Chapter 10
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Harry stood, useless, trying to figure out how best to help.
His skin. It was actually shredded. Like cloth. Like bloody streamers hanging off him in purples and reds, his complexion even paler and gaunter than usual. The pool of blood he stood in was massive. He looked dead.
Wait— was he dead?
Harry forced his trembling legs to move and placed a finger underneath that sharp jaw.
Nothing.
Harry took his other hand and placed it over the man's nose slits. He waited.
No breath.
No life.
"Help! Help me!" Harry shouted to the guard he had only just left, and pulled out his wand, ready to cast a healing spell, or maybe Renervate. He didn't have any potions on him and this was way outside of his abilities.
"Help me!"
Harry could hear the guard slowly stroll down the hallway towards him.
"What, Potter."
Harry turned.
"He's—"
But before he could articulate anything he heard a rough, deep gasp from behind him and spun to face Voldemort again.
Alive.
He was alive again, those red eyes wide and panicked, first searching the cell and then latching onto Harry.
Harry couldn't speak. His heart was hammering in his chest and he felt like he was about to vomit. Merlin. This kind of immortality would take some getting used to. He'd been dead.
"Did you forget? Did you seriously forget he couldn't die?" the guard drawled, behind him. "Aren't you supposed to be an Auror? Aren't Aurors supposed to—"
"Shut the fuck up and get out of my sight!" Harry shouted, turning to face him, thrilled to have his wand already in-hand.
The guard stepped back, his hands raising, eyes afraid.
"You're not allowed—"
"Have I not made myself clear?" Harry asked in a menacing, tight voice, so very different from the yell that had only just faded from his ears.
When Harry turned back to Voldemort he caught him watching him with a strange expression on his face, which disappeared as soon as their eyes met.
Harry waited until he'd heard the footsteps of the guard fade and the door close before he exhaled a long breath.
"What can I do?" Harry asked, concerned that although Voldemort may no longer be dead, his wounds remained unchanged.
The Dark Lord stared at him, still lax in his restraints, but his eyes had regained some life.
"You are not permitted to heal me," that high voice rasped, with obvious effort.
"I've spoken to the Minister, he knows I'm here, that's all sorted. I have something I have to talk to you about, but I can't do it with you like this."
Voldemort began to breathe with his mouth open and the corners of his eyes bunched.
"You're in pain," Harry said, watching a bead of sweat trickle down the middle of his chest and get lost in all that carnage. "These wounds… they're horrific."
Harry stopped and took a step closer.
"You died, Voldemort. You died. You had no pulse, I felt it. No breath." Voldemort continued to stare at him, face unreadable. "How is that possible?"
Harry took another step closer, finally having that body within reach. He extended a hand and placed it, with caution and care, on a small patch of skin near his hip that was not destroyed.
Voldemort flinched, but Harry did not remove his hand. The skin was radiating heat.
"Let me help you," Harry implored. "I know that you know a spell that can fix this. Please, tell me."
Voldemort closed his eyes. Harry wondered if he had lost consciousness.
"Vulnera Sanentur," Voldemort breathed, eyes still closed. "Three times. Over each. Trace your wand over the wounds."
Harry nodded even though Voldemort couldn't see it.
He repeated the incantation and watched, amazed, at what magic was capable of. The lesions knit back together and the blood stopped flowing. He healed the man's torn lip and badly abraded wrists as well.
Voldemort exhaled brokenly. He opened those captivating crimson eyes and met Harry's. The tension that had accumulated in Voldemort's expression had relaxed. He looked… perfect. Perhaps not literally, but that was the only word that fit.
Harry raised his wand and released the man's wrists from his restraints. It was a mark of how far they'd come together that the suspicious, traumatized wizard now allowed him to use a wand in his presence.
Voldemort slowly lowered his arms, lightly touching his wrists and rubbing them. His gaze was focused on his own body as those long, elegant fingers splayed out onto his chest and abdomen, gliding down his skin, observing the results of Harry's healing. Harry watched the way his body shifted, lean muscles tensing, and Harry's eyes helplessly followed the line from his chest, down his concave belly, down past the sharp hipbones jutting out, to finally settle on…
"How do you feel?" Harry asked in a higher voice than usual, wrenching his eyes away and closing them.
