CHAPTER 22
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Harry followed Kingsley up the stone steps, shaking with worry about why they were here.
The Minister had come into his office this morning, telling him that he wanted accompaniment to Azkaban to deal with Voldemort. It was two days before the man's trial, and apparently one of his guards had reported that the Dark Lord had requested a meeting to negotiate. But what could the man even have to offer?
Other than information about your betrayal of the wizarding world.
Harry began to chew the skin around his nail as he climbed, not knowing what to do if that was the case. It wasn't that he was afraid of exposure. He was a fraud, a contemptible monster who had allowed the world's most dangerous criminal to regain their body.
He should be punished for that.
He vaguely wondered if Voldemort would tell the Minister how Harry had begged the Dark Lord to give him a hand job. Or how he had pressed himself up against the chained mass-murderer wantonly mere days before.
Yet, this was irrelevant.
What scared him the most was what would become of everyone he cared about if he was imprisoned for treason.
No one else would be able to handle the Dark Lord Voldemort and the man would likely take offence to Harry's imprisonment, if only for his egotistical belief that Harry belonged to him.
The wizarding world would be left without its shield, without the body that had been prophesied to exist between them and destruction.
"You can leave us with him for now," Kingsley suddenly said, and Harry's gaze snapped up, realising that they were at the top already. "Thank you."
Harry tried not to, but his gaze immediately went to the chained man, whose red eyes captured him instantly.
Stop this before I must divulge your secrets, Harry.
Harry froze.
He had been right. Voldemort meant to threaten him with arrest, which would leave everyone vulnerable without their Saviour.
"Good afternoon, Tom," Kingsley said, unaware of the private conversation that was occurring.
Harry watched that metal plug tear away from the man's mouth as Kingsley Accioed it. A small smattering of blood appeared on Voldemort's chin.
"I don't have a lot of time for you," the Minister went on, casually holding Lord Voldemort's ball gag in his fist, "so go ahead and tell me the information that you threatened my people for."
Voldemort's gaze was still rapt onto Harry and Harry could not look away.
Tell the Minister that you are taking me home for house arrest. Use your influence to demand it.
Harry made a choking sound and he could see peripherally that Kingsley had glanced at him. He wished he could argue or beg the man to reconsider, but their dialog only went one way.
"Well?" Kingsley said, impatiently.
Do it.
Harry's heart was thundering in his chest, everything in him wanting to bow and yet it wasn't about him. He had a duty, a—
I have given you ample time to fix this yourself. Do it now, boy.
Harry felt his legs unlock, but forced them to hold him.
He was trapped in indecision.
There was no way that Kingsley would agree. This was unprecedented. They wouldn't just change the law to accomodate Harry Potter.
Wouldn't they?
Kingsley made a disparaging sound and turned away, heading back to the stairs.
Speak, or I shall.
Harry ripped his eyes away from Voldemort.
"Wait!" he shouted, and Kingsley turned to him in alarm.
"What's the matter?" the Minister asked with concern, coming over to him.
"I...I need to ask a favour."
Those words were unfamiliar to him. Unnatural. Harry would never have uttered them, except to avoid the imminent devastation of their world.
"What?" Kingsley said in unhappy confusion. "Can't it wait, Harry?"
Harry shook his head, swallowing his panic.
Say— give me Lord Voldemort as recompense for my achievements.
Harry flinched, closing his eyes briefly to refocus himself.
"I... I'm asking you to let me handle him. I can keep him at my house and make sure that he stays contained while we search for his Horcrux."
Harry tried not to crumble at Kingsley's open shock. His disappointment.
"What are you talking about, Harry? Where is this coming from?"
Say— I deserve it. I have generously protected
Harry growled, hating the man.
"I just..." He looked up at Kingsley and tried to arrange his face into an expression of confident competence. "He belongs to me. He always has. I can keep him secure, you know I can."
Kingsley was shaking his head and Harry's terror grew.
"Harry, it's not a question of trust. You're the best Auror we've ever had, but this situation is incredibly suspicious. Lord Voldemort demands a confrontation and then you hit me with wanting to keep him at your house? I mean, it sounds to me like he's influencing you, or—"
"He's not," Harry argued quickly. "I've been thinking about this for some time. The Ministry can augment the wards on my home, or set a few guards outside the door."
Careful, Potter.
"I don't know," Kingsley said slowly, still scrutinising Harry carefully. "I would have to confer with the Wizengamot. This would change the outcome of his trial."
"That's fine," Harry said with cautious relief. "Take your time. Sorry to blindside you with this."
The Minister's shrewd eyes were incredibly disconcerting, but Harry forced himself to take it. Reflexively, he looked over at the Dark Lord to see that the man's face was carefully blank, yet his eyes were glittering with satisfaction.
Good boy.
Harry winced, but something in him unclenched at the praise.
He watched as Kingsley used magic to force the metal back into Voldemort's mouth and then they were walking back down the stairs in tense silence.
Return before the trial, Harry. Lord Voldemort wishes to reward you.
