CHAPTER 18

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Voldemort turned to see his liberation standing framed in the doorway.

Perfect.

This was exactly what he needed.

"Draco!" Lucius rasped and he went to the boy, grabbing him by his robes and dragging him away.

Voldemort knew he must act.

"Why not allow the boy to stay, Lucius? Does he not have the right to know how you have endangered his son?"

There was silence. Then the sounds of a brief scuffle. He could hear furious whispers, but none of the words were distinguishable.

Come back. Face me.

Perhaps a little bit more.

"There are rituals that I am fond of which require an infant. Scorpius will serve me well."

"No!" the boy shouted, and then more struggling until a spell was cast.

"Draco!" Lucius cried, sounding scandalised.

Quick footsteps thundered closer before Draco Malfoy came into the room, his wand pointed steadily. Voldemort greedily absorbed his anger, enjoying being able to affect the young man so thoroughly. There would be plenty to play with here.

"I'll kill you," Draco fumed, his voice wavering with some emotion. "I'll—"

"Get out of here, Draco," Lucius growled, stepping forward as well and knocking Draco's wand away.

The boy shoved his father and then aimed his wand directly at Voldemort's chest. Before he could move, the crimson of the Cruciatus burst free and hit him solidly. He fell, his blood aflame, his eyes pounding with agony as he—

It released him abruptly and he looked up to see Lucius grabbing his son by either side of his face.

"Listen to me—"

"What is he—"

"Draco!" Lucius shook the boy. "Listen. I've got it under control."

"He said he'd kill my son!"

"He's just talking—"

"What the fuck have you done, Father?"

Draco shoved Lucius's hands off of him and moved away again. His gaze darted out to keep Voldemort's position noted, but then he turned back to his father.

"Is that the Dark Lord?"

Lucius was silent a moment.

"I was forced to sign a binding magical contract that forbid me to tell anyone."

Harry.

That had been the boy's doing.

"Well, I think we're a bit past that now!" Draco laughed, almost shrilly.

Lucius firmed his mouth in irritation.

"I realise that. I merely wanted you to be aware."

Draco aimed his wand at Voldemort once more.

"Who is this?" he shouted. "Answer me! He's supposed to be dead! Is it— is it someone Polyjuiced? Or is the Dark Lord actually sodding alive?"

Lucius was silent again. Voldemort grew weary of his position on the floor. He stood, satisfied by the fear he saw in both men's eyes as he towered over them.

"Yes, Draco," Voldemort replied. "I am the Dark Lord Voldemort. Lower your wand."

The boy's arm shook, but did not drop.

"He has no magic," Lucius interrupted unwisely, and Voldemort directed his dark stare at his former servant.

"What?" Draco whispered. "How?"

Lucius held Voldemort's gaze as he replied.

"Harry Potter."

Remove that name from your mouth.

"Do not make the same mistake as your father, Draco," Voldemort cautioned ominously, turning his attention on the boy. "I am no less dangerous."

Lucius strode forward, getting between them.

"Come, Draco," the man barked, grabbing his son's arm.

"But how—?"

Lucius pointed his wand at Voldemort and magic wrapped around him, dragging him back against the wall and pinning him there securely. His muscles ached to test the strength of his hold, but he would not do so with an audience.

"That was an order," Lucius warned his son, still staring at Voldemort.

Draco's gaze remained locked onto Voldemort as well, but his father tugged on the arm he was holding and pulled the boy away. They disappeared into the hallway.

Voldemort contemplated the various advantages he had just won. Draco would investigate further. He would not be satisfied by his father's coddling nor would he allow the threat to his progeny go unchallenged.

Draco would be back, and—

"... being unreasonable!" Lucius complained loudly, and Voldemort eagerly focused his whole being on picking up the muffled words that reached him.

"Mother... her?"

It was frustrating to have to rely on his physiology to eavesdrop without the augmentation of his potent magic.

