to inform you of my travels."

Oh. That didn't sound like personal stuff. More like business, if you could call what Voldemort did 'business'.

"No ifs, ands, or buts?" Harry tried one last time.

"No. Close your eyes to it." Voldemort's hand lightly skimmed Harry's buttock.

Don't stop him. Harry bit his lip. He's not doing anything bad. If you tell him you want him to stop, he'll get mad. Or leave. Harry was not about to let him leave. Not about to let him leave him alone.

"Is Kitten jealous of those I encounter in my travels?" Voldemort chuckled, continuing the scratching of Harry's buttocks.

Not of the ones you kill, but the others, yes. "Yes, Master," Harry spoke through clenched teeth. The effects of being touched so nicely were uncomfortable, as his penis was trapped against Voldemort's robes. He hated that his body gave such false signs. He hated how it showed signs of arousal when in fact he was just enjoying the affection. He hoped Voldemort didn't notice.

He noticed.

"Kitten is enjoying the touch?" Voldemort whispered in Harry's ear, sending up goose bumps along his skin.

Harry shivered. He had been enjoying the touch until his body betrayed him. He couldn't even say 'no' or Voldemort would get angry and leave again. This time, for days. He knew he would, with everything in him. He knew he and Voldemort didn't have telepathy, but it kind of seemed like it sometimes. Voldemort's reactions were fairly easy for him to predict.

The last thing Harry wanted was for Voldemort to leave him again. Leaving him alone would give him nightmares, and maybe even hallucinations – lots of things lately had been happening that he hadn't noticed, or vice-versa. But he didn't want to go back to the Lestranges, either; he had seen enough rough bloody sex for a lifetime.

"Yes, Master," he whispered.

As Voldemort's touch began to go where it perhaps shouldn't, Harry's thoughts began to move elsewhere. To Ron. What would Ron say if he knew Harry was a dirty boy? If he knew Harry had been touched by Voldemort? If he knew that Harry's body had encouraged it, by squirming and his penis lengthening and rising?

"Roll over, Kitten," Voldemort said in a low voice.

Harry had no tears left, and had he, he wouldn't have cried anyway. It would make Voldemort angry. Even though he could read his thoughts and know Harry didn't want it, Voldemort didn't care. Voldemort just wanted obedience from him, and Harry knew it. He wanted him to go against his needs and wants to obey him. It wasn't about sexual satisfaction. It was about satisfying Voldemort's need for control. And though Harry knew it was quite sad, if it meant Voldemort not leaving, he would do almost anything.

He stared up at the ceiling as Voldemort touched. He didn't have to immobilise Harry anymore – Harry was happy to give the control to him.

Ron would think Harry was a demon now. A gay, twisted, perverted demon. The Dursleys would want him less than they ever did. Hermione? What would Hermione think? She was a good girl; she wouldn't want anything to do with a dirty boy.

But it didn't matter, did it? Who knew how many days he had accidentally skipped the scratching under Voldemort's bed? He had been gone so long; his friends had probably stopped wondering what had happened to him. If kids weren't found within two days, statistically they were probably dead. He wasn't dead, but he was unlikely to return. Would it make Voldemort angry if he knew Harry was sad about that? He'd better stop thinking about it, just in case.

Voldemort was no longer touching him down there. He had his head leaned back against the headboard, and was rubbing Harry's chest, humming a tune off key.

Harry looked down at himself. He was flaccid.

"Did– Did Kit–" he was too embarrassed to ask.

Voldemort looked down at him with interest. "Did Kitten what?"

Harry had never said the O-word out loud, and he wasn't about to say it now. "Did I, um, come?"

Had Voldemort an eyebrow, he'd have quirked it. He was still able to quirk the skin above his eye, however.

"Is Kitten asking if it ejaculated?" Voldemort's eyes went from red to almost black. "I have told it it is never allowed to touch itself down there."

Harry flushed. Voldemort had given him strict rules about masturbation. Harry had not broken those rules on purpose, but sometimes, absent-mindedly, his hand wandered down there.

He was almost always punished with a spanking on his bottom or a stinging hex between his legs.

"No!" He said before Voldemort could punish him. "No, Master. Just saw Master finish, but didn't feel anything."

"Saw me finish?" Voldemort peered down at Harry. "Kitten, I think you're having wishful thoughts. I did not touch you down there."

Harry's mind raced. Voldemort had touched him down there. That's why he had rolled over, so Voldemort could reach him better. He had touched him, but there was no tell-tale sticky white stuff. He had zoned out, but surely had he orgasmed he'd have come out of it.

Voldemort eased Harry off his lap and stood up. "Hana is going to bring your food. Eat it and rest."

Harry rose to his knees. "Who's Hana?"

"A house-elf."

Figured. Harry had never seen the same house-elf twice. He asked Voldemort why.

"They have a tendency to get killed in battle." Voldemort ran his fingers over the mantle. "Even with as many as we've lost, we shall not run out. They breed like no creature on this earth."

Harry shuddered. "When Masters goes, can Master please give Darren a proper burial? Don't want Nagini to eat him."

Voldemort looked strangely at Harry. "Darren? I beg your pardon?"

"Darren. The boy the Lestranges..." Harry checked to make sure he was not crying. "Can you please, Master?"

"The Lestranges have killed no children as of late, Kitten." Voldemort's forehead creased. "You are due for a draining in several hours, what is perhaps your last one. Rest, and perhaps after the draining your mental stability will be restored."

Harry watched Voldemort leave. He tried to regulate his breathing, to reduce the panic he was feeling. And the sadness – was he really going mad?

He looked down at his hands. A sob escaped him, a sob of relief; there was dried blood underneath his fingernails.

Coming up next in Disorder…
Chapter XV: Death