CHAPTER 24
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The hallway outside the courtroom was packed as Harry made his way upstairs to the Auror Department. He was focused on not worrying about what was being done to Voldemort as they brought him back to the prison. He had looked so beaten, so—
"Harry!"
Harry spun to see Ron and Hermione rushing towards him.
Oh fuck.
He stopped, letting them catch up.
"What in Merlin's name was that?" Ron asked, sounding both scandalised and impressed. "Since when—"
"Not here, Ron," Hermione warned him. "Harry, can we talk?"
They're gonna know you betrayed them, that you lied.
"I have to go see Kingsley."
"He can wait five minutes, mate," Ron said. "Let's go to your office."
He was led upstairs, both of them like his guards, flanking him until they reached their destination. Ron locked the door and Hermione warded the room.
"What the fuck?" Ron said breathlessly, laughing slightly. "Since when are you fighting to beat up You-Know-Who?"
Harry leaned against the wall by his bookshelf, wrapping his arms around himself.
"I'm not. It's not like that."
"Yeah, we heard what you'd said."
Harry frowned, not having known they'd been in the courtroom with him.
"You want him in your home?" Ron asked, amazed. "Since when? Why haven't you told us about this petition?"
Harry looked away.
"I've been busy."
"Too busy to let us know you wanted the Dark Lord as a roommate?"
Harry winced, biting his cheek.
"It's—"
"Did you have him this whole time, Harry?" Hermione cut in quietly, and Harry froze.
Bollocks.
He tried to say no, but the words wouldn't come. He didn't want to outright lie to them. Instead, he stared helplessly at Hermione, begging her not to hate him.
"Oh, Harry," she whispered, and walked towards him, pulling him into a hug.
"What?" Ron said, still sounding lost. "What do you mean, had him? Harry?"
"Be quiet, Ron," Hermione said, petting Harry's hair.
"Wait. Do you mean... Was You-Know-Who with you this whole time? Wait— was he there when we came over?"
Ron's face was horrified.
Harry pulled away from Hermione, knowing that he did not deserve her comfort. Her security.
He faced them.
"The snake," Hermione breathed before he could talk.
Harry held her gaze, wishing that he was dead. Or that she was stupider. He nodded.
"But... why?" she asked tremulously. "I don't understand, Harry. Even ignoring how you somehow managed to give him back his body— and why... You brought him home?"
"Hold up," Ron said, shaking his head. "So... that snake was actually...?"
Ron trailed off.
"In court," Hermione went on, clearly struggling to put everything together, "you made it sound like you wanted to punish him."
"Did I seriously drink an effing pint at your place with the Dark Lord?" Ron asked loudly, aghast.
"Have you been... hurting him?" Hermione questioned in a small, apprehensive voice.
Harry's throat was on fire. They were going to hate him. Cast him aside because he was broken and warped and sick and—
"Yes," Harry rasped.
When he looked up, Hermione's face was shocked and Ron's mildly impressed.
He looked away.
"Harry, no," Hermione said, sounding appalled, and Harry walked away towards his window.
"Look. I don't expect you to understand."
"I do," Ron cut in, and Harry turned to look at him. "You want to punish the bastard." Ron met Hermione's disapproving gaze. "I don't see what the problem is."
"The problem, Ron, is that he's better than that. Harry, you should have told us. We could have helped you."
"I didn't want your help. I still don't."
"But this is Voldemort—"
"Yeah, and I can handle him. Like I always have."
"So you just want to keep him at your house?" Her tone was accusatory. Incredulous. "That way you can continue to hurt him? Harry. He looks terrible. Was some of that from you?"
Harry felt a curl of nausea churn his stomach.
"No," he murmured. "It's not like that."
"Well, then, what is it like? Why do you suddenly want someone who hates you and wants to kill you in your home?" She drew in a sharp breath, her face horror-struck. "Harry. Is that it? Are you... are you hoping he'll kill you?"
Harry shook his head jerkily.
"No. Of course not."
Not really.
"Then, why?"
Harry felt his face heat, his chest tighten.
"He's..."
Harry turned his back on them and looked out the fake window, trying to absorb some of the serenity from the calm facade.
"He understands me," he whispered.
"Oh Harry, no," Hermione begged, sounding alarmed.
"More than us?" Ron asked, his tone hardening. "What, is he your new best mate?"
Harry wrapped his arms around himself.
"I have to go see Kingsley," he muttered.
"No," Ron countered, firing up, and Harry heard him take a step closer. Harry just managed to control his flinch. "You have to explain to us why you're suddenly buddy buddy with the Dark Lord and keeping secrets from us."
