CHAPTER 32
.
.
It was a victory to have finally caught the spy. This confirmation of his instincts was gratifying.
Even lost as he was, confused as he was, he could still prevail.
Glancing down, he read the letter again.
"Voldemort," he muttered, repeating it, seeing if it was familiar.
The name sounded French, yet he knew no French at all. He remembered England, though. Was that where he knew this man from?
He looked down at where the stranger— Harry, was reposed, his black hair matted with blood.
He should kill him. It was the wisest choice. Yet Harry had information he needed.
While he waited for the man to wake, he searched his clothes for any more clues.
The man's jacket pockets were baffling. They looked standard-sized, yet when he reached into them, they contained more than they should be able to. They held a spare pair of spectacles, a pen, some paper, a tool of some kind, a small knife, a pair of gloves, and another letter.
The second letter was different. The paper was more textured. And the ink on the page was pitch black.
He unfolded it fully and read.
Harry,
Ron told me what happened. He didn't mean it as a threat. We're just worried about you.
Can you stop by tonight when you come into London?
Love,
-Hermione.
A woman.
His eyes lingered on the valediction.
Love.
An unfamiliar discomfort came with that word. She was not to be trusted.
Yet perhaps he could use her. Find a way to write his own letter to her. Though, there was no address on this note. Were they all hand-delivered? Did she live on the island, too? An expert hider, like Harry.
When you come into London.
So Harry was going into London at night. Assuming that he lived on the island, he left each evening. That would be the time, then, once he was ready, that he would escape.
His tunnel was growing deeper. He had encountered rock and had needed to shift slightly, but the depth was increasing each day.
The next time he reached an impenetrable barrier, he would begin to dig horizontally and see if the raging, thwarting winds could be circumvented.
He ran a hand down the man's flank, checking for weapons or—
There was something.
He lifted the man's shirt and found a thin, wooden stick apparently attached to nothing. Frowning, he tried to pull it from the man's body, but it would not move.
He tried harder, gripping it tightly and yanking, yet the strange tool did not budge.
Leaving it for now, he ran his hands down that narrow waist, feeling around the trouser pockets and seeing what could be found there. When he reached inside, the action pulled down the material and his gaze got caught on the top of a red scar on the man's abdomen.
He froze.
Slowly, he reached over and undid the button, shifting the trousers and pants down.
That mark.
It was the same symbol he had on his own hypogastric region. Harry's was neater than his own, but they both seemed to be of a similar age.
What were they? What did they mean? And why did they both have them?
He ran his fingers lightly over the scar, feeling drawn to it somehow. After discovering his own, he had not paid it much attention, yet this one was impossible to ignore.
Compelled by a strange urge, he leaned down and smelled it, inhaling deeply, and catching hints of the man's nearby genitals.
His fingers, that had unintentionally migrated to the man's thighs, flexed and he heard Harry pull in a sharp gasp of air.
He reared back, catching that green, wild gaze.
The man looked panicked at first, his limbs thrashing as he must have realised that he was tied to a table.
"Ouch!" Harry cried, his eyes squinting with pain. "Fuck— ow! Bloody sodding hell. What did you do this time?"
He was caught, watching the man struggle. It was an enchanting sight.
"Who are you?" he asked softly.
The man grimaced and began to pant.
"Ugh, my head. Was that another rock to my skull, Voldemort?"
Voldemort.
He paused, alert.
Another.
This had been the first time. And yet...
"You are Harry."
The man froze, but then composed himself rapidly.
"No. I'm just a letter carrier."
He tilted his head in confusion.
"Letter carrier."
The man nodded once and then stopped, closing his eyes.
"Jeez, that hurts, you bastard."
"I found a letter in your pocket. Paper and a pen."
The man's eyes opened.
"I always carry them, in case I need to write to someone. But my name's Trevor."
He considered this.
Perhaps... and yet, when he remembered yesterday night, the voice of whomever had masturbated beside him, had been this voice.
This man.
He lies.
"Trevor."
The man nodded.
"You just assaulted a government worker. I'm only delivering the mail, mate."
"How did you get here?"
"By boat."
Boat.
He did not believe these lies, and yet... if there was a boat... he could leave.
"Where is your boat?"
"It comes at night. I must have just missed it."
