CHAPTER 39
.
.
Voldemort paced before the great statue, listening.
"Thieves, Master. We tried."
The small, green snake slithered anxiously at his feet.
"Took it all. Fire felled one of us."
Voldemort's hands were clenched.
He had been robbed.
This Chamber belonged to him and yet two thieves had foolishly snuck in years before and stolen the remains of his Basilisk.
"Gingers," he repeated, memorising the details so that when he was restored once more, he could pay these marauders a visit.
"Yes, Master."
"Was anything else taken?"
The snake hissed angrily, their undulations getting tighter.
"We will not be stolen from again."
"What do you mean?"
The sound of the stone doors sliding open caused the snake to flee.
Ire rose up in him.
Let it be these thieves. Let them come and attempt to steal from me once more.
Footsteps drew closer and Voldemort's heart beat rapidly. He would not hide, would not run—
"There you are," Harry said with relief, coming around the corner.
Harry's wand was held aloft, but then he stowed it back into his...
"You have changed," Voldemort commented, raising his eyebrows.
Harry looked confused and then glanced down.
"Oh— yeah. Well, I obviously couldn't go into work in Muggle clothes. And they had blood on them."
Muggle.
Mug meant fool, therefore clothes befitting a fool?
As Harry came closer, Voldemort examined his... wizard robes. They were black and long and the way they moved with Harry as he walked certainly made for an impressive sight.
"What?" Harry asked, a touch defensively, when he arrived at where Voldemort was standing. "Why are you staring at me like that? Are they dirty?"
Voldemort let his eyes slide leisurely up to meet that green gaze.
"No, Potter. They will do."
Harry frowned.
"Okay," he said slowly, and then looked around the area where Voldemort stood. "What have you been up to?"
What is it about this man?
"After you," Voldemort insisted, pocketing his own wand. "What did the government have to say?"
"Oh yeah," Harry remarked, and then glanced behind himself at the furniture. "Can we sit? I'm knackered."
Voldemort inclined his head and then followed him over. If there was a drawback to these robes, it was only that he could no longer perceive the shape of the man's backside as he walked.
Harry pointed his wand near the chair and then another seat simply popped into existence at its side.
Avarice swelled within him, dispelling all else.
He coveted that power. Yet it would not be chairs that he would be creating. What were the limitations? How could he overcome them?
Harry fell into his seat heavily, groaning.
"Thanks," the man said gratefully, as if Voldemort had been the one to provide the furniture. "I wish I could stay longer, but I only came by to—"
"You mean to leave?" he asked, surprised.
Harry nodded reluctantly.
"They have to organise. Figure out who will lead now."
"And why must you oversee that?"
Harry grimaced.
"Well, seeing as I am the reason there's no Minister..."
"You promised me answers," Voldemort countered with finality.
Harry solemnly nodded.
"I know. And you'll have them. I just have to—"
"You will serve me first. They can wait."
Harry rubbed his eyes.
"Look, the only reason this went as smoothly as it did is because they think I'm going to handle it. You have to let me do that or they'll start asking more questions— questions I don't have good answers to."
Voldemort seethed.
"What of my memories?"
"Soon. Let me sort out what's happening with—"
"Tonight, Potter. I have waited long enough."
"I haven't slept," Harry pleaded. "This potion is difficult and then there's a ritual afterwards. I don't want to fuck anything up."
"Sleep now."
Harry made an exasperated growling sound.
"I can't! Aren't you listening? I have to go back to the Ministry! They—"
"You will do this," Voldemort warned him in a dangerous tone, "or—"
"Tom!" Harry yelled, and Voldemort froze.
The man stood up, coming forward and leaning down to grab him by the sides of his face.
"You are not in control here!" Harry raged. "I am. Do you understand? I know you want your memories back and I want that too, I swear it. But if I don't show up at the Ministry and I'm not at home, they will get suspicious. It will look very, very bad, with you on the loose."
Breathing harshly, Harry stared fiercely into his eyes.
Voldemort was captivated.
