A/N: there's another brief discussion of past Drarry, and a mention of hypothetical Snarry. I'm not tagging for them, but in case you hate either ship consider yourself warned. Full disclosure, I ship both, but they aren't going to really be part of this fic except as a side note—they're literally just mentioned in conversation.

Also I've had a really rough time emotionally due to RL since the end of February. I was literally in the room while a close relative died over the span of 3 days from untreatable organ failure, and around the same time one of my older cats had to have emergency surgery and not long after that she developed diabetes, and I'm very lucky and grateful to still have my job and paycheck during this covid-19 pandemic but everything at work has been turned upside down too. So things have been hectic and awful and painful and stressful and I haven't been in the right headspace to write very much. But please know that I won't abandon any of my fics and I absolutely fucking cherish every comment and kudo that I get—they really brighten my day when things are otherwise shitty, and I love hearing your thoughts and feedback.

[insert obligatory covid-19 PSA to stay home unless it's an essential trip, wear a mask in public (no it's not complete protection but it's better than nothing and it also keeps YOUR germs in), sanitize/wash your hands often, don't touch your face, keep your distance from other people, don't go anywhere if you have a fever or feel sick, etc. Please use common sense and conscientiousness and good hygiene to keep yourself and others safe.]

Lastly, fair warning that this chapter is a bit NSFW ;) but don't get excited about the new tags—I just added Bottom!Harry and Top!Voldemort because EVENTUALLY they'll get there. Not in this chapter though. But still…

Enjoy!

Chapter 3

Harry Potter was not behaving as expected.

Back in that visiting room in Azakaban, Voldemort had been very careful to keep his reactions and his emotions concealed, but Harry had shocked him beyond measure when he had practically demanded that Voldemort make him a Horcrux again. It was not at all what he'd expected the boy to say. Voldemort had expected gloating, or recrimination, or angry words, or physical punishment—still immensely shaken from his encounter with that piece of filth guard Anderson the day before, Voldemort had jumped a bit too quickly to the conclusion that Harry was there to try the same thing, despite it going against everything he knew of the boy's character.

Once he'd recovered his wits and realized the opportunity in front of him, Voldemort had thought quickly and seized the only chance he had at getting out of Azkaban—Magical Conquest. The inherent proximity requirement would mean he would have to stay close to Harry—even if Harry ordered him elsewhere, such orders were necessarily temporary and the bond would demand that he generally stay near Harry or within the boundaries of his home. It would free him from Azkaban, despite the Minister's misunderstanding that Harry could order him to stay there permanently.

It wasn't ideal by any means—in truth, the thought of enslaving himself was abhorrent and terrifying, but the thought of remaining in Azkaban with his magic bound and destined to become a fuck-toy for the guards was far more hopeless and intolerable. He knew none of his surviving followers would be coming to rescue him—the most loyal and most powerful were all dead now, and he was alone. With Harry Potter as his master, even if the boy one day embraced his vengeful side, Voldemort would at least have a chance at a decent existence.

So he'd bargained, and he'd manipulated, and he'd secured Harry Potter as his master, and he'd made him into a Horcrux again, and against all odds Harry had been kind and respectful and he'd gotten him out of Azkaban. He'd allowed him to keep his magic with only a few restrictions. He'd turned the dreaded consummation—which Voldemort had been fully prepared to dissociate his way through, pretending it was a meaningless but necessary part of a ritual—into something mind-blowing and mutually pleasurable. He'd sucked Voldemort's cock voluntarily, for Salazar's sake. Then he'd gotten offended somehow and kicked Voldemort out of bed, but the next morning Harry had been back to his shockingly considerate and friendly behavior, and he'd assured Voldemort that he wouldn't be treating him like an actual slave or demanding any sexual favors from him. Voldemort had gotten somewhat of an explanation after eavesdropping on Harry's conversation with the Minister, but then Harry had gone and shocked him yet again by unloading his feelings about losing the Horcrux and about his apparent obsession with Voldemort.

'It's always been you and me…and now it always will be.'

That was…unnerving, to say the least, although Voldemort did his best to hide his unease. Harry had reminded him uncomfortably of both Bellatrix and Barty for a moment, and Voldemort was still trying to process the fact that Harry Potter had missed him—had missed their connection, had missed being his Horcrux. It seemed inconceivable, especially for it to have grown to the point of obsession so quickly. Voldemort had dealt with obsessed and even infatuated followers before—that was nothing new—but none of them had ever held complete and uncontestable power over him the way Harry now did. None of them had been his master. This situation was… especially dangerous.

Voldemort kept his expression carefully neutral after Harry's confession, wary of setting him off with anything even remotely resembling rejection, but equally wary of conveying anything that could be interpreted as encouragement.

After a moment of careful consideration, Voldemort gave Harry a slightly patronizing smile across the kitchen table and said neutrally, " 'Always' is a long time to be bound to someone immortal, Harry."

Harry blinked, and the half-manic look in his eyes quickly faded into concern. "Right," he said, glancing down at the tabletop before asking, "What happens to you when I die? Do you go free, or do I have to pick a new master in my will so you don't get stuck with some abusive arsehole, or do I order you ahead of time to go to someone specific—?"

Voldemort, thrown yet again by Harry's consideration towards him, interrupted, "If you die, I die." Ignoring Harry's shocked look, Voldemort elaborated, "I was only being facetious yesterday when I said it was my duty to protect you—the bond forces nothing of the sort. It's only common sense and self-preservation dictating that I protect you, since my life is tied to your own."

"What exactly does the bond force?" Harry asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Proximity. It also won't allow me to harm you, and it enforces your direct orders. Other than that, it has no influence on my thoughts or actions."

"Good," Harry said quietly, looking down at his lap again. "That's…good." He was quiet for a long moment before asking, "But how does the Horcurx factor into all of this? Isn't it sort of a safety net for us both? In…in the Forest that day, your Killing Curse destroyed the Horcrux, not me."

"True," Voldemort said, biting back a flare of anger. "But only because I was the one to cast it. If anyone else had hit you with the Killing Curse, it would've killed you instead. Afterwards, if the Horcrux were strong enough, it would've become conscious and then it would've revived your body and taken it over. Otherwise, your corpse would've remained a Horcrux and been immune to decay."

"That's…disturbing," Harry said.

