Chapter 24

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The disconcerting sensation of a beating heart under his palm woke him instantly. Voldemort opened his eyes to see the tousled black hair of his constantly surprising nemesis. Harry was still asleep, his head pillowed on Voldemort's numb arm and his naked limbs tangled with his own under the blanket.

It was unsettling. He had watched Harry fall into unconsciousness last night and had been left unattended but not unsatisfied. The boy had a sharp taste for violence that Voldemort was only too keen to sate. Seeing the boy's arse bloody and purple had ignited conflicted feelings within him.

He had always enjoyed inflicting pain on others. It gave him a rush of rightful supremacy. An acknowledgment of his power and his ability to place others below himself. Yet he had never imagined that another would compliment this desire of his so perfectly. Harry wanted the pain. It was a craving independent of Voldemort's influence. One he had sought himself before knowing of Voldemort's survival.

It was thrilling, but his experiences at the Ministry had not left him untouched.

While delivering the stinging blows last night, he had remembered the taste of the whip upon his own skin. His penchant for violence was not a current that ran in both directions.

He looked down at the boy laying carefree and defenceless in his arms. He trailed a finger down the skin of Harry's strong arm. The boy was a juxtaposition of indestructibility and fragility. He was stubborn, proud, and fatally moralistic, but somehow also needy and uncertain.

Suicidal.

Voldemort would never understand the compulsion. The boy had wanted to die, had been actively suppressing the desire and had not been winning the fight. It was incomprehensible. Terrifying. A piece of his soul was a price he could pay to avoid that.

Voldemort felt himself hardening against the boy's thighs, remembering how Harry had responded to his gift. How his body had flushed and pressed helplessly against him when he had pierced his skin. How he had sounded when Voldemort had mouthed his mark— another mark of his on the boy.

He had made a choice last night to stay despite his plans to make contact with Bella. He had meant to leave, but after the boy had collapsed, bloody and used, trusting and defenceless and unbearably beautiful, it had been impossible to depart. Bella could wait.

He had been exhausted, anyway. Creating a Horcrux was very draining and he had come to Harry last night weakened from the ritual. It had been a gamble, offering the boy a piece of his soul, knowing the boy disapproved of the price, but Harry had surprised him with his vehemence to keep it.

And then, after the boy had fallen into unconsciousness, he had found himself in a startling situation for the second time:

Harry Potter, asleep and completely vulnerable before him.

On the last occasion, Voldemort had been weakened still from his time at the Ministry and without his magic.

Now, he was strong. He was restored. It would have been obscenely easy to steal the Elder Wand and finish his decades-long objective.

He could kill the boy.

He could win and how sweet a victory would that have been after disappointingly accepting that he must forever lose this battle?

Harry had slept on for long minutes while Voldemort had willed his rapacious self-preservation to act. This had been his most solemn desire for so long: the boy, dead. Defeated at his hand so that none could deny Lord Voldemort's superiority. His limitless, uncontrollable dominance and power.

The boy had then shifted in his sleep, eyebrows scrunching together with obvious discomfort, and Voldemort had been immediately derailed. Harry had been in pain, likely from the purple and bloody mess he had made of that pliant skin.

Leaning over, he had gently healed the bruising and then watched, mesmerized, as the boy's expression had softened, relaxed, his limbs curling around Voldemort's body, beckoning him to let it go. To join him.

He had surrendered.

The body currently in his arms made a small, groaning sound, waking Voldemort from his recollections. He watched as the boy's legs stretched out, his back arching against him.

Harry laced their fingers together and brought Voldemort's hand to his lips, kissing it.

"You're still here," Harry stated redundantly, twisting around and looking at Voldemort with a soft smile. "I thought you had something to do last night."

Voldemort allowed the boy to roll onto his back and felt a thrill of possessiveness go through him when he saw the red bite marks on his neck. He looked positively debauched.

"I did," Voldemort replied, tucking the wild, black hair behind his ear, exposing that handsome face to his examination.

"What was it?" the boy persisted. "Will you be…?"

Harry trailed off, obviously struggling with inquiring if Voldemort would somehow be held accountable for his absence.

"One of the many advantages to being the Dark Lord is that I am not subject to questioning."

The boy's face fell for some reason. He looked suddenly sad.

"So you were meeting someone."

"Yes."

"Who?"

Voldemort reached out and lightly flicked the dried blood off of his Horcrux resting in Harry's ear. The boy winced, but Voldemort did not stop until it was clean.

