Chapter 20
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The sun had long since set in the ancient city of Rome. Voldemort was standing by the window, looking out over the River Tiber and thinking about loyalty. More specifically, whether loyalty to a person was of higher value, or to a cause.
Or, in minute honesty, he was thinking about Harry.
He turned from the window and moved to his desk, upon which rested various books and parchment he had been researching desperately. To no avail. He remained as unforgivingly ignorant on deeper avenues to immortality as he had been before he had come.
Pulling out his desk chair, he sat down heavily with a sigh and steepled his fingers. He had been sure Rome was the answer. Years ago, he had visited this city to study a group of wizarding gladiators who had discovered an effective method of sustaining life despite apparent causalities in the Colosseum. One wizard in particular, Flamma, kept up the charade for thirteen years and then, once his survival became too unbelievable for the audience, Flamma 'died'.
Voldemort now sought the key to his success, believing it to be a possibility, in a meagre list of chance, to challenge Harry's ability to kill him.
That thought arrested him immediately, as it always did.
I can die.
No matter how Harry had felt before Voldemort had embarked on his new path, the boy would never let him live once he revealed himself again. And Voldemort refused to rely on Harry's good nature or sense of loyalty to keep himself safe.
Loyalty. It all came back to that.
Harry's loyalty to Voldemort, regardless of the boy's morals or duties. Voldemort's loyalty to the boy, despite his own ambitions.
Person, or cause.
They had always been united in his mind, as his cause was to support his person. They both centred on himself, his own worth.
Until, Harry.
Suddenly, the boy's feelings became a factor in his decisions. His safety and life overshadowed Voldemort's plans in a way that was new and disturbing.
Now, the idea of betrayal, his own, entered his peripheral, forcing him to pause.
If he considered the situation from a personal standpoint, leaving the boy crying on his knees had been a betrayal, yet if this was towards his cause, Voldemort had behaved admirably.
Similarly, and shockingly, if perceived from a personal perspective, Voldemort had shown loyalty to Harry by giving information to the Minister to rescue him, but in doing so, he had betrayed his own cause.
Harry also was in a similar conundrum. By saving Voldemort, he had staunchly proven his loyalty to him, but had betrayed the Ministry.
Person, or cause?
True to his feelings and treacherous towards his ambitions.
So which held higher value?
He did not enjoy this debate. It boiled down to Harry or himself, and not only did he detest there being any suggestion that anyone could receive his dedication more than himself, he also did not like recognizing that it had to be one or the other: Harry or Voldemort's ambitions.
Loyalty to one meant betrayal of the other.
As always, he wanted both, he wanted everything, and it was unacceptable that he had to choose.
He allowed his gaze to move to the window and he saw the distant lights of the city. His mind wandered to England as it so often did. Although it infuriated him to be stuck in this country away from his rightful home, he could begin no plans until he was infallible once again. He refused to return still vulnerable and—
He turned.
The alert.
Standing, he walked into the bedroom and towards his small black box on the bedside table. He looked down at it, considering.
Had the boy—?
He opened the box, not even waiting to cast a detection charm.
.
Mind your own bloody business.
You can't get upset about me sharing something you never wanted. Interesting, though, how you had to run 1,000 miles away and hide to prove it.
The party was excellent, thank you. I look forward to one day celebrating it in earnest.
.
Surprisingly, he had to remind himself to be furious at the boy's insolence.
Ignoring the slurs, it was interesting that Harry had decided to write at all. He had not been sure what reception his own letter would receive and, although this missive was cold, the very fact of its existence surely meant that the boy was open to a dialog.
Yet, Voldemort should not be. Sending that first letter had been a mistake, but one he had been unable to talk himself out of. And he had tried. For months. But every newspaper he had encountered had been saturated with Harry's happy, gloating face, his arm slung around that putrid blood traitor. Each bulging edition splashed with countless images that haunted him at night, taunting him with what he had declined.
He exhaled a breath to calm his sudden fury. It was this damnable reaction to seeing them together that had birthed the impulsive and juvenile note in the first place. He should not care that the boy had returned so easily to his old life, should not spend hours devising accidents that could befall the loathsome harlot.
Voldemort was free and that was all that mattered.
Replying now, after the gauntlet had been picked up, would be beyond foolish. Suicidal.
What could be gained from this folly? If he felt any pull towards Harry, it must serve as an example of the first steps towards destruction that he would face should he continue along this path.
He threw the letter onto his bed and walked to the window. Pushing up the pane, he allowed the cool air to rush over his skin, and he closed his eyes.
In the back of his mind, a phrase had been repeating itself, relentless and taunting. He finally gave it his attention.
Interesting, though, how you had to run 1,000 miles away and hide to prove it.
Run.
Hide.
You had to run and hide.
He shattered the window.
Incandescent, he whipped around to crack the legs on the bed, slashing holes in the comforter. Magic surged through him, burning, crackling, and he propelled it onwards, taking everything in sight.
How dare he—
Throwing open the door, he emerged out onto the street, his magic still coiling and flashing around him. Bodies fell as he swept past, people screaming as they took him in, but he ignored them all, so wholly focused on his thoughts, on his incredulity, his stupefaction that the boy would dare— As you dare to mock my hiding, so will I demonstrate to you how very visible I can become.
Hours later, in a different hotel room, he sat again by the window, watching the Basilica di San Bartolomeo all'Isola burn, and enjoyed the reflected tremors of orange in the river.
.
.
When Harry got to work on Monday, the Auror department was busier than usual. Harry dropped his bag in his office and went out to see what all the fuss was about.
Pictures were pinned on various boards showing maps with markers, crime scene body photos, and various buildings on fire. One church had been instantly incinerated, killing everyone inside. He couldn't tell where the images were from, but it didn't seem like Britain. Stepping closer, he tried to determine where the suspects were labelled.
