Chapter 34

.

Harry Apparated back to his flat; drunk, sore, and filthy. He fell against the wall, closing his eyes and taking a moment to let the world settle.

Bed.

But first, a shower. He could feel where the trail of come had meandered down the back of his legs under his trousers.

Gross. The dude had been good-looking enough, but a stranger's bodily fluids drying on his skin always made him squeamish.

He staggered to the shower and turned it on. While it heated up, he undressed, wincing each time he touched a bite mark or a bruise. Gavin had been quite keen to follow his request for rough treatment.

And it had helped. He could breathe deeply again. He touched the hickey on his throat and pushed it with his fingers, savouring the pain.

Once naked, he climbed under the water, letting it wash away his evening.

It had been fun. Gavin had been obliging and Harry's knees still hurt from where the other man had made him kneel on the pavement for so long, sucking his cock.

You look irresistible like this.

Harry forced the words away, refusing to think about Voldemort, to feel guilty. There was nothing there for him. He'd been a fool and now he had to try and forget about how perfect they had been together. How Voldemort had always made him feel safe and understood and treasured.

Even when he'd been getting beaten until his arse was black and bleeding.

It had been what he had wanted. What he'd always searched for. His other partners tended to humour his masochism, taking direction well and playing the role as best they could.

But Voldemort.

He was a natural.

Harry groaned, thumping his head back against the tile, letting it take some of his weight, as he grabbed the dildo he'd taken to keeping in the shower now, and brought it to his still-tender hole.

Voldemort had always dominated without discussion, without convincing. He didn't pester him with concern while he throttled him, asking is this okay? and forcing Harry out of his euphoria. He just took. He took everything and then demanded more.

Harry pretended that Voldemort was here with him now. He quickly pushed aside the despair at that impossibility before it could wake him from his fantasy. Real Voldemort had no place here right now. The Voldemort in his mind loved him, wanted to love him. But the Dark Lord didn't play nicely with his toys.

Harry imagined Voldemort slapping his face and he moved his head with the force of the blow, crying out as he pushed the dildo into his body. Merlin, yes.

"Take me, Master," Harry begged shamelessly, spreading himself open for that tall, imposing body.

He fucked himself with one hand and began to fist the erection that always came when he thought about Voldemort. No matter how it hurt to think of him, no matter how hard he tried not to, his body knew what it wanted.

Fuck, Voldemort was lifting him off of his feet, pushing him against the wall and thrusting into him, claiming him, his vicious fingers biting into Harry's skin.

Take it, Potter. Harry heard the words Voldemort would say, and he tried to obey as he slammed the dildo deeply into his own body, wishing it was bigger, hotter, wishing he was not an active participant here and instead just a hole for the Dark Lord to use.

He needed more, Voldemort would give him more. He reached down and pinched his nipples, having to let go of his cock for a second. He squeezed them as hard as he could, but it wasn't the same. The Dark Lord would be merciless, acknowledging Harry's limits and then shoving right past them.

He had an idea. He quickly turned off the shower and grabbed a towel to dry his cock as well as he could whilst drunk. Then he grabbed a bit of shampoo and brought his hand back to his erection. He slowly stroked himself, coating his entire shaft, the viscous liquid didn't bubble because there wasn't enough water. Instead, it got tacky. His hand stuck to his skin and pulled his sensitive flesh. Some of it got under his foreskin and stung.

He kept going, the burn and discomfort thrilling. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was Voldemort torturing him like this. He would draw it out, make Harry beg and call him Master, threaten him with absurd punishments if he dared to finish without permission, but Harry didn't want to wait. He stroked himself fast and rough, the sting making his eyes burn, but he didn't stop until his orgasm crashed into him, his come hitting the shower curtain in long, thick strands.

He closed his eyes, panting.

Not good enough.

Nothing ever would be again. If he couldn't have Voldemort, he would always be coming home from his flings and fucking himself in the shower whilst fantasizing about the man he could not have.

He rubbed his eyes with his wrist to avoid getting soap into them. Then he turned on the shower again, trying not to think about what Voldemort was doing at that moment.

