Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12760815.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Voldemort, Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Ginny_Weasley, Tom_Riddle, Voldemort_(Harry_Potter)
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Graphic_Description_of_Corpses, Body_Horror,
      Psychological_Torture, Emotional/Psychological_Abuse, Rape/Non-con
      Elements, Extremely_Dubious_Consent, anal_prolapse, Dreams_and
      Nightmares, Painplay, Overstimulation, Stockholm_Syndrome, Unhealthy
      Relationships, Torture, Snakefaced!Voldemort, Hemipenis!Voldemort,
      Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Not_Canon_Compliant_-_Harry_Potter
      and_the_Deathly_Hallows, Minor_Character_Death, Underage_because_Harry_is
      seventeen, This_messes_heavily_with_consent, Porn_With_Plot, Orgasm
      Delay/Denial, Multiple_Orgasms, Nipple_Play, Biting, Mindfuck, Memory
      Loss, Surprise_Ending, Horcruxes, Metaphors, Blood_and_Gore, Ero_Guro,
      Praise_Kink, Irony, Other_Additional_Tags_to_Be_Added
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-18 Updated: 2018-03-11 Chapters: 5/7 Words: 36356
****** Phobia ******
by Katsitting_(Nekositting)
Summary
     “I shall show you just how far you’ve fallen,” Voldemort whispered,
     breaking the thick silence that had settled between them.
     Harry wanted to laugh, to bare his teeth at the man like the wounded
     lion that he was.There was nothing for him to do but snark and snarl
     at the man that had hidden him away from all prying eyes...save for
     those he trusted most. His legs were useless, his body weak.
     “I’d like to see you try,” Harry goaded.
Notes
     This is a prompt fill. I was asked by an anonymous user to write
     Harrymort + prolapsing. I never thought I would get a request of this
     sort. I also never thought that I would even consider filling it. I
     will warn you now that this is not for the faint of heart, and that
     you should be mindful of all the warnings I will be tagging for this
     work. The fact that this story is inordinately long is also a
     surprise for me, so bear with me on this.
     Also please mind the tags. All of them. If you have read IBTCIS, then
     you know I mean it when I include certain things on the list of tags.
     I will also update the tags as I edit. This will not start off
     insane, but will gradually get there. I will drop warnings at the top
     of the chapter where shit hits the fan. I will be posting a chapter
     every two weeks.
     Leave comments or kudos. I do read them.
     Thank you Nanimok for betaing my story.
***** Melt *****
White.
Harry closed his eyes quickly, blinded by the flash of light that suddenly
exploded within the small, dark room. He couldn’t help the way he jolted from
the source, how his mouth parted before releasing a soft hiss when his eyes
watered from the intensity.
It wasn’t often that he had visitors. Merlin knows how long it’d been since the
last time one of the Dark Lord’s bootlickers had forced upon him their
unpleasant company. They rarely ever bothered to open his cell, choosing
instead to have the house elves deliver his meals and magic away his waste when
he was forced to use the bucket in the furthest corner in the room.
It was a small mercy he was all too grateful for. He doubted he could handle
the smell of his own shite on top of the stench of death that clung to the
stone walls at either side of him.
Harry blinked away the spots dancing along his vision before casting the
entrance a wary glance, expecting the worst out of the situation. He couldn’t
quite make out just who it was standing in front of the light. He had lost his
glasses long ago, abandoned somewhere in the chaos when he had tried to escape
once. It had possibly been the angriest he had ever seen the Dark Lord, and the
results had certainly not been pretty.
Harry had lost more than his glasses in the scuffle, that was for certain.
His ability to walk, for one.
The snake-faced bastard had broken his legs, and they had never quite recovered
since then, but Harry doubted they ever would. He had no access to a healer to
fix them, and not even his piss poor attempts to make a splint out of the
broken dinner table in the cell could really resolve much of that issue.
It was just another way for the Dark Lord to clip his wings, to make it near
impossible to escape now that he could not run. It was a good thing, at least,
that the pain had long since passed, his legs rendered useless.
Though, that was not much a good thing, considering the circumstances.
“Harry.”
Harry froze, all the air in his lungs escaping his chest.
He had not expected for him to be the one to come. He never thought that he
would face Voldemort in the flesh again—he had expected Bellatrix, hell,
even Lucius—but he never thought  that he’d be seeing the true horrific image
of this man after only seeing him for weeks in his head.
Absent in body, but always present like a buzzing fly in the back of his mind.
Harry had assumed that after his first and only attempt at escape months prior
that Voldemort would never come into his cell again—with the exception of
putting him out of his misery. It was what the monster had said before
departing, his words somehow cutting through the haze of agony after his legs
had been broken.
Was Voldemort here to kill him then?
Harry narrowed his eyes to try to clear some of the fuzziness in his vision. He
knew that it would not make the man any clearer, would not magically render
Voldemort’s face visible beneath the shadows of the entrance, but Harry had to
try. Doing something was better than doing absolutely nothing at all. This was
better than simply resigning himself to his shitty situation.
“C-come to finish me off then?”
Harry did not bother with the pleasantries, unfazed by the scorn thick in his
voice. He twisted his lips into a wry smile, listening for the sound of
Voldemort’s footsteps, for the slithering hiss of his robes sliding on the
floor as he slipped further into the cell.
But the sound never came. Voldemort’s shadow lingered by the open doorway,
undisturbed.
Harry watched, waiting for Voldemort to make a move. It would only be a matter
of time before he did. Voldemort would not have come if he did not have a
reason. What that reason could be anyone’s guess, but for the moment, Harry
would wait.
His legs were broken, it wasn’t as though Harry had many options to begin with.
Harry shifted his body, deciding that he may as well get more comfortable if
Voldemort preferred to do nothing for the moment. The stone wall at his back
felt cold even through the thin, dirty shirt he wore. Still, Harry pushed
against the floor with his hands to compensate for the uselessness of his legs,
straightening his back to look more put together than he was.
Just because Harry was helpless did not mean that he had to look the part,
after all.
“I have learned something that may interest you,” Voldemort said.
His flat tone, devoid of any emotion, echoed through the near empty cell as if
the syllables had been uttered by a thousand men, the reverberations making
Harry’s teeth vibrate with discomfort.
Harry ignored the strange sensation before he shifted once more and tilted his
head questioningly at the Dark Lord. It was a subtle gesture, but Harry knew
that Voldemort would see it.
It was rare for Voldemort to string more than a few words without a threat
woven in the utterance. Rarer still, to be visited by the man without a curse
being thrown in Harry’s direction. It piqued Harry’s interest in spite of
himself. Because really, what could the man possibly want to tell him?
Something that might interest him? Unless Voldemort planned to let him see a
healer, Harry doubted anything the man said would be of much importance.
Harry wanted his legs back; he wanted to stand, to roam, to pace. He wanted
some measly sense of control in this cramped dark cell that’s as stifling as a
coffin. He couldn’t very much do that as crippled as he was.
But more than anything else, he wanted his freedom.
Harry was meant for the skies and clouds, the moment he touched a flying broom.
He was not meant for this dark, dilapidated cell, divorced from a part that
made him whole.
And that was impossible without functioning limbs. It was probably why
Voldemort had not bothered healing him after his last escape attempt in the
first place. He couldn’t plan for escape without legs to carry him off. It made
sense that Voldemort would deny him such a thing.
Harry’s last attempt had nearly gotten him killed.
But it had certainly been worth to see the Dark Lord pushed into a fit of rage.
It was funny how the Dark Lord spent most of his life deceiving others, but
Harry’s deception had resulted in a violent reaction—as if he never expected
Harry to leave his side.
Hypocrite, really. Harry supposed that only the Dark Lord was permitted to
deceive. Any such attempt from Harry’s end would simply be deemed as betrayal.
Harry nearly snorted from the absurdity of such a thing.
Bloody ridiculous.
“Unless you plan to fix me or get me out of here, nothing you tell me will
interest me one bit.” Harry said, his remark more scathing than he had intended
it.
He had no energy for forced politeness; that ship had long since sailed.
Playing the part of the cooperative captive would get him nowhere now.
Voldemort didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he almost smiled.
“Not even the fact that I have won the war?”
His breath nearly stopped with dread.
No.
“Not even the fact that the light has lost and you are the only one standing on
the losing side?” Voldemort inquired, and Harry swallowed, shocked to the core.
Had it really been so long that he missed the entire bloody war? Harry could
not believe him. No, he refused to believe him. The man had to be lying. Harry
couldn’t have been trapped that long in this shithole. Until he failed to end a
bloody war he was supposed to finish.
But what if you were? A sinister voice whispered in the back of Harry’s
head. What if you have been here for months, almost a whole year rather than
the days you had first assumed?
Harry felt his insides churn. His throat seized up with dread. His fingers
clenched into tight fists, blunt nails digging harshly into the skin, but Harry
hardly paid the sting any mind when his world felt as though it had been tilted
on its axis.
No, it couldn’t have been that long. It just couldn’t be true.
“You’re lying,” Harry said after a pause, watching as Voldemort’s shadow
wavered for a moment in the white light. It looked as though he were flickering
in and out of existence, like the times the Dursley’s telly lost reception
while in the middle of a horror picture show. It was a sinister flicker, one
that made a cold sweat gather along the back of Harry’s neck.
“I have never lied to you, Harry,” Voldemort said, voice far too amused. It
made Harry’s stomach churn, nausea creeping up his dry throat.
Harry tried to swallow it down to stop himself from choking.
“The war is over. The Light has fallen, and all that remains is you—”
“Shut up,” Harry choked out, eyes fierce as he glared in Voldemort’s direction.
His shoulders shook with anger, his breaths coming too quickly as he tried to
settle the panic pumping through his veins.
It just wasn’t possible.
Harry could not have been trapped here for that long. He refused to
just accept that. Sure, he had lost most feeling in his legs after rotting in
that cell, but that did not mean that so much time could have elapsed in
between.
...If the Light really had lost, if his friends really had been defeated, then
why was Harry still alive? For what purpose could Voldemort keep him here?
Harry was still the prophesied enemy. It simply wasn’t possible that Voldemort
could have won when he still remained standing in the man’s way.
Neither can live while the other survives.
Those were the words of the prophecy. The words that had echoed in the back of
his mind for a solid year after Sirius had been killed during Fifth year.
“Such a pity, indeed,” Voldemort uttered. “That the world you have known, that
the allies you have made are no more. Defiance still burns in your blood, the
thirst for escape still flickering behind those eyes like a lit pyre. But there
is nothing for you to return to, no one who will aid you in your plight.”
Then the darkened shadow grew larger, the edges melting into the blackened
corners of Harry’s cell, to the smudges along Harry’s vision.
No, not larger, Harry amended quickly. The shadow was not growing
larger. Voldemort was coming closer, Harry realized. Dread squeezed his heart
like a vice, and he wondered faintly if his might even fail on him with how
rapidly his heart beat.
It took everything for him to not shrink away from the looming presence in
spite of his fear. But Harry refused to yield. He would not allow himself to
cowed, even if he was wandless and completely powerless. Weak and so very
helpless.
Harry heard the soft sound of slithering robes, of bare feet slapping against
stone as Voldemort bridged the space between them. It’s a striking contrast
from the darkness he’s used to, and it swallowed all thought and reason, easily
dominating Harry’s small world.
Voldemort was a force that could not be contained, a presence that not even the
stone walls at either side of them could halt.
Harry craned his head to keep a fixed look on the man, unafraid to meet the
man’s oppressive gaze. He would not show weakness. He would not yield. He had
thus far held onto his tenacity and will to fight. He would not let his fire be
dampened now.
Harry would fight to the very end.
And then Voldemort stood before him, the darkness and Harry’s poor vision
making it impossible to discern the monster’s features. Harry could make out
the bright glow of red. Nothing just how the muddy color contrasted with the
black of his cell, and the way the shadow cast by the light emanating from the
cell door at Voldemort’s back swallowed him whole.
It made the situation more sinister, made the isolation heavier on Harry’s
bones. But still, Harry paid little mind to the sheer size of the man or the
thick taste of bitterness in the back of his throat when Voldemort’s magic
began to undulate and writhe with the shadows.
Voldemort’s magic clung to him like a second skin. He could feel Voldemort like
a presence that refused to leave, a parasite that fed on his hopes and dreams.
Worse than a dementor, and significantly worse than the gut-wrenching horror he
had felt when his soul had nearly been eaten away many years ago...
“I shall show you just how far you’ve fallen,” Voldemort whispered, breaking
the thick silence that had settled between them.
Harry wanted to laugh, to bare his teeth at the man like the wounded lion that
he was.There was nothing for him to do but snark and snarl at the man that had
hidden him away from all prying eyes...save for those he trusted most. His legs
were useless, his body weak.
“I’d like to see you try,” Harry goaded.
Voldemort’s magic froze before exploding outwardly as if angered. Harry
shuddered when the thick tendrils pressed against the skin of his cheeks.The
weight settled on his shoulders and pressed tightly against his ribs that his
breaths became high-pitched wheezes—
Harry’s throat burned and he coughed, the sound echoing from within the near
empty cell as though he had coughed more than once, as if Harry were hacking up
a lung.
It was unnerving. He sounded so weak, so desperate, so bloody fragile...
Harry grimaced, hating his own vulnerability in that moment. He decided that he
would never cough again. At least, never again in front of the Dark Lord.
“I do not need to try, it has already begun. Your fall from grace has been
ensured, and you, dearest Harry—”
Harry shuddered at the endearment, the mockery and the pleased lilt in
Voldemort’s voice making his stomach twist unpleasantly.
“—have yet to even fathom just how far along you have come...”
Voldemort paused, and considered Harry from his uptilted chin, looking far too
amused at the subtle attempts of rebellion from someone who’s already so
thoroughly defeated.
“Hermione Jean Granger...Ronald Bilius Weasley...I wonder what your friends
would say if they could see you now,” Voldemort said. “If they could witness
for themselves how their precious champion has been broken to such an extent
that he cannot recognize the end when it is shown to him.”
A sudden wave of rage overcame him, the emotion noxious as it slid across his
skin like a leather coat, the feeling making his shoulders quiver. “D-don’t you
dare speak their names!” he spat.
For a sliver of a second, Harry took comfort in his anger. It ate away at the
cold biting across his fingers, at the numbness eating away at his legs. It
felt real and welcome, the way the hate flickered to life a comforting warmth
that melted away the ice coursing through his veins.
“Foolish boy...”
And then, just as quickly as the rage had come, it was snuffed out. The candle
that had suddenly been lit from inside was doused by the frigid touch of
water—of cruel reality. Harry felt his body slump against the wall, his limbs
shaking with exhaustion.
What was that? Harry thought, unsure and confused.
He had never felt something as powerful as that before. A foreign emotion. It
was as if he’d tapped into an unknown power he did not know he had. It was
toxic, the rage familiar enough to make panic twist in his belly.
It was dense, like wading through mud and thick jelly. It was a hatred that not
even Bellatrix could stoke. It was a fury that not even witnessing Sirius’s
death could have lit... It was so unlike the madness Harry recalled licking at
his skin when he had chased after Bellatrix all those years ago...the torture
curse on the tip of his tongue.
Harry remembered that rage and fearing what it symbolized then. He had assumed
that nothing could have compared to that fierce explosion of emotion. But now,
Harry was uncertain.
That feeling that had ruptured in his belly, the one that had overridden his
senses with the cloying feeling of loathing just seconds ago...it made his
anger all those years ago look like a lit match…
Harry had never felt more afraid in his life.
Perturbed and unsettled by the fact that he had experienced something
like that.
“I believe it is time that we have a change of scenery...don’t you agree?”
Harry released a shuddering breath, confusion overtaking the fear that buzzed
like static in the back of his mind. He did not know what to make Voldemort’s
words at all, of what the man’s intentions were. Voldemort had never removed
him from this cell before. He had made it perfectly clear that Harry would rot
in that cell...but now, Voldemort wanted him out?
It just didn’t make sense. It made about as much sense as the hatred that had
suddenly overcome him those seconds before—
But Harry was given no opportunity to voice his concerns, no opportunity to
open his mouth and ask him just what Voldemort meant. There was no time to even
cry out before darkness descended upon him, the red and white of Voldemort’s
face swallowed by the black.
Harry felt his mouth part to release a gut-wrenching scream, to give voice to
his terror at being plunged into a black abyss, but no words came.
No sound, no smells, and no white.
Just nothing.
And then felt himself fall.
***** Splinter *****
Chapter Summary
     Warnings: Gore, Graphic violence, Sexual tension, Psychological
     torture, Nightmares, Manipulation, Suicidal thoughts, and pretty much
     everything that comes out of being imprisoned. Harry literally
     doesn't know what to do with himself, to be honest.
     You are probably wondering why this is absurdly long. You may also be
     wondering why this has been posted when I said it would take me two
     weeks. I am also wondering both those things. But here it is. Another
     chapter that is 3x the size of the first.
     Let me know how you like it!
     Author Note: I had to change something in the plot that I just
     noticed went against canon. In this AU, Harry was captured during the
     mess in Malfoy Manor. So there are two other remaining horcruxes: the
     diadem, Nagini, and Harry himself.
Harry quickly learned that Voldemort had not lied.
Harry wished that had been the case, that the way Voldemort had traipsed into
his cell that day had only been to gloat and nothing more.
But who could have anticipated the true purpose for the Dark Lord’s visit?
Harry knew the man better than most, having lived too long with the monster
forcing images into his head, but still. No one could read the Dark Lord, and
of course, the last time they had spoken they had been on...terrible terms, to
say the least.
It should have been abundantly clear to him that that had not been the reason
for his return. He should have known that Voldemort would not return to him
unless he had a reason.
Voldemort had promised him death should he ever return to his cell. So of
course Harry had expected death, ready and willing to face it with his head
raised high.
But that was not what happened. Voldemort had come for a different purpose that
only registered later in his captivity.
Harry had learned the truth. Voldemort had not, in fact, lied to him. And that
was perhaps the worst thing about the entire affair.
The Light had lost.
Slaughtered and culled like animals, if what Voldemort had said was as horrific
as he described. If the details he had shared with Harry after he had awoken in
his newer cell were to be believed.
Voldemort had told him that no one he knew had lived. That all that had fought
valiantly for the cause had been culled.
Harry had not believed it; had been more than certain that there were
survivors. Voldemort could not have slain them all. There were so few with
magical blood already, it would be of no benefit to the Dark Lord for more
magical blood to be spilt.
Voldemort could not rule without subjects to rule over, after all.
However, Harry had not doubted that those that refused to surrender were
murdered. It would have been naive of him to think that Voldemort, of all
people, would spare even the Purebloods that lifted their wands against him.
All that defied the Dark Lord were slain by the most bloodthirsty of
Voldemort’s forces. No mercy granted to those that dared stand against him.
Harry did not need to witness the bloody battle for himself to know that.
But still, Harry had hoped.
Voldemort had said that it had taken moments, seconds, for the tides to turn
against the Order. Harry had doubted that, still doubted that, even now. His
friends could not have been defeated as easily as Voldemort had claimed. Before
Harry had been taken, they had been winning. They had the advantage where
Voldemort did not.
Voldemort had shattered that illusion.
Even when Voldemort had left him alone in his newest cell, he could not truly
leave Harry alone without bestowing his personal brand of presents.
It had been sudden, the crushing weight of Voldemort’s mind in his own before
images of severed limbs and heart-wrenching cries assaulted his senses.
Harry had seen once bright eyes fall shut, had seen fingers torn from clutching
palms with the weight of a powerful spell. He had seen entrails strewn on dirt,
and blood splattering on clammy, matted skin. He heard their screams for mercy,
listened to girls and boys alike plead for a clemency the Dark Lord would never
grant.
It had been sickening. The memories torturous  enough to make Harry’s stomach
turn with revulsion.
Harry remembered throwing up for the first days he was haunted by the visions
Voldemort had gifted him.
Even now, Harry shuddered at the memories, still able to recall, with
excruciating detail, the pained expressions from the fallen and—  
Hogwarts.
His home, his sanctuary, the first place he’d ever felt safe in, now drowned in
the blood of his friends.
A constant barrage of terrifying images violated the wonderful memories he had
once associated with Hogwarts. Harry saw the moment Dean’s throat was slit, the
red spurting outward to drench the laughing Death Eater. He heard Lavender
Brown’s cries when Fenrir dug his teeth into the soft skin of her belly and
tore through that flesh like—
The images had continued to flicker within his mind, unending and unforgiving.
It could have been months since the final battle, maybe even years, but still,
Harry knew that the hurtinflicted by the memories would never be dampened by
time.
Contrary to what Voldemort had said, there were a few that had surrendered, and
shown mercy. It was what Voldemort had told him after finally severing the
connection between their minds.
Harry was unsure if that was Voldemort’s way of keeping him from fracturing; if
the man had somehow seen something in his mind that he wanted to protect Harry
from, as paradoxical as the idea was. But Harry had latched onto the hope that
those words provided, seized on the fact that at least some of his friends had
made it out.
That small sliver of hope was better than the haunting sound of death Voldemort
had shown him.
Not that it mattered much in the end.
The Light had lost. His friends, Ron and Hermione, were no more. They were
butchered and used as examples for all those that dared to defy the Dark Lord’s
agenda. Their deaths more heartbreaking than even the vision of old classmates
being tortured and killed.
Harry had been unable to stop them. He had been unable to stop any of it. He
had been a prisoner while his friends were dying.
The guilt had been insurmountable.
Unbearable, even now.
He could still see their faces behind his mind’s eye. Watching, always
watching, behind his eyelids, how Voldemort flicked his wand and a toxic green
light shot straight from his wand. It was merciful compared to the more
gruesome deaths Harry had seen, but that did not matter.
Harry recalled his own screaming, how he pled and begged Voldemort to spare
their lives. He had promised Voldemort anything, had dropped to his knees in
the posh room to show him just how serious he was in that moment. He had told
him that he would never think of escaping again, that he would remain at
Voldemort’s side if it meant that his friends could live.
Harry had hoped that it would be enough. That his promises to be a trophy, a
symbol of Voldemort’s power over the Wizarding world, would suffice.
But his screams had been ignored. Harry would never see Ron and Hermione again.
And now, now,Harry was alone. A bird trapped in a beautiful cell gilded in fine
silks and grandiose paintings. Portraits and landscapes frozen still, in spite
of the magic threading through the frames keeping them permanently attached to
the bedroom walls.
It was a breathtaking room, without a doubt. A place that looked more
appropriate for a prince, and not a prisoner. It was strange to think that
Voldemort felt the need to move him from the dank cell below and into this
newer, luxurious room. Though it made no difference to Harry which room he was
in, whether he was suffering in a dark cell with only the clothes on his back
to keep him warm, or the fine silks of his bed.
