Work Text:
The corset was tight enough to stifle his breathing, but Harry did not dare complain. That was what his oppressor wanted, desired. Harry could sense his excitement, his prurient interest like the press of a naked palm on skin. Harry would not react, must not.
“That’s it, Harry.”
It was a croon, and it took every ounce of self-control Harry possessed to remain standing as Lord Riddle laced the corset over his ribs, fingertips brushing every which way over the chemise he’d forced him to wear in a manner that was lacking all vestiges of propriety.
This was wrong. A sin .
Harry recognised this for what it was. Proper Christian men did not indulge in these base fantasies, did not allow themselves to be swept away by the whispers of the devil, but Harry had been given little choice.
Even knowing that he was sacrificing himself to the whims of a rogue, Harry could do nothing as he was forced into women’s wear, petted and prodded in a manner that made his skin crawl. Lord Riddle’s threats were not to be taken lightly; powerful men that could hide their cruelty behind a smile and a drink were the most dangerous of all.
It was for that reason alone that Harry had chosen not to run, to cut his losses and take his ill parents away to the seaside to escape the cruel grip of Lord Riddle’s fingers. But Riddle was a shrewd man, had known what to say in order to keep Harry within his careful grasp.
His fate had been sealed, his life forfeit, from the moment Lord Riddle had said he would kill his parents if he resisted or failed to comply.
So that was how Potter, the son of a Potter, a pauper in the eyes of gentle society, found himself naked in the drawing room of the Riddle estate so that Lord Riddle could indulge in his perverse fantasies and dress him in women’s attire. It was both a blessing and a curse that Harry was bound by a self-imposed vow of silence, refusing to speak a word as this all transpired.
But gods, was it disconcerting.
The chemise had been easy enough to slip over his head. The drawers, too, were no difficult feat to slide over his hips. Lord Riddle had been kind enough to allow him to put these on himself, but—
That was all a ruse, of course.
It was meant to lull him into a state of relaxation, so that Lord Riddle could take immense pleasure in Harry’s acute discomfort afterwards.
That bloody corset.
It was revolting, enough to make his stomach turn, his skin crawl to listen to Riddle approach with the garment and stand mere centimetres from his back. He wasn’t nude, but the chemise was thin. It did nothing to protect Harry’s flesh when Lord Riddle pressed closer, his chest brushing against Harry’s back as he wrapped the corset around Harry’s body.
That heat, the swell of something hard pushing against his buttocks, was enough to force a stiff breath through Harry’s lungs, to make all the colour drain from his cheeks in horror.
Lord Riddle was vile, debauched. The fact that he had hidden this side of himself well enough to deceive the Court, to deceive Harry himself, was a testament to the gentlemen’s terrible skill.
“You look rather fetching this way, Mr. Potter.”
Harry’s cheeks burned with humiliation at the breathless quality in Lord Riddle’s voice, at the way Lord Riddle’s hands found Harry’s hips after he’d finished cinching the corset on his chest and began to lace the under petticoat. Any words of anger, of defiance, stayed firmly sealed in the seam of his mouth.
“With your soft skin and soft, feminine features, you rival all the women in Court.”
Harry bit his tongue, knowing that if he said anything now, it would only fan the flames of Lord Riddle’s interest. It was his defiance that had led him here, his bloody mouth that had revealed the true nature of Lord Riddle’s…interests. It was for that reason alone that he had made his vow of silence; it was penance, a punishing reminder of the power words possessed.
“Such a waste that you are a low-born, I’m certain that you would have drawn the interest of many gentlemen and ladies alike.” Lord Riddle’s hands squeezed Harry’s hips hard enough to hurt, to make Harry suck in a strained breath through the corset for purchase.
He hated the corset most. It was restrictive; it was suffocating. How did women stand to wear this? Were their ribs not crushed? How did they take strolls, attend balls, all while this fabric was mangling their lungs?
“But no matter, I suppose your poor circumstances are to my advantage.”
Harry choked on his spit when Lord Riddle’s hands began to ball the fabric of the skirt, of the chemise, in one hand. What was the purpose of putting him in women’s wear if he was only to remove it after? If he was going to ruin it? Could he—?
No , Harry thought with a shout of horror in his mind. No, he couldn’t intend to—
Then, Riddle stopped.