"Then we shall wait for evening again and you can show me."
The man glanced away.
"Look, can you let me free? I have to see to this wound."
His eyes trailed the man's exposed body. His scar was still on display and his eyes were drawn helplessly to it.
"You called me Voldemort," he muttered.
"Yeah," the man replied. "That's what the bloke that sends the letters called you."
He looked up at the stranger.
"What is that scar?"
Something like fear passed over the man's face. He glanced away, his eyes searching the room. Finally, he spoke.
"Someone who... cared about me gave it to me."
He stared at the mark, trying to think.
"I have one, too," he whispered.
The man was silent.
"Where did I get it?"
The man looked back up at him, his expression complex. Perhaps... mournful.
"Someone who loves you gave it to you."
He scrutinised the bound man, searching his memories, aching to remember, but it was futile.
"I need to leave this island," he said. "I will be taking your boat when it comes."
The man looked away again.
"It won't come until I'm alone. It's just meant for me. You can keep me here for months and it won't ever come." He paused, turning back to face him. "I'm really sorry."
He shook his head, dismissing the platitude.
"Where is this?"
"Scotland."
"How... how do I leave?"
The man's face was irritatingly pitying.
"You don't. I'm sorry." His sentiments seemed to be bizarrely sincere. "I don't know the details, you'll have to ask the letter writer. I'm just the messenger."
He stared into those eyes, trying to decipher the truth. The longer he looked, the more certain he became.
This man was lying.
The letter writer and carrier were the same man. Why pretend otherwise? Yet, if the man wanted the facade of anonymity, he could have it, providing he still gave answers.
"Why can I not leave?"
The man— Harry, looked away.
"This is a prison."
That gave him pause.
A prison.
"What have I done?"
He did not doubt that he was capable of criminal acts, it had always been so with him in his youth, yet he could recall nothing.
Harry hesitated.
"I'm not sure. You should ask—"
"I am asking you."
Harry held his breath.
"I don't know."
"You do. And you will tell me."
The man closed his eyes.
"Please," he breathed, and it was pained. Impossible to look away from. "Let me—"
"No," he hissed, coming closer and putting hands on the man's bound form. "You do not get to issue requests. You will do as I say or I will make you."
Those eyes flew wide, but not with fear.
With lust.
That gave him pause.
"Please," Harry begged again, and so he put his hands onto that small waist, gripping him tightly just for the pleasure of seeing his long fingers wrap around that smaller body.
"Tell me the truth," he demanded. "Who are you?"
"I'm— I'm Tr—"
He struck the man over his mouth.
There was a moment where he was certain that he had gone too far. He was aware, had always been aware, that others did not appreciate him inflicting pain.
And yet, Harry's lips had parted in shock, and he released a low moan that hardened his cock immediately.
It was intoxicating.
"If you lie to me again," he threatened roughly, "I will break one of your fingers."
Harry struggled pitifully in his bindings and it was fascinating to witness. So pointless. It was almost endearing.
"Please," Harry begged.
He reached down and grabbed the man through his damp trousers. That cock was hard. He could not remember ever having touched any but his own.
This was thrilling. Novel.
"I want you," he breathed, surprising himself.
The impulse was foreign, yet intense.
He brought both his hands down and grabbed two palmfuls of the man's firm arse. He made a groaning sound as he did so, his body igniting in anticipation.
"Do you wish me to take you, Harry?"
He had never done it, could never remember wanting to, but he knew with certainty that he would have this man.
Harry moaned again and he squeezed him roughly in punishment for his non-verbal reply. The man cried out, but instead of cringing away, he pushed into the pain, as if seeking more.
"Beautiful," he breathed, and then claimed the man's lips, taking his first kiss.
He let his instincts guide him as he tasted that mouth, biting and sucking as Harry ground himself against him. His hands mapped that body, bringing his fingers up to feel that hairy chest and lean torso.
He found a pebbled nipple and twisted it cruelly, devouring the cries that Harry fed him.
"Please," Harry repeated, and the word was an aphrodisiac coming from those lips.
Breaking the kiss, he glanced down that heaving chest to the man's trousers. He stopped and met those eyes once more.
"I am going to take you."
Harry stared at him, seeming lost in his arousal.
"Tell me yes if that is what you want."
