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Published:
2022-01-29
Completed:
2022-01-31
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1,782
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2/2
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Inquiring Minds

Summary:

Harry has a burning need to know, and Voldemort is just so done with teenagers.

Notes:

Long-time lurker, first time poster. I'm sorry that this silly little thing is what I'm saddling the world with as my first ever story, but what can you do?

Edit: So, I realized belatedly that this first chapter kind of shares a premise with Destiny_of_a_Dragon's Monster Fucker. It wasn't intentional, but it seems disingenuous to ignore that I was clearly inspired on some level. So, much thanks, and give that one a look if you're into Harry living his monster fucker dreams.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

“Harry Potter,” Voldemort hissed as he came upon the boy on the outskirts of the battle. He was isolated away from the Order and his friends. Voldemort grinned viciously – the boy would not escape him today.

“Oh good, you’re here,” the boy said, brightening.

What?

“What,” he said flatly, throwing a blood-boiling curse at the boy. Which he ducked. Damn.

Apparently taking that as permission to proceed – imbecile – the boy continued, while dodging another spell, “I have a question, and you’re the only one who can answer it.” He squinted at Voldemort for a second, tossing up a quick shield against a stupefy , before adding, “Or maybe Bellatrix, but honestly, I’d rather not think about that. So, question.”

He paused in his casting and the boy didn’t take the opening to use his one-trick-pony spell, so Voldemort decided the boy must actually want to ask a question, and. Merlin. They did say familiarity bred contempt, but it was appalling that his attempts on the boy’s life had become so common and – more importantly – underwhelming that mid-duel Q&As were apparently a thing they now did.

“Potter, I know you’re not the sharpest diffindo in any given room, but even you must realize I am not your professor and therefore not required to suffer your curiosity,” he said. “Your situational awareness is abysmal.”

“What can I say, I have a one-track mind and an insatiable thirst. …For knowledge.”

“Hmm…” He tried to imbue the sound with as much skepticism as possible as he lowered his wand. “Well then, ask your question. Lord Voldemort will be generous enough to answer as a final request.”

“Er, right. Thanks?” the boy replied, befuddled, before shaking it off. Then he opened his mouth, paused, and closed it right back up.

“You are trying my patience,” Voldemort gritted out, fingers tensing around his wand.

“Sorry, sorry!” he blurted, waving his hands as if to dispel the tension. The boy ran his hands through the mop on his head, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. “So…” and did his eyes deceive him, or was the little idiot blushing? “So, er, just how snake-y are you?”

What?

“What.” He’d been knocked off kilter twice in the past five minutes by the boy. Clearly he was losing his edge.

“Well, y’know, you’ve got the face–” he gestured vaguely upwards, as though Voldemort didn’t know where his face was “--and the scales, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen a forked tongue.”

Voldemort didn’t think he liked where this was heading.

“And I read–” a disbelieving glance “--fine, Hermione read that snakes, uh. Have two,” and here he dropped into inaudible murmurs. 

Now, Voldemort was a magical prodigy with unsurpassed intellect, as well as a predilection for snakes. Of course he knew what the brat was talking about. But if he was going to have to be part of this mortifying conversation, then he was damn well going to make Potter spell it out.

“What was that, Potter?”

The boy scowled, tensing up before blurting out, “Two penises! Snakes, they have. They have two.”

Voldemort hissed a deep sigh through his nose slits, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “...Technically, it’s called a hemipenis. It’s not actually two.”

“Great, thank you for that clarification,” the boy rushed out, a decidedly hungry gleam in his eye.

What had he done to deserve this? Aside from the murder and torture, which. Some called it genocide, he called it protecting magical culture. The fun way.

“To clarify,” he said, as evenly as he could. “You are asking me, Lord Voldemort, your mortal enemy and eventual murderer–”

“--that’s optimistic–” the boy muttered darkly.

“--shut up, Potter, or eventual will become imminent ,” he hissed. “As I was saying. You are asking if I am snake-like enough to have a hemipenis.”

He was really straining not to show his disbelief by the end. And yet, astoundingly, the boy’s shoulders drooped in relief as a smile spread across his face. “Exactly! So, do you?”

“...Potter,” Voldemort began delicately. “It may be possible that my attempts on your person at such a, let’s say formative, time of your life have led to the development of some unexpected… proclivities.”

The boy squinted at him in confusion.

“I’m flattered– actually, no. No, I’m not,” he said, because fuck delicacy. “Go fixate on one of your little schoolmates, you creepy little cretin, and stop thinking about my penis!”

“Oh Merlin, not you too. It’s purely a-academic!” the boy squawked, voice shifting up an octave. “‘Mione thinks I’m subliminating–”

“--sublimating–” 

“--yeah, that, my fear of you into something more productive? But Ron just keeps calling me a monster-fucker. Which, no. I’m pretty sure I’d know if I’d done that.” By the end of this diatribe, the boy’s face would’ve made a tomato jealous.

Voldemort had never been so happy that his occlumency shields were strong enough to keep the mental screaming contained to one, distant part of his mind.

“But that’s beside the point! You said you’d answer my question,” the boy demanded, and there was that stubborn determination. What a shame, the use to which it was being put.

“I could have chosen the Longbottom boy. Even if he’d survived this long, he would’ve pissed himself before even contemplating this,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his non-nose. “Why couldn’t some competent adult be my prophesied vanquisher? At least that would explain the lacking success rate. 

