CHAPTER 4
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Potter had not returned to him all night.
Voldemort had spent the hours that they were apart, awake, his mind caught on his strange curiosity regarding the boy's potential. He wanted to see it, to use it for himself.
He wondered whether Potter had ever given in to his darker impulses— and what they would be if he did.
It was doubtful that the boy had let himself explore Dark magic. Voldemort envisioned teaching him, guiding him. He could introduce him to the seductive depths that magic possessed; the enticing darkness that his Hogwarts education had hidden from him. Dumbledore had wanted him to fight the most powerful Dark Lord of any age, and yet the fool had given him no tools to do so. He had sent his champion into battle alone and with no training.
The things I could show the boy.
Voldemort had remained sitting on the edge of his bed as the moon had made its way across the sky, his mind churning through possibilities. As the pale light outside of his prison window began to brighten, however, his mood had shifted.
Cold reality came with the dawn.
His magic was gone.
His birthright.
He remembered what Tom Riddle had been forced to endure before he had learned that he was better. His magic had saved him from a meaningless life of banality; of poverty and susceptibility. Of being just another man amidst billions.
His fascination with Potter was irrelevant juxtaposed against that horror.
Until he could determine why he was bereft, he would be... not vulnerable, for he could never be thus. He was immortal and indomitable. Yet, for him now, there existed constraints upon him where there never had been. He knew what he wanted, but he must placate the child to achieve it.
The boy was holding him captive, attempting to threaten him and employ his juvenile dominance over the great Lord Voldemort. He may even be the reason for his separation from his magic.
The boy wanted to humiliate him. Had dared to call him by that Muggle's name. Starved him. Threatened him.
Lord Voldemort would allow it no longer.
With the skills honed over decades of sovereignty, he would re-focus and concentrate on what mattered: himself. On his vengeance. His refusal to even feign acceptance of illegitimate authority over his eminence. Lord Voldemort bowed for no one.
Not even Harry Potter.
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Harry hoped that the man was nervous.
He took a leisurely shower the next morning, enjoying a pleasant wank while he envisioned Voldemort's discomfort. Sauntering into the kitchen, he made himself a slice of toast and even managed to eat a few bites of it. He got dressed unhurriedly; brushed his teeth.
When he finally ran out of tasks to do, he made his way to the man's room and opened the door without knocking.
Voldemort was seated on his bed— Harry's bed— gazing down at his hands. Those red, freaky eyes looked up slowly to eventually take in Harry leaning against the doorframe.
Harry smirked and threw the potato skins onto the floor, watching Voldemort's expression pinch. Harry disgusted the man.
Good.
"I don't think I've ever seen anything so pathetic," Harry mused. "You can't even remember how to use your own Mark. You failed at bringing me McNair."
He crossed his arms.
"So far, I've done everything I said I would," Harry pointed out, "and yet, you haven't delivered on even one of your promises."
He shook his head slowly, exaggerating his disappointment.
"I'm pretty underwhelmed. I thought Lord Voldemort was supposed to be impressive? Powerful. But you can't even find one man— who you have a magically binding connection to."
Voldemort's enraged expression was turned down to face his clenched fingers. It was unnerving to have him so silent. Lord Voldemort seldom resisted an opportunity to monologue...
Like I'm doing right now. Huh.
Harry pushed that aside.
"Makes me think you don't deserve to be called Master," he taunted, his mind still caught on that intriguing word. "After all, I've caught every person deranged enough to believe you deserved it. You're no one's Master now."
Harry saw the man's shoulders haunching.
"But me? I lead a whole team of powerful Aurors. I have captured the former Dark Lord and feed him scraps off my floor."
Harry walked into the room, savouring the tension he felt as he moved closer to the furious man. He walked right up to the bed and stood in front of the Dark Lord Voldemort.
"Look at me," he commanded.
Voldemort did not move.
"Do it, or I'll make you."
Still nothing.
"Imperio!"
Harry pushed words into the other man's head— Look up, Look at your Master, and when those murderous, alien eyes connected with his own, he gasped.
Holy fucking shit— it worked.
The surge of unwanted arousal that went through him at that moment almost took his vision. Voldemort continued to stare at him, his scorching gaze promising death in a hundred agonising ways—
But it was a joke.
A sodding impossibility. The man had no magic. He was useless.
"If you can't bring me McNair," Harry said, forcing his mind back to the purpose of his visit, "then you're going to have to concede to call me Master."
Voldemort's lips curled into a vicious sneer.
