Chapter 23
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Harry sat across from Ron and Hermione at his dining room table. It felt like they were a panel of judges and he'd just lost the Triwizard Tournament. He picked at the skin on his thumb, which was already raw and bloody. He brought it to his mouth a chewed off a ragged bit.
"Stop that," Hermione chided him.
"Why?" Harry asked sullenly.
They were here to yell at him some more, what did it matter what his fingers looked like?
He twirled the ring on his finger, thinking about nothing in particular, just letting his mind wander.
"Harry," Hermione said. "Are you listening?"
She reached a hand across the wide expanse of table, but stopped just short of touching him. He brought his hands into his lap.
"He's not," Ron said, irritation clear in his voice. "We're wasting our time, Hermione. He's already given up."
No I haven't, he wanted to say, but that was a lie.
"Okay, Harry. We can see what is happening here. You're fading again. And now that we know why and how you get better, we have to talk about options."
Options.
What options did he have? He needed Voldemort, but that made him a traitor and a faggot so where exactly did that leave him? What could he do that they would approve of?
"I've been thinking about this," Hermione said, "and I may have an idea that will help you… balance yourself and also keep Voldemort from starting another war."
Harry looked down into his lap and stroked the ring, pulling it off and then sliding it back on.
"Harry. You need to listen."
"Oi!" Ron shouted, and it startled Harry enough to bring his attention back onto her.
"We get him back here," Hermione said, talking fast, "we use you to get him to come back to England and then snap a similar collar on him. I've been doing some research and—"
Harry looked back down at his hands.
"Never mind the research, just tell him the plan," Ron said impatiently.
"Right. Once we have him here with another collar, we can ensure that you have regular access to him and we control his treatment. I've thought up a few better ways to keep him from getting his collar off that don't requite pain. So he won't be abused, Harry."
This was precisely what Voldemort had been afraid of. They would promise Harry anything regarding their conduct, but once they had him, they would do with him as they pleased.
"No," he said firmly.
He wasn't going to be responsible for the man being abused again.
"He killed three-hundred people, mate," Ron said, his voice scathing. "Maybe try and think about them and not your prick."
"Ron!" Hermione said, and Harry shrunk into himself a bit more. "That's not at all helpful."
Harry heard Ron scoff and his chair slid against the ground. He must have gotten up, but Harry kept looking down at his hands.
A touch on his shoulder had him flinching, head snapping up to find Hermione seated next to him. Her palm was warm against his shoulder. Her face was kind.
"This really is the best option. Get him back and kept under control and then you can still… have contact with him. We'll protect both him and the wizarding community."
Protect. Ha. He was sure Voldemort wouldn't see it that way.
"I won't betray him."
Ron was suddenly right beside him and Harry looked up into his furious face.
"Oh, so you won't betray him, but you're perfectly fine reneging on your promise to my sister in exchange for a murdering psychopath? Or betraying the whole fucking world? Nice to know your priorities."
Harry tried to organize his thoughts, but it was hard to do so with Ron standing over him, fists clenched.
"I agree that he can't keep killing people," Harry said quietly. "I know he has to be stopped." But he made me a promise that he would try and I need to see if he is capable of that. "I just don't want to do it this way."
"What would you suggest, then?" Ron asked, his tone already dismissing whatever it was Harry was going to propose.
Harry shook his head. Gods, was he about to say this?
"One more chance," Harry said, hearing how juvenile that sounded. "I spoke to him after… Italy. And he said he would try."
He wasn't ready for Ron's mocking voice.
"Try? You can't be bleeding serious. We're not talking about asking him to be nice or some other ridiculous shit! We're asking him to stop murdering people! We can't gamble with people's lives. What if this one more chance takes Ginny? Or Hermione?"
"He's got a point, Harry," Hermione said. "We would be risking people's lives just to test a theory on whether the Dark Lord is able or willing to try to stop killing people." She paused. "And that's not even a promise to stop, just to arrest the impulse. He could still kill and say that he did try not to, but was unable."