A cage with golden bars was still a cage. Harry was stilla prisoner.
Even if Voldemort had saw fit to heal him all those months ago, and return to
him the legs Harry was certain he had lost.
“Harry.”
Harry flinched at the sound of his name, the hiss disrupting the silence that
he had grown accustomed to over the past few months. It was rare for Voldemort
to visit him. His duties since the culmination of the war kept his attention
safely away from Harry.
It was both a blessing and a curse. A relief and an agony to be left on his
own.
At first, Harry could not have been happier that Voldemort was no longer a
parasitic presence latching onto the little sanity Harry managed to retain.
Voldemort always knew how to dig deep into Harry’s greatest worries. Knew how
to say the correct words that inspired such suffocating hatred within Harry. A
hatred so severe it threatened to splinter Harry’s sanity.
So any time away from Voldemort was good, Harry had assumed.
But he had been wrong. Just as he had been when he denied, almost mulishly,
that the war had ended.
Voldemort’s absence was as overbearing as his presence. Between the silence in
the bedroom and the almost taunting sunlight peeking through the sole window at
the end of the room, Harry thought he might lose his mind. The isolation gave
him too much time to think on his mistakes, too much freedom for his mind to
wander down paths he did not wish to delve.
Because what more could Harry do but sit in this room? There were books, but
there was no real interest from his end to read anything that belonged to the
Dark Lord. No one came to see him, the bathroom at the end making the need for
elves to magic away his waste unnecessary.
Not that the elves ever appeared to him now. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner was
served at precisely the same time each day. Without fail, the tray would
shimmer by his bedside, a new hot meal steaming as though it was just freshly
cooked.
When days of his isolation became weeks, and those weeks became months, without
even a whisper of Voldemort’s presence in Harry’s room...Harry had thought he
would tear at the seams.
It was worse than before, because before Harry had hope that the Light would
prevail. Now, there was no one but Harry, and no hope that anyone would come
and find him. All he had were the memories of those fallen; the recollections
of his friends in Hogwarts the only source of human interaction for when
Voldemort kept his distance.
Until the recollections, too, became sullied.
Their voices became the echoes of a time past. Their brilliant eyes, the vision
of a future dreamed for, but never reached. It was worse than anything
Voldemort could ever say, worse than any visions the monster could force him to
see through the blasted connection in the minds.
It had driven him mad. It had driven him to seek out anything that could drown
the screams of his friends from out of his head.  
Even something as disgusting as the Dark Lord’s companionship.
And then it all began to unravel, the foundations keeping him firmly affixed to
the real world eroding.
Harry found, to his horror, that he needed the man more than he needed air. He
had needed a voice to pierce through the dying screams and the whimpers of pain
that played over and over from inside his head.
Harry had yearned for the Dark Lord.
And in that desperation, after months of madness; of his stomach lurching and
his insides squirming, Harry finally came to a decision.
He had decided to starve himself.
He stopped taking his meals. He ignored the churning of his stomach, the
twisting and the writhing in his gut when the days continued to pass without
food slipping through his lips.
It was more bearable this way. The constant reminder of his failures became
more bearable the more he turned away from food, until it became natural to gag
at the sight of a hot meal. Until it became easy because the more he looked at
food, the more he was reminded of the situation he was living in.
It was more preferable this way. Better to be dead than to live through this
isolation. Better to be dead than this half-life he’s living.
Harry had been certain the Dark Lord would let him waste away. Because what
purpose could Harry possibly serve when the world was practically within the
palm of his hand?
It was more bearable this way, to fade away into nothingness.
Until it wasn’t.
When it was just him and himself, Harry began to doubt where the boundaries
began to shape and form the person he knew as Harry Potter.
Hadn’t he said that he would never tolerate the Dark Lord’s company? And yet he
had yearned for the man to come and break the aching silence—
Silence.
Harry was so sick of the silence. So desperate for it to end.
It was maddening to only hear his own voice in his head...to see and feel only
what he felt. There was nothing but his own nightmares; monsters waiting for
him when he closed his eyes and dreamed.
But then, unexpectedly, Voldemort had come. His presence bursting through the
sea of emptiness like a bright light in a darkened hall. His magic had writhed
with his anger, like electricity buzzing through stagnant air.
Harry remembered the relief that had exploded in his chest. Joy had danced
along his senses when he heard Voldemort’s sibilant voice. He had relished the
anger in that voice, had nearly sobbed with relief when Voldemort pressed his
wand against the skin of his throat, the pressure painful against his windpipe.
It had been the first real instance of touch in months, and Harry had never
felt more alive than in that moment. His throat seized, his protesting stomach
cramped pleasantly to finally feelsomething other than nothingness.
These emotions...they were horrific. He should have been disgusted. He should
have been content with being left on his own for as long as he had. But he
hadn’t.
Anything was better than that chasm threatening to swallow him whole. Despair
was an unrelenting mistress. It was more oppressive than even Voldemort’s mind
pressing against his own. Sharper and more relentless than even Voldemort’s
magic cutting into his skin when enraged. Harry would rather face Voldemort
than the anguish hollowing out his insides. The burden was too much, the weight
of his own guilt and shame like acid rain on stone.
It had eroded him, stilleroded him, even now.
Voldemort had gone again, after that, after he had forced Harry to eat, and
threatened to curse him within an inch of his life. Then his life had devolved
back into the bleak silence that he hated so much, and it stretched and
stretched until it threatened to consume him whole again.
And Harry knew what it was that he needed to do to make it stop.
He needed incite the Dark Lord. He didn’t know why Voldemort bothered with him
at all, why he wanted him to live, but it was leverage Harry had now.
Cooperation would only isolate him. He couldn’t sit idly by or the loneliness
would eat him alive.
So when Harry had his first vision of Ron and Hermione’s dirt-caked faces after
months, Harry did not cringe. No, he put them to rest.
It hurt too much to scratch deeper—Ron and Hermione had been his most cherished
friends, but they were not here and they never would be. They were his
beginning and now, his end. A mere memory—their shadows of their former selves,
and a reminder of everything Harry had lost.
Their memory was nothing to the blazing fire of the Dark Lord’s anger, the heat
of his fury still fresh on his mind. He was a splash of red in a sea of
monochrome, a beacon of radiance that Harry could do nothing but cling to with
white-knuckled fists.
Telling himself that his friends were gone had been the hardest thing Harry had
ever had to do. But Harry had to let them go, to let them sleep.
And Harry let them go. The sweet promise of numbness too alluring for him to
resist.
It should have worried him, should have alerted him that something was
wrong.Harry should have felt sorrow and grief tear him at the seams, but all he
felt was numb.
Just nothing.
But he savored the numbness even as it horrified him, even when it used to
frighten him, and he slipped into bed and succumbed to empty dreams where he
heard the echoes of the deceased within his mind.
His past became a mere whisper, slipping through his fingers like river water.
It was more bearable this way.
It had become harder to hear the shouts of Voldemort’s Death Eaters as they
killed his friends, difficult to recall just what spell it was that had tumbled
from Voldemort’s lips when Ron and Hermione slumped in their chains. The sounds
had become unidentifiable, the voices muted. It was as though he were hearing
their voices from behind glass, and Harry relishedthat.
“Harry.”
Harry was ripped away from his thoughts.
“You have not been eating.”
The man’s annoyance was palpable even when his voice sounded dry and completely
devoid of emotion.
Thrilled by the sliver of rage that flickered to life in the back of his head,
Harry wanted to laugh. Their connection was still more than alive, even now.
Though it was rare for anything to bleed through the heavy barrier Voldemort
had crafted from his end of the connection.
It should have worried him that he could feel Voldemort’s irritation in that
second. Irritation from Voldemort  neverboded well for him. But Harry could not
bring himself to care. Any moment with the man was better than none.
Harry often wondered what his friends would say to that, what their reactions
would be if they knew that he now goaded the Dark Lord for company.
Horror, perhaps. Disgust, even.
There was nothing good about his wretched relationship with the Dark Lord, but
it couldn’t be helped. Voldemort was all Harry had. The man had seen to that.
“Astute observation,” Harry replied, before shifting on the wooden chair he’d
been sitting on for some time and turning to look at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort was as horrific as he had always been. His skin pale and waxy from
beneath the soft torches that crackled quietly in the lavish room. The light
did nothing for Voldemort’s complexion, but still, Harry watched him.
There would be no point looking away. This was the closest to human interaction
Harry would ever get, and it would be a mistake not to take advantage of it. He
doubted Voldemort would stay for long.
What held the Dark Lord’s attention now that the war was over was anybody’s
guess. Harry was still trying to figure that mystery out. Though Voldemort did
not give him much to go on in that end. Voldemort rarely said anything about
the outside world, reserving their talk to threats, or sometimes, simple
pleasantries when he was in a good enough mood.
Not that that was often, since Harry had to stoke his ire to lure Voldemort
back to his prison. It was irritating, really, but the man left Harry with
little choice.
“I am not above force feeding you.” Voldemort said before slipping further into
the room, the sound of rustling robes disrupting the silence that had fallen
between them. “It is unbecoming that you still feel the need to act like a
spoilt child.”
Harry could not help but smile, eyes glinting with amusement in spite of
himself. Voldemort could most certainly try, but Harry would not make that
easy. There was something about being contrary for no other reason than to piss
the Dark Lord off that brought him great amusement. It would always end with
him screaming at the end of his wand, but that was fine with Harry.
Better the pain than guilt. Better that he suffer through the shocks to his
senses than live another moment with his own thoughts, whenever it was that the
spectres of Ron and Hermione wanted to voice their disapproval at his actions..
“Perhaps, if you’d let me have some company. I may not feel the need to act
out,” Harry said, a slow smile creeping up his lips.
It wasn’t as though Harry was lying. If Voldemort would only allow others to
come, then maybe he wouldn’t wantthe man’s company as much as he did.
Harry laughed when Voldemort simply sighed, red eyes glinting brightly with
irritation before closing the short distance between them.
It should have been disgusting that Voldemort was closer than should be
allowed, that the man’s robes were brushing against his legs. But Harry had
long since abandoned those emotions. He hated Voldemort. He did, he truly did.
He hated him more than he could ever have loathed Bellatrix, but there was no
denying that loneliness made even nightmares seem palatable.
And, Harry would admit, that there were undeniable bonds forged in this hatred.
It’s intensity was unrivaled. It was more powerful than even connections formed
out of love and trust, if the fading memories of his friends were any
indication.
There was only one conclusion.
Hatred was powerful. Loneliness was overwhelming. And Harry felt both in
abundance.
“You are mine. No one is permitted to come here. They are filth undeserving of
even speaking your name.” Voldemort hissed, and Harry smiled wryly at the
claim.
His.
In a way, Harry would agree. It didn’t matter that Harry was not there by
choice, that he was a prisoner. Voldemort had clipped his wings when he had
killed his friends, and he had nearly shattered him when he had abandoned him
to his own loneliness.
He was Voldemort’s personal trophy of sorts. No one could see him, no one could
speak to him. Voldemort was his past, present, and future…
Not that Harry would ever admit to that. Even if he had been targeted from the
moment he had been born, even if he had lived a life for the purpose of
defeating Voldemort, Harry would never share that piece of information. Nothing
angered Voldemort more than him denying that, so what reason did Harry really
have to give in?
Submission meant isolation. It meant months inside his own head, and Harry
vowed that he would do everything in his power to never be alone again. If that
meant denying something as simple as Voldemort’s ownership of him, so be it.
Harry lived because Voldemort had yet to kill him, because the monster refused
to let him die. Everything would be better if Voldemort would simply kill him,
but Voldemort never whispered the words. He never dared to even voice the
threat now, not like he used to back in the dank cell.
Harry still wondered what had changed.
“Yours?” Harry scoffed. “Do you think confining me in this room makes you my
owner? I am a prisoner. I am not here by choice, not here because I wantto be
in your company. If it were possible, I would leave. Even if you hadn’t ravaged
the world like the plague that you are, trust me. I would be gone.”
I would be dead, Harry thought morbidly.
Harry watched Voldemort as he spoke, his smile stretching into a grin when
Voldemort’s lips twinged almost imperceptibly. It was a slight flicker, one
that anyone else might not have been able to discern. But Harry knew Voldemort
well enough, could read him better than anyone else. It also helped that there
was a stirring in the back of Harry’s mind in that second, like a light
flickering on, before shutting off as quickly as it had come to life.
Voldemort’s firm hold on his barrier was slipping. Harry could practically
taste the fury in the back of his tongue like the sweetest candy.
Good.
Voldemort’s face twisted, thin lips stretching into an angry grimace. It was
almost demonic, the way his bright eyes gleamed.  His skin stretched, the
wrinkles in the man’s face like creases along white parchment and Harry
couldn’t help but follow the lines along the man’s mouth, between his brows
when they furrowed in irritation and relaxed when the man wanted to hide his
expressions.
Harry tried not to laugh.
He wasn’t sure when he had become such an expert in all things Voldemort, or
when he had become more capable of fishing out these little details from
looking at the man’s serpentine face. Perhaps it came to pass some time ago, in
the days when Harry would spend hours watching visions of Voldemort behind his
eyelids, or hearing Voldemort’s sibilant utterances in the back of his head
when he tried to sleep.
It was a gradual progression, and although it should have been worrying just
how skilled he had become in this matter, Harry welcomed it now. It was a means
to an end, a method that would ensure that Voldemort did not let him rot in his
gilded cage.
It was almost beautiful to watch, to see the way red and garnet danced in the
man’s gaze. One representing hunger and one representing bloodlust. His pale
skin clashed, but it fit, in its own way, against the harsh clarity of the Dark
Lord’s eyes. Almost mesmerizing, the way the monster’s pupils thinned and
expanded, and how they grew and then contracted within the pools of crimson.
A flurry of emotion trapped him there. There was anger and possessiveness and
they danced along Voldemort’s irises...drawing Harry in easily as he continued
to watch, riveted.
Voldemort was beautiful.
“Liessss.”
Voldemort hissed in parseltongue, and Harry felt gooseflesh ripple across the
exposed skin of his arms.
So beautiful that sometimes Harry forgot where they were in the conversation—
Harry felt his breath hitch when Voldemort was suddenly on him. A cold hand
wrapped around his throat and began to squeeze tightly, blocking all air from
coming out of his gaping mouth.
Harry’s hands shot up to grip that unyielding wrist, digging blunt nails into
skin, but the man’s grip was unyielding. So he clung, uselessly, to Voldemort’s
wrist as he tried to make sense of what was even happening.
After what felt like months of nothing, the violence came out of nowhere.. It
was like he’d plummeted from the tallest tower towards his death after months
of standing on the edge.
Harry did not know what to do. In all the time that he had been confined, in
all the days that he incited Voldemort’s rage by luring the man back to his
cell with self-harm, Voldemort had neveractually touched him.
The nearest Voldemort had come to touching him was when the man had pressed of
his wand to Harry’s neck, or when he would sidle close and his robes would
brush against his legs.
It was never the cold press of skin against skin, never the touch of clawed
fingers digging into quivering flesh. Harry’s stomach lurched, and he squeezed
hard around Voldemort’s wrist to stop himself from collapsing to his knees.
It was an unspoken rule. One that Harry did not understand the inception of
because it simply was. It was what he knew, what he understood without the
words ever needing to be stated.
And now Voldemort was breaking all the rules. Harry felt his stomach clenched
in itself, as if Voldemort had pressed his hand against the skin before burying
itself deeply inside his belly to squeeze his insides.
Harry felt conflicted. He felt elated and terrified. The torrent of emotion in
Harry’s mind was difficult to understand, on top of his struggle for air, but
all he could gather, all he could discern from the shot of adrenaline curling
up his spine was that this was was different.
Something had changed.
And it felt—
Harry choked and clawed against Voldemort’s wrist. “W-what are you do—?”  
“You know what I think, Harry?”Voldemort interrupted, the violence in the man’s
tone melting into a soft croon.
It had been sudden, the rage in Voldemort’s eyes dissolving into cold
amusement.
Harry felt himself shudder, eyes widening in surprise.
I’m nervous, Harry realised.
That was what he felt stirring in his insides. Nervousness and...fear. It had
been a long time since Voldemort had inspired something other than amusement in
him. An even longer time since he elicited something other than anger and
relief.
It was dizzying the way Harry’s heart began to beat rapidly in his chest, but
he did nothing except stare into Voldemort’s eyes—unable to do anything else
but stare into his eyes..
Voldemort’s hand was wrapped around his neck, his grip firm, but still loose
enough to let Harry take in shuddering breaths through his parted lips. His
body was dangerously close to his own,  and Harry found it difficult to
breathe. Even the act of breathing deeply became too loud and too intrusive
compared to this parody of intimacy.  
It was unreal. It was absurd. Harry could scarcely believe that Voldemort was
touching him. It was his skin pressed against his neck, it was his hot gaze on
his face. It was hisbreath wafting against his cheek, the smell of earth and
iron thick in the man’s parted mouth.
“That you are lonely...that you need me…”
Denial was thick on his tongue as he tried to find the right refusal, but the
words refused to come. His throat felt tight, and his stomach quivered
pleasantly when Voldemort’s nails suddenly dug into his skin…
Adrenaline shot up Harry’s spine. A strange heat danced along the gaps of his
vertebrae.
“You fear that I will abandon you...that you will be forgotten and left to
waste away in your pretty little cage…”
Harry gasped when forced him to his feet by his throat. All without looking
away from the threat in the man’s eyes.
There was no pain, no resistance when his Occlumency was poor at best. He was
helpless and defenceless when their connection abruptly flared to life.
His legs shook, his tight grip on the man’s wrists slackening when he could
feel Voldemort’s mind inside his own head.
It was like a blade cutting through butter. It was intrusive and obtrusive.
Voldemort sifted through his thoughts like they were used paper waiting to be
discarded and Harry too powerless to stop it.
They glided through every memory of himself sitting in this cell, going mad
with shame and guilt, and it was a raw nerve Harry never wanted exposed.
Voldemort dragged the bitter emotion straight from the dark corner Harry had
shoved it to, and Harry wanted to die.
Voldemort pulled, and Harry felt his mind give, felt his loneliness, always the
loneliness, stirr like a dark shadow in the back of his mind.
Harry was terrified, unable to stop himself from choking down a sob when
Voldemort squeezed him tight enough to stop his breathing.
“But I will never leave you...you are mine. More than you even realize…”
And then Voldemort was forcing him away from his chair, the strength in the
man’s skeletal frame impressive as he shoved Harry into the wall. A landscape
painting dug uncomfortably against his upper back. It was a shock that the
painting didn’t tumble to the ground, or that his glasses didn’t slide from his
nose from the ferocity in that single, rapid movement.
But Harry couldn’t  think on it, not when Voldemort was strangling him.
“S-stop,” Harry managed to choke out.
Voldemort didn’t. He continued to sift through Harry’s memories, continued to
press his palm into his windpipe until black spots began to dance along Harry’s
vision.
Harry scratched as his vision blurred and he grew victim to his memories.
Moisture began to pool at the corner of his eyes, and his stomach grew tight
with fear for what would await him there.
Harry blinked and he saw himself flinging a tray of food to the ground, felt
the phantom memory of desperation and rage in the back of his head like tiny
fingers pressing and digging through his hair in a caricature of a soothing
motion.
Suddenly, he realised where he was.
It was the night Harry had first decided to starve himself; the plan borne from
anger and grief when he had woken to the dying screams of Ginny Weasley…
Oh. Harry started to shake. Ginny.
He remembered Ginny. Ginny had warm brown eyes, hair like his mother’s, and was
so full of life and vitality, not this, this—
Harry thrashed, the memories flooding through him like a dam cracking open. He
didn’t want to see this again, he didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want to see
her brown eyes wet with tears, or the red of her lips stained black by old,
decaying blood. He didn’t want to see each network of veins beneath her
translucent skin, or the blue of her fingertips.
They flickered through his mind, iron and bile thick in his esophagus, and he
watched the girl’s mouth part to release a heart-wrenching scream even though
she was dead—
Ginny was dead. Cold as a block of ice, but still Harry could hear her screams.
Still, he could see the tears she last shed before she’d been slain, could
smell the stench of rotting decay burning through his nostrils, could still
taste the vomit in the back of his throat when he felt his stomach revolt.
Harry needed air.
“N-no!” Harry cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks because he didn’t want
to see.
Voldemort was holding him, but still he fought. Thrashed and struggled within
the Dark Lord’s clutches because Ginny was screaming . His ears were ringing
with the screeching, and Merlin.
The stench of rotting meat was unbearable.
Harry was reduced to begging.
Merlin, please, he sobbed. Please make it stop…
And then the connection broke.
Harry slumped against the wall, exhausted and wrung out like a rag, succumbing
completely to Voldemort’s hold on his neck in spite of the dark spots dancing
along his vision, and the way his throat burned.
It hurt...but this pain was preferable to the horrors waiting for him in the
dark. Preferable to the nightmares that would follow after seeing Ginny rigid
and sunken like a broken doll. He averted  his eyes, choosing instead to stare
at a painting at the opposite wall.
Because he couldn’t do this again. He couldn’t bear to see her or any of them
in his head.
“My dearest Harry...how foolish of you to think that you could hide your
thoughts from Lord Voldemort…that I would not see the lengths you would go to
acquire my attention...”
Harry wanted to melt into the wall, his cheeks burning with both embarrassment
and humiliation because no . It wasn’t what he wanted, it wasn’t something he
had done by choice. He just didn’t want to see them any more. He didn’t want to
suffer, he didn’t want to be alone with that... monsterwaiting for him in his
head.
He couldn’t bear to be left alone. He had no one.
He hated Voldemort, he did. But he would run into the man’s arms before he
allowed himself to sink into that abyss...before the waters rushing up his
ankles in his mind bubbled over, grew and submerged until his mouth was gaping
open for air.
This was wrong. It was sofucking wrong. It was all wrong, but this was a bond
of necessity. He didn’t want Voldemort like the man’s tone implied, no. He
would never.
“If that is what you wanted," Voldemort hissed in his mind. “All you needed to
do was ask, my precious horcrux…”
Harry froze.
And then terror, mind-numbing and all-consuming terror, exploded within him.
Harry was spurred into action, his grip on Voldemort’s wrist tightening before
he began to struggle within the man’s hold. He could still feel the effects of
Ginny’s memory in his mind, but it could not compare to the sinking feeling in
his stomach.
Ginny was grief and horror.
But what Voldemort had said, what the words implied.
That was terror.
No, no no, Harry pleaded in his head. Oh Merlin, no.
“Yes,” Voldemort hissed, “so it seems that the old fool knew what it was that
you were….”  
