And it comes to a grinding halt… Not so much, more a refined finish :P Hope you like the chapter. And if you're bored, check out my new story The Fickle Hand of Fate.
Through the Looking Glass will be coming soon.
Warnings: Slash. LV/HP. HP/LV(TMR). AU. Violence. Language. Underage. Chan. Child Abuse. Rape/Implied Rape. Post DH, EWE? Child grooming.
The Abyss 4/4
August 6th 2008.
When Harry woke he knew the spell had worked. He was back in the future, back in Voldemort's bed, in Voldemort's mansion, with Voldemort's arms around his waist. Harry tensed, shifting a little to see if he could break the Dark Lord's hold and was very surprised to note that he didn't hurt.
Not at all.
His arse didn't burn or sting, and his back wasn't whipped or beaten, and his arm was only numb from sleeping on it all night. So either Voldemort didn't know that Harry had cast that spell, or he was saving Harry's punishment for a later date, or his plan had actually worked. Harry was tempted to lean over the sleeping Dark Lord and check his arse, to press a finger inside and see how lose it was, or not, but then if his plan hadn't worked and Voldemort woke up, Harry would be in for a world of pain. For fifteen years, Harry had escaped that world, and he knew he wasn't prepared to re-enter it. He couldn't face the pain again, especially not now, on his first day back. So he resisted the urge to examine his 'master', and he slipped out from between Voldemort's arms and the sheets and off of the bed.
Standing at the foot of the bed, Harry looked around for clothing. He was naked, as Voldemort always made him sleep, and again he was surprised to realize he had survived the night unmolested. He savoured the feelings, the lack of pain shooting up his spine, the fullness within him now compared to how empty he felt after Voldemort pulled out of him each time. He would prefer life to continue this way, he thought.
He grabbed a pair of trousers from the trunk at the bottom of the bed and pulled them on. Harry threw on a robe as well, one that was hanging on the back of the door. Barefoot, and half dressed, Harry left his and Voldemort's bedroom.
"Tempus," he cast, followed by a spell to check the date. It was very early, and it was only August 6th. It was the day after Harry had performed the spell. He had arrived the very next day, but he knew the spell had worked, because when he stopped to look in a mirror there were extra lines upon his face brought forth by the extra fifteen years he had lived out in the past. He could remember every noise Tom made beneath him, remember the shape of his face and the line of his neck as he followed them with kisses, how his voice sounded, how he smelled and screamed and writhed, and how Harry's stomach did flips whenever Tom said 'I love you'. It had all been real, it hadn't been a dream; but he was back so soon, so no wonder Voldemort hadn't punished him yet. Anthony Moore had presumably escaped the room and when he realized Harry had turned up not even a full day later he had probably, cleverly, kept his mouth shut.
Harry had been allowed free reign of the mansion once his first year as Voldemort's whore was over. For the remaining nine years Harry had unwillingly succumbed, allowed himself to fall into the trap of 'master' and 'slave' and allow everyone else to believe it to be true. When he finally stopped resisting, Voldemort had finally begun to care about him. He allowed him more privileges, more benefits, he was trusted to a greater extent, gifted more often and abused less, and in his own way Voldemort had loved him. Much like Tom had loved him, and he had loved Tom. Did he love Voldemort, Harry wondered? He had missed him, and craved his touch, and after ten years of conditioning that was to be expected. He had dreamt of Voldemort several times after Tom had started Hogwarts, but each time he had woken up sweaty and sticky, but afraid. You didn't fear someone you loved, did you? That wasn't how it had worked. Tom had never loved any of the people he had nightmares about, after all, and neither had Voldemort.
Perhaps Voldemort and Tom were more different than even Harry had considered, if he could love one and not the other after spending so much time alone together. Though, he reasoned, perhaps it was bottoming he hated, and not the man?
There was a Death Eater meeting that night.
