Chapter 17
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Harry picked up his teacup, fingers trembling enough to make the porcelain clink against the saucer, and immediately let it go. Hermione was watching him closely, had been doing so since he'd let them in ten minutes ago. He knew she could read him well and he forced himself to work harder at nonchalance. The trembling he could pass off as his weak health, but he had to try harder to meet her gaze and actually listen to what they were saying.
It would not help to be worrying about the man who was currently hiding in his bedroom— or fuck, knowing Voldemort, he was more likely to be standing right behind his chair. Harry froze and concentrated on whether he could detect any movement in his blind spots. He hated blind spots.
"Shove over," Ginny said suddenly, with a kind smile and Harry almost jumped.
His heart was thundering against his chest.
Jesus, he was a goddamn Auror. Since when was he this useless?
Since I invited the bloody Dark Lord to live with me and then had my Muggle-born friend, her blood traitor husband, and my fiancée over for tea.
"No room here, Gin, sorry," Harry said, returning her smile and absolutely refusing to give Voldemort a reason to kill her.
Harry was sitting in an armchair, which was only built for one and he was not about to let Ginny sit on his lap or even touch him if he could help it.
Ginny frowned and gave him a questioning look, but eventually she retreated to sit on the sofa with her brother and Hermione. Again, that seemed to garner him another searching look from Hermione, but Harry ignored it. He was pulsing with adrenaline, knowing how tenuous a grasp he had on their lives right now. What danger he had placed them in.
Voldemort was likely in this room, silent and invisible. Watching. Waiting for an opportunity to kill his friends and justify it by citing Harry's slow reflexes.
"How're you feeling, mate?" Ron asked, leaning back and holding his bottle of beer against his leg.
"You're looking much better," Hermione said, her eyes slightly narrowed.
"Yeah," Harry answered, trying for a weary but resolute smile. "I'm feeling better. Not perfect, but being home has seemed to make all the difference."
"You're being an idiot, not letting me stay with you while you're recovering, Harry," Ginny said, sounding both hurt and accusatory. "You're really too stubborn for your own good. I can even stay only during the day and then leave you while you sleep, if you want."
Harry was trying not to think about what Voldemort thought of that proposition.
"That's really nice, thank you for the offer," Harry said. "It means a lot. But, it's unnecessary. I'm okay."
"You're not. I was at the hospital, remember? You got hit with the Killing Curse days ago. You need help."
"No. I'm fine, really. I don't want your help."
He couldn't be any clearer without hurting her feelings, but if she didn't stop arguing, Voldemort was sure to step in.
"Don't be stupid, I don't mind—"
"Leave it, Ginny," Ron cut in, looking uncomfortable, but firm. "He said no."
Ginny stared at Ron, shocked, but after a few seconds, she sat back and cradled her teacup against her stomach, sullenly.
They were silent for a few moments and Harry tried again to listen for any sounds of breathing or movement behind him.
"Luna asked me to say hello to you," Ron said, giving Harry a small smirk. "She was quite upset when you were hurt. Wanted me to warn you about Wrackspurts drifting into your ear and making you mental or some rubbish."
Harry laughed.
"Aren't you… you know. Worried about her teaching Rose and Hugo about that nonsense?"
"Nah," said Ron, "she's pretty great with them. And if they're daft enough to believe her, that's on them. Then again, with an uncle like George, they never had a chance."
Harry chuckled, but his thoughts got clouded by seeing Fred's arm separated from his body, under all that rubble. The laugh died on his lips.
"What do you think about Kingsley's announcement this morning?" Ginny asked, and Harry looked up, distracted.
"We agreed not to talk about that," Hermione said, sounding upset.
"What's the big deal?" Ginny said. "It's been twelve years, I think he's over it."
"What announcement?" Harry asked, but Hermione talked over him.
"Well, he's still recovering, give his heart time to heal before you—"
"It's not going to bother him," Ginny argued. "It's old news."
"What announcement?" Harry asked again, louder.
"Kingsley will finally be displaying Voldemort's body," Ron said, before Ginny could answer.
Harry was not ready for that.