"Yes," Voldemort agreed, "particularly since there's no one left to resurrect me. Your body being a Horcrux would tether me to this world but I would likely remain a formless spirit as before. It's better than dying, but it's not a pleasant existence."

"Right, well. I'll just make sure to never die, then," Harry said in a wry and half-sarcastic voice.

"Do try," Voldemort replied in the same tone.

The boy, after all, didn't need to know that death would sever the slave bond. This was ancient magic, in use before Horcruxes were ever invented, and Voldemort was confident that the spellcrafting and the logistics of the bond wouldn't account for the possibility of the slave coming back to life. Harry also didn't need to know that as a spirit, Voldemort could probably manage to possess and permanently take over Harry's corpse even without a resurrection ritual if it were still a Horcrux. He didn't need to know that Voldemort was, in fact, counting on this eventuality to one day regain his freedom.

For now, however, he would bide his time. Earn his master's trust. Become his confidant. Learn his personality and mannerisms forwards and backwards so as to convincingly pass as him in the future. Because of the bond and his orders, he couldn't orchestrate an accident or manipulate Harry into a lethal situation—but he could wait for the right opportunity to present itself and then simply…not intervene. And if all went well, Voldemort could someday put all of the power and influence that came with the name Harry Potter to good use. He would be unstoppable.

Voldemort gave the boy a hint of a smirk, and received a blinding smile in return. Voldemort's smirk faltered a bit at the boy's enthusiasm—he was going to have to be so very careful. It would be a complicated balancing act to earn Harry's trust and affection without giving the wrong kind of encouragement to the person who held complete control over him. Harry had promised that he wouldn't abuse him or demand sexual favors, and Voldemort could tell that he'd meant it…for now. Harry hadn't made any kind of magically binding vow, however, and Voldemort had never been one to simply trust people at their word.

The boy's obsession was beyond concerning, and Harry had obviously enjoyed himself during the consummation—if Voldemort wasn't careful, Harry's obsession could mutate into infatuation, and then Voldemort would be even more powerless than he'd been in Azkaban. In Azkaban, at least, he could fight back, he could (and had) hurt his attacker. With Harry, all he could do was say no and hope the boy would listen—the bond would prevent him from hurting Harry, even in self-defense, and if Harry gave him an order he would have no choice but to comply. The thought of being overpowered in such a way made him simultaneously want to stab someone and vomit.

Forcing his expression into something neutral, Voldemort stood from the dining table and said curtly, "I would like my wand back now." He couldn't use it against Harry, of course, and he didn't need it for a great many spells but he still felt rather incomplete without it, and having it back would likely ease some of his anxiety.

Harry blinked up at him and said, "Right, of course." Harry stood up as well, gave Voldemort a curious, concerned look, then said, "It's in my room, if you want to, er," he trailed off but gestured towards the doorway after pocketing his own wand almost absently.

Voldemort nodded. Harry gave him another puzzled look, then bit his lip before heading for the door and gesturing for Voldemort to follow.

Following Harry up the stairs and into the boy's bedroom inevitably brought back memories of the previous night when he'd marched up the stairs as if going to his doom, expecting pain and humiliation and powerlessness. Instead, he'd received consideration and comfort and affection and pleasure. He'd been treated like a lover instead of a slave, and by someone who had every right and reason to want to make him suffer. He was still trying to wrap his head around that. It felt rather unreal that just last night he'd had sex with the boy he'd tried for so many years to kill. He'd been kissed and touched and fucked and sucked off by Harry Potter, in that very bed.

Harry cleared his throat and Voldemort glanced over, realizing that he'd been staring at the bed. Harry had dug Voldemort's yew wand out of a dresser drawer, and was holding it out like a peace offering. Voldemort abruptly reached out and snatched it away in a momentary loss of composure.

With his familiar, perfect wand back in his hand Voldemort managed to calm himself after a moment, and he glanced back up at Harry. The boy was giving him that concerned look again—Harry looked over at the bed then back at Voldemort and awkwardly said, "Er, I'm sorry if I hurt you or anything, you know, last night. I—"

"You didn't hurt me," Voldemort interrupted. Confused the hell out of him for certain, but Harry hadn't hurt him.

"Good. Erm, I'm also sorry for throwing you out like I did."

Voldemort stared back at Harry for a moment, then replied in cutting and derisive tone, "Don't be. Did you actually think I would want to stay and cuddle?" Harry's eyes darted away towards the floor, looking guilty, and Voldemort added coldly, "Like I said, it was necessary for the bond—and like you said, it was technically rape," he cringed internally as he said it—he still refused to see it as such, but he knew saying it would unsettle Harry and make him drop the topic. "Let's neither of us dwell on it, and just move on as if it never happened. All right?"

Harry's eyes stayed on the ground and he crossed his arms, seeming to fold in on himself. "Yeah, all right. Whatever you want," he said quietly, guiltily.

Voldemort refrained from smiling as he pressed his advantage—surely it didn't count as manipulation if Harry handed him such an easy opening like that? "What I want," he said, "is some real clothing of my own choosing instead of these prison rags, a reasonable expectation of privacy whenever I'm in the bedroom I've chosen, and a stipend for owl-ordering books and the like."

Harry finally looked up at him, frowning, and after a moment his expression hardened a bit and he said, "You don't have to make me feel guilty and stomp all over my conscience to get things from me. I would've given you all that if you'd just asked."

"I didn't make you feel anything," Voldemort said in a bored, patronizing tone. "And I did ask, just now."

Harry gave him a tight, forced-looking smile, then said, "Fine. Consider it done."

Voldemort nodded towards him and said, "Consider me grateful."

Harry raised an eyebrow and said, "That's not actually a 'thank you,' you know."

"Yes, I know," Voldemort said. He'd been trying to reign in the anxiety that had been slowly creeping in ever since he found himself back in Harry's bedroom, but his control slipped and he snapped, "If you're wanting me to bow down and kiss your feet in gratitude, you'll have to order it, Master," he sneered the title at Harry, and almost immediately regretted issuing the challenge when he saw the way Harry's expression hardened.

"No thanks, that's your kink, not mine," Harry snapped back.

Voldemort scoffed and said, "It's not a kink, you imbecilic child." He stopped himself from explaining that it was a method of reinforcing dominance over his followers through public degradation—he didn't want to give the boy ideas, after all.

