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“You just have to say ‘yes’, Harry. It doesn’t have to be like this.”
The words were smooth and cool as silk, a soothing balm over his raw and ragged mind. Harry flinched back, his skin pressing to the cold wall behind him and he glared in the voice’s direction.
“Not going to happen, Tom. Never going to happen!”
Light bloomed, and he saw, blearily, the room he was kept in. Not a dungeon or an oubliette but a room of rich comforts and luxuries. The walls and floor were smooth alabaster, always cold. The fireplace several paces away, large but dark and empty. There were pelts over the floor, deep and soft. The bed was the largest he had ever seen, the sheets black and as neat as they had been when he had first been brought here. Heavy curtains covered one wall, allowing only the faintest glow through during the day.
The doorway to the rest of the building was empty, just a slot of hollow darkness in the white wall. It was that which was the greatest cruelty – the only thing barring him from freedom was the collar at his throat.
There was no chain on it, but he couldn’t move far, keeping him away from the doorway, the bed and the pelts. The cuffs on his wrists kept him from touching the collar or the curtains. He was restricted to the cold floor that made him wake aching and sore.
For a week, a long nightmarish week, he had been here. Taken from Hogwarts – no longer a school, not since its fall at the end of Harry’s second year – to Tom’s stronghold. Every dozen hours or so, he would visit, to talk or just stare. Sometimes he was angry, but mostly he was calm, inquisitive, courteous.
Tom moved closer – his 21 year-old body unmarred by the experiments Voldemort preformed on himself. He walked with an unnatural, fluid grace. His eyes were dark, a good sign that his sanity ruled his motions for the moment. When the essence of Voldemort bled through they became bloodshot. When the insane spectre overwhelmed Tom’s body, they were pure red. Still, Voldemort had come from Tom – anything Voldemort could do, Tom was equally capable of. Only Tom was worse. Tom was sane.
Harry tried to press himself into the wall as the older man crouched in front of him, his long fingers hands loose and empty. “I will not be denied, Harry,” he chided softly. His lips hitched in a charming smile. “Agree now. You’ll hate yourself less later.”
Harry clenched his jaw and looked away from the powerful man. He filched when one of those pale hands reached out and stroked through his messy hair.
“I don’t have to ask. I can force you. But I’d rather you be willing. It makes it all the more… enjoyable.” Tom paused, waiting for a reply that didn’t come. He hummed softly in annoyance. “I should have kept you closer. You would have welcomed my attention had I groomed you for it. I can’t spend that sort of time on you now. Here’s an ultimatum; bend or break, Harry. I’ll have you one way or the other, and soon.”
Tom stoked Harry’s hair one last time before he stood and left, the lights winking out a few moments later.
Harry sagged, half wishing that it had been Voldemort behind Tom’s eyes, not the boy who had befriended him and betrayed him five years ago. He shivered for a while longer, his memories crowding and the bitter weight of blame on his shoulders before sleep descended.
He woke up as he was dragged from the wall. He thrashed and kicked, but there was nothing to fight, magic and not hands pulling him to the feet of the Imperial Master of Magicing Europe. Tom looked down at him with bloodshot eyes, his smile looking as serene as always. “I do hope you’ve been thinking hard, Harry. I don’t often give options to people so thoroughly under my power.”
He crooked two fingers and Harry choked as the collar dragged him to his feet. “You need a little preparation, no matter what you chose. Come along.” Tom turned and walked out of the doorway, the collar not allowing Harry to do anything but follow at his heels.
The corridor was dark and empty. There didn’t seem to be any other doorways, either. It did take a long while to get to their destination, though.
The room was circular, the walls made of black wood and the ceiling and floor were brown-tinted glass. The night sky above, clear and warped by the odd runes and sigels carved into the glass in a spiral. Through the floor, Harry could see a river. As soon as he stepped inside, his head began to swim, his thoughts stilted and slow.
There was a bowl carved into the glass, just off centre, filled with a dark liquid, a silver goblet of something amber and a silver dagger between them both.
Voldemort picked up the goblet and dagger and turned to Harry who had stopped close behind the dangerous man. “Hold this.” Harry’s left arm rose without him meaning it to, and his hand gripped the stem of the goblet. Voldemort lifted his now empty left hand over the goblet and slit his palm, a shallow cut at the thick muscle of his thumb. He counted out seven drops of blood, then took Harry’s right hand and cut along his lifeline, counting seven drops again.
Voldemort lifted Harry’s bleeding hand and licked the wound with a low purr of pleasure as Harry hissed in pain. “The wand hand represents the body. The opposite hand is mind. You will be mine until I wish otherwise. Your power…” His tongue dragged across the slit skin again. “… your life… are mine, like your soul already is. And what’s best, Harry… this is white magic. It won’t stir your mother’s curse.”