Voldemort didn't respond and Harry used the silence to recede until his back hit the cell bars, putting as much distance between them as he could.
Inappropriate, he chastised himself. The man had just died.
He had watched this man die.
He had died.
"What's that like?" Harry blurted out, and then instantly regretted asking. Who asks such a thing?
"That," Voldemort repeated.
"Dying."
Voldemort's eyes searched Harry's and then dropped, looking away. Voldemort walked to his cot and sank down onto it.
"I can't image what this must be like," Harry whispered. "For you, specifically."
Harry pushed off from the bars and walked until he got to the table, then he sat down on the top of it. The memory of Voldemort hanging lifeless had thankfully killed his libido.
Voldemort had watched him as he'd drawn closer, eyes wary.
Harry considered his own question. Voldemort's worst fear, perhaps his only fear, was death. He had devoted his life and gave away his humanity to never have to experience it and now he was forced to die constantly. In savage, sadistic, and perverse ways.
Harry held that intense gaze, thinking about what horrors Voldemort had been through.
"That kind of brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about," Harry muttered, looking away. "You're not going to like this. Anymore than I do."
Voldemort's eyes narrowed but still, he did not speak.
"You have another option," Harry began, unsure how to phrase this. "Not a great one. Not even a good one, really. Personally, I hate it."
He glanced up at Voldemort who was silently studying him. He continued.
"Remember how I told you they're afraid of your mind? Well, another option is to… keep you asleep and then—"
"No."
Harry shut his mouth. The other man didn't elaborate. Harry went on.
"I understand. I don't like it either. But this way there would be no guards, no need for torture, or starvation, or…" Harry couldn't say it out loud, to the man's face. "You wouldn't have to be in pain. It—"
"No, Potter."
Harry sighed and dropped his hands into his lap. He nodded.
"I get it. I wouldn't want that either. But I really don't know what else to do." He looked away, his mind searching for another option. "I hate what they're doing to you, I'm sure you do too. Obviously you do. Sorry. I didn't mean…"
He stopped talking.
He focused back on the other man. Voldemort was quieter than he had been recently. True, he had just died so perhaps that had affected his mood and personality a bit. He looked like he was putting a lot of effort into controlling his emotions, but Harry could see the struggle in the muscles flexing in his jaw and the way he held his hands— flat and frozen outstretched on his thighs. Unmoving. Everything about the man was unmoving.
"Say something," Harry whispered.
Voldemort continued to stare blankly.
Harry had had enough. He hopped off the table and knelt down on the ground in front of his nemesis. Voldemort's eyes flew wide, his hands retreating against his body, his back straightening.
"Please," Harry said. "Tell me what you're thinking."
Voldemort was frozen, but his expression was no longer impassive. He looked bewildered, torn. Those inhuman eyes scoured him, broke him open and suddenly Harry was reaching out and grabbing onto those knees.
Voldemort hissed and placed his own hands firmly over Harry's and slid them off.
"The guards," Voldemort snapped, his gaze flicking briefly to his cell wall where Harry knew the monitoring spell issued from. Harry shook his head.
"It's okay. I spoke to the Minister and he spoke to the guards. I'm allowed to visit now. Or rather," Harry chuckled darkly, "I'm not forbidden."
Voldemort was frowning.
"Explain."
"It's all wrapped up in conditions. I have dirt on the Minister, namely, you. He has some on me, you again. So we're both trying to work together."
"On?"
"You." Harry smiled. "He wants to keep you under control by any means. I want…"
Harry paused. He had no idea.
Justice? Selfish recompense for saving the world in the form of one ex-Dark Lord? To get his sanity and his magic back under control?
"What do you want, Harry?"
Harry's eyes snapped to Voldemort's. His voice had changed, become lower, breathier.
He was calling him Harry again.
All at once, he realized how very close they were. And what being on his knees before a naked man usually meant. Harry closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. Merlin. His imagination seized the idea and Harry saw that gorgeous cock plunging into his throat, Harry's eyes watering helplessly as Voldemort's long fingers fisted his hair, fucking his face.