"I'm not a child," Harry argued. "And if I was a child, you're the one who had sex with me last night—what's that make you?"

Voldemort gave him a cold smile and said, "I'm fairly certain I'm still the slave who was forced to let his master fuck him."

Harry's temper exploded, along with the mirror above his dresser on the other side of the room, and he shouted, "You're the one who forced this on me! You made me agree to it without telling me what the hell Magical Conquest was—you're the one who knew we'd have to have sex!"

"I didn't make you agree to it," Voldemort said calmly, feeling a thrill of power—he was the one in control of himself, he was the one causing Harry to lose his composure. "I simply made it the price of becoming my Horcrux again. It was your choice to agree."

"Shut up!" Harry shouted, having finally had enough. The boy's face was flushed with anger, and he was breathing heavily. He'd drawn his wand but didn't seem to realize it. Voldemort clutched his own wand tighter as Harry's order forced him into silence. "You knew I needed it back—you knew I wouldn't refuse the bond and let you die—and now you're trying to use that against me? Calling me a rapist after I did everything I could to make it good for you? Go fuck yourself! Get out of my sight!" Harry waved his wand towards the door, which banged open against the wall.

Voldemort shot a betrayed and furious glare at him before the collar of runes around his neck tightened and burned and forced him to comply.

Harry watched Voldemort storm out of the room and slam the door behind him after throwing a murderous glare at Harry. What did the bastard expect—that Harry would just roll over and take his verbal abuse and misplaced blame? Harry had had enough of that from the Dursleys for a lifetime.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, wondering how things kept going so wrong. He was trying to make this situation as bearable as possible for both of them, but Voldemort had just kept pushing and needling him until Harry's temper broke loose. Harry sighed, staring at the floor and taking deep breaths to calm his temper.

This was not how he'd wanted things to go—once again, he'd let his temper sabotage the little bit of progress he thought he'd made with Voldemort. Harry sighed again and glanced over his shoulder at the mess of broken glass across the room, then pointed his wand at it and cast a Reparo. The glass shards swirled into the air and then reconfigured themselves into a mirror, and Harry smiled even through his frustration when his magic worked the way it was supposed to—not overpowered, not underpowered, not having a completely different effect than intended—all thanks to being Voldemort's Horcrux again. With the mirror repaired, Harry put his wand away and put his head back into his hands as his mind wandered back onto the topic of Voldemort.

He wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed, but it couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes after Voldemort had left when his door slammed open and the man stormed back in. Harry reflexively jumped to his feet in shock and opened his mouth to reprimand him, but Voldemort strode right up to him and flung his hand out, and a splash of something warm and wet hit Harry across the face and clung to his skin.

"Oi! What the—?" Harry reached up to wipe the substance off of his cheek, and his hand came away with something white and very familiar. He blinked. "Did you just throw come at me?" Harry asked in a shrill voice, thoroughly shocked.

Voldemort glared murderously at him but remained pointedly silent, and Harry recalled that he'd yelled at him to shut up at some point. Harry tersely said, "You can talk now—"

Harry had barely gotten the permission to speak out when Voldemort made an abrupt gesture and wandlessly cast a Silencio on Harry. Harry's eyes went wide for a second, before his brain caught up and helpfully reasoned out that silencing him wasn't technically harming him, and was evidently allowed by the slave bond.

"For the record," Voldemort said, his voice colder than Harry had ever heard it, and his eyes conversely blazing with fury, "the bond considers 'go fuck yourself' an order."

Harry blinked, then opened his mouth to offer a horrified apology, but he was still under the Silencio and nothing came out.

Voldemort took a few steps closer, slowly, threateningly. Then he said, "For all your protests and righteous indignation over being called a rapist, you certainly didn't hesitate to order me into a sexual act to humiliate me." He gave Harry a cold smile, then said, "Congratulations on lowering yourself to Anderson and the warden's level, Master." The title, as always, was sneered sarcastically.

Voldemort turned to leave. Harry took out his wand and nonverbally cast the countercharm to the silencing spell, then called after him, "Wait—I'm sorry! I didn't mean for that to happen—it wasn't an order, I was just angry."

"The bond thought otherwise," Voldemort hissed, turning to face him again.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, daring to meet Voldemort's eyes and hoping he would see the truthfulness in Harry's apology.

Voldemort held his gaze, then said, "I don't care. Stay away from me and don't speak to me again."

Voldemort turned to leave again, and Harry felt something inexplicably close to panic at the prospect. "Wait," he called out again. Voldemort turned and shot him an irritated glare—oh, right, 'wait' was an order. Damn it. "Er, I'm sorry," he repeated.

"We've established that," Voldemort said.

"Right. But, just—will you let me make it up to you?"

"How do you propose to do that?" Voldemort asked, sounding bored and disdainful.

Harry thought for a moment, then recklessly said, "You can order me to do something humiliating—anything—and I'll do it. Even if it's something sexual. Fair's fair." Harry swallowed and then nervously waited for Voldemort's response.

Voldemort stared at him with a deceptively blank expression for a long moment before finally ordering, "Lick my come off of your hand—all of it—slowly."

Harry blinked, then blushed, then slowly lifted his left hand—which was still smeared with some of the come he'd wiped from his face—up to his mouth. He held eye contact with Voldemort while he licked his hand clean of the bitter taste, slowly, laving his palm before sucking each finger into his mouth separately whether they had come on them or not and pulling off of each with an obscene pop. Harry swallowed nervously again, although his face was flushed from more than just embarrassment now—Merlin help him, but he didn't find this too terribly humiliating, and he was actually getting turned on by it. Instead of calling his promise fulfilled, Harry boldly asked, "What next?"

Voldemort blinked, seeming surprised for a moment before schooling his expression and saying, in a low but steady voice, "Now my hand." He held out his right hand, which looked slick and had small traces of come still clinging to his palm. Harry stepped closer, right up into Voldemort's space, and reached for his hand. "No," Voldemort said, a hint of a smirk on his lips, "kneel."