"I would rather not say, Harry."

"You complained last night that I wasn't willing to see your life. Be part of it. So? Here's your chance. Tell me."

Voldemort stiffened a fraction at being given an order. Yet the boy had a point. If they were to find a way forward, they would need to determine how best to merge their contradictory, conflicting lives.

"I sent a missive to Bella."

The boy studied him.

"As yourself?"

"Not explicitly, but heavily implied. Yes."

Harry rolled over and grabbed his glasses that had been resting on the night table. He put them on and turned back to face Voldemort.

"So you want to do that again." Harry stared up at him, seeking a confirmation he obviously did not want. "Be the Dark Lord. Rule the world. Murder innocent people."

Harry's tone became more hollow with each statement.

"I was curious."

"What does that mean? Are you going to take over the Knights again and start another war? Is that your grand plan?"

Voldemort rolled away and sat up, his naked legs planted on the floor and his back to Harry. He had no idea what to say to those questions. His future had always seemed so certain and now he felt as though he was mindlessly chasing a path for the sake of obligated fulfilment.

"Well?" the boy spat. "Is it?"

There was movement behind him and then hands suddenly shoved him on the back, forcing him to put some weight into his feet to stop from falling to the floor.

Muscle memory shocked him and his mind was seized.

Grayson threw him against the wall, restraining his arms and grinding his face against the stone; That repulsive bovine Walker backhanded him, snapping his face to the side before he hit him with the Cruciatus again and again and again—

Voldemort's magic reacted instinctively.

Harry was lifted from the bed and hit the far wall. Voldemort turned to see the boy slide down until he was sitting, a look of pain on his face. A nauseated spasm griped Voldemort's stomach at the sight. He was caught, riveted.

Harry touched the back of his head and pulled his fingers forward, checking something on them. He made a face Voldemort could not decipher. When he lowered his hand, there was red on the digits. That same sick feeling clenched within him.

The boy looked up and their eyes locked. It was confusing and torturous and impossible to look away from.

"You can't keep doing that."

Harry's voice was low, but steady.

A warning.

Voldemort felt an unfamiliar sense of powerlessness as he watched the boy slowly bring himself up to standing. He took his wand out and lifted it to his own head, but Voldemort held out a hand, stopping him.

"Let me," he said, and stood, walking to the boy, unable to break that heavy gaze.

When he reached him, he paused and found himself waiting, for what he was not certain. Harry's face seemed to soften and he inclined his head. Voldemort's muscles relaxed and then instantly froze when he realized he had been waiting for the boy's permission.

"Go ahead," Harry said, clearly thinking Voldemort had not understood.

Still reeling, Voldemort obeyed. He touched the boy's hair, carding his fingers through the locks until they became tacky. He sent his magic to knit the skin, soothe the tissue, and clean the blood.

When he was finished, he removed his hand and looked at the boy who was considering him with a slight smile.

"I apologize," Voldemort muttered, the words tumbling from his lips before he had realized they were there.

His utterance had an immediate effect and the boy beamed, lacing their fingers together.

"Thank you," Harry whispered.

Voldemort dipped his head and unlaced their hands, putting distance between them. It was uncomfortable, the way the boy was smiling at him. It made him feel angry and weak.

"I must take my leave," Voldemort said, gesturing with his hand and summoning his robes onto himself.

Harry frowned.

"Already? We weren't done talking."

"I did not say that we were. I am still leaving."

The boy looked as if he had been struck.

"That's not fair. You just… You said you were going to go all Dark Lord again, right? Meet up with Bellatrix, reclaim your army?"

"I did not say that. I said I was curious."

"Well, I need to know, Voldemort! If you're choosing them over me—"

His same words, thrown back at him. The impudent brat.

"You know who I am, Potter," Voldemort said dangerously, his wand hand twitching. "I have never lied to you about that. If you believed I would abandon my plans, that is your delusion and not my fault."

"So that's it," the boy said, a note of hysteria in his tone. "You're going to start another war and I'm going to have to kill you. That's what you want."

"You do not have to kill me. You could join me."

Harry laughed and the sound made him cold. It grated and made his teeth clench.

"Weren't you listening? I will never be one of your little Death Eaters!"

Voldemort forced himself not to react to the boy's insolence.

"I am not suggesting that. You would be different, of course. You would stand above them, as I do. You would stand beside me."

