CHAPTER 35

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That night, Voldemort had sat in an armchair staring at him for hours, refusing to sleep. Harry knew he was staying awake to prevent him from leaving, but the man had just had a heart attack, so he would eventually succumb.

Which he did. Sometime after four in the morning.

Harry was numb. Painfully tired. He felt nauseated and drunk.

But he had work to do. He'd have to hurry now, or he'd be late.

He cast a mild sleeping spell on Voldemort. The man would be pissed, but if Harry removed it as soon as he got back and only left for a few hours, then it should be fine.

So long as you return before sunrise, because Voldemort had said he would hurtle you into the ocean if he woke after that.

Harry wanted to laugh at that, but this was still the Dark Lord Voldemort and Harry had already seen him do some impressive things, even hindered as he was.

Harry rubbed his eyes, yawning deeply.

Merlin, what I wouldn't do for a nice six-hour nap.

Standing up, he took one last look at Voldemort, asleep in the chair. The man looked so peaceful, so... human. He stepped closer, walking right up to the slumbering form.

"I love you," he whispered, feeling a pleasurable rush every time he said those words out loud.

Leaning down, he laid a gentle kiss on the man's smooth brow.

"I know you don't like him, but I have to go, alright?"

He had received a letter at work yesterday from Draco asking to meet up. And he knew why. More nagging about his responsibilities. Tonight would be another unbearable barrage of guilt from those he was supposed to be protecting.

But he owed it to them to take it.

Sighing, he straightened up and then Apparated away.

When he landed with a crack! outside one of his favourite Muggle pubs, Draco was already waiting for him. He was wearing fucking emerald robes, the stupid, stubborn git.

Harry walked right up to him, shaking his head.

"So, we're just forgetting all about the Statute of Secrecy, then?" he asked.

Draco's sneer was impressive.

"You chose to meet here of all places and then dare to condemn my attire? It's five am. You're lucky I showed up at all, Potter."

Harry snorted.

"You're the one that requested this chat, Malfoy. I have like two hours a day to myself, so you should count yourself lucky that I'm wasting them on you."

Harry began to walk towards VQ, a pub that catered to those whose schedules were all fucked up. It was open twenty-four hours and Harry had come here often taking advantage of that.

"But why here," Draco moaned beside him. "I have alcohol at my house. We could have met there."

"Because if I see your father, I just might break my word and kill him."

He could see Draco's eyes lock onto him in his peripheral. It was... kind of thrilling that he could scare the other man now. Something between them had shifted and Harry felt powerful.

"My house, Potter. Not the manor."

Harry glanced at him, raising his eyebrows.

"I had assumed you wouldn't want to talk about... whyever we're here near your family."

Draco's gaze shifted and he didn't reply.

"And I've drank all the booze at my place ages ago," Harry muttered, mildly embarrassed by that.

He walked inside, ignoring how Draco's demeanour changed as soon as they entered. At the bar, they grabbed their drinks and then found a seat in one of the booths.

Draco plopped down beside him instead of taking the vacant seat across the table. Harry raised his eyebrows, but the other man gave him a hard look.

"Budge up. I am not running the risk of one of those sitting down next to me."

He was watching a couple make out in the booth next to theirs.

Harry rolled his eyes and sat up straighter, back to the cushions to let the blonde pass over his lap and settle in beside the wall. In some ways, Draco was still the same bigoted arsehole he'd been at school.

"I don't see why we had to meet in London," Draco whinged in a mutter, "never mind Muggle London."

Harry grinned.

"Why, for this reaction, you spoiled, intolerant prat. I so love seeing you flustered and appalled."

Draco glared at him and Harry laughed.

"You look like shit, by the way," Draco commented abruptly, giving Harry an up-down.

Harry snorted.

"Thanks so much."

Draco didn't laugh.

"You're not sleeping, are you?"

Instead of replying, Harry figured it was time to add the privacy wards. Once they were set, he turned to the blonde.

"Look, why don't you just get to why—"

"They've put the Trace back on you."

Harry stopped talking, staring at the other man in shock.

You've got to be fucking kidding me.

Draco's face was dead serious.

"Astoria heard it from her father. I believe him. Harry, are you being careful?"

Careful? What could Draco think he was doing? He knew that Harry loved Voldemort, but—

"They have a whole department now focused on killing the Dark Lord," Draco went on, his eyes boring into Harry's. "And a big part of what they do is watching you. They know everywhere you go."