"Mr Potter, have you been briefed about this yet?"
Harry was frozen, reading a description of a Legilimency memory extraction from a woman who had seen a terrifying bald man in back robes stalking the streets and gesturing at buildings, making them explode.
"...Mr Potter?"
Harry met the woman's eyes.
"I think Robards… Are you okay?"
Harry looked away and then back at the board.
Rome. A single man or possibly two. Razing a section of the city to the ground. Body count was still updating, but stood at three-hundred and four people. All Muggles.
"When?" Harry whispered, unsure if his colleague, Ms Gallagher, was still there.
"Friday evening. They're still cleaning up, trying to get some order. The church that burnt down was on an island that also had a hospital, but the local wizarding law enforcement managed to protect it before it was taken too. We've sent a team already to help, and…"
She kept talking, but Harry couldn't focus.
Friday evening. Was it possible…? Surely the man didn't care enough about his stupid letter to… destroy a city and kill hundreds of people?
He felt sick.
My fault. My fault.
A list of the dead was clipped onto the bottom of the board and Harry nicked it, stumbling back and fleeing to his office.
He closed the door, locking and warding it.
Saturday morning Harry had opened the little black box to see if Voldemort had responded, but found a pile of ashes instead. Still warm. He had tipped it out, confused, but had assumed that the man had lit Harry's parchment on fire and sent it back.
What if it had been the remains of the corresponding box on Voldemort's side? What if—
No. This was arrogant in the extreme. There was no proof to say that the tragedy had anything to do with Voldemort at all. And to assume his drunken letter had incited the man to reveal himself and kill three hundred people was insane.
He looked down at the list of the dead in his hands. Pages and pages of names, all people with hopes and families and lives to live. All murdered, because Harry had thought it would be funny to taunt a Dark Lord.
No. It can't have been him. But how do I know? What about the ashes? The timing?
He had to trust. Voldemort had certainly made no promises, but if he harboured any desire to see Harry again, he must have known this action would obliterate that possibility.
Three hundred lives. Surely the man was smarter than to let his anger set a city on fire?
He had to know.
Opening his door and striding determinedly through the crowd of people, Harry made his way out of the Ministry and pulled his magic to him, Apparating away.
.
.
Harry landed on a set of old stairs and fell to his knees, struggling for breath. He took a moment to appreciate the feat he had just performed, but pushed it aside, wiping his bloody nose on the arm of his robes, and looking up.
He was in a Muggle area, there was a carpark behind him at the foot of the stairs, and at the top… He leaned back to take in the cliff face. It was a combination of exposed rock and what was obviously an old sheer wall, browned and pockmarked.
He had no idea where he was or why his desperate Apparition had brought him here. He walked up the steps, moving closer to the crumbling rock and saw a small sign that read Rupe Tarpea.
Whatever that was.
He looked around, searching. It was strange, he had bizarrely expected that this would take him directly to Voldemort, but obviously that was not a thing that was done. After all, he had departed without knowing anything about his destination other than a feeling. He had felt something when he had focused on it, but now that he was here, he felt nothing but disappointment.
"I should not be surprised."
Harry drew in a sharp breath and pointed his wand up into the sky, because that was where the familiar and sardonic voice had come from.
"Where are you?" Harry demanded, unable to see anything with the sun so high overhead.
"Put your wand away. Or do you no longer care about the Statute of Secrecy?"
"Says the man who—"
He faltered. An amused laugh issued from above.
"Unable to even give voice to my crimes, are you, Potter?"
Harry felt the breath leave his lungs.
No.
No.
"It was you?" he whispered, knowing his voice would not carry up to the other man, but another laugh proved him wrong.
"Come, now. You already knew that. And yet here you are. Am I to assume you are here to attempt to kill me?"
Harry sat down on the stone steps, turning his back to the wall, to Voldemort, his wand falling from his fingertips.
It was true.
He had come here wanting answers, and although deep down he had known it had been Voldemort, he had still maintained an idealistic hope that he was mistaken. Because this was unforgivable. Whatever the man had been before, Harry had stupidly believed that Voldemort had changed. That he would try.
He began to shake. Wrapping his arms around himself, he lowered his head into the darkness of his crossed arms.
Harry felt wards come down over him and recognized the Muggle Repelling charm, privacy ward, Notice-Me-Not Charm, and a few others he was not familiar with. He lifted his head, a flutter of anticipation in his chest, but still, he remained alone.
"You are a fool to have come here."
The voice of Lord Voldemort was right beside him, on the stairs, but still, he saw no one. Harry choked out a laugh.
"I can't believe you're calling me a fool."
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"Why?" He searched the empty air again. "What were you thinking?"
A gruff, impatient sound.
"You have come to chastise me, then. Of course you have."
Harry growled in frustration.
"What did you expect? You killed hundreds of people! You burned down a city! What were you— fuck. I'm such an idiot. I thought…"
It didn't even bear speaking of how stupid he'd been. Move on.
"Not to mention— Do you know how dangerous this is for you? My whole department is investigating this, they have a bunch of bloody accurate descriptions of you— Are you trying to get caught?"
Silence met his tirade and Harry made to stand, to stride off in exasperated fury, when a hand suddenly grabbed his arm and stopped him.
Harry ceased breathing and closed his eyes. That touch exploded through his nerves and overwhelmed his senses. He felt liquified, invigorated, whole.
He sunk to his knees and that hand stayed wrapped around his forearm.
"Let me go," Harry breathed, eyes still clamped shut, his pulse slamming against his temples.
"No," Lord Voldemort answered, in his ear.
Harry moaned and let his head fall back onto a solid chest. The rest of him followed and then he was somehow sitting on the Dark Lord's crossed legs, pressing as much of himself as he could against that wonderful body.
