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Harry’s hands clench uselessly at the stone staff clamped over his chest, crushing him against the marble angel statue that watches over the Riddle graves.
Dark, ominous smoke billows from the large cauldron in front of him. The shadows slowly solidify into a red-black cloud that gradually unfurls into the cold night air, slender limbs outstretched.
The Dark Lord rises, his new form skeletal and unholy, the finer details of his body temporarily obscured by the smoke and sparks spitting from the cauldron.
Harry’s breath freezes at the sight, a fresh wave of fear surging through him.
The ritual has succeeded. Lord Voldemort has been reborn.
Remnants of potion run down Voldemort’s limbs in slim rivulets that glisten under the brilliant glow of the moon, but that glow can't compare to the vast expanse of pale, milky-white skin that forms Voldemort’s nude, hairless body.
The silhouette of the Dark Lord flows forward, arms held aloft in the manner of a god as he approaches Harry’s trapped, terrified form. His face is terrifying yet beautiful—sculpted angles with reptilian slits for nostrils.
The voice that calls out is low and just as serpentine; the sibilant sounds echo beautifully throughout the empty graveyard. Even Pettigrew’s pathetic snivelling quiets in the presence of the Dark Lord.
“Harry Potter,” murmurs Voldemort, his head canting slightly to one side as he regards his mortal enemy with wrathful crimson eyes. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.”
The tone is familiar, as if they’re old friends. Harry can’t help the shudder that runs down his spine, a reaction that has little to do with fear and everything to do with the disgust he harbours for this murderer.
“I must thank you for this new body of mine,” Voldemort continues in an amused tone as he flexes the fingers of his new hand, examining the unnatural length of them. “It is unexpected but not… unpleasant.”
Harry finds his unwilling gaze drawn to the faint scales that spread across Voldemort’s body like delicate gossamer. It is a mesmerizing, fantastical sight—Harry can’t reconcile this bizarrely alluring appearance with the monster that wears it.
Worse yet, when Harry’s traitorous eyes drift lower, to the space between Voldemort's hip bones that leads to the impressive size and shape of his flaccid cock. There is no room for shame alongside Harry's abject fear and horrified fascination, so he forces himself to ignore the uncomfortable distraction of Voldemort's nudity and focus on his escape.
“Fuck you,” Harry croaks out. It isn't an intelligent response, but his sanity is rapidly dwindling, draining his common sense with it.
Voldemort’s answering smile is too cruel, too knowing. It is repulsive to think even for a moment that Voldemort could think—could possibly believe—
A wand flies to Voldemort’s outstretched hand, and a spell leaves his lips not a moment later, with Harry as its unfortunate target.
“Crucio.”
The pain is instant and unbearable, a knife that slides under his skin, jerking in stops and starts as it carves him open bit by bit. Harry screams, the sound so inhuman that it becomes inaudible to his own ears, as the world around him is reduced to empty static and endless agony.
On it goes, that unfathomable pain coursing through him in waves, his mind and body malleable in the hands of Voldemort’s magic. Harry feels himself slipping away as his surroundings are lost amidst overwhelming pain.
When the torture spell is finally released, Harry falls limp, sweat-drenched and half-unconscious, against the restraints that hold him. He can barely feel the cold stone that digs into his chest. Other sensations are petty discomforts to him now, forgettable in the face of the true torment he now knows with shameful intimacy.
“Now, now,” Voldemort croons softly. He is closer now, it seems, his voice more present—or perhaps it’s simply that there is nothing else but Voldemort, no one else that can possibly exist in this world except for the Dark Lord. “I’ve not finished with you yet, Harry Potter.”
That flawless, scaled body lowers further, as if gradually descending from the heavens, and lands gracefully a few feet away from where Harry hangs against the marble angel. Then the Dark Lord’s slender arms extend for the second time, the sensuous silhouette of him so divine that surely the moon itself would fall from the sky to rest and worship at his feet.