Harry thought about Voldemort— all alone, unprotected on the island and under a spell that kept him asleep— and he panicked.

"Do they know where we are?" he rasped, ready to Apparate away.

Draco shook his head.

"No. I mean, I don't think so. Have you had crowds of people Apparating in and attacking the Dark Lord?"

Harry vaguely shook his head. I'd love to see them try.

Draco nodded.

"There you go. If the area is well-protected, the Trace can't do shit."

Thank fuck for that, at least.

"But it can detect when you use magic, so every time you Apparate somewhere, one of your Aurors follows you."

He tried to remember all the places he'd gone when he was looking for ingredients. He could maybe pass it off as Horcrux searching if—

"They've seen you looking for banned substances, Harry," Draco said, then shoved him on the chest, his expression angry. "Dementor blood? What the fuck do you need that for?"

Fucking bugger fuck.

How was he ever going to find anything if he was being so thoroughly tracked?

"Is there a way to break the Trace?" he asked.

Draco frowned.

"Probably. And I think you should try, but that's not why I asked you to meet me. Why do you need Dementor blood, Harry? That's a heavily controlled substance. Do you even know what it's properties are? It can—"

"I know," he lied, not wanting a lecture.

Sighing, he rubbed a hand down his face. Now this whole sodding ritual would be even harder to prepare.

"Fucking wonderful," he muttered, and banged his head back against his booth's cushion.

He wouldn't be able to go collect the ingredients. It would be too suspicious. What he needed...

An idea struck him. He turned fully to face Draco.

"Could you find me some?" he asked, sure that this was the solution. "And a few other things I need? I'll pay you."

Draco coughed in incredulity.

"Like I need your money, Harry. Fucking answer me! What are you making?"

"That doesn't matter," he dismissed. "What I need—"

"You expect me to obtain dangerous ingredients for you and you won't even tell me why?" The man looked furious. "I'm not one of your sycophantic fans, Harry."

"Look, I can't tell you, but—"

"Do you even want to hear why? Not because I don't want to help, or because you're not worth it, or whatever else you're thinking."

He considered Harry intently.

"I can think of two potions off the top of my head that have that ingredient. One, is the Sepulchre Potion, which traps a person's soul in their body. The blood binds the soul to the flesh and when the person dies, they don't go onto whatever's next."

There wasn't anything next. Dead was dead.

"The second," Draco continued, his gaze hardening as Harry fought the urge to run, "I only came across once, so I don't remember much, but it has to do with memories, Harry. With releasing them."

Harry stared helplessly into those unforgiving grey eyes.

"Is that what you're attempting?" Draco whispered, his tone disbelieving. "To return him his memories?"

"No," Harry lied, his voice barely more than a breath.

Draco grabbed Harry's hand from his lap and gripped his cold fingers.

"You can't," he emphasised. "I know you love him. I know you want to save him, but this is not the way."

"He'll die like this," Harry breathed, feeling brittle and scared. "He's too weak. And he hates it, Draco. He's miserable. He would despise what he's become."

"Harry. Love him if you have to. Stop looking for the Horcrux and just... be happy with him. He might not... appreciate how he is, but I guarantee you that he would appreciate being alive. And if you give him back his memories, he'll be gone immediately anyway."

Harry tried to picture Voldemort staying once he returned his memories, but the scene wouldn't coalesce. He knew it was impossible.

Voldemort was going to despise him.

Harry was doing exactly what he had promised not to do. He was breaking Voldemort's trust.

"I know it feels like he cares about you," Draco persisted. "And maybe he does. But he doesn't care about anyone more than he cares about himself. Do you understand? No, you can't, selfless hero that you are. Even if he actually loved you, if that is even possible— which I absolutely don't believe that it is— if the time came to choose, he will always choose himself. He won't honour any promises he's made or—"

"How do you know?" he accused, not wanting to believe these slights against the man. "You—"

"He lived with me, Harry. For almost three years."

Harry thought about that. About what it must have been like for the Malfoys. Three years of terror. Of the constant threat of death always lingering nearby. The possibility of opening your bedroom door for a midnight snack and coming face to face with the Dark Lord Voldemort.

No wonder Lucius hates him so much.

