Blood Of The Enemy

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never will be. All HP characters belong to JKR and Warner Brothers, etc, etc, etc.

A/N: This takes place about six weeks after the Third Task of The Tri-Wizard Tournament. Italics enclosed with single asterisks denote Parseltongue speech.

Praise be to Evil Auntie Snape for all her help and encouragement!

And many, many thanks to knightmare for the wonderfully quick and fantastic beta!

~~~~~~BLOOD OF THE ENEMY~~~~~~~~~~~


Voldemort leaned back in his huge wing-back chair. Slowly lifting the snifter of brandy to his misshapen mouth, he quickly drained the glass. It refilled itself by the time he gently placed it on the small side table next to the chair. Sighing contentedly, the Dark Lord sank even deeper into the squishy cushions as Nagini languidly coiled herself about his ankles. The snake's large, flat head draped lazily over the high back of his chair. Voldemort could feel a tiny tickle on the shell of his ear as the reptile snaked her long, forked tongue in and out. The soft scratching sound Nagini made as she did this was surprisingly arousing.

Rain pelted the newly restored windows of his family's ancestral home. In addition to returning the Riddle house to its former glory, Voldemort had set out powerful wards and glamours to repel not only Muggles, but most wizards as well. Anyone in Little Hangleton that dared to gaze at the large manor house on the hill would see it as it had been: dark, deteriorated, deserted. There were many wizards and witches that could see through the charm, of course. But so far, none had bothered to even look.

Voldemort smiled as he took another sip of his drink.

It was all too perfect.

No one seemed to believe Potter's tale of his resurrection and murder of the worthless Diggory boy. That imbecile Fudge was actually playing right into his hands, by discrediting the Boy Who Lived at every turn. It was more than he could ever have hoped for. Voldemort had followed the story closely, piles of old copies of The Daily Prophet stacked neatly next to his chair. The Ministry was working overtime to explain away or gloss over the chaos being caused by his faithful supporters.

Soon, he would be able to infiltrate the Department of Mysteries and secure The Prophecy. And once that glowing little orb was safely in his hands, once he knew its secrets, the missing pieces would finally fall into place.

Until then, why not partake of what pleasures the world had to offer?

*Indeed! Carpe diem, eh, Nagini?*

*Yessss, My lord. Sssiessss the day. You dessserve it!*

He steepled his fingers in front of his face, gazing into the sizable fire roaring away in the huge hearth. It was always cold in the old manor. He was always cold. Not many things warmed his body these days. A blazing fire was one that did, of course. Brandy was another.

Tonight, however, Voldemort knew he needed that little something more. Something real. Pliable. Human. And one of those hadn't been nearly enough to satiate his body's needs. Or his desires.

Desire.

Need.

They both spoke to him now as if they were corporeal beings, sitting right next to him. Guests who had never before deigned to share his presence.

And now they refused to leave.

Naturally he had had desires and needs before. For power, for control, for dominion over the entire wizarding world. To become the most powerful Wizard in history. But these new requirements were an entirely different matter. He needed them, ached for them now, and the remaining, tiny scrap of his mutilated soul had blazed to life anew, never giving him a moment's peace until he satisfied it.

Ever since the night six weeks ago, when he had been reborn, Voldemort had been keenly aware that something was different. He was nearly overwhelmed to be flesh once again. It was quite intoxicating. New power flowed through his strong, lean body, power that he had always dreamed of, but had never before had at his disposal. He could feel it even now, pulsing and vibrating through him, weaving itself in and out and through every fiber of his new being.

He felt invincible. The blood of his enemy had made him that way. Blood unwillingly taken. Potter's only trump card had been removed, and the Boy Who Lived was now defenseless against him.

Potter.

Harry.

Dear, sweet, Harry.

Voldemort closed his eyes, running his long, elegant hands across his chest and down over his stomach. His black silk robe felt marvelous as he caressed himself. He moaned slightly, brushing his fingers against his rapidly hardening arousal.

