My Past Will Always Catch Up
Allanasha Ke Kiri
Chapter 4
Voldemort
Lucius met him outside. The street was crawling with muggles, some of them already staring at the man. Lucius could do many things. Blend in was not one of them. Lucius sneered at the passing muggles, physically discouraging any attempt at conversation.
The club itself appeared tasteful, if lacking character. The outside, at least, was a simple building with a simple lit sign. It didn't draw unnecessary attention, or advertise anything untoward. It didn't look like other muggle clubs like it.
"He's been inside all day," Lucius said.
"Did you find anything?"
Lucius shook his head. "Potter keeps nothing. There were no pictures. No mementos. Nothing that suggests he has any idea who he used to be."
Good.
"Did anything happen?"
"He wanted to know about his scars."
Voldemort narrowed his eyes. Even the glamour couldn't hide the red tint of them. "What did you tell him?"
Lucius smirked. "What he needed to hear, my lord. He now knows Dolores Umbridge was at fault for his hand, and that he extracted his revenge for it. His forearm was sacrificed for your glorious return, though you were loathe to harm him."
Voldemort nodded. He'd get specifics later, along with any of Lucius' observations. For now, so close to the start of this show, that would do.
"Did he ask after The Scar?"
"He did. I told him it was a sign of his survival, the need for which could ultimately be drawn back to Dumbledore. He is …" Lucius paused, "difficult to read, but he seemed to believe it."
"Good." He turned his attention back to the muggle establishment. There was only one reason he was here, though he wouldn't admit it to anyone else. He was curious. What could Potter do on a stage that could attract so many people. What he'd seen had not shown anything capable of seducing anyone, though he supposed Potter's grace could be part of his appeal.
"Let's go," he told the other three trailing him.
Each of them had been here before, rumors of the Potter Look-alike drawing them in the hopes of being the one to actually find the boy. As such, they would know what to do to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. Two of them were low in his ranks, and had yet to do anything worth noticing. The other was Theodore Nott, son, and grandson, of Death Eaters.
Theodore Nott took the lead, striding forward with confidence born of his status. The inside was just as muggle as everything else. Surrounded by it all, he had to wonder if there was anything redeemable here. The very air stank with the filth he walked past.
They found a table near the front. Voldemort took a seat with the best view, with Lucius at his side. THe others spread out as they had to. A muggle was already onstage, gyrating to some Merlin bedamned sound while the muggles jeered and tossed bills onto the stage.
"Potter does this?"
What would his fans think if they learned?
Nott shook his head. "Not exactly. His act is-" his eyes drifted to the stage, sneer pulling his lips. "-different."
"Hmm."
It was an hour before Potter made an appearance. An hour listening to muggles holler and being unable to curse them, not if he wanted to see what Potter's performance was.
I'll give but I won't receive.
Give what? Receive what?
Finally, Potter walked onstage.
Prowled, his mind supplied. Potter didn't walk. From the moment his foot touched the stage, he was a predator observing his prey, with all the arrogant confidence that entailed.
Gone were the muggle jeans and T-shit. In their place was a pair of pants - perhaps made of some sort of leather, that appeared painted on him with the way it moved with his body. The only thing covering his chest was a top more string than substance, revealing far more than it hid.
Potter's chest was finely sculpted. There were no unseemly, bulging muscles. He was trim and lithe. A dancers build, they called it, for good reason. There was not an ounce of fat on the boy, having all been trimmed away by constant attention.
Even his eyes changed. Gone was the blank stare. The careless gaze. There was a hungry gleam present. A lustful desire as he glanced out over the crowd, a smirk on his lips.
To his left and right, the Death Eaters inhaled sharply. To his right, even Lucius sat up.
"Gentlemen," a voice boomed, causing Lucius (and himself, though he wouldn't admit it) to startle. Another muggle appeared onstage holding a Magrophone - or whatever obnoxious name they'd come up for it was.
"Over a year ago," he said, "we experimented. Tonight, we do so again. Raven, choose your victim."
At the man's words, the smirk upon Potter's lips grew. Slowly, fluidly, the boy - young man - moved off the stage. He wove through the seated crowd with slow precision, each step exactly where he wanted it as he observed his options.
Muggles twisted in their seats to watch Raven as he wove between tables. None of them reached for him, as they had with the others. There was lust in them, but also respect, which had been lacking with the others.
Interesting. Subconsciously, at least, these muggles recognized their superior.
