CHAPTER 15

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Harry gnawed on his cuticle in his office, his mind elsewhere.

He had to deal with Voldemort.

He knew this. It was time to admit that he was rapidly losing control of the situation. He'd wanted to get his vengeance, to make Voldemort suffer, but he'd failed. Just like the man had said that he would.

Now, he needed to figure out his next steps.

Sighing, he picked up one of the many useless lists with rows and rows of possible locations for the man's Horcruxes from his desk. Under it, he frowned when he saw the name Persephone Talbot on a report. His stomach clenched. It was a witness testimony he'd needed to pass off two days ago. Talbot, an old Muggle-born witch, had claimed she'd been attacked because of her blood status. She'd been sent to St Mungo's. She had needed Harry to file these documents so she could get justice and Harry had failed her.

He stood abruptly, needing to act.

His state of distraction was unforgivable. He'd been given this promotion to help people, and yet lately he had spent the majority of his time at work trying to fix his new mistakes.

And yes, fine. Work had been pretty quiet since killing McNair. It was all small shit. Squabbles. Petty thefts. Pure-bloods bitching about their hard lives. It seemed like everyone was taking a break and enjoying this new peace after decades of Voldemort's devastating wars.

So Harry's job was pretty much just to maintain that peace.

But he didn't know what to do with it. Since he'd been eleven years old, he had been thrown into war. His brain was so hyper focused on reacting to danger that he didn't know how to rest. And then came the obvious fact that he didn't deserve to rest.

He had been the cause of all of their ruin and now—

Fuck.

Now he had just made everything infinitely worse.

It had become difficult to talk to his colleagues that he knew had been affected by the war. Before, he could sate some of his crushing guilt by telling himself that at least he was working to fix his past mistakes. But now, he was struggling with his new ones. And those that would occur in the future due to his cockups.

He was making things more dangerous, not less.

Harry dropped the quill he'd been holding and pulled his finger out of his mouth. The edges around the nail were bloody and ragged. He knew he could heal it and the sting would be gone, but he wouldn't.

He deserved the pain.

Why should he get to feel better when he hadn't even managed to save Cedric, who'd been killed because Harry had encouraged him to touch that Portkey?

He had actually been the cause of that boy's death. His arrogance. His shortsightedness.

Harry closed his eyes. Fuck. He could feel his body shaking and it wasn't just from not eating. He got like this when all of his failures began to pile up.

And then that high, cold voice cut through his anxiety.

I can take away your guilt, Potter.

Oh fuck, that's right.

He could.

That had felt so cathartic, laying all of his heavy remorse at the Dark Lord's feet and accepting his deserved punishment for it.

I need that. I fucking need that now.

Harry was walking to the door before he'd decided to.

What's the point of being the Head Auror if it didn't come with perks like early departure?

He'd just turned the handle, when his responsibilities caught up with him.

So, you're going to leave your job protecting people to go cry at the Dark Lord Voldemort's feet? Your need is more important than theirs?

Harry flinched. Let go of the knob.

He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes.

No. He needed to calm the fuck down. It wasn't like he could even go to Voldemort if he wanted to. The man was just another person trying to manipulate him.

He turned and walked back to his desk. Sat back down. He had to get this over with. Find that Horcrux and just end it.

The Dark Lord had said that Harry would never find it on his own, but he probably didn't realise how much Dumbledore had told him. Harry may even know more about Voldemort's family than the man himself did.

Would he care to know that his mother had been miserable? That she had been trapped with two men who made her do all the domestic duties and verbally— and likely physically— abused her?

Would he care?

Was a person as warped as Voldemort, a man so repulsed by his humanity that he'd split his soul to stop himself from doing the one thing all humans were destined to do— would that man have empathy for his own mother?

Was he capable of it?

And if so, who else would it extend to?

Voldemort seemed to have a strong reaction to sexual assault. Would he care that his own father had been raped? That his mother had been so desperate to get out of her dire circumstances that she'd kept Voldemort's father prisoner with potions?

Would he listen if Harry explained that it hadn't been right that Voldemort had been raised without love in an orphanage?

Harry thought about how disappointed Voldemort must have been when he'd finally tracked down his uncle and grandfather and seen their ruin. Had he been secretly hoping that they would be people he could look up to? Family, after such a long wait, that would teach him and take him away from the orphanage he still had to return to each summer?

