Hey all!

So this update obviously took longer than the rest. I have written 250,000 words with a strict schedule that I kept to, but now that we are crawling towards the end, I don't want to rush it. Also, it's spring and the weather is beautiful, so I am more often out there enjoying it!

Don't worry, there will still be regular updates and this almost two week wait will likely be the longest you will have to endure. Bear with me- I am including other things in my time now rather than just writing!

Thank you for sticking with me with me, I appreciate each and every comment, kudos, and read. Take care!

CHAPTER 56

.

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Lord Voldemort had a mole on his left shoulder blade.

It was tiny and brown, but so out of place on that inhuman body that Harry could not tear his gaze from it.

It was so... ordinary.

After everything else, he was just a man. A man with a singular, average mole on his back. Harry idly ran his fingers over the slightly raised skin, revelling in the banality of such a mark.

He was in the Dark Lord's home, in his bed, and Voldemort had a mole.

Mental.

Harry pulled his gaze away and looked towards the dark window.

It was early morning, but not yet sunrise, so Lord Voldemort was still safely inactive.

Harry had awoken minutes ago as the big spoon. It had been awkward holding that huge body against his, trying to curl around it, keep it safe, and— most importantly, trying to ignore his morning wood that was pressing hopefully up against the man's arse.

It took everything in him not to thrust against that delicious body.

You were inside of him last night. Inside the Dark Lord Voldemort.

It was still amazing that he was allowed such a privilege. And Voldemort had seemed to sincerely enjoy it, which he would never have believed possible.

His thoughts wandered to how deeply Voldemort had been staring into his eyes as they'd made love. His gaze had been unblinking and intense.

So fucking mesmerising.

And he'd actually put the Dark Lord into subspace! Maybe. Possibly. At the very least, he'd distracted the man enough that he hadn't been able to speak.

Fuck. That had been so goddamn sexy.

Harry felt his erection pulse and he bit back a groan.

No. Let him sleep. He probably needed it. And a grumpy Dark Lord was never good.

I can make him be good.

Stop.

Harry closed his eyes and released a long, slow breath. He forced himself to focus on his gratitude instead of his horniness. Voldemort was here— alive. Restored and perfect. And he hadn't run away.

Not yet.

A surge of trepidation gripped his stomach with a cold fist.

Don't think about that. It's just your self-doubt. Hermione always says that you don't expect good things to happen to you. But sometimes... maybe sometimes they do.

Yet that thought was hard to hold onto. Because good things couldn't be trusted. They weren't for him. Hope just made the inevitable disappointment that much more painful. And really, none of this made any sense.

Lord Voldemort had his magic back. He wasn't imprisoned anymore or bodiless or dying. He was strong.

And yet— he hadn't left. Hadn't even tried to kill him.

Harry opened his eyes to see the bare back of his lover. He tried to let the gentle rise and fall of the man's even breaths calm him, but it was no good. He felt sick, like he was going to puke or faint because— why hadn't he left?

Why hadn't Lord Voldemort revealed that all of this— the affection, the trust, the... whatever else there was— that it had all been a ruse to placate Harry until Voldemort could get his magic back?

Because surely, surely the sodding Dark Lord Voldemort wasn't actually satisfied with a runty, failed saviour. Surely he had bigger plans for his comeback than having a lie-in with the man he'd been trying to kill for almost thirty years.

And yet, that was what Voldemort had done. Fucked him, let himself be fucked, then allowed Harry to hold him as they fell asleep.

It made no sense.

And he couldn't trust it.

"Your worries are unfounded, Harry," a sleepy voice murmured in his arms and Harry gasped.

"Fuck!"

Voldemort rolled over and fixed him with a stern look.

"Refrain from screeching in my ear."

"You're reading my mind?" Harry demanded indignantly, because what the fuck.

That just wasn't on.

"You were brooding so loudly that I should also be reprimanding you for waking me with your angst."

"Wait— did you hear... everything?"

Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow.

"Most likely. Though, once again, you need not fear as your ramblings are illogical."

Harry was laying on his missing arm and the pain of that was starting to annoy him so he sat up.

"They're not though," he muttered sullenly, his misery creeping back in as he thought about it. "You could just be pretending—"

"Do you believe that Lord Voldemort would allow anyone to touch him unless he desired it?" Voldemort asked, his tone sleepy but somehow still scathing.

Harry scoured that face, unwilling to be tricked.

"You've done it before," he whispered— because he had to. "With Slughorn. And others. You told me."

