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Chapter Text

May, 1998. Voldemort.

The first time Voldemort truly desired Harry Potter was when the boy came to him during the ceasefire at the Battle of Hogwarts.

An assembly of his most faithful lined the forest clearing in the predawn darkness. The night was cold, the anticipation palpable.  They waited for the object of their master’s unrelenting obsession to surrender himself. 

The boy who lived- the boy who was soon to no longer live walked slowly, head bowed in submission and hands crossed feebly at the wrists. The Dark Lord paused at the sight.

He expected the last Potter to stop a healthy distance away, to face his death straight backed with his usual foolish bravado… The boy kept moving slowly and steadily towards him, the atmosphere tense. His hands were no longer crossed but outstretched as if to show he meant no harm.

Ridiculous. His wand was nowhere to be seen, defeat was the only thing he presented himself with. 

As he got closer, the Dark Lord’s most faithfuls shuffled in anticipation but also caution. Bellatrix moved to intercede between the two. She was stopped with nothing but a glance, the rest followed.

Potter stopped only a foot away from him, searching his face with defiant green eyes. Voldemort was almost relieved that the boy still had that fire in him, that he was right about his character.

He raised his wand, not wanting to draw the moment out any longer than he needed to. 

“I am your horcrux.” The boy whispered in parseltongue. Voldemort stopped. His wand slowly dropped down to his side as if it was his idea to prolong the boy’s death.

The realization struck him to his core. Doubt, he did not. He could feel the statement resonating in his withered soul. 

Harry Potter, a human horcrux. The boy, in a sense, was the answer to a question he had been asking himself the past sixteen years. A question he had not once voiced.  A mere human housing a part of his very own soul. Bellatrix would have a fit he thinks in delight. 

The two stood facing each other. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. The Death Eaters remained silent. A few of them shifted with anticipation on the spot, disturbing the foliage beneath their feet. Others looked on with interest, not daring to show any curiosity for that would be too much like questioning in their Lord’s eyes. 

“I am your horcrux… and I do not want to die.” His horcrux declared.

It’s clear now that Dumbledore had planned for the boy to sacrifice himself.  The manipulative old man had intended for Potter to martyr himself for the light. Potter had surprised them both. Self preservation took precedence over bravery. How poetic.

Tears slowly leaked from his horcrux’s eyes. He truly was just a boy. 

There was fear in those green orbs. There was hatred.  His little horcrux hated himself for what he was doing. He hated the man in front of him and he hated Dumblerdore. 

It was delicious. It was perfect. It wasn’t enough.

Voldemort stared into those bright, wet, green eyes. His Horcrux. His enemy. 

This average, unremarkable boy had been a thorn in his side from the moment Severus had brought him news of that loathsome prophecy.

Raising his wand, Voldemort gave Harry Potter a cruel smile.

Chapter Text

July, 1998. Voldemort.

The second time Voldemort desired Harry Potter, the boy was splayed out in front of him, arms and legs bound to an ancient altar he had scoured the Dead Sea to find. 

Sweat and dried blood clung to Potter’s bare chest as it rose and fell erratically. Fresh blood dripped from jagged cuts on Harry’s arms, legs and stomach. Old and powerful runes carved into young flesh.

Harry’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, he had ceased struggling hours ago when he realised that Voldemort would not stop and that screaming insults and obscenities - and most foolishly, appealing to The Dark Lord’s non-existent moral compass - were fruitless endeavours.

The room, a windowless, secluded basement on the west side of Malfoy Manor, was lit by candlelight. Silver sconces and intricately carved candelabras lined the walls. It was an obscene display of wealth.

Voldemort watched as flickers of firelight caught the red and brown blood on Harry’s chest. His Horcrux had an attractive figure, he acknowledged, eyes scanning Potter’s taut form, covered only by a pair of torn, dark blue boxers.

Months on the run had shaped Harry’s physique into that of a man’s, as opposed to the gangly boy he recalled from years ago. The boy was due to turn eighteen in a few weeks - although The Dark Lord intended to kill Potter before then, once he had extracted his precious Horcrux from its unworthy vessel.

“My Lord…” the cowardly voice of a bulbous man echoed from a dark recess of the room.

Voldemort did not acknowledge Horace Slughorn as he moved closer, shuffling in his long, emerald robes. Instead, choosing to brush a sweaty lock of raven hair from Harry’s face.

The boy blinked a few times, struggling to focus. Did he know where he was?

“Tom…” Harry whimpered pathetically. It was a beautiful sound.

Voldemort turned away, stalking towards Slughorn.

“My Lord, I’m afraid it is impossible.” Slughorn began cautiously. The coward was trying his best to not look at either of his former students- not the elder looming over him, nor the younger, shaking with pain as his blood pooled on the floor.

“What did you say?” Voldemort rasped, sneering down at the man who shook in his proximity. 

“The Horcrux and Harry are interlaced - they are combined as one. An extraction is not possible.”

The room shook as his rage built to a crescendo. Slughorn backed away, falling to his knees as Voldemort screamed in anger. The sconces flared and the door to the room shattered, sending shards of wood spraying across the floor.

Months of strenuous research, expeditions to the furthest corners of the globe - all for nothing! He had thought for certain that the Altar of Souls, combined with the runes - both ancient and forbidden - would work. 

“Are you quite sure, Horace?” He asked with a menacing softness, caressing his wand with long, pale fingers.

Slughorn regarded him fearfully, beads of sweat collecting on his forehead.

“I am sorry My Lord, it is impossible. The piece of your soul that lives within Harry has merged with his own… why, I believe he is the closest thing you have to a son.” 

The Dark Lord turned to his former professor in shocked disbelief and Slughorn shrunk away, realising the gravity of what he had said.

“You dare?!”

“My apologies, my Lord, I only meant-” the man sputtered, but Voldemort raised his wand. 

“Avada Kedavra!” He bellowed and Slughorn was blasted back against the wall in an explosion of green light. 

“No…” Harry moaned weakly, shifting in his bonds. 

Voldemort paid him no mind, standing motionless in the centre of the room, contemplating the body of his former professor as it grew cold on the basement floor.

With a wave of his wand, Tom vanished the corpse and turned to Harry.

