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As was tradition, Harry met the man to whom he would be made made magically and legally subservient on the dais during their bonding ceremony.

He was prepared elsewhere in the cathedral, and before he was presented, they blindfolded him. Harry wore a luxurious, loose robe that had all the elements of a gown, except that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it. He felt anxious and exposed, unable to see his surroundings but well-aware there was an audience, as his father led him out.

Then his father removed Harry’s blindfold with trembling, cold fingers, and Harry beheld Lord Voldemort in person for the first time.

Of course, Harry had seen him before. He was Grand Minister Grindelwald’s lieutenant. His face and story became famous when the Grand Minister gave him the title; at the time, he’d been a little younger than Harry was today.

Now he was older than Harry’s father, but looked about the same age as James. His hair was still dark, his face only faintly lined. In the photographs Harry had poured over since his parents first made the match, his eyes appeared black. But Harry could see they were actually very dark brown, like an ebony wand. The light angling in from the skylights above them picked up a gleam of dark gold in the center of his irises.

Lord Voldemort reached out without hesitation and scraped his fingernail over Harry’s lower lip, smiled, and then turned to the bonder.

“Well?” he demanded, in a low, commanding voice that made Harry jump—and, also, embarrassingly eager for later in the evening.

Harry knew what was expected of a bonded subservient, and he’d always thought it would be a difficult adjustment for him. He’d do it, of course; he had his family’s honor to consider. But he’d expected it would be something he’d have to grin and bear, not something to which he’d look forward. Apparently knowing that Lord Voldemort was the person who would hold his leash, so to speak, made all the difference.

Harry rattled off the Latin vow he’d practiced and stiffly held out his arm, which the bonder pressed against Lord Voldemort’s. He then slowly wound the same black cloth that had kept Harry blind from the preparation room to the dais around their forearms. The cloth bound them tightly enough Harry could feel Lord Voldemort’s pulse steady and even against his wrist. It felt startlingly intimate, and when he chanced an upward glance, Lord Voldemort was watching him intently. At first Harry had thought his face was inexpressive. Now he saw there were a thousand subtle, changing signals, though he didn’t know what any of them meant. There was a crease in Lord Voldemort’s left cheek as though he was biting it on the inside. A very slight wrinkle between  his dark eyebrows.

Harry knew that he, in contrast, was an open book. Everyone said so. A “glass face,” a “terrible liar”; however they chose to put it. So he knew all his nerves and his strange, unfocused longing must show on his face as he and Lord Voldemort gazed at one another, the bonder now unwrapping the cloth. Fortunately, Harry’s reaction seemed to please—or at least, to amuse—Lord Voldemort. He smiled slowly, sharply, and Harry licked his lower lip, remembering what Lord Voldemort’s touch had felt like there.

As soon as the last of the cloth fell free, Harry felt it: a deep, steady tug on every cell, like someone was trying to yank his soul from his body, and all the blood from his veins, and every thought from his head, all at once. His father had told him it was important for him to bear it bravely, so he didn’t stumble or stagger. His gasp was soft. And then it was over, and his magic was Lord Voldemort’s to call upon whenever he should ask for it.

There was applause. Lord Voldemort’s color was high, and he looked the slightest bit unsteady himself, when he reached out and took Harry’s hand. He laced their fingers together with familiarity, as though they’d known one another for years and not a quarter hour, and led Harry back down the aisle. Now that Harry could see, he blinked at the vast number of faces surrounding him. The youngest of his friends, Harry had been to several ceremonies before his own. Though he’d expected a larger turnout, given Lord Voldemort’s particular status, he was sure there were triple the number of people he’d seen when Neville was bonded to Rodolphus Lestrange.

Harry happened to catch a glimpse of his parents and his brothers. The boys looked variously bored or awestruck. His mother was uncertain, but smiled reassuringly when she saw him looking. His father looked proud, though Harry thought he glimpsed a hint of uneasiness when he looked from Harry to Lord Voldemort.

