CHAPTER 7
.
.
"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed when she opened the door and he collapsed into her home. "What happened? Ron!"
Harry lay panting at her feet, loathing himself, disgusted at what he was becoming, what—
Loud footsteps slammed on the ground and then Ron appeared, holding a screaming Rose, a look of horror on his face.
"Harry?" he said, sounding scared, kneeling down and grabbing Harry's chin to force him to meet his gaze. "What happened?"
Ron pulled out his wand from his pocket with the hand not holding the flailing child, and hit him with a diagnostic spell that made numbers and symbols appear in the air.
Hermione's trembling hands touched his neck, digging under his jaw.
"I'm fine," Harry said weakly, squeezing his eyes closed and then opening them as normally as he could.
He pushed himself up and meant to stand, but Hermione put a firm hand on his chest, stopping him.
"Just wait," she insisted. "Ron, go put Rose down, I'll stay with Harry."
Ron nodded uneasily. He gave Harry a searching look, like he wanted to say something, but then carried the still-screaming Rose obediently back down the hall.
Hermione helped him slowly to his feet and then deposited him on the sofa. Harry leaned back, grateful, and closed his eyes.
He felt the cushions shift as Hermione sat down beside him.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Harry shook his head, unable to make eye contact.
You're pathetic. Invading your friends' house, interrupting their lives to fall apart on their doorstep, weak and incompetent. They don't have time for you anymore, Potter. They have their own family, their own lives that have nothing to do with you. You have no one, no one to love you— who would? Worthless failure that you are, you—
"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, touching his arm gently and Harry almost sobbed.
"I didn't know where else to go," he whispered brokenly, and then Hermione was pulling him towards her, holding him tightly as he cried, stroking his hair and his back, murmuring soft words to him and keeping him together.
"You made the right choice," she said firmly, kissing him fiercely on the forehead. "We can help you. Just tell us what happened and we'll solve it together."
Harry slammed his eyes closed.
They can't help— they can't know. You're in this alone, Potter, alone because it's your job to fix your fuck up. Voldemort is still alive and that's your fault. He's got a body now and that's on you. You're being manipulated by the world's most powerful and persuasive Dark wizard and you have no one to blame but yourself.
Hermione gently pushed back on his shoulders so that she could look at his face. Harry bowed his head, ashamed. Her soft fingers carded through his hair soothingly, like he was a child, a pet.
"Tell me," she said again.
"I can't," he pleaded.
She wiped at his cheeks, trying to dry them.
"C'mon, Harry. You can trust me."
Harry squeezed his tongue between his molars.
Fuck.
He was an asshole. By not telling her, he was hurting her and she didn't deserve that. Even if he harboured... significant resentment towards his two best friends for pairing up and leaving him out to start a new life together, he shouldn't punish them for it. That's just what people did. Well, people that weren't him.
It fucking hurt, but that was life. And now he was being ridiculous. Surely he could tell her something. He thought about his options.
Voldemort is alive.
No. She wouldn't be able to keep that secret.
I need help.
But with what? What could she actually do?
"Am I a bad person?" he whispered, feeling hot tears fall down his cheeks again.
"Oh, Harry, of course not, no!" Hermione gathered him into another hug, tucking his head against her shoulder. "Not even a little bit. What makes you even ask that?"
He inhaled the scent of her hair, trying to let it comfort him instead of making him feel panic because he didn't have the right to hold her anymore.
"Do you hate me?" he forced out, barely audibly.
"What? Why would I hate you?"
"For... for living," he breathed against her skin, becoming boneless and defeated.
"Oh Harry, no," Hermione said thickly, and Harry could tell that she was crying too. "Don't even think that. No one hates you for living, I am grateful everyday that you made it out alive. You're the strongest person I know."
Not strong— weak. Weak and worthless and superfluous...
"You're sleeping here tonight, Harry. I hate that you're all alone in that creepy old house. It's not right. You need to be with people."
Voldemort.