“It looks like I’ll be keeping you.”

Chapter Text

June, 1999. Voldemort.

The third time Lord Voldemort desired Harry Potter, the latter was bent over on all fours scrubbing the marble tiles in the entry hall of Malfoy Manor, sweat beading on his forehead as he worked a bristled brush over muddy footprints. Concealed by magic, The Dark Lord watched Harry’s tattered shirt ride up as his arms moved, affording tantalising glimpses of smooth skin and taut muscles.

It had been just over a year since their fateful encounter in the Forbidden Forest when Harry had turned his world on its axis by revealing the true nature of their connection. A year and Lord Voldemort was still conflicted over what to do with his young nemesis.

Threats to harm his friends kept Harry in line for the most part. The blood traitor and the mudblood were useful bargaining chips, along with the rest of the Weasley clan. Potter was resentful, but he was obedient. 

For the past nine months he had the Malfoys laden Harry with an ever-increasing amount of dull and labour-intensive chores - with creative punishment if he didn’t meet their deadlines. He had thought to break Harry by reducing him to the lowliest of servants, lower than a house elf. 

But Potter had once again surprised him by jumping through Malfoy's hoops. Malfoy Manor’s many bathrooms were clean, the fireplaces burning with wood that Harry chopped himself and the enormous garden cleared of weeds. He was beginning to suspect that Severus had lied to him about Harry’s coddled upbringing. The pampered prince of Snape’s stories would not have lasted this long without breaking down. 

It was early evening, and his followers would be arriving soon. These past few months he had avoided the manor, preferring to gather his faithful in the Ministry of Magic, but he had decided to host tonight’s gathering in the Malfoy’s drawing room. Both to check on his human Horcrux and to remind Lucius who held his leash. 

He watched as Harry continued to clean the floor, scrubbing the stains before rinsing his brush in a large bucket of water. Harry’s brow furrowed as worked, his mind completely on the task at hand. His Chosen One was clad in a grimy beige shirt, paired with dull grey trousers riddled with holes.

The last rays of sunlight shone through the stained-glass windows above the door to the manor, illuminating Potter’s form in warm light. Despite his soiled clothes, Harry was an impressive sight in the rays of evening sun. The fact that he was on his knees made the vision even more appealing. 

Make him feel degraded… Voldemort had instructed. Outwardly it appeared that Malfoy had excelled at the task - giving Potter filthy rags to wear, allowing him only meagre scraps from the family table, and shutting him in a small cupboard to sleep. Harry was only allowed one bath a month in cold water, and he was not permitted shoes even when tending the garden in the freezing winter.

And yet… Potter had not broken.

He had expected Harry to come to him months ago, begging for freedom from Malfoy’s harsh regime. Voldemort rarely dreamed, but when he did it was of Potter on his hands and knees before him, bright green eyes filled with tears, willing to do anything for a full meal and a decent place to sleep. 

Voldemort would oblige him by giving him all the comforts his soul deserved. He would take Harry under his wing and teach him magic Dumbledore would never have dared. Their days would see them push the boundaries of wizardry as the world knew them, and their nights, well… Only in the deepest recesses of his mind did Voldemort allow himself to picture what their nights together would be like. 

He was spared from having to examine the conflicting nature of his feelings when the door swung open and half a dozen of his Death Eaters, led by Bellatrix, marched through.

Harry straightened in wariness, but most of them ignored him - except Bella, who took in the sight of the bucket and brush Harry was holding with glee. 

“Hello ickle Harry, have you been a good boy today working on your chores?” She sang in a sickly-sweet voice.

He was mildly impressed when Harry glared at her with a look that promised a slow and torturous death. Few people would dare to look at Bellatrix Lestrange with such impudence. 

Bellatrix merely sneered at Potter, before slowly and deliberately twirling around the room, her muddy boots leaving marks and ruining the last hour of his hard work. 

Harry gasped in despair and anger as he beheld the dirty shoe prints all over the floor. Voldemort moved forward, still concealed, eager to see what his Horcrux would do. Potter didn’t have his wand, but the boy was resourceful and full of that delicious Gryffindor spirit. 

Bellatrix and the other Death Eaters laughed before turning to the staircase - turning their backs on Harry, who stood in the centre of the entry hall, seething with a resentment that Tom could practically taste in the air.

How interesting…

With an air of disbelief Voldemort watched as the bucket of dirty water rose into the air, lifted by Potter’s wild, wandless magic - before soaring across the room towards Bella.

His lieutenant shrieked as she was drenched in cold, filthy water, turning on Potter with her wand raised.

“How dare you?!” She screamed, advancing on him, boots clicking loudly on the tiles. 

Harry stood straight backed, chin raised as she advanced on him with murderous rage in her eyes. His little lion was not one to cower. 

“I’ll teach you to cross me, you filthy halfblood! Cruc-”

“Bella.” Voldemort interrupted, not needing to raise his voice above a whisper. With a wave of his wand, he let the glamour concealing him fade, revealing himself to the occupants of the room.  

The Death Eaters immediately scrapped into bows, some teetering on the steps of Malfoy’s grand staircase in effort to show deference. While Bellatrix got down on her knees - head and wand lowered in respect. 

Harry moved back a step, pale and wary at his appearance. It had been months since they had seen each other, and Voldemort was gratified that his presence still inspired fear in his fated nemesis. 

“Bella.” He whispered, moving forward to caress her face with a spidery hand. “What instructions did I give regarding the Potter boy?”

Bellatrix glanced up at him sullenly through lowered lashes, swallowing heavily before she replied. He could sense her anxiety at being caught disobeying orders. Her traitorous heart thundered so loud he wondered if the others could hear it. 

“He is not to be harmed.” She breathed out nervously, dark eyes daring to hold his gaze.

The other Death Eaters stood as still as statues on the staircase, no doubt hoping to avoid their master’s notice. Voldemort obliged them, focusing his attention on the two wrongdoers in front of him, squabbling like foolish children.

“Exactly.” He said, casting a wordless crucio.

The Dark Lord watched as his most trusted lieutenant and the mother of his child screamed and writhed on the floor of her sister’s house. He watched as Bella’s limbs twisted and contorted, tears streaming down her face. Voldemort felt no remorse at her pain - she needed to learn what happened to those who were disobedient. She needed to understand that just because they had shared a bed for a time did not mean she would receive special treatment. 