Harry killed that thought. No matter how it had been for the bastard, he had crossed Harry too many times for his sympathy.

Yet Draco was the perfect middle-ground. Harry could tolerate him and he was one of the very few people who had actually spoken to the Dark Lord. Who might be able to grasp his situation.

He glanced at Draco's face and saw the shadowed, haunted look that had come into those eyes.

He squeezed the man's hand. Draco's gaze snapped to his and understanding passed between them.

"He'll betray you, Harry."

"I can't keep him like this," he confessed in a whisper, his throat sore and tight.

Draco's expression fell.

"What do you mean?"

"Like a Muggle. He's tried to kill me four times. That's not including threats of death, but just actual attempts at murder."

"Merlin, Harry—"

He thought about the heart attack, the sorrow on the man's normally self-satisfied face.

"He's struggling," Harry implored. "He knows he has missing memories and that I can help bring them back, so he has hope, but I don't know how much longer he'll be willing to wait. How much longer he can wait. This... empty life that he's living will kill him and—"

"He's going to succeed at killing you eventually. He's the sodding Dark Lord. What then?"

"But that's what I mean! He wouldn't be doing that if he had his memories."

"Of course he would," Draco dismissed scathingly. "Just not to you. He'd be killing my family instead."

Harry paused, recognising the truth of that.

"I can make him—"

"Make him, Harry? The Dark Lord? You're delusional."

"No. He listens to me."

Draco laughed harshly.

"Gods, you sound ridiculous— you sound like my Aunt!"

Harry's guts twisted at that comparison. He gently pulled his hand free.

"Except that he fancies me back," he muttered.

Draco scoffed unkindly.

"You don't think she would have said that, too?"

Irritation flooded him. He was different, it was different between them. What they had was real and comparing it to that psycho bitch was unfair.

"Bet they never fucked, though," Harry added, half-hoping that Draco would confirm they had not.

Draco's mouth fell open.

He stared at Harry for long moments, his eyes pleading and horrified.

"Fucking hell, Harry! I told you not to say shit like that to me!"

Harry smiled, feeling himself relax again.

He's mine, Bellatrix. He wouldn't have touched you.

"Did you actually— I thought you just saw— he fucked you, Potter?"

Harry nodded, taking a sip of his drink.

Draco put his elbows on the tabletop, his head in his hands.

"Oh my god, I can't... Now I'm picturing— Merlin... was he any goo— Fuck!" He rubbed his face hard, his expression pained. "What am I doing? I don't want to know that."

Harry leaned back. Draco's distress was soothing somehow. It was such a normal, familiar reaction that it almost felt like the situation was normal.

Boy meets boy. They fuck. It disgusts their mates.

Pretty standard. Harry would react similarly if Ron ever decided to tell him what he and Hermione got up to in the bedroom.

Gross.

"What is wrong with you, Harry?" Draco asked, with the smallest hint of reluctant awe in his voice.

The man pulled his hands away from his face. Harry clinked his glass against Draco's that had remained untouched on the table.

"Other than torturing the man I love? Nothing."

"What do you mean?" Draco asked hesitantly.

"Not like that," Harry assured him. Not really. "Just, all that business of forcing him into a nightmare."

Draco scoffed.

"Yeah. Poor Dark Lord," he said sarcastically.

Draco smoothed out his hair, his face still slightly flushed from his freakout.

"So, can you tell me what it is?" the man asked abruptly, a strange look on his face. "What is it about him that makes all of this," he gestured slightly with his fingers, "worth it?"

Harry huffed out a breath, running a hand through his greasy hair.

"Christ, I'm not going to talk about this with you."

"Who else can you talk to?" Draco challenged. "The useless parts of the Golden Trio? You think they'll understand? Fucking Weasley who works at a sodding joke shop and has snogged like two people ever? Or the judgy one who married her best friend straight out of school?"

Harry looked away.

Obviously not.

He knew he couldn't talk to anyone. And that was fine. It wasn't like he expected excitement for his choice of partner nor invitations for double dates.

"Just drop it," he muttered, and took a drink.

Draco gripped his arm, sloshing some of his pint down his shirt.

"Steady on!"

"Harry," Draco said, letting go, but piercing him with his hard gaze. "Just listen. I once saw the appeal of him, too. I get it— I mean, I get admiring him, not the... the disgusting stuff."