Riddle stepped away from him, and Harry relished that much needed moment to collect himself, to settle the rapid racing of his heart and the flush on his cheeks. For one moment, Harry had thought Lord Riddle intended to do something more, to sodomise him.
It appeared that Harry had been wrong. He’d never been more grateful to be incorrect in his suspicions.
“Now, put on your slippers and walk to the chaise.”
With a deep breath, Harry slipped into the shoes Lord Riddle had prepared for him. They were an intense green, at least five shades darker than the dress Lord Riddle had made him wear. He slipped in his feet with little trouble, and Harry tried not to ponder on how Lord Riddle managed to uncover just what the size of his feet were for them to fit so well.
It was better not to know.
Harry had learned more than he’d ever desired to as it was.
Curling his toes one final time, Harry moved as well as he could while under the grip of the corset and towards the chaise at the centre of the sitting room. It was a small thing, its back elevated enough to support the back of whomever sat on it. On either end, the arms were curled, raised; the perfect place for guests to rest their arms should they desire.
Harry glanced in Lord Riddle’s direction once he stopped at the chaise, waiting for the next command. It blighted him to submit in this manner, to acquiesce when he should be challenging Lord Riddle to a duel for this dishonour, but—
Your parents, Harry. Your parents.
Harry had to remember what this was all for, had to be steadfast with his vow to himself.
Not a word, Harry. You cannot speak a word.
“Place your hands on the arms of the chaise.”
Harry shot Lord Riddle a confused look, uncertain, but did as he was bid. It wasn’t as though Harry could ask questions, relieve his doubts.
The armrest was soft beneath his fingers, the fabric as smooth as silk. It was an expensive piece of furniture, one that Harry had never once had the opportunity to look at, let alone touch.
“Bend over.”
Harry stilled, affronted. Was Harry mishearing things? Had Lord Riddle just asked him to bend over the chaise? No, he had to have misheard. Surely, Lord Riddle couldn’t have just demanded him to—
“ Harry .”
Lord Riddle’s voice was a purr, a sinuous sound that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand on end. Swallowing, Harry tried not to focus on the unsteady thrum of his pulse, on the burn that Harry knew tinted his cheeks a bright rouge. Lord Riddle’s face was impassive, but his eyes were bright with intent.
Harry had not misheard.
“Bend over. Now .”
Those three words were enough to make Harry’s heart pinch in his chest, to make his breath still in his compressed lungs. Lord Riddle’s eyes were gleaming like gems beneath the sun’s rays, something cruel beginning to twist his lips into an expression that was becoming less and less gentlemen-like by the second.
It was a warning, but Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t convince his limbs to cooperate and obey Lord Riddle’s request. Harry knew that he didn’t have a choice in the matter, but telling himself to obey when he was in grave despair was a difficult task.
It wasn’t a question, but a command.
Bend over.
Still, Harry was conflicted, now at war with his own pride and that of his family. He wanted to protect his parents, but how steep a price was he to pay? What more could he permit Lord Riddle to take?
He’d already taken Harry’s dignity, his manhood, his voice, what more could Lord Riddle want? What more did Lord Riddle intend to steal?
“I will not ask again.”
Lord Riddle’s voice came softer this time, but it was no less imposing, no less resolute. The threat could not have been clearer. His eyes were thickening with rage, his lips twisting into something more demonic than human.
Obey or face the consequences , that face said.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, unable to stand looking at Lord Riddle any longer, and then, with a resigned set to his shoulders, turned back to the chaise and bent over the end where Harry had placed his shaking hands earlier.
From this angle, Harry could no longer see Lord Riddle’s expressions or mannerisms, only the polished tips of his leather boots. Harry stared at the way they gleamed beneath the candle light, forcing himself to focus on that instead of the crushing despair in his heart.
There was no telling what Mr. Riddle might do, what he could do, now that Harry had complied. The corset already restricted his movements, made it difficult to suck in a steady breath through his throat. The slippers, while not nearly as debilitating as the corset, were still an inconvenience.
No matter what Harry did to settle his shaking legs, the bottom of the slippers never quite managed to get a decent grip of the floor.
“You’ve made an excellent choice, Mr. Potter.” Lord Riddle’s voice came from somewhere behind him, closer than Harry had expected. He had to be no more than a couple paces away, and Harry squeezed the arm of the chaise to stymie the horror that this fact inspired.
