Grazhir :: Harry Potter :: Control Issues :: 21 :: Loose Ends

21 • Loose Ends

It took a few extra spells, actually, to ensure that Dumbledore’s entire head did not turn to mush. The dripping acid had been allowed to fall only onto a particular spot on the man’s head, thereby assuring that a teensy bit of tweaking could be done to cover up the evidence should it be necessary.

Lucius spent the entire time stock still, barely breathing, and if Voldemort did not know better (and perhaps he did) he would have thought his minion was on the verge of an orgasm the entire time. Harry became increasingly restless on his lap, making him wonder if his mate was in need of a feeding. After all, the ritual had taken quite a bit out of both of them, and all they had done was taken a nap.

Eventually Dumbledore breathed his last, causing Harry to slip off his lap and begin casting spells to remove the container of acid and the impalement pole, and beside him Lucius let out a long, shuddering breath. Voldemort looked over his shoulder and took in the man’s expression with a smirk. It seemed he was not so far off the mark.

Harry turned back with a bright smile, paused for a second, then said, “Well. Looks like we can start considering a holiday spot for sometime in the very near future.”

Voldemort nodded and replied, “We will need to tie up a few loose ends first, but yes.”

His mate turned back to the corpse and spelled it into stasis, then enchanted the rack to float along behind him. “Shall we? Oh, and, Lucius? I have a little something for you.”

“Yes, my lord,” Lucius breathed.

Voldemort spelled his wine to follow him and stood up to lead the way back to the secret dungeon proper, with Lucius bringing up the rear of their odd little procession. Once they arrived he warded the door; he would return later to incinerate the muggle corpses.

Harry directed the rack up against one wall, then moved over to a cell and opened the door, gesturing at Lucius to join him. “Now, don’t think I’d forgotten that I cost you a servant, Lucius,” Harry said as he pointed inside the cell, “quite a ways back, so I’ve decided to give you a little gift.”

Lucius looked faintly confused, not to mention taken aback, and Harry continued, “These are my muggle relatives. I can’t for the life of me imagine that they can make up for an actual house-elf, but they can surely try if they expect to remain among the living.”

Voldemort would have bet at that moment if he could see his minion’s face that he would have seen the man’s expression brighten with the possibilities, and the implied permission Harry had just given.

“Thank you, my lord. I am most appreciative of this gift.”

“You can temporarily convert their collars to portkeys to get them to your manor. I’m sure you’re tired, so if you wish to take them along now, you have permission to do so.”

Lucius knew an order when he heard one and so bowed, then stepped into the cell to do just that. Within a few minutes all four of them were gone. Harry immediately pressed up against Voldemort and buried his face in his lover’s neck. “I need you,” he whispered.

“Home, Harry. Let us go home,” he whispered back.

Voldemort woke up the next morning with a warm body draped over his chest. That was not, of course, unusual, but the decided lack of wings was, so he gently rolled his beloved onto his back and began feasting on his neck, enjoying the sleepy sounds of pleasure his mate made as he struggled up toward awareness.

He continued, working his way downward to nibble on the hairless flesh and carefully take one of Harry’s nipples between his teeth and pull, then roll it around in his mouth. The other gained just as much attention before Voldemort slipped lower, sliding his tongue along that beautifully muscled abdomen and around his mate’s navel, to finally brush up against a penis that was straining to be touched.

Voldemort left one hand at Harry’s hip as he engulfed his mate’s twitching cock and began to fellate him, his other sliding down to caress not only his beloved’s balls but his perineum, and finally to slide his fingers within and pump in a mimicry of intercourse.

Harry began scrabbling at the sheets with his hands, rucking them up as his neck arched and deep, soulful moans began to issue from his throat. It did not take long, but it made no sense; Voldemort was shortly accepting the frantic thrusts of his mate into his mouth and swallowing his semen. He would, he thought, deal with his own problem soon enough.

Moments later he was being dragged up his mate’s body by Harry’s questing hands and insistent fingers into a kiss. And then, a surprise. “Tom, I’m not hungry,” Harry breathed.