He turned to stare at Hermione, silently begging her to explain and she held his intent gaze, an agonized apology in her brown eyes.
"So you didn't hear?" Ron asked, oblivious, and Harry turned to him.
He shook his head.
"It was in the paper this morning, but Kingsley told Hermione personally," Ginny said, refilling her teacup with the pot, not meeting Harry's eyes. "He plans on having an event in a few months with press and special guests." She paused. "I think he'll probably want you to speak."
Harry was stunned. It had been only twenty-four hours since Voldemort had 'died' and already the Minister was planning a formal celebration?
Harry understood, he really did. After the war and Voldemort's supposed execution, there had been much outcry from the wizarding world to see evidence of his death. Harry had foolishly bought the story that the body had been destroyed, but the fact remained that the public would get comfort and reassurance from seeing proof of Voldemort's demise.
How did the very dangerous Dark Lord who was right now stalking somewhere in this room think of this news?
"Why now?" Harry asked, trying to act confused.
Ron shrugged.
"He said they had to make sure he was good and dead first. Apparently that takes twelve years."
Harry picked up his teacup again, trying to find something to do with his hands. It was a lot to take in, but at least it meant that Kingsley had believed Voldemort was dead. Their ruse had worked.
A small, warm hand was placed on his forearm and Harry looked up to see Ginny sitting on the armrest of his chair.
"Are you okay?" she asked, and reached out to smooth back the hair on his forehead. "I'm sorry if that upset you."
Her fingers gently touched his scar and Harry was suddenly reminded of what a bad idea that was.
"I'm fine," he said, removing her hand from his face, but she just flipped their grasp and weaved her fingers with his.
She leaned forward to rest her head against his, but Harry jolted back.
"Gin!" he said, startled, and shook his hand free.
He stood and grabbed the teapot.
"I'm going to fill this up, be right back."
Harry hurried into the kitchen and collapsed with his back against the countertop, chest heaving, eyes closed.
That had been close, too close—
"She is trying my patience, Potter," a high, quiet voice growled in his ear, and Harry almost shrieked.
He opened his eyes and saw nothing, but then hands grasped his wrists and pinned him to the marble. A solid body pressed against him, crushing his erection which had sprung up when that menacing voice had spoken.
"Don't—" Harry breathed, but he was unsure if he was asking Voldemort not to hurt Ginny, or to protest the man's current actions.
"Do not make me, then," Voldemort countered, and Harry's lips were abruptly seized.
Harry moaned, the tension in his body instantly thawed and he sagged against the taller, stronger form. His hands were released and all sense of awareness vanished as he clutched at Voldemort and let himself be claimed.
Harry vaguely heard a sound somewhere close by and then the body vanished, leaving Harry panting and confused when Hermione rounded the corner and froze at the sight of him.
He cursed the Dark Lord as he quickly straightened up, smoothing his shirt which had been rucked up to expose his stomach, and turned his back on his friend. Jesus, the fucking tent in his trousers did not seem to understand that Voldemort was no longer within reach.
"What happened," Hermione said, without an inflection.
She wasn't an idiot, which was unfortunate.
"I'm trying to distance myself from Ginny," Harry lied, clumsily. "I just needed a moment. Alone, Hermione."
Harry turned, raising his eyebrow at her, as if it had been her that had acted inappropriately.
She gave him a distasteful, pitying look.
"That's a bit crass considering we were in the other room. What has been up with you today?" She pursed her lips when he didn't respond. "Never mind. I need to talk to you," she said, coming into the kitchen fully, opening one of his cupboards, and grabbing a fresh teabag. She paused to shoot him a look. "If you think you can control yourself."
She reached for the kettle and touched it. Harry looked away when she rolled her eyes at the metal being cold still and she filled it up with fresh water and turned it on. The Muggle way, which bought them a few minutes. Harry listened for a moment and heard the distant sounds of Ron and Ginny talking coming from his sitting room.
"Are you okay?" Hermione asked, and placed a hand on his shoulder, a sympathetic expression on her face. "I am so sorry you found out this way. I could kill Ginny, but I think she was just angry at you for rebuffing her so bluntly, Harry."
She looked up at him questioningly then shook her head.