That expression hardened dangerously.

"Ah. So you know me now, do you?"

Harry shook his head. Merlin— what's wrong with you? You don't just casually bring up sexual assault!

"I'm sorry. That's not what I—"

"You ask repeatedly for my trust, Harry. For my faith in your intentions. And yet, you still believe that I wish you dead."

He sounded disappointed and that hurt like a fucking knife to his chest.

"Why wouldn't you?" he whispered, feeling pressure build behind his eyes.

But he already knew why Voldemort would want him dead. Because he was worthless. Utterly and completely worthless. Voldemort was all-powerful, insatiably ambitious and talented. He would never settle for someone so weak. He deserved someone better.

"Who better than you, Harry?" Voldemort asked, and Harry snapped his gaze up to catch that rapt stare piercing him.

"Get out of my head!" he shouted, pushing Voldemort away with his one arm and rolling out of bed, completely starkers.

He stumbled to his feet and searched the room for his clothes. Bugger. What had happened to them again?

A brief flash of Voldemort Vanishing them in midair as he'd thrown Harry onto the bed last night lit up his brain.

Oh shite, that's right. Merlin, that had been hot.

The sudden sensation of material pressing against his skin alerted him to the fact that Voldemort had conjured robes for him. And how had he guessed Harry's aim?

"This is going to get really fucking old, really fucking fast," he commented, trying to cross his arms, but managing only to awkwardly hug his chest.

Voldemort was sitting up in bed, naked still, but seemingly right at ease, the smug bastard. As Harry glared at him, the Dark Lord rose smoothly and walked towards him. Harry forgot what he'd been upset about as he watched that gorgeous, lithe body prowl closer.

"I do not understand your self-loathing," Voldemort admitted, touching Harry's face gently when he got near enough. "And I will not. It is incomprehensible. Yet perhaps I can counter it."

Those long fingers moved down, sliding along Harry's neck, over his chest, and then out towards his shoulder. They stopped at the grotesque stump and carefully cupped the sensitive tissue.

Harry looked up to see Voldemort's gaze caught on his missing limb once again. His expression was possessive. Aroused.

"You display loyalty such as I have always desired," Voldemort whispered, his high, eerie voice going straight to Harry's cock. "And to have it from one as powerful as you, is a tantalising prize. Yet, it is more than that."

He let go of Harry's amputation and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. Pushing down. As if by reflex, Harry's legs bent and he knelt. Voldemort's fingers receded, yet this wasn't enough. He bowed forward, placing his forehead against the floor.

Yes.

Everything that was tight within him uncoiled immediately and bled away. He released a long breath, letting Harry Potter go with it.

Oh gods, yes.

This is where I belong.

He closed his eyes and let his body sink gratefully into the floor.

Voldemort hummed with approval.

"I have seen you, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord commented from above him. "All the parts of you that you hide from others. Your shame. Your guilt. Your failures. I have seen you scream and beg and cry. I have seen you defeated. I have even watched you perish beneath my wand."

Yes, he'd done all those things and more. Harry was rubbish and Voldemort had witnessed that.

"And yet," the man continued loudly, as if to stave off Harry's internal mutterings, "I valuate you above all others. You are my only peer, Harry."

Voldemort paused and Harry pressed his forehead harder against the unyielding wood beneath him.

"You are the only entity that can bend Lord Voldemort's knees." His tone was brusque. Uncomfortable. "The singular voice that he will hear. His only council. His only concern."

Harry's instincts were bellowing at him to deny these accusations. He didn't deserve to be valued. To be falsely praised. His teeth clenched with the need to object, but bowed as he was, that was not an option. He didn't have autonomy or liberty right now. All he could do was listen.

"If you were worthless, Harry," the man argued forcefully, "then you would be dead. Lord Voldemort does not make mistakes."

You're making one right now. Trusting me. Staying with—

Harry heard the soft knock of something hitting the floor. He whipped his head up and saw Lord Voldemort kneeling on the ground in front of him.

Harry stared, straightening his spine to greedily consume the vision of this powerful man submitting to him. It banished all else from his mind.

This divine creature is mine.

"Show me, Harry Potter," Voldemort said lowly, his gaze smouldering and intense. "If I am yours, then show me."

Fuck yeah, I will.

He stood shakily to tower over the older man. It amazed him when Lord Voldemort allowed it, staying still and letting Harry feel that incredible power pass to him.

"I want you so badly," Harry whispered, and saw those thin lips subtly curl.

