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The thing is, he’d thought he could let his guard down (just a bit) on muggle public transit. After all, what self-respecting pureblood bigot would ever ride the Tube?
—
For all that magical transportation is instantaneous, there isn’t a single method Harry prefers to a train. He hardly has a delicate constitution, but whether floo, portkey, or apparition, they all leave him feeling likely to lose his lunch. So, while he’s legally allowed to apparate now, he spends the summer before his seventh year exploring London from his home base in Grimmauld Place through extensive use of the Underground.
His anonymity in the muggle world is soothing compared to the gawking, glaring looks he has to contend with in the magical community. And the freedom to come and go where and as he pleases makes the lack of communication from his friends (for yet another summer) sting less.
He’d gone all the way out to Heathrow on the Piccadilly line today, watching the planes land and take off and wondering if he’d ever get to travel on one. Surely there must be some magical form of long-distance travel, but… well, maybe a flight would still be preferable.
Maybe he could travel and see the world. Visit Charlie in Romania and see the dragons under less dire circumstances. Go see if that boa constrictor he set free ever made it to Brazil.
Maybe someday he could leave Britain and it wouldn’t feel like running away.
Maybe.
Harry’s timed his return journey rather poorly, as it’s almost rush hour and the car is starting to feel a little crowded. But he’s gotten better at tuning out the brush and rumble of people around him since he started doing this. He holds onto a strap dangling above his head, facing a window but staring into space and considering what else he’d like to see of the world.
The carriage lights dim briefly, and when they come back on, Harry can see reflected in the window that someone is now standing behind him. Someone who is staring into the window, meeting his gaze.
Someone who looks an awful lot like a middle-aged Tom Riddle.
“Hello, Harry.”
He tenses and feels a cold-hot wave of dread slide down his back. Spinning around, he comes face to face with what can only be Voldemort, riding the Tube.
“What are you doing here?” he hisses quietly, the surreality of the situation making it difficult to take the threat of this man seriously.
“I missed our annual rendezvous,” Voldemort says. “And while I’d hoped to pay you a visit for your birthday – your seventeenth is such an important milestone in our world – this will have to suffice.”
“Funny, I didn’t miss you at all.”
“Why Harry, you wound me.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” he says under his breath, but of course the bastard hears him.
Voldemort hums. “So feisty.”
Harry’s nose wrinkles in disgust. As he feels the train slow, he says, with as much sarcasm as he can muster, “I’d love to stay and chat, but this is my stop.” He turns towards the door, already moving forward when an iron grip closes around his upper arm and draws him back to where he’d been standing. He watches, frozen and feeling his stomach sink, as the doors open, people leave the carriage, people get on, and the doors close once more.
“How unfortunate, you appear to have missed it,” Voldemort says blandly, dropping Harry’s arm. Bastard. “Now, where were we?”
“What the fuck do you want,” Harry grits.
“Oh, nothing much,” Voldemort says lightly, not disguising the amused malice dancing in his currently maroon eyes. “Merely some quality time with my chosen one.”
Harry feels a large hand on his right hip and freezes. He glares up at the older wizard, though his eyes widen in alarm as the hand slides under his flannel and around to rest proprietarily on his arse.
What.
It’s so unexpected that it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to understand what’s happening. The thumb that begins tracing up and down the seam of his jeans speeds things up. But. Why would Voldemort grope him?
“What– what the hell are you playing at?” he accuses under his breath, still working through his bewilderment.
Voldemort doesn’t bother to answer. He moves his hand lower, gripping the fullest part and using it to pull Harry closer to his body. Between the pressure on his arse and the train jolting suddenly, Harry loses his footing and stumbles into his nemesis.
His attempts to put distance between them are thwarted by the hand repositioning to his lower back, holding him firmly against Voldemort. Harry begins to panic when the hand holding the strap won’t let go – it’s been stuck there.
“Get away from me, you–”
Voldemort leans down to murmur in Harry’s ear, “If you wish for the other passengers to remain unharmed, I suggest you refrain from making a scene.”
Harry looks around the Tube car without moving his head much in an attempt to be surreptitious. Of course Voldemort would have no problem threatening muggles. And of course he assumes – correctly, damn him – that Harry would want to keep them safe.
His darting eyes see that no one in the fairly full carriage is looking at them. Wearing headphones, reading, living in their own little worlds and blissfully ignorant of the danger in their midst. Wait – one person is staring at them. He looks at them quickly only to find one of the Lestrange brothers smirking back at him. Shite. It’s not just Voldemort. Harry’s not able to look around too much, but he sees at least one other Death Eater on the train. Which means there are probably more.
