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[1]
The first time it happens is purely accidental. Voldemort isn’t even aware of what he’s done until much later.
It’s late in the evening and he’s working through the finer points of a bit of legislation he’ll have one of his followers present on the Wizengamot floor in the near future.
Nagini is curled up asleep on his shoulders, so when he feels the shaky, uncontrolled tendrils of a mind spilling up against his mental barriers, he has a reasonable idea of who it might be.
And, really. Does Potter never learn his lesson?
He’s tired and irritated, absolutely lacking the patience to deal with the teenager’s fumbling efforts to get into his head, so he opts for brute force, shoving Potter out and away as harshly as he can. He’s distantly aware of the crackles of agony dancing along Potter’s nerves and relishes being the cause.
When he doesn’t feel any repeat attempts, he returns to law-making. Perhaps he’ll be able to wrap this up before tonight slips into tomorrow.
[2]
Voldemort had practically forgotten the incident – until it happens again about a month later.
He’s having his evening cuppa when he feels it. The initial, tentative presses against his mental shields soon grow in confidence and enthusiasm, as though Potter’s mind is throwing itself up against the barriers. Like a light-drunk moth thudding into the glass walls of an illuminated lantern.
This time, when he shoves the boy back to his own mind, Voldemort follows him through in hopes of figuring out what the hell is going on.
It’s a disorienting experience even beyond the usual strangeness of inhabiting someone else’s mind. The sense of confused mortification is almost overwhelming, but it doesn’t fully disguise the cloying film of infatuation overlaying Potter’s mindscape.
When he looks out through Potter’s eyes, he sees a teenage girl looking back at him, frustration plain on her face. While he refuses to be lumped in with the rabble, it’s nice to know Potter vexes other people, too.
And then he hears what Potter’s saying.
“...his eyes are just so red, you know? Like, blood. Or Gryffindor house colours. Maybe overripe tomatoes? But yeah, really red. And he’s so,” deep, besotted sigh, “skeletal. I never knew I had a thing for corpses, but he really pulls the look off somehow.”
Potter is waxing poetic – poorly – about Voldemort.
“And he knows so much and is so powerful! And so determined – he keeps trying to kill me even when he always fails.”
Ouch.
“I just, I think he’s wonderful,” Potter gushes, before his tone turns insecure. “Do you think I have a chance?”
The girl stares at him incredulously. “To be honest, Harry, no. I don’t think You-Know-Who likes you that way. Or at all,” she states baldly, before attempting to play the coquette, twirling some hair around her finger. “But don’t worry, I’ll like you enough to make up for it.”
Potter’s eyes fill with tears. “He doesn’t… like me?”
The girl’s face contorts into a scowl and she stomps away from Potter, muttering about useless potions. The boy hiccups a small, pathetic sob.
He’s seen enough. Voldemort removes himself from Potter’s mind as quickly as possible.
*
“So, did you ever decide whether my eyes were tomato-like?” Voldemort jeers when he intrudes on Potter’s – thankfully film-free – mind as he sleeps later that night.
“You!” Potter shouts, indignant. “Why do you keep trying to love-potion me??”
Voldemort is unimpressed. “What.”
“This is the second time someone has slipped me a love potion, and both times I’ve,” he stutters. “It focuses on you!”
Voldemort can feel a headache building behind his eyes. This had better not be one of Lucius’ brat’s plans.
“What do you mean, second time? I assure you, I haven’t felt your mind attempt to jump my mental bones like that before.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m sure I remember you trying to crack my head in half with transferred rage that first time,” Potter says sardonically. “It was so painful it actually cancelled out the effects of the love potion.”
“You’re welcome, then.”
“I’m not thanking you!”
A vague memory of a night spent working in his study, taking a moment to swat Potter away like the pest he was, surfaces. That must be what the brat is talking about.
“Potter, I have never attempted to love-potion you, nor would I ever,” he says irritatedly.
He’s hardly a saint and would never claim otherwise. He’s not ashamed of his penchant for murder, torture and manipulation, and good and evil are useless oversimplifications that are more indicative of the current hegemonic state than any enduring moral reality. But even he feels a particular distaste for this method of coercion.
It’s so… inelegant. Muggle, almost – to drug someone and force yourself on them. And purposeless, to his mind. If he wants to degrade, humiliate or inspire fear, there are much more fun and efficient ways.
“Then why does it keep making me ‘in love,’” Potter actually does the air-quotes, the dolt, “with you? Don’t love potions make you fall for the potion-giver?”
