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“I would like to try something,” Voldemort says to him one morning.
Harry looks up from the bowl of cereal he’s poured for himself. “Like, now? Or…”
Voldemort scowls. “Eat your breakfast,” he says. Then he turns and leaves the room, and Harry is left to eat in silence, wondering.
For the rest of the day, Voldemort hovers around him like a storm cloud, his mood growing progressively worse with each passing moment. Even his Death Eaters notice. They tiptoe around him, not even daring to breathe wrong. As soon as they can leave without appearing rude, they make their excuses and abandon the manor, casting pitying looks Harry’s way as they go.
Once the last of Voldemort sycophants has left, Harry turns on his lover with a glare. “What was that, then?” he asks.
For a long moment, Voldemort only stares blankly back at him. Harry considers the possibility that Voldemort might be about to tell him there’s nothing wrong. If he does, Harry thinks, he might riot.
Thankfully, he doesn’t try it.
Instead, he says, “I wanted them to leave.”
Harry closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “Please,” he says, “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Only, he knows Voldemort meant it, because that’s just what he’s like.
“I was not,” Voldemort says, confirming what he already knows.
“Great.” Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did it ever occur to you to just order them to leave?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Voldemort glares, as if Harry questioning his choices is some great offense. “They would want an explanation.”
“And you think they don’t want one now?”
“Of course they do,” Voldemort tells him, “But they won’t ask for one, because they’ll fear my wrath if they do.”
The worst thing is, it makes sense.
Fucking hell. The last thing Harry wants is for Voldemort’s logic to make sense to him.
“Why—” Harry cuts himself off before he can ask the question he’d intended: Why do I like you? He’s spent three years convincing Voldemort his attachment is sincere; he’d hate to cast it in doubt for something so small.
When he looks back to his lover, Voldemort is watching him with narrowed eyes. “Any more questions?” he asks.
Harry takes a deep breath. When he lets it out, he forces all of his irritation out with it. “Not at all,” he says. Only, now that he thinks about it… “You said you wanted to try something, earlier.”
Voldemort stills. “I did.”
“What’d you mean?”
Voldemort turns his glare on the floor. “I have… desires. With regard to sex.”
Harry doesn’t laugh, but it’s close. “Care to elaborate?”
Voldemort lets out a wordless hiss, and Harry waits, patient. But Voldemort doesn’t explain; he only stalks for the door. Harry follows. When Voldemort looks back, some of the tension in his shoulders relaxes at the sight of Harry at his back, and Harry lets himself grin, pleased as ever to succeed at reading his lover’s wants.
Voldemort leads him to the meeting hall, and Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise. While he wasn’t sure what to expect, it wasn’t this.
With one gesture, his lover sends the grand doors flying open.
As soon as they step inside, Voldemort falls back, until he can trail after Harry as he moves through the room.
“Why are we in your throne room?” Harry asks as he climbs the steps to the dais where Voldemort’s ornate chair rests. He drapes himself across it, sitting sideways with his legs thrown over one arm.
“It isn’t a throne,” Voldemort tells him, annoyed as he always is when Harry pokes fun.
“No? It certainly looks like one.” Harry leans back, lets his head hang back over the other arm. Voldemort bristles, and Harry waves one careless hand, as if to brush the subject away. “Anyway, you wanted to talk about sex, right? Let me guess, you never got to make me bow in real life, so now you want it in the bedroom.”
Voldemort is suspiciously silent. Then, “No.”
“No?” Harry asks, straightening in Voldemort’s throne, letting his feet thump back to the floor. “Then why—?”
He moves to rise, and his lover takes a hurried step forward, one hand raised as if he could push him back down, hold him in place. “Don’t get up,” he says, “it suits you.”
Harry settles back, watching his lover carefully. “Does it?” he asks.
Voldemort drifts closer, an open, hungry look on his face.
He’s so guarded, usually, that the sight is almost unsettling.
It’s… interesting.
He holds out one hand, and Voldemort places his own atop it—not holding, just… resting. This, too, is interesting, Harry thinks as he grips Voldemort’s hand tight. When Voldemort sighs, when some of the tension in his frame falls away, he notices.
“You can ask for things you want, you know,” Harry says. He bites back a frown when he feels Voldemort’s hand twitch in his hold, as if he wants to pull away.
But he doesn’t pull away.
“I know that,” Voldemort says, defensive. He hunches forward, as if it might make his towering frame seem small.
Harry narrows his eyes, and Voldemort’s glare falters, until he’s looking at the floor instead. He tugs on Voldemort’s hand, and his lover comes easily. He steps into the space between Harry’s parted knees, and when Harry looks closer, he sees that Voldemort is trembling.
He licks at his lips; his mouth feels dry, suddenly.
Deciding it’s probably worth the risk, he says, “Kneel.”
And Voldemort does.
Even on his knees, his lover is almost tall enough to meet Harry’s eyes. Almost. He tilts his head back, looking up at Harry with his pupils blown wide. Twin spots of pink burn high on his cheeks, making his inhumanly pale skin glow.
“It’s not me who’ll be bowing, is it?” Harry asks.
Voldemort shakes his head.
Harry shifts in Voldemort’s throne, spreading his legs, and Voldemort sways forward.
“Please.” The word sounds as if it’s torn from his lover’s mouth. “Let me—”
But the words are too much. With another hiss, this one harsher than before, Voldemort leans all the way forward, until he can press his forehead into Harry’s thigh. Harry winces at the pressure, but before Voldemort can flinch away, he grips the back of his neck, holding him in place.
Beneath his touch, Voldemort shudders.
“It’s alright, love,” Harry says, “I’ve got you.”
