CHAPTER 10

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It was not, after all, so challenging to break the curses. He knew how, had known since the first moment he had recognised their effects.

Yet he was reluctant to relinquish his hold over the boy. The burning curse had been easily calmed, requiring only a few spells that Potter could perform wandlessly, and three potions he already had.

Ridding the boy of it had earned Voldemort a look of gratitude and even a whispered, Thanks, that had clenched Voldemort's stomach curiously and continued to do so whenever he recalled it.

The paralysis curse was also simple for him, though he was not yet ready to lose the pleasure of witnessing Potter vulnerable.

It had been three days and together, they had written a letter to the boy's friends, assuring them that all was well, Potter was merely convalescing at home with dragon pox. Their reply had come swiftly, bringing news that the second child had been born.

Potter had cried when he had read that. Voldemort had stood uncomfortably by at first, wondering how to hasten the boy out of that mood, until he decided to try touching him again. He had placed his hand upon one sturdy shoulder and Potter's reaction had been instantaneous.

More crying. But also surprise, a gentle variety. And afterwards, the boy had smiled directly at him. Locking his eyes and striking him with his unreserved gratitude.

"I don't know how you can stand to touch my hair," Potter muttered suddenly, jolting him out of his reveries.

He had thought that the boy had been sleeping. Glancing down, he studied his long fingers that were currently tangled in the boy's black locks. He cleared his throat.

"And why is that?" he inquired, as levelly as he could.

Potter shot him an amused glare.

"Well, maybe because I haven't bathed for almost a fortnight?"

The boy's tone was mockingly imbecilic. Sarcastic.

"I have seen you perform refreshening charms, Harry Potter."

The boy made a disparaging sound.

"They're not the same. Not by a long shot. I can smell myself, you realise, and I smell like I'm rotting. I don't know how you can stand it."

That scent, the slightly acrid, thick smell of the boy's perspiration, the undiluted essence of his skin was pungent, yes. But rotting? Repellent?

Absolutely not.

Voldemort recommenced the movement of his fingers through the boy's greasy hair.

"It does not concern me," he replied honestly. "However, if it makes you uncomfortable, I can offer you my help in getting clean."

"Without magic?" the boy asked with an eyebrow raised. "How're you going to manage that? Gonna bathe me?"

It was thrown out as a jocular challenge, but Voldemort simply inclined his head.

"If you like."

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Being touched by Lord Voldemort was unlike anything else.

And the man did it all the time. Little touches. To Harry's hands, or his face... Lingering sometimes. Uncomfortable, but then also... not.

Yet it should be. Harry should be calling him out. It was too familiar, too intimate.

At least, it was for him. Every time he felt those cool fingers against his unresponsive skin, his attention was instantly seized.

He's a monster.

Harry was forced to remind himself of this quite often. Usually when those digits on his skin began to awaken his cock, which somehow didn't stay flaccid like the rest of him and hardened anyways.

He's dangerous.

Well, not so much anymore. Not as a Squib.

He killed my parents.

This was undeniable. Who got hard for their parent's murderer?

No. I'm still fighting him. I just need to find out where his last Horcrux is and then I'll kill him.

He had to stop responding to the man's touch.

... which was almost impossible when he was being bathed fully naked by the Dark Lord's hand.

Fuck.

Voldemort's long fingers expertly massaged his scalp, lathering the shampoo into his hair. Harry's eyes were resolutely closed. He refused to acknowledge what was actually happening.

No fucking way is the Dark Lord Voldemort kneeling on my bathroom floor and attending to me, like some horror story, erotic slave boy.

"Prepare yourself," that ominously close voice breathed on his neck, erupting his skin in goosebumps. "I am going to submerge your head."

Harry closed his eyes and held his breath as steady hands gently guided him underwater. He tried not to panic this time— He needs me alive, he'll let me up any second now, it's gotta be rinsed already, let me up, let me up, oh gods, he's trying to kill me! Fuck, he's going to—

And then he was pulled out, gasping and panting. Grateful to be saved.

He heard something like a dark chuckle from Voldemort as he looked up at the man in terror.

"Such melodrama," the Dark Lord lightly mocked, and Harry would have taken offence, but he was occupied being amazed that he was still alive.