Harry shook his head in denial, but couldn't speak. He was a disappointment. They would never understand.
"Harry." Hermione's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, comfortingly. "I don't care that you didn't tell us."
Harry slammed his eyes shut, hating himself.
You're a traitor, a Death Eater—
"Just tell me that you're safe. He hasn't tricked you into any Vows or bargains, has he?"
No tricks. Just obvious manipulations that I fell for. You're looking at the idiot who thought that Lord Voldemort could care for him.
"Harry?"
Harry opened his eyes and turned to see Hermione gazing at him with concern. He wiped his face.
"I'm fine."
"Harry—"
"No," he said firmly, and gently brushed off her grip. "I have a job to do. It's... it's got to be me."
"We can help—"
"You can't," Harry cut in roughly. "This is my life. My business. I have to go."
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When Harry finally got to the meeting room, it was packed with all the members of the Wizengamot, Kingsley, some of Harry's Aurors, and a few other top Ministry workers.
Every eye turned to Harry when he entered.
He hated the attention, but walked forward confidently, knowing it was crucial the he own this.
"I want to know why I was lied to," he stated boldly when he got to the Minister.
Kingsley studied him in silence. Some uncomfortable murmurs broke out and Harry looked around, trying to see who would answer him.
"He killed a man," someone said, and there were nods of agreement.
"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "He's dangerous. He can't be held safely here at the Ministry."
"With all due respect, Mr Potter, he will be no safer in your home."
"Why not? I am more than capable of handling him. Have any of you duelled with him?"
"Yes, actually," Kingsley remarked softly, and Harry's gaze snapped back to him, suddenly remembering seeing him take on Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts alongside McGonagall and Slughorn.
"Right," Harry said. "Well, what about alone? What about alone six times as a teenager?"
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Of course we are indebted to you, Mr Potter," Griselda Marchbanks said with weary sincerity. "We shall never be able to thank you enough."
"I don't want your thanks. I want him." Fuck, too honest there, reel it in. "I assure you, I can handle whatever he's got."
"I don't believe that is wise, even for you, Mr Potter," Madame Bones said with a kind smile. "That is why we were discussing plans to bulk up his security. More guards that are ordered not to vacate. Augmenting the wards to make sure that the public can no longer pay visits. More restraints."
"More?" Harry asked with disgust. "You mean, more than the four heavy chains shackling him to the wall and his metal ball gag so he can't speak?"
Madame Bones nodded grimly, but someone else answered.
"He still managed to get out."
Harry turned to the man he didn't know.
"He won't, with me. The wards on my house are extensive and I'm not afraid of him."
"I still don't think we should do this."
"Fine," Harry said, sinking his hands into his pockets. "Then I suppose you have no more need of me. I'll have my resignation on your desk this evening."
"Why is this so important to you?" Kingsley asked abruptly. "You would give up your job— which has always seemed to mean so much to you— for what? For Lord Voldemort as a punching bag?"
"It doesn't matter why. I am asking for him. I have never asked for anything. How can you deny me the one thing I want?"
"Listen, Harry. The public will never go for having him in your home. But, prior to Riddle killing Farsi, we had tossed around the idea of sending the blighter away. Obliviated, of course. I do agree that it will take a lot of management to safely house him in Azkaban, especially if we have to hide magic from him."
"I don't understand," Harry replied slowly. "Send him away? Where?"
"We hadn't come to a decision. Some suggested a Muggle prison. Others, the freezing arctic to live alone. But we need to be able to monitor him. Make sure he doesn't start remembering, and if he does, that we Obliviate him right away."
"Okay... So you want to send him somewhere in the Muggle world with a guard? Who?"
"You, if you're interested."
Voldemort and me, alone in the middle of a snowstorm...
"But think hard about it," Kingsley continued, "because it wouldn't be an easy life. You could not reveal yourself to him and while he slept, you would still have to be searching for his Horcrux. It would be a big task. One, you're right, we'd trust to no one else."
Jesus, this was unbelievable.
Voldemort in a Muggle prison. Would I be his guard? Slipping him shanks and leaving doors open so that he could escape?
"He'll kill other inmates," Harry murmured, his mind latently analysing his situation. "Guards. Visitors. He can't be around anyone."
Kingsley nodded.
"I agree."
"I hate the cold," Harry admitted, somehow managing to picture making this work. "And I don't... I'd rather not be too far from home."
"Maybe a secluded area, then. With wards and repellents."
Harry tried to catch up with what was happening.