“Robe me,” Voldemort commands, and through the haze of his disorientation, Harry hears the faint, pained gasp of Pettigrew’s whimpered spell as the rat complies.
Thick ribbons of fabric wind through the air like live, graceful serpents, curling delicately around their master’s limbs in what can only be described as a loving manner. Rough edges of material knit together to form a beautiful emerald robe that drapes loosely over Voldemort’s new, serpentine body.
But the act of creation does not end there. The ribbons extend greedily in Harry's direction, too. They curl around the dirty soles of his shoes, slipping up to his ankles, to his calves. They wrap around his waist and settle around his neck like a noose.
The angel's marble staff falls away, leaving him purely at Voldemort’s mercy.
“That will be all,” Voldemort says.
Silence follows. It takes long, long moments for Harry to process the reason for the dismissal—Wormtail, still bleeding profusely from his severed wrist, is being told to leave.
Pettigrew departs quickly and does not look back.
Satisfied with their privacy, Voldemort turns to address Harry for the second time. His whispered spell is gentle, almost patient, as if the intention is to associate the word with some great measure of affection.
“Crucio.”
The second round of Cruciatus claws through Harry's flesh with excruciating slowness. It is familiar to him now, the pain. He has no resistance to fight it off, nothing in place to prevent it from ripping him apart.
If this continues, he might forget how to scream, or what his own voice even sounds like, and though this thought should frighten him, it doesn’t. There is only a detached acceptance of his fate.
Whatever happens to him now will be as Voldemort desires; whatever he tries, there will be no escaping it.
When the torture ends, the absence of agony is devastatingly euphoric. Harry thinks it may be the best pleasure he has ever known in his life, this bliss of nothing, the abstract tenderness of being held aloft by silken strips of Voldemort’s fine clothes.
Voldemort lowers his wand. He smiles, drawing close, and Harry shivers anew, his scar prickling madly, his heart sputtering and lurching from the aftereffects of the Cruciatus.
“I have risen once more, more powerful than any wizard, untouchable, immortal. No stroke of luck will save you tonight, Harry. No foolish parents, no meddlesome Headmaster… Just you and I.”
He rests the ice-cold palm of his pale hand against the side of Harry’s face, and Harry moans, delirious from the sudden onslaught of sensation. His entire body exists in a perpetual state of heightened awareness; this simple act of touch after an eternity of torture is unendurable.
“Your protections are no more, your protectors far away,” Voldemort declares softly, dangerously. “And I can touch you now.”
Harry’s lungs burn faintly with each passing breath. He wants it to end. He does not want to know what Voldemort else intends to do to him.
“They believed you to be my downfall,” Voldemort continues in a voice so low that Harry strains to make out the words. “We shall see how far you may fall tonight.”
Voldemort’s forefinger traces his cheekbone, his jawline, the trembling set of his lower lip. Harry whimpers, praying for it to stop, for Voldemort to be merciful and leave him be. He doesn’t think he can last much longer like this, slowly going insane while Voldemort touches him with such tenderness.
“You enjoy this.” Voldemort grins wide. A monster's grin, a murderer’s grin. “And Lord Voldemort is merciful to those who submit.”
Submit. The word swells in Harry's mind as Voldemort rests the tip of his wand against the centre of Harry’s collarbone. He murmurs a new spell that pierces the skin like the quick stab of a needle.
“The delicate passage of time has prevented us from meeting for so long,” Voldemort says quietly. “But I have been patient, knowing that you would soon find your way to me, that I would at last prove which of us is the greater wizard.”
The yew wand travels downward, and Harry feels his clothing part in its wake, cotton and polyester threads neatly severed by Voldemort’s magic, leaving a thin red line that stretches down his chest. Perhaps Voldemort intends to saw him in half as well. The thin trail of blood will serve as a guide.
“So tell me, Harry Potter, which of us is greater?”
A brief moment passes while Harry’s scar burns with Voldemort’s smouldering ire. Harry can’t respond. He's forgotten how to speak, how to take control of a body that no longer feels like his own.
