Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1008780.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Underage_Sex, Coercion, Manipulation
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-18 Words: 6415
****** Lest You Are My Enemy ******
by Maeglin_Yedi
Summary
     Some books are better left unopened.
Notes
     Pairing: Harry/Tom
     Rating: NC-17
     Warnings: Chanslash, dubious consent, manipulation, light bondage and
     bloodplay.
     Disclaimer: These boys belong to J.K. Rowling.
     Summary: Some books are better left unopened.
     A/N: Written for Babycakesin, as part of the Merry Smutmas Fic
     Exchange.
     Big thanks to Gina for the beta!
     Word count: 6327
     First published: December 2003
'Put off that mask of burning gold
With emerald eyes.'
'O no, my dear, you make so bold
To find if hearts be wild and wise,
And yet not cold.'
'I would but find what's there to find,
Love or deceit.'
'It was the mask engaged your mind,
And after set your heart to beat,
Not what's behind.'
'But lest you are my enemy,
I must enquire.'
'Oh no, my dear, let all that be;
What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?'
- The Mask by W.B. Yeats -
 
Still feeling chilled to the bone from his recent encounter with a dementor, or
rather, a boggart who took on the form of a dementor, Harry hurried back to the
Gryffindor Tower after his weekly Patronus lesson with Professor Lupin. The
fact that it was mid-winter and the castle's corridors were dark and cold did
nothing to warm him, and Harry looked forward to lazing in front of the common
room fire for a while before turning in for the night.
When he rounded a corner, something almost collided with him, and Harry jumped
back, barely keeping his balance. Already reaching for his wand, his DADA
textbook falling discarded to the floor, Harry recognized the feathered shape.
It was an owl, carrying a parcel.
A parcel apparently meant for him, since the owl sat down on one of the bare
window sills and stuck out its leg.
Glancing over his shoulders, Harry looked for anyone who could be playing a
prank on him, but the corridors were deserted. The object attached to the owl's
leg was wrapped in shiny, dark-green wrapping paper. Harry frowned. Christmas
had been two weeks ago, and he highly doubted this owl, or any owl for that
matter, would be unable to deliver a present to him in time.
Still, it was a present, and the owl was now giving him an urgent glare as it
stuck out its leg a bit further. Looking over his shoulder once more, Harry
untied the thin cord from the owl's leg and examined the parcel.
No card, or anything else that might suggest the sender's identity.
Harry turned the present around in his hands a few times, but there was nothing
that might indicate it was sent to him by someone who meant him harm. Normally,
Harry would be more wary of anonymous gifts, but after receiving his Firebolt
on Christmas morning, Harry had learned that apparently there were people in
this world who honestly wanted to give him something he might enjoy.
The memory of unwrapping his Firebolt made Harry decide that he would at least
unwrap this present as well. And the memory of McGonagall taking his Firebolt
away from him after Hermione had told her about it made him decide not to do it
in front of his friends.
Picking up his DADA book, Harry slunk back into the shadows of a narrow
corridor to his left, and bit his lip while he hooked a finger behind the paper
and tore it away.
He dropped the diary the moment he recognized it.
It couldn't be. He had destroyed it less than a year ago.
But the large hole left by the basilisk's fang was gone, and the black, leather
cover looked just as whole as when he'd first laid eyes on it in his second
year.
Crouching down, Harry eyed the diary wearily, but his curiosity got the better
of him, and he pressed his thumb against the edge of the cover and flipped the
book open.
'T.M. Riddle' it stated in blue ink on the first page, just as it had done last
year.
It really couldn't be, but it was, and Harry swallowed as he stared at the
yellow parchment, trying to decide what to do with it.
Of course, the wisest option would be to hand the diary over to Dumbledore
immediately, but Harry was shocked to realize that he didn't want to. He had,
after all, defeated Riddle once before. He wasn't afraid of Riddle. Of a mere
memory. Not now that he had very substantial things like dementors and Sirius
Black to worry about.