"I have so much to say and we don't really have time. Can I come by tomorrow morning, before work? It will be early, maybe eight?"
Harry was nodding before he really knew what he was doing. Hermione pulled him into a hug and buried her face against Harry's neck.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, but Harry hardly heard her for at that moment, a long-fingered hand curled around his upper arm.
Harry pulled away from Hermione and she looked dismayed.
"Why are you so skittish today?" she asked, her eyes narrowed.
"What? I'm not."
That hand had not left his arm and Harry desperately hoped Hermione didn't look down and see the imprint of invisible fingers clutching him tight.
"I'll…" he gestured towards the kettle, "be right out. Two minutes."
She raised her eyebrows.
"You can't be serious."
"Just— give me two minutes, Hermione. To get myself together again. I'll be right out."
She obviously thought he was a perverted deviant, but he didn't care. She sighed, rolling her eyes, but then nodded and left.
Harry released a huge breath, falling back against the counter again.
"You're impossible," he said through clenched teeth. "Seriously. You need to calm the fuck down. She's just a friend."
"Who is touching what is mine."
Harry almost choked.
"Merlin— normal people touch other normal people!" he said, trying to confine his anger to a whisper. "That doesn't mean they want to fuck!"
"You will not be—"
"I can't deal with this right now," Harry muttered, pushing away from Voldemort and grabbing the boiled kettle to pour into the teapot.
That done, he prepared to exit the kitchen, but a fist in his hair yanked him back and against an unforgiving chest.
"Fuck!" he cried out as some of the scalding water spilled out and burned his arm.
Hermione and Ginny came rushing into the kitchen and Hermione immediately healed his skin.
"What happened?" Ginny asked.
Harry tried to come up with something quick.
"I just… grabbed it too fast. It spilled."
Hermione snorted.
The fist in his hair remained, his back pressed against that firm body. Harry stayed put, allowing Ginny to take the teapot from him.
"Maybe you should be back in bed, mate," Ron said, eyeing him with concern. "You don't look well."
Harry wanted to nod reassuringly, but knew the pain from Voldemort's tight grasp would likely complicate matters. He wasn't sure if he would flinch or moan with the movement.
"Yeah, maybe I should just head back to bed," Harry agreed.
At these words, Voldemort released him and Harry wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
"Okay, Harry, whatever," said Ginny, bringing the teapot to the counter and slamming it down, some more water spilling out.
She pushed past him and exited the kitchen through the other side— the side Voldemort was on.
"Ginny!"
Harry quickly followed her, keeping a close eye on her body and watching for signs of interference. When she reached the sitting room again, she turned to face him.
"What."
Harry looked at her, his gaze taking in her bloodshot eyes, her lips firm and tight, and her scornful expression.
"I'm really sorry, Gin," he whispered, hating himself. She didn't deserve this. "I know I'm hurting you and I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, sure you are."
"I am," Harry said, taking step closer, needing her understand. "You're one of my best friends and you've helped me so much over the years. Thank you for caring."
Ginny paused, eyeing him for a few moments.
"Can I stay the night?" she asked, her expression opening up hopefully.
Crap. Backtrack, you heaped on too much. Harry shook his head.
"No. Not anymore. Actually, I think it would be better if we…"
He faltered.
Ginny took in a tight little breath.
"If we what, Potter?"
Harry panicked. What was he about to do? Throw away thirteen years with her— like this? Now?
"No, sorry, ignore me."
"You're breaking up with me," she said, louder, her voice gaining some momentum. "Is that it? After everything we've been through, you're—"
"Harry?" Hermione said, coming to stand beside Ginny, putting a hand on her arm. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," Harry denied, and then Ron was in the room, glaring at Harry and it was all too much.
"I can't believe you," Ginny was saying, angry tears falling from her eyes now. "Why do you keep breaking up with me? Why won't you just fucking—"
"Ginny, I think we should just let Harry rest for now," Hermione said, shooting Harry a reproachful look. "Come on, we'll send Ron home to relieve Luna and then you and I can go out for a drink."
But Ginny was walking closer to Harry, a determined fire in her eyes.