Harry squeezed his eyes closed.
"I know. I understand. But if you want to use me as bait, these are my terms."
"Pretty fucking selfish terms, wouldn't you say?" Ron replied.
Harry nodded once, hating how pathetic he was.
"I don't like this, Harry," Hermione said, her voice uncertain. "I still think we should tell Kingsley and get him back as fast as possible. I don't think we should risk lives."
Harry sighed.
"Okay. But you'll have to do it without me. I already told you, Italy was my fault. I gave him a chance to prove he could change and I'm going to allow him to maybe earn his freedom."
"His freedom?" Ron shouted, his face going red. "You think you get to unanimously decide if the Darkest wizard of all time should be allowed to walk free? Don't you think Andromeda Tonks should get a say? Or Colin's mother? What about me? Do I get a say?"
"He hurt me too," Harry whispered. "That doesn't mean—"
"Oh, I bet he did hurt you. When he fucked you up the arse."
"Ron, enough," Hermione said, turning to her husband and placing a hand on his arm.
Ron blew out a loud breath, threw up his arms, and walked away again.
"You want to believe in him," Hermione said. "I understand, I do. I did too, for what it's worth. I really wanted you to be happy. But you keep trying to build him into someone he can never be for you. He's not a normal person, a good person."
Harry grimaced, looking away.
"How would you know?"
Hermione raised her eyebrows.
"We did fight him for years with you, in case you forgot."
"Yeah, but have you ever actually spoken to him?" Harry asked, hating how superior she sounded, so certain. "Ever? Even once? How can you say you know him when he's never actually looked you in the eye? Or had a single conversation with you? You have no idea what kind of person he is."
"Okay," Hermione said, drawing out the word, sounded insultingly skeptical, "that's a fair point, but can you truly say that you know him?"
Harry sighed.
"I think I do."
He heard Ron give a loud, derisive laugh.
"I'm not an idiot," Harry said. "I know what he's done and what he's capable of, but is it so crazy to think that the twelve years he spent getting raped and tortured and killed every day changed him?"
Hermione smiled sadly at him.
"Honestly? Yes. This is Voldemort. He doesn't care, he doesn't understand love or sacrifice or anything but his own selfish ambitions."
Harry was shaking his head.
"You don't know that."
"I suppose. But don't you hear how naïve you sound, asking if he can change? I know you two have connected, but he's still the man who killed your parents, Harry. Who tried to kill you for your whole life. How can you just ignore all that?"
He didn't know. All he knew was that the Ministry could not be trusted with Voldemort and if battle lines were being drawn he was stuck, helpless, in the middle.
.
.
Two days later, Harry was drinking Firewhisky on the floor in the kitchen of his new place, his back leaning heavily against the cupboards. His eyes were closed, his heart pounding.
Today had been rough. His second panic attack had just released him and he felt weak and nervous. It was getting bad again. He looked down at his watch and cringed at the time. 6:12. He still had four more hours until unconsciousness could claim him. He had to fill that time, but the wide expanse was intimidating because he knew what thoughts would occupy him.
He stood, resolved to fight it. He plunked the glass on the counter and walked to the window. The view was desolate: a back ally, dark and empty. No hint of sky nor nature. But he wasn't here on vacation; he was here to hide, so it would do.
Turning away, he trudged over to a chair. This place was sparsely furnished as he'd only brought the necessities. Not like he could manage leisure activities anyway. He'd just do some paperwork that he hadn't finished today. The hours at work seemed endless, but somehow he never managed to get anything done.
Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a folder and opened it.
Long, pale fingers wrapped around his wrist, holding him. Those red eyes burned with sincerity as that thin mouth spoke, "I will try."
Harry thumped his head back and groaned. No. He needed to focus.
The quill trembled as he held it, his throat convulsively swallowing. Without thought, he shifted his body and plunged his hand into his trouser pocket, pulling out the parchment he carried everywhere with him.
