Chapter Text
The world had crumbled beneath his feet. Wizards and witches alike prostrated before him as he watched them all with a bored expression on his serpentine face.
They all groveled and begged for their pitiful lives. Whimpered and moaned for mercy when at the end of his wand. It should have excited him. It should have satisfied the hunger churning in his gut as he watched a variety of families enter his chamber, their clothes in different arrays of state. Exposing to the world just where they fell on the totem pole.
It was disgusting how many wizards were before him with torn robes, but he masked his expression well. There was simply no point. They would be screaming at the end of his wand soon enough. As they all most certainly did when he was bored. What did it matter?
"My Lord?" Voldemort shifted his predatory gaze at the sound of his name, the couple before him as pitiful as they seemed. The woman stood silently beside her husband, her green eyes glinting hard despite the reality of where they were. It almost made him smile to see defiance.
It had been so long since he had seen it, having enslaved the world as it was.
"And they are?" Voldemort spoke, his high-pitched voice silencing the shuffling of feet in the room. It was almost pleasing to note it. Enough to coax a rumble of pleasure from his lips, but he did not release it. Choosing instead to regard the servant that had spoken, his disheveled hair showcasing just how distressed the man was. Wormtail stood between himself and the family in front of him, his pudgy body lackluster and truly uninspiring.
He looked more a rat than a man. An interesting point considering the man’s animagus was a rat.
It was fitting.
Voldemort turned his attention back to the woman, disinterested in staring at Wormtail’s wilting form and the man that stood silently beside the strong-willed woman.
"The Potters, my Lord." Wormtail simpered, his eyes careful to not look his lord in the eyes. It made Voldemort smirk, unable to quite mask his delight at just how unsettled he made the man. It may have become a chore—boring to see men tremble so easily before him. But Voldemort could not deny the delight that it was.
After all, he did revel in their torment. He did enjoy the control he had seized over his followers and his subjects alike. The world was his, and would remain as such.
He was immortal and Britain had fallen. As would the rest of the world in short time.
Voldemort stared at Wormtail for a moment longer, releasing a pleased chuckle when the man began to fidget nervously under his powerful gaze, his face beading with sweat the longer Voldemort looked at him.
It was an eternity before Voldemort deigned to turn his attention back to the Potters. His eyes fixing themselves on the woman that resembled the Weasley line.
"Please, my Lord. Our son." Voldemort paused in his staring, cutting his gaze to the husband at being directly addressed. Potter stepped in front of his wife then, his face tense with what Voldemort knew to be fear and unease. It seemed that Potter had noted Voldemort’s staring.
Interesting.
He obscured her completely from Voldemort's line of vision, his larger body dwarfing her shorter one.
The man did not speak and Voldemort did not feel the need at the moment to respond. The man’s behavior made Voldemort curious. It was common for men to protect their wives when they sensed danger, but this was perhaps the first time someone dared to do so in his presence.
What was the man hiding then? What was it that he wished for Lord Voldemort to not know? Was she perhaps a mudblood? Voldemort sneered then, disgusted entirely with such a notion. But Voldemort had never seen this woman before―she may have resembled the Weasley’s but she certainly was not one.
Was this man really so bold?
"Is your wife a mudblood?" Voldemort asked, ignoring the man’s earlier statement. The man did not respond, and Voldemort felt his irritation mount with each passing second. He saw the moment Potter hesitated, shifting his gaze nervously back to his wife, as if seeking permission from the woman.
It irritated Voldemort more than it otherwise should have. "I asked you a question. Do not make me repeat myself." Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, and Potter in that second made a decision.
"Yes, my Lord." The room in that instant seemed to have grown even more silent. So silent in fact that a pin could have been dropped and it would have sounded like a gun had been shot in the vicinity. Voldemort, for all his irritation, could not pretend to be surprised.
The Potters were known blood traitors.
"Give me one reason why I should not kill you both for this insolence." Voldemort spoke, his voice dropping several degrees as the reality of just what was standing in his throne room became readily more apparent. It was bold, Voldemort would admit. Something a bloody Gryffindor would do. And this Potter was definitely one.
"She doesn't have a wand, I swear." Potter begged then, scrambling to find a reason for his uncouth marriage. A reason for bringing her kind into his court. Only a moron would do something this incredibly stupid–or someone incredibly desperate. "M-my Lord, I would not have come if it weren't with good reason." Potter continued, his shoulders twitching with his unease.
"My son. I know you don't care for half breeds," Potter sounded bitter then, but he didn't dare look Voldemort in the eye as he said it, having enough sense to look to the floor. "But he is the last heir to the Potter family. I know you do not want any more wizarding blood spilt. My son is ill, please. I would not have come if it weren't with great reason."
Voldemort would have been impressed had he not been incensed in that second at the man's audacity. He dared presume he knew of Voldemort's desires, of his plans? When Potter had come in through Voldemort’s doors with filth dragging behind his heels?
But he stayed his hand, his curiosity overshadowing his intense dislike. It was certainly rare to see one of Dumbledore's old fools in his court. Since Voldemort's rise to power, they had either fled from the country or had died in the war. Few, since then, giving in to Voldemort's demands.
The Potters were among the few that had chosen amnesty rather than to fight. The life of their son too precious for the price they would have had to pay.
To orphan their son or simply give themselves in to Voldemort’s regime. It was almost predictable which one they would choose.
"W-we know that we are not favored. My wife's presence is…unsettling enough as it stands. But we would not have come otherwise." Potter paused then, shifting his gaze back to his wife who had planted a soft hand over her stomach. The gesture belying just how nervous the woman was.
As she should be.
"What do you have to offer me in exchange for my services? I see no reason to spare your wife considering her blood. So why should I help you and not remove this stain from my floor?" Voldemort finally spoke, his hairless brow rising questioningly.
“If you save our son, we will owe you a life debt. We would do anything for him, my Lord.” Potter declared, turning his complete attention to Voldemort. Standing taller and more confident than he had moments earlier.
Interesting.
“Speak.” Voldemort ordered, red eyes glittering with mirth when Potter wilted under his stare. The woman behind him pressing a hand on his shoulder.
“His name is Harry Potter, and he has fallen ill with Dragon Pox.”
When the Potters had come to him for their son, he had not anticipated that the case of Dragon Pox would be as severe as it was. The boy looked ready to greet death―his skin a vibrant green, purple patches adorning different parts of the youth’s face.
The child was surprisingly not ridden with bumps, but there was little comfort in that fact considering the pathetic state of the boy’s parents. They were perched over their son, but they were not so foolish as to touch the boy.
Everyone knew just how contagious the illness was. A great risk for even the healers to be within the room if not attired appropriately.
It was most fortunate that Lord Voldemort was not just anyone. He was the most powerful sorcerer to have been born. If there was a person that could cure this boy, it was him.
Even if this particular strain of Dragon Pox was an anomaly.
“Have you traveled recently?” Voldemort asked, breaking the short silence that had fallen in the room save for the boy’s labored breaths. The boy was trembling beneath the many layers of sheets draped over him, the enchantments that cloaked the air around him doing little to comfort the boy, Voldemort could see.
“No, my Lord. My wife and I do not travel much.” Potter answered, standing several feet away with his wife dutifully at his side. Looming over the boy with what Voldemort could guess was an avid desire to embrace the child.
How sentimental.
“Any new ingredients recently imported? Changes to your vendors?” Voldemort pressed, his patience thinning when Potter, once again, looked away from him to turn to his wife. Voldemort noted the way Potter’s gaze flickered to him as if assessing whether he should really turn his attention away from the Dark Lord, and that soothed his ire for the moment, before fully turning to his wife.
They were both silent for a moment, and then James turned back to address Voldemort. His gaze pointed downwards in respect.
“One of our vendors had recently passed. We needed to find another, my Lord.” Potter gestured to the piles of ingredients at the other end of the room, adjacent to where Voldemort was standing. The different plants and insect jars exposed to Voldemort’s calculating gaze as he headed directly for the hoard. There was a small cabinet just above the small table, stuck to the wall with a powerful sticking charm.