Harry cried out when Voldemort  pushed his legs against Harry’s own quivering
legs, and closed the space between them.
It felt as though death itself was scalding his flesh. It burned, like an
incendio cast in the summer’s heat. As though his body were melting from the
inside because Voldemort was touching him.
Repulsion warred with thrill. Harry’s jeans were a pitiful barrier against the
contact, and it had been so long since he had felt something other than his own
hand against his skin, or since he had felt heat from something other than the
touch of hot water from a scalding shower…
Harry pressed himself against the wall, but there was no avoiding Voldemort. He
was surrounded, engulfed by the man’s very presence. He shot his gaze to his
serpentine face in spite of everything urging him to avoid the monster’s eyes
after he had slipped so easily into his mind. After he had been forced back
into that terrifying moment and forced to relive the suffocating horror of
Ginny’s screams.
“How fitting that you should crave your master’s presence...that you should
need me when my soul rests within you…”
Voldemort’s eyes seemed to swallow his own, when the red flickered brightly in
the darkened shadow. It had a glow of its own, a light within that curbed his
shudders and captured Harry’s gaze, making it difficult for Harry to turn away.
A promise of violence, wrapped in  suffocating possessiveness.
Harry sank into it, unable to resist.
His throat was trembling. Voldemort’s grip on his neck softened until his nails
were only a whisper, scratching lightly at the skin. Pain flickered to life,
but Harry paid it no mind, gave it little attention when Voldemort’s eyes were
captivating him...the black of his pupil so dark that he could see reflections
of his own enraptured face.
The bone white of the man’s skin glowed like a stone beneath a full moon. It
was effervescent, the almost wet sheen making him gleam.
A hand glided up to grab his chin, and Harry’s breath hitched. Voldemort
slipped a finger against his parted lips and tease at the sensitive flesh of
his bottom lip.
The gesture was mesmerizing, the fear curling within his belly arousing.
This is wrong...something whispered in the back of Harry’s mind, words unbidden
even as he felt a slim finger press inside. It tasted of iron and dirt—of the
cold touch of death.
And Harry could not get enough. Even as all rational thought begged him to push
away. To resist against the touch of Voldemort’s body against his own and the
insistent press of hardness against his stomach.
“You do not wish to be alone...do you, Harry?”Voldemort crooned.
Harry’s back arched when that sharp nail teasing his tongue dug painfully
against the warm, moist flesh. It was a jolt to his senses, and Harry eyes
fluttered shut despite the warring feeling of revulsion and desire twisting at
his insides.
“Answer me.”Voldemort hissed, softly but with authority.
Harry’s eyes snapped, mouth opening awkwardly to speak despite the finger
currently pressing against his tongue; the nail was digging hard enough to cut…
“Y-yes,” Harry felt his voice crack.
His mouth fumbled around the finger carefully so as not to bite the digit,
afraid of what might happen if he knicked at the skin. He hated the weakness in
his voice, hated that even though he despised  Voldemort and abhorred
everything this man had done to him, Harry still needed him.
Harry hated that this, whatever this was, made his heart race, made his life
burst with sensation and made his abdominals clench with need.
This is disgusting, why do I—
Voldemort’s eyes flashed dangerously. “I can do that for you, my little
horcrux…”he said, before removing the finger he had slipped easily into Harry’s
lips.
His chin felt wet with his saliva, his bottom lip coated as he tried to regain
control over the quivering appendage. Harry refrained from pressing his own
hand against lips, to trace the path that Voldemort had taken when he stuck his
finger into his mouth.
Voldemort had touched him so softly. It...surprised Harry.
It was almost reverent, the way the man had caressed him. As if Harry were
something precious . As if he were something important . The urge to touch was
unbearable. The trail Voldemort left behind tingled like the  press of a cold
knife against his clammy skin...poised to dig and carveinto his flesh.
But Harry ignored the heady mixture in response to the more tactile side to the
Dark Lord, both afraid and curious of what the man might do next.
Harry’s heart began to beat rapidly in his chest, chest tight when Voldemort
leaned in.
“I can keep you at my side...always...forever…”
The man was so close that Harry could see a phantom remnant of Tom Riddle from
the past in the subtle flecks of black hidden in his red eyes.
It sounded too good to be true.  
Voldemort wanted something.
The man was trying to manipulate Harry. He knew that this was a ploy, could
feel it in the heat emanating from the man’s thighs when something hard pressed
against his stomach.
It should have revolted him, should have terrified him that Voldemort was
capable of something as human as that. But he wasn’t, he couldn’t. Voldemort
was dangling, right beneath his nose, a means to escape the haunting memories
waiting for him when he closed his eyes...whenever the man departed and left
him alone for Merlin knows how long.
It didn’t matter to him that he was Voldemort’s horcrux. It didn’t matter to
him that the man knewof the darkness waiting for Harry with hungry jaws, the
jagged maw gaping wide as if to swallow him whole, to crush him in that abyss
along with the dying screams of Ginny Weasley and everyone else he’d murdered
indirectly.
None of that mattered, had mattered since the war was lost.
There was no one and nothing left but the feeling of Voldemort’s magic lapping
at his flesh like thirsty tongues.Voldemort’s skin against his, Voldemort’s
voice erasing the horrors of his own empathy—these were the only things
separating him, always, from the dark shadow in the back of his mind that
awaited him.
Harry wanted death, but Voldemort would never grant him that. Voldemort never
had, in all the time Harry had lived within this room, in this hell hole.And
now Harry knew for certain that Voldemort never would.
Pride had no place here. For the sake of survival against madness, Harry was
willing to be manipulated.
“W-what’s the catch?” Harry asked, voice soft as a whisper when Voldemort’s
eyes continued to bore intently into his own.
A strange gleam flashed in the man’s gaze in that second, too quick for Harry
to discern its meaning, and Harry flinched when Voldemort’s soft touches along
his skin became more insistent.
His fingers were strangely soothing despite the frightening look on Voldemort’s
face. He caressed Harry’s skin, moving up slowly to tease along his wet cheek.
And it’s...similar, too similar, to how Hermione would stroke the soft fur of
her cat back in Hogwarts.
A memory Harry could not handle right now or, maybe, would not everwish to. So
he buried the thought deep into the recesses of his mind and redirected his
concentration to the man in front of him.
Voldemort lingered, and Harry waited for a response, sinking into the silence
that had fallen between them. The air stirred with each movement the Dark Lord
made, but Harry focused only on the man’s eyes, anticipation thrumming through
his veins. He wanted to hear what the man would say—no, what the man would
askin return for that.
There was a price to be paid, Harry knew. He would pay it regardless of what it
was, but he still needed the illusion of choice. Still needed to play the part
he had settled into after months of behaving purposefully contrary for his own
sanity.
Then Voldemort’s spoke, his breath wafting across Harry’s cheeks. “A horcrux…” 
Harry frowned, confused.
What could Voldemort possibly want with a horcrux? Harry was already one.
He had also destroyed nearly all of them when he had hunted for them with his
friends during Seventh Year. Not that he could go out and destroy the remaining
few now that he was imprisoned. Voldemort knew this; he had carved pain and
agony into his bones as both punishment and repayment when he had learned of
his activities before his capture.
It made absolutely no sense, and his confusion must have been apparent on his
face because Voldemort smiled, his lips stretching into a gruesome expression
that made Harry’s lungs still. His breaths quickened until he was almost
panting, noting when Voldemort paused his soft touches along his cheek to drag
a sharp fingernail too closely to his eye.
Harry’s stomach turned, and he felt true panic overtake him. Nothing good ever
came from an expression such as this.
“You will make one for yourself...so that death, dearest Harry, will never rip
you from my grasp…”
Horror drowned his senses because no —he couldn’t possibly—he would never—
Harry refused to kill. He refused to mangle his soul in the same manner that
Voldemort had done.
The man was absolutely mad if he thought Harry would—
“Or I will leave you here...alone,” Voldemort threatened . “No distractions
from the terrors that afflict you...No protection from the nightmares that
await you. You will be here with only your thoughts as company, and I —I will
assure you that I will not come...”
Without conscious volition, his hands reached out to clutch onto the Dark
Lord’s shoulders as if the man would somehow evaporate like smoke and leave him
as he had said. It took him another second to register that his shoulders were
trembling. Voldemort’s words reverberated in his head, the whispered promises
echoed like droplets in a silent room.
“No one to hear your screams...No one to listen to your cries for mercy that
only I can provide…”
No!
Harry couldn’t possibly kill someone. He just couldn’t do something as horrific
as that.
He had never killed before, had never considered something as gruesome as that,
even in his most daunting moments in this room. He prided himself in staying
true to his values, never using his wand to take a life. The only death he
desired, the only death he needed, was his own.
Then he remembered that pride had no place in the face of survival.
It was in that moment where Harry truly felt that he hated Voldemort. The
cloying feeling of anger and despair clouding his senses because the man
couldn’t possibly give him this choice.
How dare he? How couldhe?
Harry hated him with everything he possessed and more. Hated him more than the
nightmares in his head. More than the cries and visions of his friends dying
ceaselessly behind his eyelids.
But never enough to kill, never enough to twist his lips in the shape of the
killing curse.
Harry began to hyperventilate. “N-no, I can’t do this.”  
Voldemort clicked his tongue, as if disappointed. The sound echoed in the
silent room, and Harry heard his displeasure as if it was sung in his head.
There was a finality in the gesture, a cruel amusement in the man’s expression
that made Harry want to vomit.
“A shame. I suppose this is farewell, it does not seem that you need me as much
as you had professed,” Voldemort said in English, the abrupt change from
parseltongue jarring to Harry’s senses, and deeply upsetting.
It was the only warning Harry had before Voldemort stepped back, slipping out
of Harry’s desperate hold with an ease that left Harry stumbling for balance.
Voldemort turned his back on Harry, and deep panic settled within his bones
when the man did not turn to acknowledge him as he moved. His robes slithered
on the ground, the slap of his footsteps the only sound save for Harry’s short
breaths.
No!
Distressed, Harry panicked, scrambling up to chase after the Dark Lord because
no.
He couldn’t be left alone. He would lose his mind, he would go absolutely mad
if he closed his eyes and Ginny was there waiting for him. He knew Voldemort
would leave him there to rot; there was nothing keeping him here.
And the man was not above doing something to ensure that Harry could never harm
himself again.
If Harry was left alone, then there will be nothing to do but relive the
haunting memories over and over in this cage...
“I’ll do it!” Harry shouted, ears ringing, surprised at his own volume.  
Voldemort stopped.
His movement slow as he turned to face Harry, and bridged the gap Voldemort had
created moments earlier.
Harry couldn’t believe what he had said, but Voldemort had left him no choice.
 He was caught within Voldemort’s web, the obvious manipulation in the man’s
intentions enough to make Harry want to scream.
He was being manipulated, Harry knew that. He was being moved like a pawn on a
game of chess from the moment Voldemort had arrived. Since the beginning, it
was only a matter of time before Voldemort’s true purpose for his visit would
reveal itself, and this was it. This was what the man had wanted, and Harry
closed his eyes in shame because he had succumbed. Harry had given him what he
wanted.
Harry thought he had been broken by the loneliness, but it seemed Voldemort
alwaysfound new ways to break him.
Voldemort grasped his chin between his fingers and tipped his gaze up. The
gleam in the Voldemort’s eyes bright with mirth and victory; the man’s
excitement poorly hidden now that he had gotten what he wanted—that bastard.
“Oh?” Voldemort asked, amused. “Are you certain? You sounded quite...adamant of
your answer earlier.”
Harry gritted his teeth, irked and ashamed, but he did not say a word. His
tongue felt heavy in his mouth, the weight of his unspoken words crushing as he
contemplated just how much he’d changed.
The old Harry would never have given in so easily...a voice that sounded like
Hermione whispered in his head.
The real Harry would never have even contemplated murdering someone for
himself...he would have chosen death than given in...said another, one that
sounded awfully like Ron, his tone accusing and angry.
The old Harry would never have given anything to Voldemort. But he wasn’t that
Harry Potter. He wasn’t the same boy that had fought through a war, bright-
eyed, reckless and naive, hopeful that the outcome of decades worth of war
would change because of what some prophecy preached.
The old Harry Potter had his demons, but nonewere like the ones he faced now.
His monsters were man-made, they were living manifestations of the guilt that
ate away at his innards like a parasite. They were not real, and they were not
there, but Harry had learned that the worst monsters weren’t the ones that
crept out from underneath one’s bed, or that hid between the mountains of
clothes in one’s closet…
The worst monsters were the thoughts in one’s head; the ones that ate away at
one’s sanity, and the ones that wore the face of loved ones in one’s darkest
moments…
Harry’s monsters did not need to be physical, to stand in front of him. They
did not need to be Voldemort, the living, breathing, manifestation of the
boogeyman he’d been introduced to from the ripe age of eleven.
Voldemort was nothing in the face of his guilt. This monster paled in
comparison to the loneliness crushing his heart, to the nauseating images in
his head.
Disgust made his throat burn.
He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this.
“Yes, I’ll do it,” Harry muttered. “A-as long as you keep your end of the
bargain.”  He had just given his word…
...to commit murder.
Harry could hardly recognize himself.
Who am I?
There was a long pause before Voldemort spoke again, his eyes seemingly
searching for something in Harry’s own gaze for what felt like an eternity.
Harry didn’t know what the man was looking for on his face.
But when Voldemort spoke, it seemed that whatever it was the Dark Lord was
looking for, he had found it.
“Excellent choice, Harry.”
***** Meat *****
Chapter Summary
     Author Note: I had to change something in the plot that I just
     noticed went against canon. In this AU, Harry was captured during the
     mess in Malfoy Manor. So there are two other remaining horcruxes: the
     diadem and Nagini, aside from Harry.
     I would also like to point out that I had to add in another chapter
     because this is getting long. I apologize for this lmao.
     Warnings: The nightmare starts to pick up here. It will only get
     worse from this point forward. No sexual content yet, but all the
     other horror tags start to apply here.
Harry stomach roiled when the moment finally arrived, his shoulders tense as he
tried not to squirm where he sat contentedly in his gilded cage.
Voldemort had told him he needed a week to prepare, to acquire the necessary
equipment and ingredients for the ritual. Why it would require that much time
when the Dark Lord had instant access to most potion ingredients now that he
was Minister of Britain was strange, but Harry accepted that explanation.
He didn’t want to know what taking the proper measures entailed — what
preparing to split one’s soul required — considering it was  his  soul that
would be mangled beyond repair, Harry would rather that the process be as
painless as possible.
A rather ironic and deluded thought, frankly, but Harry was content with
delusions.  
He was still hesitant, still unsure of what to do when Voldemort finally
stepped through his bedroom door with everything on hand.
Harry figured he’d learn soon enough, considering this was the seventh day, the
seven scratches on the wall indicating just how long time had passed since
Voldemort had slipped into his room. It had made him anxious, for the man to be
away as he was...the dread that he would not return eating at the back of his
mind.
Whispering and taunting him...that Voldemort had  lied... that Voldemort would
not  really  keep his end of the bargain, and that he was simply toying with
Harry’s desperation for kicks.
It wouldn’t be out of character for Voldemort to do so at all. That was what
worried Harry.
These thoughts were difficult to rein in, like pulsing of torrential rain after
days and days of drought. The anxiety tempted him to bite on his blunt
fingernails until he caught skin between his teeth; the temptation to stop
sizzling in his brain, but difficult to reach. But he made do with the cards
he’d been dealt, at least for the moment. The buzzing presence of Voldemort in
the back of his head allowed him to focus on that connection rather than on the
loud shrieking of panic pulsing against his mental walls. It was the only thing
keeping him somewhat  sane .
Voldemort had been...gracious enough to leave him with that little connection
to keep him sane. Though Harry would not really call it a kindness when
Voldemort could simply have stayed, and chosen not to do so.
He could simply have spoken to Harry from inside his head whenever the anxiety
became too much. Harry was certain the man knew, but instead of doing anything
about it, Voldemort spent the majority of his days blocking Harry out…
But the moment had arrived. Today, Harry would kill.
Harry didn’t want to. He was already unrecognizable, a total disappointment to
the memories of the people he loved. He had become a shell of his former self,
letting his grief and his fear of loneliness — and what a failure of a
Gryffindor he was — dictate what he was willing to do.
But they had to understand...they had to  know  that Voldemort had given him no
choice. There was nothing willing about what he was being asked to do, nothing
normal  about the need he felt to be at Voldemort’s side.
Harry wasn’t sure if it was just the Dark Lord, or if anycompany would do. The
allure he felt to the Dark Lord was so intense, that it had to be unique—it was
bordering on obsession—but. But. Harry recognized that this fixation was borne
out of necessity and a whole slew of experiences he didn’t want to remember
right now.
Not that the Dark Lord would give him the opportunity to test that theory...The
man was possessive.
Harry wondered if anyone even  knew  he was alive, if Voldemort, since learning
of his...connection with Harry, had told his Death Eaters that he’d killed him
just to save face. Just to ensure that no one would ever come looking for Harry
in his prison in...
Whatever this place was.
Harry still did not know if this was Malfoy’s mansion or if this was a
different place.
Harry was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of the doorknob jingling. The
lock clicked, before the door opened.
It took him by surprise. There was no slinking, no whispers and no threats. It
was the most mundane thing Harry had ever experienced since he fully expected
the Dark Lord to make a dramatic entrance. The man had always taken a sick sort
of delight in scaring the wits out of those that had the misfortune to come
into his radar.
So it was surprising to see the Dark Lord standing at the entrance with a house
elf at his side. Harry blinked in confusion at the unexpected spectacle before
him, and was about to ask a question when Voldemort suddenly lifted his palm,
interrupting him.
The command could not have been clearer.
“Do not speak.”
Harry swallowed before nodding his head, still confused as to why there was a
house elf  standing by the door. A muggle was what he had expected, a
metaphorical denunciation of the values that Dumbledore had instilled in Harry,
and Harry only needed to commit the killing before Voldemort would take care of
the rest of the ritual.
It was what Voldemort had said, albeit vaguely, before he departed with just
the soft sound of his robes rustling in the room. Harry knew he should have
been more insistent, that he should have asked more questions to get a better
sense of what creating a horcrux would entail.
There was no time for small regrets. Harry would find out soon enough.
Voldemort surveyed Harry’s room for a moment, his forehead scrunching in
thought before nodding, seemingly satisfied with something.
What that something was, Harry could not tell. His room looked no different
than it had before.
There was a bed. A bookcase. Two night dressers. Several paintings hung along
the cream walls. The furniture was a rich mahogany that glistened brightly
beneath the sunlight and moonlight that would stream from the single window in
his room throughout the day. There was no doubt that it was not a  plain  room,
even if Harry could not be bothered with something as banal as that.
Though that still did not explain the Dark Lord’s sudden interest with the
decor.
Harry frowned, and confusion slowly melted into irritation the longer the man
continued to remain silent when Voldemort did nothing else for several beats.
The man seemed lost in thought as he stared off into the room, and Harry
detested being ignored.
“...Bitsy, stand beside the bed.”
Harry watched with raised brows as the house elf — Bitsy — shuffled quickly to
do as his master bid.
The poor thing was small, with droopy ears. The elf wore a flour bag as
clothes, and Harry could not help but feel sorry for the creature, empathizing
in a whole new way with the helplessness he could see in Bitsy’s large eyes.
Harry turned to survey the hall beyond the door and felt dread immediately
lodged in his throat, foreboding curling in his stomach because...
...That could only mean  one  thing.
“No,” Harry said firmly, his voice carrying more conviction than it had in
months .
He would not kill a house elf. It was  sick , it was horrific. It was  wrong ,
and Harry would have no part in that. He doubted he could even lift his wand
and make magic flicker from the tip of it.
He recalled the difficulty of casting the  Cruciatus  curse when he had been
chasing after Bellatrix’s cackling voice. At that time, Harry had been
possessed with anger and grief. He had felt hatred, the first inklings of the
black in the back of his mind. And still, he could not curse the woman. Still,
he was unable to carry the sufficient intent to punish her for what she had
done...
Did Voldemort truly think that Harry was capable of doing something like this?
It was ridiculous. There was no way he could kill Bitsy. He had  hated
Bellatrix, and still, he couldn’t do it. What made the Dark Lord think that
things would change now?
Harry was desperate for companionship, had considered killing some stranger
just to prevent the slow erosion of his sanity. He was many things, but this...
this  Harry would not do.
This was not who he was, even if isolation had made him consider things he
would never once contemplate.
If the thought of murdering a cruel sadist like Bellatrix had made his stomach
churn before, then the idea of killing a house elf —a poor, defenseless house
elf— made him want to vomit.
“...No? Have you so quickly forgotten what the crushing feeling of isolation
feels like?” Voldemort stated, his voice so soft that Harry could scarcely hear
him.
“Have you, perhaps, taken for granted the wall that I have erected between your
most haunting thoughts and your conscious mind?”
It was not a reaction Harry had expected, being more accustomed to the man’s
usual explosions of anger. Any show of defiance, any show of...resistance was
always met with a swift curse and an enraged hiss. It was instinctive for
Voldemort. Practically second nature to act first and ask questions later.
Harry was at a loss, the hairs on his forearms rising instinctively when
Voldemort’s eyes flickered to his own...the red of his irises making his blood
freeze in his veins. They swirled a vivid garnet, almost angry like the furious
flush in pale white cheeks. Violent, a tempest of crimson that nearly blinded
him…
Harry was so used to fury, was so used to heat and  chaos . But this was not
this. Voldemort’s eyes were like a frozen heart, like the sticky fluid caught
beneath the bed of one’s fingernails. It was not passionate, it was not
emboldened and impulsive.
It was  calculating . The sharp end of a knife, the tip of a scalpel tinged a
bright ruby.
It was frightening, just how cold the gaze was. How the same possessiveness
Harry had often seen lurking in those depths could make his heart nearly stop
dead in his chest.
But who could blame him for his fear? Who could begrudge him for the horror
twisting inside him when there was no blood lust within those depths? ]There
was no anger, no fury crackling like a large fire in a hearth.
It was just so  cold . Such an obvious threat.
Harry could only swallow with dark anticipation.
“Shall I remind you of what it is that you are running from,  Harry?”
Voldemort crooned, and Harry felt something pop.
It was like the sound of bone cracking apart, like a rubber band being pulled
and  pulled  until it snapped.
Harry cringed when the mental wall, the block in his head, began to lift and
fall away like the sand between the palms of an errant child. He could pinpoint
the weakness in the foundation, the spot in his mind where Voldemort was
pulling back to unveil the horrors waiting at the other side.
He caught a flicker of blue in the darkness, of strands of red hair dancing
along black, and Harry stopped breathing.
