Chapter 15
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When Harry opened the door, the Minister and the Healer both stood from conjured chairs, the former impatiently and the latter warily.
Harry took a breath and put everything he had into his Occlumency shields.
"I've done it," Harry said tremulously, keeping his eyes down.
"Done it? You've—?"
Kingsley pushed past him, into the room, stopping fast when he saw the body upon the ground. He turned to face Harry, bewilderment soon giving way to suspicion.
"You killed him?"
The question was disbelieving, almost sarcastic.
Harry looked up, meeting his eyes, and nodded. He tried to look remorseful.
"What happened?"
"I… Well, I know you'll think I'm insane, but I asked him to give up being a Dark Lord and he refused."
Harry was able to act sincere because this was close to the truth. The body on the ground and his own sadness at seeing it there could easily have been reality.
"Merlin, Harry, you've got to be kidding me," Kingsley cursed, turning back to stare at the naked, defeated Lord Voldemort. "So. He's… dead? You were able to kill him?"
Harry nodded even though the Minister could not see him.
"Yes."
"How?"
Kingsley turned back, but the Healer spoke before Harry could answer.
"I'm sorry, Minister, Mr Potter, but I really must insist you complete this conversation back at St Mungo's. Your heart is still recovering Mr Potter and this… turn of events has surely upset you and may negatively affect your health."
Harry was ready for this.
"I will return, but I can't stay at the hospital any longer."
He thought about how destroyed he would have felt if he had really been forced to kill Voldemort and used that to give his voice the misery Kingsley would need to hear to believe him.
"I can't. You offer home-visit services, don't you?"
The Healer spluttered for a few moments, and then said, "Of course, but with your condition, it will be quite expensive to have the heart monitoring charms, in-home appointments, and a Healer on twenty-four hour availability—"
"That won't be a problem," Harry assured him, allowing some of his true exhaustion to show through. "I'd like to go home, now."
"I still have questions, Harry," Kingsley interrupted, his voice stern.
"I know. Come by tomorrow, first thing. I'll be home, I promise." Harry looked behind the Minister at Voldemort's body on the ground. "Um. Sorry for leaving that mess with you. I'll write a full report after I speak with you tomorrow."
Kingsley eyed him skeptically, but nodded and turned to the Healer.
"We'll accompany Mr Potter back to his home and then I will Obliviate you, Mr Bayner. Thank you for your services today."
The Healer nodded, but then blurted out a question seemingly without meaning to.
"He Who Must Not Be Named. That's who… was alive. Correct? That's who has just been killed? Why didn't you tell anyone, Minister?"
Kingsley sighed.
"You won't remember any of this anyway, Bayner."
The Healer pursed his lips.
"I'd still like to know."
Kingsley touched his own forehead, rubbing his brow.
"Yes. It was Voldemort. And I didn't tell anyone because until now, I was sure he'd escape to kill us all and I couldn't do a damn thing about it."
Bayner did not respond, but continued to stare in horror at the unexpected body of the Darkest wizard of all time, dead on the floor.
"Let's go," Kingsley said tiredly, gesturing to the hallway leading to the lifts and Harry began to walk, the two men soon following behind him.
Shrunken and stowed safely in his pocket, rested Lord Voldemort.
.
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Harry was too weak and tired to Apparate home when they finally finished all the paperwork at St Mungo's, so a Healer took him by Floo and settled him onto his sofa.
"Healer Mary will be by first thing in the morning, Mr Potter," the man said, checking his vitals one last time. "You're looking stable enough to handle the night, but should anything change, take this," and he handed Harry a small, smooth, round stone. Harry took it, confused, and looked up at the Healer who smiled kindly. "You rub it if you need us and someone will come right away."
"How?"
"It a Protean Charm, are you familiar with those?"
Harry nodded, smiling and thinking of Hermione's coins. The Healer disabled the diagnostic charm and stood up.
"You'll be fine, Mr Potter. Best thing for you right now is just a good night's rest."
Harry tried to smile in agreement, but his nerves were ripping apart, thinking about what was about to happen. In moments, the Healer would leave and it would be just Harry and Lord fucking Voldemort alone. In his flat. With his dirty clothes on the sofa and his empty plate with crumbs from weeks ago in the sink.
This had been his safe spot, his hiding place. Now, he would be housing the lethal and sinister Dark Lord here.
"Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?" Healer Something-or-Other asked. "Do you need help getting to your bedroom?"
