Some jerk puts his hands on Harry and Voldemort does the scary "Either you unhand him or you will lose your hands" thing" but since Harry doesn't like violence he just make the dude think he's genuinely misplaced his hands and can't find them.
They're at like a party or whatever and he keeps asking people if they've seen his hands and everyone thinks he's high or joking because his hands are on his arms and he's getting increasingly distressed and he tries to like have a drink to calm his nerves but he doesn't have hands and no one is going to pour it in his mouth for him.
H: Awesome. How long till it wears off?
V, who knows it won't: He'll still think he has lost his hands at the end of tonight.
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He had to grin even wider, mimicking His dangerous expression by showing off his own blunt teeth, looking up excited into his uncleβs sneering face, determined to miss not a single second of what that was about to happen.
Like, Harry (lives alone, adult) adopts a stray sphinx cat he finds beaten half dead on the streets which, after recovering, seems to be very, very angry with all around him. He keeps trying to escape and with his unusually high intelligence totally would have if not for the collar the order all worked together on making for him so he'd not stray to far or be able to be harmed by assholes again. Harry tries to fix this by being just the best pet owner ever and loving the cat unconditionally. He identifies with its need for freedom (still stuck in a safehouse, childhood cupboard trauma) and tries to take it out exploring with him as much as possible, as well as confiding all his abuse to the cat, who slowly starts to warm up to him. Sort of. For food and stuff.
Then one day
He comes back
And VOLDEMORT is sitting on his bed in nothing but a collar. He still has cat ears and a tail. Turns out there was some kind of potion gone wrong it turned him cat and fucked up his magic a bit. It's mostly worn off, but he can't get out of the collar.
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To help the drought, here is a little snippet of a thing I've been occasionally working on when I have thoughts
Voldemort/Harry Au where Voldemort is desperately seeking his soulmate who really, really does not want to be found.
The night his life was ruined, the Dark Lord Voldemort, future ruler of Wizarding Brittan, sipped his ale quietly. He did not normally partake of ale but for today he would have a half pint or two to please Evan. He'd been coming to this dingy pub in The Knocks for years now, desperate to find an occasional escape from his followers inane nattering during their slow, careful infiltration of the Ministry. That occasion had slowly gone from monthly to twice weekly, more if he could get away with it. He enjoyed the atmosphere immensely. It was the kind of place where most of the patrons knew each other well enough, and got on despite some dramas. There was none of the bitter in fighting and rivalries, but there was enough leave yourself to yourself that Voldemort was not expected to participate in any of the interactions he witnessed. Though he was always well recived when he did. All of this was due to the strict oversight of the patrons bythe barkeep, Sam, also known as Sam-on on account of the vibrant orange fake tan that he maintained even through the winter months. Though the person that really brought him back each time was the server.
He was far from Evan's only admirer, most of the women and so inclined men had noticed him as he'd grown from the tiny, too skinny brat who flinched at any angry voice to the confident server flirting with customers. He'd been so terrified of Voldemort's alter ego, Anthony, at first that he could hardly bring himself to ask for the man's order, which made him one of the few who could still sense the danger of his magic even through the dampening spell. It was the one reason he didn't just write the boy off as useless. Watching him closely had revealed small feats of wandless magic intended to be secret, a quick wit, and a high tolerance for hard work and pain.
The disbeliving voices that rang through the pub indicated that another fool had taken up the chilli challange. It was Evan's idea. Anthony mouthed the words along with him as he set it up. "50 galleons to see if you can withstand a chilli better than me. If you get to the end of the row, which noone ever has, it's 5 miniutes without aids before you win. No popping off to the loo either. Win and get double your money back plus free drinks for your table all night. Lose, and your money and dignity are both mine." Evan had, to Anthony's knowledge, never lost this particular bet. It was always a pleasure to watch the short, still skinny young man completely annihilate his far tougher and rougher opponents. Often while mocking them.
Recently he's begun offering a kiss with his mouth still full of painful chilli to anyone brave enough. No one ever takes him up on it. Anthony would, in a heart beat, if only he could get over his anxiety somehow. Evan was his first experience with romantic attraction and he was completely terrified that any wrong move will send him straight for the hills.
Enjoying the crush was more than enough in it's own right for now. Being able to imagine taking him up on the offer to the cheers of the bar, experiencing the desire to impress someone that he hadn't felt since childhood, his habit of ordering another drink he knew he wouldn't finish just to get one last smell of him for the road, and the deep satisfaction of being able to watch the object of his affection freely were such new and unique feelings for him that had taken him until the past year to even recognise it for what it was
Peppers lined up from mildest to hottest and money counted and on the table for effect He settled himself in to watch the contest only for the idiot who challenged Evan to start sweating after the banana pepper. It was an easy victory, over quickly. Harry took a big bite of the final pepper, a Bhut Jolokia, and offered a kiss first to his opponent then to anyone else.
It would be such a small price to pay, one day. He ordered his last drink, last smell. Evan was covered in a thin layer of sweat that glistened like silver under the worn material of his shirt, which fell in just the right way to let Anthony see down to where the flush from the chilli ended, just for a moment. He left a bigger tip than normal in exchange.
He walked a few blocks to the designated apparition point, enjoying the cool air on his skin after the heat of the pub. Once home he wasted no time, climbing straight into be while Evan's sent was still fresh in his mind. He imagined Evan putting on his Ultra confident persona for him, letting his shirt fall, and asking "Is there anything else you'd like to buy for the night?" Voldemort would whisk his prize away to the manor and never let him leave, but Anthony might fuck him in the alley behind the bar while imagining doing it on his usual table for everyone to see.
It was a good life with simple joys and all of his dreams , right up until Yaxley pointed out that he had "Harry James Potter" scrawled across his left hand.
Harry: You really don't want to be called Tom. You hate it when I use nicknames. It's not like you go around calling yourself Lord Voldemort in your head. What's your name?
