CHAPTER 5

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He Apparated home from the Ministry that night and promptly puked all over the floor.

Just like them, I'm just like him, oh gods, oh Merlin—

Harry could still feel McNair's heavy body in his arms, how unnaturally the limbs had hung, muscles tense from the curse, his blank, brown eyes wide open. He could still hear Robards congratulating him at the impromptu celebration they'd had before Harry had retched when Kingsley had come by to ask him to recount his tale yet again.

Harry was panting, kneeling next to his pile of sick, trying to quiet the words in his head that were screaming— you killed someone, you added another life to the endless list of people that have died because of you— but this time, you're actually repulsive enough to have murdered them yourself. That last piece of humanity is gone, and if killing makes you evil, then what are you now? What are you, you freak? You're a murderer, an incurably criminal boy, just like Vernon had always said you were, dangerous and unlovable, tainted and unwanted—

"Open the door, Potter."

Voldemort's distant, commanding voice cut through his hysteria and Harry looked up, peering to the top of the stairs through his discharge-smudged glasses.

Open the door.

An order.

He liked those. They meant he didn't have to think.

He wiped his mouth and crawled up to the room Voldemort was using. Stopping hesitantly outside, he pulled himself to standing and listened. He couldn't hear anything behind the door.

Walk away. Just keep going until you get to your own room and then—

"Now, Potter."

Harry obeyed before he'd given it any thought, releasing the spell locking the man inside. Without pausing, he pushed the door open and then froze.

Lord Voldemort was standing right in front of him, his body seeming to take up the entire doorframe, his intense eyes staring down at Harry darkly.

"You succeeded," Voldemort acknowledged, unmoving while Harry was caught waiting for whatever verdict the Dark Lord bestowed upon him.

"You took a life."

A single sob wrenched out of him and he closed his eyes. Tight fingers curled around his neck, keeping him on his feet. He let that larger body take some of his weight.

"Your first kill," Voldemort said lowly. "And you did it for me."

Harry's hands reached out to grip onto the man's robes, trying to hide in the material at his chest.

"They will exult you," the Dark Lord whispered, so close to his ear. "Deify you. Yet you and I both know that you do not deserve that. We know you are a murderer. We know that you have disappointed everyone who believed in your goodness."

The hand at his throat walked him back into the hallway until he hit the wall. Voldemort let go of him and Harry had to lock his knees to keep himself from sliding down the plaster.

He'd never wanted to kill, had tried for so many years to be above that, to do his job without being responsible for any more deaths. He'd killed enough people with his inaction, with his incompetence, he didn't want—

"You are a failure," Voldemort said, and Harry took that as his ruling.

It was true. He knew it. He had failed. Hermione would be so disappointed with him if she ever found out what he'd done, how cowardly, how unnecessary—

"I can take away your guilt for tonight, Potter."

Harry opened his eyes to search that inhuman face, trying to understand.

"I can give you what you need."

What I need.

What do I need?

"How?" he asked, his voice no louder than a puff of air.

Voldemort smiled, but it wasn't kind. Harry felt his stomach muscles tighten in anticipation.

"Remove your belt."

My belt?

Harry hesitated. Is Voldemort about to fuck me?

He didn't know how he felt about that. Having sex wouldn't make him feel better, wouldn't help him breathe or lessen the crushing guilt and remorse that he felt— why should I still be alive when better people died? Why did Fred have to be killed and not me, why didn't that wall collapse on me, it was my job to die, not his—

"Your belt, Potter."

Harry started, his gaze snapping to Voldemort who looked expectant.

With faltering fingers, he slowly pushed aside his robes and began to undo the buckle. His heart was fluttering, adrenaline pumping through him—

What does this mean, what's he going to do?

When he finally held the length of it in his fist, Voldemort reached out his hand silently. Harry uncertainly placed it onto the man's open palm.

"Remove your robes and your shirt."

Harry did, unfastening them both without magic, working through each button as if in a daze.

I'm getting naked with Lord Voldemort. I'm baring myself to the monster that—

"Kneel."

Harry almsot gasped.

Kneel?

No way, no fucking way, that's too far— but he felt his legs bend obediently and he sunk to the floor. Voldemort hummed in approval and Harry's eyes shot up to catch the look on his face.

