Dark Lord's Pet

Burden

Harry

He'd finally been left alone in the room, though safety cuffs, sort of heavily padded bands, secured him at the wrists ankles and abdomen. Harry was quite pleased with his performance, and made sure to show minimal improvements, calming down as doctors "filled in the blanks" for him.

The restraints were child's play, and he slipped easily from them with a dash of magical aide. He'd been given as much food to each as he wanted, and a lot of potions to help stimulate growth, appetite, digestion, energy restoration, calmness. . . a lot of potions. Harry allowed them all to work, with the exception of the mood altering one. He'd discovered that if he only focused hard enough and knew what he was looking for, he could target the potion in his system and neutralize it by turning it to water. Harry couldn't really explain how the atoms transformed themselves, so he tried not to think too hard on it and was just content at the successful neutralization.

Placing a hand on his chest, he called the golden chain up, and smiled down at the precious item in his grasp. Hermione had gotten one her third year, and Harry'd been so curious about it. Ah well, that wasn't really the thing to focus on now, was it? He apparated to the Dark Lord's apartment, turning back time an hour and a half. After all, he couldn't go too early or the man would still be at Gringotts starting the process to emancipate Harry.

Voldemort still hadn't gotten around to finishing his explanations on the overall plan for Harry yet, and curiosity was a yawning pit within his chest, begging to be filled.

After five minutes, the Dark Lord popped into existence, and immediately upon seeing Harry, swept the younger man into a hug. It was uncomfortably tight. Harry's injuries were all healed over, and his physique was even slightly improved to the naked eye. They had quite powerful potions and practitioners on hand at Saint Mungo's, and Harry thought they'd done a fine job.

With the height difference, Harry's cheek was pressed against Voldemort's chest by his sternum. He felt very small, almost childlike, and felt a thread of tension from his act loosen as he set aside pretenses. Harry wasn't psychologically tormented by his relatives' abuse, not in as stark relief as he pretended to be.

"Why the bloody hell didn't you follow the plan?" Voldemort asked, voice scarily level and inflectionless, though the hand that gripped Harry's neck pointed to anything but passivity.

"They'd've found out if they weren't real memories, if I were lying, and anyways, what does it matter? This looks better in a report, and I'm sure they'll-"

"Shut up," he hissed, biting and furious.

A hand fisted in Harry's thick black hair and yanked his head back so their eyes locked. The only thing in Harry's green orbs was a bit of incredulity and a certain quality of lost-ness.

Eyes glittering like rubies, fury in his eyes, Voldemort said, "You are not allowed to die, Harry Potter. Stop trying."

A little indignant, Harry said, "I wasn't trying to-" before pausing a second, clearly realizing that it wasn't the truth, "I didn't go in actively trying to get killed, I just suppose I really wouldn't have minded if that's how it turned out. I needed real injuries for the healers to treat, and convincing memories so that the court-"

"I don't give a fuck about the courts, or about goddamn real injuries. Stop hurting yourself. Your past memories are horrible enough that no court in the land would keep you with those monsters."

"I wasn't hurting myself! It was my uncle!"

Voldemort looked at Harry, red eyes flat, "You did, and you know that you did. It's not healthy and it must stop."

"Why do you care? You've been trying to kill me since before I could talk! Stop pretending like you'd give a shit if I successfully ended my own miserable existence," Harry curled his lip, "You're planning to do it yourself, after all, why should it matter if I relieve you of that burden."