Harry had been invited. He stood at the edge of the dais, covered with a long black robe with its hood drawn up over his lined face. He was twenty-eight years old, but he looked older and he felt much older than that. He was actually forty-three, if you counted the years he had spent in the past, though he didn't look that old! Harry chuckled lightly as he thought about it. Those extra years brought him closer to Voldemort's seventy-something, and further away from Tom's lack of age. Which was more preferable, he wondered as Death Eaters began to file into the room. To be closer to equal in age to Voldemort, or to forever be Tom's elder, his better?
Harry was distracted from his thoughts as Voldemort raised his wand and turned to his audience.
"Welcome, my friends," he hissed, sounding as terrible as Voldemort always sounded. But Harry shuddered, the memories of Voldemort hissing at him in bed, tongue flickering over Harry's flushed skin as he spoke and pleasured him, overwhelmed him, and he couldn't help the rush of desire that shot through him suddenly. He thought his legs might buckle, and he reached out to press his hand to the wall at his back to steady him.
"And are we not friends?" Voldemort continued, red eyes on Harry's face, and mouth curving up into a knowing smirk. He knew exactly how he was affecting his lover. "But, correct me if I'm wrong, friends do not attack their friends, do they? Friends do not betray or harm their friends, or go behind their backs and steal and lie to their friends, do they?"
There was a chorus of 'no, my Lord's' then, echoing from each mouth in the audience and around the room. Some Death Eaters shook their heads, some ducked their heads as if worried they might be the ones at fault. Harry caught one man swallowing heavily, hands shaking at his sides, and body trembling. When that man looked up, Harry couldn't hold back his gasp. It was Anthony Moore, and he was staring at the Dark Lord in horror. Regardless of whether he had told Voldemort about the spell or not, one of them was in trouble, Harry knew. And Moore knew it too: his terror was so apparent.
By Voldemort's feet, Nagini's tongue flicked out to taste the air, and she gave the snake equivalent of a chuckle before hissing, "He's very afraid, Master. How will we punish him?"
"However we see fit, my pet," Voldemort answered, and his eyes left Moore and locked onto Harry's own. Though his face was hidden by the shadow his hood created, his green eyes were bright enough to be seen, shining like beacons from his face and attracting Voldemort's gaze. His wand was pointed at Harry and a curse flew towards him, taking the boy – man, really, he hadn't been a boy for some time – by surprise and actually knocking him off his feet.
Harry screamed. He writhed upon the floor, overcome by the strength of the curse. He had forgotten how this felt, how terrible and strong and cruel Voldemort could be. He had been away too long, and apparently it had been all for nothing, Harry thought as Voldemort cursed him once more.
"We do not betray our friends, pet. I believe you owe our dear friend Anthony an apology." Voldemort lowered his wand. The fingers of his free hand tapped against his lip calmly, slowly, even as his wand hand shook. It almost looked as if he was afraid, but Harry knew he wasn't. The Voldemort of his time hadn't known fear, hadn't understood any emotion but anger and lust. And this was the Voldemort of his time, the Voldemort he had left behind, and failed to reform. Tom had apparently overcome Harry's training. All of his hopes for a better future, all of his dreams and desires for freedom were unravelling before his eyes, and Harry stared resolutely at the shaking wand in Voldemort's shaking hand and remembered all of the other times it had been used to hurt him. And all of the times it would be used to hurt him still.
"I am sorry," he whispered, sounding hollow and broken. He had sounded like that for the first few months after his first year as Voldemort's slave, before he had realized that fighting back won him resentment and pain, but giving in earned him trust and care and small measures of freedom. That was after he had screamed himself hoarse every night, fought and kicked and bitten, and was punished. But before he realized that Voldemort actually cared for him, in his own right, in some small way that could be manipulated by tears and soft, whispery, pleading. It was how he had sounded before he came up with his plan. But his plan was finished, useless, and he had nothing once again.
Voldemort's mouth turned down, a frown marring his attractive features. He watched Harry, concerned and confused, because he hadn't seen Harry act like this in a very long while. And surely it couldn't have been because he had been punished? Voldemort had punished Harry several times and the man had never reacted so hopelessly before. It was concerning.