Not entirely sure why, Harry snapped the diary shut and hid it inside his DADA
textbook. It was probably for the best if he kept it safe, to make sure Riddle
wouldn't be able to get his hands on an innocent student again, like he had
last year. And if Riddle tried to make problems, Harry would be there to defeat
him. Again.
                                   *~*~*~*~*
While his hand stroked dutifully across his engorged flesh, Harry couldn't seem
to relax or stop the numerous thoughts from invading his mind. He stroked
harder, running his thumb across his slick cockhead, biting his lip to stifle a
moan. His roommates were already asleep, and Harry had no intention of waking
them with his late-night effort to relax enough so he could get a bit of much-
needed rest, as well.
When he finally came, it was short and felt like a shadow of his usual orgasms;
a few tingles and not the intense rush he was used to. Sighing, he pulled his
pyjama bottoms up again and stared at the ceiling. He wanted to sleep. He
needed to sleep. But thoughts about everything from Black to Malfoy to Snape
kept him wide awake.
He needed to distract himself. But nothing seemed to work. Even doing his
homework earlier as a desperate attempt to clear his mind hadn't helped at all.
But then he remembered the diary, which he'd tucked away deep inside his trunk.
Harry knew he shouldn't dig it up again. He knew what lived inside those pages.
But he was tempted nonetheless.
It would be a welcome distraction.
Pulling his bed curtains open as quietly as he could, Harry peeked outside and
across the room, to find it in darkness and filled with the soft, even breaths
of his roommates.
The coast seemed clear.
With trembling hands, Harry reached for his trunk and pulled the lid open.
Feeling around in the pile of clothes and books, he easily found the almost
familiar shape of the diary.
It felt warm against his sweaty palm.
Clutching the diary against his chest, Harry closed his trunk and the curtains,
grabbed his wand, and lay back down, pulling the covers over his head.
With a whispered 'Lumos' he lit his comfortable and private makeshift cavern,
and stared down at the diary.
He really shouldn't.
But he did.
Harry opened the diary and looked across the empty parchment. It was just as he
remembered, just as it had been when Tom Riddle had taken him inside the diary,
inside his memories to show him his side of what had happened so long ago.
It almost felt like seeing an old friend again, Harry realized, even if this
friend was his enemy.
But what was it that people said about enemies? Weren't you supposed to know
them if you wanted to defeat them?
And what better way to get to know Voldemort than by talking to the memory of
his younger self?
It made perfect sense to reach for his bedside table and dip his quill inside
the small vial of ink. But when he hovered his hand above the blank page, Harry
hesitated. There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind, which sounded
suspiciously like Hermione, that told him to close the diary and take it to the
headmaster immediately.
His hand trembled while his fingers tightened around the quill. And then a
single drop of dark-blue ink fell from the sharp tip, splattered to the yellow
parchment, and disappeared.
Harry held his breath as he watched words emerge on the paper.
'Hello.'
There was still life inside the diary, and even though Harry had expected it,
it was a bit of a shock to actually see words appear. Still not sure if he
should be doing this, Harry lowered his hand and pressed the quill to the
paper, feeling as if some invisible force was making him, but not sure if it
was his own stubborn mind that caused it, or some sort of magical intervention
from the diary itself.
'Tom Riddle?'
His handwriting was shaky and his fingers started to hurt from his fierce grip
on the quill, but he seemed unable to lift it from the paper and all he could
do was watch and wait.
'Yes. Who are you?'
Harry briefly closed his eyes against the confrontation with the truth. He was
writing in Riddle's diary. And Riddle was still in there.
Maybe he should just close --
No.
He wasn't afraid of Riddle. Or Voldemort. With a determined frown, Harry
started to write.
'Harry Potter.'
For a moment, the parchment stayed blank, but then more words in Riddle's
elegant handwriting appeared.
'Harry Potter. We meet again.'
'Yes. After I've destroyed you, no less.'
'Ah, but you only destroyed my physical manifestation, Harry. Did you really
think you could destroy the powerful magic that preserves my memory within
these pages?'
Actually, Harry had thought that, but he wasn't about to let Riddle know. Time
to change the subject.
'Who did you tell to give me this diary, Riddle?'
