Author's Note: This idea popped into my head and I felt compelled to write it down. Part of me worries that this has been done before, perhaps even overdone. Personally, I've never read a fanfic that explored this possibility, but I am certain someone must have come up with the idea first. That said, if anyone has already read or written a story like this… I guess great minds think alike. Hopefully there is enough originality in this story to keep you interested if that is the case.

This one-shot story is Rated T for violent (sort of) images and non-explicit sexuality.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter, and all related characters, plot ideas, locations, abilities, (ect.) are the property J. K. Rowling and affiliates. I claim no rights to any copyrighted works. I certify that my ideas are all original. Any similarity to actual people, locations, events, books, movies, other works of fanfiction (ect.) are entirely coincidental.


Voldemort gritted his teeth, his hands clenching into fists, as an almost unbearable pain surged through his entire body. This was unexpected, unprecedented. Had one of his Death Eaters turned on him? Was he experiencing the Cruciatus Curse for the first time in his life? Voldemort had used the curse countless times, but he had never felt it. Until, perhaps, now. Surely, there could be nothing more excruciating than the agony that was ripping through every nerve ending in his new body.

Voldemort forced himself to look around, although this was difficult due to his blurry vision. Tears, he realized. The pain was so intense he had started to cry without realizing it. Angrily he wiped his sleeve across his face, staring at his assembly of Death Eaters. They had been holding a meeting to plan an attack when the pain had suddenly overwhelmed him. It could be any of them…

Not one of them held up a wand. They were all watching him in awe, or fear, or perhaps both, but none of them were cursing him. He looked through the ranks again, in case he had missed anything. Another wave of pain, worse than any before, made him stagger and nearly fall over. None of them were chanting. None of them were staring intently. None held out a wand. Voldemort was certain he had not ingested any poison, as he never let anyone else handle his food or drink.

How then? How was this possible? He was the most powerful wizard alive! All across the world his name was feared, his deeds were known. He had no equal. Then how?

A Death Eater pushed through the crowd, falling prostrate at Voldemort's feet, asking if there was anything they could do for him. Voldemort could not form words to answer. If he opened his mouth, he knew, all that would come out was a scream, and he could not allow these cretins to see any more weakness than they already had. Focusing his willpower, Voldemort managed to banish the sycophant across the room with a silent spell, although not with nearly the force he had intended. Not only was he in pain, but the distraction and loss of focus were weakening his magic.

He had to fight this! Whatever it was, there had to be a way to fight it. His willpower was unparalleled. There was no one stronger, no one more powerful. He would triumph! He would find whomever was responsible for this pain and destroy them. The world would learn its place, and Voldemort would reign with an iron fist. There was no room for weakness, no room for mercy, no room for—

Pain! It was too much. This was more than he could stand. As the screams ripped out of his throat, damaging his vocal cords in ways that only the strongest potions could hope to repair, Voldemort realized that this was certainly not the Cruciatus Curse. No, this was infinitely worse.

Voldemort had felt pain when what remained of his soul had been torn from his body on Halloween night, 1981. He had felt pain as a parasite of Quirrel when Potter had touched them. And although he had never felt the Cruciatus, he had heard the screams of its victims. None of these came close to the agony that Voldemort now experienced. All conscious thought faded from his mind, and all he knew was pain. His vision faded with renewed tears. The burning in his throat from his prolonged screams was not noticed, buried as it was by this all-encompassing pain.

Voldemort was not aware of the potions that his more loyal servants poured into his mouth. Even if the pain relieving potions had entered his system—and his screaming made swallowing impossible—they would have made no impact on the pain. Voldemort had been certain that there could be nothing worse than death, but when this ordeal finally ended, he would change his mind. He would die a thousand deaths before living through a pain so intense that all thoughts shattered, all his will crumbled, and nothing remained but an eternity of suffering.

But of course, an eternity in one's mind is often a brief moment of reality. While Voldemort could not say how long he suffered, as endless as the pain felt, it eventually began to fade. Thoughts began to fit together again as Voldemort realized he had fallen to the floor and was still writhing, spasms causing his limbs to lash out violently against his will. He could taste the blood in his mouth where the screaming had torn something in his throat. He could feel his eyes burning with tears.

Perhaps what he was most aware of was the humiliation. His Death Eaters still surrounded him, unsure of what to do with themselves as their master lay broken on the floor, blood streaming from his mouth, tears from his eyes, snot from his nose. They were seeing him at his weakest, seeing him reduced to a state more pathetic than any of his own victims under the Cruciatus. And there was nothing he could do about it. He wanted to curse them, to make them feel pain. They should suffer for the way they were staring at him. He wanted to kill a few of them, to reassert himself.

But Voldemort could do nothing but lay on the floor, breathing deeply as the pain ebbed, and wait until he had control of his limbs again. Lay, breathe, wait… and pray that whatever had just happened was a fluke, a mistake, and that it would never happen again. Because if he had to endure that kind of pain ever again, Voldemort was certain that he would go mad, or more than likely, die from the agony.

And when the pain struck a second time, his eyes rolling back into his skull, the screams that tore from Voldemort's lips resounded only in his head. To the rest of his followers, there was only a soundless grimace, a mouth wide open, spraying blood and spittle.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, beyond conscious thought—for that was long gone—Voldemort begged for death.


Harry Potter intently studied Ginny Weasley's face. He was determined to memorize every freckle, every curve to her jaw, every long eyelash. Ginny stared back, her eyes glassy. She was halfway lying on top of Harry, their legs still tangled. They were both covered by a thin film of sweat. Harry was momentarily distracted by the way Ginny's bare chest heaved up and down as she drew deep breaths.

"Like what you see, Harry?" Ginny shifted, brushing herself against Harry, and his body reacted immediately. "Well, well, Potter, you are insatiable, aren't you?"

"Only for you, Ginny." Harry rolled over so that he was positioned above the woman he loved. "Only for you."

What followed was something so incredible, Harry could only describe it as the most intense, overwhelming pleasure his body had ever experienced. Except perhaps for what he felt five minutes ago. Or what he would likely feel again five minutes from now. As the pleasure began to override all conscious thought, Harry's mind formed one last coherent idea.

If this was the last thing Harry felt before he died, nothing could make him happier.

Author's Note:
When Voldemort is annoyed, Harry feels a twinge of pain in his scar. When Voldemort is furious, Harry's forehead feels like it is splitting open. This is my take on the greatest weapon Harry has against Voldemort. I hope you enjoyed it.