Chapter 38
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After breakfast the next day, Harry sat across from Voldemort, holding his hot teacup between his fingers and trying not to stare too obviously at the other man.
Merlin, but he was attractive. Once you got over the slightly reptilian face, the man's naturally striking bone structure and flawless pale skin were impossible to look away from. His height, his elegant fingers, the way his terrifying eyes accented his otherness— because he was unmistakably too perfect to be human.
"You are staring again."
Harry startled, sloshing tea all over his hands. He hissed in pain and tried to draw his wand, but by the time he got it out, the burns had already been healed.
"I place the marks upon your body, Harry. Not you."
Harry rubbed his hands, looking down to see the clear skin, trying to will down the blush he could feel heating his cheeks. And the sodding, constant erection.
"Git," he mumbled, then grabbed his teacup again.
He suddenly remembered the time he had eaten breakfast here and he'd been throat-fucked during his meal. Merlin, I could do with some of that now.
He had never, in his post-pubescent life, gone so long without coming before. He woke up hard, walked awkwardly all day trying to accommodate his straining erection, attempted to seduce the Dark Lord Voldemort into having mercy on him, went to bed frustrated and desperately needy, proceeded to have explicitly indecent dreams all night about the aforementioned Dark Lord, and then began the agonizing process anew the next day.
It was exhausting.
Exhilarating.
Because he hadn't forgotten Voldemort's promise to give him the best orgasm of his life after all of this.
But first, to business.
"Look," he said, rearranging his bulging prick as best he could in his trousers, "we need to talk. I have to go back home at some point and we need to figure out what the plan is."
The lazy smile that had been lighting Voldemort's eyes was quickly snuffed out.
"You're the Minister now, right?"
Voldemort gave no reply, but studied him intently.
Harry nodded.
"Okay, so yes."
"Are you demanding that I relinquish my hold?" Voldemort asked, tilting his head curiously.
Harry considered him for a few moments.
"What do you want to do?" he asked instead. "Become Minister yourself some day? Obviously you'd have to change your appearance, but I'm sure you could manage it."
"I am Minister already."
"Yeah, but I meant legally. In body. Are you happy with what you're doing? Do you want something else?"
Voldemort seemed to take a moment to think.
"I never wanted the Minister's job. Tom Riddle could have claimed it had he desired it."
Harry snorted.
"It's so weird when you start talking in the third person."
Voldemort shot a dark look at him and Harry tried not to laugh.
"Okay. So, not to be the Minister. What do you want, then?"
"What do you want, Harry?"
He shrugged.
"You first."
Voldemort inclined his head.
"Very well."
He leaned back and stepped his fingers, his eyes intense.
"You. I want you in my home permanently. I want your body and your mind. I want to teach you magic so you can attain the level of power you were always meant to have. You are the Master of Death, Harry. It is time you acted like it."
Harry's eyes were wide. He had not expected Voldemort's first wish to be him. Above power of his own, he wanted to share his power with Harry. Before he could process that, Voldemort kept talking.
"I want my Death Eaters to be strong and well on their own without me actively guiding them as much."
"But you still want them killing people?"
"Not necessarily. I want them kept under control without my continual involvement. Understand, Harry, the core of my followers' families have been working against Muggles for centuries and will not dissolve simply because I no longer lead them. I want their support politically because I do find that I enjoy the Minister position, so long as I am not forced to endure a menial desk job."
"Okay… So you'll keep Imperiusing Jeffers, then? And… command your Death Eaters to back you in the government?"
That didn't seem too terrible. For the Dark Lord.
"What else?" Harry asked.
Voldemort continued to scrutinize him.
"My other aspirations are not fully formed yet. I have discovered that they require your input, therefore allow me to repeat myself, what do you want, Harry?"
He held Voldemort's gaze helplessly for a few moments and then blew out a deep breath. He tried to organize his thought, but he couldn't figure out why that question made him so uncomfortable.
"No one's ever asked me that before," he muttered, shaken by this realization. "Christ, that's messed up. I make decisions, sure. Plenty of them. But I don't get to decide if. Whether."
Harry laughed, but it was a hollow thing. He felt all the old resentment and ill-usage bubbling up in him. He fidgeted with the delicate handle of his teacup as he spoke.
"Did you know that I only started playing quidditch because McGonagall threatened that I either had to play for the House team or face a hefty punishment because I'd broken the rules? And I hadn't even gotten to decide which position! She chose that too! Merlin, I was a Champion for the Triwizard Tournament because someone else put my name in, Hermione all but forced me to lead the DA… Even being an Auror was suggested by your insane sycophant Barty Crouch Jr and I had no other ideas so I went with it."
He looked over at Voldemort whose gaze was fixed unblinkingly on him.
"Even you," Harry said, emotion suddenly tightening his throat. "Fighting you. Dying for you. I didn't really get a choice. By the time Dumbledore finally got around to telling me I didn't have to, he had already spent six years grooming me to feel obligated. Enthused."
Harry leaned back in his chair, pushing back from the table.
"And why? Because you killed my parents?"
Harry lifted his head to catch Voldemort's eyelids twitch defensively.
"It fucking sucks, but you know what? You killed a ton of people's parents and none of them were forced to sacrifice their wants and needs and childhoods— hell, their lives to getting rid of you! Just me. I'm the only idiot that let everyone else dictate my own life."
