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While Lord Voldemort understood the necessity of building relations with their American cousins, he couldn’t help but let his mind wander to other more important things.
Thousands of miles away, his mother was waiting for him on British soil. His poor mother must be feeling alone, empty, unsated without the loving attention of his son.
The transatlantic Wizarding conference went on. Lord Voldemort barely paid attention to the disparities happening in Wizarding America. If the MACUSA president would move on from her personal discontent with his rule, Voldemort would gladly extend a hand of friendship. He would provide the necessary resources once a mutually beneficial relationship was struck. He was a merciful lord, after all he was raised well by his mother.
Since the official start of his regime, pure-bloods, half-bloods, and muggle-borns thrived under his newly instated policies and laws. Muggle-born children and orphans were registered and kept under the foster care of a half-blood or pure-blood family once they were found. Crime in Wizarding Britain reduced by 28% last year.
There were the occasional rebels, leftovers from Dumbledore’s withering army. Nothing too alarming. Oftentimes, one of them would try to break into his manor and steal his mother away, but Lord Voldemort always made sure they paid for their audacity.
On his right, Bellatrix striked an intimidating and stunning figure. His most loyal, deadly lieutenant. To his left was Barty, his most intelligent and faithful follower. The one who delivered his mother to him after Harry had slipped through his fingers at the graveyard via a portkey.
Barty was silently approached by a staff member. They whispered in hushed tones as the madam president continued her points.
Barry nodded and the staff disappeared from Voldemort’s view, just in time for the madam president to address them.
He wanted to leave this pointless conference.
———
“My Lord, I have news for you,” Barty said after tonight’s talks ended.
“What is it?”
“I was informed that a package was meant to be delivered to your suite a few hours ago. Are you expecting anything?”
Voldemort frowned, “No, I’m not. Who is it from?”
“I’m not sure, my Lord. The hotel reception is holding it until then, but they’ve done a few checks on it and it seems clean. Would you like me to scan it for you?”
“No, I’ll do it. Have it delivered to my room. Bellatrix,” he turned to his lieutenant. “I’ll be retiring for the night. Leave me.”
“Very well, my Lord,” Barty bowed slightly and left. Bellatrix nodded and followed after Barty.
A package? If its contents were harmful, it would never make it past the wards he had set up in his suite.
———
A hotel concierge arrived at his door, holding a rectangular, black wooden box. If the sight of the great, famous Lord Voldemort - pale, reptilian, and nose-less scared her, it did not break through her professional composure.
“Good evening,” she smiled cordially at Voldemort, who beckoned her to enter past his wards and into the suite, the air sweltering from the blazing fireplace. “A delivery arrived this afternoon for you, sir.”
When the wards didn’t alert him to anything suspicious, he nodded to the table in the hallway.
“Leave it there.”
She did as instructed and stepped back behind the wards, “Do you require anything else, sir?”
“No, you may leave.”
The concierge left his suite and the door closed behind her with a soft click. He walked over to the table and let a small wave of magic wash over the box just in case, trying to detect anything that might suggest danger. When nothing came up, he touched the package.
An enclosed envelope materialised, addressed to him. Voldemort opened it and read the letter. A delighted smile slowly spread across his lips with each word.
“Excellent,” he hissed in parseltongue.
He thought his mother would never comply to his demands before he left Britain.
The black box was heavy and cool in his hands, enchanted to stay insulated. He briefly wondered how his Death Eaters managed to get this through magical customs, but he supposed Lucius must have come through and made himself useful with his connections.
His heart beat with excitement, two weeks had been far too long. Gently setting the box on the low table in the living room, he hissed a quick spell and the top opened, revealing two rows of half a dozen ivory frosted bottles, capped with a metallic green cover and nestled in silver tissue paper.
On top of the bottles was a single white card, with a note written in his mother’s familiar scrawl:
Too much built up. Throwing it into the garbage would have been the same as feeding you anyway.
Lord Voldemort hummed pleasantly, visioning his thoughtful, beautiful mother filling these bottles with his succulent milk. Breasts full, nipples achingly wet, and his hands squeezing every precious drop while thinking of his deprived son, far away on a political meeting.
His thumb briefly traced the written words then he slipped the card inside his robe’s breast pocket.