They were arguing, that much was obvious.

"... trust... my son!"

Draco was fighting back. He would not be so easily subdued.

Perfect.

Voldemort would be out by the end of the week.

Footsteps came nearer again and Voldemort held his breath.

"... did to our family!" Lucius yelled, coming closer as well. "He nearly ruined us, Draco! I was not going to let that happen again."

"Does Potter know you have him?"

Another pounding silence.

"He could not handle the Dark Lord."

"And you can?" Draco asked with amused skepticism. "Merlin, father. You branded your name on his arm!"

Voldemort was almost swept up in his furious indignation at that, but he forced himself to concentrate. There were whispered words from Lucius that Voldemort could not catch.

"That's not good enough," Draco said firmly. "He shouldn't be here. You've got to—"

"I signed a magical contract, Draco! I cannot tell anyone or show anyone that he is alive or it will take my magic! Your discovery was a close call, but not one I can replicate. I can hardly bring him with me to the Ministry and claim no hand in his exposure!"

"So I'll do it!"

"No," Lucius hissed. "You're not to be involved in this."

"I already am! He's threatening Scorpius!"

"I'll protect him!"

"Like you protected me, father?" Draco shrieked.

Silence reigned. Voldemort savoured the dissension.

After a time, loud footfalls stormed away, but only one set. Who remained?

Slowly, the person came back into view.

"You are going to make that Vow, Riddle," Lucius growled lowly, hatred burning in his tone, "or I will kill Potter."

Everything stopped.

He stared at Lucius and would have incinerated him instantly had he his magic.

Vows could be circumvented, but it was a delicate thing.

"He is not so easily disposed of," Voldemort reminded him. "As I have demonstrated."

Lucius sneered.

"I'll succeed, you filthy half-blood, because I actually want him dead."

The traitor strode forward and held out his right arm. The magical restraints loosened around Voldemort so that he could move once more.

"Take my hand. This is the last time I will offer you this. Make the Vow or I swear I'll kill him."

Murder dimmed his vision. Instead, he imagined Lucius's spine snapping back, his gurgling scream cut short as Voldemort crushed his lungs. His hands clenched from the need to strangle, to shred the imbecile that would dare—

Lucius's hand began to pull away, but before it could, Voldemort seized it. They stared at each other for long moments, inches apart.

Lucius had the audacity to smirk before calling back his son.

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Having such easy access to Polyjuice potion at work was dangerous for him. It was an addictive reprieve from being Harry Potter.

No one chased after him while he used it; he could shop anywhere he liked without being accosted; his body wasn't subject to sudden entitled, unwanted touching; but best of all— he was almost invisible.

No one saw him. And if they did, no one cared.

He could go anywhere he wanted, like a regular person.

Harry grinned, despite the persistent rain, feeling a small shard of his immense, boulder-sized guilt break free.

He walked down the dark road determinedly, needing to feel human again. It had been weeks of searching and he had nothing. He was out of ideas and energy and he just needed a gasp of the silence he had found kneeling at Lord Voldemort's feet.

He wasn't looking for a Master or anything. He just had to find someone to put him in his place. He needed to feel unencumbered and insignificant and small.

Arriving at his destination, he peered in the foggy window of the Muggle pub and saw that it was crowded with fairly normal looking people. Most wore black, and some had a token form of adornment that signified why they were here, but it was all very subtle. If he hadn't known that this was a BDSM munch, he'd never have clued in.

Trepidation flooded him with doubt, with mild fear, but he firmed his spine. You've come this far. Think about how glorious it will feel if this works.

He pushed the door open.

Many faces turned to him. Some gave him considering up-down sweeps with their eyes, some smiled and turned back to their conversations. One man raised his hand in welcome.

"Hey— Spencer, is it?"

Harry nodded, slapping away some of the rain clinging to his jacket. He smiled and shook the man's offered hand.