Harry snorted.

"He's powerful," Draco went on. "Arrogant in just the right ways. I'm not so blind that I don't see what draws you in. But surely there's someone else— anyone else— who can... fulfil that sense of danger."

"It's not about danger," Harry corrected him, offended.

"So, it's the kinky sex, then? Dark Lords really do it for you?"

Jesus fucking Merlin.

"No. It's not the fucking sex... He... understands, alright?"

"Understands what?"

Harry shrugged.

"Me."

Draco's expression fell scornfully.

"Really. Because you two are so similar? Fuck, Harry— what is it about you that can be so hard to understand?"

"Draco, I really don't want to get into this. You don't want to hear it."

"Oh, I assure you that I most certainly do. Make my coming out here to warn you worth my time. Why him?"

Harry blew out a long breath.

Why, indeed.

He knew the reason, knew how he felt, but it was so hard to articulate.

"He doesn't see a hero," he said softly.

"And you can't find someone else who won't fanboy over you? Merlin, Harry, I'm sure there are plenty of people who think you're mediocre."

Harry shook his head, irritated that this was so hard for the man to grasp.

"No. It's... He sees that I'm weak. He let's me be weak. Then he punishes me for it."

His voice was a whisper by the end.

Draco was going to be disgusted. Appalled. He would run to the press and Harry would be publicly shamed for his needs, for his abhorrent desires. There was—

"It's masochism," Draco confirmed quietly, but with confidence, and then paused. "That's not unique to him, you know. Many men—"

"I've tried. It's not the same. He sees me. It's real."

"So, he hates you sincerely and that does it for you?"

His tone was mocking.

"Just drop it, okay. I said I didn't want to talk about this."

"No, I'm serious! I'm just trying to understand."

"You don't need to! I sure as shit don't!"

"So he degrades you and beats you. Sounds romantic."

Harry growled.

"I didn't say it was romantic. I said he understood me."

They were silent for a time. Harry finished off his drink for something to do and then played with the empty glass, wiping away the condensation in patterns.

"So," Draco began slowly, "all of this is just a form of self-flagellation. Isn't it? He's your weapon that you hurt yourself with." He made a scoffing sound. "Why, Harry? Why do you think you need this? You saved everyone!"

Harry closed his eyes, shaking his head.

Draco didn't understand.

He opened his eyes.

"I'm done talking about this, okay?"

"No, Harry, I—"

"I'm done."

His voice had come out harder than he had intended. Draco froze with his mouth open, and Harry felt bad, but he didn't back down. After a tense moment, Harry pulled his hands back from his empty cup.

"Do you reckon they're watching us here, too?" Harry asked, looking around.

"Yeah." Draco accepted the change of subject, clearing his throat and looking away. "Another good reason to have met at Grimmauld or my manor."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Well, I didn't know that I was being tracked when I suggested here."

Draco whipped his head back to stare at him incredulously.

"Suggested?"

Harry met his gaze.

"You could have told me."

Draco shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. We've both put up privacy wards. All they'll be able to tell is that we met up. Strange, maybe, but not newsworthy."

Harry's eyes went back to scanning the crowd.

"If they think I'm Voldemort's servant now," Harry mused slowly, "then meeting up with me won't be good for you." His gaze returned to Draco. "I don't want you pulled anymore into this."

Draco shrugged.

"They hate me anyway. Can't get any worse than it already is. Most people won't serve me in their shops, you know. I have to travel to France for the majority of my things now."

Harry stared, disbelieving.

"But, why? You were hardly with him a year! You didn't really do anything!"

Draco gave him a wry smile.

"I was a Death Eater, Harry. Historically, your Aurors don't tend to forgive that very easily."

"Yeah, but I spoke at your trial! I told them. They dropped all charges!"

Draco nodded.

"You might be able to throw your name around to get what you want, but it doesn't wash away my Dark Mark. People know it's there even if you try to convince them otherwise. I served him. I did that. They know who I am."

"Hey," Harry said, getting in the man's face. "You were just a kid. You were scared. Voldemort lived in your home. You didn't have a choice."

"I could have joined you," he said quietly. "I could have run away."

"He would have killed your family. He's done more for less."

Draco nodded, his gaze averted.

"I know. He told me that. But I still could have."

"That's not much of a choice, Draco. You did it to protect your family."

The other man shook his head.

