Title: The Reaping

Author: Anne Phoenix

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Harry/Voldemort,

Summary:  In an act of desperate self-sacrifice, Harry decides that he may be able to turn Voldemort’s eye from his hatred of Muggles by giving him another source to vent his hatred on – a personal source. 
 
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

***

The Reaping


The boy twisted and turned, hands clenched into tight fists, and legs entangled within the sweat-drenched sheets. His face, matted by moist dark hair, was contorted into a grimace of pain as his eyes flitted fitfully behind his sealed lids.

The boy’s body was suffering – of that there was no doubt. However the boy was not within his corporal shell at that moment: he was far away in a distant village… He was a ghostly presence forced to watch as shadowy figures swooped over the cowering Muggle girl. Her hands were held protectively in front of her face and her mouth was wide open in an perpetual scream as the wands swished and flicked through the air to deliver colourful curses full of suffering.

The boy could feel his tears mirroring those of the helpless victim, unending torrents of salty drops running over his cheeks… blurring his vision with agony.

To end her torture, the boy would have let every single one of those curses slam into him instead, but of course that was impossible: he was condemned to be an inert and powerless spectator.

At long last, the girl’s cries faded away into a tortured death, and the boy found himself safely encased within his physical being once more. He felt as though he was pinned to the bed by the force of his heart, thumping erratically away in his chest. It was dark – midnight, maybe – and he could only barely make out the folds of the curtains around his bed.

Sleep would be impossible, now.

Harry drew a deep ragged breath. These nightmares would end up killing him. He knew it. He couldn't cope, anymore.