Then he felt Lord Voldemort's hand on the back of his neck, and looked at his feet the rest of the way into the vestibule.

The doors to the hall closed behind them, and they were, very abruptly, alone. It was still a public place, Harry supposed, conscious of the high windows and marble floors in his peripheral vision. He'd come in this way when he went to the preparation room, where he'd taken potions and bathed in oils and generally been made ready for the final step that would cement their bond.

There was nothing quite so potent as sex magic, after all.

"Look at me, my dear," said Lord Voldemort quietly, and Harry turned toward him and looked up. Lord Voldemort's hand was still gently cupping the back of his neck, his thumb brushing Harry's collarbone. His eyes didn't meet Harry's; he was looking at Harry's mouth, his parted lips. He ducked his head and they kissed, quick and deep, a shallow thrust of his tongue opening Harry's willing mouth. Then Lord Voldemort retreated just enough to bite hard on Harry's lower lip.

The copper taste of blood and the slight but unexpected pain would have made Harry jerk back, but Lord Voldemort was holding him firmly by the neck, so he didn't get far. He remembered his father telling him about this, too. That the bond would demand satisfaction, and that Lord Voldemort would be no more immune to its demands than Harry.

Harry had stolen a few kisses here and there growing up, before he was being seriously considered for a bond and scrutiny became intense, making any sort of affair next to impossible. He didn't remember any of them being like this. Lord Voldemort's kiss was an attack, and when Harry froze, slack-jawed and on the edge of surrender, Lord Voldemort growled against the corner of his mouth and Harry's courage unfurled. He pressed forward against Lord Voldemort’s mouth instead of back against his hand, and met his challenge with one of his own.

Meanwhile, Harry's hands were roaming the unfamiliar planes of Lord Voldemort's chest with increasing confidence, mapping the firm, warm terrain, and Lord Voldemort's free hand was skating over Harry's arse in a way that made him moan, thinking of all the ways he would soon be touched...

"Pardon me," murmured someone, voice alight with something like laughter, and Harry and Lord Voldemort both went instantly still. Harry might have turned—the voice seemed to be coming from behind him—but Lord Voldemort pulled him closer so his face was turned against his shoulder, his hand sliding into Harry's hair to hold him firmly in place. He spoke over Harry's head.

"You needn't beg anyone's pardon, Grand Minister," said Lord Voldemort, but his tone was borderline incendiary at the interruption.

Harry's mind went blank. Grand Minister?

“Well, it would be understandable if you resented an interruption of this special moment," the third man continued. Harry was still wrestling with his disbelief that this could truly be the Grand Minister speaking, and getting closer. Harry could hear, over his own panting and the steady throb of Lord Voldemort's heart against his ear, the sound of fine wooden soles on the marble, a muted staccato.

"You are ever within your rights to call upon me," said Lord Voldemort evenly, but Harry felt his heartbeat pick up pace, very slightly, in the moment before Lord Voldemort pulled away from him and then turned Harry around in his arms to face forward.

If he needed it, Harry had his confirmation. There was the Grand Minister Grindelwald, in understated black silk robes, the high collar a sharp contrast to the perfect ivory of his throat. He was everywhere very white ; his skin, his even teeth, on grinning display, and his bright hair, cascading in loose ringlets to his shoulder-blades.

His eyes were blue, but such a frost-ice shade they could almost have been white, too.

Lord Voldemort held Harry flush against his chest, his left arm around Harry's waist, the right across his chest, his fingertips resting lightly on the left side of Harry's jaw, as though he was presenting Harry for inspection. The heavy silk of Harry's robes was pressed tightly against his arse, and he could easily feel the outline of the two hard columns of Lord Voldemort's upper thighs against it.

He had difficulty focusing on the Grand Minister, which was ridiculous. The Grand Minister was the most powerful wizard in the world, though he was so rarely seen that Harry hadn't even known what he would look like.