Harry couldn't stay the whole night. Not while hosting the Darkest wizard of all time at his house—
Darkest Squib.
The man was harmless now.
I'm more dangerous than the Dark Lord.
"It's not an imposition," Hermione went on, pulling back to smile at him. "We love you. I know you hate accepting help, but we're your friends."
Harry was shaking his head.
"No, Hermione, I can't. Not tonight. But... thanks."
"Oh, Harry, you're impossible, you know. I hate seeing you like this."
Harry wiped at his face in embarrassment.
Stop crying, you're making her uncomfortable. Harry Potter is not supposed to fall apart.
Except for him.
He lets you. He doesn't care that you're weak.
"I'm fine," Harry lied. "Really."
When he looked up, she had just finished rolling her eyes.
"Sure you are."
He was about to argue, but she cut him off.
"Look, I'm not letting you leave like this. Ron will want to talk to you, anyway. Stay until midnight, at least. We can chat, like old times. I mean," she gestured unnecessarily at her gigantic belly, "I can't drink right now, but you and Ron still can. He'll be happy to have someone to have a pint with."
Harry smiled wearily. That actually sounded nice. When he nodded, Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand.
"Let me tell you about what Ron did last week at Charlie's birthday party."
Harry let her talk, her words enough to make him feel almost normal again. Almost human.
.
.
"Lonely," Harry scoffed to himself. "I'm not lonely."
He pushed open the door to the pub, stumbling inside. It was late, but he was drunk anyways, might as well see who else wasn't lonely tonight.
Anything rather than go home.
Harry got to the bar and ordered his drink, then turned to survey the crowd. Decent group. Young. Loud.
"I like your clothes," a woman shouted suddenly beside him, and Harry jumped.
"Merlin, you almost made me piss myself," he reprimanded her, annoyed that she had managed to catch him off guard.
She laughed in an appealing way. Harry squinted to see if she'd do.
"Merlin, eh? That's a new one." She held out her hand. "I'm Nancy."
He shook it.
"Harry." He gestured to her drink. "Fancy another?"
.
.
Harry liked breasts.
He was an arse man generally, but some women just had knockers that— like these. Plump and bouncy and you could just fist a bunch of the fat and jiggle them around a bit. See em wiggle.
"Boobies," Harry mumbled, and leaned down to bury his face in their majesty.
Nandy or Nellie or whoever the blast she was called slapped his arse as he pounded into her. He stopped to stare.
"Do that again," he demanded, holding still.
She laughed and complied. Harry groaned, leaning forward, his cock sinking deeper into her.
"Again," he said, and she did, right over the same spot.
"That's the bleeding ticket," he rasped and began to pick up his pace again.
.
.
Harry Apparated home and promptly puked.
Second time this week.
It was something about the hook behind his navel that always churned his stomach.
He laid there, the world spinning, his mouth open and panting, and waited to find the energy to get up. He needed water and a piss and then bed.
Footsteps.
He lifted his head to see Lord fucking Voldemort walking down his stairs. In his bleeding home. He had no idea what the bastard's expression was because everything was blurry anyways.
"Ugh, no, not you," Harry whinged, and then thumped his head back onto the floor.
He heard a derisive snort.
"Your conduct continues to amaze me, Potter."
"No, you," Harry shot back.
Ha. Egg meet face.
"So," Voldemort kept talking, the prat, "am I to infer that, after our entertaining interlude, you went and got yourself inebriated?"
Harry closed his eyes.
"Yup. Had to. You're no good for me."
Voldemort hummed in disagreement.
"I would argue that I am very good for you."
"Nope," Harry said, popping his lips on the p sound.
He liked the way his jaw opened wide when he did that, so he made a few more of the popping noises with his mouth.
"I should let you sleep there for what you did to me earlier," Voldemort mused, and Harry could tell that he had moved closer.
"I should let you sleep there," Harry said, turning it around on him so fast.
"Where were you?" Voldemort asked, suddenly right next to him.