He lay, jittery and alert until the rays of dawn broke the blackness of the dormitory.


~~~


Breakfast had about as must taste as old cardboard and, like a robot, Harry listlessly shovelled the food into his mouth.

Bite. Chew. Swallow…

He sighed deeply, rubbing his tired eyes as they nearly fell shut there and then. His mind was sluggishly trying to focus on something he had noticed during his nightmare vision that night; something that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, yet… he knew that it was there and that it was important. Faint snatches of overheard conversation drifted through his mind, and along with the words came an almost overwhelming sensation of apathy.

He allowed his mind’s eye to return to the scene of the crime… cringed as the girl screamed… stepped back as Voldemort’s fiery red eyes turned unseeingly his way, as though sensing the spiritual intrusion.

Although Harry could not hear the words passing the thin lips of that cruel mouth, he suddenly realised what had been bothering him – what was so important. A distinct feeling of boredom was emanating from the monster who had just orchestrated yet another murder. It was as though these tortures no longer amused the Dark Lord. Perhaps they were too easy; too common. But… What could that mean?

Harry pressed the pads of his fingers over his eyes, feeling the exhaustion creep treacherously through his bones; but he refused to give up this train of thought! Surely if Voldemort was no longer actively enjoying his little nocturnal purges, then he might be open to negotiation about discontinuing them? Here was an opportunity for Harry to finally do something to distract The Dark Lord's attention away from innocent Muggles!

The opening of the doors to the Great Hall interrupted the germination of Harry’s idea. Students of all houses flooded into the room and threw themselves onto their breakfast like hungry wolves. Soon, Harry was surrounded by his fellow Gryffindors, so he filed his musings away for a more appropriate time and did his best to smile at his friends as they unsuspectingly chattered the meal away.

The day passed all too slowly; Harry was relieved when he was finally able to slink away from the common room and collapse into his bed. Of course Harry had no intention of sleeping, after all, he had just spent a whole day making the most decision of his life.

Shooting a furtive glance left and right, just to confirm he was alone, he drew out quill and parchment and started writing his fateful letter…

Hedwig hooted in surprise when Harry told her the destination of the delivery. He stroked her kindly and wished, not for the first time, that Hedwig could talk, for she was sure to have many interesting things to say to him. As it was, he bade her good luck and watched the beautiful snowy owl hop off the windowsill and flap her powerful wings to gain the altitude necessary for the long journey to Malfoy Manor.

Once Hedwig was out of sight, Harry flopped back down onto the bed. He was absolutely exhausted, but the prospect of sleep terrified him. When he had mentioned the increased intensity of his nightmares to Dumbledore, the old headmaster had practically rubbed his hands together in glee and ordered Harry to keep the Order updated of Voldemort’s nightly activities.

Harry didn’t.

Pawn takes hapless knight of the light.

Harry briefly considered wandering back down to the common room and mingling with the carefree crowd down there, but he found his limbs were rapidly numbing, his head drooping heavily. He tried to shake himself awake, unwilling to give himself over to the nightmares, but his fatigue was more powerful than his willpower. Before long, Harry found himself drawn in a downward spiral of slumber, progressing rapidly into a troubled sleep.

He awoke with a start as a heavy weight settled on his chest, but smiled when he saw his familiar sitting there. It was night time, now, and the other Gryffindors must have slipped into bed without waking Harry up. Luckily, none of them seemed to have been disturbed by Hedwig's arrival. Harry envied their relaxation.

Hedwig jumped up and down, opening her wings pointedly until Harry saw at last that she was carrying a letter. His heart rate rose instantly and he unrolled the parchment with bated breath and trembling hands. He had not been expecting such a rapid response, and most definitely not a letter sent with his own owl!

In the pale moonlight, his eyes only barely made out a neat black calligraphy.


Mr. Potter,
As interesting as your letter may be, I do not understand why you believe I might be able to pass on your message. Keep your insinuations to yourself and please refrain yourself from making false accusations. I find your assumptions most offending. If, however, you wish to speak further of this matter, then know that I shall be meeting my son in Hogsmeade this coming Saturday. I await your presence in the ‘The Dragonfire Inn’ at midday.
Sincerely,
Lucius Malfoy


The letter was signed by a silver wax seal depicting the open jaw of a snake that displayed its lethal fangs. It reminded Harry of Lucius Malfoy’s famous cane – it was the mark of a true, viperous Slytherin.

Harry had to reread the letter three or four times before his breathing finally regained normality. A small, mirthless smile of victory crawled over his lips and he let himself fall onto his back, still clutching his letter. For once, his sleep was soothing and uninterrupted. His last thought before drifting off was that Lord Voldemort must have too much to discuss with Lucius to have the time to kill anyone tonight.


~~~


Harry’s life was on a monotonous autopilot, navigating him securely through school life and keeping him alive until the Saturday. He couldn’t talk of the matter with Ron or Hermione, for they were sure to tell Headmaster Dumbledore, so he found himself avoiding them – they were so engrossed in each other they probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone, anyway. That bitter thought just served to strengthen Harry’s resolve. He was going to go through with this!

Come Saturday, Harry slipped out of the dormitory at the crack of dawn. He paced the common room for an hour before making his way to breakfast. His pulse was racing and he felt jumpy… probably a side effect of fear, he supposed as he nibbled a slice of burnt toast. There was no point in pretending he wasn't scared. He decided to walk to Hogsmeade instead of taking a carriage. It would take a few hours and hopefully alleviate the lead-like tendrils knotting his stomach.

The walk did not bring much comfort. Every step felt heavier than the last and, when he at last reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, he realised he was shivering as though the sun were ice. Yet the sun was high and that meant that the time was nigh.

Following directions from a passing witch, Harry wove his way though a maze of unfamiliar, cobblestone alleyways until he reached the midnight blue façade of the Dragonfire Inn.

He hesitated… almost changed his mind… but then pushed the door and entered the inn.

The Dragonfire was dim and crowded, giving Harry an immediate feeling of claustrophobia that made him want to spin him on his heels and sprint away. He resisted the urge, scanning the crowd until his eyes fell on two identically blond mops of hair. He silently thanked Mme Pomfrey for having rectified his vision at the start of fifth year, and walked towards his destiny, biting his lip almost to the blood as he went.

