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"Have dinner with me tonight."

The fork clattered from Voldemort's fingers. He remained frozen in place, eyes on the scraps of food in his plate as he went over what he should say. Weighing that against what he wanted to say. Harry added,

"It's an open invite."

Voldemort glanced at him. Harry's attention was on his plate, laser-focused on the fluffy eggs Debra had whipped up.

"Any time. Any day."

Harry's voice went hoarse there and he stopped, placing the fork down gently.

"I want you."

He looked up then, dark, sombre eyes clashing with Voldemort's.

"I want you anyway I can have you. I'll have Debra make us something, just in case."

The emotions in his voice, in his eyes, trapped Voldemort. So raw.

"I…..I don't know."

Harry nodded slowly, disappointment seeping through the expression on his face.

"Just in case."

It was Voldemort's turn to nod and he did, a jerky motion as he shot to his feet.

"I'm—I have to go."

It was closing in, the walls. He needed out. He turned away from the look in Harry's eyes, a look that tore at him, that tore him in so many directions. He sent a text to Avery in the bedroom as he yanked his t-shirt over his head. He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked down at the rumpled sheets, the evidence of Harry and him sharing a bed. Sharing last night. They had yet to make lo—to have sex, but last night felt way more intimate.

Voldemort smoothed a hand over the pillow where Harry had slept, inhaling deeply as he searched for that lemon and sage smell. He found it and tilted his head up, a bitter smile curving his lips. Footsteps drew near and he snapped out of his daze, bending to put on his shoes.

Harry stood in the doorway and watched him, silent, gaze heavy and loud. But they didn't speak. Voldemort stood when he was fully dressed and walked towards Harry.

"Thank you."

He lifted a hand to touch Harry's face, but thought better of it and let it fall halfway to its destination.

"Last night. This morning…just, thank you."

He brushed past Harry and walked through the condo headed to the front door, keys jiggling in his shaking hand. He passed Debra clearing their dishes from the table and stopped.

"Debra."

She looked up at him and he held out a hand. She didn't hesitate to take it. He smiled.

"Thank you for breakfast."

He kissed her knuckles and walked off under her stare. Harry caught him as he stepped outside the condo, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him into the wall. Voldemort didn't struggle. He couldn't.

"I don't want your thanks, V."

He buried his face in Voldemort's neck.

"I want you."

He inhaled then pulled away.

"I want you, V"

Voldemort bit his lip.

"I know."

He knew that. He did, he just didn't know how to make it happen. A resigned look crossed Harry's face and he released Voldemort and took a step back. Voldemort headed toward the stairs. Harry spoke softly and pointed to the elevator.

"I'll come with you. I can come with you."

Voldemort shook his head.

"I can't. I need—I need the stairs today."

To think. He continued walking and didn't stop thinking, not even when Avery pulled up.

An hour later Voldemort glared at his uncle. No words. He had no words for what the hell he was seeing. Hearing. Morfin was in charge of making sure their girls were safe. But one of them had been beaten and stabbed to death. Under Morfin's guard. His uncle had the nerve to shrug. as if he didn't know the hell he was about to put him in.

"What the hell, Uncle?"

Voldemort wanted an explanation for this—this mess that would surely have the MET on his back.

"One job. You had one bloody job."

Morfin glowered at him from the other side of the desk.

"How is this my fault? Katie's husband found out and beat her. Who knew this would happen?"

Voldemort couldn't help but shout.

"You're supposed to make sure they're safe. Instead of taking advantage and getting your dick wet, you're supposed to be watching that they're okay. All the time."

He pounded the desk with his fist, wishing the smooth oak top was his Uncle's face.

"Don't talk to me about using the merchandise,"

His uncle shot back, face red.

"It's okay for you to mess around with Bella and Rodolphus, but not for me to do the same?"

Voldemort stared at him.

"Really? That's your take away from this? Not that you should have been on point, doing the job I assigned you, but that?"