“It is disrespectful to ignore your betters,” Voldemort finally hisses, once it becomes clear Harry won’t respond. He digs the end of his wand into Harry’s jugular and snarls out, “Imperio.”
Harry gasps as Voldemort’s magic sinks into his body like a stone. Reality drops away from him. There is nothing, nothing compared to the absolute ecstasy of Voldemort’s Imperius. Harry feels none of the unease or hesitation he had while under Moody's wand; Voldemort’s magic cradles him like a newborn, with warm hands that wander through his mind like they belong there.
Immediately, Harry relaxes, the tension vanishing from his body as he submits to Voldemort’s power. As calm pours into him, so does relief, and it is perfect. Everything is perfect.
“You are,” his lips say. “My Lord.”
“Correct,” Voldemort acknowledges, and Harry, still under the Imperius, feels only peace upon hearing the words.
Voldemort bends close, his lipless mouth mere centimetres from placing a kiss against the vulnerable skin of Harry’s throat. His hand traces a gentle path over Harry’s cheek, down the bloody line of his exposed chest, stopping just above the waistband of his muddy, ruined trousers.
A smile returns to the Dark Lord's lips as he raises his crimson eyes to Harry’s face and intones, “Crucio.”
Harry feels everything and nothing. The exquisite pain of Voldemort’s torture curse is drowned out by the safe haven of his insensate body and the seductive croon of nonsense in his mind.
Voldemort holds the spell for what must be hours or days, his expression thrilled as Harry convulses beneath his wand. Eventually, the connection between Harry's mind and his physical form snaps, freeing him from feeling any of the pain at all.
When the torrent of magic ceases, both Unforgivables lifted in melodious synchrony, Harry falls to his knees at the Dark Lord’s feet without a word.
“And now you know your place.” Voldemort hums, his eyes bright with excitement, vermillion pools of fanatical delight at Harry’s newfound helplessness. “Existing only to serve Lord Voldemort.”
Harry rises anew, his unresponsive body carried forward at the Dark Lord’s bidding. The coil of fabric wrapped around his neck unravels, and his head rolls with the motion, exposing the bare column of his throat to Voldemort’s heated gaze. Impossibly, the part of him that meant to shudder in fear instead holds its breath in anticipation.
Voldemort inhales deeply, eyelids fluttering with satisfaction as he presses his noseless face to Harry’s collarbone.
An echo of the fond, pleasant voice in his mind reminds him of the rapture that comes with surrender. Harry’s vulnerable heart clenches in response. Is this not easier? Is this not a relief, a release from the torment of burdens and expectations? His tattered, disoriented mind is inclined to agree.
Without warning, Voldemort’s teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck, sharp enough to break the skin, and Harry’s body seizes, shudders, his arms trembling in their silken confines. He has no cries of pain left to offer, only the slick salt of tears that run from his eyes and into his hair.
Voldemort soothes the wound with his tongue, lapping up the blood that had been so instrumental in his resurrection.
“See how perfectly you give yourself to your lord,” Voldemort purrs, fisting a hand in Harry’s hair and guiding his head back, baring more of his neck to the open air. “Every drop spilled of your blood used to strengthen my might and magic.” The hand unclenches, releasing him, returning Harry's knees to the dirty ground. Then Voldemort waves his wand, vanishing the ruined scraps of Harry's clothes as he adds, “Every inch of your flesh brought to heel for my pleasure.”
Harry shivers, eyes glassy and unfocused as Voldemort’s robes fall open, revealing the sculpted plains of his flesh, smooth and unblemished like the marble statues that surround them. Voldemort strokes himself once, twice, his dark eyes fixed on Harry's nude form.
“This, too, will aid Lord Voldemort,” says Voldemort softly. “I will complete my ritual and seal my victory.”
The fabric holding Harry upright constricts, forcing him to arch his back even further. His lips part in a gasp, his head reeling with a sudden need for oxygen as he realizes what Voldemort intends to do to him. Any horror he might have felt has been greatly diminished by the severed link between his mind and body. So Harry only sighs, his muscles relaxing in their new position, trusting that Voldemort's magic will support him.