Calming down, he let the warmth of the water soothe his body. Not moving all day made his muscles ache for some reason and the water felt good. More than that. It was relaxing.

He closed his eyes again. The Dark Lord's fingers were resting on Harry's stomach, and they would be almost innocent, if not for the way they were stroking his skin. It was too measured to be unplanned. And yet... he couldn't bring himself to ask the man to stop.

It felt good. He felt cared for, which was a bizarre concept considering the situation.

"Why are you doing this?" Harry murmured, wanting to tense up, but unable.

Instead, he took a deep breath and submitted himself to his helplessness. He was at the Dark Lord's mercy and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. And really, if the man killed him, it would be a blessing.

"I am doing many things," Voldemort replied, his touches continuing on unimpeded. "To what specifically are you referring?"

Harry felt weightless in the water. Almost dead. Unencumbered. There was a deeply satisfying relief to being so useless right now. Even if he wanted to fight, he couldn't.

"Bathing me," Harry answered in a small voice. "Helping me."

One of Voldemort's hands slid slowly from his belly to meander up his chest. Harry held his breath, but it wasn't fear that gripped him.

"I told you that I would take care of you," Voldemort said, his fingers gliding wetly out of the water and up his throat. "Does that disturb you?"

Harry tried not to let those digits distract him as they caressed his neck, sometimes using pressure to obstruct his breathing and other times softly smoothing along his tendons, tracing the lines of his jaw.

"Yes," Harry whispered.

"Why?"

Harry swallowed, his eyes still closed resolutely.

"Because I like it," Harry confessed, unable to hold that damning truth back.

He was a traitor. It was a betrayal to allow the Dark Lord to touch him like this, to—

"As do I," Voldemort said in his ear, and gently bit down on Harry's cartilage.

Harry gasped, his eyes flashing open in shock— did the Dark Lord— he bit me!

What the fuck?

"Tell me why you will not allow yourself to like it," Voldemort asked, and Harry felt the hand on his stomach move lower.

"Because I hate you," Harry rasped, his brain focused on the touch moving down and down and down—

Voldemort hummed.

"That is not why. Try again."

Harry was panting, caught between desperation for those fingers to make contact with his aching cock and the blinding fear that that would indeed occur.

"Why, Harry?"

Fuck— Harry? Merlin fucking christ, is he— did he just—?

Sharp nails raked through the hair at his groin, scratching the skin and making his cock throb with need.

"Tell me, or I stop."

Yes— stop. That was good, he needed to stop.

Harry slammed his eyes closed.

"You're evil!" he shouted, frustrated that his body was so lax when adrenaline was screaming through his veins. "You're a murderer!"

Voldemort's long fingers wrapped punishingly around his cock and Harry yelled, somehow managing to knock his head against the tub. His eyes flew open, and his brain shut down.

Fuck— fuck— fuck!

"There is more," Voldemort whispered, his face coming around to lean on Harry's shoulder, allowing himself a clear view of his hand on Harry's straining erection. "Tell me what you are hiding."

Thoughts swirled nonsensically through his head— wrong, so wrong— traitor— Merlin, this is bliss— fight him— take it, lay back and give him what he wants—

"Please," Harry moaned, not wanting to think, needing Voldemort to make him.

"Not quite yet, Harry," Voldemort chided him, his fingers stroking him lightly, not enough, it was torture— "Answer me, and I promise to take care of you."

Answer? He didn't even remember the question.

"Please," he repeated, trying to thrust his hips up into Voldemort's fist, but he was unable to move.

Another patronising chuckle.

"This helplessness suits you, Harry Potter."

The man's other hand slid down to his chest and began tugging at the hair around Harry's nipples. He groaned— and his hips managed to somehow tilt forward, as if seeking friction.

They both paused to stare.

"You truly are irrepressible, Harry," Voldemort said roughly, sounding oddly pleased. "I wonder if you would be capable of breaking this curse even without my assistance."

"Please," Harry begged, not giving two shits about that right now.

I just wanna come, fuck, Merlin's fucking tits, just—

"Move your goddamn hand, you bastard!" Harry pleaded, frustrated tears leaking from his eyes.