“Is this everything you own?” Voldemort asked once more, pointing his wand at the cabinet for a moment. Not daring to touch it.
This was likely the source of the boy’s severe illness.
“Yes, my Lord.” As soon as the confirmation left Potter’s lips, Voldemort set the cabinet along with the small table on fire with a powerful flick of his wand.
Voldemort heard Potter’s mudblood wife―Lily? Voldemort recalled briefly when Potter had taken his wife for a moment to another part of the house―gasp when their hoard went up in flames. The smoke heavy, but it was nothing truly of concern for the Dark Lord.
With another twist to his wrist, the smoke had quickly vanished as if it never was. The ingredients ash.
“Now then, both of you will wait outside.” Voldemort stated simply, his tone bridging no room for argument. Although it would have been quite the mistake if the two decided to defy their Lord’s wishes. He was already doing more than what he would ever have deigned for anyone else in their position.
The Potters hesitated for a moment, and Voldemort almost cursed them in that second. The Cruciatus curse weighing heavily on his tongue.
But the Potters, having sensed Voldemort’s ire in that instance, quickly scurried out of the room. The mudblood looked far more composed than her husband, and that was perhaps what made him sneer grotesquely at their back.
He knew that they could not see it, but there was something satisfying about allowing his face to contort into the familiar expression.
He turned his attention back to the boy, and closed the short distance to stand just inches from the bed. Watching the way the boy trembled, the boy’s eyes shut as the boy groaned from his discomfort. Voldemort waved his wand over the child’s trembling form, teasing his magic outward to gauge just how far the illness had already gotten.
The boy’s magic was weak, flickering in and out like a broken muggle light bulb. If the Potters had come a day too late, the boy would likely have died. Their one and only heir, lost. A line of wizarding blood gone.
It certainly would have been a shame, indeed.
“I am going to need you to tell me your name, child.” Voldemort stated— already knowing the boy’s name but needing to hear to gauge just how far gone the boy’s mind was—before ending the diagnostic spell and tucking his wand into his robes. He then slipped his fingers deeper into his pocket to remove a small vial.
It was also quite judicious that Voldemort had his own personal collection of the Dragon Pox cure. A blend made personally by him, disgusted by the mere idea of using anything personally tampered with by the old fool, Dumbledore.
Voldemort was nothing if not petty, and creating his own blend that terminated the illness with just a sip, was definitely another way to defeat the man. Even after he had personally sent Dumbledore to his grave.
The child stirred but otherwise did not respond. Voldemort sighed before whispering a spell and transfiguring a set of dragon-hide gloves around his bare hand―unwilling to touch the boy―and then uncorked the vial. The smell that wafted from the concoction was strong enough to burn the hair off one’s brow. The stench so vile and putrid that if the potion’s taste itself did not wake the boy, the smell certainly would.
Voldemort leaned in close, pressing the vial to the boy’s parted lips before tipping its contents into his mouth. Watching the boy swallow the disgusting potion down as if it were simply water.
His shrewd eyes watched the boy freeze, but otherwise, not respond for a few short seconds.
Voldemort counted the seconds in his mind, waiting patiently for the moment the boy would spring awake―for when the putrid green of his flesh and the purple bruising would dissipate as if nothing was ever amiss.
And then Harry shot up, his mouth opening wide like a gaping fish. Voldemort was disgusted by the display, quickly stepping back lest the boy in that second touch him.
The boy was panting heavily, his chest rising and falling as he fought the pain of the potion working its magic. The only downside, perhaps, to Voldemort’s own brew, the excruciating pain.
The boy was silent through his agony, and Voldemort was impressed in that instance with the mongrel’s show of restraint. The boy’s father was certainly a disappointment―the mother, a mudblood that hardly merited much thought―but it seemed the child was strong.
Perhaps, a powerful sorcerer in the making.
Another few minutes passed before the boy’s shaking finally died down, the boy’s skin free of the disfiguring color on his flesh. The boy’s breathing had settled, then. His breathing growing more level, and deeper the longer the potion sat in the boy’s stomach.
“What is your name, child?” Voldemort asked again, this time sure that the boy would be able to understand and respond to his question.
There was a brief moment of silence, before the boy’s mouth parted. Lips damp with his saliva as he tried to form the words Voldemort required.
After all, his parents had sold themselves to the Dark Lord with this little excursion.
“H-harry.” The boy muttered, his head turning immediately to where he had heard Voldemort’s voice. Voldemort tried not to sneer at the weakness.
“Your surname.” Voldemort hissed, growing impatient that this had taken far longer than he had wished. The potion was meant to work in mere seconds upon ingestion. Relief instantaneous from the symptoms before the boy was required fight to rid the rest of the illness himself.
It was what caused the pain in the first place, after all.
“P-p-potter.” Voldemort heaved a sigh, turning to leave but stopping when the boy opened his eyes. The sight immediately rooted Voldemort in place―the shifting of his robes the only indication that Voldemort had tried to move at all.
Voldemort was, for the first time in his existence, lost for words.
The boy’s eyes were a bright green. Like the color of his killing curse washing the skin of his enemies a toxic green. Like the gems that glittered over Slytherin’s locket. Like the memories of the summer sun clinging to the moist earth beneath his feet when exploring the resplendence of the Forbidden Forest.
They were the same eyes Voldemort had seen in the boy’s mudblood mother. And that thought alone should have disgusted him.
But his mind was oddly silent on the matter, utterly enthralled by how the sunlight from the open window at the other end of the room revealed different flecks of green in the boy’s eyes.
Voldemort did not know what to make of that.
“T-thank you.” The boy whispered, his eyes glowing with his admiration and gratitude before his eyes fluttered closed and the spell Voldemort had fallen under, broke.
When the Potters died a week after Voldemort had saved their son from the Dragon Pox, it had come as a blow to his overinflated ego.
He did not anticipate that they would fall so swiftly to the Dragon Pox so shortly after he had cured their son. Expecting to cash in on their favor as soon as he finished dealing with the recent attack on his home the week before.
It had been a mistake to wait. But there was no use begrudging the situation. The child would have to carry the debt that was owed on his shoulders.
Even if he was useless.
The boy was too young, and Voldemort suspected, shielded from the current state of affairs. There was no hope that this boy would hold any information pertaining to the few Order members outside of his reach.
Voldemort sighed, leaning more readily into his throne as he debated just how to deal with this nonsense. His patience was not endless, and he would not wait for this child to grow older to become useful to him.
"What do we do with the child, my Lord? I understand that he is not old enough to enter school." Wormtail stated, his lip quivering when Voldemort turned his attention to him in that instant to regard him. He noted the way Wormtail seemed to shrink further into himself at the incensed look in Voldemort’s face―his eyes watering as if he were about to break down into tears.
It was pathetic. The sight drew an immediate sneer to his lips.
"There is nothing to be done about him. He will not be useful until he has at least acquired his own wand." Voldemort said, after taking in a deep breath to quell his mounting frustration. He was vexed, and although he was tempted to take his anger on his pathetic servant in that moment, it would do nothing to truly satisfy his rage.
Only the screams of the Potters would be enough.
“You may go.” Voldemort dismissed Wormtail after several minutes of watching the man twitch in front of him.
Wormtail could not have moved faster if he tried, immediately turning away from the throne to scurry away. If Voldemort squinted hard enough, he might even see a tail tucked firmly between his legs. Voldemort watched Wormtail’s massive shoulders quiver as all the way to the door at the end, the trembling in his gait relaxing the further away he got from Voldemort's powerful presence.
It was something that normally would have amused Voldemort, but there was no satisfaction to be found. Voldemort had been made a fool by a blood traitor and a filthy mudblood. He should be skinning their son alive for the insult. He should be torturing that child within an inch of his life.
But he stayed his hand. Odd as that was.
