CHAPTER 9
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For five days he waited.
Three days without water would kill a normal man.
But Potter, it would seem, was anomalous. He should have expected nothing less from the Golden Boy.
It was baffling. Troubling. It was unlikely that Potter's magic was sustaining him and yet there was no other explanation apart from the boy's famous obstinacy.
The brat refused to capitulate.
Voldemort's vigil had been tedious and his patience had run dry.
If the boy would not succumb to the curses raging through him, then Voldemort would simply expedite the process. He had hoped to leave behind a body that had died from the intruder's curses, but he refused to waste any more time on this.
He knelt beside the boy's twitching frame. This close, he could hear delicate whimpers emanating from those lips. Determined not to be distracted, he decisively pinched the clammy nose with his thumb and used his palm to cover the boy's mouth.
Invasive doubts pestered him as he touched Potter. He was unaccustomed to hesitation. Killing the boy was the right move, though and thus, he persevered.
There was no reaction for several seconds and then those verdant eyes snapped open and Potter dropped his jaw to gasp in air. The sudden change was startling and Voldemort pulled back.
Potter's eyes were wide and agonised. He released a ragged scream and began to pant.
"Help," the boy rasped, his eyes bloodshot, but that dehydrated body could produce no tears. "P... Please..."
End of life begging never affected him. It could be amusing or satisfying, but it had never had the ability to move him.
Potter's unnatural feebleness did. This boy had walked to his own death fearlessly. Had stood against Lord Voldemort confidently at the age of eleven.
Watching Potter suffer like this reminded him too much of his own mortality. His own suffering.
He yearned for his magic, for with it Potter's death could have been swift and effortless. Impersonal.
"Please...kill me," the boy croaked and Voldemort stepped back in shock.
Potter was begging... to die. Not to live. He was begging to be killed.
His mind struggled to comprehend that.
"Please," the boy whispered again and then fell into unconsciousness once more.
Voldemort drew away further.
For a moment, he had believed that his own demise was playing out for him in Potter, but now he realised that he would never be able to understand the boy.
He glanced towards the front door and the cache of potions he could see tucked away amidst Potter's footwear. He had already gone through the stash in his previous searches of the house and knew there resided an elixir that could shock a freshly deceased wizard's heart back to life. The boy's occupation must render him infirm regularly for him to require some of the potions that he hoarded.
He looked back at the boy.
Perhaps this was the best solution. He could kill Potter, take the wards down, resuscitate him, and then leave him for his friends to find.
This had already taken too long. The boy's two companions had come daily to bang on the door and it would likely be at any moment that one of them lost patience and managed to rip through the heavy defences. It could be done; the idiots had simply so far been too polite to force entry.
Once they grew more concerned, however, they would come, finding Lord Voldemort infuriatingly vulnerable.
Yet with this opportunity, he would be long gone when they finally broke in.
Resolved, he strode back to the boy and cut off his breath. He watched as Potter tried to gasp around his palm, unable to move more than the reflexive responses to save his life, but they were insufficient.
The boy's chest shook with its last ineffectual attempt at breathing and then stilled.
Lord Voldemort stared down at the Chosen One's lifeless body.
I have won.
He waited for the thrill of that to enliven him; his own superiority, his now unrestricted might—
Yet all he felt was a kind of disoriented panic.
A need to complete his task quickly so that he could recover the boy.
He stood and pivoted towards the door. Placing his hands upon it, he felt rejoiced at its weakened state. There were gaps, tears that he could effortlessly unravel, but when he reached out to begin, an endless, ghostly void was all he encountered.
No.
There was a way out, yet he could not grasp it.
In denial, he redoubled his efforts, his nails sinking into the old wood of the door, closing his eyes to focus on his abilities, his puissance, his —
But it was gone.
He was simply a man scrabbling against a prison wall.
His eyes flew open.
Never.
I am more, I am the pinnacle, I am the Dark Lord Voldemort and nothing can withstand my determination.
It was insignificant. This path was blocked, yet there were others.
Others that required the boy.