This is really hard. I'm not okay.
Even just writing those words felt better. His pulse was still fast, but this time with anticipation.
Elaborate.
The response was faster than usual and for this, he was grateful. Harry felt his whole body relax, his eyes closing. But the weight did not leave from his chest.
I feel brittle. Disconnected.
Harry paused for a response, but then his hand kept writing.
The other day I stood in Muggle London by all the cars rushing past and I imagined how easy it would be to just take a step forward. Into the traffic. I wasn't even scared.
The words disappeared.
Then I remembered that I can't die and I felt so cheated.
I wanted to die so badly.
I just want to
Harry closed his eyes, trying to block the dark feelings from crushing him. Even simply writing about it was almost enough to bring him right back to that busy road.
I don't know how to stop feeling so guilty and alone and sad and broken and scared and like a disappointment.
The words sunk into the paper and Harry kept writing.
And now it's like every dangerous thing calls to me. I have to put in tremendous effort just to live.
Which was surely fucked up. Not being able to die didn't mean he wanted to live. Harry chewed his finger while he waited for the verdict.
You are not to entertain this madness, Harry. You are stronger than that.
Of course.
It wasn't like paranoid, immortal Lord Voldemort would be able to empathize with these feelings.
I'm really not. Really really really really
You must be. If you will no longer live for yourself, you will live for me.
What else did he think Harry was doing? He had no more friends, no fiancée, his job was a joke, and his surrogate family hated him now because of what he'd done to Ginny with his perverted sexuality. He only had Voldemort, who…
Why do you care if I live or die? You're still not back. You said if I ditched Ginny you'd come back but you're not here. You
I have some tasks I must complete before I can come for you. But trust that I am coming for you. Soon.
You're so far. Are you still in Germany?
I am in England.
England.
England.
He was home. He was so close.
I need you. If you're here I need you.
Be patient, Harry.
You said you'd come. You promised.
The parchment remained blank for so long that Harry was certain he'd scared the other man away. He dug his fingernail into the skin around his cuticle, pulling it until it bled.
Tonight. Can you wait until then?
No.
Harry took a deep breath. Don't act so pathetic. Nobody likes a needy, clingy person.
Yes. Fine.
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm.
Yes. I can wait.
Tonight, Harry. I cannot stay, but I will come to you tonight.
I'm not at home. I had to leave because my friends
—Hate me, hate you, know you killed all those people, want to trap you and take you to the Ministry again—
I found another place. I still have the flat, but I don't stay there.
I will find you.
I don't even know the address, I'll have to look it up.
I do not require it. I will find you myself.
Harry wanted to write Stalker, but the thought that Voldemort would be able to find him wasn't the terrifying one it should be.
Until tonight, Harry.
Please hurry.
.
.
"Harry."
The flying car swerved and almost collided with the Whomping Willow again, but Ginny managed to correct the direction just in time. Harry held on to the dashboard with white fingers as—
"Harry," a soft, high voice spoke again, close by, and Harry was instantly awake.
Voldemort was kneeling beside him, hand resting on Harry's back, on the dusty floor by the hearth. Harry's heart surged with affection as he took in that face, the gorgeous, searing eyes, the delicate mouth, the pale, silky skin—
He made a strangled sound and dragged himself into the Dark Lord's lap, pushing his face against the cool material of the man's black robes. His arms reached around to encircle that thin waist and his fingers gripped the material tight, as if afraid he would be pulled away.
"You came," he rasped, closing his eyes and drawing in a deep lungful of the delicious, addictive scent of the man.
"I said I would," was the response, and Harry's heart leapt, hysterically taking that to mean any promise he made would be fulfilled.
Here was proof that he would try!
"It seems you were not exaggerating," Voldemort noted, his hands touching Harry's back and nape.
Harry laughed thinly at that understatement. Voldemort shifted as if to stand, but Harry just clung tighter and moaned, "Please."