So, even if he manages to fight off Voldemort, even if Harry is able to escape, he’d be dooming the dozens of muggles around him.
When he looks back up at Voldemort, the bastard watches the interplay of hatred and disgust and fear on Harry’s face with greedy fascination.
He swallows dryly, throat clicking, as the reality of the situation sinks in. “You’ll just kill them anyway,” he rasps.
“Is that a risk you’re willing to take, Harry?”
It isn’t.
Voldemort’s hand on his back slips down and, taking advantage of the loose waistband, slides into Harry’s trousers, eliciting a quiet grunt. The older man palms his arse, holding a tense, silent Harry against his body, and no one on the train spares them a glance. Every time Harry starts to dissociate from what’s happening, Voldemort gives him a particularly harsh grope, returning Harry’s impotent glare with a small, mean smile.
They reach a hub station and the masses around them become a flurry of motion, pushing and leaving and walking onto the train. Voldemort’s tall figure serves as a bulwark against the crowd, though there must be some invisible, magical barrier around the man, as he doesn’t budge but also isn’t killing anyone who dares to touch him.
Harry discovers he’s no longer stuck to the handhold and lets the wave of humanity carry him along further into the car, as the announcement sounds and there are scant seconds before the doors will close again. He hopes the jostling of the crowd will separate them, but he should know better than to assume Voldemort would allow that to happen.
Instead, he finds himself backed into a poorly lit corner where the carriage’s walls meet. Any illusion of safety it might have given him is dashed when Voldemort’s larger form cages him in. The train car is now packed, so no one will notice – or everyone will intentionally ignore – any movements that bump or brush against them. A silver lining, since someone noticing likely means their death, if not the deaths of several others, too.
Voldemort’s left hand is swift to return to Harry’s hip. He takes advantage of the added cover to undo the button and zip of Harry’s jeans. Harry grips his wrist with both hands in a futile effort to keep Voldemort from touching him, fighting back the pressure behind his eyes as helpless tears start to form.
“Don’t–” he mumbles, and he knows it won’t have any effect, but he can’t stop himself.
“The sooner I get what I want, the sooner I’ll leave,” Voldemort murmurs in response. It takes a few moments for Harry to master himself and unlock his grip on Voldemort’s hand. It feels like defeat. It feels like he’s letting this happen.
When he glances over Voldemort’s shoulder to see if anyone is watching, he finds the back of Lestrange’s head, the man facing away and likely serving as an additional barrier to anyone who might see what Voldemort is doing.
No one’s going to help him.
“Turn around,” Voldemort says. Harry glares up at him defiantly in spite of the way his hands have begun to shake.
“Harry, Harry, so stubborn,” the older man sighs. He grabs Harry’s chin firmly, thumb brushing the tears from one eye and holding his head in place as Voldemort leans in and says against his ear, “Turn around now, or I’ll put you on your knees and fuck your impertinent mouth instead.”
Harry’s breath cuts off as a wave of hot-cold adrenaline races through him. He’d known – suspected – where this was going. But to have it spelled out so crudely makes his stomach drop to his trainers, a sick wave of nausea making his fingers tingle and head spin.
Voldemort releases his chin and shifts back enough to look Harry in the eye. He’s not glaring, not smirking – he looks completely unphased, like this is nothing.
Harry turns to face the wall robotically. He tries not to flinch when Voldemort gently tugs his trousers and pants down below his arse. There are now no barriers between him and Voldemort’s hands, and they take a few moments to touch uninhibited, gripping his arse and hips possessively. Harry wants to throw him off, to destroy those hands; to be anywhere else but here.
One of Voldemort’s hands leaves Harry’s skin, and as he hears the soft snickt of a belt buckle being undone behind him Harry has to force his breathing to remain calm, his rough fingernails digging mercilessly into his palms. He braces for pain, for whatever is coming next, but still recoils as much as he can while pinned between Voldemort and the wall when a cool, slick finger trails between his cheeks and pushes inside him. Harry makes a sound of confused discomfort as the long finger slides deeper, pressing steadily past his body’s resistance.
"I wish to cause you pain, but you're annoyingly resilient," Voldemort says idly.
"I'd say I'm sorry to annoy you, but I'm really not," Harry says, terse and quiet.
"As well you shouldn't be. It's rather impressive, and perhaps a little telling,” the other man continues. “I thought to myself, what do you give someone who is so unexpectedly adept at handling pain? What would phase one who is determined to suffer nobly?"
Harry remains silent, jaw clenched.
It does nothing to stop Voldemort. "And the answer, of course, is pleasure."
"I'm not feeling very pleased."