They sat like that for long, silent moments that brought Harry clarity and strength he had not possessed in months. He felt good. Powerful.
Alive.
He opened his eyes and turned, but still, he could see nothing. Yet, perhaps due to this, his other senses became keener and he felt the fabric of the man's robes and the smoothness of that hairless skin against his cheek. When he buried his face into the man's chest, inhaling deeply and caught the lovely scent of a toasty hearth, he groaned. It smelled like home, like—
Fire.
He smelled of fire but not from a hearth.
Harry pulled back, trying to look into invisible eyes.
"You killed them," he said.
Silence, and then, "Yes."
"Why?"
Harry waited, listening until his ears seemed to buzz.
"You seemed to think I was hiding."
Harry could hear the sneer. He pulled away, standing up. He turned.
"I want to see you."
When Voldemort did not respond, Harry bent down to pick up his wand, but it was gone. He stood, livid.
"Give me my wand."
"No."
Harry growled, surging forward and somehow managed to take hold of invisible material in his fists. He felt the body under him freeze, apparently as surprised by Harry's success as he was.
Keeping one hand tight around those robes, he slid the other to touch the man's face. He felt the skin twitch and then long fingers came up and held his immobile.
"Let me see you."
Harry felt that face shift.
"No."
"Why not? I want to see your face when I yell at you."
"I thought you were here to kill me."
Harry shook the fist that clutched at material.
"Those were your words, not mine. You always assume I'm going to kill you."
"Most people in my presence are trying to kill me."
"Says a lot about you, doesn't it?"
The hand over his tightened.
"Careful," that voice warned darkly.
Harry laughed.
"Why? You going to burn down another city if I give you cheek? Merlin, Voldemort, you can't do that every time I piss you off! I thought— I thought…"
Harry trailed off. What an idiot. He sighed then released his hold on the other man. Voldemort did not let go of his hand and instead awkwardly clutched it between their separated bodies. Harry could see where the other man's invisible grasp made indents in his skin.
"I should go," Harry muttered, scissoring his fingers and weakly attempting to disengage the Dark Lord's hold.
"You thought."
Harry frowned, wishing he could see the man's expression.
"What?"
"Your words. You thought." When Harry did not answer, Voldemort pressed. "What did you think?"
Harry blew out a breath then ripped his hand free.
"You'll just mock me."
"Perhaps. You will still tell me."
Harry rubbed his hand, missing those long fingers on his skin.
"If you make fun of me, I swear—"
"Now."
Harry exhaled a deep breath.
"Fine. I thought you had changed."
Voldemort remained silent and Harry went on, hating how naïve that pronouncement sounded.
"I'd thought you… wanted me."
He felt his face growing warm, but damnit, that was still a terrible explanation.
"I thought… I'm a fucking idiot, I know, but I thought that you… felt it too."
He looked back at where he thought Voldemort was, and then felt too exposed, so he spoke to the ground.
"When I'm with you… " How to describe feeling awake and whole and happy to this man? "I feel like myself. It's been so long since I felt like myself and not an imposter."
Harry swallowed. You are not going to cry, goddamn it.
"I know who you are, I know you're not suddenly going to be a different person— and I don't really want you to be. I—"
Are you fucking kidding me? Don't you dare use that word.
Why wasn't the Dark Lord interrupting him, calling him pathetic, or reacting in any way to his rambling confession? Time to wrap it up before Harry Apparated away out of sheer humiliation.
"I just… I really thought you were going to try. That you could want to meet me halfway. I thought that if this," he gestured awkwardly towards where he thought Voldemort was and to himself, "whatever the hell this is between us— if this was going to work, we would both have to… bend. A bit. But obviously I was wrong."
The silence was thunderous. He hated how pitiful and needy he sounded. And once he'd said it out loud, especially to this audience, he realized how deranged he had been.
Really. You thought the Dark Lord Voldemort cared enough about your feelings to want to accommodate you? Pitiful.
He looked away, back at the huge rock cliff.
"Why are we here?"
The cliff wasn't the largest he'd ever seen, but it had a sinister vibe.
"Ancient Romans used the Rupe Tarpea as a site of execution for those outside of the law's jurisdiction," Voldemort said tonelessly, and Harry bet he was just grateful for a chance to bring the conversation around to academia instead of emotions. "It was a favourite lethal destination for traitors, in particular. It is often used to remind great leaders that their own fall can come as swiftly as the physical drop."
Harry made a face, looking up at the top then at the bottom. Had to be, seventy-five feet high? Brutal.
"Lovely," Harry grimaced, "but that's not what I meant. Why are we here? Were you—"
He had been about to make a joke about what Voldemort had been doing at the top of the cliff, and then he felt a cold fist grip his insides.
"You weren't…. Surely you weren't going to…?"
Harry heard the Dark Lord scoff.
"What, jump? Harry. What about my search for immortality lead you to believe I would ever endanger my own life?"
Relief thawed him slightly, but… what had the man been doing up there, then?
"Why are you in Rome?"
"I believe I just answered that."
Harry considered this.
"Do you mean, immortality? You're searching for immortality again? But why? You're already immortal."
"I can hardly claim immortality if I can be killed."
Harry huffed out a breath.
"Yeah, by me, but that's a fluke. You're still immune to everyone else."
"You are the only adversary I am vulnerable to, true, but that has always been the case. My immortality is worthless unless it is absolute."
Harry was about to say, Yeah, but I'm not going to kill you…And then he remembered what the man had done.
"You killed all those people," Harry whispered, sadness weighing down his words. "You burned down part of a city. Why? Because I teased you?"
Voldemort made an angry sound.
"I do not react well to mockery, Potter."
"Fine, sure, get upset, but you killed three hundred people! That's a bit of an overreaction, wouldn't you say?"