He felt magic surround them and then the body beneath him pulled him closer and settled him to lay more comfortably. Harry looked up. Voldemort was reclining against a cushion of his own Dark magic. His face was unreadable.
"Tell me what happened."
Harry turned away, leaning his head down on the man's sternum.
"You mentioned fleeing from your friends," the Dark Lord persisted. "You have not confirmed if you have told them about me."
Harry flinched, his shoulders drawing up and he curled tighter around that skinny body.
"I don't want to talk about them."
Fingers wove into his hair and pulled his head back, slowly, but not kindly. He was forced to meet that dangerous gaze.
"Answer me."
He tried to resist, but he was only ever able to submit to this man lately.
"They guessed," he confessed. "Hermione did."
"Only the girl knows?"
Harry shook his head. The fingers in his hair tightened. Harry understood the unspoken command.
"She told Ron," he replied, feeling horrible. Knowing he was about to lose Voldemort too. "He told Ginny. She… swore not to tell anyone about you, but she did tell her family that I'm an abnormal deviant and that has spread like wildfire. It hasn't hit the media yet, but it's only a matter of time."
And he would lose it all. Robards would fire him and everyone would harass him until he couldn't take it anymore.
"Tell me why."
"She guessed." Harry was supremely appreciative that Voldemort was still holding him despite his blunder. "I didn't just decide to tell her. She mentioned you and I didn't… react like I normally do. I had just seen you so I wasn't suffering. I told her I was over you."
Harry snorted, imagining a world where he would ever be over Lord Voldemort. The man was in him now, like a splinter.
"Surprisingly," Harry went on, "she didn't buy that and it made her suspicious. That's all Hermione needed to work out every damn thing from there. She knows everything."
He shifted and brought his hand to interlace with Voldemort's where it rested on Harry's side. He looked up.
"I'm sorry." The red eyes watched him, giving nothing away. "I know I betrayed you. I should have lied, but I'm bollocks at it and I thought she would keep the secret. I was wrong, obviously. And now a Ministry worker knows about you as well as two other people. I've put you in danger."
Voldemort didn't reply and the silence that stretched between them became resonant with accusations and betrayal. Harry looked away, his heart pounding furiously, desperate for the other man to just say something, anything, yell or scream or curse him or—
"You have not failed me, Harry." Harry's eyes snapped up to meet Voldemort's. "I am not hiding. I would have preferred to have had more time, but it is not as if my survival could have remained a secret forever."
Harry cringed.
"If the Ministry finds out you're still alive, I'll be thrown into Azkaban."
Those red eyes bored into him.
"So come with me."
Harry's head pulled back.
"What do you mean?"
"Live with me. Join me."
Harry stared at him, uncomprehending, for a few beats of his heart.
"Never!" he spat, removing himself from Voldemort and standing. "Is that what this has always been about? You want to collect another Death Eater?"
The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow, looking murderous, his head lowered and his eyes peering from beneath his hairless brows. He stood slowly and Harry was suddenly reminded of how much taller the man was.
"Careful, Potter."
"Well, is it? Because that will never happen. I'd rather die."
"What was your plan then? Was I to come to you? Were you merely seeking to recruit another member of the Order of the Phoenix?"
Voldemort said the name with a vicious sneer.
"The Order has disbanded," Harry countered. "We had no more psychotic, megalomaniac Dark Lords to—"
Hands were suddenly around his throat, pulling him up off his feet with the help of the man's thrashing Dark magic.
"You dare to speak to me in such a way," Voldemort hissed, his face almost pressed against Harry's. "I could remove your head effortlessly, squeeze you until you were a liquid, drain your blood until you begged forgiveness from me, until you were finally able to grasp how close you are standing to destruction."
Voldemort glared at him, livid, for moments longer and then threw him to the ground. Harry took in deep gasps of breath, clutching his sore throat. He looked up at Voldemort through watery eyes.
