Chapter 33

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A quick trip to the toilet became a half hour luxuriant shower after Harry spotted the decadent fixtures. He hadn't been properly clean in over a month. He stood under the shower and let the hot water wash away everything that was dirtying him.

The grime, his guilt, his anger, his betrayal. Wash it all away.

If this was what he wanted— Voldemort, whole, healthy, and his— then he had to let the past go. Accept that Voldemort had lived his long life without restraint and that it would take time for control to become natural.

When he opened the door of the loo some time later, it was to find the Dark Lord casually leaning against the wall opposite; head bowed and hands laced in front of him.

Harry froze. His Scourgified attire and wet hair suddenly seemed indecent. He had taken the time to pamper himself while this still stood between them.

"Sorry," Harry muttered, posture slumping, but his eyes trailed helplessly over that tall frame under his brows.

Voldemort shook his head mutely and looked away.

"I have prepared a breakfast, if you would like. You must be hungry."

Harry stared, but then quickly collected himself.

"Uh— yeah. I'm starving, that would be great."

Voldemort nodded and led him down the hall into a huge kitchen that opened into an even bigger dining room. A table stood in the centre with ten chairs, two of which had food on the table next to them.

The smell hit him and he wanted to moan. He had not been starved while at the Ministry, but neither had he been given proper hot meals.

He followed the other man eagerly to his seat, which was directly to the right of Voldemort's at the head of the table. The seating arrangements almost made him smile until he looked down at his steaming plate.

His mouth dropped open.

"Is that…?"

Voldemort was watching him, face carefully blank, but his eyes were sparkling.

"I take care of what is mine."

Harry let out a small laugh. Then he glanced at Voldemort's plate and saw the exact same dish.

Harry looked up quickly and caught the self-satisfied smirk before it was smoothed over.

Bloody hell.

He grabbed the Dark Lord by the lapels of his robes and pulled that gorgeous head down, pressing his lips against the thinner ones that parted in shock. He fed all of his gratitude and longing and giddiness into the kiss until Voldemort recovered and turned their positions so that Harry was pressed up against the table while the Dark Lord devoured his mouth.

Fingers gripped his arse, squeezing it, and then Harry was lifted and flung onto the top of the huge, ornate table, rattling the cutlery and knocking over a glass of water. He fell back and Voldemort followed, leaning over Harry and deepening the kiss, one hand fisted in Harry's hair, the other working at undoing Harry's trousers.

Voldemort drew back and looked down at him, his eyes wild and excited.

"It seems your appetite has waned."

Harry could only stare.

Voldemort leaned back down and bit fiercely into Harry's neck and Harry cried out, arching his back, the pain shooting through him, reminding him of what he had missed.

"Fuck, Voldemort," Harry gasped, bringing a hand to his neck and pulling it away to see the red blood.

The sight of it, the tender sting, made him spread his legs wider, his head tilting back further, offering everything up. He made eye contact with Voldemort and slowly licked the blood off of his fingers.

Voldemort's eyes ignited with possessive fire and his hand shot out to grab Harry's wrist, stopping him.

"I'm plenty hungry," Harry teased, twisting his hand free and sliding it down the lean body above him until it reached the man's straining cock.

He squeezed and Voldemort's eyes closed for a second as he groaned, which was the single most intoxicating sound he'd ever heard.

"Feed me this," Harry demanded, and watched those red eyes flash open, deadly focused and dangerous.

Voldemort removed Harry's hand from his groin and brought it instead, to his mouth. He licked the remaining blood off of Harry's fingers, maintaining that intent gaze the whole time.

When it was clean, his eyes fell to Harry's lips.

"If that is what you desire, I want your head hanging off this table, Potter."

Harry moaned and began to shift to obey, but Voldemort stilled him with a hand to his throat.

"Our meal is getting cold."

"Warming charm," Harry breathed, but Voldemort made a disparaging sound.

"That will not do. After the effort I put forth, I expect more gratitude."