Harry clenched his fists, self-disgust and eager anticipation warring within him.
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There were no windows at the top of his tower. No direct access.
When his tormenters came, they did so from the lower levels. He always knew when it was an unexpected guest because his guards would startle, pass a look between them, and then turn their backs on Lord Voldemort as they walked down the stairs.
Today had been no different.
"Our son was brilliant," the furious man told him, bending over Voldemort as he recovered from the curse. "Did you ever value him?
The true answer? No. He had been a tool, and Lord Voldemort had used him as such.
His lack of a reply earned him another bout of Cruciatus, and he fell onto his side, gasping for air as his nerves were shredded, his skin bleeding and dying and there was no relief, no end to this torture, it was death, chasing him and punishing him and Salazar, the pain—
When it stopped, Voldemort kept his eyes closed, not wanting the man to see his torment.
He loathed being susceptible, being human and impotent and alone—
A boot landed on his shoulder and sprawled him onto his back. He looked up into the face of Quirinus Quirrell's father, a snivelling coward, just like his son had been. An idealist, who did not realise that greatness came with a price. Yes, Quirinus had served him well, but he had failed to retrieve the stone from an eleven year old and Lord Voldemort could hardly let that pass.
"He would have been forty this year," the man said savagely through his teeth, and then hit Voldemort with a Catapult Curse.
He flew back, soaring through the air, and then crashed against the unforgiving wall. Voldemort groaned, feeling his fractures shift sickeningly, his dizzy head churning where it impacted the stone, a desperate need to vomit that he denied with all of his will.
"Forty," the man lamented, coming closer to where Voldemort was crumpled and unable to stand. "So young. And you took that from him— from my wife and I."
Voldemort wanted to look up. He envisioned himself standing and then towering over the craven lunatic, reaching for his magic and having it roll through him obediently, filling him up with power. Then he would throw it all at this man, watch as his skin bubbled and peeled off— laughing as he demonstrated why no one touched Lord Voldemort and lived.
Yet he could not.
Two more days.
He could endure this for two more days and then he would command the boy to return him his birthright.
"They said I wasn't allowed to kill you," the man muttered, and Voldemort opened his eyes.
The vermin looked deranged. His eyes were rapacious and excited in a way that Voldemort remembered and cherished. It should be him standing over his captor and making them scream.
"Not killing you," the idiot went on, "is the hardest thing I've done in a long time."
The man moved fast and tore at his robes, ripping the neck and yanking the material down to expose the skin of his chest. Voldemort resisted, pushing him away, but he was hit with a Petrificus, which crashed him back onto the floor.
The man smiled down at him and removed a blade from his pocket. Voldemort eyed it warily, hating Potter for making him endure this. For taking away his ability to fight back.
"Looks like I'm not the only one who wanted to see if you have a heart in there."
Voldemort tried to sneer, and managed to twitch his lip, but the man backhanded him across his face. He had not been able to move to avoid the blow. He felt his body slide fractionally against the stones with the force of the impact.
"Let's see what I find."
The fiend stepped forward and then knelt at his side, his knife poised to cut him open. Voldemort held his breath— not in fear, but in anger. The worst pain of this whole situation, he had discovered, was that he was forced to take it.
That cold knife sunk into the meager skin on his chest and Voldemort hated like it would save him— he hated Potter and his followers and everyone who dared to touch him now.
He could not even scream, only make a strangled gurgling sound as the knife cracked his ribs and shifted his precious organs aside. Every movement came with a healing spell, every inescapable moment of fatality was drowned with a healing potion poured into the cavity that was being created.
His body was shaking violently, yet he could not fight, could not defend himself, and he hated with every mouthful of air he could manage.
Peripherally, he saw his two guards running back into his cell, shouting at Quirrell's father. He was released and felt his trembling increase, felt weightless and lifeless and calm. He was slipping away, towards something he was mildly interested in following...
A spell struck him and he gasped awake. Panic and terror and agony greeted him and he fought, battled them as hard as he was able, until they were quieter, until he could take in his surroundings.
He was lying on the floor of his cell, his two guards kneeling beside him, worriedly trying to put him back together.
Voldemort closed his eyes, keeping a firm grip on his panic. His hatred, however, he allowed to roam free, let it fill up the cavities that cretin had created. Let it sustain him.
Hatred consumed him, and he let it, knowing it was the one companion that would never leave him.
.
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Harry lasted one day.
It was the evening before Voldemort's trial and Harry had come because he was weak.
Despite the man offering him a reward, despite him still not understanding that Harry wouldn't touch him if it was an obligation, Harry had returned because he stupidly believed that maybe things had changed.
They had been apart for weeks, so it could be possible that Voldemort had missed him in that time. Had thought about him. He could have realised that what they'd had was...
Jesus.
He was so pathetic.
Voldemort didn't want him. He couldn't.
So Harry should just go. Should stop walking up these stairs to that cell where the man was waiting for him.
What are you doing? What do you expect is going to happen?
Voldemort had literally couched it in terms of a payment for services rendered— and here Harry was: absurdly eager to believe that Lord Voldemort felt something genuine.