“Stop!” Harry exclaimed, moving towards him, arms outstretched like Tom was a wild beast he was trying to subdue.

Voldemort ignored him, bathing in the symphony of Bella’s screams. But the stupid, foolish child stepped forward, seemingly intent upon defending the woman he despised. The woman who had murdered his godfather.

“She’s had enough!” Potter insisted, before The Dark Lord sent him flying across the room with a wave of his wand.

Harry hit the wall with a heavy thud, groaning as he sank to the floor. Voldemort lifted the spell on Bellatrix who whimpered as she tried to collect herself. 

“You dare?!” The Dark Lord boomed, turning on Potter, who rose from the ground but wisely stayed silent - eyes sparkling with words he would never dare utter aloud. 

A deathly silence permeated the room, his followers waiting for him to speak. Bellatrix lay panting on the ground but dared not rise until given leave to do so. 

Turning on the spot and gesturing to Harry with a flourish, he addressed his faithful.

“Why Bella, it seems you have a white knight.”

A few of the men - Crabbe and MacNair, sniggered.

Bellatrix looked at Harry with a vicious disgust, her face red with the shame of her punishment and that Harry, of all people, had come to her defence. 

He waved his hand and Bellatrix took that as her cue to rise, fixing Potter with a look of intense loathing before moving towards the staircase. 

“You will wait on us during dinner tonight.” Voldemort hissed at Harry. “I will deliver the punishment for your impudence once the meal is concluded.”

With that Lord Voldemort turned with a swirl of his cloak, leading his faithful up the grand staircase.

“Oh, and Harry.” He called over his shoulder. “Be sure to wash the floor, it is filthy.”

Chapter Text

June, 1999. Harry.

They ignored him for the most part.

Standing with his back to a pair of thick damask drapes, Harry shifted the heavy decanter of red wine in his hands, the dark liquid inside sloshing against expensive crystal as he surveyed the room.

The Malfoy’s dining hall was bathed in soft warm light from the chandelier and four candelabras spaced along a grandiose table. Every now and then the windowpane rattled from the fierce wind outside, although Harry could barely hear it over the raucous laughter of Death Eaters and the clinking of cutlery, as they devoured the meat on their plates like ravenous wolves. 

Harry’s stomach rumbled as he watched Roldolphus Lestrange tear into a large slab of veal coated with mint sauce, oblivious as meat juices dripped down his chin onto his dark robes.

He would have eaten by now, but Voldemort and a dozen of his closest followers had been holding court for hours, feasting on course after course of exquisite dishes prepared by the Malfoy’s personal chef. 

Harry wasn’t allowed to eat until after the guests left and even then, it would only be table scraps…

Adjusting his stance to prevent from swaying, Harry tried not to focus on the fact that he hadn’t consumed any food since morning - he didn’t want Voldemort aware of his weak state.

As if sensing his thoughts, the latter titled his head slightly to observe him from across the room. Harry glared as imposingly as he could in his waiter’s uniform, which included a dark green bow tie, white silk gloves and a silver beret. He had a hunch the uniform had been chosen with the goal of humiliating him.

The Dark Lord remained expressionless as he lifted his empty wine glass, a silent signal for Harry to fill it.

He was tempted to ignore the request for the sake of his pride - screw the consequences. But the image of Ron’s severed finger, presented to him in a small black box sprang to the forefront of his mind - punishment for refusing to sweep the floor not long after he had been brought to Malfoy Manor.

From then on, he did everything Lucius and Narcissa asked of him, no matter how menial. From dawn till long after dusk he cleaned their enormous estate, scrubbing tiles and weeding the garden. He knew the Malfoy’s could have acquired another house elf or enchanted the house to clean itself, but he assumed Voldemort wanted to torment him with backbreaking labour.

Little did Tom know he relished those hours spent on his knees in the garden, freezing droplets of rain soaking through his thin shirt as he yanked barbed weeds from the ground with his bare hands. The work stopped him from focusing on how terribly he had failed everyone he cared about. The cuts on his hands from the weeds felt deserved, better he should suffer than Ron or Hermione.

He was fortunate that Voldemort’s visits were rare, although he had no doubt the Dark Lord was pulling the strings behind the scenes.

You belong to me…. Voldemort had told him not long after killing Professor Slughorn, a long spidery finger tracing his face with unnerving gentleness as Harry’s blood leaked out onto the floor.

He shivered involuntarily at the memory.

Voldemort wasn’t one to abandon his possessions - no, he hid them away for safekeeping. That’s what this whole arrangement was. Harry, hidden away from the magical world behind the high walls of Malfoy’s estate; dead to the world, while Voldemort cemented his rule over wizarding Britain. 

Bringing his mind back to the present, Harry moved forward, walking the length of the room to where The Dark Lord was holding court on a large, ornately carved chair at the head of the table. 

A hush fell over the room as he moved, several of the Death Eaters smirking as he refilled Lord Voldemort’s glass.

“Such a good boy.” Bellatrix grinned from a few places down, picking at the food between her teeth with a small piece of bone. 

For his part, Voldemort did not acknowledge Harry’s presence, nor thank him for the wine, although Harry could feel the suffocating weight of his attention. Instead, The Dark Lord turned and engaged Dolohov in conversation about diplomatic relations with France.

Moving to refill one of the Carrow’s outstretched glasses, Harry felt Voldemort’s gaze burning into his back as he walked. The conversation had started up again and Harry did his best to go unnoticed as he moved around the room, refilling wine glasses and collecting plates to be washed. Both redundant tasks, which could have been accomplished easily and more efficiently with magic. But he knew Voldemort wanted him to feel small and powerless.

It was just after midnight when Voldemort raised a hand, and the room went silent instantly. Harry paused where he was standing next to Lucius Malfoy, giving Tom his undivided attention despite himself.

Voldemort drew out the silence before speaking, fixing his eyes on Harry with that unnerving focus that made him feel hunted.

“My friends.” He started, moving his gaze around the room, a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Tonight, we have had the pleasure of good food and favourable company.”

Harry scoffed at this, and Voldemort’s gaze went hard.