"I know you love me, Harry. I love you. Stop trying to lock me out when things get tough—"
"Don't bother," Ron said, resentfully, not meeting Harry's eyes. "Gin, let's go."
"Harry," Ginny whispered— and then she was there, pulling him towards her, kissing his face and telling him how he was stupid, but she would forgive him, she would always forgive him because she loved him, her Harry, her husband, her life— hers.
And then she screamed.
Harry saw a flash of red and then somehow managed to catch her before she fell, her body going slack.
.
.
When the door shut behind the Healer, Harry allowed himself a count of twenty to breathe. He was furious and murderous and heartbroken.
But what had he expected? You didn't invite a dragon into your home and then object when it set the place on fire. It was Harry's fault. He had been deranged to believe Voldemort could respect his wishes.
The sharp flare of disappointment consumed him. He had really wanted to trust Voldemort. And now he had learned his lesson.
"She will live."
Voldemort's voice was close, but remorseless. Again, what had he expected?
Harry turned and pointed his wand at the space where the voice had come from, the harmless counter spell to the Disillusionment Charm shooting out— but nothing happened.
"Scared, Voldemort?" Harry taunted.
"Hardly," the voice said, now coming from another part of the room. "However, it seemed wise to avoid your temper tantrum."
Harry scoffed coldly.
"Coward. It was just the counter-charm."
Silence, and then that quiet, threatening voice spoke, much closer.
"You will not call me that again."
Harry spun and again shot the counter-charm at the space where the voice had been, but Voldemort still remained invisible.
"Stop hiding."
And then he realized the full impact of something he had only been half-acknowledging.
"You've got your magic back."
No response, and Harry listened hard for any sound.
"Yes."
The voice was right in front of him. Harry stopped breathing.
"All?"
Another agonizing pause.
"Not yet. But it will not be long."
Harry closed his eyes and released his breath. He was strangely unafraid to be facing Lord Voldemort with access to his powers again. More than anything, he longed to reach out, pathetically, weakly, and feel it for himself.
"Stay," he breathed, the word hardly carrying past his lips.
He opened his eyes. The empty room pained him, showing him how hollow his life was about to become. He closed them again.
"Please. Don't leave me."
Harry's legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor, his knuckles knocking against the wood. He bowed his head, breathing fast, knowing Voldemort was about to vanish and he was ashamed that it was purely selfish reasons that thrashed against that fact.
"I broke your terms," the voice spoke from behind him, to his left side. "I am not foolish enough to remain for you to collect payment."
Harry twisted, trying to find that body.
"Let me see you," he whispered.
Harry searched the room, waiting, hoping, but Voldemort did not appear.
"Drop your wand."
The voice was on his other side now. Still close.
Harry considered that. Voldemort could have just disarmed him if he had nefarious intent. With his power back, Harry could pretty much assume if he was unhurt, that was simply because Voldemort wished it that way. What did Harry have to lose?
He let the wood roll off of his fingertips and onto the floor. He didn't watch it go, just kept his gaze trained on the empty space around him.
"Good boy," Voldemort murmured right in front of him, and then fingers fisted into his shirt and pulled him forward, crashing him against a solid, visible body.
Harry kept his eyes open through the punishing kiss, taking in the blazing red eyes alight with wild intensity.
And then his mind was breached so smoothly, so subtly it was almost sweet, but Harry's instincts forced him to slam his eyes shut and shove Voldemort back.
Or, try to. The Dark Lord hung on, his fingers grasping tightly to Harry's clothes.
"What are you doing?" Harry spat, opening one eye to glare. "Don't go rooting around in my head, I hate that."
Voldemort regarded him, his head slightly tilted and a wry smile on his lips. Those lips…
"Noted."
Voldemort released him and Harry shuffled back, trying to focus.
He had been angry. He was angry. Livid.
"You almost killed Ginny."
"But I did not."
Harry gave a harsh laugh.
"And, what? I'm supposed to be grateful for that?"
"You should remember to whom you are speaking and recognize that, given what your depraved wife was doing to you—"
"That was her word, not mine—"
"—I should be commended for my restraint," Voldemort continued, ignoring Harry's denial. "I did say I would kill her."