He could do anything he wants with you.
Harry closed his eyes, swallowing down his gasp when something tugged at the end of his skirt. It was faint, as fleeting as the brush of butterfly wings, but Harry was certain that he’d felt it. Harry bit his bottom lip.
“I’m glad that you understand as well as I, just what is at stake here.” Closer, Lord Voldemort’s voice was just a hair’s breadth away. Harry chewed on his lip hard enough to hurt, to draw blood. The pain, in spite of it, was insufficient to quell the worry pooling low in his belly.
“But—“
Lord Riddle’s voice tapered out, and the room fell into so thick a silence that Harry tried to quiet his own breaths, self-conscious of the way that they wheezed straight out of his struggling lungs, how they started to resemble panicked pants instead of a regular intake of air.
“Your brief hesitation cannot go without punishment.”
Harry pressed his forehead against the chaise, skin now blooming with goose pimples when a ghost-like touch settled over his hips, gliding up the almost transparent fabric of the petticoat to settle over his buttocks.
“Lift up your skirts, Harry.” Lord Riddle’s voice was firm, there was nothing sultry nor breathless to the sound. Harry let out a strangled noise from his throat, toes curling in his shoes to calm the rapid thrum, thrum, thrum of his heart.
At any moment, Harry feared the organ might explode. Lord Riddle was tipping him over the brink, pushing him past some precipice Harry could not see the edge of.
Screwing his eyes shut, unwilling to to spite Lord Riddle any further, Harry removed his hands from the chaise and began to tug the skirt over his legs and up his hips. He took his time as he did it, unwilling to hasten the process any more than was necessary.
Don’t think about it, Harry. Don’t think .
Harry focused on his own garbled breaths, on his own racing heart, as he bunched the silk around his hips, exposing his drawers for Lord Riddle’s inspection. Harry recognised that he wasn’t quite exposed. He wasn’t nude, wasn’t truly revealing any skin, but—
This act.
To be forced to lift up the hem that Lord Riddle had so carefully cinched over his hips, was perverse. Profane. Harry might have been a man, understood that he would never be required to wear all this finery because of this fact, but Harry recognised the significance of it.
The ritual.
This was something that a husband did to his wife.
“ Beautiful. ” Lord Riddle said, a pleased note in his voice. Harry’s cheeks were burning with shame, with humiliation. Harry had never been more glad than in that instance that Lord Riddle couldn’t see his expression.
The touches returned, but there was nothing ghost-like about them now. Lord Riddle’s hands brushed along Harry’s shaking hands, nails tracing over the skin. Harry focused on the pain in his mouth, on the bitter tang of blood in the back of his throat from when he’d chewed his lip raw, but those touches—
“And so irrevocably mine .”
Lord Riddle’s hands left Harry’s hands, tracing shapes over Harry’s bottom through his drawers. Gooseflesh rippled over Harry’s skin, a gasp working its way through his throat when Lord Riddle’s hands found the hem of those drawers, when those fingers began to roll the fabric over his hips and expose him to the cool air of the drawing room.
Harry’s eyes burned with tears, but he refused to let them come. He refused to cry, to give this devil any sense that he was horrified, ashamed.
Lord Riddle stopped only when Harry’s backside was exposed, the drawers now discarded. Harry let out a hard breath through his nose, pained when the corset bit him in the ribs when he did.
Lord Riddle said nothing for some time. Harry didn’t know whether to burst into tears or into laughter at that. He wanted this moment to be over, for his punishment to come and then move past it. The suspense of this all, it had to be a punishment of its own.
“Twenty full-body strokes.”
Harry blinked, both outrage and disbelief consuming him. Twenty? Twenty strokes? What did Lord Riddle intend to do, what did—
Lord Riddle didn’t give him a chance to settle his thoughts, for in that moment, Tom landed a harsh slap to Harry’s buttocks. It was hard enough to pull a sharp yelp from Harry’s throat, to make the tears in his eyes well up in earnest.
It had been hard enough to lift Harry’s feet at least two centimetres in the air.
Don’t say a word, Harry. Remember your oath, your parents.
His arse was smarting, burning with agony. Lord Riddle’s fingers lingered on the skin, caressing the tingling flesh until Harry began to squirm.