He replied in mild confusion, wondering if his mate was rejecting sex, “I did not expect you to be, love. I fed you before we went to sleep.”

Harry’s eyes opened, once again displaying slit pupils, and he shook his head. “You don’t understand. I was hungry. Now I’m not. You just fed me.”

Voldemort thought for a moment that his mate was just too sleepy still to comprehend what he was saying, and then his eyes widened as the implication hit him. “You fed . . . off the pleasure I gained in giving you pleasure?”

His mate pulled his head down for another kiss, then said, “Yes, I think so. Those books are nearly useless, don’t you think? Now please, make love to me?”

And who was he to say no to such a sweet request?

It was not until several minutes after he had slumped over his beloved’s body that he raised his head and smirked. “You don’t seem to have noticed something important for all your wisdom this morning.”

Harry gave him a sated smile and shrugged an acknowledgement of his own ignorance.

“Your wings, they seem to be missing. And your eyes have gone all funny again, like mine.”

Harry blinked at him stupidly. “I am on my back, aren’t I. What do you mean by all funny?”

Voldemort reached over to fetch his wand and conjure up a hand mirror, then turned it to face his beloved.

“Oh! Again, you said?”

The mirror was summarily banished and Harry pulled up to a sitting position. “Yes. They appeared first when your wings did. But I think, if you’d like to continue to discuss these strange events, that we do so over breakfast. You’ve had yours, and I’m still hungry.”

It was over Voldemort’s meal that they discussed the fate of the baker’s dozen of Order members remaining to be killed, for once Harry not glaring his lover into silent consumption.

“There’s one thing that’s really bugging me,” Harry said with a thoughtful frown afterward. “Why did he try to kill me? Wouldn’t that mean his precious prophecy was a crock? I’ve lived under that weight since I was fifteen, nearly sixteen. And he tried to kill me when I refused to kill you?”

“That could be a number of things,” Voldemort offered, “desperation being foremost in my mind. Then again, you may be correct. The prophecy may have been a very elaborate scheme cooked up in his mind in order to eventually effect my death. After all, Dumbledore was known for playing with people’s lives, Harry. Third, it may be that he came to the same conclusion that we did, that the prophecy was broken or negated in some respects.”

“You’re not worried about it?”

Voldemort looked into the troubled face of his beloved and shook his head slowly. “While it seems as though we did not dig as deeply as perhaps we should have, no, I am not worried.” His reward for his conviction was an adoring smile.

It took Harry the better part of a week to gain conscious control of when his wings would appear. During that time he and Voldemort had cleaned up the century of muggle corpses from the cells surrounding the central chamber of the transformed maze, and had even gone to the trouble of creating a new maze, this time with a door opening into part of the indoor training facility. Like the door into the secret dungeon this one was heavily warded.

An assembly was called, and the audience chamber was filled with row upon row of simple chairs, something that made the arriving Death Eaters express confusion and uncertainty. Harry was pacing as he often did, but stopped and called out, “Take your places.” When the assembly did not move to take seats fast enough for his tastes he belted out, “I said sit!”

The sound of so many Death Eaters scrambling to obey was nigh well deafening, and Voldemort was hard pressed to keep a smile off his face.

“Yes, my friends, I realize this is unusual,” Harry said in that dead tone he favored. “We have no need to hear you all twittering like brainless birds about it.” Dead silence followed, at which point Harry took his own seat next to Voldemort.

Several minutes passed before Harry spoke again, and Voldemort was given the distinct impression that his mate was struggling to keep his own amusement under wraps. “Now that we have all learned how to be quiet like good little girls and boys, let us continue. I want each and every one of you to reach down and feel under the seat of your chair. Some of you will find a piece of paper.”

Puzzled looks were exchanged as people obeyed their master’s bidding, a handful of them retrieving a piece of silver paper. Voldemort knew well that each had a number. Naturally, 99% of the assemblage had no idea they were participating in a time-honored muggle custom, which made it that much more humorous in his opinion. He drew the line at weekly bingo games, though.

“Splendid!” Harry said once they had all settled down again. “Those of you who were lucky enough to secure a ticket will find details on it as to what they mean. Those of you who did not will be able to watch the entertainment, rather than participate directly. And, if any of you would prefer to gift your prize to another, that is acceptable.”

