Chapter 18

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Harry showered first.

He had asked Voldemort to join him, but he had declined the offer. He remained on the boy's bed, naked, but modestly covered by the plush comforter. The room was dark, the window reflecting the dim-lighting in the hallway.

He breathed evenly, staring through the glass, yet seeing nothing.

He had made a grave error, perhaps many.

It was one thing to lust after the boy, to want to punish him physically or achieve a victory over him through conquest. It was understandable, even, to strengthen the attachment the boy had to him so that Voldemort could manipulate and control him easier.

But how he felt now was perilous.

He should have left the moment the boy took him out of the Ministry. He should not have shared his meals, nor gotten involved in the politics of his social life. He absolutely should not have fucked the boy. Nor remained languidly reposed, post-coital, waiting for his return.

It had taken him seconds, after the boy had entered the bathroom, to remove his collar. He now grasped it tightly in his hand, but the thrill of triumph was diminished by his torment.

He must leave. It was best to do so while the boy was preoccupied.

He looked down at the black metal in his hand and pushed his magic into it, watching as it began to smoke and wither. He turned it to vapour and banished the remains.

A relief, surely. He made a solemn vow to himself that never again would a collar adorn his neck. Never again would he be restrained.

He looked towards the bathroom door, listening to the sound of the shower, and an unbidden image of the boy's naked body hit him: water clinging to his pink skin, his head thrown back as he lathered his chest, trailing a hand lower to palm his heavy cock and testicles…

He sat up.

Harry would be out soon. He would see that the collar was gone and would correctly surmise that Voldemort was leaving. He would beg him to stay. Would perhaps cry. Fall to his knees.

All the more reason to leave before that scene could unfold. He stood, the blanket slithering down and falling back onto the bed. He looked again to the door.

He faltered.

Alternately, he could stay the night.

Sleep, catch his breath, and allow himself a short interval to plan his next steps.

He walked aimlessly to the open wardrobe and rubbed his hands along the soft material of the robes the boy had transfigured for him this afternoon. They had been comfortable, his size, and cherished black, but more than that, they were a reminder that Harry was not one of the villains who haunted him. Harry wanted him to heal and move past what had been done to him.

Selflessly.

And this was the crux of the matter. Even Bella, his most trusted and useful servant, would certainly have wanted Voldemort to get better. Yet it would have been so that he could reclaim his summit and lead them again, not simply because she wished Voldemort to be well, as was Harry's ambition.

In fact, the boy was helping him despite what Voldemort would do to him, his cause, and his people, not because of it. Voldemort could bring nothing but misery and destruction to Harry's dreams and plans and yet, the boy had fought for him relentlessly, risking his treasured friends, his respected position, and his very life— all of which were knuts in the pond compared to the devastation Voldemort would create for Harry when he reclaimed his power and status.

It begged the question of why the boy would risk it all to help his enemy. He was a martyr, that much Voldemort had always known about him, but it went beyond this. Harry was a good person, incorruptible, loyal, and moral. He must believe that helping Voldemort was the right thing to do and he would sacrifice himself to see justice done. Such naïvety.

And yet, there was an element of selfishness in Harry's actions too. The boy craved Voldemort's soul, his touch. His company. This much was undeniable. Bringing Voldemort home could very well destroy the boy, but perhaps that was a risk he was willing to take for the benefit of keeping Voldemort alive and accessible.

No, that was too harsh, too self-serving for Harry. If Voldemort had not suffered while imprisoned, if the boy had never seen his body stabbed, whipped, drowned, violated… Then no matter the scale of depression and need the boy felt it would never have been enough to compel him to act. His own yearnings would go forever disdainfully ignored if it meant putting another out. He would risk everything for others and absolutely nothing for himself.

The jolting sound of the shower turning off alerted Voldemort that his feeble procrastination attempts had expired.

He must decide.

He took two swift steps towards the door. He would Apparate to Bella. She would give him shelter while he recovered, would rejoice at his return and aid him in all his plans for vengeance. She would not reject and despise his methods. Bella understood him in a way Harry never could. The boy's impassioned speech about their similarities of experience that he had delivered on the grimy floor of Voldemort's cell the first day that they had been reacquainted had been fascinating but undeniably false. They were nothing alike and there was no path for them to take together. Voldemort knew what he wanted and Harry would never accept it.

The door opened and the boy emerged from the bathroom with a cloud of steam billowing around him. He had slung his towel in a low position over his hips and Voldemort felt his pulse quicken as he contemplated the sharp V-shape his lower abdominal muscles created. He knew Harry must have caught him staring because he froze, but Voldemort could not tear his eyes away.