Harry bit back the sarcastic 'yes My Lord' he wanted to throw at him, and knelt. He reached for Voldemort's hand again, and then gave it the same treatment he'd given his own—perhaps with a bit more enthusiasm. A subtle glance up told Harry his efforts were appreciated—despite coming so recently, the subtle bulge in Voldemort's trousers showed that he was already starting to get hard again. Harry's own cock had gone from half-mast to rock hard in record time. Harry sucked the last of Voldemort's long elegant fingers clean, pulled off with another deliberate pop, then licked his lips and glanced up to meet Voldemort's eyes again. "What next?" Harry asked again in a breathy voice.

Voldemort seemed strangely conflicted and didn't respond right away. Harry thought it was fairly obvious what came next, and surprisingly he was more than willing to suck Voldemort's cock again under the circumstances—but the order needed to come from Voldemort, that was the whole point, so Harry patiently waited. Well, perhaps not so patiently—he licked his lips again, and leaned slightly closer to the bulge in Voldemort's trousers, and after a long enough silence had passed, Harry repeated, "What next?"

Voldemort blinked, then gave Harry a hint of a smirk and reached down to run one hand through Harry's already-messy hair. "Next," Voldemort said leadingly, and Harry was already leaning closer to that tantalizing bulge, reaching up for the trouser button and zip. But Voldemort took a step back and simultaneously tightened his grip on Harry's hair, pulling just enough to force him to look up without actually hurting him. Voldemort's expression was cold again, and he said, "Next, you will keep your mouth shut until you learn to think before you speak to me. And the next time you have a temper tantrum, you'll remove yourself from my presence to prevent any more unintentional orders. Understood?"

Harry blinked, a bit stunned by the abruptness of the change in mood, then he swallowed, nodded, and said, "Understood." Voldemort released his grip on Harry's hair and stepped away. Harry quickly called out, "I really am sorry." He wasn't quite brave enough to add that he'd still really like to make it up to him, in case it came across as an order or coercion or something equally unsavory.

Voldemort gave him an appraising look—and Harry knew he must look like a wanton mess, on his knees with his hair mussed and his cock tenting his trousers, practically offering himself up—then Voldemort said, "That really doesn't change a thing."

With that he walked out, leaving Harry alone with his guilt and arousal and the feeling that he still owed Voldemort some kind of recompense.

Voldemort made his way back to the room he'd claimed for himself, berating himself the entire way—he'd been incredibly tempted to 'order' Harry to suck his cock again. The boy was brilliant at it, and willing, and in need of something to keep his treacherous mouth occupied—but. But. Harry had obviously been aroused as well, and would surely expect Voldemort to do something about it. Harry could play pretend all he wanted and take 'orders' from Voldemort, but ultimately he was the master and could order Voldemort to finish anything sexual that was initiated—perhaps even accidentally. Better not to tempt fate—he'd taken it further than prudent already, by teasing the boy sexually after provoking his temper so blatantly. Gods, that had been stupid as well, but it had felt so damned good to be in control of the situation for a change, even if it had ended with an accidental order forcing him to toss himself off.

He sighed and sat down on his bed, ignoring his lingering arousal—he was only half-hard and it should go away on its own before long, especially since he'd already come once. The glimpse he'd gotten of Harry's tented trousers on the way out, however, told him that Harry wouldn't be able to ignore his own predicament—he would be forced to deal with it.

Walking away was equal parts revenge and a test to see whether or not Harry would keep his word when pressed. Voldemort pushed away a stab of irrational fear that Harry would come after him and demand to fuck him again—he felt moderately confident that he wouldn't, and he knew Harry wasn't actually anything like Anderson or the warden. But it was better to know for sure now whether his trust would be betrayed—better to get it over with rather than be lulled into complacency and then be surprised in the future.

He comforted himself with the thought that he'd left Harry fully hard and so worked up that he would have to address it. He chuckled, laid back on his bed to try to relax, and muttered, "Next, go fuck yourself, Harry."

Harry didn't even bother moving to the bed after Voldemort left—he absently waved his wand at the door to close it, then unceremoniously shoved his trousers down and took his cock in hand. He stroked it hard, using his precum to ease the slide, and he brought himself off almost embarrassingly fast, still kneeling on the floor.

"Fuck," he muttered afterwards, running his clean hand through his hair as he caught his breath. Before the afterglow of orgasm had a chance to wear off, he brought his other hand up to his mouth and once again licked it clean of come—he closed his eyes, remembering the sound of Voldemort's voice and the intensity in his eyes as he'd stared down at Harry, remembering the taste of his lips from last night and the indescribable rightness of being inside of him and the way both of their had nerves seemed to slowly light up and simmer in pleasure at the point of contact whenever they touched for very long.

"Stop it," he muttered to himself. He knew this was dangerous—he knew that he tended to get over-attached to people he slept with rather quickly. It had happened with Draco and then again with Ginny, the former breaking things off rather cruelly once he realized it because he'd never planned or expected any kind of future with Harry, and the latter growing alienated and more and more wary of the way Harry had been after the battle until their arguments had warranted her asking to 'take a break' which became growing apart while Harry secretly obsessed over getting the Horcrux back.

And now it was happening again with Voldemort—although, well, this wasn't even remotely the same thing, was it? Voldemort had made it clear from the start that it meant nothing to him, so much so that he'd called it 'an unfortunate part of a ritual' and he didn't even consider it to be sex. It had been painfully obvious that Voldemort hadn't wanted it—even though Harry had coaxed him into relaxing and participating, even though Harry had made sure Voldemort enjoyed it—he hadn't wanted it. Hadn't wanted Harry. "Stop it," he snapped at himself again, running an agitated hand through his hair. "It doesn't fucking matter."

Still on his knees, he awkwardly pulled his pants and trousers back on, forced himself to stand up, and then threw himself down on the bed in a bit of a strop. He turned onto his side and pulled the sheet over his head, not caring that he'd already eaten breakfast or that it was well past time to be up—his days of living how he was 'supposed to' and following arbitrary schedules were over, and if he wanted a post-wank post-emotionally-exhausting-interaction nap then he was damn well going to take one.

Harry woke again a few hours later, squinting against the bright midday sunlight glaring through the window. He reached for the sheet to pull it over his head again, and would've been happy to go back to sleep and forget the world for a while, but then he remembered that he wasn't alone. Voldemort was somewhere in the house, undoubtedly still cross with him about earlier. And Voldemort still needed real clothes, and—what else had he asked for? Books? Harry sighed and sat up, reaching for his wand and casting a quick Tempus—it was half past one in the afternoon. As he stood up and stretched he had the idle thought that Voldemort had become the reason he got out of bed in the morning, and to his half-asleep brain the observation seemed much more profound than it probably really was.