“I despair for the education you’re receiving,” Voldemort says. “Or possibly just you in general. While some love potions work based on creating a giver-receiver or brewer-drinker connection, some work based on magical signature – in that the one who consumes the potion fixates on the closest different magical signature.
“My theory is that our mental connection tricks the potion into recognising me as the nearest magical being,” Voldemort explains. “Hence why you felt compelled to extemporise on my many excellent qualities.”
Potter buries his face in his hands and groans.
[3]
It happens again.
What in Merlin’s name is Dumbledore allowing to happen at Hogwarts? Surely it can’t be this difficult to control illicit potions in a school, if for no other reason than to keep his Golden Boy from being sexually assaulted on a disconcertingly regular basis.
Voldemort is certain he wouldn’t have had near the luck these trollops are having if he’d attempted to slip Potter any potion while at Hogwarts.
He doesn’t have the time or patience for this right now, frankly. From the feelings echoing down the bond, either Potter isn’t in any great distress over this attempt or he’s also bored by the repeated druggings. In any event, this is something one of his recently marked Death Eaters still at Hogwarts can handle in his stead.
He sends enough information through the Dark Mark to one of his subtler student followers and, when he takes a moment an hour later to check in through both connections, he finds all has been resolved with minimal fuss. Potter’s virtue, if not his dignity, has survived another day, and his follower is seen as a helpful, observant bystander.
*
Voldemort travels down their bond to Potter’s mind that night to ensure there were no further complications. This time, the potion was keyed to a specific person, so Voldemort wouldn’t have been able to handle it as he had the last time anyway, but a well-timed bezoar did the trick. Aside from looking a little irritated and shame-faced at being potioned again, the boy is in a surprisingly chipper mood.
“You must’ve had this problem when you were younger.”
“Must I?”
“Well yeah, ‘course,” Potter says, eyebrows quirking up. “Tom Marvolo Riddle was hot as hell.”
Voldemort is momentarily taken aback. Is the brat still under the influence of a love potion? “And how would you know that?”
“Erm…” Potter looks embarrassed, but Voldemort has a sneaking suspicion and cuts the boy off before he can ramble any nonsense.
“Do you mean to tell me that Albus Dumbledore has been rhapsodising about my teenage self’s good looks?” he says with the abundance of scepticism and mockery the thought deserves.
Potter stifles a laugh into his shoulder. “Not quite. I met your diary a few years ago.”
Voldemort tenses. “What do you mean, you met my diary?”
“You two had a shared hobby in attempting to murder me. Introduced me to the basilisk under the school and all,” Potter says. “Still, I can’t deny he was well fit.”
He keeps his face neutral, but internally Voldemort is raging. He’ll have to pay a visit to Lucius after this – it would appear the man was less than forthcoming about the location of the diary.
Potter winces and rubs at his scar, so Voldemort reins in his anger for the moment.
“Are you saying you no longer find me ‘fit?’”
“Uh, no? But I’m pretty sure being attractive is fairly low on your list of priorities,” Potter adds. “If that is a priority… I’m sorry you have to hear it from me, but there’s room for improvement.”
“Cute,” Voldemort sneers.
Potter gives him a shit-eating grin. “Why, thank you.”
Cheeky little brat.
“I may have been handsome in my youth, but I had neither your fame nor fortune, which meant there was significantly less motivation,” Voldemort says. “However, yes, one of my admirers attempted to use a love potion on me.”
“Just one?” Potter asked, cocking his head to the side.
His lips quirk into a cruel smile.
“One was all it took to demonstrate how… ill-advised an action it was.”
Potter shivers.
[4]
When faced with a third failure, most people would throw in the towel or at least change up their strategy. As stubborn as he is, Voldemort understands why they don’t – and what happens next.
They escalate.
Which, in this case, means Potter gets dosed with Amortentia.
Disregarding the many failings of both Potter's self-preservation and the school system in leaving the boy so ill-prepared to prevent repeated imbibing of illegal potions – egregious on their own – Voldemort has his suspicions that something else is afoot here. Famous or not, no one student should be the victim of four love potions in the span of one school year.
And there’s an easy way to handle this.
Since he was conceived by a person under the influence of Amortentia, that particular love potion has no effect on Voldemort. If he were to exploit the connection and possess Potter, he could control the boy’s actions until the potion wears off.
The only difficult part will be convincing Potter not to fight him when he takes over.