“But no, my nemesis is an overly lucky, hormonal disaster of a teenage Gryffindor who’s more focused on the possible effects my resurrection ritual – magic so complex it was thought to be impossible before I accomplished it – had on my reproductive organs. You are a mess, Potter.”

He would’ve thought existential crises were beneath immortal beings, but here he was. Thanks to Harry bloody Potter.

“Oi! This is about you and your possibly weird cock, not me,” the boy spluttered.

“Well, I think I can safely answer one question,” Voldemort began lightly.

The boy perked up.

“You are absolutely a monster-fucker, Potter.”

The boy deflated with a groan, head tilted back to the ceiling. “How can I be a monster-fucker if no monsters will fuck me?!” he cried.

...What?

“What,” he said weakly.

“Wait!” the boy shouted, abruptly pointing at Voldemort. “Does that mean you do have a weird snake penis? Penii?”

Hell. He was in hell. The only thing that could make this worse–

“Step away from Harry, Tom,” said Dumbledore as he came upon them. 

Well. Speak of the devil.

“Stop! You still haven’t answered–'' Potter's voice cut off as Voldemort apparated away. 

Never let it be said that Voldemort hadn’t learned the value of a tactical retreat.

A few days later, Voldemort received a letter carried by an unremarkable barn owl – likely from Hogwarts. He felt a premonitory headache coming on.

After thoroughly checking the letter for all manner of spells, hexes, jinxes, and curses, he opened it and groaned, once again questioning all his life choices that had led him to this moment.

Voldemort,

Inquiring minds need to know. Circle the relevant option.

0     1     2     More??

He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t respond, shouldn’t give the brat any further attention.

But.

Ignoring the initial letter, he wrote on the same piece of parchment:

Potter,

At least ask me to dinner first. Then perhaps we’ll see about earning you that title.

And then he applied his strongest stinging hex to the letter, sending it back with the school owl. He smirked, thinking of how he’d watch the boy’s reaction through young Malfoy’s memories when he next returned home.

Notes:

Harry: *blushes* Well, that… That gives a whole new meaning to “trouser snake.”

Voldemort: I’m leaving.

Voldemort’s penis: *hiss*

Chapter 2

Summary:

Albus wonders when he lost control of things, no one gets control around Harry, and Voldemort has accepted he's along for this ride.

Notes:

I did not expect to have anything to add to this, but TreywisKrucks's comment unleashed a brain-bunny. Written speedily, but hopefully it's good for a chuckle.

Also, major thanks to everyone who has read, kudos or commented on this - I am shocked by the response.

Also also, Dumbledore's name thing re: Voldemort has always left a bad taste in my mouth, so we're calling him out. Seems the proper time to say there's no room here for transphobes and JKR's views are wrong. In this house we support trans rights <3 (Not conflating trans folks with a genocidal maniac, either - just condemning deadnaming.)

Chapter Text

Albus Dumbledore wasn't sure how things had come to this point, and he certainly wasn't sure he liked it.

“Harry, my boy... I know the war has been hard on you. It's been hard on everyone,” he began. “But I can't help but worry that Tom is taking advantage of your kindness and desire to end this in order to win.”

The boy looked back at him from across his desk in confusion, while the man beside him snorted derisively.

“If I'm taking advantage of anything, it's his – how did you put it – 'insatiable thirst. For knowledge,'” Tom said, rolling his eyes as Harry started blushing vibrantly.

“No one's taking advantage of anything!” Harry sputtered, trying to glare at Tom but failing miserably. “I've just had some conversations with Voldemort, and it seems like we can reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. For peace.”

He turned his beseeching gaze on Albus and asked, “If there's a way to end the war without more losses, I think we have to consider it, don't you, sir?”

Tom leaned over to speak in Harry's ear, but not quietly enough that Albus couldn't hear: “And here I thought it meant something when you called me 'sir.'”

“Shut up!” Harry whispered back furiously, then added more quietly (but alas, not quietly enough),”It's capitalized when I call you Sir.”

Albus paled, wondering when things had fallen out of his grasp so thoroughly.

“...That may be so, my boy, but only if the offer of peace is being made in good faith,” he continued gamely. “Those who practice the Dark arts have a different idea of morality from the rest of us. One that cannot be reconciled with the good of the magical world.”

“But aren't you the one who talks about the power of choice?” Harry said.

“And the power of love?” Tom added scathingly. Harry's head snapped around to look at Tom in surprise.

“What does love have to do with any of this?” Albus said.

And the two across from him were suddenly looking everywhere but each other, Harry back to impersonating a blood pop. Even Tom's bone-white face had gained a pinkish tinge.

“There is also the matter of the prophecy...” Albus said, looking meaningfully at Harry, growing desperate to get things under control. “You cannot believe Tom will not kill you when your guard is down--”

“--Why do you keep calling him Tom?” Harry interrupted, cocking his head to the side.

“It's a cheap power play to try to reduce me to my younger, less powerful self,” Tom huffed.

“Because that's his name, my dear boy,” Albus spoke a little louder to be heard over Tom's whinging.

“That was his name, but now it's Voldemort,” Harry corrected. “And it has been for a long time? I know you're getting older, Headmaster, but I would've thought you could keep up with a simple name-change.”

And for a brief moment, Tom looked over at Harry as though he'd hung the moon.

Albus sucked on his lemon drop hard, frowning in consternation. He wasn't sure he liked this at all.