Harry sat up and when that was not good enough, he stood and walked over to one of the windows.
"I was just a kid," he whispered, feeling the disappointment and sorrow that he had never really given voice to. "I had just escaped from…"
He looked over at Voldemort whose eyes had hardened and narrowed. Harry cleared his throat.
"I was free." He shrugged. "Then I was thrown into a bizarre world where I was important and people actually seemed to like me. Well, some people. And everyone told me that I had been born to kill you. That that was my responsibility. Set down by prophecy. Everyone from the children at school to the Minister for Magic had convinced me that that was my purpose."
Harry touched the condensated pane, trying to absorb some of the bracing cold.
"Born to kill. I was a child. Born to die."
He rested his forehead against the glass, closing his eyes. He was rambling, he knew it. Why wasn't Voldemort stopping him?
He pulled back and crossed his arms, looking out of the window, but only seeing Dumbledore's grandfatherly face. The benign smile and twinkling eyes just served to infuriate him further.
"Who asks that of a child?" Harry said, spinning to face Voldemort who was somehow standing a few paces behind him, watching him with a dangerous expression on his face.
Harry paused, thrown off a bit by the man's proximity, but continued anyway.
"If Dumbledore had truly cared for me and if the prophecy had not been binding as he had insisted, then he should have sent me far away from Britain. Sent me to another country overseas and let me live my life. Surely he or some other powerful wizard could have finished you off. But it was never about me. He knew what he wanted and, like everyone else, he manipulated me and lied instead of explaining things to me and letting me decide."
They stared at each other for long moments. He knew that he should feel foolish for the emotional digression, but Voldemort's eyes were ablaze with dark possessiveness and fury and Harry couldn't help but feel safe. At least one person seemed to take offence on his behalf.
"I would once again like to appeal to you to release me from my Vow."
Harry frowned.
"Why?" When Voldemort lowered his head and lifted his brows slightly, Harry rolled his eyes. "I know why you want me to, obviously, but why all of a sudden?"
"Dumbledore is dead, and you will eventually tell me the names of those who hurt you, but for now I wish to find your relatives."
Harry's breath caught.
"So you can kill them."
Voldemort held his gaze.
"Yes."
"Absolutely not."
Voldemort made a sound in his throat.
"They hurt you—"
"You hurt me, Voldemort! How many times do we have to go over this? You are no better— in fact, you are way worse. They never killed anyone."
"They abused a magical child—"
"You abused a magical child! You tried to kill me!"
Voldemort's eyes were blazing.
"You will stop interrupting me, Potter."
"Merlin, this has gotten way out of hand."
Harry walked past Voldemort who was still glaring at him and sat back down at the table.
"We were talking about our plans," Harry sighed, pushing back the stray, absurdly long hairs that had swayed into his peripheral as he'd moved. "What we wanted. Let's just go back to that."
Voldemort watched him with irritation and then turned to leave.
"Wait—"
"I will not have this discussion over our dirty plates, Potter. Come to the sitting room."
"Harry," he corrected wearily, refusing to follow until the man used his damn name.
Voldemort stopped on the threshold and regarded him. The urge to fidget was strong, but he waited.
"Harry," Voldemort whispered, and then left the room.
.
.
Voldemort was not a patient man. He had remained sitting on the chaise through force of will, denying his nagging impulse to go and drag the boy back by his hair. Why had he not followed? He cast a quick Tempus and saw that it had been seventeen minutes.
Had he left?
That seemed unlikely; Harry had been eager to discuss their future and although he had used his surname unconsciously, surely that would not be enough to send him running.
Three minutes, he resolved. He would not wait past twenty. It was discourteous enough already, and he would take pleasure in making the boy suffer for it.
When it was time, he stood calmly though rage coursed through him, making his fingers twitch, and walked back to retrieve the idiot. He stalked down the hall, shoving open the door to the dining room—
And then froze.
Harry was pressed up against the wall, his hands bloody and his face almost blue with lack of oxygen. He stared at the scene for only a second, taking in Bella with one hand around his Harry's throat and the other pressing a knife into his chest, cutting him, daring to injure him—
His magic exploded.
He saw Bella hit the wall opposite with a meaty, cracking sound, but had no attention for her. He entered the room and knelt before Harry who had collapsed when Bella had released him.
"What has she done?" he demanded, his fingers lifting the boy's chin to stare into his clouded, unfocused eyes.
Harry did not respond and his breathing was laboured so Voldemort allowed his magic to whip out and drag Bella by her throat to where he was.
"What have you done," he snarled, the words being scraped from his esophagus.
His mind was churning with the familiar murderous rage, the kind that guaranteed blood payment. She would die, that was certain, but before that she would answer him.
"Crucio!" he shouted, and let her scream and cry for inadequate seconds until he dropped the curse.
"The next time it shall be the Killing Curse, Lestrange, now answer me!"
"Master!" she begged, sobbing and panting. "I thought— he had broken in! I thought—"
"Crucio!"
He left her for only moments because each time he looked down, Harry looked off. Drugged, almost. Like he was fading.
"Details, you imbecilic cunt. Now!"
Her face looked lost and her body was still trembling from his curses.
"I— I…"
"What did you do to him?" he screamed, and backhanded her across the floor.