Draco saw him first, delicate eyebrow rising inquisitively. When Lucius turned to follow his son’s gaze, Harry felt an electric shudder of fear tingle up and down his spine. He decisively stepped forward.

“Malfoy,” he greeted with a cut nod.

Lucius lifted his chin and smiled chillingly.

“Leave us Draco,” he snapped, without looking at his son.

Draco glanced uneasily from his father to the Boy-Who-Lived, trying to understand the situation.

“Father…” Draco started nervously, but grey and green eyes stopped his protest. He got up to leave and hurried out. But Harry barely noticed that. He was concentrating on Lucius, who held a familiar parchment between gloved fingers.

“An interesting letter, Mr Potter.”

Harry brushed his wayward bangs out of his eyes, feeling the tremble of his fingers against his forehead. He took a deep breath.

“It’s got to stop.”

Lucius looked delighted; his face took on a sadistic glow. “But what could you possibly have to offer, Mr Potter?”

Harry took a deep breath and whispered: “Anything.”

“Anything?”

“Everything.”

“Truly fascinating Mr Potter. Do you realise the implications of your words?”

Harry nodded. He knew his face had paled and had to hold onto the edge of the table to stop himself from backing out. Lucius must have been reading him like an open book, for his smirk became predatory.

“What makes you think that your self-sacrifice would make anything stop?” Lucius hissed maliciously, leaning close enough for Harry to feel the breathed words brush his face. “Why shouldn't I take you and then kill you? ”

Harry shrugged, but the motion was fraught with tension. When he spoke, his voice was weak. “You know its me he wants. I can’t go on like this… He’s bored or not interested in Muggles anymore, so it’s a fair exchange. He has nothing to lose.”

Harry's gaze was fixed down at his clenched hands as he trailed off. He started when harsh fingers latched caught his jaw and raised his face. Weary green eyes were caught in a silver mist. Harry tried to draw back, but Lucius tightened his hold, digging his fingers into the skin hard enough to bruise the bone beneath and studying Harry’s expression carefully.