"You cannot be so foolish," Voldemort whispered.
Harry laughed.
"Why not? I can control you completely. I can make you say whatever I want, make you do whatever I please."
"Then it will not be I who is speaking," Voldemort countered, his expression disdainful. "My servants called me Master because I surpass the pinnacle of magical knowledge. I deserve that title."
"They called you that because you tortured them!"
"And that, among countless other feats, made them recognise my power and superiority. Use me as a parrot if that is what you desire, but I will never call you that in earnest."
Harry pointed his wand at the seated man again.
"I can make you."
Voldemort looked up at him scornfully.
"How like a child you still are. That is not true power, Potter. You can use magic to move my body and repeat words, but you will never master anyone until you give them a reason to want to serve you."
Harry saw it then— Voldemort at the height of his reign, untouchable, terrifying, and he could see why some people had been drawn to that.
Voldemort's hand suddenly shot out and plucked his wand from him. Harry made to grab it back, but Voldemort's fingers closed tightly around his throat, that larger body manoeuvring him until he sat docilely in the Dark Lord's lap, back to chest.
Harry's pulse crashed against those cold, long fingers, and he stared straight ahead, waiting. He was in no real danger as his magic could incapacitate the other man, but this knowledge did not make him feel any safer.
"You must know," Voldemort said softly into his ear, the fingers of his other hand gently stroking Harry's skin, "that I can never be truly controlled. Neither Grindelwald nor Dumbledore, two adequately powerful wizards, were ever successful in making me submit. You, Harry Potter, have no chance. But I do look forward to hearing you call me Master."
The older man shoved him off his lap and Harry turned to see him caressing his wand almost indecently.
"Give that back," Harry whispered, standing back up, his inconvenient erection awkwardly pressing against his trousers as he moved.
Voldemort hummed.
"Make me."
Harry felt his face become warm. Sodding arrogant toerag.
Make him, he says. Well, if I do, he'll say it's weak because I had to use magic. He wants me to make him want to give it back, which is just bollocks. Why would he want to give it back to me?
An idea struck him.
To get something. An exchange.
"Give it back..." Harry attempted, "and I'll give you a proper meal."
Voldemort's lips curled in clear derisive amusement.
"A trade will not make me respect you, Potter, though I will not refuse it."
"Fine. What will, then?"
"Show me why serving you would benefit me. Why you deserve to have my attention."
He thought, then, about what he would do to prove himself. How he could demonstrate his value, and it took a few minutes for him to realise that he was being manipulated. Why should he have to prove anything?
He was the one in control. The only one with magic.
"Nice try, old man."
He was good enough with wandless incantations to make his point. And it would be fun to use the same spell that felled the bastard nine years ago against him again.
"Why should I bother trying to impress a prisoner?" Harry asked. "Expelliarmus!"
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Harry placed the cup of herbal tea down onto Hermione's desk; a token of apology.
He was feeling good, feeling cocky, which for him, usually meant that he was keen to do something reckless.
He wanted to see his friends and Lord Voldemort was not going to stop him.
"Harry!" she said, turning, a bright smile on her face. "What brings you by?" She picked up the teacup and smelled it. "Mmm raspberry leaf. You know how to please a pregnant lady. Thank you."
Harry plopped down onto a small pile of parchment on her desk. She sent him an exasperated look, but didn't shove him off.
"I just miss you," he replied honestly. "Are you free tonight?"
Her smile grew.
"Yes! Can I bring Ron?"
He nodded, trying not to grin as he imagined how Voldemort would feel about entertaining guests this evening. He wasn't planning anything specific, he just wanted to see his friends... and maybe it was a little bit thrilling that Lord Voldemort would be there, too. It'd be funny to make him endure listening to Hermione complaining about her changing body.
"We'll have Molly watch Rose," Hermione continued, and Harry startled, then forced himself to stay present. "Oh Harry, I'm so excited! It's been so long!"
Guilt plunged into his stomach. It had been a long time. He'd been such a bad friend. They often tried to include him— well, as much as they could with their own lives, but he always felt like an intruder.
Hermione nudged his leg, a wry smile curling her lips.
"No hot dates this evening?"
Harry blew out a sardonic breath.
We'll be going on a bit of a double date tonight , 'Mione.
"Not for a while, actually," he said instead. "I'm really focused on finally getting my hands on McNair."
Or, I'm struggling at home, trying to figure out if I want to dominate my prisoner or kneel for him.
Hermione took a sip of tea.
"Well, we can talk about that this evening, then."