She was useless, he would have to decipher it himself. He pulled Harry away from the wall and laid him down until he was supine. He sunk his magic into the boy, trying to feel what was wrong. He was acting on instinct, his magic was unused to this level of healing.
Harry did not seem to be suffering a curse nor any Dark magic. It had to be physical.
He leaned down and pressed his nostrils against the boy's lax mouth, trying to scent a potion on his breath, but he smelled normal. He could vaguely detect tea, but nothing else.
"What did she give you," he muttered in frustration to himself, not expecting the boy to answer.
Harry's eyes slid closed. Voldemort growled, dissolving the boy's clothes and searching his body for wounds. He found just superficial knife cuts. He flipped him over and hunted for any indicators, but there was nothing.
He stood then and began pacing frantically, trying to think.
If it was a poison he needed a bezoar, but without Severus, where did one even find one of those? All his personal stores had been raided in his absence. It had to be a potion of some sort because his magic would have been able to recognize a disruption to the boy's magic or to his body by spellwork that was not his own.
He strode over to the unconscious Bella and grabbed her arm, yanking it up and plunging his magic into her Mark, calling on the woman who would fix this.
Agonizing, intolerable moments later, Narcissa arrived, accompanied by her worthless husband. Her eyes widened when she surveyed the scene from under her lashes, but she remained silent, unlike Lucius who released a shocked, "Harry Potter!"
Voldemort threw his magic at Narcissa, pushing her towards the boy.
"You will save him or your sister will die."
When she froze and dared to look up at him in shock he continued in a low, dangerous voice, seeped with violence.
"And your husband. And your child. And every person you hold dear and every life form on this planet until I come for you, Narcissa— now get to work!"
Narcissa flinched then rushed forward and sunk to her knees. She placed both her palms against Harry's naked chest and Voldemort had to look away lest he tear her apart for her unworthy, insolent touch.
"He is close to death, my Lord," Narcissa whispered, weak and pathetic.
"So heal him."
She ducked her head.
"I will need an antidote to the poison, Master, it is ripping through his internal organs fast."
Voldemort clenched his fingers.
"Why are you still talking— fetch what you need, woman!"
She nodded, her eyes darting away.
"Lucius, bring me the second potion on the poisons shelf. Blue bottle, glass top."
He inclined his head and then Disapparated.
Voldemort felt his magic writhing around him, seething to be used. He needed to slake his fury, to make someone suffer for how he felt. His servants were here as witness to his weakness and that would not do, either. When Harry recovered, he would have to wipe their memories. Some of them. Others, he would kill. One other.
He would not go to the boy. He did not enjoy witnessing the fragility of the human form. Narcissa was excellent at healing, a skill she had learned by necessity and many of his Death Eaters came to her when they were in danger. She would accomplish her task.
Or she and everyone else he could reach would burn. And then he would set the world on fire.
He tried to console himself with the fact that the boy was immortal, but without knowing what he had been given, it was possible that Harry could remain alive and yet be braindead. Or trapped in his mind for eternity.
Or paralyzed.
Blind.
Deaf.
Stripped of magic.
He could have had his memory destroyed, leaving him with no recollection of what they had been through for each other.
Lucius appeared in the doorway and hastened to his wife who briefly checked the potion and then glanced at Voldemort as if for permission. He heard himself make a deep, bestial, impatient sound and then she turned to tip the contents down Harry's throat.
He watched.
Harry lay completely senseless, almost as if sleeping except that there was a limpness to his muscles that he had never seen. Even sated and slumbering, Harry curled tightly around him, clinging like lichen.
After excruciating minutes had passed with no response, Voldemort forced his throat to work.
"He does not wake."
Narcissa bowed deeply, her hands resting flat against the floor.
"He is merely sleeping now, my Lord. The potion worked, I can sense his mind again."
His relief and gratitude momentarily hid the words that she had said.
It worked.
He has not been taken from me.
I can sense his mind.
"You entered his mind?" Voldemort asked in a deadly whisper.
The images of what she could have seen unfolded in his own memory: her Master stealing desperate kisses from the boy who had defeated him; her Master crying as he was whipped and hung bonelessly in bloody restraints; His collar, his cowardice, his powerlessness. She could have seen him raped, beaten, begging, bleeding—
"My Lord," Lucius said, crouching down to where Voldemort was kneeling by the sofa.
He saw confusion, fear, and anxiety in those grey eyes. He entered the man's mind and called up everything, watching himself tremble and then collapse. Watching Narcissa and Lucius argue about whether she should face the Dark Lord alone or if he would go with her and share their Master's wrath to keep her safe.
Voldemort pulled back and closed his eyes. Not now. You must be strong.
"I asked you a question, Narcissa," he said, bringing himself to standing as smoothly as he was able.
She bowed and nodded her head.
"I had to, my Lord. Just to see if it was active again. I read nothing in his mind, I swear to you."
He easily penetrated her barriers and reviewed her memories. He avoided everything but what she had seen when she had been healing the boy. She had caught a brief flash of Voldemort saying Harry, in a tone that he would never have believed he could utter. It was conciliatory. Warm.
He momentarily considered erasing it from her mind, but a strange impulse had him electing to let it be. He heard Harry's voice distinctly in his head saying, They'll have to learn about us eventually. Why not now?
