CHAPTER 11
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Lord Voldemort looked down at Harry Potter, reposed and waiting upon the bed beside him.
The boy's face was flushed in delicious displeasure, his brows lowered, his whole being suffused with his unconquerable spirit.
It was an image he found he quite enjoyed. He intended to savour what was about to occur.
Over the last few days, he had contemplated this endeavour. It was true that he could give the boy the correct combination of potions and Potter would be rehabilitated immediately.
But the boy had robbed him of his magic. Had restored him to his body without the vital essence that made him rise above all others. Potter had cursed him to exist aching. Deprived. Hungry.
Lord Voldemort had no intention of granting his tormentor mercy when he had been shown none. The boy had stated that he had wanted him to suffer. And although Voldemort needed his assistance to return to his former glory, he meant to make the boy pay for his audacity.
Reaching out, he gently placed his hand down on Potter's chest, earning him a vigorous flinch.
Perfect.
"Good boy," Voldemort said lowly, enjoying the way Potter's skin trembled at that word. "Now, this experiment has two facets."
He reached into his robes and pulled out a knife and a length of white material. The boy's eyes grew wide. Smiling, he set the blade down by his thigh and reached around to tie the material around Potter's head.
Taking his sight.
"Hey— wait," the boy said, sounding worried.
"Knowing you as I do," Voldemort interrupted, "I am aware that simple threats of violence or death will not suffice. But pain is a potent motivator, and therefore it will be a component in this."
"You said you wanted me to trust you," Potter objected, his shoulders minutely struggling, but not enough to break the curse.
"And I do," Voldemort replied. "You agreed to this, remember? I will not harm you permanently."
Voldemort lifted the knife and brought it to rest flat against the exposed clavicle. The boy froze.
"Focus on breaking free. If I hurt you, you are letting me."
Voldemort shifted the knife to press the point against his skin, right in the centre of his trapezius.
"Wait—" Potter breathed.
"Deep breath, now."
Voldemort sunk the blade into the tender muscle and the boy screamed.
That sound.
It thrilled him. Hearing Potter howl in pain ignited his attention. He pulled out the knife and marvelled at the blood that poured forth.
"What the fuck!?" Potter shouted, startling him, the boy's muscles trembling in their desperation to flee. "You stabbed me! What—"
Voldemort slid the blade firmly down the boy's sternum, parting both the material and Potter's skin at the same time.
The boy shrieked, his hands coming up to lightly wrap around Voldemort's wrist where he held the weapon.
"That is not enough, Potter," Voldemort chastised, pushing the weak hold off of him. "Do better. Stop me."
"I'm trying," the boy cried, "I told you, I can't break free! Your experiment didn't work!"
"It is working. Step two is coming. Stop me before I have to move onto it."
"I can't!"
Voldemort stabbed the short blade through the boy's limp palm. Potter screamed, his other hand reaching up to punch Voldemort effectively in the arm. He let go of the blade and watched as Potter yanked it out, dropping it onto the covers.
"Fuck!" Potter bellowed in fury, dragging out the word until he had no breath, his voice cracking pathetically at the end.
Voldemort stared, absorbing everything. The boy was beautiful in his suffering.
"That was impressive," Voldemort admitted, after a time. "But it is not enough on its own."
"Ouch! Fucking fuck, my sodding hand! What the fuck, Voldemort?"
Ah...
Voldemort took a deep breath.
His true name.
It would seem that pain removed the boy's insolence.
Yet it would not break him from the curse and he was out of time in keeping the Chosen One to himself. Any day now, Potter's door would burst open, spilling friends and coworkers into their space, and Voldemort's machinations would come to an abrupt end.
He must take what he was able, while he was able.
Pulling off the boy's blindfold, he marvelled at the tears that wet the thick eyelashes. Those huge, black pupils dilating fast as light was delivered to his eyes once again.
Potter looked delectable with his face swollen and flushed from involuntary tears.
Voldemort was caught.
"Is your plan to let me bleed to death?" Potter asked snidely, jolting him from his contemplation.
"Your magic will not allow these minor wounds to kill you."
The discrepancy between them with that was galling.
Potter scoffed.
"What's next, then?"
Voldemort cocked his head in amazed disbelief. Did the boy fear nothing?
"The next step," Voldemort began, "relies on how much your friends value you."
Potter sucked in a breath.
"What do you mean— what about my friends?"
"I left them a note before I came up to visit you. Passed it under the door. This is the time they usually come to attack your home demanding entrance."
"A note? Why would you—"
"I told them you were in danger and required help."