Harry stood up and hugged her quickly from behind.
"Can't wait."
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"I still don't understand why you want to live here, mate," Ron muttered, peering around the gloomy, dusty dinning room of Grimmauld Place.
Harry smiled, his eyes sliding to where he held Lord Voldemort Disillusioned and Immobilised by the wall. His grin grew wider, hoping that the Dark Lord caught him sneaking glances.
"I like it. It suits me."
He looked back at Ron to see him grimacing.
"Dirty and smelly? I sure hope not."
Harry laughed. He turned to place his hand over Hermione's on the table.
"How're you feeling?"
She snuck a fond glance at Ron, who was leaning back in his chair and stretching.
"I'm okay. Ready for this part to be over with. I can't wait to meet him."
Harry smiled.
"I bet. Any names picked out?"
"Well, we're not telling anyone," Ron said with mock solemnity, "but you don't count, godfather that you are." He grinned. "His name is Hugo."
Hugo Weasley. I like it.
"Good choice, mate."
Hermione squeezed his hand.
"Now tell us what's happening with you."
"Yeah, why the sudden life of celibacy?"
Harry risked another look at where Voldemort was.
"I'm just busy at work. I've been really struggling with how to find McNair."
He hated admitting weaknesses. He was Harry Potter; he wasn't supposed to have any.
Hermione tapped her fingers on the table.
"I was thinking about that after you'd left today," she said. "What you need is a way to get him to come to you."
Sure. And maybe a way to get him to arrest himself, too.
"Yeah, but why would he?"
"Well, perhaps if he thought that you were someone else." At Harry's likely confused expression, she shrugged, smiling. "All this business with the snake at work—"
Ron groaned loudly and thumped his head onto the table. Hermione shot him an amused glare.
"Be quiet, you. It got me thinking about Voldemort— shut up, Ron!— and how terrified everyone always was of him. Then I thought about McNair and how cunning he is and it made me wonder what kind of person it would take to make a man like McNair follow him."
Harry fought the urge to glance at Voldemort again.
Merlin, I bet the wanker has a hard-on hearing this nonsense.
"I wonder," Hermione went on, "if you could convince McNair that Voldemort was back. Then command him to meet you somewhere and ambush him. Would that work? What do you think?"
I think that's a damn good possibility, considering I have the man in question at my disposal.
"I mean, it could work," Harry hedged, not wanting to seem too keen. "Thanks, I'll give it a try."
Ron interrupted and pulled Harry into a conversation about Quidditch— more of an argument really. Harry participated, but his attention was focused more on this new opportunity and how he was going to get Voldemort to cooperate.
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"No," Voldemort said, pulling himself away from his window and striding past the sullen child.
Potter had the audacity to laugh.
"No? You don't get to say no. Not only do you owe me, because you promised to help me capture McNair, but I can also just make you."
Voldemort sneered.
"Pathetic."
The boy crossed his arms.
"Fine. I'll take back your wand. And move you somewhere more appropriate for what we'll be doing from now on. Like the dungeon."
Voldemort scoffed.
"This house does not have a dungeon, Potter."
"How would you know? It belonged to a messed up family."
"It belonged to the Blacks and I have been inside of it before."
Potter's face showed wonder.
"You have? Why?"
That treacherous child invited me here to court his family. I only ever received one servant from this manor. Though, another of the House of Black gave me her unconditional devotion and that made up for Regulus's failure.
Bella.
He did not enjoy thinking of her. The loss still incensed him.
He would collect his payment from that blood traitor soon.
...Or perhaps he would take it from her progeny instead.
"Look," Potter said, sounding tired and Voldemort turned to face him. "I just need you to write a note. He'll know your writing, I'm sure. Tell him something that only you would know."
Potter hesitated and then shifted his eyes away.
"Please."
Something warm and powerful pulsed in his abdomen at hearing the boy beg without prompting.
"I can do this for you," Voldemort confirmed. "I have access to his Gringotts account and can place a note into it by owl."
Potter's eyes widened in shock for a moment as he scoured Voldemort's face.
"Why would you have access to his account?"
Voldemort held his gaze, enjoying the attention.
"Affluence never interested me. It was not the kind of power I wanted and thus, I never sought to accumulate it. My Death Eaters offered their funds to me for my purposes."
Potter snorted.
"Offered. Sure."
Voldemort lifted an eyebrow and the boy grinned.
"But okay, whatever. I mean, I'd have to borrow an owl first, but that should be easy."
Voldemort frowned.