There was silence. Harry's wide eyes slowly narrowed, his gaze calculating.

"So we would rule the world together."

Voldemort lowered his eyelids once, inclining his head.

"If you like."

Harry stared at him, his expression tight, but Voldemort could not understand what the boy was thinking. The tension was stifling.

"Is this… Are you actually offering me that? You would share power with me?"

Voldemort considered the question. It was certainly not his preference and it was undoubtably going to be a constant fight between them, but the idea held a fair amount of appeal. He wanted Harry by his side. He wanted the boy freed from the roles Dumbledore had thrust upon him, wanted to see what the boy was capable of. He longed to teach him ancient, powerful magic the likes of which the boy had never dreamed of.

"Sharing does not come naturally to me," he responded. "However, I am willing to try."

Voldemort watched that face, trying to comprehend what was happening behind his eyes. If only he could use Legilimency. But Harry could always tell and that would invite the boy's mistrust.

"Would you take suggestions?" Harry asked. "Would you listen to me if I had input?"

Would he?

"I cannot be sure. I have never attempted it. But if this is how I can keep you, then it is a path I am willing to walk."

"And your Death Eaters would just accept it? Accept me there?"

Voldemort bristled.

"They would not have a choice."

Harry suddenly laughed, but this time it was soft, not an attack.

"You're telling me," the boy said with a disbelieving smile, "that Lucius Malfoy would be fine with seeing me standing beside you? Your dear Bellatrix would take orders from me?"

Voldemort wanted to scoff.

"They may struggle at first, but I do not allow dissent or disobedience in my ranks. If I tell them you are to be respected, then they will, or face my displeasure."

Harry laughed again.

"Oh, I can just see it." The boy paused and then sobered. "You know, you won't have any followers left if you torture anyone who disrespects me."

"If they cannot follow orders, they are useless to me."

Harry shook his head, as if in disbelief, and then leaned forward and pressed his soft lips against him. Voldemort brought his hands up and pulled the boy closer, deepening the kiss. He forgot all about Bella and Lucius and plans that may destroy everything he had ever worked towards and focused instead on tasting the boy, biting those lips, and sinking his fingers into that bare flesh.

Harry pulled away, his eyes unfocused behind his glasses and drew a single finger down Voldemort's cheek.

"Let me think about it."

Voldemort watched the boy, trying to decide if Harry was humouring him or if he was truly willing to consider joining him.

"It is an option," Voldemort offered.

Harry seemed to flinch at that word for some reason. He smiled thinly and let him go, walking back to the bed. Voldemort watched his lean muscles move as the boy dressed.

"Can I ask you something?" Harry inquired.

Voldemort gave a hum of assent. When Harry was dressed, he turned back to face Voldemort, eyes curious.

"When I wore your locket all those years ago, it affected me. It made me angry and irrational. Selfish. Cruel. Will this earring do the same?"

Voldemort walked towards him and then raised his hand, touching the metal, gently stroking the skin of Harry's ear.

"No," he answered, his eyes fixed on the silver. "I imbued my other Horcruxes with curses that would protect them. This," he lightly tugged the tiny hoop, "was intended to protect you. It will not harm you, Harry because I do not wish you to be harmed."

Harry smiled and pressed his face against Voldemort's chest.

.

.

Harry dipped his quill into the ink pot, writing the final touches on his last report for work. It was Saturday morning, but he had a lot of catching up to do. He felt present, awake, and powerful.

He touched his left ear, fingering the small metal hoop. It warmed his skin and Harry couldn't help the tiny moan that escaped his lips.

Leaving Voldemort had been hard. They still had no idea what they were going to do and Harry knew Voldemort would be contacting Bellatrix soon to discuss their plans.

Harry hated that woman, hated that she and her army stood between him and Voldemort. She seductively offered the Dark Lord something Harry never could: Acceptance. She would take Voldemort exactly as he was— murderous, damaged, and evil— and she would support him. She didn't want him to be anything other than he was.

It infuriated him. Voldemort would never want to change. That he could was obvious, but the Dark Lord would always begrudge Harry the life he could have had. The life Bellatrix could have given him.

Harry pulled out the parchment that was in his pocket and wrote recklessly.

I don't want you anywhere near that woman.

Harry held his breath, heart hammering. No response. Doubt crept into his mind and he began to regret how pathetic he sounded.

I am with her now. Tell me why.