Suddenly, the weight of his glasses vanishes from his face. Harry lets his eyes fall shut in supplication. Voldemort’s long, pale fingers trace the scar on his forehead, sending shocks of ecstasy dancing across his skin like sparkling embers. It feels nice.
“Good boy,” Voldemort praises. He nudges his cock against Harry’s cheek, smudging precum in a slow path along Harry’s jaw and coming to a stop at the corner of his mouth.
Harry requires no spoken command to open wide, to permit Voldemort to smear the evidence of his arousal all over his lips before shoving into the wet heat of his mouth.
The size is impossible. Too thick, too long. Harry struggles to take it, his rasping breaths turning to gags as Voldemort sinks deep, forcing inch by inch past Harry's lips until he hits the soft palate of Harry's throat. Harry feels the churn of nausea in his stomach, but his body somehow ignores the impulse and keeps him focused on the task at hand.
The air grows heavy with Voldemort’s moans and sighs as he chokes Harry on the length of his cock. Harry’s face is unbearably hot, drool smeared all over the lower half of his face and dripping off his chin as Voldemort raises him up and forces him back down again, leaving barely enough of a pause for air.
Every so often, Voldemort touches Harry's body with the tip of his yew wand. It's a silent reminder of the Imperius. Harry recalls the blissful warmth that spread throughout his body as Voldemort’s magic enveloped him, the memory so vivid it feels almost real.
Tap. On his shoulder. Tap. On the bridge of his nose. Tap. On his flushed cheek.
Harry sags into his restraints, throat desperately spasming with each unforgiving thrust. He doesn't know if he enjoys this. Sucking dick. It doesn't feel much like sucking, anyway—it's mostly the constant abuse of his mouth and throat as Voldemort drags him back and forth like a doll.
Eventually, Voldemort seems to tire of Harry's pitiful sounds and pulls out. Harry coughs and gags, chest heaving in great gasps as he sways within the confines of the fabric holding him up.
Voldemort runs long-fingered hands over his ribs, pinching the skin here and there and watching it redden. Harry whines at each touch, his cock twitching valiantly. His vision blurs with strange coloured spots that vanish whenever he tries to look directly at them. Voldemort only laughs at him, pets his head.
“Imperio.”
Harry moans as the blissful emptiness washes over him again. Suddenly, he is acutely aware of his own aching arousal. The cloth bindings lift him towards the angel statue, whose marble arms open in invitation. Harry falls against them, his hands scrambling for purchase against the stone folds of the statue's robes.
“Does whoring yourself out bring so much pleasure?” Voldemort observes in a bored tone. Without warning, his hand seizes Harry’s head and shoves it into the marble.
Harry whimpers. The stone is cold as ice beneath his cheek. He is feverish, distracted.
Voldemort traces his hand down Harry's back, fingertips lingering over each bump of his spine. His touch feels strangely delicate now. “Shall I fuck you over my father's grave?” Voldemort asks. His wandering hand grips the nape of Harry’s neck and squeezes hard. “I want an answer, this time.”
Yes, says his mind.
“Yes,” Harry rasps. The hoarseness of his voice surprises him.
“This is your only purpose,” Voldemort says. His hand on the back of Harry's neck and shoves down, so that Harry is forced to bow, his face flattened against the angel’s marble waist. “Your rightful place lies at my feet. Or more crudely, perhaps, your place is to be split open on my cock.” He laughs a second time; mocking, grating. The sound floats through the air in a hazy way before it reaches Harry’s ears.
Harry tries to swallow, but his throat convulses wildly around the phantom sensation of being gagged on cock—it sends him into a gut-wrenching coughing fit that leaves his eyes burning with tears.
“You’ll come to like it,” Voldemort promises, his voice lower, rougher than before. Deep with arousal at Harry’s impending debasement. “If you’re half the whore you’ve already proven yourself to be, you may even enjoy yourself tonight.”