There was only one person with those characteristics…Only one monster in his
head with hair as red as blood.
Then fingers dipped through the gap in the wall, and the barrier rippled like
water as the blackened fingers curled and uncurled as if struggling to reach
for something in the air. The fingers grew until a hand passed through the
barrier. Until a pale, white wrist burst through the undulating walls...
The mangled wrist was stained with more of the blackened substance...the fluid
more like ink than the blood it  should  have been.
Harry’s lungs heaved and his heart beat rapidly.
No…
He couldn’t live through this again. He couldn’t bear to face Ginny again.
Harry shot the Dark Lord a frantic look, desperation blowing his pupils wide.
He couldn’t speak, unable to find the right words to get the man to stop.
A mound of red began to bleed through the inky darkness, the gelatinous wall
shuddering when the hand pressed flat against the wall, as if it were  solid ,
as if it were  concrete , to push against it.
Like if Ginny’s corpse were trying to find its footing in the crack of
Voldemort’s mental walls.
Oh Merlin, no!  Harry shouted in his head, shoulders trembling.
And then he screamed.
The familiar flash of deadened brown, of blue and white splotches on a white,
waxy face the features of a face he once knew.
It was Ginny as he had last seen her in his mind, as he had last remembered
while forced to relive the culmination of the war.
His body was frozen with fear and his arms hung uselessly at his sides as he
stared almost helplessly at Ginny Weasley in his mind and the Dark Lord in the
world of the living.
“P-please n-no,” Harry begged.
The worlds bled into one another...the creme walls of his prison sinking into
the abyss the longer he remained in his own head, the more the Dark Lord let
the demons trickle through the protections in Harry’s head.
“Ginevra Weasley,” Voldemort hissed, “a living  corpse  in your mind. A
summation of all your fears, of all your weaknesses in a dead girl you once
loved...how fitting.”
Harry shook his head, eyes closing shut, ignoring the strange groaning that
began to filter through his ears, the voice high and guttural as though a
predator were standing in front of him...As if a monster was waiting for him to
lower his guard to pounce.
“I’ll do it, I  swear. Don’t let her through!”  Harry shouted.
His voice was unrecognizable to his own ears.
Another hand slipped past the murky black, exposing more and more of Ginny’s
rotting corpse. Her hair dangled and clung to her hollow cheeks as she stared
at him with vacant eyes.
Harry remembered how often he would stare into those eyes...how the sky above
reflected within when she smiled up at something in the Quidditch Pitch. It was
a moment of innocence, of pure joy at being able to sit and relish a moment of
deep contentedness.
It was also the moment Harry began to realize what he felt, a deep affection
that was more than of a sister…and more than of a friend, the longer he gazed
into the warmth in those eyes.
But there was none of that warmth now, none of that clear sky reflected in
those orbs.
It was  despair . All he saw was despair and it  wanted  him.
Harry was drawn away from his thoughts when Voldemort’s body suddenly began to
flicker, the gilded cage Harry had resided in for what felt like forever
disappearing along with him. It was like the real world had lost signal, as if
there was a terrible reception between his own mind and the world as it
existed.
The static of Ginny’s groans and wet smacks against the walls pulled fiercely
at his mind.
Nononononono —
“I wonder what will happen if the wall just crumbled...if it will only be a
dead girl waiting for you on the other side?” Voldemort hissed.
Ginny’s breaths started to echo in the chasm as the radiant colors of his
bedroom evaporating into  nothing.
Voldemort’s voice began to lose its strength, the hiss fading out like static.
Harry pressed his hands to cover his ears. “P-please don’t leave me here, don’t
leave me like this …” Harry begged.
It wasn’t until the familiar ‘ shh’  of Voldemort’s own breathing began to fade
that Harry started to cry.
There was nothing but Ginny’s own desperate groaning breaths, the wet smacking
of her palms beating against Harry’s mental shields. The slaps became more
frantic as more of her bled through the undulating walls.
Harry was caught between absolute, oppressive silence, and Ginny’s moans and
slithering movements.
There was no escaping her, no Voldemort as buffer between the chasm swallowing
all other sound and Ginny’s insistent presence.
There was no blocking her out, no hiding from the monster there.
It was all bloody  useless.
Voldemort’s voice grew clear once more to taunt him. “Will she eat you, Harry?”
he asked. “Will she smear you with her dead blood,  kiss you  with bile wetting
her moist tongue…?”
Harry stomach heaved, the stench of death acrid in his nostrils when Ginny’s
entire body squirmed through. The gaping maws of bright red and black oozed a
viscous fluid. It was like a paste, a blackened red paste, that continued to
leak from the gaping wound at the center of her chest and from the cuts and
incisions on her arms.
She looked ready to break. Her body bloated and wet, as though she’d come up
from the bottom of the Black Lake. Just like the inferi that had risen from the
depths of the cave all those years ago, hands jutting out from the seemingly
calm surface of those waters.
The hands desperate and hungry as they reached for him, ready to drag him deep
into the abyss.
Then, Ginny’s left leg passed through, the foot smacking wetly on the floor.
The girl’s knee was turned inward, broken somehow. It went against everything
Harry knew about the human body, and everything he had known about Ginny
Weasley.
The leg looked nothing like the girl’s sun kissed skin. It was pale and bruised
just as the girl’s face was. There were gauges in the flesh, as though someone
had stuck claws into the skin and pulled until the meat was exposed for the
world to see.
The inside was as red as Voldemort’s eyes, glistening brightly even as black
oozed from the open sore in the limb.
Harry’s nose burned when he breathed in more of the offending stench, the smell
like vinegar and spoiled meat; the twin scents making him gag as another leg
slipped through.
There was another wet smack in the dense silence, and then  fear.
“...I wonder what it is that she will do once set free,” Voldemort taunts.
“What it is that  you  will do once she passes through—”
“No!” Harry interrupted, before it shut on its own.
Then Harry’s mind exploded with the noxious emotion to the point that the world
looked as it was caving beneath him His arms and legs twitched with its power,
but that was the extent of his agency. His body refused to move.
There was something keeping him still, forcing him immobile even as the girl’s
slouched body began to straighten, her head still hanging strangely for her
body.
And Harry saw why. At some point, Ginny’s head had been snapped; the bone
poking out from her throat in the mockery of a teenage boy’s Adam's apple.
Harry wanted to run, to flee, to  fly . To do something other than standing
helplessly, but he was unable to do anything else except  watch  her through
his closed eyelids.
He wished more than ever that he couldn’t see her, that his poor eyesight in
the real world could somehow seep into the universe within his own head.
Slowly, the girl tilted her head up, and her mouth parted as if to speak.
Gooseflesh breaking out against his skin when foreboding settled deep into the
pit of his stomach.
Harry waited. He knew what would come next.
Ginny shrieked, a bone chilling, piercing cry erupting from mangled lips. Harry
cringed at the sound, hands shooting up to cover his ears.
He’s been here before. Nothing that he did could ever drown out the screams.
She screamed, and  screamed . Her vocal chords were somehow perfectly intact
despite the decrepit state of her broken neck as she pushed away from the wall
with a plop, trying to find its balance.
Harry’s stomach roiled, bile threatening to crawl up his esophagus.
Ginny began to move, one of her legs sliding on the ground...the ankle twisted
and mangled to a degree that it was a miracle the corpse was capable of
standing at all. She was slow, almost languid, as she tried to right herself,
and Harry could only watch as her face, slick with water and blood, focused on
him.
Her mouth widened as she continued to shriek, and Harry nerves sang. The tell-
tale urge to move was almost painful as he began to fight against the force
keeping him permanently still.
But still, he could not move.
M-move! Bloody hell, move!
He wanted to scramble as far away as he could, to lengthen the gap that was
steadily being bridged with each step Ginny took. A trail of black and red
droplets scattering on the floor as she passed...
Ginny’s fingers, twisted as they were, reached out for him as he struggled
furiously.  There was a gaping hole at the center of her palm, and Harry was
unable to ignore the bright red and black of the fluid dripping from.
Panic swelled in Harry’s chest, dug its claws deep into his gut as she crept
steadily closer...
“P-please,  Voldemort…”  Harry begged, but the man had melted away into the
darkness, and had vanished completely.
Voldemort was gone. As if he had never been there in the first place.
Harry reached out through the connection like desperate hands reaching to grab
onto the smoky tendrils from a dying flame. He screamed and forced all of his
energy to burrow himself into Voldemort’s mind.
But there was  nothing.
There was no sound from the other end, not even the static of broken
connection. There was no anger, no hatred, no amusement, even as Harry opened
himself up completely to feel  anything  from the other end. It was as though
there was no bond between their souls, as if the fragmented piece inside him
had been carved out from his very chest.
It was pure silence. An absolute, mind-numbing void that Harry could not wade
through even as he cried out desperately for Voldemort.
And still, Harry insisted because he had to do bloody  something.  Ginny was
coming—she was getting too close, and it was only a matter of time before there
would be nothing separating them at all…
He reached even when there was nothing, pushing out to the outer limits of the
connection he  knew  had to be there. He pushed and prodded with the stray hope
that perhaps if he simply kept going that the man would come back.
He kept pushing because maybe Voldemort would give him another chance.
It was disgusting just how hopeful he was for the attention of a  murderer ,
but this was who he was now. This was who he had become and there was no point
in feeling shame and disgust.
Still, Voldemort did not answer his calls.
Endless, dreaded, silence was all that remained.
Except for Ginny’s dying shrieks.
Harry screamed himself hoarse, desperate when Ginny’s wet slaps on the ground
became louder. He practically sobbed for Voldemort to raise the barrier, and
save  him from the presence that drew closer and closer with each passing
second.
“Vol—”
Harry’s scream died in his throat when something wet clenched around his
shoulder.
O-oh please, no.
Fingers. Wet and sticky fingers were digging into his shoulder, the stench of
rot and rancid blood making his vision swim.
Fluid seeped through his green T-shirt, staining it an inky black, He didn’t
need to look to know who it was that had grabbed him—to know that it was  Ginny
.
He refused to turn around. He didn’t dare when hot air— Ginny’s breaths —
tickled against the nape of his neck before something moist trickled down the
open collar of his shirt. Droplets of red and black, the same substance Harry
had seen seeping out from Ginny’s open mouth.
And now it was  on  Harry’s naked skin...dribbling beneath his shirt.
Revulsion made him shudder, and he was unable to repress a whimper when the
firm grip on his shoulder suddenly tugged him, and forced him to face her.
Harry’s choked, but he could not scream.
Ginny was standing in front of him completely naked. Her flesh was like her
leg, almost bone white, with bruises and wide gashes decorating her with
glaring red and black.
He stared at her with despair twisting his insides. There was a hole where her
heart had once been, and wide gauges in her stomach, but he was afraid to look
much closer...terrified that he’d see inside and find her twisted insides.
Her nose flared and mouth wrenched further open, almost inhumanly so, as she
continued to scream. She didn’t stop even as Harry shook beneath her vacant
eyes. Her fingers unyielding, digging deeply into his shoulder when Harry
flinched away from her scalding touch.
She leaned in, and Harry tried to jerk back, Voldemort’s taunts from earlier
suddenly coming to mind as her face grew nearer. Her breath made him gag when
the smell of rancid meat assaulted his nose.
Oh Merlin, please tell me she isn’t —
But Harry’s legs were rooted in place. All he could do was curl his toes in
horror as Ginny’s face grew nearer and nearer, his own horrified reflection
captured perfectly behind the mask of death in Ginny’s eyes.
“P-ple—”
Ginny pressed her rancid lips to his own, and Harry lost all ability to speak.
Harry gagged, repugnance and fear consuming him as the girl’s tongue breached
past his lips to coax his own into moving along with hers.
It was a parody of a lover’s kiss. A parody of a fond moment shared between a
couple.
It was  disgusting.
Swallowing his bile, Harry did not reciprocate. He did not respond in the hopes
that what he was tasting, that what he was feeling was not—
Nonononono —
Harry’s vision began to blur at the corners. The world faded into white as the
texture of Ginny’s slimy lips followed his descent into unconsciousness, and
chased him through the meandering path into insanity.
Harry fought savagely to free himself against the force that bound him, chasing
after the small semblance of freedom, and sprinting away from the chains that
weighed him down.
There was so much white. It was so bright that Harry was nearly blinded by it,
but he did not resist it.
The white hurt, like the sharp bite of teeth on sensitive skin. But it was
preferable to the horror, to the suffocating weight of Ginny on his soul.
Her bloody spit, the iron and rot made him cough and hack as he fought harder
to sink into that comforting blankness.
Because anything was better than Ginny.
If Voldemort was a monster, then Ginny was death itself.
Her gnarled fingers clamped tightly onto his shoulder, the grip so unyielding
on his skin that Harry was certain that whenever it was that he woke up there’d
be bruises coloring his flesh brilliant purples and blues. Like black paint on
a white canvas...the stain forever ingrained in the molecular gaps between the
threading…
If  he woke up, that is.
Ginny was his executioner, his Grim Reaper. She was the noose around his neck,
the rubber band ready to snap.Or perhaps, this just  wasn’t  her at all. Maybe
this was Death simply pretending to be her, masquerading itself as the girl
Harry loved to grant him one last kiss before asphyxiating him...a teasing
press of slick flesh against his own lips to serve as a reminder of just what
it was that he was missing.
Harry wanted to fade until he no longer was. To cease to be, to nestle his
weary mind into the nothingness that reached for him in this abyss.
Anything was better than this...
Ginny’s face, too, began to melt beneath the brightness, and Harry could only
watch as her skin drooled until only a skeletal face with haunting brown eyes
remained, and then—
White.
Harry screamed one last scream as the world vanished.
Ginny’s lips was the last thing thing to fade from his consciousness.
***** Wire *****
Chapter Summary
     I know I said I would be updating bi-weekly. That was not the case.
     My beta and I were busy with the holidays so I could not deliver
     these chapters before the new year (and the start of my semester).
     Because of this, the posting of the final chapter will be delayed. I
     cannot promise Part V will be posted until after May. I apologize for
     the inconvenience this may cause.
     Please leave comments sharing your thoughts on this chapter. I warn
     you now that some of the tags from above become relevant now. Read at
     your own risk. This is not a happy story.
Harry resurfaced with a loud gasp, the nightmare—that had felt all
tooreal—melting away to reveal the familiar outlines of his bedroom.
His skin was itchy, and the memory of Ginny’s cold, clammy grip on his shoulder
made his stomach twist. The stench of decay burned into his nostrils as he took
in deep, greedy breaths from his lungs...the acrid smell of rotting meat
burning down his throat with each inhale.
The world spun as he tried to make sense of the familiar contours of his
bedroom, the rich colors too overwhelming after feeling as though he’d spent an
eternity in a sea of black and then white.
It was difficult for him to separate himself from the chasm tucked away, so
carefully hidden, in the corner of his mind. To forget death and breathe life,
to suck in shallow breaths with the taste of metal and sour meat lodged in his
throat.
Merlin, Ginny...
He could still see Ginny’s vibrant red hair and dull brown eyes in his head,
the only source of color in that world of nothing. A brilliant glimmer. A
bloodied specter that refused to stay dead...
Harry pressed his hand against his face to stifle his nausea, to chase away the
bile from spewing from his mouth. His fingers were wet, clammy, and sticky as
he pressed his shaking fingers to his eyes, shifting away his round glasses for
a moment to rub at them furiously.
He didn’t know how it was that he was still standing in the middle of the room,
how his legs had not collapsed beneath him from the horror of feeling Ginny’s
lips and tongue slip into his own slack mouth—
But he was standing, he was free, if only for the moment. Though that still did
not explain the strange stickiness in his fingers that refused to abate, or the
way it left a strange consistency wherever his hand touched.
It was as though a film had been laid on his face wherever his hand brushed.
His fingers clung to his face uncomfortably, oddly reminiscent of his Hogwarts
days...of the times he would leave the dining hall with his fingers sticky
after smearing jam onto his toast that morning.
The memory quickly faded, shaping into another that flashed behind his closed
eyes, more insistent than the bile burning low on his esophagus. The picture
exploded in his mind, a blazing inferno in a sea of black that made his head
spin and his stomach protest.
It was so intense that Harry could not withstand it.
Harry’s spine bowed, and his legs trembled under the thick weight of dread
suddenly squeezing his lungs.
Pale white hands blackened and wet, knobby digits stained red at the tips. A
large, gaping maw at the center of waxen skin, its edges as though torn and
ripped by sharpened claws…
Harry stomach heaved, but nothing came out.
A thick, viscous substance that oozed from parted lips, the paste gelatinous as
it trickled from the corner of that mouth as though it had been frozen and
begun to melt. The stench foul and acidic as it breathed its noxious breath
onto his pallid face...
Harry choked, but he could not move. Refused to move because no, she couldn’t
have followed him here. She was always in his head, onlyin his head.
Fear overtook him, blood rushing from his beating heart up to his head swiftly,
the sensation dizzying, as he tried to rein the cloying horror.
Get it together,Harry said within his head, she isn’t here...
He hoped beyond all else that it was true.
He couldn’t see her again. He couldn’t wake up from the nightmare only to be
thrust into it again. The taste of death was still thick in his mouth, the
memory of those fingers...of those moist hands on his shoulder, pushing and
tugging him nearer, were too fresh on his mind.
Harry opened his eyes, unsure of when it was that he had closed them, and of
whyhe had not opened them. She could only follow in the dark, only slip through
the cracks when he closed his eyes and let his mind wander. This cage was his
escape, the colors a beacon in a dense thicket of nothing, despair,and
lonelinessthat wanted to claim him for their own.
The world was still spinning even as he tried to focus, but the colors soothed
him. If only for a moment.
He could see the faint outline of crème from the walls around him, and the dark
brown of the furniture. He stared intently at the explosions of blues, pinks,
and greens from the impressionist paintings decorating his walls, only skirting
his gaze away from them to eye the gardens depicted in a few landscape frames
nearer to the window.
This was his room.
Harry’s gaze shifted, and then his heart seemed to still. Sound falling away,
reality parting for a moment because no, this did not belong here!
Red.
Harry moved his hand from his face, slipped it further back to truly look at
what it was that he was seeing...that what was clinging to his hands was
red—vivid, frightening red—instead of creamy tan skin.
It was red like Ginny’s hair, the color gleaming brightly from beneath the
setting sun. It was red like the coppery flecks in Voldemort’s eyes, like the
center of a brilliant flame. Red like blood trickling from an open wound, like
the torn flaps of flesh stretched taut...red like splayed thighs with thick
rivulets of the coppery substance oozing from that meaty maw.
Harry vision darkened, the sound of his own breathing suddenly too loud as his
eyesight dimmed, and his legs collapsed beneath him.
Where had the blood come from? Harry could not help but think, dry heaving as
the world faded in and out. Why are my hands stained in blood?
Harry gasped, arms collapsing to his sides as though weighed down. He wanted to
close his eyes, to press his hands into his face and drown out everything
around him.
But my hands...my hands are stained too…
The urge to scratch at his face was overwhelming, but Harry repressed it. He
ignored how his face was both hot and cold from the blood he’d smeared on his
skin.
It was unmistakable that that was what it was...that it was blood when it was
so red. He was suddenly suffocating in the rich smell of metal and
copper...something he shouldhave recognized earlier, but failed to.
“...Harry.”
Harry was pulled from his thoughts, the voice calling to him in the seemingly
empty room. He knew that voice, had yearned for it, hoped for it in the endless
nothing in his own head.
It was soft, almost gentle as they fluttered in through his ears.
Harry was warmed by it, the cold sitting in the pit of his stomach melting away
from something as simple as Voldemort speaking his own name.
“I did not think you had it in you. I am most pleased....”
Harry shuddered at the praise, toes curling when a hand suddenly wove into his
black hair, sharp nails scratching his scalp pleasantly.
Heat spread from that single point of contact, and Harry cast his gaze out to
discern just what it was that Voldemort meant. It was just them in the
room—here was no one else. The elf was gone, Harry had assumed. The echoes of
his own pants and groans from the vision of blood reverberating without
interruption are the only sounds inside the enclosed space.
A trail of blood, just a meter ahead, froze Harry. It was spreading from the
carpeted floors, the source of the blood unknown with the bed blocking his view
of the floor at the other side of the room.
Dread bloomed in Harry’s chest, mingling confusingly with the relief that
settled deep into the marrow of his bones at the sound of Voldemort’s voice,
and the man’s fingers dancing along his skin.
Harry swallowed, nervous and unsure.
“W-what do you mean?”
There was a beat of silence, and anticipation curled in Harry’s belly when
Voldemort finally chuckled. It was like the hiss of a snake, the sound merging
into one another seamlessly.
“I would have a preferred a less...muggle method. But this will suffice. All
the ritual requires is death. It never specified that it be through
magicalmeans.”
Horror exploded in Harry’s chest. “I-no, what?”
Harry could not believe what the man had just said, what that deceptively soft
voice uttered so nonchalantly.
Harry couldn’thave done what the man was implying.
He had been trapped in his own head, frozen stiff with fear and disgust as
Ginny assaulted his dreams. There was never any murderous intent, never any
anger or aggression, even when she’d tasted like what Harry imagined a Dementor
lips would taste like—what Harry had assumed its open maw would feellike as it
ripped the very soul from out of its victim’s mouth.
“It is unfortunate that I cannot thank Ginevra Weasley personally for the
gift,” Voldemort said. “It brings me great...joy that you complied so readily
despite your resistance.”
The same noxious feeling of terror tore at the sliver of relief he had managed
to garner, and Harry shivered.
“Now, come Harry, we are not yet finished.”
Voldemort’s fingers fell away from Harry’s hair before he suddenly gripped onto
Harry’s shoulder. It was tight enough to bruise, his nails sharp points that
Harry was certain could pierce through the thin fabric of his shirt.
And then he was hauling Harry to his feet.
Harry scrambled to gather his bearings, to find his balance, when Voldemort’s
grip was unyielding as he dragged him to the other side of the room.
His world continued to spin, but Harry followed without a fight even as his
mind struggled to come to terms with what was even happening. Voldemort had
said he had killed someone, that he had murderedthat house elf in cold blood.
He hadn’t said it with too many words, had not directly stated that he had
killedBitsy, but—
Merlin.
Harry could not believe it, even as his mind reminded him of the stickiness
beneath his nails, the bright stain of red on the palms of his hands every time
he clenched his fingers into fists.
The blood had to have come from somewhere.
Harry yelped when Voldemort suddenly shoved him, the backs of his knees
smacking against the corner of his bed before he collapsed backwards into a
pile of limbs. The sheets were soft against his skin, the fall gentler than it
could have been considering who it was that was dragging him around as if he
were no more than a rag doll.
Still, it had been abrupt.
“What are you—?”