He pushed that thought away.
"You will swear also that he is fully healed? I expect no damage."
"I did not heal his skin, my Lord," she said nervously. "I focused on the poison and protecting his mind. Shall I heal his wounds now, Master?"
Voldemort allowed himself to look down on the figure beside her. Harry did appear better. A small frown was nestled between his brows and Voldemort longed to smooth it out with his chin.
"Leave us."
He waited to hear the crack of their parting, but it did not occur. His tolerance was quickly dwindling to ashes.
"Please, my Lord," the Malfoy matriarch asked timidly. "May I take my sister with me?"
Voldemort looked up sharply, having forgotten all about the impulsive, imperilled woman.
His eyes slid to her unconscious body and he paused.
She deserved to die.
She had entered his home without invitation and tried to kill his… Harry. Yet again, unbidden, the voice of his reckless nemesis advised him: Let her go. There will be time later. We can decide how to deal with her together.
He looked down at the boy, frowning.
"Take her," he rasped, and turned his back on them all.
When they left moments later, he spun and had meant to go to the boy, but he hesitated. He stared at the figure on the floor. He hated infirmity, had no idea how to be a caregiver. He was made for causing injuries, not ameliorating them.
Yet Harry deserved better than to convalesce on the dirty ground. It had been Voldemort's servant that had endangered him, after all.
Slowly, he reached down and felt for the boy's pulse. It was there, sure and steady and Voldemort took a deep, calming breath. Wrapping his magic around that treasured frame he Apparated them to his bed, resolving to be with the boy when he awoke.
.
.
Fingers were slowly running down his scalp, soothing the throbbing in his head. He hummed, canting against the soft pressure that stopped as soon as he'd made a sound. No, stay with me.
He rolled over, chasing that hand and the thing he was laying on was decadently soft and smelled so intoxicating, so familiar. He moaned, dragging his palm up the material, searching for what he had lost.
Cool fingers suddenly gripped his and Harry's eyes flew open.
Lord Voldemort was there, staring down at him with a guarded expression— there, so close Harry could touch him— he was touching him. He curled their linked hands towards his chest and cradled them, refusing to let go.
"How do you feel?" that high, wonderful voice asked.
Harry attempted a lazy smile.
"You're here."
Voldemort frowned.
"This is my home. Do you remember nothing?"
Harry felt the man's magic wrap around him, sink into him, and his eyes fluttered closed as he basked in the sensation.
"Harry."
He moaned again, loving his name on that man's lips.
Fingers touched his forehead, lightly tracing his face.
"You must listen to me. How do you feel?"
He sounded serious so Harry tried to concentrate on that. How did he feel?
He opened his eyes and was about to say Dizzy, nauseated, lightheaded, tired, happy, confused, your eyes are red, but Voldemort was so close and Harry's fingers twitched.
"Kiss me."
A momentary smirk upturned those delicious lips and Harry wanted to sit up and smash his face against them, suck them into his mouth, wrap his hands around that smooth, long nape—
Fingers were suddenly snapping in front of his eyes and Harry realized that he had been staring at Voldemort's pale lips for some time. Merlin, but he wanted to let those sharp teeth press into his skin, tasting blood, tasting—
"Harry."
He slid his gaze up to the narrowed eyes.
"Answer, or I must bring Narcissa back. Are you sore anywhere?"
Harry thought about that.
"No."
Voldemort nodded.
"Do you recall the events of yesterday morning?"
Harry tried to think back.
"Bellatrix," he said, tilting his head and scrunching up his face. "She attacked me."
Voldemort nodded again, but his face looked suddenly murderous. Harry instinctually pulled away, letting go of the long fingers and flinching back from the fury in that expression.
It's the Dark Lord— sodding Lord Voldemort!
"I am not about to hurt you, Harry," the man drawled, as Harry was spiralling into panic. "Your fear is misplaced."
Harry studied him, trying to determine if he was telling the truth.
"She said that you wanted me dead," he whispered, remembering the woman's words as she'd dragged her knife along his chest. "That she was going to kill me for you. She thought that I was there to confront you, that I was there as an Auror."
Harry recalled losing the fight between them and getting shoved up against the wall, wandless, and forced to drink a tasteless, yellow potion.
"She said the potion had been meant for Muggles. Water supply, or something. It was big-time concentrated. She had been coming by to ask for your permission."
Harry remembered the monologue that she had delivered and his desperate hope that Voldemort would save him in time. Which, he supposed, he must have done.
"She said I was... damaging you. That you were weaker because of me, that I—"
"I do not care to hear her lies," Voldemort interrupted, his voice cold and impatient. "No one will touch you again."
Harry looked away. The man's gaze was too intense to hold for long.
"Did you kill her?" he asked quietly, and then suddenly realized what that would mean. He sat up. "Oh my god, Voldemort— did you lose your magic?"
Voldemort frowned at him. Then a sharp pain in his pierced nipple made him gasp and clutch at his skin. He looked up, shocked, to see the Dark Lord smirking. Harry smiled back. That sodding smirk is so catching, but then he thought about what the man had said.
"So… you let her go?" Harry asked slowly, incredulous. "After she had tried to kill me, you just let her go?"
Voldemort abruptly stood and hastened to the window, face livid and magic whipping out.