"Show me," Voldemort repeated, leaning forward.

Getting closer.

Harry groaned.

"You're still recovering," he countered, afraid of how deeply he wanted to give into his sadism at the moment.

"I am fully recovered. You saw to that." Voldemort abruptly Vanished Harry's clothes without moving at all. "Your mind is a tantalising place, Harry. Which option will you choose?"

Harry startled. He had been thinking of taking a whip to that mole and watching it turn red. But there were more things he'd like to see, more fantasies brewing in his imagination.

And Voldemort had seen them all, trespassing yet again without permission— worse than that. He had been trespassing after explicit instructions not to.

Harry backhanded him hard right across his face and sent him flying. As he watched the man catch himself on his elbow, he was aware that Lord Voldemort could have protected himself effortlessly. Could have blocked the strike or rebounded it onto Harry. Yet instead, he'd taken it.

Because he wants to.

Harry felt his cock swell that much more, his skin getting goosebumps.

"I said get out of my head, Tom," Harry breathed, not surprised by the amount of venom in his own voice. "You have no right to be there."

"I own—" Voldemort dared to argue, but Harry kicked him hard in the chest, sprawling him out onto his back.

"I said no," Harry hissed, bending down to get in the man's face.

Their gazes locked. Harry felt adrenaline and power surging through him, but even still, Voldemort was looking up at him with satisfaction and pleasure. Not fear or respect as Harry had sought.

You're not being vicious enough, then.

Harry Summoned his wand and watched it fly towards him. He caught it, then pointed the holly down at the man at his feet.

"Beg me."

Voldemort's teeth peeked out as he grinned.

"No."

Harry took away his sight with magic and then struck him again with the hand that was holding his wand. Voldemort's face whipped to the side and he made a sound— a beautiful, pain-filled huff of air, hardly there but priceless.

His cock throbbed with need.

"Beg me, Tom," he growled.

A small trickle of blood leaked from between those delicious lips and Harry couldn't help it— he leaned down and gripped the man by his chin, sucking that cut into his mouth. Moaning, he licked the blood, kissing him messily and biting his skin. Voldemort's hands stayed down at his sides, his lips parting only to allow Harry entry.

The difference from his usual dominant passion electrified Harry's nerves.

He's submitting. It's another way he's letting you lead.

Harry pulled back, staring down at those eyes that were almost completely black. Sightless, too. Voldemort's smug expression was gone. He looked blown wide open.

"Beg. Me."

The barest flicker of amusement came back into Voldemort's gaze. The man licked his lips slowly.

"Make me."

Harry absorbed that flagrant audacity with a smile.

"You fucking bet I—"

A bright blue lemming burst into the room, cutting across Harry's vision and coming to a halt in mid-air before him.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead," Robards's Patronus stated heavily. "Renhart is dead. Weasley informed me of your illness and I hate to disturb you, but we need Harry Potter."

The lemming scampered off, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake.

Renhart.

He was an Auror. Mid thirties. Single, a bit of a partier, but harmless. Kind.

"Ignore it."

Harry flinched from Voldemort's callous tone. The man was watching him critically, obviously having lifted the blindness curse on himself. Harry turned away from him.

Renhart was dead. How? And they knew about Lucius now. How had they found out?

"I have to go," Harry muttered vaguely and strode towards the door.

"Potter," Voldemort snapped, and Harry felt clothing materialise onto him once again. "They can handle it themselves."

Harry spun to face him, incredulous.

"I'm the Minister!"

Voldemort glared at him, his naked body suddenly wrapped in his intimidating black robes.

"We are not finished."

Harry choked out a laugh.

"Are you crazy? I have to go back! They need me."

"Their needs are not your concern."

Harry shook his head.

"Jesus. Of course they are."

"Why."

"What do you mean, why? Because it's my job." Harry slapped his palm down onto his own chest roughly. "People have jobs, Voldemort. Everyone else but insane Dark Lords have to settle on something and—"

"Settle? Why must you settle?"

"Because that's life! That's what people do!"

Voldemort took a step towards him.

"But you are not people, Harry. You are more."

"Oh my god." Harry laughed harshly. "Do you actually believe that shit? You truly think that you're a god?"

Voldemort's mouth firmed, his expression displeased.

"All men die, Harry, but you and I are not so weak. We surpass the common man."

Harry stared at him, marvelling at his limitless arrogance. That kind of infinite confidence was insane to Harry. To feel so removed from everyone else's troubles, to not have their needs supersede his own...

"You don't understand," Harry whispered.