He'll have no memories of you. Of what you did together. He'll be... empty. It'll be your job to watch him struggle, watch him confused, always just watching until you can kill him.
He'll be just like a Muggle.
And you won't be able to touch him.
"I can keep him safe at my home, Kingsley," Harry said imploringly. "You have to trust me."
"I am trusting you, Harry. We can't kill him and we can't hold him here. The safest option is to send him away, to a larger prison, with someone I trust."
"My home could be that prison," Harry argued, but the Minister was already shaking his head.
"I don't want you in contact with him. He has to believe he is alone."
Harry looked away.
But he won't be Lord Voldemort anymore. He'll lose everything. And it will be all my fault.
I couldn't save him.
"This way," Kingsley went on, "you can still make him pay for his crimes. I don't care what you do to him, so long as you keep your distance and he stays contained."
Harry's confusion must have been obvious because Kingsley smiled indulgently.
"There's still enough you can do within those parameters. Maybe set his house on fire? Save him at the last moment, of course, but never let him feel safe. Mess with his mind. Make him paranoid and terrified. Maybe provide him with food that's laced with potions. See how he acts on Amortentia, unable to get to whoever it's keyed to."
"Make the weather terrible," someone suggested and Harry turned to stare at them. "Tornados. Hail the size of dogs."
"Poison his water," another piped in, and Harry felt his own fingertips press against his palms in anger. "Make him sick for months without knowing why."
"Curse him every time he leaves the house," another voice added, sounding eager. "He'll think he's going crazy. Lop off a couple of his limbs."
Harry felt panic rising up in him.
"Yeah, got it. Thanks."
He blew out a deep breath.
"This is the best I can do, Harry," Kingsley said softly. "But if vengeance is what you're after, then there's still a lot you can do to make him suffer. Because you're right. You do deserve a reward and you never have asked for one. You've turned down a few, actually, come to think of it. Maybe this can be a compromise we can both live with."
"When?" Harry asked, needing to flee, but he couldn't without knowing how long he had to scramble to find a solution.
"The Obliviation will happen tonight. As for the rest, there's no rush. I'll find somewhere suitable and set everything up. You don't have to worry about a thing."
Harry nodded reflexively, his body vibrating with anxiety.
Don't worry about a thing.
Somehow he doubted that Lord Voldemort would have the same opinion.
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The ominous echos of furious voices and sharp, clattering chains reached him as he climbed the stairs.
He was not the only one visiting the Dark Lord on his last day with memories.
When Harry got to the top of that tower, a crowd of people were already in the cell with him. Harry's eyes zeroed in on the man and a jolt of panic hit him when he saw that his head was leaking blood in two places, causing his white face to have stark, crimson rivers running over it.
Voldemort hadn't noticed him yet.
Two men were attacking him; one gripping him by the throat and hitting him repeatedly in the face, the other man kicking his legs, which had already crumpled under the attack and hung limply underneath him.
Harry was frozen, horrified.
The sounds coming out of the infamous Dark Lord Voldemort were impossible. Tiny gasping, painful huffs of air with every solid hit, sharp hisses, feeble moans that had no place on that man's lips.
He couldn't watch this any longer.
"Stop," he rasped, and everyone turned to look at him.
Harry walked numbly to the cell door, which was already wide open to accommodate the dozen people already inside.
"Mr Potter?"
"Harry, is everything alright?"
"Are you here to join us?"
Harry ignored everything but the man who had raised his bruised and battered face to meet his.
Voldemort.
Those eyes were completely swollen and bruised, as if the liquid on his face had stained everything it touched, including the man's teeth. He was panting, his expression pinched with pain, and yet he had seemed to relax fractionally when their gazes met.
Harry.
Harry jumped, having forgotten that Voldemort could do that. He nodded, knowing that there was more in that word than simply recognition.
"I want to speak to him alone," Harry said, trying to imbue his tone with authority despite the burning gaze that was flaying him.
Silence, and then—
"But you can't anymore, sir. I'm sorry. Our orders are that he—"
"You are going to get the fuck out of this cell, or I will make you. Do not test me right now."
Harry stood tall, unmoving, until every person left the cell.
He held his breath, unable to look away from that intense stare. The last person to leave, shut the cell door and Harry waited until he heard the echo of their footsteps going down the stairs.
Reaching into his pocket, he vaguely cast a privacy ward. Words swirled around him, but he couldn't reach them, couldn't give them voice.
Voldemort looked exhausted and in pain, yet his gaze was sharp. Harry took out his wand and watched the Dark Lord flinch.
That sight momentarily distracted him, but then he shook himself.