Cool fingers broke him from his reverie as they lightly traced the scar on Harry's forehead, starting at the top and following the lines Harry knew by heart. It was slow, reverent.
Those fingers slid down and then curled just under his chin, applying gentle pressure and urging him to look up. Harry allowed his face to rise, but did not open his eyes. He couldn't. He was terrified of what he would see.
"Look at me."
Harry's eyes flashed open, obeying instantly, and he saw that hungry gaze shift quickly from its study of Harry's mouth.
The fingers at his jaw tightened and were joined by the rest of the hand. Voldemort was holding Harry's neck in a loose grip.
"What do you want."
"Your lips," Harry breathed, and he watched as those eyes flew open in surprise and then blazed with heat. But Harry had just realized what he'd said. "I'm sorry, I—"
Fingers gripped his robes near his throat and hauled him up, off his knees, and against that tall, hard frame. He gasped and then his mouth was viciously captured in a deep kiss, his body maneuvered to straddle lean legs.
I am sitting in the Dark Lord Voldemort's lap.
Harry moaned, wrapping his arms around those boney shoulders, his fingers digging into that black collar, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back when the thrum of Voldemort's magic surged through him at the touch.
Lips and teeth seized Harry's neck and attacked him. Harry's hips canted forward, his hard cock pressing against his trousers, trying to feel that body against him.
"Harry," that voice whispered, taking—
"Will you two tossers cut it out!"
The guard's voice thundered down the hallway and Voldemort flinched aggressively, pulling away from Harry to press his back against the wall. He looked terrified, feral. It lasted only seconds, but Harry witnessed the traumatized animal that was born here in this prison, the one that Voldemort had become so good at hiding recently. Harry saw the effort Voldemort put in to rein that creature in, to hide it behind an unaffected mask.
Harry turned to face the cell door, but the guard did not show up. He must have just opened the metal door and yelled.
Harry shifted off of Voldemort's lap and settled beside him on the cot. The Dark Lord was still leaning back, pressing his body against the wall, breathing deeply.
Harry placed his palm gently down on Voldemort's knee, hoping to offer some small comfort. His daring thumb drew circles in the smooth skin. Merlin, did the man even have body hair? Ginny would die for his skin.
"Before you elaborate," Voldemort said quietly, and Harry looked up to see his gaze following Harry's finger on his knee, "on why you believe I would accept being forced asleep, you will tell me about the guards."
Right. Back to business.
Harry nodded, hoping the good news would give Voldemort back some confidence because right now he still looked shaken.
"They're… not very happy with me right now." Harry tried a weak smile. "But I spoke to Kingsley and they have to let me in to see you."
"You told him."
Those red eyes speared him. Harry nodded.
"I had to. They wanted this… eternal sleep thing, and I couldn't agree to it if I wasn't allowed to check on you. To make sure they're not breaking the rules. I—"
"Will Ms Weasley leave you?"
Harry closed his mouth. He had not expected that to be the first question the man asked.
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I can't see why she wouldn't. Or hasn't already."
Harry removed his hand from that soft skin and leaned back against the wall with Voldemort.
"I will not accept being kept asleep," the man said, voice even and controlled. "I do not trust the guards, nor the Minister, nor any others to uphold any deal they fool you into believing they are respecting."
"I would enforce it. If you agreed to this, if you wanted this, I would make sure you were protected."
Harry said it like a Vow, and he meant it as one.
Voldemort turned to stare at him, the man's eyes darting back and forth between Harry's mistrustfully.
"Being forced to sleep is awful, I get it. Personally," Harry laughed, looking away and drawing his knees up onto the cot, "I hate the idea of not being able to do this with you. To talk. To… touch."
Harry wrapped his arms around his knees and leaned his forehead against them.
"You have changed me," Harry whispered. "For the better. I want to live again. You have no idea…"
He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He felt his fingers start to go numb, his vision clouding, and he bit his lip, hoping to stave off the panic attack that was looming.