"Yes," Harry replied immediately, but then his face sobered. He shook his head. "No. I can't."
Anger consumed him.
"Why not?"
That face tightened.
"I'm not supposed to."
The vague comment was maddening.
"I doubt that I am one to adhere to protocol," he stated, and leaned down to take the man's nipple in his mouth.
Harry cried out, arching against his lips, and that feeling of power invigorated him.
"No, we can't," the man insisted, his tone panicked. "I'm not supposed to do this."
He lifted his head, staring down at the beautiful man below him. Unmoved by this debate.
"That is not relevant. The only argument that will stop me right now is your refusal."
Harry glanced away, but he used his fingers to draw that troubled gaze back.
"Do you wish for me to take you, Harry?"
The man nodded minutely, and that unconscious confirmation of his identity made him clench his teeth in lust for a moment. Gathering his composure, he decided not to comment on it.
"Then that is all that matters."
Climbing onto the table, he pressed down until his body was resting heavily on that restrained form. He took those lips again, gripping the man's throat as he did so.
It felt good to follow his reflexes. To touch as he desired, propelled by Harry's positive responses.
The man liked rough treatment.
"I want to touch you," Harry whined, pulling away and shifting restlessly against the table.
He looked down at the man, considering his request.
This could be a ruse to escape. Harry was a proficient hider and could disappear if he was released. However... he did wish to feel those hands upon him.
And there was a certain draw to the possibility that Harry would not run away. That he could perhaps be truthful in his desire.
"Shall I trust you, Harry?"
The man's face cleared, his eyes opening wider with shocked pleasure.
"Yes, Voldemort," he replied with a small smile. "You should trust me."
Voldemort.
Although the name still did not feel familiar, he liked the way Harry said it to him. He wanted to be Voldemort, to be this man that Harry seemed so taken with.
Sliding his hand down the quivering torso, his fingers gently encountered that scar. He paused, pulling away to stare at it.
"Why do we share that mark," he persisted softly, his mind refusing to let the mystery drop.
Harry closed his eyes, turning his face to the side.
"Don't ask me," the man begged.
He shifted and then took the corded tissue in his mouth and sucked it, causing Harry to cry out. He dragged his tongue along the outline, mouthing it, biting it, and when he looked back down at the pink symbol, it was decorated with fresh purple bruises and bloody scratches.
He smiled, liking to see his marks on this man.
"You said someone who cared about you put it there," he said quietly, not meeting Harry's eyes.
"Uh huh," he heard the man reply, almost sounding scared.
Reaching out, he gently touched the embellished scar, his cock twitching when Harry winced from tenderness.
He removed his hand and used it to pull down the waist of his own trousers. Then he lifted his shirt, exposing his twin scar.
When he met the man's eyes, they were hooded and his face was blank.
"You said mine was given to me by someone who loved me."
The word was jarring, but he somehow did not doubt it.
"Why did we put these marks on each other, Harry?"
The man closed his eyes, a pained sound escaping his lips.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
Harry was the letter writer. He knew him and could answer all of his questions.
He would get him off this island.
If it was a prison, then Harry must be his guard, but one that was compromised.
There was plenty to work with here.
He did not require a response to his question. That answer, and all others, would come soon. Harry was his, and would get him out of here.
A strange, ravenous need overtook him.
Climbing back over Harry, he removed the knife from his pocket that he had stolen earlier when he had been resolved to kill the man. As he pulled it out, Harry froze, a look of horror coming across his face.
"Relax, Harry," he chided with amusement. "I do not intend to kill someone I care about."
Though he doubted that he did. More likely, was that he had told Harry that he cared to gain his trust.
Bringing the knife down towards the man's chest, he deftly cut through the ropes and let Harry go. The bindings fell away and Harry's arms automatically came up and wrapped around his neck, drawing him down into a heated embrace.
The man was passionate, touching his jaw and face as if reacquainting himself. He let him, his own focus rapt on using that knife to carefully slice through the man's clothing, baring him completely to his hungry gaze.
"Oh, fuck, Voldemort," Harry panted, breaking away to gasp in air.
He felt himself grin and the man's eyes warmed at the response.
"I didn't know if we'd ever do this again, I missed you so much," the man babbled. "It's been impossible not touching you, you have no idea."