“But I must interrupt our evening to deal with an instance of insubordination.” The Dark Lord hissed, rage creeping into his voice. 

All the eyes in the room turned to Harry, who merely straightened his back, mustering as much dignity as he could in his ridiculous costume.

Tom’s ruby red eyes bore into him, stripping him bare and for a moment it was just the two of them in the dining room.

“Come here.” Voldemort hissed, waving his wand to vanish the table and its contents. In its place at Voldemort’s feet was a bucket of water and a cotton washcloth. 

His heart pounding, Harry walked the length of where the enormous table had been moments earlier, Death Eaters flanking him in their seats. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floorboards, the room otherwise silent with anticipation. He stopped right in front of Voldemort, who looked him up and down slowly, a cruel grin on his pale face. 

“Very becoming.” He laughed coldly and Bellatrix cackled.

Harry’s fists tightened and he longed to say something, to scream or launch himself at the man who ruined his life. 

Fight back, don’t let him humiliate you like this… A voice, which sounds a lot like Sirius echoed at the back of his mind. But his Gryffindor courage faltered when he remembered all the ways Voldemort could punish Ron and Hermione for his noncompliance.

“Kneel.” Voldemort’s cold, raspy voice commanded, and Harry did.

He bent the knee not because he wanted to, nor because he thought Tom Riddle was owed any ounce of respect, but because of Ron, Hermione, Luna, Neville, Ginny, and everyone else being held over his head to ensure compliance.

“Good boy.” Lord Voldemort hissed, his eyes alight with cruel glee. 

Harry narrowed his eyes and glared at his captor with as much hatred as he could muster. Voldemort’s amusement faded. Green eyes bore into red, and Harry had the urge to remark upon the absurd staring contest they seemed to be having. The Death Eaters remained silent.

After a pregnant pause Tom spoke, not taking his eyes off Harry. “We all have a place in this new world Harry, and this is yours, on your knees, at my feet.”

Although it broke him to do so, Harry stayed silent. Voldemort's gaze continued to avidly scan his features.

“It is time you accepted where you belong, Harry.” 

Voldemort pronounced his name with a strange softness as he gestured to the bucket and pieces of cloth. Harry raised an eyebrow, not quite understanding the situation.

The Dark Lord smiled a full, wicked smile as he stretched a naked foot out towards Harry. 

“You will wash my feet.” He hissed softly and several of the Death Eaters sniggered.

Harry looked at the bucket and back at Tom’s long, pale foot, incredulous. 

He was about to open his mouth with a thoughtless objection, but Voldemort cut him off.

“Tomorrow your filthy mudblood friend will appear before the Wizengamot.” He begins and Harry is struck silent at the mention of Hermione. “We will assess whether she is suitable to serve out the rest of her sentence under house arrest with the blood traitor.”

Harry swallowed hard.

“Your recent spate of insolence has put me in a bad mood. You want me to be in a good mood for Miss Granger’s trial tomorrow, don’t you?” Voldemort asked, glancing at the bucket and back at Harry.

Harry remained silent - he had no choice. Bowing his head to show acquiesce, he picked up one of the rags and dipped it in warm water. Careful not to make any sudden movements, he gently placed one hand on Voldemort’s ankle (he could have sworn he heard a sharp inhale at the contact), while using the other to drag the wet cloth over the top of Voldemort’s foot. Rivulets of warm water ran over pale skin.

The room was unnaturally silent as Harry worked, running the washcloth over the heel then the sole of Voldemort’s left foot, before starting on the right. Dipping the rag back in the bucket he tried to approach the task as he would washing the Malfoy’s bathroom floor or cleaning the sink. But he couldn’t - this was Lord Voldemort. 

This man had killed his parents and here he was, washing his feet. Harry felt disgusted with himself.

“Dry them.” Voldemort hissed when Harry started backing away, thinking he was finished.

Reluctantly, Harry picked up the second cloth and began to dry Voldemort’s toes. 

“You were born to serve me.” The Dark Lord declared loud enough for the entire room to hear. “And you do it so well.” 

The Death Eaters laughed, and Harry felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Nothing he had been ordered to do for the Malfoy’s came close to this in terms of humiliation.

Working as quickly as he could, Harry dried the feet in front of him. When he was finished, He folded the rags beside the bucket and rose off the floorboards, moving backwards to leave, but Tom halted him with a raised hand. 

“I’m finished.” Harry snapped, praying his humiliation had come to an end, but Voldemort shook his slightly, gesturing to Bellatrix who had removed her boots and was pointing her toes in the fashion of a ballerina.

“You attacked one of my lieutenants, she is entitled to her own recompense.” Voldemort stated, and Harry began shaking his head, not her too.

Voldemort flicked his wand and a new bucket of warm water appeared by Bellatrix, along with two identical washcloths for washing and drying. He looked at Harry expectantly, a satisfied smile on his pale face.

“No.” 

Voldemort’s eyebrows rose and with a flick of his wand, he sent Harry crashing back down to his knees. Harry couldn’t help but cry out at the pain that shot through him at the impact. The sound echoed off the walls, intermingled with a boom of thunder. 

Lightning flashed as Voldemort leaned forward, grabbing Harry by the lapels of his uniform, pulling him so close that their faces were inches apart. He was now in between the Dark Lord's legs, chest almost flush against his.

“I tire of this defiance.”  

Voldemort’s spidery hand crept up Harry’s torso, wrapping itself around his neck.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but his throat was squeezed with more force than he would have thought possible. He gasped for air as Voldemort’s red eyes scanned his.

“It doesn’t have to be like this, my soul.” Voldemort whispered, his inflection so odd, it was a moment before Harry realised, he was speaking Parseltongue.

Harry shivered as Voldemort’s mouth moved close to his ear, almost touching it as he spoke a language only the two of them could understand. 

“Submit to my will, give yourself over to me.” 

Voldemort’s breath felt like an icy wind, with the scent of something bitter and metallic - it tickled the shell of Harry’s ear and the nap of his neck making him arch involuntarily forward, brushing against The Dark Lord’s chest. 