He laughed and took the goblet from Harry taking a long drink. He swallowed the first mouthful, then took another, but held it, then he stepped close and kissed the younger boy, forcing his head back and mouth open before he let the liquid he hadn’t swallowed spill into Harry’s mouth. Some ran down Harry’s chin and throat – but the rest of the thick, sweet mead he swallowed.
The force-feeding turned into a kiss of possession, Voldemort’s tongue lancing into Harry’s yielding mouth with no thought to pleasure and centred utterly on claiming the upturned mouth. He pulled back a moment later and hissed, “Take off your clothes, Harry.”
With slow fumbling hands, Harry did, letting them drop piece by piece to the smooth glass floor. Voldemort watched with an expression of hunger and savage dominance. His gaze moved over Harry’s slowly bared body – no desire, not really, but with patient yearning.
Once naked, Voldemort nodded to the centre of the room. “Lie there, face up.”
The cuffs and collar dragged him in position, forcing him down, though the odd magic of the chamber would have compelled him to submit to the request regardless.
On his back, Harry watched as Tom twisted the dagger’s hilt. Something clicked, but it wasn’t until Voldemort knelt beside him and held the dagger up to Harry’s face did he see what had happened. The pommel had opened, and a tight collection of pins crowded out of the opening. Tom twisted one of the quillians, and the pins retracted then snapped out with a click, fast and smart.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Tom asked in a rapturous whisper. He drew a line down the middle of Harry’s chest, the tiny points scratching. “This will hurt. I don’t envy you. Are you ready, Harry?”
Harry tried to think, he really did. He knew what Tom was saying, but his mind was disconnected, distant and muted. He groaned and squirmed as the pins scraped over his belly.
Tom smiled. “Silence is a form of consent.” He scraped the tiny pins through the dark curls between Harry’s legs before he stopped and lifted the tool. He dipped it into the dark fluid in the indent. When he lifted it, nothing dripped. He stoked Harry’s bare belly, a slight frown on his face, his thin finger tracing weird shapes and patterns before he fount the place he wanted.
The silver was cool against his skin, just under his ribs. His breathing hitched as Voldemort twisted the quillian, then –
Pain! Stark, vicious, he jerked and cried out, the sound high and piteous. Searing heat flared from the point of impact. He lifted his head as much as the collar allowed to see – the dozen pins had bit into his skin, but there was something else happening. Blackness was seeping out into his skin from the dagger hilt, like an ink-heavy quill put to cloth. It burned as it spread. He tried to curl himself inwards, but Tom slapped his hip, then pulled the pins free.
Tom them poked and pressed the wound, his attention focused entirely. “Oh yes, this is much better.”
He dipped the dagger again. Harry managed to say, “Tom!”
Voldemort met his eyes and he lifted an eyebrow. “It too little Ginny four of those before she begged. Where is all your Gryffindor courage?”
He didn’t move until Harry let his head drop back again. The metal pressed to the nook between his collarbones and Tom wound the mechanism. The click was lost under Harry’s yelp. The blaze spread faster, helped along by Tom’s caressing fingertips, quieting his victim’s twitching body.
The dagger was pulled free again, and the torture was repeated, once over his heart, at each shoulder and inside both hips. Seven times Tom put the device to him, forcing the dark ink into Harry’s body.
He was shivering with a mix of cold seeping into him from the glass floor and shock from the pain by the time Tom was satisfied. “That’ll do it. You did very well, Harry. Get up, time to go back to your room.”
Harry’s knees trembled as he slowly got to his feet. Every movement made the pain in his chest, from neck to groin, pulse and flare.
Tom made him stoop to pick up his clothes, smiling as Harry couldn’t hold back the gasping sobs as he was forced to bend. The journey back to the alabaster room was long and a trial all by itself.
Once inside Harry just wanted to curl up where he was, but Tom urged him further in – pointing towards the bed. “Use the bed, Harry. Sleep.”
He didn’t wait to see his captive did as he was told. He didn’t have to, the collar dragging him along.
The bed was soft and wonderful, though cold. He didn’t care. Harry collapsed onto his back, and slept.
Waking was a shock again – somehow both more gently and more surprising then before. Wet heat enclosed around his soft cock, a writhing muscle undulating against its underside until he came awake with a low gasp. Then the pulled away, the thing – tongue, he realised a moment later – licked and circled his tip, wriggling against the tiny opening and urging his foreskin back with impatient little pushes.
