Chapter Text
“Everyone breaks, Harry Potter. Battle-hardened Aurors. Cunning politicians. Stubborn old Purebloods. There is no shame in giving in…”
The words nestled their way into his brain, amidst the pain, the cold, and he shivered involuntarily. Voldemort’s voice was so soft…so warm. Like his hand on Harry’s cheek.
Nothing about him had any business being soft or warm. It was…it was wrong. It was messing with Harry’s head.
“If you ask me to save you, I will. I will take all of the pain away… I will give you so much pleasure in its stead.”
Harry shivered again, flinching away.
Liar, he thought, keeping his crusty eyes shut. His vision was too blurry to see anything but blobs at more than arm’s length away.
His throat hurt, hurt. Throbbing, parched, swollen. Everything hurt.
“…L-Liar…” he forced out, coughing weakly.
The warm, warm hand on his cheek withdrew, and he almost sobbed at the loss.
Feeling air move in front of his face, Harry wrenched his eyes open, coming face to face with the perfect features and ruby gaze of Lord Voldemort.
He looked unreal in the dark, damp, mouldy dungeon cell, with his flawless too-pale skin, gleaming black curls, fitted black battle-robes. And those blood-red eyes, fixed on Harry’s.
The teenager (had July 31st passed? Was he still seventeen, or had he turned eighteen during one of the endless nights down here? He must have, though he had lost all sense of time, because it had gotten even colder, even darker, as summer turned into autumn and autumn into winter, so Harry must be eighteen now) almost wished for the monstrous, serpentine face back. At least it would have suited this nightmare.
“What have you to lose by saying the words, Harry?” the Dark Lord asked, the name rolling off his tongue like a caress in the night, whispered into the young man’s ear.
“I will never let you die. You can spend another ten years in this cell suffering…or you can give in.
“Either way…I will have you.”