Harry jolted back, startled, and then landed in his sick.
"Ew... gross," he moaned.
He hated the look of spew; the feel of it on his skin was even worse. He retched.
"You reek of alcohol and sex, Potter," Voldemort said, his voice sounding weird. "The former does not surprise me, but the latter... anyone I know?"
"Mind your own ruddy business," Harry said, organising his limbs so that he could stand. "Ugh. Scorgify!"
He loved magic. One word and his mess was gone. If only the same worked on...
He turned to the Dark Lord, his wand raised. Those red eyes narrowed, but otherwise, the man did not react.
"Scorgify!" Harry said, but, alas, the repulsive man did not disappear like his sick had.
"Dang," Harry lamented. "Bed time."
He pushed himself to standing and then dragged his feet past Voldemort and up the stairs, one step at a time. When he got to his room, he face-planted right into bed and it was bliss.
I love my bed. I'm like a little, comfy bear. I'm going to sleep so hard...
"Sweet dreams, Potter," he heard from the doorway.
"Go shag a donkey," he mumbled cleverly.
Without waiting for a response, he buried his head into his pillow and thought no more.
.
.
Voldemort stood watching the idiot's back rise and fall for long moments.
How trusting.
How infinitely foolish for him to believe that he was safe with Lord Voldemort. He spared a few seconds to marvel at that.
Potter had slid into unconsciousness fearlessly while in the presence of his enemy, even going so far as to present him with his unprotected back.
Voldemort stared at it.
Vulnerability always enticed him, especially in those not prone to it. Harry Potter was no weakling. Yet neither was he a coward. This show of insolent disregard was almost... impressive.
Though perhaps it was commonplace for the boy. After all, he was returning home after passing time in another's bed.
Irrelevant.
Focus.
He closed his eyes, unintentionally sending a jolt of pain through his cracked brow bone. Hissing, he cradled it, loathing his deplorable state of fragility without his magic. It was unthinkable that such minor inconveniences should affect him.
Dropping his hand, he opened his eyes and began to rifle through the boy's robes— manually, of all the indignancies to be borne— for anything of use.
He found a small piece of material and pulled it out. His note to Lucius. The boy had kept it.
Interesting.
Searching further he found another soft ball of fabric and drew it out. It was red and appeared delicate. Unfolding the lace, he held it up to aid with identification.
It appeared to be... knickers. Of the type Muggle women were partial to. They seemed to not be freshly laundered.
But why—?
Voldemort spun and strode from the room.
He retired to his own chamber, closing the door and returning to the window. He looked out into the deserted square and succeeded in keeping his frothing thoughts subdued.
So there was nothing useful to be acquired this evening. Yet that was no matter. If not tonight, then soon.
He forced his facial muscles to relax because the strain of his sneer was irritating his wounded nostrils. He could feel blood meander down his chin as the skin had obviously broken open again.
Whose infernal underclothes did Potter deem worthy to steal?
No.
It did not matter. Whatever Potter did in his leisure time was of no concern. What mattered was Voldemort's research. His stratagems.
The boy's state of distraction would be useful. It meant more time unobserved. Further capacity for experimentation.
And if Potter wanted to have carnal relations with lesser creatures—
Abruptly, his mind was seized.
He saw Potter, on his back, legs bent and spread wide, his head tilted up to expose that lovely carotid artery. He was pleading, his eyes leaking tears, but his fingers grasped tightly to Voldemort's shoulders—
It was him taking the boy—
And suddenly that was all he wanted.
Potter, under him, writhing and begging and his. The boy should not be collecting intimate garments from troglodytes, but warming his bed, giving him his body, his time and attention.
He steadied himself on the windowsill, resting his forehead against the cool glass to clear his mind.
This would not do.
A distracted Potter would result in more freedom, but it would also endanger his capacity to influence the boy. He needed Potter's focus on him. It was from him alone that the boy should seek validation and aid.
The boy was his.