"I come," said the Grand Minister, "to partake in your ritual. As is my privilege, as your bond holder."

Lord Voldemort stiffened, and Harry did, too. He was confused. Though he knew that like any powerful wizard, Lord Voldemort would have been selected for bonding in his youth, the details of the ceremonies were always kept private. Attendees couldn't speak of them upon leaving the hall.

So while he'd known Lord Voldemort must somewhere have a superior bond holder, he hadn't dreamed it would be the Grand Minister.

"That," Lord Voldemort said, "is no longer done."

Grand Minister Grindelwald's wide smile because close-mouthed and sinister. "Oh, Tom, my darling. I may do as I like. Now," the Grand Minister continued, studying Harry as he came closer. With each step, Lord Voldemort's grip on Harry grew tighter. His fingernails dug into the fabric bunched at Harry's hip so tightly he thought they might tear it and score the skin beneath. The hand that had framed Harry's jaw closed snugly around his neck.

"What have we here?" The Grand Minister was almost exactly the same height as Lord Voldemort, so he had to look down at Harry when they stood toe to toe, his long white fingertips carding through Harry's hair. Lord Voldemort was holding Harry's throat so tightly that Harry saw stars, but there was something pleasant about it; or at least, the half-formed bond must have thought so, because it wasn't the sort of thing Harry thought would have interested him under other circumstances.

His vision was narrowing to include only the universe of the Grand Minister's oddly ageless ivory face, his robes so fine they rippled like water as he breathed and moved. His eyes had been moving over Harry's face, but never meeting his eye, and now they lifted altogether to a point over Harry's head where he could almost envision Lord Voldemort's scowl.

"He is lovely," Grand Minister Grindelwald said quietly, still stroking Harry's hair, feather-light. "Congratulations."

Harry thought he should object to being so blatantly objectified, but instead he just became distracted by the way the silk felt on his quickly filling cock. His body didn't seem to mind that the Grand Minister was present, much less that if he got any closer, Harry's hardness would touch his thigh.

Horrified, Harry squirmed against Lord Voldemort, and it only made things worse. Whatever staring match Lord Voldemort and the Grand Minister had been engaged in ended, and the Grand Minister glanced down .

His smile warmed a few degrees and he met Harry's eye almost ruefully. "Harry, isn't it?"

Harry's throat flexed against Lord Voldemort's palm.

"Let him speak," the Grand Minister snapped, still watching Harry, and Lord Voldemort's grip eased.

Harry exhaled raggedly, dizzy and breathless for different reasons, as the Grand Minister took a final step closer so he was pressed deliberately against Harry's cock.

"The bond will be very insistent, and you're a seventeen-year-old virgin, besides," the Grand Minister said blithely, rubbing his thigh firmly against Harry, though he was moving only the barest amount, up and down. "You poor thing." He reached around Harry and put his arms around both Harry and Lord Voldemort. "Tom, you must have had somewhere in mind. Can you Apparate all three of us?"

"Of course," was Lord Voldemort's clipped reply.

They arrived in a bedchamber, dark and opulent. There was a fireplace, large enough to Floo in, but it was cold and shuttered. Lord Voldemort continued to hold Harry very tightly, but the Grand Minister stepped away from them at once to walk a slow circuit around the room, studying everything.

"It's just as I remember," he said quietly. Lord Voldemort's hands were moving down Harry's front, and Harry realized, with a sort of stunned delight, that he could feel Lord Voldemort's hard cock against the small of his back.

"I suppose it is." Lord Voldemort walked backwards so they were nearer the bed, then finally let go of Harry, only to press him down into a seated position on the edge of the bed. "Does he know you're here?"

The Grand Minister laughed, surprised. Harry looked over at him just as he lit a fire with his wand and turned to face them, smiling. "Of course he knows, Tom. It was his idea. Though I like to think I would have come to the same conclusion eventually."