"I will," Voldemort promised, that grip tightening perfectly until it relaxed once more. "Tell me first why you so vehemently fight something that you want."

Harry bit his tongue until it bled, but it wasn't enough to keep his words inside.

"Because I can't have it!" he shouted, his fingers curling into weak fists. "I'm... I've killed too many. And yet somehow, I'm their Saviour. I have to be brave and strong and bleeding perfect! I'd never be allowed this. I'll never been allowed to... be who I am."

"And who are you?" Voldemort asked quietly, his fingers beginning to slowly wank him.

Harry laughed raggedly.

"I'm pathetic. I'm weak. All I fucking want is to not matter. To not be responsible for everything."

Harry felt his throat tightening despite the bliss of what was being done to his cock.

"Go on," Voldemort encouraged him.

Harry tried to articulate how he felt.

"I've always taken charge because— fuck, this feels amazing."

"Concentrate, Harry, or I will stop."

Harry groaned, thumping his heavy head against the porcelain.

"People need me to be strong. But ever since I was a kid... gods, I'm so fucking close."

The nails on Voldemort's other hand sunk into his skin and Harry hissed in pain, his cock throbbing with need.

"Focus."

Harry swallowed and took a deep breath.

"I'm built the other way. I... I want someone to take control. I... I'm not a hero."

"You are, Harry. You can be both a hero and a submissive."

A submissive? Was that what he was?

"I can show you," Voldemort offered enticingly.

The hand around his cock tightened cruelly and Harry gasped, his legs twitching up to protect himself.

"To the masses," the Dark Lord said, his fist moving faster up and down, "you are the Chosen One and you must show them strength. They only respect strength, Harry."

Harry's mind was flailing. It felt so good, this touch, this mercy, and yet it was Lord Voldemort giving it to him. Surely he should be saying no— you can't say no, you're paralysed. He's in complete control of everything, your cock, your orgasm, your very life—

"But for me," Voldemort went on, as Harry fought against his desire, "you will kneel. In private, where your true nature emerges, the Chosen One will disappear."

He's going to kill me? That thought didn't even worry him. If that was what was required of him...

"Instead, you will simply be boy."

Harry's whole being shrivelled internally at that term, his muscle memory locking him in fear. Immediately, his cock began losing interest in the situation.

Boy, tidy up the damn kitchen, if you wanna eat— Stay in your cupboard, boy, we have guests coming— What did you say, boy? You want a beating?

"No," Harry rasped.

"Yes," Voldemort countered firmly, his words overlapping Harry's, his hand pumping Harry's cock vigorously, refusing to let his erection fade. "You will be boy, and I will take that name back from your repulsive relatives."

Harry was shaking his head, fighting the horrifying juxtaposition of arousal against memories of abuse at his uncle's hands.

"That is right, boy," Voldemort whispered in his ear, sucking Harry's earlobe into his mouth and scraping his teeth sharply against the skin. "Be good for me. Ignore your distress and give me what I want. That is your purpose. It is not for you to question my will or fight me."

The fingers stroking him were forcing his cock to remain interested, but his mind was being poisoned with lonely birthdays and starvation and ducking to avoid strikes to his face and—

"Submit," Voldemort hissed seductively into his ear, and Harry's mouth dropped open, his legs beginning to tremble.

Fuck, I'm so fucking close, oh gods, oh fuck— Voldemort is going to make me come! What the fuck?

"Look at you, writhing in your bathwater," Voldemort teased darkly.

Harry's face turned, burrowing into the Dark Lord's neck. He was hiding from the staggering guilt that came with this pleasure.

"You are still resisting," Voldemort observed, a hint of disappointment coming into his tone. "I will count to three, and if you do not manage to submit to me in that time, you will not come. I will leave you aching and desperate, boy, and I will enjoy watching you suffer."

Harry felt dry lips press against his forehead, over his scar, as the Dark Lord opened his mouth to speak.

"One."

But that was as far as he got.

Harry surrendered, giving everything up, and his body curled in relief, that merciless hand continuing to pump him as wave after wave of pleasure seized his body. He was locked into that helpless bliss, yet through it all, what really awed him was the feeling of being held.