"You do not own one?"
Potter seemed to draw into himself, his gaze hardening.
"I did," he replied, his voice thick with hatred. "Your Death Eaters killed her."
Voldemort raised his eyebrows. When? It was surprising that his servants had landed a kill so close to the boy and not brought news to him, hoping for praise.
"Anyway," Potter went on, his voice curt. "Thank you for doing this."
"Do not thank me yet," he warned. "You will give me something in return."
"In return? You do realise that we already agreed on terms, right? Your wand and my... asking nicely, for you to get me McNair. Well, I fulfilled mine, but you—"
"I will write the note presently. Walden will come, I will command it. There will be no more complications."
The boy's expression calmed. He shifted back until he was leaning against the wall, obviously trying to appear nonchalant.
"What do you want, then."
Voldemort thought fast. What more could he ask for? He wanted his magic above all else, but he did not trust the boy enough to confess his deficit. He needed his freedom, but it was too soon for Potter to agree to that. He wanted... to break the boy. Teach him to release the ruthlessness he was holding back, test how far he could push the Chosen One.
Yes.
"I want you to kill Walden."
Potter's face went slack.
"What?"
The idea was building momentum in his mind as he pictured it.
"You will do it alone. Deliver his body to the Ministry and tell them that he resisted arrest. When he arrives, Harry Potter, you will get him to kneel and then I want you to take a moment to witness it. Experience how it feels to stand above him."
The boy's expression betrayed his fear. Of himself, of his power.
"But... why?" Potter rasped. "What does it matter? Why would you want that?"
Voldemort took a step closer. A predator drawn to the boy's vulnerability.
"I want you to feel it," he whispered, his gaze consuming Potter's unease. "That power. It is not a weakness to take what you deserve. To use your fame and your respected position in the Ministry to stand above."
Potter closed his eyes, clearly struggling with taking what he was owed.
Voldemort's hands reached out without conscious thought and his fingers pinned the boy's wrists to the wall by his side. Potter's eyes flew open, but he did not attempt to break free.
He relaxed.
"Kill him for me," Voldemort breathed, leaning down into the boy's space and closing the distance between them.
Those delicate eyelids fluttered shut and then shot open again, an unfamiliar look of anxiety on his normally courageous face. The boy shook his hands, trying to dislodge the grip. Voldemort considered resisting, pressing his weight harder and using his height advantage, but decided to release him. Step back.
Potter's eyes were unfocused, his hands clenching and unclenching. He tilted his head to meet Voldemort's gaze and that action of baring his throat spiked Voldemort's blood with adrenaline.
He wanted to rip into the smooth, unblemished skin. He wanted it under him, to feel the pulse gradually speed up beneath his fingers, deliciously responsive to his touch.
"Let me think about it," the boy whispered and Voldemort reluctantly dragged his eyes away while committing to memory the exact shape of the boy's laryngeal prominence, the enticing colour of the flush that spread up from under his shirt.
Voldemort gave a slight nod and Harry returned it. Without another word, the boy fled.
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That night, as he was readying for sleep, a sheaf of parchment and a quill were slipped under his door. He stood to pick them up and noticed a note attached to the front.
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Write the message. I'll do it.
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Voldemort crushed the paper in his fist and smiled.
It was disconcerting to look down and see his wand in Voldemort's hands.
Equally bizarre to be so tall. To feel the cool night air touch the skin of his scalp so easily. And his eyesight was amazing, even taking into account that this body did not need glasses.
And yeah, okay. It was pretty fucking epic to be able to reach down and touch Voldemort's junk. After he'd taken the Polyjuice and made sure all of his wards were active before he'd left, he had taken a few moments to undo his robes and inspect this body.
The man was skinny, sure. Weirdly hairless and too lean and tall to be normal. But his tiny nipples were shockingly human, a stark pink against that white, unnatural skin. And when he daringly pinched them, they were so sensitive that he'd had to bite back a moan.
Did Voldemort feel that way when he did it— did he do it? Would he feel that if Harry did it to him?
And then— the man's cock. Which, of course, had been fully erect and uncomfortable since he'd gotten over the horrible taste of the potion.
It was long to match his body; thin, but covered in appealing, ropey veins. The colour was normal, healthy and flushed, and Harry had not been able to resist stroking it, seeing Voldemort's long fingers wrapped around his impressive length, although he'd had to give it up pretty fast to stop himself from coming.
But— fuck. Thinking about that now, about how it would be possible to go home and privately see what Lord Voldemort looked like in front of a mirror, touching his own cock and coming—
Merlin. Having access to this was dangerous.