"I'm going crazy, Voldemort." The words were barely audible and he had no idea if they would even carry past his trousers. "The only time I feel half-sane… whole. Balanced. Is when I'm down here. With you. You're all I think about. I'm… like a ghost up there. At work, with my friends. With Ginny most of all. I'm pretending. I'm trying so fucking hard to be the person I'm supposed to be. Harry Potter hates Lord Voldemort. Tale as old as time. Good vs evil."
Harry laughed, but it sounded more like a sob to his ears.
"I don't hate you. I…" Harry felt a tear fall down his cheeks, and he started to shake. "I need you."
He pulled his arms tighter against his body, hating himself. His pulse began to stutter, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He was broken and sick and perverted and a traitor and—
A thin arm snaked behind his neck and hooked his head, pulling him over until he fell against a solid body. That arm gathered him closer, tucking him in against that strong body, holding him steady, and something happened that had never happened before.
His panic disappeared.
Gone.
He felt clear and in control.
Harry lifted his head, wanting to share this revelation, needing Voldemort to know what he was doing to him.
When Harry looked up, it was to see that face burning with determination, with fury. He looked dangerous, but just not to Harry.
"You are the master of your own destiny, Harry. Do not allow others to dictate how you live your life. If your job or your relationships cause you distress, discard them."
"I will have nothing," Harry whispered.
Those red eyes blazed wildly.
"You will have me."
His chin was grabbed, his lips seized viciously. Harry moaned, his body relaxing into Voldemort's, his eyes fluttering closed as he allowed the older man to take, to possess, to prove to him that he was wanted and safe and sheltered.
That such assurances would come from his nemesis was no longer even surprising.
The kiss broke and Voldemort's thumb stroked down Harry's cheek, smoothing the tears away with his scarred, cold hands.
"You are not alone in this any longer."
Harry blinked once, which was all he felt capable of at that moment.
"Now," the man said, voice hard. "This other option."
Voldemort looked away, his expression calculating. Harry pulled back a fraction, struggling with the abrupt shift in subject matter.
"This somnolescent state. It cannot be allowed. From what you have told me, the infants feel safer having me distracted by pain or hunger and, although I abhor the situation, it is preferable to leaving my body… vulnerable."
Voldemort sneered at that word, obviously having difficulty even using it.
"You mentioned not knowing what else to do. Am I correct in assuming you have some influence here?"
Harry nodded once and Voldemort nodded back, his eyes drifting away, pupils dancing about, that brain working fast.
"Before anything else," Voldemort said decisively, "we must address the guards."
Voldemort's eyes flicked to the wall that they would be watching from and back. He looked down at Harry.
"I have been doing some thinking about the monitoring spell they employ and I believe I have a solution."
Harry snorted.
"Of course you do."
Voldemort ignored him.
"Without my magic I cannot test it, but the logic is sound and it should function sufficiently. It is a visual illusion spell—"
"Hold on," Harry said, astounded. "Did you seriously just create a new spell? Without magic or the use of books and parchment and whatever else geniuses like you would normally use to do so? Not to mention, while dealing with… all this? Merlin," Harry sighed. "You really make the rest of us lesser beings look incompetent."
Voldemort shrugged elegantly and then his expression blanked.
"I would be willing to teach you. Spell creation. If you would like to learn."
Harry found himself smiling, surprised by the offer.
"I would like that, yeah."
Voldemort nodded.
"Another time, then. For now, the spell is Occultus Notitia," Voldemort said, slowly and clearly. "It should create a false loop that displays innocuous interactions between us regardless of what may be occurring. I have also included a function to distract their attention from the monitoring spell they are employing. Similar to a Muggle Repelling charm."
His gaze settled on the wand in Harry's hand.
"Say it. Occultus Notitia."
Harry repeated the spell, but nothing seemed to have happened. He turned to Voldemort, feeling defeated and embarrassed, and yet Voldemort was smiling in satisfaction.
"Did it work?" Harry asked, confused.
"Yes, perfectly."
"How do you know?"
"I can see it."
Voldemort's eyes darted to Harry and it looked almost as though the other man wanted to take those words back.
