Chapter 16
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Harry set the plate of baked beans, veggies, toast, and scrambled tofu down in front of Voldemort. He still couldn't look at the man and had therefore prepared a breakfast far more elaborate than he would have had alone just to postpone the awkward conversation they were inevitably going to have to endure now.
Harry sat down at the table with a sigh and looked across at the man seated there. The Dark Lord sat in Harry's cheap wooden kitchen chair, his cutlery untouched, as he raised a hairless eyebrow at the food on his plate.
"What is this."
Harry winced.
"Hermione. She… well, she's always been very compassionate. She started the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare back when we were in school, I'm sure you've…"
What, heard of it? And how would he have done so while imprisoned and tortured by the Ministry? Merlin, Potter, have some tact.
"Sorry," Harry mumbled. "It's tofu. Hermione convinced us all— Ron, Ginny, and I— to stop eating meat ages ago."
The Dark Lord continued to stare at his plate.
"Try it, it's actually good," Harry urged encouragingly, spearing a piece with his fork from his own plate and eating it.
When Voldemort remained unmoving, a sneer of distaste on his face, Harry snapped.
"It's fucking tofu, Voldemort, you'll bloody live. What, have you become spoiled after eating prison fare for twelve years? My cooking's not good enough for you?"
Voldemort met his gaze, looking startled. Harry stayed frozen, waiting, with tight lips and eyebrows raised as high up on his forehead as they would go, daring the bastard to say another word.
The Dark Lord slowly picked up his fork and ate a piece all the while holding Harry's gaze. He chewed cautiously and Harry found his own attention dropping to those thin lips and prominent jaw lines, remembering how they had felt under his tongue half an hour ago.
When Voldemort scooped up a second forkful of his breakfast, Harry relaxed, laughing slightly to himself. What a fucking mess. No way they were making it out of this alive.
They ate in painful silence, Harry too overwhelmed to glance up and chance meeting the Dark Lord's eyes. He tried to go over what he wanted to say in his head, how to phrase behave yourself or I'll kill you in a way that Voldemort would listen to instead of reacting defensively— or offensively, as was his wont. Giving up, Harry focused on his food and tried to pretend he was alone.
After ten or so minutes, the tension was too much to take.
"So," Harry blurted out ineloquently, setting down his fork and looking up, but he was immediately distracted by Voldemort's mouth closing on the condensated glass of water, his throat working as he swallowed.
That damn band of black metal shifting slightly with the movement.
Harry stared.
He got lost, wanting to run his tongue along that pale skin, wanting—
A whoosh to his right had Harry whipping around to see a letter falling out of his Floo. He stood quickly, grabbing it and ripping it open.
.
Harry,
Are you alright? Why is your Floo blocked for travel and calls? Kingsley said you were at home recovering, but why aren't you at St Mungo's still? Ginny is ready to bust down your door, no matter your feelings on us just showing up that way. You need to open your Floo so your friends can talk to you properly.
Does this have anything to do with the person we spoke about a few days ago?
Open your Floo, Harry.
-Hermione.
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Harry crushed the letter in his fist.
"Give it to me," Voldemort ordered from over his shoulder, and Harry jumped.
"Merlin! Why don't you make any noise when you move?" Harry asked, irritated and embarrassed for being caught unaware.
Voldemort ignored him and held out his hand. Harry sighed and passed him the letter.
Harry walked over to the sofa and sat down.
"You're going to have to just accept it," he said, not turning to look at Voldemort who hadn't moved from where they had been standing by the fireplace. "They're my friends. They're just worried about me."
"They will endanger what we are doing," Voldemort said impatiently, turning to face him and crushing the letter in his fist. "If you tell them—"
"Do you honestly think me so stupid? I'll have to let them know that you're dead— or just Hermione, because she's the only one who knew about you. But I'm obviously not going to tell anyone you're alive and living at my flat. Sharing meals with me and fucking me in the kitchen."
Voldemort flinched and looked away, his gaze falling to the fire and then Harry watched it slowly lift until he was studying something on the mantel.
"No."
Voldemort turned, an incredulous expression on his face.
"Excuse me?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, undaunted.
"I said, no. Get your eyes off the Hallows. I'll be moving them today and if I so much as see you shifting a towel to look for them—"
"They should be mine."
Harry laughed.
"You dropped the ball, Voldemort. You lost your chance. Plus, you're immortal anyway, what do you care?"