“I am sure something can be arranged, Mr. Potter…”


~~~


Two months later


Harry was sitting once more in the Dragonfire Inn, impatiently tapping his fingers against the wood table. Another two months plagued by suffering and curses had etched deep lines of fatigue into his face, and he wanted nothing more than to finally find a light at the end of this intolerable tunnel.

Those two months had also seen a continuous exchange of letters between Harry and Lucius, defining the terms of the arrangement. It had quickly become apparent that Voldemort would consider Harry’s death anticlimactic and that the boy should not expect a swift release.

No, Harry would serve, quite literally, as Voldemort’s diversion from Muggles. He would belong to Voldemort, for the monster to do with as he pleased. Harry didn’t care. He was a slave to Voldemort already, tortured day and night by visions that were driving him over the edge.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry didn’t even notice Lucius’ arrival until the blond wizard’s shadow fell across the table, trademark smirk bringing life to his otherwise cold features.

“Ready, Mr Potter?”

Harry winced at the cold, business-like tone, but nodded, pushing his chair back. “Now or never, Malfoy.”

The unusual pair left the pub together and made their way to the Floo grates.

Lucius went first, a last chance for Harry to change his mind. But Harry’s mind had long been made up.

“Malfoy Manor,” he whispered, before jumping into the flame that represented the rest of his life.

The landing was gentle, most likely due to the superior quality of the Malfoy Floo grate. Harry stepped out of the green fire to find himself in the high-ceilinged entrance hall of the manor. He looked around the awesome luxury as he followed Lucius into a huge ballroom supported by white columns. There, Harry at once felt Voldemort’s presence – a familiar twinge in his scar. Harry swallowed heavily: he had almost forgotten how repulsive Voldemort was… the pale-greenish hue of his scaly skin and the skeletal features, wispy black hair… terrible, horrifying, red eyes.

Harry instinctively stepped back, bumping into Lucius, who had anticipated the withdrawal. Pressure was applied to Harry's shoulders and Harry understood he was to fall to his knees before his new Lord.

Easier said than done! Harry suddenly felt that his joints were locked, but a low growl from Lucius brought Harry, very suddenly, to the brutal reality of his choice, and he allowed his knees to buckle. The physical breakdown was easier to handle than the tears that were threatening to spill from his eyes.

Voldemort approached.

“Harry Potter. After all these years you give yourself to me willingly?”

Harry nodded weakly. “I can’t go on,” he whispered.

“You surrender your body and soul to my command?”

Harry shuddered and leant back against Lucius’ legs for support; but he nodded again.

“And if I choose to kill you?”

Harry said nothing and Voldemort laughed dryly. “Then come here and prove your worth, boy...”

Lucius nudged Harry forward, hinting that he should crawl towards his nemesis… Lord… Master…

Harry obeyed, carefully placing his limbs… hand, knee, hand, knee… and stopping to sit back on his heels before a very contented-looking Lord Voldemort.

A scaly hand stroked his hair and wiped the fine sheen of sweat from his forehead, before taking a firm grip in the black tangles. The other hand nimbly liberated an already straining erection. A nauseating, sickly, snake-like cock.

The bile rose in Harry’s throat at the very sight of it. But he was pushed towards it, and bitter precome was smeared over his dry lips. He tried to twist away, fighting against the hold in his hair to escape, but Voldemort’s grip was strong and, after a while, Harry stilled again.

“Take it in your mouth, Harry,” Voldemort ordered sternly, nudging the tip of his cock between the boy’s lips. This time Harry closed his eyes and opened his mouth, letting the flesh slip in… in… out… in.

Harry whimpered involuntarily as it touched the back of his throat. He gagged, he coughed… struggled to catch his breath, and finally let the tears leak from his eyes.

The grip in his hair tightened painfully; Voldemort picked up the rhythm, obviously savouring the sensation of his cock sliding slickly through the delicious hot cave of Harry’s mouth… losing control, starting to thrust his hips forwards wildly to plunge as deep as possible into the inviting wet heat.

Finally, Voldemort arched his back and came, unloading his semen deep into Harry’s throat and keeping his cock where it was until every last drop had been swallowed. Then, at last, Voldemort withdrew and let go of Harry’s hair.

Harry nearly collapsed, fighting to hold back the urge to retch.

Voldemort looked down at his slave, wiping a milky drop of cum from his lips with a thumb.

“Yes… I think this arrangement will be satisfactory…”



*****~~~*****


Three years later