And his own father. How had Voldemort felt meeting him? Had he spent his miserable childhood waiting for the man to come save him? There must have been countless Tom's coming into Wool's. Had Voldemort stood there, silently pleading for one of them to be his?

Was this the true reason why Dumbledore had said that Voldemort hated his name?

Because it reminded him that no one had come looking for him.

No one had saved him.

And then, when he'd entered his father's house, so many years later, had a part of him yearned for acceptance?

It must be so lonely to have absolutely no one.

And sure, Dumbledore had always insisted that Voldemort preferred it that way, but how could he know that? Had the two of them ever talked about it? And even if so, would Voldemort have just said that he didn't want friends or family to hide the truth that he simply didn't trust anyone enough to have hope? He must have learned to protect himself after so many disappointments.

Harry couldn't help but wonder what Voldemort might have become if things had been different.

But they weren't different.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had become Lord Voldemort, and now it was Harry's destiny to finally end the man's miserable existence.

Harry Potter: destroyer of all.

I really am more of an executioner than a saviour, but I guess that doesn't sound as good.

Harry leaned back in his chair and sighed.

He would be whatever they needed him to be, under any title. All he asked was that it would help him pay back his debt to the wizarding world before he was finally allowed to die.

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When Harry got home that evening, the delicious scent of tomato sauce with basil wafted up from the kitchen. Intrigued, Harry dropped his bag, shucked off his shoes, and headed down the stairs.

What greeted him halted him instantly.

Lord Voldemort was seated at the head of the table with two steaming plates of pasta set out. Harry's dish was on Voldemort's right.

"Surely dinner cannot be that surprising," that high voice drawled.

Harry coughed out a laugh.

"Made for me by Lord Voldemort?" Harry said in skeptical awe, still transfixed by the door.

Voldemort hummed, an expression of deep satisfaction on his flat face.

"It pleases me to hear you address me properly at last."

Ah, bollocks.

"You caught me off guard, that's all," Harry said, and then pointed at the unoccupied seat. "That for me?"

Voldemort gave him a weary stare.

"Yes, imbecile."

Harry smiled at the man's dry tone and walked eagerly to the table.

"I still can't believe you made me dinner." He looked up and shot the Dark Lord a suspicious glance. "You're not really someone else Polyjuiced, are you?"

He'd had more than enough of that lately.

The man's glare was a stern reprimand.

"Do not mention that potion to me, unless you wish to feel my wrath, Harry Potter."

Fuck, yes. Bring it on.

He pulled out the chair beside his nemesis and sat. The food looked delicious, but his stomach tightened painfully when he picked up his fork to taste it.

Bugger.

He hadn't eaten properly in weeks. His body was in no condition to handle such a rich meal.

"This looks great," he said, twirling the pasta on his cutlery, "but I've already had dinner, so I think I'll—"

"You will eat with me until I deem you finished, Harry," Voldemort informed him with indisputable authority.

Harry looked up at him, feeling trapped.

"I can't. Really."

"You will."

Harry shook his head.

"No. It'll make me sick."

"Starving yourself will make you sick."

Harry inhaled a sharp breath.

No one ever called him out like this. Hermione would gently encourage him to eat and Ron would make jokes, but mostly everyone just ignored it.

"You will eat this food, Harry. I will make you."

Fuck, how could this be heartwarming and arousing at the same time? What was wrong with him?

"If you refuse to see to your needs," Voldemort warned him, "then I shall."

This pronouncement settled something fundamental inside of him. There was a calming sense of powerlessness that he felt knowing that this was out of his hands.

Lord Voldemort was taking control.

He didn't want to eat, but it was profoundly fulfilling to capitulate for someone else. He couldn't trust himself to do what was best for him. Could he trust the Dark Lord to do that?

"Pick up your fork again, Harry."

Harry startled and automatically grabbed the utensil tightly in his fist. He looked up at Voldemort for help.

He really didn't want to. It felt good denying himself food. It made him feel liminal, existing half in the realm of the dead and half with the living.

"Do I need to feed you?"

Harry stared at him.

Yes.

I need you to make me.

But he couldn't say that. It was weak and pathetic and he had to be strong. He was Harry Potter and Harry Potter never required help. He gave it. He was—

"Come, Harry."