'I have no idea what you are talking about, Potter.'
'Was it Lucius Malfoy?'
'I don't know anyone by that name.'
'You're lying.'
'Am I? I'm a fifty-year-old memory preserved in this diary, Harry. How am I
supposed to know who is alive in your time?'
'Someone fixed this diary and sent it to me, and I want to know who it was.'
'If you ever find out, Potter, do let me know so I can send them a fruit basket
to express my feelings of gratitude.'
Harry blinked. Was Riddle trying to make a joke? He wasn't quite sure, but it
did seem like an attempt at humor. Somehow it was very disconcerting to know
that Riddle actually had a sense of humor. Harry quickly decided to change the
subject again. His goal was, after all, to learn about his enemy.
'Why do you want to kill me?'
'You kept me from gaining a physical form again, Harry. But if you are
referring to my future self, I have no idea why I want to kill you.'
'Why do you hate Muggles and Muggle-borns so much?'
'You grew up with Muggles, Harry. Can you honestly say that you know any
Muggles who ever treated you well?'
'I --'
Harry raised the quill from the diary. Did he know any Muggles who had ever
treated him well? He thought about the Dursleys and had to repress a shudder.
They had definitely not treated him well. His former teachers and classmates
had ignored him, mostly. And then there were the other Muggle adults he knew.
Aunt Marge... he definitely didn't like Aunt Marge. And Mrs Figg... she was
odd, but she had treated him kindly. Harry wanted to answer Riddle's question,
but before he could place his quill on the paper again, more words appeared.
'That's what I thought. We have a lot in common, Harry. I, too, was the
outcast, the boy who always made odd things happen while he had no idea how he
was doing it. And Muggles hated me for it. That must sound familiar to you,
doesn't it?'
'It... it does.'
'Muggles hate wizards. They are either afraid of us or envy us. But they can
never understand us. So they've tried to wipe us out, forced our kind into
hiding while we are so much more powerful than they are. They should be the
ones hiding, Harry, not us.'
'I don't know.'
'I do. I refuse to hide myself. I refuse to be intimidated by a bunch of
powerless beings. They've hurt my kind enough over the years.'
'That still doesn't give you the right to kill them.'
'Doesn't it? Open a random Muggle history textbook, and look up witch hunts.
See for yourself how often they've tried to burn us at the stakes, and then
tell me that I can't defend myself.
'But why do you want to kill Muggle-borns?'
'Our society would be much better off if we didn't socialize with Muggles in
any way, and that includes Muggle-borns. Muggles don't understand us and
certainly don't accept us. Look at how they treated you and me. Do you think it
is a wise idea to let them raise future witches and wizards?'
Even though Harry was loathe to admit it, Riddle did have a point. At least
about the way Muggles treated Wizards. Remembering the things Aunt Marge had
said to him that summer, Harry gritted his teeth against the feeling of anger
and hate that threatened to overwhelm him again just as it had done that day he
had fled the Dursleys.
'I still don't think you have a right to kill them.'
'If you knew what I knew, if you had lived my life, Harry, you'd want to kill
them, too.'
'What do you know, then?'
'Too much to explain to you now. Perhaps some other time. I'd like to talk to
you again. Soon.'
'Okay.'
'Goodbye, Harry.'
'Goodbye, Tom.'
Harry stared at the blank page for a long time, but no more words appeared.
With a tired sigh, he shut the diary, and rested his hand on the leather cover
for a moment. He had to admit that it had been an interesting conversation, and
that he was curious to see what else Riddle might want to tell him.
So it was an easy decision to make. He would write to Riddle again. If only to
learn more about why Riddle did the things that he did, or would do in the
future.
Feeling oddly calm, Harry put his quill away, took the diary, and slid it under
his mattress. And when he lay back onto his bed and closed his eyes, sleep
claimed him almost immediately.
                                   *~*~*~*~*
Despite the invisibility cloak draped safely across his pyjama-clad body, Harry
kept sneaking glances over his shoulders as he crept silently through the
deserted corridors of Hogwarts.