"Maybe by the end, but at first, I was proud to serve him. I felt honoured and... special." He released a mocking laugh. "I felt like he valued me."

Harry understood. He often felt like that, too. Voldemort had an uncanny ability to make you feel grateful for his attention.

"I wanted to be important," Draco continued. "I wanted to show my father and... well— you. I wanted to prove that you were a fool to reject my handshake that first day on the train."

Harry looked away quickly.

My fault.

Oh Jesus, Draco's allegiance was my fault—

"But you were always smarter than me," Draco said, a hint of self-deprecation coming into his tone that Harry had never heard from him before. "You saw right away that I was destined to be your enemy."

"No," Harry argued, wanting to assuage the man's guilt. "You were just being a dick to Ron."

Draco huffed out a laugh.

"Yeah. I can't help that."

Harry blew out a breath. No matter what he did, he was letting people down.

"I think you should accept your situation as is, Harry," Draco advised. "Keep him to yourself if that's what you want. But stop looking for those ingredients. The Ministry will know what you're after. I'm sure at least one of your moronic Aurors have read a book and can put together what you're planning."

"I'm not really planning anything right now. I just want options."

Draco nodded, then sighed.

"I should get home. Astoria will be up soon with Scorpius."

The man's face warmed as he spoke of his son.

"I'm happy for you," Harry said. "Fatherhood suits you. Who'd have seen that coming?"

Draco smiled, but it crumpled fast.

"Help me keep him safe, then, okay?"

He felt that like a knife twisting in his stomach.

Draco clapped him gently on the shoulder and then gave him a little push to get them out of the pub.

.

.

When Harry got home, it was a quarter past six— almost sunrise. He quickly went to Voldemort and lifted the sleeping charm he'd placed upon him.

At once, the man awoke, his eyes puffy, yet sharp with suspicion.

"You left."

Harry nodded, physically and mentally exhausted.

"I had to. How are you feeling?"

The man's face hardened as he stood.

"You reek of alcohol."

Harry grimaced and leaned back, putting some distance between them.

"Sorry," he muttered, feeling guilty for his freedom, aware that Voldemort desired it avidly.

"Where did you go?"

Harry leaned against the dresser.

"London. A pub with a friend."

The man's nostrils flared in anger.

"A friend," Voldemort repeated coldly.

Harry gave him an exasperated look.

"Don't start that again."

"Hermione."

Harry shook his head.

"There's no point in guessing, you won't remember these people."

"Who, Harry."

The man's voice was deadly. It hit him right where he was already feeling guilty and responsible for Draco siding with the Dark Lord, for the danger he was putting everyone in, for all of his failures, for keeping Voldemort like this, and so he answered the man because he just couldn't bear disappointing anyone else today.

"Draco."

Something in that gaze darkened.

"He's married," he added quickly.

He decided to leave out the fact that they had once fucked and that Draco still wanted to continue.

"Did you drug me once more?"

"Mm mm," he denied in a hum, like a child.

"You drugged me," Voldemort insisted, "and then went for a drink with a friend."

Harry dropped his gaze, feeling the judgement hit solidly— needing it.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, and felt suddenly like he could cry.

Like he wanted to. He wanted to cry for this man.

"Please," he whispered, not knowing what he was asking for, but knowing that if Voldemort didn't give it to him then he would lose his mind, he would burn down this stone building and rip off his clothes and jump right into the ocean, make magic burst—

"I warned you not to drug me again," Voldemort said lowly, dangerously, and Harry heard him step closer.

His knees trembled from the effort of holding himself up, of not allowing himself to kneel.

"I had told you that I would plunge you into the sea, Harry."

Please. Fuck, punish me, gods, I need to feel it—

"Shall I do so?" He was so close now. "Would you drown for me?"

"Yes," Harry moaned immediately, knowing he would do it in an instant.

Plunge into the sea or stab himself this time, whatever the man desired.

Voldemort hummed in acknowledgement.

"I think I would like to see you suffer for me."

Voldemort reached him at last and gripped him around the throat. Those fingers put pressure on him, forcing him down, and Harry's legs buckled. His knees hit the floor and overwhelming gratitude bubbled up inside of him.

Fuck yes, finally, finally—

He felt tears sting his eyes— don't you fucking cry, you don't deserve to when so many others—

"You must be trained not to disobey your Master," Voldemort said.