"I'm Glen," the man said, his hand warm in Harry's cold one. "Glad you could make it in this weather. Here."

He handed Harry a name tag and a marker.

"Write your name or what you'd like to go by. Include your pronoun underneath."

Pronoun?

Harry must have looked confused because Glen pointed to his own name tag, which had the words, he/him underneath his name.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," he replied, feeling daft already.

He took the items and began to write.

"Grab a drink and then find a table. We're all friendly, don't worry. Hope to see you again, Spencer."

Harry nodded and walked off. At the bar, he ordered his drink and tried to stop himself from bolting.

You don't have to do anything. This is just a pint at a pub. It's not like—

"Hey," a voice said beside him, and Harry startled, twisting to see a woman seated next to him, smiling. "You're new here, right?"

Harry's eyes dropped to her name tag and saw Elizabeth, she/her.

If only it said what they were after on those.

Then he could just focus on the ones that said, Dom/no sex/into degradation.

"You okay?"

Harry realised he'd been staring at her chest for many minutes.

Fuck.

He brought his mortified gaze back to the woman's eyes.

"Loo," he blurted out, and then jumped up and fled.

Home, just go home. This was a mistake.

Harry found refuge in the men's, leaning against the sink and bowing his head in shame. Merlin. He'd been here less than five minutes and had done nothing but embarrass himself. What was wrong with him? Even when he was trying so hard to be normal, he fucked it up. He was fooling no one.

The door swung open and Harry straightened up, pretending he'd been washing his hands.

"You okay?" someone asked, and Harry turned to see a large, middle-aged man with several piercings on his face looking at him with concern.

Harry cleared his throat.

"Yeah. Sorry. Thanks for asking."

The man's gaze dropped to Harry's name tag.

"Is this your first munch?"

Harry nodded.

"It's really laid back, I promise," the man said with a small smile. "My name's Jamal. Come round to my table when you're done. I'd love to chat."

Harry clenched his fists.

This wasn't what he wanted. It was taking so long. He didn't want friends or a conversation. He wanted aggression. Passion. He wanted—

"Let me kneel for you," Harry rasped, stepping closer.

He needed it, needed to submit, so much that he dropped to the dirty lavatory floor in front of the stranger.

"Woah," the man said, backing away with his hands up. "We don't do that here. It's against the rules."

Harry bit into his lip.

"Please."

He'd never had to beg for this at a pub before. What kind of backwards rule was it that in a fetish group, you weren't allowed to sate your kinks?

"We can't," the stranger reiterated, and then the situation dawned on him.

He was desperately offering himself to someone who was offended by his behaviour. He was obscene and out of place, even among those who supposedly shared his desires.

"Hey," the stranger said, his face awash with pity. "It's okay. You're not in trouble. You didn't know."

That didn't matter. He'd been wrong. This was a mistake and it was time to leave. He was an absurdity. A freak.

Harry stood and made towards the exit, but the other man held his arm.

"You're really struggling, aren't you?"

It wasn't said with mocking derision, but rather with understanding. Harry stared into the man's warm brown eyes and then nodded helplessly.

The stranger gave him a commiserating smile and then let him go. Harry fell against the porcelain sink, gutted that he was about to be set loose so callously.

"Listen," the man said. "What do you need right now? Has a Dom recently let you go? Is that why you're so frantic?"

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to think about that. The stranger touched his shoulder.

"Spencer. I can't do much here, but I can do something. What would help?"

Harry's mind whirled in panic. He didn't want to decide. He wasn't capable of it. It wasn't his place. He needed this man to take control, to decipher it himself.

He looked away, feeling hollow and worthless.

You want too much. It's not allowed, you're making him uncomfortable. Get out of here, you don't deserve to feel good, you killed everyone and—

"You asked to kneel," the man said, shocking him out of his spiralling. "I'm going to make you do that, okay? Green for yes, red for no. What's your colour?"

Harry looked up at him desperately.