It would do no good if Filch or Snape caught him out of bed with Tom's diary
clutched to his chest.
But ever since Ron almost discovered Harry writing in Tom's journal a week
earlier, Harry didn't feel comfortable anymore in the dormitory when he was
writing to his new friend. He'd barely been able to shove the diary under his
pillow when Ron had yanked his bed curtains open to complain about Hermione
again.
Harry had gotten angry with Ron, and Ron had probably figured he'd caught Harry
at a very private moment, and he had mumbled an apology and gone back to bed,
leaving Harry to decide that he would find a safer spot where he could talk
with Tom.
Harry had talked with Tom a lot over the past few weeks, every night before he
went to sleep. And it still didn't seem like it was enough. Harry often caught
himself wishing he could talk to Tom during the day, when he was daydreaming in
class or not really listening to whatever Ron was saying to him during the
evenings.
Harry liked Tom. A lot.
And he knew he shouldn't. Tom was his enemy. Tom had killed his parents. But
that wasn't true, was it? Tom was only sixteen years old, just a bit older than
Harry himself was. Tom was just a boy, like Harry, and it turned out that they
did have a lot in common. Tom had told Harry how the Muggles that raised him
had treated him, and for the first time in his life, Harry found a friend who
actually understood what it was like to grow up in a cupboard, being treated
worse than a house-elf in a pureblood family.
Tom understood him like no one ever had. And Harry understood Tom. While he
still didn't agree with the things Tom said, he did understand why Tom said
them. Compared to Tom's early years, Harry's life with the Dursleys had been
paradise.
He wanted to talk to Tom so badly it ached, and he looked over his shoulder one
last time before he slipped inside an empty classroom and cast a quick locking
spell on the door as he closed it behind him.
Shedding his cloak, Harry whispered a quiet 'Lumos' and set himself down in one
of the dusty corners of the classroom. He placed the diary between his spread
legs, quickly flipped it open, and dipped his quill into the small vial of ink.
'Tom?'
'Hello, Harry. I've been waiting for you. How was your day?'
'It was fine, thanks. I've been thinking about you.'
'Have you, now. And what were you thinking about?'
'Just... you know... you and me talking like this.'
'You like it, don't you? I like it as well. I like you, Harry.'
'I... like talking like this, yes. And I like you, too, Tom.'
'How much?'
Harry frowned, and hovered his hand above the diary for a moment. He wasn't
sure what Tom meant by that, and as if Tom had read his thoughts, more words
appeared on the paper.
'How much do you like me, Harry? Because I like you a lot.'
'I like you a lot as well.'
'I remember what you look like. Do you remember what I look like as well?'
'Yes, I do. You looked... handsome.'
'So did you, Harry. I remember that I wished I could do other things to you
when I saw you.'
'What things?'
'Touch you.'
Swallowing, Harry shifted on the cold floor. He was getting hard, and while
that sensation wasn't new, it was a whole new experience to get hard because of
something Tom was saying to him. Harry had thought about Tom like that before,
but he'd always pushed those feelings away, because Tom had never given him any
indication that he might be thinking about Harry the same way.
But now he was saying something that Harry had wanted to hear for some time.
And it both excited and frightened him. With a trembling hand, Harry wrote his
reply.
'Touch me how? And where?'
'Run my hands across your naked skin. Every part of your naked skin. And your
lips. I want to touch those as well. With my lips.'
'You want to... kiss me?'
'Very much so. Would you want to touch me, as well? Kiss me?'
'Maybe... yes, I would.'
'Are you hard, Harry?'
Involuntarily, Harry cupped his erection with his free hand and squeezed. Hard
seemed to be an understatement. His prick was throbbing and aching, and it took
all of his restraint not to pull his cock out and stroke himself to climax
right there and then.
'Yes'
'Are you touching yourself? Fondling your prick?'
'I... just a little bit.'
'Touch yourself, Harry. Take your prick out and stroke it.'