Harry shook his head. He felt hysterically compelled to give a silent signal to the man, telling him he was in danger, but that would be absurd; he had engineered this, had bullied the Dark Lord into accepting it.
The Healer smiled and left the flat. The closing door created a resounding, irrevocable thud that echoed in the suddenly empty and silent room.
Harry stood, frozen, as if he could delay the moment forever by refusing to accept what came next.
In his pocket, the body shifted.
Harry ignored it.
He had to focus on his breathing for a moment. He closed his eyes, inhaled for five counts, out for five, repeat. Again. Again.
I may have just condemned the wizarding world. I may have just killed Hermione and Ron and everyone I love. Oh gods, what was I thinking?
He looked at his watch. 11:41pm.
The impatient movements in his pocket increased.
Harry bit his cheek and then his tongue, tasting blood. When that didn't work, he walked calmly to his kitchen— like a normal person who was not holding the fate of the world in his clothing— and necked back a mouthful of Firewhisky.
It's not too late. I can go back. Just tell the Minister I made a mistake. I can resign or go to Azkaban, who cares if being away from Voldemort would destroy me, I deserve it, what was I thinking?
Harry sank to the floor in the kitchen, clutching his head. Too late. If he brought the man back to the Ministry, they would force him asleep forever and that was a horrible thought for both of them. And Voldemort had promised to behave.
He did not. He'd made damn sure to promise nothing and still I brought him home. Merlin, Jesus fucking christ, what had I been thinking?
Nothing for it.
Harry stood, bracing himself against the cupboards, and walked back to his sitting room. Thankfully, he remembered that now was an excellent time to close his Floo to visitors and did so.
Before he could change his mind, take up the Elder Wand currently resting on the mantel, and stop the twitching body inside his pocket forever, Harry sank his hand into his robes. His fingers curled around the warm, shrunken body and he pulled it out.
Lord Voldemort was clutched in his fist, naked and glaring at Harry.
He was seized with the sudden urge to squeeze him, squishing his body between his fingers until blood seeped out, but Harry quashed the thought. He hadn't come this far to simply give up all faith he'd slowly been building in the man.
Now to see what his faith had bought.
He placed the man gently onto the floor. Again, he had a mad desire to stomp on him, but resisted it. Removing his wand from his robes, he said the counter charm and watched as the Dark Lord grew into his very tall, very intimidating body once again.
Their gazes locked. Harry saw the emotions fly through those eyes: triumph, wild happiness, disbelief. Harry watched him process his freedom.
Voldemort broke their gaze and turned to survey his surroundings.
"Your flat."
Harry nodded and then said, "Yeah. Can't say I'd ever expected to entertain you here."
Voldemort swung back around, a wry look on his face.
"You will hardly be required to entertain me, Potter."
"Harry," he sighed, moving to the sofa and sinking down onto it. "I just rescued you from the Ministry at the risk of my life and my job. You're staying at my place… Please. Call me Harry."
Voldemort regarded him with a curious expression, but gave a curt nod and then looked down at himself.
"A robe would be appreciated."
Harry got up and strode over to the bathroom, opening the door.
"I bet you want a shower, too. Look, why don't you clean up, take as long as you'd like. I'll transfigure you a robe, nothing of mine will come close to fitting you."
Harry had a brief visual of that smooth, lanky body bursting through the shoulders and elbows of his robes. The material falling away, baring everything once again.
"And when you're done," he said, shaking his head to clear it, "we can make something to eat while we talk."
"Talk."
Harry laughed, perhaps a bit harshly.
"Yup. Ground rules, that kind of thing."
Voldemort's lips curled up into a sneering grimace.
"You cannot expect me to adhere to these rules."
Harry let out a breath slowly.
"The least you can do is hear what I have to say before you tell me you won't comply. I just… I have a lot on the line here. I want to make sure I made the right choice in trusting you."
Harry motioned vaguely towards the bathroom, turned away, and walked into his bedroom to get a robe to transfigure. He waited, listening for the sound of Voldemort moving into the bathroom, but it did not come. Harry sat down on the edge of his bed, in the dark, a tired groan quietly escaping his lips.
What would he do if, when he went out into the sitting room, Voldemort had vanished? Would he pursue him? Let him be? Surely the man deserved some privacy after what he'd endured, but Harry needed him to understand that if Voldemort revealed himself in public again, Harry would have to kill him… and he would probably be thrown in Azkaban himself.
The sound of a door gently shutting made Harry close his eyes and fall back onto his mattress.
The first battle won. Voldemort was still here. He had agreed to these preliminary terms. He would listen.