"Leave." He hissed, bringing his wand up again to point at those too slow to follow his commands. The Death Eaters took the hint, filing from the throne room one after the other, until it was only Voldemort and Harry left within. The moment the door closed behind his followers, Voldemort cast a locking charm on it. Harry tensed at the sound, wondering what kind of punishment was coming now, trying not to imagine what could be so brutal and depraved that Voldemort wouldn't let his followers see.
"Harry, love, are you ok?" Voldemort asked. Surprised by the gentle tone of his voice, something Harry had only ever heard Tom speak with, breathy and needy and full of love, Harry looked up. Voldemort was kneeling in front of the throne that he had been sitting on during the meeting. "Did I hurt you? I've used stronger spells before and you've always glared and spat back at me. I appreciate you apologizing easily this once, for it helps save face with the Death Eaters: they don't really appreciate you back-chatting their Lord of course, but you know I'd never ask you to change or argue with you. But… today? Are you alright? You know I had to punish you for attacking Anthony right? I had to, or they'd talk and question me! What kind of spell were you attempting, love, did it hurt you? Is that why you're like this?"
Harry slowly pushed himself to his feet.
As Voldemort continued to speak, his voice grew softer and his face was kind and open with a concerned frown upon it, and Harry didn't know what kind of game this was and that scared him. Was this his punishment? To believe that Voldemort was Tom, that his plan had worked because Voldemort must have known what spell that was and what Harry had planned to do with it, and then kick him while he was already down? To give him hope and then rip it all away from him cruelly?
"Harry? Come on," Voldemort said, giving a small chuckle. "You know the rules." Harry went tense, his feet sliding apart and his hands balling at his sides as he prepared himself for whatever attack was coming. "I hurt you in front of my Death Eaters if you misbehave. Then you get to punish me, and I make it up to you in private. Don't you want the blowjob I offered you?"
"Offered?" Harry whispered. Voldemort stood, making his way to Harry before taking him by the hand and leading him back to the throne. He pushed Harry down into the seat and fell to his knees once more before him.
"Of course! Don't you remember our conversation the day I left for that mission? The next time I punished you, I offered to suck you off to make it up to you." Voldemort blushed and tilted his head to one side the way Tom had used to when they spoke about sex.
Had the spell truly worked? Harry wondered, his chest tight in anticipation and something like relief. Had his plan really worked?
"You wanted to tie me up and spank me," Voldemort said, turning his face away completely. "But we, uh, we agreed on throne room sex instead. You really don't remember? Harry, did Moore hurt you? Did you hit your head?" His hands came out and cupped Harry's cheeks, ignoring the way his lover flinched at his touch, and ran his thumbs lightly over Harry's flushed skin. "Are you angry with me?"
"No," Harry said truthfully. "I'm confused."
"About us? About this?" He turned his face away again, biting down on his bottom lip. "The spell would have taken you away from here. Were you trying to leave me? Do you not love me anymore?" Harry didn't say anything. "Please don't leave me. Never leave me. Whatever I've done, I won't do it again, I'll be better, I'll try harder. I love you, Harry, please don't leave me." He sounded like Tom, after Harry had abandoned him at the orphanage during the week-long air-raid. He sounded so scared and desperate and pathetic, and Harry narrowed his eyes searching Voldemort's face for the punchline.
Voldemort's hands were on Harry's trousers then, clenched beneath his robes and pulling at the zipper of his pants. His trousers were pushed down. His robe was tugged out of the way. And Lord Voldemort bent down over him, mouth open and willing, and he took Harry's cock into his mouth. Voldemort sucked and licked lightly until the organ grew hard, and then he hollowed his cheeks and bobbed his head faster, ignoring the hand Harry slipped into his hair and the small thrusts of Harry's hips that almost choked him.
Harry was moaning above him, and Voldemort chanced a glance up at the flushed, sweaty face and the wild mane of dark hair that was tangled around his head. Harry looked down on him, surprised and lustful, and Voldemort smiled around the cock in his mouth at the look that Harry sent him.
Harry wasn't going to leave him, he realized, sucking furiously. Harry wasn't going to stop loving him, Voldemort told himself as the man came within his mouth, fingers knotted into his dark hair, and a cry of 'Tom' on his lips.
"I love you, Tom." Harry whispered, slumping back into the throne.