"Though, for a suicidal man," Voldemort seemed to muse sardonically, walking away in a billow of robes and seating himself on the only chair in the room, "perhaps that would be a service."
Harry hated how his body responded to this man. It was not healthy for violence to be used in relationships. He would never have laid hands on Ginny like this nor would he stand for it if Ron treated Hermione in such a way.
Harry sat on the floor, his throat throbbing with pain, his body splayed out where he had been thrown, and he looked up at the Dark Lord Voldemort seated imperiously in his chair, legs spread wide and feet planted firmly on the floor. Confident. Imposing.
So fucking sexy.
"You are a fool to believe that I would come to you," Voldemort said, steepling his fingers as his elbows perched on the armrests. "You reject my offer, but expect me to accept yours. That will never happen. You know who I am, knew it even when you released me. Do not expect me to bend if you are unwilling to do so."
"I will bend," Harry said, recognizing how close they were to stubbornly walking away from each other. "I can. But you have to as well."
"Yet you will not join me," Voldemort countered angrily. "So where is this going? I cannot be domesticated, Potter. I can bend, but you cannot break me."
"I know."
"I have lived with you. I have seen your life. You refuse to see mine."
Harry nodded, but felt destroyed.
"Please," he whispered. "Don't leave me."
Voldemort sneered and stood, turning his back on Harry.
It was all falling apart and he couldn't stop it, couldn't seem to find the right words. He would never become a Death Eater, how could the man think that was even an option?
"I just… I just want you to stop killing." Harry took a deep breath. "I know who you are. I know you won't settle for a simple life, but we can figure out what your life can look like without murder. Together."
Voldemort kept his back to Harry. He couldn't see the man's hands, just that pale neck and scalp. His fingers twitched, wanting to reach out.
"I am not a pet," Voldemort said with venom, still not turning. "Not even for you."
"I know," Harry replied, and he stood.
Voldemort's body immediately tensed, sensing Harry getting closer.
"Please," Harry said, almost near enough to touch.
"Stop."
Harry did, his hand outstretched but waiting. Voldemort turned and took in Harry's stance, his face, and the Dark Lord's gaze seemed to soften.
"I must go."
Harry let his hand drop. Voldemort watched the movement almost helplessly. Harry didn't know what to say.
"I have made something for you," Voldemort added, perhaps with a hint of uncertainty. "To help."
He reached into his robes and pulled out a tiny silver hoop. Harry stared at it, confused, then looked up at Voldemort.
"It occurred to me," the other man said, scrutinizing Harry's face, "that this may not be received well. If not, I will take it back."
"What is it?" Harry asked, reaching out to touch the metal.
When his fingers connected with it, a shock of gentle, comforting electricity went through him and he instantly knew.
"It's a Horcrux," he breathed, looking up again at Voldemort who was watching Harry's reaction closely.
Harry picked up the piece of silver from Voldemort's open palm and closed his hand around it. It hummed against him and Harry closed his eyes.
"Yes," Voldemort answered, and his voice was low. "To replace the one I took from you."
Harry opened his eyes and then it hit him that Voldemort had killed someone. He had said he would try and then he had killed someone.
For Harry.
To give Harry a piece of his soul to keep.
It was too much to take in. Harry let out a ragged breath and stumbled to the chair, sitting down heavily. He opened his palm and looked at the Horcrux.
"What is it?"
He heard Voldemort move closer.
"Silver."
Harry touched the metal and felt the soothing thrum move through him.
"No kidding," Harry quipped, without any bite. He felt good holding it. "What is it for?"
"Let me show you."
Voldemort stepped out in front of him and suddenly sank to his knees. Harry felt his breath catch. The Dark Lord smirked and held out his hand.
Harry was confused for a moment and then realized what the gesture meant. But he didn't want to relinquish the tiny object. He closed his palm and brought his fist cradled to his chest.
"No," Harry said vehemently. "I want it."