How he would feel knowing that Harry was sleeping with Muggles again.

He would go mental.

Harry remembered his reactions even before they had become as close—

Ha.

Close.

Not nearly close enough if the man could never love him. As he rinsed the residual suds off of his sensitive tissue, he cursed Merope Gaunt for taking the easy way out and not living for her son. For never teaching him how to love. For condemning him to a life where he was hated and feared and so grew to think those were the only emotions he was capable of drawing out of people.

.

.

Harry heard the sound of his Floo activate, but he wanted to quickly neck back his last inch of Firewhisky before he answered.

"Harry? I'm here, can I come through?"

Harry swallowed and clinked the glass onto the counter.

"Yup, come on in."

He wiped his face on his sleeve as he walked into the sitting room.

Hermione smiled at him and lifted the bundle of food in her arms. He rolled his eyes.

"I brought all your favourites."

"You know I can feed myself, right? You're not my mother."

Hermione walked into his kitchen and dropped the package on the counter. She paused.

"Can you? Looks like your diet is mostly liquid right now."

"Don't start, Hermione," he groaned, and plopped down on the his sofa. "A man's allowed to wallow for a bit when he loses his job."

He heard her walking back and he sat up properly.

"You said you quit," she said with a suspicious frown.

Crap.

"Yeah, I did, but either way, the job is gone. It is lost, no longer to be had. Bye bye, employment."

"Are you drunk?"

Harry laughed.

"Nah. I haven't had much."

"But if you're not eating—"

"Merlin, leave it, Hermione. I'm fine."

He ran a hand through his hair, no longer feeling buoyant. He wanted her gone and wished that this visit hadn't been at his place so he could just leave. He pressed his left arm against his body tightly to grip the hidden Horcrux there. It helped.

"Alright. If you say so." She studied him for a few uncomfortable moments. "I wanted to talk about Jeffers."

"Again?"

Most people had accepted that Jeffers had had a change of heart before Harry's trial and didn't really question the outcome. But not Hermione. Perhaps because she alone had seen how very certain it was that Harry would be convicted and then suddenly there were no witnesses or Pensieve testimonies or anything else, really. And Hermione knew that the answers he provided under the fake Veritaserum were lies.

"I was doing some digging and—"

"I've told you I don't want to be a part of this sleuthing anymore."

"— did you know that Jeffers has voted in direct opposition to his stated positions in every case since your trial? He has also put forth some… ambitious reforms on several departmental duties. He's petitioned the board to interfere at Hogwarts—"

"What does he want with Hogwarts?"

Keep your damn hands off of my home.

Hermione seemed glad that he had actually asked a question.

"He wants more vetting for the teachers, both tenured professors and new hires. He's proposed a refreshening of the curriculum and the subjects, which includes teaching Dark Arts, not just defensively."

"Jesus."

Of course he did, the mad bastard. That would never fly.

"There's more."

"Hold on, what's been the reaction? Do people support him?"

Jeffers had also managed to secure the full Minister job after a close vote and his platform of revitalization and reform had gotten a lot of traction.

Lord Voldemort was the Minister for Magic again and Harry couldn't tell anyone.

"They do, on certain proposals, but obviously the Dark Arts thing will never pass."

She sat back against the sofa finally and let out a long breath.

"To be honest, I don't object to everything he's doing. Some of it is needed, but I just don't trust him. There's something off about him and no one will listen to me."

It had been just over a month since Harry had left Voldemort and he had promised himself that he would let the Dark Lord have some freedom to see what he would do with it. It was no surprise that the man was Minister for Magic right now. And shaking things up to the extent that he was.

He was not being honest with Hermione when he said he didn't want to know about what Jeffers was up to. He was watching, closely. This was the man's chance to prove that he could have power and not become a mass-murderer.

Sure, it would be better if he was not using an Unforgivable to do so. And yes, lying to the public about exactly who was in control of the entire wizarding Britain was not ideal, but again—

Dark Lord.

Considering what he could be doing, this was fairly tame. And Jeffers was a git anyways, so if he lost a few months to this, so be it.