Harry’s voice died in his mouth.
Just by the window, at least two meters away, was the house elf he’d seen
earlier. Or at least, its head.
The rest of its body was missing.
Bile rose, and Harry turned onto his side to stave off the sudden spasms that
overtook him at the sight.
Oh god...
It was Bitsy, but its neck was mangled. Bent and twisted, unlike anything Harry
had ever seen. It was nothing like the deaths Voldemort had forced Harry to
see.
It’s neck…
It looked as if someone had torn the poor thing’s head straight from its body,
like someone had hackedoff its head with a blunt knife. It was barbaric and
crude, it's esophagus dangling like loose strings from the ripped skin.
Harry felt another wave of nausea seize him.
“You were quite ruthless,” Voldemort said, amused. “Its screams were like an
aria, the sweetest of songs, the loveliest of compositions. It is unfortunate
that you were not quite...yourself to appreciate the sound or to truly embrace
the weight of what you have done…”
Harry threw the man a horrified glance.
I killed—
Harry shot the thought down before it was completed, body racked with
convulsions when he caught the look of absolute terror in the house elf’s eyes.
They were flat and dull—too similar to the horror frozen in Ginny’s face.
“Now, repeat after me. This will not work if you cannot utter the incantation
correctly.”
Harry’s heart raced, mouth opening and closing.
He could not speak. He did not know what he could possibly say. There was
nothing he couldsay. If what the man had said was true, if what Harry had seen
in his head had made him do something as gruesome as this…
Then Harry had changed more than he believed. There was no turning back from
something like this. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no hope that
Harry could, one day, leave with his mind somewhat intact.
How could I? Harry thought, mouth dry as he stared almost helplessly at Bitsy’s
head.How could I have let things get this far? Let Voldemort back me into a
corner and—
Another shudder wracked through his body, stomach roiling and ready to heave
acid from his insides.
Loneliness is a powerful thing, Harry Potter.A voice hummed in the back of his
head, the sultry sound warped like static in the back of his head. Terror and
desolation…
Guilt.
The voice, sweet and mocking, giggling. He did warn you, you know...
Harry had never been more ashamed in his life. The guilt, the horror, at what
he had just allowed too much for him to bear. It squeezed his lungs like a
vice, the emotions sandwiched between the horrifying sight of Bitsy’s corpse
and the cruel reality that the voice was right.
The loneliness had forced him over the deep end...there was no other
explanation for something like this. His own terror and isolation, the very two
things he had once believed he could overcome, had steered him down this path.
And he had been blindto it. Willfully, stupidly blind to the abyss waiting for
him at the end of this nightmare.
It was too late for him to go back. No other path but forward.
Ginny had seen to that.
“Separarent.”
Harry’s released a deep, shuddering breath when Voldemort stepped into his
space, a clawed hand catching him by his right ankle, nails embedding
themselves into the cuff of his trousers to drag him to the edge of the bed.
Why the man did it, unknown to Harry as he tried not to melt at the seemingly
innocuous touch.
Harry forced himself to watch the Dark Lord’s face in an effort to ignore the
pleasant warmth that seeped through his trousers, focusing instead on how the
light above Voldemort’s head highlighted the vibrant shade of red in his eyes
and the pallor of his milky skin.
Harry took it all in without hesitation, staring at the way the shadows crept
along the hollows of Voldemort’s cheeks, watching how they emphasized just how
flat the man’s flat nose was, how it eliminated all trace of humanity in that
monstrous face.
The shadows only made him look more ominous. Powerful, yes, Harry could not
deny that. But frightening all the same, and those reptilian features were only
made more pronounced by the rich colors of his bedroom.
But nowhere near terrifying as Ginny’s vacant eyes...nowhere near horrifying as
those broken lips parting into a smile, teeth like broken piano keys as she
pulled away from his lips as if to savor his taste…
Voldemort was normalcompared to her.
Harry's skin crawled when Voldemort’s red eyes bore into his, the crimson
bright and intense as hunger flashed and lingered in his gaze. Harry could not
ignore it. No one in their right mind could ignore something as odd as the Dark
Lord staring a holeinto one’s face.
Harry couldn’t help but flush brightly with discomfort at being stared at in
such a way.
Voldemort’s desire was so blatantthat Harry would have had to have been blind
not to see. It was so perverse, so different from the coldness Harry was used
to, that he did not know how to react.
The shift in the atmosphere was so sudden that Harry could easily pick out the
similarities between free falling while chasing after a Snitch in Quidditch and
Voldemort’s heavy presence. It was nearly identical, the strange tingling in
the pit of his stomach, the feeling of finality if he made one careless
mistake…
It was so inappropriate, so sickthat Voldemort could sport such a pleased
expression when someone had died, when Harry had murderedsomeone and be...
...not at all aware that he had.
It didn’t matter that Voldemort considered the creature an “it.” To Harry, this
was another life lost. Another soul tossed to the wayside because of him.Bitsy
would not have died if not for him. His friends would not have died if not for
him.
Ginny would not have died if not for him.
Tears burned at the corners of his eyes suddenly, and Harry’s lip trembled as
he tried to find the wherewithal to do as Voldemort said.
The monster had freed him from his own nightmare earlier, but that did not mean
that he would be so merciful a second time. If Harry angered the Dark Lord in
that moment, if Harry did not speak the words required to see this bloody
nightmare through, then he would be trapped in his own head.
Forever.
Ginny and him.
The weight of each sin, of each life, including Bitsy’s, cutting through flesh
and bone. The blade twisting through sinew, etching through muscle without
resistance.
Harry could not do it again. He couldn’t go back to the darkness. Not with
herwaiting for him there.
Sightless eyes, empty and fixed on his own. Blood red where it should be white;
veins black and purple when they should be unseen, hidden away by once warm
skin—
Harry closed his eyes, banishing the thought, before steeling himself for what
he was about to do. His fingers curled against the sheets beneath him for
purchase, all too aware of Voldemort’s hungry stare on his face.
“Separarent…”Harry mimicked perfectly, his voice louder than it had been in a
long time.
It echoed in the near silent bedroom, the utterance seemingly carrying power of
its own. Harry couldn’t quite pinpoint why this was, but he wouldn’t think
about it when he had just done as the man said. Perhaps, the words did have
power, perhaps the words themselves were as final as the life he had ended
without meaning to at all.
Either way, he didn’t care. Whether it did or didn’t, in the end, was
unimportant.
There was a shift in the air. The soft rustling of robes the only warning Harry
had before cold fingers touched his forehead, the digits separating the mass of
curls clinging to the skin to reveal his scar. It took everything within him to
keep his eyes closed, to resist the impulse to look at Voldemort when his skin
began to burn wherever Voldemort touched.
It was mild at best, nothing too concerning. It was innocent, and a little
pleasant, even. It was touch, something he had not experienced in Merlin knew
how long. Something only he could experience at the hands of the Dark Lord
since he’d been imprisoned.
So it was entirely unexpected when that heat erupted into soul wrenching agony.
Harry’s scar flared to life, like the heat of a Fiendfyre.
Harry’s eyes popped open and his mouth parted wide to scream in agony. The pain
was like acid on flesh, like the slice of a blade on fragile skin...flaying him
alive. It burned, it stung, and tears fell from the corners of his eyes when
the pain suddenly swelled, pulsing in time with the rhythmic beating of his
heart as he struggled to contain his screams, unable to ignore how his skull
cracked is if it were breaking open.
Stop!
Harry begged in his head, silent from his suffering, unable to speak the words
when he was tearing at the seams.
But instead of heeding his cries, of listening to his pleas, the pain only
worsened. The agony became so intense that Harry could no longer hold himself
still, his spine arching with each wave of pain.
He tried to resist the heat that lapped at his skin, to fight the rush of
electricity shooting up his spine like a livewire, but nothing that he did
worked.
It was a tempest. A hurricane consuming everything that crossed its path.
“S-stop!” Harry shouted, but the pain did not end.
There was no stopping the agony.
It spread from his forehead, slipped past his head, down until it exploded once
more at the center of his chest.
It was like his chest was being torn open, and his heart was being carved out
of his chest. Like his insides were yanked out of his stomach in the same,
twisting fashion Lavender Brown’s had been and scooped out for Fenrir to suck
into his mouth.
Nausea flared to life in Harry’s stomach. It took everything within him and
more to stop himself from throwing up.
“Shhh, it will soon be over. Patience, my horcrux…” Voldemort said from
somewhere above Harry’s head.
The voice was soothing in spite of the pain sending sparks of electricity down
his spine, despite the current running through each network of nerves in his
body. Harry threw himself into it, a reprieve from the endless torment.
And then, just as Harry was certain he was about to go mad, ready for the world
to shatter into small fucking pieces, it abruptly stopped.
His chest heaved, and Harry’s world spun until three of Voldemort were standing
right above him.
There was a new lightness in him. A surrender where there once was resistance.
It was like something precious unhooked itself from somewhere deep inside.
Wha—?
Harry collapsed into a shuddering heap, and a strange whisper came to life in
the back of his head that sounded oddly like…
...Like parseltongue spoken through deadened lips, like black eyes and black
hair smoothed into perfect submission...like “yes, sir” and “no, sir, nothing
at all” from a poisonous tongue.
It could have been forever, it could have been seconds, before Harry’s rapid
breaths finally settled into calm exhales. His heart still raced like the rush
of water slipping through a crack in a dam, but there was no helping that.
His forehead still ached fiercely after that overwhelming agony had consumed
him. He would need more than a few seconds to recover, but he was still
marginally better than he’d been before.
Something was clearly amiss, completely wrong, Harry had felt something give,
but he was better...far better than he had been for some time.
Though Harry wasn’t certain how anyone would feel better after undergoing
something as excruciating as that. That had been the most painful experience
Harry had ever had in his life. Single-handedly worse than when he’d had the
Cruciatuscurse thrown at him repeatedly when he had failed in his first and
last escape attempt.
Nothingcould compare to the splitting of one’s soul, to the sensation of
something tearing apart without explanation. Harry could not describe it, could
not put into words just how it felt to feel something as precious as his soul
come apart...but that had been what it was.
That was the give. There was no other explanation for it, Harry knew.
How Voldemort had survived doing this eight times, how Voldemort still had
enough of a mind left to even consider taking over the Wizarding world, was a
bloody miracle.
Harry never wanted to experience something like that again. And guessing from
the almost smug air around the man, Harry doubted Voldemort would subject him
to something like this a second time.
One horcrux was more than enough.
“...Better?” Voldemort asked, a pleased hum leaving his lips.
Harry did not trust himself enough to speak, his throat dry and tight after
screaming for as long as he had. So he nodded his head instead, unsure of what
else to do now that the deed was finally done.
Though, now that Harry was no longer felt like he was breaking in two, there
was still the question of whereVoldemort had placed his soul.
Not that it mattered much now. The man could keep it in a box for all Harry
cared in that moment.
Harry had done as the man asked, even when he had not wanted to. Voldemort had
to keep his end of the bargain now. He would never leave Harry alone to his
nightmares again… He would never leave Harry to the sickening isolation that
tempted him to snuff out his very life.
Where his soul went and what Voldemort chose to do with him now was no longer
his concern.
Harry did not resist when soft fingers trailed along his calf then, his eyes
fluttering shut to revel in the comfort that it brought.
It was gentle, just as Voldemort’s fingers had been when they twined into his
hair.
It warmed him in a way that it hadn’t before, the familiarity of those fingers
making him melt further into the bed. Even as something nervous tugged at him
to resist it, a voice he had not heard since he’d been left to the monster’s in
his own head urging him to fight this.
It cried to him, begging him to move.
He murdered your parents, Harry...
But that heat, it was incredible. Nice.
How could he fight something that felt more right than wrong? When his insides
squirmed happily when those fingers climbed higher on his—
Harry froze, and tried not to squirm as his mind sobered when that hand
smoothed over the top of his knee, that strange heat lapping at his skin
sensually.
He was unsure of what was even happening. He had never felt something like this
before. It was as though his insides were boiling, melting like ice in a hot
mouth when Voldemort’s palm settled over his leg and his warmth seeped through
Harry’s trousers...
All Harry knew was pain and the occasional comfort of finally touching another.
This was noteven close to either of those things. This was pleasurebeyond his
wildest dreams, beyond any pithy experience he’d had thus far.
“Ah-er, yeah…” Harry said breathlessly when Voldemort’s palm crept past his
quivering knee and higher up his thigh.
Harry had never been more aware than in that second of Voldemort’s touch. It
went against all reason. Harry should not have been as pleased as he was at
being touched by a monster. Not when there was a corpse just a short distance
away...not when Voldemort had forced him to split his soul. It should have
revolved him. Disgusted him, even.
But none of those realities could stop his abdominal muscles from tightening
with bliss, from showing him just how amazing it was to feel warm skin against
his.
What is happening? Harry thought.
Was this what being touch starved entailed...was this a normal response to
being away from physical contact for so long?
His breath hitched loudly when Voldemort dug his nails into thigh, the
delicious pressure making his spine tingle.
Could making the horcrux have done something? Could it be why this didn’t feel
wrong? Was it the reason why the idea of Voldemort touching me did not seem as
repulsive as it should?
Arousal stirred low in Harry’s belly, the wrongness of the occasion doing
nothing to quell the sudden need to feel more of that liquid bliss within his
veins.
It felt too good, too delicious to resist.
Something screamed in the back of Harry’s head to fight, but he ignored that
voice. He knew that this was wrong. Voldemort’s touch shouldn’t have felt as
good as it did. It shouldn’t have made him want to burrow himself into the
man’s touch. It was wrong, so very bloodywrong. He couldn’t have been more
aware of it if he tried.
But it just felt so good to touch the Dark Lord, it was amazing. It was better
than the cold of nothingness. It was better than sitting in isolation for days
on end, to the heart-wrenching agony of his soul coming apart.
It made him feel alive. It was the closest to life that he had come in months,
or even years.
Harry did not know how long he’d been trapped, but he couldn’t resist.
And Harry tried, Merlin, did he to resist; tried to remember just what
Voldemort had done to his friends, had done to him—
Harry was ripped from his thoughts when Voldemort’s other hand caught his left
leg and suddenly pulled, tugging the limb up until both of his legs were
splayed open and dangling on either side of Voldemort’s thin waist.
The man’s eyes burning into his face like a pyre. Voldemort’s stare was like a
physical touch, like the man was oozing into his flesh and burrowing deep into
the marrow of his bones. Harry tried not to blush beneath the weight of it.
Jolts of desire traveled up his spine. Harry did not dare move, lest he lose
himself to the heat swirling within the almost violent red of Voldemort’s eyes.
It made him ache to feel Voldemort’s mouth of his neck, to feel the Dark Lord’s
jagged teeth biting in and spraying his own blood on the silken sheets beneath
his back…
Harry was afraid for himself, afraid of just how much he wantedVoldemort in
that moment.
But Voldemort just looked so hungry, his gaze did something to him that Harry
could do little to resist. The Dark Lord’s self-restraint was careening out of
control, and it did not dampen Harry’s desire in the least.
Against his better judgment, it thrilled Harry. More than it had the right to.
The violent promise in Voldemort’s gaze should have been terrifying, it should
have snapped Harry straight from his senses even with isolation weighing
heavily on his soul.
But it didn’t.
Not when there was lust swirling in the dense sea of violent delight in those
crimson irises...
There was no mistaking what it was. It was lust, not hunger for blood and
terror. Not bloodlust, a thirst for the thick, sticky spray of blood
splattering out from a torn throat.
It was lust.
Voldemortwanted him.
Harry had seen that expression in a multitude of occasions. Aware, always, of
what it was like to be desired. Knowing, but never quite understanding
whypeople desired.
But Harry knew it now. Knew what lust felt like, knew that it tasted like the
sweetest candy on the back of his tongue as Voldemort’s nails cut into his
trousers, slicing into skin and making him bleed.
Yes…
Harry’s spine bowed again, eyes glazing over from the heavenly mixture of pain
and bliss blooming beneath his tan skin. From the vision of Voldemort’s bright
eyes taking him in, drinking in the way he writhed beneath his hands without
hesitation.
It was sick, but Harry could only gasp when Voldemort’s thin pupils dilated.
It should have frightened him, should have terrified him that Voldemort wanted
him in this way. But it didn’t. In that moment he could have been set on fire,
his skin flayed and beaten, and he would not have noticed that at all.
Harry was looking at a predator, and he wanted nothing more than to dance
within its embrace in the hopes that it would bite him.
If only to feel the serpent’s poison run through his veins, or to feel more and
more of Voldemort’s fingers pressed into his skin, carving into him like an
artist did to marble.
...Please wake up, a more rational, desperate voice said.
Harry was no longer listening, not when Voldemort made his insides heat up with
just the curve of his lips, and dark promises swirling in his eyes.
...Wake up, Harry, wake up!
Suddenly, Harry saw white, his senses returning to him for a second at the loud
shout. As if he’d been pulled from a deep sleep.
He could see Voldemort, eyes brilliant even as Harry tried to make sense of
what was happeningto him, to them.To realize that the want burning in his
stomach, the feeling tugging at his insides did not come from within him, but
from somewhere else...
It was not him. Not really.
This want was not his. It was foreign. An invasive presence that hissed and
slithered in the back of his head. It blended seamlessly with his thoughts,
melting into the gaps between his spine as though it had been there all along.
Harry hadn’t noticed it at all, consumed by the pleasant buzz that still
bubbled millimeters beneath his skin. The presence was familiar, reminding him
instantly of a boy Harry had once known. A teen he had once seen through the
misty edges of a memory long past...
“What is this?” Harry asked, voice slurred and breathy as his legs closed
automatically around the man’s hips, ankles crossing to bring the man closer in
spite the screaming in the back of his head begging him to reconsider.
This was wrong...a voice murmured in his head, but it was a faint trickle in
the back of his Harry’s mind. A ghostly sigh that was quickly swept away by a
visceral need to touch the Dark Lord.
The voice was nothing compared to the tell-tale pressure of the Dark Lord’s own
desire against his own. It didn't stand a chance to the sibilant voice within
his head urging him to give in, to simply feel.
“W-what did you do?” Harry asked, his words a gasp, when something hard brushed
against his own cock.
He was unsure of when it was that he’d hardened, unsure of when his skin had
once again began to burn with cloying need. His pulse thrummed rapidly as he
pressed closer, bringing the man’s groin nearer to his own despite the two
diverging interests in his head.
This is wrong...that familiar whisper insisted, but Harry was no longer
listening. The sound was drowned out by his loud moan when Voldemort twisted
his hips to force their cocks nearer, when he dug his erection more firmly
against his through the inseam of his trousers.
Harry’s cock swell from the attention, the friction making his fingers spasm
from the pleasure.
Yes.
It felt amazing. It felt delicious. Like Harry might die if he did not feel the
man’s fingers against him...or inside him, even.
He didn’t know what it was that he wanted, what it was that the strange hissing
in the back of his mind was urging him to do.
But Harry wanted this, more than he wanted freedom, more than he wanted to
rememberwhat Voldemort had done.
“...And either must die by the hand of the other for neither can live while the
other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord
approaches…”Voldemort said, seemingly ignoring Harry’s desperate squirmed to
splay one hand right at the center of Harry’s chest.
Could Voldemort feel just how fast his heart was beating? Could he perceive the
heat and want rushing through Harry’s blood? It was suffocating, in a way. As
if Harry could not breathe unless Voldemort first breathed air into him, could
not live unless the Dark Lord grazed his bare skin with his sharp nails
first...
It was maddening.
Then Harry flinched when those nails dug harder into his chest. A sharp
sensation exploding from an unknown point below his sternum as nail cut through
cotton and stabbed shallowly into the flesh underneath.
Why was this so—?
“What I-is the meaning of this?” Harry demanded weakly. “What did you do?”
Eyes fluttering, a whine was ripped out of him when Voldemort’s hand moved
downward, cutting through the fabric like a curse slicing through skin, like a
sharp knife slicing through meat.
His shirt ripped easily, the cotton giving little resistance as Voldemort’s
hand moved...stopping just shy of where Harry’s trousers began.
Harry’s stomach quivered beneath the man’s stare as the serpentine gaze shifted
away from his half-lidded eyes to focus on the newly revealed skin.
“...Half of your soul now rests within me. A writhing pitiful thing squirming
in the dark...wanting nothing more than to be free,”Voldemort purred with a
wide grin.
Voldemort’s sharp teeth flashed, the malevolence in his expression enough to
silence the desirous whispers murmuring in the back of Harry’s mind, and cut
through the want making his cock twinge.
“What?” Harry croaked, his face growing pale.
Voldemort had—
Harry was shocked, completely stumped. He had not expected that Voldemort to
willingly trap Harry’s soul within his own ribs, that he would ever contemplate
strengthening the bond that existed between them.
It was unreal. Why would the Dark Lord dosomething like that?
“You cannot die so long as I live, and I cannot die so long as you live. Death
will never reach us, Fate will never separate us...you and I are
forever…immortal”
Harry gasped when the bed dipped by the left side of head, unsure of when
Voldemort had pressed his hand against the mattress. The distance between their
bodies lessened with each passing second.
“You will never be alone...just as you wished.”
Something warm curled in Harry’s belly at the words, like rich chocolate on a
wet tongue. It was need. It was the press of soft sheets on naked flesh, of the
hot sun on cold cheeks...it was compelling Harry to bring Voldemort closer; to
bridge the gap between their bodies.
The sultry murmur urged Harry to move, to give in to the temptation the Dark
Lord presented.
Harry’s fingers itched to curl around the man’s shoulders, to dig his blunt
nails in and never let go. It was a soft hiss, a seductive whisper that
promised him pleasure if he did, if he would just let himself fall...
It was intoxicating, a temptation he didn’t want to resist. And Harry let
himself sink, his mind dulled by the foreign rush of want.
He wanted to feel Voldemort’s skin, to curl inside and lessen the void that now
seemed so wide and oppressive. The void that writhed like frightened serpents,
like a squirm of eels right at the center of his chest.
The void was alive, and Harry wanted nothing more than to seal it shut.
A want that defied all reason. A hunger that made his jaws ache. A desire that
stirred and thrashed like a living thing. It was as though there was something
else present in his mind, as if slipping inside Voldemort’s skin was the only
way to make him whole.
Harry could feel it like a stone sitting at the bottom of one’s belly.
It was infuriating, the way that whisper in the back of his mind still
continued to beg him to touch, and give in. The way that presence cooed and
tantalized, in spite of how viciously Harry’s mind tried to rebel.
Merlin...what did I let him do to?
Voldemort leaned in, his red eyes growing nearer and nearer.
Harry could only watch, unable to do anything else. His limbs were trembling,
his heart beating too fast for him to keep track of the rush of blood coursing
through his veins.