Of being taken care of.

This was a new sensation for him. He hadn't done anything for the other man, hadn't earned his own release— and yet there it was, delivered by his enemy. Lord Voldemort could have lopped off his cock, or taken him to the edge and then taunted him, denying him his orgasm, but instead, he'd seen to Harry's needs.

Only Harry's needs.

When at last he'd caught his breath, he became aware that his hand was somehow wrapped loosely around the man's punishing wrist. The fact that he had been able to move it at all was astounding, but the shock was dulled by the surreality of Voldemort's nimble fingers gently stroking his now-sensitive cock. The touch was almost absentminded. Comforting, despite Harry's physical discomfort.

"You did so well, Harry."

The words confused him, but he was still too overwhelmed to fight them.

Lord Voldemort had made him come.

Without asking for a damn thing for himself.

And that unexpected fact continued to haunt him long after his bathwater had been drained.

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When he woke up the next morning, Voldemort was gone, doing whatever it was that Dark Lords did in their spare time. When they weren't nursing their enemies back to life.

Or giving them mind-fucking-obliterating orgasms.

Napping? Wanking?

Fuck. Does he wank?

Does he wank about me?

Harry groaned and rolled over very slowly. His mobility was coming back more and more each day. He could do basic movements now, but nothing as complicated as lifting a fork to his mouth or walking to the loo.

Hell, he couldn't even wank at all, unless the Dark Lord gave him a hand— ha!

Fuck. What a goddamn mess.

It was time to get back on track. He needed to recover so that he could talk to Ron and Hermione. He had to figure out a way to brainstorm with them about possible Horcrux items without giving the game away.

Hey guys— so, no big deal, but let's just randomly go over some important places and valuables of the absolutely dead Lord Voldemort who definitely did not create another Horcrux, or—

Fuck. Was there only one more? Maybe he'd made fifty extras, the paranoid git.

Bollocks.

"What need have you to look so tortured, Harry Potter?" Voldemort suddenly said, and Harry turned onto his back quickly to see the Dark Lord standing in the doorway.

Harry hastened to organise his composure.

"Oh, I don't know," he pretended to consider, heaping on the sarcasm. "Maybe because I'm being held captive by a madman?"

Voldemort's smile was vicious.

"It would seem that you and I are in similar situations, then."

Harry snorted.

"Bastard."

"Indeed," Voldemort replied, pushing off from the doorframe and walking into the room.

Harry tried to act unaffected, breathing evenly despite his quickening heartbeat.

"I would like to propose an experiment—"

"No," Harry cut him off firmly, as he was not an idiot.

Voldemort raised his hairless eyebrows.

"It is intriguing how thoroughly you have dropped your Gryffindor facade for me now."

Harry bristled.

"It's not that. It's just that I don't trust you."

The Dark Lord inclined his head and then sat himself on the edge of Harry's bed, near his hip.

"Let us work on that, then. What would help facilitate our mutual faith-building?"

It took immense effort to drag his arms up his body so that he could hug them against his chest.

What a fucking question. Nothing?

That worked.

"Nothing."

"Come now, Harry. Have we really made no progress?" He tilted his head, studying Harry. "Perhaps you still fear me," he mused.

No fucking kidding.

"Allow me to assuage your anxiety," the Dark Lord said, settling in more comfortably. "Ask me anything you would like to know. You have nothing to fear from me."

"Why?" Harry challenged, caught on that lie. "You want me dead. You... you've spent my entire life trying to kill me and those I care about. Why the fuck would I trust you now? How can you say that I have nothing to fear from you?"

Voldemort lowered his eyelids, minutely shaking his head.

"And we return to this."

The Dark Lord reached out and laid his cool hand on the blanket over Harry's stomach. The intimacy of his touch was always unnerving.

"I do not wish you dead, Harry Potter."

"Why not?" Harry said, refusing to back down. "Since when?"

Voldemort shrugged elegantly.

"I do not make a habit of killing those who are useful to me."

Harry outright laughed.

"Sure you don't. What about Snape?"

Voldemort's gaze darkened. His nails pressed against Harry as a warning.

"So what makes me different?" Harry pushed.