Like a trained dog heeling at his owner's command.
Yup. Sounds about right.
No. He couldn't think like that. There was—
His feet abruptly hit the landing, startling him, and he looked up.
Lord Voldemort was still hanging in his restraints, filthy and haggard-looking, yet when he saw Harry, his face cleared. Those limbs attempted to straighten.
"Sir," Bethany said, and Harry quickly turned to her. "Should we come back when you're done?"
Harry nodded and his two Aurors walked down the staircase and out of sight.
His eyes returned to the Dark Lord, casting a privacy ward.
Fuck. Say something.
"Hey," he blurted out, trying to think of how to begin.
He took out his wand and watched those red eyes contract almost warily.
Merlin, there was something about seeing the powerful Lord Voldemort flinch that—
"I've been thinking about that... ball." He gestured to Voldemort's metal plug, shutting down that previous line of thought. "If I shrink it, will you be able to just spit it out?"
Voldemort studied him and then slowly inclined his head.
Harry pointed his wand at the man and then shrunk the gag. When it hit the floor, he summoned it and then placed it into his pocket.
"Are you okay?"
Voldemort's gaze darkened and Harry felt his face flush.
Obviously he's not, look at—
"Tell me," Voldemort rasped, when they faced each other at last, "how did the Wizengamot receive your demands?"
Harry eyed the man, unsure how to respond. While he considered his reply, he unconsciously cut open his finger and pressed it to the lock.
"They..." he began. "I mean, they're not pleased. I've been called entitled and difficult, but..." Harry blew out a sardonic laugh. "Well, what can they really do?"
Voldemort's expression became dark, his eyes shining with triumphant pleasure.
"Yes, Harry. What, indeed."
Harry searched that expressive face for any hint of the man's true feelings.
"I had to tell them I'd quit," Harry admitted, wanting Voldemort to know how hard he'd had to work for this. "They knew it was a bluff, but they really want me to keep working there for some reason. So they gave in."
Harry opened the door and walked inside. Voldemort's gaze travelled down his body and Harry stopped breathing at the hungry, possessive fire he saw burning there.
He wants you.
It's sincere.
"Because you are the Chosen One," Voldemort said, finally bringing his eyes up to lock onto Harry's. "That is why they obey you. You are their leader, mighty and unquestionable— and yet you belong to Lord Voldemort."
Harry laughed awkwardly.
"Huh. That's not the way I've been phrasing it. Nor the way you told me to say it. You said that you were mine."
Harry's fingers twitched in frustration, wanting to reach out and touch that enticing body, to be accepted and truly desired— but not yet. Not until he could be sure.
"And I am, Harry Potter. Yet it goes both ways."
Harry allowed himself to hope.
"I could live with that," Harry mused softly.
The Dark Lord smirked.
"I enjoyed watching you unsettle the Minister for Magic," Voldemort said, his attention distractedly focused on Harry's lips.
"You'd be proud of me," Harry breathed, taking a step closer, needing to feel the man's skin. "I've been standing up for myself a lot lately. I'm getting into all sorts of trouble. You're a bad influence on me."
Voldemort hummed and Harry felt his cock harden.
"Tell me about these moments that I would be proud of, Harry," Voldemort said quietly.
"I disrespected my superiors. Told them I was going to visit you whether they wanted me to or not. I... I've been saying no to things I don't want."
"What things."
Forced orgasms. Unwanted touching.
Harry shook his head.
"Things. The point is, I never have before. I've always just—"
He had placed his hand onto that smooth cheek helplessly, but the blazing heat that warmed his skin momentarily sidetracked him.
"Are you sick? You're burning up."
Voldemort held his gaze.
"You abandoned me here without magic, Harry. How else can I be?"
Harry touched the man's chest and the Dark Lord hissed, breaking their eye contact.
"Fuck. Does that hurt? What happened?"
Voldemort's lips curled in derision.
"What happened is a parade of ignorant fools attempted to claim their vengeance upon me. And you let them."
"What?"
Harry stepped back and searched the man's form, realising how limply he was hanging in his restraints.
"I didn't notice," Harry breathed. "Oh my god, how bad is it?"
Voldemort looked annoyed.
"It is not so dire. Nothing that a few healing potions and spells could not repair."
"Which ones? I'll get them now. What can I do?"
Voldemort listed what he needed. Harry gently replaced the man's gag before he left. As he searched the potions store room at the Ministry, he berated himself for his blindness, his self-interest.
When he returned, he dismissed the guards once more and then shrunk and removed the metal ball. Voldemort waited, watching, as Harry quickly uncapped the potions and offered them to him. The Dark Lord insisted on inspecting each one, but before he allowed Harry to tip them into his mouth, he paused.
Stared at Harry with an enigmatic expression.
"Your failures have led to unacceptable consequences for Lord Voldemort," the man pronounced, his eyes hardening. "Before I allow you to relieve your deserved guilt by erasing them, you will personally expunge the gravest of the offences."
"Okay," Harry replied slowly. "What is it?"
