This is in response to a Bottom!LV request I received on Live Journal from Evildime (the person responsible for me writing "Indelible"), and while I was meant to do this half a year ago, I've been putting it off and off because I'm a little afraid of how badly it might have turned out. Hopefully, you'll all like it anyway!

Though bare in mind: flames will be ignored, or used to warm my toes and to cook the bodies in my basement; some of the 'conditioning' stuff is just plain made up, I really didn't want to search on Google for that kind of thing, and the majority is from Wikipedia; and, seriously, read the warnings!

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"The Abyss"

Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. I make no money from this story, so please don't sue me. Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros, etc.

Summary: [HP/LV] Nietzsche was right! When fighting monsters, Harry should have been more careful not to become one himself. That didn't matter anymore. It was too late to save himself, yet he could still save the world from Voldemort. But who would save Voldemort from him?

Warnings: Slash. LV/HP. HP/LV(TMR). AU. Violence. Language. Underage. Chan. Child Abuse. Rape/Implied Rape. Post DH, EWE? Child grooming.

Rating: R/NC-17 SLASH!!

A/N: Once again, we have LJ user EVILDIME to thank for this wonderfully depraved story. Thank you for requesting it!

XXX

"When you stare long enough into the abyss, the abyss stares back into you." – Nietzsche.

Words: 3,798

Chapter 1

The Abyss 1/?

July 31st 2008.

There's something to be said about trying to cure the world.

Wasn't it Nietzsche who once claimed that the cure could sometimes be worse than the disease? That had been what his essay on the abyss had been about, after all. When fighting monsters, Nietzsche advises one to be careful not to create monsters, but Harry supposed it was a little late for that.

He had been fighting Voldemort since before he was born, if you wanted to get literal about it. Though for the past ten years, he hadn't actually been fighting. Well, it was less than ten years really. At first Harry had screamed and cried and struggled, determined to fight back and to not let Voldemort win, but it had been no use in the long run. Harry still belonged to the Dark Lord, and there had been no changing that in this timeline. But time was relative. Harry had learnt that in his third year at Hogwarts. It would be a simple enough matter to change the way time had run its course, to save himself and the world, and to defeat Voldemort once and for all.

The Battle for Hogwarts hadn't quite gone the way Harry had planned it to. He had intended to die, and then for Neville to kill Nagini and for someone to finish off Voldemort. He had expected Voldemort to just kill him, maybe torture him a little first, but instead the man had captured him, gathered Nagini, and left his Death Eaters alone to amuse themselves with the students. It had been horrible at first, being starved and beaten and raped, and through it all Harry had struggled and bitten and kicked, but he had never begged. Not at first.

Harry supposed that it was when the begging began that he realized there was truly nothing left of himself to try and save. For he hadn't been begging for it to end. Instead, he had pleaded with the Dark Lord for more, and harder and faster and deeper. The remembrance of each word struck something within him, and he cringed just thinking about it. He had succumbed, just like Voldemort had promised he would. Broken beneath the touch of Voldemort's talented fingers and tongue, and at the receiving end of Voldemort's imaginative punishments.

Harry smirked to himself. He hadn't ever been as broken as Voldemort believed him to be. He had grown up with the Dursleys, after all, and had learnt early in life how to please and pretend and submit himself. He could pretend for as long as necessary, spreading his legs and pretending to want it, even as he knew deep down he liked it, while knowing he shouldn't pretend he didn't. Crawling at Voldemort's feet, no matter his age, no matter how long he had been doing it, remained a humiliating experience, but Harry could act like he was unconcerned by it. He could blush prettily, smile shyly up at his Master through his fringe and nibble on his bottom lip as he crawled close enough to take his Master's cock into his mouth. Years of practise had perfected his art of lying, and he was a master of it now. It was one more skill in his repertoire that he would eventually use to extract his revenge.

It was probably about five years after the fall of the Ministry that Harry realised he would need more than just a simple Time Turner to successfully carry out his plan of defeating Voldemort. There was so much information he needed, knowledge being power and all that, proper spells that could manipulate the fabric of time, a wand! But at least he had Voldemort's trust by that point.

Harry would never have guessed that Voldemort could ever be so dependant on one person. Harry was hardly let out of his sight. They shared the same bed, even when Voldemort wasn't trying to force intercourse on the younger Wizard, and the Dark Lord actually snuggled in his sleep.

It had been hard to pretend to be afraid of Voldemort again, especially knowing that Voldemort knew had never really been afraid to begin with, but Harry had pulled it off to the correct degree. It had just been enough to fool Voldemort: him finding Harry reading through the Dark Lord's private library, Harry prostrating himself, crocodile tears streaming down his cheeks as he whimpered and stammered apologizes, all the while staring rebelliously away from Voldemort and at the books instead.