The other man opened his mouth to respond, but Harry interjected. A thought had just occurred to him and he wanted some damn answers.

"Lucius Malfoy said I was in danger from you."

Those red eyes flashed with fury and Harry was caught staring into them for long moments until the Dark Lord calmed. Trying to disperse some of his adrenaline, he looked down at where Voldemort's hand rested.

"He..." Harry continued carefully, "implied. That your plans for me were more complicated than just to kill me."

Obsessed. He'd said you were obsessed.

"What were your plans for me?"

Voldemort's face became inscrutable, closed.

"It was complicated," he said, giving nothing away.

"Yeah, I'm gonna need more than that if you want me to trust you. Why was it complicated?"

Voldemort shifted to stand, but Harry's hand shot out and grabbed the man's thin wrist. They both froze, looking down at the point of contact.

"Just tell me," Harry whispered. "Please."

Voldemort's eyes scoured his face and Harry tried not to flinch. He hoped his sincerity came through.

After many long moments, Voldemort sighed and lowered himself back onto the bed. He shifted their grip so that instead, Voldemort was holding onto Harry's fingers, studying each one.

"I suppose, ever since I heard that prophecy..." Voldemort began, his gaze still on their hands.

He stopped, clearly struggling to articulate his thoughts. Harry watched him, eager for whatever he was going to hear.

"It was delivered to me at a...susceptible time in my life," Voldemort said, a slight frown marring his brow. "I was at my zenith. I was the most powerful force on the planet, had an obedient following of influential figures, the Ministry was crumbling as they scrambled to defend against me... And then I heard that prophecy."

Voldemort's thin lips slowly pinched into a wry smirk.

"I am not normally so prepared to entertain fortune-telling. Though I admit, I had found the fact that a prophecy had been made about me a clear indication that I was destined for greatness."

Harry imagined it: Voldemort, flushed from his victories during the first war, arrogant and egotistical, suddenly receiving more evidence that he was important.

"Yeah," Harry said, not quite understanding, "but the prophecy said that you were going to be defeated."

The Dark Lord's smile grew patronising.

"It said you would have the power to defeat me," Voldemort quoted. "That is not defeat. Being able to is not success, as we are currently witnessing."

Harry snorted, taking that as a good point.

"So then, you believed the prophecy?"

Voldemort's expression became contemplative.

"In this instance, and under these specific conditions, yes, I listened. And what I heard intrigued me."

The Dark Lord's fingers tightened on Harry's.

"It said that I would mark you as my equal."

The man looked up, his expression opening in confused wonder.

"My equal," the Dark Lord emphasised, and that blatant arrogance almost made Harry laugh. "That was something I had thought impossible. An equal to me? To Lord Voldemort? Absurd."

Harry wanted to be offended by the man's incredulity, but if he was being honest, it had been impossible that anyone could be Voldemort's equal, never mind himself— an orphan schoolboy at the time, who regularly got beaten up by his Muggle relatives.

"And then I tried to eliminate you..."

He trailed off and Harry watched his eyes shift as his mind obviously replayed the events.

"I had not taken the prophecy seriously enough. You revealed yourself to be my equal, even as a baby."

Voldemort fixed him with a stern stare.

"Twice now, you have sent me into the agony of wraithhood."

Harry looked away, feeling mildly guilty.

"To be fair," he muttered, "both times it was your own spell that got you."

Voldemort was silent and it was disconcerting. Harry glanced back up and saw the shadow of a smile on those thin lips.

"Even as a child," Voldemort continued, his eyes faraway, "you were impressive. You... concerned me. I can admit to that. At eleven, you proved yourself unafraid of death. Which to me, is incomprehensible."

Voldemort looked away, his gaze drawing to the window.

"A child," he mused quietly. "Not even of age. Not formidable in school. Not worldly or trained in combat, or as hungry for glory as I was."

The man's face turned back to Harry and his blazing red eyes were disconcerting in their intensity.

"My equal."

Harry was trapped for long moments, caught in that stare and what it promised. It drew him in, and suddenly Harry wanted to be the man's equal. He wanted to prove himself worthy of that astonishing title.