"I find that hard to believe," said Lord Voldemort. "Considering he's the one who forbade you coming here in the first place."

The Grand Minister looked thoughtful. "That was different. In this case, necessity brings me. Albus is concerned you'll try to kill me the moment you're supplied with the boy's magic, and I rather think he's right. Better we ensure your good behavior, just in case."

Lord Voldemort was unreadable to Harry, even with the firelight illuminating his face. He was even more strikingly handsome now than when Harry had first seen him; very slightly disheveled, nostrils flared, his magic radiating dangerously. Harry was very conscious of Lord Voldemort’s magic, due to the incomplete bond. When Lord Voldemort reached out and absently laid a hand on Harry's head, he whimpered at the way it seemed to soothe him in a hundred simultaneous ways.

"It's cruel to make him wait, although he is behaving so beautifully," said Grand Minister Grindelwald, watching Harry intently. "We can do this quickly, and I'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening as it should be: the two of you, alone."

"Do...?" Harry said before he could stop himself. Both men looked at him sharply, like he was prey and had just betrayed his hiding place. The sound of his soft voice seemed somehow thunderous and out of place in the quiet room. Harry cleared his throat. “Do what?”

“Oh, forgive us, Harry,” said the Grand Minister, his smile immediate. He advanced toward them, but stopped part way and began to unbutton his robes. “I’ll have to fuck you, you see.”

“ What ?” Grand Minister or not, Harry wasn’t going to be passed around! He looked desperately at Lord Voldemort, who was his bonded , and had a responsibility ...

But Lord Voldemort was looking pensively at the Grand Minister and didn’t seem to notice Harry’s distress. And the Grand Minister was still working through his dozens of buttons, so small they were practically invisible, as though Harry hadn’t said anything at all.

Then, Lord Voldemort crossed his arms. “No,” he said, clearly and almost without inflection. Harry held his breath. The Grand Minister looked up. Backlit by the fire, his face was hard to make out.

“Oh?”

“You know the alternative,” the Grand Minister said, but he looked interested. “You didn’t permit that even when we were still—”

“These are special circumstances,” said Lord Voldemort shortly. “Or will you deny me?”

“No,” the Grand Minister said more softly. “I couldn’t, Tom.”

Lord Voldemort nodded shortly. “Very well, then. I’ll take the boy first, and then, before the magic settles—”

“I’ll take you,” murmured the Grand Minister.

Harry gaped at both of them from his seat on the bed. The Grand Minister had abandoned his efforts at undressing and was watching Lord Voldemort with naked excitement, and Lord Voldemort was crawling up onto the bed next to Harry.

He looked very seriously into Harry’s face. “After this evening, things will be different,” he said quietly, and leaned in to kiss Harry. He braced himself for violence, like their first kiss in the hall, but this time Lord Voldemort was gentle, warm, and close-mouthed.

“The bond is a gift,” he said. “Your magic is a gift to me. I deeply appreciate it.” He laid Harry back on the mattress, his calves still dangling over the edge of the bed, and then unlaced the collar of his robes with a pulse of wandless magic.

The silk of Harry’s robes was already tented by his cock, and he was sweaty and panting, but he couldn’t bring himself to be self-conscious. Lord Voldemort parted his garment and laid it open so the silk pooled around Harry. Lord Voldemort drew his arms free, gently, one by one, then leaned back to study Harry, like he was on display.

Harry knew he was a little thin—wiry, his mother insisted—and a little short. His bones felt big and knobby at his knees and elbows. But it was so obvious that Lord Voldemort was delighting in what he saw, Harry felt more confident than he ever had before.

“Look how eager you are,” he murmured, finally taking Harry in hand. Harry’s back arched and his hips thrust uncontrollably. The warm, dry sheath of Lord Voldemort’s loose grip was better than anything Harry had ever done to himself.

