Dark Lord's Pet

Unspoken

Harry

Upon opening his eyes, Harry felt a crushing sense of disappointment. He wasn't dead.

He knew he wasn't dead because he was in the dog bed, no longer wearing his pajamas, and could see the Dark Lord reading in a large armchair. As Harry adjusted himself to a position he felt better preserved his modesty, the arrestingly bright red eyes of the older man latched onto him.

"You're useless and utterly uninteresting," the Dark Lord said, looking at him disdainfully.

Harry just blinked back at the man slowly, wishing he'd just get on with it. He didn't know why the psychopath was dragging it out, and started to get annoyed before deciding it wasn't worth it. His mouth opened wide in a yawn, and he continued to stare wordlessly at Voldemort.

"Exactly my point. Well, Pet, would you like to have clothes again?"

A bright flush suffusing the skin of his cheeks, Harry nodded, tucking his chin and not meeting the Dark Lord's eyes, curling up tighter to hide better.

"What would you do for clothes?"

He froze. Was he asking- 

A tear traced down Harry's cheek. He was naked. His uncle had always said he was too much of a freak for anyone to want him, something he'd always been grateful for,  to be too ugly, too strange, never enough to be violated in that way. Harry felt impossibly young in that moment even as he felt a million years old. 

He was under no illusions. If he refused, the Dark Lord would do it anyway. The only choice he had was if he got clothing or not out of the deal. Raw pain tore at his heart. He'd not be able to do it, not for clothing, but maybe. . . 

Taking a deep breath, Harry fortified himself, clenched his eyes shut, and opened his mouth.

". . ."

He couldn't do it. He couldn't form a single word. 

He relaxed the tension built up in his body and focused on the tight knot just beneath his sternum. It felt weak, dim almost, but he knew he had enough magic in him for this.

You may have me, so long as you swear to kill me immediately after

The letters wrote themselves in fire before the older wizards eyes.

A second later, Voldemort snorted, "Sex with you? You're made of toothpicks. Not that you aren't a cute little pet or whatever, but I'm not into martyrs, and I'm not after an inexperienced pup. I have people begging for entrance to my bed, I'm not about to take on a virgin throw away.

"I meant lessons. Frankly, I could kill you with a second's thought. Not even a dip in my magical reservoir. You are nothing but an educated child. Hogwarts doesn't teach kids a lick of knowledge these days. No dueling experience, no physical training from the looks of you, I'm a bit surprised you seem to know your magic well enough to do wandless and nonverbal castings, but I bet twenty galleons Hogwarts didn't teach you that. Well, yes or no?

"If you put all your effort into your lessons, you get clothing. That's a day-to-day determination mind you. Do all your work, you get clothes the next day. If you train up enough to be a worthy opponent, then I'll release you and hunt you down. I believe I shall quite enjoy the exercise of killing you, but not while you're such a pathetic mess of a child."

Harry looked at the man. It would seem he'd have to wait for death to come, but it also appeared that he'd be kept busy in the meantime. Running his eyes assessingly over the man, he could detect no dishonesty in the man's statements. 

He didn't care what the Dark Lord thought of him as a person, just so long as he'd kill him in the end. Also, in the intervening time, he could always try to kill himself. That might do nicely.

Sharp, intelligent green eyes, bright as the killing curse met spitting red ones.

A small, delicate tan hand with birdlike bones reached out towards the man 54 years Harry's senior, and a larger, chalk white hand with no hair or color stretched to meet it.

Firmly the two shook, eyes blazing with things unspoken between them.