The veil of the Imperius lifts, the flawless clarity of Voldemort’s control stripped from him against his will. Harry’s pained confusion returns as his fingers try to gain purchase against the dips and grooves of stone. His hands refuse to obey him; they twitch ineffectually against the marble, worse than useless.
Voldemort settles a proprietary hand on his hip and grips hard enough to bruise. Harry squirms, heat rising to his cheeks. He shuts his eyes against the shame as the strips of cloth wrapped around his ankles yank him backward, spreading his legs wide, presenting him like a prize.
As Harry half-falls down the length of the statue, his forearms are scraped raw, but the sting is distant. It doesn’t register with him any more than the oppressive stimulation of everything else does—the gnawing, throbbing pain in his head, the shrill ringing in his ears layered over the ambient sounds of the graveyard, and the cold night air caressing every inch of his nude, vulnerable body.
“Please,” he begs, but he's unsure of who is speaking, himself or the voice that might still live in his mind. He wants the tranquillity back. He wants the endless calm that comes from submitting to Voldemort’s power.
Voldemort pets his hip; Harry does his best not to sway into the touch, but it proves to be an impossible task—his very soul feels attuned to the Dark Lord. Harry is ruined and desolate with or without, but when he is with Voldemort, he knows that bliss will follow.
A whispered spell melts into Harry’s skin, a cool balm that loosens the tense muscles in the lower half of his body. Dampness drips down his thighs, but Harry doesn’t linger on the implication. He knows Lord Voldemort is merciful to those who submit.
Voldemort casts another spell—a stinging hex that smarts at the sensitive skin of Harry’s inner thighs. The only reaction it produces is a feeble tremor in Harry’s already unsteady hands.
How long had he been under the Cruciatus? How long had he been on his knees before the Dark Lord?
Harry can’t recall. He thinks that Voldemort’s magic could hold him here for years, decades, centuries. That he might be forced to stand here, exposed and freezing, while Voldemort tears his mind and body to pieces at leisure, one Unforgivable at a time.
“Pathetic,” Voldemort says, tracing the palm of his hand along Harry’s side, slender fingers curving along the lines of Harry’s ribcage. “This is what you need, isn’t it?” He rests the blunt head of his cock against Harry’s entrance, teasing the rim.
Harry’s head spins—he should say something, but he has no idea what. Another stinging hex lands on his arse, stronger than its predecessor. A sob spills past Harry’s lips. Distraught, he clamps his mouth shut to silence the other noises that threaten to escape him.
“You’ll take anything I give you, you'll do anything I want you to do.” Voldemort shoves forward slightly, the tip pressing against Harry's slick hole, and Harry whimpers, unable to help himself. “And if you do well, you shall be rewarded.”
Harry nods quickly, the strained rattle of his desperate breaths impossibly loud in his ears, and then Voldemort gradually sinks into him with one slow, deep thrust.
Harry thrashes, an aborted scream catching in his throat as Voldemort presses in, so deep, too deep, forcing him open beyond what ought to be possible. His treacherous hips twitch as his body struggles to take every inch inside, his upper body flattened against the statue as Voldemort bears down on him.
“Thank your lord,” Voldemort hisses, his fingers twisting in Harry’s hair. He yanks Harry’s head back, curving his neck almost painfully. “Thank him for your gift. For giving your worthless existence a new purpose.”
“T-thank you,” Harry breathes. “Thank y-you—” His voice falters several times as Voldemort shoves the last bit of his cock in, leaving the rest of his sentence a hopeless mess.
Voldemort seems to understand him anyway; he allows Harry a moment’s respite to adjust before seizing Harry's thighs with two large hands and raising Harry's arse to the level of his hips. Then he slams his cock back in, and the new angle is agonizing—Harry cries out as Voldemort begins to really move, still holding Harry up like he weighs nothing at all and fucking him roughly against the stone.