Potter's mouth opened in understanding. In terror.
Yes.
"You... Merlin, you want me to break free to protect them from you?"
Voldemort shook his head.
"Not at all. I would prefer to kill them. But this leaves me in the happy position to triumph either way. If you break free, you can get your mobility back and I will no longer have to wait on you. Conversely, if you fail this experiment, I have an opportunity to eliminate two interfering annoyances."
"No," Potter denied, and this time, his voice was neither pleading nor weak.
It was commanding.
Exciting.
"Then stop me," Voldemort challenged, watching those small fists clench.
"I'll get my mobility back eventually," Potter threatened, "and I'll kill you a hundred different ways if you even look at them."
Something dark and satisfied curled in his stomach. The danger the boy presented delighted him. It was a novelty to be affected by someone.
"Yet that will not bring them back," Voldemort dismissed, shrugging. "I will kill them right in front of you unless you prove to me that you are worthy of my time."
Voldemort rose from the bed, turning his back on Potter.
"If you want to save them," he said lightly, "stand up and stop me."
"I swear to god—"
"That is hardly compelling. I expect better." He paused at the doorframe and turned back to smirk. "I must go and greet your friends now."
With that, he left the room and began to walk down the stairs.
There was a kind of keening sound, a bitter growl, and then heavy feet made contact with the floor.
Voldemort turned, anticipation racing up his spine.
Come and get me, Harry Potter.
When he saw the figure emerge at the top of the stairs, the boy's rage palpable, his magic crackling, Voldemort felt the strangest sensation of pride.
If they were equals, then the victory was shared.
"Are they actually coming?" Potter inquired quietly, his tone both a promise and a warning.
"Yes," he lied, wanting to feel the man's anger on his skin.
Wanting to taste it.
"I'll let them take you, then," Potter said, but Voldemort smiled.
"Lies."
The boy took a step down towards him.
"You doubt me, after what you've just done to me?" Potter asked, sounding insultingly incredulous. "After you stabbed me repeatedly while I couldn't move?"
Voldemort's gaze dropped to the boy's chest and was dismayed to see that he had already healed his wounds.
"If they show," Potter reiterated, "I'll give you to them and then never see you again."
His stomach clenched at that.
"If they don't show, and this was a ruse, I just may regret what I'm about to do to you."
Voldemort took a step up the stairs.
"And what will you do to me, Harry Potter?"
The boy's face finally broke into a grin.
"I'm going to make you scream."
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Harry's newly obedient muscles tingled with the need to put hands on the Dark Lord.
He moved swiftly down to where the man stood waiting and then shoved him hard in the chest. He watched as Voldemort flew backwards and then landed with a crash on the bottom steps, making a soft gasping sound.
Harry followed, coming to stand above the crumpled Lord Voldemort as he struggled to sit up.
"Are they coming?" Harry whispered.
Voldemort shifted until he was sitting normally, though he did so with care.
"Yes," the bastard replied, his expression creepily eager.
"I'll let them take you," he threatened, and he meant it.
If the fucker wanted to invite a Ministry worker over, then he'd have to accept the consequences. Harry wasn't going to interfere to fix the man's cock-up. Harry'd have to figure out how to explain to Hermione why Voldemort was here when he told her he couldn't find the man, but he'd wing it. Say something about needing vengeance, or trying to get the Horcrux location out of him.
Which was true. It just wasn't the whole truth.
A small part of him was disappointed that his time with the Dark Lord was about to end. He wasn't done. Not by a long shot. But it was out of his hands.
And if they took the man away and tortured him for real, that was on no one but Voldemort. He'd set this up. It wasn't Harry's fault.
"They'll expect you to look tortured if you've been in my house," Harry mused, and he watched the Dark Lord smile.
"Certainly."
Harry paused, disconcerted.
"Why aren't you fighting me?"
Voldemort leaned back on his palms, seeming to make himself more comfortable on the floor.
"I find myself fascinated by your reactions."
"Why?"
"You are my equal, Harry Potter. What will you do with that?"
Those words sent a wash of shame over Harry. If he was Lord Voldemort's equal, did that make them alike? Did it make Harry as Dark as the monster who was smirking up at him, goading him on?
"I don't want to impress you," Harry said scathingly. "You revolt me."
If anything, Voldemort's grin grew wider.
"Lies," he hissed quietly. "I am your purpose."
Harry almost choked.
"What?"
"You need Lord Voldemort alive because without him, you will be lost. We are the same, Harry Potter. We are destined for war and greatness. We were never meant to have a normal life."
"You're wrong. I want a normal life. You're what's holding me back from moving on!"