“Form up into ranks and assemble outside the indoor training facility,” Voldemort ordered, rising to his feet, then watched as their minions did just that, making as little noise as possible. He and Harry arrived a short time later and led them all inside, and then through the door which presently led to the maze overhead.

“Ticket holders to me,” Harry ordered and quickly had thirteen Death Eaters clustered near him. “As you can all see, this is an observation room. You can see every portion of the maze below, so you will have a nearly unimpeded view of the activities shortly to begin.” He turned to the ticket holders. “Last chance to hand off if you do not feel inclined to a game of cat and mouse.”

Not one of them moved so Harry nodded and pointed at a door over on one wall. “Line up over there.” He did not bother to watch to see that they did; instead he slinked over to stand at Voldemort’s side.

“My friends,” Voldemort said, “we have for your amusement and entertainment thirteen captured members of the Order, and they will be released into the maze one at a time to be hunted down and killed. Torture is welcome, though you will not be penalized if you prefer a quick and decisive kill.”

At a nod from Harry and a flick of his mate’s wand Voldemort pointed his at the line of waiting Death Eaters. “We begin. First one in, now.”


Harry was plastered against the top of a shelf, hiding in a darkness his fur let him blend well into. He had been amused beyond words on having changed forms the first time since his complete transformation into an incubus to realize that the wings transferred over. It had taken him a number of tries to become the black Bengal cat again without them.

Mind, that experience had sent his thoughts off on a long jaunt wondering if he could have ever mastered the animagus transformation had he waited until later in life to attempt it. It was, in theory, entirely possible that an activated incubus gene would have prevented it. After all, it wasn’t like Moony could transform; his curse seemed to forbid it.

Harry had, just a few minutes ago, been downstairs in the guise of a fairly young man, barely a teenager really, hysterical and barely able to speak properly. And he had, naturally, seemingly run off in abject fear the moment no one was paying close enough attention to prevent his escape.

Therefore, he was pleased to note that the owner of the establishment (a dodgy sort of inn that rented rooms by the hour and was well known in the black market circles) burst through the door and paled drastically. The man stumbled back out, hovering in the door frame, and yelled, “Belinda! Belinda, get your ass up here now!”

The thud of hurried footsteps sounded through the door, though from his vantage Harry could not see the girl who arrived. And judging on how the man was standing he doubted she could see inside. “Belinda, I don’t bloody well know what to do.”

“Let me see!” she demanded, then roughly pushed him aside. Harry could finally see her when she took the man’s place in the door. Whatever else she might be, the open-mouthed shock did nothing for her looks. “Oh, Merlin,” she breathed. “Why on earth did you rent him a room? We’ll go out of business due to this.”

“I didn’t!” the man protested in a shrill voice.

And by then Harry could hear the sound of people gathering in the hallway, trying to figure out what was causing the ruckus. One of them was bold enough to duck down to peek under Belinda’s arm and gasp in shock, then disappear. Realistically, it did not take long before the pride of the Daily Prophet barged her way in, cameraman at the ready, to capture the moment in both prose and picture.

Albus Dumbledore sat there in all his sunshiny glory, soon to take over the front page news. He knew exactly what could end up in that paper, though it remained to be seen if Skeeter could push past any objections to write the whole truth of the situation, no matter how contrived that situation was.

Dumbledore, on examination, would be found to have a lemon yellow butt plug snug in his ass, one that would vibrate on command in order to stimulate the prostate. That, at least, was presently hidden by his position and scant clothing, but anyone could see the cheerful yellow ribbons and bows woven into and attached to braids in both his hair and beard.

Perched atop his head was a smart little cap of jonquil yellow silk (not so incidentally hiding the gaping hole in it, though were one to check they would notice his skull had been filled with sherbet lemons in a macabre twist on a candy dish), and clamped to his aged nipples were a set of anodized yellow aluminium clamps, from which dangled silver chains laden with citrines.