The other man brought his fingers up to Harry's mouth and slowly began to trace his lips.

"I can show you how very grateful I am, if you let me," Harry said, trying hard not to dislodge the fingers that had crept inside once he'd began to speak.

He reached out to grope for the man's erection again, but his hand was stopped before it could reach its destination.

Voldemort hummed in disagreement.

"No. You will demonstrate your ability to multitask."

Before he could figure out what the hell that meant, magic suddenly wrapped around him and dragged him towards the edge, flipping him onto his back, and pulling him forward so that his head fell over the side.

"Almost," Voldemort breathed appraisingly, and then his magic removed all of Harry's clothing.

Harry bit his lip and looked up to see the other man grinning at him darkly.

"Better. Now, open your mouth."

Harry pressed his sweaty hands into the wood of the table, hoping it would be enough to keep him there, and then opened his mouth.

A small cube of tofu hit his palate and he almost choked— his tongue had been pulled back, leaving his throat clear for the hard cock he had been anticipating. The tofu almost tumbled down his esophagus.

"Chew, then swallow, Potter," Voldemort instructed, and Harry realized he was still frozen, very confused by this abrupt change in plans.

He obeyed, still reeling that the man would accommodate his food preferences. Was he planning on feeding him all his breakfast like this? It was humiliating, but also incredibly arousing, even if he was disappointed not to finally get to taste the Dark Lord.

"Open," Voldemort commanded, and Harry readied himself for another piece of food, but then the slippery head of the man's cock was suddenly shoved into his throat, all the way down until he gagged on it.

"Take it," Voldemort whispered roughly, and Harry's eyes flew wide, but he couldn't see anything other than the man's smooth, hairless thighs.

He held still, focusing on not choking on the remnants of tofu that had still been in his mouth. He briefly lamented not getting the full taste of the man, but thrilled at the novel way of eating his meal.

Voldemort pulled out slowly so that Harry could gasp in a few breaths and then he pushed himself back inside. Harry let his eyes fall shut, lost in the heady sensation of feeling used, feeling insignificant, as the Dark Lord took whatever he wanted.

Harry was forced to make embarrassing gagging sounds as that cock bottomed out and pounded into his throat. The momentum was too fast for Harry's tongue to offer much support so he just focused on keeping his teeth sheathed behind his lips and tried not to come while the Dark Lord cruelly twisted his nipples and scraped his nails viciously down Harry's stomach.

Giving Harry pain while forcing Harry to give him pleasure.

"Your skin reddens so eagerly for me, Potter," that high, rasping voice remarked.

Voldemort pulled out once more, but this time fingers reached into his mouth and opened his jaw as wide as it would go before dropping two larger pieces of breakfast into his mouth. When the fingers receded, Harry began to chew.

Voldemort rested his heavy tackle on Harry's chin and throat while he did so. The man's silken testicles smothered his nostrils, making breathing challenging, but the smell was so heady that he didn't dare show any discomfort.

"Enough. Open."

Harry obeyed instantly and that cock was once again thrust deeply into his throat. He could feel how hard he was, his own erection bobbing awkwardly as Voldemort fucked his face.

He was desperate. He just wanted one touch on himself, maybe ten seconds of wanking and he could come. He already felt so close from the combination of humiliation, getting to taste the other man for the first time, and the simplicity of being in proximity to the Dark Lord.

But Voldemort wasn't touching him at all. Not where he needed it. He was just taking his own pleasure while he fucked and fed him.

This continued until Voldemort declared his plate empty. Harry tried to keep deep-throating, but a sharp slap landed on his right cheek. He gasped, freezing with the man's cock still in his mouth.

Voldemort pulled slowly out and then another blow landed on his other cheek and Harry's head snapped to the side. Gentle hands brought his gaze back to the Dark Lord.

"You look irresistible like this," Voldemort said, a finger chasing a tear that had sprung from Harry's eyes at the second hard slap. "Mouth swollen and pink, tears on your face, your body open and available for me. For anything I wish to do to it."

