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He comes out of the cauldron with a buzz in his newly formed bones. In the heat of moment he brushes it off as the sensation of renewal, relishing his circumstances as his fated equal, fated insult, cowers on the ground, caught and bound with his chin raised and eyes defiant. Foolish is not strong enough a word to describe Potter— even so, he begrudges a modicum of respect for the boy. There are wizards among his ranks that would be unable to muster determined, bitten off silence as they were carved into, flesh parted from wrist to elbow. He is a fool, but Potter is no coward.
That title is reserved for Dumbledore alone. The thought of the old, meddling man despairing brings a certain glee to his thoughts, even as his wand seems to stick to Potter’s, spells suctioning into each other. Pure, golden light blinds him; there is a twist of irony amongst his outrage as he thinks: Golden light for their golden boy.
The golden stasis shatters, his wand is freed, but by then Potter has made it to the cup, grasping it with bloodied palms and reaching for the corpse of the boy that had been unfortunate enough to join Potter on this particular escapade.
There is a crack, and then the cemetery is doused, absolutely drowned by the sensation of desolation. As if a fire has been put out, there is a sudden frigid absence in the air. Voldemort represses the shiver attempting to crawl up his resurrected spine.
Potter portkeys away, and Voldemort doesn’t resist the urge to Crucio his gathered followers, reveling in their submission, the sound of knees hitting dirt and throats ripping apart, made bloody by agonized, desperate pleas for forgiveness, by incoherent screams.
Tonight has not been a success, yet neither a complete failure. A stalemate not, for Dumbledore is once again on the defense, forced to react instead of act, forced to rally the dying morale of his dying troops.
He has a vessel, Voldemort is no longer a malformed, hideous creature living in degradation, requiring the assistance of his lessers to maintain himself. He is no longer a wraith subsisting on the minds of men far inferior to him, no longer forced to rely.
Voldemort has a body, has regained the control the wills of fate have so wretchedly tried to keep away from him. He will take slow, vindictive pleasure in the undoing of the next wizard who attempts to challenge that; will ensure they know by heart the sight of their organs and scent of their blood, before he is done.
Voldemort does not sleep. He has no need for such a base function, there are no impurities in his mind for rest to wash away.
His time is spent refamilarizing himself with the current political climate, focusing back on gaining a sure foothold in the wizarding world, convincing the press, the Ministry, the people, that everything is as is. That their stagnant cesspool is not being splashed upon, that the formidable ripples of change are not upon them.
Despite his dedication towards decimating Dumbledore and his little cronies taking up some of his hours—amusement at the little base of feeble, witless supporters the so-called Supreme Mugwump has barely managed to drum up, the ease at which mockery comes to mind allowing time to fly by—on occasion, he allows his thoughts to meander, his fingers to wander skin-bound spines, revisiting the magics of his youth.
It is a welcome reminder of how long greatness has been his defining trait; how long he has been waiting to bestow metamorphosis upon the wizarding world, the embrace of innovation.
Magics that they could only dream of, spells they have long shunned— it will be a great upheaval, a great filter, in which only the strongest, the worthy, survive.
There is an odd itch under his skin, persistent since his emergent bath, and the faint concern that has been forming in the back of his mind takes advantage of the tranquility of his thoughts, capitalizing on his restlessness. He turns, from where he had stood, staring out the window at the great expanse of Malfoy Manor, and leisurely makes his way to the patriarch’s desk. It is inside here, the ritual that remade him, birthed him a vessel appropriate to his true, superior form, lies.
Voldemort blows out the windows of an entire wing of the manor, and it is only his will, indomitable, that forces his anger to soften, that saves the rest. His eyes rove across the parchment, deciphering the text frantically. Fury thrums in his bones— but, as he’s beginning to realize, it is not alone.
Mention of the father, but not a single rune in regards to the mother. Flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy— not a mention of an equal, of an ally. He realizes now how limiting his previous form had been, how stupid his servant.