Harry didn't understand. Where? There wasn't another seat at the head of the table.

"Here," Voldemort said casually, gesturing at his lap, like telling Harry Potter to perch on his legs was a completely normal and reasonable request.

"That was not a suggestion."

Harry heard the danger in the man's dark tone. It scared him, but also strangely centred him.

Not a suggestion. A command.

Harry stood, wanting to remove the frown on the man's face and replace it with a pleased smile. Or, if not a smile exactly, at least have him look less pissed off. Voldemort shifted his chair back so that there was room between himself and the table. Cautiously, Harry walked over and then hovered awkwardly by the man's seated form.

"Sit."

Harry's legs bent and he fell onto the Dark Lord's thighs.

Oh gods.

He was sitting on the lap of the most powerful wizard alive. The man who had started two wars, killed hundreds of people. A man whose soul was in tatters, whose very name terrified every magical being in Britain.

"Good boy," the Dark Lord said, his hands coming around to pull Harry closer, so that his back was leaning against Voldemort's chest.

Merlin, how can he still be this scary as a Squib?

"Do not disappoint me."

A fork with a small amount of spaghetti wrapped around the prongs lifted towards his mouth. A horrible, corrosive sensation of nausea overwhelmed him. He turned his face to the side and that incoming threat paused.

"Open."

Harry shook his head in helpless refusal.

Voldemort dropped the fork and grabbed Harry by the shoulders, moving his body until Harry's back was pressed against the edge of the table. Before he could decipher the expression on the man's face, a sharp slap landed across his lips.

Harry flinched and closed his eyes.

Uncle Vernon was chasing him through the house. Harry raced to his cupboard and closed the door, desperate to hide. He hysterically contemplated willing the door to lock, like he'd been able to once before in a similar circumstance, but he knew Uncle Vernon would simply drag a chair and wait until Harry had to use the loo. Then his uncle would hit him until he pissed his pants.

Uncle Vernon yanked the door fully open and leaned in towards where Harry was cowering by his cot. Luckily, his uncle was too large to fit into the small space.

"You— stole from us, boy?" Uncle Vernon panted, pressing his massive hand against the wall above Harry, caging him in. "Dudley saw— you sodding. Eating a potato—"

"Come back to me, Harry," a voice said, but it was too dangerous.

When Uncle Vernon got like this, Harry had to get small, as small as he could. If he got small enough, didn't cry or beg, then Vernon never lasted long.

"I am not your uncle, Harry. You are safe."

Harry hugged his chest, curling his spine, getting even smaller. He shook his head.

Safe? He'd never been safe in his life.

Sometimes, if he—

His neck was suddenly seized, and he was pushed to the floor, his face against the tiles.

Yes, good, get smaller. I'm too hard to reach down here.

He kept his eyes closed and waited. Either his uncle would begin to kick him or he'd have grown tired and left Harry to cry.

The longer time dragged, the more he could be sure that his uncle had gone.

He felt his body begin to relax. It felt good here, on the ground. Where he belonged. No one usually hit him once he was laying flat, so it was okay.

He took a deep breath and thought of nothing.

After many long moments, he glanced up. Above him, he saw a man's trouser-clad legs and almost gasped— but they weren't elephantine like his uncle's would be. They were long and lean, planted firmly on the ground.

Peering up, he followed those legs to the knees and then past that to a pale, sinister face looming above him.

Lord Voldemort.

He brought his forehead back to the floor, waiting, poised for the fear to hit, but it never came. Here, at the Dark Lord's feet, he felt safe.

"Are you back with me, boy?"

That word almost shocked him right back to his uncle, but the voice wasn't brusque and guttural like he'd expected. It was calm. Slightly higher than normal and it settled him.

Harry nodded against the feet his head was resting on. This felt good. Almost like he could just disappear.

He closed his eyes and abruptly fell into peaceful oblivion.

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This was certainly not how he had envisioned his evening proceeding.

The boy was sleeping on his feet. After succumbing to a fit that had been triggered by Voldemort's strike to his face.

He knew that Potter had been gripped by a memory, and he assumed it had been related to the boy's detestable uncle. It infuriated him that the undeserving swine could affect Potter so thoroughly.

His suffering belonged to the Dark Lord. If the boy was traumatised, it should be from his interactions with him.