He stifled a yawn and stepped out into the hallway, glancing briefly toward the end of the hall that held Voldemort's chosen room. He decided right away not to knock on the door—Voldemort had asked for privacy, so Harry wouldn't bother him there unless it was something urgent. Instead, he headed downstairs and checked the kitchen (empty), the formal dining room (empty), the main sitting room (also empty), before finally finding Voldemort in the library poring over an array of books spread out on a table. Evidently he'd heard Harry's approach, because he glanced up and gave him a look that wasn't quite a glare, raising a questioning eyebrow and managing to look condescending and reproachful at the same time.

Harry swallowed, then decided to try to lighten the mood a bit by saying, "Erm, hello," deliberately reminiscent of their meeting back at Azkaban.

It didn't work—if anything, it had the opposite effect. Voldemort's expression shifted into outright disdain before he turned back to his books without a word.

Harry sighed and walked over to the table and sat down across from Voldemort, who tensed slightly but otherwise ignored Harry's presence. Harry gathered his courage, then said bluntly, "Right, so—how do we make sure that never ever happens again, with the, er, accidental orders?"

Voldemort finally looked up and snapped, "I already told you—simply think before you speak. It's not difficult…for most people."

Harry ignored the insult and asked, "What if I told you to only obey orders that specifically start with the words 'I order you'?"

Voldemort gave him a flat look and said, "Clearly you never took Ancient Runes class, because the answer to that is right in front of your face."

Harry glanced down at the inky collar of runes around Voldemort's neck and shrugged, conceding defeat. "Can you explain it to me, then?"

Voldemort sighed and gave him an irritated look, then conjured a mirror and held it up to his neck before pointing to a specific series of five interlocked runes on his skin and explaining hastily, "These bind my will to yours," he moved his finger down the tattooed collar of symbols to a different set of three runes, "and these are what make the interpretation so mindlessly literal. It won't recognize the nuance of your suggested solution—the imperatives to obey you and not harm you are woven into the bond itself and take precedence over all other orders. Therefore I can't obey orders that conflict with those two directives, and I can't disobey something that the bond considers an order."

"So I can't just order you to not follow certain orders?" Harry summarized, thinking he understood but wanting to be sure.

"No."

"Well that's stupid," Harry said, which earned him a tiny huff of amusement from Voldemort.

"Indeed," Voldemort said, vanishing the hand mirror.

Harry blurted out as it occurred to him, "You were reading those backwards in the mirror."

"Yes, and?"

"Well, just, maybe you read them wrong?"

"I did not." Voldemort glared briefly at the suggestion before raising his wand and writing—on the air and in flames, as his diary self had—a perfect replica of the line of runes that adorned the front of his neck. And he'd written them backwards, so that facing Harry they read the right way.

"All right," Harry said, rubbing the back of his neck, "point made, you're brilliant and can read and write backwards." Voldemort blinked, and Harry continued, "Your diary self did that trick too, you know."

"Did he?"

"Mmhm. Wrote out your full name in flames in the air, then rearranged the letters to spell 'I am Lord Voldemort'."

Voldemort's lips twitched in the tiniest hint of a smile. "And were you suitably impressed by it then?"

"Oh yeah," Harry said, before letting out a nervous laugh and adding, "Actually, I was pretty impressed in general. Honestly had a bit of a crush on Tom Riddle before I knew he was you—my first real crush, actually... I've, er, never told anyone that."

Voldemort blinked again and his expression went unreadable and he didn't say anything.

"Great," Harry muttered, looking away as his stomach sank, "now I've made it weird again… I'm sorry," he added in a louder voice as he stood to leave.

He made it halfway to the door when Voldemort called after him, "My first crush was Abraxas Malfoy."

Harry stopped and turned back around to face him, both confused and a bit hopeful that he hadn't put Voldemort off too horribly—he was making a point of continuing the conversation, and Harry figured that had to be a good thing. "What?" Harry asked.

Voldemort looked only mildly uncomfortable. He lifted his hand to casually study his fingernails as he added, "He was a third year when I started Hogwarts. Didn't give me the time of day, naturally, since I was poor and an orphan and presumed to be a Mud—Muggleborn, at first." Voldemort said, briefly flicking his eyes up towards Harry as he corrected himself. He continued, "When I merely attempted to introduce myself, he insulted my parentage and walked away. He changed his tune eventually, of course, after I'd made a name for myself and after he'd joined my ranks." Voldemort chuckled and said, "Evidently he'd noticed my schoolboy crush—he had the gall to tease me about it after a meeting one night and then he propositioned me… I turned him down and Crucio'd him until he pissed himself."

Harry snorted out a surprised laugh, then covered his mouth with his hand. "Oh my god, that's horrible," he said, then he laughed again despite feeling guilty about it. Still fighting a smile, he glanced at Voldemort and said, "It must run in the family then—Malfoys being gits to blokes and then propositioning them."

At that, Voldemort glanced up and met Harry's eyes, quirking a curious eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Harry's smile faltered a bit, because his feelings were still a bit of a mess about it. "Well. Draco, you know—he was a twat to me for years, but sixth year he was sneaking around all the time, and I knew he was up to something so I might've stalked him a little bit and one day he caught me at it, and—things happened," he finished vaguely, blushing. 'Things' being a passionate and clandestine relationship that Harry, despite all logic, had actually wanted to work. It was still a sore spot and he wished now that he hadn't even brought it up—but, like the Gryffindor he was, he'd seen an opportunity to bond over similar experiences and he'd pounced on it without thinking it through.

Voldemort's eyebrow went higher as he repeated, "Things…happened?" in a slow sardonic tone that reminded Harry painfully of Snape. Harry blinked as he realized that he had the perfect thing to derail the conversation to somewhere slightly less painful.