Though… what was Voldemort's long game? Would he control Jeffers indefinitely? Would he kill him when he no longer wanted to interfere at the Ministry?

Well, no. He couldn't kill him. Not without losing his magic and that was, at least, a comfort.

"Harry?" Hermione's soft voice called him back. He startled at then looked over at her. "Where did you go?"

Harry shook his head.

"Nowhere, I'm fine."

Hermione looked uncomfortable.

"I've been wanting to ask about that."

Harry frowned, but his stomach gave a jolt at the familiar, heavy tone that he hadn't heard in weeks.

"Have you heard from him?" she asked, and Harry squeezed his fingers together, trying to act casual, like it was totally cool that she would bring up the Dark Lord now after not asking for a month, not noticing that he was falling apart and pining and desperate—

"No," Harry rasped, and then cleared his throat.

Not once, not since he told me he can't love me.

The silence stretched and Harry looked over at Hermione apprehensively. As anticipated, she was regarding him with irritated doubt.

"Really. And what about why Jeffers suddenly changed his mind about you? No possibility of corruption there? Of bribery or threats of violence?"

Harry just continued to stare at her levelly, hoping his face was giving nothing away.

Hermione scoffed.

"I can't believe you're still lying to me."

"I'm not lying!" he lied. "I have no idea why he changed his mind and I haven't spoken to Voldemort since the day I got released—"

"So you did see him that day!" Hermione said with frustrated energy. "Did he come to the Ministry? Did you see him after you were freed?"

Harry growled and fell back against the cushions again.

"It doesn't matter. I told you, he's done with me."

When Harry looked back at Hermione she was gazing over her shoulder, away from him. He sat up.

"What's wrong?"

Hermione took a deep breath.

"You need to get him back." She turned to him and her face showed stony resolve. "Ron died to keep the world safe from him, Harry."

Harry flinched.

Fuck.

He knew. He knew that.

Ron had died protecting everyone and Harry had pissed all over his sacrifice. Merlin. There was no right path. He knew Voldemort didn't deserve what he had endured, yet having him free was dangerous— especially if the other man didn't care about Harry's feelings anymore.

At least he knew he couldn't be killing anyone.

Unless, of course, he had figured out a way around the Vow. And, given who he was, Harry was certain the man could manage it.

Damnit.

"I know you care about him and you want to protect him because that's in your nature, Harry, and that's not a bad thing. But it's time to think about the wider world and not just the fate of one man."

She took his hands in hers again and he looked over at her pained expression.

"Get him back. I know that you can get a hold of him if you want to. Or give him a sign and I'm sure he'll come. If he thinks you're in trouble again, maybe."

"He won't, Hermione. The last time we spoke I told him I loved him and he said he couldn't love me back."

There.

Now she knew just how pathetic and messed up he was, still wanting that man like he did.

"That's what he said?" Hermione asked quietly.

"Yeah. So if he can't love me—"

"Oh, Harry, think about the source," Hermione sighed in exhausted disgust. "What does he even know about love? How can he possibly be sure?"

"Come on, Hermione. We've all heard that Lord Voldemort can't feel love. Dumbledore said he was incapable of forming attachments that weren't about what others could do for him. Shallow ones."

"I don't want to be defending him, and that's not what I'm doing, alright? But— Dark Lord or not— at his basic level, he's just a typical psychopath—"

"That's not fair," Harry interjected, "he—"

"Harry," she said, placing a hand on his arm with an eyebrow raised. He stopped and listened. "He kills without remorse, he's bold with his actions, lacks impulse control, he's narcissistic, manipulative, has little empathy," she was using her fingers to tick points off, "he used to be very charming, and he doesn't form attachments. That makes him a pretty typical psychopath."

Well fuck.

He didn't like that. It made sense, sure, and that was a part of who he was, but it didn't show the whole picture. It didn't take into account his selflessness when he'd saved Harry twice, nor his compassion when he'd created a Horcrux to help Harry, nor how sweet and almost romantic he could be at times…

But that wasn't entirely true, either. The man could have saved him because he was Lord Voldemort's property— something the other man was very adamant about— therefore he'd saved Harry for selfish reasons. And the Horcrux, although helpful, was still a Horcrux and thus self-serving in that it kept the man alive. Even his signs of affection could be chalked up to a psychopath being charming to influence and control.