Harry paced up and down the corridor, reaching the very end of his chain every time before turning round to pace back the other way again. He was familiar with each and every centimetre of this hallway, from the tiny crack in the maroon skirting board, to the seedy squint of Salazar Slytherin’s great granddaughter as she watched him pace… day in, day out. None of the paintings ever spoke to Harry. Orders of his Master, Harry supposed. Not that it mattered, of course.

It was getting late and his Master was obviously late again, which made Harry nervous - not because he particularly missed his Master, but because it meant Lucius would probably be sent to feed him and take him out. Harry still loathed Lucius with venom.

After a couple more restless lengths, Harry sat down to lean against the wall next to his Master’s bedroom door.

Whenever he was home alone, he was in this corridor, chained to the steel ring in the wall. If his Master didn’t return until very late, then Harry curled up uncomfortably on the hard floor. By the end of the first year, he had given in to this routine, and was even learning to look forward to his Master’s return, because if Harry behaved, then he would be allowed to sleep on the fluffy plush rug at the foot of his Master’s bed and, every so often, even on the bed itself. He had stopped trying to find out what a Dark Lord did with his days a long time ago, choosing the bliss of ignorance over the power of knowledge.

Footsteps made him snap out of his reverie with a start. He groaned when the midnight-blue Ministry robes of Lucius Malfoy came into view.

“Get up,” Lucius snapped, ignoring Harry's sullen glare of resentment.

Harry dragged himself to his feet, waiting for Lucius to magically undo the chain, before looking up into Lucius’ stormy-grey eyes.

“I need the bathroom first,” Harry said testily, striding past the blond wizard and into the bathroom that was just beyond the reach of his chain. Lucius snarled at the brazen boldness, but waited patiently for Harry to come back out to snap a new, shorter chain to the silver collar decorating Harry’s slender neck.

He pulled Harry very close, and slid a hand around the back of his head to entwine his fingers in the black tangles. The grip was uncompromising and Harry whimpered at the pressure. Bending the boy backwards, Lucius glared down into his pale face.

“Watch your tone,” he snarled angrily, ending his words by letting go of Harry with sudden violence. Harry sagged and almost lost his balance. He glowered, knowing already that Lucius was riled enough to forbid him the use of his feet and make him crawl instead.

Sure enough, Lucius tapped the back of his shoulders with his cane, signal for Harry to get down onto his hands and knees.

The dog allowed himself an angry growl but stayed obediently at Lucius’ heel.

Lucius lead him down two flights of stairs and through multiple corridors, walking rapidly to make Harry’s awkward crawling as hard as possible. Nevertheless, Harry started getting excited when he realised they were heading towards the back door which led to the vast gardens, and he even strained against the leash a little in his haste to get outside. Lucius yanked at the leash to remind Harry of his place and Harry tensed, bracing himself for an almost inevitable kick in the ribs, but Lucius seemed eager to leave the mansion and didn’t bother punishing him.

It was chilly, but the feeling of fresh air and dregs of spring sun made up for it.

Harry was rarely allowed to leave the mansion. Most of the time, when his Master was home, he had a free run of the whole house, provided that he behaved of course. But he would give anything to stretch out just once, unrestrained in the summer sun.

Lucius sat down on a bench in the rose garden, surveying his charge with distinct malevolence.

“Want to go for a run?”

Harry looked up suspiciously. Last time Lucius had let him off the leash it had been for target practise, and Harry had found himself on the wrong end of a number of painful curses.

“Depends,” he answered cautiously, not liking the malicious glint in the familiar grey eyes.

Lucius was about to explain the concept of bounding after a thrown stick on all fours, and fetching it back, when Harry’s hand automatically flew up to his scar. His eyes shone with a green glee of triumph. Master was home.

“You can leave now. Goodbye,” he hissed snobbishly, looking towards the mansion door. Lucius let the piece of wood he had been fiddling with drop back to the ground, and looked like he was considering kicking Harry around a little, just to teach him not to be so rude, but in the end he just shrugged and went back to surveying the grounds airily.

Harry’s eyes flicked from the door to Lucius and back again, and he felt a surge of gratitude that he still held his Master’s attention. He was sure that a similar deal with Lucius would have been doomed to betrayal and he would have received the worst of both worlds.