“I think that’s an appropriate punishment, wouldn’t you agree?” Lord Riddle’s voice was silky smooth, indulgent. There was an edge of pleasure in the man’s tone, of humour. Harry wanted to strike him, had never been more tempted to turn and pummel the man until he was broken and bloody on the ground.
But he didn’t, Harry fought down that anger, that outrage, and settled for nodding in acquiescence even when it pained him to do so.
Remember .
“Excellent.”
Lord Riddle gave no warning.
He struck Harry’s bottom harder than he had the first, catching both cheeks with the width of his hand. Harry bit the inside of his cheek, clenching his hands tight around his skirts to restrain himself from shifting away, from making the situation all the worse.
Lord Riddle would exploit any sign of resistance.
The next strike that came was somehow worse than the last, catching on the sensitive skin where his buttocks met his thigh. Harry jerked against the chaise, spine arching against his volition.
“I wish you could see the delightful shade that you’re becoming.”
Harry gasped, unable to stop the agonised whine this time when Lord Riddle smashed his palm on the back of his thighs, in the same place as he had the previous time. It made the tears in Harry’s eyes fall, unable to quell the gesture when Lord Riddle’s hand caressed the smarting skin to only bring it back down.
It was brutal.
“Bright red, a hint of puce.”
Lord Riddle did not relent, he seized on Harry’s thighs and hit him with all the force that he possessed. It was agonising, the way the burn on that flesh began to turn into a deep throb. He couldn’t stop his whimpers, his cry when Lord Riddle surprised him and landed a hit on both of his cheeks over and over again.
Harry was praying for twenty, but he’d lost count after the fifth, after Lord Riddle had begun squeezing his flesh between the strikes. That sensation, that warmth along his skin, that was what most disturbed him of this affair.
“Oh?”
Not the way his back arched, his head flying back to stop himself from screaming as loud as his lungs permitted with the corset crushing his chest; not the way his buttocks began to tingle and throb with what Harry understood to be the flesh bruising under the onslaught: No, none of this perturbed him as much as the soft caresses in-between, as the shivers that traveled up his spine along the stinging flesh when Lord Riddle’s nails scratched him ever so slightly, softly.
No .
“Now what is this, Harry?”
An illicit warmth was building low in his belly, becoming more and more difficult to ignore as Lord Riddle’s fingers became bolder, his touch roaming over the swell of Harry’s cheeks and into the crease, to poke and prod at his bollocks. Lord Riddle’s words hardly registered in his mind.
Please don’t.
“Are you enjoying yourself, you filthy boy?”
Harry screamed when Lord Riddle smacked his bollocks, and a pained jolt of electricity filtered through him, down from that single point in his genitals up to the tips of his ears. Harry struggled this time, releasing his grip on his skirts as he tried to lunge away from the chaise, to get away—
Lord Riddle was quicker, seizing on the brief moment that Harry struggled to collect his bearings, to get a decent grip on the floor, and forced Harry by the back of his neck into the chaise. Harry couldn’t breathe through the fabric pushing into his mouth, into his nose.
The corset was devouring all the air in his lungs, but Harry didn’t stop clawing at the chaise to free himself, twisting to try to strike Lord Riddle in some manner to force him to let him go, but Lord Riddle pulled his entire weight up against his back.
The warmth of his proximity, the strength of his grip, Harry was fighting a losing battle, but he refused to relent.
No. No.
“Does pain excite you, Harry?” Lord Riddle’s words were full of glee, and Harry could only choke back a sob when Lord Riddle hiked Harry’s skirts back up over his hips to palm over the skin.
Harry jerked with each touch, each slow pass of those fingers on his swollen and hot flesh. He didn’t want this. To hell with what he had vowed, to what he had promised, he didn’t want this . This was not what he agreed to, what he’d bargained for.
“Tell me, Harry.”
Lord Riddle took hold of Harry’s length, and Harry keened, ashamed and horrified at how swollen he felt in Riddle’s grip, at how good it was to feel something other than pain, other than—
Lord Riddle petted him, caressed and massaged his shaft. A thumb teased at his tip, stroked the crown of his shaft before trailing back down to where Lord Riddle had so callously struck his bollocks. It brought a shiver down Harry’s spine, made his back arch in an entirely different manner than it had before.