Inappropriate.
The man probably thought he was here to participate.
He killed Karim. He expects you to punish him.
"I'm just going to heal what I can," Harry quietly reassured him, and then began to cast.
Once Voldemort looked more comfortable, Harry pocketed his wand.
"Is there anything—"
"You must reverse the sentence," Voldemort demanded raggedly, his eyes flashing.
Harry took a few steps back.
"I can't. It's out of my hands."
"Nothing is out of your hands. You are their Saviour. Fix this."
Harry shook his head, knowing it was impossible. The look of betrayal, of disappointment on Voldemort's face hurt more than he was prepared for.
He stumbled back until he hit the cell bars.
"You must speak to them," Voldemort insisted, his voice hard and unforgiving. "Convince them that—"
"I can't, Voldemort," Harry denied, hating himself. "I've tried. They don't trust you with me. Not after you killed Karim."
Voldemort's face darkened further. Stupidly, Harry waited for a sign of remorse about that murder, but no such signal came. Clearly the Dark Lord didn't regret what he'd done. He would do it again. Would stop at nothing to achieve his goals.
Like using you.
"I would kill more than just a guard, Harry," Voldemort threatened, and there was a manic glint in his fierce eyes.
Harry paused, watching him apprehensively.
"You have failed me," the man harshly pronounced, and his expression held a deep contempt for him that Harry hadn't seen in ages. "You are useless. So brave until facing an obstacle, then you crumble at the smallest unexpected reprimand. You are letting them control you. It is weak. The Ministry bows before you and yet you cannot even manage to influence one decision."
Harry stared in confusion.
The words hurt because they were true. He was a failure. Yet what hurt more was Voldemort's unexpectedly cruel tone. It was jarring.
And then it hit him.
Voldemort was scared.
He was facing a future without his memories. With no magic. No sense of self.
This was how Lord Voldemort showed fear.
Voldemort continued speaking, trying to intimidate him, but Harry ignored his words and just thought about how the man must feel. It would be terrifying to face losing everything you had fought for. To risk being abandoned and forgotten.
The Dark Lord abruptly shook his arms violently, his chains clanging against the wall. Harry looked up to see the man staring at him disdainfully.
"Am I boring you?" Voldemort asked incredulously, his hairless eyebrows raised.
Yet his skin was trembling. His red eyes showed white around the edges.
"I will get my memories back somehow," Voldemort promised, his voice dropping lethally, "and I will come for you. For your Mudblood and Blood Traitor, too. I will make them beg for me to spare their progeny, but I will not. I will stomp those frail little bodies until they are still, until their—"
"Enough!" Harry shouted, and his blood felt instantly charged with electricity, with fire. "Shut your goddamn mouth."
He stormed over to where the bastard was chained and then backhanded him across the face with as much force as he had.
Voldemort's head whipped to the side, his eyes wide with shock. Harry had stopped breathing, only able to stare.
When Voldemort brought his face back so that their eyes could meet, he was not smiling. He did not look satisfied or hungry.
He looked wide open.
Stunned.
Harry took a deep breath, letting his chest expand and his body calm.
"That's better," Harry whispered.
Voldemort's expression didn't change.
"Now," Harry went on, and his voice remained hard. "You're a smart man. I came here to ask if you have any ideas on how to get out of this."
Voldemort was quiet for a few moments before he spoke in a subdued tone.
"It is your job to—"
"Tom," Harry interrupted sharply, and Voldemort closed his mouth. "Not helpful."
Harry felt sweat break out on his lower back, his body thrumming with power.
That's fucking right, you wanker. Take it.
"Leave the attitude," Harry warned. "I'm trying to help you."
He backed up a few paces and let his eyes drop to admire the red handprint that was blooming on the man's pale cheek. The hint of blood leaking from his left nostril.
It was captivating.
Hermione's voice in his head tried to shame him, pleading, Harry, no. You're better than this.
But he wasn't.
He was exactly the kind of pervert who got off on this shit. He wanted to see Lord Voldemort bow. To see his marks on the man.
"I know that this is my job," Harry conceded. "That's why I'm going to come with you wherever they send you."
"I do not require company, Potter, I require—"
Harry cast a wandless Silencing Charm on Lord Voldemort, stopping his tirade at once. The man foolishly kept moving his lips for the next soundless word, but desisted after that.
Harry met that gaze, expecting anger or indignation.
Instead, those red eyes were blank. Almost... unfocused.
"You look so fucking good like this," Harry whispered, and those eyes sharpened.
Narrowed.