"I know," Voldemort said quietly, his red eyes dancing. "Let me put it on you."
Harry frowned, his fist still tightly clenched.
"Is it a ring?"
Voldemort shook his head, then reached out and gently wove his fingers through Harry's other hand. His left hand.
"You already wear my ring," Voldemort said ominously, as his long thumb stroked the black stone and the skin around it.
Harry felt that touch go straight to his cock.
"Left or right?" Voldemort questioned.
Harry was about to ask what he was talking about when cool fingers reached up and lightly squeezed Harry's left earlobe.
"Wha—?"
Voldemort gripped the armrest and pulled himself closer, taking Harry's lobe between his teeth and biting down. Harry's body jolted forward, crashing against Voldemort's.
"This one," Voldemort muttered between his teeth, and then traced his face against Harry's as he moved to the other side and tongued Harry's other earlobe, gathering it into his mouth and biting down.
"Or this one."
Harry's hands moved to grip onto Voldemort's shoulders, drawing him closer, loving the way that long body pressed against him.
"Oh gods," Harry moaned, turning his face to capture the other man's lips, demanding entrance.
Voldemort deepened the kiss, immediately taking over and pulling Harry forward so that he no longer had to strain and Harry was forced to perch on the edge of his seat.
The Dark Lord pulled back and regarded him wildly.
"Make a choice, Harry."
Words swam stupidly through his head, but nothing made contact. Voldemort seemed to recognize his struggle.
"Which earlobe would you prefer?"
"Why?" Harry asked, before his brain caught up.
He looked down and opened his palm where the silver had been kept safely. He looked back up at Voldemort.
"You choose," Harry answered, incapable of much else.
Voldemort was watching him avidly. He seemed to read something in Harry's expression because he nodded back and took the silver out of Harry's palm before Harry could protest. He still made an embarrassing mewing sound, but Voldemort merely smiled.
"Patience," he said, amused. "It is yours, I will not take it from you."
Harry watched as Voldemort conjured a needle, thin and sharp, and Harry felt a surge of agonizing arousal go through him at the sight.
"Do you understand what I am about to do, Harry?"
"Yes," Harry rasped, his cock throbbing in sync with his heart.
"Do you consent?"
Harry could only nod once, his fists clenched, his breath stuttered.
Voldemort's hands came up and tilted his head slightly to face away, so that Harry was looking at the bare wall. He knew his ear was now exposed, vulnerable before the Dark Lord. He was about to be marked by the man. With a piece of his soul.
"Brace yourself," Voldemort said, with an unapologetic, possessive look and then raised the needle.
Harry tensed. A sudden, quick sting of pain and then tugging as fingers moved to pull something through his skin. It hurt, but more than that it was so fucking hot.
He was being marked.
Voldemort was putting a mark on Harry that anyone could see. Of ownership. Of… support.
He had split his soul again to ease Harry's suffering. He willingly gave a piece of his soul to the person who had worked to destroy every other piece.
It was a mark of trust, more than anything.
When Voldemort's hands receded, Harry grabbed them and held them tightly in his own. His eyes were closed; he couldn't bear to look at the man, but he needed him to know.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Lips pressed against his forehead and Harry opened his eyes in surprise.
"It suits you," Voldemort said, his eyes fixed on Harry's left ear.
"Do you really have to go?" Harry asked quietly, feeling fragile and overwhelmed.
Voldemort was silent. Harry waited, feeling more and more out of control the longer the tension built. He needed to feel those hands on him, he needed confirmation and connection and—
Voldemort's fingers touched his earlobe and Harry looked up to meet that steady red gaze.
Something darkened in them and then Voldemort pinched that silver hoop and pulled.
Harry keened, collapsing against the other man and falling into his lap. Pain exploded in his freshly pierced skin, igniting his nerves and shooting him through with adrenaline.
"Fuck!" Harry shouted, throwing his head back and relishing those sharp teeth that immediately scraped against his throat.
