Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/238019.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Albus_Severus_Potter/Louis_Weasley
  Character:
      Louis_Weasley, Albus_Severus_Potter, James_Sirius_Potter
  Additional Tags:
      Domestic_Violence, Self-Harm, Rape/Non-con_References, Rape, Chan,
      Incest, Codependency, Possessive_Behavior, Jealousy
  Series:
      Part 4 of In_Endless_Dance
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-08-11 Words: 3745
****** Silentium Amoris ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     It is Valentine's Day at Hogwarts. Louis reflects on all the reasons
     he detests the day.
Notes
     Trigger Warnings: Domestic Violence, Abuse, Self-Harm, Underage,
     Codependency Issues, Incest.
It is Valentine's Day at Hogwarts, and everywhere there is love-hearts and
flowers, cupids and chocolates, pink and white and red confetti. Louis hates
Valentine's Day with a burning passion. He catches Albus's eye, bright-green
and hollow, from across the room, and is swiftly reminded why: He knows he'll
never be able to express the love he feels for Albus so frankly; not like the
rest of them can.
When he thinks about Albus, the last thing to symbolize their love would be
maudlin love-hearts and stuffed animals, cute little candies or flowers; what
is between them is something dark and nameless; twisted, and unfettered by age,
flesh, or even their shared blood. It is transcendental. Louis doubts there is
anything, anywhere, in this world or the next with the power to rip them apart.
No thought has ever given him greater comfort, or scared him so profoundly.
In front of him, strewn all over the Gryffindor table, is a massacre of ripped
white envelopes. This year's haul is even larger than the last—most of the
Valentines he has received are signed, rather brazenly, by numerous Gryffindor
girls, most of whose names he can't quite put a face to. He makes a mental note
to thank the girls he does remember. He feels it is the least he can do; their
devotion to him is touching considering he's never shown any of them an ounce
of interest.
He piles the cards into a stack and pushes them away from him, wishing vaguely
that they'd somehow disappear so he wouldn't have to look at them, and tries to
catch Albus's eye again. His fingers tighten around his silver goblet when he
can't. His younger cousin's attention is, for the moment, diverted—the slender
boy is currently embroiled in a half-hearted squabble with his brother, James,
who is bragging loudly about their disparate number of Valentines and flicking
peas into his little brother's face with a fork.
Watching them, Louis's mood darkens, like a black cloud has settled over his
head. A fierce rush of protectiveness lances through him and he wants to leap
up, over the table, and slam James's smug little face into his moderately-sized
pile of Valentine's cards. Louis loves James, and would never hurt him, but
when the mischievous boy goes and does something that makes Albus look the way
he does right now, there is no limit to what Louis would do in honor of the boy
he loves.
Still, he knows that if he causes a scene, Albus will almost certainly make him
pay for it later. With this in mind, he sets his jaw and stares up at the
enchanted ceiling above, wilfully ignoring the mayhem going on around him. It
is snowing heavily outside, and the dome overhead looks like the inside of a
deep well, black and bottomless. Fragile flakes of snow drift lazily from the
sky, and it all looks so very real that Louis almost sticks out his tongue to
taste one.
"You never get tired of looking at that, do you, Louis?"
Startled, Louis tears his eyes away from the ceiling to find a pretty girl,
with placid brown eyes and a warm smile, watching him thoughtfully from across
the table, chin in her palm. He knows she's in the year below him but is
embarrassed to find he can't remember her name. "No," he tells her with a small
smile, and watches as a blush rises in her pale skin. "It's far too beautiful
to tire of; don't you think?"
After dinner he very nearly trips over his feet in his mad rush for Albus. He
pines for the boy with a physical ache; needs him with each and every fibre of
his being. Every cell in his body lives and thrives for Albus; each nerve
within him is so finely attuned to the other boy's presence that, whenever he
is close, Louis feels him before he even lays eyes upon him.
Lost in a sea of excitable students, Louis can no longer see the boy, but knows
he is close—there is a twisting sensation in his gut, like live snakes are
writhing about inside his belly, chewing on his insides, and at once he senses
that something is wrong. How exactly he knows this, he can't quite tell.
He lingers by one of the suits of armour and waits for Albus to pass him by.
When eventually he does, Louis darts out boldly, uncaring who sees them, and
fists a bunch of the smaller boy's robes, hauling him behind the armour and out
of sight. "What's the matter?" is the first thing that tumbles out of his
mouth. Anxiously, he searches Albus's face. There is something dark and
poisonous between them, Louis can feel it. He's been feeling it for weeks. The
look on Albus's face only serves to tell him he's right.  
He glares up at Louis with those vivid green eyes of his, face alight with
fury, and shoves Louis away from him. "Don't stand there," he begins, voice
loud and uneven as it echoes throughout the cavernous entrance hall, "and
pretend like you don't already know."