This was the new thing incarnate. The odd, slightly disorienting sensation that vexed him, yet seemed to uplift him to previously unknown heights. Since the night in the graveyard, Voldemort had been experiencing these new sensations with increasing regularity. They made him strangely dizzy, as if drunk with some oddly invigorating elixir. He had never felt this way before, and it energized him.

Every time he thought of Harry it happened. And with each occurrence, Voldemort found that he desired it more and more.

It was the reason that he had let Harry escape from the cemetery. He had nearly destroyed the Gryffindor during their duel. A simple flick of his wand would have done it. But he had held back. Something in his new being screamed at him to allow Harry to live. And he had acquiesced, staring in disbelief as Harry Accio'd the Portkey and disappeared. His Death Eaters had assumed his howl of rage then was due to Potter's escape.

They didn't know the truth.

No one did.

Wormtail had spouted some nonsense about the boy's blood possibly having some sort of unseen effect. Potter was essentially a part of him now. It wasn't inconceivable that they were now linked in yet another way. It did make sense. A portion of Harry's being had been taken, those tiny drops of the boy's blood sparking and guiding the creation of his new form.

Still, he had dismissed Wormtail out of hand. Even if his detestable toady's theory were even partly true, Voldemort would never conceive of admitting the fact. It just wouldn't do to have the help believing that they had divined something their Master had not.

Voldemort reached down, picking up a copy of The Daily Prophet set apart from the others. It was rather worn, but carefully preserved.

He sipped at his brandy, gazing longingly at the large picture that covered more than half of the front page of this particular special edition.

The caption above the moving color photograph read "Potter Ties For First Place In Second Task". The Boy Who Lived smiled broadly, flanked by his friends and Dumbledore. His wild, ebony hair clung to his handsome face. A blanket was draped over Harry's shoulders, but fortunately, it failed to conceal his nicely broadening shoulders or his bare, muscular arms. His soaked burgundy and black Gryffindor tank top was plastered tightly to his lean, muscled chest. His black trunks also clung to all the perfect places, nicely showing off his rather large package.

Voldemort licked his lips as he moved his eyes down to Harry's bare, muscular, rather hairy legs. In the photo, the Gryffindor smiled sheepishly, looking from the camera to his friends and back again in an endless loop. It was that smile that pierced the Dark Lord as if it were a sword through his heart.

And those eyes. Those penetrating, deep pools of emerald beauty.

Voldemort reached a shaky hand under his robe, firmly grasping his erection. His cool, long fingers encircled the rigid shaft, slowly stroking its length. Pushing his head back into the soft chair, Voldemort closed his eyes and imagined his pale, long hands on Potter's naked body. His own hands, running across that lean, muscled chest, ghosting carefully down Harry's smooth, flat stomach. His hands moving down further still, caressing and fondling the boy's erectness, pulling Harry to him, their naked flesh sliding together deliciously.

Voldemort whimpered as Nagini's tongue slowly teased the shell of his ear.

Her breath washed over the side of his face, causing him to gasp loudly. Her tail trailed up his leg, the cold, scaly tip tracing lazy circles across his inner thigh.

*Oh, my Massster, it isss mossst gratifying to give you pleasssure!* she hissed softly. *I live to sssservisse you.*

Voldemort throttled himself with increased intensity. He peeled his robe open, his one hand absently stroking Nagini's broad head while the other tortured his aching cock. The large snake slithered over the back of the chair, her tongue teasing one of Voldemort's nipples. He moaned Harry's name as she clamped her jaws down on the hard mound of gray flesh. Her Master yelped with pleasure as the first drops of precome lubricated the large purple head of his prick. Voldemort arched his back as the slender end of Nagini's tail wound itself about his testicles. The sensation of her scaly, wiggling tail on his balls sent him into a frenzy.

"Harry!" he wailed breathlessly.

