Chapter 13
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The steady drip of water over his nose slits kept Voldemort's attention focused wholly on survival. He could not take a deep breath, nor could he regulate his breathing at all. It was entirely dependent upon the speed of the water hitting him. If he lost focus, he would attempt to breathe in the water and choke, and the merciless drops continued on unimpeded, as he had discovered.
It had been hours. Each splash was a possibility of drowning. There was no one in the cell and he was chained, as always, to his table, on his back. Naked. Freezing. Livid.
He was exhausted. This had gone on all through the night, though, what was night to him? A period where he usually had one guard only and where they sometimes bothered him less. Occasionally, he would sleep.
But not tonight.
At least the relentless drops hydrated him as some slid, tickling and uncomfortable, down his sinus and quenched his constant thirst.
Voldemort inhaled unintentionally when he heard the metal door open at the end of the hallway. The water startled him and he began to choke again, drawing in both air and liquid, panic overtaking him, as he struggled to breathe. He fruitlessly tried to swing his face to the side, but it remained as unmoving as it had been these many hours and he began to feel pain in his chest, his coughing harsh and rough.
Vaguely, he registered the cell door opening and then a spell hit him in the throat, clearing his airway and ceasing the water dripping onto him.
He panted brokenly as he tried to clear his head and his vision, having come so close to succumbing to another false death. He looked up through watering eyes to see Grayson smiling darkly down at him.
"You are so disgusting, Tom. No wonder Harry doesn't want you anymore."
Voldemort worked to regulate his breathing, to calm his fury.
More of this. He had been unable to gather any believable information about the boy. Each guard told him a different narrative and he had no way of verifying which was correct. If any were.
Grayson said Harry was back to full health but despised him now, somedays due to brainwashing from the asininely-named BDE, other days due to 'coming to his senses'. Harris insisted Harry was still recovering at St Mungo's and his condition was critical. Walker maintained he was dead.
But Voldemort needed to know. It was only for his own welfare that he concerned himself. He needed the boy to escape.
"I had an idea for you," the flea said, coming to stand beside his table and looking down upon his body.
That gaze swept over all of him, the blue eyes lingering on his exposed genitals, and Voldemort knew without surprise, what that idea would be.
"I know you want information on Potter," the rat said, those eyes still sullying his body and not meeting his gaze. "You haven't asked us, but we're not idiots." He raised his eyes and pierced Voldemort with his stare. "I know you care about him and I know you hate that you care. We see how you listen when we talk about him."
The dog placed a heavy hand over Voldemort's penis and squeezed. Voldemort felt a rush of rage, of shame, of disbelief that this man would dare touch him so intimately, but reality crushed his indignation. There was nothing he could do.
Not yet.
"So, I'm willing to make a deal," the cur said, his unworthy fingers caressing the thin skin of his testicles. "Just you and I, no one else can know. You want information. I want…"
The wretch brought his other hand down, flicking his finger lightly over Voldemort's nipple and Voldemort cringed at the contact. The guard laughed and then leaned down, his face coming too close, and Voldemort tried to flinch out of range, but he was still unable to move his head.
Lips pressed against his and Voldemort firmed his own, kept them resolutely closed and held his breath. Fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed hard.
"This is what I want, Tom," the brute growled angrily, and his filthy tongue slid out and licked along Voldemort's closed mouth. "I want in. I want you to kiss me."
Voldemort was becoming light-headed from not breathing, but he despised the scent of the man.
"I want what you give to Potter."
That repulsive mouth moved lower, sucking and biting at his neck and Voldemort took a breath. He closed his eyes, trying to master himself, forcing his body to allow this impudence, this trespass.
"I want you to open up for me like you do with him."
The man straightened and met Voldemort's eyes brazenly.
"I want your passion."
The ingrate traced a finger down Voldemort's cheek, his eyes soft and disturbingly warm.
"I want you to suck my cock willingly. I want you to spread your legs for me when I fuck you."
"Never," Voldemort rasped, knowing he could not do that.