How he was able to buck, whilst beneath Lord Riddle’s weight and pinned by his neck, Harry could not fathom, but he did. He squirmed and writhed as Lord Riddle cradled his bollocks in his hand and squeezed them.
“Tell me that you like this, that pain— “ Lord Riddle said, lips brushing against the shell of Harry’s ear. “—excites you.”
Harry shook his head, teeth catching on his tongue when Lord Riddle laughed into his ear, a warm and heady sound that made Harry’s stomach seize, his heart quiver in his chest. Harry wanted to deny it, to open his mouth and tell him the opposite of what Lord Riddle wanted to hear.
Harry didn’t enjoy pain.
Harry didn’t want to be touched.
He didn’t.
He didn’t .
But then Lord Riddle’s hand was back to his shaft, stroking and toying with the delicate skin, with the soft flesh that made Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head and his stomach clench with mounting need.
Harry would sooner bite off his own tongue than concede. He might have failed to remain acquiescent, but he could not break this vow, he could not let Lord Riddle take it all.
Lord Riddle stopped, and Harry let out a breath that was too akin to disappointment for Harry’s tastes.
“I see. You wish to fight me on this.”
Harry shuddered at the sensation of Lord Riddle’s lips brushing his ear, at the note of disappointment and something else in his tone. It almost sounded like—
Like he was excited, like he had been waiting for me to defy him.
“Very well.”
Harry swallowed back a yelp when Lord Riddle squeezed his shaft hard enough to crush him beneath his fingers before letting go and returning his attention to Harry’s bollocks. A sense of dread shot through Harry’s spine, and he began to struggle once more.
Lord Riddle was going to hurt him again. It was unmistakable in the sharp intake of breath that Lord Riddle made when he took hold of Harry’s bollocks, it was undeniable with the way Lord Riddle purred, murmuring something like a “ yes” beneath his breath.
Harry knew that it was coming.
A shame that knowledge was not enough to prepare him for the pain.
Lord Riddle kicked Harry’s legs wider, exposing him further.
It was all the warning Harry received before he was crying out, screaming until his voice shattered when Lord Riddle began to strike his bollocks, one hard hit after another.
It was relentless.
His balls were on fire, the skin being flayed. Harry jerked and bucked, kicked and tried to claw his way out like a frightened animal, but Lord Riddle was heavier and had the advantage.
Harry’s attire and position over the chaise were a handicap that Harry had no hope of overcoming, and he recognised it, even whilst he fought, even while he screamed until his throat was raw and Lord Riddle laughed.
It chilled him to the bone, but Harry could do nothing to stop Lord Riddle’s beating, to end the pain.
“Say the words, Harry.”
That was the only out; Harry’s only option. Clenching his jaw, Harry refused to take it even as his mouth parted into another agonised cry when Lord Riddle hit him again, and again, and again .
Lord Riddle struck him with all the force that he had, with all the violence he possessed.
“Go on, Harry. You’re at your limit.”
Harry sobbed into the chaise, wanting nothing more than to fling Lord Riddle off and run. He didn’t care to fight at this point, he just needed to flee, to lick his wounds long enough to ready himself for battle again, but—
“Harry ,” Lord Riddle’s voice was a moan, an excited murmur, and Harry could stand it no longer, could refuse him no more when Lord Riddle was—
Harry’s disgust was visceral, but the torture was worse.
Lord Riddle struck him once more, and Harry howled, his throat giving out. His whimpers had become garbled, more air than sound.
“It—“ Harry started, but stopped when Lord Riddle’s hand paused over his swollen bollocks to tease along the skin. It was difficult to concentrate with that hand there, but Harry forced himself to comply, to melt into the chaise and the man pressed up behind him.
“It excites me.”
Harry’s voice was no more than a whisper, broken and bruised, but it was enough for Lord Riddle to hum against his ear, for that hand caressing his bollocks to travel back to his shaft and begin to stroke.
“ Good boy.”
The touch stoked the flames that Lord Riddle had left to die, and Harry sank into it, giving into the shocks of pleasure zinging along his spine, along his toes, along his fingers. He let it consume him, let Lord Riddle’s mouth kiss along the shell of his ear and take hold of the skin between his teeth.