Nagini squeezed his sac with increasing pressure. She slid her head across her Master's chest, her tongue flicking the nub of Voldemort's other nipple. Nagini then dragged her large fangs across the mounded bit of skin, causing Voldemort to spasm with ecstasy.

He was moaning constantly now, flailing about in his chair, head thrashing from side to side, nearing release. Nagini sank her fangs into his chest, injecting her venom. Her tail released her Master's balls, its probing tip quickly sliding up the long shaft of his quivering erection to tease the weeping slit of his cock. A second later, Voldemort came, huge jets of come spurting all over his stomach and chest. Nagini hissed in pleasure as dollops of her Master's seed landed on her head. Her tongue eagerly lapped at Voldemort's spunk-slicked skin.

*Thank you, Massster. Your essssensse ssustainsssss me!*

Voldemort was reeling, his brain spinning from the pleasure of completion and the warmth of Nagini's venom coursing through his veins. He gently stroked the giant snake's head, murmuring a cleansing charm. Without a word, Nagini withdrew, pulling herself slowly away from her Master. A moment later, she disappeared through the open door and into the hallway.

Standing and stretching blissfully, Voldemort strode towards the hearth, allowing his robe to fall to the soft carpet. He stood in front of the blazing hearth, legs spread apart, arms outstretched, allowing the heat of the fire to warm his naked body.

A series of loud thumps and bangs wafted up from the stairway. Voldemort chuckled as plodding, heavy footfalls approached his sitting room. A second later, Wormtail burst into the room, his hair plastered tightly to his head, drops of water rolling down his round, whiskered face.

"My Lord, is anything wrong?" he spluttered nervously. "I heard you calling."

Without turning, Voldemort snickered. "No, Wormtail. Nothing is wrong. Have you found it?"

Wormtail took several steps towards his Master. His hands danced with each other constantly, the silver of his charmed hand flashing in the firelight.

"Yes, yes, I found what you desire, Master," he offered proudly. "Had to go all the way to Greater Hangleton to get it, but I did, oh yes!"

Voldemort turned around, taking a few steps towards his acolyte.

"And? Where is it?" he growled throatily, his hands on his bare hips.

Wormtail blinked furiously, a tiny dribble of spittle leaking from the corner his mouth. His bloodshot eyes darted quickly up and down his Master's naked body, eagerly drinking in the enthralling form before him.

"Ah, ah, um...," Wormtail began. "It is down in the hall, Master. Stunned. You shall be most pleased. It is quite delectable!"

Voldemort ran one of his slender hands across the taut surface of his stomach, the tips of his fingers barely caressing the base of his rather large cock. Wormtail gulped, his tongue flicking from one side of his mouth to the other. The Dark Lord took a step closer, arching his back, his hips barely an inch from his servant's. Wormtail made to bend down, his shaking hands reaching for Voldemort's quickly stiffening member.

"I think not," Voldemort hissed, backhanding Wormtail and sending him sailing across the sitting room.

Wormtail landed on top of the naked body lying in a shadowy corner. He grunted in pain as he hoisted himself to his feet.

"Forgive me, Master!" he pleaded. "I am weak! You know I cannot resist you!"

Voldemort shook his head, smiling. "No need to apologize," he replied dryly with a wave of his hand. "Simply bring me what I need. And take that with you on the way out."

"Ensure that my new prize doesn't see what you're doing," he added carelessly.

Wormtail nodded vigorously, bowing as he backed towards the bloodied body splayed out across the carpet. Grunting and huffing, he dragged the dark-haired teen's limp corpse from the sitting room.

Voldemort walked over and drained his glass of brandy. While it was refilling, he summoned a pair of jeans from a pile in the corner. The neatly folded denim flew directly into his hands. With a sharp snap, he shook them out and pulled them on. Buttoning the fly, he admired his reflection in the large mirror over the sideboard. Murmuring an incantation, hair began to sprout from his bald skull. In seconds, long, red tresses hung to his shoulders. His skin shone with a healthy golden glow, and his eyes were now a beautiful sky blue. His firm, full lips worked their way into a broad grin.