That... anger. It was hard to ignore.
Harry let go of him and stood, expelling a deep sigh.
"How about this," Harry relented, falling into his chair once again. "Tomorrow. Give me until tomorrow to sort out this shit and then I promise to go find those ingredients. I know the Potions master here and he likes me. The man collects all kinds of rare ingredients and he would have inherited the last Potions master's stash, too, which I'm sure would have been extensive."
Voldemort watched the man rub his forehead tiredly. Those bright eyes were hooded.
"You need rest, Harry," he said quietly. "You cannot save the Ministry if you are dead."
Harry laughed softly.
"How sweet."
The man stood.
"I can rest when I come back."
Voldemort stood as well.
"Already?"
Harry nodded.
"I have to go back to the Island to retrieve Kingsley's body."
The man paused to chastise him with a glare, obviously waiting for Voldemort to display some regret or contrition. Voldemort easily held his gaze, unrepentant.
After a long moment, Harry snorted and then went on.
"I should also go home to get a map that'll help us at this school." He sighed. "Then, I need to fill in some people so they don't panic. That will be fast. Afterwards, I'll work for an hour and then come back here."
Harry walked forward and pulled him down onto his chair again. Before Voldemort could resist, the man knelt at his feet.
Voldemort's stomach tensed with sudden anticipation.
"Five hours," Harry stated, those eyes intense and locked onto his. "At most. I promise that you're my priority, okay? This is just shit I have to sort out so that no one looks too closely at what I'm doing for you."
Harry grabbed Voldemort's hand and then bent to place a kiss onto one of his knuckles.
"Trust me," Harry implored. "Please."
Voldemort's other hand shifted to sink into those black locks. He pet the man idly, staring down at this powerful figure kneeling before him.
Swearing fealty.
"Five hours," Voldemort repeated.
Harry nodded and then pressed his forehead to Voldemort's fingers.
"I hate leaving you," Harry whispered.
Voldemort ran his hands slowly through the man's hair, refusing to echo the sentiment.
.
.
After bringing Kingsley's body back, the Trace was the first thing he had to see to. And for that, he needed—
"Hermione?" he called, knocking gently on her office door as soon as she was due to start.
"Come in," her muffled voice beckoned, and he went inside.
"Harry!" she exclaimed, standing at once and coming around her desk. "I've been trying to get ahold of you— what happened?"
Harry accepted her hug briefly and then pulled back.
"I have so much to do today, I can't talk for long."
"I heard Voldemort killed Kingsley!" she said, shock and fear lining her face. "I was so worried that you were hurt, too. Ron has been gone since we found out, looking for you."
Goddamnit.
His thoughts were abruptly seized by images from an hour ago— Kingsley's familiar face now blank and lifeless, the birds that had swarmed his fresh body, and Harry's invasive memories of Voldemort's fingers stroking his hair as they'd watched Kingsley die—
"Harry?" Hermione prompted in a timid voice.
"I'm fine," Harry answered at once. "Can you tell him that?"
"I will, but, did you see it happen? You must be sad. Or scared. Or... feel some kind of emotion. You need to talk about it, Har—"
"Hermione!" he interrupted with frustration, and then felt immediately guilty for raising his voice to her. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled. I'm just really fucking tired and I have so much to do."
She nodded, though it was clear that she was still upset by his outburst.
You have to be calm. People need Harry Potter to be in control.
"I'm sorry," he repeated firmly. "I know that I owe you an explanation and I swear I'll do that soon, but right now I just need to ask if you know how to break the Trace."
She frowned, tilting her head.
"Why? It's the law to keep it on underage wizards and witches, but it comes off—"
"It's been put on me," he cut in. "I need to remove it."
Her eyes widened.
"Are you sure? We thought the Trace had been put on you during the war, too, but it was just the Taboo."
No fucking kidding, I was there.
"I know. It's not that. Draco told me that the Ministry put it on me to track my location."
"But why? That's illegal."
Harry clenched his fists to stop himself from yelling again.