Turning, his eyes fell upon the disturbingly still body. A lick of fear touched him, but he banished it. Striding forward he retrieved the phial of Elixir and forced it past the boy's lax, cooling lips.
He waited.
Seconds piled up and he began to question whether he had made an error. Had it been too long? Were the curses Harry had been suffering under too strong to let him reawaken? What if—
A tight gasp startled him.
Harry Potter's eyes blinked open and seized him.
A distressed relief weakened his legs and pulled him down. He knelt on the floor at the boy's side, taking in his rapidly rising and falling chest. The flush that suffused his priorly pale face.
Alive.
He allowed himself a moment to collect his disordered mind. Looking down, he noticed that his fingers were lightly touching the warm skin of the boy's neck. He frowned, not knowing when he had placed them there.
He stared at the pulse he could see flickering under the twitching skin. Potter would be in tremendous pain still and it was no longer advantageous. Now, it worked against him.
If Lord Voldemort could not walk free without the boy's assistance, then he must commit himself to acquiring it by any means.
.
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Harry blinked his eyes open.
Ugh, too bright. He groaned and closed them again. He felt groggy, almost like he was sick. Hungover.
What the fuck?
He tried to sit up and that's when he realised he couldn't move.
All at once, it was crucial that he escape, run, flee, who's got me, where am I—?
"Calm down," a familiar voice quietly commanded, and Harry instantly shut up.
Fuck.
He couldn't move, his glasses were gone, he felt drugged, and Lord fucking Voldemort was sitting at his bedside.
"Where am I?" he asked, trying to gather his composure.
There was a long pause and Harry began to imagine all of the horrible options— the graveyard, Riddle Manor—
"Your home."
Home?
Harry squinted around himself, trying to keep down the panic at not being able to lift his head. The blurry shapes began to coalesce and he recognised his bedroom. He brought his gaze back to the shadow by his side.
"My glasses?" he inquired.
Voldemort's outline shook his head.
"They will not help you."
Well that was cryptic as fuck. Great.
"What happened?" Harry asked.
"What do you remember?"
He thought about it.
"A woman."
He frowned, seeing her crying and he remembered feeling helpless in the face of her grief and accusations.
"Did you know her?" Voldemort asked.
Harry tried to shake his head, but another shock of terror seized him when he could not.
"No," he replied, taking a deep breath. "I think she said her... sister?"
He looked up at Voldemort for confirmation, but he couldn't make out the man's expression. Whatever. That was what he recalled.
"Her sister got... crushed by a giant. She—"
"I know what she said, Potter," the other man cut in, sounding irritated. "I do not wish to hear her sentimentalism again."
Harry snorted. Course not, fucking prat.
So. The woman had blamed him and then—
"She attacked me," Harry said, suddenly remembering the searing agony.
It was a strange relief that she had been responsible for his condition and not the Dark Lord. She had hit Harry with a curse and then he'd blacked out...
...which would have left her alone with Lord Voldemort.
"Where is she?" he croaked, though he supposed he already knew the answer.
There was a pause and Harry pictured the Dark Lord smirking.
"I have collected her teeth and larger bones from the fireplace and intend to grind them with a mortar and pestle now that you have—"
"You killed her?" Harry interrupted weakly, feeling immediately dizzy.
Oh god, my fault, my fault. She's dead because she confronted me for her sister's murder. I killed them both, I've—
"She tried to murder you, Potter," Voldemort replied heavily. "She attacked an unarmed man."
"Because I killed her sister!" Harry shouted, his blurry eyesight beginning to twinkle with lights.
What the fuck didn't the man understand? The poor woman had just wanted some justice, some acknowledgment for what had been taken from her.
"Calm down," Voldemort said firmly. "You will only exhaust yourself. You are still recovering."
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, trying to comply. Merlin, it was so unfair. She had just been trying to get some retribution.
"She's dead," he muttered, unable to block out that fact.
Dead because Harry had not protected her sister. Because Harry had brought Lord Voldemort into his home and could not control him.
And then something else occurred to him.