Harry's hands were working his shirt over his head, trying to yank down his trousers and pants, all the while that warm mouth was biting and sucking on his skin.
He had never felt anything like this. It made him incredibly vulnerable to allow someone to handle him this way. To have access to his naked body, and yet an unfamiliar but undeniable compulsion was driving him on.
Lifting one of the man's legs, he bent it and placed it onto his shoulder. His fingers found Harry's entrance and he gently pet the puckered skin, stroking it, marvelling at the intimacy of that touch.
Harry sagged against him, groaning.
"Yes, fucking please, Voldemort. Jesus, I want you so much. Just you. Fuck, I want you to hurt me."
Hurt him.
Yes.
He pushed two fingers through that tight ring of squeezing muscle without warning. Harry tensed, sucking in a startled breath of air.
"Have I had you before?" he asked, twisting his digits, making the man grab the back of his neck and bury his head into his shoulder.
"Oh, fuck," Harry breathed.
He grinned, thrusting his cock down against the man's taut arse. He felt himself curling against him, eager to be inside.
He began to spread his fingers that were embedded in Harry's heat, attempting to stretch him. The hole was so small and he knew he would be much too large for Harry to handle. He wanted to hurt the man, but not injure him.
"Answer me," he prompted, pushing his fingers deeper.
Harry was mouthing his neck, mumbling words that he could not understand.
His disobedience would not do.
The arm that was bracing his body above Harry's released and he fell heavily onto that smaller frame. The movement caused his fingers to stab deeper and the boy's breath came out in a pained huff.
His unoccupied hand came up, balancing on his elbow, and he shoved his fingers into Harry's open mouth.
He had all of his digits inside the man.
"Have I fucked you before, Harry," he repeated, watching those eyelids flutter.
"Yeah," the man gargled around him, not trying to dislodge the choking fingers at all.
Accepting the discomfort.
"Good boy," he muttered, and he was startled to see Harry's eyes slam shut.
His fingers inside of the man's arse were squeezed tightly as Harry made an agonised sound.
"Again," Harry begged, his words hampered enticingly.
Again?
He pressed his fingers deeper and Harry let him, but the man subtly shook his head.
"Boy," he panted. "Please. Call me boy."
Ah.
What a treat.
The man liked degradation, too. How many other ways were they compatible? How wonderful.
He pulled his hand away from Harry's mouth, wiping the saliva off on the man's face. Harry did not move, taking the debasement.
He looked down and his gaze was once again caught by that enigmatic scar on Harry's lower abdomen. Reaching down with his moist digits, he traced the lines.
"Tell me what these symbols mean," he said, thinking that they looked like an ancient language.
If only he had access to a library. Perhaps this building had one.
Harry threw his head to the side.
"You never told me," he rasped, his eyes open.
He frowned at that, but his cock throbbed at the possibilities.
"You took a mark from me without requiring an explanation?" he asked, incredulous, yet also impressed with that bravery.
Harry's face looked bewildered, confused.
"I trust you," he replied simply.
He closed his eyes briefly, taking that pronouncement physically in his chest and in his throbbing cock.
Trust.
That level of loyalty was incredibly alluring. Never had the idea of commitment sounded so compelling. This tenacious, beautiful man trusted him so completely that he had allowed himself to be burned without needing to understand why.
"Did I have a reason for marking you thus?" he asked roughly.
Harry nodded.
"I assume so. You were quite clear with what you wanted."
And you trusted me.
Enough to bleed for me, for my undisclosed reasons.
He had to have this man.
Ripping his fingers free of that heat, he gripped Harry's narrow waist and held him down against the tabletop.
"I am going to fuck you," he informed him, staring into those trusting green eyes.
Harry's hands came up and crossed above his head. Like he was bound. Submissive.
He paused to enjoy the sight. It was clear that they had done this before, for how else would Harry know his weaknesses?
Baring his teeth, he took the man's ignored erection into his hand firmly. Harry's mouth fell open, but he stayed silent.
"What is my name?" he asked, shifting his body to position himself against the man's waiting entrance.
He stroked himself once, staring at that stretched opening that fluttered, trying to close, but unable.
"Voldemort," Harry breathed immediately, his legs coming up to wrap around his body, pulling him closer. "Your name is Voldemort."