Merlin, Harry was tired. But they needed to talk. It couldn't be postponed because Harry knew Voldemort would be looking for the first opportunity to escape.
Harry had meant to clean up, prepare that robe, figure out where the hell the Dark Lord would be sleeping because he didn't have a spare room, but somewhere between sorting through all this and reeling from the fact that Lord Voldemort was in his flat, his eyes grew heavy and he fell asleep.
.
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Voldemort stood, clean for the first time in over a decade, before the foggy mirror in his enemy's home and scrutinized himself.
His red eyes remained the same, but his body… The loathsome black collar cut across his neck, solid and taunting. He followed the many scars across his throat, slashed into his chest, and gouged into his abdomen. His legs were crisscrossed with jagged whip marks. He was a patchwork of reds and pinks, each scar standing out against his white skin, each one eliciting a vivid, violent memory.
Twelve years.
It had been twelve years since he had looked into a mirror.
He turned away. He would not look again.
His reflection showed merely what had been done to him. That was irrelevant. Once he reclaimed his magic, he would remove every memory of his time at the Ministry. He would heal and become stronger. These scars meant only that he had much to repay.
He faced the linen rack and noticed two very different towels hanging there. One was forest green and haphazardly tucked under the bar, while the other was a pale purple, soft-looking, far newer, and neatly hung.
He reached for the green and wrapped it around himself.
Cracking open the door, he frowned when no robe was present as Harry had indicated there would be. He stepped out of the lavatory and looked around.
Harry was nowhere to be seen and it was not a large dwelling. Surely the boy had not left.
Voldemort meandered into the kitchen, expecting Harry to have begun preparing a meal or perhaps sitting down in the dining area, preferring to begin their talk. But the rooms were empty and Voldemort moved on. He stepped into the sitting room again, searching the sofa by the fire and the bookshelves on the wall, but saw no one.
When he arrived at the only bedroom, he stopped on the threshold.
Harry lay on his back in his bed, legs hanging off the edge, head tucked into his shoulder.
Asleep.
Voldemort's feet carried him into the dark room, and he took in the threadbare socks, the quiet susurration of breath, the fragile eyelids edged in soft lashes that rested upon his cheek.
The bed dipped when Voldemort sat. He looked down at his nemesis, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One. Master of Death. His prophesied vanquisher.
It would take nothing to hurt the boy. Perhaps he could not kill him without winning the allegiance of the Elder Wand first, but he could imprison him, bind his writs and ankles, starve him, torture him….
The fantasy was not without appeal. His long fingers twitched to wrap around that perfect neck and squeeze.
As he pondered ways and means, Voldemort laid back, the towel still wrapped around his body, but it was insufficient to prevent the piloerection that usually occurred when he was wet. This room was cold. Shivering slightly, he rolled over and grasped the thick, cotton comforter that lay bunched up on the mattress, pulling it over himself.
As an afterthought, he threw a corner over the boy. The room truly was frigid.
In the morning, they would have their discussion. The boy would demand he behave, Voldemort would refuse, and he would then find out exactly how serious the boy had been about killing him.
For now, he was exhausted. Turning onto his side so as to keep Harry in his sights should he stir, Voldemort closed his eyes and— warm, covered, safe, and free for the first time in twelve years— he fell asleep without fear.
.
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Dreams of flying in a hailstorm and getting bludgeoned by quaffle-sized ice balls evaporated abruptly when Harry's consciousness realized that the knocking sound was coming from his front door.
He sat up and looked at his watch— but had no idea what it showed because just beyond his outstretched arm was Lord Voldemort.
In his bed.
Bare-chested and wrapped in his grey comforter. The Dark Lord was awake, blinking sleep from his eyes and staring at Harry as if he had no idea how he'd gotten there.
That made two of them.
The knock on his door began again, but Harry could not break free from that intense, red gaze.
"The door," he mumbled stupidly, and the Dark Lord inclined his head, sitting up.
Harry watched helplessly as the blanket slid down and revealed even more of that familiar, emaciated body.
Harry shuffled out of bed, putting as much space between himself and temptation as he could. He couldn't seem to break that stare, though.
"You need to hide," Harry rasped, voice rough with sleep.
Voldemort paused then stood, letting the comforter fall completely to the ground, and Harry finally managed to tear his eyes away.
"Cast a Disillusionment Charm upon me," Voldemort commanded quietly, and Harry complied, but then hesitated, knowing who was likely at the door, knowing if Voldemort did not play nice the entire game would be up.
