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The week dragged on like a slow poison. Voldemort sat in his private quarters, the fire casting long shadows across the walls, and every hour that passed only sharpened the edge of his hunger. He told himself it was strategy. Control. But the truth sat, Harry Potter had kissed him in front of an entire room of witnesses, and now the Dark Lord could not stop replaying the press of those lips, the heat of that body, the casual promise of three more rewards. He had not slept properly in days.
When the knock finally came, he did not rise. The wards parted on their own, recognizing the one person allowed through them. Harry Potter stepped inside wearing Muggle jeans and a dark jumper, his hair wild, his eyes bright , which made Voldemort’s fingers tighten on the armrest.
“You’re early,” Voldemort said.
Harry closed the door. “Figured you’d been counting the minutes.”
Voldemort’s jaw flexed, but he did not deny it. Harry crossed the room with that same easy stride and stopped directly in front of him. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Harry leaned down and kissed him, the first of the three promised rewards. His mouth moved with unhurried confidence, tongue sliding against Voldemort’s until the older wizard’s hands rose of their own accord to grip Harry’s waist.
When Harry pulled back, his lips were wet. “One.”
The second kiss came harder. Harry dropped to his knees between Voldemort’s spread thighs, hands sliding up the dark robes, and took his mouth again with open hunger. Voldemort felt the heat of it travel straight down his spine. Harry’s palm pressed against the hard line of his cock through the fabric and rubbed once, slow, before retreating.
“Two,” Harry whispered against his mouth.
The third kiss was softer, almost teasing. Harry’s fingers traced the line of Voldemort’s throat, then lower, until they brushed over the straining length again. Voldemort’s breath caught. When Harry finally drew back, his eyes were dark.
“Three,” he said.
Lord Voldemort did not ask permission, he never had, and never will.
And so, he stood, catching Harry by the hips, and walked him backward until the younger man’s shoulders met the nearest wall. With a subtle flick of his wrist their clothes vanished, leaving Harry bare and already half-hard,vulnerable. Voldemort’s gaze traveled over him, the beautifully tanned golden skin, the faint scars, the flush rising on his chest… and something dark and possessive uncoiled in his chest.
He, to his own surprise, sank to one knee, hands parting Harry’s thighs, as he pressed his mouth to the inside of one, teeth scraping just enough to make Harry’s breath hitch. He worked his way higher, tongue tracing the crease where thigh met groin, then lower still. When his mouth found Harry’s entrance, he licked once, then again, pressing the flat of his tongue against the tight ring until Harry’s knees shook.
“T-Tom – ohhh!”
Voldemort did not stop. He worked Harry open with his tongue and two slick fingers, stretching him carefully, thoroughly, until Harry was rocking back against his hand with small, desperate sounds. Only when he was certain Harry could take him did Voldemort rise again. He slicked his own cock with a murmured spell and lined himself up, the head pressing against Harry’s prepared entrance.
He pushed in slowly, watching Harry’s face as his body yielded. The fit was tight and hot, absolutely perfect. When, finally, he was fully seated, Voldemort stayed still, one hand braced against the wall beside Harry’s head, the other gripping his hip.
“Has anyone else ever touched you like this?” he asked, voice quiet but still edged with danger.
Harry’s eyes were glassy. He knew he should not answer, knew the truth would only feed the monster in front of him, but the stretch of Voldemort’s cock inside him made thinking difficult. “No,” he whispered. “No o-ne.”
Voldemort’s fingers tightened in his hair, tilting Harry’s head back. “Good. Because if anyone had… if anyone else had put their hands on you, their mouth on you, their cock inside you… they would die screaming. Slowly. I would make certain of it.”
He began to move then, deep and unhurried thrusts that dragged over that sensitive place inside Harry with every stroke. Harry’s head fell back against the wall, a broken sound escaping him. Voldemort watched every reaction, cataloguing each gasp, each tremor, each time Harry’s cock twitched untouched between them.
“You are mine,” Voldemort said against Harry’s ear, the words low and filthy. “Every inch of you. Your mouth, your cock, your tight little hole. Mine. No one else will ever have you. No one else will ever see you like this, spread open and shaking for me.”