All eyes trailed after the dark haired man, silently awaiting his decision - though none knew what it was for. As Potter walked the room, trailing sighs and desires behind him, something new rose in the air. With a start, he recognized it, and his attention returned to Potter with renewed interest.
Sex magic. A rarely and rarely sought after magic that was as powerful as it was forbidden by the old ministry. How had Harry Potter learned sex magic? The light wouldn't have taught him. It was of no use on the battlefield, and the use of it was looked down upon, even then. Even the dark tended to ignore it, certain situations excepting.
So, how? He wondered, his own eyes glued to the formerly missing wizard. No one would have taught it to him, and with his memory gone, it was working on an instinctive level, with no conscious control.
Voldemort raised his mental shields, and found he could turn his eyes away, if he wanted. He could breath on his own. His thoughts could turn elsewhere. The power behind this magic was not to be denied if it could almost ensnare him. He'd only just escaped it.
The same could not be said for his companions. Even Lucius appeared dumbstruck, eyes glazed, lips parted. How had Harry Potter become a master of sex magic?
It did explain some of Potter's memories, he allowed. The muggles were obsessed with him because he'd made them so. Addicted them to him, to what he made them feel. To the feeling still rising in the air with every twitch of those narrow hips.
Finally, Potter came to a stop just in front of their table. He hadn't so much as looked at them as he passed. Voldemort did not appreciate being ignored, but tonight, he would let it go. Tonight, Potter was in his element. As natural as he'd ever been in the dueling circle, but then, what was sex but another duel to be won?
Potter circled the table before them, a predator centering on its prey. A muggle red-head stared at him, lost in the magic. The desire. Potter bent down until his lips were right next to the man's ear without ever touching him. It would have been more natural to touch him. For Potter to press close and share the magic building within him. But, he didn't. One hand braced himself on the table as he spoke too softly to be heard, but the muggles tried anyway, leaning forward as though a few extra inches would make all the difference.
Voldemort watched the chosen muggle close his eyes. Swallow. Nod. Immediately, Potter pulled away, pointing. Two large men closed in from a point just to Potter's right, pulling the man from his seat.
"Bouncers," Not said, voice hoarse, eyes never leaving Potter. "They call them bouncers. Meant to keep the dancers safe."
Voldemort nodded once as he watched the muggle led to the stage. Potter followed behind them. Alm. Each move transitioning smoothly to the next with no hesitation. Every eye was on him, and he knew it, though he ignored them all. Potter only had eyes for his prey, and Voldemort could not tear his eyes from the lithe form controlling a room of muggles so effortlessly. Could he do so with wizards as well?
He strengthened his shields, and even that only did so much.
On stage, the muggle was being locked into a pair of manacles lowered from the ceiling. Potter stood nearby. Watching. Waiting. The muggle gazed back.
"Now, for everyone's safety, this ends as soon as our volunteer screams. You understand that, Raven? No getting carried away now." The old man laughed.
Potter just nodded, his attention turning to a small table that appeared at his side.
"He screams. I stop," he drawled in carefully controlled arrogance, the likes of which he usually only heard on a Malfoy. Or Evan Rosier.
"Pity."
Someone a table over groaned lowly. Voldemort ignored them. The young man's voice had been interesting, but he wouldn't be so crass as to vocalize it. Despite their rapt attention, none of his Death Eaters uttered a sound.
"To keep from distracting Raven," the voice continued, "a basket has been placed on every table where you can leave your offerings. If there is a suitable interest, he's said he would be willing to choose another victim in the near future."
Offering. An interesting choice of words, he mused as Potter's hand ran over the tools on the table.
Sex magic was all about give and take. Offerings and Sacrifice. Submitting and dominating. Promising and denying. Though he was the subject of all the lust filled thoughts in the room, Potter was obviously the one dominating a room willingly offering itself to him.
Finally, Potter picked up something long and slender. Voldemort leaned forward as he realized it was a knife with a long handle. The blade itself was shorter than his finger, and Potter held it with practiced ease.
Potter ran his finger over the blade as he peered at his victim. Blood welled from under it.
Slowly, he trailed one finger down the man's clothed chest. Gasps sounded.
"Bloody hell," Nott breathed. "Raven doesn't touch people. Not ever. For any reason."
Another nod, though Nott seemed to be speaking to himself more than Voldemort. He'd seen that already in Potter's memories, and what he did to people who trespassed without permission. On stage, Potter opened the man's shirt, speaking softly once more. The man's head shook, slowly. Not a refusal. An answer.