"Yeah, 'things' as in a secret fling that crashed and burned," he said quickly. "You know, you sounded like Snape just then," Harry continued, trying to keep his tone casual as he redirected. He paused deliberately before adding, "I had a bit of a crush on the Half-Blood Prince too—I had one of Snape's old potions textbooks but at the time I didn't know it was his—I sort of fancied that I got to know the Prince through the spells he invented and all of the little brilliant, sarcastic comments he wrote in the margins. Guess I have a problem with catching feelings through books." He forced a self-depreciating smile and dared to meet Voldemort's eyes again.

Voldemort was giving him a slightly dubious yet curious look. After a moment he asked in a tone that was almost teasing, "Did you have a secret relationship with Severus as well?"

Harry made a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh and said, "No… I don't think anything would've ever happened there. He hated my guts—or, well, maybe he just pretended to, I'm not sure now. And he was in love with my mum, apparently." Harry thought of the Pensieve memories he'd been given, and the memory-tears running down Snape's face as he died while looking into Harry's eyes. He swallowed and wondered why he'd thought talking about Snape would be less painful. "Maybe—maybe if he'd lived we could've at least been friends, or," he cut himself off, not quite willing to voice his wish that Snape might've become something like a father figure to him, might have eventually grown to see Harry instead of James when he looked at him. "Anyway," he said, very aware that Voldemort was still studying him, probably reading all of his conflicted emotions off of his face, "doesn't much matter now, does it?"

Voldemort seemed to hesitate for a moment, then carefully said, "It's pointless to torture yourself with what-if's. Evidently none of us truly knew Severus behind the masks he wore—"

"And I'll never get the chance to, thanks to you," Harry snapped.

Voldemort blinked and went silent, watching Harry with suddenly tense shoulders and a hint of wariness in his eyes.

Harry immediately regretted his outburst. He sighed and rubbed one hand over his face and up through his messy hair. "Sorry. I'm not—" he sighed again, then bluntly said, "I hate it when you do that—I'm not going to hit you or curse you or whatever if I lose my temper. I'm not like that."

Voldemort flicked a cautious glance from Harry's face to his empty wand hand and back again, before saying, "The bond gives you my obedience, not my trust."

Harry forced a smile, then said, "Guess I'll just have to earn it, then."

Voldemort blinked, seeming both surprised and suspicious, but he remained silent.

Harry cleared his throat, then decided a drastic change of both subject and location was in order. "You, er, mentioned wanting clothes?"

Voldemort was clothes-shopping with Harry Potter—it was so absurd that Voldemort would've laughed if he hadn't been so thrilled and slightly overwhelmed by being out in public and moving around somewhat freely for the first time in ages. Both of them were wearing glamours, of course, and Voldemort had borrowed and resized a shirt, trousers, and robes that belonged to Harry to wear out. Harry's glamours turned his hair red, his eyes blue, hid his scar, and made his skin tone paler. He'd also used a temporary vision charm to replace his rather recognizable glasses. Voldemort's glamours covered up the runes on his neck most importantly, and also made his hair a dark blonde, his skin a golden tan, and his eyes an identical green to Harry's true eye color.

They'd gone to Madam Malkin's, and Voldemort had held in a sneer as they'd walked in—he'd been accustomed to rather higher standards, but it would've been pressing his luck to comment. He didn't want to risk annoying Harry into saying 'forget it' and taking him home without anything. So there he was, standing still and resisting the urge to swat away the floating enchanted measuring-tape when it got a little too enthusiastic about taking his inseam.

After the ordeal of the measurements was over, the seamstress brought out a catalogue and a few finished samples of robes, trousers, dress shirts, and underthings for him to choose from. He selected a reasonable amount of each for a new wardrobe, ordering three of each item off the rack to be resized, and ordering the rest of them bespoke to be owled to him when everything was finished.

Then he decided to test Harry by continuing to add things to the order that he didn't necessarily need—the highest quality socks in the store, for example, along with twenty additional pairs of underpants in varying colors, styles, and materials (Harry had blushed but said nothing), a silk dressing gown that he would probably never use, four pairs of shoes, nine more dress shirts, and five pairs of dress robes. The dress robes were what gave up the game—particularly since one of them was a sample the seamstress had brought out in a garish shade of violet that only Dumbledore would've dared to wear in public.

"Okay, seriously?" Harry had piped up as Voldemort added that robe to the pile.

"What?" he asked, projecting innocence.

"Are you ever actually going to wear that," Harry asked, nodding towards the violet monstrosity, "or are you just wasting my money for a lark?"

The seamstress was looking back and forth between them with curiosity tinged with suspicion.

"Of course not," Voldemort said, before adding in a teasing tone, "That one's for you—the violet will really bring out your eyes."

Harry snorted a laugh, then said, "I'll pass. Put it back."

Damn it. Voldemort immediately picked the robe back up and thrust it into the seamstress' hands a bit too abruptly to seem natural, and the woman was now giving him a concerned look. Voldemort tightened his lips and shot a subtle glare at Harry before turning on the charm and telling the seamstress in an apologetic, conspiratorial tone, "Sorry, I'm just so eager to get home and model all of this for him—you know how it is," he said, pitching his voice deliberately into camp territory and giving her a wink. "Just ring the rest of this up for us, and we'll be on our way."

"Oh, right," she said, blushing slightly. "Of course." She turned and busied herself with totaling and bagging the clothing, and Voldemort took the opportunity to glare openly at a blushing Harry while she wasn't looking their way.

Harry grimaced and then silently mouthed 'Sorry' at him.

Voldemort rolled his eyes and turned back to the seamstress as she started talking.

"Now, once all of the bespoke items are finished, they'll be owled to the address you provided. Here," she said, handing Voldemort a shrunken package, "are all of your ready-made purchases. The total comes to 97 Galleons and 4 Sickles."

Harry's eyebrows went up, perhaps because that worked out to around 500 pounds, but he pulled a money pouch out of his pocket and started counting out Galleons. About halfway through, the seamstress suggested, "We can fill out a Gringotts withdrawal slip for the rest, if it would be more convenient."

"No, no," Harry said, looking slightly embarrassed, "I prefer to use coins." His name, of course, would be required for the Gringotts withdrawal along with a drop of blood, and that would defeat the purpose of going out in glamours.

The seamstress smiled tightly, and eyed each of them a bit more suspiciously, impatiently waiting while Harry kept silently counting out Galleons.

Voldemort sighed and asked, "What number are you on?"

"Erm, 56. Why?"