Voldemort hums. “Then I suppose I’ll have to try harder.”
Please don’t, he thinks.
One finger becomes two, and Harry has to bite his cheek to keep from grunting at the pinch and burn he feels. The pain could be worse, he knows, but that hardly means this is enjoyable. After an extremely long minute, Voldemort’s fingers withdraw, and Harry exhales a breath he hadn’t been aware was trapped in his lungs. His next inhale is stilted, shallow, because he’s aware what’s coming next, there’s nothing else it could be after that.
“Breathe, my brave Gryffindor,” Voldemort taunts softly.
Instead of holding his air out of spite, Harry takes a breath to give Voldemort a piece of his mind, even if he has to do it quietly. Voldemort chooses this moment to press his cock into Harry, a slow, inexorable push forward that knocks the air right back out of him, shocks him. He freezes, mind buzzing to process the pain, the odd sensation of fullness, the pressure against his back as Voldemort crowds closer to him, the knowledge of what’s happening to him. Voldemort groans deep in his chest; Harry can feel the vibrations where they’re pressed together. He exhales sharply as Voldemort begins to move.
(He wishes he’d never left Grimmauld today.)
The subtle, passive sway of the train and the bodies contained within disguise the movement of Voldemort’s body into against Harry’s. He’s bitten his cheek to bleeding, the raw, jagged edge of it no longer providing enough pain to keep the sounds trapped behind his teeth, and a particularly well-aimed thrust would’ve sent a strained, despairing moan into the stale carriage air if Voldemort hadn’t wrapped his hand over Harry’s mouth at exactly that moment. And for a brief, horrifying second, Harry is thankful that Voldemort stopped him from making noise and drawing attention that would’ve seen someone die.
The tears that had been threatening now flow freely down his cheeks. He tries to let his mind slip sideways, as he’d done at the Dursleys when the hunger pains would gnaw at him or he’d been kept in his cupboard too long. But a low, steady coil of lust is now winding its way through Harry’s body. Voldemort’s hand remains over his mouth, muffling the sounds of his reluctant pleasure. The other man must notice Harry’s response, as he curls more tightly around Harry’s back to groan in his ear and wrap his other hand around Harry’s now erect cock.
Harry bites Voldemort’s palm, teeth clamped around the fleshiest part, and Voldemort uses the hand to push Harry’s head back against his shoulder. Harry is pinned like a butterfly, unable to move aside from the barest twitch of his hips, though there’s no safe direction to move.
Voldemort whispers tangles of filthy parseltongue into his ears, telling Harry what a good boy he is, how enticing his struggling is, how perfect he feels around Voldemort’s cock. There’s something about the language of snakes that he can’t block out, and the words stick in his ears and mind like tar. He wants to ignore them, wants to feel completely disgusted, but between the hot breath against his ear, the words themselves, and the other man’s touches, Harry can feel that twist of visceral heat in his gut ignite further, melting his insides.
To his shame, it takes very little more to make him come. His vision dims a bit, but the release isn't satisfying. He just feels exhausted and used. Voldemort moans throatily at the feeling of Harry’s body clamping around him, and his controlled thrusts grow more erratic. He pushes deep into Harry and comes, biting him hard on the side of his neck. Harry thinks he can feel blood sliding down his skin, but it could be tears or saliva. A problem for later.
Voldemort stays draped over him for a minute or so before he steps back, pulling out of Harry’s body. For all that he’s glad it’s over, now Harry has the other man’s come dripping out of him – an extremely unpleasant feeling. Harry turns around and finds Voldemort has already returned to looking pristine. His face and clothes show no sign of what he’s just done, aside from a slight flush to his cheeks and glint to his eyes.
Bastard.
Harry’s too tired to flinch when Voldemort tugs his pants and jeans back up. Voldemort takes a handkerchief from one of his pockets, raising it to Harry’s face. He tries to turn away, but the other man grips his chin and holds him in place while he dries the tear tracks on his cheeks, dabbing gently at Harry’s eyes. Harry strangles a sob in his throat.
As the train slows, pulling into the next stop, Voldemort leans down and presses his lips to Harry’s ear. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Harry Potter.” The implicit threat and warmth of Voldemort’s breath make Harry shudder.
He glares hatefully at the back of Voldemort’s head as he and his Death Eaters exit the train. Only once the doors have closed and the train begins to move again does Harry allow himself to sag against the wall of the carriage, tilting away from the staring eyes he can feel like ants on his skin. He’s not sure how he looks, or what the other passengers saw – or assume. They’re safe, that’s all that matters.
That’s all that matters.
(Maybe if he repeats it to himself enough times, he’ll believe it.)