"Will you swear it?" he asked, pressing himself lightly against that ring of twitching muscle, Harry's cock in his hand hot and solid.
"Yes," the man replied in a gasp. "Oh please, don't tease me. Fuck me, Voldemort. I'm yours."
I'm yours.
He had never had anyone.
"You are mine, boy," he said lowly and those eyes flew open.
Voldemort thrust inside, forcing his way through that tight muscle, feeling Harry tense around him. Those arms came down, but Voldemort used the hand not gripping the boy's cock to collect the errant wrists and slam them back above his head once more.
"Do not move these," he commanded, staring down at the man and imbuing his tone with danger.
Harry held his gaze wonderingly as Voldemort began to move, rocking into that unfamiliar body that fit so perfectly around him.
He let go of Harry's wrists and brought his hand down to pinch one of those tempting, pink nipples.
Harry cried out, wincing— but his arms remained above his head.
Interesting. How obedient can he be?
Raking his long fingernails brutally down that hairy chest, he watched the man's back arch and felt that hard cock twitch in his hand, a bead of pre-ejaculatory fluid leaking from the tip.
Voldemort swiped it with his finger and brought that digit into his mouth, tasting him.
It was his first taste of come, and it was bitter, but the way Harry's legs fell open as he watched him, and the sound he made in his throat, ensured that Voldemort would do it again unquestionably.
He shifted Harry's legs and threw them over his shoulder, leaning down to brace one arm onto the tabletop. His pace was punishing, his body's instincts taking over this foreign task.
Harry's mouth was open, panting with every thrust and it was impossible to watch.
He looked down at the cock in his hands.
The man was so trusting. So vulnerable.
"I am going to hurt you, Harry," he said raggedly, needing to see how much he would take for him.
"Yes," Harry gasped, constricting his internal muscles and gripping Voldemort's imbedded cock fiercely, his boney knees digging into his ribs.
A jolt of pain lanced through him— and it spurred him on. It was not a deterrent as he would have imagined, but rather a call for more.
He liked the pain, and that was something of a revelation.
Images reached up and grabbed him— of Harry doing this to him, curiosity at what it would feel like to be overpowered, and whether they had already ventured there in their mysterious past.
That thought was staggering and almost undid him. He forced his mind to shift, to think briefly about the tunnel he was digging, about escape and victory and—
"Master," Harry rasped, his legs trembling. "Oh fuck, yes."
Master.
That title fit like no name had yet.
Master.
That is who I am.
He reached down and fisted Harry's testicles viciously, wanting him to hurt while he came, needing to take his pleasure and make the other man wait.
The Master comes first.
His mouth sought Harry's nipple and he bit down, the sound of Harry's cries taking him over the edge. His hips snapped forward and then held while searing pleasure raced through him.
He rested his head against Harry's sternum, trying to catch his breath. His body was motionless, his hand still gripping the man mercilessly.
When Voldemort looked up, he saw that Harry's arms had remained obediently above his head and his face was agonised, but... accepting.
Accepting the pain he was in. Accepting that Voldemort had come and he had not. That Harry had asked to be able to touch him, yet had obeyed his command to keep his hands away.
"Good boy," Voldemort praised softly, and those trusting green eyes crinkled with pleasure.
When he released Harry's testicles, the man made a mewling sound, bringing his legs slightly together. Voldemort looked down and marvelled at the come leaking from Harry's body. The faint smears of blood on the rim of muscle. The man's quivering, desperate cock.
"Beautiful," he breathed.
Harry did not move, awaiting his command.
"Are you close, Harry?"
His gaze slid slowly up that splayed body to see Harry nodding.
Voldemort smiled.
Placing one hand onto that heated organ, he gently squeezed. Harry groaned, throwing his head to the side.
"What year is it?"
The man opened his mouth to breathe and Voldemort moved his finger leisurely up the man's length.
"Two-thousand—" Harry panted, and Voldemort froze. "And seven. September."
How was that possible? That would mean he was eighty-one.
"Please," Harry begged, and Voldemort returned his gaze to the man.
He wrapped his hand more securely around that cock and began to slowly stroke it.
"What happened to me?"
Harry frowned and Voldemort realised that that was not precise enough.
"Where are my memories?"
The man bit his lips and Voldemort squeezed him tighter. Harry made a desperate sound, his hips thrusting off the table.