Voldemort remained seated for what felt like an eternity as he mulled over just what he should do with the child. His hand raising to scratch beneath his smooth chin in thought. Wormtail would likely place the child in an orphanage—it was truly the only place. No pureblood would be caught dead caring for a mongrel.
He himself would not have given the boy any thought had it not been for the debt owed by his parents.
"What to do with you..." Voldemort wondered if he could make the child a possible Death Eater. If he could use the boy's natural ability, mold the child into a powerful wizard that would be loyal only to him. The boy showed promise, even if he was simply halfblood.
It was possible to use the boy as a spy against the few remaining spies.
The possibilities were endless.
"My Lord!" Voldemort was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of an unwanted voice, his face carefully masking his surprise when the last person he wished to see came through the doors. The platinum blonde hair and his pointed features enough to irritate him beyond measure.
Lucius Malfoy.
Voldemort’s lips twisted into a sneer at the sight of the man, his foul mood darkening further at how the man practically vibrated with energy.
"My Lord, I come with great news." Lucius's pace was quick, his face glowing brightly with pleasure as he walked through the massive chamber. Voldemort was tempted to curse him for simply walking in.
His existence was an irritant in and of itself.
"I hope that your news is of interest to me, Lucius. I will not be pleased." Voldemort's voice was soft, an inflection of danger so palpable in his voice that Lucius paused just several feet away from where Voldemort sat, the elevated platform his throne stood upon making Voldemort look more imposing than he already was.
Voldemort smirked when Lucius paled incredibly then, the excitement thrumming in the man's skin shriveling. Lucius practically wilted like a flower left out too long beneath the sun. His pointed face pinching at the mouth as if he were in pain.
It amused Voldemort greatly.
"I-I have information regarding the rebels that attacked your home last week, my Lord." Voldemort raised a hairless brow at that, but did not otherwise comment.
Lucius had his undivided attention.
He motioned with his hand to continue, and Lucius nodded before continuing. His shoulders relaxing now that the threat of punishment was no longer hanging in the air.
"The Longbottoms have hidden themselves in Scotland. Not very far from Hogwarts, in fact." The man was practically vibrating with excitement once more, although to anyone else it would seem that Lucius was simply having a perfectly composed conversation.
"Oh? And where did you acquire this information?" Voldemort was curious, his tone careful as he watched Lucius preen as if he'd been praised. Watching how Lucius’s smirked then, his eyes glittering with satisfaction.
Fool.
"We found letters hidden in the Potter cottage, my Lord. When our staff went in to burn the place to the ground, they uncovered a hidden basement. There, they found some rather interesting information." Lucius was smug, and Voldemort, for once, did not feel the need to punish the man. Pleased at their forethought to search the place before burning it down.
It seemed that there was still hope for them yet.
"We found several recent photographs of current Order members. We also managed to uncover some letters dated several days before the attack. Those exchanges revealed the location of the Longbottoms, as well as others.” Lucius continued before finally pausing, as if sensing that his Lord was no longer interested in hearing more. And the man was correct in assuming as such, he cared little for what the contents of the letter said. Not until he himself could read them for himself and gauge their usefulness.
After all, it was a simple matter to tamper with the evidence and change crucial information.
"Was the boy involved?" Voldemort asked, wondering why he even bothered asking about the brat when the boy clearly could not have been involved.
"That's just it, my Lord. There is apparently a prophecy." Lucius's excitement seemed to dampen then, his gaze flickering to the other side of the room as if afraid to speak. The man’s lips set into a grim line, his eyes heavy like the sky before a coming storm. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies. And this boy, Harry Potter. He and the Longbottom child both fit that description."
It was silent for a moment. Voldemort’s breathing stilling completely as the words embedded themselves into his mind like broken glass.
Like a waterfall, came both fear and rage. The two emotions overtaking him in an instant. His magic cackled with the force of his emotions, like tidal waves crushing stone at the reality of what Lucius had just said.
A child destined to kill me?
It was ridiculous. It was ludicrous. Voldemort was enraged.
"Bring me the child." Voldemort hissed, no longer capable of restraining his fury. His voice so high that it could almost shatter glass. Lucius took an immediate step back, shocked by the force of Voldemort’s rage, his face twisting into one of fear as Voldemort’s magic pressed heavily against him.
"Bring him to me now." Voldemort repeated coldly, his voice taking on a more snake-like quality that promised punishment for those that dared disobey. It asked for blood, begged for the sounds of tormented screams.
It hungered and Voldemort nearly lost himself to it.
Voldemort raised his wand then, prepared to curse Lucius. To slake his bloodlust on the first person in front of him. The Dark Lord rose just as quickly as his wand, no longer desiring to remain seated any longer. He felt restless, his gut churning as he watched Lucius pale considerably.
All color drained from Lucius’s lips and cheeks at the sight of his Lord’s ire.
Lucius did not hesitate. The man apparated so quickly in that instant that it was a wonder if the man had splinched himself in his haste.
Voldemort fired the first curse that came to mind, shattering one of the columns at the other said of the room. The explosion echoed in the chamber, and Voldemort reveled in the destruction for a brief second. His eyes closing to admire the sound.
A boy destined to kill him, and Voldemort had saved him?
The thought spread a noxious rage through his veins, his fingers so tight on his wand that it was a shock he hadn’t snapped it in two.
The Potters were fortunate the Dragon Pox had taken them. That death was merciful compared to the death that would have awaited them should he have gotten ahold of them in that instance. He would have bathed in their blood and screams. Severed flesh from bone, skinned them alive for their grievous error. It would have been a delight to listen to them choke on their blood, to watch them writhe at the sheer force of his wand as he took his pleasure in their torment―
Voldemort was pulled from his violent thoughts by a popping sound. His vision clearing for a moment to focus on just who dared interrupt him. A curse weighing heavy on his tongue as he turned.
At the sight of Lucius with the boy clinging tightly to his leg, Voldemort sobered up considerably. His eyes fixating almost immediately upon the curious eyes of the child he had saved. Of the same bright green eyes that bewitched him.
“I have brought you the boy, my Lord.” Lucius stated hesitantly, his voice wavering as he spoke before forcing the boy away from his leg. His face twisting into a sneer as he grabbed the boy by his shoulder and shoved the child to the ground. The child let out a pained cry from the brutality and whimpered when he landed on hands and knees to the tiled floor, unable to find his balance after Lucius violently shoved the child off.
The boys eyes, however, never looked away from Voldemort’s own crimson gaze.
“Crucio.” The curse fell easily from his lips, and then Lucius’s screams were cutting through the silence that had fallen in the chamber. His shouts for mercy echoing in the room.
Voldemort did not spare the nuisance a glance, unable to look away from the boy as he slowly rose to his feet. The boy’s attention just as undivided as Voldemort’s.
The boy had eyes of a witch, Voldemort thought. The anger that had so easily suffused through his veins, calming into quiet waves. It was disquieting how much of an affect this small child had on him―how the thought of flaying the boy’s skin from his body, did not appeal to him even remotely. His violence curbed expertly by the strange emotion that seized him.
This boy was to be his death. The prophecy so says. But Voldemort’s fear and rage was supplanted by a curious emotion he had never come across before.
Curiosity.
Possessiveness.
A mix of the two and more than Voldemort tried to understand, but failed to.
Voldemort ended the curse abruptly, Lucius’s screams dying down to whimpers.
“Lucius.” Voldemort spoke, stepping away from the throne to approach the boy that did not quake in Voldemort’s presence. Watching the way Harry―because yes, that was the curious child’s name―stood before him with an expression of great curiosity and wonder.
There was no fear, no distress in the boy’s limbs.
“Harm a single hair on this child’s head, and I will personally ensure that death will seem a mercy.” Voldemort whispered, stopping just in front of the child. His robes brushing against the boy’s tiny feet.
He looked incredibly small―a frail thing that smelled of weakness. But there was power in that gaze―there was a promise in those eyes that Voldemort was curious to explore. To understand.
There was admiration there that he had only ever seen in Bellatrix’s mad eyes.
He could use this.