"Do not mock me," Voldemort hissed coldly, his shoulders haunching. "I will depart now to correct my mistake—"
"No!" Harry shouted, throwing back the covers and reaching out to him. "That's not what I meant!"
He quickly tried to organize his chaotic thoughts, his brain still feeling partially inaccessible.
"I'm proud of you," Harry stated, trying to feed all his sincerity into his words. "You wanted to kill someone and yet you didn't. Don't you see, can't you understand how… promising that is? How precious?"
"I did not spare her because I pitied her," Voldemort spat.
"I know," Harry said, dropping his hand and letting out a weak laugh. "I know you did it for me. Or, the Vow I guess—"
"I did not even consider the Vow, Potter," the man said, sounding disgusted. "I let her go because of your incessant voice in my head."
Harry scrunched up in face in confusion.
"My voice?"
"Yes, you blasted child— even unconscious you haunt me, begging me to have mercy."
Voldemort sneered and then turned away.
"I let Narcissa take her because you said we would deal with her together. Later."
Harry took that in, stunned to silence.
I am the Dark Lord Voldemort's conscience.
Voldemort turned from the window.
"Enough of this."
He reached the bed again and pushed Harry back into the pillows, perhaps rougher than was necessary. He paused as if waiting for a reprimand, but when Harry was silent, he gently tugged the blanket up to cover his body.
"I have assembled my Death Eaters, Harry. I had intended for you to be there while I addressed them, but you have not recovered sufficiently so you will remain in my bed this time."
"Wait— you wanted me to come to a Death Eater meeting?" Harry asked with alarm, his voice embarrassingly high.
Voldemort scrutinized him for a few moments.
"Yes. They must begin to see you as mine. As being untouchable. I would have liked to make that point with you present so as to draw out any who would be problematic, but—"
"You're going to tell them?" Harry interjected, ignoring the look of displeasure at being interrupted on Voldemort's face. "About… about us?"
Voldemort stared him down, likely to further chastise him, but Harry held his ground. Merlin, this was all moving so fast.
"It is time."
"What are you going to say?" Harry asked weakly.
Voldemort glanced towards the window, a small frown forming between his striking eyes.
"I will tell them that things have changed between us. That I no longer wish you dead and now value your life above all others. That any hostile act committed towards you will be interpreted as one against myself and they know better than to attempt that."
"Will you… gods, Voldemort. Are you going to tell them the nature of our…"
"Relationship. Say it, Harry."
Fuck.
Did the bloody Dark Lord just ask him out?
Harry looked up at him, feeling himself blushing, goddamn it, and trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.
"So you're my…?"
Boyfriend. Jesus christ, the Dark Lord is my—
"Master."
Harry raised his eyebrows as high as they would go.
"That's not what a relationship means."
Voldemort's face darkened.
"We decide what it means, Harry. Whatever little pairings you have had before now will not guide you here. Abandon your comforting expectations."
Harry felt himself hardening under the thin bloody sheet and knew it was going to be pretty damn obvious if Voldemort looked down. He closed his eyes, trying to will it away.
So. The Dark Lord was his… Master. Boyfriend. Who the fuck knew, but either way, he was about to out them to the whole world.
Fuck.
If Harry refused, Voldemort would take that to mean that he was not serious and probably cut him loose. The Dark Lord was terrifyingly assured and resolute about this. About them. He was frustratingly unashamed about declaring himself a faggot to the world.
Maybe it had something to do with being a Dark Lord and his inexhaustible confidence in his identity and self-worth. He probably thought that if he was gay then gay must be perfect because he was prefect. He wasn't embarrassed or afraid because who would call him out? Who would dare mock him?
... But then, he must have had plenty of people ridicule him while at the Ministry. How did that not affect him? Why was he so determined to declare a weakness after being violently abused for it?
He looked back up at Voldemort who was studying him closely. Harry crossed his arms over his bare chest, accidentally tugging his absurdly long hair as he shifted.
Blimey, if the Death Eaters knew, it was only a matter of time before the Ministry did. His friends, the Weasleys.
Hermione.
He would have to tell them before they heard it from the Death Eaters.
"Are you sure we should do this so soon?" he asked in a wavering voice.
"It is too late already," Voldemort declared staunchly. "You were hurt because they did not know that you are mine. I warned them before that touching you was forbidden, but without full understanding they will always view you as a challenge."
Harry sighed.
"I'll have to tell Hermione."
She was going to kill him. Scratch that, she was going to hate him and make him feel guilty and ashamed and evil, which was way worse than being dead.
She was going to bring up Ron.
Voldemort inclined his head.
"Do you wish to do so before I speak to my Death Eaters?"
Harry narrowed his eyes.
"I thought they were already waiting?"
Voldemort gave an elegant shrug.
"They can wait longer if you desire. Or I can dismiss them. We can also tell them simultaneously."
"Wait, so I'd go home?"
A twinge of regret and reluctance went through him. He liked being here, with Voldemort. And besides, he still hadn't gotten to come so he doubted he'd be able to function normally being as sexually frustrated as he was. Would Voldemort keep the curse on him if he left? Surely the man wouldn't deny him masturbation rights if the sodding prick wasn't even around to take care of it anyways…?