"I would argue it is quite in keeping with my disposition. What I am unsure of is why you seem to be taking this action so personally."
Harry wanted to hit the man. Or scream at him, or maybe cry. He did none of those things. It all came back to expectations, like Voldemort was saying. Same as when the man had almost killed Ginny.
It was Harry again, who was at fault. He was trying to bring Voldemort closer, but the man was dangerous and brought destruction wherever he walked.
I am responsible for all the bloodshed. I killed all those people. By brashly attempting to tame the Dark Lord, he had introduced him to innocent people who would be alive if not for Harry's arrogance.
"I really am a fool," Harry muttered to himself.
He rubbed a hand over his face and felt all his energy leave him. He was defeated. Disappointed.
"I need my wand," Harry said wearily, holding out a hand.
"I am hardly going to give you the weapon to kill me, Po—"
"Just— Enough with the Potter is going to kill me, bullshit!" he shouted. "How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want you dead? Merlin, you'd think saving your sodding life would prove that, but apparently not."
He continued to stare at where he thought the Dark Lord was standing, but knowing the man, he may have simply left, unwilling to suffer being yelled at.
"You claimed you would stop me if I began killing people again," that voice said lowly, from exactly where he had been before. Unmoving. Taking Harry's anger.
Harry sighed.
"I know. But I can't do it, alright? I'm a bloody coward. I don't want to kill you, so now that puts me in this fantastic position where anyone you kill becomes my responsibility. My fault."
"That is asinine."
Harry shrugged, angry.
"That's how guilt works. I am responsible for setting you free therefore if I am unwilling to stop you, I am to blame for any murders you commit. So all I can do is ask you to please think of me before you… go all Dark Lord. Know that it affects me."
Harry closed his eyes and saw the church burning, saw the innocent people who were just there to worship their imaginary god before they all went up in flames…. How could he condone this? If he couldn't kill him, was he really going to just stand by and allow the man to go on rampages like this?
"Fuck. What am I talking about. This is turning me into a monster too."
Harry felt lightheaded and swayed on his feet. Strong hands abruptly gripped him by the upper arms, steadying him. It was bliss and he closed his eyes, trying not to melt against the pulsing of Voldemort's magic against his skin.
Before he could succumb to the fierce desire to pull that man down and taste him again, he pulled away. Backed up two more steps, just in case. He couldn't do this anymore. He had to go back home and think of a way to protect people. Whatever he felt, whatever he wanted, he was not a monster and he could not allow this.
"My wand," he whispered. "Please."
Silence, and then his holly wand floated towards him and he grabbed it.
Time to go.
Harry raised his gaze and wished he could have seen the man one last time. It had been so long since he'd been permitted to see those burning red eyes, that delicate nose, and the thin, delicious mouth.
Maybe it was better he couldn't.
"I… do not understand your compulsion to claim responsibility for my actions," Voldemort said, suddenly right beside him and Harry froze, eyes stabbing into the place where that face would be, "but I do understand consequences. I will never regret killing Muggles, but I do… Regret. Hurting you. Although that had been my intention, I see now that my success was ultimately my failure."
Harry's mouth hung open.
Was that a bleeding apology? From the Dark Lord? It was impossible to tell as it had included neither the word sorry nor apologize, but damn, if that didn't matter at all.
"I am trying, Potter," Voldemort astonishingly went on, sounding as if he spoke through his teeth, like this conversation was causing him physical pain. "As you asked me to do. I am… not accustomed to tempering myself. But I will try. If you will allow me that opportunity."
It was like being apologized to by a reluctant, eloquent toddler. One with a similar amount of stubborn pride and the not-so-secret belief that he didn't actually do anything wrong.
Yet it was the unprompted attempt at repair that mattered. Voldemort was as unwilling to end their messed up— what? Relationship?— as he was.
Harry nodded, not knowing what to say that could convey his cautious relief but also deep mistrust of the situation. He was left with a brittle optimism.
On this auspicious note, he gathered his magic, about to Apparate away when his arm was grabbed again. He gasped, pulling back and stepping away—
—And then Voldemort was there, before him, seeing into his soul with those ravenous, freaky, crimson eyes. He could only stare as the Dark Lord ate up the distance between them and grabbed him by his robes, claiming his mouth in a fierce, desperate kiss.
Harry made a pathetic sound and Voldemort scooped him up, somehow lifting him and carrying him up the stairs until Harry's back was thrown against the crumbling rock wall.
His head hit the stone and his vision went white and twinkly for a moment, but that was the least of his concerns as Voldemort was rapidly undressing him, ripping the material of his robes and mouthing any skin that was revealed.
"Harry," Voldemort moaned, and Harry almost came right in his pants, like a little boy, untouched, at the sound.
He wrapped his arms around those precious shoulders and smoothed his fingers, splayed out, over the man's scalp. Gods, that skin. It was flawless, softer than anything he'd ever touched.
Voldemort was making excellent progress with his clothes and Harry felt those fingers grope him through his trousers. He made a startled, breathy sound and the other man's hips shifted forward, thrusting against him.
"That bitch," Voldemort spat, as he continued to hold Harry up by pressing him against the hard rock wall. "I loathe the thought— Harry. Of you. With her."
Harry's eyes flew to meet the other man's gaze and he was instantly seized with the anguish Voldemort was enduring. His mind went blank.
Voldemort growled and buried his face into Harry's neck, biting down punishingly and Harry cried out, fingers digging into the tendons on the man's back, pinching him tightly.
The Dark Lord froze, shoulders hunching and Harry surfaced enough to realize his mistake.
"Sorry!" he choked out, hating that he so carelessly plunged the man back into his nightmares with his unthinking action.
He touched those sharp cheekbones, running his thumb over the tantalizing skin. Voldemort shook his head and bent to touch his lips against Harry's in a bewilderingly chaste kiss.