They both inhaled this time; Harry closed his eyes at the strange sensation brought on by their proximity. Once again it was as though they were the only two people in the room, no one else mattered. The storm outside intensified, the rain pounding against the window as if to mimic the flustered beating of Harry’s heart as Voldemort held him close.

The hand around Harry’s throat loosed to allow him to speak and he found that he was lost for words. Voldemort kept his face close to Harry’s own, inhaling his scent in a way that made Harry flush, although he didn’t completely understand why.

And then suddenly, a soft wetness touched the shell of his ear, and he jolted back in shock. Voldemort had licked him. He felt a strange buzz in his chest, his face was hot, and his ear tingled with a not unpleasant feeling.

Voldemort was looking at him with sheer, unguarded lust. It was an expression Harry had never expected to see on his arch nemesis. But it was as clear as day. Lord Voldemort wanted him.

Raising two hands Harry pushed himself off Voldemort’s chest, stumbling backwards down the aisle of Death Eaters. The Dark Lord didn’t attempt to stop him - he just fixed him with that same look of undeniable want, so chilling that Harry finally found his voice.

“I will never submit!” He shouted, realising a beat later he had replied in Parseltongue.

Exhausted and shaking uncontrollably, Harry turned on his heel and sprinted out of the room.

No one stopped him.

Chapter Text

December, 1999. Narcissa.

The sharp chill of the windowpane sent jolts of cold along Narcissa’s fingertips as she surveyed the extensive gardens of Malfoy Manor from the drawing room window. Frost blanketed the greenery outside; Lucius’ precious peacocks having been moved into their winter enclosure for the next few months. Wind rattled the panes and Narcissa put the pads of two fingers against the glass, marvelling at the contrast between the cosy room and the world beyond.

The room was richly appointed, with a stately fireplace and polished grand piano that reflected the dancing firelight almost as clearly as a mirror. Bookshelves lined the walls - an extensive collection on everything from spell books to ancient magical lore. The largest collection of magical tomes outside of Hogwarts.

Several large, finely upholstered armchairs were scattered around the room for reading or leisure. With amusement, she noticed Draco’s copy of Quidditch Through the Ages left open on one of them, with a page on the Falmouth Falcons dog-eared.

A comfortable dark green sofa was positioned in the middle of the room in front of the fireplace. Normally that was where Narcissa would choose to sit this time of year, right in front of the crackling fire with a good book and a glass of mulled wine. But she found that she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the ragged, solitary figure in the garden, toiling amongst the frosted leaves and brambles. 

When Lucius had told her Potter would be their prisoner, forced to perform back-breaking, menial tasks around the estate, Narcissa had not known what to expect. Certainly not this quiet, lonely young man who kept his head down and completed whatever task - no matter how degrading - the Malfoy’s gave him.

Was he broken? She wondered, watching the boy yank spiked weeds out of the frosted ground, the harsh winter wind pulling at his thin shirt.

She knew Potter had been held and tortured by the Dark Lord for weeks after he was captured, which would be enough to break anyone, much less a seventeen-year-old boy on the cusp of maturity.

The grey clouds that had been hovering over the estate since morning finally released their bounty and Narcissa watched as Harry’s back hunched against the freezing droplets.

Enough.

Moving quickly down the hallway, Narcissa ducked her head into Lucius' study to ensure that he was out before making her way down to the kitchen to gather supplies for her plan.

***

Fifteen minutes later Lady Malfoy made her way out into the grounds, eyes peeled for the Potter boy. She wore a decadent floor length, white fur coat, charmed with a spell to repel rain and dirt. Her hair was drawn up in a tight top knot and secured with a silver pin, in-laid with pearls. Their lives may be at the mercy of a sociopath, who was now shaping the magical world to his cruel and capricious whims, but that was no excuse for a bad hair day. 

After a minute searching, she found him sweeping leaves off the garden path, his thin frame shivering in the rain and wind. Harry’s wet shirt was plastered to stomach, revealing ribs that were far too pronounced. 

Playing the part of an elegant, elitist pure-blood lady for anyone who might be observing, Narcissa marched up to Potter, her polished black boots clicking loudly on the stone garden path. 

The boy turned to face her, his expression wary, but also defeated in a way that hurt her heart.

“You, boy!” She snapped tersely, hating herself. “Come with me right now.” 

Not bothering to explain further, Narcissa turned on her heel and marched inside, trusting that Harry would follow her out of the cold.

When they reached the drawing room, she beckoned him in before shutting the door.

Turning to face the boy, Narcissa forced herself not to wince. Harry was standing in the middle of the room looking longingly at the fire. His sodden rags barely covered his legs and torso. His face was drawn and pale, with pronounced grey bags under his eyes. 

Warily he looked up at her, energy and resentment flashing for a moment in those tired eyes. 

Not so broken then, after all…

Forcing a sneer to her face Narcissa waved a hand around the room. The fire was crackling merrily and there were plates of food by the sofa - fresh chicken sandwiches and treacle tart, along with a jug of butterbeer. Narcissa didn’t prepare food regularly, but she was quite proud of the spread. 

“You will stay here.” She hissed, doing her best Bella impersonation. 

Harry merely looked confused.

“You will stay here and clean this room, it is filthy.”

Harry surveyed the room and then raised an eyebrow at her. It was spotless and they both knew it.

Raising her eyebrows meaningfully at him she tilted her head to sandwiches and sweets laid out on the wooden table by the sofa.

“Potter, you will stay in this room for at least the next two hours. It must be spotless; do you understand me? And do something with this food, for goodness’ sake, the cook made too much. Stupid, wasteful man.” 

Folding her arms in front of her Narcissa let a sliver of a smile slip through before her face became a mask of disgust once more. Harry looked shocked before giving her a small nod.

“I understand.” He replied, the gratitude on his face almost breaking her composure.

Moving to the door, Narcissa did not dare utter another word before slipping into the hall and retiring to her room for an afternoon nap.

She knew it was risky, if the Dark Lord somehow found out what she had done for Potter, he would most likely torture her and her family. But Harry reminded her so much of Draco, both boys forced to become men too soon.

Both Harry and Draco were at the mercy of a tyrant who would direct the course of their lives to the grave. She could not save her son from having to serve the madman, nor could she set Harry free. But she could make things easier for him occasionally, lighten his load or give respite when she was able.