Harry kept his gaze down, but he heard Voldemort shifting, the sound of material sliding against itself, against skin.

Oh please, yes, Merlin—gods—

"Open," Voldemort whispered, and Harry's mouth flew wide.

Immediately, the silky head of the man's cock was thrust into his mouth. Harry groaned around it, reaching out to anchor himself on the man's thighs.

He tasted amazing, salty with the barest hint of piss and the raunchiness of that made his own cock throb with want.

He was sucking Voldemort off— he, Harry Potter, was on his knees by choice, taking the Dark Lord Voldemort into his mouth.

The man's fingers wove into his hair and fisted it painfully. Harry's eyes flashed open as Voldemort began to control the speed. Slowing it down.

"I am displeased with you, Harry," that voice said, sounding completely at ease, and not at all like he was leisurely throat-fucking someone.

"If you must imbibe alcohol, I expect you to do so at home. With me."

At home.

Merlin.

He sees this as our home.

"Do you understand?"

Harry gently nodded, careful not to let his teeth graze the man.

"I want to see you bleed," Voldemort stated, and Harry felt his own legs tighten in anticipation.

Yes. I deserve to bleed for what I've done. For keeping you like this. I'm sorry. I—

Those fingers abruptly yanked him off his prize. His gaze darted up briefly to see Voldemort looking down at him with contempt.

"Fetch your Master some rope. The tarred hemp will suffice."

Harry stared at him in confusion. Rope?

His lips felt swollen after having that huge cock stretching them, Merlin, it had been—

"The rope, boy," Voldemort reminded him menacingly, and Harry bit his lip at that term.

He remembered— The Dark Lord had deemed it important enough to listen to what Harry had asked to be called and then deigned to humour him with it.

He cares, even like this, he cares.

Maybe he can stay like this. We can have this dynamic without all the murder and—

Harry saw a flash of white and then the man's hand struck his face hard, knocking him back onto his arse. He looked up, shocked, his ear ringing, to see that hard gaze.

"I will not ask a third time," Voldemort warned quietly, and Harry felt his eyes tearing up again.

Failure.

Worthless.

You can't even do this right, can't even do the job of a dog well enough to please him. He's going to abandon you, he'll go find someone else that can please him, because you are broken and damaged and—

Voldemort walked away.

Harry gasped and shuffled towards him on his knees.

"I'm sorry!" he pleaded, but Voldemort kept walking. "I'll get it now, please! Please don't leave, give me another chance— please! I know I don't deserve it, I know—"

"Enough!" Voldemort hissed, and Harry's mouth snapped closed. "Do not debase yourself in this manner."

Harry sat— shook.

Debase?

You're embarrassing.

He's disgusted.

He doesn't want you.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered.

Footsteps and then Voldemort's cool fingers gripped his face, yanking it up to stare into those pitiless red eyes.

"You kneel because you choose to," he stated harshly. "Do you understand me? Not because you belong there."

Harry's throat seared with the agony of trying to keep in his sobs, and it didn't matter because he failed at that, too. He was crying and Voldemort was staring at him as he did so.

How could he say that? He should know me, he should know what I've done.

He tried to pull away, to get some mortified privacy, but the Dark Lord held on tighter and bore witness to his meltdown.

Discharge from his nose was leaking down his chin, his face was covered with tears, and still Voldemort held on.

"I do not remember much of myself," the man confessed, using his clean, perfect finger to gently wipe at the mess on Harry's face. "But this I know. I have no interest in victims. You are not a victim, Harry."

"I'm... I'm a failure," he panted, needing this man to understand.

He wasn't a victim, that was true. Victims were innocent.

He was repulsive. Vile. He—

"Then do not fail," Voldemort countered, letting him go and straightening up. "Rise. Remove your shirt, then bring me the rope."

His body was wrung out and limp. He wanted to curl into a ball and sleep. Roll off the edge of the cliff and fall into the waiting arms of the thrashing ocean.

But more than that, he wanted Voldemort to see him.

Sniffling, he stood, but only because Voldemort had commanded it. Otherwise, he would have crawled. He walked numbly, unable to see through his smeared glasses, into the other room.

No rope. He searched the remaining bedrooms and no luck. Finally, he went outside and noticed a small coil of fibre just outside the door.