Bugger.

"But what I'm saying," Hermione went on, "is that even if he is a psychopath, he may still be able to experience love, though it is admittedly uncommon. It requires work. It all depends on empathy and if he can make a genuine connection with someone. Learn from them. It's actually well-documented. Psychopaths—"

"Can we please stop calling him a psychopath?" Harry bit out, irritated.

Hermione shot him a sharp look.

"Would you prefer mass-murderer?"

Harry groaned and thumped his head back onto the sofa.

"Harry, listen. Even if he is… somewhat unorthodox, the ability to experience empathy is still there in him, though clearly in microscopic quantities and only towards a single person. And if he can do that, then he can love. Or, whatever the Dark Lord's version of love is. He has just chosen not to, but that is a choice. I suspect, based on what you have told me and what I have seen… I bet he is in love with you, but has no idea how to distinguish it. He must be very confused."

"That can't be," Harry muttered, refusing the hammering of his heart against his ribs. Towards a single person, a single person— " He said—"

"Come on, Harry. He won't have any clue what love feels like. And he's probably terrified of it, anyways. He probably sees it as a weakness."

"So… he was lying? Or…?"

"Maybe he was lying, but more likely he just doesn't know. It may be that he's never felt this way before."

"Merlin, Hermione," Harry said, shaking and heartbroken. "You can't say stuff like this to me. I've accepted that he can't feel love. That it's a waste of my time. I left him, he—"

"It is a waste of your time, Harry." She shifted on the sofa so that she was facing him and took hold of his hands, gripping them tight. She looked fierce and ominously resolute. "Even if he loves you, this changes nothing. Do you understand? He's still evil. Even if he wants to protect you, he still wants the rest of the world to burn. You can't put yourself before everyone else. Somewhere in there you're still a good person, even though he's got you wrapped around his vile little finger. You have to fight it. Fight him."

Hermione pulled him into a hug and Harry let her, not really having much control over his body right then.

"It's time," she whispered against his hair, and he winced. "It's time to do the right thing. I hate that this is who you finally fell for, Harry. You may well be each other's first loves. But you know that you have to give it up."

Have to.

Have to? Why do I have to?

She pulled back from him and held his shoulders bracingly. He looked at her, still feeling dizzy.

"If he loves you, and I think he does, then you need to use that to get him back here. And then… fix your mistake. He can never have you, not the way he wants to I'm sure, and a frustrated and scorned Dark Lord cannot be good for the world."

"So I have to kill him for what he might do?" Harry whispered.

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

"No. You kill him for what he did do. For the hundreds of people he murdered. Ron." Her voice hardened. "Fred. Remus. Your parents, Harry. Col—"

"I know," Harry said, closing his eyes against the agony at hearing that list of names. "Gods, Hermione, I'm aware of what he's done."

Hermione surged to her feet.

"Are you?" she said with disdainful skepticism. "Harry, he killed Ron."

The agony and accusation suddenly in her tone pierced him, making his recoil. She didn't talk about this— they didn't talk about this. He knew she was devastated, but they never spoke openly about the gaping, yawning hole in their trio. How the monster that Harry loved had put it there.

Hermione's eyes narrowed to slits, her gaze burning him.

"I know you love him," she said, grimacing at that word. "And I don't blame you, not really. You're caught in his clever manipulations somehow, I'm sure of it. And with his mutilated soul affecting you, you're powerless against him. I understand Harry and I'm trying to remember that, but hearing that you're still unwilling to kill him—"

She cut herself off and then turned away. Harry watched her, stunned, but he probably should not have been.

"I know that this must seem impossible," Hermione continued, sounding like she was working hard to control her anger as she faced him once more, "but you have to snap out of it. I can't listen to you make excuses for him anymore. We must get him back here and have a public execution so that everyone can move on. All his victims and followers, but also you and I, Harry. We need to move on. Let the man finally die."

Merlin.