Voldemort was suddenly there, gripping him by his stump and shoving him back against the wall.

"Wrong," he hissed, holding Harry firmly to the plaster, digging his nails into his tender flesh. "I may not share your views, Harry, but I know your mind. I know that you need to grovel to the masses in order to atone for some fictitious failures that you mistakenly believe you owe them for. I know that this job," he spat the word with deep loathing, "this... relentless misery that you have condemned yourself to, is your penance. I know intimately that you need to suffer in order to negate the guilt of simply living."

Harry felt shameful tears track down his face. He wanted to wipe them away, but what did it matter? Voldemort already knew he was worthless. He had nothing to hide.

Slowly, Lord Voldemort leaned down until their faces were level. His eyes pierced into Harry's with alarming intensity.

"This burden will one day kill you, Harry Potter, and I will not allow it." Harry turned away, but cruel fingers drew him back. "Listen to me, boy— you will not die for them. You will not. You belong to me."

The fingers on Harry's remaining hand were clenched tightly onto Voldemort's robes. It was hard to breathe, he felt himself shaking and he couldn't stop it.

"No," he rasped helplessly. "I need—"

"I know what you need. But you will not find it in service to them."

"How, then?" he pleaded quietly. "Because I can't— I can't—"

"You will pay your debt to me. That is your job as my submissive, and my task as your Master is to accept it. You will never succeed in satisfying the demands of the populace. They will drain you and still want more. Instead, you will give your guilt and your shame and your devotion to me alone. I am the only authority that you will recognise and—"

"No," Harry begged, closing his eyes. "You don't understand. Saving people is all that I'm good for."

Voldemort pinned Harry's throat against the wall savagely, cutting off his air. Harry's eyes snapped open in shock.

"All that you are good for, Harry? Good for? As if you have no autonomy. As if you are a tool."

Being this close to Voldemort's anger was a little bit intimidating. He had seen this man kill enough people to know that his restraint wasn't exactly legendary.

"Understand," the Dark Lord went on, "that you will not have a job until you can comprehend that you have value without one."

The pressure on his eyes was distracting. Familiar, little black dots danced in his vision and he knew he would pass out soon. Maybe that was just what he needed.

Voldemort did not let go.

"They have raised you for sacrifice," the Dark Lord continued, "but their intentions are no longer relevant. You belong to me, and I command that you devote your time to recovering from what has been done to you. You will rest and meditate on what would bring you pleasure. Not others. You."

Those fingers abruptly released him and Harry bowed forward, coughing and gasping into the material over Voldemort's chest. He closed his eyes, panting and overwhelmed.

"What is it that you want, Harry?" Voldemort whispered, gently stroking his back. "We have an eternity together. There will be sufficient time to decide. And I can give you anything."

"I... I can't do this right now," Harry choked out, using his forehead to push the man back.

Surprisingly, Voldemort let him disengage. When their gazes met, Harry flinched from the disappointment he saw.

"I... I hear you," he muttered, trying to find some compassion in those cold, red eyes. "I do. And I appreciate it. But they need me and... I have to go."

"Stay," Voldemort commanded sharply, like a whip strike.

"I can't," Harry breathed, and Disapparated away.

.

.

The silence after Harry had vanished was oppressive and mocking.

He had let the man go.

Lord Voldemort could have easily restrained him and yet, he had allowed Harry to disappear from his slackened grasp.

He stepped back from the wall, dropping his hands that had still been poised over where Harry had fled from. At a measured, calm pace, he walked to the window to peer out blindly at the landscape. His fury was clamouring to be vented, yet he kept it contained as his attention turned inwards.

His recent concern for Harry's agreement, was irritating. Lord Voldemort was unused to debate or an interest in consent. Permitting himself to care for someone opened him up to this uncomfortable illusion of powerlessness.

And yet, he meant it when he insisted that Harry was different. He was his equal and thus deserved the respect that was owed to no other.

But this determination of Harry's to heed orders from lesser beasts was a habit that Lord Voldemort would need to break him of.

His anger summoned images of devastating storms flooding the country with lethal, corrosive rain. Of starving the population, burning them. Lord Voldemort could do anything now and if Harry would not ignore their bleating demands then Lord Voldemort would silence them.

Beginning with Draco Malfoy.

That child had masqueraded as Harry's friend, and yet had not intervened when his father had abducted him. He had been a worthless Death Eater and a traitor to his cause. He had dared to lecture Lord Voldemort on his treatment of Harry. Had even gone so far as to state that he would pursue Harry if he believed that his romantic feelings were reciprocated.