Would not.
Those eyes hardened and the louse stepped back, crossing his arms.
"I'll give you information on Potter. Real information."
"I do not trust you," Voldemort hissed, refusing to believe his lies.
"Not even if I brought you the Daily Prophet? You could finally know if he lives or has died. If he stays away because he hates you or if he stays away because he is on his deathbed."
Voldemort closed his eyes, despising this villain for daring to manipulate him. This was untenable. This is why attachments made men weak. That he could be blackmailed was infuriating.
It should not matter to him what became of Potter. He needed no one and if the boy had died then Voldemort would simply devise a new method of escape.
"I'll give you information the other guards refuse to," the reprobate went on, drawing his attention back.
He wanted that information.
It was reckless and unbelievable, but he needed to know.
Perhaps his weakness was not so dire. An insatiable drive for knowledge had powered his existence prior to this and that had been commendable and practical. This could be viewed in a similar way. Potter was his best means of escape; it was rational that he should desire to know of his condition.
"All I ask for is some participation from you," Grayson continued, and Voldemort opened his eyes and took in the hungry, impatient expression on his face. "And you could have all that information you're so desperate for. It's not too much that I'm asking of you. Just…"
The scum came closer again and bent down, licking the skin around Voldemort's nipple before taking it between his teeth and biting down. Voldemort flinched and then calmed.
"Remove yourself from me at once," Voldemort threatened darkly.
The man straightened and met Voldemort's eyes with disbelief.
"So you're saying no? You won't do it?"
He could not.
It would be impossible for him. He wanted to know, certainly, but not at the expense of his own dignity. He could not give consent, even reluctantly done, for his body to be violated. Not for any price.
"I will never allow you to touch me."
The fool laughed.
"I'll touch you any time I want, Tom."
And he pinched the nipple he had bitten as if to demonstrate.
Voldemort controlled his reaction and blinked slowly, once.
"Yes. But I will never give you my permission. Any time you touch me, I want you to know that I despise every moment. I do not understand your motivation for wanting my consent, but know that you will never have it. You repulse me."
Grayson's eyes flashed in anger and he released Voldemort from his restraints and the immobilization spell, pulling him up and forcing his body to curl around the shorter one. Voldemort held himself taut, not resisting overtly, but remaining unaffected to demonstrate that the thug could control his body but never his will. He could only ever achieve a puerile, hollow victory. That the man wanted his consent was a triumph for Voldemort because it gave him a method to thwart and deny, which he had been powerless to do until now.
"I can still fuck you until you cry, you piece of shit," the insect cursed, his stubby fingers crawling down Voldemort's back until they reached his buttocks and then wiggled inside.
Voldemort winced and froze at the hated sensation, but he forced his voice to be calm and aloof as he replied, "Yes. But you will never master me."
The maggot inserted another finger into Voldemort, then pushed him back onto the table and followed him on his knees. He parted Voldemort's legs and sunk down onto him, three fingers stabbing inside.
"And Potter has? Are you mastered, Tom?"
Never. But Grayson did not have to know that.
"If I am, it will never be by you."
The primate removed his fingers and thrust himself fully into Voldemort, his hands wrapping around Voldemort's throat and squeezing.
"If I can't master you nicely, then I'll just have to kill you and fuck your dead body until you wake up. Then you can look up at me and watch as I do it again. And again. I'll kill you for hours today while I fuck you and then we can discuss whether you are mastered by me or not."
Unable to take a breath, his hands flew to the bastard's fingers and tried to pry them loose, but it was impossible. Tormented by that vision, Voldemort struggled to free himself. Grayson kept him subdued, his hands pressing Voldemort against the table, leaning all his weight on Voldemort's neck.
As his vision swam and his pulse hammered in his temples, Voldemort considered his pride and whether accepting the cretin's terms would have been less objectionable than his current position. Too late now. He took comfort in his victory of dignity as his guard fucked him into death for the first time in a series of many.