Morfin raised his hands and spoke in an exasperated tone,

"Look, what do you want from me? The cops already know who did it, they have Katie's husband in custody."

Damn, was Morfin that dense or just really good at playing?

"Yeah, that's all good, but once he tells them why he did it, that Katie was working for us, the cops are going to come gunning for us."

He sat back.

"Is that what you want, to have the MET underfoot, all over our business?"

Morfin looked away.

"Of course, you didn't think about that."

Voldemort shook his head.

"I have, because that's my job, Uncle. To see all the angles, to rifle through the what-ifs. That's my job, to anticipate every bloody problem and fix them before they even arise."

He rose to his feet.

"My job, this job that you want so bad? You wouldn't last a day."

Disgust wrinkled his brow as he stepped away from the desk and walked to the door.

"Get the hell out."

He pulled out his phone to call Nott. They needed to fix this mess, and quick. Morfin grabbed him from behind. Voldemort whirled and smashed face-first into his Uncle's fist. He tripped as pain exploded behind his eyes, staggering backward.

What the hell?

Morfin punched him again, and again before Voldemort found his equilibrium to throw his left arm up and block the fourth strike. He countered with a punch to the gut that had Morfin doubling over then slammed the heel of his hand into his Uncle's throat. Morfin fell back onto Voldemort's desk. Blood dripped into his mouth and nose, probably from his forehead, clouding his vision.

"You hit me?"

He cracked his jaw and stared at Morfin, incredulous.

"You think you're in charge, but you're not."

Morfin held his throat with one hand, glaring at Voldemort. His expression was hate-filled, intense enough to make Voldemort falter.

"Enjoy it while you can, Tom."

Voldemort narrowed his gaze.

"What is this, Uncle? Suddenly you're taking sides against me?"

Morfin pushed himself upright.

"I'm on the right side. They were right, you're not cut out for this. You're soft."

Voldemort cocked his head.

"That's a new one."

The words didn't hurt them. They never did,

"You've been walking around here different."

Morfin limped closer to Voldemort and spat out,

"You're different. "Your edge is gone. All the attacks on us by the order, you should have struck back harder, faster, but you didn't. They're going to be here, running things in no time because of you."

Voldemort gaped at him.

"I'm not different. I haven't changed. You're the one picking fights, reaching for more than you can handle, Uncle."

Morfin's eyes turned sad even though his expression remained resentful,

"It's more than you've been doing around here. You've been missing in action, Tom. Like last night, we couldn't get a hold of you at all. Not the first time."

He stepped back and looked Voldemort up and down.

"You have someone."

Voldemort scoffed at that though his pulse leapt. No one could know about Harry.

"No. There's no one."

It was Morfin's turn to smirk, gaze dropping to Voldemort's neck. The inked thorns wrapping around his throat didn't do much to hide the evidence of Harry's hand at his throat. His mark remained there, faint, but visible. Voldemort fought against the urge to squirm, to touch his throat, to hide it. Morfin said finally. He shook his head.

"Your priorities aren't the same. You're the one not cut out for this."

He left, his words leaving Voldemort's feet rooted to the floor.

He didn't have the time to fully digest Morfin's words, to examine the significance of his Uncle's actions. He didn't have time for any of it. So many things needed to get done, fires needing to be put out. Even though he went through the routine of barking orders, his uncle's words were never far from his mind. Teasing and tormenting him.

He sent Bella to deal with the arrangements regarding Katie's funeral. The problem of her husband needed to be handled with the utmost care and quickness, and while Voldemort would have liked to see to it personally, he couldn't. He resorted to calling in one of the men he used for the more detailed jobs.

Sanguini wasn't a part of Voldemort's world, he was simply a contractor who could get anything done for the right price. He was quick and brilliant. A man of few words with more bodies on his resume than Voldemort cared to count. A few strokes of the computer keys and Voldemort had sent him everything he needed, plus half of his fee. Then he called the number Sanguini texted to him.