Harry whimpered, but Voldemort’s thrusts stayed slow, relentless, each one pushing deeper than the last. Pleasure built in steady waves, too much and not enough at once. Harry’s hands clutched at Voldemort’s shoulders, nails digging in.
“Tom, ahhhh! Pl-please --”
“Say it,” Voldemort ordered, voice still calm, still controlled. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” Harry gasped. “Only you. Pleasepleaseplease, I need --”
Voldemort’s hand slid between them and wrapped around Harry’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. “You will never let anyone else touch you. You will never even think of it. Because you are mine, Harry Potter. Mine to fuck. Mine to mark. Mine to keep.”
The words sent a fresh jolt through Harry. The connection between them, whatever strange, ancient thread had always existed, flared hotter. It felt as though Harry’s very soul was singing, vibrating with each thrust, amplifying every sensation until Harry could barely breathe. He sobbed, overwhelmed, hips jerking between Voldemort’s hand and his cock.
“Harder,” he begged, voice cracking. “Tom, f-faster, I need more! Fuuuuck!”
Voldemort’s pace never faltered, still deep and measured, but the angle shifted just enough to strike that spot inside Harry with brutal precision on every stroke. Harry’s legs shook. Tears slipped down his cheeks as the pleasure crested higher and higher, too intense, too perfect, too much of everything all at once.
“Mine,” Voldemort repeated, lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear. “No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever hear you beg. If they tried, I would end them. Painfully. Completely. You belong to me. Only me.”
Harry could only nod, babbling broken affirmations as his orgasm crashed over him. His cock pulsed in Voldemort’s fist, cum spilling between them in hot pulses. His inner walls clenched tight around Voldemort’s length, and with a low groan, the Dark Lord followed, burying himself to the hilt and filling Harry with his release.
They stayed locked together, breathing hard. Voldemort did not pull out immediately. He pressed his forehead to Harry’s, one hand still cupping the back of his neck.
“Never let anyone touch you,” he said again, quieter now, dare Harry say… tender? “Only I am allowed. Only I will ever be inside you like this.”
Harry, still trembling, still lost in the aftershocks and the strange singing warmth that lingered between them, could only whisper, “Yes.”
Voldemort carried him to the bed without asking. He laid Harry down on the dark silk and followed him down, already half-hard again. His mouth found Harry’s throat, then lower, teeth scraping over a nipple before soothing it with his tongue. Harry arched, oversensitive and aching, but Voldemort gave him no mercy and no choice.
He took what he wanted.
All night.
By morning Harry’s thighs were marked with fingerprints and faint bites. His voice was hoarse from begging. Voldemort watched him dress with dark, satisfied eyes, already planning the next time he would claim what was his.
Voldemort remained in the dim chamber long after Harry had gone. The fire had burned low, leaving only a dull red glow that painted the stone walls in blood-coloured light. He sat motionless in the high-backed chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes fixed on nothing. The taste of the boy still lingered on his tongue, and every time he shifted he felt the ghost of that tight heat around his cock.
He had not expected the encounter to linger in his mind. Pleasure was a tool, a momentary indulgence, nothing more. Yet the memory refused to fade. Each thrust returned to him with perfect clarity -- the slow drag of his length inside that pliant body, the way Harry’s walls had clenched and fluttered around him, the slick slide of preparation he had performed with his own fingers and tongue. He had taken his time. He had made certain the boy could accept him without pain. That alone should have been beneath him.
Why had he bothered?
Voldemort’s mouth tightened. He was the Dark Lord. He took, he did not prepare, he did not ease. He did not care whether the body beneath him trembled from pleasure or from fear. Yet he had done all of those things. He had opened Harry with deliberate care, had moved inside him with measured depth rather than brutal force, had stroked the boy’s cock until release spilled between them. The sensations had been exquisite, but the gentleness had been… unnecessary. Uncharacteristic.