The ritual, the only of its kind, composed of magics so intricate, so other, the basic rule in which all magic is based on had gone ignored. Forgotten, as the thrill of complexity washed all other concerns away. The ritual is entirely familiar, there is not an ingredient nor step he doesn’t recognize. It was his own sense that had been lacking, the execution had been perfect.
He closes his eyes, visions of creatures barely alive, warped amalgamations of flesh and pulsing viscera—everything that might have gone wrong—imprinted on his eyelids.
There are…avenues, he can pursue. There is an ache in his bones, and a sense of urgency that tightens his fists, makes his wand groan in his grip.
His organs are beginning to rot, inevitably, they will fail. The blood coursing through him is incomplete, tarnished. He can feel it, can finally ascribe cause to the infernal itch in his veins. He can see it, black pooling from his arm, dripping from the nail he had sliced down his forearm, and clumping like sludge on fine carpet.
Balance is composed of more than just equal give and take. It is equal measure, the unity of opposing concepts: life and death, love and hate. Twin threads, weaved together for the same purpose.
He needs the boy.
It’s laughably easy to get his hands on Potter. Voldemort favors the spectacle of war, but the value of discretion is unparalleled. He makes use of it.
He had been forced to bide his time, wait until Hogwarts let out, to avoid suspicion. Not a soul could know of his affliction; he would work alone.
Voldemort had taken no liberties with Wormtail’s death, did not revel in his cries, the slow shattering of his weak, servile mind. Voldemort had ended him mercifully, a simple curse to turn him inside out, entrails exposed, heart jack-rabbiting and prey to the elements. Wormtail will fail to report to his summons, and Voldemort will make note of his absence. His death is unremarkable, he will never be marked traitor but neither as a particularly useful attendant. It is a kindness the rat does not deserve.
In the meanwhile, Voldemort is hindered, subjected to a torture he’d thought long passed, left behind in dark Albanian woods, in an orphanage long forgotten by muggles long dead.
Finally: summer.
Harry Potter will never make it off the platform. Voldemort, under heavy glamour, will stumble into him, as he crosses the barrier, from nine and three-quarters to the muggle nine, from wards to exposed, vulnerable world. There will be no crack, no discernible sound of apparition. Potter will be gone, and then returned, unknowing that he was taken, that the dusts of time linger in his hair. That a time turner had been shattered over his head, regressing both moment and memory.
Only he knows of this plan. There is nothing to fetter him, nothing to go awry.
All he had to do was summon some of the boy’s ejaculate, and ingest it. There was no need for other magics than a simple summoning charm. Voldemort will take what he needs, what will restore life, balance, to his being.
Unconscious, there is no fight, none of Potter’s characteristic, infuriating attempts of will. He needn’t even undress the boy— and a strange gladness wells up in his chest at that. Such relations he finds contrived, the pursuit of a passing pleasure so very wasteful, when significance lies only in permanence. His only use for genitals is how best to extract what he wants, whether that be the desires—the artifacts, wealth, glamour—he pursued in his youth, the secrets of a squeamish spy, or the cum of the Boy-Who-Lived.
Pulling out the vial he’d brought along for this express purpose, he taps it with a finger—he’d not brought his wand, considering Potter’s history with sabotaging his—willing into it the content’s of the boy’s testicles. It is clinical, and the slight sensation of warm, humid skin against his magic makes him reflexively hiss in disgust.
It fills slowly, but when it reaches the uncorked top, some of the fluid beginning to test the rim, attempting to slosh over onto his fingers, without hesitation he knocks it back, pressing the vial to his teeth.
While not the first time he’d ingested bodily fluids for a ritual. Like every time, mouth pursed, he decides it should be the last. The taste lingers, bitter on his tongue, but the sweet taste of life is incomparable. All else pales in comparison.
The effects should be instantaneous; the bringing of balance is not comparable to any normal functions. It is without wait.