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Harry lay on his back, his eyes staring unseeingly out the bright window, as he tried to calm his rapid heart rate. It had been erratic the past few days, and the Healers said it was normal for his condition, but Harry knew that it wasn't the curse that was affecting him.
His wand had been recovered from his stay with the Knights, but the Healers were not letting him have it yet and warned him not to use any magic. Harry struggled with that. He had to know. This morning he had tried to cast a simple Lumos and the resulting inferno that had burst forth from his fingers had engulfed his blankets and most of his pillow by the time the Healers had arrived.
They had treated his burns and sternly reiterated that he should not be using magic, but it just confirmed what he'd feared.
His magic was flailing. Panic creeped at his peripherals all day and he had to work so hard to seem stable for his friends again. It was difficult to sleep and when he managed to, his dreams were scattered and nightmarish. The strangeness of this feeling was highlighted by how normal he'd felt the weeks prior.
When he'd been near Voldemort.
It was obvious. It had been too long and his magic and his mental health were suffering.
What did this mean? Was he dependant on the man now? He hadn't been this bad for ages, though. He felt now as badly as he had twelve years ago just after he had given Voldemort to the Ministry. Any ground he'd gained in that time seemed to have been obliterated.
He needed to see him. He needed to touch him. It was messed up and wrong and Harry hated himself for it, but he was past caring, past fighting it. That fucking hole Voldemort had cut out of him was destroying him. His soul was missing an integral part that had grown with it for so many years. He was missing a part of himself.
He was shaking, eyes closed, when a hand was laid on his arm. Harry opened his eyes and bit back the surge of magic that wanted to flash out of him.
Ginny looked shocked. She removed her fingers and stumbled back into the chair by Harry's bed.
"Sorry," Harry said hastily, trying to loosen his muscles and seem relaxed. "I didn't see you, I was resting."
"Harry," she said hesitantly, "what's happening?"
"I'm fine. Is Hermione coming by today at all?"
He needed that letter. His own had been sent off with Hermione yesterday and she hadn't been back since. Was she okay? Did Voldemort write back? Did they talk? Maybe they both hated him now. Harry had gone over all the possible scenarios and in some, Hermione had confronted Voldemort and yelled at him and Voldemort had sworn to never want to see Harry again. Or Hermione had found Voldemort dead in his cell, real dead. Or—
"You're not fine." Ginny's expression was still tight with worry. "The Healers say you're regressing. They say your heart is not responding to treatment like it had been. Your magic…It's like… before. Harry, you remind me so much of how you were after the war."
I am. I am like that. He was falling apart.
"I need Hermione. Can you see if she can come by today?"
A tear slid down Ginny's face and Harry felt like the world's biggest prat.
"Hey," he said soothingly, holding out his hand and then grasping hers when she moved her chair forward. "I'm okay. I'm sorry for scaring you. Hermione went to get something for me and I just want to know if she has it yet."
"What?"
Fuck. What indeed.
"Nothing important, just something… about what was done to me by the BDE."
"Why couldn't I get it for you? And if it's not important, why do you need her today?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He wasn't always this clumsy.
Harry gently rubbed her hand with his thumb.
"I want you with me. I need you here. Hermione… she's great, but I need you."
That seemed to work; Ginny smiled and brought their hands up to her face, resting her cheek against his skin.
"I'll fire-call her now. Be right back."
She kissed his forehead and then walked to the door.
Harry was left, his skin twitching, his heart fluttering, waiting for news.
.
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It wasn't until after dinner that Hermione had finally shown up. Ginny put down the book she had been reading while laying next to Harry in his bed, and got up.
"Hey, Harry," Hermione said, smiling at him, but her eyes were not right.
Something was not right.
"Gin?" Harry asked, turning to his fiancée and smiling as reassuringly as he could manage. "Can you give us a few minutes? Would you mind grabbing me a tea from the café downstairs?"
Ginny frowned and looked unhappy, but she nodded.
"It'll have to be herbal, you know I can't give you caffeine right now."
Harry nodded, trying not to seem impatient.
"Great. Thanks."