But there was no fear. There was none of the familiar twist of fright and
horror that came with Voldemort backing him into a corner. None of the emotions
that shouldhave exploded within his chest. No, this was not fear.
It was excitement.
Harry was excited that the Dark Lord was invading his personal space.
He should have been alarmed, but he felt none of that familiar anxiousness.
And that was, Harry decided, perhaps the worst thing of all.
Instead of the familiar feeling of trepidation that came with Voldemort’s
presence, instead of the reluctant relief that settled deep into his bones when
the Dark Lord entered his room after long periods of isolation...his senses
were twisting with happiness. It reminded him of serpents tumbling in the grass
giving chase, and of a rat caught in a wide maw before being swallowed.
Harry did not know why felt he felt this way, where the abrupt change arose
from? But when Voldemort’s fingers slipped inside the waistband of his
trousers, and those very fingers slid over the top of his boxers, Harry could
not stop himself from jerking upwards with a pleased hiss.
 His toes curled with pleasure, the touch divineeven as his own mind screamed.
This is wrong!
Wiggling, his toes curled and uncurled in response to the warmth that spread
from the brush of Voldemort’s hand over his clothed groin, the thick material a
poor barrier from the man’s hand. Harry was more aware of that touch than he
was of his own breathing or of his own prick stiffening in his pants with
arousal.
There was an open door between them, and Harry did not know how to close it.
Did not know if he even wanted to close it when it felt like—
Harry tried to speak through the haze settling across his vision, but he was
stopped when Voldemort suddenly began to undo his trousers, the button slipping
open before he unzipped Harry’s fly.

“T-this isn’t—
“Lie.”

Harry moaned when Voldemort’s hand slid inside his pants to palm at his stiff
prick, his thumb rubbing softly against his slit with surprising ease. Harry
canted his hips, chasing after the warmth in the man’s palm.

It was bliss and hell in one. The fact that it was Voldemort touching him,
bringing him pleasure rather than pain for once was too much even for him to
handle.

“Look at how much you want this...you can hardly contain yourself.”
He wanted to deny it. It simply was not possible that he could want Voldemort
in this way—that this craving he felt was directed at himof all people. It was
sick and twisted, the way Voldemort kneaded him through his underwear and Harry
groaned, breath hitching with each deft twist of Voldemort’s wrist.
“S-shut up…”Harry hissed in parseltongue.
The desperation in his tone melted into a sweet whimper when Voldemort’s grip
tightened and he began stroking his cock, his thumb circling around his head
before digging into his leaking hole.
Harry moaned, and grasped tightly onto the man’s shoulders. The touch drove him
mad, the desire to submit overwhelming as those seductive hisses whispered in
his head. They dragged him deeper and deeper into that warmth.
Drowned him in this bliss.
Harry arched his back, a soft cry ripped from his lips. Voldemort hissed
something unintelligible and all of his clothes vanished, the familiar cotton
of his shirt and the rough texture of his jeans evaporating like the smoke of a
Patronus circling and running through the dark.
Gooseflesh broke out along his exposed skin. Harry shuddered when he glanced
down and saw swollen flesh between his legs...his cock rosy and dripping with
precum from the feeling of Voldemort’s fingers on his prick.
Harry flushed red with embarrassment, and he turned his attention to the window
on the opposite end. Unable to bear the sight, unwilling to acknowledge the
fact that he was nakedin his bed with the Dark Lord between his thighs.
“...Your skin is rosy with your desire, dearest Harry. Why deny yourself when
your Lord can provide you with more, when your soul cries to be one with mine?”
Harry could not speak when Voldemort’s bare hand began to tug at his cock with
firm and even twists, a helpless moan escaping his lips from the touch.
And that was when Harry, again, caught sight of Bitsy.
Bitsy’s severed head was only a short distance away, behind the massive size of
the Dark Lord.
Then the horror and lust began tearing him apart at the seams, and he wanted
nothing more than to cry from the horrifying sight of those bleak, vacant eyes…
Noyesnoyesnoyes—
The answers cycled into one another, Harry’s hips helplessly bucking into the
Dark Lord’s hands as tears blurred his vision, threatening to run down his
cheeks.
“You want this Harry Potter...Clear your mind of those baseless thoughts in
your head…”
Harry could not abide that. There was no way he was going to ignore the fact
that there was a severed head staring at him as he slowly came apart from the
feeling of Voldemort’s fingers on his cock. Need and desire were driving him
mad, burning and dying all at once for more of that delicious friction.
When Voldemort’s thumb dug into his cock, his vision swam with want. When that
wet palm squeezed him like a vice, his spine shuddered with hunger. When
Voldemort’s hand shot out to grip his chin before wrenching his eyes away from
those Bitsy’s eyes, Harry keened from the bruising hold.
Harry drowned in the gleaming red swimming in Voldemort’s eyes. His horror of
Bitsy became forgotten, overridden by the sudden rush of lust inflaming his
senses.
This is wrong...this is wrong...this is wrong…
Yet Harry sank deeper into that pleasurable haze, and he fell further into the
passion with each wet squelch that came from between his legs. Voldemort pumped
his prick, pace unwavering as he did, and Harry felt himself creep steadily
closer and closer to orgasm, so caught in the web the Dark Lord had woven so
meticulously.
“Let go…”Voldemort crooned.
Harry nearly came from the sound.
The breathless hiss, the dip of the Dark Lord’s voice making his cock twitch
within the man’s relentless grip.
It sounded so good. The promises in the man’s eyes, the unspoken words between
the spaces decadent even as Harry’s own mind rebelled.
Even as rationality urged him to rememberjust who this was—to recall what
Voldemort had made him do, what he had forced him to experience from the moment
he’d fallen into the man’s suffocating hold.
But this feels so lovely, does it not?A dark, sibilant voice said in his head.
Like static, and the electronic utterances of a man speaking through an old
radio. Do you not want your suffering to end? For this pleasure to remain
endless…
For your mind to be at peace?
Harry shook his head, unsure if he was agreeing or disagreeing when Voldemort
suddenly stopped. He whined in protest at the loss of that delicious friction,
of the arousing curl of the man’s fingers as they pumped him nearer to
completion.
Then, Voldemort pressed closer, his dark robes tickling at Harry’s exposed skin
to press his lips near his ear. His hot breath tickled the shell of Harry’s
ear, and wafted against the sensitive skin at the side of his neck each time
the Dark Lord exhaled along his throat.
Voldemort was like a predator. Like he were rearing up to dig his jaws into his
neck, to pierce his jagged teeth inside and bleed Harry out in the middle of
his bed.
And then Voldemort laughed.
Adrenaline shot up his spine, the vibrations emanating from Voldemort’s lips
making his skin tingle.
Voldemort is too close...a more rational voice said, indignation and disgust
thick in its tone. But Harry did not feel disgusted. He barely spared a thought
to it when it sounded so far away, like the echo of a dying breath.
Yet, the voice persisted, desperate for Harry to see reason, to understandjust
how close to death Harry neared, and how little he resisted.
He’s a monster...he’s a killer.
Harry knew all this.
It was shameful.—he knew that better than anyone, better than the voice
repeating the word over and over in his head. But it grew more and more
difficult to ignore the burning connection...to stop himself from chasing after
the promises in Voldemort’s voice and in his teasing touches.
Then another voice, a much louder, glass-like one laughed breathily into his
head. It cut through his resistance with surprising ease.
Always chasing after death even when you cannot die...
Its tongue was deadlier than even Voldemort’s nails or a werewolf’s fangs as
its amusement sliced through the many excuses in his head.
Always running from your own wants,the voice murmured, Always running from your
own monsters...
Let it catch you, little lion...No one will ever know.
Under the twin pressures of that voice and Voldemort’s hold on his prick,
Harry’s resolve crumbled.
He was too stuck on the feeling of Voldemort’s robes grazing his quaking belly
and shivering chest, too excited by the breaths fanning against his neck to
fight back.
“Give in…”Voldemort whispered.
His lips teased Harry’s his ear as he spoke. Silencing the doubts, the horrors
that swam in the back of his mind, easily when there was no way to fight the
hold Voldemort had on his soul.
Let yourself sink.
Harry’s hips jerked at the sultry sound of Voldemort’s voice, unable to resist
the feeling of that thumb teasing at him so gently that it hurt. The want in
his belly had become monstrous. A twisting, ugly thing. A voracious jaw that
threatened to swallow him completely.
Let it devour you, Harry...the voice moaned in his head.
He could feel the tattered remains of his own soul begging for the contact, for
a chance to bridge the gap between them, and it was wrong that he felt the way
he did. The gap was only a short distance, perhaps a hand’s width away, but it
could have been a chasm. It could have been kilometers, even.
The space was too wide, too large.
Harry broke.
***** Fester *****
Chapter Summary
     Every single tag I have included applies to this chapter. Please
     review them all. I will not repeat the list here.
     This story is not a happy one. The graphic contents that shall follow
     will not be pleasant.
     Read on to your own peril. I suggest you have a drink paired with
     this reading as well.
     If you...enjoyed this chapter, please leave me a comment.
“...Please,” Harry hissed, cheeks streaming with dried tears.
The words were too heavy on his tongue. Foreign and strange to his own ears
because he could not believe what it was that he was asking, what it was he was
even considering.
What would others say? Merlin. What would others think of him for agreeing to
this?
Harry was ashamed, the weight of that ‘please’ almost too much for him to bear.
His skin burned and his insides fluttered like the rapid beats of a
hummingbird’s wings. His body was screaming and he could no ignore it any
longer. He was certain he might go mad. He was certain he might just die if he
didn’t sate this hunger drying up his throat.
But there was just no fighting that voice. Not when his will to fight had been
snuffed so easily by the promise of satisfaction in Voldemort’s touch.
The Dark Lord grinned into his neck, and Harry jerked. His eyes fluttering shut
when those lips tickled his ear and smoothed over the sensitive flesh.
And then a long, serpentine tongue unexpectedly licked at the shell.
A shiver crawled up Harry’s spine in response. His hands dug more firmly into
the mattress as Voldemort’s jagged teeth closed around the hollow of his ear,
his hot mouth making Harry’s nerves scream from the contact.
“Your Lord shall oblige you...this once,” Voldemort murmured into the skin
before pulling away.
Harry protested from the loss, his hands reaching for the Dark Lord
unthinkingly to drag the man’s head back down, but Voldemort gave him no
chance.
Voldemort suddenly squeezed his cock, his grip so tight that it bordered on
painful, and Harry cried out. His toes curled, and his arms fell back to fist
on the bed sheets to ground himself. The violence and pain were as delicious as
they were disorienting.
Harry writhed when Voldemort began to pump his cock, settling for a bruising
pace. He bit his lip until it bled, twisting beneath the man’s grip. Each time
Voldemort stroked him, each time Voldemort came right back up the base, his
thumb played with Harry's slit and it nearly splintered what little sanity
Harry had.
Harry couldn’t take it—even as his blood practically screamed for more, even as
that sultry voice murmured that this was heaven—it was just too much
stimulation.
Harry scrambled.“W-wait!”
His hands pressed onto Voldemort’s shoulders for purchase, to get the man to
stop for just one bloody second, because—
Harry didn’t know why he wanted the man to stop. He couldn’t precisely define
what it was about the heat flooding through his veins like molten lava that
made him want to scream. But he needed Voldemort to stop, and slow down.  He
needed Voldemort to give him a second to breathe because there was a pressure
building low in his belly, like a dormant volcano waiting to erupt.
The man toyed with him mercilessly, his thumb pressing more firmly against his
slit, the sticky wetness of Voldemort’s fingers making Harry’s spine bend. A
delicious jolt of heat rushed up his spine with each deft twirl of his wrist,
and Harry didn’t know where the pleasure ended and the pain began.
His world spun, his stomach lurched, and Harry was certain he might break.
“S-slow down!”
Voldemort did no such thing.
Instead, the man’s tongue swiped along his throat, leaving a burning trail from
Harry’s ear down to his neck. It was a soft touch, a gentle pressure that threw
Harry’s mind into a frenzy.
He expected violence. He expected to be savaged. Consumed.
This was everything but.
Nothing could have prepared Harry for this. For the surprising reverence in the
way Voldemort’s lips kissed and sucked at his throat.
Harry moaned when Voldemort’s forked tongue licked at a sensitive point on the
juncture between his neck and shoulder. The Dark Lord’s mouth sucked along his
pulse point, pulling more and more erotic sounds from Harry’s lips.
Harry knew that it shouldn't have made him feel alive, but it did.
He found himself less and less resistant to the idea of rebelling the more
Voldemort touched him. The ecstasy overshadowed the hesitation, and the thought
of stopping Voldemort at all was much too far away,
Voldemort sank his teeth into his neck.
And Harry threw his head back, unwittingly baring more of his throat to
Voldemort’s eager mouth. It was shocking; how pleasurable Voldemort’s teeth
were. How delicious Voldemort’s mouth was on his skin. It was the only thing
Harry could think of as the Dark Lord jerked him steadily closer to climax.
It was...more than Harry could have ever anticipated.
“I am done waiting, Harry,” Voldemort murmured into his skin between nips, his
hot tongue laving at the smarted flesh, before biting down, hard.
Harry groaned, eyes slipping shut. Desire rushed and pulsed through his veins.
The sound was like an explosion in the room, unmistakable even as Harry lost
himself to the bliss. It was a shock that something so painful could feel that
good, that his cock could harden further from something so depraved.
Harry would never have pegged himself as a masochist.
But he was slowly realizing that he didn’t know himself at all. There was more
about his own needs, about himself, that he never bothered to learn. Things
that he could never have learned while on the run.
It drove him mad to know that this was what he’d become. He was a living
conduit of desire, a burning maw that wanted so much  more.  Voldemort’s lips
pressed against his throat in tandem with the tight schlick of his fingers on
his cock, and Harry was lost to it all.
“I-I-ah!”
Harry was rendered speechless. His mind emptied completely of thought when
Voldemort increased his pace, when Voldemort dug his sharp nail into his
slit—the agony making his back arch back again.
It was the only warning Harry had before his cock swelled, and his mind
exploded with ecstasy. He came harder than he ever had in his life. His body
convulsed from the intensity, his mouth parting into a scream as Voldemort
continued to stroke him through it. The pressure of his hand was unyielding.
Teeth practically chewed on his flesh.
And that nail.
Merlin, help me.
Voldemort pushed it deeper.
Harry’s body spasmed as more of that warmth splattered over his stomach. The
sound of his cum smearing along his stomach and Voldemort stroking him through
his orgasm made Harry flush brightly. It was perverse and filthy. Each wet
wrench was a reminder of just how far he had fallen.
“Did the pain excite you, my horcrux?” Voldemort said after releasing Harry’s
neck.
Voldemort’s hand was still jerking and twisting Harry’s prick. The pleasure
bordered on uncomfortable, his cock oversensitive after his orgasm.
Harry whined.
“Always so full of surprises,” Voldemort purred, before raising his head to
look into Harry’s eyes.
Harry didn't know what the man was looking for. What more could Voldemort want
from him now that he had reached completion?
But the man’s question was the least of Harry's concerns. Aftershocks wracked
through him. Harry’s skin was hot to the touch, as though it was about to melt
off from his very bones. His mind was utter mush, and his thoughts were
difficult to hold onto.
That was—
But Harry was given no time to think, no time to truly consider what was
happening before Voldemort was tugging him closer. His hand hiked Harry’s right
leg over Voldemort's hip before Voldemort whispered something unintelligible
underneath his breath.
Something pressed against his arsehole, and Harry gasped. A something that was
wet and smooth, that rubbed the skin gently.
Something that was oddly like fingers.
“What do you think you’re doing!? Harry choked, shocked.
Embarrassment burnt his cheeks bright red, the haze of his exhaustion unable to
curb the sudden shame that settled in his chest at the way his heart raced when
Voldemort only smiled in response.
The man’s expression was  frightening.
“Did you think we were done, dearest Harry?”
Harry flinched from the clear amusement in the man’s tone. His eyes shot up to
catch the mischief swirling in Voldemort’s eyes. It was like a beacon of light.
Bright and glaring even as he tried to make sense of his intentions.
Like why the Dark Lord looked pleased by something as odd as this.
It was vulgar. Depraved and so bloody strange.
The complete opposite of what Harry had expected from the Dark Lord.
But then again, none of what happened earlier was any more predictable than
that finger prodding at his arse.
Nothing made sense. Not anymore. Not since the strange, nearly nauseating need
for the man commenced. Not since he had killed Bitsy, and got off to the
feeling of Voldemort's fingers on his cock.
This was  sick .
“We are  far  from finished.”
Harry cried out in shock when the finger pressed inside, before groaning when
it began rubbing his insides raw.
The intrusion uncomfortable as Voldemort’s finger pushed in as deeply as it
could go, the slickness doing nothing to abate the burn.
“W-wai—ah!”
Harry could barely think when a second finger pushed through nearly a minute
after the first. It was far from gentle, the touch bordering on desperate and
malicious as it curled and scissored as if they were looking for something.
Harry just wanted him to take it out. This was nothing like the warmth of
Voldemort's palm on his cock stroking him to completion. It wasn’t the all-
consuming heat depriving him of his rationality—a freefall into a kaleidoscope
of color when those fingers teased along the sensitive flesh. This was
something else.
Something shameful.
He was ashamed of the fact that the Dark Lord was thrusting fingers into a
place he shit from. It was gross. A place he hardly ever thought about except
when he was wiping his arse after using the bathroom. And he was embarrassed by
the pitiful sounds Voldemort tore from his lips each time he spread his
fingers, stretching him beyond reason, before pushing in deeper.
Harry squirmed within the magical bonds as strange, familiar murmur began to
whisper in his head. It was sweet as honey, dripping with promises of pleasure
if he let himself relax.
But Harry couldn’t. The way Voldemort was staring at him did nothing to settle
his restlessness.
“T-this is wrong,” Harry said, voice shaking. “This is wrong! Why are your
fingers in my—my—”
Harry couldn’t finish the sentence, the word “arsehole” unable to pass through
lips.
He didn’t want to say it. How could he when everything about this was just
wrong ? Not that any of what he had done already wasn’t. But this was  dirty .
This was far more intrusive and humiliating than having his cock played with.
This was far worse than having Voldemort’s teeth on his neck and his hand on
his prick, than that very hand giving him the most mind-blowing orgasm of his
life. When Voldemort touched him, it was an inferno that consumed him. Nothing
like the lazy release he would often reach back in Hogwarts.
That had easily been the most mind-shattering experience Harry had ever been at
the receiving end of.
And this intimacy. Harry did not expect it either. It made him…
Vulnerable . As if he were revealing something that no one, not even his
friends, had been privy to. He had already done enough by spilling over the
man’s hand; it should have been enough embarrassment for one evening.
That wasn’t the case at all. Just when Harry had assumed that they were done,
that he had repaid his part of the bargain, Voldemort wanted more. If the glint
in Voldemort’s eye was anything to go by, he was far from finished. Harry had a
feeling that he would not be satisfied until Harry crumbled beneath him.
He wanted nothing more than to rest, He also wanted time. Time to come to terms
with just what he had done, what he had permitted the Dark Lord to do. And the
Dark Lord refused to give him even this.
Why?
Then Voldemort’s fingers plunged in deep, and Harry moaned. Slippery and wet
sounds erupted with each deft motion of Voldemort’s fingers. Each thrust, the
way each digit prodded and rubbed at the tender skin, was enough to eclipse the
humiliation writhing inside his gut.
Harry shuddered, his spine tingling.
Lubricant dribbled down from between his quivering legs, the sensation ticklish
as he tried to squirm from out of the uncomfortable position Voldemort had
forced him into. But all of Harry’s efforts to close his legs failed.
Suddenly, Voldemort’s fingers suddenly curled inside him, and Harry cried out,
his world exploding into a kaleidoscope of color.
What..?
What was that?
The sensation was incomprehensible. What had Voldemort done to make him jerk on
the bed?
“There it is,” Voldemort mused.
Where was what?  Harry wanted to ask, but couldn't, when Voldemort curled his
fingers once more.
A delicious jolt of ecstasy pulsed within him. Intense and endless as Voldemort
continued to prod at that spot relentlessly. His lips stretched into a wider
grin when Harry was unable to contain his pleased mewls.
There was nothing keeping him grounded. Outside, Harry’s fingers clenched into
tight fists, but inside, he was free-falling, as though he were in mid-flight
rather than pressing closer to the Dark Lord's body—
 Voldemort forced a third finger inside.
A scream tore out of his throat. His stomach jumped.
It was too much.
He was splitting at the seams. He was going to come apart at any moment’s
notice. Like drowning in the lake, but without the fear and the endless cold
that came with black waters forcing its way down his throat.
Voldemort shifted his fingers inside to ram into that strange spot
continuously, and Harry cried out again. His cries were louder, sweeter,
unrecognizable to his own ears.
They were unlike any sounds he’d ever made before. Like it was someone else and
not Harry screaming his throat hoarse.
His cheeks flushed, and his eyes burned. The threat of tears became more and
more real as the pleasure escalated, his cock unbearably swollen despite having
cum so explosively earlier. It jutted out, his slit now oozing pre-cum all over
his quivering belly.
“I-it’s too mu—ah!” Harry moaned.
He bucked his hips, attempting to squirm away once again.
“Are you sure, my horcrux?” Voldemort asked. His voice cut through the haze
blanketing Harry’s mind like a hot blade to butter, but it did nothing to calm
the rapid racing of his heart. “Your mouth says one thing, but your body tells
me something else entirely.”
Pleasure fragmented his mind. The reasons for resisting, becoming more and more
difficult to hold onto with each passing second.
“Look at how easily you take me, at how each time I do this—”
Voldemort stabbed that spot inside him, and Harry screamed. This time he shed
tears from the intensity.
“—you clench so tightly around my fingers.”
Harry sobbed when Voldemort continued to push into that nerve. When Voldemort
added a fourth finger inside without trouble at all, it slipped inside easily,
aided by the slickness of his cum.
Then, the stretch suddenly easier to bear and his mind sank deeper into that
croon purring in the back of his head.
Why fight when you can give in, Harry? Fighting has only ever exacerbated your
suffering, has only prolonged the inevitable.
The words were seductive and the voice, a purr.  The sound was like melted
chocolate as it slipped between the gaps of his spine and settled deep into the
marrow of his bones.
The voice was not wrong. Harry knew this better than anyone else. Fighting had
only ever led to trouble. To death. His hope that he could one day escape, that
he could one day defeat Lord Voldemort, was what had his friends killed.
All he had was Voldemort and everything he could provide. Whether it was
pleasure or pain, Harry would take it.