"Listen—"
"I will not interfere with this," Voldemort's voice said, from where his body had been seconds ago.
"I need you to stay in here. Will you do that? I think it's the Minister."
He looked at his watch. 5:35am. Gods, bright and early indeed.
"Go, Potter."
"Harry," he corrected reflexively, and then made his way out of the room.
When he pulled the door open, Kingsley stood alone with a tight smile on his face. Harry opened the door wider and let him enter his flat.
"Sorry for the hour," the older man said, "it seems I woke you."
Harry smiled weakly and led him into the sitting room, lighting a fire with his wand. Having slept in his robes meant his wand was readily accessible from last night.
"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't know what time you'd be stopping by."
Harry called Kreacher and ordered them drinks, then turned to his friend, waiting. This was it. Now he would find out if Voldemort's plan had worked. The Dark Lord had said creating a dead body out of the living tissue of the intended person was easy— and Harry couldn't deny that the spells and chanting he'd done seemed to do the trick. That body had certainly looked like a deceased Dark Lord.
The question was whether Kingsley, and his likely extensive testing, agreed.
"Thank you," the older man said, to the house-elf when Kreacher brought their tea and snacks.
"Do you mind?" Harry asked, taking a pastry and gesturing at it. "I didn't manage to eat dinner last night and I'm famished."
Or rather, piss-terrified and needing something to do with my hands.
Kingsley gave him a go ahead motion with his hand.
"Of course, please. I won't stay long, I know you're still recovering, though you look much better today. I just wanted to ask you some questions about yesterday."
Harry nodded, forcing the food down his tight throat, trying to seem at ease. And sad, damnit, that's right. He'd had to kill Voldemort. That would have made him… well, it would have destroyed him.
Harry set down his pastry and placed his hands in his lap, looking at them.
"Yeah. I know you disagree with… what I tried to do."
Kingsley returned his teacup to the coffee table.
"I do. It was not your place to offer him freedom, which I assume had been your intention?" Harry lowered his head further. "That is serious, Harry. It was dangerous and mutinous and if he'd agreed, what then? You would have just trusted him and brought him home as your pet?"
Harry clamped his teeth against the hysterical laugh that almost burst free. Got it in one, my friend.
"I have to be able to trust your judgement, Harry," Kingsley went on, and Harry let the words chastise him as they should.
He had been an impulsive, selfish, reckless idiot, it was true. He deserved this reprimand and heaps more. Harry had lied and betrayed the Ministry. Betrayed everyone who died and fought against Voldemort. Like my parents. And Sirius. Fred. Cedric. Snape. Lu—
"You can't make executive, secret deals with the enemy," Kingsley continued. "I know you… had a complicated relationship with him, but that does not excuse your actions. If you ever behave in such a manner again, I will have to put you on leave."
Harry nodded, feeling every ounce of the self-disgust that he had earned. Kingsley let the silence stretch and Harry did not dare break it. He knew he should have been fired for what he had done, even just for the actions that Kingsley knew about, but again, famous Harry Potter got special treatment.
After what felt like ten minutes, but could have been hours, yet was likely closer to a minute, Kingsley sighed and sat back heavily into the sofa.
"Alright, that part's done," the Minister said, and Harry felt like his broom had just stopped mid-dive. "You saved us again, Harry. And I'm very grateful to you."
Harry looked up and met the Minister's eyes. The older man's anger and disappointment had seemed to vanish and his friend's warm brown gaze looked back.
"I can't even begin to tell you the immense relief I feel. You saved my arse, saved all our arses. I regret that this is not something I can publicize for obvious reasons, but I want to offer you some monetary compensation—"
"I don't need money, Kingsley," Harry interrupted, horrified, which was true, but also Harry could not imagine accepting something for a service he had not even attempted.
Kingsley nodded and picked up his teacup again.
"Alright then. You're already making excellent progress in the Auror Department, what about a promotion?"
Harry cringed, thinking about his coworkers's reactions when famous Harry Potter was again lifted up for seemingly no reason— especially after three of their number had lost their lives coming to his rescue from the BDE.
"No, really," Harry said, pulling his legs up onto the sofa, "I don't want to be compensated for this."
Kingsley considered him and Harry picked up his teacup again, cradling it close and soaking up the warmth.
"I understand," the older man said gently. He paused, visibly attempting to assemble his next words. "You cared about him."
Harry jerked, spilling tea on his trousers, and then quickly pulled out his wand and dried the mess before the liquid could burn him. Kingsley waited patiently, but did not call his words back.