A few moments later, Voldemort stepped into the rose garden, smiling coldly when he saw Lucius and Harry by the roses. The faithful Death Eater handed over Harry’s leash and bowed. “I trust you need nothing else, my Lord?”

Voldemort shook his head dismissively, waving Lucius away.

Harry smirked so that only Lucius could see...

In the end, they were both in the same boat weren’t they?

When Lucius was gone, Harry knelt before his Lord, expectantly.

Red eyes started burning with a bright flame of lust, and before Harry could even register the movement, his Master had pounced, pressing Harry forcefully into the grass. All too well known hard lips pressed against his, and a rough, snake-like tongue flicked around his mouth, slithering along the rows of small white teeth with boundless appetite.

Harry arched up towards his Master, keeping his own tongue tucked away submissively to not undermine the absolute authority of the invader. He felt sharp nails rake down the side of his face to the solid bone of his jaw… vaguely registered his Master whispering the words that made his jeans simply disappear from his body, although the black roll neck jumper stayed in place. Voldemort ran his fingers beneath the fine wool, tearing at the soft skin of Harry’s stomach with reckless claws.

As the touch passed over his lower abdomen, Harry gasped and arched up again to meet the insistent mouth.

Voldemort sat up, straddling his slave’s hips. He looked down at Harry’s flushed face and tousled hair. The boy’s parted lips were already swollen… pupils dilated. A powerful rush of electric lust jolted Voldemort’s crotch, filling his cock with a dire need to possess this delectable body of bruised beauty…

With one hand, he fiddled with his robes to release himself; the other ran down Harry’s hip and right around his right buttock, stroking his anus lightly before two fingers were thrust through the puckered ring of muscles.

Harry tensed momentarily, and then relaxed with a sigh, concentrating on feeling the fingers moving steadily around in his arse. Those fingers were soon joined by another, effectively stretching him with their twisting, scissoring motions. He braced himself for what he knew was to come and sure enough, his Master pressed all fingers together, using a little force to push his entire hand into his slave.

A small cry escaped Harry, but it was more due shock than to real pain and Harry soon fell into the fierce cadence of his Master’s fisting, moving his body in sync with its rocking. He felt so stretched, but the feeling was pleasant, not invasive.

When his Master brutally withdrew his hand, Harry’s cock was nearly hard – a result of operant conditioning, no doubt, but satisfying for the slave-master nonetheless.

“Turn around,” Voldemort ordered, lifting his weight off Harry to facilitate the manoeuvre.

Anticipating his Master’s needs, Harry drew his knees beneath him and stretched his back out to expose a criss-cross network of scars on the uncovered flesh.

Voldemort smiled and patted the bare bottom before positioning himself behind it. He slipped his hands around Harry’s hips and without further ado, thrust his unlubricated cock deep into Harry’s hole.

The rhythm was fast and powerful, and Harry felt trapped between the hard pounding and the sharp nails that held his hips into place. The power of that imprisonment was overwhelming… vision blurring with red blotches as his pants and moans increased, abandoned in the unreal dreamy sensation of sex. He wiggled his bottom to invite even deeper penetration, and Voldemort thrust his cock in to the hilt – voldemort was rapidly loosing control, lost in a fantastic world of no return.

All of a sudden, Voldemort threw back his head and with a single choked cry of release, freed his passion into Harry before collapsing onto him. Harry shuddered when he felt the sticky cum running out of his anus and down his thighs. It burnt. It always burnt like acid… with pain, shame and helplessness, leaving him feel empty: a big gaping hole where some of his essence had been torn away.

His Master stood up, picking up Harry’s leash on the way. The slave was still prostrate, trying to catch his breath with worn out wheezes. His cock was still hard but that was long forgotten. Voldemort didn’t care about Harry’s pleasure, and Harry himself was only thankful when his body chose not to betray him for once.

“You may rise,” his Master said, and Harry pushed himself back onto his knees, twisting his head to crack stiff shoulders. He looked at Voldemort, wondering when he had stopped feeling disgusted by the rough skin, stopped seeing the Dark Lord for the monster he really was and started accepting their permanent proximity. He couldn’t remember when the emotional change had happened, even though he had flash-bulb memories of nearly two years of constant horror.

Compared to that, this year had been a breeze.

Harry dutifully licked his Master’s cock clean of all semen, taking particular care with the small, saggy testicles. He only stopped when his Master yanked on leash, signalling for him to stand up.