“Tell me, child. Do you know who I am?” Voldemort asked, genuinely curious to hear the boy’s response.
The boy jolted as if snapping out of trance, his shoulders tensing before relaxing in that same second. His lips pursed for a moment, as if in deep thought, and Voldemort wondered then, just how much the boy’s parents had hidden from him.
Voldemort did not need an answer to know what the boy was going to say next.
“You’re the snakeman that saved me.” The boy’s voice was small, a lilt to it that belied just how young the child was. “With the pretty red eyes.” Awe thick in the boy’s words.
Again, Voldemort was at a loss, not expecting that response at all. Especially after torturing a man several feet from where the boy was currently standing.
“D-don’t leave me, please.” The boy sniffled, his face crumpling into a pained expression before stepping forward to cling tightly to Voldemort’s robes. Voldemort stiffened, unused to physical contact after spending years without.
The boy was warm, his short body barely reaching the top of his knee as he cried. The boy’s hiccupping tears enough to make Voldemort uncomfortable.
He was used to tears from children he tortured―to their cries for mercy when he stole their families from them. Used to fear overtaking their cherubic faces. But this.
A gaze of admiration? Tears of loneliness for being away from Lord Voldemort’s presence? That was unheard of. Completely unprecedented.
He should have let the boy die when he had had the chance.
“Rest easy, child. I will not be going anywhere.” Voldemort finally stated, his words sounding foreign to him as the child burrowed his face further into his robe. His sobs dying down at the sound of Voldemort’s whispered promise.
Voldemort cut his gaze then to Lucius―the man’s eyes wide with palpable fear and…confusion. Voldemort raised his wand then, the familiar yew comforting and pulsing powerfully beneath his fingers as he pointed it to the man lying still on the ground.
“Obliviate.” Voldemort erased the last few moments from the man’s memory.
It would not do for the man to see such a moment of weakness. Of Voldemort’s rage contained by the mere look of a child. Especially a child possibly destined to kill him.
“Come, Harry. There is much to do.”
Already debating just who he was going to send to dispose of the Longbottom child.
Daddy.
The first time Voldemort heard Harry say those words he was scandalized. The boy, no older than twelve, staring into his face as if the word was not the insult that it was. The child looking innocent, his cheeks pink and his eyes bright with delight as he looked upon Voldemort as if he were a prince and not the monster that he was.
As if he were not the Dark Lord, but a simple man.
It was a puzzling thing. An enigma that Voldemort tried to understand because surely at this boy's age, he could not have been this trusting. This...open. But Harry Potter, from the moment Voldemort had laid his eyes on him, had been a mystery. An anomaly that Voldemort should have struck down the moment the opportunity had so arisen. But he had not, bewitched as he was by the green in the boy's eyes. It was, after all, what had made him spare the boy.
Perhaps, it was the simplicity of the boy's chosen endearment that had upset him. But all the same, the child had not noticed his immediate disgust with the word nor made amends to remedy his conduct when Voldemort explicitly asked the child to refer to him as he should be referred.
My Lord.
It was not a complex title—a simple one that children in this era understood before they even began their magical training. But this child for all his admiration and purity, was quite stubborn. Daring and foolish, for speaking to the Dark Lord as he pleased.
It was jarring that the Dark Lord, a man of the world, could be so easily defeated by the whims of a child. How one simple utterance could elicit such a visceral disgust.
Voldemort was simply not the boy's father, nor did he plan to ever be as such. He always took care to keep himself at arm's length so as not to...encourage such affections. It was just the natural order of things. The Dark Lord had no need for such things, he only needed a tool. Not a son.
He planned to be immortal, there would be no need for an heir.
Voldemort, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, had handed the boy over to one of his more competent followers—providing the child-rearing a child of his delicate age would require. It would have been easy to simply disappear from the child's life and take him once his followers had finished Harry's training. The notion of being blissfully free of the boy's heavy gaze and his daunting interest, a pleasant one, but he understood that simply abandoning the child would not lead to the desired result.
To inspire the loyalty Voldemort required, he needed to be a constant in the boy's life. To praise the boy when the boy accomplished a goal. To punish him when he stepped out of line and embarrassed himself in front of others.
And he did just that, Voldemort filling that void in the child's life easily enough.
Voldemort pressed his hand to his forehead, massaging the skin as if trying to will away a particularly bothersome headache. Thinking about the boy was a sure fire way of creating one, but there was no avoiding Harry Potter.
Not when he had so graciously brought him into his home.
It was fortunate for Voldemort the boy was intelligent—a quick learner that inhaled information as readily as he demanded Voldemort's attention...and taxed the Dark Lord's patience. Otherwise, Voldemort was sure he would have lost what little sanity he had left.
Not that he was not already hanging by a thread.
Because for each rigorous examination the boy participated in, Voldemort had to be present to witness the child's performance.
Like a ghost—one that for some reason Harry never seemed to fear or be surprised at seeing as time continued to pass. The boy's awe never changing, but his body growing taller. It was both a blessing and a curse, both refreshing and appalling just how little and how much the boy changed.
It made him rather grateful that he had not changed Hogwarts' curriculum too much once seizing control of Britain, and digging his claws into the school.
It was a breath of fresh air to be away from the child. To escape into the boring, and albeit, annoying status conferences with his servants, but it was preferable to being around the boy.
It was distracting to have his green eyes staring into his own. To lose himself in the kaleidoscope of color in the boy's irises when speaking to Lucius, or even discussing matters of most importance with Bellatrix and Rudolphus. The boy was a burden, but one that Voldemort understood would result in a benefit down the line.
At least, he hoped as much.
Although, Voldemort would never admit just how unsettled the boy's constant staring made him—how the affection there pained him almost physically. Like a touch on his skin that never quite went away. Voldemort just simply did not have the time nor the energy to deal with these strange emotions in the boy's mind—to understand why Harry was so interested in being the focal point in Voldemort's life.
Though, after hearing the word daddy uttered in his direction–the boy's innocent eyes smiling at him as he shaped the words–Voldemort wondered whether it would have been easier just killing the child and being done with it than dealing with the headache he was sporting now.
“Daddy, are you busy?”
Voldemort felt like he’d been punched in the gut, rearing back at the sight of the boy peeking his head through his open doorway. Voldemort composed his disgusted expression instantly, noting how the boy walked through the door as if Voldemort’s acknowledgment was permission.
Although, it hardly mattered whether he had or had not given the child leave to enter. Harry had a mind of his own, and it generally resulted in more trouble than Voldemort could stand.
“How many times must I tell you not to call me that?” Voldemort sighed tiredly, sitting up straighter when Harry finally stopped in front of his desk. His eyes striking underneath the various enchantments Voldemort had cast in the room.
The lights made Harry’s eyes glow an eerie green, almost as if the irises themselves trapped the light and used it as their own. It reminded Voldemort faintly of the moon.
The dead rock capturing the faint rays from the sun, and never quite letting it go.
It was rather fitting.
“I want to join the Quidditch Team.” There was no hesitation in Harry’s voice, ignoring completely the fact that Voldemort had once again chastised him for calling him daddy. It was incredibly frustrating for Voldemort, but he did not let it show. He maintained a carefully smoothed mask as he assessed the nature of Harry’s request.
Admittedly, that statement was almost as repulsive as being called daddy. If not worse, considering how little he favored the sport in question. It was uncouth―a matter of lesser importance than the various subjects the boy was meant to learn while at Hogwarts.
Voldemort had rewarded Severus with such a prestigious position as headmaster, but it seemed the man had not, for a reason the Dark Lord could not understand, done away with the sport.
“No.” It was a more an instinctual response than one Voldemort had properly acknowledged. The utterance enough to ignite Harry’s ire in mere seconds.
Voldemort could already feel a headache forming.
“Why ever not!?” Harry whispered, his shoulders shaking with rage at being denied such a simple thing. As if Voldemort had no reason for his dismissal of the matter despite how much of a distraction the sport could be on his education. “I have been nothing short of perfect with my marks.”