Harry imagined Voldemort interrupting Bellatrix with a raised finger while he replied to Harry's missive. It gave him a warm surge of petty smugness. Harry scribbled furiously, feeling his face heat.

She is evil. She just wants you to fight her battles. You're not even a pure-blood.

He waited, knowing how sensitive the man was to that fact.

She follows me, not the reverse. We can speak on this soon. I must go.

No.

Please. I hate her so much.

Silence. Harry cast around for something that would make the Dark Lord understand, make him listen.

She will take you from me.

Harry felt tears pool in his eyes, knowing that this was the truth. Voldemort would choose the person who aligned with his values and plans. He surrounded himself with sycophants who never stood up to him. Why would he risk everything for Harry when he already had someone uncomplicated to support him?

Words materialized onto the parchment.

You have nothing to fear from her. She is my servant. You are my equal.

Harry choked out a laugh, of relief, of self-chastisement. Because he knew that. Voldemort had made it quite clear when he'd asked Harry to join him and rule over the Death Eaters by his side.

As his equal.

It was just so bizarre. Harry had allowed his eager mind to imagine what that would look like over the past few days. He saw himself standing before a crowd of cloaked and masked bodies, giving commands and having them obeyed. He saw himself and Voldemort bent over maps and parchment, planning together. He saw them both curled up by the fire, in Riddle Manor or somewhere similar, facing the world together, strong and confident and as one solid unit.

It could be his. All he had to do was give up his morals. Suppress his humanity and compassion. Become Dark and callous, standing beside a monster who would bring them war for the third time.

He swept the parchment to the floor and stood. He needed air. The door slammed shut behind him as he left, putting as much distance between himself and those images of his other option.

All he had these days were options with no indicators on what to actually do. Each of them contradicted the others. He could have Voldemort, but not while keeping his ethics. He could save the wizarding world, but by doing so, he would have to betray and imprison the man he loved.

He hit the pavement by his new flat and walked it purposefully, letting his feet take him where they would.

He would never join Voldemort. It would be impossible for him. He had never been able to stomach people being in pain or needing his help. Any person Voldemort targeted would immediately activate Harry's innate compulsion to rescue and he and the Dark Lord would end up fighting each other instead. Harry would never be able to stand silently by while Voldemort tortured someone. And he didn't want to learn to accept it, either. He was proud of his compassion. It was what set him apart from the people he arrested as an Auror.

People like Voldemort.

He stopped walking. Fuck. Was there any way forward for them? It was as—

"Harry?"

Harry swung around and saw Ginny walking out of a shop, a paper bag full of groceries in her arms.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, looking harassed. "Did Ron tell you where I live?"

Harry shook his head.

"No. You live around here now? I do, too."

Crap. Shouldn't have said that.

"Really? You moved?" She seemed less bothered by him after this and took a step closer. "Why?"

Harry ran his palms down his trousers.

"Just… a change."

Ginny was frowning.

"Is this where you hid to escape Hermione and Ron, then?"

Harry stared at her, having no idea what he could say. Ginny laughed.

"I'll take that as a yes. They told me they couldn't find you at your flat anymore. Relax," she said, when Harry's mouth was still open. He closed it. "I'm not going to rat you out. They can be a bit much sometimes."

Harry tried to collect himself.

"Yeah. Thanks."

Ginny smiled and then gave him an assessing look.

"I'm just heading home right now, do you wanna come over for a cuppa?"

Harry's eyes widened and he racked his brain for an excuse, but Ginny snorted.

"Merlin, Harry. I'm not going to jump you. It's just tea and conversation." When Harry didn't respond, she continued. "Maybe you can help me strengthen my wards, I never was any good at them."

What the hell was he supposed to say to that? The least he could do was help keep her safe after he'd abandoned her.

"Alright," he heard himself answer. "Sure. But I can't stay for long."

Ginny rolled her eyes and began to walk away.

"Don't be such a baby, Potter."

He paused, looking around, hoping Voldemort wasn't somehow watching him right now. And damnit, he'd left his parchment at his flat!

"Keep up!" Ginny shouted, from half a block away.

Harry ran to catch up.

.

.

A cup of hot Earl Grey in his hand, Harry cast around for something to say to get Ginny's eyes off their contemplation of him. She only had the one sofa in her flat and it forced them closer than he'd like them to be.