Voldemort was already moulding him into a suitable puppet for his machinations regarding his own dormant powers. To do this successfully, he must continue to teach the boy to inspire obedience through fear. This education was vital and would bring him the ability to wield Potter's followers himself and to employ the boy as his far-reaching mouthpiece.
The Chosen One, as his prophet.
His proxy.
Satisfied, Lord Voldemort turned from the window and walked to his bed. Images of Potter's dalliances this evening began to swarm him, but he denied them. They were immaterial, for they would never reoccur.
He slowly removed his robes and readied for bed. The last task before laying down was to carefully unclench his throbbing fist and tuck the treacherous scarlet material under his mattress.
You are mine, Harry Potter. In this, as in all things.
.
.
Harry woke up, groaning.
He gingerly rolled out of bed, his dry mouth a revolting flavour, and hastened to his loo. After a piss, a glass of water, and a thorough tooth brushing, he felt almost human again.
Almost human.
Fuck bugger.
Voldemort.
He slumped against the wall, closing his eyes.
Harry'd made an arse of himself again last night. Merlin, he vaguely remembered the man guessing that he'd gotten laid.
How does he even know what that smells like? Has he ever...?
Of course he had. The man was in his eighties, after all. And Tom Riddle had certainly been attractive.
Fucking gorgeous.
So much so that even Harry had been taken in. He had always been mortified by his memories of perving that boy's arse as he was led through Hogwarts by the diary Horcrux.
That thought brought him abruptly back to reality.
A grown up Tom Riddle was actually in his house. Evil, twisted, and abused by none other than himself.
Looks like you both grew up to be monsters.
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The lightening bolt scar still stood out starkly on his forehead. The sight of it always made him cringe. It reminded him of his duties, of his failures. He was Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding World.
And he had taken a man into his home and beaten him. A defenceless Squib. Had smiled while doing it.
Gotten aroused.
Had struck the man more than once.
Harry looked away, closing his eyes.
This has gotten out of control. Tell Hermione. Bring him to Azkaban. Ask for help! You have to ask for help.
But that was the thing he was worst at.
Harry Potter provided the help, he didn't ask for it. Besides, Voldemort was harmless now. If Harry couldn't handle one Squib, then he didn't deserve his role as Head Auror.
You don't. You don't deserve it. Your job is to keep people safe and all you do is hurt them, kill them, it should have been you—
Harry pulled away, opening his eyes and spelling the shower to start. The water was scalding and he purposefully denied himself his morning wank, his self-loathing at a pinnacle.
While dressing in his Auror robes, he was glad for the excuse not to linger in the house today. Though, he still had to face the man now. Go downstairs and see what fresh hell Voldemort had in store for him. Accept his disdain and his anger.
Harry knew that he should eat to soak up some of the leftover alcohol, but he could tell it was going to be one of those days where he carefully managed his food intake. He didn't know why he did it. Hermione would gently remind him to eat if it went on too long, she always did, but sometimes the hunger pains were almost comforting. Nostalgic. They reminded him of the Harry Potter before he became the Boy Who Lived. The scrawny pariah with the bad haircut and the billowing clothes, whose biggest fear had been his relatives forgetting to unlock his cupboard and feed him.
Ah, happier times.
It would be a relief now to hide away in that closet with his growling stomach. To think that such trivial complaints like not getting birthdays and Ripper the bulldog holding him hostage up a tree in the snow had once haunted him. He would exchange them gladly for his current, debilitating nightmares of lifeless faces and screams of agony from friends he was always just too late to save.
When he eventually forced himself out of his room, he was prepared to don his public persona. The one that acted unruffled and brave even when he wanted to cower.
He walked determinedly downstairs towards the kitchen for some tea. He wasn't about to let the bastard scare him anymore than he already did.
So what? I hit him. He wanted me to. He basically made me do it.
Harry stomped down the stairs, uncaring if he woke the other man, unafraid of his censure.
Victim-blaming now, huh? Every day, you sound more and more like your dear uncle. He'd be so proud.