"I bet you want to curse me right now, huh? I bet you hate giving up control. But you know what, Tom? I have the control here. And here's the part you don't understand."
He leaned forward and just took those open lips, sucked them between his teeth and bit down. The Dark Lord made a startled sound, but did not pull away. Harry kneaded the cracked skin, grinding his teeth gently down and tasting the man, revelling in being able to do this.
Being allowed.
Being worthy.
When Harry finally pulled away, he stared into those eyes and saw that they had gone hazy again.
"I'm on your side," Harry finished, touching the man's lips with his fingers where they had grown pink from Harry's mistreatment. "You don't have to threaten me or try to scare me. I'm here. So let me help you. What can I do?"
Harry stepped back, waiting, and then realised that he still had the man's voice. He cancelled the spell.
Voldemort's tongue swept out and traced the skin of his lips. Harry's eyes tracked the movement hungrily, his mind imagining his own cock in the place of that nimble tongue.
"There is a spell," Voldemort rasped, and Harry's eyes snapped back to his.
He marvelled at how... docile the Dark Lord Voldemort suddenly sounded.
Jesus fucking christ.
"Memorias Occultatum," Voldemort recited, and Harry cursed himself for not being able to pay attention. "It must be cast just before the Memory Charm is performed."
Harry nodded vaguely, grateful that he could throw this memory into a Pensieve to remember that spell later.
Right now, he was possessed with this unfamiliar sense of ownership. He was completely overwhelmed with lust, with confident entitlement to this man, this divine entity that was under his control.
It was an addictive feeling.
"It locks memories into a body," Voldemort went on, and Harry dug his nails into the skin of his palm to force himself to focus. "Protecting them. You possess a book in your library at Grimmauld that will provide the necessary information. Preservation and Pessimism. Then, you must perform a simple ritual to return my memories."
"Perfect," Harry said softly, though he'd somehow always known that Voldemort would have a solution. His Dark Lord was a genius, after all. "So I'll just cast that and then—"
"It will require me to rely on your assistance," Voldemort interrupted tersely, as if this was a setback. "I will have no means of accessing those memories on my own."
"Okay," Harry said slowly, confused by his reluctance. "That's not a problem. I'll take care of it."
"Why?"
Voldemort looked annoyed. Uncomfortable.
"You have denied my proposal of a trade between us. I have nothing else to offer. What motive have you to help me?"
Harry frowned, feeling baffled by the question.
He knew that Voldemort wanted to guarantee Harry's cooperation with a reward, and ensure its follow through with a threat, but the man just didn't understand him.
"Because I care about you," Harry stated boldly, spurred on by this unfamiliar feeling of confidence. The man's eyes widened. Harry laughed softly, enjoying that he could surprise the man, make him uneasy. "And I don't need anything in return to protect the people I care about."
Voldemort searched his face avidly, as if trying to detect subterfuge.
"I do not understand."
"I know," Harry said with a small smile. "You don't have to. You just have to trust me."
Harry checked his watch. Merlin. Already almost five.
"Now, I can't stop them from sending you away," Harry said, disliking that there were some things he couldn't control. "But I'll come with you. And I'll perform this spell to lock your memories up safely. Okay?"
"You are asking me to trust you with my life, Potter," Voldemort said, and his voice was almost agonised. Worried.
Harry reached out, gripping the man by the back of his smooth neck. He tilted up his head so that they were staring at each other from inches apart.
"I know. But I will guard it with mine."
Harry pulled that towering face closer until he could rest their foreheads together, and watched in awe as those intense eyes closed.
"Trust me," Harry breathed. "Let me take care of this."
Voldemort's chains clanked against the wall as the man's limbs twitched.
Harry studied him, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to do so unobserved.
The healing spells had closed most of his wounds, yet there remained a patchwork of pink and twisted scars that still peppered his skin. The man had no eyelashes, no eyebrows. His nostril slits were dilating with his erratic breaths.
He was surely other.
Yet it made Harry's teeth clench at how beautiful he was.
He closed his own eyes and spoke to the man in a whisper.
"You tried to teach me that leadership was about instilling fear. Making the person want to do what you demand so that they can avoid something bad."
Harry reached up and touched that smooth cheekbone, finding the man's cool temperature calming.
"But your threats don't move me, Voldemort. I won't let you hurt my friends, of course, yet I don't fear you. What has made me willing to help you, what has led to me caring about you, is the opposite. It's getting to see your faults. To see you as my equal. To... believe that you could care for me."
Which could still be a ruse.
Harry exhaled, accepting that truth.
It could be. Yet his instincts told him that even if the man believed that he was manipulating Harry, there was a small part of him that was unintentionally tempted.