"Pull down my left sleeve."
Harry frowned and then did as he was told.
When the blistering red Malfoy brand was revealed, Harry felt his body lock.
Oh, fuck.
Seeing it up close, after days of obsessing about it, was maddening. It taunted him.
Lucius put that there. He knew what he was doing, knew it would infuriate you because Lord Voldemort belongs to you, but there's his mark. His mark on your person.
Harry reached out unthinkingly and touched the burning skin. Voldemort flinched subtly, but did not pull away nor tell him to stop. Harry could feel the man's eyes on him, yet he could not take his own off the repulsive wound the arrogant pure-blood had made upon that perfect skin.
"I'll kill him," Harry promised in a whisper, his fingers lightly tracing the letters and committing every detail to memory so that he could burn his own words into Lucius's unworthy hide.
Voldemort hummed and Harry looked up to see his eyes shimmering with pleasure.
"Heal it, Harry. His marks do not belong upon Lord Voldemort."
Harry bent down, suddenly burgeoning with the need to put it in his mouth. He closed his lips around the centre of the burn and heard the Dark Lord hiss in pain.
Harry didn't stop.
He licked the raised tissue, the swollen, angry blisters, needing to feel that insolence against his tongue. Needing to cover it.
I'll make him pay for this, I swear. No one but me gets to mark you.
Harry pulled away reluctantly. Voldemort was watching him avidly, his mouth open slightly as he breathed.
"Remove it," Voldemort commanded breathlessly.
Harry could use a salve for this, but he wouldn't. This injury was personal. He would get rid of it himself. Placing his palm down, he covered the brand and sunk his magic deeply into the tissue, pulling apart the skin that had corded. He'd never done this kind of magic before, yet it was laughable to think that he wouldn't achieve whatever he wanted right now.
When he could no longer feel the raised, damaged skin, he lifted his hand and looked at the man's arm.
It was perfect once more. Malfoy's blundering attempt to steal his claim had been obliterated.
When Harry met those eyes, Voldemort's were searing with desire.
"Now, the rest," the Dark Lord instructed, his gaze dropping to fall upon the potion phials that had been abandoned on the floor.
Harry picked them up and gently tilted them into Voldemort's open mouth, his eyes riveted on the man's tongue and how it receded to make way for the potions, but then darted out afterwards to lick his thin lips clean.
When the phials had been emptied, Harry cast a few more healing spells and then stepped back, staring at the man's indomitable form. Harry let his gaze travel the length of him— from his long, high-arched feet, up his robed body, across that thin chest, caressing his slender, white throat to finally arrive at the man's enticing face.
When he met those eyes, he felt that penetrating gaze go straight to his cock. Fuck, but the man is gorgeous.
"Release me."
Harry blinked, somehow not having had expected this command.
Voldemort wants to be free.
This fact abruptly woke him up, made him remember that there was more in this cell than just their desire. Harry had obligations to the wizarding world, and Voldemort was a skilled manipulator that was likely just using him.
"Do not make me repeat myself," Voldemort threatened darkly.
Harry debated it, knowing it was probably a bad idea, but when Voldemort's eyes narrowed, he decided that the cell door was locked anyways, and two Aurors were at the bottom of the stairs. Yes, there was a privacy ward up, but Harry had magic and Voldemort did not. He could handle the man.
"Okay."
The Dark Lord was staring at him, almost daring him to continue. Brazenly, Harry tapped the metal bands on those thin wrists and watched as the restraints clicked open loudly and fell against the wall.
Voldemort carefully lowered his arms. He was almost free, they could touch properly, he could—
"My legs," Voldemort instructed, and Harry startled.
Bending down, he tapped his wand once more against the manacles and the metal gave way, clanking against the stone floor.
Harry shifted to rise, but suddenly a hand was placed onto his shoulder, halting him. The Dark Lord applied pressure and Harry's legs buckled, making him fall to his knees.
"Stay," Voldemort ordered, and Harry hesitantly obeyed, settling into the position.
"Although I am pleased with how you handled the Minister, Harry, I should not have had to wait so long. You left me here to suffer. You allowed lesser creatures to claim your vengeance."
Harry closed his eyes, accepting that truth. Voldemort was right, he had let the man down.
"After the trial, we will return to your home and I will properly punish you for this."
Harry's pulse accelerated thinking about their lives once he got Voldemort back to Grimmauld. They could establish routines. Have rules and expectations...
He would have the Dark Lord in his house and he wouldn't have to hide it.
"Now," Voldemort said, "I promised you a reward first, did I not? And I have thought about what I would like."
What he would like? But it's my reward!
No.
He wasn't supposed to be accepting any rewards. Not without knowing if they were real, if—
"I will allow you to stand for it. Thank your Master, Harry."
Harry felt fear and anticipation sizzle through him.
Here? He couldn't do that here, no matter that there was a privacy ward. What if someone heard? What if they hated him for it?
Long fingers sunk into his hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. Harry closed his eyes. Before he could enjoy it, the digits curled and Voldemort was fisting his locks, pulling his head back so that Harry was looking up into those freaky eyes.