Voldemort stood up. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, catching the few drops of come that had escaped, and reached down to unbutton his pants. "I love you too, my Harry."
"What are you doing?" The younger Wizard asked, about to tuck his cock back into his trousers, until Voldemort's hand grabbed his wrist and stopped him.
"I believe we agreed to have throne room sex, did we not? And we do not lie to our friends," Voldemort told him, voice pitch low and eye lashes fluttering. He pushed down his trousers and threw off his robe and stood before Harry Potter completely naked. "Or our lovers do we, my Harry?"
He made his way to the back of the throne, and leant over it. Harry glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed as he remembered the time Voldemort had fucked him over the back of a sofa in front of the Minister for Magic and several other prominent Ministry officials. Harry stood, pushing his trousers off completely and moving to stand behind Lord Voldemort. He was half tempted to call the Death Eaters back inside, to humiliate and expose the Dark Lord, but he didn't. He had never taken Tom in front of an audience before, and even now he didn't want to share this with anyone.
Voldemort was all his.
"You are mine," Harry hissed, fingers probing at the elder man's already prepared arse. Voldemort arched his back, pushing himself closer to Harry's fingers, and then his cock as Harry replaced one with the other.
"I'm yours," the Dark Lord agreed, "your Tom. Harry's Tom," he panted as Harry thrust into him, over him, back pressed to chest and two sets of hands clenching and squeezing the top of the throne, linking their fingers together.
They moved together, Harry remembering the last time he had taken Tom. The boy had been seventeen. He hadn't come home again after his eighteenth birthday, and when he had graduated Hogwarts Harry had already gone back to the future. Voldemort rocked beneath him, moaning and begging for more, so much like Tom that Harry imagined no time had passed between them at all. It was still 1944 and Tom was still moaning for him in his only bedroom at the little flat on Vauxhall Road.
Voldemort craved him, desired him; he always had and he always will. No amount of time passing would change that. But while Harry had been gone, he'd had his whores and his servants, but all of them submitted to him. Only Harry was allowed within him. He had been taught that from the very start and he had learnt his lesson well, but that didn't change the fact that Harry had been gone, and while he had been gone Tom had missed and hated him in equal parts. But his anger hadn't been enough, and when Harry Potter had first appeared at Hogwarts Voldemort hadn't quite known who he was. But once the boy turned eighteen it was perfectly obvious that this Harry and his Harry were one and the same. The final battle ended, and while the Dark Lord was victorious, that night ended with Voldemort on his hands and knees beneath the teenage saviour.
Because, no matter how much time passed, he would forever be Mr Harry's Tom. From the age of four until whenever he died, he would belong to Harry. And just like when he was eleven, Voldemort found that preferable than to be known as a 'Riddle'; anything was better than that. But being Harry's was even better.
Voldemort smiled as he came down from his orgasm, reaching behind him to twist his fingers into Harry's sweaty hair. Harry thrust twice more into him before coming with a groan, a garbled form of Tom's name.
They had missed this, they both realized. Whether it be days, or months, or years without the other, since touching the other, but they would always miss this thing between them. Harry had been trained by Voldemort to want this, to crave this and while that training had apparently never come to pass in this future Harry knew he that he would always belong to Lord Voldemort nonetheless. And Tom would forever be Harry's, taught and conditioned to want Harry and no one but Harry.
But that was the way Tom liked it.
Harry smirked into the back of Voldemort's neck, his cock soft and sated, pressing against Tom's pale arse. His plan had worked. He had carried out the perfect vengeance and had gained the perfect result. His victim still loved him, and so Harry still got to keep his Tom. Excitement bubbled within his stomach, and his cock began to swell again. Without warning, Harry pushed back into Voldemort's body, wringing a gasp of surprise from the elder Wizard. He thrust desperately, relishing the moans and groans of the Dark Lord, and he knew just as he now knew his plan had worked that he was finally home.
He was free.
Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed, and who will review this chapter. Some of you might not have liked the way it ended, but that was always how I had the chapter planned out, so I'm sorry, but… C'est la vie. Thanks again.