This was true, but Voldemort cared little for the soundness of the proposition. The boy needed to focus on his magical training. This was not a matter that he was willing to concede, and Voldemort could tell that Harry knew this too, gauging from the flush of anger in the boy’s cheeks.
Voldemort watched Harry clench his jaw, as if repressing the desire to make a scathing retort. The gesture drawing forth a sigh from Voldemort’s lips.
It was definitely impressive that the child had not given in to the impulse. It would have been tiresome if Voldemort had to punish him so early in the morning.
Voldemort paused when Harry’s eyes snapped to his own suddenly, the green of his eyes more prominent now that they were blazing with his rage. They glittered like dew beneath the enchantments, the glass-like quality enough to shock Voldemort into a stupor.
Harry’s eyes were entrancing…and bloody distracting when they did that. Breathing a foreign and difficult concept as Voldemort internally scrambled to gather his thoughts. His face, despite the turmoil, perfectly composed.
And then, as if sensing Voldemort’s internal turmoil, the boy froze for a second. A strange look overcoming his features before the anger quickly drained from his limbs despite being leveled underneath Voldemort’s stare.
Harry’s lips slipped into an easy smile, mischief dancing across his gaze when the allure of the boy’s powerful stare finally ceased. The connection broke then, the power in Harry’s eyes releasing Voldemort from his state of rapture.
It was discomfiting, the power this child had. He did not understand it.
Voldemort inhaled deeply, trying to gather his own addled thoughts after the boy had so rudely shaken them. He should have been angry―he knew. He should have been tempted to curse the boy for the state of confusion in his mind, for the restlessness coiling in the pit of his stomach then.
He could feel his fingers itching for his wand, could feel the tempting croon of his wand begging for the screams of the child. But there was another voice―a faint one that Voldemort only ever heard when in the presence of Harry Potter, urging him to desist. Whispering for him to stay his hand, to settle his rage because what good would it do?
The voice unnerved him as much as it soothed him. His desire to hurt crumbling like sand beneath the hands of a cruel child.
After Voldemort had managed to control the explosion of emotion beneath his mask―his face, always composed―he noted the careful expression on the boy’s face. His eyes still glittering with his own anger and defiance, but monumentally calmer than it had been mere moments earlier. The small smile on the boy’s lips looking predatory with the emotions percolating in his gaze.
The boy, it seemed to Voldemort then, was learning quickly. It should have pleased him, but he couldn’t convince himself to scrounge up the emotion. His frustration and anger more pressing.
“I won’t call you daddy anymore if you allow this. Snape won’t let me join without your express permission.” Harry stated, his tone surprisingly even.
Voldemort, for all his composure, could not hide the way his shoulders tensed. His mind reeling internally at the gall of this child.
Of this boy’s bloody nerve.
“Do you honestly believe that is incentive enough for me to allow this?” Voldemort started, but stopped when the boy gave him a small smirk. His eyes glittering with mischief in that instance.
“But daddy, doesn’t it make you uncomfortable? Is that not the first thing you said when I walked in?” Harry began, leaning forward to plant his hands on either side of the desk.
Was the boy really―?
“None of the boys my year know you’re my daddy. It would be a shame if one day, during Fifth Year examinations, I just…slip.” Harry’s voice was teasing, his tone silkier than Voldemort remembered hearing.
A bomb could have gone off in that second and Voldemort would not have noticed it. The shock suffusing his veins so palpable that Harry actually laughed at him, clearly noticing Voldemort’s surprise. Voldemort reared back as if burned at the sound, a curse hanging heavy on his tongue as he debated punishing the boy for his insolence.
“You dare?!” Voldemort seethed, slowly rising from where he had been sitting despite the anger coursing through his veins. The rage and the impatience in his gut whispering for violence and retribution.
He ignored the pleased croon at the back of his mind purring contently with how quickly the boy was learning to play the game.
“I just want to play Quidditch, is all. It doesn’t have to be more difficult than you’re making it…” Harry trailed off innocently, and Voldemort snapped.
His wand was in his hand before the boy could even blink, the curse on the tip of his tongue when he pressed the wood against Harry’s cheek. But he did not release it, the strange power in the boy’s eyes making him hesitate for a second.
Voldemort tried not to let that brief second incense him further.
Harry paled considerably at the sight, the smugness on his face vanishing altogether at the fury in Voldemort’s eyes. The emotion enough to settle the nerves the boy had so quickly shaken in the Dark Lord. This fear, this hesitation―those were emotions Voldemort was familiar with in the gaze of others. There was no magic to derail him―not power in the boy’s eyes to distract him from just how satisfying it was to make the boy fear.
Good, now he understands.
"Let me make myself very clear here, Harry..." Voldemort hissed, his fingers coiling tightly around his yew wand like a python. The tension in his fingers so palpable that Voldemort was faintly concerned his wand might snap from the strength he was gripping his wand.
"I will not be cowed by you, a simple Fifth year. I have lived for far longer than even your pitiful parents." Voldemort stepped around his desk then, his movements flowing seamlessly like water while he maintained his wand trained on the boy's face.
It was delicious to note the fear there―the color in his eyes looking manifestly more interesting now that they were not plagued by the problematic mischief that had been there mere seconds earlier.
"It is very simple, Harry. You will either submit to my order or be punished without acquiring what you most desire." Voldemort stopped in front of his Harry, his wand pressing lightly against Harry's forehead before trailing it on the flesh. Voldemort smirked when Harry shivered from the contact, the boy’s eyes widening into saucers at the man's sudden proximity and violence.
Voldemort was consumed by his dark inclinations―but there was something subtly amusing about making the boy bend to his whims. To show this devious and stubborn child, just who it was that was in control. It made the predator within purr contently―the rush of elation when the boy shook before him pacifying his rage.
"Please, I didn't mean any disrespect." Harry whispered, his eyes darting away from Voldemort's intense red gaze to look to the ground, the boy’s feet shuffling as Voldemort basked in the boy’s squirming. He felt victory swell in his gut, his grip on his wand relaxing significantly now that his anger did not threaten to overtake him.
More than satisfied with how submissive Harry seemed. It was heady, how the sight and sound, undid him considering just how defiant the boy could be.
Ever since the boy had reached the age of fifteen, he had been more incorrigible than usual. His adolescent tenacity and flare for the dramatics doing little for Voldemort's own patience as he tried―and truly, he did―to restrain himself from truly using the boy's bones as toothpicks.
"I just―" Harry swallowed there, pausing for a moment as if he were struggling intensely to scrounge up the words. Voldemort drank in the sight as if it were the sweetest ambrosia, his anger cooling further into a humming buzz of irritation.
Voldemort watched Harry clench his hands into fists in the short silence, closing his eyes briefly to bask in the unease only he could bring in another. "I understand why you see it as a waste of time."
The boy sounded bitter as he said the words, his lips twisting into a feral snarl that tugged a short smile from Voldemort's lips. The allure of the boy's distress as intoxicating as his admiration.
"If you allow me to do Quidditch, I promise I won't call you that anymore. I won't threaten you with it. It was…foolish of me to do that." Harry continued, and Voldemort paused to digest the boy's promise.
Voldemort would admit that never having to hear that blasted word appealed to him. It certainly would not hurt to allow the boy to play Quidditch, especially so late in the year. But would his own peace of mind be worth the possibility of cluttering Harry's mind with such athletic nonsense?
Harry, seeming to note that Voldemort was actually considering his plea, raised his eyes from the ground, subjecting Voldemort to the intensity of those green eyes. Voldemort attention wavered, his thoughts cast away by the power in Harry’s eyes.
It took Voldemort longer than he liked to gather his thoughts, his irritation flaring up at just how easily the boy managed to derail him once more with but a simple look.
"I won't let it distract me from my studies, if that is what you're concerned about." Harry stated, his voice sounding faint even in the absolute silence that had fallen in the room. "I know how much you've invested in my education. How you need to keep our association a secret for my mission. I promise I will never do anything to disappoint you."