"Very good."

Voldemort folded the belt as he took a step closer. Those long fingers trailed across Harry's shoulder as the man circled him.

"I am going to beat you with this now," Voldemort calmly informed him.

Terror erupted inside of him, but also, a staggering, bewildering relief.

"You will take it for as long as I deem necessary," the other man went on from his position at Harry's back. "And you will apologise after every hit. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded his head, still reeling, still trying to catch up with what—

There was an abrupt whistle of air and then a meaty thwack against the skin over his shoulder blades before the pain ignited. Harry sucked in a quick breath, his eyes wide open, absolutely stunned.

"What do you say, Potter?"

Harry tried swallowing to unstick his throat.

"Sorry," he rasped.

"For what?"

"For..." Harry stopped, trying to put how he felt into words. "For living."

"That is right. You— a murderer— are alive when so many of your worthier friends are dead."

That horrible whoosh of air and then another solid strike against his back. Harry bit his cheek to keep in the shout that wanted to break free.

"Your words, Potter."

Harry stuttered a breath.

"I'm sorry."

Voldemort hummed again.

"Why are you sorry?"

"For failing."

"Whom did you fail?"

Voldemort struck him with the belt again and Harry closed his eyes against the pain.

"Everyone!" he shouted, bending forwards to take a moment to breathe.

"Yes. You failed everyone. Everyone but me, Potter. I never expected you to save anyone. I know who you are. Sit up."

Harry did. The belt cracked brutally against his spine and he cried out. Again, and Harry bit into his tongue, tasting blood.

"Your words now."

Another strike.

"I'm sorry!" Harry yelled, his hands sneaking back to protect himself.

Voldemort paused.

"Do you deserve this?"

"Yes," Harry said, his body beginning to tremble uncontrollably.

"Then remove your hands."

"I can't, please. It hurts."

Harry heard movement and opened his eyes to see the Dark Lord crouching in front of him.

"Do you need me to help you take this?"

"Yes," Harry replied at once, grateful for his understanding.

"Beg me."

Harry groaned.

"Please. I can't take it. I'm a fucking coward. I can't handle the pain."

Voldemort inclined his head once and then walked unhurriedly down the stairs to the front door. For a moment, Harry was certain that Voldemort would somehow break through his wards and stroll right through the door, but the man simply picked up a boot and climbed back up to him. He began unlacing it leisurely as he got closer.

Harry watched him, his mind completely blank, his gaze riveted on the Dark Lord.

Once within reach, he knelt behind Harry and began to tie his wrists together. He then attached those to the laces on the shoes that Harry was already wearing. It was tight and the material bit into his skin, but it was grounding. He needed this help to manage the pain of repentance.

"Thank me," Voldemort commanded, standing again.

Harry nodded.

"Thank you."

The belt slashed into his skin, this time cracking against his arms too. Harry cried out, bowing forward again, tears leaking from his eyes.

"Words."

"I'm sorry," Harry hissed, pressing his face to the floor.

"You should be. You are not the Golden Boy they all see. You are lying to them, but I can correct the balance. Up."

Harry used his forehead to push himself back into a sitting position.

"Please," Harry begged, not knowing what he was asking for.

A jolt of fire struck him brutally and he sobbed.

"When I am done, you will have earned your respite. You will apologise no more this evening. I will have your guilt."

A vicious stripe burned across his lower back, taking his breath away with the immense force of impact. He gasped, failing to pull in air, but then another lash slammed into him and he collapsed onto his face, discharge dripping from his nose and mouth.

"Are you unable to rise?"

Harry nodded, trying to catch his breath. Voldemort moved closer, then struck him with that horrible belt again, and Harry began to cry in earnest.

"I'm sorry!" he screamed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

He squeezed his eyes shut against the images of all the death he was responsible for, panting rapidly on the floor, feeling dizzy and stripped bare and—

"I shouldn't have lived," he admitted, quiet and broken. "I know that. I know I wasn't supposed to. I know, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I tried to do it right, I did, I promise, but..."

He gasped in air, unable to breathe through his nose anymore.

"But you failed," Voldemort finished for him, and there was no judgement in his tone— it was simply a fact. "You lived and now you continue to take lives."