"Restraint?" Harry repeated, incredulous. "You think cracking her ribs open and slicing through her fingers was showing restraint? What— what kind of monster are you?"
Voldemort sneered and turned away.
Harry sat on the floor, trying to get his breathing under control.
He was furious at Voldemort. The man was correct, Harry had said he would kill him if any harm came to his friends. Was he the coward here? Was he so selfish that he was willing to accept and forgive Ginny's violent injury… just so he could keep Voldemort?
"How can I trust you now?" Harry muttered, looking up at the Dark Lord who had retreated to stand beside the fire.
That red stare seized him, but his expression was unreadable.
"You're able to… modify memories," Harry said in despairing awe. "Effortlessly."
Harry paused, remembering watching in horror as Ginny's fatal wounds were healed moments after they were inflicted. He then saw Ron and Hermione's faces go slack and realized soon after that they had been given false memories of Ginny's magic bursting out in anguish and wounding her fingers, which Voldemort refused to heal.
"How can I trust that you haven't done the same to me?"
"I have only just accessed my magic."
Harry scoffed.
"You know what I mean. How do I know you won't? You can just… change what someone saw, you can create their reality."
Voldemort was watching him, almost eager-seeming, to hear his own mastery recounted for him.
"How do I know you won't do the same to me?" he asked again, his voice was small, vulnerable.
He needed Voldemort to understand how problematic this was.
Voldemort frowned.
"I told you I did not want to hurt you anymore. That fact remains the same."
Harry threw him a sardonic look.
"You can change my memory without hurting me, physically."
Voldemort inclined his head.
"I had not been only referring to physical injury."
Harry looked into those sincere, flickering red eyes that reflected the fire's heat. He stood, needing to be closer. He took a step towards the man.
"You have your magic. Surely you're moments away from taking that collar off."
Voldemort watched him, his gaze growing more intense the nearer Harry came.
"I will keep it on, for now," the other man said, voice low, "if that will assuage your fears."
Harry stopped dead.
He pulled his head back, bewildered incomprehension surging through him.
"What?" he said, stupidly, because clearly he had misunderstood. "What do you mean, keep it on?"
Voldemort continued to stare at him, his gaze hungry.
"I am not yet ready to leave."
Voldemort took a step towards him, away from the fire, his black robes shifting like a shadow around him. Harry could only stare.
"I can access enough of my magic to do anything I please."
"But… the stopgap. I could—"
"You could," Voldemort conceded, his gaze hardening. "You could kill me as well."
The man was so close now, Harry could smell him, the scent of Ginny's blood still on his robes, the crisp whiff of ozone—
"I am choosing," Voldemort said, head tilting to look down at him from under his brows, "to demonstrate the trust you asked of me when we were first reacquainted."
And suddenly Lord Voldemort was within reach, his power swirling around him, wrapping Harry in Dark, soothing waves. He felt the air vibrate and his fingers began to twitch, wanting to touch, needing to feel that power with his skin.
Harry closed his eyes and moaned.
.
.
Voldemort caught the boy before he hit the ground.
He wrapped his arms under Harry's legs, cradling the smaller body against his chest, and Apparated them into the boy's bedroom, breaking casually through the extensive wards.
His magic circled around him, rising up to meet his every whim, his every thought. Everything was so laughably simple, so juvenile. He could have anything. Everything.
And he would.
He laid the boy gently down onto the unmade bed and just looked at him. Harry was intoxicated on his power and Voldemort gloried in watching the effect it had on his body. The appealing flush that infused his skin, the laboured breath, the unfocused half-lidded eyes.
He reached down and removed those glasses that got in the way of his ravenous contemplation. The boy made a whimpering sound and Voldemort groaned, closing his own eyes to control his urge to just take.
He wanted this too much to ruin it with adolescent haste. Patience was a skill he had honed and its reward was always worth the discomfort.
Harry's body was perfect. Smaller than his, but strong. Posing enough of a challenge to excite him, but still nothing against his own. A brief flash of Walker, the corpulent whale, shoving him to his knees and entering him with such force that it sprawled Voldemort onto his chest, momentarily froze him.