"Please, Hermione. Do you know how to break it?"
"Well, of course," she replied, as if it was obvious, though her expression was guarded. "But if they really did put it on you, you should follow up and launch an Inquiry."
Harry was nodding fast to move her words along.
"Okay. Just— help me, please. What do I do?"
"I can do it for you, if you'd like. It's done at the Ministry. There's a special register that has all the eligible names in it and I'll have to remove yours. Then there's a spell to cancel the detection on you."
"Great," Harry breathed, relieved that it was so easy. "Thank you so much."
"You're welcome," she replied, standing. "But make sure you find out who did it to you, because the register won't say. And it's illegal to place it on an adult, especially without their consent."
Harry followed her out of the room, grateful that she, at least, knew what she was doing.
Two things down, so many left to go.
.
.
After going home and getting some more supplies, including the Marauder's Map, Harry went into work so that no one would panic.
When he got to his office, there was a crowd waiting for him.
"Mr Potter!"
"Mr Potter! Genevieve Swallows from the Daily Prophet— can you tell us in your own words, what happened to the former Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt?"
Harry was frozen, staring at all the people swarming him, coming closer.
"Mr Potter! Darren Campton from Witch Weekly, can you confirm the rumours that you are stepping up as the next Minister?"
"What?" Harry asked with horrified shock. "Of course not! Look, I have work to do. I need you to clear out."
"Mr Potter, do you know where You-Know—"
"Out!" a voice boomed from behind him.
Harry turned to see Robards standing in the doorframe.
"Just a few questions—" another one said.
"I have cleared you out twice already," Robards growled, stepping into the room and putting hands on the closest reporter to drag them out. "If I have to ask you again, there will be arrests. This is the Auror Department! Have some respect for our public servants."
Harry pressed himself against the wall as they muttered angrily, but filed out.
When his office was once again reporter-free, he faced Robards.
"Thanks."
The older man nodded, his expression hard.
"I really did tell them to leave you alone," Robards muttered, then leaned against the wall, studying Harry. "I don't know if you've heard yet, but I've come back to work just while this is going down. I know you were the Head when I retired, but they asked me to help out and I'm not doing a damn thing during my time off anyway, so here I am."
Harry had no idea what his face was doing. Robards moved closer, sitting on the top of Harry's desk and then kept talking.
"I heard that the Wizengamot confronted you last night. What utter rubbish. You know, Kingsley told me about his theories too, and I'll tell you what I told him— bollocks. Absolute and complete bollocks."
Harry didn't know what to say to that.
"No one wanted this outcome, but he was mad to slander you." Robards chuckled darkly. "The thought of putting Harry Potter in prison while He Who Must Not Be Named is at large, is ridiculous."
He's talking about me in the third person— and I'm sitting right here. Christ, they're turning me into Voldemort. Soon, they'll be addressing me as, My Lord.
"Nonsense," Robards went on vehemently, and then met Harry's eyes with calm confidence. "I believe in Harry Potter. I told him that, and I'll tell anyone who asks me. I believe in you, Harry."
Don't believe in me. I don't believe in me.
"I appreciate that," Harry muttered.
"And here's another thing— you'd have my vote if that rumour was true about you running for office."
Panic seized him.
"Oh— no. I'm not, I don't want to be Minister."
Robards frowned, then patted him on the back.
"That's a damn shame. You're just what we need right now. It would give the public a lot of comfort." He gave Harry a considering look. "To be honest, I assume that's why they brought me back. To free you up to take over."
Jesus fucking— no bleeding way.
Harry couldn't come up with a worse idea. Well, other than Lord Voldemort as Minister again.
"I'm just here to help," Harry said, moving away to sit behind his desk, which forced Robards to stand to keep him in his sights. "I promised the Wizengamot that I would bring Voldemort back into custody."
Robards smiled at him, a hint of pride in the twinkle of his eyes.
"I know you will. I have every faith in you." The man walked towards the door. "Let me know if you need anything."
Harry sat still for a few moments after Robards left.