Stumbling backward and losing his footing, Louis catches his shoulder on the
wall behind him and winces in pain. Fuming, he growls, "What the hell was that
for? Why are you shouting at me?" He rubs his tender shoulder and hopes to God
there's no one around to hear this.
Albus balls his delicate little hands into fists and scowls. "Rose says you've
been talking to that girl behind my back!" he spits, face red with rage and
eyes glassy with tears. "Yes, I saw you at dinner," he adds with a sneer. "The
pair of you looked so darn sweet together I nearly puked all over my dessert.
Perhaps you can even take her out next Hogsmeade weekend? I know your mother
would just love that. Tell me, is the pressure to find yourself a nice little
girlfriend finally getting to you, Louis?"
Louis lets out a loud snort of laughter. He can't help himself. Albus looks
positively scandalized by this, and with a low growl, lifts a hand to strike
Louis. Louis catches the boy's fist before it can connect with his face and
twists it behind his back. "Stop that," he orders, seriously now, and tightens
his fingers around Albus's wrist. "You're being ridiculous and you know it. Has
hitting me ever solved anything before?"
Albus tries fruitlessly to squirm away from him. Giving up, he lets his arm go
limp and snarls, "I'm being ridiculous? What about when you hit me? It's
different then, isn't it? It's always different when it's you!"
The bitter memory of their most recent fight, in which Louis had struck out at
Albus and bruised his face, caused his nose to bleed, hangs over Louis's mind
like rancid smoke. Anger at himslef and Albus llashes through him like a
burning whip, and he digs his fingernails into the fleshy part of Albus's
wrist, eliciting a loud yelp. "Well," Louis breathes, face so close to Albus's
now he can smell his skin, "you deserved it, didn't you?" This is what he tells
himself almost every night. Albus had lied to Louis that night, provoked his
temper—the entire fight had been caused by him.
"Stop it!" Albus squeals. "Let me go!"
A thrill of lust shoots through Louis, as it always does when Albus struggles
against him like this, and he tightens his fingers. "You know I don't like to
hurt you, Albus," he says in a low voice, "but sometimes it's as if you're just
... begging me for it."
Albus's nostrils flare with the force of his breathing. Up close his skin is
perfect and pore-less, like polished marble. "I love you, Louis," he whispers,
like he means the direct opposite. What he wants to say is I hate that I love
you. I'd do anything to make it stop.
Caught off-guard, Louis relaxes his grip a little and Albus lets out a breath,
closing his eyes. "I love you too," Louis tells him without preamble. "Always.
But you arebeing ridiculous," he bristles. "You don't need to be so jealous all
the time; I'm not talking to anyone behind your back. That girl—at dinner?" He
lowers his voice to a murmur. "I don't even know her name, Albus. And if you
really were watching us, you'd have seen I only said about two sentences to
her. She means nothing to me. I wouldn't leave you for the world; you know
that." His heartfelt reassurances don't have the intended effect on Albus; the
boy still looks furious with him.
Albus folds his arms across his chest and turns his head, jaw firmly set. "No,
I don't," he argues, petulantly. "I don't know anything. All you ever do is
flirt with other people, never mind how I feel. You're so conceited, Louis, and
I hate you for it. You think being good-looking gives you the right to go
flouncing about like you're better than everyone else, soaking up all the
attention—"
With a low growl, Louis has his hands around Albus's throat before he realizes
what he's doing, has him slammed up against the wall, crushing and squeezing
the life out of him. "Why do you say these things?" he demands of the other
boy, voice breaking, and shakes Albus by the neck, so forcefully the dark-
haired boy hits the back of his head against the wall.
He strains for breath; tears stream down that pretty face, and the sight of it
breaks Louis's heart. But he can't stop himself. All he wants to do is hurt
Albus the way Albus has hurt him, even if he knows it'll never be enough: as
though his tongue was made of acid, Albus is capable of astonishing acts of
cruelty using just his words, cruelty Louis can't possibly match. All he has is
violence; the ability to easily overcome Albus physically. Lately he's come to
almost enjoy the sense of power this gives him and he hates himself for it.
"I don't think I'm better than anyone!" he tells Albus through gritted teeth,
and shakes the boy harder still. It's like manhandling a ragdoll—he is so
light; so breakable. "And you know I don't want it, any of it!"
Albus's beautiful skin turns from porcelain-white to red to ash-grey to blue
with remarkable swiftness. Louis knows that if he doesn't stop choking the boy
soon, he'll probably kill him. With a sob, he releases Albus's throat and
slumps forward, resting his forehead against the boy's shoulder. "All I want is
you," he says in a muffled voice, and envelopes Albus, who is spluttering and
wheezing and fighting to catch his breath, in his arms and holds him close.