"Thank me."
Harry's mouth was open, his neck bent painfully back.
"Thank you," he panted, but those fingers yanked again. "Ow— fuck!— Master. Thank you, Master."
Voldemort released his head and Harry fell forward, just managing to catch himself before he planted his face into the stones.
But that word, that sodding word brought him swiftly back to reality.
He doesn't want you, he doesn't want this—
"Wait!" Harry gasped, and he looked up to see Voldemort halt, his eyes scanning Harry's body.
"Wait," Harry repeated, because he needed to finally ask so he could stop agonising and hoping and— "Do you actually want me?"
The other man tilted his head, his eyes showing a mocking bafflement.
"I am poised to have you, Harry—"
"Yes, but that's exactly what I mean. Are you doing this because you actually want to?"
Those red eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Do you believe that Lord Voldemort can be made to do something he does not wish to?"
Yes. I've made you crawl to me. Made you lay on your back on my bed, tied up and—
Harry shook himself.
"What I mean is..." He struggled to find the words with that enticing thought in his head— could it be that Voldemort did those things because he actually wanted to? "If you were not a prisoner. If you were not... granting me a reward. If I did not have power over you. Would you still want to do this with me?"
Voldemort considered him and Harry needed to be closer. He stood slowly, trying to read the man's expression.
"Harry," Voldemort said lowly, "you will always have power over me. As I will you. It is prophesied."
Harry growled with frustration.
"That's not a fucking answer! Listen to me, will you? I'm not talking about this messed up power play that we have between us. I'm asking if you want me— just me, ignoring what I can do for you. Would you still want me if you didn't need me?"
Voldemort studied him and Harry felt like a fool, but he wouldn't keep going with this— he couldn't— if it was all a lie.
"I have always wanted you, Harry Potter," Voldemort said, his hand reaching out to trace Harry's lower lip with his thumb. His gaze was thrumming with avarice. "I have always desired you. To own you. To have an equal."
Harry felt the man's touch ignite the need building inside of him. Merlin, Lord Voldemort was touching his lip like he wanted to bite it, or snog him, or shove his cock past Harry's teeth and—
"So then," Harry continued, lamenting those cool fingers sliding away as he spoke, "if we do this, will it just be you and me? No bargains or rewards? Just... two people who... want this?"
"There will always be rewards, Harry Potter. Just as there will always be punishments."
If it wasn't so painfully frustrating, the man's cluelessness would be hilarious.
"Jesus, that's not what I—"
Voldemort suddenly grabbed Harry's throat, shutting him up and forcing him to meet that intense gaze.
"What is it that you are after, boy? How many ways can I say that I want you?"
Harry stared, feeling mesmerised by the man's power so close, so fucking close—
"Is this real?" Harry whispered. "Can I trust it?"
Voldemort had frozen, his face blanking, his eyes the only things that were moving. They were darting between Harry's as the man seemed to do some fast thinking.
He's figuring out how to lie, he's—
"It is a declaration you want from me," Voldemort surmised, relaxing his hold on Harry's neck and tilting his head minutely.
Harry's heart was hammering so hard that he could feel it in his stomach.
"You want love," Voldemort stated bluntly, and Harry inhaled a sharp gasp.
Is that what I want? Merlin, does he— could he actually—
"I have no love to give, Harry," Voldemort confessed with a small, amused smile. "I have no need of it. But if you require something in the form of a promise, I can tell you that I would wear your brand on my skin proudly."
Harry stared, his lips parting in shock.
My brand. He would... does that mean he wants—
Do I want to mark him?
Voldemort was fully smirking now, his eyes dancing with an almost condescending fire.
Is that how he shows affection? With brands?
Fuck. That makes me see the Dark Marks in a whole new light.
Voldemort reached out a hand and wrapped it lightly around Harry's neck again.
"I want you, Harry Potter. Never doubt that."
Harry felt his eyes tingle with pain— fuck! Don't you cry, you pathetic baby. Don't you fucking dare!
Harry nodded, trying to escape that disarming contemplation. Voldemort squeezed tighter and then let him go.
Harry looked away, trying to take in what had just been said.
Voldemort wanted him. Wanted to wear his brand.
Merlin. That's a new kink I didn't know I had.
Yet this could still be a lie, a manipulation.
And Harry couldn't know. He'd have to trust the man.
Or steal some Veritaserum from work.
No. Only crazy people dosed others with truth potion. He could learn to trust.
...Or, failing that, he could just assume that it was a lie, but a good enough one that maybe he could have a small part of it. Something nice for himself, if it didn't hurt anyone else.
"My good boy," Voldemort murmured, and Harry moaned quietly— then quickly cut it off, embarrassed by how that word now affected him.
He glanced up briefly and caught Voldemort's satisfied expression.
"You are a treasure, Harry Potter. You will give me anything I ask for, will you not? So eager to please."
Harry's gaze had returned to the floor. Voldemort began to circle him and it reminded Harry so vividly of their last encounter during the war, that he instinctually tensed up.