He pulled back and they looked at each other, inches apart. The man's eyes were wild, but his face had a hesitance, an uncertainty. The weight of their history and their current impossible situation sprawled between them, trying to reach out and block them from one another.
Harry's heart fluttered as he brought his hands down to the man's neck and began to undo the clasps on the intimidating black robes. Each inch of that slender body that was revealed ignited the need burning inside of him.
This man despised touch, had never taken a lover nor had he had consensual sex before Harry, if Kingsley was to be believed. It was priceless, what Voldemort was willing to show him, to share with him. Especially after his horrific experiences at the Ministry.
"I am so lucky," Harry muttered, his eyes raking across the pale, thin skin stretched over his chest. Such a devastating body.
Voldemort ignored him as he worked at Harry's trousers, but then he cursed and somehow disappeared everything Harry was wearing.
Those eyes darkened with a possessive heat.
"Look at you," Voldemort commented, and then Harry felt magic surround him, holding him up as the man sunk to his knees.
Harry's stomach dropped.
Sweet Merlin.
Lord Voldemort was kneeling on the ground, his mouth hovering over Harry's exposed erection, his eyes glinting mischievously. Harry stopped breathing.
"My mind has been consumed," that fucking voice said quietly, "with thoughts of tasting you."
He watched, utterly captivated, as Voldemort slid his tongue out and touched the tip to his leaking cock. Harry groaned, throwing his head back and slamming it against the rock wall.
The flashes of light in his vision momentarily distracted him until Voldemort's mouth closed around him and swallowed him whole.
Harry keened, struggling in Voldemort's restraining Dark magic, but the Dark Lord took no pity on him. He moaned around Harry's cock and worked at taking in as much of Harry as he could before pulling back with tight lips and a dexterous tongue.
It was conflicted bliss, as he couldn't help remembering that the hands currently massaging his balls and pumping his cock had recently murdered hundreds of people. But whenever he tried to remind himself of this fact to encourage some emotional distance between them, he would recall Voldemort promising to try and admitting that he did not want to lose Harry. Asking for another chance. In a strange way, this act felt like an apology.
Harry looked down, rapt, as the Dark Lord hollowed his cheeks, taking him right to the back of his throat, his eyes closed and an expression of intense concentration on his face. Harry's mind was blown. That wicked tongue teased him, tortured him, and Harry could only stare.
The Dark Lord is sucking my cock. Merlin's fucking hairy balls, Lord Voldemort is on his knees— on his knees!— sucking the Chosen One's cock.
If only Bellatrix Lestrange could see them now.
Voldemort pulled back leisurely, giving one last lick, and then stood.
They regarded each other, Harry's mind completely obliterated and, when Voldemort took in his expression, the other man's lips curled into a smirk.
Voldemort leaned forward slowly and kissed him, softly, sweetly. Harry tasted himself on the man's tongue and the intimacy of that made him groan, all thoughts flying from his mind. There was only Voldemort and his magic and his power and Harry hungered with a ferocity that clenched his fists and made him offer up his throat, open his legs wider, beckoning, enticing—
"Please," he begged, needing the torture to end, needing to feel that dominating body inside of him once more.
Harry watched Voldemort step back and remove his robes. With the man's magic still supporting him, keeping him in the air, Harry was completely vulnerable.
He felt a rush of exquisite fear as he really took in who was standing before him. The Dark Lord Voldemort seemed so different now, with his robes and his magic and his menacing aura. He looked lethal. Inhuman. One hundred times sexier than he had been, which was quite a feat. The traumatized, self-deprecating victim hiding under his cot, naked and fragile was erased as if he had never been.
"You will atone, Potter," Voldemort said darkly, baring his flawless skin and Harry marvelled at how all the scars from his time at the Ministry were gone. "I have disliked reading about you being so blissfully in love with that blood traitor in every newspaper I encounter."
Harry shook his head, denying it, but hearing that word spoken by this man was agony. He was blind, so fucking blind.
"I have deliberated almost every night upon what I would do to punish you."
The man was not coming any closer, just standing there, like Harry wasn't about to come from his words alone, desperate, aching—
"Yet this setting is not ideal for my plans."
Voldemort glanced to the side and Harry knew it was bloody daytime outside, in Muggle Rome, but what was the point in being with a Dark Lord if he couldn't take advantage of that power sometimes? No one could see them and the thought of being caught in such a humiliating position with Lord Voldemort standing over him made him moan, pushing his head back against the wall again, exposing his neck, wanting those teeth to rip him open, take him, do something.
"Look at you, my delectable prize," the man said lowly, and Harry glanced up, watching helplessly as those long fingers touched the Dark Lord's own body, languidly stroking that sizeable erection and just staring at Harry, tormenting him, and not fucking touching him—
"Touch me, damn you," Harry spat, thrusting his hips forward although that tantalizing body might as well have been miles away.
Voldemort smirked.
"Does your fiancée know where you are, Potter? You have tortured me for months, perhaps I should return the favour."
"No!"
Knowing the man's sadistic, psychopathic mind, Harry could guess what that would look like.
Voldemort hummed and stepped closer, close enough to touch now, but he did not. Harry groaned, his cock so hard that it was throbbing. The man's voice became low, suddenly serious.
"You ask me to follow your rules, to do as you say, and yet the one thing I ask of you—"
"One thing?" Harry blurted out indignantly. "You mean, other than saving your life?"
Those eyes darkened dangerously.
"I am immortal, Potter."
"Not from me, you're not. I could kill you."
But Harry didn't feel remotely able to inflict even a bruise upon the man at the moment. It seemed inconceivable that he could actually hold that power.
Voldemort's magic wrapped around his cock, tightening at the base, stretching his balls down, and encircled the top.