Being Voldemort was exciting.
Or, would be if he wasn't here to kill someone.
Well, that's a sobering thought.
Harry drew in a deep, bracing breath.
You can do it. Sure, it'll rip apart your soul, but at this point, your soul is pretty fucked anyways.
And besides, this was his purpose. Everyone was counting on him to protect them.
Are you really going to keep them at risk so that you can safeguard your juvenile ethics?
It was just— he had never killed.
Not during the war and not in his line of duty as an Auror. He had not even been able to use the Killing Curse on Voldemort, a man who deserved it more than any other.
He didn't want to be responsible for ending someone's life. He knew there were bad people, McNair was certainly one of them. But who was he to make that final decision? It was too heavy of a burden, impossible to take back.
Almost killing Malfoy with Sectumsempra had been as close as he'd gotten and that had been horrible. He still felt sick when the bloody memories slunk into his mind before bed.
He wasn't a killer.
But this wasn't about him.
People were counting on him to keep them safe. He had a career and friends and all of that would disappear if he couldn't do for them what they needed. He was responsible for so many deaths—
Snape. Lupin. Dumbledore. Fred. Cedric. Every single person who had died while he was pissing around in school, not learning what he needed to so that he could face Voldemort. Every Muggle that was killed to incite Harry into action, every student— child— that died for him during the Battle of Hogwarts— they all deserved more than his cowardice.
He had much to repay, much to apologise for.
It was true, he couldn't bring back the dead, but he could beg forgiveness by getting his shit together now. By doing the work he should have been doing since he'd learned what his function was at eleven.
It was—
The loud crack of Apparition shocked him out of his thoughts.
McNair fell to his knees at once when he saw Harry.
"Master," the Death Eater breathed.
Harry stared.
That word.
The docility of this dangerous man; this villain who had ripped through Harry's ribs and almost crushed his lungs. Who'd thrown some kind of powder into his face that had blinded him for three days.
He had beaten Harry every single time they'd fought.
And yet here he was— kneeling. Completely vulnerable and acquiescent. All because he thought Harry was someone else. Someone worth kneeling for.
It was hard to ignore the rush he felt. Yet he knew he had to act.
Don't drag this out. It will only make it worse and you might even fuck it up and watch McNair escape again.
There wouldn't be another chance like this.
Long seconds passed. He felt paralysed by his indecision.
McNair lifted his head fractionally to look up at Harry in confusion.
Fuck! Don't bollocks this up!
Harry raised his wand— say it, say the curse, you owe them, do your fucking job you useless, spineless, pathetic coward, do it now— now!
NOW!
"Avada Kedavra," he choked out.
A green light shot from his wand, but instead of the bright, electric current he was familiar with, it was feeble. Dull.
Failure.
It hit McNair straight in his chest and the man fell back, his body crashing onto the pavement, unmoving.
Harry stood frozen.
Had it worked?
He approached the body slowly, terrified by what he would find. His hands were shaking so badly that he pocketed his wand. It wouldn't be much use to him anyways.
He dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse.
Thank Merlin.
It was there. Steady. He must have just knocked the man out.
The memory of Bellatrix's scathing voice mocked him.
You need to mean them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain— to enjoy it— righteous anger won't hurt me for long.
And he didn't want to. He didn't want to hurt anyone, not really.
But he had to. He had told Voldemort that he would do this.
You could lie. He would never know.
Harry sat back and stared at the unconscious man.
How long did he have here until McNair awoke and this chance disappeared?
Lie to him. He lies to you all the time.
But Harry was better than that. He kept his word. If he began to lower his standards simply because Voldemort behaved badly, then he would be an even bigger fraud.
Just finish this. Get it done and fall apart at home.
Yeah, great. With an audience of the Dark Lord who would be only too keen to praise you.
Harry closed his eyes.
Enough.
He took out his wand again and pressed it against the defenceless body on the ground. A high, cold voice suddenly brought him back to his fourth year and that graveyard.
And now you face me, like a man... straight backed and proud, the way your father died...
Voldemort had offered his enemy a more dignified death than Harry was. A fairer fight. Hell, a fight at all. Harry was killing an unconscious man whom he'd only caught by tricking him.
In a fair fight, he had lost against McNair every single time.
A shifting under his wand alerted him that his time was up. The man was beginning to stir.
Harry took a deep breath, loathing himself.
I'm so sorry, Hermione.
"Avada Kedavra!"