"Yes, why should I care. The Deathstick, an unbeatable wand, would not entice me at all."
Harry snorted and then shot a pitying, deprecating look at the Dark Lord.
"Your own magic not enough, Voldemort? You need Death's help to win a fight?"
Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously and he took a step towards him.
"You dare—"
"Oh, calm down, I was only kidding. We all know you're a ridiculously powerful, god-like genius that no one else could ever possibly rival."
Harry grinned and waited until the Dark Lord lowered his shoulders and relaxed his feral grimace, but his dark glare remained.
Harry leaned back, exhaling a long breath, searching for patience. Reminding himself that this man had spent over a decade unsocialized and abused. Speaking of which…
"Come here," Harry said, gesturing to the other side of his sofa. "Let me heal you properly now. I'm sure you're still suffering from what they did. I'm sorry I didn't clue into that sooner."
The other man stood motionless in his too-small robes, exposing his bare ankles and delicate wrists. He looked so diminished like this. So… vulnerable. Harry's chest tightened and he cursed himself for his abrasiveness this morning with the man.
And that hand job. That couldn't have been good for a recent violent sexual assault victim… Because that's what Voldemort was, as staggering as that fact seemed.
"I am not your dog, Potter."
Harry groaned, instantly forgetting his resolution to treat the man gently.
"Merlin, does everything have to be a fight with you? I'm sorry I phrased that offensively," Harry said, trying to keep as much sarcasm out of that statement as he could, but it came out just as abrasive as he felt.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes and thumping his head back against the sofa cushions.
"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, his sincerity coming through that time. "Please. Will you join me on the sofa?" Harry opened his eyes and regarded the aloof and cold Dark Lord who still had not moved. "I would like to heal you, if you'll let me. To make you feel more comfortable."
"And your friends?"
Harry clenched his fists.
"I don't have a choice. They're going to want to check on me. That's what friends do, as you would know, if you—"
Had any.
Nice. Real warm.
"You belong to me, Potter."
Harry's eyes snapped up in shock to stare at Voldemort. Merlin, the man was jealous! Harry marvelled once more at the uncommon honesty in Voldemort when it came to declaring what he wanted. He didn't hesitate or pretend, he just stated facts with confidence. Where was his self-doubt? The crippling anxiety and sense of being unworthy that Harry felt whenever he asked for something? Voldemort was so self-assured of his personal value that there was no ceiling on what he believed he deserved.
"They're just my friends," Harry assured him softly.
"And your fiancée."
Harry paused, still reeling.
"Yes. But— Is that why you're angry at me? Why you don't want them to visit? Do you think I'm going to take Ginny into my bedroom and—"
"I will kill her."
Harry stopped dead. His heart hammering, he stood slowly and faced the Dark Lord.
"You won't touch her."
Voldemort's red eyes narrowed and blazed, accepting the challenge.
"You forget who I am."
"Do you want to die? Because if you so much as give any of my friends, or my— Ginny. If you give them even a bloody nose I will kill you. You know I can."
"You have chosen her, then."
Harry crossed his arms, wanting to scream.
"It's not about choosing. It's about what I expect from you if you want me not to kill you. We still haven't had that conversation and I guess now is as good a time as any."
Voldemort pursed his lips, but did not argue.
"Assuming I don't strangle you to death out of frustration," Harry said, shooting a warning glare at Voldemort, "you can stay here. For as long as you want to. I haven't really given it a ton of thought because I will have to go to work eventually, but my recovery will give me some time to figure out how I can balance… keeping an eye on you and doing my job."
"I do not require a babysitter."
"Says the man who just threatened to kill my fiancée because she is worried about me," Harry shot back.
The Dark Lord clenched his teeth.
"I said I would kill her when you intimated that you wanted to have carnal relations with the blood traitor."
"Perfect. That's a great segue, thank you. The second rule, then. You won't use that term anymore. Or Mudblood. I can't stop you from thinking like a pure-blood elitist asshole, but you won't disparage my friends like that to me." Harry couldn't keep in a sudden laugh. "And why do you even care? I never understood that. You're a half-blood!"
Voldemort sneered, and turned away.
"I am finished with this conversation."
Harry pursued him.
"Why? Can't take the truth?" Voldemort was retreating into the dining room, Harry close behind. "Your own father was a Muggle and yet you spout pure-blood bullshit to—"
"I do not care about blood purity, Harry!" Voldemort shouted, spinning to face him, his right hand twitching at his side as if itching for a wand.