It was a fucking cock ring, that mad prick.
"Oh, come on!"
"You do not deserve to orgasm."
Harry felt magic swell around him and suddenly, everything went black.
"Hey!"
"You do not deserve to see."
Harry thrashed against the man's blasted magic.
"What the—?"
And then his voice was taken away. He felt panic erupt inside of him, but before it could spiral—
Those hands were on him, finally, finally and Harry almost came just from the touch on his thighs, those nails digging into him.
If not for that buggering cock ring.
"You do not deserve to speak. You will hang there, blind, silent, and submissive as I take you against this wall."
Harry felt his neck move, as if to moan, but no sound emerged. Well-reasoned terror coursed though him, but, sickeningly, it did not diminish his erection. At all. Fuck, they were made for each other. What kind of sick pervert got off on this shit?
"This is going to hurt, Harry," that smooth voice said in his ear, and Harry could smell the man's breath, so close. "I am going to fuck you," Harry banged his head back onto the wall in torrid shock at hearing that word on Voldemort's lips, "and I will not be preparing you in any way."
Harry felt fingers clench around his ass, grabbing big handfuls of his flesh. His body was so tense, so poised to explode that Harry was panting, only half-aware of what torture the Dark Lord was inflicting, he just wanted to come, please, I'm so close, Merlin, he can't seriously leave me like this!
"I will use you, Potter, like the communal implement that you are until you concede to give yourself to me in earnest."
Harry felt that hard cock resting against his entrance threateningly and he would have keened if he could. He wanted to thrust forward to take it in, but with Voldemort in this mood, it was likely a very bad idea to push the man. It had been so long, too long since he'd been touched by him and no matter how hard he'd tried to replicate the feeling with Muggles, it would never be the same. Nothing was. No competition.
"You ask for much without doing what I demand in return."
Harry would have shouted that he'd ditch Ginny— Ginny, who?— that very moment if it was going to allow him to come. He clenched his fingers, wishing he could beg, maybe call the man Master again, tell him he—
A sharp slap across his face whipped his head to the side, slamming it against the rock, and he froze, completely stunned. His eyes were wide open, unseeing, and he felt his cheek tingle and sting.
His cock, ready to burst, twitched in an effort to draw his balls up.
"I will not tolerate this much longer. Do you understand?"
Harry panicked, how was he supposed to respond? What—
A second blow to the same cheek had Harry's eyes watering pathetically, his face grinding against the stone. He felt brittle, scared, vulnerable. He wanted to curl up to shield himself, to hide.
"You will nod your head unless you would like another."
He closed his eyes, breathing hard and terrified of the next strike. He thought about nodding, ending the game, but that was not what either of them wanted.
Harry bowed his head, waiting in fear.
This time, Voldemort hit him with the back of his hand and Harry almost passed out, his head crashing against the wall and those boney knuckles crunching into his face.
He was bleeding now, he could tell. His head was pulsing with his rapid heart beat, his blind eyes were wet with tears—
And it felt glorious.
Better than that. It felt like freedom and flying his broom and like the best orgasm he'd ever had— yet his cock was still unsatisfied, straining against Voldemort's magic.
"I am going to take you now. Shake your head if you disagree."
Harry didn't even consider moving his head. He was a deviant fucking masochist, but what he feared most right then, with Lord Voldemort's hands on his arse and blood dripping down his face, was that this was all going to stop. That Voldemort would step away and say Harry was too much trouble, that what Harry wanted was sick, that Voldemort did not want him.
But then Harry heard the Dark Lord shift and felt that cock head press against his hole and before he could wrap his mind around what was about to happen, Voldemort pushed himself inside.
The scream that was ripped out of his throat would have been deafening if it had been able to be voiced. Instead, he just felt the pain of the tendons shifting in his neck, but it was nothing to the intense, stretched feeling his arse was enduring. It burned, and his legs wrapped tightly around that thin but powerful body as he was crushed against the wall, his face trapped between the man's sharp clavicles and the unforgiving rock.
"You are mine," Voldemort growled, fucking into him brutally, his lips pressing a startling kiss to his ear before teeth sunk into his cartilage.
Harry's cock was sliding against that firm body, his orgasm kept cruelly at the edge, teetering but never allowed to tumble.
"Mine," Voldemort said, fisting a hand in Harry's hair and tugging his head back, scraping it against the jagged rock. Exposing his neck.
Harry's body was getting shoved backwards with every violent thrust, the huge frame curled around him taking up all the space and fucking him like he wanted to punish, to capture Harry's attention.
"Once I come," Voldemort panted, leaning down and biting Harry's chest, "I will not— touch you. Again."
Harry froze, hearing the words but unable to accept them. Voldemort spoke through his deep thrusts and Harry could hear him struggling, perhaps with the effort of claiming him so thoroughly or maybe from the risk that came with sincerity.
"Not until you are ready," Voldemort rasped, grabbing him by the face, both hands on either side of his cheeks.
Those lean hips slammed against Harry as that cock plunged relentlessly inside.
"For me," Voldemort whispered, his lips right overtop of Harry's. "To be mine. To be— Only. Mine."
Harry's lips were seized and Harry immediately gave him entrance. Voldemort's tongue tangled with his, sucking and caressing him. It was perfect, so heartbreakingly wonderful—
Harry felt that body tense and then his lips were squeezed between sharp teeth and Harry knew Voldemort was coming, could feel the trembling of those limbs, as the thrusting stopped and Harry felt gratified and proud but also so desperate to follow, so close, so fucking close—
And then the magic disappeared and his body was returned to him.
For a moment, Harry fell and he was sure Voldemort meant for him to crumble down the stairs, but then arms caught him and pulled him close. He had shouted in surprise and his eyes locked onto that intense, red stare.