"Yes," Harry said in a weak voice, hating and loving that description of himself.

"I want to fuck you now."

Harry's cock twitched against his stomach at the image.

"I'm yours," Harry stated honestly.

Voldemort seemed to bask in that for a moment, his eyes sweeping down Harry's splayed out body. Then he backed up, pulled out one of the chairs, and seated himself.

Harry rolled over, still watching, so he could take everything in. Voldemort sat regally, his clothing neat and elegant but for his erection straining forward obscenely. Harry dragged his eyes away to appreciate the man's pale fingers resting lightly on the armrests and his long, trousered legs spread wide. He looked arrogant. Intimidating.

"Come," Voldemort commanded, watching Harry almost indifferently, but his hard cock belied that tone.

Touch me and I will.

Harry smiled and swung his legs over the edge of the table, then dropped down onto the floor and crawled to him. He watched those red, blazing eyes follow his progress.

When he reached the man's bent legs he impudently placed a palm on each kneecap and then looked up at Voldemort from under his lashes.

"Where would you like—?"

Voldemort's fingers shot out and grabbed him by his hair, dragging him up and onto that boney lap. Harry winced at the pain in his scalp even as it made his cock throb.

Long fingers gripped his hips and positioned him over that hot cock head. Harry held his breath, waiting. But nothing happened.

"Beg me for it," Voldemort commanded.

Harry closed his eyes against the rush of lust, but Voldemort's fist in his hair shook his head and forced his eyes open again.

"P-please," he stuttered out, his hands moving forward to grasp onto the man's broad shoulders. "Fuck me."

"You left me for so long. So very long. Perhaps I should also make—"

"No!" Harry shouted, and Voldemort's expression darkened with fury at being interrupted. "I'm sorry, I just— please. I'm sorry I took so long, but don't punish me for it like this. I need you."

And suddenly, Harry didn't want to be hurt.

He didn't want to play or pretend or exchange innuendoes. They had come so far and after everything he just wanted to be with him. To demonstrate how much better things were with feelings attached.

"I want you to make love to me," Harry blurted out. "I missed you so much."

He frantically searched Voldemort's face which had immediately been wiped clean of all emotions at his words.

"Please," Harry tried again, running his fingers down that cool cheek, trying to reawaken him. "Make love to me."

The hand in his hair disengaged and Voldemort seemed to shrink, to pull away. Harry panicked, gripping those fingers before they could release him completely.

"Stop, I'm sorry," Harry pleaded, cursing himself and his runaway mouth.

Just because it made sense in his head, didn't mean that Voldemort would want to hear it. Now he'd freaked the man out with his sentimentality. Voldemort could fuck him bloody and raw without complaint, but asking him to love him was likely a hard limit.

"I'm sorry. Ignore me, I just… got caught up. Sometimes I ramble."

He grabbed the man's tense fingers and placed them again around his hips. Although Voldemort kept them there, they were no longer bruising him. It was like the man was a posable doll.

"Voldemort," Harry said, cupping the man's cheek, trying to catch his gaze which had drifted away, over Harry's shoulder. "Hey. Come back to me."

Those red eyes slid to him slowly and Harry attempted a smile. He pressed their foreheads together.

"I'm sorry. We can stop. Or we don't have to, we can go back to what we were doing before. I liked that."

Harry waited, but there was no response. He sighed out a long breath, defeated.

"I'm sorry for ruining everything."

The fingers on his hips tightened briefly. Harry leaned back to assess the damage. Voldemort's face was still carefully blank, but Harry could read his tension in the way he held his body. The fact that Harry was in his lap and yet Voldemort was not attempting to devour him spoke volumes.

He grimaced and inched back, about to stand, but the fingers at his hips clamped down and yanked him back.

"You are greedy, Potter," Voldemort said roughly, eyes swallowing him, flashing with an emotion Harry couldn't name. "You always ask for more, no matter what I give you."

"No, I don't need more, it's—"

"You are never satisfied. No matter that you have the Dark Lord Voldemort's full attention, you still want more."