It was the part that had kissed Harry's neck in apology before trying to escape. The part that had ordered Malfoy not to harm him, that had seen Harry's weaknesses, his failures, and not shied away. The part that had said he'd wanted Harry.
That part might be accidental, but it was there.
"I still don't know how you feel," Harry confessed, smoothing the fingers that were touching Voldemort's cheek down to that sharp jaw. "I think you used me when... when you fucked me chained to the wall. But I don't think that that's all that happened."
Harry released a sigh and then slowly stepped back, opening his eyes.
Voldemort's eyes opened, too. His pupils were huge, his expression soft, as if just waking up.
"I am trusting you, as well," Harry assured him. "We're both taking a risk here."
He glanced again at his watch.
Bugger.
"I have to go. I'll see you tonight." He hesitated, knowing that Voldemort was terrified. "Look, if you get scared, just keep focused on me. I've got you."
Harry paused, waiting for the man to call him out for daring to suggest that the Dark Lord would even be capable of feeling scared, but there was no contradiction. The man was motionless, his gaze searing Harry.
It was compelling, but Harry didn't have time to linger. He made towards the door.
"Do not leave me as a Muggle, Harry," Voldemort rasped, his voice barely controlling his agitation.
"I won't," Harry said gently, turning back. "I'll figure something out."
"How long?" Voldemort demanded, suddenly harsh.
Harry raised an eyebrow.
"I don't know. The Ministry—"
"No, Harry. This is between you and I. If trust is what you are asking of me, then you must divulge your plans."
Harry scoffed in frustration, annoyed that he was being held accountable for the chaos of this whole situation.
"They haven't even decided where to send us yet," he said, and then took in the man's tight expression. "I can't say how long. This is where the trust comes in. Let me take care of it."
Voldemort's eyes were hardening again, his arrogant expression coming back.
"I have no magic," he said derisively. "Soon, no memories of my superiority. You are cursing me to live amongst those vermin, Potter. As I once did. If I had never escaped, I would have died an alcoholic, worthless, mediocre failure like all the rest. I would have been assigned a job that I hated and spent my life dying in it."
Harry's insides clenched at how much Voldemort was letting him see. He was exposing his weakness.
"You?" Harry said with a small smile, and shook his head. "Yeah right. Even as a Muggle, you would've still been ambitious. That's who you are. It's not magic that gave you that. You would have become prime minister or... I dunno, probably something darker. You'd have become the world's most accomplished serial killer."
He paused, noting the lack of humour in the Dark Lord's stare. He met the man's gaze solemnly.
"You could never be a nobody."
"I have lived, it, Potter. During the summers. Walking the streets of London and seeing what Muggle filth would do to survive. They are repulsive and weak. Begging. Selling themselves. My own mother pawned her heirloom to birth a child that she did not want."
Harry tilted his head.
"You knew? Dumbledore said you never learned about your family."
Voldemort scoffed.
"Dumbledore. He never cared to know about Tom Riddle. He was blinded by his prejudices. Dumbledore was not an orphan, like us, Harry. Tell me, did you not yearn to know more about your family growing up? Did you not seek to understand them so as to try to understand yourself?"
Harry nodded, realising— as he so often did— that Dumbledore had not been all-knowing.
"Of course I researched my family," Voldemort insisted. "Worthless though they were."
Harry huffed out a tired breath, letting go of the image of a young Tom Riddle's face as he learned of his mother's miserable life. What she had done to Voldemort's father.
What had they been discussing?
Voldemort's fears about becoming a Muggle.
"You saw a very narrow selection of their population, Voldemort. There are plenty of egotistical Muggle wankers like you out there, too."
The man's gaze hardened and Harry shrugged.
"It's true. You're not so original, you know. Plenty of Muggles want glory and recognition and all that rot. They live big and do great things. Or, you know, terrible things, which is more what you're after."
Voldemort's eyes were becoming wild once more, his carefully controlled anxiety seeping through.
"I do not trust your ignorant encouragement, Potter. It speaks of permanence. Drop the empty reassurances and optimism if I am to trust that you will not leave me thus for long."
Harry nodded.
"I get it. I was just trying to say that you'd still be yourself, even without your magic."
Voldemort bared his teeth.
"My eminence depends upon my magic," he countered fiercely, his chest heaving. "I am who and what I am because of my powers. Without them, I will be forced back into unbearable mediocrity. Endless, vapid time wastage. Nothingness."
Harry could feel the man's panic, could see the tense body vibrating with terror.