"You can see magic? Even with that collar?"
Harry's eyes dropped to stare at the black metal, his fingers reaching out to touch it. It hummed with power and Harry felt his eyes flutter shut.
The silence lengthened and Harry reluctantly opened his eyes to catch Voldemort staring hungrily down at him.
"You can feel my magic."
Harry moaned in answer, letting his eyes close again. A long-fingered hand clasped over his own where it was clutching the warm metal band.
"Tell me what it feels like, Harry."
Harry let his head thump onto the naked shoulder beside him.
"Electricity," Harry breathed, knowing that this was the only possible word for the the chaotic surge of power that he could feel all the way to his teeth.
He groaned.
Voldemort pushed him down onto the cot, flat on his back, and leaned over him, covering him. One of his hands grasped and scratched everywhere it encountered skin.
"I want to take you," Voldemort growled, hot, in Harry's ear.
Harry felt a clenching jolt rush through him at those words. He looked up to see manic eyes piercing him. Inhaling sharply, his hand twitched under where Voldemort was still holding it against his collar.
"You belong to me. It is time you learned that."
Harry released a ragged laugh and nodded.
"I already know," he panted. "But yeah, show me."
Voldemort surged down, capturing Harry's lips, his teeth biting, his tongue darting inside. Harry opened to him, feeling his body mirror the sentiment as his legs fell wide and Voldemort settled between them.
"Do not remove your hand," Voldemort tightened his grip on Harry's fingers clutching the collar until it was crushing and then released him. "If you let go, I will stop."
Harry whimpered, his pulse igniting at those words. Voldemort's magic enveloped him, almost drugging his senses. He peered up at the man above him, watching the way Voldemort was devouring his submission.
"You are mine, Harry Potter."
Warm lips lowered to Harry's neck and sucked hard at his sensitive skin. Harry cried out, and Voldemort pulled away quickly. His fingers slid into Harry's robes and pulled out his wand.
Harry sobered instantly.
Everything stopped.
He stared up at Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard in history, as he slowly caressed Harry's wand. Focus intent upon it, eyes blazing with avarice.
With desperate longing.
That thought awoke Harry, and he lightly touched the man's cheek. Those red eyes flashed to him, anger and warning raging in them, but Harry just continued to gaze calmly, steadily back.
Time was frozen while Harry watched options clearly fly through that mind. Despite being mostly certain that the magic Harry could feel crashing against his hand through the collar would remain inaccessible to Voldemort, only an idiot would not feel terror when faced with the Dark Lord, wand in hand.
And Harry was no idiot. Not when it came to recognizing the danger of Voldemort.
The man's expression gradually changed, turned agonized.
"I cannot feel it," Voldemort breathed brokenly. He sounded so defeated. So lost.
"It's not gone," Harry reassured him, a finger uncurling from around that collar and stroking the skin of his neck. "I can feel it. Even if you can't. It's all there and it is immense."
Voldemort turned to stare at him, his expression becoming wild, triumphant. Hopeful.
"Your magic is thrashing against my hand right now. I wish you could feel it. It wants to be freed."
Voldemort closed his eyes, looking pained.
"Silencio," he rasped out, passing the wand determinedly back to Harry. "Cast it."
Harry nodded and did as he was told. Then he let the wand fall to the ground, his free hand coming up to cup Voldemort's angular jaw.
"You're not defeated," Harry said, their gazes locked together. "You will feel your magic again."
Harry blinked. What the fuck? He had spoken the words without thinking and that was not a promise he should be making. He wasn't sure what he wanted anymore, but Voldemort having his magic back would restart the war. As much as he wanted the man to be whole, he could not help him get his magic back.
Right?
He was pulled out of his thoughts when Voldemort growled and fisted his hand in Harry's hair, yanking him forward and kissing him fiercely. Harry wrapped his hand around the man's naked shoulders, pulling him closer, trying to press his re-awakening cock against the hard body above him.
"Fuck me," Harry demanded, breaking away to stare at his nemesis, knowing that this was a line that was never meant to be crossed, but accepting its inevitability.