"You... you burned her body in the hearth?" He looked over at the unmoving shape, anger and anxiety twisting within him. "I'm the Head fucking Auror. You can't just dispose of bodies in my sodding dining room!"
"I used the kitchen fireplace."
Harry choked out an incredulous laugh.
"That's not the bloody point, is it? You can't—"
"You are becoming hysterical," Voldemort interjected, and Harry wanted to strike him.
He saw the man's shape stand and then walk towards the door.
"I will return once you have gotten control of yourself," Voldemort said, and then a desperate sense of urgency, of terror and need abruptly overtook Harry.
"I thought that was your fucking job!" he threw out— and then froze.
Voldemort had stopped walking. Harry couldn't tell what his expression was, but his silence was charged.
Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? Like this isn't bad enough.
"Never mind," Harry said quietly, wishing he could disappear. "That's not what I—"
"You want me to take control, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked, and his tone clenched Harry's stomach.
The man moved closer.
"I saved your life," Voldemort reminded him. "I disposed of her body. Gave you healing potions. Kept you fed and hydrated."
He had reached the bed. Harry looked up into that pale face and could see the red eyes boring into him.
"I am already in control."
"I can't move," Harry whispered in a small voice, looking away.
Voldemort hummed.
"I am aware."
Fingers reached down and tilted up Harry's face so that they could look at each other again.
"I will handle that, too," Voldemort promised, and Harry almost moaned at the very real weight that was instantly lifted from him.
Those fingers began to gently caress his throat.
"I will ask so little of you in return, Harry Potter. For now, accept that the woman is dead, with gratitude."
Indignation rose up in him, but then the hand at his throat tightened swiftly to cut off his breath.
"Say, Yes Master," Voldemort commanded.
Harry couldn't move, couldn't breathe. How was he supposed to say anything? The man was going to kill him after all and—
The fingers released him. Gasping, his eyes watering embarrassingly, he nodded. Voldemort continued to wait in silence.
"Yes, Master," Harry recited.
Voldemort released a satisfied hum and then wiped away a tear on Harry's face.
"That pleases me. Now, you will go back to sleep while I dispose of the woman's remains. When you wake, you will eat and then rest some more. Both curses are still rampant within you, their effects are merely muted with potions."
"What?" Harry gasped, fear gripping him.
A large hand was clapped over his mouth and nose, pressing down and blocking his breath. He wanted to flail and scream, but all he could do was plead with his eyes for mercy, for air—
The hand disappeared and Harry pulled in oxygen fiercely.
"I am in control, Potter," Voldemort growled. "I grant you breath and life and will break the curses upon you. Be patient."
"But you have no magic," Harry helplessly pleaded— and then his eyes snapped up in terror to Voldemort's blurry face.
"Ah," the Dark Lord exhaled, sounding disappointedly resigned.
Harry could only stare. Voldemort straightened, the tips of his fingers sharply tapping Harry's face twice before slipping away.
"We will have much to discuss when you wake. Sleep well, Harry Potter."
And then the Dark Lord swept from his room and shut the door, trapping him alone inside.
.
.
The boy was at fault.
There was no other explanation. Voldemort's intuition had been correct all along and he was sure that the ritual to get his body back had been botched.
Or, had this been the intended result?
Had the boy cursed him to revive this way? Without the power that was owed to him, without his birthright?
No matter. The secret was out and the boy would pay for his negligence.
He pushed off from the wall where he had rested after leaving Potter's side. He was angry at being duped, yet he was free now to question the boy openly about it, which calmed him.
As he walked down the stairs towards the kitchen, the front door banged ominously once again.
"Harry!" that same voice shouted, and Voldemort paused, listening. "Open this door! Right now!"
"We're not going away, mate," another voice threatened. "We know you're upset, but we just want to know that you're okay. Please."
There was a silence and then the pounding recommenced.
"Harry, you're being ridiculous!" The woman again. "I'm getting induced tomorrow and if you don't come to see him, I'll never forgive you!"
"Don't say that," the male voice chastened.