"I know," Harry said gently, coming forward and placing his hand lightly on the man's thin chest, over his thundering heart. "I won't leave you there. Trust me."
"Trust?" Voldemort mocked snidely, his voice raising further. "To trust is to fail, Potter, and I will not fail, nor falter. I—"
"Tom," Harry snapped, his fingers pinching through the fabric on the man's chest and twisting his skin viciously.
The Dark Lord hissed, flinching away, but Harry followed, holding on, his other hand coming up to grab the man's long throat.
They stared at each other, Voldemort's face slowly losing its fury and becoming focused on Harry.
"Trust me," Harry emphasised, continuing to hold tight to Voldemort's skin, hurting him, not letting go. "Let me handle this."
He watched the Dark Lord swallow, felt it against his palm that was restricting the man's air.
There was still fear shimmering in those eyes, despite his attention being rapt onto Harry. He could see that Voldemort was trying so hard to get control of himself, but Harry knew that trust did not come easily to him.
How can I convince the Dark Lord that I'll take care of him?
Then he remembered the man's words from the last time they'd spoken. His shocking declaration that he would wear Harry's brand as a sign of... devotion.
Would that help him now? Would it show the panicked Dark Lord that he could trust him, in terms that he understood?
"I want to mark you, Voldemort," Harry rasped, his voice suddenly rough and gravelly. Fuck, turns out I'm into this shit, too. "I want you to be able to look down and know that you're cared for. That I'm coming for you."
Harry let go of the man, but did not back away.
"I will have no memories, Harry," Voldemort argued, sounding irritated. "That will not help—"
Harry slapped his hand over the man's still-moving mouth, silencing him. Those red eyes flashed wide, but he did not pull away.
"I will explain it to you, then. I'll explain what it means, even if I can't bring your memories back yet. I'll tell you that it was put there by a man who—" Fuck! Don't say loves!— "...cares about you. And I'll tell you that, even though you feel alone, he is coming back for you."
Voldemort was studying him intensely and Harry let him. He held that gaze steadily, displaying his sincerity.
The Dark Lord blinked and Harry removed his hand. There was a tense moment of silence.
"It will be reciprocal, or it will not occur," Voldemort amended determinedly.
Harry felt his stomach clench.
Fuck, he wants to mark me, too? What will it be? What will Hermione say if she sees it?
"Conjure a knife, Harry. We shall do this, and then you will cauterise the wounds with magic."
A scar.
Another scar put on him by Lord Voldemort.
Harry conjured a knife and held it out. He looked up and saw that the man's arms were still restrained.
"Here, let me release your arm."
He tapped the manacle on Voldemort's right wrist and it fell open. The Dark Lord brought that limb down slowly, his eyes still piercing Harry.
"Give me the knife," Voldemort demanded.
Harry hesitated for the barest of instants.
Trust.
This was all based on trust, and if he couldn't trust Voldemort not to murder him, then he had no business letting the man mark him.
He gave the knife over.
Voldemort held it up, inspecting it. Harry looked down at his arms, wondering where Voldemort would put the cut. And what it would be.
Please, not his name, I'll never get away with that.
"Heat the blade," Voldemort ordered, and Harry took out his wand and made the metal glow.
This is going to fucking hurt.
"Part your robes and lift you shirt for me," Voldemort said, his eyes drawn to where he had indicated.
Harry did as he was told, feeling like exposing his belly was a scary thing to do before Lord Voldemort.
Trust.
"Come to me," Voldemort whispered, and Harry stepped right up to him.
The Dark Lord's hand, with the knife held loosely, moved down and then pulled on the waist of his trousers.
"Lower."
Harry looked up in shock.
"You're not putting that knife near my tackle, Voldemort," Harry said, half as an anxious question, half as an order.
Voldemort simply smiled.
"Lower."
Harry looked down at his body. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he trusted Voldemort not to kill him. Slowly, he began to pull down his trousers and pants.
"Stop," Voldemort said, just before the hair at his groin was revealed.
Oh, thank Merlin.
"I will place my mark here," Voldemort said, pressing the blade gently into the skin protecting his bowels, the man's eyes feasting on Harry's lower belly. Harry's muscles jumped at the heat of it and Voldemort lifted the metal away. "I am going to inscribe the rune Nauthiz. You will then repeat the process onto myself."
A rune? Fuck, those were imbued with magic. They were used in rituals.
Harry's heart was beating frantically. This was your idea! You can't change your mind now.
"You will not flinch, Harry," Voldemort cautioned, and then held the blade poised over Harry's skin.
