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Memories of Hope	By : A_Recluse Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Voldemort Views: 22913 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the lovely stories of JKR, including the Harry Potter series and don't make any money from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Memories of Hope
- 1
A/N: This is a repost of my story under the name at FF.net, only I elaborated it a bit. It’s rather dark so be warned. Nonetheless, enjoy!

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Memories of Hope

He was laying on his bed, legs hanging loosely over the side, toes just grazing the stone floor. His arms were spread out emphasizing his triumphant daze. He was relishing in his pleasure. The war was won, had been won for quite some time now. He ruled a world without humour, only want. And what the Dark Lord wants, the Dark Lord gets.

The boy had been their hope, so they had waited patiently for him to bring back the light. But that was not what happened. Voldemort knew, if you wanted anything, even hope, you had to take it by force. And he did, oh he did.

But he shouldn’t be thinking now. The thinking distracted him from what was happening down below. He raised his head slightly just enough to see a tuft of unruly black hair bobbing between his legs. The sight alone rendered him blank, but the feel of that gifted tongue as it grazed and caressed him was mindboggling.

He still remembers the very first time. The boy had been spread out across this very same bed; too powerless to move, too crushed to protest. He was probably trying to convince himself that it was just a nightmare, that they hadn’t lost, that everyone was still alive; that he wasn’t here. At least that’s what he interpreted when the boy tightly shut his eyes in horror of his current predicament.

He had loosened his robe and looked down at the boy. He was tied down on his stomach, bounded more for decoration than to prevent an escape. It was too late for that. The boy couldn’t see what was happening without his glasses and from that angle. He only heard the rustling of clothes. And that how the Dark Lord liked it, this teasing uncertainty… It was just so easy to exert power. Slowly he sat himself on the edge of the bed and caressed the boy’s limbs steadily going higher and higher. But his newfound pet refrained from speaking no doubt thinking it would preserve his dignity. Such idle hopes…

As Voldemort crawled further up the boy’s back he ran his cold digits everywhere across the now quivering skin. He slowly moved his body upwards making sure the boy felt him, all of him and brought his lips near his ear to whisper. He had whispered all his plans that night, all his secrets. As they lay there both naked, there was only truth between them nothing else, but it held no hope. He felt himself becoming hard as he brushed his cock against the boy’s bare back, already slick with pre-cum.

He whispered some more about the spell he had cast, making it impossible for the boy to sleep or pass out without the Dark Lord’s permission. He also told about the potion he himself had taken, the one that enlarged his infallible stamina even more. He had promised a long night. Actually dawn had never come into this room…

The boy hadn’t pleaded nor begged, his damn Gryffindor pride withheld him that pleasure for now. But Voldemort was certain that even if he didn’t get any pleas tonight, he would reap the screams.

He slid down a bit so his painful erection pushed against the skinny ass, just touching... The boy tensed involuntarily. Well, too bad for him, Voldemort thought, as he parted the arse cheeks with his thumbs. He waited for a few seconds and leaned back admiring that pinker pucker to heighten his own anticipation and the boy’s dread. He grabbed the boy’s hip firmly and without any form of preparation trusted inwards in one fluid motion. The tightness, the warm caverns were overwhelming as were the boy’s screams. The Dark Lord gave the boy no time to adjust, pulling out until only the head of his cock remained immerged. He pounded back, rocking his hips, pushing until he was balls deep. The boy whimpered and writhed, as the Dark Lord kept slamming their bodies together. He clenched the boy’s hip, sunk his teeth in the boy’s shoulder as he gave no reprieve for the next minutes as he fucked that skinny virgin’s ass with vigour. With an animalistic cry he came. Panting, he lied down on the boy’s back with no intention of removing himself, cock still buried deep.

“One.” He had whispered in Parseltongue. “When do you think you will lose count? And at what number will you hope to lose count?”