“Now, Harry,” Lord Voldemort chided. “You cannot come. Not yet.”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “What?” He didn’t remember anything about that , and he hadn’t flattered himself with any expectation of stamina. He was a teenager, for Merlin’s sake, under the thrall of sex magic.

“With me participating,” said the Grand Minister, who was leaning over the foot of the bed to watch them, “you will not be able to come until Tom and I both reach our peaks.”

Lord Voldemort held Harry firmly by the base of his cock. “If you come, we’ll have to begin again, until we can perform the ritual properly. Do you understand, Harry?”

“He needs a spell,” said the Grand Minister.

“No,” said Lord Voldemort quietly, leaning in to give Harry another swift kiss. “He can do it. Can’t you, Harry?”

Harry was almost sure he couldn’t. “Yes, my Lord, I can do it.”

Lord Voldemort released Harry, slid off the bed, then jerked him by the legs until his arse was half off the edge. He positioned himself between Harry’s thighs and stroked the tops of them with his warm palms.

“Relax,” he advised, a curl falling into his eyes as he removed his hands from Harry again to pull his robes over his head. Harry wasn’t the only one who’d been nude under the ceremonial garb, apparently. “But don’t enjoy it too much, hmm? For your sake, I can be brief, just this once.”

Harry felt renewed panic at a probing fingertip at his hole, followed by a cool, tingling sensation from a cleaning spell. Did Lord Voldemort ever need his wand?

“Hmm,” said Lord Voldemort, breaching him with just a fingertip. Harry had gone this far on his own before, but he had never been this tense. “So tight.” He pushed in past the knuckle and Harry’s head fell back against the mattress at the strange sensation, the burning stretch. He had seen Lord Voldemort’s cock, now, dark and smooth against his pale stomach. It was much bigger than just one finger.

Lord Voldemort murmured something else, and Harry felt the friction of the finger in his arse ease. Conjured lubrication—but not much.

Lord Voldemort pulled back, clutching at Harry’s hips to adjust him a final time. Harry lifted his head to look down his body at Lord Voldemort, poised there and lining himself up, and found that the Grand Minister was just behind him, resting his chin on Lord Voldemort’s shoulder and watching him aim for the impossibly tight hole with avid interest.

“This reminds me of so many pleasant evenings,” he said in Lord Voldemort’s ear.

Harry’s flagging cock twitched at the unexpected sight of them, dark and light, Lord Voldemort biting his lip and breathing out in rush when he forced the head of his cock all the way through the tight ring of muscle and into Harry’s hole.

It hurt. It hurt badly. Harry would have writhed, but he knew that would make the pain worse, so he held as still as possible as Lord Voldemort sank further and further in. He pressed his eyes tightly closed and did his best to take it bravely, but tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

“Lovely, strong boy,” the Grand Minister murmured, reaching down to stroke Harry’s thigh approvingly. “Very good.”

Lord Voldemort was buried inside Harry now; Harry could feel the tickle of the sparse hair between his legs and on his thighs pressed tightly against Harry. The Grand Minister let go of Lord Voldemort to grasp Harry's legs and lift them, changing the angle and in the process pressing Lord Voldemort's shaft snugly against Harry's prostate.

"Fuck," Harry cried, his head falling back again. The intense pleasure was almost painful, intermingled with the vibrant pain, the tension. His cock began to plump again and both men chuckled as Lord Voldemort began to move.

"What a delightful little masochist," said the Grand Minister approvingly.

"You can't judge him in a moment like this," Lord Voldemort murmured, reaching out to stroke Harry's stomach, then his chest, lightly as he rocked back and forth. The movement was redoubling the burn and stretch of too much friction, too much thick cock in Harry's tight hole, but it was also massaging his prostate irresistibly. "They all like a little pain when they're like this."