"Wait," he said automatically, but Voldemort's grip tightened.
"Now," the Dark Lord countered, and then sunk the blade into Harry's skin.
It burned, the metal searing hot and agonising, but he held still, fighting against his screaming impulse to rear back. Harry watched, holding his breath, as Voldemort carved a single, vertical line into his skin. The blood welled up and then curdled with the heat.
The blade turned and Voldemort made one last line crossing over the first diagonally, starting high and finishing low. That line was shorter.
When Voldemort pulled his hand away, Harry staggered back, panting and wincing at the pain.
"A cooling charm shall suffice for now, Harry," Voldemort instructed, and Harry eagerly complied.
The cold did help, and he took a few moments to recover. When he looked back up at Voldemort, the man's face was pleased. Almost... gloating.
"You liked doing that to me," Harry accused, a smile somehow making it onto his face.
Voldemort held his gaze and nodded once. Harry laughed softly.
"So will you," Voldemort promised, and handed Harry the knife.
Oh fuck.
My turn.
Harry took the blade, then watched as those long, thin fingers moved to lift his robes, pulling up until Harry could see the man's concave stomach. His mouth filled with saliva, wanting to lick down that hairless path until he got to what was hidden in the man's trousers—
"Focus," Voldemort commanded, and Harry closed his mouth, swallowing.
The Dark Lord bared the area between his jutting hipbones and Harry was lost.
Sweet fucking Jesus, if they had been anywhere else, under any other circumstances, Harry would have thrown the man onto his back and fucked him, unsatisfied with the frustrating striptease they were engaging in. He needed to see him fall apart, see him needy and open like he was for no one else—
"Focus, Harry," Voldemort snapped with exasperation, and Harry sucked in a breath, his cock so hard and desperate, he knew it would just take one touch, one of those gorgeous hands on him to make him—
"Touch me first, please," Harry begged, staring up into those pitiless eyes.
Voldemort smirked, tapping his own skin impatiently, indicating that Harry should take his turn.
Cruel bastard. Harry took a deep breath, willing his erection to ease so he could stop trembling.
"Okay," Harry muttered, holding the knife firmly, ready to start. "Just like yours?"
Voldemort inclined his head once and Harry nodded back.
He took a moment to marvel at the trust that Voldemort was displaying right now. He was actually holding his clothing aside to present Harry's burning knife with his vulnerable underbelly. Expecting to be injured, trusting that Harry would not go too far.
Trusting Harry with his life.
"I think I love you," Harry rasped— and then panicked, his body seizing, but he forced his hand to move.
What's wrong with you?
Voldemort was not going to return the sentiment, so it was best to just pretend that he hadn't spoken and then never say it again.
Jesus, what were you thinking?
Taking a steadying breath, he gently sunk the blade into Voldemort's skin. The man's body was rigid and he did not move at all. Harry knew the shape that Voldemort had carved and did his best to recreate it.
Vertical line, short horizontal crossing over it.
When it was done, Voldemort released a tight breath.
"Now, Harry," Voldemort urged, his voice rougher and deeper than Harry had ever heard it. "Press your rune against mine and say, Usque Mortem."
Harry frowned.
Wait.
That sounds like Blood Magic.
"Why?" Harry asked.
"It will bind us. You must complete this before our wounds close."
Blood Magic was Dark. And Harry didn't know this spell.
You can't participate in a Blood Ritual with Lord Voldemort without knowing what you are doing!
But it all came back to trust.
And he did trust the man. This couldn't be asking for any more trust than he'd already given him, after all they'd done with each other.
Trust.
Harry walked forward and stood on his tippy-toes, but he still wasn't able to reach. Voldemort bent his legs, sinking down until Harry was able to press their marks together.
It hurt, yet there was something else. Something... resonated within him. It felt like a weight was sinking into his bones, connecting perfectly and then settling.
It was a comforting feeling.
"Say, Usque Mortem, Harry," Voldemort prompted breathily into his ear.
Harry bit his lip, knowing it was unwise, but if it brought more of that addictive feeling, it was worth it.
"Usque Mortem," he recited, and then yelped as the rune on his skin blazed with fire.
"Til death do us part," Voldemort whispered roughly.
As Harry looked into those frenzied, delighted red eyes, the pain began to recede. It was more of a throbbing ache now, easier to ignore.
While Harry tried to grasp what had just occurred, what he'd allowed to happen, Voldemort reached out and fisted the hair at the back of Harry's head, claiming his lips and pulling him closer. Harry folded gratefully into that huge body, letting the Dark Lord distract him from his worries that he had done something that he'd later regret.