"I—" he began, "I just—"

He stood abruptly and fled into the kitchen, needing to hide from her disgust, her disappointment. From the articulate way that she'd argued for Voldemort's murder.

Her words almost brought him to his knees. He could feel his fingers trembling and his heart fluttering uncomfortably, but he squeezed his left arm to his body and tried to ground himself with his Horcrux.

Hermione needed justice for Ron. She needed blood.

The problem was that her target was the very man that Harry was desperate to protect.

He collapsed against his counter, panting, eyes squeezed shut.

"Harry?" Hermione said, coming into the kitchen far too soon.

He pulled himself up and focused on her, trying to quiet the warring voices shouting in his head.

"I'm going to help you," Hermione said, sounding confident. Decided. "We'll finish this together. Once and for all."

Harry nodded helplessly and she gave him a tentative smile, which just made him feel worse.

"I'll make us some tea," she said.

He staggered out of the kitchen, lost and miserable. Closing his eyes, he blindly walked to the hearth and pressed his palms into his aching sockets until he saw colour distortions. Until he felt some pain to ground him.

This was bad. He was repulsive.

Instead of convincing him, Hermione's determination was igniting within him a reckless defiance.

She had a right to want vengeance against Voldemort, but the thought of anyone laying hands on him, trapping him, hurting him...

Killing him.

It spawned in Harry a murderous possessiveness.

Voldemort was his. He had paid his due and even if not, Harry didn't care. He forgave him.

He loves me.

It was impossible and he knew it, but even just that the hope existed, was enough to harden his resolve.

And Hermione was right, the daft lunatic didn't know the first thing about love and wouldn't recognize it even if he was chin-deep in it. Harry would just have to show him. He had known a lot of love since leaving the Dursleys, but this was his first ever non-platonic love. He loved Ginny, but it was the same way he loved Hermione or—

Ron.

Fuck.

Could he ever forgive Voldemort for taking Ron? Hermione never would and that meant that Harry would have to give her up if he wanted to make a life with Voldemort.

So it was his entire life, including his friends, his place in the world, and everything he knew—

Or Voldemort.

But the Dark Lord had to make the same choice, which was at least a bit comforting. He couldn't continue to destroy the world and have Harry too. He knew that, Harry had made it plain. And Voldemort had agreed to give it up if Harry would stay with him.

Merlin. That was power.

Lord Voldemort would give up his evil plans to be with him.

Runty, friendless, pathetic little freak Harry Potter.

Hermione made her way back into the room and Harry realized that he was leaning against the mantel. He looked down and saw the Gaunt ring gleaming up at him.

He hesitated.

"Here, sit and have some tea with me," Hermione said, and Harry felt his body sway, wanting to obey, but he was caught.

The gold glistened gently and his hand moved towards it unconsciously. He hooked his finger around the metal and slid it down to where it belonged.

Yes.

Turning, he faced Hermione who was eying him with concern, but he made his way towards the sofa and allowed her to talk about plans and try to convince him to move forward.

Harry let her voice waft over him, nodding when he should and trying to seem interested.

He had already made up his mind.

Tonight, he would use his parchment and contact the bastard. Enough was enough.

.

.

Voldemort sipped his tea and studied the man seated before him. He was the Minister for Magic in body, but not in mind. It amused him that he controlled the puppet that controlled the wizarding world.

He felt no resentment that it was not his face that people followed. He had never desired the job, as he thoroughly disdained such menial positions that were required by law to be constrained by others. He preferred to lead without accountability, with absolute authority.

The work of implanting information and using Legilimency had just been completed and now he must send Jeffers back to his family, back to the Ministry, to fulfil Voldemort's orders. He had to be frustratingly careful that none of his plans resulted in deaths because he was not sure how the Vow would react; whether murder by proxy would suffice to remove his magic.

He must speak to the boy.

It had been over a month and the silence and distance had been immensely irritating. He knew Harry was not finished with him. It was impossible. He may be upset or struggling, but Voldemort knew no one else would be able to satisfy the boy any longer.

At his darkest, Voldemort had believed that his inability to reciprocate love would result in the end of their association. Yet the longer he ruminated, the clearer his mind became.