"Uh, I mean… I felt bad for him. I hated what we were doing, you know that."
Kingsley raised his eyebrows and frowned, the expression clearly saying, if you say so. Harry remembered then that he had admitted to this man that he had kissed Voldemort ages ago.
"You know, I think he returned your feelings," Kingsley said softly, and Harry quickly set his teacup back onto the table to stop any more liquid from spilling out.
How the hell would he know? Monitoring charms. It must be that damn spell that showed the guards what Harry and Voldemort had been up to. Merlin, how mortifying.
"I highly doubt that," Harry muttered, briefly wondering if the actual Dark Lord was listening from the bedroom.
Kingsley hummed and took a sip of his tea.
"I visited him, you know."
Harry bristled.
"Yeah, I know. You tortured him."
He did not want to remember that shocking revelation.
Kingsley inclined his head.
"Yes. But not always. When the BDE kidnapped you, I went to him and asked him to help me. Well, to help you. He wouldn't have done it if you hadn't been in danger."
Done it.
"Done what?"
"Helped. He is the only reason we were able to rescue you at all. More than that, he gave us a ton of intel on the BDE, stuff we'd never have gotten without him. It's thanks to him we got McNair, Goyle Jr, and a few others."
Harry remembered wondering if they would ask Voldemort for help locating him, but he hadn't expected the man to be so cooperative. These were his people, after all. If there were sides— and that was debatable considering the grey area Harry had been existing in for a while now— then surely such an action by the Dark Lord would have been a betrayal. …Unless Voldemort had been behaving with loyalty, but a loyalty that was shifting…
"Yet more than that," Kingsley went on before Harry was done processing this information, "he seemed genuinely concerned for you. I will not apologize for what I did, but even in pain, Tom would ask about you before addressing anything else. Ignoring even his own condition."
Harry's fingers twitched and he clenched his jaw. He hated that reminder, hated that torturing Voldemort could be so casually discussed. He yearned to cast a glance over at the hall leading to his bedroom, but knew Kingsley would immediately find that suspicious, so he refrained.
"We think that the guard he killed was attempting to extort him," Kingsley said, and Harry snapped his focus back onto him. "We found Daily Prophet newspapers on the cell floor after he killed Grayson. Those, and a letter Grayson stole out of my office from St Mungo's giving me my daily report on your condition. From the evidence, it seems certain that Tom would receive the paperwork should he… offer something to—"
"I get it," Harry said, closing his eyes, his heart aching for what Voldemort had endured. "No more. Gods, that man was a monster."
Harry took comfort that Kingsley did not rush to defend his employee, but it was small succour.
"I don't want to upset you, Harry," the Minister said, softly, and Harry opened his eyes to stare into the fire. "You're still not back in fighting form. You should rest, but before I go, I need to ask you one last thing; How did you succeed in killing him?"
.
.
Voldemort watched the boy's reaction avidly. Harry paused, evidently taking a moment to organize his thoughts, those green eyes trained on the flames.
Voldemort shifted his gaze to the Minister, a desire to reveal himself and take his revenge upon the man was almost overpowering. To hear the swine clumsily interpret Voldemort's sentiments about the boy was unendurable. To have to listen to the villain casually recount his torture as if it were nothing was an audacity nearly too immense to be borne.
He distracted his savage impulses by turning back to the boy who had finally looked up and met the Minister's eyes.
"Before I go into it," Harry said, voice even and clear, "I need your word that what I tell you will stay between us. You will be the only one who knows, and that includes my fiancée and my best friends."
Fiancée. How he loathed that word.
Kingsley eyed the boy, unsure and reluctant, but then he nodded.
"Of course. On my word, Harry."
"Thank you." Harry looked away and stared into the fire again. "Most people believed that I would defeat the Dark Lord because of the prophecy. It said I would have a power the Dark Lord knows not. Dumbledore said this power was love."
Harry laughed derisively and Voldemort agreed with the scathing assessment. As if love could defeat him.
"It wasn't. It was something actually useful that Dumbledore never intended me to have."
"A weapon?" Kingsley interrupted, and Harry turned to look at him.
"No. I am the Master of the Deathly Hallows."
An unwelcome thrill swept through him at that pronouncement, the bold confidence, and Voldemort seized and arrested it. He focused back on the Minster's reaction.
Kingsley made a face, grimacing in distasteful disbelief.
"The three overpowered gifts from Death from the old children's story? You can't be serious."