"Bed," Voldemort demanded, and Harry pointed vaguely behind him.
He felt the familiar tug at his navel of Apparition and then he was thrown onto his back, on his mattress, his clothes melting away. Harry took a moment to be astounded by Voldemort's ridiculous power.
"Do you even have a wand?" Harry asked, laughing breathlessly in awe.
"I do," Voldemort replied, slowly removing his clothing by hand while Harry memorized every inch. "Though I find it only hinders me now."
Harry chuckled weakly, his eyes roaming that lithe frame.
"What are you?" he asked.
Hands slid up his naked body and Harry watched as Voldemort came onto the bed, crawling closer, his eyes fierce and hungry.
"What I am, Harry, is your Master."
Harry felt a shiver go through him at the words, still baffled that calling the Dark Lord Master didn't either send him running or laughing in the man's face.
"You belong to me and I protect what is mine."
Voldemort gestured with his left hand and Harry's wrists were again encircled with Dark magic and secured to the head of the bed.
"You really do like control, eh?" Harry said, a thrill of fear going through him when Voldemort's eyes met his.
"I do not want you to escape," Voldemort replied, his body sinking down and pressing against the whole of Harry's.
"I won't," he breathed. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be."
Voldemort leaned down and Harry thought he was going to kiss him, but that pale face veered left and instead began to mouth and lick at the piercing in his ear. Harry moaned, his hips jerking forward and rutting against the man's stomach. His arms twitched, hoping to be able to feel that smooth, gorgeous skin, but the flat ropes of magic kept him restrained.
"The next time you think to end your life," Voldemort said, dragging his tongue along the cartilage in his ear, and Harry froze, "you will touch my soul, feel that you are not alone, and know to harm yourself is to harm me. And I will not allow it."
He was still so achingly hard from when Voldemort had pierced him and these fucking borderline romantic words were threatening to undo him.
"Do you understand, Harry?" the other man continued, pulling back and meeting Harry's eyes. "You belong to me. You injure me if you seek to injure yourself."
Harry nodded, yet more out of desperation than any true comprehension. Voldemort held his gaze, but eventually inclined his head, accepting his agreement.
Before he could ponder the implications, Voldemort took the tiny metal hoop into his mouth and bit down.
Harry screamed, arms jerking up, legs kicking, but it was no use. Voldemort leaned down and kissed him hard and he tasted like blood, which made Harry's cock swell that much more. Fingers moved down his body and circled around his entrance, teasingly.
"Shall I prepare you, or—"
"If you don't fuck me right now, I'm going to die," Harry threatened, glaring up at Voldemort.
Those red eyes flashed with amusement.
"After all my attempts, how intriguing that this was all I had to do."
A laugh was startled out of him.
"Oh Merlin," Harry said, "now I'm picturing us doing this instead of fighting all those years…"
Voldemort smirked.
"Quiet."
Harry's amusement was abruptly ended when Voldemort lifted one side of Harry's hips and slapped a hand down hard on his arse cheek, the sound ringing through the air.
Harry took a deep breath and stared up at the Dark Lord, feeling suddenly young and terrified. Voldemort was watching his expression, reading it carefully. They held each other's gaze for a long moment.
Then Voldemort slapped his hand down again and Harry gasped in a breath. It hurt, but it was more than that. Pain was something they both understood and Harry knew his place in all this when he was getting it. Harry needed to feel pain, but he could not inflict it because it worried him to do so. Voldemort would never accept pain like this from anyone, yet he seemed to enjoy giving it.
"Count, Harry."
The next slap landed in the same place and Harry winced, but he obediently panted out a weak, "Three," that seemed to satisfy the Dark Lord.
Another slap and Harry felt tears begin to well in his eyes. Another, and Harry bit into his cheek. He kept his eyes slammed tightly closed, but his cock was throbbing with need.
"Fuck," he panted, trying to allow the pain, but there were no breaks between the strikes. Voldemort's huge hand came down, relentless over and over again.