Back in the house, Voldemort let Harry off the leash and sent him to wash with a sharp slap on the buttocks. Rubbing his soiled skin beneath the scorching water, Harry couldn’t help thinking back to those earlier days… when he still fought back and even tried to escape.

He remembered the day he had spat into his Master’s face and had immediately found himself strung spread-eagled on a rack, where he was left for five days without food, water, or light. He had almost given up hope, arms screaming in agony as his rapidly diminishing weight sagged.

Then his Master had appeared in the doorway like a miraculous saviour.

Harry had been taken down and washed… slowly reintroduced to food. How frail he had felt, and how disgusted at himself as he licked his Master’s dragonhide shoes to shiny brilliance to demonstrate that he was truly sorry for his behaviour.

In those days of constant beatings and brutal rapes, Voldemort had often needed Lucius to restrain his slave, and both dark wizards made liberal use of the Cruciatus curse.

Harry only survived it all because of the knowledge that whilst Voldemort was venting his hatred onto the pale body of the Boy-Who-Lived, he couldn’t be out killing Muggles. Like the day when he had been collared and marked, back in his first week as Voldemort’s slave. He had forced himself to relive the heart-wrenching screams and deaths of many Muggles, needing to remind himself why he was doing this. Giving himself.

Lucius had dragged him to his Master’s feet by the hair and flung him to the floor with unceremonious brutality. Harry hated Lucius. The man was equipped with a sadistic streak that could make a manticore cringe. Lucius had then hauled Harry back to his knees and held him in place by his hair.

The brother to Harry’s wand was pointed at him. It sparked with familiarity when it touched the delicate skin of Harry’s neck… silver snakes shooting from its tips and circling his neck. When the wand was withdrawn, the magic materialised into the silver collar Harry was now long used to living with.

That day, he could not bear the feeling of confinement around his throat. Harry couldn’t help clawing at the metal, and probably would have broken his own skin if Lucius hadn’t let go of his hair to snatch his wrists instead. Heavy manacles dangling from a chain above bound them and starting drawing Harry upwards by the wrists. Total panic had overwhelmed him, and for the first time since his arrival, he had started seriously struggling, muscles fluttering in terrible trembles and sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Sighing, Harry rinsed away the last of the soapy foam, stepped from the shower and dried himself off. He looked in the mirror, fingers ignoring various scars to run over the black branding on his lower stomach: the dark mark, symbol of Voldemort’s ownership. This branding upset him more than the collar around his neck. It represented the finality and totality of his slavery.

Never could he forget being strung up like meat at the butchers, Lucius standing right behind him… Arms sliding around a slender waist, unbuttoning jeans from behind and pushing them down over his hips. Harry had tried futilely twisting away from Lucius, but the blond wizard jerked him back to order with an excruciating grip on his hips. His shirt was lifted, and at last Harry had understood what was going on.

Voldemort was now holding a red-hot branding iron.

The steam rising from it formed the Dark Mark perfectly. Harry bucked violently, tears springing from his eyes and running down his face in pure terror. But of course Lucius had held tight, and Voldemort had stepped forward.

All Harry remembered before he mercifully passed out was the most intense pain imaginable streaking through his body… stomach-turning smell of burning flesh… It had been his third day as Voldemort’s slave, and his first taste of the implications of his new life.

Gradually, the weeks and months merged into the haze of years past… Things changed. Harry’s strength of mind and spirit were progressively breaking, and he found himself defying his Master’s authority less and less. Now he rarely disobeyed or answered back… Whatever came his way was surely deserved as counter-payment for alleviating him of night terrors, no?

Harry quickly pulled on a clean shirt and slacks, and went down to the large, empty dining hall. It felt wrong… perverse… entering the room like the carefree family son, but then shattering that image when he knelt wordlessly by his Master’s side.

Voldemort always ate in silence, occasionally feeding a scrap or cutting to Harry. The boy had worked hard to earn this privilege, since it was the best food he ever received. At first he had had to kneel here in obedient silence, stomach growling with hungry despair as his Master ate. Once his stomach had rumbled in a way his Master must have considered offensive, for Harry had found himself backhanded so viciously that he saw a sprinkling of stars dancing before his vision and blood filled his mouth.

