Notes: sado-masochism themes; canon-divergence; slash; and there are actually a few hints of possession in here if that's your cup o' tea. Also, I didn't slip the wand innuendo in here, it let itself in through the backdoor, I swear.

The Graveyard

Harry saw Voldemort's touch before he felt it. The man pressed his fingers to his forehead and burned him in a way that Harry had never felt before. He cried out, completely new to the feeling of the cold fingers on his skin, the center of the agony wracking his body. His heart raced so fast he was afraid he was going to have a heart-attack - a thought he didn't entirely comprehend. He didn't realize that Voldemort wasn't touching him anymore until the cold was replaced by warm blood flowing freely from his scar.

He took a deep breath and looked down at the thing standing in front of him. He was going to murder Voldemort. He'd die with that stupid smirk on his face - the one that made him appear to be someone else entirely. Something dark.

Something evil.

The Ministry of Magic

Harry watched the fire flow out of Voldemort's mouth and straight to Dumbledore, flames scorching the marble. He was frozen to the spot as Dumbledore retaliated in his first display of powerful magic. Both men were immersed completely in the battle, unaware of Harry sitting there and watching them.

Colors lit up the entrance of the Ministry, comets dancing across the room and exploding at the will of the caster. Ice blue shards from Dumbledore . . . Dazzling gray daggers from Voldemort . . . back and forth they went, so fast that Harry couldn't watch it all. He was in awe of the raw power in the room, the leading forces in the War raging not only in the Wizarding World, but in Harry's mind as well.

His eyes seemed to be glued to Voldemort. The way the man moved, the way he held his wand as though it was his companion and best friend - not like a weapon. Not a weapon at all. Harry was oddly drawn to the idea of Voldemort's wand being in his own hand.

Voldemort's robes were singed from his own casted fire. He stood tall as he faced Dumbledore, not once slipping up or backing down. No hesitation, no delayed movements. His reaction time was flawlessly quick. Harry could feel the power radiating off of him, mingling with Dumbledore's familiar and somehow weaker magic. The Dark Lord was ruthless and mesmerizing.

Harry blinked and focused again. Dumbledore was surrounding his opponent with water, drowning him. Harry's heart raced and he edged forward slightly. Panic gripped him when Voldemort apparated out of the water.

Harry felt something pass through him - something uncomfortably warm and cold at the same time. It settled inside of him. Something was wrong, but . . . he was hooked on the feeling. It was a full, blissful feeling that Harry never experienced before.

"So vulnerable . . ." came a whisper. Voldemort was inside him. Harry shivered. It felt wretched, new, yet so easy to give in to. Simple. "So much potential . . ."

He felt a tug inside of him, like something ripped away from his very soul. He cried out in pain, arching up in agony. If what he felt in the graveyard in his fourth year was bad . . . this was tenfold. He sobbed, the pain never-ending. He didn't want to fight anymore. He screamed as he felt a sensation of a hand being pushed into his stomach, breaking skin and pushing aside his intestines.

"Shh, shh, shh," Voldemort's voice brushed again his mind, a soft caress. Some part of Harry - the part that seemed oblivious to the pain wracking his body - knew that the burning stings and stabs weren't intentional. Not on Voldemort's part, at least.

Just when Harry thought his mind might break, that he was going to end up like Neville's parents or worse, the pain ended abruptly. His muscles ached from spasms and his nerves felt like they were charred. He opened his eyes, not even aware that they'd been closed, and stared at the man standing above him.

"There you are," Voldemort whispered. He leaned down, brushing the fringe out of Harry's eyes and wiping the blood of his face at a slow, focused pace. "Good," the man murmured. Tears spilled from Harry's eyes, but he didn't know if it was because Voldemort had touched him and it hurt or if it was because of something else entirely.

Voldemort stood there, staring at Harry with his glowing red eyes. His skin was pale and smooth . . . not scaly at all. Harry blinked away his tears and he into unconsciousness just after Cornelius Fudge entered the Ministry of Magic.

The Forest of Dean

Harry took one last glance towards Hermione and Ron's sleeping forms, guilt already forming in his stomach. As much as they loved him, he couldn't let them die in this War. He turned away from his best friends - the only people who had ever been there for him - and walked beyond the wards Hermione set up. The Horcrux seemed weightless in his pocket for the first time.

He kept walking until he knew that Hermione and Ron wouldn't hear him apparate and, within a second, he was near the Lovegood's collapsed house. The cool night air whipped through his hair. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the field. He felt the excitement and nervousness build in his stomach as he gathered his courage.

"Voldemort," Harry said clearly. He wasn't going to mess this up.

The Snatchers were on him within seconds. Harry let them take him. Take me to Him . . .

They did. They took him to Malfoy Manor. Harry's eyes rolled back in his head when he felt Tom coming near, but that was the point - he still felt him. There was something inside of him that yearned for the Dark Lord, something inside of him that was powerful and twisted, but Harry couldn't stand fighting anymore. He hadn't been able to since his fifth year when Tom wiped the blood from his scar and praised him.

A surge of wind blew throughout the Manor, silencing the wild Death Eaters who couldn't believe Harry had turned himself in. Harry knew that magic, knew the man behind it. As his scar burned, he knelt down on the floor, groaning. He closed his eyes tightly. He wanted to see Tom, but at the same time, it was so very painful.

Cold fingers ran through his hair, making Harry whimper in a way that he didn't even know he could do. The Dark Lord was kneeling beside Harry, stroking his jet-black hair.

"Harry," the man whispered. Harry didn't feel any pain anymore, not when Tom was touching him. He heard the Death Eaters rustling, murmuring among themselves. Harry looked up at Tom and saw him looking right back, red eyes locked on green.

"Tom," he whimpered. The hand tightened in his hair minutely before he resumed his soothing movements.

"I knew you'd come," Tom said softly.

"Of course I did," Harry replied, blinking slowly. He could've sworn that Tom's eyes softened. Maybe it was his imagination.

"It's not," Tom murmured, causing Harry's heart to flip. He knew Tom was a skilled Legilimens, it was only surprising to him . . . he didn't have anything to hide from him anymore. Harry was Tom's now.

"You are mine," the Dark Lord spat, his grip tightening even more in Harry's hair. Harry practically melted at the touch.

"Always," Harry agreed.

Tom smiled - so vile and terrifying - and Harry gave in to his master. Just like he was meant to do.