Gasping, Harry pushed his pyjama bottoms down far enough to free his erection,
and he licked his dry lips while he stared down at it. Just the sight of his
own pulsing cock, the head dark and slick, was enough to send jolts of arousal
through his body straight into his sac, and while he put the quill down on the
paper again, he wrapped his other hand around his hard flesh and started
stroking.
'Are you touching your cock, Harry? Are you stroking it?'
'...yes...'
'I wish I could see you like that. I wish I could touch you and run my tongue
over your hard cock.'
"Oh god," Harry breathed, stroking faster while he kept his gaze fixed on the
pages of the diary, his glasses slowly slipping down his nose while his entire
body trembled in arousal.
'Just keep stroking, Harry. I'll do the talking.'
'...yes...'
'I wish I could cup your sac. Squeeze it and knead it so you won't be able to
come until you beg me.'
"Holy fuck," Harry gasped, and stopped stroking for a moment so he could cup
his testicles and squeeze, imagining it was Tom's hand.
'You would like that, wouldn't you? To feel my hand on your sac and prick,
stroking you to your climax.'
'...yes...'
'I want to feel your prick, Harry. Rub it against me.
Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Harry shifted forward and pressed the
head of his cock against the blank page, rubbing it across the coarse
parchment, smearing a couple drops of pre-come on the yellowed paper.
He didn't even notice that the diary absorbed the slick drops almost
immediately, because he threw his head back for a moment and gave his cock a
few hard pulls before lifting it from the diary again.
'Did you feel that, Tom?'
'Yes, I did. I felt your cock. I wish I could lick it, Harry. Suck it into my
mouth all the way down and let you fuck my mouth until you come down my
throat.'
"Gods, yes," Harry moaned, close now, so close, and he had to fight against the
overwhelming urge to shut his eyes and give into his pending climax because he
didn't want to miss a single word Tom was saying to him.
'And I wish you could touch my prick as well, Harry. I wish I could kiss you
while we touch each other, stroke each other, suck each other until we both
come so hard it hurts. Come for me, Harry. Come on me. I want to feel you come.
I want to feel your seed on me, Harry.'
Close. So very, very close, and Harry gave in. He leaned back against the wall,
his eyes closed and mouth opened and with nothing short of a sharp cry, he
came, spurting his release all over the diary while he convulsed until the last
tingles and shivers of his climax died down.
Panting, Harry sagged against the wall, stroking his spent cock a few times
more, jerking his hips at the sensitive contact while a satisfied sigh escaped
his still parted lips.
And then, something touched his cheek.
Harry snapped his eyes open, and let out a startled shriek when he stared
straight into a pair of green eyes, a few shades darker than his own, almost
hazel, which were looking at him curiously.
"Tom," he croaked, releasing his cock and the quill he'd still held clenched in
his other hand.
"Harry. You look exquisite like this." Tom crouched down before him, mouth
twitching up into a sly smile.
Harry blinked, sure that he was hallucinating, because Tom couldn't possible be
there for real, could he? But he seemed awfully real, looking every bit like
the handsome young man Harry had met last year.
"How... why..." Harry fell silent, still shaky from his recent climax and very
overwhelmed that Tom was somehow there in the room with him.
Slowly, Tom reached out and dragged a single finger down Harry's softening
prick, swirling it across the slick head once before bringing it to his mouth
and darting his tongue out to lick the smudge of come off the tip of his
finger.
Harry watched open-mouthed as Tom sucked his own finger into his mouth, eyes
fixed on Harry, lips working around his finger before creeping up into a grin.
It began to dawn on Harry that he had somehow brought Tom to life with his
release. It was a strange realization, but not an unpleasant one. Tom was here.
Tom, who had just told him all those very naughty and very arousing things.
"Are you real?" Harry whispered, looking from Tom's eyes to his mouth and then
to the rest of his body, clad in the same old-fashioned Slytherin uniform Harry
had seen him wearing last year.
"Real enough to do this." And before Harry could protest, Tom leaned forward
and pressed his lips to Harry's. Harry froze, startled by the sudden intimate
contact, but when Tom ran his tongue across Harry's lips, Harry slowly opened
his mouth and they were kissing. He stroked his tongue against Tom's while
their lips moved across each other in a delicate rhythm.