"I'm sorry," Harry said, guilty and embarrassed. "I—"

"Fortunately for you, Lord Voldemort understands avarice. You want more," Voldemort said, bringing his face down and pressing their lips together, "and so does he. He always want more."

Harry's eyes flew open and he tried to pull back to understand what that meant, but Voldemort's hand slid behind his neck and brought him closer again, reclaiming his mouth.

Who bleeding cares, he's speaking in the third person again, Merlin's fucking balls.

Harry moaned low in his throat as Voldemort kissed him and it was slow but desperate, full of teeth and sadness and hunger and Harry felt dizzy. He had never been kissed like this before, as though they were trying to talk with their bodies, like Voldemort was telling him secrets with the way his knees supported Harry's back or the way his body seemed to wrap around him, touching every part.

Harry felt Voldemort shift and he was being gently lifted and then lowered onto the man's erection. Voldemort thrust inside of him and it hurt, but it was perfect and Harry threw his head back to gasp in air.

Lips and a wet tongue attacked his neck, as fingers began to pump his cock, evenly, slowly so that Harry was stretched out and chasing an orgasm that was just there, just so close, just just just—

"Come for me, Harry."

Harry cried out, but the hand did not speed up, just continued stroking him languidly. It was the sweetest torture as Voldemort kept pumping into him, his fingers tightening around Harry's arms, his breath ragged.

"Come for me," the Dark Lord hissed, and he increased the speed on Harry's cock and of his own thrusts until it was messy and wild and Harry felt like his heart was going to fail from the tension.

Voldemort met his eyes and he looked so determined, so possessed that Harry fell apart, finally letting go as his body spasmed and shook.

"Harry," Voldemort rasped, and Harry vaguely felt the body around him, inside him, quiver and then freeze as he too was dragged under.

.

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"I've got food smeared into my back," Harry complained, long minutes later after they had finally untangled from each other. "If I take a shower, will you have another existential crisis and disappear on me again?"

He tried for a jocular tone, hoping to be innocently cheeky, but his humour had obviously fallen flat. Voldemort stopped cleaning up the mess on the table to shoot him a cold look, one hairless eyebrow raised.

"This is my house."

Harry nodded and then eyed him skeptically.

"Sorry, I know. So that's a yes, I can shower? I feel all sticky."

Voldemort turned his back on him and retreated into the kitchen. Harry, still naked, cursed and followed him.

"Look, if we're going to do this, can you at least conjure some more clothes for me first, since you vanished what I was wearing and I didn't really like those anyways."

Voldemort was facing the sink, his shoulders haunched. Harry couldn't see the other man's face, but he was sure he was uncomfortable about what they had just done.

"Voldemort?" Harry ventured, not moving any closer so as not to spook him. "Please? Can you conjure me a robe or something? You're so much better at it. Please."

Harry watched those shoulders rise and fall with measured, steady breaths and then felt something brush against his bare arm. He looked down. A robe!

"Thanks," Harry said, and pulled it over his head.

He could have done with pants and shoes too, but he wasn't about to mention that.

"I'll never get over how much control you have of your magic," Harry said, still in amused awe. "I didn't even see your hand move. I didn't feel anything."

"You need not marvel," Voldemort replied, his back still to him. "You are powerful enough to master wandless magic. Dumbledore kept your potential constrained, but a proper teacher could help you claim it."

Harry paused.

"Is that an offer?" he asked in a quiet voice, thinking of what had been shown to him through Legilimency last time.

Voldemort turned.

"And if it was?"

Harry scoured that face to try and understand what was happening.

"I would ask what the conditions were."

"No conditions, but a request."

"Which is?"

"To be released from my Vow."

Harry just barely managed to stifle a snort of laughter.

"So you want to kill people again," he deadpanned. "Wonderful."

Voldemort's eyes flashed.

"That is not what I said. You have me bound so that I will lose my magic if I make an error."

Harry did laugh that time.

"An error? If you murder someone. That shouldn't be something that happens by mistake."