Potter ran the side of the blade down the man's chest, never shifting his focus from the trembling figure. His eyes closed as Potter leaned in, gently laying his lips against the flesh. It wasn't a kiss really. A claiming. A promise of something more.
When he pulled away, he brought the knife up once more, carefully drawing the blade along his skin again. Blade down. Blood beaded in a red line alon pale flesh, and Potter leaned in once more. Instead of a kis, his tongue darted out, catching the blood along the cut.
Magic sizzled on the air. Voldemort's eyes focused on that tongue. On the little bits of red disappearing between pink lips.
Potter said something to the man which had him shivering. And every eye was glued on them in breathless anticipation.
He didn't stick with the knife for long. One more little cut, another taste of his victim, and Potter put it away. He touched his victim often, not just to give pain, but in comfort. He spoke to the muggle, but no one could hear it over the soft music playing.
Potter played them well. His victim trembled at his touch, breathing harsh, but he never screamed. When he seemed close, Potter pulled back, speaking softly, giving him water, soothing him before returning to his task.
All the while, the magic around them steadily built, rising slowly to the end culmination of Potter's work.
The muggle screamed. As his scream pierced the air, the magic climaxed. It swept through every male in the room, pulling from them, leaving them gasping and empty. It tied them to Potter as he stood at the center of his magic. It made him stronger, demanding their continued attention.
Potter pulled away immediately as the muggle sagged in his restraints, gasping for breath. Crying. Potter put his tool down and touched the muggle, soothing him once more.
The bouncers approached, but Potter waved them off. One arm about the man's waist, he stretched up and undid the manacles. One, then the other until the weight sagged forward onto Potter's deceptively small frame.
He said something to the bouncers, who still stood near. One of them nodded, leaving the stage. Still ignoring the audience, Potter led his victim backstage. And finally, as that tantalizing magic vanished from sight, if not his ability to sense, Voldemort found himself able to think once more.
Potter had addicted muggles to him. Voldemort had only been saved from the brunt of it because of his shields, but even he had felt the rush. The physical stimulation the likes of which he hadn't felt in decades. It hadn't been a true ritual, or he might not have withstood the power in the room. Potter hadn't been trying to do anything. He'd just been gathering power.
For how long? How much power had Potter gained from sex crazed muggles who couldn't stand against him? Who had no idea what he was doing? And where was it all going? Because Potter didn't reek of magic, which he should have if he'd been hoarding all this for days, or months, or years. So, he was using it. Somehow. Somewhere, without knowing what he was doing.
Voldemort leaned back in his seat. Potter was becoming more of a mystery with every new discovery. He'd always enjoyed untangling mysteries. Solving puzzles. Pulling things apart. Potter would open before him, just like every other thing that garnered his attention. And then …
Potter didn't return to the stage that night. Someone came by the tables, collecting the baskets. The three regulars at his each put in a few bills, none of them looking at Voldemort as they did so.
"Keeps from drawing attention," they explained, as though Voldemort couldn't see through their flimsy excuse. As though Potter's show hadn't deserved some reward.
They were addicted. Just like the muggles. Lucius, at least, had regained his composure since the magic faded. Possibly, his own constant shields had protected him from the worst Potter's magic had to offer.
The muggle did return, eventually, looking none the worse for wear due to his little torture. His fellows pounded his back, loudly congratulating him, still drunk on the magic pushed through them. Even the other dancers benefited from Potter's performance.
By not returning, the patrons were forced to turn their attention to the others. Others who played to their attentions, who flirted and let them close. Who permitted touch.
Finally, Lucius sat up. "Potter's leaving."
Voldemort rose, leaving the others to pay their bill. He and Lucius left, neither displeased to exit the muggle den of debauchery.
"Come again!" Someone called after them. Neither replied.
Outside, the air was clear. Free of the muggle stench. The sun had long since set, though street lights made it easy to see.
"Come on, Raven. It'll be fun, I promise."
Voldemort turned to the building's side.
"I have an engagement early tomorrow," Potter said, voice once again void of inflection. "I can't stay out."
Is it an effect of constant use of sex magic? He wondered, absently. He would need to see if any studies had been done on the side effects of sex magic. Surely someone had conducted one.
"We won't keep you out late," Another voice said, as four figures turned the corner.
"It's already late," Potter said.
"Tomorrow, then. We won't take no for an answer."
Potter stared, then nodded once. "Very well. Tomorrow."
The muggle frowned, leaning closer. "Your word?"
Raven nodded. "My word on it."