Colour? He wanted to kneel, yes, but he didn't want to ask, to have to oblige someone to help him—

"That's how this works here, okay? I won't do anything without your colours. Green for yes. Red for no."

Harry closed his eyes, trying to think. He could answer green and get what he wanted. He could do that. He—

"Your colour, Spencer," the man commanded in a voice so very different than his gentle, placating one of moments ago.

Harry's eyes snapped open.

"Green."

The man smiled, but it was a hard smile that didn't really reach his brown gaze.

"Eyes down," the man ordered and Harry's head bowed. "Get on your knees at my feet, pet."

Harry's legs buckled and he folded to the floor, grateful and almost sobbing with relief.

Yes.

He curled into a tight ball and pressed his face to the grimy floor.

Time stopped as he knelt there. No words were spoken to him and he made no sounds.

He just floated, weightless and free.

Distantly, he was aware of flushing toilets and running water nearby, but he just ignored it all. Sunk deeper.

Sometime later, Harry felt hands gently touching his face. It was startling. As if from sleep, his mind began to wake up. He was aware of the tingling in his legs from the restricted blood flow.

He opened his eyes.

A stranger was standing over him with a kind expression on his face.

"Hey buddy. You've been here for about an hour. I've gotta head back out now. Are you feeing better?"

Harry blinked. An hour?

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his face and standing. Fuck, he felt drugged. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry about that."

The man made a shushing sound.

"Don't be sorry." That looming head bent a bit to catch Harry's gaze and Harry looked up into his concerned face. "You're sure you're okay?"

Of course I'm not okay. I just spent an hour on the floor of the loo, apparently.

"Yeah. I'm grand. Thanks for... helping. That helped."

The man nodded.

"Okay, good. Well, take care, Spencer. I hope to see you back next month."

Harry curled his lips into what he hoped looked like a grin and then dropped it the moment the other man left.

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It only took two days.

He had been organising his mind in the dark of the minuscule box he had been imprisoned inside of, when the walls had abruptly vanished and light had flooded his vision.

He fell onto the dungeon's cold stone floor, blinking rapidly to clear his sight. His familiar surroundings were beginning to coalesce. His muscles were sore from their prolonged cramped position, yet he ignored his discomfort and stood slowly.

Draco Malfoy was before him, his wand pointed at Voldemort's face.

"Don't try anything," the boy warned, and then hit him with a nonverbal Incarcerous, binding his wrists together in front of him.

Voldemort bit back his outrage, forcing his wrath to calm at the indignity of this child striking him with the magic that Lord Voldemort had been denied.

Wait. Patience.

Voldemort studied the boy. Those grey eyes were rapt on Voldemort's left inner forearm where the aching brand resided. His fury ignited again, astonished by the audacity of this child, but he reined it in with his superior mental strength.

Let the boy look.

It would perhaps aid him; his injuries could be made to garner sympathy.

Voldemort remained silent, waiting for the boy to reveal his weaknesses. Draco had been a useless follower. Incompetent and snivelling. Yet so eager to prove himself. To earn a gleaming scrap of reflected glory through his service.

"I'm not afraid of you," the imbecile began, and Voldemort granted him his attention. "You deserve to look like this."

The boy's gaze dropped to study his form, lingering again on his left forearm, a curl of distaste on his lips.

"You can't stay here. Father bound you with the Vow, you shouldn't be here anymore. He won't tell me why."

Lucius was protecting the boy. Yet his reluctance to include his son would be what buried them both.

"I am immortal, Draco Malfoy. It does not matter where I reside. Nowhere can hold me."

"Azkaban could hold you," the ignorant child countered.

"It cannot. And when I get free, do you believe that a simple Vow will thwart me? I am the Dark Lord Voldemort. Magic bends to my command. I will effortlessly dissolve your Vow and take down any who attempted to obstruct me."