Voldemort banged his fists onto the countertop that he was leaning against.

"And so we return to this. You knew who I was before you…"

Voldemort faltered and Harry scoffed.

"Fucked you? Saved you? Fell in love with you?" He watched Voldemort's face to see which one he flinched for, but he didn't react. "Which one is it?"

"Release me from my Vow and I will fulfil the terms out of respect to you. You need not threaten me with death for me to take heed."

"You won't die, it's just your magic."

"Without my magic I would be dead!" Voldemort shouted, and Harry took a step back as waves of Dark power crashed over him, pushing him against the wall.

Harry stared at the Dark Lord as the man took a few steadying breaths then closed his eyes.

"I have lived it," his voice was broken, a mere whisper of its normal strength. "Without my magic I would be powerless. I have seen it, Potter, and will not be rendered thus again."

Harry took a step towards him, wanting to comfort the other man, but then Voldemort spoke again, his words stronger and more resolute.

"Release me," he said, head still bowed, but he opened his eyes and stared at the ground, "and I will let you live here. With me. You can… inform me of your opinions and I will listen."

"And what about Bellatrix? And your Death Eaters. Because I can't—"

Voldemort pinned him with his gaze.

"I will cease to command them while you are here."

Harry reviewed that statement in his mind a few times before he replied.

"So, you will stop killing as long as I stay with you. I'll be like your prisoner." He frowned, feeling dirty and uncomfortable. "Kind of like a prostitute. My life, my body, in exchange for everyone else's."

He didn't like the sound of that. Voldemort gave him a derisively pitying look.

"Your life? Your body? That seems hyperbolic. Is this not what you had insisted that you wanted?"

Harry nodded slowly.

"Yeah, I want to live with you. I want you to stop killing people. Of course. But to phrase it like a… trade agreement. Or a contract… That makes me feel trapped. I don't want to worry that if you and I don't work out that you'll feel free to go on a murderous rampage."

"If we decide to end our time together, surely my actions would allow you to finally kill me, as your colleagues and friends have been insisting that you do."

"Okay, but even if we… stopped whatever this is… I wouldn't be able to just kill you. Whatever happens between us… I'm not going to just stop loving you."

Voldemort flinched, then hissed, "Desist saying that word."

Harry pulled his head back in confusion.

"What? Love?"

Voldemort looked him dead in the eye, his expression hard.

"You do not love me."

Harry was surprised for a moment before his anger and his indignation took over.

"How dare you. You think I'm pretending? You think I want to feel this way?"

"It is impossible."

Harry laughed.

"You're right. Sometimes it really is, you don't make it easy. But I can't just stop."

"You must."

Voldemort pushed off from the counter and walked towards the door behind Harry.

"Why?" Harry demanded, furious.

Voldemort was beside him, walking past to flee again, but Harry grabbed him by the arm and pulled, swinging him back around to face him. They both stared at each other for a moment, shocked that that had worked so effectively. The huge, imposing body actually weighed very little.

"Why," Harry demanded, not letting go of Voldemort's arm.

The other man stared at him, his red gaze bouncing between both of Harry's eyes, intent and a little lost.

"I cannot love you," he whispered, and pulled his arm free.

Harry let him. He watched as Voldemort waited for his response to that, but Harry didn't have one. The other man closed his eyes briefly and then walked past him and out the door.

Alone, Harry stood unmoving.

He felt gutted. Defeated.

Voldemort couldn't love him. There was nothing left to say.

He exited the manor, trapped in his misery, and Disapparated as soon as his magic was able to gather around him.

.

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Voldemort watched Harry leave, refusing to move from behind the curtain in his chambers. His fingers dug painfully into the wood of the sill to stop himself from chasing after him like a fool.

It was better that the boy left. Though it had not been his intention to send him away, what was happening between them was dangerous. Confusing.

He did not recognize himself anymore. Perhaps it was the conditioning, or the harsh expectation that he should simply go back to his life as it had been before the Ministry and that cage.