He was, after all, just a boy…

Chapter Text

January 2000. Harry.

***

A forest clearing at midnight illuminated by the silver light of the moon. Trees rustle in the cool breeze. Somewhere in the distance an owl hoots. Harry watches as the Dark Lord’s cloak swirls around him in black tendrils of otherworldly smoke. The Death Eaters observe the scene from the tree line - the tension in the forest thick and tangible. 

He observes from above, watching his younger self walk slowly into the clearing. 

Harry waits and watches, but this Harry does not speak. He does not tell Voldemort about the unintended horcrux. 

After a moment of cool consideration, Voldemort raises his wands and sends the killing curse hurtling towards a stoic Harry Potter, who falls to the ground, a puppet with his strings cut. 

The horcrux is vanquished. Harry’s macabre destiny is fulfilled. 

Dumbledore’s man through and through. 

This was how it was meant to be, Harry thinks, watching his motionless body from above. I was meant to die…

Waves of guilt pull him from slumber, back to his small room just off the kitchen of Malfoy Manor. His brown, threadbare blanket is twisted around his legs which are covered in sweat, despite the cold January weather. 

I was meant to die that night…

Breathing hard, Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. 

I shouldn’t be here…

If he had just done what he was meant to do - what Dumbledore had wanted him to do, then the Dark Lord would be one step closer to being vanquished. But for the first time - in a moment of weakness - he had decided to put his own life before the lives of others. 

In that moment he had changed his fate and that of Tom Riddle’s. By putting himself first he had cemented Lord Voldemort as the ruler of wizarding Britain and condemned those he cared about to suffer under his rule for the rest of their lives. 

Resting his head on his pillow Harry closed his eyes, willing his mind to settle, but the sickly feeling of guilt gnawed at him. 

Unbearable. Inescapable.

Voldemort had won, because of Harry. He knew as long as he lived, he would never forgive himself for it.

***

The temperature in the Malfoy kitchen rose exponentially - a silent signal. Unease coiled within Harry, and he put down the knife he had been using to chop carrots for this evening’s soup. Taking a few deep breaths, Harry gripped the edge of the kitchen bench to ground himself. The heat washed over him in waves, making him feel faint. 

Narcissa only raised the temperature in the kitchen to horrendous levels when Lord Voldemort visited Malfoy Manor, both as a warning to Harry and to maintain the facade that putting Harry to work in the kitchen was a punishment - as opposed to a respite from the bitter weather outside. 

A month ago, she had complained loudly to Lucius that their cook was terrible, and she wanted the man fired. Harry had watched as Mr Malfoy simply raised a hand in acquiescence, keen to leave the domestic matters to his wife. 

From that point on Harry had been put to work in the kitchens. Sequestered in the warmth, he was spared his regular gardening duties, instead being responsible for cooking for the Malfoy’s and their guests.

It wasn’t too difficult given Lucius and Draco worked long hours at the Ministry, Draco having just started his auror traineeship. When it was only the two of them in the house Narcissa dropped the mask of haughty Death Eater’s wife, coming down to the kitchen to see how he was fairing and reminding him to take regular breaks. 

She also took an interest in the meals he made, thanking him graciously whenever he placed a plate in front of her (assuming Lucius wasn’t around). Harry found that with her encouragement he was taking more risks than he had previously when forced to cook for the Dursley’s. Experimenting with new recipes and unfamiliar herbs proved a highpoint in his otherwise monotonous day. Although he was flooded with feelings of guilt whenever the act of cooking gave him even the slightest bit of happiness. 

You don’t deserve to be happy, he mentally scolded himself, thinking of Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys or the many others he had condemned to life under Voldemort’s thumb. 

Lord Voldemort had visited twice within the last month - for what reason Harry was unsure. Each time had felt a prickle of unease before he was made aware of Voldemort’s presence in the manor, a brief, but sharp chill down the back of his neck that told him something was amiss. 

But despite his demands and (Harry shivered at the not-completely-unpleasant memory) attempted seduction, Voldemort had not spoken to Harry in the past six months. Harry found it odd that after Tom had held him so intimately - not to mention licking his ear - he had apparently decided other things were more worthy of his attention.

It doesn’t have to be like this, my soul.

Submit to my will, give yourself over to me…

A tumult of feelings rose up at the memory, disgust, arousal and most of all, shame. Shame that even for a second, he had enjoyed the feeling of Voldemort’s hands on him, the Dark Lord’s tongue on his flesh. 

But despite the disgust he felt at being held and touched by his parent’s murderer, Harry couldn’t help but remember how good it had felt when Voldemort had gripped the back of his neck, or when their chests had brushed together accidentally. 

What is wrong with me?

Harry was torn from his internal torment by the completely unexpected sound of the tea bell echoing through the kitchen. 

It can’t be… he muttered, but the bell was as clear as anything, its persistent jingle bouncing off the stone walls of the Malfoy kitchen.

Lord Voldemort wants… tea? Harry almost laughed at the absurdity of it. When he pictured Voldemort drinking a beverage it was a rich red wine or perhaps the blood of innocent muggles. Not the Malfoy’s finest Devonshire blend. 

Trying to master his nerves, Harry prepared the tray and carefully carried it up the stairs towards the most richly appointed drawing room in Malfoy Manor. His instincts proved correct when he opened the door to find Lord Voldemort sitting in a firm armchair upholstered with dark green fabric. He lamented that of all the chairs in the room, Voldemort had chosen Harry’s favourite. The one he favoured when Narcissa asked him to sit and have tea because of its proximity to the fireplace.

Narcissa gave him a haughty look from where she was standing by the window, feigning disgust as Harry set down the tray. She was a brilliant actress - but was it enough to fool the Dark Lord? Harry wanted to retreat to the kitchen (despite the sweltering heat) and get as far away from Voldemort as possible, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving Narcissa alone with him.

Voldemort, for his part, glanced dismissively at Harry with indifference, but he could feel the Dark Lord’s attention like a brand on his skin. Voldemort was also, unsurprisingly, a good actor.

Harry, however, was not. He couldn’t help the frown on his face or the bitterness shining in his eyes as moved away from the tray. 