"Is that why he is keeping you here?" Draco asked, and then glanced away in troubled contemplation. "He doesn't trust you to keep the Vow, but he won't serve you."

Voldemort was not aware of any methods to break an Unbreakable Vow. That was the point. This was not to say that he could not accomplish it, obviously. His mastery was unparalleled. Absolute. Yet it would require much research and perilous testing to attempt it. At worst, an error would send him into wraithhood once more, bodiless and suffering. He did not want that. Not when he was so close to achieving his goals.

"So what's his plan?" Draco asked.

The boy was studying him again, but he seemed less antagonistic. More resigned.

Perfect.

Voldemort forbid himself to smile in satisfaction.

"Lucius knows his only option is to free me," Voldemort said, "so as not to incur my wrath. He is aware that to do otherwise would result in his family's slaughter."

Voldemort pierced the boy with his stare, infusing it with all of his murderous intent, as Harry had so endearingly phrased it.

Draco must understand the perils of resisting Lord Voldemort.

"He can't free you," the child muttered. "You'll start the war again. You almost killed my whole family, even when we were serving you. You'll do it again and—" The boy's face blanked, but his eyes bored into Voldemort. "I won't let you lay a finger on my son."

Voldemort held his gaze.

"Then give me a reason to ignore him. Those who have served me well are treated with dignity, Draco. You did not get to see that during your time following me because your father was a traitor. Let me show you how thoroughly I can protect your son from harm."

Draco made a sound of disbelief, his face pinching in derision, but it cleared the longer they stared at each other.

After all, Voldemort was not lying. Scorpius was a pure-blood who had not harmed him. An infant. If Draco served him well, then Voldemort would see to it that the whelp remained safe.

"And my mother?" Draco inquired. "She never did anything against you."

Voldemort fought to control his reaction to the enormity of that inaccuracy.

Except lying to me at a crucial moment in battle, insisting that Harry was dead and exposing me to the events that followed, which led to where I am.

Having to converse with those who should be writhing under his wand.

"She will be safe," he lied, knowing it was necessary, though distasteful. "So shall your father and wife, if you ask it of me."

Draco was studying him, a skeptical tilt to his brows.

"So you'll leave us all alone... I just have to free you."

Draco held his gaze for long moments, and then huffed out a weak chuckle, turning away and running his hands through his hair.

"Merlin, what am I doing?" The boy outright laughed this time, walking away towards the exit. "I can't believe I almost fell for that. Father said you would lie—"

"These are not lies, Draco. I will spare those you love if you free me."

The boy had not turned to face him again, so Voldemort strode to block his path. His irritatingly bound hands ached to wrap around the boy's throat, yet that would be futile. The child had magic and could nonverbally defend against anything Voldemort would be capable of at the moment. And Draco did not have a death wish like Harry did.

"Release me," Voldemort commanded, hardening his tone and bearing down upon the boy. "Doing otherwise will result in Lord Voldemort ripping apart the Earth to find your family. Your son. And I will not merely kill him, Draco Malfoy. He will serve me for the entirety of his life. My slave. Bound to me. My plaything. And I will ensure that he always knows that his fate had been sealed by his dead father."

Draco stared at him; his wide eyes and frozen demeanour betraying his fear. He backed up a pace, his foot sliding against the rough stone floor.

The boy was going to flee and Voldemort contemplated stopping him. Physically attacking him until Draco's magic threw him off. It would be immensely satisfying to hurt him, even knowing murder was not yet an option.

Draco stumbled past and Voldemort watched himself allow the boy to leave. He was not pleased to do so.

Yet the situation was still favourable for him. Either Lucius continued to fall victim to his own fog of vengeance and kept him, or Draco freed him to save his family.

Both outcomes were acceptable.

He walked back to lean against the wall. At least for the moment, he was free from Lucius's banal torments and his mind began to wander. Idly flexing his arms within the restraints, his thoughts once again turned to Harry and how the boy was faring.