If Paths Diverge

Chapter 37

"You cheated."

Voldemort raised a hairless eyebrow, giving him a pitying look.

"That would imply I had been trying."

Harry snorted, wiping sweat from his brow and stifling the impulse to stick his tongue out at the bastard.

That afternoon, Voldemort had brought him into a large, empty room and, without explaining a damn thing, had turned and shot a spell straight at Harry. Thankfully, his years of fighting for his life with this man had been triggered and he'd blocked it, ready for an explanation, but Voldemort had merely smirked and shot another two rapidly, one of them striking him in the chest.

What followed had been a brutal duel. Voldemort— shock of the world— had fought dirty, cursing him while he was down and not showing any mercy regarding which spells he used.

Harry had tried to keep to harmless jinxes, but Voldemort's third blood-boiling curse had missed him by less than an inch and Harry could only take so much goading.

Obviously, Voldemort had won, somehow sending two curses at him from opposite directions and when Harry had had to hit the ground to avoid them, Voldemort had destabilized a pillar in the room and made it crash down onto Harry. Which would have killed him, except that Voldemort had miraculously frozen the collapse so he could enjoy Harry's terror and then gratitude.

And then his fury.

"Oh yeah?" Harry mocked him, now feigning disbelief. "I bet you lost your touch. I bet I scared—"

Suddenly, magic engulfed him, pressing his body tight, suffocating him, lifting him off the floor and he was dying, his eyes pulsed with pressure as they bulged out of his sockets, he was dying—

And then, it was gone.

He crumpled to the floor, gasping and heaving, trembling with fear and shock.

Voldemort's slow footsteps came towards him.

"If I had wanted you dead, Potter, you would be. Do not persuade me to change my mind."

Harry's cock twitched in his trousers at the menace in that dark tone. Merlin, but the man was sexy.

Harry pointed at his own chest.

"Master of Death, remember?"

Voldemort studied him before huffing through his slit nostrils and turning away.

"Hey," Harry called to him, before he could wander off to sulk. "I had a question about that."

Voldemort kept walking as he replied, his back to Harry.

"Come, if you plan on interrogating me. I am thirsty."

Fuck, wish you would let me come.

"Fine," Harry said instead, and followed the man out of the room.

"So how does someone stop being the Master of Death?" Harry asked, wiping some more sweat from his upper lip. "I can't be killed. I suppose I could hide the Cloak and Ring—"

"Never trust your precious items to stay hidden, no matter the enchantments you employ," said Voldemort dryly.

Harry smirked.

"You're thinking of your Horcruxes, aren't you?"

Voldemort nodded and Harry laughed.

"But seriously," he continued, as they walked along the corridor together, getting closer to the kitchen, "supposing the Master of Death can hold onto all three, why hasn't that been done a ton? Why don't we have all sorts of stories about people living forever?"