"Is that so?" Voldemort challenged in a doubtful tone. "Were you happy and fulfilled before you found me? Hmm? Did you have a pretty wife, two grubby children, and a garden to tend to?"
Harry looked away. I could have.
Movement caught his attention and he turned to see Lord Voldemort rising from the floor.
"Or were you unsatisfied?" the Dark Lord asked, standing over him, his gaze penetrating. "Empty, without me. Lost."
I'm just broken. It's nothing to do with you. I'm just an oversight.
"You cannot lie to Lord Voldemort."
Harry felt the fog lift from his brain as rage took over.
"I'm not," Harry spat, glaring up at the man. "I'm lying to Tom Riddle. A Squib. A lowly human."
Voldemort took a step forward, closing the distance between them.
"Even still, you fear my name, boy."
Harry flinched and then almost growled in fury. Fuck off, Vernon.
"You call me by that Muggle name," Voldemort went on, and those cold fingers made contact with Harry's cheek, softly touching his skin, "to avoid the terror my true name evokes."
Harry pushed the man's hand away so he could concentrate.
"Terror?" he scoffed. "You're a joke. A nobody. I'm the only one that remembers you. Your little Death Eaters are dead."
"And yet, you cannot let me go."
Harry bared his teeth.
"You need to be punished."
Voldemort shrugged elegantly.
"So why not drop me off at the Ministry? You cannot kill me, but surely you can let me be someone else's problem."
"You're mine, Voldemort," Harry snarled.
The Dark Lord closed his eyes and hummed in deep satisfaction.
"I see that you do remember my name."
Fuming, Harry nonverbally Summoned his wand from his bedroom and they both watched it arrive. Harry pointed it right at the bastard's chest.
He was hoping to see fear light in those creepy eyes, but instead there was an almost pitying amusement.
"Striking me down will not resolve your attraction to me."
Surprise tightened Harry's fingers on his wand.
The fuck it won't.
"Yield to it, Harry Potter. Yield to me."
Never.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hit the man with a Petrificus before the bastard could say anymore.
Once that intimidating body hit the ground, Harry stood over him, his wand still aimed directly at his heart.
"I hate you," Harry growled, leaning down to get into the man's face. "But I'm too fucking exhausted to deal with you right now."
He pulled back, pocketing his wand.
"If Ron and Hermione show up, they can have you. If not—"
He walked away, silently casting Nox.
"I'll see you in the morning."
And he climbed up the stairs, intending to fall right back into bed and sleep until his head cleared.
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He was having trouble concentrating at work the next day. Everyone was so very understanding of his absence, asking him how he was and chiding him for being back so soon.
But he was still fuming.
The fucker had lied.
Harry had firecalled Hermione before falling asleep last night and she hadn't had any idea why he was asking about notes.
It had been a ruse.
And it had worked.
But that wasn't the point. Voldemort had stabbed him. Lied to him.
And I am not fucking attracted to the madman.
He couldn't help how his body responded. It wasn't desire, but merely proximity to a person he couldn't have. A person who was compelling, and energising, and okay, fine, a person who scared him a little.
A person who sees me.
That I'm broken. And weak.
And yet Voldemort didn't care. He could be a mess and there was no judgement. No expectations.
I am your purpose.
But it wasn't true. His purpose? That was ludicrous.
We are the same.
He scoffed. Not fucking likely.
"Hey Harry."
He spun, the parchment he'd been holding falling back onto his desk.
"Hi Selena," Harry replied, willing away his fucking constant erection.
She came into his office and shut the door behind her. Claustrophobia began to compress his ribs.
He pushed it aside and stood.
"Everything okay?" he asked.
She nodded, and then came forward, sitting on the edge of his desk. Too close to him.
"I'm glad you're feeling better," she said, reaching out and stroking his crossed arms.
"Yeah, I'm doing grand, thanks."
Merlin, he hated this. The touching. He didn't want to offend her so he obviously wasn't going to call her out, but he'd love to know what it was about him that made everyone so keen to put hands on him.
Tell her you've got a meeting.
"Look, I'm sorry, but I've—"
Selena swung her legs around to straddle his hips.
"I've missed you," she whispered, leaning back comfortably.
Harry's gaze helplessly took the bait and he gave her a once-over. She really was hot. And he knew her arse was even better.
"Are you busy tonight?" she asked, wrapping her ankles around his knees and pulling him closer.
He went with it, not knowing what else to do.
"I can come over. Make you feel better."
Harry looked down, taking in her spread legs and enticing smile. It would be good, sure. But it wasn't what he wanted.