Or perhaps it was the boy.

I cannot love you.

The words had emerged from his lips without conscious planning. They were true, of course, but he knew in voicing them that he had lost Harry.

It could not have been surprising information, however. It was an accepted fact, as far as he was aware, and had been for as long as he could remember.

The first time this inability had been detected was when Tom Riddle had been at Wool's. The other children would gather and share their pilfered treasures, becoming close. Children are quick to form attachments, especially children who had never been loved. As if to prove that they were not broken.

Yet he had never felt compelled to participate. He had never felt connected to another person. They were all so far below him.

The adults had talked and eventually psychologists were bought in to assess him. They were afraid of him, the Devil Child. There were tests and Tom Riddle never performed in a satisfactory fashion for them.

Rumours began to spread. Whispers. They did not bother him, he was untouchable, but they did make him question their validity. It was not, after all, such a terrible thing. Love was what caused heartbreak when potential parents would return their unwanted goods. It was what made the older girls cry when their boyfriends fucked any other warm body.

It created a vulnerability that need not have ever existed.

Love created hope and a tie to another person, which opened one up to betrayal. If he relied on only himself, he would never be disappointed.

This rumour began again at Hogwarts. He arrived with no name and questionable blood purity so when others attempted to elevate him with propositions and he turned down every single one, there was bafflement. Some called him homophobic slurs. Others tried harder. Eventually, they concluded that he was missing something vital. He encouraged this assessment. It kept away further unwanted advances as he grew into his pretty face.

He did not need love. It interfered with his plans, his ambitions. He needed no one.

Eventually, the rumour became fact. Lord Voldemort was solitary and all the stronger for it. He could not be influenced. As much as he valued certain individuals in his ranks, such as Severus or Bella, it was certainly not love.

Over the years, he had heard the varied rationales behind his deviation. That his mother seducing the filthy Muggle with a love potion had made him innately incapable of it. Or that his neglected childhood had never taught him how to love or invite it for himself. Even, that he was made more of Dark magic after all his rituals and soul splitting, that he was no longer human enough for it.

These theories always amused him. They served to bolster his image and therefore he allowed them.

In truth, he simply never desired love. Human contact disgusted him and there was no one he could fathom permitting himself to become vulnerable for.

And then, Harry.

But this was surely more of the same. It was lust. It must be. He had renounced anything deeper decades ago, fully adhering to his reputation.

He was singular. Chaste and transcendent, as all immortals must be.

Yet Harry was creating a weak spot in him. A dependency. He made him temper himself and pass his actions through a ward of Harry's approval. He found himself oddly pleased if he behaved in a manner he knew Harry would support and he was likewise regretful if he did not.

It was not love, but it was more regard than he had ever held for anyone. He meant what he had offered Harry, which was something he had never considered before. He wanted Harry to live with him, to stand beside him. To share his life.

And he would relinquish his command of the Death Eaters to achieve it. He wanted the boy and would give much to possess him.

He knew it was not love, but the boy continued to perseverate on his own determination to label it as such. It had shocked him in an almost sentimental fashion at first, but lately Harry's insistence on the impossible claim had begun to rankle.

Mislabelling what they felt as love brought into sharp relief that he was not equipped to achieve such a state. It mocked his shortcomings in a way that had never affected him. He was proud of his resilience. He had made it this far by himself, but now it seemed a hollow victory. Standing alone was no longer the success it had been.

Yet none of this mattered. Harry was gone and would likely stay away after having learned the truth. It was better this way. If a possibility was opening in him to experience love and all the pitfalls it brought, it was safer that the boy kept well away from him. He had proven susceptible to Harry's temptation and could not be trusted to abstain if he were underfoot.

If he allowed the boy close then he could fall and succumb to that weakness which would eventually destroy him. It was better this way.

Voldemort had freed Harry; whatever else the boy did with his life now was of no concern.

Harry had left him for the last time and would not be coming back.

And this was good.

He found the more he repeated it, the less certain he became.