The muggle grinned. "Great. I'll call tomorrow."
"Not before 4."
The muggle nodded, still grinning as he and his companions turned away. They paused as they saw Voldemort, still in his glamour to appear normal. The lead muggle cast his eyes over Lucius, a small smirk on his lips.
"Can we help you gentlemen with anything?" he asked.
"We're here for Raven," Voldemort said, ignoring the muggle.
"Another one?" one of the others muttered as he and his friends closed ranks around the wizard, all but hiding him from view. "Look, Raven doesn't care for company. He's not interested, alright?"
"They're not here for that," Potter said. "They say they know me."
"Jesus Christ," someone muttered. "Sod off, will you? Raven's beaten off more of you than he should have to. He ain't gonna believe anything you have to say."
Potter, still barely seen behind them, blinked at his muggle protectors, a flash of confusion - and worry? - entering his eyes.
"They say they have proof."
All three men twisted to look at him, their disbelief obvious. Potter reached out, gently moving them out of the way. The leader grinned at the touch. Not like the besotted idiots inside, but as though he'd just achieved something.
"Really?" he asked.
Potter shrugged. "We'll see."
Potter gazed at Voldemort, taking in the glamour's changes.
"You want us to stay, mate?"
The words startled Potter. He turned, blinking at the muggle at his side, who rolled his eyes in response.
"Of course we're mates," he said. "We've worked together for years now. Of course we're mates."
"I'm fine," Potter said, not replying to the man's claim. "I'm not exactly defenseless."
The three men glanced at Voldemort, their hesitation keeping them from listening to their supposed friend. It was Potter who waved them off, closing the distance between them and Voldemort. He allowed the young man to lead them a ways off.
"Have something to say?" Potter asked, the muggles hovering nearby. An illusion of privacy. Supposed protection.
"The show was interesting."
Potter shrugged. "It was alright. I would have thought you'd have left by now."
"Without seeing you? Harry, you really have forgotten."
Potter's eyes narrowed, but he didn't pursue the statement. Nott and the others arrived, an almost silent trio, heralded only by the brief flicker of Potter's eyes.
"Theodore will be staying with you a few days," Voldemort said, motioning the man forward.
"I hardly need to be babysat," Potter said, arms crossing as he looked the man over.
"You are defenseless still, Harry," Voldemort told him. "Despite your claims to the contrary, you could not defend yourself against those who seek you. I will not leave you as easy prey for our enemies. Nott will protect you. Or, you could come with us. You would be safer."
"I'll take him," Potter said, as though Nott were an animal being forced into his care.
"You attended school together," Voldemort told him. "Perhaps he could share some insights with you."
"Perhaps."
Voldemort reached forward to touch the man, but otter shifted away, a faint grimace of pain crossing his features.
"I don't like to be touched."
Voldemort nodded. "It pains you again," he murmured softly. "We'll see about fixing that. Don't go anywhere without Nott. He's supposed to protect you."
"I'll keep that in mind." Still, Potter hesitated, staying close by. He stared up at Voldemort.
"Something on your mind?"
"There was something missing from my bag."
"Oh?" Voldemort asked. Had Potter missed his wand already?
"It's the only thing I had when …" he shook his head. "Never mind, it's just a stick."
"It's not 'just a stick'," Voldemort said, guiding him farther away from the others. He didn't touch Potter, for the moment respecting his wish, and the pain his touch caused, "any more than you are just an ordinary man. It is what will allow you power beyond your imagination."
"So, where is it now?"
"Safe," he said. "It's not something that should be around muggles. You'll get it back when you begin relearning how to use it."
The young man gazed at him a moment. He nodded.
"I have an early day tomorrow."
"So I heard. I'll let you know when everything is ready."
Potter nodded again, still staring up at Voldemort.
Voldemort left first.
Severus
"We weren't expecting you until next week."
Severus turned taking in the tall figure covered by cloak and shadow. Even here, unseen by anyone but each other, she didn't reveal herself completely. He recognized her voice, knew who she was, but never put a name to it. It was a weak defense, but the only one they had.
"Did something happen?" she asked, worry coloring her voice as she looked around. "Were you discovered?"
"Not yet," Severus soothed her concern, though it was more likely the potential tails she worried over.
"Then why are you here?" she demanded, back to business now her worries were laid to rest. "You know it's dangerous to meet."
"I'm aware of the dangers," Severus snapped. "Perhaps better than you."
He was the one putting everything on the line for a cause that was slowly dying out. If he was discovered, he was the one at risk. He would be tortured and killed long before anyone else felt the dark lord's ire.