"True," said the Grand Minister, and dug his fingernails into the backs of Harry's knees. It hurt, but at the moment, pain and sensation were all relative, and Harry only managed a whimper. Lord Voldemort, encouraged, began to fuck him with longer, rougher strokes, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

Harry was, somehow, perilously close to coming. His muscles were fucked loose, he supposed. The Grand Minister, taking note, stepped back and Lord Voldemort, with the unconscious ease of someone who had shared many other people with the Grand Minister, took hold of Harry's thighs and brought them close together. It made Harry feel everything more, including the pain. Much, too much pain; he didn't think he was a masochist after all. But it would keep him from coming, he knew, so he was glad. He was glad that Lord Voldemort was helping him keep that first, fervent promise, and not come until the right time. He wanted to do well.

"Not long now," whispered the Grand Minister, who had circled back to lean over the end of the bed and was stroking Harry's freely-sweating forehead. "The way he's fucking you now, so fast? Soon he'll make a delicious little growl, and then you'll know he's at the end. He's always very stoic, until the end. Isn't that so, Tom?"

Lord Voldemort picked up speed, and Harry tried to surrender fully to the biting pain, listening closely. Just as the Grand Minister had said, in the moment Lord Voldemort leaned over him, pressing his knees toward his chest, and drove into him with rapid, almost desperate thrusts, he also made a low breathy sound, and Harry felt the wet lurching pressure of someone coming inside him for the first time.

Harry was in a daze as Lord Voldemort released his legs, then eased the burning between them with another spell. When the worst of the pain was gone, the residual feeling of his overstimulated prostate and the delight in what he had just done had him reaching unconsciously for his cock, ravenous for any touch, even his own.

“Thank you, Harry,” Lord Voldemort murmured, leaning close to Harry’s ear, but loud enough Grand Minister Grindelwald could certainly hear.

“It’s different when you have one of your own, isn’t it?” asked the Grand Minister, sounding oddly wry. He rounded the bed to stand behind Lord Voldemort again, his hands trembling with eagerness as he grasped Lord Voldemort’s waist. He still wore his robes, but they were open now, revealing a smooth white body. Only his leanness betrayed his age. Harry could see the total articulation of his hip bones, the plane of his pelvis above a long, slender, pale pink cock.

The Grand Minister stepped Lord Voldemort's lower half back, which had the effect of pulling him lower on Harry's body.

"Don't put a hand on that boy," the Grand Minister said lowly, and when the bond kicked in, Lord Voldemort went stiff. He'd been lifting a hand, Harry now saw, and raising it toward Harry's cock. "I don't want to be here all night, Tom. Albus is already going to punish me about this for years..."

"Oh, please," said Lord Voldemort, rubbing his cheek against Harry's cock and making Harry stifle a gasp. He had faint stubble, warm skin, the hard ridge of his teeth on Harry's shaft. The idea of what else his mouth could do to Harry's cock made Harry writhe with the effort of biting back his orgasm, just at the thought. "You know it's worth it. You haven't had my arse since our bonding night."

"That night," the Grand Minister said, stepping closer so Harry could no longer see his cock, but his hand was lowered and his shoulder was hunched as though he was guiding it into position. "You told me that you'd kill me for taking you."

Lord Voldemort looked Harry straight in the eye, and swallowed his cock just as the Grand Minister gasped and sank all the way in with one brutal thrust.

The idea of someone fucking Lord Voldemort the way Harry had just been fucked seemed unbearably wrong, but Harry's brain seemed to have short-circuited; his arse, despite Lord Voldemort's spell, still throbbed, and his cock was encased in warm, wet, sinfully perfect heat. The contrast was too much. He no longer knew how to draw the line between wrong and erotic , and the punishing thrusts from the Grand Minister were audible , the firm connection of his hips and the softer rhythm of the slap of his balls, a wet sucking noise as he drew back.