"All I want is you..."
Still gasping for breath, Albus loops his arms around Louis's neck and threads
a hand through his hair. "Louis," he says, his voice a dry whisper, "it hurts."
Louis knows he isn't just talking about his throat, but everything.
"I know," Louis says. "I know. I'm sorry. You just... You make me so angry
sometimes. Why do you have to do that?"
Albus doesn't answer him, and a wave of panic strikes Louis's heart. Sometimes
he thinks Albus will give up on him any day now; that he'll finally tire of the
heartache—of having to keep every look, touch, or whispered word a secret—and
leave Louis destitute and alone without him; with nothing.
Louis needs Albus, loves him, too much to ever let that happen.
He draws away from his cousin and takes a deep, uneven breath, wiping his face
with the sleeve of his robe. It is remarkable how quickly Albus can reduce him
to tears. He stares down at the boy's face in the warm, flickering torchlight,
and brushes the back of his hand across that silky-smooth skin. Albus matches
his gaze with intensity, chest rising and falling harshly with the force of his
breathing, and Louis can see flames reflected in his eyes.
"If you ever leave me," Louis reminds the boy steadily, softly, "I'll kill
you."
Albus's gaze is unwavering in the silence. He covers Louis's hand with his own
and says, "I wouldn't leave you. And don't talk like that," he adds in a
whisper, pushing his fingers through Louis's. "You sound completely mental." He
lets out a weak laugh, and Louis can't tell whether he sounds exhausted or
scared.
Louis's breath catches in his throat. He wants to shake Albus again, to
scream, You made me this way! but somehow, manages to restrain himself. Instead
he rubs a thumb over Albus's pillowy lower-lip, and leans forward to kiss the
boy's forehead. "I won't be without you," he utters, and squeezes Albus's hand.
"You'll always be mine; whatever it takes."
Albus hooks an arm around Louis's waist and rests his head in the crook of his
neck. "I wouldn't have it any other way," he sighs, and the feel of those warm
lips moving against his skin sends electric shivers down Louis's spine. "But
it's Valentine's Day, my Louis—don't you want to show me how much you love me?
I don't want to fight with you. Please, not today."
Louis refrains from pointing out to Albus that it was, in fact, him who started
the row in the first place, and says instead, "Alright, but I-I didn't get you
anything. I'm sorry. I didn't know today would be important to you. You always
said you hated Valentine's Day as much as I do."
"Well maybe I've changed my mind." Albus leans back to stare at him, biting his
lip. "And I don't want presents," he adds with a sulky frown, "I want you." He
punctuates you by arching into Louis's embrace and rolling his hips
suggestively. His eyes darken with lust as he loops his arms around Louis's
waist and draws him closely to his body. "Fuck me?"
Trembling, Louis trails his fingerstips over Albus's throat, chest and stomach,
and tries not to give in to the urge to strike the boy again, just for this.
Louis despises that Albus has grown so wanton, that he's lost everything about
himself that was innocent. He misses the way things used to be: when everything
was new and thrilling and sacred to them both, not depraved and filthy the way
it is now.
A voice at the back of Louis's mind says, But it was you who made him this way.
He looked up to you, worshipped you, and you corrupted him. He doesn't know how
else to express himself, and it's all because of you. You took away his
innocence; you ruined him. Everything that happens now, everything he does, is
down to you.
He knows it's true. Albus is guilty of a lot of things. Being a whore isn't one
of them.
He checks to make sure they are completely alone before he drags Albus by the
hand into the nearest broom closet—thankfully, it's only a few feet away—and
shuts and locks the door behind them. He doesn't bother with casting a Lumos,
or even conjuring a candle so that they might see each other: For what they're
about to do, it's better if he can't see his cousin's deceptively guileless
face staring up at him as they do the most depraved things to one another. As
much as he wants to fuck Albus—and he does—Louis doesn't want to have to think
about the look on the boy's face afterwards: not when he's alone and trying to
convince himself he's not the most wicked creature who ever walked the earth.
He unzips his own trousers before he finds Albus's belt-buckle in the dark and
expertly unhooks his trousers, yanking them down around his knees, and pushes
the boy's heavy woollen robes up over slender hips.
"Is this what all that was about?" Louis asks breathlessly, pushing spit-slick
fingers inside Albus's body. "You wanted to get me angry enough to fuck you
like this, didn't you?"
Albus gives a little whimper and latches on tightly to Louis, his arms so tight
around his neck he's making it difficult to breathe. "No, but you—" His breath
catches in his throat and he swallows hard— "You would have done it anyway,
Louis. I always get my way with you..."
With a low growl, Louis lifts the boy in his arms and slams him into a shelf.