He closed his eyes. No. I beat them. I am free. And they will suffer.
Voldemort opened his eyes and saw that the boy's gaze was wandering over his shoulder.
"Hey," Harry said, drawing out the vowel. "Did you just Apparate? I've got wards, you can't do that."
Voldemort puffed out a sardonic breath.
"There is nothing I cannot do, Harry."
The boy looked up at him with momentary awe and then he grinned lazily back.
"Yeah. Like fuck the Chosen One, eh?"
Voldemort smirked, and then bid the boy's clothes to slice slowly down the middle. Harry's eyes became concerned as he watched the progress, but when he met Voldemort's gaze he must have received some comfort.
"That's a new spell. How did you do that?"
Voldemort scoffed.
"Spell," he said derisively, and then bent down and seized Harry's left nipple between his teeth.
The boy cried out, his fists clenching in the fitted sheet, his body arching off the bed. Into Voldemort's mouth. That was unmistakably a plea to continue.
He eagerly obliged, opening his mouth wider and allowing the tiny nub to move back between his molars. To grind it and this action elicited Harry's high, keening wail. Voldemort hummed encouragingly and was gifted the coppery, delicious taste of the boy's blood.
His own erection was throbbing now and he allowed himself a moment of weakness. Lowering his body down on top of the boy's, he pressed his still-clothed cock against the hot skin of Harry's answering hardness. Voldemort moaned at the contact, his hands reaching down and grabbing the boy's chin, claiming that panting mouth.
Voldemort had never felt such a pull towards anyone. His lips and teeth moved by instinct alone and took what was offered.
Harry broke the kiss and his hands reached up to grip at Voldemort's shoulders, pulling him closer. Walker's sticky fingers meandered down his spine, igniting frigid goosebumps in their path and Voldemort froze, pulling back to stare into those cold blue eyes, but wide green ones met his.
"What happened?" Harry asked, trying to push himself up and onto his elbows.
Voldemort shook his head.
"Nothing."
He lowered himself to capture those lips once more, but Harry pulled back, frowning. He looked irritatingly concerned.
"No, we should stop." The boy dared to put a hand over his own that was around that throat and made to pull it away. "This can't be good for you. I don't know what I was—"
Voldemort growled and pushed Harry flat again, leading his magic to surround the boy. Harry's eyes slid closed and his fingers gripped the sheets tightly.
Better.
"You will not suggest such nonsense again."
Black ropes made of his magic slithered out from underneath the mattress and obeyed his command to circle around those wrists and ankles. Harry opened his eyes and regarded them with trepidation, but he let them pull his arms up and apart, his legs forced wide.
The boy was naked, spread-eagled, his chest rising and falling erratically. Waiting.
Sacrificial.
Voldemort sat back onto his heels between Harry's legs, not touching him. He watched the boy as he slowly undid his own robes, letting them slip from his shoulders. Harry made a small sound when his chest was bared and Voldemort smirked. His fingers slid down his abdomen and he briefly touched himself through his trousers, eyes still locked on the boy.
"You're so fucking sexy," Harry muttered, licking his lips. "Please, I want to touch you. I need to. Please—"
"Silence."
Voldemort stood and unhurriedly removed his trousers and pants.
He then found himself naked in the company of another man.
His eyes shot to Harry's, checking that they were still green. Still patient and… affectionate. Concern began to cloud the lust that had dominated them.
"Voldemort."
He refused to let those imbeciles own this. He was stronger. He had won. They would not take this from him after they had taken—
"Let me up," Harry said, his voice getting firmer. "Come on, we don't have to do this."
Voldemort realized he was sitting on the bed, his back to Harry. He turned and took in everything he could own, if only he was able to reach out and take it.
"I want to," he whispered in a deplorably small voice.
He let his gaze roam that willing body and he wanted it with an obsession so familiar to him. He had always wanted this boy, his fixation had merely shifted intent.
"I know," Harry said. "I want to as well. But there's no rush."
Voldemort looked away and stood. He was naked, yes, but he had removed his clothing by choice. He was about to have sex, but it was because he wanted to. With someone he wanted.
With Harry.