Voldemort's fingers left Harry's hair to smooth over his forehead, a possessive fire smouldering in his eyes, as he ran his fingers gently over Harry's scar. A rumbling hum emanated from inside that gorgeous neck. Harry watched him, realizing this was becoming a habit of the man's.
Harry smoothed his palm down Voldemort's cheek, drawing him back from wherever he'd gone.
"Make me yours."
Voldemort hissed, his eyes glowing with lust and such power that Harry felt his body slacken, offering everything up. I'm yours. I've always been yours.
.
.
Voldemort stared down at the boy underneath him. He looked wanton; his hair disheveled, legs open, eyes wide and enthralled behind those hideous glasses.
And that scar.
The significance had been slow to occur to him. Voldemort had marked Harry as his equal. Had marked him, permanently, in a way that had changed who the boy was. Seeing that scar peek out had always reminded him of his failure. He had ignorantly forgotten about sacrificial magic and paid for his folly.
Now.
Voldemort traced a thumb idly over that raised, pink shape, and hummed low in the back of his throat. That scar called to him, stirred him. When he looked upon it now he recognized it as a brand of ownership that Harry wore brazenly on his face.
More than that, even, the scar was a mark left when he had given Harry a piece of his soul. Though destroyed now due to that same cursed ignorance he always possessed around Potter, it still connected them in a physical, undeniable manner.
It was responsible for the boy's attachment to him.
Harry's free hand smoothed down his cheek and Voldemort met his gaze.
"Make me yours," Harry whispered, low and compelling.
Voldemort bared his teeth.
He scooped his hand underneath Harry's back and pulled him closer, his fingers hooking onto material and yanking at the boy's shirt. He watched rapaciously as Harry's firm stomach was revealed, then his broad chest with its smattering of black hair and small pink nipples that Voldemort groaned to see.
Leaning down, he took one small nub and bit it. He could not resist having it in his mouth and Harry cried out when he pulled.
"Your fiancée does not make you feel like this," Voldemort muttered, licking a path up that chest until it trailed in the man's stubble-rough jaw. "You do not belong to her."
Harry was shaking his head, mouth open and panting.
"No, gods no," Harry moaned. "I'm yours. Only yours."
Voldemort felt a tightening in his chest at those words, an unfamiliar pain. It was similar to what he had felt prior to pulling the boy closer moments ago when he had been shaking.
He pushed the thought aside, instead focusing on tugging Harry's trousers and pants off, exposing the boy as completely as he himself was. He let his hands slide down, memorizing the perfect plains, nails dragging along the trembling skin. His eyes followed his finger's path, down the dark trail past his navel, to finally land on the man's hard cock— but then a harrowing stab of crippling terror abruptly wrenched his hands away.
He froze.
No.
"Are you alright?"
The boy's concerned voice floated to him vaguely as he fought to reconvene.
Breathe.
Harry's tone infuriated him. Of course he was alright.
Without answering, Voldemort finished pulling off the boy's trousers, eyes averted.
Harry.
This is Harry.
"Hey," the boy said, pushing up onto his elbow and touching Voldemort's face. "What happened?"
"Nothing," Voldemort growled, pressing his palm down on the boy's chest and forcing him supine.
He buried his face in Harry's neck, breathing in deeply, as his fingers wandered over the soft expanse of skin.
One of Harry's hands worked its way down Voldemort's back, stroking soothing circles over him, and Voldemort hated it. He did not require consoling.
Lifting up, he grabbed the boy's hand not touching his collar and slammed it hard above Harry's head. The boy gasped, eyes wide with fear and lust and Voldemort felt better. More in control. Yes, this was what he wanted.
His own concupiscence was returning again after fear had quenched it, and he lowered his body to rub his erection against Harry's. The boy keened, his face lifting, trying to reach Voldemort's lips, but the smaller body would never be capable of it, so Harry seemed to settle on sinking his teeth lightly into his chest.
Voldemort gasped, shoving the boy back and staring at his wide, shocked eyes, but seeing something else.
It was Grayson, ripping open his chest, making him bleed as Harris fucked him ruthlessly, and he was powerless and in agony, and no, make it stop, please—
When his vision cleared, Voldemort was being held in a mortifying embrace, Harry's chin resting on his shoulder.