"That's a lie, your Death Eaters—"
"Yes," Voldemort said with exaggerated patience that seemed to cause him pain. "My Death Eaters have strong opinions on the matter. Many of my earliest followers were older students in Slytherin House that initially scorned me for my Blood Status."
"So… you used their own prejudice? But why? It insulted you."
Voldemort eyed him, seeming to debate internally whether or not to have this conversation. The other man looked behind himself and moved to sit in one of the dining room chairs, the one Harry had occupied at breakfast. The action struck Harry as oddly domestic.
Voldemort placed his hands upon the table and spoke to them.
"I sought power. Those old families cherished their bloodlines and they, like I, did not care as much about the individual in a merger as long as it advanced the cause. I wanted their power and influence, their service to me. They wanted a wider audience for their ideology and an opportunity for vengeance under a formidable leader."
Harry was still confused.
"But before the second war," he interrupted, "I had a vision of you through the… Horcrux in me," It still hurt to think of that aching loss. "And you were telling Bellatrix to 'prune her family tree of the parts that threaten the health of the rest'. You meant her sister who married a Muggle. And her daughter Tonks who married Remus, a werewolf. You also said, to 'cut away the canker that infects us until only those of the true blood remain'," Harry recited.
"Quite the memory you have, Potter," Voldemort said, tilting his head and regarding Harry. "It seems that Severus was wrong about your academic competency." He smirked darkly and his voice lowered. "Or perhaps that crush you confessed to me that you had harboured for Tom Riddle extended to include—"
"Don't be disgusting," Harry interrupted. "I never felt that way about you, not until recently. When you became more… human."
Voldemort continued to scrutinize him, his eyes flashing, perhaps for suggesting that Voldemort was different now, which the other man hated. Harry pushed that thought aside, trying to bring them back on track.
"You were explaining why you said those things to Bellatrix about blood purity."
"Yes," sighed Voldemort, shifting on his chair and inspecting the cuff of the too-small robes he wore. "I admit that I was not against the idea, scorning Muggles as I did and continue to do. But Magical blood, I have never wanted to waste."
He looked up and suddenly Harry realized that he'd been staring at the man's collar again.
"You will recall," Voldemort continued, "that I had offered the students at Hogwarts immunity if they surrendered you to me. I even extended my mercy to the teachers, regardless of their previous support of Dumbledore."
"Mercy," Harry echoed, scornfully, hating how noble and reasonable Voldemort was trying to make his reign of madness sound.
"It is true," Voldemort said, his eyes suddenly seizing him. "I even offered that mercy to your mother, Harry."
Harry froze.
"We cannot talk about—"
"She was a Mud—"
Voldemort paused, looking at Harry for a moment, his expression unreadable. Harry's hand had twitched down to his pocket where his wand rested, ready to respond.
"A Muggle-born," Voldemort finished. "And I approached her not once, but three times to persuade her to my cause. I also tried to get her to step aside three times when I attempted to kill you."
"You only did that because Snape begged you to spare her!" Harry shouted, hating Voldemort's calm, high voice.
"Yes, Harry. I listened to a half-blooded follower, one I took a particular interest in and taught personally on several occasions. Severus… " Voldemort drummed a finger slowly on the table. "I saw a lot of myself in Severus. I can admit that. I brought him closer than any of my other followers, perhaps even closer than Bella."
Harry ignored the sharp twinge of jealously and instead laughed, incredulous.
"So, what? You're a paragon of tolerance, are you? A misunderstood advocate for the oppressed?"
Voldemort watched him, perhaps with disappointment, then shook his head.
"You know who I am, Harry. I do not say this to defend or redeem myself." Voldemort curled his lip in revulsion at the very word. "You asked why I hypocritically supported pure-blood dogma. My answer is that I do not, but rather was willing to carry their banner to receive their support at a time when I wanted to amass an army. Once I displayed my incomparable power and skill, however, I no longer needed to recruit based on blood purity alone. I was the obvious choice."
Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. What a narcissistic tosser. Voldemort paused, once again seeming to consider if he should continue.
"I suspect you have met what is left of the Knights."
Harry inhaled sharply.
"The Knights of Walpurgis?" he asked, and Voldemort nodded. "That's what Bellatrix was calling her people. They were yours?"