Which had been Voldemort's initial summation as well. Not having grown up with wizarding literature, he had never read the tales that most other magical children had. By the time he had entered his rightful home at Hogwarts, he had been too mature to read a child's book of fables. It had not been until he had begun researching wandlore, after the boy's wand had connected bafflingly with his and refused to fight in the graveyard, that he had stumbled upon the legend.
"I am," the boy said, with captivating authority and conviction. "And it's true. I'll show you."
Voldemort froze.
The boy was about to reveal where he kept the relics, foolishly trusting the Minister for Magic not to try and take them from him.
Unthinkingly, instinctively, Voldemort moved further into the room, stepping quietly closer to the boy.
Harry stood and approached the mantel. Voldemort had lost sight of him at this angle so he moved further in, wanting to protect the boy should he need it. Wanting to see the Hallows again, knowing them now for what they were.
Harry closed his fingers around something small and Voldemort caught a flash of gold and instantly recognized his Horcrux, the Gaunt family ring. A burning fire of avarice and possessiveness ignited within him as he watched the boy carelessly showing it to that imbecile. It was his.
"The Resurrection Stone," Harry said, and Voldemort watched the Minister stand to get a better look.
When the rat reached out an unworthy hand as if to dare touch it, Voldemort almost flew forward to knock his hand back, but he need not have worried. Harry, obviously sensing the Minister's intent, pulled back and kept the ring away.
The worm's reaction was satisfying. Surprise. Disappointment. Embarrassment.
Harry returned the ring to the mantel and then slowly lifted a wand, unremarkable and dark brown. He turned back to show the Minister.
"And this is the Elder Wand. It belonged to Dumbledore and then, through many notable events, it came into my possession."
Voldemort longed to hold it again, it should have been his. After everything he had endured and discovered, it should have bestowed its allegiance upon him. And yet, as always, the boy had beaten him to it.
This time, the Minister did not attempt to uncouthly touch the relic, likely having learned his lesson. He merely stood and regarded it closely.
"And you think it's unbeatable? Have you tried?"
Voldemort stiffened at the mocking tone. Harry shook his head, unconcerned, and placed the wand back onto the mantel.
"Nope. I am its master, but I don't want to use it."
Fool, thought Voldemort, utterly unable to fathom the boy's denial of the power accorded to him. It was an unforgivable weakness to reject such a gift.
"So you used the Elder Wand to kill Tom?" Kingsley asked, stepping back and seating himself again upon Harry's sofa.
Harry remained standing, but took a few steps back and opened his palms to the fire's heat. He shook his head, still looking at the Minister.
"No. I told you, I don't use it. I don't need to. It belongs to me and therefore no matter which wand I use, I have its power."
Voldemort tilted his head, noting the error. Although it was true for most spells, the accounts he had read in Berlin had admitted that for some rituals and rights that were only accessible to the Master of Death, the actual wand in hand was compulsory.
"Did you cast the Killing Curse?" the idiot asked, distracting him from his thoughts.
Voldemort had instructed Harry clearly on how to answer that. The Killing Curse would leave traces that the body they had created would not display.
"No. I just… pushed my power into him. My intent. And… he died."
The boy's voice grew thin and sad, his gaze leaving the Minister's to again get lost in the fire. He was either a good actor or he truly felt some emotion visualizing that scene.
"So you don't know what spell you cast? You just… pushed? That's very advanced magic, Harry. I didn't know you were able to do that."
Of course the boy could, if he tried. He was the Master of Death, after all. The incompetent fool Dumbledore had always limited and shielded the boy from his potential, but the fact remained that any person tasked and able to kill he himself must possess superior abilities.
"Me neither," the boy responded, his glasses reflecting the dancing light of the flames. "But it worked."
The Minister watched the boy, a kind of pity in his eyes, which Voldemort took offence to. After a few moments, the older man stood and Harry looked over at him.
"I should get going," the Minister said, coming over to Harry and daring to clap him on his shoulder.
Voldemort tensed at the action, disliking the familiarity they had. Hating that impertinent touch.
"Okay," Harry replied, a tired smile lighting his lips.
Voldemort was momentarily caught.
"The Healer should be here soon anyway," the moron declared unnecessarily.
Harry nodded and walked him to the door. Before the boy could open it, the wretch placed his inferior hand perilously back upon the boy's shoulder, drawing Harry's attention to him. The boy looked into his eyes and Voldemort clenched his fingers, disapproving of their proximity.