He must continue to work on the boy's triggers. He would usurp them all and condition Potter to associate each one with Voldemort instead; with his unparalleled hold.

Unclenching his hands, he dragged his gaze from the unconscious form and studied their ignored, cooling dinner. After all his effort, Potter had not even taken a bite.

And he needed it. The boy's face had grown gaunt in a short span of time. He could not recall when he had last seen Potter eat. Voldemort was accustomed to neglecting his own nutritional requirements, but his body did not demand sustenance as often as a mortal's would.

It irritated him to have to coddle the boy when he was still furious over the boy's betrayal.

Images of what Potter had engaged in with someone Polyjuiced to look like him chased Voldemort wherever he went. He saw the boy pretending that he was receiving Lord Voldemort's attentions, when in reality, he had stooped so low as to permit a rat to don a mask and touch him.

The depravity of his precious body being used by a worthless flesh sac was staggering. If he had retained access to his immense powers, he would never have had to bear such an indignity.

The boy was a liar. He obviously desired Voldemort, but was too cowardly to admit it to himself.

It was undeniable. Potter craved to be dominated by Lord Voldemort, therefore he would no longer tolerate the boy's obligatory resistance.

Commencing immediately.

He looked down. This somnolence was just another example of his obstinacy. His rebellion to gain Voldemort's attention, his correction.

Voldemort had taken the time to cook Potter a meal.

And he would eat it.

Kicking out his leg, he knocked the boy onto his side, shocking a gasp from those tempting lips. Potter looked up at him with guileless confusion, fear lighting his eyes enticingly.

"I did not give you permission to use my feet as a pillow, Potter," Voldemort intoned mercilessly, watching the boy draw back, pulling into himself.

He carefully twirled the fallen fork into the pasta and held it out.

"I said you will eat, and you shall."

Potter gaped at the food as if it were a weapon. His panic was tangible.

They stared at each other for long moments while Voldemort contemplated his options. As compelling as the sight was, he would get nowhere with Potter in this heightened state of distress.

He knew what the boy needed.

Voldemort sighed and dropped the utensil. It hit the plate with a resounding clink that made the boy flinch.

"You are too wound up," he observed, and pushed back his chair from the table. "Come. I will take your unease."

Potter hesitated only for a moment and then pulled himself shakily to his feet. But he did not move closer.

"Tomorrow," the boy pleaded, not making eye contact. "I'll—"

"Today." Voldemort pointed to the table top and Harry glanced up. "Now."

The boy closed his eyes.

"I want to trust you," he whispered. "Can I?"

His immediate response was a resounding no, but then he paused.

He truly did not wish the boy harm. Pain, yes. Punishment. But nothing lasting. Nothing irreversible.

"You already do," he replied. "Hands flat on the table. Bend for me."

When Harry turned around, exposing his back and submitting to his wishes, Voldemort felt some of his power return to him.

Not his magical prowess. That would come later. Instead, he remembered how much he had always enjoyed commanding others. Especially the pure-blood elite. Potter was not a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, yet his submission was far more gratifying.

Voldemort had always wanted it.

He had thought that the boy would require Dark curses or compulsion potions to achieve it, and yet here it was.

Harry Potter's submission.

It had been waiting for him to claim all along.

Avidly, he watched that smaller body tremble in anticipation. He had not decided what he wanted to do to the boy yet.

The choice was his.

"I want to see your skin," Voldemort determined, leaning back in his chair. "Remove your shirt."

Potter's hands clenched on the wood, but he did not move them.

"Please," the boy breathed. "You said— my hands. On the table."

Ah. He is after my complete control.

"Good boy," Voldemort praised, eager to oblige. "Hands up, then. Take off your shirt and lay it on your left side, on the table. Then return your hands to their position."

Harry complied at once and Voldemort was treated to a vision of the boy's diminished back. He took a moment to notice how slender and angular Potter's body had become. The martyring fool had stopped taking care of himself.

He needed someone else to do it.

Before the boy could bend over again, Voldemort had changed his mind.

"Hands behind your head. Do not drop this stance, Harry."

He let his voice darken dangerously. Standing, he caught the boy's flinch at his sudden proximity. He had obviously expected to be struck, but Voldemort simply walked to the kitchen counter. He found what he was after, having long ago memorised the chaos of this room.