"Yes, but they have been around for centuries. They are a group of pure-blood fanatics that would make Bella seem tolerant. The Knights have always existed and they tend to follow any exceptional wizard who promotes their ideology. They followed the great Salazar Slytherin, Grindelwald, and of course, myself."
Harry wanted to scoff at the blatant arrogance.
"So they are separate. They follow powerful people and then just wait around for the next person to latch onto?"
Voldemort hummed.
"Old pure-blood families grow up being taught about the Knights. They are like a vigilante group that the Ministry is aware of, but they do not cause enough trouble to take down, nor are they easy to find."
"But the Knights are killing Muggles all over England now," Harry countered.
Voldemort inclined his head.
"Bella is their leader. Of course they are violent and reckless. It is—"
But Harry spun around when he heard knocking on his door. He froze, his eyes searching out Voldemort who had stood at the sound and seemed to have grown impossibly large in his tiny flat.
Harry moved to the Dark Lord and put his hands on the man, ushering him back into his bedroom.
"If it is your fiancée—"
"It's not. She knows better than to come to my door. I'm sure it's the Healer."
When they crossed the threshold, Voldemort turned to face him, his mouth set in a firm line and Harry— unthinkingly, insanely— reached up and pressed his lips hard against the taller man's, having to stand up on his tiptoes to do so.
The Dark Lord inhaled sharply against him, stilling for a moment and then those beautiful, long fingers grabbed him, one hand wrapping around his waist, pulling his body against him and the other diving into his hair and making a punishing fist.
Harry moaned and felt his back hit the wall, Voldemort stepping with him, holding Harry upright with his weight pressed against him. He let the Dark Lord control the kiss, feeling that tongue dart inside and those teeth bite at his tender lips.
Distantly, Harry heard the knock on his door once again. Voldemort pulled away and Harry reluctantly let him.
They stared at each other, both out of breath, Harry's raging erection uncomfortable in his trousers.
"Go," Voldemort commanded, finally letting Harry free of his grasping hands.
He stepped back and Harry had to lock his knees to stop himself from sliding down the wall.
"You must play your part convincingly."
Harry nodded, closing his eyes and wiping his palm over his mouth. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to flatten it, but doubted it made any difference.
"How do I look?" Harry asked, knowing he probably looked a right mess.
Voldemort did not answer, but if his flushed face and burning gaze was any indication, Harry was doomed.
.
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That afternoon, once the Healer had been satisfied, they played a game, of all things. They were seated on opposite sides of the sofa, a cup of tea each steaming on the table before them.
The sheer decadence of being able to drink tea again was still surreal. Of being warm, unhurt, and sitting on comfortable furniture. Clothed. Nutritionally sated.
Being called Voldemort.
It was Harry's turn.
"What was the worst thing that'd been done to you at the Ministry?"
Voldemort immediately tried to blank his face. This was round five, after all. They had covered a fair bit of ground, yet even still, this question stung. Trust the boy to ask such a thing.
The memories were like grindylows, their slimy fingers trying to pull him under. Images of his exhausted desperation as he was reduced to inserting small chunks of food into his nostrils when they had sewed his mouth closed with string for months, obliging him to became reluctantly grateful for the unnatural irritation of solids scraping down his sinuses. Flashes of being weighted down in a tub of water and forced to hysterically flail in panic as he inhaled liquid that seared his lungs and sent him in to paroxysms of terror as he drowned and was mercilessly brought back for hours. Phantom pains began in his chest as he remembered how they had cut him open every day to remove an organ— or a few— for a Muggle hospital, waiting for him to regrow it so that they could begin the process anew the following day. Memories of being fed potions that would never have touched him if he had had access to his magic, making him erect, making him burn with desire that was not his, and yet denied the painful orgasm that loomed.
He remembered crying and bleeding and begging. Being vulnerable, terrified, lonely, defeated— and he was Lord Voldemort; that they dared to even touch him, to speak to him was sheer impertinence, audacity, asininity—
A warm hand gently touched his own and Voldemort startled, gaze locking onto those calm, verdant eyes.
He was shaking, his fingers twitching spasmodically, but the intense smell of urine and blood had dissipated.
"You don't have to tell me. I'm sorry, that was insensitive, I can pick another question."