"You excite me, Harry," Tom whispered after he pulled back. He grabbed Harry's
hand and brought it to his groin. "Feel how hard I am for you. Feel how much
you arouse me."
Harry watched with wide eyes as Tom pressed the palm of his hand against
something very hard. Darting his gaze up to Tom's face, Harry willed his hand
to move, and he cupped Tom's erection through his trousers, running his fingers
up and down the hard length.
Tom moaned. "Touch me, Harry. I want you to touch me. I want to touch you."
Placing soft kisses on Harry cheek and the corner of his mouth, Tom rocked his
hips against Harry's hand. "I want to feel your hand on me."
Trembling, Harry reached for Tom's zipper and pulled it down. He looked at Tom
expectantly, and at Tom's almost invisible nod, Harry pushed his hand inside
Tom's trousers, and felt warm, hard flesh that felt familiar and yet not, and
he curled his fingers around it, drawing a deep groan from Tom.
"Yes, Harry." Tom pressed his lips to Harry's once more, and Harry kissed him
back, a bit clumsily because it wasn't easy to be kissing and stroking someone
at the same time, but he liked it, loved the feeling of lips on his and his
hand around a cock that wasn't his own.
"I want you," Tom whispered against his lips. "I want to fuck you."
Harry stilled.
It was one thing to kiss a boy or even touch his prick, but fucking was an
entirely different thing. Harry liked the idea of touching each other with
their hands or even with their mouths. But fucking?
Harry swallowed. "I'm not sure... no, I don't want that, Tom. Not yet."
"Let me rephrase that. I'm going to fuck you." Tom kissed him again, but
forcefully this time while he tangled his hand in Harry's unruly hair and
pressed his head against the wall.
Wrenching his head free, Harry gazed up at Tom, an angry frown on his forehead.
"I don't want that. I don't want you to fuck me."
"You don't have a choice, Harry."
And then something hard and thin pressed against his throat, and Harry wanted
to slap himself for making the same mistake twice. Tom was holding a wand,
Harry's wand, and Harry felt angry with himself and with Tom, because this was
not how things were supposed to be going.
"No," he said again, his voice hoarse.
"Oh, yes," Tom drawled, and got up, waving the wand at Harry while muttering a
string of words.
And Harry was naked.
"You look beautiful," Tom whispered while he looked down at Harry through
hooded eyes. But Harry felt anything but beautiful, and drew his knees up to
his body, glaring at Tom through narrowed eyes.
"Can't we just... touch? And kiss? I liked that," he said in an unsteady voice,
trying to think of a way to get his wand back. Because he knew that without his
wand, he didn't stand a chance against Tom. The other boy was older and bigger
and stronger, and Harry needed his magic if he wanted to stop Tom.
"I don't want to hurt you." Tom crouched down again, his face close to Harry's.
"I only want to take your virgin arse and make it mine. I'll be gentle, I
promise."
Harry wanted to believe him. He really did, but the sly smile Tom was giving
him wasn't at all convincing. Truth be told, Harry was scared. He hadn't minded
the kiss or touching Tom's prick. He hadn't minded those things at all, but the
idea of a cock inside of him... well, that was frightening.
He needed his wand.
"Do you promise?" Harry asked softly while he leaned his face closer to Tom's,
brushing his lips against Tom's parted mouth. "If you promise to be gentle,
I'll do it." Darting his tongue out, Harry gave Tom's lips a teasing lick, and
when Tom sucked around Harry's tongue, Harry made a grab for his wand.
And found himself bound, his arms tied together by his wrists behind his back.
"I'll have none of that," Tom scolded, giving Harry a pleasant smile, and
grabbed his hair, dragging Harry up until he was kneeling before him.
Wincing, Harry glared up at Tom and struggled against the bonds, but they were
strong and Harry was not, and he realized with a shock that there was nothing
he could do to stop Tom now.
Tom could do whatever he wanted.
And it scared Harry that that idea was arousing beyond belief.