"In the many days that you have left me here, Harry," Voldemort said, ignoring Harry's discomfort, "I have thought relentlessly about seeing you restrained as I have been."
Harry froze.
No way.
"You would look irresistible chained up for me."
Voldemort stopped in front of him, lightly grabbing Harry's wrists with his fingers.
Something vital clicked into place.
Fuck yes, tie me up. Jesus, will he make me take the ball gag?
Would I do it?
"Humour me, Harry. You have your magic. I want to see you chained to the wall, available for my pleasure."
His pleasure—
Is he going to fuck me?
Like this, bound and gagged? Merlin's fucking tits, I'll die.
"Give me your right wrist," Voldemort commanded, and Harry lifted his arm immediately, not even thinking to disobey.
He'd expected to be positioned as Voldemort had been, but he was spun so that he faced the wall, leaving his back exposed.
Voldemort hummed, stepping forward and pressing his body against Harry's while he closed the metal around his skin. Harry leaned his head forward and thumped it onto the cold, stone wall.
He could feel the man's erection digging into his back and that was too fucking much to handle.
"Your left, Harry."
Dazedly, Harry surrendered his last arm and closed his eyes as Lord Voldemort locked Harry Potter in manacles in Azkaban.
"I will now kneel to affix your ankles," Voldemort informed him, stepping away and Harry was grateful for the chains on his arms because they took some of his weight.
Harry swayed drunkenly, his eyes still closed, basking in the rightness of this. Of being bound for the Dark Lord. This was a correction. They were redressing the wrongness of reality.
He felt Voldemort rise, the man trailing a single finger up his body as he stood. Harry's legs were trembling.
"Open."
Harry's eyes flew wide, but he saw Voldemort leaning against the wall beside him, holding the metal ball Harry'd kept in his pocket. Obediently, he opened his mouth, too. Voldemort gently placed the gag against his palate.
"Resize it to fit."
It took a lot of concentration. Most people could do simple spells wandlessly, but only if they'd practiced it. This was not one of his trusted ones, and so it took a few attempts until it worked.
"Perfect," Voldemort praised, and Harry felt a fluttering in his chest, of pride, of unfamiliar gloating.
Lord Voldemort thinks I'm perfect.
Harry studied Voldemort's expression as the man stared at Harry's body. That face looked pleased, maybe slightly smug. When he noticed Harry's attention, he smiled menacingly.
"You look delectable, Harry. I think I will have to take you."
.
.
Voldemort marvelled at the sight before him.
Harry Potter, chained and completely helpless.
He could kill him.
He could end him quickly, because the boy had earned that kindness. It would be simple, and then he would take the guards and break free, swimming across the ocean if that was what was required. He would find another servant to heal him and then make the world pay for what had been taken from him.
For the loss of Harry.
Voldemort pulled his eyes away from the top of the stairs.
No.
Tomorrow, he would be returning to the boy's home. He was already on the cusp of victory with him, therefore changing the plans this late would be unnecessary.
Better to enjoy this opportunity and show Harry Potter why it had been ludicrous for him to believe that he could slake his lust with any but him.
Lord Voldemort was the pinnacle, and Harry would soon understand that.
"I had not thought to disrobe you before I secured you to my wall, Harry," Voldemort lamented, leaning in closer to touch the material at the boy's shoulder.
He was warm, and Voldemort took a moment to appreciate that. The cell was relentlessly cold and damp and it had gotten into his bones. Harry was always so pleasantly heated.
"Had you not ripped me from my magic," he went on, "I would merely have vanished everything. As it is, I must also make you pay for that injustice."
The boy's expression became sullen. Displeased. Voldemort smiled, enjoying upsetting him.
"You think it is unfair, is that correct? To punish you during a reward?"
Voldemort struck the boy over his mouth, where the metal jarred unforgivingly against the boy's teeth and lips, splashing blood onto Voldemort's white skin. That earned him a startled cry and Voldemort greedily took in Harry's pained expression.
"You forget that you yearn for my correction," Voldemort said, wiping off the blood on his hands onto Harry's trembling cheek. "This is your reward. Do not pretend that you do not crave my violence. I know you too well, Harry Potter."
He stared at the boy's abused face. Harry was struggling to breathe with his mouth gagged and his nose congested with blood.
Voldemort was overcome with desire. He had never seen anything so beautiful.
"You are here to serve your Master," he whispered. "To see to his needs."
He pulled his gaze away, eager to have the boy. Pushing off from the wall, he walked behind Harry to lift his robes. The boy had stopped moving. Stopped breathing.
"When you had foolishly role-played this, Harry," Voldemort breathed, leaning down to burrow his face in the back of the boy's exposed neck. "Did you dare to penetrate Lord Voldemort?"
The boy moaned brokenly— and instantly, Voldemort was pulled into that sobering image: of Harry standing over him, having bested him in a duel, as he somehow always bafflingly managed to do, and taking what he had earned, covering Lord Voldemort with his body and pressing into him—
Voldemort closed his eyes.