"If you feel up to it," Voldemort replied. "I will take you home myself to ensure your safety and then you can invite the girl over."
Harry bristled.
"I don't need your protection, Voldemort. I can manage to get myself home without your help, thank you very much."
"And yet, you could not follow me from a room without finding my deadliest servant."
"Hey! That wasn't my fault! Your house is crawling with Death Eaters! How was I supposed to know it isn't safe here?"
Voldemort leaned down, filling up all his peripheral vision, his expression dark.
"You are safe with me, Harry. This will not occur again. You have my word."
Harry put a hand on that hard chest, meaning to push him back, but once his fingers made contact he was unable.
"You can't promise that," he said, trying not to get distracted as his digits smoothed over the man's chest. "Even if you threaten them, they may do it anyway."
"They will not disobey a direct order."
"Bellatrix did! What's to stop—"
"I will kill her."
Harry stared, taking in his sincerity.
"You'll lose your magic."
"It would be worth it. But do not fear, I do not require magic to kill."
Ron's fingers were scrabbling at Voldemort's forearm, trying to pry the man off, and Harry was watching that face turn red then blue as his best friend suffocated—
"No," Harry breathed. "I don't want you to kill anymore."
"They are my Death Eaters and I will deal with them as I—"
"Fine then, I get to fuck a Muggle."
Harry watched Voldemort's mouth click shut. The red eyes ignited, his body freezing, as Harry took the chance to make his point.
"You said you'd kill someone if I had sex with anyone else. So, the reverse should serve, too. You kill someone, I get to let anyone I want fuck me."
"No. My payment is my magic. There will not be further remuneration."
"Nope. You got to choose your payment. This is mine."
"You chose yours when you forced me to take that Vow!"
Oh yeah.
Harry took a deep breath. This all seemed so hopeless. He tried to remind himself that Voldemort had resisted murdering Bellatrix even though he had wanted to. He was capable of restraint.
"You don't have to kill," Harry stated with emphasis. Encouragingly. "You are stronger than that impulse. You are the master of your magic, that big genius brain of yours is. It doesn't—"
"I enjoy killing people," the other man replied simply.
And there it was.
No matter that he could temper himself, he just didn't want to. But that wasn't damn good enough.
"I don't want you to keep killing people, Voldemort!" Harry shouted, fisting the blankets desperately. "Merlin, don't you get it? There will be no relationship, nothing to tell anyone, unless you stop murdering people! I can't— you must know I'm not the kind of person who can be alright with that!"
Voldemort stood abruptly and put distance between them. He looked frustrated and unhappy.
"You have unrealistic expectations of me," he growled. "You know who I am. You insist that you love me, but it is an idealized version. I kill people. Torture them. I do what needs to be done to achieve my goals. I enjoy holding absolute power; it is my right and I deserve it. I am not a tragically misunderstood figure that you can control. If you persevere with these delusions you are allowing yourself to be disappointed."
Harry shook his head, refusing to believe any of that. He wasn't an idiot, he knew Voldemort was two inches from evil, but those two inches mattered and could be multiplied if the man wasn't so damn stubborn.
"So don't disappoint me," he countered, and Voldemort hissed, likely in Parseltongue. "You're smarter than that, surely you can problem solve without murdering people. I can help you."
"Always, you want me to change, you want more, Potter. If you are creating a new person of me, what do you actually love?"
Harry looked helplessly at Voldemort, so far away. He had tossed the comment out like it was meant as a jab, but Harry could see how the man continued to watch him, waiting to hear his answer.
"I love your bravery," he said softly. "Your selflessness. Your affection. All the little parts of you that I didn't know about before. I love the way you—"
Voldemort scoffed, turning away.
"You treasure the parts of myself that I loathe. You do not admire my power or my resolve or my intellect. My cunning and perseverance."
"I do. I love all that. But you don't realize that those things are enough to make you extraordinary without killing people."
Harry closed his eyes and tried to put together his thoughts. He knew what he wanted to say, but his head still felt jumbled and cloudy. He had to make Voldemort understand.
"Before you were known for murder," he began, opening his eyes and watching the Dark Lord eye him guardedly as he leaned against the wall, "you were known for your magic. Your skill and potential. Tom Riddle could have had any job he wanted, any… anything. Your Death Eaters joined you for your charisma and your frankly awe-inspiring magical talent. Not for your bloodlust."
"I do not have bloodlust," Voldemort replied after a moment, sounding slightly offended. "Nor do I just arbitrarily kill people. I have an agenda."
"Sure you do. What about with Muggles?"
Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow.
"They are not people, Harry."
Harry thumped his head back onto the pillows. He wanted to strangle the man, the complete tit. This was hopeless.
…But if he gave up now, there would be no conversation with Hermione. No relationship. Harry had gotten to know Voldemort and now he knew there was more to him than what he did. He was not lost, he was so close to becoming the person Tom Riddle could have been if he'd not had the lonely, miserable childhood that he'd had.
Harry pushed himself up onto his elbows again then shifted until he was resting against the headboard. Voldemort was still leaning against the wall, watching him.
"You want power," Harry began, "but don't you see? You already have it. Your control of magic and the way that you're almost made of it, is like nothing I have ever seen or read about. Everything is effortless for you. You are unparalleled and people know it. Merlin, the Minister for Magic and all the Aurors in the building were shitting their pants trying to figure out how to deal with you. You scare everyone, but it's your power that does it. People follow you and admire you and fear you and die for you because you have something that none of the rest of us do."