Several unidentifiable objects crash loudly to the floor. He kicks them out of
the way and grabs the back of Albus's head, kissing him so hard their teeth
knock together. He touches the boy between the legs—Albus is hard and wet,
always as desperate for this as Louis is, even when he likes to pretend that
he's not—before he spits into his own hand and rubs it over his cock.
There's no time for more careful preparation. He knows he's going to hurt
Albus, but it's too late for either of them to stop. Albus needs to be taught a
lesson, and Louis... well, Louis just needs this.
Stroking himself with one hand, he cups Albus cheek and kisses him with
tenderness, gently nipping at those soft lips, mapping them with his tongue,
before he forces Albus bodily to the floor, onto his hands and knees.
"Louis?" Albus asks in a small voice, tone full of uncertainty. They've never
done it quite like this before. He sounds frightened.
Ignoring him, Louis twists the boy's arm behind his back, eliciting a loud
squeak, and digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Albus's hips, pushing into
him with little to no care. He fucks him with brute force then, ignoring the
sniffling and muted little cries of pain he hears beneath him. Instead he
channels the entirety of his frustration into using Albus's tight body—it can't
really be called sex, he thinks. It is more a show of power. He wants his
cousin to remember who is in charge here, even if it tears him apart. He can't
be any other way with Albus. All he wants is to prove, over and over again,
that the boy belongs to him. 
He can feel the skin of Albus's forearm beneath his fingers now, where the
sleeve of the boy's robe has ridden up. It doesn't feel right—not soft and
smooth as it should be, but sticky, uneven and hot. Louis's stomach tightens
and he stops what he's doing, breathing hard, and pulls out of the boy, gasping
for breath. As he does, Albus lets out a pained little cry.
"What have you done to yourself?" Louis demands of him, forcing the waif of a
boy onto his back. Louis holds him down with a hand around his throat.
Albus doesn't answer him for a long while. When he does his voice is weak: "I
did it for you," he whispers, sniffling. "I love you, Louis. You don't know how
much."
Louis whispers a charm under his breath and a glowing ball of orange light
appears above them. Albus looks a mess: His face is tear-streaked and pale,
eyes bright like jewels in his face. His lips are red and bitten, trembling
with emotion, and Louis can't remember the last time he saw his cousin look so
vulnerable; like the child he is.
It makes him want to die.
He snatches up Albus's arm and examines it in the light. When his mind
registers what he is seeing, he feels sick: carved into the boy's smooth white
flesh are the letters of Louis's own name, deep and jagged and bloody. Each
wound oozes dark droplets of blood. The mutilation is fresh.
"When did you—" Louis pauses to clear his throat, unable to form a full
sentence. "When did you do this? I mean—why? Why did you do this? Have you
completely lost it, Albus?" He tries to keep his temper in check. After all,
this is his doing; he knows it.
Albus lowers his eyes, long eyelashes casting thin streaks of shadow on his
face, and says, "It's a present. F-For you. I wanted to give you something
today; proof that I belong to you. Something we both could see. I-I thought
you'd like it..."
Can't you see what you've done to him? speaks a sinister voice from the depths
of Louis's mind. You've destroyed him. Warped his mind. Are you happy now? He's
as mad as you are...
He lets go of Albus's hand and takes an uneven breath. "If I don't heal you,"
he begins carefully, "everyone is going to see what you've done to yourself. Is
that what you want? For people to know? For them to take you away from me?"
Slowly, Albus shakes his head. "N-No," he stutters. "I just wanted you to know
how I feel. I'm sorry, Louis," he finishes, sounding miserable. "For
everything. I don't know why you put up with me; I know I'm ruining your life.
I ruin everything I touch."
Louis feels as if someone has driven a dagger into his heart and twisted it.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he covers Albus's body with his own and
kisses him, gently, all over his face. "You're not," he says, and laces his
fingers tightly through his cousin's, "ruining my life. And I do like it," he
tells the boy honestly, tracing the fresh wounds on Albus's forearm with a
fingertip. "I love that you did this for me, it's beautiful. I just wish you
wouldn't hurt yourself like this." Eyes downcast, Albus nods.
"Come here," Louis orders him, gently. "Kiss me."
Obediently, Albus tilts his face upward to be kissed, holding Louis's face
between his hands and feverishly whispering, "I love you so much, Louis. Tell
me you still love me too..."
"I do," Louis whispers back, kissing every inch of Albus's skin he can reach.
"I love you. I'm sorry."
And this moment, right here, reminds Louis why it's worth it; every agonizing
minute of it. He knows they'll never be a normal couple. He knows they'll never
be any good for one another—together, they're a tragedy—but he'll take the
blood and madness over hearts and flowers any day. He doesn't want to give up
what he has with Albus for anything. Not even if it kills them.
~Finis~
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