You can kill the Minister for Magic and then be begged to take his job. Just another day of being Harry Potter.
Blowing out a long breath, he tried to focus on work.
.
.
There were no clocks.
It had been remiss of him not to demand that Harry create one for him. He was unable to confirm if the allotted time had passed. He would have to take Harry's word for it.
He stood from the chair that he had dragged over to the hidden alcove of old tomes. The snakes had been accomodating, guiding him around the Chamber and showing him the points of interest.
The books were fascinating of course, but nothing could hold his attention when he had no idea how Harry was faring.
Kingsley had alluded to Harry being an important figure in their world and Harry had described himself as their adored hero.
Would that protect him?
And if not, how would Voldemort break free to collect the man?
He had tried the door as soon as Harry had left, promises or not. He had needed to know what his options were. And leaving through the way they had come did not seem possible right now.
Not without Harry.
The snakes had told him that there were other ways to exit, but he had not yet asked what they were.
Idly, he stared down at one of his serpents, coiled tightly in a corner, sleeping. His mind began to wander.
His memories from the orphanage were not clear, but being able to talk to snakes did not seem as shocking as perhaps it should be.
This was not a new skill for him.
After some thought, he recalled that on a youthful trip to the sea, he had wandered off to encounter a snake who had needed to be rescued. It had become tangled in some fishing wire and had been crying out for help.
He had heard it, had heard words coming from the grass, and had been able to liberate the creature.
He had felt proud of this act.
As he had never attempted a relationship with any other person, he had no one to compare experiences with, so had no way of knowing if conversing with serpents was common.
And the idea of disclosing it to the nuns had been preposterous. He had been taught that the devil was described as a serpent often and, as a serpent, he had tempted Eve in the garden. Therefore, Tom relaying his new talent to the nuns would only have resulted in another failed attempt at exorcism.
The snakes here in this Chamber, however, told him that this skill— Parseltongue— was indeed rare and furthermore, specific to those of his lineage. He was the direct descendent of Salazar Slytherin, a noble founder of this school.
The revelation was not surprising to him. He had felt at home here, unlike on the island. He knew that this place was sacred to him and had been to his former self, as well.
His feet took him back to study the huge stone effigy of his forebear once more.
This had been Salazar Slytherin.
It was strange how—
The sound of humungous slabs of stone sliding against the ground announced someone's entry.
Voldemort turned, removing his wand from his pocket and pointing it at where the person would soon emerge.
The flashing spectacles and billowing robes of Harry Potter moved into his Chamber.
Voldemort pocketed his wand.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Harry confessed, exposing his fault when Voldemort had possessed no means of verification. "But I got quite a lot done."
When Harry drew close, Voldemort observed the purple bags under the man's bloodshot eyes. Harry fell into a chair and leaned his head back, exposing his neck.
Voldemort moved closer.
"Merlin, I am tired," Harry sighed, closing his eyes.
The vulnerable position sped up the blood in his veins. The predator in him urged him to strike.
"Then sleep," he instructed vaguely, feasting his gaze on that smooth throat, imagining licking along the tendons or biting into them.
"I will," Harry said, and then yawned, stretching out his body enticingly.
Voldemort stared, his eyes rapt on the patch of revealed abdomen and the way his trousers pulled tight at his groin. Those black robes were parted perfectly to guarantee his attention.
"Do you mind if I sleep here?" Harry asked, and Voldemort took that in its most vulgar sense.
He felt himself harden, visualising all the ways he would have this man, how he would drive into that smaller body, grabbing his legs and—
"Oh," Harry breathed, and Voldemort became aware that he was focused perhaps too intently upon the man.
Though Harry did not seem to mind. He no longer looked as tired. He was regarding Voldemort as if he could hear all the lascivious thoughts that Voldemort harboured, and he was interested.
Though not unafraid.
Voldemort moved towards him. He extended his hand in offering.
"Come with me, Harry."
The man looked up at him, his green eyes wide and tantalisingly innocent.