But Voldemort waits. He is not without patience. Staring at Potter’s prone figure, splayed carelessly over highland grass, he waits some more.
Nothing changes.
With a hiss, the vial disappears, banished.
Voldemort considers the boy before him, considers his options. Forest foliage blocks out the sun, but it leaks through in pale rivulets. It is a subpar imitation of their previous encounter, the scorching golden light, the boy in Potter’s arms and the sensation of life in Voldemort’s body, wands inseparable. Soil of bones, soil of roots— grounds of death and life.
He’d rather have to kill him, privately and without the boons of public death, slit his throat and suckle at the contents, eviscerate him, skin the boy and eat his innards. Potter would taste satisfying, like a goal long yearned for and finally achieved. His blood would be perfectly red, not the pale off-white glazed on his tongue.
In the remote, Northernmost part of the isle, there is not a soul to witness the resignation that flits over Voldemort’s face, the momentary allowance of sincerity, genuine emotion. It is not an act put on to inspire terror, obedience, loyalty; it is only meant for himself.
“On with it then,” he sighs, lowering himself to the ground.
With a wave of a hand, he directs his magic towards Potter. Pinning him down, forcing his will upon the boy is simple. He makes quick work of the ratty, loose-fitting muggle jeans Potter deigned to wear, for whatever infernal, rebellious reason he’d likely cooked up in his childish mind. Pulling them down with a harsh tug, not even the worn, oversized belt Potter had looped around his waist offers any resistance. His legs are bare in an instant, only the thin white-cloth of his under-garments preserving his honor. He doesn’t bother taking the jeans all the way off, around his ankles they serve as a secondary shackle.
With a mental spell, a pull of his core, Voldemort feels himself.. loosen. It's an unusual sensation. Not akin to agony, but certainly not pleasure either.
It is not degrading, using a lubrication spell meant for a witch. Degradation is being forced to rely on others; it is being forced to take inside himself the incompetent teenager fate imposed upon him.
It is curving a finger into said teenager’s waistband, pulling the elastic down over bony hips, over a navel just beginning to possess a trail. Voldemort is greeted by nothing unfamiliar, but notes, with a hint of relief, that Potter has enough length to be a proper intrusion.
So with one quick motion, he grabs at the base of Potter’s cock, willing it to engorge. He finds himself with a certain appreciation for the anatomy of youth— a few dry tugs, and Potter has stiffened in his hand, erect and ready.
A gasp—more of a screech—echoes in the empty clearing, and Voldemort looks up, making eye contact with Potter. He considers, for a moment, knocking him out, but weighs against it. Ritual magic is finicky, consciousness is a state it prefers— whether that be during sacrifice or sex.
“Wha-what,” Potter manages, “Stop-” He demands.
Potter's balls visibly twitch as Voldemort responds with a tight, chafing tug. Potter continues to protest, but is made prone, lax by his spell. There is no use, any effort is a waste. Jockish folly has no place here.
With that, he repositions himself, settling onto his knees, banishing his own under-garments as he does so. Potter’s eyes widen in horror- and with that, Voldemort could sympathize, but the delight of conquest, of Potter made pliant to his will, carves out a cruel grin on his face, exposing sharp teeth to sharp, brisk air.
“No,” Potter chokes out, pleading, “Voldemort why-”
Why indeed, Voldemort thinks with an eye-roll. As if he’d fuck such a scrawny thing, allow himself to be entered by anyone, without reason.
“Lord,” he hisses, knees digging into the dirt, legs spread over Potter, “I am Lord Voldemort.”
“Do you think me mindless?” Voldemort muses, grasping at Potter’s engorged, leaking head, guiding it under the draping of his robes. “Do you think me driven mad with lust, deciding to consort with the likes of you?”