"Let me go," Harry pleaded. "I want to hold you."
Voldemort cringed at that sentimental thought.
"You seem to believe that you are in a position to issue orders, Potter."
Harry frowned.
"You don't have to—"
"As if you could make me do anything."
Voldemort turned fully, facing the boy and watched those eyes helplessly flick down to his groin and then up again, guiltily.
"You forget, I have my magic."
He slowly crawled onto the bed, his head lowered, eyes trained on his prey.
"I am the most powerful wizard to walk this earth."
He licked up that hairy thigh, leisurely, watching the boy's head fall back onto the pillow with a groan.
"Fuck."
"You make an excellent offering."
Voldemort's tongue had reached the boy's hips, his face so close to those pileous testicles and straining cock.
He stopped.
Harry's head raised, but Voldemort's attention was focused on remaining present, in this bed, with Harry.
Harry.
This was Harry.
But Grayson was forcing him to his knees, choking him, and Voldemort was broken and forsaken and powerless.
You are such an eager little whore, Tom.
I've mastered you, accept it. You're perfect like this.
You're mine.
"Hey," the boy said, breaking through and Voldemort opened his eyes.
He was laying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. The position was not a comforting one. He rolled over to look at Harry.
"You're okay," the boy said. "It's me. You're free, remember? You killed that motherfucker." He smiled for a moment and Voldemort was caught. "You will never be vulnerable like that again, I promise."
A promise.
Voldemort wanted to sneer. As if he needed protection. He had his magic. His freedom. He was untouchable.
"You need to let me go now," the boy said. "We need to stop."
Voldemort did not want this to be finished. It would not be long that he was staying with the boy and he wanted one encounter that he could…
Treasure.
Take. Dominate.
One that did not end in fear or failure.
He leaned forward and began to suck the sensitive skin on the boy's waist, his fingers uncurling and meandering along that soft skin. He breathed the boy in.
"You will do as I say," he said, dragging his mouth, biting and sucking, up that torso until he was looking at Harry again. "You are not to command me. I am your Master. You have already conceded that."
He bent his head and claimed those lips, pressing his erection into the boy's. Harry's body surged up to meet him, arching under him, and Voldemort felt a primal need to take, to conquer.
He directed his magic to change the position of Harry's legs, to lift them up and push them forward, undignified, but giving him better access to that spot he so desired. His fingers found the boy's entrance and began to circle it.
"Oh fuck, oh Merlin. Are you actually going to—?"
"Quiet," Voldemort ordered, pushing his fingers against the boy's lips, which opened immediately to him. "You will want to get these wet."
Harry groaned, sucking the fingers inside and rolling them around in his mouth. The boy's muscles were tensing and flexing as he tried to free himself and Voldemort thrilled at his inability to do so.
He slowly removed his digits, now thinly coated in saliva, and pushed one finger inside of him. The boy threw his head back, almost knocking Voldemort's, as he began to mutter feebly.
"You're going to fuck me. Jesus, oh god. You're the Dark Lord and we're about to— oh fuck!"
Voldemort pushed two more fingers inside, shutting Harry up.
He was distantly aware that he was performing on impulse as the only lessons he had received in coitus were from his guards. This would be his first time penetrating someone. It would also be the first time he would achieve orgasm in twelve years.
He paused.
Harry stopped talking. Voldemort looked down, taking in the flushed face, the straining, virile muscles, and the eyes filled with patient adoration. Trust. Warmth.
Before the situation took on a deeper meaning that was not there, Voldemort removed his fingers and placed his erection against the boy.
Their gazes locked. The space between them was charged as they considered each other.
Harry's mouth was open and Voldemort lowered his head, burying it in the boy's neck. He bit down, closing his eyes, as he shifted his hips forward and, with an agonizingly measured thrust, he breached the boy.
"Yes," Harry moaned, drawn out and hinting at a language he could no longer speak.
Voldemort caught himself before he could repeat the assessment.
The boy felt hot around him, glorious, and Voldemort stayed unmoving inside while he quieted his thoughts.
It was not supposed to feel like this. There were not meant to be emotions attached to this ordinary act. It was primal and instinctual and a means to an end like any other pursuit.