It is amazing what one will do in the hope of a little food. Even the first time, Harry had barely flinched when Voldemort ordered him to crawl beneath the table. He sucked the detached arousal to completion whilst his Master dined on a king’s feast, seemingly unaware of his slave’s attentions.

It was only long after the first interminable year that Harry sometimes got the small cuttings and scraps from the table.

And then, after Voldemort’s evening meal, Harry would usually be given a bowl of soup, and if his Master was in a generous mood, Harry got a small bread roll too. His body, habituated to harsh treatment from the years spent under the care of the Dursleys, had rapidly adapted to the small amount of nutrition, and although undernourished, he was in no way starving. Nevertheless, the scraps from Voldemort’s meals were a welcome addition to his diet.

Currently he was chewing a substantial piece of cheese, savouring the creamy bite with his tongue and pallet… maintaining the taste in his mouth for as long as possible before swallowing it.

He laid his head on his Master’s lap and waited patiently for the next small morsel like a long-suffering dog that had just found a warm, new home, yet expected no kindness.

A while later, after Harry had finished his soup, he followed his Master up to the bedroom, where a chain to one of the bedposts faithfully awaited to be linked to his collar.

Satiated from their earlier frolic in the rose garden, his Master readied himself for bed.

“Do you want to sleep on the bed?”

Harry’s eyes widened with hope, and he nodded. Dropping to all fours, he crawled up to his Master, pawing at the black velvet cloak pathetically to liberate the flaccid cock and coax it back to life. Yet Voldemort shoed him away and waved at the bed.

“You’ve been very good, Harry. You may sleep now.”

Harry smiled a little at the use of his given name. The personalisation reminded him of times long gone, and always made a little butterfly flutter around his stomach, begging him never to forget who he was and why he was here. Green eyes shone gratefully as their owner clambered onto the bed.

As a rule, Harry was only allowed to sleep on the bed after his Master had had a particularly mind-blowing orgasm. Otherwise, he would curl up on the plush rug. The bed was definitely better, and Harry went great lengths to earn the concession to stay on it, teasing and pleasuring obediently when his Master demanded it, but also submitting and screaming when it was required.

Harry shuddered, he never thought of these things. It was almost as though the switch by the dresser didn’t exist, like Voldemort’s wand was incapable of evil, like Lucius’ snake-head cane had never cracked across his back, leaving the skin shredded beneath a waterfall of blood.

All that had no importance. It didn’t bother Harry, didn’t even cross his mind as he lay at Voldemort’s feet in a foetal ball, snug and safe in the knowledge that Lord Voldemort was there with him, and not out in the Muggle world torturing, killing and laughing.

His Master pulled the duvet up around himself, and with a final glance at his already dozing off slave, he closed his eyes.


*****~~~*****


Epilogue


Sometimes I try to study my expression in the mirror, look into my own green eyes and wonder if they express the emptiness I feel inside. My body is probably healthier than in my entire life, every blemish that marks my skin is a carefully calculated reminder of disobedience… well save for the black branding on my lower abdomen of course.

You could ask why I gave in to this life.

Good question.

Of course I tried to defend my integrity at first, but that became unimportant because, ultimately, I had what I wanted: my peace of mind. I could close my eyes safe in the knowledge that if Voldemort felt any murderous urge he could, and would, take it out on me. So day-by-day I submitted. I grovelled, crawled and pleaded, and I would do it all again.

Funnily, as I relinquished my identity, He became more restrained until finally the scales were evened. I did what He wanted, and He never went back to his former nighttime muggle-killing activities.

Oh I have no illusions about my Master – I am sure He is planning the most horrendous things, but in a very selfish sense I just don’t care so long as I don’t have to witness any of it. Reality is just a haze, and if my life is to be this simple, then I can deal with the worse times as well as the better.

I still think of my old friends. I wander if they mourn for me still… if they have an inkling of the truth… if they have given up hope. How much has Lucius told his son for example? Maybe in another couple years all that won’t matter anymore either.

For now I must concentrate on pleasing my Master and hope that His attention never wavers…


THE END

©Anne Phoenix

April 6th 2003