"So, why are you avoiding Hermione and Ron?" Ginny asked, sitting back against the cushions and patting her lap for her eager black cat to jump up. "I won't say anything, I swear. They're driving me nuts too."

"How come?" Harry asked, trying to get the conversation off of him.

"Oh, you know. Wanting to keep me company. See if I'm okay." She laughed. "I think everyone forgets that I actually have friends outside of you three."

Harry felt a genuine smile creep onto his face.

"I didn't forget. You're way more likeable than we are."

"Damn straight. My whole team stepped in to support me after you and I…" She gave him a guilty smile. "They're not huge Harry Potter fans anymore, though. Sorry. I didn't say much, but they're pretty protective."

Harry shrugged.

"I understand. I'm glad they were there for you." He didn't want to be an asshole, but he had to ask. "Did you… When you told them about what had happened, did you mention…?"

"You bending over for the Dark Lord?"

Harry splashed tea on his leg and yelped, quickly grabbing his wand and casting healing and drying charms.

Ginny was watching him with amusement.

"No, Harry. I kept your secret. Though, I think that entitles me to some information."

She set her own teacup down and stroked her cat absently.

"Are you two… together now?"

Harry placed his cup on the coffee table, hands shaking.

"Me and—? No. No. We're not. It's not really like that, Gin. We can't exactly buy a house and start a family."

Ginny bit her lip.

"But you'd like to. You… like him. Right?"

Harry played with the ring on his finger. Small hands reached out and grabbed his left.

"What's this?" she asked, incredulous.

He pulled his hand back and hid it under the other.

"It's nothing."

"It's a ring."

"Yeah, but—"

"On your left hand, Harry. Like mine was. The one you gave me." She waited, but Harry had no idea what he he could possibly say. "Who gave that to you?"

"No one. It's an antique, I just—"

"Did Voldemort give you that ring?"

"No!" Harry denied, desperately. "Look, it's nothing, just something I like to wear."

"Like that earring?" she asked mockingly, and Harry had to arrest the impulse to touch it. "So what, you come out as gay and suddenly you're all decked out in jewelry?"

Harry glared at her.

"It's not like that either. I just… like them. That's all. Can we please talk about something else?"

Ginny continued to stare at him. Harry stood.

"I should go, this was a bad idea."

"Oh, sit down, Harry. I'll stop. I'm just curious, that's all."

"No. I'm done," Harry muttered, taking his wand out again. "I'll see to your wards and then head off."

Ginny stood too, looking awkward.

"I actually…" She wrapped her arms around her body. "Before you leave, I actually asked you here for a reason. I wanted to tell you something."

Harry waited, watching a blush tint her cheeks.

"I'm… Do you remember Robbie? Steph's brother?"

Harry nodded, recalling the awkward Durmstrang teacher that sometimes came to Ginny's teams' matches.

"Sure. What about him?"

Ginny raised her eyebrows and looked at him pointedly. Harry just looked back, waiting. She sighed, exasperatedly.

"I'm dating him, Harry. We're together. I just wanted you to know from me before you see it in the press."

Harry searched his body for how he felt about that. He expected a stab of jealously or anger, but strangely all he felt was… relief. Happiness for a good friend.

He smiled at her and she seemed to relax.

"That's great," he told her, honestly. "I'm happy you have him. Is he good to you?"

Ginny smirked.

"Well, he hasn't abandoned me to go fuck the Dark Lord yet, so he's got that going for him."

Harry sucked in a breath.

Ginny seemed to realize she'd gone too far.

"I'm sorry, I—"

"I'm so fucking glad that you find my life funny, Ginny," Harry spat, putting his wand back in his pocket, lest he decide to use it. "Do you think I wanted to be gay? Do you think I chose to have to forget all my plans for a family and children and a normal fucking life, and replace it with derision and hatred and… this?"

Ginny looked apologetic, but she did not back down.

"Harry, it's not even that you're gay that's so horrible. It's that you're gay for Voldemort! You're betraying everyone who—"

"I don't have to listen to this," Harry muttered, furious, and strode to the door, flinging it open and Disapparating the moment his feet hit the pavement.

.

.

Having Bella kneeling at his feet was not as satisfying as having Harry do so. Bella belonged there, so it was expected. Harry, however… Harry had that indomitable spirit and power, and thus when he knelt it was a victory. A choice. Bella submitted to him because she had to, whereas Harry let himself kneel because he wanted to.

Voldemort curled his finger and the woman raised her head, shuffling back and then stood, eyes lowered. She was panting.