Harry nodded, knowing it was true, knowing that he was useless and worthless and other, seperate from normal people who deserved futures and families and love—

"I am going to strike you five more times," Voldemort stated, and Harry's body shook harder than ever— five. Five was too many, too much, he could already feel the blood on his back— "When I am done, you will thank me and then you will have paid for your failures for tonight. Do not disappoint me, Harry."

Harry! He called me—

That ruthless, agonising belt tore into him and he screamed, kept screaming for the final four and then it was over.

Harry fell sideways, unable to stay upright, and then almost blacked out from the pain of having his wounds touch the dirty floor.

An ungentle hand stroked down his spine and Harry keened, trying to get away, but it was no use. He was still tied and besides, all his energy was ebbing away. He stayed still, curled into an awkward ball, and let the Dark Lord drag his fingers through the bloody welts he had created.

"You did so well, Harry Potter. What do you say for my assistance?"

Say? What could he say, he didn't even know what was happening.

"Thank your Master," Voldemort prompted him.

Harry swallowed, his mind wiped clean.

"Thank you, Master."

Those cool digits swiftly clenched and nails bit into his flesh. He hissed, and yet his body relaxed further, giving everything up.

"I have your guilt now," Voldemort whispered as he continued to stroke Harry's back. "It is mine and I will put you to sleep virtuous and unashamed."

Hands spread out over his back almost possessively. Harry let them, accepting the touch, welcoming it.

Some time later, Harry was untied and hauled to his feet. He went with it, his mind completely silent.

The Dark Lord half-carried him into Harry's own bedroom, laying him down onto his bed gently and removing the rest of his clothes. Harry laid there, unresponsive, as Voldemort pulled off his shoes, his sweaty trousers, then his pants.

When Voldemort manoeuvred his naked body to lay under the sheets on his stomach, Harry passively let him. He was aware of the pain and yet he was somehow blissfully floating. An observer, not a participant.

The hands stopped and Harry's eyes closed, his state of utter stupor almost... peaceful. In a detached way.

Suddenly, a warm, wet cloth was placed onto his throbbing back and he moaned, burying his face in his pillow.

"Please," he begged, just wanting to sleep.

"Quiet," Voldemort softly chided him. "Take a little more for me."

Harry closed his eyes and let the Dark Lord clean his back more carefully than he would have expected. He couldn't stop the contented sighs that sneaked out, nor that he fell asleep before it was done.

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Voldemort surveyed his work, sitting back and taking in the boy's raised and abused skin.

This had been more successful than he had planned. Potter took to self-flagellation eagerly, and Voldemort had learned that the damaged child actually believed that he was at fault simply for having survived the war.

It was incomprehensible.

Yet he would use it. The boy had given him a perfect method to insert himself into his life and corrupt him. To make the desperate martyr depend on him for managing his guilt.

This would suit him admirably. Yet he must be careful.

Seeing the boy's pupils dilate, his expression cracked open and vulnerable... begging to be hurt...

Voldemort had always been drawn to others' weaknesses. And with Potter, knowing that the boy was powerful and dauntless, yet desperate to yield to him alone, fed the imperative in him to dominate.

He wanted this powerful man to bow to him.

He wanted to take Potter apart and build him to be reliant upon him alone, to seek his approval and guidance.

To desire to serve him.

Yes. There was much here to work with.

The boy had eliminated all of his followers, therefore Voldemort would mould him into his most formidable servant in recompense.

Killing Potter would no longer satisfy him. Not when he could control him. Obviously he would eliminate the brat if necessary, but it would also be prudent to use him to safely navigate his research and efforts to regain his magic. Potter's reach was wide and Voldemort would take advantage of it.

He lifted his hand reluctantly from the boy's ravaged back, his fingers tacky with blood, and then stood.

He had work to do this evening.

Stepping away from the bed, he tore his gaze from his nemesis and forced it onto the boy's desk. Not having access to his magic was supremely frustrating as it necessitated manual labour. He rifled through the parchment there, scanning it, trying to find anything pertinent to his loss of magic. To his escape.

Nothing. He swept from the room, walking swiftly down the stairs to the front door. He placed his hands upon the wood, searching for the feel of magic, trying to determine what enchantments kept him caged.

