-1Play the Game

He bites his neck, angrily; Voldemort's cool, slightly bitter taste fills his mouth. He twists and turns, knowing he will be punished for his behavior, but he does not care.

The Dark Lord grins savagely at this, barely feeling the pain as Harry writhes beneath him. Poor boy, he muses. He slaps The Boy Who Lived and the child gasps, either from arousal or pain, or a mixture of both.

Harry stares at the ceiling emptily, halting his useless struggles; he isn't fooling anyone but himself. He does not shiver as he feels the cool air of the bedroom on his naked skin. He wants this, he wants to be hit, hurt, punished. He wants to feel Voldemort inside him, hard and brutal, he wants to be bruised and marked.

He gasps again, as the Dark Lord kisses his neck in a cruel imitation of tenderness. His body is on fire, and he plays the game willingly.

He is used to it, and he always loses.

Harry smiles emptily in the darkness of his room, realizing he isn't sore. It is not because their 'relationship' has became gentler; if anything, it has became more animalistic, more rough. His body is covered in bruises and bite marks, tender to the touch; hiding them all will become a problem.

No, he isn't sore because he is used to his new activities.


He touches the Dark Mark on his arm slowly, easily making out the dark tattoo against his translucent white skin. He wonders what would happen if he touched it with his wand, if it would summon him. He strokes it gently, remembering all to well how it burned, how cool Voldemort's fingertips were on his branded skin.

His Occlumency lessons will begin soon, and then everything else will end.

He looks forward to this, cannot wait to see the expression of disgust on Snape's shocked face, the incomprehension in the black pools of his eyes.

He licks his lips, remembering how Voldemort tasted, wants more.

Snape will tell Dumbledore… and then what?

Will he be arrested? On what charges? Will his Headmaster be able to admit publicly what his Golden Boy had done?

Or, rather, who he had done.

He smirks at this coldly, unaware of how much he resembles someone else.

Ginny chatters inanely, Ron and Hermione argue.

Another day at the breakfast table.

He rests his head on his hand, bored; he lets his mind wander.

Snape scrutinizes him curiously, does not understand what is so different about the boy.

Perhaps it is the way he has been carrying himself lately; his back is straighter, his emerald gaze more piercing, more critical.

He has seen glimpses, here and there, of purplish marks on his body; impossible to hide so many.

Perhaps he has taken a lover…?

The Weasley girl…?

He swiftly discards this train of thought, tells himself he does not care, ignores the unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Tries to forget Voldemort's orders of not laying a hand on the boy.

Was that it? Had he turned to the dark side?

Impossible, he decides. Voldemort wants him dead, comprehends the deeper meaning of the prophecy; there is no way he would keep the boy alive if he were in his possession.

Harry suddenly sniffs critically in response to something the girl says; drums his long fingernails impatiently on the wooden table, green eyes empty, devoid of all emotion.

Déjà vu suddenly washes over Snape, and he stares at the boy again.

Why on earth did he suddenly look so familiar?

Harry catches Snape gazing at him and glares back, gratified as the Potions Master hastily looks away.

Was he…blushing?

Yes, his cheeks were definitely taking on a pink tone.

He grins nastily to himself.

Maybe he wants me.

Wouldn't that be cute.

I could fuck him, he thinks to himself lazily. I could fuck him and then torment him, torture him, make him desire me even more, and then crush him.

He blinks, shocked. Since when did he think like that?

He stares at Snape angrily, willing the older man to look at him, suddenly full of hate.

I could kill him, too, he thinks.

Look at me. LOOK AT ME!


He glances around; everyone but Snape is looking at him strangely. He feels his cheeks burn uncomfortably as he answers Dumbledore. "Yeah?"

Albus smiles gently at him. "What do you think, my boy? Are you willing?"

He shifts in his seat. "Sorry?"

"To continue your Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape, Harry."

He grits his teeth and steals a glance at the Potions Master, who looks resolutely away. Bastard.

"I'd rather not," he replies smoothly. "They didn't exactly go well last time, did they?"

The Headmaster's eyes twinkled. "Severus and I have spoken, Harry; and Sirius agrees: it is in everyone's best interests, especially yours, if you work more at shielding your mind from Voldemort."

"Do I even have a choice?"

"And why should I care, exactly?"

Harry stares wildly at Voldemort, his heart sinking in his chest. "I'll be discovered," he whispers. "Snape will-"

"Snape won't do anything I don't tell him to do," The Dark Lord replies simply, straightening his robes. "Now, come to me." He holds out his arms, a feral gleam in his crimson eyes.

He ignores the familiar feeling that floods through him at Voldemort's words. "How can you be so sure of him? He'll tell Dumbledore, I know it!"

A shrug. "So?"

"SO? So I'll be thrown in fucking prison! Everyone in the Order will know!"

Voldemort's half lidded eyes travel over his body slowly, letting him know that his words meant close to nothing to him. "You will not be thrown in prison," he whispers. "You will come to me if Severus betrays his master."

Harry is dumbstruck by this.

"Or…" The Dark Lord's lips slowly upturn in a triumphant smirk. "You could figure out a way to convince Snape to keep quiet, couldn't you."

"What the f- how the hell am I supposed to do that? He's not exactly looking to me any favors, my Lord."

Another smile. "I'm sure you could think of some incentive for the man, Harry," he says, his eyes roving suggestively over the boy's body again, his smooth, cold voice full of meaning.

Harry's cheeks burn as he absorbs what Voldemort is telling him. "You must be joking," he says in a low voice, knowing the older man is not.

The Dark Lord sniffs indifferently. "You must learn to play the game, my boy, and make necessary choices. Now," he said harshly, "I believe there was another reason you came to me, Harry."

He nods, feeling shock numb his limbs as he crawls on the bed.

He removes his clothing with shaking fingers, slowly realizing he has no choice.

You've got to learn to play the game.

End Chapter.

A/N- Next chapter- more fun. You know the drill, please review! Also, I like to listen to music when I write, you know, for the mood. I like dark. Example: Closer by Nine Inch Nails, Even in Death by Evenescence. Recently quite into Switchblade Symphony. So, if anyone has any song suggestions, I'm all ears! (Or eyes, I suppose.)