"My Lord," she whispered, reverent.

"Have you assembled those I have named?"

"Yes, Master," she breathed, her eyes daring to flick up and meet his.

He raised an eyebrow, but her gaze had already returned to the floor, so she did not catch the reprimand.

Voldemort had come intending to speak with Bella alone and ascertain the fitness of his Death Eaters and leave with information he could ruminate on. Decide at his leisure if he wanted to lead them once again.

Yet being here, seeing that Bella was controlling his servants, was too galling for him to tolerate. They belonged to him.

"Take me to them," he said, and followed the woman down a corridor and into a grand hall where sixteen cloaked figures waited, kneeling and silent.

Bella took her place amongst them and Voldemort ascended the dais, turning to his followers. His Death Eaters.

He looked out at them, suddenly struck with how many years had passed, how they had been ruled by another in his absence.

And what had been done to him in that time.

Standing before them, he felt similar enough to the leader that they had followed, Lord Voldemort, but his mind was no longer lethally focused. He was conflicted and that was distracting.

"Rise," he commanded, and watched as they obeyed, eyes raising to take him in.

Voldemort saw a myriad of emotions stare back at him, the prevailing one being excitement at seeing their Lord again. He worked to keep his expression impassive. Detached. He suppressed the spike of fear that worried him, the unease he felt now whenever too much focus was on him. His conditioned response, which was to cower. To protect himself.

Voldemort clenched his fingers, mastering this madness. He was the Dark Lord Voldemort. He deserved this. These people were his and he would rule them, as was his right.

"I am pleased to see so many of you made it through the last battle unscathed," he said, forcing his eyes to travel over each of them.

Bella trembled under the attention.

"It has been twelve long years," he said, lacing his fingers in front of himself, not letting his mind linger on those years and what he had endured. "We were so close to victory, would have tasted it, but for the numerous unpredictable occurrences that thwarted our might."

Such as a children's story coming to life, accidental Horcruxes, the fickle nature of a wand's allegiance… And of course, underestimating the power of sacrificial love.

He pushed the irritation aside.

"We were stronger, wiser, and more prepared and yet we did not triumph."

The realization still stung.

"That will not happen again."

He turned his gaze upon Bella and she licked her lips slowly, her eyes drawing him in. Promising him anything, should he but ask.

"I have seen where Bella has taken you," he continued, holding her gaze. "You have become unfocused." She flinched as if struck. "You have become careless. Your reputation, and therefore mine, has suffered in my absence."

Bella broke his gaze and dropped her eyes, the very picture of remorse.

"However, Lord Voldemort is back." A rumble of approval began, but was quickly stifled. They still feared him and that calmed his anger. "He has fought to return and you will henceforth answer to him alone."

A chorus of, Yes, Master's followed and Voldemort inclined his head.

"There is much to do. You shall feel my Summons soon enough."

Voldemort stepped down from the dais, sweeping past, already dismissing them. He was aware that Bella was trailing him and allowed it.

He strode down the corridor, but was unfamiliar with this manor so he did not go far. He stopped.

"The library," he said, and Bella ducked her head.

"This way, my Lord," she said, and gestured for him to precede her down a set of stairs. "Down one level and first door on your left."

He swept off, but she called to him.

"May I accompany you, my Lord? I was hoping you could answer—"

"I do not answer to you," he replied, coldly, still walking.

Bella stopped.

"Of course not, Master! I didn't mean—"

He ignored her. When he entered the library he observed the multitude of shelves and felt his breathing even out. Books always had that effect on him. They were his refuge and his companions.

He heard Bella enter the room. Glaring over at her, he saw her drop again to her knees.

"I have kept your army safe for you, my Lord. I am thrilled that you have returned to lead us. It is what I've always desired."

This all was said with a lowered head and palms flat on the wooden floor. He took a moment to appreciate the satisfaction he felt watching a Black kneel thus. They were all so proud but their pretentiousness was nothing against his supremacy. He could lure anyone to his side.

Anyone?

He turned from her and continued to admire the books. He walked towards a brown-covered tome he thought he recognized and pulled it down. It was. This book—

"I await your first orders for me, Master," the woman said, and he saw her lift her gaze. "I am aching to share with you some of the plans I had in progress so that you may give your commands regarding them."

He turned fully to face her.

"What plans."

Bella lowered her head again and Voldemort could see a dark smile spreading on her face.