Voldemort grew weary of the inanity and continued down the stairs. He would have to send a letter from Potter reassuring his lackeys today. He would tell them that the boy had contracted dragon pox.
"Well, he should know, Ron!" the woman said loudly, as Voldemort rounded the banister and walked away towards the stairs to the kitchen. "It's his fault that Hugo is late! All this stress! My body doesn't feel safe giving birth."
"Come on, Hermione, let's just go. Goodnight, Harry. Sorry if you heard any of this. We both love you."
If the nonsense had continued after that, Voldemort was blissfully unaware of it. He took down a pot and began making Potter soup.
.
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"So, how long will my store of potions last anyways?"
Voldemort put the bowl down onto the boy's bedside table and leaned back in his chair. He regarded the young man, taking in his twitching skin and complete vulnerability.
"Your stock is impressive," Voldemort replied, weaving his fingers together and resting them upon his lap. "With that and your inexhaustible luck, you should manage for awhile."
"But not forever," the boy countered irritatingly. Potter had the audacity to glare at him, holding his gaze almost like a reprimand. "You need to take me to St Mungo's."
Voldemort raised an eyebrow, letting the silence grow heavy with his displeasure.
"Give me the memory of my resurrection, Harry Potter," Voldemort demanded.
Potter closed his eyes briefly.
"No."
Voldemort felt a thrill go through him at that word. He enjoyed when people attempted to deny him.
"I am keeping you alive," he reminded the boy dangerously. "You are at my mercy. Refuse me anything I ask for and I will simply remove your access to oxygen."
This generous warning somehow made Potter laugh. It was a strange action to witness on a body that could only move basic facial muscles.
"I'm not you, Tom," the impertinent child asserted, his scathing tone bringing Voldemort's attention right back. "I'm not afraid to die. Besides, it's obvious you can't kill me, or you would have done so already. You need me alive."
Voldemort leaned forward, reaching out unthinkingly for his powers that were agonisingly absent.
"I want you dead."
Harry raised his eyebrows nonchalantly.
"If I die, you're trapped. I know the wards on this house and you can't get out without me. Well, not powerless as you are. Wanna starve to death?"
Voldemort growled and grabbed the boy by his throat. Potter's eyes burned into him and Voldemort refused to acknowledge the knowing smirk that was there.
The truth of the boy's statements were galling. He could make no move against him until he had reclaimed his freedom and his magic. And to achieve both, he needed the boy's cooperation.
Or, perhaps...?
"You are right," Voldemort stated, letting the boy's body fall heavily back onto the bed.
Potter's expression changed to one of incredulity, which was amusing.
"I'm right?" Potter parroted. "Right about what?"
"That without access to my magic, I require assistance to break free from here."
The boy nodded slowly.
"Exactly. You need me alive."
Voldemort shook his head minutely and allowed the child to grasp the danger that was looming.
"No, Harry Potter. I require assistance, but it need not be from you. For example, were you aware that your friends visit each day to persuade you to come out?"
Voldemort savoured the boy's paling, comprehending face.
"The woman is pregnant, or so she says," he continued. "I wonder if her body will instinctually deliver the infant as I kill her, or whether it will—"
"No," Potter interrupted, his face suddenly animated with fury.
Voldemort devoured his energy greedily, taking in the flushed colour of his cheeks and his murderous eyes.
"Don't you fucking touch her, or I'll—"
"Lay docilely in your bed and watch?" Voldemort cut in, raising an eyebrow. "Because that it all you are capable of doing at the moment."
His gaze lowered to take in the boy's limp, helpless body. How strange that Potter's speech and expression could be so impassioned and yet, all his other parts remained unmoving. Fascinating.
"I have simply to wait," he went on, bringing his gaze back to those ferocious green eyes. "They will grow impatient and break in eventually. Perhaps they will save their daring rescue for when they introduce you to their offspring?"
"No, you fucking bastard, what's wrong with you? Why do you have such a hard-on for killing babies?"
Voldemort graciously allowed the disrespect.