"Beautiful. Perfect," Tom whispered while he bent down to pick up the discarded
quill. He dragged the feathery end down Harry's throat, across his collarbone
until he reached Harry's nipples.
Harry closed his eyes briefly against the odd sensation. It tickled when Tom
teased his nipples to hardness with the feather. It tickled in a very pleasant
way, and much to his embarrassment, Harry felt his cock swelling.
"You like that, don't you?" Tom asked, licking his lips and dragging the quill
to Harry's other nipple so he could continue his sweet torture. "Don't be shy,
Harry. I can see you like it."
"It... feels nice," Harry whispered, feeling his cheeks flush. Again he pulled
at the bonds, but found them too strong to break. So he stayed still, kneeling
in front of Tom, his cock hard now and pointing straight ahead while small,
clear drops of pre-come leaked from the slit.
Tom circled him, running the quill across Harry's shoulders and neck. Harry
heard Tom lower himself to his knees behind him, and he shoved Harry's legs
apart. The soft end of the quill tickled down his spine and Harry shivered
until he felt it probe between his arse cheeks.
"Oh gods," Harry moaned, both in arousal and fear, and Tom chuckled behind him.
The feeling of the soft feather disappeared and was replaced by Tom's hands on
his arse, parting the cheeks.
And then something hard and thin was probing his entrance, and Harry jerked,
startled by the unfamiliar sensation, but his hard cock gave an enthusiastic
twitch when Tom pressed the hard object against the tight ring of muscles.
He's using my wand, Harry realized, and that idea was oddly exciting.
"Try to relax, Harry," Tom whispered against the back of his head, nuzzling his
hair. "That way it won't hurt. Much."
While he had no reason to trust Tom, Harry did what he was told and willed his
body to relax. But it was hard when he felt his wand, his own wand, slip inside
his puckered entrance. Tom muttered a few words, and suddenly Harry's hole was
filled with something cool and slick and the wand probed deeper, but it wasn't
unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.
"It feels good, doesn't it?" Tom asked while he slid the wand in and out of
Harry's slick channel, and Harry nodded, biting his lip to stifle a few moans.
It felt good. It felt better than it should, seeing that Harry really didn't
want this, he didn't, he really didn't, but the hard length moving inside his
arse made him want to change his mind, because it felt so arousing and made his
cock twitch and pulse.
And before he knew what he was doing, Harry bucked his hips back against his
wand, against Tom, silently asking for more.
But he didn't want more.
And yet it felt so good.
Placing open-mouthed kisses on Harry's shoulder, Tom kept thrusting the wand in
and out of Harry's arse, and reached for the quill. Harry had his eyes closed,
panting, his chest heaving, and he jerked when he felt something soft stroke
the sensitive head of his prick.
Tom dragged the quill down Harry's length and up again, probing the feathery
tip against Harry's slit and caressing the responsive skin just below Harry's
cockhead.
"Oh, fuck, please," Harry moaned while his body stiffened, his arse clenching
around the wand while he pushed his hips up to press his cock against the
quill, desperate for more contact.
Torture, sweet, brutal torture, and Harry didn't know anymore if he wanted this
or not, because all he wanted was more and harder and to have Tom touch his
prick and stroke him so he could come, come so hard, so good.
"You must ask me, my dear Harry," Tom teased, licking the shell of Harry's ear.
"If you want to come, you must beg."
Harry didn't want to beg. Not for anything, ever.
But Tom was cruel, and continued to fuck Harry's arse with Harry's own wand and
tormented Harry's eager prick with the soft quill, and Harry wanted it, by god,
he wanted it.
"Please, Tom, please let me come now. I... need... more... please."
"Such a good boy," Tom breathed, and bit Harry's earlobe. He dropped the quill
and wrapped his warm hand around Harry's cock while he drove the wand inside
Harry's hole further, harder, and Harry was lost.
He was soaring and falling and the world around him threatened to fade away,
and Harry climaxed, his prick pulsing inside Tom's firm grasp, and he shot his
seed all over the diary that was still lying open in front of him.
Tom let out a sharp cry, as if he just climaxed as well. Harry snapped his eyes
open and watched shakily as the parchment absorbed his seed.