"You're up," the boy said quietly, and Voldemort looked up to catch his small smile.

He seemed to take in Voldemort's state of undress and his eyes darkened appreciatively. Voldemort remained unmoving and Harry's brow slowly furrowed. His gaze travelled to the doorway and back.

"Are you… leaving?"

He watched the boy's eyes drop to his neck and then widen. Wince.

"It's gone."

Voldemort paused, then inclined his head once. The boy made a weak, mirthless sound and clutched at his towel.

"You're leaving."

This time it was a statement, solid and final.

Voldemort could only stare.

Harry must have seem an opportunity in his silence because he cautiously came towards him, one hand outstretched.

"You don't have to go. Not yet. I know you will eventually, but…"

They were close enough to touch and Harry did just that, reaching out that hand and threading his fingers through Voldemort's.

"Stay," the boy pleaded softly. "I knew you'd be thinking about this, but there really isn't anywhere safer for you right now. I—"

"You cannot think I require protection."

Harry hesitated, and then sighed.

"No. Of course not. But… I can help you. Stay with me and we can figure this out together. I can—"

"I do not need you, Potter. In any capacity."

A soft inhalation. Harry closed his eyes and breathed deeply a few times.

"I know. I know that." He opened his eyes. "I just meant that… there's no rush. You can stay."

Voldemort shook his hand free. He conjured a robe onto himself with an idle thought.

"I am leaving."

Harry made a frustrated, growling sound.

"I knew you were going to freak out afterwards—"

"I am not… freaking out, Potter. I am leaving. I am the Dark Lord and you are the Boy Saviour and this was never going to end any other way."

Harry's hand was touching his own chest again in that weak, pathetic gesture that Voldemort had come to loathe.

Enough.

His feet carried him swiftly into the hallway and through the sitting room. He placed his fingers upon the front doorknob, but then a small hand gripped his arm, restraining him.

—And suddenly Walker was crushing him with his massive girth, Harris was pressing him against the wall, trapping him, and Grayson, that demon, was holding his arm right where Harry had grabbed him, twisting it, hurting him—

He reacted viscerally.

Rage exploded out of him as he turned and Harry was flung back, hitting the wall by the fireplace. Voldemort stalked up to him, his magic spiralling, shaking the walls and shattering keepsakes in the boy's home. He did not stop until he had the boy by the neck and lifted him up onto his feet.

"You dare to presume to stop me, Potter?"

Harry was staring at him, wide-eyed and afraid. His hands reached up to free himself, but Voldemort brought his magic down on him and removed the air from his lungs.

"You mean nothing to me. I am leaving and you will not interfere."

Harry opened his mouth, futility attempting to draw in breath and Voldemort threw him to the ground. The boy looked panicked, but instead of using his own magic to help himself, Harry shuffled forwards on his knees and grabbed Voldemort's robes. Tears were clinging to his lashes and the skin around his mouth was turning blue.

Voldemort looked away, disgusted.

"Save yourself, Potter. That is what I am doing."

He turned, prepared to walk out the door, Apparate away, and never see the boy again.

He closed his eyes.

"Don't leave me," the boy rasped, breathless and broken and so quiet Voldemort could have imagined it.

Spinning, he saw that Harry was still kneeling on the floor, but his chest was now moving with his gasping breaths.

"I have no right to ask. You deserve your freedom, but," Harry sat back onto his heels, his shoulders slumping, "I need you. Just… just stay the night. Tomorrow we can talk and I'll let you leave, I swear—"

"Let me?"

Harry growled, fisting the tangled towel draped haphazardly over his thighs.

"Merlin— You know what I mean, Voldemort! You're about to bring down this apartment building without a bloody wand! I know I can't stop you from doing anything you decide to do."

Harry stared at him, a nervous, hopeful look in his eyes.

"Just, please. Please. Stay tonight. Give me one night. Before you disappear."

The boy on his knees was a compelling sight. Voldemort wavered.

His faithful, pounding magic was poised inside of him and he knew he was indomitable. There was no shame in resting tonight and taking his leave in the morning.

He imagined waking up next to Harry, catching the moment his eyes blinked open, perhaps the boy would smile tiredly and burrow closer. He could own him, every part of him.

"Please," Harry whispered.

But this would only become more difficult the longer he stayed.

The boy remained kneeling, a pitiful look on his face. Voldemort considered walking towards him, reaching out, for once. Taking the boy in his arms and seeing where this path lead. Making promises of his own.

He stepped back.

"Goodbye, Harry."

"No! Wait, Voldemort— Please!"

It was to the sound of the boy's screams that he ripped through the wards and Disapparated.

END OF PART I