Voldemort usually favoured punishments over positive reinforcement. Both different sides to the same coin admittedly, but they had different consequences and caused different reactions. Voldemort had tried burning Harry's hands once, near the start of their 'relationship', trying to encourage Harry not to educate himself, but it hadn't worked then and it wouldn't have worked this time either. Instead, the second time Voldemort found Harry stealing books from his library, he had allowed Harry to attend any University course of his choice, as long as he learnt from within the safety of Malfoy Manor, and only if Harry stopped crying when Voldemort took him to bed.

The tears had been easy to fake. What had been hard was stopping the self-satisfied smirk from crossing his face when Voldemort finally caved in. The guilt trap, as he later learnt it was called, usually went a long way in helping Harry get what he wanted, especially if refusal resulted in Voldemort losing something he wanted.

The University hadn't mattered, any of them would do fine. But Harry had picked Psychology as his Degree. It had taken him four years to do the course part time, but he had graduated with honours, specialising in behavioural modification. The past year since then had been spent perfecting every tiny detail of his plan, categorizing the flaws and vulnerabilities he knew Voldemort possessed and figuring out how to use them to his advantage now that he knew how.

The spell had been the only thing he was missing. But now Harry had found it. It was directly in the middle of the newest book Voldemort had added to his library. Harry had watched the man flick through its pages, his green eyes avid and hungry as he listened to each mumbled word that left the Dark Lord's mouth. He had to have a look at that book! Especially once he heard the word "Vorago" mentioned. It had been mentioned in another of Voldemort's books, fleetingly, tantalisingly, but Harry knew that it was the spell he needed. There would be no other spell that could possibly achieve the same results as the Vorago could.

He was so close.

It wouldn't be hard to obtain a wand. Voldemort even let Harry use his while they were alone together, and when the Dark Lord left he generally left Harry in the care of his stupider Death Eaters (possibly fearing that his more dangerous ones were perhaps too dangerous to leave with his defenceless pet). It wouldn't be hard to steal a wand off of one of those imbecilic minions.

He just needed to know how to perform that spell.

And there it was, right in front of him. Voldemort was handing him the book. Harry reached out hesitantly, keeping up his act and he licked his lips with anticipation. The spell was in these pages. Once he was allowed to read the book for the first time, he was given unspoken permission to view the same book whenever he wanted. He'd have all the time he needed to learn the spell, just as soon as the book was in his hands.

Voldemort stopped, pulling the book out of reach, and Harry actually groaned in disappointment. "Now, pet," he chastised lightly, "Patience is a virtue. I've seen how you've been eyeing this text. Since it is your birthday today, and because I have to go away for a few days on business, I'm giving you an extra special treat."

There it was again. The book. Just an inch away from his fingers, and Harry reached up after a nod from the Dark Lord and plucked the book gently from pale, spidery fingers.

"Enjoy it, pet."

"I will, Master." Harry breathed, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Thank you," he added softly.

Voldemort continued to stare down at him, smirking at the form of the man on his knees before him, and Harry realized what he was waiting for. He put the book down beside him, tracing the cover lovingly with the fingers of one hand, while the other hand reached up to undo Voldemort's trousers.

"Thank you, Master," he said again, his face pressed to Voldemort's crotch and his breath ghosting lightly against the elder man's erection. "Thank you," he mumbled as he took the tip of Voldemort's length into his mouth, his tongue laving the head and tasting the pre-come that gathered at the slit. 'Thank you, Master' his actions spoke for him as Harry bobbed his head in time with Voldemort's thrusts, trying to ignore the hand that had tangled in his hair and was forcing his face closer to the Dark Lord's groin, holding him in place as the thrusting sped up, and then Voldemort was coming, and Harry swallowed as he had been trained to do and he continued to lick and suck lightly until Voldemort's grip on his hair became to painful to ignore and he pulled back. He panted lightly, his own cock straining within his trousers and the taste of Voldemort on his tongue.

"Thank you," he added softly once more, before reaching up to redress his Master. He sat back on his knees, the bulge in his pants obvious to anyone looking, and Voldemort looked down on it with pleased red eyes.

"Do not touch yourself. If you are good, I shall attend to you when I return."

Voldemort might not come back for weeks at a time, but Harry knew better than to pleasure himself while any of Voldemort's servants were in the room (as there would be if Voldemort was away). To many of the Death Eaters, being Voldemort's 'personal' whore was just a title. You were still a whore, and regardless of the fact that they were punished terribly, there was always at least one who would try and fuck Harry anyway.

Harry lowered his eyes meekly, the blush on his cheeks fading slightly as his erection had already begun to ebb.

"Yes, Master," he whispered. And to show he was serious, he reached out for the book and began to read. Voldemort watched him silently for a moment before nodding his head. He turned on his heel and glided towards the door of the Master Suit. Harry watched him, his eyes bright and his mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile, as his fingers splayed over the open page of the book, the words of the Vorago spell spread out across the parchment.