Voldemort's eyes shone with hunger. Avarice. Pride.
"I didn't fall in love with your cruelty," Harry said quietly. "Lucius doesn't admire the terror you cause him. Snape… he didn't join you because you kill. In fact, you lost him because of it."
Harry saw those red eyes narrow. Bugger, I never told him about that.
"Lost him," Voldemort repeated slowly.
Bollocks.
Harry hesitated, wondering if now was really the time to anger the Dark Lord, but decided it would be too obvious to try and hide the truth.
"He loved my mother. He asked you to spare her and when you didn't, he left you. He was loyal to Dumbledore from the moment you killed her."
"He was my spy," Voldemort insisted, though he didn't sound completely confident.
"He was Dumbledore's spy." Harry looked apologetically up at him, speaking quietly. "I can show you memories. I'm not lying. Snape left you when you killed the woman he loved."
Voldemort stared blankly for a few moments and then abruptly pushed off from the wall.
"My Death Eaters are waiting. I must go."
Harry tried to get up, panicking at the sudden change of topic.
"So what do I do? Am I coming or…?"
"Go home," Voldemort said coldly, though when he saw Harry wince, his eyes softened and he paused. "Talk to your friend, Harry. Come see me once you decide what you want."
"I know what I want," Harry said stubbornly, because he did.
Sure, he wanted Voldemort to say out loud that he would change, but he didn't really need the verbal confirmation. He had let Bellatrix live and that wasn't an insignificant thing. He had trusted in Harry and their partnership to deal with the problem together.
Dumbledore had always insisted that Voldemort was solitary and operated alone, but here he was now choosing to confer and potentially be talked out of murder.
He looked back at Voldemort whose face was open, showing an almost a cautious excitement.
The Dark Lord inclined his head.
"Then tell her."
.
.
Voldemort walked slowly towards his assembled followers, his mind caught on Severus.
The man had loved Harry's mother; he had known it, but Severus had assured him that her death was manageable. Voldemort had even given him a young, red-haired witch that had recently joined his ranks in recompense. Severus had thanked him.
But then, he had never seen them together afterwards. In fact, he could not remember Severus ever taking another woman.
Was it true, then, that he had lost Severus because he again did not understand love? It seemed so tawdry to fret over a silly girl. Especially a Mudblood.
This was why Voldemort despised the emotion. Severus had been powerful and cunning. He should not have thrown it all aside for some woman— who was even married to another man.
Voldemort turned a corner and took the stairs towards the meeting room. The thought of Severus betraying him was uncomfortable. Especially after everything he had done for that man, everything he had personally taught him. It was disappointing.
There were hundreds of witches he could have consoled himself with. One was just the same as another.
Would you take another?
He stumbled.
His mind supplied him with images of Harry being throttled and wounded by Bella.
What if he had died?
What if Narcissa could not have saved him and Voldemort had had to bury the boy?
I would raze the world to ashes.
Yet it would not bring him back. He knew at once that he would never take another man. He would perhaps even crumble now without the boy.
The realization stunned him.
He would betray his cause and slaughter anyone responsible if it meant keeping the person he—
Voldemort stopped at the bottom of the stairs. His heart was beating very fast and his vision began to tunnel.
No.
He would fight this. He had a meeting to attend. He leaned back against the banister and closed his eyes.
He forced his mind to visualize the oceanic tempest and into the churning waters he threw his panic. His fear. He banished all feelings connected to the boy until he could think of him without his throat feeling raw and ravaged.
He watched the water engulf it all, drag it under, and he began to calm.
He was untouchable. Omnipotent.
His fingers flexed and he opened his eyes to see his magic whipping around him in dark waves.
Enough, now.
He pushed off from the wall and preceded towards the large oak doors, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest.
Forgive me, Severus.
.
.
"Harry!"
Hermione almost landed on him when she had Apparated onto her doorstop. He had been sitting on her steps, agonizing over how the hell he was supposed to tell her about this.
"Hey, Hermione," he said, standing and smiling at her as normally as he could.
"Where have you been?" she asked, not returning his smile. "And— your hair! It's…"
She reached out to touch it, but Harry flinched away. She drew back her hand, looking hurt and suddenly guarded.
"Is everything alright?"
Harry nodded, trying for a carefree expression.
"Course. I just wanted to chat if you're not busy?"
Hermione eyed him suspiciously.
"Well, it'll have to wait until I get Hugo and Rose into bed, if you can wait that long?"
Harry hoped the news wouldn't break in that time. He'd have to chance it.
"Sure."
She opened the door and the two kids immediately grabbed hold of their mom, shouting over each other to tell her about their day. He watched, an unnoticed outsider, as she dropped her stuff and sat on the ground, seeming genuinely interested in the inane stories they were sharing.
He was mildly jealous of her little family for a while until around dinner time when the talking just didn't stop or get more interesting and Hermione'd had to feign excitement about the nonsense they were droning on about. Because, it was feigning, surely. No one could really care about an exhaustive list of characters in an imaginary game at school, ranked by how many dragons they owned and their names and so forth.