"I'm sorry, Harry. About what happened. I'm sorry you had to kill him." Voldemort watched the boy look away, flinching at the words. "And I… as repayment, then, I will keep your secret. About being… Well. Not quite normal in another shocking way. I never would have pegged you as a…"
The moron trailed off, a smile starting on his face and then falling when he noticed Harry's cold expression.
"I know that you felt something for him," the Minister continued, not knowing when to take a hint. "I don't pretend to understand it, and I'm glad it's over, but I'm still sorry things couldn't have worked out better for you. At least now you can focus on Ginny and get your head straightened out."
The insinuative allusion distracted Voldemort to such an extent that, when he looked back at the interaction a few moments later, the door was shut and Harry was leaning against it, his eyes closed.
Voldemort moved towards him automatically, still taking care to be silent. As he approached, he noted the furrowed brow and troubled expression.
"He hurt you," Voldemort said dangerously, and Harry jumped, his eyes flashing open and his hands coming up to clutch his chest.
"Blimey! Were you there the whole time? Give a guy some warning!"
Voldemort continued to watch him as Harry raised his wand and cast Finite over Voldemort.
"Well?" Harry persisted. "Were you? Listening to us this whole time, that is."
He saw no reason to lie.
"Yes."
"Merlin. Of course you were. I asked you not to."
Voldemort smirked.
"You cannot believe that I take orders."
Harry laughed, sounding amusedly resigned.
"Fine. Whatever." Harry pushed off from the door. "Follow me, I don't know when the Healers will be coming by— or Hermione, gods, or Ginny or Ron…"
Harry leaned back against the door, closing his eyes again.
"Merlin. I am so fucked."
The boy's friends were not welcome. Voldemort would allow the Healers because Harry needed to recover, but this house would not become a train station. The boy needed rest and Voldemort would take up a post teaching Muggle Studies before he allowed the Ginny woman to spend any time here.
Harry sighed and opened his eyes. He caught Voldemort staring and gave him an almost shy smile.
"Come on. You need to eat before the crowd gets here."
The boy began to walk towards the adjacent kitchen.
"There will be no crowd, Potter," Voldemort said, through clenched teeth. "I refuse—"
"Yeah?" Harry asked sarcastically, turning fast to face him with a brazen stare. "Well, you really don't have any say, Voldemort. It's my house. They're my friends. And you owe me your life, so—"
"Is that how this is to be, then?" Voldemort challenged, furiously indignant, refusing to back down. "You intend to throw that in my face, your altruistic, heroic—"
"I didn't mean it like that, of course I don't want you to feel indebted to me for living or any such nonsense—"
"—rescue, but know this, Potter, I will not stand for—"
"Harry!" the boy shrieked, reaching out and fisting his hands in Voldemort's too-small robes.
They both froze at the contact.
Voldemort forgot what he had been saying, forgot everything but the feel of Harry's warmth pressed against him, his breath puffing lightly onto his neck. The boy was so small, so fragile in so many ways, but the strength of his grip and the fire that had been in his eyes when he had grabbed Voldemort had been huge.
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, dropping his gaze and letting go. Backing up. "Christ, that's the last thing you need right now, me manhandling—"
Voldemort strode forward and shoved the boy against the wall outside the kitchen, pressing his body as close to the boy as he could get and leaning down to take that mouth with his own, to shut it up.
Harry melted instantly under his touch, his legs going lax, but Voldemort caught him and manoeuvred them into the kitchen, careful not to break their kiss. Lifting Harry with his hands under that firm backside, Voldemort slammed him down onto the counter, knocking whatever accoutrements were in the way, and took his place between those legs.
"Oh gods," Harry moaned, pulling away and banging his head back against the cupboard.
Voldemort attacked that slender neck, yanking him closer so that the boy was perched precariously on the edge of the countertop and had to wrap his legs around Voldemort to keep from falling.
"You will not be having your friends stay here, Potter," Voldemort growled in his ear, feeling how the boy's fingers clenched tight when Voldemort refused to acquiesce to his preferred name.
He smiled viciously against the boy's throat as he licked and bit at him. Interesting. The boy liked being disobeyed, no matter what he insisted.
"You don't get to decide that," the boy panted, pushing his trouser-clad erection rhythmically against Voldemort's lower stomach.
Voldemort grinned and pulled away to meet the boy's gaze, taking in his sweaty brow, his open mouth, and bitten lips.
"You will find that I do, Potter," Voldemort said lowly, warningly. "You forget to whom you are speaking."