It was too much and when long fingers wrapped around his aching cock, the Dark Lord didn't even need to move, just a single touch, an assurance that he was not alone, that he was not forgotten, and Harry was coming so hard, convulsing for what felt like breathless minutes. Harry closed his eyes, shaking in that strong embrace for an eternity, pathetically crying and heaving with breaths.
Voldemort stayed. He stroked Harry's back, pet his hair. They didn't speak and Harry refused to make eye contact, but he didn't need to.
Voldemort stayed. To witness Harry's break down. It was something he couldn't help, it had always been this way. When his male partners got a bit more aggressive than usual, he would fall apart afterwards, crying and trembling and he had no idea why.
It had always been a shameful thing, something other men turned away from, walked away, hell, ran away from, even.
But Voldemort let Harry sit in his lap. He let him tire himself with tears and feelings. It was overwhelming and he knew if Voldemort pushed him away right then that he would likely walk to the top of this creepy execution wall and jump.
But Voldemort stayed.
Harry leaned into his touch, wishing he could burrow right inside. He pressed his face against that boney bare chest, his wet face sliding against the smooth skin. His thoughts circled around what it would be like if it could be like this, always. Just them, together. Fighting and fucking and… whole. No politics or judgement, no opposing sides of a war. Just them.
"You will let me heal your cheeks before you return," the Dark Lord murmured against his hair.
Harry reached up and touched the tender skin on his face. He wanted to keep it and prod it all day, reminding himself of this moment.
"Yeah, I guess," he answered, reluctantly.
Voldemort looked down at him and his fingers came up and covered the spot where he had struck him. Harry felt the man's magic seep into his skin and with it came a soothing warmth that took away the pain he hadn't even realized was there. He then moved his hand to the other side where his skin had scraped against the stone and healed that too.
Harry smiled up at him.
"Thanks. I never thought you'd be any good at healing."
Voldemort's eyes were unreadable.
"Just because I do not demonstrate certain knowledge does not mean I do not posses it."
Harry nodded, still reeling from everything. He began to look for his clothes, but then realized they were all in shreds. He looked up at Voldemort for help. Those eyes met his and he lazily moved his finger and the clothes gathered and mended in the air.
Many minutes later, once they were again dressed and ready to depart, Harry hesitated, crossing his arms.
"Look, I'm sorry about that."
Voldemort's lips thinned before he replied, "Do not be."
"No, I am," Harry said, needing Voldemort not to see him as weak. "I don't even know why I cried, it's so embarrassing."
Voldemort stared at Harry intently.
"You have seen me thus."
Harry took a moment to let that statement sink in. He had. He had seen this powerful, Dark, unshakable being cry and beg and cower…
"Yeah, but that was different. You were being…"
Voldemort flinched the smallest amount, only visible in his eyes, but Harry caught it.
"Anyways—"
"Do not ignore my warning about your opportunistic trollop, Harry. This is the last time."
Those words terrified him more than he wanted to show, so he focused on something else.
"It's not her fault. You don't have to be so rude to her. If you're angry, be angry at me."
"I am angry at you."
Harry laughed, nervously. The whole situation was messed up. It was ridiculously backwards that he felt guilty about being with his fiancée. He shouldn't. They were promised to each other. But that fact didn't erase the very real ache of betrayal he felt towards Voldemort every time he had to touch her.
"Okay, look. Even if I agreed to this… she's the only thing keeping me alive." He glared at Voldemort. "You're not there. You left. You have no idea what it's been like, without you."
Harry had meant to expand on that, but his throat had closed, sore and tight.
"I have a sense," Voldemort muttered.
Harry shot him a disbelieving look, about to roll his eyes— and then he saw it. That pain again. That vulnerability. Could it be that Voldemort was as tortured by their separation as he was?
"Come home with me," Harry whispered.
Voldemort looked away.
"I have not succeeded at my purpose yet."
"Immortality?" When the other man remained silent, Harry made a frustrated sound. "Would you stop with that? You're already immortal. I don't know what else I have to do to prove to you that I am not going to kill you."
"Yet, you can."
"Yes. Great. In theory, sure. But don't you get it? I should be killing you now. You just did something…"
He looked away, trying not to get dragged down by all the lives he was responsible for ending.
"I said I would stop you if you started this again. And then I let you fuck me instead. Do you see how powerless I am against you?"
Voldemort met his gaze once more, his eyes burning with pride. Harry wanted to snort at how predictable the man was. Instead, he looked out at the Muggles, milling about.
"Come back with me," he tried again. "To my home. Live with me."
"I do not require your protection."
Harry glared at Voldemort.
"It's not about protection! It's… You say you want Ginny gone, but… I don't do well living on my own."
A pause, then, "No."
Harry growled.
"Riddle Manor, then. It still belongs to you, I looked it up. No one has been able to touch it since you… left."
Bugger, he had to stop reminding the man of his time at the Ministry. Harry let a small smile touch his lips.
"You know, they never could get inside. I'm assuming you set up some obstacles?"
Voldemort smirked.
"Perhaps."
Harry's smile grew, amused by how Voldemort had outmaneuvered them all in so many ways, despite his capture.
"So, Riddle Manor. You could live there."
"What makes you think I would want to live in my father's house?"
"It's your house now."
"I have no desire to call that cesspit mine."
Harry thrilled to hear that Voldemort didn't toss around that word. Yet Harry had made the cut.
"There is a place in the world," he recited, with mock seriousness, "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."
"Funny, Potter," Voldemort said impassively. "I do not think anyone has ever had the audacity to describe me as a victim before." He tilted his head. "You really do have an excellent memory."
Harry laughed.
"Yeah, for useless shit. But stop distracting me. I want you to come back and stay at Riddle Manor." Voldemort was silent. "Come on. It's just a house."