A Death Eater entered the room as Voldemort left, and Harry glanced up briefly to check who it was. Harry knew him. Anthony Moore. The man was a few years younger than Harry, much less clever and a little slow on his feet. If Harry could learn the spell before Voldemort came back, Anthony was the best person to have in the room while he performed it.

This was it.

It was too late to save him. He couldn't be saved, not now, not anymore. And this world had already gone to Hell, so there was nothing left to do for it either. But there were other worlds out there, other possible timelines where Harry hadn't lost the Battle for Hogwarts, and maybe where Voldemort had never existed? Harry hoped to prove his theory right. If he went back far enough he could change the world, he could cure it. Despite Nietzsche's cautions there couldn't possibly be a cure worse than the disease that was Voldemort.

Harry just had to get Tom Riddle while he was young. Then he'd save the world.

XXX

August 5th 2008.

It had been almost a week since Voldemort had left him alone with Anthony. The Death Eater had pretty much let Harry read his book in peace; only interrupting him when the house elf arrived with food or when he thought Harry should sleep so as to keep up his strength with which to please Voldemort. Harry had rolled his eyes, but had listened to what he was told. He was supposed to be the perfect submissive pet, and he could pretend for a day or two longer. It was almost time. He had been so close to being ready.

He had been reading those two pages of the book non-stop since Voldemort's departure, memorizing the incantation and muttering it out loud under his breath. He had used his toothbrush as a replacement for his wand, waving it about in the bathroom out of Anthony's sight as he tried to pin down the correct wand movement. The moment he had a wand he had to do the spell straight away. There would be no time for practising later and he wouldn't risk forgetting any of the words.

Voldemort couldn't be gone much longer, Harry knew. The Dark Lord never left for more than a week without at least stopping by for a few hours and a handful of hurried shags before he left again.

Now. He had to do it now.

Anthony Moore entered the bedroom, a frown on his face. By this time Harry was usually dressed and kneeling by the Dark Lord's desk. But Anthony hadn't seen him in the study, or the en suit bathroom, and the man certainly wouldn't have left the Dark Lord's private suit of rooms. The bedroom was the only room left unchecked.

When Anthony peeked inside, it appeared empty. But it couldn't be, Harry had to be in there somewhere. The sudden overwhelming terror he felt at the thought that he might have lost Harry, the Dark Lord's favoured pet, or allowed him to be kidnapped or, Merlin forbid, to escape overrode his healthy desire to keep out of his Lord's most private room.

He entered slowly, his wand raised, and he didn't notice Harry slipping out from behind the narrow space between the wardrobe and the wall. When Anthony was in the room, Harry slammed the door shut and locked it, throwing himself forward a second later to rugby tackle the Death Eater to the floor. As a child Harry had been very malnourished, and his first few years with Voldemort hadn't exactly ensured that he ate well, so while he was older than Anthony, he was a lot slimmer and shorter.

It was easy for Moore to flip Harry off of him, knocking the man across the room and away. But by then, Harry had already gripped onto Anthony's wand, ripping it from the man's hand, and when he stood he pointed the thin stick of wood at the Death Eater's heart.

"Move, and I'll kill you." He promised softly. He didn't have much cause to speak to anyone, but when he did talk it was softly or quietly or submissively, unless he was shouting beneath Voldemort, loud and excited and screaming, just as he knew Voldemort liked him to be. There was a raspy quality to his voice, probably left over from some unhealed damage Harry had done to his throat during the first few torture sessions Voldemort had put him through, before he had learnt that he got more of a reaction out of the Dark Lord by being quite than he did by screaming.

When Anthony was bound and gagged, Harry left the bedroom. He used the other man's wand to unlock Voldemort's desk, easily unweaving the wards that he had watched Voldemort erect and dispel time and time again. Only someone with a Dark Mark could alter the wards though, but using the wand belonging to a Death Eater worked just as well.

He emptied the draws onto the floor, digging through their contents until he found what he wanted. He picked up his own wand; caressing the rough tip and the smooth handle reverently, basking in the feeling of warmth filling his very being as his fingers closed around the wood. It had been sometime since Voldemort allowed him to practise magic. They only ever did it when Harry was showing signs of wandless, uncontrollable, bursts of magic. A Healer had informed Voldemort that it was Harry's body's way of making sure that his magic didn't build up enough to hurt him physically while making sure that Harry also didn't lose his magic from lack of use.

He turned to face the open door of the bedroom, and met Anthony's terrified eyes with his own calmer ones. "I am sorry that you'll be punished, and probably killed. But if it makes you feel better, where I'm going, I'll make it so that this never happened." There was a small backpack shoved underneath the chair at the desk, and Harry grabbed hold of it tightly in his free hand. The textbook he had found the Vorago spell in was packed inside, along with a few changes of clothing and what little gold he had found lying around or had saved up from that month seven years ago when Voldemort felt the need to 'tip him' for his services.