Voldemort grabbed the boy's shirtfront and ripped it open, revealing the quivering, flushed flesh beneath. He had meant to continue taunting the boy, but his mouth demanded to make contact with that near flawless skin. The boy had a pink, oval scar on his breastbone, which Voldemort eagerly tasted, his fingers reaching out to pinch and flick one of the hardened nipples.
"Fuck, yes," Harry groaned. "Oh, I know."
Voldemort looked up, having forgotten the thread of their conversation. The boy's eyes were challenging. Blazing.
"The bloody Dark Lord Voldemort."
A surge of arousal spiked through him to hear his name said like that, with those lips.
"But you forget who you're speaking to. I'm the motherfucking Master of Death. And I'm not afraid of you."
Voldemort stared, eyes narrowed, but his heart beat faster than ever.
"Foolish child," Voldemort muttered, reluctantly awed. "You will be."
Harry laughed and Voldemort sunk his teeth hard into the boy's shoulder, tasting his intoxicating blood. Harry cried out, his hips pumping frantically against him, but Voldemort pushed him mercilessly back.
"If you dare come before I give you my permission, Potter," Voldemort warned softly, lifting his face and pressing their foreheads together so that he could gaze directly into the boy's soul, "I will never touch you again."
A laughably empty threat.
He yanked open the boy's belt and shoved down his trousers. His long fingers stroked the boy through his damp pants and he quickly assessed himself. No voices threatening to intrude, no flashbacks, so he dove back in, stretching the elastic to pull the boy's significant erection free.
Harry moaned loudly and grabbed Voldemort's neck, pulling him closer. His fingers touched Voldemort's collar and he knew the boy felt his magic when Harry threw his head back, slamming it against the cupboard again and began to tremble.
"Yes," Voldemort murmured darkly. "You can feel it."
He looked down at the boy's lap, mesmerized by the deep-red head pushing out from his foreskin. The wet tip gleamed enticingly, but Voldemort denied himself that pleasure this time, knowing his conditioned reflexes could ambush him at any moment. He was determined to prove that he could still function sufficiently.
He collected the boy's pre-ejaculatory fluid and used it to work the hard cock, his thumb pressing against the head each time it neared the top.
"It's too good, Merlin, Voldemort. You're such a prick."
Voldemort grinned and leaned down to capture those impertinent lips, biting hard and revelling in the way the boy went lax against him. Giving everything up, surrendering completely. Harry was shaking against him now, panting hard.
"Careful, Potter. Come before I permit you and I will turn you over and fuck you bloody while you cry out for that bitch blood traitor to whom you so foolishly promised yourself."
There, a threat I can fulfil.
Harry gasped and Voldemort was sure the boy would object to his language, but he merely burrowed his face against Voldemort's neck and shivered. Voldemort pumped that hard cock, supremely grateful that his mind was able to stay focused, his whole world zeroed in on this one moment.
"But I will never let you go," Voldemort whispered into the shell of the boy's ear, tracing the tip of his cock with his thumb as the boy groaned.
"Voldemort—" the boy panted, "I'm going to, I have to, please! Let me—"
The begging was intolerable. Impossible not to react to. He had always enjoyed pleading, but from Harry's lips it was obliterating.
He stroked him relentlessly, the boy's body moving against him, his jaw flexing, but Voldemort ignored his struggle.
"Never. I will never let you go. You can scream yourself bloody, but there is not a soul in this universe that can save you from me."
"I can't— Please, Voldemort, I can't—"
"Master," Voldemort corrected, igniting at the thought. "Call me Master and you may come."
The boy seemed to surface, his gaze focusing a fraction.
"What?"
Voldemort brought his other hand down and worked the boy's testicles, then moved a finger back and circled that tight hole. The boy keened, slamming his eyes closed.
"Say it. And you may come."
"I— I— I can't—"
"Say it."
Voldemort scratched his nail against the puckered entrance and Harry cried out, almost sobbing.
"No, please, Voldemort—"
"Say it, Potter."
"I—"
"Now," and Voldemort thrust his finger inside that maddening, squeezing heat.
He felt his jagged fingernail scrape as it stabbed inside and the boy reacted by dropping his jaw and convulsing.
"Master!" Harry cried, eyes snapping open, wide and panicked, as his fingers scrabbled against Voldemort's chest. "Please."
"Come, Harry."
Voldemort moved his finger in and out roughly twice more while rapidly fisting that twitching cock and then the boy was clenching around him, his hips freezing forward, pressed against Voldemort's stomach as the warm fluid splashed across his skin.
Voldemort watched, collecting every nuance, marvelling at the boy.
Utterly captivated.