Ginny sighed.
"Do you want anything, Hermione?"
"I'd love a tea too, herbal is fine. Thanks, Ginny."
When the door shut behind her, Harry sat up in bed, throwing his legs over the side. He was vibrating with adrenaline.
"Do you have it?"
Hermione came to him, shaking her head, and threw up a privacy ward. Oh Merlin, no.
"I'm so sorry, Harry. They've put up wards, I can't get through them."
"Wards."
She nodded.
"I suspect they want to avoid a situation like the one you created. Someone not permitted to see Voldemort finding him and then being in a position to blackmail them."
Harry fell back onto his pillows, closing his watering eyes. He felt hopeless. Defeated.
"You have to tell someone what is happening to you, Harry."
Harry laughed bitterly, throwing an arm over his eyes to hide his worthless tears.
"Yeah, great. How would that go, Hermione? Someone needs to bring me Voldemort so I don't completely self-destruct?"
A gentle hand was placed on his arm, but Harry ignored it. She couldn't get close to Voldemort. Would Harry be able to? Would the wards admit him or was he now barred too? Well, if he was, he would be contacting the Daily Prophet right afterwards.
"Maybe not that explicitly," she muttered.
She was silent for a few minutes and Harry let his mind wander to what he could do to break down those wards.
"How bad is it, Harry?"
Her voice was cautious, quiet.
"Worse," he whispered, still hiding his face, hiding himself. "It feels worse. Maybe it's not, maybe I just forgot how bad it was before, but I feel like… like I can't trust myself. I feel frail, but also like my magic could decimate this room if I let myself think about him too much."
"You just have to grit through it, Harry. Like last time. You didn't fall apart, you fought and eventually it got better."
Harry wanted to scream at her, or sob, or laugh in her face, but he knew he couldn't. He had to hold tight to himself right now.
"I never got better, Hermione."
"But you survived it. You'll survive it now. You just have to fight."
Harry stayed still and silent. Just fight. Just survive. It's no big deal.
When the panic got through and seized him he didn't even react. His heart raced, his breathing grew shallow, numbness took over his fingers and limbs, and he simply let it all happen. He stayed still and observed it. He knew if he moved right now he'd lash out.
"Harry?"
Hermione's voice was calling him, but Harry kept motionless, eyes closed, letting the tidal waves crash over him, drowning him.
A Healer entered the room and began fussing with him, asking him questions and calling for help, but Harry just detached from the panic and the terror and focused on not taking anyone else with him into oblivion.
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Voldemort sat on the floor, his nose slits still bleeding weakly from the pummelling he had recently received from the swine, Walker. He was attempting to eat the wilted cabbage and mushy potatoes that had been delivered after Walker had left.
The fare reminded him bleakly of the rations he had been allocated at the orphanage. Until enduring this hell, Wool's had been the location he despised the most. It had been before he had recognized and learned to harness the power that had always been inside of him. He had been abused there as well, bullied, neglected, harassed by the pervert priest, assaulted, starved. But at least he had had his magic. A window. Clothing. Perhaps not regular meals as he later insisted upon, but it had been enough to quiet the pain. Even during the war, when food had been scarce, he had at least been fed once a day. Or more often, as many of the other children had been too terrified to eat, and Voldemort had taken their rations for himself. Waste not, after all.
He tried now to savour the meal, knowing he would not receive another for three days, but he was so ravenous that his body demanded the food immediately and without decorum.
Lord Voldemort sat, naked and bleeding, on the filthy floor of his cell. Eating with his hands, like an animal.
Seething, he cast that despicable image into the writhing waters in his mind, drowning it.
What you do to survive… it's not who you are.
The boy's insolent words floated up momentarily, but he refused to be consoled by them.
Grating metal and the sound of approaching footsteps pulled Voldemort abruptly from his thoughts. He pushed himself up to stand, reluctantly leaving two small pieces of potato on his plate. He eyed them longingly, but forced his attention onto the abhorrent man who entered his cell.