Potter’s incredulous look is enough of an answer, as hysteric breaths occupy his lips. Voldemort digs a nail into the tip of his cock, punishing his insolence. It has the unexpected, yet welcomed effect of puncturing the veil of bravado Potter had managed to clutch onto, uncovering the raw, desperate terror dampening green eyes. Even still, with such boundless emotion clawing at the boy, begging to be released, there is not a single tear to be seen. Voldemort begrudgingly approves. Such blatant display of turmoil was obnoxious, no matter the occasion.
Following the tactile approach, it takes Voldemort a moment to realize that he’s shifted forward just enough, that Potter’s cock is aligned with his entrance. Potter realizes it too, with the way he tries to shrink away, abdominal muscles flexing helplessly. It draws Voldemort’s attention to the concave under his ribs, the hollow of his stomach, thin frame just beginning to form into wiry, lithe muscle. There is no might, to be found in him.
But there is magic.
Voldemort lowers himself onto Potter. The moment the blunt, wet head catches against his rim, Voldemort convulses, the perpetual itch in his bones revolting, the rot in his system capsizing, falling victim to the waves of magic lapping at him. As if floodgates had been opened, he feels alive.
Potter immediately reacts, taking advantage of the lapse of control, the brittling of his binds. In his attempt to flee, to buck Voldemort off of him and run—where to, was not a foresight he believed the boy capable of—he manages a desperate arch, back lifting off the ground, arms scrabbling behind him.
He fucks into Voldemort, bottoming out in one, swift movement that surprises both of them. Potter whimpers, fear pin-pricking his pupils, but his eyes roll back, his cock doesn’t move. Voldemort notes this distantly, jaw set as he tries not to shake. It’s the ritual magic, he knows, this bliss, this thrill in his blood.
It feels like the thrill of casting an Imperio over a strong wizard, finding euphoria in their unwillful submission, forcing them into the soft-white foolishness of empty-space; if the sensation went straight to his cock, instead of his ego.
He can feel himself, cock mostly limp and brushing against his robes as he maneuvers against Potter, reclaiming control. He shifts his weight to his knees, freeing a hand and settling it against the boy’s navel, pushing him down into the grass as his magic flutters, unwilling to be molded.
Potter resists, flailing, hands digging into the dirt as if to gather some and throw it. All he accomplishes is shoving himself into Voldemort again, reinserting what had been shifted out of him as Potter fought. They make eye contact, and Potter wails, this angry, soul shattering sound that makes Voldemort’s cock twitch in interest, a Fiendfyre hot bolt racing to his gut.
Dispassionately, he watches as Potter writhes below him, frantic. The mingle of their magics is intoxicating, but Voldemort is able to wrangle a modicum of control, imposing his will, his force made tangible, over the boy once more. The realization douses Potter, freezing him as his body refuses to cooperate. The spark of defiance, the blossoming hope, shrivels, green eyes glazing over.
He averts his eyes. He stops resisting.
Voldemort, leveraging himself against the ground, has begun to fuck onto Potter again, but he notices this. An interesting priority to have, aversion before submission.
Sliding the hand that he’d temporarily used to restrain Potter up, tracing over his stomach, nails scraping into the skin exposed by his ridden up shirt, Voldemort grasps his jaw, fingers curving upwards, nails resting at the junction of jaw and neck.
“What do you hide, Potter,” he hisses, ignoring the way the boy’s magic flares beneath him—no doubt a further expression of his fright—musing to himself, “That you would rather be defiled than reveal?”
Potter’s face flushes, it is a far more attractive shade than the outraged pink coloring his cheeks; the deep red turns his ears crimson, before the blood rushes back down as Voldemort experimentally tightens himself around him.
“There is no use. Your only option is to yield- you may save yourself some anguish.”
He is not unmerciful. As he fucks himself on Potter’s cock, he begins to prod at the boy’s mind, waging an intrusion of his own. Voldemort takes the impression of Occlumency shields as the insult it is, allowing the barriers to tremble in his presence, imparting the impression of weak-not-enough-never-enough.