Not anymore.
"I'm your boss now, Selena," he replied gently. "We really shouldn't do this anymore."
She frowned.
"What about Winston? He said that you two were still meeting up."
Harry cocked his head in confusion, but thought about it.
"No, we're not. I haven't—"
—Had sex for ages? Classy. Also, a lie. Are you forgetting about those long fingers making you come in your bathwater?
"You can just say you don't want to, Harry," Selena complained, as if that were actually true, as if anyone ever listened when he said no.
She pushed his chest and he stumbled back a few paces. Standing, she made her way towards the door.
"Wait," he said, needing to fix this.
He thought about who their audience at Grimmauld would be and what a terrible idea this was. But she deserved better than this treatment from him.
And he'd be damned if he let Voldemort believe that he wanted him.
You think I fancy you, you bastard? Let me show you how very wrong you are.
"I'd love it if you came over," Harry told her, already getting excited thinking about Voldemort watching. "If you'll still have me?"
She smiled and nodded, and Harry stared at her arse the whole time that she walked away.
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The sound of the front door crashing open startled him out of his brooding. He was furious with the boy. To have left him thus for so long and with no consideration for his bodily needs.
He would take his displeasure out on the boy's flesh.
When the footsteps reached him, he glanced up to see that the brat looked pleased with himself.
"I have a guest coming over soon, Tom," he said, and Voldemort considered that.
A guest?
Let it be the boy's minions.
Lord Voldemort would punish Potter by taking them apart.
"I can't wait for you to watch this," the boy enthused nonsensically, almost leering at him.
Clearly, he thought that whatever was to follow would be torture. Voldemort wanted to scoff. As if anything the boy could dream up would trouble him.
"Oh, wait," Potter said, "I should make you more comfortable first."
And without any other warning, his bladder and bowels were emptied. Voldemort seethed. He despised that spell. The boy could easily have waited while Voldemort used the facilities.
"Right, now let's set you up so you have a good vantage point for later."
The boy's wand was pointed at him and then the child dared to cast a spell that floated him up the stairs.
He was released into an armchair by the fireplace in the boy's room. The chair was lifted with magic and dropped to be facing the empty bed.
A twist of unease clenched his abdomen.
Ah.
Potter's face suddenly swooped into his peripheral. He was grinning.
"Enjoy the show."
Potter disappeared from his view, presumably exiting out the door.
The following hour passed slowly.
He spent the time devising methods to make the boy suffer. It kept his mind from predicting what Potter had planned.
When the boy stumbled into view, his half-naked body was wrapped around a woman's. They were kissing and Potter's lips were turned up in apparent glee despite his preoccupation.
That grin is for me. He knows Lord Voldemort is watching.
Potter laid the harlot onto his mattress and knelt between her legs. A sharp jolt of possessiveness seized him. The fiend grabbed the boy by the hair at his nape and pulled him down into another passionate kiss.
Voldemort looked away, knowing that this was intended to infuriate him and he refused to be manipulated.
The boy was his. They both knew it. All that remained was to affirm his claim, and he would see to that as soon as this desperate performance was over. It was juvenile—
Potter moaned and Voldemort's thoughts abruptly ceased.
His gaze flashed to the bed and he saw the tramp with her filthy mouth around Potter's cock. He watched the disgusting woman slurping around her prize and Voldemort's eyes slid up the boy's body to find that green stare riveted to right where Voldemort was Disillusioned.
And the boy was smirking.
Rage exploded inside of him. He imagined Potter screaming in pain, begging for mercy, while Voldemort ignored it all as he took his vengeance upon the child for daring to taunt him thus.
Gazes still locked, Potter spoke.
"I can't wait to fuck you."
Voldemort viciously strangled the spark of lust at that pronouncement. He yearned to be able to move so that he could slaughter the trespassing woman and rip Potter apart.
"I'm going to strip you bare," Potter said lowly, seductively, and Voldemort met his eyes, daring him to keep going. "Gonna lick a trail down your neck," the boy's finger touched the woman's skin, demonstrating, "... down your sexy back," that digit continued to draw down the naked spine, "...and then..."
Voldemort watched Potter grasp a handful of the slut's adipose arse and then swirl a finger around the puckered edge of her entrance enticingly.
Murder surged up in him. He wanted to snap that appendage, grab hold of either side of of the woman's buttocks and tear them down the centre, making her—
"Steady on, babe," the harlot said, laughing, and swatted Potter's hand away. "That's not on the menu tonight, sorry."