Voldemort cringed internally at the breathy tone in Harry's voice, of the brightness that so suddenly overtook Harry's eyes as if he were prepared to cry. The sight produced a strange feeling of distress that Voldemort could not quite pinpoint.
Almost as if Voldemort had been plunging straight to the ground without any aid to keep him standing.
How…unsettling.
"You saved me. You are everything to me." Harry continued, moving closer despite the wand pressed against his cheek; the polished wood leaving a faint indent on the boy’s tan skin. It confused him. It was like Voldemort, in that instance, had not been threatening the boy with punishment for his daring. The threat that had created such delicious fear in the boy dissipating like smoke―as if it never was.
Voldemort did not know how to feel in that precise moment, overwhelmed by the sudden shift in Harry's own emotions. The declaration...not quite what Voldemort had expected, considering the dread that hadovertaken the boy completely at the threat of punishment.
Fear and anger―Voldemort understood these intimately. But no matter how many times he was subjected to the boy’s admiration, he never quite adjusted. His visage drawing startled gasps and whimpers long eliminating the need for such things.
Harry Potter made no sense.
A beat of silence passed, the seconds a slow trickle that did nothing to settle the disturbance in Voldemort's mind. It did not quiet the confusion, did not calm the storm raging in his blood as he tried to make sense of just what game the boy was playing because certainly, this was a game. It was a move as old as time―it was a shift in tactics to throw off your opponent.
And it was frustrating that it was working. Rather effectively, Voldemort thought disgustedly.
Bested by a fifteen year old, what would your followers think?
He squashed the thought as soon as it came. Dropping his wand as he came to a quick decision, disliking the fact that for his own peace of mind he would concede this bit of power to the boy. Annoyed by the bewitching power of Harry’s gaze and his inability to resist its call.
"Fine. Play your useless sport.” Voldemort began, watching the way Harry perked at the sound.
“However, if I learn that my generosity has been misplaced, I will make sure that Severus culls the sport from the curriculum. Your education comes before insipid sport rivalries. Do I make myself clear?" Voldemort's tone brooked no room for argument, a hairless brow raising up as if expecting the boy to protest.
Voldemort sighed when the boy began to vibrate with excitement. His eyes dancing with joy that his Lord had given in to his whims.
"Thank you so much, da―" Harry stopped at the sharp look Voldemort threw at him, catching himself before he could speak the filthy word.
Harry floundered for a moment in embarrassment, his lips quirking into a sheepish grin that made his eyes dance pleasingly beneath the low lights.
Voldemort wanted to gauge the boys eye's out.
"Thank you, my Lord." Harry said instead, admiration and excitement apparent in his gaze before bowing low.
Voldemort was stunned, but not displeased. More than satisfied that Harry had finally, after years of Voldemort's constant chiding and punishments, eliminated the word from his vocabulary and used his proper title. Voldemort could not help the small smirk that flitted on his face.
"You won't regret this." Harry rose from his deep bow as he spoke, the fire in the boy’s gaze as intense as the vibrant red in Voldemort’s eyes.
Voldemort nodded, choosing to take the boy at his word rather than question the state of things. It was more likely than not that the boy would definitely make him somehow regret this choice, but he would deal with the matter when it presented itself. Harry had quite the penchant for getting into trouble, and although he was a bright wizard with raw potential, it would certainly require quite a bit of juggling to manage his already full plate.
It would be a shame if the boy could not handle it, but it was of no issue to him. If Harry could not do it, well, he would take great pleasure meting out punishment for the failure.
"If there isn't anything else that you need. Get out." Voldemort turned his attention away from the boy to walk back to his seat, the piles of paperwork still unfinished.
He could hear the boy shuffle across the room, his footsteps disturbing the silence that had fallen. When Voldemort finally heard the sound of the door clicking shut, he released the breath he had been holding. His tension and migraine easing almost upon the boy's exit.
Voldemort settled himself into his chair, basking in the warming charms he had cast on the seat before turning his attention to the documents that needed his attention.
Harry Potter―Voldemort thought as he pocketed his wand and made to grab his quill―was definitely going to be the death of him.
The boy no longer called him daddy, but that did not mean that Harry had so easily given up. His comments had become cleverer, his mind growing just as rapidly as his body. He was developing into quite the young man―and a serious pain in his arse.
He was no longer the scrawny brat that whined when thrown head first into examinations. The boy that complained when the examiners were much harsher to him than his own peers―the weight of his mission resting heavily on his shoulders.
No, the boy had grown into his body. His mind finally maturing to properly assess the importance of his mission. He was still rather short for his age, and made quite the spectacle when the occasion arose.
But there was still time to break that atrocious habit. He was not yet ripe―still woefully ignorant of the intricacies that Hogwarts could not quite satisfy.
Harry would be graduating this year, and Voldemort was not sure how to feel on the matter. This was the moment Voldemort had been waiting for since he had taken the boy under his wing―molding and shaping him into the perfect spy. His loyalty reserved solely for his Lord and no others.
Post-graduation was the perfect time for Voldemort to truly focus on the boy’s training―there would be no interruptions or silly stories to be shared once the boy was taken away from all the useless chatter of his peers. Severus had made improvements to the curriculum, but it would be difficult to remove the tenacity and the excitability of young children.
Harry, Voldemort found, was a testament to that.
At first, he had planned to train the boy himself in conjunction with his education at Hogwarts―but that plan was scrapped as soon as it was birthed.
It was certainly manageable―the boy was talented enough, and with proper…encouragement could satisfy Voldemort’s rather high expectations. But that, at the time, would have meant Voldemort would need to dwell longer in the boy's presence.
He would sooner reanimate Albus Dumbledore as an Inferi than subject himself to that experience.
Harry was nothing if not overbearing―his excitement and eagerness grating. The fact that he now had no true reason for avoiding the boy, irritating. If the boy was well-behaved and silent―only spoke when spoken to―then perhaps, it would not be the chore that it was. But this was the nature of the beast and Voldemort would do what needed to be done in order to fulfill his goals.
Even if it meant dealing with Harry Potter on a daily basis.
"My Lord?" The sound of Wormtail's voice drew Voldemort from his thoughts, his lips pursing into a harsh line at being interrupted. He had made it perfectly clear he desired to be alone.
Why was the fool here?
"Is there a particular reason you are here. I do recall mentioning that I was not to be disturbed, Wormtail." Voldemort stated plainly, smoothing his hand against his chin as he listened to Wormtail shuffle a short distance behind him.
Voldemort could not see him, not when his seat was turned to face the fire place rather than the entirety of the room, but he did not need to. Voldemort could practically taste the man's fear and hesitation―the man’s fumbling an irritant.
"I-I know you asked us specifically not to disturb you, but it’s Potter, my Lord..." Wormtail stuttered out, the shuffling growing markedly louder the closer he came to Voldemort's sitting form.
Of course, it'd be Harry.
Voldemort released a loud puff of air in displeasure, before casting his gaze away from the snapping fire to Wormtail, who had stopped several inches beside him.
"What has the boy done now?" He watched Wormtail flinch at the sound, his fear doing nothing to abate his growing annoyance. "I will skin you alive if this is over something trivial." His tone so carefree that it hardly sounded like Voldemort was threatening to harm the servant. It was a tenor reserved more for speaking about the weather, really.
It was still rather effective despite the tone with which the threat was delivered.
Wormtail paled.
"He's out the front door threatening to blow the walls down if you don't come out, my Lord. He--" Wormtail paused there, and Voldemort was one whimper away from harming the man.
Wormtail swallowed audibly at the cruel look Voldemort shot him, before clenching his fists to gather his bearings.
"He's pissed..." If Wormtail had not been as close as he was, Voldemort would not have been able to hear him―his voice a weak whisper in the silent sitting room. It took Voldemort several seconds to ascertain just what Wormtail meant before he was standing up, rage forcing him to move from the chair he had been so comfortably reclining on, to head towards the two double-doors at the opposite end of the room.