He liked her kids, had always admired their energy and sass, but his eagerness to talk to Hermione made him more and more irritated as they begged for one more chapter of the bedtime story, and one more hug, and one more drink of water as they pushed open their bedroom doors five or six times before finally— finally— falling asleep.
"Sorry about that," Hermione said, with an exhausted but contented smile.
"Don't worry, they're lovely," Harry replied, mostly meaning it.
"So," she said, tucking her legs up under her on the sofa, "is this about where you have been this past week and a half? I've tried your flat and asked around and no one has seen you."
He didn't answer right away, trying to organize his thoughts, and her expression grew stern. She frowned.
"You haven't been with him, have you?"
Harry held her gaze and actually considered lying just to avoid her disappointment. But there was no hiding from this if Voldemort was telling his people right now.
He sighed and nodded, looking away.
"Have you implemented any of the plans we made the last time we spoke?"
"You made," Harry quietly corrected her.
"We made. You agreed it would be for the best."
Harry shook his head, guiltily.
"It's not." He saw her move and looked over at her, continuing before she could interrupt him. "I'm not just being selfish. He and I spoke a lot this week and I can basically guarantee a ceasefire on his part."
"What?"
Well, it wasn't completely a lie.
"He said he'd stop killing people. He wants to step back from the Death Eaters."
She made a scathing, frustrated sound.
"You're so gullible, Harry."
"I've got him with a Vow on his magic, Hermione." She shut her mouth and stared at him. "He will lose it if he kills anyone. And he's okay with that."
"Why would he be?
Harry had no idea, really. The only thing that made sense, made no sense. Did Voldemort actually trust him? Love him? Was the man being honest when he said he would lose more than his magic to keep Harry?
"He has to be. I've got the Vow, so he's not really a threat anymore."
"Even you can't be that stupid, Harry. What was the exact wording you bound him with?"
He bristled at her words. If this actually worked, it could be a huge success for everyone. Why couldn't she just accept that and be happy for him?
"I handled it," he replied cooly. "And he hasn't broken it since."
"That you know of. Do you think he tells you everything he does?"
Harry was trying to figure out how to respond to that when she spoke again.
"Did he change your hair?" Harry looked up and caught her disgusted expression, then he quickly looked away. "This can't be your choice."
"It is," Harry mumbled, fooling no one.
"So he's controlling how you look now, too. Wonderful. I'm surprised you don't have any black eyes or broken bones— but then, I guess he would just heal those before he let you out into public."
Harry glared at her.
"I'm not a battered wife, Hermione. He likes my hair like this and I don't really care about what my hair looks like. He's changing things for me too. Isn't that what people do in relationships?"
Hermione looked staggered.
"Relationships? Harry. Are you two dating now?"
She said it with obvious exaggeration, clearly finding the possibility too implausible to contemplate seriously.
Harry grimaced.
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about."
Hermione scoffed.
"Merlin. I see you're wearing his Gaunt ring, too. Is your big news that you're getting hitched? You're pregnant?"
Harry made a derisive sound at the absurdity of that idea. Blimey, Voldemort as a father. Thank christ there were some things that even magic couldn't make happen.
"No. But can you cool it with the attitude, Hermione? I have something I need to tell you."
Hermione crossed her arms and glared at him, but fell silent.
Harry took a deep breath.
"He's telling his Death Eaters about me. Something happened yesterday and he… kinda lost it."
"Voldemort lost his temper? Now that is news."
Harry rolled his eyes at her.
"Gods, 'Mione, will you shut it for a second while I try and tell you what's happening? He's telling them we're together. I think."
He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes. He still didn't feel completely back to normal, his head was pounding and he was having trouble focusing.
Hermione's hand rested on his leg.
"Are you okay?"
Her voice was softer, more herself.
Harry nodded.
"Yeah. I just… Bellatrix attacked me yesterday and I'm still not one-hundred percent. I had to come talk to you, though, before news got to you first. I don't know how far this information will go."
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"I don't know how many people he's telling, what he's telling, if he's forcing them to keep silent, or anything."
Hermione looked disapproving.
"He's outing you to the wizarding world and you have no say in it?"
"You don't understand. He's doing it to protect me."
"Sounds more like he's doing it to force you to seek his protection."
Harry sat back against the cushions, blowing out a breath. His head was pounding. He just wanted to go home, back to Voldemort's place. But first he had to make sure he had gotten his point across.
"We're together."
He said it without looking at her. She didn't respond right away and so he plowed on, hoping he could still salvage their friendship.
"I know you don't believe me, but he really has changed."
Harry thought about how panicked Voldemort had been when Bellatrix had poisoned him. About how he had stopped himself from killing her because his conscience convinced him to seek Harry's advice and help.
"I don't know what the fallout from this is going to look like," Harry continued, feeling brave enough to face her again, "and I may have to go away for a little while with him until it calms down, but I will prove to you that he is done being a Dark Lord."
He stopped talking, finished pleading his case. She would either believe him or she wouldn't, but at least she had heard it first from him. He had done what he had come to do.
Time to go home.
"I really wish you hadn't said that, Harry," Hermione whispered, tears in her eyes, but grim determination blazing within them. "I'm really sorry."
Before Harry could fully process what the hell that meant, her wand was out and he was on the ground, bound and immobilized.