"I found myself considering," Voldemort breathed, and Harry marvelled at how handsome the man actually was, if you just focused on his expressive eyes, "for the first time, the possibility that I could have a peer."

A peer. I could be that.

"You intrigued me," Voldemort said, a single finger coming up to trace the side of Harry's face. "You still do."

Harry was leaning forward, somehow almost propped up onto his elbows to get closer to the other man. He wanted... he wanted—

No.

This was the Dark Lord. Not a fucking romantic prospect.

Lay the fuck down, before you snog him and then have to kill yourself.

"So," Harry said, forcing himself to push aside his horrifying feelings, "your plan was to... recruit me?"

Voldemort's lips curled dryly.

"I did ask, you will remember. On our first proper meeting. That would certainly have eliminated the danger you posed."

Harry remembered.

Don't be a fool, that creepy, parasitic face had snarled. Better save your own life and join me.

How fucked up would that have been if he had answered, yes?

When he glanced over at Voldemort, the man was shaking his head.

"But, no. I knew what I had to do. You were a danger to my life— as preposterous as that seemed, and thus, you had to be eliminated."

That's so cold.

"But you didn't want to," Harry ventured.

Voldemort's expression was clinical.

"It was unfortunate, but necessary. My curiosity did not outweigh my ambition."

Harry scoffed. Course not. People are disposable to you.

"So then, what was your plan for me?"

The Dark Lord gave him a considering look.

"I suppose... I did not have one," he replied. "I wanted the threat you posed eliminated, and yet a part of me always resisted it." A smirk pulled at the man's lips. "This used to irritate Lucius and Rodolphus, though they tried to conceal it from me. They both implored me to kill you themselves, but I knew it had to be me. You would die by no hand but mine."

How romantic.

Harry shook himself. No. It wasn't supposed to be romantic anyways.

He glanced up to see amusement dancing in those creepy eyes.

"Does this ameliorate your distrust?" he asked, with what had to be sarcasm. "May I proceed with my proposition for an experiment?"

Harry studied the man.

So you want to kill me, but you don't. Sure, that clears it right up.

"I don't trust you for shit," he replied, refusing to return the man's widening grin. "Though I guess it can't hurt to hear you out."

Voldemort nodded, his face sobering.

"I believe that I can shock you out of your current predicament."

Shock? That didn't sound good.

"Let me guess, with a Crucio?" Harry asked, and then remembered. "Or, no, I suppose not. More like a thorough beating. Maybe strangulation? Yeah," Harry laughed. "No thanks."

Voldemort did not look amused.

"As enjoyable as I would find that, no. That was not my suggestion. You have made surprising progress weakening the curse upon you and I suspect that with enough motivation, if your body avidly wants to become animate, then you can shatter the curse."

Harry thought about that. He really did not want to find out what kind of motivation Voldemort would give him that was so horrible that he shattered a deadly curse.

"Okay," he said slowly. "So, I let you do unspeakable things to me and then I'll get back my full mobility?"

"Something like that, yes."

Harry blew out a breath.

"This shock. That's pretty vague. What will you do?"

Voldemort grinned ferally.

"Divulging that would counteract the shock."

"So I'm just supposed to trust you," Harry deadpanned.

"Hence our delightful conversation."

Harry wanted to strike the man for being so infuriating.

"I still don't know why it has to be you that heals me," Harry argued. "If you'd have let me go to St Mungo's, I could be better already."

Voldemort's expression darkened.

"I told you. I will take care of you."

"But it's been ages! People are bound to be suspicious of my absence and—"

"So then allow me to go forward with my experiment."

Harry growled, frustrated and angry. But really, what the fuck did it matter? What more could be done to him at this point?

"Fine," Harry spat, glaring at the Dark Lord. "Do your fucking experiment if you think it will help. Just... if you're going to kill me, don't mangle my body too much for my friends to find."

Harry closed his eyes and surrendered himself to his enemy's ominous ministrations.

Chapter Notes:

Yes, I know in canon, Voldemort never hears the last part of the prophecy, about Harry being his equal and able to defeat him. I took creative liberties here, I hope you can forgive me. I was interested in how Voldemort would feel if he had heard it all. How would he feel about an equal. So yes. Creative liberties have been viciously taken. My apologies.