Voldemort considered this, looking away to master his lingering panic. If he declined the request, then the boy would assume the rules had changed and Voldemort had too many queries he wanted answered to renege so soon. In any case, he was under no obligation to be entirely truthful. He intended to protect his moments of necessity.
"Worst. It is not an easy quality to pinpoint on the spectrum. Are you looking for a specific memory or to know which act I despised most?"
The boy scratched his unshaven face, the rough sound pleasing in a bewildering, masculine way.
"Do you think you could give me a memory? Unless you think it will trigger you."
The boy looked worried and Voldemort sneered, hating that word. As if I could be. The very fact that it was possible was intolerable.
Voldemort nodded. A memory. It sounded so simple. He could not be triggered, but his experiences certainly had their own kind of power within him. He needed a recollection that was not unbearably humiliating, which unfortunately, were few.
"Perhaps this is not as visually appealing as you had hoped, but one of the worst things about this collar," Harry's eyes dropped immediately to look at it, "was that I could not Occlude. I had other methods of concealing my thoughts, but when they brought in a skilled Legilimens…"
Voldemort trailed off, not able to finish the sentence, to admit to having had his secrets pilfered.
"Yeah, that must have been awful, especially because you're so skilled at Occlumency. Did they use what they found out against you?"
Voldemort stretched his arms out along his legs slowly, his eyes following the movement.
"Yes. On several occasions they had found a… perceived weakness and taunted me with it."
Or worse, but he would remain silent about those.
Voldemort refocused his eyes eagerly on the boy.
"Now, answer me something I have long wondered. You have touched on your relatives, these Dursleys."
He watched Harry's eyes narrow and his posture stiffen. Voldemort savoured the reaction for a moment, pleased, as always, to have the power to affect this boy.
"You have vaguely alluded to abuses they had inflicted upon you. This matches the information I already had. Am I right to assume these Muggles starved, physically assaulted, verbally abused—"
"Yeah, fine," Harry said, grabbing his tea and cradling it against his chest. He looked away. "You make it sound so dramatic, though. It wasn't actually that bad." He looked up and pierced him with a hard stare. "You know, you've done much worse."
Voldemort inclined his head in agreement.
"That is true and highlights my point. They, and I, have aggrieved you, myself most exhaustively. And yet, you do not seek to pursue vengeance against them. They live, happily, safely, untouched and unrepentant for the crimes they committed against you."
"So, why don't I kill them?" Harry asked, a sardonic look on his face. "Is that your question?"
"Almost. Why do you not seek recompense for what they have done?"
"You think I should torture them?"
"Certainly that is an option. But you do not even confront them to reprimand them. You let them live in ignorance of the damage they have done."
Voldemort thought momentarily of when he had killed the fools who had bullied and abused him at the orphanage. What he had done to Billy and Gretchen and that vile priest. And afterwards, the fire that had been deeply cathartic to watch.
"They haven't done damage. I'm fine." Harry sounded sullen, irritated. "And I don't want vengeance or blood. I'll just be happy to never see them again."
Voldemort inclined his head.
"But that fear of a chance encounter is them having power over you. There is a place in the world, however small, that you would avoid because it would make you uncomfortable. What they have done, the evil they have committed, affects you, who are nothing but the victim."
"I'm not a victim, okay? Jeez, you're angrier about them than I am." Harry pulled his legs up to curl underneath him, still holding his tea to his chest. "And it's just too absurd hearing you complain about how badly the Dursleys treated me when you've done a hundred times worse."
"This is my point, Harry. It all comes back to the same. You had your enemy at your mercy, I was more powerless than you could ever have hoped to find me and, instead of joining in with the punishments as was your right, you… defended me. Fought for me. Protected me. Gave me my freedom."
Voldemort stopped there, his words failing him. He did not know what else to say, the shock of that statement was overwhelming. Incomprehensible.
"It wasn't what I wanted," he heard Harry whisper, sounding broken and lost. "I have seen you tortured and it doesn't help. If I've learned anything from that whole mess, it's that… seeing your enemies abused is not as satisfying as it sounds. Quite the opposite. Seeing you…" Voldemort looked away, "…hurt. It hurts me too. Any satisfaction I thought I'd feel was like dust. It was worthless."
Voldemort slowly lifted his gaze and met Harry's.
"I need you," the boy whispered, looking as lost and scared as Voldemort felt.
Something shifted inside of him and it burned.
He stood.
"I tire of this game," he said, and strode away.