Voldemort’s eyes lit up, the shadow of a wicked smile crossing his otherwise emotionless face. He likes goading me, Harry realised, his face reddening at Voldemort’s taunting grin.

The room was silent as Harry made towards the door.

“Pour the tea.” That high, cold voice commanded, like Harry was an idiot. 

He reddened further, giving the Dark Lord a glare that he hoped communicated the depths of his loathing. Voldemort simply turned to Narcissa, effectively ignoring Harry. 

It was confusing and dismissive, and oh, how Harry hated it. Six months ago, Lord Voldemort had effectively propositioned him in front of the Death Eaters. But now he wanted to pretend Harry was beneath his notice?

Harry knew he shouldn’t rise to the bait - shouldn’t play into Voldemort’s hands. But he was so sick of being ignored, of being tucked away in Malfoy Manor with no idea of what was happening to those he cared about. He was sick of this game that Voldemort seemed intent on playing with him. Sick of not knowing what was happening to his friends. So, in a raised voice he asked,

“What are you doing here?”

Narcissa blanched and subtly shook her head. Voldemort turned slowly, fixing the intensity of his stormy gaze entirely on Harry, who refused to flinch. 

Is this what you wanted, my horcrux? My full attention? The Dark Lord’s ruby red eyes seemed to say. Well, you have it.

“How dare you interrupt us, you insolent little brat!” Narcissa snapped at him. 

In a softer, more placating tone she addressed Voldemort, “I am sorry, my Lord, but it is too be expected with the boy’s background -”

Voldemort raised a hand to silence her, but his eyes were still on Harry.

“Pour the tea.” He hissed again simply, and it took a moment, but Harry realised he was speaking Parseltongue. 

Harry did as he was told, adding a small amount of milk and sugar, just as Narcissa liked. Handing her the cup, he poured another one for Voldemort, willing the scolding liquid to burn the Dark Lord’s pale throat. 

“Sugar?” He asked, a little too much bite in the word.

“Later…” Voldemort replied without missing a beat, eyes lingering on Harry’s mouth.

Harry blushed again furiously, and Lord Voldemort smiled in a predatory way. Fighting the urge to look away, Harry did not lower his gaze. Instead, he focused on a single fact, willing the Dark Lord to harness whatever connection they had and read his mind. 

I am not afraid of you…

A tense moment passed, and Voldemort turned to Narcissa. 

“He looks well…”

Both Harry and Narcissa tensed, the movement noticed by Voldemort. There was an accusation in that statement and Harry desperately wished he could draw the Dark Lord’s attention away from Narcissa Malfoy.

“Servitude agrees with him.” Narcissa sneered, but Voldemort did not smile. Had he guessed that Narcissa had in fact been treating Harry well these last few months? 

Handing Voldemort his tea, Harry let a finger brush against one of his, as if by accident. He was amazed when his trick worked, and Lord Voldemort turned his attention back from Narcissa, eyes lingering on Harry’s hand as it retreated. 

A strange tingle travelled up Harry’s fingertips as he moved away. Voldemort held the teacup, but did not drink, placing it back on the tray after a few seconds. 

“I hear you are proving to be quite the chef.” He said to Harry, a condescending smile on his face. 

“He is tolerable enough…” Narcissa added, probably glad the conversation had turned.

“And yet, you fired one of the best chefs in wizarding Britain, perhaps the world, to put someone just ‘tolerable enough’ in his place?” Voldemort said with a curious lilt to his voice.

Narcissa went pale but recovered quickly. 

“Our old chef wasn’t suited to making meals for the family-”

“But somehow your prisoner, who has no professional culinary training, is suited to making meals for your family and all your guests?” Voldemort enquired coolly, rising to his full height. The drawing room seemed to get darker as the Dark Lord stood tall. Even though they were inside, the air crackled with energy like a storm was about to break. A harsh wind scratched at Harry’s cheeks, despite the windows being closed. 

Narcissa's unaffected mask was fading. Harry watched as her hands began to shake ever so slightly.

Oh no, oh no…

“I am!” Harry exclaimed, claiming the attention of the room.

“You are what?” Voldemort asked, looking at Harry as though he were a simpleton. The dark energy swirling around him slowed in contemplation. 

“One - one of the best chefs in wizarding Britain!” He declared, puffing out his chest.

Voldemort raised a non-existent eyebrow, his face uncharacteristically incredulous.

Narcissa regarded Harry with a mortified, we are so dead expression.

“I mean - I am a very good chef, perhaps not the best in wizarding Britain.” Harry stammered, trying to recover. What was he thinking?!

Narcissa subtly shook her head, eyes wide with warning. Stop talking! Her blue irises screamed. Harry swallowed. Maybe her constant praise of his culinary skills had been more for motivational purposes?

Suddenly unsure, Harry took a slight step back. Smelling blood in the water, Voldemort advanced, a spidery hand outstretched to grip Harry’s chin.

“Now, now.” The Dark Lord whispered in a sickly soothing voice. He towered in front Harry, their chests almost touching. “Don’t disparage your abilities, Harry. After all, why would the Malfoy’s disobey my orders and bring you out of the cold to cook for them, if you weren’t one of the best chefs in wizarding Britain?”

Voldemort gently stroked Harry’s chin as he said the last few words, a wicked gleam in his eyes. He is enjoying playing with me, Harry thought, lost for words.

The Dark Lord was a viper and Harry a small, garden mouse being toyed with before being swallowed whole. 

Voldemort’s fingers on his chin felt wrong, and yet somehow right. Fighting the urge to close his eyes, Harry made to swat the hand away, but Voldemort moved away before he could act.

Turning to Narcissa Malfoy, The Dark Lord sealed their doom with one hissed sentence. 

“I will join you for dinner.”

***

Two hours later Harry’s hands shook as he carried the large pot of lamb stew up the stone stairs to the dining room.

When Voldemort had announced that he would be staying for dinner to sample the food of one of Britain's best chefs, Narcissa had no choice but to declare how honoured they would be by his presence at the family table. She immediately ordered Harry back downstairs to work on what she assured the Dark Lord would be one of the finest meals he had ever tasted. 