Bloody adolescents.
"Allow him in, Wormtail. Bring him to my study and do not allow him to wreck everything on his way in." Voldemort hissed before bursting through the doors and taking a sharp left towards his study at the end of the hall.
Dealing with Harry was going to require more patience than he had. Harry was difficult sober, but drunk?
Voldemort could already feel a headache forming.
When he found out who allowed Harry to drink, he would make sure they personally suffered beneath his wand for days. He had hoped to relax by the fire―perhaps read while reclined on his favorite seat―but it seemed that his plans were never to come to fruition.
He waved his arm and the doors to his study parted without hesitation, his robes billowing around him dramatically as he stepped through the door.
The doors quickly snapped shut behind him and he waved his hand once more to force all the delicate furniture to either end of the room―the more precious adornments vanishing like smoke.
If Wormtail's statement was true, the altercation between the two was not going to be peaceful.
Of that, Voldemort was certain. He doubted his patience would survive the interaction.
Voldemort quickly went around his desk and seated himself, preparing mentally for the boy's idiocy because nothing good was going to come out of this. It was a Thursday, several hours shy of midnight.
No. It did not bode well at all.
Voldemort took in the empty space in front of him, satisfied that everything was in perfect order before leaning back into his seat. Waiting for the chaos that practically licked at Harry Potter’s heels. It was a shame indeed that the peace would not last.
Voldemort could not resist pressing his hand to his forehead at the thought of what was to come. The headache now fully formed and raging at the back of his eyes.
And then, the door to his study burst open―Harry's wand raised and body trembling as if he'd run a marathon and had had no chance for respite.
Voldemort sighed in response to Harry’s dramatic entrance before rising slowly from the comfortable chair he'd been sitting on, taking in the sight of Harry's messy hair and his wrinkled robes with a subtle raise of a brow.
He moved around his desk without looking away from the boy―taking in the mud stained shoes that had tracked dirt onto his carpet, of the moisture clinging to the fabric of the boy's robes, and the redness of Harry's cheeks.
He looked quite the sight, indeed.
"Is there a reason you are here, Harry?" Voldemort's kept his tone neutral, watching as Harry lowered his wand to his side before striding into the room. The gap between them closing rather steadily despite the obvious imbalance in the boy's steps.
Harry was swaying left and right as he moved, but Voldemort could see the determination burning in the boy's eyes―noting that despite the haze of the alcohol surely pumping through his veins, the boy looked like he was prepared for war.
If Voldemort had not been looking forward to an afternoon by the fire, it would have been amusing.
"You've been avoiding m-me." Harry stopped several inches in front of him, somehow managing to keep himself upright despite how inebriated he seemed.
"T-t-this isn't fair." Harry whined, and before Voldemort could even think to step away from the boy, Harry was embracing him. Voldemort froze, so shocked by the contact that he didn't think to break from the boy's hold.
Harry sighed before face burrowing his face into Voldemort's chest―almost as if he wanted to become one with him. It reminded Voldemort faintly of Nagini when she was in one of her affectionate moods.
A beat of silence passed before Voldemort managed to reign in his shock and struggle in the boy's hold, his fingers reaching back to pry Harry's fingers from the back of his robes. But the boy refused to budge, his fingers were embedded so firmly to the fabric that Voldemort would sooner tear his robes than manage to get the brat off.
This boy―
"Release me, before you force my hand." Voldemort threatened, his voice sounding strained when Harry, instead of heeding his command, tightened his grip in response.
"No, if I let you g-go you will just go back to avoiding me." Harry murmured into his chest, the soft breaths escaping Harry's lips fanning a pleasant warmth through Voldemort's robes. "Y-you don't watch me on exams anymore. You just send your b-b-bloody followers in as if that is enough."
Harry pressed further into him before leaning his head back, his glazed eyes turning up to catch Voldemort's gaze with his own. Voldemort froze at the sight, thrown completely by the how black and wide Harry's pupils were. There was only a thin sliver of vivid green that Voldemort could discern―the green eaten up completely by the black. Perhaps, the boy had imbibed in other...substances aside from alcohol?
He was not equipped to deal with this level of stupidity.
"Harry―" Voldemort stated, but was cut off by the smile that slowly spread across Harry's lips, the lights above them catching on the moisture of his lips. Voldemort watched it with rapt fascination, unable to resist when Harry leaned in further. The boy's hands releasing their deadlock on his robes to smooth up his back―the brightness in Harry’s eyes like vivid pools as he moved.
Voldemort released a short breath at the feeling, drinking in the warmth of those fingers as they traveled up his back, Harry’s fingers teasing along his spine until they latched onto the back of his bare neck. The touch seared Voldemort through the thin layers of his skin, but he hardly minded in that instant.
He was drowning in the black of Harry's eyes, enraptured by the soft smile on Harry's face as Harry caressed the soft skin of his neck―the fascination igniting rather than dampening the rush of desire that curled in the pit of his stomach.
It shouldn't have felt as pleasant as it did.
Harry's fingers should have felt intrusive and unwanted―his touch disgusting. But it was the exact opposite of that.
"Please, just let me touch you. I-I know this is disgusting but just. Let me touch you. Just a little." Harry pled, and Voldemort only had one second to think before Harry forced Voldemort's head down to press his lips over his own.
Voldemort exhaled a sharp breath at the heat that swelled from that small point of contact, Harry’s lips gentle and shy against his own as they moved. It spoke of just how inexperienced Harry was―so unlike the other boys that spoke raunchily of girls and boys alike. Voldemort was unable to stop himself from deepening the kiss, thrilled by the soft sound that left Harry’s lips when the kiss grew more furious and heated.
The meeting no longer resembling Harry's drunken fumbling―or the innocent press of his lips meeting his own.
Voldemort bit down on Harry's lips before he could reign himself in, driven mad by the haze that had overtaken him from such an innocent gesture. The surprise in Harry’s eyes fueling his hunger as he ran his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip, tasting and feasting on the gasps Harry produced.
Harry tasted like fire whiskey and something faintly sweet―like golden syrup drizzled on a sugary pastry. It should have been repulsive, how sweet it was, but Voldemort could not get enough of it.
Unable to resist, he ran his tongue along the seam of Harry's lips, the gesture eliciting a sharp moan from the boy, his mouth parting with his desire. Voldemort quickly seized on the opportunity it presented, pressing his tongue inside the moist heat to suck in the different flavors in the boy's mouth, all while watching how Harry’s eyes fluttered closed in ecstasy.
Voldemort then ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth, chasing the essence of the boy that pressed so intimately against him. Their bodies pressed so tightly together that Voldemort could feel the rapid beating of Harry's heart against his own chest.
He did not realize he was crushing the boy deeper into his embrace until the boy released a sharp cry, the sound freeing Voldemort from the haze that had overtaken him.
He blinked for several seconds, cutting his gaze away from the temptation still pressed so intimately against his body to assess just what he had done.
His arms still wrapped tightly around the boy’s waist. The space between their bodies non-existent.
Have I just―?
Voldemort wanted to curse. How could he have allowed the boy to take such liberties with his person? To give in so quickly to the warmth of Harry’s body and the allure of his eyes?
He was no longer a boy possessed by his own carnal desires and needs. He was the Dark Lord―he did not need a warm body to slake his hunger against. There was no need for it when he was in control of his responses―calculating and maneuvering precisely how to conduct himself. He was above it all―a God that took willing bodies into his bed when it benefited him, but never because he truly desired them in turn. There was no pleasure derived from such things―not when the lifting of crucial information was of much more use than a mere orgasm.
But this boy, Voldemort sneered, fixing his gaze to the wall at the other end of the room. He would not risk looking at the boy, not after his self-control had so carefully been unmade. Not when their bodies were still so intimately pressed together―the boy’s breaths hot as they wafted against his neck.
But it felt good, did it not?