"Very nice," he whispered, giving his head a shake, his new hair framing his face rather attractively.

It wouldn't do at all to frighten his prize. It was important that they were made comfortable. At least at the start. This was something that his followers would never understand. Especially Malfoy. The pompous bastard had pushed for Potter's murder from the instant that the boy had disappeared with Diggory's body. Worse, Lucius was now strongly advocating that a group of Death Eaters abduct Harry as he spent the summer with his disgusting Muggle family in Surrey.

But that would never happen. No one would touch Harry.

No one but him. Anyone that harmed him would pay a very high price.

Oh, no. No one would lay a hand on Harry.

That pleasure was reserved for him, and him alone.

And deep down, he held on to the barest hope that Harry might actually be persuaded to come to his side. Some of Voldemort's own Slytherin powers resided in him, after all. The very notion of Harry willingly joining with him, as his partner, on the side of Darkness, was too exciting for words.

Voldemort was rock hard once more by the time he heard soft shuffling sounds from the hallway. Wormtail moved slowly across the threshold, his hand gently pulling a huddled form behind him.

The Dark Lord moved towards the pair as Wormtail pushed the young boy further into the room.

"Here it is, My Lord, just as you asked!"

The short, stocky teen was visibly trembling. His large, green eyes scanned the room, tears mingled with drips of rain staining his fair cheeks. His collar-length curly, black hair was sopping wet. The stained and torn yellow t-shirt he was wearing was also drenched. It clung most deliciously to his nicely muscled torso. His loose-fitting jeans hung on his narrow hips wonderfully. A sliver of firm, taut skin peeked out from under his shirt. The teen's feet were bare and covered with mud. His eyes locked onto Voldemort and went wide.

The Dark Lord grinned as warmly as he could. The teen still gasped.

"Excellent, Wormtail," Voldemort purred. "Leave us, now, please."

The bedraggled wizard bowed and backed out of the room, swiftly closing the door with a loud thunk. The teen started as the clicks of the lock echoed through the large sitting room. Voldemort moved next to the young Muggle, reaching out to touch the boy's cheek. He tried to pull away, but the disguised Dark Lord clamped a strong hand on the teen's shoulder.

"Now, now, let's not start out on the wrong foot," he said calmly. "My name is Tom. What's yours?"

The teen swallowed, his response barely a whisper.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that," Voldemort grinned.

"Ethan," he rasped out.

"Hullo, Ethan," Voldemort responded warmly, running a hand through his dark, tangled locks. "And how old are you?"

"Seventeen," Ethan answered shakily.

Voldemort cocked his head to one side, smirking. Ethan glanced at the carpet, kicking at it with a muddy foot.

"Ah, I will be, seventeen that is, next July," he corrected softly, looking back up at Voldemort. "What are you going to do to me? Please, don't hurt me," he pleaded, shivering slightly in the damp chill.

The Dark Lord placed both hands on Ethan's shoulders. His eyes bored into the young Muggle's lovely green ones. Ethan's expression went blank for the briefest of moments.

"I'm going to help you, Ethan. I'm going to make you feel better than you have ever felt before," Voldemort said softly, lifting Ethan's chin up so that their eyes met. "I know what it's like to be alone, without family," he finished with a smile.

It was insanely easy to use Legilimency on Muggles. With a slight motion of his hand, he charmed Ethan dry.

Ethan blinked, his expression wary. "How did you do that? And how did you know about, uh, about my parents?"

Voldemort chuckled. "It's enough that I do, yes?" He moved closer, running his hands slowly down Ethan's nicely muscled chest.

"My, you are a handsome, strapping lad. Quite popular with the girls, I'd wager."

Ethan looked away, shaking his head. "Uhhh, no, not really."

"Hmmm, I thought not," Voldemort murmured knowingly. "Their loss, my gain."

The brunet turned his head back, his huge, green eyes suddenly wide with what appeared to be relief. A tiny smile forced its way across his handsome face.