But Harry wasn't supposed to come...or was he? The magic was coiling around them, palpable. It seemed to be connected to Lord Voldemort's tongue and Harry's cock and he was sure he couldn't last...feebly, he lifted his hands to brush Lord Voldemort's shoulders.

"My Lord, I can't..."

The Grand Minister had his head thrown back, but he suddenly stared down, as though unaware until that moment of Lord Voldemort's attentions on Harry's cock.

"Tom—" he snarled, but Lord Voldemort was already pulling off, and Harry seized the base of his cock, hard enough to hurt, like he could physically restrain his orgasm. The Grand Minister reached out, his hand clawed, and a visible burst of wandless magic that lanced up Harry's thigh and made him cry out. It burned and stung, like Muggle electricity.

And it had the opposite, Harry assumed, of the Grand Minister's intended effect.

Lord Voldemort saw it on Harry's face, and opened his mouth and caught the spill on his tongue. Harry's orgasm entirely escaped the Grand Minister's notice, and Harry suffered it with no more than a gasp, which could have had as much to do with pain as release. Heedless, the Grand Minister redoubled his efforts behind Lord Voldemort, who was licking the last of the evidence from Harry's sensitive balls with soft strokes that seemed, somehow, to convey approval.

In the wake of his orgasm, the bond stretched tight and stable, clearing Harry's head and settling his magic. He realized at once that he had pleased Lord Voldemort. The Grand Minister had said it, plainly, when they arrived in this bedchamber. Lord Voldemort wanted to use Harry's magic against the Grand Minister, and the Grand Minister could only foil his plan by inserting himself in the ritual.

But the ritual was done. Lord Voldemort looked up at Harry, nuzzling Harry’s hipbone, and their eyes met. The firelight from across the room caught every bit of gold in Lord Voldemort's eyes, and the intent stare conveyed much more than words.

Harry lifted his leg, took aim, and connected his heel hard to the Grand Minister's naked, stuttering hip. With a cry, the Grand Minister stumbled backward, slipping out of Lord Voldemort's arse and almost falling on his own.

With much more dignity than he should have been capable of under the circumstances, Lord Voldemort straightened, and picked up the wand Harry hadn't noticed him set within arm's reach on the mattress.

"May I, Harry?" Lord Voldemort asked, carefully maintaining eye contact. Harry lifted himself on his elbows and scooted backward on the bed to sit up. The Grand Minister had recovered enough to be outraged, fumbling in his robes for his wand. The wand which, Harry now realized, Lord Voldemort held in his hand.

"Yes, you may," Harry murmured. Lord Voldemort smiled, and the cord of power between them opened. Harry thought it might hurt, but he felt only a vague tug and rush, like he was bleeding but from a wound he couldn't feel.

"Dear Gellert," murmured Lord Voldemort. "I remember the day we met. Plucked from the orphanage by your feckless lover, presented to you like a gift."

"Tom," said the Grand Minister, a tremor in his voice as he caught sight of the wand. Harry stared, rapt, at Lord Voldemort's face, which was contemplative, free of any active ire. He was studying the wand with a connoisseur's appreciation.

"I didn't touch you," the Grand Minister protested, his white face whiter yet. "I didn't touch you until it was time."

Lord Voldemort turned, and Harry could hear in his voice the sneer he was no longer able to see. "You stole from me. Only, I didn't realize it was a theft." He took a step away from the bed, toward the Grand Minister, who shrank back toward the wall, almost tripping on his trailing robes. He wrapped them around himself, as though they could offer any protection.

"It is the way things have always been done," the Grand Minister protested. "I took you from nothing and elevated you this high!"

"No," said Lord Voldemort coldly. "You abused a sacred rite. When you should have cherished me above any other, you bowed to him instead."

Harry was beginning to feel boneless, foggy. How much magic was required, to pervert the strongest bond that was known, and turn your wand on your bonded dominant in violence? Did Harry have enough to offer? He fisted his hands in the blankets with the effort to bear down, to force more of his life's energy in the outpouring toward Lord Voldemort.