"Ugh, don't you look a sight," the ape Grayson said, closing the door and leaning against it.
Voldemort stared down at him, enjoying the fact that he was far taller than any whom he encountered here. A useless advantage, but an advantage all the same.
"Walker was out for your blood this morning, hmm?"
He stepped closer and ran a finger through the wetness under Voldemort's nostrils. Voldemort looked away, refusing to humour this beast.
"Have you given any more thought to what we spoke about last time, Tom?"
Of course he had. He had done little else.
Fourteen days.
The sand fell agonizingly slowly through his mind's hourglass, every moment confirming his fears for the boy. Dead was bad, yet abandoned felt worse. Was Harry taking his last breaths, desperate but unable to contact him, or had he truly changed his mind and betrayed him?
"I brought something with me, to sweeten the offer."
Voldemort looked over and saw two newspapers fall onto the ground, rolled up and impossible to read. Grayson shook out another piece of parchment and smiled darkly at Voldemort's attention.
"This is a letter to the Minister, all legit, as you will see if you cooperate. It's either a report from St Mungo's on Potter's condition, a wedding invitation to him giving the date and time of his long-anticipated matrimony, or Potter's Death Certificate. I swear on my magic that it is one of those."
Voldemort watched as a flash of light sprung from the man and confirmed his sincerity.
It was all there, so close. Voldemort could choose to finally seize that information. It could be his.
"I'll make it easy for you, Tom."
The cretin conjured a chair and sat in it, opening his legs wide, confidently reposed, and staring up at Voldemort.
"I won't ask for much this time. You can choose. A kiss, an honest, passionate kiss that you give yourself into, while sitting on my lap. Like you did with him." He smiled and licked his lips. "Or, you suck my cock. Properly. I've fucked your face many times, but I want you to do it because you want to."
I will never want to. Never.
"I'm going to sit here for five minutes with my eyes closed, Tom. I've warded your prize so don't even try to take those unless you earn them. You have five minutes to decide. If you give yourself to me, you'll get what you want. If you refuse again…"
The maggot reached into his robes and pulled out that gruesome barbed whip. Voldemort felt a swoop of fear in his diaphragm. No.
"You get this." He grinned with teeth, seeing Voldemort's expression. "Your call."
Closing his eyes and leaning his head back, the villain presumably commenced his countdown.
Voldemort rapidly considered his options.
To obey was impossible, yet this condition of ignorance was unendurable. Either way, he would lose. The choice was to debase himself and receive an advantage, or refuse and suffer with nothing to show for it. Or rather, nothing but the agony of that whip.
He stared at the man, open and vulnerable beneath him, and considered a third option. Was there a way to attack him that would not set off the failsafe in his collar? He had never been paralyzed when he was with Potter, was it possible that consent allowed for an amount of aggression?
Could he perhaps pretend to engage in an embrace and then strangle the man in earnest? His fingers had met no resistance when wrapped around Potter's neck.
Grayson began to hum moronically and Voldemort closed his eyes.
It had to be that the collar's initial directives had not included Potter because the boy had not been present at the time. The failsafe was to protect the guards and the Minister so surely the moment Voldemort's strangulation became unwanted, which had to occur eventually even with a deviant like Grayson, the collar would disable him and Voldemort would have lost his opportunity.
His reward, therefore, must either be his unprocurable pride or the otherwise unattainable information about Harry's situation.
The image of Harry smiling up at him, tracing those fingers hesitantly down his face, helplessly touching his collar and reacting to his magic rose up within him. The sight of that scar, the undeniable fact of his claim on the boy. The taste of him.
Harry had risked much to come to him, had paid for it with his unwillingly exposed homosexuality, his failing romantic partnership, and his tenuous grasp on his Auror position. He had suffered to be with Voldemort. He had proven his loyalty.
Time was up.
When Grayson opened his eyes, Voldemort was already kneeling between the demon's legs, his hands outstretched to pull aside his robes. Those blue eyes flew wide and his mouth opened in shock.
Voldemort looked away and focused on undoing the buttons covering the instantly hardening erection.