Yes , the voice crooned, tone warm and gentle.  And he will give you
everything...pain and pleasure beyond your wildest dreams. You will never be
empty...never be alone.. .
Harry splintered. His weak hiss of defiance withered into pleased moans when
Voldemort’s finger ground against his insides repeatedly and sent his head
spinning.
Yes.
Harry wanted it all.
Voldemort’s finger pushed in and out of his fluttering hole, and Harry’s
muscles clamped tightly on those long fingers.
Brutal; without any hesitation.
“Does it not feel good, Harry?” Voldemort asked.
The heat in the man’s voice made Harry’s stomach jolt pleasantly. His pulse
thrummed in sync with the drag of those fingers.
“Can you truly deny just how much you enjoy this?”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but Voldemort forced a fifth digit inside,
and Harry yowled.
But not in pain.
Harry threw his head back, fingers digging hard into Voldemort's shoulders as
he fucked himself on Voldemort’s fingers. As he thrust his hips up to swallow
more of what Voldemort had to offer.
It unravelled him, the pressure of those fingers digging into his insides The
wide stretch of his arse taking more and more than was possible.
It was filthy and yet—
Harry couldn't find it within himself to care. It was delicious.
He wanted more. So much more than what Voldemort was giving him at that moment.
Harry gasped, voice so high that he wondered idly if that was really his voice.
"More."
Was really Harry begging for the Dark Lord to tear him open? Was he really
asking him to fill the emptiness inside Harry that constantly hungered for
more?
Harry hardly registered Voldemort's laugh, barely caught the twisted grin of
the man's lips, when the Dark Lord ripped his fingers from Harry's quivering
hole, tearing a protest from Harry's throat.
He clawed on Voldemort's shoulders as if in a frenzy, unable to bear the way
his muscles contracted around air, empty.
Harry couldn't stand it, couldn't bear it. He wanted to be filled. He needed to
be consumed. He was empty and he needed to be made whole.
But before he could whine, before hot tears could run down his cheeks,
Voldemort’s robes slid along his naked thighs.
Harry stopped, his stomach twisting into knots with anticipation. Voldemort
hadn't left him, after all. He would finish what he started.
Harry shot a glance at the man’s hips, where the source of the rustling
emanated from, and excitement curled warmly within his skin.
Voldemort had reached inside his robes, and, in an almost dramatic fashion, the
Dark Lord unveiled, not one, but two cocks from the billowy material.
They were thick and wet, the heads glistening brightly with pre-cum oozing from
the tips. They were massive; Voldemort’s thin, spidery fingers were like twigs
compared to his cocks' girths and lengths.
It wasn’t just the size of those pricks that struck him dumb or the fact that
there were two erections rather than one jutting out proudly from the opening
in Voldemort’s robes. No, it was the fact that Voldemort’s pricks were nothing
like his own cock. Or any, if Harry were being honest. Even if he had only seen
his own, Harry was sure that regular cocks were nothing like what Voldemort
sported between his legs.
Where Harry’s was smooth, the head blunt and rosy with blood, Voldemort’s were
barbed and pale. As if all the blood had been drained from the flesh.
Harry shuddered, unable to rip his gaze away.
There were scales along the sides, the skin shining a pale, greenish blue
beneath the light above their heads. It had ridges in places where Harry’s
prick only had veins. And where his own cock was smooth flesh Voldemort’s had
spikes protruding from the skin.
It was obscene. Debauched.
Instead of frightening him, it mustered fascination.
A twisted excitement swelled around him. So much that it threatened to choke
him. It was like the coming destruction of a train heading for a collision
course into a brick wall, and Harry wanted nothing more than to be crushed.
Torn open and ripped apart by Voldemort's desire, just for the thrill of being
whole. Voldemort had promised, and Harry would take Voldemort anyway he wanted
if it meant never being empty again.
Harry shuddered when one of Voldemort’s hands—palm wet and glistening with
moisture— wrapped around both cocks to smear his pre-cum and that clear viscous
substance around his flesh.  Harry tried not to wince at the loud squelching
that echoed in the silent room.
And the Dark Lord stepped closer, pushing his thighs more firmly against
Harry’s legs.
Adrenaline shot up Harry’s spine. Delight and something else whispered in the
back of his mind.
Harry tried to move his arms, and push closer to the heat burning into the back
of his thighs, but then, with a low murmur from between Voldemort’s lips, his
arms were forced above his head. He tried to fight against the invisible bonds,
but there was nowhere for him to go. He was helpless, naked and bound on his
own bed with a Dark Lord between his legs, playing with his own pricks.
And, in some sick, twisted way, Harry enjoyed this—gratified in the way the
Dark Lord touched him. He was ignoring the voice screaming for him to see
reason, to struggle against the hunger making his vision flicker. His insides
were curling pleasantly at the promise of pleasure in Voldemort’s eyes and he
couldn't fight it.
Voldemort was not normal, that there was nothing reasonable about the sticky
droplets dripping onto his thighs each time Voldemort fisted his cocks in one
of his hands, or in the way the rivulets drizzled over his quivering skin.
This was...delicious.
And so very wrong.
Harry did not know what to think, what to do, because Voldemort could not
intend to—
But what other reason would Voldemort have played with your arse, Harry? For
what other reason would he be playing with your prick?  A voice said in his
head, and Harry’s cheeks burned with embarrassment and sudden shyness.
Did he?
Harry banished the thought as quickly as it came. There was only one
explanation. If Harry was reading this situation correctly, if what that
rational voice was screaming in his head was right, then—
Voldemort planned to fuck him with those two cocks.
Even if there was no other explanation, if there was no other reason for why
Voldemort was pressing closer to rub both of those pricks against his wet
crack, Harry, even as aroused as he was, could not fathom it. Because Voldemort
couldn’t possibly fit them both inside him, could he?
There was simply no way something so monstrous could fit inside without hurting
him or without causing him extreme pain somehow. And as exciting, as thrilling
as the promise of pain was, Harry wasn't sure he was willing to go that far.
Naive, so naive. Are you not curious to know just how it will feel?  Purred
that seductive voice, its tone thick and deep as pleasure began to unravel
beneath his skin.
It was suffocating, the way it lapped at him, teased at his senses, and how it
robbed him of all his resistance.
It was if he’d possessed. By someone who distorted his view--by someone who was
like Voldemort, a monster wound around his heart, but wasn’t.
Harry trembled when the cocks rocked against his arse—similar to how
Voldemort’s fingers had played with his hole before. The sensation was both
repulsive and exhilarating as his stomach clenched.
Voldemort’s eyes flashed dangerously and the spiked head of one cock pushed
against Harry. It was the merest of touches, nothing compared to the brutal way
Voldemort’s fingers had been fucking into him earlier, but it was enough to
snap him out of his senses
“No!” Harry shouted, suddenly afraid.
The Dark Lord couldn’t possibly fit that inside him, he couldn’t think to put
that thing—
Voldemort snapped his hips forward, and Harry howled from the sudden intrusion.
It was as if he’d been snapped in half. Those fingers twisting inside him
earlier were  nothing  compared to the hard, spiked flesh rubbing his insides
raw.
It was agony.
It was a serrated knife spearing him through, each ridge digging into the
delicate folds of his arse. And Harry couldn’t stop him. His mind clouded with
the pain that engulfed him as Voldemort continued to force more and more of
himself inside.
The second cock had, mercifully, not been shoved in, only rubbing against
Harry’s hard prick as Voldemort moved.
But even if it was only one, it was brutal.
Harry shed tears from the pain. His teeth bit down on his bottom lip to stop
himself from screaming a second time when Voldemort’s cock suddenly swelled,
almost as though it had grown twice its size.
He was stuffed to capacity. This was more than even five of Voldemort’s fingers
could have accomplished. And it was maddening, the way the spikes—oh Merlin,
the  spikes —poked at his sensitive flesh, sharp points digging and stabbing
with each bloody centimeter Voldemort forced inside.
Harry could scarcely breathe.
“Is this not what you wanted, Harry? Freedom from the nothing, from the ennui
eating you alive?” Voldemort hissed, pleasure twisting his expression each time
Harry inevitably clenched around him.
Harry whimpered, his throat unbearably tight. Something had lodged in his
throat; a scream or a cry, Harry couldn’t be sure, and it sat right at the
bottom of his throat like the heaviest of stones.
He couldn’t think of anything but the sharp points cutting into him like
needles. Nothing was more important than that single point of contact.
He jumped when Voldemort’s second cock rubbed against his own leaking prick,
using a hand to press their erections together.
And then, as if summoned from somewhere deep in the recesses of Harry’s mind,
heat flared.
Desire, sickening, overwhelming pleasure exploded within him, unbidden and
unwanted. Like the whispers in the back of his head urging him to keep going,
like the need and hunger in the pit of his stomach telling him that pain was
better than nothing. Better than the nightmares, better than the four walls
holding him in place without the presence of anything else but his own
thoughts.
Voldemort pulled back and forced himself back inside, and Harry moaned. Pain
bloomed wherever the ridges caught at his flesh, but pleasure, chased after it,
almost a half-second after the pain nearly crippled him.
Voldemort’s fingers tightened around their pricks and began to move. His thumb
teased at Harry’ s slit in time with his thrusts. A squelching sound echoed in
the room each time Voldemort pulled back and snapped his hips forward to bury
his massive girth deeper.
“ Answer me, my Horcrux… ” Voldemort hissed in Parseltongue.
The order cut through the haze for a moment. Harry blinked to focus, willing
his lips to shape a comprehensible word, but each time Voldemort buried his
cock inside him,  it became more difficult to speak.
He was drowning in the pleasure, suffocating in the pain. He couldn’t tell up
from down or get his tongue to cooperate when only moans and gasps could seep
from his mouth. His flesh had somehow caught fire—had been lit by the heat in
Voldemort’s gaze and an agonizing pleasure that ripped him open.
It hurt too good for Harry to concentrate.
Voldemort slammed his hips abruptly, nudging the same nerve that had made Harry
scream earlier.
A white light exploded in the back of his eyes, and Harry was nearly blinded by
the pleasure when Voldemort, as if sensing that this was the spot that had him
begging, smashed into it.
“Y—ah!” Harry cried.
The cock’s barbed tip was agony, but the way it hit that nerve, the way it
kneaded his insides raw, unmade him and robbed him of all thought.
“M-ngh,” Harry moaned between heavy breaths, eyes rolling to the back of his
head.
Voldemort picked up speed. He leaned down to bury his face in Harry’s neck and
lap at his skin.
Harry writhed beneath him, fingers clenching onto the bed sheets beneath him
for dear life, hands still trapped above his head. The laving electrified him,
overwhelmed him. The juxtaposition of that sweetness with the savage manner
Voldemort fucked into him without mercy made it difficult to comply with
Voldemort’s request.
Harry wanted this more than he could stand. To be broken apart and made anew,
to be fragmented and bound together with only the jagged edges as evidence of
his unmaking.
Voldemort drew back slightly and sank his teeth into his neck, and warmth
trickled down his neck and shoulder.
It didn’t matter that this was all wrong. It would be a moot point to hate it.
He was already sullied. The Dark Lord was already inside him, nestled deep in
his heart. They had always been, the magic of the horcrux more binding than a
marriage vow.
Harry clenched tightly around Voldemort’s cock, wanting to suck in more of the
man’s cock and meld their souls more intimately together through their flesh.
To fill that emptiness, to never be alone in his head. Even if this monster had
been the reason for his dependence. Even if Voldemort thought him nothing more
than property.
It was preferable to being alone. The pain and the pleasure, the toxic need was
everything he needed.
Voldemort released a sharp breath against his neck, but Harry hardly noticed
it, drowning in the agony and ecstasy that came each time Voldemort squeezed
their cocks within his fist.
A cry tumbled from his lips when the Dark Lord’s sharp nail suddenly dug into
his slit again. He’d never thought that this hurt could be this good.
Harry wanted more.
Something was building inside him, the familiar heat that had ravaged him
earlier when Voldemort had only teased him with his hands. It ballooned within
him, the pressure tonguing at the base of his spine, tearing him open further.
It made his teeth vibrate, and his moans reverberate, the echoes of his cries
enough to rattle his bones. And instead of fighting it, dreading the inevitable
fall that would render him nothing more than a puppet, exhausted and delirious,
he chased after the pressure.
The high of orgasm, the kaleidoscope of color that had exploded behind his
eyes, had been addicting, the best feeling in the world, and he couldn’t deny
himself this. There was no reason for him to when it was  heaven . When all
that he had known was that ache each time Ginny would slip through the cracks
of his mind. He’d never experienced something quite like this.
There was no guilt. No point in fighting this when Voldemort was giving him
exactly what he wanted, breaking him open, tearing him at the seams as he
desperately desired.
It hurt so much, but it was what he deserved. It was what he needed, and
Merlin, he’d take it all. Let Voldemort drown him if it meant that he’d never
be alone again.
Harry was drawn away from his thoughts when Voldemort released his neck and
traced his lips against his adam’s apple, lowering his mouth to worship his
collarbones with his tongue. The tip of his tongue teased bone. A hint of teeth
nipped at the flesh.
Harry’s heart raced, his insides twisted, and the pressure crushed him with the
promise of its ecstasy. His toes curled, desperate for Voldemort to push him
over the edge.
Godric, he needed this, he would die without it.
“ My poor little horcrux... ” Voldemort managed in between nips, voice husky
and guttural as he continued to fuck him, the loud slap of his hips hitting
Harry’s arse echoing in the silent room. Harry's sharp moans and loud cries the
only sound cutting across the sharp slaps.
Filthy boy , a sibilant voice sounded in his head, and Harry’s cock hardened
further, stomach quivering at the way that silky sound echoed in his head.
His lips parted as Voldemort rammed into him, the back of his thighs aching
with the ferocity, his body quaking. It was brutal, the way his muscles gave,
how he split open on that cock.
He was so close he could taste it, and Harry could sense that Voldemort was
nearing his from soft murmur in his head telling him just how good he was. How
he was such a good, dirty boy for wanting something as disgusting as this.
Harry’s blood sang, and just as he neared his climax, just as his eyes fell
shut with the strength of his impending orgasm—
Everything came to an abrupt halt.
Voldemort stopped fucking him, the end of his prick no longer teasing at that
pleasurable point inside him. His fingers fell away from their pricks, and his
mouth unlatched from his nipple—the coldness enough to startle Harry into
awareness.
A protest tumbled from his lips, a desperate sound Harry would not have
recognized as his own. Frustration welled up inside him, his stomach in knots.
He had been so close. He had been on the cusp; the promise of completion like a
tantalizing meal after having being starved for so long. He could almost taste
it in the back of his throat.
How dare he? How dare Voldemort take that from him?
Harry opened his eyes, tears burning fiercely at the corners. He didn’t let
them fall, but he knew that Voldemort had noticed them. There was an air of
smugness surrounding the man. A something that wasn’t easily discernible, not
with Voldemort’s face still pressed against Harry’s chest.
How dare he push him beyond capacity and deny him something as simple as this?
How dare he turn his world on its head and stop just like that?
Harry’s voice was weak and sore, breaking at the edges. “W-why?”
It was a miracle he could even speak at all from how much he’d been screaming.
He was almost a bubbling mess throughout the whole affair. It should have been
no louder than a whisper, but there was just enough strength within him to get
his message across.
Voldemort did not answer, only breathed warm air against his chest. He squeezed
at the sheets above his head, bit on the inside of his cheek when that breath
teased at his nipple, the memory of what that wet mouth had done to his nipples
earlier enough to stoke the flames of lust.
Voldemort hadn’t pulled out, his presence was still bleeding into him, fucking
into his senses without moving in the least. Harry didn’t know how long they
lied like that. Each second passing was a reminder of how hard Harry’s cock
was, and of how tantalizing Voldemort’s hard cock was in his arse. It was
infinitesimally worse than if Voldemort had removed it. It left him starving
and yearning. Each twitch of that prick, each time Harry shifted to try to get
more of it, only made him want more.
Voldemort’s prick was monstrous in both size and shape, enough to break him
open like an egg, but he needed it. If only to get off, just this once.
Harry whined when Voldemort lifted his head and his red eyes caught his own.
There was something there, something Harry could not define in that second. It
swirled, the crimson flashing like precious stones with amusement
and...something else.
Something knowing, something hungry that made his breath catch, but not like
the amusement from before, The last time the Dark Lord had sported that look,
the last time Harry had seen it flash before his eyes, he had been thrust into
his own mind with only Ginny for company.
“Call me your Lord, Harry. Tell me you are mine,” Voldemort said. ”Say the
words and you will want for nothing. You will know pain; the kind of which your
mind could not begin to imagine. You will know pleasure; bliss that will render
you speechless. That will bury the fears lurking through the corners of your
mind.”
Harry shuddered at the lilt of his voice.The way his eyes flashed to Harry’s
trembling lips only to flicker back to his eyes, hunger plain in his gaze.
The promise was loud and clear. The implications, the price that would come
with completion a heavy one, even for him to bear.
Harry had never called him his Lord. Even as weak as he was, he had never
considered it. He had called him Voldemort, had in many ways understood
implicitly that he belonged to the Dark Lord after all that he’d been subjected
to.
But to voice, to admit, something like this. It was—
Harry swallowed, hesitant, even as tempted as he was. Voldemort would not lie,
had never lied to him.. Sweet as honey, bitter as coffee; a man of his word
even if the truth cut just as deeply as his lies.
Harry shouldn’t concede to his whims, and he opened his mouth to say as much,
but then, Voldemort shifted.
Voldemort’s cock stirred inside him, jostling his insides and the tip nudging
that nerve within him, and Harry’s voice died a swift death.
His cock jumped from the zing of pleasure. Pre-cum oozed from its rosy tip, and
he squirmed.
He wanted to cum desperately, wanted more of that bliss, of that rapture.
Lips parting, Harry shot the man a pleading look, hoping that it would be
enough for Voldemort to finish what he’d started. He didn’t want to say it,
didn’t want to degrade himself further.
His dignity was all that he had left, though it was possible that he didn’t
even have that either. Not when he’d come once from Voldemort’s fingers, and
practically melted into the man’s touches after being torn open.
Aching and bleeding, his insides had shifted to accommodate the Dark Lord in
every way.
Voldemort did not move again, and the room fell into a thick silence, their
breaths the only disruption to the peace that settled between them.
His arse ached fiercely. No longer eclipsed by the pleasure, the sharp pangs
were now more obvious than before. They could no longer hide behind the heat
that tantalized his flesh and poisoned his mind.
He was more lucid than he’d ever been, and yet—
Harry ached for it. The pain couldn’t mask the emptiness inside, or sate the
hunger. His cock was hard, refusing to settle.
“Unless you wish to remain unsated as you are. Forever hanging on the
precipice, unable to fall, I suggest you comply,” Voldemort said.
It was the only warning Harry had before Voldemort thrust into him, ramming
into his prostate once again.
Harry screamed, vocal chords straining. Voldemort set a brutal pace, cock
beating as though he were trying to break him. The pain was agonizing, furious,
as it tore up his insides in a way that Voldemort hadn’t before.
His voice cracked and shattered from the violence. He should have been
repulsed, horrified, and desperate for it to end. But these cries, they were
not from pain. He wasn’t a sobbing mess because he wanted it to end. He didn’t
choke and gurgle because he wanted his consciousness to fade. No, nothing could
have prepared him for the intensity, for the crushing weight of—
Ecstasy .
Pleasure beyond his comprehension assaulted him. It bled into him, fitted
between the gaps of his spine, burrowed into his flesh like fingers gripping
onto his skin. It speared him, cracked him open. He couldn’t even begin to
describe the sensation.
His screams were endless. He couldn’t have stopped them if he tried. The Dark
Lord fucked him like he was trying to shape Harry into his image. Forcing him
near climax once again, the burn within his belly enough to make his toes curl
at the promise of orgasm.
Voldemort did not touch his prick, but Harry hadn’t noticed. He was closing in.
His eyes rolled to the back of his head, saliva dribbling from his chin from
screaming himself hoarse.
And then, just as he neared it, just as his insides twisted, readying
themselves for the explosive climax the Dark Lord had denied him earlier,
Voldemort ceased all movement.
Harry screamed with frustration.
No.
“I can keep you on the cusp all evening if that is what it requires,” Voldemort
warned, and Harry wanted to cry.
No!
Voldemort couldn’t—he wouldn’t—
But he would , said a voice in Harry’s head. A distorted version of his own
voice, sly and assessing in the way it spoke.
Dismay flared within him, the prospect of remaining unsated, of remaining empty
and lusting for a climax he would never achieve, torturous. But was it enough
for him to call him ‘My lord’? Could he live with himself if he did? Even after
everything he had done?
“Perhaps we could have Ginevra join—”
Horror like never before seized him at the mere mention of her name. Harry
didn’t hesitate to interrupt the Dark Lord before he could say more.
“I’ll d-do it!” Harry shouted, voice cracking. “I-I’m yours...my Lord.”
The words tasted like something foul in his mouth, like a creature had died in
the back of his throat. But he would not face Ginny again. He refused to—not
after what she had done. Voldemort had already punished him for refusing him
once before.
Harry couldn’t do it again. Merlin, he’d do whatever it took.
And if that meant calling Voldemort his...Lord, if that meant falling lower
than he’d already fallen, he would. He couldn’t do this again.
Harry turned his gaze stubbornly to the ceiling. He knew what this meant, as
foul as it was, what Voldemort intended. He wanted Harry to call him my Lord as
Voldemort took him.
For what other reason would the man have done it than to satisfy his own ego?
Then to rub into Harry’s face that he’d won? That all that Harry had was the
Dark Lord and no one else?
“Good boy, my little horcrux,” Voldemort purred.
The pleasure in his tone enough to make Harry’s spine shiver.
Then, warmth lit up inside him, somewhere that Harry could not place. It was
similar to his skin burning up like a pyre, roasting him from the inside out.
It was pleasure, but not one that came from him. No. it came from somewhere
else.
Could it be Voldemort’s?  Harry thought, his heart beating wildly when that
heat began to spread. More of that foreign emotion curtained around him until
he could no longer tell whether this was his own pleasure or Voldemort’s.
Then, Voldemort’s finger was on his chin, forcing his head to look him.
Harry wished he hadn’t looked. That somehow, he could erase the vision of his
gaze blazing with hunger and lust, lips twisted into a wry smile that was all
wrong on that snake-like visage.
“Say it again,” Voldemort said, and Harry’s throat went dry. He didn’t want to,
not when Voldemort was looking at him as if he were going to eat him, as if he
was barely restraining something monstrous from behind his mask of impassivity.
There was a violence there that Harry could sense.If he said it again, there
was no going back from this. Voldemort would deliver his promise, and there
would be no stopping it once it began.