The endearment rankled. Potter rolled them over, breaking eye contact, and settled between her thighs. At this angle, Voldemort couldn't see their faces, just their bodies from near their feet.
"What is on the menu, then?" the boy asked, his head dipping down and, judging by her shriek, he had bitten her.
"What's gotten into you?" she giggled, planting her impudent hand on Potter's arse cheek with a firm smack.
Potter froze, his head actually turning to stare at Voldemort.
Tell her to leave. You belong to me.
Instead, the boy reached underneath her shoulders and half dragged her to the bottom of the bed, giving Voldemort a clearer view.
"I want to fuck you now," Potter rasped, but his eyes spoke to Voldemort instead of his trollop, his expression wild and churning with chaos.
"Yes," she answered, when it should have been Voldemort saying No, take your place, spread your legs—
Potter lined up his cock and then thrust inside.
Voldemort looked away.
If it hurt, it was because she was taking what was his. It tasted of betrayal and this game was not at all enjoyable for him. His fury was muted now, and there was an uncomfortable ache that constricted his breathing.
He did not like this.
The sounds, the scents of their coupling. He did not know if Potter was staring at where he was immobilised, taunting him, tempting him, but it did not matter. Even though this show had been for him, he would watch it no longer.
When the woman moaned her pleasure, the sickening sounds of copulation ceased. He looked up to see Potter pulling his fingers away from her genitals, and he was surprised to see that the boy was still hard.
The woman was not pleased at that.
"You didn't come?" she asked, reaching out and grabbing his erection indelicately.
Potter gently pulled her hand away and laced their fingers. He kissed her knuckles.
"I'm too tired," he said, rubbing his eyes theatrically. "You were amazing, though. Thanks for that."
Voldemort could not see her reaction because her back was to him. Potter stood and began dressing.
"So that's it?" she asked, sounding irritated.
He made you come, whore. Get out of the bed.
"I'm still not fully recovered from the dragon pox," Potter argued, a small, apologetic smile lighting his face.
The woman made a derisive sound and then stood quickly, backing the half-dressed Potter up against the wall.
Voldemort's wrath hit a pinnacle.
This was too much. Was he about to be forced to witness the boy's reputation for being bled dry?
"Let me help you," the fiend whispered, pushing herself indecently against him.
Potter's hands were plastered uselessly, palm down on the wall behind him.
"I'm tired," he muttered, but the cretin thrust her tongue into his mouth, reaching down to assault the boy through his trousers.
I will butcher you.
Potter turned his face to the side, breaking the kiss.
"No, Selena, I just want to go to bed."
The cunt ignored him and continued her molestation.
Being cursed motionless was agonising. It would be so simple to massacre the beast, and yet he could do nothing but watch.
"Shh," she said, her claws inside of his pants, violating the boy before Voldemort's eyes.
Potter looked harried. His face was suffused with a kind of panicked grief that seared Voldemort's arteries. The need for carnage pounded through his veins and he reached out furiously to seize his magic, but to no avail.
Potter was being sexually assaulted before his eyes, and he could do nothing.
It infuriated him to see that the boy's hands were not even being restrained. Yes, he was pinned to the wall, but he was not fighting her. Potter could have broken free, yet instead he was allowing this rat to violate him.
Could it be that this performance was for Voldemort's benefit? Had they planned it out in advance? Perhaps to attempt to manipulate him?
Voldemort studied the boy's face again. His eyes were closed, squeezed shut, and his lips were drawn into his mouth and clamped between his teeth. The woman was mouthing his neck and murmuring encouragements to him, but every word seemed to make the boy shrink further.
This was not an act.
It was abuse, and Potter was letting it happen.
After many long, repugnant minutes, the boy succumbed to his body's reflexes and shuddered in orgasm. The woman stepped back and Potter slid down the wall to the floor.
The bitch chuckled.
"Weak legs after you come, eh?"
Piercing, screaming rage almost took his vision.
I will weaken your legs, cunt, so that you never walk again. Glance over. Notice me.
Potter made a sound of agreement and then took a deep breath. He stood.
"I should probably see you out," he said, righting his clothing.
The boy was not making eye contact with either of them.
"Okay," the cockroach replied happily, and then they departed together down the stairs.
Voldemort waited impatiently for the boy to return.
This was unacceptable.
Harry was the wizarding world's saviour and yet they treated him abhorrently, like a trained dog that should be grateful for scraps of food. They granted him power, knowing that the boy would not utilise it, but then cited that power to justify his exploitation.
He would not sit idly by and witness this again. No one would touch the boy. If Potter refused to protect himself, then Lord Voldemort would have to do it for him.