Voldemort drew his wand, aimed it into the money bag, and said pointedly, "Accio 41 Galleons." The Galleons zoomed out of the bag into the air, and Voldemort directed them onto the desk in neat stacks of tens next to the Sickles and messy piles of Galleons that Harry had already counted.

The seamstress beamed at him, handed him a receipt, and said, "Thank you both so much, have a great day," in a tone that managed to be cheery and dismissive at the same time.

Voldemort put his hand on Harry's upper back and steered him towards the door, more eager than he would ever admit to get back outside in the fresh air, even if it meant navigating through the bustling crowds on the street.

Harry immediately said, "I'm sorry about that—"

"Do shut up," Voldemort interrupted, but without any real malice. "This is hardly the time or place to discuss it." He forced a smile and then took off towards the bookstore, smoothly weaving through the flow of pedestrians and crossing the street without waiting for Harry

"Vol—shit, Tom!" Harry called after him, jogging to catch up to him and wearing a half-panicked expression as he fumbled his way through the crowd, muttering apologies as he knocked into multiple people.

When Harry finally caught up, Voldemort gave him an unrestrained grin and asked, "Did you seriously almost shout my name in a crowd?" He tsked in mock disappointment and playfully scolded, "For shame, that's like yelling 'fire' in the movie theater."

Harry rolled his eyes and said, "Oh shut—" he froze, stopping himself from completing what would've been an order, then he stammered, "I mean, erm."

Voldemort raised both eyebrows and said, only half-sarcastically, "Nice catch. You're learning. Ten points to Gryffindor."

Harry glared at him and Voldemort just chuckled and looked away—he was in too good of a mood at the moment to throw a strop over the near miss or the harmless accidental order back in the shop. He felt Harry staring at him though, so he glanced back over to find the boy studying his expression.

After a moment, Harry dared to ask, "You're—you're really enjoying this, aren't you?"

Voldemort schooled his expression into something casually impassive and said in a disinterested tone, "I wouldn't say that. These errands are tedious, but the change of scenery somewhat makes up for it." One of the very first life-lessons he'd learned as a child back at Wool's Orphanage was to never let on that he genuinely liked something—if he did then the other children would ruin it out of cruelty and spite, or the matron would know to take it away as punishment when he displeased her. The same lesson had served him well at Hogwarts too, in those early years before he'd taken control of Slytherin House. It only made sense to use the same strategy with his new master.

"Huh," Harry said pensively as the two of them continued down the pavement towards the bookstore. "You're a really good liar—like, scary good."

Voldemort glanced over at Harry and raised an eyebrow, admitting nothing. "What makes you think I'm lying?"

Harry chuckled, tapped his scar and said, "Did you forget that I get flashes of your strong emotions sometimes?"

Voldemort blinked and felt a bolt of alarm and fury at the reminder that even his bloody emotions weren't private—Harry Potter was once again in his head as well as fucking owning him, and the brat was probably seconds away from ordering him to never lie again. His mood darkened like a thunderstorm, and Harry's expression changed in tandem into one of concern and surprise.

"Whoa," Harry said, cautiously as if trying to convince a wild animal not to eat him, "what happened? What did I say?"

Voldemort took a deep breath to calm himself, then pulled up an Occlumency shield to block their connection and said tersely, "I asked for reasonable privacy. It should go without saying that that includes staying out of my head."

Harry blinked, then said, "I didn't do it on purpose—stuff just leaks through. You can just block me out if it bothers you."

"I know I can, I just did," Voldemort snapped. Then he took a subtle, deep breath and rearranged his expression into something neutral as the two of them arrived at the bookstore. Harry went silent but snuck a few brief, cautious glances at him. Voldemort let himself relax about the potential for an order to not lie—it seemed the moment had passed.

Harry arrived at the door first and held it open for Voldemort to enter first; the gesture rankled at him for some reason, but he still nodded politely at the boy as he passed. Although, he thought distractedly as he slipped away from Harry's side and headed for the Ancient Rituals section, 'boy' was hardly an accurate descriptor of Harry Potter anymore, Voldemort simply used it out of habit. Harry was an adult in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds now, and there were no remaining traces of childlike naiveté or innocence left in his eyes—or his body, for that matter. As he idly gazed at the spines of the books, Voldemort thought back to the previous night—to Harry's thin but toned body and the way it had fit so well against his own, to the odd feeling of completeness he'd felt with their bodies joined, and to the strangely fulfilling and unexpectedly hot sensation of Harry coming inside of him.

The sound of someone clearing their throat next to him made Voldemort flinch slightly, and he immediately glared their way only to be faced with the very source of his distracting thoughts, who had caught up with him while he'd been staring blankly at the shelves. Voldemort immediately looked away again and hoped that he wasn't doing anything as plebian as blushing.

"Where'd you go just now?" Harry asked, sounding amused but also slightly concerned as he studied Voldemort's expression.

Voldemort resisted the urge to roll his eyes, then pointedly looked at the sign above the aisle and said sardonically, "It appears to be the Ancient Rituals section."

Harry's lips twitched into an amused smile, then he shrugged and asked, "Do you want company, or do you want me to piss off and leave you to it?"

"The latter," Voldemort said.

"All right," Harry said quietly, though he looked slightly disappointed.

Voldemort glanced side to side to ensure they were still alone in the aisle, then he drew his wand and cast a harmless proximity alarm on Harry as the b—the young man turned to walk away.

Harry froze, then demanded, "What was that?"

"Keep your voice down," Voldemort said before answering, "it's just something to let you know if you start to wander too far away from me. I'd rather not be strangled because you underestimate how far fifty yards is."

"Oh, all right then," Harry said, the tension leaving his frame. "Good idea."

"I'm full of them," Voldemort deadpanned.

Harry gave him a forced-looking smile, then turned and walked away with both hands stuffed in his pockets.

Harry didn't wander far—he walked two aisles over to the left and found himself in a section devoted to books on magical home repair and improvement. Idly, he picked a random book off the shelf and skimmed through it, wondering if anything here would be useful for fixing up Grimmauld Place a bit more.