"Stop that," he rasped.
Is that my voice?
The hands holding him pulled back instantly and Harry looked at him, guilt and shame in his eyes.
"I'm so sorry," the boy muttered. "I should have realized—"
"Desist," Voldemort hissed, and grabbed Harry by the throat, trying to push him back down, but the boy resisted.
"Wait—"
Voldemort was not about to be denied. He pulled Harry against him and crushed their lips together, allowing his body to take over this part as it had been.
Harry moaned, seemingly placated, his hands coming up to Voldemort's shoulders.
Two hands.
Voldemort pulled back, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Your hand, Potter," he growled darkly.
The boy inhaled deeply and then slid his fingers quickly over and took hold of Voldemort's magic once more. Although he could not feel it himself, Harry's reaction to it was a powerful salve.
"Good boy," he murmured, and claimed that delicious mouth once more.
Slowly, he pushed Harry back onto the cot and maneuvered himself between those legs, which opened immediately for him. Voldemort's domineering tendencies trilled with satisfaction.
"So eager, so accommodating," Voldemort praised, burning kisses into the boy's skin, his hand pressing hard as it slid down that chest. "I am pleased that you have so readily learned your place."
Harry was hissing something, but Voldemort's attention was riveted on his own hand's destination. He slammed his eyes shut, forcing his vision to clear, to stay present and not tumble to the last time his fingers were wrapped around a cock, No, please—
Voldemort clenched his teeth, determined.
He was better, he was infallible, untouchable—
His hand bumped against that hard shaft and Voldemort froze, but forced himself to stay touching it. His eyes were clamped shut.
"Voldemort," the boy whispered distantly. "Hey, just stop for a moment. You're—"
"Shut up," Voldemort snapped, his eyes still closed, and his hand shot out and grasped Harry's cock firmly.
They both gasped.
Voldemort tried to ignore the vertigo that was threatening him. Fucking faggot, take my dick, touch me like you want to be touching Potter, and they were pinching him, cutting him, burning him, jeering, grabbing, please, stop, stop, no—
With a cry, Voldemort ripped his hand back and rolled off of the cot, onto the floor.
"Oh my god, Voldemort—"
Harry peered over the bed and looked down in bewildered distress at him.
"Get out," Voldemort rasped, gaze locked onto Harry's, but seeing Grayson's cruel blue eyes instead.
"What?" Harry said, sitting up and reaching out his hand to Voldemort.
"Do not touch me!" Voldemort shouted, coming to stand, but he regretted it instantly as his blood pressure dropped, blackness swallowing him and bringing him back down to his knees.
"Merlin, what's happening?" Harry asked from somewhere, but Voldemort had slammed his eyes closed, panting and trying to control himself.
"I think you're having a panic attack. Here, let me—"
"Get the fuck out of my sight, Potter!" Voldemort roared, putting everything into those words, making them shake the walls, making them huge, making them hurt, like he hurt.
He forced his eyes to stay locked onto Potter's as he watched an array of confusing emotions flash across the boy's face. Fear and horror, those he understood and they were there in monumental amounts. But the rest he ignored, not wanting to face the possibility that they may contain ridicule or derision.
"Did I hurt—?"
"Silence! Cancel the spells, dress yourself, and disappear from my sight!"
He noticed he was panting and immediately closed his mouth. He abhorred his voice, the desperation that did not belong there, but it seemed to achieve his goal. Potter put a hand on his own chest in a weak, pathetic gesture as if his heart hurt.
"Okay."
The boy stumbled around, gathering his clothing in silence, every so often wiping his nose on his arm or pausing to take a steadying breath.
Voldemort watched him until the boy turned to face him, ready to depart. Then it was too much, too overwhelming so he looked away, ignoring that he was still on his knees, naked, before his enemy. He refused to acknowledge the trembling of his limbs or the ridiculous gouged, hollow sensation in his chest.
He heard Potter feebly mutter the counter-spell, pause for a longer time than Voldemort could bear, and then walk out of the cell.