He sensed a deep, penetrating ward, possibly a Fedelius Charm, though who would the child trust this secret to? Surely if he had told his blundering friends about the great Lord Voldemort's continued survival, they would have descended on this house immediately.

No, it was not a Fidelius, but another ward, thrumming and potent.

A familiar murderous rage swept over him. It was intolerable that he was kept thus, imprisoned without his magic, in the home of his enemy. It was critical that he discover a means of escape, rip through these wards somehow—

And yet, there were other ways to steal his freedom.

Harry Potter.

The boy would offer it to him soon enough. Voldemort was accomplished at getting people to do as he commanded and Potter was desperate to please him. It would not take long for him to have his prophesied vanquisher serve him.

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Harry awoke in the morning to the sensation of tenderness on his back.

That motherfucker.

Last night, he had jolted awake in the dark to find his back painfully stuck to his covers, the wounds there closing with the sheet attached. Gasping, he'd had to heal himself without being able to see what he was doing.

Fully awake now, he cautiously reached over his shoulder and touched the skin there. It was warm but the welts were gone— at least, he couldn't feel them.

Harry was furious.

Without stopping to use the loo or brush his teeth, he hastily donned a bathrobe and then tore down the hall. Fuming, he threw open the bastard's door.

"You took advantage of me," he spat, in lieu of a greeting, his voice sounding dangerous even to his own ears.

Voldemort looked back at him from his position by the window, raising a single, hairless eyebrow.

"Did I," Voldemort said in a bored tone. "If I recall, you begged me for it."

Harry snarled and stormed over to the man, hating his sanctimonious face.

"You made me do it and then you... manipulated me. How dare you touch me like that? Did you think I wouldn't make you pay for it? Did you think I'd forget?"

"I thought it would assuage your guilt, which it did. I have done you a service."

"You made me call you Master!" Harry shouted, loathing that the man had succeeded where he had failed. "You had no right to use me like that!"

Voldemort turned fully and regarded him. Harry lowered the finger he had been pointing at the man, his body shaking with indignation.

"You were flailing with panic," the Dark Lord said bluntly. "I could hear it. When I was finished with you, you slept well, did you not?"

"I slept with my back ripped open. You could have killed me."

Voldemort's eyes darkened.

"I retained my freedom last night after I tucked you safely into bed. If I had wanted you dead, Potter, you would be."

"Oh, I'm sure you tried, Tom. You're still here because I've trapped you. But you're not going anywhere unless I put a pretty little leash on you."

Voldemort took a step towards him, fury blazing in his gaze.

"I helped you last night."

"You beat me last night!"

"Deny that it felt good to have someone see how weak you are," Voldemort dared him, coming closer still. "Tell me that it was not a relief to be allowed to fall apart. To not be perfect."

Harry opened his mouth, but no words leapt to his defence. Voldemort smirked.

"Tell me that it was not bliss to call me Master. To have someone else take control."

The other man lightly pressed his hand to Harry's chest and steered him backwards until he hit the wall.

"Out there, for other people, Harry Potter is a paragon of virtue. Strong..."

Voldemort brought a hand up and gently closed Harry's mouth with the tip of his finger.

"...resilient..."

The man leaned down and inhaled deeply, breathing in his scent.

"...flawless and good."

Voldemort took hold of his shoulders and slowly turned him until his face was pressed up against the wall. Nimble hands undid the tie at his waist and tenderly pushed the bathrobe from his shoulders. Voldemort released a low hum and then his cool fingers began to lightly trace what was left of the marks he had made.

"But here, with me, you can be who you are," the man said, leaning down again and pressing his nostril slits to Harry's nape.

Harry held his breath, tensed to flee, yet he couldn't move.

"A fraud. You can fail and I will remove your guilt by taking it from your flesh."

A single sharp nail slowly dragged down the skin of his back and Harry's legs gave out.

Voldemort let him fall.

Harry watched from the floor as the other man turned and walked unhurriedly out of the room.

"Do not be late for work now, Potter," Voldemort said as he disappeared around the doorframe. "Your colleagues and admirers will want to celebrate the now perfect record of the Vanquisher of Lord Voldemort and His Death Eaters. Though, I prefer your old name."

Harry lowered his head, cradling it in his arms as he tried to grasp what had just happened.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort drawled from somewhere in the house, "the Boy Who Lived."