That visual shocked him. Never had he entertained such a scene. The impossibility of allowing someone to put him on his back was farcical.
And yet, with Harry—
Harry.
The boy was his equal.
Who else could deserve such a thing but himself?
His eyes refocused on the body before him, eager and waiting and his.
Harry was shaking his head as if in answer to a question, trying to turn to meet his eyes. Voldemort frowned, pulling away, then found his way back to their conversation.
"Then you had desired your Master to claim you," he deduced, and Harry nodded once, his shoulders dropping slightly in relief.
"Did you beg for it, Harry?" Voldemort asked, suddenly feeling murderous rage erupt inside of him.
The boy had given himself to another with his face, trying to pretend, to deny what he so obviously wanted.
Voldemort's hand reached around the boy's waist and slid into his trousers. Harry's legs went lax, but the chains caught him without Voldemort needing to relinquish the hard cock that he had found.
"Did you come for him, boy?"
Harry ardently shook his head and Voldemort did not know whether to believe him, but the possibility that Voldemort still owned Harry's orgasms was gratifying.
"Did this imposter, this actor, get to breach this body that belongs to me? To your Master?"
Again, Harry shook his head vigorously, some blood breaking free and dripping off his nose, yet Voldemort knew that that must be a lie. Who would be able to resist the boy's intoxicating form? Voldemort had seen Harry capitulate to those who had wanted his body. Why should a counterfeit Lord Voldemort be denied?
"Lies," he whispered, and Harry moaned, bowing his head.
The cock in his hand was heavy and hot and Voldemort could not resist stroking it. The feel of the boy's most vulnerable organ, the seat of his masculinity, was an irresistible prize. He tightened his hold, until it would have had to hurt, and consumed every pained sound that the boy made.
"You are mine, Harry Potter. This—" he dug his nails in and Harry gargled a scream around the metal obstruction in his mouth, "belongs to Lord Voldemort. If I ever discover that you have let another touch it— see it— I will burn it off."
Voldemort pulled down Harry's trousers and pants, ripping them away and exposing the boy to the cool, wet air. To his murderous observation.
"It belongs to me, or it no longer exists."
Voldemort pulled up the boy's robes and flung them over one of his restrained arms, giving himself a clearer view of what Harry was offering him.
He lightly ran his hands down those quivering sides, delighting in how the boy shivered at his touch. When he reached that slender waist, he clamped down onto those hips and thrust against Harry's bare backside.
The boy cried out, his legs unlocking again. Voldemort wanted to take him, to complete this eventuality that they had been dancing around for months now. This was always where it was going to lead— to Lord Voldemort taking Harry Potter savagely and silently.
He pressed his face against that damp skin, grudgingly reminding himself that they existed in a bigger landscape. There were constraints here. He glanced towards the top of the stairs.
"Your Aurors may return at any moment," he warned unhappily. "I cannot devote the time I would like to taking you apart. Unless you are interested in providing entertainment for them? As you once threatened me with. Perhaps I should paddle your bottom, as you had so insolently suggested?"
Harry's head whipped around to glare at him, but the look crumpled under Voldemort's stare and quickly shifted into pleading.
Perfect.
"Now, Harry. I am going to take my pleasure." He breathed the words onto the boy's neck and heard another quiet moan. "You will hang there submissively, being nothing more than a pretty thing for me to enjoy. When I have finished with you, I may grant you release, but that is my decision. Do you understand? A nod will suffice."
The boy jolted and then bobbed his head. Satisfied, Voldemort reluctantly removed his hand from the boy's cock and fisted the skin of his arse. He paused.
"I may be merciful. If your abused mouth is still wet with blood, I will allow you lubrication."
Voldemort reached up and swiped a finger underneath Harry's nose. It was tacky but moist and Voldemort collected what he could and transferred it onto his own throbbing cock.
The sight of it almost undid him at once.
Harry Potter's blood.
How he had always yearned for it. Wanted to spill it until he had drained the brat dry. Yet now, he was using it to wet his cock before claiming him.
It was no less of a victory.
This blood was freely given and he could feed from that spring whenever he so chose.
"How could you question my desire for you, Harry," he wondered softly.
He felt the boy relax, as if he had been seeking reassurance. Foolish child.
Voldemort looked down, marvelling at how vulnerable Harry had let himself be for him. It was a sight he would never grow tired of.
With his own cock heavy in his palm, he reached around and grabbed the boy's erection, then pushed himself inside.
All thought was struck down, everything vanishing but Harry's squeezing, pulsing heat. He gripped the boy tighter lest he crumble from the pleasure blazing through him.
Harry Potter.
Mine at last.
The boy bowed his head, arching his spine and moaning fluently around his gag. The agonised sounds almost undid him immediately.
He took a deep breath. Gripping tightly to a sharp hipbone, he pulled the boy closer, taking those last few inches carefully until he was fully sheathed.
Harry trembled slightly in his arms. They were both unmoving, bound together in their astonishment.
Voldemort's fingers slowly clenched, his ire refusing to be calmed.