Chance offered, chance wasted, Voldemort rips through the boy’s mind, memories, experiences flashing by. Slips of emotions, bright colors and distinct voices fall away, until only a single thread remains.
Voldemort feels his amusement build, tickling his throat. He has stumbled upon Potter’s fantasies. The revelation that accompanies the scenes playing out in his mind is an obvious one, revealed by the evident inexperience, the odd angles and blurry expectations of sex.
“It may be I, taking you inside me,” Voldemort hisses, satisfaction elongating his syllables, slowing the flick of his tongue, “But it seems I have taken something from you.” He speaks, affecting normal speech so Potter can understand.
One of his fingers traces over the jut of Potter’s jaw, a mockery of a caress. The shame furrowing Potter’s brows, corrupting his thoughts, is a pleasant surprise, one that pushes Voldemort over the edge, throwing his head back as he laughs, reveling in the absurdity of it all.
“Not to worry, Potter,” An edge of derision sharpens his tone, grip tightening, nails indenting into the boy’s face, “I won’t tell.”
“F-fuck y-ah, you!”
It doesn’t register, not initially. Never has Parseltongue come out of another’s lips, the concept is so foreign, so wrong, that his mind blocks against it. He deliberates, only a faint focus delegated towards chasing Potter’s end, receiving it.
It should not possible, yet he entertains the idea.
“Could it be?” He whispers, slipping back into the comfort of Parseltongue, tongue touching teeth.
Potter’s eyes narrow, darting to where they connect and then to his face, as if he doesn’t know what he’s just revealed.
No, Voldemort thinks, surely not.
He disregards his grasp on Potter’s jaw, moving upwards, fingers brushing over his cheekbones, the edge of his eye socket.
That accursed scar, that mark of his undoing.
His palm holds back Potter’s fringe; his thumb, almost hesitantly, skims downward.
Voldemort’s vision whites out as he makes contact with the scar, can feel Potter pulsing, his cock erupting inside him as his own balls tighten, drawing up as cum begins to splatter the inside of his robe.
He can feel it, peripherally, as he wades through the absolute pleasure consuming his being, the splintered piece of his soul. It calls out to him, as if cooing, rubbing gently against his hand. He feels out of control, reins loose in his grasp, and lashes out, vengefully digging his nail into the scar, into his Horcrux-
But Potter’s cock, beginning to soften inside him, sticky with ejaculate, jerks in response. There is no exclamation of pain, no pleading.
Regaining himself, he peers upon Potter’s expression. Blissed-out beyond measure, unfocused, not there. Experimentally, he removes his thumb from Potter’s scar, analyzing how cloudy eyes gain clarity, confusion mingling with panic.
“Did you know?” He says, not bothering to disconnect them yet, leaning forward, bending his torso and head to speak into Potter’s ear, ensuring his hisses do not go unnoticed this time, “Or were you lead astray? Betrayed by your shepherd? Your Dumbledore?” Voldemort grinds down for emphasis, fucking a little gasp out of Potter.
He doesn’t wait for a response, smoothing his thumb over Potter’s bleeding scar, acquainting himself with the grooves of the lightning mark. He will have to adjust, will have to upset plans that are decades in the making— but he has won.
Victory sings in chest; he can’t help but want to confirm the taste.
Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he licks at it. It tastes like confection, like conquest. Potter stares uncomprehendingly up at him, mind muddled, disoriented by their debauchery. He can see the cogs working in the boy’s mind, chasing a conclusion he hasn’t the knowledge to find.
“Just as I am of you,” Voldemort explains, deciding to offer some degree of mercy during Potter’s last moments of lucidity, “You are of me.”
Comprehension dawns, eyes intent on the way Voldemort’s tongue flicks out, the guttural sounds finally registering. Comprehension dawns, and it is far too late to matter.
“Me,” Voldemort hisses, pressing his saliva slicked thumb back onto blood smeared skin, pressing down onto his Horcrux’s cock and scar, “Mine.”