Voldemort paused at the traitorous thought that had assailed him. The croon sounding very like the whisper that urged him to restrain himself when meting out Harry's punishment, or when irritated by the boy's antics. It sounded nothing like the anger and the lust still thrumming through his veins―unlike the hungry voice urging him to slake his thirst on the boy's flesh as retribution for the destruction of his composure.
"I-I'm sorry."
Voldemort was drawn away from his thoughts by the simple phrase, his attention snapping to Harry's face despite his better judgment.
It was dangerous to glimpse at him after being seduced once already, but there was something in Harry's voice that drew him in.
A siren's song, Voldemort thought shrewdly. Bitterly.
Harry’s eyes were stormy, pain and hurt swirling in the green. It was beautiful―the agony. It was a delicious vision that urged him to hurt him more. Just for a glimpse of Harry’s pain―elicited and coaxed by his own hand.
The boy was unmaking him. And he didn’t even know it.
“Are you now?” Voldemort asked, taking in the way Harry trembled against him―confusion overtaking the hurt, as if thrown by something Voldemort said. The boy was a mess of emotion, and Voldemort drank in the sight of Harry trying desperately and fruitlessly to compose himself.
How…sweet, Voldemort thought. Taking in the various expressions that flashed across Harry’s face before embarrassment painted his cheeks a bright red. The mortification making something predatory purr contently in Voldemort’s gut.
“Yes, I-I shouldn’t have done that. Fuck, I-I’m sorry.” The curse left Harry’s lips easily―without pause. As if it was a common affair to swear in front of the Dark Lord.
Voldemort could not help the chuckle that escaped his lips, noting how Harry’s face seemed to burn a brighter red then as he fumbled in his arms. The boy’s hands there were still clinging tightly to his neck, hastily letting go to place themselves against his shoulders.
A forceful tug alerting Voldemort then that Harry was actually trying to get away.
Voldemort did not release the boy. Choosing instead to keep the boy trapped in his arms, resisting the boy’s weak attempts to escape. He had originally planned to let the boy go the moment the kiss ended, but this temptation.
The boy’s humiliation was like the sweetest ambrosia.
“Do you think that your apologies are enough, Harry?” Voldemort stated then, tightening his grip around Harry when the boy’s attempts to escape became more frantic―the force behind his shoving an annoyance.
Harry was tense, his embarrassment shifting to a more delicious emotion the longer Voldemort held him.
Fear.
And Voldemort watched it all unfold before him―his own personal view of the spectacle that was Harry Potter.
Fear certainly looked quite lovely on Harry’s face.
“No, but―“
“But what?” Voldemort cut the boy off, leaning down until their foreheads were pressed together―heat and desire swirling in Voldemort’s gut when Harry released a pitiful whimper at the simple contact.
Harry looked frightened. His eyes wide and lips screwed into a grimace.
Good.
“I-I” Harry tried to speak, but Voldemort did not allow him to continue.
“Did you think you could simply do as you pleased without consequences?” Voldemort continued, staring deeply into Harry's eyes despite the heat suffusing his veins at being in such close proximity to Harry’s skin.
It was risky, what he was doing. At any moment his control could snap.
But the boy needed to learn.
“Was it everything you dreamed of?” Voldemort hissed, ecstasy coursing through his veins when Harry began to struggle earnestly against him. His squirming unwittingly rubbing their hips together―the friction shooting delicious jolts up his spine each time Harry pressed against his cock.
And the boy had no idea, did he? The thought amused him to no end.
“Are you prepared to provide compensation for the--” Voldemort snapped his hips forward then, grinding his hardness against Harry’s hips in emphasis before smiling wickedly at Harry’s shocked expression. “―inconvenience this has caused me, Harry?” Voldemort purred, unable to restrain his laughter when Harry ceased his struggling―the boy’s eyes so wide they looked as if they might just pop right out of his skull.
Delicious.
The confusion and anxiousness on Harry’s face was so plain in that second that Voldemort found it difficult to restrain his laughter. His hips moving slowly, purposefully against Harry’s own to…drive home the point.
How naïve, he was.
“S-stop, I-no.” Harry stammered then, rearing back as if burned when Voldemort’s grip tightened on the boy’s body―his fingers sinking so deeply into his skin that Voldemort was sure he would leave bruises.
Good.
The boy would certainly never forget this lesson any time soon.
“Are you sure? Is this not what you wanted, Harry?”
Harry renewed his struggles, a hiss of pain leaving his lips when Voldemort, enraptured by the obvious strain in the boy’s face, flipped their positions.
Trapping the boy between his body and the desk.
He drank in the sound of Harry’s pained gasp when the boy’s back slammed against the wood. Ignoring how paper and ink―quills and an array of trinkets, tumbled from the surface. The clattering of the objects falling to the unforgiving ground breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
Voldemort had used more force than was necessary, but he could not bring himself to care.
Instead, he planted his hands on surface on either side of Harry’s face―trapping the boy with not only the power of his gaze, but with his body. The heat between them was enough to elicit a sharp gasp from the boy, and Voldemort smirked at the reaction.
Taking in the vision of the boy, sprawled on the desk―his face drained of all color save for the burning red staining his cheeks.
“Please, I-” Harry tried once more, but Voldemort leaned in so closely to the boy’s face that Harry stopped mid-sentence. Seeming struck by something Voldemort could not precisely pinpoint.
“Please what?” Voldemort teased, before pausing, catching a sliver of tan skin peeking from underneath Harry’s rumpled shirt. It had ridden up from their movements, and Voldemort was thrown by how evocative such a revelation was.
He resisted the impulse to remove his hand so carefully arranged on the desk to trace along the skin. Shocked and unnerved by the sudden urge that overcame him to do just that.
This was madness.
Voldemort exhaled slowly as if fighting off a powerful enchantment before turning his attention back to the boy’s own face―pleased still that Harry was still rather frightened despite his momentary lapse of control.
What a torment and a delight, this boy was. A menace, indeed. And entirely his.
It would be error for him to entertain this boy’s desires, but there was no denying the fact that he did want him. His bestial response to the boy’s innocent lips against his own, testament enough of his own latent desires.
“Let me go.” Harry choked out, and Voldemort leaned in―lips dangerously close to Harry’s own trembling ones.
“Am I not everything to you? Is that not why you came stumbling in here like a drunken fool?” Voldemort stated cruelly, unable to stop himself from running his slitted tongue against Harry’s lips―watching with growing amusement how Harry closed his eyes. His panic so palpable that Voldemort could almost taste it in the back of his throat.
And then Voldemort pulled away, enchanted by just how disheveled Harry looked then. Drinking in the how he looked splayed beneath him on the desk, his tan skin rosy with his perspiration.
It was several minutes before Harry finally found the courage to open his eyes―his pupils still dilated despite the fear and the delicious flush staining his cheeks a bright red.
“Get out before I change my mind.” Voldemort finally stated, unable to stifle his laugh when Harry scrambled off his desk so quickly he almost slipped to the floor. His body was swaying as he stumbled past Voldemort and towards the door―clearly still affected by whatever he had been drinking, but plowing through despite it regardless.
It was almost admirable.
Harry abruptly stopped in front of the door, just as he was about to leave, his shaky fingers closing around the knob. He rested his hand there, but Voldemort noted that Harry made no attempt to twist it.
Voldemort waited, fully expecting the boy to speak. Knowing Harry well enough to read his intentions.
“You’re only doing this to scare me.” Harry stated, his tone surprisingly steady despite his quivering.
Clever boy.
“I-I may be inexperienced. But I’ll show you. I know you want me, even if you won’t admit it.” Harry bit out, the steel in the boy’s voice shocking Voldemort more than the actual kiss. It seemed the boy had taken his taunts as more a challenge than an actual threat.
This was entirely the opposite of what Voldemort had intended with his forwardness.
And then with a rough jerk, Harry opened the door and stepped out into the brightly lit hallway. The door slamming shut with the force Harry had closed it.
Harry would return, of this Voldemort was sure. The boy’s words left little doubt of this.
Voldemort did not know what that would entail, but knowing the boy, it would definitely be interesting.