His legs had carried him into the boy's bedroom and he took in the un-made bed where he had slept last night. Next to Harry Potter. Sharing a blanket.
Dangerous.
He began to plan his exit.
.
.
The silence hung heavy between them. Voldemort stood motionless, head bowed and fingers laced in front of himself while the boy frantically paced.
Harry paused to look at his wrist and Voldemort stopped himself from demanding again why the boy insisted on wearing a watch when he could just cast Tempus like a respectable wizard, but he did not want to be yelled at anew.
"Fifteen minutes," the boy said, which could easily have been divined without the pronouncement as Harry had read the time out loud only three minutes ago.
The Healer had been by once more and had left two hours prior. He was pleasantly full from dinner and the novel sensation was still worthy of note. They had shared another strange meat-free meal, which had been surprisingly palatable, but he would rather choke than admit that to the smug boy who had watched him indecently drag his fork along his plate to collect the last of the sauce.
Harry made a drawn out growling noise in the back of his throat as he continued to pace restlessly.
"Sit, Harry," Voldemort wearily insisted again, but the boy once more ignored him.
"I can't believe I invited them here," Harry bemoaned to himself, because surely the boy was not looking for commiseration from him. "With you. My god, what was I thinking?"
"I have already assured you that, unless you behave inappropriately, are assaulted, or divulge information that would threaten me, I will remain hidden."
Harry stopped when he was standing directly in front of Voldemort.
"And you won't interfere," the boy added in a stern, yet hopeful tone. "Right? You said—"
"Yes, Potter," Voldemort sighed.
"You won't kill them?" Harry demanded, looking up into his face, eyes dancing between both of Voldemort's. "You haven't met Ron yet, he can be a bit… unrefined. And Hermione, she's bound to ask about you. And Ginny, Jesus, she will… She's my fiancée, she's going to hug me, she may even kiss—"
"We discussed this. If she comports herself in a whorish fashion—"
Harry stepped right up to him, his face getting as close as his diminutive stature could achieve and grabbed him by the front of his robes. Voldemort did not move to defend himself. He was aware that part of his desire to rile the boy was to have him react in this manner, touching him roughly, impudently, so that he could feel how insignificant the boy's anger was compared to his own power. The boy was no threat and Voldemort enjoyed his passion.
The other part, of course, was that the antagonism was a long-standing tradition between them.
"Do not call her a whore!" Harry spat, eyes wild.
Voldemort allowed himself a few moments to take in Harry's trembling hands, the heat coming off of his body so close to Voldemort's, and the way those fingers began to creep ever so slowly towards his collar.
The boy was an addict.
"Remove yourself from me at once," Voldemort said calmly, but with a hint of warning.
"Say you won't kill her," the boy shot back, stubbornly. "And apologize for calling her a whore."
Voldemort would have snorted at the audacity of the boy, but managed to refrain. He disregarded the absurd requests.
Placing his hands firmly over Harry's that were still clutching his robes, Voldemort squeezed as tightly as he could. He hardened his expression, tilting his head down slightly to bare down upon the boy.
"As we discussed, I will not kill her so long, Potter, as when or if she touches you, that you rebuff her affections immediately. This is not something to test me on. The failsafe in my collar is only effective against three more men, all of whom are absent right now, thus I am able to retaliate. I will kill her, even without my magic, if I feel she goes too far and you are unwilling to deny her."
"If you kill her, I will kill you."
"You may try."
Harry scoffed.
"You know I can. And I will."
"If you do not want me to interfere, do the work yourself and keep her hands off of you."
Harry scowled and looked about to argue, but at that moment, his Floo sounded and they both froze.
"Harry? Can we come through?"
The Mudblood's voice. Harry took out his wand with one hand and cast a quick Disillusionment Charm on him. Then he paused, giving the space where Voldemort was invisible a terrified, imploring look.
"Go," Voldemort whispered.
Harry disengaged from him and fled to the sitting room without a backwards glance.
Voldemort released a breath, letting out the tension that always built whenever Harry was around. He must work on resisting the effect the boy had on him.
He crept silently into the sitting room and watched as Harry welcomed into his home three people whose lives Voldemort had not yet decided if he would take. It was Harry who would determine their fate.
Although he was confident in the boy's attachment to him, Voldemort was not accustomed to competition for the things he wanted. And, loathe as he was to admit it, he wanted the boy.
All to himself.