The stretch and drag of Voldemort’s thrusts is so much Harry can barely breathe. Each desperate gasp torn from his throat rings in his ears as he oscillates between the pleasure of this new, mindless bliss and the torment of violent overstimulation.
Harry clings weakly to the statue's robes, his body jerking back and forth as he is thoroughly used. Voldemort feels considerably larger lodged in his arse than in his throat; Harry swears he can feel each thrust of Voldemort’s cock deep in his gut.
Gradually, he gets used to it. The rhythmic pounding draws a haze of ecstasy over him. Voldemort still fucks into Harry at a frenzied pace, but the brutality of their coupling brings no harm, only bliss. The cock splitting him open, it reaches so deep inside. He feels so warm, so full. He can’t do anything other than hold on and moan like the pathetic whore Voldemort had named him to be.
Voldemort groans and drapes himself over Harry's back. He bites down on Harry's shoulder, teeth into flesh, then loses control entirely, his thrusts erratic and nearly fanatical as he chases his release.
Harry shivers when the onslaught slows. Voldemort slides out, leaving his hole empty and wet. His own cock throbs, untouched and weeping from the tip.
With a low grunt, Voldemort drags him up by the neck and pins him against the stone with one hand. A high flush stains his pale, alabaster cheeks. His crimson eyes examine Harry's discomfort with delight. At last, he is victorious, having defiled the Boy-Who-Lived with cock and come.
“We are not done yet,” Voldemort says. He prods at the flushed head of Harry's cock with a pointed fingernail, and Harry gasps in response, legs trembling. “On your knees, Harry.”
It takes a moment for the instruction to register. Harry falls to his knees on the damp grass and soil. His back smarts as his muscles pull at his abused flesh. He hopes that his slowness might inspire the Dark Lord to cast the Imperius again, but fear of more pain without the promise of pleasure prevents him from lingering too long on that thought.
Voldemort takes his own softened cock in hand and presses the length of it against Harry's face. “Clean,” he commands.
Slowly and blearily, Harry laps at the come, starting with the damp tip and working his way down. Everything hurts, but he needs to finish. He has to finish so he can get his reward.
Eventually, Voldemort deems Harry's efforts satisfactory. He shoves Harry off of him and closes his robes with a wandless gesture of his hand.
“We are one now, are we not?” Voldemort says softly. “Your blood flows through my veins… and my essence lives in your body.”
Harry blinks, his body half-curled in a foetal position. Voldemort rolls him over with a shove of his bare foot. Harry stares up at him, at the vast wash of stars in the sky. His mouth is dry, his lips puffy and sore from their earlier misuse. Licking them does little to alleviate the discomfort.
Voldemort’s serpentine features are frozen in apathy as he asks, “Do you deserve a reward?”
“Please,” Harry rasps. His hips twitch feebly, his erection seeking the friction he's been denied. “P-please, I need it.” The beautiful sensation of nothing. The freedom of giving over control of himself.
Voldemort sets his foot firmly on Harry's shoulder, pinning him to the ground as he says, “Imperio.”
The impact is instant. Harry comes untouched, his body shuddering as though electrocuted even as his mind floats far, far away from him. His come spills in spurts, painting weak stripes over his hips and stomach.
Harry nearly passes out from the sheer force of his release. He can feel some of it trickling into the mess that leaks from his still-gaping hole. Exhaustion settles in his bones like a lead weight, tempting him with the promise of sleep, but Voldemort isn’t done with him yet.
Thick cloth ribbons bind his arms and ankles behind his back, so that he lays in a humiliating contortion of limbs at Voldemort’s feet, his filthy body on full display. Even through the cloying fog of the Imperius, a part of Harry experiences a sharp pang of fear. He feels more exposed like this than he had bent at the waist with Voldemort’s cock buried in his arse.
“And now,” Voldemort says in a lazy drawl, the yew wand in his hand as bright as the moon as he stares around at the dark, empty graveyard, “we shall see who will be brave enough to answer my call.”