"You mean you....."

"Yes," Voldemort nodded, "I'm like you. There's nothing wrong with what we are, Ethan. We all must embrace our true selves. I have done that... Let me help you do the same."

Voldemort moved one of his hands down and under Ethan's t-shirt. He gasped at the feeling of the warm, smooth flesh under his fingertips. Ethan took a deep breath, trembling slightly. He reached out, his fingers barely grazing the bare chest pressed so close to his own. Voldemort moved his other hand to ghost across the front of Ethan's jeans, inhaling deeply as he pressed his palm against Ethan's firming arousal.

"See? Nothing to fear, Ethan," Voldemort murmured, leaning in close. He gave the brunet's left ear a playful nibble.

Ethan sighed, unconsciously moving into Voldemort's embrace. The Dark Lord wrapped his arms about the teen, drinking in the arousing sensation of another warm body in such close contact. The room began to fade away as Voldemort kissed the top of Ethan's head. The stocky young Muggle nuzzled his face into the Dark Lord's chest. Sighing, Voldemort plunged his hands down inside Ethan's jeans, firmly cupping his lovely, silky smooth arse. Ethan moaned loudly, licking and nibbling at the skin of Voldemort's throat. The wizard then pulled Ethan's shirt up and off, tossing it away. Ethan smiled, leaning up and planting a sloppy kiss on Voldemort's lips.

"Well, well, someone isn't so shy after all," Voldemort observed with interest. "Do I take this as a sign that you are all right with this?"

Ethan grinned, pressing against Voldemort. The teen's hands reached around and grabbed Voldemort's arse, kneading it firmly.

"Yeah, I'm better now," he replied. "I just want you to know that I'm not very good at this. So if it looks like I don't know what I'm doing, that's why."

"I'm sure you'll perform wonderfully," Voldemort chuckled, pleased that his latest 'prize' was so cooperative.

Perhaps this one would be different.

"So, I assume that you want to continue of your own free will? It's very important that you want to be with me, Ethan. I can't stress that enough."

Ethan nodded, nibbling at the side of Voldemort's neck. "Yeah, Tom, I want to do this," he answered, "Be with you, I mean."

"Excellent, excellent," the Dark Lord sighed, his breathing becoming deeper and more pronounced. "I'm so glad you feel that way."

Voldemort pulled away slightly, pushing Ethan's brunet hair away from his forehead. Quickly murmuring an incantation, the wizard traced a jagged line with his thumb across the skin above Ethan's right eye. A lightning-bolt shape glowed brightly for a moment, before fading into a fresh-looking scar. Voldemort smiled as Ethan blinked.

"Hey, that tickled," Ethan snickered, rubbing his forehead.

"Now you're even more beautiful," Voldemort whispered. "You remind me of someone I miss so very much, Ethan. So gorgeous. Just like you. Will you help me find him again?"

"Help? Sure, Tom, whatever," Ethan nodded, sounding slightly confused. "I've never had anyone call me beautiful before."

"No? What a shame," Voldemort commented absently.

The Dark Lord reached out and something flew across the dim sitting room and into his open palm.

"Here, put these on for me, will you?"

Ethan picked up the thin, round, wire-rimmed glasses, examining them with interest.

"But I don't understand, I......"

Voldemort silenced the brunet by pressing a finger to Ethan's lips.

"Just do it for me, Ethan. It would mean a great deal."

The Muggle nodded, a crooked grin spreading across his face. He carefully slid the delicate glasses into place.

"Well, how do I look?" Ethan asked with a smile.

"Perfect," Voldemort breathed, "Just perfect."


~fin~




More A/N: All I can say is Wow! Thanks so much to all the wonderful readers and reviewers on AFFNet and elsewhere who have enjoyed my story. The response has been unimaginable. I'm impressed and humbled beyond words! My heartfelt thanks to you--you are the everything! Peace! -- Wolfie