Draco Malfoy was in love with Harry Potter.

And for that, he would die.

.

.

Malfoy Manor had been vacant.

This unexpected detail fuelled his urgency to bleed the child further. He did not know where Malfoy resided with his pretend wife and useless offspring.

But he would find them.

He knew the boy's magical signature and would follow it. The more arduous the search, the more agony he would pull from the worm. If it took longer than an hour, he would take his annoyance from the baby's flesh. Would make Draco do it. Torture his own progeny. Perhaps he would watch the new Malfoy patriarch slaughter his own son.

The flea believed himself safe from Lord Voldemort due to that irritating Vow, yet it would not take long for him to break it. Nothing was beyond his abilities, and his desire to see Draco Malfoy suffer would bolster his already transcendent power.

He would massacre the whole line. It would have destroyed Abraxas to see it. A pity Lord Voldemort had already killed him.

Baring his teeth in anticipation, Lord Voldemort continued his search.

.

.

The wards on their home were laughable. Juvenile. But then, what were mere wards against Lord Voldemort?

A twitch of his fingers snapped them like bones and he continued forward, striding with confidence and a calm sense of purpose towards the front door.

It banged open without his touch.

A woman screamed and a baby began to cry.

Perfect.

They would act as potent motivation for Draco to comply. To offer himself up willingly.

Lord Voldemort passed over the threshold, his gaze roaming the rooms, seeing no one, but hearing the baby's muffled cries wafting down from up the stairs.

Leisurely, he followed them. This scene was reminiscent of another, almost thirty years prior. Lord Voldemort had failed that night, but he would succeed this time.

The door to the nursery burst open at his thought. Cowering up against the wall was the woman. The mother, he supposed. She was clutching the baby to her chest— the baby who had stopped crying as its eyes fell upon him.

Lord Voldemort stared at it, caught strangely by the similarities to the infant he had almost killed at Godric's Hollow.

Harry.

"Please don't hurt him," the mother whispered tragically, by rote, as they all did.

Begging for their lives, as if Lord Voldemort would ever obey them.

"Your husband," he demanded, and the woman gasped at his voice.

The baby began to fuss again and she rubbed its back soothingly.

"He's not home. Please. Please! Kill me. Scorpius is innocent!"

No one was innocent. And this pleading for an exchange was insulting. Lord Voldemort was not simply seeking a final slash on a collection of tally marks. He took lives with purpose.

The mother was crying now, too. He could see her trembling as she tried to quiet the baby.

He did not like the sound of infants crying. It always brought him back to the orphanage where babies would scream for mothers that were never coming back. They would wail alone in their cribs, abandoned and superfluous, ignored by the overwhelmed staff and doomed to learn that crying brought nothing but a sore throat. No one ever came to help, therefore it was vital to crush that compulsion—

"Please," the mother interrupted, and Voldemort startled. "I don't know what you want, but so long as it's not to hurt Scorpius, you can have it. Anything. Money. Valuables."

Voldemort Silenced her at once, offended by her pedestrian assumptions. As if Lord Voldemort cared for money. As if he would find anything owned by the Malfoys valuable.

"I will remain here until your husband returns," Voldemort informed her, resigned to this fate. "Put the baby down and follow. I require tea while I wait."

He wrapped his magic around her as he walked back down the stairs, compelling her to obey him. The infant's cries ratcheted up as it was dropped into its crib.

"Silence that child or I shall," he warned lowly as he continued to descend.

The woman took that literally and the screaming stopped at once. How typical for a mother to so callously ignore her offspring's needs.

When Lord Voldemort entered the sitting room, he chose the armchair by the fire and sat down. He heard the woman bustling about in the kitchen and closed his eyes briefly as he waited.

Harry would not like this.

Voldemort had scoured Harry's mind previously and had found no evidence of romantic emotions connected to Draco Malfoy— but there was affection. Protectiveness. Harry would be displeased that Voldemort was collecting his vengeance.

And yet, Harry had returned to work despite Lord Voldemort demanding that he stay. The man had disobeyed a direct order and thus, it was fair play for Lord Voldemort to ignore Harry's own demands.

When the woman brought over his tea, he pointed to the floor and she sunk to her knees, eyes down. It was not as satisfying as watching Harry do it, but the position was one he enjoyed, so he propped his legs upon her thighs and let his mind rove through the possibilities for what he would do to Draco when the child finally returned home.