He boy needed him.

Not only for balance with his soul, but also to compliment him, to make him stronger in a way that no one else would ever be able to. He could offer him knowledge, protection, passion, danger, and he could fulfil every violent desire that Harry could possibly imagine.

He was the apex, and Harry would realize this before long.

As for himself, the boy was his obsession, had always been. It was perilous, he knew it well, but their connection was no longer a choice. It was a compulsion: instinctual and undeniable. Harry was a part of him. He could fight it, of course, but why bother. The boy brought him peace. A stillness and completeness that he had never known before.

And more than that, Harry was a powerful wizard in his own right. Worthy. A man Lord Voldemort could permit to stand at his side.

He rose from his chair and Jeffers mirrored the action.

"Leave," he commanded, and watched as the younger man bowed with a natural smile and then left through the door.

He sighed. It had been an exhausting day. Bella's nagging to begin some Muggle torture was becoming tiresome. He had not called a Death Eater meeting for weeks, not since he had been required to leave the hall to master the conditioning that sprung up often around his followers.

Alone, he felt formidable and confident, yet when others were near, particularly men, his hands would tremble. He would have to suppress memories of degradation and pain, and he found it difficult to stand above them. To make himself visible. To make himself a target.

He despised weakness. That he had any at all was insufferable and yet it was his reality now. He plunged the images as deep as they would go, but each night he fell victim to them anew.

Grayson was prominent among them and strangely it was the demon's words more than his actions that affected him. He would taunt him, somehow making him question his eminence, make him cower and beg. He would open his body up, exposing everything, and then mock what he found.

It was humiliating and unendurable and yet he was forced to return there each night, relentlessly. Sometimes—

A chime sounded from his pocket and Voldemort froze, eyes staring down at his robes.

It was the alert on the parchment.

He had not expected the boy to write and yet he still carried it with him each day regardless. Just in case.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the parchment, unrolling it, his eyes flying across the words.

I want to see you.

He read the sentence repeatedly until he was able to take in its meaning and then closed his eyes. His heart was pounding and he paused to consider why. He had known that the boy would contact him eventually, but he had assumed it would be with a visit as he had done in Italy.

How to respond? Their reunion was inevitable, but he still felt an odd trepidation. Could they resolve their issues enough to… what? He did not know what their association would look like. Or lead to.

Would the boy live with him? Would he accept what he was doing with the Minister?

Was Voldemort willing to allow Harry to become his weakness, his vulnerability? It would be offering a trust that was unprecedented for him.

He looked down at the parchment again. More words waited there.

You probably don't even have this on you I don't know what I was thinking.

He stared at the letters. He could ignore it or he could find out what—

Words blossomed on the page.

Please. If you see this please write back. I just miss you so much.

The boy was shameless. To expose one's dependency to such an extent was unfathomable. Perilous.

And then, more.

I want what you offered me, Voldemort.

He wondered which part the boy was referring to. He had offered much and been denied.

If you don't write back I'm going to find you again and force you to talk to me.

Voldemort felt a tightening in his stomach. He narrowed his eyes and smirked darkly at the impudent challenge.

Think you can force

He jerked the quill as the memories reached up and grabbed him— Walker pinning him down with his bovine mass of flesh, hands holding him still as they made him scream while they tore his ears clean off, or beg not to be raped, and Grayson was plucking off his fingernails after the villain had painted them red to match your lovely eyes, he had said, proving that just about anyone could force him to do just about anything because he was weak and powerless and—

Voldemort

He watched his name appear, but he was still locked in his mind with Harris and the horde of men who never let him sleep or recover, always touching him, groping him, making him accept that he was just another body, just another man with base impulses to cower from aggression, piss himself from fear, cry when reduced to a limp plaything on the floor—

Hey, are you okay? Let me come to you please.

He read the words, but they did not break through. Come to me? But it is not safe here.

Stay away.

He did not want to risk Harry.

The hell I will. I'm coming.

Voldemort was overcome with fear and panic and tried to focus his mind to fight whatever was imminent, but then one of the Slytherin boys pressed a hand between his shoulder blades and brought him to his knees.