"Merlin," the vile creature gasped, bringing a hand down and stroking Voldemort's scalp. He flinched at the contact but controlled it and continued. "You're actually going to do it. You're—"
A moan cut off the fiend's words as Voldemort swallowed the repulsive cock. He closed his eyes, burying the horrified shrieks within him that tasted of betrayal. Of madness.
This was the first time he had ever willfully performed this action. Lord Voldemort would never have knelt before another.
He had foolishly considered giving this to Potter.
He emptied his mind, stilled the tremors that rocked him, and ignored everything but the task he had decided on. Later, he would allow the self-flagellation, would listen to the humiliation and denial.
Now, he hollowed his cheeks and permitted that putrid phallus to stab his throat. The reprobate remained unmoving, forcing Voldemort to demonstrate the demanded consent to perform this action.
This service, upon his knees.
He pushed that thought down. He had chosen this. It was not a failing to choose to better one's position even if that required payment. In his youth, he had learned that sometimes he must accept degradation with the empowering conviction that ultimately he would exact his own repayment that would far surpass what had been required of him.
The vermin spread his legs wider and Voldemort, who had been leaning against them unconsciously, fell into his lap, the cock stabbing deeper. The man groaned, his hand cupping Voldemort's skull and holding his face completely sheathed upon that organ so that the man's coarse pubic hair entered his nostrils.
Voldemort placed a hand upon those disgusting trouser legs and made to pull back, but the fingers at his nape denied him that option.
He froze, opening his eyes and recognizing that he was no longer in control. He looked up and caught the cur's wildly satisfied expression.
"Not so fast, Tom. I want to see you choke for me."
For me.
Never.
His mind railed at him to bite down, to shove the man away, to siphon all his fury and helplessness into a violent attack that rendered this man lifeless, but Voldemort reoriented himself around what he wanted. It would be gratifying to hurt this man, but he had a goal to achieve. After having already accepted this task, it would be counterproductive to lose having already paid some of the sum.
Voldemort allowed his throat to gargle out a sound, but the man ignored it, pressing harder on Voldemort's head.
This suffocation technique was familiar. Experience taught him it was not a pleasant way to die. He waited, hoping his tormentor remembered his original intent to enjoy Voldemort's hitherto-denied consent.
His vision had begun to darken when Grayson finally pulled back and allowed Voldemort to gasp and heave in air.
"I've mastered you, Tom," the worm breathed, staring down avidly at Voldemort and wiping away the liquid that had fallen from his eyes. "Feel it. Accept it. You're perfect like this. You're mine."
Voldemort stared up at the flea, his heart drumming against his temples, taking in what this action had cost. He knew they were lies, but a part of him questioned which was the lie; That he was mastered or that he was feigning submission.
Hands drew him back and Voldemort reflexively opened his mouth and took that cock back into his throat. He closed his eyes, focusing on that oceanic tempest. He gathered up his horror and humiliation and fed it to the chaos, allowing his mind to float and disassociate.
The worthless flesh in his mouth plunged relentlessly in and out, Voldemort neither propelling the action nor obstructing it. He let himself be used and focused on the newspapers he knew were within reach of him, that parchment that would support whatever the papers reported.
"You are such an eager little whore, Tom," the dog moaned, and Voldemort seized at being called such a name.
This is where he had fallen to. On his knees, by his choice, being called a whore by a lowlife.
"I'm so close, fuck, it's— oh Merlin— it's so good. You're not even fighting. You're— fuck, fuck. On your knees! You wanted this!"
Grayson's legs tightened around his shoulders and he began to tremble and clench his nails in Voldemort's scalp. The man was panting, sweating, and then suddenly, a hot surge of semen invaded Voldemort's mouth, instantly activating his pharyngeal reflex.
He tried to pull back, but the devil kept his face pressed against his pubic hair as he groaned out his orgasm.
Enough. Let it be done.