Or it would be, except this intrepid potioneer is much more interested in pressing her advantage than the previous ones. She has Potter up against the wall in an abandoned classroom and her tongue down his throat before Voldemort can finish communicating his plan to the boy. When she starts plucking at the button of Potter’s fly, to the boy’s outward enthusiasm but inward horror sliding quickly into shock, Voldemort finds there is no resistance to taking control of Potter’s body.
Which is for the best, since Voldemort is fairly certain anything or anyone that comes between him and maiming this girl right now will end up as collateral damage.
The rose tint to the world recedes as he opens his eyes and settles into Potter’s physical body. He briefly checks whether he can access his magic or whether he’s stuck relying on Potter’s – then he emits a wave that sends the girl flying backwards with a shriek into the opposite wall, pinning her there.
It’s a different girl from attempt number two. He walks up to the distressed attempted rapist, jerking her head to his roughly and gazing into her eyes.
“Legilimens.”
Flashes of thoughts relay that dosing Potter with a love potion has become something of a challenge amongst some of the less principled upper year students. Voldemort wonders how many attempts Potter has evaded this year, for four to succeed.
“Hmm. Perhaps I have been just the slightest bit unfair in judging your abilities, Potter,” he says to himself in parseltongue to keep the thought private from the boy whose mind he’s sharing. Except, inexplicably, Potter reacts.
“Y’know, it’s really unnerving when you compliment me,” Potter hisses back. “Even when the compliments are weak like that.”
The clues Voldemort has disregarded in the past about the nature of their connection spin to the forefront of his mind.
Potter’s connection to him feels like Nagini’s.
Potter can speak and understand parseltongue.
Being in Potter’s head feels natural.
And it suddenly clicks.
Potter is a horcrux. His horcrux.
A feral grin spreads across his face, no doubt looking horrifyingly out of place on Potter.
“I should kill you for what you intended to do,” Voldemort muses. The girl whimpers, and he can feel Potter railing inside his head. “But you’ve given me a gift, however unknowingly. Lord Voldemort rewards those who earn it.”
So, he lets her live. Not unpunished, of course – on top of removing her memory of this encounter, he curses her to feel a sharp shock of pain any time she experiences attraction or arousal in the future. It seems only fitting.
Potter, evidently, does not agree.
“Thank you for your help,” he says stiltedly. There’s a discordant mix of emotions seething through the boy’s mind, and not all of them are against Voldemort. “Now get the fuck out of my head.”
There is nothing to be gained by fighting Potter on this, and much to be researched now that he knows the nature of their connection.
Besides, Potter’s already his in the ways that matter.
He goes without another word.
[5]
Even from the other side of the country, Voldemort can tell this time is different. The sheer agonised panic shrieking through their connection fills in the gaps of what he could gather ambiently.
Before he’s consciously made the decision, he’s flinging himself through the intervening space. It’s pure luck that this attempt is taking place in Hogsmeade, beyond the apparition wards that would keep him from Potter’s side.
His boy is on the ground, twisting and moving constantly as though he can’t get comfortable. The two sidekicks are standing near Potter, squabbling animatedly and looking worriedly at their fallen friend.
Their eyes snap up to him when his presence registers and they shift to put themselves bodily between him and Potter. Brave, but foolish, and in this moment nigh suicidal.
“You!” the boy – red hair, probably a Weasley – shouts, pointing a finger. “What did you do to him?”
He knocks them out of the way with an absent gesture and some wandless magic.
“This is why you make examples of those who wrong you, Potter,” he mutters under his breath.
“What do you mean?” the bushy-haired one demands, standing much closer than he’d expected. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”
If he had the time, he’d curse them for bothering him on principle. Luckily for them, he’s more focused on examining the clearly compromised Potter.
He casts a couple quick diagnostic charms to ascertain what, exactly, someone has drugged him with this time.
Elevated temperature and heart rate, difficulty breathing, muscle spasms, pain, and arousal. What Voldemort initially thought was dirt from flopping on the ground – though on closer examination, it’s oddly concentrated on the boy’s face – lights up at one of his spells. A quick, distanced sniff carries the spicy, woody scent to him and confirms his suspicions.
“A magical variant of Coriandrum sativum - or coriander. A stringently controlled substance, and illegal to possess outside of lab settings. It acts as a phyto-aphrodisiac,” he explains, collecting some samples of the pollen before banishing the rest and laying a hand on Potter’s brow to check his temperature. The boy is boiling hot. “And this cultivar seems particularly potent. Is it accurate to say his condition is deteriorating quickly?”