Normally, a pet name is more likely to make Voldemort flee than do anything else. But now, in this space, it makes him sigh, relaxing completely into Harry’s grip.
“Thank you,” his lover says, so quiet Harry wonders for a moment if he misheard.
But he didn’t, and this more than anything else is what sells him on giving this a shot.
There will be rules, he knows, and Voldemort will no doubt leave it up to him to make them. Tomorrow, he’ll begin his research. But for now… For now, he lets his lover have this. He rests one hand atop Voldemort’s head and lets the quiet sound of his slowing breaths fill the room.
Voldemort doesn’t bring it up again, but now that Harry knows what to look for, he can see the need building.
Later that same week, he corners Voldemort in the library. He strides toward the couch Voldemort has draped himself over, grabbing the book out of his hand and pulling at his hands until he sits up, giving Harry just enough space to tuck in behind him. With some coaxing, Voldemort settles back against his chest, Harry’s hands linked over his lover’s stomach.
“I spoke to Narcissa,” Harry says, “I’m pretty sure she thought I was going to be your submissive, but it was still helpful enough.”
After a pause, Voldemort asks, “Why?”
“Why was it helpful?”
“No,” Voldemort snaps, and Harry can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s uncomfortable, “Why would she think…”
Harry grins, glad Voldemort can’t see his face. “Well, my love,” he says, “you’re over fifty years my senior and, you know, the all-powerful Dark Lord. It isn’t a difficult assumption to make.”
Harry gives him a moment to process.
“Well?” Voldemort prompts when he’s had long enough.
Harry nuzzles the skin behind Voldemort’s ear. “Ask nicely.”
After a long-suffering sigh, Voldemort says, “Tell me what she said to you.”
It’s more of a demand than a question, but Harry decides to let it count. They’ll be going in circles all night, otherwise.
“It’s called BDSM,” Harry says, and as much as he’s holding Voldemort because he likes to, a not insignificant part of it is to keep his lover from running away. He can’t see Voldemort’s expression, but he’s willing to bet it’s unpleasant. “There’s a whole lot that’s covered, and we have all the time in the world to explore it, to find what we like. But before we start, there are two rules I need you to agree to.”
“I’m listening,” Voldemort says, all but hissing the words.
Harry doesn’t mind. His lover slips into Parseltongue when he’s nervous.
“First, we need to communicate every step of the way. There will be no surprises.” He pauses, and Voldemort nods, however reluctantly. “Second, we’ll use safewords.”
Voldemort scoffs. “Why?”
“So you know what they are?”
“It’s not difficult to deduce,” Voldemort says, something like anger in his voice. He breaks free of Harry’s hold and pushes himself to his feet.
Harry sits up, and he’s quick enough to grab Voldemort’s hand before he can get too far away. “Why are you leaving?”
“If you’re going to insult me—”
“Nothing about this is insulting,” Harry says. He forces himself to pause, then starts again. “Or, it isn’t supposed to be. Why is it insulting?”
“You assume I’m weak,” Voldemort tells him, snarling. He stalks closer, until he can tower over Harry. “You assume I don’t know what I want, that I need some signal to fall back on when my spirit fails.”
Harry is already shaking his head by the time he’s finished. “No,” he says, “I swear. That’s not it.”
“Then why?”
“They’re for me,” Harry says, though this isn’t entirely true. He stands, forcing Voldemort to step back and out of his space. “I don’t want to hurt you—”
Voldemort snarls again, interrupting. “You should!”
As the words hang in the air, Harry holds his breath, staring up at his lover with wide eyes. “What—”
“You should want to hurt me,” Voldemort explains, his nostrils flaring, his cheeks flushed, “I don’t understand why— I deserve it, don’t I?” He presses back into Harry’s space, looming. His eyes are bright, almost feverish. “How could you possibly—”
Then, before he can finish his question, he cuts himself off, turning so his back is to Harry. The only sound in the room is his heavy breathing.
“Voldemort,” Harry says, voice soft, reaching out with one shaking hand.
Before he can touch, Voldemort stalks away. He doesn’t look back.
The doors to the library slam shut behind him.
Harry finds him in the bedroom later, once he’s given them both time to calm down. Voldemort is sulking by the window, glaring dramatically out at the landscape. As Harry lets the door latch shut behind him, Voldemort’s gaze darts his way, though he stays where he is.
“Come here,” Harry says.
Voldemort considers the request. Then, with no sound at all, he approaches, wary.
As soon as he’s close enough, Harry holds out one hand. Instead of taking it, Voldemort falls to his knees, pressing his cheek into Harry’s palm, and Harry has to take a moment just to breathe.
“This isn’t revenge,” Harry says, once he feels secure enough to speak, “It isn’t punishment for all the things you did during the war.”
Voldemort looks to the floor, but he doesn’t shy away from Harry’s touch. “And if I need that?”
Harry sighs. He crouches down to put himself on his lover’s level, because he needs this to be something they agree on. “Then we use safewords.”
Voldemort glares, but Harry holds himself steady.
He won’t compromise on this; he can’t.
“Fine,” Voldemort says with a sneer, once he understands that Harry won’t be giving in, and Harry braces himself for whatever is about to come. “I’ll use morsmordre.”
It’s about what he expected. Still, he forces his expression blank, and he doesn’t retaliate the way he wants to. “Fine,” he echoes mildly, “I’ll use… treacle.”
For a moment, he thinks Voldemort might apologize, might change his word, but he bites his tongue.
Harry doesn’t let it upset him. They can talk about it after.
They will talk about it after.
For now…
“Alright, then,” Harry says, and before his eyes, Voldemort becomes something entirely new, “Let’s begin.”