He refused to meet the boy's eyes again, terrified of what he would see, what his own gaze would reveal. He kept his face against that throbbing pulse point, biting and sucking as he finally allowed himself to move— and the sheer bliss of that motion ignited a deep urgency inside him, powerful and hungry.
He pulled back, needing to move, and grabbed Harry's shoulders, using them to support himself as he fucked into him, fast and hard.
Harry was gasping out encouragements, saying words that stoked the inferno blazing inside of him. He reached down with one hand, wanting Harry to feel what he did, wanting him to share this, and he found the boy's stiff, leaking cock and began to pump it.
"This— this—" the boy kept repeating, and Voldemort failed to find the meaning of the word.
"What," he demanded.
"You," Harry rasped. "You. Just you. I never knew— I— I—"
Voldemort shook his head, denying whatever the boy was saying.
He needed more, needed everything. He ripped through his own magic and tore the restraints on the boy's ankles. Grabbing them both at once, he threw them over his shoulders and pressed deeper, the boy's leg muscles tightening, which in turn, squeezed Voldemort's buried cock.
He slammed his eyes closed, lest he show Harry the maelstrom of emotions writhing inside him, battling to break through.
His stomach muscles were clenched, his testicles tightening as he plunged into Harry relentlessly. Sinking his teeth into the boy's already bloody neck, he tried to calm himself. His fingers remained focused on taking Harry with him, forcing him to suffer this madness alongside him.
"Please," the boy begged, licking Voldemort's skull, his hot tongue sliding over his sweaty skin. "I want your collar. In my mouth, I want to bite it, lick it, Merlin, I just need it in my mouth— please."
Voldemort stopped, pulled back and looked down at him. The fixation the boy had with his collar should not still be present. His magic was free, was surrounding him, holding him to the bed, yet still Harry yearned for it.
He studied the boy's face for any signs of malice or subterfuge. Harry gazed up at him, panting, eyes rapt and full of devotion. Aching.
Voldemort slowly leaned back down, pushing his neck out so that the boy could reach. Harry moaned, his legs tightening around Voldemort's torso, and he felt the boy's wet tongue connect with his skin, messily licking and sucking the collar.
His own loathing of the metal band was overshadowed by Harry's obvious attraction to it. It hit him how… vulnerable this position made him. Offering his jugular to the enemy. He waited, holding his breath, for Harris to appear, wielding his knife, or Grayson, perpetually strangling him to death, but no one else bothered them.
"You stopped," the boy panted, his mouth leaving Voldemort's neck cold. "Why'd you stop, don't stop—"
"What did I tell you about giving me commands, Potter."
He wrapped his fingers around the boy's cock again, conjuring some slick liquid, and squeezed. The boy keened, his head falling back onto the mattress. The pillow was nowhere in sight.
Voldemort lifted the boy's legs and began to drive into him, fisting him in tandem with his thrusts.
"I'm going to come, fuck, please don't make me wait," the boy begged, and Voldemort's mind conjured words he would force the boy to utter, things he would make him do to earn it, but his own imminent release demanded attention.
"Come," he commanded, and dug his fingernails on his unoccupied hand into the boy's thigh, feeling them penetrate the skin.
Harry's jaw fell open and he began to tremble then Voldemort watched as spurts of white ejaculate hit the boy's stomach and chest.
It was too much. He did not take pity on the boy through his orgasm, but instead sped up his movements and focused on himself, on his own culmination that was so close, so close.
Yet it would not come, something was holding him back— memories and nightmares and terror of the unknown, fear of his own submission to Harry, of allowing himself to let go, to be weakened by—
"Master," the boy breathed, low and sincere, trusting and sated.
And his control snapped.
Clutching the boy's hair in his fist he slammed his hips tightly against Harry's body twice more and then froze as that tidal wave of sensation drowned him, pulling him under.
The blackout rapture held him for decadent moments, as he watched the boy study him, a contented, slightly smug expression on his face.
He collapsed next to Harry, forbidding his lips to kiss that sweaty brow and failing.
"I didn't know," the boy whispered weakly against his cheek, and Voldemort silenced him with his mouth.