"Would you reduce your relative's home to the sum of its parts?"
"See? That's what I was saying!"
Voldemort sneered.
"Yes, but I have no further actions to take. I have won. I killed my father and his parents. I have revenged myself upon them. You, have not."
"Well, then, what better way to celebrate than to take the spoils?"
"I require nothing from them."
"But it will be safe for you there."
"It is safe for me everywhere."
Harry groaned in frustration about to give up. Then it hit him what losing this argument meant.
"So," he ventured, wishing he could delay this moment, but he had to know, "you're staying here. And I… I have to go home."
"Have to."
Harry growled and slapped a hand onto his chest.
"I have a job! A home… friends…"
And yet, all this suddenly seemed irrelevant when stacked against losing Voldemort. He blew out a breath.
"Here," that voice said abruptly.
Harry looked over. Voldemort had conjured a parchment and Harry felt the man's magic sink into it, making it shine and tremble. It was fascinating, watching the man call up his power so effortlessly and create something before his eyes. This bloody supreme being still didn't even have a wand.
When finished, Voldemort held two ordinary-looking pieces of parchment and handed one over. Harry took it cautiously and before he could ask, Voldemort gestured to Harry's with one long, white finger.
"You may write to me with this. If you do, it will show up on my copy."
He indicated his own. Harry felt his face break into a huge grin.
"Like the diary!"
The idea of being able to carry around an instant means of communication with Voldemort while away made the prospect a whole lot less daunting. The man nodded, lips curling at Harry's obvious enjoyment.
"So, you'll write back?" Another nod. "Is this just for emergencies or can I write any time?"
"You may write whenever you would like. I cannot guarantee my immediate response, as I may be otherwise engaged, but I will do my best."
Harry's insides warmed at the thought that Voldemort would try to put Harry first, when he could. That he was even a consideration was strange without compare.
A thought occurred to him.
"What about if I… am having trouble. Since you left…"
Harry turned back to regard the Muggles again, willing his eyes not to water. Don't dwell, just get it out.
"Being away from you is hard. My magic, my health, my bloody sanity… It all suffers. Just… touching you is enough to calm it all."
Harry turned back to Voldemort, whose eyes were hooded and intense. He forced himself to continue.
"So. If I ask you to come back, even just for an hour to…" Christ, I am pathetic. He winced. "Hold me. Will you? Will you come if I ask?"
They stared at each other and Harry tried not to flinch under that searching gaze.
"So long as you do not seek to use it as a means to attempt to manipulate me," Voldemort replied, a note of warning in his tone, "I will."
Harry nodded, releasing a breath, a small smile creeping onto his face.
It was time to leave, he could feel it in the tension between them, but Voldemort continued to watch him as if deciding whether or not to speak. Harry waited, both afraid and hopeful.
"There are," Voldemort began, hesitantly, "lives I am owed. Those who must pay for my time at the Ministry. You once agreed to help me."
Harry tensed, remembering that conversation. He understood that the man would want vengeance against those that has tortured him, but he was unsure if he could actually follow through with his offer.
"I—" he began, heavy with dread and guilt.
"I do not require your assistance," Voldemort clarified, a sardonic look crossing his face until it was wiped blank again. "I am, instead, interested in your… approval."
He said the last word like a curse, a slight sneer lifting his lips.
A jolt of shock went through him. Approval? That was impossible. He tried to focus.
"Okay," he said slowly. "Who are we talking about?"
Voldemort's eyes narrowed, a frightening shadow crossing them.
"Harris. Walker."
He spoke the names slowly, the words becoming almost sibilant. He then lifted a hairless brow in challenge.
"Shacklebolt."
"No," Harry denied. "Not him. The other two you can have, but—"
"It is under Shacklebolt's orders that I endured what I did, Potter! You cannot expect me to—"
"He's the Minister for Magic! You can't just kill him! He's too well-protected, there will be immense investigations into his death, you'll be caught for sure!"
Voldemort was watching him again, head tilted, expression intrigued.
"I had assumed," he said softly, sounding amused, "that you would have led with the fact that he is your friend."
Harry groaned with embarrassment. Bugger.
"I didn't think you'd listen to that," Harry said sullenly. "I didn't expect you to care about my feelings."
Voldemort took a step towards him, his red eyes intense.
"You are lying. I have considered your feeling before. You know you can appeal on their behalf. Is it possible that you place my life above that of your dear friend's?"
"Why does it have to be a competition?" Harry muttered, looking away.
"Everything is a competition," Voldemort whispered, stepping closer still and guiding Harry's gaze to return with a long finger on his chin. "And I always win."
"You're so fucking insufferable," Harry mumbled, but his head tilted back mutinously as the Dark Lord loomed over him.
Harry's eyelids fluttered closed when Voldemort began to lean down. His heartbeat exploded, his skin tingled, and he reached out to grab onto the man's robes. Fingers wrapped around Harry's back, pulling him forwards and fitting him snuggly against that taller body. Harry held his breath, dropping his head farther back, and offering himself shamelessly, eager to feel those lips, that tongue…
"I look forward," Voldemort whispered, against his mouth, "to reading about your separation from Ms Weasley, Potter." He licked Harry's top lip slowly. "Until then…"
He pulled away.
Harry's awareness took a moment to catch up. When it did, his eyes flew open and he shoved the older man all the way back, furious at being teased.
"You bloody bastard," Harry growled, hating the man's smug smirk and his own reawakening erection.
It was incredibly frustrating, yet endlessly arousing, to be toyed with by the Dark Lord.
Voldemort grinned, showing too many teeth. He looked menacing and evil and so damn sexy that Harry was caught, helpless as the man suddenly Disapparated.
The wards fell at once and Harry was left exposed and alone. He began to laugh softly.
Sodding prick.