"It is in your power to prevent," he reminded the boy lightly, placing a hand absently upon Potter's heaving chest.
The material was damp with perspiration and he could feel the erratic heartbeat thundering to protect.
"Fuck!" Potter shouted, drawn out and anguished, his eyes closing and tears sliding into his hair. "Fucking hell! Alright."
The boy was panting and Voldemort watched as he licked his lips. His hands twitched upon the warm body.
"Do you hear me?" Potter growled, his gaze flashing open, enticing Voldemort to meet it. "Leave them the fuck alone and you can have your sodding memory, okay? Do I have your word— but fuck!" The boy laughed, closing his eyes again. "You could just be lying! Why the fuck should I trust you? If they... If they do break in, if they do that, will you...What will you do?"
Voldemort considered his response.
"Hide," he decided, and then hardened his tone. "And if you attempt anything foolish like casting Fiendfyre on this manor or never returning so that I perish inside, remember, Harry Potter, that I am immortal."
He let that threat hang for moments, allowing the boy to understand what was at stake.
"I am proficient at killing while possessing others as a wraith and I will find your little friends and their precious progeny and I will make them suffer for your betrayal."
Potter's eyelids fluttered closed and tears continued to drip down through his dark lashes. Voldemort watched them, becoming absorbed in their progress. He studied the boy's pain, watching it play out in his features. Potter's concern seemed genuine and that was something Voldemort would never understand. The boy would risk his own life, throw away his only power over Lord Voldemort, all for a promise of safety for his friends.
He already knew this weakness of his enemy's, of course, yet watching it evolve in person was strangely compelling.
When Voldemort drew his attention back to the boy's eyes, he realised that he was being likewise studied.
"I won't sabotage this, I swear," the boy whispered. "Please. I want to trust you. Can I trust you?"
What a question. Of course not. Trust was not a commodity shared between them. It had to be earned and so far the boy had lied and robbed him of his birthright.
"If you're angry," the child went on, "take it out on me. You're... you're going to be angry. You're going to be pissed. But I need you to promise that you won't hurt anyone else to get back at me."
"You know I will not make that promise, Harry Potter."
"Well, just for this memory, then. You have to swear that you direct your... your rage and... murderous intent at me. Just me. Please."
That word again. He did so enjoy hearing the boy beg.
"I almost do not even require this memory anymore. These confessions are enough to confirm what I had already suspected. Nevertheless, I do not trust you, therefore you will give it to me and then we shall discuss how I will vent my murderous intent, as you so wisely phrased it."
Voldemort reached over with the hand not touching Potter and grabbed his water glass. Tilting it, he spilled the contents carelessly onto the floor and then held the empty glass against the boy's cheek.
"Give me that memory, Potter. Now."
.
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The mist swarmed him, blocking the view of his own naked body emerging from a cauldron, and then his feet abruptly hit the carpet in the boy's godfather's chambers once more.
Voldemort slumped onto the dusty bed, releasing his held breath.
The flesh of a servant.
It was as he feared.
Potter had built this body without that integral piece and his current predicament could not be alleviated without it. Yet the boy had captured and killed all of his servants, even his familiar, Nagini. With no one he could term as his servant, he was without any other possible ingredients.
His Inner Circle had been obliterated, all except for Lucius. It was unlikely, unfortunately, that the traitor would qualify as his anymore after the man had abandoned him during the Battle of Hogwarts. Not even the man's unmarked, deceitful wife would suffice as she had lied to him regarding the boy's mortality after they had both been knocked unconscious in the Forest.
He had no one.
Without a servant to willingly sacrifice a part of themselves to revive him, he would remain cut off from his powers.
No.
This was a setback, certainly, but Lord Voldemort would not be thwarted so easily. Once he took his freedom, he would find another servant and use them—
Voldemort's eyes flashed open.
Why search further, when the obvious solution was at hand? Paralysed and at his mercy.
Potter.
It would not take much to pull the boy into his thrall and then he would demand significant recompense for the deficit he had been given. The boy would fix this or Lord Voldemort would slaughter each person he cared about. Everyone he talked to or looked at.
