If Paths Diverge

Chapter 18

Harry showered first.

He had asked Voldemort to join him, but he had declined the offer. He remained on the boy's bed, naked, but modestly covered by the plush comforter. The room was dark, the window reflecting the dim-lighting in the hallway.

He breathed evenly, staring through the glass, yet seeing nothing.

He had made a grave error, perhaps many.

It was one thing to lust after the boy, to want to punish him physically or achieve a victory over him through conquest. It was understandable, even, to strengthen the attachment the boy had to him so that Voldemort could manipulate and control him easier.

But how he felt now was perilous.

He should have left the moment the boy took him out of the Ministry. He should not have shared his meals, nor gotten involved in the politics of his social life. He absolutely should not have fucked the boy. Nor remained languidly reposed, post-coital, waiting for his return.

It had taken him seconds, after the boy had entered the bathroom, to remove his collar. He now grasped it tightly in his hand, but the thrill of triumph was diminished by his torment.

He must leave. It was best to do so while the boy was preoccupied.

He looked down at the black metal in his hand and pushed his magic into it, watching as it began to smoke and wither. He turned it to vapour and banished the remains.

A relief, surely. He made a solemn vow to himself that never again would a collar adorn his neck. Never again would he be restrained.

He looked towards the bathroom door, listening to the sound of the shower, and an unbidden image of the boy's naked body hit him: water clinging to his pink skin, his head thrown back as he lathered his chest, trailing a hand lower to palm his heavy cock and testicles...

He sat up.

Harry would be out soon. He would see that the collar was gone and would correctly surmise that Voldemort was leaving. He would beg him to stay. Would perhaps cry. Fall to his knees.

All the more reason to leave before that scene could unfold. He stood, the blanket slithering down and falling back onto the bed. He looked again to the door.

He faltered.

Alternately, he could stay the night.

Sleep, catch his breath, and allow himself a short interval to plan his next steps.

He walked aimlessly to the open wardrobe and rubbed his hands along the soft material of the robes the boy had transfigured for him this afternoon. They had been comfortable, his size, and cherished black, but more than that, they were a reminder that Harry was not one of the villains who haunted him. Harry wanted him to heal and move past what had been done to him.

Selflessly.

And this was the crux of the matter. Even Bella, his most trusted and useful servant, would certainly have wanted Voldemort to get better. Yet it would have been so that he could reclaim his summit and lead them again, not simply because she wished Voldemort to be well, as was Harry's ambition.

In fact, the boy was helping him despite what Voldemort would do to him, his cause, and his people, not because of it. Voldemort could bring nothing but misery and destruction to Harry's dreams and plans and yet, the boy had fought for him relentlessly, risking his treasured friends, his respected position, and his very life— all of which were knuts in the pond compared to the devastation Voldemort would create for Harry when he reclaimed his power and status.