Bone-deep exhaustion threatened to overcome Voldemort before he could collect his payment and it was only the knowledge that, if he succumbed, the papers and parchment would be gone when he awoke, that kept him conscious.
The man collapsed back into his chair and released him.
Voldemort gasped, choking on the bile that flooded his mouth, spitting it onto the ground, and brought a hand up to hold his burning throat.
He sat back on the floor, breathing hard, and watched the other man. Waiting.
The act was complete. It was now time to determine if his compliance had been foolish.
The blue eyes opened and Grayson met his gaze. He smirked lazily and then began to laugh. Voldemort bristled, wanting to look away but managed to hold that stare.
"Not half bad, old man. I can't believe you actually did that."
Voldemort waited, refusing the shame that tried to swell within him.
The man began to fasten his buttons and right his clothing. Voldemort remained on the floor, his eyes never leaving his captor's. Searching for an indication as to where this was headed, despite the creeping unease he felt.
Grayson stood and smiled down at Voldemort.
"Well, you gave me a blowjob, on your own, like I'd asked." The man laughed again and rubbed his chin. "I promised you this information if you did that."
Then he smirked with a chiding, taunting expression.
Voldemort's shock was absolute as he heard the but shouted into the void and knew that he had just humiliated himself for nothing.
"But I promised my nephew Colin that he'd be safe at school. And you made a liar out of me, Tom. You get what you pay for."
"No," Voldemort denied in a whisper.
Although unsurprising, although he should have expected this all along, the realization that he was about to be denied the knowledge of what had happened to Harry after what he had just endured was unfathomable. This was a humiliation superseding all others because this one, he had consented to. And he had been duped, for the price of his dignity.
A violent fury rose up inside of him. He stood slowly, his gaze piercing the insignificant cretin below him. Grayson's eyes widened and he took a step back.
"You mean to renege on your word," Voldemort said quietly, feeding all of his rage into those quivering words.
"Now, wait—" the coward said, stepping back again until his body hit the cell wall. "You can't hurt me!"
Voldemort stalked towards him, his collar warming soothingly on his neck. He could feel the containment spell traces lick his skin and he felt, at that moment, as if he could have untangled them effortlessly.
He strode unhurriedly up to the craven, brazen man. His anger felt like a wind that was whipping around him, soothing the injustice of what had just occurred. He reached his prey and looked down upon him, feeling his lips curl into a dark leer.
"I can feel your fear, Gary Grayson," Voldemort whispered, leaning down and invading the man's space. Forcing him to curl in upon himself. "You dared to lie to Lord Voldemort."
"I— How are you doing this?" the child shrieked, and Voldemort followed his gaze and saw the wall scones flickering with the current he was creating, saw the swirls of his own magic rushing up to be commanded.
His magic.
His magic.
He glanced back at his captive and grinned wildly, relishing the elation and power surging through him.
Lord Voldemort felt his magic for the first time in twelve years.
He could sense that it was not his full might; he had managed to create a fractional hole in his collar's suppression, but it was enough. Even a taste of his immensity was more than most wizards achieved at their zenith.
"They'll know," the infant gasped out, terror melting his features. "There are wards. They'll be coming. You can't—"
Voldemort sent his power crashing through the brat before him, made it shred his skin, rip apart his sinews, fracture each bone. As an afterthought, he reached down and pulled the man's cock out, throwing his magic into it, burning it to a cinder that fell apart in his hands.
He fervently watched his prey crumple, screaming in horrified agony, and the sound delighted him, pleased him so much that he closed his eyes and moaned.
Yes.
The unwelcome sound of running footsteps seized his attention and Voldemort turned to face his next victim.
The idea of a duel was laughable. With his magic, he was unstoppable.
Before the Minister for Magic had fully emerged, Voldemort was already pushing his power into the man. He savoured the terrified, startled expression on the man's face— but then Voldemort felt his collar turn ice cold and his magic was suddenly doused.
As his eyes slowly closed, Voldemort watched Shacklebolt collapse to the floor and focused on that victory rather than the fact that he too was falling as blackness swallowed him completely.