He would slaughter every human on the planet if that was what it took to command his magic once more.
These thoughts calmed him. He had the boy isolated. Dependent upon him and vulnerable to simple threats against his friends. To his dexterous persuasion.
He would have his power back, soon. And he would enjoy breaking the child further while he accomplished it.
Satisfied, he strode downstairs to the boy's bedroom.
"You will return my magic, Potter," he demanded upon passing over the threshold.
The boy looked up at him, his face wary.
"I can't," he responded quietly. "Not like this. I need to be able to cast spells in the ritual. There's a potion I have to brew again and I can't do it like this."
"You still have access to your magic," Voldemort countered. "I have noticed you vanishing the contents of your bladder and bowels."
"Jesus," Harry replied, his face flushing. "Fine, yes. I can do simple spells, but nothing at the level needed to redo the ritual. Also, are you even sure that it can be done this way? It's supposed to grant a body, which you already have, in case you didn't realise. What if it makes another?"
Idiot.
"It requires a physical manifestation of myself to grow from. My living, human body, you will agree, counts as that. The ritual will do as I wish it to and so will you, Harry Potter."
"I can't," the boy continued to insist. "Not yet. Take me to St Mungo's so they can—"
"I will break the curses. I have already told you."
"Yeah well, it's been who knows how long," the boy said testily, his voice raising, "and I'm still stuck like this so—"
"Patience," he commanded, and then paused, with a smile. "Unless you would prefer me to acquaint myself with your dear friends?"
Potter spluttered in anger. Voldemort moved closer, his body drawn to the display. Seeing the boy riled affected him in a most peculiar fashion.
"You fucking wanker!" Potter shouted, his lips pulling back and displaying his teeth in an intriguing manner. "I swear to sodding Godric Gryffindor that if you even look at them, I'll fuck you up so badly that even your Horcruxes won't be able to save you. I'll—"
The boy continued for some time, but Voldemort tuned out his words. Instead, he feasted on the blazing hatred in those flashing eyes. The heaving chest that brought life to that unnaturally still form.
Voldemort's legs carried him to the bed and he sat down, reaching out and placing his hand upon Potter's warm upper thigh. The muscles underneath his palm remained lax, yet the action halted the boy's tirade.
He glanced up and saw a look of naked shock on Potter's face.
That rapt attention... the feel of the boy's blood thrumming through his veins...
It was a captivating sight.
A compulsion, an unfamiliar one, abruptly diverted him.
Kiss him.
He pictured it, then, leaning down and pressing his lips against those open ones, grabbing the boy's jaw and forcing his way inside. How would he taste? Would he fight it?
And what if he was invited to go further?
What if the boy welcomed him, begged him to—
"Stop that," Potter snapped, his voice jerking him out of his rampant thoughts.
Voldemort's fingers flexed against that firm thigh and the boy's breath hitched. The quiet, pained sound almost pulled him right back into his imagination.
"You said you wouldn't hurt them if I gave you that memory," Potter reminded him, steering them back to their conversation and obliging him to abandon his pleasant musings.
"And so it shall be," he confirmed. "Yet, do not persist with nagging me to surrender you to others. I will take care of you. We are building trust, after all, are we not?"
Potter blew out a breath that may have been a wry laugh.
"Sure," he muttered. "I've just got to learn to trust my enemy. Easy."
Voldemort smirked.
"Easier than dying, I have heard."
The boy outright laughed at that.
"You know," Potter mused, after a time, meeting his eyes directly, "if you actually get your magic back, I'll have to fight you again, right? I can't just let you go. I won't."
Perhaps not yet, not as they were. But the boy would never harm someone he cared for.
"Let us worry about that when we are there, Harry Potter," he replied, his fingers relaxing to gently stroke that strong leg. "For now, rest. I will watch over you."
Potter looked up at him, unsure and fearful, yet it was a critical victory when the boy slowly lowered his eyelids and allowed himself to fall into the susceptibility of sleep.