He brought it to Voldemort, handing it to him with his eyes downcast, and then pulled off his shirt.

Shivering, he waited for the man's command.

"Good boy," Voldemort praised, and Harry squeezed his eyes together from the pain of it.

Cool fingers touched his wrist.

"Kneel for me."

Harry did and he heard Voldemort hum in satisfaction.

"You do this because you are strong, Harry. Not weak."

Harry turned his head, not able to hear that, but Voldemort whipped him on his ribs hard with the rope. Harry gasped and opened his eyes, staring up into the other man's with fear.

Acknowledgement passed between them.

He's going to whip you. You brought him the weapon he'll use to make you bleed.

"You are strong," Voldemort repeated, and Harry flinched, but did not look away.

You're not strong. You're broken. Useless.

Those eyes blazed with fire.

"I do not respect weakness. It takes great courage to give the gift of submission."

Submission.

But, how did Voldemort know that was what he was doing?

You call him Master. He took to that too readily for all of his memories of that kind of dynamic to have been lost.

"This is not unknown to you," Voldemort observed, his fingers trailing over where he had struck Harry on the ribs.

It hurt, and that was just what he needed.

"Eyes down," Voldemort instructed, and Harry obeyed. "Now, I will ask you a question and you will answer honestly or I will strike you three times. If you answer truthfully, you may pleasure me."

Harry's heart was thundering in his chest.

Fuck— who did that? Offering a blow job for themselves as a prize?

The man's endless arrogance had somehow survived the memory wipe.

"Who is Draco?"

Harry panted out a nervous breath. Fuck. What could he say?

"A friend," he tried.

It was always so hard to speak when he was getting hurt. But Voldemort had commanded it, so he didn't really have a choice.

"Do I know him?"

Well, you lived with him for a couple years. Gave him his own mark, too. Now, though, you want him dead.

"Yes," he replied.

"Have you fucked him?"

Harry felt the terror from that question in his throbbing cock. Voldemort wanted to know if he had fucked Draco.

Well, yes, but—

That rough rope came down hard onto his back. Harry jolted away, but Voldemort just hit him on the side he'd moved into. Harry cried out and was struck once more right across his spine.

It hurt like hell because he had nowhere to put the pain.

This wasn't paying for something he'd done; this was because he'd been slow to answer! It wasn't fair, it wasn't what he wanted. What he needed—

"Do not make me ask again," Voldemort cautioned.

"Yes, we fucked," Harry spat with irritation.

Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow, then pulled his arm back again. Harry tensed as the rope came down hard, snapping against the meagre skin on his hips.

"Fuck!" he yelled. "You said you'd hit me if I didn't answer! I answered!"

Voldemort said nothing, staring at him with a dark look.

Oh, bollocks.

That rope came down again, striking him on the back and wrapping around to slash into his chest.

Not fair!

"I make the rules," Voldemort informed him. "And I change them at my whim. Accept that powerlessness, Harry. That is all you can do."

Voldemort rubbed the coarse fibres against Harry's skin, scraping him.

"When did you fuck him?" the man asked.

Harry felt tears in his eyes again.

I don't like this. I need to pay for what I've done. I need help.

"Years ago," he choked out. "But I don't want him. I want you— Please, Voldemort, let me take this for a reason. Punish me for failing, for not saving you like I should, for—"

That rope came down again, snapping onto his back and he screamed, tears of frustration falling from his eyes.

"Your disobedience—"

"Quidditch!" he shouted, pushing the man's hands away and stumbling to his feet.

He couldn't meet that red gaze, knowing the man would be disappointed, knowing he had failed and there was no one to punish him. This Voldemort didn't understand, didn't know him better than he knew himself, like his Voldemort did.

He turned and fled from the building, running out onto the grass, needing to put distance between them.

Everything had felt so wrong.

He didn't want to be built up when he was beaten. He needed to be put in his place. He needed someone who saw him, who could tell him all the ways he had failed, and yet still not hate him afterwards.

He wanted his Voldemort.

When he got to the graveyard, he leaned against the piled rocks and wept— for himself, but also for Voldemort, who was likely right where he'd left him, bewildered and disappointed. When Voldemort got his memories back, he would remember this moment and hate Harry for what he had put them both through.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself feeling miserable, and yet suddenly resolved.

This wasn't tenable.

It was time to finally get the sodding thing done.