"You left me, Harry," he said roughly, abruptly driving in deeper and shocking a cry from those delicious lips. "All I have suffered here, is for you."
The boy's body jolted forward with every impact, taking his anger beautifully. Taking his thrusts obediently like he would take his strikes.
"For your vanity. You abandoned me to this so that you could collect pretty words to flatter your ego."
Harry shook his head, but Voldemort squeezed the boy's cock savagely to cease the contradiction. Harry screamed and the thrill of power that went through him at that pleased him greatly.
He let go of Harry's hip, sliding his hand up that lean body and then cruelly twisted his nipple. The boy shrieked around his gag and Voldemort groaned, leaning down to burrow in that mass of sweaty hair.
These sounds. They were unbearable.
"You wanted from Lord Voldemort what you knew you could not have," he rasped with his eyes closed, and then sucked the boy's skin into his mouth, biting down hard until he tasted blood.
Harry tensed and struggled, which only fuelled his fire.
"And yet still you demanded it."
His hand on Harry's cock was pitilessly unmoving, forcing the boy to yearn desperately without relief. He hoped that it hurt to be denied. He hoped that the boy hated him like he hated Harry.
"Torturing Lord Voldemort is therapeutic for you."
He pulled back, releasing the boy's nipple, and fisted that black hair to bring Harry's head closer. He angled it in a way that had to be uncomfortable and then grabbed that obstinate chin, kissing those abused lips aggressively around the obstruction.
The metal knocked against his teeth, his whole mouth tasting like blood, and it seared him, igniting something in his body that sped up his thrusts wildly, as he took the boy hero, feeding off his cries.
When he opened his eyes, he was at once fascinated by Harry's intoxicated expression. He looked completely helpless.
Stunning.
"You want me cowed," he whispered. "But Lord Voldemort is indomitable."
The boy moaned and closed his eyes. Voldemort clenched his teeth and drove in deeper. Needing everything.
"Insatiable." He wrapped his free hand around Harry's throat. "Invulnerable."
He could feel the desperate pounding of blood beneath his palm. He knew that if he wanted to, he could kill the boy. He had that power.
Instead, he let go and wrapped his arm around that narrow chest.
"Deserving."
Harry's head fell forward.
"And as my equal, Harry Potter, so are you."
He looked down and saw that the boy's legs were sliding against the ground.
Oh, he is too exquisite.
Shifting, he lifted Harry's body with one hand, exhilarated that he was completely in control of the boy's form. He had him chained, silenced, he was inside of him while holding his most vulnerable organ, and now he also had command of his movement.
Harry was forced to rely on Lord Voldemort for everything.
"You are such a good boy for me," he lauded roughly, and then thrust into him, aware and uncaring that Harry's forehead was grinding against the wall brutally.
His own orgasm was building, tautening his frame and zeroing his focus in until there was only the boy—
Harry's determined eyes alighting in battle— Harry's stubborn jaw clenching as he argued— Harry's mouth, Harry's mouth moaning, screaming—
And that took everything.
His body ignited, his fingers tightening on Harry's cock as the overwhelming bliss crashed through him.
Clinging to the boy, he realised vaguely that this was the first time he had achieved orgasm in ten years.
He closed his eyes, pressing his face against the boy's nape, and waited for his pulse to calm.
When he could, he released Harry's legs and let him rest in his restraints. His other hand, however, refused to relinquish its grip.
Still inside of that devastating heat, he finally began to fist Harry's cock.
"Come for me," he rasped, all sense of baiting and theatrics bled out of him.
He wanted to see the boy fall as he had, wanted to hold that power over this powerful being.
Harry was shaking now, his limbs twitching, his teeth grinding against that metal plug. Voldemort sped up his touch, enthralled with how tortured the boy looked.
He could tell Harry was close and yet something was holding him back— and Voldemort suddenly understood what was needed.
Leaning down, he spoke directly into the boy's ear.
"I want you, Harry Potter."
The boy made a strangled sound, his hips thrusting forward and then he was coming, shooting long strands of ejaculate against the dark grey of the stones. The same stones that had been stained red with Voldemort's blood just this very morning.
He continued to mercilessly stroke the boy until he released a low, drawn-out keen, his head falling back against Voldemort's chest.
Reluctantly, he freed Harry's twitching cock and wrapped his arms possessively around that thin frame.
The oxytocin was still clouding his thought process, yet his subconscious irrepressibly turned his head to glance behind himself. Towards the top of the stairs.
Something within him shifted and he straightened up, his cock sliding ungently out of that lax body. He righted his clothing.
It was a primary instinct, impossible to ignore.
He brought his face back to the boy's sweaty neck, his gaze still riveted on the exit, and pressed a single kiss against that treasured skin.
"I must," he whispered, and then pulled away.
Before he turned, he swiped a finger under Harry's nose and then walked to the cell door. He heard the boy struggling, but disregarded it and pressed that wet digit to the lock.
It clicked open.
Without a backwards glance, Lord Voldemort walked purposefully towards his freedom, the sounds of Harry Potter's muffled shouting accompanying him down the stairs.