He rose and paced the length of the room, bare feet silent on the cold stone. His mind turned the question over and over, examining it from every angle as a jeweller might study a flawed gem. The physical pleasure had been intense, yes, but it was the other sensation that disturbed him more. With every deep thrust it had felt as though something inside him was resonating. Not merely responding to friction or heat, but singing. The word felt ridiculous, yet it was the only one that fit. Each time he buried himself fully in the boy’s body, that strange harmony had swelled, warm and golden, threading through his veins until even his breath had come easier.
It had made him gentle. It had made him linger. It had made him want to hear every broken sound the boy produced.
He stopped before the tall window and stared out at the dark grounds. Moonlight silvered the distant trees. He pressed one pale hand to the glass.
Why had he not simply used the boy? He could have bent Harry over the nearest surface and taken his pleasure without preamble, without care, without that slow, deliberate rhythm that had allowed the sensations to build so gradually. Instead he had prepared. He had watched Harry’s face as he worked him open. He had listened to every gasp and whimper as though they mattered. The memory of those sounds now circled in his mind like vultures, refusing to leave.
He was not a lover; he had never been a lover. Attachment was weakness; tenderness was a lie told by fools who could not face the truth of power. Yet the evidence of his own actions lay before him. He had been gentle, he had been attentive. He had made certain Harry felt only pleasure, not pain. The realization sat in his chest like a stone.
His thoughts drifted further back, to the ritual he had performed weeks earlier, the one that had restored the fragment of soul once housed in the destroyed diary, but not before torturing Lucius to near insanity. Since that night his memories had grown sharper, his thoughts clearer, the constant low thrum of instability quieted. He had felt… whole in a way he had not experienced in decades. With that clarity had come a shift in priorities.
Conquest remained the goal, but the methods had begun to feel crude. Politics offered cleaner paths. Influence and subversion. The slow erosion of resistance rather than its violent destruction. He had told himself it was strategy, nothing more. Now he wondered if the change ran deeper.
He turned from the window and resumed pacing. The silk robe whispered against his legs. Every step carried the phantom memory of Harry’s thighs around his hips, the tight clutch of that body accepting him inch by inch. The singing sensation returned in memory, stronger than before. It had not been mere lust. It had been something else… that resonated between them like two halves of a single whole.
Voldemort’s steps slowed.
Two halves.
He stopped in the center of the room. His breath caught… the pieces aligned with terrible precision. His horcruxes. And the one he had never consciously created, the one that had attached itself without his knowledge or consent, the one he was trying to find for almost a year.
Harry Potter.
The boy carried a piece of his soul.
Voldemort’s hand rose to his chest, fingers splaying over the place where his heart beat beneath pale skin. The connection explained everything: the resonance during sex, the involuntary gentleness, the way his body had refused to simply use and discard. The fragment within Harry had recognized its origin. It had sung to him, pulling at the larger whole, demanding unity rather than domination. That was why he had prepared the boy. That was why he had moved slowly, why he had stroked Harry to completion first, why he had felt that strange, unwelcome tenderness.
He was, obviously, not in love. The very idea was laughable. But the fragment of his own soul inside the boy had influenced him, had softened edges he had believed long since honed to lethal sharpness. The thought should have enraged him, instead it brought a cold, clinical satisfaction. Knowledge was power. Now that he understood the source of the anomaly, he could decide how to use it.
His mouth curved in a thin, satisfied smile. Harry Potter was his in more ways than one. The boy belonged to him by blood, by prophecy, and now by the very essence of his soul. No one else would ever touch what was his. And if anyone ever tried, their deaths would be slow and inventive because Voldemort had no intention of sharing even a fragment of what he now knew was his own.
He returned to the chair and sat once more, fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. The fire had nearly died. Outside, dawn was approaching. He would need to maintain the appearance of distance in public, but in private the boy would come to him again, and again. He would make sure of it.
Each time the fragment would sing, and each time Voldemort would take what belonged to him.
He closed his eyes and let the memory wash through him once more: the tight heat, the trembling thighs, the broken pleas, the way Harry had babbled yes even when he should have stayed silent. The Dark Lord’s smile deepened. Harry Potter was his horcrux, his secret, his possession. And no one, not even the boy himself, would ever take that away.