And while he came down from the heights of his climax, his body shivering as
the cool air around him touched his sweat-slick skin, Harry felt the wand slip
from his arse to be replaced by something large and blunt and hot pressing
against his entrance.
"No, no," he whimpered, because Tom was driving his cock inside him while he
kept one arm firmly wrapped around Harry's chest, and Harry still wasn't sure
if he wanted that. But Tom thrust forward, burying himself inside Harry to the
root, and Harry cried out in shock at the very unfamiliar and full feeling.
"So good," Tom moaned, and grabbed Harry's hip with one hand while he reached
around Harry to pick the quill up again. "So very, very good."
"Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck," Harry chanted, wanting to pull away from Tom's
prick, but driving back against it all the same, because Tom was fucking him
and while Harry really didn't want that, it wasn't as unpleasant as he had
imagined it to be.
It was full and hard and hot, and Tom thrust brutally, his fingers digging into
Harry's flesh while he grabbed the quill again. Harry groaned, confused at his
own responses but unable to do anything than let Tom fuck him, let Tom take
him, because even though he didn't want it, he really didn't want it, it felt
good.
"Oh yes, so good, my Harry," Tom breathed, and Harry leaned his head back on
Tom's shoulder, his bound arms trapped between their bodies as Tom pounded into
him. Harry's body was slack and his prick was limp, and he couldn't do anything
about the fact that Tom was fucking him and it felt good which he hated in a
way, because he didn't want it and it wasn't supposed to feel this good, was
it?
Harry kept silent, save for his ragged breaths while his chest heaved. When Tom
trailed the quill across his chest again, Harry flinched, because Tom wasn't
using the feathery end now, but the sharp tip, and teased Harry's skin, leaving
red welts in the quill's path.
"Close, so close, so good." Tom thrust even harder, and Harry let out a
startled cry when the quill's sharp tip cut through the flesh of his chest. He
felt his skin split and warm drops of blood leak from the thin cut, and then
Tom reached around him, never stopping his brutal thrusts, and picked up the
diary, pressing the blank pages against Harry's bleeding chest.
And with a loud, almost inhuman scream, Tom climaxed, pressing deep inside
Harry, while he pushed Harry against the opened diary.
My blood, Harry thought distractedly. He's doing something with my blood.
He had no idea what the consequences of that might be, because his entire mind
was focused on the fact that Tom had just fucked him, had just climaxed inside
of him, had just taken his virginity.
And it hadn't been that bad at all.
Tom thrust inside him one last time and pulled his spent prick out while he
lowered the diary. Harry took a few deep and uneven breaths while he stared
down at the blank pages, and his eyes widened as the yellowed parchment slowly
turned grey and crumbled to dust in Tom's hand.
But Tom's hand was still there while the remains of the diary fell from his
spread fingers to the floor.
"Thank you, Harry," Tom whispered into his ear, giving it another teasing lick.
"For your generous donation of semen and blood."
No.
No. No. No.
Harry hadn't just brought Tom back to life. For good now, since the diary was
gone.
He was overwhelmed by such a strong feeling of guilt that he had to brace
himself against it, and when Tom released him from his bonds, he was unable to
keep his balance and slumped to the floor, defeated.
He hadn't just helped his enemy regain his power.
But he had, and Harry blinked against the realization that he had let everyone
down. Dumbledore, his parents, and most importantly, himself.
He was a failure.
Harry heard Tom move around, closing his trousers and he looked up at his
enemy, at the boy, the mere boy whom he had defeated once, but had now taken
his semen and his blood and was so very much alive. And Harry had let him.
Tom looked down at him and smiled, not a sly or devious smile, but a warm one,
and Harry blinked, curling his body up, feeling sore in unfamiliar places.
"Come on, Harry. Let's go." Tom reached out his hand and offered it to Harry.
Go where, Harry wanted to ask. But did it really matter?
He had lost, and Tom had won.
Harry pushed himself up, placed his hand in Tom's, and gave his enemy, his
friend, his lover a smile.
 
~~fin~~
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!