Harry allowed it, succumbed to sound of a hand fisting around moist skin, to that dig of a finger into the crown of his manhood, until—
Suddenly, Lord Riddle released his grip on Harry’s neck and prick. The world was spinning, faster than Harry could catch. Harry threw his hands back to catch himself, dropping down to his elbows in the chaise so as not to topple from over its edge.
Harry blinked, a feeling of dread mounting in his gut. He was no longer on his stomach. He was no longer bent over.
No. No. NO.
He was on his back, his lower back pressed into the arm rest while Harry’s elbows were keeping him propped up on the chaise. His arms shook from the strain, but Harry had no time to think on this, not when he was in the throes of panic.
He can see my face.
There was no chaise to protect him from Lord Riddle’s scrutiny. Nothing.
Lord Riddle could—
Lord Riddle loomed above him, his eyes eager, his mouth hungry. He was a wolf, in that moment. A creature that was preparing to strike, a creature whose hand was returning to Harry’s stiff shaft.
Harry tried to shuffle back with his elbows, but Lord Riddle squeezed between Harry’s parted legs and dragged him back with a firm hold on both of Harry’s thighs. There was no escape.
There was nowhere for Harry to run, and—
Lord Riddle’s eyes watched him with fascination, with something edging on sacrilegious, as he released one of Harry’s legs to stroke Harry’s shaft, to twist and yank at the flesh.
“Much better.”
Harry squirmed beneath the onslaught, but couldn’t speak. There was something lodged in his throat that prevented him from speaking, from gathering enough of his sensibilities to provide any sort of commentary.
“It would be a shame if I missed the opportunity to watch you come undone.”
Lord Riddle’s gaze was as sharp as a knife, but not nearly as lethal as the grip on Harry’s manhood nor the edge of Lord Riddle’s teeth as he smiled when spreading Harry’s legs wider, exposing all of Harry’s shame to his gaze.
“With a lovely face as yours, it is my solemn duty to admire it.”
Harry had no time to collect his bearings.
Lord Riddle rubbed him raw, twisting and tweaking at his manhood with the energy of a man possessed. It was inhuman, the sounds that escape Harry’s throat. It was not a cry, not quite a moan, but it was undeniable that it was a sound Harry had allowed to bubble from his throat.
Lord Riddle devoured all the sounds, watched him with rapt attention as Harry struggled to remain on his elbows, and fought to swallow up his cries. But it was useless, in the end. Lord Riddle was a rogue, a devil.
A monster in the cowl of human skin.
Lord Riddle laughed at him as Harry tried to fight the delicious heat building in his stomach, to jerk his hips away from where Lord Riddle continued to slide along the skin, to—
But there was no fighting it, no resisting the heat, the wave of euphoria coursing through his veins when Lord Riddle jerked his manhood just so.
It didn’t take him long to fall, to shatter.
From one breath to the next, Harry was spilling his seed onto the floor, on to the dress, even catching the edge of Lord Riddle’s trousers.
Harry struggled to breath, to settle the mutiny in his head whispering that he’d shamed himself, his family, everyone. He was no better than a harlot, than a wanton whore that spread her legs for any man that could warm her bed for a schilling—
Harry collapsed into a heap, unable to resist when Lord Riddle untangled from Harry’s legs and walked around to where Harry now lay in the chaise. There was something smug to his expression, enough so that it made Harry’s teeth set on edge.
“Are you satisfied?” Harry’s voice was hoarse, but the hatred could not have been clearer, made plainer. Harry hated him, hated himself, hated all of what he had done.
From the dress, to the beating, to the—
Harry tried not to think about the end, about the wetness between his legs, about the skirt tangled over his hips. This was not the time. It would never be the time.
Lord Riddle didn’t speak for some time, eyes assessing, cold. All that delight, that humour, that rapture, had left him. He was nothing more than the husk of a corpse.
Harry shuddered, swallowing back the bile desperately searching for a way out from his throat.
“No.”
Harry swallowed, shrinking back into the chaise when Lord Riddle was suddenly there, dropping to a crouch to stare into Harry’s eyes.
“Not even close, Mr. Potter,” Lord Riddle said in a soft, sibilant voice. With a flourish, Lord Riddle brought his hand to the mop of hair atop Harry’s head, carding through the tendrils in a gentler manner than Harry had expected from him.
It was so shocking that Harry didn’t think to stop it even when he should have.
“Not even close.”