Harry had no choice but to resume cooking the lamb stew he had been preparing for the Malfoy’s when Voldemort arrived. It was a new, advanced recipe which he had been reluctant to try, the herbs having been imported at Narcissa’s insistence. But it would turn out amazing if he got it right.

Now, as he placed the pot on the table, Harry felt less assured. Voldemort sat at the head of the table, his effortlessly imposing presence reminiscent of a king on a throne. Narcissa and Lucius sat to his left, backs uncharacteristically curved in contrast. They were nervous, and with good reason. 

Voldemort thanked him in Parseltongue when Harry handed him his bowl first, grabbing his wrist softly, but firmly. The coldness of Voldemort’s touch contrasted sharply with Harry’s own body heat, making his skin tingle with a strange energy. 

“Sit by me.” Voldemort hissed. It wasn’t a request. 

Narcissa and Lucius flinched at the unfamiliar, serpentine words coming from their Lord’s mouth and Harry wanted to snap at them. It’s your fault he’s here, no one forced you to join an elitist, homicidal cult. 

He quickly served the Malfoy’s their soup, before ladling his own bowl and reluctantly taking the seat to Voldemort’s right.

“Eat.” The Dark Lord said simply for everyone to hear, indicating Harry should go first. 

The room was silent, as Narcissa and Lucius focused their fearful gazes on him. They looked… tired and scared. Harry had hated the Malfoy’s when he first arrived, viewing them as nothing more than Voldemort’s cruel lackeys, but now he realised with a pang that they were as much prisoners as he was. 

Scooping a portion of soup from his bowl, Harry bit into the lamb, letting the delicious juices fill his mouth. 

The entire room was silent. Narcissa watched his reactions as though her life depended on it. Which, in all fairness, it probably did. 

Harry swallowed the meat, attempting to give the Malfoy’s a reassuring smile, but he cringed when he was hit with a bitter, salty after taste. Too much salt.

Narcissa blanched at his expression and Lucius’ fork shook slightly. Their faces were filled with barely concealed terror.

Lord Voldemort’s face broke into a cruel, satisfied grin. Scooping up a piece of meat, he chewed it slowly, savouring Harry’s failure with a twisted glee. 

“Come now.” He hissed to the room at large. “Dear Harry has worked hard to give us a treat. Let us show him we appreciate his efforts.” 

Narcissa and Lucius began eating, doing their best to hide their reactions to the overly salted meat. But Harry saw them wince a little with each bite. 

Voldemort’s hard, red eyes bore into Harry’s own, as he uttered one simple word, 

“Eat.”

***

After all their bowls were empty and the meal concluded, Voldemort ordered Lucius to go back to the Ministry, despite the fact it was almost eight o’clock. 

Mr Malfoy seemed grateful to leave, rising hurriedly from his seat and bowing.

Don’t leave. Harry pleaded silently. Don’t leave your wife with him.

But Lucius Malfoy left quickly without a backwards glance at Narcissa. Harry wanted to curse him, the coward. 

A pregnant pause filled the room as both Harry and Narcissa waited for Voldemort to speak. 

“One of the best chefs in wizarding Britain…” Voldemort stated coolly, letting his words hang in the air, before turning to Narcissa.

“Why did you extricate Potter from his duties in the garden to sequester him comfortably in the kitchen to play chef? Why did you endeavour to make his life easier, when I specifically instructed you to make it harder?” 

Narcissa shook slightly, before straightening, a wary resolve in her eyes.

“He’s just a boy.”

“And?” Lord Voldemort asked, his voice deathly soft.

“He’s just a boy, he doesn’t deserve-”

The room exploded. Dark magic swirled around Voldemort, loud and fierce as a hurricane. Narcissa screamed as the windows shattered and the cutlery went flying. Lord Voldemort’s rage was deafening, his magic a smothering wave of inky black, somehow both burning Harry and chilling him to the bone.

Narcissa went flying, hitting the wall with a crash. Harry shouted for him to stop, grabbing the only weapon he could find, a paltry butter knife. 

Lord Voldemort’s red eyes glowed with rage; his attention solely focused on Narcissa’s cowering form. Blood poured from her forehead, intermingling with the tears streaming down her face, but at least she was alive. 

Voldemort raised his wand.

“Stop!” Harry screamed once more, but no one could hear him over the wind. Clutching the butter knife he vaulted over the table, taking Voldemort by surprise as he attempted to tackle him to the ground.

The Dark Lord’s magic caught him mid-air, Voldemort’s shocked gaze on the pitiful knife Harry had been attempting to use against one of the most powerful wizards of all time. 

With a slight flick of his wand, Voldemort sent Harry soaring through the air across the room. His head hit something hard, and spots filled his vision. 

He won’t kill me; he needs me alive…

Harry watched in a daze as Voldemort moved over to him, eyes flicking over his form, before raising his wand.

“No…” Harry moaned as Voldemort’s fierce magic pulled him into oblivion.

***

Daylight was streaming through the broken windows when Harry awoke, alive but with a throbbing pain in his head and side where he had hit the wall. His head and left arm were covered with dried blood and his ankle was twisted in a way that suggested it was badly sprained or fractured. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have run at one of the most powerful wizards of all time with a butter knife…

The room was a mess, with chairs broken, glass littering the floor and the table split in half. The remnants of Harry’s lamb stew had been overturned in the pot and now stained the Malfoy’s Persian rug.

Most distressingly both Voldemort and Narcissa were gone. Were they still in the manor? Was Narcissa even alive?

The uncontrolled rage emanating from Voldemort had been completely overwhelming. And the lack of self-control when it came to his human Horcrux proved that the Dark Lord found it difficult to exercise restraint. He needed Harry alive, but Voldemort had left him unconscious and bleeding, lying amongst broken glass and shards of furniture.

He had no reason to even try to exercise restraint with Narcissa Malfoy.

Clutching his throbbing head, Harry hobbled to his feet. Eyes searching, ears straining to hear sounds of life in Malfoy Manor. 

A few tense moments and Harry slumped back down against the wall, legs shaking, unable to support himself. He assumed from the silence that both Lord Voldemort and Narcissa were no longer in the manor. He also knew that if Mrs Malfoy was here, she would be with him, making sure he was alright. 

So, the question was, where had the Dark Lord taken Narcissa and was she even alive? He needed to find out.