"Do not move," Voldemort commanded him sharply. "You will take what I give you, or receive nothing."
"Fuck," Harry breathed, closing his eyes. "You sound just like him, oh my god, Voldemort. I miss you so much."
He released the man's cock and slapped Harry hard in the face. His head whipped to the side, his expression shocked.
"You will address me as Master while I am in control of your body, boy. Do you understand?"
Those eyes darted back to him and then lowered.
Perfect.
"Yes, Master," Harry said softly, and Voldemort hummed, enjoying that phrase tremendously.
He returned his hand to Harry's cock and began to pump it unhurriedly.
"Now. Where are my memories?"
The man's face became worried.
"They're... not gone. You'll get them back. It takes time."
How could that be? Was it brain damage?
"How?"
Harry met his gaze.
"Trust me. I'll take care of you, okay? I can't say any more. But you'll get them back soon."
Trust.
"Is it medical?" he asked, trying to understand. "Did I have an accident that took my memory? Is that why I look like this?"
Harry's expression softened. His gaze was... affectionate.
"You look amazing. I wouldn't worry too much about that."
He frowned. It was not worry that he felt. He wanted answers.
"Who are we to each other?" he asked, his hand still gently fisting Harry's cock.
The man blew out a long breath that ended on a chuckle.
"Fucked if I know. It's a long story and I can't concentrate with you torturing me like this."
He paused, liking the sound of that.
Torturing.
He would like to see Harry tortured.
Continuing to stimulate him, Voldemort brought his other hand down and grouped his fingers together. He placed them against Harry's leaking entrance and then shoved them inside, twisting his hand to make them fit.
Harry cried out, his legs coming together to protect himself.
Yet, his arms did not move.
"You want to be tortured, boy?" he said roughly, leaning down to get into Harry's face.
The man was grimacing from the pain of Voldemort's entry because he was not being gentle. He pressed deeper and deeper, wanting to see Harry cry suddenly, wanting to lick away the tears and keep going, aware of, but enamoured with his suffering.
"Yes, Master," Harry whined, his voice high and thin.
It had to hurt, but Harry just took it.
He squeezed the man's cock and began to pump it rapidly. Harry's mouth fell open and his breathing became shallow and rapid.
Voldemort concentrated his efforts on sinking his large hand inside that impossibly small opening. His emissions made the effort slick, but not easy. He continued to rotate his wrist, pushing deeper, feeling Harry's muscles resist and then eventually give way. His knuckles finally popped through and his whole hand sunk into that glorious heat.
The man was making keening sounds now, his trembling legs lifted off the table and resting on Voldemort's knees.
He wanted to make this man shatter.
Shifting, he bowed down and took Harry's cock into his mouth.
Harry screamed, arching his back and coming almost immediately. His body spasmed and shot ejaculate in spurts onto his tongue.
He did not know what to do with the liquid. Looking up at Harry's amazed face— that sweaty brow and panting, open mouth— he swallowed.
The taste was... unique.
Not unpleasant. He licked his lips and then realised that he was wrist-deep inside the man.
With the haze of arousal dissipating, things came sharply into focus. He was aware that his hand felt like he was wearing a tight, hot, fleshy glove.
Their gazes locked.
"That was fucking amazing," Harry raggedly breathed. "Can I move my arms?"
Voldemort nodded vaguely.
Harry brought his hands down and gently gripped Voldemort's trapped wrist.
"Slowly pull it out now, okay? Carefully."
Voldemort looked at Harry in concern. How was he so calm with such a large appendage sunk into his intestines?
"C'mon," Harry encouraged. "You can do it. Just— go slowly."
Voldemort kept his eyes rapt onto what he was doing and delicately pulled back his arm. He could see the man's skin stretching, forbidding him from removing his limb, but Harry's grip on his wrist stayed tight and continued to pull.
"Ahh— fuck," Harry moaned, a sharp giggle chasing the words. "I can't believe that you did that!"
The skin began to part and then his hand slipped free. He looked down at Harry's entrance and stared at the widened opening.
It was impossible to look away from.
I did that.
Harry's fingers gently touched his cheek and Voldemort looked up.
"You're staying with me, tonight, right?"
Voldemort stared at him.
Harry smiled softly.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."