Harry took his hand and Voldemort led him to the bed.
Gently, he removed the man's robes and shirt, leaving him bare-chested. He placed a hand on the warm skin over Harry's heart and felt the organ racing.
"You need rest," he acknowledged reluctantly, and helped the man out of his trousers.
The sight was nearly impossible to resist.
Harry stood before him, almost naked, his slender form decorated with a very masculine smattering of dark hair. Voldemort could see that his pants barely contained his heavy erection and Voldemort wanted nothing more than to take it in hand.
Instead, he helped Harry lay down, settling him under the covers, then backing away.
"Stay with me," Harry breathed, holding out a hand pitifully to entice him to return.
"I will only distract you," he admitted, watching how that comment made the man smile.
"I'll sleep better with you here. Please."
Something in his chest tugged at that word.
He relented, joining the man on the bed, but resolutely remained above the covers.
"Come under," Harry begged, but Voldemort shook his head.
"If I touch your bare skin, Harry, I will not be able to resist having you."
Harry moaned, inching closer, and Voldemort could feel that hard cock against his stomach.
"Cease," he hissed, closing his eyes against the pleasure.
"Just hands," Harry whispered into his neck, the moist air making Voldemort's toes flex. "Touch me and I'll touch you. We'll sleep better afterwards."
Voldemort growled, but the visual was too much to withstand.
Pulling down the blanket, he reached into Harry's pants and seized that burning appendage. Harry cried out, struggling to make contact with Voldemort's erection, which was harder to access.
Voldemort pumped that rigid cock, leaning down and sucking the skin of Harry's jaw, biting against his chin and ears.
Harry's nimble fingers finally found him and the man grabbed him roughly, pulling on his cock like it was a race that he was determined to win.
Voldemort bared his teeth at the challenge.
Reaching down, he used his other hand to tug and massage Harry's testicles, feeling the man shy away from the indelicate touch.
But he did not stop. He knew Harry needed a firm hand and thus continued kneading those bollocks as he rapidly fisted Harry's cock.
This contest was chaotic and he was only absently aware that Harry was rubbing the skin behind his testicles, his fingers coming dangerously close to his entrance.
Until one digit slipped inside.
Voldemort's mouth dropped open and he dug his nails into Harry's erection viciously, all of his attention now rapt on the audacity of Harry Potter.
"Let me in," Harry growled, but Voldemort refused to lose.
Twisting to lean down, he sucked the man's nipple into his mouth and bit it harshly, laving the blood that he was gifted. Harry screamed and that finger slipped free, letting Voldemort refocus on his task.
He concentrated, keeping his grip tight and his ministrations directed at the man's exposed glans.
Harry began to tremble, the fingers on Voldemort's cock stuttering then stopping as the man's own orgasm overcame him.
Hot ejaculate landed on Voldemort's stomach, and the sight of Harry losing unraveled all of his control. Taking over Harry's failed task, Voldemort pumped his own cock twice more before his body spasmed and he came all over Harry's stomach.
The waves of pleasure took his vision for a moment and when he opened his eyes, he saw that he had coated the strange scars they both shared with his emission.
A ragged smile graced Harry's lips when he met that green gaze once more.
"Fuck," Harry panted, releasing a little laugh. "Guess you're the winner."
Always.
Voldemort leaned down and seized those lips, kissing him hard until his own body felt more in his control.
When he let the man go, Harry sighed and snuggled up against his chest. Voldemort looked down, uncomfortable with the position, but too fatigued to fight it.
"Nox," Harry rasped sleepily, and the candles around Voldemort's Chamber extinguished.
"I wasn't going to fuck you," Harry whispered into his neck, and Voldemort tensed in shock. Harry pressed a kiss to his skin. "We haven't done that yet and I want to save our first time for the real you."
Harry adjusted his head on Voldemort's arm and then seemed to fall right off to sleep.
Voldemort was unable now to succumb.
He remained too focused on the implications of what Harry had said and his need to convince himself that it was not anticipation that he felt, but rather revulsion.