"Voldemort. Long-time no hear."

Sanguini's voice never failed to give him the chills. Voldemort said with a small smile.

"Been keeping things quiet on my end,"

"Yeah? The streets are talking, and they're saying you're in way over your head with the order."

He never knew how Sanguini got his info, but Voldemort didn't ever ask. He waved a hand in dismissal.

"It's just gossip. I'd take it with a grain of salt if I were you."

Sanguini chuckled and then asked brusquely,

"You got a timetable on this job?"

"Yesterday."

Sanguini grunted.

"He's at the precinct?"

Voldemort nodded.

"Yes. I'd prefer it be before he says anything, feel me? I'd like to know if he said anything, either way."

"I'll let you know when it's done."

Sanguini was gone before Voldemort could say thank you. For fixing his mess, killing a man on Voldemort's orders. His head and face hurt from Morfin's blows. He sat in his room, phone in front of him on the coffee table as he waited for word from Sanguini. This was what he did, silencing people with the knowledge of who he was and what he did. He didn't know Katie or her husband, Henry, very well. He didn't have to.

The man killed his woman for prostituting to make enough money to feed their family after Henry got laid off at Transit. He deserved what he got. His knowledge that Katie worked for Voldemort signed Henry's death warrant. Henry was a threat. It was Voldemort's job to eliminate those, despite what his uncle might think. Voldemort did what he had to, because people depended on him to keep things running. Still, it took something out of him whenever he went this route.

He leaned back in his seat while the pain in his head throbbed. This, this was why he couldn't give in to his pull with Harry. The lawyer wanted more than Voldemort could give right now, or possibly ever. It hurt him, deep inside, it hurt him every time he walked away from Harry. This morning was the worse. After all they'd shared, the night before and at the breakfast table, he'd had to force himself to put one foot in front of the other and leave. The disappointment in Harry's eyes had followed him home.

Why? Why now and why this man? Voldemort hadn't wanted this when he'd set his sights on Harry. He'd wanted the promise of release he'd seen in Harry's actions that night at the club. He'd wanted the ability to lose himself in the pain, to play the games he played then walk away. He hadn't wanted this, and yet, this was so damn good. So tantalizing. A bright and shiny thing he couldn't help but stare at with wide, hopeful eyes. A glittery object, swinging suspended in front of him, and he had only to reach out, reach up, and grab hold. It'd be everything he never thought to want, everything he'd ever run away from. It'd be everything.

Hours went by. He didn't move from his seat. This was what it came down to, waiting. He didn't doubt that Sanguini would get the job done, Voldemort simply worried that Henry might talk before that happened. His phone made a sound, the chirp and vibrate it did when he had a new text message. Voldemort picked it up, swiped the screen and read it.

Done. Birdie didn't sing.

He dropped his face in his hands and just stayed there, breathing, feeling. The pain in his jaw and wrist throbbed in sync so he crawled to the bathroom and levered himself up against the sink. In the medicine cabinet, he found painkillers. With two little white pills in hand, he trudged to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Vodka from the freezer. He used the alcohol to wash down the pills then made his way to the bed and collapsed onto it. The clear liquid splashed onto the sheets. He ignored it.

The muted sounds from people having fun in the street just under his window irritated him so he drank. He'd been born and raised in London. He knew the dark underbelly, so the surface brightness didn't faze him at all. But the more people who came to London, the more tourists visited, the more money he made. There wasn't a dollar made here that Voldemort didn't get a percentage of. If you wanted to open a business here, Voldemort had to okay it. Not many knew that, but the right people did.

Head against the headboard, he drank. All the windows in his apartment were closed despite it being almost ninety degrees outside. Then he thought about Harry, about the lawyer seeing Voldemort like this, and he drank. His uncle's words bounced around in his skull, hitting Voldemort low and hard. So, he drank.

He drank until the bottle fell from his stiff fingers, but he passed out before it hit the floor.

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