Harry stopped.
Voldemort was turning him into the Dursleys. Making him—
You make your own choices. You chose to bring him home. To give him back his body. To hurt him. You have no one to blame but yourself.
Harry sat down hard, thinking of Hermione and how she had trusted Harry to help her; how Harry had taken that trust and given it to Lord Voldemort, returning him to his body and—
"Your breakfast is getting cold."
Harry startled, twisting to see Lord Voldemort emerging from the stairs at the end of the hall that led down to the kitchen.
"What?" Harry asked stupidly.
Voldemort cast him a sardonic look.
"Breakfast. The inaugural meal of the day."
"You made me breakfast," Harry repeated tonelessly, completely lost.
Voldemort sighed.
"Yes, Potter." He paused. "I can see why they promoted you. It was unquestionably for your brilliance and not merely for your name."
Harry rubbed his eyes.
"I'm not hungry, but..."
What— thanks? It was obviously poisoned or pissed in.
Harry frowned, catching up.
"You've been in my kitchen," he said slowly, feeling his legs straighten and bring him up to standing. "You touched my food."
Voldemort leaned against the wall, raising an eyebrow.
"I told you to stay in your room," Harry reminded him, his foot dropping down onto the next stair heavily.
Voldemort's eyes seemed to shimmer for a moment, that same fucked-up glimmer of excitement dancing in them whenever he sensed danger.
"It must have slipped my mind," Voldemort replied evenly.
Harry took another step down towards the man.
"You just don't get it," he whispered, finally dismounting, his eyes never leaving those blazing red ones. "You're my prisoner."
"So you say," Voldemort retorted.
Harry's fists balled and he yearned to smash them into that pompous face, but then he forced himself to calm.
"You won't trick me into hurting you again, Tom. But I will get you to listen to me. Imperio!"
Harry led Voldemort back up the stairs and shoved open the door to the bastard's room. Fingers tingling, he gestured for the older man to lay on the bed and watched in awe as that lithe frame obeyed.
Lord Voldemort reclined onto his back and then stared up at him, every muscle in his body tensed in ineffectual protest.
Harry felt his cock harden, blood thundering, compelling him on.
"Lift your arms above your head."
When Voldemort didn't move, Harry recast the Imperius Curse to make him.
Those thin, delicate wrists crossed against the headboard and Harry felt his legs take him closer, drawn to the enticing display.
"Incarcerous!" Harry incanted and saw black ropes encircle Lord Voldemort's arms, securing them to the wood.
"Perfect," Harry breathed. "You can stay here today while I'm at work. Think about whether you'd rather listen to me and keep your dignity, or the reverse and get used to being tied to shit."
As he strode to the door, that high, cold voice halted him.
"You are punishing me for preparing you breakfast."
Harry spun to face him, furious indignation rising up in him.
"I am punishing you for breaking my rules! Like you wanted me to do!"
"I had assumed that the fractured bone you gave me for daring to read was my punishment for the crime of movement."
Harry refused to let the guilt crush him. Voldemort deserved it. He'd asked for it, even.
"But you did it again!" Harry argued. "You can't just keep leaving this room!"
Harry was panting. This was already spiralling out of his control. He knew he sounded deranged. He hated that Voldemort was so bleeding skilled at irritating him.
He closed his eyes, trying to get back on track. Voldemort was now safely in his room. Harry had to work. How else was he to get the bastard to stay?
"How about this, then?" he said slowly, opening his eyes to take in the man on his back. Don't get distracted. You're not vile enough to sexually assault a tied up man. "I'll give you free rein of my house."
Voldemort's head shifted and he looked intrigued.
"In return," Harry went on, "you tell me where your Horcrux is."
Immediately the man's expression closed off.
Harry shrugged, already having a solution to this. Now that McNair was caught, his main focus would have to be finding the last shard of the man's soul.
"I can just use Veritaserum if you won't," Harry warned him.