None of them would even be at risk. There were precautions in place for his eventual discovery. Precautions which safeguarded the rest of them. He was the one with everything to lose, and she well knew it.
She sighed softly. "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry, Sev-"
He hissed at her. No names was the first rule. Never, for any reason. Even in dark alley basements where no one could hear them.
She stopped. "I should know better."
"You should."
"Well, what is it?" she asked. "What couldn't wait until next week?"
"It may be too late." He glanced around, paranoia requiring him to check-again-that they were unobserved.
"What is it?"
"Harry Potter has been found."
"By You-Know-Who?"
"Would I be here otherwise?" he snapped.
"How long do we have?" she asked.
"Until what?"
"Until he kills the boy!"
"He doesn't plan to," Severus said. "Yet."
"It's to be torture then."
"Not like your thinking." Severus sighed. "Potter doesn't remember anything."
"Doesn't … Are you certain?"
"The dark lord ripped through his mind," Severus said. "If memories were there, they'd have been found."
"Oh, Harry."
"Yes, poor Potter. Runs away and forgets all his responsibilities."
"Really, now. Must you?"
Severus inhaled slowly, controlling his temper. No one else could decide how to treat the boy. It was likely why he left. Part of the reason.
"The dark lord plans on converting the boy, woman," Severus snapped. "He plans on falsifying memories as proof of the boy's place at his side."
"Can he do that?"
"In a way."
With his help. It was better than anything else they could have done, and it wouldn't do irreparable harm to the boy's mind - what little there was of it.
"Where is he now?"
"Under guard," Severus said. "We have three days before Potter is given these … memories."
"Three days? Three Days? It's not enough time. You know it isn't."
"Well, something must be done."
She sighed, pacing the room. He avoided looking at her. Avoided noticing the way she moved. The tiny details the minor light revealed. Nothing that could give her away. He hoped.
"Where is it happening?"
"Malfoy Manor. It's to be a celebration of his return."
"There will be guards," she said.
"And the Dark Lord."
She nodded now. "Where is he now? Potter?"
"Some muggle abode. I haven't been able to ask without raising suspicion."
"That's the last thing we need right now," she admitted. "We'll see what we can do on our end."
She drew close, laying an old, wrinkled hand on Severus' arm. Something in him relaxed at the touch. Something that had been tense for far too long.
"Thank you," she said. "As always, you're good at your job, even if we don't like what you bring us."
Severus inclined his head at the acknowledgement.
"I'd best be getting back," he said. "I've a potion to brew."
"And we have a boy to rescue."
Not so much a boy anymore.
"Harry." His head rested on his knees. The tears came randomly. Constantly. They'd stop, and then he'd look up. He'd see a chess set, or a book, and they would return. It was easier to keep his head down. To hide everything. To avoid the looks of sympathy/pity/pain/irritation.
"Harry."
They'd sent Remus this time. No one else held that much understanding in their voice. He'd lost people too. People that mattered. People closer than family.
"Harry, look at me." The order was gentle. A request, but Harry didn't. Couldn't. Not even when a hand rested on his leg. Silent support. Understanding. It broke the barrier within him once more.
He sobbed again. Remus' grip tightened.
"Oh, Harry, you can't keep doing this to yourself."
His words didn't stop the flood. Didn't stop the pain. The words meant nothing to him. Couldn't ever reach him where it mattered. There was nothing there any more. Nothing but pain, and grief, and an empty whole where two kind hearts had taken residence.
They wouldn't want this, Harry," Remus said. "They wouldn't want you-"
Harry shoved the man away, watching him fall back with eyes blazing beneath the sparkling of tears.
"You don't know what they want," he snapped, hands curling into fists. He shoved his way to his feet, glaring down at Remus, the last remainder of parents he'd never known.
Remus stared up at him. Calm, as always. Understanding. Patient. His anger wavered. He clung to it desperately. It was better than the grief. A respite from the tears.
"You don't know what they want," he repeated. "Nobody knows because they're dead. They're dead because of a stupid plan that didn't work. They're dead because of a mistake, because I wasn't there. Because-" His voice cracked, anger fading as tears returned, overwhelming his words.
Harry collapsed to his knees. Remus was there, wrapping an arm around Harry, holding him tight.
"I know it hurts," Remus said. "I know it hurts, but we can't do this without you. I wish it were otherwise. I wish we could let you mourn. But, we can't. I'm sorry, but we need you."
And Harry cried.