Heat rushed down to his groin, his manhood stiffening so fast it ached. He groaned and lifted his head, worried at who he would see, yet whatever he was expecting (dark curing hair, piercing red eyes) it wasn’t this – a long fall of ginger hair, tied back neatly. Fine, rich robes covering a slender body.
She didn’t look up until he gasped her name. Her pink lips were still wrapped around the head of his manhood as she looked up the length of his body. Then her cheeks hollowed and put a light suction on his tender glans. He groaned and let his head drop back, hip hips lifting.
Her tongue worked just under his ridge, then she sank down again, further than before until his tip touched the back of her throat. She pulled back half an inch and her hand curved around his base, changing the angle so when she tried again he slipped passed easier. And then she swallowed, her throat squeezing and her tongue rubbing back and forth.
It felt better than anything. Even the pain he still felt in his chest and belly were pushed to a distant part of his mind. He tried to lift his hands to hold onto Ginny’s hair, wanting to keep her in place – but he found his arms wouldn’t lift.
“Merlin, Ginny!” he gasped as the girl stroked his sack gently.
His hips lifted and bucked urgently, wanting more, pressure building at the base of his cock and in his balls like he had never felt before. But she seemed to know how near he was, and pulled back, letting his straining shaft free of the wet, hot heaven of her mouth.
“No! Please, please –”
“Now, Harry,” murmured Tom from a little distance away. Harry gasped in alarm, and he twisted his head to look towards the voice – and there Tom was by the head of the bed, twirling a wand languidly in his slim hand. “Ginny only plays with good boys. And you are not a good boy.”
Ginny flicked her tongue up the pulsing vein on his cock’s underside from base to tip, lapping up the beads of precome that wept from the slit. Harry bucked his hips again with a pleading groan, but she pulled away again until Harry refocused on Tom.
“Say ‘yes’ to me, Harry. Just say ‘yes’ and you can have her. It is not so terrible as you think. You already have some of my soul in you. You just have to let me in. Just relax and everything you desire is yours. I am a merciful master. A generous master. Obey.”
Harry groaned in desperation, his hips lifting again in a blatant quest of friction.
“Say ‘yes’ – then we can be together, Harry.” Ginny was so close her words cooled the wetness she had left on his flesh. “It’s going to happen – you can’t stop Tom. Fighting him won’t get you anything. And it’s not brave – you’re showing your fear. Come on, Harry. He was ever so gentle with me. And now… now I can hear him all the time. It’s not lonely any more. You don’t know how lonely you are without him. Please, please say you’ll be with us, Harry…”
His breath came in a hitched sob – he couldn’t do this… he couldn’t say ‘yes’ but he couldn’t stop it from happening either. There was no one left to save any of them and how could he save himself when his every movement was controlled? He couldn’t fight Voldemort by himself! And Ginny… oh Ginny.
The fingers that carded through his hair made him jump, and he tore his eyes from his best friend’s sister to look up at Tom.
“Harry, let me make it a little easier for you. If you can’t say ‘yes’, don’t say ‘no’. Silence is a form of consent. See how merciful I can be?”
Harry clenched his teeth – he wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Those dark eyes were pinning him in place, and he couldn’t… he couldn’t…
Tom’s face was coming nearer, taking up all the room in his vision until there was only him, then just his dark, dark eyes and there was the soft pressure of his lips against Harry’s. Tom’s tongue slid out, teasing Harry’s lips with persistent urging until they parted. Tom’s tongue entered his mouth and thrust against Harry’s teasing and swirling until the younger man couldn’t bear it and responded, kissing his parent’s murderer back with a despairing passion.
When Ginny sank back onto him, he felt like he was going to drown in sensation. When he realised their tongues were moving in sync he almost bit Tom, the unexpected flare of lust driving through him.
Tom broke the kiss a few moments later, one hand stroking Harry’s chest, making the dull ache flare. He drew searing patterns with his fingertip, not looking from Harry’s face as he neared climax.
“Yes, that’s it, Harry, that’s it. You’re doing so well. Let me in, Harry. Just let me in.”
Harry felt, faintly, a new pressure building under the nearly cresting orgasm, but there was no time to think or slow himself before he bucked and cried out, his blood turning to radiant light that rolled through him again and again.
There was a brilliant flare of pain – but it died in an instant, and the pleasure was there still easing him down gently. He was gasping and shivering and Tom was still looming over him, and Ginny’s wet heat was still around him, licking his oversensitive flesh clean.
And – and… inside, inside his head, there was… an oddness. It was like white noise during his favourite piece of music... like the scent of wood smoke in a forest… like colour in a black-and-white photo.
Something that wasn’t meant to be there.
Tom smiled. “Now, we’re eternal.”