Dark Lord's Pet

Tell Me.

Voldemort

He had to admit, within the confines of his own mind, even if not out loud, that the boy was an excellent chef. A part of him, buried deep down, was angered by it, as he saw no sense of happiness to indicate the boy had chosen himself to become proficient in cooking. He was certain his relatives had instilled the talent in the boy, and was doubly certain it hadn't been through pleasant means.

The boy'd presented him with a full list of foods to get, and all of the articles on it met with his approval. He was somewhat dubious of the things like flour, baking soda, yeast, and turnips, but his own wariness of the kitchen did not inhibit the understanding that these were good things to have (so long as the food preparer actually knew how to use said items).

It'd almost been amusing to watch his Pet's face when the ingredients had filled the fridge and flown into cupboards from nowhere. Really, what did the child expect? Voldemort was a wizard, not some muggle. He'd just looked so- so outraged, that he couldn't help but smirk.

What the bloody hell did you have me make a goddamn list for then?

"Ah ah ah, good pets don't use such atrocious language, and they certainly know better than to aim it as their masters. Looks like no shirt tomorrow either. Are you so desperate to expose yourself to me, Pet? I assure you, I've already seen everything."

Voldemort's only reason to keep at the boy this way was how amusing he found it. Growing up in a less than welcoming orphanage with a lot of other children, he'd lost any sense of modesty he might have had early on, and couldn't get over the novelty of the blush on the teen's face. He himself did not discriminate in his tastes of the carnal variety. Male, female, non-binary, anything else, he didn't really note much of a difference other than a slightly altered mechanics of the situation from case to case. 

Of course, he wasn't interested in this boy though. No. His desires with Harry Potter were more geared towards the thrill of the hunt than conquest, and the child was far too skinny. He'd been happy to press food on the child, providing potions to help reaccustom his stomach to food as well as monitoring his gut biome to make sure everything would progress properly.

He was currently watching Harry stare off into the distance, eyes blank as he gazed at the wall, curled up on the dog bed. Voldemort was certain Harry was not as reticent towards things as he portrayed, but wasn't entirely sure if he'd recovered any of his will to live or was simply trying harder to die. The latter seemed more likely, what with his provoking and all, and he knew he'd have to keep an eye on the child.

Thinking back to when the body had come crashing into his library the first time, he wondered why the boy had not gone to Albus. Even possessed of a death wish, generally one's magic is more rational than the mind. It would try to protect Harry with everything it knew. That was a topic he'd have to ponder further.

The book in his lap was holding none of his attention. Voldemort recalled the second time his magic had brought Harry to him, and he sat up straighter very suddenly.

"Pet, what happened after I left the meeting hall?" he asked, voice dagger sharp.

Cloudy green eyes slowly meandered their way over to meet his.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Tell me this instant. I know you can write it out, do it or so help me- You know that I do not have a long temper," glaring with all his might, he pierced the boy without resorting to magic.

Fuck off.

"No clothing tomorrow, bad language and refusal to answer. What. The. Bloody. Hell. Happened?" he said, biting off each word.

Green eyes, no longer indifferent, burned into his own. There was something there. He was hiding something, Voldemort knew it.

"Tell me," he said, soft as a leaf falling, voice like silk. It was the very quiet of his voice that spoke of the danger.

No.

"Fifteen additional pushups. Tell me."

No.

"Crunches as well. Tell me."

No.

"Jumping jacks, thirty extra. Tell me, or the next punishment is going to be quite. . . unpleasant for you."

I will not. It does not matter what you do.

Twisting through him in thick, ropy vines, his magic lay in complicated arrangements. He knew each of them, and from their origin at their core, he began to siphon power into one point of concentration. Most wizards believe magic is in your hands. They think by waving their hands, they release the power. But that's not how it works. Like most things, the direction comes from your mind, and wand waving and verbal incantation is just a more simple way to direct the flow of power.

The anatomy of a wizard is different from that of a muggle, they have two parts of themselves. Physical, and complex metaphysical. His magic was store and he built it up on the metaphysical plane. By now, Voldemort had amassed a large portion of his power, the build up making his eyes glow and spark with the intensity.

His Pet floated up from the ground and came to hover before him, eye to eye. Harry was looking at him, face calm, expecting. . . death. He was expecting death. Sorry kitten, he thought, not today, before reaching out and placing his index fingers to either temple of the boy before him.

"Legilimens," he whispered, coursing the power through and out of himself, releasing it in high concentration from his fingers.

Tendrils of white, blinding light filled his second sight, the visible manifestation of the magic. He worked it till it had completely surrounded the boy's mind, and attacked all at once, though squeezing rather than immediately crushing. He wished for his Pet to be functional tomorrow, after all.

To his personal astonishment, as he attacked, the boy's barriers grew in strength, happening at a pace to match his own increasing intensity. He made his magic go faster, pound harder, trying desperately to penetrate that thick shield, but it was to no avail. Somehow, this untrained slip of a boy was fighting against him, and holding his own.

With a flash of rage, he became certain he knew what the boy was protecting. With one final swelling of power, one determined in its vastness to crush any defense the boy could manage, he tore into the boy's shields.