The Weasley still looks angry and confused, so he focuses on the bushy-haired one, who seems to have kept at least some semblance of wits about her. “Yes,” she says, nodding. “He was fine up until about five minutes ago.”
She wrings her hands and looks distraught. “We were only apart for three minutes, and I know he wouldn’t have willingly taken anything someone gave him after all the love-potion issues this year.”
“The pollen only needs skin contact to activate,” he says.
“Shit,” the Weasley adds helpfully.
“We have to let a professor know,” the bushy-haired one says. “Who knows if Harry’s the only one affected.”
Though she looks terrified, she meets Voldemort’s eyes. “How do we help Harry?”
He decides to tell the truth, if only because it will distract them.
“If Potter doesn’t have sex, he will die.”
“What?” she squawks, paling and flushing simultaneously, looking scandalised.
“Are you bloody serious?” the red-head mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Only Harry.”
The girl looks ready to say something, but the boy cuts her off angrily. “No, you are not going to help with this, Hermione.”
“Ron! He’ll die if one of us doesn’t–!”
“Funnily enough, I wasn’t suggesting either of you,” Voldemort sneers as he lifts the squirming boy into his arms. He ignores the cries behind him as he apparates away.
Voldemort sets Potter down on his bed – no point in beating around that bush. And if, in the process, he touches Potter as much as possible without letting on that he's doing so, the boy's in no position to call him on it.
"Do you want me to help you, Harry?" Voldemort says in a low, coaxing tone.
"Please, yes," the boy sobs, fingers digging into the sheets beneath him as he squirms.
"You know I will – I have before. All I need," he croons, "is a name."
Potter sinks his teeth firmly into his bottom lip, somehow managing to glare even as his eyes glow with hunger.
"Come now, darling – just tell me who did this and I'll fix it."
"You mean you'll kill them," Potter gasps.
"Considering they weren't particularly concerned with the possibility you might die, I'd say turnabout is fair play," he says mildly.
"That's rich, coming from you," Potter grits, jaw clenched and face twisting in pain.
"We can keep debating the point until you expire, if you like. But we both know I’ll figure out who’s responsible in the end.”
Potter holds out for longer than Voldemort expects, but a particularly violent shudder tears through him and the dam breaks. “Professor Sprout’s apprentice,” he forces out. “She helps with the younger years, I can’t remember her name–” he cuts off on a strangled whine.
“Shh, shh, good boy,” Voldemort murmurs, pressing his fingers to Harry’s cheek. The boy cats into the touch, sobbing.
“God, please, keep touching me,” he says as he grabs at Voldemort’s robe.
As though he would deny him.
And regardless of what he would’ve thought a year ago, it’s no hardship to have sex with Harry Potter. To feel the boy move and shudder against him, skin to skin, gasping out pleas and sounds of pleasure, clinging to him, needing him.
(It’s about as far from a hardship as he can imagine.)
He sucks a livid bruise on Harry’s collarbone, earning a cry of mingled pleasure and pain. He bites another into the flesh near the corner of Harry’s jaw, where nothing short of healing it will prevent others from getting the message: mine.
*
Voldemort can tell exactly when the effects of the pollen finally wear off, as Harry goes completely still for several moments before appearing to crumple in on himself. The boy curls up as tightly as physically possible, turning his face into the bedding. His breathing grows unsteady and his shoulders jerk every so often. Throughout it all, Harry stays completely silent.
He reaches down to pull a blanket over Harry’s shivering, naked form; the boy flinches. As Voldemort goes to pull away and leave the room, Harry grabs his wrist tightly.
“Stay,” he rasps.
Voldemort leans back against the headboard beside the boy, gripping his wrist in turn.
And he plots.
[+1]
The herbology apprentice is found, crumpled and discarded and scattered with sprigs of coriander blossoms, outside the Hogwarts gates a week later.
The auror report will show extensive nerve damage and bruising from prolonged use of the Cruciatus curse; the unfortunate student who discovers her can clearly see her eyes have been gouged out and her hands have been cut off.
If there was any ambiguity to that presentation, it’s dispelled by the presence of a note, wrapped around an empty love potion bottle wedged in her mouth:
Do not covet what doesn’t belong to you.
Through their connection, he can feel the boy’s horror-guilt-regret-self-loathing, which is predictable and uninteresting. But he can also feel the relief and a not-insignificant amount of vindictive satisfaction, and that’s far more gratifying.
No one tries to give Harry a love potion again.