Voldemort made a disparaging sound.
"You cannot think a simple truth-telling potion would cause me to betray myself."
Harry cocked an eyebrow.
More lies? With no magic, could he resist it?
"In addition," Voldemort pressed on, "why would I divulge the secret to my immortality for any price, never mind for the insulting boon of a larger prison?"
Fair point. Harry pocketed his wand.
"I'll bring some Veritaserum back with me to test your statement tonight," Harry said, permitting himself one last look at that splayed body.
"Allow me to proffer an alternative," Voldemort said, and Harry's eyes snapped up to study him.
"What else could you give me?" Harry asked. "You're bankrupt."
Voldemort's calculating gaze held his intently.
"You want me."
Harry scrunched up his face in disdain.
"I already have you, Tom."
Voldemort's eyes flared a burning crimson.
"Not the way you so obviously desire, Harry Potter," he continued, his voice lowering, and Harry froze in disbelief. "I have seen the way your gaze lingers upon me. The way you yearn to bend for me."
Harry held his breath, mortified by this exposure and yet thrumming with anticipation.
"I offer myself," the Dark Lord stated, confident and incredibly alluring. "In exchange, you will bring me into a Pensieve to show me the ritual you undertook to return my body. You will then detail any alterations you made."
Harry heard the words, but his mind was still reeling from Voldemort's extraordinary proposition.
I offer myself.
Jesus, the Dark Lord as a prize. Does he know what I would do with him?
Harry pictured stripping the man naked, climbing onto the bed with him, and straddling that powerful body. He would hold him down and lick a wet trail over that thin chest, tasting those tiny nipples, scraping his teeth along that long, pale throat and then feed the man his tongue.
Merlin.
Harry could fuck him.
His gaze slowly returned to the waiting Dark Lord and when their eyes met, an overwhelming rush of hunger struck him.
This man could be his. To do with as he pleased.
"Do we have a deal?" Voldemort inquired, all smug and certain.
Harry blinked. A deal.
Fuck yeah, we do.
But before he could voice his agreement, reason interrupted his excitement. The terms. What were the terms again?
One compliant, naked Dark Lord in exchange for the secret to the man's lack of magic.
Bloody fucking hell.
He couldn't do it. As much as he wanted to, it was irresponsible. Once Voldemort knew what he'd done, it wouldn't be long until he figured out how to get his magic back... or manipulated Harry into returning it to him.
Harry tried for a smirk, but his frustrated, throbbing body couldn't manage more than a pained grimace as he replied.
"Why, Tom? Is something wrong with your new form?"
Harry watched the subtle tensing of the Dark Lord's muscles. The slight inhale. The rigidly blank expression.
They never spoke about the secret they both knew. Was Voldemort stupid enough to think that Harry wasn't aware? Because if Voldemort knew, then surely his price would be to return his magic. Or, at the very least, to tell him why it was missing.
You want me. You want me.
The egotistical prick's words continued to echo in his brain. Harry leaned down, bringing his face close to the other man's.
"And just so that we're clear, I don't want you, you sick fuck," Harry spat— lying. "All I want is to find your last Horcrux and then kill you."
Harry pulled away, taking a step back from the bed. Voldemort looked jarringly uncomfortable as he stared up at Harry, his hands tied securely to the headboard. His body bared and helpless.
Harry was caught, memorising that image.
"You're wrong about leadership, by the way," Harry whispered, his eyes contemplating the man's dry lips. "I don't care how I get you to obey, so long as you do. If I have to tie you to the bed every day to keep you in your room, I will."
A whiff of guilt, of caution, blew over him as he stood above the former Dark Lord, but he pushed it aside. It did feel good to control people. Especially someone usually so impossible to command.
"It doesn't make me weak," Harry muttered. "Either way, you're doing what I want. And you won't be around long enough for me to care to train you."
Harry dragged his gaze away, turning his back on his enemy.
"Have a good day, Tom," Harry said, before he closed the door and went off to work.