Lord Voldemort must have sensed it; Harry saw his shoulders ease back, and he leveled the wand with confidence.

Tom—" began the Grand Minister, but what he might have said, Lord Voldemort did not care to hear. The proof was in his careless interruption.

" Avada Kedavra ."

The room filled with green light, and a burst of magical interference as the bond between the Grand Minister and Lord Voldemort erupted and died. The fire went out, or Harry lost consciousness; he wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was sinking into a cold darkness, and couldn't bring himself to care.

Harry was revived by someone humming in his ear. It was familiar; maybe a lullabye? His mother hadn't known any of the wizarding variety, but then, neither would Lord Voldemort.

He opened his eyes. He and Lord Voldemort were alone in the dark. He lay on his side, his head pillowed on Lord Voldemort's arm. They faced one another. The blankets were drawn around them, and he was overwhelmed by all the places where they were pressed against one another, skin to skin.

"Is...?" Harry's brow furrowed.

Lord Voldemort stopped humming. His hand had been stroking Harry's waist, and now lowered to the crux of his thighs, cupping his soft cock. He stroked the loose skin between and behind Harry's balls, traced the silky, hairless patch that led to Harry's hole. Harry shivered.

"For a few days, you will harden for my every touch," Lord Voldemort explained, stroking Harry's cock again. Sure enough, it was filling in Lord Voldemort's palm, even though Harry felt half-sick with magical exhaustion. "Don't worry; I will take care of everything." He continued to stroke Harry, sure and slow, and leaning forward, kissed his forehead.

"We can't stay here long," he added. "I hid us carefully, but I expect Dumbledore will have some means of tracing the body." He was rolling Harry over, and Harry couldn't bring himself to protest as his ankles were positioned somewhere in the vicinity of his ears.

"You..." Lord Voldemort breathed, his hand suddenly slick with lube, which he used to stroke Harry more beautifully even than before, "are such a delight to me, Harry. You exceeded my expectations."

Harry's cheeks flushed, gazing up at Lord Voldemort who was pressing Harry's thigh toward his chest with one hand. With the other, he stopped stroking Harry and applied more lube to himself.

"Sweet, darling Harry," he breathed, stroking Harry's sore hole. "This will make you feel so much better, I promise." He bent his head to lick at the tears of anticipation Harry hadn't realized he was shedding. The tip of his tongue felt cool on Harry's hot skin. And then Harry gasped as he pressed inside.

It felt like the time before, and also, nothing like that at all. The lube and Harry's relaxation eased the way entirely, so that Harry barely had time to notice the stretch before he was conscious only of being deliciously filled.

"I would never set you aside," Lord Voldemort panted in his ear. Harry lifted his hands and rested them on Lord Voldemort's straining back. He was seated near Harry's prostate, so that when he rocked slowly against Harry he massaged it, agonizingly, with his cock. One of Harry's hands wandered lower, and felt the taut muscles of Lord Voldemort's sculpted arse flex, but he was unbothered by Harry's explorations, so Harry dug in his nails and jerked his hips encouragingly.

With a groan, Lord Voldemort picked up speed.

"Perfect," Harry heard him sigh. "Made for me."

Harry's head fell to the side as Lord Voldemort pounded him too thoroughly for Harry to move, to do anything but give in. It was going to hurt when it stopped, but now everything was a haze of sensation. He blinked the fogginess from his vision and realized that the blur of alabaster in the shadows of the corner of the room was the Grand Minister's corpse, shoved aside like garbage. Harry thought he really should care more about being fucked in the same room as a dead body, but he was quickly learning that he might be badly calibrated. The shock of it pushed him over the edge, shooting warm, sticky slipperiness into the space between their stomachs.

Lord Voldemort nipped his jaw, murmuring praise, buried himself in Harry a final time, and came as well.

Between them the bond pulsed, very satisfied.