"Transporto mihi in Vorago, in inritus, ut vicis pro vices venit in existence. Transporto mihi ut annus 1930." He chanted the words with his eyes closed, one hand on his bag and the other clenched around his wand.

Anthony was shouting in the background, his words muffled by the sock Harry had shoved in his mouth, but he was probably trying to beg for mercy or dissuade Harry from his current course of action, or something equally as tedious. Harry ignored him, and repeated once more as the book had told him to, the words, "Transporto mihi in Vorago, in inritus, ut vicis pro vices venit in existence. Transporto mihi ut annus 1930."

There was a noise, uncomfortably loud, like the tide crashing against the shore and it seemed to fill up the entire room. Harry knew he was hearing the blood rushing through his ears, and not the actual ocean, and he raised his hands to press over his ears, his possessions still clutched tightly in both fists. His eyes were squeezed closed, protecting himself from the brilliance of the light that had suddenly flooded the room.

He was on his knees, he realized, but he didn't remember falling onto them. Perhaps Voldemort had forced him down, the way he used to have to? Harry opened his mouth: it was almost instinctual. He had grown used to his knees meeting the floor just before Voldemort's cock was at his lips, down his throat, and he was choking and sucking and swallowing against his will. But there was nothing. No hands on the back of his head, and nothing against his mouth. He even flicked his tongue out quickly, but there was nothing there, not even the brush of robes that had yet to be unfastened.

He had closed his eyes for a reason, but he couldn't seem to make his brain remember why. There had been light… had Voldemort cursed him again?

His eyes opened slowly, squinting at first before widening as he realized that he was no longer inside Malfoy Manor. Harry hadn't left that place in nine years, not since Voldemort had dragged him to the Ministry to show off his new prize, half naked and collared like an animal, dragged along by the Dark Lord on a lead, and Harry had tried to escape. He had killed the new Minister for Magic first though. Harry hadn't liked Pius Thicknesse, and killing the man had almost made Harry feel comforted, as if that death washed away all of the humiliation and pain and Iterror/I Harry had suffered in that past year. Voldemort had punished him terribly once they were back within the Manor, and no matter whom Harry had managed to kill that day, it wasn't worth what Voldemort put him through. But Harry never regretted trying to escape. Instead, he had learnt to pretend to be broken, to weaken Voldemort's guard, and plan his real escape.

And here it was. Every breath he took for the last decade had been all for this moment.

Harry looked around in awe. Wide green eyes took in his surroundings with glee and slight wariness. He was in the middle of nowhere, it seemed. On all sides, tall trees stood and swamped the bushes and hedges that grew at their bases; flowers swayed lightly in the breeze and they smelt wonderful. Harry took in a deep breath, and held it, savouring the smells that were unique to the outdoors. No freshening charm Voldemort had ever cast could compare to the real deal. Fake windows and magical views paled in light of this view! It was everywhere: beauty, and air, and life, and freedom.

Harry was free.

That thought scared him slightly. He was excited by his freedom, and pleased that his plan had worked out so far, after all this was what he had wanted for years. It felt like his whole life had been spent as Voldemort's prisoner, and now he was free to make his own way, to live his own life. But how? He had no experience living for himself, and he could barely remember what it was like to fend for himself, to find food and spend money and wear clothes that he picked out. Simple things like setting his own bedtime and sleeping alone at night made him wonder how well his plan could really turn out.

But he wouldn't change his mind. He had thought long and hard about this, planned everything minutely, questioned himself time and again, and he was certain. There were things he had to do before he could start the plan, like find Tom, find somewhere to live, find a job even! But he would do those things because he needed to. He might not be qualified, but he could pretend to be. He knew spells that hadn't even been invented yet, and he could work as a Muggle psychologist when the right persuasive techniques were applied if he wanted to, both of those would have to count for something.

He would do this.

Whatever fear he felt, the doubts he had, they were inconsequential. All that mattered was this. He had to do this. It was what he was born to do, what he had been preparing himself to do.

He was going to defeat Voldemort. Once and for all.

XXX

1 – Verago translates loosely to "The Abyss". "Send me into the Abyss, into the void, in the time before time came into existence. Send me to the year 1930." Both were taken from an online Translator, so it's probably conjugated incorrectly.

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Thank you to everyone who read, and who WILL review! :P

While this was fun to write, I must admit that even I am deeply disturbed. If anyone has been affected by the contents of this story, Psychologist!Harry is available 9-5 Monday to Thursdays for counselling sessions. He charges 1 review for women and men, and sex from anyone who looks like Voldemort!