The boy had tensed even more and shuddered in return as he tried to muffle those pathetic sobs in the mattress below him. This tangible despair had sent sparks throughout his body. With a smirk he felt himself becoming hard once more. He never intended to keep count, the Dark Lord thought as he resumed taking pleasure in those screams. He took his time exploring the boy’s nether regions, conquering, marking, planting his flag…

Their next night were ever so invigorating. He enjoyed tying him up, with magic or with more mundane modes, but his favourite way of demobilizing the boy was fucking him senseless. Leaving him spent and empty, not able to do anything but lay down, sweat and cum glistening all over his body matching his glassy eyes. Even after all these years his cock twitched at the sight of his broken boy. It was a most stimulating sight indeed. He had found out that pleasure was a weapon too in this fight for total control. The boy seemed less confident, less defiant after he had moaned the Dark Lords name again and again and again. He was helpless in every way as his body did things his mind couldn’t grasp.

Occasionally when the boy proved to be particularly troublesome or when he himself felt generous enough the Dark Lord summoned some of his Death Eaters to join. They were always ready to do as he commanded, once they got over their initial surprise of seeing the fabled Boy-Who-Lived alive, breathing and ready on all fours. Those nights he was content to watch as his loyal subjects impatiently took turns, a cock in each end pumping in unison. It was a sequence of moans and grunts, sweat covered bodies and loud fuck, kinks and screaming with his boy in the middle. On those occasions the night never seemed to end. They never remembered afterwards.

Truth to be told, he rather enjoyed the defiance his little ‘ward’ kept showing after everything that was done to him: the angry glares, the attempted escapes, the cursing. Who would have thought the boy had such a foul mouth? And that was just one of the way he enjoyed the boy’s oral skills.

But after a while that spark left, leaving a void filled with submission. The boy truly became the unresisting slave Voldemort initially wanted him to become, never complaining when he entered the room for a quick fuck and always ready. But that became rather unsatisfying after a while.

So he then did something much more devious that taking the boy’s body or breaking his mind; he erased his memories. He even healed all the damage, making him that defiant little virgin once more. He could start again. There were quite a few first times now and all of them were equally gratifying.

Of course there were still wizards and witches resisting his dark reign. All across the world little flames of resistance still burned, smouldering, plotting to overthrow his endless empire. He didn’t mind, a little opposition wasn’t going to cause any harm. It kept his Death Eaters pleased as they grew in numbers. As long as they had someone to hunt they were kept busy and in line. He even encouraged this resistance on occasion, allowing them a few insignificant victories, carefully orchestrated with some helpful clues of his own. In the end it didn’t matter, the balance had shifted in his favour for good now that their hope was buried somewhere in a nameless grave. Or that’s what everyone - including his Death Eaters- thought. But their hope was currently kneeling between his legs at his feet, skilfully sucking cock as if he’s been doing this for years. He had, he just didn’t remember.

Suddenly craving more, the Dark Lord leaned a bit forward gripped the boy’s hair. He picked up the pace enjoying the wet noises he elicited. The boy let him, without so much uttering a whimper even though his breathing became more erratic, the violent trusts of his cock making it nearly impossible to suck in air as well. Voldemort’s hips bucked violently until he saw black stars and stilled with a shudder as his release dripped down that heavenly throat. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall back on the mattress immersing himself in those waves of pleasure. The boy swallowed obediently, already knowing what his master demanded of him. And knowing the consequences of failing.

A few minutes later the boy was already prepping him for another round skilfully using his tongue to tease. Voldemort pushed himself up on his elbows to admire his creation, his Horcrux. Looking down on those bruised lips, the Dark Lord wondered how many Memory Charms he had already placed. Ten, twelve? Eventually that didn’t matter. In a few days, maybe a week he’ll start over again. He had become quite good in recognizing the signs of total submission. It wasn’t far off anymore.

Maybe that old sod of a Dumbledore was right; there were things worse than death.

Obliviate.

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Memories of Hope