"I did not have a chance to tell you yet how we had captured Potter," she said, and Voldemort's attention was abruptly riveted to her face.

She seemed to sense his singular focus and her chest began to rise and fall deeply.

He grew impatient and entered her mind, moving past the vivid fantasies she harboured involving himself and her, and sifted to find the memory she was referring to.

He saw Harry chained to the wall, his legs mangled and bloody. He was drugged, babbling incoherently to himself and Bella and another child he did not recognize argued about what to do with him.

"We caught him in an alleyway," Bella continued, unaware that he was inside her mind, "bending over for a Muggle man!"

She said this with such delight and derision that Voldemort felt his power take over in defence.

Bella shrieked and fell against the wall, her head banging on a shelf and toppling books onto her lap. She looked up at him in confusion and fear.

"My Lord, I apologize," she whimpered, "I thought you would be pleased—"

"My orders regarding that boy have not changed," he said, in a perilous whisper. "You do not lay a finger on him. He is mine."

Voldemort stood over her, his magic still surging around him. He saw Bella's eyes flicking to behind him where he was certain she could see his power writhing.

"Forgive me," she breathed, confusion still etched onto her face but also wide-eyed awe.

Voldemort took a step back. He closed his eyes and commanded his magic to settle. He needed to know more.

"You spoke of plans," he said, eyes still closed, fingers clenched.

He could not shake that visual of Harry in pain. Or that reference to Harry being violated by a Muggle man.

"Look at me," he demanded, and she did so immediately.

He entered her mind, searching for that memory and he saw it— A frozen moment where Harry's back was against a brick wall, his trousers and pants pooled around his ankles, his familiar body on display, straining erection, but his hands… They were wrapped around a disgusting Muggle's filthy cock. Then the two moved in fear, Harry shoving the animal behind him, protecting him. Harry's agonized face when the Muggle hit the pavement, dead.

Voldemort pulled out of her mind, twisted, and shot a burst of fury at a table pushed against the opposite wall. It burst into flames that engulfed the wood immediately and turned it to ashes.

It did not help.

"What plans," he rasped, feeling his murderous rage becoming uncontrollable.

He kept his back to her, shielding his explosive emotions.

"We…" she began weakly, "we had intended to pay the child back for his escape. He broke free when—"

"Details, fool, not excuses!" he shouted, turning back to her.

Bella's eyes were huge as she stared at him.

"A potion. We were going to slip him a potion that would humiliate him. It—"

"Which potion," Voldemort demanded, closing the distance between them and surrounding her with his magic so that she was lifted off the floor and instead held up by her neck.

"An aphrodisiac potion!" she gasped, fingers gripping her throat. "I don't know what it's called!"

Nor did he, but he knew how it felt.

His vision was suddenly overwhelmed and then Harris was laughing as Voldemort thrust his hips forward, shaking his shackled arms, trying to get free, to seek some friction for his aching cock and Grayson entered him in one swift motion, sprawling Voldemort onto his chest, but it felt wonderful, being full, being taken, and he moaned, the sound somehow spiking panic inside him, stirring perplexing revulsion and hatred—

He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment.

He was free. He had won and he must not let this madness consume him.

"Why," he said flatly, forcing himself back to the present.

He looked up and realized that his magic was still holding her aloft.

"We planned to give it to him," she panted, her face going red. "Slip it in his drink. When he next visited a Muggle sex bar. He hasn't been to one for some time. Please," she begged, her hands struggling uselessly against Voldemort's magic.

He dropped her and she fell, hard.

"Why."

"We thought it would be fun to watch Potter suffer, my Lord. I thought you would want him to, I thought—"

"Your plan, Bella. I am moments from ripping you apart."

"Forgive me, Master! We intended to invite the Prophet." Voldemort did not respond and so she continued. "We wanted him sacked. This potion would make his lust insatiable. Our test subjects had impaled themselves for hours, ignoring injury or sleep in their desperate need to be buggered. We wanted to give it to Potter and watch him fuck himself on every man in—"

"Enough!" Voldemort shouted, his hand coming out to block her words, but his magic snapped and struck her hard in the face.

She collapsed back against the wall and stayed there, unmoving.

He watched her, hating every image she had put in his mind, every disgusting word.

Harry was in danger from these people. His people. That would have to change immediately. Many aspects of his agenda would never alter, yet allowing harm to come to Harry was one that he could no longer abide.