Clothing the man was a robe of a much darker yellow, though that was all he wore that could actually be classified as clothes, and the decadent sueded silk was shot through with strands of real gold. And were one to look beneath the glitter, a sparkly set of ladies underpants might be seen, complete with garters and attached stockings.

However, the truly damning evidence was what sat on the table in front of a Dumbledore who appeared to have died in ecstasy (which might explain the odd, milky white substance decorating his stomach and chest), that clearly being a pensieve.

Had he been able to Harry would have smirked considering the contents of that particular device, and wondered just how many people would believe that Albus Dumbledore, leader of the Light, had quite a penchant for underage boys being restrained and buggered by older men. In point of fact, it was amazing what one could accomplish with the odd glamour and a vivid imagination.

Rita Skeeter was in her element.


“Should I be concerned with how much you enjoyed that?” Voldemort asked archly, idly stroking his hand up and down Harry’s flank.

His mate gave him a sweetly innocent smile. “I certainly enjoyed creating those memories. You are such a wicked man, my Lord Voldemort. I find myself quite captivated by you.”

Voldemort snorted in amusement and leaned in to kiss the corner of his mate’s mouth. “Then the feeling is mutual, my sweet.”

And indeed, breakfast (of the type where food was consumed, not pleasure) revealed a delightful article showing Rita at her scandalous best as she showcased the very improper circumstances in which Albus Dumbledore was finally found.

Granted, she did, to her credit (or was that detriment?) also faithfully report that she had gained access to some very telling medical information gleaned from St Mungo’s, and the readership of the Daily Prophet had duly been informed of the oddities involving the man’s head and backside, but that was barely a side note in the grander scheme of things.

Trips to Diagon Alley, the Ministry, and even Hogsmeade showed that members of the wizarding community were shocked, scandalized, and for some, terrified out of what minds they could lay claim to at the death of such a noteworthy man. It could not be said that everyone fell for it. After all, it would have shown up the magical population for complete imbeciles were that the case.

However, plenty did believe that Dumbledore was, in fact, a pederast at best, and many speculated on his relationship with one Harry Potter while that boy was still attending Hogwarts. Unfortunately, that did lead to questions about his whereabouts, and even if he was a party to the tragedy.

Some, though, wondered if Severus Snape had faked his own death and really was an agent of You Know Who, and if he was responsible for this attack on decent society. Voldemort and Harry spent quite a bit of time laughing as they strolled along, eavesdropping on people wherever possible, eventually ending up back at home.

“So,” Voldemort said quietly, “about Fudge.”

Harry’s face lit up. “I can kill him now?”

“I think so. We can see who gets dredged up as candidates for the new Minister and tinker with them behind the scenes, love. And I have my suspicions as to a few likely candidates already.”

“Brilliant,” Harry breathed. “I’ll start making plans, then, shall I?”


It was (all things considered) an odd time for the Ministry to be having a formal dinner for its employees and trusted members of the community. It was even more peculiar if one understood that both Harry and Voldemort had weaseled their way onto the guest list. Granted, this particular gathering had been arranged prior to Fudge’s disappearance.

Voldemort and Harry were sitting at a small table, a few charms swirling around them ensure their privacy, plus one to transfer the contents of Harry’s glass of wine to his lover’s sip by sip each time he pretended to drink. Lucius and Narcissa had left them a short time ago, heading onward to mingle with the masses and sit at one of the more showy tables in terms of political influence.

He looked over at his beloved and smiled faintly, had a sip of wine, then said, “I think I need not ask what amuses you this time.”

Harry shook his head. “Such an ignoble way to go,” he commented, then pretended to drink.

Among those in the Dark Army, marked or not, there was only one rule for those attending—avoid pork products at any and all costs. And pork there was, quite a lot, having mysteriously made its way onto the menu for the evening in more ways than one.

“It was his wife that gave me the idea, actually,” Harry added with a slight grin. “Remind me to send her a card?”

Voldemort nodded his acquiescence and glanced around casually before saying, “Perhaps when we get home we can reopen negotiations on the subject of children.”

Harry’s answering smile, for all that it was not his true face, was blinding.

— The End —

Snapshots not directly associated with any chapter: Service Ends, Deal With the Devil, Care, Insidious