Chapter Text
Lesson #1
Lord Voldemort, the one whose very name made the wizarding world tremble, was sitting at the head of the long table in Malfoy Manor. He was in the middle of a threatening speech about blood purity and world domination. The Death Eaters held their breath; the atmosphere was so tense that you could hear a pin drop.
But suddenly, Voldemort froze. His red eyes widened, his bony hand gripped the stone armrest tightly.
He was "connected" again.
In the past, the link with Harry Potter had been a gift. He had enjoyed the boy's pain, loss, and weak tears when witnessing his comrades fall. It was sweet humiliation for the Chosen One. But lately, that "information portal" seemed broken—or worse, it had turned into a live broadcast straight from hell. Harry Potter no longer cried over the deaths of loved ones, no longer suffered from weakness. Instead, the boy was turning the prefects' bathroom into a literal "battlefield," with his partner none other than the mudblood Hermione Granger.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
Voldemort felt his own skin burning. Not from anger, but from the sensations from Harry Potter's body flooding back to him. The "Savior" was pinning his bushy-haired best friend against the wall in an empty room at Hogwarts.
"“Oh… Harry… slow down… please, just— ah!”" The girl's sobbing voice came through, pitiful yet full of blind indulgence.
This naive girl still believed she was doing something "humane"—helping her best friend release the crushing psychological pressure from the war and the burden of the prophecy.
Voldemort ground his teeth. Psychological relief my scaly arse! That brat is a straight-up sex demon!
He swore by his Slytherin blood, the feeling Potter had for that Granger girl was not friendship. It was twisted, obsessive possession, a wild craving far beyond any moral standard—even a cruel being like him found it… disturbing.
That brat had gone completely "dark" in a way even Voldemort found perverse. Potter was broken! That little shit was broken somewhere! The way his eyes looked at Granger—maniacal and possessive—made even the Dark Lord shudder.
“Hermione… please… I can’t take it anymore…” Potter’s hoarse, manipulative whisper echoed in his head.
At Malfoy Manor, Voldemort covered his face, muttering a curse in Parseltongue. Bellatrix Lestrange approached worriedly:
“My Lord, are you unwell? Is your head hurting because that Potter brat is plotting something again?”
Voldemort looked at Bellatrix, then at his followers waiting for a ruthless command. He wanted to scream: No! He’s not plotting anything! He’s fucking! And I’m feeling every single thrust!
But he couldn’t say that. He was the Dark Lord, not some voyeur peeking at two horny teenagers having sex!
Thump! A hard thrust from Potter nearly made Voldemort fall out of his chair. The wild, savage pleasure Harry felt for Hermione flooded his mind. Potter was groaning filthy words that even a being born from a love potion like Riddle found excessive. He called her "mine," "my slut," "my woman."
"Enough…" Voldemort hissed, voice trembling.
"My Lord?" Lucius Malfoy asked in confusion.
“She’s mine… you’re fucking mine, Hermione…” Potter moaned, his ragged breathing drowning out Lucius’s voice in Voldemort’s ears.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP! EVERYONE GET OUT!” Voldemort roared.
The Death Eaters panicked, trampling each other to flee. They thought Potter had just destroyed another Horcrux, enraging their Lord.
Left alone in the dark room, Voldemort rubbed his forehead. He tried to erect the strongest Occlumency walls, but the fated connection seemed to mock him. Granger’s pitiful sobs and Potter’s beastly panting still echoed.
Voldemort wondered if conquering the wizarding world was really worth it when the price was being an unwilling audience to his enemy’s nightly porn.
He’d rather take another Avada Kedavra than hear one more "Harry, gentle" from that bookworm girl.
…
Voldemort swore he had seen every darkest magic in existence, but the Chosen One’s "perversion" surpassed every moral boundary he had ever known. And he had no morals!
Potter uses “war trauma” as an all-access pass to demand every position in the Kama Sutra. And poor, bleeding-heart Granger, being the self-sacrificing Gryffindor idiot she is, just… lets him.
"Oh Harry, if this keeps you from going mad under the weight of saving the world…"
Voldemort screamed internally: HE’S NOT GOING MAD FROM THE WAR, YOU STUPID GIRL—HE’S ENJOYING IT!
Some nights Voldemort bolts upright in bed because a wave of someone else’s orgasm hits him like a Bludger. He’s forced to “watch” Potter rail Granger with a level of feral aggression that makes him wonder if he should owl the brat a sex-ed manual and a safe-word pamphlet. The way the boy does it is too rough, too primal, and way too fucking annoying for an unwilling spectator.
Tonight was an example. Voldemort lay on his luxurious black velvet bed, trying to meditate with Occlumency to push away horrific memories of failed assassinations in the past.
He needed rest. He was the Dark Lord; he needed silence to plan tomorrow’s world domination.
But the moment darkness enveloped his mind, a wave of intense, scorching, and very "adult-film" emotion crashed in, tearing apart his peace.
"Oh God, Harry slow down… ah… ah… I can’t take it…"
Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, his palms clenched the expensive silk sheets. He ground his teeth so hard he could hear them scraping.
“Easy, Mione… good girl…” Potter’s voice is wrecked, smug, filthy. “You know I need you, right?”
"Harry… ah~…"
The moans, the sound of flesh slapping, and Potter’s filthy whispers broadcast straight into the Dark Lord’s brain like a radio he couldn’t turn off. He screamed silently, hurling a pillow at the wall.
"ENOUGH! THAT DAMN BRAT!"
He’s decided. The moment he wins the war, priority number one isn’t killing Potter. It’s throwing both of them into a glass cage like lab rats. He will personally teach them what proper sex education looks like and what “just friends” is supposed to fucking mean instead of this depraved hormonal dumpster fire.
Voldemort flops back down, magically tries to seal his ears. Still hears it.
“Harry ah~…”
He’s one “Harry, be gentle” away from a nervous breakdown.
That little bastard is getting a mandatory sex-ed lecture whether he likes it or not.