A thrill of anticipation and horror thrummed beneath his skin, and Harry
couldn’t tell whether it was his or Voldemort’s. He didn’t know where he began
and where Voldemort ended, didn’t know if all of this desperation on his flesh
was actually his own.
Harry licked his lips, watching how Voldemort followed the motion, before
saying the words.
“I’m yours, My Lord.”
The words were a trigger that changed everything in a matter of seconds.
Powerful magic erupted and devoured everything in its path.
Voldemort pulled out almost entirely, hand gripping Harry’s ankle before he
pulled it over his shoulder. Harry’s muscles screamed with discomfort. He’s
never bent his legs that high or far back before, even as an athlete.
There was no precision in Voldemort’s movements. No poise. His motions were
frantic, as if something had been unleashed that could no longer be contained,
and Harry only had one moment to suck in a sharp breath before Voldemort buried
his cock inside him. His ridges sliced into his skin, blood lubricating him far
better than whatever lubricant Voldemort had smeared into his arse.
Harry screamed, the magic restraining his arms fell away, and suddenly he was
clutching onto Voldemort’s shoulders for dear life, nails cutting into the
fabric, in order to ground himself somehow.
Pain exploded, the barbed tip stabbing into his prostate with a mercilessness
Harry had no time to prepare for. White flashed behind his eyes, blackened
spots crept along the corners of his vision.
It was excruciating, but Harry did not stop him. He curled the leg hanging
nearly off the bed around Voldemort’s waist and tugged him closer.
He was high, intoxicated by the volatile sensations warring in him. It was
euphoric; the man’s pleasure, the intoxicating heating of Voldemort’s cock
inside him, stripping him raw, as delicious as it was terrifying.
Voldemort dug his nails into Harry’s thigh as he fucked into him, blood oozing
from the cuts and dribbling down his leg in rivulets.
It resembled the ruby of Voldemort’s eyes, a crimson current glimmering beneath
the shadowy light in the room. Harry stared at it for a moment, before a brutal
thrust ripped his focus away. As if Voldemort were demanding his attention.
Knowing him, he probably wanted to hear Harry beg for his ruin.
And Harry would oblige. He would do whatever Voldemort wanted if he would let
him cum.
“Say it again, Harry. Scream for me.”
“M-my Lord,” Harry howled, head falling to one side, making room for the Dark
Lord to lean down to lick his neck, to taste around the edges of where
Voldemort had bitten him last. The wound stung, but Harry did not care, he
wanted more.
Pain was pleasure, and pleasure was pain. Chasing, always chasing, after
Harry’s pleasure in the pain. Voldemort’s ecstasy was his own, and if that
meant that Harry had to suffer to achieve his orgasm, he would.
Merlin, I’d do anything.
Voldemort sucked at his collarbones. Harry’s mouth parted, but no words came.
His throat had dried, stuffed full of cotton that dampened his screams.
Emboldened, Voldemort twined his fingers around their pricks, and Harry could
no longer contain himself. This wasn’t enough. He wanted more than those
fingers twisting his prick and fucking into his arse. He wanted to break. He
wanted to shatter to pieces. He wanted to finish what the Dark Lord had begun,
what Voldemort had denied him.
Harry, weak as he was with agony racking through him, decided that no
more—there was no more dignity left for him to salvage, no Harry Potter to
protect when he had fallen so low.
Steeling himself, Harry flipped Voldemort onto his back, taking full advantage
of the Voldemort’s surprise to grind down on his lap.
This time, Voldemort would not deny him orgasm. Not again. Harry needed to
come.
“ More, my Lord ,” Harry hissed in parseltongue, before pressing his hands onto
Voldemort’s chest and burying more of that cock inside him. “Rip me open, I’m
yours.”
Voldemort’s surprise melted into amusement, lips twisting into a predatory
smile that made a thrill rush up Harry’s spine.
“As you wish, my horcrux.”
The words were more a threat than acquiescence. Harry didn’t care. He settled
his knees on either side of the man’s hips, and with all the strength he could
muster from his quivering legs, pulled out of Voldemort’s cock and slammed back
down.
Agony tore through him, before a whisper of pleasure chasing after the torture
a half second after the pain. It left him breathless, the thought that
Voldemort was not nearly as unaffected as he seemed. The connection between
their souls exposed his emotions and betrayed his own desire to feel more of
Harry’s tight warmth encasing one of his cocks.
Harry gripped both of their dicks with one hand, thumb teasing at his own slit
and stroking them both in time to his own thrusts.
His pace was slow, slower than Voldemort’s had been when he’d been fucking his
arse with near abandon, but this was better. Here, with this control, Harry
knew that Voldemort could not stop just short of Harry’s climax. Harry would
get what he wanted from this and never do this again.
It would be the first and the last.
Voldemort’s hands clenched onto Harry’s hips as Harry fucked himself on that
cock, eyes half-lidded and wet with tears. The moisture trickled down his
cheeks, but Harry paid it little mind. Voldemort’s cock demanded all of his
attention.
It hurt so much. Each thrust was another wound that speared him further inside.
But that zing that rushed up his spine each time he slammed into it was
addicting. Just as intoxicating as Voldemort’s own sharp breaths and the
pleasure that thrummed along their connection.
It wasn’t until the familiar winding pressure squeezed within his navel that
Harry’s movements became more frantic, his arms nearly collapsed under his
weight. His legs like jelly as he cut himself open each time. Voldemort did
nothing more than allow him to move, and for this, Harry was almost grateful.
Voldemort only watched him, staring him down, as if challenging him, taunting
him, daring to do more than thrust more of Voldemort’s cock inside him. It made
anger blossom within Harry’s chest, a spark of something familiar that urged
him to meet that challenge.
Harry squeezed their pricks tighter, brutal as he jabbed his nail into his own
prick, mimicking the Dark Lord’s motions from before. Pleasure sang in his
blood at the familiar agony, stomach tight with release, the promise of climax
so heady that he closed his eyes to push closer.
“Look at you…”
Something wrenched from Harry. Words of praise doing things to him that he
never thought possible.
He didn’t want his praise. Harry didn’t need it, but Merlin, the way he said
those words. The way Voldemort’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on Harry’s
hips shoved Harry over the edge.
Harry saw white, mouth parting into a loud cry as he came all over Voldemort’s
robes. It clashed with the dark fabric, but Harry couldn’t focus on it when
Voldemort squeezed him viciously, as if riding the wave of his own orgasm,
before snapping his cock upwards and burying his cock deeper.
The motion tore a scream from Harry’s mouth. It had been unexpected, so sudden,
that he collapsed onto Voldemort’s chest. Weak and pathetic, he tried to gather
his bearings.
Voldemort granted him no moment of respite. He sat up, hands clasping him onto
the backs of Harry’s thighs to prop him more comfortably on his lap,
manipulating his body with an ease that shouldn’t have been possible, but was.
“I promised you pleasure beyond your wildest dreams, torment beyond even your
own comprehension,” Voldemort said, “and I am a man of my word.”
Voldemort pulled out from him, and Harry whined, his other hand releasing his
own cock to join the other in latching weakly onto the Voldemort’s shoulders.
The sharp tip of Voldemort’s cock was now grazing his hole, but Harry knew,
like a burning sun in the recesses of his mind, that Voldemort was far from
finished.
Fear and desire coiled inside him, the confusing mass of emotion difficult to
wade through when eclipsed by his post-coital bliss.
“Scream for me,  Harry .”
The sudden shock of triumph that sparked to life in the back of his mind was
quickly stilled when, not one, but  two , sharp ends buried inside him,
skewering him.
Harry screamed. Agony tore through him and he rocked against it, Voldemort’s
pleasure bore through him in perfect synchrony with the pain. Voldemort was
tearing him in two, stretching him beyond what he had accustomed to. His
pleased groans cut between Harry’s screams, and Harry’s delight and happiness
bled into the torturous thrust of Voldemort’s cocks.
‘Wai-ah!” Harry wailed when Voldemort pulled back out and pushed back inside.
Like glass shattering, Harry’s voice broke, tears and saliva dribbling down his
chin. In and out. Harry counted each one, pinpointed each time the barbed ends
spliced along inside him, lubricated him more thoroughly for his assault. Blood
was a poor substitute, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The pain was the
same regardless.
The stench of iron and the wet squelching of his insides made each slide easier
than the last. Replenishing the dried blood to ease the passage of Voldemort’s
cocks. Each new cut bestowed upon the fragile flesh both a relief and a
punishment.
Harry was helpless, unable to do anything except ride the wave of agony.
Screaming and screaming, unsure if he wanted Voldemort to keep ripping him
apart or stop, until those cries turned into sobs.
Isn’t this what you wanted?  An insidious voice murmured into his head.  Isn’t
this what you craved, what you deserve?
A hand curled around his neck, and Harry closed his eyes as sharp nails dug
into the underside of his jaw to pull him closer to Voldemort’s panting mouth.
The man’s breath fanned along his face, the stench of death and earth rich
within the tuffs of air, but Harry was too lost to care.
All that mattered was the pain and—
Then, Voldemort’s cocks knocked against Harry’s prostate, and confusing sparks
of ecstasy mangled him. Like a dam had been broken open, and Voldemort’s
pleasure was now pulsing through him like the uncontrollable flood of magic.
Harry’s pained screams morphed into pleasured cries. His fingers clenched down
harder, the rapture inuring him with the confidence to open his eyes and
glimpse into the face of the monster fucking him.
Voldemort’s eyes were brilliant gems, hot and expressive with his pleasure. It
was like glimpsing into the flame of a hearth, like being caught in the throat
of a massive serpent. Voldemort looked at him as if he wanted to devour him, to
twist them into one single being until neither one knew what being alone was.
Is that not what you wanted? Never to be alone?
Harry’s mouth broke open with a loud cry when Voldemort rocked his hips into
his prostate. A hand curled onto his cock, and the fingers still pressed tight
against his throat squeezed, straining his breaths.
“Is this not what you wanted, Harry Potter?” Voldemort whispered, echoing the
thoughts beating in time with the rapid drumming of his heart. Echoes of his
own twisted moans and groans like prayer in a silent church.
Tears ran down his cheeks, the inexplicable sparks of conflicting sensations
pulling him in one too many directions.  Merlin , Harry wanted to scream, to
say. But that was impossible, each slide of Voldemort’s pointed cocks inside
him, each time those fingers pumped his prick to bring him closer to an orgasm,
rendered him speechless.
Something hot and sticky slid down his shaking thighs, smearing against his
legs each time Voldemort coaxed Harry to move along with his sporadic
movements.
Is that all me? All that my blood?  Harry wanted to ask, weak and swept away by
the heat of Voldemort’s breath against his face, of his tongue sliding wetly
against those thin lips.
Does it matter?  Another voice whispered in his head, and Harry choked when
Voldemort’s hand clenched tighter around his throat and Voldemort’s other hand
began to pump his hard cock—when had he gotten hard? He forgot when—to drag him
closer to his next orgasm.
“Answer me.” Voldemort hissed, mouth pressing against Harry’s as if to whisper
the terrible secrets against him. Harry leaned into it drawn in by the spark of
electricity the gesture elicited.
Harry slid his tongue against that lip, eyes wide open as Voldemort speared him
with a look, eyes boring into his soul in search of something Harry did not
have the presence of mind to explain, when Voldemort was wounding him enough
for him to bleed out.
“I will leave you if you do not speak,” Voldemort said against Harry’s lips,
and that was all the encouragement Harry needed to stop his sobs.
“Y-yes!”
Harry clenched his eyes shut when Voldemort squeezed his throat in reward and
grinned against Harry’s mouth, eyes flashing.
Darkness crept along the edges of his vision, the pain and the pleasure caving
his stomach in, his thighs shaking with the force of Voldemort’s thrusts.
“Yes what, my horcrux?” Voldemort asked, but Harry could barely hear him.
His words were far away, and his was face blurring at the edges from the tears
and the lack of oxygen clouding his consciousness.
Harry’s mouth parted, but it was slack with spittle, tongue lolling uselessly
as Voldemort suffocated him with a powerful grip on his throat. Harry was
dying. At the mercy and whim of a madman, but he wasn’t afraid. The haze, the
pleasure, and the pain were coiled in his belly, building ever more while
underneath the stare of the most powerful wizard in the world.
“You know the words…” Voldemort crooned, soft and inviting in spite of the
furious thrusting of hips.
The world grew darker and darker the longer the Dark Lord deprived him of air,
the promise of bliss right at the tip of Harry’s tongue.
Say it , a voice commanded. Soft and sweet, like the sweet thrum of a harp
played in a chapel, despite its imperious quality.  Give him what he wants so
that he can give you what you need.
Harry latched onto what little control he had left, realizing how his arms hung
uselessly on the Voldemort’s collar—confused as to when he’d become no more
than a doll on the Voldemort’s lap. There was no force, no will to move, as
weakened as he was. Was it the blood loss? Was it the lack of oxygen? Or both?
Harry had no way of knowing, dazed as he was.
“Y-yes, my Lord,” Harry croaked.
Then his eyes popped open with shock when Voldemort suddenly released his
throat and forced him onto his back. Harry’s legs fell uselessly on either side
of Voldemort’s hips and, and then Voldemort snapped his hips, burying himself
even deeper. Harry screamed, the loud slaps unrecognizable as Voldemort fucked
him mercilessly.
Is this not what you wanted?
Harry’s vision went black for a moment as the smell of blood in the air and the
loud slaps of Voldemort’s cocks burying deeper inside him intensifies. It was
wrong—so wrong—he wasn’t supposed to be delighted at being split open, at being
defiled and fucked by a monster.
But you are, aren’t you? You want to be defiled, don’t you?
Revulsion should have overcome him, should have broken him away from the
pleasure singing in his blood. But it didn’t. Each time Voldemort’s fingers
coiled around his prick, thumb flicking against the head of his prick, it was
ecstasy .
Each time Voldemort plunged inside him—buried into him—Harry wanted to beg for
more. Wanted to moan into Voldemort’s ear just how much he wanted to come apart
at the seams; for Voldemort to fuck him until this ache inside, this emptiness
within him, faded away.
Voldemort leaned down to mouth against his neck, his tongue lapping at his
pectoral and tracing the muscle, before sucking his nipple into his mouth,
teeth catching on the nub.
Yes .
Reinvigorated, Harry arched his back, legs forcing the man closer and deeper
inside him, locked in his body as Voldemort swirled his nipple into his mouth
and bit at the flesh. Harry’s eyes fell open to stare unseeingly at the
ceiling, pinpricks rendering his limbs useless, and then, drawn in by the
intensity of Voldemort’s stare, Harry’s gaze shifted down to the look at his
thighs.
Everything was red.
All he could taste, could smell, could feel was the acrid stench of blood. Of
how with each pull of Voldemort’s cocks, more of the brilliant red spilled from
inside, dragging strange flesh Harry had never seen before in his life.
It was pink and red, dewy with Voldemort’s fluids and Harry’s blood.
They were undeniably his intestines. The sight a repulsive and undeniable
truth. It simply couldn’t be anything else.
But Harry wasn’t afraid.
There was no fear or disgust. Not even a twinge of revulsion sparked within his
mind at the sight. He was drowning, his nerves singing, and all that registered
was his own soul-crushing need.
They drowned it all out, enveloped him in a cloud Harry had no means of
resisting. With each delicious tug at his innards, each drag of Voldemort’s
cock in and out of his arse, he was propelled closer to his climax. His desire
to crest, to come part, to break, was undeniable. The promise of his orgasm was
an insistent beat against the back of his mind, a vicious beast that was far
crueler than even Voldemort’s violent sadism.
You’re so close now. You’re almost there.
Eyes fluttering, Harry rocked his hips in time to Voldemort’s thrusts, impaling
himself further onto Voldemort’s cocks. His desire and self-loathing insisted
that he keep moving, demanded that he harm himself for  more .
In that moment, his past did not matter. Who he was meaningless.
All that mattered right now was Voldemort’s cocks, and how each tug of those
barbed ends against his insides set his blood aflame. The man’s thoughts and
emotions suffocated him, snuffing out the horror, drowning him in delicious
pain.
And then—
Voldemort’s teeth plunged into his chest, gnawing at his skin.
Harry screamed.
White flashed in the back of his eyes, tipped over the edge as pain and the
rush of pleasure thrummed along that connection. Like fangs piercing his skin
to inject venom.
Darkness overcame him and his body collapsed. Rendered useless by the shocks of
Voldemort’s cocks fucking him despite the weight of lethargy.
Voldemort didn’t stop. He continued to fuck Harry, uncaring of the fact that
Harry had orgasmed for the second time. Harry’s cock hung uselessly between the
man’s fingers, the stimulation too much when paired with Voldemort’s violent
thrusts.
Agonizing pleasure lanced through him at the continued thrusts, and Harry began
to arch his back to force the man out, to make the abuse on his prostate end.
“P-please, n-no more.  Stop. ”
Voldemort didn’t—wouldn’t. He plowed into him, laughing when Harry sobbed, his
cock twitching painfully when a dry orgasm was ripped out of him.
“Careful what you wish for, my horcrux…” Voldemort mocked.
Harry didn’t listen,  weighed down by a mixture of pain, exhaustion, and
unwanted pleasure.
Voldemort, even when his face began to glow with a fine sheen of sweat, did not
relent. The torment went on endlessly. Orgasm after painful orgasm ripped
through him, his cock coated with fluids, his soft flesh caught between
Voldemort’s grip.
He did not cease stroking Harry. Voldemort’s thumb played with the slit to
drive Harry insane with bliss. Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and
his mouth slackened with his silent screams as Voldemort continued to torture
him.
There was no escape; Voldemort’s hot mouth lapped at his neck, his lips and
teeth marking Harry’s throat for all the world to see.
Harry didn’t know how long this went on for, incapable of thinking of anything
else but Voldemort’s suffocating presence.
He was a shaking mess. Time and space, reality and the imaginary plane,
converged into one. His mind was adrift, Voldemort’s searing touch scorched him
from the inside out.
It was on only after his fifth orgasm that something changed. Voldemort’s
thrusts became more frantic, his hand wound tightly around Harry’s cock. A low
hiss escaped Voldemort’s mouth, but Harry’s mind became muddled once again when
a sharp nail dug into his slit, blinding him.
Then, a hot stream gushed inside him nearly a second before Harry was tipped
over the edge once again, Voldemort's weight crushing his pelvis. A shock of
heat, a bellow torn from his abused throat in perfect harmony with Voldemort’s
own low groan.
It was as if they were one, rather than two.
One soul, one heart, and one mind.
Harry’s cock twitched, but there was no more fluid to expel. It had long since
dried, fucked out of him by Voldemort. Voldemort’s hands, Harry’s thighs, and
stomach were drenched with it.
Warmth spread through Harry like a toxin, his blood, and the fluids splattered
onto his skin, comforting even when in the back of his mind, that notion was
wrong.
This weightlessness, contentment, and peace were all wrong. He’d been soiled.
Violated both in the physical and mental sense. He shouldn’t have been as
accepting of this as he was, he should be fighting and struggling against it
but—
That sweet abyss called to him. His mind blanketed by this sweet fog.
Harry shuddered when the man finally pulled out, and something wrenched, a
ripple in the nothing. It was as though a piece of himself had come away with
Voldemort’s cocks. Had Voldemort, at that moment, stolen another fragment of
his soul? Was there anything of the boy he once was left?
Harry wanted to open his eyes, take a glimpse. and see for himself if that was
his soul being pulled from his insides, but he couldn’t. Something inside him
urged him not to, whispered into his mind that he shouldn’t because what
Voldemort had taken from him was not his soul. It was something else, something
that ached and festered.
Pink and red flesh dewy with Voldemort’s fluids and his —
Horror cut through him, like ripples on placid waters. Panic trickled into his
mind, and his breaths, as well as his heart, began to race because— oh god, oh
god—
Shhh, it’s okay. .. a different voice interrupted.
A voice that was nothing like Harry’s or Voldemort’s sinuous thoughts.
It will be okay,  the voice whispered, and a wave of peace followed, granting
him a respite. Wrapping its invisible arms around him, and enveloping him in a
warm cocoon.
Let yourself rest. ..
Harry sank into it like a rock thrown into still waters.
It was unbelievably warm, like an oversized sweater on frigid skin. Like a
luxurious fireplace flaring to life when one needed it most, summoned by the
force of one’s own magic. He craved it like a starving mind desired food. He
wanted this, wanted what this voice had to offer with every fiber of his being,
bewitched by the promise in its voice.
Let me hold you.
Harry’s fingers were cold, the furious heat of Voldemort’s desire no longer
enough to keep him warm. A shudder wracked him when sharp nails trailed up his
neck, following some unknown pattern until they stopped at his scar, caressing
his sweat-slicked skin. The scar pulsed, twinging with a phantom pain, but
Harry did not move.
Harry couldn’t even if he’d tried—he was overcome with a bone-deep weariness
that refused to abate. A deep-seeded loneliness flowing and  pressing  against
his psyche until he was crushed by it. His desire to fight was lost to the
confusing emotions.
But it was nothing to the sudden flare of his disgust.
It was a rancid stench that refused to leave, clinging to his nose, to his
skin, to his  brain . It was his fault that this happened to him. All of it. If
he hadn’t let himself get caught, if he hadn’t let himself give in, then
perhaps, this all could have been different. Voldemort would never have killed
his friends, Voldemort would never have backed him into a corner.
Harry would never have considered making a horcrux, never would have considered
giving into the Dark Lord.
But he had. The evidence of what they’d both had done was too much for even him
to bear. It was wrong, so fucking  wrong.  Merlin, it was all his fault he had—
Forget about him, Harry. Forget about your pain, forget about your sorrow,
that strange voice interrupted, smooth as rich chocolate.
The voice was reassuring, so utterly  understanding .
It was…
Nice.
Despite himself, Harry’s body relaxed, trusting the promises woven into the
words. Drawn in, enamored by the comforting weight of its presence at the
forefront of his mind.
It was familiar, somehow. Like a long-lost friend that Harry had forgotten
about.
Harry wanted to claim that voice for himself. It tasted of freedom, smelled of
love . It was a darkness, a void of the best kind. There was no Ginny. There
were no dying cries or maimed faces crying out for help. No friends that gazed
accusingly at him, asking him why it wasn’t  him  that had died.
It was only Harry and that sweet voice, only him and that—
It’s okay, Harry…
Harry sighed, suddenly weightless. He was floating, giving into the shadow
murmuring into his mind.
Here, he’s comforted. Here, he can abandon Voldemort’s poisonous promises and
heart-wrenching truths, and avoid the white noise of Voldemort’s claws against
his scar.
This was...home.
Shhh. Here, you will never hurt again.
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