When he reached Harry again, he placed his palm down gently on that tense back and felt it immediately jolt. The boy had been expecting pain.

Perfect.

"I am going to beat you with this, Harry."

He lightly slapped the rusted metal spatula onto Potter's skin, which earned him a small inhale of breath.

His stomach tightened in anticipation of the addictive sounds he would soon be pulling from the boy. The tears he would watch fall. The shameless begging.

"When I am done, you will be allowed to rest briefly and then you will eat. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded, maintaining his rigid stance.

"This will hurt, Harry," he warned him, not intending to hold back. The boy would pay for his indiscretions. "And then you will be wiped clean."

The boy's skin began to tremble.

"Do you agree?"

Harry nodded.

"I will need your words. Will you submit to this? To me?"

The boy took a shaky, deep breath and then blew it out slowly.

"Yes, Master."

Voldemort hummed.

"What a good boy you are."

The first strike was vicious, his arm so eager to see the boy's skin redden. Potter cried out, but it was stifled quickly.

Oh no, Harry Potter. There will be no hiding from Lord Voldemort.

He hit the boy again, enthralled by how he bowed forwards and then arched back, his muscles straining.

Voldemort paused, savouring the moment. Physically wielding the weapon that impacted his victims was a novelty. Magic could be impersonal.

But this.

This was visceral.

He was connected to Harry's pain. He could not maintain his own composure while moving with the force of the blows.

His arm flashed out eagerly and he struck the metal solidly against that smooth skin three times fast. Harry screamed, the sound reaching him deeply, affecting him.

When he pulled the tool back, there was a smattering of blood.

His heart rate instantly accelerated.

Beautiful.

Some were spurred on by soft sighs or trailing fingers. Voldemort's attention had always been captured by unrestrained agony.

There was no pretence to it. He was enthralled by how pain affected each person the same regardless of blood status, wealth, or any other arbitrary societal hierarchy.

Everyone screamed when they were being taken apart.

And Voldemort greedily consumed every sound.

Before he let the next strike slam down, he studied the boy's protruding ribs and narrow waist. It did not suit him.

"Have you been purposefully starving yourself, Harry?"

The boy's panting breaths halted for a moment.

Voldemort hit him as hard as he could without his magic, his arm coming down solidly, making a meaty thwack sound that ignited another piercing scream from his captive.

He waited to see if he would get a response. When none were forthcoming, he struck the boy two more times over his stuttering ribs.

"Owowow jesus— fuck!" the boy shrieked, dancing away slightly, but then coming right back. "I'm sorry, Master. Please— ouch— fuck!"

Voldemort smiled at how easily that word came out now. It was natural.

Factual.

"Are you starving yourself on purpose?"

Harry's fists clenched and unclenched spasmodically. He was silent for too long.

Voldemort struck him brutally across the shoulder and back five times without reprieve.

Harry yelled, his begging coming out in heaving sobs.

"Answer me."

"Yes!" the boy shouted, his head bowing forward— but his hands remained unerringly behind his head, even though this position exposed him critically.

Yet it was not enough.

"Remove your trousers."

Harry released a sob, his arms shaking uselessly as they came down. It was clear after a few minutes that those adrenaline-infused muscles were not going to cooperate.

"Do you require assistance?"

Harry shook his head and continued to struggle with the same button.

The boy was impossible.

"It is not a failure to accept help from your Master, boy," Voldemort calmly advised him. "It is my pleasure to provide you with it."

Harry's hands stilled on his trousers, but he did not relent.

"Ask me to help you, Harry Potter."

The boy redoubled his efforts. It would not do.

He stepped forward and placed his hands atop the boy's smaller, trembling ones.

"Ask me."

Harry still did not turn to face him.

"Please," Harry whispered, and that word was a victory, would always be when uttered from the lips of such a proud, obstinate boy.

"Back in position," he said with a small smile that Harry could not see.

Those arms gingerly lifted and Harry linked his fingers behind his head.

Voldemort undid the stubborn button and helped the boy out of his trousers. Harry stood there obediently, his back bloody and purple in many places and Voldemort knew that this would not sate him.

Voldemort needed more. He needed everything.

"I want you naked," he whispered into the boy's ear, his hand coming around to grip the boy's straining erection though his damp pants. "Remove these for me."

Harry hesitated for the barest of moments and then bent to take off his last remaining shield.