———
The second the first cap popped off, Voldemort’s senses were hit with a creamy, ambrosial smell. An involuntary shudder wrecked his frame and his scarlet eyes hooded over with dark desire.
He licked the air with his forked tongue, the scent of his mother’s milk - that same rosy flavour - carried him back to memories of the last time he had drank from Harry’s breast.
It was the morning before he left for America, and he was desperate to bury himself inside his mother and never leave. Wanted nothing more than to keep drinking the precious milk meant only for him while he filled his mother in his own way. Stuffed his mother’s womb full of come to remind it of the precious life it carried before.
His cock was already beginning to take interest, half-hard against his robes.
He silenced the urge to quickly down the bottle and move onto the next one when he remembered he was going to stay in America for at least another two weeks. Voldemort couldn’t afford to indulge himself too recklessly. This was a precious gift from his mother.
He sat down on the sofa in front of the roaring fireplace and wandlessly spelled a wine glass to come to him from the kitchen. The bottle floated up from the box and poured him half a glass without spilling a drop.
Voldemort took it and drank the milk, the chilled liquid refreshing and soothing him. His red eyes were glazed over when he finished, licking his lipless mouth clean.
The bottle refilled his glass as he palmed his cock over his robes, imagining it was his mother nursing and pleasuring him at the same time. He opened his robes from the front, freeing his throbbing erection.
This time, he poured half of the milk onto his cock, his other hand using it as lube.
The air mixed with the scent of his mother’s rose-flavoured milk and his pre-come, reminding him of home in Britain and their bedroom.
Salazar, he wanted more.
Voldemort poured the rest of his drink onto his shaft and set the wine glass on the table. He grabbed the open milk bottle and took several greedy gulps, his hand working his cock to full hardness.
The creamy liquid filled his mouth with Harry’s unique flavour and went down his throat, settling in his stomach where it belonged. In Voldemort’s eagerness, it spilled a little on the sides of his mouth and dripped down his chin.
“Mummy, mummy…” Voldemort groaned, his hips fucking up into his hand.
He set the bottle on the table and gathered some of the spilled milk with his now free hand, covering his balls with it as he fondled them.
His sensory memory took him back to Harry, spread on his back over his work desk; one hand clutched at the edge of the mahogany table for dear life while the other cradled Voldemort’s pale, bald head as he sucked on his teat.
He could practically hear Harry’s mewling noises of pain and pleasure when Voldemort would bite then lick at the abused nipples.
“Mummy… you taste so good,” he moaned into the empty suite.
Voldemort poured some more milk, tightening his hand and pretending it was his mother’s tight, wet hole. He grunted and imagined Harry trying to milk his son through the squeeze of his ass.
He could feel the blood rising in his shaft. He was so, so close.
‘Tom… uh-uhn… inside me, please…’
He groaned and thrust faster, pounding into his hand with a near-feral frenzy. Mummy… mummy… he wanted his mummy, he deliriously thought.
‘Put a sibling in me, Tom.’
He imagined his mother saying those words and immediately he came with a grunt. Ropes of come streaked over the living room table and some landed on the black box.
Voldemort released a shaky exhale and sat there contently on the sofa, milk and come gathering on his thighs. He absentmindedly continued to slowly stroke himself as he finished the last of the first bottle.
“I can’t wait to see you, Mummy.”
———
Two weeks later.
Harry was braiding his hair. It had grown too long and all though he wanted nothing more than to cut it off, he feared a repeat of the last time he stole a pair of scissors.
He and the house elf, Poskey, were sharing stories of her cousin Dobby. Harry was reminiscing on the time when Dobby had given Harry what he needed to face the second task during the Triwizard Tournament.
He was in the middle of describing the Black Lake mermaids when he felt than saw Voldemort walk into the room. His magic was a heavy thing, dark and powerful as it permeated the air. Poskey meeped in fright and scurried to the corner, standing there subserviently.
‘No, no… one month isn’t enough,’ he thought with horror.
From behind, possessive arms encircled Harry’s waist, guiding his back against a wall of deceptively lean muscle, snake-like and ready to coil around its favourite little mouse. A clawed hand reached to cup his breast through the fabric. Warm breath ghosted over his ears, carrying with it hints of rose.
“Mummy, I’m home.”