He wanted to twist out of that punishing hold, to avoid the violence, but each time his body prepared to do so, another slap would land and Harry would feel that one step closer to perfection. That one step closer to pleasing Voldemort. The strikes kept coming, one after another, and he was somehow already up to forty-two.
"Your backside is purple, Harry," Voldemort said raggedly, his palm giving Harry a brief respite and smoothing over the searing skin.
Harry's limbs were shaking, he realized, and he could not stop it.
"Have you had enough?"
Harry felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face. His skin was on fire, it hurt so much.
Enough? That word wasn't even in his vocabulary.
"That's not for me to say, Master," Harry responded roughly, and he heard the other man almost groan, his fingers clenching and his nails sinking into Harry's tortured flesh.
"Good boy," Voldemort murmured, removing his hand and then slapping it down mercilessly on Harry's arse once more.
Harry cried out this time, a choked sob wrenched from his throat, but his cock stayed just as solid and needy under the brutal treatment. He spared a moment to recognize how fucked up his tastes were, wondering what it said about him as a person, until that hand brought him back and reminded him.
"Count, Harry."
"Forty-four," Harry rasped, his fingers clenched into fists.
"I want to get to one hundred," Voldemort said, and Harry choked, almost sobbing. "Do not disappoint me."
A loud slap landed and Harry knew every one was focused on one single spot, not allowing any breaks. It was relentless, agonizing. And fucking deliriously perfect.
Voldemort offered no safe word, no way to politely decline. Harry knew that if he stopped the Dark Lord now then this scene would never be this good again. Voldemort would always hold himself back and Harry didn't want that to ever happen. He wanted the other man frenzied. Uncontrolled.
"Sixty-six," he gasped, sweat dripping down his thighs.
He dared to open his eyes and caught a glimpse of the Dark Lord solely focused on his task, face set and eyes hard. He did not look to be enjoying himself, but Harry's gaze dared to drop and he noticed the other man's straining erection, jutting out and swaying with the movement of his strikes.
The next brutal slap had Harry flinching and slamming his eyes tightly shut again. Closing them didn't help, nothing did, but it allowed him to focus on what was important: the pain and the euphoria.
Harry felt overwhelmed, panicked, but also determined. Each strike shook his body, but there would be an end and when it came, this all would have been worth it.
"Ninety-seven," Harry cried, discharge dripping from his nose.
"Almost, my soul," Voldemort said, and Harry's heart surged at the name, wanting to scream that he loved the man, that he would do anything, that Voldemort could take everything—
Another slap and Harry bit his tongue hard, tasting blood, to stop himself from letting the words spill out because if limiting this was certain to douse the fire between them, then humiliating himself with words that the Dark Lord would never want to hear would be a death sentence.
On the last slap, Harry stuttered out the number, his whole body trembling. It was scary and intense and Harry just laid there, panting and sniffling, waiting for Voldemort to either accept him or push him away.
"You did so well, Harry," Voldemort said, his hands releasing Harry's hips and guiding them to gently rest on the sheets once more.
Harry cried out, the pain in his arse cheek was staggering and it was almost unbearable to have it touch anything.
"Would you like me to heal you?" Voldemort asked softly, sounding slightly breathless. "There is a fair amount of blood."
Harry shook his head at once, but he was aching somewhere else and it was agony, he was so close it was maddening and he couldn't even touch himself to finish, he was completely reliant on the Dark Lord to take care of him, because he needed to come, he needed—
"Please," he begged, eyes closed, hoping Voldemort would understand.
Fingers wrapped around his hard cock and then they were swiftly followed by a hot mouth, taking him deep into the Dark Lord's throat. Harry shrieked, his hips shooting forward until a strong grip pressed them back into the mattress.
Harry looked down to see that pale head bobbing up and down on his cock. He had a moment to be awestruck by the sight before his orgasm rushed up and pulled him under.