After a few moments he felt a bit of a tug through the proximity spell Voldemort had cast on him, and he absently took a few steps forward to follow its pull. It was as if something was pinging just at the edge of his awareness, so that he automatically adjusted to stay well within range. The home improvement book was interesting, but when it started describing the processes behind the spells, it got a little too complicated and technical for him to follow. He supposed he could ask Voldemort to explain it, but that might set off another row if Voldemort assumed Harry was going to put him to work fixing up the house. Probably best not to bother with it—the house wasn't in that bad of a state, really, since the Order had cleaned it out and purged it of curses back in fifth year.

After fifteen or twenty more minutes of flipping through random books to stave off boredom, Harry felt the ping of the proximity spell moving towards him for a change, and he glanced up just as Voldemort came into view at the end of the aisle with a stack of books in his arms. Harry blinked, and Voldemort gave him a mildly impatient look and silently jerked his head towards the check-out counter before striding towards it and clearly expecting Harry to follow. Bloody Dark Lords, Harry thought, half-annoyed and half-amused.

His smile slipped off his face when he arrived at the counter just in time to see the shopkeeper replenish the shelf of sold-out Daily Prophets with a fresh stack. Harry's stomach sank at the headline—HARRY POTTER OUSTS CORRUPT AZKABAN WARDEN, REVEALS HORRIFIC ABUSE OF PRISONERS. Voldemort glanced at him, caught his expression, and followed his gaze to the stack of newspapers that featured a rare post-war picture of Harry next to a picture of the forbidding silhouette of Azkaban backlit by lightning during a thunderstorm. Voldemort's expression smoothed into a mask of cool indifference, and he reached for one of the papers, placing it atop his stack of books on the check-out counter.

Harry blinked in disbelief and reached for the paper to put it back—he certainly hadn't given any interviews about this, and he had no desire to read whatever made-up tripe or hearsay they'd published without his permission—but Voldemort firmly put his hand down on top of the paper, giving Harry a stern look. Harry sighed and let go of it, dropping his gaze and hoping for the sake of everything that the article didn't mention Voldemort's abuse in particular.

"Will this be all, gentlemen?" the shopkeeper asked after tallying up the cost of the books and newspaper.

Harry nodded, and Accio'd the money from his bag instead of counting out the individual coins like he'd done at Madam Malkin's.

"He can be taught," Voldemort said under his breath in mock-amazement, quietly enough that only Harry heard.

Harry side-eyed him and debated playfully elbowing him in the ribs before deciding that it probably wouldn't go over too well. Instead he very maturely stuck out his tongue while the shopkeeper was bagging their purchases. The look on Voldemort's face—caught somewhere between incredulity and affront—was entirely worth it. Harry held in a giggle and tried to keep a straight face as he took the bag of books from the shopkeeper, who was now giving him a slightly suspicious look. He took off for the door, with a slightly bemused Voldemort trailing behind him.

Once safely outside of the bookstore, Harry let out a laugh and spun around to grin at Voldemort. "Where to now?" he asked, as they started leisurely walking down the pavement.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow (and damn did he look weird as a blond) then said, "I rather think we should go home and find out what the papers are saying about us."

Harry felt a twinge of something warm at hearing Voldemort call it 'home' and he simply shrugged and said, "Judging from past experience, it'll be a tiny grain of truth surrounded by a bunch of speculation and rumors about me that they know will sell papers."

Voldemort hummed in agreement. "The state of Wizarding journalism has fallen further and further into tabloid territory over recent years."

"Do you think if I bought the Prophet I could make them shut up about me and do actual legitimate reporting?" Harry asked, only halfway kidding.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow but seemed to vaguely approve of the idea. "Only if you purchase it through a shell company or two—you'll have to mask your involvement or it'll look like you're buying them to make them only print what you want them to. It still wouldn't seem credible."

"What if 'Thomas Smith' bought it?"

Voldemort blinked, then said in an odd, careful sort of tone, "That's…a possibility, I suppose."

Harry frowned. "But?"

"But, eventually it'll be common knowledge that 'Thomas Smith' is closely connected to you, and it'll still look like you're trying to control the media through your associates."

Harry sighed as if put-out, then said, "Fine, if you don't want me to buy you a news company, I won't buy you a news company."

Voldemort rolled his eyes, then said curtly, "I have absolutely no desire to run a newspaper—I would just end up delegating it to someone else. But if you're so set on the idea, buy Lovegood's paper instead. It's already been affiliated with you in the past—let the Prophet keep digging its own grave and set your paper up as an alternative."

Harry looked curiously at him as they arrived at the Apparation point, then he said, "I don't think I want to run a newspaper either."

Voldemort caught his eye and asked again, "What do you want?"

Harry looked away and shrugged, and snapped, "I don't know, all right? Is it not okay to just not know right now? I know you were already taking over the world or whatever at my age, but my whole bloody life has been about what other people wanted from me—so pardon me for not instantly having all the answers! Fuck," he scoffed, running an agitated hand through his hair.

A hand closed around Harry's upper arm, tugging him forward. He tensed as he realized Voldemort was pulling him in for a hug, right in the middle of Diagon Alley. Voldemort pulled Harry against his chest, one hand in his hair guiding Harry's head to rest in the crook of Voldemort's neck and shoulder. All of the fight went out of Harry, and he asked, half-mortified and half-eager, "What are you doing?"

"You were making a scene. People are staring," Voldemort hissed in his ear. "I'm comforting you," he said, his derisive tone making it clear he was irritated about the show he was having to put on. "Take us home for Merlin's sake."

"Right, yeah," Harry said, his chest feeling tight but also a bit warm because Voldemort had called it 'home' again. He hesitated for as long as he thought he could get away with, enjoying the embrace and the press of Voldemort's body against his own, and the comfort of the arms around him regardless of their sincerity. "Sorry. Home it is."

Harry put his own arms around Voldemort, gathered his concentration and his magic, and Apparated the two of them back into the sitting room at Grimmauld Place—

—where Hermione was perched on the sofa waiting for him with a copy of the Daily Prophet, a roll of parchment, and a determined look on her face that never bode well for Harry's secrets.

A/N: somewhat-evil cliffy, I know. But if I didn't end it here, this chapter would probably be another month or so, so…

Comments give me life! I love hearing what you like, what you want to see, or even what isn't particularly working for you. Con crit is always welcome. Suggestions too, although I make no promises to use every one—but if a request works with my vision, I'll see what I can do ;)